Drug dealer Satoru Gojo

Drug dealer Satoru Gojo was an absolute fucking menace. A walking red flag. A human hazard. And you knew it. You knew it in your goddamn soul, and you still flaunted yourself when you passed by his place. When he was sprawled on his porch with his crew, thick smoke curling from their blunts and some aggressive bass thumping from a speaker, you still looked. You still let your eyes linger.You couldn't help it. He was too damn sexy.

You simply melted when his gaze landed on you. It was a physical reaction, a stupid, primal heat that pooled low in your belly. He was everything you wanted. Hell, he was everything every girl in a five mile radius wanted. Tall, built with hard, defined muscle that strained against his shirts, with those piercing, icy blue eyes that saw right through you. He was sexy as hell in a way that felt illegal.

And the rumors. God, the rumors. They said his cock was a fucking monster. Not just long, but thick. A real anaconda. And everyone knew thickness mattered more than length. It was the kind of dick that ruined you for other men, that stretched you in a way you'd never forget.

But his personality was pure trash. He couldn't be perfect. He was cruel.Aggressive.You'd heard the low, tense stories whispered in corners. He was ruthless with clients who fell behind on payments. No mercy. No second chances. Word was he'd already killed a few who thought they could play him. He was not a good man. He was a predator in a leather jacket.

And yet. You were absolutely, pathetically in love. Maybe it was because the bad guys just fucked better. That's what you told yourself.They had a certain... conviction. A raw, demanding energy. Even if they were garbage husband material, they were top tier for a good, hard, forget your own name time.

Every single time you passed his porch, he made sure you knew he was watching. He would ogle you, his eyes dragging over your body so slowly it felt like a physical touch.And he was so fucking disgusting about it. He'd adjust himself, palming the obvious, heavy bulge in his jeans purposefully, making sure you saw the outline of what he was packing.He'd let out a low whistle or a crude catcall that should have made your skin crawl.

If he wasn't so goddamn handsome, his actions would be deplorable. They were deplorable. But he knew his power. He knew every woman in this neighborhood wanted a taste of him, wanted to be the one he chose to take to his bed. They'd do anything he damn well wanted for a night with him. You weren't special. At least, not before everything happened. You were just another hot piece of ass on his radar, another potential fuck hole in a long line of them. Because to him, that's all women were. Convenient, warm holes to dump a load in when his balls got too heavy and swollen, when the pressure built up and he needed to bust a fat nut. And lately, you seemed like the perfect candidate.

---

You and Satoru Gojo started talking primarily through Instagram. It was superficial, mostly stories and vague replies. Then it moved to Snapchat, where the masks came off faster.He was already really forward from the jump, a blunt force trauma of a person. He always said exactly what he wanted with zero sugarcoating. "Send me a picture of your tits." "What are you wearing right now?" "You should come over.”

But he was also really, fucking cold. His daily replies were surgical, detached. A simple "yo" to your good morning text. A "yeah" or a "nah" to your questions about his day. Never an exclamation point, never an emoji, never any of the excited, bubbly energy you poured into trying to talk to him. It made every conversation feel like pulling teeth from a stone statue. You'd type out paragraphs about your day, your thoughts, a funny meme, and the three dots would appear, linger, and then just: "cool." It was demoralizing. It made you feel desperate and stupid for trying.

But then, like clockwork, it would fucking pass midnight. The witching hour. 00:00.

The cold statue would come alive, but not in a good way. He'd turn into a different beast, all hot and bothered, horny as fuck, his texts losing their brevity for a rush of demanding, weird ass questions. "You ever fucked on a pool table?" "What's the wildest place you've touched yourself?" "Let me see your throat." And always, always, the demand: "Send me nudes. Right now. Don't be shy."

The first time he asked, you said no. You were terrified, a rational fear of getting your nudes leaked, screenshot, turned into a joke for him and his friends. His response was immediate, icy anger. "Why you on here then? Wasting my time." Then, radio silence. That was your first red flag, glaring and crimson, but you were already staring at him through rose tinted glasses.

The next day, you saw him in person. He was on his porch, a girl you didn't know draped across his lap like a blanket, her laughter sharp in the afternoon air. He was smoking weed, blowing clouds into her hair, surrounded by his loud ass friends with their loud ass music blasting from a speaker. He saw you looking and didn't shrug the girl off.He pulled her closer. A performance, just for you. A lesson.

He didn't text you anymore, of course. So you had to humiliate yourself. You initiated, your thumbs trembling over the screen.

"hiii!!" "hili Satoru?? :)" "how was your day?" "did you see my story?"

You sent a billion messages into the void before he'd grace you with a reply. A simple, soul crushing "yo." Or a "hey." Or the worst of them all, the one that made your stomach drop: just a "?"

He wanted you to feel bad. To feel small. To feel sorry for something you had every right to do, which was say no. He was conditioning you. So when he asked again, a week later, a simple "You gonna send me something this time or you just like the attention?" you did it.

You sent a picture of your tits. You were basically covering them with your hands, a shy, pathetic attempt at modesty. But for him, it was good. A good start. A crack in your armor. You never knew, you never could have known, that he immediately showed the picture to his friends. He was a jackass, an asshole, and your body was a trophy he shared with a smirk. "Look at this one. Took some work."

Then you two started talking in real life, of course. It was really awkward. He didn't ask you out. He just materialized next to you on a party, his scent all weed and expensive cologne. "You want some?" he asked, holding out a joint. Before you could even answer, he leaned in and kissed you, his tongue shoving past your lips. It was less a kiss and more a claim. A taste. You were so stunned you just stood there. He pulled back, smirked, and took a hit. “Cool."

You lived in the same neighborhood, so you started going to his parties. His world.

Gojo ran his business out of a private room above a club his people owned. The air was thick with weed smoke and arrogance. Low light. Sticky leather couches. His friends were always there, a gallery of sharp eyes and colder smiles. A client was coming.

He barely looked at you when you entered.No greeting. No kiss. No "glad you're here." He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it at you without looking. "Hold that." The bass from the club below vibrated through the floor, a constant, pounding heartbeat.

Not please. Not thanks. Just expectation. You were there because he wanted you there. That was the only reason you had ever been anywhere with him. One of his friends, a guy with a snake tattoo coiling up his neck, glanced your way, amused. Another just stared at his phone. They all understood what you were in this space. You weren't a girlfriend. You were inventory. You were just one of Gojo's sluts, his convenient fuck toy for the week.

Gojo talked business like you were furniture.Numbers. Shipments. Territories.When the client arrived, a sweaty, nervous man in a cheap suit, Gojo didn't introduce you. The client's eyes flicked to you, hovering by the wall, clutching his jacket.

"She won't talk," Gojo said, not even gesturing in your direction. "Don't worry about her."

That was it. No name. No "this is my friend." No correction. If the client's gaze lingered on your legs a second too long, Gojo didn't immediately snap. He let it happen. He allowed the man to look, to assess, to want.He let the silence stretch just long enough to establish a brutal, unspoken truth: access to you, to anything in this room, was a privilege that Satoru Gojo controlled. Solely. Then, calmly, without raising his voice, he'd say:

"Eyes up here."

Not angry. Casual. Like correcting a dog's bad posture. The client's head would snap back to him, face pale. They always obeyed.They were too scared of what he'd do, because they knew he was cruel just like that, capable of anything.

Gojo didn't pull you closer in some possessive gesture. He didn't put his arm around you. He didn't touch you at all.

That was worse.

The distance was the point. It wasn't protection. It was ownership. He gave you instructions the way someone talks to a smart appliance.

"Sit." He'd point to a stool in the corner. "Don't move." When you shifted your weight. "You can go stand over there." When he needed the space.

He never made eye contact when he said it.If you hesitated, if your face showed a flicker of confusion or hurt, his voice would drop, low and quiet, a warning that slithered through the bass.

"Don't make this awkward."

His friends never stepped in. This was normal to them. This was the natural order. If the client, trying to ingratiate himself, made a joke about you, called you pretty, asked with a leer if you were "his girl," Gojo would just smile, a thin, meaningless stretch of his lips.

"No."

Then, the word. The label. He'd let it hang in the thick air. "She's just convenient."

He said it without any particular cruelty in his tone. That's what made it so cruel. It was a fact. A statement of utility. You were a convenient hole, a convenient arm to hold a jacket, a convenient body to warm his bed.Nothing more.

And after the business was done, after the client left with a nervous bow, that's when he'd want you. Just to stay on his lap like his personal slut of the day while he smoked weed, his hand snaking up your thigh, his fingers digging in. He'd take you, often right there on the same leather couch, or in a filthy bathroom downstairs, having rough, impersonal sex in the middle of the night.

There was never any aftercare. No cuddling.No "you okay?" It was a miracle when he stayed in the same bed after he came.Usually, he'd just get up, pull on his pants, and leave you in his house, sticky and sore and alone. He didn't bother coddling you, making you feel a bit more comfortable, getting you water. No. He just used your pussy as he wanted. Sometimes with a condom he'd grumble about. Sometimes he'd pull out at the last second, painting your stomach or your back. And sometimes, more and more often, he would just cum deep inside you, a hot, claiming flood, collapsing on top of you with a grunt before rolling off.

You had to be on the pill. At least, that's what he expected. Not that he ever asked. Not that he really cared what happened to you, what scares it gave you, what consequences you faced. He always mentioned, casually, over a meal or in the car, that he didn't want kids. "Kids are a burden," he'd say, blowing smoke out the window. "I'm not ready to be a dad. Probably never will be."

Even as he kept having sex unprotected with you at every single chance he got, because he knew damn well you'd never say anything to him. You were too scared to voice your opinions, your concerns. Too terrified he'd call you annoying, call you a problem, and replace you with someone who wouldn't "make it awkward."

But you started to notice something. A new, chilling pattern in the violence he called sex.One night, he was pounding you from behind, giving you the most malicious, deep backshots, the sound of his hips slapping against your ass echoing in his dark bedroom. He had a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, arching your spine painfully. "You like that?" he grunted, not a question but a taunt. "You take this dick so good, you stupid slut." You were moaning, a broken, pathetic sound, lost in the confusing mix of pain and forced arousal.

"Say it," he commanded, his thrusts not slowing. "Say 'I'm ready to be a single mother.!' Say it."

Your arousal curdled into ice in your veins.Your mind went blank. He wasn't using a condom. He was so deep inside you, you could feel him in your womb. This wasn't dirty talk. This had a different, terrifying edge.

He moaned, a sound of pure, dark triumph. "Yes. Fuck yes. You're not gonna call my phone after this, right?" He kept pounding, his rhythm becoming more frantic, more possessive.

You thought, in a desperate, fleeting moment, that he was just role-playing. That this was some new, fucked-up kink that got him going. Maybe he wanted to feel like a deadbeat. Maybe it was a power thing.Im

But he was absolutely, terrifyingly serious.

"Imma block your number," he panted, his breath hot and ragged on your neck. "You're not gonna come to my crib, right?!”

He was pounding harder now. Faster. Deeper than he ever had. It was so intense, so overwhelming, it blurred the line between pleasure and punishment, and for a second, your traitorous body arched back into him, a wave of sensation making you see stars despite the terror.

"That's it," he growled, his voice guttural, final. "Take it. Take all of it. Have it."

When he came, he didn't pull out. He slammed into you one last time and held himself there, deep, as he pulsed inside you.A hot, claiming rush, fertilizing your egg, planting his seed in the most violent, deliberate act of creation imaginable.

He collapsed on top of you, spent, then rolled off without a word.

---

Three weeks to the day after that final, degrading night, you finally scraped together enough cash and courage to buy the Plan B.You swallowed the little white pill with a shaking hand, clinging to the fragile, desperate hope that it was a magic eraser. You told yourself the science was solid. You told yourself everything would go back to normal. The nausea, the metallic taste in your mouth, the sudden, violent aversion to the smell of coffee that used to fuel your mornings, it was just stress. Just trauma. Just your body reeling from the hell he’d put it through.

But your period didn’t come.

The days bled into one another, each one layering a new symptom on top of the dread.It wasn’t just morning sickness. It was all-day sickness, a rolling wave of nausea that hit when you smelled someone’s perfume on the bus or opened the fridge. You were bloated, your clothes tightening around your middle with a stubborn, unfamiliar fullness. You craved pickles and ice cream at 2 a.m. and then gagged at the thought of them an hour later. Your breasts were tender, your senses were on a razor’s edge, and you were peeing constantly, a frantic, urgent reminder that something inside you was changing.

A headache pulsed behind your eyes, a constant, low-grade throb that no painkiller could touch. Your moods swung on a frayed wire. One minute you’d be staring blankly at a wall, the next you’d be sobbing over a forgotten memory of your grandmother, tears falling for a woman who’d been dead for ten years and for the life you knew was now over.

Deep down, in a place beyond denial, you knew. The science had failed. The pill had failed. You had failed.

In a moment of pure, desperate stupidity, you reached for your phone. Your dumb ass, your traitorous, love-sick heart, decided he should know. Maybe, some insane part of you whispered, he’d care. Maybe the reality of a consequence, a real, living consequence, would shatter the monster and reveal the boy you’d once seen a ghost of.

‘I don’t feel right. I’m really sick. I missed my period. I think… I think something’s wrong.’

You stared at the message for a full ten minutes before hitting send. The whoosh sound felt like a death sentence.

You tried to go about your day. You made a cup of tea you couldn’t drink. You turned on the TV and watched colors and shapes without seeing them. An hour later, driven by a masochistic need for a response, any response, you picked up your phone.

There was no reply. Instead, next to his name, a cold, featureless icon stared back at you.

He had blocked your number.

The shock was a physical blow, a vacuum that sucked the air from your lungs. It was a rejection so absolute, so contemptuous, it felt more violent than any slap. He had erased you with the tap of a finger. The sobs came then, great, heaving waves of them. You cried for the baby, for yourself, for the brutal finality of that little blocked symbol. You cried all night, until your eyes were swollen slits and your throat was raw. And still, beneath the devastation, that pathetic, stubborn flame of love for him flickered. He’s scared, it whispered. He doesn’t know how to handle this.

That poisonous hope is what propelled you to his apartment the next day. You didn’t call. You just went. You stood before his door, your fist clenched, and you banged on it. Not a knock. A frantic, pounding barrage.

The door flew open so fast you stumbled back.

Satoru stood in the doorway, and the scene was all wrong. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t posing. He was shirtless, sweat glistening on his chest, his hair wild. In his right hand, held loosely at his side, was a black pistol. The smell of cheap, skunky weed rolled off him in a thick cloud. His eyes, usually so brilliantly blue, were bloodshot and dark, pinned on you with an unnerving, hyper-alert intensity. He looked like a cornered animal, or a predator waiting to strike.

“The fuck?” he snarled, his voice a gravelly rasp. He didn’t lower the gun. His gaze darted past you, down the hallway, before snapping back. “Are you out of your fucking mind? Banging on my door like a goddamn cop?”

“Did I unblock you?” he interrupted, taking a step forward, forcing you to step back into the hall. The gun, while not pointed at you, was a terrifying presence in his hand. “What part of ‘go the fuck away’ did your stupid cunt brain not understand? The opps are looking for any reason to run up in here, and you’re out here making a fucking scene!”

He was vibrating with an aggressive, paranoid energy you’d never seen before.

“You took a test?” he echoed, his voice dropping dangerously low. He took another step, looming over you. The barrel of the gun brushed against his own thigh. “So what? You think this is my problem? You think I want some bastard kid? From you?” He said ‘you’ like it was the most disgusting thing he could imagine.

His free hand shot out and grabbed your jaw, his fingers digging in like steel clamps. He forced your head up, his face inches from yours. His breath smelled of weed. “Listen to me, you dumb slut. I didn’t do shit. You spread your legs. You came crawling back. Whatever’s growing in you is your problem. You deal with it.”

He shoved your face away, releasing you with a jerk. “Figure it out. Get rid of it. Or jump off a bridge. I don’t give a fuck. But you come near me again, you say my name to anyone,” he raised the gun just slightly, a unambiguous gesture, “and I will finish what all those pills and stress apparently didn’t. You understand? Now get the fuck out of my sight before I really lose my temper.”