Gojo Satoru never fell in love. Yes, there were flings and countless hookups, yet there was never a sense of promise or faithfulness in the air. Every women he had met in the club either wound up getting fucked to sleep, with him disappearing the ne...
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slight language warning ⚠️ word count: 2,577
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𝗚𝗼𝗷𝗼 𝗦𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘂 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲. Yes, there were flings and countless hookups, yet there was never a sense of promise or faithfulness in the air. Every women he had met in the club either wound up getting fucked to sleep, with him disappearing the next morning, or receiving a number that they would text, to which there would never be a reply... until a few weeks after saying something like hey, my place tonight? x or the other.
Gojo Satoru had a bit of a reputation in the community, despite being a teacher surrounded by wide eyed teens, minds young and ready to soak up any amount of influence they could. To put it plainly, Gojo Satoru was a whore. Playboy would be appropriate, if not for that sensuality he carried after a few drinks. If not for the way he could coax a woman into her pants in a matter of minutes, leaving her full of pleasure for a night (or two) before disappearing without a trace.
Those icy blue eyes had an effect on everyone, including men. One flash from beneath his blindfold or sunglasses and they were prey. He was like some kind of masculine succubus, though his goal was not to consume the flesh of man, but to pull as much as he could, leaving nothing but a broken husk who truly believed she had a chance to tame the beast before her.
Gojo Satoru never fell in love, and he planned to keep it that way. There was no point to it after all, no gain from having a second soul to worry about in this dirty world. Not after the things that he'd lost... no. This lifestyle was just fine with him. Gojo Satoru swore to himself that he would never, ever fall in love.
****
It was a particularly sunny day in September at an art gallery in Tokyo. He had found himself passing the predominantly glass dome, overhearing the clinks of glasses, the buzz of people. Out of curiosity, and with nothing else to do that afternoon, Gojo took a peek inside. It was a exhibition showcasing the brilliant minds of people expressing themselves through an array of paints, oil pastels and stone. Each exhibit displayed a separate artist, none of them the same medium, creating a sense of originality and boldness that even Gojo could appreciate, despite not being the biggest art fanatic.
He found himself roaming each piece, appreciating how much work had been put in to the smallest detail, the smallest stroke. Gojo made his way around the entire the exhibit, almost ready to leave, when something caught his eye.
A clay sculpture. Or was it glass? Each curve was so well smoothed it was hard to tell. He neared the delicate object, cocking his head to the side. The piece was reasonably large, up to his waist, not including the white block with a tag pasted on the front. Gojo leaned downwards to see what it said. A single word in English.
"Promise," Gojo read aloud, adjusting his glasses upwards so he could read it correctly. "Huh."
He stood up and scanned behind his shoulder, surprised that no one else was looking at this craftsmanship. A woman's head craning her chin into a floating hand, eyes closed, lips parted. She looked serene. There was a sense of happiness, like she know exactly where she was to be, and that was wherever that hand was.
