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🪄 - elly! is your favorite jjk writers favorite jjk writer, satosugu enthusiast, liker of older men and older things, city-dweller, 0.001% of clairo's monthly listeners, and professional yearner who charmingly lingers in every doorway

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bang bang (mbsmd) ➛ part 2: unshaken

pairing outlaw!ryomen sukuna x baby mom afab!reader

synopsis after a week of being away, sukuna's gang is faced with an impossible situation, and has no choice but to impend on the quiet life he's carved out to seek his guidance. only, he's not as sharp as he once was, and finds himself relying on your silence and strength when he falters.

tags western outlaw!au (set in early 1900's), gang!au, traditional relationship ideals, lots of dadkuna fluff, mentioned crime/homicide, crude language, use of nicknames, sfw

word count 10.3k

author's note it wouldn't be truly eraserbread of me if i didn't give satosugu some sort of spotlight, would it? also hey @macbethinchains i'm mad at u rn but choso is your guy so i wrote him in your image i hope u love him art by @/tessuesh!!

"Get those boots off my desk." Gojo sits back in his seat, resting his chin in his hand. "Before I saw 'em off and roast them over an open flame."

"That's exciting." Suguru nods, grabbing his low-tilted cowboy hat from his head and tossing it down with the scattered papers on his Sheriff's desk. "You'd enjoy that… too much, wouldn't you?" His voice is a steady, rumbling purr, vibrating against the solid wood room like horse tracks through a dusty summer night.

The pair share a second of unbroken eye contact, dark and brooding, yet comfortable in the way only they know how to exist together. Gojo smirks; Suguru looks down, grinning around the edges as they settle back into normalcy together. It's their first time being so close after years apart, and there's a lifetime of information and gossip to catch up on, but they can't stop looking at each other. Words don't quite compute.

That is, until Gojo shifts, pawing over a handwritten case file stamped with Yuta's signature at the very edge. "Road been treating you nice?" He starts, slightly wary of diving into business when they have a lifetime of adoration to fall back on. Still, he holds his professionalism to the sun, running a hand through his silvery hair. "Keepin' you far away from dusty ol' Whitehall?"

"Didn't wanna keep stepping on your toes." Suguru nods, gaze downcast as he sits up, reaching in his side pocket to fish out a crispy new pack of cigarettes. "You gotta light, Sheriff?"

"Gonna do you in about thirty cents." He replies, reaching blindly into the drawer of his desk. During the entire, short exchange, neither of them looked away from the other — not even to blink.

"Runnin' me dry, cowboy." Suguru slips his rolled smoke between his lips, standing up and planting two palms on his desk so Gojo can meet him with his book of matches. Just like everything good, it's quiet. There's nothing around but the rush of outside air and the creak of old paneling.

"Just like that gang of fools you keep runnin' with, hm?" Gojo sits back with an exasperated thump, kicking his feet out under the desk as he paws the file. "Two missing ladies, followed right in that path the Sukunas took to Whitehall five years ago 'round this time. Found 'em two days apart, but ain't no reason to investigate when there's nobody to arrest. Then, someone came and told me they found another body — last week, North Woods."

Suguru blinks, pretending he doesn't know any more than he's supposed to. "How tragic. So, you waited for us to come back before investigating? Those poor families."

"Ah — they were a bunch'a whores — so, tragic ain't the word. Inhumane, is. All of 'em sliced up, and strangled, it's how we know they're connected. It seems this murderer got something against pretty ladies."

"You think I'm him?"

"Nah. I think you know him." Gojo reaches for the cigarette Suguru offers him, nodding along to his own theories he'd bounced off Yuta's capable mind just days ago. "Think y'all are protecting him 'cause he's one of yours."

Gojo passes the smoke back, brows raised as Suguru's fingers lightly graze his own. "I don't know what those men do when I'm not around."

Speaking around a lungful of poison, the Sheriff lets the smoke drift out of his mouth as he speaks, letting it get lost in the still, dusty air of the empty station. "I think that little aloof one — Choso-

"Ach," Suguru cuts him off with a firm hiss, cutting his eyes at the menace as he takes another hit. "Not him. Not that kid, he's one of mine."

Gojo nods, pursing his lips like he's not privy to this new information. "And the others aren't?"

"It's different. He's one of 'Kuna's, too. Straight from his sack."

"You gotta dangerous outlaw on your breast, Suguru."

"Just told you… It ain't him, Satoru."

He chuckles…, and it's dangerous. "Him or not, I get one solid piece of evidence, and I'm not botherin' with shackles. I'll have all of your heads at the end of my barrel, so make sure to keep yours down."

Gojo sits up, running his hand over the dusty streaks Suguru left on his desk, oddly silent for what he just threatened his friend with. Breathing out against the smoke burning his lungs, Suguru speaks with little emotion. "You know I have to ask you to hold off, whether it was one of mine or not."

Gojo rolls his eyes, holding that same puffed-cheek, clueless look that makes him seem more boyish than authoritative.

Then, Suguru thinks about it, really. Of course, he's been in these nasty situations more often than not, but the Sheriff has always had a sweet spot for him. Now is when it usually shows its head. "Write up something solid — a bounty I can cash in with you."

"That means, now I have to investigate. You really want me in your business like that?"

Suguru ponders the point for a second, tilting his head to the side as he thinks. His smoke runs far on one side — a shitty rolling job that he should've fixed before lighting. He snuffs it out against the wood of the desk, smiling as Gojo's electric blue gaze follows each one of his movements like he's studying them.

"Send the kid to do it."

"Yuta? He's sharper than me."

"Sure…" Suguru sits back with a sigh, kicking his legs out under the desk. "But he doesn't know what you know. I can control what he sees; I can't control you."

Suguru steps out of the station like he's a new man, freed after the events of a night he doesn't want to remember. The wind rushes through his hair, reminding him to slip his black, worn leather hat back over his head. He lingers about for a moment, a dull smile playing on his face when he thinks about it. Of course, he doesn't know about any murders or moral wrongdoing in the gang he calls home, but he does know about the tendencies some of the more… unforgivable members hold. He pretends not to think about it, eyes downcast as he shuffles down the uneven, wooden boards that fit like steps in front of the station.

Nothing happens in Whitehall on a day like this — the summer sun beating down on the parched dirt roads, kicked up by horses and wagons who only use this one-way to pass through. Nobody who uses this road stays in this town; they linger around the outside, only stepping into the town center to shop or snitch. Suguru thinks about it and smiles as he approaches his bone-white horse, set with one destination in mind, and places one booted heel in the stirrups. He doesn't look behind him, not caring if the way is clear or not before sending him forward with a tight, controlled, "Alright, boy."

Suguru takes his time alone unbelievably seriously. He doesn't get it often, born and bred with Sukuna's voice in his ear saying that they all belong together at all times. But he's not here to hold that standard over their head anymore — he's off playing house just long enough to fulfill his manly pact, then lean back into his power when it's convenient. In his absence, everyone has been reporting to Suguru, but when Suguru isn't there… things like this happen. Mistakes fall through the cracks that they don't have time to clean up anymore, and now he has to hold off the most competent human he's ever had the misfortune of caring for.

Gojo is known everywhere in the country. Word travels faster than a horse when he has the unfortunate title of 'Outlaw Killer'. He and his group of hand-picked good-doers are sharper than the sharpest, strongest outlaw — in any case, it's Sukuna, and Sukuna knows to almost never step to the man. He has a lot to say behind closed doors, but those doors never had to open yet. They've never met face-to-face, but have been running circles around the other for nearly twenty years.

Suguru is the shiny centerpiece keeping them so close, yet so far. They hardly run on this Wyoming soil in respect for… you and your family, though Sukuna would never admit it. Shacking up with a girl of your societal standing wasn't just risky; it was stupid, and now he's in deep enough to let it dictate any and everything he does.

It's why he comes and goes like the wind. There's nothing keeping him locked down but your politically correct father. Though largely estranged as the years ticked by, you and the Mayor of Whitehall, your father, have lived just a few minutes away. Suguru doesn't know the details — whether and when he's met the outlaw brat, or whether he knows it's Sukuna's baby. He doesn't have the authority to even ask, so he tries not to think about it. Still, as he takes the long way back to camp, he can't ward off those traitorous thoughts that Sukuna would beat from his mind if he ever heard them out loud.

It's hours later when Suguru rolls back into camp. They're tucked on the edge of town, sheltered by the woods and low-hanging trees. Unless you were one of them, there's no sign that this small collection of trees and brush held the most dangerous gang in the west, safe against its bosom. Sukuna picked it out with the introspective help of his left hand, Choso, and they haven't had an issue thus far. The creek is forgiving and clean, the trees keep the fire smoke inconspicuous, and hunters don't come this far out to hunt.

The ladies wash in the creek when the water is high, and scrub clothes with ash when it's low. Food comes from whatever the men can hunt, and money comes from all of them, but mainly Suguru and Uraume for their proximity to Sukuna. The boss doesn't just trust anyone to every take — favorite children get the best takes. They know these invisible rules by now.

But now that he's gone, everything has been at a standstill. They have money and resources, but they know not to make a fuss in this town for Sheriff-related reasons, and Sukuna's pact to you. They're only supposed to be here for a few days, so everyone is taking the stillness for what it is.

It makes Suguru smile when he ducks under the brush leading to the camp, slowing his horse with a soft tap to the side. The others' horses are hitched by the front row of trees, and just past the brush, Suguru scopes out his comrade's head propped against a tree. He continues forward, clearing his throat softly as he swings into a dismount and prepares to speak.

"I could grind both… and mix it into tobacco, perhaps? For the men?" Choso's voice is soft and oddly controlled as he sits with his knees propped, an old leather-bound book resting on his legs and a stemmed plant to his left. He takes his time penciling it down, following every ridge, dip, and detail of the leaves so he can continue to identify this during his life's journeys. "…or, I could give it to you, Sadie-girl? I'm curious about its effects if orally taken… Especially on a horse like you."

He looks to his mare on his right, swaying and grazing the patchy grass in front of them without a care. Choso smiles, then reaches out to stroke the side of her leg, pulling attention. He treats his horse like his best friend — spending most of his time with her and her alone. To him, it feels like nobody understands him but his quiet, stoic pet

Suguru doesn't speak at first, knowing how Choso likes his time to himself, but he can't hide forever. Especially not when he needs his help over anyone else's. He can't trust this news to anyone but him. "Look alive, kid. Aren't you supposed to be on lookout?"

Choso doesn't startle; he just blinks up as Suguru walks in closer, boots pressing into the grass his horse takes in. He's actually quite pleased to see Suguru, knowing he went into town under unclear circumstances. He was confused at first, then he realized that Suguru had no business in town unless it was for the safety of his best friend, the Sheriff.

"Everything go well up there?"

"Almost too well." Suguru smiles in reassurance, absentmindedly reaching for Choso's nodding pet — running his fingers across her red-tinged brunette mane. He approaches the situation carefully, picking and choosing what words to say and how. "He gave me a new bounty."

Choso perks up, knowing those words don't hit lightly, or nearly as often as they used to. He closes his book, tucking the herb between the weathered pages for later. "How much is it for?"

"Well, he's still writing it out and investigating, but it's ours. I think Sukuna will be grateful, don't you?" Suguru's still choosing how to word it, weighing around the idea of bringing up the entire… murderous aspect of it all.

Sure, Choso is no stranger to getting his hands dirty, but the fact that someone so close to him could be killing for sport is sickening. "You want me to tell him for you?"

"He told you where he was, right? I'll tell you more about the bounty, but you have to tell me where he is." Suguru raises an expectant eyebrow like he's totally innocent — not playing his ace, or flexing his manipulative muscles in the wake of superiority. He watches the idea comb through Choso's mind, making his young face scrunch up in thought. Next to them, Sadie huffs, nudging her nose forward into Suguru's shoulder like she wants the attention back on her.

"Yes, but he told me to keep quiet…" He starts carefully, gathering his things about so he can stand on shaking legs. "He told me to keep quiet because he has to prot—

—protect his lady and son, right? What do you think I'll do to them, shoot 'em dead?" Suguru chuckles, hands on his hips as Choso matches his height, naturally leaning into his horse's frame as they stand so close. "Look, don't make me burst your bubble."

"What do you mean?" Choso knows he can't go back to the headspace he was just in—at the cusp of a shiny, new breakthrough —but he doesn't feel bad. He reaches to scratch his horse's chin, almost as if it's a nervous tick that keeps him grounded.

"The bounty is on one of ours. In this gang. You see why I gotta tell Sukuna, now?"

Choso falls silent, dark eyes glazing over as he stares just past Suguru's familiar face. "What's the crime? Theft?"

Suguru wants to nod; that'd make this whole thing a lot easier, but he tells him the truth. "Murder, Choso. Serial murders, right on our trail — county to county."

The two of them just… linger for a moment, blinking towards, not to, each other. Behind them, camp is hidden by just enough brush to remain inconspicuous, but not silent. Choso can hear it as they speak, feeling it like a lullaby.

Suguru's breath is shallow and hollowed out around all his years of smoking, and Choso's is dry. "Through Minnesota, too?"

"I don't know the details, kid. They're investigating."

Choso reverts to what he's always been told—don't let anyone go digging. He'd pull out a gun if he had to, all to protect the gang and the only livelihood he's had. "T-that's dangerous, though."

"So you see my predicament." Suguru sighs, letting his head roll before stepping back. He knows he can't tell the ladies — not even Shoko- but he wants to. So, he looks back to his comrade, faking a smirk and shaking his head like nothing was wrong. "It's fine, but you see… I need to know what Sukuna wants us to do. We need his guidance, and a letter won't cut it."

Choso shakes his head as he strokes his horse, looking into her huge, dark pupils for reassurance and feeling like a little boy again. He focuses on the way her wiry hair feels under his fingernails instead of the trouble he'd be in with Sukuna if he made the wrong decision right now, but doesn't know how to let Suguru down right in front of his face. So, he folds, not strong enough to look him in the eye, but strong enough to say, "H-he only gave me roundabout directions, but I can find the way there… if you need."

Suguru breathes out a relieved laugh, reaching forward to clap the kid on the shoulder like he's rewarding him for a job well done. Turning his pat into a soft grip, Suguru shakes the kid to life, leaning down as he mentions, "And if he gives us Hell… It was all my idea. Like always, right?"

Choso takes every single step like it's his last, lingering on the bending bottom landing as Suguru jogs to the elevated door without a care in the world. He can almost feel Sukuna's reprimand—or the dull, disappointed look in his eye —because he still can't tell if he made the right decision.

The ride here was long, and it was absolutely silent. Suguru was never one to really… chat, especially on horseback. He'd bitten his tongue one too many times in the heat of the gallop, and vowed to keep them clamped ever since. Still, Choso couldn't help but inquire about the supposed murders, only to be met with absolute silence in return. He's going into this off the back of Suguru's goodwill and none of his own freethinking, but he's not scared, just weary of being the scapegoat if Sukuna chose not to accept them at his door.

It's been over a week since Sukuna left, and when Choso imagined where he might've been staying, it surely wasn't in a small, dilapidated little cabin on the edge of the lake bed. It's so hot that the air is sticking to his skin under his cheap leather vest, but it's a different kind of heat, one Choso knows that Sukuna hates. Still, he follows as Suguru walks ahead, hands shoved in the pockets of his high-riding jeans. His long hair is pulled back in a braid like he always does on long journeys like this, and Choso knows that his is a mess. He shakily runs a hand through it as Suguru stops in front of the slouched, creaking front door.

The house is absolutely silent — no sign of life around the weak, raised foundation, but the well pump all the way to the edge of the house. It's still dripping with past use, creating a tiny reflecting puddle under it. Choso finds himself craning his neck to look and really see these things as Suguru knocks; then it's like time stands still.

Entire minutes pass before either of them draws a breath. The breeze lingers around their bodies, blood running silent as the jolt of the knock comes and goes. Just before Suguru raises a fist to knock again, a tiny creak on the other side breaks their daze, and the door draws open.

Choso steps back, lips parted as he stares at the widening crack… and nothing to show for it. He's expecting his boss—huge and overbearing, or maybe you —but all he sees is the sun-dusted wooden interior. What he can see is the tiny step back Suguru takes, and the soft hitch in his throat that comes next. Choso holds his breath.

"Hi, uh…" Suguru straightens up, pulling his hat off and holding it to his chest as he stares down at the child he never met — little Yuji. "H-Hi, little cowboy. Your father's home, right?"

Choso steps forward in a soft rush, pushing against Suguru's shoulder so he can get a look at the tiny voice that replies, "W-who—

He's speechless for a moment, blinking down at the small, hardly five-year-old child hidden behind the crack in the door. Choso blinks, thinking the reflection had to be faulty… because he looks just like Sukuna. Once it settles, it makes him smile — a real smile. He takes his time, lowering into a kneel so he's eye-level to the suspecting child. His eyes are wide and bright, and they're like headlights striking him right through the soul. Choso goes weak.

He lowers his gaze, extending a cautious hand as Yuji steps towards the door. In an instant, he can see Yuji's father written in every fiber of his being. He approaches them unafraid, like he's known Choso in another life. Suguru straightens up, taking a step back as the child steps out. His hair is thrown messily over his scalp — sleep lines over his pink, soft face.

"Is your mama home?"

"Yeah… Mama?" Yuji looks between the outlaws standing in his doorway, then turns around, leaving the door open just enough for Choso to see the front room. Footsteps are quiet inside the house, closing in as he turns around. "Mama, someone at the door."

"I hear that." You reply, clicking your tongue as you cross into the front room. You're barefoot, feet dragging across the floor, covered by the beige fabric of your house-dress. It's hardly mid-morning, and you had just woken up a couple hours earlier, not even having time to clean yourself up as Sukuna started on chores, and you, on the childcare. With your arms crossed over your chest, you approach the front door, sighing heavily when you discover how your son opened the door after being taught to do the exact opposite. "What did I tell you about opening the door to strangers—

You stop when you see them in the front, dressed up in their leathers and tans, hats off and at their side and heart, as a way to show you two some sort of respect. To you, they look no different—just hardened from a few years in the sun —but it's familiar. Even you could admit that there are worse people to see at your door, and you're too satiated to really get up in arms about it.

"Well, I'll be God-Damned." You sigh, reaching down to hold Yuji's hand so he doesn't scurry away out of sight. "Y'all sure kicked up a fuss riding down here." You look past Suguru's face to the dust cloud they kicked up in your unsuspecting driveway. Anyone who passes would surely see that and draw suspicion, but of course a couple of men wouldn't care.

Suguru dips his head, swallowing down a laugh and shifting his weight onto his left hip. "The kid looks just like him. So cute."

If you could smile right now, maybe you'd smirk, but you just stare at him stale-faced and unblinking, your thumb absentmindedly stroking your son's soft, chubby knuckles. In the corner of your eye, you notice the way your son is dead set on Choso—how he follows every single step he takes, and how the outlaw hasn't even spared you a passing glance, because he's so busy dissecting your child.

"I know you two have nothing good to bring down here, huh?"

"No, ma'am, I'm sorry. Is… Sukuna inside?"

"He's in the back chopping firewood." You stop for a moment, feeling a burning need to pull your son's attention. "Hey, don't stare." You turn to Choso, noticing the way he's staring as you lean down to pick Yuji up and hold him on your hip. Now, he's way too tall to be handled like this, but he's quite literally attached to your hip, loving it especially when you cradle him and hold him to sleep. Of course, he's spoiled, because he's all you had. Sukuna's even let him sleep in your bed once this week, and only because you begged. Only because you wanted to know how it felt to be pressed up tight with your two favorite boys.

"He looks just like his Dad." Choso stands when Yuji is scooped up, finally offering you a soft side smile with a distant glare in his eyes. You hold your child to your side with both arms, leaning to the side to support his weight as you glance between both outlaws at your door. They both smell like the journey — wind-whipped hair and empty stomachs just grumbling for you to fill.

So, instead of making them wait outside in the dust until Sukuna is done, you invite them inside. "Come on, before you let any more flies in."

Suguru steps in first as you turn around, nodding toward Choso so he follows suit. The floorboards creak under their weight, and Choso looks down, genuinely afraid he may fall through as the wood bends.

"I was making the boys some late breakfast, but we're fresh out of firewood, so Papa went out to cut us some, right, Yuji?" You grunt, bending down to put him down on his feet so he can run back to his room and kick his ball around the house like a menace. Choso cracks a smile as the kid speeds off, hardly regarding you as you motion to the kitchen table. "Y'all can sit, but I need him to finish that wood before you steal him away."

"We don't mean to steal him away, miss." Suguru shrugs off his first few layers—a scarf and a vest —throwing them over the thick wooden chair he's about to rest his weary body on. Choso follows behind him like a lost puppy, looking around the room, at the scuffs on the floors and the peeling paint on the walls. He doesn't comment; if anything, he smiles.

"Never mind that — it's good to see you… the little one, too." Before he collapses into the chair, he pats a hand over your shoulder, letting it linger just long enough for you to reach up and hold it for a moment. You can't deny the soft spot you have for this pair, but you can run away from it, and that's what you've been doing for five years. "You don't look a day over twenty."

"You think I'm a fool?" You cross the front of the table, nodding Choso over as you pull out a chair. In the other room, something knocks and shakes, pulling your attention as Choso closes in. You perk up, frantically searching through the doorway as your son runs past, small footsteps thundering across the wood. "Yuji! Take the ball outside!"

"You don't believe me?" Suguru continues, still settling in, and Choso sits across from him. Hands still on the back of the chair, you turn on your heel towards the clamor of your son.

"I think you're a sweet talker who knows what he wants." You reply in passing, hearing the side door creak open. Just as you step into the back, you see Sukuna step back inside, nearly bumping into Yuji, who was running out.

"Whoa, man." His father grunts, sweaty and sticky with the whisper of the woods sticking to his overheated skin. He's got an armful of split logs, breathing heavily through his mouth. "Move! You want me to drop these on you?"

"I'll carry one!"

"Nah—

"Come here, baby." You step into action, approaching and holding Yuji back by the shoulder as Sukuna kicks the door shut. "You've got some guests in my kitchen, Ryomen."

"Good or bad guests?" He grunts, steering clear of you because he knows you'll mention how filthy he is in loose, linen and wool clothes. He's damning you to Hell already by stomping in with his muddy boots, but you know he doesn't have a choice, and whether or not he believed so, you're not that much of a nag.

"Choso and Suguru." You whisper as if you're afraid of them hearing you in the front. Yuji squirms and ducks out of your hold, running for the side door as Sukuna stares you down, face as still as stone. You go to call for him, but he's already at the door, throwing the ball over his head. "Yuji—

"Not good." Sukuna pants, shaking his head.

"I know." You step back, hands on your hips as he continues into the room, heading out into the hall where he drops his armful near the fireplace. In the kitchen, the men perk up at the commotion, both at attention. You can see Yuji through the dirty window at the side, kicking his patched ball into the air and cowering down when it falls back over his head. You chew down on a smile, keeping one eye towards the window and the other in the room with you as the men stand up, wood screeching against wood as they greet their boss.

"It's good to see you, boss."

"You must have a damn-good reason for coming to disturb me at my family's home."

"I know, it looks bad." Choso's voice is feather-light in comparison to Sukuna's hard-edged one. He looks between the two of them and shakes his head, silently thankful they're both still alive and in good health since he's been off the radar.

"It was my idea… I went to go visit…" Suguru clears his throat, peeking between you, watching on with raised brows, then back to Sukuna. Sukuna is fine to talk to, but you make him nervous. "Well, I bumped into Satoru, and we got to talkin'."

Sukuna… laughs. It's a chuckle, but it's real and unbelievable, knowing he wouldn't have a moment of peace in the foreseeable future once that name was brought into the mix. Still, having nearly as much trust in Suguru as he does in himself, he smiles and nods, looking back over to you to see your indifferent expression. "I imagine you had to talk him off some…" Sukuna throws his left hand in the air, waving the idea of the feared Sheriff with a ripple in the air. "…ledge, huh?"

"Something like that." Suguru rolls his lips under his teeth, eyes open wide as his gaze falls back onto his dusty riding boots. He's exhausted and wants to sit down again, but he couldn't gauge his boss's mood right now. Every second was critical.

It's just a force of habit — Suguru's eyes keep cutting back to you, picking and choosing his words like he's farming fruit. He doesn't want to share too much; it's woven into him to keep tight lips around others, even when they happened to be the mother of his boss's child.

"What, are you mute suddenly or something?" He follows Suguru's eyes, looking past him to an unusually alert Choso, then to you, reaching out to cradle his forearm. "Say it. Whatever you gotta say to me, you can say to her."

"Uh— Coppers sniffed out a few murders on our tail heading West from New England. Through the uh… upper country."

You part your lips as you absentmindedly listen in, leaning closer to Sukuna as your hand wraps around his tightening forearm muscles. "Murders?"

"He didn't give me a ton of details, but they're all around mid-20s—30s… Younger girls they're still trying to identify. Two were found heading up here one summer… 'bout five years ago, then one this last week. He told me quickly enough before they did any real investigatin—

"Okay, what does that have to do with us? 'Bout half a million men pass through North Country every goddamn summer."

"It's bad because we think it's Toji." Choso finally speaks up, recalling vaguely the conversation he and Suguru had at camp long after everyone else went to sleep last night. They concluded that if it even was someone tied to them, it'd have to be Toji. He defected shortly after his wife died, leaving the women to his kid and the men to his messes. This time around, he only promised to travel with the Sukunas before they reached South Dakota. "And we haven't seen him since we left."

Sukuna glances down at you again, almost as if he's asking for guidance on what to do. Really, he wants to gauge your reaction—your parted lips and wide gaze as you meet his eyes. You've always been extra sensitive to his way of life, and it's why he keeps you so far from it, but Sukuna knows that if the worst comes true, you'd be able to carry his burden better than he ever has. For that, he blinks, then nods back up at the pair as you pull away.

Outside the window, you can hear Yuji kicking the ball into the side of the house, cheering and jumping every time he lands a solid kick — then trying to hit it midair. He's surprisingly… competent for a kid who's barely five, knowing how to work his long limbs better than you ever could. His favorite pastime recently is doing whatever his Dad does — hunting, fishing, getting firewood and fetching water. Everything he used to watch you struggle with, he's now leaning into, and that's reason enough to keep Sukuna around, even though you know it won't be forever.

It's his antics that pull your attention away from the heavy air inside the house, turning around when you hear him hollering and laughing just a few feet away. You want to go out there and be with your boy, but you also should be in here, sucking up this new information like a sponge for Sukuna to seek refuge in whenever he needed someone who understood. You two spend a lot of nights just talking once the child goes to sleep. He talks about how passionate and heavy his life is, and how it just feels right to share it with you. During the day, he's as closed-off as ever — doing the chores for you, being a Dad when you're not looking, and shrugging you off until he can get you back in bed with him.

You tell yourself it's just the first week, but you have no idea how long this invisible countdown is set for. He could be back for two weeks, or maybe even a month, and you're counting every day with the scratch marks left on your skin every other night since he got home.

You don't know what to say as he blinks down at you, so you dodge it. Peeking down at your feet, you pull away and mention, "I'll go see what he's doing."

Choso rushes, eager to get out of that hot, humid air of unknowing. Suguru and Sukuna could talk about this all night as the head and heart of the gang, and Choso could get lost — only let into the conversation when someone had to be quietly manipulated and removed. "I-I'll go with—

Sukuna nods, letting you pull away as he heads into the kitchen, grabbing a rag to wipe his sweaty forehead over. He knows he should bathe, and he knows you're due to comment on it, but you're usually respectful around his men, so he expects nothing different this time around. "You go check on him, now, but it's noon and ain't a damn one of us has ate, yet."

Choso follows you to the front door, his face a blank slate for some kind of wonder only a five-year-old state of mind could throw him into. It's natural that he just seeks the easier way out in these more vocal scenes—knowing his words are only good for him when they're punishing or threatening someone else. Not when he has to weigh choices and decisions that affect the outcome of other people's lives. He follows in your warm footsteps as Suguru and Sukuna head to the table, and he stops when you stop, nearly shouldering your side.

Of course, his word choice could always be better, but Sukuna is right. Your boy is still running off last night's fumes, exercising the last few bits of it, and your man is just in from back-breaking work. If it's one thing you can do to prove your devotion to both, it's making them the meal you promise every day.

Your hand hovering over the loose, shaking knob, you give Choso a one-off glance before smiling softly. "Come on, we'll just check on him, and I'll be right back in."

"Make it quick."

You gather the length of your skirt into a closed fist as you step out onto your dusty porch, barefoot. The air seems to thin almost immediately, giving your nose a rushing breeze to take in, instead of the heavy reality of what must be spoken about within those four walls. Choso steps out after you, drawing the door shut softly as your child's gleeful yelps fill the air. You wait for him on the porch, crossing your knees together as he starts down the stairs in front of you.

All gathered—hitched at some far end of the property where the horse tracks stop— you notice their horses idling, grazing the patch of grass they're near and huffing into the early midday air. It all brings back memories that you swore you'd forget in favor of making new ones with your baby, but you can't run from them. It makes you smile again, and you suddenly can realize just how happy — how light you've felt with him around.

"Choso…" You call out to him, just loud enough to reach his ears and not startle. At the base of the steps, he turns back to you over his shoulder, using his fingers to comb his falling bangs from his eyes. It's always been a bit difficult to look him in the eyes, but you think they're his best feature. It's obvious that he doesn't get enough sleep, and wears it like it's a prop. "Go to him; I can see you two from the kitchen window. Just make sure—

"Yes, ma'am!" He puts one foot in front of the other before you can finish, heart beating hard and fast in his chest. He's holding back so much just standing here with you, but just can't focus when the person he's always wanted to exist is just around the corner.

"But you — move out there and play, away from the house but where I can still see you."

"Of course!"

"Choso!" You skip down the steps as he starts jogging away. You want to chase him, but you're barefoot and don't trust the soles of your feet on this old, rocky terrain. "Don't play… rough! Just be careful!"

You can't help but dissociate through the kitchen window, face full of smoke and steam as you stir your oats to proper thickness. You're making what you promised — ground oats, pork, flatbread, and as many raisins as they could eat. It's not rare when you spend all day thinking about dinner, so the first meal is usually a wildcard of different ingredients you have around the house, but always consisting of oats and raisins in some form. There's an abundance, and you know how much of a blessing it is, though it gets redundant with time.

Behind you, Suguru and Sukuna go on and on and on, combing back through specific locations, laughing with their feet kicked out and beer on their breath. You had lit a candle to combat the dark side of the room, and it's slowly started to fizzle away. Still, you hover over your bubbling pot, wiping sweat from your brow as you look back out to Choso and Yuji in the yard.

Kneeling in front of your son, Choso points to something small in his tiny cupped hands, nodding and talking slowly. You wish you could hear what they hear, then you start coming up with things they could be going on about. In your mind, you imagine a little frog in your baby's hands, and the gentle, reassuring tone of Choso's voice as he identifies and teaches about it.

Only, when they lean down to let it free, you're horrified to see a tiny mouse scurry out of Yuji's hands. You gasp, face scrunching up as the men laugh behind you.

"What's wrong, lady?" Sukuna grumbles against the afterbreath of Suguru's laugh, a hand stuffed in his pocket as he reclines deeper into his seat. He quite enjoys the view from here — of your back against the sun, bleaching the already light fabric enough that he can see the whisper of your skin under there. Cooking and tending may seem so menial to you, but to him, it's the sexiest thing ever, even when you're covered down to your wrists and ankles.

"They're playing with a goddamn mouse."

Suguru laughs, sitting up and resting his forehead in his hand. He takes the tin-tinged beer in his free hand and holds it to his lips. "Choso's right where he wants to be."

"Let them play; he can take a bath later." He demands in a way that means — don't worry.

So, you shut up, nursing your pot on the stove until it's just thick enough to cool down and not be inedible. You do it all yourself — using fabric to move the heavy-bottom pot onto the wood-scorched floor. You give it time to cool, then go on to making the other things, blocking out the men when they start talking again.

"And what exactly does Yuta know about the Zen'in's?"

"That they're rich… and corrupt," Suguru mumbles, sighing through his nose and shaking his head. It feels like they're talking in circles — piecing together what happened the last night you saw the man, and what they've seen since. It's not an easy thing to crack, especially when there are unfamiliar distractions everywhere. Namely, in the joyous glee of a child just outside the window.

"I told him I'd just investigate myself and slap a number on his head… Just to get it over with?"

"And bring him a body? What did I say — no inner killings, you know that. Even if it is a goddamned Zen'in."

Suguru sighs again, rubbing his eyes like it'd make the entire predicament go away. "We don't even know if Toji did it. Even if he did, he wouldn't tell me; he hates me."

"He'd lie to you and pin it on the kid." Sukuna agrees, glancing over at you as a new smell starts to fill the air. Something savory. "You think Toji's a murderer or what, babe?"

As soon as he starts, you suck your teeth, knowing you have nothing to say. "Me? Oh, I wouldn't know—

"Yes, you would." Suguru insists, glaring across the room at you because he's too exhausted to come off any nicer. "You know what they say: women are more intuitive than the average man."

"I know nothing about what you all do when I'm not around. I just hope those girls get the chance to go home one last time." The sound of the food sizzling right under you drowns you out just enough for your emotion to get lost. You look back up through the window, smiling when you watch Yuji run circles around his seemingly new friend. The only other person you've really seen him with.

As you serve them their food before you run out and grab your child, they corner you with ultimatums once again, waiting until you're bent down just enough for his words to kiss your ear. Sukuna hums, then mentions. "I think it could be the other one."

"Naoya's not even… technically a Sukuna."

"Makes it easy enough to get that lead-head out of our business." He sits up, hungry and ready to devour every odd and end you slapped on his plate. Suguru gets the same serving — sliding it gently across from his beer so neither spills over. He gives you a sharp, sure smile, then turns back to his boss and shakes his head.

"I'll bring it up to him, but eh…" He shrugs, picks up a fork, and calls the conversation to a pause as they both start eating. You linger as they dive in, closing a hand over Sukuna's shoulder that trails over his back before falling back to your side. It's only when Sukuna starts eating that Suguru starts, and only when you step away.

Sukuna stops you mid-bite, chewing over your hard work with that focused glint in his eye. "Oh, and—

"Mm?"

"Thank you."

You smile in response, already one foot out the front door with your hand on the knob to run and catch your boy. Before you even have time to respond, he's being swept back into conversation like you don't even exist—weighing the seriousness of framing someone else right at your kitchen table. If the worst comes to be, he could be framed, and you could be an accomplice.

"Be really, really careful, Yuji…" Choso's voice is slow — reassuring and safe as he gets down on a knee. The kid is splayed out in front of him, front pressed into the ground as he peers deep inside some inconspicuous hole in the side of an old tree trunk. You walk out with shoes this time, letting the hem of your dress catch in the grass and wildflowers as you walk up to them, slowly — not to disturb.

"L-like this?" Your son whispers, exercising more caution with his voice than he normally would. "I saw him go in there…"

"It's his burrow, look. You see?" Choso gets down to the stump, pointing out the tiny, coin-sized hole hidden amongst the mess of leaves and brush that he has to push out of the way. "See?"

"B-but it's so tiny."

"He was cute though, wasn't he? Field mice get really teeny-tiny and are able to squeeze in there." He goes on, following Yuji with his eyes as he sits back on his bottom. "It looks so small, but after that little entrance it blows up into tunnels and rooms where their babies grow!" Choso exclaims, throwing his hands out to show just how huge he thinks field-mouse burrows can get. "Do you hear them scurrying under your floor too, at night? They love being safe under foundations."

"Mama said th—

"Yuji…" You interrupt once you're in earshot, remaining soft and stoic, arms crossed over your chest. "Choso, I made food for you all. I know you must be starving."

"Mama!"

"F-food?" Like he's never heard of the term, he shoots you wide eyes, rising back to his feet as Yuji rushes you. "For… us?"

"Sure." You smile, warmth spreading through your body as your dusty little child dives headfirst into your joined legs, wrapping his arms around them like he doesn't want you to ever go away. "It's nothing fancy, but you should get some food in your system." Then, you look down at your son spreading his filth into your ivory fabric, and still keep your smile whole and genuine. "You look like you're hungry, little dirt ball."

"Did Papa eat it all yet?!" Like he's made out of firecrackers and raw energy, he pulls away from you and sprints down the lawn towards the front of your little, unassuming house. Yuji can smell the sweet scent from the windows, in some invisible race with his father for who can eat the most oats the fastest.

You let him run ahead for a moment, lingering behind with Choso as he slowly rises to his feet. He stumbles a bit when he comes to, peering down at your feet instead of in your safe, comforting eyes. Now, he wishes he could stay here forever. He wishes he could be a son to you, but knows that will never, ever be possible. He's a murderer — a gangster. There's no room for mothering anymore.

You whisper against the breeze, taking a step closer to him so he knows you're speaking into his soul. "He seems to really get on with you."

"He likes the a… animals."

You smile, teeth baring softly as you nod him forward. "Like you."

He flushes red. "Well—

"Come on, come eat with us. The men are talking… but they could use your input, too."

Choso almost smiles, having to fight down his own smile in your presence. "Nah, only if they need someone to sniff out horse tracks or campfires."

"Which is one of the most important parts, right?" You reach an arm out for him, turning it up so he can see your palm in his dropped gaze. "Come on, before my food goes cold."

"Yes, ma'am…"

You, Sukuna, and Yuji show off your guests right before evening hits. He knows you get fussy when it comes to putting your son down and doesn't want to impose more than he already has.

Because, though you'd never say it, he knows how much an unexpected meeting could impose. The food wasn't the issue — Sukuna's been backing the new inflated bill without as much as a whisper, so you're happy to extend a helping hand. But it's the fact that an entire day has been swallowed by a conversation that just couldn't wait until you saw the next morning. Sukuna realizes just how much time he lost when he stands up from his chair to light more candles around the home, and sighs.

After the pair left, you started sorting your routine for another night, and he was so caught up in thought that he didn't even think about getting up to help—let alone ask if you needed anything —so he lingered. He drank another glass of whiskey, puffed on a smoke, carried water in, and is now just… sitting as you run your little boy around the house.

You don't expect the world of the man, nor do you expect him to lean into fatherhood the way you were forced to lean into motherhood, so it doesn't bother you. Still, you hate that it doesn't bother you. You hate how you'd rather break your back over a high-walled basin to keep your son still in the bath, because you'd do it right and better than he ever could.

Sukuna's been treating this new way of life like a vacation, almost. He dozes off as he waits for you and Yuji, feet kicked up on the table as he quite literally sleeps with one eye open. He can hear and feel everything, too, knowing you and Yuji are on your fourth run-through of his animal-naming song, and it's so annoyingly cute that it makes that half-shut eye twitch.

"Remember what Mama said — You do a loopty-loop then pull. That's it, right?"

So, of course he makes it into a song, following the edge of your voice with his tiny, confident voice, "You do a loopty-loop!"

"—and pull,"

"Alrighty, now, whose strings are untied?" Sukuna sits up with a grunt, greeting you with energy he didn't have, just so he can say he's doing something right. Yuji runs into the kitchen at the speed of light, skidding to a stop right in front of his father, holding both limp laces that keep his cotton trousers up at night.

"Loopty-loop, then pull… Sing it, Papa."

Sukuna looks up at you, face as stoic as yours, only to break into a small smile when you do. You reach down, running your hands through Yuji's hair — slowly, lovingly, just to prove that you care. "Sing it, man." You whisper, breathing out a soft laugh.

Yuji reaches forward, pressing his small hands into Sukuna's lap as he sits up straight. "Can you tie it for me? And sing it." He insists, a bit of bass behind his tone.

"Papa isn't singing anything. You know that." He grunts, getting close enough to Yuji to take the strings in his weathered, huge hands. Though he doesn't sing, he takes both strings and looks at his son. "—see? Loopty-loop… Just like Papa does."

"Y-yeah…"

His voice smooths out to its softest pitch, handling the delicate linen strings on his son's waist with a gentleness that even you haven't felt yet. "And you cross under, then over, and… pull."

You smile down at them, massaging your son's shoulders as he nods intently, ready to pull those laces apart and start clean. Sukuna sits back once Yuji is all tied up, looking up at you with an expression unreadable. You keep your smile on your face, nodding as Yuji shakes himself from your grip. He turns around between you two and holds his arms up, expectantly asking to be picked up and carried to bed like a baby.

You tilt your head, shaking it softly. "You're almost forty pounds."

"Please~

"Alright, come on." Sukuna stands, grabbing the boy under his arms like he weighs less than a pound. You struggle and groan every single time, living with chronic hip and back pain that Sukuna doesn't exactly help. "Give your old lady a break for once."

"I'm gonna grow up… and be strong like Papa." He talks as you three walk to his tiny, breezy back room, tapping his small fingers over his Dad's back, long legs wrapped around his broad waist. "Right, Mama?"

You laugh, walking behind them so you can see his face drop in the promise of sleep. "Right."

Sukuna leaves you and Yuji alone during his bedtime stories, knowing you come up with them off the top of your head, and the pressure gets to you in some odd… womanly way that he can't pretend to understand. The one night Yuji slept in your bed, you had stumbled and stammered after every line, needing to improvise with your eyes closed because Sukuna was staring right at you in the darkness. Fondly, but staring nonetheless.

He washes off before he gets in bed, not bothering with taking an entire bath, because they're just not feasible every day. Neither is washing — it's not normal, but he still dips his head in an ice-cold basin and wipes off because he wants to change for you.

Before you get into bed, he's cleaner, wrapped in linen pants, and has the windows open to let in the summer breeze. He runs hot when sleeping, so it's a no-brainer, and if it saves you from waking up covered in sweat that wasn't your own, you'd do anything.

You step back into your room nearly an hour after Sukuna slipped out, fingers already tangled in your buttons keeping your stays together.

When the door draws open, he's sitting over the edge of the bed he hand-made with wood thicker than the floor it's standing on. You can tell how deep in thought he is — a single hand combing through his light hair as he stares out of the open window. He doesn't react with any grandeur or surprise; he just peeks over at you and smirks, slouched over, shirtless with bare, heavy shoulders.

"You don't have to think about this tonight, you know?" You whisper, bare feet dragging over the floor as you crawl up beside him. "But if you are… I don't think Naoya Zen'in is going out killing 'folk."

Sukuna takes a heavy, deep breath, letting you slide close and rest your sharp chin over his shoulder. He reaches for your waist, trailing his hand across the small of your back as you stand, both knees pressed against the sheeted mattress. His grip catches the fabric of your dress, bunching it in an iron grip as he nods. "Nah, he's annoying, but not a murderer."

"And… Toji's lady died a few years back, right? You said in your letter…"

"Birthin' their boy, yeah."

"Grief can lead people to some scary places. I would know — I grieved you for five years."

He finally looks up at you, dark eyes small and sparkling when he sees you looking right back down. It's like you're staring through to his soul and dissecting everything that came with it. "You knew I was alive. Suguru would've told you otherwise if I wasn't."

You jut out your bottom lip in thought, long nails tracing over his weathered, freckled back. "One would only hope."

He turns back to the window, hand absentmindedly trailing across your body, over your behind and your thighs. "So, you do think it's Toji."

You shrug. "He was with you the first time, I remember. But, what about going back east?"

"Right up till he had his boy." Nodding, he continues like he's placing pieces together that Suguru couldn't help with under the constant onslaught of the day. "We were in… what, Minnesota on the way back? Little shitty town with ain't a damn soul but the whores in the brothels."

You hum, tongue-in-cheek as you work your hand over his shoulder like you're massaging the thick muscle. "He was there? With his wife?"

"When she was birthin'? No — just the ladies."

"So…" You purse your lips again, sitting down on your knees and swinging your legs off the bed to stand. "He wasn't there when she was giving birth; you were in a brothel town, and… he came back to a baby and no wife?"

"Something like that, I just don't know why he'd wait five years, then do the same thing."

"That's enough to drive any sentient man mad." You turn around as you drop your dress from the day, letting it collect around your ankles before you step out and bend over to pick it up. Still held together by the slightest cover of undergarments, you turn around to him and nod, driving your point deeper. "I think Naoya may know… but I don't think he cares enough to kill any woman. I'm not quite convinced he even likes them."

Sukuna shamelessly keeps his eyes peeled on your nearly translucent slip, blinking down your body like it was his to experience. "Mm, he's always got a girl coming and going when he camps with us."

"Was he with you all when the murders were taking place?"

"I don't know when the goddamn murders happened. Suguru came, dropped a point and a half, then left."

You smile a bit, thinking back to what you were listening to when you pretended that oats were more important than life or death. "Dear, I just think he came to warn you that Sheriff Gojo knows."

He groans, flustered and knowing, "I know why he was here. I'm the one who damn told him to stay up that fool's ass."

"And the bounty? It's money you could use." You approach the cracked paneled door and hold up a single finger back towards him. "Hold that thought."

Sukuna rolls his eyes, rubbing his huge hands over his face as he waits for you to wash up and come back. He knows you do this every night before bed, but there's still a part — all of him- that hopes you take more time. When you do, he knows you're expecting him to touch you, and he's nothing but a man.

Then you come back in, all dewy-skinned and ripe. He stands up when you walk in, holding a hand out for you to trace your fingers over. "Anyways— the bounty will be nice to have, right?"

"All money is nice to have. I just won't kill one of mine for it." Sukuna wraps you in a heavy, hot embrace, closing both arms over your back. You roll your eyes, keeping your hands planted on his forearms as he holds you. "I'd kill him for you, though."

"All you men — just sweet-talkers till the day you die." You reply, letting him kiss you just enough to drive him crazy. His beard tickles your chin, making you draw a soft smile as he focuses his time on your inhumanly soft lips. The second you get a breath, you whisper against him, "Ryo— my back hurts, I can't tonight."

"Why does your back hurt?"

"That's a stupid question—

"Then, lie down." He steps away, letting your grip fall back to your side as you nod and crawl barefoot into bed. He watches you settle on your side, showing off the sweet, familiar shape of your body that the mattress carves and dips out for only him to see. You suck your cheek as he stares at you, waiting until you beckon him in with a curled finger. "You damned minx. You back hurts, eh?"

"So bad." You chew on a giggle, welcoming him into bed as he crawls over you, both hands planted at your sides as he leans down and kisses you again. He's so big that you can't breathe past his body — you're stuck and small. Though you're only slightly bullshitting him, Sukuna kisses you, then sits back on his side of the bed, pulling and taking the covers with him for you to climb under.

"And when I ain't here no more to touch you, you're gonna wish your back didn't hurt."

"Okay, well why do you think my back hurts? Because I used to do way more than I do now, and it didn't hurt every night."

"That damn boy wanting to be carried all over Hell's creation."

"It's you thinking I'm an acrobat and not someone's mother."

"Yeah? You were mine to throw around first."

You're able to squeeze a little genuine chuckle out of Sukuna as you press up against him. Right before he gets comfortable, he leans his frame over the bedside, licks a few fingers, and snuffs out the single candle, giving the night-covered room some light. When he settles in beside you, his face is so close that you can taste his skin on your tongue without touching. You reach up and run your soft hand over his cheek, lulling him to sleep as you would your son.

Only. Sukuna is much more clingy; of course, he has to have both hands wrapped around you — legs tangled around yours under the sheets. He slips his eyes shut and looks just like the baby you loved more than anything, and that makes you love him more.

Even though you know—of course you know. This feeling wouldn't last once the cold comes.

[eraserbread]

missionary, so you and sukuna can finish your argument from the day

you and sukuna argue all the time.

it was never anything serious, just fleeting bullshit and spit-fire shots when one of you know the other is weak. it's become a sort of hella toxic love-language, and it's usually your fault, but today it was sukuna's, and it started this morning.

literal clockwork — your alarm goes off at the same time each day. sure, today was a day off so you didn't need to be alert so early that morning, but you had a class that you had to get to, that sukuna completely barreled through for selfish reasons. he had blearily reached over, turned off the vibration, then smothered you back to sleep with the iron headlock he calls cuddling.

then, when you woke up, you had cursed him halfway to hell and thrown your pillow at his chest, only for him to shrug and play his ace—that halfway, grumbly apology when he knows he can't fight for his side.

it's just... he wanted more time with you, his excuse was. you had rolled your eyes and borne it for the rest of the day, ready for an itinerary filled with him and spending money.

only, you were spending too much time in the store. or, you're dilly-dallying and being reckless with his time and money. you had shrugged him off in the aisle, then in the car, and finally back in your kitchen when you two got home.

"remind me to never take your ungrateful, spoiled ass anywhere for a week."

"let me remind you — you didn't have to come with me to pay bills." you deadpan, arms heavy and low after you unload the few bags you had in your hands. "actually, i was going to go alone after my class."

"it's my money you're spending," he scoffs, giving you that tone of voice that makes your skin crawl. it's a low little click from the very back of his throat, and you hate it. "i'm going to be there as you spend it, damn it."

"then, i'm going to take my time!" it was in your daily plan to put all of the new home touches and beauty-care away, then make dinner for your doting husband, but all he wants to do is poke the bear. you recognize that stupid, prodding look in his eyes. "god, you know i hate being rushed when i have shit to do!"

so, you storm off to the bedroom, the argument fading to the wayside when he didn't have anything else to pick at or expand on. you know he hates shopping with you, but insists on being at your side every single time. he's quiet in public — a big, personal guard dog, so you love having him at your side, but everywhere else, he's a goddamn menace, and he proves it as he follows you into the bedroom.

even when he has you pinned down into his mattress, he doesn't let up. this time, he's annoyed by the way you're overstimulated — running from his heavy, hard-hitting thrusts that feel like they're hitting a new spot inside of you every single time he bottoms out.

on your hands and knees, face buried in the pillow, sukuna fucks you with one knee pressed onto the bed, his huge chest beading sweat that drips down onto your heated skin and melts against your own perspiration. he's cursing and seething behind you, parting his lips to bitch at you, but shutting up when he feels your cunt tighten and spasm around him.

"stop— mmfgh-running away," he demands through his teeth, grabbing handfuls of your ass and leaving claw marks as he pulls your loose hips back into his length.

he knows you're crying down there... and he hates that he can't see it. he hates that you think scrambling on your hands and knees would make him slow down on your sobbing cunt, but all it does is add fuel to the fire.

you hate how pornographic your moans sound, all drunkenly slurred together as you whine and grunt. "uh— too m—

"what?" he snaps through the sex-induced haze, blinking sweat out of his eye as he reaches to flip you onto your back. in the maneuver, his cock slips out, leaving behind a slick mess on the insides of your thigh and against his wiry patch of light pubic hair.

for a second, you can catch your breath as you sink back in the bed. you pull your knees apart, reaching up to pull hair from your teeth and shoot him a death glare. "would it kill you to be sensual for once?"

"you're creaming all over my cock, aren't you?" he huffs like it's obvious, grabbing your thighs and pulling you down the mattress, taking the sheets with you. they're halfway off the bed, and he's about halfway buried inside of you before you can even really react.

you reach up for him, closing a hand over the back of his neck to beckon him into a kiss you so desperately need. He goes along with it at first, getting close to your lips, then speaking into them, "you think you're always in charge — how many times are you gonna make me prove you wrong, huh?"

you can't talk, and it's not fair because he knows that. he bottoms out inside of you before you can even blink, groaning against your lips as you whine and scratch at the back of his neck. "ah— as, mm-as man—y. t-t-

"close your mouth, you can't even speak."

"ah— f-fuck you."

"i am... want me to fuck you harder?"

3/8 🪄 the time-stamp on this draft says oct. 3 2025 😭 based on a prompt you've probably seen, too <3 ily! now say it back...

[eraserbread]

melodrama

well, summer slipped us underneath her tongue...

pairing ex boyfriend!suguru geto x afab!reader x best friend!satoru gojo

synopsis every summer is worse than the last. each one, marked by empty champagne bottles, foggy car windows, broken relationships, promises, and the dull taste of the party. only, this summer is the worst one yet, and it all started the night you recognized the truth about your boyfriend, suguru geto.

tags 1990's set college-no curses!au, closeted mxm relationship, love triangle trope, struggles w/ mania, depression, heavy smoking/drinking/partying, baby/marriage trapping, addiction, toxic traditional relationship dynamics, smut, crude language, angst, breakups, infidelity/cheating

author's note this one was a complete happy accident, pieced together meticulously with my readers and friends who are just as invested in this timeline as i am. if you're familiar with virgin, you're already familiar with these characters. reading one story before the other isn't necessary, but this is the proper prologue to virgin.

if you're not familiar with my album fics, i essentially just take the themes of every song on the record and put my own interpretation on it. while virgin is freeing, horny, unsure, and inexperienced, melodrama is all about feeling trapped in love, repressed, confident and reckless. it's not all bad though — i hope you'll stick around and enjoy reading just as much as i enjoyed writing ⛓️‍💥💜

@naomiiocha <3 thank u for my beautiful boys and for your time and effort

+ stsg by @naomiiocha (made exclusively for melodrama) gradient divs by @cafekitsune chains by me

chapter list green light

sober

homemade dynamite

the louvre ✩

liability

hard feelings/loveless

sober II (melodrama) ✩

writer in the dark

supercut ✩

liability (reprise)

perfect places

extras: how you get the girl (prologue) virgin (20+ year time skip)

taglist: open! (comment below)

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if looks could kill, 14,233 people in kuna's chat would be reduced to oily stains against their crummy couches and sweaty sheets. there's nothing like telling a group of parasocial idiots that he doesn't owe them shit like staring dead-on in the staticky, dark camera — eyes half lidded and barely holding onto mercy as his chat flies twenty miles an hour.

on his headset, laughter cracks through a shitty, cheap mic: "give the people what they want, man."

"chat, it's like you want to get called slurs—

now, kuna won't say it, but he is expecting to make at least four thousand off this stream tonight as he jumps around a fortnite server, waiting for the lobby to load in with the scrambling idiots around him.

naoya's droning on and on in his ear, interacting more with his chat than kuna ever really does. he's scowling towards the screen, crimson eyes reflecting the cheery blues and greens of the pixelated landscape on his second monitor.

"—like two years since kuna's got a victory royale."

"was not two fucking years ago, you idiot." he drones, hissing in the receiver as fan service. he's not stupid, and he certainly didn't get so successful by being modest and nice. no, his audience is a bunch of touch-deprived women and pre-pubescent boys. there is no in between, just like his mood at any given second.

"one and a half if you're asking me on a good day... someone in chat said he has a tally — pull it out, man! put it in the discord!"

the two load into their match — kuna keeping his eyes on his gaming screen as his chat rolls with a vengeance. viewers spike with pre-battle, and he reaches to his side, sighing as his duo-partner spouts nothingness in his ear that he just blocks out.

for their last match on, he has to make it count. that thought crosses his mind once he marks their location in the city, choosing all or nothing because he doesn't crave peace. kuna wants to land and start killing immediately.

footsteps on the ground, naoya stubbornly lands somewhere behind him, falling short and falling too quickly for where sukuna marked. chat doesn't even let him breathe — deciding the annoyance's neck is one easily digestible. naoya fights for his life daily, knowing his gaming skills can never hold a flame to his firecracker mouth.

kuna, however, drops down and loads up without muttering a word, eyes flicking from chat every few seconds as it rolls by. donos roll in on his dashboard, all urging him in: PLEASE READ or can you say happy birthday to-

"if you ask me to say happy birthday one more time, you're getting banned." he deadpans, watching as the dono gets buried in real time by even more. "dumbass, you sent like fifty donos asking the same question, you're worthless."

the proxy chat explodes around him and naoya as they regroup in a basement house, crouching and shielding when a duo swings open the door, heavy footsteps thumping in his ear.

naoya speaks, giving their presence away before sukuna can reload his pump. "fuck—

hearing the proxy static of naoya's voice, another player chirps, "wait, where are they?"

"you— i hope they assassinate you, dickhead... waste of space." kuna clicks around on his pc setup, fingers lost to his audience, and lost on him with the speed they harness. sometimes he forgets he was an early tournament leader.

then, he hears you. "wait, don't kill them—

'here, take this small pot,' your teammate's voice is equally as soft in contrast — dragging and lazy like only a girl that knows what she's doing can pitch. 'these dudes, look.'

"it's a girl. a duo of girls? fuck, let's just shoot each other." naoya speaks through closed teeth, tense-bodied as he prepares to fight against his better reasoning.

not quite talking to him, not quite talking to you, your teammate speaks into the proxy: 'he's a dick, we have to.'

"no!" you chirp, and kuna cannot hide that look on his face when you and your duo's avatars scurry down the steps, not even flinching when naoya builds up in wood around them.

"fuck off, wait," kuna actually stops, swinging out his polished katana axe to demolish the structure. you in your stupid ass razor skin, t-bagging him in his territory that he scouted before your grabby hands came along.

from your line, your voice cracks out, "wait, don't kill us. lets just join up."

naoya starts, "we don't need women—

"shut the fuck up!!!" kuna yells, voice booming through the proxy so deafeningly that your teammate breaks out into hysterical laughter, drawing every single surrounding team your way. "he doesn't ever shut the fuck up — god,"

'cheap ass skin, you're a loser.'

"they can join." kuna decides on a whim, flipping through his inventory — throwing you a mini-pot when your hp shows up on his screen. naoya's on ten shield, twenty health — now you're on fifty shield, a hundred health.

what can he say? kuna looks out for those who look out for him.

sukuna/all char taglist: @wavetojulia @heaveninruins @cowboyvsshop @verykittenwombat → wanna be tagged?

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streamer!gojo takes a honey pack on stream .ᐟ

gojo fucked up, bad. like really, really bad.

head in his hands, he watches chat roll by a million miles a second, all clowning him for the one promise he made that he swore he'd never follow through with. it was a stupid bet, and your incessant laughter in his headset isn't helping, especially when he just watched his dignity disappear under the guise of shiny, fleeting tips and the rush of viewers that would only stick by for his humiliation.

on the bottom corner of his screen deck, the pop-up doesn't lie: he lost this round? he has to swallow a honey pack, whole, live on-stream with you only a room away. sure, it's the fault of you and your terrifyingly competent two-hand aim-fire, but gojo thought that you would lose for him. you always lost against him.

your laugh is sweet and reassuring in his ear, but at the mercy of thousands to hear. it's not genuine; it's the relationship you wave around like a shiny flag, knowing situations like this could have him walking out of a streaming marathon with a hundred thousand in his pocket.

"okay... fuck it— fine! this is what you guys want?!"

gojo wants to bang his head against a wall, especially when the only fleeting words he can catch on his screen are 'yes' and 'do it'.

"you guys are really freaky... you think you're gonna see my boner if i take one?! no, i'm a gentleman."

he sighs into an open palm, then drops his head again in an overwhelmed sigh when they don't let up. gojo doesn't get flustered at work, but he gets flustered for you. he doesn't want to be a further thorn in your side — overtaken with debilitating wood for the last ten hours of this stream- but he gives in, because... of course, he does.

gojo is so fucking overwhelmed. he can see his reflection in the screen deck through his peripheral vision, forehead still in his hands, breathing heavily as he stares at his feet. the entire face cam is blown up for the viewers, blinking a 'just chatting' alert at the bottom of the screen as you interact with the chat like he's not fighting for his life next to you.

almost ten hours through this marathon now, he's exhausted and horny, foot tapping as you press a hand to his knee. his eyes flick manically from his feet, then to yours, absentmindedly trailing up your calf and thigh as you wiggle in your chair. he feels like a teenager, and there are thousands of people still watching.

"how is he?" you squint at the chat screen in your LED-lit setup, squeezing gojo's knee again. "he's terrible, chat." your voice dips into that stupid little people-pleasing one that shouldn't be making gojo insane right now. "he's so bad at faking it — he's down bad."

"turn the camera off." he seethes, that palm twisting into a fist, then to fingers locked at his white roots, pulling at the hair because he can't pull at you.

"huh?" you blink over at him, barely regarding his bowed, tense body language as you talk into your streaming mic. turning back to your chat screen, you choke down a small bout of laughter as the comments keep rolling. you and gojo have been doing this for years — eating, sleeping, and living on stream for thousands to see and talk about. your relationship is your content, so of course, a bunch of touch-starved nobodies are going to put you two in these situations.

now, what they don't know is that gojo doesn't break promises. so, the camera's going to turn off, but not the stream. not when that timer is so close to hitting ten hours — halfway through.

"okay— how quick do you think you can get me off?"

"s-seriously? the stream is still on."

"they can't see or hear us." he's breathless like he just ran a marathon, standing up and lifting his loose shirt to his teeth, biting down on fabric so he can see his hands fumble in his waistband.

if this wasn't so... stupid, you'd be laughing, but all you can really do is just sit back in your chair with a sly, 'I told you so' grin on your face. "you really expect me to get you off on stream?"

"if you loved me or had a heart in the slightest, yeah." gojo's face is flush, the tent in his pants so damning that it's leaking through and staining the crotch in his dark sweats. it's the perfect opportunity to tease him to hell and back if you had all the time in the world, but you don't, and you're not a shitty partner. "please, baby."

and you give in: "yeah... sure, stand up."

now, he's always been a handful, but gojo has never... fucked your face before. it's damn-near animalistic this time — the way his hips snap forward every half-second, both hands pressed to the side of your head as he holds you still.

his moans are obscene and performative, yet totally raw — bouncing off the foam soundboards in the room, right back into his face as he treats your throat as a warm, pulsating toy.

you two abandoned the rolling chair as soon as he got you on a knee for him, just kicking it out of the way so he could pin your back to the front of the desk. the edge is digging into your back, but it's the only thing keeping you steady as he throws his head back and cries your name towards the ceiling.

chat rolls by behind you, talking among themselves and throwing around where you two are behind the 'be right back!' screen. little do they know, gojo has a leg propped up, his cock slick and dripping mess down your chin as he chases an insatiable high in the only one he trusts enough to do this with. the idea of the camera flickering on somehow feels like a further rush to his veins, blocking out all of his common sense as his hips stutter.

gagging as he bottoms out in your throat, fingernails digging into his pale hips, you... almost smile? almost as if you know this wasn't the plan all along.

twenty-hour live-stream marathons aren't fun, but you and forty thousand others were destined to make this one at least memorable.

🪄 2/8 send me some more requests to drabble out. ily forever :p

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putting dilf!geto to sleep 💤

geto is a stickler about his sleep. in other words: he likes you, but he doesn't play.

once he hit thirty, it's like an invisible clock in his soul started counting down. he took his time re-learning his habits, figuring out what routines work best for his longevity. it's something he chipped at tirelessly until it was perfect.

and now, there's you. young, vibrant, half his age, but in a way that doesn't make him think twice. you came and threw the prettiest wrench in his midlife crisis plans, and now he's in far too deep.

geto's always slept with something over his eyes — his arm, a pillow, or you, it's like he can't face the room comfortably. tonight is no different, but tonight he's tucked in bed before the sun has even set in the sky. the curtains are open, spilling light over his stagnant body, but he doesn't notice with his arm slung lazily over his eyes.

you tiptoe into the room like you're afraid of disturbing the beast, knowing that, since he was radio silent, he was nowhere but in bed. you assumed he must've had a day, but that didn't stop you from swinging by before your evening plans... just to see if he was okay.

your idea of checking up on him is gentle at first — just you crawling over the mattress, tossing a leg over his body so you could straddle him back to his senses. he's… “asleep” on his back, full lips parted as he takes deep, even breaths. you smile down at him, reaching down to caress his grey-stubbled chin.

"there's no way you're sleeping so early." there's a laugh hidden behind your tone, and a smile that lingers when you see his lips pull up at the sound of your voice. "old man,"

"it's friday. you know i sleep on fridays."

"then how can you possibly have a life? It's sunny out." you whine, shifting your hips over his strong hips and grabbing at his arm to pull it from his face. "i'm going to dinner with a friend, so don't worry about it. i just wanted to see you first."

finally, geto pulls his face free, eyes squinted as he adjusts to the room's light and the glow of your smile aimed right down at him. "and now that you woke me, i won't be able to go back to sleep. might as well brew a coffee and stay awake all night."

"don't be dramatic," you whisper, tone dipping to that valley that only he has the pleasure of hearing. his once authoritative tone cracks and greys around the edges as you scoot down his body, lowering face-to-face so you can kiss that sleepy smirk right off his face. "give me five minutes. i can have you sleeping like a baby."

"then, shall i set a timer?"

your idea of a lullaby is your heated, stifled moans as you dip your head, overcome with the feeling of him buried so deep that you can feel it in your tummy.

the moment is as intimate as they come — his hands on your bare hips, your dress bunched around your waist and panties soiled and simply pushed to the side. geto's face is flush down to the collarbones, shirtless chest rising and falling rapidly as he does his best to keep his composure and not tap out too soon.

you're right... he's toast. your warm, trembling cunt feels like home — clamping down on him every time he pushes his hips just a bit deeper. the warmth reminds him of being safe on his mother's bosom, though he'd never admit it.

the way you're whispering lulls him into an almost dream-like state of being, making his eyes flutter shut as he tilts his head to the side. "that's it, good boy," you whisper, running two open palms over his chest, pulling him back down.

"i-if you squ—eeze like that... mmgh..." he mumbles, fingers creating fists in the skin of your hips. he wants to just hold you there and fuck you, but doesn't have the energy. all this tension makes him feel like a taut rubber band, ready to snap with just one whisper from your lips.

"like this?" you gasp, lifting your hips just a bit, then clenching down on his thick cock like you want him out. under you, geto swallows down a deep groan, eyes squeezed shut as he tosses his head to the other side. he's holding his breath, afraid that if he lets go, he'll succumb to your ways, cum, and fall right back to sleep like you promised.

"or, like this?" you bite down on your bottom lip, smirking down at him as you raise your hips all the way, then drop back down with a sharp inhale.

"yes! oh, yes..." he moans, showing his teeth as his knees shiver, balls tightening under you as he almost... just, almost cums on the spot. "fuck— don't do that."

so, you do... just that.

it takes less than five minutes — you're counting each thrust in your head, blinking over at the clock at his bedside so you don't miss your plans. sure, you're focusd on getting off, but you're even more focused on getting him where he wants to be.

for a man that does so much for you, you feel pretty damn accomplished to say you made him cum, then turn over and knock right back out like nothing happened.

only, this time he's not worried about the sun. he turns to his side, pushing all the blankets from his overheated skin, and snores himself right back to sleep like nothing happened.

safe to say, geto slept like a baby after you left.

🪄 1/8 thank u for 8k ily forever

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virgin → track seven: clearblue

how's it feel, being this alive..?

pairing dad's best friend!satoru gojo x virgin!afab reader

synopsis satoru has you right where he wants you - embedded into his daily life until you can't see or sense anything but him. it feels like heaven until the reality of your relationship hits and you're both left to scrounge for answers.

tags angst, unbalanced unhealthy relationship dynamics, mentioned blood/fighting, drinking, struggles w eating/insecurity, yuta/maki cameo, lots of pet names, crude language/humor, smut, tw: pregnancy scare, smut (f!body worship/oral, 69'ing, risky sex/breeding kink, etc), nsfw

word count 13k

author's note so much has happened since last chap - i soft-launched virgin's sister fic, exposed the truth between satosugu, and spent long hard hours on the battlefield defending my boys. i can't waittttt to hear your thoughts on this one xoxo i love my little characters sm they finally feel real in this one

(jo by @/_3aem 🩻 gradient divs by @/cafekitsune, chains by me)

Every day this week has started the same. You can't breathe. You can't touch him.

Worst of all, you can feel the cycle you're running yourself in — obsessing over something you know you won't be able to grasp.

It all started as a stupid joke — a dare. Now, Satoru stands in front of you, shirtless under his zipped-open hoodie and matching sweat shorts. A few days ago, in the very studio you're in now, he jokingly blamed you for running off his potential protege, then challenged you to take his place. All you needed to do was land a hit behind his physical, padded barrier. You needed to touch skin, but all you've gotten these past few days is straight foam.

He started with the basics — honing in on your fighting stance with a gentle, strong grip on your hips. You tried the first day and failed miserably. So, last night, he spoke so much praise to you that you almost threw it all up, but this morning, there's no mercy. He stands in front of you, sweat dripping from his flat, greying locks as he blocks every one of your closed-fisted hits with his targeted focus mitts. You can't move fast enough, and he couldn't be any slower; still, he blocks every single one like he's moving through a waltz with his eyes closed.

Between missed assaults, he breathes out with a wild, blue gaze, "Distract me, baby. Just like I taught you."

You run him in circles, sneakers squeaking against the hard floors as he walks you backward towards the mirrors, blocking a left hook, then a weak recoil towards the side of his jaw. Taking his instruction to the head, you rise on your toes, bearing your teeth as you fake a hit from his right, then raise your left fist, aiming it behind his gloves and towards his bright, pretty nose.

Just before you can land your first solid hit, he calls your bluff and ducks — dropping one of his hands to slap your arm down.

"That's a good fucking girl… Good, good!"

"I was so…" You pause, letting your fists speak for themselves. You two are hot in each other's space — soul to soul, breathing so heavily that you can taste his perspiration on your tongue. "So damn close!"

"I'm looking in your eyes — I can see your next move in your eyes." He rushes out between blocks, grunting when a particularly hard jab hits his left glove. "Look in the dead center of my face, between the brows."

"Your uni-brow? That's cute."

"Haha." He breathes, biting down on a smirk when he watches your pretty, familiar eyes zero in on his third eye. "There you go. Now, let those fists talk."

So, you swing on him, and you give it your all. Holding your breath, you focus on his eyes, keep him on his toes just like he taught you, and throw punch after frantic punch. You don't stop until one hits — a jab to his chest, a squat and hook that he dodges with a well-timed turn, then the final, fatal uppercut that catches him off-guard after a previous, sloppy dodge. Your delicate, ringed fist hits him right under the jaw, clamping his mouth shut so fast that he can't steady himself, nor dodge, in time.

You finally landed one.

Except, Satoru pauses, his head dipping— hair falling in front of his eyes as time stops. He lets out a small noise, reaching up to bite his gloves off and drop them at his feet.

You rush for him, smile dropping as you breathlessly whisper, "Satoru—

"It's fine." He slurs, lifting his other hand to his teeth to tear the Velcro on his glove apart. It thuds to the ground in a limp heap, but he keeps his head hung, swaying against your gentle touch on his shoulder. He goes to laugh again, painting over the worry on your face when he finally looks up, teeth blood-red as he smiles at you. "You got me good, little girl."

You swallow down the nickname, knowing how he wants these reactions out of you. Instead, your heart drops as you reach for his chin, pulling him closer so you can investigate his bloody smile. "Did you bite your tongue?"

"Chomped it to Hell and back." He replies, electric blue eyes zeroing on yours as he cooperates with your care, leaning down to level, dropping his jaw so you can peer inside.

"Oh, no. Does it hurt? I'm so sor—

"I asked for it. I wanted you." His voice straightens out from the light tone it just carried — turning authoritative and sure as he glares. Stroking his cheek with your thumb, you shake your head, body heavy under the guilt of drawing blood. "Stop." He pulls you out of it, pushing your shaking fingers away so he can hold you. Your heart is more injured than his poor, bloody tongue, but of course, he'd be the one to take the brunt of the mental load. "Damn near begged for you to punch me."

"I know, it just doesn't feel real."

"Yeah? Come here, it's okay." He whispers, kicking his target gloves away so he can step closer to hold you. "Wanna kiss it all away for me? It'd make the throbbing feel so much better."

"Does it hurt… really bad?" You whisper, closing your hands over the sides of his face as he takes you by the hips, guiding you forward into him. He feels so close, here, pressed hip-to-hip. His breath tastes like a bloody version of yours, and you're so enamored that you're starry-eyed.

He nods pitifully like a boy, silent as he leans down, nudging his nose against yours before kissing over your soft, sweaty lips. You lean into it, arching back against his hold on your waist as he parts his lips, pushing his tongue into your mouth. The overwhelming taste of clean copper floods your senses, but it tastes like… him. It's the only comfort you have as your head goes hazy with it all.

Your hands trail from his face to the back of his neck, where you tangle your fists in his hoodie, holding on for dear life. You let him take control for a moment, kissing you out of your head before the haze takes over.

Then, it hits you like a ton of bricks. In his hold, your head goes heavy, knees limp as exhaustion takes over.

You… almost pass out, falling limp in Satoru's arms, where he catches you before he can even register what's wrong. He notices your weakness, brows furrowing as he lowers you onto the ground, pressing his knees into the floor as he gives in to your dead weight, not fighting it with strength. Satoru doesn't panic, but he does worry. The entire morning flashes before his eyes as he scans your paling face. He saw you eat and drink a healthy amount of water — his only stipulation for joining him at the gym. Satoru doesn't know if you took your vitamins, but knows that it wouldn't truly throw your body like this.

"Geto? Hey, baby, can you hear me?" He whispers, pushing some drying, stringy hair behind his ear. He then lowers that same hand to your face, touching the back of his hand onto your overheated, clammy forehead and cheeks. You don't really notice how weak you feel until your mind starts racing back to reality, ready to bear the embarrassment you know you'd feel whenever you do something off in front of him.

"It's okay, don't open your eyes." He reassures, petting over your skin as you blink for the first time since you fell out. "We're just gonna stay like this for a moment. You know where you are and who you're with?"

"Y-yeah, I'm with you." You whisper, voice cracking around the edges as you try to blink your eyes open again. You feel… fine; you just can't get a hold of your head. It feels like your insides are swimming.

For some reason, he laughs. "Don't like the taste of blood, huh?"

Squeezing your eyes shut tighter, you can feel the embarrassment start to fall over you like a weighted blanket. It's uncomfortable and heavy, but something about your partner makes it a bit… lighter.

"I've just felt… off this week." You croak, finally cracking an eye and trying to gain the strength to sit up. You're not rushing, enjoying the safe reality in his arms. "Like every step I take falls short."

Satoru sits up with you, a hand behind your neck and one over your lap. "And it's not just your period?"

When you open your eyes, you turn to stare at him like he just exposed the truth of the world right between your lips. You're staring at him, and it still doesn't feel real, because you can't remember the last time you had a period. At first, it was normal after your IUD was taken out. Then, you just… forgot about it. It feels like you've been having unprotected sex damn-near every night — your womb is stained in him, and you're just now putting two and two together.

You two could get pregnant.

You don't respond. Satoru isn't stupid. Under his breath, he whispers, "Oh, no."

Rolling around in Satoru's bed, you can't get back to sleep.

You're a champion of midday naps — your favorite spot being in his bed, on his couch, or in his arms. Only, Satoru doesn't nap; he hardly sleeps, and you're worrying him to death. It's been nearly ten minutes of you tossing back and forth next to him, and he can't focus on the work he's squinting at on his phone, lounging with his back propped against the headboard and your head in his lap. He raises his phone as you fuss and whisper in your sleep, whining and fisting the blankets to pull them over your eyes so you can catch some rest.

Now, Satoru is not stupid — nor is he young— but he's never been in this position. He navigates to a new tab on his phone, punching in the search bar with one finger:

Is restlessness a sign of early pregnancy?

Then the results make his stomach turn.

He glances down at you, having to stifle a smile when he sees you small with the covers yanked over your head. Your fist is tight around a gold ring he bought you, and he wonders if you'd open your eyes right now, if you'd be able to see just how terrified he was.

Sure, he knows. Of course, he knows. Sex leads to pregnancy — it's so textbook that he's nauseous with his own stupidity.

For some reason, he can't remember why or how he thought you were still on some kind of birth control. He can't believe you didn't take the initiative and demand a condom, but knows he'd put up a fight if you brought it up. It's an endless, circling battle in his mind. He can't swallow it down, so he drops his phone at his side and presses his hands into his eyes.

Once you finally settle and relax against his strong, familiar frame, he pulls his hands away and peeks down at you, reaching to tug the blankets from your eyes. For that fleeting moment as you get an inkling of rest, he looks at you, like really.

He looks at you, then blinks — your mother's face flashes before his eyes, then he blinks again and sees your father. It's only on the third blink, when he really squints hard, that he sees you. It's written in all of your beauty and flaws, trailing from your lips to your eyes, then all the way to your toes. Satoru is in love with you; he knows it. Every single part of you, he knows, has felt, and he doesn't want to live without, but he just can't deal.

Satoru can't imagine having to stand face-to-face with the one he's known his entire life and tell the truth. The entire plan was to never let this slip into anything more than a fleeting affair — a way to live out his past in the haze of the future, and channel his need into something other than killing himself all day at the gym. Suguru never had to know when it was a quick fuck, but now that the idea of a baby has been pushed to the front of his mind, that conversation is feeling a lot more realistic.

Still, he blinks down at you and almost believes that it might be worth it. For a child of his own and a partner he couldn't get enough of, anything is worth it. He'd have the rest of his life made — he would take care of you. Long after he's gone, his money could be yours. Everything he owned could be yours. He just… had to tell Suguru.

His dreams come crashing down again.

As you sleep, he lets his arm fall down your back, resting over the swell of your ass. The tiny movement makes you shift, burying your face deeper into his lap to ward off the distraction. Satoru knows you're not really asleep — you're probably close to it, but your lips are zipped shut, and your eyes are fluttering. He knows you well enough by now to read your signs.

"You know we have to talk, right?"

"About what?" You whisper, pulling your face clear so he can understand your carefully chosen words. There are a million things you two have to talk about. Megumi, your Dad, your Mother, his tongue, or your weakness. The mental list goes on and on in your head, but you'll let him land on one. You've become almost masterful at following his lead.

"You're on birth control, right? I thought I heard something about it in passing."

Your heartbeat picks up, and Satoru can feel it. "You might've." You rush out, shifting to your side so you can face the wall. You have to scoot off his body, piquing his attention. "I had an IUD in my uterus for a few years."

"But you don't have it… anymore?"

"Bingo."

"Could you turn and look at me?" He sighs, peeling the blankets from your shoulders to stir you back to your senses. "I'm not your father; I won't scold you."

"But you're mad that I didn't tell you. I know it was stupid; I just got so caught up—

"That first night, you should have told me; I just assumed." Satoru squeezes his eyes shut again, lifting his hand to his eyes before letting it fall. "This is my fucking fault. It's mine. I'm mad at myself, but I need you to turn around and face reality for a second."

"Can you just… be nice about it?" You don't open your eyes until you're turned back towards him, head on the pillow and not his lap anymore. "Tell me I'm stupid, but don't tell me I'm a child."

"Two things can be true at once, you know?"

"Satoru… don't—

"I'm joking, I know you're not a child." He reaches forward, resting his cheek on his bare shoulder as he pinches your nose in passing. His fingers are slow, trailing down the peak of your face and over your lips before landing on your chin. Then, his tone dips. "Look at me."

So, you open your eyes and stare straight up at him, needing to manually slow the racing of your heart and the butterflies in your tummy when you see him staring right back down at you, unblinking.

"If you're pregnant, we're going to have to tell your father, and it won't be pretty."

"What? Do you really think I'm pregnant?"

"You nearly threw up this morning, then fell out during training. I've finished inside of you almost every single night for a month — Yeah, I think you're pregnant."

"You're disgusting."

"I'm realistic." He drives his point deeper, finally blinking before leaning closer to your face to speak straight into your soul. "So, we're taking a pregnancy test. Today. Right now."

"You're gonna have to bribe me with something sweet." You deadpan, staring right back at him because you don't think you're pregnant. Surely, if you were, it'd sit like a rock on your heart. You feel… nothing. "Not sex. I just need to look at you, and I get what I want."

Satoru hums, pursing his lips as he ponders for a second. Then, when the bribe comes, it hits him like lightning. "I'll let you go back to that terribly uncivilized tourist club that I had to drag you out of last week."

That makes you perk up.

You crack a smile, only for him to rush you with, "But only if you're not pregnant."

"If I am?"

"Then… I will be the one to tell your father. Not both of us. Just him and me, completely alone."

"He's going to chop you up into pieces and find a way to feed it to me; he's crazy like that."

"Yeah? Well, we should've thought about that before getting into this situation." He responds with an easy laugh, rolling over to his knees, where he slaps you once on your bare thigh to get you up. "I don't mind. It'll be good nourishment for you and the baby. Good deal? Let's get up, come on."

"But, baby boy… I'm so comfortable in bed right now. You can't just go and bring the test back?" You whine, pointing your foot as he kneels in front of you, trailing your polished toes down his bare chest. It's true — you're hardly covered in a loose silk set, no underwear, no inhibitions. Your eyes are tired and heavy-lidded, and Satoru looks like a hyper spring chicken.

Satoru makes a show of letting out a big, deep sigh, watching as your foot traces his skin. He wants to give in—let you marinate like a princess so he can come home and have you for dinner —but he needs to slow down. Thinking with his dick is what got him in this situation, so he manually takes control of his mind, reaching to grab you by the ankle.

"Put some clothes on. We're going together."

Finally, you and Satoru can walk through the city like you're together.

He hasn't said anything about a title, but actions speak louder than words, and his arm is heavily slung over your shoulders as the sun sets over Tokyo. You're wearing wired headphones, but you can still hear him talking low and slow in your ear, whispering about the new training he wants to put you through during the last half of your city stay. He promised you — guaranteed, at the end of your time together, you'd be able to take him, and any grown man, to the ground.

That promise felt like forever. You didn't need anything more.

"You're getting so flexible with your stretches, too." He continues over your soft rock song in your headphones, stumbling into you. "Once you feel better, I'll show you some great hamstring exercises. We're gonna really work on that before we do some legwork."

"We can do all that even if I'm pregnant?"

"At the beginning, yes. I'm sure." He nods, peeking down at you as you stare at your feet. He notices how quiet you've gotten since you left his place, but doesn't know if he wants to touch on it. Satoru thinks it's obvious. "We'd have to talk to a doctor."

"Of course." You whisper, shoving your phone in your sidebag so you can reach up and hold the hand slung over your shoulder. Satoru takes that little hint of affection, then leans over to kiss the side of your head. It's inconspicuous — him in his hoodie and your eyes glued to the ground, but it's there. You lean your head into your joined hands, trying to be sweet for him in a moment where you're sure he'd need it just as much as you. "I trust you."

"I love you, too."

You two end up buying the test — he picks the one he wants you to take, carries it to the front, and pays for it. He and the auntie behind the counter don't exchange more than the usual transactional pleasantries, but it feels like you're watching a circus act. He smiles that award-winning smile, and any lady blushes; then he turns around to you, and everything feels real.

The walk back home was slow and simple. He walked ahead of you this time, the test sticking out of his back pocket as he feverishly messaged a client back. Night has settled over by the time you're walking back into his apartment, and before he can turn on the lights, you're rushing him with the familiar, "Our deal still stands, right?"

"What, that club you wanna go back to?" He's mumbling, brows furrowed as he stares down at his phone. His big hand hovers over the room lights before flicking them on. "Sorry, baby, I have to call my lawyer with a question… But yes, here," He looks up at you, reaching behind his back to toss you the test. Before you can react after catching it so quickly, he holds up a palm, "Don't take it yet. Just… sit down and read the instructions." He goes to walk away, heart deadset on this question he has to ask, but stops himself again. "I'll… quiz you on it, too. Don't let me down."

"I got it." You insist, fingers already digging at the cardboard enclosure. A single test sits inside—99% accurate, as the label says —as you rip into it. Satoru walks out onto the balcony, sweet light business voice already in the air as he calls up the man he always seems to be on the phone with.

He knows about you now — Satoru's lawyer, Higuruma. He brought up an NDA to protect the business from pleasure and almost got fired.

Still, you take that past and smile at it, venturing deeper into the room to sit yourself down and read over the test. You don't think Satoru's threat about quizzing you held any ground, but you still won't risk it. For your own peace of mind, you sit with the test and pull out the tiny, folded paper of instructions inside. Through the window, you can hear his hushed voice against the heat of the city. He's going on and on about a specific client that he's been seeing for years — something about copyright. It's all just noise, but the sound of his voice, so relaxed and steady, calms you like a lullaby. Suddenly, this test in your hand feels a lot lighter than it once did — maybe this thing could actually work.

Ten minutes pass before he comes back with one ear pod in, trailing his hand over the kitchen island as he wraps up the call. "Sure… I'll call you later. And I'll let you know about drinks tomorrow. I may end up making plans… Okay… Bye, now."

"What plans do you have?" You speak up almost as if it's your right, still scanning over the directions and lounging back in his comfortable furniture.

"Hauling your sorry ass to and from Shinjuku." His voice picks up so you can hear it loud and clear. You smile as you sink further down in the cushion, feeling his footsteps close in behind you. "Right?"

"That's the deal, right?" You nod, reaching deeper into the box at your side to pull out the slim, blue stick. "If not, you get to be chopped into pieces?"

"You think too highly of your father; he'd just leave me somewhere whole, to rot." He stops directly behind you, closing his hands over your shoulders. He massages them for a second, catching your attention before leaning down to your ear. "How are you feeling? Okay?"

"Scared." You give, but it's only a half-truth. Swaying with the weight of him on your shoulders, you really want to say that you want this baby if it means you two could be together, but you know that's impossible. So, you reach for that secondary feeling. "But… I don't think I'm pregnant. I just think I was exhausted."

"Then we take the test and forget this even happened, hm?" His voice gets low like it always does when he's being sweet — letting it fall against your ear in a gentle purr that makes you shiver. "And I'm squeezing into a condom every time we're together from now on. I mean it."

"Learned your lesson, huh?"

"Mm, yeah. You got me once — won't get me twice." He stands up, and it's sudden. As he steps back, you peek over your shoulder. "I'm far too old to be anyone's daddy but yours."

You stand up slowly, leaving the instructions littered in the spot you once sat. Of course, Satoru has no mind to really quiz you on it, so he ignores it as you step next to him. "Yeah? Your jokes actually aren't helpful right now, my love."

"Oh." He frowns, dramatic as always, and you shoot him a smile before leading the way to the bathroom you use way more than your own. "What this situation really needs is a good joke," He insists, trailing behind you slowly with his huge hands stuffed into his pockets. You nod like you're listening, heart set on this test, saying no before you could entertain him further. "Let's talk about how stupid we both are, actually."

You ignore that, letting the bedroom swing behind you after you step inside. The bathroom door is wide open — light on, just beckoning you to your fate. Every step makes this feel a bit more real, and Satoru's cheeriness is more distracting than helpful. Most of the time, this is how it is. Satoru talks to hear himself talk — to have the last word even when it isn't necessary. It's at times like these that you can feel the difference in age. It's a blessing because he's the wisest, sweetest person you know, but a curse in almost every other way.

You beat him there, taking a second to plant both open palms to the icy-cold expanse of the modern bathroom countertop. "Satoru—

"What, are you ignoring me, now?" He sticks his head into the bathroom, looking into your eyes through the reflection of the mirror. You don't even look up when you hear him, just shaking your head and letting a silent smile ghost over your lips.

"Can you go grab me a cup? It has to submerge for a few seconds."

"A cup like… my drinking cups?"

You finally look up, locking eye contact with him as he lingers in the doorway. "Unless you want me to pull one out of my ass..?"

His head drops, arms crossing around his chest as he chuckles softly. "God — you're just like your fucking mother."

"Shut up!"

"Sorry, sorry," Satoru mutters under his breath, sneaking in another soft laugh as he ventures back into the kitchen.

Staring at your reflection in the mirror, you chew on a scowl as you think. You think about everything — how and if Megumi would react if you really were pregnant. Of course, you hope that he'd be distraught, but deep down you know he'd just be disgusted. You truly wonder how your Dad would handle things, or what your sisters would even think. They all know Satoru, but not like you do. Nobody knows Satoru like you do, now.

You drop a hand down to your bladder, pressing it through your thin shirt as you really think about it. Realizing that you truly don't have to pee, you reach for the faucet and crank it on, watching the water rush and gather in the shallow basin before leaning your head down and drinking straight from the flowing water. You get a few swallows, then deem that enough as you sit up, reaching a cupped hand to gather the cool liquid to splash over your face.

The day was slowly coming to a crawl, and your body could feel it. You're sore from training and exhausted after a night of… very little sleep, so you have to jolt yourself back to the surface. Your head is nearly underwater when Satoru comes back, a crystal-clear drinking glass dwarfed in his grip. He pauses when he sees your head in the sink, then smiles a bit, walking up behind you slowly. He puts the cup next to you, the soft sound of it hitting making you look up in a slight fright.

Satoru steps behind you, leaning over to kiss your clothed shoulder. "Can I stay in here while you pee?"

You chuff out a small laugh, turning to gaze down on his heavy cheek resting on your shoulder. Your nose nudges his — he presses a fleeting, tiny kiss there. "Only if you can be normal about it."

"Can I hold the cup for you?"

"Satoru—

You squeeze your eyes shut, heart dropping as he finally starts annoying you. He knows that tone nearly as well as he knows you, and laughs as he sits up, smoothing his hands over your sides, trailing down to your hips.

"I'm sorry — I'll stop," He laughs, peering at your dripping face through the mirror. You're looking down at the collected pools of water on the counter, and he's fixated on you. "I was gonna say something about drinking it, is th—

"That's why I'm telling you to be normal! Oh, my God — let's just hope this baby doesn't exist for its sanity. Can't imagine someone having you as a father." You mutter on and on, peeling yourself from his grip and taking the cup as you head for the toilet.

"And imagine it having Suguru as a grandfather. Just wrong."

That one makes you laugh, but it's not in bad faith. You know what he's trying to do, and you'd be terrified if he wasn't here putting all this effort in. "Now, imagine having him as a father."

"You poor, sweet baby." Satoru settles at the edge of the bathroom, leaning against the western-style shower door as you get situated — knees parted, and a glass cup in your hand. He watches, and makes no secret of it, but it doesn't unnerve you; it empowers you. "I know that man had you kneeling before you could even walk."

You laugh again, letting the smile linger on your face as you stare at him. Backed by the sound of your output hitting the cup in a weak stream, you shake your head. "He's such an asshole."

"That's your Dad."

"Your friend, by the way."

Satoru laughs, tossing his head back before stepping forward as you finish. "You're right — I chose him, you didn't." He approaches you, so close that you can smell the ghost of his addictively pheromone-altered soap. "Give it to me—

"Don't be weird—

"Give me the cup." He holds his hand out like he's accepting money — not a warm, quasi-full cup of urine that would spell out the rest of his life if it was contaminated. "Clean yourself up," He demands, grabbing the small cup and taking it to the sink, where he sets it by the sink, right next to the Clearblue test you disregarded earlier. "I'll dip it so you can get situated."

"So thoughtful." You mumble, cleaning yourself up well enough to stand and pull your pants back up. Satoru lets the test sit heavily in his hand, staring at it for a moment before pulling off the blue plastic protective cap and lowering it into your cup. He sighs as the toilet flushes, then moves out of the way so you can wash your hands clean of your shitty aim.

You two stand silent as the test dips, then let out a breath when he pulls it back up. He moves the test to his other hand, using the one closer to you to fall over your lower back. It's a small sign of togetherness without words. He's here for you no matter what the test ends up saying, and it makes you breathe just a touch easier.

"How long is it supposed to sit? Pop quiz." Satoru puts the cap back on the test, balancing it over the cup and turning to wrap both his long arms around your waist. You smile, reaching up to cross your hands around the back of his neck.

"A few seconds; it depends." You whisper, staring down as the tiny spiral in the center of the test turns on and on. "We're just gonna sit here with bated breath 'till it loads?"

"No," He responds, turning his head to stare you straight on as he nods softly. "I'm going to stand here and tell you that whatever this test says won't and never will dictate how much I love you. It's not your fault, right?"

"It takes two people to make a baby."

"Not in our situation, no." He shakes his head, so suddenly sure of himself and his sins without really coming to terms with them. "I'm the one with the experience. Can I really expect a virgin to stop and demand that I wear a condom? Or to even casually bring up birth control when I'm the one who crawled on top of you?"

"I want you to crawl on top of me until the day I die."

He laughs again, rolling his pretty blue eyes as you gaze into them longingly. Purposefully, you pout, leaning forward to press your forehead into his big, safe chest. "I love you, little one, you know it." You can feel his nod — steady and strong, but you can't see it from your self-induced blindness. "Love you so goddamn much that it's ruining my life."

"You're taking me down with you." You comment as you feel him pull away. Standing up straight, you keep your cheek pressed to his chest as he reaches to pick up the test. You don't look at the screen, trusting him fully as he reads the results.

He doesn't even have to speak; he just has to smile.

"You can breathe now. There's no baby."

You sit in front of your mirror, pumping your mascara wand back into the tube before continuing to paint your face. You and Satoru's deal stuck, and you almost didn't take him up on it in favor of another night with him, but he almost insisted. You two haven't had a night apart in almost a full week, and he loves you more than anything, but finds himself putting his own needs to the side to accommodate you. Satoru can feel it when he flexes in the mirror, noticing the gathered skin around his hips that were once steel.

"Don't be weirded out," You reply, looking over your shoulder at your childhood best friend as she types away on her phone, lying back on your unmade bed. "But we can just have Satoru take us."

"Who?"

You squeeze your eyes shut, a small, stupid smirk on your face as you think about how to actually tell her. "Gojo… You know, Dad's friend."

Maki laughs, but it's not a real laugh. It's a sarcastic one, hidden behind a soft, unsuspecting snort. "You're calling him by his first name all of a sudden?" Then she stops, her words finally sinking in. Maki sits up like she just came to the most damning conclusion. "Your Dad is going to literally kill you. He's crazy."

"It's not like that."

"Yes, it is." She deadpans, glaring at you with slivered eyes through the mirror as you scoot closer to comb mascara through your lashes. "It's exactly like that, because I know you."

"Whatever."

Maki sighs, falling back on the bed and continuing her scrolling while she waits for you to tiptoe through your budge-proof makeup routine. "And you haven't been hanging out with me. So, unless there's another mysterious friend of yours in Tokyo, I can imagine he's the one you've been replacing me with."

"I haven't been replacing you; it's just hard to juggle how strict he is." You mumble, eyes downcast in your makeup bag as you rifle through it for your lip products. "Had to fight tooth and nail just for tonight. Made a deal with the devil."

"Is he nice to you?"

"He's more than nice." You reply with a vague smirk over your lips, manually having to swallow it down when you glance back at her figure. "I mean — he's sexy, older, rich…"

"Could literally be your father…"

"Blah, blah. He loves me."

"He told you that?" The rise in her tone makes you peek back up, shaking your head as she looks over her phone screen and dead into the back of your head. You can feel the judgment. "You haven't even known him an entire month."

"I've known him my entire life—

"That makes it worse." She replies, then goes back to her phone, ringer on as she types incessantly. "And, no, you haven't. I mean — none of them talk about him anymore."

"He and Dad talk on the phone every night like kids." You annunciate the end of your thought against the soft clatter of your makeup tube dropping in your bag. "Literally since forever."

She snorts, "Naoya and Toji hate him."

"Good. He hates them, too."

Maki sits up again, stretching her arms above her head as you stand, thoroughly satisfied with your reflection in the mirror. You tried out some new products — did your eyeliner a bit longer, just to see what Satoru would say. There's glitter on your nose and cheeks, and as you turn around, Maki notices. "Cute. You ready? Yuta just got off the train; he's almost here."

"Okay, I'm gonna call Satoru."

"Nice. You have fun with that, because I'm definitely not getting in that car."

"The train would probably get you there faster—

"And I'm not carrying that shit around with me. I obviously can't tell anyone you're seeing him, right? Yuta can't keep a secret."

You laugh as you lean down, zipping your calf boots up with a steady hand on the entryway wall. Maki steps behind you, tucking her freshly-cut nape-length hair against her slicked scalp. You two go on as she slips into her sneakers.

"Tell whoever the Hell you want." You mutter as you grab your shoulder bag, slinging it on as you glance over at her. "Save me the trouble, seriously." She follows you out of the apartment with a careless shrug, trailing behind you as you pull out your phone and reach for Satoru's number. You text him first, knowing that he's waiting for you to reach out around this time.

"Wasn't Megumi just down here, too? Mai told me he got on a train."

"Who?"

"You're so full of shit." She draws it out over a laugh, skipping down the steps to the exit right behind you. "He's gonna be so pissed if he finds out."

"Whatever, he already thinks I'm a whore for reasons unrelated. And… maybe I am. Actually, yeah, I am." You go on and on, spilling your heart out because it's the first time you've seen her in a few days. You can't talk to Satoru like this, and you surely can't talk to your Dad about it. "I drop them for any guy who's actually nice to me; maybe he should take notes."

"I think he's good, girl."

"He actually just makes me so mad, I'm sorry." You mutter, crossing your arms as you clear the final row of steps. You're waiting for Satoru to text you back, wishing he'd just show up here now and make you forget that Megumi ever really existed. "He acts like my Dad — just self-righteous as shit. They'd start a fucking religion on how holy they are because they don't drink or fuck."

"You know way too much about your Dad."

"No! I actually don't know shit. I've made a lot of educated guesses about him in my days. It's like… I love them, but nobody wants to live anymore. When I do it, it's the end of the world, but I'm having great sex, learning so much, and doing things my Dad or Megumi haven't even fathomed. Who's living now, huh?"

"Oh…" Maki laughs as you two leave the building, shutting up and letting you talk just to get it out. "Okay, exactly. So happy for you." She couldn't be any more far removed, but of course she wants to listen to you even if you sound like a rambling idiot. "Gonna run off and get married while you're at it? You have that manic look in your face."

"You know what? Probably, yeah."

That's when you get the first real laugh out of your friend all night, and it had to be as soon as her boyfriend rounds the corner, visibly perking up at the distant shadows of you two. Still, you continue, laughing with her, "I swear, I haven't been drinking but, fuck…"

"You… do not have to go out with us. Go home to your man, if that's what you really wanna do."

"What?! I'd rather go out with you." You two wrap up your conversation just as Yuta gets close enough to hear, knowing you'd play it by ear and see where the conversation leads. If Yuta happens to find out, you're not too worried. It's not in his nature to hold anything over anyone; neither is it to tell anyone else.

"Hey. You guys ready to go?"

You watch with a soft smile as they hug in greeting, rolling over the balls of your feet because you just can't sit still. Maki answers for you, speaking the words between his lips like an indirect kiss. "Gojo is picking her up."

"Oh? I haven't seen him in a while." He's always so polite — dark hair jelled and combed over his ears, in soft silver jewelry and dwarfed by trendy, baggy clothes.

"He's literally around the corner." You take a step towards them as they settle in a soft embrace — his hand around the small of her back, hers over his strong back. It's always been in your nature to notice their subtleties. You wonder if you and Satoru translate as naturally as they do. "He's probably already here."

In comparison to Maki's skin-tight pleather, it's like they're perfectly bred opposites. Soft and hard, dark and light — it's mesmerizing.

If only they could see you and your man the way you do. If only you didn't have to hide.

They look at each other like they see the world in the other's eyes, then look back to you simultaneously like they share the same mind. "Shinjuku City, right?" Yuta perks up, peeking back at Maki. "About… fifteen minutes away on the train?"

She shrugs. "I'm not from here."

As they talk, the draw of headlights — a brighter pair than the ones that have been lazing by- catches your attention. It rolls around the corner like it's entitled to the road, and entitled to whatever direction you're in. You step back, smiling around the edges as Satoru pulls up right next to you, rolling his window down as he idles for a few moments. Seeing your friends, he turns into Dad-mode, smiling and pulling his shaded glasses down as he calls for you.

"Hi, Little Geto..! And Geto's friends!"

You scoff, jogging over to the curb so you can squeeze in that confined space with him as fast as humanly possible.

Satoru looks almost edible tonight — hair still wet and dark from a recent shower, and skin glossy from the meticulous care he puts into it. As you get closer, his soft, relaxed fit t-shirt hangs off a shoulder, giving air to his pale collarbone and chiseled shoulder. Your heart picks up a few paces, and it feels like you're bound to explode if you don't insert yourself inside of him as soon as humanly possible.

You open the door and slide in, biting down on a smile as you interrupt his space. You get so close that your noses touch, but you don't kiss. Not yet. Suddenly, you clear your throat, looking back out to your friends approaching the window. "Just wait at the front entrance for me; there's definitely going to be a line."

"Hi, Gojo." She regards him, leaning down just enough to catch your gaze in the car. "Anyways, we'll see you."

"You two be safe, now. I can't chaperone today, but I would if I could."

"Uh…" She stalls, looking between you and Satoru before standing up straight. "We're good, but thanks."

"God forbid a guy tells a joke."

"Your jokes are just bad, though." You whisper, sitting back in your seat as he shifts the car into drive. You wave to your friends as he raises the window, idling with his hand on the shift as he leans over and finally kisses you. You smile, leaning closer to him over the console as his lips meet yours twice in a soft, intimate touch. You know his windows aren't tinted, but you don't really care. Neither do Yuta and Maki.

"I missed your annoying back talk all evening."

"I missed your stupid jokes, too." You smile, reaching up to hold his cheek and kiss him one last time before he settles back and starts driving. "I wanna go home with you, really. I don't know why I chose to do this today when I had the whole trip to take you up on this deal."

"Then, we can just go home." He chuckles, driving with one hand on the wheel — the other propped on the door. He leans his head onto a propped fist, electric eyes flicking from his windows, then to your fiddling fingers in your lap. "But that'd be awful to your friends."

"No, I know. I love you, but you're not worth losing my best friend over."

He laughs again, nodding with his eyes dead-set on the road. He knows this was a deal, but he's worried sick. Hopefully the presence of him and his blessing cools your loins a bit, because he'd rather do anything else with his night than struggle with your drunk problems and dump you in bed.

"Can you promise me you won't take it too far?" He lets his tone settle in that dull, deep, authoritative valley that makes you feel two sizes smaller. Still, you nod for him, knowing he doesn't really ask for much unless he feels he has the authority. He feels like he has some, now. "A few drinks, yes, is fine. Just come home to me somewhat sensible, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good girl."

In your drunken blue haze, Satoru Gojo looks a lot like God himself.

He's smiling with the light of a million suns — arms open for you to trip and stumble into. Your friends are somewhere behind you, arms in the air as they wave you off, voices lost over the traffic of the door. The night is still young, only a couple hours past midnight, but Satoru wanted you home. You met his strict curfew in his arms, drunk, but alive and real enough for him to feel close.

"Did you have a good time?" He purrs over the music spilling out of the club, a strong hand over the small of your back as he guides you back to his car. The lights are so bright that they're almost painful, and you're so light that you could be floating right now. Best of all, you're in his arms and this moment feels like heaven.

"So much fun." You slur, looking up to nuzzle your sweaty nose into his neck. You suck up all the gathered scent there like it's yours, heart throbbing in your chest as he drags you down the sidewalk. He tosses his head over his shoulder again, waving towards your friends, reminding them that you're safe as they linger outside for a smoke.

"Missed you, daddy."

Satoru doesn't gasp; he stares down at you like you just uttered a curse word. "Who? Oh, yeah, you're drunk."

You giggle, yelping when you trip over your toes in your heeled boots. He catches you before you can even fall with a light laugh, and once you're focused on your footing again, you smile up at him. "Want you to… take me home and t-take off all my clothes."

Satoru laughs louder this time, free hand in his pocket as he fishes for his keys. He switches you to his other side, stepping off the curb where you're just a bit taller than him, now. He raises his brows at you as the door pulls open, slow and steady. "That's the plan, baby girl."

"Good." You speak into his mouth, breath hot as you kiss his familiar skin. "I love you."

He kisses you back, but it's slight — blurred around the edges so he can rush and get out of here. "Wanna get in the car so I can hurry and take you home?" You whine as he lowers you into your seat, eyes shut as your hazy mind swims and takes that as the rejection you're so hard on. Satoru hasn't seen you drunk very often, but knows that you want to do one of two things when you are: sleep, or sex. Both, on a good day, and one, inevitably. He thinks about that to himself as he shuts the car door behind you, making sure you're secure before walking to his side.

Through the rolled-up windows, he can hear your pleading voice as you whine, "You didn't say you l-loved me back. You know I kick ass for that."

"I am so sorry, my sweet, angel princess." He goes on and on, dragging in your endearments because he knows he can get more out of you in this state. "You know I love you, little lady."

As he settles in, his scent overtaking you again, you shift in your seat, fingers itching to reach for him. "Yeah, keep going. I love when you just talk."

Satoru is loving this — genuinely eating out of your drunken palm as he says the things he knows you'd hate if you were sober. He digs his heels in, pulling his tinted glasses down in the middle of the blackest night, and the heaviest interior. "Been thinking of this position I want to get you into..."

"Mm?" You slouch back in the seat, pouting up at him as he leans in, voice dipping deep and unapologetic.

"Gonna pin those knees to your ears and really stretch out those hamstrings."

You gasp as his words fall over you, both hands slapping over your face, hiding your shock from his all-seeing gaze. "That's so—

"Don't hide from me, silly." He insists, closing his hand around yours to pull them from your face. His natural strength is nothing compared to your limp, drunk strength, so you're falling apart like your willpower hardly existed for him. "Got a fresh pack of condoms tucked into our bed with your name written all over it, too."

"God, you're such a freak." You're shaking under his intense eye contact. He's so close that you can feel his breath on your upper lip, and he doesn't blink as he pushes all of these obscenities into you. "Hurry and take me home… been thinkin' about this all night."

"You think I'm gonna leave you in my passenger seat without a strap on?" He grunts, leaning his bodyweight over you as he reaches for your seatbelt. "Look at you, you're like jelly."

"Just hurry." You insist, knees rocking together as he grunts and presses against you. The space is too small, and you're too taken on this tequila and the way his voice feels in your ear. You reach up, crossing your arm across his torso and over his back, hugging him close. "Mm, I just love you."

"You know I'm never going to let you live this down, right?" He chuckles, and you can feel the vibrations as you hug him to your body, fully clothed. It's now, in your drunken state, that you realize how you've never really embraced Satoru like such, so you unpin your hand from under your thighs and tuck it over his waist.

"You're so warm… and safe… smell good, too…"

"You hate it when I call you sweetheart, but just hear yourself…"

"I can't help it. I'm in love." You purr into his body, holding him a bit tighter when you feel him pull away. Satoru smiles, biting his bottom lip as he wrestles with your hold. "No—

Two fists locked in the fabric of his shirt, Satoru realizes he's in a bind and leans into your ear. "The faster I can get us home, the faster you can say that to me when I'm inside of you." He whispers, then pulls back far enough to look into your eyes. "You know, a drunk man tells no tales."

"I'm not really into superstitious things. I'm into you."

Finally settling into his seat, sitting up arrow straight, he looks over at you and laughs. "Tell me, how do I keep getting this silly, honest version of Geto all the time?"

"Just keep being nice to me." You mutter, head lulled in his direction as he finally starts driving — your body feeling every rock in the pavement in this loose state. "Keep touching me… keep worrying about me."

Satoru nods that all down, eyes flicking from the slow-moving city traffic, then back to you. He looks to your eyes, staring him right down, then to your neck and chest, back to your eyes, the road, then your legs. A tiny smile forms over your lips, and he smiles back when he turns to you. The exchange goes on and on, looping like a broken tape until he hits a light, letting the vehicle jerk him back to his senses.

He sits up suddenly, spiking your blood as he leans over and reaches around in the car towards your feet. Next to your crossed ankles, he plays with something… plastic and excessive, disturbing the air you two have meticulously created in this space. You sit up when he does, brows furrowed as he presses the convenience store bag into your shivering lap.

"Snacks?"

"For your liver, yes." He straightens up as soon as the light turns, inching his foot on the gas as you messily stifle through the condensation-sticky plastic. You pull out two bottles, letting him drive with one hand as you sit up and inspect it. "It's a vitamin drink you're supposed to consume after drinking. Here you are… after drinking."

You bite down on a smile, feeling those butterflies touch down like airplanes whenever he shows that he cares. He waited for the perfect moment to pull this out, too. It makes you wonder just how magical Satoru truly is.

You tuck the tiny bottle on your lap, digging your hand back in to pull out the unopened, cool bottle of water. He doesn't have to really instruct you on what to do — context clues are still bitchy even when you're drunk and hazy. Still, it feels like you have something to prove, so you crack into the vitamin drink, scrunching your face up as you take the tiny potion in four or five good swallows.

Sure, it makes you want to vomit, but you can feel Satoru's smile before you see it, and it empowers you.

Finishing off the first drink, you shove it back into the bag and reach for the water, hand shaking as you slowly turn the cap off. While he's at another light, Satoru holds his hand out for it, and you pass it over without needing to be told — watching as he peels the cap off like it's paper, bringing it to his lips to take a few sips, then handing it back to you.

"So you wouldn't spill it." He mentions in passing, peeking over at you as you giggle and lean your head back, chugging down the water before he can turn into his apartment's parking deck. You settle in as he parks, putting all the discards together in the bag he'd gifted you.

"I…" He starts slow, eyes squinting down at his console screen as it shows him where to back in. It's like you're privy to every single one of his tiny moves — the way he chews on his cheek when he's focused, or the way the veins and muscles flex when he drives with one hand. He has perfect eyesight, but still squints every time he's looking at something close. He squints when he looks in your eyes, and bites his tongue when he thinks of you. "…I have food in the kitchen. Don't worry, I didn't cook; it's just pizza."

"Pizza… water… vitamins. What else?" You count on your fingers, feeling your drunkness fade with every passing, deep sound of his grounding voice. You're more focused on the butterflies kicking in your insides, and the way his skin glows under the dusky interior light.

"Two slices of pizza before you're allowed in my bed." He challenges, knowing he can only get so far. He hasn't seen you eat today — he hasn't seen you at all. It's why he's so meticulous about his bases being covered.

"One and a half. We share the half."

"Deal, but only if you get the bigger slice." Satoru shifts the car into park and immediately shuts it off, heart already racing and eager to get you out of here and into his arms again. "How are you feeling? Sick?"

"No, just hungry."

He nods like a child who just received good news, eyes wide as he pockets his keys and opens the car door. Of course, he makes it a thing to cross the hood of the car, winking at you in passing before opening your door. "Did you train at all today? No, right? Supposed to be a rest day."

"I just went for a b-bike ride this morning." You reply, squinting as the heavy-duty lighting in the parking deck renders you small and shell-shocked. He stands over you with a smirk, watching you do your face up before holding a hand out for you. "Not a lot; it was before the sun was even out."

"You know what I'm about to say, right?"

"It's not rest if you're breaking a sweat — I know." Your words are all falling together, messy as they topple over into his lap. He helps you onto your feet and keeps you by his side as he locks his car and leads you away. In this new closeness, you feel him differently. "I j- was just worried…" You stop to clear your throat, trying to connect your dragging feet to your running mind, but coming up short every single time. "I was feeling angst… anx—ious, and training is the only way I know how to feel better."

Satoru peeks down at you as you piece together your stumbling train of thought. He leads you through the lobby where everyone knows your name now, not paying attention to anyone but you as you stumble, sway, and side-step. "Call me… next time you have one of those introspective morning bike rides." He settles in as you two step into the elevator.

You rest against the far wall, and he settles on your opposite, hands behind his back as he watches your chest rise and fall against your low-cut shirt. He makes it no secret when his eyes wander — he stares, and it's so powerful that you can feel it even when you can't see it. "Having a man there sounds like my worst nightmare… but I'll make an exception for you."

Satoru smirks at you from across the elevator, and you think you know what this night is going to feel like. It turns out you don't really know anything.

"You still haven't told me about your night." Satoru stands against his counter, bare ankles crossed together as he eats your shared split of dinner. He takes a bite of his plain pizza and nods over at you, cross-legged in the kitchen chair. Your legs are open — light, silk panties on show and forever his to gawk at as he eats his dinner and picks at useless small talk. "I also meant to talk to the Okkotsu kid a little more, but bad timing."

You nod like you're paying attention to him — not like you're giving all of your willpower to keeping your eyes open. "Yeah, bad timing." You yawn around the tail end of your sentence, having more to say, but cut short by his soft laughter.

He smiles, "Coffee?"

You crack a smile, dropping your head into your propped palm as you shake your head. Coffee sounds great, but you fear it won't be enough, so you respond with, "Coke."

His smile falls on impact. "Was that supposed to be funny?"

You giggle, shifting about in your seat as you hang your head and pick up your slice of pizza. "Coffee, yeah. That sounds good."

Satoru turns around with a softer smirk on his face, bypassing the clock that shows the time ticking down through deep morning. He brews espresso for you at half past four, sliding you a small glass of ice water that he dumps the bitter coffee over. "You want some plain water to go with it?"

You shake your head, tucking into the sustenance he's offering you on a diamond platter. The pizza is good, even after being reheated in the air fryer. That was his idea; your drunk ass was more than okay with drunk, cold, gourmet pizza. "Mm, pizza and coffee at four… This couldn't be any more cliché." He swallows around his final bite, sucking the tips of his long fingers clean from the staining red sauce.

"You're so goddamn thorough." You laugh, about halfway through the half-piece you heckled over.

"Why wouldn't I want your stamina to be at its best? Benefits both of us." He points his finger between the two of you, then turns around to wash his hands, looking up at the TV show he put on by the windows for background noise. Tongue-in-cheek, Satoru watches his dirt fall down the drain and smiles a bit, his own body in shambles just thinking of being with you tonight.

"Pizza? Done. Coffee? Chugged."

Cranking off the water, Satoru lingers for a moment, chuckling under his breath as his crotch catches attention. "How's that bladder?" He raises his brows as he turns around with dripping hands, footsteps measured as he stares you down, footsteps dragging as he closes in.

You open your mouth to laugh in disbelief, only for it to get swallowed by his voice.

"I'm fucking with you." He moves in the blink of an eye, closing in and taking you by the chin. Your heart stops beating, your hands tight on the edge of the table and against the chair you're being lifted out of. His tenacity loosens your grip and relaxes your body from the intense focus you're falling into as you wake back up.

His lips start at your neck, using one of his strong hands to bend your head back so he can mark the expanse as his. Satoru leaves hickeys from your chin, all the way down to your collarbone, turns you around, and does the same thing down the length of your neck. Your back pressed to his front, you can feel what's quickly starting to become your favorite feeling — his rock hard need for you, aching and jumping every time he thinks of you.

Satoru thinks you taste like the club — salty and sweaty with the chemical undertone of lotion and perfume. It's his favorite taste once it muddles on his tongue with your pheromones. They're addicting — smoky and deep with the sweetest, sour tinge that he can't explain, but he feels like a dog when he gets to licking, full-tongued down the back of your neck and shoulder.

Scrunching your face up, you part your lips as he leans you into the table. His hand tucks between both of your heated bodies, finding its way between your thighs. Excitement overtakes you, and it hits harder than the arousal does, so you smile as he shoves you deeper.

He's at your mercy already, rutting into you like a dog. "You just— God, you smell great; I gotta eat you out."

Your knees go weak, forearms shivering as he forces you straight into a ninety-degree angle, taking your hips with him as he steps back. "We agreed next time I'd do the oral."

"I've had a lifetime of head, I wanna taste you." The hand tucked safely between your thighs slips away as he lifts your skirt, eyes hyper-focused on the wet spot your cunt is leaving against the delicate fabric that meets his eye. He uses both hands, spreading your soft cheeks apart so he can see how messy you've become for him.

Laid out in his kitchen like you have nothing to lose, you tuck your head over your shoulder so you can watch the expressions on his face change as he works himself up. He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing as his fingers run over your clothed core. He's beading sweat on his brow, needing to swallow again before blinking up at you. "Could feel you watching me."

Stale-faced, you raise your brows at him like you have a point to make. "I have an issue with the oral thing."

"Tell me, baby." He swallows… again, lips parted like a man parched, as he takes in a lungful of air, then drops into a squat behind you. "I'm listening!" He reassures, pressing his lips to the back of your thighs, kissing and biting the flesh until he gets to your soaked underwear.

"I just feel the duties of oral in a relationship should be split, fifty to fifty. Not… ninety-ten."

He chokes on a laugh right over your core as he's about to dive in, then whispers, "So dramatic. I'm thinking it's more seventy-thirty for us right now." Still, he lets himself have the final say before he shoves his mouth into you, nose digging into entrance like he's trying to fuck you through the fabric. You try to roll your eyes, but it catches you off-guard, and instead of a moan, you whimper.

Satoru's spit soaks into your ruined underwear, mixing with your juices that create a sinful, salty combo that he sucks back out like you're a straw. He focuses in on that like only someone so full and bloated with servitude that he can't see straight anymore. He doesn't ever get skin-to-skin, just taking his time to inhale your very essence, making sure it stains his mouth and nose so he doesn't smell anything but you for days.

It feels… good, of course, but it doesn't feel like anything that could possibly get you off, so you sigh. "Are you done?"

Deepening his kneel behind you — pressing his knees onto the floor, Satoru chuckles, and you can feel it. "All this talk about numbers — you know this is why they invented sixty-nine, babe?"

Your body gets hot in the only way it does when he's being… like this. Satoru has an unhealthy way of flipping on this unfiltered, lewd way of existing, to the sweetest person ever, and it gives you whiplash. You're still not used to it, and it makes you feel like a born sinner.

"Maybe not for predicaments as shallow as yours, but it exists nonetheless." He kisses the back of your thigh once more before standing up, taking your wet panties with him. He helps you step out of them, then tucks them back in his pocket as he nods you towards the room.

You've never had to work for something more than you're working for it now. Your legs are screaming, eyes struggling to stay open as you hover on top of him, knees folded at his side as he holds you apart and eats you alive. It's so fucking distracting — you've done more moaning on his dick than anything, absentmindedly grinding back on his tongue when he lays it flat against your raw, shivering clit so you can cream all over his face for the third time.

You feel completely removed from self — numb and feeling everything simultaneously. The caffeine killed all the alcohol in your blood, giving your endurance a soft sort of edgy high that keeps you hanging on even after you beg him to stop.

It takes a soft pinch on the inside of your thigh for you to wake up, head hanging as you pant and wince every time he nibbles on you. He wants to talk, but he's suffocated in the best way, so he resorts to guiding you in Morse — two pinches to the ass, don't forget about me.

"S-sorry." You whine, shifting your weight to your dominant arm so you can use the other one to fist at his length, spreading your cooling spit across the shaft before leaning back in.

As soon as you close your lips around the tip, he starts up again and leaves you gagging and pooling spit around him. He groans into your cunt, fingers shaking as he grabs at the softness of your ass, using your body as his personal stress relief.

You're struggling to get into a rhythm, he notices, so he turns his head to the side, sucking in a lungful of air before rasping, "F-fuck — ease up, I'm close. Are you? Come on, we'll cum together."

"No, keep going." You respond in a pitchy whine, hips shaking as you stroke him off in time with his feverish licks and prods. The sheets under you are ruined, and your legs are screaming for a break — all tense and shivering as you try to keep balance over him.

You drop your head again, forgetting about the conquest of getting him off as your own release draws closer. You're coated in sweat — his spit dripping and staining the insides of your thighs as you tap out, squeezing the rock-hard muscle in his left leg.

"Oh, right there — I'm so close, oh my—

"I knew it." He grunts, slapping a hand over your cheek, nose buried and sucking in your air as he fucks you down open on his tongue. "You can't hide that from me, get up."

Your heart drops like he just damned you to Hell — eyes flying open as you sit up. "No! N- keep doing that t-tongue thing."

Satoru laughs, throwing your desire to the wind as he sits up as well, massaging your flesh in his grip so he can maneuver you wherever he needs you to go. "Come on, come here, let me see your sweet face." He purrs behind you, kissing over your naked shoulder, leaving a trail of wetness where he graces that smells a lot like your need for him.

You give in, soul putty for him to play with as you lift your leg, turning around so you two are face to face. You giggle a bit when you see his ruffled reflection — the spit caught in his stubble and the way the bottom half of his face looks ten times redder than the top. You comb a hand through his messy, white hair, letting your nails linger on his scalp as he leans in and kisses you.

It doesn't even cross your mind, let alone Satoru's, to grab the condoms he bought just for tonight. They're littered — forgotten about under the bed where they fell and tumbled when he threw you in the sheets. You're pressed so close that your chest burns with it, but you make no effort to turn away, just so enamored in the closeness and love you two both just excrete like second nature at this point. You should have caught it when he whines between your open lips, "Wanna finish inside of you," But, you don't.

You're a fool in love. And you're a fool overtaken by lust as he helps guide you down his body, hissing when you reach back to stroke his wet cock. You've never been on top like this, at all, but you want to try for him. It's always unnerved you — just how deep he'd be in your womb, but now it empowers you. You nod towards his needy silence, breathing through your open mouth as you lift your hips and run the leaking tip between your dripping, sensitive folds.

Satoru swallows around nothingness, watching you so intently that it feels like acid burning into your skin. His hands naturally gravitate back to your sticky body, running his grip down the front of your thighs as you hesitate and linger, heart racing at the mental image of being impaled so wholly on his length.

"You're okay, sweet love." He murmurs, lips cherry red and bitten raw. You smile around the new nickname, rolling your lips under your teeth as you gain the courage to start sinking down. Just the tip at first, and he understands why — it's new, and everything new is uncomfortable. It feels like he's playing around in your womb only when he's buried a couple of centimeters in.

About halfway through, it feels like he's about to impale you, and the new feeling makes you scrunch your face up and stop. "Fuck, I can't do it—

"Yes." He cuts you off before your doubt can truly sink in. "It's just your nerves; you can do anything."

"It's so deep." You toss your head back, arms shivering as they fight to keep you upright. You shake your head even though he's utterly silent, letting your head drop back down and hang limp between your shoulders. Satoru sits up with you, trailing his hands over your sides to reel you back down to Earth.

He starts so slow, using his pent-up strength to gently ease his hips up, burying his length deeper inside of you. "Look at me." He demands, grabbing your chin and forcing eye contact, nose-to-nose. You peel open your eyes begrudgingly, chest rising and falling rapidly as you try and try. "You can do anything… See?" His thumb prods at your lips, easing its way between your lips. You part them for him, suckling on the end of his thumb as you absentmindedly sink all the way down.

"F-fuck, it's al—all the way in?"

"All the way inside your womb… So warm…" He whispers, close enough to close his teeth around your jawline, creating little indentations in your skin before he pulls back, kissing his handiwork over and over again.

Satoru finally sits back as you start circling your hips, getting used to the new feeling, and letting it become something that you crave instead of fear. He bares his teeth in a soft, seductive way, watching as the morning light pours in through the windows and kisses the side of your body in golden streaks. Your sweat drips down your body like you're made of stone — a true work of art that he can't take his eyes off of.

He helps you ease into a rhythm — lifting your hips gradually at first with his big hands guiding you. You're already sweating again by the time you work up your momentum, panting heavily once he sits back again, leaving you to his vices when you don't need his help anymore.

You pick your hips up like his lap is on fire, head hanging over your shoulder as you ride him like you never have before. Every fuck punches at your cervix, and it'd fucking hurt if you weren't so focused on his pleasure and how close you were to finishing all over him.

"Oh, my God!" You cry out, shooting him a death glare as his fingers find their way to your clit, pinching and circling the tiny bud of nerves until tears burn at your eyes. "Fuck, Go— 'toru, don't stop!"

"There you go, baby girl…" His voice fades around the edges like you're experiencing a brutal vignette — the tears turning into sobs that leave rivers streaming down your face. "Let it all out…"

He's making it worse, but somehow it just feels better. Satoru holds your sanity as you blank out, hips moving of their own accord as you sniffle and sob for him. Broken pleas in the form of his name come pouring out like vomit — both of you uncaring of the fact that there's no condom. He wants to get you pregnant, tell your father, and marry you. It's the only thing he can think about, and the only thing he has to say when his release comes to him faster than a bullet train at full speed.

Satoru doesn't warn you when it comes, and you don't warn him. Your bodies are so much in sync that the second his cock twitches on your down-thrust, you're a mess, creaming and staining his length in your essence. As soon as it starts, you stop, collapsing on top of him, still buried at the hilt.

Then, as soon as he has control again, Satoru flips you onto your back, empties himself inside of you, and does exactly what he promised — guiding your bent knees to your ears so he can love you until the morning breaks into early afternoon.

You don't know if it's the all-nighter or perhaps the mix of liquor and caffeine, but you've never felt this alive before. You've never felt so… free.

[eraserbread]

how you get the girl

⟡ pairing satoru gojo x suguru geto x afab!reader

⟡ synopsis tokyo japan, 1999: suguru lost you, satoru has to have you ⟡ it all started with a kiss — one drunk, stupid decision leading to the worst night of geto's life. only, he can’t afford bad nights when he promised his life to you, and he can't figure out how to let his best friend go.

⟡ tags 1990's set college-no curses!au, mxm relationship (kissing— lots of kissing/making out, cuddling, touching/suggestive), love triangle trope, heavy smoking/drinking/partying, crude language, angst, breakups, infidelity/cheating, non-explicit suggestive content, still nsfw

⟡ word count 14.2k

⟡ author's note this one is a 100% canon-compliant back/side story to my fic, virgin. you don't have to read one to understand the other, but if you're tapped into the lore, this is the web that connects them all. ⟡ i have sm fun with them every single time ☹️ characterizing my boys like this has been a lifeline, making it so i'm never ever bored with a storyline or group of characters. this one has so many parallels to virgin, as well as lots of love and care from me and @macbethinchains who always helps me make a fleeting idea the most important part in any story. we outlined this last winter, and it's just now seeing the light ⟡ andddd, enjoyyy ya'll omg... and definitely keep an eye peeled for more drama from them in this timeline. i may or may not have an album fic coming for them

gorgeous breathtaking stunning art by @tsuki--sora

You know better than to open the door past midnight. It's pouring rain outside your house, pattering like wet pellets over the thatched roof. It's been keeping you up — your head heavy over the research paper you've been trying to finish for a week and a half.

It's just… You know better. So, why are you here, pulling the door open to the midnight rainstorm, shivering when the cool August rush of air hits your loosely dressed figure?

On the other side, Suguru stands — arms crossed, shaking and hardly bearing the cold in his cut-sleeved wifebeater tank top. His loose, dark locks are soaked and weighing him down, giving his tall figure an air of helplessness and pure pity.

Like you've seen a ghost, you take a step back as he faces the light, tilting his head up to give you a sideways smile against his snake-bite piercings. You catch your breath, whispering into the rain-soaked night, "Are you insane?"

Suguru blinks, shaking his head as your voice touches him for the first time in nearly half a year. It's been about that long since he gave you up this time. "It's been a long six months…"

You stand silent, waiting for him to catch his fallen sentence and carry on. However, something always stops him when he peeks into your solemn, wide gaze. "Suguru, I—

"Before you tell me to leave." He cuts you off because he's terrified of rejection. No — he can only dole it out, and he does so insanely well. "I know… I know I should've called, but I was terrified about what you thought of me… I was so fucking afraid."

You step farther into the entrance, pulling the rickety door shut against your figure so you can hear his meekness a little more clearly amid the onslaught of precipitation. "You left me this time."

It's not a lie — you and Suguru are no strangers to this juvenile back-and-forth, on and off. Since your first grade, you two have been inseparable in a way that only codependency could explain. He was terrified to be without you, but hated holding you in the way you needed. Suguru needed to be with his friends three times a week without you, but you couldn't breathe when he pulled away. Nothing made sense.

Still, he tries, falling forward into a lean, his hand prepped on your dripping doorframe. "I-I know…" He tries to chuckle, but laughter is lost on him right now. He can barely see straight, needing to blink the water out of his eyes every time he blinks up at you. "But I can't stay away."

Back in your bedroom, Suguru's pulling off his shirt, his toned abdominals flexing as he sheds the clinging, wet fabric. He knows you have clothes here for him — you always did. Six months isn't a lifetime, and he knew you knew that he'd be back.

You hate how predictable you are, reaching into your closet for the neatly folded stash of cigarettes and vanilla musk-scented clothes. He's always had a home here, in your space and in your closet, demanding attention even when he slinks back into his being and pulls away. Still, you don't want to talk about it — not when the rain is hitting your bedroom window, rolling off the reflection of the soft, yellow lights.

"You can change, and we can talk about this later… when I don't have a paper due in eight hours." Your voice is just as steady as his is, your arm outstretched and shivering as you hold a new pair of clothes out for him. It's nothing special, just an oversized college tee he bought in his freshman year, but it's his, save for the occasions you wear it to sleep.

"What kind of evil-minded professor schedules an essay the first week of school?" Suguru notices how it smells like the ghost of you as he unravels the neat fold in his grip, smiling softly as you watch him pull it over his loose, shoulder-length hair. Even though he wants to stay, he reaches for an easy "Thank you."

"Did…" You hate this — hate how you're parading in circles around him, caught in the same mess you've been in for years. Still, something in your chest pushes and barrels to the front of your psyche. You stand, hands on your hips. staring up at the ornate ceiling with an anxious, tapping bare foot. The tension in the air is thick, but you two know each other so well that Suguru can see right through it. "Did Choso kick you out this time?"

"Why else would I come running back, hm?" He laughs again, caught against the cottony hum of his fabric, swallowing it down. When those dark, familiar rain-soaked lashes flutter against his eyelids as he looks back up at you, you can't help but melt. You two have always been the same. "No, I just let Naoya use my bed; they were partying all night."

"Partying on the Sunday before classes?" You step away from him, pushing the closet door shut, tracing your footsteps against the damp wood. Suguru watches, shoulders slumped, diminished in your presence.

"Mm," He shrugs, beady dark eyes staring into your soul as he reaches out for you. "I don't want to bother you, but I wanna talk." You absentmindedly step forward into his touch, rolling your eyes as he grabs you by the hips, walking you to the edge of the bed. His touches are unsure, yet strong and solid — not letting you move a muscle.

You don't pull away; you let him hold you by the waist, his biceps pressed against your hips, and his pitiful face buried in the base of your tummy. He burrows down there, marking your sleep clothes in the wetness from his damp hair like he's begging for forgiveness. In a way, he is, so you reach down and comb your fingers through his stringing locks, swaying with every uneasy exhale.

"S…Suguru…" You whisper after a few moments, running your fingers down his sticky, thin hairline. "Talk about what?"

"I…" He starts, burying his face into your pelvis, pushing your back into an uncomfortable bend because he's embarrassed. "I don't know why… I keep going back to him, baby. It's always been you."

You want to puke. No, you really want to walk away and leave him to eat the rejection he's so masterful at harnessing. Still, something stops you when his words, so pitiful, leave his smoked-out throat. "So, it's true."

"What? N-no, it's not!" It's like a realization — Suguru snapping back into action like his pitiful whines were just a beard. It's something you're used to — something you love, and something you don't want to lose, no matter how many times you go through this with him.

"You're so full of shit." You bite, pushing him off as best as you can, yet somehow always tangled in his grasp. "You're gonna cheat on me with your best friend, then lie about it?"

"I didn't cheat; we drunkenly kissed at a party." He drones, sitting up, but leaving his fingers in your waistband as if he owns you. Suguru looks like a kicked puppy, all splayed out and long-limbed on your bed as he begs you for a silent chance. "Baby, please. I only want you."

"You make that hard to believe." You bite back, pushing him away by the shoulders, shivering when the thunder punches outside your thin bedroom windows. "Suguru, not tonight."

"You're gonna send me back out into the rain?" He begs, jutting out his bottom lip as he stares up at you through the moonlight. "Into the storm? Please don't."

"I don't want to go through this with you again." You plead your case for once, swearing that the last time you two dealt with this on and off was the last. You're letting him get so close, but just when you go to peel it all back and welcome him in, all five breakups come flooding back to you.

All of them, tied back to him — Gojo Satoru.

The class clown, comedic relief, chess champion, and black belt. He's everywhere on campus — written in the halls of every niche extracurricular you didn't have time to nail out as he did. In every other team photo, his bright, smiling face would be front and center. Gojo is quite literally everything you're not.

He's beautiful, funny, and carefree. You're focused, dreary, and manic. Suguru changes you into a different person every year, but you've never come close to what they have. You've always been on the wayside. They went from roommates in their first year to sworn enemies. Then, Suguru met you, forgot about the pesky ghost from his childhood, and promised never to think about him again.

Something shifted last Spring in the rickety wooden bar seats at the campus dive. Gojo leaned in and kissed your boyfriend in front of every single one of your friends — the one night you refused to go out. Now you're here, hearing him out about all his sins and shortcomings. You keep telling yourself that, through it all, Suguru is a man. He's pulled in far too many directions, hearing his mother drone on and on in his ear every weekend when he calls, or dealing with your nagging when you swear he's not giving you enough of his time. You won't pity him, but you can at least pretend to understand him as he clings to your hips, begging you for a touch.

"You can sleep here, just let me finish this paper." You tap him twice on the shoulders, giving him a hint for when you gently push him away. "We can talk about this later."

Suguru can finally breathe, feeling like all his wallowing wasn't for naught. His shoulders relax, a little smile crossing his features as he peers up at you. "You know you'll always be my girl, right? The one I want to marry?"

"You've got a real fucked-up way of showing it." It feels like acid falling out of your mouth in profanities, but he's surely earned it at this point. You can never turn him away, and if you're not careful, it could be the death of you. Still, he settles back in your bed like he never left, kicking his damp feet out, cozying under the quilt throw that was your grandmother's.

You give him a passing glance as you slip back into your desk, exhausted eyes tightening under the close, dull glow of the reading light. Behind you, Suguru settles on your side of the bed, wet hair nuzzling into your silk pillowcases as he blinks, watching you gently. He studies the way you pick up your pen, resting your cheek in a closed fist as you ponder, then pick up your easy scribbling again. Suguru is endeared by how simple this moment is — thinking you feel softer than a boy his age could ever be.

The issue is, he could live in this silent comfort for the rest of his life and never want for anything else. He just always gets so close, but right as the claws are about to sink in, something always stops him. "Turn off the light."

 You crawl into bed on your knees right when the hour hits deep-morning. Suguru is asleep — has been for a few hours. His snores and mumbles filled the space of your pencil scratches, and it was a good distraction, save for the ten minutes he stole when he refused to let you go.

Suguru wakes up as soon as he feels you, his dark eyes cracking open as the mattress sinks and shifts. "D'you finish your e-s—ssay?" He mumbles, half alive.

"Yeah." You reply, slipping under the thin covers next to him. Suguru turns over, reaching up to push hair from his face. Face-to-face in bed, he stares, reaching for you with that same hand to cradle your cheek.

"I love you." He states. Like, he knows you know it.

"I love you, too." You reply just as simply, heart hammering so hard it feels like you truly don't believe it. He's so close, but you don't want to pull away. You want to feel his warm skin on yours — how his knee slots between your thighs under the blanket, forcing space for himself. "That's what's so scary," you continue as he leans in, nudging your neck with his nose, kissing your jawline like he wants something from you.

"Are you afraid of me?" It comes out chopped and between kisses. His hands are everywhere, trailing up your sides in a gentle sort of want that you can't ignore.

"Never." You reply, whispering into his lips, tucking hair behind his ear as he breathes into you. Suguru burrows himself into the space between your heart and shoulder, focusing on the sound of your heart beating as his hands slide under your shirt. "Mm, that tickles."

"I can tell you're still mad at me."

You sigh, rolling over on top of him. In a straddle, you reach over and turn on the bedside lamp, studying the pitiful look on his face as he glares up at you. Pressing open palms to his clothed chest, you speak some passion into him, "Suguru—

"I can't… tell what you are, but you're something." He's frustrated, brow furrowing as he grabs and digs at your thighs and ass, just marking his territory like you're his, as if he's reminding himself. "Do you hate me? Loathe me?"

"What? No." You reply, a hidden bite behind your tone. He grows about two sizes smaller under you, chest rising and falling slowly and shallowly as he focuses on not popping a boner if that's not what you want right now. It's harder than he thinks — he's obviously so in love with you, but confused above all. "I think you're a stupid, drunk idiot. I think you're actually really, really stupid."

"That sounds like you hate me," Suguru whispers, avoiding eye contact as you reach down and run your thumb over his warm cheek. "I wouldn't blame you if you did. I hate me, too. I told you: I don't know why I keep going back to him."

"Shut up." You decide for him, trailing that hand from his cheek to his mouth, where you press an open palm, effectively shutting him up. Under your touch, he blushes — hips bucking up as you grind down into his crotch, accidentally. "We're talking in circles, when I really don't want to talk at all."

"Are you still mine?" You know what kind of vague question that is — he's treading on thin ice, nudging the idea of dissolving the 'breakup' now that he's back under you, with flushed cheeks spreading under his stretched shirt collar.

"I don't really have a choice." You offer a sly smile that stretches over your lips as you lean down, cradle his cheek, and finally kiss him. "Do I?"

Against your lips, Suguru smiles back, shaking his head as you kiss over his teeth and lips, combing smooth hair behind his stretched ears. "No… Because you're the one I want to marry."

"Well, right now I just want to finish my paper."

"Don't worry, you're going to." He rushes out, hands sliding under your shirt, over your back before dragging it from your body. "We can get married young, as my parents did."

"Your parents hate each other." You reply, hands busy behind your back to unclasp your uncomfortable, digging bra. You let your fingers linger before they fall, gathering seductively around your hips. "They fake it; She's always complaining about him."

Suguru can't swallow down the obvious, so he bares his teeth in a cocky little smirk, hands sliding back over your back and thighs. You undress slowly for him like nothing ever happened — like you know what you have to do, and how he likes you to perform.

You peer at him, pinching his pointed chin between your fingers. Topless, you lean down to meet him in another kiss, grinding your hips down to remind him how serious you are about it — how you know how to please him as nobody else can.

"Still, they made a promise: for worse or for better." He all but moans in your mouth, erection popping up just for you — at the feeling of your eagerness reciprocated. "And I want you, forever and ever."

You want to laugh, to remind him that you know. You know he wants to marry you, and he makes it so loud and overwhelming when he's holding you as such. Your Suguru has a nasty habit of saying one thing and doing the complete opposite. Still, you won't say… his name. Not right now.

"Before you say anything—

He rushes as soon as you open your mouth, seemingly more interested in talking than being physical. You sigh, throwing your hands up as he continues, "I know it's me. Don't you think I hate myself enough as it is? I know I'm a mess, but… that doesn't have to make us weak."

"What are you even talking about? Really? Let's just… and we'll talk later."

"I'm saying…" Suguru shimmies his hips under you, clamping down on his bottom lip so hard that it starts reddening on impact. You know you make him nervous, and vice versa, but these conversations aren't exactly simple to shy away from, even when he's hard and aching under you. "If we can make this work, we can do anything. Seriously."

"Yeah, so you're right." You lean down to kiss him again, stealing his plump bottom lip between your own teeth. You pull it as you sit back, smiling and kissing over them again once you let it go. Suguru's hands have long since found their way under your sleep clothes — fondling the skin around your hips before he ventures lower. "The issue is you and your fucking friends."

"Yeah, well, I don't fuck my friends. Sometimes we kiss, but it's not personal."

"Oh, so you've kissed them multiple times, now?"

"Not like I kiss you." He cements his point against your lips for the final time, neck straining as he meets you in another passionate kiss — teeth hitting and spit melting together as he pries your mouth open on his slick tongue. You moan into his mouth, grinding down on his length as both your hands get lost in the side of his head, tangling in his pure black locks.

He continues, sitting up at a perfect right angle, knees cocked behind you as he takes the lead, gently guiding you to his side on the mattress. You sit back, breathless and starry-eyed from being kissed half to death, limp and ready for him to take the lead. "I don't touch my friends like I touch you."

Suguru repeats, slotting his leg between yours, closing his palm over your exposed chest so he can touch and massage your breasts like he's seeking comfort in a mother. His hand falls between your thighs, slipping in the front of your shorts where his fingertips linger, raking through the soft hair you keep for him.

"Want me to prove it?"

For the first time in a long time, Suguru feels like avoiding everyone. Including his best friend, who was helpfully posted up at the door of his dorm room, shining like sin as he rounded the corner.

It's mid-morning. Suguru smells like you — your taste on his lips, and your perfume lingering in the ghost of him. He's not trying to hide much, but when he sees Satoru waiting, he lifts his hoodie collar, conscious of hiding the dark red kiss you gave him this morning. The dorm floors are dark and slippery with the whisper of the rain that passed through last night, but Suguru's shoes aren't muddy. They're surprisingly clean as they slip to a stop in front of Satoru.

"I've been calling you all morning." Satoru offers him first, resting his thin shoulder over the jut of the door, shirt smudging the chalkmarks he and Choso spent the entire first hour on campus completing. He's nursing a tube of yogurt in his fingers, lips stained with the sweetness as he brings the plastic back to his lips, sucking more out while he waits for Suguru to reply.

Suguru blinks at him — low, like he suspects something. He eyes the patchy blue nail polish on his thick fingers, the way the lint from his wool beanie sticks to his sugar-coated fingers. It's endearing. Suguru rolls his eyes. "I just overslept."

Satoru watches him intently as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a single key. The way he shifts to reach into his pocket gives him the perfect little peek into that dark red mark he tried to cover, but neither of them says anything. The most pressing task was to get into the room and hopefully get some downtime to talk it through before their afternoon lectures.

"Did you even knock? Choso's probably in there." Suguru mentions in passing, shaking fingers slipping the metal key into the rickety lock, giving it two solid pulls before it opens. The weight of Satoru's silence is far heavier than his carefree words — it means he's struck silent, and that only really happens around Suguru.

"Figured you'd just be back. On time, like you promised."

Suguru creaks the door open, peering over his shoulder to push Satoru's worry down. He doesn't notice the two bodies on the bed, one hovering over the other — long and boyish, limbs everywhere, shadows menacing in the corner that pull away the second they see the light.

"It's about time you guys came back," Choso whispers, voice light and gentle against the tense atmosphere as Naoya stands up straight, hair ruffled and makeup freshly smudged. To him, he wasn't doing anything — he was helping the elusive art major fix his makeup. Now Choso owed him, but not at the cost of Satoru and Suguru's memory.

"H-he was just here because he forgot—

"I don't care, just leave." Suguru shoves into the messy room, picking up a discarded jacket from the entryway and tossing it into the overflowing dirty laundry. Satoru follows close by, cradling his bag on his shoulder, sucking the last bits of yogurt from its confines before licking his lips and crumpling it in his fist to throw away.

"We still have to get ready."

"Screw off, nerd."

"You can paint your faces in the fucking bathroom." Suguru regards them at the same time, shunning the pair, making them feel the way they feel about themselves — projecting. It's all they know; they just can't ever admit it.

Choso looks at his friend, long, full hair tousled and deliberately messy. Held up by clips and the mercy of gravity, he rubs the dark circles under his eyes, trying to slow down the running pace of his heart. Naoya looks right back, a sly sort of smile on his face that'll just… stay there. He'll choose to pick a fight with anyone, Choso being a favorite, but never with those two. It's not about power or money; it's about circumstance.

So, he stands up straight, raising his thin brows as he stares his dark-haired upperclassman down for just long enough to teeter on the edge of respect. "See you next time, Geto." Then, Naoya storms out with his bag and a head full of nonsense. Past the door, Naoya doesn't hold back; he shoulder-checks Suguru on the way, blaming it on close quarters, but making it feel like blatant disregard.

"He is so disrespectful," Suguru mutters, shoulder singing with the soft shove from the faux blonde. Then it comes —the lecturing: "Don't bring him around when we're here. I don't want him near my things." Then, it's the snarky, "Take that shit in the bathroom,"

"You two paint your nails in here all the time."

"Don't argue, just leave."

"O-okay." Choso scrambles, lips parted as he pants, nervous as fuck and feeling like the eyes of God are staring down at him. He and Suguru are close… enough — they're cordial enough to share a room and talk about stupid bullies or failing grades, but the leash Suguru keeps on him is short and nearly nonexistent. Whenever Suguru is in his room, Choso has to find somewhere else to be, and he never fights back; it's disrespectful.

Satoru steps out of the way as the elusive little goth kid shrugs his way out of the room, his shoulders held low. Just the presence of his beloved Suguru is enough to make a grown man cower — even one older and more established than him. It makes him smile.

"Sorry, you can do whatever, but I'm exhausted." Suguru mumbles once the door closes with a faint, steady click. Satoru steps forward, pursing his lips, reaching up to pull his shaggy beanie from his light hair. He watches his best friend climb into his shitty, creaking twin XL bed, knee first, hair clipped up and messy, as he collapses into the comfort.

He waits a minute, watching Suguru settle with his back to him, before he steps forward, words unsaid, sitting so heavily on his chest that it makes him nauseous. He wants to talk about the kiss they shared — wants to point out the hickey he didn't give him that's sitting like a trophy against his neck, but he doesn't. Satoru kicks off his beat-up slip-ons, unpopping the single button on his jeans as Suguru hums and writhes against the sheets, searching for comfort that's so hard to come by when he's not pressed up against someone.

Suguru is surprised Satoru waited until he rolled over, eyes heavy and pleading as he whispers, "Wanna cuddle?"

"That's gay," Satoru responds, moving at twice the speed to give his Suguru what he wants. He crawls into bed just like you did last night — knees first, before plopping down nearly on top of his closest friend. They shift and bustle about for a moment, trying to make the most of the space they don't have too much of.

"You're telling me that you're not?"

"I'm not," Satoru admits, nose-to-nose with Suguru, catching the whiff of your perfume on his bare neck when he gets close enough. "And I think you're in denial."

"I'm not."

"Nice hickey you got there." Satoru finally bites to dig his point into the ground, reaching to push some of Suguru's hair out of the way so he can get a better view of his invisible betrayal. It hurts, but Satoru knows the truth — he's only an outsider here. He stands on the sidelines and watches as Suguru bends his sense of self just to stay closer to you — to parade you around his family and friends so he can give the illusion that he has it all figured out. For as long as Satoru can remember, his best friend has been marriage-minded. His parents are strict… overwhelmingly so, calling him every week with the same script, asking about you, asking about grades, and not even sparing a breath for the eccentric friend who has stuck by his side on and off for well over ten years.

Satoru doesn't really exist in the grand scheme of things, but he's not sure he truly minds it. All he wants are private moments between him and his — cuddled up so close he can't tell where he ends, and where Suguru begins. If that can only exist in the shadows of a pretty girl, he'll take it. He knows what you give that he can't, but it doesn't make it any easier to swallow.

"You know how things have to be," Suguru replies simply, bare feet kissing and grinding against Satoru's under the covers. He doesn't make eye contact, letting his shadowed gaze instead focus on Satoru's pretty pink lips. He wants to kiss them — to whisper every single grievance and worry he has between them, just to get them off his chest. "You know, I love you more than I love her."

"Don't say that—

Suguru sighs, head heavy and guilty, as he tries to justify the feelings that weigh him down like cinder blocks. "It's true, but… It's different."

'It doesn't have to be anything… solid.' Suguru's voice is smooth over the line, getting crackled on the receiving end. You nod, leaning against your kitchen wall with your legs kicked out. Your roommates — friends by choice — are in the living room, throwing cards over the soft hum of the television. They're getting ready for a party you weren't invited to — that is, until Suguru called, whispering into the line that he was looking for you, in particular.

"What does that even mean?" You squint, peering down at your feet with furrowed brows as you try to zone out the background noise and thoughts of how you're missing this show, and the current hand of cards. "When everyone knows we're together?"

'Well, are we? It's been two days and I… I don't feel any better.' He pauses for a moment, clearing his throat around his smoker's rasp. 'I don't feel like we're… us.'

"You've been seeing him, though, haven't you? Because you haven't been seeing me, and we both know—

'That doesn't mean anything.' Suguru rushes, as if he's afraid of being scolded again. It's not why he called, and the one thing he hates more than anything is counterproductivity. 'I-We had s-sex, but it didn't make me feel better about… anything.' He whispers the word like it's profanity, letting it get lost in the telephone static.

You sit silently for a few passing seconds, tucking the phone against your shoulder, twirling the spiraled cord around your finger. Suguru has a way of making you feel small without really trying, too, you've come to notice. It makes it impossible to say no to him.

"Are you still seeing him?"

'S-Satoru? No.'

"Do you promise?"

'I promise. It's all you. I'm all yours.'

"Then… can I ask…" You stiffen up, shifting to your side so your voice points towards the kitchen, rather than to your friends in the other room. "Do you… Like men, too?"

Suguru reaches for your name, speaking it with such conviction into the line that you feel bad for even bringing it up. '…The kiss was a dare. I've known him my entire life.'

"O-oh."

'I like you. I want to marry you.' He repeats like he's begging for it — voice all pitchy and pathetic. All at once, he self-regulates. 'In every circumstance, I will wait for you. I'll choose you.'

You roll your eyes, glancing at the leather tips of your loafers as you rub your feet together anxiously. Of course, you want to say more, but you don't. You know what he is to you— something your own family saw as a gift.

'And I know it was me this time; it's why I'm begging you like this… again.'

You shut your eyes, nodding along to the vision of him from the other night, eyes so determined and sensual that they have haunted your dreams ever since. Instead of giving him an answer, you whisper, "Can we talk in person?"

'Are you going to Zen'in's party tonight? They invited you, yeah?'

"Actually, I wasn't planning on it. Shoko is going, of course."

'Go with her, baby.' He picks out the tone he knows you love, reaching for endearments rather than the grit of namesakes. 'It'll be all of us going, but we don't have to stay.'

"By all of us…"

'Satoru, yeah. It's fine — I'll tell him to fuck off.'

"N-no, I mean, I don't want him to think I hate him. We need to talk, so… yeah, I'll go for a bit."

'You wanna talk… all of us?'

"If that's what it takes to get through to you, yeah." It sounds softer than you intend, but it feels real. It feels like you're bearing it all to him — your heart an open, writhing orifice on your shoulder that only reacts to his sensibility. "He's your friend… I don't want to take you away from each other."

'Are you being serious? I'd expect you'd want to chew his head off the next time you see him.'

"I wanna do that, too." You smile, biting down on it so you don't force a serious situation sideways. Still, you and Suguru fall so easily into it that you can't even catch yourself when you fall. Not till you hear, over the telephone, your name being called by your friends in the front room. You straighten up, keeping the phone over your ear as your roommate comes shuffling into the kitchen — long, brunette hair tied up effortlessly with sticks.

She seems flushed, her cheeks tinted — hands on her hips. "Who the fuck… It's been over half an hour."

Breathless, silently, you mouth his name, holding the phone from your lips. "He just invited me to Toji's party."

"…are you going? I thought you said—

"I know what I said." You shut up and stand up straight when Suguru starts again on the other line.

 "Hey, sorry— Choso just got back in. Nosey fuck." Back in his dorm room, Suguru is watching Satoru peel his sweat-drenched compression shirt off his back, all breathless and red from his session, then his journey here. "Dear, let me call you back later… on your cell."

'O-okay, sure. I'll let you know about the party.'

Suguru sits on the edge of his bed, long-limbed and hunched over, peeling the cell phone from his ear and leaning over to place it back on the bedside receiver.

Satoru smiles when he turns back around, tongue crossing over his teeth as he stares his best friend down. "Who's on the phone?"

"Who do you think?" Suguru responds, grunting as he stands up, giving Satoru a low, exhausted look. He's asking for pity — to feel small at the moment, because he knows he can't reach for this part of himself when he's with you.

"Aw, do you want a hug?" Satoru's heart is beating out of his chest, but he's not nervous, just excited. "Big baby had to be a man for a second, huh?" He approaches his friend with arms held wide, ushering him forward so they can both marinate in his sweat.

So, Suguru withdraws, ducking his head and turning back to his bed. "Actually, forget it. You can shower at your place." He hates talking about it, or even coming to terms with the fact that he turns into a different person when he's around his friend like this. He can't help it.

"Come on, I said I'm joking." Satoru throws his hands up, letting them fall on his narrow hips as Suguru leans by the window, fist in his mouth, absolutely reeling with insecurity. He closes the space, knowing it's up to him. Always.

"Sugu…" Satoru drawls, slipping behind him and nudging his chin over Suguru's shoulder. "We don't have to tell anyone if you don't want to. This doesn't even have to be real, just promise you won't leave."

Suguru shivers when he feels the naked, damp skin press against his own. He peeks over his shoulder, eyebrows cocked as Satoru's arms wind around his thin waist. "I can't promise a single thing."

"I still don't care. Funny how that works." Satoru whispers, kissing Suguru's covered shoulder, then turning to breathe in his sweet, masculine scent, as if trying to mark him as inevitably his. "We had a deal, though, right? I come over, you suck me off?"

"You see, I'm struggling, and that's the first thing you ask me?"

"Actually, like the second or third thing I asked you. Not fair." Satoru reasons, standing up straight and letting his fingers fall to the waistband of his shorts. "Yes or no… quick, we have a party to get ready for."

Suguru stands up straight, rolls his eyes, and dodges eye contact as he nods shyly. "Y-yeah, just in the bathroom in case Choso comes back."

Satoru whines, grabbing Suguru by the shoulders and leading him deeper into the room. He's walking backward, sticking his soft bottom lip out in a pout as he tries to reel his friend in. "Lock the door. Tell that nerd to fuck off."

"Absolutely, not."

"I care about your knees. They get all red and sore when we do it in the shower."

"Then, get off." Suguru bites back, strong enough to keep himself above these tactics just long enough to stay sane. "Has to be in the shower."

Satoru stops, thin brows furrowed. He can tell something isn't so light in the air — not like it usually is. "Fine, I mean… We'll do it in the shower."

"Just don't wanna risk it, you know?" Suguru turns around as if he's okay, plastering on a phony grin as he shuffles out of Satoru's grip. He catches the other's hand in passing, but they don't hold. Suguru just walks to the closet, grabs his shower basket, and nods Satoru over. "I'll let you wear some of my clothes tonight. We don't have to rush."

"Ooh, darks and denim. Think I can pull it off?" Satoru swallows down the rejection like it's nothing — water off a duck's back. He drops his pants before entering the shower room, combing two hands through his hair as he steps out.

Suguru keeps his eyes up, turning on the light and waiting in the entryway. He laughs, "You could pull off a bean sack… pretty boy."

"Wait! Don't get naked without me."

Suguru rolls his eyes, biting his bottom lip hard so his smile doesn't peek through. "Hurry, before I lock the door on you."

Choso gives him time — it's not like he's so clueless.

He and Suguru had talked about the party this morning, throwing around ideas about who would attend. Both of them agreed to go, just not together. Choso would be with the hosts—the Zen'in's —and Suguru would be with… you. The only thing is: Choso didn't have a time block. He had no idea where Suguru was this Saturday evening.

He thinks about it, silently grateful that he told Naoya to wait outside. All he planned to do was grab his change of clothes and go back to their place. The family owns an entire property on campus, making them major power players in their kin's education. Money goes undetected — a few parties are allowed to go overlooked — perhaps a few tests glanced over, so everyone knows to keep them close, just not close enough to let them into your space.

He jogs up the stairs, breathless and jittery as he scales four floors in record time. Choso holds up his sweatpants by the waistband, cursing him and his friends for their stupid habit of borrowing clothes. He had no idea whose pants he was wearing, but he knew they didn't fit.

As he approaches the door, something invisible tells him to stay behind, but he knows better than to listen. He knows that his social reputation is leaning on this night, what he wears, and what he does. A full semester tucked behind Naoya's arm could mean he could graduate early and start working. He needs this.

So he rushes over the signs — the unlocked door, the kicked-off shoes that aren't Suguru's in the front — and shuffles in deeper. He can hear the water rush softly in the background, a nice ambiance as he moves to his side of the room.

At first, he doesn't catch the sounds. A few shuffles and whispers went over his head, lost against the shower spray. It's only when he hears a pure, blatant moan that he stops dead in his tracks, hands frozen in his wardrobe.

"Sugu… I'm close—

It's boyish and undeniable. Nobody around campus really calls him Suguru, except for one or two people. Choso is stuck — he doesn't know what to do. Helpless, he peeks behind his shoulder, eyes wide and bloodshot, pearling tears around the rim in humiliation when he hears: "The cum on your face looks like icing. Here, let me lick it off."

Choso winces like the lewd words are a knife in the heart, having to keep himself steady on the bed frame as they continue on, laughing.

"Stop, let me do it."

"Hurry. The water's getting cold, and we still haven't washed yet."

"Why would you even turn the water on?" Suguru argues, voice hoarse enough that he has to clear it.

The thought makes Choso shiver. Still, he walks forward — slowly, gauging the air around him. He's embarrassed — cheeks burning, but he has to see. He has to be sure to rest his own mind. So, he walks to the bathroom door and leans down, peeking in through the crack.

Choso sees exactly what he's expecting to see — Suguru rising from a kneel, reaching down to rub at his sore, red knees as Satoru reaches out for him, taking his friend by the chin and pulling him into a kiss. The pair is naked — wet skin stuck together as they make out for a moment, lips mushing against the rush of the water they're wasting. Choso thinks back to every time he's seen you with Suguru, and hates himself when he realizes that he's never seen him kiss you with such intensity. He's hardly seen you two hold hands in public, but Suguru talks about you as if you're the mother of his children.

"Mm… you taste like me," Satoru whispers between kisses, gently rubbing water-soaked hair from Suguru's face with a hand. "…doesn't taste sweet like icing."

Suguru doesn't respond; he just chuckles into his now, seemingly lover's, mouth.

"Let me get you back — help you wash up." Satoru's voice is choppy, drowned out by the shower spray as Choso ducks back against the wall. He squeezes his eyes shut, heart in his ass as he bears the worst possible news he'd ever have to hold. Choso can't believe he has to face you tonight with what he knows now. He can't believe he has to face him again, or Satoru.

All he really does know is that he had to get the fuck out of here. Suguru and Satoru don't even have to know he was here.

Turning around and heading for the front door, Choso runs out empty-handed, rushing to pull up his waistband as he hurries back down the stairs. There's nobody around — typical for this time of day, and Choso wonders if he misread one of Suguru's invisible rules. Luckily, he now knows never, ever to come back so early. He may as well just take a pillow with him every time he leaves and sleep at Naoya's bedside.

As he pushes the heavy metal door back onto the lawn, he shoves past Naoya. He's standing at the entrance, a cigarette between his lips as he waits. Choso can tell it's his second or third one — Naoya's lazy with how he reacts.

"The fuck is wrong with you?"

"I—uh,"

"Dude, where the hell are the clothes? You just wasted my time?" Naoya reaches up to steal his smoke from his slack jaw, arms held out towards Choso as if he's accusing him of something. "Did we not come here for clothes? A change of clothes? Huh, idiot?"

"Naoya— Geto was… in there…"

"It's his room, nerd."

"No… he was in there… with…" Choso looks over his shoulder like he's terrified of being sussed out. He takes Naoya by the shoulders, pulling him away from the door and onto the steps. In a hushed whisper, he trembles out, "W-with Gojo."

"Likely place for him to be…" Naoya gives him a look, eyes flicking from his beat-up skate shoes to his smudged, dark eyes. "Are you fucking crying? What were they doing, killing each other?"

Choso doesn't wanna say it. "Don't make me say it."

It takes him less than a second. Naoya has never been clueless, but he's always been receptive to these things. In that second, a slick, knowing smirk crosses over his face. He reaches up to hold his cigarette again, "They were fucking? No way…"

"No! Not like that! And… keep it down—

"What, they were touching each other?"

"No… like…" Choso's eyes flicked to Naoya's lips, and the fake blonde laughs, pulling away from his friend.

"Gross… who was on top?"

"G-Gojo..? I think?"

That makes Naoya laugh harder, a little skip behind his step as he runs down the walkway. The cigarette falls at his side — the wind combing through his hair as he tosses a gaze over his shoulder. "Come the fuck on. I'll let you wear my clothes again." Naoya calls, then turns back around, shaking his head as he whispers to himself:

"I know what you are, Geto Suguru."

It took you all evening to work yourself up for tonight. It wasn't the party — you frequented each one you were invited to; it was Gojo. It was the threat of facing your deepest humiliation behind the glow of shitty department-store mood lighting. It's one thing to deal with a cheating boyfriend and the insecurity that stems from it, but it's different when it's with the same gender.

You questioned everything as you got ready that night — maybe you were too submissive to his ways, and he needed something manlier… You could never be that. You'd never be able to be what he needs at that point.

Still, you do yourself up in dark makeup, hiding the red-rimmed exhaustion in your eyes that only comes with crying over and over again. It's not like you to act this emotionally, but it feels like something has shifted. Even your friends notice your cloudiness after you hang up the phone, slouching back against the wall like the nearly hour-long conversation with him didn't just drain your soul.

Facing him will surely be easier with a few drinks in your system, so you shimmy on your dark calf-length skirt and your bomber jacket in the middle of summer, ready to give your life away to the night.

The murky summer air hits like a whip as you scurry down the creaky wood steps. Your two roommates stand by the door, passing off a cigarette as they wait for you. Shoko looks like she always does — exhausted to the core, wearing her dark circles like a fashion statement, and decked out in leather.

Utahime's shoes are untied — scissor-cut jeans kissing the cuff of her striped socks. She kicks her feet out, deepening the lean on the door as you descend, already a flushed mess. She smiles over to her friend, then says, "Finally, we can go now."

"Do you wanna take the train?" You put on a passing smile just so they know you're all there.

"We'll walk, it's only twenty minutes." Shoko continues, blinking a single eye shut as the smoke in her lungs burns a bit too hot.

"In these shoes?"

It's second nature, slipping from your lips as you slowly approach them at the door. "Suguru can pick us up."

"We're taking the train." Shoko always seemed to have the final word, standing up straight as your cue to gather and go. "Cause we gotta stop for beer." She starts, already slipping another smoke between her lips after stomping out the old one.

Then, you rush to catch up to them, flick the lights off, and check your purse for the keys. The girls are down the front steps before you even pull the door shut, heels clicking on the damp pavement — echoing the sound of their voices against the slow bustle of the city.

Fresh after another summer rainstorm, the sidewalk reflects the neon glow of the night — the lights from the windows and the nearby skyscrapers peeking over the horizon of your humble, thatched rooftops. Dew drips trickle down windows, collecting in the soft hair on your neck as you jog to catch up to your friends.

"You're gonna trip on your laces," Shoko grunts as she passes, glancing over her shoulder while running through an unprotected crosswalk. You and Utahime, still side-by-side, wait as a car passes, then run to catch up to her, breathless.

"Could you please stop running through cars like that?" Utahime whispers, brows furrowed as the three of you round a corner to the next block.

"Let's just get vodka, it's faster."

"And grosser."

"Nothing is grosser than beer."

"Cry about it." Shoko deadpans, leading the two of you through the loosely packed sidewalk. Bodies brush like watercolor paint over your bomber, and you're already sweating. "Or, I mean… buy your own."

"Do you think both Gojo and Geto will be there?" Utahime, two steps to your left, leans over just out of Shoko's earshot.

"Unfortunately." You offer back, catching up to Shoko as a group of salarymen passes, their liquor-tinged breath ghosting over your skin—getting caught in the humidity. "I thought I was the one buying it in the first place."

"Are you offering?" She cuts her eyes at you — purple-lined, light eyes showing you more of yourself than you've ever been so comfortable seeing. "Yeah? Good girl — We can get vodka, then."

"Only if you agree to finish it before we get to the party."

"Which is the better chug? Beer or vodka?"

"Is that even a question?"

So, you three get a fifth of vodka, smiling like a couple of menaces as the old, sweet grandma behind the counter rang up and took your money with a sorry look on her face. You three must look like you're up to no good, because as you duck into a dripping alley surrounded by run-down apartment buildings, you draw stares. Especially as that top cracks and turns, falling to the ground as Shoko manhandles the drink.

"Ugh, I think I'm gonna be sick—

"Can you aim at the wall and not my shoes?" You whisper, psyching yourself up by jumping on the balls of your heels. Shoko takes that first slow swig like the poison is water, only grimacing once she withdraws, holding the bottle towards you.

"Hurry, it's already an hour past."

"Whatever." You reply, taking the bottle by the neck and shaking your head toward Utahime. "I'm not staying, Suguru just invited me so we could talk."

"You have to get shitfaced to talk to your own boyfriend?"

"Not my boyfriend." You reply, squeezing your eyes shut as you tilt your head and take one good swallow to the head — throat immediately screaming and guts twisting as it hits. "Ah, fuc—

"Not your boyfriend?" Shoko takes it back from you, leaning against the wet concrete with her feet kicked out. "After you spent nearly an hour on the phone with him? What were you talking about — what you're having for dinner?"

"No, actually. Who he's been fucking."

"What?!"

"Guys… Jin is asking where we are." Utahime mumbles, her scuffed rings clinking against the chunky metallic cell in her hands. She looks over her dark glasses, texting the tiny device feverishly. She looks up as Shoko hands over the bottle, a dull look on her face. "We're really so late… aren't we?"

"Who gives a fuck?"

"Then hurry up and drink." You reply, the sudden buzz of the liquor on your empty stomach willing you to dig in your plaid crossbody, heart racing for a cigarette.

"I can't face Zen'in without being sufficiently drunk."

"Okay, seriously. We have to catch this next train." Shoko has to baby her friend into taking her chug, then weakly hand it back to you as she gags and turns around. Her baby face is scrunched up — fist pressed to her lips as her body numbs with liquor.

"Fuck it, just bring it with you." Shoko decides once the bottle falls into your hands. You smile with the mischief of it all, leaning down to pull up your long skirt so you can run to the next train.

"Wanna race?"

"Again… Not in these shoes."

"Okay." Shoko takes the lead as you three head back out into the street, a kick behind your step as you rush southbound. You're trying to catch up to her, calling a timeout on the edge of the subway steps so you can take your shot.

"What happened to that smoke? You let it die?"

"I dropped it."

"Oh… No, he's calling me."

"Who?" You swing back around, bottle to your lips as Utahime flips her phone open and presses it to her ear.

"Wait, why?" She mumbles into the receiver, a hand pressed to her forehead like a stressed single mother who's just received bad news. "That's like twenty minutes outside of the city…"

"No way." You turn to Shoko, mouthing as she stops halfway down the steps. "They're changing it again."

"We'd have to take the Oedo line all the way to Nerima… ugh…"

"Or we could just have Suguru pick us up. He's heading that way, isn't he?"

Shoko looks at you like you're full of shit — painted lips pursed. "You're gonna screw us both with third-wheeling on a fifteen-minute drive with your boyfriend?"

"I told you, we're not together right now. He just… likes to see when I call on him for help."

Utahime holds the phone away from her face, staring at you like you just cursed her lineage. "And you two aren't together…"

"That doesn't mean he's not still my best friend."

"That's your guys' problem, you know? You break up and then stay in each other's face, so you end up fucking and getting back together." Shoko takes the last few steps back outside, then snatches the bottle from your hands. "Fine, call your not-boyfriend."

"But you owe us."

"Like it's the worst thing ever, come on…" You roll your eyes, digging in your crossbody for your cell. Crossing your arm over your chest as if you're shielding it from wrongdoing, you lean against the railing and dial his number.

The girls stay where they were, passing the liquor between each other as desperate bottle-shots turn into slowly nursing it down. They can't lie and say this wouldn't be more efficient on time and effort — letting the long drive lull the vodka through their system so they're loose and ready to be body-packed, surrounded by hot, hard music, bad circumstances, and cigarette smoke.

You click through your contacts, purposefully taking your time to find his nestled towards the bottom, far enough away for temptation to strike. Only this time, you roll over the contact and smash it, like you have any clue where you two stand.

What you told your friends wasn't a lie — in fact, it was one of those unspoken things Suguru had pushed on you since first grade. Your ego was bigger than your heart for him back then, but he just had to have you. Now, you find yourself reaching for his voice even when you know you can figure things out yourself, just eager to hear his praise. And of course, when you call, he answers immediately.

'Hey. Headed to the party?' His voice comes out wind-whipped and crackled, like he's already in the front seat of his beloved grey-washed Honda NSX, cruising down the street with all his windows open. Suguru's the type to lose himself in the road — at his easiest when he's in control of such a delicate piece of equipment, so there's a softness there. You smile.

You pace as a nervous habit, warding off their side-stares for a moment as you walk the length of the steps. "It's all the way at his uncle's place now? The big-shot animators?"

'I guess… Jin just told me, too. I was headed to Zen'in's.'

"Can… you come pick me up? I'm with the girls, and we were gonna take the train but I—

Suguru sits silently for a fleeting second before he speaks. You can hear the smile in his voice as he regards you, 'What station? I'm turning around right now.'

Biting down on a smile of your own, you look up to your friends and nod. "See you soon…"

'Bye-bye, baby.'

Before he hangs up, you start back towards your friends, laughing about something you weren't involved in. Instead of poking your head into their conversation, you rip it apart with an easy, "Sugu's on the way."

"Nice." Shoko hands you the bottle, eyes glazed in that telltale sign that can only mean mindlessness. "He's my favorite trusted adult… I concluded just now."

You giggle, hiding your smile behind the lipstick-stained rim as you tilt your head back to take another shot. Down to the last quarter of liquid courage, and the world already looks water-colored. "Sure. Till he's yelling in your face that 'this is the way things have to be'." You dip your tone lower to imitate your elusive partner, rolling your eyes at the mere thought of his stupid scolding.

Shoko laughs, "You poor, sheltered soul."

"The fuck does that mean?"

Suguru looks over at you from the driver's seat, dark hair whipping against the highway air. He hasn't really said anything since he picked you three up, patting Shoko on the shoulder and giving Utahime his sweetest smile as they slid into the four-door named after you. You haven't said a thing either, opting to keep the mystery and your wits about you as your friends pass the vodka over the seat.

You know he's judging you, but you two aren't 'together,' so he doesn't have a leg to stand on. Especially when you're the one who called on him, and he's the one who came running. He's been shamelessly peeking over at you for the five minutes since you've been in his air, waiting for you to make the first move, only to sigh and squint towards the road as your friends sweep you up in drunken laughter. He feels like an item on the side of you, not a human, and lets the soft creaking leather feel it as he tightens his grip.

"Dear—

"True, but the last time I saw him it ended with me almost punching him in the face." You're turned around over the passenger seat headrest, gawking and snickering with your friends as you think back on your past trainwrecks. Naoya was the subject of the conversation, now — someone you all know way too well for it to be healthy. Just like Choso, you four know to just… keep him around.

"You should've done it, maybe I'd sneak a lick in."

"He would beat you two the fuck up."

"Letta girl imagine,"

"Hey." Suguru tries again, peeking up at the rearview mirror at Shoko, who's looking right back at him. He turns to you, sitting up in his seat. "Can you actually sit in your seat?"

"Whatever." You roll your eyes, soft laughter dying down as you settle back down in your seat, only for him to hammer back into you:

"If an officer rode past and saw you like that, he'd arrest all of us."

"Get a grip."

"Boo, Geto, seriously."

"Sure." He responds, peeking over his shoulder as he makes a turn, pierced face turned up in angst—not quite anger. "I'll take it if it means keeping my license."

"Pussy—

"Sho— seriously?" You peek back at your friend, catching Suguru's eyes before they can focus back on the glow of his headlights on the road. Under your breath, you whisper. "Sorry,"

"Drunk idiots… I swear." He grumbles, leaning over to dial the radio up as the summer's-past chart-topping song begins to play. The familiar melody draws the girls together in the back, leaving you and him together in the front seats, stealing side glances every few seconds. You're drunk and want to kiss him — Suguru's sober, and far too sober to be dealing with you three. "No fuckin' respect…"

"Shh, it's okay." You whisper against the music, noticing the click of his jaw as he slowly works the wheel into a residential street, flicking his lights down. Head swimming already, you sit up and peer out of the window, eyes wide as you take in the urban hellscape of concrete and glass. It feels more residential here — not cheap or gimmicky like campus is, but tangible in a way only a slow life could hold. It's clearly not the right neighborhood for a college party, but you all can tell as Suguru approaches.

Bodies spill out onto the green lawn, bustling about, and out of the door that hasn't shut since everyone started arriving. It's a lone house on a corner, obviously built and owned by someone on a healthy salary. The traditional architecture screams Zen'in, and the party's volume screams popularity. In the back, Utahime sits up, reaching to roll down her window as Suguru slows to a stop.

"There are so many people."

"I'll drop you off here so I can park." Suguru decides, shifting the engine and taking his foot off the pedal. The interior lights jump on as Shoko and Utahime file out, giggling something under their breath that you don't pick up on through your daze. As you reach for the door handle to let yourself out, something stone-cold stops you.

"We're supposed to be talking, right?"

"N-now?" You stutter, furrowing your brows as you turn back towards him. Suguru reaches out to take your arm, making sure you know he doesn't want you to leave the leather sanctuary. "I wanna be with my friends."

"You said on the phone that we could talk."

"Sure, that was before I started drinking." You pull away from his grip, reaching to unbuckle your seatbelt and get out of the car. Just as that click hits his ears, Suguru shifts the car back into drive, reaching to hold your thigh so he can drive away with his hand on the wheel. You've been successfully trapped. "Ugh— here we go… Let me out."

"You don't get to make promises you can't keep."

"And you don't get to make out with your best fucking friend in front of everyone we know! Do you know how embarrassing that was for me?!"

"I told you, it was a kiss! One stupid fucking kiss that I regret every goddamn day." Suguru's eyes are wide—blown with emotion and red around the edges — as his fists tighten once more. He's sitting up in his seat, high-strung and ready to snap all over you with one wrong move. "I thought we talked about this. I thought you were over it!"

"I can never be over it." You break, right there for him to see, like a shattered, drunk mirror. It comes in waves — first, it's ugly and loud, with tears flowing from your eyes like rivers. You turn to your side to bury your tears into your shoulder, trying to regain some control as you cry, "Do you know how fucking humiliated and insecure I feel now?"

"I know. And I told you, my love, I'm so sorry. So, so sorry."

"Yeah? Well, being sorry doesn't make me feel any better. It makes me feel like a fucking fool!" You're inconsolable, and it's humiliating, but you can't hide it. The alcohol brings it out of you like this — not shadowed over by your own ego and need to be close to him. When you're drunk, it feels like you're meant to be alone, and that doesn't fade even when you're right next to him; you want to go. "Let me out!"

"If you would just—

Suguru's doing a scarily good job at keeping his composure, save for the batshit manic girl to his side. He turns onto the side of the street, keeping his lights on as he stops the car and shifts the engine. You're already reaching for the handle to pull to your freedom, but of course, Suguru has the locks on. "Stop acting crazy, you said we'd talk."

"Let me out of this car, you're such an asshole."

"Baby—

"You're so fucking mean to me." You double down, pulling away from his touch when he reaches out again. In your state, he doesn't look like the boy you swore to yourself that you'd love through it all; he looks like a shiny pair of handcuffs, and you want out.

"I'm not mean, I'm just protective."

"Let me out!"

"Fine." Suguru finally gives in, shifting in his seat as he pulls the door lock. You're out before he can draw his next breath, sobbing and shaking as you fall out of the car and onto the street. "You need help, baby. Just say it, and I'll help you."

"I…" You growl, wiping the tears from your eyes with rough, angry hands. "Don't need your fucking help…"

"You're gonna regret this in the morning…!" Suguru doesn't expect you to actually run away; that's the issue. He has to stop, rolling down the driver's window to yell out of the car, "Don't you see how you escalate things? You're drunk."

But you're not listening. Not in this state. Not when self-preservation exists two buildings down the street.

"I just don't even wanna know you anymore. Go away."

It's getting increasingly harder to keep his voice down as you stumble down the street, crying silently into your hand. "You're gonna go in there and drink yourself to death! You think I don't know— hey!"

Running from the jaws of the beast just in time, the road looks a lot freer than a person right now. So, you leave Suguru in the dust, and he takes that for what it was. He doesn't want to go to the party now that you're like this, and he certainly couldn't face Satoru after what happened.

Suguru takes the high road, calling it quits once more in his head, sitting with it, then driving away in the opposite direction of home.

He'll find his way back eventually, but right now he can't be near you. Both of you are shameless and idiotic — clutching at a version of yourselves that will never quite exist. You'll never be easy-headed, and he'd never be decisive. Together, you're a mess, but a piece of him loves it so much that he finds himself chasing the pain.

"Damn…" Satoru mumbles, peeping out of the crowd towards the entrance. He's looking for a familiar head of dark hair, sticking out just a bit taller than everyone else's. It's been all night—three hours into the party —and now it's abnormal. He has to comment on it. "You haven't seen Suguru?"

"Tonight?" Naoya yells over the music, eyes beady and on the prowl, looking everywhere but at the person speaking to him. Dressed in darks — low-waisted sweats and a tank top that doesn't reach the waistband- he's the king of the party and on a mission. Still speaking towards his upperclassman, it's hard to tell when he sees Toji amongst the bodies, giving his cousin a slap on the shoulder as he pushes past in his muscle shirt. "Nah, I haven't!"

Satoru's not holding a drink; he doesn't drink, just kinda lingers about — hands in his pockets or the occasional smoke between his lips. Still, with his lack of substance use, he still fits in with the crowd, just happy making useless conversation with inebriated people. "That's weird, right? I should call him…"

"Can you do that… out there? You're kinda dogging our vibe." Naoya's surrounded by everyone Satoru knows — third and second grades, a few lost firsts, as well. Satoru can have a conversation with anyone he tries to talk to, but it's hard when he has something on his mind. He can't hide it.

He pulls away from his friends as soon as Choso and Jin return, two drinks in each hand. As he pushes through bodies, the cashmere on his loose sweater gets caught in the brush, pinning him. For a moment, he peeks around for you, knowing Suguru couldn't be far behind. If anything, you'd know where he was, but he doesn't even remember seeing you tonight. Satoru hasn't even seen your friends.

He finally makes it out of the house, talking up the first grader 'monitoring' the entrance — really, just high and on top of the world. Satoru asks if he's seen him or you, and everyone around looks at him like he's crazy. It feels like an out-of-body experience — like he's a monitoring spirit hovering over his head, controlling his movements with marionette strings. The lawn is just as packed as the inside, only thinning out towards the road, where the voices are quieter.

He's not expecting to find you — heart deadset on seeing Suguru out here chainsmoking with the regulars. But when he does see you, he knows it's fate waving its wand. In fact, he sees the back of Shoko's head first — that unmistakable back-length brunette hair that sticks her out from any dark-haired crowd. He smirks, sure as hell of himself all of a sudden.

"Shoko—hey!"

Satoru approaches your small group with a smile, breathless as he jogs up. It's only when he sees you — eyes wet with tears and inconsolable in your friend's arms- that he stops, face turning up in worry. "Wow… everything good?"

"Oh— hey, Gojo." Utahime regards him, hands on your shoulders as you do your best to shrug off the drunk tears and be nonchalant. It fails… miserably, because you look drunk. You look sad, and your energy is pouring through these writhing bodies like a curse. You can't escape it. Even around Satoru like this, you can't straighten up. In fact, you buckle at the mere sound of his voice.

Turning away from your friends, you cover your face with your palm and try to stifle back tears — all hunched and pitiful, uncaring of who would walk past and see. You can hear them chatting behind you, tones dipped a shade lower to match your melancholy energy. They won't say his name, but they say everything else.

"No, I haven't seen that dickhead."

"What… happened…?"

"The same old… You know…"

"And he left?"

"I guess."

A few seconds pass, backed by the softness of your sniffles as you feverishly wipe at your face. It feels like reverting to basics — learning to regulate your emotions and just say how you feel. "Yeah, he left…" You croak, turning over your shoulder to give them something.

You're okay — you're alive. And drunk as hell.

"Hey… Lady…" Satoru steps closer to you, pushing through your friends to reach your ear. Still, he doesn't touch; he just lingers close behind your ear, pulling attention when he says, "Is everything okay…?"

It's something in the genuine concern he shows you that your friends don't. The way his hand hovers open-palmed over your back without touching makes you look at him. He waits for you to nod before cracking a smile and turning back to the girls. "So, nobody knows where he went…? Great."

"Is Itadori in there? He was so goddamn worried about our location; now he's nowhere to be found."

"You know he just worries…" Satoru laughs it off, pretending like he didn't just see him two minutes ago with everyone else. Above it all, Satoru wants to talk to you — he can see that something has happened, and if anyone would know where he was, it'd be you. "Wait — you were just with him?"

"He just dropped me off down the road; he's probably gone by now—

"What happened? You know he's not here, right?"

"D'you think I'm stupid? He drove away." You pull away from him with a newfound coldness, under your breath, proclaiming that you need another drink. You don't really recognize anyone on the walkway at first glance; nobody looks like Suguru, and you're mentally checked out. "Hello? I need another drink."

"I don't know anything about that." Satoru laughs, crossing his arms for warmth as the night breeze starts to hit. He watches you snatch the bottle back from Shoko, pushing against them to walk deeper into the party. Satoru wants to crowd you and keep you close, but he can tell how you're feeling, and, frankly, he wants to stay away. He wants to find Suguru.

"Sorry… she's usually not so," Utahime stands on her toes as she watches you part the crowd and get caught up with someone you know. She wants to chase after and doctor every one of your movements, but she wants to stick by Shoko, where it's safe in her mindlessness. "She's usually a happy, party, dancey drunk."

"That's nice… Where exactly did she come from?" Satoru asks with a smile, just to keep them close and calm, if only to feed him the information that he needs. "She came from the left? Right?"

"Uh—

"T-the left! She just ran into us — super crazy."

"No, it was from the right. I remember… I saw his headlights."

Satoru takes the contradictory to the head, nodding feversihly as he weighs both of his options. In reality, he knows Suguru is okay; he just wants to know if he's finally… his.

He wants to know if you two have broken up and how easily he could take your place.

"Thanks, girls." He pats both of them on the shoulder, slouching his own like he's not up to no good as he heads down the path to the street. He could pull out his flip phone and actually call his friend, but Satoru thinks he knows where he is, and he trusts his gut more than he trusts new technology — he just wants to see if he's right.

So, he jogs down the street, footsteps getting lost in the laces that fell untied as he ran. He ignores it, risking his footing as he feels the invisible crunch of time over his shoulders. In reality, it's just his adrenaline racing. The thought of finally being able to exist without you in their life felt like such a far-fetched dream, even when you had broken up in the past. This time just feels different; Satoru feels lighter.

It takes him about ten minutes, slowing into a casual stride, to leave the neighborhood. He hasn't seen any sign of life save for the mangy street cats that skittered away at the sound of footsteps in the quiet, but that's not Suguru. He's on the lookout for the car that his best friend worked odd jobs and did favors to scrape up for — that he slaves over every Saturday to clean in and out, and dreadfully named after the girl he'd been seeing at the time. Satoru can ignore that; he can pretend that his name was shittily keyed into the leather interior instead of yours.

He almost gives up hope and pulls out his phone as he reaches the main roadway, where it splits into streets or into the bridge connecting it to the next ward, but he doesn't. He heads down the dark, dimly lit road until he sees a pair of idling headlights right on the cusp of the next ward, and knows by the pattern of the lights, it's nobody else but the one he needs.

Picking his jog back up as he approaches, Satoru slows down and peeks through the back windows, smiling when he sees that familiar dark head slouched over the wheel. Faintly, music plays from inside, lulling away any background noise that could disturb his contemplation. Satoru approaches the passenger, wrapping his knuckles across the window to pierce through the white noise.

Like he's been startled awake, Suguru sits up, eyes wide as he looks to his window, behind him, and finally to the passenger. Seeing how it's just his friend and not a rabid murderer, Suguru lets out a visible sigh, reaching over to manually crank the window down and unlock the door.

"How did I know you'd be over here? I just knew it."

"Hey," Suguru whispers, opening the door and pushing it out so Satoru can step inside. "Get out of the road before someone rolls over you."

"I know, I know." Satoru bites down on his smile, recognizing that his friend is feeling a bit less lifeless than he does. He slides into the car and settles in, slouching against the seat you once occupied and reaching to click the volume down by one or two levels.

The air inside the car is sad and thick with cigarettes, like he just chain-smoked with the windows up in an attempt on his life. Satoru wouldn't put it past him, but right now he needs fresh air, so he reaches to crank his window down all the way. "Holy shit, you were hotboxing yourself or what?"

"Something like that." Suguru's voice is wrecked — low and raspy, cracked around the edges as he settles back in his own seat. "What, you just walked down the street 'till you found me?"

"Shoko told me you went down here, and I trusted her over Utahime."

"She was right." Suguru laughs, if only for it to die out as soon as it hits. Kiss of Life croons over the speaker, drowned-out and almost mystical as they share fleeting, dark eye contact. Suguru doesn't want to admit how much more at ease he feels with Satoru by his side than with you — he just knows he doesn't have to choose his words. His friend loves him for his shortcomings and stupid temper.

Satoru brings his fist to his lips, biting down on the side of his thumb as he turns towards the perspirated windshield, going over how he should say what he truly needs to say.

"Did you see her?"

"So, what are we, now?"

They both speak at once — Suguru withdrawing almost immediately when he makes out exactly what Satoru just said. On impact, even in the darkness, he can see Satoru's face light up crimson-red.

"Y-yeah, I saw her…" Satoru mumbles after a moment, just to break the silence. He stares dead ahead, moving his fist from his mouth and flattening it into a palm over his eyes.

"What are we?" Suguru repeats like he's letting the words really sink in — asking himself the same question before he continues with the obvious, "We're friends."

Satoru keeps his eyes covered, heart racing as he thinks of what, or how to say exactly what he wants to say. Instead of repeating the obvious, Satoru shakes his head and mutters, "You are impossible to read."

"Did I—

Suguru thinks again, mind flooded with every single recent experience they had together. Sure, it could get intimate, but they've been… like this… since before school. There's never been any use for a label when they were each other's entire world throughout adolescence.

He settles on, "This is not what we need," peering longingly out of his window so he doesn't have to face Satoru head-on. It feels like he's on a roll today, just stomping over affection the second it's given to him. Only with you is he innocent — at least, in his eyes. "I have to have a wife and a family."

"And be repressed your entire life?" They've definitely talked about this before, in the heat of the moment. Only, it's never felt so real before. Satoru truly thought they had a chance this time around, and now he's watching it slip through his fingers like loose sand every time Suguru opens his mouth.

"I'm not… I don't feel repressed."

"I don't want to be your secret anymore, not if you're that deep in denial."

"I'm not in denial, you're just… forcing me to choose, and I can't."

"Why can't you? This is the rest of your life."

"That's why!" Suguru sits up in a frenzy, flicking the music up and reaching for the door locks. "You know what? Just get out."

On guard, Satoru sits up, too, shaking his head. "Don't do that—

"You two are going to…" Suguru starts, arm shaking as he reaches over him to push open his door and shove him out. "I'm going to go crazy dealing with you shits."

Satoru is on the defensive, holding his hands out as Suguru pushes him onto the street. He lets up after a few good shoves, then steps outside the car and slams the door shut. Before he storms off, finally angry in the way Suguru could only make him, he leans through the open window, just before he speeds off.

"Next time you're horny and alone, don't bother calling me!"

"Go fuck yourself," Suguru replies, stone-cold with his foot on the pedal. He doesn't look behind him or towards Satoru before he cuts the wheel, speeding off down the bridge without his lights on.

It's a split-second decision, and one he'd regret for the rest of his life. Satoru doesn't care — he's never felt like this before. He's angry and jittery, watching Suguru's lights flicker farther along the horizon and speed away. It feels like he's been belittled and betrayed, even though he knows Suguru will find his way back eventually. What makes him even madder is that he'd let him right back in.

Now, he understands why you two can't leave each other alone.

He could spend this time overthinking what just happened in that car, or he could live with it. He knows words were spoken that weren't meant, and he knows how Suguru gets when he's made to feel like he has to choose; it's just never been this bad before. He's angry, and that's the feeling that hits him first, then betrayal.

That nasty, lingering, dull feeling in his chest that hits when he really thinks about it is the one that makes him pull out his phone at midnight. Satoru turns back towards the party as he thumbs through his keypad, scrolling to your contact to draft the quickest message he's ever sent.

wanna have sex? not serious. y or n?

Your vision is blurry — mind detached from self, as you stare down at your phone. In the middle of chaos — bodies pressing and shoving you to their whims- you can't focus on anything. Tonight had been nothing, in the grand scheme of things. You can't remember where you were five minutes ago, but you remember that argument with Suguru. It's eating you alive, and you've spent the entire party drinking it down, bursting at the seams.

Naoya is in front of you, arms crossed over his chest, throwing his head back in a stupid laugh. Your friends aren't around, just the slightly familiar faces you've seen around campus. At first glance, you recognize Itadori and his dark-haired girlfriend, then Naoya and one of his brothers to your right. You want to call out to Shoko, or even see if Satoru is still close, but you're fucked up.

You blink, brows furrowing as you recognize the new message notification on the tiny screen. You flip it open as Naoya turns back towards you, picking up the thread of the conversation you were once deaf to two seconds ago.

He's drunk too, but steady, using it as fuel to let his lips say whatever they need to. "Who the fuck knows? They're both not here — probably sucking each other off upstairs."

"Huh?"

His brothers look at each other, jaws on the floor as the unwelcome vision hits. "Gojo and Geto? Oh shit—

Naoya stops again, hands falling to his gut as he laughs harder. You catch his mood over the rush of responding to the new notification, and you're suddenly interested in whatever comes out of his mouth, even though you usually don't give him the time of day. The drunkenness mixes with the weight of the night, sitting on your chest in a carefully brave way.

"Dude, I didn't tell you! Cho saw him blowing Gojo off this fucking morning. Ran out so fucking fast like a pussy." He's laughing like it's the funniest thing he's ever discovered, and not like it's the end of your world. You want to reach out and grab his shoulder — forcing him to speak the truth straight into your soul, but something of worth stops you just as your hand flies out.

From your phone, then to your underclassman, you glance back and forth. The alcohol sits in your stomach like a soupy brick, making you nauseated on the spot. You can't imagine it, not that you'd want to, and not after Suguru promised that the kiss was only a one-time thing.

Deep down, you always knew, of course, you knew, but it feels so… disgusting to hear it out loud for everyone to laugh at. It makes you wonder if you ever really knew them, and the extent of their relationship.

Then one of his friends piggybacks, eyes wide with every intention of making use of this shiny new rumor. "No way—

It doesn't hit you the way it would when you're sober — it makes you brave. You shake your head, pretending like everything isn't falling apart in real time as you squint at the message Satoru just sent you.

wanna have sex? not serious. y or n?

 And you reply with shaking thumbs,

 meet upstars. withh condom.

gojo/geto/all char taglist: @yourlocalgrandma @retiredpieceofshit @pookalicious-hq @seanori @winkii @minasuniverse @honeypuffzz @thewonderlandgardener @erosxcupid @colortheoryrocks @thywiaa @prncessleiia @gravecyte @YagirlJanea @sanemimyking @slut4gojo @ohmissdove @https-gassen @lisabelhyhn @p1a9u3 @hiraxh @antikillua @dadonprimma @chosokamo2 @zvzxci @satolune @joongshive @hunterthefish @atsushirolll @sueboo503 @clarkkentfavorite @wavetojulia @cowboyvsshop @verykittenwombat @restingoasis @starfalldragondreamer @00zerona @sadisticssslut @luvleixo @lovewitchss @riana4life @kalihrts @raashluvsff @mspinkpanties @burpgod2rizzy @automemoryd0ll @palanggaaa @yarimarjane

[eraserbread]

virgin → track six: current affairs ✩

pairing dad's best friend!satoru gojo x university student!afab reader

synopsis something with satoru has began to change. at first, it feels right, then all at once, your life is falling apart. latching onto the truth is one way to keep your situation real, but when your father finally calls, all that confidence seems to fade away.

tags angst, unbalanced unhealthy relationship dynamics, smoking, struggles w eating/insecurity, crude language/humor, smut (oral m!receiving, mentioned sex-tapes, spitting, breeding kink, lots of pillow talk) lots of pet names (papa, daddy, baby/sweet girl) unrequited feelings, suguru cameo/megumi mention

word count 6.9k

author's note one year of the virgin album 🩻 and over halfway through this baby. someone slow my fingers down, i don’t want this to end

(jo by @/_3aem 🩻 gradient divs by @/cafekitsune, chains by me)

You swallow… hard.

It doesn't go down. You swallow again.

When you exhale, it's slow and clicky — getting stuck at the front of your chest, and bubbling miserably before escaping through your nose. Caught in the ghost of your cigarette, you squeeze your eyes shut, then open them back to the dimmed screen sitting on your lap.

On a park bench, legs crossed, you ash your smoke into the passing wind, watching as it gets caught in the stone cracks before being carried by the breeze into the atmosphere. You're leaving your mark in the city with ash, smoke, and the single, dwindling tear that slips from your eye. You reach up and wipe it away with the hand cradling your cigarette, wincing as the smoke curls right into your reddened, emotional eyes.

Satoru left you here exactly fourteen minutes ago, lowering you on the bench with promises that he's going to get your snack, then come right back. You're waiting for him, never daring to skip over his careful instructions. You want to be good, you need to be agreeable and mature for him, if only to hear his buttery-soft good girl, kiss the shell of your ear in passing. It feels like that's all you have left to live for, especially as you look down, seeing Megumi's social media handle come up empty.

It makes you so upset to see that he blocked you… Right as you wove your white flag and let him back in.

Those two posts — his sweet, smiling profile photo of him and Yuji, they're all gone. All you can see is the greyed-out anonymity he's forced on you… And you don't even know why.

Megumi stormed out at lunch and didn't say anything else to you. He didn't offer you a passing glance, leaving you to pay for his meal. It stung like venom, and you were humiliated, still, you took it with a slack jaw and racing heart, so uncomfortable that it felt like you wanted to detach from yourself.

It hit you so hard that you couldn't even face Satoru that night, but now he's back after begging on his knees to see you again — to fix you with a real date that you could hold onto. You nearly jump out of your skin when he approaches you from behind, heavy footsteps familiar and so light that they get lost in the soft crunch of fresh, summer grass. Flower petals rush through the breeze, flying past his head as he clears his throat, lowering a parchment-cradled taiyaki into your line of sight.

You peek up, turning your screen off just before his piercing blue gaze lands on the blank profile open on your phone, flaunting your ex's name like a trophy. It takes strength to crack a smile for him, but you do, and it's fleeting.

"It's green?"

"It's matcha," Satoru replies, wedging his traditional anko-flavored treat from his teeth now that he has both hands free. You watch him, his silver rings glinting against the heat of the afternoon sun, flexing around the stark, bluey veins. "On the inside and outside." He stares down at you with one eye squinted — face pulled together like he's staring down at the sun.

Satoru's voice is steady and deep, knowing not to draw attention, to never give a reason for eyes to linger too long on the two of you. In the empty spot on the bench next to you, covered with tiny white flowers from the shade-tree above, he settles in and man-spreads, pushing his thigh into yours — nudging the side of your feet just hard enough for you to absentmindedly nudge back.

You don't bite, you stare. At him — the way he settles in, grunting and breathing out softly through his pink, glossed lips. The ghost of his taiyaki sits against the soft flesh, clinging to its skin like it also wanted to make a home in the warmth you've come to know so well.

You watch Satoru take a bite, then glance down at your own shivering treat, stomach turning as you try to talk yourself into committing. He doesn't catch on, not right away. Instead, he opens his mouth and says the first real thing he's said to you all day.

"I know you don't want me to bring it up," He starts, voice muffled around the ghost of the bite he has to swallow. A fearless hand crosses your space, falling against the meat of your thigh, where he grabs and holds as he owns it. And, in a way, he does. "But, I know what the kid was to you."

Face hot and eyes wide, you turn and stare at your fish-shaped snack, unblinking as the reality of the truth starts to rush over you once more. "You said, it's matcha? Like a matcha filling… inside?"

"—and we don't have to talk about anything, but we should." Satoru nods, leaning over to get a closer peek at the green-dusted scales of your cake. He's boyish and unapologetic, parting his lips as he inches closer, smiling when you raise the snack to his teeth, letting him take that first bite you were so scared of. Satoru sits back with a hum, sticky matcha cream painted green over his lips as he chews and hums, rolling his eyes in an endearing little stare before blinking up at you. "I know what he was to you."

"A childhood friend? Sure." You lower the taiyaki back to your chest like you're holding it hostage, shutting down any whisper of a conversation before it can truly become something you can't contain.

"What about the betrothal—

You cut him off with a look so sharp that he swears he's never seen anything like that out of you. The gaze is sharp and mean — cutting like knives. "What, Dad's idealized version of reality — the hypothetical bethrothal? What, are you jealous?"

"A little bit, I won't lie."

"You men are pathetic." You mumble, picking at the huge bite mark Satoru left in the snack that was once yours. "I can see it now." He just stares for a second, watching your stale face grow weary as time passes.

"Hey," He whispers after a moment, sitting up straight — back pressed to the damp park bench. "I just want what's best for you, hm? Everything you ask for, I give, no?"

"That's not what I want, though." You reply, stubborn to boot — digging your heels into the soil as if it'd make the entire situation just fade away. Satoru stares into the side of your face like he's expecting a solid answer, but all he gets is the cut of your eyes and the nervous picking of your snack. "I want you… to like me. Like, actually."

The mood suddenly dips into something serious — something you're not ready for. Not when he was just supposed to occasionally fuck you and keep you safe. "You don't think I like you?"

"I—

Satoru actually sits up, dropping his head when he leans down to try and catch your gaze. "You don't believe I think about you, all the time? When I wake up, all I can think about is you."

"The sex—

—is only a part of it." He reassures, reaching over to catch your chin when you look away, suddenly interested in the raggedy white dog skipping heartily and without care, in front of its twenty-something owner. "Being with you, like this, is enough."

You want to take a breath and convince yourself that what he's giving you is believable, but there's always a silent weight on your chest, screaming at you every time you go to open up. As you lift your taiyaki to your lips, finally able to take a bite, Satoru leans closer, his shoulder brushing yours so gently. You pause.

"I think about you all the time."

Your heart is racing — face so hot that you're sure steam has begun to blow from your ears. His words tickle like feathers rushing down your spine all at once. You shiver.

"Yes, I think you're sexy and love having sex with you," He starts again, fingers inching further up your thigh like he's trying to prove something. "But, I also love how smart and soft-spoken you are. I hate when you shy off and shrink down as you do, and I think your taste in music and movies could use some improvement…"

You roll your eyes — he continues. "You hate it when I tell you to shut up and are a bit more stern, but love it when I do it in the bedroom." You gasp, genuinely, sitting up with the speed of the external emotional damage he's thrown you in.

He chuckles, tossing his head back like a kid. "The point is — do you want me to go on? That's a lot more than a like." Satoru settles back down on the bench like everything is normal, bringing his food back to his lips, kicking out his feet. A pair passes by, moving to the side and glancing you over with a passing look. They don't pass any judgment; they just watch you exist. For some reason, your heart trembles. "But that's what we'll settle with for now — I like you, and I think you like me, too."

So, Satoru claims you from that moment on.

It's something unsaid — he walks next to you instead of in front of you, hand sneaking to your side so he can hold you unapologetically through the bustling city center. He stands over you as you sit on the train home, chatting aimlessly about a superior at work he has to host soon and kiss up to. You pretend that you're listening, eyeing his crotch every few seconds as the train sways and he grows closer with each new body that presses in. He mutters a one-off joke in passing about how tight it's getting in the car, and you respond in short, staccato bursts of energy.

Around all these mindless people, he reaches down and grabs your chin, muttering about how slick your mouth is, and you wonder if he's acting like this because he's genuinely feeling you, or if it's to break you past your Megumi-colored gloom.

Nothing works. Not his touch on your back, and surely not his muffled voice in your ear. It all feels so… temporary, like you know above all that you two are completely and utterly fucked the second your love faces the real world — if you ever have the guts to entertain it as such.

You can feel the glimpse in his eye — the way it shines for you around the corners, widening when you open your mouth to fire back. It's like, nothing you do can scare him away. Something about it is oddly comforting, like staring death right in the eyes. So, you let him hold you.

Standing at his kitchen island with a spoon in his hand, prodding at the omurice leftovers from last night, Satoru hardly regards you as he eats. "What did you eat before you came to see me this morning?"

You don't respond, sitting behind his polished marble island with your knees crossed. Bare legs, ankles jumping as you scroll through your phone with hunched shoulders, you don't answer him.

"Am I speaking to a brick wall?"

"No… you're speaking to me." You reply, still not offering eye contact, chin in a fisted hand as you stare down longingly into your phone.

He chuckles, oddly endeared. "I'll make you something then."

"I don't want your forty-year-old man meal prep, actually."

"You think you're so funny today." It's an accusation, not a question — one spoken around his mouthful of sticky egg. Satoru's cheeks are full of it, glossy lips pursed as he glances up at you.

That comment makes you disregard your phone, brows furrowed as you stare your older situationship head-on. Satoru blinks like he's innocent, then offers you a shrug.

"A little bit." You shrug right back, sighing and defiantly making a show of averting your attention back to your dimmed screen. "Not as funny as you, though. I don't go to the mirror and give myself affirmations about how smooth of a jokester I am, like you do, every morning."

"You got that right, baby's got a lot of learning, and a lot of affirmations to repeat."

The banter is light and never lost on you. He makes you smile, too caught up in his silver stare to even really care about what's happening on your phone. You sigh again, locking it and peering back up at him with a gaze so wide and expectant that he can't help but stand up straight.

"You're looking at me like you want something." He murmurs against his bite, sharp jaw working against stewed meat and wilted greens. "And I know it's not this food."

You raise your brows, so does he. Entire conversations based on mutual lust are shared with just a look. Satoru grins around his stupid, stuffed cheeks — eyes bright like he knows something you don't.

"We've never done it in the kitchen." Satoru's voice is low and measured, just like his footsteps as he walks backward into the kitchen with a finger in your waistband. You follow along, rolling your eyes as you stumble right where he wants you to be — lower back pressed into the counter, right next to his half-finished meal.

"Want to bend me over the hot stove? Kinky,"

"I like this…" He chuckles, voice so fucking deep that it sends a lustful wave of wetness between your thighs. "You're not thinking as much when you're with me, now." He whispers, pulling you chest-to-chest, lips ghosting against the shell of your ear. He smiles, and it's slow. Everything is so slow…

You nod, unsure of what to say, or what even should be said, right now. All you know is that your heart feels like it's going to beat straight through your chest. Of course, he had to point out the obvious — how you think you love him, now.

Still, you don't say it, because you can't. You're not supposed to love your Dad's best friend, but he makes it so easy to. He doesn't even have to ask you to lower onto your knees, but you do, right there, at his feet.

Back pressed to the counter, resting on your haunches, you gaze up at him expectantly, eyes wide and lashes fluttering as his hand crosses over your jaw, sneaking his thick thumb between your parted lips.

"Open your mouth." He demands, voice holding that invisible air of power that he always seems to naturally hold. It makes your tummy tingle, your heart doing flips in your chest as his tongue crosses over his bottom lip. He's quick with it — smiling when you drop your jaw, giving him a blank, fully trusting look.

In the back of his throat, Satoru wills all of his spit forward — bobbing his Adam's Apple and sucking his cheeks as the ghost of the meal he swallowed down makes its way back on his tongue. He gathers it all for you, letting it warm between his cheeks before pursing his lips and letting a thick wad of spit land on your awaiting tongue.

"Good, Geto." He smiles, willing your chin upward to close your mouth. "Now, come get it."

Satoru doesn't have to ask you twice. Your hands shiver as you reach up to the waistband of his slacks, rolling his spit between your teeth as you study the complex taste of him. You don't want to swallow him down, knowing yourself and your urge to beg for more once he goes away. You pull his waistband down, fingers locked in the tightness of his briefs, giving them a weak little tug until the promise of his penis— thick and statuesque- shows its face.

"Go ahead. Remember what I taught you."

So, you do. You listen and hold him close to your heart, lips parting as you tug his pants down. "A-all the way down?"

"Deep, deep, deep, in your throat." Satoru gathers your hair at your scalp, creaking your neck back so he slides more easily down your throat. "Just get it wet, baby. Wanna get off inside'a you. Gotta get you pregnant."

You choke on him as his last, wet sentence falls out of his mouth in a sick slur. "I am a spoiled man. Spoiled fucking rotten, wow." He croons, running a hand across your cheek, letting his fingers play around your ear. "D'you know, I was thinking about this… on the train home." He shakes his head like he's confessing a sin, pale skin growing ruby red as you suck him off the exact way he taught you — his way, no hands. "I like when you do your makeup like that… the eyeliner."

Your heart shakes — soul settling on the fact that you'll never change your makeup routine if this is the way he likes it.

"With glossy lips… I like." Satoru moans, unrestrained and boyish - pitchy at the top of his throat as he tosses his head back. "I'm gonna cum just thinking about it. Stand up."

Of course, you don't argue. You retract, licking over your drying lips as he helps hoist you up with a strong grip under your arms. "Get up, over the counter like this," Satoru demands, dick so hard that it's painful, leaking like a broken faucet all over the back of your thighs as he turns you around. "Good girl — yeah, you're perfect."

"So greedy," You push back, shivering as your front is pinned down on the cool countertop, your bare skin pressing where your shirt bunches up around your tummy.

"And proud." Satoru doubles down, yanking at your skirt like it owes him a ransom. "But I don't like these skirt-shorts." He starts again, breath all lost in his throat. "Lifted it expecting to see you, not the shorts."

"Oh, you hate it until a guy stares up my skirt while walking up the stairs—

"He would cease to fucking exist." His voice dips into something serious — deeper and less shallow. You can feel it in his touch that he's already overwhelmed, but it feels like you've hardly touched him. Rising to your tiptoes, you help him tug off your bottoms with a wiggle of the hips and earn a smack on your left cheek in retaliation. "So, whatever, fine. You win this one this time."

"I'm satisfied." You giggle, leaning back over crossed arms as he spreads you apart, fighting the urge to eat you alive at just the sight and passing scent.

"I don't think I have enough stamina for everything I want to do to you right now."

You stop, sitting up as you feel him move closer, hands trailing up your side. "Don't be funny."

"Will you train with me tomorrow and let me eat you out afterward?"

"Satoru, please." You groan, pressing your forehead into your forearms, pushing your hips back if it'd just make him focus on you and not the mindless chatter he's throwing your way. "Also, no, I have plans."

"Not anymore… Said we'd be training." He responds, rolling his lips behind his teeth as he runs the tip of his penis through you, where you're so wet — heated from the inside out at the mere thought of him. "Bring your little friend, baby, though she'll have to leave once things start getting sweaty."

"G-gonna…" You breathe, eyes slipping shut as he starts to bottom out inside of you, so slowly. "Gonna wait til—till we're done to cuss you out."

"You're going to be asleep after I'm done with you."

You open your mouth to speak — to turn around with your fake-furrowed brows and prove something, but just as you do, he gives you the rest of his length in one thrust, and it knocks the air right back out of your lungs.

"Oh? Did you want to say something?" Satoru cocks a knee like he's preparing to run a marathon, his big hand wrapped around the back of yours, pushing it further than you could ever deem comfortable. Then he laughs, breathless as well, shaking his head as he watches his cock disappear inside of you. "Because I'm about to fuck the shit out of you."

'Just facetime me.' Suguru mumbles on the other line, voice relaxed as it will always and only be when he's speaking to Satoru like this. 'Let's see those new window shutters — you said they close with a remote, right?'

"And it talks," Satoru replies, phone held up to his face as he watches you from the cracked bedroom door. Just like he promised, you're out like a light, damn-near snoring, tangled up in his sheets like you pay rent. He smiles at the sight — a fucked-out mess himself, not even showered, but on his way to do so when his friend decided to call. "Look, you called late, and I'm an exhausted mess. I named the homebot, Kira, though. That's cute, right?"

'I bet my kid loved that.'

"She thinks I'm going to Hell for owning such an advanced home system." Satoru reaches into the bedroom, flicking off the light and drawing the door shut so he can leave you to your rest. "Down with the AI's… and such… though, I don't think this is even AI,"

Suguru laughs, but it's loose. 'You're chatting, Satoru. How has everything been down there?'

Satoru walks into the kitchen, pulling on his discarded pants from before he dragged you into the bedroom, tossing his phone on the counter, and jolting his best friend on the other line. He hesitates, always unsure how to approach the idea of you now that you've become so intimate. Satoru has a world of things to say about you, but he settles on one thing: "That Megumi kid—

'—ah,'

"It's eating her up. I don't know — don't you think you may be pushing them a bit?"

'The kids understand how marriages work—

"No, I didn't ask that." Satoru picks up his phone, taking it off speakerphone and holding it to his ear, leaning, like he's mentally exhausted, on the counter he just made love to you on. "I mean— she's your child, yes, but I see how this has taken a toll."

'Maybe this is a bit… out of your league, friend.'

"No, I actually don't think it is." Satoru challenges, raising his brows in dominance, as if Suguru were around to see it. He's taken stock in how he seems to be the more submissive one — a little less careful, in this friendship, but now with your soul flowing through him, he feels the need to fight for you. "I talk to her almost every day, and she's terrified to talk to you. I can tell she misses you, but she won't call because she knows the conversation will be about Megumi."

'Satoru, I mean…'

"Look, the kid is a mess, but I feel like she's one of mine, now." He says that, then shakes his head, shoulders heavy with the irony he knows he has to voice to hold this position of bureaucracy. "She misses her papa. Seriously. She's been overcompensating and under-eating."

'I plan on giving her a call tomorrow once I'm free from work.'

"Mhm, good… Tell her that Jo misses her and wishes she'd cut the shit. Just because I've fought as a career doesn't mean I want to keep fighting bouncers who keep kicking her out… I'm too old."

'She's doing what? Oh my—

"It's just bullshit." Satoru laughs like it'd clear the air he polluted. "Just tell her how I miss her, hm? Haven't seen her in a few, she's been blowing me off."

Suguru sits back in his chair, the wood creaking under the stretch as moon and candlelight flicker over his phone. Over the dim screen, he focuses in on your location, squinting as the pin hovers right in the center of Satoru's address. "A few days, mm?"

'You raised a menace — a real stickler for her time.'

"Ah, no, I do remember. I texted her the other morning, and she said she had some plans with Maki."

'I believe they have some tonight, too.'

"Would you mind… sharing your location with me? Just so I know when you're swinging by to check on her? I told you I wanted you to see her every day—

'I should be charging you babysitting rates.'

"Please, friend. You know how anxious I get with my kids."

'Imagine how fucked we'd be if we had this back in the nineties,' Satoru mumbles from the other line, fumbling about in his space before settling for a second. 'Very riveting watch — me going from my place, to hers, then to work and back.'

"How fucked you would be, yeah. And, well, I don't have hers, so I'll need yours."

'Why don't you have hers?'

"I did, but the location timed out — something like that," Suguru mutters, running his hands through his hair, heart beating slowly and silently. "She had a four-day timer on it and will be scolded the second she picks up the phone."

'Don't… scold anyone, it's counterproductive.' Satoru pauses, then Suguru looks down when his dim phone lights up with a new notification.

Satoru Gojo started sharing location with you.

When Satoru slides into bed with you two hours later, it wakes you up from REM, riddled with dreams of thoughts you couldn't swallow down.

"Satoru?" You groan in a half-sleep daze, shifting around so he can slide his arm over your waist, cuddling up close to your neck. You can feel his breath collect — the little kiss he presses to the back of your neck and the way the tiny hair there gathers his condensation.

"I thought you were sleeping."

"I am." You reply, suddenly confident and wide-awake. You let him hold you, tucking your hands under the pillow and pushing back against him so he feels closer than he really is. "Just wanted to say… Good night."

"Good night, sweet girl."

"…I love you."

Satoru… chuckles.

Your stomach turns, and you've suddenly never wanted to punch him more. Staring at the wall, half asleep, as you scowl into thin air and go stiff.

"We'll talk about it in the morning."

When the morning comes, you're out of the door before Satoru can even twitch.

You couldn't sleep — couldn't toss and turn either, in fear of waking him. So, you lie, staring at the far window, contemplating it all.

You thought you had it good, right — needing to take a solid hour to work yourself up enough to tell him the truth, you love him. There's no doubt about how he's the love of your life, and you thought that maybe he'd feel the same. Then, you realize that you really don't know anything about him.

Satoru doesn't talk about his past — nor of any exes or flings that came his way. You know he went to school with your parents, then moved down to the city to leave them behind to get married. You know how he's the wildcard compared to his colleagues — too eccentric to work under anyone and too successful to feel it.

Then, everything else comes up blank. You don't know if he has siblings, what his mother's name is, or if he's even from Tokyo. You know that his best friend is your father, he's childless, and that he just turned forty-seven last December. Sometimes he falls asleep in the bathtub after work, despises drinking, and has a pretty little freckle on the inside of his thigh — the only one on his body.

It's still not enough. Your mind is a prison, poking at you with every inhale he pulled behind you.

You take your bike from the entryway after pulling on your boots, kicking up the stand, and tugging your hood over your head. You can't hear anything from the bedroom, and you didn't expect to, not with how last night went. You're sure Satoru would be asleep long after you're gone, not feeling the absence of your presence at all, especially not in the way you craved his. He'll wake up with the sun, feel around for you, then shrug, deciding that he'll reach out later. That's always how it goes with him, and you feel silly for thinking anything would change after the words he spoke into you yesterday at the park.

"Idiot." You curse to yourself, towards yourself, scowling as you pull the front door open, letting it swing into the wall, then slam shut when you leave. You want it to wake him up, maybe then he'd run to your heels and repeat how much he loves you over and over until he's sick with it.

But, it's all a fairytale. You get to the elevator, then to the lobby without even stirring his sleeping nature, storming past the friendly lobby-goers who recognize your face, now. You're Gojo's suspiciously young lady friend — they don't ask questions.

It seems like all you have are questions, and they sting more than anything Megumi has done to you. This time it hurts because you let him in, you let him touch you like no man ever has — he's made you crave him. You need him in ways you've never known or felt with anyone, either, and he knows that. It's why he's tugging on your heart like it's a toy, and you're starting to tear away.

You bike back to the apartment that your Dad pays for, and you never sleep in. The walls feel small and unfamiliar, but you duck in the front door like you're coming home for comfort, lost in the bustling streets of Shibuya. You don't even get two steps into the space before you're peeling layers down — hoodie first, then shoes. Your shirt follows soon after, and you're so mindless that you leave it at that — keeping your pants on as you make the descent to bed.

You can't remember the last time you slept here, but the bed is unmade, spelling out your name in sloping, swooping letters. Comfort is the closest feeling you can equate to your Satoru, and if you couldn't have him, you'd have the cottony aftertaste of your pillow as you bury your face in it and lull yourself to sleep. Only, sleep doesn't come easily now that you're used to sleeping with someone else. You leave the curtains open — the bedroom door wide into the entryway without care. Socks on and feet hanging off the side of the bed, once you collapse onto the mattress. The sun is just barely starting to peek out from the bunched-together city skyline, but you don't care to see it.

Twenty minutes pass — more like twenty seconds. Rest doesn't come. You roll over onto your back and sigh, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. You can't shake the thought of him, yearning hard for someone you know you can't latch onto. Satoru has made it abundantly clear that he likes you, but not like you like him, and you can't cope with it. The thought of him alone in bed makes you crazy — sad and uncomfortable, core trembling at the mental image of his broad, naked back. You can feel in your chest just how much you're missing him, and hate how much it pacifies you. You want to reach for the phone and be his alarm call, waking him up and willing him into your arms so he can kiss all your confusion away.

Instead, you reach for your phone and stare at the lock screen, unmoving. It fades in and out, waiting for you to touch the screen and wake it up, but you don't. You let it fall — tip of your device pressed into your browbone as you consider what you should and shouldn't do with such a powerful tool at your disposal, and nothing but time. You could call Megumi and try to make good, or you could…

You sit up in bed like lightning just struck, bleary-eyed and nervous as you unlock your phone and navigate to the home screen. Your finger hovers over the camera roll icon — just hovering, then retracting when you can't find the nerve.

It must take you all twenty minutes you first imagined to actually open the app, your heart racing as your eyes scan the first row of recent pictures. Knowing exactly what you're there for, you scroll over to your newest videos, swallowing down thickness when you see it — the grainy, night-drenched twenty-eight-second video with your tattoo and Satoru's hand as the thumbnail.

For good measure, you swallow again before pressing it, lips parted as you hit play.

"Shh, there you are… Oh, Geto."

"Mm, there's so much."

Your face burns as you watch the video, knees rocking together as you try to ignore the tingling excitement between your thighs. You lift your hips from the mattress, body wound so tightly that it's uncomfortable.

It feels wrong watching your body bent in this angle — seeing bits and pieces of yourself that you didn't know existed. Satoru is a shoddy cameraman, but he knows what he likes. He keeps the view on your lewdly wet, puffy cunt, breathing into the camera every time you flutter around his slow fucks.

"Shh… You feel me in your womb, baby? Gonna give you a bunchhhh'a little blue-eyed brats to wrangle."

You drop your phone, flinching as it lands and bruises your nose. You're so flustered, beads of sweat beading on your brow and shivering as you toss your phone next to you. "God, he's so fucking gross." You mumble to yourself, sitting up after a lackluster attempt to collect yourself. The thumbnail sits on your unlocked phone, and you don't reach to delete it — you reach to hide it in a locked folder, keeping it safe until you need it without mercy.

Then, your phone rings, and it feels like you just got busted watching something you weren't supposed to. Especially when you turn your phone around and see your father's name spread across your screen, along with his smiling, warm contact photo.

For a moment, you think you're going to ignore it. You toss the phone back on the bed, then sit up to swing your legs over, already overcome with emotion after dealing with Satoru, then Megumi, and finally your Dad, back-to-back — no mercy, no break. But the guilt of even thinking so outweighs your fear, and you reach blindly for your phone, smashing the answer button and letting the line linger on speakerphone.

'Hey, Stranger.' His voice is just how you know it — oddly smooth and comforting like it's been tailored just to calm you down.

"Stop, I already feel bad enough as is." You settle back in bed, a palm pressed on your forehead as you try to swallow back tears that are already starting to spring to your eyes.

He tries again in a way he knows you'll lean into, 'Hi, kid. Missed you.'

"Hi, Papa. I miss you, too." Your voice cracks there, then the tears come. You pull your face up, dropping your hand to your eyes to squeeze the emotion away.

On the other line, everything is oddly calm and quiet. Your father stays stoic in his spot, probably nodding to the sound of your tears before you can even open your mouth to let him hear them. 'I thought we made a deal — a call every day, right? Or even a text?'

"But you didn't call me."

'For a reason.' He cuts you off with that stern dip of his voice that makes you shiver back down. 'Because I asked you to make sure you called me.'

"That's stupid… but, I'm sorry." You choke out, angrily wiping at your tears with your bare forearm — just spreading wetness and angst like it's paint. "I meant to a few times, but just wound up forgetting, I'm sorry."

'Don't keep apologizing, you're on the phone now, aren't you? Though I'd like to see you.'

"Dad, it's early, and I'm exhausted."

'Oh, I'm sure…' He almost laughs on the other line, but holds it in long enough to ask. 'Won't you tell me what's wrong? Why you're crying?'

You curse to yourself, tossing the phone on your chest and pressing both hands over your eyes to cry harder. "Nothing's wrong." You lie, choking on your tears and letting your words go to him all jumbled and emotional. "Just… everything with Megumi, then being away from home. It's a lot, I'm sorry."

'Don't be sorry.' You can hear him rustle over the other line, sitting up in his chair so he can get serious. He speaks your name with so much conviction that it wills another flood of tears, 'I wasn't going to bring him up, if it's any consolation. I also want you to know that whether or not you and he work out, it won't change how I view you. Sure, it'd be nice to connect our families, but it's not more important than your life and happiness.'

"W-what did he tell you when he came home?"

'Nothing, and I haven't heard or seen him since. His father is the one who let me know he came home early.'

"Oh… okay."

'Can I… are you two…?'

"I don't know." You start again after a moment of pause, tears pouring from your eyes and down the side of your face. "I actually don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk about anything."

'Do you want to come home?'

"And be closer to him?" You hiccup. "Sure, papa."

'Then, I'll come down there… to you.'

"No — no," You rush out, heart pounding as you think about him and Satoru talking — something slipping through. "I'll be okay."

'If I come down there, I won't bring the girls. They're out all the time anyway... We can just have dinner one night. I'll stay out of your hair.'

"No—

'Okay, you refuse, but Satoru is telling me that you've been avoiding him.'

Your heart stops when you hear his name, but the tears go stagnant. You sit up, trying to find your head as his words sink in. "Huh?"

'Partying every night, out with friends…'

"He's a liar… whatever."

'Probably…' Suguru continues, nodding because he understands his friend's ways. 'But I have a duty to hear him. He's the one I entrusted you with.'

"I see him… sometimes, yeah, whatever."

'So, you see how you two are leaving me no space. He's telling me one thing, you're telling me another…'

"You're going to believe him over me?"

'Yes… unfortunately. I love you, but you're a little liar sometimes. You didn't think I'd notice your location timing out?'

"What? I didn't do that!" You lie, but at least the banter is getting you through your tears. It feels like your father is sitting right across from you, silently arching his brow when you give your lackluster side of the story.

'So, I'll need you to send me a location tonight, and I'll let you know what weekend I plan to visit. I do plan to visit, by the way. With or without your blessing.'

"…whatever."

He laughs again, and it's so quiet that you hardly catch it. You go to open your mouth to try and talk you down, but your phone buzzes, stirring you from your ease. Looking down at the screen, Satoru's name lights up in an incoming call, and your heart drops.

"Papa, I'll talk to you later. Maki's calling me."

'O-okay. I'll keep in touch about that visit.'

"Sure. Okay."

'And share your location with me.'

You nod hurriedly, rising to your knees over the mattress like you're terrified of missing Satoru's call. "Yeah, whatever. Bye, I love you."

Still, you can't just hang up on him, so you let him whisper out a familiar: 'I love you, too.'

Your hand slips, never accepting a call so fast in your life. It's just — Satoru never calls. You can count on one hand the number of times he's called you since you've known him, and something inside of you is buried and… excited.

"Satoru—

'Where are you?'

Your heart sinks, again, brows furrowing as this new, unfamiliar tone of his washes over you. He sounds… annoyed, strict. "A-at my pl-ace."

'Yes. Why?'

"B-bec—cause… I couldn't s-sleep, so I went on a ride."

'Oh.' He stops, voice moist after he clears it. 'Keep lying to me. It doesn't make me angry at all.'

"What are you—

'What about 'we'll talk in the morning' don't you understand? You know I hate when you shy away like this, isn't that what I told you at the park?'

Suddenly, a wave of confidence rushes over you, so you tell him the truth."You did it on purpose. I told you I loved you, and you shrugged me off."

'I didn't shrug you off, I told you we'd talk later!'

Now that he's yelling, you find it in you to match his tone, breath hot in your lungs as you say, "How do you think that made me feel! I've never loved anyone before, and the first time I say it—

'Stop. I don't want to have this conversation over the phone.' Something over the line makes it sound like fabric is rustling, like you're resting on the sheets he just slept over. 'Stay right the hell where you are. I'm coming.'

And you don't argue with that, not when you'd do anything to see him, right now. Even if he's yelling, strict and angry over the line. You want him to yell at you.

So, you whisper into your phone, "Get here quick… please."

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[eraserbread]

distant lover/just to keep you satisfied

pairing ex husband!kento nanami x wife afab!reader

synopsis  marriage is hard. nobody gives you a rulebook — even if they did, kento knows it wouldn't spell out every way in which he must bend and compromise with you. but when a trip that was supposed to bring you together goes wrong, you're one foot out the door, and your husband decides that it's his duty to do anything to make sure you stay.

tags non-canon no curses!au, heavy angst, crude language, relationship "breakup", mentions of divorce, light drinking, heavy yearning, arguments, use of lots of pet names (baby/doll love, girl), smut (oral f!receiving, unprotected), happy(ish) ending

word count 10.4k

author's note its not always democratic over here in eraserbreadland, but this did win that poll i ran back a couple weeks ago. i dragged my feet on this, yes, and war kinda broke out between me and the nanamies, but i kept true to my word :*

art by @/1004_xvn on x

The day Nanami married you was the day his life truly began.

It all happened so quickly — like his mid-life crisis laid eyes upon your figure, swaying in the dull gold lights of his favorite dive bar, and decided that now was the perfect time to finally swallow his pride and channel his internal, buried lover. The age gap didn't matter, nor did the stark difference in personality. He saw you, he loved you, so he married you.

Now, he's feeling the adverse effects of his decision.

It all started slowly — the first month was bliss. You were home for him every single night, dinner hot and steaming on the stove as you smiled and dished up his fill. Every night, you'd wait up for him, posed in revealing sleep clothes as he crawled in next to you. Of course, the sex was good — mindblowing, almost, and a common multi-week occurrence. Kento hasn't reached for his right hand since he laid eyes on you, and that was proof enough that he needed to have you as his own.

What those first three months didn't warn him about was when things would start to fizzle out. It started with your lack of company, blaming it on your restlessness and how you wanted to see and be with your friends after giving him all of your time. Kento agreed when you asked him to duck out so you could have a night to yourself, understanding that nurturing female friendships meant more to you than he could have imagined.

Then, you got too comfortable doing that same thing — ducking out once he was already in bed without notice, leaving him to wake up in the middle of the night with the left side of the bed lonely and cold.

Tonight, though, was the first night that you weren't home at all when he returned from work. As he pulled into his parking space, he felt the shift of abnormality almost immediately, warning his body to calm its racing heart as he turned the ignition, grabbed his briefcase, and stepped out onto the pavement.

All the lights are off, the wind is steady, and his footsteps echo against his polished soles as he walks the path to his front door.

Just as he thought, and much to his dismay, the door is locked, and you're not waiting for him when he steps inside. Still, like the hopeful idiot he thinks he is, Kento calls out into the space, "I'm home, my love,"

Silence bites him back like a whip to the spine, jolting him back to life after a stressful day crunching numbers behind the blue light of his company computer. His case falls at his side in a dull, lifeless thump, echoing through the empty space like an insult to his sanity. He scans the dark room, planting an open palm to the wall as he toes off his dress shoes. He sighs around the mundane action, wishing it were you at his feet, looking up at him with those sweet eyes, begging to take his shoes off so you can properly welcome him home.

Instead, he pads into the kitchen, flicking on the lights, hoping for a sign that you're home and waiting for him. It's cruel — a long day leading into an even longer, unforgiving night seemingly without you at his side.

A note sits on the marble countertop, lit by the bright overhead lights, drawing attention. Kento sighs as he approaches, already up to his ears in annoyance and slight disappointment, though he'd never explicitly tell you as much. To him, this is still a new… arrangement. Sure, after the wedding, you two sat and spoke tirelessly about what you both need in a relationship, but you're still young, in your twenties, so Kento gave you grace.

But now it seems like he's offered too much as he squints at the note, his free hand bunched in a fist at his side.

Hi, sorry i missed you, love i hope your day wasn't too stressful and i'm sorry i couldn't greet you. in fact, you just missed me

i portioned out some leftovers for you in the refrigerator, all you have to do is just warm it up in the oven.

don't worry about me, i'm safe, just visiting a friend going through a shitty breakup. she needs me, so i hope you can understand. i shouldn't be back too late and would love to make it up to you when i get home if you're still awake. see u soon.

Kento can't be mad…

Scratch that — he's pissed.

He takes the note, bunching it in a solid, crumpled ball in his fist and tossing it towards the sink, rolling his eyes and dropping his head. His slicked blonde locks fall from their jelled hold, and all he truly wants to do is call you, but he understands your distance. He can't understand why you're so quick to rush to a friend's aid when he's here, lonely, aching for you in ways he's far too modest to explain.

Kento plants both open palms on the countertop, sighing heavily through his nose and letting his head fall. He stays like that for a moment, still trying to calm the racing of his heart, unable to swallow down the bone-deep disappointment and exhaustion he feels. Kento catches himself suppressing a… whine, eyes screwed shut as he tries to distract his pounding head from your sweet memory.

He's not hungry for leftovers; Kento is hungry for you. He wants to devour the way your back looks, hunched over his stove, and not the aftertaste of melded flavors all joined together by the cool prison of the refrigerator.

"She must think I'm a fool," Kento whispers to himself, looking up to snatch the crumpled note in his grip and toss it into the garbage as he leaves the kitchen. He doesn't think he's above leftovers, but he's definitely above letting you tiptoe and avoid his presence when he needs you now, more than ever.

You come back home well after midnight, silently pulling open the front door and wincing at the creak in the hinges. Kento's shoes are tossed by the door, neatly sitting side by side where you'd usually pick them up and place them on the shoe-shelf. His work bag hangs lazily, where you'd usually unpack the scattered papers, straighten, and place them in his home office.

He doesn't have to tell you that he's disappointed; you can smell it in the air, and the lack of the sweet, wafting smell of the dinner you left for him.

With a silent sigh, you shrug off your light jacket and step into your home, flicking on some lights in passing. You move to the kitchen, rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes to check and see if he ate your prepared meal, only to find it sitting untouched on the third shelf in the refrigerator. That, in itself, is enough of a sign to know what you're doomed to walk into when you retreat to the bedroom. Still, it doesn't scare you, Kento isn't a scary man when he's upset — just a bit… elusive, hard to grasp, and avoidant.

You love every season of his mood, but you find yourself lingering in the hallway, heart racing as you try to balance the scales in your mind. He could be asleep, or he could be waiting for you with his glasses perched low, a book on his propped knee with the light of the bedside lamp playing on his brow. Perhaps he'd crack a cynical joke to bring the atmosphere down and welcome you into his space, but more likely than not, he'd be asleep, back to the door, avoiding you until his alarm rings at the crack of daylight.

You take your chances with a steady breath, wrapping your hand around the slim doorknob and slowly turning it. The bedroom is dark — no lamplight giving you a welcome sign to his presence. In a way, you're grateful for it, but in the same breath, you're devastated that he couldn't wait up for you. You noticed the absence of the letter you'd left, a good sign in and of itself, but a sorry one, because you didn't know where he'd put it or if he'd shrugged it off in annoyance.

The letters aren't a new key to your relationship. They're something that you two carried on throughout dating — just small little notes that he didn't want to translate via text or call. You'd drop off dinner at his place with a sweet note, and he'd return your dishware with a similar note, crooning his love and appreciation for you. At the bar where you met, he slipped you his number and name on a ripped-off work letter, wordlessly slipping out through the front door as you unfolded your destiny in front of the bartender. You would text him, and the endearments would go unresponded to until he saw you next, making sure he slipped his daily letter close to you when you weren't looking. He was… shy, now he's distant when he's nervous or tired.

You close the bedroom door slowly behind you, careful not to disturb the rest he needs so he can endlessly provide for you and your non-working lifestyle. Still, the tiny click of the lock makes him stir, his shadowy frame shifting onto its side, holding his fluffed pillow close like it's your body. It makes you smile just a touch, and you so badly want to wake him and fall into his arms, but you hold back.

Bypassing the bed, you shrug off into the en-suite to change out of your clothes and shower off, hoping the soft stream of water would be enough to gently lull him out of his rest so he can dote on you.

It only takes twenty minutes, then the bathroom is full of steam and the familiarity of your perfumed body wash. You slip out the door, wet, warm footprints leaving a disappearing path on the wood as you pad over to the bed. Kento shifts again, and when you get close enough, you can see the whites of his eyes against the darkness of the moonlight. It startles you in a way that makes you smile as you climb into bed, waiting on your knees as he blinks up at you.

Wordlessly, you reach for him, combing a hand through his night-drenched locks. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"I'm sorry you weren't here when I got home."

Your heart falls, a small frown settling over your face. You keep your hand in his hair, your thumb rubbing across his soft forehead, collecting the oils in his skin to melt with yours. "I'm sorry."

Kento doesn't respond. He turns to his side, blocking you out with his back to you as you settle in, shellshocked at his distance.

It's not like this is the first time you weren't able to greet him after a long day, but this time feels so utterly different. He shrugs you off, and it feels like your world is ending — your heart is in your ass, racing like a million hares running a marathon atop your lovebed.

"Me, too."

After that night, nothing was really the same.

Kento pedaled back, and he did so, hard. His distance created distance with you, feeling like you have to walk on tiptoes around him in fear of getting under his skin again. A week has come and gone — no intimacy, just casual "I love you's" before work and "Sleep well's" before bed. You're making a better effort to check off his invisible checklists, making sure you're home whenever he needs you, and letting friendships fall by the wayside in favor of saving your marriage, which already seemed to be fraying around the edges.

Kento tries dates — taking you out in dresses and heels on the weekend and parading you around the city like you're more of a prize rather than his wife. Still, you put on a face and let him hold you however he needs to, if it means saving everything you built together.

You try to crack jokes against a pale mood, if only to see how his cheeks pinch up in a slight smirk, and he does, but it's not enough.

"Maybe we should take a vacation." You elect, holding his huge, strong fingers between each of yours, kissing the veins over the back as he drives you home from dinner. "Just you and I, somewhere lonely."

"What makes you propose that?" His tone is even — not accusatory, but soft and questionable. His free hand circles the wheel expertly, a small detail you always catch yourself lingering on. It's like Kento wants you to admit your distance, just like you want him to admit his. Neither of you can place it, so it sits heavily in your chests, festering until you both blow.

"I want more time with you. Just you."

"Have I been working too much?" He starts, again— not accusatory, but almost too gentle for the conversation you two are having. Kento has a bad habit of facing every question with further questions, leaving you buzzing around like a bee trying to find a place to land. "I hope you would just tell me rather than reaching for escapism."

"I'm not trying to escape, I'm trying to be closer to you." You let his hand fall towards your chest. Kento glances over at your painted face, streaked with passing city lights, and nods.

"I'll see what I can do about my work schedule. You know it's quite difficult for me to take time off."

"You know… just yes or no would be enough."

Kento doesn't answer — he doesn't pick at useless conversations. If you want him to reapproach his answer, so he shall. "I will see what I can do."

It's not good enough, but it'll do. You nod, letting his hand rest in your lap, petting over his knuckles with your polished thumb.

Halfway through the drive home, Kento opens his mouth. "I'll take you wherever you want to go. Just choose."

"What made you change your mind?"

"I can tell you're not too happy with me for some reason." He leaves it at that, taking a few idling seconds as he pulls back into your home lot, parking his bone-white foreign car in the driveway and letting the ignition hum.

You don't answer. Shifting in your seat, you nod slowly, peeking at his side profile against the dark background of the night.

"It's my fault?" You decide after a moment of pondering how to speak. Kento turns to you, unblinking, sitting up as he pulls off his seatbelt. "That I'm not too happy with you?"

"I didn't say that." He offers, and it's deft and short, making you suck in your cheeks to fight the dull, stabbing taste he leaves in your mouth. He stares at you for a moment, and you stare right back, blinking and nodding silently.

Then, it takes an act of courage — one of God and self-preservation when he leans over the console and reaches for your chin in his hand. You don't react at first, lips rolled under your teeth as he shifts closer, closing the distance so he can kiss you back into his good graces.

"How about we both stop talking for a bit." He mumbles in the heat of the moment, stroking your cheek as he leans in and kisses you the right way for the first time in forever. It starts slow — just his lips on yours. Then his tongue peeks out, licking over your bottom lip before pushing into your mouth. You sit with a slack jaw, reaching over to dig your fingers in his strong thigh over the console.

Kento is better at kissing than speaking, or he prefers the lack of words and the movement of lips. You could talk him into circles if he's not careful, and that gets tedious when all he wants to do is sit and watch you exist. Kisses tend to do you in when you're upset and screaming — when your mouth is dry, and your soul is on fire. This time, you're mellow as you give in, hoping this opens a space for intimacy that you both have been too nervous to give.

He pulls away after a few moments of breathlessness, letting his lips linger against yours like he's trying to suck the lifeblood from your kissed lips.

"I'll do anything you want me to." He whispers, stroking your cheek as you will your breath back down into normalcy. Kento has a bad habit of spiking your blood and leaving you to simmer with it, but this time feels different. He's thorough — incredibly, heartbreakingly so. "We'll do whatever we have to do to make this work."

"It's not…" You start, tongue-in-cheek, as he holds your face. "Not working." You don't know exactly what you're trying to say, but you say it anyway. Kento nods as if you're speaking a language he knows. "We just need some time to work on communication… especially."

He drops his forehead, letting it rest against your clammy, wind-whipped skin. Pressed forehead to forehead in this incredible, silent heat, Kento makes an internal promise to you and himself that he doesn't intend to break for the rest of his life. "I know it's me—

"Stop, I'm not implying that you blame yourself."

He shakes his head before you can finish your thought. "I can't live without you."

"Kento, sto—

"I married you for a reason, and I know I have no purpose anymore outside of pleasing you — making sure you're satisfied."

"I am." You rush, sitting back to give yourself more space to breathe. Kento drops his hand from your cheek, and you reach up to cradle his sharp, stubbled chin. In the darkness, you can't see much in his twisted expression, but you can make out the slight crip in his voice — cutting his throat every time he tries to make good with his words. "All marriages have problems. Who are we to be the exception?"

"That doesn't make me feel any lighter, love."

"Then, let me tell you — vacation or not, we're still going to be the same."

"You're so wise beyond your years."

"Is that not why you love me?" Your lightness makes him crack a smile, and for the first time in the ten minutes you two have been idling, progress peeks out from the ether. He feels it, so do you, and it feels like a chance. As you reach to run your fingers through his combed-back hair, he leans into the affection like a starved toddler, and you conclude that you never want to let him go — through the good and ugly, you promised yourself to him, and that's the most important part keeping you two tied at the waist.

Then, the day comes. It's a particularly sunny Sunday, giving the space an air of ease and happiness as you zip up the last of your and your husband's luggage. It's a day off for him, and instead of helping you pack for a trip he's funding, he's in the sitting room with a book on his knee, feeling the sun's rays burn his corduroy-covered legs.

You're exhausted with it — insane and melancholic as you sort through your wardrobes, picking and choosing a week's worth of clothes so he has options. Sure, it's mundane, but it's what he needs from you, so you comply.

You have to kneel over the final suitcase to actually secure it, and it winds you. Still, you hop back and pull it upwards, face hot and flustered.

"Kento," You call as you step outside of the bedroom door, hands on your hips as you pad barefoot. "I just finished packing up the last one."

He's sitting in the enclave, a foot propped up on his lap as he thumbs a page in a nonfiction book aged well before your time. The words are scrawled in English, and he studies with a furrowed brow — it almost hurts to interrupt him.

"Did you hear me calling you?"

"About the suitcases? Yes." He mumbles, sitting up in his chair, but not closing his book. He couldn't be bothered to reach for a bookmark, hoping this interaction would be short above all. Kento tries to usher you over, waving towards you with a bent finger. "Darling, I'm sorry, I actually just got a call while you were away that they need me to pull some extra time at work, I don't—

"Wait, what?" You shake your head, cutting him off.

"Just for tonight, but we can switch our train to an early one tomorrow morning, we'll leave for Kyoto then." He sits back, retracting his initiation for touch as he leans back over his book.

"N-no, we have to go tonight, we have reservations for dinner and a whole tour planned out."

"Then, we'll fly tomorrow morning."

"You're completely missing the point, Ken, really—

"I don't know what arguing about this will solve." He clears his throat, pushing his glasses over his nose as he flips a page. He's purposefully shrugging you off, treating you like a nuisance when all he wants is his alone time. "You are not getting on that train tonight, verdict dealt."

"Oh, you are such an asshole." You scoff, rolling your eyes so hard that it hurts. "That work excuse? It's bullshit."

He doesn't respond, merely raising his brows at the sudden profanity you're shooting his way when you're usually so polite. He just… flips a page and lets you fester like an open, infected wound next to him. Kento knows just how to work you up, and it's the ignorance. It's you standing there with your heart on your shoulder, gutted that you can't spend a long-planned romantic evening with the man you're destined to spend the rest of your life with.

"Then, I'm getting on that train. I'm going alone."

"Don't be ridiculous." He shrugs you off like the leftovers he so despises, treating you like a yapping pet. "I have just a few hours before I have to go back to work, so we can go out for dinner."

"Or we can get on the fucking train that you paid for — that we planned!" You raise your voice to a slight yell, pointing out towards the door like it'd remind him of where you're destined to go. "You're a liar — all of those things you promised…"

"Would you like to call my boss yourself? Talk him out of his decision?" He can't even look at you, and that's what kills you. Whatever is in that foreign book about space travel has to be more interesting than the person he married. "Be my guest."

"I want you to actually put in some effort. We planned this for two weeks, and you promised."

"We're done talking. What's done is done."

"Yeah, you say that because you know you're in the wrong.

Then, it comes — the ignorance. He clears his throat again and flips to his next page, bouncing his right foot up and down like he's mocking you. You scoff again, unsure of where to stand or what to do. You have two options lying over you — missing your entire night in a different city, or sleeping next to the man who just raised your blood so hot that you're still due to explode.

"I'm going." You whisper after a solid three minutes of silence, once more for good measure. "I'm going alone, and I don't want you there at all. Pick up all the overtime you need this week; I'll be in Kyoto."

Now, Kento wants to respond. He sits up swiftly, polished brows knit together like he doesn't actually believe you. When he goes to speak, you've already stormed off, ready to take the one suitcase you just packed and leave for the week you were promised, not the six days he wants.

Kento calls your name from his corner, standing up and leaving his book face down in his heat so he can chase after you. "Don't be ridiculous, I paid for the trip!"

"Verdict dealt, Kento."

"You don't get to override my verdicts like that."

"Just stop talking. I'm done listening."

"You're going to leave me… for a week?" It dawns on him that he hasn't been that far from you since before he knew your name. It's painful to think about, something that makes his throat burn. "One whole week? Just like that?"

"We planned this trip together." You grunt, pulling the handle on your suitcase up as he crowds you in the bedroom. "It's not 'just like that', I gave you a chance."

"Wait," He stops you with a hold on your arm, so close that you can make out the veins in his eyes. "Please don't go."

"It hurts, doesn't it?" You whisper, and it's not a question — your tone flat as a plate before you snatch your arm away. "Move. Let me go."

"The train we booked doesn't leave for another hour and a half."

"I don't care." You decide on a whim, shouldering past him through the entryway, dragging the suitcase behind that's half your height and made for him to lug around in your stead. "I need some time alone."

"A-are you serious? Babe—

"Kento, stop."

"I won't do it." He starts, reaching back out for you before you walk out of arm's reach. "Hey, I told you I'll call out, I don't care anymore about demerits or overtime, I just want you."

You scoff, eyes sore from how hard you've been rolling them. You knew this would turn into that — baseless promises and excuses that he's not even thinking about before he speaks them. "A little too late, don't you think?"

"If you would just give me a chance—

"I give you so many that I'm chanceless, now." You shrug, mirroring his big emotions with pure indifference when you're usually the emotional one in this marriage. Kento stands in the doorway to your bedroom, completely shell-shocked, hands suspended in midair where he tried to reach for you. "I'm done talking." You remind him, disappearing into the hallway and leaving him to swallow the dust.

Kento knows he has to follow you, ready to patch up his wrongs, but something inside of him makes it hard to move. So, he listens to you leave, glasses stuck between his fingers, limp at his side as his arm finally drops.

Distantly, somehow removed from it all, he finally takes a step forward several minutes after he hears the door slam. Kento manages a small, "Babe?" Then sighs, rolling his head back to stare into the wood-paneled ceiling.

To him, it feels like he just can't win.

Kento goes through the night without you. He doesn't beg or touch himself in your image — he sits with it in the spot you left him in. By his window, a book propped on the knee you used to shimmy over when your body was so hot and real at his side. Now, he feels some kind of emptiness.

It's not like before he met you; it's different. The shallow, dull taste of loneliness tastes sour this time, like it's his fault and not just lax timing. He had a world of possibilities in his hands and let it all slip with a split-second bad decision. He's never turned down big projects at work — he honors the career he built before he met you, but now he thinks he honors you more. The runaround he's juggling in his head is devastating; he can't focus on his book.

Gazing out of his second-floor windows to this quiet, residential part of the city, he ponders where you are and how you're doing. He's counted down the seconds, knowing you arrived in Kyoto nearly ten hours ago with no word. No call, or even a text, and he thinks that's what hurts the most.

Sure, he could pick up the phone and will you home till his voice is hoarse with it, but you've never acted out like this before. For the first time in your three months of marriage, he's seen your walls completely go up. It's not something you could laugh or shrug off; it was pure betrayal. He chose a job — a check over you and all the energy you put into him, and whether he believed it or not, it was the first true, real crack in your relationship. Not the avoidance, pleas for peace and space, and demands for perfection; it was this and his brainless response afterward.

Still, Kento can't grasp it. He needs you home.

His book stays open on the same page as the hours tick by. He sits, crossing and uncrossing his knees, then his legs — anything to keep his body moving as he gazes out of his window, down the desolate, lonely road that only sees foot traffic when you and he walk hand-in-hand to and from the market on his days off. If he squints, he can almost see your shadows among the flimsy tree-shade, then he blinks and realizes just how far he's gone after less than a day without you.

As the sun sets over the spot he's watched all day, Kento realizes that he hasn't really moved. His phone is in another room, likely alight with calls and messages from his supervisor, promising punishment for him not keeping up on the promise of overtime. Kento thinks he cares, but when he stands up, knees cracking with a sigh, he realizes that there's just absolutely nothing on his mind but you.

The house feels suffocatingly empty as he moves around it, keeping a steadying hand as he ventures into the kitchen for the first time all day. Against the marble, he places an open palm, letting the coolness shock his soul back to life as he lifts his hanging head.

His heart beats faster as he drags to the refrigerator, but not for food — he stumbles about the soulless expanse of his home on a mission, digging for one thing that could remind him that you're still real, even though you feel worlds away. When you two first married, he kept every single handwritten note for himself, hanging some of them in his office, and others folded in the center console in his car. When moments get hard, he reaches for you, so it's only natural that he'd rummage through the miscellaneous drawer for anything with your penmanship. It feels like cruel fate when he stumbles upon the tiny crumpled page he swore he had done away with those days ago.

 

 You, on the other hand, have been worse.

Your husband still lingers close behind, caught in the afterglow of everything you do, but you haven't spoken to him in twenty-four hours — the longest you've ever gone without him.

Usually, you'd think you'd be at your wits' end — clawing at your skin to feel needed and close to him, but you're stagnant. You've spent the day out in the city, enjoying a meager, solo breakfast and a relaxing massage, where you closed your eyes and saw your favorite head of blonde hair so close that you could run your fingers through it in your dreams. You miss him, of course, you do, but you don't miss the submission that comes with loving him so wholly and close to your mind. Being around him turns you into someone built for him, and not for yourself, though he never asks you to change; it just comes second nature, and you're not sure you're able to change.

As demeaning as it sounds, you let him become your strength, and now you're weak and boneless without him, free in a city that doesn't know who you are.

You book a reservation for dinner that night, and it's under his name. You didn't stutter or correct yourself when the hostess asked for a name; you just gave it, then froze when you realized how pathetic it felt to be without him like this. You two are both too stubborn to reach out first, but it didn't stop you from keeping your phone and his number close. Hopefully, you think, Kento will finally see your side and admit defeat.

But you eat dinner alone with your phone as your date, dodging the gleam of couples that saunter through the door in your stead. Dining alone isn't new for you, but it's not the norm, and you just almost reach for that contact.

Three days later and hours away, sunken into his sofa and heavy with dark liquor, Kento wants to reach for you. His clothes feel two sizes too small, and his spirit feels like it's doomed to explode now that the alcohol has touched it. Through the haze, he wonders… craving some hint of you in the chaos of his mind. It's been as long without even a call or text from you, let alone a courtesy message letting him know you're safe in Kyoto, and not unconscious on the side of a road.

His mind ventures there like it's a normal thing, now. He grieves you if you've died, and misses you like you're only a few miles away from work. Kento didn't know your loss would feel so monumental, but his life is falling apart, and there's nothing more he can do but call you home.

On day four, Kento caves.

It was another sleepless night — one of him staring out of the night-drenched window, sweating and uncomfortable as he tried to imagine your body behind him. He gave up right as dawn began to break, dark purple bags under his eyes as he sat out of bed and stared out the window. His hair is unbrushed — beard five days old and long enough to feel stubbled and uncharacteristic.

He doesn't walk into the bathroom to deal with himself, nor does he even have the strength to get out of bed anymore. Kento lifts his sleep-laden head and rushes for his phone, half-dead and dimmed over the picture of you posed as his lockscreen. His hands shake so badly that he has to stop himself from calling you for a moment, just so he can calm himself down.

So, he calls you, but you don't answer.

Then, he calls again… and again… and, once more.

Every single time, he gets the same cheery, robotic playback that makes him want to crawl out of his skin: This caller is not available.

Kento doesn't leave a message; he doesn't even let the script play all the way through. He hangs up his phone after the fifth try and tosses it back on his bedside, before turning and falling back into bed. He stares at your side of the bed as the sight of it being empty physically pains him. Kento doesn't make a noise as he reaches up to caress the soft pillowcase, pulling it closer to his face so he can inhale the stale scent of you.

Then, day seven comes, and Kento feels like a shell of himself. He doesn't know how to win you back, or if it's even possible at this point. He's given some piece of himself to his solitude, finally going back to work after day five, when he was too far gone on excuses and the slim few opportunities he had at time off. It's a blessing that he didn't get fired, but Kento knows how much he's needed there, seemingly more than you need him. That is the only thing that brings him back to reality when everything feels so unstable — suspended in space.

He's at work when you come home, just like you suspected — as you had perfectly planned out. If you're lucky, he'll give you a solid three hours to pack your things and go, leaving him with the Kyoto-stamped stack of divorce papers for him to sign and send off once he's made his peace.

You're expecting this all to be an easy process — Kento seems just as removed as you are, especially after the fact that you haven't heard from him in the week you've been away. He had kept all the shared cards and accounts open for you, showing you that respect, if anything, but he was silent, and all you needed was a call. If it were anything that'd save your marriage, it'd be a plea for closeness.

You come home suitcase-first, pushing them through the silent doorway with a sort of full-body exhaustion only travel, and no sleep can bring on. The whole exchange is quick — you park your luggage in the entryway, toe off your shoes, and dig in your bag for the secured envelope.

On the countertop where you cooked all of his meals — served an indifferent face that would always crack into a smile when you stepped into his gaze, you slid the promise of divorce over. The entire train ride back, you wondered if you had made the right choice by signing on those dotted lines, but you truly weighed it. Whether or not Kento signs it, you'd be comfortable.

Heartbroken if it ended, but less suffocated — more real. more you.

You slide the envelope on the counter, but just as you step off to run for the hills and wait by the phone, the front door unlocks.

You stand there, red-handed, in the kitchen as Kento walks back inside. He stops as soon as he sees your luggage in the door, heart stilling as he thinks of a million useful things to say in the moment.

Right now, he doesn't know where you are, but he's paralyzed, eyes wide and jarred. "L-love?"

You laugh, equally as stunned at your shitty luck. The sound of his meek voice cuts through the shock like a knife, and you're freed from your weakness before it can really take hold. It was your idea to bring the papers, so it's up to you to give them, and not drop them and run like a coward — you owe him more than that for his love.

"Kento, can you meet me in the kitchen?"

To him, that doesn't sound good. It sounds like his mother calling for him to be scolded when he was a child. Little Kento would always walk in with his tail tucked between his legs, and big Kento hasn't changed a bit. He peels off his shoes, case, and blazer, hot and beading at the brow at the pressure of your presence.

"I missed you so much, baby doll—

Kento starts the second he rounds the corner and sees you. His body lightens up from the shy tuck your voice pressed him in, and he just… wants to be close to you. He instinctively walks close enough to wrap your hoodie-covered body in a hug before he sees it next to you.

"Kento, look—

"What is that?" He starts, redirecting his attention to the counter so he can slide the item in his hands. You lean over the opposite side, bottom lip caught between your teeth as you watch him examine the wordless front. Still, as respectful as he always is, he asks, "Is it for me?"

"Yeah, open it." You make it sound like a birthday gift, with your tiny and hoarse voice.

So, he does. You're both silent, breathing against the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional rush of breeze against the paper-thin windows. The text is sprawling and professional when he glances at the title, but it doesn't really register until he stumbles upon your full name placed dominantly above him.

"You don't have to sign it… today."

"Divorce?" Kento flicks his gaze over to you, unintentionally giving off some sinister sort of air that breeds when he has more to say. "Is this really what we've come to?"

"It's not you, it's me."

"Oh, here we go—

"And I realized when I was alone, that this is not what I want. I love you—

"Don't do this to us—

"I love you so much, I do, but I love me, and I can realize that I'm never really happy anymore. In love, yes, but not… happy and fulfilled."

So, Kento starts firing off blanks, "What do you need me to do? We can move to Kyoto. Did you like it over there?"

"This isn't about Ky—

"W-what about… Baby, we can take a long trip somewhere like you wanted from the beginning, just don't do this."

"I'm sorry." You reply, tears threatening to start burning in your eyes as you watch him drop his elbows on the counter and let his face fall into stretched palms. "I really am sorry. Look, you don't have to sign them today, okay?" You chew on your words, repeating the only thing that comes to mind as you slowly start to inch over to him on the other side of the counter.

"I know I'm just springing this on you, but I just couldn't sleep at night."

"Did I make you that unhappy that it could warrant a divorce?" He mumbles into his hands, voice broken in a way you haven't heard, really, ever. It stops you in your tracks, heart pounding as he sits up quickly, crowding you before you have the opportunity to close the space.

Kento reaches for your hands, taking you all at once as he finally touches you again. Huge palms splayed out over your wrists, you step back in shock, taking a sharp breath that you don't swallow down. "Ken—

"Therapy, classes — maybe a little communication." He spits out like he's angry, nose-to-nose with you and so kissably close, but mentally as far away as he could possibly be. "What have I done? Why can't we work through this?"

"Because I'm tired—

"I'm going to need a little more than that."

"You treat your job like a wife, already. You don't have it in you to juggle both me and it." You give him some chewed version of the truth, only a half-thought, you were navigating around while you spent your 'vacation' in a legal office.

Kento can't argue. "Don't do this to me."

"I'm doing it to me, too!" You're close to your breaking point, letting your emotions bubble over. If he says one more thing to you but 'okay', you're doomed to a pile of tears on your kitchen floor.

Then, Kento reaches for something that you never thought he'd ever do for you — he drops to his knees at your feet. "Please, don't go."

"Oh, my— Get up."

"Baby, love," He whines like a boy, dropping his forehead into your pelvis, digging into you like he wants in. "Please, we can do better — I'll do better."

"Please." You plead right back, staring at the ceiling to stop the tears from rolling down your face. Failing miserably, you sniffle and step back off balance, shaking your head as he continues.

"I know you don't think so, but when you left, you took all of me with you." He begs, thick fingers turning into fists in the fabric of your pants. You shake your head again, feeling him right in your chest, pulling your heart from its connectors. "What do you— What do you want, do I need to scream for you?"

"Ken—

His grip tightens, bordering on the cusp of fabric burn as he pulls you as close as possible. You stumble into him, needing to steady yourself on the counter with a hand as he lays it all on the line. You've never heard him speak above an enthusiastic height, so it cuts you to the core when you hear him yell, "Please, baby! Please, please…"

"Ken— all of this isn't going to change my mind." You power through your emotions for just a moment, pushing him back so you can catch your breath without him begging into your core. "Even before I left, I was thinking about it."

He shakes his head, not stopping as he yearns, "Let me try again, baby, please. Just one more time."

"I've made my choice." You decide in a weak voice, trying once more, the final time you push him away. "Stand up, we can be mature about this."

"It's not about being mature, it's about getting you to stay." He looks up at you, hazel eyes wide and pleading. It takes all of your willpower not to give in, running your fingers through his hair and welcoming him back. "I'll do anything, absolutely anything."

It seems like his definition of 'anything' was the one thing you needed. His body is so completely devoted to you, gentle and strong as he helps you step out of your pants and rest back against the counter, still kneeling in front of you. He guides your knee over his shoulder, unbuttoning the first three buttons on his work shirt so he can stay decent as he flows his devotion back into you.

"I don't really know what you aim to fix with this," You start, just to make it sound like you weren't as easy as you were letting on. After serving him the papers, you had every mind to run for the hills and only see him on occasion — surely you weren't expecting to be back in this position with his fingers in your panties, pulling them down so he can get impossibly close to you.

Before your week of being away, it had been equally as long since he touched you, and vice versa. Neither of you commented on it, though the change was drastic and uncomfortable. Now, Kento has every mind to make it up to you — tears in his eyes that he refuses to let spill over as he scoots in close to you, gathering the cotton of your shirt against your lower stomach so he has ample space to go down on you and spell his devotion out in ways that his own words can't.

He doesn't speak as he guides your hips forward, looking into your eyes as you breathe expectantly, heat already rising up your throat as he takes this moment as his own. You don't have to ask him more than once to make you feel like a woman; you just have to silently beg for him to make you feel real. Now, you won't beg. You'll stare down at him as he parts his lips and dips down, shoulders hunched so he can press his lips against the softness of your exposed thighs, barely ghosting past your core like he's teasing you when he knows he has everything to lose.

Before he touches you there, you reach down to slip your fingers in his hair, silently urging him forward, desperate for even a whisper of his tongue against your heat, burning so hot that you're starting to drip and stain your skin. He smells it before you can voice your need and takes that as fuel to dive in, tongue peeking out of his mouth as he fists the skin on your hips, licking a straight, confident line down from your hole, all the way up to your clit, eyes stuck open to gauge your reaction before he squeezes his shut and repeats.

You're not giving him much — just scrunching up your face when the harshness of his tongue pokes and prods at your clit. He flattens it out, tracing delicate circles into your flesh before diving back in, collecting your dripping slick onto his tongue and closing his lips around you suck the concentrated moisture back into his mouth. It makes your eye twitch, back arching against the back of the counter, where it uncomfortably digs into your rear. Steadying yourself on open palms splayed against the cool surface, you push your hips forward into his being, asking for more touch without using your words.

Kento gives himself willingly and without constraints, jaw working like he's chewing you alive, when he's really working his tongue into overdrive, spinning out of control as he laps at your cunt, reaching up to keep you spread apart so he can claim every single inch of your sex as his. It's always been his, even since you were born — he's told himself that every other man that got a chance with you was just warm-up for the real thing, and he was not going to let that construct slip away just because you don't know what you want.

He eats you out, and you're a mess about halfway through, head thrown back, spilled moans dripping down your chin, mixed with drool. Still, you refuse to speak or to say his name, much more stubborn than he is, right now, even with an aching jaw and shot demeanor. Kento's face is red with the effort, his grip tightening over your thighs when you clench them together, too overcome to realize how you're trapping him.

His wedding band leaves an indent in your thighs, eyes flicking open and up as he breathes out a soft groan against your clit. The vibrations send tingles down your spine, and they're so hot that you reach down to push him away, afraid of finishing right now, like this. This isn't how it usually goes — Kento riles you up just enough to get you excited, then finishes you off in the bedroom, buried inside of you, planked over your body like he was afraid you'd run away.

"It's okay, give it to me."

"N-not like this." You rasp for the first time since he started on you, voice wrecked and feeling like razors cutting the walls of your throat. "We have to do it r-right."

"There is no right way to make love to you." He tries, replacing his tongue with his fingers — running two of them sensually, slowly through your wet, cleaned-out folds. "As long as we're both satisfied."

Your breath catches as he focuses on your G-spot, crooking his thumb just right, so gently that his effort pushes you closer to your breaking point. "This…" You stop, thighs instinctively closing as he backs up, hand still huge and strong between your thighs. "This is your issue, not everything needs a rebuttal."

"So, you just want to feel right all the time?"

"Maybe, yeah!"

"Okay, shh— Shh…" He cuts you off the second things start slipping out of his hands again. Kento licks over his you-flavored lips, then stands up, sliding his hand from between your thighs, back to the thickness of your hips. "Fine. I said I'd do anything you want."

So, you take him to the bedroom, already shedding the rest of your clothes while he takes stock. Kento doesn't bother turning the lights on — letting the cruel, harsh bite of dusk run over the room to highlight this sensual moment. You crawl on the bed in a position he doesn't usually prefer you in — hands and knees, arms outstretched, and chest kissing the mattress as he slugs over to the bedside.

You can see from the tent, in his plaid dress pants, that he needs you, but Kento is so nervous about saying something wrong and losing you forever. So, he walks on his tiptoes, not spending too much time readying himself like you already have.

You watch as he unbuttons the rest of his shirt— eyes running over the strong, rippling expanse of his chest, the airbrushed nipples, and flecked skin. He hesitates before situating behind you, just out of eyeshot, ready to detach and give you what you need.

Without thinking, he mutters, "This position is demeaning—

"Then demean me,"

If you were any more on his side, Kento would reprimand you to hell and back, but he abstains for a moment, swallowing down the weight of your words that came so easily. He shakes his head, propping one knee on the bed, running a hand against the familiar swell of your ass.

He's trying to take a moment to calm down, but it's hard when his heart is beating out of his chest. All of his breaths are measured, and his emotional regulation is shot. Kento fishes his erection out of his designer briefs, sloppily licking over two of his fingers so he can spread the soft promise of his arousal into the flushed tip of his penis.

"I promised, I'll love you right, anyway you need it."

You reply wordlessly into the sheets, pushing your ass back into his strong, safe grip. The reason for this position isn't as shallow as he thinks it is — it's so you don't have to face him, and in turn, face your disgusting shame.

Because divorce papers or not, you've let egos get in the way of your intimacy for far too long, and you both deserve each other right now. You wouldn't swallow it down and settle with icy eye contact in missionary, and Kento wouldn't feel like a toy propped under you as you rode him.

You can feel the effort he's showing with this compromise, even though it's jarring when you feel his thick tip — hot, aching for you, drag across your entrance. He doesn't press inside of you just yet, letting you shiver and shake your hips to ready yourself, letting him know you're willing and waiting without uttering a word.

Kento speaks, but it's so fleeting that you can't hang onto it. "Will you talk to me, baby?"

You shake your head, buried in the sheets, after a few seconds of his words filling the space. It doesn't feel awkward or weighty; it just feels like the wordless environment you needed right now. Nothing he can say to you would say more than what he chooses to do with you, right here, propped up damn near like his sex doll, just waiting.

Twenty more seconds ring by — you're counting. "Kento—

As soon as your voice hits, he drags his hips forward, using his thumb to guide his length inside of you, shutting you up with the tiniest whisper of friction. You make a face, eyebrows scrunching up as you lift your head from the sheets, feeling him so deep inside of you already, and you're sure he's not even halfway in. It's this new position — all the pressure going straight to your tummy as he guides your hips back with every inch.

He doesn't speak again until he's fully seated inside of you, and you let your head back down on the bed. Breathing heavily through the nose and out through the mouth, you try to get used to this position you two have never, ever done before. He feels about two sizes bigger, and you swear it's not the dry spell faced beforehand that makes it that much harder to take. It's the emotion — you're huge and swollen with it.

"Arch," He whispers, dragging a hand from the swell of your hips to the small of your back. His palm presses over your bare skin, forcing you into an even deeper arch than you knew you could possibly do. Kento shivers, the new position making you clamp down on his length. That's the first true moan he gets out of you, and he doesn't even have to really fuck you for it to break loose.

But when he does, you're a moaning mess.

He knew it'd come to this — you're not so vague, and completely under-touched for what you're used to. Every time he pulls out, he does so fully, then guides his cock back inside of you, giving all of him in one slick stroke, then repeating until tears fall from your eyes. You're taken and limp, fists pulling at the sheets as he keeps your hips pinned, a single knee on the mattress as he fucks you so hard that he's starting to sweat with it.

Kento gives it to you like he knows he has something to lose. His chest is rising and falling like he's due to pass out, hair darkening and sticking to his forehead as he pulls and fists at the flesh of your ass, doing anything to keep this pace even if it means bruising you through the next week. It's a fleeting thought when he takes a hand away, slowing down in his fucks just enough to slide it between the two of you. He slips two fingers between your folds, finding and rolling your clit between his fingers, so he can take a second to slow down and catch his sanity.

You cry, back arching, then bowing so deeply that Kento steps back, needing to keep you pinned with better balance on his foot. For some reason, he doesn't catch it when you cum — and it's right there, eerily silent and deadly as his hard fingers toy at your pleasure button like you're just a doll, destined to come undone with whatever he has to give.

"I-i'm don—

You can't finish, because Kento takes the moment of weakness, when you're still jelly in the sheets, to carefully flip you over, still buried inside of you as he guides you up the bed. You blink your eyes open to him, tall and broad, blocking the harsh sunlight so you can admire his nakedness. The hair that starts soft around his belly button is dark, unlike the hair on his head, and without thinking, still in a daze, you reach out to touch him as he climbs over you.

"Need to see you… So I can finish…" He mutters out his excuses as he pins you into his favorite, missionary, guiding your left leg over his hip as he leans in close. "My beautiful wife," Kento whispers, choppy and quiet, as he leans in to kiss you for the first time in a week. Halfway to heaven and certainly not in a space to pull away, you part your lips and almost smile into the kiss, mouth dry and welcoming as his tongue slides in. You kiss back lazily, humming and panting into his open mouth as his hips squeeze and pump in and out of you, slowly, not heated and passionate like it just was. "Stay with me… my love."

You take that for what it is right now, struggling to keep your eyes peeled and focused on him, because you're so overwhelmed and overtaken. You shake your eyes, eyes hazy and dodging his as he stares right back into your soul. Your thighs tremble as he fucks you through his height, but still conscious, needing you to say something to bring him back down.

"I'm t-trying."

Kento lets you sleep next to him that night, tucked up under his arm, but he can't sleep. In fact, he's drained like he just worked for twelve hours straight, when he had only worked for half the day, then came home to make love to you. You hadn't said much after everything was said and done, but Kento took that as a good sign. You're usually exhausted after sex, limp-bodied, and too tired to even step out of bed to shower. It feels good to see how one thing hasn't changed.

Still, it doesn't warrant him to sleep. He's awake with the thought that you were still due to divorce him come morning, and the mental strain is exhausting. He spent the rest of his mental energy fighting that, then the rest of his physical energy pouring it back into you. He's just as jellified as you, but something inside of him brings his body to its feet.

You don't budge as he steps out of bed, just cozying back into his heat as you get comfortable with his loss. He makes sure your eyes don't open before sliding out of the door, heart racing like he's nervous to just exist around you, now. It's a new feeling when it comes to you — he's afraid of faltering, pedaling back over all of his thoughts and words that are about you.

He walks into the kitchen where you two left the notated file of his demise — open to the first page and blissfully forgotten about as the darkness of night swallows the dark, inked letters. Kento approaches it like he approaches everything evil, with no hesitancy, folding it closed and marching it to his home office, where he sits back in his chair and shoves it off into the bottom drawer of his desk.

In that tiny moment of reflection, Kento takes a second to stare out of his office window — a different window he yearned for you in, and let reality crash over him for a bit. He ponders the idea of feeling a bit… shallow, like just the thought of being without you gutted him like a fish. He doesn't expect to ever feel the same with you, and you with him, but you're sure that you'll always stay, especially because, now, Kento knows exactly what to do to make you stay.

 Kento doesn't sleep again that night; he calls his boss the next morning, standing outside in his slippers with a dark coffee you made him in his hands, and says a select few things:

"In accordance with our written agreement, after I got this promotion, we agreed that my overtime would never see five hours a week, correct?" He chooses his words like an artist chooses their shade, pacing the front stoop so he can stay busy. "And I understand that, but given how this isn't my department, I was only doing you a favor."

Cutting through that mental, professional haze, Kento stills when he sees you float to the front window, holding out a traditional breakfast plate in his direction. Knowing better, but still caught up in the moment, he holds up a finger to you, then turns and finishes his conversation.

"There's nothing more to say about it — enough overtime. I've made my demands, and I feel I am being much more graceful than I should be, given my position."

Staring at him through the hazed-over window, dewey with the morning heat, you catch his eyes just before he lowers them again. Feeling his shame through the pane, you lower the plate to your waist and try to plant a smile on your face, letting him know everything he needs to hear, right now.

"Come on,"

a/n: how i feel after understanding that she only gave him the divorce papers so that he'd make a conscious effort to change for her, and it wasn't actually the sex, but the effort he made to change for her above all that made her stay at the end

nanami/all char taglist: @ionly-wantsleep @galaxeecat0210 @winkii @thywiaa @p1a9u3 @cocoamores @hiraxh @joongshive @blu3berryies @raikantopini27 @wavetojulia @cowboyvsshop @verykittenwombat @restingoasis @starfalldragondreamer @00zerona @luvleixo @lovewitchss @riana4life @kalihrts @slut4gojo @raashluvsff @mspinkpanties @palanggaaa @yarimarjane @liasacountgothacked @lisabelhyhn @aonvoide @lisabelhyhn @yesiimorada22 @gradmacoco @dazed-lavender @magicalpeenpoo

[eraserbread]

"praise kink" ft satoru and his foreign!gf ୨୧ - kinktober, day 7

→ afab!reader, pillowtalk, nsfw

satoru never thought he'd meet his match like this. he already can't shut the hell up around you, but once he realized just how much you liked his voice, there was nothing else you had to do — your fate was chosen.

you like the way he says your name — you can't lie. between breaths and lazy when you're naked, folded over in his bed. he's never quite been gentle with you, knowing you can take more than he would assume.

"good girl," he hums, left eye twitching as he fucks you slowly in missionary, wiping sweat from your brow. pressed on your back, leg over his shoulder, you fist the bedsheets, turning your face so he can't see the way your brow shivers when his endearments fall over you.

it's in the way he cuts his syllables when he's speaking in english — the way his pink lips curl around the unfamiliar vowels that he still can't quite catch. something about it is so familiar, so sexy.

you're writhing putty in his hands.

"there you are, baby — yes." he stutters, chest heaving as he tosses his head back. you take a breath, staring up at him as the dull bedroom light makes his toned neck look almost... edible. "d'you hear how wet you are? oh,"

You stretch your fingers, turning them into a fist to stuff your jaw shut. he's fucking you easily — that's not what's doing it. being on your back like this feels like home, and so does the intoxicating stretch of his cock — filling you up like you're made for him.

"is it good? mm — good?"

"so good, pretty baby. oh, it's so warm and you're so sexy."

"talk— talk to me,"

he moans out a series of soft phrases, stooped in lust, and his native tongue. he calls you this all the time, but it's a specific honorific he refuses to translate, and it's not one you've ever heard.

whatever the hell it means, it makes you hot. his voice is a key to your brain, inserting and turning you on and off at the softness of his touch. then, he tells you how pretty and comforting you are, and you're ready to sign marriage licenses.

you don't have to understand everything he's saying to know that you have him leashed down. still, you press your hand to the back of his neck and silence him with a kiss that could last you a lifetime if he were to never touch you again.

[eraserbread]

virgin → track six: current affairs - PREVIEW

pairing dad's best friend!satoru gojo x university student!afab reader

a/n can u guys lmk how ur vibing with this new layout? i'm trying to trash the mature label tumblr has on this fic, but i'm lowkey too attached to the og, so this one just looks... wrong. ANYWAYS off i go to ex husband nanami as promised... outlawkuna, you're next, too

(jo by _3aem 🐾 scene divs by cafekitsune)

Satoru claims you from that moment on.

It's something unsaid — he walks next to you instead of in front of you, hand sneaking to your side so he can hold you unapologetically through the bustling city center. You two take the train home, standing side-by-side in the station, muttering aimlessly through the noise. Satoru talks about work and training, and you talk back in short, staccato bursts of energy, smiling in passing, shrugging off attempts he makes to get you to break past your Megumi-colored gloom.

Nothing works. Not his touch on your back, and surely not his muffled voice in your ear. It all feels so… temporary, like you know above all that you two are completely and utterly fucked the second your love faces the real world — if he ever had the guts to entertain it as such.

You can feel the glimpse in his eye — the way it shines for you around the corners, widening when you open your mouth to fire back. It's like, nothing you do can scare him away. Something about it is oddly comforting, like staring death right in the eyes. So, you let him hold you.

Standing at his kitchen island with a spoon in his hand, prodding at the omurice leftovers from last night, Satoru hardly regards you as he eats. "What did you eat before you came to see me this morning?"

You don't respond, sitting behind his polished marble with your knees crossed. Bare legs, ankles jumping as you scroll through your phone with hunched shoulders, you don't answer him.

"Am I speaking to a brick wall?"

"No… you're speaking to me." You reply, still not offering eye-contact, chin in a fisted hand as you stare down longingly into your phone.

He chuckles, oddly endeared. "I'll make you something then."

"I don't want your forty year old man meal prep, actually."

"You think you're so funny today." It's an accusation, not a question — one spoken around his mouthful of sticky egg. Satoru's cheeks are full of it, glossy lips pursed as he glances up at you.

That comment makes you disregard your phone, brows furrowed as you stare your older situationship head-on. Satoru blinks like he's innocent, then offers you a shrug.

"A little bit." You shrug right back, sighing and defiantly making a show of averting your attention back to your dimmed screen. "Not as funny as you, though. I don't go to the mirror and give myself affirmations about how smooth of a jokester I am, like you do, every morning."

"You got that right, baby's got a lot of learning, and a lot of affirmations to repeat."

The banter is light, and never lost on you. He makes you smile, too caught up in his silver stare to even really care about what's happening on your phone. You sigh again, locking it and peering back up at him with a gaze so wide and expectant, that he can't help but stand up straight.

"You're looking at me like you want something." He murmurs against his bite, sharp jaw working against stewed meat and wilted greens. "And I know it's not this food."

You raise your brows, so does he. Entire conversations based on mutual lust are shared with just a look. Satoru grins around his stupid, stuffed cheeks — eyes bright like he knows something you don't.

"We haven't done it in the kitchen, yet." Satoru's voice is low and measured, just like his footsteps as he walks backward into the kitchen with a finger in your waistband. You follow along, rolling your eyes as you stumble right where he wants you to be — lower back pressed into the counter, right next to his half-finished meal.

"Want to bend me over the hot stove? Kinky,"

"I like this…" He chuckles, voice so fucking deep that it sends a lustful wave of wetness between your thighs. "You're not thinking as much when you're with me, now." He whispers, pulling you chest-to-chest, lips ghosting against the shell of your ear. He smiles, and it's slow. Everything is so slow…

You nod, unsure of what to say, or what even should be said, right now. All you know is that your heart feels like it's going to beat straight through your chest. Of course, he had to point out the obvious — how you think you love him, now.

Still, you don't say it, because you can't. You're not supposed to love your Dad's best friend, but he makes it so easy to. He doesn't even have to ask you to lower onto your knees, but you do, right there, at his feet. Unapologetically.

[eraserbread]

you and dilf!sukuna have an… arrangement

sukuna cracks open his wallet as the waitress shimmies away with the bill, licking over the thick pad of his thumb as he unfolds and cards through the stack of bills all nestled in the back of the leather. you watch him with low, shadowed eyes, pretending not to notice the giddy shake in your knee as he sums up the worth of your presence.

much to your dismay, he pulls out $100.

that’s it.

“here, baby doll.” he hums, voice a low growl in the back of his throat. you shiver against it, biting your lip as he lowers the bill between your thighs. “open up.”

you do, parting your knees, letting him get under your skirt and under your thigh-length socks, slipping the money under the elastic, dark waistband. his touch lingers unapologetically — you two are exposed, but he doesn’t care. the entire place should know you’re his.

bravely, you whisper, “that’s it? just a hundred?”

“i’m not taking you home, am i? told me you had a big test to study for. so… yes, only a hundred for tonight.”

you scoff, painted lips parting as the server draws near, smiling to secure her final tip from the elusive, older man. “sir… that simply will not do.”

sukuna turns his nose up at you, dark eyes low, and grey-stubbled chin high. he’s beckoning you to the ground with words unsaid, and you’re not bending. not when your money comes down to it.

“there you go. arch that back like you’re worth something.”

sukuna’s got you restrained in a shiny pair of cuffs, wrists crossed at your back as you work yourself on his cock, whining from how hard it is when you don’t have the stability of your hands. right now, there’s only a $100 bill on the bed — that same bill that he slid between your thighs earlier, and is expecting you to work yourself up to a higher prize.

of course, under his conditions.

your sugar daddy has always been a cruel, old man, but what’s more cruel right now is the obscene stretch of his cock splitting you open.

you’re on fire, face all sweaty and flush, eyes leaking more tears than your needy cunt, sucking him up like he never left. the lack of control is overwhelming, but your man is a stickler for perfection — for trust and respect. sensory deprivation is only a tool, and he’s the one holding the screw.

wad of cash in-hand, sukuna stands on his knees, shirtless, thick hair-covered chest catching the shadows of the dull room lights. “all the way… that’s another two hundred.” he throws down another couple of bills, letting them flutter over your back and tumble away.

“it…. ‘s too much.”

“so you tell me often.” he tries to cover the shake in his voice with a hum, but you catch it. your knees go weak, sending you face-first into the sheets. “ach— now you’re down fifty.” sukuna leans over you, huge body covering yours as he snatches your prize right back in his huge fist.

you whine as the new position pushes the rest of his grueling length inside of you, voice gone and shaking as you cry into the mattress, begging with words unsaid and useless little noises that you know he needs to hear.

your body sucks him up like you're made for him, lewd, wet noises creating a song between your heated bodies as he sits back up, grinding into your ass, hands on your hips. "there you are... you just earned it back."

"p-please," you cry, hips absentmindedly bucking back into his hard pelvis, rocking with the weight of his being.

"please, what? who?" he lets you toy with him as he fingers through another stack of two bills, oddly underwhelmed and so focused on the task at hand that he's not even watching the way your eager cunt swallows him up, fluttering and begging for more that he can't give.

"please... sir... need you..."

"like it when you beg." he hums, strong hands on your hips, massaging the flesh as he rocks in and out, slowly, maddeningly.

and when you cum, you're covered in it — his money. at the end of the night, you're a thousand dollars richer, and weak in the knees as he helps you to your feet, silent and stern, yet caring in the only way he knows how to be as he cleans you up... until next time.

[eraserbread]

PASSION PLAY ◁ II ▷ track seven: gasoline

pairing bassist!suguru geto x vocalist!afab reader x lead guitarist!satoru gojo

synopsis after the breakup that suguru regrets with everything he has. he stops feeling anything and chases the highs that somehow, always lead back to you. except, this time, it winds up patching a relationship he thought he left in the past.

tags ex-established relationship (suguru x reader), modern/band!au, western-set, age-gap (satosugu is early 30's, reader is early 20's), heavy angst, heavy explicit drug abuse, struggles with mental illness/mania, addiction, alcohol use, tw: naoya and sukuna appearance, crude/abusive language, sh/suicidal themes, nsfw for explicit drug use and mental health

word count 7.1k

authors note putting a big fat warning on this one first and foremost, we are portraying a character in active addiction. all the good, bad, and tragic nastiness of it all. nobody is romanticizing addiction; there's a reason why suguru is her 'ex'. addiction is very unsexy. seriously don't do drugs this chapter is cowritten by my twin @macbethinchains it's only right that if we borrow each other's characters, we'd be the ones writing them, right? thank you for making promoter!sukuna and his girliepop shine in this story 🐾 ❤️ see more of them in club classic and more of this naoya in charm :3

(stsg by _3aem on x 🐾 scene divs by cafekitsune)

Suguru can't breathe.

Suspended in water, slight air bubbles rising to the top of the dingy, dripping basin he's drowning in, he doesn't even think about coming up for air.

He's thinking about you.

It's 3 in the morning, still dark outside his third-floor windows, and he hasn't slept. He's blown through an 8-ball since noon, head so full of thick liquid that he can't even form a coherent thought. As the sun set, he threw his inhibitions to the wind and into a handle of vodka, and hasn't seen the light since. He's too far gone, and fuck — he misses you.

Two minutes pass, then three. His hands shake, forearms rattling against his stiff bones as his lungs beg and curl for another breath. Suguru lasts three minutes, then he's throwing his head up in a sharp inhale — long hair dripping and sloshing water all over the surface, and all over him. For a moment, he blinks at himself in the mirror, pushing clouds from his gaze as he stares down his reflection. He coughs, spitting out blood-streaked, phlegmy sink-water that makes his mouth go numb with the traces of coke. He watches the gathered mess float about the surface, then blinks again, reaching up to tug at his eye like an exhausted toddler.

Suguru's been trying to sober up all fucking night — he blows two lines too many, reaches for a shot to calm him down, then gets too drunk, leading him right back to the drug. He doesn't know how to peel himself out of this messy cycle, but his heart is pounding, and his head is swimming. He doesn't think he even wants an out; he wants you.

Suguru doesn't want to die, but if he did, he knows it'd be his fault.

His stomach screams at him for food — his throat angry and craving water, not liquor. The only issue is that Suguru doesn't care about his body. Not when you're not at his feet, cooking his one meal a day, or refilling his water bottle. He's become so totally reliant on you during tour and the last stint of your love that he doesn't understand why he did what he did. He can't escape the sound of your sobs, so he gets fucked up to will it away.

Blinking his gaze clear for the last time, he takes a step back, reaching up to cradle his dripping forehead. He's so numb he can't walk straight, the fumes leaking from his clammy skin smell of jet fuel and regret. After breathing out of his mouth for hours, his breath is sticky and rough — his clothes don't fit, he's sweating through the dark fabric, and he hasn't seen his phone in nearly ten hours.

Still, he rushes out of his bathroom like he's on a mission. His footsteps are heavy, and he's not measuring them; all he can think about is the matte black plate, covered in the remnants of his vice, waiting for him at his bedside.

Drunk off his ass, Suguru stumbles to his bedroom and sits at the edge, hands shaking as he reaches for the plate. The lamplight in the room is soft, and the sirens outside his window sound like God himself, but he refuses to listen. He cards the coke, ruining the first ID he got when he immigrated, with the illegal drugs. He doesn't care — Suguru doesn't care about fucking anything, but when he takes the last line on the surface and looks up expecting more, he cares that he's out of coke.

In fact, he cares so much that he could cry.

"N-no," he whispers to himself, sniffing back into an already packed sinus. His left nostril runs— he doesn't reach up to wipe it away, so now his lips are numb. "Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck," he babbles, falling back onto his mattress, regretting it immediately when his head screams at him. He whines, rolling over to his side, cradling the ache and not stopping the tears that spring back to his eyes.

If he were in his right mind, he would've taken this as a sign to wind down and lose his mind in his covers, but he's manic. There's nothing of worth in his brain — his fingers are numb and blue, and he can't feel anything but how strenuous it feels to just… breathe.

So, he gets up and stumbles as he slides his shoes on at the door. A clammy hand pressed to the lead-painted drywall, he shivers and pants through his lips, wiggling his toes into his loafers that don't match the baggy sweatpants and cut tank top he's wearing. Thank god it's a Friday night in the Lower East Side of Manhattan — he'll fit right in.

Suguru stumbles out of the cab, blown back by the polluted rush of wind rushing back into the stuffy car. He falls back, hardly catching himself on the frame of the door, then mutters out a weak, "Alright, man."

"See you, friend." The cabby calls back, not recognizing the mess in his backseat, but appreciating the hundred-dollar bill Suguru shoved onto him for the five-minute ride. At least, he didn't vomit in his cab — in any case, he'd have more, or nothing at all, to stay.

Now, Suguru doesn't usually… do this. He isn't ever so desperate and impatient to wait until his dealer can meet him, but he doesn't have a choice this time around. His feet are moving without an inch of thought behind them — knowing that he needs a fix above all. The noise is eating him alive, and all he can think about is his next high. The liquor is starting to take over, and his thin body feels like it weighs three times more than it should.

Still, he stumbles through the hordes of people gathered outside his 'friends' club, not offering apologies or looks as he forces his way to the bouncer. They stopped letting people in hours ago, but it doesn't stop the crowds. People like him — notable models, artists, and public figures seek refuge in the no-phone, red-hued sanctuary, hand-picked from a sea of hundreds by Sukuna, himself.

"I got— Lem..me inside." He stutters, shoulder-checking the guy who was first in line, body-blocking his smaller girlfriend from the obviously biased bouncer, only interested in the stumbling mess that Suguru is, right now. "I have.. M—money for Sukuna. Let- let me in."

"You look like shit, man. Sukuna's not gonna be happy."

"I have five thousand dollars in my pocket." It's the only sentence Suguru's brain can grasp — the only way to his next fix. His body is shaking with the idea of it — mouth watering just thinking about the burning taste back on his tongue. What he's doing is somehow working; he hasn't thought about you in hours. "…cash."

"You want the whole goddamn brick?"

"If it means I won't run out,"

"Fine. Go. Don't say I didn't fucking warn you. Low turnout — he's already not in a good mood."

Suguru doesn't answer; he pushes past the crowd at the entrance, feeling the heat of the red lights over his damp skin. His body presses into strangers he's never going to remember, and he likes it that way. He likes how the deep bass of the house music remix shatters his brain matter. He doesn't have to feel in an environment like this, and he knows exactly where to go.

Past the bustle, in a small corner of the club that private security rules like a sanctuary, he walks right up to the section, head bowed until he feels the cold hang of the velvet barricades keeping him at bay. When he looks up, he doesn't have to see — he just feels Sukuna's stare. Suguru has never felt so small before, swallowing down thickness so he comes off a bit more sober than he actually is.

The color of crimson washes over him like a blanket that is too heavy. The ruby-colored lights and scarlet-lined couches look like the blood that is far too hot under his skin, keeping his tired heart pumping for a reason that is unknown to him. The only blue hues that call to him are from his veins and the melancholy sobs from you that have haunted him since he heard them last.

Suguru does not know if he should stare back, stand his ground for once, and fight for what he knows he needs. But his friend's stare is so hefty, his lashes like whips that smack against his cheekbones but hit Suguru from feet away — every blink laced with utter repugnance. Even behind sunglasses, Suguru can make out every blink and eye roll that Sukuna sends his way.

Suguru keeps looking at his feet, the loafers laughing at him as his eyes do a quick turn of the floor to see pairs of shoes he's sure no stylist would ever bring out for him. He doesn't belong here; he's aware of that just as much as the other patrons of the little hell he's standing at the door of, asking for permission anyway.

"No,"

Sukuna didn't need to yell the word over the music. His voice is cold and thick, like a noose waiting to be placed around the neck of whoever's close enough to hear it. Unfortunately, it's squeezing Suguru's, and the pressure of his rejection and the burning pit in the back of his throat from days of alcohol burn is making it harder to breathe.

He peers up, trying his hardest not to stare at the trays lined with the powder he so desperately needs on the little table acting as a barrier between him and the man who could give it to him.

"I have cash," he pats at his sweats. "Extra,"

A couple of people are watching Suguru's pursuit. They sit around Sukuna like they're disciples of an otherworldly being. Overblown pupils, swollen lips, and quick head nods to the music pressing against the walls, keeping the 'normal' people out. Everyone here is dressed in some hue of red and has been on magazine covers and billboards that Suguru could never grasp.

A girl attaches herself to his side, clinging on to him as a safety net in a world that will probably eat her alive if she ever learns to walk on her own. Her finger shakily holds on to Sukuna's wrist, his hand gripped tightly around her bare thigh. In a small way, she reminds Suguru of himself — lost, tired, and in search of something to rid them of the sins they pretend aren't theirs to bear.

Sitting closer to where Suguru stands is Naoya Zen'in. He sits, lazy and smug — left leg crossed over his right. He knows him, in the stories from Nanami and the tabloids that get passed around on the plane and tour buses whenever conversation has run dry. Naoya was everything Suguru wasn't and ever wanted to be. Yet, here they were in the same room, under the piercing stare of the same man who chose them.

Sukuna scoffs, loud and mean, His eyes still boring into Suguru. "Everyone here has cash," he nods around the little entourage. Naoya lets out a slurred chuckle laced with mocking amusement. "What's your fuckin' point?"

"You know I wouldn't have come if I didn't need it," his voice comes out in one long haggard breath — the words bleeding with the lyrics of the song banging against his spine, his untied hair moving with the sway of bodies dancing from feet away.

He's shocked that Sukuna is able to hear him; he almost hoped he can't.

"I don't know shit about you," the big man leans forward, tattooed arms home to his curled fists that rest against the meat of his thighs. His knees press into the table, making the lines dance like special guests to the club.

An eerie moment of silence unfolds, almost as if Sukuna is manufacturing not only his next words, but every movement that is to happen in this room from here on out. "Actually, I do," he sneers. The statement and the words feel like fire coming out of his mouth — pushing Suguru on the shoulders, making him slouch like a child in front of a scolding parent.

Suguru wasn't sure why Sukuna had such disdain for him. They only really connected in dark clubs over drugs and money deals; their conversations were nothing more than Sukuna's jabs and Suguru's buying proposals. Quick feather-like touches from the exchange of goods, and the occasional shared line of the drug they both find themselves chained to. Nothing worthy enough to call an actual friendship; more like an alliance where the only goal is to watch Suguru hit rock bottom again and again. The 'bottom' digs itself deeper and deeper, making it harder for him to ever crawl back up and meet Sukuna at his feet.

Sukuna himself couldn't really tell you either. It was a mass collection of things, not one single thing blaring its red flag. He thought Suguru's songs were too melancholy. He thought Suguru himself was nothing more than a performative shell of a man — tied to an instrument that allows him to hide his desires in dark studios that are fogged with egos too big, and nothing like his.

Suguru's addiction to his lead singer was deplorable and too public. Sukuna had his fair share of experience with addiction, but he believed he had it under control; he would never lose the will to be himself from the pain of loving someone too much. Especially not for a woman.

Suguru was nothing more than what you wanted him to be — or what he thought you wanted him to be. The real Suguru only crept out when he knew you were inches away from finding aid in someone else, dark lyrics, and when he was 'quietly' begging for the drug to help him cope.

Sukuna saw right through the act and loathed him for it.

"You're a pathetic little shit who's trying to forget about that bitch you're so torn up about," his voice doesn't rise to overtake the music, or the tapping happening from Naoya as he hides his grin behind the phone that should've been confiscated at the entrance. His tone is almost lighter than before, words hitting plainly, as if he stood outside the hotel room in London when he saw you last.

Sukuna knew him, and if Suguru wasn't on a mission to forget about you and his failure, his stomach would've churned hard enough so that he vomited right at the promoter's feet.

Suguru swallows the saliva gathered in the back of his throat, the gulp making him see stars from how painful it was. He stands his ground, his weighty head standing tall as he stares back at Sukuna; thin, jittery fingers balling into fists that won't do much if they had to be used to defend himself, or in this case, your name, from the man that does nothing but hurt anyone who stands in front of him.

In one smooth motion, Sukuna rises from his throne. His girl, getting swallowed by the couch, swimming in the bloody anger that has brewed in his spot the whole night long. Everyone works their heads upwards to follow his gaze, Suguru's temples throbbing in the process, tears moistening his lash line as he tries to gather the strength to stand still.

"What?" Sukuna's steps start slow, inching around the table to where Suguru stands. Suguru starts to feel the room tilt on its axis, keeping the air tight and prison-like around him, making his damp skin tighten around his bones."Going to write a song about this?"

Suguru can taste the stale vodka roll in his stomach, quickly tapping at his esophagus. His eyes feel way too heavy, and everything is so loud — so fucking loud. But he could only adequately make out Sukuna's predatory steps and the remnants of your sobs haunting him everywhere he goes. He thinks he's leaning to the left, his arms acting as balance beams for his shivering body.

He's going through a panic attack, at the foot of a table that could offer him the remedy to forget about you — forget about his faux will to live, and the sleep he hasn't gotten in days.

Sukuna steps forward, his body heat smacking Suguru across the face and snapping him out of it for just a minute. His spiral's hidden the best he thinks it could be, but not under the deathly eye of the tattooed druggie.

His voice grabs at Suguru's eyelids, making him watch the words form on his tongue.

"We can all bring out instruments and write about the world of whatever the fuck you got going on,"

The music is still beating out on the club floor behind him, mixing with the not-so-quiet snickers rolling out of a "preoccupied" Naoya. The actor is finally getting the attention he always wanted from Sukuna; the promoter is turning to the man, pretending to hide his enjoyment.

With a flare of his arm and a tone that would probably be embedded into every brain cell that connects you back to Suguru, Sukuna asks, "Hey, do you think we'd be able to fuck his girl too? Or is that only available to his friends turned bandmates?"

All of the air that was settling in his scorched lungs rushes out in an empty gag, the absence of food not being able to fall at his loafers and Sukuna's shoes. He thinks he's starting to feel sober; everything is clawing at his throat and wanting to be freed from this tireless hell he's currently putting himself through.

His eyes feverishly jump around, looking for anyone and anything but Sukuna's all-seeing eye. Suguru could only find a sliver of solace in the eyes of Sukuna's girl, sinking into the couch, looking back at him wide-eyed and fearful. Suguru wants to laugh and cry — to wash away the fear or the concern that is being sent his way. He doesn't deserve it.

"You heard about that too?" Naoya's laugh ricochets off the red walls. He looks back down at his phone, fingers tapping faster than the sweat trailing down Suguru's shirt.

"What can I say?" Sukuna shrugs, standing directly in front of the sweaty mess that Suguru has become. Sukuna bends forward, his face inches from his — Suguru watches his descent, his nose twitching against the harshness of the lines inked on his face. The lack of hygiene from nothing but drugs and alcohol seeps from Suguru's pores and hits Sukuna's airstream. "I like to dabble in a bit of celebrity gossip," a grin stretches in front of him, one dressed in nothing but objection; it almost makes Suguru try to envision your face on with this grin instead. To make it safer, make it warranted. "It's one of the ways I make my money."

"F-fuck you," the unpleasant mixture of hatred and nervousness pierces through Suguru's defeated words. He isn't sure at the moment if he was throwing them at Sukuna, himself, or you and Satoru. The embarrassment of knowing that everyone was privy to information that he himself wanted to pretend didn't exist.

He saw the pictures, heard the roll of your tongue when you called his friend 'Satoru' instead of Gojo. He saw the ways light beamed out of you when around the guitarist, a very different setting when it was you and him — shoddy corners inked in dark blues and the whispers of the things that he knew he couldn't fix.

"Fuck me?"

Suguru ignores the red flashing around and continues to talk, just to get his hands on what he fucking needs right now. "All I'm asking for is a little hel—

Sukuna's voice booms so loudly that it startles the girl on the couch, her body shaking as her eye contact jumps from a begging Suguru to Sukuna's tense back, "I'm not your damn friend." His hands rise, balled into fists. Suguru winces at the impact that never comes. "You could jump off the fuckin' Brooklyn bridge tomorrow, and I would not care. Why the fuck would you come to me for help?"

It is a valid question, one that Suguru is not entirely sure he thought through before coming here.

"You have what I need," he's scrambling for a reason, his voice sounding far away and so unlike his own, he isn't sure when he completely lost the rest of himself. Was it in the taxi? When he heard Sukuna mention you and Satoru? Or when he left you in that hotel room? "If it's that hard to give me what I want, I'll go find it somewhere else."

It happens too fast, startling everyone in the room besides Sukuna. Pain pinches on the back of Suguru's neck as Sukuna's thick hand makes contact. Fingers feeling the sporadic beat of his pulse as his body gets pulled forward, tired limbs voluntarily going with the motion. His knees hit the floor; his sweats have no cushion for the force with which he gets pulled down. In a single beat, Suguru's face is slammed onto the table, his eyes closing on impact — the tears living at his lash line finally falling free, wetting the corner of his eyes and running down the slope of his pierced nose.

His face makes an involuntary home on a bed of lines of untouched coke, the pureness almost lost on him as he kneels at the drug's whims, forced by the hand of someone who couldn't care less if he overdosed right here, right now. Frenzied mind and the so-called faux intimacy that raises his blood pressure at the opportunity to finally get lost in his own pain again. He inhales deeply, trying and praying silently that particles of coke hit his nostrils again, making this okay — making him feel better.

"The downhearted artists' drug," Naoya says, more to himself, but it's the last thing Suguru can soberly latch on to before his tongue slips out of his mouth, meeting the chalky powder that sits unbothered and silent on the table. Like a dog hungrily lapping at the bone that is being hung above its shaggy head, or in this instance, the drug that has been shoved under the cheekbone and watery eyes of an exhausted, begging man.

Heat rushes through his veins at an unmatched pace, numbness finally washing over his tired and abused body. The high he's been chasing tingles his calloused fingertips and rushes to his thigh, where his wad of cash sits, patiently waiting to be placed in the hand of his supplier.

He can't feel his heart beat, he can't feel the air he's stuffily inhaling through his exploited nostrils. He could barely feel Sukuna's fingertips bruising themselves into his pale and clammy neck.

Worst of all, he can't block out the memory of your sobs.

"Take all you need," Sukuna's breath slashes against Suguru's profile, hot and mean. Sukuna's body almost completely hovering above his own, shielding him from the lights and the music still fueling the dancing and happy yells. Whispering to him and the coke he is finally giving him after all his jabs and unsolicited advice. "Disgusting excuse of a man,"

Suguru hangs onto that, finding some respect given from how Sukuna didn't yell it. He didn't let the other patrons hear the truth, letting the words almost gently fall in Suguru's ears, and his ears alone.

"'Kuna," a quiet voice calls to him. Suguru can't see the owner of the voice, but he hopes they could feel the gratitude he hopes he could muster up to send their way. It speaks to Sukuna, a quiet considerateness finally entering the room and speaking to the man in a way that Suguru is too far gone to even pinpoint.

 Sukuna's grip loosens, his face still painted in disgust. "Get the fuck out of my club, Geto," he snarls, lips ticked up in a grimace. Suguru's cheek still pressed into the table, hammering against his inhibitions and his so-called friend's 'help'.

"Go call a friend to fuckin' help you,"

Satoru feels good. Finally.

He feels like home, hot and sensual at your side, splayed out on your couch with your feet in his lap. Half-empty glasses of wine sit on the table, his hardly touched, and yours barely just breaking even. His big hand is between your thighs, resting against your core in a territorial tightness you can't run from — you don't want to.

Satoru leans into you, jaw pressing against your jawline, lips puckered and marking the skin as his. He kisses you like he's on a mission to prove his devotion, hot and wet against your neck as he descends.

"And, sure, I would agree or maybe even support the stories if they were true, but they're all so fake that it's stupid."

"Mhm," Satoru responds, lips too busy at your skin to break away and offer a coherent thought. He's been letting you talk about Suguru as much as you need, now that he knows about the breakup. He also used that leverage, and your loneliness, to book a one-way ticket into your bed, and you never had the strength to turn him down.

"Why do you think we broke up, 'toru?"

"Seriously?"

"I mean… as an outsider looking in. It's obvious, isn't it?"

He offers his weight to his free hand, splayed out on the cushion, light eyebrows furrowed as he thinks about your question. "Sure. Now, can I kiss you?"

You pause for a second, holding deep, blue eye contact with your guitarist as he blinks up at you like an expectant doe. "Humor me."

"Do, what?"

"Mmf— whatever," you roll your eyes, tilting your chin as he pulls back in for another wet cluster of kisses against your neck, pulling down to your collarbone.

"Explain to me what you meant. Wanna understand you."

"It's so stupid, I swear." Your hips rise from the cushions as his long fingers trail up to the button on your blouse. "Satoru—

"I want you so bad."

"I have to pee."

Your intimacy breaks, Satoru hears that and sits back on the couch, withdrawing his hand from your thigh and chest. He takes a breath, reaching up to roll his kiss-swollen bottom lip between his fingers. Against his man-spread, you can tell how… excited he is. It's the closest he's gotten to being with you in that way, and his body is reacting before his mind even can.

"Go pee, princess."

"Don't… call me that." You mumble, head hazy with the strength of your cheap, screw-top wine. He chuckles, shiny teeth catching the soft overhead lights as you fix your clothes and walk behind the couch.

You're not thinking about it — deciding that you'll be gone for two minutes, max, but Satoru doesn't say anything. Your phone sits upright on the living room table, bright with text notifications, giving him little peeks of your lockscreen that's still a picture of Suguru before he lost all the weight and muscle mass, smiling for your picture under the cover of the Central Park cherry blossoms that remind him of home.

Satoru sits up, resting his elbows on his spread knees, pupils flicking back between your phone, then to the muted news channel on the TV. A song plays on in the background — 90s, soulful, and sexy. In its presence, Satoru ponders whether or not he truly belongs here, with you.

Then, your phone rings. It's silent, buzzing, and blinking on the table with a vengeance that demands his attention. The timing was almost too perfect, as he's heard the bathroom door click softly behind you, then finds himself pondering just how close he is to you. If he answers your phone, would you freak out? Probably.

Satoru answers anyway.

 'I didn't t-think you'd answer.' Suguru's voice hits him like a hot whip to the spine, stunning him in his tracks before he can even open his mouth to speak. 'My baby,'

"Suguru…"

Silence. Satoru feels it. '…Satoru?'

"Hey… man."

He hears a laugh on the other end of the line. A fake one, laced with surprise, unease, and enough angst to stop a grown man's heart. Satoru holds his breath, fingers tightening around your device like he knows he's in the wrong. 'The one time… I ever needed her to answer…'

"Are you… okay? You sound—" Satoru cuts himself off, wincing as the heavy wind knocks the other line, blooming static in his ear. "Where are you even at? I can't hear a thing,"

'The carousel… I've lived here for nearly ten years and haven't been to Dumbo, yet.' His voice is soft… too entirely soft. 'I've always wanted to see that view of Chinatown, without all the rats and whatnot.'

"You're on the bridge?" Satoru whispers, putting his brain to work, trying to remember the relative layout of a city he doesn't call his own. "What are… Suguru?"

'I wonder if it'd hurt more… falling into traffic or taking my chances scaling and climbing these barricades.'

Satoru's heart falls like a ton of bricks, making its home in the base of his gut. He stares at the wordless television, eyes unblinking, lips parted. "What is that supposed to mean?"

'You didn't even let her get the chance to miss me…'

"Sugu—

The line hangs up, clicking off like there wasn't a lifetime of words that had to be spoken in that very moment. Satoru feels… numb. He feels nasty and exploited for his heart, and it's shattering with every breath he takes. He glances into the hallway where you disappeared to, then back to the TV, slowly lowering the device from his pierced ear.

The phone drops back on the table with a metallic thump, and he lowers his head into open, shaking palms, unsure how or whether to bring this up to you, or let it simmer in silence. He can't choose, especially when the bathroom door clicks back open over the ghost of a soft flush and the rush of running water.

You emerge, running your hands over your dark leggings. "Sorry, 's the wine."

Satoru peeks up from his covered eyes, feigning a sparkling smile to remind you how everything is okay. "Ran right through your sensitive little bladder, hm?"

"You're such a goddamn flirt." You reply, breathless as you round the back of the couch and fall into the cushion next to him. On impact, he sits up, guiding your bare feet back into his lap so he can massage them. "But, seriously…" You yawn, arms stretching high above your head, hiking your shirt just enough for Satoru to feel the ghost of your soft tummy. "I'm getting sleepy."

"Sleepy hea—

"Shut up," you sigh, letting the endearment go right over your head. "And you can sleep on the couch, Mr. Handsy man."

"Very funny." Satoru deadpans, rolling the ball of your feet between his long, thin fingers. "But, smart. We wouldn't get much sleep if I joined you."

"I'm saying… maybe in a few hours, I wouldn't be pressed if I felt you slide in next to me."

"Anything to ease the noise in your head, huh?" He chuckles, deep and low, and it makes your tummy flutter. "I'll take you up on that… You should head off to sleep, though. Choso messaged and said he needs a translator when he goes to the bar tonight." It's a lie, but Satoru is too good at it; he doesn't even flinch when you crack a stupid little smirk.

"Yeah? You're staying downtown, right?"

"Probably… Have any recommendations?" He sits up as you stand, eyes following your backside as you gather the glasses, pouring the rest of Satoru's into your own so you can down it in a few oddly timed gulps.

"For downtown? Like, down, downtown near the water? No, I don't go down there. You two should check out the East Village."

"Like… near the Brooklyn Bridge."

"Why would you be going towards the Brooklyn Bridge?" You make a face — cocking a suspicious brow as Satoru stands, knees cracking with how long he's been stagnant. "Just stay in Lower East."

"If you insist…" He stands, hands on his hips, as you walk into the kitchen, disappearing for a second and a half as delicate glass hits the base of your metal sink.

When you remerge, it's with a slight stumble in your step, Satoru smiles. When he looks at you, he can't think of anything else. "Can I have a kiss goodnight?"

"Come and get it."

Satoru is actually the world's worst liar. He's also a sneaky fucking thief, ducking out of your creaky apartment door after you fall asleep with your phone in his pocket. Of course, he knows your passcode — you drunkenly served it to him on a night you were desperate for an Uber back home instead of a city taxi.

He runs out of the walk-up building with his shoes untied, grey zipped hoodie pulled over his light, finger-combed locks. He smells like you — feels like you, but doesn't feel bad. Satoru is doing what he knows you can't, and to him, that's doing you a service because he thinks he loves you.

Now, Satoru doesn't like how much you love Suguru.

It's so fucking early — inching far past four in the morning, and exactly eighteen minutes after Suguru initially called. Satoru hasn't let himself slow down since he left your place, but the second his designer sneakers hit the filthy pavement outside, he pulls out your phone and navigates straight to his contact.

The line rings — Satoru guesses where he's running, phone held to his ear as he decides between north or south. It's a nightmare city for him, but it's your city, so he learns. "Canal and…" He whispers to himself, squinting at the night-covered street signs. Then, the line clicks.

'Oh, you answered—

"It's me… Suguru—

'What is wrong with you? Why do you have her phone?'

"Because I don't want you to kill yourself! This is useless, all of it!"

'…why are you yelling at me?'

"Because…" Satoru calms down, his breath heavy as he runs through an unprotected crossing. "It's the only way you'll listen to me. It's the only way you've ever fucking listened to me."

Suguru doesn't answer. The wind does — it brushes the speaker like a silent, cruel insult.

"This is more than the money, now. It always was. Now, it's more than the girl."

'And you still can't admit that you took her from me.'

"You broke up with her."

'… I had no choice!' Suguru is eerily sober now, screeching at the top of his lungs as a pair of tipsy tourists cross his manic episode. He brings his shaking hand to his mouth, breathing out a silent sob into his palm that he chokes on. 'I fuckin' had to do it. I have to do it.'

"Shut up! Just stop and listen for a minute." Satoru is flustered, sweating at the brow as he breaks out in a feverish sprint through the next block, following the signs to the Historic Brooklyn Bridge.

'I can't live without her. Physically, I can't,' Suguru sobs, feeling as small as the day he was born in this raw, exposed point in time. His heart hurts, his feet are numb. 'She knows, and she still chose you.'

"I chose her. I am choosing her, Suguru. You don't get to choose someone you keep neglecting."

'You're making it worse… You all are fucking making it worse!'

"I know, but listen to me—

'I just know…' He pauses, biting a raw, ringed fist as he stares the Brooklyn skyline head-on. 'I don't wanna feel like this—

"Suguru…" Satoru's tone drifts all at once as he jogs the street that leads to the overpass connecting the bridge to the pedestrian walkway. "I let you leave me for ten years. I won't let you leave me again."

'Don't sa—

"Yes, I will, and I am." He bites, licking over his dry lips from his breathless pants. He's turned a fifteen-minute walk into a seven-minute mad dash, hoodie hanging from his broad shoulders and skin pinched an impossible shade of red. "I'm going to keep saving you over and over until it clicks. I love you."

Suguru stands silent, measuring Satoru's hurried pants over the line.

"I love you, I do."

'Satoru—

"You're throwing yourself away, and I love you."

It feels like he's scaled half the bridge in the few seconds he's been talking, because Satoru can see him — a fist curled against the iron-wrought suspenders keeping the pedestrians at bay. Suguru wants to challenge them, but with how he's tightening his grip as Satoru approaches, he can't admit that he has a fleeting, saving thought.

"Suguru…" Satoru rasps, dropping your phone, covered in his pearly sweat

Suguru slips his eyes closed, phone falling at his feet in a dull thump. He swallows down thickness, then parts his lips because he still can't draw a breath through his clogged sinuses. He doesn't want to face Satoru — he doesn't want to stare into his eyes under the cover of darkness, and doesn't want him to swoop in like the savior he always believed he was.

Still, Suguru doesn't run away. He has all the space to, but decides, instead, to grab the bar with his other hand. "Go away."

"Don't be fucking stupid."

"Would you stop? Stop talking to me like that, I've been the butt of everyone's ego all goddamn day!" Suguru's trying to calm his shaking voice, but not his shaking hands. He needs another shot — maybe another dip of blow, but can't bring himself to even glance Sukuna's way again. He'd have to get creative, speaking through friends of friends to get what he needs, now. "I at least thought I could call my baby, and she'd make it all go away…"

"I'm sorry,"

"No, you're not." Suguru bites, rising to his toes, body shivering as a rush of air pushes his body back. "D-don't lie to me."

"No, I'm sorry that you two aren't together, I really fucking am." Satoru takes a careful step forward, afraid that one quick move could shove Suguru over the edge. "I want you to know that it really has nothing to do with me. She won't even touch me because she loves you so much."

"Stop lying," He repeats as a sorry, last-ditch effort as he tries to remember your warm touch on his skin that now reaches for Satoru. It hurts — seeing your face in the rearview. He doesn't want to believe you're behind him, but the future is so strong and so sure, staring at him with bleak, blue eyes. Suguru hasn't stopped crying; tears stream down his face too quickly for him to even try to wipe them away. They're silent, the deadliest kind of sadness.

"Every time she looks at me, I can see her eyes searching for you." Satoru begins, taking a tentative step forward, crossing his long limbs over his chest as another gust of wind blows through the interaction. "Oh, she just loves you so much." He shakes his head, shivering at the thought of what he knows is true. "So fucking much that she won't let me in. I hope you know just how devastating that is for me."

Throughout the past, if there's one thing Satoru latched onto, it's walking Suguru off a ledge. The opportunity comes and goes in waves, just like his friend's mood, but when he gets like this, the only thing he can do is lower himself to a similar level. Satoru feels small now that he's confronting these truths about his relationship with you, but he needs to feel it. Pity is a feeling lost on the pair — togetherness is something that always came naturally.

Suguru actually… turns his head and looks at him, eyes bloodshot and shadowed by the darkness, nose wet and running. Satoru stops, heart hammering as his other goes to speak. "She said your name during sex. I-I think… she did."

Satoru can't lie — his stomach does a spin. He shakes his head, eyes wide and innocent, like he knows he is. "We've never…"

"You haven't touched her?"

"Never even kissed." Lie. You let him in last night and didn't pull away when he grabbed your hips and kissed your cheek, not stopping until you let him on your lips.

Suguru stands silent for a moment, turning back to the water when a couple passes by, hand-in-hand. He can't bear the sight, and he can't bear the loneliness. "Then why don't I believe you?"

"…maybe because she said my name during sex."

Suguru scoffs, tossing his head to the side and turning around once the couple passes. He steps out into the walkway, away from the edge, and Satoru stands back. But, instead of turning and heading back to Manhattan, Suguru turns towards Brooklyn. He doesn't speak, so Satoru has to.

"You're going home… right?"

"I said I was going to Dumbo."

"No, I think you should go home. I have a smoke on me, we can walk together." No answer. Suguru continues down the bridge, footsteps small and weak, so Satoru doesn't have to raise his voice. "Turn around, come on."

"I'm going to Dumbo." He repeats, just as blankly as the first time. Satoru willingly takes a step closer to Brooklyn.

"Bullshit, we're going to yours."

"…Dumbo."

"You are the Dumbo at this point. Come on." Satoru knows he has him again, which is why he steps forward, reaching out for Suguru's arm once he's in length. As they touch, the world seems to shake against its axis. Suguru swings around, eyes wide and manic like he's been jumpscared. "You need sleep, and you smell like cheap alcohol; it's gross."

"Get… off of me." Suguru shies away, pushing Satoru's arm as it goes to wrap around his shoulders and carry him home. "I don't want to be touched."

"She really did a number on you, didn't she?" He comments, bringing his limbs back into his chest as Suguru finally, grudgingly turns around, headed back to Manhattan, leaving the promise of the Brooklyn skyline on the water for another night.

"Careful," Suguru mumbles, barely able to open his eyes, fingers itching at his cold, bare arms as they start walking side-by-side. "She'll do worse to you."

@sheep-infog @jjmeii @hsungies @lucilles-witchery @hypomanic-oneirataxia @vinsushi @cherribxio @casssiesthings @gktdh @rinshoe @levi-levitate @undedin @feralforfushiguro @miyunia @veilofsixeyes @ssatoruology @automemoryd0ll @hoesluvshoko @storuhrts @dawnsoblivion @billiondollarworth @hyacinthl8l @b1untcharm @kuraemiii @inmywhitegown @weeping-statue @fairygardenprincesss @re-tired-succubus @elisbraindoesntwork @jovaena @dogggggggblog-kaye @sueboo503 @kurtcobaingirlie

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PASSION PLAY ◁ II ▷ track six: buckle ✩

pairing bassist!suguru geto x vocalist!afab reader x lead guitarist!satoru gojo

synopsis the greatest gig of your life comes with the greatest loss; satoru is the only one close enough who can pick up your shattered pieces

tags mentions of drug/substance abuse, established relationship (suguru x reader), modern/band!au, western-set, age-gap (satosugu is early 30's, reader is early 20's), heavy angst, relationship breakup, drinking, mutual pining, crude language, light smut, emotional adultery, arguing/fighting, emotional manipulation, mention of vomit, nsfw

word count 5.7k

authors note this one was a soul written in libraries, parks, cocktail bars, cafes and on my phone under the sheets, in the city this story calls home!! it means sm to me, buttt same deal over here: thank yall for ur continued patience 🫶 and thank u phy for everything, always. buckle up, u guys (pun intended)

(stsg by _3aem on x 🐾 scene divs by cafekitsune)

As you've done for the past six years, you kiss the stage floor, bare knees pressing into your x-marker.

The first song is always the hardest — the crowd is thick, but it's too dark to see much. The stage lights are blinding, and even as your voice trembles out years-old tales of love and loss in a melancholy hue, they all cheer for you — sobbing for you, living for you.

Your stomach hurts, and your head is hazy — it's the shot you took before you stepped onstage, grimacing as the alcohol numbed most of your self-preservation, making it easier to be around Suguru, and easier to bounce off Satoru's jokes. Choso doesn't like it when you drink, and even though he's only known you for a week, he thinks he's never seen you smile, let alone laugh. So, neither does he.

"I love you, and it's killing me, because I don't know where we stand."

The opening song is soft — no drums. Satoru is to your left in the industrial stage design, plucking out a soft rhythm, staring down as he toes his pedal. He amps up the reverb when the chorus draws near, and the lights oscillate in deep magenta hues.

Suguru inches his way to you from backstage, stage-left, swinging his bass across his chest as he steps behind Satoru, and into the spotlight. The crowd's demeanor shifts at the sight of his familiar, infamous face — hollowed out, exhausted, and pale. He can't remember the last time he slept for more than an hour, and this is the biggest show of his career. For once in his life, he's nervous, hands shaking as he hikes the neck up towards his armpit, breathing out steadily through his sore nose.

"Say you can hear me, baby. Tell me that you care — in a year, this love won't exist. We can't go anywhere."

Then, the drums hit — Choso giving the strings a backbone that Suguru can chew on with a solid, steady bassline. It's deep and hard-hitting, echoing through your in-ears, then the show really starts.

You stand up, limbs limp and heavy, head bowed as you work up faux emotion in the backbeat of your rasping voice.

"But, I don't wanna leave. Don't want you to leave. I can't leave, baby. Say you'll stay… say you'll stay."

The first song comes and goes, you avoid Suguru's eyes until it wraps, but once he closes off the song with a final hit, you peek over your shoulder, taking a breath as the audience erupts in chaos.

It's the biggest show of your career, and the pressure is tangible. Cameras are in your face, flying above you in drones and portable lenses. Security bustles around the barricade — water bottles are being thrown, and as you look out to the sea of ten thousand that all know your name, that nauseating, lonely feeling you've become too accustomed to, grows even hotter. Still, when the dark red lights hit your face as you fade into the performance, there's nowhere else you'd rather be.

"It's been a long time coming," You speak into your microphone, holding it like a delicate smoke, fiddling with your earpiece as you walk towards stage-left, using the little extra time you have between songs to engage with the audience. Every show follows a set schedule in your head — song one, interlude, speaking break, repeat.

You don't know why this time feels so utterly different.

"We've waited far too long to visit you, London." You whisper, voice pitched into something sweet as the crowd roars and bends at your attention. Onstage, you approach Satoru, stepping in a circle around him, keeping eye contact as he strums the same four-chord progression that leads you into the next song, whenever you're ready.

His earful of silver jewelry gleams in the light — so does his skin and pearly hair. He's an angel against them, feeling so at home in the space that he doesn't even register your call for attention until you're standing right in front of him. You want to speak — to tell him that you're excited to be in this city with him; you think about him all the time, and he's yours, but all you can muster as he stares you down is,

"Can I introduce you to my band?" It's more of a statement than a question, waiting for the crowd to cheer and fizzle before you turn back around to them, smiling devilishly as you walk to the front of the stage. Suguru is hanging about on stage right, not playing anything, just waiting, adjusting his long, falling hair. You can feel his eyes boring dark holes in your back, waiting for you to make the move to lead into the next song, but you… don't. Not yet.

You walk across the stage, back towards Satoru as he watches you drag your bare feet against the dusty, sticky stage floor. Into the microphone, you peek over your shoulder and smile, "I'm sure you're familiar… With Suguru Geto on his bass." You whisper as you walk towards him, heart hammering as his stare zeroes in on your softly covered chest. In the moment, you wonder what the audience knows — if they know, but it's fleeting.

Suguru blinks up at you as you approach, a foot cocked on one of the chain-link risers where his x-marker lives. The moment is wordless and tense; he's staring at you, and you're staring right back for the first time in weeks. The set darkens.

Behind you, Satoru is making good with the crowd — giving them winks, stuck at Choso's side like he's a stage prop. He knows you like to talk, it's your performing style — why your fans feel like they know you even with a shitty social media presence.

"But I have a few other friends with me today…" You continue, staring into Suguru's soul as you step backwards again, feet dragging. "The gorgeously talented, Satoru Gojo, on lead guitar." You turn back around to face the crowd, staring at his opposite as you utter Satoru's name in a sensitive purr. "And my sweet angel Choso on drums."

You smile, beaming diamonds as you approach them, getting so close to Satoru that you're nose to nose, smiles just inches away as his lips touch your microphone. "With our favorite girl on vocals, last but not least."

"And I call them The Good Boys."

It's not scripted, nor was it etched into your mental schedule, but as soon as you stop speaking, the heavy bass line that brings you into your next song floods your in-ears, and that natural eight-count timer starts in your head. Sparing Choso a passing glance as he rushes for his sticks, Satoru steps away, and it's like nothing happened.

With a raw voice, the only thing you could want as you run off stage is a hug.

Everyone around you is cheering, the crowd is begging for an encore — four people passed out in your presence; you kissed two of them on the head, Satoru sang with you. So much happened, you're reeling and in tears, happy and sad in ways unimaginable as you sort through bodies for a familiar, sunken frame.

"Sugu—

"Holy shit, my girl." It's a familiar voice, but it's not the one you're searching for. It hits your back like ice, shocking you awake. "You are magnetic."

"Satoru," You respond in pity, voice dipped and sad as you fall into him in a hug. He whines for you, sucking his teeth as your exhausted body melts into his strong one. It feels good to let your weight overtake him, trusting his strength to hold you in your most vulnerable moments. "Oh, Satoru."

"You just made yourself a legend out there." He breathes in your ear, body damp and warm — his hair sticking to your skin, your makeup all over his pale arms. "You're unbelievable."

 "I didn't even notice…" Choso mumbles, hands on his hips, winded as he parts through the crowd. The crew is thick, already beginning the laborious process of break-down after the headliners. "I wouldn't have counted in if you hadn't been on beat."

Suguru hums dismissively, cheeks pulled as he fiddles and picks at the bandages on his fingers, which hide the raw skin that tireless practice has driven them into. He's looking for Nanami, not you, and so is Choso, though he thinks they're both looking for you.

As you watch them dismantle your inner world piece by piece, you die a little in Satoru's arms. He holds you forever, never letting go, whispering praises and nicknames in your ear as he rocks you back and forth. He feels your tears on his shoulder. He loves it.

"Whole last song was off," Suguru mumbles, stopping in his tracks as he sees you crying in Satoru's embrace. He falters for a moment, breath still in his chest as he stares at you two. "Where the fuck is Nanami?"

"A-are…" Choso starts, wanting to say more, but caught in wanting to approach you two. "He was watching on stage-right, I don't—

Suguru doesn't let him finish, he doesn't say a word to you, he just nods and turns around, headed back towards stage-right. Choso stands frozen in space, caught between looking in Suguru's direction, then to you and Satoru's. He ponders a chase, then ponders the look on your face when he congratulates you. Of course, your smile wins him over.

"You two were great out there," He starts, pulling out his in-ears, letting them dangle over his pierced ears. Satoru pulls away from you at the sound of his voice, leaning over to pull Choso into a hug, then extending an arm for you to join. "They loved you, Jo."

"Because I love you, and her, so it translates." He breathes out a smile, leaning over to kiss your forehead, then leans his against Choso's. "Do you always cry after shows?"

"After the biggest one of my life? Yeah, this is a first."

He laughs again, leaning over to smush his cheek into the side of your head, squeezing your shoulders. "We've got it made. Good boys forever, huh?"

"Shut up."

To: Suguru the show was so great. i love you

 Three days later, you haven't heard from him. You can't hide the stupid fucking look on your face.

"Smile!" Satoru cheeses, holding his phone out to you, with bright eyes covered by dark shades. "Please? You look so pretty." His smile drops when he sees your face unchanging through the screen, caught up in the bustle of the park-goers, totally unaware of, or caring for your presence. It's a cold, rainy day in London, you and Satoru have been out since dawn, and an end has yet to show itself in sight.

For him, you don't wallow like you want to — you can't. For him, you smile, letting the wind pass over your skin and hair as you pose for the picture. He could have a mind to post them, and you don't really think you'd care.

"Gorgeous!" He smiles, jogging back up to you as you lean on the fence. "You just look so pretty today. Shame to waste it all on me."

"You're full of it." You laugh, breaking out into a soft smile just so he can have something to gawk at.

Something shifted last weekend after the show. You've begun to feel your star power a bit differently after a record-breaking performance. In a way, it's suffocating — you can feel the stares even when they're not really there. Under Satoru's arm, you're on high alert, but he makes you feel safe. He makes you see the city differently. He treasures the stares.

"Are you feeling okay? Good?" He repeats himself, reaching out to grab your chin and pull you closer. Leaning next to you on the fence, he doesn't pull his glasses down, but you can see the hidden blue hues behind the frost. "If you're tired, we can go back."

"Not tired, just…" You start, letting him lead your face closer to his, forcing a smile at the corners as he studies your shifty gaze. "A little… raw? Soft to the touch."

"Like a freshly molted spider?"

You laugh, dipping your head for him to catch. "Ha, ha." You deadpan, shoulders shivering at the mention of them. "I just feel like an idiot, I guess."

Satoru hums, letting his two-fingered grip fall from your chin. You retract, looking straight ahead, silent with the ghost of what he wants to say.

"You have the whole world laid out in front of you. I wish you could see it the way I do."

 When you finally get back to your hotel, tucked in a quiet, lush part of the city, you feel him again.

Like an omen passing through, rotten and heavy on your chest, you collapse in the doorway as soon as it draws shut and regret not inviting Satoru to stay. Not that he didn't ask — he damn near begged, but you couldn't swing it. Not after being with him for ten hours unchecked, sharing two separate meals with him, and letting him touch your heart in softly specific ways that Suguru never has.

Still, when you're alone, you're a mess. You crumple at the foot of the heavy hotel room door, barefoot and searching for an out in your phone that was your security blanket, and your only way to your guiltiest pleasure, with whom you haven't seen in days.

The message you sent him about the show has gone dry for three. Not even a read receipt, let alone an 'I love you' back. At least the message has a shiny, grey delivered tag next to it. He hasn't blocked you… yet.

Still, your finger hovers over the call button under his name, shivering and unsure, but so tempted that you feel sick with it. You don't know what you'd even say if he answers. Maybe you'd beg or ask if he's in the same city, but you're still nervous. It's a feeling that's never gone away, as long as you've known him.

You dial him like a girl in love, because you are.

Suguru answers, because of course, he can't stop thinking about you, too.

 "Are you still in London?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want to come over?"

"…yeah."

 The second you lay eyes on him, you're in tatters.

Suguru's knock is soft and weak, echoing through the plaster entryway with a shake to your soul. You run up to greet him like you haven't seen him in years, hands still shaking as you pull open the door.

It's the way he's standing — back pressed to the frame, head hung, hair loose, and gaze so shadowed you're not sure it even existed at all. Before you can speak, you breathe. "H-hey."

His tone is staggered when he looks up, eyeliner-smudged lids squinting at the mere sight of you. You can imagine how much of a mess you look, it's how you feel. By the looks of it, Suguru feels the same.

Standing in this doorway, you are both broken husks of your former glory. Still, you fall right back into his arms.

It's always the same. Suguru climbs on top of you like he never left. His shirtless frame shimmers in the complete darkness. You run your hands over his sharp shoulders, thighs parted for his hips to fit perfectly between.

You're naked. So is he. Completely, blankets kicked to the base of the bed, socks discarded somewhere towards the entrance. He feels lukewarm over you, not hot like a human should, especially when he's rock hard and eager, pressing into your thigh, leaving small streaks of pre in its tracks.

He groans and grinds into you, whispering your name right back into your mouth as his thin, ringed fingers grab and pull at your sheets and thighs.

When you kiss him, you can taste the chemical draw of his drugs, numbing your lips, and throwing your mind with them. Suguru's addicting in only this way — because he touches you like you're real, hips slotting at that perfect angle to push inside of you.

You cry his name into his mouth, clawing hands winding around his neck to draw him even closer. Against your strength, he buckles, falling chest to chest with you, breath whimpering and deep as he ruts into you like a desperate dog.

"S-Sa—Suguru," You whisper, holding him close as he regains his footing. Suguru sits up, digging his knee into the mattress, hiking your hips up with it. The sharp, new angle draws a whine from your chest. He shakes his head.

"You're thinking about him, aren't you?" He finally whispers, an open palm right next to your head, pushing you deep into the mattress. "You almost said his name,"

"What are you—

"It's okay." He grunts, driving his cock deeper inside of you like he's trying to make a point. "I know we need to talk, it's okay."

You pause, heart stilling in your chest as you stare up at him. Reaching up to cradle his face in your hands, you stop him. "Suguru…"

"I just wanna…" He starts again, fucking into you slowly, surely, like he's trying to prove something. "Let's just… f-fuck, let's just finish. T-then we'll talk."

So, you do. And it's actually… good. You're satisfied, catching your breath as you turn on your side, facing the window. Suguru sits up as soon as he rolls off of you, swallowing around his own heavy breathing. He stretches his legs over the side of the bed and cracks his neck, then looks back at your bare frame.

"You think I'm an idiot." He starts slowly, like how everything bad tends to start. The air is so loose and warm that his tone could feel inviting if you two were on 'good terms'. "Everyone thinks you're fucking him. You've seen that, right? Those headlines poking at your 'sexual chemistry'?"

"I actually haven't, and that's crazy for anyone to say." You reply, keeping your eyes pushed shut even though you're facing the wall. "Everyone knows we're together."

"I don't think it really seems like that when people are taking pictures of you two cuddling at the park."

This time, you shut up. There's more on his breath; he hasn't swallowed his words after that last sentence.

"…are you having sex with him?"

You sit up, flustered and suddenly on edge as he pokes that raw, Satoru-shaped wound that sat so heavy on your chest. "I'm not cheating on you; I was performing."

"You are not allowed to 'perform' like that, ever again. It's bad enough you forced him into our—

"Don't act like you stopped caring about the music long before he came along."

"Would you let me speak?" He replies, just as flustered as you once were. Suguru's exhausted, springing up around the eyes because he wants to cry and beg for you. "This is what he does, can't you see?" He starts, standing up and snatching his pants from the edge of the bed. He steps into them like he's rushing, no underwear, his silver belt buckle clashing with his chunky rings. "He sees what I have and gets grabby. I have a successful music career; he wants in. I have you, he wants in. He forces his way in. It's always been like this…" His voice cracks, and you stand up.

You fall silent as he rushes around for his ratty t-shirt, back hunched as he feverishly tucks his long, unbrushed hair behind his pierced ears. In his bones, you can tell he wants to flee, but something in his head wills him to stay and try to speak.

"I… love you, Suguru. Nothing can change that." You reassure, pulling your bare knees into your chest as you settle back in. "Whether people think I'm with him or you, it doesn't matter, because I only love you."

"Are you stupid? It does matter what people think. Fuck the truth, baby. This is show business." He sniffles, pinching his nostrils closed before shaking his head. "I don't want him in the band. Neither does Nanami. He's an obvious distraction."

"You two are unbelievable."

"We two want you to have a career, and you're running yourself into a brick wall. Don't you understand that? You can't see how he's sabotaging us?"

"Satoru literally just wants to play with us."

"Because he wants to fuck you!" Suguru finally breaks, and it's in a million shards sprinkled at your feet. You can't take a step in fear of drawing blood, and you're shaking at the sound of his raised voice. "He wants to fuck you, then take you from me. I told you, he has a type, and this is always how things have been!"

"You're being paranoid—

"I'm not going to keep fighting with you on this." He deadpans, his belt undone and hanging at his waist as he storms out of the hotel bedroom. You sit for a moment, shell-shocked and a bit emotional at the sudden outburst. Still, if it's your duty to run to him, naked as the day you were born, to get more out of him, you'd do it.

"Suguru, wait. Don't go." You try, voice even as you step into the hallway, hot on his tracks. "It doesn't have to be like this — we can just keep him in the band. I mean, our fans love him."

"More than me, yeah."

"Stop." You deadpan, forcing yourself out of an eye roll so Suguru knows he can collapse back into you safely. "We both know that's not true. He didn't write the entire catalogue that made us what we are."

"He damn-sure played it as he did." He offers his final words on the situation just thrown at you in an emotional heap. You can tell it's a mix of insecurity, their past, and you, being the catalyst.

It's just so impossibly hard to ignore Satoru — he walks with an airiness that sweeps you into it. His voice is calm, sweet, and protective, making it nearly impossible not to fall for him. The universe has set you up in a way you can't control; now it's coming to bite you in the back. "Please, just hear me out."

He turns around, pointing at his ears like he's accusing you of the gift of sound. "Are you hearing yourself? Seriously. You're fighting me to keep him in the band and be able to see him outside of rehearsals, then say you two aren't having sex? Are you a liar or just confused?"

You shake your head, feeling about two sizes smaller under his belittling tone. "You don't have to… talk to me like that."

"Something isn't working in your mind. Nothing's clicking up there, hm?" He sucks his cheeks, hands on his sharp hips as he watches you masquerade for passion right in front of him, naked and uncaring. "You're just a wreck. Fucking look at you."

You're crying now, not that you weren't the second he started raising his voice, but it hurts. "Suguru, please don't do this to me. Don't do this to us."

"Us?! There is no more fucking, us! Not while he's around, why can't you see that?"

"N-no—

"And I'm not going to let him take you right in front of me." He pauses, eyes wide and wild, begging to shed a tear. "So I'm done. That's it — We're done."

You stand for a moment, bare chest hiccuping up the words you want to say as he goes to turn and walk out of your life. There's something different about this time, something that feels more tangible than any emotion you've seen from him in the past year. Your heart burns — your stomach is in your ass, and you can't breathe. It feels like your world is closing in.

Suguru moves in slow motion, rounding the front of the sofa to snatch the throw blanket, tossing it haphazardly into your chest. You don't even scramble to catch it as it hits your bare body and slides to the floor.

"At least make yourself decent—

"I hate you." You rush out like it's venom staining your throat. "You could wait until I was dressed before doing it, I hate—

"Right. So sorry. Should've waited until you were…" He pauses, back to you as he walks to the doorway out of your life. There's nothing you can do — you're inconsolable, dripping snot, tears, and broken begs all over your body.

"Till you, uh," He can't even look at you, reaching for the gold-plated doorknob as your knees get weak.

"Fuck it." Is what he chooses to leave you with — quiet and mealy. Barely there, barely spoken with enough respect to mean goodbye.

When that door shuts, and he's… gone… You don't feel better, you buckle.

Falling to your knees onto cold wood, your nervous system shuts down. Sobs wrack your body, spilling down your neck and collecting against your collarbone as you scream and cry for him. Suguru slammed the door, and it felt like you were stuck between the hinges, bloody and barely able to breathe, let alone exist in this moment without him.

And so, it begins again. That same cruel cycle that you live once a year.

Since Suguru left, you haven't gotten out of bed. You're dead to the world, wallowing in your own tears, because you can't fathom why this time feels so different.

Maybe it's the presence of Satoru — the knowing that he's there, and ready for you. But maybe it's Suguru's silence on the other end of things. He hasn't spoken to you in a week. That's how long it's been since the breakup.

If you could die in this hotel bed, the same one you two made love on for the last time, you would. But you have a seven-hour flight back home in four hours, and you still can't get up.

It takes a miracle and two blue eyes to pull you back to life.

Satoru hasn't heard from you in a week, and it's been eating him alive. At first, he thinks it's him, then he talks to Nanami and learns that even he hasn't heard from you. Choso, either. Satoru hasn't spoken to Suguru.

So he takes it upon himself to seek you out. Sure, he has the excuse of your departing flight hanging over his head, but his heart trumps that. It's his heart that leads him to your hotel room door.

Satoru doesn't just knock on your door; he bangs. He starts and doesn't stop pounding on the wood until you get up, wearing close to nothing, and answer it. He feels like he knows you, now. There's something about you, so fractured and golden that he can't help but feel drawn. That's all he sees when you come back into his vision — an unshowered mess covered in dry tears.

He frowns. "Hi, sleepy—

"Don't…" You shy away, covering up your eyes as if it'd shield you from his bright, optimistic gaze. "I-I know, our flight leaves soon."

"Yes, and." He swallows back the boyish grin he can't hide by being in your presence. "I haven't seen you since… last week." Satoru doesn't see the crust around your eyes — the remnants of tears that you couldn't rub away in time. You can't hide the rolling of your tummy, angry because all you've eaten in the past two days were your own tears and snot.

He pauses for a bit as he… really looks at you, pressing a big hand over the face of the door to push it open. "What happened? Is Suguru okay?"

At the sound of his name, your chest thrums. You shy away, pushing weakly against his weight. "I-I'll be down in a bit."

"No, that's not what I asked." His tone dips a bit, like he's ordering you. Of course, you buckle.

Still shielding your face down, he pushes the door open into your blacked-out hotel room. You stand back, letting him, pulling your arms over your chest.

Satoru tries not to notice the mess — or, the lack of one. This place doesn't look lived in, and you've been here for the past week. That worries him; you worry him. You're wearing close to nothing, but he doesn't quite notice. He sees the way you reach to cover your loose chest — how you look down and don't even offer him a passing glance. You just step back, staring at your bare toes as he forces himself into the dark room.

"Just… leave me be." You try, if only for naught, to say you refused to be his pity case. "I'll be at the airport in like… two hours. I'll call a car."

"Why should I believe that?"

"Because I told you that's what I'm going to do." You try putting your foot down in a meager, barely-there tone that Satoru stomps all over as he shuts the door behind him.

"You go ghost for a week and expect me to believe you're okay? Or to even leave you alone?"

"Yeah? If that's true, why'd it take you a week to see if I was okay?"

He shuts up, giving you a fake little chuckle from his throat. "You fucking scare me, that's why."

"You're full of shit." You reply, turning around as a fresh wave of unrelated tears springs to your eyes. It's all part of the grieving process — the overwhelming burn of tears at any given moment. "All of you… just so full of it."

As you walk away, Satoru shamelessly lets his eyes wander, raking up your backside, cocking a hip, and trying to gather the balls to give you what he knows you need to hear. "Babe,"

"Don't call me that."

"If you could just tell me… what's wrong…"

"Post-gig blues." You lie, trudging towards the back windows to pull the blackout shades you've been living under. The foggy London skyline shrouds the room in greyish, midday hues for the first time in what feels like forever, and you don't actually mind. The weather in this city feels a lot like how you feel. "Haven't heard from Suguru, either."

Satoru fiddles with his long, scarred fingers, sucking his cheek as you stare out into the bustling streets, losing yourself in the foreign cars. "Was with Nanami the other day, signing some papers, overheard him mentioning Suguru. I guess he's back in New York. Have you heard about that?"

"Does it look like I know where he is?"

Satoru throws his hands up, then blinks up at you… wearily. "Worth a try, eh?"

 "Okay, there you are…" His voice is hazy, sticky like honey as it gathers in your ear canal. "Breathe, baby. Just breathe."

"I— I'm gonna puke," You cry, head hanging between your shoulders as Satoru holds you up. It's a Friday night downtown — the concrete is moist with the afterglow of rain. Crowds are gathered along the bar-lined street, and smoke fills the air, rising from the subway grates and mysterious, unkempt vents. Your world is spinning, taking your head with it as you try to gain your composure. "I ha-hate him so f— so much,"

"There, there," Satoru reassures, offering his tall body as a support beam for you to bend over, wrists tossed over his broad shoulders, thick spit falling from your numb, parted lips. He peeks over to Choso, nursing a cigarette as he leans against the bar railing. The kid raises his brows, and Satoru looks shellshocked. Neither of them has seen you so… drunk.

"Su..grur…"

"Jesus, fuck—

"Just call her a car?" Choso's voice is steady, cutting through the chatter of the city just loud enough to feel real in the chaos. He stands up straight, raccoon eyes wide and sober as Satoru peeks back at him. "I call her a car?"

"So she can puke in it? No — sorry," Satoru mumbles, pulling you to the edge of the sidewalk as a group of friends pushes through into the bar. The jolting movement makes you dry heave, a sob following afterwards as you beg your body for any form of mercy. "They charge money for that, over here, Cho. Like, an insane amount of money, eh?"

The drummer shrugs, slipping his cigarette back between his lips before standing up straight. He's ready to go — has been ready to leave since he stepped foot in this place, but couldn't tell you or Satoru as much. It's your first night back in the city after… everything with Suguru that you wouldn't dare speak about, but the boys can gauge your emotions thus far. It's just another breakup in the hat of hundreds.

"We're supposed to walk her home?" He jogs down the platform, wind pushing his dark hair back from his forehead. Choso looks younger like this, with his hair down. It'd be something you could've appreciated if you weren't so gone, but he smiles at you like you're all there — that same stunning figure that graces the stage he's come to know all too well.

"You take one shoulder, I take the other?"

"I'll pay money, I don't mind—

"Just grab her," Satoru demands with a quick tone, grunting as he hoists up your falling figure. "Hey, pretty — we're walking home, okay? Back to your place?"

He's all you can see. All of your tequila daydreams are visions of his face — getting lost in the inky darkness of his hair and ingesting his scent like it's a potion. "S—sugu-

"I don't think he's the answer right now, babe."

You hear that in some semblance of the truth, and expel it all over Satoru's jeans and shoes, letting it drip and pool from your parted lips and spill all over the sidewalk. The group of girls next to you reacts, drunk off their own asses and too freaked out to be empathetic. Satoru dissociates for a second, unblinking as he feels his brand new shoes ruin on his first night out in this big, new city. "It's okay, let it out."

"I'm calling a car, now."

"Fine."

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[eraserbread]

Pleaseeeee, I'm begging you.... I need to know how Nanami react when his wife finally tell him she's pregnant and his not crazy this whole time.

click 4 context :)

nanami swears he's never seen you eat deep-fried... anything. it wasn't that you weren't keen; it just never fell into your lap. whenever you two ate outside of home, you found yourself walking hand-in-hand through the doors of your favorite hole-in-the-wall ramen shop.

but, tonight, you begged him. nearly cried with a jutted lip for something you never had, but doom-scrolled past on social media.

now you're sitting in front of him, back straight as an arrow as you uncharacteristically shovel steaming-hot slices of gyukatsu between your glossed lips.

he watches you hardly, flicking his eyes every few moments to catch the way your lips shake, or how you do that stupid little happy dance when you get the perfect bite. he's tending to his curried rice, eating slowly—your exact opposite. he smiles to himself, letting the table remain quiet with your content hums until you bite your tongue and whine out.

"slow down, my love." he speaks after swallowing his bite, leaning back. he can see the slight flush heading across your familiar neck as you react to his buttery voice.

"i'm so sorry. how impolite of me."

"well, i don't care much. just don't want you to burn or... bite yourself further." he nodding towards the sizzling hot stone just in your reach—a dangerous pairing with your eagerness.

flushed under fluttering gold lighting, kento swears you're beaming just a bit stronger. there's a tint to your cheeks that isn't usually there, a gleam that didn't exist until a month ago. he furrows his eyebrows.

"don't stare!"

"thank you for indulging me tonight." you smile as he bends at the knee to remove your shoes at your doorway. you're leaning a hand on the frame, body and mind full of wagyu and kento. "I know you've had a long day at work."

"long day or not, when you tell me you want something..." he pauses, grunting as he stands. "I listen. always. well, most likely."

you giggle, reaching up to hold the back of his neck. the small buzz of his undercut feels fuzzy and familiar—like home. "you're a good husband."

you don't notice, but kento does. the small lisp you give him in speech—he knows it's from your bruised tongue—he hums. "does it hurt a lot? your poor tongue?"

shaking your head, you're smiling. "no... yes... a little bit."

"may I see?" he's so close to you that his words bounce off of your lips like smog—so salty and warm. you nod immediately, always letting him in. "open up."

you're giggling again. "yes, sir." then you keep them parted, dropping your jaw so he can see inside of your warm mouth. you can hear his breathing in the closeness, the drag of his voice against his vocal cords as he inspects.

it's when he presses his finger against the side of your tongue, does it hit you. a debilitating, familiar wave of dizziness. then, you're weak and dipping, knees falling.

right before kento catches you with a single-arm hold on your back, he doesn't make a sound, but the look on his face is terrified. "nanami? are you okay? can you stand?"

it takes you a moment to focus, but his words make it easier. you shake your head, gently. "must've been the exertion."

"why don't you go sit? i'll bring you something, would you like tea?"

"i would love it. thank you."

so, he trusts your balance, but he lets you go like he's nervous. it's only to walk to the couch, but it seems as if you just can't catch your footing. then, you stall and lean to the side—he rushes you, sweeping you up in a cradle.

"no. straight to bed."

"i'm sorry." you whine, burying your head in the pillow when he places you on the mattress.

"i'm calling the doctor now. i've never seen you like this." he's keeping his promise in his perfect timing, scrolling through his contact list with a shaking head. you're staring up at him in horror, heart hammering in your chest, because you don't need a doctor. you know what's wrong.

"n-no, please don't... it's so late."

"doctors take call just like i do." then, he finds it, and just before his thumb presses that shiny green 'call now' button, you're stuffing your face into the pillow, letting it muffle your breathing.

"i'm pregnant." you whine into the fluff, hands twisted tight in the material. you hope he can't hear you, but it's far too late to take it back.

"hm?" kento heard you. crystal fucking clear. but, he's doing that unsure little eyebrow cock, thumb shaking as it hovers over his phone. "what?" he repeats.

"p-pregnant... i'm pregnant." it feels like lava pouring from your soul, so white-hot and shameful, because you've been hiding it for well over two months.

he scoffs, putting his phone down and burying his forehead in his big hand. there's a smirk there—very slight. you don't see it. "ah, well... yes, I suppose that explains it... all."

"please don't be mad at me, it's your fault."

"mine? how?"

"if you just..." you're still talking into the pillow, letting it do the heavy lifting. "you're always on top of me; it's like I can't keep you away."

kento laughs again, it's the most joyless sound that sparks so much within you. he nods, then sits down right next to you, smoothing a hand over the swell of your hips. "if it were possible to choose, i'd like to die on top of you—or inside of you."

"not funny." you're on the verge of tears, feeling the hormonal angst hit you like a ton of bricks.

kento clicks his teeth, then pushes your shoulder to get your flushed face free. "I wasn't trying to be... look, I am not mad-the direct opposite, actually." he's whispering, tracing that hand over your face. you're so warm, so free, now. "I am so happy. relieved that it wasn't something else, too."

"but i'm so scared."

"that's okay. so am i... both happy and scared and relieved; in love with you, your ways, and your spirit." that hand trails back down your side, then it rests right over your lower stomach, thumb rubbing across the covered skin. "and this little one we created together." when he presses, he can feel the firmness that wasn't usually there. "I don't think we will be very good at first, but i'd like it very much if we taught each other how to be the gentlest parents possible."

now, you're crying. it's falling in waves and buckets, snotting up your pillow and eliciting embarrassing sounds from your throat. you're kicking your feet, so built up and unsure where to expel it. "whyyyy," you sob, reaching to twist your smaller fist in his shirt. "why would you say that to me? I'm gonna explode—it's so-

"what are you talking about?" he cuts you off, cradling your clenched fist to his chest. he really just wants to wipe those tears away and make love, but he's kind of... afraid. you'll probably bite him just like your tongue.

"when you talk to me like that... it's so... i can feel it."

"hm... do you think our baby can feel it? i wonder if she can hear us."

"she? i feel like it's a boy."

"no." he whispers, shaking his head, and so sweetly purrs, "definitely a girl."