Loving you was really hard
Two years of dating, three years of marriage. You, Suguru and Satoru ā a perfect marriage most friends could be jealous of. You loved each other so much, it almost hurt. Sometimes their love was too much, you would say. It's just... it might have been too close to the obsession. But it was okay, that's how a good marriage should look! Right? Right...?You're still wondering, while packing your bags as quietly as you can, to not wake up your husbands.
content/warnings: MDNI, marriage, husband Geto Suguru x reader, husband Gojo Satoru x readers, Satosugu, yandere, obsessive behaviours, possessive behaviour, pregnancy (not forced), it's kinda a healthy relationship?, smut, breading kink, if I put this tag it'll be a spoiler, lies, fem! reader runs away.
a/n: Well HELLO. It's December, I'm a full-time student with two part-time jobs, so forgive my two-week break. But I'm back and I hope you'll love the basement reveal lmao!!!
You met Nanami during the second year of your marriage. Quite late, wasn't it? It was, however, quite an accidental meeting when you entered your husbands' office without making sure that no guests were there.
You wanted to ask them something trivial and completly forgot that an hour before someone had entered their office. You were so used to people coming and going through your house, without ever seeing them, that passing through the doorstep of their office felt like trespassing.
The man inside was tall, with blond hair elegantly pulled to one side and eyes so overworked that you immediately brought him a cup of tea. He looked like an elegant man, in a tight, black suit and a file case on the side. You've never seen your husbands' guests, and it was hard to assess how long they knew Nanami for; however, the relaxed atmosphere and soft glances from your men, with a quiet giggle and hand gesture inviting you to sit next to them, made you realise that Nanami was indeed someone they trusted.
Someone they wouldn't expect to betray them, like he did only a few months later.
You sat next to Satoru, feeling his heavy hand on your thigh.
"Nanami," he glanced back at the other man, who looked bored as never before. "Meet our dear wife, y/n."
You sent him a warm smile and nodded your head, while the blond man stared back at you, with a polite smile, quietly murmuring his greetings.
"So, how do you know each other?" you started, looking between the man and your husbands.
Gojo's eyes brightened when he chuckled under his nose.
"We've been knowing each other for so loooong, aight Nanamin?" he laughed, leaving Geto with a deep sigh and you with a soft smile.
"We've been doing business for a long time," Nanami corrected him, looking at you.
Was it your chance? You wondered. How much did Nanami know about the weird businesses your husbands were engaged in?
"Oh, is that right? What kind ofā"
But something stopped you. A chill, running through your spine. Was it that cold already? Impossible, your home was never cold, with heated floors which always warmly stuck to your feet.
You felt a cold gaze on you, almost stripping you down to skin and bones, leaving nothing more than a shiver on your neck.
The silent room felt quite eerie, with a heavy atmosphere scraping the wooden walls and paper-thin doors, you just wished you could slowly exit through right that moment.
You would recognise Suguru's gaze from miles. It always terrified you, although there weren't many moments he actually used it on you. Just sometimes, when you would behave more brattily than he wished, sniffing about things you shouldn't have, or not listening to what he said.
There was a hierarchy in your marriage, and both you and Gojo knew Suguru was the head of the family. The responsible man, perfect husband, good (future) dad ā the one you all relied on and always welcomed his strong presence.
And you loved it, being babied by Suguru like a good wife, cradled in his strong arms like a baby.
But Suguru was also the, well, "bad cop" if you could put it that way.
A man with no room for discussion, the true provider, a husband who rules his marriage with a strong hand.
That's why you always preferred to get angry with Satoru. He was much less... intense, you would say. More dramatic, unpredictable in his actions, but never putting you under pressure like Suguru.
"What did you want to ask?" asked Nanami, pulling you back from your thoughts.
You didn't dare to look at Suguru, just crumpling the material of the skirt on your thighs.
"N-nothing," you finally whispered, quickly standing up. "Let me bring you more tea."
And with these words, you grabbed the teapot and went back to the room.
They didn't like you asking this stuff. You knew it, but would it hurt to have their wife a little more involved in their business?
It's not that you had any particular interest in it, but something was telling you that all those men couldn't be coming from the friendly circles. You would hear their deep laughs, see elegantly dressed shoes and bodyguards standing outside your house. You could read the room and see that something wasn't right.
But, after all, why would you care if you had a life people could only be jealous of? No work, two great husbands, time to focus on your hobbies, monthly trips abroad, unlimited amount of money. It was nice. Right?
"Excuse me," you jumped, hearing a deep voice behind you.
Nanami was standing in the entrance of the kitchen, leaning casually against the doorframe.
"Oh, hi," you murmured, looking behind him to check if any of your husbands was somewhere nearby.
"They're still in the office, don't worry," he said.
You nodded your head, although you felt quite surprised that Suguru would allow a strange man to walk around their house.
"I'm in a bathroom," Nanami quickly added, smiling. "And Mr Gojo seems to be trusting me, so they won't suspect."
You nodded again, looking back at the kettle on the stove. He, however, continued the conversation.
"Pretty house. Have you decorated it yourself?" he asked, coming inside the kitchen and looking around the wooden shelves and the big window looking right outside the garden.
"I did, Satoru and Suguru let me do whatever I want with it," you giggled.
You loved that time, honestly, when furniture and decorations were coming one by one, with both of your husbands carefully placing everything where you ordered. You wanted to keep the old soul this place possessed, focusing on brown, woody tones with multiple plants scattered around, which Suguru seemed to love.
"How's your marriage?" he asked blatantly, making you quickly turn your head.
He was sitting at the table, with his leg elegantly placed on a knee.
"It's good," you hummed. "We're doing great."
He nodded, never taking his gaze off you.
"You seem to be stressed," he added, and you once again checked whether either Satoru or Suguru weren't looking for him.
They were usually a bit more suspicious, so the silence coming from outside the kitchen started to terrify you.
"I'm not sure what you mean," you forced a smile.
The kettle started to hum.
"When was the last time you went outside?"
You bit your lower lip. Where were they?
"I'm perfectly fine, thank you."
Hot steam was floating around the spout of the kettle, a warm cloud pushing against your nervous face.
"You don't even know their line of work, do you?"
You felt a shiver running through your spine and gut clenching with anxiety.
It was a second, really, when you touched the kettle too fast, burning your hand against the sizzling surface.
You gasped, taking a hand back and looking furiously at the blonde man.
"What do you want, huh? Is there anything else you want to say before I call Suguru? He wouldn't be happy to see you here," you barked, putting painfully throbbing skin under the cold water.
Nanami materialised next to you the next minute, looking at your burn.
"Uh, I'll be hearing about it..." you murmured, looking for an ointment in the kitchen drawers.
They were never happy, when you accidentally hurt yourself, becoming even more clingy than they already were.
A moment later, you felt something sharp touching your shoulder. Quickly turning your head, you noticed a neat piece of paper. A business card with Nanami Kento written on it.
"What is it?" you asked, nevertheless taking it from a man.
He looked at you with a frown, something behind those stoic eyes and a too business-like posture.
"If you'll ever want to know," he said, turning back from you and slowly going out of the kitchen. "Or if you'll ever need help. It's not a place for you, y/n," he added, disappearing around the corner.
A moment later, you heard Satoru's warm laugh spreading across the house once again, and Nanami's quietened voice. The dreadful silence haunting the corridors was finally lifted. The next second, the kitchen was filled with the presence of Suguru, who slowly came up to your still frozen posture. You smelled the cologne coming from his warm body and fingers, pinching your chin.
"Darling, are you okay?" he asked warmly, his amethyst eyes gazing at you so lovingly. "I'm sorry, you know? I didn't want to make you nervous," liar. "I just really don't want you to get involved."
And you just nodded, accepting his apologies and accepting the tight hug around you.
The sharp piece of paper, however, weighed in your pocket a tone, and Nanami's voice haunted your mind till that fateful day.
The long stairs of the basement led you right inside the cold room, built up on concrete walls, and the atmosphere shrouded in eeriness. Weak, yellow light was guiding you through multiple boxes placed on wooden shelves and other things cluttered around the place. You checked some of them, seeing the Christmas decorations, some garden seeds you forgot to use, or a few tools your husbands were using whenever you ordered new furniture. You saw your shoes, you thought you were gone, and some clothes, you were sure got lost during the move. Your panties, a few bras, a sundress you wore once during your trip to Hawaii.
"What the hell," you murmured.
And then you moved to other boxes. Garden tools, cookbooks, Satoru's boxing loves, Suguru's books, other holiday decorations.
Everything was so...boring.
And there were spiders indeed, with a few mice appearing in the cold corners of the rooms too, sniffing whether you brought them a piece of something delicious.
It was everything Suguru and Satoru told. A boring, rigid place, too cold and too scary for you to ever descend alone.
With all the noises and scratching you heard from this room, staring at its doors deep into the night.
Was it really just your own imagination?
But how could it be, with the way your husbands were keeping you away from it at all costs?
Stressed, tired and nauseous, you sat on the floor, leaning on one of the concrete walls.
A small mouse came up to you, with a pinkish nose, smelling your legs.
"Is there anything else?" you asked quietly, looking at her cute ears, turning your way. "Hm? Tell me I'm not crazy."
But she just turned and ran back to the dark corner of the basement. One that you somehow missed before. You walked her away with your eyes andā
You quickly stood up, tracing the dirt path the little mouse was just going through. Not dirty exactly, but more like... bloody?
You crouched, putting your fingers on the dried crimson floor, leading you right to the wall. The trace cut right there, although you could see that there was definitely something more to it.
So you traced the bloody trail with your finger, pushing all the lumps on the grey concrete, following the cut trail and looking for any hidden mechanism that would reveal a thing behind it.
The little mouse was still with you, looking closely at your hands pushing the wall.
"What?" you whispered. Oh, you were going crazy, talking to a fucking mouse. "You have a better idea?"
And of course, she didn't have, but her little muzzle turned towards the short rope, hanging from...the wall?
The corner was too dark for you to see it from the beginning, so you lit it up using your phone.
It indeed was a rope, quite rigid, just inviting you to pull it. And you carefully did it.
A part of the wall moved, and a small entrance was revealed right in front of your eyes.
"Oh my god," you blurted, stunned with the view spreading in front of you.
A long corridor invited you with a stench of blood and antiseptic, the kind that tried, and failed, to hide the heavy smell. The lights flickered faintly overhead, casting uneven shadows that stretched and recoiled as if they were alive.
You stepped inside, seeing the door right in front of you.
Your feet moved before your mind caught up. Each step echoed too loudly, your breath trapped somewhere between your ribs and your throat. The air was cold, heavy, pressing against your skin. You were already regretting it, as if the tracker behind your ear wasn't the scariest thing you've already discovered about your husbands.
You stood in front of the wooden surface, pushing the handle with a trembling hand, so sweaty you were sure it would leave traces on its metal surface.
You opened the doors, peaking inside the room.
The first thing you noticed was the metal chair bolted to the floor. Cold, with chains hanging around the arms and feet. You moved closer and noticed dried blood on the floor, slowly creeping up and up the chair's leg, up to its back.
Your gut was already twisting, vomit coming up to your throat.
Right next to the chair was a small table, full of used towels, tools and documents. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to look closer, to maybe understand.
You leafed through the papers, trying to ignore the metallic smell attacking your senses. Names. Dates. Short, precise notes written in handwriting you recognised instantly. One sharp and careless. One calm and deliberate. Each person had an assigned reason ā bribery, loan, betrayal, y/n.
"What?" you murmured with a trembling voice, looking at one of the files. There was nothing else, however, aside from the name, which didn't tell you anything, and the face of a man, whom you also didn't recognise.
And at the end of each document was a note.
Or, if the paper had a few drops of blood.
Your hands started to shake.
You started backing out of the room, only to freeze when a sound reached you from behind. A low groan.
You slowly turned back, your lips trembling with fear, the corners of your eyes slowly filling with tears.
āNo,ā you whispered, looking at the man chained to the concrete wall, with his head so bloodily messed up, you needed to lean on the table for a moment.
He didnāt lift his head, although you knew he felt your presence. Chains pulled his arms unnaturally high, his body trembling with shallow breaths. When he finally looked at you, his eyes widened. With hope? Maybe with fear, seeing the way his mouth was opening and closing, with no sound coming through his dry lips.
"Madam," he finally whispered, bowing his head.
You were looking at him, unable to recognise the man he was before, with a face beaten up to a pulp and dried blood on his cheeks.
"I-if..." he started, but the position wasn't allowing him to speak without taking painful gasps. "If y-you could p-put in a kind word to b-boss Gojo..."
"I'm sorry?" you whispered, coming a bit closer.
His breath hitched immediately, shoulders straining against the chains as if your proximity alone hurt him. He shook his head, a sharp, frantic motion.
āN-noā pleaseā donātāā He swallowed thickly, lips cracking. āJ-justā¦ tell bosses I cooperated. I told them everything. I swear.ā
The title landed like a blow to your chest.
You opened your mouth, then closed it again, your throat suddenly too tight to force any words through. The man mistook your silence for judgment. Panic flared in his eyes.
āI didnāt touch you,ā he rushed out hoarsely. āI never would. I didnāt know who you were, I swear onāā
āI know,ā you said quickly, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. āI know. Why are you..." you started, but words just couldn't leave your mouth. How could you even ask him this question? So you decided to turn it into something else. "Why did you call me Madam?"
The man looked at you, confused, but a smile and desperate politeness didn't leave his trembling face.
"W-what do you mean, Madam. You are the wife of boss Gojo and boss Geto, i-isn't that right?"
You bit inside of your mouth, utterly confused in the whole situation.
But what? But you were utterly ignorant of what business your husbands were involved in? What was hidden in the basement of your house, where you lived for the past two years? But you didn't know why a dying man was hanging on a wall under your roof?
"I never betrayed the organisation, I-I swear, Madam, i-if you could onlyā"
āOrganisation?ā you repeated, the word tasting wrong in your mouth.
His smile faltered for the first time. Not fear ā confusion. As if you were the one saying something strange.
āYouā¦ you know,ā he said carefully. āBoss Getoās group. Boss Gojoās territory.ā
"S-speak clearly," you demanded, but your voice betrayed your anxious posture.
The man swallowed, throat working painfully as he shifted against the chains. His breathing grew erratic, sharp gasps scraping out of him.
"What are they? You think,ā you quickly interrputed, voice shaking despite yourself, āthat my husbandsāā Your breath caught. āārun some kind ofā¦criminal group?ā
His eyes widened, face turning into a terrified grimace. You could almost see droplets of sweat forming on his forehead.
"You don't know," He finally whispered. "Madam, you don't know anything."
And it wasn't a question. A clear statement stabbed you like a knife, leaving you trembling, with a breath so erratic you could no longer stand straight. He stared at you as if seeing you for the first time ā not as their wife, not as something untouchable, but as a completly unaware woman right in the middle of hell.
"You reallyā M-madam, they don't know y-youre here, right? M-madam, you need to h-help me. Please, Madamā"
Your chest began to ache, pressure building painfully behind your ribs.
"What are they?" You put an accent on every word.
"Madam, how could you not notice? The clan, the people, t-the whole organisationā"
Of course, you noticed. But it was normal for businessmen, right? An unlimited amount of money, mysterious meetings, big clan groups, and bodyguards in every corner of your home. It was safe. It was needed.
"Kill me," he demanded, bringing back your attention. "I'll tell you everything, just promise to kill me. It must be quick, not painful."
"I can't s-stand their torture anymore," he cried, his whole body trembling just by looking at your utterly confused face, so innocently unaware of anything happening around you. "I don't have anything. T-they went after my f-family, my wife, a kid. IāI don't know where my son is, I don't know if he's..."
But you couldn't listen to it anymore. So you did the only thing you should do from the beginning ā run.
You left the room, hearing the loud cries of the man left behind. It was so stupid. So, so, so stupid. You were, after all, just a stupid woman, with a curiosity that dragged you right down to hell.
The corridor felt narrower now, the walls closing in, the air thick with everything you didnāt know how to unsee.
You turned, desperate to leave.
Only to notice a door you hadnāt seen before.
And if you were already in hell, what difference would it make to check this one too?
You pushed it open, coming right into something different.
Shockingly, terrifyingly different from the previous room.
This place was warm, softly lit, carpeted. For a split second, your mind rejected the reality of it, insisting youād imagined the corridor entirely. There was no stench of blood here, no weird chairs, bloody tools and dying men hanged on walls.
No, but there was something else.
And, well, maybe you wouldn't mind seeing a corpse after all.
You were looking at photographs. Dozens of them. Hundreds.
You at the kitchen table, chin resting in your hand. You asleep on the couch, hair spilling across Suguruās thigh. You laughing, head thrown back, completely unaware.
It was cute ā the candid photos your husbands took of their beautiful wife. All of them were taken during your relationship, and you started to wonder, why they just didn't make them into shared album.
But then you looked at others.
Older photographs. Their colour was different ā grainier, softer around the edges. You were younger in them. Your hair longer. Your clothes unfamiliar. Something you would wear during the early days of your university. Very early days.
You frowned, stepping closer.
You were sitting in a cafƩ you remembered only vaguely, hunched over a book, unaware of the camera. In another, you stood at a crosswalk, looking down at your phone, mid-step. In a third, you were laughing with someone whose face had been carefully cropped out of the frame.
Then another one ā you asleep.
Not on your couch, in the house you currently lived in. The picture was old, with your hair messily scattered on the pillow, face slack with exhaustion, one arm thrown above your head. The timestamp in the corner of the photo made your stomach twist.
You didnāt live with them yet.
Shiver slowly crept up your spine as you followed the wall filled with photos. The photographs were arranged meticulously, chronologically.
Another photo ā you in front of your old apartment building. It was dark, with only you outside that hallway, fumbling with your keys.
It wasn't a memory you ever shared with them.
It wasn't a photo they could take during your relationship.
The warm room suddenly felt too small, as if the walls were closing in on you, caging you in a tight embrace.
"No," you whispered, backing out. "How is itā"
You stumbled on a carpet, falling back on its plush surface. Your eyes met with a lower shelf, open, with a stack of papers peeking at you.
You took them, checking one by one.
Medical records, education history, all people you had closer contact with, carefully written down in neat tables.
A background check was so thorough, it made your stomach twist.
Another folder slid out when your knee bumped the shelf. This one was newer, with softer things inside. Receipts from dates, handwritten notes, pressed flowers.
She likes this place.
She enjoyed this movie.
That's where she buys her clothes.
All her supplements.
Your fingers traced all the documents, the folder with different names, people you didn't even remember.
You pulled one out at random.
A man. Early thirties. Minimal personal information. A photo clipped to the corner ā his face intact, smiling faintly. Beneath it, notes written neatly, clinically.
Approached her at the bar. Stayed too long.
Followed her home once.
Case: Closed.
You checked another one. And another. And then the next, until the descriptions started to blur through your teared eyes.
Threat neutralised.
Invited her out alone.
Potential long-term influence.
For her safety.
You closed the file with trembling fingers and put it back on the shelf.
You stood up from the carpet, looking around the room. Your gaze drifted around the walls, shelves, and pictures filled with your smile.
And then it landed on a bookshelf.
You came closer, although based on the crossed calendar hanging right next to it, you could already feel nausea coming back.
The shelf was filled with a variety of books. But not novels. No, all of them were books on pregnancy, family, fertility, and proper raising of children. Your finger brushed a familiar spine ā the pregnancy book Suguru showed you a while ago.
"We need to prepare," he said softly when you caught him reading it in the late evening, sitting comfortably on a sofa.
"We can start preparation after I get pregnant," you murmured, laying your head on his thighs.
He covered you with a blanket, placing a warm hand on your scalp, massaging it softly in slow circles.
"That's right, and it can be any day now," he said, but you didn't answer, just doing the pregnancy test the next day.
You looked at the calendar. The book suddenly slipped from your hand, quietly hitting the carpet. Your lips were left hanging, eyes widened with the row of red crosses and small annotations on the margins.
Your every late period, fertile days, and behaviour during ovulation.
She's more needy.
The most satisfied in this position.
Cycle irregular this month.
Stress may be a factor ā reduce external influences.
Smiled at the mention of this name.
āOh my god,ā you breathed.
And then something caught your eye.
Removed the IUD, start counting from today.
The note was made a month ago.
You looked at it in disbelief, cheeks already wet with tears.
And then remembered. Your last checkup, with a doctor you've always treated as your safe boat. She was weirdly nervous that day, avoiding your eyes and nodding quietly at your every question.
"Yes, you're safe from pregnancy."
But then you felt the sharp pain in your abdomen.
"Don't worry, Miss, I was just checking if it's properly installed."
And then she, as always, ensured your husbands that everything is fine. You're perfectly capable of getting pregnant.
You came back to the shelf, nervously searching through neat files and clipped documents. They must have noted something about it. Looking at all the evidence, there was no possibility that they didn't put it somewhere in a separate folder.
And you were right, sitting on the floor and crumpling a piece of paper in your hand.
Yours, of course, with a clean note on the margin.
Doctor compensated
Non-disclosure enforced
Your hands began to shake violently.
You sat there, rifling through the papers despite yourself, your mind screaming at you to stop. Ultrasound appointments marked tentative. Blood tests labeled baseline.
You sank onto the carpet, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, trying to breathe through the conflicting rush of emotions tearing you apart. Fear. Violation. And, worst of allā
Because you recognised the handwriting. Recognised the care. Recognised the way every note revolved around protection. Around building a life where you never had to see the blood that paid for your peace.
And, oh, how much you loved and hated them at the same time, wanting to rip their heads off their bodies, but also throw yourself into their arms and love them with a greed and passion.
But it wasn't possible. And you knew it.
You knew it when nausea was already so bad, you ran back to the first floor and vomited in the bathroom for the next few hours.
It was bad when you saw the unanswered calls from Suguru and multiple messages.
It may have got worse when you finally did a pregnancy test and saw the result, your husbands were forbidden to see.
But, oh, you knew, you were fucked, when you decided to keep the baby. Just not with them.
You took the hidden phone Shoko gave you just in case and dialled a number, you were looking at every day for the past few weeks.
You waited nervously, two lines staring right at you from the bathroom counter.
"Yes?" you heard a deep voice, calming your tattered nerves.
"Nanami?" you asked quietly, as if scared your husbands would hear you.
But they weren't here, and you desperately needed help.
You bit your finger, trying to calm trembling hands.
"So you want to know the truā"
"I want you to help me run away." You interrupted.
The line on the other side was quiet. You could almost hear thoughts running through his head, the whole request of him betraying his... what? His partners in crime?
You knew, of course, Nanami must've also been associated with the criminal world, your husbands were supposedly leaders of.
You just didn't know how involved he was, still remembering the offer he placed during your first encounter.
What you knew for sure, however, was that he was powerful enough to help you pull this idea.
"Are you sure?" He asked.
"Yes, they'll be back in three days. I need toā"
"Alright, listen to me carefully."
You listened so carefully, you still heard his voice haunting your mind, when a few days later, you looked back at your husbands, sleeping peacefully in your bed.
They looked like angels, with hair scattered on pillows and slowly rising chests, wrapped with a warm duvet.
The tea you spiked with sleeping pills must've been quite strong, for them to not wake up even after you untangled yourself from their cage-like embrace.
You didn't sleep that night. You didnāt even move until their heads dropped back against the pillows, until the room filled with the steady, even rhythm of their breaths.
Only then did you let yourself shake.
And now, standing at the bed, with a suitcase packed full of your clothes, you felt your heart breaking into pieces.
It was difficult to keep the tears away from running down your cheeks, the small regret stabbing your heart.
āIām sorry,ā you whispered, leaning over Satoru first. āI love you. I love you so much.ā
You kissed him one last time, doing exactly the same with Suguru.
"I love you so so so much," you put your hand on his warm cheek. He pushed it closer to your soft skin, a small frown appearing between his brows. And you needed to stop yourself from pushing your clothes back into the wardrobe and letting get tangled with their bodies again on the warm bed. "But it's for our good."
Our. Yours and your child.
You packed only what Nanami told you to pack. No photos. No keepsakes. Nothing that would slow you down or make you hesitate.
You stopped at the door to give them one last look.
Just one, before you went outside and packed all your things into Shoko's car.
You wondered how Nanami got rid of the bodyguards outside, seeing how there was absolutely no one who could stop you from leaving.
Was it really that easy after all?
Shoko put her hand on yours, squeezing it softly.
"Now the most difficult part," she said, starting the car.
And she was right. Now, you needed to find a place where they wouldn't find.
But subconsciously, you knew that even hell wasn't deep enough for you to hide.
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