lemme love you
domestic fluff w/ bf!suguru ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀
suguru geto x f!reader (ft. 'potion' by djo)
“...like a witch i know I’ll need my potion…”
bf!suguru is sitting on the couch when you come home, the apartment warm with dimmed lights casting a soft glow on the domesticized furniture. the record spins upon its playing counterpart and the living room is thus filled with the soft strum of an acoustic guitar and djo’s gentle voice.
he’s waiting for you so that he can greet you with a warm embrace—an end-of-day touch of warmth he knows damn well you’d love to be welcomed to.
he hears your sigh once you enter through the front door with the rustle of some plastic bags—presumably the back patches and other anti-inflammatories you buy from the convenience store just down the street on the way back from work. he knows your work schedule is incredibly tedious, taking class at 10:15 in the morning then rehearsing for the rest of the day as a soloist in new york city’s very own home ballet company. had he been clueless about this professional ballerina lifestyle, he most likely would’ve been weary of the stress this position had on you and try and convince you to wind down, but given that this job was only guaranteed to a special few, he also knew that you weren’t willing to wind down for a career that only promised around twenty years of professional dancing before retirement.
suguru looks up from his laptop, hair tied up in a messy-yet-aesthetic bun that never fails to look like a flop. he smiles when he sees you, shutting the lid of the device before setting it aside stretching. Standing up, he sets forth to slide on his house slippers and moves to greet you at the door.
“hey, babe” he greets, a small swish-swash rustling following him from both his slippers and pants. His voice is gentle, cunning but ever so soft in its deepness.
“hi” you sigh, though it almost comes out like a ‘hm’ given that you were so tired from a day’s worth of back-to-back hour long rehearsals. “m’so tired”
“i know, i know” he chuckles, leaning against the threshold of the entry way. “c’mere, angel.”
his arms are open for you to walk into, head-first into his clothed chest and wrapped arms around his waist the way you always did after coming back tired from work. he takes your bags from you—all three of them—and sets them on a nearby stool to pick back up later. he guides you to the kitchen counter, sliding you into one of the high-chairs because, well, he was always the kind of partner/boyfriend to pamper his lover. He pours you a glass of milk—he thinks it’s kinda weird, but he loves you so it doesn't matter—and slides it over to you.
“why don’t you change, yeah? i’ve got dinner covered,” he gestures for you to leave, hands shooing you away whilst you roll your eyes and smile.
god, were you grateful to have such a caring partner.
he’d always been this way, though: sweet, gentle, and surprisingly domestic. his days were quite the opposite from yours as he worked as a clothing designer, designing clothes for his own brand and partnering with uniqlo a couple of times here and there for some collabs. his brand, a reflection of his own minimalistic, japanese street-style-esc clothing, was thoroughly inspired by traditional japanese wear and very adjacent to the “wabi-sabi” style popular amongst minimalists in the east. so while he spent his days designing on his tablet and sewing clothes to try and make affordable-yet-fashionable pieces, you were stuck in studios with only thirty minute breaks between rehearsals. it was tough having to adjust two such tedious lifestyles, but the both of you made it work: suguru did the house work some days while you did the others, eventually coming to do housework together on days off.
“...i'll try for all of my life…”
and so when you sit your pretty little self back at the counter, suguru’s already got dinner going, cooking a mean japanese cream stew from the recipe his mom brought last time she visited new york. he’s got you all cozied up now that the smell of delicious creaminess coming from the stove encompasses the kitchen area of the shared apartment. you also notice the soft whimsy-feeling coming from the lounge, djo’s ‘the crux’ album as an evening choice of record particularly appealing to your tired-self.
every was a relaxing night with your partner (not on intimate nights, however; those could get intense), and it always seemed as if it was this point in your life that the universe was working in your favor: beautifully handsome boyfriend, a nice apartment the two of you called home, and a promising career that only got increasingly better by the months. It was as if this was all lucid dream, one that you couldn’t wake up from. even when seriously stressed out about upcoming performances featuring debut roles, or simply stressed out about scheduling physical therapy and acupuncture appointments, this was truly the life you wanted: one with a loving partner that walked alongside you in your career and vice versa.
“...just to find someone who leaves on the light for me…”
the words resonate because, within the realm of interpretation, suguru truly did leave the lights on for you: the lights of shared intimacy rendered from a genuine care of heart. even when he’s occupied with his own work, he’s always considerate of your place in the relationship, always doing more than he needed to in order to take care of you when you most certainly had energy left to do it yourself.
“did you go to the vinyl store?” you ask, hands in your lap as you sit back to watch suguru prepare dinner.
“yeah, i had time during my break to walk around, so i figured i’d probably go check out and see if that new store has the album you like…”
he’s waving around the kitchen chopsticks as if they weren't hot from having stirred around the pot digging for a carrot (he had no awareness of when he was too carried away being a domestic dork).
“...i figured we needed new vinyls, too, ‘cause i keep playing the same ones over and over again when i get home…”
he does that a lot. ramble and ramble when he gets passionate about something seemingly mundane because he knows, once again, that you probably had too much on your mind about rehearsing—all that shit about remembering counts in musically-complex works.
“...but I actually think the album’s pretty good; it’s a lot better than I expected…”
and as you're watching him pour the stew from the ladle and into two acacia bowls the both of you bought from the muji store at chelsea market on 9th avenue, you can’t help but rest your cheek in the palm of your hand.
when he turns around, both hands of his occupied with the bowls, he finds you staring at him oh-so-lovingly that it makes him stop in his tracks.
“what…?” he asks, skeptical of what you may or may not have done. “did i do something?”
you reply with a chuckle: “no.”
he places the bowls on two dinner mats, one grey and the other a sort of matte dark blue color, and sits down next to you at the counter. he’s still got a small kitchen towel slung over his shoulder—performative but cute—accompnied by his hair having been tied up into a loose bun.
he takes a small sip of the stew, then speaks with his mouth full, “i don’t believe you.”
“am I not allowed to admire my man?” you chuckle, sitting back on the stool whilst watching him take the first few sips of the piping hot stew.
“you are if you eat,” he commands, tone neutral but with a sort of dominance hidden within his words. He picks up your spoon to feed you, “open.”
you let an ‘ahhh’ sort of sound leave your lips when he spoon-feeds you, letting the warmth of the cream base mixed with various vegetables savor and melt within your mouth. although you could be bratty just to mess with him, you’d always let him pamper you, since it felt nice once in a while to experience princess treatment.
“you’re evil,” you say, mouth sort of marbled with the cream of the stew. “not letting me love you.”
he watches as you take your time to adapt to the warmth of the stew, smiling as you succumb to the deliciousness of such home cooked meal and eventually settling into silence due to the sheer comfort of the food.
“i’ll let you love me when you take care of yourself.”
his hand comes up to brush away at some stray hairs of his, loose from having been tied up in a bun all day.
“but lemme love you first, ‘kay?” it was almost cringe the way he said it since it reminded you of those sappy friends-to-lovers shows that you’d occasionally catch suguru watching every so often. but you’ve sort of realized that the whole relationship thing was cringe in itself and that a lot of that ‘cringe’ was what you subconsciously craved for.
you nod and let your boyfriend spoon feed you once more, eye contact held with the record still spinning in the background.
“...leaves on the light for me…”
in fact, you found someone who did more than just leave the light on for you, but rather left the whole world of light on and on in hopes that he’d keep you happy. it was more than enough, but it was what you both needed: to be the carer and to be the one being taken care of.
hi lovelies !! this is lowkey my first oneshot after a 3 yr hiatus but i'm back! i rlly want to write more abt suguru, so pls pls pls request some stuff to write <3
13 July 2026
hey so actually i think i’m going to think about this oneshot everyday for the rest of my life
(also thank you for reminding me how much i love djo’s music)
- emma
