content: jjk au, jjk men (gojo, yuji, geto, megumi, and yuta as requested) x fem!reader, fluff, reader has anxiety about being pregnant, morning sickness, kissing, showering together (only with geto), not proofread, etc etc etc
GOJO.𖥔 ݁˖
it's early in the afternoon and you're taking another steaming shower, trying to calm yourself down from your mood swings and your constant nausea. you've been feeling unwell since two days ago, and you find this so-called sickness to be very aggravating. it just refuses to go away.
gojo has been trying to help you feel better since you first started feeling sick. he tried to make you some simple foods like soup and rice, but the smell of almost any food alone has been making you squeamish.
at first he thought you might just have a bad stomach bug, but since it barely went away, now he's starting to think your sickness is something different. way different.
"you feeling better now?" gojo asks, watching you walk into the bedroom with a towel on as he puts on a new shirt.
"yeah," you murmur, a hint of relief in your voice. "wait, why are you getting all dressed up?"
"'cause we're going shopping," he says, giving you a smile. "we'll get some things to make you feel better. i know why you're sick."
"why do you think i'm sick?" you ask, walking to the closet to pick out some clothes.
"you're pregnant." he responds casually, like his words have no seriousness to them.
your mind goes blank while he looks at you for a response. "pregnant.." you mutter, trying to process what he just said. "you really think so..?"
"mhm," he confirms, stepping closer to you and keeping his eyes on yours. "i just know it."
you sigh as he puts a hand on your waist. "what's the problem?" he asks quietly, analyzing the look on your face. he can tell you're nervous.
"i don't know, i'm just scared.. if you're right, i don't know how i'll be able to handle it." you answer, anxiety clear in your voice.
"you'll be fine, you know i'm here for you." he consoles, rubbing your back to calm you down. you give him a small nod, and he leans down to press his lips against yours. his lips are patient and gentle, and the kiss only last for a few seconds before he slowly pulls away.
"now put on some clothes before i get distracted."
✦
the car ride to the store was mostly silent, and you stared out the window the whole time. gojo obviously noticed and he tried to make your anxiety settle, but it didn't work out very well. you didn't even properly respond to him.
you were still nervous in the store, and the only thing he could do to calm you down was hold your hand. he kept holding on to it as he walked through the aisle, getting crackers, ginger ale, applesauce, and one pregnancy test.
he held your hand the entire time you were in the store, even though it made holding the groceries a bit harder. he knows how much the idea of bringing a child into this world scares you, and he wants to keep you feeling calm as much as possible.
when you get home after about 20 minutes, gojo immediately goes to the kitchen to put all the little snacks away. "you want to eat now and take the pregnancy test later?" he asks from the kitchen, opening the fridge and putting some of the snacks in it.
"i'll just take the test now." you say quietly, almost so silent that he can barely hear you.
"you sure?" he ponders, walking back over to you.
"yeah, i just need to get this over with. i'll probably be sick again if i eat while i'm so nervous.." you confirm, fidgeting with your fingers.
"i'll come with you." he says, reaching his hand out for you to hold it. your fingers intertwine with his as you walk to the bathroom.
after you take the test, you sit on the closed toilet with one leg shaking. "we have to wait for about two minutes," he murmurs, rubbing your shoulder. "i can check it for you if you want."
you just give him a small nod and continue to wait, taking deep breaths to calm down. after the two minutes are up, he gives you a reassuring look and gets up to check the test. you keep your eyes on him, watching as he picks it up and reads the results.
"come here," he says, gesturing for you to get off the toilet and see the results for yourself. as you stand in front of him, he holds the test up to show you the results. it has two bold lines.
"we're really having a baby." he chuckles, almost like he can't believe it himself.
"oh my god, satoru.." you exhale, momentarily closing your mouth in shock.
he puts the test down and pulls you into a tight hug, kissing your forehead head as small tears bead on your eyelashes. you're not shaking with anxiety anymore, but now you're crying. "you think the baby will have my eyes? your hair? i bet my eyes." he says playfully, trying to lighten your mood.
"your eyes and my hair." you murmur, looking in his warm eyes as your lips curl into a small smile.
he nods and continues to hold you, soothing your nerves and all your worries. you know they'll eventually come back at some point because of your mood swings, but at least he's here to hold you like this.
YUJIꫂ❁
"i'm sorry, are you okay?" yuji asks, confusion and concern evident in his voice and facial expression.
you and him were play fighting on the couch, but that ended abruptly when his arm hit your chest and you let out a small gasp of pain. it hurt way worse than you would've expected. your chest is sore, but it aches a lot more than it usually would.
"yeah, i'm fine.." you confirm, holding on to your shirt.
"why does it hurt that much?" he asks, putting a hand on your shoulder. "are you.. on your period or something?"
"no, i actually haven't gotten it in a few days." you respond, letting go of your shirt and grabbing a pillow you previously threw off the floor.
"hm," he hums, putting his thumb under his chin as he thinks back to yesterday. "weren't you feeling sick yesterday? like, you were nauseous and stuff?"
you nod, and he goes quiet for a moment. suddenly the both of you come to a realization that your symptoms aren't normal. "wait, what if i'm pregnant?" you wonder, looking down and considering the thought in your head.
"you probably are," he agrees, standing off the couch and going to put his shoes on. "wait here, i'll go get a test to make sure."
he quickly walks out the door, and you sit on the couch with your mind overthinking. you could see the expression on face, and it seemed like he was nervous about you possibly being pregnant. it wasn't that obvious, but it's worrying you. he rarely gets nervous.
as soon as he gets back home, you pull him into the bathroom for emotional support as you take the test. the closer you get to seeing the results, the faster your heart races. he can see your heart pounding out of your chest.
"hey, there's no need to be scared." he says calmly, putting his hand on your head as you look in his eyes. you nod, but he can tell you're still nervous— way more nervous than him.
"i have an idea; what if we both look at the same time? we should close our eyes and open them after a countdown." he suggests, a smile appearing on his face as he speaks. you let out a breathy laugh as you process his idea.
"what? what's so funny?" he retorts, squinting his eyes at you.
"nothing, i just feel a little less nervous. thank you."
he nods and continues to smile, counting how many seconds are left until the results are ready. "okay, cover your eyes." he says, putting a hand over his face so he can't see anything.
"they're covered." you verify, biting your lip in anticipation.
"okay, you ready?" he asks, making sure you're prepared before he counts down.
"mhm," you confirm, tapping your fingers on the sink counter with your free hand.
"3...2...1!"
you open your eyes, and they stay wide as you look at the test. "yuji, no way.." you gasp, picking up the test and bringing it to his face as if he can't already see the results.
"wow, i'm really gonna be a dad.." he murmurs, feeling the rate if his heartbeat go up in his chest. even with the results in his face, it's almost like he can't believe the news. this doesn't feel like reality.
he takes the test from your hand and wraps his arms around your waist, squeezing you so tight it's hard to breathe. "i can't believe it, i'm really having a kid— we're having a kid." he breathes, slowly loosening his grip on you.
"do you think i'd be a good mom?" you ask, pulling away and looking in his eyes.
"yeah, i think you'll be the best mom." he answers quickly.
"really?" you ask again, feeling your heart swell in your sore chest.
"yeah, i promise."
GETO˚☽˚｡⋆
the water runs hot across geto's skin as you open the pregnancy test box. you decided you wanted to take the test you and him agreed you should take.. only while he was in the shower just so he didn't have to see you crying.
you already know you're pregnant— the symptoms were just too strong. the only point of taking this test is to confirm that. the thought of the results saying positive makes you feel too much, and you know you'll start crying uncontrollably when the time comes. unfortunately, geto's not stupid and he can hear you.
"what are you doing in here? you think i can't hear you?" he asks, keeping his voice loud so you can hear him over the shower noise.
you take the pregnancy test out the box and lay it down on the sink. "..i'm taking the pregnancy test right now.." you admit, folding under no pressure.
"really?"
"yeah.."
"you couldn't wait until i got out the shower?" he sighs, pulling the shower curtain back so he can look at you.
"i just didn't want to cry in front of you— i can already feel the tears welling in my eyes.." you murmur, looking away from him and reading the instructions on the box.
"and why is that?" he asks, continuing to stare out the shower at you.
"i don't know, i just think it's embarrassing.." you exhale, your voice growing quiet.
"those mood swings are really getting to you, huh?" he chuckles, smirking at you as you look back at him. "it's okay, just take the test. i'll be out in a second."
as you take the test, tears fall from your eyes. you're feeling mixed emotions about this, and geto can feel it without you even saying a word. it doesn't even take a couple minutes before the results are ready. you close your eyes and take a breath as you pick up the test, your hands shaking in the process.
"suguru.." you mutter, reading the word, "pregnant" on the test.
"yeah?" he responds, knowing you just read the results based on the shake in your voice.
"it says i'm pregnant." you sigh, standing next to the toilet and keeping your eyes on the word in front of you.
"come here," he says, pushing the curtain back again and gesturing for you to come closer.
he gently takes the stick from your hand as you stand in front of him, reading the results and looking back at you with a soft smile. "you alright, baby? you look like you're about to cry even harder."
he was right, it didn't even take a second after he stopped talking and you're already bawling. "it's alright baby, stop crying.." he huffs, cupping your face with his wet hands and kissing your forehead. "come on, get in the shower."
he helps you take off your clothes and you get in the shower with him, rinsing your tears with the shower water. he wraps his arms around your waist and kisses you softly, keeping you pressed against him. as you kiss him back, he puts one hand on your hip and the other rubbing on your stomach.
"seriously, you okay?" he murmurs, keeping your body close to him.
"mhm.." you hum, pulling him back in for another kiss.
when he holds you like this, skin to skin, it always makes you feel safe. moments like these remind you why you fell in love with him in the first place. there's no other man you can imagine having a kid with— at least not in this lifetime.
MEGUMIִֶָ☾.
the only light in this dark, quiet bedroom is the tv. both you and megumi are mindlessly watching what's on the screen, barely paying attention because you've been throwing up all day and this is the only time there's real peace.
his hand involuntarily rubs your stomach, moving in lazy circles. he doesn't even realize it until you sigh. "i'm sorry you've been so sick all day." he exhales, moving his hand off you when he recognizes what he's doing.
"wait, keep your hand on me.. it feels natural." you mutter, tugging on his hand.
"yeah? natural?" he asks, looking at you with a raised brow.
you nod, and he rubs his hand on you again, lying on his side as he looks at his touch on your stomach. "it's almost like there's a baby in there.." you murmur, looking down at his hand.
"hm," he hums, stopping his hand for a moment. "you know, that does make sense— i mean, you've been throwing up this whole day.."
"you really think so?" you ask quietly, looking in his eyes now.
"yeah.. it's not too late to go buy a test if that's what you want to do."
you let out a sigh and give him a small nod, lifting yourself up and sitting against the headboard. he gets up too, standing up and pulling your hand so he can lift you off the bed. he can see the sudden look of worry on your face, even if it's not that obvious.
"hey, don't be scared. i'm here for you, alright?" he reassures, continuing to hold your hand as you walk to the door.
"alright.." you whisper, giving him a small kiss on the cheek.
✦
after you come back from the store together, megumi comes with you in the bathroom to take the test with you. at first he seemed so confident and calm about this, but the closer you're getting to knowing if you're pregnant or not, the faster his heart rate beats. you can just see it.
you can hear him whisper your name as the timer on your phone goes of with the alarm to check the test. "wait, if you're really pregnant, do you think i'd be a good father? or a good parent in general? i just— i don't know.." he says in a worried tone, trailing off.
"megumi.." you sigh, looking at him to see him looking down at the sink. "yes, i think you'll be a good dad. i know it— don't worry."
he nods and looks back at you, feeling his sudden panicking fade away. "..let's just look now." he rasps, analyzing the look on your face.
as he sees the positive sign on the test, it feels as though time has stopped completely for a second. he looks in your eyes with an unreadable expression, and you can just feel the atmosphere shift.
"you're.. really having my baby.. i don't even know what to say.." he murmurs, stepping closer to you. he pulls you into a hug, shutting his eyes and melting in your arms.
"we don't have to know what to say, this is.. new to us." you respond, rubbing his back with tears on the brink of falling out of your eyes.
he just sighs and nods, relief and warmth flowing through his body. you always make him feel safe even when you're worried too. "i'm so grateful for you.." he mutters, rubbing your back and wiping your eyes. "i'm so happy you're the mother of my child. i wouldn't want it any other way."
his words make tears flow out your eyes harder, and he looks at you with a concerned look. "why are you crying even more?" he asks, wiping your tears again. you shake your head and he goes silent and pulls you in closer.
sometimes words don't need to be said and you understand each other perfectly. that's why you chose him in the first place.
YUTA𓇢𓆸
yuta's been asleep for hours, while you've been up since nightfall. this whole night he's been tossing in his sleep, like he's having a bad dream. he keeps whispering your name over and over. you tried to wake him up twice, but he just wouldn't budge, so you decided maybe it's time for you to find something out.
yesterday you went to the pharmacy to get a pregnancy test. you didn't say a word about it because you wanted to surprise him. now that he's asleep, you can finally take the test without him knowing.
as you take the test, you hear his whispers get louder. it causes you to lose focus and get scared he might wake up, but you can't stop now— you only have a few minutes left to wait.
just as you're about to check the results, he walks into the bathroom with an exhausted look on his face. "why are you up..?" he yawns, walking close to you without a clue that you're taking a pregnancy test.
"uh—" you stammer, getting cut off when he starts to talk again.
"i had this dream.. you were giving birth.. to our kid." he says, rubbing his eyes.
what. a. coincidence.
"what? no way.." you mutter, surprise written all over your face. he literally predicted your pregnancy.
"wait," he whispers, finally noticing what's on the sink. "is that— is that a pregnancy test? it says it's positive.."
you gasp as you look at the test to see he was right. "why didn't you tell me you were going to take a test?" he asks, softly grabbing your arm and looking in your eyes with a betrayed expression.
"i wanted it to be a surprise, but i guess it wouldn't work anyway." you confess, looking down in embarrassment.
he sighs as he continues to look you in the eyes, loosening his grip on your arm. he puts that same hand on your stomach, imagining a baby growing inside you. "there's really a baby in there.." he says, a slight pout showing on his face. "no way.."
"do you think the baby will look more like you or more like me?" he asks, giving you a big smile. "i think me.."
"i think there will be a mix." you guess, looking down at his hand on your stomach.
"i saw it in my dream, the kid looked exactly like me." he retorts, rubbing his hand in wide circles.
you don't even have a response for that. his dreams have been pretty accurate so far. "but seriously," he starts, looking in your eyes. "i'm so happy, i love you so much.."
you answer with a kiss, pulling him closer to you without hesitation. as he returns your kiss, you can hear him whisper your name again— just like in his dream, but more quiet. your surprise went wrong, but nothings better than hearing your name fall from his lips. you want to hear it again and again.
I had a fifteen minute long crying session yesternight over the fact that all I was 10 years ago, at the ripe old age of 14, is lost and lonely, and now, at 24, I am neither and that filled me with so much gratitude
reblog to tell a teenager that these aren’t actually the best years of your life and that things can and will get better when you have independance and maybe are away from your situation right now.
Same thing with young adults. It can still get better. Your thirties aren’t when you’re getting old, that’s 70s-80s and we all know old people can be cool as hell anyway.
It might take time. More than has already passed, but it will get better.
It gets better. It does, right? Yeah. Yeah it gets better.
I didn't want to make this post, but they aren't letting up
EMERGENCY COMMS, 10$ FOR A SIMPLE FULL BODY COLORED SKETCH SIMILAR TO THESE, 15$ FOR SIMPLE HALFBODY RENDER, WILL BE PUT INTO MY MOMS HOSPITAL BILL/STOMACH SURGERY
I know that's low, lower than I'd usually go, but I just need people to afford it, my mom's hospitalization bill racked up to a 100k and is STILL going up, if it's too vague for you, I can explain everything in DMS or a different post, if I can leviate that in any form that's what I'll do. Humans/elves/furries/dragons, anything is on the table
Payment is via PAYPAL/KOFI, if possible, you can donate to my kofi here— ONLY if you can afford it, I'm sorry this is short and to the point, I have more posts to do and can't format this how I want to. And I'm sorry for asking this of you all again.
Support CoqueXari
Example of the render below v
Once this goes back to normal, y'all need some sort of, art reward
today's episode of...who the fuck did I marry? (literally)
synopsis: so you woke up next to the hottest man you've ever met. except, you've never seen him before and he swears he's your husband. and the more you talk to him, the less certain you are he's even human. what'll break first? him? or your sanity?
pairing: eldritch-esque entity!gojo x f!reader
wc: 7.3k
content: mdni, DARK CONTENT, angst, light smut, gojo is an entity masquerading as a human lol, but he's down BAD for you, basically God!Gojo has no concept of any kind of societal norms and is pathetically in love with you, technically kidnapping, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, gojo gets everything he wants and that includes you, Geto guest starring as fellow gaslighter LMFAO, some slight body horror (occasional extra eyes and limbs), wet dreams, fingering, touching, casual affection, mentions of taking meds (that aren't actually needed), reader is convinced she's going crazy, messed-up dynamics, some codependency
a/n: this was a super special commission from @specialgradefckr that was SO fun to write!! hope you guys enjoy too <3
The man sitting across the table from you was not your husband.
It didn’t matter what the shiny gold ring on his finger said – or the glittering diamond on your own. His mouth was moving, but nothing was coming out. Pretty pink lips parting, the bright white teeth behind them opening wider, the sharp tips of his canines catching the bright sunlight streaming through the window of an apartment you’d never been in before.
You weren’t even sure he was human.
Or if you were still asleep.
“Something wrong, sweetheart?” He cocked his head to the side, but he couldn’t even get that right. You guessed it was supposed to be cute (well, it kinda was) but it was angled too far, his ear nearly touching his shoulder.
The newspaper in his hands was upside down. The coffee in front of him was half sugar. He hadn’t blinked once in the past two minutes.
You might not have picked up on that if his eyes weren’t so blue. It wasn’t the same shade as the oceans or the sky. Nothing in nature matched what was staring straight at you. They shimmered, brilliant and burning, intensely focused on each little twitch of your face.
Spit was pooling in the back of your throat, pulse pounding in your ear as you smoothed down the hem of a thin slip you definitely didn’t own and certainly hadn’t dressed yourself in the night before. No, you just tossed on a ratty old t-shirt before crawling into your own bed, pulled the comforter over your body and crashed. When you woke up, you were here, wherever here was, with no fucking clue how you got here. Or who he was.
With him half on top of you, sturdy arms wrapped around you and the prettiest man thing you’d ever seen purring good morning in your ear. Kissing your cheek like you and hugging you tight like you were some stuffed toy he always slept with.
You pinched the back of your hand under the table. Hard enough for your nail to break the skin. You weren't dreaming.
So he was, for better or worse, real.
“I should go,” you cleared your throat, glancing down at the almost untouched plate in front of you. Pancakes, apparently, although you’d personally never had any that were so…spongy. You poked it with a fork when he first set it down, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stomach it.
“Is my cooking not good enough for you?” He quizzed, stark white brows scrunching together like it was a problem he had to solve. Like you were.
“What do you mean?” He frowned as you stood up, dropping the newspaper he wasn’t reading to stand too.
You stepped back, only glancing away to mentally calculate how far away the front door was.
“I should go back home,” you slowly reiterated. Not that you had any way to get there. You didn’t have your phone, your wallet, your keys. No clue how fucking far you were from your place.
“This is home.”
You shook your head slowly, left hand closing into a fist, but it just reminded you of the ring on your finger. Five carats, set in white gold and glimmering while you reflexively looked down at just another detail that didn’t add up.
“No,” you muttered. “This-”
You blinked, and you were on the couch. It was softer than yours, didn’t creak when you shifted, missing all the spots and stains that came from people actually sitting on one. It scratched something in the back of your brain, bothered you for a reason you couldn't name as you sat up and looked around to confirm your suspicion.
“I'm worried about you,” Satoru murmured, carrying a glass of-
Wait.
How the hell did you know what his name was?
Was it on something you’d seen without realizing it? On his phone when you were waking up? On a diploma or piece of mail somewhere your brain had subconsciously picked up on?
He placed the drink on the clean coffee table in front of you. There was only a small vase with a few white-and-blue flowers stuffed in it as decoration on it. No coasters in sight. And somehow, no scratches or water rings staining the light wood finish either.
“Who are you?” You asked, hearing how hoarse you sounded. Scared.
You didn’t want to take the water – but all you could think of was how sore your throat was, reluctantly reaching over to take a sip.
“Your husband?” He insisted, firm and a little sarcastic, like it should be obvious.
“I’m not married,” you scoffed, even if the weight of the ring on your finger got heavier by the second. “I don't even have a boyfriend.”
He made a soft sound, a coo, humming like this was still normal.
And then it clicked.
It had to be a prank. Probably pulled by one of your asshole friends who heard you complain one too many times about how sick of being single you were – or maybe even part of a shitty show that would only get aired on an absolutely unethical network.
“Are you an actor?” You asked, and he laughed, as if you made a joke. “It's not fucking funny. Did someone pay you? Or-”
“I'm your husband,” he echoed, like it was one of the only lines they'd given him.
“Seriously, are there cameras somewhere?” You started to stand, but your legs felt like jelly. Not quite limp, but unsteady on your feet as you took a step forward. But you bumped into the corner of the table right as he grabbed your arm to steady you, water spilling on the carpet, the cup remaining intact and rolling under the couch.
The only stain on it.
“Cameras, baby? Really?” He dismissed, innocence you didn’t believe in shining in those big blue eyes.
“That’s not a no,” you pointed out, looking up and around from the furniture to the corners of the room for any blinking lights or objects out-of-place.
But nothing stood out.
Except for the fact there wasn’t a single personal item in sight. No photos or signs. No bookshelves stuffed with albums of memories or even shoes or socks left forgotten on the floor?
“I mean, it doesn’t even look like anyone lives here,” you kept going when he didn’t deny it, gesturing to what could be a stock photo for a bachelor pad. “I mean, you didn’t bother photoshopping a single photo of us? That’s just lazy-”
He slid a photo album across the table you were pretty fucking sure had just been empty.
You stopped, stared blankly at the clean black leather, uncracked. Shiny as he flipped it open to the first page.
And there you were, in a white wedding dress you’d rather die than wear, one of those poufy princess ones you couldn’t believe actually existed. Your mouth fell open, mid-exhale as your fingers trembled to flip through yourself.
If it was edited, he’d done a good goddamn job at it.
His arm was around you, fingers flexing against your waist and a beaming smile across his mouth. No glaring issues or missing fingers to point at. But the flowers in the vase were almost identical to the bouquet in your hands in the photo.
You pulled one free from the plastic, flipping it over to find a date on the back. Almost a full year ago.
“What is this?” You asked, but the bite in your voice was gone.
“Our wedding pictures, pretty girl,” he answered, and his bottom lip pushed out like he felt bad for you.
You didn’t know what was worse, the pity on his face or the pride in his voice.
Each photo was more perfect than the last. The lighting, the shadows, your makeup, his suit, all the tiny details that might give the deception away in order and as expected. Not even a stray hair in sight.
Your family was in them. Standing in the background or barely in frame, friends laughing and drinking and toasting to a marriage that just materialized.
“You wanna call someone and ask?” He offered, a calm expression on his face, and you couldn’t help but think he’d done this before.
“Where’s my phone?” You felt weak, your brain getting foggier as you tried to organize and collect all the information being splayed out in front of you.
He dug it out of his pocket, and you wanted to protest – tell him that it was weird as shit that he had it.
You held your tongue though, trying to think of who wouldn’t go along with a prank like this and would actually come clean if they knew someone who would.
It was kind of hard when your homescreen was him though.
A candid too, one that looked like it’d been taken in a restaurant somewhere, across the table from him with a candle burning and casting warm shadows on his unnaturally pretty face.
Your thumb still unlocked it though, and all your contacts were still there – even if there were also now a thousand more photos of him clogging up your storage when you scrolled through.
It took five phone calls to convince you that something was very, very wrong.
Family members, friends, even a fucking coworker, and they all thought you were the one pranking them. Chuckling at your discomfort, asking how Satoru was, inviting you both over for dinner before your panicked pleas for them to tell you the truth twisted their amusement to concern.
When the last one hung up on you, you couldn’t even look up.
Just stared down at the smile on your screen, the first full squeeze of fear taking hold in your heart when he said nothing either, waiting for you to look up at him. You could feel his eyes on you. Oppressive and heavy, almost as if some invisible force was pressing against you.
“I think we should schedule another appointment with your psychiatrist,” he hummed, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead, like he really just wanted what was best for you.
Which, according to him, was an emergency session with a man you’d also never seen.
You had a psychiatrist already – an appointment you always kept. Every three weeks, curling up on a couch and complaining about work and your friends and venting about everything that bothered you from stupid to significant.
But he was about half a foot shorter and balding. Not another absurdly attractive guy who shouldn't know your name and still somehow did.
You blinked at him.
He stared back at you.
The clock ticked – your appointment time slipping by in silence when you refused to speak at first.
You broke first. Glanced out the window at the barren trees outside, wind blowing a brittle chill and frosting the edges of the glass. Shifting seasons. “Weird weather we’re having, huh?”
“Is that what you’d like to talk about today?” He cooly replied, a sharp edge of sarcasm cutting through the tension.
You shrugged, not that you expected him to answer back with anything actually helpful.
It was summer last night. The heat had choked out the ac in your apartment, your skin sticky and slick with sweat when you fell asleep, mumbling under your breath it was too fucking hot before you got under the covers
That was the first thing you’d noticed this morning. Your first clue. Eyes still closed and thinking that it was freezing – that your ac must have somehow fixed itself.
The weather was wrong outside. The man on the other side of the door kept saying he was your fucking husband when you knew he wasn't. And the rest of the world seemed to be in agreement.
“What brings you back so soon?” Your new psychiatrist asked, one hand firmly gripping a ballpoint pen while the other pushed a thin pair of glasses higher up his nose. How were you supposed to answer when you didn't even remember seeing him once?
Rationality hadn't quite let you, your brain suggesting reasons you didn't fully believe. Maybe your old one quit, some family emergency or last-minute thing and this was just a replacement he'd forgotten to tell you about.
You looked over the diplomas proudly displayed on the wall for a Suguru Geto. You made a mental note of the name, one you were sure you’d be searching and scouring the internet for later to see if any of them were real and he was actually an accredited doctor.
God, that really did sound fucking insane.
Genuinely suspecting the fact a (hopefully) licensed psychiatrist was just another paid asshole fucking with you?
There was a calendar by the diploma closest to the windows, and even though the days hadn’t been marked off, it was still on the last month you remembered. You pretended not to notice, shifting your stare back to him.
What the hell had happened in the past twelve hours?
“I’m not crazy,” you preemptively said. It wasn't very convincing coming from someone sitting on this side of the desk though.
“Did I say you were?” He smiled, but it was sly. He reminded you of a fox in a funny way, casual remarks coming off crafty. A hint of cruelty hiding underneath his polished, professional surface.
“You’re staring like something’s wrong with me.”
“What would be wrong with you?” He returned your statement with another annoying question, your scowl coming easily as you picked at your cuticles in your lap.
“I don’t think anything is,” you argued back. Except he wasn’t arguing – he was just setting traps and waiting for you to walk into them.
“Then why are you here today?”
Because you fell asleep and somehow in eight hours you’d gone from your bed to living a stranger’s life? Even worse, becoming a stranger’s wife?
“Why don’t you tell me?” You frowned, eyeing the thick folder he pulled out when you walked through the door, one he quickly closed before gesturing for you to sit.
“Your husband started bringing you here before for, ah, memory issues for the past year,” he soberly said, like his seriousness could make up for the fact he was full of shit too.
You almost scoffed. A year? No fucking way.
“Memory issues?” You repeated, daring him to elaborate and dig them both in a deeper hole.
He cleared his throat, eyes narrowing like he’d decided on a different approach since the current one wasn’t working.
“We could start considering inpatient treatment,” he started to suggest, a flare of panic seizing your chest at the thought of a future spent in grippy socks and stuck with needles.
“No,” you swallowed hard, shaking your head and quickly turning to where your husband was waiting on the other side. Even if you didn’t know him, couldn’t remember a fucking thing about him and didn’t have an explanation for any of it, he wouldn’t let that happen, would he?
“How about this? I'll write you a new prescription then and schedule a follow-up in a few weeks to see how you're feeling,” Suguru smiled at you, but it was cold.
“Sure,” you returned his fake smile.
It wasn’t like you had another choice. How hard would it be to flush pills anyway?
“Mind sending your husband in for a few minutes?” Your possibly-fake psychiatrist asked, and you could feel your brow twitch, threatening to betray your suspicions. You weren’t all that familiar with privacy laws, but it still felt like a breach of confidentiality. “I would like to discuss a few details of your care plan.”
Care plan – like you were some troubled child that needed nurturing and hand holding instead of actual answers.
Stuck sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair out in the hall while they chatted behind a closed door, unable to hear what they were talking about. Just that the man you were supposedly married to looked thrilled walking out, leaning down to kiss your cheek and promise to pick up your favorite food on the way home.
You figured out two answers of your own about him in the car. The first being he was a really bad driver. You weren’t sure how you hadn’t noticed on the way there, but you guessed you’d been busy staring out the window trying to discern whether or not this was just a really weird vivid dream or not. But now? Paying full attention to the way his hands were positioned on the wheel, the complete and total lack of awareness he had for anyone else on the road?
It was ridiculous.
He rear-ended someone five minutes into it. Completely crushed the back of her bumper, about to drive away until you hissed at him to stop and give the other driver his insurance information. He cocked his head to the side like he didn’t really understand, but he got out of the car anyway – in the middle of the busy road and blocking all traffic behind him.
The woman he hit was pissed, short hair bobbing in the wind as she started shouting at him while you attempted to hide your face in the passenger seat.
Until your husband just grinned at her, pointing at her probably totaled car and casually chuckled. That was all it took for her to freeze, mouth hanging open, cheeks blushing when he took another step closer.
“I think that was your fault,” he hummed, and she nodded.
“I must’ve stopped too fast,” she said it like she hadn’t been screaming three seconds ago, her eyes glittering like he was a goddamn celebrity who was so kind to grace her with his presence and hadn’t just hit her car.
“Yeah, you should be more careful,” Satoru cooed, all condescending and still somehow charming, clapping a hand over her shoulder and squeezing before getting back in the driver’s seat.
You stared at him, and he just looked to you for approval.
“Do you always get what you want?” You asked, too surprised to even frown.
“Pretty much,” he flashed a smile. What, was it just pretty privilege?
That the world bent around him because he thought it should?
You weren’t sure when you started to bend too.
Just that the proof (and inconsistencies) started piling up – and started burying you beneath it.
He knew everything about you – things you never told anyone else. Not just the easy stuff like your favorite color or food, but what hole-in-the-wall restaurants you liked to order it from and what day you liked to do your laundry on. Could recite off when you were born and what you got for your fifth birthday, collected memories of yours like coins or stamps he wanted to save.
Any way you tried to slice it, he was either the most sentimental man you ever met or a stalker.
Maybe both.
When you asked for the marriage certificate, he pulled it from the shelf on a bookcase in his office. When you wanted to know what college he graduated from, suddenly there was a degree hanging on the wall. If you questioned how long you’d been dating, tried to pick apart his timeline, he pulled up the messages between you from as far back as your first date.
“You don’t trust me,” he pouted, pushing out his bottom lip too far as he tossed his phone on the couch.
You bit your own lip. Looked at the floor so you wouldn’t have to find something wrong with his face.
“Why me?” You asked instead. Why couldn’t he go pick some other girl to torment? Get a divorce and unbind his life from yours?
“Would you believe me if I said it was love-at-first-sight?”
You didn't really believe anything he said.
Even if he always had an answer (or an excuse) at his disposal.
But other stuff stood out, getting ready for work a few mornings post your psychiatrist appointment just for him to furrow his brows and station himself by the front door to ask where you were going.
“My job?” You huffed, slipping on your shoes. All your clothes had come with you here, half his closest stuffed full of them, your shoes set up on a nice little rack by the door. There were a few things you knew you hadn’t bought, frilly and flimsy and all in that unnatural shade of blue, but you ignored them.
Foolishly tried to kid yourself that pretending they weren't there would make them go away.
“You don’t work,” he casually replied.
“I do,” you insisted, trying to push past him before he stopped you with a firm hand wrapping around your wrist.
“Sweetheart,” he tried to sound kind, but there was no mistaking the authority in it. “You quit six months ago.”
He guided you back to the kitchen table, sat you down softly before walking over to one of his dark cabinets. Pulled out something from the top shelf and returned to you like he was every ounce the devoted husband he was pretending to be. He handed it to you, something you were sure was supposed to be a show of trust.
The pill bottle was clear. Thick, almost translucent, white label stretching around with pretty blue pills rattling inside when you shook it.
Simple instructions printed neatly below your name to take two a day with food.
“I’ll make you breakfast, baby,” he promised, waiting for you to open the cap and take two. Part of you wanted to accuse him of just not being able to open the child-proofed caps.
You slowly did, feeling ill already, although it was hard to tell if it was from the idea of eating his cooking or taking the pills.
He waited for you to put them in your mouth, stood there while you let them sit on your tongue.
“Don’t make me check,” he chuckled, a low warning you could tell he meant.
You swallowed.
And still, through the side effects and brain fog they seemed to bring on, you clung to the edges of your sanity, the logic remaining. Enough that when he was distracted typing away at his laptop, you were trying to text former coworkers, your old boss, anyone that would know anything more.
But none of the messages were ever marked delivered. And when you looked up your former place of employment, you discovered everything about them had been scrubbed online, completely wiped. Like it never even existed.
And when you managed to slip past him four days later down the stairs and out into the parking garage, you couldn’t find your car.
The days dragged on - no job, no distractions. Just him and the cocktail of prescription drugs to coast on.
His work schedule wasn’t kind to you. Allowed him to ‘work’ remotely, although he barely seemed to be in his home office, usually too busy bugging you. Half the week he never even stepped foot in there at all. But they never fired him. Never seemed to pester him to finish projects or demand for more of his time.
You, apparently, were the most difficult part of Satoru Gojo’s life.
“One kiss?” He pouted, pointing to his cheek and leaning against the wall by the office door, an easy grin on his face.
“I haven’t brushed my teeth,” you excused, itching to walk away for the few hours of peace you got a day.
“Later then,” he shrugged, still unbothered, like he had all the time in the world.
He liked to take you shopping after work or on weekends, doll you up in dresses and treat you to overpriced restaurants where he always seemed to score free meals or desserts every time. Although, the first time, he accused a waiter of flirting with him (and eventually you) just for asking questions about what he wanted to eat, demanding to speak to a manager. Squinting and scrunching his nose up like ‘is the food to your taste?’ was the equivalent to asking what color underwear he was wearing. No one listened when you tried to apologize for him. Paid any attention to you saying it was fine. The waiter was fired and your food was comped.
People stared when he passed by. Men asked him about his cologne and his clothes. Women told you how lucky you were to lock him down.
As if it had ever been your choice in the matter.
Sometimes, you'd slip. Forget that you should be fighting this. Instinctively reach out for his hand in crowds in public, offer him bites of your food, roll over closer to him in bed on cold mornings. And somewhere deep inside, you knew it wasn’t right, but you seeked his comfort anyway, soothed yourself with his freezing hands and warm voice like it’d make your skin stop crawling, like it’d scrape away all the paint and varnish covering up the ugliness hiding underneath your relationship.
You always snapped back to what was left of your reality eventually.
It was after you pulled back that it would be there, the unsettling discomfort of his stare when you turned away from him.
It was the worst in the mornings.
Crawling out of the sheets first, leaving him with his legs tangled in the blankets. He only ever slept in his boxers, his chest bare and rising slowly. It took too long to fall, like he was faking it. Mimicking sleep like he was imitating something from a movie.
And even when his eyes were closed, long white lashes fluttering, you could still feel them watching.
His body, however pretty, however perfect, felt more like a shell, a casing containing something too big for it. A man who’d never been told no – and knew how to make sure it was never an option for you.
Not when every day you teetered closer to crazy, swallowing pills you didn’t need, sitting next to Satoru on the couch with a strong arm slung over your shoulder, stuck in a never-ending routine of brain-numbing domesticity.
You couldn’t even lay in bed and sleep in late.
The sky outside his window never seemed to get lighter until you got out. Your phone was always out-of-reach – Satoru didn’t confiscate it, but you conveniently could never find it once night time rolled around. He never had watches around either – even though he seemed like the exact sort of asshole that would own a Rolex and brag about it.
You might’ve called him out. Confessed your suspicions, made a whole fucking list of them to shout at him, scrutinize every tiny detail and demand answers. Until you started seeing the eyes and were forced to reconsider the growing possibility that you were the problem here.
He was talking – he almost always was. Telling you some convoluted story you were pretty sure was the plot of a bad tv movie he must’ve watched while you were sleeping, one you had overheard blaring from the bedroom, the volume also perpetually stuck too loud. He never left the remote out for you to change it either.
Your stare had been fixed on the tv anyway, nodding along bored until you caught a glimpse of it out of the edges of your vision. Right below his cheek. An extra eye, just as bright and observant as the other two. It blinked, and you turned.
But it wasn’t there anymore, and Satoru was staring at you innocently, head tilted to the side like he was pleased to have captured your attention at all.
“Everything alright, pretty girl?” He purred, reaching out to place his hand over yours. You didn’t pull away, couldn’t convince your body to move when the surprise had left you practically paralyzed.
You tried to sleep it off.
But they kept popping up. Behind you in the mirror. When he was making breakfast. On his hands and face and even once on his back. The second you looked, the moment you tried to look directly at it, it was gone, dissolved back into normal skin like it’d never been there at all.
And then came the ones in places they couldn’t be.
On the walls and in the furniture. Constantly being watched whether you were alone or with him.
You used to think you could get used to anything.
But the paranoia never ended – and you were starting to question if maybe he’d been right this whole time. How much of this was him? And how much was in your head?
“How have you been doing since the last visit?” Your psychiatrist asked, fixing you in the same cold stare as last time. You hadn’t wanted to come back, but Satoru insisted – and despite all your digging, you couldn’t find any proof he wasn’t who he said he was.
“Fine,” you lied.
You were one string away from unravelling. On a short tether ready to snap with one more eye, one more changed memory or crooked detail that didn’t match up.
“Have you remembered anything? Any flashes? Images?” He asked, like someone who had a degree probably would.
You shook your head, the urge to claw and scratch and fight this slowly seeping out. “Um, no.”
“Well, we can talk about something else then,” he smiled, and it still didn’t reach his eyes. He shuffled through the folder in front of him. “How about your family then? Or maybe your friends?”
Your mouth had started to open, to dismiss the idea of talking about the one area of your life you still considered somewhat private until a name he shouldn’t have known left his lips. Until he continued to mention more information you only ever told your old psychiatrist about.
“I think I’m done today, actually,” you muttered. You brushed down your skirt, standing up and hurrying over to the door to twist the knob just for it to bump into something on the other side.
Satoru had been listening in.
But he didn’t condemn you for ending your session early. Just wrapped a strong arm around your shoulders and brushed your hair out of your face before asking if you wanted to go out to eat or pick something up.
Suguru Geto would never be able to give you the help you needed.
You didn’t think help like that even existed. What god would be able to overwrite your husband when it seemed like he was the one who made the rulebook? Who never did wrong and always got precisely what he wanted?
In a weird way, there was an odd comfort in being with him. He didn’t make you feel crazy – even when you threatened to throw his shit out the window and cried yourself to sleep when you did toss his stuff out just for it to reappear in the same spots. He just cooed that it was okay, promised that it would be better soon, pressed faint kisses against your shoulder blades and down your skin like his touch could make the world stop spinning.
Something was seriously wrong with him and you.
You were both bad at pretending to be normal.
Maybe you didn’t remember him. Maybe you hallucinated the eyes on the walls and the secrets buried in his skin. But here he was, sitting on the couch while the sun was still out watching a girl get her back blown out with a fucking notepad in his lap.
Squinting at the screen while she got backshots in 4k Ultra-HD, her gasps and moans the soundtrack while he made unintelligible scribbles on the page. Pants on, fully clothed, not even fucking erect or hard or anything.
If he noticed you behind him, he didn’t say it.
“You're not jerking off,” you dryly commented, leaning against the doorframe.
“Do you want me to?” He glanced over his shoulder, sincerely asking.
You stared at him, lips parting as you tried to formulate what the fuck you were supposed to say to that, your own eyes shifting down to where the notepad was suddenly gone, his hand already tugging down his zipper and about to pull out his cock.
Maybe you would've said no, but you shut up the second you saw it. And really, it was kind of fucking absurd.
Even more than the situation itself was.
Bigger than what the guy on screen was packing, like someone copy-and-pasted what an ideal one was supposed to look like, vein throbbing and pre-cum leaking around a pretty pink swollen tip. As if it hadn't just been soft and hidden under his jeans a handful of seconds ago.
“I'm, um, going to bed,” you awkwardly stammered, jutting your thumb down the hall.
Sleep washed over you here. Like a hand pushing your hand under waves until you were forced to suck water into your lungs.
But you never drowned.
You dreamed of being somewhere vast, where the dark stretched out endlessly in each direction. Outside, you guessed?
Except there wasn't a sky. No ceiling. Just space – cold and cruel but not empty. Eyes were everywhere. Instead of being on CCTV, you were being captured from every goddamn angle by the same unblinking blue eyes that haunted your days. You used to think two was a lot. That it was all he needed to see though you.
Here there had to be at least two hundred.
All watching you splayed out for their viewing pleasure. Pale hands held your wrists in place, veiny arms and thick fingers tracing and groping you. Squirming against (into?) him while another set of palms spread your thighs. His touch seared.
Burned into your soul with each pattern he painted and pressed along your skin and inside you. It wasn’t like he had a face, or like you could hear his voice. But you knew it was him all the same.
And you didn’t resist.
Didn’t want to.
When dreams had blended into your waking world already, what was so wrong about letting yourself have him like this? The rest of your life was wrong anyway. You closed your eyes, rested your head back for another hand to hold it up, fingers petting your hair while another set did the work of spreading you open and stretching you out.
It didn't feel like fingers though, not when each touch was pure energy, electricity that raced through you and back down, pressure building and cresting just to come back twice as hot with each pump of something thick and hard thrusting inside you. It curled cruelly, reached places you never could on your own, invisible and intoxicating as it dragged you close to your climax just to rinse and repeat.
Being rearranged and remade into something that fit him better. That felt better.
Time didn't exist. It could've been five minutes or five hours. Lost in the void of him while he lost himself inside you.
You could've lived in it.
But your life had taken on its own dreamy shape, one that bordered on fantasy.
The sheets were damp. Thighs soaked and slick.
“Sleep good, sweetheart?” He prodded when you woke up to the sun shining through the window, a lazy arm slung over your side. Deceptive. You knew if you went to slip out, if you pulled away too soon, his relaxed grip would turn into a harsh squeeze, holding you against him until you whined that it was hard to breathe.
You were about to turn around to look at him, but his fingers groped your tits and when you started to count how many there were on you, there were too many.
In your panic, you elbowed him, pulling away before he could fully react.
And you saw it.
Not just a glimpse. Not a flash.
But a full second where there was an extra arm attached.
It was gone again by the next blink. But you'd seen it, and it felt like everything shattered again.
“You-” You started, pointing at where it had been.
“I what?” Satoru dared you to say it.
“You had another arm,” you accused, voice trembling.
“You must have missed your dose yesterday, huh, beautiful?" He crooned, still smiling at you like it was okay you just implied he was a fucking shape shifter or alien or some fucking creature charading around as your husband.
He'd pull documents out of thin air the same way he made an entire limb disappear. Convinced people to give him whatever he wanted for free with just a wink or a purr.
How easy would it be for him to do the same to you?
“I'm not crazy,” you said it again, but you weren't so confident.
Because whether it was real or not, pieces of him, thoughts and images and daydreams, had all started to seep through into your heart. Consideration or codependency, although maybe that was just you coping. Telling yourself that it wasn't some fucked-up form of lust or love.
There was too much you couldn’t reconcile from reality and the world he was trying to convince you of.
Something had to snap - and it was you.
And still, he tried to act like everything was normal, tried to hold your hand in the waiting room and took you to the conveniently-available doctor.
Suguru Geto tapped his pen against his desk.
And you tapped your nails against your leg.
“I think my husband isn't human,” you admitted. Said the big bad words that had been bouncing around in your head out loud. “I don't really know what he is, but-”
“You do realize how ridiculous that sounds, right?” Suguru dismissed, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
“I know,” you nodded.
You'd come up with a list of theories on the car ride here while Satoru promised to prove how much he cared about you. An alien disguised as a human? Some freak stalking you? That one didn't explain the arms or the eyes. The dream you guessed could've been all you, spurred on from seeing his cock.
“One moment,” Suguru held up his finger, and you figured this was it. He'd call the psych ward and you'd have white walls to look forward to instead of the cool blue of Satoru’s bedroom.
He stood up, walked towards the door where Satoru was waiting outside. Offered you another professional smile before stepping out.
Your file was left on his desk.
It took you two seconds to snag it, flipping through it, half-expecting it to be normal. To be another piece that you'd be left wondering if it was fabricated. But no, most of them were in familiar handwriting, notes taken by your previous psychiatrist, signed and dated precisely how you remembered.
Suguru was a fraud – and your husband, whoever (or whatever) he was, was too.
His office was unfortunately on the third floor, too far from the ground for you to make an escape through the window. So, you did the next stupid thing you thought of, pressed your ear against the door like you'd hear anything that would fix the anxiety churning in your stomach.
Your brain was trying to block out the information you found, to hit erase and rewind the clock on today. You felt fuzzy, thoughts slipping away before you could fully hold onto them.
“You really fucked this up,” your pretend psychiatrist grunted, irritated as you tried to blink away the fog, to drag your mind out of the haze and back to clarity. “I told you this would happen. Just scrub her memories and then add your own.”
“I want her to like me for me,” Satoru whined, and the next blink made the world around you sway.
“You're an idiot,” Suguru scoffed at him.
“Am not,” he argued back. “I'm intelligent, attractive, attentive, shouldn't that be good enough?”
“Not when she doesn't know you,” Suguru retorted.
You felt like you were going to pass out.
“Well, you said she started to figure it out so-”
You didn't mean to make a sound, but your knees threatened to buckle, and you had to lean against the door to stop yourself from falling. They immediately stopped talking. The doorknob jiggled, and then opened, Satoru catching you before you could collapse.
“There's my smart girl.” He poked your nose, one long finger pressing softly against the cartilage as he chuckled. Like an owner playing with its pet.
A kid testing the limits of his toy would probably be closer. More accurate.
A vein throbbed across Suguru’s forehead, annoyed at how this was playing out. You guessed he was like him too. Something that was out of your understanding, too much for you to fully conceive, under the cover of human faces and fucking around with someone like you because they could.
“What are you?” You bluntly asked, unable to pretend to not know. To act like you hadn't been listening.
“Your husband.”
You wondered what he'd do if you asked for a divorce. Although, here, in his arms, with him looking at you like he loved you, like in spite of everything else that was real, you didn't want one.
What vows had he sworn?
For better or worse? In sickness and health? Human or not?
“Fix this.” Suguru didn't ask. Demanded.
Satoru frowned, but there weren't any frown lines. Barely even a crease between his brows either. An emotion he hadn't mastered well in this body of his.
“I could just reset her,” he grumbled, unhappy at the prospect.
You barely had any strength left – but you scraped together enough to shake your head. You didn’t want to be fucking reset.
“No,” you hoarsely said. “Don't.”
Satoru’s face immediately brightened, grinning and pulling you closer, squeezing too tight again, until you hit his chest twice to get him to stop.
“Sorry, Suguru,” he shrugged. “I do what my wife wants.”
You fiddled with your ring in the car on the way home. For the first time, it felt like yours. Or maybe, you'd just accepted it as part of you. Let go of the pieces of you that didn't fit anymore. Shed those parts of your skin like he stepped into this one.
“What do you want?” You asked as he ran a red light.
“You,” he easily answered.
“You could've asked me on, like, a date,” you grumbled, resting your head against the window.
“Do you want to go on a date now?” He quizzed, cocking his head to the side at the correct angle this time. Learning, adapting to acting his role out.
“I want to go home,” you murmured.
The image in your head wasn't your apartment anymore. When you thought of bed, you thought of his.
And when he parked the car (and managed to scrape the front bumper against the concrete wall), he still hurried around to open your door for you, to hold your arm to steady you.
Took off your coat when you got back inside, got down on his knees to take your shoes off.
“You know you can ask me for anything, right?” He hummed, and there was something unsettling at the thought he could actually conjure up anything he wanted.
But being scared was exhausting.
So you didn't say anything when he followed you to the bedroom.
You stripped off your clothes, one piece at a time, methodical, precise. He stared, reverent. The lump in his throat bobbing as he took small steps forward.
“Do you love me?” You asked, unsure.
“You're the only thing I care about,” he reassured, fingertips settling slowly on your hips, one-by-one too. Dipping into the flesh, feeling it for himself and breathing in your air. His eyes glowed.
Literally.
A bright gleam that hurt to look at, burning into you with a dangerous intensity. When he spoke, his voice reverberated into your core. “Do you love me?”
today's episode of...who the fuck did I marry? (literally)
synopsis: so you woke up next to the hottest man you've ever met. except, you've never seen him before and he swears he's your husband. and the more you talk to him, the less certain you are he's even human. what'll break first? him? or your sanity?
pairing: eldritch-esque entity!gojo x f!reader
wc: 7.3k
content: mdni, DARK CONTENT, angst, light smut, gojo is an entity masquerading as a human lol, but he's down BAD for you, basically God!Gojo has no concept of any kind of societal norms and is pathetically in love with you, technically kidnapping, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, gojo gets everything he wants and that includes you, Geto guest starring as fellow gaslighter LMFAO, some slight body horror (occasional extra eyes and limbs), wet dreams, fingering, touching, casual affection, mentions of taking meds (that aren't actually needed), reader is convinced she's going crazy, messed-up dynamics, some codependency
a/n: this was a super special commission from @specialgradefckr that was SO fun to write!! hope you guys enjoy too <3
The man sitting across the table from you was not your husband.
It didn’t matter what the shiny gold ring on his finger said – or the glittering diamond on your own. His mouth was moving, but nothing was coming out. Pretty pink lips parting, the bright white teeth behind them opening wider, the sharp tips of his canines catching the bright sunlight streaming through the window of an apartment you’d never been in before.
You weren’t even sure he was human.
Or if you were still asleep.
“Something wrong, sweetheart?” He cocked his head to the side, but he couldn’t even get that right. You guessed it was supposed to be cute (well, it kinda was) but it was angled too far, his ear nearly touching his shoulder.
The newspaper in his hands was upside down. The coffee in front of him was half sugar. He hadn’t blinked once in the past two minutes.
You might not have picked up on that if his eyes weren’t so blue. It wasn’t the same shade as the oceans or the sky. Nothing in nature matched what was staring straight at you. They shimmered, brilliant and burning, intensely focused on each little twitch of your face.
Spit was pooling in the back of your throat, pulse pounding in your ear as you smoothed down the hem of a thin slip you definitely didn’t own and certainly hadn’t dressed yourself in the night before. No, you just tossed on a ratty old t-shirt before crawling into your own bed, pulled the comforter over your body and crashed. When you woke up, you were here, wherever here was, with no fucking clue how you got here. Or who he was.
With him half on top of you, sturdy arms wrapped around you and the prettiest man thing you’d ever seen purring good morning in your ear. Kissing your cheek like you and hugging you tight like you were some stuffed toy he always slept with.
You pinched the back of your hand under the table. Hard enough for your nail to break the skin. You weren't dreaming.
So he was, for better or worse, real.
“I should go,” you cleared your throat, glancing down at the almost untouched plate in front of you. Pancakes, apparently, although you’d personally never had any that were so…spongy. You poked it with a fork when he first set it down, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stomach it.
“Is my cooking not good enough for you?” He quizzed, stark white brows scrunching together like it was a problem he had to solve. Like you were.
“What do you mean?” He frowned as you stood up, dropping the newspaper he wasn’t reading to stand too.
You stepped back, only glancing away to mentally calculate how far away the front door was.
“I should go back home,” you slowly reiterated. Not that you had any way to get there. You didn’t have your phone, your wallet, your keys. No clue how fucking far you were from your place.
“This is home.”
You shook your head slowly, left hand closing into a fist, but it just reminded you of the ring on your finger. Five carats, set in white gold and glimmering while you reflexively looked down at just another detail that didn’t add up.
“No,” you muttered. “This-”
You blinked, and you were on the couch. It was softer than yours, didn’t creak when you shifted, missing all the spots and stains that came from people actually sitting on one. It scratched something in the back of your brain, bothered you for a reason you couldn't name as you sat up and looked around to confirm your suspicion.
“I'm worried about you,” Satoru murmured, carrying a glass of-
Wait.
How the hell did you know what his name was?
Was it on something you’d seen without realizing it? On his phone when you were waking up? On a diploma or piece of mail somewhere your brain had subconsciously picked up on?
He placed the drink on the clean coffee table in front of you. There was only a small vase with a few white-and-blue flowers stuffed in it as decoration on it. No coasters in sight. And somehow, no scratches or water rings staining the light wood finish either.
“Who are you?” You asked, hearing how hoarse you sounded. Scared.
You didn’t want to take the water – but all you could think of was how sore your throat was, reluctantly reaching over to take a sip.
“Your husband?” He insisted, firm and a little sarcastic, like it should be obvious.
“I’m not married,” you scoffed, even if the weight of the ring on your finger got heavier by the second. “I don't even have a boyfriend.”
He made a soft sound, a coo, humming like this was still normal.
And then it clicked.
It had to be a prank. Probably pulled by one of your asshole friends who heard you complain one too many times about how sick of being single you were – or maybe even part of a shitty show that would only get aired on an absolutely unethical network.
“Are you an actor?” You asked, and he laughed, as if you made a joke. “It's not fucking funny. Did someone pay you? Or-”
“I'm your husband,” he echoed, like it was one of the only lines they'd given him.
“Seriously, are there cameras somewhere?” You started to stand, but your legs felt like jelly. Not quite limp, but unsteady on your feet as you took a step forward. But you bumped into the corner of the table right as he grabbed your arm to steady you, water spilling on the carpet, the cup remaining intact and rolling under the couch.
The only stain on it.
“Cameras, baby? Really?” He dismissed, innocence you didn’t believe in shining in those big blue eyes.
“That’s not a no,” you pointed out, looking up and around from the furniture to the corners of the room for any blinking lights or objects out-of-place.
But nothing stood out.
Except for the fact there wasn’t a single personal item in sight. No photos or signs. No bookshelves stuffed with albums of memories or even shoes or socks left forgotten on the floor?
“I mean, it doesn’t even look like anyone lives here,” you kept going when he didn’t deny it, gesturing to what could be a stock photo for a bachelor pad. “I mean, you didn’t bother photoshopping a single photo of us? That’s just lazy-”
He slid a photo album across the table you were pretty fucking sure had just been empty.
You stopped, stared blankly at the clean black leather, uncracked. Shiny as he flipped it open to the first page.
And there you were, in a white wedding dress you’d rather die than wear, one of those poufy princess ones you couldn’t believe actually existed. Your mouth fell open, mid-exhale as your fingers trembled to flip through yourself.
If it was edited, he’d done a good goddamn job at it.
His arm was around you, fingers flexing against your waist and a beaming smile across his mouth. No glaring issues or missing fingers to point at. But the flowers in the vase were almost identical to the bouquet in your hands in the photo.
You pulled one free from the plastic, flipping it over to find a date on the back. Almost a full year ago.
“What is this?” You asked, but the bite in your voice was gone.
“Our wedding pictures, pretty girl,” he answered, and his bottom lip pushed out like he felt bad for you.
You didn’t know what was worse, the pity on his face or the pride in his voice.
Each photo was more perfect than the last. The lighting, the shadows, your makeup, his suit, all the tiny details that might give the deception away in order and as expected. Not even a stray hair in sight.
Your family was in them. Standing in the background or barely in frame, friends laughing and drinking and toasting to a marriage that just materialized.
“You wanna call someone and ask?” He offered, a calm expression on his face, and you couldn’t help but think he’d done this before.
“Where’s my phone?” You felt weak, your brain getting foggier as you tried to organize and collect all the information being splayed out in front of you.
He dug it out of his pocket, and you wanted to protest – tell him that it was weird as shit that he had it.
You held your tongue though, trying to think of who wouldn’t go along with a prank like this and would actually come clean if they knew someone who would.
It was kind of hard when your homescreen was him though.
A candid too, one that looked like it’d been taken in a restaurant somewhere, across the table from him with a candle burning and casting warm shadows on his unnaturally pretty face.
Your thumb still unlocked it though, and all your contacts were still there – even if there were also now a thousand more photos of him clogging up your storage when you scrolled through.
It took five phone calls to convince you that something was very, very wrong.
Family members, friends, even a fucking coworker, and they all thought you were the one pranking them. Chuckling at your discomfort, asking how Satoru was, inviting you both over for dinner before your panicked pleas for them to tell you the truth twisted their amusement to concern.
When the last one hung up on you, you couldn’t even look up.
Just stared down at the smile on your screen, the first full squeeze of fear taking hold in your heart when he said nothing either, waiting for you to look up at him. You could feel his eyes on you. Oppressive and heavy, almost as if some invisible force was pressing against you.
“I think we should schedule another appointment with your psychiatrist,” he hummed, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead, like he really just wanted what was best for you.
Which, according to him, was an emergency session with a man you’d also never seen.
You had a psychiatrist already – an appointment you always kept. Every three weeks, curling up on a couch and complaining about work and your friends and venting about everything that bothered you from stupid to significant.
But he was about half a foot shorter and balding. Not another absurdly attractive guy who shouldn't know your name and still somehow did.
You blinked at him.
He stared back at you.
The clock ticked – your appointment time slipping by in silence when you refused to speak at first.
You broke first. Glanced out the window at the barren trees outside, wind blowing a brittle chill and frosting the edges of the glass. Shifting seasons. “Weird weather we’re having, huh?”
“Is that what you’d like to talk about today?” He cooly replied, a sharp edge of sarcasm cutting through the tension.
You shrugged, not that you expected him to answer back with anything actually helpful.
It was summer last night. The heat had choked out the ac in your apartment, your skin sticky and slick with sweat when you fell asleep, mumbling under your breath it was too fucking hot before you got under the covers
That was the first thing you’d noticed this morning. Your first clue. Eyes still closed and thinking that it was freezing – that your ac must have somehow fixed itself.
The weather was wrong outside. The man on the other side of the door kept saying he was your fucking husband when you knew he wasn't. And the rest of the world seemed to be in agreement.
“What brings you back so soon?” Your new psychiatrist asked, one hand firmly gripping a ballpoint pen while the other pushed a thin pair of glasses higher up his nose. How were you supposed to answer when you didn't even remember seeing him once?
Rationality hadn't quite let you, your brain suggesting reasons you didn't fully believe. Maybe your old one quit, some family emergency or last-minute thing and this was just a replacement he'd forgotten to tell you about.
You looked over the diplomas proudly displayed on the wall for a Suguru Geto. You made a mental note of the name, one you were sure you’d be searching and scouring the internet for later to see if any of them were real and he was actually an accredited doctor.
God, that really did sound fucking insane.
Genuinely suspecting the fact a (hopefully) licensed psychiatrist was just another paid asshole fucking with you?
There was a calendar by the diploma closest to the windows, and even though the days hadn’t been marked off, it was still on the last month you remembered. You pretended not to notice, shifting your stare back to him.
What the hell had happened in the past twelve hours?
“I’m not crazy,” you preemptively said. It wasn't very convincing coming from someone sitting on this side of the desk though.
“Did I say you were?” He smiled, but it was sly. He reminded you of a fox in a funny way, casual remarks coming off crafty. A hint of cruelty hiding underneath his polished, professional surface.
“You’re staring like something’s wrong with me.”
“What would be wrong with you?” He returned your statement with another annoying question, your scowl coming easily as you picked at your cuticles in your lap.
“I don’t think anything is,” you argued back. Except he wasn’t arguing – he was just setting traps and waiting for you to walk into them.
“Then why are you here today?”
Because you fell asleep and somehow in eight hours you’d gone from your bed to living a stranger’s life? Even worse, becoming a stranger’s wife?
“Why don’t you tell me?” You frowned, eyeing the thick folder he pulled out when you walked through the door, one he quickly closed before gesturing for you to sit.
“Your husband started bringing you here before for, ah, memory issues for the past year,” he soberly said, like his seriousness could make up for the fact he was full of shit too.
You almost scoffed. A year? No fucking way.
“Memory issues?” You repeated, daring him to elaborate and dig them both in a deeper hole.
He cleared his throat, eyes narrowing like he’d decided on a different approach since the current one wasn’t working.
“We could start considering inpatient treatment,” he started to suggest, a flare of panic seizing your chest at the thought of a future spent in grippy socks and stuck with needles.
“No,” you swallowed hard, shaking your head and quickly turning to where your husband was waiting on the other side. Even if you didn’t know him, couldn’t remember a fucking thing about him and didn’t have an explanation for any of it, he wouldn’t let that happen, would he?
“How about this? I'll write you a new prescription then and schedule a follow-up in a few weeks to see how you're feeling,” Suguru smiled at you, but it was cold.
“Sure,” you returned his fake smile.
It wasn’t like you had another choice. How hard would it be to flush pills anyway?
“Mind sending your husband in for a few minutes?” Your possibly-fake psychiatrist asked, and you could feel your brow twitch, threatening to betray your suspicions. You weren’t all that familiar with privacy laws, but it still felt like a breach of confidentiality. “I would like to discuss a few details of your care plan.”
Care plan – like you were some troubled child that needed nurturing and hand holding instead of actual answers.
Stuck sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair out in the hall while they chatted behind a closed door, unable to hear what they were talking about. Just that the man you were supposedly married to looked thrilled walking out, leaning down to kiss your cheek and promise to pick up your favorite food on the way home.
You figured out two answers of your own about him in the car. The first being he was a really bad driver. You weren’t sure how you hadn’t noticed on the way there, but you guessed you’d been busy staring out the window trying to discern whether or not this was just a really weird vivid dream or not. But now? Paying full attention to the way his hands were positioned on the wheel, the complete and total lack of awareness he had for anyone else on the road?
It was ridiculous.
He rear-ended someone five minutes into it. Completely crushed the back of her bumper, about to drive away until you hissed at him to stop and give the other driver his insurance information. He cocked his head to the side like he didn’t really understand, but he got out of the car anyway – in the middle of the busy road and blocking all traffic behind him.
The woman he hit was pissed, short hair bobbing in the wind as she started shouting at him while you attempted to hide your face in the passenger seat.
Until your husband just grinned at her, pointing at her probably totaled car and casually chuckled. That was all it took for her to freeze, mouth hanging open, cheeks blushing when he took another step closer.
“I think that was your fault,” he hummed, and she nodded.
“I must’ve stopped too fast,” she said it like she hadn’t been screaming three seconds ago, her eyes glittering like he was a goddamn celebrity who was so kind to grace her with his presence and hadn’t just hit her car.
“Yeah, you should be more careful,” Satoru cooed, all condescending and still somehow charming, clapping a hand over her shoulder and squeezing before getting back in the driver’s seat.
You stared at him, and he just looked to you for approval.
“Do you always get what you want?” You asked, too surprised to even frown.
“Pretty much,” he flashed a smile. What, was it just pretty privilege?
That the world bent around him because he thought it should?
You weren’t sure when you started to bend too.
Just that the proof (and inconsistencies) started piling up – and started burying you beneath it.
He knew everything about you – things you never told anyone else. Not just the easy stuff like your favorite color or food, but what hole-in-the-wall restaurants you liked to order it from and what day you liked to do your laundry on. Could recite off when you were born and what you got for your fifth birthday, collected memories of yours like coins or stamps he wanted to save.
Any way you tried to slice it, he was either the most sentimental man you ever met or a stalker.
Maybe both.
When you asked for the marriage certificate, he pulled it from the shelf on a bookcase in his office. When you wanted to know what college he graduated from, suddenly there was a degree hanging on the wall. If you questioned how long you’d been dating, tried to pick apart his timeline, he pulled up the messages between you from as far back as your first date.
“You don’t trust me,” he pouted, pushing out his bottom lip too far as he tossed his phone on the couch.
You bit your own lip. Looked at the floor so you wouldn’t have to find something wrong with his face.
“Why me?” You asked instead. Why couldn’t he go pick some other girl to torment? Get a divorce and unbind his life from yours?
“Would you believe me if I said it was love-at-first-sight?”
You didn't really believe anything he said.
Even if he always had an answer (or an excuse) at his disposal.
But other stuff stood out, getting ready for work a few mornings post your psychiatrist appointment just for him to furrow his brows and station himself by the front door to ask where you were going.
“My job?” You huffed, slipping on your shoes. All your clothes had come with you here, half his closest stuffed full of them, your shoes set up on a nice little rack by the door. There were a few things you knew you hadn’t bought, frilly and flimsy and all in that unnatural shade of blue, but you ignored them.
Foolishly tried to kid yourself that pretending they weren't there would make them go away.
“You don’t work,” he casually replied.
“I do,” you insisted, trying to push past him before he stopped you with a firm hand wrapping around your wrist.
“Sweetheart,” he tried to sound kind, but there was no mistaking the authority in it. “You quit six months ago.”
He guided you back to the kitchen table, sat you down softly before walking over to one of his dark cabinets. Pulled out something from the top shelf and returned to you like he was every ounce the devoted husband he was pretending to be. He handed it to you, something you were sure was supposed to be a show of trust.
The pill bottle was clear. Thick, almost translucent, white label stretching around with pretty blue pills rattling inside when you shook it.
Simple instructions printed neatly below your name to take two a day with food.
“I’ll make you breakfast, baby,” he promised, waiting for you to open the cap and take two. Part of you wanted to accuse him of just not being able to open the child-proofed caps.
You slowly did, feeling ill already, although it was hard to tell if it was from the idea of eating his cooking or taking the pills.
He waited for you to put them in your mouth, stood there while you let them sit on your tongue.
“Don’t make me check,” he chuckled, a low warning you could tell he meant.
You swallowed.
And still, through the side effects and brain fog they seemed to bring on, you clung to the edges of your sanity, the logic remaining. Enough that when he was distracted typing away at his laptop, you were trying to text former coworkers, your old boss, anyone that would know anything more.
But none of the messages were ever marked delivered. And when you looked up your former place of employment, you discovered everything about them had been scrubbed online, completely wiped. Like it never even existed.
And when you managed to slip past him four days later down the stairs and out into the parking garage, you couldn’t find your car.
The days dragged on - no job, no distractions. Just him and the cocktail of prescription drugs to coast on.
His work schedule wasn’t kind to you. Allowed him to ‘work’ remotely, although he barely seemed to be in his home office, usually too busy bugging you. Half the week he never even stepped foot in there at all. But they never fired him. Never seemed to pester him to finish projects or demand for more of his time.
You, apparently, were the most difficult part of Satoru Gojo’s life.
“One kiss?” He pouted, pointing to his cheek and leaning against the wall by the office door, an easy grin on his face.
“I haven’t brushed my teeth,” you excused, itching to walk away for the few hours of peace you got a day.
“Later then,” he shrugged, still unbothered, like he had all the time in the world.
He liked to take you shopping after work or on weekends, doll you up in dresses and treat you to overpriced restaurants where he always seemed to score free meals or desserts every time. Although, the first time, he accused a waiter of flirting with him (and eventually you) just for asking questions about what he wanted to eat, demanding to speak to a manager. Squinting and scrunching his nose up like ‘is the food to your taste?’ was the equivalent to asking what color underwear he was wearing. No one listened when you tried to apologize for him. Paid any attention to you saying it was fine. The waiter was fired and your food was comped.
People stared when he passed by. Men asked him about his cologne and his clothes. Women told you how lucky you were to lock him down.
As if it had ever been your choice in the matter.
Sometimes, you'd slip. Forget that you should be fighting this. Instinctively reach out for his hand in crowds in public, offer him bites of your food, roll over closer to him in bed on cold mornings. And somewhere deep inside, you knew it wasn’t right, but you seeked his comfort anyway, soothed yourself with his freezing hands and warm voice like it’d make your skin stop crawling, like it’d scrape away all the paint and varnish covering up the ugliness hiding underneath your relationship.
You always snapped back to what was left of your reality eventually.
It was after you pulled back that it would be there, the unsettling discomfort of his stare when you turned away from him.
It was the worst in the mornings.
Crawling out of the sheets first, leaving him with his legs tangled in the blankets. He only ever slept in his boxers, his chest bare and rising slowly. It took too long to fall, like he was faking it. Mimicking sleep like he was imitating something from a movie.
And even when his eyes were closed, long white lashes fluttering, you could still feel them watching.
His body, however pretty, however perfect, felt more like a shell, a casing containing something too big for it. A man who’d never been told no – and knew how to make sure it was never an option for you.
Not when every day you teetered closer to crazy, swallowing pills you didn’t need, sitting next to Satoru on the couch with a strong arm slung over your shoulder, stuck in a never-ending routine of brain-numbing domesticity.
You couldn’t even lay in bed and sleep in late.
The sky outside his window never seemed to get lighter until you got out. Your phone was always out-of-reach – Satoru didn’t confiscate it, but you conveniently could never find it once night time rolled around. He never had watches around either – even though he seemed like the exact sort of asshole that would own a Rolex and brag about it.
You might’ve called him out. Confessed your suspicions, made a whole fucking list of them to shout at him, scrutinize every tiny detail and demand answers. Until you started seeing the eyes and were forced to reconsider the growing possibility that you were the problem here.
He was talking – he almost always was. Telling you some convoluted story you were pretty sure was the plot of a bad tv movie he must’ve watched while you were sleeping, one you had overheard blaring from the bedroom, the volume also perpetually stuck too loud. He never left the remote out for you to change it either.
Your stare had been fixed on the tv anyway, nodding along bored until you caught a glimpse of it out of the edges of your vision. Right below his cheek. An extra eye, just as bright and observant as the other two. It blinked, and you turned.
But it wasn’t there anymore, and Satoru was staring at you innocently, head tilted to the side like he was pleased to have captured your attention at all.
“Everything alright, pretty girl?” He purred, reaching out to place his hand over yours. You didn’t pull away, couldn’t convince your body to move when the surprise had left you practically paralyzed.
You tried to sleep it off.
But they kept popping up. Behind you in the mirror. When he was making breakfast. On his hands and face and even once on his back. The second you looked, the moment you tried to look directly at it, it was gone, dissolved back into normal skin like it’d never been there at all.
And then came the ones in places they couldn’t be.
On the walls and in the furniture. Constantly being watched whether you were alone or with him.
You used to think you could get used to anything.
But the paranoia never ended – and you were starting to question if maybe he’d been right this whole time. How much of this was him? And how much was in your head?
“How have you been doing since the last visit?” Your psychiatrist asked, fixing you in the same cold stare as last time. You hadn’t wanted to come back, but Satoru insisted – and despite all your digging, you couldn’t find any proof he wasn’t who he said he was.
“Fine,” you lied.
You were one string away from unravelling. On a short tether ready to snap with one more eye, one more changed memory or crooked detail that didn’t match up.
“Have you remembered anything? Any flashes? Images?” He asked, like someone who had a degree probably would.
You shook your head, the urge to claw and scratch and fight this slowly seeping out. “Um, no.”
“Well, we can talk about something else then,” he smiled, and it still didn’t reach his eyes. He shuffled through the folder in front of him. “How about your family then? Or maybe your friends?”
Your mouth had started to open, to dismiss the idea of talking about the one area of your life you still considered somewhat private until a name he shouldn’t have known left his lips. Until he continued to mention more information you only ever told your old psychiatrist about.
“I think I’m done today, actually,” you muttered. You brushed down your skirt, standing up and hurrying over to the door to twist the knob just for it to bump into something on the other side.
Satoru had been listening in.
But he didn’t condemn you for ending your session early. Just wrapped a strong arm around your shoulders and brushed your hair out of your face before asking if you wanted to go out to eat or pick something up.
Suguru Geto would never be able to give you the help you needed.
You didn’t think help like that even existed. What god would be able to overwrite your husband when it seemed like he was the one who made the rulebook? Who never did wrong and always got precisely what he wanted?
In a weird way, there was an odd comfort in being with him. He didn’t make you feel crazy – even when you threatened to throw his shit out the window and cried yourself to sleep when you did toss his stuff out just for it to reappear in the same spots. He just cooed that it was okay, promised that it would be better soon, pressed faint kisses against your shoulder blades and down your skin like his touch could make the world stop spinning.
Something was seriously wrong with him and you.
You were both bad at pretending to be normal.
Maybe you didn’t remember him. Maybe you hallucinated the eyes on the walls and the secrets buried in his skin. But here he was, sitting on the couch while the sun was still out watching a girl get her back blown out with a fucking notepad in his lap.
Squinting at the screen while she got backshots in 4k Ultra-HD, her gasps and moans the soundtrack while he made unintelligible scribbles on the page. Pants on, fully clothed, not even fucking erect or hard or anything.
If he noticed you behind him, he didn’t say it.
“You're not jerking off,” you dryly commented, leaning against the doorframe.
“Do you want me to?” He glanced over his shoulder, sincerely asking.
You stared at him, lips parting as you tried to formulate what the fuck you were supposed to say to that, your own eyes shifting down to where the notepad was suddenly gone, his hand already tugging down his zipper and about to pull out his cock.
Maybe you would've said no, but you shut up the second you saw it. And really, it was kind of fucking absurd.
Even more than the situation itself was.
Bigger than what the guy on screen was packing, like someone copy-and-pasted what an ideal one was supposed to look like, vein throbbing and pre-cum leaking around a pretty pink swollen tip. As if it hadn't just been soft and hidden under his jeans a handful of seconds ago.
“I'm, um, going to bed,” you awkwardly stammered, jutting your thumb down the hall.
Sleep washed over you here. Like a hand pushing your hand under waves until you were forced to suck water into your lungs.
But you never drowned.
You dreamed of being somewhere vast, where the dark stretched out endlessly in each direction. Outside, you guessed?
Except there wasn't a sky. No ceiling. Just space – cold and cruel but not empty. Eyes were everywhere. Instead of being on CCTV, you were being captured from every goddamn angle by the same unblinking blue eyes that haunted your days. You used to think two was a lot. That it was all he needed to see though you.
Here there had to be at least two hundred.
All watching you splayed out for their viewing pleasure. Pale hands held your wrists in place, veiny arms and thick fingers tracing and groping you. Squirming against (into?) him while another set of palms spread your thighs. His touch seared.
Burned into your soul with each pattern he painted and pressed along your skin and inside you. It wasn’t like he had a face, or like you could hear his voice. But you knew it was him all the same.
And you didn’t resist.
Didn’t want to.
When dreams had blended into your waking world already, what was so wrong about letting yourself have him like this? The rest of your life was wrong anyway. You closed your eyes, rested your head back for another hand to hold it up, fingers petting your hair while another set did the work of spreading you open and stretching you out.
It didn't feel like fingers though, not when each touch was pure energy, electricity that raced through you and back down, pressure building and cresting just to come back twice as hot with each pump of something thick and hard thrusting inside you. It curled cruelly, reached places you never could on your own, invisible and intoxicating as it dragged you close to your climax just to rinse and repeat.
Being rearranged and remade into something that fit him better. That felt better.
Time didn't exist. It could've been five minutes or five hours. Lost in the void of him while he lost himself inside you.
You could've lived in it.
But your life had taken on its own dreamy shape, one that bordered on fantasy.
The sheets were damp. Thighs soaked and slick.
“Sleep good, sweetheart?” He prodded when you woke up to the sun shining through the window, a lazy arm slung over your side. Deceptive. You knew if you went to slip out, if you pulled away too soon, his relaxed grip would turn into a harsh squeeze, holding you against him until you whined that it was hard to breathe.
You were about to turn around to look at him, but his fingers groped your tits and when you started to count how many there were on you, there were too many.
In your panic, you elbowed him, pulling away before he could fully react.
And you saw it.
Not just a glimpse. Not a flash.
But a full second where there was an extra arm attached.
It was gone again by the next blink. But you'd seen it, and it felt like everything shattered again.
“You-” You started, pointing at where it had been.
“I what?” Satoru dared you to say it.
“You had another arm,” you accused, voice trembling.
“You must have missed your dose yesterday, huh, beautiful?" He crooned, still smiling at you like it was okay you just implied he was a fucking shape shifter or alien or some fucking creature charading around as your husband.
He'd pull documents out of thin air the same way he made an entire limb disappear. Convinced people to give him whatever he wanted for free with just a wink or a purr.
How easy would it be for him to do the same to you?
“I'm not crazy,” you said it again, but you weren't so confident.
Because whether it was real or not, pieces of him, thoughts and images and daydreams, had all started to seep through into your heart. Consideration or codependency, although maybe that was just you coping. Telling yourself that it wasn't some fucked-up form of lust or love.
There was too much you couldn’t reconcile from reality and the world he was trying to convince you of.
Something had to snap - and it was you.
And still, he tried to act like everything was normal, tried to hold your hand in the waiting room and took you to the conveniently-available doctor.
Suguru Geto tapped his pen against his desk.
And you tapped your nails against your leg.
“I think my husband isn't human,” you admitted. Said the big bad words that had been bouncing around in your head out loud. “I don't really know what he is, but-”
“You do realize how ridiculous that sounds, right?” Suguru dismissed, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
“I know,” you nodded.
You'd come up with a list of theories on the car ride here while Satoru promised to prove how much he cared about you. An alien disguised as a human? Some freak stalking you? That one didn't explain the arms or the eyes. The dream you guessed could've been all you, spurred on from seeing his cock.
“One moment,” Suguru held up his finger, and you figured this was it. He'd call the psych ward and you'd have white walls to look forward to instead of the cool blue of Satoru’s bedroom.
He stood up, walked towards the door where Satoru was waiting outside. Offered you another professional smile before stepping out.
Your file was left on his desk.
It took you two seconds to snag it, flipping through it, half-expecting it to be normal. To be another piece that you'd be left wondering if it was fabricated. But no, most of them were in familiar handwriting, notes taken by your previous psychiatrist, signed and dated precisely how you remembered.
Suguru was a fraud – and your husband, whoever (or whatever) he was, was too.
His office was unfortunately on the third floor, too far from the ground for you to make an escape through the window. So, you did the next stupid thing you thought of, pressed your ear against the door like you'd hear anything that would fix the anxiety churning in your stomach.
Your brain was trying to block out the information you found, to hit erase and rewind the clock on today. You felt fuzzy, thoughts slipping away before you could fully hold onto them.
“You really fucked this up,” your pretend psychiatrist grunted, irritated as you tried to blink away the fog, to drag your mind out of the haze and back to clarity. “I told you this would happen. Just scrub her memories and then add your own.”
“I want her to like me for me,” Satoru whined, and the next blink made the world around you sway.
“You're an idiot,” Suguru scoffed at him.
“Am not,” he argued back. “I'm intelligent, attractive, attentive, shouldn't that be good enough?”
“Not when she doesn't know you,” Suguru retorted.
You felt like you were going to pass out.
“Well, you said she started to figure it out so-”
You didn't mean to make a sound, but your knees threatened to buckle, and you had to lean against the door to stop yourself from falling. They immediately stopped talking. The doorknob jiggled, and then opened, Satoru catching you before you could collapse.
“There's my smart girl.” He poked your nose, one long finger pressing softly against the cartilage as he chuckled. Like an owner playing with its pet.
A kid testing the limits of his toy would probably be closer. More accurate.
A vein throbbed across Suguru’s forehead, annoyed at how this was playing out. You guessed he was like him too. Something that was out of your understanding, too much for you to fully conceive, under the cover of human faces and fucking around with someone like you because they could.
“What are you?” You bluntly asked, unable to pretend to not know. To act like you hadn't been listening.
“Your husband.”
You wondered what he'd do if you asked for a divorce. Although, here, in his arms, with him looking at you like he loved you, like in spite of everything else that was real, you didn't want one.
What vows had he sworn?
For better or worse? In sickness and health? Human or not?
“Fix this.” Suguru didn't ask. Demanded.
Satoru frowned, but there weren't any frown lines. Barely even a crease between his brows either. An emotion he hadn't mastered well in this body of his.
“I could just reset her,” he grumbled, unhappy at the prospect.
You barely had any strength left – but you scraped together enough to shake your head. You didn’t want to be fucking reset.
“No,” you hoarsely said. “Don't.”
Satoru’s face immediately brightened, grinning and pulling you closer, squeezing too tight again, until you hit his chest twice to get him to stop.
“Sorry, Suguru,” he shrugged. “I do what my wife wants.”
You fiddled with your ring in the car on the way home. For the first time, it felt like yours. Or maybe, you'd just accepted it as part of you. Let go of the pieces of you that didn't fit anymore. Shed those parts of your skin like he stepped into this one.
“What do you want?” You asked as he ran a red light.
“You,” he easily answered.
“You could've asked me on, like, a date,” you grumbled, resting your head against the window.
“Do you want to go on a date now?” He quizzed, cocking his head to the side at the correct angle this time. Learning, adapting to acting his role out.
“I want to go home,” you murmured.
The image in your head wasn't your apartment anymore. When you thought of bed, you thought of his.
And when he parked the car (and managed to scrape the front bumper against the concrete wall), he still hurried around to open your door for you, to hold your arm to steady you.
Took off your coat when you got back inside, got down on his knees to take your shoes off.
“You know you can ask me for anything, right?” He hummed, and there was something unsettling at the thought he could actually conjure up anything he wanted.
But being scared was exhausting.
So you didn't say anything when he followed you to the bedroom.
You stripped off your clothes, one piece at a time, methodical, precise. He stared, reverent. The lump in his throat bobbing as he took small steps forward.
“Do you love me?” You asked, unsure.
“You're the only thing I care about,” he reassured, fingertips settling slowly on your hips, one-by-one too. Dipping into the flesh, feeling it for himself and breathing in your air. His eyes glowed.
Literally.
A bright gleam that hurt to look at, burning into you with a dangerous intensity. When he spoke, his voice reverberated into your core. “Do you love me?”
⟡ ⌢ getting his baby's ears pierced somehow hurt satoru more than it hurt her.
he was apprehensive to begin with, but he let himself be swayed by his wife’s reassuring smile and her steady hand on his face, telling him — promising him — it would be over and done with in seconds and that she wouldn’t even be in much pain.
“i got my ears pierced as a baby,” you’d explained, rocking the topic of conversation back and forth on your chest at the time. “i don’t even remember it! she’ll be okay, honey.”
“she cries when i leave the room!” he had whined back, his hand gently rubbing up and down his daughter's back as the 6-month-old had begun to fall asleep on you, “how is she gonna be “okay” with a needle through her ears??” satoru seriously needed to learn how to say no, though, because you’d convinced him in the end.
bouncing the pudgy infant on his knee and making faces to keep her entertained, he looked around nervously, watching you talk to the piercer with a polite smile. he just sighed, still a little bitter he’d been so easily talked into letting this happen to his sweet baby girl.
“daddy’s sorry for letting mommy talk me into this,” he mumbled in dramatic defeat, like he’d failed her and didn’t deserve to live. his daughter was oblivious and too preoccupied trying to shove her fingers into her mouth to try and make sense of whatever he was saying, and all he got was a garbled “baah!” in return.
“okaaayy, pumpkin, are we ready?” you came back over cooing. her small body wriggled as satoru begrudgingly repositioned her in front of the young woman about to shove holes through his poor princess’s ears. making a point to ignore your husband’s glare, you helped hold her still. the young woman, also nervously avoiding your husband’s hole-dwelling stare, cleared her throat awkwardly and gave the 3-second countdown, holding the piercing gun to her tiny left ear before it clamped down with a sharp clack.
you and satoru held your breath and checked her over. it took a long moment, long enough to give you the false hope that maybe your baby was one of the ones that didn’t cry, but eventually, inevitably, her doughy cheeks began to puff up and redden, her nose scrunched and her big eyes spilled over with tears. then came that gut-wrenching wail.
“daddy’s sooorrryyy.” satoru immediately coddled her, looking ready to start crying himself. “ohh, daddy’s sorry, princess, i know, i know…” his lip jutted out in a sympathetic pout. “mean mommy for making you do this.” he swatted at your hand when you reached to comfort your baby, glaring through his own glossy eyes as he had to hold her still again so she could get her second one over and done with. he knew he had to let it happen, but the tears and the pouty lip felt like they could cleave his heart in two.
another sharp clack!, and her wailing turned into the screams of a banshee. satoru cuddled her closer onto his shoulder, as if he could just smother the crying away, and rubbed her back, 1.) so his daughter wouldn’t see him crying, because he WAS crying, and 2.) so he could attempt to take her mind off of what he could only assume was the worst pain she'd ever felt since birth. he quickly shooed the poor woman away from his daughter, his eyes visibly wet with tears. you couldn't resist a quiet, sympathetic laugh, but he ignored you.
“oh, i knowww, i know,” he sniffled, rocking the wailing infant back and forth. “‘m so sorry, baby girl, daddy’s sorryyy…” he didn't put his daughter down at all that night. he massaged her tiny ears whenever she started to cry, distracted her with toys and kisses.
“she’s literally never doing that again,” he told you later that night, watching her sleep on the monitor. he shook his head when you chuckled. “i’m serious, my heart can’t go through any more of that. she can get them pierced again when i’m dead.”
𐔌 ۪ ઈઉ ᩙ a/n:: i feel like those people who feed birds like when they sprinkle the seeds on the ground except i only feed you guys every 6 months or so lmao
