mika, INTP, deftones, evanescence, jhene aiko. a proud black woman. maomao, suguru geto, itosh rin, itoshi sae, byakuya kuchiki, alucard tepes d1 glazer. currently obsessed with the apothecary diaries,blue lock and jujutsu kaisen.
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i will be mainly writing for fem reader
i also really like experimenting with my writing and dabbling into different genres and tropes
not because he believed the dorms were safe enough to disregard his personal safety—but rather because his best friend came storming in like a category five tornado at odd hours of the day. but what could he say? he was already used to it.
today no different, you barged into his dorm bedecked in soft pyjamas and fluffy slippers, suguru turned his head towards the alarm clock perched on his bedside table now which read, 2:24 am. typical.
"another all nighter?" suguru says, his voice flooded with fatigue that the day brought upon him, perhaps it was the perks of being friends with an academic achiever. he was meant to ensure you didn't burn out before the end of the semester.
"yup. you won't believe what I saw."
"is this worth messing my sleep schedule over?"
"hush, most of your classes are towards the afternoon. besides, i brought you a muffin as compensation." you smile holding it in front of him.
"half-eaten muffin?" he muses, a loose hair strand flutters over his eye.
"i'll have you know, the walk to the library to your room is quite tiresome."
suguru sits up, patting the bed to signal for you to begin your endless prattling. you plop down tossing your tote bag somewhat across the room, slipping your shoes off and shuffling into his covers with all the audacity in the world.
"so you know that guy i walking about the other day? the one with the greenish hair—very creepy guy."
"hmm, i think his name was... niyo.. niera... no, naoya. naoya that's it. well, what about him?" suguru makes himself comfortable as he lays his head on your lap awaiting for more information.
"you know how i said he'd never get a girlfriend? well guess who i see making out with him?"
"it's definitely not shoko, she hates him, so does utahime... would it be crazy to say yuki?"
”yes it would be crazy, i could never imagine her dating a dum." you brush your fingers through his hair mindlessly.
"apologies for not knowing, after all i only know her through you."
"not the point but i was walking to check in the books i borrowed, right? then lo and behold, i see naoya shoving his tongue down meimei's throat."
"you're lying," suguru springs up, a perplexed expression on his face, before laying down to continue his head massage "doesn't she like them young?"
"that's what i thought too. but i genuinely thought naoya was going to die alone with the shit he says about women."
"misery loves company as they say."
"ya know, if you ever said something like that i'd put nair in your shampoo."
"i wouldn't say shit like that, besides if you put nair in my shampoo you can't threaten to turn my hair into a wig anymore."
"touché." you scoff, dragging your fingers through his hair while he lays his head on your lap like a lazy cat.
a/n: does anyone know who made this fanart? like i genuinely need to go glaze them
synopsis: blue lock characters who got their traits/hobbies from their best friend, you.
including: sae, shidou, hugo
♪sae
itoshi sae finally understood the epitome of true annoyance. the term nonchalance had always been in tandem with sae's name. the people in his life were constantly feeling frustrated at his stoic demeanor, short and late responses, occasionally his sarcastic remarks, however you were on another level.
sae was not familiar with your game.
before you moved out of the neighbourhood, you, sae and rin were inseparable, especially with sae. the two of you were practically attached at the hip like some type of freakish monster terrorising your parents' sanity.
the two, well, three of you pushed the boundaries of life in your own childlike way by walking on the concrete barricades that separated the roads from the beach, eating sweets right after lunch or even returning home ten minutes late.
sae liked to downplay the impact you had on him mainly because he knew he missed you dearly. not that he'd make that known. from the snacks and ice cream flavours he chose, to even the way you behaved, he emulated it as a source of comfort.
that uninterested expression you often gave people who didn't amuse you, the slow and relaxed walk you had were all features he admired. so why was he frustrated now?
well, he currently sat in a dimly lit restaurant with a bouquet of flowers beside him and an annoying waiter walking back and forth to collect his order.
sae: Where are you?
8:17pm
you: relax, I'll be there soon.
8:25pm
sae: Where are you! it's been 20 minutes, [name]
8:48pm
seen
and nearly an hour later you arrive with a jacket dangling from your arm, and your slow unbothered walk. "hi sae." you drag the chair in front of him, your eyes holding some amusement.
"no apology for being late?"
"my bad."
just as he opened his mouth to chide you, but he realised he was no better. he had done the same thing to multiple people, including you. the only reason he wasn't late was because you both arrived after the agreed time of 7:30pm.
♪shidou
even as a young boy, shidou knew he was different. atleast compared to his classmates he felt things more viscerally, in everything he liked and did he would put an insane amount of passion into it. his class projects? they would constantly get displayed as an example of being a diligent student.
don't even get him started on art and soccer, he would dedicate his heart to the point of shunning some guy named erwin, his art displayed vibrant colours somewhat matching his personality, taking references from history and mangas he liked. his soccer play style resembled his erratic personality that he so desperately suppressed.
these displays of passion were the very reason he got bullied throughout the chunk of his primary/middle school days—and for a while it seemed like this would persist even throughout highschool, until that faithful day and exchange student joined the school.
he could still remember the essence of confidence you carried that day, your alternative style immediately a point of contention in a homogeneous school. the more familiar you became with the environment the more you let your personality show.
not only was your personal style jarring but your personality was just... loud. shidou liked that. it was at this time that shidou started incorporating elements of gyaruo subculture into his own style. out of a spike in confidence, shidou walked up to you and asked how to do eyeliner.
you squealed in excitement, pulled him to the bleachers and sat on a step higher than him, you pulled out black eyeliner and began explaining the tips you had gained over the years.
"how are you not bothered by everyone calling you weird?" he asks, trying not to blink while you worked on his waterline.
"honestly? anyone who can't keep up with my explosions or personality can just die. why would i entertain their hating behaviour," you grin, swiping an eyeliner smudge before continuing "just remember that, okay?"
from that moment forward shidou vowed not to make himself palatable to anyone. did this isolate him? kinda, but why would he care when he had you as his best friend, and a new found passion for makeup.
♪hugo
one thing vivian always noticed when hanging out with you, was the fact that you were always reading something. whenever he'd walk into your room he'd notice your collection of books growing more and more, so much so that you'd give rory gilmore a run for her money.
whenever the book you were reading was too thick to put into your purse you'd get the ebook or audiobook or make hugo carry it around for you. sometimes he would flip through its content to see the books you were reading were dipped in such dense jargon, but that didn't stop him from listening to you talk about them.
often the two of you would hang out in the mall, without fail you'd always manage to drag the soccer player into the bookstore. you would walk through each aisle with such an infectious joy, detailing all the books you've read or the ones on your tbr.
"oh my gosh, viv, the book i was telling you about!" you squeal in excitement.
"which one? the one about about someone turning into a cockroach"
"oou, i love that book but no," you pick up the book with a white background with pink and orange font, "this one is the one about the popularisation of misogynistic rhetoric in social media spaces, you should read it."
hugo places your book recommendation into the basket. "i'll read it then."
"don't just say you'll read it and then let it collect dust. I will make sure you read it." you threaten, the two of you walking to the religious and philosophical section.
it was this point where he realised that he hadn't really researched the very thing he believed in, destiny. there stood countless books theorizing on the existence of destiny yet he didn't know any of them.
and if there was one trait that was starting to rub off on him it was your insatiable hunger for knowledge. if you didn't know or understand something you'd go home and research it.
he picked up two books on destiny before catching up with you at the tills. it was time he picked up a book.
a/n: yes the title is a reference to the song billie jean by michael Jackson, also peep my book recommendations in hugos one 🥹✌️
including: shidou ryusei, barou shouhei and itoshi sae
a/n: the reader threatens to use their free will.
ᡣ𐭩shidou
your eyes narrow in on the unsuspecting victim walking to the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist as he happily hums to himself. you on the other hand were "watching" something on your phone.
the perfect conditions for you to pull your bullshit pranks. you know what they say, a scare a day keeps the doctor away, or however that saying goes. the door closes behind him, music already blaring from his phone.
now, if you harboured any bit of decorum and compassion, you would have stayed seated on your shared bed, waiting for him to crush you to sleep (cuddle) but luckily you didn't. you stood up from your warm blankets and tiptoed to the bathroom door, holding in giggles.
you wait for the shower to begin running, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. and just as shidou reaches the highest note of the song he was currently belting to, you had switched off the light in the bathroom.
much like his singing, shidou screeches in utter fear, you hear the doors to both the glass shower door and the bathroom open. and out comes a tan unfinished mango running into the bedroom where he slips and slides across the marble floor.
you clutch your stomach cackling at shidou. "oh my god, you should have seen the...the way you flew." you wease.
"what have i done to deserve this?" shidou turns to face you, a small pout forming on his lips.
"nothing." you say wiping your tears.
ᡣ𐭩barou
you are a lot of things but being petty was surely one of them. while shopping you came a cross an item that was sure to bring amusement out of you and irritated from barou. why? because he threw away your two year eyeshadow palette that had supposedly "rotten."
indeed it was complete and utter madness!
there he sat on the white plush l-shaped couch. now, if you had lived alone you wouldn't even dare to pick such a risky colour but luckily the man you lived with was a clean-freak.
you walk to the couch, holding a "wet" canvas. "i'm finally done working on this piece, I think the colours came out pretty well." you say to your boyfriend, holding it in front of his face like you painted the mona lisa.
"i like it just don't get the paint on the co—"
barou's eyes watches the canvas fall in slow motion, he lifts his hand to try and catch it but gravity worked faster than his reaction skills, the painting fell right onto his plush couch
"..."
barou's eyes dilated as the silence stretched, his mind flipping through archives of knowledge on how to remove stains. he was done for.
unable to remain remorseful, you burst out laughing, his head snapping to you in shock, but unfortunately he was too stunned to speak.
"don't worry, it's washable ink, im not that cruel." you say giggling, a hand ruffling his gel free hair.
"tch."
ᡣ𐭩sae
sae, a man known for his accuracy on the field, his monk-like discipline. sae was a very particular man, especially about sleeping with an eye mask. maybe to others it would be insignificant, not essential for optimal alertness, but to him it meant everything. he couldn't go anywhere with them in his bag.
the man had an impressive collection ranging from silk, egyptian cotton and cashmere sleeping eye masks. yet, the one that he held dear was the one you got him as one of your birthday gifts.
you snuggle in bed pretending to sleep, when he rummages through your shared bedside tables for it, he stands in the middle of the room hands on his hips as he recounts what distracted him so much to the point of treating his gift so carelessly.
unbeknownst to him you hid his favourite one in your pyjama pocket. "what's taking you so long to switch off the lights and get to bed?" you sit up feigning a groggy demeanor.
"i lost it."
"what?"
"the eye mask."
"okay? just use your other ones."
"no, i need this one, i have an important game this week." he frowns, running a hand though his hair, his adorable bangs were down untainted by that godforsaken gel.
"which one was it, the black one?"
"yes, have you seen it?"
"oh, well... i kinda used it to squash a spider." you laugh awkwardly. it was very rare to pull expressions out of sae, if you did it was always subtle. but today, he was bewildered, beguiled, perplexed by your words.
"...you what?" he responds, his eyebrows practically touching his hair line. before he knew it all he heard was uncontrolled laughter, laughter he associated with the many tiktok pranks you pull on him. you wave the eyemask in front of him, your giggles pulling a small smirk out of him
"only you could say something as ridiculous as that." he mutters, switching off the lights, wearing his eye mask and sleeping like the princess he was.
a/n: i lowkey want to make a part two with hugo, kaiser and hiori
꒰ summary ꒱ when a misunderstanding leaves your family convinced you’re bringing a plus one to your cousin’s wedding in Japan, the last person you expect to volunteer for the role is your infuriatingly observant intern, Satoru. it’s supposed to be temporary. professional. strictly off the record. but with your mother already sold on the idea of your mystery boyfriend, and Satoru proving far too good at the role, pretending starts to feel a little too dangerous. also, why is your “intern” secretly the heir to gojo corporation?!
꒰ tags/warnings ꒱ fake dating ⚹︎ undercover ceo! satoru ⚹︎ accountant! reader ⚹︎ satoru is 29, reader is 26 ⚹︎ lots of family pressure. reader has a complicated relationship with her mom ⚹︎ forced proximity ⚹︎ one bed trope ⚹︎ slow burn ⚹︎ mutual pining ⚹︎ wedding chaos ⚹︎ angst and fluff ⚹︎ some suggestive content but no explicit smut ⚹︎
꒰ authors note ꒱ hi cuties! this is a commission piece, and it is about 12k total. this first part is just shy of 6k and the second part will be out next week. i hope you enjoy 🫶🏻 (art by @/hanamin_0123 on x)
"Oi. Boss lady."
“No.”
One problem at a time, and the spreadsheet in front of you wins by default. Because Column F is wrong. It’s been wrong for forty fucking minutes, and if it stays wrong for forty seconds longer, you may actually die here at your desk — hunched over, half-blind, and found by Shoko on a Monday morning with your face pressed into a pivot table like a cautionary tale.
"But… you don't even know what I was gonna—"
"—the answer is no, Satoru."
Unlike the human embodiment of a headache currently lingering on the other side of your desk, the spreadsheet in front of you is at least pretending to be important.
The chair beneath him creaks, and then comes the silence you know too well. It’s the one that comes right before he decides to be a problem on purpose. Attention is gasoline and Satoru is, structurally, a fire hazard. Still, your eyes flick up, and—
"No fair…” he huffs, that ridiculous pout tugging at his lips. “You didn't even let me finish the question."
Your eyes roll back down.
“Mhm.”
"And it was such a good question.”
You turn a page. "Really?”
“Yup.” He’s draped over the corner of your desk now, like gravity has wronged him, whining. “It was such a thoughtful… personal… deeply relevant… extremely genius level getting-to-know-you tier question that—”
You scowl. "—Satoru, enough. Just do your job."
It lands harder than expected. The sigh he lets out is deeply, theatrically offended. And when you glance up again, he’s sprawled over that same corner of your desk you made the mistake of clearing for him on day one because you’d thought, foolishly, that giving him a designated surface might contain him.
It had not.
Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.
Snowy white hair falls against his brow, sleeves rolled to his elbows; looking far too expensive and far too comfortable for someone whose official title is intern. His coffee is sweating beside your open planner — the one with a date next week circled in red: WEDDING, scrawled across the margin in your own handwriting. The condensation trails towards a stack of vendor invoices and—
…
Wait.
Are those the same vendor invoices you asked him to file yesterday?
Fucking great.
“Oh, c’monnn,” he grumbles, blinking at you over the rim of those absurdly expensive sunglasses he insists on wearing indoors. “One question. Just a tiiiiny one. It’s completely harmless. Humor me, yeah?”
You narrow your eyes.
“Satoru, you’ve been trying to ask one question for the last four months.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And you’ve been dodging it for four months. Imagine that.”
Technically… four months and four days. But who’s counting?
With an exhausted groan, your eyes fall shut, pinching the bridge of your nose. Noise drifts in from the hall — the elevator, the printer, a phone trilling somewhere nearby. But when you look up again, it all seems to fall away.
He’s gone strangely still. The smug grin hasn’t disappeared, but it’s softened at the edges, hooked at one corner with his head tilted slightly. And those eyes…
Oh.
That’s — no. You’ve seen his eyes before. Obviously. Four months of them. But right now, with the morning light doing something cruel and unhelpful behind him, they catch in a way that makes you forget you were mid-thought. The kind of blue that doesn’t ask if you’re looking. It already knows.
Which means of course, you look away first. “Fine.” Your hand drops as you mutter. “One question. But if it’s stupid, I’m sending you back to HR.”
It’s not much of a threat. It’s his last day, after all, and for reasons you still don’t fully understand, Satoru has always seemed oddly immune to consequences — which, frankly, feels statistically improbable given the amount of shit he’s managed to pull in the few months of being here.
“One question?” his grin sharpens. You point your pen at him. “Don’t make me regret this.” Yet his pleased chuckle is already making you. “Awhh… look at you. Finally yielding.” His pen twirls between his fingers, nodding with false solemnity. “Okay. So, here’s the thing… throughout these four months working beside you, I’ve seen a lot—"
“—that’s not a question.” You deadpan.
But ignoring you, he reclines back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head.
“Liiiike… I’ve seen the exact face you make when Mei-Mei emails you,” he smirks. “Even noticed you work through lunch more than you should. And I’ve noticed that little line right here—” he gestures vaguely between his own brows “—every time the budget goes sideways.”
Lips parting, you blink.
…why is he so observant?!
For someone who acts like he doesn’t give a shit, he’s strangely attentive.
You clear your throat, huffing. “Okay… what’s your point?” Your hands straighten a stack of papers that doesn’t need straightening. “Is there a question in here somewhere, or are you just reciting my habits back to me for fun?”
His grin is far too pleased. “Relax. I’m getting there.” And leaning forward, his voice drops, like he’s unraveling a conspiracy. “I just find it interesting how you answer work calls before the second ring. Every damn day. Doesn’t matter who it is.” His head tilts with a smug grin. “But for whatever reason, for the past month, your personal phone’s been ringing off the hook, and you never pick up. Not once.”
Heat creeps up your neck. Not because he’s wrong — but because he’s right. And he said it like it was nothing. Like noticing the pattern of your avoidance was just something that happened to him between stamps.
Oh.
Way too observant.
Shit. He couldn't have settled on what's your favorite color!? Or, what superpower would you have!? No. Of course he had to go for the fucking jugular.
His eyes drop to the planner lying open beneath the invoices. The circled date: WEDDING. And his grin sharpens. “Ohoho… I get it now,” he whistles, leaning back in his chair and kicking one leg over the other. “What’d your fiancé do to screw up this bad? Is the wedding off?”
Your head jerks up. “F-Fiancé?!” And he rolls his eyes with a scoff, still grinning. “Knew it. God, he must be really in the doghouse. Or maybe he’s just clingy as hell to be calling that much.”
You blink.
Okay. Nevermind. He’s wrong. That is not even remotely what’s happening. The most committed relationship you’ve had is the one with your coffee machine. And yet… part of it feels almost cosmically cruel.
Because somehow, this is the second time in a month that someone had looked at the scattered pieces of your life and decided a man must be hiding inside them. Except the first time, you never even got the chance to correct it.
After all… how do you tell your mother she’s wrong?
Last month, you still answered her phone calls.
Not because you expected anything different. But because somewhere between the second ring and the third, there’s this gap — this stupid, paper-thin gap — where you still believe she might ask how you’re doing and actually wait for the answer.
Some habits taste like smoke. Some burn like liquor. But yours, unfortunately, had always looked a lot like hope.
Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.
“Oh—uh, hi mom!”
Your phone was wedged between your ear and shoulder while you stepped out of your car, juggling your purse and what was left of your sanity. You were already behind schedule, and your mother was calling — which meant the day had already made its intentions very clear.
“What’s up?” the door slammed shut with your hip. “I’m actually about to—”
“—Trish sent the venue photos,” she blurted, launching into a conversation like always.
Blinking, you shook the bitterness away. Striding toward the towering glass of Gojo Corporation. “That’s—yeah, that’s great,” you muttered, badge in hand as you pushed through the front doors. “But I’m actually heading into work right now? So—”
“—It’s such a beautiful venue,” she ignored you. “Very traditional, very grand. But you know the Zenin family—they never do anything small.” And as she sighed in awe, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes.
The rational part of your brain told you to let this go to voicemail. But the rational part of your brain has never once won this fight. Because…
Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.
"Mom, I'm sure it's lovely, really… but I'm kind of—um, excuse me…" you pivoted around a man in the bustling lobby with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m literally walking into the building right now? But maybe we can revisit this later and—"
"—have you booked your flight yet?"
Your mouth flattened.
Clearly, your half of this conversation is optional.
“No… not yet,” you mumbled, as patiently as you could manage, jabbing the up button harder than necessary. “It’s been a crazy ass week so I haven’t had a chance to, but—”
“—every week is a crazy week for you.” The huff she let out sounded almost offended by the inconvenience of your life. “Why can’t you just book it now while we’re talking? I mean, it literally takes five minutes.”
A miracle, really, that your blood pressure isn’t a medical emergency.
Every week is a crazy week?
Yeah. No shit.
Two managers resigned last quarter. Another got escorted out by security. And their work didn’t disappear. No. It landed on your desk. Because that’s how it goes. That’s how it’s always gone. Group projects. Internships. End-of-quarter disasters no one else wanted to touch. If something needed fixing, it found its way to you.
You’re the one people relied on.
Just… never the one people chose.
“Mother. I’m at work,” you said, stepping into the elevator as the doors slid open, dropping your voice as you stabbed at floor fifteen. “Look—I’m about to walk into an eight a.m. meeting. But I’ll book it tonight, promise.”
“…eight a.m.?” she repeated slowly, before letting out a small, unbothered laugh. “Oh! Right. It’s eight p.m. here. Silly me. I keep forgetting.”
…
Keep forgetting?
She keeps forgetting that she’s ten thousand miles away? Forgetting that twenty years ago she abandoned you in another country to live abroad in Japan—handing you to your grandparents like a detail she'd get back to later?
How convenient that she forgot that.
The elevator slid shut, and you watched the numbers tick upward. “Um. Yeah…” you managed, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice. “Anyways. I’ll book it tonight. After work. Okay?”
"Okay, okay. Sure. Sounds good. But are you bringing anyone?”
Squeezing the strap of your bag, you swallowed the lump in your throat. This again? The last thing you needed was to walk into your shitty eight a.m. meeting looking emotional.
No thanks.
“I… uh…” you cleared your throat. “I um—actually—haven’t decided yet. But anyways, I gotta go, so—”
“Waitwatiwait. Haven’t decided? Does that mean… you actually found someone?!”
Her voice pitched up so fast it almost startled you, and your mouth dropped so low it could’ve hit floor one.
Shit.
“I-I—I didn’t say—"
“—oh, thank God. This is incredible!!” she squealed. “We’ve been so worried. I mean—Trish is younger than you and she figured it out,” her tongue clicked. “People have been asking questions, you know. Your aunt Sara keeps bringing it up every time I see her and—”
“—Mom, I—"
“—It’s about time,” The laugh she let out was relieved, like a problem in her life had finally begun resolving itself. “You can’t keep putting love on hold forever, because men aren’t going to wait around forever. You’re already twenty-six—not getting any younger, dear.”
Love?!
Who has time for that?
And why the fuck is twenty-six the age a woman expires?!
“What’s his name?” she pressed, practically beaming through the phone. “What does he do? Is he from there, or—oh, is he Japanese? Your father would love that, he always said—”
And she was off.
Spinning an entire man out of thin air. An entire future, really. Building him in real time from a tiny slip up you had because you were too tired and cornered and desperate enough to answer the phone in the first place. And you stood there, letting her. Because interrupting her has never once worked in the history of your life.
“—actually, never mind,” she chirped a moment later, as if she was being considerate now. “You have work. I’ll call tomorrow and you can tell me everything, yes? Okay, bye-bye honey—”
Click!
And just like that, the elevator went quiet. You were left staring at your reflection in the metal doors, phone pressed to your ear, listening to the silence where your mother’s voice had been.
‘We’ve been so worried.’
…
If they were so worried… why had you spent most of your life learning to take care of yourself? And yet, the second there might be a man, suddenly you’re worth getting excited about?
Funny how that works.
Scoffing, you lowered the phone, shoving it into your bag just as the elevator chimed open. Itadori Yuji’s head snapped up behind the reception desk.
“Morning, boss,” he waved, radiating sunshine as you walked towards the conference room. “Kento’s asking if you’re still good for the budget review at eight… or if I should just tell him to panic.”
Your smile softened, burying the sting. “Yes… I’ll be right there.” And as you stepped through the polished glass doors, you played the role you’d always played.
The reliable one. Twenty-six years old, with two master’s degrees, a career at one of the most competitive corporations in the world, and a team of seven that would quietly fall apart without you.
But…
None of that glitters quite like a diamond ring, does it?
“Oi,” Satoru frowns. “You’re makin’ that face again.”
“Huh?”
Blinking out of your spiral, your eyes trace back to the man across from you. His chin is resting in his palm, those impossibly blue eyes fixed on you with a quiet stillness that makes something in your chest trip over itself — like a lock turning in a door you didn’t know was closed.
“Oh.” You clear your throat, forcing the pen back into motion. “…what face?”
“The one you make when something’s wrong,” he says quietly, gaze unmoving. “When you’re upset and trying to act like you’re not.”
For a second — one terrible, unguarded second — you don’t have a single thing to hide behind. It’s just him, looking at you like your well-being is something he’s been keeping track of in a column you didn’t even know existed.
But then the sarcasm kicks in, right on time. "Wow," you say, forcing your hands back to the papers in front of you. "So… now you read faces?"
“Mm... nah. Just yours, sweetheart.”
And that grin — god, that fucking grin — hooks at one corner like he knows exactly what just detonated inside your chest. You don’t acknowledge it. Acknowledging things have consequences, and consequences with this man are not something you can afford.
"…that’s highly inappropriate," you mutter, shoving it down. "Let’s maybe redirect some of that insight toward the invoices, yeah?"
“Sorry, sorry.” He leans back, hands up like he’s the picture of innocence. “Wouldn’t wanna start shit with your dear future husband.” His grin goes sharp as he twirls his sunglasses between two fingers. “Though, wow. Tough look for him. Whatever he did, he clearly fucked up bad.”
Why does he sound… bitter?
No. You must be imagining it. This is Satoru. Satoru, who treats everything like a joke until proven otherwise. Satoru, who doesn’t care enough about anything to sound bitter over a man who may or may not exist.
You scoff. "You’re making some wildly stupid assumptions right now…"
He perks up at that. "Oh?" With his grin hooking higher, almost hopeful. "Wait. So, there’s no fiancé, then?"
Your lips purse.
What does he care? He’s not your mother.
“I wish you’d be this interested in your actual job,” you sigh, arms crossing. “Those invoices have been sitting there all week.”
“Uh-huh.” He tips his head. “And yet somehow, I noticed you still didn’t answer me.”
You frown.
What the fuck are you supposed to say!?
Oh. Um. Actually, Satoru, there is no fiancé. That’s the problem, actually! My mother invented him the other morning and I haven't worked up the nerve to call her back.
Yeah. No. You'd rather die at this desk.
“Maybe because it’s none of your business.”
“But I—”
“Drop it.”
He stares at you for a beat, then he flops back in the chair with a dramatic huff, long legs kicking out in front of him, mouth dragging into a sulky pout.
“Well, damn,” he grumbles, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, rolling his eyes. “No wonder you’re single if this is how you shut people down…”
The second the words leave his mouth, he blinks. His gaze flicks up to yours like he hears it too late — like he realizes, all at once, how shitty that sounded.And it only feels worse the moment he sees your face.
God.
Of all the places to hit.
“Oho… wow. Okay. This?” you say with a thin, self-deprecating laugh, chair scraping as you shove back from your seat. “Yeah. This is exactly why I shouldn’t have let you ask, Satoru.” You reach for your planner, your purse, anything to do with your hands besides let them shake.
He straightens, watching you scramble. “Whoa. Wait. I—"
“—because you don’t know when to stop!” The words come out louder than you mean, blinking at the sting behind your eyes. “You just keep pushing and pushing and pushing until you get what you want. Well good. I hope you’re happy.”
Before you can turn away, he’s on his feet. “Wait—” And the moment his hand catches yours, you freeze, breath snagging.
His voice is quieter now. His grip is firm yet gentle, and the air between you shifts, while something warm and uneasy twists low in your chest. The kind of feeling that makes you want to lean in and run in the same breath.
Though your eyes stay down. “Satoru… let go.”
“I didn’t…” he starts, then stops, gaze flicking to where his fingers still circle your wrist — before climbing back to your face, slower this time. “I’m… sorry. I just—” His mouth tightens. “I see how hard you work, okay? I see it. And every time that phone rings, you get this look on your face like it’s already ruined your day before you even touch it. And…” His brows pinch. “Fuck. I dunno why, but it pisses me off!”
Your gaze hesitantly drags to his, and the look in his eyes is softer than they have any right to be — all that blue, stripped of its usual sharpness, turned careful. Like he’s stepping toward something breakable and knows it. Like… if he asked once more, something in you might actually give.
“Satoru…” your breath hitches. “I-I—"
“Oh, finally.”
Shoko’s voice trails in, and your head snaps up so fast your neck almost goes with it. She’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, coffee in hand — looking like a woman who arrived exactly on time for something she's been expecting all week.
Her gaze flicks down to where he’s holding you, and the corner of her mouth twitches.
"Sooo… not to interrupt whatever this is," she says, taking a sip, "but Kento's one eye-twitch away from a medical event. He needs you to sign off on the variance line before he starts reconciling his own will and—"
You're already jerking your hand back. "Yup—coming!" And as you step away, heat floods your face, but you don't look back. Not once. Not even when you feel him still standing there, watching you go.
Because looking back would mean acknowledging that something just shifted. And you are not — not — doing that today.
Unlike those invoices, perhaps some things are better left… unfinished.
You’re gone in a blur of heels, nerves, and professional self-preservation, leaving Shoko trailing behind and Satoru staring at the empty doorway like maybe the conversation might wander back through it.
It doesn’t.
And it’s not long before his mouth is pulling into a slow, petulant pout—just before he flops back in the chair with all the elegance of a man personally betrayed by the universe.
Un-fucking-believable.
He’d almost had you! After four months and four days of being stonewalled, redirected, and professionally shut down, you’d finally looked like you might give him something. A crack. A sliver. And then Kento had to ruin it with his stupid reconciliation sheet, his stupid earnest face, and his stupidly impeccable timing.
…
He could fire Kento.
Should he fire Kento?
As tempting as that thought is, Satoru settles for glaring at the empty doorway a second longer before dragging a hand down his face and raking it back through his hair. There’s no point. This performance will end soon. Because by this time tomorrow, he’ll be on a flight back to Tokyo. Where he can resume the slow, agonizing process of preparing to inherit a company he didn't actually give a shit about.
'Grow up, Satoru.'
'Apply yourself, Satoru.'
'You have no idea what it takes to run something like this, Satoru.'
Right. Because apparently, the heir to a multinational corporation needed to learn humility. Alphabetize files. Sit in a cubicle. Fetch coffee like some goddamn spreadsheet slut with a trust fund and nowhere to put it.
Four years of business school, two years shadowing his father; and yet, this is what they had for him?!
He scoffs. And when his gaze drops to the wreckage of your desk, he’s pulling the stack of vendor invoices toward him with a sigh that sounds put-upon even to his own ears. You’ve been nagging him about filing them for the better part of the week and… the least he can do is clear one thing before he goes.
The stamp thuds against the first page. Then the next. Then the next. And with muscle memory taking over, his face goes blank in the way it always does when boredom finally wins. It’s mindless shit. Still, he’s used to it. So naturally, when the phone on your desk buzzes, he doesn’t think twice; snatching it up, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he reaches for the next invoice.
It’s probably another budget nuisance. Or Mei. Or one of the other thousand little crises that seem magnetically drawn to your extension.
“Yo,” another stamp echoes. “Satoru speaking.”
There’s a sharp inhale. “…who?”
His brow lifts. “Uh… Satoru?” Another thud of ink slams against the paper and he huffs, annoyed. “What do y’need?”
The line goes quiet for a beat too long. Before the woman on the other end finally murmurs, “Satoru…” Sighing in awe. “What a lovely name. Is that Japanese?”
"Uh… yeah?” he snorts, flipping to the next page. “I mean. Last I checked.”
“Mm… I thought so!” She giggles. And her voice pitches like she's just unwrapped a present she didn't know she was getting. “So… Satoru. Why exactly are you the one answering her phone, hm?”
…
Why the hell does this woman sound so invested? And why is she asking questions that should be obvious?
Frowning down at the invoice, he stamps it harder.
“Because it rang?” He says it like it’s obvious. “And uh—sorry, but. Maybe because I’ve been with her for months, so… why the hell wouldn’t I?”
"Months?!” A soft gasp crackles, far too delighted. “You've—you've been with her for months?!"
"Mmm… four months and four days, technically."
He’s been her intern for that long.
That’s the question, right?
"—technically?!" she squeals, like the word personally seduced her. "Ohmygoodness—oh, this is perfect. Four months and four days—that is so specific.”
He blinks. But she doesn’t give him time to process.
“Look at you Mr. Devoted. Keeping track. I was starting to worry she’d never find someone like you. Every time I asked it's like pulling teeth. But I knew there had to be someone. I told her father—I said, there is a man, I can feel it.”
Pausing mid-stamp, the words slowly begin to catch up. Satoru straightens.
"…sorry. Who is thi—"
“—everyone is so excited to meet you at Trish’s wedding. I already reserved your seat and—"
Her voice keeps going… and going… and going. He pulls the phone away slowly as her voice echoes on the receiver, staring down at the phone in hand to see:
📞 Mom
Oh.
Oh, shit.
This is not your work phone. Your work phone is currently sitting at its dock twelve inches to his left. And it dawns on him that he accidentally just spent the last sixty seconds answering your personal phone like an absolute jackass and—
"Uh…” he backpedals. “Wait. I—"
"I told Sara, I said, we have to meet him and—”
"Stop. I-I really think—"
“—Satoru, what are you doing?’
His head snaps up at the sound of your voice, mouth dropping as he sees you standing at the doorway, eyes wide in horror.
Oh, fuck.
“Who is on the other end of that phone,” you hiss.
He winces, pulling the phone from his ear like it’s toxic — and you’re snatching it right out of his hand. He lets you have it without a fight, sinking back into the chair like he’s trying to physically dissociate from the situation he’s just created while you press the phone to your ear.
“And I mean…” she rambles. “I certainly was never one to wait around at twenty-six, believe me. But—"
"Mom."
"Oh! Honey!” She gasps. “Oh, my goodness, hi—I was just having the loveliest chat with—"
"I'm at work. Gotta go."
"—okay! I can't wait to meet Satoru, he—"
Click!
The phone sits in your hand like evidence.
And Satoru — to his credit — has the decency to look like a man standing in the blast radius of his own stupidity. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Like he’s rehearsing an apology in a language he hasn’t learned yet.
You stare at him.
He stares at you.
And somewhere ten thousand miles away, your mother is already calling your aunt Sara.
“Sooo… funny story…”
“—what did you do?!”
Satoru flinched, and now, the tears were already rolling down your cheeks — hot, fast, completely unauthorized. Not the kind you could disguise as allergies or blame on the air conditioning. No. The ugly kind.
Great. Fucking great.
You were standing in the middle of your own office, in the building where you work, crying in front of your intern. And Satoru felt the weight of it all at once. In the last four months, he had seen you in every flavor of workplace misery there was. Pissed off, stressed out, one spreadsheet away from actual murder.
But cry?
Never.
And this had his fingerprints all over it.
"Shit," he breathed, panic flashing across his face. "I—fuck. Okay. Please don't—I can fix this. I can—"
"Fix this?" A splintered laugh ripped out of you, and you hated how thin it was. "Fix what, Satoru? You just confirmed a boyfriend to my mother, a boyfriend that doesn't exist—and she is, at this very moment, probably already—"
Another break in your voice cracked, and you squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hand to your forehead hard like you could hold the tears in by sheer force. But it only made it worse, because now you could feel the wetness on your own face, the heat of it under your palm, and the mortification landed like a second wave.
God. How fucking humiliating.
"Hey, hey—it's okay,” his voice softened. “We'll just… call her back. Right? Tell her it was a misunderstanding. Easy."
“Easy?” you scoffed, the word coming out strangled. “Y-You don’t understand my mother, Satoru,” you managed, voice gone thin as thread. God, you sounded like a child. “If she thinks something is true, then it’s true. That’s it. That’s—there’s no correcting her, there’s no walking it back, she’s already told my aunt Sara by now and Sara’s told Trish and—oh, fuck—”
Another sob tumbled out, and your fingers dug harder into your temple.
God. Stop it.
Stop it stop it stop it.
Think.
Think logically. You're good at this. You solve problems for a living.
But every time you tried to grab onto a thought, it slipped — replaced by the echo of your mother's voice, high and delighted. The happiest she'd sounded talking to you in years. Maybe ever.
…what look will she give you when you show up alone?
"I can’t," you whispered, and the word came out waterlogged. "I-I'm supposed to get on a plane to Japan in a week and—do what? Tell them there's no one? Tell them I'm still—"
Single.
The word sat in your mouth like a stone. You didn’t realize you’d gone silent until the silence itself started ringing — your sniffling, the hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled life of the office continuing beyond the door like yours wasn’t actively coming apart at the seams.
And through all of it, you could feel Satoru looking at you. His stillness; holding you with an expression you'd never seen on him before and couldn't categorize if you tried.
"Um…” he looked down, scratching the back of his neck. “Soooo... the wedding's in Japan?"
You blinked. “What?” And as you wiped your face with the back of your hand, his gazed tentatively flicked back up. “The wedding…” he repeated, voice careful. “It’s in Japan?”
"Yes." Your brow furrowed, not understanding. "Why?"
He didn't answer right away. Just looked down at the floor for a second, jaw shifting, like he was turning something over in his head — something he hadn't fully assembled yet but could already feel the shape of.
"Huh… okay."
Okay what?
You watched his expression change in real time — from guilt to calculation to something else. "Right then!" He said, clapping his hands once, bright and sudden. "No biggie. I'll just go with you."
No biggie?
Your mouth dropped.
That wasn’t even an option, was it?
…is he crazy?
“You’re kidding,” your laugh was awkward and breathless. His eyes rolled with a smug grin. “Sweetheart, c’mon,” and he was gesturing between the two of you like the answer was sitting there in plain sight and you were the only person in the room committed to not seeing it. "Your family thinks you're bringing someone? Cool." A hand pressed to his chest with theatrical solemnity. "I'm someone."
You stared at him. Genuinely stared.
Oh. He wasn’t kidding.
Yup. He’s crazy.
"You are not 'someone,' Satoru. You are my intern."
“Yeah. For like… another six hours?"
He checked his watch with a shrug, and your lips flattened.
"…that is not the point."
“Mm… feels a little like the point."
He smirked, but it faded faster than usual, dimming at the edges as his blue eyes hesitated on yours. Something shifted in his posture; the performance pulling back, like a tide going out. "Um… look…" He pushed off the desk, stepping closer. "It’s really no hassle." He said, hands sliding into his pockets. "I already have a flight scheduled. My family's in Tokyo. And I was going back after this internship anyway, so… this just moves my timeline back a little."
He was shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t agreeing to fly across the world with you and walk straight into the disaster that was your family.
…
His family’s in Japan too?
You barely knew anything about him. He kept his life sealed off with the same practiced deflection you kept yours — jokes in place of answers, charm in place of honesty. You never bothered to ask, because asking meant caring and that was a door you never intended to walk through with anyone.
But…
"Just… let me come with you. I’ll be your boyfriend for the weekend. For the wedding. For… whatever you need,” he said. And this time, when he stepped closer, there was no grin to hide behind. "I can be useful. I caused this. So… let me fix it."
Heat creeped up your neck, and you scoffed, weakly.
"Okay… but you can't fix my mother."
"No…” he murmured, tilting his head. His hand came up and brushed a tear trailing down your cheek with a careful gentleness. “But… I can make sure you don't have to walk in there alone?"
Your breath hitched, and when your eyes finally lifted, the morning light was being cruel again — catching in that impossible blue and turning it soft. Like stained glass dipped in sunlight. Like something holy made dangerous by the simple fact that it was looking straight at you.
“Mhn. So, do I get the job, boss lady? Because that look you’re giving me…” a slow smirk curls up the corner of his mouth. “Very encouraging for my boyfriend résumé, by the way. Might get addicted to it and wanna make it a full-time gig.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, looking away too fast to be convincing.“That was not a look. I was just—” You grimace. “…never mind.”
He’s chuckling as you brush past him. And his words are what scared you the most. Which was bad. Very, very bad. Because your mother was one problem. Japan was another. But Satoru looking at you like that?
Shit…
That felt like the kind of complication that didn’t stay neatly contained. And you knew better than anyone. Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.
a/n: hehe. this has been fun to work on! i am excited to share the next part. clearly i love these fake dating/fake marriage tropes aha 🙂↕️ bc this is like... what—my third time doing it? soooo i tried to change things up and make it feel less standard/generic :) but anyways, like i said pt 2 will be out in a week, pls lmk if you wanna be tagged 💖
synopsis→ asking them to hold your hold your purse in different situations.
a/n: live footage of me soft launching into the bleach fandom 🥹✌️
ᡣ𐭩 kurosaki ichigo
ichigo knew his duties often left him with little time to maintain his relationships but you remained faithful, that's why he dragged you all the way to the annual carnival to spend his rest day with you.
the two of you spend hours trying the many rigged games the carnival had to offer, but did that stop ichigo from winning them? no. he spent twenty minutes and a ungodly amount of money just to win you the giant stuffed animal currently obstructing your view.
the lights of the carnival begin to dim down indicating it was almost time to leave, on your way to the exit you notice a stall. “hit a score above 600 and win two stuffed animals! only $1,99!”
“ichigo, hold my purse.”
you rummage through your bag for the right amount before pushing your giant stuffed animal and purse infront of him. he knew from the way your eyebrows furrowed in determination than to distract you.
ichigo, a substitute soul reaper, an anomaly in soul society's history was blushing at his reflection in a whirly mirror. it was not everyday anyone saw him housing such a soft expression, let alone the sight of him around a fluffy lion and a purse.
handing the money to the dealer you ready your stance. taking a deep breath as you focus your attention on the red ball, you whip your hand back striking it in the center.
in all honesty ichigo was so prepared to pay a second time to win you two extra prizes but you clearly didn't need that.
“663, 664, 665, 667, 668…” the score reads with no signs of stopping anytime soon. perhaps ichigo should have you win him gifts.
ᡣ𐭩 kuchiki byakuya
sometimes you wondered how the two of landed up together. here you two were, in the most jarring place a noble could be, the club. byakya also wondered how he ended up at such a unbecoming sight, well it wasn't hard to guess considering all you did was bat your pretty lashes at him and he folded under no pressure.
he navigated through the unfamiliar environment by simple latching onto your hand. you walk to a far more secluded area where there were two lines on either side of the wall. you stand behind another girl, with him trailing right behind you like a lost puppy.
“please hold my purse for me.” you hand him your bag, disappearing into the bathroom. much like himself, there were also men leaning on the wall waiting for their partners.
his ears and cheeks were slowly brushed with pink flush. he had an image to uphold even if it was being in the club. what would his clan think, that he had gone soft? who was he kidding, the entire soul society knew of his intense affections for you.
he slings the small bag over his shoulder with a feigned nonchalance, standing with impeccable posture as he waits for you.
ᡣ𐭩 zaraki kempachi
the two of you stood infront of a vintage thrift store, a fifty percent sale on top of the countless racks. this was done serious business.
“please hold my purse.” you ask, your eyes zeroing in on the vintage adidas athletere. the only problem standing in the way of your dream clothing was the small crowd of people in the way.
since when did people thrift? you don't even wait for the response, pushing the bright purse into his chest before disappearing into the crowd.
zaraki blinks in confusion but ends up sliding the purse on his arm—more like forarm. he did not care about the stares people gave, but rather he was more concerned about the lack of training his subordinates were getting. a break from fighting? he did not like that.
suguru geto would look exquisite if he was pregnant. you had a habit of telling him that.
it happened for the first time when you were on a mission together. a curse thirsted to take his head clean from his body, but suguru twisted—a last-second leap sideways, and offered only the clasp of his hair. it snapped free under vile claws, and you saw the voluminous river of his hair unfurling in the air around him, shining like spilled ink.
you had never seen his hair unbound before. it was always restrained, a tight man bun at his crown, or that same severe knot with a few dark strands framing the glorious architecture of his face.
with his hair down, he looked almost like an emperor's favorite concubine, kept in the finest silks and soft beddings, waiting to be fed sweetmeats by royal hands, and bred by the emperor himself. to grow round and glowy as a child swelled inside him, a dreamy smile forming on his lips as he cradled his belly. you could almost see it, the way his hips would widen, they way his breasts would get heavier and more tender, complaining about his aching foot and the baby kicking at 4 a.m.
meanwhile, back in present, suguru summoned his rainbow dragon, sending it forth without much thought, impelling the curse to die in less than a second. the dragon returned to his side, floating around like a dog expecting praise from its owner.
you mumbled half-heartedly —something like "you have a beatiful face with your hair down... you'd look pretty if you were pregnant"— and the horror of your sentence left suguru's mouth agape. he could only stare at you, his usual assesing eyes now blown wide as a startled fawn's. then, he rapidly turned his head away, his tan cheeks blooming a faint red out of embarrassment. "what the hell...?"
all the while, the rainbow dragon hovered there, watching him with all the confusion a curse like it could possibly muster, it's iridescent head tilting as if to ask, what strange human magic is this?
there was nothing better than having an entire day dedicated just self care and recuperating for the next week. quite frankly you had been through enough stress to send a victorian child into a coma.
the entire day was merely spent on you binge watching a new show, and lazing around. a rare moment of relaxation in your fast-paced life. now was time for the fun part.
you turn up your music, adding more bubble bath to the tub and sinking further and further in like a rock being thrown into the sea. you spent a good two hours bathing yourself and washing your hair.
you step out of your bathroom smelling like your favourite lotion and feeling squeaky clean as you plop down onto your vanity chair, an array of nail polishes to choose from, a uv lamp and a nail file to the side.
humming to yourself as you file the surface of your nails
"you started without me, didn't you?" gojo burst through the door, his clothing slightly frazzled from all the running he did to reach you in time.
"welcome home to you too, toru. is there any reason why you'd burst through my door like you're category five tornado?" you raise a brow, your tone unamused by the loud noise he brought with him.
"sorry, sweets."
"uhuh, hurry up and go change, i didn't start without you."
a small ritual you two had participated in for the duration of your relationship had been a weekly manicure session while watching any new trashy reality tv shows.
it had all started with satoru wanting you to paint his nails then it spiralled into what it is today.
at first satoru did receive a bit of teasing from his colleagues for wearing nail polish, but he didn't care, why would he when he was matching with you?
satoru plopped beside you, adorned in the matching strawberry pyjama pants you got for him. he grabs a remote searching through a hoard of shows.
"really? temptation island?"
"what? we didn't finish the season, plus I want to know if brion ended up single or not." he pouts, your hand gently covering his nail in black nail polish.
you let out an amused sigh as you watch the recap of the recent episode. the two of you fade into a comfortable silence with an occasional commentary session regarding the events of the show.
simply lazing around with satoru would always be the highlight of your week.
a/n: highkey procrastinating on studying for my exams tmr🥹✌️
tags: emperor! geto x army general! reader. childhood friends to lovers. banter. mutual pining. angst at first. porn with plot. unprotected sex. breeding kink . smut is actually in this fic. it is not an april fools prank this time✌️
WC: 2.3k
Finally a wave of peace stretched over the horizon like the end of a rainy season, the war against curses had not been a fruitless one. truly the kaisen empire was on the brink of a greatness that the land had never seen before.
the eastern province, where most of the combat occurred had begun its extensive reconstruction, families returning to newly built homes, schools being refurbished, and the communities efforts to help create memorials for those lost. the southern provinces also had a boost in vitality as this year's harvest was far more than plentiful, ranging from all sorts of fruits and wheat.
and yet for emperor suguru, something felt missing—or rather someone. day after day soldiers returned running into the arms of their loved ones, with each battalion returning the ache in his heart growing more intractable.
he would often saunter through the green gardens, high off nostalgia and sorrow. near a flowing river he'd rest his back against it, simply letting the calm atmosphere soothe his mind. above his head, rested two initials dried up with time.
the memory of two children running together, one holding up a stick and determination plastered on their face and the other stumbling as they tried to catch up to them. just as he dared to uncover bits of a memory he held dear, the weight of responsibility and honour came crashing down.
as mindlessly as he came was the same way he left. he sits perched up on his throne scrolls and letters flying faster than he could manage. he turns head to the large pane of stained glass, the hue emitting an interesting yellow.
suguru doesn't even pay attention to the sound of footsteps ricocheting off the marble floors, not even to the hordes of guards exiting the room. he merely assumed a council member wished to speak privately. in his periphery a flash of black and gold robes finally captures his attention.
“one would assume that a person of my calibre would receive a welcoming party.” suguru's head snapping in the direction of the voice, relief crashing over him like a wave.
“you assume wrong.” he taunts, your steps getting closer and closer, stopping just before the carpet ends. your gaze connecting with his.
“well then, it appears my efforts are not being appreciated.”
“clearly your time on the battlefield has done nothing placate that insolence of yours,” suguru cocks his head, an amused smile playing on his lips.
“insolence? i know not of what you speak of, your highness.”
“is that so? you have been here two minutes, and i have yet to receive so much as a bow.”
“pardon my rudeness, i had not recognised that you'd prefer such faux pleasantries.” you bow, your garments brushing against the ground.
“i do not…” he trail off before the two of you burst into contagious laughter, the kind that spurs your lungs to run out of breath.
maintaining distance was something the council had urged him to do, yet to no avail.
suguru steps down from the elevated dais, his arms outstretched in a hug prompting you to reciprocate. a genuine smile craved into his features, his eyes resembling small crescent moons pleased at the sight of his sun.
“arrogance does not suit you, suguru.” your voice muffled by his imperial robes. he lays his head atop yours, a gentle hum rumbling through his chest. his current goal was to just hold you, not to waste anymore precious time participating in meaningless customs.
“are you done now?” you say patting his back.
“no.”
suguru tugs you closer wanting to take in the comfort you brought him, only for it to illicit a small wince from you. he pulls back—hands bee-lining for you arms, pulling the sleeves to look for wounds.
“you’ve been injured…” he sighs, it was no secret that you revelled in the thrill of fighting, so much so that you often disregarded your safety to achieve your goals.
there were countless times where he observed the rigurous training you put your subordinates under. was it harsh? no. through? yes. when it came to preparing the for the battlefield, you left no stone unturned.
from an objective perspective suguru could see why you had earned the title of general. fierce determination, skill, grit and compassion were all traits you possessed, things that made a exemplary army general.
not to mention the way you captivated an audience. on the very rare days he witnessed you fight, he couldnt help but admired the elated expression painted on your face as you cut through hoardes of curses, the way your swordsmanship mimicked a hypnotising dance.
your robes would flutter in the air like a delicate butterfly gliding across a field of flowers, it was like the earth would cease its movements as your attention locks in on your opponent, you twist your blade landing a precise slash on the curse.
however he couldn't deny the great deal of stress it gave him.
lifting you hand, suguru inspects your arm much like how you would survey the quality of your blades, your mouth begins to form an excuse but the glare he gave you was enough to shut up.
“show me. i know you're hiding it.” he grumbles out.
“no need to fret, suguru, the physician was on my next stop from here.” you bat your eyelashes as you attempted to use every trick under the sun to distract him from the open gash on your shoulder.
weakness was something you'd rather not display, even if it was him who got to witness it. “come.” suguru says, his voice calm and soothing.
his hand wraps around yours, gently tugging you down the intricate corridors of the palace, halls that reminded of time where there was no pressure on you two. no pressure to perform just two children running from the head cook's spatula, biscuits in hand.
he pushes the door open, a familiar sight came into view, a canopy bed of red and gold silk sheets, potted plants on the corners and window seals of the room.
moonlight and a dim later were the only things giving the room light. suguru's features only grew more sharper, his hand trailing your waist, hoisting you up and on to the counter.
he opens a drawer pulling a box of supplies you forced him to keep. no matter how busy you were you always managed to worry about him. how ironic considering you did not want your kindness returned.
he twists open a bottle of aloe vera you had an apothecary make, putting it on the counter next to you.
“are you going to tell me where it is or should I find it myself?” he lets out, the intense of his gaze only worsening your ability to maintain composure. your hands slip off half the robe off your shoulder, a long and deep gash from your collar bone to shoulder.
“you can save your chiding for another day, perhaps if I return home with a far more serious injury.” you pull his cheek, earning an amused scoff from you.
the air between you two was growing more stifling by the second, the feeling of cool aloe gel against your skin only served to heighten your awareness of him.
suguru's lips slowly part as he wraps the clean gauze around your shoulder, ensuring his touches were nothing but gentle. luckily for him the room was dark enough to hide the glaringly obvious blush painted across his ears and cheeks.
He gulps, eyes dilated by the sight of your torso, his mind actively trying to ignore the fact that he stood right between your legs with your thighs resting on either side of his.
your heart beating sporadically against your chest, you were sure that if he listened carefully he could probably hear the sound of him disarming you.
‘what an unbecoming sight.’ you thought to yourself, an army general for the biggest surviving empire was feeling flustered at the mere proximity of your emperor, your best friend. you wouldn't even dare to acknowledge the dizzy sensation you felt near him.
suguru leans against you to reach for a pair of scissors to cut the excess gauze off, his hair brushes against your neck taunting you at the possibility of him settling between your legs.
like a taunt rubberband snapping he pulls you closer, lips finding a way to your neck. “what are doing?” your gasp out, your uninjured arm wrapping around his neck.
“please forgive me, but i need you, even if it's just this once.” he pants out, his muscular arms wrapped around your waist as if to ground you.
you cautiously bring your other hand over to his back and your uninjured hand immediately rushing to his long hair. you pull the gold imperial hairstick out his hair, flinging it across the counter as you tangle your hand in his hair.
you tug his hair in a downward motion as he slowly made it up your jaw to your lips. at first it was a slow reverent kiss made to encapsulate the depth of his unfiltered love for you, but like all things related to you, he just had to do it passionately.
he deepens the kiss, your hands fumbling around for the belt tying his garments together, he lifts you from his bathroom counter leading you to the plush feeling of his silk bedsheets, all without breaking the kiss.
he settles in between your legs, his lips returning to the base of your neck. you successfully untie the knot pulling the upper layer off revealing his muscles formed by years of martial arts and swordsmanship. at this point in time you couldn't be considered with the implications of a general lying with the emperor.
as if reading your mind suguru mutters against your neck, his voice littered with raw desire, “please be mine for tonight”
“just for tonight?”
“for as long as you permit me to lay beside you.” he correctly, his hands pulling every barrier between the two of you off and on to the side. he unravels the binding that keeps your breasts in place, his warm hands wrapping around them.
“i suppose i shall be generous and grant you your wish.”
“ah, your kindness knows no bounds, my lady.” his fingers trace down your breasts to your now soaked undergarments. he pulls it down letting it join the pile of clothing that sits scattered across the floors of his chamber.
his calloused finger slipping in between the folds of your wet cunt evoking a soft whine from you. your hand dragged down from the centre of his back to tracing the x-shaped scar on his midsection. the desire now palatable commands you to pull him against you.
the sensation of skin to skin contact between the two of you brought about the feeling of lightness you revelled in. your hips grinding against his pelvis just longing for some friction.
suguru groans, dipping a long slender finger in, his thumb gently rubbing against your clit, he increases the speed of his fingers, curling them at the right angle just to reach the spot that pulls the most sounds from you. his plump lips press against your neck, sucking softly leaving trails of small marks.
your moans grow louder, as he feels you clench around him, "show me how good i make you feel, my lady." he mutters while adding a second finger, his thumb rubbing small circles against your clit. your hands tug on his long hair, making him moan, his breath coming out ragged against your skin.
"please suguru." you whine, your legs attempting to lock around his arm but he pulls them apart holding you tighter against his chest, his fingers moving faster and deeper, with the wet sound of your arousal filling the quiet bedchamber
he keeps the rhythm at an infuriatingly steady pace, "come on, my pretty general. let go for me. i want to feel you fall apart all over my hand." who were you to not listen? your walls clench hard around his fingers, your body shaking uncontrollably against his chest as you reach the height of your orgasm.
"... please, i need more." your voice comes out weak all because you were using his bicep to muffle your moans. he grabs your hips and pulls you flush against his hard, throbbing dick, his purple eyes catching the soft moonlight filtering in.
"you want more? then take what you want, my love. i've been waiting for this day to come to pass." you mewl at the sensation of him thrusting in, feeling just too overwhelmed with the size he was packing.
he halts his movements to allow you to adjust to his size, your gaze slightly dazed after your previous orgasm. after a few beats you nod, signalling you're good to continue. he catches your lips in a rough, hungry kiss, swallowing every soft mewl that escapes you. one hand slides down to rub fast circles on your clit, his thrusts growing deeper and more urgent with every movement.
"suguu..." you drag out, your hands digging into his muscular back, leaving red streaks.
"i know, my love, but you can take it for me, can't you?" he reassures, pressing your knees back against your chest, leaning his weight over you to get deeper, every thrust hitting the spot that makes you see white.
he grabs your hips harder, keeping his brutal pace, fingers pressing hard against your swollen clit as he feels your walls starting to clench around him. your breathing growing ragged against his ear, voice thick with desperate need.
you both reach your orgasms, your moans mingling with his, arms pulling him against you as you ride out the rest of the high. suguru thrusts deeper, flooding your poor cunt with cum.
yet he couldn't help but admire the sight, his wildest fantasies brought to life.
“My eyes are not that yellow, you’re making me look jaundiced.” Zuko murmurs he rests his head on your shoulder. “There aren’t that many shades I can choose from…” You say back, side eyeing him slightly as he tries to backseat game. You do your best to make his Mii look lifelike but there really is only so much you can do.
“Try that one— no one lower, yeah that one.”
“Eugh no that looks worse than the first option Zuko.”
“Okay yeah go back to the first option…” He concedes, you are without a doubt the victor of this little feud.
“Do you want to be smiley or have a frown?” You ask as you move to the next section of customization “Uhhh do the neutral one, I think that’d be the best.”
“Really? Sometimes you kind smirk to yourself but okay… neutral..”
“I don’t do that, don’t spread that around. I’m a prince I have the resources to sue you.” Zuko, despite your teasing nuzzles his face into your shoulder like a cat.
“Are you wiping your boogers off on me?”
“What? Ew no, I’m being loving and kind.”
“Right, loving and kind after threatening a law suit?”
“Two things can be true at once.”
You shuffle a bit in bed, enough that Zuko worms his arm around your waist. “What’re you doing now?” He ceases his nuzzling in favor of watching the screen. “I have to draw your scar on now, there’s not an option to add one other then just like… drawing it.” Zuko smiles faintly at your efforts, watching as you pick a custom shade to try and match his marred skin. He lightly kisses your shoulder, his appreciation is apparent.
“What do you think? Good?” You ask once you’re done and fully zoomed out. “Hmmmm yeah, it looks a little cartoony though.”
“Zuko, what did you expect?”
“Kidding, kidding. It’s good I think.”
“Okay look, now I get to introduce you to everyone! This is the fun part now.” You say happily as you drag Mii Zuko across the island over to your Mii house. “Awe look at them, they’re becoming acquainted.” He murmurs, unsure of what he was really expecting. “Yeah! I think i’ll be able to get them to go out once I make them hang out enough times…”
“You can make them date?”
“Yeah you can get married too, and have babies.”
“Make sure ours do that…” Zukos hand sneakily creeps over your navel, his only saving grace is that his palm is warm.
“Look! You’re already leveled up.” You smile happily, choosing to give him an expression.
“Hello. Zuko here!”
“I was sixteen when I did that! Can’t you let it go.” He groans hearing the cute little chatter, you just laugh at his plight. If you end up with a defamation suit just know you earned it. Just kidding, he loves you too much.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝Inscense & Iron || Suguru Geto x Reader x Toji Fushiguro
Synopsis: You’ve always been closest to Suguru. He understands you without effort, steadies you without asking, and holds you in a way that feels like home.
Toji is different, harder to read, often having you articulate yourself in ways you weren't used to. The longer you stay with Toji, the more obvious the difference becomes, because when it matters, you don’t go to your boyfriend: You go to Suguru.
And somewhere in that quiet pattern, Toji has had enough. w.c: 5.5k
Tags: gn!reader, oblivious reader, angst w no smut, suguru and reader have been close friends since elementary and are now in college, reader and toji have an age gap but it's not mentioned, reader is NOT a cheater they're just dumb af, reader and geto are touchy sorry, suguru is not clueless he knows what's happening and he likes it that way, break-up, uhhh I think that's it lmk if I missed anything else!
Suguru’s apartment was warm, and very quiet, the only sounds were the low rhythmic hum of the refrigerator and the muffled rattle of wind against the windowpanes. Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of bergamot incense and the lingering warmth of the heater. You were practically merged with Suguru on the oversized couch, your limbs tangled together in a way that had become second nature over the years.
You were being particularly clingy today, a byproduct of a long week and a lingering sense of restlessness you couldn't quite name. Your head was tucked into the crook of his neck, your nose pressed against the soft cotton of his black t-shirt. Your legs were draped over his lap, and your fingers were idly twisting the hem of his sleeve.
Suguru, as always, indulged you without a word of protest. He didn’t seem to mind the weight of you or the way you were encroaching on his space; in fact, he leaned into it. His posture was relaxed, one arm draped heavily over your waist to pull you closer, while his other hand moved with hypnotic slowness through your hair. He didn’t look away from the book he was holding, but his thumb traced rhythmic, soothing arcs along your hip, a constant tether of physical presence.
"You're very quiet today," he murmured, his voice a low vibration that you felt more than heard against your temple.
"Just tired," you mumbled into his shirt, shifting so your cheek rested against his collarbone. You reached up, your palm flat against his chest, feeling the steady, slow thump of his heart. You liked the way he felt—solid, immovable, and entirely focused on the fact that you were there.
He let out a short, soft huff of a laugh, a sound of quiet amusement. He finally closed his book, setting it aside on the coffee table without looking, and shifted his weight to accommodate your neediness. He pulled you up a bit higher so your head rested on his shoulder, his fingers now tracing the line of your jaw.
"Tired, or just looking for attention?" he teased, though there was no edge to it. He tilted his head down, his forehead brushing against yours. His eyes were dark and steady, observing the slight puffiness under yours with a gaze that saw everything and judged none of it.
"Maybe both," you admitted, your fingers migrating from his sleeve to the nape of his neck, where his hair was starting to escape its tie. You liked the texture of his hair, the way it felt like silk between your fingers. You were being greedy with his touch, pressing closer until there was no air between you, and Suguru simply opened his arms wider to take you in.
He let his hand slide down your spine, his palm warm through your sweater, applying just enough pressure to keep you anchored. It was a deeply familiar kind of intimacy—not the frantic energy of a new romance, but the heavy, settled weight of a decade of shared silence. He knew exactly where to press to make your shoulders drop, and he knew the exact tempo of stroking your hair that would make your eyelids heavy.
You let out a long, shuddering exhale, the last of the day’s tension finally leaking out of you. You felt small against him, protected in a way that felt entirely automatic. "Suguru?"
"Mm?" He didn't move, his chin resting atop your head, his breath ruffling your hair.
"Do you think I'm... likeable?"
The question felt heavier in the intimacy of the apartment than it would have in any other setting. You felt his hand pause for a fraction of a second on your back before resuming its slow path. He didn't pull away to look at you; instead, he squeezed your waist slightly, a physical affirmation before the verbal one arrived.
"Where is this coming from?" he asked, his tone neutral but attentive. He shifted just enough to look down at you, his thumb catching a stray strand of hair and tucking it behind your ear. His touch was lingering, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin there for a second too long to be accidental.
"I don't know," you lied, though the image of Toji’s blunt, unreadable face flashed in your mind. "I just feel like I'm a lot to deal with sometimes, like I take up too much room."
Suguru’s expression didn't change, but his eyes softened at the edges. He adjusted his hold, bringing his other hand up to cup the side of your face, his thumb smoothing over your cheekbone. He looked at you with a terrifying amount of clarity, as if he were reading the thoughts you hadn't even voiced yet.
"You're not a lot to deal with for the people who actually want to be in the room," he said, his voice dropping an octave. He didn't laugh or dismiss the insecurity. He treated it with the same quiet gravity he gave everything involving you. "You’ve always been like this, you've always needed to be close. and that's okay, that's how you want to be loved."
He leaned down, his nose brushing against yours in a slow, affectionate gesture that made your heart stutter. He was so calm, so predictable in his affection, that it made the rest of the world feel chaotic by comparison. He didn't need to be told you were seeing someone else to know that something was rattling you; he just felt the vibration of your anxiety and moved to dampen it with his own weight.
"You're very likeable," he added, a hint of a smile finally touching his lips. "Almost inconveniently so. Now stop overthinking and just stay still."
You nodded, closing your eyes and letting your forehead rest against his. You let your hands wander, settling into the familiar grooves of his shoulders. You hesitated for a second, the fabric of his shirt bunching in your fists.
"Suguru," you whispered. "I'm... I've been seeing someone, a few weeks now."
The hand on your back didn't twitch. His breathing didn't change rhythm. Suguru simply hummed, letting the information land, holding it with the same steady grace he held you.
"His name is Toji," you added, your voice small.
Suguru pulled you a fraction closer, his cheek pressing against the top of your head. "Toji," he repeated, the name sounding smooth and inconsequential when he said it. "And is Toji the reason you're wondering if you're likeable?"
"Maybe."
"Then Toji is slow," Suguru said simply. He sounded factual, as if he were commenting on the weather. "If he hasn't figured that out yet, that's his deficit, not yours."
He didn't pull away. He didn't change the subject to something colder. He just stayed there, letting you be as clingy as you needed to be, stabilizing the space until the news felt like just another part of the room’s quiet atmosphere.
Six weeks later, the atmosphere was different.
Toji’s apartment always felt colder, even when the heat was on. It wasn't the temperature; it was the lack of clutter, the lack of scent, the lack of noise. There was no incense here, only the faint smell of cleaning products and the lingering metallic tang of the tools he kept on his workbench.
Toji was sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his broad back a wall of muscle. He was looking at a small stack of cash, counting it with efficient, calloused fingers.
You were sitting on the floor between his legs, your back leaning against the mattress. You felt that same familiar restlessness, that low-frequency hum of anxiety that usually drove you to seek out contact. You reached back, resting your hand on Toji’s calf. His skin was warm, his muscles dense.
He didn't move his leg away, but he didn't lean into the touch either. He just kept counting.
"Toji?" you asked.
"Hm."
"Do you think I'm... likeable?"
The question hung in the air, unmoored. There was no pause, no rhythmic stroking of your hair. Toji didn't pause for a fraction of a second. He finished the stack, tapped the bills against his palm to straighten them, and shoved them into a bag previously hidden under the bed.
He looked down at you then. His eyes were dark, but they didn't hold that investigative clarity Suguru’s did. They were blunt, direct.
"What kind of question is that?" he asked.
"You're here, aren't you?" His voice was a low growl, devoid of any poetic reassurance.
"That's not what I asked."
He leaned back against the bed, crossing his heavy, scarred arms. "I don't waste time on people I don't want around. If I didn't like looking at you, you wouldn't be here. What else do you want me to say?"
"I don't know. Something... more?"
"You talk too much when you're worried about nothing," he said. He didn't soften the blow. He didn't tell you that it was okay or that he liked it. He just stated it as an observation. "And you're always worried about nothing."
"It's not nothing to me."
Toji looked down at you again, his lips pressed in a thin line. "Doesn't matter if it's something or nothing. You're still talking."
He reached down with one hand, his fingers hooking into the belt loop of your jeans and giving a sharp, playful tug to tell you to move so he could stand up. It was a gesture of affection, you knew that, it was his way of acknowledging you were there, but when he walked out, the room felt a lot colder.
You leaned back against the mattress, frigid against your neck. You pulled your knees to your chest, hugging yourself because there was no one else to do it.
You felt small.
Toji didn't indulge your clinginess. It wasn't that he pushed you away; he just didn't move to meet you halfway. If you sat next to him on the couch, he stayed where he was, a solid wall of muscle and indifference. He would let you lean against him, but he wouldn't shift his posture to hold you. He wouldn't reach out to stroke your hair while he watched TV. If you touched him, he accepted it as a physical fact, like a cat leaning against a radiator.
Your thumb instinctively found your phone in your pocket, you didn't pull it out, but you held onto it like a talisman. You thought about Suguru’s apartment and the way he held you, you thought about the way his heartbeat felt against your cheek. You realized, with a quiet, sinking dread, that you wished Toji was a little bit more like him.
Toji was not a bad partner. He was consistent in his own way. He was physically present, his heavy arm often pinned you to the bed at night, and he showed he cared by fixing things you didn't even know were broken—oiling a squeaky door hinge, replacing a dead lightbulb, or leaving a container of food in the fridge without a note. But he didn't interpret you. He saw the surface, and he reacted to the surface.
If you were sad about a movie, Toji would tell you it wasn't real.
If you were stressed about a final exam, Toji would tell you to study more or quit.
Suguru, meanwhile, would pull you into his lap if a movie made you sad, whispering that he understood while his hand moved to stroke your hair and wipe your tears away.
If you were stressed about a final exam, he would settle behind you to knead the tension from your shoulders, his voice a grounding hum that made the daunting concepts feel manageable.
This comparative pattern established itself over the next month with the quiet persistence of rising water.
Weeks later, you were sitting at Toji's small kitchen table on a Thursday evening, staring at a schedule for your upcoming semester. You had two classes overlapping, and the registration portal was threatening to drop both if you didn't resolve it by midnight.
You tapped your pen against the table. Tap, tap, tap. You bit your lip, reading the same course description for the fourth time.
Toji walked past you to the fridge. He opened it, pulled out a bottle of water, and unscrewed the cap. He drank half of it before looking down at you.
"You're making a lot of noise with that pen," he said.
You stopped tapping. "Sorry... I'm just stressed. If I drop the seminar, I have to take it next spring, but if I drop the lab, my whole prerequisite track gets messed up."
Toji took another drink of water. "There's your answer. Drop the seminar."
He was just looking at the problem, finding the most direct route out of it, and pointing to it, and yet, it felt awfully like he was dismissing your anxiety.
"It's not that simple," you said, rubbing your forehead. "The professor for the seminar is the one writing my recommendation letters."
Toji set the water bottle on the counter. He leaned against the edge, crossing his arms. "You're paying to be there. Just tell him there was a scheduling conflict. He won't care."
"He might."
Toji shrugged. "Then he's an asshole. Drop the class."
He pushed off the counter and walked back into the living room, sitting heavily on the couch.
You sat at the table. Toji’s logic was sound. But your chest still felt tight.
You pulled out your phone. You opened your messages and clicked on Suguru’s name.
I have to drop Professor Lin’s seminar because of the chem lab. I feel sick about it.
The read receipt appeared almost instantly. A moment later, the typing bubble popped up.
Lin is reasonable. Draft an email, blame the registrar system, apologize briefly. Send it to me if you want me to read it first.
You exhaled. The tension in your shoulders physically dropped. You typed back:
Thank you suguruuuu (；ω；)
From the couch, Toji shifted. He looked over his shoulder. He saw you sitting at the table, your phone in your hand, your posture entirely relaxed compared to two minutes ago. He didn't say anything. He just watched your face settle back into a calm baseline, a smile on it now, then turned back to the television.
Later that night, you were still at his apartment. You were lying on your stomach on his bed while he sat at the foot of it, scrolling through his phone, likely looking at betting odds for the weekend races.
"Tojiiiiii," you said, poking his lower back with your toe.
"Yeah."
"I think I’m going to be fine without the seminar. Suguru helped me write the email to Professor Lin!"
Toji’s shoulders didn't move. He didn't turn around. "Good for you."
"Do you want to read it?"
"Not really. If he approved it, it's probably good. He's the smart one, right?"
There was no jealousy in Toji's voice. It was just a statement of fact.
Toji didn't view Suguru as a threat because jealousy required a level of insecurity he didn't naturally possess.
But he noticed the frequency: Suguru was a metric, he was a reference point for your daily life.
He stood up, stretching his massive frame until his joints popped and looked down at you, his expression unreadable. "I'm going to get some air, don't wait up."
He didn't ask you to come, he didn't offer a kiss, he just left.
You lay there in the quiet room, the silence of Toji's apartment pressing in on you. You reached for your phone:
Lin said it's fine!! Thank you suguuu (*｀▽´*)
The reply came three seconds later.
I told you not to worry, go to sleep. You have a long day tomorrow.
You closed your eyes, clutching the phone to your chest. You were in Toji's bed, but you were breathing to Suguru’s rhythm.
Toji Fushiguro was a man of instincts, and those instincts were starting to itch.
He noticed the way you looked at your watch whenever you were with him, not because you were in a hurry to leave, but because you were subconsciously checking if it was the time Suguru usually got out of class.
He noticed the way you'd start a sentence with "We..." and then quickly correct it to "Suguru and I..."
But the real realization happened at a bar, a dark, divey place where the floor was perpetually sticky and the air tasted faintly of stale beer and cheap cigarette smoke. You, Toji, and Suguru had ended up at the same cramped booth in the back corner—a not so rare occurrence these days. The vinyl of the seat was cracked, pinching the back of your thighs, but you hardly noticed. You were too animated, hands flying as you complained about a professor who had spent the entire lecture talking in a condescending tone towards you.
Because the booth was so laughably cramped, you were wedged tightly into the corner, pressed flush against Suguru’s side. Every time you shifted or leaned forward to emphasize a point, the solid warmth of his shoulder and thigh brushed against yours. He didn't bother trying to inch away to give you space; instead, he had casually draped his arm along the back of the cracked vinyl seat behind you, his fingers resting dangerously close to the nape of your neck. He was quiet, listening to your rant with a faint, amused smile playing on his lips, turning his head just slightly so his breath ghosted across your cheek whenever he shifted.
Across the scarred, sticky table, Toji took up the entirety of the opposite bench. He was slouched low, legs spread wide under the table, holding a half-empty glass of cheap beer in one large hand. He hadn't said a word since you started complaining. But unlike his usual disinterested demeanor, his dark eyes were locked entirely on you.
You gestured with your hands, and in your excitement to tell how you talked back to "that asshole of a professor", you knocked your coaster off the table.
Both men reacted.
Toji watched it fly, his hand twitching slightly, but he stayed still, it was just a coaster after all
Suguru, however, already leaned his hand where when the coaster would land, It tipped off the edge between you, but he caught it before it could fall, setting it back down in front of you without interrupting your sentence. He didn't even look down. His eyes remained on yours, his expression one of quiet, focused attention.
You didn't even thank him, you didn't even stop talking. You just rested your hand on the coaster he had replaced, your fingers brushing his for a second before he pulled back.
Toji saw it: He saw the seamlessness of it. It wasn't a performance; it was a machine that had been running for years, perfectly oiled and silent. He saw how you didn't have to ask Suguru for anything, because Suguru was already providing it for you, you expected him to.
"I'm heading out," Toji said abruptly, sliding out of the booth.
You blinked, surprised. "Already? But we just got our second round."
Toji looked at you, then at Suguru. Suguru looked back, his gaze neutral, almost bored. But Toji saw the way Suguru’s arm was resting on the back of the booth behind you, not touching you, yet awfully close to your nape.
"Yeah," Toji said. "I've seen enough."
He walked out without looking back. You watched him go, feeling a pang of guilt. And when you were just about to go after him, Suguru reached over and squeezed your forearm, a simple, grounding gesture.
The guilt evaporated.
"He's just tired," Suguru said calmly. "Don't overthink it."
You nodded, pouting and leaning into Suguru’s space. "You're probably right."
Toji was beginning to categorize things, he understood mechanics: If A, then B.
When you were confused, you went to Suguru for clarity.
When you were tired, you expected Suguru to slow down and match your pace.
When you were unsure of a social situation, you checked Suguru's face before reacting.
Sure, you were physically affectionate with Toji. You slept in his bed. You liked him. But comfort—true, deep-seated, thoughtless comfort—was not something Toji provided for you. Not the way Suguru did. With Toji, you were still translating yourself.
With Suguru, you didn't need to.
The breaking point was on a quiet Tuesday evening in Toji's apartment.
You were sitting on Toji's floor, surrounded by notes. You were trying to draft an application for a summer internship, and the personal statement was breaking you down. You had written and deleted the same paragraph five times.
Toji was on the couch, folding laundry. He moved methodically, smoothing out shirts and stacking them on the cushion next to him.
You ran your hands through your hair, gripping the roots in frustration. You stared at the blinking cursor.
"I can't do this," you muttered. "I sound like a robot. It sounds so dull."
Toji looked down at you. "Let me read it."
You turned the laptop toward him. He read the paragraph.
"It's fine," Toji said. "Just send it."
"It's not fine. It doesn't flow."
"They don't care if it flows. They want to know if you can do the job." Toji pushed the laptop back toward you. "You're overthinking it. Just list what you're good at."
You stared at the screen. You didn't know how to bridge the gap between his practical advice and your actual execution.
"Just hit the button," he pressed, almost annoyed.
"I can't. What if it's not actually good enough? I should send it to Suguru, he will definitely write it better than me."
Your left hand reached out, blindly, towards where your phone sat on the floor, your fingers brushing the case.
Toji watched the movement. He watched the automatic, muscle-memory reach and groaned.
"If you can't hit a button without him, you've got bigger problems than an internship."
The words were meant to be a wake-up call, but they felt like a slap in the face. You flinched.
"That's not—he's just helping."
Toji shook his head. He looked at you with a sudden, piercing clarity.
"I think we're done here," Toji said.
You stopped. Your hand hovered over the phone. You looked up at him, your eyebrows drawing together. "What?"
"We're done," Toji repeated. He picked up another shirt and shook it out. "You should pack your stuff up."
The words hung in the air. You blinked, staring at him. He wasn't yelling, his face wasn't hard. He looked exactly the same as he had ten seconds ago.
"Done?" you repeated, the word sounding hollow. "Like... done with the application?"
"Like done with this," Toji said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. "You and me."
A cold spike of adrenaline hit your stomach. Your hands dropped to your lap. "Wait. What? Why? Did I do something?"
"No."
"Then why are you saying that?" You scrambled slightly, pushing the laptop away. Your mind raced, trying to find the variable you had missed. "Is it because I'm here too much? I know I've been studying at your place a lot, I can give you more space. I'm sorry, I should have realized—"
"It's not the space," Toji said.
"Then what is it?" Your voice was pitching up, tightening with panic. "If I did something, just tell me. I can fix it. I'm sorry I'm so stressed out tonight, I know I'm complaining a lot about this application—"
Toji stopped folding. He rested his forearms on his knees, leaning forward slightly to look down at you. He watched you scramble, he watched you throw out apologies for things you hadn't even done, desperately trying to locate the source of a leak you couldn't see.
He felt a brief, dull flash of pity. You really didn't know.
"You're apologizing for the wrong things," Toji said, his voice flat but not unkind. "You don't even know what you're apologizing for."
"Then tell me!"
"You’re not here. You haven't been here since the day I met you. You live in his apartment, even when you're sleeping in mine."
"What? Whose apartment? Suguru’s? Toji, that's not true! I love being with you—"
"You love that I'm different," Toji corrected. "You love that I don't breathe down your neck like he does. But at the end of the day, when you're scared, you don't come to me. You go back to him, you always go back there. Case in point, you were just about to text him, I can tell you the right answer all day, and it won't mean shit to you until he says the exact same thing."
"That's not true," you whispered, though your throat felt tight. "He's just my friend. We've known each other forever, it's just a habit."
"I know," Toji said, patting your head, the touch was calm, almost affectionate, but it only served to highlight how thoroughly he had already distanced himself from you.
You winced, because you know Toji and his way of affection, you know this was the kind of pat you’d give someone who didn't know any better—pitying, final, and devoid of any real heat. "That's why I'm not mad, I know you're not doing it on purpose, it's just how you're built."
He let his hand slide off, the movement slow and indifferent. You hadn’t asked for his touch, hadn’t leaned into the warmth of his palm, but its sudden absence still felt like a physical theft.
He stood up, grabbing the stack of folded laundry. "But I'm not playing second string to a habit. Pack up your bag."
He walked into the bedroom, the floorboards groaning under his weight, leaving you sitting on the floor in the quiet living room.
You sat frozen for a long time. The screen of your laptop went black, sleeping. The apartment was entirely silent. You wanted to walk up to him, to grab a handful of his shirt just to force him to look at you, but the look in his eyes stopped you. It wasn't hatred. It was worse: It was the flat, deadened look of someone who had already moved on while he was standing right next to you. You felt a bizarre, overwhelming urge to apologize again, but Toji was gone, and you knew, deep down, that he wouldn't accept it anyway.
You packed your bag messily, your hands were shaking slightly. You put on your coat, slung your backpack over your shoulder, and walked to the door. You looked back towards the hallway, but Toji didn't come out.
You opened the door and stepped out into the cold night.
You didn't think about where you were walking. The wind was biting, cutting through your coat, but you barely felt it. Your mind was a static hum of confusion.
"You're not here."
"I'm not playing second string to a habit."
The words rattled around in your skull, devoid of context. You felt like you had been pushed off a ledge in the dark. You were crying, hot tears tracking down your freezing cheeks, but you didn't even know exactly what you were mourning. Was it the loss of Toji? or the sudden, terrifying realization that he had seen something inside you that you couldn't see yourself?
Your feet moved automatically. Four blocks. A left turn. Two more blocks. A flight of concrete stairs.
You stood in front of a heavy wooden door. You didn't look at the apartment number. You just lifted your hand and knocked twice.
Thirty seconds later, the lock clicked and the door swung open.
Suguru stood there. He had his hair down, a book in his hand. He took one look at you—soaked, shivering, and broken—and his expression didn't shift into shock, but into a profound, weary kind of relief.
He didn't ask a single question.
He reached out, caught your arm, and pulled you inside. He shut the door and locked it.
Without a word, Suguru stepped in front of you and reached out, his hands moving to the collar of your coat. He unbuttoned it, his knuckles brushing against your throat. His touch was warm, you almost nuzzled into it.
He slipped the heavy coat off your shoulders, dropping it onto a chair. Then he took your backpack, setting it on the floor. He led you to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and handed you one of his oversized hoodies.
"Warm up," he said softly. "I'll make tea."
When you came out twenty minutes later, the apartment smelled of bergamot, the heater was humming. The world outside the window was a dark, wet smudge, but inside, everything was gold and warm.
Suguru was sitting on the couch. He had two mugs of tea on the table. He looked up when you entered, his eyes softening at the way you were hugging yourself.
"Sit," he ordered, gently, as always.
You obeyed, but instead of grabbing the tea he just made for you, you collapsed into him. You buried your face in his chest, your hands clutching the fabric of his hoodie—his scent, his warmth, his stability.
"H-He left me," you choked out. "He said... I didn't even know he was mad...Suguru.. I-I tried to say sorry, but he said I didn't even know what I was apologizing for.."
Suguru’s hand found your hair. He began to stroke it, the same rhythmic, hypnotic motion he had used a thousand times before.
"I know," Suguru whispered.
Suguru did not sound sad, nor did he sound angry, he sounded like a man who had been watching a clock and finally saw the hour strike.
You shifted against his hold, tucking your head perfectly into the hollow beneath his collarbone. It was exactly the right height.
"It's not your fault sweetheart, he should've brought it up earlier if it was gonna be a problem to him," Suguru murmured, his voice rumbling in his chest beneath your ear.
He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you flush against him. His hand rested flat on your back, wide and heavy and secure. He didn't offer platitudes, he didn't tell you Toji was a jerk, or that you were better off, he just anchored you to the present moment, absorbing the tremors in your body.
Suguru let out a very slow, very quiet breath.
His other hand came up, resting on the back of your neck. His fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of your neck, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle against your skin. It was an intimate, possessive gesture, executed with the casual ease of a man who had been touching you for years.
As rested his chin on the top of your head, he stared at the blank wall of his apartment, his expression calm, deeply settled.
"Let's watch something to cheer you up, yeah?"
You closed your eyes, breathing in the scent of his laundry detergent and the faint, permanent smell of ink and old paper that always clung to him.
"Yeah."
You did not think about what Suguru possibly could've meant by "it" being a problem. Instead, you thought about the way you had walked here without thinking. The way he had opened the door without asking who it was on the other side, the way your body slotted against his, the way his hand found the exact spot on your neck that held all your tension.
The panic in your chest, the desperate need to fix things began to dissolve. It melted into the unquestionable safety of Suguru’s physical presence.
You hadn't known what you were apologizing for. You hadn't known what Toji saw.
But as Suguru’s hand stroked your hair, keeping you tethered, keeping you steady, you finally understood.
Toji hadn't seen a mistake or a fractured bond. He had seen the quiet, terrifying inevitability of this. He had known that no matter how far you wandered, this was the only door you would ever knock on when the world finally tipped on its axis.
Suguru shifted slightly, but only to reach out and pull the thick woven blanket from the back of the sofa over your shoulders. As he settled back against the cushions, he tilted his head down. You felt the warm, deliberate press of his lips against the pulse point in your neck—a slow, grounding gesture that lingered for a long second before his chin returned to its resting place.
"Any requests?" he asked, the vibration of his voice a low, familiar rumble against your ear as he picked up the remote.
"Doesn't matter," you murmured, letting your eyes drift shut again as you sank a fraction deeper into his embrace.
You didn't care what flickered to life on the screen. The noise in your head had finally gone completely still, entirely eclipsed by the steady, rhythmic thumping of his heart beneath your cheek. You just let yourself breathe, finally bound exactly where you were always going to end up.
If someone doesn't have your best interest at heart, he sees it from a mile away. The man is centuries old, he's seen it all before
Is an incredible cook. He's lived in Paris, Tokyo, every culinary capital of the world. He could make you anything you wanted
Spoils you constantly. You never have to worry about asking for too much, he simply wants you to be happy
Old fashioned, in a good way. He stands when you enter the room. He kisses your hand when he has to leave
When he's away, he arranges activities for you in advance. A string quartet to entertain you? "Anything for your pleasure." The most coveted artists to paint your portrait? "Of course, my love."
A generous, passionate lover. He will always please you first. After, he'd lightly kiss your neck, pour you a glass of wine from the vineyard you share, and tell you in that deep voice of his that he's taking you to the opera. The carriage is waiting.
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Currently writing Bury Me in Tanzania, an Alucard x African OC love story!
