[retisaint]

what it’s like to be in a secret relationship with satoru. mdni.

you never intended to keep your romantic relationship with satoru a secret from the people you know, especially to your close friends.

breaking the news to them had obviously crossed your mind already. but things happened: shoko and utahime moved to a different city right after their engagement, suguru became extremely busy managing his newly opened cafe downtown, sukuna is on a tournament for professional boxing, and yuki seems to be touring the world (she’s always on vacation!).

planning hangouts with the entire friend group in attendance became elusive. everyone’s schedule just cannot seem to align; one or two people are always unavailable due to schedules set weeks prior.

before you knew it, months had passed. then months turned into a year.

of course, you still have regular communication with one another. you would sometimes come and watch sukuna’s boxing fights in your spare time then drink the night away afterward at his place with other mutual friends. satoru would be there as well. and when it isn’t so busy during the day, suguru would temporarily entrust the cafe to his staffs to meet the both of you over lunch.

aside from that, it has also been a part of your weekly routine to have a video call with the girls to gossip and talk about any happenings from your lives. yes, you could’ve mentioned it during one of the calls, but it just didn’t feel the right way to do so. 

what you and satoru have is not just a fling nor a friends-with-benefits setup. thus, announcing it in person felt imperative. after all, you both share the same close friends so this affects the dynamics of your circle.

though you’d be lying if you say you don’t enjoy the secrecy of your relationship—disappearing from sukuna’s house parties to have a sloppy make out session with satoru in the bathroom, or him sneaking a kiss on your cheek whenever you are on the phone with the girls; he would always wait patiently next to you on his couch, and once your face is slightly out of view from the screen… smooch!

caught off guard, you would turn your camera off and glare at him, but the moron had already run off with a big smile on his face, followed by silent giggles (since your mic is still on) like he had just successfully pulled off a high-risk task.

yes, you like the intimacy of a secret relationship. how you and satoru share the same truth only you can touch. there is a certain thrill that could never be experienced in an ordinary relationship, and you found it to be quite addicting.

one time, suguru pointed out how you and satoru would often arrive at the meet up place together. always coming from the same direction at the same time, he said. you just shrugged off and feigned innocence by calling it a mere coincidence.

later on while enjoying the meal, satoru sneakily moved his hand under the table to caress your thigh underneath the dress, as if teasing you for how you spouted a white lie off your mouth so naturally. he drew slow and lazy circles over your soft skin as he simultaneously talked to suguru in front.

satoru did it in such a casual manner, not even sparing you a look, and thus, he was oblivious about the redness on your cheeks and the brewing desire in your core. you pressed his fingers, a signal for him to stop, but all you got from your boyfriend was a quick glance and a mocking smirk. 

soon after, you excused yourself to go to the restroom; he then followed the lead saying, he just needs to make a phone call. 

and there in the cramped restroom cubicle, satoru pulled his slacks and boxers down, clung your thigh over his arm, and pulled your underwear to the side. the way he did it was so abrupt and impatient you swore you heard a thread snap from your lace thong. 

he fucked you with much eagerness and gentle frustration; you can tell that he, too, was craving for your body just as you were craving for his—as if the pretense that afternoon had been too unbearable and all he wanted was to be all over his girlfriend.

you held onto satoru’s shoulders for support, gave his neck wet kisses as he pulled his massive cock in and out of you. the tissue dispenser mounted on the partition next to you rattled from how hard he was thrusting into your wet and tight pussy. squelching sounds and your breathy moans fused with the distant indiscernible chatter from customers filled up the space.

sure, the thrill of it was fun and exciting. but enough time has gone by. and both of you are growing tired of treading the line between secrecy and passion. satoru wants to share his love for you to other people. he craves of being able to hold your hand in the streets—when you’re walking alongside each other—without the fear that a mutual friend might see. he wants to take you out on a date at his favorite fancy restaurants, not just to the hole-in-the-wall cafes. the takeouts at his place were also just as fun because it’s always followed by rough sex on his bed. but. but. satoru yearns for more. he wants to flaunt you, his oh so lovely girlfriend.

you have this pure and honest love resting on the palm of your hands—still growing and vulnerable—and a voice inside your head wants you to keep it hidden. it whispers in your ear telling you to just leave things as they are; no one can ruin something they have no knowledge about. but the better part of you knows that a relationship shadowed by limitations would never prosper and last. what you feel for satoru doesn’t have to be loud—it only has to be free.

and so you’ve made up your mind.

shoko and utahime’s wedding will be held today and it’s your chance. of course you don’t want to steal the thunder from the soon-to-be newlyweds, so you plan to do it tomorrow, during the post-wedding lunch with the close friends. everyone—shoko, utahime, yuki, suguru, and sukuna—will be there and you refuse to let this opportunity pass.

the first thing you notice as you enter the bride suite is the makeup lined up on the vanity tables—liquid foundations in different shades, eyeshadow palettes from multiple brands, and lipsticks in every possible shade imaginable. and there–sitting in one of the vanity chairs—is your best friend utahime. you read the word written on the back of her chair—in white font and a beautiful cursive it says ‘bride’. you see her smile from the mirror reflection.

you ask if she’s nervous. utahime just shakes her head; she says she’s never been more sure about anything ever in her life.

you hate to admit it but you are a sucker for weddings. the abundance of love radiating from everybody never fails to make you emotional. friends and families. friends turned into families. celebrating the union between two people. the wedding vows. the lengthy speeches during the reception. they collectively pull the lever to your fountain of tears.

when it is your turn to have your makeup done, you sit at one of the unoccupied vanity chairs. the future newlyweds went all out and hired four hair and makeup artists so the preparation is more efficient.

minutes later, as the artist is applying eyeshadow on your lids, you hear a familiar ringtone.

your ringtone.

yuki, whose makeup is already finished, grabs your phone from a nearby couch and looks at the screen. “someone is calling you- who is this ‘my love’?” she asks with an inquisitive tone.

shit. shit. shit.

why is satoru calling you? and now when you are currently glued to the vanity chair, defenseless against the possible scrutiny from your girl friends. your eyes remain closed as the artist continues on her work; you can’t tell where yuki is standing. 

grabbing the phone from her hand is impossible. you’re fucked. no. maybe you can reason your way around it. before your brain could even make up a weak excuse, yuki had already answered the call and set your phone on speaker.

you feel a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach as you hear the voice of your satoru. “baby, you forgot your heels in the car. should i bring it to you?” you held your breath. you feel your insides getting twisted. it’s as if your brain has short-circuited; words, excuses, start to hover around your head like a murder of crows—cawing, awaiting for a release that never came.

and just like that, the secret is out. getting busted out about your year-long relationship with satoru through an unsuspecting phone call wasn’t the plan, but here goes nothing.

only the clank of makeup brushes can be heard as the artists remain impassive on what is happening. you bite your bottom lip. there is no way in hell that your friends would not recognize his voice.

the moment they connect the dot and register it in their head—the contact name and the man in the other line—collective gasps echo from different parts of the room.

“what the fuck, gojo? is that you?” yuki’s high pitched voice almost makes you wince.

“uhh. . . haha. . .” he clears his throat. “no, who is gojo satoru?”

“jackass! she didn’t even say satoru,” utahime interjects.

“wait, t-the signal here is bad,” you hear indistinct shuffling noises in satoru’s background, “h-hello? can you hear me? he-”

and the call ends.

you sense the piercing glares from your friends, “you have got some explaining to do,” said utahime.

© retisaint do not steal or feed to ai

[satolune]

──── 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋!

୧ ‧₊˚ 𝓖.𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔 and you, his 𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐄𝐗 ♡

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ :: geto suguru has built a reputation out of silence, inked a thousand skins, and never once in his life chased anything. somehow, he's been letting himself into his ex-girlfriend's apartment at midnight just to move her coffee mug three inches to the left.

oh! forgive me lord! oh i'm a good girl ♡ run rabbit! run rabid ♡

content warning :: MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, dubcon (initiation while reader is asleep/semi-conscious, but she is into it when she wakes up), somno, stalking, breaking and entering, obsessive & possessive behavior, yandere themes (both parties), unhealthy relationship dynamics, theft of personal items, not beta read. art by @/thatsallitchief

4.8k words

The breakup was his idea. That's the part that kills you most.

Not that you didn't see it coming—you did, in the way you see storms gathering on a horizon you've been watching for too long. You had felt it in the spaces between his words, in the weight of his silences, in how his hands had stopped reaching for you in his sleep.

Suguru had sat you down on a Sunday, which you had thought was cruel timing. Sunday mornings used to be yours, slow and warm, coffee and his records and the particular blue light that came through the windows of his apartment on the Shimokitazawa side of the city. He had used that gentleness of his—the kind that had hooked you in the first place, the kind that made you feel like he was doing you a favor when he broke something in you.

"I feel like I'm suffocating you," he had said, which you both knew was not quite what he meant. You're suffocating me. He was too kind to say it plainly.

You had held it together long enough to get out the door.

That had been seven months ago.

You have, in those seven months, become a person you do not entirely recognize. You are aware of this. You are a fashion student, after all—you are trained to observe, to analyze, to understand aesthetics and composition and the way things are put together and taken apart. You apply this skill now to Geto Suguru's life in your absence from it.

It started small. The way these things always do.

You had kept his Instagram followed, of course. His main—@suguru.ink—which he kept public for his work. Clean grids of tattoo photos, the occasional candid shot from a coffee shop or a bar. Easy enough. You didn't even have to try.

But then he'd switched his personal account to private.

@its.suguru. One hundred and twelve followers. A lock icon.

You had made the alt before the thought had fully formed. It took you maybe twenty minutes: a new email, a new account, four weeks of posting photos stolen from Pinterest—aesthetic city shots, some food, a carefully curated collection of jazz album covers—and then a follow request sent to his personal from @mn.archives, a faceless account that looked like any other twenty-something whose personality lived entirely in film photography and good coffee. Two hundred and sixteen followers, because a number too low looks suspicious.

He accepted within a day.

You tell yourself this is just so you know he's okay. That it's concern, residual and tender, the way you might still check the weather in a city you used to live in. You scroll through his grid at eleven PM with your knees pulled to your chest and you look at the photo he posted last Thursday—some bar you recognize, neon light catching the silver of his earrings, Haibara's arm slung around his shoulder—and you feel something so complicated you can't name it. Not grief exactly. Not quite anger.

Want, maybe. Plain and embarrassing.

The tattoo was not your best idea. You will admit that freely, in the privacy of your own thoughts.

You had passed by his work plcea approximately forty-seven times in seven months, which you know because you have routes home that all bend toward this specific block on purpose. You had a habit of slowing down outside the window—frosted glass, the clean black font of the shop name, sometimes the amber glow of light inside—and telling yourself you were just walking. Just passing through. Just appreciating good signage, actually, as a design student.

The appointment you booked under a fake name—Watanabe Mika, which you chose because it felt forgettable—was a small floral piece. Lower back. Simple. Classic. Something you could attribute to a late-night Pinterest spiral rather than the slow, spectacular unraveling of your dignity.

There is one flaw in this plan, one thing you had somehow managed not to factor in.

You are terrified of needles.

You sat in the chair and stared at the ceiling and told yourself it was fine, it was fine, it was—

"Breathe."

His voice, right behind you. Low and unbothered, the way it always was.

You had not accounted, in all your meticulous planning, for the fact that you would have to talk to him. That the fake name would crumble the second he walked into the room and said it like he'd never heard it before in his life.

"Watanabe-san?"

You had turned, and his expression had done something complicated for exactly one second before settling back into professional neutrality. His hair was up—messy bun, a few strands loose around his face—and he had new ink on his forearm, something geometric you didn't recognize. Which meant he'd had it done after you. The thought sat in your chest like a splinter.

"Hi," you said. Brilliant.

"Hi." A pause. "Small piece?"

"Lower back. Florals. I have a reference."

He had nodded and reached for his gloves and you had spent the next forty minutes lying face-down on the table with your back exposed and his hands steady on your skin and tried very hard not to make a sound that wasn't about the needle.

You managed. Barely.

The tattoo healed beautifully. Sometimes you twist in front of your mirror just to look at it.

His favorite coffee shop is a place called Kōhī to Yoru—coffee and night—that operates out of a narrow building near the university. He started going there maybe three months into your relationship, the two of you sharing a corner table and his headphones, and you have continued going there with the particular audacity of someone who has decided they were there first, actually, in some cosmic sense, even if that is not strictly true.

You go on Tuesday mornings and Thursday afternoons, which are the days his alt account has, on multiple occasions, shown him holding an iced coffee that matches the shop's specific shade of pale green cup.

You bring your sketchbook. You work on your thesis collection. You sit with your back to the door and wait for the sound of it opening—the particular way the bell above it chimes—and when he comes in, which he does, not every time but often enough, you feel your whole body go still and warm and stupid. You look down at your paper and draw the same seam line you have been drawing for six minutes without noticing.

He always orders the same thing. You know his order the way you know the smell of his apartment, the exact pressure of his hands, the specific timbre of his voice when he's half asleep.

You don't look up.

You're very good at not looking up.

The club situation, in retrospect, requires more explanation.

There is a bar-club hybrid in the entertainment district called Sable that Suguru frequents. You know this because Satoru has a fully public account and zero impulse control regarding location tags, which means you have a near-perfect record of their Saturday nights without ever having to try very hard. You don't follow Satoru. You don't need to. His posts are public and his captions are aggressive and he documents everything.

You do not go to Sable every Saturday. You're not insane.

You go maybe twice a month. On weekends you've verified—through Satoru's stories, through a brief and agonizing scan of his tagged photos—that Suguru will be there. You get ready carefully, the way you used to when you were going to see him, and you tell your friends, who know nothing, that you just feel like going out. That you love this place. That the DJ is good.

The thing is, you're not lying about the DJ. The DJ genuinely is good.

And you are, by any objective measure, devastating when you make the effort.

You keep your distance. That's the important part, the part that keeps this justifiable. You don't go near him—too obvious, too much—and you have what's left of your pride to protect. You position yourself well, and you dance, and you drink, and you exist in the same airspace, and you watch, peripherally, the way you've gotten very good at watching things peripherally.

What you also do—and this is the part where you stop being able to fully justify yourself—is notice the women.

There are always women. Suguru is—you don't need to describe him to yourself. You know exactly what he looks like in a room, what he does to it without meaning to, that particular quality of his presence that functions like gravity. You know because it pulled you in and kept you there for sixteen months and you have not yet figured out how to get far enough away that it stops working on you.

So. The women.

You don't interfere directly. That would be messy, obvious, humiliating. What you do is more surgical than that. A girl drifts toward him at the bar—you're there first, materializing at his elbow under the pretense of ordering, smiling at the bartender, turning just enough that your body language reads as occupied space. A group approaches the table where he and Satoru are sitting—you're walking past right then, somehow, and you catch Gojo's eye (Gojo who knows you, Gojo who looks at you with an expression you have learned not to examine) and you smile like you ran into him by coincidence, and the moment breaks before it can start.

You are very good at this.

You have gotten very good at this.

You think you're slick.

This is perhaps the most important thing to understand about the last seven months: you have constructed, in meticulous and loving detail, the story of yourself as someone who is merely adjacent to Geto Suguru's life. Someone who passes through the same spaces by coincidence, drawn there by taste and habit and not by anything more embarrassing than that. Someone who has moved on cleanly and simply no longer intersects with him—except in these small moments that don't count, that you are careful to keep deniable.

You believe this story.

You are, perhaps, the only one who does.

Geto Suguru notices everything.

This is not vanity—it's fact, the baseline condition of someone who has spent years being precisely observed and has therefore learned to observe in return. He notices patterns. He notices the particular quality of attention a room gives a person. He notices when something stops being coincidence and starts being something else entirely.

The first time he saw you at Kōhī to Yoru, he thought: oh.

Not with surprise. With something more like recognition. Like finding a word he'd been looking for in a language he already spoke.

You had your sketchbook open and your head down and the line of your shoulders had that specific tension you always got when you were pretending to concentrate on something other than what was in front of you. He had ordered his coffee and taken the table by the window—not your corner, deliberately not your corner—and watched you not look at him for eleven minutes straight. And he had felt something settle in his chest like the click of a lock finding its latch.

There she is.

He had not broken up with you because he stopped wanting you. He needs to be clear about this, at least to himself, in the space where honesty costs nothing. He had broken up with you because wanting you and watching you want him back had started to feel like too much weight in a place he didn't know how to hold. He is—he will say this plainly—not good at being needed. Something in him retreats when it feels cornered by someone else's love, some reflex toward distance that he's never fully understood and never fully fought. He had watched you learn his rhythms and bend yourself around them and he had known, somewhere underneath the warmth of it, that he was shaping you into something that orbited him, and you deserved better than a center like him.

He had thought, in the careful logical part of his mind, that breaking up would free you. That you'd pull yourself out and go build something that didn't require making yourself small.

He had not, apparently, accounted for yoy.

@/mn.archives had followed him about two months after the breakup. He noticed because he got the notification at 2 AM on a Tuesday, which was exactly when you used to lose sleep to your phone.

He had looked at the profile for a long time.

The photos were too curated. Jazz records and film photography and that particular aesthetic that looked like a constructed personality rather than an actual one—assembled from the outside in, like a mood board rather than a life. No face. No name. mn.archives. He had scrolled back through their last few conversations once—just once, he told himself—and found a message you'd sent months before the end, mentioning a vintage archive account you'd been thinking about making.

He had accepted the follow request.

He still posts to that account knowing you're watching. Sometimes he tags places he's about to go, just to see if youll show up. You always do.

The tattoo appointment had required real effort not to laugh.

Watanabe Mika. He'd seen the name in the book when he was reviewing the day's schedule and he had known before he walked into the room. He doesn't know exactly how he knew—maybe the handwriting, you always pressed too hard with pens, like you were trying to leave a mark on whatever you touched—but he had known, and when he said the name and watched you face do that thing where you're trying to hold it perfectly still, he had felt something he'd classify, if he were being honest, as pure delight.

Forty minutes. His hands on your back. The way you'd gone absolutely rigid when the needle started and then forced yourself still through what he knew, because he knows you, was genuine fear. You hadn't made a sound. He'd been almost proud of you.

He wanted to say: you don't have to do this.

He wanted to say: I already know.

He said neither. Because there is something he enjoys—something he is not proud of but does not particularly want to stop—about watching you work this hard. About being watched this carefully. About being the thing someone builds an entire architecture of ordinary life around.

The club thing is his favorite.

He sees yoy every time. He spotted you the third Saturday you came to Sable—across the room, dancing with that particular careless ease you put on when you're trying to look like you're not paying attention to anything—and he had taken a slow drink and thought about how long you'd been doing this without knowing he saw. He had done a rough calculation. Yiu'd been at it for months.

The girls you redirects: he lets you. It would be simple enough to close the gap, to make himself reachable, to let someone else in just to see what you'd do. He doesn't.

Satoru, who is not an idiot and has never pretended to be, had said once, watching you materialize near the bar at precisely the right moment: "You know she's here."

"I know," Suguru had said.

Satoru had looked at him for a long moment. "And you're just going to let her keep doing this."

It hadn't been a question. Suguru hadn't answered it anyway. Satoru had made the face he made when he thought Suguru was being spectacular and specific kind of idiot, which was fair. Satoru was usually right about these things.

He still has your key.

This is the part he doesn't examine too closely, doesn't turn over in his hands and look at straight on. He still has the key you gave him fourteen months into their relationship—the little silver one with the small scratch near the head from when you'd dropped your keychain down a flight of stairs and laughed so hard you couldn't breathe, had grabbed his arm for balance and left half-moon marks in his jacket. He had kept it after the breakup, which he had told himself was oversight. He'd meant to return it. The moment had never arrived, and the key had stayed on his ring, and here they are.

He goes, sometimes, when he knows your out.

He knows your schedule the way he's always known things about you—not through tracking, not through architecture and alt accounts, but through the simple accumulating weight of attention. He knows you have studio hours Monday and Wednesday evenings. He knows you go to your mother's on Sunday afternoons and usually doesn't come back until after seven.

He lets himself in quietly. He moves through the apartment and he moves things—small things, careful things. A mug shifted slightly on the counter. Your desk chair at a different angle. The throw blanket refolded. Nothing you could be certain about, nothing that couldn't be chalked up to your own distracted hands in a busy week. He just wants you to feel it, in some wordless way you can't name. He wants to leave a shape in your space.

He also takes things. He is aware this is not something he can justify cleanly. Small things—a note torn from your sketchbook, a hair tie from the bathroom counter, once a grocery list written in your handwriting that he'd found tucked under a bottle of wine. Things you might not notice. Things you'd never be sure about.

The first time he went to the drawer beside the bed—just to look, he'd told himself—he had found his hoodie. The charcoal one you used to steal, folded near the bottom like you'd put it somewhere you didn't have to see every day but couldn't bring yourself to throw away. And underneath a novel you was reading: a photo strip from a machine in Harajuku. The two of you, making faces, the particular light of that afternoon still somehow caught in the paper.

You hadn't thrown any of it away.

He had stood there for a moment and felt something so complicated that he hadn't tried to name it. He had taken the photo strip. Replaced it with a different photo—same machine, earlier in the same day, just you, mid-laugh, caught without knowing—so the space wouldn't feel empty if you looked.

He keeps the photo strip in his wallet.

He does not call this obsession. He doesn't call it anything.

It's a Thursday night when he finally goes back, and this time he doesn't have a reason.

Not to rearrange anything. Not to take something. No careful justification assembled in advance. He doesn't know what that means and he has, tonight, decided to stop caring.

The city is quiet the way it gets past midnight, that particular held-breath stillness. His key makes no sound against her lock—he knows the angle by now, the specific lift-and-turn that keeps the mechanism from clicking too loud. The door swings open onto darkness and the particular smell of her apartment, warm and layered, something floral and underneath it something that is just you, unchanged across seven months, the thing that had always made the back of his mind go quiet.

He moves through the space without turning on a light. He knows it better than you might expect. He knows the creak of the second floorboard from the hallway and steps around it. He knows to angle left around the ottoman you perpetually fail to put back in the right place. He knows the bedroom door sticks slightly at the top corner and needs gentle pressure to open without a sound.

It gives way.

You're asleep. He can tell from the doorway—the slow, even rise and fall of you breathing, your hair against the pillow, one hand curled loosely near your face. The window lets in just enough city light to see you by. Gold and still.

He leans against the doorframe.

He watches you breathe.

There is something terrible about this moment. Something tender underneath the terrible. He knows that. He is not without self-awareness—he has spent years being precisely, painfully self-aware, and it has never once made him behave better. You have been watching him for seven months from what you believed is a safe distance. He has been watching you from what he knows is not one. And maybe that says something about both of you, about the particular shape of whatever this is, two people who were never going to fall cleanly out of each other's gravity no matter how carefully he tried to cut the line.

You shift in your sleep. A small sound, something that almost forms a word and dissolves before it arrives.

He is still there.

There she is.

He stays until his shoulder starts to ache from the doorframe, and then he stays a little longer.

The city light filters through the half-open blinds in thin silver bars across your bed. Suguru stands in the doorway a moment longer, letting the quiet settle into his bones. Your breathing is deep, slow, the kind that only comes after exhaustion has finally won. He crosses the room without sound, shedding his jacket onto the chair by your desk. The hoodie you still keep is visible when he glances at the open drawer—charcoal, folded like a secret.

He sits on the edge of the mattress. The shift of weight makes you stir, but you don’t wake. Good. He wants this part slow.

His hand finds your ankle first, thumb brushing up the bare skin of your calf. You’re wearing an oversized t-shirt—his, he realizes with a low pulse of satisfaction—and nothing else. The hem has ridden up to the curve of your ass. He traces higher, palm warm against the back of your thigh, then slips under the fabric to rest at the small of your back, right over the fresh ink he put there himself. The skin is still slightly raised, healed but sensitive. He presses lightly.

You make a soft, wordless sound, shifting onto your stomach more fully. Your face stays buried in the pillow.

“Suguru…?” The name is barely shaped, thick with sleep, more breath than voice.

He doesn’t answer. Instead he leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Shh. Go back to sleep if you want.”

His hand slides lower, between your legs, finding you already slick. A low hum leaves his throat. Even asleep, your body knows him. He circles your clit with two fingers, unhurried, coaxing. Your hips twitch once, instinctive, pushing back against his hand.

You whimper into the pillow, still half-gone, thighs parting just enough to let him in. He takes the invitation, pressing one finger inside you, then two, curling gently. The wet sound is obscene in the quiet room. Your breathing changes—shallower, quicker—but your eyes stay closed, lashes fluttering against your cheeks.

He works you open like that for long minutes, slow thrusts of his fingers, thumb stroking your clit in lazy circles. Every time you clench around him he feels it in his own cock, already straining against his jeans. When you start rocking back against his hand in tiny, unconscious movements, he withdraws, ignoring the protesting noise you make.

Clothes off. He doesn’t rush. The belt buckle clicks softly; the zipper sounds louder than it should. He strokes himself once, twice, spreading the bead of pre-cum over the head before lining up behind you.

You’re on your stomach, legs spread, t-shirt bunched at your waist. Perfect.

He pushes in slow, one long glide until he’s buried to the hilt. The stretch makes you gasp, eyes flying open for a heartbeat before they flutter shut again. Your walls flutter around him, hot and tight and so fucking wet.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your nape, staying still for a moment, letting you adjust. Or not. He doesn’t ask.

He starts moving—deep, measured rolls of his hips that press you harder into the mattress. Each thrust drags against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. You moan, low and broken, still sounding half-asleep, face turned to the side now so he can see the flush on your cheek.

One of his hands slides under you, finding your clit again, rubbing in tight circles while he fucks you. The other braces beside your head, caging you in. He drops his weight more fully onto your back, lips at your shoulder, teeth grazing skin.

You push back against him, needy even in your drowsiness. “Suguru…” His name again, softer this time, wrecked with pleasure. Your hand reaches back blindly, fingers brushing his hip, urging him deeper.

He gives it to you. Harder now, the slap of skin on skin filling the room. He angles his hips until every thrust makes you cry out—short, breathy sounds that go straight to his cock. Your pussy clenches rhythmically around him, fluttering, pulling him in.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Let me feel you.”

He fucks you like he’s memorizing you all over again—slow drags followed by sharp snaps of his hips, grinding deep when he bottoms out. Your breathing turns into soft, desperate pants. You’re dripping down his cock, onto the sheets. He reaches down and spreads your ass with both hands so he can watch himself disappear inside you, the obscene shine of your arousal coating him.

You come without warning, sudden and shuddering, a broken moan muffled by the pillow as your walls clamp down hard. He doesn’t stop, fucking you through it, drawing it out until your thighs shake.

Only then does he pull out, flipping you onto your back with easy strength. Your eyes are open now, heavy-lidded and dark, but still hazy with sleep and orgasm. You look at him like you’re not entirely sure he’s real.

He doesn’t give you time to wake up fully. He hooks your legs over his elbows and slides back in, folding you nearly in half. The new angle makes you keen, nails digging into his shoulders. He sets a punishing rhythm—deep, relentless, the headboard knocking softly against the wall.

Your t-shirt is pushed up to your collarbones. He bends his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, tongue flicking. You arch into him, gasping. The other hand finds your clit again, rubbing fast and firm.

“Come on,” he growls against your skin. “Again. Want to feel it.”

You do. The second orgasm hits you harder, back bowing, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as you pulse around his cock. He fucks you through every wave, hips stuttering only when your nails rake down his back hard enough to leave marks.

He pulls out at the last second, stroking himself roughly over your stomach. Thick ropes of cum paint your skin, your tits, the underside of your chin. You watch with dazed, half-lidded eyes, lips parted.

For a long moment the only sound is both of you breathing.

He leans down and kisses you—slow, deep, tasting sleep and sex and the faint salt of your sweat. You kiss him back like muscle memory, one hand sliding into his hair, holding him there. When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

He reaches for the t-shirt you’re wearing—his t-shirt—and uses the hem to wipe his spend from your skin with surprising gentleness. Then he tosses it aside, pulls the blanket over both of you, and tucks you against his chest like no time has passed at all.

Your breathing evens out again within minutes, slipping back toward sleep. He stays awake longer, fingers tracing idle patterns over the floral ink on your lower back, feeling the steady beat of your heart against his ribs.

Outside, the city keeps breathing. Inside, the two of you fit back together in the dark like pieces that were never meant to stay apart.

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[beaniesayshi]

boyfriend!Sukuna figures it out fast because he’s good at spotting patterns, and this one repeats so often that it can't be anything else.

You can go an entire day without eating and not realise it.

It's not that you don’t want to eat, try to punish yourself, or forget intentionally. The issue is that when your mind concentrates on a task, a project, a book, or a problem that needs solving, the rest of the world completely fades away, including things like hunger, time, and the passing day.

He notices it first on weekends. You mention one small task, and hours vanish. He comes back from the gym to find you still in the exact same place, surrounded by scattered notes or open tabs, driven by pure momentum. When he asks if you’ve eaten, you wave him off, promising to eat once you’re done, like “done” is a fixed point instead of something that keeps moving further away.

While preparing his work lunches, he starts making an extra portion, packs it, and leaves it in the fridge, mentioning it in that blunt tone he uses when he doesn’t want credit for anything. You genuinely plan to eat it, so you agree easily. Sometimes you do, but more often than not, he comes home to find the container untouched, just as he left it. He doesn’t say a word, even though it irritates him every time.

So, he changes tactics. One day, you get a text from him saying he’s about to eat, asking what you’re up to, and suggesting you could eat together if you want. It seems like nothing more than a spontaneous idea, like sharing the moment just makes sense, when in reality, it’s actually carefully thought out.

And that’s what makes it work.

Sometimes you text while eating; other times, you have a quick facetime with him sitting at work with his food while you finally step away from your desk. Sometimes, you simply eat quietly at the same time in different locations. To you, it’s a simple, sweet gesture, like he’s missing you and just wants to share his lunch break.

Every time, once you’re finished, you message him that the food was really good and you’re glad you ate together. He downplays it with a casual “yeah, obviously,” telling you not to make a big deal out of it. Yet, the next day, there’s food in the fridge, and another text from him.

He never presents it as a concern, knowing you don't forget out of carelessness but because your mind fully commits to whatever it’s doing, and this is simply his way of distracting you long enough to make space for something else.

You don’t talk about it directly, but you begin to expect his lunch break texts and start planning around them subconsciously, because eating together, even like this, makes it easier to take a break from your work.

And Sukuna never admits that the whole thing was a calculated plan. Not that you ever catch on.

 

a/n: domestic sukuna masterlist

[meowdei]

extra nice — ft. ryomen sukuna

female reader ; modern/no curse au ; takes place post-sex with nudity ; banter ; established relationships ; very unserious stuff

You like Sukuna after sex—he’s nicer to you than usual.

(He’s never mean, of course. Not to you, at least—he’s always nice to you. But it’s typically in a weird, roundabout way, so you appreciate how some post-coital cuddling somehow makes him nicer. Nicer with his words, nicer with his touches, and nicer with that attitude he always seems to have attached to his exterior like some second skin that holds him hostage.

He’s nicer after sex. You think maybe getting laid just makes him a little less uptight.)

“I’m thirsty,” you pout.

He snorts, fingers tracing the small of your back as you lay curled on his sweaty chest. “Then drink water, idiot.”

“My legs feel like jello. Can you grab me some,” you blink innocently.

He rolls his eyes. Pre-sex Sukuna would let out a grumpy, I’m not your damn servant, woman! before he’d inevitably get up. Post-sex Sukuna plants a small kiss to your forehead before he rises and grabs his boxers from the floor.

“Iced or not iced, your majesty?” He raises a brow. You pretend to think over your options—he knows the answer before he even asks. He only asks because you like feeling as though you have options.

“Let’s go with iced,” you hum.

“Whatever the lady wishes,” he winks. There’s a smile on his lips and for once, it’s not something he subtly hides or tries to fight back so you don’t notice and point it out. He lets it happen. It stretches across his lips and lets that little dimple on his left cheek appear that makes you realize that Sukuna has moments where he’s less handsome and a little more cute. (You’d never tell him that, but you like to sit with the realization to yourself.)

You think that Sukuna is nicer after sex. Not because he gets his way, but because intimacy puts him in a good mood—being close to you makes him finally let his walls down. You think this version of him is a welcomed change of pace.

When he returns, he hands you a cold, tall glass of iced water with a bendy straw. You brighten at the sight of it.

“Did you know they have straws for anti-wrinkling?” you murmur.

“What are you on about?” he slumps back into bed, wrapping an arm around your waist as you sit up and take a sip of your water.

“It’s true,” you nod, “they have a straw that’s shaped weird so it doesn’t make you pucker your lips. It’s supposed to help with preventing wrinkles.”

“That’s stupid,” he mumbles.

“It is,” you nod, “they look silly. But maybe I’ll have to buy one so you don’t get tired of me quicker when I wrinkle.”

He makes a face. Almost offended but still a little amused. He scoffs as you set your glass down on your night stand and before you can even turn to him, he’s already tugged you down to lay back onto his chest as he wraps his arms tightly around you. (Post-sex Sukuna is also as as openly clingy as he is nice. You happen to also like this perk, as well.)

“You don’t need a stupid straw for wrinkles. That’s dumb as fuck.”

“But won’t my wrinkles make you bored of me?” you tease.

“No,” he says plainly. “Growing old with you can’t be so bad. I’ll probably age faster, anyway—you’ll give me gray hairs faster than you get wrinkles.”

“Not true,” you gasp, “you make me frown way more than I stress you out. I’ll age faster.”

“That’s rich,” he grins, “you wouldn’t last one day with yourself. It’s a miracle I haven’t gone insane.”

“You don’t need me for that,” you grumble.

He chuckles. It’s low and soft and a little less gruff and a little more boyish than he tends to let out, but post-sex Sukuna is a little easier to make laugh. He’s in a good mood when it’s you and him and crumpled sheets and a quiet room. He likes when you find his chest and he finds your waist and you both find each other. He likes when you kiss his jaw and he kisses your forehead and the little marks scattered on your skin from his love bites start to appear when time does its thing and the bruises make themselves known.

Sukuna is nicer after sex. He likes when your bodies do the talking and he doesn’t have to use his words. You know he loves you, and he seems to be in a better mood when he knows you’re reminded of the fact.

“You’d still love me if I was wrinkly, right?” you poke his chest with a teasing grin, “you wouldn’t leave me once I’m well past my prime?”

“If I leave you, you’d be an endangerment to society. I can’t let you run loose in the city.”

“Can’t you ever say something without throwing in an insult?” You huff.

He laughs. There’s a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, and then your lips. Your pout curls into a small grin against your will.

“Yes,” he snorts as he rolls his eyes, “I’d still love you with some goddamn wrinkles. Happy?”

“Very. I’d love you with gray hair,” you pat his chest, “don’t worry.”

“I wasn’t worrying.”

“You should,” you nod with faux-seriousness, “because gray hairs would not be an issue, but baldness might. You better hope you don’t bald with age because I’m not into bald men.”

“I’m starting to think you’re more shallow than you let on,” he pokes your ribs.

You giggle. That sound coaxes another peck to your lips from him because he can’t quite help himself when he hears it, and when he grins at you as he pulls away, eyes a little softer than usual, you take your chance to cup his cheek and pull him into a proper kiss.

“I’ll never invest in an anti wrinkle straw if you never invest in hair dye,” you offer.

“Deal,” he scoffs in amusement, “what a relief. I was worried for a moment, there.”

“Since I’m so nice and don’t hold you to unreasonable standards that make aging seem like a bad thing,” you drawl, tracing his chest with a delicate, mischievous finger, “you should treat me to something to eat, too. I’m hungry.”

“Yeah? Shocker,” he grunts, grabbing his phone as he starts to order you food. He asks what you want—he knows the answer before you even reply, but he asks anyway because you like to feel as though you have options.

“You’re so nice,” you beam when he pays, pecking his cheek swiftly. “Here’s a kiss for your troubles.”

He rolls his eyes. There’s a stupid grin on his face, and he taps his cheek as he murmurs, “Nope. Not gonna cut it. Taxes are higher than that around here.”

Sukuna is nice after sex. You happen to still like him before and after, though.

if u follow my blog and u know the context: im still mind blown about this anti wrinkle straw LOL

[murasakiyams]

a/n: not proofread and i’m pretty sure my brain is all mushy from all the pain killers i’ve taken cause of my surgery… anyways

geto suguru is the type of lover who lets you boss him around in public, holds your bags, barley lets you lift a finger

he’s the type to stay quiet when you’re around your friends, letting you talk and not interrupt one bit!!! i also feel like he’s just more quiet in public, i wouldn’t say shy, but like he knows his place (as a man should.)

buttttt!!!!

in bed? oh that’s so different! he’s throwing you over his shoulder with a loud SMACK as his palm hits your ass. he’s throwing you onto the bed and you’ve barley gotten a second to breathe before his lips is just all over you!

he has you in a mating press about 15 minutes later after you’ve made a mess all over his face and fingers, whoops! his hard fast thrusts are brutal, and he can’t help but coo at the fact you’re just completely at his mercy, crying, babbling, pawing at his hands if you can.

nobody would ever expect that the shy suguru geto who lets his girlfriend do anything to him in public would later let him fill her up while saying the most disgusting foul shit ever

‘oh is this too much?’

‘imagine how your friends would react if they saw you like this, all pretty and desperate for my dick, isn’t that right?’

‘shut the fuck up and take it, yeah?’

a/n: hold me back. day 3 of wisdom teeth removal and i’m dying

[peachsayshi]

thinking about…

Boyfriend!Geto who rarely ever gets jealous. He has full faith in your love that he doesn’t feel threatened by such a pitiful emotion. If anybody deals with envy, it’s usually you because he’s always getting hit on. After all, you knew about his past of him being a bit of a ladies man…

However, at this moment he can’t comprehend his own anger watching you get completely flustered after a random stranger complimented how beautiful you were while you were both out together. He noticed your shy quirks in your body language, and how you nervously checked yourself out before saying thank you, then making the innocent mistake of smiling so sweetly at your new admirer that it totally stung your poor boyfriend’s heart.

He didn’t react in the moment, but kept his mind occupied with how hard he planned on fucking you just so you forget anybody’s else’s face except his own.

“Louder, sweetheart…” he breathed, his hips snapping into you as he secured your wrists above your head with his fingers, watching with adoration at how dazed you were from his cock slipping between your wet folds. “I want the whole damn building to know that I’m the reason why you’re making such pretty noises tonight…”