fwb Suguru x Reader x Toji (18+ mdni) Part-6
(Friends with benefits, lots of angst, Suguru isn't over his ex, you're in love, miscommunication, cheating? not giving you more tags 😝)
You leave with Toji, but nothing about it feels like leaving. Your body moves, your feet, your hands, your voice but your heart stays behind, with him, on splattered across tiled restroom floors and half-spoken sentences. You ask Toji to drop you home even though you have your own car because you don’t trust yourself to be alone. You know you’ll find your way back to Suguru. Because if you sit in your own driver’s seat, you’ll realise that he won’t be a part of your life anymore, someone you say is a part of your life yet consumes you whole.
What you had with Suguru never had a name. And that is the cruelest fucking part. Because unnamed things don’t get funerals. They don’t get endings. They don’t get permission to hurt.
You weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t his ex. You weren’t his future. You were just there. Always there. Warm hands. Open body. A place he could fall into when the past got too heavy. And God, you gave. You gave like it meant something. You gave like love without language still counted.
And now, how do you grieve something everyone else would tell you never existed? You feel stupid for how much it hurts. You feel pathetic for wanting him to run after you.
You feel furious that a part of you still hopes he will. Toji’s hand is steady on the steering wheel. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask. And somehow that hurts too because you’re so used to love that takes and takes and never asks what it costs you.
Suguru didn’t choose Manami tonight. That’s the worst part. He didn’t choose anyone. He let you walk away because choosing would mean admitting that what you had was real. And if it was real, then he broke it. And if he broke it, then he’s the villain in his own story and he’s spent his whole life running from that truth.
So you’re left holding all of it.
The wanting. The memory of his mouth. The way your name sounds ruined now because of how he said it. The ache of being seen so deeply and still not being chosen. You’re caught between a man who wants you easily and a man who wanted you quietly, selfishly, without courage.
And the thing that hurts the most?
You would have stayed. If he had just named it. Toji decides to break the silence. “Hey…about the kiss,” Toji says, voice low, careful. “I’m sorry. If it was… inappropriate. I just—” He exhales through his nose. “I thought you needed it. Especially with that bastard staring at you like that.”
You flick your gaze toward him. You aren’t used to this. Someone admitting fault without being asked, without turning it into something else. It disarms you more than the kiss ever did. And even as you curse yourself for how easily you let it happen, for how familiar it felt to fall into old instincts, there’s a quiet, ugly part of you that loved it.
Loved knowing it would make Suguru furious “No,” you say after a moment. “I get it.”
Your smile is faint, tired. It doesn’t reach your eyes. You turn back toward the car window, watching the city lights smear into streaks of gold and white, each one feeling like a question you don’t have the answer to. You don’t know what tomorrow looks like. You only know how badly your fingers itch to reach for your phone.
To look for comfort in the very place that robs you of air.
Suguru isn’t doing much better.
He stays rooted where you left him, like his body forgot how to follow you. The noise of the concert fades into something dull and distant, replaced by the roaring in his head, memories piling on top of regrets, past bleeding into present until he can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
One thing is painfully clear. He made a terrible mistake. He never accounted for this, never imagined that losing you would hurt like this. Because whatever the two of you had was supposed to be casual. Disposable. Easy to walk away from.
And yet his chest feels anything but.
There’s a gnawing ache in his gut, something raw and feral that won’t let him breathe properly. Something that keeps whispering your name like a curse.
She’s weaving through the crowd toward him, all familiarity and ease, like she never left, like time never tore anything apart. Her eyes widen when she reaches him.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she says. “What happened?”
She studies his face, and he knows the pain is written all over him. He says nothing. “Let’s go home,” she continues, already slipping her hands up and down his biceps. “I’m exhausted. You tired too, baby?”
And that’s when it hits him.
How strange it is that she’s here again. How natural it feels and how empty. This was the girl who once held all of him. The object of every reckless want, every desperate prayer. And now? He feels nothing pull toward her. No gravity. No ache.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “We should go.”
He opens his bun, drags the hair tie off, slips it around his wrist. Shakes his head once, like that might clear the fog. It’s too hot. Too loud. Too much to think. The drive home is torture. Every red light stretches. Every empty road gives his thoughts room to spiral. All he can think about is you, how you tasted, how another man’s hands are on your waist now. How hours ago, he was buried deep inside you, and now he feels like he has nothing at all.
Out of place beside Manami, who scrolls through her phone like the world hasn’t cracked open.
His heart thuds violently, desperately trying to find a way back to you. Trying to imagine what he could say that would make you listen just once.
But what could he possibly say?
He’s the one who ruined it.
The one who saw the way you looked at him and chose silence. The one who sensed your feelings and still never met your eyes when he was the deepest that anyone ever got to be inside you. Why would someone like you ever love someone like him? Someone who took everything you gave and still couldn’t give you a name.
Someone who convinced himself he was only good for late-night calls, warm bodies, borrowed intimacy. Someone too damaged, too divided, too cowardly to choose. And now, with you slipping further out of reach, Suguru realizes the cruelest truth of all:
He didn’t lose you because he didn’t care. He lost you because he did and never knew how to face it.
The car idles for a moment longer than it needs to, engine humming softly like it’s reluctant to let the night end. Your building looms ahead dark, familiar, empty in the way only home can be when there’s no one waiting inside.
“You good?” Toji asks, not looking at you. He never presses. Never demands. Just offers space like it’s something sacred.
You nod, though your chest feels hollow. Love-starved. Like something essential was taken from you years ago and never returned. “Wanna walk with me?” He offers and who were you to decline it. You could do a little talk. In fact you needed to talk to someone and a who else could be better than a stranger to share your feelings? Someone who won’t judge you for your deeds.
You walk with him and really get to talk. About nothing. About everything. He tells you about his life the way people do when they’re not trying to impress offhand, almost careless, humor stitched into the cracks. How he used to be married. How she’s gone now. How some days it still feels like the house echoes with her absence. How there’s a kid waiting for him at home, smarter than he knows what to do with, stubborn in ways that make Toji laugh even when his eyes go distant.
And it’s easy. Talking to him feels like breathing. Uncomplicated, warm, occasionally hilarious. He makes you laugh in that surprised way, the kind that slips out before you can stop it. For a moment, you forget the weight in your ribs.
But your phone sits heavy in your bag. Your fingers itch for it. Your heart pulls toward a name it shouldn’t. Toward the one place you keep bleeding from.
You’ve been craving love for so long you don’t even know what shape it takes anymore. You only know that whatever you’re given never quite fills the space he left behind.
“Text me when you’re in,” he says lightly. Even when he was just in front of your entrance. You weren’t sure if you wanted to invite him. With all the drama that happened tonight, with the fights, the heartbreak, the fact that you were coming apart on Suguru’s tongue moments ago was too much.
You pause, keys in hand. Look back at him. He’s leaning against the car, posture easy, eyes careful—like he already knows you’re halfway somewhere else.
“Thanks,” you say. It feels insufficient. Everything does.
Inside, your apartment greets you with silence.
You drop your bag. Kick off your shoes. Sink onto the edge of your bed like your bones have finally remembered how tired they are. The quiet presses in, and all you can think about is how much you want to be held by someone who doesn’t know how to keep you.
Your phone lights up in your hand. You don’t text him. You almost do.
Across the city, Suguru’s apartment door closes behind him with a dull, final sound. Manami doesn’t wait.
She pushes him back onto the bed like muscle memory alone could save this like if she takes what she always took from him, everything will fall back into place. She loved getting fucked by him, she can’t deny that. Her hands roam with confidence, her voice soft and pleading in all the familiar ways.
“Please,” she murmurs. “Take me, Suguru.”
Suguru doesn’t listen. “Come on…hands on me baby” Manami whispers in his ear.
He lets it happen the way you let the rain soak you when you’re already drenched, without resistance, without desire. His body responds because it always has. Rhythm without meaning. Heat without fire.
She hooks her panties to the side and starts humping him, chasing something he no longer knows how to give. Her movements are practiced, desperate, trying to wake something in him that refuses to stir.
His eyes stay open. All he can think about is you. About the way you looked when you told him you were done with him. About how your absence feels heavier than her presence. About how casual was never supposed to hurt like this.
He stares at the ceiling and realizes, too late, that the love he never named is the one thing he doesn’t know how to mourn.
And somewhere between breath and regret, between past and present, Suguru understands that he lost you not because he didn’t choose you. But because he was too afraid to admit that he already had.
The ceiling looks unfamiliar to Suguru from this angle. Too white. Too bright. She moves above him with confidence borrowed from memory, from a time when his body used to answer her without hesitation. She touches him like she owns the right. And his body does nothing.
His hands rest uselessly at his sides, fingers curled, unmoving. He stares past her, jaw tight, chest heavy, like he’s trapped beneath something far heavier than her weight. There’s no hunger in him. No pull. Just a hollow, humiliating stillness.
This isn’t how he is in bed. Suguru is feral in bed. An animal in sheets who’d fuck you like he’s engraving himself in your soul. He is ravenous, devouring. He likes control. He takes and gives with equal ferocity, like desire is a language he speaks fluently. Now it’s gone white inside him. Dead air where heat should be.
Manami notices. She always does.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, voice honeyed, practiced. She leans closer, tries to catch his eyes. “Look at me.”
He doesn’t. Too lost thinking about how he had you (18+) days back. Back when he still had control over you. Back when he still have you. “Don’t you want me?” she presses, a sharp edge creeping into the softness.
His throat works. He swallows.
If he closes his eyes, he knows exactly who he’ll see, how he’ll imagine you on top of him. With eyes he’s too shy to be seen through. If he lets himself think, he knows exactly whose name will ruin him.
He lifts a hand, not to pull her closer, but to gently push her away. The smallest movement. The loudest rejection.
“I’m not in the mood,” he says.
The words feel foreign. Like a lie and a confession at the same time. Manami freezes. Not hurt but calculating.
“…So something is wrong,” she says.
You exhale, something between relief and devastation. You turn it face-down again, like if you don’t look, the ache might dull. It doesn’t. Your chest feels too heavy, your apartment too quiet. Love has nowhere to go, so it circles back on itself and burns.
You think of his hands. You hate that you still do. Suguru sits up on the bed, suddenly unable to breathe in his own room. Manami’s presence feels loud now, invasive. He runs a hand through his hair, restless, undone.
What’s wrong is everything.
What’s wrong is that the woman he chased his entire youth no longer reaches him. What’s wrong is that the one he never allowed himself to love has walked away. What’s wrong is that casual was supposed to be safe and now it’s destroying him. You stare at your screen again. He stares at the floor.
Two people, miles apart, aching for the same thing.
Neither of you brave enough to reach for it. And the worst part? The love that was never given a name can’t even be mourned properly, remember?
Manami watches Suguru closely. “You have to tell me—is this about the girl who was here?”
Her voice is careful. Measured. Like she already knows the answer and just wants to hear him say it.
“I can tell,” she adds. “I know you, Sugu.” He flicks his gaze toward her, jaw tight, eyes dull in a way she’s never seen before. For a second, he almost lies.
And then hell breaks loose.
“Why are you here, Manami?”
The question lands sharp, sudden, nothing gentle about it. She blinks, genuinely startled.
“What do you mean?” she asks. “I’m here for you.”
That’s when the anger surfaces. Raw, unfiltered. Sweat beads at his brow, his chest rising too fast, like his body can’t keep up with everything he’s been holding in.
“Stop,” he snaps. “Stop your fucking act of yours.”
Her mouth parts. His voice is louder now, edged with something ugly and old. “What the fuck do you want from me?” he demands. “Why are you here after all these years? Why again?”
She stares at him like she doesn’t recognize this version of him. Maybe she doesn’t.
“I came here for you,” she insists. “Can’t you see that? God—what has happened to you, Sugu?”
He laughs, short and hollow, like it hurts.
“Happened?” he echoes. “What has happened to me?” His hands curl into fists at his sides.
“Everything,” he says. “Every fucking thing that’s wrong with me—how I process shit, how I shut down, how I ruin things—it all traces back to you.”
His voice cracks, just barely.
“What did I miss giving you?” he asks. “Was I not enough?”
Silence stretches. He swallows.
“Was one dick not enough for you,” he spits, the words venomous now, “that you had to put your mouth in Sukuna’s pants?”
“Huh?” he presses. “Why did you do it?”
The question has been rotting inside him for years.
“I never asked,” he continues, quieter now, more dangerous. “Because I didn’t want to hear how capable you were of destroying me.”
“But tell me now,” he says. “Why?”
And somewhere between the words and the silence, he remembers the ring, how long he saved money for it, how carefully he chose it stalking the pictures Manami used to like on social media, how it sat in the trash weeks after he proposed to him, cold metal against plastic, like it never meant anything at all. He despises how he had to tell this to his parents, to his friends, to his own soul which saw a family with the love of his life.
“I made a mistake,” she says, finally. No theatrics now. No practiced softness. Just a confession stripped bare. “I was blind. I didn’t see what I had when I had it. I threw it away. And I know that now. I know it was a huge mistake, Suguru. I’m here to fix it. I’m here to make up for it.”
He laughs again—but this time it’s bitter, ugly, ruined.
“Make up for it,” he repeats. “After years”…”You knew about her didn’t you”.
He looks at her like he’s trying to recognize a ghost. He knows her games.
“You really think what you did can be made up for?” His jaw clenches. “You think you can just come back and stitch yourself into my life like nothing happened?” He spoke everything with chest. Words he held back like he always does because he thinks to much, because he can’t talk feelings.
And that’s when you hit him.
You standing in the restroom, mascara ruined, voice breaking, telling him not tonight.
You asking for a place in his heart and being met with his back instead of his eyes.
You being thrown out of his apartment when she rang the bell.
You being touched without being chosen.
Because there was no label to what you had. No promise. No safety. And yet he hurt you anyway.
He used the excuse of “casual” like a shield, like that absolved him of responsibility. Like it meant your feelings didn’t count. Like it meant he didn’t owe you honesty.
And all the while, he was trying to redeem himself—prove he was still worth something after Manami shattered him. Trying to feel chosen again. Wanted again.
And he did it by turning you into collateral damage. A circus of mixed signals. A graveyard of almosts. A place where your love was slowly, repeatedly, quietly killed.
The realization lands too late.
Your laugh. Your anger. The way your voice shakes when you’re trying not to cry. The way you look at him like he’s the only thing in the room like he matters. The way your fingers find their place in his hair.
He wants the way you loved him. And now? Now that love is slipping through his fingers. “I spent so long trying to prove I was worth loving,” he says hoarsely, more to himself than to her. “I didn’t even realize I already was.”
Manami steps closer. “Suguru—”
“Get the fuck out of my apartment,” he snaps.
“Or don’t,” he adds, grabbing his keys, hands shaking. “I don’t give a fuck anymore.”
He doesn’t wait for her response. The door slams behind him.
The drive is hell. Every red light feels like a punishment. Every second without you feels like suffocation. His mind replays you on a loop, your mouth saying his name, your eyes begging him to see you, the taste of your body, your body trembling under his hands while he refused to give you anything real.
He grips the steering wheel harder.
He doesn’t care what he has to say. He doesn’t care how pathetic he sounds. He just needs to look at you. The very eyes he avoids looking at, he would give half his life to look at now. To know you’re real. To know he hasn’t already lost you.
He pulls up outside your place and doesn’t even ring the bell. He knocks at the door repeatedly.
His chest is tight, panic crawling up his throat. Please. Please. Please. The door opens.
Tall. Solid. Calm in the way men are when they already have what you’re desperate for. The world tilts. Suguru’s breath leaves his body in a single, silent exhale.
Because suddenly, horrifyingly, undeniably—
Suguru snarls “Why the fuck are you here?”
Lemme know your thoughts in the comments! Would loveeee to chat.
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