stsg x gn!reader. not proofread, forgive me for any mistakes lol -> my barely coherent mind put all of this together in 15 ish minutes. also very self indulgent, i suppose. i love them so much.
it doesn’t take much for a veil to unravel.
just a twitch against the fabricated labyrinths of the things you keep so hidden— just a pull, and then it all crashes down on you so suffocatingly. you’d marvel at how words seem to weigh you down more than any boulders could, but then again— your mind has always bled onto a pedestal too high, crimson hands reaching up towards a heaven that never was, is or will be.
you’re just. . . tired.
this tiredness doesn’t make your feet slacken their pace, nor does it force your ever so working brain to submit. no, it just lingers at the back of your throat like a patient ghost with impatient hands, scratching and clawing at wounds that you thought you’d stitched back together a long time ago.
this weariness aches.
it doesn’t nag you to rest. it doesn’t make you succumb to the exhaustion. it just follows you everywhere you go, tiptoeing over your shadows and linking its fingertip to your own— a barely there touch, like a forgotten whisper in the sterile air— but present, nonetheless.
and maybe it’s caught up to you. you’ve been sitting at the edge of the bed for too long, after all. you shouldn’t have stopped, you know— that way, it wouldn’t have been able to meet your feet instead of just dark spaces that your body housed.
(but does it really matter when the never ending hum beneath your skin shall never cease, the tiredness far or near?)
your palm kisses the bridge of your nose— having a mind of its own, as if soothing you from the stench of guilt that always coats your words, no matter what you do. guilt, guilt, guilt. such a loyal dog with a broken muzzle. a wagging tail and yet— such sharp teeth. you can never train it— you know better than to tame a stray, after all.
a sigh leaves you, and you let yourself fall back against the mattress— your lower lip beginning to tremble. how strange that your body tries to comfort you in ways that you despise the most.
then again— beggars can’t be choosers, and you chose to be something that you never be. chose to be this. . . this blank space that’s somehow so full, so, so full of emptiness— twisting yourself into dead words and hiding beneath your own hands. you chose to—
“— baby?”
(a pause.)
you don’t bother removing your hands from your face. don’t dare to. you just pray to yourself, and hope. oh, how you hope— even when the world has torn itself apart because of your hands.
“. . . hey,” satoru tries, again, standing at the doorway to your shared bedroom. the edges around his voice soften from before, and you hate it. you hate that he has to use a blunt knife around you just so you won’t feel the pain. you hate it, you—
“what’s wrong?” says suguru, and you nearly sob into your hands right then and there. stupid, stupid, stupid. how stupid do you have to be to let the sun set just because you don’t burnt? you’re so—
“i’m tired,” you rasp out, words scrambling over one another in the haze of trying to speak out something that isn’t an incoherent mess of your brain. “i’m— . . fuck, i’m tired.”
silence ensues.
and then, it changes into something much more quiet.
“. . . oh, darling,” suguru’s hands don’t pry yours away from your face even as you sniffle. instead, he lets them wrap around your trembling body— pulling you up into his hold. how warm. warm, warm, warm. but not the kind of warm that your tears are, as they spill out in uneven rivulets against your cheeks— no, they don’t burn your bones. “c’mere.”
“it’s okay,” you feel satoru’s words engrave themselves onto your nape, ever so grounding against the storm wrecking your soul. “we’re here now. we’re here.”
you cry into suguru’s shoulder, the gasps wrenched out of your throat shaky and erratic, like an unfinished song that you considered yourself unworthy of listening.
but that’s okay, because the weariness slowly starts to loosen its grip from your wrist. it doesn’t free you from its jaws just yet— although, as suguru’s hums and satoru’s whispers fill your eternally exhausted mind, its teeth begin to ache in the same way you do.
and so, it takes a step back. just barely, but it does.
“we’re here,” satoru’s lips brush against the crook of your neck, and you let them. “we’re here.”
⋮ possession au, stsg x reader, angst, tw kenjaku, slight mentions of sh
father yaga referred to kenjaku as a sadist, and it had since proven that fact with a crude blade to suguru’s forehead.
against satoru's judgement, you were intent on being the one to feed it this time. the task of keeping suguru's body nourished and healthy would not fall solely on satoru's shoulders. evil spirits and possession be damned, suguru would not be allowed to rot away down here.
satoru had his back turned just a few feet away, busy replacing its bedding. despite the malicious entity embodying suguru, you both made it a point to make sure he, and by extension, kenjaku, was still incredibly cared for. that included spoon-feeding it meals because suguru's physical well-being remained top priority, and that meant keeping his body carefully restrained to prevent kenjaku from further maiming him.
you lift a helping of the chilled soba noodles up to its mouth. its stare flickers from the fork to punch straight through you. its stubbornness is really nothing out of the ordinary. it takes pleasure in forcing difficulty into the daily nurture for suguru—anything to make your lives a little harder.
and then...something changes.
it's barely perceivable at first—a slight shift amongst its irises. dull yellow, coated completely in a compassionless glaze, gradually blossoming with flecks of amber. those same eyes that have pierced into you and satoru with malicious contempt for a year, are now in a sun-warmed daze. he blinks. lips part ever-so-slightly, like he wants to speak.
adjacent, you notice satoru is stone-still. you cast him a single glance and see his fists wrenched into the fresh, cotton sheets.
the next second, golden irises have withered into dead autumn leaves.
your heart plummets to the depths of your stomach. "–! suguru!"
the bowl and chopsticks clatter to the floor. kenjaku doesn't speak, only spectates your hysteria with gut-wrenching amusement as you seize its shoulders in a vice grip.
"do it again!", you cry at it. "bring him back here right now!"
kenjaku tilts its head. "...who? i'm afraid i don't understand."
it is an uphill battle to keep your nails from sinking into suguru's shoulders. satoru appears next to you in seconds, a careful hand on yours, trying to coax you away. his voice settles heavy defeat on your heart. "baby, come here. let's go upstairs–“
"but, satoru, i saw him, i saw it in his eyes!" you're at the cusp between two decisions—desperate strangulation and violent pleading, both promising futile results.
when you meet satoru's gaze, you are greeted with both understanding and mirrored desperation in calm ocean eyes. that familiar feeling of guilt begins to overflow within your stomach. regardless of how short it was, at least you actually got those few seconds of recognition with suguru. satoru, though? you couldn't stand to imagine the heartbreak had you been the one to miss suguru.
kenjaku regards the sorrowful scene with the faintest smirk. it seems satisfied having inflicted a new dose of torment, so much so that it obeys seamlessly when satoru reintroduces the ballgag, merely watching as you clean up spilled soba.
you and satoru eventually ascend the basement stairs. your mind is plagued with suguru, locked away somewhere, kept captive in his own body. satoru spares the basement one final glance, but is only met with traitorous eyes and a chesire grin.
one might consider suguru's resurfacing an act of kindness from the evil spirit. but kenjaku didn’t show kindness, or generosity, or mercy, even if its actions could easily be portrayed as such. they always had an underlying motive—to cause immense suffering, one way or another.
summary: at the age of 35, geto suguru sees his first white hair.
the brush strokes of the makeup brush caressed against the powdered blush, clicking against the edge before you dabbed it on the apples of your cheek. “good morning little one.” suguru peeks into your shared bedroom, watching his lovers get ready to go and hustle in the outside world. he clicks his tongue, “i would miss you both.” he walks in, crisp like always. demure like always, exuding a safety only capable by geto suguru.
when his arms wrap around your frame, you can’t help but feel like giving up on everything and bask in this feeling of feeling oh-so-loved it makes you delirious. it’s toxically suguru. the way his bulky arms wrap around like he’s a predator, yet so gentle like he’s the biggest caretaker in the world to exist. (he is).
“ohh? where’s my hug then suguruuu~!” satoru chirps, coming in and wrapping his arms around you and suguru, both.
“you both are going to make me get late for work!” a soft chuckle parts from your lips when you feel the squeeze double. you lean against suguru’s chest, feeling the tender love. it’s then, what your eyes flicker to the alien white strand on his hair. “sugu… white hair.” you chuckle, picking it up and showing it to him.
he purses his lips thin. you realize from his emotions that he doesn’t know how to feel about it. when he feels you and satoru silently observing him, he forces a close-eyed smile.
“ah. my little moon. me and satoru are ten years older than you after all.” yes, he is right about that. you’re 25 years old right now. while your husbands are the beefiest, bestest dilfs.
“yeah, but— it’s alright! you look great suguru!” satoru kisses his cheek softly. his wanton voice only getting into a softened purr.
“i guess i am… getting older.”
you smile, “i think you look amazing, you are the most beautiful human being i’ve ever laid eyes on sugu. almost makes me insane.”
satoru nods, “besides, i’m so old all my hair are white!” satoru grins. taking his eye mask off. “eyelashes too!”
you get on your tippies and kiss satoru’s forehead, suguru chuckling softly at his attempt to make things lighter.
“i suppose so… satoru. you’re so old maybe i should keep her all to myself. how can you take care of her?”
that earns him a poke on the cheek, “i try to make you feel less bad about the salt and pepper and you betray me you little shit?”
❝ and i found photographs of our school, on the day we met / i thought that you were so beautiful, it was love, i guess ❞ — a house in nebraska・ethel cain
your boyfriends’ habits inevitably rub off on each other. somehow, suguru starts picking up satoru’s nonsense first—exaggerated pouts, dramatic little sighs, leaning into that cutesy facet he possesses but seldom unveils. now he weaponises it, testing its efficacy on you. and, predictably, it works. meanwhile, satoru goes in the opposite direction, adopting suguru’s maturity and swoon-worthy gentleness, tempering his usual bratty, babyish antics. toru tries—so hard—to be taken seriously, blue eyes flickering expectantly toward your face to gauge whether it charms you. and, naturally, the answer is yes, of course! you love your boys
oh, what a blessing it is to wake up with the ones you love.
morning sneaks in through the window with the litheness of cat feet, sunlight filtering through the curtains in pale, intangible ribbons that catch on drifting dust motes. the overall lightning carries the nostalgia of a kodak film, as if the universe itself paused to preserve this moment.
ever the early riser and habitual breakfast-maker, your lover is already awake—though he has made no attempt to abandon the warm nest of blankets. suguru reclines on one elbow, palm cupping his cheek, a serene, almost regal posture reminiscent of classical portraiture. long obsidian hair spill over his broad shoulders, gleaming like fresh ink against the white futon, each strand rimmed in a subdued golden glow. you steal a moment simply to admire his beauty before turning your attention to your other lover, still conked out.
between you, sprawled across the sheets with limbs akimbo, satoru sleeps with his mouth slightly open, a faint line of dried drool tracing his lip. one arm flings above his head, the other draped across your midsection. the sight is both as endearing as it is angelic.
it amuses you how someone who thrives on three hours of sleep—thanks to his six eyes—can completely abandon his usual rhythm when he’s with the two of you, indulging in this rest.
suguru lifts his head, and your eyes meet. something ineffable passes between you, a lifetime condensed into a single look. and the way he looks at the two of you! so plainly adoring, smitten, utterly enthralled, as if sunlight exists solely to illuminate you—leaves you physically weak. your heart melts into a warm, viscous puddle of honey for both your boys, and you can only assume your expression mirrors the love-struck wonder in his.
your hand reaches over toru , and suguru threads his fingers through yours. he leans in, so close that a stray lock of hair tickles your nose, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead before dipping lower to plant his lips on satoru’s temple.
oh, what a blessing it is to start your mornings with the ones you love.
satoru stirs then, a soft groan and an elbow nudging your side as he rotates onto his back, utterly unbothered by the world. both of you glance down, amusement blooming as he stretches luxuriously, long limbs entangling with yours and suguru’s.
“we should get up,” you yawn, valiantly attempting the role of responsible adult despite having no intention of moving. suguru scoots closer, resting his forehead against yours.
“five more minutes.”
(if that means you’re switching roles, you can safely assume his five minutes will stretch to thirty. possibly an hour.)
