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PASSION PLAY - 3, paranoia

pairing bassist!suguru geto x vocalist!afab reader x lead guitarist!satoru gojo

synopsis suguru geto is addicted — to you, the fame, the lust, and expensive drugs. living in the shadow of a notorious on-and-off-again relationship that skyrocketed the career he made with you, things become complicated. burnt out and desperate for inspiration to hit, suguru leans on the closest friend he's ever had — the best guitarist in modern alternative music, and prays he can pick up your pieces

tags established relationship (suguru x reader), modern/band!au, western-set, drinking, age-gap (satosugu is early 30's, reader is early 20's), mentions of real artists/songs, mentions of infidelity, relationship jealousy/insecurity, nsfw

word count 9.2k

authors note i promise i keep trying to make these shorter, but every chapter covers so much base, and it'd feel wrong to cut it down the middle. for now enjoy these hour-long chapters, because i'm not too sure how long they'll last. taglist is still open, comment to be added <3 ily -- all feedback is treasured, this fic is so dear to me. so r u guys. (satosugu art by the goat @_3aem on x <3)

previous chapter — next chapter

It’s nothing new. Suguru wants to disappear. 

He doesn’t know what it is – perhaps the insecurity he doesn’t believe he feels is eating a hole in his chest. Or, maybe it’s you, standing outside, pressed against the wet brick being talked up by Satoru. He’s not stupid; he can see you two through the front window, giggling on about shit he doesn’t think is funny. 

He really should go out there and snatch you back inside, making up some excuse only he can. Lucky you – Suguru is terrified of confronting Satoru right now. So, he’ll let you guys talk. He’ll lean over the bar with his third drink in his hand as Nanami picks up around him, seemingly oblivious to your betrayal. 

“A little drum on that piece?” Satoru whooshes softly through his teeth, slicing through cool air with a flat palm. Next to him, you laugh, biting down on your lip. “You got yourself a hit.” 

“Well, I don’t care about hits.” 

“Not radio hits, those are a one-way ticket to obscurity.” Satoru leans his hip against the brick, flashing the silver diamond in his left canine when he licks over his lips. “I mean – generational hits. Those songs we still listen to that are classics but never charted? Yeah, like that.” 

You roll your lips under your teeth, eyes flicking down to your crossed feet to ward off that scary blue stare. Satoru’s towering you like he’s sizing you up, smiling mysteriously, dressed in all black – reeking of status. “We did some midi loops on it, but drums scare me.” 

“You gotta hide them in the background.” 

“Isn’t that all additional production is?” 

Satoru raises his pearly eyebrows, succumbing to a nod after debating with pursed lips. “Well, that’s one way to put it.” 

“I don’t usually produce…” You drop your tone, the back of your head pressed to the wall, legs kicked out in front of you. In the shitty, flickering lamplight on this sidewalk, you find yourself trying to bring anything up to keep him around. “I would love to be more into it, but all the sliders and numbers,” you shake your head. “It’s not for me – Suguru’s much better than I am.” 

At the sound of his name, you can see that wonder in Satoru’s eyes fall by the wayside – if only for a second. Looking down on you, he blinks. “I wish I could understand how an angel like you can keep Suguru at bay.” 

“Huh?” 

Then, he eases back with an eyeroll, flashing that stupid little tooth gem like he knew how hot it makes you. “I like laughing – I like telling jokes. Lots of jokes. Don’t take me seriously.” 

You giggle again, trying to hide your fluster by turning in his opposite direction. Chin tucked to your shoulder, you saw your bottom lip raw. 

“You know, you’ve laughed after everything I’ve said so far, but it’s always been a stupid little giggle.” He teases, rocking into your side to catch your attention like you’re a middle school crush. “Don’t tell me the prettiest girl in rock music is shy.” 

“The, what?” 

Satoru doubles down, his playful expression zeroing in when you finally look up at him. “You heard me.” 

He’s not being vague, so you won’t be, either. After all, he’s kept you out here in the cold way longer than the two minutes you promised Suguru, and it’s starting to settle. “You realize I’m dating Suguru, right?” 

Satoru shrugs, pouting his bottom lip out like you just called him ugly. “Whatever you have going on with Suguru is none of my business.” 

You giggle again, and it drives him crazy. 

He works his lips around a smile, running long fingers through his fine, white hair. “You gonna marry him?” 

Lucky for him, that’s a question you’ve been asking yourself for five years. You’ve always leaned towards a no. Your career hit its height less than a year ago, and now you’re running through it like a chicken with its head cut off. Marriage is the last thing on your mind; you can hardly keep Suguru from running scared when you tell him how devoted you are. 

Right as you go to open your mouth and spill everything to this stranger, the front door to the venue creaks open – whisper-soft against the night traffic. 

“Seems like you two are avoiding me.” Suguru’s voice, as thin as his patience, cuts through the air, and you swear you’ve never stood up straight so quickly. 

Satoru doesn’t turn around – not yet. He can see the fright in your eyes, a fright that would only be there if Suguru had shown tendencies like this in the past. Satoru isn’t stupid. In fact, he thinks he knows Suguru better than you do. 

Scrambling, trying to stifle the fire before it can spread, you speak up. “Sugu, no-

Eerily calm, like they’re polite strangers meeting at a late-night train stop, Suguru cuts you off with a solemn tone, completely pedaling over you. “Is there something you’d like to say to me, Satoru?” 

Turning around like their past is as clear as glass, Satoru smiles, and it’s real. “Hi, old friend! Thought you were the one doing the avoiding.” 

Suguru takes a tentative step back, peeking downcast over his shoulder as the door finally falls shut. When he scoffs, his tied-up hair falls into his face. “I was, until I saw you two getting really close through the window.” 

“Oh, it’s not like that – we’re just mutual fans.” Satoru finally lets that hold he has on the brick wall fall to the wayside as he steps closer to him, mentioning, “Do you get jealous often?” 

Again, you laugh. Satoru just has a very laughable personality, but when you notice just how tense things really are, you swallow it down, hiding behind a nonchalant hum. 

“We don’t have to make this personal,” Suguru whispers, tough hands turning to fists at his side. His skin bends and cracks around his rings, and it’s the one sign you always make sure to avoid. Now, with Satoru standing so tall next to you, there is no avoidance. “We left things on good terms.” 

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realize ‘good terms’ meant ditching Night Parade in the middle of tour without a word. Thought we were the best – isn’t that what you always said, you and I?” 

“Something like that.” Suguru’s gaze is gone – stepping to the side to get a better look at you shivering behind Satoru’s shadow. If it wasn’t Satoru, he’d have killed the guy and you – not without doing himself in afterward. Still, he swallows down that hurt for a moment as he commands your attention. “Come on. Our car’s on the way.” 

You glance up to your new friend, still sawing your teeth as you weigh your options. Realistically, you’ll call it a night and go home with Suguru, but you’re wondering how Satoru would spend his first night in the city. Surely, he couldn’t be going straight to sleep. 

Standing up to head off with Suguru, you turn and give him a fleeting look, whispering, “Are you super jet-lagged?” 

“I don’t get jet-lagged, kid.” 

You giggle, accidentally bumping his shoulder as you two pass. His gaze is crazy – so illuminate and strict against the night. It’s almost addicting, being under it. “If you’re up to anything fun tonight, you should let us know.” 

“Do you have full access to your social media?” 

You nod, walking as slow as possible, lip caught between your teeth. 

“I’ll follow you there, then. Don’t be a stranger.” 

“You better not disappoint me, stranger.” 

Suguru is silent the entire drive home. 

You wish you had the nerve to stop and ask him what’s wrong, but you don’t want to know. You can smell the liquor on his breath, the sadness in his hunched shoulders, and wonder if you should tell the driver to just take you to your separate apartments. 

The music stopped some ten minutes ago, giving the wispy car ride that eerie back of white-noise you so despise. It’s when the van rolls to a stop light, blinker ticking incessantly, do you hear it. 

Sniffling – crying. 

You whip your head to your left, where Suguru sits facing the window, and wonder if it could’ve been the wind. No – that hic in his breath was as clear as day. You sit up like your seat is on fire, but when you open your mouth to speak, nothing comes up. All you can do is sit and stare, waiting for this to pass. 

The worst part is? It never does. Suguru cries all the way to the steps of your brownstone. 

When the ignition shifts and the car rocks into place, he still doesn’t budge. Staring into his muffled reflection in the window, he feels like a shell of himself. You can’t see through the darkness. 

“Suguru…” You try, unbuckling your seatbelt slowly, afraid of any harsh movements that could cut him. 

His soft voice breaks – it kills you. “Just go in without me.” 

“Do you want him to take you home?” 

“Don’t need to be alone right now.” 

“Okay.” You nod, leaning over before he can change his mind. In his state, you know he’s touchy. It’s too risky to just lean over and touch him like you want, so you pause. “C’mon, Sugu.” 

Just before your soft, shaking hand touches him, he tenses, “Don’t–

You stop. 

“Just don’t touch me right now, I’m sorry.” He wipes his face with his hands, careless of traffic on the street as he swings open his door. He can’t see through the tears, but wishes one of these speeding cars would mow him down. Then, he wouldn’t have to feel like this. It feels disgusting, like betrayal. A feeling totally foreign to him in this relationship. 

You get out after him, and rubbing his eyes, he crosses behind the car, angry and sniffling. He ignores you – rushing past your body in the night with intent you rarely see on him. Of course, Suguru has a code and a key to your apartment, so he barrels in there without you, like it’s his. 

Startled and confused, you push the car door shut, heart racing like eager hares in your chest. To you, that exchange you had with Satoru was nothing if not completely platonic and friendly. He cornered you after Yu and Shoko left, smiling like you owed him something. One thing led to another – he offered you a way home, you declined. Conversation sparked, and you were not going to push down the chance of chatting up the Satoru Gojo with fingers as steady and true as the breeze. It shocked you to find out just how much he treasured you, as well. 

You admit, it went on too long, but Suguru started drinking as soon as the party wrapped up, and you were pissed. You needed space, and the two of you bumped into each other. Past or no past, he gave you attention when Suguru didn’t care to. Of course, you humored him. Of course, this spiraled into bullshit you couldn’t pick up – now you’re walking into a ticking time bomb, and it’s your fucking apartment. 

The second you’re stepping into your space, you start unbuttoning your dress. Locking your collection of deadbolts, and flicking on the lights Suguru didn’t. You lean down to toe off your shoes. You don’t know where he is. 

Stretching your arms above your head, you let out a pitchy yawn, rolling your shoulders, and sauntering on your tiptoes through your home. It just feels like heaven to be back – to collapse on your thousand-dollar couch and smell your lavender incense in the upholstery. Music awards and album plaques hang on your walls, glistening and freshly-dusted from your weekly cleaners. The record you left in your player still sits untouched from where you left it six months ago, covered by its crystal-clear dust cover. The familiarity makes you melt – this is all you wanted. 

Still, in your daze of comfort, you don’t know where Suguru is or what he’s doing. You assumed he’s in your room, likely asleep. Maybe he’s waiting for you in the shower. Maybe he doesn’t want to see you. 

That third option is the most common. It’s what you settle with. 

Dress unbuttoned, arm hanging off the edge, you let your couch melt into you – exhausted to the bone and too comfortable, you don’t fight it. Perhaps, you even drift off. 

Only to wake up to slow footsteps. They round the back of the couch, slowing, before settling into nothingness. You feel him on your arm, flipping you to your back so he can crawl over you. 

You mumble something, fingers twitching as you close your legs around his hard frame. His weight is all in his height, but it’s comfortable as it overtakes you. Half-asleep, you feel drunk. 

“I cried all alone in your bed.” 

“You said you wanted that.” 

“I wanted you to come save me more.” 

You turn your head, eyes finally open as you study his side profile. Suguru rests his head on your breast like he’s a boy, fingers twirling against your silky skin like he wanted to take it for himself. “I can’t read your mind.” 

Suguru sighs, pinching and rolling your skin to distract himself. Ankles wrapped around his legs, you trail your feet slowly up the bulk of his thigh, fingers lost in his hair. “He’s not good for you.” 

“You’re not good for me.” You sit up suddenly, head heavy as you stare down at him. His poor, red-rimmed puppy-eyes – they kill when he peeks his head up, frowning softly, “What are you even talking about? Satoru and I chatted about music for like… five minutes.” 

“I have never seen Satoru with anyone who wasn’t a singer. He has a type.” 

“Are you not lying on my chest right now?” You push, sitting up until you’re flush against the arm. Suguru slinks up with you, suddenly bare and open to your wide-eyed stare. “Am I not always with you on tour, or always at your apartment if you’re not here, at mine?” 

“That’s not the point,” Suguru tries to play it off with a laugh, but you know you’re right. 

“It’s exactly the point. You thinking I’m cheating on you only makes me want to cheat more.” 

He shakes his head, resting his elbows forward on his knees. “Why would you even say that to me?” 

“Because you’re annoying.” You purse your lips, standing up with an attitude laced all throughout your being. It pisses you off so much, because you can still smell the liquor on his breath – you can still hear his footsteps as he approached you just to ruin your ease. “Whatever history you guys have before me – I don’t care. Keep that to yourself; leave me out of everything. Do you hear me? I don’t care, I can just tell that’s a fucking nightmare waiting to happen.” 

“Wow. Thanks for the support, baby.” 

“You’re welcome. Go be insecure somewhere else that isn’t in my face.” You storm off, heart racing and hands shaking as your demeanor caves and shifts into something you hate. He probably didn’t deserve that – you probably didn’t mean it, but you don’t care. It’s too late to pedal back. 

So, you leave him in the living room. Mind running faster than your heart. Knowing he’ll probably avoid you for the rest of the night, you bypass your room and jog up the stairs to your office – really a sad excuse for an in-home studio with walled guitars and one-of-a-kind pianos. When you moved in, Suguru helped you wallpaper these walls in a traditional floral pattern, knowing you’d spend most of your time in this space. You made it cozier than your room – investing in thick couches and chairs, sound foam, and dimmable lights. 

It’s your own little sanctuary for music. Most of your songs started out here – most of the memories were good. 

You push into the room, leaving the door cracked as you head straight for your old Taylor dreadnought. It hangs on the wall like a proud prize – glistening with years of use and care. It was the first instrument you took seriously when you were starting out. It’s your favorite, fittingly named Clover for its lucky gift of songs that made you thousands.

It’s at that chair in the corner – suede white, where you collapse with it in your lap, not even reaching for a notebook or pen as you strum a variation of a Dsus chord. You can hear it in your mind already, were feeling it when you were calling Suguru out of his name. 

This hook has been at the front of your mind for ages – you just needed to fuel it. Moving up the fretboard to a barred variation of F, you find some semblance of a strumming pattern and let it in. 

Words come to you like a dream. 

“Don’t want this to end, but we’re almost there.

When your heart dips, I fall down with it

Your hand grips the deadliest part of my hips

So good that we don’t talk, talk about it”

You pause, taking a break and shifting your focus. Now that it feels serious enough, you stand up, handling Clover by the neck as you snatch your poetry book from the desk at the front of the room. A pen shrugs in your hand, you bring it to your teeth, gnawing off the cap. 

When you collapse in your spot again, you scrawl those lyrics messily onto the brown-tinged paper. You hum them out again. 

“Don’t want this to end…” You whisper into the room, leaning over the body of your guitar. “Don’t want you to end… Where do you end?” 

That second verse comes to you like the wind – pulling focus. 

“Wish I could exist so, so far away from here

Continents apart, like where you’re from

Sweetness and spite — you get me every time 

I don't wanna fight. I, uh— I don’t wanna fight,”

You finish out the last loop of that chord progression you’d been reciting, eyebrows furrowed as the newness of this song burns you alive. It seems like every song you’re creating more recently has been about how bad things with you and Suguru could really get, but it’s okay because it’s authentic. 

Suguru is all you think about. He rules your mind when music is too far behind. He holds you too close, then pushes you far enough away to make you yearn for him. It’s the perfect combination for the art you needed to make. 

So, you don’t hold back. 

More confidently, you sing out.

“Mm, where do you end? 

Where do I begin? 

Why can’t I find my head? 

When you hold me — it’s so hard to get.”

You should’ve known – figured this alone time was too good to be true. You don’t flinch when the door pushes open, but you do pause, eyes flickering up at the intrusion. 

“Is that what you want to say to me?” Suguru stands tall in the doorway, his halfway-buttoned-up shirt slumping off his narrow waist. His hair hangs from his left shoulder, tucked behind his pierced ear languidly. From looks alone, he looks like the innocent party, but to you, he just looks drunk. 

You nod silently, leaning back over Clover to scratch down the words you just sang. It’s rare that lyrics hit so true for you so soon, but you were feeling something when you sat down. There’s nothing about the insecurity that you would change. 

“Why didn’t you just say it?” 

“The song wouldn’t be any good. Gotta be a little repressed.” 

Suguru steps into the room, swinging the door intentionally. Though nobody else is home, he still feels like he has to close this moment off from the world. “Can I join you?”

You shrug. He breathes out a laugh, closing in on you. Not, without leaning over and kissing you on the forehead. He flops down on the matching suede couch next to you, crossing his knees as he nods you on. “Let me see what you’re playing.” 

You blink at him, gaze downcast when you settle back with your guitar. The metal strings dig into your fingers – a familiar pain. Words lost on you, you play him the chord progression you’d been chewing on loosely, fingers working each string as separate chords. Suguru’s eyes watch you intently, hazing over as he gets lost in the mystic rhythm your fingers are producing. This feels good – the silence is good.

Three loops later, he’s sitting up, arms outstretched like he’s inviting himself into your song. This isn’t new for you two – existing in the same space as music as it twists and twirls into something that means so much. He’s fluent on guitar, making the transition from what you were playing to the more polished fingerpicking he’s leaning into is easy once Clover is in his arms. 

You sit, mystified as ever – in love with him. 

“Where do you end?” You hum, chewing nervously on your bottom lip as you click your pen on your open page. Next to you, Suguru’s entranced with your idea, head rocking to the rhythm, face moving in expression as your soft voice echoes his love. “Where do I begin?” 

“Uh, huh.” He replies, lost somewhere in the groove of chords. It hits with an intensity only some of your songs hold. Those songs created out of the harshest of moments – shining like bright stars under production and layered vocals. “Tell me, baby.” 

Then, something shifts. You hear his sweet voice and scoff. “I’m really sick of your bullshit insecurities like you’re not the brightest light in the room.” 

“That is not a lyric.” Even as you two speak, his guitar remains steady, backing soft voices. 

“No, but it’s the truth.” You look over at him, sliding up in your chair to sit knee to knee. His dark eyes are focused on you, pulling emotion right from the very source. “You get drunk and take everything personally, like I don’t need to make connections to maintain a successful career.” 

“You don’t need to make connections with Satoru–

“Obviously, if Kento brought him around, he wants us to work together.” 

“Nanami is biased, he likes him.” 

“So do I!” 

“You don’t even know him!��� The easy guitar-playing stops. You two are barrelling into left-field again, all tense and drawn in the shoulders, ready to aim and shoot. “Whatever he told you out there was bullshit. He is not your savior – he’s not genuine, and he’s certainly not somebody I want you around. Absolutely, not. Stop pushing.” 

You stare at him, dumbfounded, a little piece of your soul hungry and wanting to bite back. However, the sane part of your skull wills you to bend to his wishes. Suguru doesn’t usually ask for much relationship-wise – just that you’re willing to listen to him and take things slow. Captured in a relationship built on ease and trust, you two don’t need more. Now, he’s digging for more. 

“Oh, so you forbid me from seeing Satoru Gojo? Are you my father?” 

“You know what? Yeah. Yes, I am.” Suguru replies, voice as light and sweet as it always is – a lure hidden behind the syllables that get lost in the ghost of his accent. “Open your mouth and sing. Let this go.” 

He starts back on the guitar. You know exactly what you want to say. 

“Well, I’m not a doll on a shelf you get to put away when you get bored

And you’re not better than me. This new attitude is getting old

When you look at me like that, you think you’re reading my mind

What if all it’s telling you are pretty fucking lies?” 

Suguru pauses, searching your eyes for any sign of satire or ease. There’s nothing there but darkness – it’s unlike you. “Wow. Unnecessary.” 

“Listen. Keep pushing me away, you’ll be the first to cry.” You pivot, dipping into your speaking voice. “I’m serious. Keep fucking pushing me.” 

“You think I’d sit here and let you take me for a fool?” 

“The next time you shut down and don’t know what to do

I’m running – I’ll keep on runnin’, runnin’ away from you.” 

Suguru stops, his fingers hovering over the frets as he sits in silence. Staring at you – unblinking, terrified by what he just heard, he shakes his head. “You want to leave me?” 

“Again? Yeah.” You slump back into the plush, heart racing and voice numb from the onslaught. You just blacked out – screaming anything that came to mind to pull a reaction. Your heart is just as sore, cheeks twitching with the urge to frown. “I’m so stressed, I can’t handle it anymore.” 

“All I asked was for you not to talk to Satoru, and you’re breaking up with me.” 

“I’m not breaking up with yo-

“Again? Yeah.” He mocks in your tone of voice, rising to his feet to secure Clover back on its wall hook. It’s like he’s wiping his hands clean of the ‘song’ he just helped you write. “Take that shit and burn it. I’m not playing anything on that song. I’m not putting my name to it.” 

“You know what, Suguru?” You twitch, eager for something to be sent hurling at his head. Holding yourself back just enough, you take your poetry book and chuck it at his feet, standing up as impact lands. 

He eyes it, then eyes you, shaking his head. “What?” 

Suddenly, you’re struck speechless – heart racing, fists drawn and bloody for him, neither of you close that space yet. Neither knows what to do. 

Is this the end?

Something in his eyes – that twitch when he looks at you. His Adam’s apple bobs in silence, dark eyes skating over your body. He doesn’t speak, you reach up to wipe your lips. 

“Say what you really mea-

He can’t finish – you’re too fast. It’s like he blinks and you’re in front of him, lips bruising as they slam into his words. You make him swallow them – big arms settling against your waist like they always have when you’re in this position. The malt liquor on his tongue stings and aches, but it’s addicting in the way only he can be. Hands reaching up to get lost in his hair, you pull him into this boiling kiss like you never wanted him to walk away. 

It’s easy enough; you two get lost in it. Hands slip under clothes, quick and heady with adrenaline you know you’d be exerting trying to push him away. Now, you’re just applying it differently – moving around this situation like it’s an art form. If you open your eyes and see him, you might just die from spite, but the feeling of his boner rubbing rock-hard against your thigh was enough to keep that down. You hadn’t felt it in a while. 

“Do it.” You gasp against his lips, sucking in air like you’d never feel it again. “Touch me.”

“Right here?” He asks, hands under your party dress, squeezing the base of your ass like it's his. Suguru’s belt digs and burns into your skin as your dress yanks up, and you two melt into each other – skin to skin. Your legs close over his knee, jutting your core against him, neck flailing back as his lips press right there. So caught up like this, that argument falls into sheer nothingness. The song sits heavy in the air, but it’s a good heaviness. It keeps you two going, lips working at soft skin – love licks and bite marks. There’s no way to hide it. 

“Turn around.” He demands, pushing you away just enough to spin you around. His hands have your wrists locked at your side, his chest pressed to your back as he leads you to the chair. You can feel his breath – hot and shivering in your ear. For some reason, this headiness throws you into an overwhelming sense of ease. All he has to do is bend you over and take control. 

“I should just rip this off.” He grumbles, pale face tinted red from the mix of lust and liquor. Dry from mouth-breathing, his lips stick to his words – fingers working at the gold clasp keeping your designer dress up. 

“Don’t. Costs more than you think. I have to return it.” 

“Vintage Vivienne Westwood – I know.” He coaxes, voice sweet and low as he pops each closure open. Your skin spills out like tempting lakes, giving him an eyeful of what he sees in his sweetest, restless dreams. “Fucking stunning. So pretty like an Angel, girl.” 

You gasp, sawing your bottom lip between your teeth as his hands cross over your bare waist, scratching under your dress. His skin is so hot – so real. “Mm, I love you.” 

He responds, pushing you down to a perfect ninety-degree angle over the suede you just wrote a song on. Your hands grip the arms, nimble fingers sinking into the flesh of the chair as Suguru works your dress over your hips. The only thing keeping him from every piece of you is a thin strip of delicate lace – as tempting a sight as any. Suguru nearly moans when you come into view. 

Suguru could talk more – could tell you how fucking perfect you are in this dim light, but you already know. His body already knows, it's screaming before he can get the chance to speak. He’s not sure he’s been so turned on in ages. 

Your body sends his dopamine levels into overdrive, unlike any drug he’s ingested. Your skin swallows him whole, filtering out all the bullshit and anger so there’s nothing but adoration left. He swallows down the urge to say I love you again and instead pulls the front of his pants down, chewing on a deep breath. 

“So sexy.” He mentions once more, two fingers at his lips. He wets them over with his tongue, then drops it back down to his aching erection, teasing gentle fingers across the sensitive tip. Pre cum beads around his fingers, delicate like woven pearls. He spreads it over the skin – you hold your breath. 

Then, the feeling washes over you again. Sweet, raw pleasure. Your underwear dips to the side, his cock drags heavy through your labia. You breathe out a shaking breath. “Put it in. Please… can you be tender?” 

“Anything for you.” He replies, pushing through the barrier – mind reeling as he feels you open up around him again. It feels like it’s been a lifetime since he felt something this sacred. His mind goes haywire. 

Nails in the upholstery, stomach in knots, you cry out a whine. “So… So good.” 

“Let me give you the rest.” He replies, voice deep in his chest. He clears his throat, trying to shake the effect you have on him so he can talk you through it when you start to run from the intrusion.. “Just like always… All the way in…” 

His voice drives you mad. You’re whining, head nodding pathetically as his cock works its way impossibly inside of you. It burns like fire in your loins, but this moment is too good to disturb. You bite your lip and look back at him, head low between your shoulders – lust taking over every single spare part of your soul. 

Suguru bends over, body covering yours completely. Slotted like pieces of a puzzle, humping into you lazily, he whispers in your ear. “How could you think about other men when we’re so perfect for each other?” 

“I don’t.” You whine, mind blocking every image of every man you’ve ever seen that wasn’t the one holding you down. Suguru has a scary way of telling you everything you need in the heat of the moment, then turning around and ignoring the fact that he said anything at all. Right now, pressed body-to-body is the closest you’ve ever felt to anyone. It feels like a soulmate connection. “I’m yours.”

-

Suguru hasn’t slept this long in what feels like years – really, just fourteen months. It’s been fourteen months of non-stop studio sessions leading up to rehearsals, then shifting to tours and residencies until this moment. He’s not even back in his bed, but he prefers things like this. Your bed is just so comfortable – you’re always pressed to him just like you are, now, chest-to-chest, syncing breaths. 

He wakes up before you, blinking open his eyes to the sight of your fluttering ones. He smiles a bit, reaching to trace patterns over your soft cheeks. Under this duvet, you’re both as bare as the day you were born – sharing body heat. 

The sun is high in the sky, and Suguru can’t find his phone. So, he sits up, breaking out of that ease with a rub of the eye. You shift next to him, burying your face in the pillow to ward off the disturbance. Staring down at you as you settle, he feels nothing but love – stomach fluttering, childlike crush-like love. He can’t help himself. Suguru leans in and kisses your cheek. 

“First day off-tour. I won’t let you sleep all day.” 

“Wasn’t planning on it.” You reply, pressing the heels of your hand into your eyes. It’s not hard to wake up, but it’s hard being present for Suguru in this moment. There’s absolutely nothing of substance on your mind. “Fucking exhausted.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Not even your fault.” You sit up, groaning softly in your throat. Trying to come alive, you blink toward the window, then turn back to Suguru – one eye cracked. 

He blinks at you, then takes both of his hands, squeezing your cheeks to pull you in for a kiss. “You.” He starts, kissing your lips. “Are so cute.” 

“Stop, let me at least brush my teeth.” You mutter, shifting to your knees to match his early-afternoon fervor. “I smell disgusting. Like cum.” 

“That’s not disgusting.” Lose hair everywhere, dark eyes lidded, Suguru wills you awake with a fire so blatant that only he could harness it as soon as he wakes up. He closes his eyes, leaning in to kiss you again. “You smell like me.” Those kisses fall by the wayside – trailing across your jaw and down your neck. You can’t help the slight moan that falls from your lips; Suguru drinks it up like liquor. 

Under the covers, your knees shake, lips parting for the ceiling to see. “We should…” Between moans, you whisper into the stagnant air. “We should really finish that song.” 

“We might have made up, but I still don’t want to play on that.” 

“You can write on it.” 

No hesitation. “No.” 

“Please, I really like that one.” 

Suguru repeats, “No.” 

Then, you’re pulling away, top lip drawn like he just insulted you. “Come on, man.” 

Suguru stares back, eyes all low and unsteady as he flicks his gaze between both of your pupils. “Change the lyrics and I’ll consider it. We’re not even on a time limit right now; there’s not a rush to record anything new.” 

“I think the fans will really like it. Doesn’t have to be for a project, I just want some structure for that melody.” You’re begging, turning those soft moans to pitchy whines you know he’s weak to. “The hook isn’t even bad, it’s sweet.” 

“You and I have different definitions of sweetness.” 

You pull away, catching the corner of your bottom lip in a soft bite. In the afternoon light, your eyes glimmer a bit lighter. Suguru can’t even find it within himself to blink and will your beauty away. “Where do you end…” You whisper, noses brushing – his hair tickles your shoulders. “Where do I begin?” 

Suguru swallows. It’s audible against the silence of your room. “When we’re so close like this, I understand why you feel the need to ask.” 

Laughing softly, the moment breaks as your gaze flickers. “‘M gonna take a shower.” 

“Okay.” Suguru scoots back, watching as you slide and step onto solid ground. Your soft, naked body shifts and reflects off every step you take – he finds himself unapologetically staring, the ghost of his essence wafting from your thighs. He stands up to join you. 

“Babe, I think your phone is ringing. Do you hear that?” You stop in the bathroom doorway, feeling his body hot at your back, staring down every one of your movements. In the distance, you can hear the faint vibration of something stemming from the bedroom – kicked behind the bed or stuffed under the sheets. If it were your phone, you’d hear the jingled ringtone, not this mystifying, almost-real buzz in the back of your head. 

“Think I threw it somewhere when I came in last night.” He responds, running frantic, yet steady hands through his loose hair to tame it down enough to feel sane. His breath is ripe, body sticky and pent-up with the want he feels for you, right now. 

“Probably Kento trying to add something to our schedule. I’ll run us a hot bath.” 

“Okay, I will answer it. Then, I’ll come in there and marry you.” 

You giggle, shrugging off his advances as you disappear behind the cracked bathroom door. In those few seconds of come-down, Suguru stands and stares at the door, willing and waiting for you to show your face again, or to give him the final word. Even if it’s just a meek ‘okay’, he’d bow at Heaven’s Door just to hear it. Anything to move him along. 

The phone is under the bed, where he tossed it haphazardly before sleeping off his drunkenness last night. On his knees, he lowers himself just enough to slip his long arm under your bed, reaching blindly into the freshly-dusted expanse for something he couldn’t see nor hear. The call long since silenced, but Suguru knows he can’t ignore life in your arms forever. He feels the slender metal device brush his fingers and pulls it out, eager to grab it and run back to you. 

From: Nanami Got something good for you. Give me a call back. 

Suguru eyes the message, ponders whether he should respond, then shakes his head. 

The line only rings once. Nanami was waiting for this conversation to fall into place. ‘You two have been trying to get into Electric Lady since the last album cycle… Guess who I woke up from an email to?’

“Probably the managing partner at Electric Lady.” 

‘They had a record scheduled tonight that got cancelled last minute. It’s ten to ten, and expensive as Hell, but if you two can swing it-

“Ten… tonight?” 

‘Until ten… in the morning.’ The cadence of Nanami’s fully awake, heavily caffeinated tone sparks unease from Suguru’s gut. Realistically, he’ll say yes – you have been begging for studio time down there for as long as he can remember. ‘I know tour just wrapped-

“What audio engineer is going to want to pull overnights? That’s ridiculous.” 

‘You have been doing this longer than she’s been alive, you don’t need an audio engineer.’ 

Suguru quiets for a minute, listening to the sound of you cranking on water and humming unfamiliar melodies in the back of your throat. Standing at the bathroom door, watching your nude back, he cracks a smile. He just knows how happy you’ll be when he tells you the news. 

Still on the line, Nanami grows impatient. ‘Yes or no? I have to send the deposit within the hour.’ 

Wary of the softness of his footsteps and soft voice, you turn to the door and smile back at his dark reflection. Suguru holds the phone a little tighter, then nods. “Fuck it. It’ll make her happy.” 

Happy, you are – skipping down the stones of Greenwich as the sun dipped behind the downtown skyscrapers. Celebrating freedom from the constant back and forth of touring, Suguru took you to dinner on his dime – a luxe, hard-to-get hole in the wall that’s been serving uppity New Yorkers since the dawn of the new age. 

He told you the news in the bath, kissed you holy, then ordered lunch and fell back asleep on your chest while his meal went cold. You spent those two hours while he was resting, locked into an old show you used to like before your life got too busy to manage. You forgot about your phone – haven’t seen it since the other night, and were okay with the ease. It gave you time to live in your mind instead of getting the rest you wouldn’t be able to get tonight.

For you, it’s worth it. You’ll live through countless sleepless nights, too many hard-planned days, and none for rest, just to feel like you feel right now. Just to have someone who understands you so close, reaching for you when you run out of reach. 

You grew up memorizing the stories from this studio – the records that were polished to completion behind the walls you stop in front of. As legendary as it is, it sits unassuming on its block. The doors are locked. You’re met with such when you reach to pull at it. 

“Hold on, they’re gonna think we’re fanatics.” Suguru finally catches up to you, back-length hair put back in a long braid you can proudly say you did. You love him like this the most – loose, dark clothes. Sweatpants and faded logos. His tattoos sparkle just like his silver jewelry. His eyes never leave yours. “We have to go through the back.” 

 “Secretive. I feel like Jimi Hendrix in another life.” 

“Jimi would’ve walked through these front doors like he owned the place.” Suguru bends down to graze your lips. “Because he did.” 

He stands up, grabbing for your hand as pedestrians walk by. Night has fully taken over by now, the bars and restaurants on this block are pulsing and writhing with life, and there’s nowhere you’d rather be. 

Suguru leads you past the building, and you stumble behind him like an eager puppy. Past the row of apartments and local restaurants, you two duck into the back alley. Yellow lights dip off of dripping fire escapes – sirens blare, voices echo. You’re just focused on the way the city air blows Suguru’s breeze back into you, marking your body with his sweet scent. 

Suguru has a key hidden in the pocket of his sweatpants, jingling delicately when he fishes it out at the painted black back entrance. You two stand on the steps of a short, dull landing, looking behind you every few seconds for stray bodies that caught the whiff of stardom. This studio serves as a tourist destination long before it serves as the home for legendary records, it’s why you two, nobodies compared to the names this studio has hosted, duck behind the back to enter. 

“You know what you wanna work on?” 

“Where do you end, where do I begin?” You mutter out the working title, still pressed hand-in-hand with your muse. He moves so delicately, unlike you. Precise steps – long legs, mystical and lovely. 

“Make it a love song and we have a deal,” 

“Love songs don’t always have to be nice to still be love songs.” You two stop in the back hallway. Suguru looks at you over his shoulder. Then, he steps away, fingering the light switch in the back hallway. 

“I think his name is… Mark? Guy who manages this place told me Studio B is already set up for strings, keys, and vocals. Not gonna record any live drums, I don’t think. We won’t need them.” 

“Maybe we should.” You can’t help it. That tempting little ivory-haired menace snakes his way back into your mind like poison, echoing the words he told you last night. Now, you’re distracting yourself with plaques on the wall – albums that were recorded here you didn’t know. Anything to chase Satoru away. “I-if we can, I mean– 

“You want to record drums? Little old, you? Baby, that set would dwarf you. We’ll get a session musician to do what you want on it… If we ever get that far.” 

“Wow, I didn’t know they recorded Patti Smith here, fuck.” 

“It’s heavy, isn’t it?” Suguru peers at the frosted glass live album cover with you, smiling when he looks over and sees your awe. “Like they’re staring down at us, calling us modern and messy. Can’t blame them, that’s what we are.” 

You swallow back a laugh, absentmindedly reaching back for his hand once he pulls away. He stares silently at the art, shaking his head in disbelief. “One day, fifty years from now, they’ll stare at your records and think the same thing.” 

“Our records.” 

“Sure. Ours.” 

Walking into Studio B, Suguru can’t keep his hands off of you. His long arms are slung over your shoulders, front pressed to your back as you lead the way. He’s writing his clinginess off as the fact that he’s tired, though he just slept a combined fifteen hours today. You should be the one leaning and yawning with your little nine hours, but you were too excited to be uncomfortable. 

Every single dim-lit light is on in the studio. Vintage hanging microphones, guitars—acoustic and electric, a full upright baby grand, and so many different variations of basses litter the room. They knew who they were preparing for. Suguru’s eyes light up in an instant. 

“Oh, shit.” Running forward into the room, suddenly full of energy, Suguru eyes the wall of basses, hands shaking as he reaches out to a blood red Yamaha. “Are you kidding me? You’re gorgeous.” 

“Me or the bass?” 

“Bass.” He replies, not even thinking twice about it. Behind him, trailing fingers over the piano, you laugh.

“Should’ve known.” 

“You, too. Obviously.” He mutters, picking up the instrument from its spot and lowering it to his chest. When he turns away, eyes thick with mystique and arms flexed under the weight, you smile. 

“Looks good on you.” 

“I’ve been stewing over the bassline I heard under that chord progression you were playing yesterday – here, pick up a guitar.” 

You spring into action, feet carrying you to the only acoustic guitar in this space. It’s a vintage Yamaha – the acoustic counterpart to all of the branded instruments that call this studio home. Fingers gently holding the neck, you wonder how many hands have happened upon this instrument. You wish it could talk – hoping it would tell you what songs came into fruition with just a bit of time, knowledge, and grit. 

You don’t call yourself a guitarist, but holding it on a propped knee, fingers already working to drop the tuning, you feel like one. 

Suguru sees you as one when he moves about the room, gathering cords and amps – winding them around his arm, keeping busy as your fingers get back in the groove you studied the night prior. The curtains are open. Every few seconds, a body will pass, pushing you out of that focus, only for Suguru to reel you back in with a gentle voice. 

“What’s your tuning, love?” 

“Drop C.” 

“That’s new.” 

You shrug, fingers moving back to that familiar suspended chord you were pining over. It sounds eerie – like you were yearning for something you can’t quite grasp. Pacing aimlessly through the space, you strum the chords, flickering between the four you mined and polished. On your second loop, you start singing to it. 

“Don’t want this to end, but we’re almost there.

When your heart dips, I fall down with it

Your hand grips the deadliest part of my hips

So good that we don’t talk… we won’t talk about it”

To your surprise, Suguru sings over your hums, his sweet voice pitching deeper. 

“Don’t want this to end, where can we go from here?

When your heart dips, I fall apart with it

Your hand grips the loveliest part of my hips

So good that we don’t talk about it.” 

Carrying off his resonant hums, you start that second verse. 

“Wish I could exist so, so far away from here

Continents apart, like where you’re from

Sweetness and spite — where are you, tonight?

I don't wanna fight. We don’t need to fight,”

“I like that one.” 

“Bridge? Maybe…” You pace, fingers working at the strings like you always practiced.

“Mm, where do you end? 

Where do I begin? 

Why can’t I find my head? 

When you hold me — it’s so hard to get.“

“Hook.” Suguru moves to the control panel, flipping some switches – beady, blue lights light up the board. His back is turned to you, now. Bass still strong at his side. “Keep going.” 

“Well, I’m not a doll on a shelf you get to put away when you’re bored

You’ll never be better than me. This new attitude is getting old

When you look at me like that, you think you’re reading my mind

What if all it’s telling you are pretty fucking lies?” 

Suguru pauses. You stop strumming. 

“Really? You can’t change that?” 

“I don’t want to dull the emotion.” You breathe, fingers hovering over your fret, locked in that chord shape so you wouldn’t forget where you left off. Turning back to the laptop he opens, Suguru shuts you out. 

“Change it.” 

“I don’t want to.” 

“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. Why make a song explicit if it doesn’t need to be?” 

“So, you want me to change one fucking word? No, that’s stupid and unnecessary.” 

He peeks back at you again, head hung between his shoulders, once he puts the bass down and focuses on the panel. Pro Tools sits open and empty under a new project in front of him, ready to be plugged and recorded. You just wish you could record this moment – this tension that only arises when you two are together in moments as raw and diaristic as this. 

“I’m gonna hook you up in the booth – just to get a loop of what you’re playing so we can work on structure.” 

You take that direction as him biting the bullet and letting you have your way. It makes a smile sneak across your lips. You approach him. 

“You were playing something different on it last night that sounded better.” 

“I want your take as the backbone. I’ll record some lead on it later when it’s not eleven at night.” 

“Yes, sir.” You tease, taking your guitar into the sound booth. You two are fairly agreeable when it’s just the two of you taking the reins of your music head-on. You’re the emotion, Suguru is the brains, and the experience. He was engineering studio sessions when he wasn’t even an adult. This wasn’t new for him. 

He watches you disappear behind the fogged glass, face stoic as you slide on a headset and pick up the guitar. You lower the mic to catch the strings and all of their nuances, only looking back up at him when you’re ready. 

“Whenever you are.” 

Suguru presses a button, flips a switch on his table, then nods. 

You play, he watches. 

Four minutes of the same thing, looping over and over like a dizzying carnival ride – you’re proud to have only fumbled over your strings once. Suguru doesn’t even notice. He watches your concentrated sex-face through the fog, nodding along to the metronome in your mind. 

“Good enough. Come on.” 

Stepping out of the sound booth, ripe with headphone hair and singing fingertips, you address him. “Sugu, what if we get someone to do a really sick lo-fi Lindsey Buckingham solo on it?” 

“What the fuck does that even mean?” In the lowlight, hunched over his table, you think Suguru looks godly – it’s nothing new, it just catches you off guard. You wish he’d push that string of bangs out of his eyes and really look at you. 

“I can do rhythm, you can layer, and someone else can do lead – I can hear it between that second verse and that space before the hook. Could you hear the structure I was trying to pin down?” You crowd him, sitting on the stool next to him, so he can rewind that tape and listen in. Your take blasts on these speakers when he hits the playback, and you nearly jump out of your skin. Still, you point out the different verses you were trying to nail down, saying it’s not the best, but definitely an idea. Suguru nods through it. 

“I’m not doing a guitar solo. You wanna do it?” 

He looks at you expectantly, totally serious save for the fact that you’ve only ever strummed and picked in your short career. Sure, you can learn… Or, you can just hire someone. “Are you kidding me?” 

“We’ll figure that out later.” He turns back to his screen, scrubbing the track to the beginning to hear it through once more. This time, you two sit in silence, letting the sound wash through your veins until an idea comes to be. Halfway through, he stops it again. “I’m gonna lay down some layers. Electric or acoustic?” 

“Electric. I’ll probably record on an electric, too.” 

“I wonder if they have a…” Suguru sits up, scanning the space haphazardly. “A slide ring. I think that’d be so cool on this track.” 

“I think I saw one with all the picks and strings over by the window.” You reply, kicking back in your seat, you pull out your phone. You always keep notifications off, choosing not to silence Suguru and Kento’s messages and calls. If you’re combing through your contacts, you can’t miss any messages. But what you always miss are your social media.  

You’re not sure why you opened the app – perhaps to gaze at session musicians you felt could be a good fit. You used to spend so much time caught up in the endless scrolling, now you only post contract images and the occasional blurry story of rooftop dates or gifted dresses. It just always felt odd to place your life on a pedestal, so you hardly do. 

In the corner of the dashboard, easily overlooked and tucked out of the way, you see the notification of two new direct messages. It’s someone you follow – has to be. You wouldn’t get notified if it wasn’t.

In the corner of the room, Suguru fusses around with the string accessories, humming and tossing rings down that don’t fit his thin fingers. He doesn’t even notice you, not that he’d want to see Satoru Gojo’s profile with millions of followers show its ugly face on your dimmed screen. The way you move is almost deceitful – peeking over your shoulder before opening the old messages.

From: gojosatoru  hi stranger. hope you didn’t forget about me

From: gojosatoru went to an after of a friends show in uptown. thought of you and that boyfriend of yours. hit me back when you can

You glance at the small string of messages, biting over your lip as you work up the nerve to turn around and ask, “Hey, what about Satoru Gojo?” 

Hearing that name – it’s haunting him, Suguru turns and glares at you. “Absolutely, not.”

@dreamymoon-c @ddumgum @sheep-infog @jjmeii @hsungies @lucilles-witchery @hypomanic-oneirataxia @vinsushi @cherribxio @casssiesthings

[eraserbread]

I need more reader x nanami x gojo maybe an office threesome after hours like I’m genuinely so down bad for this dynamic

god forbid anyone knock on your older boyfriend, nanami's, office door after hours ✧

→ afab!reader, mxmxf threesome, spitroasting (lol), oral m!receiving, age gap relationship, nsfw

you should really not be so overzealous -- you need to learn how to knock.

maybe, if you knocked, gojo would have chirped a quick, 'sorry, we're in a meeting!', and you would've fucked off, but it was after hours. aka: your hours.

after all, your ceo boyfriend had nothing to worry about after the workday concluded, but you, right?

so, you walk in. no -- you push that door open and saunter in like nanami had nothing better to do than wait on you to beg for his attention. he's right where you left him, chin sitting on a fist as he nods blearily along to the nonsense gojo is providing him behind his desk. it's something to do with quarterly evals -- especially with the paid interns. nanami needs to type up a review to provide to your school. god only knows what he'll say about you.

if you're lucky, he'd tell the truth.

but if you were truly lucky, you wouldn't be in the position you're in now, bent over his desk like always -- nanami behind you, whispering about how tight this skirt is, and gojo in front of you, tucking soft pieces of hair behind your ear.

you wish you understood what the relationship the three of you held like water in your hands meant, but you won't complain when the world comes flooding back to you like you're flying close-eyed through a wind tunnel.

gojo's voice cuts through like a knife. "nanami, you should see the way she's staring me down with those innocent puppy-eyes." he talks over you like you're an object -- for some reason, it fucking gets you going. his hand is big and hard on your jawline as he forces eye contact, more outwardly dominant than nanami's inward dominance.

"ignore it. she's trying to get her way." he responds, all deep and resonant in his chest like he's trying to lay claim. nanami is not a fussy man, all he does is lift your tight skirt over your ass, swallowing thickness when your stocking-covered lace panties flood his view.

"nana..." you mutter, voice intercepted by the tight hold gojo has on your face. you can't move your jaw to speak. you feel like a fish on a line, hooked in their hands for a stupid picture. but, you wouldn't have it any other way. gojo caught a whiff of your humiliation kink and fucking sprinted down the block with it.

he knows how to handle you; that's why nanami always brings him back.

gently pushing your hair out of your face, prying open your mouth so wide it can fit gojo's thick, blazing hot erection he fishes out of his work pants just for you.

gojo steals your attention away just long enough for the dull, intentional tear of your tights to shake you to the core, thighs shivering in excitement because you know what's coming. in fact, you're craving what you can't see. nanami's big hands -- his slow touch, his smooth cock...

the second your eyes flutter shut, his fingers are under the waistband, pulling them down to your knees.

"uh uhn," gojo ticks, tapping your cheek while his tip sits over your lips, asking for entry, not forcing itself. over nanami's desk, his hand gets lost in evals already typed and printed, ruffling them with carelessness. the enviornment is warm -- all you feel is incredible warmth. "open your eyes."

"how is she doing, okay?" nanami is talking for you, half-buttoned collared shirt yanked up at his chest. desperately, he holds on with one hand, the other one tangled in your hip, pushing you back on his eagerly awaiting cock. he knows you can't talk -- your lips are wet and straining around gojo, eyes squeezed shut around pitiful gags.

an invisible fire in his eyes, gojo hide the adoration he feels for you in his chest as he meets nanami's gaze. over the desk, gojo plays a little cocky smirk, "baby's just fine."

[eraserbread]

PASSION PLAY - 2, everybody here wants you

pairing bassist!suguru geto x vocalist!afab reader x lead guitarist!satoru gojo

synopsis suguru geto is addicted — to you, the fame, the lust, and expensive drugs. living in the shadow of a notorious on-and-off-again relationship that skyrocketed the career he made with you, things become complicated. burnt out and desperate for inspiration to hit, suguru leans on the closest friend he's ever had — the best guitarist in modern alternative music, and prays he can pick up your pieces

tags established relationship (suguru x reader), modern/band!au, western-set, drinking, age-gap (satosugu are early 30's, reader is early 20's), oral f!receiving, toxic relationship dynamics, mxmxf love triangle trope, nsfw

word count 9.8k (i'm sorry omfg)

authors note can we just take a moment to appreciate the fact I wrote almost 10k words in five days? anyways lmk how u guys are vibing with these characters so far <3 comment to be added to the taglist :* (satosugu art by the goat @_3aem on x <3)

previous chapter — next chapter

Sitting in a dingy New York bar as Midnight fades into early morning, Suguru’s fingers play between your lips. He’s going on about the tour you know he hates, and you’re nodding him along, kissing every single digit as he presses it to your lips. It’s so sweet, being so close to him. The bar is hot — patrons are few and far between after the club rush fades into alcoholics and insomniacs. Nobody has recognized you two yet, but you know it’s just the grace of borrowed time. 

Suguru ordered a shot of Jameson over ice, and it’s his third drink down. In front of you, your rail and mixer collects condensation because you’re too busy savoring the sweetness of him instead. The bartender leaves you alone, focused more on her side duties rather than the mysterious couple who were two seconds away from sucking each other's faces off. 

You can’t help but be bothered, it’s how the liquor makes you feel – like it’s setting your loins ablaze. Suguru looks so handsome under this light. The walls are singing city hymns. 

“Two strings in the past week. Two, doll. I go through two strings in a month when I’m not touring.” Suguru is passionate about his bass strings, giving you scary, unyielding eye contact as he drives his point home. You’re trying so hard to listen, to be supportive like the perfect girlfriend you are, but it’s so hard when his sweet, soft voice sounds like a song. 

He continues – blahblahblahblah.

“And my head – God, it’s fucked.” 

Stars and hearts shooting through your vision, Suguru’s face is skewed behind love. “Mm, it’s all the drugs you do.” 

Suguru laughs, not a chuckle, but a soft laugh meant only and always for your ears. Your heart is racing. Suddenly, the urge to peel your hoodie off is all-encompassing. “You are drunk, my love.” 

“It’s the truth!” 

Suguru brings his finger to his lips, settling you down without needing to shush. Then, he smiles, “Do you really listen to Satoru?” 

“Who?” 

“Gojo…” 

Your smile fades into a shrug, eyes locked on your intertwined hands dancing palm-to-palm. “Will I get in trouble for saying yes? I grew up with Night Parade.” A far cry from your chipper tone just moments ago, your inebriation can’t hide the doubt you feel when addressing Suguru like this. 

“You don’t have to hide it.” He states as if it’s a fact, keeping his gaze locked on your face, though you can’t do the same. Your fingers trail across the lines in his palm, studying them like you’re a mystic. 

You glance up at him like a kicked puppy, if only for a fleeting second. “I really liked the songwriting on his first album.” You whisper, testing the waters before continuing. “And his voice is so sweet.” 

“Sounds like you love him.” 

You scoff, dropping your hand only for him to pull it back. Then, he reaches for your drink, pointing the cocktail straw to your bare lips. The entire interaction is wordless and intimate in a way only you and Suguru can achieve. He’s watching you sip down your drink until it’s ice, spit collecting in his glands at the sight of your downward, drunk stare. 

He wants you, but he has to swallow it. 

“Sounds like I love you.” Your voice is soft. Only he can hear the softness of your breath. “Don’t wanna talk about Satoru Gojo when Suguru Geto is right in front’a me.” 

Suguru just watches you for a moment, eyes flicking back and forth from yours. “Do you realize how charming you are?” 

“Do you realize how charming you are?” You snort out a giggle, and he follows suit just like last time, laughing softly as the bar empties out. “Even when you’re telling me to behave. You know I hate that.” 

“Then, stop listening to me when I correct you.” He’s staring at your lips, watching the way they curl and pulse around your words like you’re singing them to him. “But, you won’t… because you know we need that.” 

“You are the most confusing person in the world.” You shake your head, drunk and dumb for him – toppling into his strong lap just like he wants. “One more drink?” 

“Shots. I don’t want to sip.” Suguru flags down the bartender, pulling her from glass polishing to swing back his tab. He orders four shots off the dome, speaking a name you’re not sure you’ve ever heard. You watch the entire interaction like you’re watching a show, chin in your palm, smiling loosely. He’s smiling and winking at her like he wants her, but you know he doesn’t. You know Suguru couldn’t get what you give him out of pretty bartenders or touchy groupies. You’re more than his girlfriend – more than his co-writer or co-producer. You’re more than your voice and words. You’re sensual, caring, aiding him when he’s sick, just like his mother used to. Suguru misses her like Hell every day, but then he looks at you. 

One glance in your direction and the entire world falls into blue. 

“Two for you,” Suguru smiles as the group of shots is slid to him over the sticky wood. “Two for me–unless, of course, you only want the one, then I’ll have the other.” His opaque rings hit the glass in a way that just sounds like him. Everything he touches clinks and clangs so comfortingly. 

“No chaser?” 

“Nope.” He replies, eyes focused on the dark liquor in the small glass as he holds it up, waiting for you to do the same. Then, he looks at you, and your heart picks up a few beats. “Kiss me after you take it. It’ll make you forget about the taste.” 

“Oh. That’s smart.” You gasp, drunken mind panting masterpieces from Suguru’s invisible stare. He looks – feels like God right now. That drink in his hand is his only sin. 

So, you pick up the shot, counting down with him like children before taking it in one go. Two swallows, holding your breath, it slides down your throat, and it burns like hell. “Oh, Go-

Before you can finish, Suguru slips his glass into his other hand, reaching forward to pull you into a quick, tongued kiss. The override of sensation hits like nothing ever has for you. Your mouth is burning, but so is his. Inside, he tastes like a drunken version of himself – still smoky from the cigarettes, minty from the gum he spat out before indulging, and savory with the whisper of you. Somehow, your taste always finds its way on his tongue. 

“‘M, my God – you’re a genius.” You whine against his lips, swallowing down another wave. You can feel his chuckle, but you wish you could see it. You wish you were a bystander looking upon the two of you, entranced by the love just like you are. 

Three drinks, two shots in, and Suguru isn’t feeling as light as he once did. 

In fact, he’s dragging, now – walking on the edge of the sidewalk so he’s not walking next to you. I guess, compared to him, you’re holding your drink well, but it’s because you ate before the show. He didn’t. 

The hotel is only a block away, so that uncanny silence doesn’t last very long. Cars still whiz past you at full speed, music still blares, and fluorescent lights still buzz. The air holds that shimmery, stilling feeling only winter can seem to capture, and it’s starting to cut through the alcohol. 

You don’t even try to talk to him until you’re closed in the elevator, away from any prying eyes or unwanted attention. He stands next to you, reaching over to thumb the third-floor button. In that split second, you catch his gaze, and it’s as dark as you thought it would be. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“I’m obviously fucking tired. Why would you even ask me that?” 

Your heart stills, and your lips clamp shut. It’s such a blatant precursor to what this night would hold, but you can’t run from it. It’s physically impossible. 

So, you don’t speak again. Not even when he’s leading the way to the room door with a slight sway in his steps, hands shoved into his pockets. Your steps are slow and grueling – the world is spinning around you, but you don’t want to let it show. You just want to lie down.

“You have the keys,” Suguru mentions when you finally catch up to him at the door. You stop for a second, eyebrows knitting together as you try to make sense of what he’s saying. If he were sober, Suguru would’ve been endeared. Right now, he’s frustrated. “Are you stupid? Nanami handed you the keys.” 

“Okay, you don’t have to be a dick.” You finally understand him, holding a hand out in his direction so he can let you take the handle. Fishing around your body, your hands fall on the strap of your bra, under your hoodie, where you keep things when you’re not wearing pockets or carrying a purse. Kento doesn’t like it when you take a purse – you’ve never asked him why. 

“I’m sorry.” 

You shrug, stepping in front of him to unlock the door. In your daze, it takes you a single try. Walking into the expensive space, ease washes over every single ounce of your being. White walls, updated features, high windows, and ceilings – they truly spared no expense. The thick, king bed sitting proudly in the middle of the modern room screams your name, enticing you with fluffed, chopped pillows and thick blankets. You don’t even care what Suguru’s doing right now, you just want to be beneath the covers. 

Suguru slumps in behind you, pawing at his sweatshirt and stumbling to pull off his shoes. That cultural part of him has never faded, even after ten years away from home, but you find it endearing. He’s always barefoot, even when covered to the neck in fabric. 

You ignore him, walking to fall face-first into the downiness of the bed. It swallows you whole, clean and cool against your hot body. Shoes on, legs kicked up, Suguru grumbles something under his breath when he approaches you. 

“Sun’s starting to come out.” He points out, sitting on the bed next to you. He helps you pull off your shoes. “We can get eight good hours if we pass out right now.” 

“Seven. I have vocal stuff at one.” 

Suguru’s hands travel from your feet to your thighs, squeezing there softly. You’re trying to fight sleep, but you’re trying to fight hurling even more. You know you can’t throw yourself around like this when you’re feeling so sick. “What vocal shit do you have to do? Your voice is already perfect.” 

“I have to maintain it – you know that.” 

“And you know I don’t like that tone.” His soft-spoken drawl turns into a soft-spoken growl as he leans to your ear, long hair falling over his shoulder to kiss your neck. “Stop being tempting and frustrating, it isn’t fair.” 

“Stop being moody. It’s not fair.” 

He stares at you for a second, wondering if it’s worth it to dive into a fight right now. He knows he’d win – you’re terrible at arguments because you always cave and bow to his dominance. However, when the two of you are drunk, it’s a different story. This hotel room could be wrecked in an hour if he let this simmer for too long. He stifles that spark by leaning over your body, hand still on your thigh, and kissing you on the cheek. Suguru’s lips are on fire, and they offer your flushed system little to no refuge. Still, it’s sweet. You hum. 

His strong hand slots between your legs, heavy breathing in your ear as he settles it between your ass, kissing you once more. “Open up.” 

Instead, you turn around, pupils blown when you see him face-to-face again. You’re still so drunk, so wrecked with motion sickness, but you want him. He knows you want him just as much as he wants you. So, you open your legs, trying your hardest to hold a steady, soft smile as his touch slots right against your core. Against your leggings, you’re already damp with sweat, and between your thighs, you’re wet for Suguru. He knows you well enough to know you don’t wear panties when you’re wearing pants this tight, and takes full advantage of it. 

“It’s been a little bit, hm?” 

“What?” 

“Since we fucked.” He lets it roll off his tongue like he knows you’re expecting it. Only, you weren’t. You still smile, though, giddy with the promise of what he’s speaking into the room. 

“Tour’s been crazy. Haven’t been in a hotel in over a week.” 

Suguru gets so close, lips ghosting over yours as he pours words right into your mouth. “Wanna fix that. Don’t have the stamina to give it to you right now, but I do wanna taste you.” 

The realization makes you sit up, face stoic, and hair disheveled from rolling in the sheets. He sits up with you, smirking at the corners, eyes focused on the part of your lips. “I’m never gonna say no to that.” 

So Suguru does what he does best – he lowers himself down to the edge of the bed, chasing you on his knees as you scoot up the mattress. His hair is loose, staticky, and sticking to the back of his shirt. He pulls it off with one uncoordinated tug over his head, giving you an eyeful of his pristine, inked skin. 

Your eyes fall over the butterfly right under his sternum, then to the cross connecting his collarbones. Every time he undresses, you’re refamiliarizing yourself with the ink, knowing how much these fine-lined black drawings meant to him. A week after you met him, the first time you saw him naked, he spent well over twenty minutes taking you through all of them, giving backstories of their meanings. It was the first time you felt like you truly understood him. It was the catalyst for your love for him. 

And they never get old, not even when you’re grasping onto shreds of sanity as alcohol rules your mind. Suguru’s too calm, licking over his lips as he watches your stomach rise and fall in the sliver of skin visible just above the waistband of your leggings. Seeing you splayed out like this is romantic in a way he can’t really describe. He knows this body better than he knows his own, can count the birthmarks on your skin with his eyes closed, and has every sweet spot on this luxurious ocean studied and rehearsed, just like his set list. His fingers ghost the ticklish skin. 

You tense up, stomach caving before shivering and relaxing. 

“I just have a thing for beautiful bodies.” 

“Whose beautiful body are you touching that isn’t mine?” 

Suguru purses his lips, studying your face as his flat hand slips under the stretchy waistband. His fingers are long, tickling the damp cotton covering your slit. “Nobody but you.” Tucking loose hair behind his right ear, buried to the hilt between your thighs, Suguru leans over your body to press a slow kiss to your lips. He tastes like Jameson and regret – wafting back into your mouth, getting you drunk off residuals. “I love you.” 

He’s playing with your trembling cunt like he’s playing with an instrument – applying enough pressure to hear what he wants, extremely thorough and intentional with where he touches. It feels so good, you’re losing your mind. 

“Love you so much, Suguru… So much…” You moan and whine into his mouth, hips bucking upwards into his touch. “Want your mouth.” 

“Mhm,” he replies, nodding loosely, tucking more disobedient hair behind his ear. “Gonna make you sing for me. Let me hear you, baby.” 

“Mmm,” You bite down on your lower lip, swallowing as he pulls away, trailing sensually down your body to settle between your thighs. You sing his name, humming it softly in the ghost of your whines. “Sugu… m’sugu…” 

Both big hands close over the outside of your thighs, pressing them into his head – drowning in your ocean. He kisses your skin as if it’s calling his name, memorizing your scent, placing little, chaste kisses over the sensitive parts of your flesh. 

“Take it off,” He humbles, mostly to himself, but raspy enough that it cuts through your fogged senses. Sitting up just enough, he tugs your leggings off and throws them somewhere towards the back of the room, mouth watering when his eyes fall upon his favorite sight. You sit up on your elbows, hoodie hanging off your shoulders, pooling under your collarbone. He dives into you, making gentle slurping sounds between your legs as he concentrates on your clit. Immediately, your back is bowing, manicured nails digging into these unfamiliar sheets. Suguru is so used to this, in fact, he specializes in it – in knowing how to eat you alive until the only word in your head is fractured renditions of his name. 

Head tossed back, you whine and shiver as his sweet lips kiss and nuzzle against your labia. His fingers tense, creating wells in your naked thighs, screaming out to you in intoxicating pain. Just like his fingers, you’re on the verge of snapping – a sudden cry breaking from your throat as he nibbles on your clit. No mercy – just his smug, sweet smile you can feel cross your skin. 

“Sing to me,” he reminds gently, voice all muffled and fucked between your thighs. You reach down, a sharp hand getting stuck in his hair as you push him closer. Obeying his wishes, you let your moans break through the barrier – piercing his sensitive ears as you cross octaves and hum out invisible melodies. Suguru wants to record you like this so bad – he lives for this beautifully lewd behavior, and how well you respond and listen to him. You’re his favorite thing ever, just making him weak with everything you do. 

It’s why he gives his all – every drunken piece of his mind to making you swoon and shiver in pleasure. He loves the taste of you and doesn’t want to pull away, even when you’re pulling his hair, whining about how close you are. 

“S-stop – Mm, I’m clos-

“I’m not gonna stop if you tell me you’re close.” He chuckles against your dripping core like you just told him a joke. His lips are shiny with you, his mouth sticky as he laps up your slick. 

“Don’t…” You swallow, face screwed up and body wound on a spindle. “Don’t want you to stop.” 

“That’s my girl.” 

The floodgates open – you’re sure this is the hardest Suguru’s ever made you finish. You’re absolutely fucking silent when it happens, back kissing the mattress as your thighs constrict and squeeze around his head. Your voice is all breathless and lost in your throat, but it’s a good feeling. It feels like jumping into the cold ocean, only to be reeled back and met with a warm, dry blanket. It’s fucking bliss. He’s so talented. 

Facing the aftershocks, Suguru knows when to rise because your thighs go slack, and he’s free enough to come up for air. His pretty face is beet-red, covered in you, and filthy with spit. The room smells like sex – he smells like sex. You don’t even know your left from your right anymore. 

He collapses right next to you, out of his mind and sick when he comes crashing down all at once. Outside the covered windows, the sun starts to rise over the bridge – just over the roofs of the red-brick neighborhood. Subconsciously, you lean over, eyes closed, as you cuddle into his side. 

Suguru catches himself shying away. 

Then, you’re coming back down, peeling your eyes open as you trail your hand down his hard body, just hardly ghosting the waistband of his sweatpants. Fittingly, you wanted to get him off now. It’s your only pure intention, for a relationship always has to involve an equal amount of giving and taking, and you’re the perfect girlfriend. 

“Don’t do that.” He warns, once, voice steady as he rolls to his side – facing away from you. 

You sit up next to him, turning that palm into a fist as he trembles over the blankets. You blink down at his body. “What?” 

“Said don’t touch me.” 

“No, you didn’t. What’s wrong?” You try again, this time only reaching to trace over his shoulder, but you only get one touch before he’s shrugging away. Your heart plummets. “Suguru,” 

“Don’t touch me. All you think about is sex, and I just said I don’t have the energy.” 

“B-But you ju…” Shaking your head of it all, you’re trying to piece together his words and his demeanor – along with the current… circumstance. “I just…” 

“Yeah, I just gave you what you want. Why can’t that be enough?” 

You gasp, still reeling but playing sober enough. “What? I didn’t even ask– 

He’s rushing you, shrugging off your touch harder this time, like he doesn’t want you anywhere near. Suguru’s making you feel disgusting. “So, you’re saying you didn’t want that?” 

“I’m saying you don’t have to make me feel like I forced you to do anythi-

“How about you just leave, then?” He whispers to you, peeking over his shoulder with an ease you were all too familiar with. You two never fight – not really. He never yells. “Yes, actually. Just go. I want to be alone right now.” 

“Sugu…” You start, reaching over to touch him again, only to fall short. “What?” 

“Go, I won’t repeat myself.” 

“But, all of my-

Suguru’s sliding out of bed before you can continue spouting him some shit he doesn’t want to hear. He’s shirtless – angry and lost in his hair as he tries to pull it up with the band on his wrist. “Get out. Take your shit.” 

“Let me finish a fucking word!” 

“Don’t yell – I have a headache.” Suguru sighs, slamming open the bedroom door and marching out with little care to where you were or if you’re following. He just wanted to be alone. 

“'Cause you’re drunk and you’re self-sabotaging, you don’t think I see it?” 

“So, what? Let me self-sabotage in peace.” 

“But, I don’t have anywhere else to go, Suguru!” You’re following him around the spacious room, grabbing your pants in the process, flustered as you try to pull them on. “I leave, then what? I get a fucking Uber? To. Where?” 

“Then go sit in the lobby.”

“You’re… ridiculous. Really fucking ridiculous, you know that?” You scoff, jumping around on one foot as you try to pull your leggings on. Suguru’s walking to the door, and you’re hot on his trail, just trying to get close to him. “We were doing so good, Suguru.” 

“I’m not as good at pretending as you are.” He stops, turning around to face your craze head-on. Your breath is lost in your throat, rendering you speechless for a second. Standing in front of the hotel door, he drags his hand to the handle slowly, edging the emotion he knows he’ll have to face. 

“Preten-” You pause, cutting yourself off because it just doesn’t make sense… “What do you mean, pretend? You don’t get to tell me you love me, then throw me out five minutes later like a piece of trash. You said we’d try this time around.” 

“I don’t want to try with someone who refuses to give me my personal space.” It’s like a slap in the face – hearing Suguru’s voice so whisper-soft against your anguish. He’s not matching the fervor of this situation. Instead, he’s floating over top of it with squinted eyes, half-awake. When he talks, you can still smell yourself on his breath. “Maybe that’s why I always tell you to leave and never come back.” 

You don’t know what to say, but you can’t stop staring at him. His beady, lifeless eyes – the shine on his lips in the morning light. Your heart aches. 

It’s always like this. 

“Get out. Please.” 

“N-no…” 

He asks once more, refusing to look at you, now. Instead, Suguru looks to the floor. It’s like he knows he’s fucking guilty. 

Then, he shocks you still. He flicks his gaze up and closes in, taking you by the arm and walking you to the door. “You should cry to everyone and say I’m a terrible person, because I am.” 

You’re not fighting him, knowing all efforts are for naught. He’s so effortlessly stronger than you, using it with cruel grace as he pulls open the door and shoves you out into the harshly lit hallway. “Suguru, no-

You don’t cry when his distraught face disappears against the heavy slam. You just flinch, fingers twitching and grinding into your palm. In this hallway, you’re a sexed-up mess, ruffled hair, wet eyelashes, loose clothes – it’s so blatantly obvious what your business here was, and that’s what makes it worse. You’re not a hookup, you’re this man's girlfriend – partner of over five years. The supposed love of his life. 

He’s fucking with you… Has to be. 

You bring your hand to the wood and knock – no, bang on it. You won’t let yourself be tossed out like this, and you won’t let him push you away. It’s what he does every single time when his insecurities get the best of him, and suddenly, he can’t see the light in your presence anymore. He gets weird after too much touch, or not enough. His mind is telling him things his body won’t reciprocate, and you’re caught in the crossfire every single time. 

“Suguru! At least— Let me in, let me get my phone and shoes!” 

Silence. You can’t even hear him rustling on the other side. Angry and overcome, you try your hand at forcing the knob, grunting and on the verge of tears. “Suguru!” 

Hic voice, smooth as butter, cuts through your mania. The door opens just a crack. “Stop. You’re causing a scene.” 

“But, I jus- 

He throws your shoes and phone through the crack, not giving you time to stare at him in the body he hates. It slams on your face, and your entire inner demeanor slams and shatters with it. You can’t stop the tears this time, and they fall in buckets and waves, stilling you from the core as you lean down to pick up your belongings. 

You can’t get a hold of yourself. Tears fall and drip onto the sleek marble floors, wetting your view as you pick up your phone and slip on your shoes. You wonder why — if this is the end again. It’s hard to stomach because you did everything by the book this time. It’s been months since you two really argued. Tour is debilitating and cruel, but Suguru didn’t let it get to him like he did last time. He actually let you in this time. 

Only to throw you out with the clothes on your back and your phone upside down on the hard floor. 

You sniffle as you stand up, staring down at your dark phone screen. The time reads 6:22 AM. Your heart drops. 

Still, you swipe it open and navigate through your contact list with shaking, wet hands—Kento’s contact rings. 

‘What about ‘Do not bother me for the rest of the night’ Do you not understand?’

“I-I don’t know what to do.” You cry, stepping away from the door with your forehead in your hands. “I’m sorry, I know-

Kento can hear it in your voice – the devastation you hide so well in your demeanor. ‘What happened?’ 

“Suguru kicked m-me out of the room.” You cry, barely able to feel as you move from the door, heading to the stairwell in hopes of solace and silence. 

Kento’s always known something you didn’t know about Suguru – why he is the way he is. How he thinks, acts, and feels even when Suguru doesn’t even know. It’s a bond built on the back of a painful band breakup, a move to a different country, and the admittance into a new culture that neither of them asked for. They can talk in a way that you and Suguru can’t. ‘Where are you right now?’ 

“Third floor stairwell.” You respond, the sleeve of your hoodie jerked up over your knuckles. You cry into them, grinding the bridge of your nose into the bone. “Please, please go talk to him, I- He’s drunk and he’s self-sabotaging. He won’t let me in-

‘Just stay right there. Do not move, I’ll come to you first.’ 

“Mhm.” 

‘Okay.’ The phone hangs up, and facing the brick-wall personality of your manager was not what you needed right now. You know, calling him was the best option, but his stoic tone of voice always kills, especially in situations like this. 

It’s no better when he comes pushing into the stairwell – loose t-shirt, linen pants, sleep in his eyes. The door almost slams into you, but you don’t flinch. You hardly show reaction. 

Kento’s not sure if he could gauge your current state over the phone, but he surely didn’t expect to walk into you crying and snotting into your sleeve. In the high, white lights, you’re a crumpled version of the girl he sees on stage every night. You’re broken into a state only Suguru could reduce you to. 

He sighs. “What happened?” 

“I don’t-

“Pull yourself together, then tell me.” He leans against the wall, your back pressed against, looking down at you with a softened glare in his eyes. Contrary to what you may think of him, Kento does not like seeing you so distraught. Though these dynamics are cruel, he sees you as a younger sister. 

You nod, sniffling twice, eyes swollen. “He kicked me out. I don’t know– He’d been drinking, me too, but it’s just like… we hooked up, but now he’s running himself into a brick wall. I don’t know.” 

“Time after time, you refamiliarize yourself with the antics he pulls when he drinks. You have a show tomorrow, you have to stop.” 

“That’s not the point!” 

“Look.” Kento sighs, pinching his brows together. He knows scolding you right now is not the best idea, but dealing with you two after dark is like wrangling wild horses. “Go to my room. Second floor – 202. Sleep. I’ll take care of him.” 

“A-are you-

“I’d rather have you fully rested on that stage than half-alive.” He nods before you can even question him. He’s reaching deep in the pocket of his pants, presenting you with the key card between two fingers. 

Kento doesn’t have to tell you twice – there’s nothing you’d love more than to sleep. 

That following night, doused in flickering stage lights and deaf to anything that wasn’t music, you see him again. 

Kento kept you apart through the next day after the Tribeca incident, and you were more than happy not to question it. Still, it didn’t make it easier when he sauntered into the backstage with his baggy jeans and the cross around his neck he doesn’t even resonate with. You could see it in his eyes when he saw you fiddling with your mic pack – the way your dress fit, how sparkling and divine your makeup was against the lights. All of it, he never finds the courage to say to you, because he knows he’s wrong. 

Suguru knows he has something that everyone wants. Your name is ripe on the tongues of ten thousand people, just a heartbeat away. He knows that they would treat you so much better than he does. But, he doesn’t feel bad for himself – or, he can’t. His bass is heavy at his side, biceps working to keep it off the ground. 

He just stared at you. 

Just like he’s staring at you, now, hidden against stage-left under the red lights. The room is hot, but you still work your way around the edge of the stage like you own it, and you do. The crowd is alive tonight, screaming the words of the one song he hates right back to him. 

“At least look me in the eye when you’re eating me alive.” 

“You called me up last night, around 1:35, gave it to me straight. I cried, I won’t lie.  Wondering if it’s that look in your eye or the way we fight That’s keep you comin’ right back – beat it out, take the line.” 

“Don’t wanna hear the same shit anymore, don’t wanna bear Just wanna hold you right there, hands in your hair. How about you just look at me one last time?” 

The tour wraps two days later, and you’ve never been more excited to be back home. 

Suguru has his own place in the East Village, and you’re tucked in SoHo. Mere blocks apart, but still enough to give you the ease of separation you two desperately need. 

Tonight, though, he’s at your apartment, lowering himself to his knees as you show off the dress you wanted to wear tonight. Always, when you two are alone like this, you play the same mix of music – Jazz, city-pop, and sensual rock n roll. Your voices are lost against the singing beats, giving you two the intimacy and privacy of knowing nobody else can hear these holy words of devotion he’s feeding you. 

“If I go down here, I won’t come up until I make a mess of both of us.” 

“Can you just be normal?” You swat at his wandering hands, staring down at him like he’s being punished. Really, all Suguru wanted to do was tie the strap on your shoes. He heard you complain about the closure one too many times. 

He breathes out a laugh against your exposed skin, kissing down your leg while his fingers work at the tiny, golden clasp on your heels. Suguru’s touch is on fire – scorching you and leaving red in its wake. Then, he looks up at you with shiny lips, sparkling, dark eyes, and a look so sincere you’re sure you just fell in love all over again. 

“Fuck, I love you.” 

“Love you, too.” He replies like it’s his gospel, leaning back into your frame to kiss and prod at your jutting pelvis. Your dress is silk – drop waist, clinging to your hips. Suguru loves it. He loves everything you wear, because you’re wearing it. 

“Suguru…” You test, reaching down to comb your fingers through his loose hair. He’ll probably have it tied again by the end of the night, so you’re getting your fix now. “Let’s not drink tonight.” 

He looks up at you, tapping your foot once to let you know it’s secure. “Wasn’t planning on it. Other foot, baby.” 

You hum, leaning against his shoulder as you shift weight, letting him tuck your left foot away. “I know it’ll be hard because it’s like a bar, but I just want it to go well.” 

“Can’t blame you. It’s your night.” He mumbles, not really looking at you under the excuse of securing your shoe. Really, his expression is torn and uncomfortable. He would rather die than go to this wrap party tonight at the exclusive speakeasy restaurant Kento booked out. He knows Satoru Gojo is in the country, as if he could feel his world grow heavier the moment his private jet touched down on American soil. 

Once your shoe is on your foot, Suguru doesn’t sit up. Instead, he stills, hands shaking. “Just promise you won’t leave my side tonight, okay?” His sweet voice is light, like he’s afraid to tell you so. Maybe he feels ashamed for always being the one who holds you back, but that thought has never crossed your mind. 

“Okay.” You nod, trying to swallow down a pout. Suguru nods loosely, kisses your knee, and stands up. He’s in a weird mood – you can’t pinpoint it, but you can feel it rise painfully within the exposed brick walls. 

Still, you don’t say anything. Suguru is right – tonight’s your night. 

Tucked in the backseat of a tinted-out black SUV – it’s only you and him. The car stops and starts constantly in New York traffic, caught in the cruel whims of time that just isn’t ticking in your favor. Wrapped up in your expensive party dress, you pose for him, mussing up your hair and biting your finger sensually. 

Behind his phone, you can see the smirk there – that barely there cock of the lips that makes you go crazy every time you see it. Suguru can’t stop saying how good you look; he knows he’s so fucking lucky to have you. When you smile, the bright phone flash sparkles off your teeth and blinds him, the mere onlooker, shocked by your beauty. 

“One of the dress,” You continue, chewing your polished bottom lip as you stretch out across the seat. Your feet end up in his lap, delicate gold shining in the undulating, dingy city lights. 

“So sexy,” he comments, aiming the camera towards your body, hands shaking as he takes a carousel of motion-blurred images. Anymore of this, and Suguru is sure he’d pop a boner. He hands the phone to you, shaking his head. “What am I gonna do with you, girl?” 

You take his phone, swiping through the collection, caught in an easy daze. It’s rare to see you both sober like this, but Suguru knows this is his punishment for treating you the way he did a few nights ago. He wants to apologize, but he has to do it the right way – when you two are alone, middle of the night, his bed. 

“Oh, these are good, I like the blurry.” You comment, swiping through nearly a hundred snapshots of the two of you in the back of this car. Some of the earlier shots are of you getting in, your back, then the way you motioned for him to come on. “Don’t know if Kento will, though.” 

“Just post them.” 

“M-kay, your turn.” You sit up, flipping back to the camera app. He sits up defensively, knowing he’s not the perfect subject for the cameras like you are. 

To you, he looks like God in this backseat. He’s wearing a dark, silk button-up only secured halfway to expose those gorgeous fucking collarbones you see in dreams with him. Silver jewelry hangs off his pristine skin like ornaments on a tree – he’s gorgeous with his slicked back, loose hair, dark nails, and loose pants. 

“No, they wanna see you.” He counters, reaching up to cover his face so your shot doesn’t catch it. For someone so undeniably attractive, Suguru has a hard time seeing it. He’d rather thrust you in front of the cameras because he knows you can handle it with grace. He doesn’t know what to say when someone calls him beautiful, let alone sexy. No, that’s a word only you can whisper to him. 

“Lemme see.” You’re defiant, reaching to tug his shivering touch from his face. You end up catching a few unintentional blurred snapshots, then one or two of his body once he settles. His hair falls over his shoulder like an ink-black wave, and the subtle charm of his demeanor makes you weak. “Baby, you’re a star.” 

“Stop.” He breathes, taking his phone from your hands and calling bullshit on your heady little compliments. Can’t you see that you’re the star – the shining figure against the stage lights that everyone swoons for? Suguru has seen people faint in your presence – fainting for his electric lover. He doesn’t even blame them. 

Phone tucked away, Suguru can’t help himself. He reaches for you, slotting a strong hand in the back of your neatly styled hair, and pulls you into a kiss that’s all lips – all love. You hum and smile against the feeling, clutching his leg as you lean into him. 

His lips are soft, your lips are glossy. Now his are soft and glossy – outshining you when he pulls away with fuck-me eyes. The car rolls to a stop outside, and the lights and music from the busy row of notable restaurants seeps in through the door cracks. Though you’re impartial to the idea of parties, you’re excited for this one. Friends inside and outside of the industry will be attending, all hand-picked like expensive fruit by Kento’s bare hands. 

His contact list has broadened since moving to America, and now he has connections spanning well over the East and extending to the West Coast. Artists you grew up admiring now mention you in passing, all because they know a thing or two about the refined Kento Nanami. 

He stands at the door of the venue when Suguru opens it and steps out of the car, motioning for you to wait because he has to ensure your path is clear and safe. You two never needed bodyguards – Suguru doesn’t think it’s necessary, and Kento knows that Suguru would face a lifetime in prison if someone even takes a step too quickly towards you. 

“Careful, the ground is slick.” He turns around, facing away from the sidewalk as he leans against the open door. The damp, cold breeze, unwelcome and unholy, flows forward into the sanctuary like the rush of a drug. 

“Hold my hand.” 

“You don’t even have to ask.” He replies, holding a strong arm towards you to keep you steady. Behind him, Kento approaches slowly, keeping a keen lookout for sidewalk traffic as the SUV hazards bounce off the wet pavement, onto his settled face. 

“Geto,” Kento mentions, just making his presence known. He smoothes a hand across his old friend's shoulder, platonic and transactional to boot, but nothing you’re unfamiliar with. Suguru peeks around, shooting him a little smirk, but mostly focused on you crawling against the leather upholstery. 

“Hey,” 

“How was the ride?” 

“Long.” He replied, drained of the energy his cheerful greeting held. Kento nods, stepping back so you have room to scoot out. “Took her three and a half hours to get ready.” 

“Guilty.” You mention, smiling up at Kento when he nods towards you. “Hi, Ken.” 

“Pretty dress.” It’s the most complimenting you’ll ever get out of him – nice dress, pretty vocals, nice show. They’re all lifeless but caring in a way you know he does. 

“Thanks!” 

“How many people are in there?” Suguru asks once you’re steady on the sidewalk. He steps you forward, keeping you pulled close to his chest as he swings the car door shut. 

“Hardly twenty. Not expecting many more, either.” 

“Small? Good.” Suguru wants to ask about Satoru, perhaps just to prepare himself if he’s doomed to walk into a room with the blue-eyed ghost of his past. However, he dropped the ball – He didn’t actually tell you that Satoru would be attending, all he did was mention him in conversation. 

“Small enough,” Kento mutters, then works a smile on his face as you three turn around to head inside. He figures you didn’t know about Gojo, because he thinks you’d be more excited if you knew, so he’s letting it fester as a secret. 

As you approach the metal-plated doors, you can hear the ghost of your favorite artist blaring from the speakers – a fitting theme to back your arrival as you walk hand in hand. Chatter grows undeniable, swallowing you up as Kento opens the door for you two. Lights are dimmed, the bar is sparkling – low ceilings, whiskey smell, it’s all so charmingly coordinated. On the back wall, the framed, glossed version of your most recent album cover sits propped against the wall, wrapped in a shiny bow. You pretend not to see it, but you can’t pretend to ignore the sea of familiar faces that turn as the door creaks open. 

Suguru walks you inside, holding you at arm's length like a beloved theatre prop, like he’s not the sexiest man in this room. A noticeable few of your friends stand to crowd you – Roe, your girl from back home, who waved you on from the balcony last night. She meets Suguru, then hugs you for a solid minute, pouring words of endearment and love in your ear. It’s sensory overload in the best way, and being sober the entire time just makes it hit that much harder. 

You don’t even realize how much time passes when you’re sucked into a conversation with her. Suguru and Kento shrug off after ten, mentioning they’ll be around, and you and Roe moved deeper into the venue, offering passing hellos and thank you’s when people notice and compliment your music, tour, or outfit. 

You are at an insanely heightened timeline of the career you grinded your bones down trying to achieve, and right now is one of those moments in which you can feel it hit. Touring for ten months of your life – killing yourself with a paper-thin schedule, only to celebrate your dedication and discipline bone-sober and giddy with presence. 

The night flits by in a blur. You and Suguru reconnected sometime within the last hour, and now you two are sitting at the back of the room, your feet propped up on him again as he rubs your leg under the table. Hatch brought your cake out, completely outdone with one of the merch designs you had made for the tour. Hired photographers click away – you can’t hide anything, not even the swooning look on your face. 

Worst of all, Suguru thinks he’s safe. Satoru didn’t show up – nobody from Japan showed up like Kento promised, and he was so okay with that. Nobody really knows him in this crowd manufactured for you, and that’s where he wants to stay. Sure, everyone here knows him, but everyone here loves you. 

You’re the shining beacon of light blinding onlookers from the back of the room, and you’re just sitting there. It’s all you’re doing, and all you care to do, but Suguru is just so taken that it makes him weak. He has to touch you like this to feel some semblance of sanity, because your beauty is consuming him. 

You won’t eat any cake, but you sit up and lean into it for the camera to catch a perfect shot of the two of you. Posing, you dip your finger in the icing, holding a stare into the lens as you take it between your lips. 

Suguru swallows down want. 

Kento watches it all with a glass in his hand, sneaking views at the viewfinder when the photographer pulls it away. Completely blocking out the music, he keeps his eyes on you the entire time – reading that look in your eyes, noticing the way Suguru is touching you. Any higher up the dress and he’d warn you two to pack it up, but he’s content. Tonight is shaping up to be a good night. 

One more sip of his light liquor, and he’s pushing off the wall, walking behind the shot so he doesn’t dull your moment. Unsaid, he flicks Suguru’s attention, motioning him to follow. Tonight, he’d been uncharacteristically quiet, Kento knows why, and he likes it. There’s no drink in his hands – no excuse to shove off to the bathroom every twenty minutes. No, he’s here and he’s stable with you. Kento knows you must have set him straight. 

Suguru leans over, whispering something in your ear that you nod to. He knows you won’t be lonely when he leaves, because someone jumps into the spot he just left to pose in more pictures. It’s definitely a space manufactured for you – he knows Nanami means strict business. 

“Hey. Long night.” Suguru stuffs his hands in his pockets as he walks through the room with Nanami at his side. 

The blonde shrugs. “You’ve been here two hours. Did you eat?” 

“Don’t even talk to me about that.” 

Nanami actually laughs – just a short tuft of air from his lips. He watches his feet as they head to the far wall, just past the chaos of the bar. Leaning against the wall by the door, they have the perfect view of you with your friends, smiling, laughing, posing. You look at ease in your body – so free and beautiful. Suguru can’t help but notice. 

The way you’re glowing in your vintage designer – like stars on the blackest of nights. You grab attention like a moth to your flame and cradle it until it dies from love. Suguru is so taken by your demeanor that you could say he’s obsessed. He’s obsessed with making you smile, laugh, moan, cry, sing, sob, and pout. 

He’s stuck on you, and he can’t stop staring. 

Then, you look up and all the busy bodies of the room fade into a blur if only for a fleeting second. He winks at you. You look down in a hot flush. 

“She already agreed, but that last-minute festival appearance in England is a pretty good opportunity.” 

“I’m not doing that,” Suguru replies, sane as ever. He’s said no to this stupid festival every time Nanami brought it up. It’s just too close to the wrap of this tour, and Suguru needs at least a month to recover before planning out another show. They take so much out of him, and he’s trying to be better. 

Nanami squints at him, unable to see the spark of humor that sometimes hides in the cesspools. “Oftentimes, I feel you’re difficult on purpose.” 

Suguru shrugs, crossing his arms around his chest. With half a mind, he’s keeping tabs on you – trying to listen out for the ghost of your conversation just to feel close to you. “Look – they can give us 900k and move us up to Headliners, and maybe I’ll consider it. Still, it’ll likely be a no.” 

Nanami cocks an eyebrow, that esteemed, unimpressed look so blatant on his face. Feeling the silence, Suguru shrugs again. “I don’t know what you want from me.” 

Nanami goes to open his mouth, perhaps to try to pitch it to Suguru in a more attractive way, when the door creaks open like the figment of Suguru’s worst fears. Seeing Nanami crack a smile makes his blood run cold – it’s how he knows. 

Suguru whips around like he’s on fire, trying to fan it from his skin. And, ike fate stumbling and stacking against itself, he almost body-checks Gojo Satoru in the doorway. 

Fuck. His soul leaves his body. 

Gojo Satoru, ten years older, tight clothes – a gaze that could kill, lights up the room on impact. Suguru doesn’t know what to say – if he should say anything, or just pretend like he doesn’t know the ivory-haired stranger. He could turn around, ditch this place, and disappear forever. He’s thought about it two too many times, and now that avenue seems like his best bet. 

It’s humiliating being nose to nose with Satoru and completely stripped for words. It’s like all he can do is blink. 

What kills is the fact that Satoru’s babyface hasn’t even budged. His smile still takes up half of it; he’s so undeniably handsome now that he knows how to yield it better. His hair is effortless and fingertossed; it pisses Suguru off. 

The door lingers open, and two more bodies step inside. Suguru just stares, unable to speak. They reek of smoke and money, and he isn’t sure he would know how to react once he sees Satoru again, let alone Shoko and Yu. 

Everyone is older – sleek in a way Suguru isn’t. He feels like a stranger. 

“Satoru?” Suguru wonders if he’s faking it well – the unease hidden behind that half-dead, chipper tone he’s manufacturing. He just didn’t want to scuff this night you loved so much. 

“Suguru… Nanamin!” Satoru’s bleak rendition of Suguru’s name floats over his shoulder like leftovers decades old, sitting in his stomach like a rock. He’s completely bypassed as Satoru and Nanami share a hug, going on about the past and how it’s so lost on each other. 

Suguru works up the courage to peel his eyes from the exchange, hands shaking as he looks over to the others as they come in from the cold. “Shoko… Yu…” 

“Wow, hey stranger.” Shoko shrugs through the door, eyes downcast and heavy, long, thin hair combed back. It’s such a difference from what Suguru saw of her ten years ago. Her makeup is darker – her hair is longer, but her body remains the same. “You’ve seen better days.” 

“Well, that’s not very nice.” Suguru smiles, if only by the skin of his teeth. He doesn’t really know them anymore. He doesn’t even know if they’re still making music – perhaps they’re married now. Suguru wonders if they know you. 

Yu steps inside after Shoko, working a mint chew between his silvery teeth. He’s fucking huge – nearly as tall as Satoru, decked out in leather and silver chains. Although he was younger, Yu had decades on Suguru. It’s the presence. “It’s so cool to see you again, man. You just disappeared– 

“Read the room.” Suguru chews on his words, seething through a chipper smile. Shoko looks down, breathing out a laugh as they share a quick shoulder-hug. 

“Got it. Hey – you’re looking well.” 

“English is pretty good,” Suguru rolls on his feet, cheek sucked in as he tries to exist in this moment. The atmosphere is so tense – he can’t explain it. Shoko and Yu still had that sweet, pure impression of him, but Satoru knew the truth. It’s why his presence is so heavy, voice whisper-soft behind him. 

Yu takes a quick look around the dark room, making a sour face when he doesn’t recognize any. He looks to Suguru, laughing a bit, hand lost in his hair.“Been practicing since the last time you heard it.” 

Shoko giggles again, looking down at her feet. She could always read Suguru better than he could, and she can still see it in their later years. “This is painful. Gojo dragged us here.” 

“Gojo can drag you out.” 

“Mm, no. I wanna meet the Lady of the Hour.” Shoko sucks her teeth, giving Suguru a dirty, little downcast look he has to swallow. “Your girl, right? How many years has it been?” 

“Close to five. Baby makes six-figures every time she opens her mouth.” 

“Trying to make me jealous? I’m glad you’re still around, clinging onto her success, Geto.” Shoko smiles, eyes holding some version of spite that Suguru can’t pinpoint. It’s only natural – he wonders if she hates him, now. 

Like he can feel you from across the room, Suguru looks up as soon as you rise to your feet, eyebrows scrunched in cluelessness. Just a minute ago, you were chatting about vacation destinations out of the country, now you’re looking at the forming group at the entrance, wondering if you remembered inviting them. You catch eyes with Kento first, heart hammering in your chest when you make out the tall stranger next to him. He looks over, joy scrawled in cursive all over his stunning face. 

The passing glance he gives you stills you to the core – completely rocks your world as that blue glare settles on you. 

At first, you don’t recognize him, and it’s probably the dingy lighting that made you so clueless, but when you see Suguru notice and start to approach you, you turn that unease into a soft smile. 

“Hey, babe, what’s going on up there?” 

Suguru peeks over his shoulder, sucking his cheek to make sure he’s not being tailed. The rest of them stand at the doorway, pulling Satoru and Kento back into the conversation Suguru drove a wedge through. 

“Nanami thought it’d be the decision of the century to invite some of my old band members. They’re just about to leave, don’t worry-

“What?” You sit up, disregarding your collected pile of friends you could lose your mind with. Their attention is all on the group at the front, unable to ignore the presence the three of them carry. “Wait, I wanna meet them,” 

Suguru breathes out a laugh, flicking back to the group, then to your giddy, childlike body vibrating like a pea. He would think it’s cute, but you’re never this excited to see him, so he hates it. “No.” 

“Okay, fuck off.” You decide on a whim, stepping out from the table. Suguru stands out of the way, watching you with parted lips as you cross the room, a stupid pep in your step as you gravitate towards Nanami. 

Of course, everyone in the room is watching you, so everyone in the room is watching Satoru. 

Suguru just wants to die. 

You don’t know how to explain it… that feeling you get when you see something so good. Perhaps it’s lust, or maybe just mystique. Either way, something hits you in a way you’ve never felt when you get this close to him. 

“I’m Gojo Satoru.” He smiles, crystaled teeth shining in the shitty overheads. “I know Americans prefer first names – please, call me Satoru.” 

You smile, letting it fade into a fleeting laugh as he holds his hand out for you. Pressed into Kento’s side, you look down at Satoru’s hand, then to his loose-hanging band shirt, the bracelets and rings decorating his pearlescent skin, and swear you’ve just fallen in love. 

It doesn’t even click that he wants you to shake his hand until he’s laughing awkwardly, pulling it away. “No? Thought I read somewhere that handshaking was the custom.” 

“N-no, it is!” You scurry, waving your hands to distract this Godly figure from your mindlessness. “Sorry – geez, wow… I-I don’t,”

Kento peeks down at you, silent, but wondering why you’re so at a loss for words. If it’s one thing he knows about you, it’s that you know how to talk. Control is not something you shy from. 

“Hey, it’s okay!” Satoru smiles, reaching to grab your nervous hands. Instead of shaking them, he takes a step back, lowering into a quick bow. “I am very, very honored to meet you. Nanami invited us, but I’d been meaning to slide my name into your circle for years.” 

You giggle – it’s embarrassing, uncontrollable. “What’s that even mean? You’re so sweet.” 

“It means, I hold a lot of admiration for you in my heart and in my music. Your latest release just truly hit something inside of me – almost like it was challenging my soul to dig deeper, or to write better. Truly, you are one of a kind. A gem in this industry.” 

You watch him lay it out for you with a shy, wordless expression. It’s hard to grasp someone far past your caliber – nearly ten years your senior could hold out admiration like that, but it’s beautiful. You catch yourself chewing on a big, stupid smile. 

“You just know all the right things to say, don’t you?” 

@dreamymoon-c @ddumgum @sheep-infog @jjmeii @hsungies

[eraserbread]

Daddy is finally home I see

yes daddy's home... working hard on req's and passion play 💪

[eraserbread]

go as a dream ft. ex-husband satoru gojo ✧

୨୧ - ten years together, five years married -- it's a long time. too long to be running on borrowed time glued together by the past. leaving is easy, but staying away turns out to be impossible. → afab!reader, modern/no curses!au, slow-burn, long-established relationship, mutual pining, heavy angst, toxic relationship dynamics, mention of pregnancy/failure to conceive, relationship insecurity, emotional sex, oral f!receiving, spanking/slapping, cum eating, mentions of readers relative hair length, mentions of readers family, nsfw → w.c. - 15.3k {1 hour reading time}

a/n: when an idea sticks for me, i head to my graveyard of wips to expand on it. most end up dying, but for some reason the love you guys held for this version of satoru made it stick. make him meaner... then more loving... then spin the narrative - pin it back on him -- all of those thoughts ran my psyche during the month (?) it took me to flush this idea out. happy 3k, my angels <3 i crafted this for you with so much love, sweat and tears. sit with this one for while. let it sink in. part two may come if you guys will it to. with so much of my love, - elly

listen to the soundtrack <3

Your heart is racing, gloss dripping sensually from your lips. Satoru is under you, his familiar face laced with overwhelming stoicism. He’s biting over soft, pink lips, his eyes wide open as he watches you ride him like you never have before. 

You’re sad – on the verge of tears, but he doesn’t notice. He just parts his lips, content with the headiness of the pleasure you’re working yourself up to give him. Usually, he’d be telling you how beautiful you looked, how well you’re taking him, but he’s silent. It’s a deadly combination – you sad, Toru silent. 

You just want to disappear. 

“That’s it, babe. So close… keep going.” It’s like the one sentence of praise needs to be sucked from his very lifeform, because he’s chewing on his words, throwing them at you all mangled and sloppy. There’s no care anymore; gentleness is lost as he grabs your hips and slams them back down on his length. 

You’re reeling, so close, yet so far from any kind of release your body’s begging for. You need Satoru to give you something – to touch and tell you he loves you so gently, but there’s nothing. Fucking nothing. Just grinding bodies lost in the tangle of bedsheets. 

His eyes snap closed, head tilted back as he bares his neck for you. Two years prior, you would’ve gone in, marking every inch of that luminescent skin with love bites. Now, you watch your nimble fingers spread across the soft, veined expanse, fingers concentrating at his Adam’s apple. You squeeze, he breathes out a moan. 

“Ahh – come on, comeoncomeon.” 

“Cum for me… please.” You’re trying your best to come off genuine, to dip your tone into a needier drawl he doesn’t see much anymore, just for it all to be over sooner. Right now, you’re just fulfilling your bodily duties as Satoru Gojo’s wife. He did just buy you a Cartier bracelet, giving you apologies with wide, blue puppy eyes. As fucked up as it sounds, the least you can do is get him off before he goes to sleep. 

“Mm, say my name, baby. Gonna fill you up, give you so many babies.” 

You’re nodding, letting him spill his orgasm thoughts into your lap. You know him far too well, can read his breeding kink inside out. What Satoru doesn’t know is that you went on birth control the second you started drifting apart. There would be no loose ends; you’ve been planning your escape for months. 

So you let him come inside of you, calling him baby and telling him lies about how turned on you are. Satoru knows you too well that he’d notice a fake orgasm, so you don’t even try. You just let him have his moment, kissing up your arm with ruffled, white hair, pumping shot after shot deep inside of you like he’s on a mission. 

And when he’s drained and limp, you’re climbing off of him, not even offering a word as you head straight to the bathroom. 

You and Satoru thought you had it all figured out pretty early. He graduated from university prematurely and got an immediate position doing what he loved – teaching psychophysics as a Professor's Aide. It’s where he met you, not his student, but definitely a co-worker he shouldn’t have approached, because you fell hard. Head over heels, mind over body – you made him your life. 

That lifeline only had about five good years once you got married, and now you two are overworked strangers bumping shoulder to shoulder on a shared lease. Though you’ve mourned the relationship that shaped you into the woman you are now, you don’t have any regrets. There’s no hatred for Toru in your heart – quite the opposite. You love him to pieces, but can’t give him what he needs at the cost of you. It’s just not worth it anymore. You feel like an object manufactured to please. 

So you chase your solace against the hot spray of the shower, letting it drown out your thoughts as water-mixed come seeps down your thighs. 

Now that you’re alone, you can cry. So, you do – for the unborn children you promised you’d give him, for the life and love you manufactured with your bare hands. He didn’t know that you’d be packing your bags and escaping tomorrow. It’s hard for you even to swallow, though you’ve been planning this day for months. Sweet freedom… only hours away. 

Why is it, though you’ve wished so hard and lived in daydreams, that you’re afraid? You don’t want to be alone in any form of the word, but you couldn’t stay here. It’d kill you long before you hit your grey years. 

Your sweet, smiling Toru with that permanent sparkle in his eye would kill you. 

“Suguru and Shoko want to grab dinner tonight after work.” 

Toru’s voice is slow and controlled as he steps into the bathroom, naked as the day he was born. His silhouette moves intently in front of the glass shower door, stopping at your soaking wet shadow. He hears it, the sniffle amongst the spray – the way you’re hunched in on yourself, curled in the corner of the spacious area. “Are you crying?” 

You scoff, shaking your head as you wipe water from your eyes. “Fucking ignore it.” 

“Hey.” He steps forward, pulling the shower door open. Just like he thought, you’re posed like a wet puppy, legs crossed to keep your decency, and arms over your chest in the farthest corner. “Crying after sex is not your style.” 

“Just… weird post-nut hormones.” You’re shrugging him off with a distant look in your eyes. More recently, everything turns into pointless bickering, so you feed him lies to keep him agreeable. 

But, Satoru’s looking at you like he knows you’re a liar, light eyebrows all screwed up. “But, you didn’t even cum-

“Close the door, Satoru.” You’re grimacing, stepping forward to yank the door closed in his face. “What do you want? What about Suguru?” 

“Suguru and Shoko invited us to dinner tonight…” He’s speaking slowly, like he’s trying to gain his bearings. It’s not really an argument, but Toru feels the rush of one in the steamy air. It wouldn’t be the first time this post-sex daze made you two hot-headed. “I was going to say, it’d be good to all be together again, but you’re acting weird… They don’t need to be around that right now.” 

You scoff, forehead falling into your open palm. The water burns you from within, but you stand under it like you want to be scalded. “Did you follow me in here just to fuck with me? Huh!? You see me trying to get away from yo-

Then, when the seal breaks and you’re yelling, that’s when Toru starts – deep voice banging off the tile walls. “You’re a livewire! You sat there and let me fuck you, now you’re acting like I’m the biggest inconvenience to ever cross your path!” 

“Get out! For once in your life, just leave me alone!” 

He really should listen to you – let you have the upper hand because he knows you’re sensitive, but Toru just shakes his head. “A man can’t even take a piss in the bathroom he pays for.” He adds, stepping away from your vengeful, blurred reflection. The toilet is just over from you – he can’t see the shower, you can’t see him. 

For those few moments, you’re holding your breath. The shower drowns out the sound of him relieving himself, but you can guess well enough what he’s doing. When you’re married, intimate moments like this go unsaid – even on the brink of divorce. And when he’s done, he’s lumbering back over to the shower, long arms limp as they reach to pull it open again. You roll your eyes. 

This time, your back is turned to him, water beading at your shoulder and trailing down the curves in your back sensually. His crystalline eyes catch it, and he parts his lips. “Mind if I join you?” 

You don’t answer him, deciding it’s enough just to regard him briefly with a downcast look over the shoulder. You’re still covering your chest with crossed arms, mainly because you’re cold. Toru keeps opening and closing the door like a nuisance. Now, he’s climbing under the spray with you, big hands holding your familiar shoulders. He leans down to kiss your left. 

“Maybe if we had a baby…” He mumbles that same tired argument into your wet skin, hoping for a different response. “It would bring you back to me.” 

“I don’t want babies with you, Satoru.” The realization is heavy, but you know he can take it. All Toru wants besides you and money is a child – a mini little version of him that you adore to the ends of the Earth. When you became a Gojo, you promised you’d give him what he wanted – every breathless reminder in the heat of the moment was fuel. You two were trying… until you weren’t. Until you were shrugging off to appointments without telling him, taking prescription pills once he tucks in for bed. You just haven’t told him yet. 

Now, he’s standing with it, breathing into your skin as he works up a response in his head that covers the devastation. “You know how my family is–

“I don’t care.” It’s a force of habit, you’re leaning back into his cradle. “Bringing a child into this mess is just inhumane.” 

Then, Satoru says it – what he’s been wanting to tell you for weeks. Months, almost. He whispers, “Then why do you stay?” 

All you can do is shake your head. You don’t have it in you to lie, and you surely wouldn’t tell him that you were leaving tonight. So, you reply, “I love you.” 

“Love isn’t enough to keep a marriage going.” 

You know that. You know Satoru loves you more than anything, but you didn’t feel like it was right for him to say it. In your mind, he’s clueless to the cool air you’re exerting every time he draws near. You’re not buzzing in his company anymore, going out of your way to be seen by his blinding eyes. 

So, you don’t answer him. You nod, easing your shoulders from his grip as you collect the rest of your sanity and move to leave the shower. He watches you go, fine white hair nearly translucent on his pale scalp as he stands soaked.

Toru’s long eyelashes are sticking together, clumped and prominent as he watches you move and dry off through the fogged door. The lingering, soft scent of your signature bodywash sits sensually in the air, wafting from your skin every time you bend or bow. He studies that fuzzy reflection as if it's the last time he’ll see it, and thinks he feels sad. Devastatingly sad, it rises in his throat like bile he must swallow. 

You’re slipping into a soft, ivory robe that Satoru’s mother gifted after the marriage; he has a matching one – it’s your favorite robe with his embroidered initials sewn across your heart. He notices your choice to wear it as you walk out of the bathroom, not even offering him a look over your shoulder, and thinks it’s a sign. You’re still sporting him around, telling him you love him even though you don’t want to bear his children. 

But Satoru isn’t stupid. He’s far too smart to feed himself lies in hopes of lengthening this relationship that has always had a timer on it. But he is reeling. There’s nothing he falls short on, in his opinion. He treasures and calls you beautiful, any chance he gets. Vacations, expensive gifts, words of affirmation, and mindblowing touches are just scratching the surface of what he offers you. 

Alone, he sits with these thoughts, thin eyebrows knitting together as his dripping head hangs between his shoulders. Standing statuesque in the shower, palms pressed to the damp wall, keeping him upright because you’re not here to do it. Mentally, you’re not here at all. 

He can hear you in the bedroom stewing about – opening and closing doors, the shuffle of fabric, and the barely-there sound of your breathing. Toru has you all down to a science, now. He knows you’re slipping into bed, likely naked or covered loosely in some silk slip he loves to bury his head in.

That’s where he wants to be now – three years younger, your hair tangled in his long fingers, words of devotion damp in the air. Instead, he’s breathing in shower steam, a cruel metaphor to the heat the relationship used to hold. 

Everything is a metaphor, now. Toru sees that when he’s walking out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, wide, adoring eyes glossed over with humidity and exhaustion. Still, they never lose their supernatural sparkle when they fall on you, eyes closed peacefully as you feign sleep. 

He was right; you’re in silk, your eyelids twitching as the bathroom light spills a sliver of golden light across your face. Blankets are bunched loosely at your hips. Satoru can’t help but feel the beauty you emit, it’s why he married you – it’s something in your mere presence that makes you so addictive. 

Crawling into bed with you, naked and damp-haired, is so familiar it’s almost sickening. He’s leaning over your shoulders, so gentle as he settles over you, and kisses your cheek. In your daze, you shift. 

“What?” 

Satoru slides up close to you, chest pressed to your back as he winds an arm around your waist. “Good night. I love you so much, beautiful.” He’s whispering in your ear, kissing over the shell with bitten lips. You can feel the cool wetness of his hair brush your bare neck, beads of water falling onto your skin. 

He continues, arm sliding right between the canyon of your breasts, pulling you deeper into his body. You’re lifting your head, eyes shut, because you can’t bear the light right now. 

“Shh, just lie with me.” 

For some reason, you’re taking it. You’re listening to him, pressing your head back into the pillow, sighing softly. Nowadays, you’re impartial to bedtime cuddling, but Satoru insists. It’s become a nasty habit because now he has trouble nodding off if he’s not pressed skin-to-skin. 

It’s the only reason you’re not pushing away. Or, maybe it’s the fact that you’re too far gone to be annoyed or unsettled. His touch feels good, just too warm, too close, like he’s slowly trying to ingest you into his bloodstream. 

You two stay like that for hours. Satoru falls asleep right on the cusp of Midnight – his breath steadies over, and you’re still awake, gazing longingly at the bedside clock. Hands tucked under your pillow, you’re fiddling with them, doing anything to dull those uncertain thoughts away. In seven hours, you’d be standing in a train station, life passing you by as you leave the city, leave your husband. 

You wonder how he’ll act, you wonder if he’ll cry for you. 

No, Satoru never cries. 

You bite your lip, gathering strength in your bones to shift and turn around in his arms. When you do, he’s mushing his face deeper into the bed, arms constricting back around you once you’re settled face-to-face. You can feel the softness of his breath over your skin, can hear the soft hums behind each of them like he’s dreaming uncomfortably. 

Still, he looks so peaceful. Beautifully asleep, like his life wasn’t crumbling and burning all around him. 

In that soft, settled face, you’re staring at the boy you fell in love with – bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, flushing and looking away when you’d counter his initial advances. Your friends were always around that early on, egging it all with a jump in their voice. Everyone felt so accomplished when you and Toru got married, as if they pieced together a match made in Heaven. 

You just can’t fathom what went wrong… You don’t want to see it. 

You don’t want to see him, anymore. So, you close your eyes and rid your consciousness of struggle – if only for a few hours. 

Day comes with a vengeance – a gross, salty taste in your mouth as your brain slams awake. Your body is slow to react, cocooned comfortably in Toru’s thick chest. You’re too warm, alarms are blaring, and you realize you forgot to close the curtains last night. The morning sun is deviant. 

You slip out of bed easily, undoing his arms' knot around your body. The silk of your slip is darkened with sweat, most likely Toru’s, but definitely mixed with hints of you. It takes you a while to come to from the cruel awakening, and you’re half alive as you shift to the edge of the bed, feet planted on cool ground. Toru shifts, and you hold your breath. 

Your last hour together, and Satoru refuses to wake up. 

You’re letting him drag the morning out, not bothering to wake him as you head for the bathroom. Time moves languidly with a solemn undertone, hovering over you like bad memories as you scrub your face and teeth raw. There’s so much tension in your body this morning, and you’re taking it out on yourself – swishing mouthwash, swallowing pills, securing jewels and ornaments. 

You’re sure this is the fastest you’ve gotten ready without plans to work. You just think you’d rather be put-together when you disappear from Satoru’s life forever. You want him to have this reflection to remember you by – exposed shoulders, soft skin, dripping with his money in gold. 

When he wakes up, stumbling into the bathroom sleepdrunk, he smiles when he sees you in the mirror's reflection. “Why didn’t you wake me, beautiful?” 

“Figured you’d want more sleep.” You reply, not even meeting his frosty gaze. You’re fixated on securing a bracelet to your wrist – one, of course, from Satoru. It’s a gold-plated Gojo Clan crest that was passed down through matriarchs, eventually given to the prospective head. 

His family is so traditional, overbearing in the worst ways. Since you two started dating, they’ve had a magnifying glass on the relationship, stating it’s just out of care. Sure, the money is endless and overflowing, but it’s not enough to overshadow the abusive balance of power. Toru doesn’t want to lead either – you don’t want to be next to him if he does. He promised you that he’d completely shut down the proceedings if you married him, but keeping his promise isn’t enough.  

Nothing he seemed to do was enough. It’s all just a lost cause. 

“Now I have twenty good minutes to leave the house.” Once your bracelet is secured, he’s crowding you against the sink, his shirtless body pressing hard into your back. You’re humming, leaning back into his frame. 

“At least you showered last night.” 

“You got me on that schedule.” He whispers into your neck, big hands squeezing your hips as he kisses you there. “I feel terrible about last night… Followed me in my sleep.” 

You knew it, you could sense the stress in his breath even when he looked so peaceful. “We both said some things.” 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make you finish.” Another kiss to the neck, Satoru nuzzles himself deep in your skin, white hair fluffy and strewn about. You look up at him in the reflection and shake your head. 

“Just cause I was on top. I was trying too hard – It’s not your fault.” 

He doesn’t take that well; he sighs into your skin. “You know I don’t believe that.” 

Of course, he doesn’t. One of the most significant parts of your relationship is your uncanny sexual chemistry. There’s never been a time when you two stopped at one round – you both finished multiple times, every time. 

“Then, you know I won’t tell you the truth, you should just stop trying.” Both hands are pressed to the countertop, and you’re still covered in your sleep dress. Toru’s hands start to wander. “No, get off of me.” 

It stings, but you don’t have to tell him twice. Satoru steps back with an odd look in his eyes, moving to your side. Though you’re rejecting sexual advances, you let him pull your chin forward for a sensual kiss to the lips. It lasts for a few seconds, his hand wanders across your jawline, slotting perfectly in your hair. 

“You’re not on campus today, right?”

You shake your head, lips rolling together as you evaluate his lingering taste. “No, you should really brush your teeth.” 

“Yeah…” He starts, reaching over you for his blue and white brush. “Haven’t been on the grounds in a while, everyone’s asking about you, saying we should go to dinner to catch up.” 

“You’re sure I’m acting normal enough to see them now? Isn’t that what you said last night? That I was acting ‘weird’?” 

“You were acting weird last night. Moody.” 

You scoff as he begins to brush his teeth. You two are stealing glances in the mirror, too distant to hold contact for too long. “Why do you say things like this if you’re not trying to make me mad?” 

“I’m just making an observation.” He shrugs like he’s not being a tool, brushing his teeth slowly as he looks at you. You’re staring down at your hands, shaking your head silently. “I’m sure it's news to you, but I never try to make you mad. I just say what I feel, and you jump down my throat.” 

“Just brush your teeth.” You bite out in resolve, standing up straight as you go to walk away. 

You're breathless, clutching a fist to your chest as his words wash over you with time. They fall like dominoes, slow and calculated, as you dress for the day. Satoru thinks you’re working from home once he leaves, so you lean into it, picking something easy to wear, yet professional enough to be on camera. It’s the perfect outfit to run away in – something he sees all the time. 

But even as you dote over your reflection in the bedroom mirror, adjusting necklines, pulling jewelry, smudging lipgloss, you’re thinking about it – him. 

You don’t know why it’s so hard to sit with the fact that Satoru has always been like this. You two are polar opposites in social settings – he’s the life, you’re the longing. In crowded city bars, you’d be the girl tucked under his heavy arm, bearing the weight of his light. Satoru stopped drinking years ago, but when he did, he’d tower over you on the dancefloor, long arms slung over your shoulders as he shouts just how much he adores you – it’s a lot. Everyone’s around. 

Reading your hunched demeanor, he doubles down. Yes, all these people are around… these undulating, nameless faces lost among the neon glare, but none of them held a flame to you. He chose you. 

And when you’re alone with him, sober to the bone and drained after a work week, all of those sweet memories seem to fade away. 

He’s always too loud, too close, overbearing, but never at arm's length. This monstrous, silent loathing is a hard feeling to live with. It eats you alive, until he touches you and takes it all away again. 

It’s all you want, right now. Satoru’s touch. 

“Staring introspectively into my bedroom mirror whilst my shitty husband calls for me repeatedly. That should be the prompt on your next scholarly paper.” 

You turn around, brows furrowed as reality hits again. “What are you talking about? I didn’t hear you.” 

“Let’s sync our breaks – meet up somewhere to eat.” Right as you open your mouth to blow him off, he’s rushing back. “It can just be ramen, nothing serious. Come on, just give me ten minutes.” 

His begging for a sliver of emotional affection isn’t new, but it usually isn’t so blatant. Then, your eyes wander, wondering if those ten minutes would be worth your time. 

No, you have a train to catch. A one-way ticket out of here. 

“I’ll let you know how I’m feeling later.” You nod, smiling softly as you dodge that falling stare settled on you. “I-I’m just… I’m tired.” 

“It’s okay.” He replies, whisper-soft. He’s trying to hide it, but the shine in his eyes falters for just a second, the only hint you get to his disappointment. 

When you see him off that morning, your stomach hurts. 

There’s an ink-black, bitter pit there as you watch him jog down the pavement in his endearing little Professor's Aide sweater vest uniform. There’s a bag slung over his shoulder, packed with a Bento you made for him in case you couldn’t see him for his break. 

“Bye, love! I will text you!” 

You’re silent, passing him a kiss you press to your fingers. Your stomach hurts, and now your heart aches – it burns, you’re on fire, soles of your feet scalding on coals fueled by guilt. That blue glimmer in his eyes is so oblivious to the obvious that it hurts. 

If you could help it, this was the last time Satoru would ever see you, and he waved you goodbye with the sweetest smile on his face. 

“I love you,” You call back weakly once he’s comfortably out of earshot. Then he turns the corner, and he’s gone – just a lingering presence in the air that only affects you. If you could cry right now, you would. But, you’ve cried enough this last week – more than you ever have with him. Everything was just so terribly bittersweet. 

When you made your decision, it didn’t feel real. Somehow, it does now. You wonder how your friends will take it and if you’ll see them again. Sure, they’re your friends, but they’re Satoru’s too. You wonder if you’ll see his family, his mother took you in and doted on you when her son pushed her away. His father gave you advice and priceless memories. Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, Kin – all of them. You knew all of them. 

Being a Gojo was so deeply rooted in your life that you’re not sure it’s possible to change your name. They’ve truly made you feel like one of theirs, as deafening as that sounds. 

A minute in the doorway, and you’re turning around to finish out the rest of your morning. All of your bags were packed and stowed away with the laundry, where Toru never treks. It’s just one suitcase – half of your wardrobe. You’re sure you’ll be back to collect everything else. 

In any case, you wouldn’t miss anything with his lingering scent on it, so you stare longingly at your art on the walls – the blankets on the couch and the crystal sitting on display in the cabinets. 

And just before you’re about to leave, you stop at the counter and rip off a piece of a napkin on display. You brought out a pen from the study, hands shaking as you pull the cap. 

Satoru,  Keep whatever, or you can sell it. Just don't reach out, i’m leaving you I’m sorry and i really really do love you

A small, wet teardrop lands on the dingy napkin, and it’s the first sign of crying. You’re surprised you still have it in you after so many rivers you’ve wept. Writing his name carried a terrible feeling, scripting out the letters to tell him you were leaving was like bricks falling from your pen. 

Shaking hands, you let it drop on the counter beside your note. If this is the last thing you give him, you want it to be candid. Just like your relationship – winging it all until the silence grew inescapable. 

You call a cab, heading downstairs with your bags in hand. It’s a conscious decision to leave the door unlocked, but you have the keys stuffed in your pocket. You’re not really thinking about it or anything at all. You’re focused on not falling on your face as you jog down the steps, breathless without a cause. It feels like fire is burning hot in your tracks. 

Your suitcase slides into the back, the city breeze rolls your hair back, and a chill envelopes your face. The entire time, you’re silent, bowing for your driver and showing manners, but silent and dreary nonetheless. 

The ride is shaky, music drowns out the noise, and emptiness fills the void. 

It’s all you can muster up the courage to feel right now, as the city passes you by. It’s an odd kind of comforting melancholy, like when you know the storms have faded and all that’s left is the rebuild. 

You have your family waiting at home. A room with a view of nothing but countryside and rolling rivers. You’re giving yourself four weeks to get back to yourself, two to file the divorce properly, and one without any work before returning to just virtual meetings in your childhood bedroom. 

Morning jogs, bike rides down the riverside, fresh delicacies to buy – yes, your life would be too rich to worry about Satoru. You feel like a caterpillar slowly slinking towards its cocoon with the joyful unease of what's to come. But you’re still so sad. 

It’s hard to believe that anything can feel as good as the way Satoru made you feel, even when his tendencies made you want to pull your hair out. In the end, you made your decision. You slept on it, stewed over it, cried about it, and now you’re living through it. 

Reality hits when you’re stepping out at the station. Bodies are everywhere, making it easy to pay your fee and slip into the chaos. You lose your sense of self walking against the foot traffic of the busy morning commuters, sucking back even more tears as you crawl the descending stairs. 

Once you reach the bottom, you’re alone enough to breathe, luggage firm at your side as you dig for your phone. You’ve been meaning to do this forever — actually tell your closest friends about your decision. All they know is what you let them see. The second you and Toru start arguing in front of them, you’re walking away. It’s all smiles and love when they bring him up, even after that day you kicked him out of the apartment and made him get a hotel. Lying about your relationship is your forte, but you couldn’t lie anymore. 

Shoko picks up two rings deep, bored but aware. ‘What’s up?’

“Hey, I know you’re at work… Just wanted to let you know that I’ll be out for about a month.” 

There’s shuffling on the other line – the echo of familiar voices. You can guess she’s walking down the lecture hall during the transition; it was around that time. ‘You’re such a slack. And guess whose gonna be stuck doing all your work? Me.’ 

“I mean, I’ll be out, but I’ll still be working.” Intercom, robotic voices control the flow as a train departs before you, sending a noisy rush of air into your face. 

‘Are you going on vacation or what?’ 

“Visiting family.” You reply, no emotion. 

Shoko silences for a moment, humming under her breath. ‘Without Jo?’ 

“Yeah… I’m leaving him.” 

More silence. You expected nothing less. 

“Shoko?” 

‘Dude, what? Why?’ 

“He didn’t… cheat or anything, we just haven’t been happy for most of our marriage. It’s like people want to see us together more than we want to be together.” 

‘Okay, coming from the outside — No, you guys are so obviously in love, I mean… All he does is talk about you, it’s genuinely the most annoying thing ever.’ You can see her now in your mind's eye, jaw working a piece of fruit gum between her teeth, talking with her hands. 

“Yeah… well… you’re not trapped inside four walls with him once the sun goes down.” 

‘That’s so fucking sad, I- wow.’

“I’ve made peace.” 

‘-And I don’t even blame you, because I wouldn’t touch him with a long, long stick. He’s too annoying, and that’s just the least of it. So arrogant, too. He’s not as sexy as he thinks he is.’ It’s like once you pull the bandage off, it gave Shoko ample room to talk shit. Yes, she loves Toru – she loves you more. It’s always going to be you that she defends. 

“Yeah, but it’s more just, like – he knows what buttons to push and makes pushing them a game. The only time we talk… like, actually talk,  is when he thinks I’m mad at him and rushes in for damage control… then, it’s all like, ‘well, baby, if you would talk to me and tell me how you’re feeling, I’d understand.’ – But, whenever I tell him how I’m feeling, he fucking invalidates it like I’m the crazy one! Why am I still begging to pay some bills five years into the marriage?! He doesn’t listen to me.” 

‘Let that man pay the bills.’ 

“It’s the principal-

‘I know, I know.’ She sighs, chuckling softly before she continues. ‘I’m not going to hear the end of this – does he know you’re gone?’ 

“No… and don’t tell him. I want him to find out for himself.” 

‘Harsh.’

“It’d be harsher coming from you.” 

The announcement comes from your train, the rush of wheels skidding against tracks inches closer, you’re stepping back from the platform. 

“Okay, I’m gonna go. Don’t really want to be on my phone this week, so I’ll probably turn it off. Call my sister if you need anything.” 

‘I’ll be thinking about you – stay busy.’ 

“I will.” You reply, voice bittersweet in your chest. Shoko goes away, and you’re alone again – thoughts rush to the front of your mind. You’re staring at the lockscreen of you and Satoru in Kyoto when things were still good; a friendly stranger took it. Your arms are slung over his neck, and you’re smiling in his face. You remember that day so well – he was all over you and made the sweetest love to you that night. It was all so good back then. You never wanted for anything. Not space, touch, emotion, or love. Satoru gave you everything you needed, including some. 

Then, the feeling finally, truly settles. 

You miss him. 

From: Satoru No news on lunch?  Don’t worry about it, baby. Thank you for my bento, I’ll make sure to return it empty.  From: Satoru On my way home! Running real fast to you Had the shittiest day, gotta rant when I get back From: Satoru Hey, what’s with the cryptic note?  Did someone snatch you up for ransom?  Babe?  [incoming call]

You glance down at your phone, grunting as you swing your suitcase over your small childhood bed. 

You made it back home a little less than three hours ago – just as your sister left for class and your father for work.  Stepping out of the cab, your mother was the one waiting for you with a solemn look in her eyes. 

Breakfast was waiting, traditional, just like always. Natto, fish, rice, soup – she stuffed you full. Now, you’re finally getting a chance to settle in and unpack, staring down the room that faced the worst of your teenage angst. 

When Satoru’s name flashes over your screen, bile rises in your throat. Immediately, you turn it back over, your finger finding the power button, and rid yourself of the stress. You’ve just glanced at the string of messages – he’d been sending them all day, which isn’t unlike him, but it felt wrong. 

You two would hide phones under desks and banter on and off all day. In the same room, you two would exchange playful glances like he wasn’t describing every lewd thing he wanted to do to you that night. It’s just a habit; he doesn’t mind when you don’t text him back, but hates when you ignore his calls. 

You’re sure it’s how he realizes you’re actually gone – that one missed call. 

Then you’re trying to distract yourself from crying by unzipping your case, pulling out shirts, tears flooding in your eyes. But it’s too much to handle. 

You collapse next to the suitcase, pulling your knees to your chest, and sob. 

It burns so hot in your body, your cries sound like they’re breaking through the barrier, eating you alive. Your open-mouthed sobs are akin to the sound of prey being gutted alive – it’s piercing and raw, cutting your vocal cords. 

It’s like you can’t stop. You let it all out, here – fingers bunched in the sheets, drawing blood in your palm from the strength of your nailed grip. The pain goes unnoticed because the aching in your chest is so cruel. Your mind is screaming at you, damning you to fiery hells and telling you to go back. 

Go back and deal with it, it’s what you deserve. 

You know you’re too weak to be alone. 

Suck it up. Just like you always have. 

Numbness sets in with time. You watch the neighborhood kids run down the cracked road through your small window, never shifting from the position you cried in. The sun travels through the sky, and late morning morphs into afternoon, afternoon to evening. 

Downstairs, the home lights back up from everyone’s departure this morning, but you want nothing to do with it. You’re sure your mom has been home this entire time – most likely heard you crying and decided not to intervene. You’re glad. You didn’t want comfort. 

Now you’re staring at the sky as it morphs into grey, and rain begins. You feel lonely. 

Grey turns to black, you’re tired. 

As blackness settles in, so does sleep. Right in that same position. Nobody bothers you. 

Until you’re cracking open your eyes, it’s daytime. 

You sit up immediately, regretting your choice as a mean wave of dizziness falls over you. Your stomach aches with hunger, breath ripe, and skin swollen from the tears. You’re still in your clothes from yesterday, the button of your pants digging into your soft skin painfully. 

You breathe out a yawn, grimacing at the feeling before looking around for your phone. 

It’s precisely where you left it, face down and completely off. You didn’t want to see Satoru’s messages right now. You just wanted to check the time. The house is quiet. 

From: Satoru I wish I could kneel at your feet and emphasize just how sorry I am. I can’t believe how stupid and selfish I was when I had you, but I see it now.  I could see that you were hurting for a while, but I assumed it would just pass in time.. I don’t know why I assumed, but I regret it so much.  Take your time, my love, but don’t forget about me. Please, let’s talk this through before you make any hasty decisions. 

You can feel the tears – they’re there before you even skim over the message. 

With Godly timing, the softest of knocks fall to your door. It’s the only thing keeping you from breaking down again. There’s no real privacy here; you’re lucky your mom even knocked before slowly pushing it open. 

“I figured you would be awake by now.” She smiles at your ruffled reflection – bed head everywhere, sleep lines on your face, drool on your lips. “Would you like some food?” 

“Please.” You nod her in, dragging your arm across your face to wake yourself up. “Thank you, Mama.” 

She has a tray of the same spread she served you yesterday in her familiar, comforting hands. Green tea steams wantonly at the corner, flailing in its porcelain confines when she lowers it before you. “Didn’t want to bother you much yesterday…” 

“Thank you for that.” 

“Your father peeked his head in last night.” She continues, reaching out to stroke your hair as you reach for the tea you’d been eyeing. There’s just something about crying that dehydrates you to the bone. “Said you were sleeping so hard that you were snoring.” 

“Probably. Hadn’t had a good night's sleep in a while.” 

“You can do better than sleeping on top of your bed in all your clothes.” 

“Wasn’t really worried about that.” You can tell she wants to bring up Satoru – ask how he is, just out of force of habit. Maybe she wants to ask you about your divorce plans, but she stays silent, nodding slowly. “Thank you for the food.” 

“Bring it back down when you’re ready. Take your time.” Her gentle tone is welcomed, but so is her departure. The door clicks shut, and you’re taking a slow, deep breath, suddenly overcome by the burning of oncoming tears. You thought you had expelled them all last night, but Satoru’s message hung over your head like a dark precipitating cloud. It’s all flowing over you like hot rain, downpouring over your mental clarity. 

You’re drawn to deep, soulless staring at the poster-covered wall before you as your tea warms. Hunger is lost on you, you reach for the short ceramic cup and bring it to your lips with shaking hands.

You just can’t understand how you can miss someone so much after envisioning life without them – welcoming it, yearning for it. Your heart and mind are tugging you across two playing fields, never letting you get an ounce of rest or peace. 

~

Satoru has been staring into space for far too long, blinking at the wall like it’d somehow make you appear before him again. The note you penned is sitting on the counter, cursing him silently, pulling him to its angsty whims. He can see the small tear stain – can read the shake of your penmanship in the sloping letters. For once in his life, Satoru doesn’t know what to feel. 

This has to be a joke. 

He steps away for a second, staring unblinkingly at the floor as he reaches for his phone. It’s in his back pocket – he has to shuffle blindly. 

Now he understands why you haven’t been responding. 

To: gojo 💍 Hey, what’s with the cryptic note?  Did someone snatch you up for ransom?  Babe? 

He gives it a second – that’s all he knows he needs. If you don’t answer in a second, you’re really gone. 

His heart burns when you don’t answer at all. He’s paralyzed as the thought of being alone rushes over him. Just like you, he doesn’t understand what went wrong. Yes, you two fought often, but doesn’t every couple? The fighting always led to something better – deep discussions or love-making. He made sure to cover his bases every single time. He even found himself cooking and cleaning for you with a guilty conscience. So much of himself is rooted in you and how you loved him; he’s not sure he knows how to be without you by his side. Of course, it’s more than the money, sex, or power. It’s the fact that your lives are completely intertwined. There is no Satoru without you – there’s no you without Satoru. 

That’s what eats him alive. 

It’s what makes him stumble to the couch you picked out, head in his hands as he collapses into the downiness. He wants the cushions to swallow him whole – maybe then he can get lost in the wealth of your scent and sincerity. So many times you two have found yourself here, kissing the night away, hands under clothes. Movie marathons that led to falling asleep on shoulders, deep conversations that made him actually crack a tear. It’s all embedded in the upholstery, and he can’t even move. Satoru just feels so pathetic – it’s a new feeling for him, a disgusting one. 

“Oh, fuck.” He states as if reality just washed over him. Now, all Satoru can do is sit with everything. He keeps rereading the note he memorized in his head, like there were hints as to where you were hidden behind the script. You told him that you loved him, and as good of a sign as it looks like, it feels counterfeit. 

He loved you more than he loved anything – including himself, and he’d never leave you. He has to know why you felt the need to leave him so easily, and it’s not like five years is a long marriage in any form of the term. Satoru wanted a family with you. He wanted to see you swollen with his baby, ripe with hormones, and caring with a blue-eyed infant. It’s all he yearned for – stability, endless, overflowing love, and mutual support. 

He’s almost… mad that you gave up. 

No, not almost. He’s mad. 

Not even thinking, knowing his efforts are for naught, he snatches up his phone and dials you with scary precision. A piece of him knows that you won’t answer, but his hands are shaking. He just needs to try. 

He counts – the line rings six times. 

Then, it clicks, a stupid robotic voice telling him you’re unavailable. Yes, he fucking knows you’re not available. Or, maybe you are. Perhaps you’re just watching your screen as his name brushes against it. Satoru hates when you let your cowardice take over, and he knows that’s what you’re doing. 

In a sudden fit of rage, he takes his ringing phone and throws it across the room, hearing it shatter on impact as it hits a window. As satisfying as it feels, he feels more like a dunce. If he waited a second longer, maybe your sweet voice would brush the rusty, waiting dial tone. He wants you in his arms, but this feeling is so unfamiliar and nasty that he doesn’t know what to do or what to think. He knows he wants you back, he just can’t fathom what he did wrong.

At work the next day, Satoru doesn’t feel any better. In fact, he feels worse. He didn’t get a wink of sleep last night, scared and cold as he tried to hug himself to rest. He hasn’t been in a bed without you since he was a teenager, and he doesn’t think he could exist without your body heat safe in his arms. 

The lack of sleep is making him irritable, it’s wafting off of his body as he walks down the hallway to his lecture hall. Thankfully, he wouldn’t have to teach anything, but he’d have to sit and annotate – he’s not sure he can keep his mind straight long enough to pen an entire two-hour Sociology lecture, let alone stay awake. That scares him – he’s letting his personal life seep into the fabric of his work, but it’s impossible not to when this is where he met you. 

Sweet and young, shy as all hell, too. Satoru would make excuses and drag his friends to the admin office on bullshit bases, all to see your little smile when he complimented your outfit. You were always right there next to Shoko, using her long hair as a security blanket. Everything was good back then… everything was sweet. 

Satoru can’t believe he’s fighting back tears as he steps into the vast, vacant hall, bag slung over his shoulder. He must be a walking ball of bad vibes, because his professor is noticing immediately, commenting on it, too, which is supremely unlike him. 

No, Kento Nanami was much more of a don’t ask, don’t tell, zero-bullshit type of instructor. Him and Satoru often butted heads, but butting heads was more like purposefully ignoring the other – their relationship is far too compliated for him to dwell on for too long. 

“You look like Hell.” 

“My wife left me last night.” Satoru finds no need to lie. Yes, he’s struggling. He needs grace; the only way he’d get it is to let Kento know he’s distracted. 

Kento turns slowly, watching Satoru move in front of his desk to settle in the front row of chairs. When he’s still, Kento can see the darkness around his usually perky eyes, but he doesn’t know how to feel. “Well… I am sorry to hear that. If you need to take the day off, I unders-

“-just need to distract myself.” Satoru cuts him off like he doesn’t want to talk, sucking his cheek as he pulls out his work laptop. “I forwarded those papers you sent me the other night. Everything’s looking good. From my initial glance at the collection of scores, it looks like this period is sitting at 83% accuracy. Pretty good.” 

“I didn’t need those scores until the end of the week.” Kento turns back around to his board, propping himself against the desk he’s occupying. He’s been sketching out the lesson plan against the chalked surface for most of his morning. Traditional for the introduction to a new unit. “But, I’ll start putting them in. Thanks, Gojo.” 

“Sure.” Satoru swallows as he types out his password to get into the device. It’s your birthday. His heart hurts. His wallpaper is you at the zoo, holding a little lion cub, totally fearless with the biggest smile on your face. The way the sun touches your features – God, it just makes him weak in the knees. That era of your relationship is so well documented because you two were on cloud nine. He wants it back – he wants you back. 

“Satoru,” that familiar, whiny voice is just what he needs right now. It’s the only thing that can pull him from the depths your pretty face dragged him to. “I’ve called you like ten times, they won’t even go thro- hi, Kento.” 

“Geto… hello…” Nanami mumbles, not even looking at the visitor, because he knows who it is. The five of you are like a clique, and he hates it. Not because he’s not in it, but because they’ve definitely tried to rope him into the madness, but he’s just in a different league. All he thinks about is work, not friends. 

“Sator-

“Gojo left me last night. I broke my phone.” Satoru spits out like it's the easiest thing ever. He’s hiding his emotions like he always does, and he knows Suguru is due to find out at any moment. “Reckless, I know.” 

“What?” Suguru walks up to him, long hair pulled back in a low-hanging bun. They’ve known each other damn near since childhood – completely inseperable, face-deep in platonic love. Right now, Satoru knows that Suguru would be the only human capable of picking up the pieces you shattered. 

“Packed some clothes, left me a note, and skipped town.” 

“That’s crazy – it doesn’t make any sense.” Suguru plops down right next to him, entire body turned at attention, only for Satoru to pour every vapid thought into. He’s not supposed to be in this hall, but he’s friendly enough with Kento to skate by during the last half hour before lectures start. “I just saw her the other day with Shoko and Utahime. They… didn’t invite me to lunch, but I understand the whole girls’ day aspect of it all. She just… I’m sorry, she seemed so at ease.” 

“Because she was with Shoko.” 

“Does Shoko know where she is?” 

“If I asked, she’d just lie for her.” 

“Where could she have even gone?” 

“Probably back home.” Satoru’s sucked into something on his laptop, opening a new document and labeling it under todays date and the topic Kento wants to cover. If he wasn’t going through a breakup, he’d be excited for this new unit, though he’s experienced it year after year. “Been saying she misses her family a lot.” Then he thinks about it, sitting forward with his chin pressed into a closed fist. Satoru has never barred you from doing what you want – staying out all night with your friends? Of course, he didn’t care. He welcomed it. Solo trips back home? Oh, Satoru encouraged it. 

He was the perfect husband – what happened?

At his side, Suguru watches him stew over the matter, thin brows knitted in pity. He reaches out, hand smoothing over Satoru’s shoulder. He shakes him softly. “If you don’t want to be alone, my guest bedroom is empty. There’s probably still traces of you in there – not like anyone else uses it.” 

Satoru hesitates, knowing that a night with Suguru would lead to little sleep just because they have everything in the world to talk about. They have the same favorite shows, movies, foods, and conversations – it’d be a perfect distraction, but Satoru just wants to get you back. 

“Or, we can go to a bar. I know you don’t usually drink, but it is Friday, I’m sure if we bribe Shoko with free drinks, she’d help you find her.” 

“I really shouldn’t…” The sane part of his mind is telling Satoru not to seek out one who doesn’t wish to be sought, but he wants to. He knows Shoko knows where you are – Hell, Utahime probably knew, too. You’re surprised Suguru’s seemingly the only one in the dark. “But, I don’t think I want to be alone.” 

Suguru nods slowly, not pushing Satoru for eye contact when he knows he’s sensitive to the touch. “We don’t have to get drunk and emotional if you don’t want to.” He continues dropping his hand to cross them in his lap. All Satoru looks like to him is a shell. He’s staring at his screen like it’d tell him what he needs to know, and Suguru finds himself, for the first time ever, genuinely worried for him. 

“I’ll… uh— I’ll text you about it later.” 

“Sure.” 

“Are you going to sit this one in, Geto?” Kento turns around, snatching up a beige rag from his desk to dust his hands. “Bells about to hit.” 

Satoru feels both of their stares zero in on him, and he knows he’s not hiding anything. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair disheveled, and flat over his head. Feeling some kind of insecure, he reaches into his bag and slides on a dark pair of square glasses. 

Suguru sighs. “Nobody would blame you if you went home.” 

“She’ll come around.” He whispers, pursing his lips as he leans back in his chair. His hands are shaking, so he tucks them close to his chest. “She always does, doesn’t she?” 

-

Doesn’t she?

Two weeks down the drain, completely wiped from your memory. Sober days and sleepless nights – that moody in-between when you’re gasping for air. Still, you battled it through in your childhood bed.

You got over it, just like you knew you would. 

Work started again last week. You’ve been slowly scouring through emails, working your way forward by combing through backlogs. Most of the time, your job falls to scheduling Dean meetings, prospective professor interviews, and prestigious tours, but it varies. Without you, all of this work would have fallen onto Shoko, but you can’t feel bad. She’s been doing this way longer than you and is ten times more efficient. However, she liked to complain. You let her have it this time. 

Now, you’re planning your trip back to the City. The apartment you’d been keeping an eye on since the marriage had just closed with the money you saved, and you’re finally confident. 

Rather, confident enough. 

You will definitely have to see Satoru when you go back to work, but it’s just something you knew you’d have to deal with. It’s the unfortunate downside to working with your partner, and you think that’s what did it in. 

You’re sitting at your family’s dinner table, bags packed all around you as you wait for your ride to the station. You’re sawing your lip in concentration, pen scribbling messily in your lax grip. 

It was an exercise you’ve been putting off since you left the city – writing Satoru a note letting it all out, and then freeing yourself from the burden by throwing it away. His eyes would never lie upon these scribbled words, so you let it out. You’re not sure what you’re even writing anymore, your wrist is moving at its own accord. 

Satoru, I love you.  It might not seem like it right now, but I love you to the ends of the Earth and back again. Being married to you felt like a dream in more ways than I can fathom, but I’d wake up at night, and that bliss fades into loathing. You have no problem sticking up for me in front of your friends, so why, when I’m faced with impossible decisions from your family, do you go radio silent? We agreed it’d just be us. We decided we’d focus on each other and our work, not on family nonsense that drains my psyche and leaves me exhausted. They want something from me that I can’t give, and I didn’t know how to tell them no - everyone is so pleasant to me.  That being said. It’s not why I left… I’m actually not sure why I did it, or I just don’t want to see things for what they are. Every time we’d see each other for over an hour, we’d fight. I admit that I was the catalyst for most of the arguments, but you never reassured me. I’d fall asleep next to you afterwards, sobbing so hard I couldn’t breathe, and you would just turn around and pretend not to hear. Why?  I guess that’s all I want to know, now. Why? I’ve always given you everything you needed without a question – why was it so easy to push me to the wayside? Why is it so easy to ignore me to my face for days on end? And why can’t you see me as more than an incubator for your unborn children?  I just can’t help but wonder… 

As you’re writing, the car your family called for you pulls up outside. You wanted to leave while they were all predisposed with work and school because you know you’d cry and cave if you saw their pitiful goodbye faces. They insisted on the fare, you’re insisting that you’ll be back as soon as you can. You take the half-finished note, folding it lax in your fingers as you stand and grab your bags. 

You’re leaving with more than you came with. Typical. 

And you’re leaving like you were never here, with the wind peeking through the front door and the sun on your skin. 

You thought you’d be more excited to get back to your life, but there’s an invisible feeling of longing planted deep in your chest that’s making it hard to swallow. The letter you penned to Toru is balanced between your fingers as you swing your heavy bags into the vehicle. This time, the driver watches you from the side with a cigarette between his teeth, mentioning your destination softly and how the fare was already pre-paid. You nod the older man along, giving him a phony smirk when the boot closes and you’re stepping into the backseat. 

You don’t care that he’s still lingering outside. It gave you time to settle in, rustling the soft paper, trying not to give the flustered words your attention. All this note is is a weak attempt to try to understand where things went wrong. Satoru was never unhappy in the relationship, not like you were; he just didn’t know how to approach your angst without being struck in the crossfire. He exercised the same cowardice he condemned you for, and now you two exist worlds apart. 

Still, you can’t help but wonder where he is… What he’s doing. 

Around this time of day, he’d be wrapped up in lectures. You can almost see his slumped figure over his laptop, typing without giving the keyboard a second glance. Toru’s always been an overachiever – too good at his job. Too good to still be an aide, but waits patiently for his time to come as a professor. 

It’s always been his goal to buy you a big house that you two could grow old in together. You can close your eyes and hear his sweet voice lost in your sheets, whispering every detail about your future in your ear. But when you open them again, it disappears. 

The car door slams on the rest of your shriveled sanity, and you’re standing in front of a home that wasn’t yours… Yet. 

You just signed papers online, carrying cold, hard cash in your bag that’d leave you with virtually nothing once you hand it over in exchange for keys. It’s like being in a wind tunnel – feeling the city pulse and move around you as you drag your measly two suitcases against polished concrete. You didn’t know what time it was – your phone is too buried in your luggage, but you know you just got off a nearly four-hour bullet train, and your ears rang. 

Luckily, the property owner isn’t too far behind you, and you can exchange cash for keys within two minutes of your arrival. 

You thought once you had a place to call your own, that you’d feel completely comfortable, but standing in the echoey, semi-modern space, you feel devoid of life. You don’t even own a speck of furniture – this is not your home. 

So, you leave your bags at the locked entryway, sliding off your shoes out of habit as you head to the back wall of covered windows. Your apartment is on the ground floor, and humans walk by, not knowing you’re looking over them. You take your time, pulling each curtain so the sun can bleach the wooden floors in gold. 

Right there, under the sun like a contented cat, you pull your knees to your chest and sit… for hours, just grounding yourself. Losing time as the sun floats through the sky. 

All you can do since the separation is to sit with the pain and waste time. It’s the only thing that keeps you sane. 

You can’t recall what time exactly you stood to relieve your throbbing bladder, but when you’re walking back into the empty expanse, your phone is dinging from the confines of your bag. Sighing, you lean down to flush it out. 

From: Utahime Are you back in town!! Suguru invited us out for free drinks  From: Shoko Don’t worry, i told him to fuck off if he already invited Gojo He said he didn’t To: Utahime, Shoko I don’t really think I’d be good company  From: Shoko One drink and you’ll forget about that maniac.  From: Utahime Please!! We miss u To: Utahime, Shoko I don’t trust Suguru. There’s no way he didn’t invite toru From: Shoko Okay, well i trust him enough. If we see him, it’s no big deal we’ll just leave From: Utahime You know he doesn’t drink anyway From: Shoko Tired argument, babe. He’s wherever Geto is To: Utahime, Shoko Yeah, well maybe he should marry suguru next.  From: Shoko Girl…  To: Utahime, Shoko I told you i wouldn’t be fun to be around right now. Enjoy your free drinks, you two deserve them 

The group chat goes silent enough for you to tuck your phone away, breathing in deep through your nose as you watch evening set in outside your windows. 

You’ve been putting it off since you returned, but there isn’t a speck of anything in this space, and you were exhausted. In some form of the phrase, you’d have to pick up your feet and carry yourself to the store to get an air mattress. 

That ten-minute walk felt like a marathon in your exhausted mind. But like everything in adulthood, you must be uncomfortable for twenty minutes to be comfortable for eight hours. You peel your body into action, rubbing at your eyes until you see stars. 

You’re only bringing your phone in case of an emergency. You didn’t want to see it – you didn’t want to see the lockscreen picture of you and Toru that you didn’t have the guts to delete. It’s better not to look because you can’t delete him; it just didn’t feel right yet. Somehow, someday, strength will take over, and you can rid your life of his shadow. One day, you’ll fall out of love and stare at someone else with the stars you’re rubbing into your eyes. 

It’s all you can hope for. It’s the only thing that keeps you warm and sane as you leave your apartment. 

You moved to a new neighborhood, and although you’re not unfamiliar, it’s different. The alleys are darker on this side of the city – street lights flicker, but you welcome it. Nobody is really around; convenience stores light up the area in neon, but that’s not where you’re headed. The local department store is just down the street. Foot traffic gets heavier as you approach the business district, which is still booming with the promise of night. 

Your one-track mind gets you in and out of the stark-white space in less than ten minutes. Your feet are moving so fast that your legs are numb, and you can’t see anything that’s not shrouded in inky blackness. If you cared to see anything for what it truly was, you’d notice just how depressed you are. You’re in pain – full, bodily pain like you’re recovering from an injury. 

It hits you all at once, and you’re almost back to your apartment. 

Then, you make a decision that doesn’t fully set in until it’s finished – you slide into a 7-Eleven, air mattress tucked under your arm, and pick up two cans of dangerously strong mixed drinks. You’re lying to yourself, thinking that they’d just be a vehicle for sleep so you can start work with a full night. 

You’re an incredible liar – even you believe the nonsense your brain is pushing. 

As you make it back into your door, bags hanging from your fingers and yawning sleepily into the night, you can hear your phone ping quietly in your pocket. Once you step inside and place your loot at your feet, you shrug to grab it. It’s the group chat again. 

From: Shoko

[1 image attachment]

Geto said hiiiiiiii

The picture is of the three of them, side by side at a bar table. Suguru’s in the middle, cradling a frosted pitcher of beer with the biggest close-eyed grin on his face. Utahime is behind him, peeking from around his back, sending you a friendly, stoic wink. Shoko’s barely in frame, but her smudged eye makeup and gently smoking cigarette between her teeth is undeniable. 

You crack a smile and send back a quick message. 

To: Shoko, Utahime Love u guys ♡ have fun From: Shoko Goodnight, we love you! Missing you like hell

That’s the last of it. You turn your phone off again. 

Before you can even set up the mattress, you’re cracking into your first drink, taking a deep breath to keep your taste buds at bay as you swallow the entirety in just under a minute. 

Thank god you can’t taste it, because you hated drinking like this. It’s pointless and depressing, but you were feeling so much that you had to numb it out. If Satoru could see you now… You don’t even want to know how he’d react. 

You drink more to chase him away. 

Uncoordinated and dizzy from the mixture of alcohol on an empty stomach, you drag the air mattress box into the middle of the open room. You didn’t want to carry it all the way to the bedroom, so you kneel, manicured fingers sharp as you rip into the tape and cardboard. 

You’re half-awake, blinking drearily as you throw the empty box behind you, crawling over the tufted, flat expanse to spread it out. You splurged on a bigger bed, needing something to roll in without fear of falling onto cold, hard flooring. It’s so big that you have to stand up, hiccuping softly as your feet spread it to full size. 

You stand over it, out of breath with your hands pressed to your hips. You can’t really see clearly through this drunken haze, but it dawns on you that you don’t have an air pump. You forgot to buy one. 

“Fuck.” You whine, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. You’re seeing splotches of white – they dart across your sight like scurrying mice, driving you into a feeling so sick that you’re almost anxious. 

Not thinking twice, you sit back on your knees, crawling to the air hole, and giving it one last push. You bring the nozzle to your lips, taking a deep breath before blowing. It’s weak, comically so. You can’t hold a stream for less than half a minute, and your head is already spinning. You’re whining again like a tired child, thoroughly beaten down and hopeless as you size up your situation. 

If only Toru were here… He’d make it all better. 

You’re standing on shaky feet, peeking around the darkness for the promise of your phone. It’s right where you left it, completely off and face down on the kitchen counter. Dragging your bare feet, you go to grab and turn it back on. 

You call him. All inhibitions are lost. 

He answers… right away. The phone doesn’t even ring twice. 

The line clicks, but he doesn’t speak–not yet. His breathing is shallow. 

“S-satoru?” 

More silence. You want to sob. 

“Toru, I jus- I know I’m the last person you want to hea-

‘You sound like you’re going to cry.’ He blurts out suddenly, voice so familiar it makes you sick. There’s no animosity when he’s talking to you; he just sounds worried. 

“I’m back in the city and I… I just – I don’t have any furniture at my new apar-

‘Come home. If you want to sleep in the spare room, it’s fine, I’ll let you have it. Just stop this madness and come home. I’m waiting for you.’ 

You have to hang up before you can respond, because the tears are coming and they’re disgusting and heavy. You’re sobbing into your hands, feeling so overcome and pathetic with yourself and this turn of circumstance. Of course, Satoru is being nice about it – he loves you and you blindsided him, he’ll take any grasp at you that he can get. 

You sob as you slip on a jacket and your shoes, tears and snot dripping onto the floors and leather. You’re shaking as you reach to wipe it away, unable to look at yourself in the reflection of your lock screen as you glance at the time. 

There are no trains running at this hour. The only things that lit up the streets are twenty-four-hour convenience stores and old, late-night family restaurants that make most of their money from the after-bar crowd. Your friends are likely tucked behind one of those doors, laughing, living, and feeding off the dopamine they pour into each other. You belong with them, leaning drunkenly into your husband's chest as he dotes on you. So many sleepless nights were spent in that spell. No cares in the world. In love. Young. You want to go back. 

So you walk that twenty-some minutes back home – Satoru’s home, now. Yes, you picked it out. Yes, you decorated it, but you had to be okay with letting it go, so you are. You just have to lie to yourself a little more every day, and hopefully, the breakup will morph into reality. You just don’t want to suffer anymore. 

In your daze, the front door code is still etched into your memory. So is the way to the fourth floor – you climb the steps, breathless by the time you get there. 

Your and Toru’s apartment was nothing less than luxurious with the money he poured into it. Though he promised that you two would split bills before you agreed on getting the place, that quickly fell by the wayside when he looked at you with those bright doe eyes, mentioning he’d love nothing more than to take complete care of you, so all you had to focus on was your work and sanity. He also had a mind to make you a mother, but he conveniently didn’t add that to his point that night. 

You hold your breath as you reach to knock on the door. Before your knuckle even hits wood, it’s swinging open. All the lights are on – you squint. 

Satoru is on the other side, loose shirt hanging from his shoulders, bone-white hair all ruffled with relaxation. Seeing him again after all this time nearly kills you. Of course, you can’t look him in the eyes. “Hi. Come on.” 

“I don’t want to talk.” You start, just protecting your heart from his musings before anything could transpire again. “I don’t want to fix things, I just want to sleep.” 

“Okay.” He mutters, standing off to the side so that you could step in. “Okay, come on. We don’t have to talk.” The door opens wider, and light spills across your face. It takes you a minute to gather strength to step inside, but when you do, rivers of ease flow over your shoulders. You sigh. 

“Your hair is longer.” He mentions in passing, catching himself as he goes out to touch you. Stagnant – midair, he hovers, telling himself no. He respects your space. “I changed the sheets in the room for you.” 

You ignore him, shouldering past his hard body with a singular goal in mind. Your stomach is in knots – your head lighter than air. Everything is fuzzy, and if you didn’t fall into the warmth of a bed right now, Toru would have to carry you to his. 

“Or you can sleep in our bed and I’ll take the spare room.” 

Again, no answer. He follows behind you loosely as you stumble down the hall. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Leave me alone, just stop talking.” You slur, stupidly thinking that not giving him any of your attention would make him stop trying to squeeze words out of you. 

“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to be a little nicer to me. You’re the one who left.” 

“Shut up,” you bite, turning into the cracked doorway of the spare bedroom. He’s still hot on your trail, sleepy eyes begging for more where you couldn’t see. 

“We can fix this if you just tell me what I did wrong-

Before he can finish, you’re turning around in the doorway, not giving him any mercy as you slam the door on his face. It locks shortly after, just rubbing salt in his festering wound. At least he didn’t lie about switching out the sheets – the whole room smells fresh, like comfort materialized. You’re fumbling with your pants as you lumber to the warm, soft expanse, exerting as little effort as you can before collapsing into bed. 

You don’t have the energy to flip the lights off, so they stay on as you roll around in the sheets, trying to swallow down the oncoming doom of nausea and dizziness. You know Toru is still standing outside of the door, you can see the shadow of his feet under the crack, but he can’t come in – or, he doesn’t want to break the lock out and piss you off even more. 

After a few silent minutes, he shrugs off, and you fall in and out of consciousness. Sleep doesn’t come – not for real, at least. Whenever you think you’re getting there, you’re startled awake with your vapid inner thoughts. His pull is supernatural; it’s like you’re struggling to cope with being so close, yet so far. Right in the other room, you can hear Satoru moving around restlessly – shuffling in and out of the bathroom, talking to himself. 

He’s alone, you’re lonely. 

You blame it on the alcohol wearing off in your blood. That’s what gives you the push to roll out of bed and stumble to the door. Satoru stills in the other room right as the lock clicks – you know he hears you. He knows you’re on the way. 

It’s why he’s not in the bedroom when you crack open the door. It’s like he tucked off to the bathroom on purpose, using the shower as a distraction while you fall into your old side of the bed. It’s made neatly – your throw pillows are fluffed, and you’re succumbing to your weakness again. 

You dozed off for about ten minutes before you heard the door creak softly. Satoru’s footsteps are featherlight, and he knows you’re awake. Your breathing isn’t as shallow as it is now when you're sleeping. He doesn’t say anything about it–not yet. 

Satoru waits for you, gathering the towel wrapped around his waist as he sits on the bed. He knows you too well. 

So he doesn’t flinch when he feels the bed tremble beneath him. Sheets ruffle around your knees as you rise blearily. He hums when your arms wrap around his hard, broad shoulders, then mumbles, “You’re predictable.” 

“I’m burning up, I need help.” You plead weakly, lips focused right above his sharp collarbone. His skin tastes like it always has – sweet, for some reason. Like he was sculpted out of sugar. 

“Have you been drinking?” 

You pause right at the stubble of his undercut, the translucent shag tickling your nose. “I don’t need to be scolded.” 

“Well,” he peeks over his shoulder, pulling your chin close. The glow of his eyes amongst the darkness of the room is frighteningly familiar. You can’t look away. “I know you don’t want to talk about it.” 

You’re waiting for him to do something – to take control of this situation and steer the reins in your favor. Right now, you want him to annihilate you in the gentlest way only he can. Touching yourself will never be enough now that you’ve tasted him. It hits you like a craving. 

You’re left flicking between his eyes and his shiny, pink lips. They’re drawing you in like a siren song, weaving incantations that only your drunken mind would bend to. And finally, he kisses you. Something inside of you shrivels up and dies – your pride. 

Now, you’re shedding everything for him, gentle grip turning into claws in his shoulders. His skin is soft after his shower, leaving bright red marks against the pale ocean. Toru grunts into your mouth, shifting over to his knees as he crowds you against the mattress. Big arms cage you in – your back is lodged in the sheets, you’re reaching to pull him closer. 

Through it all, you don’t talk. When you’re needily grinding up into his thigh, he’s silent. Reaching down to your core, he doesn’t say a word. 

Lips hot and panting into the hard skin behind his ear, hands clawed in his hair, you don’t whisper his name. 

Your legs open for him, thighs parting like the Red Sea. He’s so hard for you, twitching against the towel he rips away and abandons somewhere in the room. Right now, every single move mattered. There are no words to dull your mood – nothing for him to say that hasn’t already been said. 

Satoru’s spent a short-lived lifetime telling you how beautiful you are, how well you’re taking him, how sexy your body is. You know that’s what he’s thinking; he just won’t waste his breath telling you again. 

After all, you couldn’t be bothered to waste yours, telling him that you were leaving to his face.

To you, this hot, grinding silence is deafening. Toru’s biting at your neck, kissing you holy, but it’s so foreign that you couldn’t really focus. You bite down a plea. 

But he hears it. When he kisses you, he can taste the desire. His naked body is so pressed to yours that there’s no room to exist outside of it – you pull him closer. 

Somewhere in the headiness, Satoru works a hand between your soft, stretchy waistband. He knows you’re ready for him, and he knows he’s ready for you. This moment might have been the perfect opportunity to prove devotion to each other. What a shame you’re so caught up in your head, worried about losing more of yourself to morph into the reality of who Satoru needs you to be. 

He tugs your thin pants down your legs, staring down at the quivering flesh that blooms with irritation against the harshness of the fabric. You’re seething into his skin, hips lifting from the bed so he can take you quicker. 

The issue is, he wants to see you. Toru wants to dip his head between your thighs and devour your cunt until you’re screaming his name, but you don’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve it. 

The most you two could chew off without burying yourself in grief was wordless, raw sex. That’s all there is to it – Toru wants to fuck you, get his rocks off, then sleep like a baby. Sure, he’d care in the morning, but you’re presenting yourself to him with armor stripped. He’d be a fool to pass it up. 

When he sits up, you’re scrambling. The air is too cold, his height is too brooding. He’s staring down at you, pearly chest rising and falling in the nightlight, but the gaze isn’t really there. One hand works at his erection, thick fist wrapped around the base of his cock as he coaxes it to full hardness. 

You’re staring at his body, swallowing down gobs of want as you flick past his waistline. Your neat, mindful Satoru – he always trimmed his body to exactly what you wanted. The soft patch of hair that gathers under his belly button makes you crazy. The neat trimming of his pubes makes your mouth water, and you’ve been holding back for so long. 

If you could tell him anything right now, it’d be just how much you need him. It was eating you alive at this point – all this cruel buildup. 

You bring your hand to your lips, taking to biting down on the length of your thumb while he settles back against you. Any more sober, you’d stop him and tell him to wear a condom, but of course, you’re silent. 

He mounts you again, pressing two big hands on either side of your head. Your free hand reaches up, holding his wrist gently as he slowly eases himself inside of your hole, stretching you out like he never left. 

You take a second to focus on the feeling, eyes falling shut as the stretch engulfs every single one of your nerves. It’s so thick – drilling deeper and deeper inside of you until there was nothing left to give. All the way inside, Satoru nuzzles against that uncomfortably sensitive point inside of you, kissing it like he was proud of the pain. 

You open your mouth to praise him – to whine about how deep he is, but all that comes out is a soft, strangled moan. He grunts again. 

Then, he cuts himself loose, fingers working at the sheets as he pulls out halfway, pretty face screwing up as he fucks back into you. 

You’re moaning, crying, rejoicing, living for everything in this moment. Your grip on his wrist tightens, and your thumb-gag breaks through. Satoru fucks you with an unnatural, mean precision, drinking up the sound of your skin slapping into each other. With this fervor, you’d be bruised tomorrow, but it’s too good. You love it when he’s rough – it’s just what you needed after sustaining for a month. 

Your throat burns with the need to scream at him – to tell him to take you harder, to kiss you stupid, but you don’t. Satoru buries his face in your neck and gives it to you. Over and over, thrust after thrust. It hurts, but it’s so good.

Time creeps and crawls through the ordeal. Your belly is numb and raw, legs shaking from the tight strangle they have across Toru’s waist. He hasn’t moved an inch – letting himself plank over you, plowing into your weeping cunt with no mercy, and no end in sight. Veins bloom like red-hot wires in his neck, sweat beads like water in his collarbone, and he’s so hot that the humidity gathers in his still-damp hair, rolling off the strands and onto your skin. 

Thirty minutes roll by – he’s still going. Everything hurts. 

He doesn’t have your loving voice egging him on, drawing him closer and closer to the release he needs. You don’t have that loving, sweet touch toying with your clit that leaves you gushing and gasping for air. You both are trying to make do with the bare minimum, not even looking at each other. 

You’re shaking. 

Satoru sits up, a detached, manic look in his eyes as he breathes heavily through his red-stained lips. He stares down at you, searching your expression for everything. You’re not telling him how you feel, but your face is screwed up so much that he knows it’s not the best feeling. He hates that he enjoys the thought of that. He hates that he needs to push his pain onto you – in fact, he feels monstrous, but it doesn’t will him to stop. 

Instead, he slows his mean fucks, dragging his hands to your waist where he turns you over like a limp, freshly caught fish. You fumble at the stark change, coughing softly, eyes flying open. Under your breath, you cry. “Mmfmf.” 

“Shh,” he bites back, all sharp and unfriendly in the base of his chest. Hands still stuck in your hips, he pulls you exactly where he wants you, chest pressed to the bed, behind on full display – full mercy. Your skin is so inflamed, he takes a second to drink it in. 

Then, he slaps you right on your left cheek. You chew on a surprised yelp. Something slips. 

“Tor-

Another slap. You swallow down your protests. 

Behind you, you can feel him dragging his cock against the hot sensitivity hidden between your labia, dripping with the newfound touch Satoru is working himself up to give you. 

Again, at your prime, he’d take this moment to completely dive in. He’d lose himself in the warm tears you’re excreting, lapping up the fluids like it’s his only nourishment. He’d worship you – now, all he does is cup his hand against your embarrassingly wet cunt, longest fingers working at your clit. His palm rubs harshly against your quivering hole, and you use the mattress as a screaming pillow, finally letting it out. 

Tears come, now. They burn and ache because they know whatever sacred intimacy you shared with Toru before is long gone. He’s fucking you, now. If you closed your eyes and wiped your memory, this would all feel like a stupid, drunk hookup. 

That’s all you are, now. 

You don’t even make a sound when he starts to bottom out inside of you again. You feel like a statue on display with the way Satoru spreads you open, both hands grabbing at your stinging ass. He watches the way you swallow his cock like a delicacy, gulping down want. Now, he’s dangerously close. He knows this was what he needed – this lewd visual. 

You, on the other hand, couldn’t have been further away from release, and it’s tearing you apart. You need to tell him – scream at him and curse his name, but you can’t. 

You let him make a mess of you, flooding your cervix with his sticky, fluid seed. He comes so hard and you can feel it – it’s so deep that you swear you can taste his desire bubbling in your throat. It’s acidic and raw, but it tastes like him, so you love it – you miss the taste when you swallow it down. 

He’s pulling out once he’s empty and satiated, come planted so deep inside of you that it doesn’t even slip out in his wake. He steps away, your hips fall on the bed, and you’re limp and unsatisfied. All you can do is blink. Satoru rolls away. 

You don’t know what he’s doing, or where he’s going, but when you fall over to your side, tears dripping into the mattress, you’re overcome. 

You’re crying, croaking weakly, “c-can you-

The sound of your voice stops Satoru in his tracks. He was heading back to the bathroom to clean himself up, but he thought you had dropped off to sleep immediately. 

“What?” 

“Can you… J-just try?” 

“All I wan-want to do…” You stop again, swallowing salty tears. “Please, all I want to d-d-do is come. P-please…” You feel so pathetic – and you are. You feel like the worst person ever born. 

If you could see his face, you’d see the speck of emotion that runs off his crystalline, flushed features. He would feel terrible if you cried like this to him a month ago. Now, he just feels something like an obligation to turn around and stalk back over to your side of the mattress. 

You’re still crying into your arms when he approaches, hiccuping softly as he lowers to a squat. 

Like this, he finally talks. “Swing your legs over, I’ll clean you up.” 

The smoothness has your eyes flying open, heart doing a billion jumping jacks all at once. Limbs shaking, you struggle to sit up. 

Satoru notices, knowing he has to retake hold of these reins. He reaches out for you, big hands closing around your thighs as he pulls you to the side of the bed. There’s nothing gentle about it, now. He licks his lips. 

Both legs hooked over his shoulder, your back falls back onto the mattress, and at the first flick of his tongue prodding at your quivering entrance, you’re crying again. But he’s good at this part. He doesn’t stop. That licks turns into sensual drags of the tongue, scraping against your sensitive slit, easing over your clit. You finally moan for him – real moans. Pleased moans. 

He presses a kiss to your hole. “Push it out on my tongue.” He demands, those few words feeling like acid on the tongue. It’s fucking filthy, but nothing out of his ordinary, deranged mind. You take a breath and tense your body, working on easing all of the deep come right back to him. 

Satoru is licking it up like an eager dog, slurping and sucking obscenely as his grip gets lost in your pillowy thighs. Now, he’s working you over like he’s chasing your release, knowing your body just like a doting husband would. It would only take him a few minutes of tongue-work before you’re coming for him, but now, it only takes a single one. 

You’re coming before you can even focus on the feeling, and it hits you like a brick to the skull. Your spine bends, bones creaking, blood rising to insane temperatures in your body as sweet, sweet bliss meets you once more. 

It’s all you wanted – this feeling has been the singular thing you’ve been chasing at Toru’s side. He gives it so well and so selflessly that he’s still lapping up mess when he feels you coming undone around him. He carries you through it just like he always has – thick, plush lips sucking at your insanely sensitive bud like he’s trying to receive something as collateral. It drives you crazy – you reach out to push him away. 

The job is done. Satoru rises to his feet. 

He heads off again to finish what he started, wiping your taste from his lips, back into his mouth as he gets lost behind the bathroom door. He leaves you on the bed to come back to your senses, fully sobered up and slightly sick from the onslaught of physicality. You reach into your matted hair, screwing your eyes shut in shame. Every time you move, your core trembles and cries. Everything hurts. 

In the bathroom, Satoru flicks on the lights and doesn’t recognize the face he sees in the mirror. He’s blown red, scratches all over his arms and back. His hair is everywhere, eyes beet-red and sensitive. He leans forward and spits in the sink. 

The faucet creaks as he turns it on. 

Everything washes away.

[eraserbread]

oh elllyyyyy my girl <3

phy, my loveyyy 💋 it’s so sweet being back for u

[eraserbread]

𝘪 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙬𝙞𝙛𝙚 the finale masterlist, listen, nanami tag

god help me be a good wife, cause he needs me even when he's not right, he still needs me

cw: canon-typical violence, s2 spoilers, drinking, light angst, mostly fluff, mentions of a breeding kink, non-descriptive child-birth, 18+ nsfw

♫ seigfreid - frank ocean

“You don’t know anything at all, do you?” Satoru is leaning over the bar, elbows digging into uncomfortable wood. He’s impartial to the fully-operative kitchen just a glance away, but can feel the heat on his skin. It’s why he has to lean to close – he needs to be able to hear your meek voice against the noise. He continues, “Well, I can’t blame you. Doesn’t seem like Nanami tells you a lot.” 

“He tells me enough.” You’re sitting over your brothy ramen, itching for your husband's timely return. He had excused himself nearly five minutes ago, off to the bathroom where he’s likely dissociating in the dingy mirror. You wish you could be with him right now… to tangle your fingers lovingly in his hair. 

Instead, you’re scrambling to hold small talk with his stranger, tiptoeing over every thought in your mind because you can’t read him. You can’t even see his eyes. 

“Here you go, handsome.” 

“Thanks, Grandma.” He gives the frail old lady a charming side-smirk as she hands over his food, cradling the bottom so he can secure the top. You’re hardly regarding him now, reaching into Kento’s forgotten bowl for the soft-boiled egg he was eating around. 

You’ve got it between your chopsticks, bringing it to your parted lips until Satoru interrupts you.. Again. 

“I would stay and wait for him, but I’ve got hungry teenagers to feed.” He holds his paper bag as if it’s a prized project, beaming at you through soft, pink lips. Your eyebrows furrow. “Crazy running into you, huh? I didn’t even know you existed!” 

You’re scoffing, licking over your teeth as your egg falls back into undulating, cooling broth. A fly whizzes past your head, the door alarm chirps with a new patron… Where is Kento?

“I’m sure he had his reasons.” 

“For what? Hiding you?” Satoru shrugs, blowing air through his teeth. “Ah, who knows? I’m his senior, and he’s got quite a few good years on me. Anyways,” He waves you off, walking backwards towards the doorway. “Got an assistant waiting on me. We should catch up sometime; I have a lot of High School stories to tell you about that one. Tell Kento I said bye!” 

You breathe out a laugh, watching his noisy exit dissipate into the calmness of the city night. Behind the glass, a car engine purrs, in front of you, meat sizzles lightly. You laugh again, smiling at your cold ramen with a shaking head. 

So that was Gojo Satoru. 

Timed to perfection, Kento emerges from the slotted wood door with a stern look on his face, running a hand over his chin as he locks eyes with you. 

“You asshole.” Your eyes are wide with admiration when he walks over to you, smirking softly. 

Kento raises his hand, fingers trailing against your jawline. “Thanks for covering for me.” 

“I thought you died and went to heaven in there.” You settle back into normalcy as he does, picking up his utensils and shooting you an unsaid glance. “You’re not vague; he knew you were avoiding him.” 

“I’m not worried about that. Gojo is not my friend. We haven’t gotten along in years.” Kento’s talking to his soup, now, picking up noodles and letting them fall. “I would never in my life choose to be friends with a Jujutsu Sorcerer… Did you take my egg?” 

You stifle a giggle, fishing out the broken egg from a tuft of bean sprouts in your bowl. He glares down at the scene, then blinks up at you — that glare fades into absolute grey. “I think he’s sweet. A little overbearing, but the intention is there.” 

Kento stares down at the you-sized bite in the soft-boiled egg, then flits back to your face again. “At least I know it’s soft-boiled.” 

His stoic joke prompts a gentle laugh. “You never eat your egg until the end. It was staring at me… Actually, it’s tax for pushing your clingy colleague onto me.” 

“You’re transactional.” 

“Not as transactional as you.”

Kento doesn’t kiss you in public like this, but he reaches out to close his palm over your knuckles, squeezing just enough to feel it. Hand kisses — the only way he can be so outwardly intimate in the most unassuming of ways. He’s making it glaringly obvious just how close he wants to be to you, right now. He needs his comfort blanket. “I believe in like-minded soulmates. I believe in you.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You’re perfect for me. Neither of us has to speak much for the point to get across.” Kento continues, letting words flow without filtering through them too much. It’s the fault of that empty glass to the left of his bowl, which he disregards in favor of staring into your comforting gaze. “Oftentimes, silence is comforting as much as it is scary. You’ve never been afraid of the silence, have I ever told you that I’ve noticed that, before?” 

He catches you in the middle of a slurp, gilded eyes watching your soft lips, then your concentrated, familiar face. You shake your head.

“But I also can’t help but wonder just how much you swallow down in favor of it.” 

“Marriage is compromise.” 

“You still wouldn’t tell me…” He leaves the conversation open, moving his hand to cradle the back of your chair. It’s a blatant sign of possessiveness, letting everyone who passes by know that you’re his, as if it wasn’t obvious already. “But, it is alright, I suppose. I am in love with your mystery.” 

“I’m an open-book compared to you.” You let your utensils sit at the edge of the bowl as you lean closer to him – not kissing, just resting your forehead over the jut of his strong chest. He smiles where you can’t see, and closes his big hand over the back of your shoulder. 

Kento knows – this is unlike you. Even if it’s just a featherlight slip in your demeanor, he always knows. “Are you tired?” 

“Little bit.” You slur into the fabric, smiling when his hand travels up your neck, getting lost in your hair for a second. You know, it’s the food and the fact that it’s well past Midnight – the shop is still bustling, ripe with those who can drink the equivalent of their body weight at the bars down the street, and still have enough sanity to stumble around for sustenance. 

You won’t lie and say you don’t miss it – being that young and free. Now, your husband has you tied down after years of hardship and constant growth. Your bones are sore with it, but there’s nowhere you’d rather be – nothing you’d rather be doing than losing yourself piece by piece, all wrapped up in his big arms. 

Lately, you’ve been thinking about it all – what your purpose is if not always at Kento’s beck and call. He hates when you bring it up; he thinks you dull yourself down far too much, but you are ripe with knowing. His stipulations are strict, and they’re all you’ve been focused on. 

So, pressed to his hard chest, in front of all these littered bodies, you whisper. “I want a baby, Kento.” 

“Absolutely, not.” 

You ask him one more time at home, stepping knee-first into bed next to him. “Why won’t you give me a baby?” 

“A multitude of reasons.” Kento lies in bed, back to you, arms tight around his chest as he fights sleep. He’s so drained, weighed down from nightmares and paranoia. He knows, once he closes his eyes, that he’ll see it again – his ticking timer. 

“Explain.” You sit next to him, legs crossed, leaning over his frame to see his face. Kento looks peaceful like this, with closed eyes and a stale face. 

“Don’t want to pass this curse onto anyone.” 

“That’s selfish.” 

“It’s the opposite.” His tone deepens—a warning—a cool splash of water down your back. You shiver with it, knowing this conversation is one best left in the dust. Unluckily for Kento, you are persistent. A beautiful, tempting thorn in his side. “What will you and that child do when I don’t come home from a mission? I know you are strong, but a child is a defenseless sponge, absorbing everything they are susceptible to.” 

“I’m sorry,” You start, smoothing a reassuring touch over his bare shoulder before your reply hits. “That’s selfish.” 

“This conversation is over.” He clears his throat, settling in his spot, shaking off your touch. The only light in the room spills from your bedside table, an indicator that you’re the only one who wants this conversation to carry. You pout into the darkness, touch still grazing his icy skin as it rises and falls with life. Hesitant to his standoffish mood, you lean over and kiss him on the cheek, letting it linger. 

“Can we talk about it when you’re not so tired?” 

“My mind will not change, but I won’t say no.” 

That makes you smile, if only for a second. No time passes at all before his breath starts to steady out with sleep. 

Then, it starts the next day – right before the sun comes up, Kento’s alarms are blaring. 

It’s a familiar, yet brutal wakeup call. He tries to silence them immediately, thoughtful for your sake, but it never works. You’re cracking open your eyes when he thinks you’re still asleep. 

Though, you can’t see him, you can hear him open his mouth in a silent yawn, covers shifting and rubbing against you as he steps out. The coldness at the sudden lack of him is startling, but familiar all the same. Before he can shrug to the bathroom, you make yourself known. 

“We don’t have to have a baby, now.” 

“Really?” Is all he replies with before leaving you in the dust. Though they’re half open, you find the early-morning energy to roll your eyes, settling back with your pillows to try and catch a few more minutes of rest. 

Over breakfast, it’s the same. You serve him like you always do, loose, silken fabric hanging off your body, hair loose, and in a fashion only he can see you in. His eyes linger over your chest as you bend in front of him, setting his plates, bowls, and cups in reach. Kento clears his throat. 

“I wish you would live this down for a bit; children are not on my mind.” 

“They don’t have to be on yours to be on mine.” You reply, watching as he brings his ceramic green tea cup to his lips. He highly dislikes being watched when he eats, but of course, you’re the only exception, and you’re staring him dead-on. “You have to give me something, Kento. This job stole you from me – I need something.” Now, it’s like you’re begging, eyes flicking from his lips to his distant, golden eyes as he sighs. “We didn’t agree to this – you did. What we both can agree on is the fact that I’ll go insane if my only purpose is cleaning up your messes when you get home.” 

“Is this what this argument is about? If you feel like you need a job, get a job. I just will not be happy with you.” 

“I don’t want a job, I want a baby.” 

Kento brings his utensils to his lips, cradling a fluffy tuft of rice that he speaks over, “No.” 

That fateful last attempt falls on Halloween night. Kento actually leaves work when he’s supposed to. 

You’ve been home all day, listening to the newscaster drone on and on to the college kids who treat today like an excuse to do whatever they want. You and Kento live in a good part of the city – tucked right on the outskirts, off the ground. You wouldn’t see much of the holiday crowd through your windows, but you could hear how lively the streets still were even when they were supposed to die down. You don’t mind – the background noise makes your laundry list of chores go by a bit easier. 

Folding his clothes, washing your hair in the sink, getting down to your knees to wipe the base of the walls – it floats by mindlessly like clockwork. You do what you always do – take care of him. 

At least you’re not in the workforce, subject to its cruelties and coming home too exhausted to move. No, you’re spoiled. You agreed to this pastel way of life as long as your man was always close by. 

Just what he needs the most – Kento comes home right after 6 to a sparkling house and a divine wife. Though you’re not waiting on your knees for him at the door, you’re in an even better position, back to him as you nurse his dinner over the stove. His arrival so early surprises you, but there’s no air in your chest to complain. No, you can only smile over at him, relieved to see the face that gave you everything. 

He doesn’t look… tense, today. Perhaps a little more tired than usual, but lively enough to shoot you a silent smile back. His work bag drops on the floor next to his shoes he bends over to peel off. 

You’ve got a broth slowly simmering down, only stepping away from it when you deem it neutral enough not to boil over. You wipe your damp hands on the back of your leggings, biting over your lip to hide the smile. 

“Hello,” you purr, stupid and giddy when he looks up at you with that slow, dominant gaze. His hand reaches around his neck, rolling his fingers in the stress knot behind his loose neckline. 

“You’re all I have been wanting to see today.” He replies, relieved at the mere sight of you. It’s like he morphs down into nothing when he’s in your presence – truly, carefree to an extent he hasn’t felt since he was a child. It’s in the way you remind him of his mother, how you move like the breeze – so intentional, yet steady and mystic. His arms almost pass through you when he reaches out, because you’re already so close. Impossibly close. 

Yet, you stand dutifully on the other side of the room, smiling over your shoulder, trying to draw him in. You know your husband too well – you know he needs you right now. He just won’t say it. 

“Have you thought more about our conversation?” Knees crossed, you stand with an arm against the side of your counter, giving him a look so familiar and tempting that he couldn’t possibly say no again. 

“Not even a ‘how are you’?” 

“How are you?” You catch yourself, standing up to crowd him gently as he steps deeper into the hallway. His long, slim fingers work at his buttons, not popping them, just fiddling with the hardness. “Sorry.” 

“Truthfully, I was thinking about how to complete my mission the fastest so I can get home to you… off the streets before they fill up for the holiday.” 

“Sure.” You hum, gaze downcast. Stepping in front of him, you reach forward to smooth your palms over his chest. His dragging touch melts into yours. “And you come back to me every time.” 

Kento makes a face, looking past you – eyes glazed. Again, from this close, he doesn’t look tense, but he seems tired. You dig your fingers into the muscle to remind him that you’re near. “Wasn’t that always the deal?” 

“You always come home… and I’m there for you.” 

“You are enough.” 

“Not for me.” 

Kento closes his hands around your elbows, touch spanning over your being like warm bathwater. He squeezes you. “How about a cat?” 

You don’t know how to take that – if you should laugh and take his ease for disinterest, or if you should curse his bluff. Either way, you’re leaning into his statuesque frame, okay with being pedaled over if it means he could hold you for a second. 

And, he does. His palms flatten and melt against your back as you rest your cheek on his chest. Kento can’t see the frown that flickers over your bitten lips, but he can feel the dip in your demeanor. It dips every time he tells you no. 

No baby, no kisses – they all hurt the same. 

Kento knows he crossed some boundaries. “I apologize, I didn’t mean that.” 

You pull away after a moment, doing your best to put a smile on your face as you walk back to the stove. Wiping your palms over the back of your pants, you mumble as you crowd your pot, watching your reflection in the polished tile backsplash as you stare wantonly into nothingness. “Don’t be. There are beers in the fridge for you.” 

He nods, following you to the kitchen to retrieve one from the pack you bought with the groceries you’re preparing. Kento said goodbye to you this morning with a kiss and a shiny, sturdy credit card he keeps on his person, willing you to spend it all however you see fit. 

“I hate seeing you so quiet.” He mentions, back to the fridge door as he cracks one open. After a sip, he steadies himself, shaking his head. “Even when we were kids, I told you how I felt about the idea of children. I don’t need them to feel fulfilled, I just need you.” 

“I didn’t need them, either.” You scoff, giving your stew more attention than your doting husband. He stands right at arm's length, but you don’t reach out. “And I don’t understand a lot of things, but I can understand the fact that this ‘job’ has more of you than I do. That’s fine, I can live with it – but I can’t live alone. Actually, I won’t.” 

“I have always given you everything you need.” He whispers over the aluminum cut of his can, voice blowing back into his face. “And then some.” 

“I’m allowed to feel like I’m lacking something.” 

“You sprung this on me a week ago.” 

You swallow down a rebuttal, reaching forward to turn your burner off. Kento looks over with a distant stare, lips curled up like he wants to speak, but doesn’t know what to say anymore. 

“Pumpkin curry, tonight.” You whisper, pulling the pot to a cool burner to settle. Behind you, the rice cooker chimes in with a signal of doneness. You turn around. “Sit at the table, I’ll bring it to you.” 

No words, just a soft kiss on the cheek to rid himself of your presence, if only for a moment. Kento turns his back to you, cool beer sliding down his exhausted throat as he makes his way to the table. 

In the kitchen, you’re feeling the lack. It feels like an eclipse in your chest – totality’s taken over, and it’s dragging you with it. The tides are changing, but you know this is temporary. It has to be temporary – this marriage is everything, but never unhappy. Just lacking. 

Walking behind him at the head of the table, you present Kento with yet another meal, placing it gently in front of him with a kiss to the back of his head. Leaning back into your comfort, he hums, strong neck twitching under you. 

Usually, you’d round the table and take that seat across from him, but tonight, you let him have this big, empty table to himself. There’s nothing that drives home the emptiness like being the head of a bare seven-seat polished wood dining table. 

“Are you not-

“I just have to excuse myself. Give me a few moments.” 

He nods, settling down with his utensils in hand. It’s only when you head off to the bathroom that he responds with an errand. “Could you take my phone? It’s nearly dead.” 

“Sure.” You pause, turning around to retrieve it when he pulls it from the side pocket of his work pants. “I’ll set out a change of clothes for you, too.” 

“I love you.” 

You nod.

On your way to the bedroom, you stop and place Kento’s phone on the charger, face-up so nobody bothers him when you’re taking time together. Tonight could go one of two ways – he’d slide in next to you in bed, kissing your shoulders to sleep, or he’d trail his lips over the small of your neck, whispering how much he desires you after his long day. 

You hope he chooses you tonight. You hope he fucks you to sleep, too lazy and territorial to pull out and leave you cold. 

As he eats, you slide into the attached bathroom, hands in your hair as you tie it up and head for the sink. On the tile, your perfume holds its spot – organized litter of skincare, soaps, and luxury smell-goods gives the modernity a fleeting feeling of coziness. You crank on the hot water, reaching your hands under the faucet to cup it, when your eyes fall upon your foiled pack of contraceptives. 

You usually take them at night when you’re washing your face – what you’re doing now. It’s easy to remember when it’s so close, you could never forget it. Now, you’re eyeing it with invisible disdain, eyebrows furrowing as you decide if it’s worth it or not. Realistically, you’d take them just so you don’t throw your body into a mean orbit of hormone changes, but that isn’t what you wanted. You didn’t want to deprive your body and mind of what you needed the most – call it lust or ovulation, but the thought makes you crazy. 

Pulling your hands out of the water, you grab the pills and march them to the trash can, not even bothering to bury or hide it when you move back to the sink to resume your task. 

The house is so silent – there’s no soft music going on that you usually turn on this time of night. Kento silently enjoys his dinner, unbothered by your pressing questions about his day and the plans for the future that you two dwell on day after day. Retirement is so far away for him, but it doesn’t stop the need to dream – to plan where the money goes and where you want to settle at.

Staring at your dripping reflection in the mirror, you hate how wound-up you feel. Surely, this had to be some dip in your hormones. Perhaps you’d wake up bleeding tomorrow, but your body doesn’t feel like it’s on the verge. You just feel pent-up. Wet fingers dig into the side of the sink, and your jaw tightens. 

Meticulously, you apply layer after layer of potions and products, working them into your skin like it’s the only thing you care about. It’s the small things like this that you do for Kento – taking care of yourself abnormally well just so when his finger trails over your skin, all he feels is silky softness. The same goes for the warm, delicate lace you choose to slip over your skin tonight.

Some nights, he despises the extra mess that comes between him and your body, but tonight, you wouldn’t let him choose. You pick out a simple, white lace slip and pull a robe over it, letting your bare feet carry you over your clean floors back to where he sits, eating. 

You work the curtains closed on your way back, blinking back the promise of sleep you know you’d have to succumb to shortly. It’s a good feeling – finally being able to rest after spending hours taking care of something that won’t talk back. 

“Was wondering what was keeping you,” Kento mutters when you slip into your spot across from him. He notices your change in attire – the prepped and polished gleam of your skin as you settle with a smile. 

“Figured I should give you time to eat alone.” You smile, leaning over the empty space in front of you. Kento’s nearly finished with his meal, chopsticks resting on the side of his plate as he drinks his beer down. “How is it?” 

“Delicious. Just like you, my darling.” 

“I let it simmer all day. Roasted and peeled the pumpkin myself.” 

“You have incredible talent.” 

“It’s all the time I have on my hands.” Watching him with your chin in your hands, you’re mystified by the way he moves his capable hands. They’re strong – crossed with veins that could strangle you to a sweet death. You smile at them, then to his familiar hazel eyes that gleam a little brighter when they catch yours. 

“Won’t having a child hinder that?” 

“Isn’t that the point?” 

Kento screws his lips together, tongue in cheek. “Perhaps you should get into art again.” 

“That won’t give me what children will.” 

He sighs again, cranking his jaw as he brings his drink back to his lips. “You are impossible.” 

You wait for him in bed, blankets pulled up to your chin as the shower turns off. The room is filled with the thickness of steam and bodywash, suffocating you when you take a breath too deeply. He invited you to join him this time, but you declined. 

You don’t have the energy to hold yourself up in the shower when he takes you – all you wanted to do was lie there and whisper sweet-nothings in his ear. It’ll be easy for him to get carried away like that, obsessed with how the dim light looks on your skin and how cozy and safe being inside of you made him feel 

Kento takes his time scrubbing his skin clean, eyes shut against the spray as ribbons of lather slide from his naked body. In the back of his mind, he stews over work. If he were being responsible like he always was, he’d get his phone from the kitchen and bring it to bed with him, but he can’t be bothered tonight. 

He’ll choose to wake up with the sun tomorrow, and not to his alarms. He just needed this time with you completely. No phones. No sound, just you. 

Kento steps out of the shower, hot steam rising from his back as he ties a towel around his waist. He does little in front of the mirror – running a comb through his stringy locks, rubbing oils and lotions into his warm skin. His neck cracks when he shifts, walking past the toilet to leave the room and give you his nakedness. 

But he sees it. Sparkling like his worst nightmare. 

“I hope this was a misunderstanding.” He walks back into the bedroom, light spilling from the bathroom, illuminating the case of pills his holds between his fingers. You sit up, heart hammering in excitement at the onslaught of his presence.

You shake your head, playing dumb. “What is that?” 

“Your contraceptives. In the trash.” You can’t read his face in the shadow of darkness. You can’t see the twitch in his brow, or the sterness of his gaze. “There are five pills left in this case.” 

You clear your throat, pushing your covers to your lap. “I-it must have been an accident, I don’t-

“Did you take one tonight?” 

You don’t speak. Swallowing down nerves, you nod softly. 

“Then, you threw the rest away?” 

“It was an acciden-

“What a convenient accident.” There’s something there… a chuckle. No, he sounds just as wound as you feel, anger fluttering like butterflies in his chest. 

Between your thighs, you’re buzzing, on-edge with the dominant bite of his tone and the width of his bare shoulders. You need him to pin you down and air his anger out in your ear. You can take it then, and only then. 

Not when he’s standing at the end of your bed like you owe him money.

“I said, I took it.” 

“I don’t believe you.” 

“Just wear a condom, then.” 

Kento drops his hand, overcome and annoyed to his very soul. He doesn’t mean to be spoiled, but nearly ten years of the same routine, and now you’re asking him to change for a night – it just didn’t feel right. Not like this. Not when you’ve been hounding him for children all week. 

“Just how do you expect me to react to that?” 

Innocent and inviting, you shake your head again, blinking deftly. This look you’re giving him – it’s calculated. The clueless, puppy-dog stare that wills him to dive in and train you gets him to the core. The brattiness, the look in your eyes – the mere smell of you. 

It makes him twitch. 

Kento tosses the case behind him and crawls into bed. 

Then, you feel it – fated and distant. He climbs over you, yanking those blankets from your covered body and diving in like your skin is a fountain of youth. He kisses your neck first, knee pressed between yours, willing them open as he licks you clean. 

You taste bitter, like the lingering alcohol in your perfume, and he swears it intoxicates him further. All your sweet, still whimpers do is drive him deeper – lighting that territorial fire in his gut when his hand dips between your thighs. 

Intimacy falls like dominoes into place, capturing you in its familiar whims, even when you can taste his annoyance in the air. You know it’ll all fade into grey once he feels you wrapped around him like a warm, moist glove. But, Kento’s taking his time, now. He’s trailing his fingertips over your soft underwear, fingers dipping against the fabric to toy with your cunt. It takes nothing – you’re wet for him, pooling and darkening the fabric on impact. 

He just knows his way around your body. His grip is tight enough to hurt, but loose enough to be loving. You can’t help but smile into the air, knowing this was all you’d been thinking about all day. 

“Are you gonna wear one?” You whisper between hot kisses, back arched like a bow, ready to snap if his lips trail any closer to your neck. He knows you’re sensitive like a live-wire, there – right in that dip before your collarbone. It’s where you want him. 

“I don’t own any condoms. The last few ones we had, I threw away a year ago. They were expired.” 

You hold your breath. “Will you stop?” 

Kento stops for a second, breath hot on your throat as he licks over his bottom lip. “No.” 

It’s not because he trusts you – Kento knows. He knows you better than he knows himself. That little look in your eyes clouded over by the darkness is damning and fucking tempting. He tears off your panties like they’re paper, mouth watering as your thighs jiggle and swallow the loose fabric like it’s nothing. His gaze blinks down between the two of you, throat bobbing as your thighs part even wider for him, giving a nose and eyeful of your most sensitive patch of skin. 

Silently, he blinks back up to you, sitting face-to-face. “You’re perfect.” 

You bite down on a soft laugh, head tossing back when his fingers curl and play in your labia, stroking your clit with every soft flick of his expertly driven fingers.

This is his body. He’s playing with it like a video game – curling his fingers, whispering in your ear, chuckling when your whines break and spill all over the moment. 

All you can see is darkness. Your hand holds his head near, fingers tangled in those locks you could perish in. 

“I’m tired, I just wanna lie here.” You’re slurring your words, free hand gripping the sheets like they’d disappear if you stopped. Kento’s weight is suffocating, but in the best way. He’s pressed so wholly into your side, strong nose nuzzling your skin as his kisses drive you deeper and deeper until there’s nothing in your mind but fog. “Mm, baby!”

“Shh,” He coaxes, smiling against your skin as his fingers jut across your dipping entrance. He’s playing in your slick, coating his fingers in the mess so the friction is sweet and lubricated. You’re on the fucking verge already, tossing your head back when his thumb tugs at your screaming clit. It’s so good – his fingers moving masterfully between you before he rises to his knees. 

Without a touch, only the thought of you has him grinding down in his fist – working his thick cock to oblivion as he stares you on. The sight is so welcomed, so familiar that you’re dying and melting just at the sight. In the darkness, the reflection jumps across the shiny beads of pre that dip and trail across his knuckles. The shiver in his stomach as the sensitivity takes the best of him makes you crazy – absolutely feral, foaming at the mouth as drool drips. 

You turn your head, defiantly choosing not to look. You can’t stare at him like this; it’s too good. 

“Lie down.” He demands, a hidden grit behind his soft tone. Kento shifts to his knees between your parted legs, wet, brown bangs falling in his face as he mounts you in perfect missionary. 

You swallow, nodding as you let your back melt into the comfort of the bed. You could fall asleep like this – allowing the downiness to swallow you up and keep you warm. Kento hovers over you, and you’re sandwiched between heat and impossible comfort. It’s how you want to die, but Kento has other plans. 

He slides into you with an ease that only he can seem to achieve in situations like this. His strong arms don’t budge as he holds himself up in a plank, breathing over your forehead as one hand reaches to guide his length inside of you. 

The stretch has you reeling at first, reaching up to catch his arm as you hiss softly. “Mmf– slow.” 

“Oka-okay,” He replies, eyes squeezed shut as he lets you adjust. His back aches, cracking with the cruel position he’s driving himself into. “So warm…” 

“I love you.” You start again, closing both arms around his back to pull him close. The only reason you’re not dragging him chest-to-chest is because you want him like this. You want him hovering over you like a sturdy God, eyes locked on the perfect view of his tense neck. You want to hear him swallow down that impossible want for you over and over again until he’s drunk and overheated. 

You want him to be so enamored that he doesn’t even think twice when he finishes inside of you. 

The thought makes you weak; it clouds every unsure thought that ever crossed your mind about Kento and this situation. You know, if you beg, Kento would give you the world. Yes, he’ll run around the point and avoid conversations, but you know that if you wanted a baby, all you had to do was ask. 

So, you do. 

“Please, Kento – please, I wanna- wanna have your babies. Let me have them. Give’m to me.” You beg, full to the brim when he bottoms out. It’s too good to be uncomfortable – too familiar to be painful. In the darkness, you scratch at his shoulders, pulling him closer even though he won’t budge. Kento speaks to you through his heavy pants, giving you the reassurance you need when he has to bite down on full-bodied moans. 

His core quivers, balls full and aching for you. Kento leans over to kiss you, lips caught in that sweet, barely-there chu when he pulls back. “The thought of you…” He stops, holding your left knee hostage as he yanks it over his waist. The blankets jut and roll over his naked legs sensually, rustling with every touch – every sweet thrust. “Pregnant with my baby… giving her everything… Mm, God–” 

“I wan’ it.” 

“Tell me how much.” He grunts, voice so deep in your ear it nearly sends you to an early grave. He’s fucking you the only way he knows how – punching balls deep with every thrust. Grip so tight and true that you’re sure it will bloom your skin red come sunrise. “Need to hear you.” 

“Want you to fill me up so full with your babies, please. Need to be yours inside and out. Need to give you so many babies.” You’re talking out of your ass, eyes screwed shut in pleasure. You’re not thinking too hard about anything right now, giving every shred of your energy to pressing Kento closer and closer until nothing is separating you. Not even air, just skin. 

“There you go, babe.” He whispers, chasing your lips in a sweet, heated exchange. He sucks them like they’re made out of candy, hips grinding deep into you as he drives it home. 

All night, you two are lost in it. 

Worlds away, Kento’s phone lights and vibrates with missed calls – he doesn’t care. 

Outside of these four walls, outside of the safety in your capable arms, the world doesn’t exist. Kento has nowhere he has to be, and you have nobody you need to impress. Nothing is worth peeling him from this moment. 

-

It ends in a clinic deep in the countryside. 

Kento moved you out of the city as soon as the devastation set in – ten months ago, Halloween night. He gave you his all. Every single piece of him that sorcery couldn’t steal. It was his savior. Kento lost too many of his colleagues because he didn’t run when they called, but for some reason, he’s not ashamed. 

No, he’s quite at ease sitting with you, chest to back. 

You’re a soldier, going about this the only way you know how. Natural to boot – as painful as possible. You woke him up last night with undeniable stomach pain in your third-trimester pregnant belly. You figured it was a build-up of gas, but Kento knew it was time. His little girl, blessed with her Sun in Cancer just like he was, is ripe and on the way. No daily stretching and long baths could keep the low-hanging pregnancy at bay. 

He can feel the tenseness of your back as you groan and writhe in pain, sweat sticking to his bare skin, hands intertwined at his side. A wet nurse cheers you on from the dimmed darkness, understanding the pain you were in, but understanding that this little girl is coming whether you like it or not. 

It’s been ten hours of this grueling, non-stop labor. Kento’s been there through every second. There is nowhere he’d rather be than at your side, wiping up vomit and massaging your swollen feet. 

It was all worth it. All the survivor's guilt he felt for leaving his co-workers in the dust. All the hormonal arguments and long nights at your side were nothing in contrast to this moment. He can feel your hand squeeze him tighter as that last push takes your body hostage. He wishes he were more focused in this moment,  but he’s so silently overwhelmed that he doesn’t know where to look – what to do. Kento just knows that one wrong move or word would send you into oblivion. 

So, he keeps quiet… until the room breaks into heart-wrenching infant sobs. He holds his breath.

Until you roll your head back on his shoulder in relief, and the nurse holds up your writhing infant, supporting the back of her tiny neck. He still isn’t sure what to do – it feels as if his heart just grew five sizes in the span of two seconds. 

All he sees is his little girl – all he can feel is you. 

When you’re finally able to hold your daughter in your arms, Kento doesn’t say anything. He just watches as you bring her tiny face to yours, your smile exhausted and half-baked as you touch nose-to-nose to the infant. 

You whisper. “Oh, my Rin.” 

Kento’s world is complete. 

[eraserbread]

wife guy nanami but make him middle aged with a dad bod and i am satisfied..

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Hiii do you have a masterlist for the ex husband gojo series? 💕

i do! it’s right here :))

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kicking my feet because I miss you and your writing that feels like the softest kiss to my heart

HEY IMYYY 💝💝 i’ll be back to my normal in a few days u guys bet im gonna be flooding your tl with so many pent up ideas

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currently chillin on a beach in malaysia w nanami (aka im on vacation) and good wife is queued for next week! otherwise i will be inactive with everything else! love u, stay sexy

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hiii are ur requests open?

not quite yet! they’ll be back open by the first or second week of august and i’ll let you guys know <3

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When you describe what kind of music Suguru and reader make in passion play I imagine it sounds like Wisp lowkey O.o that is the vibe to me 🙂‍↕️

yessss babe ugh u get it! i loved the idea for this series because i’m only giving u lyrics, the songs can sound however they want you to.

to me, they definitely sound like a mixture of wisp, the maria’s, and men i trust 😩

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Tribbing u soon for all these delicious requests you’ve been releasing

HHAHAHA i'm free tomorrow :P

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suguru's slutty little waist :(( wow.

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all your best friend with benefits, suguru, needs to prove you wrong is some alone time ;) ✧ ୨୧ - based off this ask

→ afab!reader, established "relationship", fingering, teasing, pet names, nsfw

"mm, i don't know, i've never actually been so desperate that I needed to get myself off like that."

he hums, so sugar-sweet that it sticks to your skin before he can even speak. "it's not about being desperate, it's about caring for yourself."

"but you're always there when i need caring for."

"and you're spoiled," he states, tone flat as a plate. his slow pointer finger plays against your thigh, a solemn smirk on his face as he waits for you to answer.

"sorry, i'm not a fingering type of girl." you roll your eyes, expecting the comment to land over him like another joke. suguru's eyes snap up, gaze bleak through the dim light -- challenging you. "it just never felt that good to me."

"you don't think it feels good?"

suguru doesn't just make you eat your words. no -- he pries open your jaw and forces them back down your throat.

of course, it'd feel good if his thick, long, expertly kept, and gentle fingers slipped between your thighs. but, you didn't think it'd feel like this once they dipped sinfully, two of them rubbing steadily through your labia, collecting all the sweet slick he earned so quickly.

just a touch -- you're his.

"oh, my- oh, my god right there! fuck, don't stop, baby, 's fucking good."

the way he has you -- fuck, like a magician. his thumb plays with your clit like a happy pill, twirling it against the ridges and dips of his print as he fucks you steadily on three of his fingers. he's pretending like this stretch isn't insane, far exceeding anything you can achieve by yourself.

hovering over you with your back pinned to his couch, suguru eases you along with his sweet voice. "yeah? where, right here? oh, there it is."

right there -- that fucking spot that has you reeling and seeing stars. he thumbs down on your clit again, massaging that crazy upward slant that has you slurring your words. "mmfh--fuck! shut the fuc-fuck up."

overwhelmed and overstimulated, you reach for his hand, locking it between your thighs. his breath is hot on your neck, hair tickling your overheated skin. there, he kisses you, lingering long enough to feel it as he stretches his fingers inside of you.

your back is bending, thighs tightening. you want to strangle him to keep him there forever, but right now, with him skin-to-skin like this, you've learned to let go.

“baby, you had me fooled. I thought it didn't feel good?" he muses, pushing out his bottom lip like being a pitiful tool was his full-time job. "looks like you're feeling good to me."

there are no walls when he's milking your orgasm out of you like it's his favorite pastime, whispering dirty secrets in your ear that you'll take to the grave.

his clearness washes through you once that heady wave has taken its toll, and it's fucked out and out-of-breath, do you whisper into his skin, "okay, you were right."

suguru smiles as if he just won your heart.

[eraserbread]

indie's must reads

my personal favorites fics of mine

only ones who know starring villain!Gojo + hero!Geto

no. one party anthem starring childhood fwb!Sukuna + rockstar!Geto

cyberbully!Sukuna

slim pickins starring toxic!Satosugu + rebound!Sukuna

snowed in starring yeti!Gojo

paranoid android! starring robot!Reader

how to babytrap marry your best friend starring baby daddy!Geto

simply ear-resistable! starring bunny!Geto

(don't) kiss me starring fwb!Geto

prince charming starring prince!Gojo + bandit!Sukuna

faking it starring broke!Geto + tattoo artist!Sukuna

the king's cock crown starring emperor!Gojo

test drive starring f1!Sukuna

my favorite fics from other blogs

what you know starring Sukuna by @starmapz

well, are you mine? starring Sukuna by @madamechrissy

the drowning starring Geto by @peppertoastuniverse

beat your heart to death starring Gojo + Geto by @specialgradefckr

the parasite starring Sukuna by @yenayaps

aita for stealing my hookup's cat? starring Geto by @toadtoru -> now @ken-toad

roll for initiative starring Gojo + Geto by @snail-day

nice to meow-t you starring Geto by @baepsays

bound to be starring Sukuna by @/baepsays

not just anybody starring Sukuna by @/yenayaps

isekai'd as game protag starring Gojo by @sixeyesonathiel

dilf!Kento starring Nanami by @webism

billion dollar man starring Sukuna by @emphism

untitled drabble starring Sukuna by @deathofacupid

a cat-astophric curse starring Nanami (acct deactivated)

convergence theory starring Geto + Gojo by @deathofacupid

untitled drabble starring Gojo by @redrrem

scorched earth starring Gojo by @nanamiskentos

armageddon starring jjk!men by @/nanamiskentos

the fool's guide to romance starring Geto by @cuntyji

wherever you go, that's where I'll follow starring Gojo by @milawritess

spoiled starring nanami + toji by @edenarchives

currit in sanguine nostra starring Sukuna by @ccazimi

alien!Choso by @gossamyrrh

untitled drabble starring Gojo by @cuntphoric

infect me with your love starring Gojo by @fushitoru

kiss it better starring Sukuna by @kunareads

symbiosis starring Geto by @spearofheaven

some assembly required starring Sukuna by @cupidstrace

buried treasure starring Gojo by @starmapz

way out there starring Sukuna by @lily-bisque

false heaven starring Gojo + Geto by @nialovessatoru

fucking with your ex is iconic starring Sukuna by @letteremi

mama I'm in love with a criminal starring Sukuna by @j3llyc4kes

miss conway, with love starring Gojo by @hellowoolf

birds of a feather starring Sukuna by @sukunahs

sugar sweet starring Gojo by @theorphicangel

put me in a movie starring Geto by @eraserbread

silent confessions starring Nanami @v1x3n

if I say your name starring Gojo by @kuncitizen

it's a bad idea, right? starring Geto by @gojom0jo

newton's law in brat taming starring Gojo by @edensrose

lovegame starring Gojo + Geto by @all-with-angel

fuck you (on that bike) starring Sukuna by @gojosconsort

web of secrets starring Gojo by @junos-chronicles

my favorite smaus

short n sweet starring jjk!men by @tsukuhoe

nine lives starring Sukuna by @cherryblossom-heart

who is she? starring jjk!men by @cherryblossom-heart

hospital room starring jjk!men by @digitalro

aphrodisiac starring jjk!men by @naammiii

the other woman starring Gojo by @cinnamorollcrybaby

just a pretty face starring jjk!men by @loveyislost

my main masterlist is here

there were so many others I wanted to include but I tried to keep this from getting too long >.< other recs can be found on my blog using #indiesrecs *reminder to PLEASE read rules and content warnings posted for each fic* also highly recommend checking out all of these blogs since they have so many more pieces than I can list here <3