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I CAN'T LOOSE YALL EITHER OR I'M GONNA GO INSANE.

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❝𝙈𝘼𝙆𝙀𝙎 𝙈𝙀 𝙒𝘼𝙉𝙉𝘼 𝘿𝙊 𝙏𝙃𝙄𝙉𝙂𝙎 𝙏𝙃𝘼𝙏 𝙄 𝙎𝙃𝙊𝙐𝙇𝘿𝙉'𝙏.ᐟ❞

S. SANO + RYUGUJI!F. READER

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 ; fucking your little brother's role model while they're just outside is probably something you shouldn't do but shinichiro was just so cute that you couldn't help it!

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 ; smut, public sex?, oral (m receiving), backshots, p in v, slutty!reader kinda, reader is draken's sister, shin being pussy drunk, loser!shin, kinda short, smoking, unprotected sex, shin's weak ass pull out game, reader skin color not mentioned

marls notes 2 u(*´▽｀*) ; one of my all time fav tr writers liked my rinnie post AND reposted it(≧∇≦) !! literally had me giggling and kicking my feet yall :3

The sound of the bell ringing as the door opened gained Shinichio’s attention as he worked on a bike in the front of the shop, he looked up to see who walked in and the cigarette nearly fell out of his mouth with how his lips parted. There stood probably the most beautiful woman Shinichiro had ever seen, you. You stood there with the sunlight shining behind you like you were an angel staring at him with a delightful look on your face, his eyes trailed to your side seeing your little brother, draken standing right next to you with your hand on the side of his head pressing his face into your lower torso as an act of affection but he had an annoyed look on his face obviously not enjoying it.

You must’ve been his sister, draken did say you might come around one day because of how worried you were about where he was going all day after school “You’re Shinichiro right?” You asked tilting your head slightly while you both continued to stare at each other, shinichiro’s cheeks turned a bit red as he continued to gaze at you and your body “Uh yeah.” The smile on your face grew at his response, his voice was hot. He was hot and his voice matched it, you decide then that you need him.

“Cool, I told Kenny I had to meet you or he wouldn’t be able to play.” You said nodding slightly, draken frowned at your comment and began to grumble something about how they weren’t ‘playing’ and how he told you not to call him that in front of people but you didn’t care. You were too busy staring at the Sano man who still hadn’t broken eye contact with you, the only time he did was when his eyes trailed down to your chest. Shinichiro put down the wrench in his hand and looked at draken “They’re out back.” He told the small blonde boy who almost ran out the door before he remembered to look at you asking for permission silently, he knew how strict you were about asking for permission “You heard him, go.” You didn’t have to tell him twice, draken quickly ran out the front door circling the building shouting for Mikey and announcing that he was here which made a giggle escape you as you broke eye contact with the black-haired male to watch your brother.

Shinichiro reached for the rag that was draped on the handle of the bike as he used the opportunity of you not looking at him to observe your body and drool at how your clothes hugged your shape so perfectly “So uh, what’s your name?” He already knew your name, Draken told him but he wanted you to tell him.

To start a conversation y’know?

“[Y/n].” You said watching as the scrawny man wiped his hands free of any grime or oil that had come from the bike, you slightly bit your lip at the sight of his veiny pale hands as you walked closer to him very slowly “That’s a pretty name.” Shinichiro said taking the cigarette out of his mouth before putting it out on the floor he was kneeling on and tossing it behind him, he’d remind himself to clean that up later but right now, he wasn’t moving an inch away especially with you getting closer to him.

“Thank you, y’know shinichiro’s a pretty name too.” You said smiling widely at the compliment and how Shinichiro chuckled lowly at your reply, he was so cute! Him calling your name pretty shouldn’t have meant that much to you because it was just a simple compliment but for you...it was enough to let him fuck you in the back room of the shop after only a few minutes of small talk.

Your hands planted on the flat table black oil getting all over them as you rocked back and forth making the table shake and your breasts that were held by your lacy bra bounce, Shinichiro’s hands held a firm grip on your hips as he relentlessly pounded into you moaning and groaning about how good you felt while he eyed your smooth back as it arched with every harsh hit to your cervix “F-fuck! Shin…!” You moaned out throwing your head back while trying to keep yourself steady while you stared up at the tools propped up on the wall above your head with your lidded eyes full of lust and small tears, it was just so good.

Your shorts were discarded somewhere on the floor along with your panties and shirt leaving you only in your lacey black bra which Shinichiro was dying to rip off, your legs were shaking as you tried to keep standing and not fall to the ground and Shinichiro’s were too, fuck he hadn’t had sex in a while and his legs were cramping but he was not stopping at all. You felt too good for him to stop now “S-so good…! Mhm, f-fuckkkk, baby.” He moaned out running a hand up your smooth back making shivers run down your spine, your face nearly hit the tools on the wall from how violent his thrusts were but you continued moaning like a porn star like your brother, his brother, and their other little friends weren’t outside of this shop right now hanging out. You almost felt guilty for doing this whenever you occasionally heard the fits of giggles and yelling that came from them, key word, almost.

You heard a lot about Shinichiro Sano, the former leader and creator of The Black Dragons. Mainly from your brother who clearly looked up to Shinichiro a lot and he didn't deny it, he told you how he thought Shinichiro was cool for his motor skills but everything else you heard was how he was a loser who got no girls, how he spends most of his time in his shop working on bikes and you were expecting an actual loser, an ugly guy, and thought that this meeting would be short and you’d be quickly to leave but when you caught a glimpse of what he looked like the moment you stepped through the door. You knew you weren’t leaving, not without something from him like his number anyway. You were getting much more than his number.

It didn’t make sense to you how this hot man didn’t get any girls. No one wanted this man? He was hot, and cute, and god did he know how to fuck but their loss, more shin for you;)

“Ow! B-Be...ngh...careful!” You whined through your pitiful moans as Shinichiro delivered a harsh slap to the fat of your ass, he opened his eyes and looked down at you with sweat bullets running down his forehead and nearly closed eyes “Sorry...fuck, beautiful, just–ugh–can’t get enough of ya’.” He responded retreating his hand back to your hip, your hands flew up from the table and onto the wall and the tools covering them in the thick black oil that your palms were coated in. Your cunt tightened around him as you let out a large high-pitched yelp, god you haven’t even known him for twenty minutes and you were already nearing your edge.

But what you didn’t know is that Shinichiro had been holding back for a while so you didn’t think he was a loser for cumming so fast, he was going to wait until you came but this wasn’t really that effective on his part because it’s like holding back and the warmth of your throbbing cunt killed most of the brain cells he had, he wasn’t thinking, there was nothing to think about other than this magnificent pussy of yours. Shinichiro didn’t care about his brother and his stupid friends, he couldn’t give a single shit if they walked in here right now, he’d probably keep going.

Your lips parted forming a small ‘O’ as you breathed heavily “Shit, shit, shit! M’...cumming!” You shouted with your nails digging into the tools on the wall causing you pain but the pleasure overrode it. These words were like the lottery to him as he looked up at the ceiling seeing stars as he felt you cum all over him, he wanted to pull out and spray thick ropes onto your back and that stupid fucking bra he couldn’t take off but he couldn’t and ended up cumming inside, it’s not like he was incompetent, it was just too hard to see anything with the white spots he was seeing.

“Oh my fucking god.” The sano male muttered as he looked at your cunt leaking a mixture of your cum and his own, you were so damn beautiful and his cock sprung up once again when you turned your head to look back at him with a tired face, you glanced down at your back which you expected to be covered in cum before looking at him once again with a tired and evil smile growing on your face and it made him wonder what you were planning to do or say. What he was about to hear would probably put his loser ass in a fucking coma. “Want more.” His eyes widened at your statement and he looked at you like you were crazy.

You needed more of him, you couldn’t just settle for some sloppy backshots! You didn’t expect him to cum inside of you but now that he had, you craved more. More of his dick, you felt like you would die right here if you didn’t “Huh? More?” Shinichiro questioned as he watched you turn your body around before you lowered yourself to your knees in front of him with your legs spread slightly, his dark eyes lowered down once again gazing at how his cum continued to seep out of you and onto the ground with some smeared on the inside of your thighs. He made eye contact with you and you were looking up at him through your lashes with a sweet look “If that’s…okay with you?” You said continuing to look up at him from your spot on the floor completely ignoring his cock that was in front of your face.

Shinchiro wasn’t that lengthy but what he didn’t have in the length department, he made up with his girth, and boy did you feel all of that thickness when he plunged himself into you. It was like he was re-shaping your walls “Y-Yeah, of course!” Shinichiro said more cheerfully than he wanted to as you put your hands on his clothes thighs as his pants were only lowered a bit, he loved the idea of going at it again but that bra…he wanted–no, he needed it off.

“But, can…can you take off your bra?” He requested nervously making you smile and giggle a bit, he was acting like a virgin! Maybe he was but there was no way a virgin could fuck that good. You hummed in response before reaching your arms back and undoing your bra strap before letting it fall to the ground in front of you and Shinichiro’s mouth was agape at the sight, he was definitely rock hard by now “Glad to see you think m’ pretty.” You said looking at his dick that was standing up straight practically sitting against his lower abdomen, you reached to grab it but remembered the oil all over your hands, Shinchiro didn’t. He didn’t care if you covered his cock with that oil, he just needed you to touch him “Forgot about the oil, sorry.” You said quietly wiping your hands on his jeans before lowering your mouth onto him taking him in with no problem whatsoever.

His head flew back with his black hair springing everywhere “Fuck, m....my god.” He moaned as his hand flew to your head as you bobbed your head up and down, your nose pressing into the messy nest that was his black pubes with your hands remaining on his clothed thighs “God, are you always this straight-forward?” Shinichiro asked looking back down at you trying his hardest not to moan as he got that sentence out, you giggled on his dick sending vibrations to it before you pulled off momentarily to reply.

“No, just f'you. You were too cute, couldn’t resist.” You didn’t even give him a chance to respond before you were back sucking on his cock like it was oxygen, you weren’t…really a whore but you weren’t exactly a virgin mary either. But you never let a guy do this much on the first time you met, hell not even the first week but Shinichiro was special, he was really cute and his dick was too! You had no issue being his little cock whore.

Shameless moans and sucking noises echoed into the atmosphere and Shinichiro began to get dizzy and he was seeing stars once again, Jesus, you were really trying to suck his soul out of him weren’t you? Though he wasn’t complaining, not at all and his pathetic whines and groans were evidence of that. “Fuck! Wanna cum on...y-ou. All on you, will you let me baby?” He wailed with a tight grip on your head as he felt your tongue swirl around his cock and his bright pink tip, you nodded and hummed not removing your lips from around his cock enjoying the taste of yourself and his cum that was left on him. He felt a smile growing on your lips as his back arched slightly at the vibrations you were sending to his dick.

God, he was cumming already and you knew it. You wiped your right hand all over his pants to get rid of any oil that was left on there before removing your lips from him with a thin string of saliva connecting you to his tip. Your hand replaced the warmth and moist place that was in your mouth as you began to jerk him off while looking up at him smiling at his moans and his red face.

The sano adult eventually came and came all over your face and tits, he tried to regain a steady breathing pace as he looked down at the beautiful sight that was you as you scooped some of the cum that was on your chest before popping your finger in your mouth humming at the taste. He continued to gaze at you even when you looked at him.

“So, wanna go on a date?”

©torasplanet .ᐟ reblogs and likes are very appreciated! pls do not repost!!

759 notes View Post

gojosbunnygirl

3 months ago

Hysteria

Sum: Divorced, betrayed, and end up in a mental hospital? Definitely not on your 2025 bingo card.

Yan!SatoSugu x Reader

WC: 9.7k (I sincerely apologize)

TW: Yandere Behaviors, SatoSugu smoochies, Medical AU, Masturbation, Noncon touching, Piss (nonsexual), Infantalization, Mental Hospital, False Medical Accusation, Medical malpractice, Electroshock therapy, Humilation, Reader is...really going through it. MDNI. ANGST. Dead dove do not eat

A/n: 💖 anon, thank you for giving the yummy idea. Dw there will be another medical au with the fears, but somehow satosugu and psych wards just...fueled me....

Grippy socks and a whole lot of rage.

You thundered through the cold hallways, those stupid grips on the bottom of your pale pink socks slapping against the soulless tile as you stormed toward the front desk—navigating the corridors with ease, with practice.

"Missus Geto!"

The nurse’s voice cut through the air, concern etched into every syllable. You barely heard her over the pounding in your ears, over the sound of your ragged breath. The two nurses in sterile white uniforms flanking you moved in closer.

"What the hell is the meaning of this?"

You tried to sound calm. Like you weren’t unhinged. Because you aren’t.

So why the hell are they treating you like you are?

Your fingers dug into the white desk, nails pressing so hard against the surface that it felt like your nails might leave a mark.

Your gaze flickered to the back wall, where pristine frames displayed crisp, professional lettering.

Geto Suguru.

Gojo Satoru.

The two main doctors.

One of them your ex-husband.

The other, someone you once considered a friend.

Let’s backtrack, shall we?

Suguru had always been gentle. Not in the way that people could be when they tried to be, not in the way that was practiced. No, he was gentle in the way that flowers turned toward the sun, effortlessly, instinctively.

His hands always ran warm, fingertips tracing absentminded circles against your skin whenever he held you. He kissed you like it was second nature like the act itself was woven into his being. Slow, lingering, like he had all the time in the world to savor you.

"You always rush," he would murmur against your lips, hands cupping your face, thumbs stroking the apples of your cheeks. "Take a breath, angel."

And you would.

Because in his arms, the world didn’t just slow—it stilled. It curled around the two of you, safe, untouched, like a sanctuary built for no one else. He memorized you with the precision of a surgeon and the devotion of a poet, every habit, every breath, every fleeting hesitation. Your friends envied it. Your parents bragged about it.

"A doctor in the family!" they’d say, pride swelling in their voices.

Suguru would only chuckle, his arm draped securely around your waist, grounding you, anchoring you. Then, in the quiet of an evening, when the world faded away, he’d murmur little truths about you, the ones only he had noticed.

"She chews her lip when she’s thinking too hard," he’d tease, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. "She likes her tea sweet, but not too sweet. And she counts her steps when she’s anxious—"

"Suguru!" you’d huff, pushing at his chest, but the warmth in your cheeks betrayed you.

And he’d only smile, soft and knowing, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "What? I like knowing you."

He was perfect. Too perfect.

Every fight ended the same way—him, impossibly composed, those stormy violet eyes locked onto you with patience that never cracked.

"Angel, sit with me."

"Suguru, I don’t—"

"Please."

And you would.

Because he had a way of making the world go silent, of smothering your fire with the weight of his gentleness. He never yelled, never lashed out, never met your frustration with his own. Instead, he’d gather you in his arms, press his lips to your temple, and whisper—

"Tell me what’s wrong."

You hated that. Hated the way he never let the fight breathe, never let it burn. Hated that he never raised his voice, never let you see the cracks, never showed you anything but unwavering, unshakable devotion.

You wanted him to break. Just once.

Instead, he ran his fingers through your hair, pressed featherlight kisses against your hairline, held you until your breathing slowed, until your words lost their edges and softened into something he could soothe, something he could fix.

"See?" he’d murmur. "We can figure this out. Together."

And maybe that was love.

Or maybe it was something else entirely.

Maybe it was why, one morning before your shift at the ER, you left the divorce papers on his desk, your hands trembling as you placed the pen beside them.

Maybe it was why, as you stepped over the threshold of the home you built together, your heart felt like it was tearing itself apart.

Because love shouldn’t feel like suffocation.

Even if the arms around you were warm. Even if the kisses were soft.

Even if walking away made you wonder if, maybe—just maybe—you had just made the biggest mistake of your life.

“You don’t find a man like that in every lifetime, Y/N.”

Your mother’s voice crackled through the phone, sharp and impatient, as you yanked your scrubs over your head, the fabric stiff from too many late-night washes.

“Seriously, how many overnight shifts have you been working? You married a doctor! You should settle down, have some babies—not stay up all night playing nurse.”

You clenched your jaw.

Yes. You - a nurse married a doctor.

And somehow, everyone always forgot that nurses saved lives, too.

You huffed, shoving your hands into your pockets, double-checking for the essentials, pen light, trauma shears, and your stash of caffeine for the night.

"I’m not playing nurse, Mother," you muttered, stuffing your phone between your shoulder and ear.

"Then what is it, sweetheart?" she pried, and you could already hear the sigh she was holding back.

Something just feels… wrong.

But you didn’t say that.

Because it didn’t matter.

And just like you expected, she brushed your worries aside, swept them under the rug the way mothers always did. A moment later, your phone pinged, and there it was—her latest unsolicited solution, wrapped in a clickbait headline.

"How to Save Your Marriage!" straight from some old Cosmopolitan article.

You rolled your eyes.

At least it wasn’t like the one she sent last week.

"How to Spice Up the Bedroom."

Where she—repeatedly—asked if your sex life was still healthy.

You stopped replying after that.

Not because your sex life was bad.

It wasn’t.

Suguru was… well.

He was a man built for worship—his, yours, it didn’t matter.

Everything about him had been crafted to please, down to the way he touched you—deliberate, devout, like it was a privilege, like he had all the time in the world to learn what made you tremble, what made you fall apart beneath him.

He made you feel cherished.

Until you started pulling away.

At first, it was small. His arms encircled your waist as you washed dishes, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, the warm inhale before his teeth grazed your skin-

And then the series of kisses, slow and soft, trailing down the column of your neck, down, down, down—

Until you were stepping away.

Another meek smile.

Another I’m just tired.

Because you were.

Three back-to-back night shifts in the ER, too many patients flatlining on the table, your body running on caffeine fumes and pure adrenaline.

And Suguru?

He never got angry. Never snapped, never accused, never let frustration seep into his voice.

"Don’t worry, angel," he’d murmur instead, pressing a final kiss to your temple. "That’s okay."

So patient. So perfectly understanding.

And yet, it wasn’t like you stopped thinking about him.

You didn’t need porn, never did. Not when you had him burned into your mind.

Those pretty violet eyes, the way they darkened when he was between your thighs. The slow, reverent way he kissed up your inner thighs before spreading you open with those thick fingers, working you apart with precise precision.

Every orgasm coaxed from your body with intent, with devotion—like he had some kind of personal investment in unraveling you.

And now, alone in bed, aching, needing, your fingers weren’t enough.

They weren’t his.

They weren’t thick enough, long enough, couldn’t reach that soft, plushy spot deep inside, couldn’t curl just right.

And yet, even back then, you never went to him for it.

Never let yourself ask for what you needed.

And maybe that was the problem.

Maybe it wasn’t about sex at all.

But still—

You refused to tell your mother about the lack of intimacy.

That night, you ended up at Satoru’s place.

Because of course you did.

Satoru had always been a close friend—yours and Suguru’s. And it had never been weird.

Not really.

With Satoru, it was always the little things. The things that didn’t carry weight. The casual venting about insufferable patients, the late-night hospital gossip, the stolen moments of laughter between shifts when you needed them most. He was the kind of person who could pull you out of your own head without even trying, the kind who would let you curl up on his couch without asking questions, shove a glass of expensive sake into your hands when your fingers wouldn’t stop shaking.

He always listened.

He always let you in.

Always took care of you in that easy way only he could.

And it was never weird.

Well—

Except for that one time.

Too many margaritas.

Too much sun.

The three of you sprawled across warm sand in Mexico, waves licking the shore, salt clinging to your skin. Satoru, grinning around the rim of his cocktail, his cheeks tinged pink from the alcohol. "Dare you to kiss me," he’d said, nudging Suguru’s knee with his own, teasing.

And, to your utter shock.

Suguru did.

Suguru’s fingers twisted into Satoru’s shirt, yanking him closer. Satoru melted into it, like he had been waiting. Like they had done this before.

And not just a peck. It was firm. Rough.

Your stomach flipped.

Suguru had never kissed you like that.

Never held you like that.

And maybe it was the tequila, maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the way Satoru’s smug little smirk lingered a little too long after they finally pulled away, but you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Couldn’t stop wanting it.

Later that night, back in your hotel room, the thoughts had gnawed at you, restless, relentless. You had stepped into the shower beside Suguru, letting the warm water cascade over both of you, watching the way his hands moved over your skin, slow, methodical, worshipful.

"Why don’t you ever kiss me like that?"

Suguru had blinked, his fingers pausing against your ribs. "Like what?"

"Rough." You had half-teased, half-tested.

Suguru’s hands resumed their path, gliding over your hips with the same gentle touch he always had.

"I can’t be like that with you," he murmured, pressing a featherlight kiss to your cheek, then another, then another. "I can’t hurt the love of my life."

Your cheeks burned under the steam, but still -

"What if I want you to?"

A slow inhale, his lips barely grazing your jawline.

"I have patients who need that," he whispered, that same soft patience laced into his voice. His fingertips traced slow, intricate designs into your skin, like he was carving the words into you.

"Those needs are built by people who haven’t been loved properly like you have," he continued, his lips barely touching your temple. "I would rather you remain pure and loved."

Pure.

Loved.

And that was the end of it.

Suguru never brought it up again.

And if you did, he would smooth it over, remind you of his devotion. That he loved you. That he was afraid of going too far. That he couldn’t be rough with you, not in the way he had been with Satoru, not in the way that made your breath hitch and your stomach twist with something you couldn’t name.

Because you were his angel.

His soft thing.

His exception.

And so, when Satoru had opened the door for you, when he pulled you inside with that easy grin, when he draped a blanket over your lap and shoved takeout into your hands.

It was almost enough to forget.

"It’s what Suguru would want," he had said with a wink.

No questions. No judgment.

The couch—his couch, the one he never actually used—was yours for the night.

The hospital had a reputation for running its doctors into the ground anyway. Neither of you were strangers to sleepless nights.

"But—"

"Stay as long as you’d like," Satoru hummed as he unwrapped his container, the scent of soy sauce and fried rice filling the space.

He dragged the word out, his smirk sharpening. "I am gonna have to tell Suguru you’re here. You do know that, right?"

Your shoulders tensed, but you only sighed, sinking deeper into the chair.

"I figured."

Satoru grinned. "We could invite -"

"Nope."

You cut him off before he could even finish, shoving a spoonful of rice into your mouth, eyes locked pointedly on the little red takeout box in your hands, letting the oil seep into the edges of the conversation.

Satoru pouted dramatically, flopping into the chair across from you.

And this—this was what you liked about him.

The moment you told him no, he backed off.

Maybe it was because he was terrible with emotions. Maybe it was because he turned everything into a joke.

But he never pushed.

Until he didn’t.

Satoru was a good friend. Someone who always had your back.

It happened later that night.

The bathroom was dim, the overhead light buzzing softly, casting a sterile glow over the sink. The quiet felt too heavy, pressing in around you, making your own breath sound too loud. Your fingers fumbled with the cap of a prescription bottle, muscles sluggish, exhaustion weighing on you like a physical thing. Just Tylenol. Nothing dangerous. Just something to dull the relentless pounding behind your eyes, to take the edge off, to help you sleep - not forever, just enough.

"Stupid child-proof caps," you muttered, twisting, shaking, trying to pry it open. Your grip slipped, frustration bubbling up as you tried again, more forceful this time.

Then the door swung open.

At the worst possible moment.

The cap finally popped free, and before you could stop it, small, white pills spilled into your palm just as Satoru stepped inside.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The air in the room shifted, thickening with suffocatuon. His usual lazy smirk was nowhere to be seen, replaced by something eerily still. His gaze dropped - to the bottle in your grip, to the pills in your hand, to the exhaustion carved into the planes of your face. You watched the realization flicker across his features, slow, deliberate, something you couldn’t quite place.

Then, before you could react, before you could explain, his hand was already in his pocket.

Your stomach dropped.

"Satoru - " Your voice cracked, uneven, clawing its way out of your throat. "No. No, this isn’t - this isn’t what it looks like."

You stepped forward, reaching for his wrist, but he stepped back. Just out of reach. Watching. Assessing. Already deciding.

"Yeah, it’s Gojo Satoru," he said smoothly, effortlessly - like he was ordering fucking takeout. "I need an emergency psych evaluation."

The words hit you like a physical blow, knocking the breath from your lungs.

Your fingers trembled, cold washing over you as you took another step toward him. "Satoru - stop! Listen to me!"

But that was the problem.

"I didn’t realize it was this bad," he sighed, almost soft, his lips curling into a pitying smile.

He was listening. Too closely. Watching the way your shoulders stiffened, the way your breath hitched, the way your hands curled into fists like you were trying to hold yourself together. You had seen that look before, in the ER, when he assessed patients when he made decisions for them. Decisions they never got to take back.

The walls felt like they were closing in. The room tilted.

Then came the hands on your arms—firm, practiced, final. Voices murmuring in the background. You tried to fight, but the moment was already slipping away.

You were escorted out of his apartment.

Stuffed into the back of a black-tinted vehicle. Flagged by two men in sterile white coats.

Driven past empty streets and dimly lit signs, past any chance of turning back.

Led through cold, sterile hallways, past locked doors and hushed voices.

Which led you here.

Standing at the front desk of a place you didn’t belong.

Wearing stupid pink grippy socks.

Your hands shook at your sides, your pulse hammering in your ears, a deep, aching numbness settling into your bones. You hadn’t expected Satoru to betray you. Hadn’t expected him to smile so softly as he handed you over, hadn’t expected the way his hand lingered on your back, firm, reassuring, as if he thought he was helping.

Surrounded by people who didn’t believe you.

And you sure as hell hadn’t expected to be locked away in the so-called presidential suite of the mental hospital - reserved for the rich and famous.

Or, in your case, the pitifully well-connected.

The walls were a soft pastel pink, littered with bunny and flower decals, the kind that practically screamed, "Everything is sunshine and rainbows!"

Except it wasn’t.

It didn’t help that fresh flowers sat on your nightstand, always roses. Suguru’s favorite gesture. Romantic, thoughtful. Except he’d gone the extra step—meticulously removing every thorn. So you couldn’t even shove them down Satoru’s throat if you wanted to for dragging you to this place.

Instead, you were stuck with a locked door. No bathroom. A sad excuse for a sippy cup of water. And a plush, inviting bed you were now restrained to after your roster status conveniently changed from stable to unstable.

You nearly jumped at the sound of the door unlocking.

In walked him.

Suguru. Your beloved ex-husband.

He stepped inside with that same effortless grace, his lab coat crisp, sleeves pushed just slightly to his elbows, revealing the same steady hands that once traced every inch of your skin. The scent of clean linen and something faintly musky—his scent—lingered as he moved. His dark hair was neatly tied back, a few stray strands framing his face in a way that made your stomach lurch.

"Miss Geto," he greeted, voice smooth—velvety, like he was speaking to a lover rather than a patient.

Something inside you cracked.

"Don't," you snapped, harsher than intended like the word had torn its way through your throat baring your teeth. "Let me go."

Then, without hesitation, he pulled up a chair and settled across from you, as if this was just another late-night conversation over tea at the kitchen table. The same easy grace, the same quiet patience. Clipboard in hand, pen scratching against the paper in slow, measured strokes, like he was making note of the way your chest rose and fell just a little too fast, the way your fingers twitched against the thin hospital blanket.

Like he still knew you better than anyone.

"You’re my patient," he mused, his voice dangerously calm. "Who attempted suicide."

"I did nothing of the sort," you spat, the words flowing out too fast, too sharp.

Suguru barely lifted his gaze, still focused on his notes. Reading out loud what you had told the nursing staff when you were admitted.

"The bottle spilled. An innocent mistake anyone can make. Even a professional like yourself."

That finally got him to look up. He smiled.

Suguru’s smile was infuriatingly soft like he was humoring a particularly stubborn child. He set the clipboard down, fingers interlacing as he leaned forward slightly, as if trying to make you feel heard, as if he actually believed this was some kind of productive conversation.

"An innocent mistake," he repeated, tilting his head. "Is that what you’d like to call it?"

You clenched your jaw. "It’s the truth."

Suguru exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly, a slow, measured disappointment. "Y/N, you know I can’t just take your word for it."

"Why not?" you snapped, your voice sharp, desperate, cracking at the edges despite your best efforts. "I am telling you what happened."

His gaze softened - not in pity, not in understanding, but in something far worse.

"Because I know you," he said simply, like that was supposed to mean something, like that was supposed to be enough. "I know how you get when something is wrong. And I know you wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t something wrong."

Your nails dug into the soft fabric of the restraints wrapped around your wrists.

"Something is wrong," you hissed, venom laced in every syllable. "My so-called best friend had me committed based on a bullshit assumption, and my ex-husband—who should be the last person with a say in my well-being—is now sitting here acting like he gets to play God with my life."

Suguru didn’t flinch.

Didn’t waver.

If anything, his patience deepened.

"Satoru was worried about you," he murmured, his voice smooth, steady, controlled. "We both are. How do you think I felt hearing that my wife attempted suicide?"

You barked out a laugh - sharp, bitter, ugly.

"Worried?" The word burned as it left your throat. "No. Satoru was being his usual overdramatic self, and you -"

Your breath hitched. The words sat on your tongue, heavy, rancid, tasting worse than bile.

"You’re just enjoying this, aren’t you?"

Suguru blinked. His expression didn’t shift, didn’t flicker.

Unreadable.

Untouchable.

Your pulse pounded in your ears, drowning out the sterile hum of the hospital.

"You get to keep me here." The rage trembled beneath your skin, a wildfire barely contained. "Control me. Make me talk to you. Because you hated that I left."

"Hated that I didn’t need you."

And then, you gestured - jerked against the restraints just enough for them to bite into your skin, to make a point, creating angry markings against your skin.

"And now, look! Here I am. All wrapped up and delivered straight to you."

A long silence stretched between you.

The weight of his gaze settled over you, suffocating, crushing.

Then—

Suguru reached for his clipboard, flipping through a few pages, slow, cautious.

"You think I want to control you?" he mused, barely glancing up, attempting to avoid your gaze. "Think I wasn’t worried when I got the call?"

There was something almost amused in the way he said it.

You bared your teeth, chest rising and falling too fast, anger crackling under your skin like a live fire.

"Don’t you?"

Suguru sighed, rubbing at his temple, slow and methodical, before finally looking at you.

You stared at him, waiting.

Waiting for the punchline.

Waiting for him to drop the act—for his mask of careful patience to crack and show something real, something human.

You inhaled sharply, exhaled in small, uneven breaths, the air in the room too thick, too sterile.

Suguru just watched you.

He let a few beats pass, like he was waiting for you to finish, like he was giving you time—as if this was just another tantrum that needed to run its course.

And then—

He smiled.

"I need a urine sample," he murmured, voice smooth, as if the past few minutes hadn’t happened, as if your rage, your desperation, was nothing more than an inconvenience.

You scoffed, shifting against the restraints. "Fine. Take me to the bathroom." You turned your head away, expecting the click of the buckles being undone any second now.

It never came.

"That’s not how things work here, angel," Suguru mused, his voice a slow, deliberate test—poking, prodding, waiting for your reaction.

Your hands curled into fists. "Angel." That pet name he used to say with love. That pet name that now sounded like a leash tightening around your throat.

You inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to stay calm. "Suguru," you started, voice level, "hospital protocol states that urine samples are to be taken in the restroom. In private. At most, a guard may be present. You know this."

Suguru simply shook his head, looking almost gladden at your attempt to argue. "This isn’t your ER," he reminded you smoothly, tilting his head. "This is my hospital. And here, we take precautions. We have to ensure you don’t harm yourself… or tamper with the sample."

Your breath hitched, another furrow of the brows. "Tamper -"

"Don’t worry," Suguru cut you off, still unbearably calm, like this was just another mundane part of his day. "I’ll be completely professional."

You stared at him, anger burning so hot in your chest it felt suffocating.

Dick.

"You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?" you hissed.

Suguru didn’t react. Just leaned back in his chair, the cup still held between his fingers, watching you with that same unreadable patience.

"Come on, angel," he murmured, almost teasing now. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

You hated him.

Not in the way you hated Satoru for his dramatics, or your mother for her unsolicited marriage advice.

No.

You hated Suguru in the kind of way that made your skin itch, that made your blood run cold with fury. The kind of hatred reserved for someone who knew you inside and out—who knew exactly what would break you, and took his sweet time doing it.

“I want Shoko present then,” you huffed, chin tilted up, clinging onto whatever scraps of control you had left. “A different doctor.”

Suguru barely reacted. Just tilted his head, twirling the specimen container lazily between his fingers. "She just finished her shift. She cannot legally return for 72 hours."

Bullshit.

"Mei Mei," you shot back immediately.

"Busy handling more special cases," Suguru countered smoothly, not missing a beat. "More aggressive ones."

Of course. Of course.

You knew exactly what he was doing. Boxing you in, narrowing your choices, giving you just enough illusion of control to make you feel like you weren’t completely powerless.

And then, he dropped the final option. The only option.

"If you want a different doctor," he sighed, so patronizing, so patient, "then you may request Satoru."

Your lips parted, rage curling on your tongue, ready to tell him exactly where to shove that offer—

But then something cold and spiteful took over.

"Fine," you bit out, keeping your glare locked onto his. "Call him."

You weren’t expecting much - maybe a slight twitch of his jaw, a roll of his eyes, anything that would prove you’d gotten to him, even just a little.

But no.

Suguru only smiled. Soft. Unbothered. Always one step ahead.

"Alright, angel," he murmured, standing with a slow, practiced ease. "I’ll go grab him. Whatever makes you feel more comfortable."

Like he was indulging you.

Like he was being the bigger person.

Like he was waiting for you to realize how ridiculous you were being and apologize.

You squeezed the specimen cup so tightly in your hands you thought it might crack. Your nails dug into the plastic, jaw clenched so hard your teeth ached. Satoru just stood there, completely at ease, watching you like he had all the time in the world.

His grin was unbearable. The casual way he leaned against the door, arms crossed, like this was fun for him. Like he wasn’t standing in front of someone who was actively fighting off the urge to snap.

"Need me to hold the cup?" he teased, tilting his head, voice all sugar and mockery.

You blinked at him, your mind blank for a moment—so full of rage that it looped back into emptiness. A white-hot static filled your ears. Your hands itched, ached to throw the cup at his face, to shatter the glass of the observation mirror behind him, to break something—anything—

But you just swallowed, holding your ground.

"You’re not going to turn around?" you asked, voice deceptively calm, but you could hear the crack in it.

Satoru shook his head, all easy amusement, that soft white hair swaying with the motion. "What if you’re using someone else’s—"

The pressure in your chest reached a peak, and before you could stop yourself, you snapped.

"How the hell would I get someone else’s urine, Satoru?"

It came out sharper than you intended, more raw, more exhausted. You saw the moment he caught onto it - saw the way his smirk deepened, how his fingers twitched at the thrill of getting under your skin.

You hated that.

You hated him.

You gripped the cup harder. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, arms shook with the effort of keeping yourself together. The room was too small. The air was too thick. Everything felt wrong.

"So snappy," he murmured, like he was pleased. Like this was all some game or prank that you were just waiting for the camera crew to come in and tell you "get pranked!"

Except it wasn't. You were still hovering over a drain embedded in the pale blue floor trying to pee.

Throw it at him. The thought came unbidden, cold and quiet. Just throw it. Wipe that smirk off his face. Give him something real to laugh about.

Your fingers twitched.

No.

No, because that’s exactly what he wanted. That’s exactly what Suguru wanted. To watch you spiral. To document it. To mark it down in that damn file.

Satoru pushed off the wall, stretching, rolling his neck. "Relax, princess," he said, ever the smug bastard. "Just following protocol. Who knows? Maybe you planned this."

Your vision blurred at the edges.

You wanted to scream.

Maybe you planned this. Slow and mocking rang through your ears.

You wanted to hit him.

You wanted to rip your way out of this room, out of this fucking hospital, out of your own skin -

But you didn’t.

You stood there, chest rising and falling too fast, your hands gripping the specimen cup like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to yourself. To your sanity.

Because if you gave in—if you screamed, if you threw something, if you lost control—

So instead, you swallowed the fire in your throat, stuffed the rage down where it burned deep in your gut, and forced your lips into a sickly sweet smile.

Then they’d win.

"Then I guess you’ll just have to watch me pee," you whispered, voice deceptively soft.

You wanted to see his smirk falter, just for a second.

It didn’t.

Satoru crouched down to your level, resting his chin on his hand like this was the most interesting thing in the world. His bright blue eyes shimmered with amusement, waiting, watching.

"You know…" he started, tone light, teasing as if he weren’t watching you at your most humiliated. "I was really worried about you."

You refused to look at him, your grip on the cup tightening, your focus locked on the pristine blue of his scrubs.

"Yeah?" you muttered, voice flat.

"Mhmm." His hum vibrated with something smug. "The nurses - " he dragged the word out playfully like he was gossiping at brunch, " - think you planned this. That you missed Suguru so much, you just had to get yourself locked up in his hospital…"

Your hands trembled slightly, the sheer rage threatening to make the cup slip.

Satoru noticed. Of course he did.

Then you noticed it.

The tent in his pants.

Your stomach twisted, nausea curling in your throat, but before you could process it, his gloved fingers brushed your cheek, guiding your face toward him. His blue eyes dazzled- a trap disguised as something beautiful.

"Don’t worry," he went on, casual, sweet, like you were just two friends catching up over coffee. "It’ll only be a couple more days until you get to leave. Maybe…" he trailed off for dramatic effect, grinning as if he was pitching you something fun, "we can go home all together."

"But I know better," he murmured, his breath tickling your skin. "You’re a good girl, aren’t you?"

What the hell was he playing at? And before you could stop him, before your brain could even process it—

His lips pressed against your forehead. Soft. Chaste.

Mocking.

The cup slipped from your hands.

It hit the tile with a sharp clatter, the urine spilling onto the floor, and swirling down the small drain.

Satoru stayed close, close enough to feel his smile against your skin.

Then he pulled back, taking in the mess with a soft whistle.

"Oops," he cooed, lips twitching in amusement. "Butterfingers."

You stared at him, nails digging into your palm, pressing hard enough that you should have drawn blood—would have, if Suguru hadn’t meticulously trimmed and filed them down.

To the point where they couldn’t even leave a mark. Couldn’t harm anyone. Something about it being protocol.

Satoru’s grin widened, his teeth practically sparkling. Bright blue eyes brightening. "Guess we’ll have to try again! The second time’s the charm, right?"

The sound of the slap cracked through the sterile air like a gunshot.

Your palm stung, the heat of the impact lingering on your skin, but it was nothing compared to the way Satoru’s head had barely turned with the force of it.

That grin.

It didn’t falter.

Didn’t waver.

His face remained tilted to the side for just a second, the red mark of your palm blooming on his cheek. But when he slowly turned back to you - his lips stretched into something wicked.

You could’ve sworn the red on his face wasn’t just from your slap.

But a blush.

"Ohhh," Satoru exhaled, his grin widening. His tongue swiped over the inside of his cheek like he was tasting the sting. "Now that’s the fire I missed. Though you didn’t wash your hands, princess."

Your stomach dropped.

The heat in his eyes wasn’t just amusement.

He liked that.

"That felt good, didn’t it?" he mused, tilting his head, gaze never leaving yours. "You wanna do it again?"

Your whole body locked up, muscles coiled so tightly they ached. The rational part of you screamed don’t react—don’t give him what he wants. But the rest of you—the part that was sick with rage, humiliation, helplessness—wanted to slap him again. Wanted to make him hurt.

Satoru saw it. Felt it.

And he loved it.

He leaned in ever so slightly, voice dropping lower, playful yet taunting. "Come on, sugar. Let it out."

You curled your fingers into fists, so close to giving in—

And then the door clicked open.

Suguru stepped in, clipboard in hand, dark eyes flicking between the two of you, taking in the charged atmosphere with a knowing hum.

Satoru, still grinning, straightened up, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Well," he drawled, stretching lazily, "unfortunately, we still need that sample."

Suguru raised an eyebrow. "Trouble?"

"Nah." Satoru waved a hand dismissively, glancing down at you once more, his smirk never once faltering. "We were just bonding."

"I see," Suguru murmured, not even looking at you as he jotted something down on the clipboard. His eyes flicked to the urine spill on the floor, and then back to Satoru, as if this was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. "I’ll call someone to clean up your mess, angel. We can just wait until you have to go again, won’t we? Need you hydrated for your blood test anyway."

You weren’t sure what you were feeling.

Fury?

Dread?

Humiliation?

Some horrible concoction of all three, swirling in your chest, making it impossible to breathe.

Satoru let out a soft, amused hum beside you, still rubbing at his cheek as if savoring the sting.

Suguru’s pen paused. "Did she slap you, Satoru?"

The words were deceptively gentle. His gaze drifted to his best friend’s pale skin, now tinged pink, his expression unreadable.

Satoru, ever the little shit, grinned. "She sure did!" He shot you a wink. "She’s still got that fight in her, huh?"

Suguru exhaled slowly, tapping the clipboard with the end of his pen before leveling you with the most patronizing look you had ever seen. There was no cruelty in his expression, no outright malice. As if he had already decided what you were before, you even opened your mouth.

"Suppose we have to add aggression to your chart, then…"

Your stomach twisted again, you were about to speak out, defend yourself -

"Have to keep you away from the other patients and nurses," he continued, his voice calm, like he was making a note about the weather instead of your freedom. His pen moved smoothly over the page, unbothered, effortless. "Don’t want any more staff getting hurt."

Your pulse pounded against your ribs, the sharp pressure of your heartbeat making your vision blur for a moment. "I am not aggressive." The words came out too fast, too desperate, as if sheer force could make them true in his mind.

Suguru didn’t even glance up from his notes. "Of course not, angel." His voice carried the same devoted softness it always had, the same infuriating patience.

The sound of his pen moving against the clipboard might as well have been the click of a lock.

They were rewriting you right in front of your eyes, shaping you into something else—someone else. Piece by piece, erasing what didn’t fit, twisting reality into something they could control.

A violent patient.

An unstable patient.

A liability.

Your hands trembled against your lap, fingers curling into fists so tightly that your nails pressed into your skin. You could feel the warmth of Suguru’s gaze on you, watching, waiting. You wanted to fight back, to rip the clipboard from his hands, to make him listen. But you already knew how that would end. Another note in the file. Another checkmark on their list. Another reason for them to keep you here.

Days passed, though they bled together, time warping under the weight of routine. You spent most of it trapped in the common room, though there was nothing common about it. There were no other patients. No quiet conversations or hushed laughter in the corners. No sounds of therapy sessions or shuffling feet down the halls. Just you. Just him.

Satoru sat across from you, long legs stretched out beneath the too-small plastic table, posture relaxed as if this was just another lazy afternoon. His hand moved methodically over a coloring page, crayons scattered across the table in a mess of childish hues.

"Don’t you have other patients?" you asked, your voice tight, the question slipping out before you could stop it. Your fingers curled around a yellow crayon, grip stiff, too firm.

Satoru didn’t look up. Instead, he kept humming to himself, dragging slow strokes of purple wax over the page, his movements too steady, too deliberate. "I'm going to color my flowers purple." He flipped the page toward you with a smug little grin. "What color are you going to do yours?"

Satoru noticed. His grin grew, slow and satisfied, as if your irritation was more entertaining than the coloring itself. "Need me to help you out there, princess?" he teased, leaning forward slightly. "See, you have to—"

Your paper sat untouched. Blank. Couldn’t bring yourself to play along.

"Satoru."

The crayon in your hand snapped before you even realized you were gripping it too hard. A jagged, broken edge crumbled onto the table, wax flecks scattering across the surface.

The hum of casual amusement in the room vanished.

Satoru stilled. His lips parted slightly, and for the first time, his sharp, blue eyes locked onto you with something heavier than teasing amusement.

Satoru chuckled. It was quiet at first, low, controlled, but then it spilled out in full, bright and infuriating, his lips stretching into something too wide, too pleased.

"I asked you a question," you said, your voice shaking - not from fear, but from the sheer, unbearable restraint it took not to hurl the broken crayon at his smug, unbothered face.

"You really don’t like playing house with me, huh?" he mused, tapping the broken crayon piece with his finger as if it fascinated him. "Come on, princess, lighten up. You’re making it seem like you don’t enjoy my company. We used to be so close before all of this."

Your jaw tightened, frustration grinding in your chest. This was a game to him. A performance. You were the only one who hadn’t seen the script.

"Answer the damn question."

Satoru tilted his head as if weighing his answer, as if he was letting you believe you had any say in how this conversation would go. Then, with a lazy stretch, he sighed, tone dramatically put-upon, like he was humoring you.

"Not really," he admitted. "No one else here really needs me the way you do."

The words crawled under your skin like something sick and wrong, twisting deep in your gut before you could shove them away.

"The way you do."

Like you were needy.

Like you wanted this.

Like this was all for you.

The slow, creeping horror curled through your veins, tightening around your ribs, but you forced it down, pushed past it. You gritted your teeth, fingers digging into your palms. "I don’t need you."

Satoru’s smirk widened, stretching just a little too far, as if he could see the fraying edges of your composure and was thrilled by it. You were going to snap. You wanted to slap him again, wanted to claw at his stupid, smug, self-satisfied face, wanted to do something—anything—to wipe that look off of him.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you forced yourself to move slowly, deliberately, picking up the ridiculous sippy cup they had given you, the plastic cool and smooth against your trembling fingers. You took a sip, the artificial sweetness coating your tongue, the taste almost childish in its simplicity. The act of swallowing felt too thick, like your throat didn’t quite want to obey. Just as carefully, you set the cup back down on the tiny plastic table, making sure not to let it shake in your grip.

You had to be calm.

You weren’t insane.

You weren’t crazy.

You weren’t violent.

But the air was too thick, the walls pressing in, the stupid, unfinished coloring page in front of you mocking in its blankness. The pressure inside your chest swelled, wrapping around your ribs like a tightening coil. Your vision blurred at the edges, hot and unwelcome, and you clenched your fists in your lap, willing it away, forcing it down.

Satoru noticed. Of course, he noticed.

"Aww, princess," he murmured, his voice honey-sweet, mocking in its gentleness, and before you could react, before you could pull away, he was pulling you in. Strong arms wrapped around you, warm, suffocating. The scent of him—clean linen, faint cologne, something unmistakably Satoru—invaded your senses, pressing in on all sides.

"Hey, it’s okay to cry," he cooed, his lips ghosting over your forehead before pressing a kiss there, his voice a soothing lull—deceptively soft. "This is a safe space."

Safe.

The word reverberated in your skull, clashing violently with the truth. This wasn’t safe. This was a cage. A well-kept, carefully controlled cage, but a cage nonetheless. And yet—your body betrayed you.

Because wasn’t this what you were supposed to do? Accept comfort? Let yourself be held? Be good?

"See?" he murmured, fingers stroking through your hair with slow, measured precision. "That’s my good girl."

You nodded weakly against his chest, your body folding into his hold, and the tears finally spilled over - silent, hot, humiliating. His arms tightened around you in response, as if he had been waiting for this, as if he had known you would break.

It was just a matter of when.

The words sent a violent shudder through you, something deep and instinctive recoiling at the way he said it. Like you belonged to him.

Satoru pulled back slightly, just enough to brush a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb, still smiling, still so unshaken, so pleased.

"I’ll bring you some better clothes," he promised, as if he was doing you a favor, like he was some benevolent god. "Something warm, something comfortable."

You swallowed down the thick lump in your throat, nodding again. Maybe—maybe if you played along, maybe if you did what they wanted, they would let you go.

"I don’t think coloring is your strong suit," Satoru mused, his tone light, teasing, trying to smother the moment before had never happened. "We can make paper stars instead! I’ll keep them in my office. Maybe we can make some for Suguru too! Oh, he’d love that! Still has your wedding photo hung up."

Words that landed like a slap, sharp and visceral. Your wedding photo. Still up. Still there. Like nothing had changed. As if those papers you left had no meaning.

The weight of it all bore down on you, and you almost didn’t notice the way Satoru’s hand moved lower.

A slow, trailing touch.

Fingers ghosting beneath the hem of your hospital gown.

Warm against your bare skin.

Your body froze. Every muscle locked up in an instant, but your mind felt numb, sluggish, as if refusing to acknowledge what was happening.

"I just want to make sure you’re okay, princess," Satoru whispered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "Can you show me that you’re okay?"

His fingers pressed just a little firmer, a test, waiting for you to comply. A slight spread of your thighs as his fingers continued their quest.

You weren’t sure what scared you more. The way your body stopped resisting or the way this felt inevitable.

Was it fear?

Resignation?

Were you just enduring, waiting for the moment this would finally be over, so you could go home?

The door clicked open.

Suguru, thankfully, walked in, his dark eyes sweeping over the scene like he already knew what had transpired.

Satoru removed his hand, but the touch lingered, seared into your skin like a brand.

"Ready?" Suguru smiled, that soft, practiced kind, like this was just another routine check-in, like he wasn’t about to upend your entire world again. Wasn't going to drug you back into compliance, wasn't going to hush and calm you when he drew blood for testing.

"You’ve been doing so well the past couple of days—taking your meds, following the schedule—that after this one little test, the head of operations agreed we can move to home treatment…"

He let the words settle, let them sink in before delivering the final blow—

"Since it’s already convenient that we live together."

Your fingers clenched against the table, a cold weight dropping in your stomach.

"We’re divorced," you said slowly, carefully, as if daring him to acknowledge it.

Suguru’s warm, easy smile didn’t falter.

"Mmm, not what your file says," he hummed, stepping closer, his gaze flicking to Satoru’s drawing.

"You didn’t make me one, angel?" His voice was light, almost teasing, but the undercurrent of expectation was there.

"I would’ve hung it up."

Something snapped inside you.

You weren’t sure what.

But you had never wanted to flip a stupid kiddy table more in your entire life.

"Where the hell is Shoko?" The words tore from your throat, sharp and raw. "I want her as my doctor - that is my right."

Suguru blinked at you, his expression shifting—just slightly. Not quite hurt. Not quite anything.

Almost like he had expected this.

"Or the nurses?" you continued, voice rising, trembling with fury. "I want Nanami to be my watch instead of this blue-eyed freak."

You saw it.

The way Satoru flinched. The brief flicker of hurt that crossed his face - so quick, so momentary, but you caught it.

And your heart twisted and cracked.

Because you knew.

You’d always known what that word meant to him.

But you couldn’t stop.

Couldn’t let yourself care.

Because they weren’t listening.

Suguru turned to Satoru, his voice dipping into something colder.

"I think we need to up the dosage."

Then, back to you - his expression unreadable, his tone soft, patronizing.

"I didn’t know you had so much anger in you, angel."

He reached for your face, fingers moving to cup your cheek—

And you smacked his hand away.

The sharp sound echoed in the small room.

Suguru stilled.

He could file down your nails.

He could restrain your hands.

He could drug you into compliance.

For a moment, Suguru was still.

But he could not—would not—control your fire.

Processing.

His expression remained unreadable, but something flickered beneath the surface—something dark, something off. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but you could feel it, like the quiet shifting of tectonic plates before a catastrophic quake.

Then, under his breath, barely more than a whisper, he uttered a single word.

"Tainted."

It landed like an irreversible diagnosis, a label seared into your skin, a fact that had always been true, whether you knew it or not.

"I have to fix it."

The words were hollow. Void of real emotion. Spoken like an afterthought. A duty.

If anyone here was crazy, it wasn’t you.

"Let’s go."

His voice was measured, slow, as if testing the words, as if feeling them out himself, ensuring they fit within whatever logic governed his mind.

"We can deal with this later."

And just like that, it was decided. He turned away, moving with the same unshakable certainty as before.

Instead, dread curled in your stomach like sickness, spreading through your limbs in slow, creeping waves. Your pulse stuttered as Satoru took your hand, his fingers lacing through yours. The warmth of his palm was comfortable in a sense.

You should have felt relief.

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t flash that smug grin. Didn’t tease you. Didn’t say a damn thing.

Just walked.

Silent.

Head bowed, guiding you forward like a silent accomplice.

The hallway stretched before you, sterile and pale blue, the kind of color that was meant to be calming but only made your skin feel dirty, wrong. You knew these halls now—the group therapy rooms, the medication table, the office staff area, the standard rooms where the normal patients were kept.

But this wasn’t that.

This was deeper.

The air shifted. The temperature felt colder.

Your fingers tightened around Satoru’s. "What’s the last test?" you murmured, trying to keep your voice steady.

His skin was clammy.

Cold sweat.

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, something softer than usual. Something wrong. His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles against the back of your hand—soothing, intimate.

Like an apology.

Suguru didn’t look back.

Didn’t seem to care that Satoru was holding onto you, didn’t seem to mind that the hands he used to hold were now intertwined with someone else’s.

He just walked.

And then—

Unbothered.

The door.

Something different.

Suguru reached into his pocket, pulling out a key. Not one from his usual keychain.

Something meant only for this room.

A cold prickle ran down your spine as the small hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. The air felt heavier, charged, the silence pressing in. Something wasn't quite right.

Where were the nurses?

The ones who usually hovered, who handed out little paper cups of sedatives, who whispered among themselves when they thought you weren’t listening?

The ones Satoru always gossiped with?

Gone.

The hallway was silent.

The key turned in the lock.

A slow, deliberate click.

The door creaked open, revealing a room stark and clinical, stripped of anything human.

Centered in the middle, like an altar, stood a medical table.

Satoru squeezed your hand. Tighter. Like he was preparing you.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, the walls pressing in, your breath coming too fast, too shallow. The air felt thick, suffocating, as if the room itself was shrinking. And then—your gaze fell to the cart beside the table.

The electrodes. The wires. The leather restraints.

No—

The word stuck in your throat, thick and suffocating, choking you before you could even say it aloud. A wave of nausea rolled through you, cold and sharp. Your knees buckled, your body reacting before your mind could fully catch up. Every nerve screamed at you to run.

But Satoru didn’t let go.

"No," you gasped, collapsing to the floor, forcing yourself into dead weight. You pushed back, twisted, resisted—anything to keep from being dragged inside.

Satoru’s grip only tightened.

He was stronger.

"No - no, please!" The words broke from you, frantic, raw, barely holding shape. You kicked out, your body writhing in desperation, fighting against the inevitable. But Satoru just kept pulling, his hands steady, his strength sustained.

Your nails dug into his arm, clawing, desperate to hurt, to leave a mark, to stop this—

But there were no scratches.

Suguru had trimmed your nails.

"Protocol," he had said.

A sob wrenched itself from your throat, broken and shattered.

"Angel."

Suguru’s voice was soft. Warm. Loving. Like he was about to kiss you goodnight.

But he wasn’t.

Because this wasn’t a goodnight kiss.

This was electroshock therapy.

Something traditional.

Something brutal.

Something meant to fix you.

And the worst part? Satoru still wouldn’t let go.

Satoru flinched. Just for a second.

You screamed. Raw, guttural—desperate. It wasn’t just fear. It was betrayal.

The long fingers of his intertwined with yours twitched ever so slightly, like he wanted to let go, like he wanted to change his mind—

But he didn’t.

His grip remained firm, unyielding. A tether holding you down, delivering you to the inevitable.

"Shhh, princess," he murmured, his voice unbearably gentle, a cruel mockery of comfort. His free hand rose, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face with a touch too tender, too familiar.

Like he wasn’t dragging you to the table.

Like he wasn’t helping Suguru break you.

"Don’t make this harder on yourself," he whispered, his thumb stroking slow, deliberate circles against your temple, his expression unreadable.

But his eyes—

His eyes were glassy.

Like he was trying not to cry.

Your stomach turned violently. Your body twisted, fought, bucked wildly against their hold, legs kicking at the linoleum, heels scraping, fingers grasping at anything—

"Please—please, Satoru, I’ll take the meds, I’ll do whatever you want, just—just don’t let him—"

The words cracked, fractured, shattered in your throat, weak and pleading in a way that made you sick.

The weight of Suguru’s hands came next.

Steady. Unyielding. Final.

Like iron shackles pressing into your shoulders, pinning you in place.

"Angel," he sighed, exhaustion bleeding into his voice, like you were being difficult. Like this wasn’t the most terrifying moment of your life.

"You know this is for your own good."

Something inside you snapped.

"You don’t get to decide that!" you sobbed, thrashing so violently that, for just a second, you nearly knocked him off balance.

Nearly.

But Suguru had always been stronger.

They both had.

Your knees buckled, their hands dragging you across the floor, inching you closer—closer—

To the altar.

To your undoing.

Your screams felt smaller in the sterile, hollow air.

"NO—PLEASE!"

Suguru tilted his head, his violet eyes still so soft.

"Why do you always have to fight us, angel?"

His voice wavered—just barely.

Not an insult.

Not an accusation.

A plea.

Like he was asking why you wouldn’t just let him love you.

Why you wouldn’t just let him keep you safe.

A sob ripped through you as you felt it—the cool, sterile touch of metal against your back.

The restraints came next.

"No, no—Suguru, please—"

Your voice broke on his name.

For just a fraction of a second, his hands paused.

His expression flickered.

His fingers twitched.

Like he remembered something.

Something important.

Something about you.

The way you used to lay beside him on quiet Sunday mornings, tracing absentminded circles into his chest. The way you’d whisper I love you against his shoulder before rolling out of bed, before rushing to work, before leaving him behind.

The way you used to trust him.

And now—

Now you were afraid of him.

His lips parted, just barely.

For a second, you thought he might stop.

That maybe—just maybe—you had gotten through to him.

That maybe he would undo the straps. Take you home. Hold you the way he used to. Tell you he didn’t mean it.

That this wasn’t necessary.

That he loved you.

But then his jaw set.

And his hands kept going.

"This is necessary to keep you pure," he whispered, like he was reassuring himself, not you.

The restraints tightened around your wrists.

"Suguru, don’t do this," you whispered, voice pleading, voice breaking.

No response.

Just the final, deafening click of the straps locking into place.

Satoru let go of your hand.

The absence of his touch felt colder than the room itself.

"You’re scaring her," he muttered, voice tight, like this was hurting him, too.

Suguru didn’t respond.

His expression had smoothed into something distant.

His hand shook—just slightly—as he reached for the electrodes.

"NO—DON’T—PLEASE—"

Satoru sighed, rubbing at his temple, shaking his head like this was all just so exhausting.

Then he leaned down, brushing his fingers over your forehead in something almost affectionate.

"Shhh, princess," he whispered.

"It’s just a little reset." As he placed the clothed gag in your mouth.

Suguru’s hands were steady as he placed the electrodes against your temple, securing them into place with slow, deliberate precision.

His fingers lingered.

For just a second.

Like this was the last time he’d hold you.

Like he didn’t want to let go.

"You’ll feel so much better after this," he murmured, voice softer than before. Like he was convincing himself. Like he was telling himself this was right. That this was love.

Like he was hoping it was.

"This is mercy, angel."

"This is love."

Satoru pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead.

And Suguru flipped the switch.

Pain detonated behind your eyes, blinding, white-hot, like lightning through your skull, like static in your veins - erasing, ripping, rewiring.

Your body jerked, your spine arching off the table, muscles seizing, breath vanishing.

Through the haze of agony, you thought you heard something.

A voice. Maybe Suguru’s. Maybe Satoru’s.

Maybe both.

"Shhh, angel."

"It’s okay."

Everything went black.

"We love you."

Thank you for reading! <3

965 notes View Post

gojosbunnygirl

3 years ago

virgin chifuyu! who gets his first handjob from you :(, the moment your warm hand wraps around his cock he’s shuddering, little pants escaping his bitten lips. Your hand feels so much different than his, smaller and it can’t even wrap around his girth because he’s just so big m

virgin chifuyu! who whines every time you squeeze the head of his cock, running your thumb along the slit to collect pre. You can see his body jolt with every swipe, his pretty green eyes flickering to the back of his head. You can’t help but keep teasing him, he just looks so cute thrusting his hips up.

virgin chifuyu! who shoves his face into the crook of your neck so you can hear each and every whimper he lets out. They start to get higher and higher when you rub your palm against the tip of him, making chifuyu squirm away. It’s too much but not enough all at once he can’t even comprehend what’s happening anymore.

virgin chifuyu! who can already feel the knot in his stomach starting to unravel and with one more thrust into your hand he finally lets go, spilling his load everywhere while his hips start uncontrollably stuttering. They thrust up a couple of times, the black haired man lets out strangled cries. Tears start to fall down his face when your hand doesn’t stop it’s motions.

virgin chifuyu! who can’t tell you to stop because as much as it hurts it hurts so good. He looks pretty too, furrowed brows and a face contorted in pleasure. “c-cumming! cumming, s-slow down,” he cries, eyes widening at your pace. You do the opposite and it makes his stomach twitch along with his cock.

virgin chifuyu! who grabs your face and kisses you while he makes a mess all over his abs. You swallow up every last whine of his while your hand continues to milk him until he’s pushing it away. He just stares at you in complete awe like you’re an angel, he thinks you probably are one after what you just did.

"It's All Your Fault, Isn't It?"

Yan! SatoSugu x Reader Sum: You've had the chances, why didn't you take them. In the end you'll always just lose the purest of love. Last part of: Can my friend join?, This is Love, Right? ** Can be read as standalone fics** TW: Yandere Behaviors (Obsession, Manipulation, etc), Death of Child Character, Blood, Toxic Relationship Dynamics, Depression, Dubcon, Lactation, Pregnancy themes, SatoSugu, Angst No Comfort. MDNI WC: 7.7k

A/n: I got supperrr stuck in the loop of editing, so I am just gonna post it, I feel like rereading it after the tenth time. I almost just pressed delete lol. :) enjoy!

It’s all your fault, isn’t it?

You did this to yourself. You should have walked away when the chance was there, when the door was still open, even just a crack. You should have screamed, fought, run—anything to reclaim a sliver of your freedom.

But you didn’t.

You stayed.

Was it the security? The comfort of knowing you’d never struggle to pay bills or scramble to find work? Was it the way Satoru promised, over and over, that you’d never go unloved, never feel the ache of loneliness again?

Or was it something darker? Something you couldn’t quite admit to yourself?

You told yourself it was love. You told yourself you were lucky. How many women could say they had someone who’d give them the world? Someone who, with a flick of his wrist, could bend the rules of life itself to ensure you had everything you could ever need?

So, you stayed.

Even before Suguru became part of the equation, you stayed. You even stayed when Satoru would come home in the dead of night, his footsteps a faint echo through the silent halls before his hands found you. You’d stir from your sleep as he pulled your panties down with barely a word, his breath hot against your neck.

There was no tenderness in those moments, no love—just need. A raw, consuming need he claimed you had to fulfill. And you let him, didn’t you? You let him push inside you with barely any preparation, your body yielding to him because he knew it so well.

Satoru knew the places that made you crumble, the spots where your body quivered, the way your breath hitched when his fingers grazed just right. He knew you better than you knew yourself, didn’t he? His movements were deliberate, practiced, the wet noises filling the room a cruel testament to how thoroughly he’d mastered you.

You’d given him permission. He reminded you of that often, didn’t he? That you’d said yes. That he worked so hard, carried so much, and that this was his right. That he had needs only you could meet.

And you understood. You always understood.

After all, he was the strongest, wasn’t he?

So, you let him use you.

Like a doll.

You’d lay there, staring at the ceiling, as he buried himself to the hilt one last time, his loud groans of release cutting through the stillness. A pathetic little whimper followed, muffled by the darkness, as he spilled himself inside you. And then, as if the act meant nothing, he pressed a sweet kiss to your temple, murmured something soft and indistinct, and rolled over to his side of the bed.

You stayed there, silent and unmoving, the lingering heat of his body beside you doing nothing to warm the cold ache between your thighs.

That’s when the thought would creep in. A sick, unwelcome whisper:

You didn’t even climax.

You hated yourself for thinking it. For letting it matter.

But still, you stayed.

Was it fear that held you there? Or was it hope—a desperate, foolish hope that one-day things would change? That one day, every day would feel like those rare, sweet moments when he pressed teasing kisses against your lips before dragging you out to get sweets. That he’d touch you with love, with the tenderness he so effortlessly showed to others—when he wasn’t breaking them apart piece by piece with that same teasing grin.

And now, looking back, you can’t decide what’s worse: that you didn’t leave when you had the chance…

Or that part of you still doesn’t want to.

You stayed, even when the small arguments started. The little spats about wanting him to open up more, to share pieces of his life with you, the pieces he always kept hidden. Perhaps it was selfish—maybe even naïve—but you wanted to know why he loved you.

Really, truly loved you.

But you never asked.

You saved that question, tucking it away deep into your heart, right alongside the cracks that had already started forming. You told yourself it wasn’t the right time. That maybe he wasn’t ready. That you shouldn’t push. Instead, you focused on the good times, clinging to them like lifelines.

Because they were good, weren’t they?

What other guy would give you the world like Satoru did? What other guy would bring you flowers every week—a different color each time, sometimes traditional, sometimes exotic, but always beautiful? What other guy would shower you with affection so openly, so shamelessly, pressing kisses to your skin, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as though you were the only thing keeping him grounded?

Satoru had told you he loved you. And maybe he did—in a way that wasn’t entirely built on desire, the need to keep you within his grasp, or the insatiable craving to hold you close for the rest of your days.

That’s what you told yourself, anyway.

That’s why you stayed.

Even when Suguru came into the picture—when those dark, calculating eyes lingered on you just a moment too long when his quiet, honeyed words wove themselves into your life like threads binding you to a tapestry you couldn’t escape—you stayed.

You had the choice, didn’t you? You could have said no. You could have walked away.

But you didn’t.

You stayed, and now there was no one else to blame.

So, truly, it is all your fault.

However, your heart’s at fault too, isn’t it? For leaning into Suguru's touches, craving his warmth, even when you knew deep down that he was a cruel and awful man. A man who veiled his darkness in sweetness, wrapping it in gentle words and tender caresses that made you doubt your own truths. He was a master of contradiction—soft hands and sharp edges, honeyed lies hiding an iron grip.

You could have left.

You could have said no to the whole relationship, shut the door before it ever opened.

But you didn’t.

You stayed.

You told yourself that maybe this was the best you could hope for, the best kind of love someone like you deserved. Because it was love, wasn’t it? They loved you. Even if it was conditional. Even if you had to give and give, piece after piece of yourself, just to receive a sliver in return.

Love comes in many forms, after all. And this was love.

Or so you continued to convince yourself.

This is what you deserve. That you should have listened to your gut, back when every touch felt too heavy, too lingering, too much. Back when their words seemed to wrap around you like chains instead of promises. You should have left before the walls around you closed in. Before you realized that leaving wasn’t just difficult—it was dangerous.

You had your chances, didn’t you? If only you’d taken them.

You knew Satoru would tear the world apart to find you if you ran. He’d find you, no matter where you went, no matter how far. But… would he really?

If you’d left early enough, maybe it wouldn’t have been like this. Maybe it would have been nothing more than a bad breakup, a lesson in heartbreak you’d recover from in time. Maybe, if you’d left after Suguru’s return, Satoru would have leaned on him instead of spiraling further into obsession.

But you didn’t leave.

You stayed.

Such a stupid, stupid girl.

And yet…

It was never just about them, was it?

Because you craved love too, just as much as they did. You wanted it desperately—so much that you ignored the warnings in your heart, the creeping dread in your chest. You wanted to be loved, to feel wanted, to belong to someone in a way that was absolute, undeniable, and unshakable.

And that’s exactly what they gave you.

But love like that—it came with a cost.

And you paid for it in silence, in submission, in the pieces of yourself you’d never get back.

So now, here you are, locked away in the beautiful Gojo estate. A place so grand it should feel like a palace, yet it suffocates you like a gilded cage. Every corner gleams with wealth and power, every surface reflects the life you’re supposed to be grateful for.

The maids don’t meet your eyes.

To them, you aren’t Satoru’s wife. You aren’t a partner. You’re something lesser.

A pet.

Because you aren’t the one ensuring the estate runs smoothly while Satoru is away on his endless missions. That responsibility doesn’t fall to you—it belongs to Suguru, doesn’t it? He’s the one in charge. He holds the reins, commanding the household with a quiet authority that leaves no room for question.

And you?

You remain.

The pet. The wife. The child-bearer.

Barefoot and pregnant, with a swollen belly to show for it, you shuffle through the estate like a ghost. Your body aches, weighed down not just by the child growing inside you, but by the chains of a life you can’t escape.

Suguru sees to it that the estate runs like a well-oiled machine, all while maintaining his title as the second strongest. His responsibilities never seem to tire him, never seem to dull his devotion. If anything, they only make him more overbearing.

He adores pampering you.

He drapes you in the softest blankets, ensuring you’re always warm. He dresses you in the finest clothes, silks and satins that cling to your growing belly, showcasing the proof of your usefulness. He loves the way your independence has been stripped away, loves the way you’ve been forced to rely on him for everything.

When did you become so dependent?

When did you start accepting his affection like a loyal dog, start leaning into the way his rough, calloused hands would trace the curve of your stomach? When did you start craving the way he’d gaze up at you with that lovesick smile, his voice low and honeyed as he murmured sweet words about the future?

“I hope the baby looks like Satoru,” he’d say, his eyes dark and soft as they met yours. Then, after a pause, “I hope it’s a girl.”

The words always made your chest tighten, made your stomach twist.

You know he must miss the twins.

It’s not just the weight of their absence—it’s the way he’s filled that void with this child, this unborn life. You can see it in the way he touches you, the way he watches you. He’s more excited about this pregnancy than you are.

And that’s the cruelest part, isn’t it?

Because to him, this isn’t just a child. It’s a legacy. A purpose.

To you?

It’s another chain.

And yet, you hate how loving he is. How he’s always there to hold your hair back when you’re bent over, heaving in the dead of night. How his large, warm hands find every knot in your aching limbs, massaging away the tension with a tenderness that makes your heartache.

It’s cruel, how gentle he can be. How he disarms you with care just when you think you might muster the strength to fight back.

There’s a constant mantra in your mind, a desperate hope that the baby won’t resemble either of them.

Because the thought of seeing their features reflected back at you stirs a fear too heavy to bear.

The thought of seeing their features reflected in those tiny, innocent eyes is terrifying. It brings the fear that every decision will feel like a mistake, that allowing any of this to happen will become an unbearable regret.

You tell yourself you hope, but it’s hard to ignore the possibility, isn’t it?

What if the child inherits Satoru’s piercing blue eyes—so crystalline they seem otherworldly, glowing even in the faintest light? The same eyes that burn and freeze you all at once, stripping you bare and exposing every secret, every hidden part of you.

Even his grin—boyish, sharp, too wide—lingers in your mind. A grin that could charm and cut in the same breath, leaving you unsure whether to lean closer or step away. What if that grin appeared on a smaller, softer face, just as devastating?

Or worse—what if the baby inherits Suguru’s gaze?

Those dark, soulful eyes that pull you in like the tide, gentle at first glance, inviting even, but hiding endless, churning storms beneath their surface. Eyes that promise escape is not an option. Unlike Satoru’s, Suguru’s smiles are quieter, softer—but no less dangerous. His smiles feel deliberate, like they’re slipping past every defense you didn’t even know you had.

Would the baby inherit Satoru’s arrogance? Suguru’s patience?

Or worse—would the child inherit both of their possessiveness?

The thought makes your skin crawl.

But the fear doesn’t end there.

Because it’s not just about the baby, is it?

It’s about you.

About how they’ve already carved themselves so deeply into your soul that you can’t even imagine a world without them. You hate that truth. Hate the way it festers inside you, a bitter root growing into every part of you.

You hate Satoru’s smirk when he strides into the estate after a mission, brushing off the exhaustion and blood as if it’s nothing. How he towers over you, his white hair catching the light in a way that seems almost ethereal, his fingers tilting your chin up with a mock tenderness that makes your breath catch.

You hate how he always knows exactly what to say to make you crumble, his voice dipping into that teasing lilt that makes your heart flutter in spite of yourself.

And Suguru—oh, you hate how he lingers. How his touch lingers. His hands are always warm, always deliberate, tracing paths across your skin as if he’s claiming you, piece by piece. Every stroke of his fingers feels like a silent reminder that you are his, that you belong to him. His voice, low and soothing, is a cruel contradiction—a balm against your nerves, even when his words are laced with quiet threats you pretend not to hear.

You hate them.

You hate the way they consume you, the way they’ve woven themselves into the fabric of your life so tightly that even your thoughts feel tangled in their presence.

And yet, as you sit in the vast, lonely expanse of the Gojo estate, the weight of your belly grounding you, you know the truth.

You’re not just afraid of the baby looking like them.

You’re afraid of what that child will mean.

Because if they look like Satoru, with his arrogance, his fire, his brilliance, how will you deny the pride swelling in your chest? How will you stop yourself from feeling that flicker of awe, even when you know you shouldn’t?

And if they look like Suguru, with his quiet strength, his steadfast devotion, how will you deny the love? How will you stop yourself from melting beneath those familiar eyes, from imagining them crinkling with joy or softening with affection?

You can’t.

And that's horrifying.

You won’t be able to ignore how Satoru has changed, how he’s become softer, more attentive in ways that make it harder to hold onto your resentment. How he lingers closer to you than he ever did before, as if the mere distance between you might undo something fragile inside him.

How he’s started resting his head in your lap as you sit together in the serene gardens, his white hair catching the sunlight like spun silk, almost ethereal. His long lashes cast soft shadows over his cheeks as his half-lidded gaze flickers up to meet yours, brimming with a tenderness you don’t know how to process.

He murmurs lazy words of affection, his voice low and warm, the kind of sweetness that drips like honey and sticks to your skin. His fingers trace absentminded circles on your thighs, soft patterns that feel far too intimate, far too easy.

And you hate how much you crave it.

You hate the way his presence soothes something raw inside you, even when you tell yourself it shouldn’t.

You hate how he’s begun helping you with the small, intimate things you wish you could keep to yourself. Like the unbearable ache in your swollen breasts, the pressure building so much it leaves you trembling, whimpering in pain. How he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even ask.

The way Satoru's lips wrap around you with loud, deliberate suckles, the sound echoing in the quiet as he eases the pressure with almost clinical precision. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t falter. His hands grip your hips to steady you, his thumbs pressing reassuring circles into your skin.

You hate the sound.

You hate the warmth of his breath against your skin, the way it prickles, a constant reminder of just how close he always is—too close.

When he’s finished, he pulls back with a satisfied hum, his lips brushing against your collarbone with a lingering kiss. His voice low, almost tender, as he murmurs, “I love this version of you.”

The words settle into you like stones. His lips, still soft from the milk, press against yours, and the faint sweetness lingers, almost cloying. Satoru murmurs more words—gentle, saccharine things that would feel kind if not for the way his hands start to roam as they wrap around your waist.

“How nurturing you’ve become,” he whispers, his tone carrying a dangerous sort of reverence.

That’s what he loves. That’s what he says.

And the way he looks at you when he says it—those bright blue eyes glinting with something dark, something that sinks its claws into you—makes your skin crawl. Because you know exactly what he means.

He doesn’t love the nurturing in and of itself. He loves how it ties you to him. How it binds you to this role, this life, this carefully constructed world where you are his and only his.

The version of you he loves is one that has no room for defiance, no space for resistance—only the space to give, to sacrifice, to bend under the weight of his love.

And that’s what makes it so much worse.

Because even as you hate it, even as your stomach churns and your skin prickles, there’s a part of you that leans into his touch. A part of you that longs for the softness, for the fleeting moments when it feels like love instead of control.

And you hate yourself for that, too

Because you know how it goes. You’ve seen it now. Lived it.

How one pregnancy ends and another begins.

The cycle repeated itself after your firstborn, didn’t it? Barely a year after you gave birth, they had you pregnant again. You didn’t even have time to recover, to heal, before they decided it was time for another.

But they love you, don’t they?

Satoru’s affection is impossible to miss—the way he grins at you, almost childlike, as he cups your face with hands that can destroy worlds but hold you as though you’re the most delicate thing he’s ever touched. How he showers you with gifts, flowers in every shade imaginable, rare treasures that sparkle as brightly as his endless energy.

How many times has he told you, in his low, teasing voice, “You’re my world, you know that? I could do anything, have anything—but none of it would matter without you.”

It sounds like love, doesn’t it?

And Suguru—Suguru loves you too, in his quiet, steady way. You see it in the way he watches you, his dark eyes softening when you enter the room, the weight of his gaze feels suffocating. He’s the one who stays calm when you cry, wrapping his arms around you and murmuring, “Shh, it’s okay. I’m here. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

And you believe him, don’t you?

They love you. That’s why they insist on keeping you close. Why Satoru kisses your forehead every morning, why Suguru runs his fingers through your hair as he whispers sweet nothings you’re too exhausted to resist. That’s why they ensure you’re taken care of, why they never let you lift a finger, why they promise they’ll always protect you.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Satoru once said, kissing your swollen belly as he grinned up at you. “Just stay here with us. That’s all we need.”

“It’s not just for us,” Suguru added, his voice softer, more measured. “It’s for you too. We want you to feel safe. Loved.”

And in moments like that, when the weight of their words settles in your chest like a lullaby, you almost believe them.

You tell yourself that no one else would love you this much. No one else would care for you so completely, so unconditionally—because this is love, isn’t it?

The maids barely acknowledged your struggles. Their gazes were cold, dismissive, even as your body ached and your mind screamed for reprieve. They would gently pry your child from your arms with hushed whispers.

“You need more rest,” they’d say, their voices soft but unyielding. “We’ll take care of them. Don’t worry.”

And what could you do? You’d watch helplessly as they carried your baby away, leaving you empty-handed, empty-hearted. As if you were nothing more than a vessel, an incubator meant to bear and birth heirs for the Gojo family.

Your firstborn was a boy.

A son.

An heir.

He looked just like Satoru.

Those piercing blue eyes stared back at you from his tiny, cherubic face, wide and curious, already holding a glint of brilliance and confidence you couldn’t deny. His hair was the same stark white, impossibly soft beneath your trembling fingers as you brushed it back, memorizing every perfect strand. Even the little smirk he gave in his sleep mirrored Satoru’s—a playful, almost mocking curl at the corners of his mouth that made your heart ache with emotions you couldn’t unravel.

You loved him.

You hated that you loved him.

And when Suguru would cradle him in his arms, his dark eyes soft and filled with a devotion that seemed to crack the carefully constructed walls around your heart, you couldn’t deny the warmth blooming in your chest. He’d whisper promises to the child—vows of protection and guidance.

When Satoru would swoop in, effortlessly spinning the boy around with an energy that filled the room with light, the sound of your son’s uncontrollable laughter echoing like music, that warmth would return. It would swell in your chest, suffocating and undeniable, a cruel reminder of the chains you wore willingly and unwillingly all at once.

This is what they wanted, wasn’t it?

This is what they’d planned all along.

And now, with another child growing inside you, you realize something that terrifies you more than anything else.

You’re not sure if you stayed because you had no choice.

Or because you wanted to.

Again, it’s all your fault.

For trying to run, again.

For thinking, just for a moment, that you could escape them.

You were far too pregnant. Belly too far swollen, body heavy and slow, every step a reminder of how deeply tethered you were to this vast estate. But the thought wouldn’t leave your mind. The desperate hope of freedom burned too brightly, too wildly, even as your body betrayed you.

Even as you were dragged back to that sickening place, back to the people that you convinced yourself—desperately, foolishly—that this was love.

You’d screamed at Suguru, the words spilling out like a torrent you couldn’t stop. You told him the child was yours too, that you had the right to hold them, to sleep in the same room, to be more than a vessel. Your voice cracked, raw with frustration and desperation, as you hurled your defiance at him.

You remember the way his gaze darkened.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t snap. That wasn’t Suguru’s way.

Instead, he stepped closer, his movements slow, calculated, as though he were approaching a frightened animal. He tilted his head, his expression calm, disarming, the warmth in his dark eyes a stark contrast to the undercurrent of control they held.

“You’re upset,” he murmured, his voice soft, soothing. His hand reached out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears streaking your face. “And that’s okay. You’ve been through so much, haven’t you?”

The quiet warmth in Suguru's voice made it hard to breathe, made the frustration clawing at your throat turn to something else—something like shame.

“You need to calm down,” he continued, a warm calloused hand slipping down to cradle the side of your neck, his thumb pressing lightly against your pulse. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself. I don’t want you to hurt us.”

His words lingered, heavy with meaning, as he pulled you closer, his forehead pressing against yours.

“I know it’s hard,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “But I love you. We love you. Everything we do—everything I do—is for you.”

You wanted to push him away, to scream that it wasn’t love, that this wasn’t love. But as his arms wrapped around you, strong and unyielding, pulling you into his embrace as though Suguru could shield you from the very world they had trapped you in.

“You’re everything to me,” he murmured, soft lips brushing your temple. “Don’t you see that? You don’t need to run. You don’t need to be afraid. I’ll take care of you. I’ll always take care of you.”

A voice that was so tender, so achingly sincere, that it almost broke you. Suguru's words were enough to extinguish the fire of defiance burning in your chest, to leave you standing there, trembling and helpless in his arms.

The maids saw it, didn’t they? They whispered about you, their quiet voices slipping through the halls like ghosts. They called you ungrateful. Sick. They said you didn’t understand how fortunate you were.

“You should be enjoying this,” they murmured, their words laced with thinly veiled judgment. “No responsibilities, no struggles. A carefree life. Everything is taken care of for you. What more could you want?”

What more could you want?

No choices.

That’s what they meant, wasn’t it? No choices. No freedom. No you.

Was something wrong with you? Maybe.

Maybe there was something wrong with wanting more. For wanting to feel like a person again, instead of a vessel, a doll, a beautifully dressed incubator meant to carry their legacy.

It really is all your fault, isn’t it?

Because when labor came, it dragged you into hell.

Thirty-three grueling hours. Each contraction ripped through your body like a punishment, an unrelenting reminder of every fleeting thought of rebellion, of every moment you dared to imagine a life beyond them.

The emergency c-section was chaos—a flurry of hands, sterile lights, and voices rising above the incessant ringing in your ears. You were losing too much blood. Fever scorched your skin, your body trembling as the edges of the world blurred, your thoughts slipping between consciousness and darkness.

You couldn’t make sense of what was happening. You weren’t even sure whose tears streaked your skin as they fell—were they yours? Satoru’s? Suguru’s?

You didn’t know.

You didn’t know what happened after that.

All you remember are the words.

Suguru’s voice, low and steady, cutting through the haze. He leaned close, his hand resting on your clammy cheek with an almost painful tenderness. His dark eyes bore into yours, soft yet heavy with something that made your stomach twist.

“You shouldn’t have run,” he whispered. His tone was calm, soothing even, but the edge beneath it was sharp enough to draw blood. “Look at what you’ve done to yourself. You should’ve listened.”

And for a long time, you didn’t have the strength to argue.

The days that followed blurred together. Feeling like a ghost in your body, too weak to move, too tired to speak. Satoru and Suguru hovered, their gazes flickering between concern and something you couldn't quite place. The maids continued to whisper on with their rumors, their eyes darting to you with pity or disdain, as though you’d done this to yourself.

In their eyes, you were lucky.

Lucky to have survived. Lucky to have them.

And lucky, in their eyes, to not have another pregnancy until your first two boys turned five.

Five years of peace. Or something that resembled it.

Five years of watching your sons grow, of hearing their first words, of feeling their small, warm arms wrap around you as they giggled into into your neck. Five years where it was almost believable that this was normal, where you could almost convince yourself this was love.

Because it did feel like love, didn’t it?

Until the day you overheard Suguru speaking to them.

His voice was hushed, but not hushed enough.

“Mommy is sick,” he said, tone calm and soothing like he was explaining a simple fact of life. “Sometimes she says things she doesn’t mean. Sometimes she gets confused. But that’s okay. We love her, don’t we?”

A pang sent through your chest, breath catching as you froze in the hallway. Those cruel words lies carved like knives, each one slicing deeper than the last.

He was planting seeds, wasn’t he?

Teaching them to see you the way he wanted them to see you. Fragile. Dependent. Broken.

However with fists clenched, nails pressing into palms with a sting sharp enough to ground the swirling emotions within. The urge to scream hovered at the edge, to cry and storm into the room, demanding explanations with the desperation of a cornered animal. Words burned on the tip of the tongue—protests that it wasn’t true, that sickness and confusion weren’t the chains binding this existence.

But what would they believe?

Suguru’s steady, patient voice, rich and even, always laced with quiet authority? The father whose dark eyes always seemed to understand everything, who carried himself with calm, unshakable control, even when his smiles didn’t quite reach his eyes?

Or you?

The mother who had tried to run, who had collapsed and bled and screamed, who had been scolded for her defiance. The one they saw as weak, frail, and ungrateful.

You wanted to run again. The thought burned in the back of your mind, relentless and wild.

But you didn’t.

You stayed.

Because, in the end, what choice did you really have?

But by the time your third child—a sweet boy who looked like a perfect blend of you and Suguru—turned three, the illusion of peace began to crack.

Suguru was already leaning close, his voice soft and coaxing as he murmured into your ear, “I think it’s time we try for a girl.”

Satoru, of course, was on board almost immediately.

After all, your third child was different. A nonsorcerer, just like you, showing none of the abilities your first two boys possessed. Those two had cried in the dead of night, their small voices trembling with fear as they described the horrors only they could see—things you couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

But that wasn’t why your husbands looked at Kiyoshi with quiet disapproval.

It wasn’t his lack of cursed energy that made them see him as an anomaly.

It was his heart.

From the moment Kiyoshi was placed in your arms, red-faced and wailing, he clung to you with a desperation that never faded. He didn’t want the maids to hold him, didn’t toddle after Suguru’s composed steps or reached for Satoru’s strong arms. He wanted you. Always you.

He was a mama’s boy through and through, and that was love.

A love so pure it felt like a lifeline in the suffocating world you’d been forced into.

While you loved your first two boys deeply—how could you not?—there was always a distance there, a reflection of the walls your husbands had built around you. The first two cuddled into your lap, their small hands clutching yours as they whispered things that broke you.

“Mommy, we want you to get better.” “We don’t like it when you yell at Daddy to let you leave.”

They were too young to understand, too innocent to see the chains tightening around you.

But Kiyoshi understood, in his own way. Even as a toddler, he refused to leave your side, refused to let the maids or his fathers pull him from your arms. He was always on your hip, his little hand clutching your clothes, his head resting against your chest.

“Kiyoshi,” Satoru had said once, his tone laced with false amusement, “means ‘pure sadness.’ Don’t you think that’s fitting?”

He smiled as if it were a joke, but you could hear the bitterness beneath it.

And maybe it was fitting.

Because Kiyoshi only stopped wailing when he was in your arms, as if he already knew the world outside of you was too cruel, too cold.

By the time he turned three, Kiyoshi would toddle after you in the gardens, small, sturdy legs working hard to keep up. His face—a blend of Suguru’s gentleness and your warmth—would brighten with the purest smile. When his eyes crinkled at the corners, just like yours, you couldn’t help but feel your heart swell.

“Look, Mommy!” he’d say, holding up a flower he’d plucked from the garden, his tiny fingers dirt-stained and clumsy. “For you!”

You’d crouch down, brushing his dark hair back as you took the flower, your voice soft and tender in a way you hadn’t heard in years.

“Thank you, my sweet boy.”

And for a moment, it felt like it was just the two of you.

Like you could breathe again.

But you knew better.

As the sound of approaching footsteps always shattered moments like these. Heavy and far too familiar. You didn’t need to turn around to know it was Suguru.

His softspoken voice broke the fragile silence, calm and even, as always. “Kiyoshi,” he said, warm and affectionate, though laced with something you couldn’t quite name. “You’ve been keeping your mother all to yourself again, haven’t you?”

Kiyoshi stiffened at your side, the little hand tightening its grip on your kimono as he glanced nervously toward Suguru.

Suguru stepped closer and crouched down to Kiyoshi’s level, dark eyes softening as they met his son’s. “Come here, son,” he murmured, holding out a hand. His tone was gentle, coaxing, but there was an unspoken expectation beneath it. “Let Daddy hold you for a little while. I’ve missed you.”

But Kiyoshi didn’t move. His small fingers curled tighter into the fabric of your kimono, his face pressing into your side as though trying to make himself small, invisible.

Suguru’s gaze flicked to you, lips curling into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So shy,” he said softly, his voice carrying a note of amused affection. “But you don’t have to be, Kiyoshi. Daddy just wants to hold you. You know that, don’t you?”

You felt your heart clench, torn between the instinct to shield him and the weight of Suguru’s presence. The tenderness in his tone, in the way his hand remained outstretched, made it all the harder to breathe.

“Kiyoshi,” Suguru said again, his voice dipping into a firmer edge, calm but unyielding. “Come.”

Reluctantly, your little boy let go of you, his steps slow and hesitant as he moved toward his father. Suguru’s smile widened, soft and reassuring, as he scooped Kiyoshi up effortlessly, cradling him with a gentleness that felt too deliberate, too controlled.

“There’s my good boy,” he murmured, brushing Kiyoshi’s hair back with careful fingers. His touch lingered, as though committing the texture to memory. “You love your mommy very much, don’t you?”

Kiyoshi nodded silently, his small face burying itself in Suguru’s shoulder.

Suguru’s gaze lifted to meet yours, a gentle smile, his tone almost playful. “You’ve spoiled him,” he said, a note of amusement threading through his words. “He’s too attached.”

You opened your mouth to respond, to say something, but the words caught in your throat.

What could you say?

That you were the only warmth in a world that terrified him? That his attachment wasn’t a flaw, but a desperate grasp at something safe?

Satoru appeared not long after, his presence impossible to ignore as he strolled into the garden, hands in his pockets and a grin that seemed too bright for the moment. His eyes, however, betrayed something softer—something that lingered only when they landed on you.

“Kiyoshi giving you trouble again?” Satoru's voice came out light, tinged with curiosity.

“No trouble,” Suguru replied smoothly, a hand still resting on Kiyoshi’s small back. “Just a little too fond of his mother.”

Satoru chuckled, shaking his head as he moved closer. His cerulean gaze flicked briefly to Kiyoshi before returning to you, that playful grin softening as he moved to brush a kiss against your temple. “Well, can you blame him?” he murmured, his voice low, meant only for you. “You’re hard not to love.”

The warmth of his affection made your heart twist, and your stomach flutter. For a moment, it was easy to forget the way his words often carried double meanings, easy to believe he was simply being sweet.

He straightened, turning his attention back to Suguru with a teasing smile. “But we’ll fix that soon enough, won’t we?”

They didn’t mean to hurt him, you told yourself. They wouldn’t.

But you knew better.

Because Kiyoshi was different. He didn’t fit into their world the way your first two boys did. And in their eyes, difference was something to be controlled.

For now, they let him cling to you. They let him toddle after you in the garden, offering flowers and dirt-streaked smiles that made your heart ache with both love and dread. For now, they allowed him to stay close, to hold onto the warmth you gave him, to believe he was safe in your arms.

But you knew it was only a matter of time.

Because your sons didn’t belong to you. Not really. They never had.

And no matter how much you wanted to shield Kiyoshi, no matter how fiercely you loved him, you knew one simple, devastating truth:

They’d let you have this for now.

But they would take him, too.

Because, after all, it’s all your fault.

For fleeing in the middle of the night.

The day was supposed to be perfect—a rare moment where Satoru and Suguru had taken the older two boys to the school, their voices filled with excitement as they promised to teach them more about the world they were destined to inherit. Your sweet boys kissed you goodbye with a tenderness that felt almost cruel, leaving you behind with Kiyoshi in the quiet, sprawling estate.

You had been on your best behavior. Smiling more, laughing when Satoru teased you, letting Suguru hold you a little longer than usual. You’d made them believe you were finally settling, finally accepting your role in their carefully constructed world.

And it worked.

So when the sun set and the house fell silent, you made your move.

You bundled Kiyoshi up in the softest blanket you could find, the small body warm and sleepy against your chest. He stirred only slightly as you slipped out of the estate, his tiny hands clutching onto your clothes.

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t make a sound.

It was as if he understood. As if even at three years old, he knew that silence was the only thing keeping you safe.

He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, his soft breaths warm against your skin, and you couldn’t help the tears that welled up in your eyes.

The highway stretched out before you, an endless black ribbon under the faint glow of the moon. The lights of the city sparkled in the distance, a beacon of hope, a promise of sanctuary.

You walked for miles, the cold night air biting at your skin, legs aching with every step. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Not with the faint echoes of paranoia whispering at the back of your mind.

Were they already looking for you? Did Satoru sense you slipping away even from miles away? Did Suguru wake in the middle of the night with the suffocating weight of intuition, already calling for their forces to track you down?

You didn’t know.

And you didn’t care.

The city limits were closer now, the glow of neon lights growing brighter, sharper. The faint hum of life and sound buzzed in the distance.

Kiyoshi stirred in your arms, his little head lifting just enough to peek out at the world around him. His dark eyes, so much like Suguru’s but filled with an innocence his father could no longer claim, glanced up at you with quiet curiosity.

“Mommy,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the soft hum of the wind.

You pressed a kiss to his forehead, your tears wetting his soft hair. “We’re almost there, my sweet boy,” you murmured, your voice trembling under the weight of hope and fear. “Just a little farther.”

Sanctuary was so close you could taste it.

But it’s all your fault, isn’t it?

Born a nonsorcerer.

Blind to the horrors that lurk unseen. Powerless to fight them off. Too weak to keep that sweet little boy safe.

You always imagined curses as massive, grotesque creatures—monsters so obvious that the very air would change in their presence. That the world would stop, that everything would smell of death and decay as they loomed closer.

But when a curse appears, nothing changes.

There’s no warning. No shift in the wind.

The only thing you feel is the sudden weight of your child going limp in your arms.

And then the blood.

It coats the ground—dark and endless, pooling around your knees and seeping into the cracks of the earth. Sticky and warm, it clings to trembling hands, staining your kimono, your skin, your very soul.

You can’t move. Can’t breathe.

Your little boy—your Kiyoshi—lies limp in your arms, his small body growing colder with every agonizing second. Tiny fingers, once so eager to cling to you, now dangle lifelessly. His dark lashes rest softly against pale cheeks, unmoving.

He looks like he’s sleeping.

You tell yourself that, over and over, as if saying it enough times will somehow make it true. Shaking hands brush back his dark hair, trembling as you whisper his name. Softly at first, then louder, your voice splintering with every syllable.

“Kiyoshi… wake up, baby. Please.”

But nothing changes.

The world around you feels wrong—too quiet, too still. The city lights in the distance mock you, their glow a cruel reminder of the sanctuary you’d been so close to reaching. You’d promised him, hadn’t you? Promised that everything would be okay. That you’d make it there. That you’d keep him safe.

You lied.

“Kiyoshi,” you choke out again, pressing a desperate kiss to his cooling forehead. Hot tears streak down your face, wetting his soft hair as you clutch him tighter, as though you could anchor him to you—keep him here, with you.

A wail tears through the night, raw and broken, shattering the oppressive silence. The sound is unrecognizable, guttural and full of despair. It takes a moment before you realize it’s coming from you.

The blood stains everything—your hands, your clothes, the ground—but it’s the loss of his warmth that destroys you.

How did this happen?

Your mind races, replaying the moments in broken fragments. You’d been walking, your legs aching, his small body cradled against your chest. He’d been so quiet, so trusting, his head nuzzled into the crook of your neck.

You were almost there.

Then the air shifted—just slightly—a subtle wrongness you hadn’t noticed until it was too late.

You didn’t see it.

You didn’t even know it was there until his body jerked in your arms, a sharp, unnatural movement that stole his breath—and yours.

And then he went limp.

It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense.

You rock him back and forth, tears falling freely, your voice hoarse as you beg him to wake up. Leaning to press your cheek against his, murmuring his name over and over, as if the sound alone could bring him back.

Because you failed him.

Because this is your fault.

Suguru’s arms wrap around you, their weight unbearable. His warmth presses against the chill of the night, suffocating in a way that makes the air harder to pull into your lungs. He cradles you like something precious, something fragile—like he cares, even as his words twist the knife deeper into your chest.

“We’ll take care of this, just like always,” he says, his voice soft, almost gentle. His lips brush against your hair, lingering, and the tenderness in the gesture makes your skin crawl. “You just need to stop fighting us. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

Satoru stood frozen, head bowed, white hair catching the faint glow of the city lights. Kiyoshi’s lifeless body was pressed tightly against him, his hands trembling ever so slightly as he held him close. For a moment, you thought you saw something crack in his expression—something raw, something human.

But it was gone just as quickly as it appeared.

When he finally turned his gaze to you, his blue eyes were as hollow as you’d ever seen them. “You shouldn’t have done this,” he said quietly, his voice devoid of its usual teasing lilt. “Why couldn’t you just stay?”

The question stabbed deeper than you thought possible, the shame and guilt coursing through you like poison.

Why couldn’t you just stay?

The image of Kiyoshi’s bright smile flashed, his tiny hands offering you flowers from the garden, his laugh ringing out like music in the suffocating silence of the estate. He’d been your light, your tether to something good.

And now he was gone.

Because of you.

You sagged further into Suguru’s hold, the fight draining out of you entirely. The tears wouldn’t stop, falling silently now, soaking into the front of Suguru’s shirt as he held you tighter.

“There, there,” he murmured, his hand stroking your hair in slow, deliberate motions. “That’s better. You don’t have to fight anymore. We’ll make it right.”

But there was no right in this.

The car waited nearby, its door open like an unspoken command. Suguru’s grip on you didn’t waver as he began guiding you toward it, his movements gentle but unrelenting. Satoru followed behind, cradling Kiyoshi’s small form like he was made of glass.

Your legs moved on instinct, numb and heavy, the metallic scent of blood lingering in the air.

The city lights grew fainter as the car doors shut behind you, locking you away from the world you’d been so close to reaching.

You told yourself you’d tried. That you’d done everything you could.

But deep down, you knew.

You’d never escape them.

And as Suguru’s fingers intertwined with yours, as Satoru’s empty gaze lingered on the horizon, you realized something that hollowed you out completely.

It wasn’t just that you had nothing left.

It was that you no longer cared to try.

It really was all your fault.

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gojosbunnygirl

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