[cws] Fem Reader. Older Woman/younger Man. Cheating. Mentions Of Smoking. Mentions Of Drinking. Part

[cws] fem reader. older woman/younger man. cheating. mentions of smoking. mentions of drinking. part 1 maybe. unedited.

Sometimes, when someone is young, there is always a mindset where they believe life revolves all around them—where they think that simply because they are young, they automatically stand on the highest pedestal of being intelligent. In some senses, their beliefs are so wide-spread that even the individuals around them tend to fall into that black hole as well, where despite their ages, the brain has yet to mature. You were once a happy woman, married to a beautiful husband who cherished everything about you. Meeting Gojo Satoru when he was in highschool was nothing short of fate, that’s what you liked to believe back then, he was talented at everything, adored by everyone—and so immensely ethereal it was hard to fathom he was human with an appearance so pure, his skin, hair, all of it resembled the clouds that the gods sit on. He had the face that an old master would paint to decipher an angel. Back then, you were all young and stupid, you particularly, on a different level, it wasn’t clear as before, but the memories were faint, bleary, like a forgotten song of childhood, but they were still there.

Personally, you couldn't remember the changes Satoru went through during his time in highschool, where his features became a little less soft and more masculine around the edges. Well, that’s all you could remember anyways, back when you took a young Ieri Shoko as an apprentice and caught subtle glances of him. Getou Suguru thought otherwise. He was quiet then, still is, you didn’t pay as much attention to him like you did with Satoru—despite them being best friends. You had known him as the boy who always had dark shadows under his eyes, purplish, bruise-like shadows, like he was suffering from a sleepless night. Suguru had a face you’d never expect to see except perhaps on the airbrushed pages of a fashion magazine. Suguru would entice and humor you sometimes, he’d tell you how much his best friend has changed in ways that didn’t involve his physical features, he’d tell you how he was the first to likely see the changes of how Satoru would look at you through his eyes, the ones so polished, that it felt as if the blue pigments could only be found in dreams.

Suguru would tell you, how anyone could see it through Satoru’s eyes—how much softer they’d become when he would look at you and then fall in love all over again. 

You wondered, what had happened for Satoru to stop looking at you like that? 

The porcelain light winked off the sting of your lashes and settled into the flesh of your partially nude body, the surface of the water in your bathtub was still as flat as a mirror, catching each intricate feature of yours—only to throw it back into your face. There was no ripple or tide, and if it weren’t for the gray lace of your cigarette filtering through the air and the ring of your phone in your opposite hand, you would have assumed that time itself had stopped. 

Twenty-Six.

That was the number of times Satoru had called you since the first stars of the night. The water in the bathtub was beginning to grow cold, but the sting of gooseflesh running up the delicate skin of your body was enough to distract you from the silent buzz of your phone, to be frank, you weren’t sure if you had the guts to try and answer his frantic calls. After a quick drag of your dying cigarette, you kill it off in the glass tray beside you, watching as the fumes rose like the figure of a phoenix, and you childishly searched for any shape that could be formed with the gray, fickle smoke. Suddenly, the phone in your hands rang once again. When you were a child, there was always a side of you that allowed to choose scarily accurate guesses that always brought you something good, guesses like knowing who was about to walk through a door without hearing their footsteps, or guessing the color of a cup accurately with your eyes closed, little things like that. You didn’t have to check the caller ID in order to know who was trying to reach out to you, the soft bed of your thumb swiping across the screen.

“Hey.” Your voice was quiet, barely above a whisper—but it was there. 

The opposite end of the call was quiet for a moment, a habit Shoko had whenever she called someone over the phone—something she wasn’t too fond of doing, but she would make an exception if it ever came to you. Always you. “..So? Should I schedule you a trip to the Cayman Islands? What about Miyako?” Her voice was soft, sweet in her own loner way, like the haunting echoes of a cave that harbored sirens. Shoko had been your best friend since she worked under you, after meeting in the more secluded parts of the hospital buildings where the stressed doctors and nurses went to have a quick smoke—the two of you clicked, she followed you like a magnet chasing towards its opposite end, growing closer and closer with each breath. You hardly blinked, your hair felt heavy, crystal water drops forming around, dripping onto your skin, your complexion refracting the pale light of the bathroom—you were something that could stun anyone to their core. 

“No, nothing like that.” Came your answer as manicured fingers got rid of the excess water in your hair, the water in the bathtub rippled around you like haloes as your bare legs shifted slightly. Silence graced the both of you again, and your fingers nearly trembled for another cigarette, aching, even.

“..Satoru let you go.” Shoko spoke again, so suddenly—her sudden words emphasizing the traits of her feline personality, your lips trembling for air, trying to come up with something clever to diversify the weight of devastation, but soon you realized that there are no words to dispute the feeling—calling it what it is. “Yeah.” Boundless embarrassment hooked into your chest and almost pulled it out entirely, as if the water hadn’t been cold enough, frigid heat stung painfully at your skin. The reciprocations of small breaths between Shoko’s lips had paused the minute she said this, almost as if she was captivated by your compliant statement. When you were a child, your mother always seemed to be amazed by how mature your brain seemed to be, if anything, you never believed her. It hadn’t been until high school that you truly realized just how true that statement seemed to be, back then—falling in love at the age of 17 held a kind of rarity that equated to finding rare gemstones, you thought so. When you were a teenager, you had always believed that the fragile beginnings of love was something only a few could find, mystifying around lands of infatuation until they finally found something real. 

It was why you were so, so incredibly hesitant to fall in love with Satoru even years after he finished high school. Back then, the two of you were young and full of life, youthful on different levels, he was far below your age for you to consider dating him at all—he was 16, you were freshly 28. Satoru was like nature’s graffiti; beautiful yet lawless, like he was the color after a storm that embraced the gray skies with open arms. You? You were more like nature’s poetry, gentle and lithe. Like every action you performed was meant to be on the surface of the earth. Or perhaps you were an author’s finest love story. You weren’t sure yet. 

Satoru barreled into your quiet, dark life like a blazing matchstick the very day he turned 21, he had a fire that made you so attentive to the dance of the flames—but you were so careful as to not to get burned, simply allured by the way he seemed to present the embers of his attitude in his tone. You’d never bothered to try and seek as to why Satoru could have been attracted to you, simply content with knowing that he valued you in some way. 

So mature, right? Perhaps that was the first mistake you had made. You wished you could have traveled back in time to tell your younger—supposedly mature self, to not fall for the boy with hair as white as the first winter snows, to save yourself from a life of pain. 

“What will you do now?” Shoko’s voice pulled you from the depths of reality like a savior, and you weaned off your plush bottom lip for a moment, before you allowed yourself to slink even further deeper into the frigid, cold water even more. It was almost starting to feel hot. “What do you think?” An elusive smile crawled onto your lips as you tapped the back of your head against the porcelain of the tub, taking in the relief that filled your lungs in the form of a heavy breath. It hardly helped, but it was something. 

“Well, you can’t go back to him, that’s for sure.” Shoko scoffed, tapping off the excess ash from her cigarette as she spoke into the phone. 

“You know I’m better than that, babe.” Your tone threatened to fall mute, only flashing a mere grin of gratitude that wasn’t quite convincing as you wanted it to be, devastation sunk right into your soul once again. You weren’t sad over the fact that you couldn’t go back to Satoru, you knew from the very deep depths of your brain that you would never go back to him no matter how much your big, golden polished heart wanted to. You were sad over the fact that it would take years to get over him, you were sad that your stupid heart blessed with the wit of a newborn angel, would likely yearn for Satoru no matter how much you know you would never have him back. Despite how much you would never take him back. Shoko spoke up once again, curiously. “Do you know the full story?” Came her question, there was slight shuffling through the other end, and you had a short feeling that she was getting ready to make her way over to ensure that you were fine. With that thought in your head, a small—short exhale escaped the plush of your lips, filtering through the air in a sweet, bell-chime manner as you helped yourself up from the bathtub. Soft flesh decorated with the crystalized droplets of water that luminated your body to an extent, tender spots pebbling as you eagerly brought a towel to your chilly self.

“I know enough. Young woman. Hormones. Something about his new secretary.” 

Shoko clicked her tongue, vibrant brown hair swirling in elegance as she locked her front door expertantly, dark lashes brushing against her fragile little beauty mark. “I don’t get it. Suguru and I have known him since childhood, it’s hard to believe he would pull something like this. Especially to you.” 

You grimaced, you wanted to laugh. Satoru was always a peculiar kid when you met him for the first time in your life, he being 16, you—28. You would always catch the way his eyes snaked their way around every inch of your face and chest with serpentine eagerness. You would tease him for that, too, not in a way that would initiate any romance, but how a woman would. You would magnify your lovely gaze towards him, lay a gentle finger under his chin and examine him like spectacles were placed over your gaze—forced to pile all of your raw attention to him. That’s when Satoru would crack from his sensuous facade and exhale shakily, comprehending the new feeling of a careful touch from a stunning, older woman. You could remember flashing him a gentle smile as you bid him an enigmatic farewell, leaving Satoru with a trembling bottom lip after the brush of his skin against yours. Back then, it was all playful teasing, you’d never register in your mind that he was really attracted to you.  You never acted on him either until he reached out to you when he was 21.

“..I don’t blame him.” Purring into the phone as you dried yourself off, catching your elegant features on the surface of your actual mirror with a slow blink of your nova eyes. Shoko made a sort of choking sound on the other end. “Huh? Are you kidding? He’d been pining after you since his junior year of highschool, why on earth would you not blame him for cheating on you?”

You sunk your tone into a softer, more somber one and let it into the air. 

“He’s still young, Shoko. It was a mistake on my end for letting it get this far.” 

 . ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡

Getou Suguru was quiet in most of his years in highschool, cool, calm and collected—graced with a mellow personality that charmed quiet girls without him even really trying. Always the peacemaker. Always the one to be bestowed right next to the sun that was Gojo Satoru, his forever best friend. Always there to keep the epiphany of a real angel from falling down habits that could cost him his life. Always there to help him when he seemed the lowest. Always there to clean up after his messes. Always there to listen to Satoru rant about the woman with captivating eyes. 

So, how on earth was Suguru meant to clean up this mess? Only a god could tell.

Slender eyes so dark it would take millions of years for light to venture through them focused on the mess that was Satoru. Suguru sighs, his temples aching as he quietly takes a seat on a stray chair a good distance away from the young man that appeared to be intoxicated, but he knew better—he knew that Satoru was a true lightweight. Suguru listened with keen ears, slowly gazing upon the mess of chairs and shattered bottles of liquor that were likely untouched, rattled picture frames of broken memories piled into a type of center environment. Suguru reached his slender fingers for one knocked over picture frame, on the back, in neat calligraphy, wrote. “Shoko - 21 yrs old - Academy Graduation - 2011” 

Suguru flipped the frame over, as described, there stood their close friend dressed in a satin, elegant blue graduation gown with her cap out of sight, holding a diploma with a small, polite smile. However, right beside Shoko, was her. Suguru could see why his best friend was so wild over her despite the years between them, she was tall, taller than any other girl they’ve seen, mature features and a body so sinful it made someone as polite as Suguru blush if he looked at her for too long. Whatever pallet the gods have used to craft her was so pristine and pearlescent, it could likely make any renaissance painter jealous. It clicked for Suguru then, this was a printed image from a collection of pictures Shoko had sent the both of them just to show that she graduated, and Satoru had likely chosen this one out of all of them due to the simple fact that she was in it. This was during the time where Satoru had finally met her in person, and became so infatuated it started bothering Suguru. 

Suguru wondered if she was the last time Satoru could recognize true beauty.

Suguru could recognize the scent of sweet magnolias and clementine mixed with earthly perfume coming from articles of clothing so feminine he knew that they didn’t belong to Satoru, who had draped himself across a couch so expensive it hurt to try and think of the numbers—draped across it like he was experiencing death, holding those articles of clothing to his face as if they were the key to block out all the bad things of the world that threatened to catch him. Infinite hues of bright white light fractured the space in between the sting of his lengthy lashes, deepening the consistent hue of sapphire in his eyes. There was something always so beautiful and alluring about wanting to possess something that Satoru thought he’d never have, for him—it was her. 

“Well, you sure fucked up.” Suguru hummed, his words oddly sweet-sounding despite bringing a harsh reality down onto his best friend, his voice was nearly flowery and soft—like Suguru could grow gardens of adoration from his voice alone. Vanilla and cedarwood intertwined from him, giving off a scent that is so perfectly synonymous with who he is, his slender eyes lifted to meet with Satoru’s wide ones, nebulous flecks of amethyst braided into his irises. 

“..That doesn’t help.” Satoru speaks, his tone was low and careful, distant in a way that almost seemed too close. The more Suguru began to pull in the heavenly creation that was Satoru’s face, the more comfortable he became. A smile faded onto Suguru’s face. “She’s beautiful, successful—a total catch. What'cha switch her out for?” He can’t help but ask, the smile on his face of stunning Asian features, becomes pointed and untrue as he taunts his best friend with words that were more painful than any wound on earth. Satoru straightened up from where he had been previously curling away. “That—I didn’t mean to–fuck.” He stammers, making a complete fool of himself. He wasted no time in pausing, afraid he’d stop speaking all together if he did. “...I fucked up.” Satoru finally admits, quietly, a striking difference to his personality. 

The blood in Satoru’s body stiffened into a painful mass in his lungs, and it was difficult trying to breathe. It was difficult admitting the truth. 

Suguru’s eyes soaked in the sight of the shattered bottles of liquor and turned to look at his best friend next, raising a well-groomed brow as if to ask, ‘did you get drunk?’. At this Satoru shook his head, and without another word, he slumped against the couch once more, his face landing on a pile of her perfect clothes—drenched in her scent, one so unique he had attempted seeking it in any beauty store. Each trip was unsuccessful. Satoru didn’t need liquor to get drunk, all he needed was to drink her appearance like a glass of finely fermented wine and get tipsy off every sip. Suguru shook his head in minor disappointment, his gorgeous head of charcoal-like hair—black and straight like the night sea, following his movements. Softly, like prairie grass in the summer wind, giving contrast to his face, porcelain skin with delicate features.

“Nothing to do from here, Satoru. There’s no chance she’s going to take you back.”

[a/n]: heyyyy i had a thought of like what if satoru fell for an older woman and married her but then cheated on her for some fuck reason and then make it into something full of drama but then i got drunk and forgot the whole plot so ya make what you will with this . i might add more but idk yet so pls send requests or something