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Edward 40hands

A/N: Ayyyoooo, I've had this one in my drafts for a while, but I'm not sure if I like it or not (I definitely gave up a little there at the end). I want to practice writing some longer fics. So let if you like it! Likes, reblogs, and comments are super appreciated :) WC: 5.2K

Suguru X Reader (College, non-curse AU) High key based on "Edward 40 hands" by mom jeans

CW: Suggestive, Angst, drinking (of age), smoking cigarettes (both reader and Suguru), mentions of body shots, break up, Suguru's a lit major with my awful taste in books lmfao, tortured artist trope

PC: Yuannaoi on twt

The room is dark; smoke fills the air and invades your senses while you trudge through a seemingly endless sea of sweaty bodies. You’re not sure what the moisture clinging to your exposed skin is, but it’s probably better not to dwell on that thought. The music blaring through the speakers was nothing in comparison to the drunken screaming emanating from the patrons of today’s party. Your senses were overwhelmed in this cramped space as you slowly pushed your way into the kitchen.

There were still partygoers perched on counters and crouched on the floor, donning plastic cups and drunken, lopsided smiles as they spoke in slurred phrases and empty promises, damp, sour breath clinging to the skin of one another. You push past a couple whispering sweet nothings to each other as you reach into the back of the freezer, behind the hot pockets and frozen pizzas, where you find a crisp, frost-covered bottle of high-west, just where you left it. You smirk to yourself before you feel a large hand with slender fingers clap down on your shoulder in a way that is all too familiar.

“What’re ya doing here?” You turn to see Satoru with a drunken flush and a pretty blonde on his arm. His eyes are friendly, but his tone is laced with concern.

You sigh, waving the frosty bottle in front of his face before uncorking it and throwing back a swig, “left this here n’wanted it back; this is Prisoner’s share, ya’know? Expensive stuff,” you state, grimacing slightly at the way the frost burns your fingers before swapping the bottle into the other hand.

Satoru gives you a questioning look before glancing around the room; you know who he’s looking for. “Don’t worry, I’ll be out of here before he can throw a fit about me being here,” you offer Satoru a smile before pushing back into the swarm of people, trying to make your way to the back door. His gaze lingers on you for a moment, face crestfallen, watching the way you weave through the sea of strangers, arms tucked close to your chest. This wasn’t gonna go well. The blonde next to him startles him out of his trance.

“Wanna do body shots?” Her finger reaches for his jaw, and he can’t help but perk up at the insinuation. All concern and foreboding feelings rush out of him before he gives her a cheeky grin, pulling her impossibly closer to him.

“Fuck yeah,” he turns on his heel, effectively forgetting about your presence and all of the tension you brought with you.

You push your way to the sliding glass door, tucking the cold bottle under your arm before pushing your feet into the carpet and tugging with both hands, wiggling slightly to coax the door open. With a huff, it pops open, nearly causing you to topple over before you step onto the back patio. You should have known; there are people out here, too. You glance around, taking note of the people perched on the porch railing, half-consumed beers in hand, laughter floating out into the too-warm August air.

You shuffle through your pockets in search of a lighter; instead, your fingers are met with loose change, a stray hair tie, and an empty straw wrapper, shit. You’d keep better track of your things one day, but until then, you let out a huff, eyes scanning the creaky wooden porch boards. Your eyes are greeted with empty cans and cups, leaking small amounts of sticky liquid onto the tarnished wood, and random pieces of clothing left to ruminate in this late August humidity, gross. Wandering over to the round table hanging on by a prayer, you see half-empty drinks, an overflowing ashtray, and chewed gum, but alas, no light. The condensation collecting along the glass bottle begins to dribble between your fingers as the humid air quickly warms the both of you. With a flick of the wrist, the whiskey slides its way down, setting a fire in your throat, your breath burning your nostrils on its way out. You set the bottle down and reach for the pack of smokes in your pocket, tenderly retrieving a cigarette and setting it between your lips before returning it to your pocket and the bottle to your hand as you wander further into the yard, searching for someone who might have a lighter.

You notice the mud sticking to your shoes and make a note to throw them into the wash when you get home. In protest of your current predicament, you gingerly take the cigarette from between your lips and place it behind your ear before taking another swig of the amber liquid. You continue your trek through the yard, letting the cicada's song dance through your ears, nearly drowning out the sound of debauchery wafting from the house. The orange of the sun is dipping below the horizon, exploding with colors before retreating to make way for a vast sea of stars. If Suguru were here, he’d probably have something poetic to say about it, you chuckle a bit to yourself at the thought.

There is a fire somewhere. The acrid smell of burning cedar wafts around your nose, bringing crinkles to the space between your brows as you look up silently at Suguru, wondering if he will move to acknowledge the smell--he never does. You pick lazily at the Gibson in your lap, only half paying attention as your gaze travels to Suguru’s face, lit up by the amber sun as it makes its descent under the horizon. Your feet are firmly planted on the shingles of this roof, your mind paying no attention to the way your body reacts to the danger of being up this high. Suguru’s body, on the other hand, is a picturesque view of serenity; his face is relaxed, jaw moving slightly as he unknowingly mouths the words to his book, forearms resting on his knees as his hair gently wafts around his face with the late summer breeze. His tongue poked out every so often, wetting the plush of his lips with a single slow stroke. You watch as his eyes lazily skim the pages of a book he’s read too many times to count.

He must have felt your stare because he glances over at you and offers a lopsided grin, “Are you even paying attention anymore?” his eyes flit to where your fingers are plucking at the strings out of rhythm.

“I’ll have you know that this raw talent doesn’t have to pay attention; my body acts on pure musical instinct,” you state through a cheeky smile, arching a single brow at him as he places the book down by his side. You glance fleetingly at the cover, ‘The Setting Sun,’ your brows furrow a little in thought before speaking, “Suguru, why do you always reread books? I know you could read something that small in a single sitting, smart enough to understand it the first time too,” your hand slips, plucking at the wrong chord, giving way to an eerie out of tune note.

“That’s not how these kinds of books work,” he chuckles mostly to himself before continuing, a small fire dancing around those lavender eyes that signal the forthcoming explanation and the excitement it brings him to speak about it, “Dazai’s books are extremely pessimistic examinations of human nature poorly disguised as fiction; yes this story is about a war-torn family, but really this was his way of projecting his own hopelessness on the world, when you read something this emotionally charged it’s important to examine it from multiple viewpoints,” he glances down to see that your hand has stopped moving altogether as you suck your bottom lip in between your teeth, his gaze returns to your eyes and he speaks through a friendly smile, “for instance, my first read was blank, no real expectations, just getting to know the characters and setting and taking note of my reactions, the second time I’m trying to understand what the overall message of the book is, or examining the points made a little more closely,” you hum in understanding, setting your guitar to the side, before plucking the novel from its resting place, flipping through the pages until you find where he’s dog eared the book.

“I must go on living. And, though it may be childish of me, I can't go on in simple compliance. From now on, I must struggle with the world. I thought that Mother might well be the last of those who can end their lives beautifully and sadly, struggling with no one, neither hating nor betraying anyone. In the world to come, there will be no room for such people. The dying are beautiful, but to live, to survive – those things somehow seem hideous and contaminated with blood.” you look up at him over the edge of the book, “thoughts?” you offer him a cheeky smile, waiting patiently for his reply.

“A few, mostly I think it’s depressing, but you’re not really interested in what I have to say.” He lets out a sweet, breathy laugh before pulling you closer to him, tucked in perfectly to his side. His hand wraps around your shoulder as he places a chaste kiss on the top of your head.

You reach into your pants pocket, retrieve a pack of cigarettes, wiggle one free, and place it between your lips. Staring off at the last sliver of daylight giving way to a navy sky, you pat down your pockets in search of a lighter. Your search is cut short when Suguru dangles the black piece of plastic in front of your eyes.

“You should really keep better track of your things, yaknow?” he mutters his words into the juncture of your neck, brushing his lips against the warm skin; your hairs stand on end at the light tickling.

“One day, but not today,” you take it from him, flicking the lighter and taking a deep breath, letting the cigarette flicker to life as the smell of a distant fire gives way to the rich smell of tobacco. Suguru shuffles himself to the side a little, trying his best to hide the way the smell makes his stomach turn.

“M’sorry,” you mutter before putting some distance between you and turning to face him fully. You know what he’s about to say well before the words leave his mouth.

“Those things’ll kill you, you know?” he says, trying to wear a teasing smile, knowing full well that his words will do little to deter you from your nasty habit.

You roll your eyes playfully before changing the subject: “Do you think you’re going to take that internship?” You do your best to keep your voice neutral. Looking where the sun last hung in the sky, it was long gone, but you feared your eyes might betray you.

He folds in on himself a bit at the statement, “I think so…” His voice trails off a bit before he glances in your direction, searching for a reaction. Your features are fairly neutral in spite of the way your stomach drops at his words. “Are you gonna take that deal?”

“Might as well; if you’re not here, I’ve got no reason to stay. I still need to talk it over with Shoko, though; I’m not sure she’s so keen on the idea of going with me…she’s a hell of a bass player, but she wants to be a doctor, yaknow? She doesn’t have the time to waste in the studio like I do.” You let out a small smile at your situation.

“They’ll sign just you, and you know it,” Suguru says, pulling you a bit closer to himself. He ignores the way the smoke makes his eyes water and places a chaste kiss on the top of your head.

The smell of second-hand smoke wafts your way, dragging your attention to the side of the house where someone is leaning against the side panels, book in hand. You take another drink before squinting at the figure, eyes bleary and head beginning to dizzy; stepping closer to them, you realize it’s the last person you wanted to see today. Of course, he’d be outside hiding from his own party, pretentious ass. As you inch closer, he looks up from his book, giving you the same inquisitive stare before dog-earring his page and tucking the book in the crook of his arm. Once you’re within arm’s reach, he places the cigarette between his lips, taking a long drag and letting the ash fall to the grass below him, eyes narrowing in on the bottle in your hand before he looks back up to your face, exhaling the smoke from his nose before speaking.

“Really?” he tilts his head slightly, a small grin gracing his lips as he brings the cigarette back to his lips and turns to face you more directly.

You do your best not to stare, but his hair is framing his face so perfectly, the veins in his hands are highlighted perfectly by the gentle hold he has on the cigarette perched between his lips, and god, his eyes, those stupidly perfect purple eyes, framed by long, dark lashes shine beautifully under the late August moon and draw you in like a moth to a porch light--blissfully unaware of that something so beautiful could be so dangerous.

You steady your resolve before looking at him like he’s an idiot, “obviously, shit was expensive,” you mark your point by taking a much larger drink from the bottle before extending it to him. He gives you a pensive look before taking the bottle from your hand and bringing it to his own lips. You note the way his tongue pokes out to wet his lips before he takes a large drink, his Adams apples bobbing as the fluid makes its way down his throat. To your surprise, he keeps going, effectively chugging the whiskey as if it were water. “Hey, stop that!” you exclaim, reaching up with ardor to take the bottle from his grasp. When your small hand grasps the glass and pulls it away from him, the drink falls from the corner of his lips as he laughs through a cough, bringing his sleeve up to wipe the excess from his lips. “That was easily like fifty bucks right there,” you grumble mostly to yourself, wiping the outside of the bottle across your jeans.

He looks up at you from his hunched-over position and grabs the cigarette from your ear, brushing his knuckles across your cheek as he does, waving it in your face, a goofy grin plastered on his face, a single eyebrow quirked up in question, “Need a light?”. Such an innocent question, but the lopsided grin he’s sporting and the intensity of his eyes leave you flustered in place for a moment longer than you’d like, listening to thrumming in your ears telling you to leave. Instead, you grab the cigarette from his hand indignantly, staring at the ground to cover the flush that threatens to creep across your face at his proximity, tapping the toe of your shoe into the grass, half in an attempt to free some of the mud accumulating and partially to have a reason not to look at him.

“Yeah,” you mutter out before glancing up at him. When you do, he places the cigarette between your lips, he stands to his full height, making you feel incredibly small beneath him before he rummages through his pocket. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, Marb red, 100s to be exact, and you smile a little to yourself. “copy cat,” you giggle out, looking up at him as he places a cigarette between his lips, cupping the flame and taking a large inhale. He chuckles to himself a little at your statement before stepping impossibly closer to you with his lit cigarette. His hair falls around his face as he leans down, smirking around the cigarette perched between his pouty lips, waiting patiently for you to close the distance. He couldn’t be serious right now.

“Well? Ya gonna light that cig or what?” he speaks through the cigarette, his hair cascading down in front of him, the very tips of it tickling your collarbone. You roll your eyes before placing your hand around your cigarette, cradling it in place, letting your eyes flutter closed, touching the tip of your cigarette to his, breathing in deeply and relishing in the bitter-sweet taste of it as it makes its way to the bottom of your lungs. When you open your eyes, he’s staring at you with an unreadable expression, no hint of the smile that was present moments ago. His gaze pierces you in place as the low thrumming of life on the other side of the wall drifts into your consciousness.

You shift nervously under his gaze, looking at the mud crusted to the tip of your shoe, “Since when do you smoke? Ya know those things will kill ya,” you mutter with all the playfulness you can muster before returning your gaze to him. You don’t miss the small smile that creeps over his hand as he takes another drag.

“Got dumped by a beautiful girl, in case you didn’t know; I think it’s only natural to pick up a bad habit. Speaking of which, does Satoru know you’re here? I think you traumatized him last time he saw you,” Suguru says with some genuine concern etched into his brows.

You chuckle a little at the statement feeling your brows knit together in guilt, “Yeah, he knows, definitely didn’t look too happy to see me, but he had pussy to chase, so you know how that goes,” Suguru chuckles at your response before bringing the cigarette back to his lips. “Besides, I wasn’t that bad. Promise, I could have been a lot worse,” you chuckle a little to yourself before bringing the bottle back to your lips and taking a healthy swig. This was the last thing you wanted to talk about tonight, but the world turns to spite you, it would seem.

“I don’t doubt that, but he’s a pampered guy, yaknow? I highly doubt he’s ever seen a woman raise her voice before then, much less cause that much destruction,” he pulls the cigarette to his lips again, and you take notice of how close the ember is reaching to the butt and the way the mellow flame illuminates his features as he takes a shallow inhale.

He was right; you may have gone a bit overboard. You don’t remember much of that night, to be completely honest; when you think back, most of it flies away in a haze of screaming and crying. You do remember throwing a dresser drawer in the general direction of Satoru though. Being the sweetheart pacifist that he is, he came up to try and quell the storming rage, but unfortunately, words evaded him, and he opened up with “chill out,” not a great thing to say to an angry woman.

You straighten your stance as you pinch the ember out of your cigarette, stomping it into the grass, and toss the butt into your jacket pocket, a sweet habit that doesn’t go unnoticed by Suguru. “Well, yaknow what they say? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” you scoff, staring as you swirl the liquid in your bottle, groaning internally at the realization that it is nearly empty before taking another swig, feeling your mind begin to slip away as your jaw unclenches and your vision blurs slightly.

Suguru reaches for the bottle in your hands, bringing it to his lips and taking a large drink before he crouches down, leaning his head back on the worn wood of the house, looking up at you as if asking you to take a seat next to him. On slightly wobbly legs, you comply, leaving a healthy distance between you. You sit in silence for a moment, taking in the heavy thrum of bass emanating from the house, reminiscing on nights when you would sit out here with Suguru, a bottle between you and the comfortable quiet of the night save for the low hum of life seeping into the night air from the crowded house. You would sit beside him, relishing in the bitterness of a cigarette as he scolded you playfully for the nasty habit, making notes about the staining on your fingers and comparing them to the yellowed pages of a novel. He was always overly poetic like that, sickeningly good at making you feel like the main character of some period romance novel. That’s probably why it stung so bad when you found out he was leaving. Had he told you himself, lacing beautiful words about finding each other again or running away together like lovesick teenagers, maybe you would have been okay with it; maybe you would have chuckled even at his poet’s tongue before cradling his too-large face in your hand, peppering it with sweet kisses, hopeful for the future.

Instead, you stared at a plane ticket, cold and alone, entirely too drunk to be in your right mind, with no sweet words to chase away the tears creeping to the corners of your eyes, no elaborate yearning confessions to replace the overwhelming weight in your chest. He was leaving, and he wasn’t even going to tell you; what’s worse, he lied to you. He laid you down in his bed, body pressed comfortably close to yours as he kissed the space between your ear and jaw as he whispered to you about how he belonged here with you, that he could never pass you up for anything because his heart was sure to reject anyone but you. That he couldn’t imagine a life for himself where he didn’t come home to you stretched out on the sofa in his worn out crewneck, his sweet cat wrapped comfortably on your chest as your little snores drift to his ears. He couldn’t wake without the sight of your hazy smile peering down at him, your sweet voice coaxing him back to the reality of his dreams.

At least that’s what he had said; instead, you sit there on the worn carpet of his bedroom, studying the creases in the corner of the plane ticket. He had decided to leave and never intended to tell you. No possibility of running behind him and living in a shitty studio while he interned at the college, and you worked part-time at the cafe down the street, saving your change in a pickle jar to afford a better home. You would never hear him shuffle through the front door, kicking his black loafers off before unbuttoning the top of his shirt, striding over to your place at the kitchen sink, placing a single kiss on the crown of your head before telling you all about the students he worked with today, and way they groaned at the Dostoevsky reading today. Suguru would go on to describe the intricacies of his love for the droning author as you wiped the water off your hands with a tea towel, smiling at him with that same lovesick look your heart always held for him.

You’re pulled from your thoughts by the flicking of a lighter, and you look over to see Suguru cupping the flame once again as his cigarette flickers to life. “When did you really pick up smoking, Suguru?” you spare a glance at whatever book he’s reading right now, Letters to Milena, typical.

“When you left them at my place, they just kept staring at me from the nightstand. It wasn’t supposed to become a habit, but I think it pairs nicely with the whole tortured artist vibe, yaknow?” he chuckles to himself at his own lame joke. He takes a sharp inhale and stares off into the night sky for a moment before reaching for the bottle between you, taking a large drink, and offering the last of it to you. “I never meant to hurt you, yaknow?” he mutters out before taking another drag off of his smoke as if avoiding speaking, even if only for a moment.

You don’t hesitate to finish the last of the bottle, relishing the fire that trails through your throat. “What is that supposed to mean?” you ask, leaning your head back against the wall, trying to straighten out your dizzy mind.

He sucks in a deep breath, using his foot to toy with the grass. “I just didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know how to tell you; I tried to believe me, but every time…I just…choked, I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t say it out loud… made it all feel too real,” his voice cracks a little at the end like the memory of it all could break him.

You look over at him, your confident facade crumbling as your voice betrays you, conveying much more than you ever wanted to say: “I didn’t expect you to stay, yaknow? A part of me was so excited for you. I know what this means to you…I just didn’t expect you of all people to lie to me,” you take in a deep breath. “I was also incredibly drunk,” you let out a half-hearted chuckle, hoping to lighten the mood.

He doesn’t smile; if anything, his frown only deepens before he moves to speak, “I didn’t lie to you, I’m not going…I’ve had too much time to think about it, and I don’t think I can leave you behind, even if it’s just the little things, like the hoodie hanging over my desk chair with cigarette hole burnt through the pocket or the pack of reds staring at me while I’m far too drunk to make any good decisions,” he looks over at you, moving his hand into the space between you, looking up at you through his heavy lashes, “or the chance that I’ll find you sneaking out the back door of my house, looking for a lighter” he laughs solemnly to himself at that last statement. Reaching into his pocket for yet another cigarette, placing it between his teeth and lighting it before handing the lit cigarette to you.

You shuffle in place, lifting the cigarette to your lips, praying it will do anything to settle your uneasy heart, or maybe keep your head from spinning, laying your head back against the wall and letting your eyes flutter closed, “Those things’ll kill ya yaknow?” you mutter out, groaning lightly at the way the world turns behind your eyelids, before passing the cigarette back to him.

“You’ll still kill me faster,” he chuckles a little at the thought, leaning on his outstretched hand, taking a drag off the cigarette and letting the smoke dissipate into the night. “I uh…I miss you a lot, and I’m sorry for all of it,” he states, turning to look at the space between you, studying the way your hand twitches lightly. The silence between you grows on him like a fungus threatening to stop his breathing altogether as he closes his eyes and lets the weight of what he said hang in the air. He was sure you didn't care that he missed you; an apology wasn’t going to erase what had happened between you; it wasn’t enough, but a small part of him wished it was.

“So, what are you doing now? You didn’t leave; better be a damn good alternative here,” your voice is coated with a teasing tone, trying desperately to hide all of the emotions threatening to overtake your now hazy mind. You look over to see him staring holes into your hand, and as if on instinct, you place it haphazardly over his much larger one, enjoying the warmth radiating from his knuckles. Your gaze returns to the stars draping across the sky, taking mental note of how small you feel when gazing up at the vast, consuming black of the night sky. It was a morbidly comforting thought that none of this would matter one day.

“Promise not to kill me?” he leans in a little closer to you, a breathy chuckle escaping his lips as his thumb absentmindedly strokes the side of your hand, the pad of his finger calloused and warm.

“Cross my heart,” you state, looking over at him again, realizing how close he’s gotten and studying the features of his face, the way his brows sag comfortably low, his eyelashes framing his warm eyes perfectly, his lips are pulled in a small grin, his collarbone peaking out of the black T-shirt, exposing the smallest bit of a tattoo creeping over his shoulder from his back, that you know all too well.

His eyes linger on your lips as he begins to speak; he’s close enough now that when he does, you can see the hint of silver resting against his tongue, “I’ve started working on a book,” his eyes flash up to meet yours.

“Mr. Responsible is writing a book and hoping it works out? That’s definitely not what I expected to hear.” You try your best to muster up a teasing tone, but the way he’s so close to you right now, looking at you like a man starved, twists your guts, and for a moment, you think your heart might stop beating then and there.

He chuckles a bit, his gaze returning to your eyes, “It’s going well, thanks for asking,” he rolls his eyes, but you don’t miss the grin stretching across his features as his hand returns to absentmindedly stroking yours, “besides it was a way to stay here, I already have an offer and they made a generous upfront payment after some back and forth nonsense that you don’t really care about,” his voice trails off a little at the end as he notices the way your eyes are scanning his lips, a cute drunken flush washed over your face as your tongue darts out to lick your lips.

Would it make him a bad person if he kissed you right now? He’s not sure and must not care because he’s quick to close the distance between you, placing a gentle kiss on the juncture of your mouth, letting himself linger there for a moment as he relishes the feeling. When he pulls back, he knows he’s a terrible person cause the sight of you with your wide eyes looking up at him through a soft pout, chest heaving slightly, tongue darting out to wet your lips--a very innocent reaction to a very innocent act-- makes him ache to devour you.

“Wh-why would you do that?” your brows knit together in confusion for a moment before his lips are on you again, first at your lips, then just below your ear as he whispers to you.

“Let me tell you I’m sorry…please?”

Oh fuck, the ‘please’ he lets out is so pathetic you feel a whine creeping from the back of your throat as your hands find purchase in his and tug slightly. “Are you ready to beg for my forgiveness?” With that, it’s his turn to let out a groan at how breathy and unsure you sound.

“Sweetheart, I’m prepared to get on my knees and beg for hours if you’d let me…” he makes his point by licking a stripe up the side of your neck.

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