Archive of Our Own

Satoru Gojo was always too much. He felt everything, all at once, regardless of positive or negative. It was simply how he operated. There was never a moment in life where he was overwhelmed by this—it simply was. He’d grown used to his extreme moods, and managed to (most of the time) keep them under wraps. 

It went into more than just emotions, though. His opinions could be extreme, his friendship overbearing, his thoughts swinging into his mind and sliding away just as fast. Because he was so… intense, as others had put it before, Satoru learned to roll with the punches. He acted on thoughts and feelings as they arose, dealing with the consequences in a much similar way. 

He wasn’t completely knuckle-headed. He knew when to hold his tongue, when to lay off, that it would be better to do nothing than something. He was a smart guy, if he could say so himself. Smart enough to be getting top marks in his classes, at least. Smart enough to learn how to make friends, though the skill came a little late in life. But hey, fourteen was better than never, right? Meeting Mimiko and Nanako felt like fate—there was finally not one, but two people that could tolerate him long enough to be his friend, and it definitely helped that Nanako had never hesitated to call him out for acting like a little shit. 

Yes, Satoru knew he was too much for other people. It hadn’t bothered him as a kid, but when high school rolled around and he suddenly found eating lunch alone a far more undesirable outcome than usual… well, like he said. He’s smart. He knows when to adapt.  He never thought that befriending the twins would also introduce him to multiple others, like Shoko and her girlfriend Utahime, or Nanami and his friend(?) Haibara. Honestly, Satoru was just happy to finally have friends. He never thought he would make any, much less that those friends would start inviting him over to their house, or that it would become like a second home to him. 

After he came out, Satoru’s parents all but disowned him. 

Okay, sure, they didn’t say that, but the disappointment on their faces—combined with the countless remarks of ‘what about grandchildren’ and ‘this will make your life so much harder’ and ‘you couldn’t think to ask us first?’ (as if it was his choice)—said it all. They were certainly quick to support his decision to live in the dorms for college, rather than commuting from home. That told him all he needed to know: his parents didn’t want him, and that was fine by him. He’d gotten by just fine without them. He had the dorms, and he had his home-away-from-home: Mimi and Nana’s place.

The house always smelled faintly of sandalwood and fried tofu. It wasn’t particularly spacious—Mimiko and Nanako shared a room (by choice, weirdly enough, even though there was a guest room), the kitchen was more of a corner, and the couch had been beaten into shape by years of siblings arguing over who got the remote. But to Satoru, it always felt… safe. Familiar. Homey, in a way that his own sterile dorm room never quite managed.

The twins sat cross-legged at the dining room table, textbooks and notebooks scattered around them. Mimiko was halfway through a math worksheet, her brows furrowed as she tapped her pencil against her lip, while Nanako dictated the steps of some biology lab report she hadn’t started but said she definitely planned to finish before midnight.

Satoru, meanwhile, was very much not doing homework.

He lay upside down on the living room couch, back arched against the cushions, socked feet hanging off the headrest. His Switch rested on his chest, fingers lazily clicking through another round of Smash Bros. as he wore a pair of loose-fitting, mid-wash jeans and a pastel blue hoodie. The hoodie was his favorite—oversized, soft from too many washes, with a big print of Cinnamoroll stitched across the back. The twins always called his clothing “childish”, but he figured that was just another word for adorable. Besides, he liked wearing these clothes. They made him happy, so… Score one, Satoru; zero, twins.

“You could help, y’know,” Nanako called out, not even looking up.

“I could,” Satoru said, sticking his tongue out as he button-mashed his way to victory. “But that sounds dangerously like responsibility.”

Mimiko scoffed. “You’re gonna get your ass kicked on the next test.”

“Nahhh,” he grinned. “I’m a natural-born genius. Pretty and smart.”

“And insufferable,” Nanako muttered.

He loved them. God, he really did. Mimi and Nana were the kind of friends he never thought he’d have—warm, loyal, funny in that dry way that meant they always had a comeback ready. They’d accepted his over-the-top energy without batting an eye, and somewhere between swapping eyeliner tips and helping them sneak out to go to karaoke, he’d ended up as their honorary third sibling. Which made things very complicated when their dad walked into the room.

“Food’s here.”

The voice hit him first—deep, a little rough, always calm in a way that rubbed against Satoru's nerves just right. He craned his neck upside-down to see Mr. Geto standing in the entryway, one hand holding up a plastic takeout bag, the other shoved lazily into the pocket of his sweatpants. Satoru swallowed.

“Finally!” Nanako hopped up, walking over to take the bag. “We were about to starve.”

“You ate an hour ago,” Geto replied dryly.

“Doesn’t count,” Mimiko said. “That was cereal.”

“Cereal still has calories,” he muttered.

Satoru stayed on the couch, blinking up at him. From his upside-down view, Geto looked unfairly hot—hair pulled back in a low bun, a few loose strands framing his face. Time had sprinkled a fair amount of silvery-white strands among the rest of his black hair, the contrast stark. He had some laugh lines, and while he looked really good for his age, you could still tell that he’d paid his dues in this lifetime. His black long-sleeve clung just right to his arms and chest, a body that once was definitely sculpted but now had packed on a bit of bulk. Still, Satoru had no doubt that those muscles never went away. He was sure that Geto could pick him up and throw him wherever he wanted him.

He shouldn’t be noticing this. He really shouldn’t.

Geto looked at him and smiled. “Evening, Satoru. Hungry?”

God, yes. But not for food.

“Uh—yeah. Sure. I could eat,” Satoru said, rolling off the couch in a graceless tangle. His Switch clattered to the floor, and he scrambled to pick it up before pretending that nothing had happened.

“Careful,” Geto said, the smile still there. Small. Easy. Always a little unreadable.

Satoru’s brain was short-circuiting. He blamed the hoodie. Something about the softness of it made him feel even more like a child around Geto—like he was still that awkward, friendless teenager who had no idea how to talk to guys, let alone hot, broody, divorced-dad types.

But then Geto turned, leading them into the kitchen, and Satoru’s eyes dropped to the way those sweatpants fit around Suguru’s thick, no doubt muscular thighs. Okay, maybe he hadn’t changed that much after all.

Dinner was Thai from the place down the street, and he thought maybe he was eating chicken? Or no, fried tofu. Satoru wasn’t sure—he hadn’t looked at the takeout menu, and at this point, his bowl was already half-empty. The sauce was sweet, spicy, clinging to the noodles, and his mouth was pleasantly numb from the chili oil.

The four of them sat around the tiny dining table, mismatched chairs creaking beneath them. Nana and Mimi had pulled their hair up with clips and scrunchies halfway through dinner—typical, always fussing—and Satoru had rolled up the sleeves of his hoodie, careful not to let the sauce stain the pale blue fabric.

“Classes going alright?” Geto asked, his voice low and casual as he leaned back in his chair.

“Fine,” Mimiko said, mouth full.

“Great,” Nanako said. “Except chem lab, which sucks.”

Geto raised an eyebrow. “You said you liked chem last semester.”

“I liked it until I had to balance equations while my lab partner tried to flirt with me over Bunsen burners.”

Satoru snorted.

“Sounds dangerous,” Geto said, deadpan.

“You have no idea,” Nanako muttered.

The conversation rolled along like that—familiar, domestic, easy. Satoru joined in when he felt like it, laughing at Mimi’s complaints about her professor’s coffee breath, nodding along when Geto asked about his upcoming midterms. It wasn’t weird. It was normal. This was what they did. Homework, takeout, low-stakes banter around a rickety table with a single bulb overhead humming like a tired little bee, just buzz buzz buzzing away.

And when he focused on the noodles, on the way Mimi kept poking Nanako with her chopsticks, on the condensation gathering on his soda can—he didn’t have to think about how Geto’s voice always dipped just a little when he asked him questions.

“How about you, Satoru?” Geto said, glancing over.

Shit. “Huh?”

Geto smiled, folding his arms on the table. “College. Passing all your classes?”

“Oh. Yeah, totally,” Satoru said, quick, casual. “Y’know. Same old, same old. Stress, existential dread, vitamin deficiency. Good times.”

“You eating?” Geto asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yes, Dad,” Satoru said, dragging the word out in mock offense.

Mimiko laughed. “You’re here more than we are, honestly.”

“It’s true,” Nanako agreed. “You live here.”

“Maybe I should be charging rent,” Geto muttered, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth.

And Satoru—well. Fuck. This was the problem.

He’d known Geto for almost ten years now. Since his awkward, skinny high school self started following the twins around like a lost cat, wearing broken glasses and lugging a backpack filled with anime merch. He’d slept in their guest room; the mattress had molded to his body, and it’d been assigned as his room any time he wanted to stay. He’d cried here. Thrown up here. Been scolded gently for missing curfews, given leftovers to take home, had homework checked and late-night rants patiently listened to.

Geto has been like a parent to him, all this time. Satoru should feel like Geto’s his father or something, right? And he does, kinda. Sometimes. But mainly he just wants to see what he’s like when he’s not around the twins. This whole “dad” persona has to be exhausting, and Satoru often finds himself wondering what they could talk about without the girls, wondering what an adult life with him would look like. 

And God, he wasn’t even doing anything special, just sitting there in his all-black long-sleeve and making sure the girls were eating enough protein. Talking about school and showing interest in whatever stupid stories they wanted to tell.

It was so annoying. Why the hell was responsibility so hot?

Like—seriously. Caring? Following up on homework? Knowing what everyone’s schedule looked like for the week? Why was that sexier than some ripped hunk grinding on him at a club?

Satoru stabbed at his noodles. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Responsibility is so fucking stupid.”

Nanako blinked at him. “What?”

“Huh? Nothing,” he said quickly, mouth full. “This food’s insane.”

︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

Satoru was lying belly-down on his bed, legs in the air, scrolling through his camera roll to find that one pic where his eyeliner had been immaculate. It was almost time to get ready, and he still hadn’t decided what to wear.

“Do the silver mesh top,” Mimiko called from where she and Nanako were camped out at his tiny desk, both hunched over laptops like goblins.

“It’s too cold,” he muttered. “I’ll freeze my cute little nips off.”

“Then wear a jacket,” Nanako said, not looking up.

“Why would I do that when I can complain all night instead?”

“You’re impossible,” Mimiko sighed.

He rolled onto his back, arms splayed dramatically. “You guys sure you don’t wanna come?”

Nanako snorted. “Unlike you, we actually plan to pass our exams.”

“Hey! I do study.”

“Uh-huh. You study outfits.”

“That’s still a science,” he said, pointing. “Color theory? Textiles? Sociocultural impact of glitter? I should be getting course credit.”

“Go out and be annoying somewhere else,” Mimiko grumbled.

“Fine. I will.” He huffed, flopping off the bed in one overly dramatic movement. “Guess it’ll just be me and Shoko and Utahime then. Not even a full party. So tragic.”

“They’ll survive,” Nanako said.

“I bet Utahime won’t,” Satoru muttered. “She still hasn’t recovered from the last time we took her to a drag night.”

“Maybe don’t let Shoko order the drinks this time.”

“No promises.”

By the time the twins left—after threatening to destroy his Switch if he got glitter on their homework—Satoru had the whole room to himself.

He turned on his “Get Ready to Sin” playlist (a curated mix of pop bangers, K-pop, and that one remix of Toxic by Britney Spears that he loved, then stepped in front of his mirror.

Outfit first.

He pulled out his favorite pair of black short shorts. They were sinfully tight, making his ass look illegal, with silver zippers and a cheeky little ring pull on the side. Underneath, he’d slipped on fishnet tights—snug, just a little bit ripped at the thigh from last time. That made it hotter in his opinion, so he’d decided not to throw them out. Good thing, too, because it was perfect for tonight.

The top half was trickier. He tried on three things before settling on the backless tank—metallic silver, cut high at the front with thin straps and low at the sides. His ribs peeked through with every shift of movement. He liked how it looked: flirty, just shy of scandalous. The kind of thing that made people double-take.

Accessories came next. Rings, obviously—he had too many to choose from, but tonight he went with two delicate silver ones to match his top. A chunky chain necklace, two silver fake cartilage cuffs. His boots were the same beat-up platforms he always wore out—scuffed, worn in, and reliable.

Makeup was his favorite part.

He leaned close to the mirror, the desk lamp pulled low to catch every angle. He lined his eyes in sharp winged white eyeliner and matching white mascara, then dabbed shimmering silver into the corners to brighten them up even more. A sweep of highlighter across his cheekbones, some lip gloss that made his mouth look biteable, a little glitter on his collarbones, because why not?

The final touch was a spritz of what he’d dubbed his “club scent”—it was citrusy and clean, with a little sharpness underneath. Bold, but not cloying. He knew the scent clung to skin and left people wondering who the hell was that.

He looked at himself in the mirror, turning slightly to see the dip of his back, the curve of thigh under the mesh. His hair was perfectly messy, that artful kind of disheveled that looked natural but took ten full minutes of styling. Exactly the look he was going for.

“Not bad, Satoru,” he said, finger-gunning at himself. “You look like a slutty disco ball.”

︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

The bass hit him before the door even shut behind him.

The whole club pulsed—blue lights strobing across the crowd, fog machine haze turning everything dream-soft around the edges. The air smelled like cheap perfume, alcohol, sweat, and that particular blend of regret and possibility that only existed in places like this.

Satoru grinned.

He spotted Shoko almost immediately—smoking in the outdoor section with her signature leather jacket and too-dark lipstick, Utahime hovering beside her with a drink in hand and her I hate everyone here face already in full effect.

“There he is,” Shoko called as he approached. “You look like a sex crime.”

“Why thank you,” he said, blowing her a kiss. “You look like a tired med student.”

“I am a tired med student,” she replied, flicking ash off her cigarette. “Let’s go dance before Utahime murders someone.”

“I’m fine,” Utahime muttered. “I just—why is this music so loud?”

“Because it’s a club, sweetie,” Satoru said, linking arms with her and dragging her inside.

The music inside was like a second heartbeat—heavy, all-consuming. Satoru moved through the crowd like he belonged there, and honestly, he did. He knew how to dance. He knew how to flirt. He knew how to make people look.

Tonight wasn’t about studying or crushes or being the weird smart guy in his pastel clothes. Tonight, he was shiny and untouchable and free. He let himself melt into the beat, hips rolling, body loose and easy. Shoko danced like she couldn’t be bothered to care, Utahime eventually gave in, and Satoru soaked up every second of it.

Satoru was exactly one (1) vodka cranberry deep.

Which was, frankly, more than enough. He was an absolute lightweight, a fact he never bothered hiding. One drink in and he was already looser and warmer, his limbs moving just a little too fluidly to the beat. Shoko had dragged Utahime back to the dance floor and Satoru had just peeled off from them, cheeks flushed, skin damp, and a smug little sparkle in his eyes.

He made his way back to the bar, leaning against the polished counter as he waited for the bartender to notice him.

The music thudded through his ribs, heart buzzing with leftover adrenaline. He tossed his overgrown bangs out of his face and fanned himself with one hand, letting the cool of the bar chill the sweat clinging to his neck.

“Vodka cran,” he said when the bartender finally came over. Then, leaning in a little with a coy smile, “Add it to some suckers tab if you can.” 

The bartender chuckled, coming back a few moments later with a plastic cup, setting Satoru’s drink down on the bar. “Starting a tab?”

Satoru sighed, pulling out his card and handing it to him. “Yeah, no suckers tonight I guess.” He picked his drink up and sipped it, turning to let his hip rest against the bar, watching the crowd ripple and move around him like a living painting of chaos. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and it was like he could feel a set of eyes on him. 

A voice spoke behind him, low and smooth. “You alone tonight?”

Gojo blinked, turning with a flirtatious smirk already loaded. “Why? You looking for compa—” Gojo’s smile faltered. No. Fucking no. Because the man at the bar, the one who had definitely just been checking him out, was none other than—

“Geto–san?” There was a pause. An incredibly awkward, horrifyingly charged pause. 

Geto's mouth parted slightly. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Gojo lifted his drink, deadpan. “Getting my vitamin C.”

“You—I can’t—” Geto looked around, visibly short-circuiting. “You should go home.” His voice was low, already shaking his head. “This—Satoru, seriously. This isn’t a place you should be at.”

Satoru raised both brows. “O-kay, Dad.”

“I mean it.”

He lifted his drink. “Geto-san, maybe I should be asking you what you’re doing here.” He took a lazy sip and leaned in, voice dropping. “You do realize this is a gay bar, right?”

Geto paled just a little. “Fuck,” he muttered. “Fucking fuck.”

Then he grabbed Gojo’s arm firmly and muttered a terse, “Come with me,” before pulling him away from the bar.

“Hey! We just met, take me to dinner first!” Gojo yelped jokingly, drink sloshing a little as he stumbled along. He didn’t resist though. He was curious, and if he was being honest he was high-key buzzed and absolutely living for this little freak out Geto was having.

The older man pulled him down the hallway toward the restrooms, past a couple making out against a wall and a guy drunkenly mumbling into his phone. The music got quieter, muffled by layers of drywall and the thump of his own pulse.

Once they were tucked in a shadowed corner near the emergency exit, Geto turned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Listen. You cannot tell Mimi or Nana about this. About me being here. About—this.” He gestured vaguely between them.

Satoru stared at him over the rim of his cup. “…About you trying to flirt with me before you realized who I was?” Geto’s jaw clenched, and Satoru smiled sweetly. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Geto exhaled hard, eyes flicking briefly down his body before snapping back up. “What are you wearing, Satoru? Christ, your parents would kill me if they—” he cut himself off, rubbing his jaw and looking to the ceiling, closing his eyes briefly.

Gojo blinked innocently. “It’s just clothes.”

“Satoru—”

“A very tasteful ensemble, thank you. You didn’t seem to mind it when you were about to buy me a drink…”  His heart was racing, but his face stayed smug, or at least he hoped it did. The vodka was humming through his bloodstream, a low, warm buzz that blurred the edges of his self-preservation instincts.

“You—God, you shouldn’t be wearing that in public.”

Gojo stepped closer, his smirk lazy, fingertips trailing lightly up the center of Geto’s chest until they caught on the first button of his shirt. 

What the hell was he doing?

Seriously. What was this? Teasing? Flirting?? He was touching his best friend’s dad, and not like—accidentally brushing hands. No, he was full-on walking his fingers up the man’s chest, over surprisingly solid muscle and the subtle pull of a button straining against the fabric of Geto’s shirt.

Jesus Christ, he was touching Geto. Suguru Geto. Responsible, soft-spoken, definitely-too-old-for-this, absolutely-shouldn’t-have-tried-to-flirt-with-him Geto. And fuck, he was so warm. Up close, he smelled like clove and something earthy. His skin was just slightly flushed from the heat of the club, and the look in his eyes—sharp and dark and a little haunted—made something low in Satoru’s stomach twist.

“You really sure you weren’t gonna hit on me?” he asked, voice soft, almost playful. But there was a tremble just underneath it, a thrum of oh god oh god oh god singing in his bones. 

Geto grabbed his wrist roughly, yanking his hand away. Satoru felt it like a jolt of electricity, like his pulse had jumped into his palm.

“You’ve had a drink,” Geto said, voice tight.

Satoru blinked up at him, lashes fluttering just a little. “One,” he said. “I’m not wasted.”

“You’re tipsy,” Geto said, like that changed anything. 

Satoru shrugged, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe I’m just bold.”

Oh my god, shut up, his brain screamed. What are you doing?

“You’re tipsy,” Geto repeated, “and not remembering correctly. I did not hit on you, Satoru.”

Satoru stared at him, and his heart dropped, just a little. Not all the way—he wasn’t that fragile—but enough for him to feel the twinge of it in his throat. Geto wasn’t hitting on him? Wasn’t hitting on him?

“You literally asked if I was alone,” he said, deadpan.

Geto exhaled sharply, like he was trying very hard not to lose patience. “It’s a common question. People ask that. It’s not—flirting.”

“You said it in the voice,” Satoru shot back, finger wagging. “You know. The voice.”

“There is no voice, Satoru.”

“Yes, there is, the—” Satoru groaned, stomping his feet, not caring if it seemed childish. “The voice, you know what the voice is, you’re a grown ass man!”

Geto looked at him like he couldn’t believe he was having this conversation. Satoru took another sip of his drink, more for something to do than anything. The vodka was warm now, but he needed the distraction.

God, what was he even doing—Trying to provoke him, trying to tease something out? See if that flicker in Geto’s eyes earlier had meant what he thought it meant?

Or was he just… lonely? A little drunk? Craving the kind of attention that wasn’t wrapped in homework and study groups and pretending he didn’t melt every time Geto so much as looked at him?

Satoru let out a low breath, feeling a bit ridiculous. “Okay. Fine. You didn’t hit on me.”

Geto nodded, clearly relieved. Satoru paused, then leaned back against the wall, tipping his head up to stare at the flickering ceiling light above them.

“...But you would’ve, right?” he asked, voice quieter this time. “If it hadn’t been me.”

Geto went still. His posture didn’t change, but something behind his eyes flickered—like a thread pulled taut enough to snap. His jaw tensed, and he didn’t answer. Satoru tilted his head, looking at him from beneath his lashes—a flirtatious, dangerous look that had brought men to their knees countless times before. Satoru knew the effect his looks had on others. He wasn’t quite that naive.

“Would’ve asked for my number. Bought me a drink.” He swirled the melting ice in his cup. “Maybe even taken me home.”

“Satoru—” Geto’s voice was a warning now, strained.

But he couldn’t stop. Not now. Not with the vodka burning soft and stupid in his blood, not with Geto looking at him like that.

“Would you have kissed me?” he asked, stepping forward slowly, recklessly, like his feet had minds of their own. “Touched me?”

“Satoru.” Firmer, dropping deeper, but his hand didn’t move to stop him this time. Gojo leaned in, just a little, close enough to smell the intoxicating earthy clove scent on Geto’s skin again. Close enough to see every micro-expression tighten across his face. He was trembling, just slightly. Satoru was too.

“But it’s me,” he said, eyes locked on Geto’s. “So you won’t.”

Satoru held his gaze, neither man moving for a few moments. Finally, Satoru stepped away, downing the rest of his drink in two big gulps and then tossing the plastic cup into the trashcan a few feet away.

“Whatever,” he sighed. “Sorry, Geto–san, you’re right. I think I’ve had a bit too much to drink. I’m gonna go find Shoko and have her take me back to the dorms.”

“Satoru—” Was his name all this man was capable of saying now? Fucking Christ on a cracker.

Satoru walked quickly, leaving the other man behind and searching for Shoko’s familiar head of hair. The lights felt too bright now, too strobe-y. The music, once a delicious rhythm of bass, now thumped against his skull like a headache waiting to happen. He wove through the crowd, barely paying attention to the bodies brushing past him. His heart was racing, not from dancing anymore, but from everything else. From the look on Geto’s face. From how close they’d been. From the tension in that man’s jaw. From the fact that Geto had looked at him like—

Like he wanted him. Like he shouldn’t, but couldn’t help it.

Oh my god.

Satoru felt like he was going to explode.

“Hey,” he called when he finally spotted Shoko near the edge of the dance floor, her drink half-empty and Utahime dramatically yelling about something in the background. “I think I wanna dip. Can you get us a cab?”

Shoko raised an eyebrow, taking one look at his face. “What happened?”

“I’ll tell you in the car,” he said, tugging on her sleeve. “Please, I need to get the hell out of here before I combust.”

She blinked. “You’re being weird. Weirder than normal.”

“Shoko.”

“Alright, alright.” She pulled out her phone, already opening the ride app. “God, did someone cry on you again?”

“No, worse,” he mumbled. “I hit on someone and I think they almost cried.”

Shoko just snorted. “Classy.”

︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

Satoru leaned his head against the cab’s cold window, lips pressed together, eyes wide as the night spun around in his head. Geto’s voice. His face, the wrist grab, the almost. His voice flowed into Satoru’s mind.

‘You cannot tell Mimi or Nana.’

He jolted upright suddenly. “Oh fuck.”

Shoko, mid-sip from her water, didn’t flinch. “Here it comes.”

“I can’t tell you.”

She blinked. “What.”

“I can’t tell you.” Satoru hissed, burying his burning face in his hands. “Oh my god, what was I even thinking?!”

“Do I know what you were thinking?” Shoko asked. “Because now I need to know.”

“No,” he groaned. “No, I’m not saying it. It’ll die with me. Just—just know it was so hot and so bad and I’m gonna have to move to a different dimension.”

Shoko raised her brows. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I flirted with God’s hottest mistake!” he blurted, eyes wide.

“And… God’s mistake is…?”

“...Nothing.”

Shoko narrowed her eyes. “Was it someone I know?”

“No.”

“Was it—wait. Was it that hot professor from your chem building?”

“I wish, honestly.”

“Was it—”

Satoru slammed his head back into the seat. “I can’t tell you, Shoko.”

Shoko sighed, scrolling her phone. “Whatever. I’m gonna find out anyway. You’re terrible at secrets.”

Satoru groaned into his hoodie sleeve. “I am never drinking again.”

The rest of the ride was silent, and Shoko waved him goodnight as he walked into the dorm building. His room was dark when he got in, a heavy silence hanging over the space. The twins weren’t there—they’d texted earlier that they were crashing at a friend’s place to study—but honestly, Satoru was glad. He needed to be alone.

He kicked off his boots, dropped his glittery crop top on the floor, and face-planted onto his bed still in his fishnets and shorts. He didn’t even pull off his lashes, he just laid there, arms and legs spread wide, lying completely still like that might offer answers. Spoiler: it did not.

“Okay,” he mumbled into his comforter. “Let’s recap.”

One: He looked hot tonight. Objectively. No notes.

Two: He had one (1) vodka cranberry and immediately lost all sense of self-control.

Three: He flirted with Suguru Fucking Geto.

Four: Suguru Fucking Geto flirted back.

Sort of. Almost. Kind of?

Satoru groaned, flipping onto his back and dragging a pillow over his face. It wasn’t a full rejection. He didn’t say no, he didn’t yell, didn’t call him disgusting, didn’t even look that angry—just... stunned. Guilty, like someone caught with their hand in the cookie jar of “I want to fuck my daughter’s best friend.”

“Oh my god,” he whispered into the pillow.

The man wanted him. He was into it. Into him, and Satoru… liked it. Too much. Way more than was safe or smart or sane. He peeked out from under the pillow and stared at the ceiling.

“Okay. Okay. New plan,” he said, voice still muffled. “Never tell anyone. Ever. Especially not Mimi. Or Nana. Or Shoko. Or—God, maybe not even my therapist.” He paused. “But also… maybe I should text him?”

Then immediately: “No, what the fuck is wrong with you?! Bad Satoru, bad!” He buried himself in his blanket in shame and screamed silently into his sheets.

︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

Satoru hadn’t been to the Geto household in three days. Which wasn’t that long, not technically—but Mimi texted twice asking if he was dead, and Nana threatened to hijack his dorm key if he didn’t come over and “scream at some physics homework like usual.”

He almost said no again, but avoiding it—avoiding him—was starting to make him feel like a coward. So he put on a hoodie (oversized, comfy, and safe), threw his Switch into a tote bag, and made his way to the apartment like he hadn’t spent every night since the club rolling around in his sheets whisper-screaming into his pillow.

He was fine. Totally, absolutely fine—until Geto opened the door.

“Oh,” Satoru said, blinked. “Hey.”

Geto didn’t even flinch. “Satoru,” he said, with a nod and a small, neutral smile. “Come on in. The girls are in their room.”

That was it. No weird pause, no tension. No “we need to talk.” No “hey sorry I almost kissed you in the hallway of a gay club and then ghosted you for half a week.”

Just… normal. Satoru stepped inside, the familiar scent of incense and laundry detergent wrapping around him like a weighted blanket. He swallowed, toeing off his shoes.

“Hey, nerd,” Mimiko called from the living room.

“Get over here and suffer with us,” Nanako added, waving a worksheet.

Satoru pasted on a bright, breezy smile and flopped onto the couch between them. And when Geto passed by with a mug of tea, Satoru didn’t look up, but he felt the tension, the heat, the weird, choking feeling of pretending everything was fine when it very much wasn’t. But if Geto wanted to be this way, then fine. Two could play at that game. 

He didn’t look at Geto again for the rest of the evening. Not when he brought them snacks. Not when he walked behind the couch. Not when he handed Mimiko a charger and his fingers brushed just barely against Satoru’s ankle. He laughed when the twins roasted each other, groaned over their math problems, and complained about the smell of the marker Nanako was using.

Totally Normal.

And if he flopped on his stomach instead of sitting upright, hoodie riding up just enough to show a sliver of smooth lower back, ass in the air as he kicked his feet lazily behind him?

Normal.

And if, when he stretched, he made a soft noise in his throat and arched a little more than necessary?

Completely normal.

If Geto noticed, he didn’t say anything. But Satoru was confident that it wouldn’t take long to get his way. What exactly ‘his way’ meant, he wasn’t sure yet, but dammit he was going to get it. 

For the next few days, he didn’t bring it up, not once. Not even to Shoko, and especially not to the twins. But every time he came over, he escalated his little game just slightly. One day, he dropped his pen near the kitchen counter and bent at the waist to pick it up, knowing Geto was standing a few feet behind him, knowing how his ass looked when he did. Knowing the curve of his thigh was on full display thanks to the loose gray shorts he definitely chose on purpose.

Another time, he wore a hoodie stretched just enough that the neckline sagged low over one shoulder, with no shirt underneath. When he reached up for a glass, it slipped even lower — exposing the curve of his neck, his bare collarbone, the edge of one shoulderblade.

He didn’t say a word, just tilted his head, smiled, and said, “Thanks, Geto–san,” when the man handed him a drink. Satoru was pretty sure that one got him. He didn’t think he was imagining that brief but burning look in Geto’s eyes when he smiled and looked up at him through his white lashes, scrunching his nose a little. 

Satoru knew how to be cute. He knew how to play the game, how to seem innocently sexy. After so many years of having no friends, no girlfriends—and once he realized he was gay, boyfriends—he quickly learned the best way to act so that people would like him. Shoko says he’s a little manipulative, but if everyone benefits, is it really manipulative?

‘Yes, Satoru, it’s still manipulative.’ Shoko had said, but whatever. What does she know? Satoru wasn’t hurting anyone, just evening the playing field, since Geto seemed to have a bigger influence on him than Satoru had on him. God, it was going to be fun waiting for this whole thing to snap.

︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

It happened on a Thursday afternoon. 

Mimiko and Nanako had passed out early after a group project meltdown. The apartment was quiet. Satoru couldn’t sleep so he’d wandered into the kitchen for water—barefoot, hoodie still half-hanging off one shoulder, hair mussed just enough to look like it had been tugged through.

He didn’t expect Geto to be there, but of course, he was—leaning against the counter, hair down and falling just past his shoulders, wearing a black tank top and sweatpants, sipping something from a heavy ceramic mug.

They stared at each other for a moment before Satoru padded in, wordlessly, and opened the fridge. He could feel Geto watching him, feel the weight of it, the tension that had been building all week. When he turned, bottle in hand, he leaned a hip against the counter and took a long sip—slow, purposeful, letting his throat flex with the movement, the hem of his hoodie lifting just a little higher than needed.

He caught Geto’s eyes flick down. It took everything in him not to smile. “What?” he asked, tone light, voice still rough with sleep. “Something on my face?”

Geto set his mug down slowly. He looked at Satoru like he wanted to say a hundred different things. Like he was about to—but didn’t. Instead, he sighed. 

“Satoru.”

Uh-oh. Satoru didn’t like that tone. It was the same one people used when they were trying to be the bigger person, to let you down softly.

“Don’t,” Satoru said quickly, smiling halfheartedly. “Don’t do the Satoru voice. Just say what you wanna say.”

“You’re making this really hard.”

Satoru stepped closer. “Good.”

Geto closed his eyes. “I’m old enough to be your father.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m forty-eight.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“I’ve known you since you were fourteen.”

That made him flinch just a little, but he didn’t back off. “So what?” Satoru said, voice tight. “I’m not fourteen anymore.”

“I helped you with your homework,” Geto said, not unkindly. “I’ve watched you grow up. You think I can just… turn that off?”

Satoru stared at him, chest rising and falling fast. He hated how this felt—like he was begging, even though he wasn’t. Not really. He should’ve left it alone, should’ve gone back to bed. But now it was here, all of it, and he couldn’t let it die in his throat.

“So what then?” he asked, a little breathless. “You wanna keep pretending nothing happened? You wanna keep acting like you didn’t almost kiss me at the bar? Like you don’t look at me when you think I won’t notice?”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he snapped. His voice cracked just a little at the end.

And fuck, he felt it now—the heat behind his eyes, the sting of being rejected again. But he stepped even closer, close enough that his bare shoulder brushed Geto’s chest, and looked up at him with something sharp and pleading in his eyes.

“Just tell me you don’t want me,” he whispered. “And I’ll stop.”

“You can’t…”

Satoru’s breath caught in his chest. His pulse was pounding. And maybe it was stupid—maybe it was insane—but he moved before he could second-guess it. He dropped to his knees, hitting the floor in front of Geto with a softness that contrasted the hard, hungry way his hands moved to the waistband of those damn sweatpants. He wasn’t even thinking anymore, wasn’t teasing—just acting on everything he’d been holding back, everything Geto wouldn’t let happen.

“Satoru—” Geto’s voice went sharp and panicked, but he didn’t yell. He grabbed him, catching both of his wrists and yanking him up hard, back to standing in one smooth, firm pull.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he hissed, face flushed, voice tight. “My daughters are literally in the next room—do you have any idea what you’re doing right now?”

Geto’s grip on his wrists tightened, and Satoru blinked at him, breathless. Their faces were inches apart, fingers digging into Satoru’s skin.

“You can’t just—fuck, you can’t act like a child and then throw yourself at me like this—”

“Oh?” Satoru cut in, lashes fluttering. “But you’re the one calling me a kid while holding me like this. Careful, daddy, you’re hurting my feelings.”

Holy fuck, the sound Geto made. It was low and strangled, like something got caught in his throat—some horrible, sinful sound—and he had to choke it down. His eyes fluttered closed like it physically pained him, fingers flexing around Satoru’s wrists like he didn’t trust himself to let go. Satoru just stood there, breathing fast, caught somewhere between smug satisfaction and holy shit what am I doing.

Satoru leaned in slowly, until their lips were just barely apart, barely brushing. Close enough to feel each other’s breath, close enough for it to hurt. He didn’t move further, hovering, watching Geto’s eyes flick down to his mouth and then back up again, wide and warning, like he was waiting for Satoru to make the decision for both of them. So Satoru did. He closed the gap, a soft and simple press of lips. There was no fanfare, but it was real. Geto didn’t move at first. He was still stiff, still frozen. Satoru started to pull back—maybe he’d pushed too far again—but then he let out the softest little hum, and his tongue slipped out to swipe gently across the seam of Geto’s mouth.

He was met with lips parting, as Geto groaned into him low and rough and needy, finally giving in, and suddenly the kiss wasn’t soft anymore. Geto crushed Satoru’s mouth back to his, hands still tight around his wrists as he kissed him deep and open-mouthed, like he’d been starving for this and didn’t know it until now.

Their teeth clacked once, and Satoru let out a breathless little gasp that got swallowed between them. The world tilted slightly—the fridge humming behind them, the overhead light casting soft shadows over their skin. It was messy. It was dangerous. 

And it was so fucking good.

Geto’s hands left Satoru’s wrists only to slide up, gripping his jaw, threading through the messy strands of white hair at the base of his skull. He kissed Satoru like it was the only way to stay standing, like he was trying to catch up on every moment he’d pretended not to want this.

Satoru gasped, lips parting wider, and Geto took advantage of it—licking into his mouth, deep and sure and filthy. It sent heat rushing through Satoru’s whole body, curling down into his toes and back up again. His hands found Geto’s chest, fingers digging into the thin fabric of his tank top. 

He felt devoured. He felt wanted.

Their mouths slid together, wet and warm and perfect. Satoru tilted his head, angling for more, chasing the kiss like he couldn’t get enough—because he couldn’t. He moaned softly into Geto’s mouth when their tongues met again, hips tilting forward, bodies brushing. Geto’s hands moved, one cupping the back of Satoru’s neck, the other pressing into the small of his back, dragging him in, closer, flush to his warm and solid body.

Satoru whimpered, and suddenly Geto's hand slid from the back of his throat to the side, his thumb pressing underneath Satoru’s chin and pushing his face away. 

“Enough,” Geto rasped.  Their breaths were ragged. The air between them was hot, wet with the echo of that kiss, their lips flushed and shining. Satoru blinked, dazed, lips parted, eyes wide and glassy. 

“But—” he started, barely a whisper.

“No,” Geto cut in, firm. He didn’t let go of his jaw. His thumb was still there, holding Satoru’s face in place, like he couldn’t trust him to move without starting something again. Like he couldn’t trust himself. “We can’t,” he said, softer now. “Satoru, please, I can’t—You have to know I can’t be good for you.”

Satoru’s heart pounded. He should’ve been angry, embarrassed, anything. And he did, he felt all of those things. Satoru always felt too much, all the time. But right now, this was just… so much more than he’d ever experienced. All he could do was stand there, blinking up at Geto, high off the kiss and still wanting more.

He desperately drew in ragged breaths, trying to speak. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Wh–What do you mean ‘what does it mean’? Satoru, I am quite literally twice your age. You need someone who’s more like you—”

“I don’t want someone more like me, I want you!” Satoru whined.

Suguru’s hand left his throat, quickly covering his mouth. “Jesus Christ Satoru, keep it down. Fuck.” He took his hand off, running it through his hair. “You don’t want me.”

“Yes, I fucking do,” Satoru snapped, eyes wild now, glistening with everything he couldn’t say. “I’ve wanted you—do you get that? I’ve wanted you for years.”

Geto flinched, but Satoru didn’t stop.

“I don’t want some boring college guy with the same interests as me or whatever the fuck you think I need. I want you. I want the guy who looks after everyone, who cares about me enough to nag me about getting my grades up, who kissed me like he meant it two minutes ago.” He moved forward again, crowding into Geto’s space, eyes locked on his like a challenge. Like a plea. “And I’m done pretending I don’t.”

Satoru surged up and kissed him again. Geto didn’t fight it. He didn’t even hesitate this time. He kissed him hard, one hand grabbing the back of Satoru’s hoodie, the other gripping his waist like he was furious about how badly he wanted this. Their mouths clashed, messy and hot and breathless. Satoru moaned into him, fingers skating down Geto’s stomach and dipping into the waistband of his sweatpants. Geto groaned, breaking the kiss with a breathless growl, and Satoru used it.

He wrapped his arms around Geto’s neck, pulling himself up, letting his legs dangle a little, trusting—knowing—Geto would catch him, and he did. Without thinking, like instinct, like reflex, Geto gripped under his thighs and lifted him up, pressing him tight against his chest. Their mouths stayed connected, open and hungry, as Geto took toward the bedroom quickly. 

Satoru whimpered into his mouth, arms tightening around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, clinging. His hips rocked slightly, searching for more friction, more of him. It was sloppy, desperate, real.

Geto pushed the door open with his shoulder, never once pulling away, the kiss growing rougher now, messier—their teeth clashing, their breath coming faster. His hands shifted, one arm wrapping fully under Satoru’s thighs, the other splayed wide across his back, holding him like he was afraid he’d break if he let go. Satoru felt the world tilt, and suddenly he was lying on Geto’s bed, looking up at the older man.

Geto hovered over him, panting. Satoru’s hoodie was askew, slipping further off his shoulder, exposing the line of his collarbone, the top of his chest, soft and flushed and glowing under the dim light of a weak bedside lamp.

“Take it off,” he whispered, eyes locked on Geto’s.

Geto didn’t argue. He reached for the hem of the hoodie and pulled it up, revealing pale skin inch by inch, until Satoru sat up slightly to let it come off over his head. He was bare from the waist up—all smooth skin, soft muscle, breath hitching in his chest. His hair was a mess, and he looked up at Geto with wide, glassy eyes, wanting.

“Lie back,” Geto said quietly.

Satoru obeyed. 

Geto swallowed hard. “You have to be quiet,” he murmured, voice raw, warning. “The girls—”

“I know,” Satoru breathed, reaching for him. “I’ll be good.”

The corner of Geto’s mouth twitched—something between disbelief and surrender—and then he dropped to his knees beside the bed.

Satoru's breath hitched. “Wait—wait, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Geto said, hoarse, already pushing his thighs apart, his hands steady on Satoru’s legs.

He tugged his shorts down in one slow motion. Satoru’s thighs trembled slightly, exposed now, flushed and twitching with anticipation. His cock was already hard, resting against his stomach, twitching with every heartbeat. Geto leaned in. He kissed the inside of Satoru’s thigh first, then the other, taking his time. He buried his face there, breathing in deep, groaning low like he was drunk on it.

Satoru barely had time to bite his knuckle, processing the slow, wet drag of Geto’s tongue trailing across his perineum and past his hole before Geto was eating him out, slow and precise. His tongue worked in soft circles, then broad strokes, alternating. His hands grabbed at his ass, pulling and spreading him open like he needed to taste every inch.

Satoru could feel himself shaking, his mouth hanging open and eyes fluttering shut even as he tried to force them open to watch the sinful view below him. He tried to stay quiet, he really did, but when Geto moaned into him like he couldn’t help it, Satoru gasped, hand flying to cover his mouth.

“F-Fuck, Geto—”

Geto didn’t stop. He licked deeper, tongue pushing in, curling, coaxing him open. His thumbs kept him spread, and the wet, obscene sounds were enough to make Satoru feel like he was going to lose his mind. He felt one hand slide lower, fingertips rubbing slick circles around his hole before sliding one thick finger in. Satoru’s body arched, back bowing off the bed, eyes flying wide. He moaned into his palm, quiet but needy.

Geto’s voice was low, rough against his skin. “Shh, baby. I got you.”

‘Oh my god,’ he mouthed against his arm, silent and wide-eyed, hips rocking slightly without meaning to.

Geto added a second finger slowly, carefully, and Satoru's breath caught like he’d been punched in the gut. It burned just a little, but the stretch made his thighs twitch, made his stomach twist up tighter with every curl of those thick fingers inside him.

He clenched around them involuntarily, and Geto let out a low, wrecked sound against the inside of his thigh. Satoru barely held back a whine. His free hand scrabbled for something—the sheets, the pillow, Geto’s hair—anything to anchor himself. He found the strap of Geto’s tank top instead, fingers curling into the fabric, tugging blindly.

Geto took the hint. He leaned up just enough to press a kiss to Satoru’s hipbone, fingers still moving inside him, slow and purposeful, hitting just the right spot over and over again.

“Doing so good,” he murmured, voice rough, lips brushing bare skin. “So fucking tight, baby.”

Satoru whimpered again—less from the words and more from the way he said them, like Geto couldn’t believe what he was doing, like he was trying to memorize every second of it before it slipped away. Satoru bit his palm again to keep quiet, body shaking with the effort. His cock was hard and leaking, twitching against his stomach. He couldn’t remember ever being this hard without even a hand on him, but Geto seemed to know exactly what he was doing. The pace of his fingers, the way his mouth stayed close to Satoru’s skin, kissing and murmuring, grounding him—it was all so intimate. So personal.

Satoru’s heart pounded in his chest, too big for his ribs, too loud in his ears. His whole body arched into it, needy and breathless, legs spread, hoodie bunched under his back.

“Gonna—” he whispered, voice hoarse and barely audible. “If you keep— I’m gonna…”

Geto pulled back slightly, looking up at him with something unreadable in his eyes. His fingers stilled inside him, and Satoru gasped, hips bucking for more without meaning to.

“Wait,” Satoru breathed, reaching down and curling his hand around Geto’s wrist. “I wanna—” He swallowed. “Let me do something for you.” His face was flushed, chest heaving, pupils blown wide. “Wanna taste you.”

He looked up at Geto, eyes glassy and wide, like he was afraid the older man might say no—that this might still all be a dream, but Geto didn’t. Instead, he dragged his fingers out with agonizing slowness, and Satoru shuddered, his whole body trembling at the loss.

Geto leaned forward and kissed him hot and deep and tasting of Satoru’s own skin. It was filthy. He whispered against Satoru’s lips, “Turn over.”

Satoru blinked up at him, stunned for half a second before obeying, turning onto his side and rolling over, shifting to give Geto room. The other man climbed onto the bed, lying down on his back, the heavy outline of his cock visible through the soft fabric of his sweats 

Satoru felt his mouth fill with saliva.

Geto reached up, grabbing his hips and pulling him up and over, helping Satoru straddle his chest and then inching him back, shifting until he was kneeling right over Geto’s face. Satoru’s pajama shorts were already gone. He was bare, hole still slick, flushed and open from earlier. Satoru leaned forward and reached for Geto’s waistband, tugging it down with trembling fingers and revealing everything. It was big and heavy, already twitching a little in anticipation. He licked his lips, then looked back over his shoulder.

“Let me know if you want me to stop,” he said—teasing, a little breathless—and then sank his mouth down around the head of Geto’s cock. Below him, Geto groaned and lifted his head, tongue dragging a slow lick over Satoru’s hole like he couldn’t help himself. Satoru gasped around him, hips jerking forward, swallowing him deeper by reflex.

His knees trembled as he tried to balance himself, mouth working methodically, breathing through his nose while Geto licked into him from below, shallow at first, then deeper. Satoru whimpered, his mouth stretched full, spit dribbling down his chin. The weight of Geto’s cock in his mouth, the heat of his tongue inside him—it was too much. He rocked forward and back slowly, grinding down against Geto’s mouth as he sucked him in deeper.

“F-Fuck,” his voice came out muffled around Geto’s dick. Beneath him, the older man groaned again—hungry, ruined, and desperate to keep quiet.

Satoru rocked his hips again, slower now—not chasing friction, but rhythm. He moved like he knew what he was doing, like he knew exactly what this looked like: Geto flat on his back, mouth buried between Satoru’s thighs, licking him open like he was starving. Satoru bent forward, lips stretched wide around Geto’s cock, sucking him deeper with every pass, letting his throat flutter tight around the tip just to hear that guttural sound from below.

It was filthy. Quiet, but filthy.

Every slick sound felt amplified, every breath. Every low moan Satoru tried to stifle around the length of Geto’s cock just made it harder for Geto to keep from bucking up and snapping, and every second was getting harder to bear.

Satoru’s mouth worked along the shaft with the kind of focus that bordered on reverence, his throat relaxing just enough to take Geto deeper each time he slid forward, his tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing. Slick sounds filled the room—wet, rhythmic, obscene, but muffled still by the desperate effort of both of them trying to be quiet. One of Geto’s hands slid up, cupping Satoru’s ass, fingers spreading him wider as he dipped his head again, tongue dragging up the twitching rim of his hole and groaning into it like he could live there forever.

Satoru whimpered helplessly around his cock.

It was fucking good. So good. The kind of overwhelming heat and pleasure that made the air feel thin, like his brain couldn’t quite keep up with everything he was feeling. Geto’s tongue flicked with precision, and Satoru choked around the length in his mouth, tears stinging the corners of his eyes. He could barely move, thighs shaking from holding himself up, moaning as much from the feeling of being eaten out as from the weight of Geto’s cock against his tongue. His lips were swollen, wet with spit and precum, glossed with his own need.

And the way Geto kept making those noises, muffled little mnnnh, ghhh, rumbling groans that vibrated right through him—he wasn’t trying to be silent anymore. Neither of them were. The pretense was slipping fast.

Satoru came first.

He didn’t mean to—he was trying to hold back, really—but one flick, one curl of Geto’s tongue while his fingers pressed just right inside him again, and it was over. His whole body locked, then shuddered hard, his mouth popping off Geto’s cock as he cried out into his own shoulder, biting it, stifling the whine that tore through his throat. He came untouched, cock spurting hot against Geto’s chest, thighs twitching, breath tearing from his lungs in ragged gasps.

“Ffffuck,” he moaned into the sheets, drooling a little, trying not to collapse.

Geto didn’t say anything, just groaned softly like the taste of Satoru’s orgasm alone had done something to him. Like he’d been waiting for it.

After a moment, Satoru pulled off fully, still panting, and slumped sideways off Geto’s body, face flushed and dazed, sweat streaking the pale column of his throat. He lay there face down for a few seconds, cock softening slowly against his thigh, lashes wet.

His voice was barely there, thin and breathless: “J… just—gimme a sec—holy shit—fuck—”

His chest rose and fell in uneven shivers, smeared cum cooling on his stomach, his lips swollen and glossy. For a few long seconds he didn’t move at all, not even to wipe his mouth; his lashes fluttered weakly, eyes half-lidded and foggy from the aftershocks. The room was quiet except for their breathing, the faint hum of the hallway light, and the rustle of sheets under Satoru’s slow panting.

Geto sat back on his heels beside him.

It was quiet, until Geto dragged in one long breath and exhaled shakily through his nose, like he was trying not to say something and failing. His hand rose halfway before dropping back to his lap. Satoru felt the heat of him before he heard anything else; he turned his head slightly, looking up at him.

Geto looked wrecked, absolutely undone. His hair had fallen forward around his face, his mouth was slightly open, breath ragged, eyes locked on Satoru like he couldn’t look away if someone held a knife to his throat.

“Fuck,” Geto whispered, voice cracking. “Fuck, Satoru… you look so—” He cut himself off with a sharp inhale, like it physically hurt to say it out loud, but his hips betrayed him, twitching once as his cock jerked against his abs, heavy and flushed and dripping.

Satoru blinked at him, dazed, pupils huge, his smile slow and lazy and knowing.

Geto didn’t push him down or ask. He just shifted closer on his knees, leaning over him slightly, one hand braced on the mattress beside Satoru’s head as the other wrapped loosely around the base of his own cock. He guided himself down to Satoru’s cheek, rubbing the hot head along his skin, smearing precum over the soft curve of Satoru’s cheekbone and then down to the corner of his swollen lips.

Satoru let out a tiny, breathy sound at the touch, something between a hum and a gasp, and he turned his head more fully toward him, lips parting just enough to show the pink slip of his tongue.

“Open,” Geto murmured. 

Satoru’s mouth opened slow, sleepy and obedient, the tip of his tongue peeking out to meet the head of Geto’s cock. He licked once, a soft ‘nhh’ vibrating against the skin, then wrapped his lips around just the tip, warm and inviting.

Geto’s entire body shuddered. His hand flew to Satoru’s hair, fingers diving in and gripping, not pulling him down yet, just holding, grounding himself. He was breathing through clenched teeth now, every inhale sharp, every exhale a low, broken tremor.

Satoru sucked just the head at first, his tongue swirling lazily beneath it, his lips sealing perfectly around the sensitive ridge. He hollowed his cheeks, the soft massage of pressure pulling a strangled ‘s—shit—Satoru—’ from Geto’s throat, and Satoru moaned quietly around him, the vibration shooting straight up Geto’s spine.

Geto tightened his grip. “Don’t—” he rasped. “Don’t do that unless—fuck—unless you want me to use your throat.”

Satoru blinked up at him, pupils blown and dreamy, and then—still dizzy from his own orgasm, still lying half-collapsed and flushed on the sheets—tilted his head up a little more, making the angle better for him.

Inviting. Asking.

Geto’s breath stuttered hard. He cupped the back of Satoru’s head with both hands now, thumbs brushing his temples, and he bent over him, forehead nearly touching Satoru’s hair as he eased his hips forward once—slow, testing the give of Satoru’s mouth, the heat of it, the slick slide past his lips.

Satoru made a soft surprised “mmph—” but relaxed at once, jaw going loose, throat opening just enough for Geto to glide in a little deeper.

Then Geto’s restraint snapped. He didn’t slam into him—he wasn’t rough like someone trying to hurt him—but he fucked into his mouth with a steady, building rhythm, his breath shaking, hips rocking, the wet sounds obscene and quiet at the same time. His cock slid deeper, then deeper again, the tip hitting the back of Satoru’s throat with a wet ‘gghk—’ that made Geto groan through clenched teeth, his fingers tightening reflexively.

“Good—fuck—good boy—” he choked out, voice so low it barely counted as a whisper.

Satoru moaned, the sound garbled around him, his hands sliding weakly up to brace against Geto’s thighs as he let himself be used, throat flexing in fluttering, wet little spasms every time Geto pushed a little harder.

Their breaths tangled—Satoru’s muffled and wet, Geto’s ragged and shaking—as the pace grew needier, sloppier, his hips stuttering every few thrusts like he was trying to hold back and failing miserably. Satoru’s spit dripped down his chin onto the sheets, each thrust making a soft ‘kh—kh—ggh—’ sound that drove Geto closer to the edge.

His voice broke when he warned it, choked and frantic.“Satoru—fuck—Satoru I’m gonna—gonna come—inside—your mouth, don’t—don’t pull away, don’t—”

Satoru moaned desperately around him, leaning forward into it as much as he could, taking him deeper until Geto’s eyes rolled back and his whole body snapped taut.

He came with a low, guttural groan—“nnnngh—fuck—!”—his hips pushing forward as thick, hot pulses spilled onto Satoru’s tongue, down his throat, over his lips when he pulled back just enough for the last spurts to paint his mouth and cheek, Satoru swallowing what hit his tongue with a soft hum.

Geto sagged forward on his hands, head hanging, breath torn out of him in ragged shivers. Satoru lay there panting softly, face messy, lips swollen, cum streaked on his cheek and chin, eyes half-lidded as he licked the taste of Geto from the corner of his mouth with a dazed, satisfied little flick of his tongue. 

Neither spoke for a long time. They just breathed—heavy, uneven, stunned—hot air mingling in the dark as reality slowly seeped back in around the edges, fragile as glass and twice as dangerous.

Geto finally whispered, voice hoarse. “…Satoru… What the hell are we doing?”

He said it low, almost broken, and for half a second Satoru thought he was waiting for an answer. But the silence stretched a single beat too long, and then Geto moved.

He didn’t look at him again, letting out a quiet, exhausted breath and standing, pushing off the mattress with a soft creak of springs. The sudden absence of his weight made the bed dip unevenly. Satoru blinked up at him, dazed, lips parted to speak, but Geto had already turned his back.

He crossed the room with slow, heavy steps, body taut, shoulders rigid. A towel hung from the closet door; he grabbed it one-handed, flipping it open with a snap and heading for the bathroom. There was the hiss of the faucet for a moment, and then he was back, damp cloth in hand, not saying a word.

Satoru didn’t move.

He lay there limp and breathless, mouth still wet, legs sprawled wide and useless, blinking up at the ceiling as Geto returned. The towel was warm and damp. Geto didn’t speak as he knelt beside the bed and wiped down the insides of Satoru’s thighs, careful but brisk. The cloth dragged through the mess on his stomach, up across the dip between his ribs, brushing his cock just once on the way past. It wasn’t meant to be teasing—it was just thorough. Efficient. Like Geto was trying to erase the evidence of what just happened.

Satoru opened his mouth again, lips dry, throat raw, but Geto was already moving. The towel hit the hamper in a low thump. Then he reached over to the nightstand, grabbed the water bottle with a little more force than necessary, and turned back to press it against Satoru’s chest.

“Drink.”

Satoru looked up at him slowly. “You’re—”

“Drink,” Geto repeated, voice low, firm, and sharp in a way that told him not to push back. So Satoru did what he was told. He wrapped trembling fingers around the bottle and uncapped it, swallowing a few mouthfuls automatically, the cool water stinging slightly as it hit his throat.

Geto didn’t sit. He didn’t speak. He just stood there, looming at the edge of the bed, watching him empty the bottle. His expression was unreadable—stoic, but certainly not calm. Satoru drank again, slower this time. Silence stretched thick and bitter.

Geto finally turned away.

He pulled the blanket back up over Satoru’s legs, staring a second longer before he grabbed the discarded hoodie off the floor, folding it absently and setting it on the chair in the corner. The whole time, he said nothing. The air felt too loud. The hum of the AC, the click of the light in the hallway, the faint creak of floorboards as Geto moved—all of it filled the space that should’ve held something else. An apology, a question, a touch.

Anything.

But Geto didn’t give him any of it. Satoru stared up at the ceiling, the bottle still in his hand. His heart was pounding. His skin still prickled from where Geto had kissed him, touched him, licked him open like he was something to be cherished. Now he was just… wiped clean. Like it hadn’t happened. Like he was something to be packed away neatly and shelved.

The bed dipped again.

Geto sat on the edge, finally. He reached for the nightstand, pulled a fresh bottle of water from the drawer, and cracked it open for himself, taking a long, slow sip.

He pushed himself upright a little, propping his weight on one elbow.  His heart stuttered as he forced himself to speak, his voice coming out smaller than he wanted it to. “Um.. Geto–san—”

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Geto interrupted, quiet but firm, still not looking at him. “You can stay in here tonight. I’ll tell the girls I fell asleep out there without putting sheets on your bed, and you didn’t want to wake me or something if they ask.”

Satoru’s fingers tightened around the water bottle. “…Right,” he said finally. His voice didn’t break. That would’ve been too easy, too honest.

Geto stood again, slow, hands careful like they were being watched. He set his own bottle down on the nightstand, eyes skimming past Satoru without really landing. Like he couldn’t bear to look at him directly anymore. Like he’d melt, or worse, cave in.

“I’m gonna grab a blanket,” he said, already halfway to the door. “Try to get some sleep.”

And just like that, he was gone—quiet footsteps down the hall, the sound of the linen closet opening, the rustle of fabric, then silence. Satoru sat in the bed with the blanket pulled up to his waist, knees drawn slightly toward his chest. The water bottle sat untouched on the nightstand now. The air still smelled like sweat and cum and his perfume from earlier, sharp citrus and sugar that now made him feel sick. He stared at the closed door. His throat burned. Sleep, sure. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and breathed in through his nose. 

This was fine. He was fine. 

︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

Geto didn’t talk to him the next day.

Or the day after that.

Or the one after that.

In fact, it almost seemed like Satoru didn’t see him at all anymore—outside the rare occasions when Geto would step into the room to say something to the twins while Satoru happened to be there too. It always felt like an accident, a coincidence. Satoru would look up, half expecting something—eye contact, a nod, a smile—but Geto never looked at him for long. Sometimes not at all.

He was gone all hours of the day. When Satoru asked Mimiko, she just shrugged, and said her dad had started working some overtime. “Trying to make some extra cash, I guess,” she mumbled between mouthfuls of cereal. “We asked him about it, but you know how he is. He said not to worry.”

Satoru had laughed, saying yes, yes he knew how Geto-san was. Hell, he knew how Geto-san was more than his own daughters could ever suspect—not that he could say that to the twins.

Later, when he’d slipped into the bathroom and locked the door behind him, he stood with his back against the tile, and just… breathed. He could still feel the ghost of Geto’s hands on him. The way his lips had moved against his throat. The way he’d cleaned him off with that warm towel and wouldn’t look him in the eye.

He jerked off that night fast and desperate and messy, biting his lip to stay quiet as he fisted his cock with one hand and pressed the other to his chest, feeling the hard thumping of his heart. Memory flashed behind his closed eyelids, bringing him closer to that sinful edge. The weight of Geto’s cock in Satoru’s mouth, the feeling of Geto’s tongue licking him open. The taste. The smell. That low, broken whisper.

Shh, baby. I got you. 

Good boy. 

Fuck, Satoru.. You look so—I’m gonna—

Satoru came with a muffled whimper, lips bitten red, cum splashing up his stomach and pooling under his palm. He blinked through it, heart racing as he soaked in his reward—thirty seconds of blissful, anxiety free euphoria, before reality crashed into him again.

He didn’t know what the plan was anymore. Was he supposed to wait? Was Geto going to pull him aside someday and go Hey sorry for face-fucking you and then icing you out for a week, I’ve just been busy!

No. Fucking no. Satoru wasn’t patient. He wasn’t subtle. And most importantly, he wasn’t about to let Geto run away from this forever. But if he wanted to pretend nothing happened, then fine. Satoru could do that. Satoru could outplay him in this game—he was sure Geto would snap before he did.

︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

“I swear to god,” she groaned, forehead flat against the kitchen table, “if I ever meet the guy who invented integrals, I’m going to bash his face in with a graphing calculator.”

“Hot,” Satoru said helpfully, sipping orange juice from a cup shaped like a frog. “Murderous rage looks good on you.”

She flipped him off without lifting her head. “It’s seven in the morning.”

Nanako wandered in wearing one of Satoru’s hoodies and a messy bun that looked like a bird's nest and sat down across from her sister with a grunt. “Did Dad leave already?”

“Like an hour ago,” Mimiko mumbled. “Didn’t even take the coffee I made.”

That earned a frown from Nanako. “He always takes coffee.”

“Not lately.”

Satoru kept his expression light. “Maybe he finally realized it tastes like ass.”

“You made it yesterday.”

“Yeah, and he still drank it. Because he loves me.”

“Gross,” Nanako muttered, crumpling a packet of hot chocolate into a mug. “Everything you say sounds gross lately.”

Satoru snorted. “It’s called maturity.”

“It’s called being fucking weird.”

Mimiko glanced up from her textbook just long enough to narrow her eyes at him. “You’re doing that thing again where you’re overcompensating with jokes because you’re sad.”

Satoru blinked. “Wow. Rude.”

She went back to studying. “Whatever”

By the time she’d locked herself in her room to go full calculator-warrior mode, Satoru was already slouching on the living room couch with Nanako, scrolling through his phone with no real purpose.

“I should buy something,” he announced.

Nanako raised an eyebrow, cradling her hot chocolate in her hands. “What kind of something.”

“Clothes. Something stupid and slutty and seasonal. I want a little vest with buttons that don’t actually close and jeans that only look good if I’m not sitting down.”

“You literally just described half your wardrobe.”

“And yet,” he said dramatically, tossing his phone to the cushions and flopping over until his head was on her thigh, “none of it feels new and exciting anymore. I’ve become predictable.”

Nanako sipped her cocoa, unbothered. “You wanna go shopping?” He blinked up at her, and she shrugged. “We could take the train downtown. Check out that resale place you like.”

“…You do love me.”

“Don’t push it.”

They left around noon. Satoru wore his favorite fuck-you boots and a tank top that didn’t really count as a shirt. Nanako had on bike shorts, a sweatshirt three sizes too big, and a ponytail that made her look criminally attractive in a way that deeply offended Satoru on a personal level. Even if he was gay, he could still recognize a baddie when he saw one.

“I’m going to get jumped in a dark alley,” he muttered as they walked past a group of guys who turned to look at her.

“Good,” she said cheerfully. “You need the cardio.”

They hit three shops in a row before Nanako found a rack of wide-leg trousers and Satoru squealed so loudly the cashier dropped a stack of hangers.

“Oh my god, feel this material,” he moaned, holding a pair against his waist. “Do you think I could wear these with a crop top or would it be too much?”

“You’re already too much,” she deadpanned.

“Well what if I bought this,” he said, holding up a silver vinyl jacket that crinkled like a chip bag.

“What if I left you here,” she replied.

“Nana, seriously.” He pouted. “How am I supposed to get a boyfriend if I don’t look good?”

She sighed, sitting down on a nearby chair. “Satoru… you're, like, insanely hot. You know that, right?”

“Well, I appreciate the sentiment, but you know that I’m gay, right?”

“Fuck off.” She flipped him off, rolling her eyes. “I’m being real with you, because I feel like you’ve got some shit going on lately, and you could probably use a reality check.”

Satoru bit absently on his thumbnail, looking away as he flipped through more bottoms, pretending to look at them. He didn’t need a ‘reality check’, needed a time machine. Something compact, portable, maybe the size of a wallet, so he could tuck it into his back pocket and deploy it at will to go back to two weeks ago and slap himself in the face with it. Tell himself to stop being such a little shit. Stop pushing. Stop leaning in with those hungry eyes and teasing smiles and half-sincere touches.

Just accept that sometimes, you don’t get what you want. Especially not when what you want is forbidden, off-limits, totally one-hundred percent wrong. Especially when what you want looks at you like a man on fire, and then pretends you’re invisible for days.

But, you know, since pocket-sized time travel wasn’t a thing yet—and let’s be honest, even if it were, Satoru probably would’ve ignored his future self just to be difficult… Well. What happened, happened. There was no way to undo it or prevent it, so all he could do was wait. What exactly it was that he was waiting for, he wasn’t sure, but when the opportunity arrived, he’d know it.

“I’m fine,” he said, shoving his anxiety down, pushing it into the closet in his mind that he put every other we-don’t-talk-about-bruno thought that he had. The image of Geto’s face mid-orgasm squeezed itself through the imaginary door, trying to escape, before he quickly slammed it shut. “I’ve just been a bit tired lately, that’s all.”

 “Mhm.” Nanako was quiet for a moment, tapping something out on her phone before pocketing it and looking back up at him. “Listen.”

“Listening—”

“Shut up.” She sighed. “You are really hot, all things aside. You could have anyone you want even without trying, and yet for some absurd reason I can’t fathom, you insist on going out in clothes so slutty they would make a stripper blush, just to maybe—maybe—end up finding some mediocre guy to take you home. And then I have to listen to you talk about how they weren’t big enough, or good enough, or knowledgeable enough or old enough or whatever the hell bullshit excuse you use to get out of committing to something more than a one night stand every few weeks.”

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Satoru frowned, feeling a little wounded. Sure, he didn’t have the best track record with commitment, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t romantic. He just… had needs. Emotional ones. Physical ones. Sometimes they got tangled. Sometimes you needed more than your hand and the thirty dollar silicone toy you didn’t tell anyone you owned. “I do one night stands because I don’t want a relationship.”

“You’re literally always talking about how lonely you are.”

“That’s… irrelevant.” He was not lonely. He had plenty of people to warm his bed. People like that kinda hot blonde guy he made out with last month. Or the one that he flirted with for a whole hour at that restaurant a few weeks before that.

Or like Geto. 

Fuck. Bad Satoru. No. Those thoughts go in the closet.

“I’ve got an idea,” Nanako said suddenly, yanking him out of the spiral. She pulled her phone back out, typing something in. “What’s your ideal guy?”

“What—I’m not—” Satoru leaned over, peeking at her screen and seeing it open to the notes app. “What is this, an interview? Fuck off.”

“Don’t be an ass.” She punched at him, and he stepped out of reach just in time. “I just think if we get it all down, then we can actually start looking for guys that fit your type.” 

He huffed dramatically. “Fine. But I get veto power.”

“Obviously.”

He paused, fidgeting with a hanger. “...Okay. I want someone with dark hair, preferably. And, like… strong, but not too strong. Not, like, gym bro. No offense to your trainer.”

She nodded,thumbs flying. “Not a muscle head, check.”

“Yeah. But definitely strong. I want someone who can handle me, like physically. Carry me around, pick me up, manhandle me a little.”

“Jesus,” she muttered.

“In a loving way!” He added defensively. “But yeah. Kind. Like, really kind. Someone who listens. Someone who… I don’t know, looks out for me. Takes care of me.”

Nanako made a face. “So like… someone rich enough to deal with all your drama and buy you overpriced matcha whenever you cry about your star chart.”

“I never cried about my star chart,” Satoru lied.

“You almost cried.”

“That was a really bad Saturn return!”

“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes. “So you want someone with a stable job, good income, a working car, zero red flags, and the patience of a saint.”

“Basically,” he said, grinning.

“Great. Good luck finding someone our age well-off enough to pay for all your expensive habits and still want to put up with you.”

He flipped her off. “I think I’d like someone a bit older anyway. So, like…”

She tilted her head, thinking. “Okay, so what. Like twenty-seven to thirty?”

Satoru swallowed. Well, let’s see—how old was your dad again? “…Maybe a bit older?” he said, vaguely.

Nanako wrinkled her nose. “Dude. A ten-year age gap is a bit much for me, but whatever you want, I guess. So like—thirty to thirty-five-ish? Ugh. Old men.”

If only you knew, Satoru thought, teeth tight behind a smile. 

“Hey,” Nanako said, looking up and finally pocketing her phone, “you okay?”

He blinked. “Me? Yeah. Totally.”

She raised a brow. “Alright. Hurry up and finish, I’m hungry.”

He laughed, going back to the rack in front of him, stomach still twisting a bit from the whole thing. As long as he focused on anything else, he would be fine. Totally, perfectly, fine. After an hour, he settled on a soft, deep green hoodie with a tiny embroidered frog on the pocket and brown bootcut corduroy pants. 

“I thought we were here for clubbing clothes?” Nanako, despite her griping, looked ready to look around more.

Satoru sighed. “I do need something new…” He reached out, grabbing a mesh shirt covered in rhinestones. “And this is really cute.”

She rolled her eyes, smiling and grabbing the shirt and his other clothes, heading to the register. “C’mon, let’s go get some food. I’m starving.”

They got home late, arms full of shopping bags, having visited a few more stores before coming back. Mimiko was slumped on the couch with her textbook open on her chest and a thousand-yard stare in her eyes.

“Did you survive?” Satoru asked.

“Barely,” she said. “How was the mall.”

“Emotional.”

“Great. I’m going to sleep for a year.”

Nanako shoved a bag of snacks into her sister’s hands and flopped onto the couch beside her. “Love you,” she said without looking.

“Don’t touch me,” Mimi replied, already chewing.

Satoru laughed and started collecting the bags. His arms were sore from carrying half of Nanako’s haul, but it was a good kind of sore. Like proof that he still existed in a body. Not just a brain full of static and sin. He made it halfway down the hall before the front door clicked open.

“Girls,” Geto’s voice called out, casual. “I’m back.”

Satoru stopped dead. Nanako perked up from the couch. “Oh great, Dad, you’re here! Perfect timing—it's fashion show time.”

Satoru spun around like she’d just announced they were all stripping for god and country. “Umm—I’m just gonna sit this one out,” he said, way too fast.

Nanako blinked. “What? No. We always do a fashion show for him.”

Satoru offered a tight smile, clutched his shopping bags closer to his chest like a shield. “Yeah, no, I got a lot of club clothes tonight, so I think I’m just gonna, uh. Skip.”

“Suit yourself.” She shrugged, already pushing herself off the couch. “I’m gonna go change into my first outfit.”

Satoru looked up just in time to see Geto come into view.

He was still wearing his work clothes—dress shirt a little rumpled, sleeves pushed up to the elbow, collar open. His hair was pulled back in that loose, lazy way that made him look like he wasn’t even trying to be devastating, and Satoru felt his soul evacuate his body like a dying SIM.

Geto looked at him for a second before stepping around the couch and taking Nanako’s place, sitting down with a low exhale like he’d been on his feet for ten hours straight.

“Rough day?” Satoru asked, because he was apparently suicidal.

Geto didn’t look at him again, just reached down to untie his shoes. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Cool. Great. Normal. Satoru backed away like he was defusing a bomb. “I’m gonna, uh. Put my stuff away.”

Geto hummed in acknowledgment, noncommittal and distant. Satoru vanished into his room before Nanako could return in a full sequined nightmare and demand his opinion.

An hour passed, then two. Mimiko crashed early, still tangled in her notes. Nanako’s final outfit got a thumbs-up from her dad and a halfhearted scream from Satoru through his closed door. At some point, the house went quiet. The lights dimmed, a door creaking shut down the hall.

Satoru lay on his bed, scrolling aimlessly. He’d changed into an old hoodie and soft shorts, but hadn’t bothered washing off his eyeliner. It was smeared a little now, low under his eyes like a bruise.

At 11:43pm, his phone buzzed.

[Geto-san]: Kitchen?

Satoru stared at the screen for five whole seconds.

Fucking hell. He was not going to crawl out there like some abandoned puppy. He was not desperate, he did not care, he did not want to get lectured again for no reason at fucking midnight. He would not go. He would not—

Oh, would you look at that, he’s opening the door. Lovely.

The hallway was quiet, carpet soft under his feet, the kind of stillness that felt heavy. Satoru padded down toward the kitchen with his arms crossed tight, like that might hold all his feelings in place. His heart was hammering for absolutely no reason, obviously. It was just Geto. Just his friend’s dad. Just the man who came in his mouth last week and then ghosted him so hard he thought maybe he’d hallucinated the whole thing.

Nothing weird about a midnight kitchen meetup. Totally normal. 

The overhead light was dim. Geto was already sitting at the table, sleeves pushed up, hands wrapped around a mug of something steaming. He didn’t look up when Satoru walked in. Just nodded toward the counter, where a second mug sat waiting.

He picked it up, the scent of chamomile wafting upwards. Just like Geto to take care of him, even when he was obviously going to tell Satoru that he can never, ever come back to the apartment again, and that his friendship with the twins is permanently over for as long as Geto lives.

Satoru pulled out the chair across from him slowly and sat down with his legs folded under him, oversized hoodie swallowing his frame. His mug was warm, but he didn’t drink from it. The silence stretched.

Tick.

Tick.

Geto finally broke it. “You didn’t want to do the fashion show.”

Satoru blinked. That’s it? That’s the opener? He shrugged, dragging a finger along the rim of his mug. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“You always do it.”

“Yeah, well.” He snorted. “Didn’t think showing off my body was a smart move.”

Geto looked up at that. His eyes were shadowed, tired. There were fine lines around his mouth, the kind that only show up when you’ve been biting back words too long. Satoru stared into his tea. 

Geto didn’t apologize. Of course he didn’t. He just said, “I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

Satoru laughed dryly. “Didn’t mean to?”

Geto winced. “I thought—” he started, then cut himself off. “It was a mistake. That night.”

There it was. The air left Satoru’s lungs in one silent whoosh. He wasn’t surprised, not really, but hearing it out loud, in Geto’s low, quiet voice—it felt like a punch anyway. Like someone had cracked his ribs open with a crowbar and was rifling around inside.

“A mistake,” he repeated, hollow.

Geto’s eyes dropped to the table. “I crossed a line.”

“You think?”

“I’m not trying to be cruel.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I just…” He exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. “You’re Mimiko and Nanako’s friend. You’re—you’re—”

“Old enough to suck your dick, apparently,” Satoru snapped, then immediately regretted it.

Geto flinched like he’d been slapped, and Satoru bit the inside of his cheek, hard. Neither of them spoke for a long moment. The air in the kitchen was thick and hot and tight, pressing in around them like a vice. Outside, the cicadas buzzed. 

Satoru leaned back, chair tipping slightly on two legs. “I’m not asking for anything,” he said finally.

“I know.”

“I didn’t come out here to make you feel bad.”

“I know.”

“I just…” He shrugged. “I didn’t want to feel crazy.” Geto said nothing. “Well,” Satoru said, pushing back his chair and turning. “Thanks for the tea.”

“Satoru, wait—”

“For what?” Satoru laughed quietly, not moving, still facing away. “We’ve already established that nothing happened. Nothing worth remembering, anyway. Right? We can just go back to ignoring it and pretending it never happened.”

“I didn’t mean to ignore you, I just meant—” Geto started, then faltered. “I asked you to come out here to talk about it. I didn’t want to let it fester.”

“You mean you didn’t want me to fester,” Satoru said, finally turning around. His expression wasn’t angry anymore. Just… tired. “Don’t worry, though. I’ve been keeping my wounds nicely disinfected, airing it out every night. Should scar over cleanly, and then you’ll be in the clear! Isn’t that great?” He couldn’t keep the bite out of his words.

Geto stared at him like he wanted to say something else. There were a dozen different versions of this conversation happening in Satoru’s head, but none of them sounded right out loud.

“You can’t just…” Satoru shook his head, looking down at the floor. “You can’t do that to someone. You can’t touch them like that, and look at them like that, and say things, and then disappear.” 

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” Geto said quietly.

“Then maybe you should stop thinking,” Satoru said, his voice sharper now, louder. “Because clearly, your brain’s a fucking idiot.”

Geto’s eyes flicked to the mug in front of him. “I made you tea.”

That made Satoru scoff. “Oh, wow, tea. You made me feel like a dirty little secret and then made me tea. Should I be grateful?”

“No,” Geto sighed. “Satoru, I’m sorry.”

Oh, oh. He's sorry? He’s sorry?! 

Something ugly rose up in Satoru’s throat, sharp and hot and acrid, like bile. Like fire.

Geto was sorry now? After days of silent treatment and closed doors? After walking past Satoru like he didn’t exist, like his mouth hadn’t been on him, in him, like he hadn’t carried him to bed and touched him in ways no one else ever had, made him feel so much better than any other guy he’d taken home?

Sorry.

He could’ve stopped it at any moment. He could’ve pulled away and said anything, could’ve said ‘Sorry, Satoru, but I can’t do this. Actually, you’re ugly and needy and I could never be with someone twenty-five years younger than me, but thanks for the offer!’

But no, he hadn’t done any of that, not once. He’d wanted it. So what if Satoru had pushed him a little? Geto was the one who gave in, so obviously he wanted it just as bad as Satoru did. And then he left Satoru to rot in the silence afterward like it was all his fault.

So yeah. 

Satoru was getting a little fucking pissed.

“You know,” he said, low and lethal, stepping forward, “I really liked it.”

Geto pushed his chair back, standing like he’d expected it to end there—but Satoru kept walking. Geto took a step back.

“I liked it,” Satoru said again, hushed now, but no less vicious. “I think about it constantly. I haven’t slept right since. I go to sleep and I see you. I look at my lips in the mirror and I remember what it felt like.”

Another step.

“You,” he said, breath hitching. “Your hands. Your mouth. Your voice—you.”

Another.

“You didn’t even look at me for weeks.” He jabbed a finger into Geto’s chest, hard. “You acted like I was a fucking mistake.”

Geto didn’t answer. Satoru’s chest rose and fell, fast. His hands were shaking, but he didn’t stop. His voice dropped to a whisper, raw and close. “I’m not a mistake.”

His hand flattened against Geto’s chest, feeling the man’s heart pounding beneath it. 

“You hear me?” Satoru whispered. “I’m not.”

They stared at each other for a moment, silence filling the air, buzzing in Satoru’s ears, making him feel a little lightheaded. It felt like someone else was controlling his body. Every damn time he was around Geto, it was like this. Every time, he felt like his soul floated above his body, watching someone reckless and bolder and more vicious take the reins, moving his body like one giant marionette, twisted and contorted and used to do whatever that version of him wants, with no regard for the consequences. He watched himself grab Geto’s shirt, fisting the fabric. He watched himself pull hard, stopping just short of Geto’s lips. 

Satoru felt himself be catapulted back into his body when Geto’s face twisted in desperation before he surged forward, closing the last gap, meeting Satoru’s lips. 

Their mouths met like a collision. Like heat, like gravity, like a scream that had been stifled for far too long. It wasn’t soft or gentle. It was mouths parted too fast, teeth clacking a little, breath punched between lips—because Satoru couldn’t wait, wouldn’t wait, not anymore. His fingers curled more into the front of Geto’s shirt, dragging him closer. He wanted to crawl inside his skin, to shove their bodies together until they melded together permanently.

Geto kissed him back like he’d been holding his breath since that night, and this was the only oxygen left in the room. One hand came up to cradle the back of Satoru’s head, the other on his waist, grounding, claiming, apologizing with every slow swipe of tongue against tongue.

Satoru whimpered. Geto’s breath caught and he leaned in harder, teeth biting Satoru’s bottom lip before he soothed the sting with a kiss so deep it made Satoru’s knees threaten to buckle.

Satoru broke first. “I hate you,” he gasped against Geto’s mouth.

“I know,” Geto whispered, kissing him again. “I hate me too.”

Geto’s hand slid from Satoru’s waist to his lower back, pulling him in until their chests pressed flush, until Satoru could feel the tremble in Geto’s breath against his lips. Satoru made a soft, broken noise—half anger, half surrender—as Geto crowded him backward. His spine hit the counter, the edge biting through his hoodie. He didn’t care. He curled a hand into Geto’s hair and dragged him down, kissing him like punishment, kissing him like apology, kissing him like he wanted him to feel every hour of those three days he’d spent being ignored.

Geto groaned into his mouth, low and wrecked, the kind of sound that came from someone who had tried very hard to be good and had failed spectacularly. His thumb brushed Satoru’s hipbone through the fabric, sending sparks through his body.

Satoru gasped against his mouth, fingers tightening. “You don’t get to do this,” he whispered, furious and breathless. “You don’t get to disappear and then kiss me like—like—”

“Like I missed you?” Geto murmured, mouth moving along his jaw, breath hot against Satoru’s skin.

Satoru’s knees nearly buckled. “Shut up,” he breathed. “Just—shut up—”

Geto didn’t. He pressed closer instead, forehead dropping to Satoru’s temple, lips brushing the shell of his ear. The warmth of him, the sheer size of him, the way his breath stuttered—God, it was too much and not enough.

“You think I didn’t want to come back to you?” Geto whispered, voice cracking. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t have been able to stop.”

Satoru shivered. “That’s not—” He swallowed hard, fingers flexing in Geto’s shirt. “That’s not a real reason.”

“It’s the only one I had.” His lips latched onto Satoru’s skin right under his ear, drawing a high-pitched squeak from Satoru’s throat. His tongue swiped across the sensitive spot before sucking hard, and the action sent a wave of pleasure through Satoru. His head felt like it was filled with fog, his thoughts lagging one step behind. 

Geto inhaled deeply through his nose before groaning into Satoru’s neck. “Fuck, I—” He cut himself off, fingers digging into Satoru’s hips as his own canted upwards, a stiff hardness pressing against Satoru, causing him to gasp.

“Fuck, fuck.” Geto panted as he ground himself against Satoru. 

Hell, what happened to not wanting to be loud?! Satoru felt like all he could hear was their heavy breathing, the cacophony of low grunts and moans. “Geto–san—”

“Just—” His hands pinned Satoru’s hips to the edge of the counter, using him to rut up against once, twice more. “Just a second longer please, please Satoru, please—” His head fell to Satoru’s shoulder as his hips continued to rub against Satoru.

“Please, Satoru—just—” Geto’s voice broke again, grinding down harder, chasing friction like it hurt to stop. His hands trembled where they held Satoru’s hips, knuckles white, body thrumming with restraint long past its breaking point. “Just need this. Just—”

Satoru couldn’t answer.  

His brain had short-circuited somewhere between Geto’s mouth on his neck and the unmistakable press of that thick, aching bulge grinding up against him. He could feel it—feel him—right there, just layers of fabric away, dragging slow against his own growing hardness, dizzying in its pressure. Every breath was a stuttered moan. His fingers scrabbled against Geto’s shoulders for balance. 

“God, you feel—” Geto’s voice dropped lower, lips brushing Satoru’s throat. “You’re so soft, fuck—”

Satoru whimpered, thighs clenching. He turned his head trying to muffle himself against the top of Geto’s shoulder. “They’re gonna hear—”

“No,” Geto panted, mouthing again at his jaw, his cheekbone. “No it’s okay, just a second more.” His hips jerked again. “I couldn’t—fuck, I couldn’t go another night without touching you—”

Satoru’s knees finally gave out. Geto caught him with a low groan, arms slipping fully around his waist, guiding him down to the cold tile floor. Satoru landed in his lap, straddling him. Their hoodies bunched up, their shorts hiked indecently high. Heat pressed against heat now, nothing separating them but a few inches of cotton and the stupid restraint still lingering in Geto’s hands.

Satoru rocked down—just once—and Geto choked on a moan, head thrown back. He kissed him again—sloppier now, fevered, tongues sliding, breath caught. Their bodies moved in unison, friction building. Satoru felt it—every drag, every jerk of Geto’s hips, every twitch of his cock through thin fabric, every desperate plea muffled against his mouth.

“Let me—” Geto’s voice caught. “Let me make you feel good. Please—please—”

Satoru nodded, dazed, frantic. “Yeah—yeah, just—don’t stop.”

He gasped as Geto pushed himself up with one hand, the other roaming Satoru’s back, settling on his ass and squeezing, kneading. He guided Satoru’s legs around his waist, bending over and stabilizing himself before standing slowly, both hands holding Satoru’s ass, sucking at his neck as he moved to the bedroom. 

Satoru’s head spun with déjà vu, his mind fogging over and playing memories of the last time he was carried into Geto’s room like this, his dick growing impossibly harder at the thoughts. Geto’s hands were strong beneath Satoru’s thighs as he carried him down the hallway. Satoru’s arms wound tight around his shoulders, breath fluttering against Geto’s throat. His pulse was racing. He could feel it hammering in his ears, in his chest, in the place where their hips brushed with every step. 

Satoru bit his lip, muffling the soft, broken sound that tried to crawl out of his throat when Geto’s grip shifted, one hand sliding up to support his back, the other squeezing his ass again, fingers digging in like he was memorizing the shape of him.

When the bedroom door was behind them, Geto kicked it shut with his heel. Satoru’s heart skipped. He barely had time to brace himself before Geto knelt down onto the mattress, lowering him like he was fragile—but his body said otherwise. His body said need. His body said hunger. His body said I’ve been thinking about you every night since.

Satoru hit the sheets with a soft gasp, hoodie riding up to his ribs. Geto hovered over him, already on his body. Mouth to mouth. Hands everywhere. The bed groaned beneath them as Geto climbed fully between his legs, pressing Satoru down, grinding into him with slow, punishing friction. The weight of him made Satoru whimper. It was too much, not enough. He arched into it anyway, legs wrapping tighter around Geto’s waist, trying to feel everything at once.

Their hips rolled together in desperate rhythm, a small damp patch coming through the thin layers of cotton of Satoru’s pajamas. Geto’s hoodie was halfway off, shoved up just far enough to reveal warm, soft skin riddled with small scars. Satoru’s hands were everywhere, tracing those faded marks; gripping at his back, his shoulders, the edge of his waistband, nails dragging along muscle without even realizing it.

“God, I missed this,” Geto breathed against his jaw, kissing him again, messier now. “Missed you—missed the sounds you made—”

Satoru whimpered. “Don’t—don’t say that if you’re just gonna leave again—”

“Not gonna.” Geto surged back up, catching Satoru’s mouth with his again. “Not gonna, just—” He groaned again, grinding his clothed cock against Satoru’s hip bone. His hands clawed at Satoru’s waistband, grabbing the shorts and underwear in one hand, pulling at it. “Off, now—”

His fingers hooked under the waistband rough and urgent, trembling with the same barely-held-back hunger that thrummed through every breath he took. He tugged the shorts and underwear down just an inch, then another, knuckles brushing Satoru’s bare hipbone.

“Off,” he repeated, voice wrecked, forehead pressing against Satoru’s as he tried again to peel the fabric away. “Satoru—please—”

Satoru shuddered, his hands flying up to grip Geto’s wrists. “You’re—” Satoru’s breath caught, lips brushing Geto’s as he spoke. “You’re not thinking straight—”

“I don’t want to think.” Geto’s voice cracked right down the middle. “I’ve been thinking for over a week. I want you.”

The words made Satoru melt. Geto kissed him again, harder—half desperation, half apology, all heat. His mouth moved hungrily along Satoru’s jaw, down his throat, teeth scraping the faint mark he'd left there earlier. The pressure made Satoru’s back arch, hoodie riding up again, exposing more skin.

“Satoru,” Geto rasped, dragging his palms up Satoru’s thighs, thumbs stroking slowly, reverently. “Look at me sweetheart.”

Satoru tried. God, he tried. But his eyes fluttered shut when Geto’s hands slid higher, when the older man’s breath ghosted over his collarbone, when the weight of him pressed Satoru deeper into the mattress. His voice was barely a whisper.

“You’re gonna leave again,” he murmured, almost accusing, almost pleading.

“No,” he murmured against Satoru’s skin, layering kisses and bites and hickeys as he moved down, shoving Satoru’s hoodie up past his nipples, latching onto one of them and biting lightly and then soothing it with his tongue. The small pin-prick of pain soothed by pleasure made Satoru’s back arch off the bed, chest pushed up into Geto’s mouth. A high-pitched squeal slipped from him.

“Quiet,” Geto warned softly, returning his mouth to Satoru’s chest. Geto moaned against his skin. The sound made Satoru arch into him, fingers clenching in the rumpled collar of his shirt, dragging him closer even as his thighs trembled from the pressure of Geto’s hips grinding against his own. Their bodies were so close, and the fabric between them was too thin to hide how hard they both were now.

Satoru couldn’t stop himself. His back arched, grinding up with a slow roll of his hips, cock dragging hard against the front of Geto’s sweatpants through his own thin cotton shorts. “Ah—” His breath caught in his throat, mouth falling open in a quiet gasp. “F–fuck, you—”

Geto growled softly, kissing him again to silence the sound, tongue curling past his lips and swallowing that little moan as Satoru’s whole body jolted at the contact. “I said quiet,” he murmured against his mouth, but the edge in his voice wasn’t scolding. It was needy and desperate.

“Then don’t do that,” Satoru whispered back, even as he thrust up again.

Geto’s hands gripped tighter on his hips, pinning him down. “You started this.”

“Yeah? And I’m gonna fucking finish it—” Satoru hissed as Geto shoved his hoodie up and ducked down again, mouth tracing a hot line across his ribs, down over his stomach. His tongue flicked into Satoru’s navel, making his belly jerk. The hands on his hips held him still.

“You’ve got no idea how bad I’ve wanted to taste you again,” Geto muttered, voice muffled against his skin. “You walked around this apartment for days acting like you didn’t know what the fuck you did to me.”

Satoru gasped, voice catching. “I—nngh—fuck, I didn’t,” he said, but he was already breathless, the heat in his belly pooling low as Geto’s mouth kept dragging lower.

“Liar,” Geto growled.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Satoru’s shorts again, dragging them all the way down this time. Satoru’s cock sprang free, flushed and hard, tip glossy with precum. Geto looked up at him for a moment—eyes dark, lips swollen—before leaning in and licking a stripe up the length of him, tongue flat and slow and hot.

“Ahh—fuck—!” Satoru bit his own wrist this time, trying not to scream.

Geto wrapped a hand around the base of his cock, tilting it up slightly before swallowing him all the way down with no pretense. He took him in until Satoru’s thighs trembled and his back arched off the mattress again, a cry trapped in his throat.

“F-ffffuck—oh my God—”

He couldn’t stay quiet, not with Geto’s throat flexing around him like that, tongue pressing up as he sucked, dragging back just enough to swirl around the tip before sinking down again. Geto moaned low as he moved, like Satoru’s cock tasted so good, like he needed it, and that sound—oh, that sound vibrated right through his fucking spine.

Satoru’s fingers flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the thick, dark strands, trying to ground himself. “D-don’t stop—please, don’t stop, don’t—”

Geto’s head bobbed slow and deep, his tongue curling along the underside with every pass, hand working his balls in time with the rhythm of his mouth, Satoru couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop moaning, breath hitched and teeth biting into the meat of his own arm to muffle himself.

He looked down and nearly came right then—because Geto looked wrecked. Hair loose and messy, cheeks hollowed around the girth of him, lashes low over dark eyes that looked straight up at him while he sucked like he was starving.

“Suguru—” Satoru gasped, voice breaking on the name. He wasn’t supposed to call him that. He never called him that.

Geto groaned, pulling off just long enough to gasp against the head of his cock, wet lips brushing sensitive skin. “Say it again.”

“Suguru—”

He went back down fast, sucking him in so deep Satoru’s hips bucked off the bed before Geto’s hands shoved them down again, holding him in place. Satoru couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. His eyes rolled back as his stomach clenched, legs shaking, every nerve in his body pulsing to the beat of Geto’s mouth.

“I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—” He didn’t even finish the sentence before he came. His whole body arched, his mouth dropped open in a silent cry, and his fingers tightened in Geto’s hair as he spilled into his mouth, wave after wave of heat that made him feel like he was falling apart. Geto swallowed every drop, sucking through it, tongue soft now, hand still working him gently as Satoru’s whole body shook and jerked and finally sagged back against the mattress.

“Holy—fuck—fuck—” Satoru was barely breathing, chest heaving as he blinked up at the ceiling, dazed.

Geto licked him clean, dragging his tongue slowly up the softening shaft before sitting up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His cheeks were flushed, lips swollen, hair a mess—and he looked at Satoru like he was something holy.

“Goddamn,” he said, voice low and hoarse.

Satoru blinked slowly, heart still jackhammering in his chest. “I—I can’t feel my legs.”

“Good,” Geto muttered, leaning down to kiss him again, slower now, with the lingering taste of Satoru on his lips.

Satoru moaned into it, fingers wrapping weakly around Geto’s wrist, grounding himself. “You’re still hard,” he mumbled against his mouth.

Geto didn’t answer. He just kissed him deeper, letting Satoru feel it—feel the press of him through his sweatpants, thick and heavy and still desperate for friction.

“Wanna make you feel good too,” Satoru whispered. “Please. Want your cock—wanna suck you ‘til you can’t think.”

Geto groaned, a raw, ragged sound. “Don’t say shit like that if you mean to sleep tonight.”

He whimpered. “Wait—changed my mind.” 

He rolled over, dragging Geto with him until he was on his back again, his hair wild and his mouth shiny with spit and sweat and come. He pushed Geto down by the chest, straddling his lap.

“Fuck me?” he whispered, leaning in close.

Geto's breath stuttered out of him, caught somewhere between a moan and a curse, chest rising hard beneath Satoru’s palms. His hands gripped Satoru’s hips, fingers splayed, like he didn’t trust himself not to move too fast—like he was trying not to lose it the second those words hit his ears.

“Satoru,” he said, voice hoarse, almost pleading.

Satoru leaned down, hair brushing Geto’s cheek, lips ghosting over his jaw. “C’mon,” he murmured, coaxing. “Wanna feel you. Want you inside me—please—”

Geto surged up, mouth finding his again, kiss bruising and breathless. His hands slid down, thumbs digging into the curve of Satoru’s ass as he ground up, cock straining beneath the soft fabric of his pants, thick and hot where it pressed against him.

“Fuck, okay,” he gasped between kisses. “Okay. You—you sure?”

Satoru smiled against his lips, drunk on the heat of him, the way Geto touched him like he couldn’t help it. “More than sure.”

Geto swallowed hard. “Need lube—fuck—” He fumbled blindly toward the nighstand, knocking over a bottle of water before his fingers closed around the little bottle he knew would be there.

Satoru took it from him, hands steady even as he straddled him, thighs trembling with anticipation. He kissed Geto again, slow and deep,  before sitting back and tugging down the waistband of those sweatpants, baring him. Geto’s cock sprang free, flushed deep and heavy with need, precome already smeared along the tip. It was just as gorgeous as he remembered.

“God, look at you,” Satoru breathed, wrapping a hand around him, stroking slowly just to watch Geto’s eyes flutter.

“Gonna make me lose it if you keep that up,” Geto groaned, hips twitching into his grip.

Satoru let go with a wicked grin, flipping the cap of the lube and slicking his fingers before reaching behind himself. He didn’t look away—not once—as he prepped himself, two fingers sliding in easy from how turned on he already was. Geto watched, mesmerized, breath coming fast as Satoru rocked against his own hand.

“S’tight,” Satoru whispered, voice thin. “But I want it—I want you, Suguru—”

Geto’s hands clutched his thighs like a man hanging off the edge of a cliff. “You’re gonna kill me,” he said again, barely breathing.

Satoru reached down, lined him up, and sank onto him in one slow, shuddering motion.

“A-ah—fuck—” His mouth dropped open, eyes fluttering shut as Geto stretched him wide, the burn sharp at first, then melting into something heavier and sweeter. Geto cursed, hips jerking up reflexively, but Satoru pressed a hand flat against his chest, keeping him still.

“Let me,” he breathed. “Lemme move first—fuck, you feel so good—”

He rolled his hips slowly, getting used to the weight and pressure of Geto inside him, the way it filled every inch like it was made for this. His cock bounced against his belly with every motion, still half-hard, already twitching back to life.

Geto’s hands slid up to grip his waist, thumbs rubbing gentle circles into the skin just above his hipbones. “You’re so fucking perfect,” he whispered, voice shaking. “Feels like you’re made for me.”

Satoru gasped, starting to move more confidently now, lifting up and dropping back down with soft, wet little sounds where they met.

Slap, shlick, ah, ah—

Every bounce sent Geto deeper, and Satoru couldn’t stop the cries slipping out, couldn’t stop the way he trembled as pleasure built again too fast, too sharp. His hands found Geto’s, fingers lacing, grounding himself in the way he was held—strong, steady, shaking just like him.

“Suguru—” he moaned, head dropping forward. “I’m gonna—gonna come again—”

“Quiet, be quiet,” Geto rasped, kissing skin wherever he could reach. “I wanna see it—come on, baby, ride me—”

Satoru nodded, biting down on his own lip as he bounced again, slower this time, drawing a deep groan from Geto’s throat. Each descent sheathed him fully again, Satoru’s body swallowing him, clenching in pulses that made Geto’s grip falter. The heat rolled over him like tidewater, hips rocking slow and hungry, his breath shaky with every rise and fall. Their skin made quiet, obscene sounds with every grind, slick and wet, sweat glistening between their bellies where they kept pressing together.

“Y-you’re hitting—” he choked out, head falling back. “Every time—ahh—”

“I know,” Geto said, voice hoarse, reverent, hands sliding up his back. “I know. Fuck—you feel so good, baby.”

Satoru whimpered, softer this time, desperate to keep the volume down, burying his face into Geto’s shoulder. “Too good,” he whispered against his skin. “I’m gonna—I can’t—”

He tensed suddenly, whole body curling into Geto as another orgasm tore through him, silent but full-bodied, making him shudder and grind down even harder, trying to keep him buried as deep as possible. His cock throbbed untouched between them, a small pool of off-white building on Geto’s stomach. His body tightened around Geto, milking him in rhythmic pulses, heat rippling through his spine as he came hard, clinging to him with trembling limbs.

Geto hissed, arms locking around him to keep him grounded. “That’s it—shhh, fuck, that’s it. You’re perfect—so fucking perfect—”

Satoru nodded against him, jaw slack, lips brushing his neck. “Don’t stop,” he breathed. “Please, don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”

Geto braced his feet against the bed and sat up sharply, shifting Satoru higher in his lap. Satoru gasped at the sudden depth, cock twitching again, but he wrapped his arms tight around Geto’s neck to keep himself steady. The new angle left him folded close, knees splayed wide, thighs burning—but he didn’t care. It was deeper this way, sharper, Geto’s cock stroking against that spot inside him with every upward thrust.

“Quiet now,” Geto rasped, burying his face into Satoru’s neck as he started to fuck up into him harder, faster, relentless but careful, each thrust controlled to keep the bed from creaking too loud. His grip never loosened. One hand cradled the back of Satoru’s head; the other steadied himself on the bed, occasionally coming up and gripping Satoru’s ass hard enough to bruise.

Satoru clung to him with everything he had, muffling each cry in the warm curve of Geto’s shoulder, panting against his skin, shuddering all over again with each deep thrust.

“Ahh—mmh—fuck, fuck, Suguru—”

Geto kissed his temple, his jaw, the corner of his mouth, anything he could reach, barely coherent. “You’re so fucking—God, Satoru—”

He felt that coil of heat burn deep in his gut, already so close again despite having come less than a few minutes ago. He patted Geto’s shoulder frantically, warning him. “Sugu—Sugu—”

“Again?” He groaned, shoving his face into the crook of Satoru’s neck. “Already?”

“I c-can’t help it,” Satoru whined, sputtering broken gasps and spit. “You’re so deep—”

Geto angled him even higher and drove up harder. Satoru went silent, back arching, and then his whole body locked and trembled again, coming untouched for the second—third?—time, just from the pressure, the way Geto was filling him so perfectly. He bit down hard on Geto’s shoulder, muffling the cry as his legs shook, cum running between them and down the insides of his thighs. His jaw bit harder, trying to keep any stray noise from escaping, and Geto grunted at the pain.

“Shhh—shhh—good boy, fuck, that’s it—so good—so fucking good—”

Geto’s thrusts turned frantic, his rhythm breaking as his own edge approached fast. The muscles in his back bunched under Satoru’s hands, sweat slicking their skin, and Satoru whimpered into his neck, still rolling his hips to meet every frantic pump.

“Please,” he whispered. “Want it, wanna feel you come inside me—please—”

“Fuck—!” Geto broke, head falling back as his hips stuttered, cock twitching deep inside Satoru as he came, spilling into him with a strangled grunt, trying desperately to stay quiet as his whole body convulsed with the force of it. He held Satoru flush to him the entire time, arms shaking, hips grinding slow now, drawing out every last pulse of pleasure.

They slumped together, chests heaving in silence, the only sound their ragged breaths and the slick, obscene squelch when Geto finally shifted his hips. Satoru winced, but didn’t pull away. He wrapped his arms around Geto tighter, letting his head drop against the mess of his hair. 

“Don’t go,” he whispered hoarsely, panic flooding him, though he wasn’t sure why.

Geto held him without thinking, arms cinched tight around Satoru’s spine, forehead pressing against the side of his head. He didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t say anything stupid like why would I leave? or of course I’ll stay. He just held on, breath shaking a little as it slowly leveled out against Satoru’s ear.

“…Okay,” he said finally, quiet and solid. “Okay. I won’t. I’m here.”

Satoru didn’t say anything. His fingers just curled tighter in the back of Geto’s neck, like maybe if he gripped hard enough it’d keep the moment from shifting. It didn’t. A few minutes passed, heavy with heat and the faint stick of sweat between their skin, before Geto exhaled slowly and said, “Satoru… I need to clean us up.”

There was no edge or awkwardness to it, just a soft, reluctant reminder of their shared bodies, the way they were still joined in more than one way, the mess inevitable. Satoru hesitated—just a second—then nodded against his shoulder and eased back. The ache as Geto slipped out of him made him flinch, but Geto was already kissing his forehead. He moved gently, slowly, pulling on his sweats and disappearing down the hallway with a whispered, “I’ll be right back.”

Satoru stared at the ceiling while he waited, muscles sore, heart louder than it had any right to be. The sheets stuck to the sweat cooling on his back. His knees still shook. Geto came back—of course he came back—and he was warm, methodical, careful. He wiped Satoru’s thighs clean with a warm washcloth, brushing his fingers over one knee afterward. No rush. No words.

The actions were so soft, so careful, so familiar. Satoru felt his stomach twist, watching Geto perform the same set of motions he did when Satoru last found himself like this. It was exactly the same. Exactly like before. Like the last time, when things had still felt soft and real and stupidly good and—

He was going to leave.

He was going to leave again.

Satoru sat up too fast, legs trembling under him as he pushed himself upright. Geto looked up, surprised, mouth already parting to say something, but Satoru didn’t give him the chance.

“Um,” he said quickly, voice too bright, too thin. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He took a shaky step back, grabbing at his shirt from the floor, pulling it over his head in one quick, panicked motion. He couldn’t look at Geto’s face. Couldn’t look at the bed, or his own hands, or anything. He just needed to go, before—

“Wait—what?” Geto reached out and caught him by the wrist, pulling him back before he could take another step. “Satoru, what the fuck?”

Satoru froze. Geto looked up, confusion hardening into something sharper. “Where the hell are you going?”

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Satoru said, forcing the words out though they hurt. “I put you in a shitty position, and I hope we both—” he dragged in a shaky breath, “got it out of our systems, so everything can go back to normal now.”

Geto blinked, stunned. “What? You were just begging me to fuck you, Satoru!”

“And I said I’m sorry!”

Geto let go of him like he’d been burned. His hand hovered in the air a moment, fingers curled like he was still holding on, then dropped as he ran both hands through his hair and dragged themover his face, like maybe if he rubbed hard enough he could wake up and undo the last half hour.

“Jesus fuck.” He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, eyes closed, and when he spoke again, his voice was hollow. “I knew I should’ve—I knew. This is all my fault, I’m sorry Satoru. I’m the adult here, I should’ve been firmer with you.”

Satoru flinched. “No, no, it’s not a big deal, really, Geto-san—”

“Don’t,” Geto said sharply, cutting him off. He turned his head, not quite looking at him, voice low and bitter. “I just came in your ass and gave you multiple orgasms. I think I’ve earned the right to be upgraded from Geto-san.”

He spat the honorific like it made him sick. Then he just… went still. Hands hanging between his knees, head bowed like all the fire had gone out of him. “I’m sorry,” he said again, quieter. “That was—fuck, I didn’t mean it like that. I just…”

Geto looked down at his hands. They were shaking a little. “I shouldn’t have let this happen. I should’ve been stronger. You’re not—this isn’t supposed to be your problem. This was my job to walk away from. I’m the one who fucked up.”

Satoru felt something brittle crack in his chest. “No,” he said quietly. “No, I should be the one apologizing.” He took a shaky step forward, still holding his shirt bunched in his hand like armor. “I kept pushing, even when you said no. I just—” his throat closed, but he forced himself to keep talking. “I didn’t want you to be the one burdened with walking away again. So I figured… if I did it this time, it’d be easier for both of us.”

He swallowed, voice breaking. “The least I could do is make it easier for you.” Geto looked up at him slowly. His eyes were dark and wide and stunned. Satoru bit his lip, hard. “I didn’t mean to make this harder. I thought—I thought it’d be cleaner. Less painful. If I just... left.”

“Cleaner?” Geto repeated, like he didn’t understand the word. “Jesus, Satoru. You think I can just go back to normal after that?”

“You left before,” Satoru said, almost inaudibly.

Geto’s face twisted. “That was—different,” he said, too fast.

“It didn’t feel different,” Satoru whispered.

For a second, neither of them spoke, the air between them thick. Geto stood, crossing the space between them in two steps, hands coming up and ghosting the sides of Satoru’s arms. “Do you want to go?” he asked.

Satoru’s breath hitched at the question, and even now, after everything, the answer came too fast, slipped out of him too easily to be a lie.

“No,” he whispered. 

The hands hovering by his arms didn’t pull away. Geto didn’t touch him, not quite—but he was there, and the space between them felt thinner than air. Satoru looked up, eyes flicking to Geto’s face, and what he saw there made something coil sharp and tight in his gut. The ache was still there, low in his stomach, in his chest. A twist of tension he’d been carrying for weeks, maybe months. Maybe longer.

“But you looked like you regretted it,” Satoru said suddenly, voice cracking with the edges of it. “You were acting just like last time. You went all quiet, and then you looked at your hands like they were—like you didn’t know what to do with them. You said it was your fault, like you were already planning to walk away, and I—”

His voice failed him. His throat burned.

“I couldn’t do it again,” he breathed. “I couldn’t go through you hating yourself for touching me. I couldn’t watch you act like I was some mistake you made in a moment of weakness. Because if that’s all I am then like, that’s fine, you know? I would just like to know that from the start, not—whatever.”

Geto exhaled hard, pain flashing across his face, and his hands finally landed on Satoru—gripping his arms just above the elbows, firm and grounding.

“No,” he said. “No, it’s not like that. I was just—” He cut himself off, shaking his head like he didn’t know where to start. “I was thinking, trying to process what this actually means. There’s a lot that comes with this territory.”

Satoru didn’t speak. He barely breathed. Geto’s fingers curled slightly around his arms, not pulling, just anchoring them both.

“The first being,” he said slowly, “that you’re literally half my age.” Satoru flinched. “And best friends with my daughters.”

“I know,” Satoru said quickly, already reeling. “I know. I wasn’t—this wasn’t supposed to happen, I wasn’t supposed to want—”

“No,” Geto interrupted, not unkindly, but firm. “Listen to me. I’m not saying that because I’m about to end this. I’m not walking away. I’m not doing what I did last time.”

Satoru blinked, chest still heaving. “You’re not?”

Geto shook his head. His grip softened, but didn’t let go. “I was trying to figure out what the fuck to do from here, because I can’t pretend this is nothing anymore. I can’t touch you like that and just wake up tomorrow and treat you like some kid who happens to be in my kitchen again.”

Satoru let out a sharp, shaky laugh that wasn’t really laughter at all. “I’m not a kid.”

“I know,” Geto said quietly, eyes searching the floor now.

“I haven’t been one for a long time.”

“I know.” His voice came harder this time, rougher. “I’ve known for a while. That’s the problem.”

“Geto-sa—” Satoru caught the name before it could finish, tasting the stiffness of it like something bitter on his tongue. “Suguru.” 

Geto’s eyes shifted up. He looked exhausted, like whatever thread he’d been gripping for composure was slipping right through his fingers, unraveling all at once in the silence between them. And then—just when Satoru thought maybe they were steadying—Geto let out a short, shallow breath, and the spiral started.

“I can’t let the girls know. Not yet.” His voice dropped, as if they might already be listening, though the house was still dead quiet. “They’d never look at me the same.”

Satoru frowned, brow knitting. “They’re not gonna—”

“They don’t even know I like men,” Geto said, like it had just hit him for the first time. “Their whole lives I’ve never—never brought anyone home, never said a thing. And now this? You?”

Satoru flinched, but Geto wasn’t finished.

“I mean Jesus, Satoru, you’re not just a guy. You’re you. You’re the kid who slept over on the living room couch a dozen times. You and my daughters curled up with popcorn and horror movies like a little found family. You brought them soup when they had the flu, they made you playlists, you—you braided Nanako’s hair while she studied for chem. And now I’m—” he broke off, ran a hand over his face, “—now I’m the fucking dad who snuck around with one of their best friends like some cliché out of a trashy drama.”

Satoru didn’t know when he started shaking his head, but he was already halfway across the floor before Geto could retreat further into it.

“They won’t know,” he said, calm and certain, reaching for his hands again. “Not unless you want them to. I’m not gonna say a word, Suguru, I swear.”

Geto’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. His eyes were wide, flicking over Satoru’s face like he was looking for something to grab onto.

“I’m not gonna fuck this up for you,” Satoru said, firmer now. “I know it’s a lot. I know it’s—complicated. But I’m not gonna blow up your life. I would never do that.”

Geto let out a breath so heavy it sounded like the wind leaving him, shoulders sagging under the weight of it. His hands, still tangled with Satoru’s, tightened. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted. “This is… terrifying.”

“I know,” Satoru whispered. “You think it isn’t scary for me too?”

Geto laughed, soft and self-deprecating, but his eyes were warmer now. “Yeah. But you’ve got a lot less to lose.”

Satoru didn’t agree, not really, but he didn’t argue either. He just squeezed his hands, pulled him in, rested his forehead against Suguru’s chest and felt the quiet thump of his heartbeat under warm skin. And then, just as the room fell into that fragile calm, Geto leaned down and kissed him again. It was different this time—slower, steadier, laced with the kind of restraint that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t about need now. It wasn’t about lust. It was a promise. Satoru leaned into it, sighing against his lips, unwilling to let it end, until Geto pulled back—reluctantly—and brushed his thumb across the corner of his mouth.

“You need to go back to your room,” he murmured, voice rough.

Satoru’s smile twitched, rueful. “Yeah, I figured.”

“If the girls wake up and find you in my bed, we’re both fucked.”

“Mm. Not in the fun way.”

Geto snorted. “Satoru.”

“I am leaving, I swear.” But he didn’t move.

“I’m sorry,” Geto added, quieter now. “It’s not that I don’t want you here. You know I do. But it has to be like this, for now.”

Satoru nodded. “Yeah. I get it.”

He stepped back slowly, letting his fingers drag down the length of Geto’s until only the tips touched—then let go. And even though his legs ached and his body was sore and he’d just had the most emotionally chaotic hour of his entire life, by the time he padded barefoot back to the guest room and slipped beneath the covers, his heart was pounding for a very different reason.

Because Suguru Geto had kissed him like he meant it.

Because Suguru Geto hadn’t told him it was a mistake.

Because Suguru Geto had said he wasn’t walking away.

And now, lying there in the dark, the quiet of the house pressing soft around him, Satoru bit back the grin that spread across his face. Because holy shit. He did it. He actually did it.

All those late-night daydreams, the stupid fantasies he told himself to kill because they’d never come true—they had. Suguru fucking Geto was real, was his, and Satoru had felt him come inside him, had heard him promise not to leave.

He curled into the pillow with a giddy, exhausted little laugh. There was no way he could fall asleep now. He was too excited. Too happy. He finally got everything he wanted and holy hell it was fantastic. Like, fucking hell. Suguru fucked like a machine—which Satoru had not expected at his age—and despite the mere idea of being touched again making his dick cry, he wanted so badly to go back in there and ask for more. He’d never sleep tonight. There was no way, with how turned on and insanely ecstatic that he was, that Satoru would ever be able—

︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

Satoru blinked his eyes open slowly, lashes heavy, brain syrup-thick.

His room—well, the room, technically, the guest room that had quietly been dubbed his sometime around the year he started spending more nights than not in this house as a teenager—was bathed in warm, late-morning light. Dust motes drifted lazily in the sunbeam cutting across the foot of the bed, the air still and quiet except for the faint hum of the ceiling fan overhead.

His whole body ached. Not in the god-I-slept-wrong kind of way. No, this was the deep, satisfied, muscle-sore ache of a man who’d been thoroughly, repeatedly, and almost disrespectfully fucked. He squinted toward the alarm clock. 10:37.

“Oh shit,” he muttered, voice dry and scratchy.

He never slept this late. Never. He was always up before the twins, usually even before Geto—Suguru? Suguru. The smug bastard liked to tease him for being the responsible one—as if Satoru wasn’t the one making pancakes while everyone else dragged themselves out of bed like hibernating bears.

And then, slowly, the pieces began slotting back into place.

Right. It was Saturday.

Right. He had slept.

Right. Suguru had held him after they’d… yeah. Suguru whispered soft things against his temple and told him he wasn’t going to walk away again.

Right. That happened.

Satoru flopped onto his back with a quiet, muffled whump, pillow engulfing the side of his face as he let out a groan that was half exhausted whimper, half giddy laugh.

“Oh my god.”

He’d really done it. Really, really done it. Suguru had touched him, kissed him, fucked him stupid and then held him. He’d whispered I’m here, and Satoru had walked out of that bedroom shaking on his feet but glowing in his chest.

Now he just had to face the rest of the household like he hadn’t spent the night getting railed into another dimension by the father of his two best friends. Fuck. He groaned again, louder this time, and shoved his face deeper into the pillow. His hips ached. His thighs ached. His ass ached. There was absolutely no way he’d be able to sit through breakfast like a normal person.

Maybe he could play it off as a new workout routine. Oh yeah, Mimiko, I started weighted squats again. My legs are just really feeling it. What kind of weights? The... uh... emotional weight of being gay.

He rolled over and stared at the ceiling. He couldn’t just stay in here forever. Eventually they’d come knocking. Nanako would barge in, throw a sock at his face, and demand brunch. Mimiko would ask if he wanted to watch another episode of that dumb baking show they were into. Suguru would probably—

Satoru flushed. What the hell was he supposed to call Suguru now? Still Geto-san? No. God no. Way too formal after having his dick inside him. But Suguru felt dangerously intimate in public. Like if he said it over pancakes everyone would just know.

Geto-san it is.

He dragged a hand down his face. He needed a game plan. A neutral tone, no blushing, no eye contact. Definitely no dreamy sighs when Suguru entered the room. Okay. He could do this. He was an adult. A fully grown, mostly-functional adult who had had adult sex with another adult and could behave like it hadn’t turned his insides into confetti. He sat up gingerly, grimaced at the deep throb in his thighs. He stood, wobbling slightly, and grabbed the dresser for support. 

“Okay,” he said aloud, willing strength into his legs. “Just gotta make it to the kitchen without collapsing. Piece of cake.”

He shuffled toward the door, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair, mouth already curling into something too smug for the level of chaos currently roiling under his skin. No one had to know what happened last night. No one had to know a damn thing.

He would act normal. Smile, be charming, keep the secret sealed behind perfectly white teeth and bedroom eyes. He cracked the door open, and the smell of frying bacon filled the air. Suguru was cooking breakfast. Suddenly, acting normal felt about as likely as winning the lottery while being struck by lightning.

The hallway was quiet as he padded toward the kitchen, socks muffling his steps against the wood floors. Somewhere in the house, he heard the gentle murmur of the TV—the twins, probably curled up on the couch with a rewatch of something ridiculous. The scent of bacon got stronger as he neared the kitchen, layered now with coffee and something sweet—pancakes? Cinnamon rolls?

Suguru was really trying this morning, and Satoru was not ready. He braced himself before stepping inside, schooled his face into something casual, and entered the kitchen like he hadn’t just spent the night being absolutely obliterated by the man currently standing in front of the stove flipping bacon in a loose hoodie and sweatpants.

Suguru didn’t look over, but he definitely knew Satoru was there. His back was too straight, shoulders just a little too tight. The tension wasn’t obvious—only visible to someone who had seen those shoulders relax around him, who knew what they looked like hunched over him in the dark, damp with sweat and shaking with effort.

Satoru cleared his throat. “Morning,” he said, pitching his voice low and neutral. Normal. Friendly. Breezy. “Something smells amazing.”

Suguru glanced at him, brief and unreadable. “Morning. You want coffee?”

“God, yes. Do you have any of that hazelnut creamer left or did the gremlins drink it all?”

“I heard that!” Nanako shouted from the living room.

Satoru grinned. “You were supposed to.”

Suguru passed him a mug without comment, and their fingers brushed. Satoru didn’t flinch, but it took every ounce of self-control. His stomach flipped like it had something to say about the contact—more of that, please—and he focused hard on pouring his coffee, not looking directly at Suguru’s face, not thinking about that moment last night where their foreheads touched and those fingers had been somewhere else—

Nanako shuffled into the kitchen a moment later, dressed in sweats and dragging her blanket behind her like a cloak. She blinked blearily at Satoru.

“You slept in.”

“It’s Saturday,” he said with a yawn. “I earned it.”

She leaned against the counter and stole a piece of bacon from the paper towel-lined plate without remorse. “We were gonna wake you up in another hour. Mimiko bet me five bucks you were dead.”

“I’m flattered by your concern.”

“Don’t be,” she said. “You still owe me a rematch for Mario Kart.”

“I’m always up for humiliating you.”

Breakfast was… chaotic, in the way it always was when the four of them were together. Mimiko dunked her pancakes in her coffee. Nanako started an impromptu ranking of the best horror villains. Suguru burned one batch of bacon while defending his incorrect take that Freddy Krueger would beat Ghostface in a fight. Satoru mostly just laughed and tried not to stare too hard.

It was easier than he expected, falling back into that rhythm. It was part of what he liked about Suguru, that he was more than just a hot guy. He was caring and fun and easy to be with. The girls finished up and headed back to the couch. The TV kicked on again a few moments later, volume low.

And then it was just them. Suguru stood, walking to the sink and rinsing plates, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. The sunlight cut across his back in soft gold, and his hair—still damp from a quick shower—was curling slightly at the ends, silver strands catching the sun and standing out from the otherwise dark strands. The domesticity of it hit Satoru hard. Something about the quiet clink of dishes, the hum of the faucet, the faint smell of his body wash.

And he was so stupidly hot. It wasn’t fair. Satoru slid behind him, and Suguru froze for a second.

“You need help drying, Geto-san?” Satoru asked casually, grabbing a towel from the drawer.

“Mm. Sure.”

He reached for a plate and started wiping it, standing close enough that their arms brushed twice. Suguru didn’t say anything about it. A long moment passed, before Satoru leaned closer.

“You looked pretty hot making me breakfast.”

Suguru let out a short breath. “Satoru.”

“What?” he said, blinking innocently. “You think I wasn’t watching you with that spatula?”

“I knew you were watching.”

Satoru’s grin was downright wicked now. He reached past Suguru to stack a clean plate, letting his body brush all the way along Suguru’s back—hip to thigh. “Do you want me to stop?”

Suguru exhaled through his nose. “Yes.”

Liar.

Satoru hummed. “Shame.” He leaned closer, lips brushing the shell of Suguru’s ear. “Because I was kinda hoping you’d take me to your room again after the dishes were done.”

Suguru turned toward him too fast, and their noses nearly bumped. His face was unreadable for a second—but his eyes were dark. Focused. Starving.

“You really want to test me right now?”

Satoru tilted his head. “Would it work?”

Suguru’s eyes flicked toward the living room. The TV was still playing low, a laugh track in the background. He leaned in, hand sliding low over Satoru’s hip. “Satoru…”

“I’ll be quiet,” Satoru whispered.

Suguru’s hand tightened, fingertips pressing in. Then, slowly, he backed off, jaw tight with restraint. “You’re impossible,” he muttered.

“You like that about me.”

“God help me,” he muttered, and went back to rinsing a mug. Satoru laughed, breathless and flushed and stupidly pleased. He leaned his elbows on the counter beside the sink and watched Suguru’s profile like it was art, heart pounding. 

Yeah. He could get used to this.

︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

The next few weeks passed more or less like normal. 

Well—normal adjacent. They still had movie nights, still did dishes in lazy silence, still argued over who got the last toaster waffle. The girls still dragged Satoru into their drama, still made him paint their nails and helped each other with homework, still joked that he basically lived there already and should just start paying rent.

The house felt the same, it was Suguru who was the problem.

He couldn’t seem to keep his hands off Satoru for more than five seconds when the opportunity struck—and Satoru, for all his big talk and smug little smirks, folded every single time. It wasn’t constant by any means—that would’ve been too obvious, too risky—but it was frequent enough to make Satoru insane.

The first time had been barely three days after the night in Suguru’s bed. The girls had gone out to pick up poke bowls, left him lounging on the couch with a blanket and reruns humming in the background. He’d just started to doze off when he felt fingers tangle in his hair, and then Suguru was there, straddling the armrest, cupping his face in both hands and kissing him so hard it knocked the air straight out of his lungs. No greeting. No warning. Just heat, all tongue and teeth, and Suguru’s body slotted against his like it belonged there.

Satoru had tried to speak, tried to ask ‘what are you doing, they could be back any second,’ but the only thing that came out was a moan, choked and desperate, because Suguru’s hand had slipped under the blanket, palming him through his sweatpants with maddeningly slow pressure. They barely made it through two minutes before Suguru pulled away, breathless and smiling, licking into one last kiss and mumbling, “Just missed you,” before disappearing again like nothing had happened.

Satoru had laid there, flushed and aching, until the girls returned ten minutes later, chattering about add-ons and seaweed salad, oblivious to the fact that he was trying to discreetly rearrange his lap and not sound like he was dying.

Another time, he’d been walking down the hall to the bathroom when Suguru stepped out of his bedroom, snagged his arm, and yanked him through the doorway. The door clicked shut behind them.

“What the hell—?”

“Shut up,” Suguru whispered, and then he kissed him, hard. Suguru’s hands were at his waist, mouth crushing into his with something hungry and possessive, like Satoru was the only thing keeping him upright. He was pressed against the wall before he could even think, Suguru grinding into him slow and filthy, their hips catching in an obscene rhythm that made Satoru gasp into his mouth.

It lasted less than a minute. A kiss, a roll of the hips, a low, rough “you drive me fucking crazy” whispered against his throat. Then Suguru pulled back, fixed his shirt like nothing had happened, and opened the door.

 “Go on,” he said, voice gravel-low. “Before someone sees you in here.”

Satoru had stumbled back out into the hallway red-faced and trembling, trying to remember what the fuck he’d come for in the first place.

But the worst of it—the most dangerous, the most obscene—happened the night they all went out for dinner. They’d gone to some fancy, dimly-lit restaurant in the middle of the city, with high ceilings and exposed brick and soft jazz trickling from overhead speakers. The girls had run into an old friend near the entrance and immediately started squealing and catching up, glued to the hostess stand while Satoru and Suguru waited out front.

It was supposed to be a quick pause, but then Suguru turned to him, slow and quiet, and murmured, “Come with me.”

Satoru didn’t ask where. He just followed, because the tone Suguru used—low and firm and sure—always did something to him that made refusal impossible. They ducked around the corner, past the side patio, down a short alley where a flickering red light buzzed above an emergency door. No one was nearby.

Before he could speak, Suguru had him by the collar and shoved him up against the brick wall, his mouth already on Satoru’s, his body pinning him like he needed to feel every inch of him at once. Satoru moaned loudly.

“Shh,” Suguru whispered, biting at his lip. “Keep quiet.”

“You can’t just—”

“Quiet.”

He thrust against him slow and firm, hips grinding hard enough to bruise, his hand braced beside Satoru’s head, the other gripping his waist like a vice. Satoru clung to his shoulders, panting, brain short-circuiting at the sheer audacity of it—Suguru, grinding into him like he wanted to break him in half, right here, outside a restaurant in public where anyone could walk by.

It didn’t even take long. Satoru was already on edge, already soaked through his briefs from just the idea of Suguru being like this in broad daylight. The friction, the pressure, the way Suguru whispered mine against his neck, again and again—it was too much. Too hot. Too much.

He came in his pants with a choked, gasping noise, trembling and red-faced, head falling forward into Suguru’s shoulder as his whole body seized. Suguru bit his ear and didn’t stop for another fifteen seconds, overstimulation turning Satoru into a writhing, grunting mess.

When he finally pulled back, panting, he smoothed Satoru’s hair back with careful fingers, kissed his cheek once, and murmured, “We’ll be late.”

Satoru had to stand there for another minute before his legs worked. He spent the entire dinner flushed and dazed, unable to sit still, unable to look at Suguru without feeling the imprint of that brick wall on his spine. The girls didn’t notice—or if they did, they didn’t say anything. Nanako teased him about his hair being a mess. Mimiko made him try some weird drink she’d ordered.

Suguru sat across from him, calm as ever, sipping his wine like he hadn’t just dry-humped Satoru into oblivion ten minutes prior.

It was insane, it was reckless, and it was perfect. Because beneath the chaos, the risk, the sheer lack of self-preservation on either of their parts—was something steady. Something solid. The way Suguru would brush their pinkies together when no one was watching. The way he’d glance over during a movie and smile like he couldn’t help it. The way he’d press a kiss to Satoru’s temple just before bed when the house had gone quiet.

It was all so unbelievably perfect.

And tonight—tonight was no exception. The girls had gone to bed an hour ago, their door shut, lights out, the soft buzz of a sleep playlist drifting faintly from under the crack. The whole house had settled into the kind of quiet Satoru loved—just late enough to feel dangerous, just early enough that he could still pretend he had the whole night ahead of him.

He was in the hallway when it happened, halfway down the stairs in his platform boots, keys in hand and heart thumping with the kind of thrill that only came with tight clothes and a full beat.

He was headed out to club with Shoko again, and tonight's ensemble was a white leather miniskirt and mesh crop top. It wasn’t often that he wore skirts, but once in a while he enjoyed it. Sure, it sucked that he had an extra layer, because he always had to wear some sort of compression shorts beneath it to keep all the goods in place, but it always made his legs look obscenely long and sexy. He even shaved beforehand, adding a sparkly coconut body oil to make them shimmer. 

He stepped out of his room and was turning toward the kitchen for some water when a voice came, sharp and low, from the shadows by the front door. “Where the fuck are you going like that?”

Satoru startled—visibly, comically—and pressed a hand to his chest. “Jesus, Suguru, are you lurking now?”

Suguru stepped into the light, barefoot, arms crossed, hoodie sleeves pushed up. His hair was messy like he’d been running a hand through it, which tracked—his jaw was tight, his mouth pressed into a flat line, and his eyes, dark and unreadable, flicked over Satoru’s outfit like they wanted to peel it off and torch it in the sink.

Satoru blinked. “Going out.” Suguru stared at him. “To meet Shoko.” Nothing. “And Utahime.” Still nothing.

“We’re just going dancing,” he added, more cautiously now. “That’s all.”

Suguru’s voice was low. “You’re wearing that to go out with Shoko.”

“And Utahime.”

“Satoru.”

Satoru shifted, suddenly aware of exactly how short the skirt was. He tilted his head, trying for playful. “What? You don’t like it?”

Suguru’s jaw twitched.

“I didn’t say that.” He moved in, slowly. Satoru backed up instinctively, his spine brushing the wall.

“Then what’s the problem?” he asked, voice lighter than he felt.

Suguru stopped right in front of him. “You know what the problem is.”

Satoru didn’t answer. Suguru’s hand landed on his hip, fingers gripping tight through the fabric.

“You wear this in the club and someone is going to see you—look at you like they have a chance—and you think I’m supposed to just let that happen?”

“It’s a skirt, Suguru.”

“It’s my skirt now.”

Satoru flushed. “Possessive much?”

“You think I was joking when I said you’re mine?” he asked, voice a little rougher now. Satoru opened his mouth, then closed it. Suguru leaned in, brushing their noses together. “You want to go dancing, fine. But I’m driving you.”

“You don’t even like clubs—”

“I was at a club when I saw you that one night. Besides, I’m not going in,” Suguru said. “Just taking you.”

Satoru hesitated and slowly nodded. “Okay.”

Suguru pulled back just far enough to look at him again, eyes sweeping down his body, lingered at the line of thigh peeking between the skirt and his boots. Then he turned away, grabbing his keys from the counter without another word.

They didn’t talk much during the ride—Suguru had one hand on the wheel, the other resting on Satoru’s bare thigh, fingers curling occasionally like he couldn’t help himself. Satoru sat pretty in the passenger seat, still buzzing with adrenaline, pretending he didn’t notice how hard Suguru was gripping the gearshift every time they hit a red light.

The club’s parking lot was half full when they pulled in. Music thrummed faintly through the concrete, neon lights bleeding against the night sky. Suguru pulled into a corner at the back, far from the streetlights, the dashboard glowing soft blue. He didn’t turn off the engine. Satoru opened his mouth, but before he could speak Suguru was on him.

The center console dug into his ribs, but he didn’t care—not with Suguru’s hand sliding up his thigh, under the hem of the skirt, not with his mouth catching Satoru’s in a kiss that was hot and hard and immediate.

Satoru gasped. “Wha—wait, are you serious right now?”

“You wore this to tease me,” Suguru growled, biting down on his lip. “So I’m gonna ruin you before you even walk through those doors.”

“I thought you were letting me go—”

“I am. But not looking like you haven’t been fucked in a week.”

Satoru whined—actually whined—as Suguru pushed his seat back and climbed between his legs, one hand yanking his spandex and underwear to the side and rubbing against the skin there, the other freeing himself from his sweatpants. The skirt bunched around Satoru’s hips, and Suguru groaned low when he got a hand under it. His hands moved fast—first up, yanking the skirt higher so it was totally out of the way, then down, gripping the waistband of both his spandex and underwear at once.

“Suguru—”

“Lift your hips.”

Satoru did. His underwear peeled down with a slow drag, exposing flushed, half-hard cock, slick already beading at the tip. Suguru hissed through his teeth.

“Look at you. You’re already worked up from what, exactly? Me grabbing your thigh in the car?”

Satoru let out a shaky breath. “I—I don’t know—”

“You were thinking about this, weren’t you?” Suguru leaned in close, breath hot on his cheek. “Thinking about me bending you over the hood before you even got to the fucking club.”

“I wasn’t, I swear—!”

“You’re a liar.”

Satoru gasped as Suguru’s hand wrapped around his cock, stroking once, firm and smooth. Then Suguru shoved the seat all the way back with one hard push, pulling Satoru down into a better angle, shoving his skirt up even higher—bunched useless around his waist.

“You’re gonna—here?” Satoru panted. “You’re not even—”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, Satoru.” He reached into the center console, pulling out a small travel bottle of lube. Did he just keep that in there?? “You can take me.”

Satoru felt cold gel smeared over his hole and saw Suguru’s hand working the lube over his dick too. He hissed when Suguru pushed in—slow, but not gentle—and threw his head back against the headrest, one leg kicked up, the other dangling awkwardly to the side.

“F-fuck—”

“Look at you,” Suguru muttered, rolling his hips. “So pretty. So fucking mine.”

Satoru moaned.

“You’re mine,” he gritted, voice rough. “No one else gets to see you like this. No one.”

The car rocked faintly with every thrust, the windows fogging up quickly. One of Satoru’s boots flailed up and hit the dash. The other slid off the seat and braced on the floor, toes curling.

“You wanna dance like this?” Suguru rasped. “Grind on strangers while you’re full of my cum?”

Satoru sobbed, “I wasn’t—wasn’t gonna—!”

“I know.” Suguru’s thrusts slowed, deepened. “You’re too good for that. You’re my good boy.” 

“Mhm, y-yeah,” Satoru lifted his hips in a feeble attempt to meet Suguru’s thrusts. “I’m good, I’m—” he broke off in a whimper, eyes rolling back in his head. A hand grabbed him by the jaw, and Satoru’s eyes flew open, met with Suguru’s intense stare.

“Say it again, baby.” 

“I’m good, I’m a good boy—”

“My good boy.” Suguru corrected. 

“Your good boy, I’m your good boy!” 

Suguru angled up, hitting that spot that made Satoru cry out, grabbing at Suguru’s hoodie with frantic fists.

“Gonna come, fuck, Suguru please—”

“Not yet, baby.”

“I can’t—!”

“You can.” 

Satoru was writhing now, sweat slicking his thighs, the air in the car thick and stifling. Suguru kissed him rough, bit his lip, shoved deep one last time—and came hard, burying himself deep, groaning into Satoru’s mouth as he spilled inside him, hot and seemingly endless.

Satoru could feel it—pulse after pulse deep inside, and he couldn’t stop whimpering. Suguru stilled, still breathing hard, forehead pressed to Satoru’s cheek as he pulled out. When the first thick drip of cum slid down Satoru’s thigh, Suguru caught it with his fingers, dragging it slowly up the inside of his leg, toward his cock, scooping the mess with practiced ease. 

He brought his fingers to Satoru’s lips. “Open.” Satoru obeyed, and Suguru pushed them in. 

“Such a good boy,” he murmured, rubbing the pads of his fingers in small circles on Satoru’s tongue. Satoru moaned around the taste, filthy and unmistakeable, and blinked up at him, dazed and flushed and wrecked.

“Now,” Suguru said, finally leaning back. “You can go.”

He grabbed the spandex shorts and briefs, still bunched around Satoru’s legs, and tugged them the rest of the way off, tossing them into the back seat without a second glance.

“Suguru!”

“Go on, you wanted to party with your friends.”

“I–I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” Suguru’s hands smoothed down his skirt again, like nothing happened. “What’s wrong baby? Oh—” Suguru fake pouted. “Is it because I didn’t let you come?” He tutted, peppering Satoru’s stunned face with kisses. “Poor thing. I promise, later. Now, go have fun.”

He leaned in one last time, kissing Satoru’s temple. “I’ll pick you up at midnight. Unless you’re too needy by then, and call me early asking to go home.”

He opened the passenger door, and cool air rushed in. Satoru sat there for a second, dazed, skirt down, thighs sticky, mouth still tingling with the taste of Suguru’s cum. He stepped out of the car on shaky legs, watching as Suguru waved at him, driving away.

Satoru stepped into the club like a newborn deer in platform boots, ignoring the music, ignoring the crowd, ignoring the fact that Utahime and Shoko were waving wildly from a high-top table near the dance floor.

He forced a bright smile and flapped a hand at them. “Hold on—bathroom—urgent!”

And before either of them could blink, he disappeared down the hallway so fast he almost slipped. The bathroom stall door slammed behind him. The lock clicked. And Satoru slapped both palms against the cool metal wall and whispered through gritted teeth:

“Oh my god. I’m gonna kill him. I’m—I’m actually gonna kill him.”

His whole body was trembling—not in the fun way, not in the sexy way, but in the I am one subtle breeze away from having a panic attack way. He stared into the mirror above the sink, eyes wide, lipstick smudged, hair mussed, skirt suspiciously too high on his hips.

Fucking hell. He turned the sink on, propped a leg up on the wall, and gently inserted two fingers into himself, wincing as he scooped a thick glob of cum out and rinsing it down the drain. He repeated the action once, twice, biting back a moan when he accidentally brushed his prostate, willing his dick to stay soft.

There was a knock.

“Satoru?” Shoko’s voice. Flat, suspicious, beautiful in its apathy. “You good? You didn’t eat shellfish again, did you?”

“No!” he squeaked, voice bouncing off the metal stall.

Another knock, this time from Utahime. “If you’re gonna puke, at least text us.”

“I’M NOT PUKING,” Satoru yelled way too loudly.

Silence. Then Shoko: “…so you’re dying?”

“NO—everything is great! Fantastic! Perfect! I just—hold on!”

He braced a hand on the cold wall as he reached back in one more time, tilting his head back with a groan that was half despair, half the lingering ghost of pleasure crawling up his spine when he absolutely didn’t need it. “Why is this my life…”

He breathed out slowly, yanked a handful of paper towels from the dispenser with trembling fingers, and started cleaning his face up with furious efficiency.

“Fucking Suguru,” he hissed, dabbing under his eyes, trying to re-smudge his eyeliner in a way that looked intentional. “I can’t believe he did that. I can’t believe I let him.”

He pulled a compact from his skirt pocket—thank god for skirts with pockets—and fixed his lipstick with surgeon-level focus. His thighs still ached. He swore he could feel every single nerve-ending inside of him humming like it had been rewired.

He splashed water on his neck, adjusted the collar of his little mesh crop top, and straightened the hem of his skirt. He tugged it down. It sprang right back up.

Satoru grimaced at himself in the mirror. “You are going to walk out of this bathroom like a person. You are going to sit down, drink something neon and overpriced, and not think about the fact that your boyfriend just made you his own personal cream-filled donut in the club parking lot.”

He took one final breath, wiped his palms on his skirt, unlocked the door, and stepped out.

The lights hit him immediately, pounding in violet and red, music throbbing in the pit of his stomach as he weaved back toward the dance floor. Shoko spotted him first, raising one perfect brow and lifting her drink in acknowledgment.

“There he is,” she said, dry as ever. “We thought you fell in.”

Utahime gave him a once-over, slow and suspicious. “Why are you walking like that?”

“I’m not walking like anything,” Satoru said, sliding into the seat between them and immediately downing whatever drink was closest.

“That was mine,” Utahime snapped.

“Sorry,” Satoru said, not sorry. “Emergency.”

“You’re sweating.”

“Cardio,” he said. “It’s humid in here.”

Utahime sniffed. “You were in the bathroom.”

Shoko exhaled smoke from her vape—when did she start vaping?—and looked him dead in the eye. “Who railed you in a stall.”

“I—no one—”

Utahime made a noise of disgust. “You better not have. You better not have fucked someone in the club bathroom again. I swear to god—”

“I didn’t!” Satoru nearly shouted, slamming the cup down. “No one touched me in the club. Not a single soul. I am squeaky fucking clean, okay?”

Shoko squinted at him. “You’re wearing perfume that isn’t yours.”

“I—what?”

“That’s men’s cologne, not yours. Sandalwood and vetiver.” She sniffed. “And… clove?” Satoru stared at her, paralyzed. Sorry, but when did Shoko become a fucking bloodhound?!  She took another sip of her drink. “Also you smell like sex.”

Utahime slapped a hand over her own face. “I can’t do this tonight,” she muttered.

Satoru groaned, resting his forehead on the table. “You guys are the worst.”

Shoko patted him once, gently, on the back of the head. “That’s not true.”

“You’re so mean to me.”

“You deserve it.”

“You’re jealous.”

“Absolutely not.”

Utahime sighed, signaling for another drink. “We’re ignoring you until you start acting normal.”

“Perfect,” Satoru said into the table. “That gives me fifteen minutes, tops.”

But despite the crash landing, despite the sting of lingering slick and the constant hyper-awareness of what Suguru had done to him not even twenty minutes ago, he couldn’t stop smiling.

Every time the bass kicked. Every time someone brushed past him on the dance floor. Every time Shoko rolled her eyes and Utahime elbowed him in the ribs and the lights lit his skin up like glitter, he felt it. The heat, the pulse, the not-so-subtle ache between his legs that said: he really did that. Suguru fucking Geto had wrecked him in the car, kissed him like he owned him, and sent him into the club like a walking billboard for this is mine. And god help him—Satoru loved it.

It wasn’t long, though, before Satoru had a change of heart about his current situation. He clutched his drink like it was a life vest, his mind briefly panicking as the girls tried to drag him onto the dance floor.

“Come on,” Shoko whined, tugging at his wrist with the persistence of a raccoon going after a sandwich. “You look like a whole bitch just sitting there. You wore that skirt and you’re not dancing?”

Utahime was already on her feet, waving him forward like she was flagging a cab. “You dragged us here. You’re dancing. No arguments.”

Satoru grimaced. “I just—kinda tweaked my leg earlier, so—”

“From what?” Shoko raised a brow. “Walking to the bathroom like a baby deer with a concussion?”

He pressed the cold rim of his glass to his cheek. “Maybe.”

Utahime narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t actually injure yourself, did you?”

“No,” he said quickly, and then, at Shoko’s look: “Okay yes, but not like, permanent damage. I’m just sore. From a—stretching incident.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“Correct.”

Eventually, despite every molecule of protest in his body, they got him on the dance floor. The club had packed in while they’d been sitting—hot bodies pressed tight, lights flickering like heartbeats, music punching low and constant into his spine.

Satoru bobbed. He swayed. He… very gently two-stepped.

That was all he could dare to do, because every inch of movement sent the breeze of his skirt fluttering up toward places that should not be publicly fluttered. His thighs were already sticky, and the air was not helping. Every minute he spent out there felt like a gamble.

“You sure you’re okay?” Utahime asked, leaning in close.

He nodded a little too fast. “Yup. Living the dream.”

She frowned. “You look like you’re about to faint.”

“That’s because I’m just… warm. I’m going to the bar, I’ll be right back.”

He slipped off the dance floor, skirt still tugged low, eyes scanning the room feeling like everyone knew.

He made it to the bar, sipping on a vodka cranberry when he heard someone behind him speak. 

“Hey.” Satoru turned. The guy was older, sharp jaw, confident smirk, that energy that always meant trouble.

“Sorry,” Satoru said immediately. “Not interested.”

The guy chuckled. “Didn’t say anything yet.”

“You were going to.”

“Fair. You here with someone?”

Satoru blinked and smiled. “I have a boyfriend.”

It worked like garlic on a vampire. The guy stepped back, hands raised in peace. “Alright, alright.”

A high-pitched, feminine voice rang in his ears. “WHAT?!”

Satoru flinched so hard he almost dropped his drink. He spun on his heel, and there was Utahime, eyes wide, mouth open, grinning.

“Oh fuck,” he whispered.

“You have a boyfriend?!”

He gestured back toward the guy, panicked. “I was just saying that to make him leave—!”

The guy frowned. “So… you don’t have a boyfriend?”

“Yes, I do!” Satoru cried, spinning back to him. “I do have a boyfriend, now can you please just go away?! I’m literally begging you.”

The guy, now mildly horrified, backed off into the crowd with a muttered “Jesus Christ, okay.”

Satoru exhaled sharply, turned back to Utahime, who was just standing there with her arms folded and the biggest shit-eating grin he’d ever seen on her.

“You have a boyfriend,” she repeated, delighted.

He grabbed her wrist. “Shut up, come with me—”

“Where are we going—?”

“Somewhere private.”

She let him drag her down the side hallway near the bathrooms, the one with flickering overhead lights and old flyers peeling off the walls. He stopped halfway down it, glanced over his shoulder, and let out a humorless little laugh.

“Oh my god,” he muttered. “This is the exact hallway. The exact one.”

Utahime blinked. “What?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “Listen. You can’t tell Shoko.”

“What?”

“You can’t tell her. I’m serious.”

“I don’t even know what I’m not supposed to be telling her yet!”

“I’m serious, Utahime.”

She crossed her arms. “Why not?”

“Because it’s—complicated. It’s delicate and new and just… complicated.”

“So you said.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is it someone I know?”

“Fuck, I don’t know, maybe?” She squinted harder, and he sighed. “I’m not telling you who.”

“Is it someone Shoko knows?”

“Please stop guessing.”

“Someone we both know?”

“Utahime.”

“Someone from school? Older? Younger? Oh my god is it—”

“I will vanish into the night if you don’t stop.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Whatever. But you’re telling me eventually. You don’t get to drop a ‘boyfriend’ bomb and then clam up.”

He fished out his phone and unlocked it. “Noted.”

“You’re literally calling him right now, aren’t you.”

Satoru lifted the phone to his ear. It rang once, twice. Then: “I wondered when you’d break.”

“Come pick me up, asshole.”

Suguru laughed in his ear. “Be there in ten.”

︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

Utahime folded her arms, waiting like she already knew she was about to be fed half a truth and would eat it anyway. Satoru pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Listen very carefully. You are not—and I mean not—to follow me out.”

“Why not—”

“You are not to tell Shoko.”

“Why—”

“And you are absolutely not to try and figure out who it is.”

Utahime stared at him blankly. “What are you, a dating app Terms of Service?”

“I’m serious!” He jabbed a finger at her. “Swear to me, Utahime. Swear on your stupid herbal tea collection.”

Her eye twitched. “They’re medicinal.”

“They taste like sadness and grass.”

She took a long breath through her nose. “Fine. Whatever. I won’t follow you, I won’t tell Shoko, and I won’t put together the—very obvious—pieces.”

Satoru’s eyes went wide. “There are no pieces. There are zero pieces—stop assembling imaginary puzzles!”

She shrugged. “You’re acting guilty. That’s a piece.”

“UTAHIME.”

She lifted her hands. “Okay, okay. I’ll behave.”

His phone buzzed. He didn’t even have to check the name.

Suguru: Outside.

His stomach flipped. His knees nearly gave, and every hair on his arms stood up.

Utahime caught the micro-expression. “Wow. You’re whipped.”

“Goodbye,” Satoru snapped, already speed-walking away. “Remember the rules!”

She cupped her hands around her mouth. “I’m gonna figure it out—!”

He whirled. “NO YOU WON’T.”

Then he bolted. The music thumped behind him, lights strobing off his shoulders as he shoved past the crowd, slipping out the side door into the cool night air. His heart hammered so loud he almost missed the quiet double-blink of headlights from the far end of the parking lot.

Suguru’s car, parked in the same shadowed corner he’d pulled into earlier. Of course he had. Satoru sprinted toward it, yanked the passenger door open, and flung himself inside with force. Then he punched Suguru in the arm.

Suguru laughed—low and unfairly warm—as he locked the doors. “Hello to you too.”

“You smug, possessive, manipulative—”

“Mm. Missed you too.”

“I hate you.”

“You don’t.”

“I might.”

Suguru glanced over, eyes glinting in the dim. “You called me.”

Satoru opened his mouth, closed it, then huffed dramatically and snapped his seatbelt into place. “Shut up and drive.”

Suguru smiled. “Gladly.”

He shifted the car into gear, one hand steady on the wheel. Satoru glared out the window. 

Suguru glanced at him again, voice dipping. “Have fun at the club?”

“Eat glass.”

“Thought so.”

The car rolled into the street. The streetlights slipped over them one by one, gold and ghostly, painting shadows across the dashboard. Suguru drove like he always did—calm, one hand resting casually at the bottom of the wheel, the other dangerously close to Satoru’s bare thigh, like he wasn’t thinking about it. Like he didn’t know exactly what he was doing.

Satoru sat with his arms crossed, legs tight together, refusing to squirm even though the movement of the car made him acutely aware that he was still very much not wearing anything under this skirt.

“You’re quiet,” Suguru said eventually, his tone all silk and smugness.

“I’m thinking of ways to kill you without getting caught.”

“Mm. You called me to come rescue you, baby.”

“You don’t get to use that word when you left me dripping and unsatisfied in a parking lot and then told me to go party.”

“Yet you still ran to the car like I had candy.”

“You are the worst man alive.”

Suguru glanced over, eyes dark with amusement. “I think you love it.”

Satoru huffed and turned to the window again, but not before Suguru reached over and ran a thumb up the inside of his thigh—so fast, so casual, like he wasn’t trying to ruin him. Satoru inhaled sharply. Suguru didn’t even blink, just kept driving like the world’s most well-behaved menace.

They pulled into the driveway a few minutes later. The house lights were off, the living room window glowing faintly from the TV’s sleep screen. Satoru winced.

“They’re still on the couch,” he whispered, pointing.

“Yeah. But probably asleep.”

“Nanako literally sleeps with her eyes open.”

“Good thing I’m quiet,” Suguru said, smirking.

“Your knees crack like an eighty-year-old, geriatric man.”

“And yours shake when I touch you.”

Satoru glared, but followed him out of the car.

They crept through the front door like a pair of teenagers breaking curfew, shoes in hand, silent as ghosts. The only sound was the faint whirr of the fridge and the ticking of the living room clock. Satoru tiptoed past the couch. Nanako was curled up like a cat, mouth open, one hand still loosely gripping a TV remote. Mimiko was snoring. Suguru shot him a thumbs-up. Satoru rolled his eyes, but led the way down the hall, both of them holding their breath until they got to the guest room door.

Suguru turned, already walking backward toward his own room. “Alright. Well—good night.”

Satoru blinked. “Oh, fuck no.”

Suguru paused. Satoru dropped his shoes and stepped closer. “You didn’t let me come earlier,” he hissed, voice sharp as a whip. “So you’re gonna do it now. Get your ass in the fucking shower. I need to clean myself off, and you’re gonna help me.”

Suguru’s brows lifted slightly, grinning. “You’re awfully bossy for someone who was moaning in a car seat twenty minutes ago.”

Satoru stepped closer, close enough to tug at the front of Suguru’s shirt. “You made me like that,” he whispered, lips brushing Suguru’s throat. “Now you can deal with the consequences.”

Suguru cupped his chin gently, eyes sparkling. “You think you can order me around?”

“I know I can,” Satoru said smugly. “Because you think I’m cute.”

“Hmm. That’s true.”

“Because you can’t help yourself.”

“Also true.”

Satoru tugged him by the collar. “Because if I ask you to help me come in the shower, you’re gonna do it.”

Suguru kissed him, quick and soft and laced with laughter. “Adorable little brat.”

Satoru nipped his lip in retaliation. “Shower. Now.”

Suguru chuckled, and backed him toward the bathroom. “I’ll wash your hair and everything.”

“You better.” Satoru pulled his shirt over his head. “And I want fingers this time.”

“Oh, baby,” Suguru said, flicking on the light. “You’re getting everything you want.”

Steam curled into the air in ribbons, glistening off Satoru’s skin as Suguru worked the shampoo through his hair, slow and indulgent, like he was worshiping every strand. The water poured down in a hot cascade, soaking them both, the tiles slick beneath their feet. Satoru’s head lolled back into Suguru’s hands, eyes closed, mouth slightly parted, breath fluttering every time fingers scraped the crown of his scalp.

“Mmnh… feels good,” he mumbled, barely audible over the hiss of the water.

“I know,” Suguru murmured back, voice low and intimate, chest pressed to Satoru’s spine. “You’re always so responsive when I touch you.”

He rinsed the lather out, gentle and methodical, then leaned forward to press a soft kiss just behind Satoru’s ear, where his skin was warm and wet and trembling. Satoru let out a shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature. His fingers gripped the edge of the tiled shelf in front of them, knuckles pale with restraint.

Suguru’s hands slid lower. Down the long curve of Satoru’s back, over his sides, down the taper of his waist. He kissed along his nape, teeth barely grazing as he breathed him in—Satoru, fragrant with heat and sweat and his own scent, still sweetly soaked from earlier. His fingertips drifted between Satoru’s legs, cupping him softly from behind, just enough to make his breath catch.

“You’re so sensitive tonight,” Suguru whispered, nosing at his damp hair. “Still worked up, aren’t you?”

Satoru let out a shaky exhale. “You… didn’t let me come,” he said, voice catching on the words. “I’ve been like this for so long, I—I was dripping down my thighs—”

“I remember.” Suguru’s voice was tender. “I made you like that baby, and I remember everything about you.”

His fingers ghosted upward, dragging between his cheeks, until he reached that flushed, still-sticky entrance. Satoru jolted when Suguru touched it—just a brush, nothing more—but his hips twitched, cock twitching too, hanging hard and neglected and flushed dark against his leg.

“Still open,” Suguru breathed, reverent now. “Still messy from me.”

Satoru choked on a sound that wasn’t quite a moan. “You’re such a—such a bastard—”

“Shh,” Suguru kissed his neck again, slower this time. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

He dropped to his knees behind him, hands bracketing Satoru’s thighs, mouth ghosting over the small of his back. The water streamed over them both, plastering Satoru’s white hair to his skin, making the curve of his ass gleam in the light. Suguru reached around, tugging gently at his cock, pulling a broken moan from Satoru’s throat. He angled his hips back, spreading slightly, a silent plea in every inch of his body.

Suguru’s thumbs spread him open. He leaned in, and Satoru nearly collapsed. Suguru’s tongue licked a long, wet stripe up his entrance, slow and filthy and precise. Satoru’s whole body jolted, hands slapping the tile, legs trembling like they couldn’t hold him.

“F-fuck—oh fuck—Suguru—”

He licked again, circling that swollen, puffy rim, still stretched and loose from earlier. His tongue dipped in with agonizing ease, and Satoru cried out, hips jerking forward, mouth wide open as he gasped for air.

“Still so soft,” Suguru murmured, voice low and hungry. “So fucked open.”

Satoru keened, the sound echoing off the bathroom walls, high and helpless. Suguru licked deeper, working his tongue inside him with slow, gentle flicks, every breath warm and wet against his skin. His fingers gripped Satoru’s hips to keep him steady, but Satoru was barely holding on—his whole body twitching, shivering, every nerve ending raw with need.

“Please,” Satoru whimpered. “I c-can’t—please—”

Suguru pulled back just long enough to speak, his voice rough. “You want fingers, baby?”

Satoru nodded frantically, forehead pressed to the tile. “Yes—yes, please—”

Suguru reached for the lube on the shelf and slicked his fingers with practiced ease. He slid two inside without resistance, and Satoru gasped, knees nearly buckling.

He twisted them slowly, curling deep, rubbing right against that sweet, swollen spot that made Satoru’s vision flash white. His back arched like a bow. “Aah—ahh, fuck—yes, oh my god, just like that—”

“You’re sucking me in,” Suguru said, fingers moving faster. “God, baby. You’re greedy tonight.”

“I—fuck—I’ve been hard for hours,” Satoru sobbed. “You—made me walk around like this—made me dance—”

Suguru kissed the back of his thigh. “You loved it.”

“I hate you.”

“You don’t.”

“I might.”

Suguru added a third finger and Satoru had to bite back a scream. It was too much—perfect—but too much. His cock was throbbing, flushed angry red, bouncing with every breath. Suguru stroked him with his free hand, matching the pace of his fingers, slow and tight. Satoru was gasping now, mouth wide, eyes squeezed shut.

“Gonna come,” he choked. “I—fuck—I’m gonna—please, let me—”

“I don’t know baby,” Suguru murmured. “Do you think you earned it?”

Satoru groaned. “Please, please can I—please say I can, Sugu.”

He crooked his fingers again, hitting Satoru’s prostate as he hummed. “Go on then, baby. Make a mess for me.”

Satoru’s whole body seized—hips stuttering forward, toes curling, voice breaking as he let go with a raw, desperate cry. His cum shot against the shower wall, thick and hot, painting the tile in messy streaks as his whole body shook.

He sagged forward, panting, bracing himself on shaky arms while Suguru kept his fingers buried deep, milking every last spasm from him. Only when Satoru’s moans softened into breathless little whimpers did he finally ease his fingers out, kissing the back of his thigh again, sweet and reverent. 

He stood, wrapping an arm around Satoru’s waist, pulling him back against his chest. “Better?” he asked softly, lips brushing his ear.

Satoru nodded, weakly. “Mmhmm.”

Suguru reached for the body wash, lathered it into a soft puff, and began gently washing him down, starting with his chest, then his thighs, then between his legs—tender now, still twitching. He didn’t linger, just moved slowly and carefully, cleaning him like he was delicate.

“Lean on me,” Suguru whispered. Satoru did, boneless and trusting, letting himself be held and washed and soothed as the water sluiced over them both.

By the time they stepped out of the shower, Satoru was blinking sleepily, the heat and the orgasm leaving him weightless. Suguru wrapped a towel around his waist, kissed his temple, and guided him to bed, drying his hair with one of the plush bath towels like he always did when Satoru was too tired to bother.

They fell into bed together, warm skin against warm skin, Suguru curling an arm around Satoru’s waist and dragging him close. Satoru mumbled something incoherent, already drifting.

Suguru smiled into his hair. “Good night, baby.”

︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

Sunlight landed across his face. Satoru cracked one eye open, immediately regretted it, and groaned into the pillow—someone else’s pillow, not his, because it didn’t smell like his shampoo. His thighs ached. His ass ached. His everything ached. Also, he was hot, sticky, and sore in places he wasn’t ever aware had nerve endings.

The sheets were kicked down to his hips. He was sprawled on his stomach, arms half-pinned beneath his chest, a towel bunched dangerously low around his waist. Suguru’s bed was warm and soft, and Satoru never wanted to leave.

Suguru’s bed.

Suguru’s fucking bed.

Satoru bolted upright. Bad idea. His head spun, towel falling off him.

“Shit—” he hissed, fumbling to grab the edge before it fell to the floor. The clock on the nightstand blinked a smug little 8:42 AM. 

“Fuck!” He scrambled off the bed like it was on fire, feet tangling in the sheets, one knee smacking the floor with a muffled thud. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

Suguru’s room was a disaster. His hoodie was hanging from the desk chair, a bottle of lube was perched on the edge of the desk. Satoru’s mesh crop top was draped over the bedpost. His skirt—

Where the hell was his skirt?

Suguru mumbled, turning over in bed still asleep. Figures, he was supposed to be the responsible one, but no. He’s asleep.

“Lazy ass—motherfucker—” He stumbled around the room, limping a little. His towel wasn’t tied; it was just wrapped and now barely clinging to him. He found the skirt under the bed—a crumpled, shameful ghost of the previous night. He grabbed it, balling it up in his hands with his top. He froze as he heard voices through the bedroom door, muffled girlish laughter filling the air. The clink of a bowl, a spoon clattering onto a counter. 

Oh great. Mimi and Nana were already awake. Perfect.

“Nonononononono—” he muttered, whispering like a prayer, scooping up one boot then the other. “This can not be happening.” 

He glanced at the door. Glanced at the tiny bedroom window, considering breaking through it, but in the end rejected the idea. He wasn’t that dramatic. (He was.)

His phone—fuck, he didn’t even have it. He checked the bed again, then the floor. Nothing. Probably still in the goddamn car where he’d left it like an idiot because his brain had been melted by the possibility of post-club dick.  He crept toward the door, holding his breath as he waited and listened. Nothing. No footsteps, no voices. He cracked it open an inch, then two, peering into the silent and empty hallway.

It was now or never.

He tiptoed into the hallway, heart hammering, towel clutched in his hand, holding his clothes in his arm as walked. He passed the linen closet. The bathroom. The hallway table that always held at least one dead orchid in a vase. His eyes were fixed on the living room ahead—if the twins were in the kitchen, he could make it to the guest room and lock the door and pretend he’d been in there all night—

A floorboard creaked behind him. “Where were you?”

Satoru screamed. He actually screamed. Nanako was standing ten feet away, cereal bowl in hand, spoon dangling like a weapon, hair a mess of sleep-flattened waves. Mimiko stood behind her in a matching oversized T-shirt, blinking like she hadn’t had coffee yet and couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Satoru did what any reasonable man would do.

He dropped the towel and bolted for the guest room.

The door slammed closed and he locked it for good measure, listening to the silence. Then, from the other side of the door, in perfect unison: 

“Gross.”

Satoru collapsed against it, mentally cursing himself, forehead pressed to the wood. “I hate everything.”

He quickly put on pants and a shirt, taking a breath that did nothing to steady his shaking hand, and opened the door. Satoru knew he was doomed the moment Nanako locked eyes with him.

Nanako’s eyes narrowed. “Where were you.”

Satoru tried to smile. “Morning!”

“You were in his room.”

“Whose room?”

“Dad’s room.”

Satoru’s smile twitched. “Was I?”

Mimiko covered her mouth.

“You were wearing a towel,” Nanako said, tone climbing toward a full octave of alarm. “You’re barefoot. You’re—.” She took a step forward, peering closer. “You were naked!”

Satoru made a little wheezing noise. “I was looking for a charger!” he yelped. “A phone charger! For my phone!”

Nanako’s brow furrowed. “Why were you charging it in Dad’s room?”

“I—uh—lost my charger.”

She blinked again, a little slower this time, and then—something shifted.

Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened. She looked at the flushed skin, at the faint red marks on his neck.

Then Mimiko whispered, like it physically pained her: “Oh my god.”

Satoru raised both hands. “Okay. Wait. Before you say anything—”

Nanako let out a strangled little noise. “You—you—”

“Wait—wait—listen—”

“You’re—you’re fucking my dad?” she exploded, volume shooting past eleven.

“Shit. Listen, it’s not—okay, well—“

“No!” Nanako’s breath hitched, eyes bright, furious. “He’s our dad! And—and you’re—you’re our friend, Satoru, what the hell—what the hell—what the hell!”

Satoru raised trembling hands. “I didn’t mean for you to find out—”

That was the wrong thing to say. Nanako’s laugh was a strangled, hysterical little gasp. “Oh, you didn’t mean for me to find out. Wow. Comforting. Totally makes up for you—incase the first ten times I said it wasn’t enough—fucking my dad!”

Satoru flinched. “Nana, can we please—”

“He’s old, Satoru! He is literally an old man, and he’s not supposed to be doing… that. You will stop fucking him this instant or I swear to God—”

“Okay, bitch,” Satoru scoffed. “First off, your dad is hot. Second, he fucks me, not the other way around. And third, he’s a fucking power engine at it!” Satoru covered his mouth, realizing what he just said. “Fuck, Nanako, I’m sorry, I—”

“You piece of shit—”

Mimiko finally stood. “Okay, pause,” she said, holding up both hands. “Can we please address the part where Dad is into guys? Like—hello?”

Everyone fell silent. Nanako blinked. Her head turned, slowly, toward the hallway behind them, and like he had been summoned by pure narrative dread, Suguru appeared. He was fully dressed, holding onto the doorframe and staring at them, looking like he’d maybe heard half of that. And oh yes, the half was plenty.

“…Right,” he said, slowly. “So. Good morning.”

Nanako stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Dad.”

“Yes?”

“Are you gay?”

Suguru’s eyes darted to Satoru. To Mimiko. Back to Nanako. He took a breath. “I think that I’m… bisexual,” he said, carefully.

Nanako made a small squeaking sound and spun in a circle, hands over her face. “Oh my god.”

“Technically,” Suguru added, “I haven’t had a lot of opportunity to confirm—”

“No!” Nanako clapped her hands over her ears. “Do not elaborate! You don’t get to be educational right now! This is not a TED Talk about your pansexual awakening!”

“I said bisexual—”

“WORSE!”

Suguru blinked. “How?”

Mimiko coughed. “It’s not worse. She’s just spiraling.”

Nanako pointed frantically at him. “I thought you were, like—asexual! Or celibate! Or just… like… a stoic monk! You drink miso broth and read boring books and cry during nature documentaries!”

“That was one time.”

“You named our plants after philosophers!”

“Okay, that was me,” Mimiko muttered.

“I just—” Nanako started pacing. “I had this image in my head, this whole idea, and now you’re—you’re—” she made a circle with her hand, thrusting her finger through it crudely. “—doing things with—” she turned, narrowed her eyes at Satoru. “You.”

Satoru winced. “Hey.”

Suguru sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with the hand that wasn’t gripping the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him upright. “Nanako.”

“Don’t ‘Nanako’ me,” she snapped, spinning toward him. “I’m already seeing stars and hearing static, you are not allowed to use your ‘gentle parenting’ voice right now.”

“It’s the only voice I have.”

“Lies!”

“Dad,” Mimiko said wearily. “Maybe don’t say anything for, like, thirty seconds.”

“Thank you,” Nanako cried, flinging an arm toward her sister like she’d just saved her from drowning.

Satoru stepped forward, immediately ruining everything. “Nanako, listen—”

“No!”

“But I—”

“No!” She pointed again. “You— you traitor! You wore matching pajamas with me. We had a spa night. You helped me steal his shampoo!”

“I know, and it was expensive and incredible, and I regret nothing.”

“You got railed by my dad, Satoru!”

“It was after spa night!”

“That doesn’t help!”

Satoru dragged both hands down his face. “I didn’t plan this! It just happened!”

“You tripped onto his dick?”

“Oh my God—”

“You tripped onto my father’s dick?!”

“Okay, that’s not fair, that’s not even—like—that’s not a good mental image for anyone—”

“Too late! It’s burned into my retinas!”

“I’m sorry, okay!” Satoru finally shouted, half-pleading. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to freak you out. I swear to God, I care about him.”

Nanako paused, and the room stilled. “You care about him?” Nanako said, flat.

Satoru nodded, shaky. “Yeah. I do.”

Nanako stared. Then she turned, slowly, to her father. “You,” she said. “You have a thing for emotionally chaotic twinks?”

Suguru blinked. “I have a thing for him.”

“That wasn’t a no!”

“Sweetie, I’m not going to dignify that with a—”

“Answer it!”

“Nanako—”

“He’s like—like a feral glitter goblin, Dad!”

“I can hear you,” Satoru muttered, crossing his arms. “And also, I thought I was supposed to be your best friend?”

“Shut up, Satoru. You once drank three espresso shots and live-tweeted The Little Mermaid, you dumb fuck.” 

“I was going through something!”

She turned toward her dad. “You’re dating someone who live-tweeted The Little Mermaid.”

“I’m aware!” Suguru finally said, voice cracking slightly.

Nanako stared at him. “You like him?”

“Yes.”

“You like him.” She pointed.

“Yes.”

“You like—” she made the hand gesture again, wildly. “—this stupid, sparkly, wet rat in eyeliner?”

Suguru inhaled. Exhaled. “Yes.”

Nanako blinked. “Are you—” she rounded on Suguru, wide-eyed. “Are you in love with him?!”

Suguru didn’t answer and Satoru found himself leaning forward. “Yeah, are you in love with me?”

“Satoru, please.” Suguru sighed, turning back to the girls. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but it was a… delicate situation.”

Nanako swallowed hard. “It’s not that you’re—bi or whatever. I mean, I guess that’s a surprise, but like, it’s fine. It’s just—him.” She pointed at Satoru again, then dropped her hand. “It’s you.”

Satoru inched forward. “Do you… hate me?”

Nanako blinked up at him, still sniffling. “I don’t hate you,” she said finally. “I just wish I didn’t have the mental image of you… you know.”

Satoru flushed so hard his ears burned. “Fair.”

“And I need a very long break from all of this information.”

“Also fair.”

“I need an herbal tea and an emotional support cookie.”

“I’ll make you cookies,” Satoru offered. “Suguru has a really good sugar cookie recipe.”

“Ew, don’t call him that.”

Satoru looked at her, a little puzzled. “What am I supposed to call him then??”

“I don’t know,” she snapped. “Just… not that. Not all soft and gooey like you’re about to write his name in bubble letters on your notebook.”

Satoru blinked. “That is literally his name.”

“Yeah, well, when I say it, it sounds like I’m talking about Dad. When you say it, it sounds like you’re about to sit on his face.”

Mimiko made a high-pitched wheezing sound and had to turn around to smother her laugh into a throw pillow. Satoru, red from scalp to sternum, flailed a little. “I’m not gonna say it like that!”

“You did!” Nanako accused, pointing. “You had that tone. That ‘I was just railed and now I’m barefoot in the kitchen making cookies in his T-shirt’ tone.”

“I was not!”

“You absolutely were!”

Satoru threw both hands up. “Okay, then what should I call him?!”

Nanako didn’t hesitate. “Geto. Call him Geto.”

Satoru stared. “That’s his last name. That’s what his students call him.”

“Exactly,” Nanako said flatly. “It should make you feel deeply unsexy.”

Satoru gave her a betrayed look. “I am not moaning ‘Geto’ during sex, Nanako.”

“Good!” she shouted. “That is the goal!”

Mimiko was openly losing it now, half-laughing, half-gasping into the couch cushions. “Oh my god—Geto-sensei—”

“DO NOT—” Suguru’s voice came sharply from the doorway he was still standing in. They all froze. He was standing with arms crossed, eyes heavy with the pain of a man who regrets everything that led to this moment. “Can I please make it through one more morning in this house,” he said slowly, “without someone discussing what I’m called during sex?”

Nanako crossed her arms. “Ask your boyfriend.”

Satoru shrugged helplessly. “She started it.”

“I’m going to fake my own death,” Suguru muttered.

Satoru, sitting cross-legged on the floor, waved vaguely. “If you do die, can I have your hoodie?”

“I will haunt you.”

Satoru grinned. “Kinky.”

Suguru turned and walked away without another word. Satoru looked back at the girls, Nanako’s head in her hands, Mimiko’s face red from the effort of not laughing. He nudged Nanako.

“Hey, you don’t like… hate me, or whatever, right? Like, for real?” He chewed on his lip when she didn’t answer. “I’m really sorry, Nana. I didn’t mean for this to happen, believe me. I didn’t think—”

She cut him off with a sigh. “No.”

“No…?”

“No,” she said. “As in, no, I don’t hate you Satoru. I could never hate you. It’s just a lot to process. You know, you being my dad’s fuck buddy.”

“I don’t think fuck buddy—” 

Mimiko patted him on the shoulder. “Let her have this one, bud.”

“Yeah. Right. Sorry.”

Nanako sighed, standing up and walking to her room. “I still expect those cookies later, but until then, nobody but Mimi is allowed to talk to me. I need to have an existential crisis and pass out for a few hours.” She shut the door behind her, leaving Satoru feeling somehow simultaneously the happiest and the shittiest he’s ever felt at the same time.

︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

It had been two days. Which, in this house, was a lifetime. Two whole mornings had passed without Nanako throwing anything, without Satoru knocking over a chair in fear, without anyone yelling the words “railed” or “bottom” across the breakfast table.

Progress.

Nanako hadn’t quite forgiven him in the spoken-out-loud way, but she did let him braid her hair last night while they watched reruns of old dramas, and she only made one gagging noise when he smiled at Suguru over the dinner table.

Really, everything had gone surprisingly back to normal. Satoru still lounged on the couch in the morning with the girls, eating cereal out of the box, talking about nonsense. Still complained when Mimiko beat him at Mario Kart. Still texted Nanako 500 times in a row while she was in the bathroom just to be annoying.

Suguru still made his slow, steady rounds through the house like a monk with a dish towel. Still brewed his ancient herbal teas and alphabetized the fridge condiments. Still had that voice that made Satoru's knees weak and that hand that always found the back of his neck when they passed each other in the hallway.

So yeah. Things weren’t exactly normal, but they were still theirs.

The house was quiet today. That rare, precious kind of quiet, like the universe had conspired to give them this. Nanako was at a study group, and Mimiko was supposedly out getting groceries. The living room was empty. The windows were open, letting in a soft cross-breeze that ruffled the curtains, the late-afternoon sun slanting gold across the floorboards.

Suguru’s hoodie was bunched under Satoru’s back as he lay half-sprawled across the couch, one knee hooked over Suguru’s thigh, fingers curled loosely in the front of his shirt. Suguru sat at an angle, feet planted on the carpet, one hand on Satoru’s waist, the other slowly, lazily petting his hair.

They weren’t even really watching the show playing on the TV. Some half-watched anime rerun flickering across the screen, volume down low. Satoru wasn’t paying attention. He was too busy being kissed.

It was soft at first—almost idle, the kind of kiss shared between conversations, like it wasn’t even the point. Suguru’s mouth brushed over his slowly, thumb grazing along his cheekbone, breathing warm and steady. They’d started with a few kisses. Then more. Then Satoru had tilted back into the cushions with a little hum, arms winding around Suguru’s neck to pull him down on top of him, and everything had slowed down, thickened with heat.

Suguru tasted like green tea and cinnamon sugar from the overly sweet coffee he stole from Satoru earlier. His hair fell over his face as he leaned in again, and Satoru pushed it back with a hand curled behind his ear, thumb stroking the side of his neck. Suguru kissed him again, deeper this time. It dragged a soft, involuntary noise from the back of Satoru’s throat—something vulnerable, needy, soaked in affection.

Their mouths slotted together like they were made to fit. Satoru’s hands drifted down to the hem of Suguru’s shirt, fingers sliding under, just to touch, feeling his warm skin and slow heartbeat. His breath hitched when Suguru shifted closer, arm sliding under his back, cradling him into the curve of his body.

“Mm,” Satoru murmured, eyes still closed. “No one’s home.”

“I know.”

“You’re not working.”

“I know.”

“And I’m not wearing anything under these shorts.”

Suguru bit his bottom lip—gently, but enough to make Satoru gasp—and pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes dark. “You’re trying to kill me,” he murmured.

“Me?” Satoru batted his lashes. “I’m just relaxing.”

“Uh-huh.” Suguru leaned down and kissed his throat, then lower, just under the edge of his jaw. “Reckless little brat.”

Satoru grinned through a gasp. “You like it.”

“You’re lucky I do.”

Another kiss, deeper now. Satoru’s leg shifted, curling around Suguru’s waist to keep him close. Suguru’s hand slid down, trailing along his side, gripping his hip, holding him still while their tongues tangled—slow and hot and so intimate it made Satoru shiver. His fingers twisted in Suguru’s shirt as he arched into him, chasing friction, chasing more, needing it like oxygen.

He barely noticed the sound of the front door opening, until it slammed shut again. They both froze, turning. Mimiko stood there, grocery bag in hand, mouth slightly open, eyes wide in a horrified, slow-blinking stare. No one moved. The TV played a soft jingle in the background.

Suguru, still half-on-top of Satoru, finally found words. “...Hey.”

Mimiko turned, dead-eyed, and walked straight into the hallway. “I’m not even here. This was a dream. None of this is real.”

“Mimi—”

“I will be bleaching my eyeballs now, thanks.”

The bathroom door slammed. Suguru sighed, sitting back and running a hand down his face.

“So,” Satoru said, voice cracking, “do we have to move out?”

“Mm.” Suguru looked him up and down before reaching forward—reaching out, hooking a finger in the elastic waistband of Satoru’s shorts. He tugged just enough to confirm what Satoru had claimed earlier. No underwear, just bare skin, soft and warm and right there. “I’d rather go fuck my boyfriend.”

“Sugu!” Satoru squeaked, hands flying to cover himself as he tugged the shorts back up. “Your daughter just saw us dry humping on the couch!”

“But she’s gone now, yeah?” 

Satoru made a horrified, garbled noise—somewhere between a gasp and a flustered choke—as Suguru pressed a kiss just under his ear.

“God, you’re so warm,” he murmured, lips brushing over the curve of his jaw. “Still hard?”

“I hate you,” Satoru whispered, hands braced on Suguru’s shoulders like he might push him away, even as his thighs shifted to make more room.

“No you don’t,” Suguru breathed, nosing along the side of his neck. “You love when I’m like this. You love when I can’t keep my hands off you.” He kissed him again, this time at the hollow of his throat, slow and open-mouthed. 

Satoru’s breath hitched. “We just got caught,” he hissed. “Mimi’s in the bathroom, Suguru, we can’t just—”

“Then be quiet,” Suguru whispered, mouthing up his throat, the tip of his tongue brushing just behind his earlobe. “You’re good at that, right? Keeping quiet while I fuck you dumb?”

Satoru let out a breathy nghh and slapped a hand over his own mouth.

Suguru chuckled, wicked and low. “That’s what I thought.” Then, without warning, he slipped both arms under Satoru’s thighs and back and lifted him.

“Wait—!” Satoru yelped, legs instinctively curling around Suguru’s waist, hands scrambling for balance. “You can’t just—!”

“I can,” Suguru said calmly, adjusting his grip as he stood, carrying him like it was effortless. “And I am.”

“You can’t just pick me up! I’m a grown man! I have rights!”

“Not from this angle you don’t.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Satoru hissed, already breathless, his arms tightening around Suguru’s neck.

Suguru smiled as he carried him down the hall. They passed the bathroom door, and a muffled groan came from inside. “I’m leaving! I’ll be gone in five!”

Suguru didn’t slow down. He just reached back with one hand and closed the guest room door behind them with a quiet click.

Satoru’s voice was already trembling. “You better kiss me.”

Suguru laid him down on the bed like he was priceless, fragile, irreplaceable—and kissed him like he was anything but. His hand cupped Satoru’s jaw, thumb brushing over cheekbone as he tilted his head to slot their mouths tighter, firmer, like he could kiss the rest of the world away if he just kept at it long enough.

Satoru melted. There was no other word for it. He went pliant under Suguru’s touch, arms winding back around his shoulders, one thigh hitching up instinctively when Suguru’s body pressed between his. His lips parted with a soft gasp that Suguru swallowed whole, tongue slipping past like he had every right to be there—because he did, and Satoru didn’t even want to pretend otherwise.

“God,” Suguru breathed against his mouth. “You taste like my mouthwash.”

Satoru whimpered, half-laughing. “Because I used it, you dumbass—”

“Shhh.” Another kiss. “Less talking.”

His mouth trailed lower, slow and lazy, soft nips and licks down the curve of Satoru’s neck, teeth grazing just enough to make his hips twitch. Hands roamed without hurry—up under the hoodie Satoru hadn’t even realized he was still wearing, fingers spread wide across his ribs.

“You drive me crazy,” Suguru murmured, nosing under his collar. He sucked a mark beneath his ear, and Satoru shivered.

“You know I can’t go back out there if you leave a mark—”

“Then guess you’re staying in here.” Another kiss, and another, down his chest, lips dragging over skin as he peeled the hoodie off entirely, lifting it with both hands and tossing it aside.

Suguru’s gaze dropped, hungry, over the flushed line of Satoru’s torso—still pink from earlier, still warm, still aching to be touched.

“God, look at you,” he murmured. “You’re perfect.”

Satoru flushed from ears to chest. “Shut up.”

But Suguru just leaned down and kissed him again, slow and deep and dangerous. Their hips pressed together, grinding slow, the friction already hot through thin fabric. Satoru clutched at Suguru’s back, nails digging in when Suguru rolled his hips a little harder, a little deeper, tongue still tangled with his.

He slid down, tongue tracing the edge of Satoru’s waistband, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just above. Then his fingers dipped beneath the elastic, tugging the shorts slowly down over his hips, exposing inch by inch of flushed skin, until he could finally pull them off entirely. Satoru lay back against the pillows, hair mussed, chest heaving, thighs open and vulnerable. Suguru crawled between them with reverence, like every part of him was holy. He kissed his way up one thigh, then the other, licking along the crease of his hip that made Satoru whine, biting his lip to keep quiet.

Suguru chuckled against his skin. “Don’t hold back.”

“Sugu, please—”

“I got you.” His breath ghosted over the head of Satoru’s cock, making his hips twitch. “You’ve got me.” And then he took him in, slow and warm, sucking him down inch by inch while Satoru choked on a gasp and arched off the bed, hands flying to grip Suguru’s head. He choked down the sounds, fingers tangling in dark hair, begging for more in whispers.

Suguru’s mouth had barely left him before he dragged his way back up the bed, one hand braced beside Satoru’s head, the other still warm on his thigh. He kissed him again—messier this time, wetter, a little mean.

Satoru kissed back with that same helpless desperation, hips jerking, thighs twitching. “Need you—”

“Yeah?” Suguru’s voice was all gravel and smoke. “You want more?”

Satoru nodded frantically, and Suguru reached down between them, wrapping one broad hand around his own cock, lazily pumping twice. Satoru’s breath caught.

“You want to ride me, baby?” Suguru asked, voice low and wicked. “You want to fuck yourself stupid while I just lie here and enjoy the view?”

Satoru flushed scarlet. “You—”

“You always joke that I do all the work,” Suguru drawled, already reaching past him into the nightstand drawer for lube. “So this time, you’re in charge. C’mon, sweetheart. Take what you want.”

He rolled onto his back, legs slightly parted, cock already flushed and heavy against his stomach as he slicked himself up without ceremony. Then he tossed the bottle to the side and reached out a hand.

Satoru hesitated—just for a second—but then he was straddling Suguru’s lap, hands braced on his chest, hair messy, face still flushed from earlier. He reached behind him, biting his lip as he lined himself up, the stretch already making him gasp.

Suguru watched him with hooded eyes, hands resting casually behind his head. “Good boy.”

“Shut up,” Satoru said through gritted teeth, sinking down slowly.

“Look at you,” Suguru murmured, eyes raking over every inch of him. “So fucking greedy. You gonna take all of it?”

Satoru nodded, breath coming in gasps as he slid down the last inch. He was shaking—hips twitching, thighs trembling, already too full, already dizzy from the stretch and heat.

Suguru smirked. “Thought so.”

Satoru whimpered and rolled his hips once, slow and shallow, and his eyes fluttered shut.

“Keep going,” Suguru said softly. “I’m not helping. You wanted to come so bad, didn’t you? I owe you, so come get it.”

Satoru set a hand on Suguru’s chest for leverage, thighs burning already as he began to move—grinding down, slow at first, then bouncing with shallow thrusts that only made the ache sharper. Every drag of Suguru’s cock against his insides lit him up, but it still wasn’t enough—not fast enough, not deep enough, not enough pressure, and fuck, he could feel himself getting frustrated.

“You’re so cute like this,” Suguru murmured. “Trying so hard, getting all worked up for me.”

“Shut up, shut up,” Satoru gasped, trying to grind harder, angle sharper, but it still wasn’t quite enough to push him over. “God, fuck, I can’t—”

Sure you can,” Suguru said calmly. “Keep trying.”

Satoru let out a breathy little whine, digging his nails into Suguru’s chest. He was close—so close—but it kept slipping away every time he tried to chase it down, and the lack of friction on his cock wasn’t helping.

“Please—can I—”

“You’re the one in charge, baby,” Suguru said. “If you want to come, figure it out.”

Satoru rocked harder, his whole body tight with effort, sweat beading at his temples. He reached down to stroke himself but Suguru caught his wrist.

“Ah ah,” he chided, still maddeningly calm. “Ride me. You wanted to come so bad? Then ride me.”

Satoru whimpered and did exactly that, hips slapping now, thighs trembling from effort as he tried to get the angle just right. His breath came in shallow pants, little desperate sounds leaking out every time he sank back down.

Suguru, still not touching him, just smiled. “So fucking pretty. I could watch you do this for hours.”

“Fucking help me,” Satoru snapped, eyes glassy. “I can’t—fuck, Suguru—”

“Try harder,” Suguru said. “Come on, baby. I’m right here. Take what you need.”

Satoru let out a ragged sob, rhythm falling apart as his thighs finally gave out, collapsing forward onto Suguru’s chest, still grinding his hips in tight, messy circles.

“I hate you,” he moaned.

“No you don’t,” Suguru whispered, finally—finally—wrapping a hand around Satoru’s cock and stroking once.

Satoru almost came. It hit him like a wave cresting too early—his whole body tensing, breath catching, that dizzying shimmer behind his eyes that said now, now, now—but there was only heat and ache and that cruel, pulsing edge that refused to break.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—” he hissed, grinding harder against Suguru’s hand, chasing the high.

Suguru just grinned beneath him, still maddeningly calm. “Aw, baby,” he said, soft, almost sweet, “you’re so close. You gonna come just from this? Is my pretty little slut gonna come from humping my hand?”

Satoru choked on a moan, hips stuttering as he tried to push himself over. He braced his hands against Suguru’s chest, palms sweaty, thighs trembling with every frantic grind of his cock into Suguru’s palm and the slow, rolling drag of Suguru’s cock still stretching him open.

“Please—” Satoru gasped, voice raw. “I can’t—I need—”

“You need to let me help you,” Suguru murmured, finally shifting beneath him, rolling his hips up in perfect time with his strokes. “You're doing so well, baby. So fucking good for me.”

He was soaked with sweat, hair sticking to his temples, mouth parted and glossy with spit. His spine bowed every time Suguru thrust up into him, cock dragging deep, timed with the exact pressure his hand kept at the base of Satoru’s shaft.

“Fuck, fuck—” Satoru sobbed quietly. “Don’t stop, don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” Suguru whispered. “I’ve got you.” He sped up just a little, pressing deeper, stroking tighter, fucking up into Satoru with enough rhythm now to rock the bed. The sound of it filled the room—slick skin, stuttering gasps, the wet glide of cock in fist and body meeting body again and again.

Satoru’s head dropped to Suguru’s shoulder. “S-Sugu—please—”

“You gonna come for me this time?” Suguru asked, biting lightly at his ear. “Gonna be my good boy and finish?”

“I’m trying—I—fuck—don’t stop—”

Suguru chuckled, hips snapping a little harder now. “You look so fucking perfect like this. I could die happy with you like this on top of me.”

Satoru moaned a high, broken sound muffled against Suguru’s shoulder and rolled his hips back to meet Suguru’s thrusts, every movement sharpening the pressure in his belly, every pass of Suguru’s hand pushing him closer to that impossible, unbearable edge.

“You’re gonna fall apart for me, aren’t you?” Suguru growled now, letting just a little roughness leak into his voice. “Come all over yourself like the desperate little slut you are.”

“Yes—” Satoru gasped, and his body jerked, hips spasming uncontrollably as he moved faster, harder, grinding into Suguru’s palm like nothing else mattered. He was right there, the coil so tight it felt like he’d snap in half.

“Come on,” Suguru murmured, voice low, hips still rocking up into him. “You’ve been dying for it, baby. Just let go.”

Satoru’s breath hitched. His hips jerked helplessly, body caught in that awful perfect tension, right there, right there—

“F-fuck—fuck, I’m—” His whole body locked up, and he was coming, hot and sudden, painting Suguru’s chest in thick, desperate spurts, gasping as his cock jumped in Suguru’s grip. He made a cracked, bitten off noise deep in his throat, hands scrambling for purchase, finally curling into Suguru’s shoulders as he shook through it.

Suguru just held him steady, letting him ride it out, still buried deep inside him, cock twitching with restraint.

Satoru collapsed forward onto his chest, still catching his breath. “Fucking finally.”

“You did so good, baby.” Suguru kissed his temple. “My turn now.”

Satoru let out a weak laugh, still breathless. “Jesus, there’s more?”

Suguru hummed, shifting beneath him, one hand sliding down to grip his waist again. “You didn’t think I was gonna just let you do all the work, did you?”

Satoru flinched when Suguru’s hips rolled up again, dragging his cock slow and deep inside him. “Oh—fuck—” He buried his face in Suguru’s neck, voice muffled. “You’re still—fuck, you’re still hard?”

Suguru chuckled against his hair. “You were too pretty to stop for. But I need to come now, baby. You think you can handle a little more?”

Satoru groaned, shifting his hips. “I just came, so don’t expect me to be quiet.”

Suguru chuckled low in his throat, hips moving slow and deep. “Still so tight around me.”

Satoru shuddered, trying and failing to bite back another whine. “I told you—I can’t be quiet, fuck—”

“Yeah,” Suguru murmured, “you really can’t.”

His pace didn’t change, but his hand slid up from Satoru’s waist to his jaw, tilting his head until their eyes met. “Open.”

Satoru blinked, dazed. “Wh—what?”

“You said you can’t keep quiet,” Suguru said, calm as ever, even as his cock dragged full and slow inside him. “So I’m gonna help.”

Satoru hesitated a second too long, and Suguru’s brows lifted, just barely. “You trust me?”

Satoru’s breath hitched. “Yeah.”

“Then open.”

Satoru obeyed, lips parting, mouth already wet from panting. Suguru reached down, grabbing the soft T-shirt they’d tossed aside earlier, twisting it once, then again—firm but gentle—and pressed the soft roll of fabric between Satoru’s lips.

“Good,” he murmured, thumb brushing the corner of Satoru’s mouth. “Now you won’t wake the whole damn neighborhood.”

Satoru moaned around it, muffled and high-pitched, as Suguru’s thrusts picked up pace, suddenly harder, more insistent. His whole body jolted with each movement, the gag catching every breathless sound he tried to make. And fuck, he was still so sensitive—every thrust was almost too much, too deep, too good, his overstimulated body clenching tight around Suguru’s cock without meaning to.

Suguru growled softly. “You’re still squeezing me, baby. Shit. You want it that bad even after you came?”

Satoru nodded frantically, moaning again, teeth sinking into the soft cotton gag.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” Suguru whispered, leaning in to kiss his temple, sweat-slick and flushed. “I could fuck you all day.”

The only answer was a choked, wrecked noise from Satoru’s throat, muffled and needy, as he rocked helplessly against him, hips trembling with every deep stroke. Suguru wasn’t far—he could feel it in the way his rhythm started to break, rougher now, the edge in his voice gone. 

“Fuck—gonna fill you up baby. You want that?”

Satoru whined around the gag, eyes rolling back, hands scrabbling uselessly against Suguru’s chest.

“Fucking look at you,” Suguru muttered, voice low and frayed at the edges. “So fucked out you can’t even think.”

Satoru moaned, gag softening the sound into a desperate hum, eyes half-lidded and glassy.

“You like this?” Suguru hissed. “Like me using you like this, stuffing you full while you ride me like a perfect little cockdrunk toy?”

Satoru’s hands clenched in the sheets, his hips moving without thought—matching every thrust, taking him deeper, soaking in the filth pouring from Suguru’s mouth.

“Fucked you so nicely and you still want more,” Suguru went on, teeth gritted, his pace turning punishing. “Still milking my cock like you’ve got something to prove. What is it, baby? Trying to earn more?”

A strangled, muffled sound tore from Satoru’s throat—half a sob, half a moan, head tipping back as his whole body rocked from the force of it.

“Answer me baby. You want it?” Suguru growled, one hand gripping his waist tight. “Want me to come in this tight little hole? Fill you so full it leaks out when you walk?”

Satoru nodded frantically, drooling around the gag now, his whole body trembling.

“God, you're filthy,” Suguru groaned, eyes dark, eating him alive. “I should make you keep it in all fucking day. Walk around like a good little cumdump, dripping for me.”

Yes, yes, yes. There was nothing he wanted more in this moment than exactly that. 

“Fuck, Satoru, you’re so—” Suguru groaned softly, fucking deep one last time. He came hard, cock pulsing deep inside, filling Satoru with a wave of warmth that made him whine and clench around him like his body couldn’t bear to let go.

They both stayed there, panting, until Suguru eased the gag from Satoru’s mouth, thumb brushing spit from his lip. “Still with me?”

Satoru blinked, dazed, voice hoarse. “You’re disgusting.”

Suguru smirked, watching Satoru’s body twitch with aftershocks, cock still buried deep inside him. “You love it.” The mess between them was obscene—slick and hot and sticky, dripping from where their bodies met, painting a mess down Suguru’s thighs.

He cupped Satoru’s ass, spreading him just enough to watch the slow, lazy drip of cum leaking back out. “Fuck,” he muttered. “Look at that.”

Satoru groaned, face half-buried in his chest. “Don’t look at it.”

“Oh, baby,” Suguru said, still breathless. “Don’t be shy. You’re fucking gorgeous.” His thumb dragged through the mess, slow and deliberate. “You’re dripping all over me, and you’re still twitching like you want more.”

Satoru made a weak, protesting noise—more embarrassed than upset.

“You know what you need?” Suguru asked, voice low and full of promise. Satoru didn’t answer. Suguru leaned up, brushing their noses together, lips ghosting over his. “You need a plug.”

Satoru froze, and Suguru kissed the corner of his mouth. “Something thick to keep me inside, so you don’t waste a single drop.”

A whimper caught in Satoru’s throat.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Suguru murmured. “Letting me stuff you full and plug you up like a good little toy? Walk around the house leaking every time you bend over?”

Satoru blinked up at him, glassy-eyed. “You’re not serious.”

Suguru grinned. “No?”

“I—” Satoru hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“Mm.” Suguru leaned back just enough to palm his ass again, thumbing at the slick, twitching rim. “Let’s see.”

Satoru squirmed in his lap, cock twitching weakly even in its oversensitive state.

“Getting hard again?” Suguru snorted. “God, you do want it.”

Satoru buried his face in his hands. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” Suguru said, smug. Then he reached over to the nightstand, dragging the drawer open. 

Satoru peeked through his fingers. “You don’t actually have one, do you?” Suguru pulled out a small, sleek, silicone plug—black, smooth, and just the right size. Satoru squeaked. Panic and arousal fought in his body. “Why do you have that?!”

“Oh… just in case.” Suguru said innocently. 

“You’re evil.”

“You’re drooling.”

Satoru slapped him weakly. “You’re not actually gonna—”

Suguru tossed the plug on the bed beside them. “Not unless you say please.”

Satoru stared at it. Then he groaned, flopping onto his back with one arm flung dramatically over his eyes. “Fucking hell.”

Suguru kissed his temple, lips warm and smug. “So is that a yes?”

Satoru didn’t answer right away—still half-flopped, legs spread, flushed down to his chest, breath slowing but eyes darting between the plug beside them and Suguru’s mouth. That goddamn mouth. He was already regretting not biting it earlier.

Suguru’s fingers, slick and casual, parted just enough to press the tip of the plug right up against his hole. Satoru tensed with a shaky inhale. “You—oh my god—”

“Time is ticking, baby,” Suguru murmured, voice too sweet, grinding the smooth silicone in slow teasing circles right against his oversensitive entrance. “Say yes, and I can slide it in and keep it there until dinner.”

Satoru’s thighs twitched. He squeezed his eyes shut. “God, you’re—” he hissed when the plug pushed just a hair deeper. “You’re sick.”

“Hmm that’s not an answer…” Suguru pressed a little harder. Not quite inside, not yet, just enough pressure to make Satoru’s whole body light up again.

He writhed, fists clenching in the sheets. “Fuck—fine. Yes. Yes. Do it.”

Suguru grinned like he’d won a prize, pressing it further in. “Such a good boy.”

Satoru hissed—hips twitching, spine arching off the bed, every nerve ending raw. The stretch wasn’t overwhelming—nothing like Suguru’s cock—but he was already sensitive, twitchy, still slick and leaking from everything they’d done, and the steady press of something solid pushing past the rim of his body had him whimpering before it was even halfway in.

“S-Sugu—” he gasped, face flushed, voice breaking.

“Shh, baby,” Suguru said, kissing his shoulder, one hand petting his thigh gently while the other worked the plug in, patient and relentless. “You said yes. Let me take care of it.”

The silicone eased in slow inches, until the widest part slipped past the tightest point and his body clenched reflexively around the base.

Satoru made a helpless noise—half moan, half whine—biting his lip as the pressure settled. He could feel it. Full, snug, just enough to stretch him out and hold him open. Not nearly the size of Suguru’s cock, but hard in a way he wasn’t used to. Unmoving. Present.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, eyes wide.

Suguru hummed with satisfaction and smoothed a hand over the curve of his ass, brushing a thumb around the plug, watching how the ring of muscle fluttered around the base. “Perfect fit,” he said. “Just like I thought.”

Satoru shot him a weak glare. “You planned this?”

Suguru smiled. “Planned? Baby, I dreamed about this.” He reached for the drawer again and pulled out a pair of tight black briefs.

“No,” Satoru said immediately, sitting up a little. “Whatever those are, you are not making me put them on.”

“Yes, I am,” Suguru said, already holding them open. “C’mon, it’s just underwear. Gotta keep everything in.”

“I swear to god—”

“If you don’t put these on,” Suguru said calmly, “I’ll pull the plug out and fuck you until you’re begging me to stop.”

Satoru stared at him, weighing his options. Then, grumbling under his breath, he lifted his hips and let Suguru help him into the briefs, face burning as the fabric stretched over the plug and pressed it in deeper, firmer. He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, collapsing back onto the mattress with a groan. “I’m never walking again.”

“Sure you will,” Suguru said, rubbing his thigh affectionately. “With a little wiggle.”

“You’re the fucking worst.”

“You love it.”

Satoru didn’t argue. Suguru bent down and kissed the inside of his knee, then the dip of his hip. “Get up, sweetheart. We’ve got a whole day ahead of us.”

Satoru blinked at him. “We’re not staying in?”

Suguru stood up, stretching his arms above his head casually. “I’ve gotta run errands. You said you’d make cookies, remember?”

“Cookies—” Satoru flailed. “I can’t bake like this! I can barely stand!”

Suguru gave him a once-over, smug. “Then I guess you’ll be leaning over the counter a lot, huh?”

Satoru glared, whisper-yelling at him. “There is a plug in my ass. I am literally walking around plugged with your cum and you want me to pretend to be normal?!”

Suguru shrugged. “You’re an excellent actor.”

Satoru groaned and pulled a pillow over his face. “I’m going to kill you and myself in that order.”

From somewhere across the room, Suguru’s voice came, cheerfully unrepentant: “Wipe up first, baby. Can’t have you dripping on the floor.”

They didn’t linger long in bed—though Satoru tried to, clinging like a sleepy barnacle with a plug still lodged snug between his cheeks and an expression that practically screamed five more minutes. But Suguru was already up, brushing his hair back with one hand and tugging on sweatpants with the other.

“You promised cookies,” he said. “And we’re out of eggs.”

Satoru flopped dramatically. “You have so many children in this house and none of them bought groceries?”

“You’re one of the children in this house.”

“If I’m a child, you know what that makes you? A pedophile. And I’ll be damned if I’m dating a pervert, Suguru.”

The older man threw a hoodie at him forcefully, hitting Satoru in the face. “Get dressed, brat.”

Satoru rolled onto his stomach with a groan, burying his face in the pillows. “Okay, fine. But if I get arrested for obscenity because I moaned at the self-checkout, that’s on you.” 

Satoru was walking fine—well, fine-ish. He was a tiny bit stiff in the hips, and a little too conscious of every step, trying desperately to pretend that the plug wasn’t there, wasn’t real, wasn’t pressing so deeply and perfectly every time his foot hit the linoleum. But all things considered, he was fine. 

He followed Suguru through the produce section, trying not to glare at the man’s stupid calm profile.

“You’re walking funny,” Suguru murmured without looking back.

“I will throw myself into the oranges,” Satoru muttered.

Suguru smirked. “You’re doing great.”

“Kill yourself.” Suguru only smiled.

They moved on. Satoru shuffled along behind the cart with the stoicism of a war widow, trying not to look anyone in the eye. The plug didn’t hurt—not even close—but it was heavy, and every step made him hyperaware of the warmth still sitting inside him. He was pretty sure if he sat down, he’d whimper. Loudly. And then probably cry.

He was so focused on not whimpering that he didn’t notice Suguru’s thumb shift inside his hoodie pocket, and suddenly the silicone inside him started to vibrate.

“—hnNNGH!” Satoru slapped a hand to the metal shelf beside him, breath catching so violently he nearly dropped the cereal box he was holding. He doubled over with a strangled squeak. “F—fuck!”

Someone turned from the next aisle, an older man in a store vest, blinking in concern. “Are you alright, sir?”

Satoru slapped a hand over his face, bent at the waist like he’d just been shot, his voice wobbling as he forced out a laugh. “Ahaha! Sorry! J-just stubbed my toe!”

The man blinked, then slowly nodded and backed away, clearly deciding this was none of his business. As soon as he was out of earshot, Satoru hissed between clenched teeth, still folded like a broken lawn chair. “Suguru. Suguru. Suguru.”

Suguru was chuckling so quietly he almost got away with it. Satoru straightened just enough to glare at him. “You piece of shit. You didn’t tell me it did that!”

Suguru raised an eyebrow, all faux-innocent. “I assumed you read the package.”

“There was no package! You pulled it out of the drawer and shoved it in me!”

“Well,” Suguru said, pressing another button.

Bzzzzzzzzzzz—

Satoru slammed both hands on the cereal shelf, legs locking, breath stuttering out in a full-body tremble. “Ohmyfuckinggod—!” His voice pitched into a helpless little yelp and he dropped into a crouch so fast he almost knocked over the cart.

Another shopper glanced over, startled. Satoru clutched his ankle. “Haha—sorry! Foot cramp!”

Suguru leaned against the cart, a smile hidden behind his hand, thumb casually sliding back into his hoodie pocket. The vibration stopped.

Satoru gasped like he’d surfaced from a near-death drowning, flopping up onto the cart handle. “You asshole. You motherfucker.”

“Language,” Suguru said gently. “There are children here.”

“There’s a motor in my ass and you’re worried about cursing?!”

“You’re the one who said yes,” Suguru reminded him, guiding the cart toward the bakery with leisurely ease. “I believe your exact words were, ‘do it,’ followed by some moaning.”

Satoru straightened slowly, clinging to the cart like it was the only thing keeping him upright. “I hate you. I hate you and I’m going to take this loaf of sourdough and beat you to death with it.”

“Romantic,” Suguru murmured.

The plug gave another bzzz. Just a short, teasing one. Satoru slammed his head against the handle of the cart. “I’m going to die.”

“Not until we check out,” Suguru said. “We still need butter.”

Satoru glared daggers at him and hobbled toward the dairy section. His knees felt wobbly. His thighs ached from how tight he was clenching them, trying to minimize the shifting inside him. The plug sat warm and vibrating low in his body like a secret, sinful whisper, and the longer it hummed—off, on, teasing again—the more his brain started to melt.

By the time they reached the butter, he was sweating—not enough to look obviously distressed, but enough to feel it. Enough to feel the flush under his cheeks and the burn spreading in his belly like wildfire. He was already half-hard from that horrible, delicious edge that came from being played with without permission. From not being able to react. From the low, lazy whirrrrr of the plug revving just as Suguru leaned across him to grab a stick of salted Yotsuba, brushing their hips together.

Satoru’s breath hitched, fingers clenching the cart handle tighter.

“You okay, baby?” Suguru asked sweetly.

Satoru stared at him, face blank, voice flat. “I am going to kill you.”

“Mm. That so?”

The plug buzzed again. Satoru slapped a hand to his mouth, eyes wide, knees buckling for a split second. A sound escaped him—quiet, breathy, embarrassingly close to a moan—but he managed to disguise it as a cough. Barely. Suguru stepped close enough that only Satoru could hear him.

“Careful,” he murmured. “Somebody might think you’re enjoying yourself.”

Satoru made a garbled noise halfway between a squeak and a sob, turned on his heel, and marched straight to the self-checkout. Suguru, of course, followed with the cart like nothing was wrong. They scanned everything fast. Satoru fumbled the bagging, dropped a banana, and almost moaned when he bent to pick it up and the plug thrummed deeply inside him.

“Need help?” Suguru offered lightly.

“You need to never speak again,” Satoru snapped.

Suguru paid and they left, Satoru trying not to limp the whole way. It wasn’t until they were back in the car—bags in the trunk, doors shut, A/C on full—that Satoru turned to him, trembling with fury.

“You’re a menace,” he whispered. “You’re a criminal. That was public indecency.”

“Only if someone noticed,” Suguru said, far too calm, as his hand slid back into his hoodie pocket and clicked whatever button or remote was in his pocket.

Satoru yelped, slammed his foot into the dashboard, and grabbed the back of Suguru’s seat. “FUCK—stop it! Stop it right now or I swear to god I’ll—”

Suguru turned it off immediately. “See?” he said mildly. “You’re in control. You just have to ask nicely.”

Fuck. Fuck he was so turned on. Satoru panted and glared at him, his hands clenching and unclenching before whispering quietly. “Please.”

Suguru raised an eyebrow. “Please…?”

“…Please don’t stop.”

Suguru’s grin was positively feral as he turned the key in the ignition. “Buckle up, baby.”

The plug started up again, and Satoru felt himself get fully hard, the low, incessant buzzing against his prostate making him squirm in his seat. He moaned into his hands. “I hate you so much.”

Suguru just hummed. “I think running errands with you is my new favorite activity.”

Satoru curled into the passenger seat, forehead pressed against the window, breath fogging the glass. One hand clutched the hem of his hoodie, holding onto what little restraint he had left.

The plug had modes.

Modes.

Satoru learned this when, at a red light, the buzz turned into a pulse—bzz—bzz—bzzzzzzz—bzz—like some sort of depraved morse code. Satoru’s knees jerked together, feet scuffing against the floor mat.

“Stop. Stop!” he hissed, voice cracking. “You’re going to make me die in this car.”

“Seems like a good way to go,” Suguru said mildly, not taking his eyes off the road. “Better than a stroke in a nursing home.”

“I am going to stroke you—”

“Aw, baby, is that a promise?”

Okay, so not his finest hour in terms of comebacks, but could you blame him? He wasn’t exactly in a clear state of mind right now. Satoru moaned weakly and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. His hips jerked when it switched again, a slow build to an intense burst—bzzzzzzzzZZZZZZZT— and he gasped, hands scrabbling at the seatbelt like he could physically claw his way free from his own body.

“Sugu—Sugu, I swear to fuck—”

“Level four is stronger. Want to try?” Before Satoru could respond, the buzzing jumped up in intensity, and Satoru arched in the seat with a gasp, his back curving off the upholstery. His hands shot down to his groin, pressing between his legs as he tried to breathe, tried to stay silent, tried not to scream.

He failed on all three accounts.

“Oh my—fuck, fuck, stop, stop, stop, Sugu—”

The vibrations cut off instantly. Satoru sagged back with a moan, head flopping sideways against the window, sweat slick at the back of his neck.

Suguru spared him another glance. “You good?”

“No,” Satoru said weakly. “I’m ruined. I’ve been used and ruined and you’re gonna have to carry me into the house because if I take another step, I will come in my pants like a fucking virgin.”

Suguru grinned. “Don’t be so dramatic, baby.” He pulled into the driveway and Suguru put the car in park, turning the plug back on.

“Please, please. I can’t—ah—I can’t stand up like this. Oh fuck,” Satoru whimpered, shifting to try and lessen the vibrations. “I can’t—”

“Can’t? Or won’t?” Suguru’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Pretty sure you’re fully capable of standing up, Satoru.”

“You know what I fucking mean!”

“Do I?”

Satoru lunged at him weakly, which Suguru endured as if Satoru was no more than a small insect, incapable of doing any true damage. “Please,” Satoru groaned, lips brushing Suguru’s jaw. “Please, Sugu—turn it off. Let me breathe.”

“Hmm.” Suguru considered. “I’ll turn it off… after you walk through the front door.” He turned the toy up again, and Satoru yelped, kicking the glovebox and half-crawling out of the car. He staggered into the driveway like a new calf on icy legs, hands fluttering like he’d forgotten how to be a person. He sprinted as fast as he could, grabbing the handle and cursing when he realized it was locked. “Sugu, keys. Toss me the keys.”

“One sec, I gotta get the bags.” Suguru closed his own door, grabbed the groceries, and followed at a leisurely pace.

“Not funny,” Satoru hissed. “Not sexy. The keys, Suguru.” He reached a hand out, bending at the waist a little as he waited for Suguru to toss him the housekey, but he didn’t, instead taking his time walking to the front door and unlocking it, guiding him inside, turning off the toy.

Satoru made the most ungodly noise of his life and whispered,  “Take me to bed or so help me I will fuck this floor.”

Suguru dropped the grocery bags on the counter and grabbed him by the hips. “Hold onto something, baby.”

Satoru grabbed the fridge handle, and Suguru pressed up behind him, hands deftly pulling his pants and underwear down, palming his ass.

“I’m taking it out,” Suguru murmured. “Stay still.”

He pulled gently at the base. Satoru whimpered, forehead pressed to the fridge as the plug eased free with a slick, obscene pop. He let out a breath that wasn’t even a moan anymore—just a raw, grateful gasp.

Suguru sank to one knee behind him, and Satoru tensed. 

“Shh,” Suguru said, parting his cheeks with reverence. He kissed the back of his thigh. “I just want a taste, baby.” Suguru leaned in and licked the mess still slicking his entrance, slow and thorough, as if he couldn’t bear to waste a single drop of what he’d left inside earlier.

Satoru moaned into the crook of his elbow. “Jesus fucking—Sugu, I swear to God, you are not allowed to eat me out in front of the fridge—!”

Suguru hummed, unrepentant, and dragged his tongue up again, flattening it to taste everything, circling the twitching rim with maddening patience. His thumbs spread Satoru open, holding him steady, and he tongued him deep. Satoru shook, his legs nearly giving out. 

“S-Suguru—bed, please, I can’t—fuck—my legs—”

Finally, finally, Suguru stood, kissed the flushed line of his spine, and murmured, “Okay.”

Satoru turned, dazed and disheveled, still panting. “Oh thank god—”

Suguru lifted him, arms under his thighs and back, carrying him through the house like he weighed nothing.

“I can walk, you know,” Satoru muttered, clinging around his shoulders.

“Mm,” Suguru said, kissing his temple. “Not what you said a few minutes ago.”

Satoru didn’t answer. He was too busy biting his lip as they reached the guest room. Suguru kicked the door shut behind them and dropped him onto the bed roughly, Satoru bouncing a little.

“Face down,” he said. Satoru obeyed without thinking. Suguru spread him open with two hands and sighed. “Fuck baby, just look at you.”

Satoru mumbled in embarrassment, shoving his face deeper into a pillow. Suguru kissed the base of his spine. “You’re so gorgeous like this. Can’t get enough of this pretty hole.”

Satoru shuddered. “Can you just—”

“Calm down,” Suguru slapped his ass lightly, the impact stinging as he reached for the lube and poured a little on himself, one hand on the curve of Satoru’s ass to hold him open, lining up without hesitation. “Be a good boy and relax for me, yeah?”

“Mhm,” Satoru bit his lip, groaning at the stretch of the first two inches, before Suguru slid the rest in quickly. He arched, mouth falling open, spine bowing like he’d been shot. “Fuck—”

“Shh,” Suguru breathed, sinking in until he was fully seated, hands bracketing Satoru’s waist. “You can take it. You’re perfect.”

“Fuck me already,” Satoru gasped. “Fuckmefuckmefuckme—”

Suguru pulled back and thrust in again, deep and hard and unrelenting, making Satoru gasp.

“Fuck, baby,” Suguru groaned, head dropping forward as he set a pace that was ruthless from the start. “Shit, feel so good, I’m already close Satoru—”

Satoru whimpered. “Already?”

“God, how could I not be, after watching you fall apart all damn day?” He shifted, pulling Satoru’s hips up so that he was propped up on his knees, pressing his face back down into the pillow, forcing an arch into his back. “After seeing you limp around, knowing you were stuffed full of me? Watching you whimper and moan with that toy inside you, pretending you weren’t hard?”

Suguru leaned over, stomach flush against Satoru’s back, wrapping his arm around his torso. “It was a miracle I hadn’t just pinned you over the checkout kiosk, baby.”

The bed rocked under them, headboard knocking softly against the wall. Satoru’s hands clawed at the sheets, his moans rising in pitch with every snap of Suguru’s hips. He was so wet inside, so hot, sounds echoing—slickslickslap, slickslapslick, again and again.

“S-Sugu—” he sobbed, voice muffled. “I can’t—I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” Suguru growled, one hand wrapping around Satoru’s cock, jerking him in time with every thrust. “Come, baby. You earned it.”

It didn’t take long. Satoru’s body seized under him, legs kicking once as he came again—hot and sudden, painting the sheets in helpless spurts, voice catching in a cracked, broken moan. His back arched, hole clenching hard around Suguru’s cock, milking him in tight, rhythmic pulses.

Suguru cursed low and deep and slammed in once more—then stilled, coming hard inside him with a low groan. His grip tightened on Satoru’s waist, hips jerking as he emptied himself for the second time that day, deep and messy and perfect.

They lay like that for a long time—breathless, trembling, stuck together by sweat and cum. Suguru kissed the back of his neck, gently easing out of him, watching with dark satisfaction as his cum dripped from Satoru’s thoroughly fucked hole.

Satoru whimpered as cold silicone was quickly shoved into him, his hand going back to pull the toy out. He got it halfway out when Suguru grabbed his wrist, squeezing until he let go of the plug, quickly taking it from Satoru. 

“Suguru…”

He pulled the plug out past the widest part, then slowly pushed it back in. “You’re always so loud, always so full of ideas. It’s nice to see you like this, all quiet and submissive. My easy little slut.”

“You manipulative fucking—” Satoru cut off with a squeak when Suguru twisted the plug, thrusting it in and out of him twice in quick succession.

“Ah ah,” Suguru said gently. “I’m not making you come again. I won’t turn it on, but you’re going to wear it. That’s all.”

Satoru writhed, trying to sound defiant, but he was still limp, still wrecked, thighs parted almost lazily now. His voice cracked embarrassingly when he spoke. “You don’t need to put anything in me. I’m already full. I’m still leaking.”

“Exactly,” Suguru said. “Can’t waste any of that.” He pulled it all the way out, rubbing the tip of the plug on his puffy rim before adding pressure again.

Satoru flinched, whole body twitching. “Fuck—don’t, I’m—I’m so sensitive—”

“I know, baby,” Suguru murmured, brushing a kiss to his cheek. “That’s why I’ll go slow.”

The plug pushed back in with obscene ease—Satoru still slick and pliant from being stretched open and used. The soft silicone filled him bit by bit until it popped snugly into place with a faint thup, and Satoru let out the most broken little whimper, half-buried in the pillow.

“There,” Suguru sounded pleased, lying down behind him and wrapping an arm around his waist, pulling him back against his chest. “Now you’re all mine.”

“I feel like that could’ve been established without the plugging-your-load-in-me.”

“Nope.” Suguru stroked a hand lazily over his belly, pressing lightly into his lower abdomen and kissing the side of his neck. “I wanna keep you like this, all full of me.” He sighed. “Now,” he sat up, holding a hand out to Satoru. “Time to make cookies.”

Satoru groaned, wincing as the plug shifted when he sat up. He took Suguru’s hand, looking up at him. Suguru was looking down at him with this look on his face, so bright and relaxed and happy, and it warmed Satoru’s whole body. That soft, ridiculous, radiant smile on his face, like everything was exactly how it should be, like there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be than here, half-naked in a rumpled guest bed with come drying on his stomach and a silicone plug shoved in his boyfriend.

Satoru’s brain did something terrible.

He froze—not physically, because his hand was still in Suguru’s, and he was still letting himself be pulled up—but internally, emotionally, mentally, spiritually, his whole existence screeched to a halt.

This wasn’t just like or lust or god your dick is so good I think I see stars—though, yes, that too. This wasn’t just about the sex or the flirting or the way Suguru’s hands fit around his hips like they were made to. It wasn’t just that he was funny or kind or hotter than a thousand suns or a manipulative bastard who could edge him for hours and still make him beg for more.

No. No, it was worse. His heart felt too big, like it had expanded inside his ribcage without asking for permission, and now it was pressing up against his lungs and making it impossible to breathe properly. He stood there, blinking at Suguru, whose smile hadn’t faded, whose hand was still wrapped around his like a lifeline, and felt like he might die.

“Oh my god,” Satoru whispered.

Suguru blinked. “You okay?”

No. Absolutely not. His chest was imploding and his stomach was twisting and he could feel the love sloshing around inside him like poison and liquid sunshine at the same time, rising in his throat, hot and acidic, burning behind his eyes. It was like nausea and euphoria had a baby and named it after Suguru.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to laugh and cry and hurl and maybe punch a wall with his entire body. He wanted to jump on Suguru’s back and yell I LOVE YOU at full volume until he went hoarse and then cry into his shoulder for seven to ten business days.

Instead, he croaked, “I think I’m gonna puke.”

Suguru tilted his head. “Wait, like, actually?”

Satoru waved a hand, vaguely. “No—I mean, I don’t know. It’s like—like my organs are migrating.”

Suguru paused. “Baby, are you having a stroke?”

“My fingers are twitchy,” Satoru blurted. “Is that normal? Are you supposed to feel like your bones are vibrating?”

Suguru looked at him like he was going crazy. “Fucking—what? No! Jesus, Satoru, are you okay?”

“I think,” he looked at Suguru’s face again, and his heart dropped into his stomach and then bounced back up again. “That I love you?”

Suguru stared. “You think… that you love me.”

Satoru clutched both hands over his chest, fingers flexing uncertainly. “No—I mean, yes—I do, I just—fuck, I realized it. Just now. Like a truck. A sexy emotional truck.”

“A sexy and emotional truck,” Suguru echoed, very slowly.

Satoru nodded frantically. “With, like, glitter flames on the side and your name on the license plate. I got hit full force and now I want to cry and laugh and chew drywall all at the same time.”

Suguru opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Is this a ‘your generation’ thing? Because I don’t get it. Are–are you having a panic attack, or are you in love?”

“Yes.”

“I—what the fuck—”

“I was fine until you looked at me like that!” Satoru shouted, pointing a finger in his face, heart still racing. “With your—your happy face! Like we just got married and everything’s perfect and I’m your stupid pretty husband and we’re gonna adopt three cats and name them all after different types of fish—”

Suguru blinked. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I think I’m going to die. Suguru, how do I—” Satoru grabbed the front of his shirt.

Suguru made a very quiet, very confused noise. “Do you want to sit down?”

“No, I want to punch a hole in the moon, but sitting down is a good second.” He flopped onto the bed with such aggressive dramatics that it jostled Suguru’s knees. The plug shifted inside him again and he moaned, miserable. “Why did I have to realize this while my ass is full. This is the least dignified I’ve ever been. I confessed my love while my rectum was still occupied.”

Suguru sat beside him slowly. “You really are in love.”

“I’m doomed, Suguru.”

“Why doomed?”

“Because I don’t do this. I’m the emotionally unavailable hot one, remember? You’re supposed to pine for me in silence while I make mysterious, heartbreaking eye contact.”

Suguru snorted.

“Don’t laugh! This is serious!” Satoru thumped a fist against his own chest. “I feel like I have a whole bee hive in here.”

“I feel like that all the time when I look at you,” Suguru said, entirely deadpan.

Satoru froze. Slowly turned to look at him.

“…What.”

“You think I don’t watch you make scrambled eggs with a fork and get the same chest-wringing stomach-curdling brain-dissolving emotional hell every morning?”

Satoru’s eye twitched. “Shut the fuck up.”

“I love you too, Satoru,” Suguru said calmly, smiling, and Satoru curled inward like a dying spider.

“I’m gonna cry.”

“You’re already crying.”

“No I’m not.” He wiped his face. He was absolutely crying. “Okay maybe I’m crying a little.”

Suguru laid back beside him, pulling him into his chest. Satoru huffed. “Is this how I die? Killed by love?”

Suguru grinned and held him tighter. “You’re a mess.”

“I’m your mess.”

“Mine,” Suguru echoed, and the word landed so deep in Satoru’s bones it echoed.

He choked. “Fuck. I love you so much I might actually throw up.”

Suguru kissed his jaw. “I’ll hold your hair.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“No I don’t.” Satoru moaned as the plug in his ass shifted, reminding him what was happening before his untimely revelation. 

Suguru kissed him softly, grinning against his lips. “Ready to go make cookies, my love?”

Satoru groaned, standing up. “Eat glass.” He shrieked when Suguru pinched his ass hard.

“I’ll eat you.” Satoru groaned as they walked out of the room, feeling the toy shift inside him again.

Fuck. He loved Suguru so much.

︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶