Archive of Our Own

Suguru had never been the type to have any doubts in his relationship with Satoru. Maybe that sounded arrogant, but after knowing him for more than a decade— after claiming him for more than half of those years— he'd earned the right to be confident.

He remembered the exact moment he decided Satoru would be his. They had been arguing over something petty, something so stupid Suguru couldn't even recall what it was now, but it ended up with Satoru pinned below him, knees on either side of his hips, hands gripping his wrists and pressing them into the mattress above his head.

"Give up?" Suguru breathed, his heart hammering against his ribs. Satoru squirmed beneath him, trying to buck him off, but Suguru had always been stronger in close quarters— better at grappling, at using his weight to his advantage. He held firm, leaning down until he could feel Satoru's breath on his face.

"Huh, who do you think I am?," Satoru glared, but his voice had gone strange, breathy, lacking its usual bite. Suguru stared down at him, at the way Satoru's throat bobbed when he swallowed, at the flush spreading down his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his uniform.

He opened his mouth to retort, to say something cocky about Satoru's ego or how he’s clearly already lost, but the words died in his throat.

Satoru was looking up at him, his head tilted back against the pillow, hair spread out like a halo against the dark fabric, and Suguru's breath caught so hard it felt like a physical blow to the chest.

When did he get so pretty?

The thought surfaced like a tidal wave. Suguru's grip on Satoru's wrists loosened without his permission, his fingers going slack, his whole body suddenly heavy and strange. He should move. He should get up. He should say something cutting and sharp and normal.

But he couldn't.

The afternoon light was hitting Satoru just so, gilding the edges of him, turning his skin to something luminous and warm. His round sunglasses had slipped, revealing his hypnotising blue eyes and the flutter of his long pretty eyelashes. His lips were parted, pink and slightly glossed, and he was breathing fast, his chest rising and falling beneath Suguru's weight.

Oh, he thought, the realization crystallizing with devastating clarity. Oh, no.

Satoru was then speaking, saying something about Suguru being too heavy or perhaps another taunting comment— but he couldn't hear him over the roaring panic that drummed through his ears. He stared at Satoru's mouth, at the shape of it, at the way it moved, and he was thinking about kissing him. Wondering what he would taste like, about whether or not he tasted as sweet as he looked.

Oh God. 

That night, Suguru lay awake in his dorm room, staring up at the ceiling, the image of Satoru burned into his retinas, and the terrifying realisation that he was falling for his best friend. He turned onto his side, then his back, then his side again, unable to find comfort in his own skin. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw him.

Suguru can’t help but laugh when he thinks about his younger self, at how he tried to convince himself that it was just a phase— believing that his stupid hormones were the reason his heart would beat rapidly whenever Satoru leveled him with that charming smirk of his. That eventually the flutter in his chest would fade, that he'd stop staring whenever Satoru smiled, that one day he'd wake up and his best friend would simply be...his best friend again.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

That feeling only grew into what it is now, an all consuming love that took over his whole being without him even noticing, it had settled itself into every corner of his life so quietly that, somewhere along the way, loving Satoru had become as natural as breathing. He no longer questioned it, no longer startled at the way his heart softened whenever Satoru laughed or reached for him without thinking— it was simply a part of who he was.

Suguru can still remember the first time he kissed him.

It was during their third year at Jujutsu high, late into the night and slightly drunk from the booze that Shoko somehow snuck under Yaga’s nose, something fruity that Satoru could drink without causing a fuss. They had been practically sitting shoulder to shoulder, his hand itching to reach out and touch as he listened to the other drunkenly ramble on about digimon for the hundredth time. The alcohol had painted a faint blush across Satoru's cheeks, his sunglasses abandoned somewhere beside Shoko after she stole them. His eyes looked impossibly bright without them, a hypnotising blue that seemed to draw Suguru in with every second that passed. He was so cute when he talked about any one of his interests, his whole face seemed to light up with joy and he talked a mile a minute, but he just looked so happy— not a care in the world and it just made Suguru’s heart ache with want.

He likes to blame it on the booze—it’s easier that way, easier to tell himself that the alcohol had dulled his better judgement, that it had loosened his restraint just enough for him to do something monumentally stupid.

Satoru had been laughing at something Shoko had said, head tipped back so carelessly showing the sharp line of his jaw to Suguru’s greedy eyes, the pale expanse of his neck that was practically begging to be kissed. His cheeks had been pink from the drinks, his smile loose and genuine in a way so few people ever got to see. Suguru remembered thinking that if he didn't kiss him right then, he might actually go insane.

So he did.

He leaned over before his brain had the chance to catch up with his body and pressed a clumsy, fleeting kiss to Satoru's lips. It barely lasted a second but it was long enough for him to feel the other freeze up against him and for reality to come crashing down on him.

Oh, god…what had he done?

He quickly pulled away and his stomach dropped somewhere beneath the floorboards as he stared at Satoru's wide blue eyes, waiting for the disgust, the confusion, the inevitable rejection.

“I-i’m sorry, i don’t know-“

But before he can spiral any further, Satoru grabs the front of his shirt and kisses him again. It's different this time— deliberate, desperate, hungry. His fingers twist into the fabric of Suguru's uniform jacket and haul him closer, and he goes willingly. His hands finding Satoru's waist and holding on like he might drown if he were to let go. 

They stumble back to Suguru's room not long after, Shoko's knowing smirk burning holes in their backs as they go, too absorbed in each other to care about the outside world anymore. That night, Suguru learns the exact shade of Satoru's blush when it spreads down his chest, learns the way his breath catches when Suguru's teeth graze his collarbone, learns that Satoru is loud and demanding and his, finally his, and he falls asleep with Satoru curled against his side, already planning a future he never dared to hope for.

It was during one of those early, giddy months— when they were still learning from each other, still mapping out the boundaries of this new thing between them— that Suguru had made the joke.

They were lying in his bed, tangled together in a mess of limbs, the afternoon light filtering through the curtains and painting stripes across Satoru's bare skin. Suguru had been tracing lazy patterns across his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath his fingertips, when he murmured, voice half-buried in Satoru's hair:

"Let's get married when we get out of high school."

He meant it as a tease, mostly. A throwaway comment to see how Satoru would react, to gauge whether the future Suguru was already planning in his head was one Satoru wanted too. He expected a snort, maybe a playful shove or a comment about how Suguru was getting ahead of himself.

Instead, Satoru had bolted upright so fast he nearly knocked their heads together, his whole face lighting up like Suguru had just offered him the moon. He immediately agreed and started to ramble on about where and when they should get married, but all Suguru could focus on was the overwhelming feeling of love he felt for the boy in front of him.

They graduated five months later.

Suguru had been so caught up in the chaos of final exams and mission reports and the looming uncertainty of what came next that he nearly forgot about the conversation entirely— until the morning after the ceremony, when Satoru had burst into his room at seven in the morning, still in his sleep clothes, hair sticking up in every direction, holding a crumpled magazine in his hands.

"So when are we gonna go buy rings?” he demanded, shoving the magazine in Suguru's face. It was open to a spread of wedding bands, shiny and expensive-looking, and Satoru's expression was so earnest, so hopeful, that he felt something in his chest crack open and spill over.

He stared at the magazine, then at Satoru, then back at the magazine again.

"You’re...you’re serious?" he asked weakly.

"Of course I'm serious!" Satoru had huffed, indignant. "You think I'd joke about marrying you? I've been planning our wedding since you kissed me, Suguru. I've got a Pinterest board and everything."

Suguru had laughed then, loud and helpless and so overwhelmed with love he thought he might actually die from it. He pulled Satoru into his arms and buried his face in his neck and whispered yes, yes, of course they would buy rings, of course they would get married, of course Satoru could have whatever he wanted because Suguru was already his in every way that mattered.

They went ring shopping that same afternoon.

He had expected Satoru to pick out something flashy— something with diamonds the size of boulders, platinum bands thick enough to double as brass knuckles— but instead, his boyfriend had wandered toward the simpler cases, his eyes lingering over the plain silver bands.

“I like those ones, what do you think?” He asked, pointing through the glass at a pair of rings near the back. They were simple, nothing too out of Suguru’s price range, just a matching set of thin bands with a singular diamond placed in the middle.

Suguru had stared at them, then at Satoru— something tender and soft swelling in his chest. “I think they're perfect.” He smiled before kissing the side of his head. The way Satoru's face had softened, the way he looked at Suguru like he was the only thing in the world worth looking at, had sealed something permanent in Suguru's chest.

They exchanged them three weeks later in a tiny shrine just before dawn, with only Shoko as their witness, slipping the bands onto each other's fingers with shaking hands and promises that Suguru would die for. That had been years ago now, and the silver band that Satoru had placed on his finger that morning was currently tucked beneath the collar of Suguru's uniform, hanging from a thin chain and resting against his sternum— hidden, hidden away for their own safety. He touched it sometimes when no one was looking, a silent affirmation of what was his.

The transition from sorcerers to teachers had been surprisingly natural, they both had a desire to improve the way jujutsu society treated children, and if they could shield even a handful of kids from the brutality they'd endured, then the classroom felt like a good place to start.

What Suguru hadn't anticipated, though perhaps he should have— was how quickly their family would grow.

Megumi and Tsumiki had been first— Suguru's quiet, serious boy with his ten shadows and his heavy heart, followed by Tsumiki, with her sweet gentle smile and her big sister attitude that stole their hearts. Then Mimiko and Nanako, the twins that he rescued that day in that despicable excuse of a village— they were so tiny, and just so innocent that Suguru immediately knew that he would do whatever it takes to keep them safe.

They kept their marriage hidden for this reason exactly. Suguru had seen what happened when the world knew what you loved. He had watched curses target families, watched enemies exploit weakness, and he would burn the world to ash before he let anyone use their children against them. So the rings stayed on chains beneath their shirts, while at school, they were simply Gojo-sensei and Geto-sensei— two colleagues who bickered too much and stood close enough to raise a few eyebrows, but not enough to suspect anything else. But what nobody knew was that after each day, they would both head to their loving home and be parents to their perfect family.

Which was why, when he saw the new teacher— some transfer from the Kyoto branch with an obnoxious pretty face and an obvious crush— leaning over Satoru's desk that morning, laughing at something Satoru had said and itching to place a hand on his arm far too casually, Suguru had to physically restrain himself from crossing the room and removing that hand from its wrist.

He forced himself to stay in his seat, elbow propped on his desk, chin resting against his knuckles as he watched the scene unfold from across the room. The new teacher, Hiroku, or something equally forgettable— had angled his whole body toward Satoru, that stupid confident smile fixed in place like he actually stood a chance.

Suguru's jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it.

He knew, logically, that Satoru wasn't doing anything wrong. Satoru had always been like this— a magnetic, warm in a way that made people fall a little in love with him within five minutes of a conversation, regardless of his shitty attitude. It was one of the first things Suguru had loved about him, that easy charisma, the way he lit up a room without trying. It had never bothered him before. Other people's crushes on Satoru had always been background noise, something to be mildly amused by, because Suguru knew— with bone-deep certainty because Satoru went home to him every night.

But this felt different. This man's hand hadn't moved from the desk in almost a full minute, and now it was inching, slow and deliberate, closer to Satoru's arm.

And Suguru felt like a ticking time bomb.

His fingers curled tighter against his jaw, nails biting crescents into his palm beneath the cover of his knuckles. He was aware, distantly, that he was supposed to be grading the stack of papers in front of him. He was also aware that he hadn't read a single word in the last ten minutes.

Across the room, the new teacher laughed at something— probably at his own joke, Suguru thought viciously, because the man had the personality of wet cardboard and Satoru was simply too polite to say so— and shifted even closer, close enough now that his shoulder nearly brushed Satoru's.

Satoru, oblivious as ever, just kept talking, hands moving animatedly as he no doubt launched into some tangent that had nothing to do with the original conversation. That was the thing about Satoru — he could make anyone feel like the center of the universe without even trying, simply because his attention, once caught, was total and unfiltered. It was devastating. It always had been. Suguru had built an entire life around chasing that attention and somehow, impossibly, catching it.

Which was exactly the problem. Everyone wanted a piece of it.

He watched the man's hand finally close the last few centimeters of distance, resting against Satoru's forearm like it belonged there, and something in Suguru's vision actually went white at the edges.

He stood up.

He didn't remember deciding to. One second he was gripping his pen hard enough to crack the plastic casing, and the next he was on his feet, chair scraping back against the floor with a sound loud enough that half the staff room glanced over. 

He crossed the room with the unhurried, deliberate pace of a man on a mission, hands sliding into his pockets, expression schooled into something pleasant and unthreatening that fooled absolutely no one who actually knew him. Satoru caught sight of him first, and something in his face shifted— not surprise, not really. More like recognition. Like he knew exactly what was about to happen and that perhaps he had been waiting for it, the little shit.

"Geto," the new teacher said, straightening up as Suguru approached, hand still very much resting on Satoru's arm. Up close, Suguru could confirm what he'd suspected from across the room “Gojo was just telling me about the upcoming exchange event with Kyoto.”

"Was he," Suguru said pleasantly, coming to a stop directly beside Satoru's desk 

His eyes dropped deliberately to the hand still resting on Satoru's arm. The man, to his credit, seemed to actually notice the weight of the look. His fingers twitched, like he might pull back. Suguru almost let himself hope.

Almost.

"Yeah, yeah," Satoru said, waving a hand as though he hadn't noticed anything at all— although the faint curl at the corner of his mouth told Suguru otherwise. "Hiroku here was just saying Kyoto's kids are already trash-talking us before the exchange even starts. Isn't that rude? the students haven't even gotten the chance to embarrass them yet."

"Well I didn’t say exactly that, I was just filling him in on the exchange details," the man continued, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was standing on very thin ice. "Gojo mentioned he handles most of the coordination—"

"He does." Suguru's voice stayed even, almost bored. He let his gaze linger on the hand a moment longer before finally looking up, meeting the man's eyes with a smile that didn't reach his own. "Though if you have questions about the exchange, I'd be happy to answer them. I handle the paperwork side. Satoru just likes to talk."

Beside him, Satoru made an offended noise. "Rude. I do more than talk, I'm the face of this partnership."

"You're the mouth of this partnership," Suguru corrected mildly, and Satoru's jaw dropped in outrage, which was, in Suguru's opinion, exactly the reaction that had been earned.

The new teacher laughed, a little too loud, clearly trying to insert himself back into a conversation that had briefly forgotten he existed. "You two work together a lot, huh? Gojo said you've known each other since school."

"Something like that," Suguru said, his voice came out even, the same tone he used on curses right before he tore them apart.

The new teacher— Suguru still refused to remember his name properly, some petty rebellion he allowed himself— glanced between them, clearly sensing an undercurrent he couldn't quite place. "Well," he said, finally, mercifully, retracting his hand from Satoru's arm to rub the back of his neck, "I should get back to my classroom. Nice talking to you, Gojo."

"Yeah, yeah, see ya," Satoru said breezily, already turning back to the papers on his desk like the man hadn't just spent the last ten minutes trying to work his way under Suguru's skin.

It wasn't until the door was finally shut, and the sound of retreating footsteps was fading from their ears that Suguru turned to look at his husband, expression carefully blank.

Satoru was humming. Actually humming, some tuneless little melody under his breath, flipping through his papers like the last ten minutes hadn't happened at all.

“Satoru.”

“Mm?”

“What was that?”

"What was what?" Satoru didn't look up. He capped his pen, uncapped it, capped it again, the picture of a man with absolutely nothing on his mind. "Oh, the exchange thing? Yeah, apparently Kyoto's already talking smack. Kids these days, they have no respect."

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

"I really don't know what you mean, Suguru, you're going to have to use your words." Satoru finally glanced up, his stupid blindfold hiding his obvious innocent expression that fooled absolutely no one. "Is this about my papers? I'll get them graded, I was getting to it—"

“His hand was on your arm.”

“Whose hand?”

“Satoru.”

"Oh! You mean Hiroku?" Satoru said it like the realization had just now dawned on him, like he hadn't spent the entire conversation perfectly aware of exactly where that hand was and exactly how long it had stayed there.

"Right," Suguru said, voice flat. "Him."

Satoru finally set the pen down, propping his chin in his palm, his entire face glinting with something far too pleased with itself for Suguru's liking. "What about him? He seems nice. A little boring, sure, but nice. Very interested in the exchange program."

"He wasn't interested in the exchange program, Satoru."

"No?" Satoru blinked up at him, the picture of wide-eyed confusion, and if Suguru didn't know every single one of his expressions by heart— didn't know the exact way his mouth twitched when he was trying not to laugh— he might have almost believed it. "What was he interested in, then?"

"You know exactly what he was interested in."

"Do I?" Satoru leaned back in his chair, arms crossing behind his head, entirely too comfortable for a man who had just spent ten minutes letting some Kyoto transfer paw at him in front of half the staff room. "I'm just a simple teacher, Suguru. I couldn't possibly know what's going on in another man's head.”

He had to bite his tongue or otherwise Satoru would end up through the wall. 

“Are you jealous?" His grin widened, sharp and delighted, clearly reveling in every second of watching Suguru's composure fray at the edges.

"No." The word came out flatter than he meant it too.

“Liar.” Satoru smirked all too knowingly, tilting his head to study him the way he always did when something Suguru did caught his interest. "You were glaring at the poor man's back for the past ten minutes. I could feel it from across the room even before I looked."

"I'm not jealous," Suguru repeated, his voice hiding a hint of irritation as he leveled the other with a sharp look. “I'm observant. There's a difference."

Satoru's arms uncrossed from behind his head, falling to rest on the desk. "Oh?"

"Jealousy implies I have something to worry about," Suguru leaned down, planting both hands on either side of his chair, caging him in. He dropped his voice to a whisper, meant only for the two of them. “But I don’t…do I?”

He let the silence stretch, watching the way Satoru's breath caught, the way his smirk faltered just slightly under the weight of that whispered question. For all his teasing, Satoru had never been able to hold his composure when Suguru got like this— he always crumbled under his gaze.

"...No," He admitted finally, voice softer as some of the performance drained out of it. Suguru watched as Satoru gulped, his face heating up the longer he was pinned under Suguru’s stare. "You don't."

Suguru let the word settle between them before he finally straightened, stepping back just enough to give Satoru room to breathe— though he made no move to hide the way his eyes lingered, tracking the flush still creeping along his husband's neck.

“Good.”

"You're insufferable when you're smug," Satoru eventually muttered, though there was no heat in his voice, just the undeniable sound of defeat.

“I learned from the best.”

˖✦. ── .✦˖

It happened again three days later.

Suguru had almost— almost— let his guard down, lulled into a false sense of security by seventy-two hours of Hiroku keeping a respectful distance. He should have known better. Men like that didn't give up after one loss; they just changed strategy.

It happened during their weekly joint class, the kind of session Suguru usually didn't mind— combined classes meant less time stuck alone with a stack of ungraded papers, more time to ogle Satoru and watch him show off in front of the students in that obnoxious, effortless way that even impressed the toughest people like Nanami.

It should have been an easy afternoon. Joint close-combat session, nothing unusual — the kind of lesson they'd run a dozen times together, trading off demonstrations, bickering about form in front of the students because the kids seemed to learn better when they were laughing.

Then Hiroku showed up.

He wasn't even supposed to be there. Suguru was fairly certain Hiroku's had other commitments that he should be attending to, which meant he's gone out of his way to be here, and that alone was enough to sour Suguru's mood before the man had even opened his mouth.

"Mind if I sit in?" Hiroku asked, already strolling onto the training mats like the answer didn't matter either way.

"Sure, the more the merrier," Satoru said, easy and bright, already waving the students into a loose circle. "We're just running through the basics today, nothing fancy.”

“Basics hmm,” He repeated, and Suguru could practically see the lightbulb appear above his head as his polite smile turned into more of a sinister grin. “Actually, Kyoto does things a little differently than Tokyo, formation-wise— the teachers usually do a demonstration for the students, showing them how to properly execute a move rather than just telling them what to do.”

Suguru watched as the slime ball’s eyes hurriedly darted towards Satoru, hands moving to roll up his sleeves as he said; “You up for it Gojo?”

The students, predictably, lit up at the prospect of watching two teachers actually fight instead of narrating form corrections to them for forty-five minutes. Suguru's jaw had already started to ache by the time Hiroku finished his little speech about "Kyoto" and it took him a solid three seconds to realize why the man's tone had shifted so carefully, so deliberately casual, right as his eyes flicked toward Satoru.

Formation-wise. Suguru almost laughed.

It was so transparent it would have been almost funny, if it hadn't made something low and ugly coil tight behind Suguru's ribs. A sparring demo meant proximity— It meant grabbing wrists, bracing against shoulders, hands finding waists and forearms under the polite fiction of teaching. It meant forty-five minutes of legitimate, sanctioned reasons to touch Satoru in front of an audience of children, where Suguru couldn't reasonably storm over and rip the man's arm off without looking like a lunatic.

He forced his hands to try and stay unclench at his sides, nails leaving angry red crescents in his palms anyways. He watched Satoru roll his shoulders loose, the motion pulling his shirt tight across his back, and felt something primal and ugly rear its head when Hiroku's eyes tracked the same movement with obvious appreciation.

"Actually," Suguru said, stepping forward before Satoru could answer, his voice carrying that particular tone of pleasantness that made his students instinctively take a step back. "I think I should be the one you spar with, don’t you think?”

Satoru blinked, turning toward him with an expression of mild surprise. "Suguru?"

"Demonstrations are most effective when students can see proper technique," Suguru continued, already rolling his own sleeves up with methodical, deliberate movements. He didn't look at Satoru— couldn't, not without giving away the possessive rage still thrumming beneath his skin. "And since I'm the one who handles the close-combat curriculum for Tokyo, it makes more sense for me to be the one demonstrating, don't you think?"

"Oh, but I was hoping to see how the Strongest handles things," He said, recovering quickly with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "After all, Gojo-sensei's reputation precedes him."

Suguru's smile tightened. "And my reputation for proper form precedes me," he countered smoothly, finally meeting Satoru's gaze. There was a flicker of understanding there— amusement mixed with a hint of something else. "Besides, Satoru gets...enthusiastic. We wouldn't want the students picking up bad habits, would we?"

"Hey!" Satoru protested, but there was no real heat in it. He was watching Suguru now, head tilted, that familiar look of dawning comprehension spreading across his face. He knew exactly what Suguru was doing— that brat was probably enjoying it. Hiroku looked between them, clearly weighing his options. If he pushed too hard to spar with Satoru now, he'd look desperate. If he backed down, he'd lose his opening. Suguru watched the calculation happen behind his eyes and felt something viciously satisfied curl in his chest.

"I suppose that makes sense," he said, though his tone suggested it made no sense at all. "But the students would benefit more from seeing—"

"They'll benefit from seeing it done right," Suguru cut in, stepping onto the mat and gesturing for Hiroku to join him. "Shall we?"

There was a moment of awkward silence where Hiroku clearly considered refusing, but with the students watching and Satoru's interested gaze on him, he had no choice. With a tight smile, he stepped onto the mat opposite him.

He didn't give him time to prepare. The moment Hiroku was in position, Suguru moved— fast, efficient, and absolutely ruthless. He didn't hold back the way he would with students. This wasn't a demonstration; it was a warning. He blocked Hiroku's first attack with ease, then countered with a sharp jab to the ribs that had the other man gasping. He then followed up with a sweep that sent Hiroku tumbling to the mat with a loud thud that echoed across the field.

"Proper stance is key," Suguru said conversationally, looming over Hiroku with a pleasant smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You're leaving your right side completely open. A threat could exploit that easily."

Hiroku pushed himself up, face flushed with embarrassment and a hint of pain. "I wasn't expecting—"

"Always expect the unexpected," Suguru interrupted, offering a hand to help him up that he deliberately withdrew at the last second, letting Hiroku fumble on his own. "That's lesson one."

The demonstration continued in much the same way. Every time Hiroku attempted a move, Suguru was there to counter it— faster, stronger and obviously better. He made a point of using the kind of close-grappling techniques that would have been perfect excuses to touch Satoru, twisting Hiroku's arms, pinning him briefly, using his weight to unbalance him. He had fun humiliating the poor bastard, he didn’t feel an ounce of guilt as he made a fool out of him.

It was so worth it when he remembered that Satoru was on the sidelines, watching him mop the floor with this prick.

By the time he finally called an end to the "demonstration," Hiroku was a panting, sweaty mess on the mat, his pride bruised more than his body. Suguru hadn't even broken a sweat. He stood over him, offering a final, saccharine smile. "And that's the importance of a solid defense. Any questions from the class?"

The students stared, wide-eyed and utterly silent and Suguru's smile widened. "No? Good. Class dismissed.”

As the students scattered, whispering amongst themselves about how cool their sensei looked— Hiroku scrambled to his feet, his face a blotchy red from embarrassment. He shot Suguru a look of pure, undiluted hatred before limping off the mat and back to where he should have been all along, teaching his own damn students.

Suguru currently has an ego that rivals Satoru’s as he snickers to himself, pleased to have shown Hiroku where he belongs— six feet underground. He felt a smug sense of satisfaction, a primal thrill that came from defending what was his. He turned, fully expecting to see Satoru's usual amused smirk, but the look he found on his husband's face was something else entirely.

“Satoru?” He didn't say a word. He just grabbed the front of Suguru's uniform, his grip surprisingly strong for the situation as he dragged him towards the main school building. 

Suguru, caught off guard, stumbled along following the other like a lost puppy. "Satoru, what the—"

"Shut up," He hissed, his voice low and strained, making Suguru clamp his mouth shut and willingly letting himself get dragged along to god knows where. He didn't stop until he found an empty classroom, shoving the door open and yanking Suguru inside. The door slammed shut, the sound echoing in the silent room, and Satoru clicked the lock.

The next thing Suguru knew, he was being spun around and slammed back against the door, Satoru's mouth crashing against his. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a desperate, bruising thing, all teeth and tongue and frantic need. Satoru's hands were everywhere, tangling in his hair, gripping his shoulders, sliding down his chest to fumble with the button of his pants.

Suguru's head hit the door with a dull thud, but he barely registered it. All he could focus on was Satoru— the frantic, desperate way he was kissing him, the taste of his hunger, the feeling of his hands clawing at his uniform like he couldn't get him close enough. Fuck, Suguru was losing his damn mind.

His brain short-circuited as Satoru's hand finally slipped past his waistband, wrapping around his already hardening cock. "Satoru," he managed, his voice hoarse. "Here?"

"Here," He confirmed, dropping to his knees with a grace that was obscene. He looked up at Suguru through his blindfold, his usual smirk replaced by something raw and hungry. "Right now."

“Fuck, Satoru, wait—“

He didn't waste another second. He yanked Suguru's pants and boxers down his hips, just enough to free him, and then his mouth was on him. Suguru's hips jerked, a choked groan tearing from his throat as Satoru took him in, hot and wet and perfect. There was no teasing, he didn’t smirk or draw it out the way he usually did when they had all night and a locked bedroom door. He simply leaned in and took Suguru into his mouth in one smooth, hungry motion, sinking down until his nose brushed the dark trail of hair at the base. He took Suguru deep, his head bobbing, one hand gripping the base of his cock while the other fisted in the fabric of his pants, holding him in place.

Suguru's hand flew to Satoru's hair, his fingers tangling in the soft strands, holding on as his world narrowed to the wet heat of Satoru's mouth. He could hear the sounds he was making— obscene, hungry little moans that vibrated around his dick and sent shivers of pleasure up his spine. He looked down, his breath catching at the sight. Satoru, on his knees for him, blindfold askew, lips stretched around his cock, his own hips rocking subtly against empty air.

"God, Satoru," He breathed, his hips starting to move, thrusting shallowly into that perfect heat. "You liked that, huh?…Liked watching me put him in his place?"

His fingers tightened in Satoru’s hair as he watched his husband take him deeper, throat working around him with practiced ease. The wet, filthy sounds filled the empty classroom— soft, desperate moans vibrating straight through Suguru’s cock every time he swallowed around him.

“You did,” He answered his own question, voice rough. “You liked watching me put that bastard in his place. Liked knowing he couldn’t have you. That no one else gets to touch you like this...”

Satoru moaned around him in agreement, the sound filthy and desperate. His free hand left Suguru’s pants and dropped between his own legs, pressing hard against the obvious bulge straining his uniform trousers. He was already so hard it looked painful, hips rocking helplessly against his palm while he kept working Suguru’s cock with single-minded focus.

Suguru’s control frayed. He didn’t pull Satoru off. He simply kept one hand tangled in his hair and started thrusting deeper, using his mouth the way he wanted. Satoru took it without complaint— so eager and hungry, the wet heat of his throat clenching every time Suguru bottomed out.

“…Look at you,” Suguru rasped, staring down at the wrecked picture his husband made. Blindfold completely crooked now, one pretty blue eye visible and glassy with arousal, lips stretched wide around his cock, spit shining down his chin. “On your knees in an empty classroom because you liked watching me put another man in his place, so fucking pretty like this…”

Satoru moaned around him again, the sound high and desperate. His hips rocked against his own hand, clearly getting off just from sucking Suguru off. The knowledge that Satoru was this turned on simply from jealousy only turned him on even more.

He thrust a little faster, a little deeper, the head of his cock brushing the back of Satoru’s throat on every stroke. Satoru’s free hand left his own crotch only long enough to grip Suguru’s thigh for balance, nails digging in through the fabric of his pants.

“Fuck…gonna come down your throat,” Suguru warned, voice strained. “And you’re going to swallow every drop like the good husband you are.”

Satoru's answer was a choked moan, his eyes fluttering shut as he took Suguru even deeper. He was a mess, saliva dripping down his chin, his face flushed, his hair a wreck, and he had never looked more beautiful to Suguru. This was his. This powerful, incredible being was on his knees in a dusty classroom, coming apart because of him.

"Look at me," Suguru commanded, his voice rough. "Eyes on me, Satoru."

Satoru's eyes snapped open, and the raw, unadulterated devotion in them was Suguru's undoing. With a guttural groan, he came hard, his hips stuttering as he spilled himself down Satoru's throat. Satoru swallowed it all, his mouth working around him until he was completely spent, his body sagging against the door.

Only then did Satoru slowly pull off, lips shiny and red, a thin string of spit still connecting them for a second before it broke. He stayed on his knees, breathing hard, looking thoroughly wrecked and completely satisfied with himself.

Suguru hauled him up by the collar and kissed him hard, tasting himself on Satoru’s tongue. Satoru melted into it immediately, still half-hard and grinding against Suguru’s thigh.

“Nah uh,” Suguru chastised, pulling his leg away while Satoru whined childishly. “Later, we have students to teach.”

Satoru glared down at him with a look of undeniable betrayal.

“You’re evil,” He muttered, voice rough from use. “Actually evil. I just swallowed—”

“And you’ll do it again later,” Suguru cut in, already tucking himself away and fastening his pants with steady fingers. He reached down, gently fixed Satoru’s blindfold, and thumbed a smear of spit from the corner of his husband’s mouth.

“Look presentable,” he murmured, softer now. “We still have afternoon classes.”

Satoru huffed but let himself be handled, leaning into the touch like a cat that had just been thoroughly petted. “You’re lucky I love you. And that I know exactly how you’re going to make it up to me tonight.”

Suguru’s smile was slow, sharp at the edges. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

˖✦. ── .✦˖

The next morning, light filtered through the half-drawn curtains in soft gold stripes across the bed.

Suguru woke first, as he almost always did. Satoru was still deeply asleep, sprawled half on top of him, one long leg thrown over Suguru’s hips, face buried against the side of his neck. There were faint bruises blooming along his collarbones and the inside of both his thighs, painting him in a pretty colour that had Suguru smiling to himself, slow and thoroughly satisfied.

He had kept his promise.

The room was a wreck— pillows and clothes laid littered around the room, thrown off in haste to finally touch one another within the safety of their bedroom, where Suguru could take his husband apart again and again. He reached out and gently traced the line of Satoru's jaw with his thumb, watching the way his eyelashes fluttered softly in his sleep as he reminisced on the night before.

He remembers how Satoru had practically pounced on him the second he heard Megumi, the last of their children to still be awake— had finally bid them goodnight and closed his door.

The moment that soft click echoed down the hallway, Satoru had shoved him back against the bedroom door hard enough to rattle the frame, mouth already hungry and insistent— just like how he had done hours earlier in that empty classroom. He let Satoru have his fun for a while, let him do as he pleases before Suguru took control. He flipped them, pinned Satoru to the mattress with his full weight, and reminded him exactly who he belonged to.

He fucked him nicely.

Slow at first— deep, deliberate rolls of his hips while he held Satoru’s wrists above his head and watched every flicker of pleasure cross that beautiful face. He’d  taken his time mapping every sensitive spot with his mouth and teeth until Satoru was trembling and cursing him in the same breath. Then harder, faster, when Satoru started begging in that broken, breathless way that always undid him. He had made Satoru come twice before allowing himself to finish the first time, then pulled out only long enough to turn him onto his stomach and sink back in, chest pressed to Satoru’s back, one hand tangled in white hair and the other wrapped firmly around his throat— not tight enough to truly restrict, just enough pressure to make Satoru’s blue eyes go hazy with pure, blissful surrender.

By the end of it Satoru had been reduced to soft, wrecked little noises and the repeated, slurred confession of yours, only yours, voice hoarse from moaning into the pillow. Suguru had cleaned them both up afterward with a warm cloth, kissed every bruise he left, and pulled Satoru against his chest until the other man finally drifted off, completely spent and thoroughly claimed.

Even now, the memory sat warm and heavy behind Suguru’s ribs, a proud buzz shooting through his veins.

He pressed a soft kiss to Satoru’s temple. “Wake up, love,” he murmured. “It’s time for you to open those pretty eyes for me.”

Satoru made a low, protesting sound and burrowed closer, nuzzling into the curve of Suguru’s neck. “Five more minutes… you broke me last night…”

Suguru’s smile turned faintly smug as he sat up on his elbow, staring down at his pretty husband. “You asked for it.”

“And I’d ask again,” He mumbled, but he finally cracked one blue eye open, still heavy with sleep and residual satisfaction. “Morning.”

“Good morning,” Suguru couldn’t help but smile fondly as they locked eyes. “Time to get up angel.”

They managed to disentangle themselves and get dressed before the rest of the house woke up and the chaos began. The morning rush followed in its usual rhythm— Nanako and Mimiko arguing over something so irrelevant and petty that it just became background noise most of the time, or worse they get so loud that either himself or Satoru have to meditate until things calm down. Tsumiki is always being her sweet angel self and helping Suguru prepare breakfast in the kitchen, trying out new recipes that she finds online and no matter how late Suguru knows it’ll make them, he can never say no to her precious face. And lastly Megumi was doing his duties, making sure the dogs were fed and thoroughly petted before they all sat down to eat.

Suguru stood at the stove for a moment longer than necessary, watching the scene unfold around him.

Satoru was already at the table, blindfold still off, laughing as he tried to steal a piece of fruit from Nanako’s plate while she squealed in protest. Mimiko was quietly telling Tsumiki about a dream she’d had. Megumi sat with perfect posture, chopsticks in hand, occasionally shooting Satoru a look of pure teenage judgment that only made Satoru grin wider, eager to ragebait him further. The dogs had settled under the table at Megumi’s feet too, tails thumping softly against the floor.

Suguru felt something warm and steady settle deep in his chest.

He wouldn’t change a single thing.

Breakfast ended the way it always did— with rushed goodbyes, last-minute reminders about handing in their homework, and Satoru dramatically declaring that the twins were never allowed to argue before eight in the morning again (a rule that wouldn’t even make it three days). They left the house together, rings tucked safely against their skin, and the walk to school passed in comfortable silence broken only by the occasional brush of their hands.

By the time they reached the staff room, the private softness of the morning had been carefully packed away again.

Suguru had barely finished making his morning coffee before Yaga’s voice carried from the doorway.

“Geto, Gojo. My office. Now.”

Satoru straightened from where he had been half-sprawled over his desk, already mid-complaint about the early hour before he stood up following behind him as they made their way to his office. Yaga’s office always smelled of old paper and strong tea, somehow comforting in a way. The principal was already seated behind his desk, a mission file open in front of him. What made the pleasant warmth from the morning vanish was the third person already standing to the side of the desk.

Hiroku.

The Kyoto transfer looked far too pleased with himself and Suguru’s fingers tightened around the ceramic mug automatically. The warmth of the coffee did nothing to blunt the sudden, cold spike of irritation that slid under his ribs at the sight of that familiar, self-satisfied face. Hiroku stood with his hands clasped behind his back, posture straight, expression carefully neutral in the way of someone who had practiced looking innocent in a mirror. Thankfully, the faint bruising along his jaw from yesterday’s “demonstration” was still there and Suguru’s eyes caught the slight stiffness in the way he held his right shoulder. Good.

Yaga didn’t bother with greetings. He tapped the open file once with a thick finger.

“There’s a grade-one curse reported in the outskirts of Saitama. Residential area, abandoned warehouse district. Local non-sorcerers have started vanishing. Two confirmed deaths. The Kyoto branch was originally going to handle it, but their manpower is stretched thin with the exchange preparations.” His gaze flicked between the three of them. “Since Hiroku is already here and familiar with the area, he’ll be joining you.”

“Excuse me?” was Suguru’s immediate response.

Satoru, who was still half-asleep and leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, made a soft, offended noise. “Joining us? For a grade one? That’s overkill, Suguru and I can clear it before lunch.”

“It’s not a request,” Yaga said flatly. “The higher-ups agreed after Hiroku here volunteered, Consider it public relations. You leave in thirty minutes— Take the first-years if you want; they could use the field experience. Dismissed.”

Hiroku’s smile was small and polite. “Looking forward to working with you both.”

Suguru set his untouched coffee down with deliberate care, suddenly not in the mood for it anymore. “Of course.”

They filed out. The moment the office door clicked shut behind them, Satoru’s hand brushed the small of Suguru’s back— a quick, silent I know. Then he peeled off toward the first-year classroom to collect the kids, leaving Suguru alone in the hallway with Hiroku.

The other man fell into step beside him as though they were colleagues of long standing.

“Yesterday was… educational,” Hiroku said lightly. “You’re very thorough when you teach.”

Suguru kept walking. “I don’t like repeating lessons.”

“Neither do I.” Hiroku’s voice dropped a fraction. “Though I notice Gojo seems to enjoy watching you work. He looked… invested.”

Suguru stopped walking.

The corridor was empty. Morning light slanted through the high windows, catching dust motes. He turned just enough to look at the man properly for the first time since the staff room incident, giving him a once over before he cleared his throat.

“Careful,” he said, soft enough that only Hiroku could hear. “You’re new here. It would be a shame if something unfortunate happened on your first mission here.”

Hiroku’s expression didn’t change, but something sharp flickered behind his eyes. “Threats already, Geto? Over a colleague?”

Suguru’s expression remained perfectly pleasant, the same mild smile he wore when dealing with particularly irritating higher-ups.

“Not a threat,” he answered evenly. “A professional observation. Satoru and I have worked together for a long time. We have a system. Outside interference tends to complicate things unnecessarily.”

Hiroku’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Interference. That’s an interesting word for simply talking to a fellow teacher.”

Suguru took a single step closer. The corridor was still empty, the morning light cutting sharp lines across the floor between them.

“You’ve been here five days,” he said, voice low and almost conversational. “In that time you’ve found reasons to hover near his desk, insert yourself into classes, and now volunteer for a mission that doesn’t require a third sorcerer of your grade. Pattern recognition is part of the job. I’m simply noticing the pattern.”

Hiroku’s polite mask slipped just enough to show a flash of irritation. “And if I am interested in getting to know Gojo better? He’s single, isn’t he? Or is there some unspoken rule in Tokyo that the strongest is off-limits?”

Suguru felt the familiar, ugly heat coil low in his chest. He kept it off his face with the ease of long practice.

“There is no rule,” he said calmly. “Only consequences. Satoru is… particular about who he spends time with. And I am particular about people who mistake his friendliness for an invitation. He’s been that way since we were students. Some people never learn the difference.”

He let the silence stretch for a beat, then added, softer, “I’d hate for your transfer to Tokyo to become memorable for the wrong reasons.”

Hiroku opened his mouth, but the sound of approaching footsteps cut him off. Satoru rounded the corner with Megumi, Yuuji, and Nobara trailing behind him like ducklings. The first-years were already buzzing with excitement at the prospect of a real mission.

Satoru’s blindfold hid his eyes, but the slight tilt of his head told Suguru he’d caught the tail end of the conversation.

“Ready?” he asked, voice bright and careless as he came to a stop between them. “Warehouse district, grade one, possible survivors. Should be fun.”

˖✦. ── .✦˖

It was not fun.

The warehouse floor was slick with something dark and unpleasant, echoing with the skittering of small parasitic curses that scattered every time they got close. What should have been a straightforward extermination stretched into forty tense minutes of Hiroku and Suguru all but shoving each other out of the way to land the final blow on anything that moved.

Satoru, of course, seemed to find the whole thing entertaining. He floated above the worst of it, Infinity casually active, offering the occasional lazy comment about “teamwork” while the two of them tried to one-up each other in front of him. The first-years stayed wisely out of the way, watching with wide eyes as their two sensei turned a grade-one exorcism into an unnecessary competition.

By the time the last curse was exorcised, Suguru’s jaw ached from clenching and his knuckles were scraped raw. Hiroku looked equally ruffled, pride clearly bruised. They returned to the school in tense silence, Satoru humming between them like nothing was wrong.

Suguru barely slept that night.

Every time he closed his eyes he saw Hiroku’s stupid face, and heard his agitating voice against his ear. By morning the irritation had settled into something darker, heavier, coiling low in his gut and refusing to loosen.

He made it through the day on pure muscle memory, letting his legs take him to where he needed to be while his mind continued to taunt him. It wasn’t until later in the day, when all the students had been dismissed and classrooms started to empty out— that his composure started to crack.

Suguru was walking back from the training grounds, sleeves still rolled up, when he turned the corner into the second-floor hallway and stopped dead. Hiroku was there. Leaning against the wall just outside an empty classroom, body angled toward Satoru, smiling that same polite, too-interested smile. Satoru had his hands in his pockets, listening with the easy half-attention he gave almost everyone he wasn’t interested in, and yet— Hiroku still took that as an invitation to keep going.

Then he heard Hiroku.

“—so I was thinking, since the exchange is coming up we should probably get things sorted out, maybe we could grab dinner sometime. Just the two of us. There’s a place near the station that does really good soba. Or if you’d rather something quieter…”

“Hiroku, I’m flattered, but—”

“Just one dinner,” Hiroku pressed, leaning in a fraction more. “No pressure. I know you’re busy, but I’d really like to get to know you better outside of work.”

Something finally shattered inside of him, his patience finally wearing thin.

That’s it.

He closed the distance in five long strides, his feet moving before his brain could cooperate with the pace.

“Satoru.”

Both men turned. Hiroku’s smile faltered just slightly when he saw Suguru’s expression, meanwhile Satoru seemed to perk up at his appearance.

“Suguru! there you are, I was just looking for—”

His hand closed around Satoru's bicep, his grip firm but not painful. He didn't look at Hiroku. He didn't acknowledge him at all— he simply turned, pulling Satoru along. He just needed to get out of there.

"Suguru," Satoru said, his voice a low murmur, laced with laughter. "What are you—"

“Shut the fuck up, Satoru.” He seethed and other immediately clamped his mouth closed, eyes going wide behind his blindfold as he willingly let himself be dragged through the school. He didn't stop until he found an empty classroom, shoving the door open and yanking Satoru inside before he kicked it shut behind them. The click of the lock echoed in the empty room once again, a mere image of what happened the day before.

Then he turned, crowded Satoru back against the nearest desk, caging him in with his body— his hands planting themselves on either side of Satoru's hips on the dusty wood. He leaned in, his voice a low growl against Satoru's ear.

"He asked you on a date, didn’t he?"

"He did," Satoru confirmed, his grin audible. "Rude of him, wasn't it? Not even asking for my husband's permission first."

Suguru's laugh was a harsh, humorless thing. "You think you’re so funny.”

He shoved Satoru back, not hard enough to hurt, but with enough force to make him stumble until his thighs hit the edge of the large, sturdy desk at the front of the room. Suguru's gaze swept over the space— the neat stacks of papers on the corner, the meticulously organized pens in their holder, the faint scent of chalk dust and cheap cologne that wasn't his or Satoru's. A slow, predatory grin spread across his face.

"Hiroku's classroom," he murmured, the realization hitting him with a jolt of possessive satisfaction. "Well, isn't that perfect."

He crowded in again, his hands fisting in the front of Satoru's uniform jacket and yanking him close. "You think he'd like to see this? See how desperate and pathetic I can make you?" He didn't wait for an answer. He crashed their mouths together, a brutal, claiming kiss that was all teeth and desperation. Satoru moaned into it, his hands coming up to grip Suguru's shoulders, his body already pliant and eager.

With a sharp tug, Suguru spun Satoru around and shoved him face-down over the desk. Satoru went willingly, his chest pressing against the dusty wood, a breathless laugh escaping his lips as his blindfold started to slip. "Gonna make a mess, Suguru? Right here on his desk?"

"You have no idea," Suguru growled, already yanking Satoru’s pants and underwear down in one rough motion— shoving them just past his thighs. He didn’t bother with gentleness. He simply planted one boot between Satoru’s legs and forced them wider, the hard press of his thigh sliding up until it was flush against Satoru’s cock, pinning him open against the edge of the desk.

Satoru’s breath stuttered. His hips jerked instinctively, grinding down against the solid muscle of Suguru’s thigh, seeking friction. “Fuck—”

“Stay still…” Suguru’s voice was low, almost calm, but the way he said it made Satoru shiver. He leaned over him, chest to back, one hand fisted in white hair and yanking his head up so his neck was angled, the other reaching around to free himself. “I didn’t say you could do that now, did I?”

The sound of his zipper was loud in the empty room, and the heavy weight of him sprung free against the curve of Satoru’s ass a second later. Suguru spat into his palm, stroked himself once, then lined up and pushed in without warning— one long, deep thrust that forced a broken moan out of Satoru and made the desk scrape forward an inch.

“That’s it…, feel that?” Suguru rasped against his ear, hips snapping forward until he was buried to the hilt. Satoru cried out, a sharp, broken sound that was swallowed by the dusty classroom. His hands, which had been braced against the desk— flew out to the sides, knocking over a neat stack of books that clattered to the floor.

“S-Suguru,” He gasped out, hands clawing at the desk desperately.

"Fuck," Suguru snarled, his voice a raw growl against Satoru's ear. He didn't move, just stayed buried deep, letting Satoru feel the full stretch, the undeniable possession. "You take it so well. Always so fucking eager for it, aren't you?"

He finally moved, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, hard enough to make the desk rattle. He set a brutal, punishing rhythm, his hips snapping forward with enough force to steal Satoru's breath. The hand in his hair tightened, holding him in place, forcing him to arch his back and take every inch.

"Look at this mess…" Suguru grunted, his gaze fixed on the scene before them. The scattered books, the knocked-over pen holder, the way Satoru's body was being used right on top of Hiroku's pristine workspace. "He's going to have to clean this up…he's going to wonder who left his desk smelling like sex and sweat…”

Satoru’s laugh broke into a punched-out moan. “J-Jealous bastard—”

“Look who’s talking,” Suguru groaned, voice rough and low as he drove in again, deeper, harder. The desk lurched forward another few centimetres, legs screeching against the floor.

He released Satoru’s hair only long enough to shove the blindfold the rest of the way up onto his forehead, then fisted the white strands again and yanked his head back so he could see every flicker of expression. Satoru’s eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, mouth open around broken sounds that kept escaping no matter how hard he tried to muffle them against his own forearm.

“There you are,” Suguru murmured, almost fond. “Pretty like this. Bent over another man’s desk with my cock splitting you open. You should see yourself.”

He held him there for a few more punishing thrusts, forcing Satoru to meet his gaze while he took every inch, until the blue eyes were wet and unfocused and the soft, desperate noises spilling from his lips had turned completely incoherent.

Then Suguru shoved his face back down onto the desk.

Satoru’s cheek hit the polished wood with a dull thud, papers crumpling beneath him. Suguru’s hand stayed fisted in his hair, pinning him there, keeping his head turned just enough that one glassy blue eye was still visible, still forced to stare sideways at the scattered mess of Hiroku’s things while Suguru resumed the brutal rhythm.

“That’s it, sweetheart…were made for this, weren’t you?” he growled against the shell of Satoru’s ear, never slowing. “Made to just sit there, looking pretty..”

Satoru’s only answer was a high, broken moan that vibrated straight through the wood. His free hand scrabbled uselessly against the surface, knocking the remaining pens and a half-empty coffee mug onto the floor. The ceramic shattered, but either of them could care.

Suguru drove in harder, using the grip on Satoru’s hair to keep him pinned and arched, chest flush to the desk, ass presented perfectly for every deep, claiming stroke. The wet slap of skin filled the empty classroom. A few more papers fluttered to the floor. Somewhere far down the hallway a door closed, the sound distant enough that it only sharpened the risk.

“Anyone could walk by, yknow?” Suguru said, voice dark and low. “Hear you getting fucked stupid on his desk. Hear how wet you are for it. Think about that the next time he tries his luck.”

Satoru’s laugh came out wrecked and muffled against the wood. “You’re—ah—so dramatic—”

Suguru didn’t slow. If anything, the breathless little jab only made him drive in harder

“Dramatic?” he echoed, voice low and rough against the back of Satoru’s neck. “I’m just thorough. You of all people should appreciate that.”

He punctuated his point with a particularly sharp thrust that made Satoru's whole body jolt, a choked gasp tearing from his throat. "I'm making sure he understands. Making sure you remember." His free hand came down hard on Satoru's ass, the sharp smack echoing in the room, followed instantly by the red bloom of a handprint on pale skin.

Satoru's response was a muffled whimper, his hips pushing back instinctively, silently begging for more. The friction against his own trapped cock, pinned between his body and the unyielding desk, was becoming unbearable. He was so close, teetering on the edge, but Suguru was in control— and he was taking his sweet time.

“P-Please," Satoru finally managed, the word muffled by the wood and his own desperation. "Suguru, please...I'm gonna..."

"No, I don’t think so," Suguru cut him off, his voice a low growl. He stopped moving, buried deep inside, his grip on Satoru's hair tightening painfully. "You don't get to come until I say so. You wanted to play games? Let's play."

He slowly pulled out, leaving Satoru empty and clenching around nothing. Before Satoru could protest, Suguru hauled him up by his hair, spinning him around and shoving him back against the desk. Satoru landed in a sitting position among the wreckage, his legs falling open, his pants still tangled around his thighs. His cock was flushed and leaking, curving up towards his stomach, a testament to his desperate arousal.

Suguru crowded in— ripping his pants of entirely before kicking Satoru's legs wider with his boot. He looked down at him, at his wrecked state— blindfold pushed up, hair a mess, lips swollen and red from biting them, eyes glassy and unfocused. "Look at you," Suguru murmured, his voice a low purr. "So fucking pretty for me…."

He reached out, his fingers tracing the path of a tear track on Satoru's cheek. "You know what I think?" Suguru murmured, his thumb dragging slowly across Satoru's cheekbone, smearing the wetness. "I think you let him keep going. Let him ask you out. Let him lean in close like that— just so you could watch this happen. Watch me snap."

Satoru's breath hitched, his chest rising and falling too fast. He didn't deny it.

"Admit it," Suguru pressed, fingers sliding down to grip his chin, tilting his face up. "You were waiting for me to come get you. Standing there with your hands in your pockets, pretending you weren't counting the seconds."

“…What took you so long, hm?” Satoru suddenly broke into a sinister smirk, throwing an unnecessary wink in Suguru's face.

Something in Suguru's chest cracked open at that. He surged forward, kissing him deep and messy, all tongue and teeth, while his hands found Satoru's thighs and pushed them further apart. He didn't break the kiss as he lined himself up again, swallowing the moan that spilled from Satoru's mouth when he pushed back in— slow this time, deliberate, grinding in until his hips were flush.

Satoru's hands flew up to clutch at his shoulders, nails biting through the fabric of his uniform.

"That’s it," Suguru breathed against his lips. "Take all of it. You've been waiting long enough, haven’t you?"

He set a deep, rolling rhythm— not fast, but relentless, every thrust pushing a small, punched-out sound from Satoru's throat. The desk rocked beneath them, legs skidding an inch across the floor with each snap of Suguru's hips. Papers still sliding off the edge, fluttered down, and neither of them looked.

Suguru's hand found Satoru's cock again, stroking him in counterpoint— tight, slow drags that made Satoru's thighs tremble where they bracketed Suguru's hips. His head dropped back, throat bared, mouth open around sounds he'd stopped trying to muffle.

"Look around," Suguru said lowly, tilting his own chin to gesture at the wreckage. "Books on the floor. Ink everywhere. His mug is in pieces. And you—" he drove in harder, punching the breath out of Satoru's lungs, "—you're going to come all over the desk he grades his papers on. So the next time he sits here…he'll smell you."

“Fuck—“ Satoru’s voice broke.

“Say it, tell me what I want to hear.”

"Yours—" Satoru gasped, hips jerking up to meet him, chasing it now, past caring. "Suguru, I'm yours, I'm—"

Suguru let go of his cock and hooked both hands under his thighs instead, yanking him to the very edge, angling up until every thrust dragged exactly where Satoru needed it. Satoru's back bowed off the wood from where he was laid out, a raw, cracking cry torn from his chest as he came— hard, untouched, splashing hot across his own stomach and the ruined desk beneath him.

Suguru didn't stop. He fucked him through it, riding the clench of Satoru's body with gritted teeth, and only when Satoru was boneless and whimpering did he finally let himself go— burying deep, hips stuttering, spilling inside with a low, guttural groan he couldn't have held back if he tried.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Just harsh breathing and the faint creak of the desk settling. Somewhere down the hall, a door opened and closed again.

Suguru pulled out slowly, watching his own release follow— thick, trickling down Satoru's thigh and onto the wood. He felt a deep, animal satisfaction at the sight.

"Stay," he murmured, when Satoru made a weak attempt to sit up. He reached over and grabbed the crumpled stack of Hiroku's notes off the floor, flipping through them until he found one with a fresh, pristine blank margin. Then he pressed it flat against Satoru's thigh, right where the mess was running, and dragged it up— smearing a streak of their combined release across the top of the page.

“There,” he said softly, almost fond. “A little reminder.”

Satoru huffed a breathless laugh that turned into a weak groan as he finally pushed himself up onto his elbows. His legs were still trembling, uniform shirt half-rucked up to show the mess drying across his stomach that left Suguru with a satisfying feeling in his gut.

One blue eye squinted at the note, then at Suguru, the corner of his mouth curling. “You’re actually going to leave that for him?”

“Mm.” Suguru reached down and gently fixed the blindfold, tugging it back into place over Satoru’s eyes. His fingers lingered at the edge of the fabric, brushing sweat-damp hair away from his husband’s forehead. “He wanted to get to know you better. Now he can get to know both of us.”

He helped Satoru stand, steadying him when his knees threatened to buckle, and carefully pulled his pants back up. The movement was unhurried, almost tender— a sharp contrast to the way he’d just wrecked him. He used his own handkerchief, wiping the worst of the mess from Satoru’s stomach and thighs, then tucked the soiled cloth into his pocket without a second thought.

The classroom looked like a small disaster had hit it: books scattered, pens rolling under the desk, ceramic shards glittering near the leg, and the faint, unmistakable scent of sex hanging in the air. Suguru took one last look, satisfied, then guided Satoru toward the door.

They slipped out into the empty hallway. Evening light slanted through the high windows in long golden bars. Satoru walked a little carefully; Suguru stayed close enough that their shoulders kept touching, a silent claim even when no one was watching.

Hiroku was still near the vending machines when they passed. He glanced up. His eyes flicked over them— Satoru’s slightly mussed hair, the flush still high on his cheeks, the way Suguru’s hand rested at the small of his back—and something complicated crossed his face. Something similar to confusion or irritation— a flicker of realisation he couldn’t quite put together yet.

Suguru met his gaze and offered the mildest, politest smile in his arsenal.

Hiroku looked away first.

˖✦. ── .✦˖

Two days later, the late-afternoon sun was warm against the side of the school building when Suguru stepped out onto the narrow concrete ledge that passed for a smoking area. Shoko was already there, leaning against the railing with a cigarette dangling between her fingers, the usual half-lidded expression of someone who looked like they could sleep for a lifetime.

She didn’t look up when he joined her. Just offered the pack without a word. Suguru took one, lit it with the same lighter he’d been carrying since their second year, and exhaled slowly toward the sky.

They smoked in comfortable silence for a minute. Somewhere below, students were yelling about something that didn’t matter, all Suguru could focus on was the air smell of ash and cut grass.

“Heard about Hiroku?” Shoko asked eventually, voice dry.

Suguru took another drag, careful to keep his expression neutral. “What about him?”

“Transferred back to Kyoto this morning.” She flicked ash over the edge. “Rumor has it they found his classroom in a state that made it clear sexual activities had taken place on school grounds, sexual misconduct in the workplace pretty much— so he was given the choice of resigning quietly or being formally investigated. He chose the transfer.”

Suguru kept his face carefully blank. Inside, something bright and vicious unfurled in his chest, warm and satisfied. He took another slow drag to hide the way his mouth wanted to curve. “Shame,” he said at last, voice mild. “He seemed so eager to integrate.”

"You're going to make me drag it out of you, aren’t you?” She deadpanned and he couldn’t hold back his snort.

He didn’t deny it, there was no point— Shoko had known them far too long for him to even try.

“I simply made sure the message was clear,” Suguru said after a moment, exhaling smoke toward the sky. “He was becoming a problem.”

“He was becoming your problem,” she corrected. “And you decided the cleanest solution was to fuck your husband on the man’s desk, leave evidence, and wait for him to deal with the consequences.”

A faint, satisfied smile curved Suguru’s mouth. “It worked.”

“You’re lucky the higher-ups are more afraid of the two of you than they are of procedure,” she said. “Don’t push it again.”

“I won’t need to.” He flicked the butt into the bin and pushed off the railing. “He’s gone.”

Shoko’s mouth twitched. “Try not to look so pleased about it in front of the kids, that’s the best advice i can give you.”

“Can’t a guy enjoy his victory while it’s still fresh?”

Shoko gave him a long, flat look before saying “You’re unbearable when you’re smug.”

“I learned from the best.”

“Going to tell him the good news?”

“He already knows. He always knows stuff before I do.” Suguru's mouth curved, softer now. “But I’ll let him gloat anyway. He earned it.”

She shook her head, stubbing out the second cigarette. “You two are exhausting.”

“We know.”

˖✦. ── .✦˖