Chapter Text
Suguru has become increasingly aware that he has a bit of a problem. Firstly, his best friend, in general, is a problem, but the issue goes a bit deeper than that. To be specific: his problem involved his best friend and his best friend’s inability to do his own laundry, apparently.
Suguru needs help or to be euthanized. Or to euthanize someone else. Either or.
(Eat the rich! Fuck them too. Just—get rid of them because the rich are the reason he’s in this situation.)
And the bigger issue is that if his best friend keeps [REDACTED CONTENT], he’s going to do something unimaginably stupid. And the thoughts (fantasies) he’s thought (dreamt and salivated over) over the passing weeks are more than enough to get him sent to the deepest pits of hell about sixteen times over.
Now that he thinks about it, it probably constitutes more than one problem. but the issue is the same, and the issue, as always, is Satoru.
7:36 SATORU
u gonna be home soon?
at ur apt rn
7:38 SUGURU
wtf how did u get in
thought u lost ur key
7:38 SATORU
reception unlocked the door
felt bad for me i think
all soppy and shit
7:40 SUGURU
just got out of class omw
i told you to carry an umbrella
wanna order food
7:41 SATORU
probs gonna make ramen
kinda got soaked
can i use ur shower
7:44 SUGURU
knock yourself out
dryer’s broken tho
7:44 SATORU
ur closets not
7:45 SUGURU
if my supreme hoodie is missing from the closet when i get back
consider ur days numbered
7:45 SATORU
don’t text and walk <3
would suck if u got hit by a bus and died
7:45 SUGURU
brat
7:47 SATORU
that hoodie’s ugly as fuck anyway
Suguru smiles fondly at his phone.
The rain has stopped by the time he makes his way out of the lecture hall and out of the chemistry building—but the ground is still wet and slippery with rainwater. For a while, Suguru was worried in might flood, but everything seems to have calmed down.
He walks the two blocks to the bus station, catching it just in time to take him all the way back to the street he lives on now. While sometimes inconvenience, Suguru will never regret deciding to live off campus in his third year. Something about a dirty, sixteen by sixteen cube of a dorm never really suited him.
While Suguru personally adores his alone time, Satoru would die if left unattended, leading to him living in a two-bedroom with a reluctant Shoko, and Suguru living a few streets down in a studio apartment.
He unlocks the door with one hand while the other slips free from the straps of his bag. “I’m back.”
He can’t hear the shower running, so he assumes Satoru’s either finished or not gone in yet, and one is more preferable than the other, because he needs to make sure Satoru hasn’t poured half of Suguru’s (very expensive) coconut conditioner down the drain. He thinks his keen sense of smell in part makes up for his subpar sense of taste—because things always smelled better than they tasted. So yes, Suguru chooses to splurge on things like conditioner and coffee creamer based purely on scent, so sue him. (Don’t, he’s broke.)
Suguru hears the clang of something falling over and immediately snaps alert, nose pointed in the direction of the kitchen like a one of those damned hunting dogs. “You better not be fucking up my kitchen, Toru.”
“Fuck you, it’s your—“ another clang, “—fucking salt shaker.”
Suguru sighs, and since Satoru can’t see him, he doesn’t bother hiding the fond smile that slowly creeps up his face, almost too subtle to notice. Down to his toes, he’s warm. He thinks that’s just Satoru’s effect. Suguru wonders if Satoru had this effect on everyone, but the last time he asked Shoko, she had leveled him with the most unimpressed stare he had ever received in his life and proceeded to ignore him for the next two hours.
“What are you doing?”
Plastic hits a countertop. Suguru lifts a brow at the crinkling noise, almost too amused to actually round the corner to see what Satoru is up to.
“Trying to find where you keep the good shit—I know you’re hiding the expensive ramen, you asshole.”
Satoru isn’t lying—the “expensive” ramen sits inside one of the upper cabinets to be saved for special occasions (finishing another semester of academic hell). Suguru laughs and finally exits the hallway, another quip loaded and ready on the tip of his tongue, but his words shrivel and drown in saliva the second he looks up.
Satoru’s back is facing him, having climbed atop one of Suguru’s countertops, rummaging through the cupboards in search of the special-grade ramen, bruised knees against cool marble. And see, that’s probably the first thing Suguru should have noticed. But no, no it’s not. Maybe the first thing he should notice is the tipped salt shaker lying next to one of Satoru’s shins, but it’s not.
Nah, the first thing Suguru notices is unblemished, white skin and loose, smooth fabric stretching across it. Actually—no. No, not even that.
The first thing he notices is that Satoru is wearing his shirt.
Namely, a loose, faded gray band shirt Suguru had gotten at a concert years ago, back when he was convinced emo music and oversized clothes were the shit. However, now, he fills out the shirt pretty well, if he must say so himself. But Satoru—theoretically, Suguru knows he’s wider than Satoru, even if Satoru has an extra inch or two of height on him. Obviously, his clothes wouldn’t fit Satoru the same way they fit him. But nothing could have prepared him for this.
For this: Satoru in nothing but a (his) shirt and (presumably) boxers, because see—there’s nothing but soft, smooth skin for miles. Shit, the difference—the way the difference in their width gets accentuated, and fuck, fucking fuck, Satoru drowns in his shirt.
And listen—listen. Gojo Satoru is a lanky, six-foot-tall menace with long legs and gangly arms. In public, Satoru sticks out like a sore thumb, between the height and the hair. The point is: Gojo Satoru isn’t small.
But if that’s true, then what the fuck is this?
And why is Suguru salivating?
(Because he’s is going to spontaneously combust, probably.)
His mouth is sticky and dry at the same time, and he needs to sort himself out before he breaks into a hysterical coughing fit.
Suguru’s gaze zeroes onto the neckline of his too-large shirt slipping down, down, Satoru’s shoulder— Suguru can feel himself starting to drool over the exposed plains of plush, untouched surface stretched atop strong, lean muscle that shifts and jumps with every movement.
“Tell me where it is, you selfish asshole,” Satoru calls out, still under the impression that Suguru is in the hall somewhere, having moved almost soundlessly through the kitchen doorway.
Suguru swallows down what feels like blended marbles thrown in the ocean for a few days. Eventually, he manages to croak out, “Top shelf of the cabinet closest to the fridge.”
Knees still on the counter, Satoru shuffles until he’s below the correct cabinet before he reaches up for the handle and—oh—Suguru’s brain spins in his head like a merry-go-round. He reaches a hand out to stabilize himself just before slamming headfirst into the doorframe.
A glimpse of green and blue plaid arrives Suguru at the cognizance that Satoru is also wearing his boxers—covered by the shirt that kisses the tops of his thighs when he reaches up.
Satoru’s back arches slightly and Suguru covers a moan with a very audible exhale. Fuck it all—he can see the fold of skin that marks where his thighs taper into the curve of his round, perfect ass, made all the more prominent as Satoru leans forward to retrieve the packet. God, Suguru wants to drag his fingers through the dip and fold, knead his fingers into the muscle until Satoru’s legs give out.
It’s a miracle Suguru’s eyes haven’t started to water profusely because fuck, he can see the backs of Satoru’s thighs, smooth and perfect, strong muscles shifting deliciously as Satoru adjusts his weight; Suguru wants to squeeze the plush, pillowy flesh until he can see his handprints tattooed onto them. Legs supple and thin and slender and fuck, just one of Suguru’s hands could probably wrap around—
If he slid his hands up the backside of Satoru’s tempting thighs—no, would they start to quiver if he—
Suguru wants to bruise up the sensitive skin of Satoru’s inner thighs so blue and purple that he can’t even walk without the full ache flaring every time his legs brush together as a reminder of much Suguru worships him. A reminder that there’s only one person allowed to see, allowed to touch. Suguru wants to slide a hand over the skin and press down until Satoru clings to him and begs him to stop.
Suguru wants to fucking wreck him, fuck him until he’s cock-dumb and drooling, until the only word he remembers is Suguru’s name. He wants to ravage him, cover him from head to toe in marks so no one will doubt for a single second that Satoru is his.
Oh, god, Suguru wants to make him cry. He wants Satoru so stretched thin and overwhelmed that he can’t do anything but mewl Suguru’s name.
Oh, this is dangerous. Suguru closes his eyes.
Cabinets rattle as Satoru presumably makes his way down, and Suguru turns away for good measure. The last thing he needs to see is Satoru’s long legs stretching so his toes can meet the floor, exposing the way the skin on his still-slightly-damp-from-the-shower inner thighs stick together and peel apart as Satoru spreads his legs.
Suguru Jr. stirs in his pants. Suguru wonders if willpower alone is enough. Maybe if he just punches himself in the dick one time.
However, he’s already run out of time to explore that possibility as Satoru swings his legs over the edge of the counter, readjusting so he’s sitting, exposed thighs landing on the cool marble with a soft clap that nearly makes Suguru’s eyes roll back.
Something hits him square in the chest, and he barely manages to catch the object before it hits the floor. The plastic crinkles in his grip—Satoru just threw the good quality instant ramen at him. Suguru looks up, unimpressed, one eyebrow raised. Satoru just flashes him a quick smile before pulling one of Suguru’s stainless steel pots off the pot rack.
“You threw this at me because?” Suguru takes a step forward.
Satoru snorts. “Because I can’t fucking boil water.”
Suguru laughs and finally composes himself, walking forward as nonchalantly as possible to take the pot from Satoru’s outstretched hand and sidestep until he’s in front of the sink, using his other hand to place the ramen packet next to the stove in preparation.
In his mind, he repeats a new mantra: don’t look at him don’t look at him don’t look at him don’t
He opens the fridge, searching for—vegetables, yeah. Instead, he’s met with mostly white plastic and the last carton of milk. Next to it, there’s a bowl of rice wrapped in Ceran and a can of beer. Right, tomorrow was grocery day. He made a mental note to text himself a list before he went. They’d survive one night of sewage equivalent in their stomachs.
“Suguru.”
Out of habit, Suguru turns. Then, he remembers his mantra, then curses himself. Satoru is still there, still wearing his shirt, still looking like every wet dream Suguru has ever dreamt, clutching the counter edge between his legs. He might burn that shirt after today (he won’t). Since he’s already fucked, he indulges a bit more—the shirt hangs loosely around his collarbones, almost slipping off one of his toned shoulders before Satoru hikes it back up. The sleeves—the fucking sleeves—cover his pretty hands, and Suguru vaguely remembers sizing up when he bought the shirt, so on Satoru—this feels like a scene out of a very, very bad (fucking amazing) porno. He can’t even lie—Satoru looks like heaven incarnate.
“Suguru.”
“Yeah?” Suguru responds too quickly the second time, and holds back a wince.
Satoru squints at him. “Are you okay? You’re looking a bit queasy.”
Suguru shrugs, looking away. “I’m fine.”
“Stop,” Satoru bristles at him, “I don’t want ramen that much anyway. I’ll order pizza, it’ll be easier—to clean up, too. I’ll set up a movie.”
His willpower absolutely shot to hell, Suguru can’t do much else but agree, glaring at a spec of dust on the floor as if that would make Satoru disappear (or at least put more clothes on him).
Purposelessly, Suguru continues to stand in front of the fridge, not making any move to open or close it, hands dangling uselessly at his sides. And this might be awkward, but not nearly as awkward as turning around and forcing Satoru to face the very excited Suguru Jr. (Isn’t he too old for awkward boners?)
He hears shuffling in the background as Satoru hops off the counter and turns the salt shaker upright. He begins walking; don’t come here don’t come here don’t come here.
His train of thought gets interrupted by two arms circling his middle and he tenses abruptly. Using the opportunity, he turns to face the hallway, forcing Satoru to shuffle in a circle with him. He makes a noise of question but Suguru ignores him, lifting both arms up to break out of Satoru’s loose grip. He can imagine the pout on Satoru’s face, so he answers before he can ask, swiftly moving to the bathroom.
“I’m not upset, Toru. I just—need a shower.”
Satoru hums, believing him. “Meat-lovers pizza? Anything else?”
“A sprite, if they’ve got it.”
Suguru is already halfway down the hallway before Satoru can reply.
— —
When he steps back onto the carpet and pads to the living room, Suguru feels a bit calmer and a lot more sated (shut up). At the very least, the warm water washed the day’s stress and grime away, and he hates to say it, but he likes these nights in with Satoru and really shitty movies. He’s so relaxed, in fact, that he almost forgets about the extreme plight he’s in. And he’s failed to consider how the hell he’s supposed to handle his self-control, where cracks are starting to appear on the glass.
Satoru’s head pops around the side of the sofa where he’s sat on the carpet, leaning against it. Suguru’s computer sits on the coffee table in front of him, some cheap action flick already loaded up and ready; two steaming pizza boxes sit next to it, decorated by a roll of paper towels and two soda cans dripping with condensation.
“Oh, real quick, I left your package on the table next to the coat rack.”
Suguru gives his hair one more squeeze before draping the towel around his neck to catch any lingering droplets. He blinks. “What?”
Satoru huffs and gestures annoyedly for him to sit down.
“Your delivery or whatever—gonna guess it’s the extension for your expresso machine.”
Uh-huh. Satoru had bought Suguru the machine for his birthday after making him promise not to use coffee to try to make up for lack of sleep. Suguru wanted a rubber sleeve for the handle after he burned himself on accident grabbing too high up on the metal rod early one morning. Apparently, it came.
And Satoru answered the door?
Satoru answered the door.
He stiffens. Slowly, he looks down at Satoru, who fiddles with the volume controls on the computer, bare legs shifting and pressing together—lean, hairless, and perfect and—Satoru answered the door.
“You answered the door like that?” Suguru blurts, unable to stop the undercurrent of annoyance (fucking rage) from slipping out.
Satoru just tips his head, confused. “Yeah? Was I…not supposed to?”
Someone else saw Satoru like that. Like this. There’s a deep, somewhat twisted part of Suguru’s psyche that growls and claws at his ribs. No one should see Satoru like this. No one is allowed to see Satoru like this. He bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood.
Meanwhile, Satoru stares up innocently at him, none the wiser. “Can you sit down? Our shit’s gonna get cold soon and your microwave only works when Pluto’s in retrograde.”
(He imagines Satoru answering the door, fluffy white hair falling to the side as he leans around the side of it, eyes automatically zeroing in on the package.
He imagines Satoru’s almost childish naivety as he scribbles down a signature on the clipboard handed to him, completely missing the way leering eyes drop down to his bare legs and up to his face, shamelessly tracing the curve of his neck, smooth, pale, and unmarred.
He thinks about the thought behind the deliverer’s leering eyes. It makes him want to— something.)
Fuck.
Suguru jolts. What the fuck is he doing?
Quickly, he nods at Satoru and walks the long way around the coffee table to sit on Satoru’s other side, leaning against the smooth velvet of the couch. He reaches out.
The can of cold Sprite feels like salvation in his hands, icy water dripping down his knuckles and tethering him to reality.
Satoru pitches himself forward to unpause the screen, and Suguru gets an eyeful of legs, and fabric, and waistband, and boxers that (agonizingly) are his. But—fuck his life—the boxers are loose, the waistband too wide for his narrow waist, because they fit Suguru, and Suguru is bigger, wider. The fabric catches low on his hips, dangerous.
It takes a lot to make Suguru snap. Truly, it does. He’s been told time and time again that he’s got the patience of a saint.
It’s when the boxers slip again and Satoru has to make a grab at the fabric to hitch it back up that Suguru finally loses it.
He grabs Satoru by the back of his (his) shirt and yanks it backward, the other hand already on his shoulder to shove him unceremoniously to the ground. Satoru’s mouth opens in a gasp as the wind gets knocked out of him, and Suguru has the decency to feel a little apologetic—but that fades away just as quickly as it came when he meets Satoru’s wide, azure eyes.
Suguru looms over him, breathing heavy as he rests one hand on either side of his head, caging him in, pinning him down, daring him to escape. Satoru’s mouth opens, but slams shut as he scans Suguru’s face a second time. Suguru doesn’t know what kind of expression he’s wearing, but if it’s anything compared to the hurricane he’s feeling, Satoru should be scared.
Except, Satoru’s not. Instead, his eyebrows furrow together in concern, and he lifts an arm to push away the long locks of Suguru’s damp hair from obscuring his vision. His lips purse when he fails to find what he’s looking for, whatever that might be, and Suguru’s trapped somewhere in an infinite void, where he wants to do everything at once but can’t move a muscle.
“Suguru?”
Suguru stares down at him, Satoru’s face and body perfectly centered in the frame Suguru’s hair creates, spilling over his shoulders. Suguru looks down at Satoru and thinks it’s impossible to stop looking. He feels like he’s being thrown around in the tides.
Satoru gazes quizzically back at him, adjusting so he’s lying flat on his back to analyze Suguru’s conflicted expression. And his hair is soft and unstyled and his eyes aren’t obscured by those stupid wire-frame glasses and Satoru’s lips downturn with worry and he’s looking at Suguru with so much unstated, unadulterated trust in his eyes despite the sudden proximity Suguru manhandled him into.
He’s yours, the ugly green part of his brain croons happily. In your clothes, in your house, in your arms, this Satoru is yours.
God, how he wants that to be true—wants to keep this unrefined, softer, unguarded Satoru all to himself, freeze him in amber, and worship him from head to toe.
Featherlight, knuckles brush against Suguru’s forehead. Suguru doesn’t know what’s guiding him anymore—his instincts and desires and self-control are all weirdly blending into one. Lightning-fast, he snatches Satoru’s wrist and pulls it away from his face, pinning it against the carpet. Satoru frowns at being pushed away, but otherwise shows no sign of protest.
This one’s his. Vulnerable, defenseless, trusting Satoru. He squeezes.
Suguru thinks about the motherfucker who delivered the package and managed to catch a glimpse of this Satoru, his Satoru. And he doesn’t want to think about the way said motherfucker looked at him, because he already knows. He’s seen it on every face, he’s seen it on his own—because Satoru is a walking temptation in all his states of being.
His body is museum artwork, one that people can watch, but no one can touch, no one can defile. His eyes are the North Sea, drowning people after making them forget where they are.
Suguru knows he’s reached his limit once the internal poetry monologue starts. It would help if Satoru didn’t look so fucking cute in his shirt. Seriously.
“Suguru.” Satoru’s voice rings just a decibel louder. Suguru hadn’t noticed the way he had started squirming ever so slightly underneath him, pulling at his captive wrist. “Hey, listen to me. Suguru, that fucking— ow, asshole.”
Suguru’s eyes snap wide open and he’s off Satoru in a flash, leaning back in his former place against the couch before Satoru can even take another breath. Christ, what the hell was wrong with him?
Satoru, less panicked, pushes himself up onto his elbows, then his palms, before leaning a shoulder against the sofa, folding his knees under him to sit on his calves. He massages his wrist for a brief moment, but for a moment long enough to send Suguru down a different spiral: a wave of guilty nausea has Suguru reeling. And he can’t find a good enough explanation to give Satoru.
The fabric of the shirt bunches up at the tops of Satoru’s thighs and begins sliding forward like a wave across a sandy beach.
Suguru internally slaps himself.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he finally finds his voice. “Did I hurt you?”
Satoru looks at him incredulously like Suguru had just told him he was pregnant and it was his. “No, not—it was just—blood circulation. Seriously, what is up with you today?”
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, feeling his face flush with shame. Satoru clearly doesn't believe him but doesn't push. He sighs, unconsciously flicking his wrist a few times—not in any malicious way, but it makes Suguru feel the guilt all the same. There's seriously something wrong with him.
There's a sigh and pressure against his side as Satoru bumps their shoulders together, so familiar, a way they easily defuse tension and arguments in a flash, something that gives Suguru something to latch onto even now. Suguru bumps him back, like always. He’s lucky, because it seems like right now, Satoru himself is a bit too tired to pry the real answers from Suguru’s desperate grasp; this time, he lets Suguru off easy and without whining, the incident going as quickly as it came.
With a huff, Satoru unpauses the movie for real this time. Then he turns to Suguru, expression still a bit confused but mostly grave, but endearing in a way only Satoru could achieve with a single look. It’s not fair—Suguru can’t help but smile.
Finally, Satoru folds his arm across his chest and hums to get Suguru's attention. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right? If something’s wrong?”
“I know, ‘toru. I’m okay. I’m sorry, I," he was—what, pinning Satoru to the ground for fun? There's no rational, non-hormonal-driven explanation that he can shrug off his tongue. Sure, the two of them roughhouse and playfight, both of them black belts in different respective martial arts, but that wasn't playfighting or screwing around. That was an impulse that startled both of them. And it's almost cute (it's really cute) how not a hint of sudden realization passes through his expression, innocently unaware of Suguru's intentions, his wants. Completely unafraid and clueless, Satoru had lain still under him, not considering for a second what Suguru could do to him. "I was just messing with you.”
What a dumb lie. Suguru feels bad, watching the genuine concern flicker across Satoru’s face for a flash. But there’s no way he could tell Satoru he’s acting weird because he can’t keep it in his pants after seeing Satoru in his clothes. Because that’s fucking ridiculous.
“Sure. Just, I’m here if you wanna talk.” He adjusts his collar again. Suguru swallows thickly and follows the action.
He’s so fucked.
Oh, he's so fucked.