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Satoru loves watching Suguru drive. Loves the effortless control in the way he turns the wheel with one hand, the other draped lazily over Satoru’s thigh like it belongs there. Loves the casual confidence in the way Suguru reverses the car, his arm thrown over the back of Satoru’s headrest, head turned just enough to catch the sharp curve of his jaw. He watches the slight flex of Suguru’s bicep against the fabric of his shirt, the way his lips part just a little — focused, calculating, scanning. And then there’s that moment, the one that always gets him: when Suguru catches him staring, when his lips curl into that cocky, knowing smile before he reaches over, pinching Satoru’s cheek, as if to say caught you, before his hand returns to its place, warm and steady on his thigh.
Satoru takes great pride in knowing he was the one Suguru chose. Because Suguru’s a winner. He always has been. He gets what he wants, when he wants, on his terms and no one else’s. He moves through life like a game, like he’s three steps ahead of everyone else, playing the long con while they scramble to keep up. If he wants something, he takes it. And if he doesn’t, he plays. Reels in just close enough to be felt but never enough to be caught. It’s the thrill, the chase, the delicate balance of desire and distance that keeps him interested.
And oh, how he plays with Satoru. Months of push and pull, a delicate dance of closeness and evasion, knowing exactly when to press forward and when to step back. He knew all the right buttons to press, every trick to get Satoru to fold. And yet — despite it all — Suguru is the one wrapped so tightly around Satoru’s finger, Satoru could ask him to pull the moon from the sky and he’d find a way to make it happen.
Because this was never a one-sided game. Satoru’s no fool, never has been. He recognized the steps to Suguru’s little game because he knew them by heart — he’d played them too. He saw through every calculated touch, every fleeting glance, every moment of hesitation designed to keep him on edge. And he let it happen, let Suguru think he was the one in control. Because Satoru’s been winning all his life. He’s always known how to get what he wants. And right now, what he wants is this.
Suguru close. Suguru’s hand on his thigh. Suguru’s smirk when their eyes meet, the silent, unspoken checkmate.
They both know how to play. And they both think they’ve already won.
They’re standing on the edge of something, toes curled over the precipice of a relationship but never quite stepping forward. Too caught up in their little game of tug-of-war, where both believe they have the upper hand. A hint: one is avoidant, the other fearful-avoidant. They’ve learned by now that it’s play or get played. And yet, somehow, they’re both losing.
Suguru pulls into an empty parking lot, not bothering to straighten out the car. It’s an overlook — high above the city, where streetlights flicker on in scattered clusters, illuminating the skyline as the sun bleeds out in a slow, smoldering fade. Reds, oranges, and pinks paint the horizon, casting warm, fleeting light over the car. Over Satoru. Over Suguru.
Satoru likes this part, when the glow catches on Suguru’s face and sharpens every angle. The slope of his nose, the curve of his lips when they twitch into a barely-there smile. He watches as Suguru rolls the hood of the car down, pushing his seat back, settling in. Satoru tilts his head up, looking at the sky above them. There’s a swirl of clouds right over them, like they knew Satoru and Suguru would be here. Like the universe conspired to give them this moment, made them the only two people in the world. Destined fate, if such a thing exists.
Suguru clears his throat, taps his thigh, and Satoru looks away from the sky, back to him. Suguru looks good right now. Too good. The black of his shirt against his tanned skin — darker now from the sun-soaked days they spent together, from the beaches and the saltwater and the heat that clung to their skin. His new tattoo is visible now, fresh ink settled into his forearm. It’s blue. Satoru.
Right there for anyone to see, bright and deliberate, etched into Suguru’s skin like a silent declaration. No one would need a second glance to know exactly who he belongs to. They’d see it, and they’d know.
Suguru nods his head, unbuckling his seatbelt. Satoru mirrors him, shifting over the center console until he’s settled comfortably on Suguru’s lap. There’s a soft clink as his knee knocks against the Diet Pepsi cans in the cupholders — two unfinished, impulsively bought just to see what the hype was about. Suguru tuts, steadying the nearly toppled can, an absent-minded habit.
Lately, Suguru’s been wearing gold. He used to wear silver, but Satoru told him gold would suit him better. And he listened. They went shopping together, and Suguru left with a pair of jeans and a new gold chain, thin and understated, with a dainty pendant that catches the light.
Satoru stares at it now. It’s shiny. When he leans in, his lips reflect off the surface, distorted in the gleam of gold against skin. It looks good. But then again, Suguru looks good in everything.
Satoru hooks a finger around the chain, feeling the cool metal bite into his skin as he tugs at it lightly. Suguru exhales a laugh, his hands already moving — running up and down Satoru’s thighs, tracing lazy circles with his thumbs. Then, further up. A squeeze at his ass, then back down. Over and over, slow and teasing. His fingers toy with the waistband of Satoru’s boxers, plucking at the elastic, letting it snap lightly against his hip.
“These the new ones?” Suguru asks, voice low and rough. He licks his lips, watching Satoru through hooded eyes.
Satoru hums, still toying with the chain.
“Looks good, baby,” Suguru murmurs, hands gripping tighter.
Satoru rolls his eyes, feigning nonchalance, but he can feel the heat creeping up his neck, pooling high in his cheeks. Red like cherries, like summer heat, like something embarrassing he refuses to acknowledge. Even the tips of his ears turn pink, like the cherry blossoms they watched fall last spring. Suguru had called him pretty then, said he matched the petals as they swirled around them.
It’s been a hot summer. The kind that lingers, where the heat sticks to your skin even after the sun sets. It cools down a little as night stretches over them, but that’s not why Satoru feels flushed. It’s him. It’s Suguru. The way he murmurs baby, the way he looks at him, the way his hands press into his skin like he has every right to touch.
They aren’t anything more than a summer fling. A fleeting thing meant to burn bright and fast, a wildfire set ablaze under the July sun.
Summer love, if you can even call it that.
When the air is thick with humidity and tension, when their bodies press close like a magnetized force, drawn in despite knowing better. When the heat messes with their heads and their hands get greedy, restless, desperate. When they don’t care about what happens once the summer ends — only about how long they can stretch out the nights, how deep they can let this sink into their skin before it’s over.
And it will be over.
But for now, Satoru presses his lips against the chain at Suguru’s neck, the cold of the metal meeting the warmth of his mouth. Suguru exhales sharply, his grip tightening. The game is still on.
And neither of them is willing to lose just yet.
Suguru tells him he’s a work of art. Spouts praises like poetry, like they’re worth something, like they hold weight. Satoru listens, but only halfway. It’s not that he doesn’t care — it’s that words have never been enough to shake him. Compliments slide off him like water, unabsorbed, unbelieved. He’s heard it all before, from strangers, from admirers, from people who think they know him. But when Suguru says it, when Suguru looks at him like that — like he means it — Satoru wonders if maybe, just maybe, he should listen.
His arms drape around Suguru’s neck, lazy, familiar, letting the gold chain slip between them, settling against Suguru’s chest. He hums at the contact, warm hands slipping under Satoru’s hoodie, trailing slow up his ribs. He maps out each ridge, each curve, memorizing as if his hands don’t already know the way. Satoru exhales, arms tightening around Suguru, pressing himself closer.
Satoru doesn’t let just anyone touch him. He flirts, teases, gets close enough to drive people crazy — but no one ever gets past the surface. No one gets to press into his skin, trace over the parts of him that aren’t for show. That’s a privilege he’s only ever given to Suguru. It’s always been Suguru.
He has a pretty face and player tendencies, but he isn’t easy. The world can look all it wants, can want all it wants—but no one else gets to claim him. No one else gets to touch. And Suguru understands that because it’s the same for him.
When they go out, Suguru dodges hands reaching for him, steps aside like it’s second nature. Satoru stays close, right there at his side, making sure everyone knows what they are. Suguru doesn’t have Satoru’s eyes etched into his skin for nothing — those bright, electric blue irises inked on his forearm, unmistakable, irrefutable. A warning. A promise. A claim.
Suguru’s fingers toy with Satoru’s waistband, slipping the button free with easy precision. He doesn’t push further, just lets the button sit between deft fingers, a tease, a test. His other arm tightens around Satoru’s waist, securing him in place, locking him in like he belongs there. And he does.
The evening air is cool against their skin, ruffling through Suguru’s hair, dark as the sky turning over them. Satoru watches the way it moves, tousled by the breeze, strands shifting in and out of place. He reaches for it, twirls a few strands around his fingers, slow and thoughtful, like he’s spinning silk.
Suguru’s hands are strong. He’s carried Satoru more times than either of them can count, held him up, kept him steady. Satoru likes his hands. Thick, rough, built for strength, but still soft when they touch him. His fingers press into Satoru’s hip bone, tracing slow, deliberate circles over the jut. His touch is careful, reverent, like Satoru is something fragile. Like he’s worth handling with care.
They’re young, reckless, insatiable — about to fuck in the middle of an empty parking lot, bathed in the last light of the setting sun. The sky has deepened now, reds melting into purples, bleeding into the horizon. It reminds Satoru of the fading bruises on Suguru’s neck, on his chest, on the expanse of Satoru’s own stomach. New ones will bloom tonight. Red first, then violet, then deep, dark purple. The same way the sky shifts at dusk, the same way they always end up marking each other.
Satoru tilts his head back, eyes drifting up to the darkening sky. He’s always loved watching the transition — the way the sun doesn’t fight the night, the way it gives itself over so effortlessly. It’s kind of like them. If Satoru is the bright blue sky and the burning white sun, then Suguru is the night, the quiet pull of the moon, the steady glow of the stars. They’re a pair. They belong together. You can’t have one without the other.
Suguru’s hand moves, cups his jaw, thumb brushing along the delicate angle, tracing the warmth of his skin. Gentle. Devoted. Precious. He tells Satoru so.
Beautiful. Gorgeous. Mine.
Satoru swallows, throat tight. Because he is. He always has been. And Suguru is his, too. They aren’t together, but they’re together. In the way that matters. In the way neither of them dare put into words.
Suguru tugs his hood back up as the wind sharpens, cutting through the air with a bite that makes Satoru shiver. His grip on Satoru’s hip tightens, fingers pressing in like he’s trying to warm him from the outside in — or maybe like he’s holding onto something fleeting. Satoru knows what that means. He can tell from the way Suguru’s eyes darken, the violet shade sinking into something heavier, more opaque.
He tips his head down instinctively, making sure the hood doesn’t catch on his hair, but it’s unnecessary. Suguru’s hand is already there, threading through silver strands, pressing gently to guide him, to fix what doesn’t need fixing. The same way he cups a palm around the edge of the table when Satoru rounds it too quickly after they cook dinner together, shielding him from the sharp corners he always forgets about. The same way his hand finds the small of Satoru’s back when they weave through a crowded street, grounding him, keeping him close — not because Satoru would ever stray too far, but just as a reminder. He is here. He will always be here.
"Backseat," Satoru mumbles against Suguru’s lips, breath warm and mingling in the cold air.
Suguru’s hands tighten at his waist for a beat, a silent response, before they’re gone. He pulls away only to open the door, waiting as Satoru shifts to climb out. It's graceless, as always — his left leg catches awkwardly on the console, and suddenly, the driver’s seat is too cramped, the steering wheel pressing uncomfortably into his back. Before he can complain, Suguru is there, hands firm under his thighs, lifting him like he weighs nothing. Satoru exhales sharply, caught off guard by the ease of it, the way Suguru manhandles him without hesitation, setting him down onto the pavement with a small, amused shake of his head.
But instead of following him to the backseat, Suguru moves toward the front of the car, leaning back against the hood with casual ease. He digs into his pocket, pulling out a small bag and a lighter, shaking the bag lightly between his fingers.
"Right now?" Satoru asks, but he’s already moving, circling around to the passenger side.
"Yeah. Want to?" Suguru tilts his head, but he doesn’t need an answer — he already knows.
Satoru opens the glove compartment, rummaging until he finds the papers and grinder. With a lazy toss, he sends them flying into Suguru’s waiting hands before hopping onto the hood beside him, metal cold against his thighs.
"You get condescending when you’re high," he mutters, stretching his legs out.
Suguru snorts, short and soft. "You like it, though. You like when I’m mean."
And it’s true. Satoru does like it. He likes when Suguru takes control, when there’s no room for negotiation, no back and forth. Just certainty. Just knowing exactly what Suguru wants, and knowing he’ll take it.
"Get the tray," Suguru murmurs, twisting open the grinder, the metallic scrape of teeth catching between his fingers.
Satoru watches him for a moment before sliding off the hood, because of course he’s going to listen. He always does.
He places it beside Suguru, watching him. Satoru’s not good at rolling, but he’s never had to worry about that — Suguru always does it anyway. Suguru was the first person he smoked with, and it was also the first time they had sex. High sex has been their thing for a while now, something unspoken but understood.
Suguru dumps the weed onto the tray, reaching for the rolling paper Satoru already has pinched between his fingers. Satoru watches as Suguru curves the paper into a slight U-shape, creating a cradle for the weed. It always reminds him of a feeding trough, and he never fails to point it out.
“We look like animals eating out of this thing,” he muses.
Suguru huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re so stupid.”
Satoru doesn’t argue, just smirks, chin resting in his palm as he watches Suguru work. There’s something about the way he rolls that’s so effortless, so smooth. It’s attractive, Satoru thinks, the way his hands move with practiced ease.
Suguru sprinkles the ground-up weed evenly along the crease of the paper, careful not to overfill it. Satoru learned that lesson the hard way. The one time he was in charge of rolling, he packed it too full and couldn’t figure out why the damn thing wouldn’t close properly. Suguru had to sit there, laughing through his nose, and patiently explain the right way to do it. Even now, Satoru still doesn’t know how much to put in — he just leaves it to Suguru.
With his thumbs and index fingers, Suguru gently rolls the paper back and forth, shaping the weed into a firm cylinder. Satoru watches the way his fingers move, methodical, rolling from the center outward to prevent loose ends. He remembers Suguru teaching him that once. Not that it ever stuck — Satoru never practices, never rolls. Suguru had been so patient with him, though. Soft-spoken, never frustrated, even when Satoru fumbled. Instead, he had just kissed Satoru’s temple and rolled a new one.
A light tap on his shoulder pulls him out of his thoughts.
“Wanna seal it?” Suguru asks, holding the joint out to him.
“I get the first hit too? Aren’t you romantic?” Satoru teases, snatching it from his fingers.
They have a thing when they smoke — whoever seals it gets the first hit. Suguru always lets Satoru do it, even when he protests. Though, technically, it’s not the real first hit since Suguru does the toasting. Satoru thinks he only lets him seal it because it’s the easiest part.
He runs his tongue along the glue strip, pressing it down to close the seam. He smooths his finger along it for good measure before handing it back for Suguru to check.
“Good job, baby,” Suguru hums, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He taps the bottom of the joint against the tray a couple of times to pack it down, then uses his pinky to gently compress it a little tighter. When he’s satisfied, he hands it back to Satoru along with the lighter, raising a brow in expectation. Satoru takes them both, twisting the top end closed before lifting the joint to his lips.
“Remember when you twisted it too tight the first time you rolled?” Suguru reminds him, watching him with a lazy smirk. “Then too loose the second time.”
“Which is why you do it now,” Satoru mumbles, lighter flicking on.
Suguru snorts, then reaches over, turning the joint around in Satoru’s fingers. “Wrong way,” he chuckles. “Here, let me show you again.”
Satoru groans, trying to shove the joint back at him. “Suguru, you do it. I suck at this.”
Suguru only points at the joint instead. “Twisted side,” he instructs, tapping the bottom of it. “Watch.”
Satoru sighs but nods, lighter still in hand.
“You wanna hold it in the middle to keep it steady,” Suguru continues, nudging Satoru’s hand down slightly. “You always hold it too close to the top.” He laughs softly, shifting closer. “Now, see how I’m rotating it? That makes the burn even.”
He gestures for Satoru to bring it to his lips.
“Open,” he murmurs.
Satoru does, allowing Suguru to place the joint between his lips. He inhales slowly, steady, watching as Suguru cups a hand around the tip, shielding the flame from the wind.
“Rotate,” Suguru reminds him, and Satoru does as he’s told, rolling the joint between his fingers as the cherry catches. “One more,” He says, tapping Satoru’s jaw. Satoru inhales again, letting the smoke fill his lungs. “Good.” Suguru smiles, plucking the joint from his fingers.
Satoru exhales, smoke curling into the night air. “You’re so bossy.”
Suguru just hums, taking his own hit. The ember glows between them, casting a warm light against his sharp features. He looks good like this — always does. Satoru watches him, listens to the slow, deep inhale, the soft sigh of exhaled smoke.
Suguru looks good right now. Too good. The soft night breeze stirs his hair, making stray strands dance against his cheek. The glow of the moon catches on his skin, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the dip of his throat when he exhales slow and steady. Satoru watches the way his bicep flexes, muscle curving just right as he lifts the joint to his lips. His fingers are lazy with the motion, but practiced, easy. Like second nature. His wrist flicks as he ashes it out into the air, and Satoru’s eyes follow the way the embers glow before they flicker away.
The stars are faint tonight, sprinkled across the navy-blue canvas, scattered like freckles. Suguru looks like he belongs under this sky, bathed in the deep colors of the night. Satoru’s told him that before — how the darkness suits him, how he’s steady like the sky. And every time, Suguru will hum, slow and indulgent, and tell Satoru that if he’s the night sky, then Satoru is the stars. The moon too. Bright and beautiful.
Satoru always argues that the dark of the sky makes the stars and the moon shine — that it holds them up, cradles them, makes them visible. And Suguru will nod like he’s considering it, before he leans in, voice a murmur against Satoru’s ear: If I’m the sky and you’re the stars, then I get the privilege of holding you up for everyone to see—but never touch. The night always comes with the stars, and I always come with you.
That part always shuts Satoru up.
He doesn’t realize he’s staring until Suguru nudges him with his knee. “You wanna?”
Satoru blinks. Suguru tilts his chin toward the car. He nods.
“Since when were you into that?” Suguru teases, even as he’s already making his way to the driver’s seat.
Satoru just shrugs, slipping into the passenger seat, closing the door behind him. “Close the back window,” he murmurs, reaching for the joint.
Suguru complies with a soft chuckle, and Satoru takes a slow inhale, breathes deep, letting the smoke curl in his lungs before exhaling through parted lips. The car fills with a hazy fog, smooth tendrils drifting lazily around them. He takes another hit, then another. The third one makes him cough, throat closing up for a second before he reaches for the can of Diet Pepsi.
Suguru’s already holding it out before Satoru even asks.
“Who’s bossy now?” Suguru laughs, tilting his head back, throat bobbing as he chuckles.
Satoru wipes his mouth, takes another sip, then hands both back to Suguru. He’s never been big on hotboxing, but it’s getting colder outside, the air crisp, and there’s something about the way Suguru looks right now that makes him want to crawl into his lap. His eyes are lower, lids heavy, irises dark with a tinge of red around the edges. His gold chain glints in the dim light, swaying slightly with every lazy movement. He keeps looking at Satoru like he’s thinking about something, like his thoughts are slow and syrupy and settling somewhere deep in his chest.
Then his hand drifts. Up and down Satoru’s thigh, barely there, just the lightest touch. The other brings the joint back to his lips, and Satoru watches the way his mouth parts, the way his fingers curl around the paper, the way his jaw shifts when he takes another inhale.
“Suguru,” Satoru purrs, voice sweet, teasing.
Suguru hums, turning his head just slightly. His thumb traces along Satoru’s cheekbone, the pad of his finger pressing in slow, deliberate circles. “Want more?” He asks, holding the joint out.
Satoru takes it, plucking it from his fingers, pressing it to his lips. One hit, then two. A third, just for good measure. He has a habit of hogging the joint, but Suguru never minds. He just watches, slow and indulgent, waiting until Satoru is done before taking it back.
Then Suguru shifts, leans in. His breath is warm when it ghosts over Satoru’s lips. “C’mere,” he murmurs, voice low.
Satoru doesn’t resist when Suguru cups his jaw, tilting his chin up. “Open,” Suguru says, and Satoru obeys, parting his lips without question. A thumb runs over his bottom lip, presses down just slightly, and then Suguru exhales, slow and heavy, shotgunning the smoke into Satoru’s waiting mouth.
Satoru’s head spins. The taste of smoke and Suguru fills him at the same time, thick and dizzying.
Suguru doesn’t pull back. Instead, he takes another hit, then brings Satoru in even closer — until their lips brush, until the exchange of smoke turns into something deeper. The kiss is slow at first, thick with the taste of weed and Diet Pepsi. Then it gets messier, tongues meeting, lips parting, little gasps slipping out between breaths. Some of the smoke escapes, curling up into the air, but neither of them pays it any mind.
Suguru bites his lip, not hard, just enough to make Satoru gasp. His hand finds Satoru’s jaw again, fingers pressing against his skin. Then he pulls back slightly, just enough to murmur, “One more.”
Satoru obeys again, and Suguru spits into his mouth. Satoru shudders, but he swallows. Suguru watches him do it, eyes half-lidded, lips curling into something smug, something fond.
“You’re dirty,” Satoru teases, voice breathless.
Suguru hums. “Could be worse.” His thumb swipes across Satoru’s bottom lip, pressing it down slightly. “But I know you like it like that. Like how if I do this…” He reaches for the soda can, tilts it to his lips, takes a sip — then grips Satoru’s jaw again, pries it open, and spits the Diet Pepsi into his mouth.
Satoru swallows without hesitation, the carbonation fizzing against his tongue.
“Slut,” Suguru murmurs, but there’s no bite to it. Just warmth. Just affection. His fingers trace Satoru’s cheek, thumb rubbing slow circles.
“Suguru, c’mon,” Satoru breathes, nudging his head toward the backseat.
Suguru chuckles, dark and low. “But you look so pretty like this, Satoru,” he muses. “All fucked out from just a little bit of spit.” His thumb presses against Satoru’s bottom lip again, slipping inside this time. Satoru closes his mouth around it, sucks slow, swirls his tongue around the soft pad of his finger. Suguru curses under his breath, voice rough. “Love when you’re high,” he mutters. “Always look so damn good.” Then he pushes his thumb in deeper, and Satoru moans.
Suguru grins. “Backseat,” he murmurs. “Now.”
Satoru is already shuffling out of his seat before Suguru can get the second word out, clambering over the center console in a way that’s both impatient and uncoordinated. His head feels light, woozy from the lingering high, and he lets it loll back for a moment between the headrests, blinking up at the dim glow of the LEDs casting a soft blue hue across the leather interior.
Suguru is right behind him, shifting easily into the backseat, taking another slow drag before passing the joint back to Satoru. Smoke thickens the air, curling around them, its scent settling deep in Satoru’s lungs.
“Is it my turn now?” Satoru teases, voice dipping into something playful, sultry. He brings the joint to his lips, inhales deep and slow, then tugs Suguru closer by the collar of his shirt. Suguru watches him with hooded eyes, licking his lips as if in anticipation, parting them slightly. Satoru grins, exhaling smoke into Suguru’s mouth. “Dirty Suguru,” he chides, shifting the joint from his left to his right hand so he can maneuver himself into Suguru’s lap, long limbs folding with ease.
Suguru’s hands find his waist immediately, fingers curling into the fabric of Satoru’s shirt, pressing him down firmly. The pressure makes Satoru’s breath hitch, and the sound that leaves him — somewhere between a sigh and a whimper — is far too telling.
He likes Suguru’s car. The sleek, modern interior, the buttery leather, the small galaxy of LED stars above them—it’s enough to make the space feel bigger than it really is. But it isn’t, not when they’re tangled together like this, sharing warmth and smoke in the dimly lit space. Car sex isn’t exactly at the top of Satoru’s list, but Suguru always makes it work, always knows how to use what little room they have to push Satoru to the edge, make him feel both comfortable and restrained in the best possible way.
Suguru hooks an arm around his hips, pulling him down hard, and Satoru’s head tips back, a low, needy sound slipping past his lips. He feels light, head buzzing, body sensitive to every touch, every shift of Suguru’s hands. He presses the joint to Suguru’s lips this time, watches as Suguru inhales deep before exhaling into Satoru’s face, letting the smoke haze between them. Satoru’s vision goes white for a second before it sharpens again — Suguru’s face, the blue glow reflecting off his sharp features, the way his pupils are blown wide with something just as intoxicating as the high.
Satoru shifts, grinding his hips down again, and Suguru groans, his hands gripping tighter at Satoru’s waist. Encouraged, Satoru does it again, one hand splaying over Suguru’s chest, fingers pressing into the firm muscle. His t-shirt stretches taut over his body, and Satoru knows that if the lighting were just a little better, he’d be able to make out every contour, every defined line beneath the fabric. His fingers trail lower, nimble as they work at Suguru’s belt, unfastening it before tossing it aside, unbuttoning his pants with the same practiced ease.
“Lemme blow you,” Satoru murmurs, dragging his fingers over the growing bulge, pressing down just enough to pull a sharp inhale from Suguru.
Suguru’s hand slips into Satoru’s hair, fingers threading through white strands, tugging just enough to make him tilt his head back. “Whatever you want, baby,” he says, voice low, teasing. Then, more pointedly, “But you’re not blowing smoke on my dick again.”
Satoru rolls his eyes. “That was a one-time thing.” A beat, then he smirks, head tilting. “Would you let me take a hit and suck you off with it still in my mouth, though?”
Suguru scoffs, fingers tightening in Satoru’s hair. “That’s like me asking if I can blow smoke into your hole,” he deadpans, making a face. “You’re a fucking freak.”
Satoru laughs, breathy. “Fine, whatever. Probably not healthy anyway.”
Suguru hums, releasing his grip just enough for Satoru to slide down between his legs, settling onto his knees. The space is tight, but Satoru makes it work, hands bracing against Suguru’s thighs as he leans in, mouthing at the outline of his cock through his jeans, placing open-mouthed kisses that leave damp patches against the fabric. Suguru hums in approval, his hand still buried in Satoru’s hair, giving an impatient tug.
“Don’t tease,” Suguru exhales, smoke drifting down, surrounding Satoru in a hazy veil.
Satoru presses one last kiss to his thigh before tugging Suguru’s pants down just enough to free him, still constrained by the fabric of his boxers. Satoru licks a slow stripe from the base to the tip, the damp heat of his mouth pressing through the fabric, and Suguru lets out a soft, pleased sigh.
Suguru is impatient, though, and Satoru knows it. Knows it from the way his fingers tighten in his hair, from the quiet edge of frustration laced in his voice when he mutters, “C’mon, Satoru, you can do better than that.”
Satoru grins, pressing one last teasing kiss before finally tugging Suguru’s boxers down, watching as his cock springs free. He barely gets a moment to admire before Suguru takes himself in hand, tapping it against Satoru’s cheek, smearing precum across his skin.
Suguru hums, almost amused. “So messy already.” His fingers trace the sticky sheen left behind, swiping his thumb across Satoru’s cheekbone. “Open up, baby.”
Satoru parts his lips obediently, letting Suguru run the tip over them before tapping against his tongue. “Suck,” Suguru instructs, pressing down, and Satoru closes his lips around him, hollowing his cheeks as he takes him in.
Suguru watches him, gaze dark and heavy-lidded, fingers tightening in his hair as he guides him, urging him deeper, just enough to make tears prick at the corners of Satoru’s eyes. His free hand reaches blindly for his phone, tapping at the screen until the faint sound of a camera shutter clicks through the thick air. At the realization, Satoru lets out a low, needy sound, his body thrumming with heat and desire.
“Look at the camera, ‘toru,” Suguru murmurs, thumb pressing at the corner of his mouth, smearing spit and precum together, his voice nothing but velvet and smoke. “That’s it. So fucking pretty.”
Satoru keens at the praise, eyes fluttering shut as he focuses on relaxing his throat, taking Suguru deeper. Suguru groans, shifting against the seat, eyes locked onto the screen, capturing every second, every ruined, messy inch of Satoru falling apart on his cock.
Suguru fists a handful of Satoru’s hair, pushing the silken strands back to give the camera a clearer view of those teary, blown-out eyes. He watches as Satoru’s throat tightens around him, then pulls back with a gag, coughing, one hand still stroking him, slick and steady.
“You’re so good for me, baby,” Suguru murmurs, his voice thick with heat. He brings the joint down between them, brushing his thumb over Satoru’s spit-slick lips before slotting it between them. Satoru takes a slow inhale, deep, letting the smoke fill his lungs, letting it settle in his body before exhaling in a slow, hazy breath. The scent lingers between them, wrapping them in a heady cloud.
“Suguru,” Satoru whines, lips glossy, voice slurred with need. “Kiss me.”
Suguru chuckles, running fingers along the nape of Satoru’s neck, drawing lazy circles that make him shiver. “Can’t kiss you from all the way down there, sweetheart.” His voice is smooth, teasing.
Satoru shifts, trying to move, only to realize just how cramped the space really is. His knees bump against the seat, feet slipping awkwardly against the floor. “I think I’m stuck,” he says with a laugh, wiggling in a feeble attempt to free himself. He plants his hands on Suguru’s thighs, tries again—fails. “Suguru, help me. I said I’m stuck.”
Suguru hums, brushing stray white strands behind Satoru’s ear, slow and affectionate. “Maybe the universe is just telling you that you were only made to suck cock,” he taunts, tapping a lazy finger against Satoru’s temple, smirking.
Satoru scoffs, snatching the joint from Suguru’s hand with a grumble. “Not funny, and you’re totally ruining the mood.” He glances at the dwindling joint, eyes narrowing. “You took way too many hits.”
Suguru just shrugs, that same cocky grin playing at his lips. His eyes are lidded now, darker, heavier — so obviously high. He keeps cooing, telling Satoru how pretty he looks like this, how cute he is, how much he reminds Suguru of a cat, running lazy fingers through his hair like he can’t get enough.
“Seriously, Suguru. My foot is cramping,” Satoru complains, wiggling uselessly.
Suguru groans but still reaches down, gripping Satoru under his arms and pulling him up effortlessly. Satoru hums in triumph, grinning as Suguru shifts him into his lap, hands instinctively finding purchase on his hips.
“Hold this,” Satoru murmurs, waving the joint in front of Suguru’s face, voice dripping with sickly sweet amusement. Then, with his free hand, he spits into his palm, wrapping it around Suguru’s cock in one smooth motion.
Suguru exhales sharply, head tipping back against the seat, eyes fluttering shut for half a second before snapping back to Satoru, dark and hooded. He raises the joint to his lips, watching, entranced, as Satoru takes a slow drag. Then Satoru is leaning in, lips ghosting over his, warm breath tinged with smoke.
Suguru doesn’t wait. He grabs the back of Satoru’s neck, crushing their mouths together. It’s messy — more teeth than lips, all heat and urgency. He groans when Satoru tightens his grip, hips rutting up instinctively.
“So cute, Suguru,” Satoru teases, voice a low purr against his lips. His hand snaps at the base, forcing another strangled sound from Suguru’s throat. “So good for me, yeah?”
Suguru shudders when Satoru nips at his ear, his breath fanning against sensitive skin. “Stop, ‘toru,” he gasps, voice wrecked. “‘M gonna come.”
Satoru gives him three more firm, deliberate strokes — then lets go. Suguru groans, head dropping forward, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven pants. He can feel Satoru’s own breathing, can feel the way his chest presses against his, the warmth of his body flush against him. Their lips meet again, slower this time, deeper. Suguru tastes like weed — earthy, intoxicating — and soda, sweet and sharp on Satoru’s tongue.
When they finally break apart, a thin string of saliva lingers between them, shimmering under the dim LED glow. Satoru licks his lips, watching Suguru’s dazed expression with a knowing smirk. Suguru doesn’t pull away — he leans in, mouth dragging along the curve of Satoru’s neck, warm breath ghosting over sensitive skin. One hand cups Satoru’s jaw, thumb stroking slow and deliberate along the hinge, while the other presses firm between Satoru’s legs, palm rolling over denim-covered heat.
Satoru’s moan is soft but wrecked, a sound that makes Suguru tighten his grip. He busies himself with leaving dark blooms against pale skin, sucking and licking over every hickey he makes, soothing each mark with lazy swipes of his tongue.
Outside, the windows are beginning to fog, the air thick with heat and smoke curling in lazy tendrils around them. The thought strikes Satoru then, sudden and absurd — one day, they’re going to get caught, stark naked, tangled together in some random parking lot. The image of a cop knocking against the window while they scramble for clothes has him snorting through his nose, laughter bubbling up involuntarily. Suguru hums against his neck, questioning.
“Do you think I’d look hot in my mugshot if we got caught?” Satoru muses, tilting back just enough to reach for the soda in the cupholder. He takes a sip, then holds it out to Suguru in silent offering.
Suguru just frowns, unimpressed, and pushes it aside. “And you said I was ruining the mood,” he grumbles, though the corners of his lips twitch, betraying his amusement. “You talk too much. Should put that mouth of yours to better use.”
Satoru snickers, running his thumb over Suguru’s bottom lip, pressing just enough to watch the way Suguru’s eyelids flicker. “Still waiting to be prepped, mister.”
Suguru exhales through his nose, something between a sigh and a chuckle. He lifts the joint to Satoru’s lips. “Last one,” he murmurs.
Satoru drags it out, pulling slow and deep, until the taste turns harsh and acrid, until his lungs burn. The exhale is ragged, barely turned away before he dissolves into coughing. Suguru doesn’t tease, doesn’t laugh — just rubs slow, steady circles into the small of Satoru’s back, grounding. Then, without a word, he reaches around, lifting the soda can back to Satoru’s lips.
Satoru takes a sip, tongue running over the rim before swallowing. His eyes flick up, lidded and bright. “You’re being so sweet right now, Suguru.” He hums, tilting his head. “I love that. Really.” Then he grins, sharp and wicked. “But I’m kinda horny and really wanna get fucked into the seat.”
Suguru huffs out a short laugh — then tosses the empty can carelessly to the front, his expression shifting into something darker, heavier. “Yeah?” he murmurs, voice thick, gaze raking over Satoru like he’s already picturing exactly how he’s going to ruin him.
Satoru nods, dragging out the mhm in that syrupy, coaxing tone that always gets him what he wants. It’s the voice he reserves for Suguru, the one he uses when he’s feeling playful, a little indulgent, and maybe just the slightest bit manipulative.
Suguru huffs out something like a chuckle, tilting his head to kiss along Satoru’s jaw, lips pressing soft and slow. “All you had to do was ask, baby,” he murmurs, voice warm, honeyed, but thick with something deeper, something darker. His fingers skate over Satoru’s hips, nails scratching lightly at the sliver of skin where his hoodie rides up. “You know I’ll give you whatever you want.”
The words make Satoru shudder, make his breath catch as he leans into the touch. He tilts his head, offering up more of his throat like some kind of prayer, urging Suguru to take. To devour.
“Suguru,” he exhales, barely more than a breath, rocking his hips down in search of more friction. His fingers curl into Suguru’s shoulders, grip tightening, nails digging in just enough to leave faint little crescents in his skin.
“Tell me what you want,” Suguru murmurs, hands sliding beneath the hem of Satoru’s hoodie, palms warm against his stomach, moving upward — over ribs, over chest — exploring, teasing, pinching at sensitive skin just to hear the little hitch in Satoru’s breath. “I’ll give you everything.”
He says it like a promise. Like a vow. Like something so much bigger than this moment, and Satoru knows it is, knows what’s hidden beneath it, but he can’t let himself think about that now. Not when he’s burning from the inside out, not when his body is aching for more, more, more.
“Fuck me,” Satoru whispers, voice barely steady as his hands slide from Suguru’s shoulders to cradle his face.
Suguru stills for half a second, exhaling slow, deliberate. Then he shifts, pulling his hands from under Satoru’s hoodie, fingers slotting between his, squeezing like he’s grounding himself, like he’s anchoring them both in place. His eyes are heavy-lidded, dark, clouded with heat—but beneath all that, there’s something else. Something unreadable, something that makes Satoru’s stomach twist, makes him grind down harder just to make it disappear.
“Yeah?” Suguru breathes, voice wrecked.
Satoru nods, quick, frantic, already tugging at his hoodie, desperate to shed it. But Suguru stops him, hands catching his wrists, holding him still. He leans in, breath hot against the shell of Satoru’s ear.
“Keep it on,” he murmurs, voice thick, dripping with something almost possessive. “I like the way purple looks on you.”
He presses a kiss just beneath Satoru’s ear, soft and slow, and it sends a sharp jolt of heat through him, has him rutting down without thinking, chasing the friction. He’s desperate now, frenzied. Weed does that to him, makes everything feel too much, turns every touch electric. But it does the same to Suguru, too — because even if he’s pretending to be patient, even if he’s trying to keep control, his hands are gripping tight, dragging Satoru’s hips down, forcing him to move just the way he wants.
Satoru exhales a sharp little laugh, half-drunk on the heat rolling off of Suguru’s body. “You like it?” he teases, breath hitching as he rolls his hips, slow, teasing.
Suguru’s hands tighten on his waist, his fingers twitching, flexing, as if he’s fighting the urge to grab, to take . “You know I do,” he murmurs.
And that’s enough. That’s all Satoru needs before he’s latching onto Suguru’s neck, sucking bruises into his skin, marking him up without hesitation. Suguru exhales sharply, grip tightening even more.
Suguru gets controlling when he’s high, when his head is swimming and his body is buzzing and the only thing that keeps him grounded is the weight of Satoru in his lap. But Satoru — he gets needy. Possessive. It isn’t enough to feel Suguru, to have him here, solid and warm beneath his hands. No, he needs proofs. Needs to claim him. Needs everyone to see the marks he leaves behind and know .
Suguru isn’t up for grabs. He never has been. And Satoru — Satoru wants to carve that into his skin, wants to leave his name behind in the form of bruises and bite marks, wants Suguru to wear them like a brand. A reminder. A promise.
Because no one will ever know Suguru the way he does.
No one else will know the exact way he shivers when lips brush against that one spot on his jaw. No one else will know which touches make him gasp, which ones make him groan, which ones have him biting his lip and trying to hold back a sound that only Satoru gets to hear. No one else will know the way he breathes when he sleeps, the way his fingers twitch in his dreams, the way he murmurs nonsense when he’s barely awake.
No one else will ever matter the way Satoru does.
And if anyone ever tries to take Suguru away from him — well. Satoru will make sure they understand that Suguru is his. The blooming reds and purples across his skin are proof.
Suguru exhales a shaky breath, voice rasping as he speaks. “Off, ‘toru. Gonna open you up.” His hands slide up, fingers trailing the length of Satoru’s spine before settling at his nape, tugging him away from his neck, just enough to meet his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, dark, but his expression has softened — just a little. His fingers thread through Satoru’s, guiding them behind his own nape, holding them there. “Be good for me, ‘kay?” Suguru murmurs, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the back of Satoru’s hand, something reverent in the way he lingers there.
Something that feels dangerously close to love.
Suguru cradles Satoru like he’s something precious, something fragile — though they both know he isn’t. He shifts, folding Satoru’s legs over his arm before settling him onto the seat beside him. Satoru moves instinctively, maneuvering onto all fours, his spine arching in a way that makes Suguru hum in approval. His hands roam, running up the smooth expanse of Satoru’s thighs, kneading at the soft flesh of his ass, squeezing just enough to draw out a breathy whimper.
Suguru has always taken his time. He loves dragging things out, watching Satoru grow restless, loves it even more when frustration turns to desperation. When Satoru gets so riled up he starts crying — big, fat tears slipping down his flushed cheeks, all because Suguru won’t give him what he wants. It’s cruel, probably. But Suguru has never seen anything as pretty as Satoru when he’s trembling, teary-eyed, wrecked from nothing but teasing and whispered praise.
“Sugu— fuck, please,” Satoru gasps, rocking back against Suguru’s touch.
“Already impatient?” Suguru teases, voice like honey, thick and warm. He pinches at Satoru’s waist, letting the elastic of his waistband snap back into place.
Satoru nods, swallowing audibly, his hands trembling where they grip at the seatbelt like it might ground him. But Suguru has a better idea.
“Arms.”
That’s all he has to say. Satoru obeys without hesitation, folding his arms neatly behind his back. Suguru coos, smoothing a hand down the dip of his spine, savoring the way Satoru shivers under his touch.
“Perfect,” Suguru murmurs, and Satoru makes a soft, needy sound, barely audible over his own breathing.
Suguru reaches for the belt Satoru discarded earlier, letting the cool leather glide across flushed skin before delivering a light slap. Satoru flinches, then presses back into it, like he can’t decide whether he wants to escape or lean into the sensation. Suguru just hums, palming at his hips once more before looping the belt around Satoru’s wrists, securing it snugly.
“You look so good like this,” he breathes, pressing a lingering kiss to the delicate stretch of skin between Satoru’s shoulder blades.
Satoru doesn’t reply, just exhales sharply, tilting his head as if urging Suguru forward. He’s never been good at patience, not when it comes to this. Suguru, on the other hand, is nothing if not disciplined. He revels in the tension, in the way Satoru trembles with anticipation.
He drags his fingers down Satoru’s spine, stopping just above his waistband before peeling his jeans and underwear down in one smooth motion. Satoru exhales harshly at the sudden exposure, pressing his forehead to the seat. Suguru’s fingers ghost over him, light and fleeting. Satoru tenses, then whines — a frustrated, breathless little noise that makes Suguru smirk.
“You’re such a tease,” Satoru grits out, squirming.
“Just admiring,” Suguru muses, unbothered, tracing idle patterns along the curve of Satoru’s hip. “Lift your legs.”
Satoru obeys, letting Suguru strip the rest of his clothes away, and the moment they’re gone, he’s pushing back again, more insistent now.
Suguru chuckles, hands tightening at Satoru’s hips. “You really can’t wait, can you? So desperate. It’s cute.”
Satoru turns just enough to shoot him a lopsided grin, all sharp edges and challenge. “I know you want me just as bad, Sugu.”
Suguru exhales through his nose, amused but unwavering. His hands continue their slow, torturous exploration, dragging out the moment. Satoru squirms, huffing out something petulant.
“God, you’re mean,” he mutters, voice bordering on a whine.
Suguru just hums, smug and patient. “Only with you, baby.”
Suguru drags his fingers over Satoru’s skin, slow and deliberate, teasing the sensitive dip of his lower back before ghosting over where Satoru wants him most. He presses lightly, just enough to make Satoru twitch, before pulling back entirely.
Satoru whines, pushing back into empty air. “S’guru, stop teasin’.”
Suguru chuckles, but he doesn’t drag it out this time — not because he’s feeling generous, but because Satoru is getting restless, shifting on his knees, muscles tensing with impatience. And Suguru—Suguru is so hard it’s starting to ache.
So he gives in, just a little. He presses in, just the tip of a finger at first, before easing it deeper. Satoru exhales, low and shuddering, his forehead pressing into the seat. Suguru moves slowly at first, shallow thrusts that make Satoru’s breath hitch, before pushing in a little deeper, pressing just enough to make him squirm.
“More,” Satoru gasps, voice edged with urgency. He jolts when Suguru snakes an arm around his waist, pulling him closer, holding him still. “Suguru, c’mon—”
“Shut up, ’toru,” Suguru murmurs, voice rough. His free hand tightens at Satoru’s hip as he presses in deeper, scissoring his fingers, coaxing him open with steady precision.
Satoru moans, body melting under his touch, but it’s not enough for him — never is. He’s always greedy like this, always pressing for more, for deeper, for harder. Suguru lets out a low hum, watching the way Satoru reacts to every movement, the way his body shifts into his touch without hesitation. He curls his fingers just right, pressing against that spot that makes Satoru gasp, makes his back arch, makes his breath catch in his throat.
Suguru leans in, his lips grazing the shell of Satoru’s ear as he whispers, “That’s it, baby. Just like that.”
Satoru shudders, rocking back instinctively, chasing the feeling. Suguru just smirks, knowing he has him exactly where he wants him.
Satoru gets so easy around him — always so needy, always so desperate to be filled. He’s all airy whines and breathless gasps, voice pitching higher like he can’t breathe. And when he gets like this, he gets clingy, too, hands reaching, body arching, needing Suguru’s touch like he’ll fall apart without it. If Suguru holds back too much, Satoru starts to cry, calling him mean, trembling with frustration. It’s the cutest thing in the world.
It’s also why Suguru is a piece of shit and tied Satoru’s arms up — just to see those pretty tears spill over flushed cheeks.
They’re both high off each other. Suguru can see it in the way Satoru’s eyes glaze over, pupils wide, irises darkened with need. Suguru’s no better — his own head feels heavy, mind hazy, but he still loves to be mean, still loves dragging this out. Satoru will take whatever he gives him, even when it’s just two fingers, even when Suguru deliberately avoids pressing where he knows will drive him crazy. He watches the way Satoru squirms, whining softly, breath stuttering.
Suguru hums, enjoying the way Satoru clenches around nothing every time his fingers tease and withdraw.
Satoru’s head is cloudy. He needs Suguru — needs him like air, needs him pressing into every part of him, filling every space. But Suguru just keeps teasing, keeps shushing him when he whines, keeps holding him just on the edge of what he really wants.
“S’g’ru, I’m ready. Please,” Satoru gasps, voice cracking. His vision is blurred, wet lashes clumped together, hair sticking to his forehead. He tries to wipe at his face, but the restraints have him crying harder. “Sugu, wanna kiss you. Please, I’ll be good.”
Suguru tuts, pulling his fingers away, wiping slick hands over Satoru’s hip as he kneads the muscle. “Thought I told you to shut up.”
“Kiss me, Suguru,” Satoru pleads, stretching his fingers toward nothing, toward anything — toward him. Suguru clicks his tongue, feigning exasperation, but the grip on Satoru’s hips tightens.
“Can I take care of you, ‘toru?” Suguru murmurs, voice like smoke curling against Satoru’s ear. He presses a slow, lingering kiss to his cheek, breath warm. “Make you feel so good you forget your own name?”
Satoru nods desperately, sucking in a sharp breath when Suguru finally presses a chaste kiss to his lips. He barely registers the moment Suguru shifts, the slow, careful press of him. But then Suguru stops — just barely there, just enough to tease.
Satoru’s body trembles, strung tight with anticipation, his mind spinning, lost in sensation. He doesn’t even know if Suguru used more lube, but he feels messy already, warm with Suguru’s touch, his spit, the leftover slick from before. Suguru makes soft, broken noises like he could get off just from this alone, like the slow drag of tension between them is enough to unravel him.
Satoru keens, voice breaking, reaching for him harder — words slipping from his lips in a delirious stream, pleading, aching, unraveling. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore, doesn’t care — all he knows is that he needs Suguru, needs him close, needs him now.
Suguru presses in deeper, slow and deliberate, just enough to have Satoru reeling—pushing back instinctively, chasing more. But it’s not enough. Suguru keeps teasing, barely giving him anything, thrusting halfway in before pulling out completely, only to roll his hips in shallowly again.
Satoru lets out a frustrated sob. “You’re so mean.”
He shifts against the seat, body arching, trying to angle himself for more. His shoulders dig into the leather, and a belt buckle presses sharply into his right side, sending a jolt of discomfort through him. But that’s not what’s bothering him the most. His hood keeps falling into his eyes, blocking his view — blocking Suguru. He wants to see him.
“Y’like it when I’m mean,” Suguru murmurs, voice dripping amusement. His hand comes down sharp against Satoru’s skin, leaving behind a sting before he pulls away again.
Satoru wants to wail. He’s already a mess — his breathing ragged, eyes glossy, cheeks damp — but if he cries a little harder, Suguru will give in. Suguru will stop playing, stop teasing, and finally give them what they both want. But for now, Suguru just keeps testing him, drawing out these tiny moans, these half-choked whimpers — none of it enough to satisfy either of them.
“Please— wanna come, S’g’ru,” Satoru whines, voice breaking.
Suguru leans in, draping himself over Satoru, one arm curling around his chest, the other gripping his hip. He’s so warm, so close, and yet—still holding back. “You’re so cute, Satoru,” he breathes, lips brushing just below his ear. “Wanna ruin you.”
Satoru shudders, tilting his head, desperate to steal a kiss. But Suguru pulls away just as fast, leaving him gasping, lips parting around a soft, broken noise.
“Suguru,” he pleads, frustration seeping into every syllable. “I’ll be good. Please, please, please— please, just—”
Suguru hums, smirking against his shoulder. “Cockslut.” His thumb presses against Satoru’s rim, teasing.
Satoru trembles beneath him, completely unraveling. He grinds back against Suguru, desperate for more, for anything that will take him higher. The pleasure spikes, curling hot in his stomach, but it’s still not enough — not without Suguru giving him exactly what he needs.
Almost like he can read Satoru’s mind, Suguru snaps his hips forward, hard and deep, sending a shockwave through Satoru’s body. He keeps the pace, relentless.
“You’re so annoying,” Suguru mutters, each word punctuated with a thrust that has Satoru’s eyes rolling back.
Satoru gasps, his voice breaking around the only thing he can remember — “Suguru.” It falls from his lips over and over again, a chant, a prayer. He’s too far gone to say anything else.
“Please—” His fingers curl into the leather beneath him, legs shaking. “Please let me come.”
Suguru groans low, his grip tightening. “Love when you ask, baby. So sweet.” His voice is rough, strained, like he’s barely holding himself together. “Love you—” He falters, the words slipping out before he can stop them. “Love your body.”
Satoru hears it. He’s desperate, dizzy, but his brain latches onto those words like a lifeline. Suguru tries to swallow them down, as if he hadn’t just exposed something raw and real between them.
Satoru’s heart stutters. “Again,” he pants, body tensing with every movement. “Say it again. Please.”
Suguru groans, pushing him deeper into the seat, voice rough with something more than lust. “Love you, ‘toru. You’re so good. Love your body, and—” A ragged breath. “Fuck. Love you.”
Satoru’s breath stutters, his whole body tightening, teetering on the edge. He’s right there, so close —
“Again, Suguru,” he chokes out, voice shaking. “‘M gonna—”
Suguru doesn’t hesitate this time, voice rough and certain. “I fucking love you.”
Satoru shatters. His whole body seizes, pleasure ripping through him in waves, vision flashing white. His pulse pounds, breath coming in sharp gasps as warmth floods through him. Before he can even process it, Suguru pulls him close, arms locking tight around his waist, grounding him, holding him together.
He tilts Satoru’s head up, fingers gripping his jaw, kissing him sloppy—wet, messy, all spit and tongue. Suguru thumbs at the edge of his mouth, swiping away the saliva like it means something.
“S’guru,” Satoru murmurs, still reeling. He tugs weakly at Suguru’s shirt, fingers curling into the fabric. “Say it again.”
“I’m not—”
“Love you too,” Satoru cuts in, voice breathy, breaking. His body shudders, wrung out, overstimulated.
Suguru makes a noise—wrecked, strangled, something between disbelief and surrender. His hands move instinctively, swiping over Satoru’s stomach, wiping away the mess. “Satoru—”
Satoru waves a hand, dismissing whatever sentimental thing Suguru is about to say. “Shut up, dude. You love me, I love you, whatever. We both already knew. Doesn’t matter.” He sags forward, head pressing into the passenger seat’s headrest like the conversation is already over.
“Yeah, but—”
“Suguru, please.” Satoru turns his head, grinning, too satisfied, too exhausted to take this seriously. “You don’t have to make it romantic when we literally just fucked. I already kinda knew anyway.”
Suguru stares at him, then makes a face—exasperated, fond, something dangerously close to affection. He slicks a finger through the mess on Satoru’s stomach, then shoves it unceremoniously into Satoru’s mouth.
“Shut up. You just ruined my high.” He rolls his eyes, but there’s a faint blush creeping up his neck.
Summer love.
Satoru knows they’re not a fling. Not now, not ever. This isn’t just something that ends when the summer does. It’s not about some hot, fleeting moment — this thing between them was always going to go further, into September, through the next year, and the one after that. There’s no expiration on this. Not when he’s known how Suguru feels, how Suguru’s always made him feel the same way.
It’s always been there, under the surface, no need for words or grand gestures. They get each other, they always have. And Satoru’s never doubted that this wasn’t just some temporary thing. It’s real. It’s been real since they started.
And when he thinks about it, Satoru realizes it’s not just about the next couple of months — it’s about the fact that they’ve both known for a long time this thing was never ending. They don’t need to talk about it, don’t need to make it complicated. They’re good, and despite whatever happens next, Satoru knows they’ll still be here, together.
The summer was always for them – always been them. This summer is just ending slightly different.