wife written all over

by chytoru

Summary:

Satoru truly loved the Geto household. Everything about it was warm, welcoming, thoughtful in a way most people weren’t. It was the kind of place that made you want to slow down, breathe deeper, take your time.

They always made space for him here—real space. Not just somewhere to crash, but somewhere he was expected, cared for. Here, in this house, in their home, he could pretend for a little while longer that everything was simple. That he belonged.

OR
Gojo spends a week at the Getos.

Notes:

• For rheeeeeez.

thank you so much for the commission!!
happy late gego month and enjoy :)

Stepping onto the streets of Kyoto felt unfamiliar to Satoru. Not in a bad way, just strange. Like returning to a place that kept moving without him.

It’d been years since he left. Too many.

The buildings looked newer. The sidewalks had been repaved. Even the air felt different—less crowded, maybe. 

Or maybe that was just him. 

A part of him had expected everything to stay frozen in time, like Kyoto would pause until he was ready to come back. But cities don’t wait for anyone. People don’t either.

The taxi ride from the station had been quiet, but the second they turned onto their street, that familiar kind of nervous crept in—the kind you get when you’re about to see someone you never really stopped missing.

The taxi pulled away behind him as he dragged his suitcase up the concrete path, heart beating fast from what was waiting at the end of the walkway.

“Satoru!”

Suguru’s voice rang out before he even looked up. And there he was—standing outside the house with his wife, both of them smiling wide like they’d been waiting all day just for this.

Satoru’s chest swelled. “Hey!” he called back, already speeding up.

He abandoned his suitcase halfway up the drive just to close the distance faster, arms out before he even reached them.

Suguru met him halfway, pulling him in without hesitation. Their arms locked tight around each other like magnets snapping together.

“God, it’s been forever,” Satoru breathed, squeezing back just as hard.

Then Suguru’s wife, Sora, let her hand land gently on his back, warm and steady, and Satoru smiled through it—through the way they both held him like he’d never left.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed being here until now.

Satoru felt it in his bones: he was home.

“I got the guest room set up for you,” Sora chirped with a little smile as they stepped inside. “Didn’t know what candle you’d like, so I left that up to Suguru.”

Satoru kicked off his shoes at the door and took in the place with a slow blink. 

The whole house smelled like clean laundry and dinner—comforting, lived-in. Warm lighting, wood floors and photos of the two of them hanging on the wall next to some dried herbs. A tiny stool sat tucked under the island, and someone had left two mugs out by the sink, one with a chipped handle.

It was definitely their space. Cozy. Intimate. A little surreal.

“Dangerous move,” he muttered, glancing at her with a smirk.

“She was gonna light a cinnamon one in there,” Suguru groaned, grabbing his suitcase and heading down the hall.

“Ugh.” Satoru wrinkled his nose. “Trying to set my lungs on fire?”

Sora bumped Suguru’s side with her elbow, flustered. “It smelled cozy!”

“It smelled like a nursing home,” Suguru said flatly, not even turning around.

Satoru snorted, trailing after them. The house was stupidly domestic. Cluttered in a charming way, like they didn’t mind living with their stuff out in the open. Even though he’s known them for years, it still felt… weird. Seeing Suguru like this.

Settled. 

Like the same guy who used to eat cold curry out the pot and fall asleep mid-conversation was now somebody’s husband.

But weird didn’t mean bad.

Satoru followed them down the hallway to the guest room, which, to his surprise, looked way nicer than he thought it would. 

Soft bedding, a candle burning low on the dresser—fruity, not overpowering. The room smelled like mango or papaya or something. Sweet, but not fake.

“Huh,” he said. “Okay, you didn’t screw it up.”

“High praise,” Suguru said, deadpan.

He set Satoru’s bag down by the doorway just as Satoru flopped onto his back with a soft exhale.

His body was already thanking him for being horizontal. The bed dipped just slightly under his weight—clean sheets, real pillows. Definitely a step up from the weird Kyoto hotels with their stiff mattresses and built-in alarm clocks that never shut up.

From the doorway, Sora smiled. “I’m in the middle of dinner. I’ll call you when it’s ready, okay?”

She reached up and gave Suguru a quick kiss on the cheek before heading off, and Satoru glanced over just in time to catch it. Something about the pure casualness of it made his stomach twist, just a little.

Suguru stayed behind, his broad frame leaning against the doorframe like he had something else to say. Satoru rolled his head toward him.

“You good?” Suguru asked after a second, voice softer.

“Yeah.” Satoru lifted an arm. “C’mere, stranger.”

Suguru pushed off the doorframe and took his hand, letting Satoru tug him down onto the bed beside him.

They sat there for a weird, awkward beat. Satoru can’t remember the last time it’d just been him and Suguru. Once glued to the hip, 

“You look tired,” Suguru said.

“I am,” Satoru admitted. “That train was hell. But I’m happy to be here.”

“Mm,” Suguru hummed, rubbing a hand over his own jaw.

“What’s for dinner?” Satoru asked, shifting to get comfortable.

“Udon.”

Satoru’s stomach answered before he could. Loudly.

Suguru snorted. “Jesus.”

“Don’t judge me. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

Suguru snickers. “Still don’t know how to take care of yourself after all this time?”

“First of all,” Satoru gives him a look, “I take care of myself just fine.”

“Oh really?“ Suguru smiles, “I think I see eye bags.” He punc

“Oh I know you’re not talking, old man.”

“You’re older than me.”

“Exactly, respect your elders. Tell me I look youthful.”

“Well I wouldn’t lie to you.” 

Satoru scowls and pinches Suguru’s thigh, which Suguru swats his hand and laughs off.

They both fell quiet after that, sitting side by side on the bed like it was years ago. Like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

Staying under the same roof as Suguru wasn’t new. Hell, they used to share a shoebox apartment back in college—if you could even call it an apartment. More like a glorified closet with a hot plate and a shower that never drained right.

It was a mess. But it was theirs.

Late nights gaming, talking shit, living off discount ramen and convenience store runs. Skipping sleep to make it to class half-dead, and then doing it all over again. They were broke, tired, and stupidly happy. Back when everything felt easy. Back when it was just the two of them.

But shit changes. they graduated. They had to grow up. And somehow, somewhere along the way, the person Satoru shared everything with starts building a life that doesn’t include him in the same way anymore.

Suguru met someone. He’d told Satoru that she made him feel like maybe settling down wasn’t a death sentence. Satoru had smiled through it, made his dumb little speech at the wedding, even cried a little when Suguru made him his best man.

“You’ll always be my best friend,” he’d said at the reception, tugging him aside like the world hadn’t just shifted on its axis. “Nothing could change that—no matter what.”

Satoru believed him.

And now? Now was one of those no matter what moments Suguru had promised. He was only supposed to be in Kyoto for a couple days—boring work stuff. Meetings, handshakes, small talk. But once he remembered Suguru lived nearby…

Yeah. He extended the trip without really thinking about it.

They make their way to the kitchen, the smell of udon hitting Satoru square in the face like a warm slap.

He groans, dramatic as ever. “God, that smells insane. You tryna seduce me, Mrs. Geto?”

Suguru scowls and flicks his temple but his wife lets out a laugh without looking up, wrist flicking as she stirs something in the pot. “Please. If I wanted to seduce you, I’d break out the sukiyaki.”

“Noted,” he mutters, plopping into a chair and stretching his legs out under the table. “For future reference.”

“You’re just in time,” she says over her shoulder, flipping off the burner. “I literally just finished.”

Suguru’s already by her side, arm slipping around her waist like it’s second nature. His hand rests low on her back as they murmur to each other, and for a second, Satoru glances their way—sees the way she leans into him without thinking, the way Suguru tilts his head to kiss her temple.

He looks away before it can get awkward, unlocking his phone and pretending to scroll.

The screen’s too bright and nothing’s catching his attention.

Their voices blend in the background—soft laughter, a gentle clink of dishes. He tries not to listen too hard. Tries not to notice the way Suguru’s smile gets a little softer when she nudges him with her hip.

It’s not jealousy. Not really.

Just a weird, tight feeling in his chest that he’s not in the mood to name.

They eat at the kitchen table, bowls of udon steaming in front of them, the overhead light casting everything in that warm, cozy glow Satoru forgot he liked.

The noodles are perfect. Of course they are. He slurps them like he hasn’t eaten in days.

“God,” he mumbles, half into his bowl, “I would’ve extended my stay just for this.”

“Wasn’t it already extended?” Suguru teases, reaching for the chili oil. He bumps his knee against Satoru’s under the table, subtle.

Satoru huffs. “Okay, yeah. But it wasn’t for food, I swear.”

“Sure.” Sora smiles, swirling a maroon liquid in her glass. “So what was it for, then?”

“Conference,” he answers, mouth still half full. “Boring stuff. Curriculum talks, meetings, a bunch of people standing around pretending they care about standardized testing. I had a hotel set up, but I figured, y’know…” He pauses, eyes flicking to Suguru. “Why not see some old friends while I’m here?”

Suguru doesn’t say anything at first—just keeps chewing, gaze low. Then he nods. “Glad you did.”

His wife chimes in right after, still smiling. “It really is nice having you here, Satoru. Make yourself at home, okay? However long you’re staying.”

He leans back a little, setting his chopsticks down, obnoxiously rubbing his stomach. “You keep talking like that and I’ll be here till next spring.”

She laughs, and even Suguru cracks a small grin. The three of them fall into an easy quiet, the kind that only happens when the food’s good and no one feels like filling the silence just to hear themselves talk.

Under the table, Suguru’s knee brushes against his. Once. Then again—lingering this time. If Satoru didn’t know any better, he’d say it was an accident.

He pretends not to notice. Just picks his bowl back up and focuses on finishing his noodles.

Even if they’ve suddenly lost a bit of flavor.

🍎

Satoru truly loved the Geto household.

Everything about it was warm, welcoming, thoughtful in a way most people weren’t. It was the kind of place that made you want to slow down, breathe deeper, take your time. And they always made space for him here—space. Not just somewhere to crash, but somewhere he was expected, cared for.

He stood under the showerhead in the bathroom, lathering up with the body wash they’d bought just for him. His scent. His own little bottle. The water pressure was perfect and the tiles under his feet were solid and quiet. 

No creaking floorboards, no pipes rattling behind the walls. He didn’t have to worry about waking anyone with his late night showers, which he liked to take when the world outside felt still and safe, like tonight.

Suguru had gone out right after dinner. Satoru hadn’t seen nor heard from him since. Only his wife was home now, tucked away behind the cracked door of the master bedroom. He noticed it when he stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung low on his hips, hair damp, padding down the hall on softened feet. The door was open just a sliver—enough to acknowledge her presence, not enough to disturb.

Satoru didn’t linger.

The bed had already been made earlier, but now there were extra pillows stacked up at the head, the blanket fluffed and folded back like someone was expecting him. A fruity sweet candle sat extinguished on the nightstand, still fragrant enough from earlier to tint the air. The whole room smelled soft—clean, cared for.

Satoru liked that. That if Suguru wasn’t around to baby him, his wife had no problem picking up the slack. She spoiled him just the same.

He smiled a little, sinking under the sheets. They were cool against his freshly showered skin, crisp and smooth and expensive feeling. 

He burrowed into the bed, nuzzling into the pillow with a little satisfied sigh. It was soft and cool against his cheek, the perfect contrast to his warm face and damp hair. The kind of comfort that made you feel a little guilty for enjoying it so much.

He grabbed his phone for a final check—nothing from Suguru. Just a couple of notifications for work and a dumb meme from Shoko that made him snort. He plugged it into the charger, clicked off the bedside lamp, and let the darkness settle around him.

Flat on his back, he stared up at the ceiling, lashes fluttering closed with each slow breath.

With no work or conferences left to worry about for the week, he was excited for tomorrow. Whatever it brought.

Here, in this house, in their home—he could pretend for a little while longer that everything was simple.

That he belonged.

 

Satoru woke to a dull thud outside his door. Then another. And another. At first, he thought it was part of his dream—until the distinct thunk thunk thunk dragged him fully into consciousness.

He blinked blearily at the digital clock on the wall across from the bed. 4:00 a.m. on the dot.

Should he get up and check?

The question answered itself when he heard a muttered, half-whispered, “Shit,” in Suguru’s unmistakable voice.

Satoru stayed where he was, eyes still on the glowing red numbers while his ears did the rest of the work. Another stumble. Slower this time. Careful. The kind of careful only drunk people thought they were being.

A grin crept onto his face.

Suguru was definitely plastered.

He probably should’ve felt a little offended that Suguru went out drinking without him—but truthfully, he was too tired to care. He’d been exhausted all day. And fine, yeah, he was a little mad. But not mad enough to get up.

Satoru groaned anyway, shifting under the blanket. His sleep had still been interrupted, after all.

Only once he heard the soft click of the master bedroom door closing—Suguru safely back in bed—did Satoru let himself settle again. A few more cozy adjustments later, and he was out.

🍎 

“Suguruuu, you went out without me?” Satoru whined as Suguru waddled into the kitchen, looking like a half-dead bear in nothing but loose plaid pants.

Satoru had woken up earlier than expected, rinsed off the travel from his face, and made himself at home in the kitchen. The morning sun spilled through the window in buttery slants, lighting up the table just enough to make it a warm little nap spot for his arms to drape across.

“Huh?” Suguru rasped, voice thick with sleep. His pajama pants sat low on his hips, too low to be decent, but clearly not low enough to care. He shuffled to the counter and rummaged for a coffee pod.

“I heard you come in late. Interrupted my beauty sleep, y’know.”

For a beat, there was nothing but the soft clink of plastic as Suguru loaded the Keurig. Satoru watched the quiet movement of his back as he leaned forward, muscles flexing like it was still the body he used to lean against on dorm beds and gaming chairs.

“Ah. Sorry,” Suguru said eventually.

“No, it’s fine,” Satoru hummed, even though it wasn’t. “No invite, though?”

“It was a group thing. Just some people from work. Would’ve been boring for you.”

Back in the day, Suguru never cared who was invited. If Satoru was nearby, he was coming along. Period. It could’ve been a two-person camping trip and Suguru would’ve found a way to smuggle him in the tent. That’s just how it used to be.

Satoru was a little more grown now, supposedly. A little less dramatic. Still, his bottom lip jutted out anyway, arms crossing over his chest like a petulant cat.

Suguru glanced over. His expression softened—barely—but it didn’t last. Sora entered the room mid-brush, wearing what was obviously Suguru’s oversized tee and sweatpants that swallowed her whole. She made a beeline for the drawers, toothbrush still bobbing between her lips.

“Good morning, Sora,” Satoru crooned, all sweetness as he watched her dig.

She looked up and smiled with her eyes. Suguru moved to her side without hesitation, nuzzling her temple before kissing it. She nudged him playfully with her hip as she fished out a folded slip of paper and held it up to him without speaking.

Suguru squinted at it. “Right now?”

Sora nodded. They didn’t need words. Satoru could see that in the way Suguru smiled and pressed another kiss to her forehead. “I’m ready when you are.”

She padded off toward the bathroom and Suguru turned back to Satoru. “I’m treating us to breakfast.”

Satoru lit up immediately but tried to play it cool, his excitement only leaking out through the little “yay” he squeaked and the happy bounce of his knees under the table.

Suguru smirked and dropped a takeout menu in front of him. “Western style place. That okay?”

 

More than okay.

By the time their orders were laid out in front of them, Satoru was thriving. A whole stack of pancakes—no, stacks, plural—with every fruit topping under the sun. Suguru and Sora had normal, boring adult meals. Three modest items each. But Satoru? He ordered enough honeyed ham and pancakes to feed a sports team and told the waiter to bring him “as much as you legally allow.”

He was going to run Suguru’s pockets dry. And he didn’t feel bad about it. Not even a little.

Despite going a little overboard, Suguru’s still looking at him like he used to. Back in college, he used to buy Satoru lunch just to shut him up—or bring an extra bento from home with a, “you always try to eat mine,” like Satoru wasn’t going to do it anyway. 

He’s always liked keeping him fed. And hey, Satoru’s never been one to turn down free food.

Sora, however, doesn’t look thrilled. “Are you eating for four?” she asks with a wince, her face caught somewhere between a smile and a grimace.

“That’s what it feels like,” Satoru replies, leaning back and patting his stomach before reaching for his silverware. He digs in without hesitation.

Suguru shakes his head as Satoru takes a massive bite, syrup and whipped cream coating his tongue in sugary bliss.

“Greedy.”

“But you’re letting me,” Satoru says through a mouthful of pancake, which earns him a swift kick to the shin under the table.

“Don’t talk with food in your mouth,” Suguru scolds. Beside him, Sora scrunches her nose in quiet horror.

Satoru almost keeps going just to be annoying, but he figures she doesn’t deserve that. If it were just Suguru, he would’ve doubled down. Instead, he lowers his head a little and swallows before flashing an unrepentant grin.

The food is so good nobody’s really talking—except Satoru, of course, in between bites.

He’s catching them up on his work, waving his fork around for emphasis. “They’ve got me out here to give a few lectures and oversee some evaluations. Just a couple of students, nothing too wild. Thankfully they gave me a break after all the crap they’ve been piling on lately.” He scoffs. “Still stuck with daily Zoom meetings, though. Can you believe that? I’m in a whole different prefecture and they still want me glued to a screen.”

He talks and talks, and still finishes his food first. He stares down at his empty plate with something like regret. Should’ve rationed better. It was just too good.

“I really only like working there for the kids,” he adds, softer this time, thumb grazing the rim of his plate. “My homeroom’s amazing. Seriously. Smart, sharp. So much potential.”

He leans back in his chair, eyes drifting. “But the board’s a nightmare. Just a bunch of old guys clinging to whatever system raised them. I keep having to explain that maybe—just maybe—working kids for eight hours straight without a real break isn’t the best way to nurture genius. And maybe that’s why they all look like they’ve aged twenty years before they even graduate.”

He’s full-on ranting now, but neither Suguru nor Sora seems to mind. They listen as they chew, quiet and attentive. Satoru rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry. They just really piss me off.”

“Yeah?” Suguru murmurs with a smirk. “Couldn’t really tell.”

“Ah hah,” Satoru deadpans, rolling his eyes.

But then Suguru grins—really grins—and it’s the kind that makes Satoru falter mid-breath, his heart giving one dumb little skip.

Suguru insists on showing him the new developments, “Come on, you haven’t seen anything since you left, right?” They drag Satoru through the shifting bones of a city that moved on without him. Parts of their old school had been rebuilt, sleeker now, shinier. 

A vet office they used to pass on the way to class was gone, replaced by a park with clean pavement and polite benches. The cafe they used to crash at after long days was still standing, somehow—but now with an eccentric, over-the-top fountain out front, probably to attract tourists.

It’s the same café where they met Sora, too.

He hangs back a bit as they step up to the fountain. The couple laughs at something between them before each tossing in a coin, making some cutesy wish like they’re in a drama.

Satoru pretends not to watch.

He already knows what the place means to them. Doesn’t mean it stings any less.

Once they’re back at the house, it’s early in the evening. Satoru excuses himself to the guest room for his meeting with the school. He changes into a collared shirt before settling in at the desk, professional from the waist up, sweats and mismatched socks below.

The screen lights up with familiar, tired faces, and Satoru braces himself. Within minutes, the same old bickering starts—board members droning on about the same “pressing issues” they’ve been harping on for years. He props his chin on his hand, pretending to listen, eyes glazing over slightly.

The door creaks open just enough for Suguru to peek his head in, and Satoru perks up immediately, twisting in his chair like a kid caught passing notes.

Suguru steps in without a word and sets a cup down beside him. One glance at the condensation beading on the glass and Satoru knows what it is.

He takes a sip, eyes fluttering shut.

Strawberry lemonade. Sweet, tart, perfect. “Sora made a fresh batch for you,” Suguru whispers, and of course she did.

Satoru looks up at Suguru and mouths a quiet, dramatic, lifesaver. Suguru just snorts under his breath and disappears back into the hallway.

The meeting goes on. Satoru keeps nodding like he’s paying attention, sipping lemonade and thinking only vaguely about how good it still feels—being here. Being looked after. Even just like this.

“Dinner is ready when you are,” Suguru whispers, rubbing his shoulder before slipping out of the room.

The meeting drags on, but after that, Satoru can’t focus. Not with the smell creeping in from under the door—warm and salty, definitely miso, but there’s something else too. Something sharp, maybe sweet. Sora always puts her own spin on things.

He doesn’t even say goodbye when he logs off. Just shuts the laptop and stretches his arms overhead with a dramatic groan before heading down the hall.

The closer he gets to the kitchen, the stronger it is. His stomach grumbles at the scent.

When he walks in, Suguru and Sora are already seated, talking in low voices across the table. They don’t notice him at first, too caught up in whatever quiet conversation they’re having.

Satoru doesn’t wait for an invitation. He helps himself—finds a bowl, scoops a generous portion, and lets the steam hit his face like a reward.

The miso’s still warm when Satoru takes his seat, careful not to interrupt whatever hushed conversation the couple’s sharing. They both look up when he enters, though—Sora offering him a kind smile, Suguru just giving a little nod before glancing back down at his phone.

He helps himself, the familiar scent grounding him a bit. It’s good. Comforting. Homey in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time.

“God,” he groans, leaning back a little, “this beats cafeteria food by a mile.”

Suguru glances up. “Didn’t you say they upgraded the teachers’ lounge?”

“Sure. If you count stale croissants and burnt coffee as an upgrade.”

Sora chuckles. “I didn’t know you could burn coffee. Sounds rough.”

“Brutal,” he agrees. “Especially with the kids stealing all the good snacks. One of ‘em figured out where we keep the vending machine key and it’s been chaos ever since.”

Sora smiles. “You’re teaching high school, right? Or is it middle school?”

“Mmhm, high school. Third years this semester. And they’re little monsters,” he says fondly, sipping his miso. “But I love ‘em.”

At that, something shifts.

It’s not huge. Just a pause in Suguru’s hand as he sets his phone down. Barely a change in expression. But Satoru notices.

“They’re smart, though,” he adds, trying to keep it light. “Annoying as hell, but smart. It’s weird. Some days I feel more like a parent than a teacher.”

“You’ve always been good with kids,” Suguru says softly.

“Yeah, well…” he trails off with a shrug. “Somebody’s gotta advocate for them.”

Silence again. Suguru’s thumb presses to the corner of his phone, not unlocking it, just… holding.

Satoru lets it go. He doesn’t know what the look on Suguru’s face means, but he knows better than to press when it looks like that.

Instead, he shifts topics. “Anyway. Sorry.”

Sora shakes her head. “No, I liked hearing about it.”

“Yeah?” he grins. “Wanna trade jobs?”

“I’ll pass,” Sora waves a dismissive hand, “I prefer handling newborn monsters over teen ones.”

It gets a laugh out of him. The mood starts to ease again, but Suguru still hasn’t said anything. Still hasn’t really looked at him.

Then, like it’s an afterthought, Suguru clears his throat. “They just texted. I’ve gotta run into the office.”

Sora blinks. “On a Sunday?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t elaborate. “Just for a bit.”

He gives Satoru an apologetic look as he stands. Satoru watches him grab his coat from the hook by the door. Watches the way Sora doesn’t say anything else.

“I’ll be back later,” Suguru says, already halfway out.

And then he’s gone.

Satoru stares at the space he left behind, chopsticks idle in his bowl.

“…That wasn’t weird at all,” he mutters.

Sora gives a tired smile, but doesn’t comment.

Satoru insists on helping clean up after dinner, ignoring Sora’s “No, you’re a guest” speech as he grabs plates anyway. “Relax, I’m not gonna break your fancy dishes. Probably.”

She gives him a look over her shoulder. “You did break a plate last time you were here.”

“Okay, that plate was suicidal and you know it,” he says, stacking bowls and passing them her way. “I’m doing you a favor.”

Sora laughs under her breath, shaking her head. She’s got her hair pulled back, sleeves rolled, and she looks way too composed for someone elbow-deep in suds. “Had a patient’s partner faint on me yesterday,” she says casually as she rinses. “Straight to the floor. We had to get two nurses to haul him up while I kept working.”

Satoru snorts. “So what I’m hearing is… you did all the heavy lifting and the work.”

“Exactly.” She hands him a wet plate.

“God, you’re wasted on Suguru. Should’ve married me.”

If Suguru heard him say this, he’d probably knock him upside his head. But Sora thinks he’s funny. 

“Mm, I’d last maybe three days,” she shoots back without looking at him.

Satoru smirks, towel-drying a glass. “Three days? I’m a delight. You’d be begging me to stay.”

She just rolls her eyes and passes him another plate.

They fall into a rhythm—her washing, him drying—while they vent about work. Sora talks about late-night calls and stubborn patients, while Satoru rants about the school board and how it’s basically a retirement home full of “old men who hate fun.” She actually laughs, which makes him grin even wider.

When they’re done, Satoru tosses the towel over his shoulder and sprawls onto the couch like he owns it. “Alright, enough suffering. You’re watching my show.”

Sora raises an eyebrow. “Oh god. What now?”

“Just the greatest show ever made,” he says, patting the spot next to him. “Suguru refuses to watch it because he ‘has taste,’ but he’s wrong, and you deserve better.”

She humors him, sitting down with a blanket over her lap. “This better not be garbage.”

“It’s The Circle. It’s art, Sora. Don’t question me.”

By the second episode, they’re both half-yelling at the contestants. Satoru’s commentary is relentless—mocking dramatic speeches, praising the stupidest strategies—and Sora’s laughing enough to shove his arm whenever he says something too ridiculous.

For a while, it feels like the easy kind of night he used to have with Suguru in their shoebox apartment. Back when life wasn’t this… complicated.

Only now, Suguru’s not the one sitting next to him. Satoru can’t help but notice that.

🍎

Satoru crawls into bed about an hour later, after saying goodnight to Sora. She couldn’t stop yawning, barely making it through their last episode. He’d teased her for it, but she kissed his cheek and wished him sweet dreams on the way out. She really was the sweetest.

The guest room feels cozier now, lived-in after just a day. He curls up under the blanket with a soft sigh, content enough. Still… he wishes he’d spent more time with Suguru today. 

Not that he didn’t love hanging out with Sora—he did. He really did. And he gets it. He sees why Suguru fell for her.

Still.

He checks his phone, screen lighting his face in the dark. No texts. No updates. Nothing. It’s late. Suguru should be home soon.

Satoru debates waiting up, but maybe Suguru’s tired. Maybe it’s been a long day and he won’t be in the mood to talk. That’s fine. They have time.

He plugs his phone into the wall and lays back, staring at the ceiling for a moment before closing his eyes. 

Inhale, hold, exhale. Again. 

Counting his breath, trying to settle the fidgety feeling buzzing under his skin.

Tomorrow, he’ll ask if they can hang out—just the two of them. Nothing serious. Catch up a little, laugh about stupid shit like they used to.

Yeah. That’ll be nice.

 

Satoru jolts awake with a sharp “oomf”, breath catching in his throat as unexpected weight crashes down on top of him. Huh? His eyes fly open, disoriented, his body tense and ready to fight—until he feels it.

Arms. Strong ones. Wrapping tight around his waist like a human seatbelt. And a familiar scent.

He freezes.

His brain scrambles to catch up with his body, hands instinctively rising to push whoever it is off—but then he sees it. A messy curtain of ebony hair pressed against his chest, soft strands tickling his collarbone.

Suguru.

The tension in Satoru’s body doesn’t leave. If anything, it tightens into something sharper, more confused. What time is it? What’s happening?

It’s not unusual for Suguru to be affectionate when he wants to be. A casual arm over the shoulder, leaning in too close during a movie, brushing his hand or knee just a second too long. But it’s got to be at least three in the morning. This is different.

Satoru’s nose twitches, and then it hits him.

That scent. Masking his best friend's natural musk.

Sharp. Bitter. Overwhelming. Nothing like his Suguru.

Rum.

It rolls off Suguru in waves, saturating the air between them until Satoru’s nose burns and his stomach twists. And then a soft grunt. Suguru shifts against him, breath warm and sloppy as it ghosts across Satoru’s cheek, down to his jaw.

His eyes are closed. Almost as if he’s out cold.

No—drunk. Plastered, judging by the uncoordinated way he’s clinging to Satoru, like he’s forgotten what boundaries are. Like he doesn’t remember where he is. Or who.

Satoru parts his lips to say something. Anything.

Hey man, are you okay?

What the hell are you doing?

Do you even know where you are right now?

But the words die in his throat the moment Suguru moves.

He presses in impossibly closer, molding to Satoru’s front like he belongs there—like he’s done this a thousand times before. His arm tightens around Satoru’s middle. His mouth brushes Satoru’s ear. And then, slurred and syrup-sweet:

“Hey, honey.”

The words crash into Satoru like a bolt of lightning.

His heart stutters. His breath hitches. Every nerve in his body sparks to life in an instant, and he turns his head stiffly—eyes wide, panic blooming beneath his skin.

“Suguru?” Satoru rasps, ignoring the thundering anxiety in his chest.

Suguru doesn’t even notice. He’s too busy nuzzling his nose into the crook of Satoru’s neck, murmuring something incoherent against his skin like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Satoru just lies there, stunned into silence, heat crawling up his neck, brain caught in a loop of what the fuck and don’t move, maybe this is just a weird dream.

“Wh—” Satoru starts, voice barely above a breath.

But Suguru interrupts him without missing a beat, his words slurring as he mumbles, “Hope I didn’t make you wait too long. Was out with the guys.”

Satoru blinks. Rapidly. His brain tries to catch up with his body, with the weight on top of him, the warmth pressed so tightly against his side, the alcohol on Suguru’s breath soaking into the air between them.

Wait too long?

What is—what the fuck is going on?

Suguru’s on top of him—no, not just on top of him. Clinging. Both arms are locked around Satoru’s waist in a way that feels less like cuddling and more like a security measure, like he’s terrified that if he lets go for even a second, Satoru will disappear.

And maybe that’s the scariest part—because the way he’s holding him isn’t casual. It’s intimate.

“Su—Suguru, are you.. I’m—“ Satoru stammers, his voice faltering as his hands hover awkwardly in the air, unsure of where to land. On Suguru’s shoulders to push him off? On his back to… steady him?

Doesn’t matter. The moment he opens his mouth, Suguru moves.

There’s a pause, barely half a second—but then Satoru feels it. Warm breath against his neck, followed by something softer. More intentional.

A kiss.

Just one at first. Firm, lingering. Lips pressed to the skin beneath his jaw like they belong there.

“I missed you.” Suguru whispers.

Then another. 

And another. A slow trail creeping up toward his ear.

“Love you so much.” Suguru soothes.

Satoru flushes immediately. His pulse stutters.

What the hell is going on?

“Been thinkin’ about you all night,” Suguru slurs, voice thick and content.

Satoru’s thoughts screech to a halt. Who? he thinks, panic rising in his chest. Me? Me?!

No, no. That can’t be right. That has to be wrong. Suguru’s drunk—very obviously wasted. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Doesn’t know who he’s saying this stuff to. It’s dark, and they’re close, and they’ve always been a little physical with each other—but this? This is a mistake. A genuine, honest, drunken mistake.

He must think Satoru’s someone else.

His wife. Of course.

It’s the only thing that makes sense.

Satoru stiffens, awkward and wide-eyed, and begins to wiggle underneath him, trying to shift Suguru’s weight off without waking him all the way or making it more humiliating than it already is. 

But the moment he moves, Suguru’s arms tighten around him with a quiet groan, like Satoru’s escape attempt offended him in his sleep.

The hold isn’t rough. It’s not threatening.

But it’s final.

Don’t move.

The message is clear in the way Suguru burrows even closer, his nose brushing Satoru’s collarbone. He presses a kiss to his jugular. Another to his jaw. Lips dragging slower this time—like he’s savoring it.

Satoru stills, muscles locked, brain screaming what the fuck what the fuck what the fuuuck on repeat.

And yet he doesn’t stop him.

He just exhales, quietly, helplessly. Not quite a sigh of resignation. Not quite relief.

Suguru’s lips graze the edge of his throat again.

Satoru closes his eyes.

He really doesn’t get it.

Suguru’s room—his actual room—is just down the damn hall. He’s lived in this house long enough to know that. Satoru’s pretty sure he could navigate it blackout drunk and still land in the right bed, so how the hell did Suguru end up in his?

That question fizzles the second he feels Suguru’s hands move.

No longer just tightly wrapped around his waist. Now they’re gripping his hips. Big palms settling with purpose, fingers digging in—not hard, but firm. Possessive. Sending a clear message: stay.

Satoru stiffens. His breath catches.

Suguru shifts, nuzzling into the opposite side of his neck now. The kisses are sloppier. Less precise. Less like kisses, really. More like his mouth is just dragging lazily over skin. Wet and open and warm, leaving a messy trail down Satoru’s throat.

He hates to admit it, even to himself—but it feels good.

Too good.

Suguru’s voice is a low mumble against his skin, thick with booze and affection. “They’re nice and all,” he says, clearly talking about his friends that Satoru know nothing about. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about the beautiful woman I get to come home to.”

Satoru flinches hard like he’s been slapped.

Woman.

There it is. Confirmation. Proof.

Not him.

Definitely not him.

The stab in his chest is sharp, fast—and he crushes it before it can settle. The warmth pooling low in his gut turns sour, shame curling in its place. This isn’t his moment. This isn’t for him.

He tries to push the feeling down. Push Suguru down.

His palms flatten against Suguru’s chest. “Suguru,” he says, firm this time. Enough to cut through the haze. Not quite a yell, but loud enough to risk attention. Loud enough to make Satoru glance instinctively toward the hallway, heart pounding at the thought of a door creaking open, of her walking in.

Suguru doesn’t lift his head. Doesn’t respond, not really.

But something shifts.

Satoru feels it. Just barely. A flicker of tension in Suguru’s body, the smallest twitch of his fingers on his hips. Anyone else would’ve missed it.

But Satoru’s Satoru.

He catches everything.

And that’s what makes this worse.

Because the hesitation is there. Brief, subtle.

But Suguru chooses not to stop.

Instead, his mouth returns to Satoru’s skin with more intent now—open-mouthed kisses, sloppy and wet, dragging over the hollow of his throat. His hands slide tighter around Satoru’s hips, and then—

Then he yanks him closer.

Satoru gasps, arms crushed awkwardly between them now, smushed by Suguru’s solid chest. He has no choice but to hold on, fingers gripping the front of Suguru’s shirt as their bodies press flush.

And that’s when he feels it.

A firm nudge against the waistband of his shorts. Persistent. Hot.

Satoru’s eyes snap wide open.

Oh. 

Oh.

That’s—

That’s definitely a dick.

That’s his dick.

Suguru’s.

Suguru’s hard.

Fully. Unmistakably. Hard.

His breath catches in his throat, mind reeling.

“So horny, baby,” Suguru breathes into his ear, voice rough and needy, “Can I have you tonight?”

His teeth graze Satoru’s earlobe in a teasing bite that makes him flinch.

“My pretty girl.”

Nope.

No. Absolutely not. This is wrong. This isn’t okay. 

Not like this.

“Suguru, it’s me,” Satoru says quickly, urgently.

It doesn’t land.

Suguru just groans softly and pulls him in tighter, arms wrapping around his head like he’s trying to cradle something precious. It’s too close. Way too close. Satoru barely has room to breathe—and then he feels it.

The slow, shaky grind of Suguru’s hips.

Right against him.

Right against his cunt.

A whimper crawls up his throat and he barely catches it behind clenched teeth. Shit, this is crazy. Satoru can barely begin to process what’s going on. Suguru’s so hard—rock fucking hard—and the drag of his cock, still caged behind the fabric of his slacks, smothers Satoru’s clit like a cruel trick of the universe. And it really fucking is one. 

“Wait, Suguru, I’m not your—” he tries again, panic sharpening his voice. But Suguru won’t stop. He won’t listen. His moans just grow and grow, rumbling right into Satoru’s ear, swallowing every attempt at reason.

Satoru hates how good Suguru sounds. Like, still. After all this time. His voice has always been stupid nice—smooth, deep, all warm at the edges like he was born to read bedtime stories or make money whispering into a mic. 

It used to sweeten Satoru’s mood without Suguru even trying. Just a soft little command murmured in his ear—like, “Can you finish your paper so we can go out? I want you to at least pretend you’re listening in class and not just being a smartass.” And Satoru would groan, roll his eyes, act like it was such a chore. But he always did it.

Hearing that same voice now, right in his ear—soft and needy and just for him—makes something in his chest twist.

Suguru sounds like he’s coming undone just from this. Just from being close.

To Satoru. 

It’s just a steady grind, all friction and heat, but still. The attention feels good. Feels really good.

Even with that tight, sour knot of guilt burning low in his stomach, he can’t help but let the moment take him—just for a second. 

He missed this. 

Missed feeling wanted. 

Missed being touched like it meant something. 

And getting it from Suguru of all people? It feels like a dream he’s not supposed to have.

The grind of his hips gets rougher, more purposeful. Still careful, but trembling with restraint, like he’s trying not to lose it. Satoru gasps as another grind lines up just right, his body reacting with a jolt before his mind can catch up.

“Missed you so much, baby,” Suguru slurs, his hips moving with a shaky rhythm, hungry and aching. “I swear, oh god.”

Satoru’s throat tightens. Fuck, it’s getting to the point where he can’t even breathe.

Not just from the weight pressing down on his chest—though that’s definitely not helping—but from the guilt.

Thick and suffocating, curling around his lungs, winding through his ribs. It’s everywhere, all he can think about.

And still, the heat from Suguru’s hips rolling against his makes his whole body go hot. Face flushed, heart pounding. It’s all too much.

Because no matter how hard he tries, Suguru won’t move. Satoru pushes at his chest, pinches at his side—nothing. He truly tries and Suguru will not budge. He’s anchored to him like he belongs there.

And shit, it feels good.

Suguru’s scent hits him like a drug. Under the sharp burn of alcohol on his skin, there’s still him—deep and warm, incense and sweat and something unmistakably Suguru. His hair falls around Satoru’s face, ebony strands brushing his cheek, soft and familiar. Too familiar.

The pressure between his legs is unbearable now—Suguru’s cock grinding rough, hot, and needy, like it knows exactly where to press. He can feel the throb of it, feel the heat of it even through layers of fabric on his pussy.

And Suguru won’t stop. He won’t.

His hands twist into Satoru’s hair, fingers clutching like he’s afraid to lose him—forcing Satoru’s head back with a sharp tug—and he sees it all. Suguru humping him like he’s lost all control. Like Satoru’s not even a person anymore, just something to get off on. 

“Suguru. Suguru, stop it,” Satoru whispers again, weak this time. So quiet it barely counts as protest.

And it’s not just that Suguru isn’t listening.

It’s that he doesn’t sound convincing anymore.

Not even to himself.

Because it feels really fucking good.

And he doesn’t know how to stop this, nor if he wants to.

Suguru’s hips are moving faster now, the grind growing sloppier and even more desperate. He groans loud and hot into Satoru’s ear, cheek pressed hard against his, like he’s trying to crawl inside him.

“Baby… baby,” he chants, voice breaking like he’s on the edge, each repetition more strained than the last.

Satoru’s legs jerk involuntarily with every thrust, the friction sparking fireworks up his spine. There’s a crackling whimper stuck in his throat, caged behind clenched teeth. His shorts have ridden up high and tight, sticky and soaked—he can feel it, how wet he is, how humiliatingly ready he sounds every time Suguru grinds down.

“Baby, I want—god, you gotta let me—oh fuck, baby—” Suguru gasps, his voice a hoarse mix of want and worship.

The bed creaks louder now, each movement sounding like a warning, like a siren echoing through Satoru’s shame. It shouldn’t be like this—shouldn’t feel like this—but his body won’t listen. It’s moving on instinct, back arching, clit pulsing, muscles tightening, chasing the heat pooling in his gut. He tries to push at Suguru’s chest, tries to bite back the moan crawling up his throat, but it’s no use.

He’s close. God, he’s going to cum like this. From dry humping with his best friend. Who has a wife sleeping just a few doors down.

Satoru bites his tongue hard, breath coming out in jagged bursts. Suguru feels too good—too thick, too heavy, too familiar. His scent, his voice, the warmth of him—it all smothers Satoru, wraps around him like a vice. His thighs clench around Suguru involuntarily, body acting on pure, humiliating instinct, locking him in.

His clit throbs painfully now, morals unraveling with every drag of Suguru’s cock through his pants. And just when he’s about to try again—

“Suguru,” he says, breathless and shaking, a final desperate plea.

But Suguru just lets out a low, guttural sound—followed by a breathless, “Coming,”—and then goes still.

Then comes the warmth.

Hot. Immediate. Wet.

It seeps through the cotton of Satoru’s shorts in an instant, and the realization hits him like a punch to the chest.

Holy shit.

Suguru just came.

He just came in his fucking pants. On Satoru.

His biceps tighten around Satoru’s head, holding him close like he’s trying to fuse their bodies together. Satoru gasps, face burning, the heat between his legs now slick with something that isn’t just his own.

Suguru’s hips twitch hard once. Twice. A third agonizing time. Then stop entirely.

The weight of him sinks fully into Satoru like he’s made of lead. And neither of them moves. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, alcohol, and… sex. 

Suguru’s cock—softening now—rests against Satoru’s soaked cunt like an apology he never got the nerve to say.

Their breathing slowly evens out. Still shallow. Still ragged. But synced.

Satoru’s body is buzzing, toes curled from the aftershocks of an orgasm that never quite hit. He was so close.

Still achy. Still flushed. Still brazenly, stupidly horny.

And then it happens.

Suguru exhales, slow and deep, like he’s about to fall asleep.

Oh no. Oh no no no no.

“Nope,” Satoru mutters, squirming beneath him, finally regaining just enough clarity to panic. He tries to push him off again—useless. He’s all dead weight.

“Get up; Suguru. Get the fuck up, get up.” Satoru hisses, pushing at him anyways.

Surprisingly, Suguru shifts.

“Gonna shower, baby… be back,” he mutters, groggy and low, peeling himself off the bed in one clumsy motion.

Satoru watches in wide-eyed disbelief as Suguru, pants stained with their debauchery, stumbles toward the door without opening his eyes.

And walks out.

Just like that.

Gone.

Leaving Satoru lying there in the wreckage of his self control, shorts soaked, heart pounding, and brain screaming what the actual fuck just happened.

Satoru gets up with a grimace, sticking his tongue out like he can taste the regret. His shorts squelch as he moves—slick and disgusting with everything Suguru left behind. 

And, of course, his own shameless arousal. 

He shuts the door quietly, debating whether to lock it. He ultimately decides not to. Just crawls back into bed, limbs heavy, brain fried.

He lies there, staring at the wall. Legs still spread.

What the fuck just happened.

 

Satoru wasn’t ashamed to admit that once he was sure the coast was clear—that Suguru had gone back to bed with his wife—he’d let himself indulge a little. 

He sat there, fingers tracing slow, private circles, trying to process everything that had just happened. Sue him if he wanted—he’d just been pressed against the one person he’d buried a deep, complicated crush on for far too long. 

It wasn’t exactly right, no, but in that needy moment, he convinced himself it was okay. 

🍎

Suguru hadn’t been in his right mind last night, but when morning came, he was perfectly himself again. Satoru noticed as he walked into the living room, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, that Suguru was sitting calmly on the couch with Sora. The way Suguru smiled at him—warm, kind, and innocent—was disarming. His wife nestled against Suguru’s side, seemed peaceful and unaware.

“Good morning, Satoru,” she said softly.

Satoru’s eyes flicked over the two of them, a mix of emotions swirling inside him, before he simply blurted, 

“Morning.” 

The day goes on infuriatingly normal.

If it weren’t for the uncomfortable cling of his damp shorts that morning—or the way his ruined panties stuck to him like a reminder—Satoru might’ve convinced himself it was just a dream. A messed-up, guilt-laced dream that should’ve never happened.

But no. It was real.

And worse, Suguru doesn’t look even remotely guilty. Like he really doesn’t remember a damn thing. Which somehow makes it worse. Now Satoru’s left to carry it all on his own.

He can’t meet Sora’s eyes over lunch. Barely gets through the meal without choking on his own tongue. It only gets worse when Suguru heads out again, claiming another late shift at work, and suddenly it’s just Satoru and Sora again. Alone. In this house that doesn’t belong to him. He keeps trying to talk himself down, tell himself it’s fine, that nothing really happened—

But it did. And it wasn’t nothing.

He thinks about telling her, just blurting it out and getting it over with. But why? To ruin a perfectly happy marriage over a drunken accident? A few pathetic grinds and half-muttered words? Suguru called him a pretty girl, said he missed his woman—those words were meant for Sora. Not for him.

So when he’s drying dishes beside her after dinner, hands shaking ever so slightly, Satoru keeps quiet. Decides then and there to swallow the whole thing. There’s no peaceful way out of this if he opens his mouth.

Still, it aches. Not just guilt—for Sora, for Suguru—but something else, something hollow and greedy lodged deep in his chest. Because he liked it. He really fucking liked it. The weight of Suguru’s body, the heat of his breath, the soft moans and the way he held him like he meant it.

It replays on loop in his head, over and over again, and every time it does, the guilt knots tighter.

He knows it’s not okay.

But there’s a terrible voice in his head that wishes it would happen again.

🍎

Satoru probably freaks out way less than he should’ve when he wakes to a strange sensation between his legs.

At first, it’s like surfacing from a dream. Warmth everywhere, his limbs heavy and relaxed, mind drifting somewhere hazy and soft. But there’s pressure. Wet, rhythmic pressure, right up against his pussy. Not his thighs, not his stomach—there.

He shifts a little under the blanket, thinking maybe it’s just a dream, maybe he rolled over weird.

But the movement only makes it worse. Better? Both.

He groans before he can stop himself, the sound catching low in his throat. His panties feel soaked through, clinging in the worst kind of way—like they’ve been pushed and messed with for a while now. Something hot and firm presses against them in slow, steady drags, almost like it’s teasing him.

His eyes finally start to focus.

A few blinks. One deep breath. The blanket moves when he tries to lift his knee. And then he looks down.

Familiar raven hair, messy and loose, tucked between his legs.

Suguru.

Satoru blinks again, slower this time. Suguru doesn’t seem to notice he’s awake—completely in his own world as he licks over the soaked fabric like he’s savoring it.

“S-Suguru?” Satoru grunts, voice still thick with sleep.

He tries to shift, but Suguru’s fingers tighten around his thighs, holding him in place.

There’s no answer—at least not right away. Instead, Suguru presses his nose directly against his clit, making Satoru jolt.

“Taste so sweet, honey,” he slurs.

“Mmh, Suguru… why are you—hnngh—” Satoru’s breath stutters as Suguru sucks at his clit through the cloth, tongue slow and messy. His whole body jerks, the friction a good wake up call. 

He’s definitely drunk—whether off alcohol or just the act itself, Satoru can’t tell. But he stinks of it again. His fingertips are hot and digging into the fat of Satoru’s thighs as he devours him through his panties, like he doesn’t plan on stopping anytime soon.

Satoru’s legs jerk when Suguru’s tongue pushes lower, prodding at his hole through the damp fabric—just enough pressure to press the panties inside.

Satoru hasn’t been touched like this in a very, very long time. And yeah, his body’s always been on the sensitive side—but this? This is too much, too fast.

Did Suguru just come in and start eating him out? How long has he been at it?

How much did he miss before waking up?

Did Suguru already get off?

The questions spin uselessly in his head, slipping through the cracks left behind by sleep and guilt and heat.

His body answers for him, anyway—clit pulsing at the thought of Suguru using him again, just like he did last night.

God, he shouldn’t like that as much as he does.

Suguru’s moaning, by the way. Moaning like he’s the one getting his pussy eaten—whimpering into Satoru’s panties like he’s starving, yanking him closer by the hips like he can’t get close enough.

“Quit it,” Satoru whines, weakly. He presses a hand to Suguru’s shoulder in a sad excuse for resistance.

It’s pathetic. He knows it’s pathetic.

Especially because he doesn’t even mean it.

Outright ignoring Satoru’s weak protest, Suguru’s large hands slide up his thighs, pushing them toward his chest with a practiced ease. “Don’t push me away, baby. Just a little more,” Suguru murmurs, voice thick with need as he nuzzles into his pussy.

Satoru stares down at him, stunned. Really? Suguru gets this plastered, stumbles home, buries his face in (what he thinks is) his wife’s cunt, and then just knocks out afterward? Like it’s a normal Tuesday?

Satoru bites back a sigh, irritation curling in his chest. It’s stupid, but the thought stings a little. Suguru’s so fucking passionate, so desperate to worship—and he’s not even fully present. He’s doing this like he thinks Satoru’s someone else. Like he’s his sweet, doting wife.

“You smell beautiful,” Suguru slurs against him. “Like a garden.”

Satoru blinks, caught off guard. He doubts that. He’s been asleep and sweating, but the compliment still makes something in his chest soften. His lips twitch, almost despite himself.

Suguru pushes his nose into the soaked fabric, inhaling deep like he’s trying to memorize the scent. Satoru grimaces.

“Eugh. Come on, that’s enough,” he mutters, giving him another shove.

It doesn’t work. Suguru just nuzzles in deeper, rubbing his cheek lazily against Satoru’s inner thigh like a cat in heat.

“So perfect,” Suguru coos instead.

Satoru rolls his eyes and stares at the ceiling.

There’s really not much he can do here. No point in yelling or fighting—Suguru’s obviously drunk off his ass, and all that would do is wake Sora and start a whole mess neither of them needs.

So, for now, he lets him stay there. Face buried between his thighs. Whispering sweet nothings meant for someone else.

Suguru trails wet, open-mouthed kisses back over to his cunt, hips visibly rutting against the bed like he can’t help himself. Then he sucks—hard—right on Satoru’s clit, making him groan loud before slapping a hand over his own mouth, eyes flying open.

His other hand fists tightly in Suguru’s hair.

That felt really, really good.

Suguru does it again. And again. Each suck followed by a moan that vibrates straight through Satoru’s soaked panties, right around his clit.

Okay, shit. That’s super fucking good.

“Mm, Suguru—” Satoru whines behind his palm, hips rutting up into Suguru’s face without thinking.

Suguru moans in return, like he’s being fed, like he lives for this. His hips start grinding harder against the mattress, clumsy and desperate.

Satoru’s eyes go wide as he watches it—his best friend, his fucking best friend, humping the bed like a depraved animal while sloppily sucking at his cunt through the fabric.

He feels it—tight and low and fast.

He can cum like this. He’s going to cum like this.

Suguru’s not stopping, not slowing down, just rutting and moaning and drooling against him like an animal. The bed’s rocking from the force of his movements, loud and rhythmic.

Satoru groans into his hand, dragging Suguru’s head closer by the hair, burying him deeper between his thighs.

And Suguru goes willingly—messy, noisy, grateful.

“Suguru,” Satoru breathes again, chest heaving, every gasp catching in his throat.

He’s gonna cum.

No fucking way—he’s really gonna cum like this, just from his best friend doing this to him.

Shit, shit, shit—

He looks down, wide-eyed, and catches Suguru’s face between his thighs. His brows are furrowed, like he’s concentrating hard—really trying to make Satoru finish like this.

He won’t even pull the panties to the side. Won’t eat his bare pussy. Like it’s something sacred. Like it’s off-limits.

Or maybe—fuck—maybe it’s because of his wife.

Suguru won’t eat Satoru’s bare cunt out of respect for her. 

That thought hits Satoru like a punch to the gut, heat exploding low in his stomach, sharp and overwhelming. Even though it doesn’t make sense.

It does something to him—too much, actually—and then he’s cumming, just like that.

His orgasm slams into him hard, ripping through his core. Both hands fly to Suguru’s hair, yanking him in, his thighs snapping shut tight around his skull as his whole body curls up instinctively—tight and trembling like he’s trying to roll into himself.

He bites down on his tongue, hard, trying not to scream. He swears he tastes blood, but it’s the only thing keeping him quiet while his body twitches violently through it.

Suguru moans into the fabric. “Fuck, that’s sweet. Oh baby, you taste amazing,” he slurs, tongue still working over the sensitive spot where Satoru’s hole pulses beneath the soaked cotton.

Satoru whimpers—high and broken, like something wounded—body shivering in the overstimulated aftermath, unable to stop shaking.

Suguru finally pulls back after a couple of sharp yanks from Satoru, his fingers tangled deep in raven hair. It takes an excessive amount of force to get him to stop. Satoru pants hard, chest rising and falling, as Suguru lingers for a moment, planting slow, wet kisses along the insides of his thighs like nothing’s out of the ordinary.

Then he sits up.

Satoru watches him closely, bracing for it—that oh shit, this isn’t my wife moment. He waits for Suguru’s face to shift, for panic to set in, for him to bolt out of the room in drunken horror.

But it never comes.

In fact, Suguru does the exact opposite.

Satoru blinks, stunned, as Suguru’s fingers fumble at his belt. His breathing’s ragged, his eyes bouncing between the soaked mess between Satoru’s legs and Satoru’s flushed face. His hands are clumsy, his pace frantic.

And Satoru? He just lays there, kind of in shock, kind of frozen—his body still twitching from the aftermath of the orgasm Suguru just gave him.

He hasn’t cum like that in years.

“Suguru, we shouldn’t—” he starts, voice rough, barely convincing even to himself.

But Suguru doesn’t stop. He shoves his boxers down just enough for his cock to spring free.

Satoru’s mouth parts in silence.

It’s huge—leaking, heavy, and uncut. The weight of it makes it bob as it drops, thick as a beer can, long enough that Suguru’s entire wrist has to move just to stroke it properly. The foreskin slides over the head, slick with precum, glistening in the low light.

Satoru’s brain short circuits. His breath catches. He can’t tear his eyes away.

Jesus Christ.

It’s, like, the size of his fucking forearm.

All rational thought leaves his body.

Breathless and thoroughly distracted, Satoru doesn’t even realize Suguru’s moved his panties aside with two fingers until he feels the chill of the air against his slick skin—and then the heat of something much firmer pressing in.

He gasps sharply when Suguru slaps the head of his cock against his clit. A sharp, wet sound echoes with each lazy tap, obscene and rhythmic.

“Sh–shit, wait—” Satoru stammers, a weak attempt to protest as his hand comes up to press against Suguru’s abs. There’s no real push behind it. Just contact.

Suguru doesn’t even flinch. His palm stays steady on his cock, guiding it with slow, lazy strokes, dragging it up and down Satoru’s soaked folds. His eyes are heavy-lidded, half lost in the feeling, but still sharp enough to meet Satoru’s gaze when he leans in close.

“Nice and wet for me now, hm?” Suguru croons, voice rough and syrupy, his breath hot against Satoru’s skin.

Satoru shivers beneath him.

Suguru’s smile is lazy, slurred. “Just for me, right?” he says, not waiting for an answer before he yanks Satoru’s panties taut—stretching the damp fabric so it presses tight against his skin—then lets go. The snap of wet cloth meeting flesh makes both of them jolt.

The fabric traps Suguru’s cock against him, smearing precum and slick where their heat meets. Both of them groan.

Satoru’s head falls back, a breathy noise escaping him, eyes fluttering closed before he forces them open to look down again. Suguru’s shifting on his knees now, angling just right as he rocks his hips forward, rutting slowly between Satoru’s folds—not inside, but damn close. He’s grinding against him like he wants to be, like he’s pretending he is, cock sliding through soaked lips over and over like he’s savoring the friction.

Satoru’s drenched, and Suguru is clearly reveling in the mess. His eyes don’t lift. He’s locked in—gaze fixated on the slick, ruined fabric, the way his cock glides through it, how Satoru trembles under him.

“You feel that?” Suguru mutters low, almost to himself. “Fuck, you’re unreal.”

Satoru bites his lip, pulse pounding in his ears. Every drag of Suguru’s cock through his folds makes him twitch, makes his toes curl. It’s filthy and desperate and hot in a way that hits too deep.

And Suguru’s still not even inside him yet

Will he actually fuck him?

Satoru genuinely wonders, caught somewhere between anticipation and dread. Suguru seems content with just this—grinding slow and steady against his cunt, like he could stay there forever. 

It’s messy and hot, Satoru’s panties soaked through, clit painfully sensitive from all the friction. 

Suguru’s cock throbs against him, hot and heavy between Satoru’s thighs. The friction is maddening. 

Satoru’s legs tremble from where they’re loosely hooked around Suguru’s waist, limp with overstimulation but still open—still letting him in.

Suguru groans low in his throat, pressing in like he can’t help it, his breath hitching every time his tip brushes too close to Satoru’s hole. It’s slippery now, everything slick with sweat and pre and the wet, messy heat of Satoru’s cunt. 

The only sounds in the room are their heavy breaths, the uneven rhythm of Suguru’s hips, and the quiet, obscene squelch of soaked fabric sticking where it shouldn’t.

Satoru gasps, his fingers curling uselessly into the sheets. “Shit—”

The head of Suguru’s cock nudges right at his entrance and for a moment, Satoru thinks it’s happening. He’s going to push in, he’s going to fuck him. His hips tilt without thinking, trying to move away from it. 

But then Suguru jerks, not quite slipping in, just rutting forward hard enough that his cock drags through Satoru’s folds, catches on his clit, and punches a broken moan out of him instead.

“Fuck,” Suguru chokes, clutching his hips like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His forehead drops to Satoru’s shoulder, breathing heavy. “So warm—shit, you feel so good. Just like I— shit baby.”

He does it again, lining up like he might really push inside this time. The tip presses right up to the edge of him, coaxing Satoru’s body open, Satoru holding his breath without meaning to. 

But then it slips away again, wet and fumbled, and Suguru makes a frustrated sound—like it’s killing him to be this close and not take it.

Satoru whines. “Just—ugh, Suguru.”

He doesn’t know what he’s asking for. Not really.

But Suguru moans again, desperate now, rolling his hips in smooth, hungry strokes. It’s all too much. Satoru’s panties are soaked through, clinging to him uselessly as Suguru grinds against him with zero restraint. 

His cock keeps catching, slipping, missing, dragging deliciously over his clit—and it’s too much. Too fast. Too damn good.

Suguru mumbles something, the words slurred and pressed into Satoru’s neck, barely audible over their breathing.

“What?” Satoru pants, voice catching.

No answer. Just the drag of hot breath against his skin. Then, softer, almost dreamlike—like he doesn’t even realize he’s saying it—Suguru breathes, “My beautiful wife. My perfect bride.”

It hits like a punch to the gut.

Satoru squeezes his eyes shut, chest twisting up with something sharp and awful. Suguru doesn’t even realize. He’s not here with him—not really.

But Satoru’s body reacts anyway, clenching down around nothing, fluttering like it’s trying to pull him in. Like it doesn’t care who those words were meant for.

The pressure, the rhythm, the heat—it’s all building again, too soon, too fast, and Satoru’s teetering right on the edge.

Suguru grabs his hips harder, ruts forward with a whimpering grunt like he’s completely lost to it now. “I’m—I’m gonna—”

And then he’s spilling into Satoru’s panties with a drawn out groan, his cock twitching hard between them as he rides it out. He fucks into it slow, through it, like he’s trying to make it last. The mess spreads everywhere, hot and sticky, and Satoru can feel it soak through the already ruined fabric, slicking his inner thighs.

He doesn’t come. Not really. But the aftershocks hit him anyway—tight and tense, his body trembling with the echoes of what almost was.

Suguru breathes like he’s just run a mile, slumping forward for a second before he forces himself to pull back. He’s looking down at Satoru with that same haughty look—like he owns him. Jaw slack, eyes glazed over, breathing heavy as if he’s the one who just got ruined.

Satoru’s pussy pulses at the sight, clit aching with every throb. He’s soaked in Suguru’s cum, panties clinging wet and sticky between his thighs, and yet the only thing he can focus on is the way Suguru stares—starstruck, like Satoru’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen.

It’s awful. It’s everything he’s ever wanted.

He swallows hard, trying to ignore the twist in his stomach. That horrible sinking feeling. He knows it shouldn’t feel this good. He knows this isn’t what it looks like.

But right now, with Suguru looking at him like that, it’s so easy to pretend.

Suguru leans down and kisses Satoru’s cheek without thinking, and then like he realizes what he’s done, he pauses—frozen. It makes Satoru freeze too. Satoru doesn’t say anything.

Neither does Suguru. He just slides out of bed with shaky legs and mutters, “I’m gonna shower,” before disappearing out the door.

Satoru doesn’t move until he hears the water running.

Then he bolts upright, yanking the comforter off like it’s suffocating him. He stands, shorts squelching wet between his thighs. He might be sick. 

The cum-soaked panties stick when he tries to peel them off, and he has to grit his teeth to keep from crying out. He balls them up in a towel after wiping himself down and tosses them in the closet like it’ll make this all go away.

It doesn’t.

The room still smells like sex and sweat and him. The sheets are damp. His body aches.

He locks the door, crawls into bed, and stares at the ceiling.

This didn’t happen. He’s going to sleep, and when he wakes up, none of it will be real.

🍎

He didn’t miss the look in Suguru’s eye last night. The way it lingered—just a second too long. Like something clicked. Like he remembered.

Satoru’s not stupid. He knows Suguru better than anyone, probably better than he knows himself, and that look wasn’t nothing. There was recognition in it. Like he was trying to piece something together but didn’t want to admit it aloud.

Still, Satoru can’t be sure. Maybe it’s just paranoia. Maybe he’s projecting, hoping Suguru remembers so he’s not the only one carrying it. But the way Suguru’s acting this morning makes it harder to ignore.

He’s quiet. Careful. Almost fidgety, in a way that doesn’t match the usual relaxed, unbothered Suguru he’s used to. His eyes flicker too fast, his hands linger too long on his coffee cup, and he hasn’t made a single joke yet—not even a jab at Satoru’s bed hair.

He won’t meet his eyes either.

Something’s off. 

Satoru feels it in his chest, in the way the silence between them stretches thin and tight like a held breath.

He wants to ask. Wants to grab Suguru by the face and just ask. Do you remember? Do you remember what you did? What you said?

But he doesn’t. Because if Suguru does remember and he’s pretending not to… Satoru’s not ready for that answer. Not yet.

By the time lunch rolls around, the silence between Suguru and Satoru has dulled to a low hum. It’s not the comfortable kind. It’s the kind that builds slowly, like a storm you feel before you see.

They sit around the table with Sora, who’s chatting idly about a birth she assisted earlier that month, her hands animated as she speaks. Suguru nods along, chewing his food slowly, eyes flickering toward Satoru every few seconds like he’s bracing for something. Like he’s trying to stay grounded.

Satoru, for his part, is doing his best to act normal. He smiles when appropriate, eats without much fuss, and nods in all the right places. But the weight in his chest hasn’t gone away. Not since he woke up and saw Suguru pretending nothing happened. Not since he felt that pit settle deep in his gut.

And then it happens—he speaks without thinking.

“I think you guys should have kids,” Satoru says with a soft laugh, casual like it’s nothing—because to him, it really is. Just a passing thought, harmless and light. He doesn’t get why they haven’t already.

Back when it was him and Suguru, still clumsy and inseparable in that shoebox apartment, they used to talk about it all the time. How they’d both have kids one day—maybe not together, not back then, but close enough that their kids would grow up side by side. Best friends, just like them. Trading snacks at recess and sleeping over on weekends. It was one of those dumb little fantasies that felt oddly real at the time.

But now, Suguru’s been married to Sora for what—five years? Almost half a decade. And still no baby pictures on the fridge. No tiny shoes by the door. Satoru doesn’t say it out loud, but he’s genuinely surprised. With how handsy Suguru is, with how soft he looks whenever he talks to Sora, Satoru would’ve bet money they’d have at least one by now.

He doesn’t mean anything by it. Not really. He’s just trying to make sense of the quiet, of the missing pieces in the picture he’s always imagined. The happy little family that never seemed that far off.

Both Getōs freeze for a second.

It’s brief—blink and you’d miss it—but Satoru doesn’t. He sees the way Sora’s fingers pause around her glass, and how Suguru suddenly looks a little too focused on his food.

Sora’s the one to break the silence, letting out a small laugh. “We don’t really have time for kids right now,” she says, smiling, but it feels like a placeholder. “It’s a nice thought, though.”

Satoru raises an eyebrow. “Too busy for kids? You two make time for everything. You’ve got that little herb garden on the balcony. That takes commitment.”

She laughs again, a little more real this time. “Yeah, but basil doesn’t scream at you in the middle of the night or throw up on your new rug.”

“Mm, true,” Satoru says, grinning. “Still, you and Suguru would be good at it. You’re all warm and domestic. He already looks like a tired dad.”

“I do not,” Suguru mutters without looking up, and it’s the first thing he’s said to Satoru the entire day. 

Sora nudges him with her knee under the table, trying to pull him back in. “He’d be a softie,” she says, looking at him for a beat too long. “Probably let the kid walk all over him.”

Suguru smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He doesn’t look at her.

Satoru watches it happen, and something about it sticks. He shifts in his seat. “I mean… I just figured you guys would’ve had one by now. Or at least talked about it.”

“We have,” Sora says quietly. “A few times.”

She looks down at her plate, then back up with a shrug. “It’s just never felt like the right moment, I guess.”

Satoru tilts his head. “Not even a little? I dunno, I always pictured you two with like, two kids and a dog. The whole postcard thing.”

Sora laughs like Satoru wasn’t dead serious. “Life’s messier than a postcard, Gojo.”

He blinks at that. “Yeah. Fair.”

The silence returns—not heavy, but definitely there. Sora toys with her chopeticks, and Suguru still hasn’t said much.

Satoru lets out a breath, forces a lopsided smile. “I think my students might be the closest I ever get to having kids,” he says, leaning back. “Little shits, but I love ’em.”

Sora’s smile is warm and instant, hand lifting to press over her heart. “That’s so sweet,” she says. “You’d be a great dad. I can just tell.”

Satoru’s about to say thank you, but Suguru’s already spoken.

“Yeah, well. Not everyone gets to play pretend.” His voice is flat. It hits the air like a slap.

Sora blinks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Suguru still doesn’t look at her. Just sets his chopsticks down and wipes his mouth. “I have to head out early,” he says instead. “Office’s short staffed today.”

There’s a long pause.

Satoru keeps his head down. The chair legs screech as Suguru stands, and he can feel the tension pouring off of him.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Suguru mumbles, pressing a quick kiss to his wife’s temple as he leaves. Sora doesn’t answer, and the front door clicks shut behind him.

It’s quiet for a moment too long.

Satoru shifts awkwardly. “Sorry,” he offers, even though he’s not sure what for.

Sora blinks herself out of it, waving a hand. “No, no. Don’t apologize, it’s not your fault.” She smiles at him—soft, but clearly distracted. “I think he’s just stressed. He doesn’t handle it well.”

Satoru hums and pokes at his rice. “Didn’t mean to say anything weird.”

“You didn’t.” She pauses, then lets out a short laugh. “It’s funny though. I can’t have kids, but I spend all my time helping other people bring theirs into the world.”

Satoru looks up at her. She doesn’t seem sad about it—just matter-of-fact, like she’s made peace with it a long time ago.

“I always figured if I couldn’t be a mother, I could still witness something beautiful. Be a part of it. You know?”

“Yeah,” Satoru says, quiet. “That makes sense.”

They fall into softer conversation after that. She tells him more about her work—funny stories, weird stories, even a scary one about a delivery in a blackout. 

Satoru listens. Really listens. She’s not bad company when it’s just the two of them.

Eventually, she offers him tea, and they sit together a little while longer until the lull in conversation stretches naturally.

“I think I’m gonna lie down,” Satoru says, rising from the table.

Sora nods. “Of course. You’ve got a meeting later, right? Need me to wake you up for it”

“Yeah, that’d be really nice.” He hesitates. “Thanks. For lunch.”

She smiles. “Anytime.”

Satoru heads back to the guest room, mind racing and heart heavier than it was this morning. He lies down and stares at the ceiling for a long while, the sound of Suguru’s voice still echoing in his ears.

Not everyone gets to play pretend.

He closes his eyes and wills himself to sleep.

🍎 

Satoru never thought he’d wake up to the sound of a break-in.

Well.

Maybe that was a little dramatic.

He did lock the bedroom door expecting Suguru might come knocking.

His eyes blink open slowly, lashes still heavy with sleep, as the doorknob rattles violently against the frame. There’s a sharp jangle of keys, a muttered curse, then a loud thud. Something definitely broke.

Satoru props himself up on his elbows, squinting into the dark, wide-eyed—just in time to see Suguru stumble through the doorway like a man possessed.

The hallway light traces over his figure. His tie hangs loose and crooked, like he gave up halfway through undressing. His dress shirt is half unbuttoned, clinging to his skin with the sheen of sweat or maybe rain, and his slacks are unmistakably tented.

They lock eyes. One second. Two. A moment too long to be casual. It teeters on the edge of something—tense, charged, predatory.

Satoru feels like a deer in headlights. Or like prey that’s finally been caught. Hunted. Cornered. And the look in Suguru’s eyes tells him the chase is over.

Satoru opens his mouth to ask what the hell is going on, but Suguru’s already moving.

“Something’s wrong with our door,” he mumbles, his voice low, slurry—but not like it usually is when he’s had too much. There’s something different about it tonight.

Before Satoru can register it, Suguru’s on the bed—knee pressing into the mattress, body crowding his space, heat radiating off him like he’s burning from the inside out.

The comforter’s ripped back without ceremony, and Satoru lets out a surprised breath as Suguru grabs his thighs and pushes his legs up like muscle memory, like he’s done this a hundred times and doesn’t need permission anymore.

“Jesus, Suguru—!” Satoru starts, but it comes out breathless, more like a gasp than a protest.

Because his body remembers this, even if his brain’s still scrambling to catch up. It welcomes it—welcomes the intrusion, the weight of Suguru in his space like it was meant to be.

Satoru practically groans in defeat, slumping back against the pillows with a hand over his eyes. 

Fine. 

If this is how it’s going to be—if it’s going to keep happening, and they’ve made it this far without getting caught—and he only has a few nights left here anyway… he’ll take it.

Suguru will get him off, get himself off, then go back to bed. Back to his loving wife. Back to being the doting husband everyone thinks he is.

It’s horrible. Terrible, even. But Satoru doesn’t have it in him to fight it anymore. He’s the only one holding this with him anyways. Suguru not remembering a damn thing is strange, but it is what it is.

He can’t help but crave the attention—even if it’s meant for someone else. Even if it’s not really his.

It’s still Suguru. And that alone makes it impossible to resist.

Suguru’s hands clutch at his bare hips, almost trembling as he yanks Satoru into place—grinding his cock, still trapped behind his slacks, against Satoru’s clothed cunt like he can’t help himself.

He lets out a shaky breath, almost a whimper, as his thumbs rub over Satoru’s skin—clumsy and greedy, like he doesn’t know what to do with the need clawing at him.

“F-Fuck,” he mumbles, voice cracking. “I missed you baby.”

The weather’s been steady since he got here, warm enough that he’s been shedding more and more layers. What started as a full pajama set, head to socked toe, has turned into him sleeping in just his underwear. Usually with a loose shirt too, but not tonight.

Tonight, his chest is bare—and Suguru’s all for it.

He doesn’t go straight for Satoru’s pussy like usual. Instead, he lingers up by his collarbones, nuzzling and nosing along the ridge of bone, lips brushing soft and reverent.

“So smooth,” Suguru breathes into the center of his chest, trailing kisses lower. His tongue circles Satoru’s areola, slow and teasing, before flicking directly over his nipple.

Satoru gasps, chest arching on instinct. He tries to stifle it, biting his lip, but he’s sensitive—so sensitive—and Suguru knows it.

His fingers curl into the sheets, vision blurred behind the shield of his own hand. He’s not watching, but he feels everything—the weight of Suguru above him, the heat of his breath, the wet, hungry, desperate sounds echoing against his bare skin as Suguru sucks at his nipples, teeth grazing just enough to make him shiver.

It’s all too much. It’s not enough.

His thighs twitch when Suguru mouths lower, but he doesn’t go all the way down. No. He lingers, lavishing his chest, dragging his tongue down the curve of Satoru’s ribcage like he’s memorizing it.

Satoru’s stomach tightens, breath shuddering. “Please,” he whispers—more to himself than anyone else—unsure what he’s even begging for. For Suguru to stop? To keep going? To give him more?

The answer curls low in his gut, thick and nauseating: it’s the last two. Of course it is.

Guilt and arousal knot together so tightly he can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

And through it all, Suguru keeps murmuring soft praise against his skin. “So soft… always so fucking pretty… I missed this…”

He doesn’t mean him. He can’t. He must not.

Satoru presses his eyes tighter shut, heart hammering in his ears.

He knows it’s wrong. He just can’t bring himself to stop it—to stop the way Suguru’s tongue flicks and laps over his torso, kisses and soft pink hickeys blooming in his wake.

Suguru pauses for a second, burying his face against Satoru’s skin and inhaling deeply—like he’s trying to memorize the scent. Or maybe compare it to his wife’s. Satoru doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to think about it.

Especially not when Suguru pinches his nipple between two fingers at the same time he presses a hickey into the dip of his navel, making Satoru shudder and arch up into it without shame.

Suguru moves onto his favorite part of Satoru’s body—and when he gets there, Satoru’s already soaked. Disgracefully soaked. The thin fabric of his panties clings to him, darkened, sticky, wet enough to make Suguru groan the second he lays eyes on it.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, voice cracking as his mouth hovers just above the soaked fabric. “You got this wet waiting for me?”

He presses his face into it with a desperate whine, inhaling like he needs it to breathe—like the scent alone might make him come untouched.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re so filthy,” he mumbles, almost dazed. “So fuckin’ perfect, baby, I don’t deserve this.”

Satoru shudders—part shame, part arousal, all heat pooling low in his gut. His head tips back against the pillow.

Suguru moans against the soaked fabric, lips sucking at the spot where Satoru’s folds are caught and clinging. The friction makes Satoru whimper, hips twitching.

He doesn’t even take them off. Just keeps mouthing at him through the panties like he’s starved for it—tongue pressing in, slow and messy, the barrier only making it worse.

Suguru’s hands cradle his thighs, holding him open and rubbing soothing circles into the soft skin, coaxing him to relax.

Then Satoru feels it—Suguru’s tongue pushing into his hole through the thin cotton, damp and insistent. He groans, long and low, spine arching at the pressure.

Then: “S’not enough.”

That’s all the warning he gets before his panties are tugged aside and Suguru’s mouth is on him.

Actually on him.

Satoru moans—louder than he means to—and bites down hard on his lip, trying to hold it in. But it doesn’t help.

Suguru’s breath is hot against his pussy, tongue licking straight into his hole like he’s starved for it.

Hot. Wet. Relentless.

There’s no teasing. No warm-up. Just full contact.

His tongue drags wide and flat over Satoru’s clit, slow and purposeful, from the dripping mess of his cunt all the way to the swollen bud at the top. The first lick alone knocks the air from his lungs. Then again—faster. Again.

Suguru shakes his head like he’s trying to drown in it.

Satoru gasps, body trembling, and slaps a hand over his mouth as another moan rips free.

His other hand grips Suguru’s hair tight, fingers curled, knuckles white. He holds on like it’s the only thing tethering him to the bed.

It feels so fucking good. He can’t even pretend it doesn’t.

The way Suguru’s tongue circles his clit—then flicks it, sucks it, drags across it sideways—it’s obscene. Every sound is slick and wet and filthy, like Suguru’s losing his mind between his legs. And he moans, too, right into Satoru’s pussy, like he’s the one being pleasured. The vibrations echo through Satoru’s hips, ricocheting in his bones.

His thighs twitch. His back arches.

He’s not even trying to stop it anymore.

He should. He knows that. This is wrong. So goddamn wrong. But all he can think about is how much he doesn’t care. How he can’t care. Not when it feels like this. 

And then Suguru sinks two fingers into him—slow, thick, curling just right—and Satoru swears his vision blacks out for a second.

“F-fuck—” His voice comes out muffled behind his hand, desperate and ragged.

Suguru doesn’t give him a second to recover. If anything, he gets more determined—tongue working harder, fingers curling with slow, deliberate precision like he’s chasing something only he can feel. Like he knows exactly how close Satoru is and wants to draw it out, make him squirm.

He seals his lips around Satoru’s clit and sucks—not too hard, just enough to make his back arch. His fingers drag against that sweet spot inside him with each thrust, calculated and unrelenting. Every motion is practiced, shameless. Pathetic in how hungry it is.

“Fuck,” Suguru breathes between licks, voice cracking. “You taste so good—please, please, baby—wanna feel you cum on my fingers, please—”

His voice breaks on the last word and it drives Satoru crazy. His mouth never stops moving. He’s panting into it, sloppy and desperate, drool wetting Satoru’s thighs as he keeps mouthing at him like a man possessed.

It’s humiliating.

And it’s working.

Satoru’s legs tremble, his throat tight with the sound he’s trying to swallow. He looks down—knows he shouldn’t—and sees Suguru already staring up at him.

Eyes half-lidded, lashes wet, lips swollen and shiny with spit. His face is ruined.

Satoru breaks.

His whole body seizes, a sob bursting out of him as his orgasm hits like a freight train. He clutches at Suguru’s hair, pulling him in tighter as he cums hard, cunt pulsing around Suguru’s fingers, thighs clenching uselessly around his head.

He’s shaking. Moaning. Gone.

And Suguru doesn’t stop.

He groans like Satoru’s orgasm is his, like it’s the reward he’s been begging for. He’s still licking, slow now, almost reverent, dragging his tongue through the mess like he’s trying to savor it.

Satoru twitches at the overstimulation, but Suguru just presses a kiss to the inside of his thigh, fingers still buried deep like he can’t stand to let go.

He barely has time to catch his breath before Suguru is on top of him, weight pressing him down, cock already out and heavy against his thigh. Satoru didn’t even see him take it out.

It’s already leaking, slick smearing along Satoru’s skin as Suguru ruts against him in slow, lazy thrusts—grinding up and down like he’s trying to calm himself down before he snaps.

Then he shifts, angling his hips to grind against Satoru’s cunt instead. His cock slides through the mess—Satoru’s slick and Suguru’s spit coating it in a wet sheen.

Satoru lets his eyes wander, dragging his gaze up to Suguru’s face. He’s staring down—entranced—at where their bodies meet.

Satoru’s never seen him like this.

Eyes wide and glassy, mouth parted, cheeks flushed, sweat clinging to his temples. He looks wrecked. Obsessed. Lost in it.

Satoru wonders how he looks in return—his body heavy and spent, but still buzzing with the afterglow. Still twitching under every little brush of contact.

Suguru grinds once, slow and teasing. Then again, rougher, until the head catches right at Satoru’s entrance and—fuck—slips out.

He does it again. And again. Letting the swollen tip press in, just barely breaching him before popping free and sliding up against his clit.

It’s too much. Just the head alone is thicker than Suguru’s fingers, and the teasing is getting unbearable.

I have to fuck you, I have to fuck you, I have to fuck you,” Suguru mumbles under his breath, shaking his head like he’s trying to get a grip—like he’s losing it with every word.

Satoru doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until his hips lift—offering himself up. Inviting him in.

And Suguru takes it.

The next time he presses in, it catches—and this time, it sinks.

Slow.

Intrusive.

Almost polite.

It knocks the air out of Satoru’s lungs.

The stretch makes his eyes roll back, toes curling as his body tries to accommodate the size. It’s too much. It’s not enough. He holds his breath, jaw clenched, trying to take it.

He’s huge. Huge, huge, huge—God, is the whole thing even going to fit?

Suguru doesn’t give him time to panic. His mouth is everywhere at once—cheek, jaw, throat, shoulder—kissing, licking, distracting. Keeping away from his lips like he’s trying not to make it too real.

“You’re so tight,” he groans, voice ragged. “So goddamn tight, baby. Give it to me. Come on, please.”

Satoru’s mind blanks. This is too far. Way too far. They’ve gone too goddamn far. He should’ve stopped this before it started—should’ve pushed Suguru off, said something. But his body won’t listen. His mouth won’t open.

Instead, his cunt flutters around Suguru’s cock, sucking him deeper with every pulse.

By the time Suguru bottoms out, Satoru’s arms are already around his neck, clinging. He feels full—obscenely full—like he can’t hold a single inch more. He doesn’t even own toys this big. 

Suguru’s hands run along his thighs, holding them close like he’s desperate to feel all of him. Satoru wraps his legs around his waist in response, hips tipping up instinctively. 

It’s so sudden, Satoru doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t even know what to think.

Suguru is inside him.

Actually inside him.

He’s imagined this before—fantasized about it in the quiet, shameful corners of his mind—but not like this. Never like this.

In his dreams, Suguru was his. Completely. Utterly.

They’d be in their own bed. Suguru would be saying his name like it meant something, slow and breathless as he filled him up. Their lips would meet when they came, clumsy and perfect, and Suguru would whisper that he loved him. That he wanted forever.

But this? This is the adulterer version. The one who crawls into his bed in the middle of the night thinking he’s someone else. The one who fucks with his eyes closed, drunk on memory or desperation or both.

And still—still—Satoru finds himself savoring it.

Savoring the weight of him. The heat. The way Suguru throbs deep inside, thick and heavy and real.

Suguru’s hands are everywhere—sliding over his skin like he owns it. Palming his hips. Squeezing his thighs. Massaging his chest with slow, reverent fingers, thumbs brushing over his pecs like he’s mapping every inch.

Suguru leans down until they’re  pressed together, chest to chest. Shirt to skin. Suguru’s breath is hot against his neck as he licks, sucks, kisses wherever he can reach.

And Satoru—God, Satoru can’t fight it. Doesn’t even try.

Because how could he, when it’s Suguru? When it feels like this? When every part of him is screaming to be taken, touched, claimed?

He submits.

Then Suguru starts to move—slow at first, pulling his hips back before pushing forward again, sinking all the way in until the head presses firm against Satoru’s cervix, deep enough to make him gasp.

And fuck. It’s so good.

Satoru buries his face in Suguru’s neck, panting hard, muffling every moan against his skin. His whole body shakes, still trying to adjust while Suguru drags that thick cock in and out like he’s been waiting his whole life to be inside him.

And maybe he has. Maybe they both have.

Satoru’s grateful that Suguru gave him time to adjust, because as soon as he makes a sound—just one choked moan—Suguru starts moving. Fast and hard, deep and deliberate.

“Let me hear you, pretty baby,” Suguru murmurs against his ear, voice low and coaxing, almost tender. “I know you can be louder for me.”

The words send a jolt straight through Satoru’s core. His breath stutters—and then, obediently, he lets go. Lets the moans spill out, raw and unfiltered, right into Suguru’s ear. Desperate, high-pitched, shaking with need. He doesn’t even care how it sounds.

Suguru groans like it’s the best thing he’s ever heard, like it feeds something deep and gnawing inside him. Then he’s kissing Satoru’s face—sloppy, scattered kisses over his cheeks, his jaw, his forehead—like he’s trying to make it sweet. Like this is love, not betrayal.

And that’s when Satoru realizes something.

There’s no alcohol on Suguru’s breath.

None.

Not even a hint.

His eyes fly open, heart lurching in his chest. He stares up at him, searching—pleading for an explanation, a mistake, something—but Suguru’s already looking back.

He knows.

He knows Satoru knows.

And he doesn’t stop.

Like something’s snapped into place—like the truth between them grants him permission—he fucks him harder. Deeper. Rougher. Every thrust lands with finality, like he’s claiming him. Like there’s no going back.

Satoru can’t do anything but take it. His mouth falls open, caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan, too stunned to choose.

His legs shake around Suguru’s waist. His fingers dig into his back, not from passion but from rage and panic and pleasure—a betrayal in itself. His voice breaks every time Suguru slams into that perfect, unforgiving spot inside him.

Then Suguru leans in.

Lips brush against his cheek,  soft and familiar, before drifting to his ear.

“It’s okay, baby,” he whispers. “Enjoy yourself.”

Satoru’s eyes go wide—pure, unfiltered shock flashing through them like lightning.

He should’ve known.

His mouth opens before his brain can catch up. “H-How long—”

“Shhh,” Suguru hushes him gently. Too gently. Like the softness could erase the weight of what he’s done. His hand cradles Satoru’s cheek with aching tenderness, lips brushing against his temple as if trying to soothe him into silence. As if trying to make him surrender.

But Satoru is outraged. Furious, trembling with it—outraged and disgusted down to his bones.

Disgusted by the fact that this—they—have become something so vile.

That Suguru, his best friend, the one who preaches love like it’s sacred, is cheating on his wife—his wife, who’s asleep just down the hall, blissfully unaware, trusting. Trusting the man who smiles at her over dinner, who holds her hand in public, who kisses her forehead like he’s not climbing into another bed behind closed doors.

The betrayal is suffocating.

Suguru, who swore he loved her. Suguru, who placed a ring on her finger, made promises with a voice that didn’t shake. Suguru, who’s lying so easily now it makes Satoru sick.

And yet—what makes Satoru sickest of all is himself.

That some awful, greedy part of him likes it.

No—loves it.

That even now, with shame burning his throat and guilt sinking sharp claws into his chest, he feels a thrill deep in his gut. A dark, selfish satisfaction knowing Suguru still chooses him—wants him—despite everything.

Wants to touch him, mark him, worship him like he’s something sacred.

Because even if it’s wrong—so fucking wrong—Satoru has waited years for this. Waited and wanted and wilted quietly while watching Suguru give everything to someone else.

And now that he finally has him—this ugly, stolen version of him—he can’t let go.

He doesn’t want to let go.

And that? That’s the most disgusting part of all.

SSatoru can’t even find it in himself to stay angry for long.

Not with Suguru gasping hot into his ear, voice trembling, buried deep inside him. Skin to skin, chest to chest, every slow, deliberate thrust grinding into him like he’s trying to carve his name there. Like he wants to stay.

Not when Suguru’s lips graze the shell of his ear, whispering his name like a prayer.

“Satoru…”

Breathless. Reverent.

And real.

No slurred words. No wife’s name in his mouth. Just his. Just Satoru.

It hits like a blow to the chest. Feels like it was all worth it just to hear his name fall from Suguru’s lips like that—like it belongs there.

The resentment slips through his fingers, quiet and defeated.

All that’s left is heat. Pressure. Need. And the weight of Suguru against him, like he finally means it.

Then Suguru’s forehead drops to his shoulder, and his hands slide down Satoru’s sides—rough, greedy—before grabbing handfuls of his ass and yanking him up, pulling him flush into each thrust.

Hard. Deep.

So hard it knocks the breath out of him—shakes him out of his spiraling thoughts and back into the moment.

“Sugu—ruuuu—” he gasps, a warning, maybe a plea.

“Please,” Suguru pants against his skin, voice thick and wrecked. “Satoru, please—need you, you’re just—fuck, need you.”

And it guts him.

Tears the breath from his lungs, punches straight through his heart and leaves nothing behind but instinct.

“We— we shouldn’t—”

“Satoru,” Suguru purrs, desperate and breathless, his tongue dragging hot and heavy beneath Satoru’s jaw. He licks up the sweat collecting there like it’s nectar, like it’s something sacred.

And Satoru—he tilts his head back for him. Lets him have it. Lets him indulge, even as the protest clings to the edge of his lips.

“I can’t believe you—” he manages, choking on the words between rough thrusts, heat coiling tight and unbearable in his stomach.

“I know, I know. It’s okay. It’s okay, baby, just—please.” Suguru’s voice breaks as he coos, desperate and unraveling. “Need you more than anything, Satoru. Satoru, Satoru, honey—”

Satoru doesn’t even think. Doesn’t need to think. His body moves on instinct, wrapping his legs tighter around Suguru’s waist, arms hooking around his neck like if he holds him close enough, he can make this real. Make it last.

Suguru moans—high and choked—arms winding around Satoru’s back just as tight, like they’re the only things holding each other together.

“So good,” Suguru groans, grinding deeper, pressing their foreheads together now. “So good, Satoru—fuck, you feel so good. Look so pretty. Satoru.”

The praise hits Satoru like a live wire. He moans with him, trembling, the heat between them sharp and blinding. 

His eyes stay shut, still too nervous to meet Suguru’s gaze. He knows he’ll crack if he does. 

Every time his lashes twitch, flinching against his own will, he can feel it. Suguru watching him. Tracking every little movement, every shift in his expression like he’s trying to memorize it.

Like he’s looking through him.

The room is stifling, air thick and heavy with sweat and sin, the wet slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the dark between ragged breaths and bitten-off whimpers.

The bite Suguru sinks into his jaw comes out of nowhere. Satoru gasps sharply. And that must be all the confirmation Suguru needs because his mouth is on him a second later, trailing open-mouthed kisses down the side of his neck. 

He’s breathing heavy, almost shaky, as his hips roll into him slow and deep, grinding in tight circles like he’s trying to make a home there.

Satoru mewls, hips twitching up helplessly to meet every press. And when Suguru licks a long, messy stripe up his neck, Satoru barely has time to brace before he bites down—hard.

Satoru screams.

Or tries to. It gets muffled when Suguru slaps a hand over his mouth, holding it there like he expected that exact reaction. And then he’s kissing over the spot he bit—sucking, licking, mouthing at the raw sting like an apology that doesn’t really mean shit.

Satoru glares up at him, half-hearted, and tries to bite his palm in retaliation. Suguru just laughs, low and breathless, before dragging his hand down to wrap around him instead, pulling him closer.

He doesn’t stop. Keeps going, slower now, biting and sucking hickeys into the soft skin of his neck and collarbones until Satoru’s a mess of whines and gasped curses. 

He’s overstimulated, trembling, pussy so wet it’s making things slippery. Suguru keeps slipping out, and every time he does, he lets out this little whine, fumbling to slide back in like being out of him for even a second is unbearable.

And his neck—fuck. It stings. From the heat of Suguru’s mouth, the teeth, the tongue. Raw, throbbing reminders left everywhere he can reach. Welts. Bruises. Little blooming marks that’ll last for days.

Like he’s branding him. Like he’s claiming him. Like Satoru’s his.

Satoru can’t stop thinking about how wrecked his body will be in the morning—body littered with hickeys, hips aching from where Suguru’s hands gripped too hard, thighs sore and shaking.

And yet, his pussy only gets louder for it.

Every thrust forces a lewd squelch from between his legs, slick clinging to Suguru’s pelvis, wetting the hem of his button-down shirt. It sticks and pulls with every roll of his hips, obscene and wet and shameless.

Their hearts pound against each other, loud and frantic in their chests, like they’re trying to sync up.

Satoru’s nipples drag against the fabric of Suguru’s shirt—rough cotton against oversensitive skin—and it feels so fucking good. Just enough friction to make him moan, soft and sweet and breathless, grinding up into it for more.

It’s messy. It’s selfish. It’s everything they’re not supposed to be.

But right now, it’s all that exists.

Satoru’s anxiety about being heard, about Suguru’s wife sleeping just down the hall, has long since melted away.

Because when he looks down at Suguru now, nestled against his chest, he looks like he’s in heaven.

Suguru’s cheek is pressed to Satoru’s pec, lips parted, breath spilling warm over sweat-slick skin. Satoru’s fingers are threaded gently through his hair, soothing and possessive all at once, as he rocks into him with slow, meaningful thrusts.

Suguru looks so fucking gorgeous, too.

Eyes shut, brows drawn together like he’s caught between pain and ecstasy. His mouth hangs open in a silent moan, interrupted only by the soft, broken gasps and groans he lets out with every slow grind of his hips.

He looks like he’s somewhere else entirely—like he’s transcended, floating in a place only Satoru can take him.

And that thought—that truth—makes Satoru’s stomach twist with something almost too big to name.

Because he’s not just watching Suguru take him. He’s watching him want it. Crave it. Love it.

Love him.

There’s no shame in Suguru’s face now—not that there ever really was. No guilt. No hesitation.

Just unfiltered, unrepentant pleasure.

Satoru feels it like a weight lifting from his chest, like warmth flooding through every nerve ending. He presses a kiss to the crown of Suguru’s head, eyes fluttering shut as he holds him tighter, moves a little deeper.

He’s right there with him.

Suguru’s lips part with a broken plea as he suddenly sits up, hovering over Satoru’s body. His fists slam into the mattress on either side of Satoru’s head, arms tense and veiny, shoulders trembling. His hips start rolling harder, faster—desperation bleeding through every thrust like he’s trying to outrun the inevitable.

He’s close. Satoru can feel it.

The way Suguru’s cock twitches inside him, the roughness of his rhythm unraveling, the low, choked moans falling from his lips—it’s all there. It’s all him, teetering on the edge of ruin.

And it’s so fucking hot.

Satoru’s never felt anything like this. Especially not something this big, this deep, stretching him in a way that has his legs trembling and his spine arching off the bed.

His mouth falls open, and he can’t stop the sounds that pour out. Moans—sweet, high-pitched, helpless. Shaky and broken around the edges, like he’s unraveling with every grind of Suguru’s hips.

He doesn’t even care how loud he is. Doesn’t care if the whole damn neighborhood hears him fall apart. It’s just too good.

Until Suguru slaps a palm over his mouth again.

“Satoru,” he pleads, voice wrecked and shaking, eyes locked to his like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

And Satoru stares right back.

He falls into those warm, dark, honey-brown eyes, so blown with lust it almost hurts to look at them. Suguru watches him like he belongs to him, like there’s nothing else in the world. It feels like sinking. 

Satoru moans into Suguru’s hand, brows drawing together as he nods, frantic and small. His watery eyes flick between Suguru’s, pleading without words. Do it. Come on. Cum for me. Give it to me.

Suguru groans loudly and grabs his hip with one hand, yanking him down harder, slamming in deep. Each thrust splits Satoru open, dragging the breath from his lungs, every grind sending sparks through his spine.

Then Suguru’s thumb finds his clit, rubbing fast and messy, uncoordinated but devastating, perfectly synced with each thrust.

“Shit—shit—fuck—” Satoru gasps behind his palm, drool slipping from the corner of his mouth as his eyes flutter.

Then they roll back. His legs go rigid.

And he breaks.

The orgasm crashes into him like a wave, unstoppable. His body locks up, trembling and twitching, and he sobs against Suguru’s hand—loud and wet and overwhelmed.

His pussy clamps around Suguru’s cock, fluttering with every pulse, holding him tight. Milking him for everything he’s got. Wanting all of it. In this moment, Satoru feels like he’s never wanted anything more than this.

His mind is a blur, looping the same thought over and over like a prayer—please, please, please cum in me.

In me. In me. In me.

The dangerous mantra drowns out everything else. 

Suguru doesn’t slow down. If anything, he fucks him harder.

When Satoru goes silent, a twitching whimpering mess instead of wailing, Suguru finally moves his hand and cradles the back of his head, lips near his ear.

“So tight,” he pants. “Can I cum for you? Your pussy’s so perfect—god, Satoru. So. Fucking. Pretty. Oh please, please, please, baby—please, Satoru—”

Satoru can’t think. Every thought is static. Every nerve is still lit up and throbbing. But his body knows what it wants.

In me, in me, in me.

“Inside,” he slurs, dazed and cock drunk.

Suguru growls at the command, the sound low and desperate—less dominance, more surrender. His hips stutter mid-thrust, a sharp gasp catching in his throat before he buries himself as deep as he can go.

Then he breaks.

His cock pulses inside Satoru, thick spurts spilling out of him like he’s been holding it back for days. Weeks. Years. It's so much, Satoru feels disgustingly full. 

“Fuck—fuck, Satoru—” he chokes, voice cracking as he trembles through it. “Oh my god, oh my god, I—”

He whines—actually whines—into Satoru’s skin, clutching at him like he’s afraid he’ll disappear. His whole body shakes, forehead pressed to Satoru’s collarbone as his breath comes in broken gasps.

Satoru takes a deep, shaky breath.

His arms wrap around Suguru, cradling him close. Hands tangle in his damp hair, stroking softly down his soaked back, grounding him.

“That’s it,” Satoru whispers, barely audible over their panting. “So much. There you go…”

And Suguru melts.

His weight collapses fully on top of him, heavy and trembling, like every last bit of tension has drained from his body.

They lie there, sticky and heaving, breath tangled between their open mouths. The room is quiet now, save for the frantic pounding of their hearts.

Suguru mouths at Satoru’s neck like he doesn’t know what else to do—soft, dazed kisses, too spent to move but too desperate to stop touching him.

“I missed you,” he breathes, somewhere between an apology and a confession. “I just— I needed you. I need you Satoru.”

Satoru doesn’t answer at first. He just holds him tighter. It doesn’t elicit the reaction he thought it would. He’s not jumping for joy, clicking his heels, he’s just… empty. 

At the same time, his head is swirling with an endless stream of panic and unexplainable thoughts. He’s drained.

“We can talk about it in the morning.” Satoru eventually settles on. 

Suguru's body noticeably stiffens at that. They sit in silence for a moment—no words, just the sound of their breathing. Heavy. Uneven. Charged.

Suguru’s lips graze Satoru’s face in soft, wandering passes—barely-there kisses over his cheek, his temple, his brow. Worshipful. Possessive. And Satoru lets him.

Their foreheads knock together when Satoru turns to look at him. And then they just sit there like that. Eyes locked. Breaths mingling, brushing over each other’s tongues in short, shallow exhales.

Satoru can’t speak. He doesn’t even know where to begin. His mind is fogged, caught somewhere between the high and the crash. He feels raw. Scraped clean. Guilt starts creeping back in—slow and sour, rising in his throat like bile.

He’s in a daze.

What did we just do?

The question lingers, heavy and loud.

The only thing circling his mind—

That, and: Why me?

Suguru exhales softly, then shifts his hips back. Satoru feels it instantly.

The slow, slick drag of Suguru’s cock slipping out of him.

Satoru whimpers—quiet, involuntary. He feels the emptiness immediately, the dull ache of being left open. Suguru’s cum leaks out in slow, warm rivulets, trailing down to the sheets beneath them.

Suguru’s nose bumps against his again, then drifts lower, almost like he’s about to kiss him. His eyes flutter, dazed and soft.

What did we just do?

Satoru hesitates, but leans in. Just slightly. Enough to meet him halfway.

What did we just do?

But before their lips can touch, with barely a breath between them, they both freeze.

Click.

The sound of a door down the hall.

Then footsteps.

Satoru’s head whips toward the cracked door, heart lurching into his throat. The door. 

Suguru didn’t close the fucking door.

His blood runs cold. His first instinct is to shove Suguru off him, to scramble for the sheets, anything—but Suguru’s faster. He hushes him gently, lips brushing Satoru’s cheek as he murmurs,

“Stay still.”

The words stick in his skin like static.

Despite every instinct screaming at him to squirm, to get away, to do something—Satoru listens.

His body goes rigid, frozen in place.

Not because he wants to obey, but because he knows what might happen if he doesn’t.

His body feel heavy. His skin is hot and clammy, hypersensitive to every inch of the sheets sticking to him. His breath crawls in and out of his lungs like it’s being dragged. He’s not even sure when he started holding it.

Then his ears catch a sound.

The toilet flushes.

The sink runs.

A door creaks open. Footsteps shuffle down the hall.

He stares at Suguru, eyes wide but not really focused on anything.

And Suguru just looks back at him. There’s something weird, something soft and sharp in his expression that Satoru doesn’t have a name for.

He hates that.

He hates not knowing what it means. Not knowing what any of this means.

Click.

A door shuts.

Silence.

Not peaceful. Not restful.

Heavy.

Once he’s sure it’s over, Satoru shoves at Suguru’s chest. Not hard, but enough to get his point across. He feels gross.

Suguru blinks like he wasn’t expecting it, but he moves, sitting back between Satoru’s spread legs.

He tucks himself back into his pants slowly and Satoru watches from his elbows, dazed and wide-eyed.

Suguru doesn’t meet his eye.

His gaze is fixed down—between Satoru’s legs, then up his body. Taking in every bruise, every bite, every smear of cum.

Satoru doesn’t revel in it. Doesn’t feel wanted or proud or sexy. He just feels exposed. Knows he looks like a damn mess.

He starts to close his legs, instinctively trying to cover up, but Suguru’s faster.

His hand shoots out, grabbing Satoru’s knee and pulling him open again.

“Suguru—”

“Shh.”

“No, you fucking dick, you need to—“

“Shhh.” Suguru shushes firmly.

He stares. Just stares.

Eyes locked on Satoru’s cunt—leaking, red, fucked raw.

It goes on too long. Long enough that Satoru starts to feel uneasy, skin crawling.

But before he can speak up, Suguru moves.

His hand trails up Satoru’s inner thigh, fingers spreading him gently. Too gently. Like he’s admiring damage.

Then his fingers press in.

Satoru hisses, back arching off the bed—his cunt sore and overstimulated, but not stopping him.

Suguru pushes his cum back inside, slow and deep, like it belongs there. Like he’s reclaiming it.

Satoru moans softly, half-shamed, half-turned on.

He hates that he likes this. Loves the feeling of being claimed, even now.

He watches Suguru’s face—so focused it’s infuriating. Like he’s solving a puzzle instead of knuckle-deep in Satoru’s cunt. His lips are parted just slightly, breath shallow as his fingers curl slowly, brushing Satoru’s cervix with practiced ease.

Every pass makes Satoru’s hips jerk. He can’t help it.

“Suguru, I’m not—”

“Didn’t you say we’d talk in the morning?”

That earns a low, frustrated sound from him. The kind he usually saves for missed trains and bullshit meetings.

“You’re such an asshole,” he mutters through gritted teeth, breath catching as Suguru presses in again, fingertips gliding along spots Satoru didn’t even know could ache this bad.

Then, suddenly, Suguru withdraws.

Just pulls away and stands like nothing happened. Satoru watches him as he rounds the bed, adjusting his clothes.

He leans down and kisses Satoru on the temple. Gentle. Chaste. Unfitting.

“Goodnight,” Suguru whispers.

And then he walks out, closing the door softly behind him.

What did they just do?

🍎

Turns out Suguru had work that morning. Which meant Satoru had to spend the entire day sitting across from Sora, pretending he hadn’t spent the night getting railed by her husband. Smiling at her sweet face while she handed him a Swiffer like they were besties. Laughing when she made a joke about men not knowing how to clean properly. Acting like everything was perfectly fucking normal. 

Hiding the hickeys was a lost cause. Of course she noticed them. They literally showed up overnight, big and blotchy against his pale skin. Satoru scrambled for some half-baked excuse.

“We all have urges, Sora,” he said with a weak laugh, brushing it off like it was no big deal. Claimed he’d “gone out” while they were sleeping.

Sora just grinned, eyes twinkling with mischief as she poked at one of the marks. “Ah, I’m jealous. I haven’t had one in ages. Suguru’s such a prude when it comes to hickeys.”

Satoru flinched, the jab landing somewhere deeper than skin. He waved it off, mumbling something about the bruises still being sore as her fingers prodded a little too hard.

They’re dusting off a high shelf in the living room when Satoru spots it—tucked into the corner of a display, half-hidden behind an ugly little ceramic bird. A photo. One nobody would notice unless they were actively looking or, like Satoru, being forced into domestic labor as penance for a sin he hasn’t confessed yet.

He pauses, hand stilling on the frame. It’s old—he can tell by the way the colors have started to fade—but the faces are unmistakable. His own, younger, grin stretched wide and stupid, one hand curled into half a heart against Suguru’s cheek. Sora’s pressed against Suguru’s other side, cheeks round and smiling, her hands covered in what looks like party glitter. And Suguru—his face flushed, annoyed, the bridge of his nose shining pink from where someone probably flicked it. Glitter absolutely everywhere.

Satoru can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips. “No way. You kept this?”

Sora steps up behind him, peeking over his shoulder. “Ah—like that one?”

He huffs a laugh through his nose. “I forgot you even took a picture of us.”

“You two were so cute that day. He acted like he hated it but… he really didn’t.”

Satoru hums, eyes lingering on Suguru’s expression. He does look pissed—glitter in his lashes, a smear of frosting on his shirt—but his gaze is fixed on Satoru, not Sora. Focused, soft. It makes something pull tight in his chest.

“That was his 21st, right?” Satoru says, brushing a thumb along the glass. “I gave him a glitter bomb instead of a real present.”

Sora gasps. “That was you?!”

He snorts. “Obviously it was me. Who else would commit to that?”

She giggles. “I remember being so confused—he walked in looking like a disco ball and didn’t talk to anyone for an hour.”

“Yeah. I thought he was gonna kill me.”

“But then you showed him that dumb card you made—what did it say again?”

Satoru grins, the memory hitting him like a freight train. “‘Congratulations on becoming legal and unreasonably hot.’”

Out of context, it sounds insane, but Suguru had just gotten new gauges for his birthday. Satoru had already picked out the card weeks before, but ended up scribbling that part in at the party, tipsy and way too into the way Suguru looked with stretched lobes and a smug smile.

Luckily, everyone took it as a joke.

“Oh my god.” She groans, laughing. “That’s right.”

They fall into a moment of quiet, just smiling at the picture. The air is a little lighter now. Familiar.

“He’s always been soft on you,” she says, almost offhandedly. “Even when he tried to hide it.”

Satoru tenses, smile dimming slightly. “You think so?”

“I know so,” she says easily. “It’s in all the old pictures. The way he looks at you—it’s like you hung the damn moon.”

Satoru’s heart stutters. He glances back at the photo, at Suguru’s glittery face and the look in his eyes. He doesn’t know what to say.

“I used to wonder, y’know?” Sora adds gently. “If you guys ever…”

Satoru looks over sharply, and she waves it off with a laugh. “Not in a bad way! I just mean—it was always you and him. I thought maybe I was interrupting something.”

“You weren’t,” he says too quickly. “I mean. We weren’t like that.”

She smiles at him, unreadable. “I’m sure of that now.”

He swallows thickly, setting the photo back in place. “You’re bold for keeping evidence like that out in the open.”

“Oh please,” she teases. “You’re part of his life. I’d have to throw out half the house to erase you.”

That makes him smile again, small and crooked. “Guess I’m not so easy to forget.”

“No,” she says softly. “You’re not.”

And for a second, he feels like he can’t breathe. Like something is crawling up the back of his throat, hot and aching. He forces it down and dusts the next frame in silence.

Suguru arrives just minutes after Sora and Satoru plop down on the couch, greeting them both with a soft, practiced smile. Sora lights up immediately, jumping up to wrap her arms around him while Satoru keeps his eyes fixed on the television. He doesn’t register what’s playing—just lets the sound drown out the murmurs of affection behind him.

Suguru rounds the couch and leans over the coffee table, setting down a small, white box. “Brought you something,” he says softly, his voice warm—too warm.

Satoru blinks, turning to look. His eyes land on the label and his breath catches just slightly. “Shortcake,” he says, feigning nonchalance, even as his fingers close eagerly around the box. “Thank you.”

Suguru smiles at him, and yes, it agitates Satoru beyond belief—but he has cake now, so he’ll let it slide. 

As soon as Suguru leaves the room, he tears it open immediately, practically shoveling in the first bite. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t let himself, but his hands give him away. So does the speed. Sora laughs at his enthusiasm. 

“We should bake something tonight,” Sora announces, already turning on her heel toward the kitchen. “It’s rare Satoru’s here to taste test my desserts!”

“I’m down for that,” Satoru mumbles around a bite, his irritation toward Suguru already beginning to melt into the sugar.

By the time Sora comes back wearing an apron, cheeks flushed with excitement, Satoru’s already polished off the entire slice. He tosses the empty box on the table and licks a bit of cream off his thumb.

“What should we make?” Sora asks, clapping her hands together. “Cake? Mochi? Oh, I’m so—”

Her phone rings. Loud and sudden.

She freezes. Suguru reenters the room at the same time, wiping his hands on a towel. Her eyes dart to the screen.

“Oh!” she gasps, grabbing it. “One of my moms is in labor—I’ve gotta go, shit—”

She’s already halfway down the hall before she turns back, fumbling with the apron strings. “Okay, okay. Leftovers in the fridge. Don’t wait up—oh my god, my wallet—”

“It’s in your pocket, honey,” Suguru calls, now settling down beside Satoru with a sigh.

Sora pats her hip, laughs, and gives them both a wave as she hops into her shoes. “Okay! Bake tomorrow, got it! Love you!”

The door shuts behind her, and the silence is instant.

Satoru blinks. Before he can even process the shift, Suguru is suddenly closer—too close.

“So—”

“Not now,” Satoru snaps, standing abruptly. “I’ve got a meeting.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply. Doesn’t give Suguru the chance to follow him with those eyes.

He escapes to the guest room, locking the door behind him. It’s not a lie. He does have a meeting. Gakuganji and his team, all four of them, each somehow more long-winded than the last. They barely let him speak, just nod and drone and redirect every suggestion he makes into a loop of endless feedback.

After thirty minutes of that, Satoru’s ready to scream. His head’s pounding, his leg’s bouncing, and the taste of the shortcake has long since faded into frustration.

He needs something cold. Something sweet. Something normal. Oh, Sora did make a fresh pitcher of lemonade just for him. God, that sounds amazing right now.

He slips out quietly, heading toward the kitchen. But before he even reaches it, that’s when he smells the incense.

It trails from the living room—warm, spiced, familiar. Like the kind Suguru used to burn during late-night cramming sessions in their dorm. atoru follows the scent barefoot, like he’s being lured. He’s quiet as the hallway gently creaks beneath him.

Suguru’s on the couch, legs folded underneath him, damp hair laid loosely across his shoulder. He’s in a clean tee and sweats, a book resting on his thigh like he was pretending to focus.

He looks up when Satoru appears in the doorway. “Hey,” he says, soft. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

Satoru doesn’t answer. Just stands there, watching him. There’s something venomous in his stillness, like a fuse waiting to be lit.

Suguru closes the book. “You okay?”

“No,” Satoru says bluntly.

Suguru waits. He knows better than to push too soon.

Satoru steps forward and drops onto the opposite couch cushion, legs folded the same way, eyes cold.

“Why are you doing this to her?” he asks. No emotion. No warning.

Suguru’s jaw tightens. “It’s not what you think.”

“You kiss her like you love her.”

“I do love her.”

Satoru scoffs, and it’s sharp. “Then why the fuck are you fucking me?”

“Because I love you more.”

The silence is immediate and brutal. Satoru looks away first. He doesn’t want to give that weight meaning, doesn’t want to acknowledge how hard it hits.

“You’re disgusting,” he mutters, but it comes out cracked. “You should’ve left her the second you realized it wasn’t fair. You should’ve left me the fuck alone.”

“You could’ve said no.”

“You don’t get to put that on me.”

“I’m not putting it on you—I’m telling you the truth. You let me in. You wanted me back.”

Satoru bares his teeth. “Fuck you.”

“You already did.”

That lands. Satoru’s whole body tenses.

“I hate you,” he breathes. “I hate that you made me part of this. I hate that you know exactly how to look at me, how to touch me, and I still—” He cuts himself off, slamming his fist lightly into the couch cushion.

Suguru’s voice lowers. “You still what?”

“I still… want you.”

It hangs there, thick and hot between them. Satoru has never felt so vulnerable in his life.

“So stop pretending this doesn’t mean something,” Suguru says, voice tighter now. “Stop acting like this wasn’t always going to happen the second we were alone.”

Satoru glares at him. “It shouldn’t have.”

“But it did. And you liked it. You begged for it.”

“Don’t.”

“You want me to lie?” Suguru leans forward. “You want me to pretend you didn’t come on my fingers like it meant something?”

Satoru’s breath hitches, cheeks flushing. “Shut the fuck up.”

“You think I want anyone else like that?”

“Then why are you still with her?”

Suguru doesn’t hesitate. “Because I thought I could live without you.”

Satoru goes still.

His jaw locks up, his throat tightens like something’s caught there. He stares at Suguru like he’s been sucker-punched—because he has. Not by the words themselves, but by how effortlessly they tear through everything he’s tried to bury.

“You thought—” Satoru scoffs, bitter. “God, you’re such a fucking coward.”

Suguru doesn’t flinch. “Maybe.”

“You didn’t even try. You just disappeared. You left and pretended like we didn’t mean anything.”

“That’s not true.”

“You got married.”

“And you never came after me.”

Satoru recoils like he’s been slapped. “Don’t put that on me.”

“I’m not,” Suguru says, voice quieter now, more raw. “I’m just saying—we both ran.”

Satoru shakes his head. “You ran further.”

“I ran safer.” Suguru looks down at his hands, like the truth is something shameful he can’t bear to hold. “I tried to do the right thing. I tried to pick something stable. Something that wouldn’t—wouldn’t eat me alive.”

“And did it work?” Satoru bites.

Suguru looks up. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

Silence stretches between them again, heavy and sharp.

Satoru swallows hard. “I would’ve stayed, you know. If you’d asked.”

Suguru’s expression twists. “I know.”

“And now you’re married. Now I’m the mistake.”

“You’ve never been a mistake,” Suguru says, like it hurts to admit. “You’re just the part of me I couldn’t face.”

Satoru exhales shakily, blinking fast like he’s trying to keep something down. “Then why now?”

“Because I thought I could live without you,” Suguru repeats, voice hoarse, “and I was wrong.”

And Satoru hates him for saying it like that—for being honest, for being too late, for sounding like he means it.

Because he does.

“Why me?” he asks, voice rasped. “Why not just fix things with her?”

Suguru leans in more, eyes dark and hungry. “Who else?” he breathes. “Who the fuck else but you?”

Satoru doesn’t know who leans in first—doesn’t care, either—because the second their lips meet, it’s like a dam breaks. Their teeth clash on the first contact, a little messy, a little frantic, like they both moved at once, too hungry to wait, too desperate to hesitate.

Suguru’s hands find his waist almost instantly, settling there with a steady grip, thumbs pressing gentle, grounding circles into his sides. Their mouths fumble for rhythm and then find it—slow, deep, hungry. Kisses traded like secrets, like oxygen. Like if either of them pulls away, they might cease to exist.

Satoru moans when Suguru catches his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying it gently, tugging just enough to make heat flare low in his gut. His hands fly to Suguru’s hair without thinking, fingers diving into those long, silky strands, nails dragging lightly against his scalp until Suguru groans into his mouth.

It’s their first kiss. Somehow, impossibly, after everything they’ve done—after the sex, the whispered please, the nights tangled together in shame and craving—this is the first time their lips have met like this.

And Satoru realizes just how starving he’s been for it.

For this.

For the closeness, the heat, the intimacy that no amount of fucking could ever quite satisfy.

Because Suguru’s not just touching him—he’s kissing him. Like he means it. Like he feels it.

Suguru lets out a soft breath as he shifts, leaning back into the couch and pulling Satoru with him. Hands tug gently until Satoru straddles him, legs on either side, and suddenly they’re chest to chest, heart to heart, lips never once breaking contact.

He’s so warm. So present.

Each press of his mouth is smooth and purposeful, and Satoru can feel himself unraveling with every soft huff, every low moan Suguru breathes against his skin.

A pathetic little whimper slips out before Satoru can swallow it, and it only spurs Suguru on—his hands sliding up Satoru’s back, tugging him forward, molding him against his chest like he wants to feel every inch of him.

Guilt doesn’t exist here. Not right now.

There’s no wife. No consequences. No reality.

Only the way Suguru’s mouth fits against his. The way his tongue licks into Satoru’s mouth, unhurried but deep, savoring, like he’s trying to consume him whole.

“Suguru,” Satoru whispers, barely breaking the kiss, unsure why the name comes out—only that it feels right. Feels good on his lips like it’s always belonged there—especially in this way. 

Suguru responds like he’s been waiting to hear it. His hands trail lower, fingers slipping beneath the hem of Satoru’s shirt, dragging along bare skin and making him shiver.

And then the kiss deepens, ignites as it catches fire.

The moment Suguru touches skin, something changes.

His hips roll up into Satoru’s stomach, slow but needy, and his big, calloused hands flatten against Satoru’s bare spine, pulling him impossibly closer, lips crashing harder, tongues tangling like they’re trying to become one—like neither of them can stand to be separate anymore.

And Satoru lets it happen.

Lets himself fall.

It’s the sweetest damn fall he’s ever known.

“Satoru,” Suguru whispers back, voice low and reverent, like a secret prayer meant only for him. He presses one, two more kisses to Satoru’s lips before his mouth begins its descent—down the line of his jaw, to the slope of his throat—sloppy and hot, his breath dragging heat across every inch of skin he touches.

Satoru shudders.

He can feel it—Suguru—pressed hard and heavy against his stomach. Suguru’s cock twitches with every breath, every kiss, like it’s aching for him, like it can’t stand being kept from what it wants.

Everything spirals fast. Too fast.

Maybe it’s the way Suguru said his name, the way it settled into Satoru’s chest like a match to dry grass. Maybe it’s those hands—so warm, so present, gripping him like he’s something fragile and sacred.

Whatever it is, something flips in Satoru’s brain.

He kisses Suguru again, deeper this time—messy and open-mouthed, spit clinging to their chins and sliding down to their throats. Desperation creeps in fast, and Satoru feels it in the way his hips stutter forward, like he can’t keep still, like he needs.

He worries it’s too much—his neediness, his hunger—but Suguru doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pull away. His hands slip down, bold and sure, diving into the back of Satoru’s pants to grip his ass and drag him forward until there’s no space left between them.

Suguru moans into his mouth, and Satoru swears it sinks straight to his clit.

It’s everything and not enough—grinding against each other, the heat between them scorching, breaths traded like currency. It’s reckless. Intimate. They’re swapping air and spit like they’re trying to become each other, like pulling away might kill them.

Satoru’s clit throbs—angry, swollen, desperate for attention.

So he hikes a leg up, angling his hips just right, lining himself up with the hard line of Suguru’s still-clothed cock. The contact makes his breath hitch, and without breaking the kiss, he grinds down slowly.

Suguru gasps, his whole body jerking. His hands clench tighter around Satoru’s ass, helping guide the rhythm—grinding up into him, rough and needy.

“Baby,” Suguru whimpers, finally pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, breathless and already undone.

But Satoru—pathetic, lovesick, absolutely obsessed with hearing that pet name on Suguru’s lips, especially when it’s meant for him—leans in without a second thought. He chases Suguru’s mouth like he’s starving for it, pressing their lips back together with a low, greedy sound that barely makes it out of his throat.

“Mm?” he hums, tongue sliding against Suguru’s teeth, licking over his gums just to hear that sweet gasp again.

His body’s trembling with restraint, every nerve singing, but he holds himself back—just barely. He doesn’t want to ruin it, doesn’t want to come too fast, doesn’t want it to be over.

Suguru’s touch is grounding and possessive, pulling and kneading his flesh like it belongs to him. And maybe it does.

Satoru’s cunt throbs, aching—pleading—for more.

But not yet.

He wants to drag this out. Wants to make Suguru feel it.

Wants to see him fall apart first.

Because nothing has ever tasted sweeter than the way Suguru unravels just for him.

“Feels good?” Satoru coos, voice silken, riding the edge of a purr. He’s breathless but smug, feeling powerful like this—on top, in control, the one drawing those shaky, breathless moans out of Suguru.

Beneath him, Suguru’s face contorts with pleasure, mouth parted and eyes lidded. His brows pinch together as Satoru sinks down hard on him, slow and mean.

“Mhm—Satoru,” Suguru chokes out, voice strangled with need.

Satoru sits up straighter, planting his palms on Suguru’s chest and adjusting his weight with purpose. His hips roll forward in practiced, delicious motions, grinding down, letting every inch of Suguru hit just right. He’s steady, deliberate, smug as hell.

One of his hands travels greedily up Suguru’s chest, grabbing a fistful of muscle and squeezing, making Suguru groan deep, his eyes glued to Satoru’s face.

“So pretty,” Suguru murmurs like it’s his religion.

His hand moves from inside Satoru’s pants to his waist, slipping under his shirt to cradle bare skin, their warmth bleeding into each other. He uses that hand to guide Satoru, pressing their bodies even tighter together, helping him grind just right.

Satoru moans. The thick heat of Suguru’s cock pressed against his clit is driving him insane, dragging pleasure in slow, endless waves.

“Mmm, more,” he breathes, biting his lip, hips rolling greedily. He wants everything. Wants Suguru to talk to him like this forever—soft and ruined and reverent.

For the rest of the week, he thinks. For the rest of my life.

“Gorgeous. Absolutely perfect,” Suguru huffs, starting to thrust upward in sync with Satoru’s motions. One hand digs hard into Satoru’s hip while the other returns to his ass, guiding him, dragging him across his cock like he’s something sacred to be worshipped.

“You’re so beautiful,” Suguru groans, the words molten and reverent, and Satoru breaks—leaning down, kissing him hard and full.

It’s everything. The words, the way Suguru says them, the weight of his praise—it makes Satoru’s walls flutter, makes him leak, his slick soaking straight through the thin fabric of his sweats. His pussy is aching, pulsing, and every part of him is screaming for more.

Their kiss turns messy in seconds, tongues tangling desperately, gasps shared between open mouths. The air is hot, thick with the sound of skin and slick and moans.

But the pressure isn’t enough. Not yet.

He needs to be filled.

And it’s like Suguru hears his thoughts—reads the want off his body. The hand in his pants squeezes his ass one last time before dipping lower, sliding between Satoru’s thighs. His fingers find the wet heat of his soaked cunt, and Satoru gasps, moaning high and sweet into Suguru’s mouth.

There’s no teasing. No patience.

Suguru pushes two fingers inside him with intent, knuckles-deep in a heartbeat. He curls them, pulls out, presses back in, fucking Satoru open like he belongs to him.

“Ohhh—fuck,” Satoru groans, breath faltering against Suguru’s lips.

His pussy clenches, slick gushing around Suguru’s fingers, the friction and stretch hitting just right. Suguru doesn’t let up—keeps the kiss going even as he fucks Satoru with his fingers, tongue probing every desperate sound from his throat.

Satoru feels owned. Worshipped. Loved.

And completely undone.

“I’ll fuck you right here and now,” Suguru rasps against his ear, voice ragged, trembling at the edge of something. “Fill that pretty pussy up for you. You’ll let me, right?”

And Satoru moans open and eager, already pushing back against the grind of Suguru’s hips like he’s starved. “Do it. Give it to me. Fuck me good,” he gasps, breath hitching on every word. “Hard and good, c’mon.”

He needs it. Needs Suguru buried inside him, fucking him like he means it. Like he owns him. Like he wants him more than anything. 

More than anyone.

The weight of Suguru’s cock pressing through those thin sweats is enough to make Satoru shake. He’s soaked through, ready, waiting—and yet—

There’s a jolt in his gut, a cold wave that cuts through the heat of it all.

The metal band catches against him. A glint of silver—Suguru’s wedding ring—slick with Satoru’s arousal and nudging at his hole with every slow thrust.

Satoru’s breath stutters. He tries to ignore it. Tries to focus on the way Suguru groans, the way his hand tightens around Satoru’s waist like he can’t bear to let him go. But the guilt spreads fast, unwelcome and sharp, rooting itself in his chest.

And then, Suguru freezes.

Like something just hit him. His movements halt, breath still caught in his throat. He pulls back an inch, fingers twitching where they hold Satoru’s hips, and the only sound left is the thrum of their panting breaths filling the quiet between them.

Satoru watches his face closely, waiting for the guilt to hit. Waiting for Suguru to pull away and tell him this is wrong. That he loves his wife. That this was a mistake. That he’s going to call her right now, confess everything, repent for touching Satoru like this.

But then Suguru just looks at him with those heavy-lidded eyes like Satoru’s being ridiculous for even thinking that.

Instead of stopping, he kisses him—messy, deep, all tongue and desperation—and reaches for his ring. Satoru feels the cool brush of metal leave his skin just before Suguru tosses the band somewhere across the room. A soft clink hits the floor.

Then his fingers are back between Satoru’s legs, deeper this time. Curling like they’re searching for something and finding it over and over again. Satoru moans, back arching, brain hazy with heat. 

His cunt squelches, wet and hungry, and when he pulls back from Suguru’s mouth to gasp for air, he slides his hand down and shoves it into Suguru’s sweats.

Gripping him. Stroking slow and tight, thumb dragging over the flushed head.

Suguru looks at him like he’s never seen anything so beautiful. Jaw slack, eyes soft in this way that makes Satoru’s chest ache. Like Satoru’s the one thing anchoring him in place.

“Let’s move,” Satoru breathes, dizzy from the way Suguru just hit his a-spot so perfectly he almost came.

Suguru bites his bottom lip, thinking—barely—and lets his gaze drag over Satoru’s face like he’s committing it to memory. “Yeah. Yeah, fuck. Come on.”

He lifts Satoru like he weighs nothing, arms hooked under his thighs as Satoru wraps his legs around him tight. Their mouths stay fused in the short walk, lips dragging, teeth knocking.

But then Satoru hits the mattress and something’s…off.

It’s not the guest bed. It’s bigger. Softer. The sheets smell different. Familiar.

His eyes shoot open and he pulls back from Suguru’s mouth.

“No,” he says, breath catching. “Suguru.”

“Satoru,” Suguru hums, already stripping his shirt like it’s nothing. Like this is nothing.

“Not here,” Satoru tries again, voice low, strained. His body’s begging for more, but his mind is still grasping at something solid.

Suguru just smiles, all half-lidded and cocky. “Need more space to throw you around.”

And fuck him, Satoru watches the way his muscles move now that his shirt isn’t in the way and doesn’t argue again. He swallows, then pulls his own shirt off.

They undress in a tangled, desperate mess—clothes flung to the floor without care, hands dragging over skin like they’ve been starved of it. It’s animalistic, frenzied, and Satoru feels it deep in his gut. Now that he knows Suguru is doing this with him—because of him—he’s addicted. Hopelessly, stupidly addicted.

“Just divine,” Suguru murmurs, breath ghosting over Satoru’s skin as he takes him in—laid out, glowing, bruised from the night before. He looks ruined already, and Suguru hasn’t even touched him properly. 

His big hands skim Satoru’s torso, thumbs brushing his ribcage, and Satoru’s body reacts like it remembers. His ribs rise into the touch, spine arching, a full-body flinch like he’s overwhelmed already.

And then Suguru’s mouth is on him.

He mouths down his chest, drags his tongue along the soft dip of Satoru’s stomach, fingers squeezing at his hips and thighs until he’s marked again. Satoru’s back lifts from the bed the second Suguru settles between his legs. 

And when he eats him—it’s starved. Messy. Loud. Suguru groans into him, eyes fluttering shut, brows pulled like this is something sacred. He devours Satoru like he’s never going to get the chance again, like he’s memorizing every inch of him with his tongue alone.

Satoru’s brain goes loose and easy. Words tumble from his mouth with no filter.

“Yes, just like that—fuck—your tongue, Suguru, oh my god—don’t stop, please don’t—”

Suguru’s hum of satisfaction against his clit has Satoru’s hips jerking.

And then he pulls away. Abrupt. Controlled. Like he’s had this move in his back pocket for years.

“Sit on my face,” Suguru says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Satoru doesn’t even hesitate.

He swings a leg over, straddling Suguru’s face, planting his knees firm into the bed as he grips the headboard for leverage. He grinds down shamelessly, moaning loud as Suguru’s tongue meets him again, wetter, deeper, sloppier.

His eyes flicker open, just for a moment. He glances around the room.

The wedding photos. The faint scent of her perfume. Their shared bookshelf, half-full of doula textbooks, half-graphic novels and poetry.

They’re in her bed.

But Satoru doesn’t care. Not when he’s grinding his clit into her husband’s nose, not when he’s being worshipped like this. He should care. He knows that. But all he can think about is how good it feels. How right it feels.

Suguru moans into him and tugs at his thighs like he’s trying to drown in him.

Their eyes meet when Satoru starts to come undone. His fingers are tangled in Suguru’s hair, yanking, humping his face with wild desperation. Suguru groans, digging his thumbs into the crease of Satoru’s thighs, and reaches up to pinch his nipples—rubbing slow circles over them until they’re tight and sensitive.

“That’s it, that’s it,” Satoru pants, a little high-pitched, right before he cums with a sharp cry.

His whole body seizes, trembling so hard he nearly topples off. But Suguru doesn’t let him go—won’t let him go. He grips Satoru like a lifeline, moaning obscenely as he licks him through it, slurping up everything with disgusting enthusiasm. 

He stays there until Satoru’s twitching from overstimulation, until his thighs are trembling, until his mind goes blank and all he knows is Suguru’s mouth and the slick, messy heat between them.

He barely registers Suguru flipping them over until he feels the sudden weight and heat of him again—his leg thrown over Suguru’s shoulder, a sharp stretch splitting him open as Suguru thrusts all the way in. 

It knocks the wind out of him. No matter how many times they do this, he’ll never get used to Suguru’s obnoxious size. Thick and deep, filling him to the brim like he’s trying to rearrange something.

Memories from the night before flash behind Satoru’s eyes—how quiet Suguru had been, how desperate. That desperation’s still here, but now it’s louder. Hungrier. Shameless.

Suguru fucks into him like he has something to prove. Rough, unrelenting thrusts that punch moans from Satoru’s throat with every snap of his hips.

“Yes, Suguru—yes,” Satoru sobs, nails scratching at the sheets. “Harder, fuck, come on—is that all you’re gonna give me? Waited this long for you to treat me like glass? Fuck me, Suguru—fuck me like you mean it—”

Suguru growls. It’s not even subtle—just this feral sound from deep in his chest. His grip on Satoru’s hip tightens to the point of bruising, his pace brutal and punishing. The sound of their bodies colliding fills the room, sticky and obscene, wet and fast.

“Such a pretty brat—oh god, I can’t,” Suguru pants, eyes wild. “Feels so fucking good—you feel so good. Tell me it’s all for me. Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” Satoru gasps immediately, almost crying with it. “Yours, Suguru. This pussy’s yours, baby—come on, show me.”

Something changes. Suguru’s whole expression shifts, pupils blown wide, mouth parted like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

And then—without warning—he grabs behind Satoru’s knees and folds him in half, pressing them to his chest.

“Oh my—fuck—” Satoru screams.

Suguru drives in again, and this time the angle’s so sharp, so deep, it makes Satoru’s whole body jolt. Each thrust slams right into his cervix, the pressure delicious and painful and dizzying. His womb feels like it’s being pounded into shape, his cunt milking Suguru greedily with every stroke.

Satoru goes dumb. Lips trembling, eyes rolling back, words tumbling out in a mess of yes, please, right there, harder, oh god, you’re perfect, I missed you, more, more, more—

Suguru moans too. Pretty, breathless, like each thrust is unraveling him from the inside out.

“Perfect—so perfect,” he chants, hips relentless. “My Satoru. My perfect Satoru.”

The way he says it makes something ache in Satoru’s chest. He whines, digs his nails into the mattress, lets himself be used, lets Suguru fuck the thoughts right out of him.

He doesn’t even realize Suguru’s close until he feels their hips press flush, Suguru shaking above him, groaning deep in his throat like an animal.

And then—warmth. So much warmth.

Suguru cums with a low growl, his cock pulsing deep inside as he floods Satoru’s cunt, fills his womb until it’s aching and messy and full.

Satoru trembles, wrecked. He pants like he’s been sprinting, legs still shaking around Suguru’s waist.

There’s a pause. A shared breath.

Then Suguru melts over him, lips dragging over his jaw, his cheeks, his lips. Gentle now. Tender. Like he’s afraid to let go.

Satoru moans soft, still floating. “Suguru,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Suguru, fuck.”

Suguru chuckles and presses a final kiss to the corner of Satoru’s mouth.

“Again,” Satoru breathes, voice trembling with need.

Suguru clicks his tongue but doesn’t argue. He pulls out slow, wet, the absence making Satoru keen into the sheets. Before he can complain, Suguru flips him onto his stomach with ease. Satoru expects to be hauled up by the hips, ass in the air like always—but instead, Suguru tucks a pillow beneath him and drapes his weight across Satoru’s back, warm and heavy and grounding.

“I’m not stopping,” Suguru mutters low against his ear, “not until you’re properly bred.”

Satoru whines, back arching into the pressure as Suguru pushes back inside. It’s deep like this. Hot and thick, snug and perfect—every nerve ending in Satoru’s body sparking to life all over again.

Suguru fucks him with just as much hunger as before, each stroke knocking a desperate sound out of Satoru’s throat. “You wanna talk about kids?” He grunts. The weight of Suguru’s body presses him into the mattress, smothering him in heat, in skin, in love.

A hand tangles in his hair, yanks his head back. The other wraps around his throat, thumb brushing his pulse as Suguru thrusts harder.

“Gonna breed you all night,” Suguru growls against the shell of his ear. “Put a baby in you. You want that? You gonna be the perfect mommy for our babies, yeah?”

The words make Satoru sob, raw and broken. “Yes—yes, fuck—more, more, fill me up again, give it to me, Suguru, fuck, you feel so fucking good—”

Suguru slips out, just for a second, and Satoru cries out like he’s been abandoned. His body bucks back instinctively, shaking, desperate to be filled again.

Suguru groans, pulling himself upright to kneel between Satoru’s thighs. He grips his hips tight and shoves back in, hard and fast, and Satoru chokes on a moan. His thighs tremble. His whole body reacts like it’s starved.

“Fuck, baby,” Suguru pants, watching his cock disappear inside him over and over. “Greedy little thing. You love being full, don’t you?”

Satoru nods frantically, tears streaking his cheeks, unable to find the words. He throws his hips back to meet each thrust, chasing every ounce of friction. All he can do is babble, sob, fall apart beneath the man who’s ruining him in the best way.

“Just for me,” Suguru huffs, pace relentless. “You take me so well. Fuck, you’re all mine, all for me.”

Satoru’s moans pitch higher as he feels Suguru start to lose it, hips stuttering, grip bruising.

“Please,” he begs, voice cracking, “please, please—cum in me again, Suguru, fill me up—”

Suguru snarls, slamming in one final time and holding himself there, cock twitching as he spills inside him on command. His hands yank Satoru’s ass flush against his hips, as if he can push the cum even deeper, keep it from ever leaving. “Want daughters, Satoru. Want my girls to look like you. So gorgeous, taking me like this.” 

Satoru feels every pulse of it. Hot. Messy. Claiming. And he cries through it, mouth slack, overwhelmed with it all.

Satoru feels limp by now, his whole body quivering as Suguru gathers him up in his arms. He blinks, dazed, and when his vision sharpens, they’re in the bathroom. Suguru bends him over the vanity with little resistance. Satoru lets him, pliant and wrecked, head lolling until he catches his reflection in the mirror.

He doesn’t recognize himself. His face is streaked with tears, jaw slack, drool clinging to his chin. His lips are swollen and red, eyes glassy and lost. His best friend is behind him with an unreadable expression, half-lidded and dark. Suguru watches him in the mirror like he’s studying a work of art, like every ruined inch of him is holy.

Then he moves again.

The thrusts are rough, deliberate. Suguru finds the perfect angle on instinct, fucking into him with sharp, rhythmic precision. Every grind of his hips pulls out a sob, a gasp, a broken moan from Satoru’s throat—whorish and raw and so real. The heat builds fast again, unbearable and dizzying.

“Baby, I’m gonna—” Satoru tries, voice thin and cracking—

But Suguru’s already there. His eyes glaze darker, ravenous, and he doesn’t answer with words—just reaches around to rub Satoru’s clit in time with his thrusts. It’s so fucking much. Too much.

Satoru cums with a full body tremor, eyes locked to Suguru’s in the mirror as his jaw drops in a silent scream. He squirts hard, the spray hitting the vanity and pooling beneath them. His legs nearly give out, body spasming, but Suguru doesn’t let him fall.

Suguru presses closer, hips snapping harder, faster. Satoru’s hips ache where they press into the counter, but he can’t even bring himself to care. Not when Suguru’s fucking him like this. Not when he’s panting against his back, arms tight around his waist, thrusts unforgiving.

This is just for him. Suguru like this—possessed, obsessed, feral—is just for him.

Suguru’s his, he thinks deliriously, eyes unfocused and wet. Suguru’s his.He affirms it again when Suguru has him bouncing on his lap on the couch.

He affirms it again when Suguru bends him over the kitchen table and takes him raw and aching all over again.

Again. And again. And again.

Satoru loses count. Of how many times Suguru filled him. Of how many times he came. Of how many places in the house they claimed. He’s floating by the end of it, barely conscious, used and shaking and warm.

Eventually, Suguru gathers him up again and carries him back to the bathroom. He sets Satoru gently in the tub and joins him under the hot water. His touch is careful now—tender fingers running through soaked white hair, his voice barely a whisper as he presses kiss after kiss to Satoru’s temple, his shoulder, his lips.

“You did so good,” he murmurs. “So fucking good, baby.”

He dries Satoru off, wraps him in a towel, and carries him to the bed.

The master bed.

Satoru should protest. But he can’t. He won’t, desperately wanting to live in the fantasy a little longer.

Suguru dresses him in one of his shirts—oversized and soft—and crawls in behind him. Spooning close, cock already pressing at his entrance again.

“Just once more,” Suguru whispers into his neck, voice hoarse and aching. “Just wanna stay inside you. Please.”

Satoru nods, barely awake. “Yeah,” he slurs. “Give me what we want.”

And Suguru does. He slides back inside with ease, already leaking. His arms pull Satoru impossibly close.

And like that, they fall asleep—tangled in sheets, in heat, in guilt and want and something that looks a lot like love.

Satoru wakes in a panic, heart pounding and breath caught in his throat. Suguru is crouched beside the bed, nudging him gently, whispering a string of frantic words that Satoru can’t fully process through the fog in his brain. He hears one thing clearly, though—two words that slam into him harder than anything else:

“My wife.”

Satoru blinks hard, trying to focus, but Suguru’s already pulling the blanket off him and guiding him out of bed. He’s gentle but hurried, like he’s trying to erase any trace of what happened. He presses a few soft kisses to Satoru’s lips—empty ones, shallow and rushed, meant to silence instead of soothe.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Suguru murmurs, and then he’s gone, disappearing down the hallway like nothing ever happened.

Satoru stands frozen in the guest room, ears straining—and there she is. Sora.

Her voice is light and melodic as it carries through the house, and it makes Satoru’s stomach twist. Suguru answers her, voice warm and sweet—the exact same tone he’d used hours ago, calling Satoru his, whispering promises into his neck.

Then comes the wet sound of a kiss. Another one. And soft laughter that doesn’t belong to him.

Satoru stares at the wall, heart dropping into his stomach. Those words, those sounds—they should be for him. But they’re not.

He slips beneath the covers without turning the lights on, eyes wide open until they start to sting. Eventually, they fall shut, and he doesn’t remember falling asleep—just the dull ache in his chest and the wetness on his pillow.

🍎

When he wakes again, the pillow is dry. The air feels heavy, and his head throbs with exhaustion. He must’ve cried himself to sleep. He feels like shit. Not the kind of shit that aches in your bones, but the kind that makes your skin feel too tight—like you’re not supposed to be in your body at all.

The first thing he does is check his phone. A few missed calls from work. They’re requesting an in-person meeting.

Perfect.

He agrees instantly.

When he emerges from the guest room, Sora is sitting at the kitchen table—the same one he was bent over less than twelve hours ago. She looks up and smiles at him, radiant and unknowing, and it nearly makes him throw up.

Suguru isn’t there. Thank fucking God.

“I’ve got to head out,” Satoru says with a practiced smile. “Got a call from work. They need me in for a meeting.”

Sora pouts, setting down her cup. “Aw, and on your last day with us? When will you be back?”

“Probably after dinner,” he says, apologetic. “I’m really sorry.”

“Oh, it’s really okay, Satoru.” She stands and walks over to hug him. “I’ll have your dinner warmed up when you get in, alright?”

She wraps her arms around him, and he goes rigid for a second before forcing himself to return it. Her voice is warm against his ear. “If I don’t see you before you head back to Tokyo, just know you’re always welcome here. We really do love having you, Gojo.”

It hurts more than it should.

Satoru swallows it down. “Of course. I love you guys.”

 

When he returns from the meeting, it’s late. Late enough that Suguru shouldn’t be waiting for him at the door, like nothing’s changed. 

But everything has. 

Satoru feels it deep in his stomach—a sick, curling weight that isn’t guilt anymore.

It’s jealousy.

Raw and hot and unbearable.

He’s never been this jealous in his entire life.

Not even when he watched Suguru get married. Not even when he sat in the front row at their wedding and saw them exchange vows—words Satoru had stupidly imagined would be for him.

Satoru stares at him for a long moment before brushing past, making his way toward the guest room without a word. He moves with a sharp pace, pulling his suitcase out from the corner, grabbing his clothes for the night and tomorrow’s flight. 

Suguru follows him in without saying anything. Satoru pretends not to notice, digging through his bag for his sleepwear, desperate to ignore the burn in his chest.

He turns to walk out, but Suguru steps in front of him this time, placing a hand gently on his chest to stop him.

“What’s wrong?” Suguru asks, like he hasn’t done anything wrong. Like he doesn’t know.

Satoru scoffs, swatting his hand away like it burns, trying again to side-step him.

“Leave me the fuck alone.”

“Satoru,” Suguru says, voice quiet, face softer than it has any right to be. He moves to block the doorway completely, and Satoru freezes for a beat—he doesn’t want to cause a scene. Not with Sora probably asleep just a few doors down.

“This was a bad idea,” Satoru spits, the words slipping past clenched teeth. “We shouldn’t have done anything.”

His voice is shaking now, more with rage than anything else. It’s pouring out of him faster than he can stop it.

“I should’ve called you out immediately. If you wanna destroy your marriage, do that shit without me. I’m not just some fucking hole for you to use when you’re bored of your wife—”

Suguru shushes him quickly, slapping a hand over his mouth and pushing him gently into the room. But Satoru fights it, shoving the hand away and pushing Suguru with it, stumbling into the hallway before storming toward the bathroom. 

He’s not stomping, but he wants to. Wants to scream loud enough for Sora to wake up and know everything.

Suguru follows him anyway.

He shuts the bathroom door behind them and Satoru’s already at the sink, furiously pulling off his shirt, turning the shower water on just to hear something other than the pounding in his skull.

“I don’t think you’re just a hole, Satoru,” Suguru says quietly, his voice too calm for Satoru’s spiraling thoughts.

But Satoru isn’t listening.

He feels used. Filthy. Stupid.

He feels betrayed.

“I don’t give a shit what you think,” he snaps. “I want to shower, go to bed, and get the fuck out of this house.”

“I’m sorry it seems that way, but I meant it when I said I love you—”

“Bullshit.” Satoru’s voice cracks as he punches Suguru square in the chest, hard enough to make the slap echo off the tiled walls.

Suguru stumbles back a step but doesn’t retaliate, just stands there and takes it.

“You’re not shit,” Satoru snarls, breath ragged, face red and eyes stinging. “You kicked me out of that bed like I was a fucking prostitute, like I was just some mistake. You got your nut off and ran right back into her arms.”

He’s trembling, body wound tight with too many emotions, voice teetering between a scream and a sob.

“Just admit it. Admit you’re a piece of shit, Suguru. That you don’t give a fuck about anyone but yourself. You selfish fucking bastard.”

He spits the words like venom, daring Suguru to fight back. To defend himself. To say something.

Suguru looks at him like he’s been slapped. “You think I used you?”

Satoru scoffs, turns his back. “I don’t think—I know.”

“I didn’t use you, Satoru.”

“Then what the fuck would you call it?” Satoru snarls, spinning back around. “You came inside me and ran back to your wife. You kicked me out of the bed like I was some disposable whore and then kissed her like nothing happened.”

“You think that was easy for me?” Suguru fires back. “You think I slept well after that? I laid there with her and felt like a fucking ghost.”

“Poor you,” Satoru bites, “playing house with the woman you married, boo-fucking-hoo.”

Suguru grabs his arm—gently, but firm enough to hold him there. “I didn’t marry her because I stopped loving you.”

“Oh, then why?” Satoru snaps. “Go ahead. Justify it.”

“I thought you were gone,” Suguru says, voice sharp now. “You ghosted me. You didn’t show up. You left.”

“You never waited!” Satoru shouts, eyes wide, voice cracking with something raw.

Then he lowers it, a harsh whisper edged with hurt, mindful of Sora sleeping down the hall.

“You didn’t wait for me,” he says, like it still shocks him. “You gave up.”

“I was hurting, Satoru!” Suguru hisses.

“I was hurting too! But I didn’t fuck someone else. I didn’t get married. You moved on. You built a whole fucking life with her while I was still trying to forget what we had—what we could’ve had.”

They stare at each other, both breathing hard, both on the edge.

“I made a mistake,” Suguru says finally, low and desperate. “I thought I could force myself to stop loving you. But I can’t. I’ve tried. And now that you’re here again—now that I’ve had you—I’m ruined.”

Satoru scoffs in disbelief, tearing his eyes away. “It’s too late, Suguru. You chose her.”

“I didn’t choose her,” Suguru says, stepping closer. “I chose the version of my life where I could survive without you. But I don’t want to survive anymore. I want to live. With you. Only you.”

Satoru’s face twists up, like he wants to cry but won’t let himself. “You’ll leave her? For me?”

“Yes,” Suguru says, instantly. “I love you more than anything, Satoru. I don’t want to lose you. I want this, want you. Need you.”

He cups Satoru’s hands and presses a kiss to each knuckle, slow and steady. “I fucked up. I fucked up bad. But if you’ll have me, I’ll make it right. I swear to you.”

Satoru’s lip wobbles despite himself. “When?”

“Soon, baby. Please,” Suguru says, trailing kisses up his wrist to his forearm, to his shoulder, and finally to his lips. “Believe me when I say I want you more than life.”

Suguru’s vague promise doesn’t satisfy him but the words barely leave Satoru’s mouth before Suguru’s hands are sliding down his sides, grounding him, worshiping him. 

He lets Suguru undress and push him back against the shower wall, lets him drop to his knees like he’s praying, tongue already spreading him open. 

Satoru sobs into his palm as he cums hard and fast, body twitching, his other hand tangled in Suguru’s hair. He doesn’t stop. Suguru eats like he’s starving, like Satoru is his only salvation. Satoru has no choice but to believe it.

When he finally pulls back, it’s just to lift Satoru’s thigh against his hip and slide in, slow but full and deep.

“You’re everything,” Suguru whispers against his temple, lips brushing wet skin. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to have you again.” He thrusts with reverence, every motion deliberate, every word thick with emotion. “I want you forever. It’s always been you, Satoru. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

 

He chants it into Satoru’s ear like a prayer, like a vow, his grip gentle and firm as he holds him through it all. Promises him a family and a life together.

 

And for a second—just a second—Satoru lets himself see it.

A sunlit kitchen, the floor sticky with juice and scattered with tiny socks. Suguru’s laugh echoing as a toddler crashes into his legs, arms outstretched. The smell of breakfast and warm coffee. A quiet morning with Suguru pressed to his side, soft-eyed and barefoot, their wedding rings glinting in the light as they pass a sleepy newborn back and forth. A home that belongs to them, not borrowed from guilt or built from compromise. 

Just theirs.

Satoru’s eyes squeeze shut, his body trembling. He wants it—wants all of it.

“You want it too, right?” Suguru babbles, voice wrecked and close to a whimper. “Our kids are gonna be so beautiful, Satoru… fuck—you’re gonna be the best dad. The perfect husband.”

He’s right up against his ear, panting through a broken moan. “My husband. Satoru Geto. Mine. Mine.”

Satoru shudders as he cums, spilling across Suguru’s cock with a strangled sob, his whole body shaking as Suguru groans, clinging to him like he’ll disappear.

He’s so overwhelmed that he lets it happen. Lets him kiss him, hold him, fill him up until all that pain begins to bleed out of him under the warmth of the shower.

They towel off and stumble to the guest bed. Satoru collapses first, body boneless, head heavy with sleep. He doesn’t expect Suguru to crawl in after him. Doesn’t expect the arms that wrap around his waist or the soft breath at his nape.

“I love you too,” Satoru whispers against his lips before drifting off, for once allowing himself to believe it might be enough.

🍎

Satoru awoke, to his surprise, with Suguru still in his arms. His 5 a.m. alarm buzzed faintly from the nightstand, and he reached for it blindly, silencing it with a groggy swipe. His head was cloudy, body sore, and the air in the room still smelled faintly of fruit and sweat and Suguru.

He blinked the sleep from his eyes, then glanced down—and there he was. Suguru, nestled in the crook of his neck, mumbling something unintelligible before tightening his arms around Satoru’s waist.

“Hey, baby,” Suguru slurred, voice thick with sleep, breath brushing hot against Satoru’s skin. “It’s that time already, huh?”

Satoru said nothing at first, just rubbed slow circles into his back, letting the warmth of their closeness settle over him like a blanket he didn’t want to peel away from. ”Yeah.” He decides on. 

They found each other again with little effort, lips meeting in a desperate tangle, morning breath and all. Time was already slipping through their fingers.

Suguru shifted against him, and before long, he was buried inside, rocking into Satoru in slow, hungry strokes. It was less frantic than the night before, but just as intense. They chased one more high together, clinging to each other like they were afraid of what would happen once they let go. 

Satoru came first, clutching Suguru’s back, and Suguru followed shortly after, murmuring “I love you” into the space behind Satoru’s ear.

By the time they came down, Satoru had only an hour left before his flight.

They moved in quiet sync, getting ready together like they’d done it a hundred times. Satoru packed methodically, double and triple-checking every pocket, making sure he left nothing behind—not even a sock. When he wandered into the kitchen, Suguru was already there, shirtless, frying something in a pan.

“Something for the road,” Suguru said without looking back.

Satoru wrapped his arms around his waist and pressed his face against his shoulder blade, breathing him in. “I’m gonna miss you.”

He felt it then—the way Suguru’s shoulders twitched. A silent flinch. Then Suguru tilted his head, kissing Satoru over his shoulder, warm and lingering.

They were sitting at the table, sharing bites in silence, when Sora came in. Her presence felt too bright in the dim morning light. She padded over and kissed both of their temples.

Satoru felt nothing.

They left a few minutes later, Suguru and Sora up front in the car. Satoru sat in the back, trying not to look too long at their joined hands resting on the center console. 

He noticed the way Suguru’s fingers twitched beneath Sora’s grip. He noticed the way Suguru winced when she leaned over to kiss his cheek at a red light. 

Still, they looked like any other married couple.

“I’ll miss having someone excited to do dishes with me,” Sora laughed, glancing at Satoru in the rearview mirror.

He forced a smile, “I had fun.”

When they arrived at the airport, all three of them stepped out. Sora gave him a polite, sweet hug. Satoru hugged her back, felt the hollow in his chest deepen, and let her go.

Suguru pulled him in for a second hug—longer, tighter. Suspiciously so. But Sora didn’t comment. She was already checking her phone.

“Let me know when you land,” Suguru whispered into his ear. “I love you.”

He pulled back just enough to squeeze Satoru’s hand once before letting go.

“I will,” Satoru said, voice tight. He ignored the ache behind his ribs.

“Visit again soon!” Sora called as he headed toward the terminal.

Satoru turned and waved, smiling like his heart wasn’t breaking.

He didn’t know when he’d be back. But as he boarded the plane with a hand unconsciously resting over his lower belly, he already knew he wouldn’t be alone.

Notes:

fun fact,, I based the nights off of fnaf. like the first night nothing rlly happens but then you jump to the fifth night and whoaaaa they’re spitting in each others mouths!

lol anyways,

thank you so much for reading!! despite my shitty vision that caused this fic to be wayyy more delayed than it should’ve been, i hope it was worth the wait!

it was kinda tricky because i feel like gojo would not give a damnnnn about the wife 😭 i tried to show a little guilt on his end, but at the end of the day… it’s gojo. when he wants something, he gets it.

geto was (and has always been) way easier to write tbh—we’ve literally seen him spiral into that manic “i need what i want no matter what” energy in the original story. i lowk wanna write a separate piece from his POV, showing what lead up to that breaking point. that whole “fuck it” shift in his mindset. i hope it’s clear enough in the story itself lol

come say hi on twitter and here’s a link to the original thread :)

I love u mwah.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of geto’s heart