Chapter Text
“Are you fucking kidding me? I saw you.”
Satoru blinked at him, incredulous. Sweat still dripping from his forehead. “No, you didn’t. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Suguru let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head once like he couldn’t believe he was still standing here having this conversation. The corridor still smelt like sweat and adrenaline. Reporters were thinning out, staff packing equipment away. He was dressed immaculate as always. Black coat draped perfectly over his shoulders, hair tied back, sunglasses on his head.
“You know what—no. That’s it. That’s it. I’m done.”
“What?” The word came out sharper than Satoru intended.
Suguru slid his sunglasses down over his eyes like armor. Deflecting whatever ridiculous things Satoru had left to say .He started gathering his things, not bothering to look up. Phone, lighter, the leather pouch he always carried. And of course a cigarette. He couldn’t continue this without a cigarette.
“Cmon’ don’t be an ass-` Satoru stepped forward quickly, arms spreading wide in disbelief as if he could physically block him from leaving. Jersey still clinging to his sweat damp compression shirt, his name stretched bold across the back. Just ten minutes ago the arena had been screaming it. The adrenaline hadn’t fully left his system yet; it clung to him in the restless set of his shoulders. He was still wired from it.
“You’re overreacting,” he added, breath still uneven, like he was arguing mid fourth quarter instead of in a half empty park behind the arena.
Suguru paused and looked at him.
The look was deadly.
Satoru knew not to fuck with that look.
Especially when Suguru’s pheromones seeped out so subtly, invisible to anyone else, but sharp and magnetic to him. That meant he was pissed. He never let his pheromones slip.
Suguru never had urgency in arguments. He didn’t need it, in the same way he didn’t need his pheromones to dominate. He had never been one for big displays of emotion. Instead he waited. He had waited. But now everything was boiling over. It had been boiling over. For both of them.
He held the gaze for a long second, then turned as if he was needed somewhere else.
“Oh, silence now? Is that how we’re doing this?” Satoru stepped closer, trying to bridge the space put up between them, but Suguru didn’t budge. He let the cigarette dangle between his fingers.
“I’ve had enough of your shit.” Suguru stated finally. Voice low, controlled. But each word edged with the kind of anger Satoru knew ran deeper than any shouting match.
And Satoru, Satoru looked at him with an unprecedented amount of outrageousness. Like he was listening to something insane.
How dare he.
Suguru put the cigarette between his lips, ready to light.
“And I’ve had enough of your shit.” Satoru shot back, his voice loud, streaked with suppressed anger. “You’re so self righteous nowadays. You act like the world revolves around you, like you don’t give a shit about me. How about you take my side for once?”
Suguru's jaw flexed. He’d tried so hard, so hard to hold himself back. But like this, it was impossible. He pulled the cigarette from his lips, readying himself for verbal warfare. His stance changed entirely, leaning in toward the argument. “You’re so stuck up your own ass you don’t even notice that I have been on your side. You think if everyone else thinks you’re a good guy, that somehow makes you… what? A good husband?” He huffs a laugh. “Typical Alpha if you ask me.”
Satoru laughed bitterly. Sharply. “Here we fucking go..” He started pacing slightly, running his hand through his hair. “You always twist things around, I don’t even kno-”
“Oh Please!” Suguru interrupted, stepping closer, voice rising. “ Don’t act like you don’t know what's going on.”
“I don’t! I have no fucking clue!”
“Fine then!” Suguru hissed, lifting his lighter up, flicking till a spark lit into a gentle flame. He took a deep drag, his shoulders instantly lowering slightly. “I guess we’re done.”
A pause.
Then Suguru added the final blow. “I want a divorce.”
Huh
Satoru wasn’t expecting that
Suguru blew smoke from the side of his mouth, flicking the tip into a small metal ashtray mounted on the wall while Satoru's gaze remained dark with frustration, eyes never leaving his husband. The air between them thickened, pheromones rising on both sides now. Satoru’s electric and reactive, the sickenly sweet scent of peonies clashing against Suguru’s muted sandalwood. They pressed and collided, dominance meeting dominance.
Satoru’s posture changed almost imperceptibly, he stiffened. But Suguru saw it.
For months now something had been off. Conversations that ended too quickly. Looks that lasted too long. Suguru growing quieter. Sharper. Arguments igniting over nothing and somehow circling back to the same vague accusation Satoru could never quite pin down.
Four months of friction.
Four months of walking into rooms already on fire.
But this?
Divorce thrown into a corridor still humming with his victory?
That felt unreal.
His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking beneath sweat-slicked skin. He’d expected anger. Maybe ultimatums. Not this cold, composed finality. If Suguru wanted out, fine. Satoru wouldn’t beg. He wouldn’t shrink. He wouldn’t chase someone who’d already decided he wasn’t worth choosing.
Slowly, he tore his gaze away from Suguru and looked back toward the arena entrance. The doors were still propped open. The sound of his name drifted through the hallway in waves, but still there.
Adoration. Applause. Out there he was untouchable. Here, with Suguru. He lost something he didn’t know how to fight.
Just wounded pride wrapped tight in defiance.
“Do what you want,” he said finally, voice steady in a way that cost him.
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The rest of the day blurred. Satoru’s big win became static in the background as the hours drifted by. The afterparty was three buildings down from the arena. A big luxurious pompous set up. Velvet ropes, gold lighting. Everything looked expensive as usual.
Music was always low to encourage networking. Alcohol high.
Satoru arrived late even though he was the main event.
The moment he entered, the energy spiked. Hands clapped, cameras flashed. A drink was shoved into his hand.
He could do this. He knew how to do this. He smiled with that easy, flashy smile he always wore.
“Gojo!”
“MVP-”
“Good job today”
“Is Geto here?”
He tried to ignore the onslaught of questions being thrown at him by the paparazi, but one stood out today.
He ignored it.
He found himself shoveled deep in conversation with his teammates, conversation flowing easy as if nothing had even happened. The drinks piled till he felt a gentle wooze. Nothing much. But he was having fun.
And then he saw him.
Suguru stood near the far end of the room, beneath a sculptural light installation that cast a halo of amber over his shoulders. It bought out the subtle colour of his smooth dark hair, highlighting his face. Immaculate. Black tailored coat exchanged for a sleek charcoal suit that fit like it had been built onto him. Hair still tied back. Expression composed. A glass of something clear in his hand.
Satoru knew he’d designed that suit.
Of course he had.
Suguru would never wear anything he hadn’t cut himself.
The charcoal fabric skimmed his frame too precisely to be off rack. Sharp shoulders, narrow waist, trousers falling in a clean, uninterrupted line to polished black shoes. The stitching was invisible. The drape intentional. Even the way the lapel curved had that unmistakable restraint Suguru favored.
He was a master of his own hand.
And the world knew it.
Suguru hadn’t just made it in fashion. He’d carved a space so distinct entire houses had tried to replicate it. By 28 he’d become the youngest Japanese designer to close Paris Fashion Week with a standing ovation. His signature?
Control.
Structured silhouettes that suggested dominance without shouting it. Masculinity redefined through restraint. Genderless tailoring that still felt powerful. He never chased trends, he set them. When he first debuted his collection in Milan, critics wrote hundreds of pages about him redefining ‘Alpha energy’ in fabric. How his work felt powerful. Deliberate.
Back then they’d even referenced Satoru.
Japan’s most dominant designer married to Japan’s most dominant athlete. An empire. A power couple. Two Alphas at the top of their fields.
Satoru remembered watching Suguru backstage once, calm while chaos erupted around him. Seamstresses rushing. Models panicking. PR teams screaming into headsets. Suguru had stood in the center of it all, adjusting a cuff with steady fingers.
Unshaken.
That same composure was on display now.
He looked like divorce hadn’t been dropped between them like a bomb. People gravitated towards him, not in hurried waves. Not fans or screaming admirers.
Industry.
Satoru could hear the ghost of the voices surrounding him.
“I heard Paris is already bidding for your exclusive—”
“We need to discuss the next capsule, the demand is insane—”
Suguru nodded politely. Smiling in all the right directions.
He was introduced over and over again.
“World renowned designer Suguru Geto—”
“The youngest creative director to headline Milan—”
“The man who redefined modern tailoring in Tokyo—”
Satoru accepted round after round of congratulations without hearing a word of it. His eyes kept drifting back.
Suguru laughed softly at something an editor said. Tilted his head. Rested two fingers against his glass.
It wasn’t till someone grabbed his arm he snapped fully back.
“That last 3 pointer? Insane. You’re unstoppable tonight.”
“Cheers,” Satoru chuckled, taking another deep sip of his drink.
He didn’t even notice himself looking back at Suguru. And then to the man that stepped up to him.
A tall man. Not just tall. Broad shoulders, confident.
He stepped directly into Suguru's space.Like he belonged there. Like he’d been there before. Suguru looked up at him and smiled differently to how he’d been smiling at the editors. It looked personal.
Not polite.
Satoru’s grip tightened around his champagne flute. He couldn’t hear what they were saying from across the room, but he saw the way the man leaned in slightly. Saw the way Suguru’s body angled to face him fully. Saw the way Suguru removed his sunglasses from his breast pocket, a habit when he was about to step into something intentional.
The investor besides Satoru was still talking, saying something about ‘New york’ and ‘branding’.
Satoru nodded at the right intervals.
He didn’t hear a single word.
Not when the man placed a hand lightly at the small of Suguru's back. Not possessive, but familiar.
Satoru’s body reacted before his mind did. His shoulders squared instinctively. His jaw tightened. His fingers curled slowly around the stem of his champagne flute until the glass gave a faint, stressed creak. And then it hit. His pheromones surged. The sweet, electric scent of peonies that usually clung to him pleasantly turned cutting. Overripe. Bright enough to sting the back of the throat. It laced through the warm air of the room, slicing past perfume and champagne and expensive cologne.
A few people nearest to him shifted subtly.One woman blinked, clearing her throat and he investor faltered mid-sentence. “—and of course the Madison Square—” He paused, eyes flicking toward Satoru’s expression. “Everything alright?”
Across the room, Suguru felt it.
Of course he did.
His head tilted a fraction. Not toward Satoru, but just enough to acknowledge the shift in atmosphere. Muted sandalwood rolled outward, smooth and grounding, threading through Satoru’s sharpness like silk pressed over flame. Not submissive. Not yielding.
As if to say: I’m not reacting to that.
That refusal to escalate only made Satoru’s pulse hammer harder. The way the mans hand was so comfortable at SUguru's back made Satoru’s molars grind together. He tried to tell himself it was nothing. Just industry being tactile. Fashion circles were always closer. Physical proximity meaning influence.
He knew that. He’d been part of that. Heck, he was wearing a suit designed by Suguru.
But that didn’t stop the instinct. The alpha part of him. The part of him that interpreted that hand as challenge. As proof of replacement. His pheromones thickened again, bleeding into the air heavier now. Not explosive, but territorial. A warning wrapped in sweetness.
Suguru’s gaze finally lifted from across the room.
Directly to him.
Their eyes locked.
Satoru’s gaze didn’t soften or mask it. The message was clear.
That’s mine.
Suguru’s expression didn’t change.
For a moment he held the gaze, then simply turned away. Disappearing down the hallway with the tall man.
“Gojo,” A soft voice broke through the tension. Careful. “You’re spiking,” She said quietly.
He looked down, Utahime. Silk dress the color of dark wine, hair falling over one shoulder, makeup flawless even under the harsh party lighting. She wasn’t smiling the way she usually did for cameras. She looked concerned.
“I’m fine,” Satoru replied shortly.
“You’re not,” she murmured. “It’s strong.”
He knew what she meant. The peonies were thick now. No longer just bright but territorial. It clung to him, radiating outward in waves that made nearby conversations subtly falter.
“Right-..” Satoru sighed, resting a hand on his neck as his head lulled backward. He took a deep breath.
Afterparties that gathered celebrities, CEOs, athletes, designers; too many Alphas in one enclosed space, were chemical minefields if left unmanaged. Neutralizers were pumped through the air vents in steady, invisible waves.
Until Satoru.
He’d punched straight through it.
He’d always had a stronger output than most. On court it made him magnetic. In spaces like this, it made him look dangerous. The media was shocked when he debuted his relationship with another Alpha.
He focused himself, taking another sip of his drink, feeling his nerves reel in. Not much. But enough for the veil to be lifted over the room.
The rest of the evening was okay. Conversation flew steady, everyone seemed to forget about the pressure that covered the room an hour ago. He’d recovered himself in conversation. For a moment everything felt normal, high spirits, excitement. Like he’d forgotten about Suguru entirely.
Satoru had just finished laughing at something one of his teammates said when the energy shifted again, not chemically this time. Visually.
Phones. Too many phones lifting at once.
A murmur traveled from the entrance like a wave rolling toward him.
He even noticed one of his teammates, Choso, looking down at his device with a confused expression.
“Is there something i do-”
An onslaught of cameras suddenly circled him before security could react. FLashes bursting in rapid succession, bleaching the room with white.
“Gojo—!”
“Is it true?”
“Are you and Geto separating?”
“Did Suguru Geto confirm a divorce tonight?”
“Is this about the hotel photos?”
“Were you unfaithful?”
The word hit sharper than any question about the game.
Unfaithful.
Satoru’s jaw locked. His posture went cold instead of reactive this time, shoulders squared, chin lifted, eyes hidden behind the easy arrogance he wore like a second skin.
“Will you s-”
“Is it true he’s already moved on?”
“Is that who he left with tonight?”
That one slipped through the armor. His eyes flicked, just for a fraction toward the hallway Suguru had disappeared down earlier. Cameras caught it. The crowd pressed closer.
“Did you know he was going to announce it?”
“Who initiated the divorce?”
Security finally intervened, hands pushing bodies back, but the questions kept firing. But Satoru didn’t thank them or answer. The moment the path cleared, he handed his drink to the nearest tray and walked without looking back. A controlled stride. He was more aware of his pheromones now. But he didn’t need them for people to back off. His dominance radiating, less explosive. More glacial.
His phone was already vibrating in his hand.
Notifications exploding.
Headlines updating in real time.
But he didn’t care for it.
He stood a little distance over the road from the events building in an alleyway tucked out of sight from the onslaught and opened their chat.
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01:22 AM
Satoru: Are you out of your mind?
You told the press??
The typing bubble didn’t appear.
He stared at the screen, jaw tight.
Satoru: You couldn’t wait one night?
Still nothing.
His thumb hovered, then moved again.
Satoru: You told them before telling me.
A pause.
Then—
Suguru: I told you.
Satoru: In a hallway. After a fight.
That’s not the same thing.
Suguru: You said “do what you want.”
Satoru: That wasn’t permission to go public.
You’re unbelievable.
A moment passed before Suguru responded.
Suguru: You’re angry because they asked about cheating.
Satoru: I’m angry because you’re letting them think I did.
Suguru:
I’m not “letting” them think anything.
They saw what they saw.
Satoru: You think I cheated?
Suguru: I think you stopped respecting boundaries.
And you knew it bothered me.
Satoru ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding into something wounded. Something hurt.
Satoru: Who was he?
Suguru: What?
Satoru: Don’t play dumb.
The guy you left with.
Suguru: A colleague.
Satoru: With his hand on your back?
Suguru: You don’t get to be territorial right now.
Satoru: I’m not being territorial.
You’re still my husband.
Suguru: You stopped treating me like I am
You don’t respect me
Satoru: That’s bullshit and you know it
I respect you, all ive done is respect you
I built half my brand around us.
Suguru: Hotel rooms. Afterparties. “PR.”
The model?
Satoru: You think I’d risk eight years over a model?
Suguru: I think you like being wanted.
And I think you stopped caring how that affects me.
Satoru: You’re unbelievable
This isn’t because of the rumors
You're not stupid enough to believe them
So you stopped loving me? Is that it?
The typing bubble blinked.
Stopped.
Blinked again.
Suguru: Don’t twist this into something dramatic.
Satoru: Answer me.
Another pause.
Longer.
Suguru You crossed too many lines
Satoru: You’re insecure Suguru
Suguru: Thanks
Satoru: So I’m supposed to stop talking to women? Stop going to afterparties? Tank sponsorships?
You know how this works, you work in this industry
Suguru: Yeah and I never made you question us
You can’t stand the idea of someone treating me the way you treat everyone else
I mean just look at today, you flooded a room.
Satoru: That’s not the same thing.
You were giving fuck me eyes to some random asshole
Suguru: We’re going nowhere
We’ll talk about the house and everything in a few weeks, i need time.
Satoru: So what, you’re just done?
Eight years and that’s it?
Suguru: Goodnight Satoru
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Geto × Gojo: The Alpha Couple’s Explosive Breakup After Victory
@TokyoFlash:
🚨Breaking: Japan’s Alpha power couple officially splits🚨 Basketball superstar Satoru Gojo and world renowned fashion designer Suguru Geto call it quits.. Both Alphas. Both dominant at the top of their fields. And yet… this is reality. #GetoGojoBreakup #AlphaCouple
@TokyoFashionista: Suguru’s runway calm vs Gojo’s court dominance… and then complete public collapse 😭
@NBAJapanFan: Right after Gojo’s MVP-level win… Japan’s sports world is shook. #gojosatoru
@Lalalalal: NOOOOOOOOOO
@Chickenfeet: Rumors swirling Gojo was flirting with a model during the away games and suguru has a thing for his teammate 👀
@Gegofavsforever: Social media is exploding with “cheating” rumors on both sides lol messsyy
@Basketruna: did u guys see the hotel photos…
@Getosfavmonke: Alpha relationships never work
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