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Suguru wakes to the smell of stale beer and bad decisions. The apartment’s half-buried under the aftermath—plastic cups on the floor, glitter on the counter (why was there glitter?), someone’s shoe on the couch. The hum of the fridge is the only steady sound besides the occasional snore from one of the survivors in his living room.
He rubs his eyes, yawns, and steps over a pile of limbs that might once have been two separate people. His hair’s down, brushing his shoulders, hoodie half-zipped over a bare chest. The morning light slants sharp through the blinds, cutting the haze into pieces.
The kitchen’s occupied. He stops.
There’s a stranger standing by the counter, back to him—tall, long-legged, all loose posture and sleep-heavy stillness. White hair sticks out in every direction, catching the light like spun glass. He’s staring blearily at the coffee machine like it personally offended him.
Suguru’s first thought is that he doesn’t recognize him. His second thought—less dignified—is he looks good in black. Specifically, his black. That’s his hoodie, the one he left draped over the back of the couch last night.
He leans against the doorframe, voice still rough from sleep. “You planning to steal my wardrobe or just my morning?”
The stranger jolts, nearly spilling his mug. “Oh, shit—sorry, didn’t know anyone was awake.” His voice is low, smooth, still hoarse with sleep. “Uh—this is yours?”
“Pretty sure it didn’t grow legs and walk in here overnight, so yeah, it’s mine.”
He looks down at himself, tugging at the hem. “Oh. Sorry, man. I just grabbed it. Thought it was a blanket at first because—because it’s so… big…” He trails off.
Suguru hums, amused, and steps further into the kitchen. “A blanket,” he repeats, lips twitching. “Interesting choice of blanket. Fits you well, though.”
The guy smiles—sheepish, a little too easy. “Yeah, it’s… comfy.”
Suguru pours himself coffee, taking his time, letting silence stretch just long enough to make it hum. “You’re one of Shoko’s friends?”
“Yeah. Satoru.” He offers the name like a peace treaty. “Gojo.”
“Suguru.” He glances over his shoulder. “Geto.”
Satoru’s smile widens, slow and dazzling in a way that feels dangerous before eight a.m. “Thanks for letting me crash here, man. Didn’t mean to intrude.”
Suguru shrugs, takes a sip. “Didn’t mind the company. House could use a ghost or two.”
Satoru laughs, head tipping back, and the movement makes the hoodie slide off one shoulder. The neckline droops just enough for a flash of collarbone, pale against black cotton. It’s unfair, Suguru thinks, the way some people can look sinful doing absolutely nothing.
He swallows. “You can keep it on,” he says before he can think better of it.
“Huh?”
“The hoodie.” Suguru meets his eyes, gaze steady, deliberate. “Looks good on you.”
The mug stills in Satoru’s hands. “Oh,” he says after a beat, tone caught somewhere between surprise and something else. “Uh—thanks?”
Suguru’s mouth curves, slow and dangerous. He turns, cup in hand, and starts toward the hall. “Don’t mention it,” he murmurs. “Wouldn’t want you catching cold.”
He leaves him there—blinking, pink around the ears, and staring into his coffee like it might explain what the hell just happened.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰⋆⁺₊⋆
By the time he meets Shoko, the day’s already half over. He’s nursing his third coffee, sunglasses on indoors, hair tied low at the nape of his neck. His hoodie’s swapped for a black denim jacket, a chain visible at his throat. A silver ring glints on his lip when he sips.
The café’s small and cluttered, the kind that smells like burnt espresso and rain. Shoko slides into the seat across from him, already mid-eye roll. “You look like you haven’t slept.”
“I hosted hell last night,” Suguru says flatly. “Sleep wasn’t in the cards.”
She smirks. “So I heard. Didn’t you invite, like, half the faculty?”
“And a few demons, apparently.” He stirs his drink with a black-painted nail, thoughtful. “Speaking of—who was that guy?”
“What guy?”
“The tall one with the hair. Looked like a snowstorm and a sin had a baby.”
Shoko’s brows rise. “...You mean Gojo?”
“Mm. That one.”
She gives him a look. “Yeah. Satoru Gojo. My friend. He’s—”
“Sexy?”
“I was gonna say a bit much,” she deadpans.
“Same difference.” Suguru’s grin flashes sharp under the café’s dim light, catching the glint of his lip ring.
Shoko pinches the bridge of her nose. “Please don’t. Whatever’s going on in your head right now—don’t.”
He leans back, lazy. “I just said hi.”
“You never just say hi.”
Suguru hums like he’s considering it. “Maybe I should.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t.”
He taps his nails against the mug. “He was wearing my hoodie.”
“Oh god.”
“Looked good in it, too.”
Shoko looks genuinely pained. “Suguru—”
“Shoko.” His tone turns mock-pleading. “Introduce us.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because his ego is big enough for two people. You’re unbearable on your own. Together, you’d cause me to lose my sanity.”
He grins wider, dimples flashing. “Sounds fun.”
“I’m serious,” she mutters. “If you flirt with him, I’m staging an intervention.”
Suguru sips his coffee. “You’d be too late. I already told him he looked good in my clothes.”
She groans, pressing her face into her hands. “You’re impossible.”
“Flattering.”
“Don’t test me, Geto.”
He tilts his head, smirk curling slow. “If I say please?”
“Absolutely not.”
He pauses, eyes glittering with amusement. The ring at his lip catches when he smiles. “Then I guess I’ll just have to find him myself.”
Shoko sighs like she’s aged ten years. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
“Mm.” He leans forward, resting his chin in his hand. “If it makes you feel any better, I promise I’ll take it easy on him.”
⋆⁺₊⋆ ⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰⋆⁺₊⋆
He doesn’t plan to see him again. At least, not yet. Shoko hasn’t given in, and Suguru’s pretending not to care. He’s halfway through running errands—cigarette between his fingers, hood up against the wind—when he spots a familiar mess of white hair through the shop window.
Satoru Gojo.
Standing at the counter of a small bookstore, talking animatedly with the clerk. He’s grinning, sunglasses perched uselessly in his hair, and every few words make the girl behind the counter blush. Suguru almost walks past. Almost. Instead, he steps inside, the bell above the door chiming softly. The smell of old paper and dust mixes with smoke clinging to his hoodie. Satoru turns at the sound, bright blue eyes flicking over him—and for half a second, his smile falters.
“…you,” he says, recognition blooming slow. “The hoodie guy.”
Suguru huffs a laugh. “That’s me. You’re the thief.”
Satoru’s grin returns, cockier this time. “Hey, you told me to keep it.”
“And you actually did.” Suguru steps closer, amused. “Bold.”
“Comfortable,” Satoru corrects. “Also, it still smells like your cologne, so maybe I just like that.”
Suguru’s brows lift—interest piqued, pulse catching just once before he hides it behind a smirk. “Careful saying things like that, sweetheart. I might take it personally.”
Satoru laughs, but there’s a stutter in it. “Sweetheart, huh? You flirt with everyone you catch stealing your clothes?”
“Only the ones who wear them better than I do.”
That makes Satoru’s breath hitch, just slightly. He covers it with a grin, reaching for the book in his hand. “You trying to make me blush or something?”
Suguru tilts his head. “Depends. Is it working?”
Satoru opens his mouth, ready with some smart-ass answer, but Suguru’s already moving—brushing past him, close enough for his shoulder to graze his arm. There’s the faintest flick of movement when he speaks, the split of his tongue just visible as he says, low, “See you around, hoodie thief.”
He blinks, startled. “Wait—how do I—”
But Suguru’s already at the door, half-turning with that lazy grin. “You’ll figure it out,” he says, voice smooth as static. It’s been a while since Suguru had someone new to toy with. Most of the people in town knew him, knew his reputation, and they either stayed away or they purposefully seeked him out for sex.
It wasn’t that Suguru was some huge man-whore. He had his standards, and he didn’t act like another dumb fuck boy who hit it and quit it. He just liked sex—what was so wrong about that? And if people were always willing to sleep with him, well then his reputation was really their fault, if you think about it. Plus, he was an equal opportunity fucker—come one, come all, man and woman. As long as you met his standards, that is.
He never let it bother him, though. He knew his worth, and what he deserved, and his looks nor actions nor reputation would ever change that. He liked sex, and he liked having fun. The two just happened to coincide. And his newest object of interest… He definitely hit all of Suguru’s boxes.
God, this was going to be fun.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰⋆⁺₊⋆
It starts as Shoko’s idea—or rather, her reluctant surrender. She’d called him earlier in the week with that world-weary sigh she reserved specifically for his nonsense.
“Small gathering Friday,” she’d said. “Cigarettes stay on the balcony, flirting stays off my furniture. I mean it.”
Suguru had only laughed.
Now it’s Friday, and her apartment hums low and warm. The lights are soft, music softer. There’s the faint crackle of rain against the windows, the smell of soju and citrus peel. People drift in and out of conversation, laughter rising in small waves before dissolving again.
He’s comfortable—one arm stretched along the back of the couch, boots crossed at the ankle, hair tied half-loose. The silver glint of his piercings catches every pulse of lamplight when he moves. He isn’t looking for anyone, not until the door opens.
It’s impossible not to notice him.
White hair, blue eyes, that same stupidly radiant smile that manages to make every room feel overexposed. He’s talking to Shoko, saying something that makes her roll her eyes, and then his gaze shifts right to him. Suguru feels the hit of it. It’s brief—a pause, a spark—but it hums all the way down his spine.
Satoru still has his hoodie.
Of course he does. He’s wearing it layered under his jacket, sleeves pushed up over his wrists. Suguru isn’t sure whether to be amused or impressed. When Satoru crosses the room, the crowd seems to part for him without meaning to. There’s a certain gravity in the way some people move—not arrogance exactly, but inevitability. He stops near the couch.
“Hey,” he says, that lazy drawl from the morning sharpened into something cleaner. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”
Suguru gestures at the half-empty seat beside him. “And yet, here you are.”
Satoru sits. Up close, he smells like rain and cheap vodka, like the kind of boy who doesn’t care about moderation because the world’s always bent a little too easily for him. Suguru watches him from the corner of his eye—the way he fidgets with the label on his bottle, the way his mouth moves when he smiles.
There’s noise all around—someone telling a story, someone else trying to light a candle with a lighter that’s out of fuel—but Suguru tunes it out. He thinks about the morning after the party, about the way Satoru’s voice had cracked a little when he’d realized whose clothes he was wearing. The hoodie fits him better than Suguru remembers.
He wonders, distantly, if Satoru realizes what kind of attention he’s drawing. Probably not. He doesn’t strike Suguru as the type who sees himself the way others do. That makes him dangerous in a different way.
Suguru lifts his drink, watching condensation slide down the glass. “You really kept it,” he says finally, more observation than question.
Satoru looks at him, smile small, eyes bright. “Told you it was comfortable.”
Suguru hums, letting silence sit between them until it turns heavy. “And here I thought you just liked keeping a piece of me.”
Satoru looks at him, a quick glance, the kind that’s more instinct than reaction. It’s there and gone—a blink, a breath—but the pulse at Satoru’s throat jumps.
Suguru hides his satisfaction behind a slow sip.
Shoko’s voice cuts through from somewhere behind them, muttering something about boundaries and a shallow grave, but Suguru barely registers it. He leans back, watching the reflection of rainlight ripple across the windowpane, and thinks: He’s either going to ruin me or keep me entertained for months.
Either outcome sounds fine.
Satoru stretches his legs out, ankles crossing, settling like he owns the couch. The movement draws Suguru’s attention without permission. He has the kind of confidence that looks unconscious — or maybe it’s just too natural to be deliberate.
“You always stare at people like that?” Satoru asks, tipping his head toward him, tone light but laced with something aware.
Suguru smirks, slow. “Only when they’re interesting.”
“Lucky me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he says, though his voice softens around the edges. “You’re just something I haven’t seen before.”
Satoru grins. “White hair does that to people.”
Suguru shakes his head, lets his gaze drift down and back up — not shy, never shy. “It’s not the hair.”
That earns him a quiet laugh, bright and quick. Satoru looks down at the bottle in his hand, then back up. “You’re not what I expected.”
“And what did you expect?”
“Shoko made you sound like a public health warning.”
Suguru smiles at that, lazy and sharp. “She wasn’t wrong.”
There’s a small pause — not awkward, just thick. Music hums low in the background; someone in the kitchen is arguing about where the corkscrew went. It’s the kind of moment that feels like the world’s politely stepped aside.
“So…” Satoru swirls his drink, watching it catch the light. “You flirt with everyone, or should I feel special?”
Suguru lets his eyes half-close, amusement ghosting across his mouth. “I don’t flirt,” he says. “I just talk.”
“Is that what this is?”
“Why, you want it to be?”
That makes Satoru laugh again — not loudly, but with that loose, careless charm that hits right in the chest. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”
“I’ve heard.”
Satoru leans back, tilting his head toward him. “You don’t deny it?”
“Why would I?” Suguru’s gaze flickers to the silver ring on his finger, then back to the curve of Satoru’s mouth. “People only call you dangerous when they’ve already decided to find out for themselves.”
That quiets him. The grin lingers, but it’s smaller now — focused. Suguru can almost hear the way Satoru’s thoughts shift gears, quick and bright like electricity changing direction.
Then, softly: “You’re hard to read.”
Suguru takes another drink, lets the taste settle before he answers. “I think everyone could benefit from learning to hide their feelings a little better. Nowadays everyone knows everything. There’s no mystery, nothing left to discover, nothing… exciting.”
Satoru hums like he understands—or maybe like he wants to. The rain outside picks up, steady and fine, tapping at the glass behind them. Suguru watches the reflection of him in the window—pale hair, the borrowed hoodie, that effortless brightness he carries like a curse.
Beautiful, he thinks, and it’s not a compliment so much as an assessment. A problem waiting to happen. He turns back, mouth curving.
“Careful, Satoru,” he murmurs. “Keep looking at me like that, and you’ll make me think you’re interested.”
Satoru’s answer comes quiet but steady. “Maybe I am.”
Suguru blinks, just once. It’s the first time all night he doesn’t have a ready reply. He laughs then, under his breath, shaking his head. “You move fast.”
Satoru shrugs, grin returning full force. “You started it.”
Suguru hums, studying him over the rim of his glass. He doesn’t look away, not when Shoko reappears with a bottle or when someone calls his name from across the room. The noise fades, the light shifts, and for a moment it’s just the two of them, the rain, and the weight of something that feels very much like the start of trouble.
Suguru is still lost in his head when it happens—some careless movement, someone’s elbow bumping a glass—a splash of red cutting through laughter. Satoru freezes mid-sentence, blinking down at himself. The front of the hoodie is soaked with spilled wine.
“Ah, shit.” He laughs, light and disbelieving. “Guess I deserved that.”
The room hums with half-hearted sympathy. Shoko sighs, setting her drink down. “Guest room. First drawer. There’s a pile of clean clothes—try not to ruin those too.”
Suguru doesn’t even think. “I’ll show him.”
Shoko gives him a long, knowing look but doesn’t argue.
The hallway is quieter. The air tastes like old smoke and rain. Suguru walks ahead, hands in his pockets, pretending the small pulse of adrenaline under his ribs isn’t there.
The guest room is dim, the only light a low lamp and the steady flicker of stormlight through the curtains. The noise of the party becomes a muffled pulse behind the door.
“Sorry about that,” Satoru says, tugging at the hem of the soaked hoodie. “Guess karma caught up with me for stealing your clothes.”
“Guess so.” Suguru nods toward the drawer. “Top one. Help yourself.”
Satoru finds a plain black shirt, soft and worn. He laughs under his breath, pulling the wet hoodie over his head. It comes off in one rough motion, followed by the shirt beneath it. For a moment, his torso catches the light—pale skin, long lines, a faint scar near his ribs that Suguru’s eyes find without meaning to. He tries to look away, but doesn’t succeed.
Satoru doesn’t seem to notice. He shakes his hair out, breath fogging slightly in the cool air, then tugs the dry shirt on. The collar hangs loose, stretched from too many washes. It slides down one shoulder when he moves.
“I’ll have to thank Shoko for these,” Satoru says, glancing down at himself.
Suguru’s voice comes out rougher than he expects. “Thank me,” Suguru answers. “They’re mine.”
That makes Satoru look up, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You just… keep clothes here?”
“Sometimes.” He shrugs, leans back against the wall, watching how the shirt settles on Satoru’s frame. The color makes his eyes brighter somehow, the edges softer.
“What, you like dressing people up in your stuff?” Satoru teases.
“Not people.” Suguru’s mouth curves. “Just you.”
That earns a quiet laugh, the kind that sounds more like nerves than amusement. Satoru’s fingers drum once against his thigh before going still. “You’re a strange guy, Geto.”
“Strange,” Suguru repeats, tasting the word. “Or honest?”
Satoru looks at him for a long moment. The distance between them feels thin, delicate. The sound of the storm fills it—a rush of rain against glass, the deep exhale of thunder somewhere far off.
When Satoru moves, it isn’t dramatic. Just a step closer. Close enough that Suguru can feel his breath, warm against the air that sits between them. Suguru reaches forward, slow and deliberate, and grabs a loose fistful of the borrowed collar.
Satoru blinks. “Wait, wha—?” Suguru pulls.
The distance between them vanishes in a heartbeat, and their mouths crash together with startling heat. There’s no hesitation, no testing the waters—just lips pressed hard to lips, open and hungry, the kind of kiss that demands surrender. It punches a small, startled sound from Satoru—“mmph!”—somewhere between surprise and arousal. His fingers curl instinctively into Suguru’s shirt, gripping tight.
His hand finds the curve of Satoru’s jaw, thumb brushing skin. When they break apart, Satoru’s eyes are half-lidded, pupils wide, lips shining faintly. He looks dazed. “You really do like people in your clothes, huh?”
Suguru’s breath hitches into something like a laugh. “Like I said,” he murmurs. “Only you. And only when they make it look better than I could.”
Satoru grins, flushed and crooked. “You mean this?” He tugs lightly at the collar.
“That,” Suguru murmurs, gaze steady. “And everything under it.”
The words land heavy. He watches Satoru swallow, sees the shift in his throat, the flicker of hesitation that dies as quickly as it appears. They move again. A sound somewhere between a sigh and a shiver is pulled from Satoru’s mouth. Hands, fabric, breath. The air grows warm and small, the world pressed down to the space between them. He feels the faint tremor when Satoru’s fingers brush the chain at his throat, the quiet sound that escapes him when their mouths find each other again.
He swipes his tongue at the seam of lips, and Satoru’s mouth parts beneath his like a secret invitation—open, willing, just waiting to be unraveled. Suguru takes it slow at first, tilting his head, pressing deeper. The kiss turns hot and slick, a velvet drag of lips and breath and tongue.
Satoru jolts, and Suguru smiles, pressing his tongue in with another flick. Suguru’s tongue, split down the center, both tips curling independently, one stroking the roof of Satoru’s mouth while the other pressed lightly below.
“—mgh!!” The noise tears out of Satoru like a broken gasp. His hands fly up to Suguru’s chest and push—not hard, more startled than anything—and he stumbles a half-step back, panting, lips swollen and damp.
“What the fuck—” he breathes, voice cracking. “Was that…?”
Suguru doesn’t chase. He leans back just enough, dark eyes glittering, breath still heavy. Then, slow, deliberate, he opens his mouth and lets his tongue loll out. It parts at the tip, each fork twitching slightly, glistening under the low light. He chuckles at the look on Satoru’s face.
Satoru stares. “Holy shit.”
Suguru hums low. “Too much?”
Satoru doesn’t answer at first. He looks dazed, somewhere between scandalized and completely, wildly turned on. His chest rises and falls like he just ran a marathon. Then, slowly, he licks his lips—testing—as if remembering the way it felt inside his mouth, like being kissed by two mouths at once.
“I—” He swallows. “That was the hottest thing anyone’s ever done to me without taking off my pants.”
Suguru’s smile sharpens, wicked. “That’s still on the table.”
“I…” Satoru’s voice drops to a breath. “I want you to do that again.”
Suguru steps closer—slow, controlled. “Yeah?”
He nods quickly. “Yeah.”
“You want me, baby?” His voice is a drawl now, smoky, knowing.
Satoru’s face goes a little pink, a little hungry. “I want everything.” That’s all the permission Suguru needs.
He closes the space between them in one smooth motion, mouth already open—tongue sliding back in, both tips working again, one curling against Satoru’s tongue, the other teasing along the side. He knows sensation can be alien and overwhelming, from what past partners have told him, but he’s never met anyone who didn’t quickly get into it. Satoru moans—a trembling, wrecked sound—and this time, he’s the one who chases it, arms wrapping around Suguru’s shoulders to keep him close.
It’s messy. Wet. Loud. And when Suguru starts kind of fucking his mouth with it—rhythmic, slow, each flick purposeful—he feels Satoru’s legs nearly give out. Suguru laughs a little to himself.
Satoru never stood a chance.
Satoru moans into his mouth like he’s losing grip—on air, on thought, on himself. Suguru doesn’t let up. His tongue moves with purpose, each stroke against Satoru’s own sparking tremors in his thighs. Every noise he makes is swallowed between them, fed into the heat until Satoru’s gasping, clutching at him like a lifeline.
Suguru pulls back only when he can feel the other man trembling, lips red, breath uneven, pupils blown wide with heat.
He watches him for a moment—memorizes him. The way Satoru’s chest rises and falls beneath that shirt. His shirt. It swallows his frame, loose around the shoulders, slipping off one side. His collarbone shines with sweat.
God, he looks so fucking good like this.
Suguru brushes a hand up his chest, fingers dragging over the cotton. “You look so good in my shirt.”
Satoru blinks, then looks down at himself. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Suguru hums, pleased. His fingers hook into the waistband of Satoru’s pants. “Bet you’d look even better out of these, though.”
He drops to his knees as he says it, hands gliding down, thumbs brushing his hips. His lips trace the hem of Satoru’s shirt—his shirt—lifting it up again and kissing lower, until he’s licking down the flat stretch of Satoru’s stomach, tongue flicking over each new inch of revealed skin like he’s tasting something rare.
Satoru gasps, fingers twitching where they hover near the hem.
“I’ll take it off,” he offers, voice hoarse. “The shirt, I mean—”
But Suguru grabs his wrist.
“No,” he murmurs. “Leave my shirt on, baby. It’s okay.”
Satoru falters, eyes wide. The sound of baby from Suguru’s mouth does something to him—his knees wobble slightly. Suguru’s smirk is quiet, knowing.
“Open your mouth.”
Satoru does, breath catching. Suguru lifts the hem of the oversized shirt with one hand and gently slides it between Satoru’s lips, bunching it up a bit. “Here,” he says, tucking it between his teeth. “It’ll help you keep quiet. Can’t risk bothering our gracious host out there, can we?”
Satoru shudders. His mouth clamps softly around the fabric, and Suguru watches as the heat spreads across his cheeks. That shirt looks better on him than Suguru ever did in it. Loose, oversized, and now stretched taught from where Satoru’s mouth bites into the hem, muffling a handful of little sounds he’s trying to hold back.
Suguru slides back down, hands moving to undo a button of Satoru’s pants. His mouth kisses the dip just below his navel. The scent of skin, of warmth and arousal, curls into his lungs like smoke.
“God,” he mutters against his belly, “I could fuckin’ ruin you like this.”
The shirt shifts as Satoru breathes hard around it, thighs twitching. Suguru can’t wait any longer. He pulled the pants down, slowly dragging them over his hips, down his thighs. His mouth follows—tongue teasing skin, faint stubble from forgetting to shave scratching as he goes. He kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other, until Satoru’s already squirming, hips lifting unconsciously.
Suguru presses a hand to his stomach, keeping him steady. “Be good,” he says softly. “Let me enjoy this.” Then he leans in, mouth hot, breath teasing just where Satoru needs it most.
Suguru slides his palms down the backs of Satoru’s thighs, thumbs pressing just enough to feel the heat of the muscle underneath. He shifts him gently, guiding him to sit on the bed, to lean back slightly, thighs parted just wide enough for Suguru to slot himself in between.
Satoru obeys without a word—mouth still occupied by the hem of that oversized black shirt, eyes half-lidded and glassy. His breath stutters through his nose, and the fabric in his mouth muffles every little sound. It makes his moans softer, sweeter. More desperate. Suguru kisses just above the crease of his thigh. Then lower. Then lower still. He noses along the line of Satoru’s cock through his briefs, mouthing him lazily, letting the heat and pressure build. Satoru’s hips jerk.
“Mm—” comes the muffled whine, shirt catching the sound.
Suguru grins against him, tongue flattening to lick a slow stripe up the length. God, he thinks, he’s already so hard. He presses a kiss to the damp spot near the tip and murmurs, “Such a pretty sound, baby. You tryin’ to be good for me?”
Satoru lets out a shaky breath, nodding faintly, thighs twitching in response. Suguru hooks his fingers under the waistband and drags his underwear down slowly—so slowly—until Satoru’s cock springs free, flushed and leaking at the tip. The sight of it makes his mouth water.
“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, almost reverent. “You’re perfect.” Suguru leans in, moaning the moment his tongue touches Satoru.
He licks a long, steady stripe up his length, savoring the taste, the warmth, the slight twitch of Satoru’s thighs around his shoulders. He flattens his tongue and drags both ends of it along the shaft, one cupping teasingly on each side as he licks from base to tip. It makes Satoru squeal this high, choked “mhgn!” against the shirt, hips jerking up into his mouth.
Suguru lets him, takes him deeper, slides his lips down over the head with a practiced ease that makes Satoru tremble. His tongue flicks and curls as he sucks, and each time his head comes back up, he pauses—one tip rubbing the underside of Satoru’s head while the other teases the slit at the top, tasting precum like it’s something precious.
“God, you taste so fucking good,” he groans around him, voice thick, almost drunk with it.
Satoru’s head tips back, sweat beading at his temples. He looks wrecked—blush climbing to his ears, breath punching in and out through his nose. The shirt in his mouth is wet now, bitten down hard.
Suguru starts moving in earnest. Slow bobs of his head, mouth wet and hot and devoted, every pass deeper than the last. His hands grip Satoru’s hips, thumbs stroking absently over his skin like he’s calming him.
And when Satoru moans—really moans, even through the fabric—Suguru hums around him, sending vibrations down his shaft. One hand leaves his hip to cradle his balls, massaging gently, the other sneaks lower, sliding along the inside of his thigh, fingers just brushing that tight heat further down.
Suguru’s not in a rush. He wants Satoru breathless. Desperate. Begging for whatever comes next—and judging by the way Satoru’s twitching in his grip, how his thighs start to tremble around his head, they’re almost there.
His thighs clench around Suguru’s shoulders every time his mouth sinks down, every time that wicked, split tongue curls around his cock with practiced sin. Suguru sucks him slow, steady, deep enough to make his eyes roll back—but never long enough to give him what he needs.
Because Suguru knows exactly what he’s doing.
He pulls back every time he feels Satoru start to twitch, every time his cock pulses just a little too eagerly on his tongue. He lets the tip pop free with a wet sound, licks a teasing circle around it, then drags his tongue back down to the base and starts all over again.
The room smells like sweat and skin and sex. He’s not sure how long they’ve been gone, but he’s not worried. Shoko knows better than to interrupt him—as long as he keeps Satoru quiet, she won’t even bother to mention their absence or stop him with a noise complaint.
Satoru’s fingers have knotted themselves into Suguru’s hair, but there’s no force in the grip. Just desperation. Every muscle in his body is strung tight, hips flexing like they’re trying to chase something that keeps slipping away.
He whimpers around the shirt in his mouth—softer now, smaller, before he lets go. The fabric tumbles from between his lips, damp and clinging, and his voice breaks out between gasps.
“Please—please, please, please—”
Suguru pulls off just enough to make it obvious, to let his lips part with a slick sound, spit and precum stringing between them. Satoru lets out a broken, high-pitched whine like he’s already close to sobbing.
Suguru looks up at him—blown pupils, jaw damp, chest heaving—and without a word, he reaches up, grabs the wet hem of that shirt, and shoves it gently back between Satoru’s open, panting lips.
He cups his cheek with the other hand, thumb brushing his flushed skin.
“Didn’t I tell you to keep it in, baby boy?”
Satoru moans around it—this time softer, ashamed, eyes fluttering closed.
Suguru leans in closer, breath fanning against Satoru’s skin. “Don’t rush me. You’ll get what you want. But you need to be patient.” His thumb drags across Satoru’s cheek again, smearing spit and heat. “I’m enjoying myself,” he whispers, warm and low. “Watching you squirm. Feeling you twitch. Tasting you.”
The shirt slips slightly. Suguru pushes it back in with two fingers, a little rougher this time. “Don’t let it fall again, sweetheart.”
Then he slides back down, mouth pressing kisses to the inside of Satoru’s thigh—loving, slow, too gentle to be comforting. The kind of touch that says I’m not done with you yet.
He mouths at the base of Satoru’s cock again but doesn’t take him back in—not yet. He just teases, licks, breathes against it while Satoru whines around the shirt, hips flexing like he’s about to cry from the need.
Suguru chuckles under his breath. “So pretty like this,” he murmurs. “Think I’ll keep you here a while.” He lets his breath fan out hot against the inside of Satoru’s thigh, tongue pressing in a soft, open-mouthed kiss just beside his cock, trailing lower, lower still.
His hands slide down to part Satoru’s legs wider and push them up toward his chest a bit, fingers spreading over the soft flesh behind his thighs, palms steadying him. He tilts his head, eyes dark with focus, and presses another kiss beneath his balls, right at the tender seam. Satoru gasps around the shirt.
Suguru groans, voice low and reverent. “So fucking soft…”
He flicks his tongue there first—light, testing—and when Satoru jerks, moaning muffled and wild, Suguru grins. His thumbs pull gently at his cheeks, exposing the tight, flushed ring of muscle between them. He kisses closer.
Then he spits, wet and hot and precise. The sound makes Satoru whine, the slick warmth dripping over his skin, catching between the curves. Suguru presses his tongue in slowly, and Satoru whines around the shirt—muffled, choked, his whole body twitching forward, legs squeezing tight. Suguru moans at the taste of him, filthy and hungry, his tongue working deeper with obscene patience. His split tips spread as he moves, curling gently inside.
“Shh,” Suguru murmurs between licks, voice dark. “Be still for me, baby. Let me get you ready.”
He eats him out like he’s starving, like every inch is a gift. Tongue stroking in slow, rhythmic pulses, spreading slick and spit, loosening him little by little until Satoru’s thighs are trembling, hips rolling helplessly into every press of his mouth.
Suguru pulls back, just enough to slide a hand lower. Two fingers, wet and warm, press against the now-softened entrance. “Gonna open you up nice and easy,” he breathes. “You want that, don’t you?”
“Mhm, mhm,” Satoru nods fast, frantic, hands gripping the sheets now, the shirt still caught between his teeth. Suguru rewards him with a slow push, first finger sliding in down to the knuckle. Satoru arches, keening, and Suguru kisses his thigh to soothe him.
“So good for me,” he murmurs, sliding the second finger in beside the first. “Taking me so well.” He scissors them carefully, tongue flicking out again to tease the stretched rim while his fingers move inside—pressing, curling, searching.
And when he finds it—when Satoru shudders, gasping around the shirt—Suguru smiles against him. “There you are.”
He starts to fuck his fingers in earnest now—deep and smooth. The shirt muffles Satoru’s moans, but not completely. His body sings under every stroke, legs shaking, cock leaking precum in steady pulses against his belly.
Suguru watches him unravel, then leans up—his mouth close to Satoru’s ear, breath hot. “You ready for more, baby boy?”
Satoru moans in response, thrusting his hips up.
“Don’t move,” Suguru murmurs, voice a low, steady pulse against Satoru’s sweat-slick thigh. “Stay just like this for me.” Satoru whines softly, hips twitching despite himself. Suguru presses a palm to his stomach, firm. “I said—still, baby boy.”
He watches as the command lands heavy, deep in Satoru’s belly. Satoru nods quickly, the shirt still stuffed between his teeth, muffling the sound that escapes him. His arms tremble where they clutch the sheets, thighs wide, hole slick and fluttering around Suguru’s fingers, still stretched and aching for more.
Suguru lets out a breath—steady, pleased, then leans back, withdrawing slowly, savoring the way Satoru’s hole clenches around the absence, twitching like it misses him already. He moves across the room in a single fluid motion, crossing to the dresser. He kneels, opens one of the lower drawers, and reaches beneath a neatly folded stack of black shirts.
Click. The sound of the lube bottle being uncapped is unmistakable. Suguru smiles to himself. He always keeps it there—tucked away, like a secret he knows he’ll use again. Not because he’s reckless, but because he plans ahead. Because he knows how to treat someone right when he finally decides they’re worth the effort.
And Satoru? Definitely worth it.
He returns with the bottle in hand, eyes dragging up Satoru’s body as he settles between his legs again. The shirt is soaked now, wet from spit and moans and bitten into like it’s the only thing keeping him together.
Suguru palms the back of his thigh, thumb tracing idle circles. “Still with me, sweetheart?”
Satoru nods fast, eyes blown wide and wet with heat.
“Good,” Suguru murmurs. “Then take a deep breath.” He slicks his fingers again, drizzles more across Satoru’s entrance, rubbing slow, messy circles before slipping one back inside—then two—then dragging them free with a groan. He coats himself next—slow, methodical, hissing softly as his fist slides down the thick length of his cock, smearing the lube until it glistens. His eyes never leave Satoru.
“You ready baby?” he asks quietly. “You wanted all of me, yeah?”
Satoru’s whole body shivers. Suguru leans forward, hands spreading Satoru’s thighs wider, guiding his cock to the twitching, eager entrance. The head of his cock nudges against it once before he presses in slowly, stretching the already puffy rim.
Satoru whines around the shirt—back arching, eyes rolling back.
Suguru groans above him, voice raw. “Fuck—you feel so good…”
He sinks deeper, watching the way Satoru struggles to stay still, to take it all. The heat, the stretch, the fullness, and Suguru’s barely in. He doesn’t rush. He watches—feels—every inch as he sinks in, the way Satoru’s body clenches around him, how his hole flutters and tightens and tries to pull him in faster, even while Satoru’s hips twitch, breathing shallow behind the wet fabric in his mouth.
“There you go,” Suguru murmurs, voice rough. “Nice and slow, baby. Let me in.”
The head of his cock slips past the tightest point, and Satoru shudders—body arching, thighs shaking on either side of Suguru’s waist. His hands fist the sheets again, dragging them up until his knuckles go white.
“Mmmgh—” he cries through the shirt, muffled, almost helpless.
Suguru groans low in his throat. “Shit… you're so tight—so fuckin’ perfect around me…” He presses deeper, dragging it out—not to tease, not anymore—but to savor. Because Satoru’s body opens for him like it knows him, like it was meant to take him.
And Suguru can’t help but watch the way the ring of muscle stretches wide, the way his cock disappears inside inch by aching inch, until finally—finally—he bottoms out. His hips settle flush against Satoru’s ass, cock buried deep, warmth wrapping around him like a vice.
He stays there, letting Satoru get used to him. Suguru knows he’s big—trial and error in his early years taught him that the hard way, earning him more than one enthusiastic slap to the face when he tried to shove in too fast. But he’s grown since then, and nobody could say he didn’t know how to use what he was gifted with.
“You’re taking me so well, baby,” he breathes, pressing a kiss to the damp fabric clutched between Satoru’s teeth. “Can feel you pulsing around me.”
Satoru lets out a strangled noise, legs twitching around Suguru’s waist. His whole body feels like it’s trembling, overwhelmed and stuffed full. Suguru rocks his hips once—slow, deep—just enough to make Satoru jerk with a gasped moan. Then again. And again, finding a rhythm that drags his cock against the sensitive spot inside with every slow thrust.
He grips Satoru’s thighs, pulling him open even wider. “You want it harder?” he growls against his skin. “Want me to fuck you, baby?”
Satoru nods—frantic, desperate—and drops the shirt again in the process. “Yes—yes, Suguru, please—”
Suguru grits his teeth, eyes darkening. He reaches up, grabs the soaked shirt again, and shoves it back into Satoru’s mouth—harder this time. “I told you to keep that in.”
Satoru moans.
Suguru catalogues the reaction, forcing his brain to work past the feeble comprehension of how tight Satoru is. He’s a gentleman first and foremost, and gentlemen make sure their partners enjoy themselves—and by the looks of it, Satoru would enjoy him a whole lot more if he stopped treating him so nicely.
“Now shut up,” Suguru hisses, hips pulling back— “and stay still.” He thrusts back in, not violently but with just enough pressure that, if he’s right, Satoru will enjoy.
And more often than not, Suguru is always right.
Satoru moans softly, thrusting his hips up to meet Suguru’s. The sounds are obscene. Skin on skin, wet friction, the stifled cries leaking around the shirt still stuffed in Satoru’s mouth. His fingers are clawing at the sheets, whole body arched off the bed like he’s being wrecked from the inside out.
Suguru’s jaw clenches, sweat dripping down his temple. He’s close, so fucking close, but he’s trying to hold out—trying to feel everything he can and make Satoru feel good too. Satoru’s hand shoots out blindly, grabs Suguru’s wrist urgently and pulls.
Suguru doesn’t understand until Satoru guides it up, wrapping his fingers around his own throat, forcing pressure, his eyes blown wide and begging. Suguru’s heart nearly stops.
Holy fuck.
He's trying to make him bust right here and now. This man—under him, open and wrecked, wearing his shirt, lips red and spit-slick and eyes rolling back—is so perfect, Suguru thinks he might actually lose his mind. He tightens his grip just a little, palm pressing around Satoru’s throat, not cutting off air—just holding him there, firm and possessive.
Satoru’s eyes flutter shut. His hole clenches hard around Suguru’s cock—and then he’s coming. No touch, no warning—just a full-body tremble and a wet, choked sob as his cock jerks, spilling hot between them in pulsing, untouched spurts. His back arches, toes curling, thighs locking around Suguru’s waist.
The sight alone snaps something in Suguru.
He groans, yanks out with a slick, wet pop, and fists his cock twice—then he’s coming too. His orgasm spills across Satoru’s hole in thick, hot ropes, painting his already stretched rim, dripping down between his cheeks, marking him perfectly. Suguru watches it spread—creamy, obscene, his—and shudders through the last of it, thighs trembling.
He strokes once more, dragging the head of his cock over that twitching, messy entrance, watching it twitch again, sensitive and ruined.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice hoarse. “You’re… fuck. You’re perfect.” Satoru just lies there, shirt still in his mouth, chest heaving, face flushed red and blissed out.
Suguru leans down and presses a kiss to his damp temple, whispering, “Still breathing, baby boy?” A faint nod. A tiny laugh. Suguru just smiles, because this—this sweaty, gasping, marked-up mess beneath him—is all he’s going to be thinking about for a very long time.
Suguru lets the silence settle in the aftermath—warm, heavy, pulsing with the echo of breath and heartbeat. Satoru’s still lying back, chest rising and falling slowly, shirt damp and wrinkled, his thighs parted in a mess of lube and come. His eyes are half-lidded, the tiniest smile ghosting across his lips. Suguru just stares at him for a moment—at the flushed cheeks, the slick glint on his stretched rim, the tremble in his thighs—and exhales quietly.
He leans over and presses another kiss to his temple. “Stay there,” he murmurs, and this time the command is soft, lazy. “Let me clean you up.”
He disappears briefly into the attached bathroom, comes back with a warm, damp cloth, and kneels between Satoru’s legs again with slow, careful hands—gentle pressure wiping over his skin, cleaning the sticky mess with reverence.
Satoru watches him through heavy lashes. “You always this polite after wrecking someone?”
Suguru huffs a laugh. “Only when they look better than me in my shirt.”
“Mm. Thought you said I always look better in your clothes.”
Suguru smirks, dragging the cloth lower. “Exactly.” Suguru planned to wreck this man so many fucking times, he forgets his own name. What had started as another game turned into some odd sort of obsession that he could feel spreading warmly through his body. Satoru was his now, no doubt about it—and if Satoru hadn’t caught onto that by now, well. He would, soon enough.
By the time they’re both dressed again—Satoru still in the oversized shirt, his own pants finally back on, hair a mess but eyes bright—Suguru’s already grabbing his keys.
“Come on,” he says, hooking a finger through Satoru’s belt loop and tugging. “You’re coming with me.”
Satoru stumbles after him, barely protesting, until Suguru opens the door to the hall and tugs him out. Just as they step into the living room, Shoko glances up from the couch, where she’s sipping from a mug with the air of someone who saw this coming a mile away.
Suguru doesn’t stop walking. “We’re getting food.”
“Well,” she says, eyes flicking to their joined hands, to Satoru’s shirt—Suguru’s shirt. “Usually you go on the first date before you fuck, but hey. You do you.” She lifts her mug in lazy salute. “Better not have fucked up my sheets.”
“I’ll toss them in the wash later,” Suguru calls over his shoulder. Shoko just waves him off with a smirk. They’re halfway down the apartment stairs when Suguru glances over at Satoru—his hair still messy, lips slightly swollen, shirt collar pulled wide over one shoulder.
“You hungry?”
Satoru glances back at him, lips curling slow. “Ravenous.”
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