Chapter Text
The actual reunion takes place at a restaurant downtown.
It's an early lunch, according to Satoru, who told him the night before that they would meet with Shoko (and Yuki, thank god), and from there they would take an Uber downtown to the location.
All of the alums and Satoru’s former classmates would meet at the restaurant at noon and eat before heading out to a movie, karaoke, drinks, or to the beach depending on who wanted to go where or how everyone was feeling.
Other than that, Satoru had provided no other instructions. Namely, how Suguru was supposed to introduce himself.
Hi, I'm Suguru, Satoru's—what? Satoru's roommate? Satoru's friend? Satoru's boyfriend? Satoru’s fuckbuddy but it’s romantic and they haven’t actually fucked (which is an entirely different problem in itself)?
Suguru is still pondering the question hard enough to give him a migraine when he gets dressed in jeans and a gray-green shirt (he belatedly realizes it’s a bit tight around the chest—the shirt is probably Satoru’s, but whatever), covering it with a windbreaker. It’s probably too cold for the beach, Suguru thinks offhandedly. Seeing Satoru at karaoke would be a blast though, so Suguru can’t be too upset about it.
He pops a few suppressor pills into one of his minicap containers and screws the lid on, sliding it into his front pocket (just in case, Suguru insists. It’s just in case).
Suguru hardly looks different from usual, but Satoru smiles brightly when Suguru exits the bathroom, a cross bag hung over one shoulder and the apartment keys jingling in his left hand. Suguru feels his heart flutter — ba-dump ba-dump or some shit.
How fucking corny, half his brain tells him. You’re generally corny, the other half of his brain says. He tells both sides to shut the fuck up as he follows Satoru out the door and down the hall.
“Excited?” Suguru asks as they step into the elevator.
Satoru laughs and bounces on the balls of his feet. “Kinda. I mean, we do this every year so I’m not like, off the walls, but I’m happy you’re coming with me, if that’s something. I'm just like, what’s like, a gentler version of excitement?”
“Stimulated?”
“Yeah, no.”
“Okay, damn,” Suguru bumps his shoulder roughly against Satoru’s, sending him into the reflective elevator wall. “Idea scrapped instantly.”
“Shut up, I'm thinking. Uh, enthusiastic?”
“Aflame.”
“Eager,” Satoru cuts him before Suguru can say more (more disturbing with his suggestions, of which he had many lined up, and it's unfortunate he can't share all of them). “I'm eager that you’re with me to meet some people from my high school. There.”
The elevator dings open, and Satoru’s lips twitch down, nostrils flaring.
Says, “You smell weird. Like, sticky.”
“Pre-rut, sorry. I tried to cover it with cologne.” Suguru shrugs. “I was planning to just use suppressants this month so I can go to class this week, though.”
Rut suppressants, like omega heat suppressants, are effective. But unlike heat suppressants, they’re damaging in constant doses. And because ruts last basically half the length of heats, it’s recommended that alphas just live with the pain for two or three days until it ends. Yet suppressants aren’t necessarily dangerous to use semi-regularly—like most other dominant alphas, Suguru uses suppressants during four out of the twelve ruts in a year, as suggested by most alpha doctors.
“Sweet, d’you wanna see a movie Wednesday, then? I heard the new Jurassic movie is out.”
Suguru huffs. “Dinosaurs? fucking nerd.”
“I’ll murder you in your sleep.”
Suguru's phone buzzes as they push through the front doors. “Ah, shit, let’s go, Shoko’s waiting for us.”
The weather is pleasant, Suguru notes to himself as he steps out onto the curb after following Yuki out of the car. (He lost the game of rock paper scissors over who was resigned to sit in the middle seat despite being a hundred and ninety centimeter grown man in his twenties because Yuki has too much pride crammed into her hundred and eighty frame.)
His knees complain and creak as he extends them again, achy from being crushed into a box of space for the better part of twenty minutes.
Shoko shuts the front seat door and laughs at Suguru, who’s opted to now do lunges to regain sensation in his extremities.
Ugh, his stomach aches too—he’s probably hungry, it’s already afternoon. That and the pre-rut thing. But he’s pointedly ignoring that part.
Satoru steps out of the car and points at a sign across the street, one which has balloons tied around the corners. “That’s the place.”
Suguru follows, trying not to think so much, because all of the different voices in his brain know what happens when he thinks at all.
They’re three meters from the front doors when they fly open, and a scream pierces the air.
Suguru actually thinks it’s the sound of the doors scraping the floor for a moment before he realizes that it’s an actual human being.
A human being that goes flying at them at a dangerous velocity.
A velocity that allows Satoru to barely sidestep the character and they slam directly into an unsuspecting Shoko, who, while alpha, is unfortunately not well built enough to catch the flying body, and both of them crash into the pavement.
Suguru freezes and, unsure of what to do, immediately turns to Satoru, who (weirdly enough) hasn’t reacted at all, positively or negatively. He simply stares down at the heap of limbs on the pavement. Yawns.
Suguru surreptitiously sniffs the air. Then frowns. It's just an omega. A girl.
The scent is sweet like jasmine, doubled and topped off by what smells like jasmine perfume.
Suguru steps closer to Satoru, opening his mouth to whisper to him, but Satoru turns his head and stops him, holding one finger to his own lips.
Suguru tips his head to the side, perplexed, but Satoru just smiles, a touch mischievous as he flicks his eyes forward again. “One sec. Just watch.”
“Uh—okay?”
Still thoroughly confused, Suguru obeys, glancing back down as Yuki kneels next to where Shoko fell, hands sliding underneath her arms and immediately pulling her toward herself, trying to get Shoko’s shoulders off the rough concrete.
Yuki supports Shoko’s weight with a protective arm, dusting the back of her flowy blouse off with her free hand. “Christ, are you okay?”
Her fingers tap rhythmically against her shoulders and upper arms, like she’s searching for any injuries and bruises. Shoko shuffles onto her palms with a laugh.
“Hime, you alright?”
The jasmine girl lifts her head from where it was cushioned on the soft part of Shoko’s stomach, tied-up hair now a bit messy and strewn around.
The girl— Hime —giggles, delighted. “Shoko! you came!”
Shoko sighs. “I told you I would, didn’t i?”
Yuki clears her throat a sharp wave of bitter flowers passes through the air before disappearing as quickly as it comes. Suguru's nose wrinkles at the medicinal scent. Yuki’s upset. At least, somewhat irritated—but why? He furrows his brows at her in concern. Another wave of poorly concealed belligerent shoots through the air, more imperceptible this time. Suguru flinches, pre-rut sensitivity making his instincts run a bit volatile.
He watches as Yuki’s fingers curl possessively around Shoko's biceps.
Oh . He feels Satoru's delighted smirk on him. Suguru presses down a sly smile of his own—something finally clicking.
Oh, that’s it, huh. Yuki really—
He wants to laugh. He's almost forgotten how, while both of them are insufferable and largely incompatible, they’re best friends for a reason. They truly mirror each other in the stupidest, stupidest ways. Oh, he can’t wait to make fun of her later. He’s never going to let her live this down for as long as she lives.
Satoru steps up eventually, hands in his pockets and dripping condescension, “You know, it’s not nice to assault people, Utahime. Even if they’re alphas.”
The girl—Utahime—looks over her shoulder and glares, expression soaked in disgust. Mockingly, “It’s not nice to speak when your voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard. Even if you’re an alpha .”
“Your comebacks need work. They’re as bad as they were in year nine. Grow up a little, yeah?” Satoru yawns. Utahime sneers disdainfully. “Sho, let’s go inside. Some annoying mosquito keeps buzzing in my ear out here.”
Utahime gives him a strong middle finger but nonetheless climbs off Shoko. Yuki wastes no time in hauling her back up, dusting off her back.
Utahime turns to Suguru, who just stares back owlishly, unsure of how he’s to begin to introduce himself. Luckily, Utahime goes first, nodding, begrudgingly polite.
Suguru nods back, one hand awkwardly outstretched before he retracts it (who the fuck shakes hands in this setting?).
He clears his throat, “Geto Suguru. Satoru's roommate this year.”
Utahime stares at him blankly. Then looks him up and down. Suguru shifts his weight from side to side, self-conscious. He’s not giving off pheromones or anything. At least, he’s pretty sure he’s not.
One eyebrow lifts in half-interested disbelief. “But you’re an alpha.”
“Uh, yeah,” Suguru coughs. “But—yeah.”
Suspicious, as if Suguru had reason to lie about it, she raises an eyebrow. “Okay. Nice to meet you.”
Suguru decides that Satoru is the best judge of character, because he doesn’t like this girl. At all. Even slightly. Of course he doesn’t, Yuki’s his best friend, and he’ll always be rooting for her, random omega be damned. She deserves Shoko more, undoubtedly, he huffs internally. Externally, he forces an amiable, well-mannered smile. “Likewise.”
She glances at him for one more moment. Then turns to Shoko. “Let's go in! It’s cold.”
Suguru follows Satoru as they enter, Utahime in front of them, happily dragging Shoko along by the wrist.
It was easier and less noticeable outside, but stepping into the restaurant, Suguru is hit by a dizzying plethora of mixing scents that immediately makes him want to turn around and run.
He winces, trying to stop himself from keeling over with nausea.
His vision swirls, black spots across his vision before he squeezes his eyes shut, reaching over to stabilize himself with the back of one of the nearby chairs. Just then, a familiar hand settles between his shoulder blades, and Suguru feels himself slowly return to his body, underwater vision stablizing.
“Hey, you alright?” Satoru is warm, his hands are dry and warm where they concernedly massage his trapezius, thumb scratching at the short hair on his nape.
Suguru hooks a finger in the collar of his own shirt and pulls it from his neck as he takes a deep breath. As unfortunate as this situation is, he just needs to bite his tongue and deal with it until the gathering is over and they can go home. He doesn’t have it in him to ruin Satoru’s day. However, he doesn’t notice that the rational side of his brain that tells him that is slowly slipping. Nonetheless, he lies, “Yeah, I'm fine.”
Soft vanilla nuzzles him affectionately. For a moment, Suguru wants to say fuck all this and just climb into Satoru’s body—or maybe just wrap himself around him for a few hours and not let go until the throbbing in his head subsides or the noise and pungent smells fade away to nothing.
“I'm alright,” he says again, pulling away from Satoru to make a beeline to the water dispenser sitting on one of the fancy tables set up for the event, digging through his pocket for two aspirins and downing them.
Suguru doesn’t bother checking how much time passes; he tries his best to linger at the edges of the room where the air is more breathable, but in the end he steels himself to chat with a few of Satoru’s classmates, who are mostly polite but far from interesting enough to distract from the throbbing in his head and his muscles.
“Seriously though,” one of the guys tells him, swirling a plastic cup of punch around in his hand, sweaty fingertips gripping the rim. “Gojo was a menace in high school. No one wanted to be within ten meters of him, seriously.”
Suguru nods causticly, but the guy doesn’t seem to notice his sarcasm, “I've heard. He sounds like a real nightmare.”
If the guy notices Suguru’s vexation, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he laughs and pats Suguru's shoulder. As if they knew each other well enough for that, like they were old pals or something. It’s annoying, Suguru thinks to himself. “Seems like he’s calmed down a lot since then though. It’s good.”
Suguru hums. “Uh-huh.”
Eventually, boredom wins over and he returns to Satoru’s side, exhausted and ready to go home. Suguru may have miscalculated, it’s clear that his rut will hit far sooner than he thought it would be. Head foggy, he folds himself around Satoru as the boy is grabbing another soda from the drinks table. Suguru hooks his chin over his shoulder, arms encircling his waist to trap him in place. .
Satoru’s hair tickles his face when he turns his head to Suguru, words hitting his cheek in warm puffs of air. “Hey—are you sure you’re alright? We don’t have to stay much longer. Just say the word, yeah?”
Suguru just hums in reply.
Satoru frowns, and his forehead wrinkles as his eyebrows furrow. Suguru bites lightly at the shell of his ear in an attempt to get him to relax. Instead, the worry in Satoru’s eyes deepens, “You look pale.”
Not as pale as you, though. Suguru closes his eyes and presses his face into Satoru’s neck, nosing at his scent gland until Satoru sighs softly and vanilla blankets both of them like a shield from the room—hell, the rest of the world. It’s a bubble for them. Of vanilla and Calvin Klein cologne and body wash and Satoru .
Hazy, Suguru tightens his arms around Satoru’s slim waist and squeezes like he’s trying to wrap Satoru in him, fold him into his own body.
Without the rational part of his brain realizing (and stopping him), Suguru brushes his lips against the soft skin again in an attempt to incite another wave of vanilla. Satoru gasps at the unexpected contact, a shiver running through his body (one that Suguru can feel intimately with his chest pressed flush against Satoru’s back. He takes a moment to marvel at the way Satoru’s waist perfectly fits Suguru’s body).
Satoru opens his mouth to speak, concern and surprise written in his body language, but (with the worst fucking timing) another ex-classmate approaches, overbearing and reeking of months-old sour lemonade, a friendly smile too happy for Suguru’s liking hanging off his face. He doesn’t like the way the guy is smiling at Satoru. Doesn’t like his presence at all.
Satoru turns in the direction of the guy after he calls his name and lumbers over with the stupidest-looking walk Suguru has ever seen—a dumb little half-skip-jog towards Satoru, not yet acknowledging Suguru’s presence. It’s annoying.
Satoru tries to step toward him in greeting, toward him, away from Suguru, which Suguru immediately finds unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable.
Not now, when Suguru can finally sink into the comfort of the vanilla coffee pocket they’ve created for themselves (and only for themselves) away from the other party-goers.
Without thinking (because clearly, he hasn’t noticed that his rational thought is gone yet) Suguru growls quietly. Quietly but warningly, loud enough that the approaching classmate can hear it clear as day.
Satoru stiffens suddenly and the ex-classmate stops in his tracks, meeting Suguru's angry gaze with positively disgruntled confusion.
Yeah, Suguru thinks, he’s mine. Now turn around and walk away.
But he doesn’t. Contrarily, the ex-classmate’s eyes flick between Satoru and Suguru, getting more bewildered the longer he stares.
Eventually, he coughs and scratches his neck to diffuse the tension created by Suguru’s aggression, and he reels his already faint pheromones in as a sign of resignation and submission—backing down.
“Uh, right then. Um, I’ll guess—I’ll catch up with you in a bit then, Six?”
Satoru nods with a tight smile, quietly forcing Suguru to back down by overpowering Suguru's pheromones with his own stronger ones. Suguru never realized how strong Satoru’s alpha traits were until his pheromones extinguish Suguru’s without disturbing the gathering or breaching their bubble—for a moment, Suguru admires the sheer control he has over them.
Suguru grunts, annoyed, but shuts up when Satoru gives him a sharp, dark stare, “Behave.”
Suguru slumps a little but obeys, feeling too achy and nonplussed to do anything else.
Satoru waits for the ex-classmate to walk completely out of earshot before turning (which Suguru doesn’t make easy, still petulantly holding him around the middle).
When Satoru finally manages to twist around in Suguru’s grasp, the first thing he does is reach up to rest the knuckles of his left hand against Suguru's forehead, pointedly ignoring their tempting and intimate propinquity. For a moment, Suguru thinks Satoru is about to punch him, and shuts his eyes tight, only letting them flutter open when Satoru’s fingers gently brush the stray hair out of his face.
“You’re hot.”
Suguru smiles lazily, leaning into the touch. “Thanks.”
“Your rut is starting,” Satoru says, but Suguru can’t really focus on his words when Satoru’s eyes are shining the way they are, refreshingly and cool blue like an oasis in a desert.
Suguru hums and brushes his hand away, instead knocking their foreheads together.
“What gave it away?” Suguru chooses not to address the reality of the situation, deciding that he trusts Satoru enough to handle it—handle him, whatever it is. “I took Aspirin, it couldn’t be the fever.”
Satoru raises an eyebrow. “Your boner is pressing against my thigh.”
“Ah.”
Satoru hands come to rest on his shoulders as his eyes flick to the exit.
Says, “We should go,” but sSguru doesn’t hear him. Rather, hears , but the words don’t mean much to him. Too much effort to comprehend. His head is cloudy. He doesn’t want to think anymore—it’s hard.
He huffs, rubbing his cheek against Satoru’s. “Can I scent you?”
Satoru’s eyes widen before he actually laughs at that, pointedly looking around. “Are you insane?”
Suguru frowns, not understanding until he realizes Satoru is referring to all the nameless people smiling and chatting around them, engrossed in conversations.
That’s right—scenting is intimate, typically considered so much more than sexual, an action that’s—yeah. Yeah, he wouldn’t want others to see Satoru like that either. The thought makes something green and possessive rear its ugly head inside him
He stares at Satoru beseechingly. “I think there’s a bathroom upstairs.”
Satoru pushes him away slightly, and Suguru feels the slight rejection in his fucking bones —and it does nothing but make him more petulant. He frowns at Satoru—frowns deeper when Satoru laughs at his expression.
“God, Suguru,” Satoru grabs him by the wrist. “You’ve lost it.”
Suguru lets Satoru drag him—he doesn’t particularly care where, all he knows is that Satoru’s scent is intoxicating and he feels floaty like the gas they give you at the dentist before they pull teeth.
Satoru's grip makes him stupidly happy. Satoru makes him stupidly happy.
There's a fuzzy heat that pulses through his entire body—it radiates like it’s alive—the heat. And it’s telling him that at this point, he’d follow Satoru off a cliff like a dog being led with a treat.
Goodbye, rational thought —not like it was good for anything anyways.
Satoru turns briefly to give him an exasperated grin with a slight glint in his eye, flashing against blue, and Suguru feels like he’s found the ocean.
He imagines how he must look, being led like a fool up the stairs, eyes dreamy but not dreams—a drug haze.
His scent must spike again because Satoru grips his arm tighter as he pulls him along.
“Satoru,” he tries to say, but his words are sluggish and rough with how gone he is. It should be embarrassing. It would be embarrassing if Suguru still felt enough shame to care.
When they finally get to the bathroom, Suguru's skin feels hot like the seventh circle of hell—scorching.
There's absolutely no grace in the way he grabs Satoru, flips them around, slams him hard against the door, ignoring the reverberating thud that shakes the entire room.
Suguru pins Satoru to the door, then pins himself to Satoru, body to body, swelteringly hot.
His mouth immediately finds the sharp edges of Satoru’s collarbone, and he drags his teeth against it with the self-control of a child trying not to devour his dessert too fast.
The cacophony of the reunion is muffled by the wall, thankfully, which Suguru notices offhandedly when he hears Satoru click the lock into place.
Good—he would hate to be interrupted now—when he’s finally got Satoru right here, unfiltered vanilla creamer and mint body wash.
He accidentally breaks skin with a sharp canine, a sour metallic twinge exploding at the tip of his tongue as he apologetically laves at the puncture mark.
Satoru hisses and swears, his hands coming to grip Suguru's shoulders and push him back. Suguru frowns, clinging to him.
He can hear his own blood singing in his veins, and he’s so turned on that his entire body hurts.
He can’t explain the draw, the pull, but he knows that the second he’s separated from Satoru is the second he’ll lose his fucking mind. Suguru has never been religious, but Satoru’s beginning to feel a lot like his only salvation.
He needs Satoru to do something, anything.
He can’t help it—tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he buries his face in Satoru's neck once again, smearing blood across his shoulder and up his throat.
Satoru stiffens for a moment in surprise. And he laughs—more shocked than anything. “Baby, are you crying?”
Suguru makes a miserable sound. “It fucking hurts .”
His desperation must make Satoru pity him a bit, because the next moment, there’s a hand in his hair, gently scratching his scalp in a way that makes Suguru keen up into it, soaking in the affection.
“I know, I get it, alright? I’ll take care of you,” Satoru assures. “Don’t cry.”
“Don’t push me away, please,” Suguru implores, nuzzling further into Satoru, hands coming to rest on his waist. For Satoru’s sake, he tries to keep their crotches apart; he doesn’t want to upset Satoru into shoving him away entirely. “I want—”
“What do you want?”
Suguru feels himself flush even redder—not with embarrassment, though.
“I want you.”
He can hear Satoru smile. “I'm right here, jackass.”
Suguru shakes his head, wiping the unshed tears against Satoru’s cool, sticky skin. “Wanna fuck you.”
Satoru laughs at him again, but it’s borderline mocking this time. “Yeah?”
Fuck, his voice, fuck. Suguru is done for.
“You’re gonna have to try a lot fuckin’ harder than that if you wanna have me like that. I'm not one of your little pretty omegas.”
Oh, but you’re so much prettier, Suguru thinks.
Smooth with a liquid, shivering quality—masculine in juxtaposition with the pretty lines of his collarbones, to his pink, cotton candy lips, to the lithe movement of his skin neck, the graceful bob of his throat when he speaks.
“You think you can do that?” Satoru teases, like a switch has flipped, eyes now inescapably dark and assertive, like he’s almost bored. “Be good and listen to me for a while?”
“I can do that,” Suguru nods, exhaling against him, feeling dumb like a puppy, his mouth hovering over Satoru’s. “I can, I will.”
Satoru smiles and presses his lips to Suguru's—short and chaste. At the same time, he grinds his knee roughly, carelessly, into Suguru’s crotch, watching, sanguine as Suguru moans in surprise and scrambles to grab the wall, legs almost buckling.
Suguru pouts at him, betrayed.
Satoru breaks and laughs, his lovely ringing, happy laugh, his eyes once again becoming fond and adoring as he cups Suguru’s face remorsefully.
“I'm sorry, I'll stop teasing you, promise. You’re just—so. So fucking cute . God.”
“As much as I appreciate the compliment,” Suguru forces himself to reply, “It’s not getting me what I need right now, so if you have any advice.”
At that, Satoru kisses him, a rhythmic shift of lips that’s purposefully simple enough for Suguru's rut-addled mind to keep up with.
But it quickly becomes insistent and wet, hot and messy the minute Suguru decides licking into Satoru’s mouth for the core of the vanilla taste. It’s much more important than keeping pace.
He repositions one hand from the wall and places it atop Satoru’s chest, keeping him still.
He can taste the remnants of cinnamon toothpaste on Satoru’s teeth, and it drives him insane. Satoru growls as Suguru drags his tongue across his top molars.
And Suguru loves and hates the way Satoru laughs when his teeth catch on Suguru’s bottom lip only to pull at it until Suguru whimpers, tasting metal and tang.
He wants to fight Satoru for the upper hand right now.
Better yet, he wants to pin Satoru down and make him beg and cry for him. Take him apart and make a mess out of that alpha facade, he wants to fight, wants to win .
He wants, so much that it’s overwhelming, strong and fucking brutal.
But before he can simmer and burn in it, a large, elegant hand wraps around the base of his throat and pushes him back, thumb pressing commandingly at the soft valley between his collarbones.
Suguru's breath stutters and his cock throbs in his pants that are entirely too tight.
The hand, putting the ever-so-slightest amount of pressure (the heat Suguru feels turns into an ethanol fire and burns blue, frying his systems—melts him into a puddle), guides Suguru around in a circle until he hears the faraway sound of his heels hitting the wood of the door.
The hand falls from his throat and Suguru’s almost ashamed at the way he misses the pressure the second it’s gone.
But he feels Satoru’s nimble fingers fiddling with the buckle of his belt and he forgets about everything else. A huff. “You can open your eyes, you know.”
Suguru's eyes snap open—he didn’t realize they were closed. But maybe it was better to keep them shut, because the sight of Satoru, the curve of the corner of his mouth into a soft smirk, the slope of his jaw—makes everything that much more overwhelming.
Satoru’s fingers slip beneath the waistline, knuckles pressing at the muscles just to snicker airily when they jump and contract under his touch.
Satoru pushes at the fabric. “Gonna suck you off. That's okay?”
“Yeah,” Suguru replies quickly, breathless. “Whatever you want.”
“You can pull my hair if you want,” Satoru informs him conversationally before promptly dropping to his knees.
Suguru nearly chokes on his own saliva, recovering only to choke again when Satoru skillfully undoes his pants, pulling his jeans and underwear below his knees in one go.
“Shit, you're big,” Satoru exhales, and Suguru ignores the way his cock twitches at the praise.
“Yeah?” Suguru snorts, preening slightly at the ego boost. Gingerly, he reaches out a hand to tangle in Satoru’s hair.
Scoffing, Satoru says, “Cocky much?”
“You’re the one who said it,” Suguru rolls his eyes, gaze eventually resting on the ceiling light.
“Careful,” Satoru nips the skin of his thigh, making Suguru yelp. “Watch it, now.”
“The fuck? Don’t threaten me when you’re face to face with my dick!”
“Don’t be a dick, then.”
Without warning, Satoru wraps his fingers around Suguru’s cock, stroking it once, before watching, amused with how Suguru's hips buck up. Suguru, on the other hand, finds himself enraptured by how almost dainty Satoru’s long, lithe fingers look around his dick—pretty.
Satoru’s hand is so pale compared to the tan of Suguru's skin. He burns.
He gasps and grips a fistful of Satoru’s hair when he takes the tip into his mouth and sucks, swirling his tongue over the slit. Eyes—those fucking eyes—flash up to meet Suguru’s up through his lashes.
Suguru has to squeeze his eyes shut to maintain a semblance of composure and not prematurely cant his hips into Satoru’s tantalizingly warm mouth.
He’s so pretty—he’s strong, rough in a way that Suguru’s never experienced before but now he doesn’t know if he can go without it.
Satoru pulls off for a second, leaning back slightly, pink lips shiny and slick with spit.
“Okay, like—uh, fucking—hit me or something if you want me to stop, yeah?”
Suguru's reply is cut off with a groan as his cock slides back into Satoru’s wet mouth, deeper. His entire body shivers when he hits the back of Satoru’s throat, around him all tight heat and wet muscles twitching and contracting with each breath. He swallows, taking Suguru impossibly deeper.
“Sa—fuck,” Suguru hisses, unable to stop a slight roll of his hips forward.
It’s taking everything—and by everything, he means everything —that Suguru has to not grab Satoru’s head and roughly fuck deeper into the soft heat of his mouth, just—until Satoru cries, maybe, until tears pour down his face and his throat constricts and— woah, what the fuck?
He clenches and unclenches his fists after dropping them to his sides, carving thin crescents into his palm as Satoru pulls back slightly only out for bobbing his head shallowly—like a tease.
Suguru grunts and taps Satoru’s knee with his shoe.
“Satoru,” he rasps, feeling sweat dampening his back as he reaches out to graze Satoru's temple with the side of his finger, featherlight. There's a moment when Satoru leans into it, softening as his eyes flutter shut. However, they snap open again as if catching himself.
And Satoru pulls off completely, to Suguru’s disappointment, before sitting back on his heels and tipping his head back, looking at Suguru with a lidded, faux-bored expression once again.
And god , it pisses Suguru off to no end.
The heat wracks his body again, making his knees wobble. Suguru's traitorous body doesn’t listen to him as he bucks his hips forward into nothing. Firetruck red humiliation blooms across the warm tan of his skin when Satoru smirks, gaze so sharp and consuming that if Suguru was anyone else, he wouldn’t be able to hold eye-contact.
Suguru bites back a grunt and nearly blows a load on spot when Satoru nuzzles the side of his dick, precum smearing across the line of his cheekbone.
Suguru swears he almost sees God. He curses. Once under his breath, and once out loud when Satoru tilts his head, light reflecting against the stickiness on his cheek.
“Hm? Yeah? Somethin’ you wanna tell me, Suguru?” That dangerous, shit-eating grin grows wider as he dares Suguru while still down on his knees—like he tastes victory on Suguru's skin, like he already knows he’s won. Like he has the high ground while standing in a valley. Sarcastically, he adds, “Or…should I be calling you ‘alpha?’”
Suguru growls, and shit, Satoru’s eyes light up—cunning, delighted.
Suguru winces—bad pain, this time—as his instincts continue clawing at his brain. The scalding, crushing pressure of the rut pushes against rational thought, slashing the tethers as his body burns hotter.
Suguru isn’t easy to deal with on the worse half of his ruts in the year—that’s why finding consistent omega rut partners in the past was a struggle. Sure, this one won’t be remotely close to the worst rut he’s had, but he’s not by himself—he has Satoru to worry about.
And with the way the instincts are clawing at him, refusing to be ignored, he’s almost afraid he’ll black out, and he’ll—driven on autopilot by instincts—hurt Satoru on accident.
He doesn’t even know how far Satoru is willing to go, what he’s comfortable with—shit, they haven’t even sat down to have this conversation, even though they really, really should.
And Satoru’s pheromones fluctuate in the air, and he’s challenging Suguru, taunting him, making the nails-on-chalkboard claws of his nature grip his brain tighter.
“Satoru—I, wait,” it comes out as a low whisper. Internally pummeling himself until he regains motor control of his left arm. “Stop, please.”
He then extends a palm to Satoru’s forehead, covering his eyes as he pushes, gently shifts him away slightly. Satoru’s skin is cool against his hand. He exhales, haggard.
“Suguru?” Satoru’s voice climbs back to its usual tone. Suguru hears his forehead wrinkle in concern, yet the other alpha makes no move to continue to or touch Suguru again without prompting.
“I'm sorry, did I go too far? Can you talk to me? You’re worrying me.”
Suguru's body shudders as he exhales. “No, it’s just—it’s good, really good, but the rut—it’s hard to think, and everything—is just—needed a second, I just—I don't wanna hurt you by mistake.”
Satoru stills, lets the admission sit before he peels Suguru’s hand off, squeezing his fingers for a moment in a way that makes Suguru’s heart skip a beat. And then Satoru’s looking up through his lashes at Suguru with equal parts amusement and endearment. (Suguru might die.)
His eyes are smiling, and his lips twitch, like he’s covering up a laugh. He looks at the floor to recompose himself, “Stop being cute. You’re so cute, but fuck, you’re stupid.”
Bewildered, Suguru says, “Sat—I'm serious.”
“I know you are,” Satoru hums. “That's why I said you’re stupid.”
Suguru makes a disoriented, confused noise.
“I literally told you—you know what, I'm telling you, again: talk to me, or just do whatever you want, I'm okay with it. I dragged you to this reunion, and now you’re hurting yourself for no reason, while I'm right here. If there’s something I don’t like, I’ll stop you. I’ll hit you, whatever. I can handle it, though.”
“No, but I—”
“You don’t wanna hurt me, you’re worried about hurting me, blah blah blah,” Satoru replies in an imitation of Suguru’s voice, putting the statement in quotes. The cockiness in his voice makes the rut-addled part of Suguru want to put him in his place. He tells that part of him to please calm down. “I should honestly be offended.”
All Suguru’s muddled brain can spit out is, “Huh?”
“I said you’re cute , Suguru. It's cute that you’re worried about hurting me. You think you can hurt me?” Unyielding, the musky vanilla filling the stall thickens suddenly, overpowering even Suguru’s own uncontrolled pheromones.
Suguru almost chokes, then nearly chokes again as he watches Satoru’s eyes widen, a crazed, taunting smile on his lips, as if he’s personally snipping each string holding Suguru’s self restraint together (he is).
“Sats—”
“That's funny, I'll admit. It’s funny that you think you can hurt me. I'd love to see you try .”
It catches him off guard for one climactic moment where Suguru can hear where he breaks—and his instincts, his alpha, whatever lives in his brain, uses the opportunity to fill in the gaps.
A snarl echoes through the room as Satoru’s head is violently yanked up by his hair.
Despite his sharp gasp of surprise, Satoru looks frighteningly pleased for someone currently being dragged forward by his hair, preening like a cat awarded for a trick.
“You talk so fucking much—you want me to hurt you?” Suguru growls. “Are you a masochist or something?”
“Not even remotely,” Satoru snorts, eyes raging like an ethanol fire. “But a bold thing to ask with your dick two inches from my face.”
Satoru, tipped forward and unable to move much due to Suguru’s grip on his hair, meaningfully casts a smug glance at the door before placing a hand just above Suguru's knee, resting some of his weight there.
To prove the point, Suguru knows, to flip their positions again and remind Suguru that he can leave at any time. To remind Suguru that he’s the one with the upper hand. The upper hand. Suguru skin burns with it all. It’s always about the fucking upper hand.
Gojo Satoru and his fucking ego are going to be the death of him. (But it’s not like Suguru's going to give in.)
But at the same time, that prospect seems pretty impossible from where he stands right now.
Another wave of pain wracks through his abdomen and he keels over, all the muscles in his body tensing.
Satoru sits back on his heels as Suguru's fingers slip out of his hair.
“You’re only gonna feel worse if you keep going like this, you know,” he says conversationally.
Suguru grits his teeth. “You think I don't know that?”
Satoru shrugs, scooting forward before, without warning, taking Suguru back in his mouth and swallowing him down to the hilt.
Suguru moans far too loud as the icy heat of Satoru’s entire being washes over him again, and both of his hands fly to Satoru’s hair, holding on the white tufts far too tight to be pleasurable, but Satoru doesn’t react further than a set of canines accidentally pricking the skin.
and Suguru—it’s all too much, Suguru can’t help it—he uses the solid handle on Satoru’s hair to violently tug him even further down his cock until Satoru convulses, tears swiftly pooling in those oasis eyes, saliva dribbling down his chin as he chokes a moment, lips stretches and cherry red around him.
With that, from there, it doesn’t take long. And Suguru can barely warn Satoru before his orgasm hits him full force, vision whiting out—he would have collapsed on the floor if not for Satoru's hands pinning his pelvis against the wall.
Reality comes back to him slowly, like snowfall—the pain of the rut still simmers underneath, but it’s been quelled somewhat, subsumed into a dull ache, a slight fever, and Suguru finds himself pleasingly satisfied, likely he’s found the eye of a storm, a lull in the heat.
The sudden clarity gives him slight tinnitus, like he’s in an underwater scene in a movie. When he blinks away the dark vignette clouding his vision, he finds Satoru’s bright gaze examining him carefully.
Scanning his face while holding him up by his shoulders—which can’t be easy, considering Suguru is far from small and skinny. He reminds his legs that they do, in fact, work, and manages to get them properly under him before accepting the toilet paper Satoru offers him and tucking himself back into his pants.
When he blinks away the vignette, he finds Satoru’s bright gaze examining him carefully, scanning his face while holding him up by his shoulders—which can’t be easy, considering Suguru is far from small and skinny. He reminds his legs that they do, in fact, work, and manages to get them properly under him before accepting the toilet paper Satoru offers him and tucking himself back into his pants.
“You alright?” Suguru reaches out to brush at the sticking-up unkempt tufts of Satoru’s hair as the other alpha bends down slightly to grab a few more squares to wipe his own messy face. “I pulled way too hard—I’m sorry.”
Satoru straightens and looks back at him, flushed but smiling brightly. He takes Suguru’s hand and brings it to cup his cheek, warm and rosy. “I told you it’s alright. I’m perfectly okay. Now—how do you feel?”
His body seems to be in concordance with his mind, a fact that doesn’t fail to surprise him. The residuum of the sticky, febrile itch still remains, but it’s just a bit more than an afterthought, and Suguru feels like his body has been put through a wash cycle and his consciousness is being slipped back into his damp but clean skin. The boiling water at the hadal has a while before it comes to a head again, Suguru knows his body enough to recognize that.
He zones back into Satoru limning him with shimmery, brumal eyes. Suguru’s hand falls away from the softness of Satoru’s cheek. Satoru pouts lightly at the loss of contact.
“I’m good, I’m alright,” Suguru takes a deep breath, guilty, “I’m sorry, it’s your reunion, I didn’t want to—I really did want to meet your friends and hang out with you.”
By the time he finishes, scratching his arm sheepishly, Satoru has his phone out and is tapping away, the white rectangle of light reflecting on his face. An antithesis to Suguru’s anxiety, Satoru seems remarkably calm, his aloofness mollifying Suguru’s mortification.
“Hang on, I’m texting Shoko letting her know we’re leaving.”
“Huh?”
Satoru glances up at him, amused. “You think you’re in the condition to stay here? We should get back home, yeah? You can take some meds and relax, and we can talk then, alright?”
“Yeah, Suguru nods. Thinks, shit, he’s perfect. “Yeah.”