His tutor speaks. Satoru ignores her. He always does.
While she rambles, detailing histories of long dead rulers, he lazily flicks the globe that sits in front of him. It spins, a flash of green and blue whirling on its tilted, golden axis. Like this, the countries all blur into one mass for Satoru to behold. It makes his lips twitch in amusement.
There is a pause from across the table, a murmuring of something that sounds dangerously close to are you listening? Then, a long, drawn out sigh, the sharp skid of wooden chair legs against smooth linoleum. Finally, the click-clack of high heels, retreating.
Satoru finally looks up just as the door swings shut. Finally, some peace and quiet.
He doesn’t sympathize with the woman’s frustrations. His father is paying her too well for him to care. It’s not like her services are needed anyway. Satoru’s long outgrown the need for tutors but his father insists, not trusting Satoru to make the most of the university education he’s paying for. Ridiculous.
Satoru sits up in his chair, spine cracking in response to his poor posture. Checking his phone, his tutoring session was supposed to last for 30 more minutes. His driver, timely as ever, won’t arrive for at least another 15.
He adjusts the dark glasses that droop low on the bridge of his nose, scanning the space outside of the small study room that he occupies. His gaze rakes over bookshelves, scattered tables, coffee-gulping patrons, all the while, looking for trouble. He finds it strolling through the front door, dressed head to toe in baggy black attire: his best friend, Geto Suguru.
When Suguru spots him, he nods in acknowledgement of his presence and slips into the private study space. “Damn, you chased her off already?” Suguru glances down at the expensive watch latched to his wrist. “I think this is a new record.”
“Wasn’t in the mood today,” Satoru says, waving his hands to fan away any further discussion of the dismal tutoring session.
Suguru grunts in acknowledgment. “Well maybe this will make you feel better.” Suguru pulls out his phone, holding the screen up so Satoru can see.
Satoru doesn’t take the time to read every word, his patience thinner than usual today, but his eyes do catch the words “party” and “booze.”
He purses his lips. In truth, Satoru isn’t in the mood for the trivialities of either of those things tonight; however, he is Gojo Satoru and his name is associated with certain expectations.
“Send me the address.”
Satoru sinks into expensive leather, removing his dark-lensed glasses and tossing them into the empty seat next to him. “Take me home, Nanami,” he grumbles.
Their eyes meet for a split second in the rear view mirror. Nanami’s eyes are calculating. “How was your-”
“Boring,” Gojo supplies before Nanami can finish.
Their conversations are like clockwork. In the mornings, Nanami greets him with curt pleasantries, dull, surface interactions. How’d you sleep? It’s supposed to rain this afternoon. Do you have an umbrella? In the afternoons, it's much the same. How was your day? Any plans for the evening?
Satoru shuffles through the same stack of responses each time. Their interactions are stiff and professional. It makes Satoru’s skin itch.
When Satoru left home for university, his father hired Nanami as Satoru’s personal chauffeur. Nanami’s family has worked under Satoru’s for years, so when Satoru’s father caught wind of Nanami attending the same university as his son, it was only natural such an arrangement would be made. In exchange for living expenses not covered by Nanami’s scholarship, the student is tasked with hauling Satoru around.
Nanami has been driving for Satoru for the past 6 months, but Satoru can count on only one hand everything he knows about Nanami Kento. He’s an archaeology major, has a weird thing for bread, and he’s an alpha. Achingly so.
He’s a product of every omega’s wet dream: tall, broad shouldered, clean lines, and quiet dominance. His presence is impossible to ignore without being overbearing or forceful.
Objectively, he’s beautiful.
It makes Satoru’s stomach churn.
Nanami’s hands grip the steering wheel firmly, guiding the vehicle away from the university library.
Another thing Satoru knows about Nanami? His hands are divine.
He’s got fingers like an artisan; strong and work-worn, yet devastatingly elegant. They caress the curve of a steering wheel like a lover, grip the leather like the throat of an enemy. Watching them from the backseat of the vehicle has become one of Satoru’s most self-indulgent pastimes.
Today, the sleeves of Nanami’s button down are rolled up, revealing corded forearms to Satoru’s lecherous blue stare. On any other day, the view would have Satoru shifting in his seat. Today, it just pisses him off.
His skin is buzzing and he feels the urge to jump right out of it. He gulps loudly and looks out the window. The world outside flashes by.
“I’m gonna need another ride later tonight.”
“I’ll send you the address.”
Nanami’s compliance has Satoru clenching his fists by his sides.
It doesn’t take Satoru long to get ready. He styles his hair down, the white strands falling into his eyes and serving as natural camouflage. While Satoru is far from a humble or timid man, the attention his eyes invite is a bit exhausting. He usually conceals the stark blueness with dark glasses.
He dabs a tasteful amount of cologne on his neck, a gift from Ieiri. The rest of his ensemble are pieces he picked out himself, as simple as they are expensive. He dons a silky black button down, the top three buttons undone, and a pair of straight black slacks.
The shirt is light and airy, necessary for his survival tonight. Along with his piss poor mood, Satoru’s body temperature has also run hot today. The tiny bit of self-awareness that Satoru can muster up knows the only possible diagnosis for the symptoms he’s experiencing, but he ignores it.
He’ll feel better after a few drinks.
His phone buzzes in his back pocket. He doesn’t even have to retrieve it to know it's Nanami waiting outside with the car. Satoru gives one final primp in the mirror before he’s out and climbing down the steps.
He slides into the backseat of the vehicle the same as always, patting the back of Nanami’s headrest after he’s buckled up. Nanami won’t so much as pull through a parking lot without Satoru fastening his seat belt first.
Nanami has the radio on, the volume is so low Satoru has to really focus to hear the soft rock melody drifting through the speakers. Strangely enough, it gives him something to focus on during the ride that isn’t the warmth spread across his chest and the tingle in his spine.
“How long do you expect to be out tonight?” Nanami asks, suddenly.
Technically, Nanami’s responsibilities as Satoru’s driver only extend to daytime hours and carting him around campus. Sometimes though, his services bleed into extracurriculars such as this evening. Of course overtime does not go unrewarded.
Satoru eyes along Nanami’s jawline. “Have you made other plans?” He challenges.
“Yes, actually. Though I doubt they’d interfere with your schedule.”
Satoru cocks his head to the side. He’s suddenly very intrigued in what Nanami’s evening will entail. He wants to pry but they’re quickly approaching Satoru’s destination according to the GPS screen on the dashboard.
“Don’t worry about picking me up,” Gojo smiles slyly, “I won’t have trouble finding a ride tonight.” He accentuates the innuendo with his tone of voice. He waits for a reaction from Nanami. He receives none. The man is perfectly still and normal as always.
Very well. Satoru sucks his teeth in irritation. The drinks aren’t helping and neither is the second hand smoke from Ieiri’s cigarette.
The entire house smells like sweat and bodies pressed too close. Whenever Satoru so much as shifts in his chair, he’s bumping body parts with a stranger. The constant contact is making him feel dizzy.
He gulps hard, watching the thrum of people thrashing together in the center of the room. Suguru disappeared into the mass only five minutes ago but he’s nowhere to be seen. Satoru opted to stick back with Ieiri, the beta now has her head tilted back, watching smoke escape from her own lips.
She arches a brow when she catches Satoru staring. “You good?”
“Never better,” Satoru sing-songs, pulling the cigarette from her lips and taking a drag. He’s careful to avoid her lipstick stain.
Ieiri tuts her lips and pulls out a fresh cigarette instead of accepting the stolen one back from Satoru’s fingers. “Usually you’d be up Suguru’s ass.”
“We all need a change of pace sometimes, Ieiri.”
Ieiri decidedly ignores him, leaning over and smelling him deeply, her nose almost brushing his bare neck. Satoru knows something is insanely off about himself because he trembles.
Ieiri shakes her head, sinking back into the couch cushions. “Nice cologne.”
Satoru’s head is on fire. A wave of something has rolled over him so strongly he clenches his fist into the couch cushions to keep himself from moving. “It’s doing a shit job of covering up your ph-“
He doesn’t stick around to hear her finish. “Bathroom!” He quips before darting away.
It’s so fucking unbearably crowded in this shitty, hot house that Satoru brushes against far too many people in his escape. Every time someone’s shoulder bumps his, he clenches his teeth, when swaying hips brush him as he passes, he wants to grab.
Satoru is damn near breathless when he reaches the restroom. His fingers are within reach of the doorknob when a much smaller body sidles up to his side. Tiny, just the perfect size to fit against him and reach his neck.
He’s never seen the man in his arms before. Satoru barely registers his features aside from the devilishly plump lips he’s got clenched between pearly teeth. “How reckless of you to go out like this,” the man says, making a show of tilting his nose upwards in the air. “You might just send someone like me into a frenzy.”
The small thing hooked to his hip has the audacity to whimper. A flip is switched in his brain. Satoru grabs the stranger, flips them so he has him caged against the very door he was previously intent on entering.
The man yelps, a giggly, high pitched sound. Satoru leans in, inhales deeply. His knees just about go weak with the need to take from this complete stranger. Surely the desperate little thing would let him, already mewling. “I saw an empty room down the hall,” the unnamed man purrs.
Satoru wants so badly to give in. His body is quite literally demanding he do so. He closes his eyes for a second, intent on centering himself. While he can still cup the smallest bit of self control in his palms, Satoru releases the man, nudges him aside and disappears into the bathroom, locking it behind himself.
“Hey, what the hell?” He hears on the outside of the wall.
Satoru doesn’t have an answer for him. He stares at the chipping paint on the door frame. All he can hear in the tiny restroom is the faded, drowned out sound of music and the heated laboring of his own breath.
Satoru isn’t exactly sure how long he’s been in the restroom. No longer than 15 minutes he surmises.
Once the omega on the other side of the door had stopped shooting expletives at him and walked away, Satoru climbed into the bathtub.
His long legs hang over the side of the tub while he pants. He’s so horny he could quite literally die and there are at least a dozen people outside the thin bathroom door that would happily let him devour them. Yet here he is, a little drunk, achingly hard, and fully clothed in a stranger's bathtub.
He should’ve told Suguru to fuck off when he invited him to this party. He should’ve heeded the warnings his body had given him all day. He should’ve…
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Satoru looks up at the door. He stays silent, waits for the knocker to give up and find somewhere else to piss.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Satoru scowls. This is a large home, surely there are other restrooms and he’d noticed plenty of bushes on his walk up the driveway. In the short time he’s been in the restroom, he’s grown territorial over the space.
“It’s occupied, asshole,” he shouts. He doesn’t stop the growl from lilting his voice.
There is a long silence. Satoru thinks they must have retreated.
Satoru’s whole body jolts.
Nanami? As in his astute driver, Nanami?
“Shoko called me, I’m here to take you home.”
“She said you aren’t well.”
Satoru remains in the tub. He laughs. The cackle is so loud it echoes throughout the bathroom and surely reaches Nanami’s ears outside. She’s right, Satoru isn’t well. He’s not well at all.
Satoru looks down at his crotch. With his shirt still tucked into his pants, the bulge is glaringly obvious. If Satoru dares a glance in the mirror, he knows he’ll see a reflection completely flushed with arousal.
What will Nanami do when he sees him like this? What will Satoru do when Nanami sees him like this? He licks his lips.
It’s awkward but after some struggle, Satoru manages to arrange his long limbs into a position so that he can stand from the tub. He steps over and out and flicks the lock on the door knob. The click resounds in his skull.
Nanami pulls the door open before Satoru can. When their eyes meet, it sends a wave of lust crashing over Satoru. It’s absolutely unbearable.
Nanami’s eyes flicker downward, latch onto Satoru’s crotch. Satoru hopes to a higher power that he doesn’t see him twitch within his pants.
Satoru places a hand on the door frame to steady himself. “You said you’re here to take me home.” He’s out of breath. “So take me home.”
Nanami grabs Satoru by the wrist and pulls him from the bathroom. His grip is searing and it’s all Satoru can focus on as Nanami pulls him through the crowd and out of the house. He doesn’t even feel the parting bodies bumping into them as they move. All he can see is Nanami’s stupid huge hand wrapped around his wrist. His brain warbles through equations trying to figure out if his wrist is really small or if Nanami’s hands are just massive.
When they reach the vehicle, parked a few houses down from where the party is still thrumming with life, Nanami holds the door to the backseat open. “Get in.”
Satoru doesn’t have a smart ass quip. He just does as he’s told.
He flops along the backseat, laying across the seats as royalty would, waiting for a servant to offer him grapes. Nanami rearranges Satoru’s legs so they’re actually inside of the car before slamming the door shut and walking around the driver’s side.
When he gets in, he turns around and says, “Sit up and put your seatbelt on.”
Satoru pouts. “Don’t wanna. I’m comfortable like this.” Satoru juts his hips upward for emphasis.
“It’s not safe.”
Nanami’s eyes are on him and it makes him burn. Satoru wriggles in the seat for show. “I already told you, I’m-“
“ Sit up.” There is authority in that tone. Satoru arches a brow.
He props his head up with his elbow. “Do you forget what I am Nanami?” He licks his lips before continuing, “That shit won’t work on me.”
Nanami’s brow twitches, showing the slightest sign of irritation. Satoru feels high with it.
Satoru’s eyes flick to where Nanami has his hand gripping the passenger seat headrest. His fingers sink into the leather, creating little indents. Satoru imagines the same divets in his skin.
“We’re not leaving until you buckle your seatbelt.”
Satoru grins. “That’s okay, I’m in no rush.”
That is such a lie. He’s tiptoeing on the brink of death with how horny he is. Being in an enclosed space with Nanami of all people is doing nothing but stoking the flames roving over Satoru’s flesh.
It’s moments like these that Satoru thinks that science really is bullshit.
According to the biology he’s been fed his entire life, he should be at Nanami’s neck right now and not in a good way. In his state, just the mere scent of another alpha should be sickening when really, it’s so, so sweet. Satoru sucks the air between his teeth, wishing it would taste as strongly as it smells.
Nanami smells like upturned earth and yellowing book pages all at once.
Nanami sighs, long and deep before turning away from Satoru. Satoru wishes he could hear his thoughts. He’s probably disgusted at the display but Satoru can work with that too.
“I’m not on the clock, so if you die, I’m not liable.”
Satoru is pretty sure it doesn’t work like that but agrees anyway. Regardless, if Satoru passes on during the car ride, it won’t have been in a car accident.
“You’ve never killed me before, Nanami-san.”
Nanami just grunts, finally giving in and pulling onto the road.
“All the results came back. Everything looks normal. You’ve got a perfectly healthy young alpha on your hands.”
Why do doctors do that?
They’re talking about Satoru like he’s not even in the room. Less than an hour ago it was his arms that were pricked with needles. It was his blood they took to examine. It was the crook of his elbow that they pressed the gauze into. And yet now, they pass on the results to his parents, not even sparing him so much as a glance.
Satoru’s father lets out a sigh of relief. The sound is small, extraordinarily small, so small that an untrained observer surely would have overlooked it. Too bad Satoru picks up on everything.
His mother, on the other hand, sits stock still; no reaction. Indifferent.
“That’s excellent news,” bellows his father.
Metallic. Satoru is biting his lip so hard he tastes blood. He’s palming at the front of his pants almost subconsciously. The blunt pressure does little to relieve the desperation between his legs.
Five minutes ago, Satoru was basking in Nanami’s scent, before it drifted into every single crevice of the vehicle. It’s so strong, seeping into his skin through some fucked up, depraved process of osmosis.
“F-fuck,” Satoru croaks. “Can you crack a window?”
“I’m sorry,” Nanami says, proceeding to fulfill Satoru’s request.
“Don’t apologize,” Satoru sucks up the fresh air like a vacuum. “You just smell too good.”
Satoru doesn't know why he added that last bit. Maybe he wants to let Nanami know he’s not disgusted? He’s the farthest thing from disgusted.
The cool air suddenly invading the vehicle does wonders. Satoru pops another button of his shirt open, desperate to chill his searing skin.
“Do I make you sick?” Where is this coming from?
Nanami must be wondering the same thing as he doesn’t answer for several beats. At least the wind drowns out Satoru’s panting.
“No, you don’t.” Satoru watches his brows furrow in the rear view mirror. “What you’re experiencing is completely natural. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
Satoru chooses then to sit up. He leans into the tiny space between the driver’s and passenger’s seats. “What do I smell like?”
Satoru’s entire existence hinges on the answer that will tumble out of Nanami’s lips. He leans forward as if to catch the syllables as soon as they’re spoken.
“Like the sea.” Satoru watches as light from passing street lamps slides along Nanami’s jaw. “And sex. You smell like the sea and sex.”
As soon as Satoru steps into his apartment, he’s half running, half stumbling to the bathroom. He flings open the medicine cabinet and searches for the bottle more with his fingers than his eyes.
This late into pre-rut, the suppressants won’t do much, but they should at least help him sleep for a few hours until he can make some arrangements. He’d attempted to make arrangements tonight; however, Nanami left him at the door.
The driver wrapped sturdy arms around Satoru’s waist, got onto the elevator with him, even brought him all the way to the front door of his apartment. He went so far as to unlock it when Satoru’s hands shook too badly to fit the key into the lock. Did all of this and then simply exited the same way he came in.
Left Gojo Satoru, half naked and hard, in the beginning throes of his rut, alone in his own living room.
The worst part is how much of an absolute jackass Satoru is left feeling like. Satoru doesn’t need the bullshit gentlemanly act. His face burns and his pride bleeds at all the stupid, filthy things he’d whispered into Nanami’s ears on the ride up.
Stoic Nanami said nothing, did nothing, save for holding Satoru by the hips.
Frustrated, Satoru slings all of the medicine bottles into the sink. The pills chatter like maracas while he digs around amongst them. He finally finds what he’s looking for, pops two in his mouth and downs them with water cupped in his palm from the bathroom faucet.
The label reads “quick release” but Satoru knows that’s a load of shit.
He makes his way to his bedroom, discards his pants, tripping when they cling to his knobby ankles. As soon as his back hits the mattress he’s got his hand between his legs.
Like the sea… And sex
When they arrive home from the doctor’s office, Satoru is leaping from his parent’s car and into another, this time alone. He’d texted Suguru as soon as they’d left the hospital, asking for him to send a car.
His parents give no protest when Satoru ducks into the dark vehicle and drives off.
Now they sit in Suguru’s room, glitched tones of video game music playing too loudly on the television. Suguru has the window open to let the smoke from his burning cigarette escape.
Satoru muses that Suguru smokes because he thinks it makes him look cooler. Satoru also muses that it does in fact, make him look cooler.
Barely 16 but he’s long and sharp, black hair tied in a knot and smoke leaking from his nostrils. His dark, baggy clothes conceal the muscle he’s developing. Another “healthy young alpha,” as his doctor would put it.
“What if I hate it?” Satoru stares at his friend when he speaks. He knows his eyes are wide and pleading. Perhaps that is why Suguru avoids them so well, still staring out the window.
“Hate what, Satoru?”
“Being an alpha.”
More smoke disappears into Suguru’s lungs. Strangely, Satoru wants to follow it, wants to be breathed in and exhaled just as easily.
“Then you’d be an idiot.”
As expected, when Satoru wakes up the next morning, his condition is considerably worse. It’s going to be a long weekend.
Satoru forgot to plug in his phone last night so he lays sweaty and flushed while he waits for it to charge enough to turn on. He just needs someone to come over, doesn’t even care who. He considers sending out a group text, taking whoever shows up at his door first.
When his phone buzzes against his chest, Satoru calls the first person he can think of.
“What the fuck do you want?”
“Come over,” Satoru pants into the receiver.
“It’s 8 o’clock in the goddamn morning.”
“And?” He grunts. Just the sound of another person’s voice has him growling.
“Ohmygod are you-”
“Yes,” Satoru gasps. “I’ll send a car for you,” he adds.
Sending Nanami to go pick up his booty call on a Saturday morning does not make Satoru feel any semblance of guilt. After all, Nanami could have solved the problem himself last night.
While he waits, Satoru gets in the shower. He scrubs his skin clean in between the two loads he sends down the drain.
His rut induced refractory period is ridiculous. The hardness between his legs has yet to subside even as he stands towel drying his hair. He doesn’t bother with clothes because what’s the point?
He’s still brushing his teeth when he hears loud and rather impatient knocking. Satoru quickly finishes up and damn near skips to the door.
Not an ounce of shame in his whole body, Satoru, flings the door all the way open.
Utahime takes one look at the state of Satoru’s nakedness and sighs. “I told you, you didn’t have to bring me all the way up.”
Satoru looks past Utahime to the much taller, broader figure standing behind her. Nanami’s eyes don’t meet his for a moment, pointed downwards for a split second.
Satoru reaches for Utahime, pulls her close against his chest so she can feel the satisfied grumble he emits once he has her in his arms. He flips her around so she’s facing Nanami when he starts nibbling along her neck. “Don’t be rude, Utahime. You should thank Nanami for escorting you all the way here.”
He keeps his eyes on Nanami’s face while he speaks, making a show of pressing wet kisses along Utahime’s neck.
“No need.” Despite the faintest blush dusting the tops of his ears, Nanami's stare doesn’t waver. “I’ll be going now.”
He nods at Utahime who gives a small wave before he turns on his heel and disappears down the hall. Only once Satoru hears the clack of the stairwell door closing does he pull Utahime into the apartment.
She immediately wriggles out of his arms and punches him, hard, in the arm. “The fuck is wrong with you?”
Satoru stares at her, wholly offended. He opens his mouth but she cuts him off. “You could’ve at least put on some clothes, you ass.” Utahime complains but the deep blush across the beta’s cheeks lets Satoru know she’s not actually mad.
“Why? You would have just taken them off again anyway.”
She rolls her eyes, pushing him into his bedroom. “Idiot,” she says as she shuts the door behind them. She pulls long dark hair out of the ponytail and lets it tumble across her shoulders. The movement sends a wonderful waft of her scent in Satoru’s direction.
Satoru has known Utahime since high school. During their final year, he used to playfully tug on her ponytail in the back of physics until one day she turned around and punched him square in the nose. He remembers the blood sinking in between the cracks of his teeth and his own wolfish grin.
Their off and on physical relationship began there. This isn’t the first rut that Utahime has assisted with.
While Satoru is daydreaming, she’s stripping her clothes and stalking toward him. “I have two exams on Monday, so you,” she pokes her finger hard into his bare chest, “better make this worth it.”
Satoru grins like a madman.
The faint sound of running water wakes him up. Utahime is showering in the next room. He’s content to lay down and listen, taking reprieve in the calm after the storm of his own desperation.
When he moves, he can feel the sheets rubbing uncomfortably against the marks on his back, courtesy of Utahime’s nails. He stands on wobbly knees and heads to the kitchen. He does at least pull on some boxers on the way. It’s nearing 7 o’clock in the evening but Satoru brews a pot of coffee anyway.
He realizes that it’s been almost a full 24 hours since his last actual meal so he calls in some takeout. He dumps damn near half a bottle of creamer into his coffee, watches it gather into clouds within his mug. Utahime joins him at some point, studying him quietly, hair still dripping.
They do it two more times before the food arrives.
Satoru pats his stomach happily after scarfing down enough takeout for three people. He’s sprawled out on the floor of the living room. Utahime rests above him on the couch.
“So, you like your driver?”
Satoru stiffens. “Who?”
“Blonde, looks like he’s never gotten a full 8 hours of sleep in his entire life.” They both know that Satoru is playing dumb but Utahime chooses to humor him anyway.
“Oh, Nanami.” He says his name with a slight drawl, going for indifference but landing on yearning instead. “No. That’s an employee.”
Utahime leans her head over the couch, peering down at Satoru with her eyebrows quirked. “Oh, so you wouldn’t mind if I asked for his number?”
In between chuckles, Utahime manages to speak. “Ieiri told me he’s the one that dragged you out of that party.”
“I needed to go home. His job is to take me home.”
“You’ve got him running on a quite unconventional schedule.”
Satoru growls, lifting himself from the floor and hovering over Utahime. “I didn’t bring you here to talk about him.”
She studies him for a long moment, before falling into another fit of laughter. She reaches up and pokes him on the nose. “You’re so cute, Satoru.”
Satoru’s going to be sick.
They’re seated around the lunch table, the one in the farthest corner, away from where the teachers gather. Suguru sits next to him, surrounded by a group of other boys from their class.
They continue to lean closer and closer with every word that leaves Suguru’s lips. One boy even has his sleeve resting in the pile of mashed potatoes, completely unaware. Pathetic.
“So you spent her entire heat with her?”
Suguru smirks. He’s trying to act cool, like high school boys do. Satoru knows that on the inside, he’s beaming. “Yeah, it wasn’t a big deal,” Suguru says, waving them off.
“Come on man, you gotta tell us everything,” another boy insists. Satoru doesn’t bother learning their names. He’ll be content if he never does by graduation.
They’re like vultures, Satoru thinks, snapping at any scrap of meat Suguru will fling their way. Satoru takes the opportunity to steal the long forgotten pudding cups from each of the boys’ plates. Slips two of them into his pockets for later.
Suguru does eventually concede, feeding them tiny details bit by bit until they’re all but foaming at the mouths.
When the bell sounds, Satoru finally leaves the table. He scrapes the last bit of pudding out of one of the cups with his finger before tossing it in the trash. He’s still sucking on a chocolate covered finger as he exits the lunchroom and heads in the opposite direction from his next class.
“Hey, where are you going?”
Satoru looks over his shoulder. It’s just him and Suguru in the hall. “Out.”
“Your dad will have your ass if you’re caught skipping again,” Suguru challenges.
He rolls his eyes, though he doubts Suguru can see it behind his glasses. His father can bitch him out all he wants, ground him, strip his room completely bare for all he cares. Satoru absolutely cannot go back to that classroom. Not right now.
“I won’t get caught.”
When Monday morning streams through his window, Utahime is already gone. He feels pretty close to normal which is a welcome blessing. Looking at his phone screen, he’s overslept by more than usual and he’s perfectly on track to be late to his first class of the day.
He wants to roll over and go back to sleep but he knows Nanami is probably already in the car and on his way. Ridiculously, Satoru looks forward to seeing him.
Crawling out of bed and into clothes takes some internal coaxing, but he manages. His bag is still packed from last week so he slings it over his shoulder, shoves a stale pastry in his mouth, and jogs down the steps.
He manages to beat Nanami, so Satoru stands outside of his apartment building, looking left and right, waiting for the familiar vehicle. After he has taken a seat on a nearby bench, it arrives. He’s not late, but not early either.
Instead of sliding into the backseat, Satoru plops into the passenger seat. He’s never done so before. Nanami regards him with a surprised expression. He blinks it away. “Good morning.” His voice is a bit tighter than usual.
“Morning,” Satoru chirps, studying the man next to him. He waits for Nanami’s routine weather update, sunny today or the temperature is supposed to drop this afternoon, but it never comes. Instead, he pulls away from the curb, the car in silence.
Unabashed and unashamed. He just looks at Nanami. It’s different seeing Nanami up close and not from the gap in between seats or in the reflection of the window. So young and he’s already got harsh lines on his face. And his eyes, they have a tired droop to them, just like Utahime described.
His clothes are in pristine condition, of course. Smooth button down, tucked into straight leg khakis. Like the rest of him, his hair is sleek and tidy. If Satoru were to reach out and touch it, surely it would crunch under his fingers with product.
Nanami’s eyes flick briefly from the road to Satoru. They do it again a couple of times before he speaks. “Did you forget something?”
Satoru tilts his head. He doesn’t answer right away, but leans in, furrows his brows. “No.” He leans in even further, so close his nose is almost brushing the blue fabric covering Nanami’s shoulder.
He shoots backwards as if he’s been scalded, back suddenly pressing against the window opposite the driver. Nanami’s scent, organic and booky is still there, along with the barest whispers of aftershave. Under both of those, lies something else, entirely foreign to Nanami; something sweet.
“You fucking reek.”
For several seconds, Nanami completely disregards the road ahead of him. “What are you going on ab-“
“I didn’t realize I’d have to run my choice of hygienic fragrances by you.” His voice is clipped, irritated.
“I’m not talking about the aftershave.”
Anger collects and pools in the back of his throat like acid. He can feel it filling his mouth, seeping between his teeth. He wants to spit.
“Just the other night you were complimenting my scent.”
“Yeah, well the other night you didn’t smell like some whore.”
Satoru doesn’t miss the way Nanami’s fingers clench on the steering wheel, nor the way his already thin lips pull into a tighter line. “Where is this coming from?”
That’s a good question.
Satoru is more self-aware than he lets on. He knows he’s being childish, jealous, and possessive; he embraces each trait in all their ugliness.
They’re nearing the university. Satoru can see the tips of the buildings coming into view. “Turn around.”
“I’m not going to class today.”
“We’re almost there.”
“We’re almost there,” Satoru mocks. “I don’t care. We’re going somewhere else.”
“I’m not paid to charter you around town.”
“I’ve never shorted you before,” Satoru argues. “Turn around and I’ll make it worth your while,” he adds with a wink.
Nanami scoffs, shaking his head and checking the rear view mirror. He pulls a mean U-turn that has Satoru grabbing the handle above his head. That sugary scent from before still lingers deep in Satoru’s nostrils. “I bet you don’t sling your little whore around like this.” He licks his lips before they spread into a smirk. “Or maybe you do.”
Nanami shakes his head in what Satoru can only amount to exasperation. “Why do you speak when you know nothing at all?”
“You don’t like my voice, Nanami?” Satoru tightens his grip on the handle. “What does your little omega sound like? Do they sound as sweet as they smell?” Nanami’s jaw clenches beautifully beside him. Satoru wants to reach out and flick his thumb along it as though he were checking the sharpness of a blade.
His rut has passed. There are no excuses for his behavior or the interest stirring in his abdomen. All of the desire he feels collecting in his bones is sapped purely from Nanami’s presence.
“Were they loud, Nanami? I have a feeling they were. You look like you could pull screams out of anyone,” Satoru feels high with the sound of his own voice. Nanami doesn’t say anything, just keeps working that strong jaw.
“You wouldn’t want the neighbors to hear though, would you? Tell me, Nanami, how did you keep the pretty little thing quiet, hmm?” Satoru full-on giggles, letting his head fall back against the headrest. He inhales deeply, catches the barest hint of that scent still lingering on Nanami’s collar. He imagines those big hands currently wrapped around the steering wheel clapping over a panting mouth instead.
“You don’t know a thing, Gojo.”
This only invites another laugh from Satoru. “Don’t be so prudish, Nanami. Your scent tells me all I need to know.” He lets his eyes fall shut. “I’m sure those hands are good for more than just steering a car. Bet you shoved her mouth so full of your fingers she could barely make a sound.”
When he reopens his eyes, he stares at Nanami, searching for the slightest indication of a reaction. The other man focuses ahead astutely, but his knuckles are white. After several long beats, he speaks.
Satoru blinks dumbly. “Wha-?”
“You said ‘her,” Nanami clears his throat. “I was with a man.”
“You’ll have to forgive me for making assumptions,” he says with a grin. Nanami grunts.
With this sole realization, Satoru decides missing class and deciphering Suguru’s chicken shit handwriting later to make up lecture notes will have been well worth it. Nanami likes men. Satoru happens to be one of those.
“You’re so well put together Nanami,” Satoru says after getting his shit together. “But I doubt you like your lovers that way.” He glances down at the clock on the dashboard. It’s barely 10:30. He really is a menace.
“Don’t be embarrassed, I like it messy too.” The man beside him is enough to make him drool fully clothed, he can’t imagine the mess they could make without the cloth barriers.
“You’re making assumptions again, Gojo.”
His voice makes Satoru shiver. “I think I’m right on this one. You’re free to prove me wrong, if you’d like.”
Satoru sends kudos to the universe when it chooses that moment for them to ease up to a red light. Nanami turns to him and Satoru wants to dig his fingers into his chin, trapping his gaze on him forever.
“I can never tell if you’re being serious or not,” he grumbles.
Satoru places a hand high on Nanami’s thigh. “As a heart attack.”
They end up pulling into the old, long abandoned parking lot of a movie rental store.
Nanami slams the car into park between a patch of trees and boarded up windows. “Get in the back,” Nanami growls. There is that lilt of alpha dominance present in his voice. It does nothing and everything for Satoru.
He deserves a medal for how quickly he manages to wriggle his long limbs through the gap between the seats. He settles in the back, licking his lips and waiting for Nanami to join him.
Nanami saves Satoru the show of himself trying to fit those broad shoulders between the seats and exits the car instead. When he opens the door opposite of Satoru and gets in, his shirt is untucked.
Satoru is so excited he wishes he could blink himself out of his clothes.
The back seat is pretty spacious but considerably less so with two fully-grown alphas occupying it. Pressed so close like this, Satoru is more aware of the differences in their builds. Where Satoru is long and slender, Nanami is filled out and broad.
Nanami seems less concerned with comparing their bodies and more with pressing them close. He pushes Satoru up meanly against the window. His grip is strong like he knows Satoru can take it.
He’s already moaning.
“Just say so if you want me to stop.”
Satoru just about laughs. “Sure.”
Nanami kisses him then. It’s harsh and bruising and knocks the oxygen straight from Satoru’s lungs. Those lips push and pull against Satoru’s, killing him and resuscitating him in the same breath.
His fingers work their way into Nanami’s scalp, clawing at his hair until it flops onto his forehead. Everything Satoru has ever wanted to do to Nanami flashes before his eyes. He wonders how many of those scenarios he can turn into reality in the cramped backseat of the vehicle.
Nanami pulls off his lips and Satoru becomes instantly transfixed on the cherry red color of them. He bets his own look much the same. “Where are you going,” he mumbles in protest.
“Not far,” Nanami says into his skin. Nanami bites roughly into the pale side of Satoru’s neck. He tenses on instinct before relaxing.
“If you’re marking me up because you’re afraid I’ll forget about this, you don’t have to worry about that,” Satoru says, exposing more and more skin to Nanami.
The blonde pulls back just enough to speak. His words are hot and airy against Satoru’s spit slick neck. “I’m just having a taste.”
Those words do things to Satoru.
“By all means then, enjoy,” Satoru says with a flourish.
Everything from that point happens so fast Satoru can barely keep up. He pulls Nanami back up for another kiss and effectively gets his tongue down the other man’s throat. Meanwhile, Nanami manages to snake his hands between their sandwiched bodies and flick both of their pants open.
Nanami’s hand, big and warm, wraps around both of them. The tug is dry at first, but quickly slickens with a mix of their precum to create the most sinful glide. “F-fuck,” Satoru curses, glancing down at the tiny window between them to catch a glimpse of Nanami’s cockhead, angry and purple pressed against his own.
Satoru thanks his creator for blessing him with long arms that allow him to snake around Nanami’s hips and dip into the loosened hem of his pants. He indulges in a handful of Nanami’s ass and grins when his fingers sink deep into the flesh.
His actions make Nanami pant into his ear. While Satoru is still groping him, Nanami pulls his hand off of them, and lifts it just below Satoru’s chin. “ Spit.” It’s a command.
His biology doesn’t agree with Nanami’s tone of voice, so instead of obeying, he grabs Nanami by the wrist and licks. His tongue tracks from his inner wrist to the tip of his fingers and back down again.
He smacks noisily, making a show of sampling their mingled tastes. He laps his tongue over Nanami’s palm a few more times before asking cheekily, “That good?”
“It’ll do,” Nanami says gruffly, reluctant to give the praise Satoru is fishing for. The burning tips of his ears give him away, though.
His slickened palm makes its way back between their hips again.
Satoru comes first.
He shakes with it, clinging desperately to the shoulders caging him in while Nanami tries and fails to prevent Satoru’s release from landing on their clothing. “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” Satoru mumbles all in one long stream.
He tries to wrap his shaking hand around Nanami to help him find completion as well, but he is batted away by a sticky palm. Instead, Nanami holds Satoru’s cum-wet and softening dick against his still hard one and continues to stroke. He’s over sensitive but happy to help.
It only takes a few more pumps for Nanami to follow suit. Despite his efforts, white is splattered across the dark fabric of Satoru’s shirt.
Satoru’s back is killing him and his knees are pressed uncomfortably against the sides of the car. He desperately needs to stretch out, but bemoans the very thought of Nanami getting off of him.
He does eventually do exactly that, leaning back until his head is comically pressed against the ceiling of the car. He tucks himself back into his underwear and zips his pants. Still messy.
Satoru smiles lazily. “At least you smell better now.”
When Satoru returns home, he changes his underwear and downloads Uber.
They said absolutely nothing on the drive all the way back to Satoru’s apartment. Not even the radio was flicked on. The only sound was the hollow, drowned out whipping of the wind and Satoru’s blaring thoughts.
Satoru doesn’t make a big deal out of something like a handjob in the back of a car, but this, this feels astronomical. Somehow, he’d managed to blur Nanami’s line between annoyance and desire. He’s not sure how he did it but he’s already mapping out ways to do so again.
He’s going to go absolutely insane if he keeps thinking about it. He desperately clings for a distraction. Fifteen minutes later, he’s in the back of an Uber.
He’s never been in an Uber sober before. The man that picks him up is well into his 40s and smells like egg salad. One look at Satoru and he changes the radio to the poppy, new hits station.
Satoru arrives in front of Suguru’s place short of breath and offended.
Suguru isn’t home yet, but he will be soon if Satoru knows the other’s schedule as well as he thinks he does. He plops himself down right in front of the door of his apartment.
Twenty minutes into his wait, he’s about ready to start scrounging around for a spare key. “Where the hell were you?” Satoru’s head immediately perks up at the sound of the familiar voice.
“Making a horrible, wonderful, awful, glorious mistake.”
Suguru nudges Satoru, who is still seated on the doormat, aside so he can reach the door to unlock it. “And I suppose you’re here to tell me all about it?”
Finally, Satoru stands, wiping dust off the back of his pants. “Oh no, I’m here for a distraction.”
“That works too,” Suguru says, propping the door open for Satoru to enter.
Suguru doesn’t press for more information, he just calls Ieiri and loads up the Netflix queue. The rest of Satoru’s day bleeds away with cigarette smoke and a nameless crime documentary.
Satoru is well-acquainted with the word “strange.” Of all the adjectives in the world, that one seems to show up the most often when others describe him. Satoru never took much stock in that description of himself until recently.
Part of growing up, Satoru learns, is collecting little bits and pieces of self-awareness. He notices small things that set him apart at first. Unlike other alphas his age, his long limbs are gangly and awkward. He doesn’t command a room, he simply fills it. He doesn’t feel much else other than irritation when the omegas in his class stand pressed close during emergency drills but flushes fiery hot when his teachers praise his work.
The little revelations lead to larger ones. Satoru doesn’t believe himself to be that odd or strange until he realizes how much he loves the boy’s locker room. Particularly, he enjoys the scent.
Sure, there are the unpleasant things: socks and cheap body spray, but beyond that, there’s something else. It’s the smell found in the dips of muscles, along the plains of skin. It’s heady and natural, and leaves a flush high on Satoru’s sheet white cheeks.
The other guys joke about Satoru taking so long in the locker room.
Other revelations come in ways not so exclusive to himself: schoolyard crushes.
There’s the girl in economics who gets upsettingly excited over monetary transactions. She has sharp, hateful eyes and the stupidest braided hairstyle Satoru has ever seen; yet, she smells like she could beat him up. It’s unbearably sexy, really.
Then there’s Fushigoro, a year ahead of him. He’s got a gnarly looking scar across his lips and there are rumors he’s been held back a grand total of three times. Satoru has never actually had a conversation with him, but sometimes he purposefully bumps shoulders with him in the hall. All his senior does is scoff, but in Satoru’s head, Fushigoro presses him so hard against the lockers the metal starts to creak.
Suguru is the only one who knows about Satoru’s “unconventional” feelings. He doesn’t have much to say in way of encouragement, but he doesn’t ridicule Satoru either.
Satoru doesn’t act on his attraction until he’s 17. He’s at a house party. There’s a thick haze of smoke and pheromones in the air. Satoru slips his hands into a pair of dark jeans. The jackass punches him so hard his vision crackles.
Satoru leaves that night with a bloody nose and a hard-on.
He ends up crashing at Suguru’s place. Suguru, quiet in his kindness, doesn’t say a word, just grabs an extra pillow and blanket and tosses it to Satoru on the couch.
In the morning, he’s nowhere to be found. He volunteers at an orphanage on his off days. Admirable work is not Satoru’s area of expertise.
His thumb hesitates before texting Nanami to pick him up from his friend’s apartment. He’s stuck between never wanting to see the other again and knowing he may very well jump him as soon as he pulls up to the building. He does scrape up the courage to send the text, eventually.
I’m at Suguru’s
Satoru stares at the tiny letters on the LED screen. OK. An appropriate response but it irritates Satoru no less.
Satoru spends enough nights with Suguru to have everything he needs hygiene-wise to prepare for the day. Luckily, he and his friend have a mutual love for the color black, so it’s rather easy to find an outfit that isn’t awful in Suguru’s closet.
Nanami is waiting with the car by the curb by the time he’s ready.
Satoru decides to resume his place in the backseat today.
Satoru peers over the top of dark glasses, waits for Nanami to meet his gaze in the rear view mirror. He doesn’t.
“It’s supposed to rain later today. Do you have an-”
“How’d you sleep?” Satoru cuts him off.
“Fine,” Nanami eventually replies. The radio is back on today, soft as though the sound is only intended for those at the front of the car.
“Alone, I presume?” Satoru says, making a show of sampling the air with his nose. All he smells is Nanami’s sandalwood aftershave and yellowed book pages. Good.
Satoru doesn’t miss the way Nanami stifles at the jab. “That’s none of your concern.”
“As of yesterday, I’ve decided you are my concern, Nanami.”
A raindrop hits the windshield. Nanami tactlessly attempts to change the subject. “There is a spare umbrella in the trunk.”
Satoru shouldn’t be surprised.
He’s not entirely sure why he thought more of his driver. The blonde hardly speaks and has all the personality of a cactus, and not the cute kind girls keep on their window sills.
Over the next few days, Nanami dodges every one of Satoru’s attempts to bring up their exchange. It’s mind boggling how he’s capable of turning every one of Satoru’s advances to something completely boring and mundane.
“I touched myself last night.”
“The academic catalogue for next fall is available. Make sure you pick one up.”
“What kind of porn do you watch, Nanami?”
“I trust you’ve set aside adequate time to prepare for exams?”
“My dick is bigger than yours.”
“Remember you have a tutoring session this evening.”
If there’s one thing Satoru truly hates more than anything, it’s being ignored. Of course, Nanami’s behavior isn’t exactly that, Satoru finds it to be much worse. Nanami still tends to his duties as his driver, and even continues to cart him around after hours occasionally. He’s somehow found a terrible balance between acknowledging Satoru and completely disregarding him.
Satoru’s tutor must mistake his lack of snarky quips for paying attention to the lesson because she quietly praises him at the end of their session. “We’ve covered quite a bit of ground today, Gojo! I look forward to our meeting next week.”
Her words jolt Satoru from his thoughts. “Uh, yeah,” he mumbles out of the side of his mouth. She takes it as the dismissal that it is and retreats from the study room.
Satoru eyes the clock on his phone. He knows Nanami is outside waiting on him. He’s in no rush to the vehicle though. Irate and petty, Satoru has no qualms about wasting Nanami Kento’s time.
Too bad Satoru gets bored easily.
He slams the car door unnecessarily hard once he’s seated.
Nanami, feigning obliviousness, questions, “How was your session?”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Satoru rolls his eyes so hard he can feel the strain in his skull. He’s beyond sick of this. How the fuck is he being ghosted by a guy he sees every day? A guy who literally works for him?
Satoru makes a realization and then a mistake.
He leans forward between the seats so he can stare at the harsh profile of Nanami’s face. “You know, your position isn’t as secure as you think.” Nanami stares ahead, steely as ever. Maybe he doesn’t realize what Satoru is hinting at? “Anyone with a licence can do this job.”
A twitch of brows. Is he getting somewhere?
“All it would take is one phone call and-”
Nanami slams on the breaks so hard Satoru almost goes flying headfirst into the dashboard.
He turns and stares at Satoru, hard, for the first time in days. Satoru feels the giddy thrill of acknowledgment. “Are you threatening me?” Satoru opens his mouth but is cut off. The venom in Nanami’s next words is enough to make him cower. “This is exactly why I don’t want to get involved with someone like you.”
Someone like you.
Distantly, Satoru can hear the blaring horns and screeching tires of vehicles passing them. They stand off for several beats. Satoru wants to yell, scream, bite him. He wants to tell him he’d only been teasing, pushing to get a reaction. He foolishly wants to tell him that he’d do anything just to get him to look at him.
He doesn’t do any of those things. He bites his pride and his tongue, slides away until his back is pressed against the seats once more. “You’re holding up traffic.”
Satoru’s entire existence is one big party he wishes he’d never gotten an invitation to. It seems as though every other day he’s playing dress up for gatherings he has no motivation to attend. The suit his mother ordered sits neatly on a rack next to his bed, ready for him to slide his long limbs into.
Tonight’s event is a celebration for some deal his father signed with a new company. From what little he's paid attention to the words from his parents, the new partnership was quite a chore to acquire. Unfortunately, his parents chose their home to house the gathering. He’s got nowhere to hide.
That’s a lie.
Satoru is excellent at the art of hiding in plain sight. When it seems someone is approaching him, he hurries off as if he’s busy with something else. It’s exhausting but it’s better than interacting with his parent’s work friends, or worse, their children.
He’s hovering near the dessert table when he hears it.
The growls are deep and guttural, laced with the promise of violence. The pastry he shoved in his mouth only seconds earlier suddenly becomes hard to swallow. The two men, equally large and overbearing, stand off at one another. It’s almost carnal the way they circle each other and bare their teeth.
The exchange is short-lived, only a few seconds before others are splitting the men apart, dragging them in opposite directions. As they are escorted away, Satoru grabs a drink from a circulating waiter to ease the lump down his throat.
His father’s booming laughter sounds off behind him, big hand clapping over Satoru’s shoulder. “Quite the show tonight, eh?”
Later, when Satoru is furiously rubbing one out in the bathroom, he thinks, you have no idea.
Someone like you.
The words, stuck in some sick game of pinball, ping around in his skull. He leans against the bar, twirling his glass just to hear the ice clink. He stares at his reflection in the alcohol, decides this shit really is fucking disgusting. One day, he’ll stop drinking.
He tried to pull Suguru to the bar with him tonight but he’d muttered some excuse about a project with an upcoming due date. He’d even phoned Ieiri who told him she was busy. He’s pretty sure he heard familiar giggling on the other end of the line but didn’t question it.
With all two of his close friends occupied for the evening, Satoru ventured out alone, though he doesn’t plan on returning that way.
His eyes rove the bar, he’d left his glasses on the counter at home. Tonight, he craves the attention.
He settles on a mopey looking fucker with pig tails and a smearing of eyeliner across his nose. His presence screams “I don’t want to talk to you,” but when he grabs Satoru’s waist, it’s with a purpose.
“Yours or mine,” he grunts. He smells like orange soda. It makes Satoru giggle.
Sucking face on the ride to Satoru’s place reveals that the line across the other’s face is a tattoo and not makeup. Satoru is conflicted between questioning who the hell gets a singular black line tattooed across their nose and being horrendously turned on.
When he’s shoved into his own mattress, his thoughts scatter like mice. Black fingernails work at the button of his jeans and Satoru sits back lazily, content to watch the stranger between his legs.
His tongue piercing feels divine against his cock.
Satoru wants to see what his cum would look like splashed across black ink. Of course, the evening doesn’t quite head in that direction. The blowjob is merely a distraction from the fingers quietly prodding at Satoru’s entrance.
With a glance downwards, he realizes the man brought his own packets of lube. It’s clear the nameless fellow’s intentions at the bar were much the same as his own. The other fingers him open, Satoru says something filthy. He doesn’t keep track of the words coming out of him. He doubts the man between his legs does either.
All he knows is there is a perfectly hard dick circling his hole. Satoru arches his back prettily like he knows his partners like and mumbles some encouragement. The pace is brutal and all but gentle, exactly what Satoru was looking for.
Each thrust punches pathetic little noises from his throat. He lets his eyes fall shut and dreams of neat blonde hair and thick arms. He’s just starting to really buy into his own fantasy when his phone rings.
Satoru’s eyes shoot open, staring at the light shining through the fabric of his discarded pants next to them. His partner pauses his rough thrusts. “Tell me you’re not going to-”
“Hello,” Satoru says, phone pressed against his ear. He hadn’t bothered checking who it was before answering. When the man above him blanches, Satoru winks and presses his index finger over his own lips in a shushing motion.
The voice on the other line shocks him.
“Nanami?” He squeaks, voice suddenly small.
“I’m sorry for calling you so late. Do you have a second?”
Satoru blinks dumbly up at the man still very much buried within him. They stare at each other incredulously for a moment before the other starts to move once more. Satoru slaps a hand over his own lips.
He moves his fingers just enough to give Nanami a response. “Uh, yeah,” he swallows, “I’m not busy.”
The inked stranger shoots him a look, gesturing at their connected bodies as if to say really? Satoru shrugs.
There is a long pause on the other end of the line while Nanami muses over the words he’ll choose. Satoru strategically angles the receiver of his cell phone outward to hopefully spare the blonde the sound of his cadenced panting.
“I don’t think it would benefit our professional relationship if we leave things like we did in the car this afternoon.”
Satoru nods into the phone, forgetting he has to vocalize his understanding. He really wishes Nanami wouldn’t use words like “professional relationship” while he’s getting dicked down. “Yeah, I agree.”
There is a grumble of acknowledgment in the back of Nanami’s throat. “Good. So I…”
The rest of Nanami’s words are spoken on deaf ears as Pigtails shifts his angle, brushing deliciously against the bundle of nerves deep within Satoru. His hand only catches the second half of his wail.
Eyes rolling in the back of his head, Satoru asks, “S-sorry, could you repeat that?”
There’s a suspicious pause. Satoru hopes that for once in his life Nanami isn’t overthinking things.
“Maybe we should discuss this another time?”
“W-what? No!” Satoru fake laughs to conceal the urgency in his tone. He’ll do anything to keep that smooth voice in his ear. “No time like the present, Nanami.”
Satoru dares a glance between his legs to confirm that he’s never been this hard in his entire life. Pigtails takes his gaze as an invitation and he roughly grips Satoru’s cock in his palm.
“Gojo,” Nanami’s tone is serious. “Are you alone right now?”
“Y-yes.” The lie is obvious to everyone except Satoru.
“Who is with you right now?”
“You’re lying.” It’s a growl. Pleasured tears brim Satoru’s eyes. Pigtails’ thrusts are relentless ever since he found the spot that makes his toes curl. “I’m hanging up,” he hears Nanami say over the sound of his own gasps.
“No! Please,” Satoru begs. “I’m so close.” A moan escapes, not that it matters; it’s clear to anyone with a sense of hearing what’s actually happening on Satoru’s end of the line.
The beep and sharp tone that follows are deafening.
Satoru stays on the dead line until the ringing stops. He slams his eyes shut, desperately clinging to the residue of that voice in his ear. The man between his thighs shudders and stills.
The room is horribly stagnant, silent save for lame attempts at catching breaths. Pigtails reaches between Satoru’s legs, attempts to jerk him to completion. What a gentleman.
Satoru rolls over so his still hard cock is out of reach. “No need,” he grumbles.
Pigtails doesn’t argue, doesn’t insist. The bed creaks as he rearranges himself. Satoru hears the sick slap of the used condom hitting the trash bin by the bed. He shuffles around for a bit, no doubt collecting his discarded clothes off of Satoru’s bedroom floor.
“Good night,” he says, finally slipping from the room.
Satoru listens to his feet pad all the way to the entryway where he pauses to put on his shoes. Satoru lays nude on top of his comforter when the door clicks shut behind him.
Satoru doesn’t like the taste rejection leaves thick in the back of his throat.
“Someone like you, Satoru, it just wouldn’t work. Not in the long run.”
Someone like you.
Isn't that such a funny way to reject someone? To deny them based on the little unchangeable bits and pieces that make them who they are? It's the core things, the ones he's got no choice in, that prevent him from slotting into Suguru's life the way he wants to. It's not fair.
“I think we should just keep things as they are now. You agree, don’t you?”
Suguru’s tone is gentle but that doesn’t change the cold options he lays before Satoru: stay as they are or settle apart.
Satoru chooses the former.
He’s not sure if it’s the chill or the harsh knocking at his door that wakes him up. He couldn’t have been asleep for very long as the night still stretches outside his window.
He’s starting to believe he dreamt the knocking in his half sleep, half awakened state when it starts up again. Whirling on sleep weighted legs, Satoru pulls on a robe and stumbles to the door.
The peep hole vibrates with the harsh banging as he peers through it. Surely he’s imagining the form he sees on the other side?
He cracks the door open to peek through the tiniest sliver possible. He’s hesitant to open the door any further.
“I would like to come in.” The sound creeps through the crack in the door, wafts directly into Satoru’s ears.
He stares at the figure outside of his door for a moment longer before opening the door to allow for entry. “Alright.”
Nanami nods his head and steps over the threshold.
Somehow, Satoru feels as though he’s invited some mystical creature into his home and he’s bound to pay dearly for the transgression. He can smell the tension radiating from Nanami’s set shoulders.
“I wasn’t expecting any visitors tonight, Nanami, ” he says, going for lightheartedness. It doesn’t work.
“You mean you weren’t expecting anymore visitors.”
“I really was alone earlier,” he says, though he doesn’t look at Nanami when the words leave.
“Lying really is second nature to you, isn’t it?”
Satoru rolls his eyes. “Please don’t tell me you wasted the gas to get here just to say that.”
Nanami doesn’t respond right away so Satoru flops onto his couch. He crosses his legs, the slit in the bathrobe parting to show long expanses of white. He gestures for Nanami to take a seat across from him but his offer is declined. Satoru huffs.
“What do you want me to say? That I was in the middle of being good and thoroughly fucked when you called?” He toys with the silken fabric of his robe while he speaks. “I don’t see what difference it makes anyway.”
Nanami shakes his head, body rigid with disbelief at Satoru. “That’s not what I came here to discuss.”
“Whatever it is, I’m sure it could have waited until morning,” Satoru grumbles.
“I think it would be best if we end this arrangement.”
That’s not what he was expecting to hear. A 2 a.m. lecture on the sanctity of maintaining a healthy professional relationship? Maybe. A discussion on how to make better decisions regarding answering the phone while otherwise occupied? Sure. But this? Oh no, Satoru never expected this.
He laughs. Hard.
This arrangement isn’t something Nanami can just end. Nanami needs Satoru.
“I can speak to your father. Of course, I’ll finish up the semester so you’ll have time to make new arrangements.”
Satoru collects himself while Nanami is speaking, wiping faux tears from thick lashes. He doesn’t like the way Nanami makes it seem so simple. Nanami stares at him, cold and unamused.
“What if I object?”
“I suppose you can. Though I don’t think it’ll make much difference.”
Satoru clenches his fists around his own anger. “Well if you’ve got it all figured out on your own, why the hell did you come here?”
“I,” he licks his lips, “I just wanted to let you know first before I move forward.”
Satoru scoffs, leaning back and letting his arms span across the top of the couch cushions. He resists the urge to laugh again. “So, what? You’re so excited to end this gig you just had to rush over here? It couldn't possibly wait until morning?” Despite his efforts, a laugh does escape, high and throaty. He lets his head fall back against the cushions, studying the blankness of the ceiling. “Do I repulse you that much?”
Satoru isn’t looking at him, but he can hear the awkward shuffle of his feet. “Gojo, that’s not what-”
“Then what is it?” Satoru snarls. All of this is starting to taste too familiar. He can feel himself shutting down, the small window of cordiality closing.
Satoru wishes Nanami would sit down or get the fuck out.
“I don’t think either of us are fit to maintain a professional relationship.”
Lord, he’s so tired.
“Who cares?” He’s looking at Nanami again now, head tilted. He feels the corner of his lips tugging into a mean smirk, challenging Nanami one last time.
Nanami is equal distance from Satoru and the door. In retrospect, it probably surprises them both when he chooses Satoru.
His steps towards Satoru are slow and thundurus in Satoru’s skull although the plush carpet absorbs the sound. He stops right in front of him, so close his knees hit the base of the couch. Satoru can feel the fabric of Nanami’s slacks brushing his bare ankle.
Satoru is fixated on Nanami’s belt buckle, the way it gleams in the lowlight. A large thumb is pressed against his chin, tilting his head upwards. It’s not often Satoru feels small.
Satoru watches thin lips form around the words. They’re so close that Satoru can smell him, can really smell him. Nanami is a straightforward man but his scent is dizzying with concealed desire.
“Well, stop,” Satoru’s fingers twitch where they’re still resting across the top of the couch. “It’s annoying.”
“You’re annoying,” Nanami whispers. His thumb moves, brushing over Satoru’s lips now.
Satoru licks the pad of Nanami’s thumb to prove just how annoying he is. Nanami tilts his head back even further, pushing his thumb into Satoru’s mouth. Satoru accepts it like a gift, nibbling, sucking, wanting Nanami to press so hard his fingerprint will sear into the flat of his tongue.
Satoru releases Nanami’s finger with a resounding pop. Nanami pauses to admire how his saliva slick thumb gleams in what little light is cast into the room from the window.
“Why’d you really come here tonight, Nanami?” Satoru challenges.
“I’m absolutely serious about what I said earlier.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt you are,” Satoru says, standing up. They’re chest to chest, close enough to feel each other’s breath. “But you’re an economical man Nanami. Surely you wouldn’t come all this way just to quit and leave.” He’s taller than Nanami. He has to tilt his chin downwards just slightly to look him in the eye. “Just tell me what it is. You know I’ll give it to you.”
There is such a clear trace of internal struggle on Nanami’s face. Satoru wants to lean in and taste the creases on his forehead.
Nanami’s head tilts just enough for his nose to scrape along the underside of Satoru’s jaw. Nanami’s inhale is so light, sampling the tiniest bit of Satoru’s scent in attempted secrecy. The low hum in Satoru’s chest lets him know he’s been caught.
“I want,” he pauses, breathing in through his nose again, “I want to fuck you.”
Satoru risks biting his own tongue off. “Yes,” he nods eagerly for emphasis. “Yes, that, absolutely let’s do that.”
He’s ready to drop to his knees so hard his caps will surely rattle but Nanami holds him roughly by the jaw. His other hand slides into the small space that remains between them, grabs the silk knot of Satoru’s robe.
“Untie this and sit down,” he commands. “With your legs spread.” Alpha dominance is a load of shit. Satoru does as Nanami tells him because he wants to.
One tug of ribbon and the robe slides open. He plops back down on the couch, maintaining eye contact and spreading his thighs. “Wide enough for you, sir,” Satoru teases.
There’s a small thud of Nanami’s knees hitting the carpet. He grunts and places a large palm over a milky thigh before forcing Satoru’s legs apart even further.
“Guess not,” Satoru says with a yelp.
Those broad shoulders slot themselves snugly between Satoru’s legs. He’s barely half hard but he knows he won’t stay that way this close to Nanami’s mouth. He cants his hips upwards in encouragement.
“God I could come just looking at you,” Satoru mewls.
Nanami’s palms rove their way up Satoru’s chest, fingers eventually making their way to his lips. “Suck.”
Satoru kisses his fingertips. “Sure, but you next,” he says with another wiggle of his hips.
Satoru sucks on Nanami’s fingers loud and messy in demonstration of how he expects Nanami to do on his cock. He’s liberal with the way he rolls his tongue, satisfied when a long string of saliva follows Nanami’s fingers as they leave his lips. It snaps and lands across Satoru’s bare chest.
Nanami’s hands glide easier over Satoru’s bare chest, now slick with his spit. He tweaks a nipple and Satoru gasps. He’s suddenly aware of how much time they have. They’re not squished in the backseat of a car in the middle of a random parking lot. They’re inside Satoru’s home, on his ridiculously expensive couch, and they have all night.
And Nanami seems content on taking his time with Satoru. His slick fingers continue to run circles over his nipples, bump along his ribs, tease just below his belly button. Satoru is unbearably sensitive as if every ridge of Nanami’s fingerprints are scalding his skin.
“Come on,” Satoru whines.
“What’s the matter?” Nanami asks, fingers leaving Satoru’s abdomen and skimming back up to his chest. “You don’t like it?” He pinches Satoru’s nipple rather meanly.
Satoru sighs, frustrated. “You know I do. But I’d like something else much more.”
Nanami smiles, a microscopic tilt of the lips. “Yeah?”
As much as Satoru would love to play this little game of back and forth, he’s also going cross eyed with the tension in the lower half of his body. He reaches downwards, intent on brandishing his own dick to make a point but Nanami grabs his wrist to stop him.
The message is clear.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
Satoru’s pale cheeks, suddenly fuchsia, give away just how much he liked that.
Nanami finally pulls him into his mouth and Satoru could cry at the sensation. He’s still only half hard but the plush heat inside Nanami’s mouth is quickly changing that. “Fuck, your mouth was made for me.”
Satoru means his words, fingers pushing into Nanami’s hair and letting his eyes fall shut. He notices how soft his hair is without a trace of gel. He lets it tickle between his fingers, scratching Nanami’s scalp lightly.
He’s not thinking when he pulls his hand up towards his nose and inhales. He shivers with the arousal Nanami’s scent brings. He smells like a library, warm and welcoming, with lingering traces of something masculine and completely custom to Nanami himself. Satoru wants to crawl inside and get lost.
He doesn’t notice Nanami watching him until he opens his eyes to peer down. And lord, is he a sight to behold. Loose blonde hair, a hard cock in his mouth, an intrigued expression in his eyes; Satoru is losing his grip on reality.
He has to look away.
“Good?” Nanami asks. Satoru isn’t sure if he’s referring to his scent or the blow job though it doesn’t really matter. Both are making his head spin.
Satoru reaches down, cups Nanami’s face in his palm, and runs a finger over slick lips. “You know you’re quite pretty like this, Nanami. On your knees for me.”
That’s obviously not the adjective Nanami expected as his eyes widen for a moment before darkening. Satoru’s hands continue to wander, over his neck and to the cotton hem of his shirt. He realizes this is the first time he’s seen Nanami in anything other than a pressed button down. It suits him, a black t-shirt that’s pulled just a little too taut around the width of his shoulders.
“Let’s go to your room.”
Satoru stands first, grabs a fistful of Nanami’s shirt and pulls him up after him, effectively slamming their lips together. It’s heated and breathless right from the start. Nanami’s got his hands under the robe and gripping Satoru’s hips roughly. Satoru grinds into the bulge in the front of Nanami’s jeans, gasps into Nanami’s mouth at the scratch of the denim.
Nanami tries to pull away, to waddle them backwards into the hall but Satoru latches onto his lip with his teeth. Hands caging his skull, he pulls him back in and licks into Nanami’s open mouth.
Somehow they make it to Satoru’s room. More miraculously, Nanami makes it there fully clothed.
“Too bad you aren’t wearing one of your button downs,” Satoru says, pressing Nanami up against the wall closest to his mattress. “I would’ve liked to rip it off.” He visualizes the buttons flying in his mind, scattering across the floor for him to find later.
Nanami frowns into the kiss. “Now I’m glad I didn’t.”
“I would’ve let you spank me for it. Call me a bad boy.”
“You’d rather be good for me though, wouldn’t you?”
Satoru can’t argue with that so he pushes Nanami roughly onto his bed instead. Satoru drops the robe off his shoulders and onto the floor. “Your turn. I want everything off.”
Nanami indulges him, peeling off his shirt and pushing it aside. Thankfully, Nanami is more concerned with being efficient instead of putting on a show. He’s completely nude and sunk into Satoru’s mattress in less than a minute.
Satoru crawls over him, rests his bare ass on Nanami’s thighs. “Fuck, you’re hot Nanami.”
Nanami’s palms feel big where they cup Satoru’s back. Distantly, Satoru is aware that no one’s ever made him feel like this. He’s bigger than Nanami yet he makes him <em> feel</em> smaller but still on equal footing. He can hold Satoru down but they’d still see eye to eye. He awakens every one of Satoru’s unspoken desires.
Satoru startles then grins. “You think I’m hot Nanamiii?” He says it with all the conviction of someone who knows how beautiful they are.
They’re kissing again, likely to silence Satoru. Nanami flips them over so he can hover over him. He hikes one of Satoru’s legs up and around his waist, causing their erections to slide together and Satoru to moan. Stray hands journey to Satoru’s ass and give a playful squeeze.
“You’re still okay with this?”
“Fuck yes,” Satoru answers. “Lube and condoms are in the top drawer.”
While Nanami leans over him to grab said supplies, Satoru takes his time ogling the man above him. Every shift of Nanami rustling around in the drawer has their cocks pressing together. The anticipation of having Nanami inside him has him drooling onto the pillow. If Nanami sees it, he doesn’t say anything.
Instead, he leans back, ass resting on his heels and tossing both the lube bottle and a condom to the side. Nanami also takes an opportunity to stare, just looking at Satoru all sprawled across the sheets. The indulgent gaze leaves Satoru fidgeting.
Satoru hates the way his cheeks heat so he searches his lexicon for some wise ass comment to shatter the moment. His head churns out nothing but thoughts of Nanami’s eyes.
Luckily, Nanami seems to break his own spell, hands suddenly finding their way back to the smooth planes of Satoru’s skin. Bruises litter across his hips in the shape of a stranger's fingers. Nanami skims over them with his own now, eyes dark.
“What’s the matter?” Satoru asks even though he knows the answer, he can see it in the curl of Nanami’s upper lip. He wants to hear him say it. A part of Satoru that he’s desperately tried to beat and bury sits just below the surface now waiting for Nanami to dig it the rest of the way up.
Nanami doesn’t answer right away. He opts to lean in for a violent kiss instead, teeth clanking and breaths stolen. Nanami shifts to Satoru’s neck, places an even meaner kiss there and whispers in his ear, “I see you let the mutt leave marks.”
Satoru feels those words with his whole body, damn near convulsing with the possessiveness dripping from Nanami’s voice. He tries not to whine but the man on top of him is better than any fantasy he’s ever conjured in his mind.
Nanami growls right in his ear and Satoru pushes the lube bottle into his chest. “I need you to fuck me, Nanami.”
The lube drips over his fingers in shiny globs. Satoru spreads his legs impossibly wide and leads Nanami’s wrist to his entrance. When Nanami pushes two fingers in at once, he lets out a high, throaty sound.
Satoru should’ve known Nanami would be in no great hurry with him. He spreads Satoru open slow and gentle, scissoring his fingers and leaving no ridge of Satoru’s insides untouched. Satoru’s cock weeps against his belly as he writhes from the treatment.
“You don’t, ah,” Satoru huffs, quickly losing his train of thought, “you don’t have to be so careful with me. Your dick won’t be the first I’ve had in my ass tonight.”
Satoru doesn’t realize his mistake until it’s left his mouth in way of words.
Nanami removes his fingers, leaving Satoru so empty he could cry. “N-no, wait,” Satoru croaks, reaching out helplessly to Nanami. When Nanami makes no move to start feeling him up again, Satoru leans up on his elbows to look him in the face. “Oh don’t be like that. Your cock’s the first one I’m going to come on.”
Realization dashes across Nanami’s eyes and he needs no more condolence to start reaching for the condom packet. He rips it open with his teeth and Satoru flops back against the mattress, buzzing.
The lube bottle clicks open and shut again. Satoru watches with greedy eyes as Nanami loses himself for a second stroking the slick over his own cock. Nanami looks into his eyes for one final confirmation and Satoru just nods.
Then Nanami’s inside him and he feels stupid with how good it is.
“Shit,” he swears through clenched teeth. Nanami’s arms strain on either side of him, eyes squeezed shut. Satoru grabs on to those arms to ground himself while Nanami bottoms out.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” Nanami chokes out.
Satoru giggles, high on the man inside him. He clenches just to hear Nanami gasp.
It’s slow at first, both of them admittedly trying to ensure this doesn’t end before it even has a chance to get started. Satoru still has his hands clenched impossibly tight around Nanami’s forearms. “Come on, Blondie, fuck me like you mean it.”
When Nanami does start actually moving, the push and pull has Satoru mumbling the longest, most incoherent string of expletives. Nanami kisses him to shut him up.
Once he finds a rhythm, Nanami is ruthless. It’s so perfect Satoru has half a mind to be pissed at him for holding out on him for so long. Somehow, amidst his moans he’s able to make a request. “Deeper, Nanami.”
Nanami pulls out long enough to switch their position, pushing Satoru onto his side and pressing warmly against his back. He holds one of Satoru’s legs up high and buries his cock deep within him once more. At this angle, Satoru can feel Nanami’s gasps right against his ear and his teeth in his neck. Nanami is biting him and his instincts should force him to bare his teeth but he fears he’s going to come on the spot instead.
Satoru is far beyond the point of redemption. He arches and moans and meets Nanami thrusts with his own desperate hip rocking. “Fuckin’ hell, Nanami you’re so good.” Nanami punctuates each of Satoru’s words with a firm thrust against his prostate. “God, I want you to knot me one day.”
Nanami’s hips stutter at that. “Yeah?” He breathes the question hot against the nape of Satoru’s neck.
Satoru hums. “Yeah. I want you to stretch me out and fill me up so good I can taste it.” He’s rambling, crazed, on the brink of the best orgasm of his life. “I wanna feel you for days with every step I take.”
Satoru almost loses it. “Yes, my name,” he begs. “Say my name.”
“You’re gonna make me come, Satoru.”
Satoru’s response is just a litany of “yes’s” and more strung out moans. Nanami continues chanting his name in his ear, reaching an arm around and stroking his cock in time with his pounding.
“I’m gonna come,” Satoru all but shouts.
“Only for me,” Nanami grunts and Satoru’s gone.
It’s blinding and world ending and Satoru never wants it to stop. Neither does Nanami as he strokes him, almost cruelly, through it. He milks every last bit of Satoru’s orgasm out of him, whispering his name until he himself is flung over the edge.
“K-keep it in me,” Satoru croaks sleepily. “Just for a bit.”
Neither of them are in their ruts and there’s no trace of a knot but Satoru wants to pretend. He wants to feel Nanami soften inside him at the very least. Nanami obliges him, running his fingers through Satoru’s sweaty scalp.
Eventually, Nanami slips out of Satoru naturally. He ties up the condom and disposes of it. Satoru keeps his eyes glued ahead of him. Maybe he should pretend to be asleep? He’s afraid to shatter the moment.
Nanami does get up eventually, just to patter to the bathroom and return with warm washcloths. Without a word, he cleans Satoru’s belly and chest, even spreads his legs to mop up the excess lube. Satoru studies nonexistent patterns in his white walls.
After cleaning up, Nanami stands awkwardly in front of Satoru’s side of the bed. He clears his throat. “Do you mind if I stay here tonight?”
Satoru doesn’t say anything but he smiles and pats the empty space next to him.
In the morning, they slide into the vehicle outside Satoru’s apartment together.
The semester finally draws to a close. Satoru’s glad, not because he was stressing over exams, but because everyone else was. He’s in desperate need of a social life again.
Luckily, Suguru stays on top of these sorts of things, arranging for them to meet up for lunch at one of Satoru’s favorite spots. Ieiri offered to pay. Satoru decides he is going to order every dessert on the menu.
He sits in the front seat of the car nowadays. It’s their new normal. Nanami doesn’t greet him with weather updates anymore or questions about his sleep. After all, majority of the time, he knows because he spent the night next to him.
Satoru is better at upholding a “professional relationship” than Nanami gives him credit for. After all, he’s only snuck his hands into Nanami’s pants twice while he was driving.
When they get to the restaurant, Nanami doesn’t drop Satoru off, but parks and exits the car with him. His friends grin like a pair of idiots.