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The flight from Singapore to Tokyo is seven hours long, and Satoru is already losing his mind.
It’s not like he isn’t used to long flights. His job has him bouncing between countries so often that airports might as well be his second home.
But usually, those flights are short and painless, a couple of hours at most. He boards, gets comfortable in first class, throws on his noise-canceling headphones, and either passes out or watches something mind-numbing until landing. Easy.
But seven hours? Seven whole hours? That’s pushing it.
And to make things worse, he fucked up. Royally.
He left his damn headphones and snacks in his hotel room. His very expensive, custom-molded, perfect-for-drowning-out-the-world headphones. The ones that make crying babies, chatty passengers, and general airplane misery disappear.
And his snacks—premium, imported, hard-to-find necessities—are sitting untouched on the desk of his overpriced hotel suite.
It wasn’t even his fault!
Not entirely.
He had a meeting that ran late, a dinner that dragged even later, and by the time he got back to his hotel, he was too exhausted to do anything but faceplant into the bed.
Then, of course, he overslept. Woke up in a panic, threw everything into his suitcase, and sprinted to the airport with just enough time to check in and make it through security.
He didn’t realize what he’d forgotten until he was already at the gate, and by then?
Too late.
Now he’s stuck. Seven agonizing hours with nothing to keep him occupied.
Sure, first class is comfortable. His seat is wide, the legroom is decent, and the flight attendants are very attentive.
But even luxury has its limits.
There’s only so much champagne he can sip before it gets boring, and the in-flight entertainment? A joke. Half the movies are things he’s already seen, the other half are things he wouldn’t watch even if someone paid him. He flips through the options anyway, scrolling back and forth like something new will magically appear. It doesn’t.
The Wi-Fi is slow, too. Not bad enough to be unusable, but just barely sluggish enough to be infuriating. Every page takes an extra second or two to load, just enough to remind him that he’s at 35,000 feet and completely at the mercy of in-flight connectivity.
He tries to distract himself with work—pulls out his laptop, opens his inbox—but the second he sees the flood of unread emails, he slams it shut.
Absolutely not.
He leans back in his seat, tipping his head toward the window. Tokyo can’t come fast enough.
Satoru slouches back in his seat with a dramatic sigh loud enough to earn a glance from the guy next to him. He ignores it.
Seven hours.
Seven long, soul-crushing hours.
If there was a hell designed specifically for him, this would be it. And to think, this all started with a stupid business trip.
Next time, he’s making up an excuse and sending someone else in his place. Or better yet, he’s faking a scheduling conflict and staying home.
No pointless meetings, no last minute flights, no suffering through seven hour stretches of pure boredom.
A flight attendant walks by and lightly taps his foot with her heel. “Feet out of the aisle, please, sir.”
He begrudgingly pulls his legs back in just to be polite. Once she’s gone, he lets out another dramatic sigh.
He’s bored. He’s uncomfortable. And he’s officially over this flight.
Satoru slouches further into his seat, legs sprawled, arms crossed. He’s mid-sulk when the guy next to him speaks up.
“Are you always this dramatic, or is today special?”
Satoru blinks, turning his head to get a better look at him.
His voice is low, smooth—one of those naturally confident tones that makes everything he says sound deliberate.
And then there are his eyes, dark and sharp, flickering with something that’s not quite amusement, not quite interest, but definitely not indifference either.
He’s hot.
The kind of hot that makes Satoru’s mind wander places it probably shouldn’t on a seven-hour flight. Dark hair, pulled back just enough to show off the sharp angles of his face.
Strong build, broad shoulders, long fingers resting casually against his lap. Dressed sharp but comfortable, like he knows how good he looks without having to try.
Not the type to waste time with mindless small talk. Probably not the type to entertain Satoru’s shit for long, either. But that just makes it more fun.
Definitely Satoru’s type.
“Depends,” He replies with a grin, quick to recover. “Do you always eavesdrop, or is this my special day?”
The guy glances over, raising an eyebrow. “You’re either really tired or trying to start a one man protest. Can’t miss that.”
“Ah, you’ve caught me,” Satoru says, throwing his hands up in mock defeat. “I’m trapped on this plane without headphones, snacks, or dignity. A man can only take so much.”
“You’re in first class,” the guy points out dryly.
“And yet,” Satoru leans in slightly, gesturing broadly at his seat, “here I am. Destitute. Bored out of my skull. Forced to entertain myself by talking to you.”
The guy snorts, finally cracking a small smile. Winnnnn. “You’re welcome, I guess.”
“What about you?” Satoru asks, shifting to face him fully, deciding this conversation is his new source of entertainment. “Seven hours. What’s your game plan? Or are you one of those freaks who can just, like, sit there and think?”
The man huffs a quiet laugh, resting his chin on his hand. “Maybe I just don’t have the attention span of a goldfish.”
“Neither do I!”
“I watched you start and quit three different movies.”
“Oh? So you have been watching me.” Satoru smirks, tilting his head.
The man rolls his eyes, picking up a tablet and flipping it open to a book. “Not like I have much of a choice.”
Satoru pauses, weighing that response.
“Big talk for someone reading an e-book,” he teases, catching the faint glow of the screen out of the corner of his eye.
“Bigger talk from someone who left half his shit at the hotel,” the man counters smoothly, still not looking up.
Satoru gasps, hand over his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. “How’d you—”
“It’s obvious by the way you’re behaving.”
Satoru pouts by default. “Low blow. You don’t even know me.”
The man finally glances up, unimpressed. “I don’t have to.”
That only makes Satoru grin wide. “Touché.” He sticks out a hand. “I’m Gojo, by the way.”
The man eyes the offered handshake like it’s a trap before taking it. His grip is warm, steady. “Geto.”
Satoru nods, grinning. “Ah, handsome name for a handsome guy.”
Geto glances at him, letting out a half-laugh, half-exhale. The kind that makes Satoru feel like he’s just been sized up and dismissed all in one go.
He doesn’t hate it.
The guy hasn’t told him to shut up yet, and more importantly, he hasn’t recoiled from Satoru’s blatant flirting, which is such a major win.
Satoru shifts, turning just enough to face him properly, elbow propped on the armrest between them, chin resting in his palm.
“What’s got you on this flight? Business?” He drags his gaze over him, slow, like he’s trying to piece together a story just from looking. “You look like you’ve got a million things going on.”
Geto barely lifts his eyes from his tablet, flipping to the next page with an effortless swipe of his finger. “Something like that.”
Satoru clicks his tongue. “Vague. Mysterious. Are you in the mafia?”
Geto huffs a quiet laugh but doesn’t look up. “Sure.”
Satoru grins, leaning in slightly. “Wow, you admitted that pretty fast. I was expecting more of a, ‘if I told you, I’d have to kill you’ type of thing.”
Geto hums, still reading. “If I say that, then it’s a cliché.”
“Oh, so you’re the cool kind of criminal,” Satoru teases, tilting his head. “The silent, brooding type. Explains the all-black outfit.”
Geto finally glances at him, unimpressed. “Says the guy wearing sunglasses indoors.”
Satoru counters, “I’ll have you know these are prescription. My eyes are very sensitive.”
“Mm.” Geto doesn’t sound convinced. “Or you just think they make you look cool.”
Satoru shrugs. “Two things can be true at once.”
Geto shakes his head, gaze drifting back to his tablet, and Satoru watches him for a beat, taking in the sharp angles of his face, the way his jaw flexes when he bites back a smirk. He’s playing hard to get—Satoru can tell—but not impossible to get. That’s fine.
He likes a challenge.
He shifts in his seat, nudging Geto’s arm slightly with his own. “You never actually answered my question, you know. Business or pleasure?”
Geto exhales through his nose, long suffering, but he doesn’t move away. “Business.”
“What kind?”
“A legal kind.”
Satoru snickers. “That’s what an illegal businessman would say.”
Geto hums again, tapping to another page. “Maybe.”
Satoru studies him, still grinning. He’s not getting much, but he’s getting enough to keep going. There’s interest there, even if it’s buried under layers of passive disinterest. He just has to dig a little.
He nudges him with his foot, sliding just barely against Geto’s under the seat. Enough to make it seem like an accident. A test. A hint.
Geto doesn’t pull away.
Yeah. He’ll have him loosened up before they land.
He’s got nothing better to do.
By hour three, they’re about halfway through Geto’s book. No, Geto doesn’t know Satoru is reading over his shoulder. Or if he does, he doesn’t make it known. Satoru missed the first hundred pages, but it’s real dramatic.
From what he’s gathered, the book is about a magical circus that only opens at night. Two magicians, a performer named Celia and this guy Marco, are locked in a competition where they have to outdo each other with magic.
Something Satoru didn’t expect?
The two main characters are clearly in love.
Well, he expected that from the book. Just not from the brooding guy next to him actually enjoying it.
The circus itself feels alive, and everyone running it seems like they’re hiding something.
Oh, and someone’s probably going to die by the end. Dramatic, just the way he likes it.
And exactly what he needs to keep himself entertained.
But, of course, things don’t always go Satoru’s way.
As soon as they hit chapter 23, Geto shuts off his tablet and sets it aside. Satoru gawks as Geto leans his head back, closes his eyes, and exhales.
“What the hell!” Satoru grumbles. “Hey, I was reading that.”
Geto peeks one eye open at him before sighing. “I know. My eyes need a break from the screen.”
Satoru pouts. “Well, not me! I wanna know what happens next. Why’d you have to take a break at a cliffhanger?”
“Makes the book more enjoyable. And, I’m sorry, is this not my kindle?” Geto replies, still not looking at him.
Satoru rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but come on, let’s read one more chapter at least.”
Geto finally turns his head, craning his neck to look at Satoru with tired aggravation. “I don’t have to let you read it at all.”
Satoru frowns, crossing his arms. “Yeah, but you’re a good guy. You see I’ve got nothing else to do.”
Geto huffs a quiet laugh. “Not my problem.”
But it is his problem. Now, Satoru isn’t trying to get himself kicked off the flight—or worse, make Geto ask to switch seats—but he’s bored out of his mind. He needs something to do.
“Well, were you planning on finishing it?” Satoru asks after a moment.
Geto narrows his eyes, like he’s annoyed but he answers. “On this flight?”
“Yeah.”
“Yes. I just said I need to give my eyes a break.” Geto pulls his blanket from where it had been tucked under him. “As do you. We’ve been staring at a screen for hours.”
Satoru watches as Geto reclines his seat and wraps himself in the blanket, clearly done with the conversation.
But Satoru’s bored. Insanely so.
“Celia is kind of annoying,” Satoru blurts out.
Geto doesn’t react.
Satoru waits a beat, then continues, because why stop now? “I don’t like how she keeps acting like Marco’s feelings don’t matter just because she’s scared of what’s going to happen.”
Geto’s eyebrow twitches, but he still says nothing.
Encouraging.
“And Marco really didn’t have to set up that stupid challenge. Like, obviously, he was trying to help, but c’mon. He’s smarter than that.”
“He didn’t set it up because he wanted to,” Geto mutters finally, voice tinged with irritation. “It was because of Chandresh.”
Satoru grins. Finally. He adjusts himself in his seat, turning toward Geto with newfound interest. “Well, no. Marco chose to escalate things because he thought he could control the outcome. Which is dumb. Did you even read it?”
Geto’s eyes snap open, and he glares at him. Got him! “Yes, I read it. More than you. Which is why I know Celia and Marco aren’t like that. They’re trying to protect the circus.”
“Okay, but if Marco really wanted to protect the circus, he wouldn’t have kept that secret from Celia. That’s why she ended up mad at him!”
Geto sighs, straightening up, his blanket forgotten. “Because he had to. If she’d known, she would’ve—”
“Done the same thing, but better,” Satoru interrupts, smirking. “You’re telling me Celia wouldn’t have figured out a safer way?”
Geto gives him an exasperated look before muttering, “Okay, that’s your opinion,” and leaning back with his eyes closed.
Satoru grins, victorious. “You’re just mad because I’m right.”
Geto doesn’t respond, but the way his fingers tighten around his blanket says enough.
“Just shut up,” Geto mutters. “We’re the only ones still awake. I want to sleep too.”
Satoru pouts, scanning the dim cabin. Most passengers are already out cold, lost in their own little bubbles of sleep. Eye masks on, seats reclined, soft snores filling the space between them.
But that’s never stopped him before.
He stretches his legs, letting his foot nudge against Geto’s ankle. Just a little tap. Slidey, slidey.
Geto doesn’t react.
Satoru does it again, brushing against him with a little more intent.
Still nothing.
Undeterred, he moves on. A casual press of his knee against Geto’s, a light tap of his arm as he shifts in his seat. Just enough to be noticed.
Geto finally cracks an eye open. “What are you doing?”
Satoru smiles innocently. “Nothing.”
Geto hums, unconvinced, but doesn’t move away.
Interesting.
Satoru takes that as permission.
He lets his fingers drift absentmindedly along the armrest between them, close enough to Geto’s wrist to test the waters.
“You ever done something just to see if you could?” he asks, voice low enough not to disturb the sleeping passengers around them.
Geto glances at him. “You do hear yourself talk, right?”
Satoru grins. “Okay, fair. But I mean, like… something really stupid.”
Geto tilts his head, considering. “Probably. Why?”
Satoru exhales, letting his head fall back against the seat. “Just thinking.”
Suguru glances at him, unimpressed. “Dangerous habit.”
Satoru smirks. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” He shifts slightly, turning his body toward Suguru, eyes flicking over him. “Was just remembering some of the wilder shit I’ve done.” A pause, then, deliberately casual—“Like that one time I had sex on a roof.”
Geto blinks, then slowly turns his head. “…Of a building?”
“Nah, of a car,” Satoru deadpans. He grins when Suguru shoots him a flat look. “Yeah, a building. Pretty high up, too.”
Geto huffs, shaking his head. “Stupid.”
“Fun,” Satoru corrects. “What about you?”
Suguru stretches his arms over his head, letting the moment linger before settling in again. “Hmm. An empty train car.”
“Oh, classy,” Satoru teases, nudging Suguru’s foot again.
Geto rolls his eyes and nudges him back. “It was late.”
Another nudge. “Bet it was dirty as hell.”
A nudge back. “Not as bad as you’d think.”
Satoru hums, dragging his foot slowly against Geto’s ankle. “Still, couldn’t have been comfortable.”
“It wasn’t about comfort.”
Now that’s what Satoru likes to hear. He smirks. “So you like a little risk, huh?”
Geto finally looks at him then, really looks at him, like he’s weighing something in his mind, trying to decide if this conversation is actually heading where he thinks it is.
And they both know where this is headed.
Satoru lets the silence stretch, gives them both the chance to ponder, his fingers tapping idly against the armrest. Then, shifting closer, voice dropping just enough—“Ever done anything on a plane?”
Geto raises an eyebrow. “No. You?”
Satoru grins. “Not yet.”
A quiet huff of laughter leaves Geto, something close to amusement flashing in his eyes. “And here I thought you were a seasoned traveler.”
Satoru shrugs, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Guess I’ve been missing out.”
Geto watches him now, gaze heavier, more assessing. The space between them feels smaller. The hum of the plane, the dim lighting, the quiet rustle of passengers shifting in their sleep—it all fades into the background.
Satoru tilts his head, lets his lashes lower just slightly, giving Geto a look. One that lingers.
“…What about right now?”
Bold. Crazy, even. But Satoru doesn’t waver. His gaze stays locked on Geto, watching for any flicker of reaction, any shift in his carefully composed expression.
His foot presses more firmly against Geto’s ankle this time, tracing up just slightly before settling there, warm and steady. The tension between them is thick, humming like static in the air, and Satoru knows Geto feels it too—the way his fingers flex slightly against his thigh, like he’s considering something.
Suguru squints and his brows raise.
“Pardon?”
Satoru grins, dragging it out this time, slow and taunting. “Let’s try something.”
Geto exhales a quiet laugh, raking his eyes up and down Satoru like he’s trying to decide if he’s worth the energy. “You’re such a brat. Has anyone ever told you that?”
Oh, this guy is so going.
“Yeah,” Satoru says easily. “Nobody’s done anything about it, though.” And it’s true. No one’s ever denied him what he wants—family, teachers, anybody. This man won’t be the first.
Before he even thinks it through, Satoru places a hand on Geto’s knee, jumping head first into the waters. Geto doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shove him off—just watches, waiting, like he’s curious about what other boundary Satoru’s about to cross.
Satoru tilts his head, grinning. “How about you be the first?”
Geto says nothing at first, his expression unreadable. Satoru holds his breath.
Maybe he miscalculated. Maybe Geto will push him away, or worse, call for a flight attendant because some weirdo’s getting handsy at 30,000 feet. But then—
“You’re really bold,” Geto remarks, almost flatly.
Satoru blinks. That’s it? No reprimand, no rejection? His heartbeat picks up.
Geto moves, lifting his hand—slowly, deliberately—toward Satoru’s. His fingers brush against Satoru’s skin, thick and warm, before wrapping around his hand in a gentle squeeze.
The pace is agonizing, but Satoru stays put, eyes flickering between Geto’s dull but dangerous gaze and the way their hands fit together.
“You know that, Go-jo?” Geto’s voice dips, drawing out his name in something so condescending yet inexplicably sweet to Satoru’s ears.
Oh, he needs this guy.
Before he can open his mouth, Geto takes control, guiding their hands up and down the length of his thigh, dragging Satoru’s palm over the thick fabric of his jeans. Satoru lets him, heat creeping up his neck.
He can’t believe he got this far—on a plane, of all places—but what else is he supposed to do? Sit here and stare at the seat in front of him for hours? Yeah, no. Not when this is an option.
Geto’s fingers tighten around his, shifting their touch inward, closer. Satoru catches the quick flicker of his teeth tugging at his lip, and damn, he almost misses it, but he sees.
Yeah, he definitely needs this guy.
Satoru presses his fingertips into Geto’s thigh, testing him, watching for a reaction. Geto doesn’t stop him. If anything, he leans into it, so casual, like they aren’t doing something ridiculous in public.
“I do,” Satoru finally answers, breathless. “But it seems you’re bolder than me.”
Geto hums, gaze unreadable as he ghosts Satoru’s hand higher, letting it hover just over his crotch.
Satoru, naturally, takes his time, grazing his fingers over the denim experimentally. Nothing. No twitch, no obvious reaction. A flicker of doubt creeps in—Is he small? Or just not into this?
It’s almost insulting. Who wouldn’t be hard for Satoru Gojo? Sure, he’s not at his absolute best at the moment, but Geto could at least give him that.
Satoru works open the buckle of Geto’s belt, finally dropping his gaze. Geto shifts the blanket aside, watching him with a lazy kind of interest. Satoru’s eyes flick between his face and the expensive belt he’s got on, fingers pausing at the clasp. He hesitates—not because he’s second guessing, but because he’s giving Geto a moment, a chance to change his mind if he wants to.
Geto doesn’t. He just watches, expectant.
So Satoru keeps going.
The belt comes undone with a soft clink, and he pops the button on Geto’s jeans, pulling down the zipper with slow precision. The fabric parts, revealing dark boxers beneath, and Satoru hesitates again, resting his fingers at the hem.
This time, Geto laughs. “You nervous?”
Satoru scoffs, rolling his eyes. “No.”
Yeah. Okay. Maybe a little. He didn’t wake up today expecting to jerk off a stranger on a flight, but whatever. Fuck it, we ball.
He tugs at the waistband of Geto’s boxers, glancing up at him. “Just wondering if you’ve got a micro.”
Geto grins, tilting his head in a way that feels way too confident for a man whose dick is still hidden. He shrugs. “Why don’t you find out for yourself?”
Satoru exhales sharply through his nose. Okay. He will. But if he’s disappointed, what then? Respectfully, small dicks just aren’t his thing.
At this angle, he can’t tell what Geto’s working with. There’s a dark trail of hair disappearing under his shirt, promising—but Satoru’s been fooled before. He lifts the hem of Geto’s shirt, fingertips brushing over his stomach, feeling the slight flex beneath his touch.
“Better not be,” he mutters, moving lower.
He hooks his fingers under the waistband, giving one last glance at Geto, who simply lifts his hips in invitation. Satoru pulls his boxers down—and wow.
“Disappointed?” Geto murmurs.
Nope. Definitely not.
Well. Kind of.
Geto’s cock is huge—thick and heavy looking even while soft, the foreskin covering the flushed head—but it’s also soft. How is he still soft and Satoru is literally right here?!
Satoru stares, taking in the way it twitches under his gaze, as if acknowledging him, and—oh. That’s hot. His mouth goes dry.
He doesn’t answer Geto. Just reaches out and wraps his fingers around him, feeling the warmth of his skin, the weight of him in his palm.
Even like this, he’s dense, his cock resting heavy against Satoru’s hand. As he gives an experimental squeeze, he can feel it start to thicken, the shift of muscle and blood beneath his fingers as it stirs to life.
Satoru flicks his gaze back up, mildly annoyed. “’M not pretty enough for you or something?”
Geto leans back in his seat, looking as relaxed as ever, voice slow and teasing. “You’re gorgeous.”
His cock twitches in Satoru’s grip as he says it. Like it agrees with him.
Satoru rolls his eyes. Yeah, whatever.
His attention snaps back down because—fuck, this thing is growing. He can feel it pulsing in his palm, swelling with every slow pump of blood, stretching against his fingers as it thickens.
It’s huge, getting heavier, getting harder, the girth of it expanding in his hold. The veins running along the shaft are so pronounced, so defined now that his cock is coming to life.
And Satoru watches it happen, utterly transfixed.
He starts to stroke, slow and deliberate, taking his time feeling it all—the silkiness of Geto’s skin, the heat radiating from him, the way he twitches every time Satoru tightens his grip just a little.
And still, it feels like he’s growing.
Like he just keeps getting bigger.
Satoru lets out a slow exhale through his nose, lips pressed into a firm line as he takes it all in. He strokes and strokes, watching the way Geto’s stomach flexes beneath his half-rolled-up shirt. His muscles tighten with every movement of Satoru’s hand, his abs tensing like he’s trying to keep himself together.
Satoru flicks a glance up at him again, and God, Geto looks good.
His eyes keep fluttering, struggling to stay focused on Satoru, but they flick between his hand and his face like he doesn’t know where he wants to look more. His lashes tremble every time Satoru’s thumb presses into the thick vein running up the underside of his cock, his throat bobbing with shallow swallows as he struggles to keep quiet.
There’s something about that—about how composed Geto had seemed before this, how smooth and effortless his confidence was, and how it’s slipping now, melting at the edges.
Satoru likes that.
A lot.
Geto is still alert, though. When Satoru isn’t watching him, Geto’s eyes flick around, scanning the dim cabin, making sure they aren’t being watched.
The quiet hum of the plane is constant in the background, the soft snores of sleeping passengers filling the otherwise still air. The anxiety of doing this in such a public place lingers at the edges of Satoru’s mind.
That is until Geto’s jaw suddenly slackens, mouth falling open with a breathy exhale.
The sound is so soft, so quiet, but fuck, the sight of it, the rawness of it, makes something clench tight in Satoru’s stomach.
He looks back down just in time to see the way his fingertips squeeze around the head of Geto’s cock, milking the first bead of precum from the tip. It’s warm and thick, smearing over Satoru’s skin as he rubs his fingers over the flushed tip, spreading it around.
“That’s good,” Geto whispers.
His voice is so low, so intimate, and something about the way he says it, the weight of the words, makes Satoru’s stomach flip. Makes his clit throb.
Fuck.
He shifts in his seat, thighs pressing together as discreetly as he can, but the ache is there. It’s heavy, pulsing between his legs with each stroke of his hand, each quiet sound Geto makes.
He needs friction.
Needs something.
Satoru licks his lips, watching as more precum beads at Geto’s slit, thick and glossy. He presses his thumb against it, rubbing slow, lazy circles into the wetness, watching the way Geto’s stomach tenses in response.
Geto lets out a quiet breath, his lips parting. His hand flexes on the seat, fingers twitching like he wants to grab something, to hold onto something.
Satoru smirks. “What, you wanna touch me that bad?”
Geto’s eyes flick up to meet his, half-lidded, dark with something unreadable. Then, without a word, he lifts his hand—moves it over to Satoru’s thigh, palm pressing firm against the muscle.
Satoru sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth.
Geto doesn’t move right away, just rests his hand there, warm and grounding, like he’s waiting to see if Satoru will stop him. When Satoru (obviously) doesn’t, Geto slides his palm higher.
It’s slow. Deliberate.
And Satoru feels everything.
The rough drag of his fingers against the fabric of his pants, the heat of his palm as it presses between his thighs, the way he squeezes just slightly, feeling the way Satoru’s legs tense under his touch.
Satoru lets out a shaky exhale.
Geto smirks.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, voice smug, “I think you want it more than me.”
Satoru scoffs, tightening his grip on Geto’s cock, making his smirk falter for just a second. “Yeah? And you’re leaking.”
Geto chuckles softly, his fingers flexing against Satoru’s inner thigh.
“Touché.”
His hand inches closer, fingertips teasing along the seam of Satoru’s pants. And fuck, Satoru wants him to move faster, wants him to just do something, but Geto takes his time, barely ghosting his touch over the fabric.
“You’re wet, aren’t you?” Geto whispers.
Satoru swallows, his throat suddenly dry.
Geto hums, low and knowing. His fingers press just slightly into the heat between Satoru’s thighs, feeling the warmth through the fabric, the way Satoru shifts into his touch, needy.
“You like touching me that much?” he teases.
Satoru glares at him, cheeks heating. “Shut up.”
Geto chuckles again, but he doesn’t push it. Instead, he leans in, just enough that Satoru can feel the warmth of his breath against his ear.
“You should go faster,” he murmurs.
His words send a shiver down Satoru’s spine.
And yeah, he definitely needs that friction. Now.
Satoru moves his hand faster, the slick, wet sounds of Geto’s cock in his grip making his stomach tighten with need.
He doesn’t even need to spit on his hand.
Geto is leaking so much, dripping over his fingers, smearing precum across his palm with every stroke. God, that’s so hot. He doesn’t even know this man’s favorite color yet here he is, cock drooling all over his fingers.
The wet sounds, the heat of Geto in his grip, the way Geto’s breath stutters—it’s all doing it for him, sending electric jolts down his spine, making his thighs squeeze together instinctively.
And then there’s Geto, working at the button of his pants with just one hand, the other pulling back to grab the blanket and drape it over both their laps. Satoru feels his own breath catch, feels the sharp anticipation crawl under his skin.
“Hurry up. Hurry up,” he tumbles out, voice breathy, frantic. Touch me, touch me, touch me.
Geto complies.
His hand slips into Satoru’s pants, fingers dipping past the waistband of his panties with no hesitation. And—ouu, fuck, yes, yes, yes.
Satoru trembles the second Geto touches him, fingers finding his clit with such immediate precision that it makes his whole body jolt. His back arches just slightly off the seat, hips tilting into Geto’s hand on instinct.
Geto’s fingers don’t stay there long, though. They slide lower, pressing into the soaked hole between his lips, collecting the slick there before coming back up. And fuck, Satoru can barely keep himself still when Geto starts rubbing his clit in slow, tight circles.
His breath stutters, face twisting with pleasure as his thighs tense, every muscle in his body winding up, coiling tighter and tighter.
“Fuck,” he whines, barely able to hold back the sound.
Too loud.
Geto hushes him quickly, eyes darting around to make sure no one heard. “Too loud,” he whispers, his fingers slowing down, teasing, pulling back just enough to make Satoru’s stomach drop.
Satoru almost whines again, almost begs, almost loses it.
“Keep going,” he pleads, voice barely above a breath. “I’ll be quiet. Please.”
Geto hums, looks at him like he’s considering it.
And then he does.
Satoru bites his lip, trying to hold in every noise bubbling up in his throat. It’s hard. It’s so fucking hard because Geto’s fingers are moving so well, so perfectly, rubbing just right, pressing just enough. His touch is slow and deliberate, dragging pleasure out of Satoru’s body like he knows exactly what he needs.
Satoru grips his wrist, squeezing tight, not to stop him, but just to hold on. His other hand is still wrapped around Geto’s cock, still stroking, still working, but his brain is fuzzy now, thoughts scattering, getting lost in the haze of his own pleasure.
His lips part, a desperate thought slipping out before he can stop it.
“Kiss me,” he breathes. “Please kiss me. Will you?”
Geto doesn’t hesitate.
He leans in and takes his mouth, kissing him slow and deep, like he has all the time in the world, like he isn’t lazily rubbing circles into Satoru’s clit and making him tremble.
It starts off as soft whimpers, he just can’t help them. Geto’s tongue opens his mouth up, diving deep probably in an attempt to quiet him.
Satoru moans as quietly as he can against his lips, the sound swallowed up between them, lost in the warmth of Geto’s mouth.
“You’re so loud,” Geto hisses when he pulls back, a thin line of spit still connecting their lips. Satoru doesn’t even hesitate—he follows it with his tongue, licking at Geto’s lower lip like he can’t stand to be apart for even a second.
“How do I shut you up, hm?” Geto murmurs, voice low, teasing.
Satoru pouts. He likes the way he sounds, thinks he’s got a downright beautiful set of lungs, actually. But he knows that’s not the issue here. And, lucky for them both, he definitely knows how to keep himself quiet.
His eyes flick around, scanning the dark cabin for any sign of life before he shifts lower, pressing down against Geto’s thigh.
“Oh?” Geto hums, amusement threading through his voice as Satoru ducks under the blanket, his face now dangerously close to what he wants most.
God, even from here, he smells so good.
Satoru doesn’t waste time. His lips wrap around Geto’s cock in an instant, the warmth of his mouth swallowing him up with a slow, eager slide. Above him, Geto’s breath hitches, but his hand doesn’t slow down, fingers still working Satoru’s clit with practiced precision.
The moan Satoru lets out is filthy, muffled by Geto’s tip pressing against his tongue. He tastes good, smells even better, and the sheer size of him has Satoru’s jaw aching already. He gags as he forces himself down further, mouth stretching wide around the thick length, trying to take as much as he can.
Geto doesn’t make much noise, but his body tells the whole damn story—the way his cock twitches in Satoru’s mouth, the slow roll of his hips as he pushes deeper, testing the limits of Satoru’s throat.
Satoru wishes he could look up at him right now, see the expression on his face, the way his lashes might flutter when he bites back a moan.
Then Geto’s hips jerk again, stuffing his cock deeper down Satoru’s throat, making him choke. And just as he does, those thick fingers bully their way inside his pussy.
“Oh, fuck,” Satoru sobs around his cock, his hips twitching up to chase the relentless stroke of Geto’s fingers, gasping and drooling and slurping like a total mess. It’s awkward, cramped, but Geto still manages to hit the exact right spot—he’s so fucking good at this, it’s unfair.
“Good… s’good…” Geto praises in a hushed voice, like he can’t help but let it slip.
And god, Satoru lives for the praise.
He hollows his cheeks hard, suctioning around the sensitive tip while his hand works the rest, his free one rolling Geto’s balls in his palm.
The groan Geto lets out is so deep, so thoroughly wrecked, Satoru can feel it vibrate through his stomach.
Suddenly, fingers tangle in his hair, shoving him all the way down on Geto’s cock just as the hand between his legs moves away too.
Satoru doesn’t even have time to protest before—
“Are you doing alright, sir? Need anything?”
A fucking flight attendant.
His entire body stiffens, a pit forming in his stomach. He forces himself to breathe through his nose, fighting against the urge to gag. He’s good at sucking dick, but not that fucking good!
“I’m alright. Thank you, though,” Geto replies smoothly, voice so calm, so casual, Satoru could scream.
“Is your friend okay?” the flight attendant asks.
Oh, fuck.
Satoru feels panic creep up his spine. Please don’t move the blanket, please don’t move the blanket—
“Ah. Yes,” Geto says, stroking Satoru’s head over the blanket like he’s a pet. “He’s not feeling well. He wears glasses and forgot them—something about eye strain.”
Satoru would roll his eyes if they weren’t currently watering. But okay. Not the worst excuse.
The woman chuckles like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “I understand. My grandmother is the same way. Let me know if you guys need anything.”
The dull thud of her heels fades as she walks off, and Geto holds Satoru down for just a moment longer—
Until, fuck, Satoru feels warmth flood the back of his throat.
Geto’s cock pulses hard in his mouth, thick and heavy as he spills down Satoru’s throat.
Satoru tries to pull back, really does, but there’s no escaping it now. He can only squeeze his eyes shut and swallow as best he can, taking everything Geto gives him.
Satoru jerks back, coughing and gasping, his throat still working through the aftermath of Geto’s orgasm. His eyes are watering, his chest heaving, and he’s barely caught his breath when Geto starts patting his back like he’s a damn choking toddler.
“Sorry. I didn’t even notice until she walked up.” Geto rubs slow, soothing circles over his spine, but his voice is all humorous. His other hand comes up, thumb swiping across Satoru’s bottom lip, tugging it down slightly. “That mouth of yours is so good.”
And just like that, Satoru forgives him.
Because, okay, yeah. He is the greatest. And yeah, that was probably the best head he’s ever given in his life. The praise goes straight to his head—well, head and clit, if he’s being honest.
He’s still panting, still buzzing from the adrenaline of nearly getting caught, still dripping into his ruined underwear when Geto leans in, hand gripping his thigh and lips brushing the shell of his ear.
“You gonna let me fuck you?”
Satoru nearly sputters, snapping his head up to stare at him.
First of all, when?
Second of all—really? Where? Here?! Now?!?
… The answer is yes. Immediately, yes.
“Yeah,” Satoru breathes, voice hushed. Then, a little more grounded, “When?”
Because maybe Geto means after their flight. Maybe he means once they land, and they can get a hotel for the night. Maybe Satoru can go home with him—okay, maybe not. He just met the guy.
But still.
He knows it’s gonna be good. Geto’s too hot, too confident, too good with his hands for it not to be.
The way he properly gripped his hair—not just yanking like some clueless idiot. The way he held him down, the controlled strength in his grip. The way his fingers moved so precisely inside him, like he already knew exactly where to press. His lips—fuck.
No. He can’t wait. He has to fuck this guy now.
Satoru shifts in his seat, feeling how soaked he is, how his panties stick uncomfortably to his pussy. But how? Here? It’s too risky. Not just risky—uncomfortable. He’ll probably throw out his back trying to make it work.
And then it clicks.
“The bathroom.”
“In the bathroom.”
They say it at the same time, their eyes locking, pupils blown.
Satoru breaks into a grin. Geto smirks right back.
“Let’s go. Now. Before somebody notices.” Satoru blurts, tugging on Geto’s wrist with one hand while the other frantically tries to button up his jeans.
Geto chuckles, stopping him with a squeeze of his hand. “Just wait. Look.” He nods toward the aisle, eyes flicking to a flight attendant nearby. “She’s about to move.”
Satoru follows his gaze, narrowing his eyes. He wills her—begs her—to get the fuck on so they can get their fuck on.
And just like that, as if she heard him, she disappears down the aisle.
Satoru whips his head around. Nobody around them is awake. The ones who are don’t care, lost in their own world.
Satoru grins.
They’re so fucking doing this.
Satoru turns back to Geto, who’s already on his feet.
“Come ten seconds after me,” he whispers against Satoru’s ear before slipping away, moving smoothly through the rows of seats like he’s done this a hundred times before.
Satoru watches him disappear into the bathroom, then takes a deep breath.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Sixseveneightnineten—
He’s up in an instant, shuffling quickly down the aisle, ignoring the way his legs feel like jelly. He reaches the bathroom, glances around once, then opens the door and squeezes in beside Geto.
It’s cramped. This has to be the tiniest bathroom in the world.
“Hi,” Geto murmurs, watching Satoru fumble with his pants like a man on a mission.
Then he’s pulling Satoru in, arms locking around him as their mouths crash together. The kiss is immediate, messy, hungry, Geto’s tongue pressing inside like he wants to devour him. His hand slides down, covering Satoru’s, feeling the urgency in his fingers as they work at his zipper.
Satoru shoves his pants down just enough, letting his cunt breathe, while Geto’s hand is already back where it belongs, cupping him through his soaked panties.
The kiss deepens, grows filthier now that they don’t have to worry about being seen. Satoru gets Geto’s cock out in a rush, wrapping his fingers around it, feeling the heat of it throb against his palm.
Geto groans against his lips, his free hand gripping Satoru’s ass, yanking him closer like he’s trying to mold their bodies together. But as much as they want this, the space is working against them. They’re both big guys—tall, broad-shouldered, and this tight little excuse for a bathroom is not built for two, barely even one.
Still, Satoru really, really, really wants to fuck him.
“Fuck me good,” he gasps against Geto’s lips, feeling his thick fingers work their way inside, stretching him open. “Fuck me really good, okay?”
“I will,” Geto groans, pulling his fingers from Satoru’s cunt and bringing them to his mouth.
Satoru watches, transfixed, as Geto sucks them in—slow, deliberate, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction. Fuck. That might be the hottest thing he’s ever seen.
Then Geto’s other hand is spinning him around, gripping his hips like he owns them. He yanks Satoru’s pants down to his knees, panties slipping with them, and pulls him in close.
Geto’s cock throbs against Satoru’s ass before he adjusts, sliding it between his thighs instead. Satoru moans quietly as Geto grinds between them, the movement inadvertently rubbing against his slick folds.
“You taste amazing,” Geto groans into his ear, arms wrapping around Satoru’s torso, hands roaming beneath his shirt, exploring the soft skin of his stomach.
“So do you,” Satoru breathes back, rolling his hips against him, trying to guide the head of Geto’s cock to catch—
And it does, with Geto’s help.
The stretch burns when Geto sinks in, his girth making Satoru feel like he’s being split open, even with how slowly he’s moving.
“Soo—ohhh,” Satoru moans, voice pitching high—
Geto immediately slaps a hand over his mouth.
“Absolutely not. You have to shut the fuck up,” he hisses in his ear, punctuating it with a deep, rough thrust.
Satoru wants to cry out, but he can’t. He wants this too much, needs it too much, more than anything in the world right now. If he doesn’t stay quiet, Geto will stop, and he can’t have that.
As much as he wants to sass Geto—say it nicer, and I’ll think about it—he swallows his pride and nods.
Geto kisses the sensitive spot just below his ear before rewarding him with a sharp thrust.
“You’re so wet, yet so fucking tight. Can barely move,” Geto groans.
Satoru’s eyes roll back at the heat of his words (and his cock), and he fights the urge to scream. That’s so fucking good.
Geto sets an easy pace, just for a moment—like he’s giving Satoru a warning. Get ready.
Satoru bounces back on him instantly, daring him. Do it. Fuck me. Fuck me for real.
He wishes he’d heeded the warning.
Geto starts fucking into him mercilessly—precise, deep, and fuck, fuck, fuck. Satoru’s jaw goes slack under Geto’s palm, his body damn near going limp. A silent moan claws its way up his throat, straining as he takes. And takes. And takes.
“Fuck, Gojo.”
God, the way he says his name.
“Your pussy’s drooling. All over me. Down your fucking leg—do you feel that?”
Geto huffs a laugh, his pace unrelenting. “I’ve never seen that before. Am I doing this to you?”
Obviously. Not like Satoru could say that, not when he’s getting the absolute hell fucked out of him.
“Are you always this wet?” Geto muses, voice thick with amusement and something darker. “God, I wanna find out.”
The words ignite something in Satoru, and he starts meeting Geto’s thrusts again, whimpering as quietly as he can, hoping to get his message across. Yes, please keep fucking me. You can find out. You can find out as much as you’d like.
With what little brain power he has left, Satoru makes a mental note to give Geto his number. Maybe they’ll get off the plane and head straight to his place.
He doesn’t care anymore.
He’s having the time of his fucking life.
And after this, he can’t let him go.
Geto’s grip on Satoru’s thighs is firm, unwavering, controlling. He keeps him exactly where he wants, pulling him back onto his cock with every deep, deliberate thrust. Satoru lets him take full control, too caught up in the pleasure that courses through his body like an electric current.
And then fuck—Geto’s hand slides between his legs, rough fingers finding his clit and rubbing tight circles over it.
Satoru jerks forward, his forehead knocking against the cold, tiled wall as a choked sound escapes his throat—a poor attempt at a suppressed wail.
“Geto,” he hisses, voice thin and desperate.
Geto doesn’t slow down. If anything, he presses in closer, his chest flush against Satoru’s back as he sandwiches him against the wall.
His cock pushes impossibly deeper, ramming into him with a heat that burns through Satoru’s core, and he sobs, biting down on his lower lip to stop himself from screaming. His hands brace against the wall, fingers pressing into the surface like he’s trying to ground himself.
But there’s nothing grounding about this.
The slick, obscene sounds of their bodies meeting echo through the tiny bathroom, mixing with their ragged breaths and muffled moans. It’s fucking filthy. It’s fucking perfect.
Satoru tries to speak, but his voice comes out broken, barely a whisper. “Can… f-feel… you…”
Geto hums against his neck, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin there. He’s breathing heavily too, but he’s so much better at controlling himself. Keeping quiet. Keeping composed.
Meanwhile, Satoru is unraveling, falling apart in his hands.
It’s not fair.
“Can feel you…” Satoru tries again, only to be cut off by another sharp moan. He can’t hold them in anymore, doesn’t have the strength for it. His thighs tremble and his knees feel weak, his whole body shuddering as his orgasm builds fast, coiling tight in his gut. He just needs a little more.
“Fuck, I can feel you in my throat—”
His voice cracks into a whine, louder than he intended. Geto groans, his hips stuttering for a second before he regains his rhythm. The hand on Satoru’s clit doesn’t slow, doesn’t falter. Instead, his other hand moves up, tracing along Satoru’s jaw before gripping it firmly.
“What, in here?” Geto murmurs, his voice low and teasing, dripping with amusement.
And then—without warning—he shoves three fingers into Satoru’s mouth.
Satoru doesn’t even hesitate. His lips close around them, sucking eagerly, tongue swirling around the digits like it’s second nature. Geto makes a noise of approval, a deep rumble in his chest, and fuck, Satoru can feel it vibrate through him.
He doesn’t get a chance to react further before Geto fucks into him harder, faster, his thrusts gaining an edge of desperation. Each one punches the air out of Satoru’s lungs, forces his body to jolt against the wall.
His moans are muffled by Geto’s fingers, his noises wet and desperate as he drools around them.
“You’re so fucking messy,” Geto breathes, voice thick and husky, pressing his forehead to the back of Satoru’s neck. “So goddamn loud, too. You want someone to hear us, huh?”
Satoru whimpers, shaking his head, but Geto only chuckles.
“Liar.”
He presses in deeper, cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside him, sending sparks of pleasure shooting up Satoru’s spine. His clit is throbbing under Geto’s relentless fingers, heat pooling low in his stomach.
He’s close. So fucking close.
Geto must feel it, must know it, because his pace doesn’t let up for a second. He pulls his fingers from Satoru’s mouth, leaving his lips glossy with spit, and tilts his head back instead, forcing him to meet his gaze.
“You gonna cum for me, baby?” he murmurs, lips brushing against Satoru’s cheek. “I can feel you squeezing me so fucking tight. You’re right there, aren’t you?”
Satoru nods frantically, his vision blurring as his climax forcibly crashes into him. His whole body locks up before shattering, pleasure exploding through every nerve as his orgasm slams into him like a tidal wave. He comes with a silent cry, his mouth hanging open, his entire body convulsing as his cunt clenches hard around Geto’s cock.
Geto groans, his grip on Satoru’s jaw tightening as he thrusts through the aftershocks.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he rasps, his voice strained, like he’s holding back. “God, you’re so fucking pretty. Perfect”
Satoru’s legs nearly give out, but Geto keeps him upright, pressing him against the wall as he chases his own release. His grip tightens, forcing Satoru to meet his gaze.
“Keep looking at me.”
Satoru barely manages, his vision hazy, body trembling, but he does. His lashes flutter, breath hitching, but he keeps his eyes open, watching Geto fall apart.
It doesn’t take long.
A few more rough, deep thrusts, and Geto curses, his body shuddering against Satoru’s back as he pulls out, spilling hot and messy between his pussy lips. Warm, sticky—it drips down his thighs, and Geto groans as he rubs it in, sliding back inside with a slow, deliberate grind. His hips twitch, still throbbing from the aftershocks, and he bites down on Satoru’s shoulder, low and breathless.
The way he keeps moving, dragging his cock through the oversensitive clutch of Satoru’s walls, it’s too much. It’s perfect. Satoru’s fingers find his clit, rubbing quick and desperate, chasing another high. He can come again, right here, just like this.
When Geto tries to pull back, Satoru clenches down hard, refusing to let him go. The noise Geto makes—a choked up gasp, half a laugh—is wrecked, dizzy with pleasure.
Geto’s eyes darken as realization sets in. “Greedy. Greedy little thing,” he murmurs, voice thick, teasing, but Satoru barely hears him over the rush in his ears. He half-grins, but then—oh fuck—Geto starts moving again.
“Are you still hard?” Satoru breathes, barely managing the words. It’s a stupid question—he knows the answer—but he wants confirmation, needs to know if he can have more.
Geto huffs a laugh, shaky and fond. “Mhm. Go ahead, let me see you. Make a mess for me.” His voice is all heat, all ruin, as his gaze flickers over Satoru’s face—glossy eyes, parted lips, flushed cheeks, utterly wrecked for him.
And oh, a mess does Satoru make. His whole body seizes up, trembling violently between the wall and Geto, his fingers working faster, harder, until another climax hits him like a lightning strike.
His pussy clenches around Geto’s cock, dragging another groan from him, and a wail builds in Satoru’s throat before Geto’s fingers press against his lips. He bites down, muffling his own cry, panting against Geto’s skin as pleasure wracks through him.
“Pretty,” Geto coos, voice softer now, full of something dangerously close to admiration. “Such a pretty, pretty boy.” He eases out of him, slow and careful, watching as Satoru shudders through the aftershocks, his pussy still spasming, slick and spent.
For a long moment, neither of them move. The only sound is their harsh, uneven breathing, filling the tiny space.
Then, Geto presses a slow, lingering kiss to Satoru’s neck, his hands sliding over his stomach, holding him close.
Satoru blinks, slowly coming back to himself, and lets out a breathless laugh.
“Well,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. “That was… holy shit.”
Geto huffs a quiet chuckle, his lips still against Satoru’s skin.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Holy shit.”
They stay like that for a second, warm and tangled, before reality inevitably creeps back in.
Satoru sighs. “Okay, so. Are we actually gonna walk back out there and pretend we didn’t just fuck in an airplane bathroom?”
Geto smirks against his shoulder. “Depends. Think you can keep a straight face?”
Satoru scoffs. “Please. I’m so good at acting innocent.”
Geto hums, clearly unconvinced. “Mm. Sure you are.”
Satoru turns his head to look at him, grinning. “Hey. This was your idea.”
Geto raises an eyebrow. “First of all it was both our ideas. Secondly, I’m pretty sure you were the one bouncing back on my dick like you wanted the entire plane to know.”
Satoru gasps, scandalized. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing!”
Geto laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah, okay. Come on, brat. Let’s clean up and get out of here before we actually get caught.”
Satoru groans but doesn’t argue.
As they freshen up and prepare to step back out into the world like nothing happened, Satoru remembers his mental note:
Give Geto his number!!!
Because he’s not letting this be a one-time thing.
Satoru drops into his seat first, exhaling as his body finally catches up with him. The adrenaline, the rush, the sheer thrill of what they just did—it all settles into a deep, pulsing exhaustion now that he’s sitting down.
His legs feel like jelly, his skin is still buzzing, and best worst of all, Geto’s cum is still warm between his pussy lips, making every slight shift in his seat a sticky, frustrating reminder of what just happened. He resists the urge to squirm.
Geto arrives a moment later, sliding into the seat beside him like nothing’s changed. He’s composed, collected—like he didn’t just fuck Satoru into near delirium in a cramped airplane bathroom. He tosses the blanket over both of them in a single smooth motion, barely even looking at Satoru as he does it, and that? That pisses Satoru off.
He huffs, shifting again—fuck, that feels messy—and finally just says what’s on his mind.
“Give me your number.”
Geto raises a brow, finally glancing at him. “Yeah?”
Satoru stares at him like he’s an idiot. Because he is an idiot.
“Duh. You don’t wanna do that again?”
Geto holds his gaze for a long moment, then—without a hint of hesitation—shakes his head. “No. I don’t.”
Satoru’s stomach drops so fast he feels it in his ass.
“…Oh.”
It’s pathetic, really. The way the word just falls out of his mouth, awkward and small, like he’s not the one who initiated this whole thing.
Like he didn’t just get fucked within an inch of his life in an airplane bathroom only to be rejected minutes later.
Embarrassment creeps up his spine, heating his face.
Was it… not good?
No, fuck that, of course it was. He was. Geto was into it, he knows he was. He might not have begged, but he definitely wasn’t indifferent. So what the hell is this? Some weird post-nut clarity shit?
He’s seconds away from folding his arms and pouting like a brat when Geto suddenly turns back, clicking a pen open and holding out his hand.
“Let’s do it in a bed next time,” he says, like he didn’t just emotionally whiplash the hell out of Satoru. “Mile High Club isn’t for me.”
Satoru stares at him, trying to process that. The fuck kind of dramatic ass statement was that? He’s really just gonna leave it at that?
But then the embarrassment and confusion slip away as fast as they came, replaced with something light and bright and pleased. His lips stretch into a wide grin, stomach flipping for a different reason now.
“Hell yeah,” he breathes, shoving his hand into Geto’s.
Geto smiles fondly before scribbling his number onto Satoru’s palm. He caps the pen with a soft click, then takes Satoru’s hand, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to his knuckles.
Satoru barely has time to process the warmth of Geto’s lips against his skin before exhaustion slams into him like a truck.
The rush, the tension, the satisfaction—it all drains out of him at once, leaving behind a deep, aching fatigue. His body is heavy, his limbs feel loose, and the second he leans back against the headrest, he knows he’s done for.
Geto pulls the blanket up a little higher, like he knows, shifting just enough to get comfortable, and Satoru lets his eyes slip shut. The hum of the plane, the warmth of Geto beside him, the quiet comfort of having exactly what he wanted—it’s enough to lull him under.
He knocks out completely, barely stirring for the rest of the flight.