Chapter Text
If there was one thing Satoru Gojo knew, it was how to wrap men around his finger.
He may sound arrogant saying that, but he didn’t feel like it was arrogant if he could back it up. Satoru dealt with a lot– stressful job, time-consuming paperwork, nieces and nephews who needed never ending help and advice, expecting him to know all the answers. So when it comes to sex, he didn’t want to deal with any frivolity or unnecessary worry. Get in, get what he needs, get out. About halfway through his twenties, he realized that was a lot easier when the men he was fucking were obsessed with him. If he could get the guy in front of him willing to do anything for him, then his success rate for great hookups went through the roof.
It only took him a few dates to start getting the hang of it; Most of the time all he needed to do was bat those baby blue eyes and white eyelashes he was blessed with (all natural, much to some men's surprise) and that sealed the deal. Maybe he’d have to make a suggestive comment here or there, but you catch on pretty quick to what certain types of guys want to hear to really get them going.
So having never failed at getting what he wanted from his hookups in over two years… Yeah, he was pretty happy with his capability to get a man to do whatever he wanted. It wasn't arrogance, it was confidence. Satoru Gojo could make any man fall to his knees and follow his every instruction.
So why– how –did he find himself tied and squirming under a man who showed no signs of giving in?!
The night had started the same as all his nights out usually did, with Satoru purposefully sitting alone at a bar and looking just the right amount of sad. He swirled the remnants in his glass–no alcohol, he couldn’t stand the stuff, but he loved a good shirley temple– and angling his body in a way that poked his ass out a little on the barstool, the barely-there jean shorts’ waistband riding a little lower to let the edge of a lacy pair of pastel pink underwear peek out. He’d worn a satin button up of the same color, tying it in a knot to form a crop top of sorts.
He had his routine down to a science. It almost never failed, and tonight was no exception. It barely took five minutes before a slender man came up to him. Satoru wouldn’t call him handsome, but he wasn’t the worst to look at, so he smiled when the man sat down next to him, and laughed prettily at all his jokes. This one was going to be easy, Satoru could tell.
He was mid-giggle, pretending something tonight's conquest had said was funny, when a low voice behind him spoke.
“Excuse me.” The words sent a shiver down Satoru’s spine, and he whipped his head around to get a look at the owner of the whiskey-smooth voice– And fuck if the man standing there wasn’t one of the hottest Satoru had seen in a long, long time.
The mystery hunk was dressed in a pair of dress shoes, black slacks, and a matching black dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up on his forearms– forearms that showcased corded muscles and a singular prominent vein that made Satoru’s mouth water immediately. His inky hair was swept into a clear bun, displaying a row of earrings down the sides of both ears, gauges in each lobe. And his face—god, his face —looked like that of a model.
Tall-dark-and-handsome reached around Satoru, grabbing a drink the bartender had just set down, and all it took was that split second for him to switch gears. He turned away from the previous man he’d been talking to, waving him off and stating that he wasn’t interested before turning his full attention to the walking wet dream in front of him.
“Hey there, I’m Satoru.” The man looked over, his eyes roving down Satoru’s body, then back up, his eyebrows raising the slightest bit.
“Hello.” The tone was polite, a bit clipped, but that didn’t deter Satoru.
“Well, aren’t you going to tell me yours?” He propped his chin on his hand, giggling a little and smiling at the man.
“Geto.” Not much of a talker, huh? That was fine, Satoru could handle that. He leaned forward a bit, letting one shoulder of his shirt slide a bit, his collar bone peeking out more.
“Nice to meet you, Geto.” Satoru looked up through his lashes, glad he’d decided to wear his white mascara today. Not that his eyes weren’t already attractive on their own, but the added length really nudged them from pretty to captivating . “You’re dressed awfully fancy for a place like this. What brings you here?”
Satoru watches Geto pick his drink up, something dark in a whiskey glass with an orange in it, and take a small sip. The bobbing of his adams apple as he swallowed made Satoru’s shorts tighten in a delicious way.
“I had a business meeting, and this just happened to be the first place that popped up when I searched online.” His face was calm and collected, like he wasn’t really interested—and Satoru would’ve left him alone… except for the fact that he watched Geto’s eyes glance down at the skin his shirt revealed before his eyes flicked back up.
It was fast. If Satoru had blinked, he could’ve missed it, but alas the stars had aligned and whatever gods present above were looking out for him, so Satoru did not miss the swift action. The sight was enough to make the corner of his mouth curl up into the tiniest smirk. It had been a while since he’d had a challenge, and while he normally would just go to the nearest not-half-bad guy and slip into the bathroom for a quickie, for Geto– for Geto he would play the game.
“A business meeting? Sounds important. What do you do?” His tongue flicks out to the rim of his glass before he takes a sip, pleased to see Geto’s eyes follow the motion.
He hesitates just a second before answering. “I’m a literary professor at Kyoto University.”
“Oh wow, an intellectual.” Satoru smiles sweetly. “What type of books do you teach about?”
“I specialize in comparative mythology, gothic literature, and the evolution of eroticism in classical texts.” A slightly smug tone seeps into his voice, as if he doesn’t expect Satoru to know what any of those words mean, and while the option to make a joke about the eroticism in classical texts is right there , Satoru refrains. He can tell Geto is a man that would better be swayed with a smooth tongue and sharp wit, rather than obvious sexual jokes.
Satoru has never been happier in his life that his parents forced him through years of advanced schooling, often including plenty of classical and mythological literature—It was truly just the cherry on top that Satoru had chosen to read gothic works in his free time purely out of enjoyment for the odd genre.
“Wow, that’s amazing, Geto. You seem really…” He lets his voice trail, like he’s searching for a word he doesn’t plan to find. His lashes lower as he takes a sip, letting silence tease at the edge of suggestion. “...passionate about it.”
Geto hums. “It keeps me busy.”
Satoru tilts his head, lips pursed thoughtfully. “So all that—mythology, gothic whatever, eroticism in old books—that all sounds very… niche. ”
“It is,” Geto replies smoothly. “But the best things usually are. Niche. Specific. Unafraid of being misunderstood.”
Satoru raises a brow, playing innocent. “I mean, I’ve heard of some of it. I think we read A Tale of Two Cities in high school?” He pauses, all curious lilt. “Is that the kind of thing you teach?”
There’s the tiniest flicker of amusement in Geto’s expression, like he’s indulging a child. “Dickens is more classical than gothic. But yes, I’ve taught it before. It’s a tragedy, really. Dreadfully depressing.”
“Really?” Satoru blinks, playing dumb just well enough to make it believable. “I thought it was supposed to be a romance.”
“Romance?” Geto scoffs quietly into his drink. “The main character was a drunk. A failure of a man who knew the only worthwhile thing he could do in life was die for someone better. He threw himself at the guillotine because death was the only meaningful contribution he could offer. That’s not love. That’s… shame, disguised as sacrifice.”
There’s a beat of silence. Satoru sets his drink down gently.
“But it was because Sydney loved Lucie, no?” Then, softly, “And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire.”
Geto stills. His gaze lifts, eyes narrowing slightly—not in suspicion, but recalibration at the direct quote from the classic novel.
Satoru only smiles, slow and sly, like he’s letting Geto see the edges of something he hadn’t known to look for.
“You’ve read it,” Geto says finally, voice low.
Satoru shrugs one shoulder. “I did say they made me read it in highschool, didn’t I?”
“An assignment in high school does not usually amount to one being able to directly quote lines from the novel.”
“Maybe I really enjoyed it.” Satoru takes another sip of his drink.
“You just… didn’t strike me as the type.” Satoru is pleased to see the familiar gleam in the man's eyes–the one that tells him he’s got Geto on his hook, and now he just has to carefully reel him in.
“Judging a book by its cover, professor?” he tuts, the word professor like velvet in his mouth. “I’ve read plenty. And I quite enjoyed most of what graced my personal library. Though if you’d really like to get me talking, I did always enjoy a good gothic novel.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Deadly.” Satoru giggles at his own joke.
“Well then, what is your favorite?” Geto looks at Satoru expectantly as he hums and taps his chin.
“Well, you put me in a tight spot here. It’s been a while since I’ve had an actual conversation about something other than the weather and surface politics. It’s so hard to choose…Though I always had a soft spot for The Picture of Dorian Gray.”
Geto blinks once, then leans back slightly in his chair. “Huh.”
“What?” Satoru’s eyes flick up sharply, playfulness already sliding into a challenge. “Too basic for your dark academic tastes?”
“I wouldn’t say basic, ” Geto replies carefully, though the tone suggests he might have. “But it’s a bit… indulgent. Don’t you think? The entire novel reads like a love letter to narcissism.”
Satoru gasps— genuinely gasps—like Geto has just kicked over a shrine. “Okay, rude. That’s kind of the point, isn’t it? Beauty, youth, art, desire—all taken to extremes until they rot. It’s not just indulgent, it’s tragic.”
He watches as Geto arches an eyebrow. “It’s about a man so obsessed with his own reflection he sells his soul to preserve it. How exactly is that tragic ?”
Satoru’s hands start moving as he talks, gesturing with his drink, his fingertips tracing invisible spirals in the air. “Because he knows it’s wrong. You can feel it—every time Dorian looks at the painting, he’s horrified. He’s disgusted with himself, but he keeps going because he doesn’t know how not to. He was beautiful, and everyone loved him for it , so how was he supposed to stop when that’s all anyone ever wanted from him?”
Satoru doesn’t notice Geto pause, watching Satoru speak, something unspoken shifting in the air between them. He can feel himself getting worked up now, but it’s been so long since he’s had a discussion of this academic level that he just can’t help himself, the words slipping out with a familiar spread of warmth and excitement.
He leans in now, voice lowering with intensity. “The tragedy isn’t that Dorian stayed young. It’s that no one ever really saw the painting until the end. No one ever saw him rot.”
Then, softly—almost absentmindedly, like the statement spilled from a deeper place: “I liked the part where he stabs the painting,” Satoru murmurs. “Even though he is the painting. It’s poetic, don’t you think? Wanting to destroy what you are, just because it finally reflected the truth.”
Geto’s lips part slightly, but no sound comes, the moment feeling too raw to speak into. His gaze is sharp, cutting, suddenly less amused and more… careful.
Satoru, still half lost in thought, gives a soft laugh and sips his drink. “Anyway. Bit more than narcissism, yeah?”
Geto tilts his head, thoughtful now. “You surprise me.”
“People tend to say that right before they fall in love with me,” Satoru says sweetly, fluttering his lashes in mock innocence.
But Geto doesn’t laugh. His gaze lingers, darker now. “You’ve read Wilde like a man looking in a mirror.”
Satoru feels his smile falter for a split second—just long enough to betray something—before he smooths it out again, all velvet charm.
“Maybe I just like pretty things,” he shrugs. “Even when they’re cracked.”
Geto doesn’t respond at first. He’s still watching Satoru—no, studying him now, like something just cracked open beneath the glimmer of white hair and careless charm. Satoru doesn’t mind being looked at. In fact, he leans into it, crossing his legs slowly, fingers tracing the rim of his glass as he gazes over it like a man who already knows the ending to the story.
“You know,” Geto says at last, voice quiet but heavy with implication, “I wasn’t planning to stay long.”
Satoru hums. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Yes,” Geto says. “But not in the way I mind.”
That earns him a smile—sharp and slow, curling like smoke. Satoru sets his empty glass on the bar with a click and leans forward, voice a whisper meant only for Geto to hear. “Are you inviting me somewhere, professor?”
Geto doesn’t blink. “Would you say yes if I did?”
“I said yes the moment you sat down.” Satoru grins, cocky and electric now, like a live wire wrapped in silk. “You’re just finally catching up.”
A silence stretches between them—hot, knowing. Geto finishes the last of his drink, then rises from his stool with a slow, deliberate grace that makes Satoru’s stomach flip.
“My place is just around the corner. Maybe a fifteen minute drive.”
“Oh?” Satoru follows him easily, too easily, like a shadow wrapped in moonlight. “No books, no wine, no tragic gothic metaphors first?”
Geto glances at him sideways, a small smirk ghosting his lips. “You’ve already quoted Dickens at me and psychoanalyzed Dorian Gray. I think you’ve earned a more… visceral ending.”
Satoru laughs, delighted, already walking beside him like he owns Geto. “Lead the way.”
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
The door clicks shut behind them with a finality that makes the air feel thicker.
Satoru steps in first, slow and casual like he owns the place, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat, eyes drifting across the room with mild curiosity—until they land on Geto. Then, they sharpen like a blade.
“Nice place,” he murmurs, taking in the clean lines, the shelves lined with spines in foreign languages, the faint scent of incense lingering in the air. “Very...you.”
Geto doesn’t answer. He’s watching Satoru again, the way he moves through the space like water poured into a glass, settling perfectly no matter the shape. He shrugs off his coat and drapes it over a nearby chair, and there’s something intimately domestic about it, something unsettlingly natural that it makes Satoru’s heart pick up pace.
Satoru turns, one eyebrow raised. “What? Regretting inviting me over already?”
Geto shakes his head, slow. “No.” He steps forward, closing the distance between them with the same quiet intensity he’s worn all night. When he speaks, his voice is lower now, touched with something darker, more raw.
“You just don’t look like anyone else when you’re not pretending.”
That stops Satoru, just for a second. The statement makes him shiver, feeling like liquid pouring over him and settling deep, exposing the cracks in his carefully polished mask.
Then he laughs—low, breathless, bright with challenge. “Careful, professor. Say things like that and I might start thinking you want to see more.”
Geto’s hand finds his wrist—not harsh, not demanding, but steady. “I do.”
Satoru tilts his head, lips parted in mock surprise, but his eyes flash with something deeper. “Then take your time.”
Satoru tilts his head up as Geto leans in, their lips touching in a slow and passionate kiss. It’s nice and all, but it’s not why Satoru went out tonight. He found himself his man, and he wrapped him around his finger. Get in, get what I need, get out. Step one proved to be a tad lengthier than usual, but now that he was here everything would move smoothly. He’d just have to take the reins a bit.
Satoru pushed forward, lips parting as his tongue swept deliberately over the seam of Geto’s mouth. He felt the subtle hitch of breath, the moment’s resistance before Geto gave way with a low hum and parted his lips.
There it is.
That quiet surrender was all the permission Satoru needed. He deepened the kiss, confident and smooth, one hand sliding up the plane of Geto’s chest to curl behind his neck, the other slipping under the hem of his shirt, fingertips skimming warm skin.
It was hot. Slow. A little dirty. Just the way Satoru liked to work.
They stumbled down the hallway, mouths tangled, Satoru walking them backward with every well-placed step— his rhythm, his pace. His smirk bled into each kiss, cocky and sure. Geto was giving him everything. He was pliant beneath his hands, mouth opening when Satoru asked, hips pressing in when Satoru teased.
By the time they reached the bedroom door, Satoru was half hard and glowing with smug satisfaction. He turned, pushing the door open behind him, and barely had time to exhale before everything shifted.
Geto’s hand gripped his waist—tight, sudden—and shoved him backward through the threshold. Satoru stumbled once, caught off guard, and that second of imbalance was all Geto needed. He caught Satoru around the thighs and lifted him like he weighed nothing.
“Hey—!” A surprised laugh escaped Satoru’s mouth just before Geto tossed him bodily onto the bed. Not dropped. Tossed. He bounced once on the mattress, blinking up at the ceiling with his shirt askew, a wild look of disbelief flashing across his face.
“What the fu—”
But the words died in his throat when Geto was on him again.
The kiss was nothing like before. No more soft warmth or teasing give—this was mouth and teeth and hunger , a growl rumbling low in Geto’s throat as he pressed in hard, one hand braced beside Satoru’s head, the other gripping his thigh possessively. His fingers dug in like he owned it.
Satoru gasped into his mouth, the noise swallowed as Geto’s lips claimed his again. He arched up on instinct, hips grinding, hands flying to Geto’s shoulders—he wasn’t sure if he meant to push or pull.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
This man was supposed to be his—docile, grateful, panting. But Satoru’s thoughts were disintegrating, scattered by the scrape of Geto’s teeth along his jaw, the low rumble of his voice against his skin.
And the worst part? He liked it. Liked the way Geto pressed him down, devoured him, handled him like he could take it. Like Satoru didn’t need to lead—didn’t deserve to lead. Like Geto knew exactly what he needed and wasn’t going to ask for permission to give it.
Satoru made a noise—half breath, half moan—as Geto’s hand slid under his shirt, grazing over his stomach and waist, soft but demanding. His teeth scraped the curve of Satoru’s neck, and Satoru writhed beneath him, suddenly so aware of how small he felt like this. How good it felt to be handled.
His fingers curled against the other man’s shirt, gripping tightly. Geto’s hands were everywhere now—hot and unrelenting, dragging up the side of Satoru’s body, palming his chest like he meant to bruise fingerprints into bone. Satoru’s head tilted back instinctively, a moan slipping loose as Geto’s mouth found his throat, biting instead of kissing. His teeth caught just under the jaw, then again at the curve where neck met shoulder.
“Shit—!” Satoru gasped, hips jerking up.
Geto didn’t stop. He sucked , hard, open-mouthed, dragging red across pale skin like a man painting something that belonged to him.
Satoru clutched at his shoulders, breath hitching. “That’s gonna leave a mark—”
“Good,” Geto muttered against his skin, voice gravel low. “You’ll feel it tomorrow.”
Satoru’s cock twitched in his pants. His own fingers scrambled down Geto’s back, slipping beneath the fabric, desperate for skin. But Geto was faster. He shifted his weight and ground down— deliberately , hips rolling against Satoru’s in a slow, brutal rhythm.
The drag of slacks against denim sent heat like lightning through Satoru’s spine. He bucked up with a choked sound, instinctive and needy.
Geto’s lips ghosted his ear, voice thick with amusement. “You’re hard already?”
“Y-you—fuck—” Satoru grit his teeth, face flushed. “You’re the one grinding on me like a goddamn dog.”
“Funny,” Geto breathed, dragging his mouth down to Satoru’s collarbone. “You’re the one rutting like you want to be bred.”
Satoru whimpered , actual fucking whimper in his throat, and that made Geto grin against his skin.
“Yeah,” Geto murmured, teeth scraping again. “There you go baby.”
Satoru was trying to hold on—trying to remember who was supposed to be in control here. But Geto’s thigh had wedged between his legs, and the friction was perfect , and his breath was already coming in sharp, shallow bursts.
“Thought you had me wrapped around your little finger, didn’t you?” Geto purred, tongue swiping over a mark he’d left. “You came here thinking you’d fuck me and leave.”
Satoru didn’t answer—couldn’t, not with Geto’s hand sliding down his stomach, unbuttoning his pants with skilled hands, brushing over the flushed, aching bulge beneath.
“But look at you now,” Geto said, voice velvet and vice, “squirming under me, begging without saying a word.”
“I wasn’t—” Satoru tried, but it came out breathless, wrecked , as Geto shoved his hand into his underwear and grabbed his cock, warm and thick and twitching in his palm.
“Oh, you were,” Geto whispered, stroking once, slow . “So fucking desperate.”
Satoru arched off the bed, hand flying to cover his mouth as a moan cracked through his throat.
“Don’t hide that.” Geto kissed him hard, all tongue and teeth, dragging another groan from his lungs. “I want to hear you fall apart. You want that too, don’t you?”
His voice was a vibration in Satoru’s bones, low and commanding, and all Satoru could do was nod , lips parted, lashes fluttering. “Y-yeah,” he mumbled, dazed, “fuck—yeah, I do—”
Geto’s hand moved again, a firm stroke from base to tip that had Satoru arching, hips chasing the contact. Geto leaned in, their foreheads nearly touching, watching him with heavy-lidded, devouring eyes.
He stroked again—slow, slick, intentional —his thumb circling the leaking head, smearing precum down over the length as Satoru trembled beneath him.
“Close already, pretty boy?” Geto murmured, his voice more satisfied than surprised.
“Gonna—fuck—” Satoru’s fingers twisted in the sheets, breath broken and urgent, “don’t stop, don’t—”
But he did. Geto’s hand stopped mid-stroke, squeezing once at the base of his cock, firm enough to halt everything in its tracks.
Satoru gasped, a sound somewhere between disbelief and a choked sob, hips bucking uselessly into the air. “What—what the fuck—!”
Geto smirked against his neck, lips grazing skin. “Not yet.”
“You— Geto —”
He kissed the hollow of Satoru’s throat, the underside of his jaw, his cheekbone, gentle in contrast to the aching tension in Satoru’s lower body. “Patience, baby. I want to savor this.”
Satoru let out a frustrated whimper as Geto eased back, sitting up between his spread legs and hooking his fingers into the waistband of his shorts. With practiced ease, he tugged them down over Satoru’s thighs, taking his underwear with them.
His cock slapped against his stomach, flushed and weeping.
“Fuck,” Geto muttered, almost reverent. He ran a hand up the inside of Satoru’s thigh, slow, possessive. “You really are pretty when you’re desperate.”
Satoru swallowed hard, watching him through wide, glassy eyes.
Then Geto dipped down, hands splayed on either side of Satoru’s hips, and licked a long, wet stripe from the base of his cock to the tip. Satoru shuddered.
“Oh my—fuck, Geto—”
He didn’t respond, just wrapped his mouth around the head and sank down—slow and obscene, tongue curling under the shaft as he took him in inch by inch.
Satoru cried out, head tossing back against the pillows. “F-fuck, yes—yes, just like that —”
Geto sucked him deep, humming around him like he was tasting something rare, tongue swirling, lips tight, then pulling off with a wet pop just when Satoru’s hips started to tremble.
“ No —!” Satoru panted, his voice hoarse with frustration. “I was—why’d you— fuck! ”
Geto didn’t answer—he only smiled, dark and dangerous, as he pushed Satoru’s knees back and apart. He kissed up the inside of his thigh, biting the soft skin there hard enough to bruise, then mouthed over the curve of his ass, licking at the cleft until Satoru shivered.
“Wait—wait, are you—?” Satoru’s voice cracked, his breath catching.
Geto didn’t wait. He spit once, hot and wet, then ran his tongue over Satoru’s hole in one long, slow drag.
Satoru gasped , thighs twitching. “ Oh my god— ”
He licked again, slower this time, his thumbs spreading Satoru open as he got more confident, more hungry . His tongue circled, teased, then pressed in—and Satoru’s whole body arched , a sharp cry spilling from his mouth.
Geto was relentless , licking and sucking and fucking him open with his tongue, groaning against him like he enjoyed the way Satoru writhed.
Satoru fisted the sheets, sweat beading on his chest, cock throbbing against his stomach. “Please— please , I need—”
Geto reached up and gripped him again, stroking with maddening precision.
“Yes—yes— fuck, I’m gonna come— ”
But right before the edge—right when Satoru’s legs were shaking and his body locked up—Geto stopped again.
“No— Geto , what the fuck—!” Satoru whined, squirming. “I was so close—again— you’re evil —!”
Geto kissed the inside of his thigh, fingers digging into the flesh. “Not evil,” he said, eyes smoldering. “Just making sure when you come, it means something.” He looked up, locking eyes with Satoru. "And when you do... I want to hear you say my name. Not Geto— Suguru . Understand?"
Satoru tried to buck, to grind into something, but Geto was stronger than he'd seemed. Satoru wasn't sure what muscles he hid under those dress clothes, but it was enough to manhandle him, unable to move his hips. Geto just held him down, pressed a kiss to the flushed tip of his cock, and smiled like a man with all the time in the world. "Understand, Satoru?" He repeated the question, the name rolling off his tongue sinfully.
"Y-yes, yes please just keep going, please —" Satoru writhed below him, desperate for his mouth to return.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered, tongue darting out again. “I'll help you stay still."
From the nightstand, Geto pulled out a few lengths of soft, dark rope. Satoru’s eyes went wide.
“Is this okay?” Geto asked, his voice still low, but softer now—measured. Not hesitant, just careful.
Satoru hesitated, breath catching—his heart was pounding. But then Geto leaned in, voice curling in his ear.
“Don’t you want to be a good boy for me?”
Something snapped in Satoru’s brain—his thighs clenched, his cock twitched, and his head tipped back in surrender.
“Y-yeah. I do.”
“Good.”
Geto made quick work of it, threading the rope through the latticework of the headboard and binding Satoru’s wrists above his head, snug but careful. His legs were left free, splayed open across the sheets.
Then Geto was back between them, licking over his hole again, teasing him open with tongue and spit and endless patience. He didn’t speed up. He didn’t push.
It was phenomenal —delicious and maddening. Satoru moaned, body twitching in the ropes, wrists pulling instinctively, uselessly. He could barely think. Everything was too much and not enough .
Then he felt fingers—slick now, Geto must have reached for lube at some point, but he doesn't have time to think about that longer as he feels that finger push inside, curling perfectly.
“F-fuck,” Satoru gasped.
Another finger followed, thrusting lazily, in and out, in and out. The digits caught on his rim on every withdraw, and before Satoru could whine at the absence they were stretching him deliciously again. By the third one, he was loose and fluttering and flushed from head to toe.
Geto removed all three, chuckling darkly at the whine that escaped his throat. God, when did Satoru start acting like such a...
A sub? his consciousness supplied helpfully.
No, no. He wouldn't even think the word, because he was still in charge here, he was just letting Geto think otherwise... right?
The other man stood at the edge of the bed, unhurried. He pulled off his shirt first—Satoru’s breath caught. He was cut, lean but muscular, long lines and hard planes, every inch of him unfairly hot. Then went the pants. Down and off, and his cock swung free—thick and flushed and big . Not monstrous, but definitely more than Satoru was used to.
Geto climbed onto the bed, settled between Satoru’s legs again, and rubbed the head of his cock teasingly against his slick entrance.
“How bad do you want it, pretty boy?” he asked, voice like smoke.
“Please,” Satoru whimpered. “I need it—fuck—I need you so bad —” Yeah. Totally in control here.
“You gonna take it like a good boy?”
“Yes—yes, I’ll be good—”
He didn’t get a warning. Just the slow, steady push as Geto eased inside, inch by inch. The stretch was intense, borderline overwhelming.
“Oh—fuck— fuck, y ou’re big.” Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes, the burning causing his dick to stand up straighter..
“Too much?” Geto asked, but he didn’t stop. His hands smoothed over Satoru’s thighs, his hips grinding deeper.
“No—don’t stop, please—”
Geto groaned, bottoming out, holding there, letting Satoru adjust. “You’re so fucking tight,” he hissed, voice shaking. “Gripping me like your hole was made for it.”
He began to move— slow , deep thrusts that had Satoru moaning outright, legs falling wider, hips trembling. The angle changed just slightly—And there . Geto hit something that made Satoru see stars .
“ Oh my god—Suguru— ”
Geto growled low at the sound of his name and angled in again, dragging his cock along Satoru’s prostate with every thrust.
“Say it again.”
“Suguru—fuck— Suguru— ”
“Good boy. Such a pretty little thing, taking me so well.”
Satoru sobbed, wrists twisting in the ropes, needing to touch, to do something —but all he could do was lie there and take it. Every drag, every word, every overwhelming wave of pleasure. He felt hot tears trail down his cheeks, falling into the sheets below him.
“Look at you,” Geto breathed, bending low to kiss over his jaw, his lips, his throat, each swipe of lips picking up salty wetness. “You gonna come just from this? From being used like the good little slut you are?”
“Yes—yes, please—fuck, I’m so close, I—”
“Then do it.”
With a broken cry, with Suguru’s name falling from his lips like prayer, Satoru came hard, body shaking, toes curling, cock untouched, vision going white.
Geto held him through it, whispering praise and fucking him through the aftershocks as Satoru trembled, wrecked and boneless, the rope creaking slightly overhead before he feels the familiar warmth spreading inside him, Geto's hips pumping once, twice more before stilling, his grunts filling Satoru's ears.
The next thing Satoru knew, everything was quiet. His eyes fluttered open slowly, vision hazy. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar, his body heavy and warm. He shifted instinctively and gasped at the overstimulation. He was… clean? Something damp ran across the inside of his thigh again and he flinched.
“Easy,” Geto murmured—no, after what he just went through, this man could be nobody but Suguru to him.
Satoru blinked and turned his head. Suguru was seated beside him, shirtless and calm, gently wiping him down with a warm, damp cloth. His brows were slightly drawn in concentration, like he was cleaning glassware, not the flushed, trembling mess of a man sprawled naked on his sheets.
Satoru looked down—his wrists were untied, faint red marks where the rope had been. Suguru’s thumb brushed over one slowly, rubbing soothing circles into the skin.
“I—what—” Satoru’s voice cracked. “Did I…?”
“You passed out,” Suguru said gently. “Just for a second. You’re alright.”
Satoru flushed, blinking hard. “I didn’t know I—”
“Mm,” Suguru hummed. “Happens. Especially when someone gets fucked the way you did.”
Satoru opened his mouth to respond, but Suguru held up a glass of water. “Drink.”
Satoru hesitated for half a second, but then he was drinking obediently, cold water soothing his throat as Suguru held the glass steady.
The same man who had held him down and fucked him senseless was now wiping gently between his thighs, ghosting kisses to his knees, fingertips tracing the edge of a bruise like it might whisper back.
“You’re seriously good at this,” Satoru croaked.
Suguru gave him a small smile. “What? Sex?”
Satoru nodded, a little sheepish now. "Well I was referring to the aftercare, but... yes, the sex too."
“Of course,” Suguru said, setting the glass aside and brushing damp strands of hair from Satoru’s forehead. “If I’m going to ruin you, I’m going to put you back together after.”