huru is typing. . .

Suguru sighs in discontent at the same time as the door to his and Satoru’s apartment shuts. Quickly, Suguru makes sure to take the finger out from in between his teeth, and with it, his half-bitten nail. It’s fragile from being ground down through the struggles of his writer’s block. Creativity is such an easy thing and it should come easily but not for Suguru. Not when he actually needs it to, anyway.

Coming up with a New York’s Time Bestseller in the middle of the library while doing absolutely nothing at all and then not being able to remember it when he’s in front of his laptop? Super easy. Actually coming up with something that doesn’t revolve around Satoru Gojo when he needs to? Virtually impossible.

His black hair cascades down his hunched shoulders, unraveled from his too-loose bun from earlier. A little oily from constantly rubbing at his scalp and irritating it. He needs a shower, badly. He knows that but the empty page staring back at him, judging, unrelenting, it burns his eyes.

“Suguru! You home?” Satoru’s familiar voice comes in through the one ear that isn’t covered with his absurdly priced headphones— a gift from Satoru, obviously— of whose shoes make a loud thunk against the floorboards as they’re tossed down, in spite of exactly what he told Satoru not to do. He hates cleaning up the mess, but so are the woes of living with the heir of the Gojo clan— and his best friend for the better part of ten years.

“In here!” he calls back, attempting to make himself presentable in the short span he’s given before Satoru is fumbling into the living room, grocery bags slung over the crooks in his elbows. The vague smell of fruits and fresh herbs. Bunches of dill, parsley and an open jar of kimchi that’s being held in one of Satoru’s hands. Clearly left as a snack with messy leftovers of fermented cabbage spilling over the rim.

Striking light blue eyes find him much too fast for Suguru’s liking. Satoru’s gaze darts from the saliva lining his lips, to the fidgeting of his fingers. His loosened hair and half-assed yukata he threw on post-shower are also not left unnoticed.

“Writer’s block again?” Satoru asks, taking in Suguru’s appearance in full and smiling in recognition as he does.

“What gave it away?” Suguru murmurs but he knows. His glasses slide slowly down the arched ridge of his nose and the small movement irks him enough to shed the things altogether.

Satoru frowns. “Because I got hungry on the way back to the apartment? You know how much I like it. It’s awfully bold of my decade-long best friend to think I would be able to hold back.” Satoru pouts as he continues, “I’m hurt, Suguru…” 

Satoru huffs an amused laugh, because he knows as well, but he doesn’t say it aloud. “I bought a few things on the way home, I was hoping to make shrimp fried rice?”

Suguru decides to set aside his laptop in favour of helping Satoru unload the bags of food. Not like the words are coming to him in any regard. “We don’t have any day-old rice, Satoru,” he says and lets a beat of silence pass before he points at the jar of kimchi and his mouth parts before, “Mind telling me why that jar is already half eaten?”

When Suguru says nothing to entertain that response, Satoru waves his hands every which way before settling and giving up on his fake reign of upset. “Fine, I also got ingredients for Katsudon, your minute ramen. You know, in case you’re in a rush for one of your writing events–” The sentiment makes Suguru’s heart clench in a way he’d rather not discuss, not that he gets to dwell on it much since Satoru continues to rant on about his successful grocery trip. 

“And! If all else fails–” Satoru makes a point of grinning when he pulls out his wallet. “–We've got this little guy.” The smile nearly touching ear to ear is blinding.

Suguru shakes his head fondly. “I’ll make the katsudon, put your inheritance away.” He smiles as his hand pushes at Satoru’s wallet in the air.

“Alriiight, but I call dibs on cutting the tonkatsu–”

And the thought of Satoru handling anything remotely sharp strikes fear through his spine, “Absolutely not.” The rebuttal comes quick, without a gap to let anyone other than Suguru to respond as he grabs the knife from the other’s grip.

“Oh!” Satoru exclaims in the middle of his assignment in beating eggs, “I ran into our neighbour on the way up. You know, the one with like, seven cats?”

Suguru allows himself a soft smile, turned away from Satoru just before he attempts to correct him, “It’s just the three, not seven.”

Satoru rolls his eyes with a full body motion as he groans. “Whatever, same thing–” The whisk he was using, previously in the bowl and now in the air is being wacked through it back, forth, and on Suguru. Satoru freezes as yolk slides down his roommate’s chin and over his lashes. “That was an accident–”

Suguru takes a quick stride over to where Gojo is standing in shock and dips his four fingers in the eggs, flicking the viscous food at the other’s face. Pride and smugness courses through Suguru’s veins, for about point five seconds until Satoru is gasping, appalled and distraught.

A noise akin to a dying blubber of wet sand leaves Satoru’s mouth, “Ah! Eugh. Suguru, yours was an accident! That was pure unadulterated revenge!” The ear-to-ear grin gives the falseness of the boy’s ire away, all bark and no bite. Or so he thinks until he sees a pale hand dip into the sullied mixture of yellowed egg white and smothering the concoction all over the ruffled and creased yukata. Before Suguru can even react back or retaliate in any way, Satoru is dipping another finger in the mixture again and smearing his nose with it. 

Promptly running away with a guilty look plastered all over. His hop and skip draws something fond inside of Suguru, something he’s felt since they were little and met at the train station right off of Shibuya crossing.

Suguru chases after him, of course.

The moment that came next was full of infectious laughter, the kitchen echoing as Suguru chased Satoru around the island counter top and circular dining table. Attempting to, and failing, to trap him in between the entry way. The bowl of half-beaten eggs in tow, spilling over the rim with each hurried step. 

Satoru’s nimble body wiggled under the table, only to be met with egg and Suguru’s hands squeezing his shoulders to roll him over onto his back. Wet yolk paints his face immediately after as Suguru spoke, “You’re such a little menace, you know that?”

Through fits of laughter and emotions Suguru had no choice but to label as ‘joy,’ Satoru smiled so wide, it was nearly blinding. With an intake of hurried breaths, Satoru said with unbridled happiness and a lilt of knowing he was right,  “You like me like that.”

Yeah, he really does and Satoru had no idea. He really hoped he didn't anyway.

It wasn’t until they found themselves sliding down the counter top wall separating their living room and kitchen ten minutes later— when colours of blackberry and cerulean eyes met, crinkled and overflowing with triumph, out of breath— that they realized the marinated tonkatsu was still on the frying pan. That in itself created a whole other mess they had to clean up. Egg painting the white of their cupboards and drawers aside. Shortly before resigning to the couch, Suguru’s laptop was set aside and the Katsudon prepared. The two began to eat their slightly rubbery pork cutlet and egg cut into strips laid over their rice. Unanimously the decision was made that this was just ‘good enough’ for dinner. 

The remainder of the rice was put in the fridge, designated as ‘fried rice for tomorrow’s dinner.’

A one-off rom com was playing in the background, stirring and working as static while they ate. It wasn’t particularly something he was interested in, but Satoru enjoyed these things. That was reason enough for him to continue listening.

“You know, I never got to finish my thing about our neighbour.” Satoru’s voice comes in through the fog crowding his word-less mind. “You were too busy chasing me around our kitchen to listen.” He attempts a disappointed puff of air but fails.

“Did too,” Suguru rebuttals, pointing to the dried yolk on his sweater. 

“Are we conveniently forgetting you started it?”

“I did not.” 

The back and forth is a strange reminiscent reminder of how they once were, back in high school. Just as Satoru is rearing to respond, mouth open the slightest amount, Suguru exhales, and gestures for the other to continue. 

Satoru huffs before starting once more, “As I was saying,” he murmured before shoveling an oversized palm-full of popcorn through his stretched cheeks and open mouth. “Our neighbour, as I was like, carrying our groceries up the massive stairs because someone insisted we live on the top floor–”

“That someone is you–”

“–Shut up. As I was carrying our groceries up the stairs, she was on the way to walk one of the cats– I swear it’s like she thinks we don’t know there’s multiple, news flash, walking them in shifts doesn’t mean there’s less of them–”

Suguru smiles into his palm. Something about his best friend ranting about the most mundane things, in their apartment, stirs something in the pits of his stomach. A feeling he refuses to put a name to because he can’t afford the distraction. He can’t afford one of the only good things in his life to slip away.

His writing hasn’t been going anywhere, the publicist is on his ass about finishing his new novel but he has nothing. It’s due to release next year but putting aside editing and actual promotion time. He really only has six months left. 

Six months to write nearly fifty-thousand words and send off the manuscript. Something he has been wracking his brain around trying to do but it’s become something akin to impossible. There’s no inspiration. No desire to write aside from the expectations and deadline hovering, shadowing his every move he doesn’t make across the keyboard.

“–and so I finally got past her, groceries barely intact! God, who even needs that many cats, yaknow? One person can only be so lonely. I mean right?”

He blinks. “..Right.”

Satoru sighs, head drooping just above the bowl of half eaten dinner. “You zoned out again, didn’t you?”

“..No.”

“Suguru.”

“Yeah. I apologize, Satoru.”

“It’s fine, wasn’t that good of a story anyway. Pass me your plate, I’ll wash the dishes.” Him? Dishes?

“You’re gonna do dishes?”

“Yes?”

Suguru watches Satoru pass into the closed off kitchen before he decides to follow him. He feels like a kicked puppy but watching Satoru handle the dishes, food long since scraped off and thrown into the compost bin, is… domestic. Domestic in a way he longs so desperately for. But he can’t have it.

“I can feel you staring.”

“No, you can’t.”

Satoru huffs a laugh, twirls his finger around his eyes before murmuring, “Six eyes," taunting him. And yeah, he knows Satoru can see. More than he would like but that’s also part of the reason he feels safe in this little– but not really that little– apartment of theirs. Them being friends for over a decade aside.

He has no idea why not being sorcerers comes so easy. He used to think it would be so much simpler without curses at all, he used to think– He rather actually not say. The thoughts that nearly consumed him in their junior year at Jujutsu Tech were… dangerous. Satoru being by his side got him out of some deep trenches, and he’s so glad he made it out alive. He’s so glad they made it out alive. From being sorcerers, students, children that were trapped in a system destined to crush familial bonds and shape them into adults that have no back bone.

He’s glad he gets to be here now.

“Suguru,” Satoru says while nudging into his side, arms paused over the sink as if he were mimicking a T-rex. The rolled r’s in his and Satoru’s names always send shivers down his spine, ‘always’ being when Satoru calls his name like that. “Be a doll and pass me that cloth, pretty please?”

“Ah, sure.” That nickname…

“You don’t seem to be entirely here tonight. Are you alright?” Satoru asks, mid drying his hands. How does one respond to that? Yes, he’s been getting better at talking about his issues rather than letting the fester under the surface but that isn’t the problem. The problem is what’s bothering him. The inability to write something good, the inability to write something, anything at all.

“I can’t bring myself to write.” That’s as good a response as any, he guesses.

“Suguru–” 

“Oh? Show me your fingers.” The cloth is tossed on the countertops and his hands are suddenly being brought to be viewed by Satoru.

“What? No.” He gets out just as he takes his hands back from Satoru’s grasp.

“I said no–” He begins to retreat back towards his room.

Unsuccessfully.

“Give them to me–” With one final attempt from his dearest best friend, he is sent tumbling to the floor, Satoru in tow (read: falling with him) “Gotcha!” he says while sitting up, Suguru’s hands in his own. 

Now, call him delusional, dirty-minded, insane, but why is he suddenly on top of Satoru Gojo?

“You’ve been biting them again, man,” he sighs in disappointment. As if Suguru biting his nails down to the nail bed is anything compared to the situation at hand. The situation in which his best friend of ten years is sat directly on his crotch.

He’s gone a little blank in the head, the feeling of Satoru under him, with his legs spread and palms pressed against his toned abdomen. He needs to think, and he needs to do it quickly lest the heat in between his legs gives him away. “Satoru, stop talking for a second,” he says through his teeth.

Finally the man under him looks up. “Huh? What’s up?” And whether or not he intends to do this or not, his hands wrap around Suguru’s waist, almost like they belong there and it stirs emotions and feelings he’s kept buried for so long in his stomach. His stomach that’s swarming with butterflies as Satoru subconsciously wraps around Suguru even tighter, like he’s afraid to let go.

“Do you not notice anything peculiar about our situation, at all?”

Satoru’s jaw drops open on an ‘o’ and he seems to snap out of his worried, fretting over bitten nails, trance in a split second. His blue eyes trace over Suguru’s spread thighs, over his own thumbs that are tracing circles into his clothed skin, his crotch that’s pressed directly on his dick. “Oh, would you look at that–” he starts.

Suguru cuts in to prevent himself from parting with any more of his dignity. “I’ve been looking at it. How did it take you this long?” 

Satoru swallows, Suguru sees it happen. His Adam's apple bobbing with the action and pardon his french… Is Satoru hard?

“Dude.”

“What?”

“Are you hard?”

“..No.” A lie. 

He didn’t want to believe it at first, not lean into the idea of Satoru feeling anything for him aside from the basics of best-friendship. Not lust, not love, he can’t do that because it gives him hope that hurts. But fuck, he feels good and big and he should not be thinking like this about his roommate, about his best friend that he escaped Jujutsu society with. The man he grew up with and graduated with. The man that feels amazing under him and– No.

“..Right–” he tries to move off, instead what ends up happening is in the process, Satoru tries to hold him steady and this results in Suguru— not on purpose, he has to stress— grinding down on the outline in his pants. 

“Hah–”

He can’t do this, he can’t. But it feels so good. He tries the movement again, lifts his hips the smallest amount and grinds back down. Grinds down experimentally just to see if he can get another noise or reaction from Satoru. What he gets is a hand swiping from its spot on his waist to cover Satoru’s mouth as his own hips raise to meet Suguru’s in time. “Fuck– Suguru– Holy shit.

They need to stop, they really really need to stop before this gets anymore out of hand but he can’t. He can’t, he’s wanted this for years and now that he finally has it, he’s not sure the warmth staining his boxers isn’t worth it.

Satoru moans again and that’s his cue, he needs to stop. He nearly launches himself off his place atop his best friend and backs up against the wall. Breathing heavily and eyes wide as he stares into squinted blue eyes and flushed cheeks. “I– I’m gonna go to bed–”

Satoru jumps onto his feet, goes for his hand but Suguru can’t do this right now. His heart is hammering against the cage of his ribs. They need to talk, he knows they need to talk. That was too charged to not mean anything.

“Suguru.”

His fingers are looped around the knob on the door to his bedroom, and he could run, he could. Why shouldn’t he? But he knows and ah, what the fuck. “Yes?” he replies, head turned slightly in Satoru’s direction.

Satoru’s slim fingers are tucked into his pockets, to prevent himself from reaching out to Suguru anymore and messing everything up. “We’re okay, right?”

Fuck, he doesn’t know. What he does know is for the sake of their friendship, they’re okay. “More than okay, I’m sorry.”

“Okay, well, that’s good. Phew, um–” he pauses, readjusts his pants in a way that’s very much not not obvious. He coughs, to clear his throat. “I’m gonna go and uh finish cleaning up. Sleep well.”

“..I will. You too, whenever you get to that.”

Satoru is already heading into the kitchen, hands tucked in even deeper into his pockets, as if that was possible. He’s slouched in a way that makes him look like an angsty teenager but it so earnestly reminds him of the Satoru from back then. “You know me, no rest for the wicked.”

Yeah. They’re okay. They have to be.

Suguru huffs a half-assed laugh and utters a, “Goodnight, loser.” Then he’s finally turning the doorknob and entering his room.

He hears “Goodnight, Suguru.” and that’s good enough for him.

The next morning, Suguru comes to a realization.

You see, the issue with being best friends for over a decade is that you tend to ignore problems until they’re a threat to your routine, to everyday life. Like last night for example. Suguru wakes up and slides out of his all-too comfortable bed, slips into his fuzzy slippers (a gift from Satoru, again) and marches into the kitchen. Only to find Satoru doing the same thing. Their shoulders bump and it’s nothing, they’re best friends, they know how to be normal.

Especially after last night, they laughed about the situation and bid each other goodnight, and it was fine.

Now, the actual issue lies in the fact that neither of them want to acknowledge the tension that arose when Suguru was in Satoru’s lap. It’s not a big deal, it isn’t. And it’s not a big deal when their shoulders bump and he feels the warmth radiating from a half-naked Satoru, “Why are you shirtless?” he says with the timing of a fawn that just learned to walk, or at best, fumble its way across a field. It’s the very first thing out of his mouth that morning. No ‘good morning’ no ‘do you want breakfast?’ Nope.

Satoru tries his best to snark his way out of their current attempt at a conversation. “Because I can?” he responds. The attempt bears no fruits, it can’t, not with the atmosphere being a dry cough and an even drier reply from Suguru.

“Right. How could I forget.”

How is the awkwardness this palpable? You could cut the damn thing with a pair of scissors, like in those cartoons where the hungry character floats towards a particularly delicious smelling pie. Except in this cartoon, there is no pie, just a man he’s known for years with blinding white hair and brilliant blue eyes staring back at him, waiting for him to make it okay.

Maybe he’s just imagining it. “Do you want breakfast?” he asks.

Pale (read: muscular) shoulders rise and a hum escapes his lips, “Nah, I’ve got a thing but I made coffee?” And yes, he can smell it now. The distinct roasting of freshly steeped ground coffee beans floating in the air, towards him, surrounding his frame like a comfortable pillow. “I poured you a cup.”

“Black?”

“Yes, Suguru, I poured you a cup of pitch black coffee with no sugar, no joy. Coffee that makes you grimace every time you drink it because you pretend to like it, in spite of the face you make.” Ouch. “The face that you think you hide well when we both know anybody with half a brain and eyes could see you judging anyone from back when we were in Jujutsu Tech,” Satoru huffs a laugh into his palm and taking a deep inhale before he speaks once more, hand on Suguru’s shoulder now, “I poured you a cup with two creamers and a heaping teaspoon of brown sugar, just how you like it. Go, drink up, Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome, I’ve gotta get ready.”

Satoru walks away and Suguru is left breathless, dazed. More than he realistically should be. He knows how well Satoru knows him and he appreciates it more than the man must realize. But the most important thing he’s stuck on is the name. Yes, he’s good looking but having Satoru, mister impenetrable ego, admit that? Stirs his stomach more than he’d like to admit to any living person.

The butterflies flapping in his stomach make no move to cease their behaviour, not before Suguru takes notice of the slick warmth in between his legs. No, he can’t do that. “...Thank you,” he says to nobody in particular, because Satoru had left the room nearly a minute ago. Suguru’s just been too awe struck to notice.

Back to the matter at hand. Yes, he’s been told his judgy faces weren’t hidden that well because he doesn’t really like to hide his disdain towards other people. Back in highschool, it made it difficult to make more friends because everyone saw him as the judgy upperclassman, but that was fine. All he really needed was Satoru.

Contrary to popular belief, it wasn’t just Satoru that instigated those childish fights back then. Although, his faces did most of the talking though. Oh how he missed starting childish elementary fights with his best friend at his side.

With the fond memory on his mind, he makes his way to the espresso machine— an espresso machine that really only makes coffee because neither of them have the time to make proper espresso or lattes, anything of the sort, really— and starts to sip away at the concoction made by his roommate that fits his needs perfectly. To his delight, he doesn’t have to drink the dark poison he’s been harbouring hatred for since he learned what coffee was.

“Ah, there he is. Alive and well, how did you sleep, grinch?” Satoru says from his place against the wall. His bare state and sweatpants have been switched out for a pair of ripped jeans and plain black shirt, a shirt that is clearly far too small, and what is wrong with him?

“Grinch, really?”

“The sooner you admit sugar isn’t all bad to the public, the sooner you can be your true, vivacious self.”

“Vivacious? And I’ll have you know, brown sugar is better than white, it dissolves quicker and you know how much to actually add to sweeten whatever you’re eating or drinking.”

“Have a wonderful day, my beloved housewife, I’m off. Don’t miss me too much.”

Satoru makes a buzzer noise on his way to shove his feet into a pair of sneakers. “Wrong, brown sugar is just white with molasses mixed into it. But it’s great you’re trying to sound smart.”

“I did better than you in Jujutsu Tech?”

Now what part of him screamed ‘housewife’?

“You made us coffee–!”

“You called me over for that?” Shoko says from across the diner table.

And this kind of meet up between them has become routine. Technically her and Suguru were friends first but they grew up together, she is now his friend too and that comes with listening to his rants. Rants about the best friend he’s been in love with since their second year at Jujutsu Tech. “Listen, it’s not every day, or night! That your best friend of ten years sits on your dick!”

“Will you be quiet,” she says through her teeth. Seethes, more like. The diner is bustling with noise, Satoru is a voice amongst many of others, he doesn’t see the issue with complaining about his pent up frustrations around Suguru .

“Shoko, I need your support through these gruelling times, not criticism.”

“Oh, you sweet summer child. I don’t know what you want me to say. You’ve got a big fat crush and you’ve been nursing it for ten years too long. Just tell Suguru.”

“Noooo–” Satoru huffs, his head landing into his palms and slamming face first into the red table. His iced sprite jostles with the movement. The half eaten burger sits on the blue plastic tray at his side and the lettuce clings desperately to the crumbs of bread scattered across the paper wrap that once kept the burger together.

“I’m so glad me and Utahime are engaged, I can’t do boys anymore, you guys are ridiculous,” she says. “I don’t need to hear about the state Suguru puts your dick in.” Shoko mumbles finally while tossing a salted fry into her mouth.

“Satoru, you know, as well as everyone else, the two of you are so inseparable, it’s nauseating. He loves you, you love him, just be together. Nothing is hard about that.”

“I was hard about that– Ack!” he yelps as Shoko’s hand comes down to whack him over the head, practically whipping him into shape.

“But why not? He’s so plump–” Satoru says while gesturing a cupping motion with his hands.  “His thighs, Shoko. I just wanna hold them–”

She lets out a gagging noise, index finger pointing at her tongue as if she’s ready to throw up. “God give me strength.”

“All this mumbo jumbo that’s coming from your cursed energy isn’t helping at all, I’ll have you know.”

“I’m not trying to help, Satoru. And quit peeking at my cursed energy, it's disturbing. This is your own emotionally constipated issue to deal with. Just go talk to Suguru, he’s probably trying and failing to write that book of his anyway right about now.”

The book. He remembers, Of course he remembers, he’s a good friend. Suguru has been struggling to write the second installment in this series of his. It’s a given that Satoru hasn’t read it, he hasn’t had the time to (lie). He’s had a little too much time, actually. But the idea has definitely come up more than once any time he spends time with Suguru, or whenever he tries to write in his space.

The problem is that Suguru doesn’t let him read his works, and has been adamantly against him going anywhere near the damn thing. But he wants to read it. He knows it’s a good book, he was there during the lineup outside of their local book stores all over Tokyo. But maybe Suguru just has a really good PR team and social media manager that got the word out well.

He misses him.

And that’s weird, but not really, he only realizes he misses him when he’s had one drink too many and normally Suguru is there with him not at home moping about. He tried to sweep the awkward encounter of last night under the rug but his ‘pompous’ and over-eager attitude will only get him so far. He managed to keep it together while getting ready but the second the door closed, the sigh he let out might have blown someone’s ears out if it weren’t just a puff of exhaled air leaving his lungs.

“Earth to Satoru? Hello?” Shoko is waving her hand in front of his face. Sipping her drink as he clocks back into his own mind.

“Sorry. Hi, I’m here.”

“No you aren’t, you’re off in dreamy dreamy land with your best friend probably kissing and refusing to leave his arms–”

“-Actually, I’m not, thanks for reminding me. Because, I know the harsh reality, in which I am stranded on a lonely loveless, destitute island. I get no kisses there. Gosh, Shoko.”

Shoko rolls her eyes with the most amount of sarcasm one person could manage before setting her cup down and motioning to the door. “Satoru, for the love of anything holy, you’re so pathetic.”

“Gee, thanks–”

“Go home, you need it. You’re a grown man and yet you’re somehow still this incapable of confessing your woes to someone that isn’t your engaged lesbian friend. You need to see Suguru, and talk, like adults. Not dry hump each other in the hall like wild animals.”

Satoru rolls his eyes, goes to open his mouth at the same time Shoko raises her hand again, “Okay! Okay! I’m going, don’t hit me!”

He loves her just as much as she loves both him and Suguru but the woman genuinely scares him.

The second Satoru leaves, Suguru decides it’s time to start writing again. His coffee mug in hand and his laptop in the other, he sets both down on the table in front of their couch before seating himself. It’s been a while and it’s a given he didn’t get much done the other night. 

But on that note, he does get inspired a little.

Something he hasn’t really told a lot of people, nobody, for that matter. The books he writes are about him… Him and Satoru to be exact. Obviously he switches out the names for original characters he thought of on the spot but as of right now. He has yet to do that.

The book, in its couple thousand word glory, is just poorly disguised pornographic fanfiction about him and his best friend. His fingers are swiping across the keyboard, typing away. His coffee is sweet but not too sweet. Everything is perfect. 

And so comes the writing. It’s finally easy for once. Call him crazy, but him, to put it crudely, humping Satoru in their shared apartment hallway last night, was the best thing that could have possibly happened. For his sex drive but most importantly, his writing. 

Right now, book Satoru has him pressed up against the wall, knee pressed against his cunt and he’s making his way down his neck, leaving kisses and marks in his wake, anywhere he can place his lips. He touches him like he yearns for it every single day.

His hand drifts under the waistband of his sweatpants, teasing the band of his boxers before finally, finally dipping beneath it to trace soft circles over his swollen clit. 

Suguru whimpers to himself. The scene is erotic and he needs it to happen in real life but it won’t. Not ever, but he needs it so bad. He needs Satoru, and his inexcusably large cock. He knows it’s big. He felt it under him last night and it’s been killing him since. 

The words are practically being thrown on the screen and if his hand has found his own spot under his draws, that’s no one’s business but his. And maybe Satoru’s if he were here. Gods, he wishes he were here. 

No. That would end so poorly. For the both of them, it’s important they maintain whatever rapidly thinning string they have been standing on for the past decade.

A man can wish though, right?

Regardless in the reality of the motives behind his writing, that doesn’t stop his lack of inhibitions. His fingers part through trimmed black hair, slip in between his folds, only to gather the slick that’s started pooling because of his thoughts.

His head relaxes back over the rest of the divan and his laptop is left forgotten once more in favour of chasing after the high that Satoru elicits within him. His memory is treacherous, it remembers too well but he’s also thankful, for the way it keeps hold of last night. The hardness under him that left him breathless and aching, too empty, too needy, for something to fill him.

Suguru hums at the thought of what Satoru’s fingers would feel like inside of him, instead of his own. Would he be rough? Or rub his sweet spot with care and only speeding up when he’s close? Leave him begging, wanting? Make him get up and ask him to keep going, to never stop? The possibilities are endless.

His left hand finds its way over his mouth the second his finger presses into his warmth, and curse him for rushing but his middle finger presses in at the same time his index does. He wants to be full and he hates that his fingers are a poor excuse for what he could have. 

The wet squelches that come from each pump of his fingers into his cunt is dirty, it’s awful in the best ways. He’s thrusting into himself as quickly as he can. Forget fantasies of Satoru being careful, throw delicacy out of the window because he needs it more than he’s ever needed anything else. He keeps reminding himself of this very fact but it’s not enough.

He’s three fingers deep now, all of them are jabbing into the spongy spot inside of him that draw moans and whimpers from his lips. He replays the events of last night over and over until he can taste them on his tongue. God, he wishes he could taste Satoru, be fucked and have his hair held back in a shitty excuse for a pony tail as he’s used to please his best friend in any way he can.

Suguru would let Satoru do unspeakable things. Bend him over every surface in this forsaken apartment, fuck him anywhere he wanted. He would even walk around naked if he wanted. Do chores around the house just for the mere possibility of being wanted by Satoru.

He wants to cum, he wants Satoru to be here, to be the one that makes him finish but instead he’s stuck with his pathetic fingers that barely reach the spots that he craves. He knows Satoru would reach, he’s seen those fingers, the veins on his lithe hands. He’s gone to the gym with him, he’s seen how strong the man actually is. He’s watched him bench press weights twice the size of him and it's fuelling every time he breathes into his shoulder, poorly masking the noises he makes.

Noises he wishes Satoru were here to hear.

His jaw drops as his palm digs into his clit, finishing on the couch and his hand.

“Hah… fuck.” That’s gonna be his own personal hell to clean up but the release and loose limbed feeling that envelops him was so worth it.

Eventually he gets up, ties up his pajama bottoms and moves to the kitchen to pick up a cleaner and cloth. He’d rather Satoru didn’t know what he got up to in the brief hour and a half he left the apartment.

With any and all evidence wiped clean, Suguru settles back into the sofa and returns the discarded laptop back into his lap, ready to resume his writing once more. 

He doesn’t get that much peace though, Satoru comes striding through their apartment sooner or later and apparently pleasing yourself to the thought of your best friend burns a lot more time than he initially would have thunk? Regardless, he gets up, setting his laptop, open, aside again. All in lieu of going to greet Satoru, hands shoved into pockets and back slightly hunched.

The door opens with the smallest gust of wind as Satoru enters their space with a, what a shocking surprise, bag of pastries and a half eaten donut dangling from in between his lips. The door shuts behind the man and immediately after spotting his roommate, he begins talking. Yes, without finishing his donut. “Sho, I wazh thalking to–”

Suguru grimaces at the fact, “Satoru, don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Satoru, or in other words, the petulant man child Suguru has found himself falling head over heels for, rolls his eyes and takes the dessert out of his mouth before resuming his probable chance at a rant. “So, as I was saying, I was talking to Shoko earlier.”

“Ah so that was your ‘thing’ from before?”

“Yes, can I finish speaking?”

Suguru waves his hand in a forwarding motion, urging him to continue. “As always, I went to her with some problems I was facing–”

“As you do–”

“Suguruuu…”

“Okay okay.”

“She’s the wise lesbian mentor I never had, alright?” Suguru bites his tongue on a smile. “But she had some good advice, like always, even though she insists she doesn’t mean to.” Satoru has made his way into Suguru’s air space, inside the living room, he’s leaning in now for whatever reason and Suguru sweats as his throat bobs on a swallow. “Why are you shiny?”

“I’m… not? What am I, a disco ball?”

“You’re the disco ball of my heart, Suguru–” Satoru says with a profound palm on his heart, or that’s probably what he thinks he looks like. His blue eyes pop open one at a time, gauging his reaction. “Aw, come on, that was smooth.”

“Whatever you say.”

Satoru huffs, eyes the couch behind Suguru, returns back to him, stares, back again– “Were you writing? Did I interrupt?”

Suguru opens his mouth, panics, goes to shut his laptop because at this very moment it is still open to his document with poorly disguised yearning pornography about him and his best friend. Satoru beats him to it though, “You were! Wait, let me read!”

“Satoru, I don’t think–”

But it’s too late, his eyes are already scanning the page and there was a reason Satoru was still able to keep up at Jujutsu Tech, he reads stupid fast. He can’t hide what’s on that page, not anymore. He sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth, gnaws on it, awaiting Satoru’s reaction. 

Except that it doesn’t come.

Suguru waits, and he waits. His palms that had found their place on his face, slide down, just a little. Only so he could peek over them. “I can explain–”

“—Woah…” Satoru says at the same time. Suguru should run, he should. It’s time. He’s lasted this long under the same roof, pining on the same person since half way through their first year of high school. It’s time. But before he’s able to make a run for it, Satoru speaks once more, “Is this why you didn’t want me reading your stuff?”

He sounds genuine… Okay, he can play this game, if that’s what this is. “Yeah, kind of? I mean, can you blame me? I would change our names for my original characters before I send it in to my editor, obviously, but this was the main reason, yes.”

“Is it for ‘inspiration’ of some sort or… do you have something you wanna tell me?”

“I don’t think I should say anything, actually–”

“Awe, that’s a shame.” Satoru sets the laptop down, in all its sticker-covered glory, back on the cushion of the couch. “Are you sure?” he asks, stepping closer and closer to Suguru.

He feels feverish, there’s no way this is real. “Satoru–”

“Do you like me, Suguru?”

Suguru stutters, his jaw drops, wanting to say something, anything, but Satoru has his knee against his crotch, he’s backed up against the wall except this time he isn’t writing it. It’s actually happening, and oh god? It’s actually happening.

“Come on now. Do you like me? Love me, even? Would you be honest if I did this?” Large hands are wrapping around his waist like he’s a doll, something small, someone to be manhandled. He isn't small by any means. He works out, just as much as Satoru, but that’s what makes it good. 

Satoru is playing him like a fiddle and he’s too weak to resist, not like he would want to, not ever. “Hah– Satoru, I–” 

“C’mon Suguru, use your words. Should I fuck you over the coffee table in our living room? Just like you wrote about, fantasized about?” 

“Fuck.” Who is Satoru right now? He’s never talked like this, even when he’s brought hookups and one night stands home. Not ever. What makes him so special? He can’t be sane about this, there isn’t a universe in which he reacts to this entire insane situation in a nonchalant way.

Satoru suddenly drops to his knees, the linoleum thuds under his weight and his nose is pressed up against his core, nudging against his clothed cunt. “Can I?”

“Can– Can you what?” He’s so out of breath and all he’s done is be held against the wall.

Satoru’s lips curl into a smile against the fabric of his bottoms and his fingers find themselves under the band of what holds his pants up to begin with. “Can I eat you out, please?”

Gods, now he’s begging. “Yes, yeah. You can. Fuck, please, Satoru.” Now he is too, what is this man doing to him? 

“I’m getting to it.” His sweats are pulled down, along with his boxers, all he can focus on is the cold air nipping at him, bare and wet, wanting. “Look at you, already soaking through your own clothes,” Satoru says as he swipes a finger through his folds, holding it at the hood of his clit. Not enough to truly please him but enough to leave him aching for what’s to come.  “Is this for me?” Blue eyes look up at him with so much promise, like he himself holds the world up on his shoulders. Like Suguru hung the stars in the night sky and Satoru deems him worthy enough to worship.

“Yes. Always has been. Satoru, please. Don’t tease me.”

“Trust me, I won’t.” And, true to his word, he really doesn’t. Satoru slides a cold palm up his thigh, moving it just over his shoulder. “Stay there for me, be a good boy.” He really tries. A shiver runs down his spine as he finally moves the thumb off of his clit. The gesture practically lights all his nerves aflame, in spite of his cold touch.

The relief doesn’t last forever, Satoru had only removed it in favour of licking over the pad of his finger and using his spit to lubricate himself just enough to start rubbing small circles with the slightest presses down without it being dry.

He whimpers on an attempt to close his legs only end up with Satoru’s head being pressed in between his thighs and a motion to spur on his actions. “Eager, love?”

“Satoru, please, you said you wouldn’t– Ah!” Suguru’s raised fully into the air now, pressed against the wall with only Satoru’s strength holding him up and gods if that doesn’t turn him on. Nothing would. Holy shit.

Satoru is licking into him, mouthing at his entrance and manoeuvring him to fully settle his entire weight on his face. The hand that was focusing on his clit moves to finger him instead. His jaw drops on a noiseless moan. All he can find himself capable of doing is panting into the air like a broken record. 

His hand drops from his open mouth into a head of white, tugging at the roots until Satoru is muffling his own noises in Suguru’s pussy.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Satoru– I–”

Satoru unlatches, only for a second, his fingers unwavering, continuing their thrusts and pumps into his aching core as he looks up at Suguru. The sight nearly brings him to his own knees in spite of Satoru holding him up. His pink lips are covered in slick, the surrounding area of his mouth, his chin and nose are all sheen in Suguru’s juices. 

“What’s wrong, doll?”

He barely manages his next sentence out, too busy frowning into his palm at the stimulation of the bundle of nerves inside of him getting practically abused in the best ways. “I want to come on your cock, not like this, please.”

“Who said you’re only coming once?”

Fuck. Oh, he can’t do this.

“Yes you can,” Satoru says, as if he was reading his mind. Which, yeah, he probably is. He’s never been able to hide much else outside of his feelings from his best friend.

It doesn’t take much for Suguru to fall apart above Satoru, on his fingers and on his tongue. Quickly, Satoru rises on his feet and Suguru is moaning into the kiss before he’s realized what’s happened. He can taste himself on Satoru’s lips. It’s depraved, filthy but it’s also mesmerizing at the same time. 

It’s perfect, is what he ends up landing on.

Their tongues twist and press against each other's, their bodies are a mingled mess of limbs and straying touches. His pants are still pooled at the bottom of his ankles but he also can’t bring himself to care. Not even when the slick in between his legs starts cooling because Satoru manages to keep his mind off of anything unrelated to him and his mouth.

“Couch?” he murmurs against his lips.

“Yes. Please.” Satoru doesn’t wait to be told twice, he hoists Suguru up onto his hips and carries him into the living room once more. Yes, the bed would be nice but he’s so desperate, he would take any surface with an above five rating for fuckability right about now. The couch far surpasses that criteria.

He’s wet, empty, and most importantly, finally getting what he wants. “Satoru. If you don’t fuck me soon–”

“I’m getting to it. Relax, Sugu.”

He whimpers once more, that nickname normally annoys him but he’s watching Satoru pops the button on his jeans and shoves them to the floor with little to no grace. He’s got other things on his mind. Other things like… the way Satoru’s cock springs up from the confines of his briefs, pre-cum beading at the tip.

It’s like a bucket of ice cold water is dropped on him. “Ah–” he stutters. “Now, how is that fitting inside of me, again?”

Satoru pouts, “Don’t tell me you’re scared, baby?”

“No– Don’t get all high and mighty, I just–”

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t dare.” Satoru’s hands are on his hips once more, and distantly he can feel his tip pressing against his hole, begging to be let in. Almost asking for permission and that fact alone makes him so weak. Weak enough to trail his fingers down in between their bodies and help guide Satoru inside.

Shared gasps permeate the air the second Satoru slides in. It’s the only thing that fills his mind, Satoru, him, them. “Fuck, baby. You’re so warm, so good for me, yeah?”

“Yes, yes, yes. Only for you– Ah–”

Satoru smiles against his skin. The touch and the noises that fill the room once he starts thrusting sends goosebumps down his neck. He kisses just below his ear and finally moves. Satoru’s hips move back and forth with a certainty that makes Suguru feel gooey and jelly in every part of his body. His cock— thick and long— makes his jaw drop open on a breathy moan. 

Suguru opens without resistance, as if he’s been waiting for it his whole life and technically he really has been. He would count the decade they have known each other to be quite a big majority of his life. He moans loudly, shamelessly, the noise bouncing off the walls of their apartment. Eagerly he presses himself closer against Satoru’s chest and his palms that have long since started massaging his chest, tracing surgery scars from years ago. 

Every thrust and grip of the fat on his love handles make him scratch harder against Satoru’s clothed spine and squeeze his cock tighter, almost as if he’s trying to pull him deeper into himself. “God, Suguru. Are you trying to take my dick off?”

Suguru snaps out of his haze a little, leans back and smiles, something a little too smug for someone being railed into the couch. “Only a little.”

“Oh, you brat.” Suguru wants to roll his eyes because of the irony in the brattiest person he knows saying that but he can’t find it in himself to do so.

Not when his whole body trembles, unable to fake any control when Satoru pulls out just enough, until his tip is resting inside him before snapping in again. He  moves fast and deep, with a precision only experience can give—though as grateful as he is, Suguru would prefer to not think about that right now. 

Suguru arches against him, into the cushions under him. His eyes tearing up, lips parted, releasing broken sounds that echo around the room all the more.

“Harder, please.” He throws his head back just in time for Satoru to speed up and to his request, go harder. Each thrust, each move in and out of him punches into his g spot. The bundle of nerves that has him gasping and crying into his shoulder. “Just– Just like that– Oh fuck… Don’t stop…”

“Trust me, I don’t plan on stopping until–” Thrust. "–You’re–” Thrust. “Squirming and coming on my cock. Like the good boy you are. Isn’t that right, Suguru?”

“Yes, yes, yes.”

“Are you mine?”

“I’m yours. Hah-”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Suguru knows that Satoru is genuinely asking but he’s still being fucked with an inch of his life, the divan is rocking against the wall it’s up against and he is actively being made into a whimpering mess. He knows Satoru wants an answer outside of this lust-driven fantasy but it all feels so good. “I– oh fuck, I swear we can talk about this later.”

“Fantastic. Now come here.”

It's not until later that night when they're tangled in the sheets once more, in their now designated shared bed. Decided before bed time. That Satoru decides now, just as Suguru is drifting off to sleep, to whisper into the chilled air and down Suguru's neck, "So, we're dating now, right?"

"Whatever you want, Satoru. I just want to sleep..."

"But I want you to say it."

Why is he still whispering? Also, how was this the same man that fucked his brains out hours earlier again?

"Yes, we're together now. Boyfriends," he emphasizes.

"Good."

"Goodnight, 'Toru."

"Goodnight, 'Guru."