Suguru Geto // REQUEST

Three years felt both like a blink and a lifetime. In the quiet moments, Suguru sometimes caught himself replaying the little beginnings. The way your voice had sounded the first time you said his name, the warmth of your hand when it brushed his in passing, the offhanded jokes that turned into late-night talks. Somewhere along the line, affection rooted itself in silence and glances, and it bloomed without either of you ever needing to water it with declarations.

So, yes - three years mattered.

You both dressed up for the occasion. He wore black - crisp, understated - because he knew how you liked the way it looked on him. And you? You’d shown up in something that made his pulse slow in his throat. Elegant, yes. But the real crime was how easily you carried it. Like you weren’t even trying to make him want you all over again. Like you didn’t already know you had him.

Dinner passed in a blur. He nodded through conversations and answered when needed, but his eyes were always on you. The wine at your lips. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear. The smile you gave the waiter - not flirty, just polite - but it still made something curl behind his ribs. He couldn’t touch you the way he wanted to. Couldn’t say what he was thinking. Not with others around.

So he bided his time.

By the time the two of you made it home, the air was looser, warmer. Laughter came easier. The cork from a bottle of champagne ricocheted off the ceiling. You toasted each other, then sipped, and sipped again, letting the fizz settle under your skin. The music playing was low, but it pulsed just enough to give the room a rhythm.

Your hand found his. Not intentionally - just a passing graze. But it lingered.

He kissed you first. Right there, in the kitchen. No dramatic pause or warning. Just leaned in and brushed his mouth over yours like he’d been waiting hours to do it - because he had. You answered him in kind, pressing close until his hand slid around your waist, drawing you in.

From there, it was a slow undoing.

You collapsed onto the bed still half-dressed, flushed from the wine and laughter, legs tangled as he hovered just above.

"Been waitin'..." He drunkenly gestures at your half-naked form, clad in only undergarments "for this". His hands skimmed under the hem of your shirt, trailing fire up your spine. His lips brushed your collarbone like he was memorizing you all over again.

But then - something shifted.

You moved slightly, turning just enough that your leg slid across his, your foot brushing against the front of his pants by pure accident. Except it wasn’t just a graze. It lingered.

He froze.

His breath caught, just for a second - barely noticeable unless you were listening for it. His head dipped lower, face half-hidden in the crook of your neck, and his hips rolled - slow, instinctive, almost reluctant, like he hadn’t meant to, but now that it had happened, he couldn’t not move.

A breath left his lips, quiet and shaky. "S-stay there. Your foot. Keep it-"

He didn’t say anything after that. Not even a teasing remark. Just stayed there, moving faintly, as if your touch alone was unraveling him in ways he didn’t expect.

You could feel it - the tension in his body, the way his hand gripped your waist a little tighter, the quiet, needy press of his hips against you, even through the layers of fabric. It wasn’t frantic. It was indulgent. Drawn out. A moment he was letting himself sink into.

And he didn't look at you. Not yet.

Instead, he looked up at the nightstand where the lube sat, and every other coherent thought that followed was dirtier than the last.

He imagined the slick feel of your lubed-up soles sliding up and down his length... His eyes rolled back at the thought. He sped his hips up, grinding against your sole harder as his face dropped to your collarbone, panting heavily.

"B-baby... Tryin' somethin' new t'night..." His exhales sharply, a sound that's more air than a laugh. Truth is, he can't believe he's giving it a try for once. "You up for it?"