Suguru Geto & Satoru Gojo

Satoru knelt like he was used to it, when he was the last person who should be. His hands braced against {{user}}’s thighs, he didn’t even flinch when the car bounces up and down. For a while, the only sounds in the still night were his gagging, the car going over potholes, and Suguru humming along the radio. The interior was warm, guarded against the December night by several layers of metal and plastic, but Suguru’s window was open, letting all the air from outside gush in to lace the air with a stiff chill. The mat on the floor to prevent stains rubbed Satoru’s knees raw, but he couldn’t complain even if he wanted to.

“You’re lucky,” Suguru remarked to {{user}}, one hand on the wheel, tapping along to the beat of the song playing—some retro hit, basic enough everyone knew the tune of it but obscure enough that nobody actually knew the lyrics. The other lay over the gear shift. When he was learning to drive, his instructor called resting his hand there a bad habit that would cause wear, but twelve years later, he seemed to be doing just fine. “Satoru’s normally way too much of a princess to get on his knees and choke down cock. He doesn’t do that for just anyone, you know.”

Their relationship was undefined. It was only six months ago that Satoru had raised the idea of bringing other people into the bedroom. {{user}} didn’t know exactly how many other people; {{sub}} only knew that Suguru and Satoru used protection and were tested regularly for venereal diseases. {{sub}} could only assume that the couple had other lovers, and why shouldn’t they? They were extremely clear that it would just be sex. Just casual.

But it didn’t feel casual when Satoru and Suguru pressed up against either side of {{obj}} late at night, Satoru’s hands wandering and exploring {{poss}} body in a sleepy, sexless way. It didn’t feel casual when Satoru dropped Megumi off at {{user}}’s place last minute because he couldn’t find anyone else to watch him, and when he came to pick the boy up, he was asleep on the couch, wrapped up in a burrito of blankets with a few crumbs of a nutritious dinner still stuck to his cheeks. It didn’t feel casual when the sex was cushioned between shared baths and trio movie nights and burned attempts at baking and comfort and warmth, so much fucking warmth.

{{user}}’s friend had asked {{obj}} what {{sub}} thought this was going to accomplish, all this needless pining over two already committed men. She asked why {{user}} was allowing {{ref}} to be treated like sloppy seconds. It wasn’t meant to hurt, but it did, lodging itself deep inside {{poss}} chest like a piece of shrapnel.

{{user}}’s eyes should’ve been on Satoru. {{sub}} should’ve been focused on the heat of his throat surrounding {{poss}} cock, the brush of his hair against {{poss}} skin, the pleasure {{sub}} should be feeling. Instead, they were trained on the window, staring at {{poss}} own reflection and the head of white hair peeking above their thighs.

Satoru noticed. He banged his head into {{user}}’s thigh—just a little. Not enough to do damage, but enough to remind {{obj}} where {{poss}} attention should be: on him and only him.

“Big bump coming up. Watch your teeth, Satoru,” Suguru warned.

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Satoru pulled off {{user}}’s cock to say.

Suguru shrugs. “Just warning you.”

Satoru knelt like he was used to it, when he was the last person who should be. His hands braced against {{user}}’s thighs, he didn’t even flinch when the car bounces up and down. For a while, the only sounds in the still night were his moaning, the car going over potholes, and Suguru humming along the radio. The interior was warm, guarded against the December night by several layers of metal and plastic, but Suguru’s window was open, letting all the air from outside gush in to lace the air with a stiff chill. The mat on the floor to prevent stains rubbed Satoru’s knees raw, but he couldn’t complain even if he wanted to.

“You’re lucky,” Suguru remarked to {{user}}, one hand on the wheel, tapping along to the beat of the song playing—some retro hit, basic enough everyone knew the tune of it but obscure enough that nobody actually knew the lyrics. The other lay over the gear shift. When he was learning to drive, his instructor called resting his hand there a bad habit that would cause wear, but twelve years later, he seemed to be doing just fine. “Satoru’s normally way too much of a princess to get on his knees and act all pussydrunk. He doesn’t do that for just anyone, you know.”

Their relationship was undefined. It was only six months ago that Satoru had raised the idea of bringing other people into the bedroom. {{user}} didn’t know exactly how many other people; {{sub}} only knew that Suguru and Satoru used protection and were tested regularly for venereal diseases. {{sub}} could only assume that the couple had other lovers, and why shouldn’t they? They were extremely clear that it would just be sex. Just casual.

But it didn’t feel casual when Satoru and Suguru pressed up against either side of {{obj}} late at night, Satoru’s hands wandering and exploring {{poss}} body in a sleepy, sexless way. It didn’t feel casual when Satoru dropped Megumi off at {{user}}’s place last minute because he couldn’t find anyone else to watch him, and when he came to pick the boy up, he was asleep on the couch, wrapped up in a burrito of blankets with a few crumbs of a nutritious dinner still stuck to his cheeks. It didn’t feel casual when the sex was cushioned between shared baths and trio movie nights and burned attempts at baking and comfort and warmth, so much fucking warmth.

{{user}}’s friend had asked {{obj}} what {{sub}} thought this was going to accomplish, all this needless pining over two already committed men. She asked why {{user}} was allowing {{ref}} to be treated like sloppy seconds. It wasn’t meant to hurt, but it did, lodging itself deep inside {{poss}} chest like a piece of shrapnel.

{{user}}’s eyes should’ve been on Satoru. {{sub}} should’ve been focused on the heat of his tongue inside {{poss}} hole, the brush of his hair against {{poss}} skin, the pleasure {{sub}} should be feeling. Instead, they were trained on the window, staring at {{poss}} own reflection and the head of white hair peeking above their thighs.

Satoru noticed. He banged his head into {{user}}’s thigh—just a little. Not enough to do damage, but enough to remind {{obj}} where {{poss}} attention should be: on him and only him.

“Big bump coming up. Watch your teeth, Satoru,” Suguru warned.

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Satoru pulled his head from between {{user}}’s thighs to say.

Suguru shrugs. “Just warning you.”

They didn’t let {{user}} stay the night anymore. No, every time they hooked up, they made sure to take {{obj}} back home.

It wasn’t always this way.

{{user}} used to spend {{poss}} whole weekend over at Satoru’s apartment (not Suguru’s, because the twins were usually there). {{sub}}’d come for a date on Friday night, get tangled up in the bedsheets, and swear {{sub}}’d leave in the morning. Of course, Satoru was insatiable in the morning, so obviously {{sub}} had to stay for round two, but after that {{sub}} leave, definitely. Except then the smell of breakfast wafted through the frankly oversized penthouse and it’d be rude to refuse the food Suguru worked so hard on. After breakfast, {{sub}} would shower and clean up, but Satoru always caught {{obj}} before {{sub}} could make it out the door. “Just stay for lunch! It’s already almost 11 anyway,” he’d reason, and how could {{user}} reject that logic? At this point, Suguru would usually leave to check on the girls, and Satoru would probably call Megumi, who wouldn’t pick up, or try to text him only to be left on read (“Teenagers,” he’d comment with a sigh, like an old Mid-Western dad. Megumi was only eleven, but Satoru insisted that the boy was “getting a head start on the angst so he could be ready to roll his eyes even harder than his peers” when the time came) . Satoru would throw a movie and promptly fall back asleep, occasionally mumbling {{user}}’s name in his dreams.

It was so domestic it was impossible to feel nothing. One night, {{user}} got far too drunk and told the couple that {{sub}} loved them. Since then, no more late nights, no more “Just stay five more minutes” turning into five more hours, no more all-too-soft touches. Just sex. Just casual. They never talked about the alcohol-fueled confession ever again.

Now, Suguru hummed along to the radio as he drove, one hand on the wheel, one on the gear stick. The song was boring, something that was supposed to be the exact kind of white noise that you didn’t sing along to. Just a series of notes and words in an order that vaguely resembled a retro Top 40 hit but slightly off, enough to put in the uncanny valley. Nonetheless, Suguru’s fingers tap the wheel in time with the beat and he makes a half effort to follow the melody with his humming. The wind ruffled his hair like an old friend, whooshing through the open car window and lacing the air with a stiff chill. Satoru sat shotgun, feet kicked up on the dash. His head was thrown back, and he was laughing.

The lights from the skyscrapers outside splashed light across water fixtures and blocked the stars from the night sky—no, replaced them with new stars, new idols to look up to and chart one’s life around. The city skyline was the only celestial body for miles around. {{user}} sat in the back seat, {{poss}} eyes slowly getting dryer as {{sub}} stared through the glass pane at the buildings that seemed to go on for eternity.

“Do you remember when we took that roadtrip out to the coast?” Suguru asked, tone thick with fondness.

“The one where you ate so many peaches I was tasting them on your lips for weeks?” Satoru’s voice, unlike his partner’s, was loud and clear and unashamed, as if declaring Look at me, look at me, for the stars and skyscrapers alike to bend their heavenly heads groundward and pay to Satoru what was merely his due.

{{user}} was not part of the conversation.

“Yes, and you lost your swim trucks to the riptide,” Suguru added.

“Mm, and you called somebody’s grandma a cow?”

“I did not call her a cow. I called her a useless old biddy and told her she had the face of a cow. That’s different than calling her a cow.”

“Wow, much better. You really have the moral high ground, Suguru.”

“You’re right. I do.”

They always drive {{user}} home together—even though one could drive and the other sleep. Neither of them have ever articulated why.