Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The words on the page were no longer sentences; they were just black ink swimming in a mocking blur behind the lenses of Satoru’s glasses.

He slammed his highlighter down on the desk, the sharp click echoing too loudly in the small, suffocating dorm room. He was trying. God, he was trying. He had a midterm in forty-eight hours. He needed to be perfect to stay at the top of his class. He had to be. But his leg wouldn't stop bouncing under the desk, a nervous, kinetic energy that rattled his chair and made it impossible to absorb a single paragraph.

He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose and glanced over his shoulder.

Empty.

Of course it was empty. Geto Suguru—his personal nightmare, his roommate, and apparently the university’s resident heartthrob—was nowhere to be seen. It was almost offensive that someone like Geto, with his careless look, had even gotten into this college. Satoru spent his life in libraries; Geto seemed to spend his life not caring, yet somehow, they ended up in the same prestigious program, sharing the same tiny room.

Satoru rubbed his temples, feeling the headache pulsing behind his eyes. He’d tried everything. He’d popped the herbal anxiety pills his mother sent him. He’d tried breathing exercises. He’d even tried drinking herbal tea, which tasted like boiled grass.

Nothing worked. The stress was eating him alive, a tight coil of heat settling low in his belly, demanding attention.

He knew there was another way to fix all of this. A shameful way.

With a heavy sigh, Satoru pushed away from his desk. The silence of the room felt heavy, amplified by the thin, paper-like walls that separated him from the hallway. He had to be quiet. He had to be quick.

He moved to his bed, climbing onto the mattress and lying back against the pillow. He didn't bother taking off his glasses; he just shoved his sweatpants down to his knees, the cool air of the room hitting his skin.

Just make it quick, he told himself. Get it over with, and get back to studying.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his hand wrapping around his own hardness to start a slow, rhythmic stroke. He tried to think of the girl who sat in front of him in Calculus, the one with the nice laugh.

Nothing.

He couldn't even remember the color of her hair. He tried to recall an old crush from high school, a faceless encounter from a party… but the images were static, blurry, washed out by the blinding white light of his exhaustion.

Focus, Satoru, he scolded himself, pumping his hand faster. Just pick someone.

But he hadn't looked at a single person that way in months. Between the library, the lectures, and his self-imposed isolation, his world had shrunk down to the four walls of this tiny dorm room.

His eyes fluttered open, unable to hold onto the blank void of his imagination. His gaze landed directly on the bed opposite his.

Geto’s bed.

Without permission, Satoru’s mind filled in the blanks. He pictured the way Geto looked in the mornings, black hair fanned out against the white pillowcase.

Satoru’s hand tightened, stroking faster. He imagined those calloused, guitar-playing hands touching him. The image made him gasp, his hips bucking into his hand.

But stroking wasn't enough. The ache wasn't just in his cock; it was deeper. A hollow, demanding hunger inside him.

Desperate, Satoru brought his hand to his mouth, wetting his fingers with spit, and reached behind him. He pressed one finger against his entrance, shivering at the sudden intrusion, and pushed inside. Then two. He scissored them inside himself, trying to hit that maddening itch.

It felt good, but it was pathetic. His fingers were too thin. They didn't stretch him. They didn't fill the void. He was throbbing, leaking, but the tension wouldn't break. It only grew heavier.

He needed more.

He needed to feel completely full, the way he imagined Suguru’s presence filled the room.

Trembling slightly, Satoru sat up and reached under the bed frame. He fumbled for the sneaker box he kept hidden behind his winter socks. His heart hammered against his ribs as he retrieved the blue silicone toy.

He didn't have lube. He didn't have time to stretch properly. He just needed it in.

He brought the toy to his mouth, coating it in a desperate layer of spit, his glasses sliding down his nose as he panted. He lay back down, lifted his legs, and aligned the tip with his hole.

He didn't wait.

He shoved it in.

The pain was immediate and sharp. He hadn't prepped enough. The toy dragged against his tight, dry walls, forcing him open with zero mercy. Satoru threw his head back, his mouth opening in a silent scream, his glasses skewiff on his face.

But the pain—the pain—was grounding. It forced the stress out of his brain and centered it all right there.

Panic flared.

The walls.

He quickly clamped his free hand over his mouth, stifling the whimper that tried to escape.

The corners of his eyes watered behind his lenses as he pushed deeper, past the pain, until the stretch finally hit that deep spot his fingers couldn't reach. He surrendered to the shame and the burn.

He got up onto his knees and started to ride the toy roughly, picturing Suguru under him, holding his hips, guiding him as he thrust hard into him.

But the image wasn't enough. He needed him closer. He needed it to feel real.

His hand shot out, grasping blindly across the narrow gap between the beds until his fingers curled around the black band t-shirt Geto had discarded on the floor earlier.

He pressed the worn fabric to his face, inhaling greedily. It reeked of stale smoke, sandalwood, and the heavy musk of Geto’s skin. It was disgusting. It was intoxicating. He gagged himself with the fabric, replacing his hand with Geto's scent, riding the toy harder—ignoring the friction burn—as the smell tricked his brain into thinking Geto was right there.

He was close. He was so close. The pain, the fullness, and the taste of Suguru on his tongue were dragging him toward the edge. His breath came in short, sharp hitches into the stolen shirt.

Then, he heard it.

Click.

The sound was small, mechanical, and terrifying.

Satoru froze. The pleasure evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold bucket of adrenaline.

The door.

“Shit,” he hissed.

He scrambled. It was a frantic, undignified chaos. He yanked the toy out—wincing at the sudden, dry friction—and shoved it blindly under his pillow. He let go of the shirt, letting it fall onto the mattress, and grabbed his duvet, hauling it up to his chin just as the handle turned.

The door swung open.

Geto Suguru walked in, dropping a guitar case by the entrance. He looked tired, his hair tied back in a messy bun.

Satoru lay frozen in his bed, knees drawn up, the blanket pulled tight like a shield up to his nose. His glasses were crooked on his face, fogged up from his heavy breathing. His heart was hammering so hard he was sure Geto could hear it.

Geto kicked off his boots and looked over. He paused.

Satoru stared back, wide-eyed, trying to look innocent. But he was sweating, panting, and his lips were swollen.

Geto’s eyes narrowed. He sniffed the air. The room smelled like a familiar scent. He looked at Satoru’s flushed face.

Then, Geto’s gaze dropped lower. It landed on the bed.

Right there, sitting stark and black against Satoru’s pristine white sheets, was the crumpled band t-shirt.

A slow, confused frown creased Geto’s forehead, followed quickly by a look of dawning amusement.

“Satoru?” Geto asked, his voice rough. He pointed a long finger at the bundle of fabric. “Why is my t-shirt on your bed?”

Satoru’s gaze snapped down. His blood ran cold.

“I—” Satoru started, his voice cracking. He pushed his crooked glasses up his nose with a shaking hand. “I was just… moving it.”

“Moving it?” Geto raised an eyebrow. “Onto your bed?”

“It was on the floor!” Satoru blurted out. “I almost tripped on it. So I… I picked it up to throw it back onto your side, but you walked in.”

“You picked it up to throw it,” Geto repeated slowly. “And you decided to do that while lying down under the covers… Judging by the state of you, were you studying or running a marathon?”

“It’s hot in here! Ventilation is shit,” Satoru snapped, shrinking back. “Just… take your shirt, Suguru.”

Geto laughed then. A low, throaty sound. He walked over, leaning down—too close—and snatched the shirt from the mattress. He inspected it, then threw a look over his shoulder that made Satoru’s toes curl.

“Right. You were just cleaning,” Geto hummed, a predatory glint in his eyes as he tossed the shirt onto his laundry pile. “Next time you want to handle my stuff, Satoru, just ask. You don't have to wait until I'm gone.”

Geto didn't leave. He didn't even look away immediately. He just smirked, turned on his heel, and flopped back onto his own bed, kicking his feet up with infuriating nonchalance. He pulled out his phone, the soft light illuminating his face as he started scrolling, completely unbothered.

Satoru, on the other hand, felt like his skin was on fire. He spun around, practically throwing himself into his chair, and stared blindly at the wall, praying Geto wouldn't say—or notice—anything else.

Chapter Text

The silence in the room was worse than the noise.

It had been one hour since the "shirt incident." One hour since Satoru had scrambled back to his desk, frantically wiped the condensation off his glasses with the hem of his shirt, and tried to disappear into his textbook on Chaotic Dynamics.

He was staring at the same paragraph. He had read the sentence "The sensitivity to initial conditions" about fifty times, but the words meant nothing. His brain wasn't processing information.

His brain was entirely focused on two things:

 1- The humiliating heat still burning his ears.

 2- The throbbing, unfinished ache between his legs.

He hadn't finished. The interruption had scared the adrenaline into him, but now that the panic was fading, the arousal was coming back with a vengeance. He was sitting on a hard wooden chair, sweating in the humid dorm room, the thick fabric of his sweatpants clinging uncomfortably to his skin—he had seized the opportunity to yank them back up properly the moment Suguru had ducked into the bathroom earlier.

Now, fully clothed but internally wrecking himself, the object of his filthy fantasy sat just six feet away.

Strum.

Satoru’s eye twitched behind his lenses.

Behind him, on the other bed, Geto Suguru was "tuning" his guitar. He plucked the E-string. He twisted the peg. He plucked it again. It sounded perfectly fine, but Geto kept doing it. Slow. Repetitive. Maddening.

Strum. Strum. Strum.

"Can you," Satoru snapped, his voice coming out tighter than he intended, "stop that? I’m trying to study."

The strumming stopped. The silence stretched for a beat, heavy and thick.

"Are you?" Geto’s voice was low, amused, and far too close.

Satoru stiffened. He hadn't heard Geto stand up.

"Yes," Satoru hissed, refusing to turn around. He pushed his glasses up his nose and gripped his highlighter like a weapon. "Some of us care about our GPA, Suguru. Just because you plan to live in a van doesn't mean—"

"You haven't turned the page in twenty minutes, Satoru."

The air left Satoru’s lungs.

A hand landed on the back of his chair. Then, he could feel a body leaning over him. Satoru could feel the heat radiating off Geto, could smell that distinct mix of sandalwood and cigarette smoke—the same scent he had been huffing like a drug less than half an hour ago.

"You're shaking," Geto whispered, his breath ghosting over the shell of Satoru’s ear.

"I'm cold," Satoru lied.

"Really?" Geto hummed. His hand slid from the chair to Satoru’s shoulder, his thumb digging into the tense muscle there. "Because you look feverish to me..."

Geto’s other hand moved to Satoru’s forehead before reaching down, bold and unhesitating, to brush his knuckles against the soft cotton of Satoru’s sweatpants, right over the tented fabric between his thighs.

Satoru gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily against the touch. A jolt of electricity shot straight to his brain, short-circuiting his logic.

"And," Geto murmured, leaning in until his lips brushed Satoru’s neck, "you're still hard."

Satoru’s hands gripped the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles turned white. 

He wanted to push him away. He wanted to pull him closer.

"Don't touch me."

"Why?" Geto teased, his voice dropping an octave, becoming rougher. "You didn't mind touching yourself holding my dirty laundry."

"I told you," Satoru choked out, "I was cleaning."

"Liar," Geto whispered. He bit lightly at the sensitive cord of Satoru’s neck, making the nerd let out a whimper that sounded humiliatingly needy. "You're a terrible liar, Satoru. You're so smart with your books, but you're so stupid with this."

Geto grabbed the back of the chair and spun it around.

Satoru didn't resist. He couldn't. He found himself face-to-face with Geto, who was looming over him with a smirk that was equal parts predatory and mocking. Geto’s long hair fell around his face like a curtain, shutting out the rest of the room.

"You're shaking," Geto noted, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. He didn't reach for Satoru’s waistband yet. Instead, he placed his hands on the arms of the chair, caging Satoru in.

Satoru swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I'm not."

"You are," Geto corrected, tilting his head. "You're terrified. Or maybe just impatient."

Geto leaned in closer, until their noses were almost touching. Behind the fogged lenses of his glasses, Satoru’s eyes were wide and frantic.

"Tell me, Satoru," Geto whispered, the words brushing against Satoru’s lips. "How did you do it?"

Satoru flinched. "What?"

"Earlier," Geto clarified, his eyes darkening. "When you were humping my shirt like a bitch in heat. How did you do it? Did you use your hand? Or did you go straight for your hole?"

"I didn't—I wasn't—" Satoru stammered, his face burning so hot he thought he might pass out.

"Don't lie to me," Geto cut him off, his voice sharp. "I saw the sweat. I smelled the sex. I saw my shirt on your bed." Geto brought a hand up, tapping his finger against Satoru’s chest, right over his racing heart. "So tell me. How did you think about me?"

Satoru pressed his lips together, refusing to answer. He couldn't say it. He couldn't admit that he had imagined Geto pinning him down, ruining him.

"Were you picturing me helping you study?" Geto mocked, a cruel glint in his eyes. "Or were you imagining me fucking you into the mattress until you forgot your own name?"

Geto’s hand moved up to Satoru’s face, gripping his jaw firmly to keep him from looking away.

"Did you imagine my hands on you?" Geto asked, his thumb stroking Satoru’s cheekbone. "Did you imagine my cock? Is that why you grabbed my shirt? Because you were so desperate to pretend I was inside you that you needed to smell me to get off?"

"Stop," Satoru whined, a broken, breathless sound. It wasn't a demand; it was a plea. He was dripping in his sweatpants, the humiliation of having his secret fantasy spoken aloud making him feel lightheaded.

"Stop?" Geto laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I haven't even started. You wanted me so bad you risked getting caught. So tell me, Satoru... did it work? Did thinking about me help you relax? Or did it just make you more of a mess?"

Geto released his jaw and let his gaze drop to Satoru’s lap, where the evidence of his arousal was straining against the grey cotton.

"You're leaking," Geto observed mercilessly. "Look at you. Top of the class, perfect grades, and you're reduced to a drooling, needy mess just because I looked at you."

Geto didn't give him time to formulate an excuse. He shoved his hand straight down the front of Gojo’s sweatpants. His palm cupped the heavy, aching heat of Gojo’s length, his fingers brushing against the damp tip.

Satoru choked on a gasp, his hips snapping forward instinctively into the touch. He threw his head back, his glasses sliding down his nose, fogging up again instantly.

"Fuck," Geto laughed darkly, withdrawing his hand to show Satoru the slickness coating his fingers. "Look at that. Wasted. You were just sitting here, dripping into your sweats, hoping I would walk over and do exactly this?"

"I wasn't—"

"Shh. You’ve done enough thinking for today. Stand up."

Satoru’s legs were shaking, jelly-like and useless, but he obeyed. Geto yanked the sweatpants and boxers down in one smooth motion, pooling them at Satoru’s ankles.

"Turn around. Hands on the desk."

Satoru turned, planting his palms flat on his chaotic dynamics notes, bending at the waist. He heard the sound of a zipper behind him, the rustle of clothing, and then the warmth of Geto’s body pressed against his back.

"Is this how you keep your grades up, Satoru?" Geto whispered, his hot breath ghosting over the sensitive skin of Satoru’s neck. "I didn't know the top student needed to fuck himself stupid just to memorize a few formulas."

Satoru squeezed his eyes shut. Shame burned hot and sharp. "Shut up."

"Make me," Geto chuckled darkly. His hand slid down Satoru’s spine, tracing the vertebrae until he reached the cleft of his buttocks.

"I see you, you know," Geto murmured, his breath hot against Satoru's ear. "I watch you when you get like this."

Satoru shuddered, trapped under his gaze.

"You think I haven't noticed?" Geto continued, his voice low and rhythmic. "I hear you pacing the floor when you think I'm asleep. I hear that damn pen clicking for hours, trying to force your brain to shut up."

He pressed his hips firmly against Satoru, letting him feel the hardness through their clothes.

"But none of that works for you, does it? This is the only way to make that loud, genius brain of yours finally shut up."

Smack.

Geto slapped Satoru’s ass, a sharp, stinging blow that made Satoru yelp and arch his back.

"Apparently," Geto murmured, leaning in to bite Satoru’s earlobe, "this is your preferred method of relaxation. You just needed to get bent over your desk like a slut to clear your head for midterms?"

"Its... it helps me focus," Satoru stammered, the excuse sounding weak even to his own ears.

"Does it?" Geto laughed, sliding a finger into his mouth to wet it, making a wet, sucking sound right in Satoru’s ear. "Well then. I guess I'm doing a public service."

He pulled his wet finger out and pressed it against Satoru’s entrance to prep him. But as he spread Satoru's cheek and pushed slightly, Geto paused. His eyebrows shot up.

"Fuck," Geto breathed out, a mix of disbelief and arousal in his voice. "Satoru, you're basically gaping. You're wide open."

Geto pressed deeper with zero resistance.

"Are you sure you only used your fingers?" Geto asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Satoru couldn't respond. His brain was short-circuiting from the heat, the shame, the anticipation. He just panted, his mouth opening and closing uselessly against the air.

Smack.

Geto’s hand landed hard on Satoru’s ass cheek again, stinging the sensitive skin.

"Answer me," Geto ordered.

"No—no..." Satoru gasped, his head spinning.

"Bullshit," Geto hissed, pressing deeper into the yielding heat. "You didn't get this loose with just your fingers. Tell me the truth."

"No," Satoru whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut as the truth dragged itself out of his throat. "I— I used...I used a toy."

Geto didn't just sneer; he laughed. It was a cruel, incredulous sound. He reached up and grabbed a fistful of Satoru’s white hair, yanking his head back so he could see his profile in the dim light.

"A dildo," Geto repeated, shaking his head mockingly. "Look at you. With those glasses sliding off your nose and that innocent, straight-A student face... You walk around campus looking like a saint. Professors love you. Everyone thinks you're so proper."

Geto leaned in, his voice dropping to a toxic whisper against Satoru's flushed skin.

"But secretly? You’re nothing but a filthy little pervert. You play the part of the perfect prodigy, but behind closed doors, you're shoving cold plastic inside youself, desperate just to take the edge off.."

"I'm not..." Satoru tried to argue, but the shame was burning him up.

"You are," Geto corrected. "You look like an angel, Satoru, but you fuck yourself like a cheap slut."

Geto let go of Satoru's hair, letting his head drop back onto the textbook.

"Since you've already stretched yourself out for me," Geto murmured, "I guess I don't need to be gentle."

Geto worked one finger in, then immediately added a second, stretching him with a rough efficiency that Satoru hadn't been able to achieve on his own. Satoru buried his face in his textbook, his glasses clicking against the desk surface as he panted.

It felt humiliatingly good. His body recognized the difference immediately. The toy had been cold, static, and unyielding. This was warm. This was calloused skin and living muscle. This was Geto.

"See?" Geto taunted, curling his fingers in a slow, deliberate motion that made Satoru’s knees buckle, forcing him to cling to the desk for dear life. "You were so sloppy earlier. Shoving that toy in dry like a desperate amateur. Is that how you study, too, Satoru? Do you just wait until the pressure breaks you, and then try to cram it all inside at the last second?"

"Shut up... please..." Satoru begged, his hips swaying back, seeking more friction.

"Begging already?" Geto withdrew his fingers, leaving Satoru feeling empty and cold for a split second.

Then, he felt the heavy, hot pressure of Geto aligning himself against the opening.

"Hold onto the desk, Satoru," Geto growled. "Don't let go."

Geto didn't wait. He thrust forward, sinking into Satoru in one long, devastating stroke.

"AH—!" Satoru screamed, the sound sharp and echoing in the small room. His vision swam behind his fogged glasses. He felt filled, stretched, completely and utterly occupied.

It was overwhelming.

It was perfect.

"Shh," Geto hissed, the sound cutting through the haze. He didn't slow down; if anything, he hit harder, deliberately tearing another moan out of his throat. "You're way too loud."

"I—Ah! Can't—!"

"You know these walls are cardboard, Satoru," Geto mocked, leaning down to nip at his ear. "I bet the guy next door can hear every wet sound you're making. What would he think? The perfect, untouchable scholarship student, getting fucked stupid instead of studying?"

Satoru’s eyes widened in sheer panic behind his fogged lenses. The shame was sharper than the pleasure. If anyone heard him like this...

"No—" Satoru gasped, the fear spiking. He frantically tore one hand away from the desk and jammed his knuckles into his own mouth, stifling a broken wail into his palm. "Mmph! Nngh!"

"That’s it," Geto laughed darkly, watching Satoru desperately gag himself to stay quiet. "Bite down on your hand. Be a good boy and shut up. You wouldn't want to flush your shiny future down the toilet just because you can't handle being fucked properly, right?"

Geto grabbed Satoru’s hair, yanking his head back so he couldn't hide in his hand anymore, forcing his face down toward the desk.

Geto groaned above him, his hands gripping Satoru’s waist to hold him in place. "Fuck. That toy didn't loosen you up at all. You're still so tight."

He thrust upward then, deliberately hitting a spot deep inside that dragged a loud, helpless moan out of Satoru’s throat.

"All that stress..." Geto growled, grinding against that sensitive bundle of nerves. "It's all knotted up right here, isn't it?"

Geto kept hammering Satoru’s prostate, snapping his hips forward with a rhythm that rattled the desk and shook the highlighter onto the floor. The sound of the desk hitting the wall mixed with the wet, slapping sound of skin on skin.

"Open your eyes," Geto commanded, tightening his grip on Satoru's hair and forcing his face down, smashing his cheek against the open textbook. "Look at your notes. Don't look away."

"Ah—! Nngh..." Satoru sobbed, a high, choked sound tearing out of his throat. "I... I can't see..." He blinked frantically behind lenses that were completely opaque with steam.

"Read it!" Geto thrust deeper, a brutal, punishing rhythm that slammed Satoru’s chest against the desk with every stroke. "Come on, genius. You wanted to study so bad? Prove it."

"Oh god—Ah! Hah—!" Satoru wailed, his hips snapping back against Geto with every impact. His mind went completely white, the pleasure short-circuiting his entire nervous system. "I don't—Fuh—I don't know! can't—can’t think!"

"Pathetic," Geto spat, leaning down to hiss right into his ear. "Supposed to be the smartest guy in the program, and look at you. Drooling on your homework. Can’t even read a simple sentence, can you?"

"Nnh... aaah! No... please..." Satoru whimpered, his voice cracking into a keen of pure need.

"You're stupid like this," Geto sneered, biting down hard on the sensitive cord of his neck, marking him. "All that brainpower is gone. You're not a student right now, Satoru. You're just a warm, wet hole for me to use."

Satoru nodded frantically, tears leaking from his eyes to mix with the sweat on his face.

"Yeah—yes," he breathed, the words slipping out before he could stop them."Fu—yeah!..."

He didn't want to be the top student. He didn't want to be perfect. He just wanted this.

Geto’s pace increased, becoming erratic and punishing. He was hitting that same spot over and over, ruining Satoru for anyone and anything else. Satoru felt the pressure building, the tension of the last week, the anxiety of the exam, all of it coalescing into a tight, blinding knot in his lower belly.

"I'm gonna—Suguru, please, I'm gonna—"

"Do it," Geto commanded, letting go of Satoru’s hair to wrap an arm around his chest, pinning him against his own body. "Come on, genius. Gonna ruin your notes for me?"

"Nngh—no... no..." Satoru cried out, shaking his head weakly.

"Yes, you are," Geto growled, grinding his hips against Satoru’s backside. "You're going to make a mess right on top of that perfect handwriting."

That was the breaking point. The idea of being so lost, so degraded that he would defile his own hard work sent Satoru over the edge.

He came with a high, keen whimper, his release spurting out to coat his stomach and the edge of the textbook beneath him, soaking into the ink.

Geto followed him seconds later, groaning Satoru’s name as he poured himself inside, filling that deep, hollow ache that the silicone toy could never reach.

They stayed like that for a long moment, Geto’s heavy weight pressing Satoru into the desk, the only sound in the room their ragged, synchronized breathing.

Finally, Geto pulled out, leaving Satoru to slide down onto the chair, a trembling, ruined mess. Satoru slumped forward, his cheek resting on the sticky page of his textbook. His glasses were hanging off one ear, completely useless.

Geto stood up, adjusting his own clothes with infuriating calm. He picked up the highlighter from the floor and tossed it onto the desk, right next to Satoru’s limp hand.

"There," Geto said, his voice laced with satisfaction. "Now you look relaxed."

"Good luck with your exam, Satoru," he hummed.

He reached for the door before stopping. Behind him, the only sound was Satoru’s ragged, wet breathing and the chattering of his teeth. Satoru was shivering violently, the adrenaline crash hitting him all at once.

Geto sighed—a long, exaggerated sound of annoyance—but he let the door click shut again. He dropped his guitar case by the entrance.

"Jesus," Geto muttered, his tone softer now, lacking the bite it had moments ago. "You're really gone, aren't you?"

He walked back to the desk. Satoru flinched slightly when Geto’s shadow fell over him, but Geto just reached out and gently pulled the ruined textbook out from under Satoru’s cheek, setting it aside on the floor.

"Up," Geto murmured, hooking his hands under Satoru’s armpits to haul him up from the chair. Satoru was dead weight, his legs shaking so hard he could barely stand.

"Suguru..." Satoru slurred, leaning heavily against Geto’s chest, seeking the warmth. "I made a mess..."

"Yeah, you did. You're filthy," Geto said, but he wrapped his arms around Satoru, holding him tight to stop the shivering. He rubbed large, soothing circles into Satoru’s back. "Just breathe. You were holding your breath the whole time, idiot."

Geto grabbed a pack of wet wipes from the shelf—he knew exactly where Satoru kept them—and began to clean him up with surprising efficiency. He wiped Satoru’s stomach, his thighs, and the sticky residue on the desk, his movements firm but careful.

Satoru stood there, eyes half-closed, letting himself be handled like a child. The degradation was over; now came the grounding.

Once the worst of it was gone, Geto reached up and took the fogged, crooked glasses off Satoru’s face. He used the hem of his own black t-shirt to wipe the lenses clean, checking them against the light before sliding them back onto Satoru’s nose.

"Better?" Geto asked, his voice low.

Satoru blinked, the world coming back into sharp focus. He looked at Geto—really looked at him. The cruelty was gone from Geto's eyes, replaced by that familiar, lazy fondness.

"Yeah," Satoru whispered, feeling small and safe.

Geto smirked, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of white hair behind Satoru’s ear. He let his thumb brush against Satoru’s cheekbone.

"You took it well," Geto praised quietly. "Good boy."

Satoru melted at the words, his knees going weak again, but Geto caught him, steadying him against the desk.

"Now," Geto said, stepping back and picking up his guitar case for real this time. "Get some sleep. If I see you studying those ruined notes when I get back, I’m throwing the book out the window."

"Okay," Satoru breathed.

Geto gave him one last lingering look, then turned and slipped out the door, leaving Satoru clean, exhausted, and finally, quiet.