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The room smelled faintly of smoke and rain. The window was cracked open, the night air cool against Satoru’s bare arms, though most of the haze came from the slow curl of smoke leaving Suguru’s mouth.
They’d done this countless times—Suguru sitting by the window, joint in hand, Satoru sprawled on the couch across from him, half complaining, half laughing about something dumb. But tonight’s topic… well.
“Dude, she said she was into that—” Satoru paused, gesturing vaguely. “—overstimulation thing.”
Suguru gave him a lazy side glance, smoke slipping out in a soft stream. “And?”
“And it was too much.” Satoru ran a hand through his hair, frustrated and embarrassed all at once. “I mean, you know me, I’m all for ‘new experiences’ and all that. But this? Nah. I thought I was gonna die, and not in the,” Satoru pitched his voice down a bit. “‘Yes baby oh God! You’re so tight I’m gonna die!’ kind of way—In the ‘I’m literally going to fucking punch you if you don’t get off,’ kind of way.”
Suguru chuckled, a low sound, almost affectionate. “Then she wasn’t doing it right.”
Satoru scoffed, head tipping back against the couch. “There’s no right way to overstimulate someone. That's literally the point, isn’t it? Torture them till it’s too much or whatever?”
“It’s not torture if it feels good,” Suguru murmured. He flicked ash out the window and leaned back, eyes half-lidded. “Nah,” Suguru said, slow and certain. “There’s a way to make it too much in the best possible way.”
Satoru stared at him. “You say that like you’ve done it before.”
“A few times,” Suguru said, almost a smirk tugging at his lips.
That should have been the end of it—a joke, a laugh, another dumb story to file away under “things best friends say at 2 a.m.” But something in the way he said it… the way his voice dropped, low and slow… Satoru couldn’t quite look away.
“Okay,” Satoru said finally, breaking the quiet. “Then explain. What’s the ‘right way’?”
Suguru frowned slightly, thinking. The smoke in his hand burned down to a thin ember. “I don’t know if you can explain it. It’s something you feel.”
“Feel?”
Suguru’s gaze flicked up. “Yeah.” Suguru’s mouth twitched as he tried to phrase it, eyes narrowing in thought. “It’s like… It’s not about pressure, it’s about keeping someone there on that edge. It’s control. It’s…” He gave up with a huff, leaning back again. “Forget it, hard to describe. Easier to show.”
Silence stretched. Satoru shifted on the couch, heart ticking a little faster for no reason he could name.
“Well,” he said, trying to sound casual, “I’m not doing it with her again, and I’m definitely not gonna ask some rando to show me how I’m apparently supposed to enjoy torture.”
“I could do it for you.”
The words fell out into the room, silence following heavy like smoke thickening between them. Suguru blinked once, eyes widening, brain catching up with his mouth. “I mean—shit, I didn’t mean—that wasn’t—”
“No, I know, it’s fine—”
“I’m just—high, man, forget it—”
“Yeah, no, it’s cool, we’re friends, it’s not—”
“Right, yeah, just—forget it.”
The words tumbled over each other, graceless, desperate to fill the silence. Then they both stopped at once.
Satoru stared down at his hands. His chest felt tight, like something had folded itself inside out. He laughed, soft and uneven. “You’re such an idiot, you know that?”
“Yeah,” Suguru murmured.
Satoru swallowed, throat dry. “Okay.”
Suguru looked up. “What?”
Satoru forced a grin that felt too wide. “Yeah, okay. Show me how it’s done.” A beat. “No homo.”
Suguru’s laugh cracked through the tension, warm and breathless. “No homo?” He shook his head, exhaling. “Jesus Christ, you’re hopeless.”
“Whatever, man.”
Another pause. Then Suguru stood, holding the joint, and crossed the small space between them. He stopped just in front of Satoru, the faint scent of smoke and something warmer—skin, perhaps, or maybe that was just Suguru—lingering in the air.
“Fine. Whatever.” He stared at Satoru, waiting for a response.
“Wait—seriously?”
“You said okay.”
“Yeah but—”
“Shut up. You’ll ruin it.” Suguru flicked ash into a tray on the coffee table, then took another slow drag. The ember glowed bright against the dim light of the room. “First rule. You gotta relax.”
“I am relaxed.” Satoru’s heart thudded. He told himself it was just curiosity. Just wanting to understand.
“Bullshit.” He snorted, turning the joint toward Satoru, other hand holding out a lighter. “Here.”
Satoru blinked. “What? No, I’m good.”
Suguru’s expression didn’t change. “No. This is part of it. C’mon, you wanted the experience.”
There was something quiet but firm in his tone—not quite a command, not quite a plea. Just certainty. Satoru hesitated, then sighed. “You’re insane, you know that?”
“Probably.”
He took it. The paper was warm from Suguru’s fingers, the faint scent of him mixed with smoke and something earthy. Satoru brought it to his lips, flicking the lighter, and inhaled shallowly, coughing once as he made a face.
Suguru smiled faintly, reached out to steady him—hand brushing his knee, grounding him. “Slow. Just breathe.”
They passed it back and forth a few times, their fingers brushing in the exchange. The room blurred at the edges—sounds muffled, colors thicker, the world softening around the heartbeat in Satoru’s ears.
For a second, neither of them moved. The air between them was a heartbeat made visible—soft, suspended, full of smoke and nerves.
Satoru tried to laugh, but it came out thin. “Uh… So how do we…”
Suguru exhaled, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Relax. You’re thinking too much.”
“Yeah, well, somebody’s gotta,” Satoru muttered. His knee bounced once before he stilled it. “You realize this is kind of—”
“Stupid?” Suguru supplied.
“Yeah. That.” He rubbed a hand over his face, heat creeping up his neck. “We’re best friends, dude. You’re smoking, I’m—straight.” The word landed like a stone in his mouth. “So this is—this would be weird.”
Suguru tilted his head. “Only if you decide it is.” There was that tone again—quiet, assured, a little teasing but never cruel. He reached over, fingertips ghosting against Satoru’s wrist. “Just… focus on what you feel. Not what it means.”
Satoru’s first instinct was to pull back, but he didn’t. His body felt too light, too warm, like the smoke had threaded itself through his veins. “Yeah, yeah. For sure.”
Suguru leaned back a little, studying Satoru with a quiet that felt too focused, too knowing. It wasn’t the look of someone teasing anymore—it was softer, searching.
Satoru cleared his throat. “You’re staring.”
Suguru’s mouth twitched. “Am I?”
“Yeah. It’s weird.”
“Then look away.”
“I—” Satoru tried, he really did, but his gaze stayed right where it was. The corner of Suguru’s lip, the line of his jaw, the shadow at his collarbone. It was ridiculous—he’d seen Suguru a thousand times before, same face, same lazy half-smile, same everything.
So why did it suddenly feel like too much to look at?
Suguru’s voice came low. “You’re really tense.”
“Gee, I wonder why,” Satoru said dryly, and that got a laugh out of Suguru—quiet, genuine, the kind that always made Satoru’s chest unclench a little.
“Okay, come here,” Suguru said, moving closer before Satoru could think to argue.
Satoru blinked. “What are you—”
“Trust me,” Suguru said again, and it wasn’t a command this time—it was gentle, steady. Suguru reached up, brushing the back of his fingers against Satoru’s jaw. The touch was barely there, but it was enough to make the breath catch in Satoru’s throat. His skin felt hot where Suguru’s hand hovered.
His fingers slid up, brushing through the short strands of Satoru’s hair, and suddenly everything felt amplified—the warmth of his hand, the smell of smoke still clinging to his skin, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
Satoru’s body didn’t quite know what to do with it. Every nerve was firing too softly, too slowly.
“You sure you’re straight?” Suguru asked, almost idly, the kind of question he could pretend was a joke if it needed to be.
Satoru’s mouth opened, then closed again. “I—” He huffed out a small, disbelieving laugh. “Man, don’t do that. You know how I get when I’m high.”
“Yeah,” Suguru said quietly. “That’s kind of the point.”
And there it was again—that shift. The space between them shrinking, the air around them going thick and quiet until it was just the sound of their breaths and the faint hum of the city outside. The world shrank to the couch cushions, the smoke in his chest, and the heat of Suguru’s hand finding the edge of his shirt.
“Just relax,” Suguru said. “Only an experiment, right? Let me show you.”
Satoru’s body buzzed—not just from the weed, but from the nearness of his oldest friend. Every nerve seemed closer to the surface, like his skin was thinner. Suguru’s fingertips brushed just above his waistband and Satoru jolted, not from fear—but from how good it felt. Too good.
Was that normal? Maybe he was just too high. He swallowed hard, exhaled again, and let himself fall back into the couch.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Okay. I’m ready.”
Suguru’s hands moved deliberately, not rushed, not tentative either—like he was tracing a path he already knew by heart.
Satoru felt his shirt lift, fabric brushing up along his shoulders and head as it was discarded, and every hair on his skin stood up like it had just been kissed by lightning. He wasn’t cold. Quite the opposite—his body was warm, almost feverish, but the contact sent a tremor through him anyway.
God, he thought distantly. Why does everything feel so strong?
It wasn’t like this with anyone else. Even when he was tipsy or buzzed, nothing ever hit quite this deep. But Suguru’s touch—his touch—landed like ink on wet paper. It soaked in, slow and irreversible.
The couch shifted as Suguru moved, knees sinking beside Satoru’s thighs. He was close now, so close that Satoru could feel his breath ghosting over his skin. It smelled like weed and something warm, something grounding. Familiar. Suguru.
“You good?” Suguru murmured.
Satoru nodded, slow, like the motion had to move through water. Everything felt soft and sharp at the same time. His limbs were heavy but his skin was alive. When Suguru’s fingers skimmed along his side—just under his ribs—Satoru’s breath caught.
“Don’t stop,” he whispered, before he could think about it. “Feels weird. But good. Kinda stupid good.”
“Yeah,” Suguru said. “That’s the point.”
Satoru’s eyes fluttered open. Suguru was looking right at him—no teasing, no grin. Just… watching. Like he was trying to memorize this version of Satoru: pliant, open, high and heavy-lidded and trusting.
Suguru leaned forward, his hands unhurried as he reached for Satoru’s waistband. “Just relax, yeah?”
“If you tell me to relax one more damn time…” Satoru’s jeans slid down, and Suguru’s fingers traced the line of his thigh, gentle, almost reverent. Satoru shifted restlessly.
“Dude, don’t tease—”
“Calm down.” Suguru’s tone deepened, taking on that rare authority he wore like second skin. “This is part of it too.”
He slid to the floor, settling between Satoru’s legs. Soft kisses mapped the inside of Satoru’s thighs, a hand stroking slowly, never quite enough. Satoru groaned, hazy already, frustration building.
“F-fuck, come on, Suguru—”
He barely registered the first kiss against his cock—hot and wet and slow. A teasing suckle that sent a jolt right up his spine. Suguru kept it up, adding pressure just when it became unbearable, never enough to let him tip.
Suguru chuckled around his cock, hand rubbing slow strokes on what his mouth didn’t cover—drawing out the rhythm, his movements calm even when Satoru’s hips started to twitch upward, seeking more. "Don't rush,” Suguru said, his thumb gliding lazily. “That’s the point.”
“Feels like—fuck—like you’re trying to torture me.”
“Maybe a little.”
Satoru laughed weakly, breath catching again when Suguru's other hand wandered down, cupping him lower, exploring until his fingers brushed the soft skin behind. Satoru flinched, eyes wide, pupils huge. “Oh, woah—”
“Is this okay?” Suguru asked, not moving. “We can stop any time you want.”
A pause. Then Satoru, biting his lip, nodded. “No—I mean… yeah. I always say I'll try anything once, right?”
Suguru smiled, almost fond. “Right.” He pressed lightly, just a hint of pressure, and when Satoru gasped he lifted his hand again, fingers poised. He looked at them for a second, then at Satoru. “Open up.”
Satoru stared, then huffed a laugh. “You’re not serious.”
“You said no homo,” Suguru teased, smirk tugging at his mouth. “So open up.”
“Fuck, fine.” Satoru leaned forward, tongue flicking out, catching the tips of Suguru’s fingers before sucking them in. The sound was obscene, wet, and Suguru's breath hitched for a moment before he gently pulled them back, watching the slick thread stretch between Satoru’s lips and his hand. “Good boy.” Satoru’s heart did a little flip.
Okay, so he’d be looking into that later, when his brain wasn’t currently spinning from weed and a blowjob and possible fingering from his best friend.
Suguru worked slowly and carefully, fingers circling, pressing in just enough for Satoru to jolt, muscles tightening. “Relax,” he whispered again, and spit-slick fingers traced gently. One slipped in, and Satoru’s breath hitched, body tensing then melting around it.
And then—two fingers. Pressing, searching, finding—
“Oh fuck what was that?” Satoru gasped.
“Shh,” Suguru whispered. “Just close your eyes.”
“Shit, that’s—” Satoru’s voice dissolved into a sound half between a moan and a laugh, “—this is really gay, huh?”
Suguru hummed, bending down, brushing his mouth against the head of Satoru’s cock, the touch featherlight. “Does it matter?”
Whatever answer Satoru might’ve had disappeared when Suguru’s lips parted and warmth enveloped him. “F—fuck,” he gasped, head tipping back, hand flying up to cover his mouth as if that could stifle the noise.
Suguru’s tongue wrapped around him again, warm and unrelenting, perfectly in rhythm with the curling motion of his fingers inside. Satoru whimpered—he was already so close, riding the edge, but somehow not tipping. Everything Suguru did was maddeningly soft. He didn’t stroke so much as glide. He didn’t lick—he suckled, slow, tender, like he was savoring him.
Satoru’s hips bucked instinctively, but Suguru's hand leaves his dick and presses him back down.
“Don’t get greedy,” Suguru murmured.
“But—fuck—dude—please—” Satoru choked out, eyes squeezed shut, body trembling. “I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—!”
His orgasm hits like a wave, cresting and crashing all at once, white-hot pleasure streaking up his chest. He groaned loud and deep, fingers scrabbling for anything to hold. Suguru didn’t stop—didn’t even flinch—as warm pulses painted his lips and chin, some of the liquid falling back down onto Satoru’s stomach. He just kept moving, coaxing the pleasure along as if it were an instrument, fingers twitching and plucking, this way and that.
Suguru’s fingers didn’t retreat. They stroked gently around that sweet, dangerous spot—featherlight, slow—and Satoru’s overstimulated nerves flared.
“W-wait—Suguru—dude, it hurts—!”
But his hips were being pinned, held in place by a now slick hand. Suguru’s mouth enveloped him again, no longer sucking to get him off—he was worshipping. Warm flesh suckled at him, gentle, feather-light sweeps of his tongue across the bottom. His mouth was teasing and unhurried, fingers still pressing but never pounding, coaxing gasps from Satoru’s twitching frame.
“It’s too much, I can’t—” He whimpered, reaching down to… to do what? His hands fluttered as another sharp pain shot through him, unsure what to grab first—Suguru’s hair? His hand?
In that split second of indecision, the discomfort shifted, and the soft, suckling motions Suguru was making pulsed through him, morphing back into pleasure.
“Holy fuck, dude—” He tried to squirm, but Suguru was too calm, too grounded. The exact opposite of what Satoru was becoming—high, frantic, unraveling under the sheer gentleness of it.
Satoru’s voice jumped in pitch, letting out a string of, “Ah, ah, mmfuck—fu—ah!” His mouth is hanging open now, and he can feel a thin line of drool slipping from the corner of his lips, trailing down the side of his cheek and cooling the skin there.
Suguru pulled his mouth off then, his fingertips pressing at the same time. Satoru’s entire body locked up with a shout. He came again, hard and fast, without a moment’s warning, hips jerking helplessly against Suguru’s arm. His cock jumped against his leg, a small dribble of cum leaving it—considerably less than he normally put out, but given that he’d just orgasmed less than five minutes ago, it vaguely registered as impressive in the back of Satoru’s sex, pleasure-addled mind.
“Oh fuck, fuck, Suguru—stop—I can’t—fuck—please—don’t stop—I don’t know—what the fuck is happening to me—!”
“Breathe, Satoru,” Suguru said softly. His voice was so steady. It grounded Satoru, to some degree, his panicked sobs dwindling to whines and moans.
“Please, please—Suguru no I can’t, I can’t, there’s nothing left—”
Apparently he was wrong, because pleasure lances through him as another orgasm—different this time, hollow and deep—ripped through him, a guttural groan leaving his throat. Satoru’s not really sure if anything comes out, since it feels like a different orgasm than he normally has, and Suguru’s mouth is swallowing around him so he can’t see if anything comes out—
Is this what a dry orgasm is? It’s fucking amazing. All he knows is that Suguru is still stimulating him and the orgasm goes on and on and on and—
Oh God, he’s forgotten how to breathe. How are you supposed to breathe?! Satoru tries to suck in a breath, but only succeeds in his muscles tightening further, Suguru’s hand gently pressing that spot inside him again, ripping a sob from him.
Just when he thinks he’s gonna pass out, Suguru gently slows, pulling his mouth off Satoru’s softening, still-twitching cock, and gently dragging his fingers out, carefully avoiding that bundle of nerves deep inside him.
Suguru pulled off him slowly, as if he were trying not to spook him. He wiped his hand against a tissue, then leaned back, chest rising and falling fast.
Satoru collapsed backwards onto the couch, limbs shaking, eyes wide and unfocused. He stared up at the ceiling, dazed. His chest was heaving. His voice came out hoarse.
“…Holy fuck. What the shit was that?”
Suguru’s voice was soft. “That,” he said, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, “was the right way.”
The room still smelled like smoke and skin.
Satoru sat cross-legged on the couch, wearing Suguru’s hoodie because it was the closest thing within reach. The hood strings kept twisting between his fingers; they smelled faintly like weed and citrus detergent.
Suguru was at the window again, half-dressed, hair messy, looking too calm for someone who had just—well. Yeah.`
“Hey, Suguru?”
“Mm?”
Satoru’s mouth opened, then closed. He tried again. “I, uh… I don’t think I’m straight.”
Suguru exhaled through his nose, not turning around. “You think?”
Satoru groaned. “Could you not sound so smug about it?”
A low laugh. “Sorry. Just—been waiting for you to catch up, that’s all.”
Satoru threw a pillow at him. “You’re an ass.”
“Yeah, but you like that now, apparently.”
“Don’t.” Satoru hid his face in the pillow, voice muffled. “Don’t make it weird.”
“It’s already weird.” Suguru crossed the room, leaned against the back of the couch. “But not bad-weird. Just… new.”
Satoru peeked out from the pillow, eyes a little too wide. “So what now?”
Suguru shrugged, gentle. “Now? We pretend we’re fine, order breakfast, and see if you still look at me like that when you’re not high and in a post-orgasmic haze.”
Satoru paused, then grinned despite himself. “Yeah, okay. But if I do—”
“Then we’ll talk.” Suguru’s tone softened. “No pressure, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Satoru looked away, smiling faintly. “No pressure.”