Work Text:
Satoru lives in a haze.
There’s a boy in his neighbourhood. He doesn’t go to Satoru’s school, but Satoru has seen him around with a few of his classmates. The boy had waved almost shyly upon seeing Satoru before they both got pulled into the pleasantries for the evening. They haven’t talked since then, but as the night progresses, Satoru finds their distance decreasing. He tucks a strand of his long hair behind his ear, laughing politely as Satoru’s mother hoards all his attention. Satoru sighs, finishing his drink quietly, smiling when he notices that the boy’s eyes are still on him.
It’s easy enough.
Satoru’s dressed to the nines today: an elaborate hairdo and a white ensemble his mother had guilted him into. The whole room had its eyes on him. But Satoru has never cared about that. He watches the boy charm his mother even as his eyes seek Satoru out. He’s got a pretty smile; soft and plump lips glistening as he sips the red wine Satoru’s mother had served at the soiree. Satoru’s mother’s cheeks rival them. She’s always liked them young and pretty. Satoru meets the boy’s eyes, popping the cherry from his cocktail between his teeth, the red painting his lips and dripping down onto the pristine white of his loose dress shirt.
There are a few shocked gasps, but Satoru doesn’t mind them.
He downs the rest of his drink, muttering a quiet goodbye to his mother and the boy, citing his wardrobe mishap as an excuse. His mother doesn’t seem to buy it, but Satoru simpers a few syrupy words of an apology as he makes his way outside. He counts his steps as he walks, and it’s not long before an elegant hand pulls him to their side. Satoru hides his smile at how the night plays out, the universe fulfilling his whims like a well-trained servant, carrying out his orders like a well-oiled machine.
“Hi—” His tone is hushed, breathless. There’s a ruddiness to his cheeks. Satoru’s not sure if it’s from the alcohol or the thought of what’s going to transpire. “I’ve seen you around. Heard a lot about you, too. But we never got a chance to talk tonight.”
Satoru nods in reply. There’s a lot he’s saying. A lot that he’s letting Satoru know. The boy’s hand is still wrapped around his arm, nails digging in and leaving little indents on Satoru’s pale skin. Satoru smiles, tongue peeking out to rest on his plush lip, tasting the cherry still. “Are you sure it’s talking you want to do?”
There’s a smile. The moon peeking out on a dark, cloudy night. “You got someplace in mind?”
Satoru scoffs, but before he knows it, he’s got the boy up against the wall, hidden from everyone because no one comes to this alley. It’s where he likes to take his toys: too grimy for Tokyo’s elite, too glitzy for those who don’t qualify. The boy doesn’t seem surprised at Satoru’s pick for their rendezvous, his expression twisting into one of lust when Satoru drops to his knees, undoing his pants and taking his cock out with practised ease.
Satoru knows the rumours making the rounds in their circle. Knows that all the boys in their neighbourhood trade stories and pictures of Satoru’s mouth and cunt and ass. Fucked sloppy and loose. Knows why this particular boy is risking it all right now.
Satoru knows what they say about him.
A soft touch and kind words and a nice smile: all you need to get Satoru wet and leaking, on his knees, baby blues looking up to meet your gaze, begging you to come down his throat. You don’t even have to buy him dinner. Cheaper than the 100-yen ramen shop by the railway station. All you need is to kiss him, call him Satoru and nothing else, and buy him a sucker so the taste of jizz won’t get in the way of his dinner.
It’s no secret: Satoru’s an easy lay.
The boy in his neighbourhood has wandering hands, sliding into Satoru’s hair a little too hurriedly, smiling at Satoru in apology when he tugs harshly, holding Satoru in place to fuck his mouth until he’s cumming down his throat with a choked-out groan.
Satoru watches as the boy pulls his pants back up, panting as he wipes his hands clean on the expensive cotton. Satoru blinks up at the boy—innocently, tongue darting out, a flash of the cum still sticking to it, smiling at the boy’s gasp, and swallowing with a sigh. A choreographed act. One perfected over time, with practice: bruised knees, red lips, pink tongue.
“Fuck, they weren’t lying—” The boy says, voice hoarse. Satoru fights his urge to scoff. “You really got a mouth on you. Who taught you to suck cock like that?”
“Does someone have to teach you to suck cock?”
“What? You telling me you’ve always been a whore?”
“Not a whore. Remember our rules?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, reaching into his wallet, pulling out a hundred-yen coin, holding it in his palm as Satoru gets up, dusting off his knee-high socks, the skirt swishing as he makes sure he’s presentable. “Are you up for this again?”
“Nope!” Satoru drags the syllables out, sticky mochi caught in pearl white teeth. “Your cum tastes like battery acid—”
He doesn’t give the boy a chance to answer, ignoring his indignant sputtering as Satoru grabs the money and walks away.
Satoru doesn’t want to do this, but he doesn’t have many plans to fall back on.
Nanami has a framed picture of his son on his desk. His notebooks and papers are carefully arranged and accounted for. The calendar has a circle around today’s date, reminding him of Satoru’s appointment. Today was supposed to be a family session, but Satoru’s parents aren’t very keen on being involved in his life. They used to show up to keep up appearances, but since the stunt Satoru pulled at the last gala with Suguru, they’ve been keeping their distance from him. He supposes his decision to cut his hair short and his refusal to be their ideal princess added to it. Their methods of retaliation have always left a sour taste in his mouth. But he’s used to it.
So, Satoru really doesn’t mind.
The less involved they are, the more freedom Satoru gets. The Xanax prescription on his nightstand is close to running out, and his mother would be appalled at the news if she were here. Still, Nanami won’t budge and refill it for him unless Satoru has an excuse for how he finished a month’s worth of pills this soon. Satoru has a script at the ready. He’s rehearsed it with more effort than he should. All his reasoning is laid out in colour-coded notes because Nanami doesn’t get it.
No one ever does.
If Satoru doesn’t live in this haze, the world outside will get him. It’s got its claws out for him—waiting and lurking to dig into his pretty pale skin. If he doesn’t live in this haze, Satoru will rip away at the shiny veneer holding all the ugliness inside him. So, he’ll do anything to make it stop. Anything just to be able to breathe again.
“Have you been hurting yourself?” Nanami’s pen scratches away at the notebook as Satoru ponders his answer, watching the ink seep into the paper, blue like the shirt Nanami is wearing. His glasses don’t hide the severity of his gaze, scrutinising the empty pill bottle Satoru brought with him like it’s a blemish atop his carefully organised table. “I remember you telling me you were getting better.”
“It is— I am getting better. I haven’t been hurting myself. The meds are helping.”
“The meds you were supposed to take for a month? The ones which are already over? It’s barely been two weeks—”
“They help. I’m alright as long as I take them—”
“Satoru,” Nanami sighs as he jots something down too fast for Satoru to make out. “I think it’s time we discussed alternatives to medication. The way I see it, you’re—”
“I want to die—” Satoru says. He meets Nanami’s eyes, voice cracking and eyes watery. Despite the script he prepared beforehand, Satoru realises it’s not an act. Maybe it’s never been one. “I want to die all the time, and the meds keep me from doing that. Isn’t it fine as long as I’m alive?”
“I cannot, in good faith, keep prescribing you pills if you’re only going to abuse them. The only reason I’m doing this in the first place is because—”
“I’ll suck you off—”
“That’s not—”
“Nanamin—” Satoru’s voice drops low. His face is probably splotchy and snotty, but from what he’s noticed over their sessions—Nanami likes it. He likes how messed up Satoru is; likes how fucked up Satoru gets as he tells Nanami about all the men who made a plaything of him since he could remember. He slinks over to Nanami. “I’ll be good. I won’t tell anyone. I— I really need the pills. It hurts so much, Nanamin. You’ll make it better, right?”
“Satoru—”
“You’ve always wanted to fuck me, right? I know how you look at me, Nanamin. I won’t tell mum or dad. You just— All you have to—” Satoru sits on his lap, smiling when Nanami’s arms wrap around his waist to hold him in place. He rolls his hips experimentally, and Nanami groans, cock slowly filling out under Satoru’s ass. “You can fuck my mouth or my pussy. I— I need them, or I won’t be able to sleep—”
“You promise?” Nanami swallows, hands snaking under Satoru’s skirt, lightly squeezing his ass. His fingers ghost over his hole, trembling as they massage it through the thin fabric. “I don’t want to lose my job—”
“Of course, Nanamin. When have I ever broken a promise?”
Satoru lives in a haze.
The dose Nanami put him on once their sessions turned into Satoru riding him until Nanami’s ball dries up is enough to keep his thoughts at bay. It works so well that Satoru can’t feel anything these days—even the things he desperately needs to feel. But Yuuta’s eyes scrunch up, lips caught between his teeth to keep in his grunts as Satoru rides him. He’s big enough that Satoru’s pussy feels stretched to the point it hurts—just how he likes it. And, if Satoru focuses, he can feel Yuuta’s cock pulsing slowly, almost like he’s responding to Satoru.
This is why Satoru keeps going back to Yuuta. His cock feels good. It’s thick and heavy and good enough to make Satoru go back on his cardinal rule—and that’s what Satoru tells himself and everyone else when he keeps turning them down to be with Yuuta.
Because Yuuta is special.
Satoru has known Yuuta since he met him on one of the many family trips to Kyoto. They bonded over their love for food and Digimon, sneaking away to stargaze by the koi pond when the lights at the Sugawara Estate were off. Satoru never expected Yuuta to transfer to their school, but when he did in the fall, it surprised Satoru.
And Satoru’s been happier for it.
Because Yuuta has always been sweet on Satoru.
He lets Satoru have his last dango. He makes sure Satoru never drinks too much. He carries wagashi and Satoru’s favourite cherry sucker in his bag. And when he kissed Satoru for the first time, Yuuta was redder than Satoru’s favourite candy. Sweeter than it, too.
Yuuta’s different from everyone else.
Yuuta is kind. When they’re alone, he fucks Satoru nice and slow and swallows up all his moans. He’s caring and sweet and whispers sweet nothings to Satoru until he’s messy and hopeful. Until it feels too real and Satoru floats—
Maybe that’s what lures him in, still sated, dripping Yuuta’s and his cum, eyes hazy from pleasure because Yuuta loves to make Satoru cum at least twice before he even sticks his cock in. The morning sun is pleasant. It filters in through the tiny window of their clubroom. Satoru’s skin lights up with goosebumps as Yuuta caresses the bruises his fingers left. It gives him hope. And Satoru takes the plunge. “Do you want to try coming over tonight? My folks won’t be home. We can watch a movie? Or grab dinner?”
“Oh. Um—” Yuuta pauses in his motions, hand stuttering to a stop right over the dip of Satoru’s waist. “I’ve got plans tonight. Don’t think I can make it—”
“It doesn’t have to be tonight then,” Satoru rushes to say; the speed with which the words leave his mouth gives him whiplash. Satoru can wait and postpone plans. Anything for Yuuta. “We can— Meet the day after? Or whenever you’re free? I want to spend some time with you. We never hang out outside of sex. I miss going stargazing with you. I know a spot—”
“I thought you didn’t meet people outside of sex?”
“Yeah, but—” Satoru swallows, choosing his words carefully, “I don’t mind if it’s you. You said you liked me. And I think I like you, too—”
Yuuta’s hand still hovers over Satoru’s waist as the words he uttered hang in the air. Yuuta makes no move to respond. Satoru wants to beg him to say something, but the words stay lodged in his throat. Satoru doesn’t know how long they stay like that, the silence uncomfortable and suffocating.
“Look— I— I just— I didn’t— I thought this was an arrangement without—” Yuuta gulps, tearing his gaze away from where Satoru is still dripping his cum. “I have a girlfriend.”
“What do you mean?”
“This never meant anything. Sex with you doesn’t count as cheating. That’s what everyone says. I mean, you get it, right?”
Satoru nods on instinct. He doesn’t know how else to react. Not when Yuuta rushes to get dressed, frantic in his attempt to get away from Satoru. He mumbles a quiet apology when he stumbles out of the clubroom, leaving Satoru alone with his thoughts, Yuuta’s cum slowly drying, sticking to Satoru’s thighs.
Satoru sees them later, by the koi pond, sharing a homemade bento. Yuuta laughs as she hand-feeds him: the picture-perfect high school couple. Satoru wants to walk over to them, show her Satoru’s fucked-out hole and Yuuta’s cum still clinging to his lips. But something in him tells him he’ll never be chosen. No matter what he does.
Yuuta’s right.
Satoru gets it.
His parents aren’t home.
There’s another gala. Another party. Another fundraiser that Satoru stopped getting invites to. It doesn’t bother him. If anything, he’s happy to be rid of the stuffy clothes and forced smiles. Plus, if he’s not there, he doesn’t have to worry about all the creeps who lie waiting for him. They’re good at hiding it from his parents. All business smiles and pressed suits in front of them, handshakes lasting longer than needed as they trade secrets like kids on a playground, acting none the wiser to all that unfolds around them.
Because it’s Satoru who has to wash the sour taste of whiskey and cigars and cum with tonic water and whatever Nanami prescribed to him. Satoru, who has to keep lying to himself every time he’s escorted to one of these functions because he knows they’re horrible at hiding things, just like his parents are terrible at pretending not to notice.
Not that their noticing would make a difference, but sometimes Satoru wonders whether they would be willing to hear him out. Whether for a second, they could be normal parents and listen to him cry about the things that happened to him. Or have dinner with him and let him talk about a boy he really liked and is pretty sure he just got his heart broken by.
But Satoru isn’t lucky like that.
So, he sits on the bed, arms outstretched, tendrils of red left by the razor staring back at him as he wills for them to sting. Nanami’s new dose is way too effective—they take away the pain, leaving him numb to everything around him. The blood drips down his arm—but, to Satoru, it’s merely a visual stimulation. The pain buzzes underneath his skin, goading him to cut a little deeper to finally feel something. He feels hollow inside. Dead and cold. Being with Yuuta had made warmth bloom in him despite it all, but here he is again.
Clockwork.
The reminder he kept for his meds tells him it’s almost time for dinner. Satoru can order in. Or call some private chef that his parents keep on speed dial for the house. It’s too much of an effort to try. Too much to call someone and beg them for company. But he needs something to tether the fleeting humanness in him; he needs to do something to take his mind off Yuuta and Nanami and Suguru—as well as countless others who viewed Satoru as something convenient. And maybe, if Satoru’s lucky, he’ll chance upon something to help him take the edge off.
He decides on the konbini by the crosswalk.
His mother detests junk food, so Satoru piles it high in his cart, picturing her scoffing at his choice of purchase. Satoru adds a pack of cigarettes when the cashier rings him up with a smile, only to have her put them back when Satoru fails to provide her with a valid ID card. He ignores the curl of annoyance in his gut, biting out a thank you as he gathers everything and leaves.
The packets of greasy udon and yakisoba rattle in his shopping bag as Satoru steps out and looks around. There’s not much for him back home, so he lingers around. They live in a quiet part of Tokyo, but even then, the streets are deserted for a December night. The winter chill is only beginning to set in around them; Satoru’s breath is already the same colour as the shinigami’s smile as he stands there taking in the scenery.
From the corner of his eye, he notices a red glow: a lighthouse beacon cutting through the murkiness of Satoru’s mind. His eyes land on a man he’s never seen around. Tall and broad. Bulky. Big. The kind of man who could ruin Satoru without him even asking. He stands by the faulty streetlight, the smoke billowing out around him, leaving him blurry and hazy like a foggy mirror, the burning end of his cigarette tantalising amidst the picture he paints. Satoru slowly walks over to him, enthralled as the man stands there, statue-like.
“Hi.” Satoru has a hand curled in the pocket of his sweatpants, emulating the man’s stance. “Can I bump a smoke off you?”
The man turns around, eyes narrowed as he takes in Satoru’s appearance. There’s a severity to his features, betrayed by the plushness of his lips. “Did the cops send you as bait or what?”
“Rude— I’m not a kid.”
“You look like one.”
“And you look like someone who’ll let me borrow a smoke, but here we are—”
“You live around here? I don’t remember rich kids being this mouthy.”
“Rich kids can get plenty mouthy—”
“I can imagine,” the man laughs, flicking the ash away. There’s a slash through the corner of his lips, chipped like the cracks in the expensive pottery Satoru’s mother insists on collecting. The crimson spilling from the burning stick leaves his dark eyes bottomless. “You look like the type who’s got a mouth on you.”
“Really? What else do I look like?”
The man doesn’t grace him with an answer. He holds the cigarette to Satoru’s mouth, tapping it against his lips. Satoru meets his gaze, tongue peeking out, plush lips wrapping around the spit-wet end, letting the man guide him as the smoke fills his lungs. He feels a little lightheaded. Anyone could see them like this.
That there is the thrill of it all.
“You really wanna know?” he asks, dislodging the cigarette from between Satoru’s lips. Satoru nods. A little too eagerly. Satoru’s mouth still clings to the smoke. The nicotine makes it easier to breathe. The man laughs. He takes another drag, mouth slotting against where Satoru’s lip had left it wet. The sharp glint of his canines makes Satoru’s heart stutter weakly. “But I’m not too keen on jail.”
“My parents aren’t home—” Satoru blurts out, the rush of smoke making him cough. It’s heady still. “The corner store owner won’t say anything. I can turn the security cameras at my place off, if you’re worried about people looking for you after—”
“I thought you only wanted a smoke?”
“I did—” Satoru eyes the man again. His arms are big—he can crush Satoru if he wants. Satoru wants him to. He swallows, and the man leans in just then, lips almost brushing against Satoru’s, the smell of nicotine and whiskey so thick, Satoru gulps. He wants to bridge the gap, but the man refuses to move, letting them stay stuck in limbo before pulling back:
“Aww,” he coos when Satoru glares at him, a hand wrapping around Satoru’s jaw, slowly parting his lips. “Did no one train you to be patient?”
Satoru doesn’t answer; instead, he sucks the man’s thumb in, biting into the flesh, soothing it with his tongue. The man grins, pressing his thumb down on Satoru’s teeth, too forcefully to be counted as sexy. But Satoru doesn’t mind. “You got a name?”
“Satoru—” He manages to gurgle the syllables out, tongue laving against the man’s thumb as he answers. His fingers taste like grime and tobacco and pachinko parlours. Satoru wants him more than anything.
“That’s a pretty name.”
“You got one?”
“Cute how you think you’ll be able to talk—” Satoru glares at him again, but the man brushes him off, pulling his thumb out. “You really wanna know, sweetheart? Why don’t you lead the way, and I’ll tell you, okay?”
Satoru never paid attention in the classes that mattered the most.
So, stranger danger is a foreign concept to him.
And that’s how he finds himself pressed up against his bedroom wall, struggling to stay afloat as the man kisses him, stealing all of Satoru’s oxygen. He’s unlike anyone Satoru’s been with. There’s no reverence in his touch, digging into Satoru’s plush skin a little too hard; his mouth cruel and rude with how it bites and sucks until Satoru’s lips are blood red and cracked open.
“Please—” Satoru begs, but he doesn’t know for what exactly. He cants his hips, chasing a friction denied. The man tuts at him, a rough hand connecting with his cheek. The sting has Satoru moaning—the only warning he gets as he comes.
“Eager little slut,” the man grunts out, “looking all innocent, but all you want is for a fat cock to fuck you open—”
The man’s fingers slip underneath the soft cotton of his sweatpants, past the wet patch that’s forming over his underwear, pushing into his cunt roughly, thumbing at his clit a little too hard. Satoru keens from how much it hurts. He’s terrified, but the man’s hold is unrelenting. “H-Hurts— Fuck, it hurts. Please—”
“Really? Thought you knew what you wanted?” The man growls, his fingers speeding up almost painfully. He pinches Satoru’s clit, tugging at the sensitive bud harshly as he smears the wetness around.
“I— Hurts—” Satoru nods through his tears. It’s never hurt like this before. No one’s ever treated him like this before. Even when they used and threw him away, Satoru still had the upper hand. They were still slaves to his whims and fancies. But, right now, Satoru has no say in what’s happening to him. It hurts. An agonising pain that rests right under his clit, his cunt bruised from the rough fingers relentlessly pressing up into him. It surprises him: how wet he is still. Surprises him, the way his stomach is coiling into a familiar knot again, even through the pain and fear. “Fuck—”
“You gonna cum again?”
Satoru feels the tears run down his face, wailing when the man’s fingers press up against the spot he always seems to miss, massaging it just as cruelly until Satoru spills all over his hands, coming with a loud squelch.
And a whimper.
It hurts.
His clit throbs painfully as the man pinches him through the orgasm. Satoru’s cunt flutters, his thighs shaking from the effort to stay upright. The man pulls his fingers out just as roughly, and even through his haze, Satoru notices a speck of red.
“Fuck— Did you cut my cunt?”
“Did I?”
“Jesus—” Satoru pants. His body rages, panic surging through him. But this is the most he’s felt in days. Most anything has managed to cut through the haze of his medication. The pain and fear buzz underneath his skin, almost pleasurably, almost warning him. This can only end wrong, so he might as well. “I’ll suck you off. I’m good with my mouth. I’ll suck you off and we’ll be even. I can’t—”
“Where’s the fun in that for me? You promised me a tight hole—” He sneers, hands slipping under Satoru’s shirt and pulling it off. His eyes widen when he takes in the dried blood smeared across his arms and torso, a nail slowly tracing and pressing into a fresh cut right above his navel. “Was just minding my own business until you walked up to me, darling. Remember, you asked for this, okay?”
“That was before you ripped up my pussy—”
“I thought the princess could handle a little pain? No one’s ever fucked you so hard you bled?”
“You’re insane—”
“I’m not the one slitting my wrist and slutting it up. Why do you want to fuck older men so bad, baby? Your daddy didn’t teach you any better? Or did he teach you a little too well?”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing you can prove. Get on the bed.”
“No—”
“‘M not asking, doll. You listen to me, and I’ll make sure this doesn’t hurt—”
Satoru follows the nudge he gives, crumbling against his bed as the man starts to take his clothes off. His phone is on the nightstand. Satoru can call 119. Beg them to come over and save him. His fingers twitch as he debates how to go about it discreetly. It’s so close. So close. Right there.
His phone beeps.
The reminder lights up his screen.
Footsteps make their way to him, and Satoru fights the urge to cry.
“Need a hand?”
“Fuck— My pills,” Satoru sobs. He has no idea what or who he invited in. “I need to take my meds—”
The man picks up Satoru’s phone from the nightstand, glancing at the screen before shutting it off and throwing it to the other end of the room. He grabs the pill bottle off the table, going over the label and emptying a few into his palm. “Open up.”
“I don’t need that many—”
“Too bad.” He forces Satoru’s mouth open, tipping it onto Satoru’s tongue. Satoru musters a glare, but the man smiles at Satoru like he’s in on the joke. His hold around his mouth slackens, trailing down to his neck, pressing in until Satoru gags, the pills sticking to his throat.
The flow of time feels corrupted. Satoru doesn’t know how long they remain like this, but the hold on his neck stays until the pills are mush in Satoru’s mouth. The taste and texture make him want to vomit, but the man pulls Satoru up just then. “Swallow. Come on. You don’t need water with that, do you?”
A finger traces the underside of his jaw, tipping Satoru’s face up, forcing him to gulp it down. The need to retch is incessant. But Satoru doesn’t want to risk it.
“Good girl—” He kisses Satoru, biting down on his lips again, hands fondling his breasts. “You’ve got some pretty tits under your clothes. Did your parents never teach you not to approach strangers? Such a pretty girl. You should know there are men like me who are waiting for you to let your guard down—”
Satoru cries at that. There’s something horribly wrong with him. “You don’t like that? Should’ve thought of that before—” He lays Satoru down again, limbs easily folding because Nanami’s meds are effective. Too effective. The man hovers over him, leaning in to kiss him again, grinding against Satoru’s core, his hands trailing up Satoru’s body. “You really did a number on your arms. Do they not hurt?”
The curious lilt in his tone is the only warning Satoru gets before he presses down on them. Satoru can feel his cock twitch from where it’s rubbing against his cunt. Just like every other part of him, his cock is also huge. Satoru would have begged for it on any other occasion. He would have put on his well-rehearsed role and acted like the slut the man thinks he is. But his limbs feel heavy, and his mouth feels slack.
Something in him tells him to just let it happen. The less he screams, the less it’ll hurt.
Still, all his bravado does nothing to alleviate the pain when the man does push in.
It’s a single thrust meant to hurt him. He feels every inch of it, and Satoru almost wails when he bottoms out, split open on his dick from how ill-prepared he is. He feels the sting from the earlier worsening as the man’s cock rubs up against all the parts his nails set on fire. Satoru’s sure there’s blood mixed in with the wetness. He’s sure there’s damage he won’t be able to notice.
“God, you’re so tight. Does no one fuck your pussy, baby?” He pulls out, pushing in again, jostling Satoru’s body from the force. The man grunts with each thrust, hips pistoning in and out of Satoru’s cunt, his body going along with the motions like a fuckdoll. “Fuck,” he groans, “Knew your cunt would get me off. So fucking tight and wet. You like being used, don’t you, you little slut?”
Not that his response would matter, but Satoru tries, failing when his tongue lies weak against his palate. His head feels heavy; time gets stretched thin around him. He keens, whimpers, when the man reaches down to toy with his clit, pinching it again. Satoru hates this. Hates how his body responds to it. The shocks of pain when he reacts to the stimulation leave him feeling ashamed.
The man’s pace turns frantic, breaking the careful rhythm he’d set for himself. It tells Satoru that he’s close. He closes his eyes to prepare for the inevitable as the man pulls him in for a kiss, swallowing up Satoru’s pained gasp.
The warmth of the cum flooding him brings Satoru back to his body for a second. The man’s cock is hard as he grinds it into Satoru’s womb, emptying it out through his aftershocks. His slow massage of Satoru’s clit has him squirming, but Satoru doesn’t fight it this time around. The orgasm washes over him like sleet and leaves him muddy and dirty.
The man pulls out after a while, but Satoru doesn’t move. He can feel the cum trickling out of his cunt. Tears gather at the corner of his eyes. They refuse to fall. Satoru sucks in a breath, eyes slipping shut as the man gets blurry around him. He can hear him move around as he gets dressed.
Satoru whimpers when he moves, the ache in his cunt making him want to double over. Everything in him hurts. The man’s indifference hurts more. He shudders, reaching an arm out for the man. “You didn’t tell me your name.”
“Is it important?”
“Please—”
The man sighs, seemingly tired of Satoru’s antics: “Toji.”
Satoru repeats the name out loud, rolling it around on his tongue. Something painful and heady blooms in his chest as he savours the feel of the two syllables, tracing the strokes of the kanji onto the roof of his mouth. Satoru manages to turn to his side, the movement making the cum seep out of him.
“Will you stay, Toji?”