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Satoru is trying to keep it together.
It’s his bachelor party, after all. A night of wild dancing, questionable decisions, and far too many shots, all courtesy of Shoko, his best friend and the one person who can convince him to get blackout drunk before an important event.
But with the lights flashing in neon bursts, bodies grinding against each other shamlessly, and the bass so loud it feels like it’s shaking his fucking bones, Satoru has a hard time focusing on everything all at once. His hands are slick with sweat, his sheer, black shirt is slightly (significantly) unbuttoned from all the dancing, and he’s laughing so hard with the group of friends around him that he can barely breathe.
He doesn’t notice the moment when Shoko leaves his side, swaying away to get a refill of their drinks and probably burn down a couple of cigarettes just in case. But he does notice the shift in her energy once she comes back.
Her expression is unreadable at first, she just slips through the crowd like she always does; sharp, confident, perfectly in control, new drink tight in her grasp.
Satoru doesn’t question her once he’s leveled with an intense glare, her eyes glued to the exposed skin of his chest. She just shakes her head and tries to fix the material without making it obvious.
“So,” she says, leaning in close to his ear, her voice low, almost warry, fighting against the heavy pulse of the music. “You’ll never guess who I just saw in the smoking area.”
Satoru cocks his head, grinning. “Oh, I’m all ears. Who?”
Shoko’s lips curl into a teasing yet slightly strained smile.
“Choso.”
Satoru freezes for a second, blinking slowly as he processes the information. Choso? Why would he be here? Wasn’t he supposed to be with-
His smile doesn’t vanish, but something flickers across his face; amusement and sudden understanding.
If Choso’s here… well, then that could only mean-
“Choso? You sure?” He lets out a surprised chuckle, his tone dripping with light sarcasm. “Well, that’s a pleasant surprise.”
Shoko rolls her eyes, arms crossing over her chest as she stares him down. “Yeah, surprise.” She shakes her head and tugs him away from the grinding bodies.
“And you better fucking behave tonight, or I swear, I’ll drag you out of here myself.”
Satoru’s grin only widens, the playful edge to his voice not giving anyone a good reason to trust him.
“Behave? Me? Come on, Shoko, you know that’s no fun.”
Shoko narrows her eyes, taking a deep breath. She knows where this is going. Apparently, it never goes anywhere else when it comes to these things.
At least he’s honest, right?
“You’re unbelievable,” she mutters. “Just... behave. They’re by the bar on the other side of the club, and I better not fucking catch you trying to sneak away.”
Satoru shrugs feigning innocence, though the gleam in his eyes tells an entirely different story.
“You dragged me to this club, remember? I’m just here to have fun.” His gaze flicks over the crowd, smirk growing wider.
Shoko sighs dramatically, but a smile tugs at her lips in spite of how she portrays her frustration. Instead of fighting Satoru on his ways, she hands him a shot, watching as he throws it back in one go. The fire of the liquor burns sharp, but it doesn’t calm the restless spark in his veins. He’s buzzing now, and it’s not just the alcohol. He feels the energy in the air, the subtle shift in the night, a promise of something that makes him come apart at the seams a little more than before.
Without another word, Shoko grabs his arm and steers him toward the dance floor again. The music’s deafening now, the heavy bass reverberating in his chest as they weave through the crowd. Satoru feels like a magnet, pulled in every direction, the heat of bodies and flashing lights messing with his senses. He’s not just dancing anymore; he’s soaking in the atmosphere, letting the rhythm and the faceless mass of people tug him in whichever direction they want.
It doesn’t take long to find him, as they make a spot for themselves amidst the dancers, he feels it.
The eyes. He can feel them, heavy and intense, focused on him like a predator sensing its prey. They’re not just watching, they’re waiting for something. Something only he can give.
Satoru just smiles and lets his body be guided by whoever dares to do it, he’s not too worried about it now.
He’ll make him work for it, though.
It is his bachelor party, after all.
The air is thick, filled with the stifling scent of sweat and the rich scent of bad decisions, swirling together with the raw heat of bodies packed so tightly that they might as well be one living, breathing mass of energy. Satoru feels dizzy, yet he’s not entirely sure if it’s the alcohol or something else entirely, but the feeling is there; something in the pit of his stomach that claws at him, that itches beneath his skin and begs to be acknowledged.
But it’s not the wave of people, nor the overwhelming music that makes it hard to concentrate. Satoru knows what it is, he’s felt it for hours now. Satoru bites back a mean smirk and brings the tall glass to his lips; If someone wants a show, well then, he’s more than happy to oblige.
That dark, hungry stare is unrelenting. It’s sharp, possessive, but just subtle enough to keep him guessing, to make it all the more delicious when he finally acts out. Satoru knows who it is. He can feel it; the intensity, the quiet desire simmering beneath that cool, calculated exterior.
He’s being watched. And he fucking loves it.
Yet he takes his time, tilting his head back with deliberate slowness, exposing the long line of his neck as he drains the last of his drink. The glass is almost empty now, but he doesn't rush the motion. Every part of him is conscious of the act. The power of it. He’s playing with fire, and it’s the kind of game he’s really good at.
Shoko leans back slightly against the bar, one eyebrow arched, studying Satoru with the practiced patience of someone who’s been forced to watch this game unfold far too many times. The club is loud, the bass thumping in the background, and the lights flashing in time with the music. But Satoru is utterly focused on something, or rather, someone - across the room.
She follows his gaze, noting the subtle shift in his body, the way his eyes never quite leave their target. It’s the same damn look he gets every time.
“You know,” she begins, her voice dropping to just the right level to make it clear she’s not talking about the crowd or the music, “for someone who’s supposed to be celebrating tonight, you sure are distracted, Satoru.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even acknowledge her comment at first. His gaze remains locked on the other side of the room, his posture straight as if he’s waiting for something. Shoko waits too, her arms crossed in front of her, knowing full well that he's not oblivious. He’s performing.
Satoru finally lowers his glass with deliberate slowness, the soft clink of it against the bar almost a signal that he’s ready to respond. A small smirk is already forming at the edges of his lips, though his eyes don’t leave their target.
“What are you talking about?” he says, voice light and deceptively innocent. “I am celebrating. This is the most fun I’ve had in a while.”
Shoko watches, arms still crossed, her expression a mix of amusement and mild annoyance. "Right," she drawls, her tone dripping with sarcasm, “I'm sure that’s exactly what you’re doing.”
Satoru shrugs again, finally turning to give Shoko an innocent, yet clearly fake smile.
“Can’t a guy just enjoy himself without you implying that I have some other motives?”
She just looks at him with a small smile, cocks her head to the side, and arches an eyebrow, clearly amused.
“So what, you’re just gonna stand here all night and stare then?”
Satoru grins.
“Nah,” he says and unbuttons his flowy shirt some more. “I’ve got other plans.” He flashes her a sweet smile for the time being, wide and unapologetic. “I think it’s time to have some fun.”
Without waiting for a response, Satoru turns, pushing away from the bar, his movements smooth and confident. As he steps into the crowd, the music swallowing him up, the beat thrumming through his chest, making him act out in ways he knows will bring consequences.
But it doesn’t matter right now, they’re here to celebrate after all.
Shoko just shakes her head and waves the bartender over for another drink. There’s no need to point it out any more than she already has. Instead, she leans back and watches. She’s not worried, though, knows that this little game of theirs is far from over, and honestly, she’s just here for the show.
A lazy grin curls at the corner of Satoru’s lips as he sways through the overheated bodies, letting the music sweep him up in its chaotic rhythm. But he’s not really dancing. Not yet.
Instead, he glances around, eyes scanning the crowd, deliberately letting himself be found by another pair of eyes; a guy, tall, with a smug grin plastered across his face. Satoru notices the way he’s looking at him, his eyes dark and already swimming with ideas. A small smirk tugs at the corners of Satoru’s lips, he might just indulge.
He’s not really given any time to back out, though, not with the way that the guy moves toward him, the subtle arch of his brow as he steps into Satoru’s personal space. He’s cute enough, but that’s not why Satoru’s smiling. No, he can already feel the heat spreading through his loins, the eyes that never leave him practically burning holes in his entirely too exposed skin. Satoru doesn’t dare to look back, though, he just started having his fun.
Satoru feels the stranger’s hand brush against his arm, fingers pressing just a fraction too hard. The touch sends a small thrill through him, nothing that he’s unused to, but it’s the heat from behind him.
He tilts his head slightly to meet the stranger’s eyes, that smug tug of the lips never leaving his face. The guy’s breath is warm against Satoru’s ear as he leans in, voice smooth, just a little too intimate for his liking.
"You’re a bit of a tease, aren’t you?" the guy murmurs, his breath brushing Satoru’s skin.
Satoru laughs softly, voice just as smooth, but carrying that hint of challenge he knows so well. "You have no idea," he replies, eyes flickering to the guy’s lips and then back to his eyes, letting the unspoken invitation hang in the air.
The guy leans in closer, pressing himself up against Satoru, his hand sliding lightly down his arm until it rests on the dip of his waist. Satoru can feel the guy’s breath on his neck, his lips barely a whisper away.
"I’ve got plenty of ideas," the stranger says, his voice low, playful.
Satoru humors him, turning slightly, not really interested but playing the part. He knows who’s watching, and he loves every second of it.
With a slow, deliberate motion, Satoru raises his hand to the back of the guy's neck, fingers grazing lightly, tracing the nape of his skin as if he’s toying with the idea of something more, something that he knows he’s not willing to give.
The stranger brushes his lips near Satoru’s neck. “I could think of a few ways to show you a good time.”
Satoru opens his mouth, a snarky remark already on the tip of his tongue. He never gets the chance to say it, though.
One swift motion and Satoru is spun around, yanked into a chest he knows all too well. The stranger is left standing there, mouth agape. The move is fast, fluid, almost like they’ve rehearsed it, because, in some ways, they have.
His heart beats faster now, but not from surprise, no, it’s because of the way that that grip feels, how those hands pull him in so effortlessly, so intimately. Satoru can already feel the bruises starting to form on his hips and waist, as if he wants every mark to show, to bloom in dark color across his pale skin.
Yet Satoru’s not surprised by the heat of the body pressed up against him, the way he’s suddenly locked in that space, his movement restricted and controlled. He’s not shocked by the possessive tug on his waist or the way his chest is pressed against a familiar body, pinning him in place.
No. Satoru knows exactly who’s got him.
And he loves it.
A quiet, breathless laugh escapes him as he looks up, tilting his head with that trademark smirk.
“Well, that was rude,” Satoru hums, teasing, his voice just sharp enough to hopefully hide how affected he is so quickly.
Satoru’s hand slides down the front of his shirt, tugging just slightly, just enough to feel the fabric, a quick, flirtatious touch. “Didn’t even say hello,” he teases, his voice full of mock disappointment.
The grip tightens on his waist, pulling him a little closer, their bodies molding together like two puzzle pieces. The stranger is long forgotten now, just a figure in the background, a mere inconvenience. It’s just them now.
“That desperate, huh?” his tone is mocking, dripping with something Satoru knows is a promise. It makes the lining of his skin burn, his insides feeling like they’re caving in on themselves. “You just had to get my attention.”
Satoru tilts his head and bats his lashes, a little too much in mock innocence.
“Huh. Really?” Satoru purrs, a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “Looks like I’ve had your attention this whole time, Suguru.”
"You never did learn how to be subtle, did you?" Suguru’s voice drops, a low growl that vibrates through the air between them. It’s controlled, yet heavy with that tension that always has Satoru’s pulse picking up.
Satoru leans in just enough to feel Suguru’s warm breath brush against his ear, sending a shiver down his spine. He can’t help the sly, knowing laugh that escapes his lips, the sound almost mocking in a way.
"Subtle?" He repeats the word like it’s something foreign. "I thought you liked a little chaos, Suguru."
Suguru’s hand comes down hard on Satoru’s waist again, fingers digging in with an intense, unyielding grip that pulls their bodies together, making every inch of Satoru’s skin tingle with the pressure. The heat between them escalates, suffocating. Satoru shivers but doesn’t move, his chest tightening under the weight of it. He wants this, wants the burn of Suguru’s control.
“You are chaos,” Suguru mutters against his neck, lips brushing over the thin skin of his throat. His voice is suggestive now, sweet in the way he lets his words drip down his tongue. “Maybe if you weren’t such a fucking brat, I’d play a little nicer.”
Satoru tilts his head back, arching into Suguru’s touch, exposing more of his neck as his fingers slip down the edge of Suguru’s shirt, tracing the hard lines of muscle beneath the fabric. He feels the heat of Suguru’s body, the way their closeness is almost too much, and he’s burning for it. From it.
"Nicer?" He hums, the word dripping with amusement. "So you’re saying you don’t enjoy watching me flirt with someone else?"
Suguru’s grip on his waist tightens, pulling him even closer. Satoru feels every inch of Suguru pressed against him, the heat of his body radiating through the thin layers of their clothing.
“You’re getting way too comfortable,” Suguru’s voice is a whisper, but the threat in it is enough to make Satoru’s pulse quicken. “Don’t think I don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”
“I’m not the one losing control here,” Satoru murmurs in reply, his voice low and rough, vibrating through the space between them like a live wire. His lips brush against Suguru’s neck.
Suguru’s fingers slip down Satoru’s side, tracing the curve of his waist, it’s rough, with clear intention behind it.
Before Satoru can react, Suguru slams him back against the wall, hard. The impact knocks the breath out of him, and for a second, he’s dazed, his world reduced to Suguru’s heat, and the pressure of their bodies pressed together.
Satoru doesn’t fight it. He welcomes it. The intensity of it, the feeling of being pinned, of being trapped in the best possible way. The tension between them is unbearable, raw and thick, and he can’t get enough. He needs to make it last.
Suguru’s lips are back on his neck, murmuring, barely a whisper, but each word lands like a punch. “You’re the one begging for me to break you.”
He shakes his head, a breathless laugh escaping him as he meets Suguru’s gaze, his eyes sparkling with disbelief. “Begging?” he breathes, the word coming out thick with desire, taunting. His lips curl into a teasing smile, but there’s something hungry behind it. “You think I’m begging for anything?”
He can feel Suguru’s body pressing into his and it makes everything inside him ache. Satoru’s chest rises and falls quickly, and his breath comes out in shallow gasps as Suguru leans in, their lips so close Satoru can feel the warmth of them, the thrum of Suguru’s own breath against his skin.
“Not yet,” Suguru murmurs, his voice thick with authority, dark and heavy. He doesn’t kiss him, not yet, but his lips brush against the corner of Satoru’s mouth, his words hanging in the air like a promise.
“But you will be. You’ll fucking beg when I’m done with you.”
The words hit Satoru like a bolt of lightning, and everything inside him trembles. His breath catches in his throat, pulse pounding harder now, echoing in his ears as his body reacts against his will. He doesn’t want to admit it, doesn’t want to give Suguru that satisfaction. But the raw, unfiltered hunger in Suguru’s voice, the possessive way his body surrounds him, is breaking him down, piece by piece.
The desire is thick enough to choke on, and Satoru knows, feels it; the pull, the way Suguru is slowly, deliberately drawing him in.
Satoru presses up against Suguru, closing the gap between them, just enough to catch Suguru's lips in a kiss; slow, deliberate, deep. He’s not teasing now; there’s nothing playful about this. Their kiss is hungry, desperate. His hands roam to Suguru’s chest, fingers splayed wide, feeling the hard muscle beneath the fabric, he wants to drag his nails down his skin, tear him to pieces while he’s at it.
Instead, he just pulls Suguru closer, deeper into the kiss, as if he can’t get enough of him, and it’s only when their teeth clash, when the kiss turns a little too rough, that Satoru finally breaks away, breathless and wide-eyed, heart thumping in his chest.
Suguru doesn’t give him a chance to recover. He presses their foreheads together, lips grazing Satoru’s, his breath a ragged whisper in the quiet space between them.
Suguru bites down on his lip, hard, and the sharp pressure makes Satoru inhale a breath of surprise, the sting of it catching him off guard for just a moment. His heart skips, and before he can fully react, Suguru’s mouth is on his again, this time with more force, a kiss that steals the air from Satoru’s lungs, leaving him lightheaded, disoriented, craving more.
Suguru doesn’t hold back, his lips insistent and unforgiving; it’s messy, saliva and teeth that make Satoru whimper deep in his chest, everything around them blurs into nothing.
Satoru’s hands grip Suguru’s shoulders instinctively, pulling himself closer, but Suguru doesn’t give him a chance to move on his own, his grip tightening and moving Satoru’s body the way he likes – as if he’s nothing but a rag doll to be played with.
The kiss deepens, and Satoru groans into it. His entire body hums with the feeling of Suguru’s hands on him; hard, possessive, like he’s marking his territory, like he’s trying to leave a bruise with every caress.
Finally, Suguru pulls back just enough to let Satoru gasp for air, but he doesn’t let go, his lips trailing down the curve of Satoru’s neck, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin. Satoru’s head tips back, the sensation almost painful in how good it feels.
“A bit possessive, don’t you think?” Satoru hums out, voice rough and hoarse from the force of the kiss, he sounds a bit pathetic, really.
Yet he tilts his head down, just to catch a glimpse of Suguru’s face, a wicked grin curling on his lips. Satoru can feel the bruises already blooming on his neck, purple and dark. It’s exactly what he wanted.
Suguru just hums against Satoru’s neck, lips brushing over the angry marks, making Satoru’s skin tingle with a mixture of pleasure and pain.
“Don’t act all innocent now, sweetheart,” Suguru murmurs, his voice laced with amusement and something darker, something Satoru’s way too familiar with.
Satoru takes in a sharp breath, his mind swimming with the need to sink his fingers into Suguru’s skin, to fucking tear him apart, shred him into tiny pieces of desire.
He just hums, tongue darting out to wet his bitten lips as he chooses his words.
“Careful, Suguru,” Satoru purrs, his voice dripping with lust as he finally buries his fingers in Suguru’s dark locks, tugging him in just slightly. “If you don’t play nice, I might find someone else to entertain me.”
Suguru’s grip on him tightens, just hard enough to make Satoru’s breath stagger. It’s a warning, the kind that sends a shiver down his spine, but he just grins wider, his heart picking up speed. The adrenaline from the music, the crowd, the heat between them. It all makes him feel like he’s on fire.
Suguru doesn’t say anything, just looks at him, eyes dark and unreadable. And then, without a word, his hand shoots out, wrapping around Satoru’s wrist like a vice. He pulls him forward through the moving bodies, the sudden shift in motion catching Satoru off guard. He stumbles slightly, but Suguru’s grip is firm, dragging him through the crowd with an intensity that makes Satoru’s blood surge.
Satoru laughs suddenly, breathless and excited. He doesn’t notice when their bodies collide with others in passing, neither of them seems to notice, or they’re too caught up in the chaos to care. Satoru’s chest is pressed tight against Suguru’s back, and for a split second, it feels like the world is just the two of them, everything else disappearing as they make their way to the back of the club.
The light is dim here, but the shadows only add to the heat of the moment. It’s a blur of bodies, pulsing with the rhythm, but all Satoru can feel is Suguru’s grip, pulling him through the crowd with single-minded focus.
“Suguru…” Satoru murmurs under his breath, just loud enough for him to hear, but the word barely escapes before Suguru slams his shoulder into the bathroom door, forcing it open. It creaks loudly, and for a moment, the noise of the club slips away entirely. The door shuts behind them with a heavy thud, and the only sound is the rush of their breathing, the faint echo of the bass still leaking in from the club beyond.
The bathroom is dark and cramped, the air thick with the scent of cologne and alcohol. The mirrors are foggy, and the fluorescent lights overhead flicker intermittently, casting sharp, stuttering shadows across the tiles. The floor is wet in places, sticky, and the scent of spilled drinks lingers in the corners, but none of that matters.
Not here. Not when they’re both ready to tear each other apart.
Before Satoru can even process it, Suguru shoves him, hard, into the nearest wall. The impact knocks the air from his lungs, but he’s grinning, because it feels so fucking good. Suguru’s hand is still wrapped around his wrist, and the other grabs a fistful of Satoru’s shirt, yanking him up, forcing their faces inches apart.
Satoru can feel his heart pounding in his chest, the adrenaline spiking as Suguru locks the door with a click behind them.
Suguru’s lips curl into a smirk then, but his eyes are dark, predatory, as he studies Satoru, his hand still gripping his shirt. “You’ve been teasing me all night,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low, like he’s savoring each word. “You’re not getting away that easy.”
Suguru’s fingers trace the sharp edge of Satoru’s jaw, lingering there as though savoring the feel of him. The touch is light, almost teasing in a way, and Satoru almost allows himself to feel safe. Yet Suguru’s eyes are anything but comforting.
They’re cold, and Satoru knows the thought behind them. He’s seen it before, felt it before. No matter how innocent Suguru tries to play it, that gleam of something darker is always lurking beneath.
Satoru breathes in, trying to steady himself, but the touch on his skin only makes his pulse quicken. Suguru’s smile is soft, but it’s the kind of softness that leaves Satoru feeling exposed. His skin flushes, and when Suguru’s fingers tighten on his jaw, his breath hitches.
“Get on your knees,” Suguru hums calmly, the command slipping from his lips like a prayer.
The words don’t register with Satoru at first, the tone of them a little too calm, too assured, making electricity dance on the lining of his skin.
Yet on instinct, Satoru’s mouth opens to respond, a snarky comment already on the tip of his tongue, but before he can form a single word, Suguru’s hands are suddenly on his shoulders, pushing him down with force. Satoru’s knees slam into the cold bathroom tiles, the impact sharp enough to knock the air from his lungs. His hands fly out instinctively, catching Suguru’s hips to steady himself, but his body is already sinking into the unforgiving position Suguru demands.
The roughness of it is dizzying, the way Suguru's touch switches from delicate to brutal in an instant. It isn’t gentle. It isn’t kind or an act of love. It’s an order. A need.
And Satoru can’t help but feel his body respond to it, the coil of desire tightening low in his stomach.
Suguru leans over him, towering above, and his eyes are downright predatory; dark, hungry almost glowing under the fluorescent lights. His voice, when it comes again, is low, but with an edge that cuts straight through Satoru’s sanity.
“I said,” he smiles, almost a snarl, “get on your fucking knees, Satoru.”
Satoru’s body trembles at the commanding, almost condescending tone, but he knows there’s no point in fighting. He’s already on his damn knees, already losing himself to the pull of Suguru’s presence, and the pressure in his chest is choking, suffocating, blooming like bruises all over his body.
He tries to ground himself, hands grip Suguru’s hips tighter, fingers digging into the fabric of his pants, desperate for something to hold onto as his body betrays him, as his mouth goes dry and his pulse thunders in his ears.
Suguru doesn’t let up. His hand slides to the back of Satoru’s head, fingers weaving through his white hair with rough precision. Satoru’s head is jerked back painfully, forcing his throat open, and he gasps, a shudder running through him at the sudden sting that paralyzes his entire body for just a second. He can barely breathe, let alone respond, when Suguru shoves two fingers into his mouth without warning.
Satoru chokes on the intrusion, but there’s no time to adjust; Suguru’s fingers press deep, insistent, pushing his tongue down, and Satoru moans around them, the sound muffled and raw. He’s drowning in the taste of Suguru, the harshness of the motion, the pull on his scalp that’s both painful and sweet. His eyes squeeze shut as his throat tightens, and he can’t help the tears that spring to the corners of his eyes.
Suguru's eyes flicker with amusement as he watches Satoru.
“So messy already. I barely even touched you.”
Satoru moans again, louder this time, his body trembling with the effort to breathe around Suguru’s fingers. He’s supposed to fight this. He’s supposed to keep control, even an idea of it. But his body, his fucking body, betrays him, sinking deeper into the role Suguru carved out for him. He sucks on the fingers in his mouth, testing the limits of what Suguru will allow, evaluating how much he’s allowed to act out. His lips move over the digits, pulling them in deeper, as if he’s being made to swallow Suguru whole. It’s filthy, downright perverse as he moans while locking his teary eyes with Suguru’s.
And yet, it feels so fucking right.
Suguru’s hand tightens in his hair again, pulling Satoru’s head back until the tension makes him gasp. The pull on his scalp is almost unbearable, but it only fuels the fire in his gut.
“Look at you,” Suguru mutters, a dark smile curling his lips. “You’re already fucked out, and I haven’t even really started.”
Satoru can’t respond, not really. So, he just raises his eyes, wide and helpless, filled with a mix of lust and defiance. He wants to speak. He wants to say something smart, something sharp, but his body is so fucking needy, so desperate, he can barely form a coherent thought.
Suguru watches him for a short moment, eyes dark with something primal. The intensity in them makes Satoru feel like he’s drowning, as if Suguru is stripping him bare with nothing but a look. His body is a furnace, every inch of him aching for more; more of Suguru's control, more of that dark edge in his touch, more of the pleasure that he’s being promised with every painful tug.
Satoru knows what he needs. He knows he can’t wait any longer. The brat in him, the stubborn, reckless part of his brain pushes him to move, to provoke, to test Suguru’s limits. He shifts his head, just slightly, enough to brush his lips against the rough pads of Suguru’s fingers, a small, deliberate move meant to tease. His throat tightens, constricts with need, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he takes Suguru’s fingers deeper, the movement almost making him gag, but he’s trained, he knows how to swallow it, how to force his body to comply. He swirls his tongue around the digits and moans low in his throat.
Suguru’s eyes flash. Hungry, angry. His fingers slip out suddenly, ripping a choking sound from Satoru’s throat, the loss of contact stinging so sharply it feels like he’s been burned. The emptiness leaves him more desperate, more frantic, his lips swollen, mouth aching for more. His chest rises and falls quickly, breath shallow and desperate as he tries to catch it.
“Such a fucking brat,” Suguru hisses, the words low and venomous, but underneath them, there’s something more intense, something that promises even worse. Satoru’s throat tightens at the sound, and he wants to whine, wants to beg, but he holds it back. Barely.
Suguru lets go of his scalp with a sharp pull, and for a moment, Satoru’s body freezes, panic surges up in him, but it’s quickly swallowed by a wave of new desire. That hunger doesn’t stop, it only grows when Suguru’s fingers slide down to his belt. Satoru’s breath catches as he watches him undo the restricting leather, his wide eyes following every move, as if he’s afraid that Suguru will change his mind.
When Suguru finally releases his aching cock, the need constricting Satoru’s loins is almost too much. Suguru strokes himself once, twice; slow, torturously slow. His gaze never leaving Satoru’s teary, desperate eyes.
“You want to be a fucking brat?” Suguru growls, the words falling from his lips like a challenge. His fingers are back in Satoru’s hair, yanking his head back with a cruel, punishing force. Satoru groans, the pain of his scalp being pulled taut only adding to the rush. “Let’s see just how much you can take.”
Suguru’s grip on his hair tightens, forcing Satoru’s mouth open wide again, and without hesitation, Suguru pushes his cock into Satoru’s mouth, the movement fast, unrelenting. Satoru’s eyes water as he struggles to keep his breath steady, the thick weight filling his mouth, his throat. His whole body feels too full, but it’s exactly what he needs.
He tries to move, to adjust, but Suguru holds him still; holds him down, fucking his mouth in shallow, controlled thrusts, making Satoru gag each time.
The taste of Suguru, the thick, salty, familiar heat of him, fills his senses, and Satoru moans around his length, but he doesn’t pull away. His hands fist into the fabric of Suguru’s pants, his nails scraping against the leather as his whole body trembles with the desperate need to please him, to take whatever Suguru gives.
Suguru groans, low and guttural, and the sound sends a jolt of heat straight to Satoru’s core. “That’s it,” he hums, his voice rough. “Take it like the fucking slut you are.”
The words make Satoru’s stomach twist; he needs more, he wants more, but he can’t find the release. His body shudders with the effort to take everything Suguru gives, but it's never enough. Not enough to stop the ache building deep in his gut.
Frustration bubbles up. He doesn’t even notice how his hands move down to his own cock, aching and desperate for relief. The movement is instinctive, a need to touch, to find some release of his own. But before he can even get a grip, Suguru’s hand shoots down, gripping his wrist with unfiltered strength, pulling it away.
“No,” Suguru snarls, his grip on Satoru’s hair shifting as he yanks his head back, forcing him to look up, to meet Suguru’s mean eyes. “You don’t get to come until I fucking say you do.”
Satoru’s chest heaves with sudden frustration, the bitter taste of denial sharp in his throat, he just can’t help it, just like Suguru said, he’s a fucking brat.
His mouth is still full of Suguru’s cock, but that small act of rebellion — of trying to touch himself — has made everything feel tighter, hotter, more intense in the way that they treat each other.
Suguru pulls Satoru off of him abruptly, yanking him up by the hair, and for a moment, the world feels like it’s slipping from under his feet. His mouth is still wet with Suguru’s taste, his lips swollen and aching. He gasps for air, chest heaving, eyes wide and defiant, but desperate.
Suguru’s hand moves to his throat, his fingers wrapping around it with force and intention. He tightens his grip, just enough to make Satoru’s breath catch in his throat before he’s roughly spun around, Suguru maneuvering his body without needing permission to do so.
Satoru groans from the lack of control, but any words are cut off as Suguru’s hand grips the back of his neck, steering him forward, urging him toward the cracked bathroom mirror.
Satoru’s mind races, but he doesn’t find the time, or the will, to resist as Suguru forces him to lean against the sink. His palms slap against the cool porcelain, the hard edge of the sink biting into his stomach as his breath catches in his chest.
“Look at yourself,” Suguru orders, his voice low, rough, yet overly sweet as he presses against Satoru’s back. Satoru feels the heat of Suguru’s chest against his, the press of his cock still hard and insistent, nudging at his ass, making him want to push back against it.
Satoru’s eyes flick to the mirror, and the sight of himself, panting, lips swollen and wet, eyes half-lidded with desire, makes something inside him come apart at the seams.
He looks like a fucking mess.
He looks like he’s being shredded to pieces.
Suguru’s hands move to Satoru’s waist, pushing the fabric of his pants down roughly, exposing the aching need between his legs that got him in this mess in the first place. Satoru’s breath hitches, the cool air brushing against his heated skin. His cock is throbbing, leaking, desperate for touch, but Suguru just presses him harder into the sink, pinning him in place.
“See how fucking pathetic you look,” Suguru growls, his voice dark with satisfaction as he looks over Satoru’s reflection, as though the image of his desperate state is all he needs to feel gratified. “So desperate for me. You like it, don’t you? You like being put in your fucking place.”
Satoru tries to push back, but Suguru’s grip on his hips tightens, forcing him to stay still. His eyes trace over Satoru’s flushed face, the tears clinging to his lashes, the strain in his throat as he swallows hard.
“Such a fucking slut,” Suguru spits again, his voice dripping with contempt, but there's an edge to it, a dark approval. “Can’t even keep your hands off yourself. So fucking greedy... bet you’ll beg me for it. Won’t you?”
Satoru’s throat tightens, a pathetic whine almost slipping past his lips; but it’s the truth. He is eager. He is desperate. His body betrays him in ways that feel almost too much to deal with, but he knows that Suguru will push him further, that he’ll make Satoru feel everything until there’s nothing left but the aching need for release.
Suguru leans in close, his breath warm against Satoru's ear, the words rolling off his tongue like silk laced with poison. "You’ll beg for it, baby," he murmurs, voice low and dark, each syllable dripping with malice. "Beg me to fuck you. Beg me to let you cum." His hand slides slowly down Satoru’s spine, his touch deliberate, like he's savoring every inch of Satoru’s trembling skin. "You’ll beg me like the fucking slut that you are."
Satoru's breath catches, the words sinking deep into his chest, but it’s the tone, the certainty in Suguru’s voice that makes him trust him completely. His body responds before his mind can even catch up, a shudder rippling through him, a small gasp escaping his lips that quickly morphs into a soft moan. His whole body feels like it’s burning, every inch of him consumed by Suguru’s presence, under his control. But there’s a part of him, stubborn and insistent, that refuses to completely fall into it just yet. He wants to push, to test Suguru, to see how far he can take this.
With effort, he meets Suguru's eyes in the mirror. A faint smirk plays at his lips, barely convincing, but enough to provoke. “’m not a slut.” The words come out breathlessly, a challenge he knows will only fuel Suguru’s resolve.
But still, he pushes, needs to see how far he can go before Suguru finally rips him to pieces.
Suguru’s expression darkens, eyes narrowing just slightly, the faintest trace of irritation flickering behind the amusement. It’s enough to make Satoru’s stomach tighten, knowing how much Suguru likes to be obeyed, how much he thrives on control.
“Oh? Not a slut?” Suguru hums, his voice mocking, yet it carries an edge of something more dangerous. He leans back slightly, eyes never leaving Satoru’s face, his fingers tracing a slow line down Satoru’s side, skimming over the fabric of his clothes. “Then why do you look the way you do, hm?”
Satoru feels a strange rush of heat flood his chest, his breath coming faster as he realizes what Suguru is getting at. It’s a simple question, but the weight of it settles deep in his gut. Suguru is right, of course. Satoru knew what tonight would be. He knew exactly what he was walking into when he walked into that club.
Suguru’s lips curl into a tight smile. Without warning, his hand moves down Satoru’s body, fingers brushing along his waistband, then slipping lower, down the curve of his back. Satoru’s breath hitches, and his muscles tense in anticipation as Suguru’s hand dips lower still.
Satoru feels the heat of Suguru’s body close to his, but it’s the way Suguru moves, so deliberate, so sure of what he’s doing, that makes everything feel too real, too intense, too fucking slow. Suguru’s fingers skim across the small of his back, tracing the line of his spine, then lower, reaching the hidden place Satoru knew he’d find.
Satoru’s throat goes dry. He knows what’s coming, but he can’t stop the sharp inhale when Suguru’s fingers tap against the base of the silicone plug buried deep inside him.
Suguru’s voice is quiet, taunting. "And what’s this, then?" He taps the handle of the plug again, the sound reverberating through the thick silence between them. It’s mean, a tease.
Satoru’s breath quickens as his chest rises and falls erratically. He tries to keep himself steady, to not give in, but the weight of Suguru’s question is more than he can take. His body betrays him. Again. The need to come, to finally get some kind of release, is unbearable. And yet, Suguru is right there, making sure that Satoru knows he’s nothing more than a puppet at his mercy.
"You knew, didn’t you?" Suguru murmurs, his fingers slipping lower, pushing against the plug in slow, teasing circles, each press making Satoru’s breath catch in his throat as he whines. “You knew you’d be here tonight. You’ve been waiting, haven’t you?”
Satoru’s chest is tight, breath coming in ragged gasps as the pressure inside him mounts. The way Suguru’s fingers play against the plug; slow, teasing, relentless. Tugging the handle and pushing the toy in and out with deliberate thrusts – Satoru feels like he’s about to pass out.
“You knew you’d beg me tonight," Suguru continues, voice dark and steady, each word making Satoru’s head spin. "You knew I’d have you like this — begging for release, begging for me. Does that not sound like a slut to you, Satoru?”
Satoru’s eyes squeeze shut for a moment, his teeth gritting as he forces the words out, though they come out in a strained whisper. "I won’t beg..." The words are shaky, and he knows they sound pathetic. He’s already begging in every other way; his body, his breath, the way his hands grip the sink like he’s holding onto his last shred of sanity.
Suguru chuckles darkly, the sound low and almost affectionate in its cruelty. “Don’t worry, baby. You will.” His fingers press harder, pushing against the plug just enough to make Satoru’s legs tremble. “You’ll beg me just like you always do."
With one hand still holding Satoru in place, Suguru pulls out the plug, the movement making Satoru’s entire body shudder in response. The wet sound of it coming out is almost obscene, lube dripping down Satoru’s thighs, slick and hot. Satoru’s head spins from the loss of pressure, and his body reacts before his mind can catch up. He moans - loud, desperate, feeling the hollow ache inside him throb with need. He pushes back instinctively as if he could get more, more of Suguru. His body’s been so starved for this, for the control, for the release that Suguru’s been holding over him. The need is suffocating.
“Now, I’m going to fuck you. And you’re going to take it.” The words send a jolt of heat through Satoru’s spine, but before he can respond, Suguru’s palm cracks hard against his ass. The sting, sharp and biting, makes Satoru yelp, the sound ripped from him before he can control it.
“You’re going to take it like the fucking slut that you are.”
Satoru can only choke on his own moan as Suguru forces his hips forward with brutal, practiced precision, slamming into Satoru in one smooth, deep thrust.
The force of it has Satoru gasping for air, his body instinctively clenching around Suguru’s cock as it fills him completely. It burns just slightly, but the pain fades into something sharper, something needier, something that’s been clawing at him the whole night. He pushes back, trying to meet Suguru’s rhythm, but a hand locks around his waist, holding him still. Suguru doesn’t let him move, doesn’t give him the mercy of control. Not even an idea of it.
To emphasize it, his other hand closes around his throat, squeezing just enough to make Satoru’s heart beat faster and eyes blow wide. Suguru just turns his head, making Satoru stare at him through the fogged-up bathroom mirror.
“Take it,” Suguru demands, his voice low, commanding. “Every fucking inch. You’re going to take it, Satoru.”
Satoru’s head is spinning, his body burning with every thrust, each movement sending a jolt of heat straight to his core, feeding the flame at the bottom of this stomach, threatening to burn out too soon. He can barely breathe, can barely even think beyond the overwhelming sensation of Suguru inside him, stretching him open, claiming him with each punishing thrust. Suguru’s pace is relentless; fast, hard, deep. And Satoru can feel the edges of his sanity slipping away.
“Fuck,” he mewls, the sound of his voice nothing but obscene, high and needy.
Satoru braces himself against the sink, his breath shallow and erratic. His hand still grips the porcelain, knuckles white, the coolness of the surface offering little relief from the heat building in his body. With his other hand, he reaches behind himself and grabs a handful of Suguru’s dark hair, tugging him closer, forcing the two of them even tighter. He pushes his back into Suguru’s chest.
Satoru turns his head just enough to feel Suguru’s breath against his lips. He can’t kiss him, not when Suguru has all the control. He knows Suguru won’t give him that; he’s learned not to expect it. So, instead, Satoru settles for what little power he can take.
He brushes his tongue over the seam of Suguru’s lips, a satisfied feeling washing over him as he feels his breath hitch. There it is, the split-second crack in Suguru’s control, the flicker of hesitation. Satoru feels it, relishes in it. He presses his body harder against Suguru, grinding against him. "Come on," Satoru hums, voice dripping with mockery, or at least what semblance he has of it at this moment, "thought you were gonna make me break, Suguru."
For a moment, it seems like Suguru falters. His grip tightens on Satoru’s hips, but his rhythm slows, just enough for Satoru to feel the victory of this little moment between them. He smirks, savoring the small amount of control, but it doesn’t last long. It never does.
In an instant, Suguru snaps. His hand shoots up, seizing Satoru’s jaw with an iron grip, pulling him flush against his chest. Suguru’s hand squeezes his jaw, holding him still, forcing him to meet his eyes in the foggy mirror, where the reflection is a distorted image of their desperate struggle; Suguru’s complete control over him, Satoru’s own pathetic need.
The image makes him feel like his head is full of cotton.
He can’t look away.
“Always a fucking brat, Satoru,” Suguru says in an overly delicate voice, his tone dripping with something sickly sweet, melting down his tongue like molasses. It cuts through Satoru’s cocky facade, a harsh reminder of just how far he’s pushed things. Satoru can feel the sting of regret, the faintest shiver of vulnerability. He pushed Suguru too much. Too far.
Oops.
Suguru's grip tightens even more, making Satoru groan in discomfort, his eyes now gleaming. "You know," Suguru hums, a twisted edge to his voice, "I was planning on letting you off the hook tonight, since you were doing so well." His smirk grows. "But now? Now I’m not sure I’ll even let you come. Not unless you fucking beg for it."
The words hit Satoru like a punch to the gut, and before he can retort, before he can try to fight back and be an even bigger fucking brat about it, Suguru’s hand releases his jaw with cruel suddenness. The air rushes back into Satoru’s lungs, but there’s no time to fully breathe. Suguru’s hand lands on his hips, gripping tighter than before, fingers digging into his flesh with a merciless hold that pulls him closer.
Satoru’s breath catches as Suguru begins to move again. Fast, relentless, punishing. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, the echo of it loud and raw, slicing through the remaining pieces of his sanity. Satoru’s moans are desperate and unfiltered, spilling from him with every thrust. His back presses against Suguru’s chest, the rhythm now a harsh pattern that seems to pulse in time with the music just beyond the door.
Satoru tries to silence himself, tries to stay defiant, but he can’t help the low, needy moans that escape him, the sound raw and desperate. His body betrays him, again, hips bucking back against Suguru’s with every thrust, chasing that sweet pressure that’s building deep inside him.
Suguru’s hand moves up, releasing his hip to tangle in Satoru’s hair instead, tugging his head back just enough to expose his throat.
“Beg,” Suguru commands, voice sharp, unrelenting, yet casual as if he’s suggesting a way out.
Satoru’s chest tightens. He can feel the orgasm building inside him, a heat that threatens to spill over, but every time he gets close, Suguru manages to sense it, holding him back, pulling him back just out of reach. His body is on fire, his every muscle begging for release, for the sweet release Suguru promised him, but it’s nowhere in sight.
Not unless he begs.
His body doesn’t feel like his own anymore, each second a mixture of searing pleasure and raw, brutal denial. Every pulse of sensation, every heavy breath, is pushed just out of reach, and it’s fucking maddening. His body can’t take much more, but his pride refuses to crumble. Not yet.
He looks up into the mirror, his eyes widening as he watches himself fall apart. And suddenly, with no warning, it happens. The words spill out before he can stop them, cracked and desperate, a whimper of need escaping his lips.
“Fuck…” Satoru breathes, his voice breaking like glass, thin and fragile. “Please. Please, Suguru. I need it. I need you.”
His heart pounds in his chest. The words are already out, and they burn in his throat. His entire body is screaming for release, his cock aching with every movement.
But Suguru just huffs out a low, amused laugh behind him, the sound cold and mocking. He presses closer, his presence overwhelming as he breathes against Satoru’s neck.
“Not good enough,” Suguru hums, his voice sharp with amusement. His fingers twist in Satoru’s hair, tugging roughly, pulling his head back so that he could look at his directly, “I know you can do better than that.”
Satoru can’t help the desperate whine that tumbles from his chest. He doesn’t know what’s worse, the denied orgasm or his fucked-out pride lying on the bathroom floor beneath his feet.
A soft, strangled moan tumbles from Satoru’s chest, a sound so desperate, so fucking pathetic, it shocks even him. His stomach clenches, and it feels like his insides are no longer solid.
"Please," he begs again, his voice barely a whisper, strained with the weight of his need. "Please, Suguru... don’t—don’t make me wait anymore. I can’t-please..." His words are a string of broken fragments, each one a desperate plea.
“I’ll do anything,” he whines. “Please, just let me cum.”
“There you go," Suguru purrs, his tone laced with dark satisfaction, "Good boy," he murmurs, a dark, satisfied smile playing at his lips as he fucks into Satoru harder, faster. “You’re finally getting it.”
Satoru almost sobs once he feels the sting of Suguru’s fingers as they leave his hair, trailing down to wrap around his painfully hard cock. The change in touch has him gasping, body arching forward against the mirror, his breath coming in desperate pants. Suguru’s hand moves expertly, stroking him with quick, precise motions, and it doesn’t take long. One, two, three strokes, and Satoru feels himself slipping, unravels under Suguru’s touch.
His vision whites out, the world blurring at the edges as a strangled, guttural moan rips from his chest. It feels like an eternity and an instant all at once. His body seizes, the force of his orgasm crashing over him with overwhelming intensity, the slickness of his release splattering against the mirror in thick, desperate streaks.
“Fuck, Satoru,” Suguru growls in his ear, low and desperate in a way he rarely is, his own control shattering as he’s pushed over the edge. Satoru can barely process it, too out of it to even register how Suguru is unraveling right behind him, how the shudder of his body against Satoru’s signals his own climax, heat spilling inside him in relentless waves.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of their harsh breaths, Satoru’s body still trembling from the aftermath, his mind hazy and clouded. He can barely stay upright, his hands shaking as he tries to steady himself against the mirror, Suguru’s grip on him remains tight, and he’s grateful, he’s so fucking grateful he can almost forgive him when he slips out, making warm cum drip down the backs of his thighs.
After what feels like an eternity, Suguru’s grip shifts, gentle but firm as he pulls Satoru back against the mirror. He can hear him shuffle a bit and then push something cold and solid against his rim. The plug. Satoru’s exhausted, barely able to comprehend what’s happening, but he feels the pressure as Suguru works it back inside him. He’s so spent, so completely worn out that it takes a moment to register. But even then, the sensation has him shuddering, body still too sensitive to the touch.
"Hold still, baby" Suguru murmurs as he moves behind Satoru, shifting to get a better angle. Satoru is too exhausted to protest, too far gone to even care. Suguru’s hands come to his waist, and slowly, carefully, he pulls Satoru’s pants back up.
Satoru can barely lift his legs, but Suguru’s fingers are gentle, taking the extra care to help him slide the fabric back over his thighs, tugging the waistband up and fastening it with deliberate precision. The contrast of his earlier roughness to this quiet, tender moment makes Satoru’s chest ache. He leans into Suguru’s touch, eyes half-lidded, still feeling like he’s floating in a cloud of euphoria.
Suguru straightens, pausing for a moment to fix Satoru’s disheveled hair, smoothing it back from his forehead with soft fingers. The gentle touch stirs something in Satoru, and for a brief moment, he forgets where they are, the messy bathroom, the lingering buzz of the club just outside the door. He’s lost in the quiet intimacy of it. Suguru’s thumb brushes across his temple, and it feels like a promise, like a caring touch instead of the cruel force of earlier.
"Better?" Suguru asks, his voice low and sweet.
Satoru, still reeling, offers a small smile, his mind hazy but pulling back to reality. He never stays down for too long. "Mmm," he hums, his voice still rough. "I think I’m gonna need a minute to feel human again, but... yeah. I’m good."
Suguru chuckles softly, resting a hand on Satoru’s shoulder. “You did good, baby,” he says as if it’s a compliment, and Satoru can feel the genuine warmth in his voice.
For all the dominance Suguru displayed earlier, there’s something else there now; a tenderness, an affection that makes Satoru feel like he’s blooming all over again.
Satoru lets out a long breath and leans back against the mirror, his muscles sore, his head swimming with everything that just happened. As he looks at Suguru, the edges of the moment start to sharpen, his mind clearing just enough for him to notice the soft smile on Suguru’s lips and the way his eyes flicker with a mischievous glint.
Satoru can’t help but chuckle, despite himself.
“I gotta say, I didn’t expect to be this fucked out at my own bachelor party.” He huffs and gives Suguru a knowing look. “I’m getting married tomorrow, you know.”
Suguru throws his head back, a deep, mean chuckle spilling from his bitten lips. His dark hair flares out as he shakes his head, clearly entertained. There’s something magnetic about the way he moves, something almost forbidden, but the amusement in his eyes keeps it light.
“Well, then,” Suguru hums, sliding his hands to rest on Satoru’s hips, pulling him a little closer with a firm grip. His fingers dig into Satoru’s flesh, the contact both comforting and possessive. “Guess we’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t find out.”
Satoru raises an eyebrow, lips curling into a half-smirk. “Good idea.” He leans in, lips brushing Suguru’s with the barest of touches, teasing. “You wouldn’t believe how jealous he can get.”
Suguru runs his fingers over Satoru’s lips, a soft, teasing touch, a reminder of some sort. Their eyes lock, dark and intense, and for a brief second, the world around them seems to quiet, as if the universe has slowed just for them.
“I might have an idea,” Suguru replies, his tone low, almost intimate. “Think he can handle it for one more night, though? Cause I’m taking you home.”
Satoru pauses, blinking in surprise. His teasing smile falters for a fraction of a second. “Home? What, you plan on keeping me all to yourself, or what?” He takes a playful step back, trying to distance himself just enough to keep the teasing game alive, but the intense gaze follows him like a predator.
His fingers trail down Satoru’s side with a light, almost casual touch, but it makes Satoru’s skin tingle with the promise of more. “Something like that,” Suguru says, his voice suddenly low and steady. “We’re not done yet, Satoru.”
The air shifts then. A quiet command, an unspoken expectation. Suguru isn’t asking anymore; he’s telling Satoru what’s next.
Satoru breathes out slowly, his lips curling into a smile. “Fine, fine,” he mutters with a dramatic roll of his eyes, stepping back slightly. “I’ll go say goodbye to my friends.”
He turns toward the door, but not before tossing a teasing glance over his shoulder. “But you better not be expecting me to be on my best behavior when we get back. I’ve been told I can be a bit of a brat.”
Suguru tilts his head, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face as he intertwines their fingers. “Oh, don’t worry Satoru. I’m counting on it.”
“Oh my fucking god,” Shoko groans, her eyes running over Satoru’s disheveled form as he stumbles into view. Her jaw practically hits the floor as she takes in the sight of him: neck covered in hickeys, shirt half-untucked, and that signature flushed glow that tells her everything she needs to know about what he’s been doing for the past hour.
“What the fuck happened to you? You look like a goddamn bear attacked you!”
Satoru scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, though there’s an unapologetic look in his eyes. “Yeah, about that…”
But before Shoko can go on, her gaze shifts to Suguru, who’s trailing right behind him. He’s just as disheveled, shirt half-buttoned and his hair looking like it’s been through a storm. And the smirk on his face? He doesn’t look like he regrets a God damn thing.
Shoko narrows her eyes, hands on her hips. “You,” she points an accusatory finger at Suguru, “you’re supposed to be the responsible one. How is he supposed to walk down the aisle tomorrow looking like a fucking leech just latched onto him?!”
Suguru dramatically throws his hands up in mock defense.
“Me? Responsible?” He gives Satoru a pointed look, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. “How was I supposed to keep him under control when you dragged him out to a club dressed like that?!”
Satoru grins, not the least bit bothered or sorry about a damn thing.
Shoko rolls her eyes so hard it might actually be painful. “I’m sorry I didn’t consider your sanity, Suguru. But you weren’t even supposed to fucking be here!”
Suguru groans in exasperation. “Well, I’m goddamn glad I was! I fucking knew he was trouble as soon as he put that shirt on. And then you let him out into the wild, where every single person in that club wants a piece of him. What was I supposed to do? Sit there and watch people ogle my fiancé?”
He shoots a look at Shoko, half-joking, half-annoyed. “How did you not warn me?”
Shoko crosses her arms, clearly unbothered by Suguru’s complaints. “Please, like I could’ve stopped him. You should’ve kept him in check. You’re supposed to be the grown-up here.”
Suguru gives her a pointed look. “Yeah, and you should’ve kept us from meeting up in the first place. Guess it was destiny.”
Satoru leans back, smirking as he looks between Suguru and Shoko. “Yeah, well, I guess we were just meant to be, huh?”
Shoko raises a brow, the sarcasm practically dripping from her voice. “Oh, yeah, sure. Just meant to be, huh?” She shakes her head, tone annoyed but eyes filled with affection. “I need another drink and a godman cigarette.”
Satoru chuckles, throwing an arm around Suguru’s shoulder as they begin heading for the door. “See you tomorrow at the wedding, Shoko!” he calls over his shoulder, his tone teasing.
Suguru glances back, his smirk turning a little devious. “Yeah, see you tomorrow. We’ll be the ones in matching tuxedos.”
Shoko can’t help but laugh, shaking her head in both exasperation and amusement. “Un-fucking-believable,” she mutters under her breath, looking at them both with a mixture of affection and mock annoyance. “I should’ve known this would happen, fucking idiots.”
Satoru waves over his shoulder, not looking back. “Don’t be mad at us, Shoko. Tomorrow’s gonna be great. You’ll see. Best wedding ever.”
Shoko watches them leave, nothing but fondness on her face. “I swear, I’m going to need a drink before tomorrow... You two are gonna be the death of me.”
As she watches them get lost in the crowd, she sighs and mutters to herself as she lights up a cigarette by the bar.
“Fucking fiancés…”