Archive of Our Own

Beneath the viridian canopy that seemed to stretch above Satoru, where the earth breathed in verdant sighs, the road unfurled like an ancient spine.

What began as a modest road, broadened into a stony, moss-kissed pathway. It curved onward, leading the eye and the feet toward the hallowed silhouette of the old, unfamiliar shrine.

Crimson pearls fell from the hem of Satoru’s haori, drops striking the ancient stone steps. The once-pristine white fabric—now marred by streaks of mud, torn fabric, and the darker signature of violence, clung heavily to his frame, bearing the encounter with the village’s shadowed scourge. Bandits who did not content themselves with just the plunder: they were inclined with the slow drowning of their tormented victims in weighted, swollen sacks.

Satoru, fresh-forged in the crucible of his first true duty, sworn to a modest local corps tasked with patrolling the rural lands.

When Satoru had knelt to cleanse his katana at the village lake’s edge in the morning, something pale breached the surface farther out. Another body. 

He had ventured beyond the familiar in search of the bandit hideout: paths like forgotten grievances, branches knitting overhead. The air tasted damp, thick with the silence of places long avoided.

Ahead, the silhouette of the shrine rose like it awaited him. Vermilion torii gate embraced with moss and roots. Stone lanterns lined the final ascent, moss softening their edges, while the faint chime of wind through sacred ropes carried the scent of forest and distant incense.

Satoru dragged his final step onto the uppermost graveled step, the weight of exhaustion and fresh wounds pulling his shoulders downward. His head bowed in the necessity of breath. Blood seeped steadily from the gash across the arch of his left foot, dark ribbons tracing the footstep.

"A samurai’s lowered head might risk its own fall.”

The voice drifted down like honey poured over heated steel, saccharine sweet edged with gentle taunt that carried no malice. It wrapped around him before the steel could answer.

In a heartbeat, Satoru’s katana drew free, a silver blur that split the air. The blade halted with lethal precision, its razor tip suspended a mere hair’s breadth from the stranger’s throat.

Ice-blue eyes locked onto warm ambers.

The stranger’s face seemed carved from pale marble kissed by perpetual sun warmed hue. One kohl black strand framed one of his high cheekbones, as the rest fell from the half-up bun like ashen waves. And those lips—slightly parted, curved in the ghost of a smile, were the colour of some rose tinted fruit.

Satoru’s own mouth parted on an involuntary swallow. His throat worked visibly, a faint scrunch wrinkled the bridge of his nose.

Sandalwood and incense.

Satoru felt it, this… something about this stranger, like a thorn lodged beneath his ribs. It agitated him the way a half-healed wound itches beneath bandages: infuriating, insistent, impossible to ignore.

“Who are you?” The words scraped out rougher than intended.

The stranger’s mouth curled, not quite a proper smile. Without haste, his hand rose. Long, strong fingers drifted toward the hilt of Satoru’s katana, hovering a whisper away from Satoru’s own.

“Still your steel and temper your voice,” the stranger murmured. His voice remained soft as rain, yet threaded now with an unmistakable authority and offense. “Violence finds no welcome here. I am merely one of the shamans, maintaining this old Shinto shrine. This ground has tasted enough violence.”

Satoru held the stare for one long, taut heartbeat. Then slowly and reluctantly, the katana eased downward. His expression settled into careful neutrality.

He looked down at the shaman with low eyes.

They stood nearly eye to eye, the difference in height so slight it was more felt than measured. 

Pretty. Infuriatingly pretty. And now the agitation in Satoru’s chest had a name: this man wore serenity like armor, and it made every visible or non visible wound that Satoru carried feel rawer by comparison.

“Strange place, I must tell you,” the shaman continued, voice softening again, though the strictness lingered. He gestured with a subtle sweep of his hand. “Built over bloodshed and agony. Long ago. The ground still remembers the screams it swallowed. Yet now… people climb these steps, seeking quiet. Hope. Comfort. ” The shaman’s voice softened further, yet measured. “But that too, not often. People tend not to find this shrine so easily.”

Satoru didn’t speak, giving Suguru the same eyes.

Suguru turned his head just enough to look back at Satoru. A gentle smile bloomed there. Small, secret, tinged with something sadder.

Satoru wasn’t frowning, but he definitely wasn’t smiling.

“You could say the shrine chooses who sees it,” Suguru continued. “As though it veils itself.”

Satoru felt the scoff rise in his throat. He swallowed it down, letting it settle.

 “I can assure you,” he said, voice neutral and steady, “I am no soul this shrine would seek in the way you believe it does. Unknown and unseen gods, deities that whisper from shadows, they hold no claim on me. But I don’t mind paying respect. Or praying.”

The shaman paused mid-step, half-turned. “It would be more comforting if Samurai-sama cracked a smile at least once,” the saccharine voice teased. He resumed walking. “Do you seek forgiveness… or vengeance? Perhaps guidance?”

Satoru let a small, practiced curve touch his lips, the one that had once coaxed shy smiles from village daughters, or drawn lingering glances from handsome sons leaning against sake-shop doorways. A tone smooth and edged just enough with charm to disarm.

“I seek the introduction of the shaman of this curious shrine this afternoon,” he answered.

To his quiet astonishment, the shaman let out a sound. A feathery chuckle, light as wind through sacred ropes, yet warm enough to ripple through the stillness. He turned fully then, facing Satoru without haste, and for the first time since climbing these steps, Satoru allowed himself to truly look.

A Prussian blue kimono draped the shaman’s frame with quiet elegance. It tucked neatly into a hakama of silver gray pleats. The contrast was immediate against Satoru’s own white haori, stained now with dirt and crimson, layered over a black kimono and brown umanori painted with mud and blood. 

Satoru was no fool. To mistake serenity for innocence. Beneath the shaman’s velvet voice, the gentle secret smiles, the effortless way he moved like a swan in the misty lake. Something else stirred.

He was pretty. Devastatingly. Why did he look like that? Not just strong and handsome, but appealing in the way usually men who swung blades for a living didn't.

The man's mouth moved, soft lips shaping words that Satoru had not heard.

He blinked twice, sharp and sudden, ice-blues refocusing on the figure before him.

“Sorry,” he muttered, the word scraping against the quiet of the haiden. “What did you say?”

The man regarded him with that same unhurried patience. A faint tilt lifted one corner of his mouth which wasn't quite a smile, more the prelude to one.

“I said we must tend to your wounds, and your clothes,” he repeated, voice light as cherry blossoms swimming through the wind. “For a samurai, you get distracted far too often.”

He tilted his head then, a provoking angle that let a stray lock of dark hair slide across his cheekbone.

Satoru felt heat crawl up the back of his neck, not quite anger, not quite embarrassment, but something dangerously adjacent to both. 

“Come,” The man said, voice dropping to something quieter, less taunting, more coaxing. “There is a small chamber. Let the shrine offer what small mercies it can.”

And with that, he led the way through the narrow sliding shōji, his gray hakama whispering against the tatami but never touching.

The small chamber looked as if prepared for Satoru's arrival. Bare tatami underfoot, a low wooden table bearing a basin of water, clean linen strips folded with care. The air here was warmer, scented with the faint resinous bite of burning wood and the clean, herbal trace of whatever salve waited in the porcelain jar beside the bandages.

The man knelt first, graceful as always, sleeves already tucked back to bare his forearms, gesturing Satoru to sit. Satoru lowered himself slowly.

The man began with the foot. Clinical, efficient, unwinding the filthy linen strip by strip. Satoru stared at the ceiling beams to keep his breathing even.

Then the man moved higher, tending the shallow slice along the collarbone, then to the small, angry cut at the corner of Satoru’s mouth. The touch lingered. Fingers cupped the side of Satoru’s jaw with feather-light pressure, thumb resting warm and unmoving beneath the split, holding him there while the salve was smoothed in slow circles. Seconds stretched into something thicker, heavier.Satoru’s heart slammed against the cage of his massive chest. He could feel every scar tingling under that steady gaze, every ridge of muscle tightening beneath the shaman’s quiet regard.

“Your name…” The words tore out a little too desperate for Satoru's own liking. The time itself was running out. “You haven’t told me yet.”

The shaman stilled completely. His thumb paused against the cut, warm and unmoving. Slowly, he lifted his amber eyes.

“Suguru,” he said at last, voice soft as mist. “Suguru Geto.” 

“Suguru,” Satoru repeated, testing and tasting, letting it settle on his tongue like a vow he had not yet sworn.

Satoru drew a slow breath, tasting sandalwood and incense that clung to Suguru’s skin.

“I am Satoru. Satoru Gojo.”

Suguru looked up. Golden-brown dawn met troubled blue skies.

“Satoru~”

The name rolled off his tongue like ripe juice spilling from parted lips. Sweet, lingering, a little wicked at the edges. He tilted his head in that same provoking way, dark hair sliding across one cheek, dawn like eyes half-lidded. 

Satoru looked away before the scarlet hue found his cheeks.

But then Suguru's hands moved lower.

Fingers brushed Satoru’s obi. He paused, eyes lifting in silent question. Satoru swallowed once, throat dry. He gave the smallest nod.

Suguru's touch remained careful, as he loosened the sash.The kimono parted open to reveal what lay beneath. 

A mountain rendered in flesh and breath. Broad shoulders, muscles that rose and fell in slow, controlled waves. Arms thick, veins faintly traced beneath light-gold skin. Abdomen ridged, every line of it honed by blade and burden. Yet it was the scars that commanded the eye. A savage constellation, crisscrossing his torso in silvery lightning-bolts and deep, fissured lines. They mapped his chest, slashed across the heavy curve of his ribs, ran down the corded length of his arms, akin to tiger stripes. 

A white tiger cloaked in human skin, scarred and magnificent.

Suguru’s breath bitched before he inhaled softly, the sound barely audible. His gaze traced the damage without pity, only quiet assessment. Then he reached for fresh cloth and salve.

He began at the ribs, dabbing, smoothing, bandaging with the same unhurried precision he had used on the foot. Satoru’s breath hitched when warm fingertips grazed unbroken skin, lingering just a heartbeat too long at the edge of a bruise.

His gaze lingered. They moved across the broad map of Satoru’s scarred torso as though reading something sacred written in violence. 

A new feeling clawed its way up Satoru’s throat. Self-consciousness. The sudden, sickening awareness that those amber eyes, warm as trapped sunlight, soft as temple incense, were witnessing the ugliest parts of him.

His massive shoulders tensed involuntarily, the thick cords of muscle in his arms tightening as to shield what lay beneath.

Suguru’s mouth curved. Small, sad, achingly tender. 

“Gojo-sama, do not misconstrue the intent of my discerning gaze. A moon unsullied up close would have come off as rather an anomaly.”

Those eyes. Ever since Satoru had first stepped into the shrine’s shadowed embrace, they held a certain moisture in their golden pools. Shimmering with something unspoken, something that pressed against Satoru’s lungs.

But Suguru spoke like he was bent on dismantling a young samurai’s life piece by careful piece: gentle words, sad smiles, touches that stayed too long. Pretty as though some capricious kami had made him to remind mortals how easily allure could betray. 

Satoru was no fool to subtle seduction. He had turned away graceful daughters who trailed silk fingers down his arm, handsome sons who leaned too close with sake-sweet breath and whispered invitations. 

Satoru could take him right here. It would be so easy. The obi would give without protest, the Prussian blue kimono would part like dark water yielding to moonlight. The fabric clung in all the wrong-right ways, hugging the lines of his frame, the subtle curve of his hips, the dip of his collarbone where sunkissed skin met shadow. It looked too luring for something meant to be humble for this sacred ground.

Had anyone ever touched him before? Had that warm mouth ever parted for anything but soft prayers and sadder smiles? Or would Satoru be the first. The first to deflower this beautiful calamity, to taint the sacred beneath Prussian blue silk, to hear that feathery chuckle fracture into something rawer, needier, his name mewled instead of drawled?

The image bloomed unbidden. Suguru beneath him, dark hair fanned across the tatami like spilled ink, amber eyes wide and unguarded, body arching as Satoru pressed in slowly then not so, claiming what no one else had dared. The thought was filthy—too profane for a place like this.

Nothing about this felt right. Except everything did.

His cock twitched traitorously beneath the loose hakama, heat flooding downward in a rush that made his breath hitch. No. Not here. 

Satoru surged to his feet before the impulse could root deeper. The freshly bandaged foot protested; he ignored it. He adjusted his attire but not before subtly exposing more of the scarred, muscular expanse of his chest. Let Suguru see. Let him look at what he almost had and know it was leaving.

I must leave,” Satoru said, voice low and gravel-rough, stripped bare of pretense. “Now.”

Before I do something neither of us can take back.

Suguru watched him. still kneeling. Still impossibly beautiful. But the faint curve of his mouth, the way his lashes lowered for a heartbeat, said he knew.

“May the road back home be kind to you, Gojo-sama,” Suguru said again, voice returning to its quiet calm. “The shrine will be here to welcome you when you find your way back.”

Satoru was not a man given to ritual for its own sake. Prayers had always felt like hollow echoes to him. Yet something compelled him before he left.

He stepped to the suzu bell and pulled. The bronze metal rang out and lingered in the air after the rope had stilled.

He bowed deeply twice, then straightened and clapped twice.

He rose up.

And instead of prayer, that visage seared his mind, reigniting the agitation that had him biting the inside of his cheek. 

One final bow, eyes closed against the evening gleam.

A week had passed since Satoru descended those shrine steps into the lingering evening light. 

The sun had not yet surrendered the sky.

He has ridden back to the village on his horse today. Rokuta, a magnificent creature of pure, unblemished ivory. His coat gleamed like fresh snow under sunlight or like moonlit silk in shadow. 

He rode along the familiar dirt road that skirted the village outskirts and climbed toward the forested hills. He had no plan to seek the shrine today. The corps had sent him to scout a reported trouble. 

He had spoken little of it to his peers in the local corps about a humble shaman who had offered refuge, bound his wounds. He left out the Prussian blue silk, the amber eyes that shimmered with unshed light, and the way Suguru's mouth rolled off his name. 

They had told him that there’s no shrine in the Seigyoku forest.

“There's no shrine up there.Not one we know of, anyway.You sure you didn’t stumble into some other forest?”

Satoru had said nothing more. Suguru had told that the shrine isn't easy to find. He had not bothered to convince them. What use was argument against memory?

As the road began to fork. Satoru felt the pull. Subtle at first, like a thread tugged at his ribs.

So here he was, tossing the coins in the offering box. He grasped the braided rope of the suzu bell, pulled until the clear bronze note rang out. Two deep bows, two sharp claps, one final deep bow that let his white hair fall forward. When he straightened, adjusting his purple haori, the wish from last time made its presence known.

Suguru emerged from some shadow as though the shrine had simply parted for him, silent and inevitable.

“Did Gojo-sama lose his way back home?” Suguru’s voice came soft, laced with that familiar velvet amusement, yet carrying a thread of something fond.

Satoru let out a low, smirky chuckle, warm at its core. “Just Satoru. Does anyone even come here except you?”

He turned fully then. And nearly lost his breath. 

Suguru’s hair was unbound today. Dark river cascaded past his shoulders, flowing down to his hips, catching stray shafts of sunlight. He wore a chalk-white kimono today, tucked into a hakama of sage green that shifted like shadowed water with every step. 

He looked less like a shaman and more like something seraphic carved to walk among mortals for reasons no one could fathom. 

“Now you are here too,” Suguru answered, gaze sliding past Satoru towards where Rokuta stood tethered. “And not by yourself this time,” he added, a faint curve touching his lips.

Satoru followed the look, then let out an amused, sheepish laugh. “I’m mostly by myself. Doesn't it get lonely here for you?”

Suguru approached then, steps slow and graceful, the sage green hakama flowing around his legs. Each movement carried that same effortless swan like poise, hakama pleats whispering against one another, white kimono sleeves swaying gently. He stopped a few breaths away.

“Even amid a sea of familiar faces, one can stand utterly alone.” His voice drifted low, threaded with melancholy like smoke through twilight. “What truly isolates us is the weight of everything we have never allowed ourselves to voice. The things left to rot in the dark corners of the heart, feelings locked behind the ribs, with no one to offer to set them free.”

One thing was clear to Satoru. 

He carried only half as much shadows as Suguru did.

There were vast, bottomless lakes hidden behind amber eyes that never quite spilled over. They lived in the faint, perpetual sheen that made those golden pools glisten. 

The way he spoke of things left untold as though they were old friends… or more. Perhaps for centuries in spirit, if not in flesh, for another soul to see him, truly see each other, without turning away.

Today, Satoru stayed until the sun hung low and heavy, bleeding pink and gold across the sky. 

They had drifted from the haiden without conscious decision, conversation flowing like water finding its own path, until they reached the lake side tucked behind the shrine.

They sat on the largest stone, far too close yet too far. Satoru with one leg stretched out, the other bent, scarred hands resting loose on his knee. Suguru with knees drawn up slightly, white kimono sleeves draped over them.

Satoru shared fragments of his encounters, and the shadowed paths. Suguru answered with the old folklore of the shrine. 

Suguru gazed at the single lotus floating near the center, pale pink against dark green pads, and began to speak, voice soft, melancholic, carrying the slow cadence of old tales.

“There was once a monk,” he murmured, “who maintained the village's temple. One spring the six-eyed sorcerer prince came riding through the valley. Beautiful, untouchable, eyes like winter lakes under moonlight. The prince was already betrothed to a princess he could never love. Yet when he saw the monk, he fell in love at the first sight.”

Suguru’s fingers traced idle patterns on the stone beside him, gaze never leaving the water.

“The prince fell first, hopelessly, irrevocably. The monk followed, quietly, completely, foolishly. They met in secret. Whispered poems beneath the sakura trees.One night, under a full moon. The monk asked the prince to name what they had. More than love; marriage. The prince promised him forever.”

A faint, sad smile touched Suguru’s trembling lips. Golden pools rippled once more under the kohl lashes. 

“The young lovers weren't aware of the trees with eyes, and the walls with ears. Their affair reached the fathers of both houses. The prince was summoned for the duty and was sent away. The monk received a letter from the prince: Meet me tonight by the lake behind the temple. We will marry beneath the stars.

“That night the monk walked to the lake, believing it was the most beautiful night of his life. He had given up his monastic order a week before. This was supposed to be the night for their souls and bodies to be one.”

Suguru paused.

“He never got to marry the prince. Instead, two men waited in the shadows. His audacity was mocked, he was reminded of his lowly place. He was reminded that the prince belonged to a princess, to a throne, to duty. Then they bound him with a heavy stone and threw him into the lake. And the moon cried above.”

Satoru’s breath caught. His stomach churned with something ugly. His glacial eyes were fixed on Suguru’s side frame now.

“The prince returned too late,” Suguru continued, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “When he learned what had been done to beloved, grief turned to rage. And the prince went berserk. So did his tamed powers. He turned everything that touched the Kingdom’s ground into crimson ashes. Then he walked into the ruined temple and set it ablaze around himself.”

A long silence followed. The sun slipped lower, the pond darkened to deep indigo threaded with fading gold.

“Three hundred and fifty years ago,” Suguru said at last, “It is said that the monk was reincarnated. His powers awakened when he turned 27 and remained that age. The worst curse user. He came back to this hill, built the shrine in memory of his lover, the young six eyed god. The monk waited ever since. It is also said that the monk put a curse with the help of his god. It is said that the worst curse user will return after 350 years, when his lover will reincarnate.”

Satoru himself was 28. How come he had never once heard any of it? 

Suguru’s gaze finally lifted to meet Satoru’s. Amber eyes glistened faintly in the dying light, eternal, the same quiet sheen that had haunted Satoru since the first night.

Satoru reached out slowly, scarred fingers brushing the ends of Suguru’s raven hair where it spilled over the ivory fabric.

Suguru did not pull away. 

“love,” Satoru whispered. “Is the most twisted curse of them all afterall.”

The pond held the last rose-gold reflection of them both. Two silhouettes side by side.

Satoru walked the short path back where Rokuta waited.

Suguru followed silently down the steps, white kimono catching the faint starlight

He stopped a respectful distance away, hands folded in his sleeves, amber eyes lowered in that serene, melancholic way that had become achingly familiar.

Satoru turned to offer the customary bow. Shallow, polite, the regular parting gesture.

A cosmic pull beneath his ribs. Raw, unbidden, like a thread yanked taut. 

Before reason could cage it, before formality could win, Satoru closed the distance in two strides.

He pulled Suguru into his arms—desperate, unhesitating, one scarred hand cupping the nape beneath the fall of dark river, the other wrapping around the waist, pressing silk and warmth against the hard planes of his own chest.

Suguru stiffened for the barest moment. Surprise flickering through the calm—then melted into the embrace. His arms rose slowly, sliding around Satoru’s broad shoulders, fingers threading into crane white hair.

Suguru’s amber eyes glistened, unshed moisture catching starlight like dew on gold. His lips parted on a soft, trembling breath.

Satoru pressed his forehead to Suguru’s, scarred fingers tangled in dark strands.

“I’ll come back, Suguru.” he whispered.

Suguru’s fingers tightened once in milky strands. Silent acknowledgment, silent plea.

Then Satoru stepped away, reluctantly, hands lingering until the last possible second before falling to his sides.

It went on like this for another month. 

Quiet afternoons bled into golden evenings, words and touches trading beside the pond like offerings left at the water’s edge. Satoru would arrive and Suguru would be waiting. 

Why did Satoru's heart keep beating that way? Always drifting toward Suguru. What changed in the space of one heartbeat?

Where exactly did he lose himself when he first laid eyes on Suguru? Others were over there, wrapped in each other, and Satoru was all by himself, in the carnival of love. 

As if the rains had been mere illusion, the lightning a fleeting deception, the clouds nothing but drifting smoke across a painted sky. As if the flowers had been a polite lie, beautiful but empty.

There was no colour in the world that did not echo the soft hue of Suguru’s lips when they curved in that sad, knowing smile. No fragrance that did not brush against the memory of Suguru’s dark tresses, falling like a midnight river.

Suguru was his truth.The only truth that held weight in the quiet after midnight, beneath the full moon’s unblinking gaze. The only truth that made sense.

Each visit ended the same: the sun dipping low, Suguru reminding him that it was time.

Until tonight.

Suguru called him after midnight.

Satoru rode under a sky thick with stars, Rokuta’s white coat luminous against the dark road, breath misting in the cool air. The forest seemed to part for him tonight; the veil thinner, the path straighter. 

When he reached the steps before bowing, lanterns glowed along the soft, warm pools of light spilling. The shrine breathed from within, alive in a way it had never been under the sun.

Satoru was always sent or left before the sunset. He had never seen the shrine under the dark canvas of true night.

The night seemed to conspire in Satoru's favor, the full moon casting a silver glow on the quiet scene, waiting with bated breath for his confession to Suguru.

Suguru stood at the top of the steps.

Lilac kimono and hakama, pale and luminous, the colour of twilight bruised by starlight. The hakama beneath it, pleats flowing like hushed water with every subtle shift of his weight, soft tones catching moonlight in faint, ethereal gleams. Unbound dark hair spilled down his back like dark wisterias, framing a face that seemed carved from a celestial clay itself: warm skin gilded by lantern amber, golden brown eyes shimmering with that familiar, unshed dew.

He descended one step, then another, Jasmine and sandalwood bloomed stronger now, mingling with incense, filling the space between them.

“The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?”

Satoru stood only breaths away from Suguru, gazing down at him with oceans of adoration pooling in his sapphire blue eyes. Soft, unguarded, utterly unlike the stone-scarred warrior face he wore for the rest of the world. 

Suguru’s cheeks flushed like a delicate rose. He tucked a stray strand of dark behind his ear, gaze flickering shyly upward.

“But it holds no candle to Gojo-sama.”

Satoru felt heat flood his face in a sudden, betraying rush. He had to bite down hard on the blooming smile that threatened to break free. He turned his head away sharply. The lantern light caught the faint dimples that appeared when Satoru's lips curved, small and rare, like secrets only Suguru was allowed to see.

Suguru’s quiet laugh drifted between them, light and teasing, edged with wonder.

“Huh? Did I see that right? A shy samurai with rose kissed cheeks.” He tilted his head, golden-brown eyes sparkling with mischief and fondness. “You don’t get to see that often.”

Satoru exhaled through his nose, an embarrassing growl along with a half laugh, still refusing to meet Suguru’s eyes. 

These little things that were not so little that the shaman used to say and do.

Once, weeks ago. Suguru had looked at him with that same quiet melancholy and described him like the moon reflected in water. A profound beauty visible, yet untouchable. He had called him a poem that could not be described.

It ruined Satoru’s life.

Satoru felt the gentle touch on his turned-away face, strong fingertips light as falling petals, yet they sent goosebumps racing across his skin. His heartbeat quickened, a traitor that refused to be silenced.

Suguru reached out further. Both hands, sleeved in soft lilac silk, closed around Satoru’s wrist in a quiet grasp.

"Wouldn’t you look at me, Satoru?”

The voice was low, velvet-soft.

Satoru’s breath hitched. In one swift, instinctive motion, he turned his hand, fingers curling around Suguru’s wrist and pulled.

Suguru came willingly, a delighted little gasp escaping him as he was drawn flush against Satoru’s chest. One of Satoru’s large arms slid around the shapely curve of Suguru’s hips, locking him there with effortless strength, the lilac kimono bunching softly against the crane white haori. 

Suguru was only somewhat shorter, his frame lean and strong in its own right, but against Satoru’s—he felt small. Delicate.

Satoru’s voice came out almost frailed.

“The things you do to me.”He breathed a few inches away from Suguru’s lips.“And the things I want to do to you.”

Suguru’s hands rose to his chest, pushing once, weakly.“Sato—Satoru. Let go.”

But the push faltered. Fingers curled into the fabric instead, clutching the haori.

“Don’t tell me you don’t feel it too,” Satoru said, quieter now, almost pleading. “When I’m near you. When I’m gone. This… something.”

“Satoru.” Suguru’s voice cracked, thin with urgency. “Please—”

Satoru’s face twisted—pain, frustration, something raw flashing through the stormy sea eyes. He pulled Suguru closer, one hand sliding up to cradle his face, thumb pressing gently but firmly against the cheekbone, forcing their gazes to lock.

“You were right,” he said, words spilling out jagged and unpolished. “I seek vengeance. I was born with it. I don’t even know what I’m avenging. What is there to avenge? It never made sense. I don't remember much about my family—I left too young to train as a samurai. All I’ve ever known is this burn. This restlessness. This feeling like my skin is on fire. I’m always angry. Always.”

His arms tightened—both now, one locked around Suguru’s waist, the other across his back, crushing him close until there was no space left between them.

“But when I’m with you…” His voice dropped to a raw whisper, face buried in Suguru’s hair. “It burns less. You’re the only thing that soothes it. Soothing cool over burning coal. It just… stops burning.”

A broken sound escaped Suguru—somwthing akin to a half sob, and half breath. Then careful fingers slid into snow-white hair, stroking slowly over his scalp. Suguru’s other hand rested flat over Satoru’s heart, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath.

Suguru was locked in his embrace, pressed so close that their shadows should have been merged into one dark shape on the lantern-lit stone.

The moon poured silver over them both, the lanterns glowed warm amber, yet the ground beneath their feet held only Satoru’s shadow, large and unwavering, swallowing the space where Suguru should have been.

Satoru didn’t mind.

He didn’t question it.

Suguru was the only truth. The only truth that mattered.

“S-Satoru…”

Suguru slowly lifted his head from Satoru’s shoulder. Golden pools welled up with apologies and guilt Satoru didn't understand, lashes dark and wet, lips trembling.

Satoru’s heart cracked open at the sight. He cupped Suguru’s face in both scarred hands—gentle, so gentle.

“No, it's okay,” he whispered, shaking his head, voice ever so tender for his precious who could make no mistake. “Don’t cry, my prettiest flower.

Suguru’s hands rose to cover Satoru’s where they cradled his cheeks. He turned them slowly, pressing soft, trembling kisses to the rough knuckles, to the old scars across the backs, hands that had known only steel and blood until now.

“Would y-you…” His voice broke, barely a breath. “Would you make love to me, Satoru?”

Satoru surged forward—fast, untamed—capturing Suguru’s mouth in a kiss. A muffled moan vibrated between them as Satoru’s tongue slid wet and insistent along Suguru’s, pushing deep, pulling back, claiming every corner with raw, desperate hunger. A sharp tug that drew a soft whimper, then soothing again, tongues tangling in slow, filthy drags.

Satoru’s hands slid down to Suguru's hakama, fingers digging into the firm curve of Suguru’s ass through the fabric, kneading, pulling him impossibly closer until their hips locked. A low, broken sound tore from both their throats as he pressed harder, deeper into the kiss, devouring the taste of Suguru like a man starved.

He tugged at Suguru's obi with shaking urgency, knot giving way under insistent fingers. The lilac kimono parted in a slow, reverent slide, silk whispering down Suguru’s shoulders to pool at his elbows. Sun bathed skin gleamed in the lantern light, defined pecs rising and falling with quick breaths, collarbones sharp and shadowed, shoulders strong yet elegant under the moonlight.

Satoru's hands roamed, sliding up the newly bared chest, thumbs brushing over hardened nipples, then back down to grip Suguru’s hips again. 

Suguru arched into the touch, fingers threading into white hair, tugging just enough to make Satoru growl against his throat as he sucked and lapped the abused skin.

Satoru eased Suguru down onto the tatami.

He shrugged off his own haori in one fluid motion, letting the white fabric fall aside. Fingers worked quickly at the obi, untying the knot with practiced ease; the hakama loosened and slid down powerful thighs, pooling at his knees. His cock sprang free—thick, long, already flushed dark and glistening at the tip.

Suguru’s mouth parted on a soft, involuntary sound. His amber eyes widened, pupils dilating as they fixed on the sheer girth and length. He squeezed his thighs together instinctively, the motion small but telling.

Satoru chuckled low in his throat, warm, and reassuring. He took Suguru’s hand, brought it to his lips, and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the open palm.

“Are you afraid?” he whispered against the skin, voice gravel-rough but gentle. “I’ll be gentle.”

Suguru’s breath hitched when Satoru's calloused hands slipped beneath his kimono to part his legs. He nodded once. Small and trusting, then let his head fall back against the tatami as Satoru began.

Satoru took the chance.

His hand slid between Suguru’s parted thighs, palm rough against the soft inner thighs, fingers brushing higher. He hissed low through his teeth at the first dry drag through the velvet heat. 

“Fuck…”

He took a second chance—middle finger slicked with spit, pressing slow and steady against the winking rim. The muscle yielded with a soft, wet give, sucking him to the first knuckle. Suguru’s breath punched out in a sharp gasp; his walls clenched hard around the intrusion.

Satoru added a second finger, stretching him slow and deep, before the pace escalated. Suguru whimpered—hips fucking down chasing every inch.

By the time Suguru was ready—prepared with spit-slick fingers, slow, careful stretches that left him trembling and gasping. Tears had gathered at the corners of his eyes, tracking silently down his temples, catching lantern light like tiny diamonds.

Suguru’s hands flew to Satoru’s shoulders, nails biting into muscle as he rocked faster, walls fluttering wildly around the fingers buried inside him.

“Satoru—gonna—ahh—!”

“Not yet,” Satoru murmured, slowing the thrusts to torturous drags, keeping him teetering on the edge.

He braced one hand beside Suguru’s head, the other sliding down to guide himself. He leaned in until their foreheads touched, eyes locked on golden browns that shimmered with trust and want.

Satoru pressed forward—slow at first, the thick head breaching Suguru’s hole with careful insistence. Suguru’s breath hitched sharply, a loud whimper escaping as his body yielded, walls fluttering around the intrusion. 

Suguru’s eyes flew wide, a sharp, broken cry ripping from his throat.

Ah—! Satoru—hurts—fuck—!”

“I know,” Satoru murmured immediately, voice low and steady despite the strain in his own body. He held perfectly still, hips locked, only the tip inside. One hand came up to cup Suguru’s cheek, thumb brushing away fresh tears. “Hurts, yeah? I’ve got you. Breathe for me.”

Suguru’s lips trembled, eyes glassy. “I—ah—want it… so much…”

Satoru leaned down, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses across Suguru’s forehead, his eyelids, the bridge of his nose.

“I know you do,” he whispered between kisses. “You’re taking me so well already. Just the tip and you already feel so good. Fuck… so perfect.”

He kissed the corner of Suguru’s mouth, then the trembling lower lip.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, voice firm but tender. “We stop the second you say. I’d only go as far as you want.”

Suguru’s thighs shook around Satoru’s hips. He swallowed hard, then whined small but certain.

“Don’t stop… please don’t stop. I want it—I want all of you—Satoru, please…”

He eased forward another inch, slow and controlled, watching every flicker across Suguru’s face. Suguru’s back arched, a high, keening whimper spilling out.

“Nngh—ah—too big—Satoru—!”

“I know,” Satoru cooed despite preening from within, kissing along his jaw now, lips lingering on the pulse point. “Almost there,” he rasped. “You’re doing so well. My perfect boy. Just a little more. Feel that? That’s you wanting it. That’s you being so fucking good.”

Suguru’s head fell back against the tatami, l His thighs trembled, spread wide around Satoru’s hips; the lilac silk framed his flushed cock lying heavy against his stomach.

“S-Satoru—hhg” Suguru whimpered, voice cracking on the name. His hands flew to Satoru’s biceps, nails digging into thick muscle, trying to anchor himself as Satoru sank deeper in one long, unrelenting slide.

His walls clamped down hard around the invading girth, pulsing and fluttering wildly as the thick shaft forced its way deeper. Inch by heavy inch, Satoru sank in, the stretch brutal and perfect, the burn unmistakable. Suguru’s back arched off the tatami, lilac rubbing against Satoru's skin as his thighs shook.

Suguru’s cry cracked into a sob, walls spasming wildly around the full length.

“Satoru—! Oh god—full—so—!”

Satoru stayed motionless again, letting Suguru adjust, kissing every inch of his face he could reach. He groaned deep in his chest, hips twitching with the effort not to thrust. 

“Shit—Suguru—fuck—you’re strangling me. So tight… so fucking hot inside. Taking every inch like you were made for my cock. Weren't you? F–for me?”

Suguru nodded frantically, hands clutching Satoru’s hair, pulling him down until their faces touched.

“Breathe,” Satoru whispered. “I’m right here. Not moving until you say. You feel me? Every inch? That’s all for you.”

Suguru’s chest heaved. His fingers trembled where they clutched Satoru’s back.

“Y-yeah… I feel you… so deep… hurts but—please move.”

And Satoru gave him everything. Slow at first, gentle, kissing away every tear, every whimper. Until the pain melted into pleasure and Suguru’s cries turned desperate for more.

Only then did he let himself go.

Then Satoru didn’t slow. He fucked into him hard and fast—relentless, hips snapping with punishing rhythm, cock dragging against every sensitive ridge inside Suguru’s clenching channel. Each thrust punched different kinds of melodies, from his beloved’s mouth.

Suguru's nails raked down Satoru’s back in sharp and desperate red lines, stinging across scarred muscle. Satoru groaned deep in his throat.

Their mouths crashed together—messy, biting, tongues sliding wet and frantic. Satoru swallowed every broken sound Suguru made. Every high pitched whine, every choked sob of pleasure, groaning into the kiss when Suguru’s teeth grazed his lower lip.

Mine,” Satoru rasped between thrusts, voice wrecked. “Fucking mine—feel that? How deep I am?”

Suguru’s answer was a keening moan muffled against Satoru’s tongue—“Y-yes. Yours—Satoru—ngh—dont stop!”

Satoru snarled, one hand fisting in Suguru's hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat. He bit down hard enough to leave teeth marks, then sucked a dark bruise right over while his hips slammed faster, cock pistoning in and out with wet, obscene squelches.

Satoru pulled out with a wet, filthy pop—cock slick and glistening, strings of precum and spit connecting the swollen head to Suguru’s gaping, fluttering hole for one obscene second. Suguru whined at the sudden emptiness.

“Don't worry. Not done with you yet.”

He grabbed Suguru by the hips and flipped him onto his stomach in one rough motion. Suguru gasped, face pressed to the tatami, palms scrabbling for purchase as Satoru pressed him down forcing his ass high in the air. He bunched the lilac kimono up over the perfect swell of his ass, exposing everything.

“Fuck… look at this greedy little thing,” Satoru rasped, thumbs digging into the meat of Suguru’s ass and spreading him wider. “You want more, don’t you?”

Suguru’s approval was a muffled, desperate moan into the mat. 

Satoru didn’t make him beg twice. 

He lined up and plunged back in, spearing straight through the slick, loosened ring until his hips slapped against Suguru’s ass with a loud, wet smack. 

Suguru’s cry broke high and raw.

Satoru didn’t stop. He fucked him like he was trying to carve himself into Suguru’s body. Long, punishing strokes that bottomed out every time, balls slapping wetly against Suguru’s perineum. Each thrust punched a broken cry out of Suguru’s throat, voice cracking higher with every brutal drive.

“Nngh—ah-ah—Satoru—! Harder—fuck me harder—”

Satoru leaned over him, chest to back, one hand fisting in dark hair and yanking Suguru's head back so he could see the wrecked, tear-streaked face.

“You want harder?” he snarled against Suguru’s ear, hips snapping forward so viciously the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed off the shrine beams. “Then take it like a good boy. Let me ruin you.”

With one arm hooked under Suguru’s chest, he hauled him upright in a single, possessive yank—pulling Suguru’s back flush against his front. The position forced Suguru’s body into a trembling bow: chest thrust forward, lilac kimono gaping wider across his pecs.

Satoru’s left arm slid under Suguru’s armpit, thick forearm banding across his chest to lock him in place; scarred fingers curled around Suguru’s jaw, gripping firm but not cruel. His right hand clamped down on Suguru’s hip, fingers digging into soft flesh, yanking him back harder until Suguru’s ass jiggled with the impact, thick cock still buried deep inside him.

“Fuck—look at you,” Satoru growled low against Suguru’s ear, voice gravel-rough and filthy as he pounded from behind. “Aren’t you like a pliant doll?”

Suguru whimpered high, body trembling in the iron hold. His hands flew back, clutching at Satoru’s thighs for balance, chest heaving.

“Could have fooled me,” Satoru growled, teeth sinking into the back of Suguru’s neck. “Desperate little whore you are.”

Suguru’s eyes scrunched shut, a complaining whine spilling from his lips, high and petulant.

Satoru chuckled, low and fond. His breath hot against the shell of Suguru’s ear. He shifted them smoothly, one arm banding tighter across Suguru’s torso to keep him locked against him, the other hand sliding down to grip the soft swell of his hip.He tucked his chin over Suguru’s shoulder so their faces were side by side.

“Oh no, no,” Satoru murmured, voice gravel-rough but laced with unmistakable affection. “It’s only ever been you, flower.”

He punctuated the words with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, grinding deep, dragging his thick cock against every sensitive ridge inside Suguru until the man beneath him shuddered violently.

“Only you get to take me like this, yeah?” Satoru continued, lips brushing Suguru’s flushed cheek. “Only you get to cry so pretty on my cock and still beg for more.”

Suguru’s whine melted into a broken moan, head tipping further back against Satoru’s shoulder, tears slipping free again.

Satoru kissed the tear track on his temple, then snapped his hips forward hard, cock slamming home with a wet slap that made Suguru’s ass bounce and his voice crack into another high cry.

He kept the rhythm relentless—deep, owning thrusts that rocked Suguru forward on his knees, kimono tangled uselessly around his body. 

Suguru’s hands scrabbled backward, clutching at Satoru’s hips, nails digging in as he tried to get hsi attention.

Satoru slowed, hips still buried deep, cock throbbing inside the slick, clenching heat. But he didn’t pull out yet.

“Mhm?” he hummed low against Suguru’s ear, breath warm on his skin.

Suguru’s voice came out small, wrecked, barely above a whisper.

“W-wanna… see you… when you come in me. Your face. Not like this.”

Satoru stilled completely.

For one heartbeat, the only sound was their ragged breathing.

Then Satoru exhaled—slow and shaky, pressing a soft, open mouthed kiss on Suguru's cheek.

“Of course, my heart. I'd wanna see your face too,” he rasped.

He pulled out carefully, slow enough to make Suguru whimper at the drag, the wet, filthy slide of his cock leaving that stretched hole. Suguru’s walls fluttered uselessly around nothing, clenching on empty air, still trying to keep him inside.

Satoru flipped him gently, laying Suguru flat on his back against the tatami.

And dear God… what a mess he had made.

Suguru’s face was drenched—tears streaking from the corners of his eyes, tracking down flushed temples into sweat-damp onyx hair. Face burned beetroot red, lips swollen and bruised from biting kisses, parted on shallow, panting breaths. His lilac kimono in ruined elegance, exposing the trembling expanse of his thighs and that abused hole.

Satoru’s breath punched out of him.

“Ohh… you poor thing,” he whispered, voice cracking with awe and hunger. “My perfect, wrecked flower.”

He settled between Suguru’s thighs again, cock still rock-hard, flushed dark and glistening. It nudged the entrance without pushing in yet. He braced one forearm beside Suguru’s head, the other hand cupping his tear-streaked cheek, thumb brushing over swollen lips.

“Eyes on me,” Satoru whispered, voice soft but commanding. “Watch me when I come inside you. Watch what you do to me.”

Suguru nodded small and frantic. Golden brown eyes glassy, amd red rimmed, locked on Satoru’s face.

Satoru began to move. Slow, deep rolls at first, grinding against that sweet spot inside until Suguru’s thighs shook and fresh tears slipped free again.

He picked up speed—thrusts turning harder, deeper, wet slaps filling the shrine again. Suguru’s hands clutched Satoru’s shoulders, nails biting in, legs wrapping tight around his waist.

Satoru’s hand slid from Suguru’s hip to wrap around his leaking cock again—stroking fast, slick with precum, thumb swiping ruthlessly over the head on every upstroke.

Suguru’s sob was loud, shameless—body seizing, walls clamping down like a vice as he came, cock spurting weakly across Satoru’s fist and the tatami as he shattered first.

Satoru slammed in deep and came with a guttural groan and half cry—cock pulsing, flooding Suguru. Hot spurts leaked out around the base, dripping down Suguru’s ass.

They stayed locked. Eyes on eyes, panting, trembling, watching every flicker of release across each other’s faces.

Satoru kissed him, tasting salt and tears and love.

They collapsed together, sweat-slick and trembling. Satoru buried his face in Suguru’s neck, Suguru’s fingers still tangled weakly in white hair.

Panting breaths mingled.

The moon watched, silent and full.

Suguru’s fingers slid into Satoru’s damp white hair, caressing the soaked strands with trembling tenderness. He could feel the tears gathering behind his own eyes, sliding silently down his temples as he wrapped both arms around Satoru’s neck, pulling him impossibly closer. His legs locked tighter around Satoru’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper even as their bodies stilled, spent and trembling.

He tilted his head back against the tatami, letting the tears fall freely now.

“Good night, my prince,” Suguru whispered with the same melancholy, his voice cracked apologetically, and fragile. “I love you... so much. Please forgive me.”

A faint smile curved against the crook of his neck—Satoru’s lips, weak but warm. Slowly, Satoru lifted his head just enough to meet Suguru’s gaze. His pounding heart slowed beneath Suguru’s palm, each beat growing softer, heavier.

Thump… thump.

Satoru looked at him. 

Not with fear. Not with regret.

With the same quiet, ocean-deep love that had always lived in those blue eyes.

The rhythm faltered, growing distant, yet Satoru’s gaze never wavered. It held Suguru like he was still the only thing in the world that mattered. The only truth.

Thump… thump.

Suguru’s own chest ached—hollow, silent, lacking the beats he had once carried. Did Satoru not notice? 

Perhaps he did. But Satoru’s eyes never left his.

“You waited long enough,” Satoru filled with adoration and sorrow, barely a breath, fading like the last lantern flame. “Take me home now, Suguru. I am so tired.”

Suguru’s tears fell faster and endless—yet he smiled through them, small and shattered and whole. 

He pressed his forehead to Satoru’s, noses brushing, lips trembling against lips as he nodded.

“I love you so much. I am sorry."

Satoru’s final beats pulsed once more. Surrendering and certain.

He shook his head blissfully. Feather white lashes getting heavy. He looked so serene.

"I am all yours. Always... and unconditionally yours."

Thump.

The lanterns dimmed to embers.