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Satoru is almost never early for anything. Least of all blind dates, least of all on Christmas day. Japan is frighteningly cold around this time of year, and normally he takes the day off. There are bad memories.
But now there aren’t many day offs. Too many curses, too much negative energy and fear from the bigger parts of the city. That means more solo missions— the word solo means nothing anymore— and less off days.
Not today. Today, he’d really begged and wheedled with the higher-ups. What were they gonna do? Tell Satoru Gojo no? He’s the fucking strongest now. They can’t touch him in any of the ways that matter, and there are only two.
He needed today. Today he was going to do something very, very bad.
First, the phone.
The phone was stored away in a box, along with old pictures, notes, receipts, drawings. It sits on a dusty top shelf. When Suguru had first defected, Yaga had asked if he had any means of contacting him, finding him, because there was a lingering assumption that if Satoru called, Suguru would come.
That was how it had always been. And Satoru had said no, and Yaga had sighed, but dropped it. They’d both known it was a lie, but anything other than a lie would’ve sent him over the edge.
Satoru ducks into his old dorm that afternoon, hovers up a little over Infinity, and takes the simple, old cardboard box from the shelf, lowering back down. He blows the dust off, huffing a little, and pries it open.
Inside, atop a pile of blurry polaroid pictures of Suguru’s secret tattoo and Shoko doing that gross flipped-eyelid thing, is Satoru’s old flip-phone.
Satoru takes it and flips it open, cringing a little at his own phone background. “Jeez,” he mumbles, punching in the password. Waka Inoue’s still hot, but he’s hardly into her anymore. He’s a man on a mission. A grown man, no longer sixteen and hungry for something he can’t name. It has a name now, and he has the means.
He finds Suguru’s contact. He knows this isn’t going to work. Why the hell would Suguru keep it? He’s smart. He knows Yaga would ask his best friend (or former best friend, Satoru sullenly thinks) for his phone. And Satoru nearly killed him that day, nearly popped a clean Purple on his ass on that busy street, so why the hell wouldn’t Satoru have given Yaga his phone?
No, Suguru doesn’t have his old phone. There isn’t any point to this. And if there is, he shouldn’t do it. This is bad. Curse users are… they’re bad.
No matter how pretty they smile, how much their dimples cave their cheeks, how glossy their hair gets out of the shower.
Satoru checks his status. By default, Suguru’s contact— his profile picture being a can of soda and a fragment of Satoru’s thumb in the corner— says he’s been offline for ‘more than 30 days’. Satoru scoffs a little, moving to lay on his old dorm bed with a thump. Understatement of the year.
Against his will but also very much in line with his will because he’s an awful piece of shit who woke up with his chest aching of memory, he sends a text before no one at all can stop him.
gotoruthecoolest1
sugru
Oops. “Clumsy shit,” Satoru mutters, holding the phone closer to his face. Just one word— Suguru’s name— and he’d misspelt it. Riveting. His eyes are starting to ache, pearly-white lashes fluttering. He should’ve worn the damn blindfold.
His thumbs recalibrate. He types out various follow-ups he knows Suguru won’t respond to, then deletes them.
“How’ve you been?” No. Does he even want to know? Doesn’t he already know?
“Any christmas plans?” Satoru almost sends this one. What if the answer is yes? He might just smash the damn phone to bits.
“Do you miss me?”
Satoru stares at the phone. He leaves the Message app, and Waka Inoue stares back. He really should change that.
No. No, actually. This is just a dumb phone. This is for closure.
He drops his phone into his pocket, and stands up. He could just disappear back home, but he likes the feeling of car rides. It’s a while to get back home. He’ll think of what to send then.
Satoru ducks out of his old dorm with a yawn, and takes a walk down the long corridor. He doesn’t look into his old classroom. Soon enough, it won’t be his anymore. It’s already begun to belong to other kids, the ones Yaga’s been pushing him to start teaching.
“I don’t know,” Satoru had mumbled, leant against the wall and wishing he could melt into it, when Yaga first brought up the idea. “I’m not good at that stuff. Maybe.”
Yaga had rubbed his jaw. “You just need to be there,” he says finally. “Be what Suguru might’ve needed—“
Satoru had looked up, and his eyes had shone iridescent with anger and hopeless understanding that Yaga was right, but fuck, he had been there for Suguru, hadn’t he?
What hadn’t he seen? Why hadn’t he done anything? Would things have been different, if he’d turned infinity off and walked closer and taken the hand that suddenly felt so much bonier, and asked, Hey, Su-gu-ru. Are you really okay, or are you just fuckin’ lying?
Would Suguru have looked up with those eyes that were so tired, lashes heavy, and whispered, How’d you know? Are you watching me close like I was always watching you?
Satoru’s so lost in useless thought he nearly bumps right into Shoko, who’s been standing at the end of he corridor.
“Yeowch! Jeez, make a sound, will you?” Satoru grumbles, moving back and rubbing his chest. Shoko just snorts. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Don’t you go all recluse near Christmas?”
Bingo. Satoru straightens up. “I’m a big boy now,” he says, arms folding over his head. The old phone sits a little heavier in his pocket. “Can’t afford to be reclus-ing, yeah?”
Shoko eyes him for a second. “Yeah. I guess.” Satoru grins, and reaches out to flick her nose before she can think to ask why he’s back at all. “How’s med school? Cheating your way along?”
Shoko rubs her nose, looking miffed. “You know it,” she mumbles, her tone sarcastic. A beat. “Heard from Nanami?” Satoru shakes his head, scratching his hair. It’s not as if they’re on-the-reg drinking buddies, for Nanami to be texting him. He doesn’t text anyone.
Neither does Satoru. He likes getting them, though.
“For all I know, he’s—“
Satoru feels the old flip-phone buzz in his pocket. Once.
It’s so quiet and feels so insignificant that he almost thinks he’s imagined it. Or maybe it’s his actual phone, though that one’s on mute. His voice stops mid-sentence, eyes widening. Clearly, Shoko doesn’t hear the little buzz, and her own brows furrow. “What? He’s what?” She asks testily.
Satoru can’t speak. And before he tries again, the old flip-phone with just about two units of battery life left buzzes again.
His first thought is Shoko. Sure, she’s standing in front of him with the craziest eyebags and looking confused but maybe she knows he has his old phone, maybe she’s sending him texts on it.
Her hands are empty. And that’s cruel, even by Shoko’s standards, Satoru figures.
“I… Yeah, no, I… I’ll call you about it, or something,” he says, his lungs suddenly running out of air capacity. His hands fumble at his sides, grabbing hold of the phone.
Each buzz feels like the ding of a grandfather clock, or a gong, so heavy in his hand.
Wrong, it seems to say with each buzz. Don’t. Answer.
Shoko opens her mouth again, and Satoru slides past her, knows he’s being a dick and that there isn’t a point in doing this, he’s going to get himself hurt like he did a year ago, like he did the moment he first ever met Suguru and caught his stupid haircut and stupid, smug smile and stupidly great grades for a boy from a non-sorcerer family and stupid, stupid heart and soul.
Satoru walks out of school. The sun is beginning to set. With shaking hands, he opens the phone.
Shouldn’t, he thinks, even as he rebelliously punches in the password again. Nothing special, the ol’ 1-1-2-3. Suguru guessed it every time. This was the latest (and also guessed) attempt from a year ago.
Waka Inoue smiles at him. Good luck, Satoru, she seems to whisper, arms over her head in a still, pixelated picture. Don’t ruin this for yourself, okay? You’re being very bad.
Satoru sniffles a little at his own ability to hallucinate at the worst times. He opens the Message app.
Three buzzes. He had felt three buzzes, and next to Suguru’s contact the number ‘3’ glows green. Three messages.
It doesn’t say Suguru’s online, either. Still shows his last time being online as ‘more than 30 days’ which is, again, quite the underestimation. It’s smart, to have turned that off.
Satoru is internally prepared. It’s going to be some random guy who got the number after Suguru invariably ditched it. The three messages will be something like “Hi? Who is this? Wrong number, or are you trying to sell me something?”
Yeah. Honestly, that would be better.
He opens them. His mouth goes dry.
getguruthecoolest2
Satoru?
getguruthecoolest2
Is that really you?
getguruthecoolest2
How do you still have this phone?
Satoru’s heart races. Like he’s some teenager texting Suguru in class, he shifts to lean behind a tree, bending so his shadow hangs over the screen. “Why the hell do you still have this phone, huh?” He mumbles to himself, but his lips are curling up in that uncontrollably smile-way.
God. This guy’s a serial murderer!
Satoru doesn’t want him getting off the phone, so he settles for something non-confrontational. Not an ‘I miss you’, but definitely not a ‘why-did-you-abandon-your-best-friend-almost-boyfriend-to-start-a-death-club’.
That almost-boyfriend part is certainly not something he made up. Satoru is almost 99% sure. Almost.
His fingers fly across the keypad.
gotoruthecoolest1
i found it box on shelf
Nobody knows about the box. Satoru figures this is so Suguru will know he’s talking to the real Satoru, and not some over-eager little first year trying to find one of Japan’s most powerful curse users, for some reason.
The response is instantaneous. An image comes to Satoru’s mind; Suguru curled up in a divan, in those strange monk robes, his long, dark hair let down over his shoulders, dark eyes downcast, warm, pink toned thighs folded over one another, punching in texts like he’s reading a play on a scroll.
He feels a twinge in his grown and grumbles, shoving a hand in his pocket. No. Not now.
getguruthecoolest2
What do you want?
Of course. Like Satoru needs some kind of favour from the cult leader.
He types back, grumbling softly.
gotoruthecoolest1
you kno wat day it is?
A few seconds.
getguruthecoolest2
I do.
gotoruthecoolest1
not gonna wish me?
Satoru bites his lip, then his fist. God. Is this flirting? He can’t even feel guilty, because those three little pixel dots appearing and disappearing so quickly makes his stomach flip.
getguruthecoolest2
You didn’t wish me, either.
Satoru exhales, lowering his fist. What now?
That’s a lie. He knows exactly what now. But it’s wrong. A wrong, and a bad, but he’s killed so many wrongs and bads the last month that maybe he deserves to keep one.
It’s Christmas. Them’s the breaks.
gotoruthecoolest1
text too informal. how abt i wish u in person?
gotoruthecoolest1
[link]
He’s sent a map link to a small, expensive hole-in-the-wall type restaurant along the business district. It’s going to be snowing, and it’s warm in there. He saved it from some blog post. Maybe for a blind date, or something? Anyway, it’s finally going to prove useful.
Satoru drops his phone into his pocket and jogs to the car, breath leaving him. He’ll be there for an hour. That’s all. Maybe less. He’s got the time to spare.
A drink, a plate of pasta. That’s all. Suguru shows up (which he won’t)? An added plus. Or maybe a negative. He has no clue.
_____________________
So, yeah, Satoru’s almost always late for dates. He’s late in general— time can wait for the strongest— but this time, he speeds through traffic, weaves in and out of lanes and slams the car door shut behind him to jog the rest of the way. He doesn’t want to be late. Suguru hated waiting.
Seems like a lot of work for someone you shouldn’t even care about anymore, you pathetic fuck, he thinks wearily to himself, even as he walks forward.
It’s begun to snow. Little children walk past him, giggling, holding their hands up to catch falling flakes. A few couples pass across the street, too, in matching scarves. Snowflakes catch on Satoru’s lashes, and he brushes them away, adjusting his shades.
The restaurant is getting closer. Satoru wants to turn and run in the opposite direction.
His old phone is still in a pocket, but now the chest pocket of his button-up, and it hasn’t buzzed once. Suguru hadn’t responded to the little link. Fuck, has he even seen it?
Does it matter? He’s not showing up, he won’t, it’d be so stupid of him—
Then, Satoru’s long legs slow as he reaches the restaurant. Under the dark evening sky, corners lined with snow it is warmly-lit. A large glass panel adorned with ferns serves as the wall next to the entrance. It is through that looking-glass that he peers, and it is what he sees that makes his chest hurt.
Not a pleasant ache, like the one in memory. It hurts like someone has pried his bloody ribs apart and dug a fist in, pried out the only living person who sits in the warmest, smallest crevice of his heart.
At a corner table, early (somewhat, since they technically didn’t have a meet-up time) and sat at a lone table with one other empty chair is Suguru Geto.
He isn’t in his monk robes. He doesn’t have his hair up in that tight bun. He hasn’t got that strange, otherworldly smirk.
Instead, his rich, glossy castor-black hair cascades down his back and over his shoulder. He’s wearing a blacker turtleneck, and his soft, dark cat eyes are cast downward, reading a menu.
Suguru Geto was once pretty, when Satoru was an idiot teenager who fooled around with both their feelings and thought Suguru would always be around for the day he decided he wanted to be serious.
But he was wrong, and now Suguru Geto is overwhelmingly beautiful, from the tips of his thin brows to his toes, to his warm, toned fucking chest and the dip of his back and everything in-fucking-between.
Satoru also knows Suguru isn’t really reading that damn menu. His leg is bouncing and he keeps glancing furtively over his shoulder. Everything about him screams that this is a bad idea and oh, wouldn’t Satoru know it.
Satoru absently brushes the snow off his head. Them’s the breaks, right? He ducks into the restaurant, hands sliding into his pockets for both warmth and protection, and nods a head toward Suguru’s table before a waiter can approach and offer him another.
That’s his. His table. His Suguru, who came when he called.
Suguru looks up first, and instantly straightens. His near-purple eyes widen, then flit away, hands delicately sliding the menu back onto the table. His lips are pressed together, tense, but a brilliant flush touches his cheeks and suddenly Satoru can’t help his own crooked smile.
This is him. Curse user, cult leader, pretty with his hair down in a turtleneck and plopped down in a chair across him. For tonight, Satoru is going to be bad; and so it doesn’t matter.
“Hey.” Satoru’s voice comes out all rough and hot and he clears it awkwardly, sitting down. His long legs brush Suguru’s. After a moment, Suguru’s knees shift back a little. “You, uh… How’d you get here?”
Suguru coughs, then clears his throat, and he looks up at Satoru through his lashes. Fuck. That shouldn’t be allowed. “Sakura,” he says, after a moment. He sounds the same. Tentative. Wanting. A smile somewhere in his voice, though it’s hardly there now. “I’m just more used to it.”
Satoru chuckles weakly, because he has no clue what else to do. He thought he’d have the upper hand, but looking at Suguru, sharing his air after a whole year, is terrifying him.
“Yeah, I… I get that.” A beat. More lamely, he asks, “How are the girls? The two of ‘em?”
Suguru smiles, and rolls his eyes. Satoru’s chest thuds painfully. “They’re good, too. I’ve started homeschooling them. They’re rather distracted, but I think I’m making progress.”
That’s right. They aren’t sorcerer and curse user, betrayed best friend and hurt best friend right now. “Yeah?” Satoru exhales, leaning forward. “I kinda wanna meet ‘em one day.”
Suguru doesn’t back down. “You could,” he says softly, folding his arms. “I… I mean, they like you.”
“They know who I am?”
Suguru snorts. “You’re Satoru Gojo. I should think they know who you are.” He reaches for a cup of water
Satoru blinks. A waiter comes, then, and serves them the Drinks menu. “What, they know I’m their daddy’s best friend?”
Suguru sputters, and lowers the cup, and Satoru can’t help a little smirk, sitting up. Upped hand. “You— Interesting choice of words, ‘Toru.”
Oh, fuck. The nickname makes something flutter behind Satoru’s rib, which he ignores. He waves down a waiter. “Bottle of red wine,” he murmurs. His foot taps Suguru’s calf under the table, and he feels a stab of eagerness when his calf doesn’t move away. “I’m paying. ‘Kay?”
Suguru stares at him for a moment, before he chuckles, shaking his head and closing the menu. “Whatever you say, Satoru. I can’t justify turning a free meal down.”
Satoru responds, almost too easily, “How’d you justify keeping your old phone?”
Suguru pauses. He slowly lowers his cultery to the table. “How’d you? I hope for your sake you haven’t been… I dunno, waiting till Christmastime to pick it up and text me my name misspelled. Like a Grinch.”
Satoru scoffs at the (completely accurate) assessment, leaning back in his chair. “You think I don’t have anything better to be doing? I gotta clean up the backlog of missions you made, leaving like that.”
God, does he sound bitter as hell. Suguru’s cheeks heat. He exhales, and looks away. “Sorry. You want me to apologise? I’m sorry.”
Satoru waves his hand immediately, feeling like an asshole. Sure, Suguru’s killed people but now he’s pouting and fuck if it isn’t doing things to him. “No. No, I don’t want an apology. I just wanted to see you.”
The waiter comes with their two glasses of wine. Suguru accepts his with a soft ‘thanks’, and the waiter smiles, gaze lingering on him. Suguru tucks a strand of hair back behind his ear.
Fuck. What the fuck?
Satoru leans forward a little, arms thumping on the table loud enough to startle Suguru, and scare the waiter off. “So, how’s your love live, then?” He says lightly. “Can’t imagine you’re having any trouble, looking like that.”
The flirt is unmistakeable, and Suguru rolls his eyes, swirling the wine in the glass. “I’ve hardly got energy for that kind of thing. The organisation and the girls take up too much time.”
“Organisation,” Satoru repeats delicately, and the look Suguru levels him over the rim of his wine glass gets heat pooling in his belly. “Well, you had energy to come see me, didn’t you? Weren’t scared it was an ambush?”
Suguru thinks about it for a second, sipping his wine. His lips are cherry-pink now. Fuck. “You’ve had a year and a half to ambush me. Feels like you would’ve done it by now.” His eyes flutter over. “You know where I am.”
Yeah, fine. So Satoru had tracked down the cult’s base multiple times, stood outside pacing, then left. Sue him. Each time he’d had no plan whatsoever, save for seeing Suguru, and he didn’t think he’d be able to live with that.
“Wouldn’t be fair, surprising you like that,” Satoru eventually mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. Suguru raises a brow, but says nothing. The fragile balance between them, completely arbitrary, still hangs. Neither of them want to say or do anything to break it.
Suguru speaks first. “You? How’ve your dates been?” He tilts his head as he speaks, his voice quiet, and his glossy black hair sweeps over his shoulder.
Satoru swallows without realising, throat bobbing. “Good. Yeah, I’ve been on a few. They’re all pretty cute.” He adds that last part just to be a dick, and Suguru’s brows furrow a little, eyes fluttering to the table.
“Okay,” Suguru mutters, lifting his wine glass again. “Sure. Glad you’re having a good time.”
Satoru can smell his derision. He scoffs, crossing one leg over the other. “Good time? Yeah. I’m having a great time, fucking alone.”
“You have Shoko,” Suguru says a little hotter. “You’re not alone.”
“Shoko isn’t— she’s not—“ Satoru knows this is a dick thing to say. Dick, but true. Kind of. “She isn’t you,” he eventually settles on saying, leaning back in his chair with a creak. And Suguru can act as righteous as he fucking wants, but that flush that floods his cheeks is unmistakeable. He likes hearing that, all right.
“You like that I think about you,” Satoru says, voice even. “Don’t you?” Suguru just sips his wine again, looking away. So Satoru keeps going. “You like that it’s you I’m jerking off to. Your old clothes I’m still smelling.”
Suguru chokes on his wine, and places the glass down on the coaster. “Satoru,” he says warningly, but his breath is short.
“You’re the only boy I’ve ever fucked,” Satoru says then, faintly. “It’s like I’m still fucking you. I feel you on me all the time.”
Christ, is he drunk? No, he’s barely drank. He’d be saying a lot worse if he was.
Suguru, though, is already flushed and done with his glass. Satoru reaches out and pours him another. “You wanna know something?” Suguru mumbles, shifting his chair close. “The robes that I wear, they’re called something funny.” He pauses, and Satoru stares expectantly.
“A gojo-kesa,” Suguru laughs, leaning forward, head leant on his hand with a wry little smile. “Isn’t that funny? I was choosing them, and I saw them and it just… I dunno. Spoke to me, in a way.”
“So you missed me so bad you’re wearing me?” Satoru chuckles, even though his heart is thumping like a drum. Suguru rolls his eyes. “Don’t be naughty,” he mumbles, drinking again from his glass.
Fuck. How the hell is Satoru supposed to resist this? “You got any plans after this?” He says, ignoring his own rational brain.
Suguru shrugs, but then shakes his head firmer. Good. Satoru’s not going to deal with any complaints in the morning.
He downs his own glass of wine, and Suguru laughs a little disbelievingly, pushing himself upright. “Christ. Had a bad day, or something?”
Oh, you’ve got no idea, Satoru thinks, standing up. He hands his card to the waiter without looking, and walks over to the other side of the table. “Come on. Talking out in public’s dangerous, anyway.” He tugs Suguru up by his arm, then slinks his own arm around that firm, toned waist. Fuck. His cock twinges in his pants as Suguru’s body shifts against him.
“Why’re you in such a rush?” Suguru mumbles, his lashes fluttering against Satoru’s cheek. “We’re just talking.”
“Exactly,” Satoru exhales, fetching his card back and leading Suguru out the restaurant. “We’re just talking.”
Satoru, with the love of his fucking life and greatest wet dream of his teenagehood slumped against him, has a few options. He’s not going to trust that curse dragon, even though it’s rather reliable— god knows where it might take them— and he’s not going to risk driving, either, in his state.
A cab, then. But to where?
“Wanna come to mine?” Satoru whispers at Suguru’s ear, and a hand slides down to palm his ass in tight bell-bottom jeans. Suguru shifts a little, and his cheeks redden. Satoru can see the ‘of course not’ bubbling up his throat.
“I… Well, fine. But we’re only talking, ‘Toru.”
Satoru says nothing, and pulls his phone out. “No promises,” he mumbles under his breath. Suguru yawns, and nuzzles his neck a little, and now his whole body’s on fire.
_________________________
The cab soon arrives, and Satoru loads a drunk Suguru in, before his own drunk ass gets in, too.
The cab driver eyes them through the rearview mirror, but says nothing. Suddenly, Satoru sees a future where drunk Suguru starts calling this non-sorcerer some bad names or something, gets them kicked out.
He tugs Suguru’s hair and Suguru looks over with a soft groan. “Hey,” Satoru whispers. “Keep your mouth shut, alright, baby?”
Suguru blinks, then squints. “Why? I’m not gonna… I mean, it’s only…” He looks to the front, trying to peer at the driver.
Satoru tugs him close by his turtleneck and presses a hot, sudden kiss on his mouth, and Suguru goes quiet. “I said keep quiet—“
Suguru slumps forward and slides his arms around Satoru’s shoulders, kissing him hard with a heavy moan. Their tongues mix instantly, and Satoru feels his groin burn. His hands pull Suguru up to straddle his lap, and grip his ass, letting him grind on his thigh.
The friction burns. Suguru’s hips stutter so he can pant and pull away every few seconds, shaking like a leaf. “You’re alright,” Satoru whispers, guiding his lips back to his with a hand on his hair. “You’re okay, Suguru.”
Suguru nods a little, flushed with his eyes glassy and his lips parted, and his eyes flutter as Satoru strokes his hair. Christ. This is bad.
Before long, the red-faced cab driver has gotten them to their location. Satoru pulls away from the messy kiss with a gasp to hand a few bills over, mumbles an apology before hauling Suguru out the car.
They’re outside one of his many apartments, situated around Japan for convenience. This one’s the prettiest though, a small townhouse, a few stops further than the rest of town.
Satoru wipes his hands and takes Suguru’s waist again, before Suguru’s suddenly still, his feet iron-heavy to the ground.
“I…” Suguru’s flushed, and now uncertain. He looks away, biting his lip. Wind rustles his hair. “Satoru, this isn’t a good idea.”
Satoru blinks. He steps close. “Why?” He says faintly. Suguru shifts. “We’re not supposed to be doing this,” he says, like it means anything. They’re not supposed to be doing a lot of things. Mainly, running a death cult. “Being together like this is only gonna complicate things for me. For you, too.”
Great. Here he goes, taking all the blame. Satoru stands so close that their noses touch. “You weren’t supposed to leave me, either,” he says, voice heavy, and Suguru’s face floods red. “But you did. That was the first complication. I’m just trying to fix what you started. All you’re doing is helping me out.” He reaches in, cups Suguru’s face, watches as his furrowed brows soften. “You can do that for me, can’t you, baby?”
Suguru’s melting. That’s all it takes. So Satoru steps back, uses both hands to lift Suguru up as he yelps in surprise, and hauls him over his shoulder like a sack of flour. A really hot one.
“S— Satoru! Put me down! The fuck are you doing?”
“Making sure you don’t change your mind again,” Satoru mumbles. Suguru kicks his feet a little, struggling, and all it takes is a sharp slap to his ass and he goes still with a groan, head hanging. “Be good.”
“A… Asshole,” Suguru says weakly as he’s carried into the apartment like a runaway bride, Satoru’s hand still on his ass, sending shivers up his body.
They’re barely inside before Suguru is tossed onto the couch, flushed. “Satoru— fuck—!” Satoru rips a good chunk of the turtleneck while trying to pull it off, and tugs Suguru’s jeans down, too.
Fuck. He’s in lace underwear, and has the audacity to look embarrassed about it, too. “I— I didn’t fucking think this would be happening,” Suguru says hotly, legs pressing together.
Satoru heaves a breath. “Oh, I think you did.” He pulls Suguru’s legs apart and kisses just the sprinkling of a happy trail, making Suguru’s hips buck helplessly. “You’re so turned on, aren’t you? You even shaved for me.” He kisses along all the smooth bumps, till the skin’s all red and Suguru’s hips are trembling.
“S… Satoru…” Suguru claps his hands over his mouth, head falling onto the couch in defeat as Satoru tugs his panties off. His hard, reddens cock bobs up, slapping against his belly. “Cute,” Satoru mumbles, already lowering his head even as Suguru tries squirming in weak protest.
First the tip on his tongue, playing with it until Suguru’s toes are curled, then the shaft, bobbing his head, before he sinks all the way down once or twice, careful not to gag. Suguru’s arms are folded over his head, shaking all over.
Satoru hollows his cheeks and sucks his cock harder, eliciting a shaky cry. “F— Fuck! Ugh— ah—“ Then he pulls off, and christ, Suguru’s red all over. “Can’t have you cumming that fast, Suguru,” he whispers, tucking hair behind Suguru’s ear. “When’s the last time someone blew you?”
Suguru’s jaw clenches. “Shut up,” he hisses. “Just— Just hurry up, will you?”
Satoru raises a brow, and parts those thighs again, lowering to spit on Suguru’s hole, and his hips jerk helplessly again.
_____________________________
It hasn’t taken long for Suguru to become a sweet, utter mess under him.
“Beg for it, baby,” Satoru whispers at his ear, a fist already wrapping around a handful of that dark, glossy hair. Suguru whimpers something inaudible, back arching a little, arms folding under it.
Satoru tugs his hair, and Suguru keens, mango-sweet and hot, glancing over his shoulder. Satoru rubs himself a little against that pretty hole, his own tip red.
“Not gonna fit,” Suguru says between breaths, but he’s fucking begging for it, the way his ass is lifting up.
“You can take it,” Satoru murmurs against his hair, and kisses his head, guiding himself in. Suguru’s real fucking tight, even though Satoru’s been playing with him for almost ten minutes, loosening him up.
“Oh— s— shit—“ Suguru’s body arches against the couch, and his hand fumbles to find his own cock, but a swift slap to the ass makes him jerk and sob and pull his hand away. Satoru keeps pushing till he’s all the way in and his wisps of white hair are in contact with that pretty taint.
Satoru wipes his sweaty forehead, and tugs Suguru up by his hair. His hips start pushing, and already Suguru hiccups and groans. “Easy there, baby. You’re all good.” Because he just can’t help it— that ass looks so good red— he slaps his hand against one cheek hard enough that it jiggles and Suguru’s hips stutter, and then Satoru starts fucking him a little faster.
“Ah— oh— ‘Toru, yes, please—“
Satoru leans down again and murmurs at his ear, “You wanna turn over for me, baby?” Suguru sniffles, and grips the cushion, painstakingly turning over until he’s on his back.
Perfect. Satoru grips his hips, other hand angling a leg up, and starts fucking into him in earnest, hard and fast, the lewd sound of his hips hitting Suguru’s ass filling the apartment.
So do Suguru’s sobs and moans, his head falling back. “Ah! Satoru! Fuck, I— fuck!” His pretty, red cock bounces atop his belly as he’s fucked, eager for attention. Each thrust, Satoru makes sure he’s fucking into that hot heat just right, rubbing that little button over and over until Suguru’s arching, shaking, his legs red all over.
“You like it?” Satoru pants, ramming his hips a little faster, little harder. “Tell me you like it. You love it.” Suguru nods fervently, and Satoru slaps his ass hard and he jerks with a broken sound. “Use your words, Suguru.”
“Love it,” Suguru hiccups, hands folding over his face in shame. “I… Fuck, I love it.”
“Yeah, you do. Good boy. You’re admitting it.” Satoru bends down, and this time plants both his hands alongside Suguru’s face— red, eyes blown, lips parted for shallow breaths, so fucking good. He starts pumping right at that angle, into that little sensitive spot. Suguru jerks and sobs out. “Fuck! Ah! Wait— waitwaitwait—“
“No, baby,” Satoru says, as patiently as he can while his jaw is clenched, and he grinds his hips a little and Suguru’s eyes blank and he shudders, suddenly shaking all over. Completely untouched; too.
“Fuck, I— Fuck—!” Suguru clings to him suddenly, pulling him down with a face to his neck. His body’s so hot, chest so plush. and Satoru near melts into him.
“I got you,” Satoru whispers, his own voice heavy and horse, hips still fervently pushing and pulling like a dog in rut. “M’right here, Suguru, baby, I’m here.”
Satoru prides himself on his control, but that was before. He cums right after, shooting a thick rope right into Suguru, sucks a kiss into that neck after. Fuck. Oh, how he wish Suguru had a pussy he could pump his seed into, get him pregnant, or something. Then he really wouldn’t have to go out of his way to keep Suguru with him.
Suguru whimpers a little. Satoru pulls out, but he’s not quite done yet. He sits up on his knees, then crawls over, until his dick’s hanging right over Suguru’s face.
Suguru’s a damn vision, his black hair spread like a fan under him, eyes wet and lashes heavy. As they should be, of course. Satoru wants him out his mind.
“Do you love me, Suguru?” Satoru whispers, gently guiding his cock along Suguru’s lips. They part a little, and he slides in with a groan. “Fuck, that’s— fuck. You’re so perfect.”
Suguru nods dazedly, throat working as Satoru’s hips slowly move, arms braced on either side of Suguru’s head as he fucks his worm mouth.
“Say it,” Satoru mumbles, cocking his head. “That you love me.” He pulls out a little, and Suguru mumbles a slurry “love you”.
Satoru’s heart thumps. He’d barely drunk much of his alcohol, just for this moment. He wanted to see this, remember it forever.
Satoru leans down, and kisses Suguru’s sweat-slick forehead. “You won’t run away from me,” he whispers. “Will you?”
Suguru shakes his head, breathless. Satoru chuckles, and nuzzles his cheek, watching as it reddens. Cute. You’re so damn cute. And now you’re all mine.
“Wanna sleep?” Satoru whispers. Suguru even nods, and snuggles close. He’ll do anything Satoru tells him right now. Anything.
_________________
Something makes a low humming sound. Like a buzz.
Once, then again, louder and more insistent.
Satoru throws his arms over his head with a soft groan when his eyes open, crinkling with cursed energy. Every inch of him’s a little sore, but in all the good ways, like he’s been stretched all over. His taut chest is warm, white hair messy, and he runs a hair through it, only getting it messier.
His blue eyes flit lazily to the trail of clothes from the doors of the apartment— a turtleneck, slacks, a pair of jeans. Not robes. A gojo-kesa, Suguru had told him at the restaurant, drunk off a little wine and laughing. Fuck. How the hell was Satoru supposed to resist that?
A faint buzz yet again. Satoru gently reaches over with a grunt, a hand over sleeping Suguru’s soft head, cradling him close still, and picks up the offending item. A phone. Not his, surprisingly, that was making all that noise. Suguru’s.
It’s an unknown contact’s notification. Satoru squints, pressing on it. He needs to enter a password. Hey, Suguru was always guessing his passwords, wasn’t he?
Unfortunately, his birthday works first try. Like it always did.
user179739893737
Made donation. Pictures better come soon.
Satoru snorts, and despite himself feels a strong twinge of irritation. Whatever these pictures are, this guy’s not asking nice enough for Satoru’s liking. Angling the phone up to get both Suguru’s sleepy face on his chest, his bruised shoulders and the litany of hickeys on Suguru’s nape, he sticks his tongue out and snaps a picture, sending it.
sg1115
[image]
sg1115
good enough?
Satoru tosses the phone away. That cult shit could use a little jeopardy, anyway. The little thump awakens Suguru, whose eyes lazily flutter open.
“Morning, you,” he mumbles, shifting up a little. “Was that my phone?” Satoru shrugs, which isn’t exactly a lie, and Suguru grumbles out softly, head hitting Satoru’s chest again.
Kissing his hair, Satoru murmurs, “Staying for breakfast? I got a few cream buns.” Suguru snorts, and climbs off him, blanket sliding off his sinew body and pooling at his ankles. God, what a view. “Sure. I’m starving. But I’m heading home right after, okay?”
He walks off to the kitchen naked like he owns the place, and Satoru leans back, watching that ass move.
Suguru does own the place. Owns him, too. A discount deal he doesn’t even have to take. And piece by piece, he’ll come back. It won’t matter the higher-ups Satoru has to blitz.
Suguru’s phone has been buzzing non-stop on the couch cushion. Satoru tries to practice a non-guilty face as Suguru blearily return to check it. Technically won’t matter, since he’s literally in the picture he sent.
“What the… fucking hell, Satoru!” Suguru sputters, dropping the phone to glare at him.
Satoru shifts a little on the couch, now looking a little petulant. “He wanted a picture.”