Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Suguru leans his weight into the bike, one boot propped on the curb, the other flat against the oil-slick pavement. The Harley creaks under him when he shifts, frame warm from the ride over, its low growl still echoing in his bones. The limo beside him purrs softly, exhaust misting under the streetlight. Too clean for this corner. Too expensive to sit still for so long.

He flicks the end of his cigarette with a practiced snap of his thumb. Ash drifts onto the concrete. The wind’s light tonight, warm enough that the smoke curls back into his face when he exhales. He doesn’t mind. Better than the sour reek of city rain, the too-sweet cologne that clings to the inside of the limo when he cracks the door.

He checks his phone again. Nothing.

No word from Choso — only a silence that stretches like fishing lines across the dark, taut and invisible until it snaps. Suguru feels it in his back teeth. They’re supposed to be smoothing things over with the heir to the Zen’in clan tonight — an easy sit-down, a few polite threats, a deal signed over sake and lacquered wood. Suguru’s seat should be warm by now. Instead, he’s here.

 Babysitting.

He checks the time. Yuji’s fifteen minutes late. Not enough to make him worry, but enough to piss him off.

He could send the driver, sure. Could bark an order down the line, make someone else do it. But Choso asked — look after him today, will you? And Suguru’s never told Choso no, not when it matters. 

Besides, he likes the kid. He’ll never admit it out loud, not to anyone who matters, but there’s something about Yuji’s grin that scrapes at the dark pit inside him. Bright. Untouched. Suguru’s thirty-two and already more ghost than man some days, and Yuji’s twenty and still believes tomorrow will be kind to him. It’s almost funny. Almost sweet. He envies it. Hates that he envies it.

He drags on the cigarette again, lets the burn settle in his lungs. He thinks about their father: an old bastard suddenly deciding to claim a bastard child, drape him in the family name and hush money, make him part of the machinery after all. Suguru should resent it. Maybe he does. Hard to tell, the feeling is tangled up with too many other things to pull apart clean.

He snorts under his breath. Gullible , he thinks, picturing Yuji’s wide eyes, the way he nods too hard when Suguru tells him to wait in the car, don’t talk to strangers, don’t trust a smile. Dumb . Sweet. Suguru could never be that soft. He wouldn’t survive it. He’s not sure Yuji will, either — not with this name strapped to his back like a bomb ticking down.

Suguru flicks the spent cigarette into the gutter. Checks his phone again. Still no text. He pushes off the bike, feels the leather seat creak behind him, watches the headlights rake over the street like tired eyes.

He lets the thought hang there, unfinished. Yuji’s late. Suguru’s waiting. Somewhere out there, the night’s rolling forward without him;for now he stays right here, smoke on his fingers, heartbeat thumping steady under all that ink.

Suguru catches movement at the far end of the lot — a flash of white sneakers under too-long uniform pants, a bobbing head of messy pink hair catching the harsh floodlight over the faculty gate. Yuji’s walking, head down, bag swinging from one shoulder, probably mumbling under his breath.

Then he looks up. Spots the bike first, then Suguru beside it. The way his whole face splits open into a grin makes Suguru’s ribs clench tight, then loosen, like a sore muscle under heat.

Yuji breaks into a run, one hand flapping a wave like he can’t get his fingers to cooperate with his excitement. “Suguruuuuu!” he shouts, too loud for this quiet stretch of campus.

Suguru doesn’t move. Doesn’t wave back. Just watches him close the distance — big kid, bigger heart — and braces for impact when Yuji barrels straight into his chest. Arms loop tight around Suguru’s middle like he’s ten, not twenty, and Suguru’s ribs protest under the sudden squeeze.

“Alright, alright,” Suguru rumbles, voice muffled by a mop of pink hair. He gives it three seconds — three beats of warm, reckless affection, then plants a broad palm on Yuji’s shoulder and pushes him back. “Don’t wrinkle my shirt.”

Yuji steps back, grinning like he didn’t hear a word. “What are you doing here? Dad said a guard was gonna come get me.” He bounces on his heels, bag slipping off his shoulder until Suguru nudges it back up without thinking.

“You’ve got me instead.” Suguru flicks his cigarette butt off into the dark. Shrugs. “Deal with it.”

Yuji laughs, pure and stupid. “I’m glad! Now I can finally explain to you why Alien is a cinematic masterpiece.”

Suguru snorts, a soft, tired sound almost buried in his chest. He swings a leg over the bike and  steadies it between his knees, helmet hanging from the handlebar.

“Alien, huh?” Suguru says. He almost wants to tell him to shut up, but he doesn’t. He wants to hear it, that bright babble about xenomorphs and jump scares, anything but this city’s rot. “I’m more of a slasher guy myself.”

Yuji’s eyes light up like someone plugged him in. “Slasher’s good too! You ever notice how it’s always the girls with huge tits that die first? It’s kinda hot.”

Suguru huffs out a laugh, low, surprised, the kind of sound that catches in his throat like it’s not used to getting out. He swats Yuji’s head with a loose flick of his fingers. “You’re an idiot,” he says , but the edge is gone. His mouth twitches. He can’t help it.

And for a second, Suguru lets himself stand there under the streetlight, watching his brother grin at the thought of dumb horror movies and big tits and death that only happens on screen. Untouched , Suguru thinks again. And then he kicks the thought away, same as the spent ash under his boot.

“Get in the car, brat,” Suguru says, voice soft but final. “Before I tell Choso you’re late because you’re busy perving on dead co-eds.”

Yuji’s bouncing at Suguru’s side, eyes flicking from the Harley’s gleaming tank to the heavy boots Suguru plants wide on the asphalt, like he’s calculating exactly how to get away with it. Suguru knows the look. He hates the look.

“Can I drive it?” Yuji asks, voice pitched too casual to be real. He taps the seat with the back of his hand, like he’s testing the temperature of water he’s about to cannonball into.

Suguru barks a laugh, dry, humorless. “Hell no.”

“Why not?” Yuji’s grin cracks wider, like maybe he didn’t hear him the first time. “Choso lets me drive all the time! That Ducati he has? He let me take it down the back road by the river—”

“Yeah, well, Choso’s nicer than me,” Suguru cuts in. He flicks his half-burnt cigarette off into the gutter, fingers tapping the cold chrome handlebar instead. “When I get a little passenger seat and a bubble helmet for your dumb head, you can ride all you want.”

Yuji puffs out his cheeks, groaning. “That’s so unfair, I didn’t even crash Choso’s—”

“Yuji—” Suguru’s tone sharpens, ready to slice the whining clean off his brother’s tongue. He’s got the start of a curse ready, foul and automatic, but it stalls out halfway when he catches movement at the edge of the lot.

There’s a man standing there — tall, big, shoulders straining the ugly little diamond-pattern vest he’s stuffed himself into. He’s holding a strap of some battered satchel like it might float away if he lets go. Hair pale as a stray ghost under the streetlight, fluffy, unkempt. Glasses too round for his sharp face.

Suguru stares because the man is staring back. Not at him, though. At Yuji. Wide blue eyes flicking between them like he’s counting exits.

Then he clears his throat. Loud enough to crack the space open, but his voice trips over itself when it comes out. “Um, Yuji?”

Yuji wheels around so fast he nearly smacks Suguru in the chest. “Oh! Hey!” He beams like a puppy spotting its favorite treat. “Satoru! What’re you doing here?”

Suguru’s eyes narrow, the name sticking in his head like a pin: Satoru .

He files it away and flicks his gaze back over that ugly vest, those too-big glasses, the big solid arms straining under all that polite cloth.

Interesting .

The tall man – Satoru , Suguru files it again, rolls it around in his head like a coin he might slip into his pocket later -gives this nervous little laugh that doesn’t suit his size at all. He pushes his round glasses up his nose with a knuckle, then ducks his head like he’s trying to make himself smaller. It doesn’t work. There’s too much of him to shrink.

“Good thing I caught you, Yuji,” he says, voice bright and too fast. “I—uh— I have your notes for Quantum Chem. You left them in the lab.”

Yuji’s eyes light up like fireworks on cheap sake. “You’re the best!” he crows, and before Suguru can blink, Yuji’s flinging himself forward, arms locked tight around this Satoru’s big middle like he’s the warmest thing on the street. It’s almost the same hug Yuji gave Suguru, except different , softer, longer, the kind of grip that makes Suguru’s eyebrow twitch under the little gold spiral.

Satoru goes pink so fast Suguru wants to laugh. The flush creeps up his neck, over the collar of that ugly red-and-white shirt, bleeding warm under the ridiculous diamond sweater vest. He pats Yuji’s back like he doesn’t know what else to do with his big hands.

Then Yuji lets go, bouncing back on his heels like he’s spring-loaded. Satoru fumbles with the flap of his battered satchel, digging through a mess of highlighters and scribbled loose papers until he pulls out a neat sheaf of notes, edges cornered, handwriting so clean it’s probably painful to produce.

“Here,” Satoru says. He hands it over like he’s passing a sacred text. “You left it by the centrifuge. And, um— we’re still good for Monday, right? After class?”

Yuji’s grin could split concrete. “Yeah! Seriously, I’d be dead without you. I actually understand most of this stuff now. Dad would lose his mind if he knew I almost flunked last semester—”

Suguru tunes out the rest because his mind snags on Quantum Chemistry .

Film major , he thinks sourly. Their father let Yuji waste his time on movies — movies, of all worthless shit — but here he is, scribbling chemical equations like he might accidentally do something useful with his bright head after all. Suguru files that too, a mental drawer of contradictions.

His gaze flicks back to the nerd — Satoru .

He lets himself look this time, slow and deliberate. The thick, round glasses perched on a sharp nose. Fluffy white hair, too long at the fringe, sticking out at the crown like he’s been tugging at it all night. Shoulders broad enough to fill out a decent suit but stuffed into that clown-colored vest, the pattern clinging awkward where his chest strains the buttons of his shirt. His arms are thick under the fabric, solid. Suguru’s sure if the sleeves rolled any higher they’d cut into muscle.

Interesting. Very interesting.

Satoru glances at him, quick, a flicker under pale lashes, then bolts his eyes away again so fast Suguru nearly laughs. The nerd’s focus snaps to the limo, the bike, the gutter, anywhere but Suguru’s face. But Suguru sees it. That glance. That tiny instinct that says danger, says don’t look too long. He likes it, the way it feels when that big, buff frame tries to pretend he’s small.

Suguru drags his tongue over the edge of a back tooth, a quiet, amused noise humming low in his throat. He shifts his weight against the bike, enough for the leather seat to creak. Lets Satoru feel him looking.

So the little tutor’s not so little after all. And he knows how to squirm. Good.

Suguru files that too. Carefully.

Yuji’s still rambling about lab partners, nitrates, and a professor who keeps mispronouncing his name when Suguru decides he’s had enough. He shifts off the bike, boots scuffing the pavement, and lets the subtle drag of his presence roll right over both of them like a tide.

“Alright,” Suguru cuts in, voice low but sharp enough that Yuji snaps his mouth shut mid-sentence. He angles his chin at the big, flustered nerd with the ghost hair and the arms packed tight in that stupid vest. “You need a ride somewhere?”

It comes out polite — or almost. Suguru’s version of polite. He watches the way the man stiffens, shoulders bunching under all that wool and buttoned cotton. Big guy, but he flinches like a cornered rabbit.

“Uh, no,” the man blurts, too quick. His voice does this nervous pitch at the end, like he chokes on the lie. He pushes his glasses up again, glancing at Yuji like he might find an escape there. “I’ve got homework. Big project due Wednesday.”

Suguru nods slowly, like he’s buying it. He isn’t. It’d be easier if the nerd let him drive him home — one smooth ride, a quiet conversation, a name on a mailbox. He files that away too. He can send one of the guys to trail him later — no fuss.

Yuji, oblivious as always, pipes up with a snort. “Don’t bother, Suguru. He’s kinda a loner, y’know? Gojo never goes anywhere. He’s, like,” Yuji leans in toward Suguru like he’s sharing state secrets. “He’s weird.”

Suguru huffs, teeth flashing into a smile. His eyes flick back to Satoru’s flushed face, the way he tries not to fidget under Suguru’s stare. “So you have that in common, then,” Suguru says, tone smooth and sharp all at once.

Yuji squawks. “I’m not a loner!” He jabs a thumb into his chest. “I’m literally going to a party tonight. He—” Yuji jerks his chin at Satoru, who looks like he’d rather sink into the concrete than stand here one second longer. “he won’t even come! Nobara’s throwing it and he’s all, I have homework, I have lab reports, I’m boring. ”

Suguru’s eyes snap back to Yuji, cutting the grin right off his brother’s face. Party. He wasn’t told about any party. Not that he cares what Yuji does most nights. Yet if something happens while he’s on watch, the old man would be pissed as shit. Choso, however, would be disappointed. And Suguru hates disappointing Choso. He hates it more than anything.

“What party?” Suguru asks, voice low, each word landing neat and heavy. Yuji flinches.

“Uh,” Yuji rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking everywhere but Suguru’s. “Nobara’s party. Y’know, her dorm? I kinda… promised Junpei I’d go.”

Suguru rolls his eyes. Of course. The little movie freak. Yuji’s been mooning over that kid for two years and still hasn’t had the spine to ask him out. Pathetic. Sweet. Suguru watches the flush creep up Yuji’s neck like a bad rash.

“Right,” Suguru mutters. He levels his gaze at Yuji for a beat longer, letting the silence stretch long enough to make him squirm. Then he flicks his eyes back to the tall nerd — Gojo . Still here, still awkward, still pretending he’s not watching Suguru from the corner of his too-big glasses.

Suguru’s had enough. He straightens up from the bike, rolling his shoulders until the leather of his jacket creaks, and fixes Yuji with that flat, tired look that means shut up now.

“That’s enough,” he says, voice low, final. He jerks his chin at the idling limo. “Get in the car.”

Yuji groans, flopping his head back like he’s about to deliver a whole speech. “But—”

“Car, Yuji.”

Yuji sighs, big and dramatic, then pivots back to Satoru with a grin like they weren’t just scolded by a man with a tattoo peeking out under his collar. He sticks out a fist. “See you Monday, Gojo!”

Satoru hesitates a second too long, then he lifts his big hand and bumps it back, knuckles to knuckles. The gesture is awkward, too small for someone built like that. Suguru watches the tips of Satoru’s ears turn pink under the streetlight. That clumsy, shy courtesy in a body like his — God , Suguru thinks, heat sliding slowly down his spine — he wants to eat him alive.

Yuji turns to duck into the car. Suguru smacks the back of his head, not hard, but enough to make him yelp. It’s a reminder of who’s in charge tonight. Yuji shoots him a dirty look but climbs into the backseat anyway, mumbling.

Suguru turns back to the big nerd still loitering there like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands now. Suguru lets his gaze sweep over him again, the thick glasses, the tight stretch of vest over solid muscle, the slight hunch of his shoulders like he wants to fold himself small.

“Hey,” Suguru says, voice smoothing too soft to be safe. “I get it, a party in some college dorm? Sounds like hell. But if you want to experience anything better than sitting in your room with a stupid project,” He tilts his head. “Go out tonight. Yuji’ll text you the address, they’re moving it. He’d appreciate it.”

Satoru’s eyes flick from Suguru’s mouth to his eyes and then away, throat bobbing under the loose knot of his tie. “Uh— thank you,” he stammers. His voice sticks in his throat like he doesn’t know if it’s the right thing to say. Suguru wants to laugh, or bend him over the car and see how fast that stiff, polite tone breaks.

Instead, Suguru smirks — all teeth, no warmth. “See you around.”

He swings his leg over the Harley, boots kicking the stand. No helmet — he never bothers. The engine snarls awake under him, drowning out the soft sound of Satoru’s sneakers shifting on the pavement. He gives the throttle a lazy twist, lets the rumble echo down the street.

Behind him, the limo’s engine hums alive, headlights cutting the night wide open.

Suguru glances back, catches Satoru watching him like a deer caught by its throat. He holds the stare a heartbeat too long — to make sure it sticks — then he rolls the throttle again, and the bike growls into the dark, the limo gliding after him like a loyal dog.

It’s later that night. Tokyo humming neon and heat through the veins of Suguru’s domain — a patchwork of hotels, clubs, restaurants, brothels, dens — each one a heartbeat tied to his name. When Yuji said Nobara’s party , Suguru knew better than to try to leash him. He’d go, regardless. So fine, let the brat go. But here . Where Suguru could watch. Where the walls had ears he owned.

It hadn’t taken much. One low call, a promise of free top-shelf bottles, a whispered “exclusive guest list” and Nobara — spoiled, sharp-tongued little princess — had squealed so loud Suguru had to hold the phone away from his ear. Of course, she’d move the party to his club. She probably bragged about it all night. Yuji thanked him like Suguru had handed him the moon, called him the best brother ever. Suguru let him. He was the best brother, after all. 

Sometimes.

And it worked out for Suguru, too. Let the college brats ruin a dance floor he didn’t care about. Let them pose for pictures under lights so expensive they’d never afford them twice. Let Yuji flush pink over that quiet movie student in a corner booth — Junpei , Suguru rolls the name over his tongue like a bad joke. He almost wants to slap his brother for how obvious it is. Two years of puppy eyes and Yuji still can’t get his stupid courage straight. Embarrassing.

Suguru stays upstairs for the start, a plush office above the club, above the city. Windows wide enough to swallow the skyline whole, glass that muffles the bass thump from below to a heartbeat pulse under his feet. He meets with a few old men in suits, checks on a shipment, settles a small territory squabble. Work that tastes like metal on the back of his tongue but keeps the wheels spinning smoothly.

When it’s done, he shrugs his jacket back on, loose over the ink on his shoulders and chest, the gold spiral at his brow catching the cold blue light when he glances at his own reflection. He runs his tongue over his teeth, smirking at himself.

Then he makes his way down the private stairwell, boots muffled on expensive carpet, wondering what fresh teenage tragedy he’s about to step into. The last thing he needs is Yuji folded over in some bathroom stall with Junpei halfway down his throat. Suguru huffs a sharp, amused breath through his nose.

God , he thinks, eyes flicking over the heads bobbing on the dance floor as the door swings open — bass swallowing him whole. I hope the brat’s not a bottom.

Suguru slips into the tide of bodies like a blade through silk. He barely has to shoulder past anyone, the crowd parts for him on instinct alone, an invisible ripple of don’t look too long, don’t touch too close. Lights strobe over his tattoos, catching the gold spiral glinting at his brow when he ducks under a neon beam. The bass is a pulse in his teeth.

He spots two of his women near the back, arms looped under the armpits of a girl who’s folded over herself, hair stuck to her lip gloss. She giggles wetly when one of them tries to get her to stand.

Suguru clicks his tongue, leans close enough for his voice to cut through the music like a razor. “Get her home. One of you rides with her, no taxis.”

His women nod without question. Suguru trusts them. He wouldn’t keep them if he didn’t.

He slides up to the bar: cold, polished marble, sweat of spilled drinks, and citrus slices. He catches the bartender’s eye with a flick of his fingers. One simple nod, a shot of tequila lands in front of him seconds later, clean and sharp. He tosses it back neatly. The bite is nothing, warmth that doesn’t even brush the ice deep in his gut.

He sets the empty glass down. Lets his eyes sweep the floor, heads bobbing, limbs twined, glitter, laughter, the raw stink of cheap perfume and expensive cover charges. He’s unimpressed. Dull animals rutting in the dark.

And then he sees it — like a dropped match in a sea of mud. White hair, soft and messy under pulsing club lights. A plain white dress shirt half-tucked into dark jeans. Shoulders too broad for that prim collar, the big body underneath trying and failing to disappear.

Suguru’s mouth twitches. Well , he thinks, look at that.

Satoru Gojo . 

The nerd is trying to politely wedge through the swarm, mumbling sorry and excuse me with that too-big mouth, getting elbowed and brushed against, eyes wide behind those thick glasses. He looks like someone dropped a substitute teacher into a den of feral brats. Suguru watches him mumble an apology to a girl who bumps into him, watches him hunch his shoulders tighter like that’ll shrink the expanse of his chest. It doesn’t.

He’s so far out of place it makes Suguru’s teeth ache. Delicious.

Satoru finally stumbles up to the bar, slides onto a stool like he’s grateful it doesn’t spit him back out into the noise. He waves the bartender down, clears his throat, leans in awkwardly. “Uh, water, please?”

Suguru lifts two fingers, orders two more shots of tequila, smooth and easy. The bartender nods.

Suguru drifts closer, shoulder brushing the back of Satoru’s arm for the contact to register. He dips his head low enough for his mouth to catch the shell of Satoru’s ear over the music.

“You made it,” Suguru says — the words soft but slicing clean through the bass.

Satoru jerks, nearly spills his free water over his jeans. He turns, blinking up through those thick lenses, mouth parting stupidly before he catches himself. “Yeah! I, uh, finished my project early. My friends wanted to come so… here we are.”

Suguru lifts a brow, a smirk pulling lazily at his mouth. “ Friends? ” He lets the word roll out, all amused disbelief. “Didn’t think you had any.”

Satoru goes red again, that ridiculous flush starting high on his cheeks, drifting down his throat like a spill of warm paint. He twists on the barstool and points over Suguru’s shoulder, almost pokes him in the chest with one dumb long finger.

“There! That’s them,”

Suguru flicks a glance over. Three figures: a woman in a loose black slip dress, hair pinned up like she couldn’t bother with a mirror — cigarette pinched between two fingers, smirking at nothing. Beside her, a guy with soft brown hair and a grin too bright for the dark shirt rumpled, dancing with her, sneakers squeaking on the floor. And next to them, one more figure, taller, hair slicked back, crisp T-shirt stretched over broad shoulders, arms crossed tight, jaw ticking like he’d rather be anywhere else. His eyes follow the dancers but never move from them.

Suguru files them away — pale woman, bright man, stone-faced muscle. Names don’t matter yet. He drags his gaze back to Satoru’s flushed face, the curve of his neck under that clean white collar.

He pushes one of the shots toward Satoru, knuckles brushing the back of Satoru’s hand.

“Here,” Suguru says, voice like a secret. “On me.”

Satoru stares at the shot like it’s a loaded gun. Then back at Suguru, wide blue eyes blinking slowly behind those thick, round frames, mouth parted like he wants to ask a hundred questions and can’t pick which one first.

Suguru leans in a hair closer, lets the low light catch on the edge of his grin. “It’s tequila,” he says, voice loud enough to carve through the bass. “Promise I didn’t spike it.”

It’s true — the only honest thing he’s said tonight. He’s scum, sure. He’ll ruin people in all kinds of ways, but not like that. He’s seen the kind who do it with powder and pills in dark corners — he deals with them special. Nobody ever finds the pieces.

Satoru’s mouth opens. “I didn’t think you’d— I mean— I know you didn’t spike it,” he fumbles. Then he looks down at the clear gold in the shot glass like it might bite him. “I just… I’ve never… drank before.”

Suguru pauses. For a beat, he’s not sure if he’s surprised or amused. Never? Not once? He knew the nerd was stiff, all those tight collars and homework excuses, but this? He thought everyone’s had at least one drink. Even the sad religious freaks sneak away in the dark.

He shrugs casually. “You don’t have to.” He lets his voice roll warm, low and patient under the throb of the club.

Satoru glances at the shot again, like he’s waiting for it to breathe confidence into him. Then he squares his broad shoulders under that soft white shirt, the collar going crooked. He looks at Suguru and says, “I’ll try it.”

Suguru’s grin splits wider, slow, sharp. “You gotta throw it back, then.”

Satoru blinks. “Throw it— what does that mean?”

Suguru’s laughter catches in his chest, low and warm because God, the universe must love him tonight. It’s dropped this weird, rich, perfect white rabbit right into his jaws.

He sets his own empty glass down and moves in close, one hand sliding up Satoru’s jaw — palm rough under the clean line of his neck. The other hand closes around the shot glass. He feels Satoru’s pulse flutter like a trapped bird under his thumb.

“You sure?” Suguru asks, close enough to taste the faint soap on Satoru’s skin. The nerd’s eyes flick up, wide, searching, locked straight into Suguru’s gold. Not running. Not yet.

“I’m sure,” Satoru breathes.

Suguru’s smirk cuts deep enough to hurt. He presses the rim of the shot glass to Satoru’s parted mouth, tilting his chin up with thumb and fingers hooking strongly along that sharp jawline. “Open wide.”

Satoru’s lips part — soft and pink and obedient. Suguru tips the glass, watches the clear liquid slip over that stupid tongue, sees Satoru’s throat work as he swallows it down in one burn.

Then the coughing hits. Satoru jolts forward, eyes watering, hand clapping over his mouth as his shoulders jerk. Suguru laughs, a sharp bark swallowed by the music, and slaps his palm down firmly on Satoru’s big shoulder, feeling the solid muscle bunch under his fingers.

Satoru gasps between coughs, voice broken. “That tastes terrible!”

Suguru’s still laughing, warm and rotten all at once. He leans in, mouth brushing the curve of Satoru’s ear. “That’s expensive tequila. But drinking’s not for everyone, I guess.”

Satoru sticks his tongue out a little, trying to breathe, trying to get the bitter sting off his taste buds. It’s pink, wet. Suguru’s turn curls behind his teeth. He drags his tongue slowly across the edge of his molar, eyes fixed on that soft mouth.

He wonders how those lips will feel on his tongue, how they’ll look wrapped sloppy around his cock — the nerd gagging sweetly on his length, throat stretching wide to take every inch Suguru wants to give him. He wants to taste that mouth, the burn of tequila, and the soft vanilla soap under it. Wants to watch him choke for real — on something sweeter than liquor.

Suguru hums low, all soft menace in his chest. Good boy, he thinks. One sip at a time.

Suguru lifts a finger at the bartender and makes it two waters this time. No more tequila for his soft, trembling rabbit. One glass sweats on the bar in front of Satoru, who gulps half of it down like it might wash away the burn still clinging to his tongue. Suguru keeps the other glass in his own hand, rolling the cold rim against his lip, eyes never leaving that flushed face.

“You okay?” Suguru asks, tone so gentle it’s almost saintly. If anyone overheard, they’d think he’s the kindest man in the building. And maybe tonight, he is. How could he not be, when this man dropped himself in Suguru’s lap like a gift?

Satoru sets the glass down, blinking through the lights. His fingers worry the hem of his shirt. “It’s loud. The lights hurt my eyes.”

Suguru leans closer, voice dipping smoothly into the heavy thrum of bass. “Want to find somewhere quieter? Somewhere we can talk?”

He sees the nervous tick in Satoru’s throat. Those big eyes flick past Suguru’s shoulder to the crush of bodies on the dance floor. His friends, still tangled in neon and sweat. Satoru shifts like he’s not sure he’s allowed.

Suguru doesn’t miss a beat. He tips his head, smiling that calm, warm smile that hides all the teeth. “I’ll tell your friends where you are. They’re welcome to come up, if they want.”

Satoru hesitates, then nods. “I’ll ask them.”

Suguru watches Satoru slip off the barstool and head into the mass of dancers. His polite mask doesn’t slip yet. He lifts his water glass, rolling the condensation over his knuckles as he watches Satoru shoulder his way back to his little pack. The woman in the black dress, the bright man still laughing at nothing, the broad blond man with arms folded tight across his chest. All of them turn to Satoru when he says his piece. Then four pairs of eyes cut to Suguru standing at the bar.

Suguru smiles at them, lifts his free hand in a wave that feels like swallowing glass. He hates this part, hates pretending to be harmless. But he does it anyway, a polite smile pinned in place. The woman raises her brows, flicks her ash on the floor. The blond looks like he’d sooner drop Suguru through a wall. The brunet guy grins, drunk on neon.

Satoru says a few more words to them, then peels himself away. He walks back slowly, water glass empty, hands tucked in his pockets like he’s trying to keep them from fidgeting.

“They don’t want to come,” Satoru says, almost apologetic.

Suguru clicks his tongue, lays a hand heavy on Satoru’s shoulder. “That’s too bad.” He slides his thumb under the collar of that soft shirt, brushing the line of warm skin. “But you’re safe with me.”

Satoru’s smile blooms slowly, shy, grateful. Suguru can’t help the swell of pride in his chest. The pure, mean joy of it. He tucks an arm around Satoru’s waist, palm flat against the warm dip of muscle hidden under that fabric. It’s possessive, but not too much. Just enough to steer him through the crowd.

They move through the bodies. No one dares brush too close when Suguru’s hand is on him. He leads his white rabbit through the lights and the bass and the spilled drinks, up the quiet stairs that climb toward the office, toward the hush above the city where no one can hear how loud he plans to make him.

They step into the hush of the office, and the city greets them through the wall of glass, towers lit up like circuitry. Tokyo’s veins pulse neon under their feet. Suguru lets the door click shut behind them. He watches Satoru slip out of his loose grip, like some big white cat loose in a space that doesn’t want him.

The office isn’t Suguru’s favorite. He prefers the darker one uptown, deeper wood, softer light. This one’s all sharp angles and clean glass, good for meetings and threats whispered over whiskey. But tonight, with Satoru standing there blinking at the skyline like he’s trying to memorize it, it’s suddenly worth every cold metal edge.

Satoru paces slowly, eyes flicking over the liquor cart in the corner, the minimalist art he probably doesn’t know how to read, the huge desk with its neat stacks of paper that don’t matter right now. He’s fidgeting, shoulders hunched like he’s afraid to touch anything. Suguru doesn’t need that, doesn’t want him thinking about how far above the dance floor they are. He wants him pliant and warm, not stiff and ready to run.

“Sit,” Suguru says, tone easy, like they’re in a living room instead of a private tower. He tilts his head at the low black leather couch by the window. “Relax. You want anything? Food? Drink?”

Satoru shakes his head quickly. “No, thank you. I have a very restricted diet.”

Suguru lifts a brow. Of course he does. Some rich kid habit, all discipline and clean lines. He lets his mouth twitch in amusement. I’ll ruin that diet tonight. Watch me.

He closes the distance in three slow strides. Satoru lowers himself onto the couch, big frame folded neatly, knees together like he doesn’t know how to sprawl. Suguru drops down next to him, not pressed close but close enough that their knees bump, fabric brushing fabric. It’s subtle, that line they’re dancing on — not enough for a complaint, but enough for Suguru to feel the heat bleeding off him.

The city sprawls out in the glass behind them. Suguru looks at the view once, then looks back at Satoru’s throat, the clean slope of it under that stiff white collar.

He drapes an arm along the back of the couch, fingers tapping slow against the leather. Close enough to touch if he wants. He wants.

Satoru shifts on the couch, knees still bumping Suguru’s, but his shoulders are stiff as rebar. Suguru can feel the nerves rolling off him, warm and raw. He can’t push him flat and open yet. 

So Suguru settles back, drapes his arm lazily along the couch’s back, fingers a breath from brushing Satoru’s soft hair. He lets his voice drop, soft enough to trick him into thinking this is harmless.

“So. Chemistry, huh? How’d you meet my idiot brother if you’re buried in all those test tubes?”

Satoru perks up a bit at that, like he’s happy to have something concrete to say. “Oh, Yuji’s actually a double major. Film and Chemistry. He’s really good, too; he just needs some help with the heavy math. I’m the TA for the class, so I tutor him sometimes.”

Suguru’s brow lifts. For a heartbeat, he’s genuinely surprised. Double major? The brat never mentioned that. Pride flickers low in Suguru’s chest, warm and unexpected. Yuji really is smart. Smarter than Suguru ever had the space to be when he was twenty, all fists and blood and cold streetlight. Maybe smarter than Choso, too. A life outside of the one they’re all shackled to. He deserves that.

Suguru lets his mouth curve slowly, tapping his fingers against the leather behind Satoru’s shoulder. “Didn’t know that. Good for him.” His eyes flick over Satoru’s profile, how the club lights catch silver in his hair even up here. “So. Big brain. What’re you gonna do with all that science?”

Satoru’s mouth twitches. He looks down at his knees, thumbs brushing together. “I’ll probably just work for my mom’s company. It’s expected, you know?”

Suguru watches the pieces click in place. Gojo. Of course. Gojo Pharma. They’ve crossed wires with that machine more than once — ironed out dirty little back-channel deals, moved product through the right ports. Satoru really is clueless, sitting here in his sweater vest and soft shirt. A lamb playing king in a field full of wolves.

Suguru’s glad for it. He’s glad Yuji has a friend like this, soft in all the right ways, bright enough to stand outside the shadows Suguru and Choso crawl through. He almost laughs at himself. 

“I’m glad,” Suguru says, voice warm. He dips his head, lets the low grin spread slowly and crooked. “Yuji’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

Satoru flushes a little. He glances away, then back, eyes catching Suguru’s for a beat before skittering off again. “Yuji’s great. We collect Digimon cards together. It’s really fun.”

Suguru can’t help the short laugh that slips out. Not because he cares about digital monsters or whatever the hell they’re called, but because it works. Satoru’s shoulders drop an inch. He’s not all the way relaxed, but the wall’s got cracks now. Suguru’s good at that — getting people to soften under his hand. He’s done it with enemies, clients, old men in suits twice his age. It’s the same trick every time.

He leans in just close enough to feel the warmth of Satoru’s throat. Lets his knee press firm against Satoru’s, solid contact that hums between them.

“Digimon, huh? That’s cute.”

He says it like a joke. He doesn’t mean it like one at all.

Suguru shifts closer, careful not to spook him all at once. He wants him pliant, not cornered. There’s a line, and Suguru knows how to toe it. He’s lived most his life on that knife’s edge.

“So,” he says, low and easy, like he’s drawing Satoru out with a piece of string. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

Satoru nods, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. He pushes them back up with the heel of his hand. “Never been to a party before or a club. Shoko, the girl I came with…my friends, they try to get me out, make the most of my college years.”

Suguru hums, fingers tapping softly behind Satoru’s neck. He files the names away, not because he cares about them, but because every thread tied to this guy is leverage. Soft, neat leverage waiting to be tugged when he wants.

“That’s good,” Suguru says. “You need to explore. Leave your lab every once in a while, yeah?”

Satoru huffs a quiet laugh, shoulders loosening under Suguru’s slow warmth. Suguru pushes further.

“Unless you spend your time cooped up with someone? Someone… special ?” His voice dips carefully around the word. He can’t shove too hard; the genius might slip through his fingers if he makes it too obvious. But if he’s too subtle, he’ll miss it entirely.

Satoru perks up, oblivious to the trap he’s walking into. “I have a little brother, Yuta. He’s younger. He’s smart but shy. He’s more awkward than me.”

Suguru lets the grin pull crooked across his mouth. “Runs in the family then.”

The sound that comes out of Satoru surprises them both — an actual laugh, soft and bright. He ducks his head like it embarrassed him. Suguru eats it up. He loves seeing the cracks. He wants more.

Before Satoru can launch into a family tree, Suguru cuts in,  gentle, easy, never letting him catch his breath. “So no one else? No one you wanted to see tonight? Yuji’s probably off in a booth somewhere, tongue down that Junpei kid’s throat.”

Satoru blinks, a flush creeping up under the collar of his shirt. He glances at the door, like he’s considering whether Yuji really is that bold. Suguru’s grin doesn’t budge.

“Or maybe,” Suguru leans in, voice dipping smooth, “you’re leaving some girl out there waiting, huh?”

For the record — Suguru doesn’t care if there’s a boyfriend tucked away somewhere in that squeaky clean dorm. He’ll still split him open all the same.

Satoru’s response is too quick, too sharp. “No. I don’t… like girls.”

Suguru has to swallow the sound that rises in his throat, keep it buried behind his teeth. He drags it back down into his chest and lets it turn hot behind his ribs instead.

He tilts his head, eyes soft but lined with the promise of teeth underneath. “So no boyfriend then? You? Come on — you must have one. Smart kid like you. Tall, built and handsome. Bet some nice guy’s waiting for you to come home, yeah?”

if Satoru does have someone waiting at home for him, Suguru will kill them. 

Satoru shakes his head, “No, no, people don’t notice me like that.”

Suguru lets a small laugh slip, rich and low. “That’s a shame.”

He leans in, his breath ghosting soft over the shell of Satoru’s ear. “I noticed you.” 

Suguru shifts closer, the couch leather creaking under his thigh. His palm slides heavier against Satoru’s leg, heat bleeding through the thin fabric like a threat. He leans in slowly, lips grazing the curve of Satoru’s ear. He feels Satoru’s breath hitch, that big frame tense and locked, waiting for the next move.

Satoru jerks, shoulders stiff under Suguru’s arm. He pulls back an inch, eyes wide behind the glasses. “You couldn’t have, you didn’t—”

Suguru cuts him off with a quiet chuckle. The sound drips warm down Satoru’s throat. He flicks his tongue out, slow and deliberate, dragging it along the shell of Satoru’s ear. He tastes salt and soap and the faint heat of sweat. Satoru grunts, the sound caught between a protest and a startled plea. Suguru swallows his own moan and smiles into the soft hair at Satoru’s temple.

“Big guy like you, Satoru?,” Suguru says again, voice thicker now. His hand slides up, thumb brushing the inside of Satoru’s thigh. “You were made to be seen.”

Satoru’s breathing goes shallow, chest rising under that crisp white shirt. “I-I am?”

“Yeah.” Suguru hums, a low roll in his chest. His thumb presses harder, not enough to hurt, but enough to claim. “Was hoping you’d come alone.”

Satoru’s flush deepens, blooming pink under his pale skin. He shifts under Suguru’s palm but doesn’t move away. “I noticed you too. You’re handsome. But… you’re Yuji’s brother. I couldn’t. I mean— date.”

Suguru’s laugh spills out soft and wicked. His hand tightens on Satoru’s thigh, dragging him a fraction closer. “Who said anything about Yuji?” He dips his mouth lower, lips brushing the sensitive skin under Satoru’s jaw. “Or dating?”

Satoru’s throat bobs. His glasses slip halfway down his nose again and he doesn’t even fix them. “Won’t Yuji be mad?”

Suguru pulls back just enough to meet those wide, ocean-pale eyes. His grin is sharp enough to cut. “We’re not doing anything that would upset Yuji. And if we were–” His thumb strokes lazy circles now, a promise curled behind every pass. “I can keep a secret.”

He tilts his head, eyes burning. “Can you?”

Satoru hesitates, teeth pressing into his lower lip. He nods once, slow and certain. “I can keep a secret.”

Suguru wants to laugh, wants to bite, wants to stand up and drag him onto the desk and make him scream it. Instead, he settles for the small victory first — the way Satoru’s knees fall open under his palm, the soft heat of him blooming in the hush of the office.

If Suguru wasn’t about to have the best fuck of his life, he’d take a victory shot and do a lap around all of Shibuya. But Satoru’s right here, wide eyes, hot skin, a secret trembling on his tongue.

And Suguru’s going to ruin him for anyone else.

Satoru hesitates at first, shoulders still stiff, eyes darting between Suguru’s mouth and his own lap. It’s awkward, almost sweet — the genius calculating angles and outcomes like he’s back in a lab. Suguru opens his mouth to tease Satoru about overthinking, but he doesn’t get the chance.

Satoru closes the space in one clean motion. Lips press clumsily and hard against Suguru’s, the taste of water and nerves, and mint gum. Suguru chuckles into it, the sound caught between their teeth, then it’s swallowed by the way Satoru leans in harder, deeper, greedier, starved for any chance at human contact.

Suguru’s palm slides up, catches the hinge of Satoru’s jaw. He holds him there, feeling how solid he is under his hand, how this soft-looking, awkward man fills his grip like no one else has. He’s big. Broad chest, wide shoulders, long legs folded on this leather couch like they don’t belong in this careful box. Suguru wants to crack him open until he spills all that bigness right here.

Their mouths drag together, heat rolling out between them. Satoru’s glasses knock hard against Suguru’s cheekbone. Satoru pulls back, breathless, flushed to the tips of his ears. “Sorry,” he starts, voice thin.

Suguru lets a low laugh slip. “It’s fine.”

He slips careful fingers around the frames, lifting them off Satoru’s nose. The glasses click shut in his palm. When he looks back, it catches him sharp in the chest with those eyes. Bright, raw blue, shimmering under the office lights like ice lit from inside. Suguru almost forgets the line he’s playing at.

He sets the glasses aside, lets his hand drift back up to cradle that flushed face. Before he can speak, Satoru surges in again, hungrier now. Big hands find Suguru’s waist, palms spanning from ribs to hip like they were always meant to fit there. He pulls him close enough that their thighs grind together, close enough that Suguru can feel the heat he’s going to drag out of him soon.

Suguru groans against his mouth, teeth scraping Satoru’s lower lip, tasting the sharp edge of what he’s been chasing since he saw that soft hair across the club.

There’s nothing awkward about how hard Satoru holds him now.

Satoru’s mouth grows bolder by the second. What starts as hesitant kisses turns greedy, lips dragging wet across Suguru’s jaw, then lower to his cheekbone. The couch shifts under them as Satoru shifts closer, crowding Suguru back against the cushions like he’s trying to swallow him whole.

Suguru’s jacket slips off his shoulders in a slow slide of fabric. He shrugs it down one arm, then the other, letting it fall somewhere he doesn’t care to look for right now. Satoru’s big hands fumble at the buttons of his black shirt, knuckles brushing Suguru’s chest, tugging the fabric apart with a shaky impatience that makes Suguru’s cock twitch in his slacks.

Suguru tips his head back and lets out a soft, rough laugh that curls into a moan when Satoru’s mouth catches the corner of his throat. “Someone’s needy, huh?”

His voice comes out ragged, breathy, daring. Satoru pulls back just enough to look him dead in the eyes — blue blown wide with heat, glasses forgotten on the side table.

“You’re beautiful,” Satoru says, too honest, too raw for the filth Suguru wants. His fingers slide over Suguru’s ribs, palms flat, reverent. “I wanna… I wanna see all of you. Explore all of you.”

Suguru feels the flush crawl up his neck before he can choke it back. He wants to snarl something, wants to push Satoru’s face down and remind him who’s in control — but the rush of heat blooming under his skin trips him. He schools his expression back into that bored, dangerous smirk. Suguru Kamo is the big scary Yakuza — he doesn’t blush for anyone.

“Yeah?” Suguru manages, voice breaking around it. “You gonna worship me?”

Satoru cuts him off, lips pressing hot under his jaw, teeth nipping soft enough to make Suguru shiver. He works his way down, dragging open-mouthed kisses across the strong line of Suguru’s throat, then lower. Satoru pushes the shirt off Suguru’s shoulders, baring skin marked with ink and old bruises, scars that bloom like secrets under the city lights.

Suguru feels the first hot drag of Satoru’s mouth on his collarbone, then where his sternum flares hard under the press of thin lips. One hand is working his chest, thumb rubbing a slow circle over one nipple while the other fingers drag across his ribs.

He opens his mouth to snap out a tease, maybe to tell him how desperate he looks, but it splinters into a broken moan when Satoru’s tongue flicks over his nipple, wet and warm and so good it makes Suguru’s hips twitch off the couch.

“Fuck!” Suguru jerks back a fraction, hand burying in Satoru’s hair. His chest heaves, breath coming fast. “You— shit!”

Satoru doesn’t stop. One nipple wet under his tongue, the other caught and tugged between careful fingers. Suguru’s cock throbs against his fly, pressed tight in his slacks and aching for relief.

A flash of thought slams through him, quick and annoyed — should’ve gotten them pierced. Fuck.

He’ll fix that later. Right now, he’ll let Satoru devour every soft spot he has — and then he’ll take his turn.

Suguru’s never felt this good. Not with any mouth, not with any hand, not with any half-forgotten name murmured against a dark wall. Satoru’s lips drag lower, and it short-circuits everything in Suguru’s head that tells him to stay in control, to keep the advantage.

His back hits the couch cushions as Satoru pushes him down, big hands steady on his ribs. Suguru props himself up on his elbows, half a mind to bark out a command, but the words tangle behind a groan when Satoru’s mouth slips over his sternum, kissing down, tongue flicking hot across skin inked black and gold.

Satoru pauses at the buckle of Suguru’s slacks. His breath ghosts over the line where skin disappears under expensive fabric. Suguru tries to muster a smug remark, but it cracks apart when Satoru presses that huge palm over him, right there, heat and weight pinning him down.

Satoru’s eyes flick up, blue under hooded lashes. “How long?” he murmurs, voice low but not shy, not now. “How long have you been hard for me?”

Suguru’s lips part. The answer rolls out before he can filter it for pride. “Since you walked in the building.”

Satoru flushes deep pink, the same stupid sweet color as before. He runs a hand through that fluffy white hair, slicking it back. For a moment, Suguru sees the nervous nerd again — but the heat behind those eyes makes Suguru’s cock throb against Satoru’s palm.

Satoru nods, more to himself than to Suguru. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

Suguru wants to snap back, wants to say he doesn’t need taking care of, but before he can even shape the word idiot , Satoru’s big hands pop the buckle open, drag the zipper down. Cold air hits him a second before thick fingers hook in the waistband of his boxers and tug down.

Suguru hisses through his teeth, hips lifting as his cock springs free,  heavy, flushed dark, the ladder of black bars gleaming under the low light. The piercings catch the ambient glow of the city skyline through the window behind them. They look like a promise.

Satoru’s eyes go wide, pale blue locked on every metal bar punched through sensitive skin. His mouth parts, like he’s seeing something holy or filthy or both.

Suguru tips his head back, hair brushing the cushions, a grin carving across his mouth. “Surprise.”

Most men flinch when they see Suguru’s cock, wide eyes, stuttered excuses, the usual scramble to handle what they think they want but can’t manage. The ladder of bars running under the shaft only sharpens the intimidation. He’s always liked that part — the edge of fear in someone’s voice when they realize he’s bigger than they imagined, rougher than they asked for.

It’s a power play. He talks them through it, lets them beg or bite back tears when they can’t take it all. It gives him the advantage, the control, the pleasure doubled when he drags it out of them inch by inch.

But Satoru doesn’t look afraid. If anything, the way those bright eyes flick up and down, catching every glint of black metal, makes Suguru’s stomach twist with something warmer, closer to thrill than dominance.

Satoru lifts his eyes, lids low, lashes catching the city light. “Is there a certain way you like it?” His fingers drift up, massive hand wrapping the base, thumb brushing over the first piercing, then the second, careful, exploring, like he’s mapping a circuit board.

Suguru lets out a soft scoff that wants to be a laugh. He rolls his hips just enough that the rings drag against Satoru’s skin. “What, need a lesson? Smart brain of yours can’t figure out how to suck cock?”

It’s meant to bite. A reminder of who’s older, meaner, in charge. Suguru smirks, tongue pressing to the back of his teeth as he imagines it:Satoru fumbling, apologizing, falling apart on his lap.

But Satoru only looks at him calmly, head tilted, hair brushing his forehead. He shifts that wide gaze back down to Suguru’s cock, thick fingers pressing under the shaft to toy with the lowest bar again.

“I can figure it out.”

And then he does. Satoru slides lower on the couch, his big frame folding down until he’s on his stomach between Suguru’s spread thighs. He braces one hand on Suguru’s hip, the other curling steady around the base.

When his mouth closes over the tip, wet heat, soft tongue, a careful suck that drags a hiss from Suguru’s teeth, the room tips sideways. The only lesson here is how fast Satoru’s going to ruin him.

Suguru doesn’t expect it to feel like this. The first pull of Satoru’s mouth around the tip makes his spine arch off the couch, a hot curse torn from his throat before he can catch it. The sound bounces off the glass walls of the office — filthy, desperate — not like him at all.

Satoru hums, and the vibration alone makes Suguru’s hips jerk. When that mouth slides off, he wants to snarl, to snap at him to put it back, but Satoru’s tongue is tracing along the underside now, slow and deliberate, licking over each black bar like he’s studying for an exam he can’t afford to fail.

Suguru’s eyes roll back. He fights it, tries to pin his gaze on the city lights past Satoru’s shoulder, but every flick of that tongue, every careful swirl around metal and soft skin rips the control right out of his fists.

“Fuck.” Suguru hisses, head tipping back as his hand fists in Satoru’s hair. He tries to hold still, tries not to buck, but the way Satoru works him, every careful lick and low hum, makes it impossible.

Then Satoru sinks lower. No warning, no break, he takes Suguru in deeper, inch after inch until Suguru’s cock is stuffed into that hot throat, the piercings scraping sweet along Satoru’s tongue.

Suguru’s moan tears free, rough and cracked, a pathetic sound that has no place in his chest. He’d be embarrassed if he could think past the slick heat swallowing him whole.

Satoru moves like he’s done this a thousand times, soft but so damn sure. His tongue wraps around the shaft, pressing under the piercings, humming low enough that it rumbles up through Suguru’s belly. The vibrations roll through him, settling like a vice low in his gut.

He tries to hold on — tries to choke back the tight coil burning through his spine — but then he hears it. A voice, muffled around his cock.

“—guru.”

Suguru’s head snaps down, dazed eyes locking onto pale blue staring back at him. Satoru pulls back an inch, enough to speak, voice hoarse and wet.

“Suguru, look at me. Please.”

It’s a beg, but not the kind Suguru’s used to. Not fear, not pleading to stop , but a raw, open plea to see. And Suguru does. He holds that gaze, the way Satoru’s lashes flutter, the flush high on his cheeks, the slick stretch of pink lips stuffed full.

Satoru sucks harder. Tongue flicking, moaning around him like he needs the praise. Suguru’s vision sparks white. The coil snaps, and he’s spilling down Satoru’s throat before he can warn him, a strangled whine punched out of his chest that would make devils grin.

He expects Satoru to pull off, to sputter, to choke, but those eyes hold him steady. Satoru swallows every drop, mouth locked around him, throat working to drink him down like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

It hits Suguru so hard he chokes on his own breath, hips jerking as another pulse rips through him, thick and sudden. He comes again, untouched, brain shorting out at the sight of Satoru licking him clean, swallowing every last drop like it’s owed.

Suguru’s arms give out. He slumps back against the couch. Chest heaving, eyes wide, undone by a man who still has a smear of spit shining on his lips.

Suguru comes back to himself in pieces, the edges of the city lights outside, the cool leather under his spine, the taste of his own sweat on his tongue. He drags in a breath that shudders through his chest, muscles twitching where the high hasn’t quite faded.

His shirt’s open and wrinkled, belt still undone, the sharp lines of his tattoos visible under the soft wash of the overhead light. His hair clings damp to his forehead. It’s filthy — he’s filthy — but it’s perfect.

Satoru’s still there between his knees, mouth shiny, lips parted, hair sticking up where Suguru’s hands dragged through it. He doesn’t look nervous now. here’s hunger behind his eyes. Confident but earnest. Still has that faint clumsy edge but it’s layered over raw, eager heat.

Satoru shifts back a little, wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist like he doesn’t even realize how obscene he looks. “Did I do good?” he asks, voice low, words tripping over the last shred of his shyness.

Suguru’s chest hitches as he drags in enough air to manage a grin. “Yeah. Yeah, you did good.”

“Okay.” Satoru says it like he’s submitting a report, that same bright tone, except his pupils are still blown wide and his cheeks pink.

Suguru’s eyes flick lower. There’s a thick bulge straining against the front of Satoru’s slacks, the fabric dark where it presses tight. Even spent, Suguru feels the coil in his gut stir right back to life. He nods at it, breath catching on a dark laugh.

“Looks like we need to handle what you’ve got going on down there.”

Satoru glances down, and the fluster hits him again like a slap. He gives this embarrassed, crooked grin, fingers fussing with the button like he forgot what a belt is. Then, all at once, the buckle pops open. The slacks hit the floor. His boxers go with them, kicked away so fast they land somewhere by Suguru’s jacket.

Suguru’s mouth goes dry. He stares, eyes tracing every inch of pale flushed skin, the thick, heavy length that sits proud and leaking between Satoru’s powerful thighs. He’s still wearing that nerdy shirt, collar crooked, tails hanging over sharp hips. It makes the whole picture filthier.

Satoru shifts, awkwardly covering himself with one big palm. “Is… is it weird? I know it’s average.”

Suguru barks a soft laugh that cuts off in a sharp exhale. “There’s nothing average about that, sweetheart.”

Satoru’s ears flame red. He drops his hand, cock bobbing with the movement, thick and flushed, tip wet and needy. Suguru drags his teeth over his bottom lip, palms bracing on his knees to keep himself from lunging.

“Want me to suck you off?” Suguru drawls, voice rough. “Or a hand?”

Satoru shifts closer, the flush riding down his throat. His eyes catch Suguru’s, steady but shining. “Can I… try something? Test a theory?”

Suguru lifts a brow, mouth curling into a lazy grin. “Sure. Let’s see what that brilliant brain’s come up with.”

Suguru barely gets the next breath in before Satoru shifts closer, knees braced on either side of Suguru’s thighs. There’s this moment — a heartbeat of confusion — then he feels it: the thick weight of Satoru’s cock pressing up against his own.

The metal bars lining the underside of Suguru’s shaft catch on Satoru’s flushed length, smooth skin dragging over cold steel. Suguru’s mouth parts on a sound he doesn’t recognize, sharp, helpless. He lifts a brow, about to say what are you doing but the words catch behind his teeth when Satoru rocks his hips forward.

The slide is so slow and filthy. The piercings drag over sensitive skin, sending shivers through Suguru’s gut. He fists the cushion at his side, every muscle in his belly tight as he watches Satoru’s hips move, strong thighs flexing, shirt tails brushing Suguru’s bare stomach.

Then that big hand closes around both of them — Satoru’s palm swallowing the girth of two cocks together, stroking them in one long, smooth drag that rips a groan out of Suguru’s throat.

“Do you like this?” Satoru asks, voice shaky but bright with that same sharp need. He looks down at where they’re pressed together, then up at Suguru’s face — so earnest about it, like he’d stop if Suguru asked. Like he could ever tell him no now.

Suguru nods, hips twitching up into that heat. “Yeah,” he breathes, teeth catching on a hiss. “Yeah, fuck, don’t stop.”

Satoru’s grin flashes crooked, a little wild. “This is so hot. You’re… you’re so perfect. So pretty.” He pants it out, his strokes getting rougher, more certain. His thumb drags over the piercings, pressing between them so every bar rubs against Suguru’s shaft and his own.

Suguru can’t hold still. His hips roll up, catching the rhythm, adding more friction to the sloppy slide of skin on skin, metal catching on tender flesh. The noises tearing out of them bounce around the high walls, soft curses, wet slick sounds, the muted slap of Satoru’s hand working them faster.

Suguru flicks his gaze up and down, the stretch of Satoru’s pale throat, the flush blooming under that half-buttoned shirt, the thick columns of his thighs braced wide. He looks obscene and perfect, all that awkward college-boy charm stripped down to raw, hungry heat.

Suguru’s mind scrambles, some distant piece still shocked this is real — that the bright, twitchy nerd is here, naked waist-down in his office, rubbing their cocks together like it’s the only thing that matters. He’d hoped for a taste, but this? This greedy mess, this raw want spilling out between them?

Suguru moans for it,  hips rolling up, eyes locked on Satoru’s flushed mouth. He’s never wanted to come so badly in his life.

Satoru’s hips grind down harder, their cocks sliding together with slick heat and the sharp drag of the piercings. The sound alone is enough to make Suguru’s vision stutter - the wet slap, the hiss of Satoru’s breath, the low, hungry curses spilling out of both of them.

Then Satoru does something that knocks the air clean from Suguru’s lungs: he talks.

“You gonna come for me again?” Satoru pants, voice rough but edged with a bright, reckless grin. His hand strokes faster, squeezing around them both until Suguru’s back arches. “Gonna come a third time for my nerdy cock?”

Suguru tries to laugh, a rasped, broken thing that slips out as a moan instead. He shouldn’t be like this: laid out, legs spread, letting a too-big college kid talk him stupid. He’s Suguru Kamo, a shadow heir, a king behind closed doors, the man with blood on his hands and steel in his chest. But right now? All of that power dissolves in the heat of Satoru’s filthy mouth.

“Yes— fuck— yes,” Suguru chokes out, breathless, hips jerking up into the slide of skin and metal and Satoru’s palm. He tries to reach down, tries to wrap his own hand around the base to feel it, to ground himself—

But Satoru’s free hand catches his wrist midair. Big fingers curl around Suguru’s knuckles, firm, possessive. His blue eyes cut sharp, the command sweet and dark all at once.

“Mine,” Satoru breathes, a warning and a promise. The way he says it makes Suguru’s cock twitch in his grip, a jolt that runs all the way up his spine.

Satoru lowers his head — doesn’t kiss his lips, but drags his mouth over Suguru’s knuckles instead, soft and claiming. The heat of that touch runs down Suguru’s arm like fire, coiling tight in his belly.

“You’re close,” Satoru murmurs against his skin, almost sweet, but the speed of his strokes stays ruthless, perfect. “I can feel it. Come for me. I want it. Please.”

Suguru tries to bite it back. He’s a mess now, legs trembling, abs tightening, breath falling in short, gasping stutters. He wants to bark a threat, growl a warning, tell Satoru not to get cocky—

But instead he breaks. They both do.

Satoru groans first — a deep, surprised sound that shudders through his whole frame. His hips stutter and their cocks slide together one more time before Suguru’s vision goes white. His whole body tenses — pleasure ripping through him sharp and endless, dragging another raw, choked sound out of his throat as they spill together, hot and messy between their stomachs.

Suguru goes limp against the couch, his mind foggy and soft, the rush pounding in his veins as Satoru’s hand slows, coaxing the last shivers out of him. He’d never admit it — but he’d come undone for this idiot all over again if he asked.

Suguru’s mind registers the soft rustle of fabric but doesn’t really hear it — not until his hazy eyes flick down and catch a flash of white on the floor. Satoru’s shirt, open and rumpled, a stain blooming across the chest where they made their mess. The sight alone drags a smirk to Suguru’s lips.

Good. Let him wear that proof home.

But then strong hands curl around Suguru’s calves, a warm grip, deliberate. His legs are lifted, his pants peeled away and tossed somewhere behind the couch. Cool air hits the sweat on his thighs.

He expects to be the one moving next. He wants to — to flip Satoru over, shove that big body down and fuck him open until he’s whining. Suguru’s cock aches for it — the raw, restless drive to turn this massive, awkward genius into a gasping, drooling mess.

But then Satoru shifts , big frame folding over Suguru’s, arms braced on either side of his head, thighs boxing him in. Their skin sticks together where warm come smears between their bellies. Suguru feels the solid press of Satoru’s chest, the heat radiating off him in waves.

And something in Suguru’s chest kicks — sharp, rebellious. The part of him that’s built for control, all steel edges and quiet threat, snarls in the back of his mind. He should shove him off. Should push a hand to Satoru’s throat, remind him who he is, remind himself what he is. Yakuza. Untouchable. Never on his back for anyone.

But then Satoru looks down at him, those bright blue eyes wide and so open, soft in a way that should make Suguru sneer but instead makes him still. His hazel gaze snags there, caught in that gentle, heated honesty like a hook in the gut.

Satoru leans in and kisses him — no rush, no fumbling. Just warm, eager lips pressing down, parting Suguru’s with a sweetness that shatters every cruel thought in his head. The taste is heat and salt and rawer underneath — them .

Suguru’s fingers flex on Satoru’s shoulders. He should push. He wants to. But his mouth betrays him first — it opens, his tongue meeting Satoru’s with a soft, hungry moan that betrays every violent instinct.

He hates how much he likes this — being kissed by Satoru, being pinned here by that big frame. It should be wrong, humiliating even, but it’s not. It’s grounding. It’s easy.

Suguru knows he’ll never say it out loud — but for tonight? He thinks maybe letting Satoru cover him, cage him in, might be the first thing in years that feels right .

Satoru’s breath ghosts warm over Suguru’s lips when he pulls back from the kiss — eyes hooded but sharp, still locked on Suguru like he’s reading an answer only he can see. His voice drops low, soft enough to almost be sweet: “ I’ll take care of you.”

Suguru hates how easily he nods. How the words slide under his ribs and settle there like a promise he almost wants to believe.

Then Satoru shifts, big hands steady on Suguru’s waist, fingertips dragging slick across his skin where the mess of their release still shines. Suguru’s head tips back to watch — lazy, curious — as Satoru drags two fingers through the come on his stomach, gathering it up slow, eyes flicking up every few seconds like he’s gauging Suguru’s reaction.

And then — fuck . Suguru watches as Satoru brings his messy fingers to his own lips and licks. The sound Satoru makes is low and soft but it punches straight to Suguru’s cock, that greedy, content little moan like he’s savoring the taste.

Suguru makes a face. “You’re disgusting,” he snaps, trying to twist away when Satoru brings the slicked fingers to his mouth next. “No. Hell no. I’m not.”

But Satoru doesn’t flinch, doesn’t drop his hand. He’s grinning, stupidly earnest, still flushed from the high. “Try it,” he murmurs, like it’s a dare and a request all in one. “Tastes good. Promise.”

Suguru’s eyes cut to him, sharp with disbelief. “Eat it yourself then, freak.”

Satoru just laughs, low and easy. “I did , two loads. Want more.” The shameless pride in his tone hits Suguru low, right in that dangerous place where the disgust and heat mix. His cock twitches at the idea, which only pisses him off more.

He opens his mouth to tell Satoru exactly how fucked in the head he is, but before he can speak, Satoru pushes the messy finger past his lips.

Suguru’s breath hitches, a sharp, involuntary gasp. For half a second, he wants to spit it out, push Satoru off, reclaim that last shred of untouchable control. But the taste hits his tongue — salt and heat and the lingering tang of Satoru — and the sound that slips out of him is not what he means to give.

Satoru’s eyes darken, a slow grin curling the corners of his mouth. “See?” he teases, voice rough with want. “That diet’s paying off.”

Suguru glares — or tries to — but the weight of Satoru’s finger resting on his tongue steals some of the threat. He sucks, slow and vicious, biting slightly to make Satoru hiss through his teeth.

Fucking ridiculous , Suguru thinks, heat blooming in his gut again. He needs a new hobby — anything that doesn’t end with him spread out, tasting his own filth, letting this massive nerd drag him deeper than he ever meant to fall.

Satoru’s fingers slide free from Suguru’s mouth, leaving his lips wet and parted, the faint taste still lingering on his tongue, hot and wrong and addicting. Suguru watches through half-lidded eyes, chest rising and falling too fast, as Satoru dips those same fingers back to his stomach , collecting more of their mess.

It takes a second for Suguru’s hazy mind to process where those fingers are headed next, but the second he does, every muscle in his body snaps tight. His breath locks in his throat as Satoru’s slick fingertips trail lower, down the sharp line of his abs, over the sensitive skin where his thighs meet. Then lower. 

Too low.

Suguru flinches — a violent jerk of his hips, a half-snarl caught in his teeth — but Satoru’s other hand clamps firm around his waist, pinning him to the couch. He’s strong. Stronger than he looks when he’s hunched over textbooks and scribbling notes in Yuji’s dorm. That hidden strength makes Suguru’s gut twist — with what exactly, he refuses to name.

Satoru’s voice is low and warm, brushing over Suguru’s flushed ear. “You’re safe,” he murmurs, calm as if he’s not about to put his fingers somewhere no one’s ever dared. “I’ve got you. Trust me.”

Suguru wants to spit in his face, wants to bite, kick, shove him off. He’s not weak. He’s not soft like this. He’s never been — never let himself be. If anyone found out — if anyone even guessed that Suguru Kamo, the feared second son, the shadow boss, was spread open under a college kid’s hand — it’d be over. His pride. His power. His entire name.

But all that pride burns to ash the second Satoru’s slick fingertip circles his hole, that tight, untouched ring of muscle clenching on reflex. The sensation slices through Suguru’s panic, hotter than fear, deeper than shame. He hisses through his teeth, every instinct screaming to fight.

But then Satoru bends low, presses their lips together. A soft kiss, sweet like the first one but layered now with something raw, filthy. “So pretty,” Satoru whispers against Suguru’s mouth, words almost reverent. “You’re doing so good for me, Suguru. Just relax. I promise, I’ll make you feel so fucking good.”

Suguru’s glare is glassy, his lips still parted to protest, to snarl back that he’s not doing good , that he’s not this desperate thing under him. But Satoru just smirks, that dumb, too-honest grin turned wolfish. “Gonna fuck that mean mug right off your face.”

Suguru draws in a sharp breath to curse him out — but the sound twists halfway up his throat when Satoru’s finger pushes inside him. Just the tip —  enough to burn. Suguru’s mouth drops open, a sound he’ll pretend wasn’t a moan slipping out, soft and broken.

He tries to glare — tries to hang on to the last shred of his pride — but Satoru’s voice hums warm in his ear: “ Good. Just like that. Let me in. ” And Suguru’s body, traitorous and wanting, obeys.

Suguru’s thighs tense and twitch as they spread wider, forced by the weight of Satoru’s grip and the heat between them. His knees fall open, giving Satoru a sight no one’s ever had, no one’s ever earned . And Suguru hates how natural it feels, how easily his body betrays him when Satoru whispers that he’s doing good. That deep voice turns praise into chains, soft, careful loops that hold Suguru right there, open and wanting.

Satoru’s lips brush his ear, voice low, coaxing: “Gonna add another, yeah? ”

Suguru should bite him, curse him raw, and push him off, but instead he nods, his head tipping back against the couch cushion. The first push of the second finger makes his breath break, a thin, wrecked whimper slipping out as his body clenches. Then he loosens, melting around the stretch.

Satoru hums praise into his jaw, kissing him sloppy there. “That’s it, Suguru… ride it.” His free hand smooths over Suguru’s thigh, thick fingers digging into the muscle like he owns it. “Take it for me — fuck yourself on my hand.”

And Suguru does — hips rocking shallow, messy, needy little thrusts that press him down onto those thick fingers knifing deep inside. The pressure burns but it’s good — so good — and his spine arches when Satoru curls them just right, brushing places Suguru’s never touched himself.

Satoru’s voice drops, dark cockier now that he sees Suguru so undone. “Look at you — all stretched out. Gonna open you up so wide,” he murmurs, pressing kisses to Suguru’s parted lips. “Get you ready for my cock. Bet you’re tight — bet you’re warm. Bet you’re gonna take every inch for me.”

Suguru groans, filthy and low, mind buzzing at the thought of Satoru’s huge cock splitting him open. He shouldn’t want it — shouldn’t even think about begging for it, but his body betrays him, hips rolling faster on Satoru’s fingers, mouth parted on soft curses and shameless, broken moans.

He wants it. Wants to feel it. Wants to be wrecked by it. Suguru Kamo — the shadow heir, the untouchable — spread out on his own office couch, trembling for a cock he hasn’t even tasted yet. And he’d kill for it now.

Satoru removes his fingers, pulling a whimper from Suguru’s tight lips. He spits into the palm of his hand and strokes his hard and veiny cock til it’s slick. Then Satoru drags his cock through the mess on Suguru’s stomach, warm and slick, smearing over his skin in slow strokes that make Suguru’s abs tense. The sight is obscene, shameless — Satoru’s flushed face above him, hair falling into his eyes, glasses long gone. He looks down at Suguru like he’s the only thing that matters. 

 “You’re such a freak,” he huffs, breath catching when Satoru shifts closer, lining up. “Filthy creep—”

But his words melt when Satoru smiles — all shy and pleased, eyes bright behind that flushed face. “This is the best night of my life,” he says, like he’s confessing a secret. His voice is soft, warm, cutting through the haze in Suguru’s head.

Suguru wants to snap at him, wants to remind him who he’s touching — but instead his thighs spread wider. His own cock twitches where it rests against his stomach, metal bars catching the low light. He’s so ready it’s embarrassing.

Satoru gives a low laugh, leaning over him. He rubs his cockhead over Suguru’s slit once — a filthy tease — then presses their foreheads together. “Ready?”

Suguru glares, breathless — “Shut up and do it—”

Satoru pushes forward — slow, deliberate — until only his swollen tip presses past that tight ring of muscle. Suguru gasps, hips jerking in reflex, but Satoru’s big hand pushes him down. The stretch burns — it’s humiliating how good it feels.

“Easy,” Satoru murmurs, voice deep and calm. He leans in, brushing his lips over Suguru’s forehead — the tenderness of it so absurd that Suguru wants to bare his teeth. But the warmth in that soft kiss makes his lashes flutter instead.

Satoru’s hand slides up, fingers curling around Suguru’s thigh. He lifts it easily, draping it over his narrow waist. The angle makes the stretch worse.  Or better — Suguru doesn’t know anymore.

“Hold on if you need to,” Satoru breathes against his temple. He sounds too gentle for a man about to split him open. Suguru wants to say he won’t — he’s not weak, he doesn’t hold on to anyone — but the words catch in his throat when Satoru shifts his hips and the thick head pushes deeper, stealing the breath from his lungs.

Suguru’s arms lock around Satoru’s back, desperate and shaky, fingers digging into the hard muscle that flexes under his palms. He hates how he clings, but he can’t help it.  Every roll of Satoru’s hips pulls a sound out of him he’s never heard from his own throat.

Satoru doesn’t look away. He holds Suguru’s stare like he’s memorizing every twitch of pleasure, every ragged gasp. His eyes are foggy, lashes low but sharp.  His tongue flicks out to wet his lips between rough breaths, teeth catching that soft pink flesh before he moans into the space between them.

Suguru can’t stop watching  the way Satoru’s strong jaw clenches, and how the veins in his neck stand out when he drives deeper. His broad chest brushes Suguru’s when he shifts, the heat of him wrapping around Suguru like a cage.

The thrusts are slow, drawn out.  Satoru rolls his hips in deep, rolling circles that make Suguru’s gut burn. The filthy praise comes in Satoru’s ruined voice:  “So tight— fuck, you’re so warm, taking me so good— pulling me in so deep.”

He punctuates each word with a drag of his cock that makes Suguru whine. Satoru’s hand slips under Suguru’s knee, pushing his leg higher, spreading him wider.

“Can you feel me?” Satoru pants, his forehead pressed to Suguru’s, breath mixing with his own. “Tell me, Suguru — can you feel how deep I am? Am I doing it right?”

Suguru wants to snap at him — wants to tell him he’s an idiot, that of course he feels him — but all he manages is a guttural moan. He thinks for a heartbeat that Satoru can’t be a virgin, not with how he moves, not with how he makes Suguru’s mind go blank. The only thing big enough to rival his cock is that smug, reckless ego that Suguru is starting to crave.

Satoru kisses him again — deeper this time, mouth open and hungry, swallowing Suguru’s moans right from his throat. Their breaths tangle in the sloppy kiss, teeth knocking, lips slick. Every time Satoru pulls back, he chases Suguru’s mouth like he can’t stand to part for a second.

His hips pick up a steady pace.  Not rough yet but faster, pushing in deep enough to make Suguru’s thighs tremble. Suguru’s nails dig half-moons into Satoru’s back, desperate to hold onto something solid as he pants between gasps.

Satoru’s voice is a low chant in his ear — filthy praise and ragged curses spilling out like he can’t stop. “Made for this, aren’t you — fuck, you’re perfect.”

Each word winds tighter around Suguru’s spine, making his cock twitch where it’s pinned between their stomachs. He can barely think — every old memory of bad, boring sex with cold bodies and bored faces burns away under Satoru’s weight. This is different. It’s too good — too raw — it makes him feel brand new.

Suguru buries his face in Satoru’s neck, breath hot and broken. His mind is slipping, drowning in how deep Satoru reaches, how every push drags him closer to a high he doesn’t want to fight.

Suguru’s voice cracks between gasps — “Faster— fuck, go faster!” and Satoru obeys without missing a beat, nodding with that same eager, reckless devotion that makes Suguru want to bite his shoulder bloody.

Satoru’s thrusts grow rougher, each one jolting Suguru’s hips higher on the couch. Suguru’s back arches, the sloppy knot of his hair shaking loose until dark strands cling to his damp forehead. He claws at Satoru’s shoulders, pulls him down, mouths crashing together again in a messy kiss full of teeth and tongue.

Satoru breaks the kiss just enough to pant against Suguru’s lips, voice hoarse and ruined, “Does it feel good?”

Suguru tries to speak but he can only moan — breathless, shameless. Every push sinks Satoru deeper, so far that Suguru swears he can feel the thick drag in his guts, a stretch that makes him dizzy. His thighs tremble around Satoru’s hips, locked tight as if he’ll die if they part.

The wet slap of skin, the low curses from Satoru’s mouth, the way they cling to each other like they’ll never let go — Suguru’s brain is white noise, pleasure spilling over until he’s mindless under Satoru’s weight.

They’re both shaking — Suguru’s thighs quivering where they’re hooked tight around Satoru’s hips, nails dragging down his back in broken lines. Satoru’s breath catches, his voice a mess of curses and praise as he pants out, “I’m gonna come, Suguru—come with me!”

Suguru tries to speak, but the only thing that leaves his throat is a wrecked whimper. He nods, weak, eyes glazed and wet. That nod does something to Satoru — he groans, slams their mouths together, kissing Suguru like he owns every breath.

Their bodies snap tight at the same time — Satoru’s hips stutter, buried so deep inside that Suguru swears he feels the warmth pulse up into his stomach. Suguru’s cock jerks between them, caught in the tight press of their bellies, and he spills, thick and hot, more than he ever has. It slicks their skin, drips down his abs and Satoru’s.

Satoru holds him through it, forehead pressed to Suguru’s, murmuring broken praises.“Good, so good, fuck, look at you.”

Suguru can’t — he’s blind with it, with how full he is, how good it feels to be undone like this. He tries to count how many times he’s come tonight but it’s pointless — this is more than he’s ever spilled in his life. And it’s all for Satoru.

Satoru collapses on top of him — all long limbs and spent muscle, heavy where he presses Suguru into the couch. Suguru should hate it. He should hate the mess, the stickiness of come drying on his stomach, the warmth still dripping out of him, the weight of a big, stupid nerd crushing his ribs. He should. But he doesn’t.

It feels good. It feels right. The weight pins him in place in a way nothing else can. He breathes, slow and easy, and lets his hands roam up Satoru’s back — fingers tracing over the fresh marks he left there, nails soothing where they’d once scratched raw.

Satoru hums, nose buried against Suguru’s neck. He shifts just enough to undo the knot in Suguru’s bun, gentle fingers combing through the sweat-damp strands until they fan loose across the pillow. He finds the tender spot at Suguru’s scalp and scratches, slow.

Suguru purrs — an embarrassing, soft sound he can’t bite back.

“Hey,” Satoru mumbles, voice warm and ruined. “You okay?”

Suguru huffs, tilting his head so Satoru’s fingers can reach deeper. “Yeah.” He slips his other hand up, thumb brushing the shell of Satoru’s ear. “You?”

Satoru lifts his head and flashes that lazy, blissed-out grin. “Perfect.” He dips down again — lips brushing Suguru’s temple, then his cheek, the corner of his mouth, the soft swell under his eye. He kisses him everywhere, careful and greedy all at once.

Suguru knows he should push him off — the shadow heir of the Yakuza, pinned under a man who kisses him like he’s something gentle, something good. He should care. He should hate it.

But his cheeks burn, his chest loosens, and he lets Satoru kiss him stupid. Lets himself be soft. Only for this moment. 

They stay tangled up, bodies pressed close, warmth traded in quiet breaths. Suguru doesn’t mean to drift — one moment he’s awake, chasing the soft scrape of Satoru’s nails through his hair, the next he’s gone, pulled under by exhaustion and the lull of Satoru’s heartbeat against his chest.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He doesn’t remember Satoru moving, doesn’t remember the couch shifting or the weight lifting off his ribs.

What he does remember is the cold. The bitter bite of it on his skin when he blinks awake, alone. 

His clothes are folded. Neat. Pressed flat and stacked on the corner of the couch that’s been wiped down, spotless, not a trace left behind except for the phantom ache inside him.

Suguru sits up, drags shaking fingers through his hair, feels the anger bloom sharp on his tongue. He can taste it — copper and heat, curdling behind his teeth.

Satoru Gojo thinks he can leave him like this. Thinks he can fuck him open, kiss him sweet, clean him as gentle as a lover — and vanish.

Suguru breathes out a laugh that doesn’t sound right in the empty room.

He’s going to find Satoru Gojo, and he’s going to kill him.

Suguru sits low on the worn couch, legs spread wide—an unspoken claim to the space, to the moment. His gaze is fixed, sharp and unforgiving, on the door. The dull scrape of the knife’s flicking open and closed cuts through the thick silence, rhythmic, almost meditative, but beneath it all is a storm ready to break.

The apartment feels too clean, sterile almost, for two college guys. No discarded clothes slouching in corners, no empty cans, no scattered papers. It’s unnerving. His mind drifts, sharp and bitter, to Choso’s childhood—how messy that boy had been. How Suguru had spent endless hours wiping up after him, pushing back the chaos with his own hands. That mess had been manageable. This? This was different.

Fury coils inside him, tight and fierce. Friday’s memory gnaws relentlessly at the edges of his control. How had it come to this? How had he ended up beneath Satoru Gojo, broken and abandoned when he should have been the one in command, the one who took?

His jaw clenches. No one walks away from Suguru Kamo—not without consequences. The thought settles over him like a weight, cold but promising fire beneath.

The knife flicks open again, sharp and bright in the fading light. His fingers flex around it, craving action, craving retribution. Every click is a promise he’s etching into the air: waiting. Watching. Calculating. Ready.

The front door swings open, and Satoru Gojo steps inside—back to that awkward, nerdy version of himself Suguru knows too well. His crisp white button-down shirt is perfectly tucked beneath a black sweater vest, khaki pants sharp and neat, black loafers clicking softly against the floor.

Suguru’s gaze lingers on him, cold and hard, like a predator watching its prey. He doesn’t move from the couch, legs splayed with casual dominance, the pocket knife flicking open and closed between his fingers—a small, steady sound that somehow matches the pounding of his heart.

Satoru freezes, caught off guard by Suguru’s presence. His eyes widen in surprise, a flicker of fear—quick, raw—flashing across his face. The flinch is subtle but unmistakable. Suguru’s chest tightens, a rush of satisfaction mingling with the still-burning anger.

“What are you doing in my apartment?” Satoru asks, voice tense but trying to steady itself. “And how the hell did you get in here?”

Suguru’s smirk deepens, slow and deliberate, like the twist of a knife. “I’ll be the one asking the questions.” His voice is low, controlled, but beneath it lies a storm of emotions—anger, hurt, and an aching need for control that’s almost desperate.

He wants to pin Satoru down with more than just words. He needs this. He needs to remind Satoru who holds the power between them. Suguru is older, stronger, and right now, he carries the weight of every slight, every betrayal.

Inside, his mind races—part fury, part something darker, rawer. He came here with a singular purpose: to either kill Satoru or to fuck him first—and then kill him. The thought grips him tight, both a threat and a twisted kind of comfort in the chaos swirling inside.

Satoru steps slowly into the living room, each measured step closing the distance between them. Suguru rises from the couch, muscles tense beneath his shirt. He can’t tower over Satoru—Gojo’s taller, a full head above him—but Suguru doesn’t need height. He locks Satoru with a blank, unflinching stare—the same look that shatters the will of his loyal Yakuza men, that breaks enemies into submission. This college kid won’t be any different.

“Did you have fun?” Suguru asks, voice low, sharp.

For a moment, Satoru goes blank. Then his eyes drift inward, recalling Friday night—the way everything had burned bright and reckless. “It was the best night of my life,” he says, voice honest, sincere. So genuine that for a flicker, Suguru almost believes him. Almost feels his resolve crack, the edges soften.

But he can’t be fooled. Can’t be played.

Suguru scoffs, a dark laugh curling at the corners of his mouth. “You really expect me to believe that?”

Confusion flashes across Satoru’s face, but Suguru watches carefully, reading the gears turning behind those sharp eyes. Then the realization hits him, slow and clear.

“Is it… because I left?” Satoru asks, quieter now. Vulnerable. “Did you want me to stay?”

For a breath — maybe two — Suguru’s carefully forged mask fractures. The unyielding steel of his gaze softens for a moment, revealing raw emotion beneath: hurt, confusion, and a flicker of something almost like regret. But the moment is fleeting. He clamps down, tightening his jaw like it’s the only thing keeping the storm inside at bay.

“No,” he says, voice clipped, distant, colder than before.

The words taste bitter on his tongue, but he swallows them whole. This is the truth he’s lived by — a cold, brutal rule to keep himself safe. He’s the one who walks away, the one who leaves behind the mess. Never has anyone left him. And that—more than anything—gnaws at his pride, carving deep into the edges of his ego.

He came here to settle it. To remind Satoru exactly who holds the power, who commands the game. To put the boy in his place before he lets himself slip too far into something dangerous.

But Satoru’s not deterred. His voice drops, soft and sincere. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do after. I’ve never had sex before, and I didn’t want Yuji to find us.”

Suguru’s breath catches, sharp and unexpected. His tongue nearly betrays him, words itching to fly out — curses, insults, all the venom he’s been saving. But then, disbelief roots him in place.

“You’re a virgin?” The question slips out, raw and unguarded.

Satoru’s face burns crimson, the faintest nervous laugh trembling at his lips. His hand rubs the back of his neck, sheepish and small. “Well… not anymore.”

Suguru’s mind spins — shock folding into a mix of protectiveness and a fierce, unfamiliar tenderness clawing at his insides. The anger simmers but doesn’t fade; it warps, twisting into a new and complicated feeling. He’s supposed to be the one in control — but right now, all he feels is the sudden weight of how much he wants to understand, to hold, maybe even forgive.

Suguru shoves the softness down, stuffs it deep where it can’t reach him. He’s not supposed to care — not about this idiot in front of him. He cares about himself, about Choso.  Sometimes Yuki, when she’s not tangled up in his brother’s sheets, which he tries very hard not to think about. And Yuji, but only because Choso does. Family ties are messy, knotted things, but they don’t make him soft.

He’s the one who holds the blade in every room he steps into. The big, bad heir, the shadow boss who’s never left wanting. That’s who he is. That’s who Satoru needs to see right now.

The faint warmth Satoru’s confession stirred in him burns away. Suguru steps forward, closing the last inches of space between them, eyes locked on Satoru’s wide blue gaze.

“Do you think I give a fuck?” Suguru spits, voice low and dangerous. “Is that your excuse?”

Before Satoru can stammer out another half-truth, Suguru jabs a finger into his chest — the black polish stark against Satoru’s pristine white shirt, pressing just above his heart.

“No one walks away from me,” Suguru says, each word sharpened to a threat. “Especially you.”

Satoru’s eyes flick down to the finger digging into his chest, then back up — wide, searching Suguru’s face like he’s trying to understand.

Suguru’s face is pressed into the thin dorm pillow, muffling the broken sounds tearing out of him. The scratchy sheets bunch beneath his fists, knuckles white where he grips them like a lifeline. His pants are tangled useless around his ankles, shoes still on, one sock half-off—undone in the most humiliating, desperate way.

Behind him, Satoru is buried between his spread thighs, mouth hot and relentless. Every flick of his tongue makes Suguru’s hips jerk, makes his breath catch on a sob that shouldn’t be leaving his throat. He’s supposed to be in charge. He came here to remind Satoru of that—yet now he’s the one shaking apart, ass in the air, crying into a dorm pillow that smells like cheap detergent and Satoru’s stupid cologne.

Satoru groans against him, the sound low, hungry. His fingers are deep inside Suguru—stretching, curling, coaxing out more of those humiliating, needy noises Suguru can’t choke down. He hates it—hates how good it feels, how easy it is to give in, how quickly the threat turned into this ruin.

Another whimper claws its way out of him, wet and raw, and Satoru pulls back to catch his breath, voice hushed but shaking with awe.

“God, you’re perfect…” he murmurs, before diving back in, tongue pushing deep as his fingers spread Suguru wider—open, trembling, and helpless to stop any of it.

Suguru’s throat burns with every whimper he bites down, each one forcing its way out no matter how hard he tries to bury it in the pillow. Heat coils sick and thick in his gut, shame pressing harder than Satoru’s fingers inside him. He’s supposed to be the one holding the knife, not trembling like this—face down, ass up, dripping all over cheap dorm sheets while this stupid boy genius has him spread open like a gift.

His cock is hard—painfully so—leaking a messy trail that stains the sheets under his belly. He can feel it, hot and humiliating against his skin, proof of how far he’s fallen.

Behind him, Satoru breathes out a quiet, reverent laugh against his skin. “God, I missed you. Been dreaming about you, y’know that?” His voice is soft, sincere in that infuriating way that makes Suguru want to turn around and slap the look off his face. “I’ve touched myself every night since. I moan your name, Suguru. I still feel you on me.” 

Then Satoru’s hand slides forward, wraps around Suguru’s cock—hot, pulsing, slick. Suguru shudders, a choked moan breaking loose as Satoru strokes him, thumb teasing the swollen head.

“Been thinking about this cock,” Satoru murmurs, voice trembling, eyes fixed on the way Suguru twitches in his grip. “How pretty it is. How good it tasted. How big you are—fuck.”

Suguru twists his head just enough to see him—Satoru kneeling there like he’s worshiping him, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. That earnest, open look on his stupid face makes Suguru’s teeth grit—he wants to wipe it away, wants to ruin it.

Satoru squeezes his cock, firm, coaxing another broken sound from Suguru’s throat. “Do you wanna come?” he asks, tone gentle but pleading. “Huh? Do you?”

Suguru stays silent, nails digging into the sheets, refusing to give him the satisfaction—until Satoru’s grip tightens again.

“Tell me,” Satoru whispers, voice caught between teasing and desperate. “You’re in charge, right? That’s why you came here. So tell me to make you come. Command me.”

He’s begging—soft but insistent, breathing Suguru in like he’d say yes to anything if it came from his lips.

Suguru’s breath shakes, caught somewhere between surrender and defiance. Maybe it’s giving in—maybe it’s taking back control in the only way he can. He doesn’t know anymore. Doesn’t care. His pride is raw and aching, but the heat in his gut wins out. He lifts his head, voice low, ruined.

“Make me come.”

The second the words leave him, Satoru nods.Overeager, too sincere, with that stupid gleam in his eyes. Suguru expects the strokes to return right away, expects to feel Satoru’s hand milking him to the edge. But instead, the grip vanishes. The sudden absence rips a frustrated sound from his throat.

He turns, confusion flickering hot—until he catches the sight of Satoru unbuttoning his khakis, shoving them down. His cock springs free—hard, flushed, so obscenely ready it makes Suguru’s pulse pound.

Satoru’s hand curls around himself, pumping slowly as he spits into his palm, working the slick down his length. It’s filthy. Too raw for this cramped, cheap dorm room. Suguru’s lips part, a sharp retort on his tongue—lost when Satoru’s spit-slick fingers close around his cock again.

Suguru moans, hips twitching helplessly. He shouldn’t sound like this. He shouldn’t feel like this—open, vulnerable, desperate for every deplorable thing Satoru wants to do.

He tries to focus, tries to catch his breath, but then Satoru’s other hand slides down, spreading him wide again. Cool air hits his spit-slick hole, and he flinches when Satoru spits on it again, warm and obscene.

Suguru clenches around nothing, another moan tearing out of him, muffled into the pillow. The slick slide of Satoru’s hand strokes his cock just right—too right—and then there’s the blunt heat of Satoru’s tip, pressing insistently at his entrance.

The stretch starts slow,pain and want tangled up tight as Satoru pushes in, one inch at a time, filling him again when he swore he’d never let it happen. Another moan slips out—helpless, raw—echoing off the walls that have heard far too much already.

Satoru moves like he’s memorized every part of him—thrusts slow and deep, each one hitting so perfectly that Suguru’s mind blanks around it. Every drag and push sets off sparks behind his eyes, heat crawling up his spine until his toes curl uselessly against the sheets.

Satoru’s hand doesn’t falter on his cock, stroking him in time with every roll of his hips. It shouldn’t feel this good. Suguru’s throat works around another helpless moan, mind stumbling over the question that won’t stop echoing— How is he even focusing? Suguru can’t. He can’t think, can’t plan, can’t remember why he was angry in the first place. It’s all being fucked out of him, pounded away with every snap of Satoru’s hips and the slick glide of his fist.

The thin dorm bed creaks and knocks against the wall, rhythmic and rough. Suguru clings to the sheets, forehead pressed down, breath catching on every choked sob of pleasure that spills out before he can swallow it back.

Behind him, Satoru’s voice breaks apart—soft moans and hushed praises slipping out between desperate thrusts. “God—so beautiful, Suguru! So tight— perfect—only you—only you!”

Each word burns through him, emotions dangerous and sweet that coils deep in his gut. He should hate it. He should hate the way it makes him shudder and push his hips back to meet Satoru’s cock, the way he’s giving this nerd the power to ruin him from the inside out.

Suguru arches, a wrecked sound tearing out as Satoru hits him deep and perfect, over and over, hand squeezing his cock. He’s letting this dork, this too-sincere genius, ruin him—body, mind, and every inch of pride he thought he still had left.

Suguru’s so close he can taste it—his cock twitching in Satoru’s fist, hole clenching tight around every deep, perfect thrust. It’s too much—heat sparking behind his eyes, breath catching in his throat as the world narrows down to the slick drag of Satoru’s hand and the relentless way he fucks him open.

Satoru leans over him, voice ragged, sweet in a way that makes Suguru’s chest ache. “It’s okay, baby. Come, Suguru,let go.”

Suguru doesn’t need more than that. He breaks with a choked moan, legs shaking violently as his cock jerks in Satoru’s grip. Hot stripes of come spill across the ruined sheets, his thighs trembling where they’re pinned wide. His whole body goes loose, muscles unspooling into boneless relief. He collapses onto the mattress, cheek pressed to the damp pillow, breath ragged and heavy.

For a second, he expects Satoru to fall over him, to bury him under that warm, clumsy weight like last time—but Satoru doesn’t stop.

He shifts instead, hands sliding under Suguru’s thighs, lifting them until they fold up tight against Suguru’s chest.His legs bend in a helpless V-shape that leaves him wide open. The new angle knocks a rough gasp out of him—his oversensitive body jerking as Satoru drives in harder, faster, chasing the end he’s been holding back.

Satoru groans, messy, sweat dampening his hair as he thrusts into the tight heat.He’s so deep that Suguru can’t do anything but cling to the sheets and take it. The slap of Satoru’s hips echoes off the dorm walls, punctuated by the sharp crack of his palm smacking Suguru’s ass. The sound tears a raw, desperate moan from Suguru’s throat, shame and pleasure tangling so tight he can’t breathe through it.

A few more frantic thrusts, sloppy and deep—then Satoru chokes out a wrecked cry. His hips slam flush, buried to the hilt as he comes, cock pulsing inside.

Suguru feels it—heat flooding him, thick and so much of it that his walls flutter around the stretch. Satoru spills deep, hips rolling through every last wave until both of them are trembling, moaning, filled and spent.

Satoru doesn’t pull out—doesn’t even move to. Instead, he stays buried deep, hips pressed tight as if the possibility of leaving Suguru empty is unthinkable. His breath is hot against Suguru’s sweat-damp skin as he leans forward, mouth finding the dip at the base of Suguru’s spine.

He kisses there—soft, reverent—and then drags his lips higher, leaving a trail of open-mouthed promises up the curve of Suguru’s back. Between each kiss, his voice cracks out in a broken whisper, warm and too sincere.

“I’m sorry,” Satoru murmurs, lips brushing the space between Suguru’s shoulder blades. “I’ll never leave you again. Never hurt you. I’ll stay in your bed until you tell me to go. I swear.”

Suguru should tell him to shut up—should twist around and spit poison into that sweet mouth. Should tell him he doesn’t know what he’s saying, that he shouldn’t want to belong to someone like Suguru Kamo. That he’s evil, broken, cruel by design—that he’ll ruin Satoru from the inside out, hollow him out until there’s nothing left but ash and regret.

He should say it. He should drive him away.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, Suguru tilts his head, letting Satoru’s words bury themselves deep where the last pieces of him still feel human. He wants it. Wants to own him. Wants to keep this bright, stupid boy genius chained to him in ways no one else can touch.

Satoru’s mouth finds his shoulder, then his neck, then higher still—until he’s nudging Suguru’s jaw, capturing his lips in a kiss that's so tender it aches.

Suguru moans against him, the sound small and warm, his mouth parting for Satoru’s without a fight. He lets him take it, lets him have it—lets him belong to him, just like this.

Satoru shifts behind him, careful but insistent, his cock still buried deep inside. The cramped bed squeaks under the awkward shuffle as he maneuvers them, turning Suguru onto his side until Suguru’s back is flush against his chest. The sheets are twisted around their legs, the air thick with heat and sweat and the soft, wet sound of them still connected.

Suguru’s breath catches, but he doesn’t fight it. He should. He should pull away, reclaim the space that’s always been his alone. But instead he lets it happen—lets himself be held.

Satoru buries his nose in Suguru’s hair, breathing him in like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense. His chest is warm against Suguru’s back, heartbeat steady and open in a way that makes Suguru’s throat feel tight.

Then Satoru finds Suguru’s hand in the mess of blankets, fingers slipping between his, palms pressing together. He laces their hands tight—like a vow he won’t let go of, no matter how many warnings Suguru should spit at him.

For a second, Suguru just stares at their joined hands, rough skin and black polish scraped at the edges. Then, before he can think too hard, he leans in and presses his lips to Satoru’s knuckle—a soft, fleeting kiss. The gentlest thing he’s ever done. The most dangerous, too.

He could leave. He should. It would be smart—safe—what any sane man in his position would do. But he doesn’t move. He stays right there, breathing in Satoru’s warmth, tangled up in him like he’s already his to ruin.

Chapter Text

Suguru leans against his Harley, the polished chrome catching the weak afternoon sun, his leather jacket creaking when he shifts his weight. The limo idles behind him, a silent statement that no matter how much he plays at being normal, he’ll always be this —the heir, the shadow, the threat waiting to be summoned.

He doesn’t have plans today. He should. There’s always something that needs his attention—clan business, meetings, quiet threats to remind the old men who’s really in charge. But he’s here instead, boots planted on Tokyo University’s clean pavement, waiting for Yuji like he’s some bored chauffeur with too much money and too little sense.

It’s reckless. He knows it. Satoru’s been texting him all week, stupid things—What are you doing? Did you eat? Miss you. Suguru hasn’t replied. Can’t. He wants to, wants to tear down every wall between them and crawl inside that bright, ridiculous warmth. However, distractions like Satoru can put him in danger of being killed. Can get Satoru killed.

Still, he feels like a dick about it.

He catches movement—Yuji, bounding across the quad like a big golden retriever, twenty but still baby-soft around the eyes. He’s waving, calling Suguru’s name like he hasn’t seen him in years, not just last week.

Suguru straightens, mouth twitching at the corner despite himself. He lifts a hand in a small, lazy wave—barely there, but enough.

Yuji barrels into him, arms wrapping tight around Suguru’s middle. Suguru lets him cling, feels the heat of him, the uncomplicated loyalty. He lets it last a beat longer than he usually does—long enough to almost pretend he’s a good brother—and then pushes him off with a palm to the shoulder.

“Oi. Don’t get used to this,” Suguru says, voice dry but softer than it should be.

Yuji beams at him, all teeth. “Best part of my week, nii-san! Seriously—so cool pulling up like this. Everyone’s jealous.”

Suguru’s about to roll his eyes when something over Yuji’s shoulder catches him— someone.

Satoru.

Standing there like he stepped out of a stupid daydream, soft pink sweater loose on his frame, the deep V dipping just enough to tease at the line of his collarbones. There’s that shell necklace at his throat—Suguru’s never seen him wear that before—and a phone in his hand, forgotten now that he’s looking at Suguru. He still has his black round glasses. Suguru’s glad that hasn’t changed. 

Suguru’s chest tightens in a way he hates. He shouldn’t smile. But he does—a small curve of his mouth, barely there. For Satoru, it’s enough.

Yuji glances between them—between Suguru’s small, sharp smile and Satoru’s soft, wide-eyed calm—and his grin flickers. 

“Uh—well, I kinda need to study with Satoru. We’ve got that big test Monday…” Yuji trails off, voice dipping, like he knows he’s pushing his luck asking this brother for favors.

Suguru doesn’t miss a beat. He tilts his head, dark eyes lazy but sharp enough to cut. “Did you ask our dear father if you could have guests over?”

The way Yuji’s face drops—pathetic, crestfallen, like he’s twelve again instead of twenty—would almost be funny if Suguru didn’t feel that familiar pang of coldness when Kenjaku’s name is spoken out loud.

Yuji’s voice goes small. “No… but you could tell him, right? Please?” He tries for puppy eyes. Suguru scoffs, sharp and mean on instinct.

“No.”

Yuji whines—actually whines—and before he can launch into full begging, Satoru steps in, voice so soft it cuts through the tension anyway.

“It’s okay, Yuji. Really. We can find somewhere else to study—”

But Suguru’s already recovering, catching Satoru’s eye like a spark struck flint. He doesn’t miss the small flicker of disappointment on Satoru’s face—like he’s already pulling away, bracing for Suguru’s coldness. It pisses him off in a way he can’t explain.

Suguru clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes like this is all a joke—because for Yuji, it has to be. “Relax. I’m messing with you. It’s fine. The old man won’t care.” A somewhat lie. Kenjaku would hate it, but Kenjaku won’t lift a finger against his favorite golden child.

Yuji’s face splits into a sunbeam, all relief and childish delight. He punches the air like he’s won a game. “Yes! Satoru, let’s go—come on!” He grabs Satoru’s hand without thinking, tugging him toward the waiting limo like they’re best friends instead of classmates.

Suguru watches the way Satoru’s fingers fit between Yuji’s. Hunger curls low in his gut. He masks it fast, lips curling into a smirk as he calls after them, teasing.

“Oi—Yuji. You don’t wanna ride on nii-san’s bike instead?”

Yuji’s face lights up like a firework—bright enough that Suguru almost forgets how exhausting it is to keep him this happy all the time.

“Wait? You mean it? Really?”

Suguru rolls his eyes, already reaching for the spare helmet hooked on the handlebars. He shoves it at Yuji’s chest, tone dry but warm at the edges. “Yeah, yeah. Get on before I change my mind.”

Yuji whoops loud enough to make a few students look over. He practically launches himself at the bike, fingers fumbling with the helmet straps. Suguru stands there, arms crossed, eyes sharp even as he fights a smirk. He’s going to regret letting the kid take off on his Harley, but he needs Yuji out of the way; he needs Satoru alone.

Still—he’s a good brother. He steps forward, adjusting the straps when Yuji tangles them, tugging the helmet snug under his chin. Yuji swats at his hands like a kid embarrassed by too much fussing.

“I’ve got it, nii-san!” Yuji whines, but he’s grinning, eyes shining under the visor.

Suguru lets out a small chuckle, palm tapping the top of Yuji’s helmet for good measure. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t crash it. Or I’ll kill you before Kenjaku does.”

Yuji laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the world, throws one leg over, and revs the bike. Its engine snarls loud enough to turn heads. Suguru watches him—stupid, reckless, too bright for his own good—and files away the softness for later.

He turns just in time to catch Satoru lingering awkwardly by the open limo door, big eyes flicking between Suguru and the bike. Suguru gestures, all smooth confidence again.

“Get in.”

Satoru hesitates, like he’s not sure if he’s being lured somewhere he shouldn’t want to go. But then he ducks inside, sweater brushing Suguru’s arm in a way that sparks heat low in his gut.

Yuji peels off down the street, engine growling, and Suguru watches until the bike vanishes past the campus gates. Then he slips into the limo, shuts the door behind him.  One flick of his fingers, the dark glass partition glides close, sealing them off from the world outside. 

Suguru leans against the smooth leather seat, studying Satoru in the hush of the cabin. The engine hums under them, but the real noise is the silence, sharp and loaded as Satoru fidgets under his stare.

The sweater catches Suguru’s eye again, soft pink, cut deep at the collar. A line of bare skin where a button-up used to hide it, the delicate shell necklace hugging the base of his throat. He looks damn good. But Suguru can see it, clear as day: Satoru’s hands fussing with the hem, thumb brushing over the ribbed knit like he’s trying to cover up the skin he wanted to show.

Suguru tilts his head, voice smooth but carrying that quiet bite that makes men twice his age flinch. “So… who’d you get all dressed up for?”

Satoru startles, blinking fast like he didn’t expect it. He stammers then squares his shoulders, blurting out— “Myself.”

Suguru hums. Says nothing. Shrugs once, slow. Lets the silence settle in again, heavier this time. He watches how Satoru shifts under it, fingers brushing the shell beads at his throat. Their eyes lock in a charged little war neither of them wants to win.

Then, soft but too damn sharp for how pretty he looks right now, Satoru asks, “Do you like it?”

Suguru huffs out a low chuckle, lips twitching. So—apparently, he’s not the only one who knows how to twist a knife just right. He lets the smile ghost across his face as he leans forward a fraction, voice low. “Do you want me to like it?” His eyes drag over the line of collarbone, the soft sweater, the flush creeping up Satoru’s neck. “Did you get all dressed up for me?”

Satoru’s mouth parts—then he laughs, quiet and embarrassed, a hand brushing his hair back. “I just wanted to try something new. Really. But… I thought maybe I’d see you again, too.”

Suguru holds his stare for a beat, lets the silence turn warm instead of sharp this time. Then, finally, he lets it slip free, soft and honest enough that it surprises even him. “You look good. But there was nothing wrong with your other clothes.”

It hits its mark—Satoru’s whole face brightens like someone turned on a light. It does something to Suguru’s ribs, cracks something open he doesn’t have a name for.

But then Satoru looks down, his voice smaller. “Are you mad at me?”

Suguru’s brow arches. “No. Why?”

Satoru fidgets with the cuff of his sleeve, shoulders curling in a little. “I texted you. I guess you had better things to do than text me.”

The words slip under Suguru’s skin in a way he hates. He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t care that Satoru thinks he’s just another name on a list. But he does. Because that’s not true—Suguru makes time for the few people he wants to keep close. He’s made time for Choso, for Yuji. He’d make time for Satoru, too, if he weren’t so fucking terrifying.

He watches him—this bright, stupid, sincere thing he’s let get too close already. Satoru doesn’t know what he is to Suguru yet. Suguru doesn’t know either—except that he wants him. Wants him so much it’s messing him up in ways the clan never could.

He didn’t mean to hurt him. He just needed distance. Space to keep his mind clear. To remember who he is, what he can’t afford to lose.

But even now, staring at Satoru’s flushed throat, Suguru knows one thing for certain: distance never works. Not with this one. Not with him.

Suguru curses under his breath, low enough that it buzzes in his chest instead of the air. He presses the heel of his hand to the bridge of his nose, eyes shut for a second like he’s trying to squeeze out the ache that’s settled there. He’s never been good at this. Feelings. Soft things. Whatever the fuck this thing between him and Satoru is trying to be.

But he wants him. Wants to keep him around. That’s enough for now. It has to be.

Suguru shifts in his seat, the leather creaking as he slides closer, closing the space between them in the cramped back of the limo. Satoru watches him, wide-eyed but not scared—never scared. Suguru plants his hand on Satoru’s thigh: not hard, not possessive, just there. Warm through the soft knit of that stupid pink sweater. Something to ground both of them.

He doesn’t apologize. He never does. He just lets out a quiet breath, eyes steady on Satoru’s face. “I was busy.”

Satoru doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. He just shrugs, a soft little huff through his nose. “So was I. Still thought about you.”

That… lands. Suguru feels it like a punch under the ribs. He didn’t expect that boldness—didn’t think this bright, clumsy genius had it in him. He folds his arms, settling back a little, searching Satoru’s face for the lie he knows isn’t there.

“Alright,” Suguru says, voice a touch rough. “What would you like, then?”

Satoru’s fingers drum on his knee, eyes flicking down to where Suguru’s hand still rests warm on his thigh. “I’d like you to reply.”

Suguru lets out a short laugh, quiet but genuine, disbelief tangled in it. “Alright. What else?”

Satoru’s lashes flick up—blue eyes meeting his, steady. There’s no stutter in him now, no blush to hide behind. “I’d like to see you more. Not just when Yuji’s around. I wanna get to know you.”

It knocks the air out of him in a way that feels dangerous. Suguru tips his head, a grin twitching at the corner of his mouth—sharp, teasing, but there’s no real bite behind it. “What—wanna make me your boyfriend, Gojo?”

Satoru pauses like he’s actually thinking about it, instead of flinching or laughing it off like any sane person should. He chews his lip, tilts his head, and then nods. Simple, devastating. “Yeah. I do. I’ve never had one. Never cared to. But… I like you enough. I want to try.”

Suguru’s stunned—so stunned it cracks something deep inside. He never thought he’d be here —someone asking for more. Asking for pieces of him he’s never given anyone. He doesn’t even know if there are pieces to give—if anything inside him is soft enough to survive this.

He thinks about all the blood on his hands. About the shadows that follow his name. The way this ends for people like him—and for people stupid enough to stand beside him. Satoru doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he’s asking for.

“I’m not good at that. Relationships.”

“You ever been in one?”

“No.”

Satoru’s mouth curls—this quiet, earnest thing that hits harder than a threat. “Then you don’t know.”

Suguru barks out a laugh that doesn’t sound like one, his thumb brushing over Satoru’s thigh. “The sex isn’t bad for me, you know. Doubt it’s bad for you.”

Satoru’s grin is crooked and wolfish all at once. “No. I like it. But I’d like more. I’m willing to give you that. But you have to meet me halfway, Suguru.”

Suguru sits there, the limo humming around them, Satoru’s warmth pressed against his palm. He doesn’t know how to do this. Doesn’t know if he can. But the worst part, the part that terrifies him the most, is how much he wants to try.

“Okay,” Suguru says, voice rough but certain enough to make it real.

It’s barely out of his mouth before Satoru’s face splits into that grin—bright, relieved, Satoru—and then he’s kissing him. Soft at first, lips brushing, catching on the corner of Suguru’s mouth like he’s reminding himself it’s allowed.

Suguru melts. He hates how easy it is; how his spine softens, his shoulders drop, how the ache that’s been gnawing at him all week finally goes quiet. He’s missed this. Him. Missed the stupid warmth of Satoru’s mouth, the taste of him, the way he kisses like it’s the only thing in the world worth doing right.

When Satoru pulls back, he doesn’t go far—just enough to breathe the words against Suguru’s lips, warm and honest. “My room still smells like you.”

Suguru grunts, tries to bite down the heat that flickers in his chest. “Don’t say shit like that.”

Satoru scoffs—a breath of a laugh against his mouth—and kisses him again, deeper this time, enough to drag a low sound out of Suguru’s throat. Then his big hands slide to Suguru’s waist, firm but careful as he tugs him closer, pulls him right onto his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Suguru lets him. He shouldn’t. He should be fighting it, teeth bared, walls up. He should run—put miles between him and this stupid, bright, dangerous softness. But instead, he shifts closer, legs spreading to straddle Satoru’s thighs, letting the warmth soak right through him.

Satoru’s hands settle firmly on his waist, thumbs brushing slow circles through his shirt. It’s grounding, but it isn’t. Suguru feels untethered, weightless, high off something more dangerous than any drug.

His hands drift up, fingers weaving behind Satoru’s neck—thick and warm under his palms—then cup his jaw, thumbs brushing the sharp line of his cheeks. He kisses him again, softer now, a hum slipping out that he tries and fails to swallow down.

Satoru pulls back, just enough to ghost his breath over Suguru’s jaw. “ Missed you, ” he murmurs, so close the words sink right into Suguru’s skin.

Suguru huffs, tries for a smirk, but it comes out too soft. “Of course you did.”

The answer earns him a soft bite—teeth grazing his neck, lips tugging at the spot that makes his stomach twist. Satoru mouths at his skin, works his way back to Suguru’s lips, nibbling them between his teeth.

“Say it,” Satoru murmurs, low and coaxing. “Say you missed me.”

Suguru shivers. Every nerve under his skin sparks to life. He should lie. Should hold it back. But then Satoru’s hips rock up, slowly grinding their cocks together through layers of clothes, and Suguru’s mind blanks. His doubts are replaced by the raw pulse of want, sharp and sweet.

Satoru’s lips brush his again—“Say it—”

Suguru’s breath stutters. He leans in, presses their foreheads together, forces himself to hold that stupid, wide-open gaze—those stupid blue eyes that see too much.

His lips part on a soft, shaky exhale. “I missed you.”

They’re a mess before they even reach the end of the block—too close, too desperate, too far gone to care that the city outside might catch a glimpse through tinted glass.

Suguru barely pulls back enough to breathe. He’s still on Satoru’s lap, hands sliding down to tug at his belt buckle—clumsy, urgent. Satoru’s eyes follow every move, pupils blown so wide the blue is almost swallowed up.

They don’t have time. They shouldn’t even be doing this, not here, not now. But Suguru wants it—wants him—wants the raw, messy proof that this stupid bright thing belongs to him.

He pops his button, drags the zipper down, and does the same to Satoru’s pants with a rough tug. There’s no finesse—only the heat of skin, the way Satoru’s breath catches when Suguru frees his cock.

No prep. No slick words to soften it. Suguru shifts his hips, braces a hand on Satoru’s shoulder, and sinks down all at once—tight heat, raw stretch, both of them gasping so loud the driver up front might hear through the glass.

Satoru’s hands fly to his hips, gripping hard but carefully. “Are you—are you okay?” He sounds wrecked already, voice high and trembling, eyes wide like he wants to stop but can’t.

Suguru’s chest shudders with a broken laugh. He nods—breathy, feral. “Yeah. Fuck—yeah.”

He doesn’t wait. He can’t. He plants his palms on Satoru’s chest, knees digging into the plush leather seat as he lifts himself and drops back down, hard enough to make the partition rattle.

Satoru falls apart beneath him—head tipping back, mouth slack and pretty, stuttering out half-formed words that melt into soft whimpers. His big hands slide from Suguru’s hips to the backs of his thighs, steadying him, squeezing like he’s scared he’ll disappear.

Suguru watches him through half-lidded eyes, heat curling in his gut at the sight of this genius, this prodigy, undone and begging under him. He dips low, lips brushing Satoru’s ear, voice all silk and poison.

“You like that? Hm?" His nails rake down Satoru’s chest, tugging at the fabric. “Like me using you like this?”

Satoru’s head snaps forward, eyes fluttering open just enough to catch Suguru’s stare—he nods, breath caught on a gasp. “Y-Yeah—yeah, fuck. Suguru—”

Suguru laughs, dark and warm, rocking down harder just to watch Satoru’s eyes roll back. “ Good boy, ” he purrs, savoring the way it makes Satoru twitch inside him.

He bounces harder, reckless and sweet and punishing, the slap of skin swallowed by the purr of the limo’s engine and Satoru’s soft, bitten-off moans. Satoru’s grip tightens—hands spread wide on Suguru’s thighs, holding him up like a promise. Like he’d keep him here forever if Suguru let him.

Suguru bounces harder, thighs trembling with every slick slap of skin. His hair sticks loose and wild across his forehead, flies across his eyes, and whips back with every roll of his hips. He doesn’t care. He likes the way it makes him feel real, alive, untouchable even while he’s split open on Satoru’s cock in the back of a moving limo.

They’re both moaning—soft, raw sounds that would make even his loyal men flinch. But here, Suguru doesn’t care about pride. Doesn’t care about the world outside. It’s just them.

He bounces faster, pace ragged, legs starting to give out. He braces himself on Satoru’s shoulders, leaning close enough to taste every gasp. His voice cracks on a pant, low and sharp. “ Fuck me—fuck me like you missed me .”

Satoru’s pupils blow impossibly wide—a thin ring of blue burning under the cabin lights. He nods, his wrecked, eager voice cracking on a soft, “I can do that. ”

And he does.

Satoru’s big hands clamp hard on Suguru’s hips, fingers digging bruises he’ll wear with pride. He drags him down, meeting every desperate bounce with sloppy, punishing thrusts. The whole car rocks with it, faint creaks drowned out by the wet slap of skin and their shared, breathless moans.

Suguru clings to him—fingers curled in Satoru’s shirt, forehead pressed close until their mouths crash together in something that’s more teeth and gasps than a kiss. They share the same broken air, panting, desperate, eyes half-lidded but locked tight on each other.

“ I’m—fuck—I’m close!”

“Yeah? Me too!”

Suguru’s hips stutter, a needy whimper caught behind clenched teeth. “Keep going. Fuck—make us come, Satoru!”

Satoru nods, frantic and focused, fucking up into him with sloppy determination—chasing the high, the heat, the tight coil that snaps all at once.

Suguru comes first—legs shaking, a soft, helpless cry spilling from his bitten lips as he pulses hot between them. Satoru’s hand slips between their bellies, catching the spill in his palm, careful, like it’s something precious.

Satoru follows—hips snapping up one last time, face buried in Suguru’s neck, breath catching on a choked moan as he fills him deep, warmth pooling inside.

In the hush that follows, the limo hums on. Suguru remains in Satoru’s lap, chest heaving, hair disheveled, eyes blown wide with too many feelings to name.

Suguru keeps riding out the high, gasping, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead and falling into his eyes. Satoru holds him steady, strong fingers pressed tight into his hips, keeping him flush where they’re still joined. Their breathing fills the quiet, uneven and hot against each other’s skin.

Satoru watches him with that dazed, open stare that makes Suguru’s stomach twist. He feels the warm mess caught in Satoru’s palm between them, slick where it should have stained his shirt. For once, Satoru’s thinking ahead.

Suguru drops his forehead to Satoru’s, both of them too wrecked to pull away yet. Satoru shifts, his nose brushing Suguru’s cheek as he drags in air like he’s trying to steady himself.

Suguru’s thighs tremble, sore and wet, pressed tight around Satoru’s sides. He should move, fix his clothes, and pull himself together. He should get off Satoru’s lap, pretend he’s above this. He doesn’t. 

He leans in instead, lips brushing Satoru’s jaw in a quiet thank you he won’t say out loud. Satoru’s other hand slides up his back, palm warm over sweat-damp skin. He’s still holding Suguru like he’s afraid to let go. Suguru lets him, turning just enough to press a soft kiss to Satoru’s temple. He stays where he is: breathing hard, face buried against the side of Satoru’s neck, letting the slow roll of the limo soothe him while he listens to Satoru’s heart still pounding for him.

Suguru shuts off the bedroom light and leans against the door, pulse thumping so hard he wonders if it’s visible through the thin fabric of his shirt. He fusses over himself in the hallway mirror — makes sure his olive collar is neat, sleeves pressed sharp, white trousers hugging his waist just right. He hates how… soft it makes him look. Clean. Approachable. He’s spent years building an image that says don’t touch me, and now here he is, smoothing down a shirt for a boy with round glasses and a smile too big for his own good.

He tries not to think about how pathetic it is that he even cares; how his stomach twists when he remembers the way Satoru looks at him, like he’s not a monster. Like he could be more. It’s reckless. Stupid. He wants it anyway.

Suguru drags a hand through his hair, considers running back into the bedroom to change again, to pick black, gray, safe. But he can’t. He’s spent the last hour checking himself in the mirror, every pass making him look more like someone pretending. He’s tired of pretending. If Satoru wants him, he can have him like this — trying, awkward, already half-tangled up in wanting more.

He glances at the clock. He’s early. Of course he is. He'd rather wait like an idiot than risk making Satoru stand alone somewhere, wondering if he’s been played. He can practically see it:   Satoru, nervous, probably wearing something too big. Hair all over the place, glasses slipping down his nose while he waits for a man who should never have said yes to this.

Suguru forces the thought away. He grabs his keys from the table, flicks the fob for his car between his fingers. He leaves the lights on — he’s not planning to be gone long enough to care. He doesn’t need a shadow tonight, no convoy idling behind him, no men in suits pretending not to watch him breathe. He’s doing this alone.

Outside, the night is warm, the wind soft against his bare forearms as he crosses the drive. He unlocks the sleek black sports car, slides into the driver’s seat, and starts the engine. The low growl drowns out the noise in his head. For once, he lets himself feel it — the nerves, the want, the sharp hope that maybe, just this once, he can have something soft. Even if it kills him.

Suguru eases the car up to the curb, engine humming low while he drums his fingers on the wheel. The street’s quiet for a Friday night. Only the warm spill of lights from bookstore windows and the faint sound of traffic down the block fill the air. He spots Satoru immediately, half-sitting on a short brick ledge, head bowed over a thick paperback. Figures he’d pick this spot — tucked away, quiet, hidden under the glow of a streetlamp.

Suguru rolls down the window, the soft mechanical hum breaking the hush. He brings two fingers to his lips and lets out a low whistle that bounces off the shop’s glass front. Satoru startles, blinking behind those round glasses, before his mouth curves into that bright grin that still knocks the air out of Suguru’s chest.

“ Need a ride? ” Suguru tosses out, teasing, cringing inside at how the words feel in his mouth. It’s lame. He’s never done lame. But that’s what this is supposed to be, right? Dates, corny lines, trying.

Satoru’s grin widens as he closes the book with one finger marking the page. He tilts his head, eyes tracing the soft olive shirt, the pale trousers — the bits of color Suguru never lets anyone see.

“Didn’t know you owned anything that wasn’t black.” Satoru’s voice dances with warmth, a playful bite tucked under the gentle teasing.

Suguru actually laughs — short, rough, but real. “There’s plenty you don’t know, baby. Get in. I’ll fill you in on the way.”

He watches the way Satoru’s eyes soften at that, how he hugs the book to his chest for a second like he needs the anchor. Then he pushes off the ledge and opens the passenger door. He slides in, glasses slipping a little as he clicks the seatbelt, the faint scent of old pages and cheap cologne following him.

Suguru glances sideways, lets himself breathe for a moment. Satoru’s here. In his car. Ready to be somewhere with him. He shifts into gear, flicks the turn signal, and pulls back onto the street. Quiet thrill curls warm in his gut as Satoru’s knee bumps his on the center console.

The city lights flicker over the hood as Suguru weaves through late traffic, one hand draped over the wheel while the other drums against his knee. The hum of the engine fills the space between them, soft and steady but louder than it should be when neither of them speaks.

Suguru hates how stiff he feels, jaw tight like he’s bracing for impact that won’t come. He rarely drives himself.  When he does, Yuji’s chatter fills the silence, loud and bright enough to drown out Suguru’s darker thoughts. With Choso, they ride in silence too, but it’s the kind that feels earned — two shadows keeping their secrets to themselves. This is different. This silence feels exposed.

Satoru shifts beside him, glancing around the sleek interior before pushing his glasses up his nose. “Your car’s nice,” he says, soft but genuine. He runs his fingers over the dash like he’s scared to smudge it.

Suguru grunts. “Thanks.” The word feels foreign on his tongue.

Another stretch of quiet settles over them until Suguru clears his throat, eyes flicking to Satoru’s restless fingers. “You can turn on the radio, if you want.”

Satoru perks up at that, reaching forward to jab at the glossy console. He pokes one button, then another, brows furrowing when nothing happens. He tries again, pressing with exaggerated care like the car might bite him. “Uh… little help?”

Suguru shrugs, keeping his eyes on the road. “Doesn’t work. Or I don’t know how it works. I don’t drive it much.”

“So you don’t know how your own stereo works?”

“I usually ride my bike.”

Satoru leans back against the headrest, a grin creeping up his cheek. “So this—” he gestures to the leather seats, the quiet hum of expensive parts under them “—is for me, huh?”

Suguru rolls his eyes, biting back the corner of his mouth so it won’t twitch. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Satoru laughs, bright and breathless, then drops his hand from the buttons. “It’s fine. I don’t need music. I’m good sitting in silence.” He shifts a little closer, knee brushing Suguru’s again. His voice softens as he looks out the window, eyes catching the streetlights flashing by. “As long as it’s with you.”

Suguru keeps his eyes ahead, but his grip on the wheel relaxes, just enough for him to breathe around the knot in his throat that won’t untangle.

Suguru eases the car up to the valet, engine purring low as a young attendant in a pressed uniform jogs over. The air is sticky with city heat and the buzz of people — couples drifting past with linked arms, teenagers laughing too loud near the ticket stand, a line of families shuffling toward the glass doors. Suguru tries not to scowl as he kills the engine, slipping out of the driver’s seat and handing the keys off with a clipped nod. He hates crowds. Hates strangers’ eyes flicking over him, the echo of footsteps too close behind.

He circles the hood to find Satoru standing a few feet away, head tilted to take in the sleek sprawl of the planetarium’s entrance. The bright neon signage washes his pale hair in a halo of blue, makes the frames of those glasses flash under the streetlights. He looks… happy. Uncomplicated. Suguru’s chest twists.

Satoru glances at him, a wide grin catching under the curve of the streetlamp. “How’d you know I wanted to come here?” His voice holds that soft wonder that always makes Suguru’s gut clench — like he’s being given credit for something good he doesn’t quite deserve.

Suguru shrugs, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Had a feeling.” He doesn’t add that Yuji let it slip about Junpei’s canceled date, or that he’d rather torch the whole building than see that idiot kid get the jump on him. He doesn’t add that he likes the stars too — the only cold, distant things that make sense when everything else feels too close.

Satoru shifts his weight, book still clutched under his arm like he couldn’t bear to leave it behind. He hesitates for a second, then reaches out, palm up, fingers spread. An invitation. Suguru freezes, eyes flicking to the offered hand, the warm skin that wants to touch him in public, under all these lights and people and whispers.

His throat goes dry. He should brush it off, tell Satoru to keep his hands to himself, remind him they’re not that — that Suguru Kamo doesn’t do sweet. But before Satoru can pull back, embarrassed, Suguru’s hand moves on its own. Their fingers lace together, snug and warm. Satoru’s smile softens into something quieter, smaller — so damn sincere that Suguru feels that sharp bite of nerves in his ribs again.

He gives Satoru’s hand the barest squeeze, and they step forward — two shadows swallowed by the glow of the lobby doors, blending in with all the other people they’re nothing like.

Suguru’s phone buzzes again against the marble island, the screen lighting up with Choso’s name and another string of incoherent complaints about turf and disrespect and people who don’t know when to shut up. He exhales through his nose, thumb hovering over the keyboard while the scent of garlic and something sweet drifts across the open space.

He glances up, rolling the tension from his shoulders, and his eyes catch on Satoru, standing barefoot in front of the stove, sleeves pushed to his elbows, Suguru’s black hoodie swallowing his frame in soft folds. The hem almost skims the tops of those faded jeans, loose around his hips like he’s never cared how clothes fit him. He’s humming under his breath, stirring something in a battered pot Suguru didn’t even know he owned.

The apartment feels… different with him there. Softer around the edges. Suguru’s penthouse — usually all sharp corners and heavy silence — seems almost warm for once. He doesn’t let himself think about it too hard, what it means to watch Satoru here, looking like he’s always belonged.

He shifts, the edge of the counter cold under his forearms as he hunches closer to the screen. Choso’s texts get more insistent — the same cycle, always. Suguru grunts, typing before his patience cracks.

He catches movement in his periphery — Satoru turning, spoon in hand, a little sauce dripping onto his knuckles. He leans against the counter opposite Suguru, a wide grin softening the sharp glow of the pendant lights overhead.

“Everything okay?” Satoru asks, gentle, eyes shining behind those round lenses. He looks so calm, so far from the world Suguru has to keep at arm’s length — like he’s the only person in Tokyo who could stand here and not flinch at the weight behind Suguru’s name.

Suguru meets his gaze, warmth tugging at the corner of his mouth before he can stop it. He slides his phone screen down across the marble. “It’s fine,” he says, low, like he means it.

Satoru hums, pushing off the counter to step back to the stove, a little bounce in his step that makes warmth settle deep in Suguru’s chest. He watches the hoodie sway around Satoru’s thighs, the black of it matching the fabric stretched loose around Suguru’s own hips. They weren’t supposed to match — Suguru never does intimate, never does his and his — but it’s there anyway.

He drags his eyes back to Choso’s text, letting out another short breath through his nose. He wants to be here. Wants to stay here tonight. If the world needs him, it can wait a few hours.

They stand side by side at the island, forks clinking against ceramic while the soft hum of the city drifts through the half-cracked balcony door. Suguru leans his hip against the counter, watching Satoru pick at his plate like he’s tasting every bite with deliberate care.

It is good — better than anything Suguru could bother to make himself, that’s for sure. He spears another piece of whatever Satoru’s whipped up and nods, licking sauce from his thumb. “It’s good.”

Satoru perks up at the praise, a grin slipping around a mouthful of food. He swallows, wipes his lip with the back of his hand — always a little messy, always a little earnest. “Dorm kitchen sucks,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes behind his glasses. “One hot plate and a microwave that doesn’t even work half the time. I’m gonna be using your kitchen more.”

Suguru watches him lick a bit of sauce off his knuckle, warmth curling in his stomach at how easily Satoru says your kitchen like it’s an invitation for himself too. He shrugs, nonchalant, casual in the way he pushes his empty plate aside. “I’ll give you a key, then.”

The words hang there, plain and heavy at once — so easy for Suguru to toss out, but they land between them like a match in dry grass. He sees the exact moment Satoru freezes, fork halfway to his lips, eyes flicking up wide behind his lenses. That pale flush creeps in, creeping under the collar of Suguru’s hoodie pulled soft around his neck.

Satoru coughs, tries to hide it with a crooked grin. “Oh — uh—thanks.” His voice cracks a little, and he tries to cover it by clearing his throat again, staring at his plate like it might save him.

Suguru watches him squirm, one corner of his mouth twitching before he lets a smirk break through. He slides a little closer, enough to feel the warmth radiating off Satoru’s side. “Wouldn’t mind having a chef I get to kiss.”

Satoru’s ears go pink this time, his smile shy but too wide to hide. He nudges Suguru’s hip with his own, teeth sinking into his lower lip to muffle a laugh. He doesn’t say anything, but the way he stands a little closer, how his fingers brush Suguru’s wrist when he reaches for another bite — it says enough.

Suguru stands with arms folded, shoulders squared against the chill in the driveway. The motorcycle sits gleaming between them, polished to perfection under the soft pool of the overhead light. He watches, jaw set, as Satoru fusses with the helmet straps — the same helmet Suguru never hands to anyone. Not after Yuji scratched the paint last month. He should’ve raised hell for that, but he’d been too calm, too spent, thanks to the way Satoru had looked under him in the backseat of the limo just minutes before.

Satoru adjusts the chin strap, glancing up. The second he catches Suguru’s expression, he groans loud enough to echo off the brick walls.

Suguru’s fingers dig into his biceps where they’re crossed tightly over his chest, the faint chill of the night air no match for the nervous heat crawling under his skin. He’s trying — really trying — but the sight of Satoru perched on his bike, messing with the helmet straps like he owns the damn thing, makes his pulse flicker low in his throat.

Satoru catches his stare, eyes bright behind his nerdy glasses. “ You can’t back out now, ” he says, the grin in his voice too wide to fight.

Suguru huffs, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m not backing out. I’m… cautious.” He tries to sound firm, but the word comes out tight, clipped at the edges.

Satoru laughs — that easy sound that always makes Suguru’s chest clench — and flicks the visor down before lifting it again, dramatic. “I have my license, remember? And you said yourself, I can drive any of your cars.”

“Cars,” Suguru corrects flatly. “This is different. This is my baby.”

Satoru rolls his eyes, snapping the visor back down with a click. “I’ll take care of your baby. If I scratch it, I’ll pay for it.”

Suguru exhales sharp through his nose. Finally lets his arms drop. He hates it — hates how Satoru’s grin grows the second he gives in. Satoru swings a leg over the seat, settles onto the leather like he’s been here a hundred times.

Suguru snatches his helmet off the handlebars and slips it on, the chin strap digging under his jaw. He watches Satoru’s reflection in the side mirror — the way those glasses look so stupid under the helmet, how his grin softens around the edges.

Satoru taps the side of Suguru’s helmet with a gloved knuckle. “You never wear that.”

“Don’t need it,” Suguru mutters, voice muffled by the visor. “I’m usually the one driving.”

Satoru snorts, rolls his eyes, then twists around on the seat, looking back over his shoulder. “Then hold on tight, Suguru.”

Suguru grumbles under his breath — something about idiots and bad ideas — but he steps forward anyway, hands finding Satoru’s waist, fingers digging into denim and hoodie as the engine growls under them.

The second Satoru kicks the bike forward, Suguru tightens his hold — the night air swallowing whatever protest he might’ve had left.

They’re sunken into the couch, Suguru practically molded to Satoru’s chest, the movie flickering soft light across both their faces. Suguru’s head rests against Satoru’s collarbone, hair brushing his throat, warm and heavy. He doesn’t even pretend to watch the film out of the corner of his eye anymore. He's all in, eyes glued to every explosion and car chase.

Satoru’s voice hums low against his ear. “You know Yuji’s gonna lose his mind when he finds out you watched this without him.”

Suguru snorts, not bothering to move. “I’ll play dumb. He won’t notice — there’s like seven of these damn movies. He’ll survive.”

He feels Satoru’s chest vibrate with a quiet laugh. A moment later, Satoru shifts just enough to grab the bowl of popcorn balanced on the coffee table. He holds a piece to Suguru’s lips like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Suguru huffs, tries to bite his fingers on purpose, but opens his mouth and lets him feed it to him anyway.

The moment is stupidly domestic. Soft. Sweet. Suguru’s lying between Satoru’s legs, back pressed to Satoru’s stomach. His side is warm where Satoru’s arm loops under his ribs, careful to avoid the still-tender spot low on his belly. Suguru didn’t let him see the wound — won’t ever let him see it. Some things stay hidden. But Satoru’s warmth seeps through him anyway, the weight of it pressing all the cold, violent edges back for now.

His phone buzzes on the coffee table, rattling the empty soda can beside it. Satoru reaches for it, eyes still half on the movie, and drops it into Suguru’s hand without thinking. Suguru doesn’t miss how Satoru’s thumb brushes his wrist before pulling back.

The screen lights up: Miguel.

Satoru tips his head down, breath warm against Suguru’s temple. “Everything okay? Do you need to—”

Suguru shuts the phone with a quiet snap, tosses it back onto the table like it’s nothing but a nuisance. He angles his head up, catching Satoru’s curious gaze. “No. It’s fine.”

And it is. Because Satoru’s grin goes soft at the edges. He ducks down, fingers slipping into Suguru’s hair as he kisses him — slow, heated, pulling him deeper into that bright place where there’s no room for knives, for orders, for anything but this.

Suguru lets himself melt into it. He’s right where he’s meant to be.

They’re sitting cross-legged on the plush white rug, the soft fibers catching at Suguru’s bare ankles. Satoru has claimed the entire living room floor, covering it with neat rows of colorful Digimon cards. Each one is laid out with that careful, fussy precision he always uses when he’s explaining something he loves. He’s half leaning into Suguru’s space, animated hands waving as he points out stats and abilities, eyes glimmering behind those dorky glasses.

Suguru barely hears half of it. He's watching Satoru’s mouth move, catching the way his tongue darts out when he stumbles over a word, the way his lashes catch the low, warm light spilling from the corner lamp. He’s so… soft like this. Loud, bright, full of life, but soft too, not noticing the faint bruises on Suguru’s knuckles where they rest against his knee.

His mind drifts, traitorous. He thinks about the day — the meetings, the shouting, the taste of iron behind his teeth when he cracked a jaw that needed cracking. He’d come home raw and cold inside. But then he’d stepped through his door to find Satoru on his couch, textbooks splayed around him, glasses sliding down his nose, and Suguru’s day had ended right there — because Satoru had looked up at him and smiled like he belonged there.

He thinks about how they’d fucked on that same couch not twenty minutes later — Suguru face down, fingers twisted in the cushion. Satoru’s mouth and hands all over him, tongue dragging sinful and slow before he’d filled him up so good, Suguru thought he’d go blind. He thinks about how Satoru can switch so easily — how he’ll pin Suguru down and ruin him without hesitation, but then sit here cross-legged, cheeks flushed with excitement, trying to teach him the difference between Rookie and Champion forms like it matters more than anything.

Suguru shifts, letting his thigh brush Satoru’s arm. He tells himself he doesn’t deserve this — this warmth, this softness, the way Satoru hums under his breath while sorting his cards. He knows his hands have taken too much to ever be worthy of something like this.

But then Satoru looks up at him, blue eyes lovely behind his glasses, and beams like Suguru hung the moon just by sitting here. And Suguru decides he’ll keep this, no matter what it costs him — he’ll keep Satoru safe, keep him happy, even if the blood never quite leaves his knuckles.

The penthouse is quiet except for the metallic clicks of a gun being cleaned. 

Suguru’s seated at the edge of the low coffee table with sleeves rolled to his elbows. The Beretta is stripped open into pieces across a linen cloth. His fingers move with muscle memory–slide, pin, barrel–precise and practiced. The TV’s on but muted, some news anchor mouthing panic about a stock crash he doesn’t care about. 

His phone buzzes next to the ashtray, screen flashing Yuji. 

Suguru exhales through his nose. He lets it ring twice before answering. 

“Yeah?” 

“Su-gu-ruuuu,” Yuji sings his name like a child begging for candy. “You busy tonight? Like, actually busy or pretending-to-be-grumpy busy?” 

Suguru snaps the magazine into place with a soft click. “Heading out.” 

He keeps his voice level, neutral. Not a lie, but not a truth Yuji needs to know. 

Yuji ignores it, barreling forward like always. 

“Okay, but listen. I got your favorite chips. The honey-butter ones from the weird cat store, remember? And Junpei’s here! He’s making that ramen you like, the one with the egg and the pork that simmers for, like, a million years–” 

Suguru wipes down the grip with a clean cloth. Smoke from his cigarette curls up into the air, soft and thin, the only scent in the room that isn’t gun oil and bleach. He reaches under the table, slides open the hidden drawer, and pulls out the silencer. 

“—and I bought that racing game you were eyeing! The one with swords and girls in bikinis—Junpei says it’s a weird combo, but I told him you’d like it, and—”

The sound of Yuji’s voice, fast and too loud through the speaker, scrapes along the edge of Suguru’s nerves. Not in a cruel way. But in the way too much light does after days in the underground. Suguru can only take Yuji in doses. Small ones. Measured and spaced out. 

He slots the silencer onto the muzzle and tightens it down with steady fingers. 

Yuji is always reaching for him. Always bright, always hungry for closeness. Suguru’s spent his whole life pulling away from that kind of light. It feels like being flayed. 

He could say, “I’m heading out to collect on a  debt that ends in a body bag.” He could say, “You’re too loud, and I’m too tired, and this world doesn’t have room for your dumb sweetness.” 

He lies instead. 

Gently. 

Sprinkled with brotherly care and broken promises. 

“Not tonight,” Suguru says. “We’ll hang out next time.” 

There’s a pause. Suguru can picture Yuji’s face — the way it falls, like a kicked dog still trying to wag its tail.

“Oh. Yeah. Cool, cool. Next time.” 

“Bye, kid.” 

“Bye, Guru.” 

Suguru finishes reassembling the handgun, the last soft click of metal-on-metal slotting into place like punctuation at the end of a sentence he’s written a hundred times. He slides the gun into the holster under his coat, leather creaking low against his ribs. His body hums with focus, all sharp edges and cold anticipation — the kind of readiness that tastes like copper in his mouth. 

He moves through the penthouse like a shadow in his own space. Down the hall, past low lights and glass walls that look out over the Tokyo skyline. He’s halfway to the door, already rolling the night’s details through his head: timing, silence, cleanup. 

Then the door handle turns. 

Suguru stops moving. Stillness coils through him like a snake ready to strike. The lock disengages with a subtle click, and the front door swings inward, slowly, unsure. 

Satoru stands in the doorway.

Navy green sweater, baggy and soft, sleeves chewed at the cuffs. Blue jeans loose around his hips, one pant leg caught on the tongue of his sneakers. His hair is puffy, a halo of white frizz like he’s been tugging at it all day. Those huge round glasses fogged at the edges, slipping low on his nose. 

And his eyes. Red-rimmed, glossy. 

Suguru sees it instantly. The way his mouth tried to hold a neutral line, the way his throat works like he’s swallowing glass. Suguru has never — never — seen Satoru cry. Not even close. The air changes in Suguru’s lungs, too quickly, too tightly. Something ancient snarls behind his ribs. 

He hates it. Hates seeing it. That hurt behind Satoru’s too-big eyes. The helpless kicked expression he’s pretending not to wear. 

Satoru flinches like he’s been caught stealing.”I—I didn’t think you were home,” Satoru says, quickly, voice soft and wobbling around the edges. “Your bike wasn’t out front, and the car wasn’t there. I was just—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—I’ll go.” 

“It’s okay.” 

Satoru’s halfway through stepping back when Suguru catches his voice again. “What happened?” 

That makes Satoru pause. His eyes shift, looking at Suguru’s jacket pulled tight, his boots laced, keys still in hand. 

“You’re going out,” Satoru mutters. He sniffs once, then pastes a too-perfect smile on his face, the kind that’s made of brittle plastic. “You have plans. I shouldn’t have come. I don’t want to bother you.” 

Suguru doesn’t blink. That smile doesn't fool him for a second. He’s seen corpses with more honesty on their faces. 

“You’re not bothering me,” Suguru says. “I was meeting a friend, but I’ve got time.” 

Another lie. But Satoru doesn’t challenge it. He stares down at his shoes, trying not to come apart in the hallway. 

“What happened?” Suguru asks again, quieter now. 

“It’s nothing,” Satoru says, trying to shrug the weight off. “It’s stupid, just in my head, ya know?” 

“It’s not stupid if you’re crying.” 

“I said drop it!” Satoru snaps, loud.. His voice cracks at the end, sharp with the kind of pain that's been corked too long. 

Suuguru blinks once. That sound—the ragged desperation buried under Satoru’s bite— punches low in his gut. 

Then Satoru’s eyes widen, horror catching up with his voice. “Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” He turns fast, already stepping back into the hallway. “I’ll go, I’m sorry–”

Suguru reaches out, his fingers wrap gently around Satoru’s wrist. Warm skin. Thin bones under it. Pulse skipping wildly. 

“Stay,” Suguru says, so soft it barely makes it past the doorframe. “We don’t have to talk. We can sit. Or not. Whatever you need. But you shouldn’t be alone when you feel like this.” 

Satoru’s back is still turned. He stops moving: breathes in deep, shoulders rising, trembling. Lowly, he turns. 

His eyes find Suguru’s, wide and raw. 

“I don’t want to be alone,” Satoru says. His voice catches again. “I want you.” 

Suguru’s chest cracks around those words. It’s too easy to say yes. It’s always too easy with Satoru. 

“Okay,” Suguru says. “I’m here. I’ll stay. My plans didn’t matter.” 

They stand there a moment, silence stretching out like warm cloth. Satoru looks at him like he’s making sure Suguru’s real, as if he’s terrified that the second he blinks, he’ll be alone again. 

Then, Suguru steps close, lifts a hand, and pulls Satoru’s chin down between two long fingers. 

He kisses him. 

Soft at first. Gentle. But beneath it — heat. Desperation. The kind of kiss that says Please, please, let me hold you. Satoru leans into it without thinking, without breathing. His whole body melts under it, bone and muscles going soft the way only Suguru can make them. 

That fire that’s always burning under Suguru’s skin — the hitman, the shadow heir, the storm — snuffs out for a moment. He’s just a man now. Suguru is the ground for another to stand on. 

When Suguru finally pulls back, Satoru’s lips are flushed and pupils blown wide. 

“Do you want me to help you forget?” Suguru asks. 

Satoru nods fast and eagerly, a little broken. “Yes, baby. Please.” 

Suguru drags his thumb over Satoru’s lower lip, catching the shine where the kiss lingers. “Then tell me what you want.” 

“I want to fuck you,” Satoru whispers, his voice firm. “Until I forget the whole fucking week.” 

Suguru hums. It slides out like a purr, slow and warm, pulling a small smile from the corners of his mouth. He dips forward, nipping at Satoru’s pink bottom lip to make him shiver. 

“I’ll let you,” he says, quiet but sure. “You want to come inside me? Would you like that?” 

“Yes,” Satoru breathes, voice trembling with want. “I want to feel you. I need you in our bed, on your back, moaning for me.” 

Suguru nods once.

Final. 

Devoted. 

“I can do that.” 

Suguru leans his hip against the polished edge of his desk, thumb tapping out a clipped reply on his phone screen, eyes drifting to the city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Tokyo stretches endlessly and is illuminated beneath him, so much noise and hunger all waiting for him to pull the pin tomorrow morning. He’s done this before, countless times. Chaos and blood are muscle memory by now.

But tonight, for the first time, he hesitates. The phone vibrates with another message — orders, confirmations, problems to fix — but all he wants is to set it down. To crawl back to bed, press his face into the warm skin of the man waiting there for him, and let himself be selfish just for a few more hours. He wants to wake up tangled in Satoru’s arms, bicker about breakfast, and fold laundry together like it’s the biggest problem in his life.

A flicker of movement in the glass catches his eye.  A pale shape behind him, soft and slow. Suguru turns, phone lowering to his side. Satoru stands in the doorway, shirtless, hair a sleepy mess, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He looks like he belongs here — like this quiet room should always hold him too.

Suguru straightens up, a half-apology already spilling out. “Did I wake you?” His voice comes out gruffer than he wants, the edges raw from hours of harsh words and harsher plans.

Satoru rubs a hand over his face, palm dragging down his cheek as he pads closer. “I woke up when you left. Thought you’d be back by now.”

There’s no accusation in it, just that tired honesty that always makes Suguru’s ribs ache. He opens his mouth — to promise he’ll come back to bed, that he’s almost done — but the words tangle up somewhere behind his teeth. Because he’s not done. He’ll never be done. But god, tonight he wishes he could be.

Satoru doesn’t even bother with warnings.  His arms slide around Suguru’s waist, and he pulls him in, lips brushing the side of his throat. The heat of that mouth, the warmth of that breath on his pulse, melts whatever resistance Suguru’s been clinging to all night. A quiet, unguarded moan slips from his lips before he can catch it.

“Come back to bed,” Satoru murmurs against his skin, voice low, a plea wrapped in the softest command.

Suguru huffs. He tries to sound annoyed; to hang onto the steel edge that’s kept him alive this long. “I will. When you wake up—”

Satoru pulls away just enough to roll his eyes, that smart mouth already curling up in a grin. “Yeah? We both know you won’t. Neither of us sleeps if you’re not there.”

He’s right.  They both know it. Suguru’s smile betrays him, corners of his mouth twitching as he’s caught red-handed, addicted to the warmth he keeps pretending he can do without. He opens his mouth to argue anyway, an excuse half-formed on his tongue.  It dies the instant Satoru begins moving, quick and unbothered by Suguru’s surprised noise as he hauls him right off his feet and over his shoulder.

Suguru curses under his breath, half-laughing as he braces his hands against Satoru’s back. “Put me down, Satoru!”

“Sure.” Satoru’s palm lands on Suguru’s ass, a sharp smack that echoes through the study. Then he’s carrying him through the door, down the hall, nudging the bedroom open with his knee like he owns the place — because he does, Suguru thinks hazily. He does.

Suguru hits the mattress with a soft thud, landing flat on his back. He props himself up on his elbows, breathing hard, staring up at the man who’s taken him apart in more ways than one. Satoru crawls onto the bed like a big cat, all heat and bright eyes and bare skin, and Suguru lets him.

Their lips meet — slow at first, Satoru’s kiss coaxing all the tension from Suguru’s shoulders. He tastes like warmth and home and the promise of rest, Suguru can’t ever seem to give himself.

When they part, Satoru’s voice is quiet but firm. “You need to rest.”

Suguru surrenders to it, to him. “Alright. I will.”

They settle together under the weight of the duvet. Suguru tucks his head into the crook of Satoru’s neck, cheek pressed to his chest. He listens to that steady heartbeat, lets it anchor him — the only sound that can drown out the hum of the city waiting beyond his window. For tonight, this is all he wants. This heartbeat, this warmth — his.

They’re buried deep in the sheets, heat rolling off their tangled bodies like a fever that never breaks. The bedroom is dark except for the soft spill of city lights creeping through half-closed blinds, stripping the walls and catching in the sheen of sweat on Suguru’s skin.

He’s perched over Satoru, thighs braced around narrow hips. The stretch is delicious, consuming. Satoru’s hands are firm at his waist: thumbs pressing slow, reverent circles into the sharp dip of bone there, guiding him into a rhythm that has Suguru’s breath catching in his throat.

Satoru’s eyes are wide — a mirror of everything Suguru feels but never says. Lust, yes, but something softer buried underneath it. He bites his lip, teeth digging pink into his plush mouth, groaning up at Suguru like he’s seeing god.

Suguru grinds down. The angle is just right, Satoru’s cock pushing so deep inside him that his belly flutters tight around it. His hair is a mess. Long black strands cling to his throat and shoulders, swaying every time he rocks forward.

When Satoru’s hand slips from his hip to press over the faint bulge of his belly, Suguru’s head tips back with a sharp gasp. The sound of his name spills out, wrecked and wet.  “Satoru.”

Satoru’s voice cracks through the haze, needy and hushed. “Say it again.”

Suguru looks down at him, teeth sinking into his lower lip, breath trembling as he obeys. “Satoru.”

The name tastes like confession, like something holy passed from mouth to mouth. It’s always been sex with them — good, mind-shattering, filthy — but this, right now, feels different. There’s a sweetness layered in the grind of hips and the squeeze of fingers around Suguru’s cock. A gentleness that cracks something open inside his ribs, something raw that never learned how to heal.

His hand wraps around himself, matching the pace of his hips. Every pass over the leaking head pulls another broken noise from his throat. Beneath him, Satoru’s eyes never leave his face, filled with that stupid open awe that makes Suguru feel both powerful and helpless all at once.

They don’t rush. They stay like that — rocking, whispering, the slap of skin soft compared to the wet smack of lips when they lean in to kiss between gasps.

Suguru feels the knot coil tighten in his belly, heat spilling over the edges. His voice breaks — a low moan as he pulses around Satoru’s cock, whole body shivering as he tips over. He shifts at the last second, guiding the spill of his release away from Satoru’s stomach. The warm mess hits the sheets instead.

Below him, Satoru’s breath stutters, hips bucking up as he follows, moaning Suguru’s name like a prayer that might save him if he’s lucky.

Suguru collapses over him, hair curtaining them in. Their mouths brush, hearts hammering in sync, both of them are stained and sticky and unbearably soft, clinging to each other in the hush that follows.

Suguru rolls off. The sheets twist under his hips, damp with sweat and the fading warmth of them. The air in the room feels heavy, thick with their breathing, quiet enough that the city hum beyond the glass barely registers.

Satoru shifts closer, that easy grin spreading across his face as he turns on his side, propping himself up on an elbow. His hair sticks to his forehead in damp strands, and his skin is still flushed pink down to his chest. He looks young like this, untouched by the mess that Suguru drags around like a second shadow.

Satoru’s hand finds his chest, fingers brushing across the ink carved there in black and deep crimson, tracing the lines with a reverence that makes Suguru’s pulse trip. The tattoos stretch across his ribs, curl over his shoulder, crawl up the column of his throat — all the stories he’s never told, all the sins he’s never confessed.

“Will you tell me what they mean?” Satoru asks, voice soft, brushing the hush between them. His fingertips linger at the dip of Suguru’s collarbone, tapping gently at a swirl of kanji no one else alive dares to touch.

Suguru feels the lie slide easily off his tongue, practiced. Smooth. “One day.”

His hand drifts up, tangles in the back of Satoru’s hair, pulling him down into the space where his mouth can brush Satoru’s temple. Satoru’s lashes flutter, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips as he believes every word Suguru says.

And Suguru lets him. Because when has he ever been honest? When has he ever given anyone the truth and not watched them bleed for it?

He’ll keep this secret — and all the ones after — if it means Satoru will keep looking at him like that. Like there’s still someone worth saving under all that ink.

Suguru stands at the stove, one hand steady on the chopsticks stirring noodles, the other braced on the counter as steam curls up into his face. The cookbooks stacked messily on the shelf make him shake his head. Only Satoru would buy a bookstore’s worth of recipes just to clutter his kitchen. But Suguru’s glad. The place feels more like theirs than his now.

Behind him, a soft voice breaks through the hiss of boiling water. “Look at what I found.”

Suguru glances over his shoulder and nearly drops the chopsticks when he sees it — his old beat-up brown acoustic guitar, the one he shoved into a closet over a decade ago. Satoru stands there holding it with both hands, beaming excitedly behind his dorky glasses.

“Suguru… don’t tell me you were a musician at my age.”

Suguru lets out a low laugh, turning fully, arms folding across his chest as he leans back on the counter. The sight alone is ridiculous — Satoru, the world’s biggest nerd, holding a piece of Suguru’s past like it’s a secret treasure. “Where’d you find that?”

“Your closet.” Satoru shrugs like it’s obvious. “I needed space for my sweater vests.”

Suguru snorts. Of course. Of course. Satoru hops onto a barstool, swings a long leg over, and props the guitar on his knee. He strums experimentally — a few awkward, bright notes that make Suguru raise a brow. But then Satoru’s fingers find a chord, then another, and it hits Suguru all over again that this man can do anything.

The next chord is wrong, hilariously so — a jarring twang that makes Satoru laugh. He turns those wide blue eyes up at Suguru, handing the guitar over. “Here. Play something.”

Suguru hesitates, eyes on the worn wood and frayed strap of the guitar. “I haven’t touched that thing since I was a kid.”

“I’m sure you remember something,” Satoru presses.

Suguru’s smile comes easily, but doesn’t reach the ache that stirs in his chest. Of course, he remembers. He remembers everything, no matter how badly he wishes he could forget. But tonight isn’t for ghosts. Satoru is here — living, warm, waiting. That’s enough to keep the shadows at bay.

He takes the guitar, sinking onto the barstool next to Satoru. The strings bite under his fingers as he tests the tune — muscle memory dragging him back to small hands, small hopes. He strums a few uncertain chords, the notes bending into place until it clicks, easy as breathing. Somewhere Over the Rainbow. It spills out before he can stop it — soft, familiar, a song that used to belong to his mother, humming in the kitchen long before blood and shadows claimed her place.

His throat tightens. The chords nearly slip away. But then he glances at Satoru, perched on the next stool, face split with the purest grin, eyes shining like he’s never heard anything better. He claps, cheers, and doesn’t care that Suguru’s fingers tremble on the strings. 

Suguru laughs, the sound shaky but real. He keeps playing. Because for once, there’s no room for ghosts when Satoru’s here to drown them all out.

The shower’s hot—scalding— but Suguru doesn't feel the burn anymore. His skin is flushed, damp, and trembling. The tile at his back is cold, slick, and hard, grounding him while Satoru fucks him to the brink of ecstasy. 

His legs are wrapped around Satoru’s waist, ankles locked, thighs aching from the hold. His toes curl in time with Satoru’s thrusts. Satoru moves slowly, deep, his cock dragging against every groove of Suguru’s hole like they have all the time in the world. In this moment, there’s nothing more important than the way that cock pushes inside—not slamming or pounding but pressing, dragging, settling so deep Suguru can feel it in his fucking gut. 

His arms are around Satoru’s neck, clinging. His nails are in Satoru’s back, carving red crescents into muscle. Holding on- because if he lets go now, he might disappear. Might fall into the steam and the heat and that rhythm, lose his shape entirely. 

“Satoru,” he gasps, voice raw and wrecked. His head tips back, the sharp edge of the tile biting into his scalp. “Fuck—please, please go faster!”

But Satoru doesn’t. 

He shakes his head, water dripping from his hair. His jaw sets in a way that means no chance in hell. 

“No,” Satoru murmurs, breath hot against Suguru’s neck. “Not yet.” 

His voice is steady, maddeningly calm. His control cuts like a wire wrapped tight around Suguru’s spine. 

One of Satoru’s hands is gripping Suguru’s ass, fingers digging in, holding him open. The other is braced above Suguru’s head, palm spread against the tile. Steam curls around them, a silk curtain fogging the glass, sliding down their skin in sheets. 

And then Satoru shifts. 

Tilts Suguru higher, steadies his stance wider—and suddenly, they both see. 

Their bodies reflected in the fogged mirror across from the shower, distorted by water and heat but still unmistakable: the thick line of Satoru’s body pressed between Suguru’s thighs. The way he enters him, slowly, like worship. The way Suguru’s ass parts for him, stretched and raw and soaked. 

“Look,” Satoru growls, voice wrecked with restraint. “Look how I’m inside you.” 

Suguru looks. 

And what he sees makes his stomach drop. Makes heat pool low in his belly, unbearable. Satoru inside him, stretching him, claiming him—over and over again in slowly punishing strokes. Water cascades down their stomachs. It glistens across his chest, over the ink on Suguru’s skin, failing to wash away the sins he’ll never confess. 

Suguru moans—long, breathless, ruined. 

“Oh, Satoru, baby.” 

“You feel that, don’t you?” Satoru’s voice is filth and devotion. He grinds in slow, dragging it out. “You feel how deep I am?” 

Suguru’s whole body trembles. 

“Yes!” He gasps. “Yes, I feel you, I—fuck, it’s too much!”

It’s enough to make him come apart without snapping. It’s enough to make him cry. 

He reaches between them. Hand shaking, desperate to touch himself. His cock is flushed and leaking, throbbing from the tension coiled tight in his gut. He wraps his hand around it—a single stroke—before Satoru grabs him. 

“No.” 

Satoru’s voice is low. Commanding. Satoru pins both wrists above Suguru’s head, easy, as if he’s done this a hundred times. His grip is tight, firm, and absolute. His other arm remains locked around Suguru’s ass and hips, propping him against the shower wall. Suguru’s thighs shake, flexing, burning as they strain to keep him supported. Satoru is an unyielding mountain as he presses Suguru flat over the tile.  

“You don’t come unless it’s from me. From this cock.” Satoru’s lips brush Suguru’s temple. “You understand?” 

And then Satoru moves. 

That same slow, devastating rhythm. Each roll of his hips presses in, heat rising under Suguru’s skin. And Satoru doesn't shut up—he keeps talking, keeps owning him with his voice. 

“Such a perfect little hole. So tight for me. You love this, don’t you? Being mine. Fucking made for me.” 

Suguru chokes on a sob. It slips out before he can hold it down. 

He’s crying. 

Not loud or messy, Silent tears slipping down his cheeks, mixing with the tears already streaming from his hair. It’s too much—the stretch, the burn, the words, the way Satoru’s touching him without even using his hands. 

Satoru notices. He leans in and kisses Suguru’s cheek, lips soft against wet skin, catching salt with every kiss. 

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “You’re mine. I’m never letting go.” 

Suguru wants to thank him. Wants to beg. Wants to scream. But all he can do is nod, whimpering, his wrists still pinned, his legs still locked, and his whole body shaking around Satoru’s cock. 

It happens, then.

Satoru thrusts one more time—deep, hard—and Suguru breaks.

He comes with a moan so loud it echoes off the tile. His stomach spasms, come stripes both their chests, mixing with the water, turning to heat between them. He trembles, shudders, and then Satoru is coming too, spilling deep inside him with a low, desperate grunt, buried to the hilt. 

They hold each other in the moment. Pressed together. Breathing in the other like oxygen. Steam curls around them like smoke from a shrine’s incense.  

Satoru unbinds Suguru’s wrists, kissing each one where the pressure had been. Then he kisses Suguru’s cheek again, softer this time, slower, and whispers right into his skin: 

“You’re mine, Suguru.” 

Suguru nods, lips trembling. 

“I’m yours.” 

And for once, he lets himself believe it. 

Suguru is in the dining room, reading a few papers. Nothing serious, but Choso wants a second pair of eyes. It’s draining enough. Suguru’s happy when he hears a door open, Satoru must be done with his shower. He gets up and walks out of the room and to the living room. 

Sugaru stops in his tracks. 

Suguru’s blood runs cold. He watches Yuji rummage through his fridge like he owns the place, chattering about Junpei and awkward family dinners and whatever else fills that sugar-sweet head of his. He tries to cut in once—twice—with a voice sharp at the edges, but Yuji barrels on, words spilling like he’s fifteen again. The little brother who never knew when to shut up.

Suguru’s fingers curl tightly around the edge of the marble island. He’s dressed so normal—just a black shirt, worn denim, the kind of softness he only lets exist inside these walls when no one’s looking. The same softness that’s now standing in the hallway behind Yuji.

He hears the bedroom door crack open before he sees it. The quiet click of the latch, the drag of bare feet against polished floors. Satoru appears like a specter, Suguru called down on himself—damp hair a mess, towel wrapped around his torso, hickeys and faint red scratches marking his hips. 

Satoru doesn’t notice Yuji right away—he’s still speaking, voice light as he rubs at his hair. “I might have to head out early tonight—” He stops cold when he sees the kitchen. Sees Yuji. Sees Suguru frozen across the room, eyes sharp, lips parted like a man caught with blood on his hands.

The silence hits so fast it feels like it sucks all the air out the walls.

Yuji’s halfway through a rant about Junpei’s mother when he looks over his shoulder, carton of juice in his hand, blinking, warm brown eyes flick from his brother to the man in his hoodie. The question’s already forming on his tongue—Suguru can see it, can taste the bitter edge of it in his mouth before Yuji even opens his.

Suguru feels his stomach twist. His pulse kicks hard at his throat. His mask is gone, domesticity exposed; caught between his brother and the boy who’s never supposed to see this side of him outside locked doors.

Yuji breaks the silence first, tone brimming with confusion that cuts deeper than any knife. “…I didn’t know Satoru was here.”

Satoru’s mouth parts too quickly, panic spilling out before he can think. “I can explain—” He sounds raw, too earnest, too frantic, like he’s about to confess to murder instead of the simple, brutal truth that’s already dripping between the three of them.

Suguru watches Yuji’s face like a fuse catching flame. Shock first—pure, wide-eyed disbelief—then the slow, creeping confusion that twists at the corners of his mouth. And then that laugh. Low, sharp, all teeth, echoing off the cold stone and glass like a curse that’s lived in the Kamo line for centuries. That laugh is their father’s legacy—Suguru feels it rake down his spine, worse than any blade.

Yuji wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, breathes out a half-choke of a chuckle that sounds like it hurts. His eyes flick to Satoru, then snap back to Suguru. “No. No, you can’t be serious.” His voice cracks, disbelief wrestling with the first coals of anger. “Suguru—tell me you’re not fucking my friend.”

Satoru tries again, half-stepping forward, towel slipping from his hand like an afterthought. “Yuji, please—”

Yuji slices the air with his palm, a clean, vicious gesture that shuts Satoru up like a bullet. “For a genius, the stupidest thing you could do is crawl into bed with my brother.” He spits it like poison, a sneer cutting through the shock, but it’s too thin to be real.

Suguru can feel the tension coil through him, up his throat, bristling cold behind his teeth. “That’s enough.” His voice is calm. Too calm. The calm that makes men beg on their knees when they see him in the club office.

Yuji’s head snaps to him, hair falling over his brow. His eyes are bright, livid, hurt, and betrayal simmering hot under the Kamo cold. “ Is it? It’s enough?” He lets out another humorless laugh. “ So you get to hang out with Satoru—sleep with him—do whatever the fuck this is,” He gestures at the quiet domestic ruin, at Satoru standing there small in Suguru’s clothes. “But you can’t even be bothered to hang out with your brother?”

Suguru doesn’t flinch. But the silence between them is thick enough to drown in. And behind it, Satoru just stands there—barefoot, helpless, eyes darting between the two of them like he’s waiting for a verdict that’s already been passed.

Yuji’s laugh dies, but the grin that takes its place is worse. Thin, brittle, too sharp for his soft face. He shakes his head like he’s trying to rattle the thoughts out before they root too deep, but they don’t. They never do with Yuji.

His eyes cut to Satoru, who’s standing there with hands partially lifted like he could still fix this, like there’s any version where they walk out of this kitchen untouched. “Is that why you were always busy on the weekends?” Yuji’s voice hits like a slap—loud, sudden, cruel in how gentle it tries to sound.

Satoru flinches, mouth moving before his mind can catch up. “Yuji—you weren’t supposed to find out like this.”

Yuji lets out a broken bark of laughter, shoving his fingers through his hair. “ Oh? And when was I supposed to find out, huh? At the wedding? Get a nice little invitation in the mail— ‘Hey Yuji, hope college’s good, by the way, I’m fucking your brother.’” He gestures between the two of them, like the truth is some rotten thing stuck to his palm.

Suguru tries to cut in, but Yuji’s already rolling, heat in his eyes that Suguru’s only ever seen when Yuji’s fighting for something he loves.

“ You know what’s funny? You— ” He jabs a finger at Satoru, the boy genius who looks ready to sink through the floor. “You were the one I cried to about my family. About him. About all of it. And you told me it’d get better.” Yuji’s laugh cracks at the edges. “Yeah, real funny. Real nice. Now you get to be part of the fucking family, huh?”

He swings his glare to Suguru. And Suguru sees it—finally sees it—that glint of something raw and ancient that lives under Yuji’s easy grin. The piece of him that still remembers where they came from.

“You’d love that. Our Dad’s great, right, Suguru?” Yuji’s tone dips lower, meaner. “Bring him home. Introduce him to our father. The man you never want to talk about.” He spits the word father like it’s poison in his mouth. “He’ll tell you all about the man that’s been fucking lying to you for months.”

Suguru’s chest goes cold. He’s used to playing a hundred steps ahead—seeing the cuts and threats long before they’re made. But now Yuji’s staring straight through him, and Suguru realizes too late: Yuji knows. Maybe not all of it—maybe not the bodies, the blood, the power coiled in Suguru’s name like a curse—but enough. Enough to put it all together. Enough to break this apart if he wants to.

And Satoru’s caught in the middle.

Suguru opens his mouth to speak—but Yuji’s stare slices through him, demanding an answer that tastes like the truth Suguru’s never learned how to give.

“On the porch,” Suguru hisses. 

Suguru doesn’t look at Satoru — he can’t. He pins his eyes on Yuji instead, daring him to keep pushing. His chest feels tight, bruised from the weight of something he doesn’t want to name. Of course, this would crumble. Of course, Satoru would see him for what he really is. He’s not built for this — for warmth, for gentle hands in his hair at night, for someone cooking in his kitchen like they belong there.

Yuji’s face twists, something cruel curling his mouth as he opens it to fire back — but Suguru’s voice cuts sharp through the air, low and lethal: “I said go. Porch, roof, jump — I don’t care. Get the fuck out of my sight.”

Satoru’s hand brushes his arm, soft, desperate. “ Suguru!” he says again, a crack in his voice like he’s trying to pull Suguru back from the edge. But Suguru puts his hand up to silence him.

He’s so stupid — all this tenderness, this peace, it was borrowed. And now it’s over. And he’ll tear it apart himself before anyone else can.

Suguru’s jaw twitches. He watches the empty stairwell where Yuji disappeared, every word clanging around his skull like iron. Satoru’s voice breaks through — steady, stubborn — and Suguru hates him for it, hates how it makes that tight coil in his chest pull tighter.

He drops his hand from where he’d silenced Satoru a second ago, his fingers curling into a fist at his side. His eyes flick to Satoru — that stupid earnest look, that pleading edge. Suguru feels cornered in his own home, in his skin.

“You’re leaving,” he grits out, voice low, final.

But Satoru shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes, wet from his shower, wearing Suguru’s hoodie like he owns it. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is happening.”

Suguru’s vision tunnels when Satoru’s fingers brush his wrist — warm, familiar, insistent in a way that makes him want to cave in and scream all at once. He jerks back like it burns.

“Whatever it is, we can work through it,” Satoru tries, soft but unyielding, like he hasn’t realized yet that Suguru is rotten to the bone.

Suguru barks a bitter laugh. His voice cracks on the precipice of rage. “Work through what? We are nothing.” The word rattles out of him like a gunshot. He spits it again, harder — like saying it enough might make it true.

Satoru rolls his eyes at that — infuriating — and Suguru wants to shove him. Wants to kiss him, to ruin him. But Satoru just looks bored with the lie. 

“For a genius, you’re fucking dumb,” Suguru hisses. “I just wanted an easy fuck.”

Satoru doesn’t flinch, doesn’t fold — only looks at him like he’s already decided to forgive the monster snapping its teeth at him. Then, finally, he exhales, slow and tired. “When you’re done with this tantrum,” he says, calm and infuriating and gentle all at once, “you know where to find me.”

He brushes past Suguru on the way to the door, his shoulder grazing Suguru’s arm — a mercy Suguru doesn’t deserve. And Suguru stands there: nailed to the floor, teeth sinking into the inside of his cheek, tasting blood instead of begging.

Suguru doesn’t find him. He doesn’t chase Satoru through the rain like it’s a movie, doesn’t stand outside his dorm window with apologies ready in his throat. He lets him go — not because he wants to, but because he’s convinced it’s what has to be done. His life, black and cruel as it is, grinds on with or without the softness of Satoru Gojo pressed into it.

The first week after, Suguru drinks until he can’t stand. He wrecks his car into a guardrail at three in the morning. Choso comes to drag him out of the wreckage, glass in his hair, blood in his mouth. Choso doesn’t say a word about the smell of whiskey or the fact that Suguru laughs when they stitch him up.

The second week is penance — Shanghai with their father. The air is thick with incense and the iron scent of old blood. Suguru stands beside Kenjaku like a loyal son. He keeps his hands steady even when his mind isn’t. He listens, nods, and obeys. He’s rewarded with bruises he doesn’t bother to hide.

The third week, he’s back on Tokyo streets, boots wet with the city’s filth. He makes examples of men who owe the clan, men who think the Kamo are a fairy tale. He breaks fingers, cracks skulls, collects debts, and is silent. He breathes in blood because it’s all that’s left to breathe.

The weeks bleed together. Suguru goes deeper — into back alleys, smoky bars, dim rooms with plastic tarps and bad lighting. He drifts under the weight of it, almost content. The violence hums like a lullaby. If he’s working, he’s not remembering the softness of Satoru’s hands or the heat of his laugh. He’s not remembering that someone once called him good.

Choso tries, because he must. He’s the heir, the next boss — the one meant to carry the Kamo name forward without drowning in it. 

He sits beside Suguru in the dim hush of the penthouse, eyes steady, voice low. He sees what this life is doing to his little brother, how it’s eating him alive from the inside out. One night, he asks if Suguru wants out — if he can still imagine a world that doesn’t taste like iron and regret. Suguru doesn’t answer right away. When he does, it’s quiet, almost too soft for a man like him. He says he can’t see one. 

They both know how dark their world is — but Choso, somehow, has carved out a scrap of light for himself, a thin slice of hope Suguru once thought he could have too. 

He thinks about that light, about the warmth he let slip through his fingers — and knows he had to let it go.

Suguru sits alone in his study that night, lights low, phone screen dark on his desk. There’s an untouched glass of whiskey by his hand, but he doesn’t drink it — he’s not in the mood for bitterness tonight. The apartment feels too quiet without Satoru’s laugh echoing through it or Yuji’s voice bouncing off the walls. He should feel relieved about the silence, but he’s restless instead, foot tapping against the leg of his desk.

He remembers the way Yuji used to barrel out of the school gates, waving so wildly you’d think his arm might fly off, that unfiltered grin stretched across his face. Suguru had always told himself it was a nuisance — that he only did it for appearance’s sake, that it was good for the clan’s image if the eldest Kamo looked like a caring older brother. But now that Choso waits at the curb instead of him, there’s an ache in his chest that Suguru doesn’t want to name.

He could fix it — he knows how. An apology. A half-hearted sorry would be enough for Yuji. But Suguru can’t bring himself to say it. He’s given too much of himself away lately, pieces he never meant to lose. Satoru’s warm weight pressed against his side at night, the taste of someone who wants him without asking for anything in return. Suguru’s never known how to balance desire and duty, never learned how to keep them from bleeding into each other until he’s left hollow.

He doesn’t regret it, though. He won’t. Not Satoru. Not the quiet nights or the kisses or the warmth he’s found under those blankets. Yuji can hate him for now. He’ll understand eventually. Because underneath all that petty anger, they’re still brothers. And whether they say it aloud or not, they’d both do anything to keep Satoru safe.

Suguru picks up his phone, thumbs through old photos of Yuji at middle school graduations and blurry shots Satoru has taken of him half-asleep in bed. He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose, drops the phone face down on the desk, and leans back in his chair. He’ll fix things with Yuji when the time comes. But for tonight, he lets himself be selfish enough to want it all.

The ballroom is gold and glass, humming with polite laughter and the soft click of cutlery. Beneath the crystal chandeliers, the Kamo name drips off people’s tongues like honey — old money, old power, old sins dressed up in charity. The brothers are easy to spot: three black suits stitched with lineage and threat, drifting through the room like shadows too elegant to touch.

Yuji sticks close to Choso’s side, polite smile strained, pretending he doesn’t feel Suguru’s eyes on him. Suguru doesn’t push it. He knows the damage — knows when to let wounds breathe. So he sits at a table near the floor-to-ceiling windows, back straight, tie slightly loosened, glass of wine spinning lazy circles between his fingers.

Yuki’s tattoos slip out from under her silk sleeves when she leans forward, elbow on the linen, her grin half-wicked, half-kind. The diamond on her finger — Choso’s claim, her crown — glints when she taps the table.

“You’re staring at the bottom of that glass like it’s gonna answer you,” she says, voice pitched just for him.

Suguru laughs, a low exhale through his nose. He tips the last of the wine past his lips, eyes drifting to where Yuji stands beside Choso, all polite nods and tense shoulders.

“It might,” Suguru murmurs.

Yuki hums. She flicks her gaze to Yuji too, then back to Suguru — sharp eyes, a blade hidden in mascara and subtle perfume.

“You won’t find him down there. Or forgiveness. Or a way to unbreak your own fucking heart.”

Suguru scoffs. He turns the empty glass in his palm. The stem threatens to snap under his thumb.

“I don’t care,” he says. And part of him means it — the cold part, the part that carved out a space for Satoru only to slam the door shut when it got too real.

Yuki watches him for a heartbeat longer. Her mouth softens.

“I’m sorry it ended like this,” she says, quieter. “You were really in love.”

The words taste like spoiled wine. Suguru clicks his tongue, eyes cutting away. “I was what?”

“You were,” Yuki says simply. She nods her chin toward Yuji, who’s glancing over — a flicker of boyish worry before he turns away again, stiff and hurt. “Same look, you know? All you Kamo boys mope the same way. Puppy-dog eyes. Like someone stole your candy.”

Something in Suguru’s chest twitches. He doesn’t let it show except for the way his spine straightens slightly.

“He’s still my brother,” Suguru mutters. “Doesn’t have to—”

“Doesn’t have to mean shit tonight,” Yuki cuts in. She pushes back her chair, stands tall in heels that could kill a man if she wanted. She extends her hand, tattooed knuckles and all. The ballroom light catches the sharp line of her grin.

“Dance with me,” she says. “You’re gonna ruin my night if you sit here yearning. Get him out of your head for three minutes.”

Suguru stares at her hand. For a second, he almost says no. Then he remembers that Satoru always loved to dance, that he’d pull Suguru close even when he pretended he didn’t want it. Maybe Yuki’s right. Maybe ghosts can’t follow him onto the dance floor.

So Suguru smiles, bitter and grateful all at once. He slides his palm into hers, lets her tug him up.

“Lead the way, Mrs. Kamo,” he says, low enough that only she can hear.

Yuki squeezes his fingers. “Always do, baby. Always do.”

And under the chandeliers, they step into the music — two shadows pretending the past can’t touch them here.

They finish the dance pressed between other couples, the orchestra swelling too pretty for men like them — men who trade in blood and secrets and the kind of bruised affection that can’t stand the daylight.

Yuki laughs against his shoulder when Suguru stumbles on the last step, her palm braced on his chest to steady him. He laughs too, breath warm with wine and regret. She squeezes his arm once before letting him go, already turning when Choso comes in, his hand sliding around Yuki’s waist. Suguru doesn’t stick around for the whispered words between husband and wife — doesn’t want to see the restraint his brother wears only for her. He slips off the dance floor, fingers brushing over the linen-draped tables, the half-empty glasses, the polite applause for the orchestra’s next swell. His head hums. He needs air.

The gala spills gold and laughter down the main hall, but Suguru drifts off the path through a door, down a corridor meant for staff. The sound of the party dulls behind him, replaced by the hush of his pulse in his ears.

He presses a palm to the wall when it tilts. Wine and bad decisions. He should’ve left earlier. He should’ve —

“Suguru.”

It’s soft, at first. Like an echo he’s carrying in his chest anyway. He thinks he imagines it — has to, because that voice doesn’t belong here. Satoru shouldn’t be anywhere near him anymore. That’s the whole point. The clean break. The punishment.

But then — sharper. Closer. That voice, all lightning and broken glass when it’s angry.

“Suguru. Hey. Turn the fuck around.”

His spine goes rigid. He keeps his back to the sound, eyes squeezing shut like maybe if he does it hard enough, the terror will be polite and leave. His breath hitches. He wants to laugh. He wants to puke.

The footsteps come anyway, too real, the heel of expensive shoes catching on marble, the familiar edge of a too-cocky walk turned venomous with betrayal.

“Suguru — don’t you dare fucking ignore me —”

He turns.

He has to.

The hall spins a little when he does.

And there he is.

Satoru.

A little disheveled — no tie, top buttons undone, hair mussed like he ran his hands through it too many times trying to figure out if this was a good idea. But his eyes are the same: bright, furious, stupidly beautiful.

Suguru almost says his name. But his throat is dry, and the word sticks. Satoru stalks closer, all that hurt and want rolling off him like a storm. Suguru knows he won’t outrun this time. So he just stands there — drunk, cornered — and braces for the storm.  

Chapter Text

Suguru’s head knocks back against the cold wall when he feels the warmth of Satoru’s palm. It’s the first thing that cuts through the wine haze — that heat, that steady thumb brushing under his eye like he’s someone precious to Satoru, someone who does not deserve this magnetic boy. 

He wants to shove him away; to grab that wrist and twist it, break the softness out of both of them. Instead, he just stands there blinking up at him, stupid for a heartbeat too long.

“What the hell are you doing here?” His voice comes out rough, throat dry. The words don’t bite the way he wants them to. They slide out tired. Small.

Satoru’s close enough to smell — expensive cologne and something boyish underneath, a scent Suguru knows too well. That smell that still clings to his sheets some nights when he’s weak enough to lie in them alone.

“You’re drunk,” Satoru says, too calm and soft. His thumb brushes a stray strand of hair back behind Suguru’s ear. It burns more than it soothes. “You need to sober up.”

Suguru scoffs. He pushes at Satoru’s chest — a shove and a plea for distance he doesn’t want. He hates how warm Satoru feels through the suit, how solid.

“Leave me alone,” he mutters. The words catch on his teeth. “I’m fine. Go babysit someone else—”

“Stop.” Satoru’s voice drops. That gentle edge always cuts deeper than any threat. “Stop being stubborn and let someone take care of you for once.”

Suguru closes his eyes. Stupid move. The second he does, he’s back there — Satoru naked in his bed, laughing at something stupid he’d said. Satoru’s fingers tangled in his hair. Satoru whispering I got you, stay still . It cracks splinters in his chest where his heart should be.

“I can’t,” he breathes. He doesn’t mean for it to slip out. But it does. “I can’t.”

Satoru laughs, but there’s no bite to it — a bitter kind of softness Suguru hates.

“Good thing you’re too drunk to fight me tonight, huh?”

Suguru feels the warm press of Satoru’s hand at his wrist. He could pull away. He should. He doesn’t. He lets himself be led down the hall like a fucking child, shoes scraping marble, head buzzing. He hates how easy it is to let Satoru drag him somewhere quiet.

The conference room is cold when they step inside,  big and bright under a single lamp Satoru flicks on. There’s leftover clutter on the table.  Plastic-wrapped gift bags, coffee someone abandoned hours ago. It smells like stale air and expensive paper.

Satoru grabs a water bottle off the table. Cracks the seal one-handed like he’s done this a hundred times.

“Sit,” Satoru says.

Suguru doesn’t. He stands there, breathing a little loud, watching him like maybe if he memorizes this version — the calm, bossy, infuriating version — he can forget the one who used to beg him to stay until morning.

When Satoru holds the bottle out, Suguru almost wants to slap it away. He doesn’t. His fingers brush Satoru’s knuckles when he takes it. That tiny spark of heat makes his gut twist.

“Drink,” Satoru says, softer now. Less command, more plea.

He drinks. The cold water is sharp on his tongue, washing away the wine. Not the ache. Never that. When he lowers the bottle, Satoru’s still there, close enough that if Suguru fell, he knows exactly where he’d land.

And the worst part is — some traitorous part of him wants to.

Satoru doesn’t bother with the polite distance of the chair across the table. He pulls the one next to Suguru instead — drags it close enough that when he sits, their knees almost touch. The plastic bottle in Suguru’s hand suddenly feels too small, too loud when he crinkles it to keep his fingers busy.

He tries not to look. Really tries. But it’s impossible. Three months apart, and Satoru still looks the same — suit sharp, tie gone, hair a little messy like he’s been running his hands through it on repeat. He looks good. Too good. Like he didn’t fall apart at all.

Suguru swallows. He wonders if he should say something. Apologize. Scream. Beg. He does none of that. He sits there, staring at the bottle cap, fighting the heat crawling up his neck.

Satoru’s knee brushes his. Barely there, but enough to remind Suguru that he’s real. Still here. Still too close.

When Satoru does speak, his voice is quiet, almost gentle. It digs in deep.

“You’re not eating.”

Suguru’s eyes flick to him. Satoru’s not even pretending to look away.  He’s studying him like a puzzle he already knows how to solve.

“You’ve lost weight.”

Suguru tries for a laugh, but it gets stuck halfway up his throat. “It’s the heat.”

Satoru huffs out a soft chuckle. That same stupid smile, the one that always twisted something warm in Suguru’s chest when he let himself look too long.

“The heat,” Satoru repeats, mocking but kind. He tilts his head, hair slipping over his forehead. “You know you’re a shit liar when you’re drunk.”

Suguru lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. He wonders how many lies Satoru let slide — how many he laughed off because being with Suguru meant forgiving things he never said out loud. 

Satoru leans back, arm brushing Suguru’s shoulder for a second. That heat again. That same heat Suguru told himself he didn’t need anymore.

“You should go home,” Satoru says, softer now. “Get some rest. Eat something.”

Suguru’s throat tightens. He wants to ask, to say come with me. Wants to promise he’ll eat, he’ll sleep, he’ll stop looking for excuses to drink until he’s numb — if Satoru stays.

But he doesn’t ask. He nods, eyes on his hands, feeling the lie settle heavy on his tongue again.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’ll go home.”

He doesn’t ask if Satoru will come too. He already knows the answer. 

Suguru drains the last of the water, the plastic crackling in his grip when he squeezes it empty. The silence stretches between them, thick and warm in the stale air of the conference room — the kind of silence that’s too full of things neither of them wants to touch.

He barely has time to set the empty bottle down before Satoru’s sliding another one into his hand. Cold condensation drips onto Suguru’s wrist. He stares at it, then at Satoru. Satoru lifts a brow, daring him to refuse.

Suguru rolls his eyes but cracks the seal anyway. Takes a sip to shut him up — cold water washing down words he’ll never say.

“You better get going,” he mutters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He doesn’t look at Satoru when he says it. “Before Yuji sees you here. He’ll throw another fit.”

Satoru huffs a soft laugh that skims over Suguru’s ear like a tease.

“I’ll deal with Yuji later,” he says, and his voice is so calm that Suguru wants to hate him for it.

Suguru scoffs, the sound sharp in his throat. He shifts in the chair, knees brushing Satoru’s again, a little harder this time. “You think it’s that easy?”

Satoru shrugs. His shoulder bumps Suguru’s. He doesn’t pull back. “He’s hurt,” he says, voice low, steady. “We broke his trust.”

Suguru laughs — bitter, small. It tastes wrong coming out of his mouth. “He can’t trust me,” he says, and it slips out too easily. He feels it settle in his chest like an old and rotten truth that he’s carried for years. “I’m not a trustworthy person.”

“Stop.” Satoru’s voice cuts through, sharper now. He shifts closer, thigh pressed fully to Suguru’s. “Stop moping. Stop spouting shit you don’t even believe. I’m not gonna sit here and listen to you drown yourself in your own pity.”

Suguru snorts at that — a real laugh this time, rough at the edges. He tips his head back, lets his eyes rake over Satoru’s stupidly perfect face. The faint freckles he only ever saw up close, the slight flush at his cheeks from chasing him down tonight.

“Look at you,” Suguru murmurs, a crooked smirk pulling at his mouth. “To think you were a nervous, awkward little university brat when I met you.”

Satoru smiles back.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning in close enough that Suguru can feel the words rolling on his skin. “And you’re still stuck with me, aren’t you?”

Suguru doesn’t think. He doesn’t plan. He does what every frayed nerve in him begs for. He leans in and catches Satoru’s mouth with his own — soft at first, stupidly gentle, an apology he’ll never say out loud.

Satoru doesn’t pull back. Of course he doesn’t. He opens up for him as he always did — mouth warm, breath sweet, tongue brushing Suguru’s lip in that way that makes him ache all the way down. It’s too easy to sink into him, to forget the months between: the hallway, the anger, the pity that tastes like poison.

Suguru deepens it. One hand slides to Satoru’s jaw, thumb brushing the skin below his ear, memorizing it all over again. He swings a leg over, settles down into Satoru’s lap because it’s the most natural place he’s ever been.

Satoru’s hands find his hips — steady, grounding. For a moment, Suguru lets himself believe none of it matters. The charity gala down the hall, Yuji’s hurt, the way he ruins everything he touches. Right now, it’s Satoru under him, warm and solid and real. The world that’s always been dark and sharp at the edges goes soft when he’s here. It’s always been like that. It’s always been Satoru.

Suguru kisses him harder, desperate now. He wants more. He wants all of him. He wants to crawl inside that warmth and forget who he is, what he’s done.

But then Satoru’s mouth slips from his, breath ragged. He pulls back so that Suguru can see it — the way he’s trying not to let this swallow them whole.

“Hey—” Satoru’s voice is low, cracked at the edges. His hands slide up from Suguru’s hips to his wrists, warm fingers wrapping around trembling skin. “Not here.”

Suguru shakes his head, tries to lean back in. Satoru catches him, holding him far enough away that the next kiss misses its mark.

“Stop,” Satoru says again, softer this time, like he’s afraid Suguru might splinter if he says it too sharp. “We can’t do this here. We need to talk —”

“I don’t want to talk,” Suguru breathes. His voice breaks on it. “I want you . I need—”

Satoru doesn’t give in. He never did when it really mattered. He holds Suguru’s wrists tight, thumbs brushing over his pulse. Their foreheads almost touch. Satoru looks up at him — eyes bright, soft, seeing through every wall Suguru’s ever built.

“Look at me,” Satoru whispers. He squeezes Suguru’s hands when he feels the tremor there, the way Suguru’s trying not to fall apart. “Hey. We’ll talk. We’ll fix it. But… not like this. Not here.”

Suguru wants to laugh. He wants to run. Instead, he lets Satoru hold his hands steady, lets him look at him like he’s worth saving — even if Suguru doesn’t believe it.

Suguru tries to swallow down the tightness coiled in his throat, the burn behind his eyes. He’s held it for so long he doesn’t know how to set it down without shattering under it. He wants to speak, give Satoru the comfort and reassurance that he doesn’t, but the words don’t come, only the shaking breath that stutters out when the first tear breaks loose.

One drop. Then another. Streaking down the line of his jaw, catching at the corner of his mouth before he can scrub it away. He doesn’t even bother. There’s no point. He can feel the way his shoulders hitch, the tremor that starts in his chest and spills out before he can choke it back down.

Satoru’s hands never leave him. One lifts to his cheek, thumb brushing clumsy circles under his eye, trying to catch the tears, but he’s too late — they keep coming. Suguru can’t stop them. He’s so fucking tired. Tired of the weight in his chest, the nights alone in the shower when he pretends it’s water on his face and not tears. This stupid, quiet ruin of himself.

He feels Satoru shift beneath him — strong arms sliding up around his back, pulling him in, wrapping him up so tight the world outside the conference room disappears. He smells like cologne and sweat and something softer, something that has always meant home to Suguru, whether he admits it or not.

“It’s okay,” Satoru murmurs into his hair, voice warm against his ear, rough like he’s fighting his tears too. “Hey. It’s gonna be okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Suguru fists his hands in the fabric at Satoru’s shoulders. He presses in until there’s no space left between them, buries his face in the crook of Satoru’s neck. He can’t see the tears this way — but he feels them, hot against skin that doesn’t flinch from him, doesn’t turn away.

“You’re safe,” Satoru whispers, over and over, like it’s a promise he can make real if he says it enough. His palm rubs wide circles over Suguru’s back, steady and firm. A lullaby in rough hands. “We’re gonna figure this out. I promise. You’re safe with me.”

Suguru stays pressed into him, silent, breathing in that warmth, shaking apart quietly in the only place he ever lets himself — here, in Satoru’s arms, where the darkness doesn’t dare crawl in.

Morning comes slowly, pale light slipping through the curtains. Suguru sits on the couch with a blanket around his shoulders. The TV is off, the quiet hum of the fridge in the kitchen the only sound. The breakfast on the coffee table is barely touched. A few crumbs on his fingers, cold eggs whose taste he can’t recall.

He doesn’t remember leaving that conference room. Doesn’t remember the ride home, or Satoru staying. All he knows is he woke up tangled around him, forehead pressed to Satoru’s chest like he was afraid to let go. And Satoru let him.

He hears Satoru’s steps before he sees him. A soft clink of ceramic when two mugs are set next to the plate. Warm steam curls up from the tea, filling the stale morning air with honey and ginger. Suguru stares at it. He doesn’t reach for it.

Satoru sits next to him without a word. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask anything. He waits. The cushion dips with his weight, his knee close enough that if Suguru shifted, they’d touch. He stays still.

Suguru wipes a crumb from his lip with his thumb. He doesn’t look at Satoru when he finally speaks.

“I don’t remember how I got here.” His voice is quiet, too thin in the big room. The tea sits untouched between them. “I don’t remember you staying.”

“Getting drunk does that to a person,” Satoru says, voice light but eyes steady on Suguru’s face.

Suguru lets out a small laugh that doesn’t make it to his eyes. He reaches for the tea at last, cradles it between his palms, but doesn’t drink yet. It feels good to hold something warm.

Satoru leans back into the couch, head tipped so he can watch Suguru without it feeling like an interrogation. His shoulder brushes Suguru’s arm when he shifts.

“You don’t have to tell me everything right now,” Satoru says. His tone is too calm for the mess Suguru feels in his chest. “But I’d like to know. Eventually.”

Suguru stares at the steam. He hates how the next words slip out before he can catch them. “Haven’t you figured it out already?”

Satoru snorts, soft and short. “Bits and pieces. The usual. But having your guys trailing me around campus? Kind of obvious.” He lifts a brow at Suguru, mouth curving just a little. “You still keep tabs on me.”

Suguru’s fingers tighten around the cup. He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“You could have visited,” Satoru says. His tone sharpens for the first time. “Or at least answered your phone. Any of the hundred texts. The missed calls. One word, Suguru.”

Suguru looks down. He forces his shoulders to stay still when he wants to flinch. “We needed distance. I needed to think.”

Satoru’s laugh is bitter. “You do your best thinking blackout drunk?”

Suguru rolls his eyes but doesn’t answer. He tries to focus on the tea again. The steam has faded. It’s going cold in his hands.

Satoru shifts closer. His knee presses against Suguru’s. The quiet in the room feels heavy again.

“I heard about the car accident,” Satoru says. His voice drops lower, like he’s not sure Suguru wants to hear it. “Yuji showed up at my dorm crying. Asked if I’d talked to you.”

Suguru’s chest tightens, his breath caught halfway up his throat. His hands still around the mug. He doesn’t move.

Satoru keeps going. “He finally got hold of Choso.” His eyes are on Suguru’s face, searching, quiet. “Yuji said you asked for me.”

Suguru doesn’t have an answer for that. 

Satoru doesn’t give him space to hide in the silence. He never does. He shifts even closer, their knees pressed tight, the heat of him seeping through Suguru’s thin sweatpants like an anchor.

“I would be there for you,” Satoru says, firm but gentle. “I want to be there. But you have to let me in. You don’t get to push me out and then pretend I wouldn’t drop everything to come running.”

Suguru’s breath catches in his throat. He wants to look away, but Satoru’s eyes are right there, soft, too much. He stares at the tea instead, the steam long gone. Lukewarm.

“It’s not that easy,” Suguru mutters, voice low. “It’s hard. I’m not—” He stops, swallows the rest of it down, but it still slips out, a whisper he hates himself for. “I’m not a good person.”

Satoru huffs a quiet laugh that doesn’t mock him but cuts through the air like it should. “Really?” He tilts his head, watching Suguru like he’s waiting for him to admit something obvious. “Would a terrible person help their kid brother ask out his hopeless crush?”

A laugh slips out before Suguru can stop it. Quick and hoarse but real. He shakes his head, eyes falling closed for a second, a small crack of warmth in the cold that’s been eating at him for weeks. “Yuji likes to make his life harder. He didn’t need my help.”

Satoru smiles at that, wide and boyish. It is the grin Suguru used to feel pressed against his throat at two in the morning when the world felt bearable.

“I missed that,” Satoru says, voice softening. Like it’s something private. He leans in a little, shoulder brushing Suguru’s. “Your laugh. You .”

Suguru’s throat tightens again. He tries to cover it with another scoff, but it’s too late. Satoru sees right through him.

“I know you missed me too,” Satoru goes on, grin turning smug at the edges, but there’s nothing cruel in it. “Even if the big, bad yakuza boss won’t admit it.”

Suguru lets out a chuckle, the sound sticking in his throat but warmer this time. He turns his head, finally meeting Satoru’s eyes. There’s that small curve at the corner of his mouth that Satoru always teased him about — the one he couldn’t hide, even when he was trying to stay cold.

“Get it right,” Suguru says, voice touched with a tiny flicker of humor. “Choso’s the heir. I’m just the ghost in the back room. The shadow heir.”

Satoru’s grin grows, teeth flashing as he tips his head and looks at Suguru like he’s someone easy to love. Like he hasn’t spent the last three months tearing himself apart.

“Shadow heir, huh?” Satoru drawls, dragging it out just to get a reaction. “Is that why you wear all black? Lurking in the corners like some gloomy drama queen?”

Suguru rolls his eyes but doesn’t look away. “Maybe.” He lifts his tea halfway to his lips, pauses. “It suits me.”

Satoru leans in, close enough that Suguru feels the warmth of his breath at his temple. The tease in his voice smoothes out into something real.

“You’re too bright to be in the shadows, Suguru.”

Suguru places the tea on the table with a quiet clink. His elbows find his knees, hands clasped. The weight in his chest is heavy. Satoru’s silence doesn’t make it easier. But he knows what that silence means—Satoru’s not leaving until he gets the truth.

So Suguru gives it to him.

“I’ve killed people,” he says, low and even. No drama. No excuses.

Satoru shifts beside him, not away—closer. “How many?”

Suguru doesn’t look at him. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It kinda does,” Satoru says, tone light and absurd in contrast. “Because, like… saying you’re a serial killer is kinda hot.”

Suguru laughs, caught off guard. “You sound like Yuji.”

Satoru grins, proud of himself. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Then, gently, his fingers brush against Suguru’s. “Keep going.”

So he does. He tells Satoru about the drug runs. The shakedowns. The people he’s hurt. The money he’s laundered. He lays it all out in plain words, doesn’t dress it up or make it sound noble. There’s blood on his hands, and he knows it. And still, Satoru doesn’t flinch.

When he finishes, the room is quiet again.

Suguru’s hands twist in his lap. The stillness is unbearable. He keeps his eyes on the floor, breath tight in his chest. “I get it if you don’t want to do this. If you don’t want me. You’d never have a normal life with me. Probably best we stop seeing each other.”

Satoru doesn’t move right away. But then—soft, warm fingers curl around Suguru’s. Grounding.

“I don’t want normal,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I want you. Weird Yakuza soap opera and all.”

“You think you can handle it?”

Satoru leans in, a slow smirk curving his mouth. “Baby, that’s just the start.”

Suguru rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches. 

The glass is cold and slick beneath Suguru’s palms, fogged where his breath hits and smeared where his fingers have slid, searching for something to hold onto. His head rests against the window, too heavy to lift, eyes barely open. The city burns below him, all those lights flickering in and out of focus. None of it matters. Not when Satoru is behind him, buried deep, fucking into him like he’s trying to leave a mark on his soul.

Every thrust punches the air out of his lungs. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, leaking, untouched, forgotten. There’s too much else—Satoru’s hips slamming against his ass, the obscene sound of skin against skin, the wet slap echoing off the walls of his quiet, expensive living room. Suguru’s body jerks with every movement, stretched open, used. He moans again, louder this time. Shameless, ruined.

“You thought you could leave me?” Satoru snarls, voice rough and hot in his ear. His hand clamps tight around Suguru’s waist, holding him steady as he fucks into him harder—deeper. “Thought I’d let you walk out like none of it mattered?”

Suguru can’t answer. His mouth opens, but it’s only sound—soft, desperate noises as his body trembles. He’s so far gone, brain melted down to nothing but sensation. His head falls to the side, cheek against the glass. The coolness grounds him as his body gets pushed forward with each brutal thrust.

Satoru’s hand drags up his stomach, fingers sliding through the sweat clinging to Suguru’s skin. He finds a nipple and pinches it hard, making Suguru sob out a breath, hips stuttering.

“You missed me.” Satoru taunts, breathless. “Say it. Say you missed this—my cock in you. Say you missed me.”

Suguru’s throat works, dry and tight. “I—fuck, I did,” he gasps. “I missed you. I missed everything.”

“That’s right,” Satoru growls, and he grabs Suguru’s hip with both hands now, slamming into him with enough force to rattle the window frame. “You fucking belong to me.”

Suguru’s eyes roll back. His legs shake. He can’t hold himself up anymore, a mess of trembling arms and a chest flushed against the window. His cock bobs with every thrust, leaking steadily, untouched. He wants to come so badly it hurts. His hole flutters around Satoru with every brutal drag in and out, slick and stretched, used and aching.

He tries to speak, say Satoru’s name, beg for something—more, relief, anything —but all that comes out is a choked moan as Satoru leans forward. His chest is flush against Suguru’s back as he fucks him even harder.

“Look at yourself,” Satoru breathes against his neck, voice dark and low, hand sliding up to cup Suguru’s throat. “Pressed against this glass, dripping for me. You didn’t want distance. You wanted to be fucked like this. Owned like this.”

Suguru whimpers, and that’s all it takes. His body clenches, tight and hot, pleasure crashing through him. His cock jerks as he spills over the window. Long, messy spurts spilling against the glass, hips twitching, mouth open in a silent cry.

Suguru twists in Satoru’s grip, grabbing at his shoulders, pulling him in with trembling fingers until their mouths crash together. It’s desperate—hot and messy, teeth knocking, breath tangled—but Suguru doesn’t care. He kisses Satoru like he’s starving, like every second without him carved a hollow into his chest that only this can fill.

He pants into Satoru’s mouth, the rhythm never breaking. Satoru’s still fucking into him, each thrust punching a shaky sound out of Suguru’s throat. His whole body is burning, overwhelmed. The glass in front of him is warm now with their sweat and heat. Every part of him aches, stretched open, used, owned—and he never wants it to end.

He clutches at Satoru’s shirt, still half on, twisted and bunched around his arms. “I—” he tries, but it comes out as a moan, his voice breaking from how badly he needs him.

He doesn’t think he could have lived without this. Without him. He doesn’t know why he ever tried. That distance, all that silence—it was unbearable. He’s never been good alone. Never without Satoru.

“I need you ,” Suguru whispers against his lips, wrecked and helpless. “I need you so much.”

Satoru’s hand slides down and presses flat against Suguru’s stomach. He pushes down hard, right over the outline of his cock bulging beneath skin, thick and deep where he’s fully inside. Suguru chokes on a sob, legs going weak.

“You feel that?” Satoru growls, voice low, dangerous, proud.

Suguru nods, whimpering. “Yes. Fuck—yes.”

“That’s where you belong,” Satoru says, leaning in to kiss the corner of Suguru’s mouth. His lips are wet, his exhale harsh. “Right there. Taking me this deep. Mine .”

He presses harder, and Suguru’s body shakes.

“You’re mine, Suguru,” Satoru says again, slower, like he’s branding it into him. “Just like I’m yours.”

Suguru lets out a cry, overwhelmed, barely holding himself up. And he believes it—every word. Because in this moment, in this space between glass and sky, he’s never belonged to anyone more.

Suguru shudders violently, head tipping back as the pleasure takes him. His body tenses and then breaks all at once, his cock twitching as he spills again, his release smears warm across his stomach and the fogged window, spattering across where he has already spilled. His moan is sharp and breathless, torn from the depths of his chest.

Behind him, Satoru groans, burying himself to the hilt as he follows right after. His hands grip Suguru’s hips tight, holding him in place as he spills inside, thick and hot, filling Suguru with everything he has. Satoru’s mouth is on Suguru’s neck the whole time, kissing him through it, whispering low and broken words that Suguru doesn’t quite hear but feels in his bones.

Satoru carries him across the room like nothing in the world could stop him.

He lays Suguru down gently on the rug—their rug, the same one where they’ve sat and argued, laughed, eaten takeout in silence, kissed for hours like they had forever. Suguru lands on his stomach, cheek pressed against the wool, body still trembling. His legs fall open naturally, sore and spent. Satoru is heavy and warm as he settles over him, still buried inside.

And he starts to move. Slowly. Dragging deep strokes that make Suguru gasp against the floor, make his toes curl, and his fingers clutch weakly at the rug.

“Don’t ever leave me,” Satoru murmurs into his skin. His lips brush Suguru’s shoulder, his spine, his neck. “Three months without you… It was fucking hell.”

Suguru closes his eyes. The words crack him open in places nothing else ever could. A tear slips down his cheek, hot and quiet. Then another. He doesn’t sob. He doesn’t make a sound. The tears just fall, soft and steady.

Satoru sees them anyway. He leans in, kisses the wetness from Suguru’s face with so much care it makes Suguru ache worse than any thrust ever could.

“I’m here now,” Satoru whispers.

And he keeps fucking him slowly, tenderly, like he’s putting every piece back into place.

The living room smells faintly of instant noodles and too-sweet body spray. Suguru sits on the edge of a worn couch with a folded hoodie in his lap, trying not to touch anything more than he has to. There are old socks under the coffee table. A cracked plastic controller balances on a pizza box. An open suitcase spills clothes across the rug—T-shirts, underwear, a single slipper with faded Sharpie scribbles.

A filled trash bag rests by his ankle, an empty soda can rolls nearby. He hadn’t meant to start cleaning. It just happened. Idle hands. Too much stillness. The front door bursts open with the sharp click of the knob and the heavy thud of sneakers on cheap flooring. Giggles flood the room—high, breathless, too delighted to be innocent.

“Oh my God,” someone gasps, voice dripping with drama. “If you keep sucking on my neck like that, I’m gonna—”

“Gonna what?” another teases, deeper and smug. “Pass out? Cry?”

Suguru rolls his eyes before the door even shuts.

There’s a brief pause—the dull slam of the door, a body pressed back against it, kissing sounds that are far too loud. Then a sharp inhale. Silence.

Suguru glances up as Junpei opens his eyes. His legs are wrapped around Yuji’s waist, hoodie bunched high, his face flushed and glowing with the aftermath of whatever they thought they were getting away with.

For a full second, Junpei just stares.

Then he screams.

Yuji turns around so fast he nearly drops Junpei. “Oh my god!”

Suguru chuckles low and lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t mind me,” he says, tone light, almost teasing. “I need to speak with my brother. Family matters.”

Yuji puts Junpei down. Before Suguru can even shift off the couch, Yuji’s voice cuts through the room like a blade.

“What the hell are you doing in my apartment?” Yuji snaps. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

Suguru doesn’t flinch. He rises slowly and nods toward the kitchen table. A plastic bag from Yuji’s favorite ramen spot rests on it, the steam still curling from the containers. “I brought dinner.”

“I don’t care.”

But Junpei glances toward the food, then back at Suguru. “Thank you,” he says, soft and sincere.

Suguru smiles, small but genuine. “See? A kid with manners.”

Yuji’s eyes narrow, his fists tightening at his sides. “Stop it.” He grabs Junpei’s wrist. “We’re leaving.”

Junpei doesn’t move.

He just stands there, caught in Suguru’s gaze, something uncertain flickering across his face. That old Yakuza presence comes in handy after all—the stillness, the weight of his stare, the air he carries that says Don’t fuck with me. 

“Junpei,” Suguru says calmly, “wait in your room.”

Yuji steps forward, fury blooming in his face. “Don’t talk to him like that.”

Junpei glances between them, nervous but not scared. “It’s okay,” he says, gently, like he’s trying to keep the room from cracking. “I’ll… find something to do.”

He slips away quietly, the door to his room shutting with a click that feels far too final. The silence that follows is thick.

Suguru finally looks at Yuji fully, the tension settling between them like a storm cloud ready to break. Yuji stands firm in the middle of the room, arms crossed, chin tilted up like he’s bracing for a fight.

“What are you even doing here?” he asks, sharp.

“You weren’t in your dorm.”

Yuji laughs—cold and sarcastic. “What, you broke into my dorm too?”

“No.” Suguru’s tone is clipped. “Megumi let me in. Cute dogs.”

Yuji scoffs, turning his head like he can’t stand the sight of him. “Can’t you take a hint? I don’t want to see you.”

Suguru shrugs, hands sliding into the pockets of his coat. “We’re brothers. You’re gonna have to see me for the rest of your life.”

He leaves out the part he’s been thinking about more and more lately—that their lives aren’t measured in decades. That most men like him don’t live long enough to grow old. He and Choso are lucky. So far.

 “Great. Then I’ve got the rest of my life to hate you.”

Suguru’s expression falters for a second. “For fucking your friend?” he throws back, defensive, bitter. It comes out harsher than he means it to.

Yuji’s face goes red with rage. “No!” he shouts. “For not choosing me!”

The air cracks. The words echo. Suguru doesn’t move. He looks at Yuji. 

Suguru sighs, shoulders dropping as the tension in the room grows. He looks at Yuji, eyes tired. “I was going to tell you,” he says quietly.

Yuji scoffs, stepping back like he can’t even stand the sound of that. “When? When something happened to Satoru?”

Suguru doesn’t answer. His silence says enough.

Yuji exhales hard, dragging both hands through his hair before letting them drop to his sides. “I don’t care that you’re dating him,” he mutters. “That’s not what pisses me off.” His voice wavers. “It’s the fact that it felt like you couldn’t stand to be around me, but somehow you could tolerate him.”

Suguru blinks. “Yuji… that’s not what it is.”

“Isn’t it?”

Yuji’s voice cracks a little when he speaks again. “At first, I thought it was because we didn’t have the same mom. That maybe you kept your distance ‘cause we didn’t grow up together.” He doesn’t look at Suguru, just stares at the floor. “But then I figured maybe it was the age thing. You’re always saying I’m too young, that I don’t get it. But Satoru’s only two years older than me. And somehow, you’re fine with that. And that… hurts.”

Suguru feels like a bullet. Right through his chest, through the softest part of him. His heart shatters before he can even process what to say. Yuji’s standing there, not even trying to make him feel guilty, but somehow that’s worse.

He never meant to hurt Yuji. Never Yuji . Not the loud, bright kid who had burst into his life at twenty-two with wide eyes and a backpack full of secondhand clothes, standing behind their father, unsure if he was allowed to belong.

Suguru had loved him from the start.

It didn’t matter that Yuji didn’t have the same mother. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t shared a childhood. Yuji had been claimed as a Kamo, and Suguru had accepted it without hesitation. But still—he hadn’t been the best at showing it.

Choso had stepped into that role instead. Choso, who cooked with him, listened to his high school drama, and let him sleep in his bed when he had nightmares. Choso, the warm older brother.

And Suguru? He’d been the protective one. The one who showed up to fights, who made sure Yuji never got too close to the family’s darker side. He was the fierce one. The distant one. And maybe, somewhere along the way, that distance had carved itself into something uglier than he meant it to.

Because it wasn’t Choso hurting Yuji right now. It was him.

Yuji’s gone quiet. It lands like a punch to the gut. “Maybe it’s me,” he says. “Maybe you don’t like me. And that’s fine, I guess. It…it hurts. I don’t have anyone anymore. Not my mom, not Grandpa. All I want are my brothers.”

Suguru moves before he can think. He crosses the room and wraps his arms around Yuji, pulling him close. Yuji stiffens in surprise, but only for a second—then he melts into the hug, arms locking around Suguru’s waist and holding on tight, tighter than Suguru expects.

Yuji holds on like he’s afraid Suguru might disappear.

He’s warm. Solid. Still a little damp with sweat from earlier, still breathing hard from all that shouting. And Suguru holds him.

This—this sweet, friendly, kind-hearted boy. The one who tries so hard to make people laugh. Who cracks the dumbest jokes but still gets everyone to smile. Who dreams of doing something good, even when the world hands him nothing but loss.

Yuji, who is so pure it hurts.

Suguru never kept his distance to hurt him. Never because he didn’t love him.

He kept the truth away. The blood. The guns. The men who came home covered in bruises. The things he and Choso have done, the bodies they’ve buried, the hands they’ve broken. Yuji didn’t need that. Didn’t need the stain of their family or the darkness that crawled under Suguru’s skin every night.

Yuji is what Suguru used to be. What Choso could have been. That rare thing the world tried to burn out of them—innocence. Hope. Love that doesn’t come with a ledger of debts.

Suguru pulls back, gently easing Yuji out of the hug. Yuji blinks up at him, confused, lips parted like he’s about to protest—but Suguru brings his hands up, cradling Yuji’s face between his palms.

His thumbs brush under Yuji’s eyes, catching the tears before they fall.

“You’re the best of us,” Suguru says, voice low and thick. “You always have been.”

Yuji’s eyes widen—and then he breaks. His face crumples, and the tears come fast, hot and silent as he grips Suguru’s wrists like he might fall apart without them.

Suguru doesn’t move. He doesn’t flinch. A single tear slides down his cheek, but he doesn’t wipe it away. He holds Yuji’s face because it’s precious. Because Yuji is worth protecting.

Yuji sniffs, yanking the hem of his shirt up to wipe his face. Suguru cringes immediately, grabbing his wrist.

“Gross,” he mutters. “You have tissues.”

Yuji grins through the mess of tears and snot. Without warning, he punches Suguru in the chest—not hard, but enough to jolt him.

“I’ve never seen you cry before,” he says, voice still thick. “It’s weird.”

Suguru wipes the tears off his cheeks. “If you tell anyone, you’re dead.”

They both laugh, something soft and honest settling between them. A tension that had been coiled for months finally loosening.

Suguru exhales slow. “I’ll try,” he says. “To be better. To hang out more. Be there.”

Yuji raises an eyebrow. “Well, if you gave me your bike, our bond would be, like, unbreakable.”

Suguru swats the back of Yuji’s head. “Nice try.”

Yuji laughs again, leaning against him, and Suguru lets him.

Satoru said he wouldn’t ask questions, and he keeps his word—but Suguru can see it on his face. The worry. The ache of not knowing.

The apartment is dark, still heavy with the silence of early morning. The sun hasn’t even risen. Suguru’s steps are uneven, the hallway stretching ahead like a maze out of a fever dream. He didn’t promise he’d come back. He never does. He doesn’t know if he can.

But Satoru… Satoru is always there.

The second the door shuts behind him, Satoru is at his side. No questions, no demands. Satoru’s hands are warm, steady, catching him before he can fall.

Suguru mutters that he’s fine, barely above a whisper. It’s a lie, and they both know it. His leg is killing him, and each step sends pain spiking through his thigh. He tries to brush Satoru off, to walk on his own, to keep whatever sliver of control he has left.

Satoru doesn’t let him.

“Lie down,” he says, quiet but firm, guiding Suguru toward the bed. When Suguru resists, Satoru gently pushes him down. It’s not forceful, but it’s final.

Suguru groans and grabs at his thigh. The wound’s still tender, probably stopped bleeding, but it’s raw and burning. Satoru kneels beside him and starts peeling off the ruined clothes. His touch is careful, reverent. Suguru watches as the bloodied pants come off, and how Satoru’s brows crease when he sees the injury.

The first aid kit is already open, laid out next to him. Satoru’s prepping a needle and thread, working in calm silence like he’s done this a thousand times before. Suguru hisses as the wound is cleaned in preparation. 

“You’re not gonna ask what happened?”

“Would you tell me?”

Suguru leans his head back against the pillows. “Tch. You got me there.”

Satoru finishes the last stitch with a precision that doesn’t match the slight tremble in his hands. He wraps the wound gently, securing it snug with gauze and tape, his fingertips brushing against Suguru’s skin like he’s afraid to hurt him more than he already is.

“There,” he murmurs, quiet satisfaction in his tone, even though the tension hasn’t left his shoulders. “Good as new.”

Suguru hums, eyes fluttering, but he winces when he shifts. “Could’ve used a lollipop or something after that performance.”

Satoru rolls his eyes and gathers the bloodied clothes without answering. He disappears from the room, and Suguru hears the distant click of the washing machine starting. Suguru’s on his phone by the time he comes back, thumb scrolling absently.

Satoru doesn’t say anything at first. He walks up, takes the phone right out of Suguru’s hand, powers it off, and places it on the far dresser like he’s been grounded.

Suguru blinks. “Really?”

“They can have you when you’re not limping,” Satoru says, already crawling under the covers beside him.

Suguru sighs and leans back against the pillows. “Fine. I’m off the clock.”

Satoru snuggles up next to him carefully, mindful of the stitched leg. His arm curls over Suguru’s middle, body pressing in to feel close. They lie there for a moment in the dim, quiet room, steeping in the kind of peace neither of them gets nearly enough.

Suguru breaks it first. “How was your day?”

“I’d take physics three over being stabbed any day.”

Suguru snorts, his chest shaking with laughter that makes his leg throb. “Same.”

They both chuckle, tired and warm, pressed into each other like gravity doesn’t exist anywhere else.

Satoru’s fingers move slowly, tracing the lines etched into Suguru’s skin like they’re part of a language only he wants to learn. He starts with the ones along Suguru’s forearm, then moves to his chest, light and curious.

Suguru catches his hand and guides it lower, to the ink above his ribs—four half-moon marks, curved and linked together like a tide that never breaks.

“This one’s my initiation,” Suguru murmurs. “Got it when I was fifteen.”

Satoru hums, thumb brushing over the design. “Looks like a constellation.”

“Feels like one, sometimes,” Suguru says quietly. “Like it’s always there, even when you don’t see it.”

Satoru shifts, trailing his hand to another mark under Suguru’s clavicle. It’s smaller, sharper—more deliberate.

“That’s my shadow heir mark,” Suguru explains, voice neutral but proud.

Satoru nods. He doesn’t need the history behind it. His fingers keep wandering until they reach a tattoo nestled over Suguru’s heart. The moment he touches it, Suguru stills.

His body goes quiet in a way Satoru feels more than sees.

“That one’s for my mother. It’s my first. Choso has the same one.”

Satoru doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move his hand either. He leans down and presses a kiss over the ink, over the ache.

Then he wraps himself around Suguru like he’s afraid to let go.

The pain doesn’t fade. But the weight shifts, and when Suguru finally closes his eyes, it’s the first time in days that sleep doesn’t feel like surrender. It feels like peace.

It’s a quiet Saturday, the kind that Suguru keeps tucked away like a favorite cigarette, burned slowly and savored. The sun filters in through the tall windows, pale and golden, casting long shadows across the wooden floors. The air smells like fabric softener and whatever Satoru spritzed on himself this morning—something citrusy and light. Suguru stands in the kitchen, glass of water in hand, bare feet cool against the tile. He doesn’t need to look at the calendar to know what day it is. He can feel it in his bones. A day just for them.

He watches Satoru from a distance, one arm leaning against the doorframe. Satoru’s on the couch, legs folded up, one knee bouncing, remote in hand as he flips aimlessly through the channels. He’s wearing a loose white T-shirt that rides up slightly when he stretches, and gray cotton shorts that leave little to the imagination. His hair is a mess of platinum strands, and his oversized glasses slide down his nose every time he laughs at something dumb on screen.

Suguru drinks him in like he always does—quietly, enamored. He doesn’t know how Satoru manages to look so painfully beautiful doing absolutely nothing. He’s not trying. That’s the part that gets him. 

And Suguru? He feels it deep in his chest. That stupid flutter. A foreign warmth that is dangerously comforting. 

He notices it more lately—how Satoru stays over more often than not. There’s a toothbrush in the bathroom that isn’t his. Socks shoved into the cracks of the couch. A shirt with a ketchup stain folded badly in his drawer. Satoru hasn’t said it out loud, but they both know what it means. He’s moved in.

Suguru doesn’t mind. It’s the opposite. He finds himself rushing through the chaos of his work to get back to this. Satoru sprawled across his couch, whining about bad TV and asking what’s for dinner. To the simple, ordinary things that make Suguru feel like he’s still allowed to want something good.

He takes another sip of water, then sets the glass down and walks toward the living room. The floor creaks beneath his feet. Satoru glances over his shoulder.

“What?” Satoru says, smiling like he already knows he’s being stared at.

Suguru says nothing and ties his hair up, fingers deftly twisting the dark strands into a bun at the crown of his head. It’s a quiet motion, practiced and fluid, and Satoru watches him with something like anticipation in his throat. Suguru’s still in his black tee and sweatpants, low-slung and lazy, like he has nowhere to be but here.

He steps around the couch and stands in front of Satoru, who glances up from his slouch.

“Babe?” Satoru says, squinting a little behind his glasses. His voice is light, but there’s a flicker of awareness in his eyes.

Suguru doesn’t answer. He sinks to his knees.

Satoru’s back straightens instinctively. He moves the blanket off his lap, suddenly aware of how warm it’s gotten under there. Suguru’s hands come up slowly. He starts at the knees and drags his hands upward, slow and purposeful. There’s a ghost of a smirk on his lips, his eyes sharp and teasing as they flick up to meet Satoru’s.

“Hey,” Suguru says, low and intimate.

Satoru swallows hard. His voice is smaller now, breathier. “Hey.”

Suguru loves when Satoru is flustered and nervous. Loves the pink that rises to his cheeks and the way his voice falters slightly, like he’s still not used to being wanted like this.

He loves when Satoru goes on those long, excited tangents—about rare manga editions, obscure mathematical theories, or the weird niche trivia only he could find interesting. Suguru will pretend he’s annoyed, but most days he’s staring, watching the way Satoru’s eyes light up, how his hands move when he gets passionate.

And sometimes— God —sometimes he wants to shut him up. Wants to shove his cock down Satoru’s throat to see if he can still talk around it. Other times, like now, he wants to get on his knees.

He’s never done that before. Not for anyone .

It’s not only the physical act—it’s the meaning. The vulnerability. The submission he was never supposed to give. Suguru is a powerful man. Feared. Worshipped. Men kneel for him, not the other way around. And Satoru —Satoru treats him like a god and a man all at once. He never lets Suguru forget he deserves pleasure.

But Suguru is selfish. He’s always been selfish.

He doesn’t want to be selfish with Satoru. Not anymore. 

Suguru’s becoming something else. A lover.

He slides his hands up Satoru’s thighs again, slower this time, tugging gently at the waistband of his shorts. Before he can pull them down, Satoru grabs his wrists.

“Suguru.” Satoru’s voice is warm, worried. “You don’t have to.”

Suguru smiles. Leans forward and kisses the back of Satoru’s hand, lingering there. He looks up into Satoru’s eyes, dark lashes low over his cheeks.

“I want to,” Suguru says, silkily. “You always take care of me. Let me return the favor.”

His tone shifts, deep and sultry. His thumbs slide beneath the elastic of Satoru’s shorts.

“Let me suck your cock, baby,” Suguru murmurs. “Wanna be good for you. Wanna feel you fuck my mouth.”

Satoru nods quickly, too quickly, like his brain short-circuits the second the words leave Suguru’s mouth. Instead of leaning back and relaxing like a normal person, his hands come up to cup Suguru’s face, and he leans down—lips brushing over Suguru’s in a kiss that’s far too sweet for what’s about to happen.

Suguru smiles through it. Of course he does. Satoru’s whispering thank you like Suguru just saved his life and not offered to blow him in the middle of a lazy Saturday.

When Suguru pulls back, he’s grinning. “Stop thanking me,” he murmurs against Satoru’s lips. “It’s weird.”

Satoru’s already flushed, but he blushes deeper, ears turning red. He ducks his head again and presses a kiss to Suguru’s forehead, trying to recover, to keep cool like he isn’t totally gone for this man kneeling between his legs.

Then he leans back on the couch, making a show of throwing one arm over the backrest and spreading his legs just a little too wide, attempting to sit casually. Attempting.

Suguru lets out a low, amused chuckle. God, he’s cute.

Suguru slips his hand beneath the waistband of Satoru’s shorts, pulling him free with deliberate care. He starts to stroke him, slow and confident, the weight of Satoru’s arousal heavy in his hand.

Satoru moans, head falling back against the couch cushions. “God—Suguru…”

Suguru leans in close, breath warm against Satoru’s skin. “I’m still shocked you’re this big,” he murmurs, full of mischief. His thumb swipes teasingly over the head.

Satoru whimpers, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers clutch at the couch. “Don’t say stuff like that,” he groans, blushing scarlet.

“But it’s true,” Suguru grins, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip, savoring the sight in front of him. He glances up at Satoru through dark lashes, his hands steady on his thighs. “Relax,” he murmurs, his voice low, coaxing. “Let me take care of you.”

Satoru nods, swallowing hard, his fingers trembling slightly.

Suguru leans forward, letting his mouth close around the head of Satoru’s cock. He hums, the vibration sending a shiver up Satoru’s spine. Slowly, deliberately, Suguru takes more of him in. Moving with a steady rhythm, savoring every twitch and gasp that escapes Satoru’s lips.

Satoru’s breathing grows ragged. His head tilts back, mouth parted as he lets out a deep, desperate sound. “God—Suguru…”

Suguru moans, eyes fluttering closed, taking his time—like he’s memorizing the taste, the weight, the heat of him. This isn’t about control, not tonight. This is about devotion, about giving. Every movement is deliberate, every lick and suck meant to undo the man above him.

Suguru doesn’t stop, slow down, or look away. He works Satoru’s cock with precision, with hunger, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. Satoru is panting above him, head pressed back against the couch, glasses slightly askew as he moans. Praise ceaselessly spills from him like it’s all he knows how to say.

“Fuck—fuck, baby,” Satoru groans, eyes fluttering. “You’re so perfect… so beautiful. Your mouth—shit, your mouth is insane.”

Suguru hums at that, lashes fluttering. The praise feeds something hot and greedy in his chest. He bobs his head deeper, tongue curling around the underside of Satoru’s cock, savoring the way Satoru’s hips twitch.

“You feel good?” Suguru asks, his voice husky as he pulls back to speak. His lips are slick, pupils blown wide.

“Yes—yes, Suguru,” Satoru gasps, his hand trembling where it cups the back of Suguru’s head. “Feels so fucking good.”

Suguru smiles and licks a slow, deliberate stripe up the shaft before kissing the tip. “You can fuck my face,” he says, voice low and teasing. “If you want.”

Satoru’s breath catches. “Are—are you sure?”

Suguru nods without hesitation, keeping his eyes on Satoru. “I want you to,” he says, and then opens his mouth again, waiting.

Satoru swallows hard, his throat bobbing. He reaches for Suguru’s hair, fingers carefully undoing the bun until dark strands fall loose around Suguru’s face. Satoru runs his hands through it once before gripping it, not too tight, but enough to anchor himself.

Suguru opens his mouth again and takes Satoru in, slow and smooth, until the tip presses against the back of his throat. He breathes through his nose, relaxes his jaw, and then Satoru moves.

The first thrust is tentative, shallow. Suguru adjusts, steady on his knees, and lets him go deeper.

Satoru moans, low and raw. His hips roll forward again, more confident now, and Suguru matches the rhythm—lets go completely. Hands resting on Satoru’s thighs, Suguru gives him everything: the trust, the submission, the silence he never offers anyone else.

And Satoru takes it, hips finding a steady pace, thrusting into Suguru’s mouth with a reverence that borders on worship.

Satoru starts to thrust harder, the slick sounds louder now in the quiet room. His hands tighten in Suguru’s hair, guiding him, owning the rhythm. But his eyes never leave Suguru’s. He’s watching him—wide-eyed and wrecked, lips stretched around his cock, flushed and beautiful.

“Fuck, baby,” Satoru groans. “You look so good like this—on your knees, just for me.”

Suguru moans around him, the praise hitting harder than it should. It feeds his ego, makes his spine tingle, lulls him deeper into the feeling of being wanted, taken, trusted. He’s never submitted like this before, but with Satoru, it doesn’t feel like giving something up. It feels like choosing.

“Taking me so well,” Satoru pants. “Like your throat was made for me. You love this, don’t you?”

Suguru nods, eyes heavy-lidded, gaze locked on Satoru’s face. There’s love in them. Suguru lets Satoru pull his hair tighter, lets him thrust deeper, his cock sliding further down Suguru’s throat until he’s choking a little—but it feels good. Too good.

Suguru’s palms dig into Satoru’s thighs as he holds steady, letting him have more, give more, be more—for him.

Suguru can feel it building—the tense coil tightening deep inside Satoru, the way his breaths come shorter, more ragged. His body trembles subtly beneath Suguru’s hands, each movement charged with need.

Satoru’s voice breaks through the quiet, husky and urgent. “Will you… swallow for me?”

Suguru meets his gaze without hesitation, eyes dark and eager. He nods, the unspoken trust between them thick and heavy, binding them closer.

With a low curse, Satoru’s hands find Suguru’s hair, fingers threading through the dark strands with a firm yet careful grip. His thrusts grow harder, more insistent, every deep motion echoing the raw hunger they both share.

Tears spill from Suguru’s eyes, hot and unbidden, tracing silent trails down his cheeks. His mouth waters, the slickness pooling at the corners as he works to take it all in. Tight, consuming pressure folds around him.

Satoru’s gasps, each broken moan, fuels Suguru’s rising heat. His palms press into Satoru’s thighs, grounding himself as the sensation surges through them—raw, fierce, and utterly intimate.

Satoru’s body stiffens, muscles coiling, then trembling as release crashes over him. His breath hitches, head falling back in a silent surrender.

Suguru swallows, the act a promise — of love, of devotion, and of an unbreakable bond forged in the space between them.

Suguru sets the ladle down and wipes his palms on the towel draped over his shoulder. He doesn’t meet Satoru’s eyes right away,  too focused on the simmering pot. The scent from it, on the pressure crawling up his neck like a hand squeezing the back of it. Everything has to be perfect tonight. The dish, the apartment, him .

Behind him, Satoru leans against the counter, eyes flicking between Suguru and the bubbling sauce.

“Baby,” Satoru says, arms crossed. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not.” Suguru’s reply is too quick. His voice is too tight. He closes the lid on the pot to signify the end of the conversation, but Satoru doesn’t budge.

“You’re worried about Choso.”

Suguru sighs, shoulders slumping. “It’s not Choso I’m worried about.”

“Then what?”

Suguru glances over finally, and something flickers behind his eyes. Vulnerability. Unease. “ You .”

That pulls a reaction from Satoru. He straightens a little, surprised. “Me?”

“You’re meeting someone who’s known me since I was in diapers. Someone who… who saw everything. The worst of me. My family, my first scar, my initiation, my fuck-ups. You’re walking into that.”

“I already walked in,” Satoru says, his voice gentle. “I’m here, Suguru. I’ve been here.”

“I know,” Suguru mutters. “But it’s different when someone else looks at you the way I do. When someone else starts thinking you’re too good for me.”

Satoru walks over, crowding Suguru until his back is against the counter. He places a hand on Suguru’s jaw, thumb stroking just beneath his cheekbone. “No one gets to decide what’s too good for me but me. I chose you .”

Suguru swallows. His throat is dry. “You haven’t even tried the food yet.”

“Baby,” Satoru grins, soft and adoring, “I’d eat it raw and burnt if you made it.”

Suguru scoffs, letting out a quiet laugh. “You’d eat instant noodles and lie to me that it was ‘artisanal ramen’.”

Satoru leans in, lips brushing just beside Suguru’s. “Because you made it. And I love everything you make.”

Suguru kisses Satoru’s lips. It’s soft, warm, grounding—meant to calm the anxious buzz between them. Satoru hums into it, smiling when they part.

“Tonight’s going to be fine,” Satoru says with an easy smirk, though his hands are still on Suguru’s hips like he’s bracing himself. “Worst case scenario—everything goes wrong and Choso kills me, right?”

Suguru goes quiet.

Satoru blinks. “Wait. Wait, no—Suguru. You’re joking, right? Right ?”

Suguru chuckles. “Relax. I won’t let anyone touch you. Not even the big, scary yakuza boss.”

Satoru exhales in exaggerated relief. “Good. Because you’d struggle to find someone who loves you as much as I do.”

The room stills.

Suguru’s face twists—not into discomfort, but innocent and raw. Emotions suspended between surprise and panic. His mouth parts, like he might say it back. He wants to. He thinks he wants to. But the words stall in his throat. 

The doorbell rings.

Suguru goes to open the door while Satoru, still slightly stunned and awkward, busies himself with setting the table.

At the door, Yuki’s grinning before it even opens. She barrels in with a big hug the moment Suguru appears, arms wrapping around him while holding a bottle of expensive red wine.

“Damn, you clean up nice,” she teases, stepping inside without waiting for an invite. “Should’ve told me to dress up.”

Suguru snorts softly. “You’re in ripped jeans.”

“Yeah, and still the best-dressed,” she says over her shoulder.

Choso follows her, more subdued, but his eyes soften the second he sees Suguru. He pulls him into a firm, brotherly hug. The kind that starts stiff but lingers just a second too long to be casual.

“You look good,” Choso says. Before Suguru can respond, he adds with a slight smirk, “Don’t worry. We’ll survive the night. Assuming your cooking doesn’t kill us.”

Suguru relaxes under the familiarity. He punches Choso in the chest—maybe the shoulder, maybe a little of both. “That’s rich, coming from the guy who thought cayenne pepper was the same as cinnamon.”

“I was ten.”

“You were sixteen.”

“Semantics.”

Yuki already has her boots kicked off and is halfway to the dining table. “Something smells good. I’m starving—tell me there’s carbs.”

Satoru’s still straightening out the silverware but glances up with a smile, quietly watching the dynamic unfold like he’s seeing another side of Suguru—one that belongs to family.

And Suguru watches him too, knowing this is the beginning of something new. 

Dinner is light-hearted, full of laughter, and the clinking of glasses. Choso makes an effort despite his usual stoicism, asking Satoru the usual checklist of protective older brother questions. Where are you from, what do you do, and how long have you known Suguru. But his tone is calm, almost playful. There’s no threat behind it, a quiet assessment.

Satoru handles it well. He’s charming, polite, even throwing in a few self-deprecating jokes that make Yuki cackle so hard she nearly chokes on her wine.

“Oh my God,” she gasps, wiping at the corners of her eyes. “You’re too much.” She reaches across the table, swiping Satoru’s glasses right off his face.

“Hey!” Satoru blinks rapidly, half-laughing, half-blushing. “I’m blind without those.”

“You didn’t tell me you were this handsome,” Yuki teases, twirling his glasses between her fingers. “Suguru, how did you land this one?”

Satoru blushes harder, ducking his head. 

He watches. They all seem to like him. Choso hasn’t glared once. Yuki already talks to Satoru like he’s an old friend. It’s easy, natural. And yet, Suguru still sits back, one hand wrapped loosely around his wine glass, and wonders.

Could Satoru really fit into this life? His life.

Because this world wasn’t made for people like Satoru. Satoru, with his clumsy warmth and too-big heart. Satoru, who believed in fairness and happy endings, and second chances. Suguru doesn’t want him to ever stop believing in those things. He doesn’t want to drag Satoru into the dark corners he calls home.

Yuki was already part of this world. Her father’s debts sold her long before she had a say. The Kamo family turned her into something beautiful and ruthless, but Choso found her. Or maybe, Suguru thinks with a small smile, she found him . She claimed him like a storm claims the sea—loud and inevitable.

Suguru wonders if that’s what happened to him too. If Satoru had pulled him into his orbit without even meaning to. If somehow, without realizing it, Suguru had stepped into gravity and forgotten how to walk away.

And now he’s stuck.

But for once, he doesn’t mind.

Dinner wraps with full plates and fuller laughs. Satoru insists on helping with the dishes, and Yuki joins him, rolling up her sleeves and flicking water at him like a child. He retaliates with a splash of soap suds, and soon the two of them are giggling over the sink like they’ve known each other for years.

Suguru watches them from the balcony, the glass door cracked open. The night air is thick with the scent of city and smoke. Choso stands beside him, silent at first as he lights his cigarette, the flame briefly illuminates his sharp features. He takes a drag then holds the cigarette out to Suguru.

Suguru takes it, inhales slowly. He doesn’t say anything at first either. He listens to Satoru’s laugh echo from the kitchen, soft and real.

Choso watches Suguru watching. His voice is low when he speaks.

“You sure about him?”

Suguru exhales smoke. “Yeah.”

“There’s no turning back after this,” Choso says. He’s not being cruel, only honest. “If you keep him in your life, he’s in . All the way. He’ll be tangled in everything . You know that, right?”

Suguru doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes stay locked on Satoru—on the way his back curves as he leans over the sink, the way he throws his head back when Yuki flicks foam at his face again. Suguru’s chest aches.

“He’s not from our world,” Choso adds, quieter. “And we both know what this life does to people like him.”

Suguru turns, finally looking at his brother.

“I know.”

Choso looks back at him, unreadable.

“Is he worth it?”

Suguru doesn’t respond right away. He turns his head again, his dark eyes finding Satoru. The man who had walked into his life like a match to kindling. Who loved him without trying to fix him. Who saw him and didn’t flinch. Suguru thinks about the mornings they’ve spent tangled together, about how Satoru always makes the coffee too sweet. He thinks about the way his heart slows down when he’s with him. How, for the first time in years, he imagines a future.

He takes one last drag of the cigarette, then presses it out against the railing.

“I think I’d die for him,” Suguru says, voice low. “But more than that… I think I want to live for him.”

Choso’s expression doesn’t change. But he reaches out, claps a hand to Suguru’s shoulder, and squeezes it.

“That’s all I needed to hear.”

Choso and Yuki are gone. The door shut behind them over ten minutes ago. The penthouse feels larger, emptier without their voices echoing off the stone walls.

Suguru lingers in the kitchen, pretending to clean a plate that’s already dry. He hears the water running and knows exactly where Satoru went the second their guests were out the door. He considers waiting—giving Satoru a moment alone—but he knows better. Satoru doesn’t do well with space. Not when things feel heavy.

So Suguru moves.

He walks through the bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt slowly. The fabric falls from his shoulders without ceremony. He steps out of his pants next, tossing them toward the hamper. His bare feet are silent against the dark tile as he approaches the bathroom.

The door is cracked. Warm, misty air escapes through the gap, carrying the scent of eucalyptus and expensive soap.

Inside, Satoru is beneath the rainwater showerhead, white hair flattened to his head, shoulders rounded slightly forward. He hasn’t noticed Suguru yet, too wrapped in whatever storm is brewing behind his half-closed eyes.

Suguru steps in.

He doesn’t speak, but rather lets the steam envelop him. The quiet between them stretches naturally as he closes the distance. He watches Satoru for a moment longer, gaze drawn to the delicate lines of his back, the subtle strength in his stance even when he’s tired.

Suguru finally says, gently, “Move over.”

“I thought you were giving me space,” he says, pushing his hair back from his face.

“I changed my mind,” Suguru murmurs, stepping under the water.

Their bodies don’t touch at first. Two men standing beneath the stream, letting it wash evidence off that soap can’t reach.

After a moment, Satoru’s hand reaches out. Fingers graze Suguru’s wrist. A silent plea, or maybe a thank you.

Suguru lets him.

They stand there like that—naked, wet, quiet.

And then, softly, Suguru says, “I meant it, you know.”

Satoru’s brows crease. “Meant what?”

Suguru doesn’t look at him right away. “That I won’t let anyone touch you.”

The words hang in the mist. They feel heavier after the dinner, after Choso’s questions, after the weight of the unspoken still echoing in the walls.

Satoru steps forward, closing the space between them. He reaches up and touches Suguru’s cheek, thumb dragging slowly over his jaw.

“I know,” he whispers. “I believe you.”

Suguru lets himself stare. He doesn’t hide it. His gaze travels from the slope of Satoru’s neck to the wide stretch of his chest, the solid definition of his stomach, and his strong thighs.

Satoru’s always been bigger than him—taller, broader in the chest, deceptively strong beneath his usual laziness. Suguru used to wonder how someone could look so dangerous while smiling like a boy. Now he knows.

He traces a single finger down Satoru’s sternum, watching the way it twitches slightly beneath his touch.

There are no tattoos. Not a single one.

Suguru’s hands are inked with symbols that mean everything and nothing. His back is marked with dragons and black blossoms, heavy with meaning and memory. Satoru’s skin is untouched, pure. It makes Suguru selfish.

“I hope you never mark yourself,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over Satoru’s hip bone. “I like you like this.”

Satoru looks down at him, blinking water from his lashes. “Why?”

Suguru shrugs, pretending it doesn’t matter, but he knows it does.

“Because it means this world hasn’t claimed you yet. And I don’t want it to.”

Satoru goes quiet. He doesn’t joke,  doesn’t quip. He pulls Suguru in by the waist and presses their bodies together, warm and solid under the cascade of water.

Suguru lets himself melt into it, cheek resting on Satoru’s shoulder, hand splayed over his chest.

He thinks again— don’t ever change.

The penthouse is quiet, dim with the kind of light that slips past midnight without apology. Tokyo burns below the windows in a mosaic of neon and broken promises, but Suguru didn't look at it. He’s in the study, back pressed into leather, legs tucked under the wooden desk. 

A phone is pressed between his shoulder and cheek. 

“Yes, Choso. I know it’s messy,” he says, jaw clenched. “I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important.” 

The line hisses with static — Choso’s talking fast, anxious, all broken sentences and scattered intel. Suguru closes his eyes for a second, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, his temple throbbing like a bruise about to burst. 

He hears the door open behind him. 

Footsteps. Familiar. 

“There you are, I—” Satoru’s voice carries in, soft but loud enough to reach him over Choso’s garbled ramble. He stops, mid-thought, when he sees the phone pressed to Suguru’s ear. 

Suguru opens his eyes. 

Satoru’s standing in the doorway, shirt too big, collar wide and slipping off one shoulder. His hair’s a mess — white and wild, like he’d just woken up. The lenses of his thick glasses catch the office light, a faint fog still clinging to the corners. 

He starts to back out. Quiet, almost sheepish for once. 

But Suguru lifts a hand, flicks his fingers — Come here. 

Satoru hesitates only a second before obeying. Pads into the office barefoot, lazy in his movements, but Suguru catches the gleam in his eyes. That little fire that never dies. 

He doesn’t speak as he sits at the edge of the desk, right in Suguru’s line of sight. 

Suguru watches him: the way his legs press against the floor, how the hem of those ridiculous shorts rides up his thick thighs, the slow stretch of Satoru’s fingers as he reaches for a lock of Suguru’s hair and starts playing with it absently. Satoru twines it around his knuckles, then lets it fall, repeating the motion. 

Suguru exhales through his nose. He forces himself not to lean into the touch. 

“Yeah. No, Choso—” His voice dips again, sharpened by exhaustion. “If he talks, I’ll handle it. Don’t worry about the cleanup.” 

Satoru hums under his breath, deep enough for Suguru to feel it, starting under his skin. 

He looks away from the phone, back at Satoru. 

It’s obscene, really. How good he looks without trying. Messy hair, flushed cheeks, those damn glasses sliding down his nose. Suguru’s jaw flexes. His shirt clings to his chest with sweat, silk black and open down to the third button — skin on display, ink curling out, leading Satoru’s eyes to the path of pleasure if he so chooses to follow it. 

Satoru’s thumb grazes his hairline, slow and idle. Like he knows how close Suguru is to forgetting the call entirely. 

But he doesn’t. 

“Choso, listen to me,” he says, dragging his attention back to the phone. “If it’s already in motion, we can’t stop it. We contain it.” 

His free hand curls into a fist on the armrest. 

Satoru keeps twirling his hair. 

Suguru’s pulse thrums, slow but hard, beating against the edge of his resolve. 

But Satoru’s here, and Suguru always unravels in his presence. 

Suguru’s still mid-sentence — maybe an order or threat — when Satoru moves. 

He’s silent as he inches forward, all slow limbs and silent intent, and reaches for the arm of Suguru’s chair. 

He spins it. 

The leather creaks as Suguru’s body turns with it, the motion smooth but decisive — until he’s no longer facing the desk, but turned out toward the room. Legs now to the side, thighs slightly parted, no longer hidden behind veneer and paperwork. 

Exposed.

Suguru’s voice falters for a split second. “Yeah, Choso—hang on.” 

Then he looks down. 

Satoru’s on his knees. 

Right there, between his legs, still holding onto the armrest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His eyes are shining through the lenses of his big fogged-up glasses, hair a mess, mouth already curled into a smirk. 

Suguru’s brain flatlines. 

His jaw tenses. His hands grip the phone harder. His breath gets shallow, tight behind his ribs. His whole body tingles. Too much heat; too fast. His chest rises under the open collar of his silk shirt, breath slipping out quietly, controlled. Barely. 

Satoru leans in. With a lazy smile, he lifts a single finger and places it gently against Suguru’s lips. 

Shhh . 

That’s all he gives him. No words. Just the touch of that finger — soft, teasing, commanding—and a look in his eyes that says, let me. 

Suguru's spine stiffens. 

He shouldn’t. 

Choso is still talking in his ear — something about routes, maybe blood, definitely a name Suguru doesn’t recognize. The world keeps spinning, dangerous and loud, and Suguru should be sharp, present, in control. 

But his legs fall open like it’s instinct. 

No resistance or pause. 

His knees part, thighs tense under black denim, and Satoru fills the space between them like he was born to be there. He’s grinning now — slow and sure — knowing Suguru would give in as if he planned it. 

Suguru swallows hard. His whole body aches, not from need, but from how badly he wants to deserve this. The way Satoru touches him like a gift. How he devours him like a secret. The way he kneels like he’s meant to be worshipped. 

He still can’t believe this man was a virgin. 

Still can’t believe the way Satoru fucks — with intent, hunger, praise, and filth in equal measure. Still can’t believe the way he sucks cock like it’s holy. Like he’s starving. Like he’s home . 

Suguru’s thighs twitch. 

He presses the phone tighter to his ear, though he hasn’t heard a single word in the last thirty seconds. He can’t think. He can barely breathe. 

Satoru looks up at him, glasses slipping down his nose, and smirks. His hands find Suguru’s belt, fingers sliding under the leather, working the buckle open with a slow, practiced rhythm that makes Suguru’s pulse pound at the base of his skull. 

He should stop Satoru or at least tell Choso to call him back. 

Satoru leans forward, his mouth finding Suguru’s chest. 

The silk shirt parts easily, already half-undone, soft fabric sliding off skin. Satoru kisses the space between his pecks, above the ink where the heat always lingers. His lips are warm. Damp. Open-mouthed and reverent. And Suguru— fuck —Suguru is a weak man. 

“Choso, yeah,” Suguru rasps into the phone. “No, I’m listening.” 

He’s not. 

Satoru’s kisses trail higher —- slow, wet touches along the arch of Suguru’s collarbone, then up his neck, where his pulse betrays him. Suguru feels his throat flex, feels the blood throb like a drumbeat Satoru could sync to. 

Choso is still talking, but Suguru can barely follow a word. It’s all static now — white noise under the pounding in his chest. 

His belt is undone. The sharp click of the buckle releases echoes in the quiet, followed by the soft rasp of his zipper lowering. Metal. Cotton. Breath. 

Satoru’s hand slides under the waistband of his jeans. Warm fingers ghost over his skin, slow and intentional. And then—

Suguru gasps. 

He feels it – the moment Satoru wraps his hand around his cock, already hard, leaking, throbbing. The friction is enough to make him twitch. His lips shift forward, automatic, as Satoru pulls him free — the drag of skin against silk and air and reverent hands. 

His cock stands flushed and perfect in Satoru’s palm, throbbing with every beat of his heart. Pink at the head, wet with arousal, exposed. 

Suguru’s breath catches. 

“Choso,” he says, voice cracking like glass. “You—you’re gonna have to slow down.” 

But he’s not talking to Choso anymore. 

Satoru takes his time. 

Not the soft worship Suguru is used to, this is deliberate. Teasing. Dominant. 

He mouths along Suguru’s shaft with calculated pressure, dragging his tongue up the underside, tasting a luxury no one else gets to touch. Every few seconds, he pulls back — letting air kiss wet skin — to watch Suguru twitch. 

His fingers are firm on Suguru’s thighs, keeping him spread, grounded. One hand stays at the base of his cock, loose but unmoving. Controlling the pace. Denying the pressure, Suguru keeps rolling his hips to find. 

Suguru tries to hold it together. He tries . 

He’s still got the phone against his ear. Still pretends he’s present in this conversation with Choso, who’s ranting about a safehouse or a missed rendezvous or some problem that Suguru can’t give a fuck about right now. 

Satoru licks a slow stripe up his cock and hums. Toys with him. 

“Y-yeah,” Suguru stammers, voice rough with restraint. “No, I—I hear you.” 

Satoru’s mouth closes around him again — wet, hot, perfect — enough to make Suguru’s breath catch. But he doesn’t go deep, doesn’t give him what he wants, what he craves. 

Instead, he sucks slowly. Gently. Pausing at the head, tongue flicking under it with maddening precision. Lips wrapped tight but refusing to take more. He bobs slightly, letting each slick sound echo in the space between them, making Suguru feel the denial. 

Suguru’s hands clench at the armrests. His thighs flex. He doesn’t mean to thrust, but his body betrays him, chasing more of that heat, that pull, that him . 

Satoru’s grip tightens instantly, pinning his hips back down. Suguru hisses through his teeth, swallowing down a curse. 

Then—

Satoru goes down. 

All the way. 

His mouth slides over Suguru’s cock, inch by inch, lips stretching, breath flaring through his nose. He takes it deep, down his throat, until Suguru’s balls press against his chin and his throat flexes in a low, wet swallow that makes Suguru’s vision blur. 

Suguru’s mouth falls open, yet nothing comes out. 

Satoru doesn’t stop. 

He starts to move — slow at first, then faster, head bobbing with intent. He moans around Suguru’s cock. Sloppy. Shameless. Spit slicks his lips, trails down his chin, strings from the base of Suguru’s cock to his mouth when he pulls off for breath. 

It’s obscene. 

His lips are red, swollen, ruined. His glasses are fogged and sliding down his nose, barely hanging on. His eyes are glossy with tears and lust —- but he’s smiling. 

Suguru throws his head back in the chair, the leather groaning beneath him. His fingers tangle in his own black hair, pulling at the roots because it’s the only way to stay grounded. 

He can’t do this. He can’t not do this. 

The phone falls from his hand, hits the carpet. Choso keeps talking, oblivious. 

Suguru doesn't hear a word. 

He’s falling. 

Suguru has abandoned control and the fragile pride he clings to. He only feels Satoru, only knows Satoru. 

His vision’s gone white around the edges, everything tunneling to the deplorable sounds of Satoru’s mouth working over his cock — the messy rhythm. The suction, the way his tongue presses perfectly under the head with every bob of his throat. He knows how to break Suguru. 

And fuck, Suguru’s so close . 

His body’s drawn tight, strung up between restraint and the edge of his resolve shattering. His hands move, fingers tangling in the pale mess of Satoru’s head — clutching, holding on while his hips tremble, resisting the urge to thrust deeper. 

Satoru moans around him again, louder this time, a sinful vibration that punches through Suguru’s gut. He’s not even pretending to be soft anymore. He’s fucking messy — spit trailing down his chin, mouth red and stretched wide, hair sticking to his cheeks. 

It’s the best head Suguru’s ever gotten. 

He wants to say something, but his voice is gone. Lost somewhere between the pleasure boiling in his gut and the shock of being seen like this. 

Satoru pulls back, breathes once, then sits back down with purpose — deeper this time, throat fluttering around Suguru’s cock like he’s been trained for this moment. Suguru’s thighs jump. His whole body arches off the chair. 

He unravels under Satoru’s pressure. 

It rips out of him like a wave breaking — sharp, hot, and total. His head thuds back against the chair, mouth open, body wracked in pleasure too loud to be quiet, too deep to fake. His cock jerks in Satoru’s mouth, and Satoru takes it — eyes fluttering shut, moaning low, swallowing around every pulse of it with unbridled pride. 

Suguru sees stars. 

His fingers go slack in Satoru’s hair. His chest heaves under the open silk, the sweat slicking his skin, cooling in the air of the room. He can feel his heart pounding in his throat, echoing between his legs, still twitching from the aftershock. 

Satoru finally pulls off with a slow, lewd pop, tongue flicking the mess from his lower lip. Then, he tucks Suguru back into his pants, grabs the phone, and places it in Suguru’s hands. He stands as if nothing happened, as if he didn’t unravel one of Tokyo’s fiercest men with his mouth. 

Satoru stands, pecks Suguru’s lips, and leaves.

The morning is low, a heavy-lidded Sunday that settles over the penthouse like fog. Warm light bleeds through gauzy curtains. No alarms blare, no calls ring, no names demand remembering or erasing. The hush of time passes without consequence, bringing with it the low hum of a life being lived. 

Suguru sits at the kitchen table. A small white cloth spreads neatly in front of him, black matte pieces of his Glock 19 laid out in fragments like a deadly puzzle. His movements are slow, methodical, each piece checked, wiped, and oiled, then checked again. He’s not working this week — not officially— but that doesn’t mean he stops being what he is. The gun stays clean, the knife stays sharp, and Suguru stays ready. 

The bedroom door creaks open with the sound of sleep still in its hinges, and a familiar shape moves into the kitchen. 

Satoru, barefoot, rumpled, and yawning with his whole body. His pale hair is a mess, puffy and soft like clouds that haven’t decided whether to storm or shine. He’s wearing nothing but black briefs, low on his hips, and a dazed smile as he pads across the floor. Suguru bites his lip as he notices the red markings on Satoru’s back. It had been a few hours since he was under the brick of a man, but the evidence on Satoru’s body leaves Suguru feeling warm inside. He studies Satoru the way one observes fire— not out of fear, but awe. 

Satoru doesn't flinch when he sees the gun. 

He opens the fridge, grabs his protein shake, and sits across from Suguru with his elbows on the table, legs spread loose and easy. Comfortable and unbothered. 

“Morning,” Suguru greets. 

Satoru hums around the mouth of the bottle, throat flexing. He swallows, not even a glance at the weapon. 

Suguru wishes it wasn’t normal, that Satoru didn’t have to see this side of him — stripped down to routine violence in his home. But there’s a quiet sort of relief in it too. No longer hiding or lying. Rather, Suguru enjoys this, being known in ways that don’t spark fear.  

Still, Satoru’s eye lingers — not on the weapon but the way Suguru handles it, with care, ease, and total control. 

“Plans today?” Suguru asks. 

Satoru shakes his head. “Nah. You?” 

“No.” 

Their silence isn’t uncomfortable, but a feeling dwells in it –  unnamed as it slips between them. 

Suguru keeps working, slides the cloth along the barrel, slow and smooth. He checks the pin, the slide, and the tension. Always aware of where his finger rests, where the muzzle points. Always precise. Always safe. 

Satoru sips again, the storm gathering in blue orbs. “How young were you when you first held a gun?” 

Suguru doesn’t flinch. 

“Eight.” 

The words land heavy in the room, a memory falling off the shelf. Dull, familiar. It doesn’t hurt to say, to remember — it hasn’t hurt in a long time. 

But he feels the way Satoru looks at him now — he’s trying not to show it, but Suguru knows. Knows the shape of pity and the weight of tenderness behind teeth. 

He doesn’t like it. 

Not because it’s cruel– but because it’s kind and Suguru doesn’t know what to do with a kindness that sees him. 

Suguru doesn’t need to glance at him to know what he’s thinking — he can feel it, thick in the air between them. The image of a boy too small for the steel in his palm, made into a weapon too early. 

It’s fine. 

It’s history that didn’t ask to be loved. 

Suguru sets the pistol down, the metal cool against the cloth again, unassuming in the morning light. 

Satoru’s voice cuts through the quiet, soft but steady. 

“Can I hold it?” 

Suguru looks up, spine straightening before he even realizes it, breath catching in his throat. His eyes lift, sharp and alert, but it isn’t anger that carves across his face — it’s more complicated. It’s colder and more human, a blend of shock, disappointment, and a sudden awful ache. 

Satoru should never hold a gun. 

He shouldn’t want to. Satoru should recoil from that world, not step into it with open arms. Suguru’s spent months protecting that line, building the fence between what he does and who Satoru is. But that fence was always going to rot, yet he didn’t think it would collapse this soon. 

He studies Satoru’s face — his blue eyes steady, lips drawn tight in a quiet resolve, the bottle of protein shake now sweating in one hand. There’s no flippancy in his voice, only the weight of intention. 

“People who usually hold guns,” Suguru says slowly, “do it because they plan to shoot.” 

He watches Satoru closely. 

“Do you want to shoot someone?” 

Satoru hesitates, carefully searching for the answer. 

Suguru can feel it in him, the need to answer correctly. His mind is racing, searching for the right answer, going over scenarios that hopefully would never come true. Suguru forgets at times he’s dating a genius, a man who thinks before he acts, weighs every option, and comes up with various theories searching for the perfect resolution. 

“I want to learn,” Satoru finally says. “I’m with you, I’m protected, I know that. But you’re not always going to be there. And if something happens–if you’re not around, or your guards aren’t, I need to be able to protect myself.” 

Suguru feels the reality deep in his chest, behind his sternum, pressing slow and cruel into the hollow places. It would be easy to lie, to say some beautiful, stupid thing — I’ll always be there or nothing will ever happen to you while I’m alive — but that’s the kind of promise he doesn’t get to make. 

Not to Satoru and not in this life. 

Because he won’t always be there. Because if this world ever decides to punish Suguru again – and it will, it always does — Satoru might find himself alone, outnumbered, cornered. And if the day comes, love won’t be enough to get him out. 

Suguru nods and accepts the ugly truth. 

He removes the bullet from the chamber and sets it aside. Palms an empty clip from the box near the edge of the table and slides it into the base. There’s no risk, only weight in the form of violent ghosts without teeth. 

“Get up,” he says, voice cold. 

Satoru rises without hesitation, feet bare on the kitchen tile, his long limbs loose with sleep and morning heat, but his shoulders are tense, drawn with a seriousness Suguru rarely sees. They meet in the open space between the table and the kitchen island, the air thick with salt and sun and unspoken worry. 

Suguru keeps the gun pointed away from him —always — with careful fingers and an exact grip. He angles his body slightly, shielding the barrel even though it’s empty. 

Satoru stands a few inches away, watching, waiting to cross the bridge to Suguru, to this life. It’s the final irreversible step into his world. A step Satoru is taking without flinching. 

The metal feels too light in his hand now. 

Without the weight of a live round and the certainty of consequences, the pistol becomes a shape. Yet, Suguru never forgets what it could be. What it is , in the right hands or the wrong ones. 

Satoru is standing too close to that line. 

Suguru studies him, the set of his jaw, the faint sweat on his collarbone, the tension pulled tight between his shoulder blades. Satoru isn’t afraid, but he’s still walking blind, and that is how people die. 

Suguru adjusts his grip. He raises the gun between them, pointed low and off-center, safe but real enough. 

“If someone has a gun pointed at you,” he says, “try to take it from them.”  

Satoru nods, barely a beat of hesitation. 

He moves forward, quick, hands reaching. His stance is wrong, too upright and unsure. Suguru sees it happen in slowed time, eyes cold and calculating. He lets Satoru get close, lets him brush the metal, and then moves, one sharp step. 

His hand comes down hard on Satoru’s chest, the other arm guiding the movement, and then he shoves. 

Satoru hits the floor with a thud, a breath knocked out of him, limbs splayed. Confusion flickers across his face, a brief shadow of offense. But he doesn’t complain, instead breathing slowly, deliberately. Determinedly, he rises. 

Satoru widens his stance this time and shoulders square. Suguru almost feels bad – almost —but the thought dies. He can’t afford softness right now, especially when it stands between safety and a bullet. 

Suguru holds the pistol again, fingers wrapped loosely but always ready with narrow eyes.

“Again?” 

“Yeah.” 

This time, Satoru lunges differently, tries to go for the wrist instead of the gun, but his angle is wrong and off balance. Suguru redirects without effort, grabbing his forearm and spinning him sharply, slamming Satoru’s hips into the edge of the kitchen island. 

Satoru gasps, more in surprise than pain, with his hands braced against the countertop. 

Suguru pressed down hard between his shoulder blades with one hand. The other controls the gun, keeping it pointed low but locked in his grip. 

“You’re smarter than that,” Suguru mutters near Satoru’s ear. “You have to move faster than that.” 

It comes out harsher than he intends, but he can’t take it back. 

Suguru lets go.

Satoru straightens, rubbing the back of his scalp. His jaw is set and his eyes cast low, processing. 

He doesn’t want to be cruel, some cold bastard drilling pain into Satoru’s body first thing on a Sunday, but this isn’t a game. If Satoru messes up, he doesn’t get a do-over. He can’t charm his way out of a bullet to the head. 

“Come here,” Suguru says. “Two, three feet away. Stop there.” 

Satoru steps back into the space, eyes clearer, focused as he absorbs it all. 

“First thing—you change the angle of the gun.” 

He reaches out, grabs Satoru’s hand, and guides it gently but firmly to the inside of the barrel. The intimacy of it stings — the way Satoru’s palm curls over the muzzle. 

“Push,” Suguru commands. 

Satoru does, forceful and clean, pushing the weapon away from the centerline. 

“Good,” Suguru murmurs, “Now, disable the hand.” 

Satoru's right hand holds the gun, the left one slides beneath Suguru’s wrist, slow and deliberate. He pulls the hand toward himself, breaking the alignment. 

“Good,” Suguru praises, confident. “You’ve got the muscle, but always use your legs. Twist and get low, pull sharp with everything. Make it count.” 

Satoru nods once, drops his weight fast, knees bending, foot bracing. He twists inward with precision and pulls. Suguru feels the shift immediately.is wrist bends under the force, grip slipping out of his hand in seconds. 

Satoru holds it. His breath is heavy, brow damp, but his grip is right, fingers off the trigger and weapon pointed down. 

Suguru stares at him for a long, wordless second, looking at someone who might survive this life. 

That matters more than anything. 

There’s a flicker of relief and disbelief caught in Satoru’s face. He’s standing taller, breathing fuller, and the smallest of smiles crawls onto his lips. 

“How do you feel?” Suguru asks. 

“Well, it’s lighter than I thought,” Satoru says, looking the gun over and weighing it in his hands. His fingers curl tighter around the pistol as he turns it over — inspecting it, studying a strange new instrument, a foreign object that doesn’t belong in his world. It’s a jarring contrast. Satoru’s pale skin against the dark metal, his fingers built for dust and steering wheels, not weapons. 

“No bullets.” 

“Right.” 

Suguru watches in silence, the ugly feeling of watching someone you love shift into what you never wanted it to be. 

The lesson isn’t over. 

“Satoru,” he says. “You have the gun now, and the person who tried to shoot you is still standing. What do you do?” 

Satoru’s smile dies, the light in his eyes dims as the question settles, heavy and final. His gaze flickers from the gun to Suguru, then back again. There’s pure uncertainty written all over him. 

Suguru doesn’t let up. 

“You shoot them,” Suguru confirms. “You don’t give them time to run, to beg, or recover. You come first, always choose yourself.” 

Suguru doesn’t shout; the truth is loud enough. 

“Okay,” Satoru nods. 

Satoru raises the gun, arms extending, hands trembling ever so slightly as he points it at Suguru’s chest. 

Suguru watches him closely, sees the nerves in the corner of Satoru’s mouth, the twitch in his fingers, his throat working around nothing. 

Good , Suguru thinks.

Better nervous than helpless. Safer shaken than buried. 

Still, the sight of the barrel pointed at him—even empty—sends chills down his spine. 

“Pull the trigger,” Suguru says. 

“It’s practice,” Satoru reminds him. “It’s not real.” 

“No one gets to practice,” Suguru snaps, sharply. “Not in real life. There’s no warning or second tries. I need to know you can do it when it matters.” 

Satoru swallows. 

He pulls the trigger. 

Click . 

The empty snap echoes like thunder. 

Suguru doesn't flinch, staring down the mouth of the gun, eyes locked on Satoru’s face. 

Suguru steps forward again and carefully takes the weapon from Satoru’s hands. His fingers brush Satoru’s ice-cold knuckles. He puts the gun on the island and stands in front of Satoru, fingers lacing with his, a softness that is foreign in moments with weapons close by. Still, Suguru makes that a reality for them. 

“If this is too much,” Suguru says, one hand on Satoru’s cheek. “I’ll let you walk away.” 

Satoru leans into the touch, eyes adoring yet firm. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

The sunlight in Ginza is sharp today, slicing through the skyline in jagged patterns that glint off the glass storefronts like diamonds cut too clean. Suguru’s hand is curled around Satoru’s, their fingers laced as they navigate through the crowd. Satoru’s talking about their Okinawa trip—how he wants to find the perfect “matching linen shirts,” which Suguru suspects means something either heinous or ridiculous, maybe both. He didn’t argue—Satoru’s excitement had been too soft and wide-eyed to resist.

They stop at a storefront. Bright linen shirts hang in the window, loud prints calling to Satoru.

“I’ll be right back,” Satoru says, already slipping away with two of their guards trailing behind him.

The streets hum with the low din of afternoon—heels clicking over tile, engines murmuring, the occasional burst of laughter rolling from a passing group of tourists. It’s warm, the kind of heat that nestles against your skin and makes you feel human again. Suguru stays near the entrance, leaning against the wall with one foot propped behind him. His heart is slow. He’s relaxed. He doesn’t remember what it feels like to brace for a blade.

Until a voice slithers up the back of his neck.

“Well, well, well,” the voice chants. “Suguru Kamo wearing something other than black. I prefer a rather natural look.” 

That voice is the same—grating and saccharine, pitched too high, a mockery of sweetness that coats him in bitter oil. 

His shoulders freeze, but he doesn’t face him. 

He’d know that voice if he were deaf. It was drilled into his bones . 

Suguru’s mind bounces between the decision to walk away or paint the streets red with the man’s blood. His legs stay planted, ankles buried in cement. 

Suguru feels it all at once: the invisible hands gripping his ribs, the thick rush of heat crawling up the back of his neck, the memory of pressure he never asked for.

Suguru turns, and there he is. 

Naoya Zen’in — heir to rot. 

“Silence?” Naoya asks and steps closer. “Are you going to make me pull it out of you?” 

The air smells like a memory.

His breath still stinks, the kind that made you flinch before his hand ever moved. Suguru used to wonder how someone so rich could smell of mildew and steel. 

Naoya’s mouth curls into a grin that bares too many teeth, eyes a shade Suguru always hated—yellowed amber that matches cheap whiskey and old bruises. 

“Walk away, Naoya,” Suguru warns. 

Suguru’s pulse is thunderous, erratic, and loud, and still he remains. His eyes flick toward the store behind him, the glass glittering under neon lights. He doesn’t see Satoru’s silhouette. He swallows, and the sound is deafening. 

Naoya smiles at him, and the world loses all its color. 

Suguru’s fingers twitch against his thigh, phantoms of a tremor he will not permit. 

 A familiar voice cuts through the fog, clean and clear.

“Suguru?”

The name falls softly, but it echoes inside his skull. 

Suguru turns. His eyes find Satoru at the boutique’s entrance, arms weighed down with shopping bags, his white hair catching the sunlight like snow in flame. He’s beaming at first, grinning with the sort of unbothered cheer that makes Suguru ache—but the smile doesn’t last. 

Satoru’s gaze shifts, landing on Naoya and then lower to Suguru. His face is blank, measured. Suguru can see the cogs turning behind his irises. Satoru moves quickly, walking around Naoya and going to Suguru. 

“Is he your new boy toy? Trained him to run to you?” Naoya tilts his head. “No, it’s the other way around now, huh? And with a Gojo of all things. Still making your old man proud, huh?” 

Suguru opens his mouth to speak, but it’s not his voice that’s carried through the wind. 

“Naoya, right?” Satoru asks. “Still compensating for being the least interesting Zen’in? That’s common practice when bastards are finally claimed.” 

Of course, Satoru knew Zen’ins. His family had bought various Zen’in companies and bailed them out of debt when their stocks plummeted. 

But Gojos are a Clan, not Yakuza. Suguru would know. 

“Well, we all can’t be bred to perfection.” Naoya comments, his eyes raking over Suguru. “Some of us slip through the cracks.” 

There are many reasons Satoru grabs Suguru’s hand and laces them together. To let Naoya know that they’re bound to one another, to ground Suguru and reassure him that Satoru isn’t going anywhere. Most importantly, to guide Suguru, lead him away from a path he’d dare not return to. 

All of those reasons comfort Suguru, pull him from the darkness that always finds a way in. A window cracked open, a door left ajar, a haunting that never stopped. 

“We’ve kept our distance, Naoya,” Suguru finally says. “I suggest you continue it.”

Naoya’s eyes drop to their linked hands, his mouth twists. 

“Don’t tell me he bitches you already?” 

Suguru snaps, moving without thought, all instinct and fire, lunging forward with murder in his eyes. But Satoru’s other hand holds his bicep, firm, an unyielding tether. 

“Suguru,” Satoru calls out to him, his breath on Suguru’s neck. “Don’t give him what he wants.” 

If Satoru weren’t here, Suguru would have killed him. 

“Well, this is boring.” Naoya shrugs. “Another time, then, old friend? You know how to find me.” 

Naoya laughs and waves them off like pests before turning and walking away, melting back into the crowd, the scent of spiced cologne and rot fading with each step. 

Suguru’s bones feel full of static, but Satoru doesn’t let go. 

And Suguru lets him hold on.

Okinawa smells like citrus and salt. 

It wraps around Suguru the second they step off the boat —- that soft tang of the sea, the wet sweetness of trees blooming out of sunbaked dirt. The light here is different, too. Warmer, as if it forgives you for the things you’ve done. 

He breathes easier the farther they get from Tokyo. 

No class. No clean-up. No blood on the cuffs of his shirts. Miguel promised to hold the line while he was gone — and so far, that promise has held. His phone hasn’t buzzed once. 

And for the first time in months, Suguru doesn’t feel like he’s burning alive. 

Satoru wears sunglasses too big for his face and insists they try every street vendor on the stretch between their rented bikes and the beach. Fried octopus. Blue shaved ice that stains his lips. Suguru never says no. He follows, lets himself be pulled from one crowded alley to the next, camera-happy tourists and old grannies waving fans all around them. 

Sometimes he reaches out without thinking, just to catch Satoru’s wrist. Hold onto it. Ground himself. He’s floating. Satoru always leans in when he does. He knows. 

Their shadows stretch long against white walls and glass storefronts. 

They go to a festival on the second night. Lanterns are strung over the main street like constellations dipped in amber. Suguru buys them grilled eel from a stand manned by a woman in a pink yukata, watching as Satoru talks with her for ten minutes about fireworks. He doesn’t understand any of it — not the fireworks, not why Satoru laughs like that, not why his chest aches when he sees the red and gold flicker against Satoru’s cheeks. 

He thinks, I want this version of us to last forever. 

The fourth night, he gets Satoru drunk. 

It takes three mojitos and half a bottle of umeshu, but it happens. Satoru’s a floppy, glittering mess — draped over Suguru’s shoulders, giggling into the crook of his neck like the night is in on the joke. Suguru walks them back to the beach house, sand stuck to the soles of their shoes. Satoru hums some nonsense, melody off-key. 

He carries him the last stretch — bridal style, no shame or protests. Satoru’s arms hang around his neck, head lolling back, throat exposed and flushed. 

Suguru laughs under his breath. He lets himself enjoy this, feel the simplicity of the moment, the weight in his arms, the sound of waves crashing beyond the dunes, the scent of the ocean on Satoru’s skin. 

They sleep with the windows open. 

The air is hot and soft, salt hanging in it like memory. Satoru sprawls across the bed, one leg flung over Suguru’s waist, breath puffing warm against his chest. Suguru watches the rise and fall of his ribcage, the slack curve of his mouth. 

He thinks, This is what peace feels like.  

They spend most of their days like that. Slow mornings. Late swims. Suguru reads on the porch while Satoru naps with a towel over his face. They don’t speak much about work, or Tokyo, or the things waiting for them when they return. 

They exist. 

And for Suguru — who so often only lives in the aftermath of violence — existence is a quiet kind of miracle. 

Suguru isn’t sure what he expected when Satoru told him to dress casually and bring his “big eyes.” 

But it wasn’t this. 

The sign is bright blue with cartoon jellyfish on it. There’s a little gift shop out front, kids running wild, and the distant sound of rushing water echoing through the entrance tunnel. The Okinawa Churaumi Aquarium stretches ahead of them like a secret cathedral — all glass and shadow, tanks glowing like deep-sea altars. 

Suguru stops walking. 

He stares at the building for a long second before glancing at Satoru, who’s clearly trying not to laugh. 

“You’re joking,” Suguru says, breath catching on the edge of something warm. 

“Nope.” 

“You brought me to an aquarium?” 

Satoru shrugs, all casual arrogance in his loose white tee and wind-tousled hair. His sunglasses are pushed up into his mess of curls, and his grin is criminal. 

“I figured old people like aquariums.” 

Suguru snorts and shoves him, more fond than annoyed. 

“Okay, fine. Yuji told me you took care of his betta fish when he was a kid.” Satoru says. “Apparently, you got really into aquatic life.” 

Suguru rolls his eyes, but the heat curling up his neck betrays him. “That’s because Wormy was in distress all the time,” he mutters. “It was unethical to leave him under Yuji’s care.” 

“Wormy?” Satoru teases. 

“Yuji was ten. He wasn’t exactly brimming with originality.” 

Satoru snickers but doesn't push. He threads their fingers together, warm palm sliding against Suguru’s, and tugs him toward the entrance. 

They walk into the aquarium. 

It’s breathtakingly beautiful. 

The overhead tunnel glows with refracted light, casting ripples across their skin. A whale shark passes above them in slow motion. Children gasp. Couples lean in close. The air smells of salt and glass and joy. 

Suguru doesn't expect it to hit him the way it does. 

He stands there — watching manta rays drift as smooth as silk through water — and something in him loosens. He breathes without armor. He smiles without feeling like a lie. 

He’s enjoying it. 

The jellyfish room is his favorite. Lit only by the blue-glow tanks, their thin, pulsing bodies floating like ghosts. He stares for a long time, transfixed. The soft rhythm of their movement, the way they light up when they brush each other. He could stay here for hours. Could disappear into the silence, the grace, the stillness. 

Satoru watches him the whole time. 

Suguru can feel it — the way Satoru sees him when he forgets to guard his expressions. Studying Suguru in the vast and wild field of joy. 

There are moments – small, quiet ones — where Suguru thinks he might be healing in real time. 

He hasn’t felt joy like this since he was a boy with his mother’s hand in his. And now, with Satoru, there’s something close to that again. Not equivalent, but parallel. Present. Real. 

When they finally exit, squinting into the sun again, Satoru tugs him toward the gift shop. Suguru rolls his eyes but follows, humoring him while he points at every ridiculous plushie and overpriced candy tin. 

At the counter, Satoru buys some small items — doesn’t let Suguru see. 

They sit on the bench outside, under a tree that smells like lemons. The ocean is visible past the hills. Satoru nudges him and drops a tiny keychain into his palm. 

A white betta fish. 

The detail is delicate — fins flowing and soft, tiny black eyes that glint under the sunlight. The weight of it in his hands is small, but it lands in his chest like an anchor. 

Satoru holds up his own. 

A black one. 

Suguru stares at them, a knot swelling in his throat. 

“I can’t put this on my keys,” he murmurs. “It’ll get ruined.” 

“Doesn’t matter.” Satoru shrugs. “Keep it close.” 

That undoes him. 

The way Satoru says it. Closeness is enough. Suguru is enough. 

He leans forward and presses a kiss to Satoru’s mouth. There’s no rush or frantic heat. It’s warm, steady. Satoru’s lips brushing lips, and Suguru’s free hand curling at the back of Satoru’s neck. 

Grateful. 

Grounded. 

His. 

The waves crash softly, a steady rhythm behind them — somewhere far off, but still close enough to echo through the quiet hum of night. 

Suguru’s knees dig into the thick beach blanket. Sand clings to the edges, the air warm with salt and sweat and a heavier feeling. He moves fast, thighs burning with every grind of his hips, chasing that obscene slap of skin against skin. He’s riding Satoru hard, raw, taking him deep and fast – a rhythm that scrapes moans from both their throats without apology. 

Satoru’s buried inside him to the hilt. 

Thick. Hot. So deep it makes Suguru’s toes curl and his breath catch each time he sinks down. Every roll of his hips hits perfectly – grazing nerves inside that makes him clench, ache, and whimper. 

They’re pressed chest-to-chest, lips parted against each other, panting through kisses so messy they’re more spit than form. Satoru’s hands roam everywhere — gripping Suguru’s ass, stroking down his spine, cupping his jaw like he needed to feel him. They can’t stop touching. Can’t get close enough. Their bodies exchange words they have yet to speak. 

And Suguru’s burning alive with it. 

He’s grinding down fast, over and over, fucking himself on Satoru’s cock like it’s the only way he knows how to speak. He buries his face in Satoru’s neck, breath shaking, teeth dragging over damn skin. Satoru moans beneath him— open, helpless, worshipful —- and his hips knock up to meet every bounce with equal force. 

Suguru chokes on a sound that’s not quite a cry. 

And then it slips. 

“I love you,” he gasps, voice breaking mid-syllable. 

The world stutters. 

Satoru’s eyes snap open — wide, stunned, glowing with an emotion Suguru has no name for. His hands still tremble on Suguru’s hips like the earth tilted beneath them. 

“Say it again,” he breathes. 

Suguru locks eyes with him — pupils blown wide, sweat dripping down his temples, chest heaving at a marathoner’s pace. His heart is bruising his ribs. 

“I love you,” Suguru says. 

Stronger. 

He pushes Satoru back, hands on his chest, shoving him down into the blanket with a force that surprises even him. Satoru falls with a groan, spine arching, mouth parted, ready to beg. 

Suguru takes control. 

Holds himself up while one hand braces against Satoru’s sternum, the other gripping his thigh for leverage. He starts to ride again — not fast, but deliberate. Deep. Intentional. Lustful. Every thrust is meant to drive the words into Satoru’s skin. Every drag of their bodies means to prove it. 

Satoru grabs his hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He’s moaning now — gasping like Suguru’s pulling the soul out of him with every grind. Their eyes stay locked. 

It’s unbearable. Yet it’s everything. 

Suguru rides him harder — hunger shifting to devotion. Letting Satoru feel every inch, every clench, every slick, maddening drag of heat between them. He leans forward and kisses him, messy and slow, teeth clashing, tongue tangled. 

And Satoru says it back – not in words, not yet. But in the way he holds on. The way he begs without begging. The way he chants Suguru’s name. 

They don’t stop. 

Not until Suguru’s crying again, this time from pleasure, from love, from the unbearable need to give Satoru everything. Not until Satoru comes first, hard and helpless, gripping Suguru while he falls apart. And not until Suguru follows – head thrown back, voice caught in his throat, coming so hard he sees stars through tears. 

Their bodies still. 

Suguru slumps forward, panting, heart-wrecked. Satoru’s arms curl around him, and neither says anything for a long time. 

They don’t have to. Not anymore.