Archive of Our Own

The first thing Suguru hears after waking is: "Color?"

He knows what Satoru means the instant he hears it, of course. How could he forget? It's the reason he went to sleep jittery and is still retaining that feeling even now, startling into awareness easily, instinctive alertness. It's not the bad sort of feeling, it makes sense; this is going to be a lot.

Suguru sucks in a breath, opening his eyes, rising, just a little, weight on his elbows, blanket slipping down his chest, hair tickling his shoulders. Satoru's standing by the bed, blindfold over his eyes, sleek black clothing, waiting.

"Do I need to repeat the question?" he asks.

Suguru blinks once, twice, shakes his head. Breathes in, out. This is the most heavily negotiated exchange of the entire scene. Satoru insisted on at least one color check at the beginning. After that, Suguru will lose all control over what happens. That's okay. This was Suguru's idea in the first place; it was Satoru who resisted the preposition.

He hesitates a moment, two, three, tries to calm his heart rate which is already rising. Satoru is waiting patiently, warm-lit by the bedside lamp. Their bedroom's shutters are closed and curtained, leaving the room black despite Suguru knowing it must be early morning.

"Green," Suguru says.

Satoru brightens, delighted grin spreading over his face. Suguru knows exactly which words will come next; they pre-wrote it. Alrigh—"Alright," he says, all faux-casual, voice smooth, "then here's your first command: don't utilize any safewords 'till I end the scene."

It's the first time Satoru has utilized his and Suguru's binding vow in all the months since they made it. He's been so careful not to word anything as an imperative, that carefulness not slipping even a bit in the casual banter they've fallen back into since Satoru was released from prison realm and the conditions of Suguru's allowance to live were worked out.

Suguru shivers when he feels the terms settle over him, shackling him to the order. This command they both agreed on; the whole point is that Suguru has no outs in this, that the entire scene is up to Satoru. That Suguru doesn't get to say no, can't say no, can't draw any action to a stop on his own willing, no matter what he says. Neither he nor Satoru wanted to mar the authority of their safeword; if the word means nothing in this scene then it's better not to use it at all.

Suguru quirks his lips. "Heard and will be heeded."

From here, Suguru's influence ends. He doesn't know what Satoru has in mind at all.

Satoru claps his hands. "Great! Now get up and get dressed. We're eating breakfast!"

Get up and get dressed—another imperative. It catches Suguru off guard, though.

"Breakfast?" he asks, sliding from bed and slipping on cotton socks and clothing himself in a yukata. It's autumn, air beginning to chill, and he makes mental note to stock the closet with more season-appropriate clothing.

"Mhmm," Satoru hums, and doesn't elaborate at all.

Okay, then.

A spark of what could be irritation or anxiety prickles down his spine; Suguru hates feeling out of control. Hates not knowing what comes next. That's OK, though. It's okay because this is Satoru and it wouldn't be okay if it were anyone but Satoru, but it's Satoru.

Breakfast is already laid on the kitchen table. Chocolate dipped strawberries on Satoru's side, and sweet potato with miso soup on Suguru's. They settle into their respective seats quietly. Suguru eats his meal at a moderate pace, crushing sesame between his teeth; Satoru eats his strawberries idly, scrolling his phone.

It leaves Suguru room to think. There's a calendar hung on the fridge, next few days entirely clear for both of them unless in case of crisis. It's always odd, seeing things like that, proof that Suguru is still alive. Feels almost surreal. He could've died again, had he not accepted the terms of his new life: to abandon the methodology of his previous pursuit towards paradise, to submit himself to a life on leash. Satoru would have been OK with killing him had he refused, Suguru knows, but the last time he died his girls got themselves into a mess and almost died and he just—

"Look look, Suguru!"

Suguru blinks. "What?"

In response Satoru shoves his phone over. "Yūji-kun found this cat earlier!"

"...Ah," Suguru says, eyeing the photo displayed, "cute."

"Right? I'm jealous!"

Breakfast continues like that. Trivial interactions with no depth. Satoru alternating between scrolling and mindless chatter. Suguru finishes his food first, for once, while Satoru continues absently snacking on strawberries. It's not entirely different from how their breakfasts usually are. It's not, but that's the problem, that's what throws him off. Uncertainty pools in his stomach and unease follows. The lingering taste of miso on his teeth. He shifts uncomfortably, and, of course, of course, Satoru notices.

He tilts his head at him. "Something wrong?"

It's too innocent, that tone. There's a smile in there, sharp and self-satisfied.

"No," he lies.

"'Kay." Satoru nods, and completely moves topic. Bursts into laughter over some dumb thing he saw on his phone and starts mindlessly chattering about random shit. It manages both to be a familiar comfort and absolutely unbalancing, grating, because—

"Stop," Suguru interrupts, and Satoru moves his head in the way Suguru knows indicates a blink, but Suguru—doesn't—doesn't know what to say. Can't finish his sentence. It's embarrassing. "Ah..."

"Hm?"

He looks away, skin prickling hot. "Nothing."

"Ah-ah," there's a musical lilt to Satoru's voice, teasing, "is Suguru being dishonest? That's not good, you know!"

Suguru looks back. Autumn chill wafts over his skin, permeating his summer kimono. "That's not," he says, "I'm not...It's nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Oh yeah?" And that's a smile spreading over Satoru's lips. He shuts off his phone, pocketing it smoothly. Leans his elbow against the table, rests his jaw in his palm, pinky curling over his cheekbone. "'You sure?"

"Yeah."

"That's cute," Satoru says, "but I think Suguru is ly~ing. 'You cold? All alone over there by yourself? 'You lonely?"

"That's not—"

"Stop talking."

Suguru's jaw closes instantly, teeth knocking. This happens without Suguru's conscious effort. There's a certain amount of reflexive self-preservation when it comes to binding vows, after all.

"Ah," Satoru says, some delight in his tone, an undertone like awe. "You were right, this is fun."

It's not that hard to hypothesize, Suguru wants to say, it's not a surprise that you'd enjoy indulging this power over me. I made you feel powerless so many times. Instead, he gives a flat expression.

Satoru laughs. "Right right, of course you were right. Suguru really knows me best, huh? And I know Suguru best! Come over here, hm?" he uncrosses his legs, further pushing out his chair. "Sit in my lap."

Wordlessly, Suguru complies, settling himself sideways in Satoru's lap, legs spilling out the edge, head bumping against the side of his chest. Satoru's arm wraps around him, secures a grip and pulls him closer. Suguru isn't a small person, but he feels small like this, nestled into Satoru's body. Made quiet.

And—

Satoru doesn't do anything. He still doesn't do anything. It's the same as before except now Suguru is on his lap. It'd be humiliating, if anyone saw them like this. (Will anyone see them like this? He hopes not. It's something Suguru would usually hard red. At best he'd accept with large reservations, but only if the observer were Shōko.)

Some minutes pass. Three? Five? Ten? He can't steal a glance at the time on Satoru's phone, nor can he find the kitchen clock. Was it removed? It...it is warmer, in Satoru's lap, contact burning, stark contrast to the autumn chill. He shifts uncomfortably, feels hyperaware of how Satoru can feel his every movement. It's just—

"Hm? What's the matter?" Satoru looks down at him, thumb pulling the blindfold away from one eye. At sight of that blue gleam, Suguru's breath hitches, just a little. "You don't look satisfied at all!"

He can't speak.

"Could it be...Suguru's feeling a little neglected? All uncertain and confused? Waiting for the shoe to drop?" Satoru hoists him up, kisses his forehead. "I could be fucking you against the kitchen table or eating breakfast from your mouth but I'm not, that's it, right? You want to cut to it already?"

He can't speak.

Satoru laughs, brushes hair from Suguru's face. "It's okay, I'll let you answer. Say something."

As per the binding vow, when one command contradicts another, the most recent of the two will nullify the previous. Suguru exhales quietly. "I want what you want."

"And I want you to say it," Satoru says, "'want you to tell me you're all bothered and impatient and wanna get back to the bedroom."

It's just so embarrassing, though. Suguru doesn't have Satoru's complete shamelessness. It's an insult to his dignity, too, saying something like that. Makes him flush pink, apprehensive in a way that never fades. He had sexual experience before his death, but he was always in control, and it was never like it is with Satoru. Submitting himself feels like demeanment. He wants to be good for Satoru, to Satoru, he really really does, he likes it, but—

"'Can't?" Satoru asks, smiles, nestles Suguru's head into his chest, lets him hide his face. "That's okay. You shouldn't think about it too hard. I'll make it easy, 'kay? Suguru, say: 'I'm all bothered and impatient and wanna get back to the bedroom'."

(Imperative.)

"...I'm all bothered an impatient" Suguru mumbles into the smooth fabric over Satoru's chest, "and wanna get back to the bedroom."

"Aww," Satoru coos, scooping Suguru up into his arms and standing from the chair, "my Suguru is so cute! You should've just said so!"

Satoru's hold is firm and steady as he carries Suguru up the stairs, down the hall, and brings them into the darkness of their bedroom. It's still lit only by the bedside lamp, warm light falling golden over the hardwood floor, beige walls, closet doors, soft white blankets. The mattress bounces when Suguru hits it, not quite thrown down, but dropped unceremoniously.

"Stay there for a sec, 'kay?" Satoru leans down, presses his lips to Suguru's forehead.

Suguru nods, but Satoru is already leaving, closing the distance to the closet in a couple easy strides. He shivers, palm pressing into the mattress. It's ever-so-slightly colder in here than it was in the kitchen, chill kissing his skin. Time drags, just a little, syrupy as Suguru watches Satoru search the closet. It doesn't take long for him to find what he's looking for.

Wrist restraints. The comfortable kind. Less prone to leaving bruises and raw skin even as the subject thrashes against them. Suguru swallows.

"Suguru," Satoru says, approaching the bed slowly, languid and lion-like, "put your wrists together up behind your head. Yeah—just like that. You're being so good for me."

Suguru's stomach sparks even though he hasn't even done anything, his body complied on instinct. Satoru's large hand presses him down against the mattress, trails up his chest, collar bone, arms, and settles at his wrists. Goosebumps follow his touch, and Suguru shivers.

Of course, Satoru sees. The smug bastard doesn't even say anything, just smirks and begins fastening the restraints. First to his wrists, and then to the bed-frame. He tugs against them experimentally—almost no give. They're tight, although not to an uncomfortable degree. Soft and firm.

"Hmmm..." Satoru hums, smile in his voice, pulling back and studying him. "Let's set a rule. Suguru, don't use any cursed energy."

Suguru flinches violently at that command—at the feeling of his body severing control of his cursed energy on instinct. He reaches impulsively for his cursed energy before pulling hard break on the motion. It's still there, easily accessible, not locked away in the way seals make it, but his every instinct screams against him using it, and his rational mind agrees.

"Seriously?" he asks.

"Not a fan?" Obviously. If there's one thing a shaman should always be able to rely on, a constant in their life, it's cursed energy. To Suguru, it's a familiar comfort, that secure knowledge that he can fall back on it, let it cloak him. It's a warm blanket on cold nights. It's—scary, to be unable to call upon it. Satoru knows this, but his smile doesn't even falter when Suguru gives him a flat expression. "Aaah, well, too bad!"

Suguru huffs.

"I know I know," Satoru says, "I'm being mean. Suguru's a total control freak, after all. This is scary, hm?"

Suguru looks away, glances back. "I'm not afraid of you," he says, "I wasn't afraid of you when you killed me, I'm not afraid of you now, either."

"I know," he says, and something in Satoru's tone is so soft, fond, "but that doesn't mean you're not scared at all." He leans forward, bumps his clothed forehead against Suguru's bare one, right on the scar. "Suguru shouldn't worry too much, okay? I'll take care of you."

"I know," he says, and rolls his eyes. "Get on with it."

"So impatient!" Satoru pulls back, still standing by the bed's side. "But that's okay~! You're cute when you're needy."

Satoru slips a thumb over the edge of his blindfold and pulls it off in one smooth motion. And because Suguru is foolish and human and loves Satoru in every way one can love another, and Satoru is divine and gorgeous and kinder than he's given credit for, Suguru's breath catches in his throat. Satoru's eyes are bright, sharper than the edge of a knife, bluer than feels real, every shade all at once; all seeing. Hyperawarness strikes Suguru acutely, spine prickling, shiver running down his skin.

He has always simultaneously loved and despised being pinned under Satoru's gaze. There comes with it a certain sort of self-consciousness, an awareness of flaw and fault, of insignificance.

Satoru smirks. "I know, I know, I'm so pretty."

"You're full of yourself, that's what."

"It's called healthy self appreciation, babe. Besides, you think it's hot anyway!"

It's true, he does. Satoru's unflinching self-confidence is stupidly attractive. Suguru groans, reflexively trying to move a hand over his face His hand pulls against it's binding, though, and he settles for attempting to bury his face in the blankets. Satoru doesn't allow it. His fingers wrap around Suguru's jaw, forcibly turning his head back to face him and lifting it off the mattress. Satoru's other hand smoothly slips on the blindfold, inking out Suguru's vision entirely. It's smooth on his skin where it lays with gentle pressure over his cheekbones, eyelids. Feels like silk, although he knows it isn't.

"Fuck, you look so good like that," Satoru says, "god Suguru you have no idea how hot you are. So pretty. All mine. My hot sexy beautiful gorgeous amazing strong partner..." He sighs contentedly.

The mattress dips. Satoru? Hands slip under Suguru's back, maneuvering him up the bed, straightening his form. His shoulders lay against the pillow's edge, and there's a shift of fabric as Satoru properly supports his head with another pillow. The deprivation of sight heightens his other senses, and Suguru is sharply aware of every sound, of his yukata brushing against his cold-hardened nipples, every dip of the mattress as Satoru moves unseen. Their room smells like incense and fresh laundry. Satoru smells flowery, sweet vanilla shampoo and something deeper, richer. Cacao and pine needles. Mountain paths after rain.

Satoru's fingers drag up his throat, jaw, pause on his lips. Suguru opens his mouth to accept, but Satoru's hand pulls away. In the same instant, Suguru loses all feeling of the blankets against his skin.

"You know," Satoru hums, voice deep and pleasant, "I could just leave you here. Could stick some toys in you, tell you to stay, and leave you all tied up in the dark, alone. Leave them on the highest settings till you're all wrecked and crying without me even doing anything. I could invite people over for lunch, for dinner, and you'd have to stifle your sounds in the other room. I could; there's nothing you could do about it."

Suguru goes stiff. Swallows. There's nothing he could do about it—that's true. He's given full permission for Satoru to do whatever he wants, regardless of Suguru's preference. Because Suguru wants to give himself so badly to Satoru, wants to be his, but he's not used to being under someone and he's never able to give himself completely and he overthinks and overthinks and overthinks—

They talked about this scene; Satoru brought up the revocability of consent, Suguru told him to trust him. They accepted the risks.

"Is that," his voice is weaker than he wants it to be, "is that what you want to do?"

Satoru laughs. "Suguru is an attention whore," he says, instead of answering properly, and heat stabs through Suguru's abdomen, sparks hot and wanting, "You like all eyes on you, all the time. You like being praised, adored, revered. Like being the center of attention. Show-off. It's what tipped me off that something was wrong on Christmas Eve—Suguru would never miss an opportunity to steal spotlight on the front-lines unless he had somewhere else he really needed to be."

"I don't—"

Another laugh. Satoru pulls open the fold of his yukata, leaving his front bare. Brushes a finger down his stomach, drags it down his pelvis, hooking teasingly on the edge of Suguru's boxers.

"You'd be all needy after being neglected for that many hours," Satoru says, "would be crying for me. Sweaty and teary and flushed pink. Would beg the instant you realize I've reentered the room. But..."

Satoru abandons his boxers, letting the band snap back on Suguru's flesh. His finger taps Suguru's cheek. Suguru sucks in a breath. "But?"

"That wouldn't be very fun for either of us," Satoru murmurs, "'cause Suguru is an attention whore and I wanna give him lots of attention."

Suguru relaxes almost without realizing it. The tension drains from his form, shoulders slumping against the pillows. A sigh of relief leaves his lips unwillingly.

Satoru's finger brushes Suguru's cheekbone, trailing the edge of the blindfold before abruptly pausing and—pulling away. With its disappearance comes a void of sensation—all at once, Suguru can no longer feel the bed against him. No longer feels the fabric of his yukata. He's weightless, suspended in motion. It takes a moment to realize Satoru has just cloaked him in infinity.

There are a lot of sensations you don't quite realize the significance of until they're gone entirely.

"Now!" Satoru claps, cheer in his voice. "Groundrules! Well, groundrule."

"...Yeah?"

"Don't lie to me," Satoru says, voice hard and sharp in a way it rarely is. The binding vow makes his word law. "Do not lie to me, Suguru. You will not tell me a single lie until I end the scene."

There is, Suguru muses, some room given in that command. Suguru can no longer lie, but lying isn't quite the same as being dishonest. Is that intentional?

"Understood," he says, and his cock throbs abruptly against his boxers. It makes him want to buck his hips. He doesn't.

"Great!" Satoru's hand returns, being easily let through his own infinity, once again trailing down the stomach, pelvis, hooking on the edge of Suguru's boxers. This time, though, he pulls them right down, slides them off Suguru's legs and—judging from the muffled hit of fabric—tossing them uncaringly to the floor. He does the same with Suguru's socks. "Fuck you're so pretty." Fingers touch his cock, start at the base and stroke down the length, prodding at the head. "Suguru has such a pretty little pink cock."

Heat flushes Suguru's cheeks, arousal pooling in his abdomen, cock going half hard under the attention, skin sensitive. He almost whines when Satoru's hand abandons his cock, instead opting to trace the inside of his thighs.

"Satoru..."

"All of Suguru is pretty and fuckable," Satoru says, Fingers pausing and pressing into soft skin, digging a nail. "Could fuck your thighs..." his hand trails up, past his hips, pelvis, settling on his chest. He flicks on of Suguru's hardened nipples, and the sensation is so sharp and unexpected—Suguru can't see—that it makes him gasp. "Your tits," Satoru's hand moves, settles in the junction between Suguru's neck and shoulder. Traces the curve, pushes his head closer to the shoulder. "Your neck..."

"My neck?" Suguru asks, laugh catching in his voice. "You deviant."

"It's called thinking outside the box, Suguru!"

"Sure."

"Seriously! Innovation of the human spirit, or something!"

"Depravity."

"Oh yeah?" Suguru can hear the leer in his voice. "Then what does that say about you, letting yourself at the mercy of this depraved man, huh? This perverted deviant? 'Gonna make you all debauched."

Heat crawls his skin, stabs his abdomen. It's stark against the air's cold stillness. "With this pathetic dirty talk?"

"God," Satoru groans, voice filling the inked-out darkness, "you're so hot when you talk down to me. 'Makes me wanna make you cry."

"How completely—ah!"

It comes with absolutely no warning. Satoru's mouth is so unbearably hot around his cock, taking him down to the base. It's so much all at once—Satoru swallowing around him, fleshy walls of his mouth soft and wet against his cock, tongue working around his shaft, hint of teeth—and Satoru's limitless only heightens Suguru's sensitivity. He's suspended in motion, trapped in a void, nothing stimulating his skin besides the restraints around his wrists and Satoru's mouth around him.

A moan tears from his mouth, legs moving to push Satoru off because it's just so much but Satoru's hands lock onto his thighs, pressing them down into the mattress with unforgiving firmness.

The sound of Satoru sucking his cock is obscene. Not loud, but—but it's so quiet in the bedroom that Suguru can hear all of it. Every ragged breath, the squelch of his cock, spit sliding over flesh, his own choked moans. There's a steady heat building in his abdomen, pelvis, knotted and tight and wanting. He presses his eyes shut tight underneath the blindfold, toes curling and uncurling. "S-ah—toru—"

Satoru hums around him cock.

It's a deep, throaty noise, smooth and pleasant. Baritone. Hot enough on it's own, but it vibrates around Suguru's dick and—and that's what pushes Suguru off the edge.

"Satoru, I'm—"

The knot snaps, shudder raking his body, back arching into the orgasm. Satoru sucks one last time—hard—and pulls off with an obscene pop. Something warm and wet splatters his chest, come dribbling from his cock.

"Gross!" Satoru says, cheery and so in control, voice not at all effected by the blowjob, apparently.

Suguru whines unwillingly, and Satoru laughs at him.

"Aww, did Suguru miss the sound of my voice?" And Suguru twists his head into the pillows because—yes, actually. He did. Satoru's voice is a comfort, an anchor, familiar as coming home; it grounds him. "...Oh. You did? Hah!"

"...Don't get too full of yourself."

"Too late!" Satoru's weight shifts on the bed, but Suguru can't quite figure out the new positioning. A hand grips Suguru's jaw, hard. "Suguru started coming in my mouth even though Suguru knows I hate that... Don't you think you should take responsibility?" And that's a smirk in his voice. His finger taps once at Suguru lower lip. "Open up, babe."

Suguru's mouth opens instantly at the command.

There's a half second where nothing happens, then—Satoru spits in his mouth. It lands on the flat of his tongue, and it takes a dazed moment for Suguru to recognize that Satoru has just spit Suguru's come into his mouth. It tastes fine, a little bitter, but Suguru enjoys most foods, has a deep appreciation of all flavors that aren't the concentrated tar of humanity's worst.

He wants to say—something, but can't quite settle on what to say. He's often like this during sex with Satoru, gets quieter than usual, less witty. Wants to accept what he's given and make himself useful, be of service without having to explain himself. He knows Satoru delights in it, says: don't worry Su-gu-ru, I'll talk enough for the both of us.

"Y'know," Satoru muses, "I said I'd take care of you, yeah? So..." His hand drags down Suguru's chest, scooping come onto his fingers. Only a second later. Those fingers are at Suguru's lips. "I gotta make sure you eat."

Satoru pushes his fingers past Suguru's lips, rubs off his own come on his tongue. Suguru's mouth waters on reflex, and he swallows the thick fluid along with his spit.

"Good Suguru."

Satoru's voice is happy and satisfied, gentle but not soft. Pleased. Suguru's cheeks burn. Satoru is already collecting more come. Brings it to Suguru's lips. The process is repeated. Once, twice, thrice. Satoru's other hand comes to rest on his throat, pressing against his windpipe. Not hard, just enough to make Suguru acutely aware of each swallow, feel them pressing against Satoru's palm.

On the last feeding, Suguru clamps down before Satoru removes his fingers. Licks the skin, the crevices between Satoru's fingers. Soft skin, silky and smooth. Satoru hums, clear approval, and a hot breath catches in Suguru's throat. When he opens his mouth to release it, Satoru retracts his fingers and presses down, capturing Suguru's mouth in his.

It's the first mouth-on-mouth kiss of the day, and feels distinctly like a reward. Suguru's heart flutters into it. There's a hint of sweetness, and Suguru takes a moment to realize it's Satoru's strawberry lipbalm.

"Good Suguru," Satoru murmurs into the kiss, "Suguru should eat this all the time."

The kiss lingers a few more seconds, Satoru licking Suguru's teeth in goodbye when he pulls away, and when it breaks, Suguru mumbles: "I like yours better."

There's a half beat before Satoru reacts. He coos. "Aww, Suguru! Don't worry, you'll eat mine later, 'kay? Who am I to deny my sweet little bitch a meal, after all?" And then he laughs like it's a joke.

Satoru pulls back a little, mattress shifting with his change of potions. A shift of fabric. The pop of a cap. Suguru swallows, reflexively trying to cover himself and only succeeding in tugging against the wrist restraints. A hand snakes under Suguru and elevates his pelvis, one hand angling his ass. Cold air blows against his hole, and Suguru yelps despite himself.

"Satoru—"

"Aa, Suguru cleaned it well last night," Satoru says, "Suguru's hole is cute, too. Pretty pink." He puffs a warm breath against the area. A moment later, a thick finger, slicked cold with lube, breaches the hole. Suguru feels it with intense awareness. "'Gonna ruin it."

Satoru's finger jabs inward abruptly, breaking his slow, steady penetration. It presses against Suguru's walls, teasing the area just below his prostate. Its base pushes against his rim, stretching it to one side, then the other. Suguru bites his lip, both from burn, and the tease of pleasure. His hips rock forward, and Satoru makes this light, pleased sound.

"Suguru's so impatient already!"

Another finger pushes in, also lubed, and perhaps a bit premature. Suguru hisses, and Satoru presses down for another kiss. It's more demanding than the last one, hungry, greedily taking Suguru's breath, biting at his lips. Satoru bends him further in two as his fingers begin scissoring. Pistoning. It only takes a minute for pleasure to overwrite the pain, prostate hit dead on. Satoru's lips move down, sucking at his jaw, the column of his neck, biting the side, sharp. Suguru resists the embarrassing urge to rock his hips needily. A moan wells up from his throat, and Satoru grins into his neck.

"You want me? Hm?"

"You—ah—already—"

A third finger prods at Suguru's rim, stretching room for itself and slipping in. The hand twists, fingers folding against each wall, teasing his prostate but never quite hitting it like Suguru wants. Suguru whines, and it's mortifying.

Satoru, though—

"You sound so good," he groans, "do it again."

So Suguru whines again, and the pace of Satoru's ministrations increases. Suguru's previously softened dick hardens. Satoru's teeth drag down Suguru's collarbone, chest, tongue leaving a trail of saliva down the skin. His mouth settles on Suguru's left nipple, circles the areola with his tongue and nips at the bud. Sucks at the skin. It's it's good but the more Satoru torments the area the more the sensation edges into overstimulation, hurts, and—

Satoru removes his fingers. Suguru keens. "Satoru—"

"Shhh," Satoru swallows his mouth again. "Suguru doesn't need to beg."

Satoru pulls away, and Suguru feels the mattress shift beneath him. There's the sound of a zipper being undone, clothing being removed and discarded to the floor, and something slicking up, but the penetration doesn't come. A beat, two, three, four. What? He wishes, desperately, that he could see Satoru, but all his eyes register is an inky black. His knees move to curl closer to his chest, but an iron locked grip prevents them. He squirms.

Satoru breathes a laugh. "You should see yourself," he says, "so weak like this."

Ah.

That's what he's doing. He's evoking the disposition of himself that appears before he enters a battle. The one that feels oppressive, authoritarian, a promise of complete demolition. Suguru tastes Satoru's cursed energy in the air—sharp and minty—and his own cursed energy agitates under his skin but he can't do anything cause his wrists are bound and he's unable to use his own cursed energy under threat of binding vow. It's so scarily vulnerable. Makes him want to wilt. He sees in his mind, with striking vividness, the grin on Satoru's face, the lax slope of his shoulders. The sharp glint of his eyes. Every bit of him oozing cockiness, a little condescending, gorgeously strong.

It makes Suguru feel like a mouse, a rabbit, some small thing left to the mercy of a sharp teethed predator.

Satoru's hand comes to rest on his throat, presses a thumb against his hummingbird pulse. Suguru's breath hitches, sharp arousal.

The head of Satoru's cock touches against Suguru's ass, drags a moment before reaching Suguru's hole and pushing past the rim. The penetration is slow for only a moment; Satoru's hips abruptly stab forward, and he bottoms out in one motion. Suguru chokes on a cry.

"Suguru feels so good," Satoru says, voice catching on a deep groan. "So perfect, hot and tight, Suguru..."

His hips pull back, cockhead pressing against the inside of Suguru's rim, and then he slams right back in. It's an unforgiving pace from the beginning, different from usual. Satoru is big, that's the thing, he's big. Even with proper prep, he's hard to take. Usually, they ease into a faster pace.

"S-Satoru—"

Satoru's cock hits his prostate dead-on. Any sounds tear wordlessly from Suguru's mouth, coming out in a ripped moan. His lids press tight, eyes stinging, and his toes curl. Satoru doesn't let up at all. This sort of pleasure—it's the deep kind, different from stimulation on his cock. This builds deep in him, a relentless barrage against one point. It sends jolts through his pelvis, pleasure building and building and building and there's still a burn but—

Satoru flicks his dick.

The pleasure snaps, a dam breaking. It wracks his whole frame, back arching. It makes everything more intense, hot and sparkling. Stars in his stomach. Electricity through his cock. He shoots, dimly feels the splatter over his stomach. Satoru fucks him through. He fucks him through, and he doesn't stop.

"That's number two," Satoru announces, delighted. "Make sure to keep count, 'kay? Count your orgasms, Suguru. I wanna hear you say it. Which one was that?"

"T—" his voice cracks over the word; Satoru is still going—"two!"

"Good Suguru."

The stimulation is so much. He's still all sensitive in the aftermath of his orgasm, but Satoru's pace hasn't slowed in the slightest. He's barely even let up the assault on Suguru's prostate. His thrusts are so deep and it's overwhelming, and some relief blooms in Suguru's chest when he feels Satoru's hips stutter. Once, twice, thrice. Satoru lets out a ragged breath.

Sticky heat fills his ass, and feels the additional stretch with acute awareness. Feels Satoru's come slip out, make a mess over his skin, trickle down his back at the angle. And—

Satoru's soft cock rehardens inside him. It's barely been five seconds. He can feel it take stiffness inside him, each ridge pressing against his walls.

"Aa, what's wrong? Suguru, you just went all tense."

"You—"

"Y'know," Satoru purrs, not even letting Suguru finish before he starts rocking his hips again, "I personally think this is the best use of my reverse cursed technique. I don't need sleep, I can discard the concept of a refractory period. 'Could fuck all day and night, doll."

And he's not even exaggerating. In a situation like this, there's no limit to Satoru's stamina. Both arousal and apprehension swirl in Suguru's stomach, mixing with the overstimulation of his hole. Satoru's dick thrusts in and out, abusing his rim, his walls, digging so deep. One hand hold Suguru's position in lock and the other fondles the tip of his soft dick and, and—

"Suguru has such pretty tits," Satoru says, "'m gonna give them all the attention they deserve."

And then—then in addition to the stimulation in his back end and Satoru stroking at his still softened dick, there are teeth nipping at his nipple. Sucking the skin, biting teethmarks into the area, pressing his bud one direction then the other.

"Ah—too much too much too much—!"

"Suguru worries too much," Satoru says, unrepentant. "Bear with it, 'kay? Shh, 'you crying? You don't need to answer. Suguru's so cute like this, you're all flushed pink, y'know?" A satisfied, pleased noise. "Your neck's starting to bruise."

Satoru likes doing that—leaving marks of possession. Ownership. Likes to show Suguru off, too, although he never does so if Suguru tells him to quit it. Satoru likes knowing Suguru is his. After so long. His mouth burns on Suguru's feverish skin, hot. Too hot. Everything is too hot..!

"Too much too much Satoru—"

"Ah!" Satoru sounds delighted. "Suguru's hard again."

And between the abuse of his nipples and stroking of his cock and the pounding of his ass that still hasn't stopped, Suguru feels another knot tangle inside him. So much. Stars down his spine, bursting his in stomach, and—

"Remember to count," Satoru reminds him, just as the orgasm hits. For a moment, Suguru can't speak. Something ragged and broken wells up from his throat, embarrassingly high pitched, edged with a sob. Then another and another and—"Suguru, count."

"Three!" He cries. "Three! It's three!"

"Good job," Satoru coos, all overbearing and teasingly delighted. It's a different brand of condescending mockery than Suguru's. Kinder. More earnest. Affectionate. Like you'd speak to a pet. It makes Suguru's chest all warm, makes him moan. "My Suguru is so good. You're doing so good. Don't be afraid to cry. Be loud if you need to, hm?"

"Aaahh! S-Sa—"

"Just like that," Satoru says, pleased, "yeah, just like that."

They're absolutely filthy, the noises coming from Suguru's mouth. Debauched. Vulnerable and obscene. Embarrassing. But Satoru is still going and Suguru's dick feels so spent and his whole frame is rocking in this suspended void of infinity and his wrists are straining against their restrains and he can't help himself. There's hardly enough air in his lungs and he's choking on noises and, and—

Satoru's fingers slip through the gap of his lips. Something bitter. Oh.

"Eat up," Satoru says. "Taste good? Taste okay? You're gonna have to eat a lot of this, every drop. Suguru should be well fucked and well fed, y'know! C'mon babe, open your mouth, yeah, ah, make sure to breathe!"

And he's moaning while trying to swallow saliva and come. It chokes in his throat but it's liquid and once he finds a rhythm, he's able to eat it all well enough without spitting all over himself. Satoru kisses his forehead, tells him how good he's doing and then his cock is hard again. Satoru hits his prostate with pinpoint accuracy, and bites hard into his neck, so much is draws bloods, and just like that, he's gone. His vision spins with colored spots and everything gets a little lost in the static of his head and—

"Four," he gasps, "stop stop too much Satoru too much too much—!"

"Nope," Satoru says, coming the third(? it's hard to tell—!) time in Suguru's ass, "we're not even close to done! You've got at least a few left in ya, babe. Aww, ya cryin'? You are!"

It's just—the sensations are so much and they're not stopping. Not even for a moment. Under normal circumstances, this'd be a hard yellow. Slow down! But this isn't normal circumstances and Suguru can't call yellow and Satoru wouldn't slow down even if he did. Time gets a little muddied. It goes on for at least two hours, probably more? The fifth orgasm dribbles pathetically. The sixth orgasm comes dry and the seventh comes dry, too, By the eighth, Suguru's voice gives out.

"Hah..." Satoru's voice is breathy, "Suguru's voice is all wrecked."

Suguru whimpers, throat aching and sore. He truly can't speak much above a whisper. Anytime he tries, it breaks awfully. It's a unique sort of feeling, to have made so much noise at such a volume and for such a duration that one's voice gives out. His blindfold is soaked wet with salty tears. His wrists are sore from thrashing against their restraints. Every bit of him feels gross and sticky, slick with come and sweat, skin stinging in the places that Satoru has bit him.

They're in a dip of movement—the first one since this entire ordeal started. Satoru is hard inside him, but barely moving. His hand drags down Suguru's stomach, pelvis, crotch. Touches Suguru's half-hard cock. Too much! Suguru jolts, jerks away.

"How many are we at, now? Answer the question."

It's exhausting, it's so exhausting to muster the words from his throat, but Satoru didn't ask him to answer, he commanded it. There's no choice.

"..Ei," he swallows, tries to soothe his aching throat. Tears slip from his eyelids. His tear ducts must be so wide. "Ei...gh..t."

"Hmm," Satoru's hand pauses. It's cruel, that stretch of empty space, anticipation building for Satoru's response. Suguru shifts, pulls against his restraints. "I think Suguru can give another!"

"No," Suguru tries to shout, but it comes as a cracked whisper. "No no no I can't it won't it can't it can't it can't it can't can't can't can't can'tcan't—!"

"Don't worry," Satoru says, rubs his cheek against Suguru's, pecks his nose, softly kisses his lips and bumps their foreheads together, "you can. I'll help you. All you have to do is lie there, 'kay? You can. You've been so good."

There's no way Suguru can come again. There's just no way. It's physically impossible. He's burning up alive. He's sore and spent and too hot and there's almost more pain than pleasure. When Satoru cups his dick and strokes, the half formed ghoul of a sob chokes from Suguru's hoarse throat. Satoru's cock drags back, and stabs back in, pace returning to that unforgiving assault on his prostate. The tip of a finger toys with Suguru's slit, rubs at his cockhead. And it's a lot, and it's so much, and there's unmistakably so much pleasure there, but it's not enough. It's not enough at all. It's too much and not enough and—

"I can't—"

"Not alone," Satoru says, words coming through a distant haze, "but I said I'd help, remember? It's not on you."

"Can't," Suguru cries. "'Toru I can't I can't it won't—"

"It will," he says, absurdly confident, "shhh. You're so pretty like this."

Suguru moans, eyes pressing tight, new wave of hot tears. Everything smells like Satoru. Hint of cacao and vanilla. A taste catches sharply on his tongue, his senses, sharp and cold and minty. Cursed energy? Satoru's cursed energy? Why—

Reality splits in two. Suguru can't see anything, but he doesn't need to see anything to know. There was before: suspended in limitless, unable to feel anything but the restraints and Satoru and the burn of his own body—and then there's this. He's caught in a void, cool against his feverish skin. Starlight bursts behind his eyelids, cracks down his spine. Stardust in his abdomen, over his skin. He feels everything all at once, the present blending into the future blending into the echo of the past. Every one of his senses is assaulted. Satoru's touch is overwhelming.

It's overwhelming.

Satoru's domain expansion—!

The beginnings of pain in his skull has nothing on the sensation of his body. He's no longer in control at all, senses frayed and snapped and confused beyond recognition. He could be thrashing, and he could be completely frozen in place. Every heartbeat rattles his chest, each course of blood through his veins sets him on fire, every breath blooms a galaxy in his lungs. He thinks he's spasming.

"See?" There's a smile in Satoru's voice, Suguru distantly recognizes through the overwhelming ocean. "Suguru can do it, he just needs to trust me. You're close, right?"

He is. He's so close; he is about to shatter into pieces. To splinter beyond recognition.

"Come on, Suguru can do it," Satoru kisses his forehead, where a headache is blooming. It's so much—! "Come."

The heat goes supernova. Suguru cracks down the middle, split in two on Satoru's cock. Pleasure and pain and so much of everything. He's made of pure electricity, of a pleasure that becomes inseparable from the nature of himself. Satoru fucks him through the orgasm...! He has to..!

"N—" his voice breaks, shatters to the cosmos, "nine..!"

Satoru laughs, loud and delighted. Smooth fingers trace Suguru's face, pause on the cheekbone, finger hooking on the blindfold's edge, and pulling it off in one smooth motion. Suguru blinks once, twice, bleary, and Satoru comes into focus:

Starlit hair. Eyes glittering with blue galaxies. Self-satisfied, cat-that-ate-the-canary-grin. Moonlit lashes. He is looking at him with adoration. It's painted stark across his face.

Suguru is not a religious man, but, he thinks, this must be the face of god. It's the last thing he sees before his entire world slips between his fingers, melting into blank unconscious.

-

He comes to consciousness in a gentle wash of pleasure. It spreads softly from his core in even waves, level vibrations against his tender insides. Suguru feels it fully, in the liminal space between sleep and awareness. His body feels leaden, immovable, and reality slips between his fingers. He can feel it, the shifting of everything between coherent thought and muddied surrealism. Reality falls like syrup, stirs slowly in a pot. Exhaustion attempts to drag him down below the oiled surface. He has too—!

Something large and warm presses his head back down. It feels like plummeting and floating all at once. Feels like being carried by a gentle summer current and riding a rough stormy wave. He can't decipher the orientation of his body, nor its location. He can't think—!

"Shhh," Satoru says, fingers(?) brushing hair(?) from his face. "Go back to sleep."

A wave of tiredness takes his whole body. He can't speak. He tries. It won't work. And that's...scary, maybe, but he can't muster the emotion for it. It's not scary. All that exists is this hazy half-conscious and the pleasure vibrating from his core.

"Hah..." It's less a sound than a breath, a high pitched exhale. He tries to curl in on himself. It doesn't work. He sinks into that warm pleasure, pleasant as hōjicha on a cold winter night. Something soft kisses his brow, then his lips. It tastes like strawberry sweetness. Satoru's lipbalm.

"Shhh..."

"...S....a...to...ru," he manages, struggling to open his eyes. "...Satoru...I'm..."

"I know," Satoru says, voice like a murmur. "Sleep."

This time, he sinks back beneath the waters of unconscious.

He surfaces a number of times after that, to varying degrees of awareness. It's all a shapeless haze. He's lying down on the bed and sitting up on the floor and his head is clear then its made of cotton, and Satoru is kissing him, then brushing his hair, then tracing his body. Or all these things at once? It's good. It's good. It feels good. He can't think. There's only sensation and distant awareness. And...

He surfaces most clearly to the pleasure in his core spiking. The vibrations increase in height and frequency, and he realizes, blearily, that they are real. Not a figment of his mind or an odd bodily occurrence.

"Ah..." His eyelids feel sealed shut. Satoru's cursed energy is a familiar cradle around him; safe. There's the scent of fresh laundry and cacao and vanilla. His body feels tender. Feels clean. His hair is silky around his neck. "...Satoru..."

"I'm here," he reassures through the dark, and Suguru finally flutters open his lashes. Tries to recall their situation. Everything is so hazy. Their bedroom is dark, lit only by warm lamplight. He head adjusts without his willing, and Satoru smiles down at him.

"What's..." It's hard to form sentences, between the muddied haze of waking and the warm pleasure in his core. He feels syrupy.

"G'morning," Satoru murmurs, "although it isn't morning. Feel good? Tell me if you feel good."

"'Feel good," Suguru mumbles, "feels good." And it takes him a moment to register that he's spoken half without meaning too—half on reflex. That it feels like his admission has been guided by a cosmic hand. Like...

Ah. The binding vow. Right...

"Y'wanna know what I did t' ya while you were asleep?" Satoru asks, although it's not a real question; he doesn't let Suguru answer at all. "Cleaned us both up. Put some toys in you. Fucked your thighs," he reaches over a hand from where he's sitting on the bed beside Suguru, traces a finger up his thighs, pelvis, stomach, chest, "fucked your tits, too. And..." the finger traces the junction between his shoulder and neck, "your pretty little neck."

Suguru tries to piece all the information together. It's messy, hazy, he's still disoriented. The memory of Satoru's words to him after binding him come to mind. So he really did...

"Hah," it's a breath and a laugh, and it's so much effort to properly form his words, but he has to—"You better not have got come in my hair."

"I washed it out!"

"Sure..." his breath catches, eyes squeezing shut, "sure you did."

"I should've fucked your armpits before you woke up, too." There's a pout in his voice. "They're all smooth n' soft right now."

This guy..! He's seriously so...! Shameless! He's totally shameless! He shouldn't be allowed to just say things like that. But he can and he does, because Satoru is sincere and unapologetic and... (it's really hot, actually, that shamelessness of his.) Suguru's face burns. "It's not like you can't do it right now. Shameless."

"I could," Satoru agrees, "but I have something better in mind."

Suguru peeks back open his eyes. "Like?"

"Y'know," Satoru says, instead of answering, "it's funny. It's barely been three minutes since Suguru woke up and Suguru is already trying to grasp control. It's subtle. Trying t' know what's coming and gain a verbal upperhand. You're probably not even doing it consciously. But that's the point, hm? When it's all left up to Suguru, Suguru doesn't know how to submit completely. Suguru doesn't know how to let himself be taken care of."

Suguru squints. Tries to collect his thoughts. Can't quite gather them well. "I..."

"Get on the floor," Satoru says.

Suguru's whole body is leaden and aching. Heavy as stone. Lifting himself feels like hauling a bolder, but he does it, because he has to do it. He sits himself up and slips off the edge of the bed, and he tries to stand, but—

his legs give out the moment he attempts to shift his full weight onto his feet. A sharp stab of pain erupts in his pelvis and he buckles. The world spins. He reaches for his cursed energy—to shield himself from impact—but he can't because the binding vow and..! He lets out an embarrassingly high pitched sound of distress when his head knocks against the hardwood. It's mortifying; Satoru fucked him so hard Suguru can't even walk.

"Ah—Suguru can you look at me?" Not a command. There's concern in Satoru's voice, and when does look up, grimacing at the vertigo that hasn't quite faded, that same concern in reflected in Satoru's whole expression. He's moved to the edge of the bed, peering down. "You okay? Tell me how you feel, physically."

That's a command.

"The left edge of my frontal bone hurts," Suguru says, "but that's fading; the pain will likely be gone in ten to fifteen more seconds. I feel slightly dizzy and lightheaded. My vision splotched, but it's back to normal now. As for the pain that made me stumble..." he frowns, "it was sharp for a moment but I don't think anything inside is torn. It's just extreme soreness."

"Does it hurt right now?"

"A little, not much when I'm not moving." And... admittedly, the dull, quiet pleasure of the vibrator is overwriting what might have been more painful. It's not on high, right now. Suguru's not sure when Satoru turned it down.

"Hnn..." Satoru brings a knee to his naked chest, rests his wrist on it and leans his head against his fist. "'You sure your head's fine? Tell me if there was any initial pain outside the area which hit the floor. If so, clarify how."

"...There was. 'Felt like my brain knocked against my skull a little. Very lightly."

Satoru frowns. "Concussive?"

"Definitely not."

There was a blooming pain through his skull, cottony. That oppressive pain of a knock to the skull, but that's faded. It feels back to normal, now.

"Jerk your head left. Then right, then forwards, then backwards. If any of those movements hurt, tell me."

So Suguru does. "...No, none of them hurt."

"Do you have any feelings of nausea?"

"No."

"Any other physical factors that you think I might find significant?"

"No," Suguru answers, after a moment.

Satoru doesn't respond immediately. He simply looks at Suguru, eyes bright against the bedroom's quiet glow. Suguru's skin prickles under its scrutiny, something akin to self consciousness making Suguru want to curl up. He's entirely naked, fully exposed. Satoru's sharp eyes pin him in place; there isn't anything he can't see.

The silence drags, one, two, three. Suguru bites his tongue, refraining from speaking. He wonders, with a touch of something anxious, if Satoru is about to call an end to this. It'd be an early end—before Suguru fell, it felt like Satoru had something planned. He shouldn't have fallen. He—

"Ah, okay!" Satoru's knee drops from his chest, hanging laxly over the bed's edge. His expression turns bright, sunny, and his hands clap. "Great! Suguru's feeling good enough, then! That's good. Were you overthinking it? You had that expression on your face."

"...Ah, I..."

"Nah, it's fine. No need to say anything. I already know the answer!" He laughs, other leg coming from it's rest on the bed to hang over the side. He grins. "Get on your knees."

It's a command. Suguru drags himself onto his knees. Satoru reaches out a hand, and cups the side of his face gently. Rubs a thumb over his cheekbone.

"Y'know," Satoru says, voiced edged with something that could be teasing, but fills Suguru with a certain sort of tension, "Suguru's problem is that he overthinks. It doesn't matter if it's big or small. Suguru overthinks and overthinks and overthinks until he doesn't know what's real or true, what has meaning or not, what's good or bad. Suguru gets lost and doesn't know what to do at all, and he doesn't ask for help."

"...Satoru," Suguru starts, some unease churning in his stomach. It's this sort of vulnerability that only Satoru can say, because only Satoru knows him like this. "I—"

"When Suguru suggested doing all this," Satoru continues, like Suguru hadn't spoken at all, "I was pretty hesitant, y'know? Suguru framed it like it was all for me. He talked about why I would enjoy it, not why he would like it."

And Satoru, after a long pause that had left Suguru uneasy, had asked: is this some sort of... weird self-retribution? Suguru had froze, been quick to shake his head, because it wasn't; Suguru would never do that to Satoru. It's not that Suguru thinks he deserves to be have his will stepped over by Satoru, not that he thinks Satoru deserves to have Suguru like this. Even if he did—he'd never drag Satoru into something like that. Satoru would hate it; it'd weigh on his conscience. Suguru refuses to put that sort of guilt on him.

"I was seriously worried, y'know? It's true that Suguru likes to feel useful, likes to give himself, but it didn't feel like just that." Satoru says, hand traveling downward, so his thump slips into the corner of Suguru's mouth, "I only ended up agreeing 'cause..."

Satoru's hand tilts Suguru's head upwards by the jaw, thumb still in his mouth. His other hand settled on the back of Suguru's head, applying only slight pressure. Oh. Suguru's breath hitches.

"What Suguru really wanted with this was to not have to think so hard. You want to have all the decisions made for you, just for a bit. You don't wanna have to think. You don't want responsibility over what happens; you don't want your will to matter at all. So..." Satoru grins down at him, eyes glinting. "I'm gonna fuck your pretty little throat, 'kay? Don't bite."

Red. Under normal circumstances, he'd call it right then and there. He can't. Everything else they've done since the scene started has been a green, yellow, or bordering-on-red-but-not-there-yet. Things they've, for the most part, done before. Things that Suguru has given the OK on in previous scenes. Anything to do with his throat is a red. Hard-no. And Satoru has never pressed, not even once. Accepted it and moved on.

Satoru shifts closer to the bed's edge. The hand cupping Suguru's jaw retracts, and the hand rested against the back of his head presses him closer, closer, between Satoru's thighs. Satoru's cock is soft on the blanket.

"Open your mouth."

So he does. Satoru tastes good on his tongue. Vaguely soapy. He must have thoroughly cleaned himself, too. It's a nice weight. The vibrations in Suguru's ass suddenly increase with intensity, becoming more than background sensation, and Suguru can't help the moan that jumps to his mouth.

Satoru's cock begins to stiffen, harden, and then it starts pressing forward. Starts pressing against Suguru's gag reflex. He chokes a little, gags on Satoru's cockhead.

"Shh, relax. Be a good little doll for me, 'kay? Suppress your gag reflex."

Suguru's good at that, at suppressing his gag reflex. It's something he learned how to do young, or else he'd be choking over every curse. But he hates it, he hates that sensation of being unable to breathe and something thick and solid where it shouldn't be and—

"Breathe through your nose, Suguru." Satoru's voice is soft, reassuring, grounding. The gentleness of his tone doesn't diminish the authority of his command, though. Each word is made shackling by the binding vow; Suguru breathes through his nose. "Good Suguru. Good job. Doing so good."

Satoru's cock, now fully hard, breaches his throat. Reflexive tears prick at Suguru's eyes.

"Close your lips around my shaft. Yeah—just like that. Fuck, Suguru," he groans, bottoming out in Suguru's throat. Not moving, not yet. "You feel so good. So hot and wet."

Suguru's face is pressed into Satoru's crotch, into the fine white hairs at the base of his cock. Satoru gives him enough room to comfortably access enough air. This rhythm is unbalanced when Satoru does start moving, rutting into Suguru's throat. His fingers curl in Suguru hair, pull him off, and then back on. He controls the motions of both their bodies.

"Hah—Suguru you look so good right now you have no idea. You..." Satoru moans, and it's such a hot sound. Suguru clings to his voice. "You deserve a reward, yeah? Here—"

The vibrations spike against his prostate, and Satoru's foot pushes against Suguru's half-hard cock. Like every other surface of him, Satoru's foot is soft. Clean, too, Suguru knows. A moan vibrates in his throat at the pressure on his cock, and Satoru moans with him.

"God that's good. My pretty fuckdoll—" Satoru slams in particularly hard, and Suguru gags again, wetness finally spilling over from his eyes and down his cheeks. The vibrations spike and Satoru's foot coaxes him to full hardness, and for a moment Suguru's head feels blank. "Feel good?" His toes work around Suguru's shaft, ankle rubbing at the cockhead. "You're so perfect like this. Look so good gagging on my cock like that, taking it so well. Hah..."

Suguru chokes, tries to stabilize his breathing, gags on Satoru's shaft. Moans around it. Every vibration he produces only makes Satoru move faster. He can barely think. Feels limp, some sort of doll. Pleasure pools in his core, warm and syrupy, tight and wanting. His face is wet with tears and there's saliva all over his chin and he can't do anything and he hates this except—

Ah. This, this is what he wanted. This is it. This lack of autonomy, of any agency at all. He doesn't have any choice but to accept how Satoru is using him but he doesn't want any choice; choices have significance and he doesn't want—doesn't want to deal with that. There's no choice in this, he couldn't do anything even if he tried. And the realization of it settles completely over him, deeper than it did previously.

"Focus on me Suguru focus on me, shhh don't worry you're doing great you're doing so good—"

Suguru feels his, completely Satoru's, and he warms under Satoru's praise. The hand against the back of his head is simultaneously oppressive and comforting. He can feel every inch of Satoru's cock with intense awareness, rutting, thrusting. That solid thickness being forced through his gag reflex, the stinging tears in his eyes—it reminds him viscerally of swallowing a curse. That's one of the reasons this is always red for him; he doesn't want that sensation to haunt his intimacy, too. It reminds him of swallowing a curse, but—

it's not quite the same. Satoru tastes good on his tongue. Satoru is holding him with care. Satoru is Satoru. In this, Suguru isn't required to do anything as all. Here, Suguru is moaning, not thinking he'd rather die than eat another curse. Here—

"Suguru Suguru Suguru Suguru—you're so good. Love you, you're being perfect. Just like that. I'm close. You're making me close. 'You feel good? Hah..."

here, Suguru is being taken care of. This isn't the college overworking him, this isn't Suguru overworking himself; this is love. And Satoru—he's overwriting the association of this sensation, if just a little. This would be good even if Suguru didn't start liking the sensation at all, but because Satoru is brilliant and wonderful and a damn overachiever, he's—

The pleasure in Suguru's core builds and builds. Stimulation on his cock. Pleasure on his prostate. It's all so—

"Gonna come," Satoru says, voice pleasant and grounding and a little husky, "and you're gonna come with me. C'mon—" Satoru growths thicker on his tongue—sensation so fleeting Suguru thinks he's imagining it—"Suguru, come."

The molten tangle in Suguru's core snaps, and suddenly, he's spilling all over the hardwood floor, all over Satoru's ankle. He feels electric, feels like radio static made manifest, feels so overwhelmingly good. The world momentarily inks out.

Something thick and fluid swallows down his throat and Satoru's cock pulls out, cockhead settling just being Suguru's teeth. A tangy sweet taste floods Suguru's mouth. Satoru's come tastes good, and he tries to savor every bit of it even as he's forced to swallow. Satoru's cock pulls out of Suguru's mouth and the hand against the back of his head loses pressure and—

that's when Suguru really starts to cry. Completely breaks down. The sob rips from his throat, racks his shoulders, his whole frame. It's shortly followed by another, and another. He can barely breathe between them, these ugly noises, his shaking arms, the hot tears that won't stop squeezing out. They taste salty on his tongue. He doesn't know why he's crying like this. He's not even, he's not even—

Large, strong arms scoop him up off the floor. He's settled into a warm lap, cradled closely, and Suguru just can't stop crying. The vibrations in his hole stop completely for the first time since he woke up. He can't see past the mess of his tears, even as he tries to wipe them away. Everything is a wet blur—the warm lamplight on the bedroom ceiling, dark shadows in the room's corner, Satoru's white hair and bright blue eyes.

"...Suguru," he says, voice soft and quiet, almost tentative, as he thumbs tears from Suguru's cheeks. "Are you... Tell me how you feel. I need to know how you feel right now, Suguru."

Suguru doesn't know how he feels. Good—good, he feels good. It's just that, that it's so much. It's so much and there's this realization settling over him—something he already knew, but is only fully realizing the full depth of now: this couldn't have been fully easy for Satoru. Can't have been easy to do all this, to ignore Suguru's lack of consent, to go ahead, but he did. Because he knew that's what Suguru needed, wanted, because he wanted to take care of him. He did anyway, and that's just—

"I-in lo—ve wi—with you," Suguru hiccups, chest tight with affection, "'f-feel in love with you love you love you love you love you love youloveyouloveyou—"

"Love you too," Satoru says, and something about the way he's holding him has become laxer. His thumb brushes another tear from Suguru's cheek. Suguru wishes, desperately, that his vision wasn't so blotched with tears. Wishes he could clearly see Satoru's face. "You did good. You're safe. Love you. Tell me what you want, hm? Tell me what you want, Suguru."

There's a difference between want and will. What Suguru wants isn't something inside his control. Not now, at least. And neither is answering Satoru's question. So the words are coerced easily and gently from Suguru's mouth:

"You want you want you 'wanna have your cock in my mouth—"

"Alright," Satoru says, laughter in his voice. He brushes hair from Suguru's forehead and repositions his body, handles him like a doll. Suguru's laid over the bed, upper body let to rest in Satoru's lap, head between his thighs. This time, Suguru takes the cock into his mouth, letting it rest on his tongue. Satoru shifts, just a little, hands carding through Suguru's hair. "'Good?"

"...Good," Suguru mumbles, words muffled by the cock in his mouth. His eyes are still stubbornly welling with hot tears, but the hiccuping sobs have subsided. He suckles weakly, and savors the sweet, tangy taste of Satoru's come.

"Yeah? That's good." Satoru continues his soothing motions through Suguru's hair. "And how long do you want it for? Answer that question, Suguru."

And Suguru—Suguru has to answer, how does he answer that? He doesn't know. How is he supposed to pick a length of time? His head is all foggy. He doesn't—some anxiety rises in his chest, and he whimpers. Satoru's hand pauses.

"Suguru? Hmm... Lemme ask again: how long do you want my cock in your mouth for? Answer within three seconds."

The time-limit springs words to Suguru's tongue in a frenzy. "I don't know! I don't know..."

Satoru breathes out a sigh. It's fond. "See, that wasn't too hard, yeah? It's okay if you don't know."

The only reason it wasn't hard is because Satoru made it easy. Suguru doesn't like admitting to not knowing things, doesn't like not knowing things in the first place. Satoru is making everything easy for him.

Suguru hums noncommittally around Satoru's cock and closes his eyes. They're still stinging, hot tears slipping past his lashes. He lets them roll down his skin, over the bridge of his nose, over his cheekbone, and down onto where his face is rested against the inside of Satoru's thigh. He laps at Satoru's slit, tries to get every bit of that sweet taste.

Satoru chuckles above him. It's a nice sound. Smooth. Suguru wants to eat it out of the air. He's feeling a little nonsensical. "Suguru's really hungry for my come, huh? My cute cumslut. Pretty attention whore. I'll keep you well fed, promise. 'Love you."

Suguru doesn't respond at all; if Satoru really wanted him to, he'd tell him to.

He's not sure how long they stay like that. Satoru cards his hand through Suguru's hair, soothingly massaging his scalp. Suguru with his head rested on Satoru's thigh, and Satoru's cock rested in his mouth. Nothing goes further than that. Satoru starts talking to him about random things, voice warm and steady and carrying Suguru through blissful afterglow. Suguru only half listens as he lies there, feeling his heartbeat calm in his chest, feeling tears dry on his skin. At some point, he stops crying.

His body is warm and heavy. It feels like heaven, being able to just lie there on soft blankets. Satoru's cock is warm and pleasant in his mouth, a nice weight. Unobtrusive.

It's peaceful enough that Suguru could fall asleep, but he doesn't. Just lies there, head finally, finally quiet.

It's after maybe an hour of this that Satoru nudges him gently with his knuckle and asks: "Do you want me to end the scene?" The question catches Suguru off guard, disturbs the tranquil lake of his mind. He doesn't want to—"Ah, no, never mind. Don't answer that. Sorry sorry, you don't have to think about anything, 'kay? I'm going to begin aftercare in twenty minutes. Afterwards, we'll sleep. When we wake up, I'll end the scene. Until the scene formally ends, I'll continue to use commands. Nod once if you understand."

It's a gentle way of ending the scene without ruining Suguru's peace. It's not quite handing back Suguru's agency, not yet, but it is a soft assurance that nothing more is coming.

Suguru nods.

"Great! Good Suguru."

Twenty minutes pass. Satoru nudges him off his cock, and Suguru complies easily. Looks up at Satoru's softly smiling face, and smiles back. Satoru leans down and lays a kiss to his forehead.

"I'm gonna take that toy out of you then go draw a bath, 'kay? I'll be back in a moment."

Suguru nods, and Satoru gets a lube bottle from the bedside table, lubing up his fingers before slipping them into Suguru's loose hole and fishing out the vibrator. It gets thrown somewhere out of Suguru's vision—presumably into a box, for later cleaning. Satoru folds the blanket over him before leaving the room, footsteps sounding down the hall. He's being deliberately loud, Suguru knows, to reassure Suguru of his presence.

Time hazes a little. He's already falling half asleep. He hears the water running, the bathtub filling, and he hears it shut off, but he's not sure how long it takes for Satoru to return. When he does come back, he scoops Suguru into a princess carry, pressing him into his chest, and carries him to the bathroom.

The warm water is soothing around his skin, and Suguru sighs when he's gently lowered into it. Somehow, he relaxes further, head resting against the bathtub's back. It's not overly hot, it's just right. Smells like lavender.

"Open your mouth," Satoru says, brushing his hair back. "I got you something to drink. Try not to choke."

Suguru opens his mouth, slipping open his eyes, too. Satoru brings a jar to his lips, carefully supporting his head and making sure only a little trickles in. Lemon water—! Suguru swallows, mouth watering. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was. Hungry, too.

"After the bath I'll feed you in bed. You're doing good. Careful—!"

Suguru downs the gulp. The jar steadily empties before running empty. The mild taste of lemon lingers on Suguru's teeth. It's comforting. Lemon water helps mitigate nausea, and it's been Suguru's steadfast friend, over the years. The flavor is a nice familiarity.

Satoru washes his hair. Gently scrubs his skin. Towels him down. Brings him back to bed. And it's then, when they're both laying underneath fresh bedding, pillow wet with runoff from Suguru's damp hair, that Suguru asks:

"Did you like this?"

"Hm?" Satoru blinks at him, shifting a little to get a better look at Suguru's face. Nods. "Yeah. Yeah I did. Did you?"

It's not a command. Suguru doesn't have to answer. But—his afterglow has mostly passed, and while Suguru feels calm and tired and steady, his mind is sharper. So when he answers, it's with willing honesty:

"Yeah, I'd like to do it again sometime."

"Alright." Satoru nestles close, head leaving Suguru's vision as he buries it into Suguru's side. Even so, Suguru can hear to smile in his voice when he says: "Whatever you want."