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Satoru pauses halfway down the last step.
The movie is still running.
Light flickers across the basement walls—blue, then orange, then blue again—spilling unevenly over old shelves, stacked boxes, and the worn couch pushed against the far wall. The projector hums softly somewhere behind him, its beam cutting a pale stripe through the dim room before splashing across the screen. Gunfire rattles through the speakers, sharp and hollow in the enclosed space. A moment later an explosion roars, followed by a heroic swell of orchestral music that feels wildly disproportionate to whatever’s actually happening onscreen.
The volume is loud enough that Satoru had expected to hear Yuuji reacting to it from halfway up the stairs.
Instead, the room is quiet.
Well.
Quiet except for the movie.
“Yuuji?” he calls.
His voice echoes faintly off the basement walls.
No answer.
Satoru tilts his head slightly, listening.
Usually Yuuji reacts instantly—if not to the name itself, then to the opportunity to respond loudly. A complaint. A joke. An excited commentary about whatever ridiculous stunt is happening in the movie.
But now there’s nothing.
No rustle of movement.
No creak of the couch.
No quick thump of feet on the floor as Yuuji scrambles upright.
Just the movie continuing its overdramatic assault on the speakers.
Satoru strolls the rest of the way down the stairs, hands in his pockets, the casualness only half genuine.
“Yuuji~” he calls again, voice lilting with exaggerated patience. “If you started the good part without me, I’m confiscating your snacks.”
Still nothing.
That’s odd.
Yuuji is many things—loud, energetic, incapable of sitting still for long—but silent isn’t usually one of them. Even when he’s concentrating, there’s always something: a muttered comment under his breath, a sharp laugh at a dumb joke, the restless shifting of someone whose body has never quite learned how to stay still.
The absence of all that feels… noticeable.
Satoru steps off the last stair and finally looks toward the couch.
Yuuji is sprawled across it.
Not sitting.
Not watching the movie.
Sprawled.
Like someone who had every intention of staying awake and then lost the fight halfway through.
One arm hangs halfway off the side, fingers dangling loosely toward the floor as if he’d dropped something and been too tired to retrieve it. His legs are crooked across the cushions at an angle that looks deeply uncomfortable. His head tilts against the backrest, neck bent just enough that it should have woken him up by now.
Pink hair sticks up in messy tufts where it’s been crushed against the fabric.
His mouth is slightly open.
Breath slips out in slow, quiet intervals.
His chest rises.
Falls.
Rises again.
Satoru stops.
“…Oh.”
He hadn’t expected that.
For a moment he simply stands there, listening.
The movie continues to blare—gunshots cracking, tires screeching, someone shouting something heroic in a language that sounds suspiciously dubbed—but Yuuji doesn’t stir.
Not even a twitch.
Satoru had been calling his name from the stairs.
Loudly.
And the kid is still completely out.
“…You’re kidding.”
He walks closer, curiosity replacing the faint surprise.
Up close, it’s obvious.
Yuuji is asleep.
Deeply asleep.
The kind of sleep that drags a person down so completely that the outside world stops existing.
Satoru crouches slightly, resting his elbows on the back of the couch as he leans over to study him.
The blindfold hides his eyes, but his attention sharpens automatically, senses stretching out and brushing against the space around Yuuji the way they always do when something unusual catches his interest. Cursed energy hums in the background of every sorcerer, even when they’re resting. It’s never truly still. Even in sleep it shifts and stirs—leaking out in uneven pulses, flaring with dreams, wavering when the mind drifts too far into unconsciousness.
Most people lose control of it when they sleep.
It spills.
It fluctuates.
Sometimes it lashes out in jagged bursts when nightmares hit.
Yuuji’s doesn’t.
It’s steady.
Contained.
Almost eerily quiet.
Satoru focuses on it for a moment longer, following the faint presence curled neatly beneath Yuuji’s skin.
It doesn’t spike.
It doesn’t waver.
It simply… exists.
Calm.
Controlled.
As if even asleep, Yuuji’s body refuses to let anything slip.
The control is so clean it almost feels unnatural.
Satoru lets out a soft breath through his nose.
“Huh.”
That’s impressive.
Even trained sorcerers struggle with that. Maintaining control unconsciously isn’t easy. It takes discipline, instinct, and years of practice—long hours spent learning how to contain something that constantly wants to spill out of you.
Most people never get it quite this clean.
Yet Yuuji’s cursed energy sits inside him like a calm pool, barely rippling.
It’s surprising, considering how recently Yuuji was dragged into the jujutsu world. Just weeks ago he hadn’t even known cursed energy existed. Now it rests beneath his skin with a steadiness some veterans would envy.
Satoru can’t help the faint curl of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
Still, he didn’t exactly doubt his student.
Not really.
He had known there was something unusual about Yuuji the moment they met—standing on that school rooftop, the wind tugging at his uniform, Sukuna’s finger clutched in his hand like it was nothing more than a strange trinket.
A kid who could swallow a cursed object like that and remain himself?
That alone had been enough to catch Satoru’s interest.
But even then—
Even knowing Yuuji was special—
This kind of progression is… fast.
Almost absurdly fast.
Fast enough that it reminds Satoru of someone else.
Almost Yuta’s level.
The thought lingers for only a second before drifting away again. He studies the quiet presence resting inside Yuuji a moment longer. There’s nothing but a quiet, stable presence resting beneath his skin.
Satoru glances toward the TV.
Onscreen, a car flips in slow motion, metal shrieking as it slams against the pavement. Someone screams dramatically in the background while the soundtrack surges with theatrical intensity. The speakers rattle with the impact.
Satoru isn’t too worried about the noise.
The basement is soundproofed—thick walls, reinforced doors, layers of insulation meant to keep training accidents from echoing through the rest of the city. Complaints from neighbors are practically impossible.
Still.
There’s a small flicker of curiosity. Maybe a little concern.
Because Yuuji sleeps through it. Completely. Unbelievable.
Satoru reaches for the remote and clicks the TV off. The sudden silence settles over the basement like a blanket, thick and immediate after the chaos of the movie.
For a moment the room feels strangely still.
Satoru expects Yuuji to stir. Maybe flinch. Maybe mumble something half coherent.
He doesn’t.
Not even a shift.
Satoru looks back at him. And pauses.Because now that the noise is gone, there’s something else he can hear.
Breathing.
Slow.
Even.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Satoru doesn’t move.
It’s a strange thing to focus on, really—the breathing of a sleeping teenager. Normally he’d already be halfway back up the stairs by now, probably leaving behind a sarcastic note about falling asleep mid-movie.
Instead he stays there.
Listening.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The rhythm is steady enough that it almost becomes background noise.
Almost.
Twenty-four hours ago, that sound didn’t exist.
Yuuji had been dead.
Declared dead.
Satoru had seen the body himself—still, silent, a hole punched straight through his chest. Blood smeared across his bare torso, dark and drying against skin that had already begun to lose its warmth. The rest of his uniform had been soaked through, fabric clinging heavily where the blood had spread.
Satoru had checked anyway.
Two fingers pressed against Yuuji’s neck.
Waiting.
Hoping.
Nothing.
No breath.
No heartbeat.
No pulse beneath his fingers.
Just stillness.
And now—
Inhale.
Exhale.
Satoru tilts his head slightly, as if the angle might somehow change what he’s hearing.
It doesn’t.
Yuuji shifts faintly against the couch cushion, brow creasing for half a second before smoothing out again. A quiet breath slips through his nose, soft and sleepy.
Still asleep.
Satoru checks the time out of habit.
Five minutes pass before he realizes it.
“…Huh.”
He straightens.
That’s probably enough staring at a sleeping student for one evening.
The basement air is a little cool, and Yuuji had apparently fallen asleep without grabbing anything warm. Satoru glances around until he spots a folded blanket draped over the back of a nearby chair. He picks it up and gives it a light shake. The fabric rustles softly in the quiet room. Yuuji doesn’t react when Satoru drapes it over him. Not even when the edge brushes his shoulder.
“Wow,” Satoru murmurs quietly. “You’re really out.”
Yuuji breathes in.
Breathes out.
Still asleep.
Satoru lingers a second longer, hands slipping back into his pockets as he studies the kid’s face.
Dead yesterday.
Snoring on the couch today.
Life is weird.
Finally, Satoru turns toward the stairs.
Halfway there, he stops and glances back at the table.
Ah.
Right.
The sweets.
A small pile of convenience-store pastries and mochi sits beside the abandoned remote. Satoru had brought them down earlier as a peace offering after stealing the last of Yuuji’s snacks yesterday.
He considers taking them back.
It would be easy.
Yuuji clearly isn’t waking up anytime soon. Satoru reaches for them. Then pauses.
“…Nah.”
He leaves them exactly where they are. Payment for surviving death, maybe. Or for maintaining perfect cursed energy control while asleep. Or because Satoru suddenly feels like letting the kid have them.
He heads for the stairs. Behind him, the basement stays quiet.
Yuuji asleep.
The second time isn’t intentional either.
It starts with a meeting.
A long one.
Satoru leans back in his chair, feet propped lightly on the edge of the polished table, and lets the drone of higher-ups wash over him. Their voices blur into a monotonous hum—a layered symphony of complaints, cautious suggestions, and veiled threats wrapped in carefully polite language. Each word feels stretched, each pause drawn out. He’s heard it all before, hundreds of times, and yet somehow it never gets shorter.
He had planned to leave early.
Actually, Satoru had planned not to come at all. But then, he knew Yaga would be on his ass and he’d rather not deal with his former teacher.
Suddenly, his phone buzzed.
A message from Yuuji.
Yuuji: We’re having super special Itadori-style curry tonight!!!
Three exclamation marks.
And a blurry photo of chopped vegetables scattered across a countertop. Satoru stares at it longer than necessary, letting the image linger. The idea of Yuuji cooking—excited, proud, slightly chaotic—makes something in his chest tighten pleasantly.
Super special curry.
Made by Yuuji.
He replies before thinking.
Don’t start without me.
Then slips the phone back into his pocket and tunes half-heartedly into the meeting. His attention drifts, carried along by imagined aromas of simmering curry, the clatter of dishes, and Yuuji’s enthusiastic commentary as he stirs a pot with far too much gusto.
Of course, the meeting drags on.
Hours—or what feels like hours—slide past. By the time Satoru stretches, standing and cracking his shoulders, the sun is already low in the sky, spilling warm streaks across the city streets through tall windows.
He’s late.
Not catastrophically late. But late enough that Yuuji’s curry should probably be ready—and possibly eaten—by now.
Satoru exhales, shoving his hands into his pockets as he steps outside. Cool evening air brushes against his face, carrying the faint smells of asphalt and evening traffic. Then he stops mid-step.
“…Dessert.”
Right. If Yuuji made dinner, the least he can do is bring something sweet.
Luck is on his side—the bakery next to his house is still open. A few minutes later, he steps out with a small white box tied with a thin ribbon. The faint, buttery scent of pastries drifts from the cardboard—soft cream buns, delicate chocolate treats, something round and golden that looks too tempting to resist.
Yuuji is going to lose his mind.
Satoru grins, savoring the thought.
Then the world folds.
Space bends around him in a familiar distortion, a subtle tug at the edges of reality as his technique activates. The air snaps back into place almost instantly, and a heartbeat later—he’s there.
At the basement entrance.
“Yuuji!” Satoru calls, voice bright and deliberately theatrical. “Your favorite teacher has arrived!”
His footsteps echo lightly as he descends the stairs, the soft thump of soles against wood a small counterpoint to the chaotic soundtrack emanating from the TV.
“And I brought dessert,” he adds, shaking the bakery box for emphasis, even though Yuuji can’t see him yet. “So if you burned the curry, I’ll forgive—”
Satoru freezes halfway down the stairs.
The basement is alive with flickering light and sound—bright, chaotic colors from the movie splashing across the walls, accompanied by overly dramatic music and effects. And then he notices it. Something… familiar.
He reaches the bottom step and looks toward the couch.
Yuuji is sitting upright. Technically. His back presses against the cushions, legs stretched lazily, one arm draped loosely at his side. But his head tilts forward, chin nearly brushing his chest. And he isn’t moving.
“…Oh.”
Satoru tilts his head. “Yuuji?”
No response.
That’s odd. He’d been loud—loud enough to stir anyone awake. But Yuuji doesn’t twitch. Not a flinch. Not a shiver.
Curiosity tugs at him, and he steps closer. The movie continues behind them, tires screeching, frantic voices clamoring over one another. A cursed corpse rests in Yuuji’s lap, small and still, leaning gently against his stomach like it’s grown bored of the screen.
Either the corpse lost interest first—or Yuuji did.
Either way, Yuuji is asleep. Again.
Satoru crouches, lowering himself until his eyes are level with Yuuji’s face.
Nothing moves. Breathing soft, steady, rhythmic. Shoulders rise and fall calmly. His cursed energy hums beneath the skin—stable, contained, serene. Not drained. Not faltering.
He isn’t tired. Just… asleep.
The basement isn’t cozy. The light is harsh, the couch worn, the movie chaotic. And yet, here Yuuji is, surrendering to rest in the middle of it all. Satoru huffs a quiet laugh.
“Must be really boring down here, huh?”
Yuuji doesn’t answer. And that… only makes Satoru grin.
“…Seriously?”
The faint scent of popcorn and pastries mingles with the slightly stale basement air. Light from the flickering TV catches Yuuji’s soft features—his cheeks round and warm, hair tousled in gentle pink waves, lips slightly parted with each quiet inhale. The cursed corpse shifts in his lap but remains content, unbothered.
Satoru studies him. Slow, deliberate. Every detail draws his attention: the curve of the lips, the subtle scars beneath his eyes, the way his lashes brush his cheeks.
A mischievous idea sparks.
Well. If Yuuji really is this asleep…
Satoru leans forward carefully, fingers hovering, then gently pinches Yuuji’s nose. Breathing pauses for a fraction of a second. Then air slips through his mouth instead. Nothing else. No flinch. No stir. Not even an eyelash twitch.
Satoru releases the pinch and leans back slightly. “…Wow. You really are a heavy sleeper.”
Yuuji remains oblivious. The cursed corpse settles further against him, perfectly content.
Satoru stays crouched, absorbing the quiet: the steady rise and fall of Yuuji’s chest, the gentle rhythm of his fingers curling around the plush body, the faint hum of cursed energy beneath the surface. Up close, Yuuji looks softer than anyone notices in the day-to-day chaos—lips a gentle pink, cheeks plush, scars subtle yet deliberate. Pretty. Cute. Satoru clicks his tongue softly, half-amused at himself, and drapes the small throw over Yuuji’s shoulders. A tiny murmur escapes the boy, but he doesn’t wake. Satoru’s hand lingers, brushing a strand of hair aside. Everything about this—the stillness, the safety, the simple act of watching him breathe—feels quietly significant.
Finally, Satoru sets the dessert box on the table beside the couch, the faint smell of cream and chocolate drifting. Yuuji doesn’t stir. Alive. Safe. Breathing.
He crouches a moment longer, just observing. Then, on a soft impulse, he nudges the cursed corpse slightly to settle it upright in Yuuji’s lap. Still nothing.
A soft rustle.
Yuuji shifts, low groan escaping his lips. His head lolls forward, chin barely clearing his chest, eyes fluttering open. The first thing he registers is the ceiling, then Satoru crouched inches away, grin wide behind his blindfold.
“Uh… sensei?”
Satoru tilts his head. “Morning… or evening, depending on your personal time zone.”
Yuuji blinks, hair messy, cheeks flushed. He notices the paused movie, the quiet basement, and the dessert box. “…Wait. Did I… fall asleep again?”
“Again? You’re setting some kind of record here,” Satoru says, smirking. “Might have to make it a rule—no sleeping in the basement unless homework’s done first.”
Yuuji groans but smiles faintly. “I didn’t… I wasn’t tired…”
“Clearly,” Satoru murmurs. “Just… very committed to horizontal relaxation. Impressive.” He gestures to the cursed corpse. “Though I’m slightly concerned about your movie companion here. Shouldn’t it be paying attention?”
Yuuji laughs softly, brushing his neck. “I think we both lost interest.”
Satoru grins wider, lifting the dessert box and shaking it gently so the treats rattle. “Good news—dessert hasn’t escaped yet.” He sets it within reach.
Yuuji’s eyes light up. “…You brought dessert? Even after I—”
“Fell asleep twice?” Satoru interrupts, teasing. “Yeah, I’m generous like that.”
Yuuji groans, corner of his mouth twitching as he reaches for a cream bun. “Sensei… you’re ridiculous.”
“Me?” Satoru feigns offense. “Charmingly brilliant, more like.” He crouches slightly, watching Yuuji nibble slowly, savoring each bite. Alive. Safe. Present.
The basement hums quietly, warm and safe. Dessert half-eaten, cursed corpse content, and a student learning to balance focus and playfulness. Satoru leans back, arms crossed, grin still in place. Somehow, this is exactly the chaos he enjoys most.
Satoru knows that this is starting to get creepy but he can’t help it.
A part of him feels a sense of relief watching Yuuji sleep. Another part of Satoru is very aware of the dark brewing shadow that is longing to take advantage of Yuuji’s heavy sleeping habit. He’s tried multiple things to wake his student but he remained passed out. Satoru’s not sure if it should be a concern or perhaps it is Sukuna’s doing but either way, Satoru knows he shouldn’t be doing this but well, there’s no turning back now.
He’s pushed his luck before. A nose pinch. A gentle shake. A loud clap of his hands right beside Yuuji’s ear. Nothing. The kid sleeps like the dead—a thought that sends a bitter, uncomfortable twist through his gut, considering how recently that was almost literal.
Tonight, Yuuji is sprawled on the couch again, head thrown back against the cushions, mouth slightly open. The movie is off. The only light comes from the single bulb overhead, casting long shadows across the basement.
It’s too quiet.
Too intimate.
Satoru stands over him, the conflict warring inside him a familiar, unwelcome ache. He should just wake him up. Shake his shoulder and tell him to go to his own room. Or at least cover him with a blanket and leave like a normal, responsible teacher.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he crouches, his gaze fixed on Yuuji’s slack lips. An idea, dark and tempting, coils in his mind. He’s tested the boundaries of Yuuji's deep sleep before, but never like this. Slowly, deliberately, he raises his hand and brings his thumb to rest against Yuuji’s lower lip.
The skin is soft, warm.
Satoru pauses, heart thudding a little too fast in his chest, before pushing his thumb past his lips and into the wet heat of his mouth.
Yuuji doesn’t wake.
But his body reacts. His lips close automatically, a soft, reflexive suction sealing around Satoru’s thumb. A low groan escapes Satoru’s throat, raw and unchecked. The feeling is electric, a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure that shoots straight down his spine.
“Fuck,” he curses softly under his breath, the word barely audible in the still room. “You’re a natural cocksucker.”
The thought hits him with the force of a physical blow.
It makes a sick kind of sense, doesn’t it? A kid who could swallow Sukuna’s finger in one go, no hesitation, no gag reflex… of course his mouth would be this perfect. This welcoming.
Satoru's mind spirals, a dizzying, dangerous cascade of possibilities. How much could he get away with? Yuuji is completely passed out, trusting and vulnerable. The power is intoxicating, a drug he didn’t know he craved until this very moment. Satoru groans again, feeling the blood rush south, his pants suddenly uncomfortably tight. The urge to just… see. To test that theory with more than just his thumb.
He forces himself to pull his thumb free with a soft, wet pop.
The sight of Yuuji’s glistening lips, parted slightly again in sleep, almost breaks his resolve. He has to get up. He has to move.
Slowly, deliberately, Satoru brings the same thumb to his own lips. He sucks it into his mouth, his tongue curling around the digit to taste the lingering evidence of Yuuji. The taste is faint, clean, and uniquely Yuuji’s—a mix of sleep-warmth and something inherently sweet. It’s not enough. It’s a ghost of a taste, and it only makes the hunger sharper, more profound.
Stumbling back a step, Satoru runs a hand through his hair, his breath coming in ragged bursts.
He can’t do this.
He shouldn’t.
But the image is burned into his mind, the phantom feeling of Yuuji’s mouth still wrapped around his thumb. Satoru allows himself a couple of minutes, leaning against the cool concrete wall, eyes squeezed shut as he wills his erection away. He thinks of paperwork. Of boring meetings. Of the elders’ wrinkled, disapproving faces. Anything but the boy sleeping innocently on the couch. Finally, the heat recedes enough for him to think straight. He needs to wake Yuuji up. They need to eat the special katsudon that Yuuji made earlier which is probably cold by now. The dessert Satoru bought is also probably melting by now.
Satoru takes a deep, steadying breath and walks back to the couch.
But he doesn’t shake him awake.
Instead, he just stands there, looking down at him. The dark shadow inside him wins. The relief, the twisted desire, the sheer, overwhelming need—it’s all too much.
Satoru groans softly as he releases his cock from the confines of his pants. It’s already hard, flushed a dark, angry color and curving up toward his stomach. A thick, prominent vein snakes along the underside, pulsing with his frantic heartbeat. He swipes his thumb over the head, smearing the bead of pre-cum that’s gathered at the slit, making the slick skin gleam in the dim light. The chilly air of the basement causes a shiver up his spine, a stark contrast to the feverish heat of his skin. He strokes himself once, twice, his eyes locked on Yuuji’s peaceful face.
The sight is obscene and perfect all at once.
His student, alive and breathing, completely unaware that his teacher is standing over him, hard and aching.
He’s quiet, his movements economical and precise. The only sounds are the harsh rasp of his own breathing and the slick slide of his hand. It doesn’t take long. The sight, the risk, the memory of Yuuji’s mouth around his thumb—it’s a potent combination. Satoru's fist tightens, his strokes becoming shorter, faster. He bites down hard on his lower lip, the coppery tang of blood mingling with the taste of Yuuji that still lingers. He has to stifle the grunts building in his chest, the animal sounds of his pleasure, as he stares down at Yuuji’s slack, trusting face.
The sheer depravity of it, the absolute violation, sends him hurtling toward the edge.
With a choked gasp, he spills himself, hot and thick, all over Yuuji’s face. Pearly strands arc across his cheeks, his nose, his lips. A perfect, filthy painting. For a heart-stopping second, Yuuji twitches. His brow furrows, a soft noise escaping his throat. Satoru freezes, his own breath caught in his chest, every muscle tensed for the moment of discovery. But Yuuji just shifts slightly, turning his face into the couch cushion before settling back into deep, even sleep.
He remains asleep, oblivious, and thoroughly marked.
Satoru lets out a shaky breath, a mix of profound relief and a sick, exhilarating triumph. He looks at the mess he’s made, at the evidence of his depravity glistening on his student’s face.
And he knows he’s not done.
Leaning down, he uses his thumb to scoop a thick drop from Yuuji’s cheek. The boy doesn’t stir. Slowly, Satoru brings his thumb to Yuuji’s mouth, pushing it past those perfect lips. Just like before, Yuuji’s mouth reacts, sucking softly, cleaning the digit without ever waking. Satoru can feel his cock twitch, a renewed spark of interest, but he wills it down, focusing all his attention on the intimate, filthy act of feeding his cum to his sleeping student.
Satoru watches, mesmerized, as he feeds his own cum to his sleeping student. He scoops more, feeding it to him again and again, until Yuuji’s face is mostly clean and his lips are slick and shiny.
When he’s finished, Satoru tucks himself away, his hands surprisingly steady. He looks down at Yuuji, who now just looks like he’s been drooling in his sleep. The evidence is gone, swallowed down.
“Alright, Yuuji,” Satoru says, his voice a little rough. He clears his throat. “Time for dinner.”
He reaches out and finally, finally, shakes Yuuji’s shoulder.
The shake is firm, deliberate. “Yuuji. Wake up.”
For a moment, there’s nothing. Then a low groan rumbles in Yuuji’s chest, a sound of pure protest against the waking world. His eyelids flutter, heavy and slow, before finally cracking open. They’re hazy, unfocused, and blink once, twice, trying to make sense of the blurry shape leaning over him.
“Nngh… Sensei?” Yuuji’s voice is thick with sleep, a raspy, gravelly thing that sends another jolt straight through Satoru. He pushes himself up on his elbows, wincing as his joints protest the awkward position he’d been in. “What time is it?”
“Time you stopped using my couch as your personal hibernation pod,” Satoru says, his tone light and teasing, betraying absolutely nothing. He leans back, hands in his pockets, the picture of casual indifference. “You missed dinner. And dessert. It was a tragedy.”
Yuuji’s eyes widen, panic cutting through the fog of sleep. “What? No! The katsudon—”
“Is currently cold and congealed in the kitchen,” Satoru finishes for him, a smirk playing on his lips. “But I, being the magnanimous teacher I am, saved you some. And the pastries.”
Yuuji scrubs at his face with the back of his hand, a gesture so innocent it makes Satoru’s chest ache with something sharp and ugly. He smacks his lips, a faint, confused expression crossing his features. “Huh. My mouth feels… weird.”
Satoru’s heart gives a single, violent lurch. He forces a shrug, keeping his body language loose. “That’s what happens when you sleep with your mouth open. You drool, kid. It’s not a good look.”
“Oh.” Yuuji’s cheeks flush with embarrassment, and he wipes his mouth again, more insistently this time. “Sorry, sensei.”
“Don’t apologize to me, apologize to the couch cushions,” Satoru quips, turning away before Yuuji can look at him too closely. He needs to move, to break the tension thrumming under his skin. “Come on. Up. I’ll heat up your ‘super special’ katsudon. Try not to fall asleep while waiting.”
Yuuji groans but pushes himself into a sitting position, swinging his legs off the couch. He stretches, arms over his head, his back arching in a long, languid movement that pulls his shirt tight across his chest. Satoru watches from the corner of his eye, his mouth suddenly dry.
He did that. He marked that skin, claimed that mouth, and the boy has no idea.
“Coming, coming,” Yuuji mumbles, pushing himself to his feet. He stumbles slightly, still half-asleep, and Satoru’s hand shoots out to steady him, fingers wrapping around his bicep. The contact is electric. Yuuji’s skin is warm, firm with muscle. Satoru can feel the steady thrum of his cursed energy, calm and oblivious.
“Careful,” Satoru says, his voice a little lower than he intended. “Can’t have you breaking your neck before you finish your homework.” He releases him, the loss of contact leaving a cold space on his palm.
“Yeah, yeah,” Yuuji mutters, rubbing his eyes. “Thanks.”
They make their way up the stairs, Satoru leading the way. In the bright light of the kitchen, the dark fantasy of the basement feels like a dream, something distant and unreal. He busies himself with finding containers and a microwave, the mundane actions a welcome anchor to reality.
Yuuji slumps into a chair at the table, resting his head on his arms. “I can’t believe I fell asleep again,” he says, his voice muffled by his sleeve. “I was just… so tired.”
“You’re growing,” Satoru says, his back to him as he punches buttons on the microwave. The hum fills the silence. “Your body is catching up to all the cursed energy you’re burning. It’s normal.” The explanation is plausible. Logical. It’s also a complete lie to cover the fact that Yuuji sleeps like a rock for reasons Satoru can’t—and doesn’t want to—explain.
The microwave beeps, and Satoru places the steaming plate of katsudon and a plate of pastries on the table. “Eat up. You need the energy.”
Yuuji lifts his head, his eyes finally clearing as the aroma of food hits him. He digs in with his usual enthusiasm, and for a few minutes, the only sounds are the clink of the spoon against the container and Yuuji’s happy hums of appreciation.
Satoru doesn’t eat. He just watches.
He watches the way Yuuji’s lips close around the spoon, the way his tongue darts out to catch a stray drop of sauce. He remembers the sight of those same lips wrapped around his thumb, slick with his own cum. He remembers the way Yuuji had swallowed it down, instinctively, greedily.
A dark, possessive satisfaction curls in his gut. This is his secret. His and Yuuji’s, even if only one of them knows it.
“This is still good, even reheated!” Yuuji says around a mouthful of rice, grinning at him. “Thanks for saving it, sensei.”
“No problem,” Satoru says, his smile easy and practiced. “Anything for my favorite student.”
Yuuji rolls his eyes, but he’s pleased. Satoru can see it in the way his shoulders relax, the way his eyes light up. He’s so open, so trusting. It would be so easy to break him.
The thought is followed by another, more chilling one: He doesn’t want to break him. He wants to keep him. Just like this.
Yuuji finishes the katsudon and moves on to the pastries, demolishing them with the same single-minded focus. Satoru leans back in his chair, crossing his arms, content to just watch the show.
When the last crumb is gone, Yuuji leans back with a satisfied sigh. “Okay. I’m alive again. What’s next? More training?”
Satoru considers it. He could push him. Test that new control, see how far he can go. But the thought of returning to the basement, of being alone with Yuuji in that quiet, intimate space again, is too tempting.
“Nah,” Satoru says, pushing his chair back and standing up. “You’ve done enough for one day. You’re still recovering from being dead, you know. Take it easy.”
Yuuji looks surprised, but relieved. “Really? Just… go to bed?”
“Go to bed,” Satoru confirms. “But,” he adds, a glint in his eye, “try to make it to your actual room this time. I’m charging rent if you keep using the couch.”
Yuuji laughs, a bright, easy sound that chases away some of the shadows in the kitchen. “Got it, sensei. No more basement naps.”
As Yuuji heads off down the basement toward his room, Satoru remains standing at the top of the stairs. The silence that follows is heavy, charged.
He knows he’s crossed a line. A line he can never uncross. And as he thinks about Yuuji sleeping just a floor below, completely unaware, he knows with absolute certainty that it won’t be the last time.
Satoru and Yuuji are having what should be a normal day.
They sit at the small basement table, empty bowls pushed aside after lunch. Yuuji talks animatedly, hands moving as he describes the latest movies he’s been watching. Satoru listens—or pretends to—but his attention drifts.
Specifically, to Yuuji’s mouth.
It’s not intentional. It just… happens. Yuuji talks with so much expression that Satoru keeps catching the curve of his lips, the way they move when he laughs, the subtle purse when he’s thinking, the corners tugging upward before he grins. He clears his throat and forces himself to look away.
“Megumi's doing fine,” Satoru says, picking up the thread of his update. “Still broody. Still acting like he’s not.”
Yuuji snorts. “That sounds like him.”
“And Nobara? Same as always." Satoru complains, shaking his head fondly. "She threatened to hit me with her hammer when I suggested she take a break.”
Yuuji laughs, warm and soft. “Yeah… that’s exactly her.”
“They’re both doing well,” Satoru adds, leaning back. “Training hard. Getting stronger.”
Yuuji’s smile falters just slightly—enough for Satoru to notice. “I’m glad,” he says quietly. “I… I hope they’re okay.”
“They are,” Satoru assures him. “And you’ll see them again. When you’re ready.”
Yuuji nods, eyes dropping to the table. Satoru watches him a moment, then stretches and changes the subject.
“You know,” he says casually, leaning forward slightly, “you don’t have to stay down here all the time. You can come upstairs whenever you want. Stretch your legs. Explore a little. The basement must get boring.”
Yuuji freezes mid-gesture, jaw dropping slightly, eyes wide. “Eh, really? I can check out your room too, sensei?”
Satoru laughs, the sound spilling off the basement walls. “Sure… but are you looking for something in particular?”
Yuuji grins, mischief practically sparking from his eyes. “Maybe… something scandalous?”
Satoru groans dramatically. “Yuuji-kun! Sensei is not hiding anything scandalous!”
Yuuji grins, mischief practically sparking from his eyes. “Maybe you’re hiding some… adult magazines or something.”
“Yuuji-kun!" Satoru gasps dramatically, hand flying to his chest. "Sensei is not that kind of person!”
The pink-haired boy raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
“I’m serious!” Satoru insists. “I’m a respectable adult.”
“Uh-huh.”
“A role model.”
“Mm-hm.”
“A pillar of moral integrity.”
Yuuji snickers, hopping off the couch with a bounce in his step. Shoulders relaxed, head high, he moves toward the stairs with the energy of someone given permission to roam free. Even in small movements, he radiates life and mischief.
Satoru watches him go, a quiet warmth settling in his chest. The basement feels emptier now, the silence softened by the fading echoes of Yuuji’s laughter. There’s no discomfort—just anticipation. Yuuji will poke around, maybe stumble into little trouble, and Satoru will be there to find him, as always.
He glances at the box of desserts still sitting on the small table, untouched. The faint scent of sugar and butter drifts from it, mingling with the warm, dusty air of the basement.
A couple of days have passed since Satoru gave Yuuji permission to explore the upstairs. The novelty seems to have worn off for Yuuji, but for Satoru, the quiet knowledge that Yuuji was wandering through his personal space has lingered, a low hum of anticipation beneath his skin.
Today, the anticipation is gone, replaced by a sharp, fraying irritation.
He teleports into the entryway of his house with a crack of displaced air, the scent of the city clinging to him like a second skin. The meeting had been a disaster. The elders, as usual, had droned on about protocol and risk, their words a dull, grating noise against his nerves. He’d spent three hours smiling and nodding while fantasizing about turning the entire polished table into dust.
Shrugging off his jacket, he lets it fall carelessly over a chair. His fingers go to the back of his head, tugging at the knot of his blindfold. The fabric comes away with a sigh, and he blinks, his six eyes adjusting to the familiar dim light of his home. The relief is immediate, a loosening of the tension coiled in his shoulders.
He takes a step toward his bedroom, intent on a shower and something strong to drink, and then he pauses.
A presence.
Faint, but unmistakable. Cursed energy, calm and steady, radiating from his room.
Satoru’s body goes still, every nerve ending suddenly alert. He knows that signature. He’s been studying it for weeks.
He moves silently, a predator stalking through his own territory, and peeks through the open doorway of his bedroom.
And his breath catches.
Yuuji is asleep in his bed.
Not just in his bed, but in it. Curled up on his side, one arm wrapped possessively around Satoru’s pillow, his face buried against the fabric. He’s wearing a soft, worn t-shirt and a pair of loose sweatpants that hang low on his hips. The afternoon light filters through the blinds, striping his body in alternating bars of gold and shadow. He looks peaceful, warm, and so deeply, fundamentally there that a wave of something fierce and possessive crashes over Satoru.
This is different.
The basement was one thing—a neutral space, a temporary holding cell. But this is his room. His bed. His sanctuary. And Yuuji has claimed it without a second thought.
A slow smile spreads across Satoru’s face. He should be angry. Annoyed. Instead, he’s… pleased. Deeply, darkly pleased.
He steps inside, his movements deliberately loud.
“Yuuji.”
Nothing. The boy just buries his face deeper into the pillow with a soft sigh. Satoru walks to the edge of the bed, his gaze sweeping over the curve of Yuuji’s spine, the vulnerable expanse of his neck. He reaches out, his fingers hovering just above Yuuji’s shoulder.
“Yuuji-kun. You’re in my spot.”
Still nothing. The steady, even rhythm of his breathing doesn’t falter.
Satoru’s smile widens, a predatory glint in his brilliant eyes. He leans down, his voice a low, dangerous murmur right next to Yuuji’s ear. “I’m going to keep touching you. And if you don’t tell me to stop, I’m going to assume you want me to.”
He lets his hand finally make contact, resting on the warm sliver of skin between Yuuji’s t-shirt and the waistband of his pants. The boy twitches, a tiny, almost imperceptible shudder, but his breathing remains even.
For all those movies he's been watching, Yuuji is a terrible actor.
Satoru’s fingers trail up, slipping under the hem of his shirt. The skin is hot, smooth. He follows the line of Yuuji’s side, up to his chest, until his fingertips brush against a small, pebbled nipple.
Yuuji’s breath hitches for a fraction of a second before smoothing out again.
“Oh, you’re good,” Satoru whispers, genuinely impressed.
He pushes the shirt up further, rucking it under Yuuji’s armpits, exposing his chest to the cool air. The pink buds tighten instantly. Satoru leans down, his mouth watering. The older man takes one into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the nub before sucking gently. A soft, breathy moan escapes Yuuji’s lips, muffled by the pillow. It’s not the sound of someone asleep. It’s the sound of someone trying, and failing, to hold back. Satoru releases him with a wet pop, his thumb and forefinger moving to pinch the other nipple, rolling it between his fingers. He watches Yuuji’s face, the way his brow furrows, the way his lips part slightly.
He’s enjoying this.
The little liar.
Satoru moves upward, his mouth tracing a path along Yuuji’s neck. He latches onto the sensitive skin just above his collarbone, sucking hard, intent on leaving a mark. A brand. Yuuji whines, a high, desperate sound, his hips shifting restlessly against the mattress.
Satoru pulls back, admiring the dark purple bloom forming on Yuuji’s skin. He smirks, then leans up to cup Yuuji’s face, turning it toward him. The boy’s cheeks are flushed a beautiful, damning shade of red.
“Yuuji-kun,” Satoru says, his voice laced with dark amusement. “Are you going to keep pretending to be asleep?”
Yuuji’s entire face scrunches up in a moment of pure, agonized indecision before he slowly, reluctantly, peels his eyes open. They’re hazy with sleep and lust, but they’re undeniably awake. And they are the most beautiful, bright brown eyes Satoru has ever seen.
“Sensei…” The name is a breath, a confession.
“Do you want me to stop, Yuuji-kun?” Satoru asks, his thumb stroking gently over his cheekbone.
It takes Yuuji a second, his gaze darting around Satoru’s face as if searching for an answer he already knows. Finally, he gives a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head.
“Naughty boy,” Satoru purrs, and pinches his nipple, hard.
Yuuji cries out, his back arching, a perfect, beautiful arc of surrender. “I wasn’t trying to tempt sensei,” he gasps out, the protest weak and unconvincing.
“Liar,” Satoru whispers, his other hand sliding down, hooking into the waistband of Yuuji’s sweatpants. He pulls, and the pink-haired boy helps, lifting his hips with a soft whimper, allowing Satoru to strip him completely bare.
He’s gorgeous.
All muscle and sun-kissed skin, his cock hard and flushed against his stomach, leaking onto his own skin.
A virgin.
The knowledge is a heady rush, a sacred trust that Satoru is about to desecrate in the most glorious way possible. He spreads Yuuji’s legs, settling between them. Satoru leans down, not wasting a second before taking the head of Yuuji's pretty little cock into his mouth. The boy cries out, his hips jerking violently, but Satoru is prepared. He pins Yuuji's hips to the mattress with his forearms, holding him down with an unyielding strength.
He swallows him down, his throat constricting around the sensitive head, and Yuuji sobs.
"S-sensei! Too much!" he whimpers, his hands fisting in the sheets.
Satoru just hums around him, the vibration sending another jolt of pleasure through the boy's body. He bobs his head, taking him deeper with each pass, his tongue working the thick vein on the underside. He can feel Yuuji's thighs trembling, his entire body coiling tight like a spring. He's so close. Satoru sucks harder, his cheeks hollowing, demanding his release.
With a broken sob, Yuuji cums.
His cock pulses, spilling hot and thick down Satoru's throat. The older man greedily swallows every drop, milking him through his orgasm until Yuuji is whimpering from oversensitivity, trying to squirm away from the overwhelming stimulation. Only then does Satoru pull off, but not before giving the flushed, sensitive tip one last, hard suck.
Yuuji sobs, his body arching off the bed.
Satoru presses a soft, almost reverent kiss to the side of his softening cock before leaning back to admire his handiwork. Yuuji's face is a mess of tears and bliss, his lips parted as he gasps for air. He looks utterly wrecked, and they've only just begun. Satoru brings his fingers to his mouth, licking them until they're slick with saliva.
"Still with me, Yuuji-kun?" he asks, his voice a low, soothing rumble.
Yuuji nods weakly, his eyes hazy. "Y-yes."
"Do you still want to continue?"
A beat of silence, then a shaky, determined nod. "Yes. Please, sensei."
"Good boy."
Satoru traces the tight furl of Yuuji's asshole, circling it before slowly pressing one finger inside. The boy gasps at the intrusion, his body tensing. Satoru is patient, working him open gently, scissoring his finger until the muscle relaxes. He adds a second finger, then a third, stretching him until he can take all three with only a soft whimper. Occasionally, he leans down to press a kiss to Yuuji's cock, which is already showing interest, slowly filling with blood and getting hard again. He groans at the sharp, sudden pain on his back as Yuuji's nails dig into his skin, a testament to the overwhelming sensations.
He curls his fingers, finding that spot inside that makes Yuuji cry out.
Satoru strokes it relentlessly, his other hand wrapping around Yuuji's now-hard cock to stroke him in time.
It doesn't take long.
With a choked moan, Yuuji cums again, this time all over Satoru's fingers, his body shaking with the force of it.
Satoru kneels back, admiring the sight.
Yuuji is spread out before him, panting and covered in his own release. He finally releases his own cock, and it springs free, angry and throbbing, the head already beading with pre-cum. He's so hard it hurts.
"You're such a naughty boy, Yuuji-kun," Satoru murmurs, stroking himself slowly.
"Isn't it sensei that's naughty?" Yuuji rips back, his voice hoarse but defiant. He shudders when he feels the head of Satoru's cock pressing against his hole.
"I guess," Satoru concedes with a low chuckle. "But sensei can't help it. You were just begging to be ruined," he points out, leaning down to kiss Yuuji's cheek before biting down on the soft flesh until he hears the boy whimper.
He starts to add more pressure, his hips rolling slowly until the head of his cock breaches Yuuji's entrance. His student gasps loudly, his eyes flying open. Satoru knows he’s pretty big, no doubt the first pressure—the stretch is a burning, stinging pain. Satoru peppers kisses all over Yuuji's face, murmuring nonsense words of encouragement before capturing his lips in a possessive kiss. Then, with one smooth, brutal thrust, he bullies the rest of his big, hard, long cock into Yuuji's body.
Yuuji screams into his mouth, his body arching as he's split open.
Satoru doesn't give him time to adjust. He sets a punishing pace, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, each thrust hitting that spot deep inside that makes Yuuji see stars.
"Look at you," Satoru taunts, his voice strained with effort. "Taking it so well. You love this, don't you? Love being ruined by your sensei."
"No," Yuuji sobs, shaking his head, but his body betrays him. His legs wrap around Satoru's waist, pulling him deeper.
"Liar," Satoru growls, reaching between them to wrap his hand around Yuuji's cock, stroking him in time with his brutal thrusts. "Beg for it, Yuuji. Beg me to fill you up."
"Please," Yuuji chokes out, the word torn from his throat. "Please, sensei… harder… don't stop…"
That's all he needs. He drives into Yuuji with renewed force, the headboard slamming against the wall. The pain is blurring into a white-hot pleasure, a current running through his veins that's too intense to process. He's being used, claimed, and the humiliation of it, of loving it, is what finally shatters him.
"Come on, Yuuji," Satoru commands. "Come for me. Let me see you."
With a strangled cry, Yuuji's body seizes. His back bows off the bed as his orgasm tears through him, more intense than anything he's ever felt. A clear liquid spurts from his cock, soaking them both, his vision whiting out. The clenching of his body around Satoru's cock is all it takes. Satoru buries himself deep with a guttural groan, his own release flooding Yuuji's insides, a scorching, possessive heat.
For a moment, the only sound is their ragged, gasping breaths.
Satoru collapses, his full weight pinning Yuuji to the mattress, his face buried in the crook of his neck. He can feel the frantic flutter of Yuuji's pulse against his lips.
Slowly, he pushes himself up, his arms trembling slightly.
He looks down at the boy beneath him. Yuuji is a mess. His face is tear-streaked and flushed, his lips swollen, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Dark purple bruises bloom on his neck and chest, and his own cum is cooling on his stomach.
He’s utterly ruined.
And he’s beautiful.
Satoru’s eyes, all six of them, glow with a terrifying, possessive light. He leans down, not to kiss him, but to press his forehead against Yuuji’s, a gesture that feels more intimate and claiming than anything else they’ve just done.
“Mine,” he whispers, the word a vow, a verdict.
Yuuji just whimpers, too exhausted and overwhelmed to form words. He turns his head, his lips brushing against Satoru’s jaw in a gesture of pure, unthinking surrender.
Satoru pulls out slowly, and Yuuji hisses at the empty, aching feeling left behind. He watches as a trickle of his own cum leaks from Yuuji's well-fucked hole. An idea, possessive and depraved, strikes him. Before it can escape, he uses two fingers to scoop the pearly fluid up, shoving it back inside Yuuji's sensitive asshole. He likes the idea of stuffing him full, of marking him from the inside out.
Yuuji whimpers at the overstimulation, but doesn't pull away. Satoru watches him for a moment longer before getting up, unconcerned with his own nakedness, and disappears into the adjoining bathroom. He returns a moment later with a warm, damp cloth.
The gentleness is a shock.
Satoru kneels on the bed and carefully, meticulously, wipes Yuuji clean. He’s thorough, his touch surprisingly tender as he cleans the mess from Yuuji’s stomach and thighs. He tosses the cloth aside, then pulls the blanket over Yuuji’s trembling form, tucking it around him.
Yuuji watches him through heavy-lidded eyes, his mind struggling to catch up. The pain is fading into a dull, pleasant soreness.
He feels… safe. Cared for.
It’s a terrifying contradiction to the brutal way he was just taken.
“Sensei…” he whispers, his voice hoarse.
Satoru sits on the edge of the bed, his back to him. “Go to sleep, Yuuji.”
“But—”
“Sleep,” Satoru says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
Yuuji wants to ask what there is to talk about. He wants to know what this means, if he’s just a warm body in Satoru’s bed, a convenient outlet for a dark mood. But the exhaustion is a physical weight, pulling him down. His eyes drift shut, and the last thing he registers is the feeling of Satoru’s hand resting on his hip, a heavy, grounding weight that feels an awful lot like a brand.
Satoru sits there long after Yuuji’s breathing evens out, long after the sun dips below the horizon and the room is plunged into darkness.
He doesn’t move.
Satoru just listens to the sound of the boy sleeping in his bed.
The line hasn’t just been crossed. It’s been obliterated, erased from existence. And as the possessive satisfaction settles deep in his bones, Satoru knows with chilling certainty that this is only the beginning. Yuuji came into his room looking for sanctuary.
Instead, he’d found his keeper.
Satoru had absolutely no intention of ever letting him go.