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“Desire is the kind of thing that eats you and leaves you starving.”
–Nayyirah Waheed
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Fucking and fighting weren’t so terribly different if you thought about it.
Especially in the context of ‘having a conversation’ that Umemiya was so bent on drilling into your fucking skull.
“Looks like you had a good conversation,” the white haired captain had said the day that Sakura had finally made it off the stage after going toe-to-motherfucking-toe with the vice captain of Choji’s squad — Jo Togame.
Truth be told, Sakura didn’t remember most of it; he wouldn’t have been surprised if he was, perhaps, ever so slightly concussed.
But that didn’t matter.
The thrill — the high — was something he fucking loved.
Something that Sakura knows he’d chase to the ends of the goddamned earth.
Inherently, Sakura Haruka was a soldier — he fights where he’s told to and wins each and every single fucking time.
There was scarcely anything that compared to the satisfaction of sinking his fucking fist into some stupid fuckstick that dared to try and cross him on a good day, let alone a day where he’s fucking suffering like the rest of humanity.
No amount of Kotoha’s omurice could satiate the thrill of it; the raw, visceral glee of crunching bones and snapping ligaments giving way beneath the force of his fist as if Sakura were a god amongst mere mortals.
Maybe he was.
After all, nothing had stopped him before.
And nothing would stop him now.
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“What the fuck.”
It doesn't matter how long Sakura stares at the screen, the information displayed is going to continue to blur together.
God, it was a fucking mistake to show Umemiya what the fuck Discord was — a sick fucking joke on cosmic fucking level to give their captain another way to yap unnecessarily about things that don't pertain to fighting.
It's been hours, and he still isn't any closer to finding a way to relax and get the sleep he needs before tomorrow's stupid bullshit thing Umemiya said to get ready for.
Sakura's eyes are glazed over, pools of molten gold leaf and silversteel storms that can barely keep track of all the messages that are flying by as the Furin chat goes fucking crazy.
nireidetic: so like am i also supposed to be there
nireidetic: tmrw i mean
leonardo (allegedly): of course, nirei-kun.
sakura: what are we doing
ume-chaaaaaaan: leave it to suo to be conscious of his grammar even in the chat 🤠
kiry-uwu: we shouldn't make fun of him for that
taigahdayum: he exercises the mind like he does his body 💪
ume-chaaaaaan: i wasnt!
ume-chaaaaaan: making fun of him i mean
leonardo (allegedly): of course, you weren't 😌
taigahdayum: aye! nice shot @kiry-uwu
taigahdayum: youre so good at this game!!
taigahdayum: its so fucking manly 🙂
sakura: is anyone going to answer me
sakura: ???
sugi-chan: umemiya taicho was not making fun of him
kiry-uwu: no @sakura
kiry-uwu: 😚😚😚
“Seriously, what the actual fuck.”
His big, stupid leader didn't even tell him what he's getting them into.
What even is the thing?
He doesn't want to do “a thing.”
Things sound terrible, if he was being honest.
(And Sakura only ever likes to be honest when he's alone, with no one else to bear witness to whatever mortifying reaction slips past his carefully created tsundere facade.)
Sakura doesn't even know how to get ready because Umemiya didn't tell him that, either.
He scowls in annoyance, crossing his arms over his chest as he stares sullenly at the chat that continues despite the fact that quite a few of the boys were also playing a game together.
Some sharp shooter game that Kiryu had recommended — and, as he's rarely ever one to deny a golden opportunity to build team character, Umemiya had mandated that they all hop on the server to chat and play.
The white haired fucker wasn't even good at the game.
(Sakura was also, woefully, not good at the game, much to Kiryu's and Nirei's endless delight.)
“Aw man, I just died again,” Umemiya's voice crackles to life in the wireless earbud that Sakura wears.
“You weren't even trying to hide,” Suo's cadance can be heard in the game lobby, endlessly blasè and airy, “it's to be expected.”
“Can someone fucking answer me,” Sakura snarls, knowing that his words were heard — as had the rest of his foul mouthed comments when he'd been killed six times in a row.
“Answer you?” Umemiya huffs out a dry laugh, and there's the distinct rustle of a plastic bag that can be heard above the din of the quick fast ‘rrra ta ta’ of someone's gun in the game as the captain of Furin High continues, “what are ya wanting the answers for —?”
“SQUELCH.”
“SLURRRRRRP.”
Sakura doesn't think he's ever moved so fucking fast to rip the headphone out of his ear with an appalled squawk.
“What — and I can't stress this enough??? — the FUCK was that??”
Suo is the one who answers him in the chat when it was clear that Sakura had damn near thrown his headphone clear across his room like it'd committed a heinous fucking crime against him.
leonardo (allegedly): ume taicho is eating one of the tomatoes he grew on the rooftop.
leonardo (allegedly): they're in season ☺️
Warmth prickles at the base of his spine at the immediate mental replay he had at the sloppy wet sound of Umemiya biting into his stupid fucking tomato and he suddenly finds his thoughts assaulted by memories of the last time he jacked off and the kind of porn he watched to get himself through it.
The first word that flashes through his mind is: “ASS EATING” followed by “FROTTAGE” and he's ready to kill himself.
He leans back, bouncing a little as he yanks some papers from the desk to fan himself with an annoyed sigh when an unusual thought comes to him — something vile and delicious that massages the folds in his brain until he's almost slicked through his boxers with the surge of warm pre-cum and he's even more pissed off than before.
…and maybe just a little more turned on, too.
And maybe he doesn't have words for what he's thinking about, this feeling that's pulling his attention in so many directions at once. All he has are wisps of thought, all his senses activating to shape the void where all his unnamed emotions go.
Maybe it's okay to welcome the way his body tingles when he imagines the way it would feel to touch someone — to let someone touch him.
Maybe it's okay to want that.
Even if he didn't have someone to do that with.
He doesn't have any toys and hasn't ever considered jerking off as anything more than a biological impulse when he'd rather be burying his fists into whatever dumbass decided to cross him on a good day let alone a bad one.
The truth is, he feels a little lost in the moment; following his innermost thoughts across a minefield of his own desires hidden so close to the surface of his psyche that they’d shimmer like little half buried gems if he ever let the light in.
He's a bit sluggish getting up from his chair, wobbling thanks to his sudden, all consuming desire and rapidly growing hard-on as he kicks off his clothes and leaves them strewn across the floor on his way to his bed.
Sakura is already rock fucking hard by the time he tumbles into his cool sheets but the temperature only makes his breath catch in his throat for a second before it melts into a pleased hum.
His body is starting to simmer as he goes through the mechanical motions of grabbing the lotion he keeps on his nightstand, squirting two pumps of it into his sweat slick palm before he brings it up to his frenulum.
The sensation sparks, sending crackling pleasure so far down his dick he can feel when it hits the place deep in his guts and makes them coil tighter.
Just a cursory touch, and he's already shaking as he takes a firmer grip on himself like he's wrangling a fucking cobra — it occurs to him that he's been ignoring his needs for maybe a little bit too long.
Sakura strokes himself from base to tip, the motion drawing out a rattling growl at the sensitivity that scrapes against his raw edged nerves like a fucking live wire — it was simultaneously too much and not enough at the same fucking time.
He tries again — a softer touch, this time, his index finger sliding along the glans beneath his leaking cock head, already swollen and a blisteringly shade of carnelian red.
A tantalizing flush spreads across his cheeks, bleeding crimson rivers down the length of his pale neck, his breath stuttering in that place where his traitorous bloody fucking heart pounded a death toll beat that was echoed in the pulse of his stupid fucking dick.
It felt good —
But it just didn't feel right.
Over and over again, Sakura tried every goddamn method that he could think of; hard, fast strokes that nearly claws a scream from his throat to a firmer, more purposeful rhythm that has a staccato growl thrashing in the bottom of his chest.
Even the feeling of his own skin is almost overwhelming, leaving him panting hard and stopping again every time he begins to find a method.
“F U C K!”
Sakura snaps in frustration, reaching blindly for a pillow as he furiously sinks his fist into it, frustration putting him more on a razor’s edge than before — dread weighing heavily in his guts even as a blade seems to slide itself between the bars of his ribs, twisting hard and nicking the bone.
He hates this.
Except now he's angry. It's familiar territory, at least.
It's not like he's afraid, but at this rate, Sakura knows for a goddamn fact that he could have more fun out in the streets, finding some fuckstick from a rival gang to pummel — it's not happening.
What'd he say to Sugishita that first day?
His grin is feline as he falls effortlessly into a back-bend, “Hnn, swing and a miss.”
Yeah, that.
This feels like what that probably felt like for his opponent. He half growls, half whines as he twists his body and flops carefully onto his stomach, keeping a hip cocked up to avoid squishing his dick as he snatches his pillow close enough to shove his face into it and scream.
Suo is always going on about his breathing and how much better he could be if he bothered to control it instead of gasping his way through his fights like a brute.
If it worked for fighting, it'd work for this.
…right?
So he rolls again, ready to commit to the exercise whole heartedly when his cock actually wobbles side to side and he realizes he's still harder than steel — there's nobody here to witness his shame but the cliffs are still calling his name and he’s damn near ready to ride a motorcycle right over the edge.
The shame should be enough to kill a boner but it just makes him harder.
“Fuck you, go away!” He shouts at his crotch, rips the pillow away from his face and shoves it down over his erection like he means to smother it to death.
…And fuuuuck, that feels so fucking good.
It shouldn't be so stimulating but it is.
A broken sound slithers out past his gritted teeth like he was trying to silence the sizzling snap of pleasure at the rough-soft glide of his cheap-as-shit cotton sheets against his dick.
Sakura lays there for a second, taking stock of his body — after all, his body wasn’t one to fucking lie to him, right? — before he tentatively presses his palm over the top of his pillow, the pressure forcing the lotion-slick skin of his cock to grind against his pillowcase again.
Oh.
This —
This was just fucking right.
Sakura rolls himself back over, straddling the width of his pillow with strong thighs, the heavy, heated length of his cock nestling into the valley that the seam line of his pillowcase inadvertently creates, making his dick on the pillow look like the most obscene version of a fucking hotdog that he thinks he’s ever seen in his fucking life.
He starts to move, the drag of the fabric feeling good but not good enough.
Something in the very back of his feral hindbrain whispers for him to adjust his position, shaky hands grabbing his pillow and folding it in half before he’s guiding his leaking cock into the cool cotton depths of the makeshift hole.
The first thrust has a stuttering growl ecking from his throat — fuuuck, yes.
This is what he needed.
It wasn’t perfect by any means, but all he needed was a way to get him over this fucking edge and then he’d be good.
His fingers are stiff, practically curling into talons as he grips the pillow, trying to mimic the angle he’s seen in too many porn videos to count, anchoring the folded pillow with his knees as he fucks into it like he’s trying to fuck someone into his bed.
The makeshift fuckhole wasn’t warm or wet but Sakura could let his mind wander freely now that he had something that was hopefully enough to get him to cum and forget this fucking nightmare of a session that started all because of a fucking tomato.
In his mind, Sakura can’t stop the involuntary way he recalls the soft, squelching sound of Umemiya sinking his teeth into the juicy flesh of his dumb red fruit, a shudder skating along his spine, plinking against each vertebrae like the individual beads in a rain stick.
Red…
Of course, it’s easy for Sakura to imagine a pair of glossy red lips wrapped around his cock in the imitation of something that surely every guy has fantasized at some point or another, regardless of who the lips belonged to or what gender the individual was, but it’s the fact that the idea of red lips wasn’t the first thing he thinks of.
But rather, it was a red eye.
Red like blood rubies — like the sparkling gems that hang from a certain someone’s ears, fluttering yellow tassels drifting in a phantom breeze and the ghost of a soft, secretive smile.
There’s something that snakes through his too-hot veins that feels uncomfortably like guilt when the idea of Suo Hayato has Sakura gritting another foul mouthed curse into the stifling silence of his bedroom.
Images flicker through his thoughts —
Suo, writhing beneath him, fuck-flushed and whimpering with tears pooling in the corner of his eye — lustrous like a moonlit pearl.
Suo, snarling at him and holding his chin firm in his soft fingers, daring him to bite again — commanding his tongue when Sakura wants teeth.
That particular idea has Sakura gritting out a low, tortured groan — what gay-as-shit, fresh hell awakening is this?
But still, the panic isn’t enough to deter his thoughts.
“Somehow I always knew, ” Suo purred in his head, stroking his tongue along the roof of Sakura's mouth, “and always wanted…”
Would he taste as good as he smells?
Would his flavor be dark? Like moonless nights and firewood?
Like freedom?
Or would it be brighter? Orange blossoms, maybe — or spicy like ginger?
Would he fall apart on Sakura's tongue or would he need his hands too? His mouth? His dick?
What buried, treasured secrets could that melodic, haunting voice pull through Sakura's lips?
The squelch of Suo's body accepting him, taking him deep enough to burn both of them as Sakura hikes up the other boy's leg to amplify the sound, “Goddamn you're wet, listen to this nasty shit.”
He doesn’t know how long this goes on for —
Fucking these fractals of an alternate reality into the shame laden fabric of his pillowcase, his rhythm faltering so many times, a stuttering gasp tearing itself free just when he thinks he’s about to cum.
Sakura’s breathing is ragged when he comes to the unfortunate realization that this wouldn’t be enough for him.
Holy fuck, at this point he just wants to give up — dive headfirst into an ice cold shower if it meant this self-imposed torture could just fucking end.
He’s been edging himself for what has to be the better part of an hour, a fleeting glance to his computer screen to check the time was all he needed to see that it looked like the game lobby had just about been emptied — the other Furin boys likely finding something else to do with their time than get their asses handed to them by a pink haired twink and a know-it-all blonde.
Trying to find a porn video this late into the act seems laughable, but Sakura just needs something to get him over the edge —
Was — surely audio porn was a thing, right?
Porn ASMR — or maybe he could quickly look up one of those one-time pay-per-minute phone sex services just so he could listen to something…
“Y’know, Suo-kun is good with his voice” Nirei had said offhandedly on one of Sakura’s first official days at the school, referencing the notebook he used to write every manner of characteristic and mannerism about every single Furin boy that attended the school itself, “like, really good with it — everyone knows that.”
Sakura doesn’t know what makes him do it, but he lunges for his phone that was innocently charging near the edge of his bed, clammy fingers fumbling to unlock the device before he’s calling a number that he doesn’t think he’s ever called before in his life, a blush running scarlet ribbons across the high planes of his cheekbones.
“Sakura-kun?”
The voice is low and smooth — languid honey over sun-warmed silk.
“S-suo Hayato —” Sakura feels the way his hips involuntarily jerk into the pillow, “...need’ya to talk.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other line before — “what would you like me to talk about, Sakura-kun?”
“Anything,” Sakura rasps out, his tongue feeling too thick and cumbersome in his mouth.
“Doesn’t fuckin’ matter,” His words are coming out in a breathless rush and Sakura prays to any deity that’ll fucking listen to him that Suo can’t hear the desperation that bellies his voice, “just, please… please, just talk.”
“Sakura-kun,” There’s concern in the dulcet notes of his voice, “is everything okay —?”
“Suo Hayato,” Sakura can't stop the broken snarl that surges up his throat, “please — just fucking talk to me.”
Another weighty silence comes in from the other end before there’s a soft breath of resignation, “will poetry work —”
“Yes,” Sakura huffs, his hips finding a rhythm that works for him, guided by the soft-spoken words of the changshan wearing student, “yes, that’ll w-work…”
Suo clears his throat, seemingly taking another second to collect his thoughts before he begins, “you are shaking fists and trembling teeth —”
“I know that,” Sakura spits out, rutting into his pillow with a gunshot-sharp motion that tears an anguished groan from his throat.
“You did not mean to be cruel,” Suo continues on the phone, and there’s something that sounds like indulgent laughter hidden in the facets of his voice like he knows what Sakura is up to now, “but that does not mean you were kind.”
“Yea, I know m’not a nice fucking bastard,” Sakura pants, frantically thrusting into the makeshift hole and humping it like he could fuck it into submission or something, “S-suo, please, fuck — I c-can’t — need’ta just get there —!”
“Get where, Sakura-kun?”
There’s something distinct in Suo’s voice now; something deeper, darker than black and glancing off a feral edge that eclipses Sakura’s horny haze just right.
He feels even darker, like black candle wax dripping from the iron sconce onto the limestone floors, pooling in the grout lines the way his sweat slicks every crease — every place where his skin is still soft as baby fine silk.
“You f-fuckin’ know, bastard,” Sakura growls, vicious and all consuming with how fucking close he is.
“Tell me, Sakura-kun, hm?” Suo’s tone is dipping lower — sweeter, somehow — “let’s be honest between us, yea?”
Embarrassment flares like a white-hot brand under his skin but Sakura can’t find it in himself to fight this any longer, “n-need you to talk t’me…please, need yer help to f-finish, Suo.”
“Finish what, Sakura-kun?” Suo’s words are teasing, airy despite the underlying taunt, “be a good boy, Sakura-kun ~”
Something about being called a ‘good boy’ has Sakura moaning unabashedly to his bedroom ceiling like he was offering a confessional, “oh, f-fuuuuck —”
“Wrap your fingers tighter, yea? Let me hear you, sweetheart.”
Holy fuck, Nirei had been so fucking right with how good Suo motherfucking Hayato was with his voice.
“M’not using —” Sakura jams his phone between his ear and shoulder, bending over the folded pillow and kneading his palms into the plush filling as he huffs out the rest of his words, “n-not using m’hands…”
“Tighter, Sakura-kun,” Suo doesn’t skip a beat, seemingly uncaring what Sakura was using to find his means of an ending, “let me hear how honest you can be.”
“Fuck, f u c k, Suo — I’m s-so close, holy s-shiii —”
There’s a distinct wet spot that seems to have appeared from the copious amounts of pre-cum that has seeped into his pillow like secret sins swallowed whole and Sakura angles his hips, fucking into the pillow and hitting that dampened little patch again and again and again.
“Give it to me, Sakura-kun,” Suo’s command is absolute, leaving Sakura no choice but to obey.
He is outside himself and utterly feral, grinding in harsh accompaniment to his pulse — he touches the universe, bare fingertips brushing against it tucked deep behind his ribs where it calls to him; Suo.
He implodes first, all the sensation in his body pulling downward into his guts and then he shatters — a supernova crashing through the velvet dark.
“Holy shit,” Sakura groans, then laughs, “holy shit.”
He wants to collapse, right here and now.
Fuck tomorrow.
He's feeling floaty and pleasantly tingly.
…And maybe a little bit fucked on a cosmic scale, considering he knows he's never going to be able to cum like that again without Suo.
Cuntmuffin.
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Clear across the town of Makochi, in a small, cozy apartment decorated in distinguished, minimalist pieces, Suo reclines into his computer chair, holding his phone in one hand while he props his chin in his other palm, gazing into the blazing blue eyes of a certain white haired captain of the notorious Furin High School from the video call that had been rudely interrupted by a certain boy with a fighting spirit to match the duality of his gold dust, star strewn eyes.
“Good boy, Sakura-kun,” Suo praises him, purring on a low breath when a broken, sleepy mewl answers him, heavy and languorous from everything, “clean up for me, yea?”
“...don’t wanna, Suo.”
It doesn’t take much for Suo to envision the pout that has to grace the other boy’s full lips right about now.
Suo smiles more openly now, his teeth a glittering flash in the blue-light refractions from his laptop, meeting Umemiya’s gaze steadily as he hums, “none of that. Go. Shower for me.”
“Or, at the very least, wipe down for us,” Suo effortlessly commands the other boy using just his voice alone, the edges of his crimson eye crinkling up in amusement when Sakura Haruka seems to whine before agreeing, the rustling sound of fabric being heard as he rolls out of his bed and pads for his washroom.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Sakura-kun.”
“Yea, yea — y’can fuck off now, you eye-patch wearing cuntmuffin.”
The call ends.
And there’s a beat of silence before —
“Well,” Umemiya sighs, swallowing audibly as he adjusts himself in his chair, clearing his throat, “that, uh, that just happened.”
“It did,” Suo agrees nonchalantly, “let it be known that I’m rather open when it comes to… pillow talk.”
At that, Umemiya snorts out a derisive laugh — “duly noted.”
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