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Satoru wakes up with the mother of all painful fucking boners.
He just stares at the ceiling for a little while, mourning his pitiful life. This is where being the strongest has gotten him—cramped in a shitty hotel room bed because there are curses across the goddamn country so high-grade that, apparently, no one in the whole entire world but him and Suguru can tackle them.
They’d gotten here too late, decided to just sleep and recuperate and fight the next day. It’s probably a bad idea, but Suguru had looked a little suicidal when he’d suggested staking out the abandoned hospital that the curses were supposed to inhabit so Satoru had made—an executive decision. Sleep first. Nighty night, Suguru.
Suguru makes a small noise in his sleep, stretching his body out. He’s the reason it’s so goddamn cramped in this bed—as if it’s not enough that Suguru is built like a brick wall, he sleeps like a starfish, arms splayed, legs like a greeting card.
Satoru is actually considerate. He sleeps on his back, one straight line, arms at his sides, legs together—and he’s rewarded for this by waking up with Suguru’s elbow sticking into his ear, or his heavy leg hooked across Satoru’s waist.
Suguru is currently face-down in his pillow, making quiet little snuffly noises in his sleep, one leg slung between Satoru’s, arms crammed beneath his body and almost definitely bereft of circulation.
Satoru moves to swipe his leg off so he can get up and take the shortest cold shower possible—screw Suguru if he wakes up from it, it’s on him for being the most selfish bedmate known to man, he’s lucky Satoru doesn’t—doesn’t just—
Well.
There’s an idea.
And, okay, sure, Satoru could—could just go to the bathroom and take a cold shower or just lie in bed and think about Yaga’s nose hair or maybe even use one of the plastic knives that they got in their McDonald’s takeout bag and poke himself just enough to drain the blood out—you can do that, he knows, he saw it in Grey’s Anatomy. Fine. He could do all that.
But Suguru is right beside him.
And he’s warm, and when Satoru goes to move his leg, his hand lands on bare skin, because Suguru goes to sleep in these loose, loose shorts—because god forbid he wears a pair of bottoms that even remotely fits him—and all his rolling around and ridiculous positioning has—moved them. Made them ride up all the way until they’re rucked up around his upper thighs, and Satoru’s just touching… skin. Warm, soft, muscled skin.
Satoru just—wants. It’s really that simple, when it comes to Suguru, and it’s made even simpler by the fact that he is warm, and Suguru is warm, and everything beyond the bed is cold, and his dick is so hard that it physically hurts. Can it fall off from that? It’s a real possibility. It’s not like he can let that happen—his gene pool is, quite literally, one in a million. What is he going to do, let his bloodline die out because of a little modesty? Yeah, no.
Suguru loves him. He’ll understand.
And besides, if it was Suguru with a dick in danger of falling off, Satoru would happily offer himself to the cause. So really, if one thinks about it that way, it’s only fair.
It’s not difficult, given the position Suguru’s squirmed into. All Satoru needs to do is shift, a little—turn on his side, pull Suguru closer so he’s cocooned between Satoru’s shoulders, his thigh slung over Satoru’s hips, pinned like a butterfly, hair silken against Satoru’s throat.
Satoru slips a hand beneath his shorts. Takes his time, doesn’t rush—Suguru’s breathing is still soft, even—traces patterns the lines of Suguru’s abdomen, ventures lower, palm splayed over his hip like a brand, fingertips nestled in the warm corner between his pelvis and thigh.
Has anyone else ever touched Suguru like this?
No, right? No. He couldn’t have—wouldn’t have let anyone.
His cock is actually painful inside his sleep shorts—he pulls back for a second, regretfully, just to pull it out and let it press between his stomach and Suguru’s ass—gasps, chest heaving. Doesn’t move for a moment, tries to do the bare minimum and push the breath out where it stands frozen in his lungs.
Just that much friction has him drooling—the smallest wet spots staining the fabric of Suguru’s shorts.
Yikes. He’ll have to do the laundry without him noticing. That’s a problem for later.
He moves quicker this time, hand eating up the distance between Suguru’s stomach, his abdomen, his pelvic bone, his—his—
Satoru’s hand stutters.
Suguru is asleep, of course, so it isn’t like he’d expected anything hard, but this is—cotton-soft. Dream-soft. A little puffy, sinking in where Satoru presses his fingers.
He’d been a little worried about hurting Suguru, but now—now, as long as he takes a little time, and doesn’t get ahead of himself—
God, Suguru is perfect.
He traces his folds first, just to see, to touch—they’re soft, a little chubby, a little damp, which means—and his prediction is proven right when he dips his fingers in between—Suguru’s pussy is soaked.
It makes him bold, crazy, hungry, and he gathers the slick on his finger, plays with Suguru’s slippery clit, reveling in the sweet uptick in his breathing. It’s wet beneath his fingers, grows fuller the more he plays with it. The rest of Suguru’s pussy is the same—puffy, wet, aroused, soft, the lips of his cunt—the soft, fleshy entrance to his hole—
It sounds wet. It smells good. He wants to taste—lick it off his fingers, swallow it all the way down, but that would mean taking his hands off Suguru, which isn’t—isn’t feasible. Not now, not when his fingertips are poised over his hole—heart skipping at the way it tightens when he brushes against it. Like it’s scared.
Should be, maybe. Satoru’s going to ruin it for anyone else.
He sinks one finger in—slowly, carefully, inch by inch—until he’s buried down to the knuckle and Suguru—Suguru moans , one sweet little noise escaping his parted lips. His eyes are closed but there’s a cute scrunch between his brows, a flush on his cheeks. He likes it. Even in his sleep, he likes it.
Satoru just stretches him out for a bit. Doesn’t go fast, wants to savour it. It’s his first time with Suguru, after all. He wants to remember every blistering second.
The one downside of this is, of course, his dick. Suguru’s noises, his devastating face, his, god, his pussy—it all has Satoru’s already painfully-hard dick effectively screaming. There’s blood he didn’t even know he had pooling there—honestly, his fingers would probably be cold and numb if Suguru wasn’t warming them.
It’s this desperation that drives him to slip in another finger—and then, when Suguru takes it so, so prettily, filthy little noises escaping his mouth—a third. Suguru’s moving now, hips jerking in tiny, aborted motions.
He wants more, Satoru surmises. And he can’t get it for himself, so Satoru has to give it to him.
So Satoru fucks him a little faster, relishing in his sleepy moans, the way he presses closer into Satoru, like he knows, even in his sleep, who’s making him feel this good. Satoru wants to wake him up, if only to confirm it for him, it’s me, Suguru, of course it’s me—but Suguru’s been really tired, lately. Satoru hasn’t seen him well and truly asleep in a while, and the dark circles under his eyes confirm that. So he leaves him be.
…And adds another finger. Whatever. If the other three didn’t wake him up, there’s no promise that a fourth will.
He’s curious, then, if he can make Suguru sleep through an orgasm—he’s a pretty deep sleeper, for someone who rarely actually does it—so he crooks his fingers, searching until he finds the sweet spot on the walls of his cunt, puffy from arousal. He taps it, rubs small circles—presses down from the outside, palm flat on Suguru’s lower stomach—
“Sa—toru?”
Suguru’s voice is a scratchy whisper. He inhales sharply in the middle of saying Satoru’s name.
“What—what are you doing?”
Satoru doesn’t stop moving his fingers, just slows down a bit. Suguru doesn’t throw him off. He’s too sleep-dumb to do anything but squirm a little, eyes hazy and confused.
“Woke up hard,” he says, low in Suguru’s ear. “You don’t mind, right?”
“Don’t— Satoru, what—” And he moans, the noise torn from his throat. “Stop, you need to— Satoru, stop.”
Satoru wants to listen to him. If he was strong as everyone seems to think he is, maybe he could. But he hurts so bad, and Suguru is the only one who could ever help him, like this. The only thing in the world.
He isn’t above begging. He never has been.
“Please? Please, Suguru, I can’t—it hurts so much, please, baby, just the tip, just the tip, I promise, I just—I tried, okay, I tried to—to—ignore it, but I can’t, and I’m just so tired, I just want to sleep after this—please?”
“You’re the worst,” Suguru says. “You make everything so, fuck, difficult—”
“I know I do,” Satoru says shamelessly. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, Suguru, just, please—”
“Satoru, I swear—”
He digs his face into Suguru’s shoulder. Finds solace in his warm skin, the smell of his sweat. “Need you. Please.”
Suguru’s quiet for a moment. Satoru stops moving his fingers, worried he really might have crossed a line this time. He’d just never considered the thought that Suguru would really be upset at him. Maybe for waking him up, but not actually—
Suguru says, very quietly, “Just the tip? Then you'll let me sleep?”
Satoru perks up like a cheerleader on game day. “You can sleep now!”
“How the hell am I supposed to do that when you act like such a frea—oh, fuck, wait, Satoru, please—”
Satoru slicks himself up with the slick from Suguru’s pussy and lines himself up and—pushes.
Suguru claws at the hand pressing on his stomach, movements frantic, breath hitching—his cunt flexes around the head of Satoru’s cock, like it’s straining—and Satoru’s only issue with this position, where he can hold Suguru against himself like a pearl, nuzzle into his neck, bite his earlobe, hit him deep—the sole issue is that he can’t see how pretty Suguru’s cunt looks when it’s opening up for him.
It’s okay, he supposes. He can still hear it and smell it and touch it and feel it, warm and wet, pulsing around him, so delicious that he wants to live in it. Stay here forever, Suguru tucked between his shoulders, legs spread for Satoru’s taking.
“Satoru,” Suguru whimpers, eyes screwed shut. “You’re going deeper.”
Oh. He hadn’t noticed.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, a little lost—his head feels fuzzy, his body feels like it doesn’t belong to him. Everything is just—Suguru, Suguru, Suguru. His voice, his face, his unsteady breathing, his glossy hair sliding against Satoru’s neck, his heaving chest, his strong thighs, his beautiful, perfect, hungry cunt.
“Suguru,” he says, voice shaking. “‘M really sorry, okay?”
“...Huh?”
Satoru buries himself.
Suguru wails.
“Sorry, ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry,” he babbles mindlessly, thrusting up into Suguru’s wet heat. He’s just so perfect, it’s making Satoru lose his mind. It’s a little funny—how hard everyone’s been trying since he’s been born, to come up with something that could feasibly beat him—and it’s been right beside him the whole time, hidden between Suguru’s honey-gold thighs.
“You feel so good, Suguru, I’m sorry—”
“Piece of shit,” Suguru hiccups. And, oh, he’s crying, Satoru can hear it in his voice—he cranes his neck to see, and if his cock wasn’t already preoccupied with Suguru’s pussy, it would probably twitch at the tears running down his flushed face. “You lied, you said—”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Satoru hushes, pressing hasty kisses to his cheek, his neck. “You felt too good, Suguru, I couldn’t stop, I tried really hard—”
“I hate you—”
“Don’t be mad, Suguru,” Satoru begs. He’s choking up too, now, tearing up from how good it feels—Suguru, for all his bitching, is clenching so tight around him, taking him so perfectly, grinding back in perfect little circles like he’s trying to fuck himself deeper. Satoru thinks he might die. He thinks he might welcome it. “Please, I’m sorry, I just—I love you too much, okay? Can’t stop, need you so bad. ‘M so–orry , please don’t be mad at me? Please?”
“I hate you,” Suguru sniffs petulantly, but he presses close to Satoru, so close Satoru can feel the imprints of his back muscles—lovingly defined by Suguru’s hard exercise, skin stretched over strength like cloth over canvas. Trapezius, rhomboids, supraspinatus—Satoru wants to press Suguru into the sheets after this, face down, and just bite.
“Love you, Suguru,” he murmurs, tugging at his earlobe, worrying the soft flesh between his teeth.
Suguru hisses between his teeth. “Just come already, you useless fucking brat.”
I’ll come if you say you love me, Satoru thinks helplessly. Like a wife calling her husband.
“Oh,” Suguru says softly. “You love me that much?”
Fuck. Did he really say that outloud?
Well—Suguru had to have known, didn’t he? Why else does he think Satoru runs after him like some kind of lovesick schoolgirl? Why else does he think Satoru brings his Infinity down as easily as breathing, the negligible difference between an inhale and exhale—Suguru probably doesn’t even notice, seeing as he’s been touching Satoru skin-to-skin for so long—maybe he thinks Satoru’s just narcissistic like that—maybe he thinks he’s just hungry—
“Yes,” he sobs. “Yes, so much, Suguru, I can’t—it’s too much for me, that’s what I keep telling you—”
He pulls Suguru down onto his cock, forearm locked around his waist—Suguru whines, little uh-uh-uh noises pushed out of his lips, but Satoru needs him to feel it, at least, how much he—
“Satoru,” Suguru says—soft like footprints in snow, like he really is Satoru’s sweet little wife, barefoot in the entryway, welcoming him home. “I love you, baby.”
Satoru comes before his mouth even finishes wrapping around the last syllable.
He groans deep, bone-deep satisfaction ringing between his ribs, biting down hard on the meat of Suguru’s broad shoulder. His brain goes very loud, then very quiet. He licks at Suguru’s sweat and thinks about nothing.
He doesn’t unsheathe his teeth until his body feels like his own again.
“Fuck,” Suguru sounds like he’s in disbelief. “Just from that? You came just from that?”
“You were asleep for a while,” Satoru says, feeling like he needs to defend his stamina a little, here. “I did—other things, okay?”
“Yeah?” Suguru’s hand toys with the place where they connect—a few drops of cum dripping out of his pussy, running down Satoru's cock. “What’d you do, baby?”
Satoru hums, brain going floaty. He likes it—being Suguru’s baby. He says it all sweet, like Satoru’s something he needs to protect and take care of. Satoru wants that. Wants to be his small thing, his precious thing, to coddle. Spoil. Dote on. Whatever. Everything. Anything.
“Massaged your pussy,” he says, words slurring. “Um—played w’th your clit, a l’il…you liked it though, prom’se, kept—pussy was all wet, ‘fore I even touched you. Made noises when I touched it.”
“I think you’re making excuses,” Suguru says lightly. “For being a creep and touching me in my sleep.”
“‘M serious ,” Satoru insists—a little woken up by the offending insinuation that Suguru thinks he would lie about something like that. “You were wet before I did anything, swear.” He’s a little curious, actually. “Is it always like that, Suguru? ‘Cause that’s kind of slutty, y’know, for your pussy to be wet all day, just begging like that.”
Suguru slaps him, hard.
The uncalled-for violence actually causes a lightbulb to light up in Satoru’s brain. He gasps.
“Or ‘s it ‘cause I was sleeping beside you, huh?”
“‘S always like that,” Suguru grumbles. “Because you never leave me alone.”
The admission makes all the remaining blood in Suguru’s body—whatever was essential to keep the lights of his body on—rush straight to his dick. So, he’s probably going to die in the next short while. Whatever. He had a good run.
“Did you just—” Suguru actually sounds a little scared. “Really?”
“You haven’t, yet,” Satoru reminds him. Because he’s a gentleman, thank you, and he’s not about to let his partner go unsatisfied—especially not one as pretty as Suguru.
“I already did, dumbass.”
“What? When?”
“...When you did.”
“Oh.” There’s a warm ball of something in Satoru’s chest. It feels juvenile and it makes him giddy. Suguru must really love him, then, to come just because he was. Maybe it was the thrill of saying he loved him, or because he knew he was making Satoru feel really good, or because—
“Satoru.”
Oh. He’s already humping against Suguru, like some kind of needy dog.
“Sorry,” he apologizes, humiliated by his own desperation. “I just—you’re so tight, and I can’t—I can’t—”
Suguru groans, like he’s in pain. “Last one, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, last one, thank you, thank you Suguru, love you so much—”
Suguru doesn’t say it back, but he reaches back with one hand and taps at Satoru’s hip—maybe he thinks it’s less embarrassing this way, or that Satoru won’t notice—but he does notice, and he comes again, just from that, the quick one-two-three—and that’s really fucking embarrassing, and also doesn’t count at all because it was, like, maybe a minute, so he just keeps going, fucking Suguru through the soreness, until his cock gets the memo and wakes back up, until Suguru is falling apart on his cock, reduced to whiny, pained little sobs, his thick chest shuddering and burning hot to the touch.
“You said you would stop!” He’s crying, heavy sobs, making these cute sniffles like it’s all just too much for him. “You fucking—you’re a freak, you put all this—all this come in me and now I’m—I’m—too full.”
Satoru peers over his shoulder to look for himself. There’s—the slightest little bloat in Satoru’s flat stomach. Normally it’s a washboard, cut like marble, but now there’s—there’s—
“Did I do that?” He wonders, amazed.
“Yes, you freak—”
“Sorry,” he says, because it’s the only word he knows now. “I’ll fix it, Suguru, don’t be mad.”
Even though it’s not really something that needs to be fixed—and is, in fact, pushing Satoru ever closer to his little housewife Suguru fantasy, greeting him from a kitchen that smells like onions and garlic, in a sweet little dress that rounds over his stomach—
One step at a time.
He—with no small amount of regret—pulls himself out of Suguru, and crawls back, until he’s nestled between his thighs, face-to-face with the pretty mess between his legs. The curls around his pussy are glued down by slick, and his lips are a bright, puffy pink, and his little clit peeks out from between his folds, like it’s still hungry to be touched, and dripping—pouring—out of his pussy is a small waterfall of come. Satoru’s come.
It pools on the sheets, runs down Suguru’s thighs, crowds the opening of his pussy.
Satoru wants to take a picture.
“Can I take a picture of you?”
“What? No !” Suguru sounds like he’s in disbelief at even being asked. “Stop looking at it, what the hell is wrong with you?”
“But you’re so pretty,” Satoru whines. “It’s not fair, you can’t even see what you look like.” He gets his hands under Suguru’s ass, squeezes a little—and then yanks him forward, ignoring his little yelp—it’s cute, really, he just needs closeness— “Suguru is so pretty,” he says, leaning close, like he’s talking to Suguru’s cunt. Lips brushing lips. “Does Suguru know that?”
He looks up. Suguru looks mortified—but there’s something else in his eyes, the slight uplift of his lips. He almost looks fond.
“You’re so obsessed,” he says.
Satoru just nods. He is. How nice of Suguru to notice. Only took him two entire years. “I love you.”
“Mm. I’m seeing that.”
Satoru pouts. “Say you love me back.”
Suguru rolls his eyes. “Why do you have to be so needy, huh?”
And it’s kind of—it’s one thing, Satoru supposes, to act needy, and another for Suguru to call him needy, and a third, slightly—hurtful—thing, for him to say it in that tone, like it’s a bother for him, like Satoru is just—not worth all the trouble.
“Oh, baby, wait, I’m sorry—” Suguru’s slim fingers tilt his chin up. “Come back, baby, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
Satoru blinks the tears out of his eyes. Suguru’s face comes back into focus. His brows are drawn together—he’s sitting up, hair cascading down his shoulders.
“You said—”
“I didn't mean it like that,” he soothes, his thumb stroking Satoru’s lips—and then pressing it inside. Satoru sucks on it, lids dropping low. He likes the taste. Likes having Suguru in his mouth.
“Sweet boy,” Suguru whispers, like he’s beholding something precious, instead of just Satoru, needy and embarrassing, sucking on his finger. “I like that you need me so much. I love it. It’s my favourite thing in the world. You wouldn’t go to anyone else like this, would you?”
Satoru shakes his head.
Suguru’s the only one who could help him. The only one who ever has.
“C’mon, needy baby,” Suguru hooks his ankle around his neck, drags him close. “Eat it out of me.”
Satoru has been waiting for the invitation since he met him.
Suguru has to pull him away in the end, hand wound in his hair, wrenching his head back.
“Wait—I wasn’t done—” Satoru protests, come still dribbling from his lips. Suguru had pulled him back mid-mouthful.
“Do you not understand when I tell you to stop, or do you just like ignoring it?” Suguru asks, exasperated.
“I wasn’t done,” Satoru says stubbornly. His eyes drift back to Suguru’s pussy. It’s licked clean, at least, but he’d wanted—more. To just stay there, head pressed between Suguru’s thighs, slick on his tongue, tongue curling around his clit. He’d liked it. He’d really, really liked it.
Suguru’s just so pretty everywhere. He knows he doesn’t believe him—thinks Satoru is some kind of freak—but he was serious, about the picture. It’s like one of those nature backgrounds—it looks so nice. He should get to look at it all the time. Multiple times a day. Everytime he unlocks his phone, in fact.
“Can I please—”
“Later, baby,” Suguru says—and his pink mouth parts in a yawn, and his whole face scrunches up, and Satoru decides—fine. Fine, because Suguru needs his sleep.
“You promise?” He presses Suguru into the sheets, and then flops on top of him, giggling at the noise he lets out.
“Yeah, no, nevermind.”
“Don’t be mean!”
Suguru looks pensive. “Do you really need it that much?”
“You keep asking me that,” Satoru says plaintively. “Isn’t it obvious? Can’t you see how embarrassed I am? I know it’s kind of—gross and embarrassing and weird and freakish, okay, but I still—I still—I can’t stop, so don’t ask me to stop.”
“I’m not asking you to stop, I’m just trying to figure it out.”
“Don’t you need me back? At least a little bit?” Satoru asks, in a small voice that he barely recognizes as his own. He’s a little scared of Suguru’s answer. He’d thought he’d known—but maybe not—
“I need you so much it scares me,” Suguru says. “I’ve been needing you since you swore not to tell anyone when you saw me crying from homesickness back in first year. I’m just—not used to—this. Needing you and having you. Like this, at least.”
“Well, get used to it,” Satoru says, a little grumpy that he’s been made to feel insecure just because Suguru is—as always—a dumbfuck. “Because you have me until we both die. Which is probably going to be, like, next week.”
“Oh, I’d give us a little longer than that,” Suguru drawls. He cards a hand through Satoru’s hair. Smiles at him all sweet, lets him rest his head on Suguru’s chest.
Satoru keeps waiting for him to push him away—say it’s enough, and he really does need to sleep—that’s what he’d said before, after all.
But Suguru just keeps scratching lightly at his scalp, tracing patterns. Satoru wonders if maybe Suguru wasn’t really annoyed at all—entertains the unbelievable possibility that maybe he’s the same as Satoru, and will take any spare inch that he can get.
“Goodnight, Suguru,” he murmurs into his chest. “Thank you for helping me.”
Suguru’s hand comes down to pat his face gently. Satoru turns his face—kisses it—and hears the sweet, unmistakable sound of Suguru’s heartbeat speeding up.