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He’d love to say it starts from something innocent. Really, he’d love too.
Except, Suguru thinks, watching Satoru stagger like he’s drunk as they mope back up to the school after a long mission, watching Satoru flop down onto his bed like a sack of bricks, watching Satoru whine as he very pointedly spreads his thighs. Except. That would discredit the fact that they’re boys, hormonal boys- hormonal very horny boys without any particularly pressing incentive not to get fucked up before they die at the ripe old age of thirty-three.
“Stop,” Suguru whispers, breath feather light as it ghosts along the seam of dark uniform pants, cataloging the flinch as pain and anticipation both as he pops their belonging button. Satoru quits squirming, but he doesn’t stop trembling, every part of him shaking in a giant, miniscule way that only comes when he’s fallen off the edge of a migraine or a vicious sort of orgasm.
Satoru does keen slightly when he exhales hot and humid over the mound of him, thumbing gently at the insides of milky thighs. It’s more of a whistle than a noise, caught in his throat, latching onto the pain digging knives behind his eyes Suguru’s only ever heard about, unable to envision it for himself.
There’s definitely a limit to how many times Shoko will look at them in disgust and then hand him another box of pills before she starts making them use a regular pharmacy, but what’s the care in that, Suguru wonders. They’re already sixteen, that’s practically middle aged. He’ll gladly spend the rest of his life with his tongue and fingers and dick buried to the hilt in whatever part of Satoru he’ll let him, birth control or not.
It’s what he thinks about, inevitably, every time he’s worked those pants off after a harsh mission or during a slow evening, and the pretty thighs hiding underneath them only open further.
‘Give me it,’ Satoru says, in nothing but the curves of his body as he arches his back, cants his hips up, pushes his knees as far apart as the heels he digs into the mattress will let him. ‘Give me it now.’ It’s a threat at heart, disguised as a pretty plea. The Satoru he knows is dangerous to his core, demanding to his fingertips, even if the Satoru everyone else does is a bitchy little airhead.
“Patience,” Suguru whispers, so quiet it’s barely a word at all, spoken into the soft folds shaved bare just below his lips, the hum a tiny buzz that rewards him with a jolt to strong tendons.
Satoru isn’t speaking, so it’s one of the worse migraines. They’ve learned the hard way he doesn’t respond well to this sort of thing when it’s not drawn out, not slow, not burning like a candle faintly lit. When Suguru rushes to clear away the worse ones, Satoru sparks out, and Satoru shuts down.
A heel raises only to thump back into the mattress, and then Satoru’s cringing laying back on his bed, arms over his face to shield his eyes from the light of the covered window and the dark of the room, repentant slightly if only for his own actions. Suguru only rolls his eyes, fingertips gentle as they pet over soft skin, lips warm as he presses a silent, still kiss to where he wants it most.
At the very least, Satoru wouldn’t be Satoru if he ever actually learned.
It’s slow going, getting the rest of his uniform off, tugging cloth from arms and unbuttoning shirt among squirming he nitpicks at until it dies down. It always is, but Suguru can never bring himself to mind, gradually watching pale body be unearthed as if a lost, priceless artifact. Maybe Satoru is, eyes of a God and beauty like a legend, his only deficit his horrible personality Suguru knows is only halfway for show. It’s salivating, tempting, rewarding in its own right to set that God down to his own merices as he unravels each piece of it, limb by limb and precious organ by precious organ.
Tantalizing, watching the plane of a vulnerable stomach taunt from stress unfold from limp shirt. Enrapturing, bearing collarbones to shadows and hipbones to light. Addicting, even, pulling all the fabric away until there’s nothing but that precious being writhing beneath him, naked and untouchable in a different way than the endless canyon of infinity. Beautiful, vulnerable, eager to be plundered and pillaged and ruined. Until, that is, the fingers dig in and shatter the illusion into fine, sharpened porcelain edges, ready to cut because Satoru’s pain is Suguru’s pain, too.
Maybe he could be said to be his own sort of benevolent god, Suguru thinks, not for the first time as he finally opens his mouth against soft lips, Satoru’s cunt warm and throbbing already though he’s barely been touched. If he were even a little rough with the being below him, wingless for an archangel damned to hell for however long the pain exists, he’s afraid he might just be plucking it of every last feather. Casting destruction, for nothing more than a little ceaseless pleasure. Perhaps it doesn’t make him a merciful god at all. Perhaps it makes him little better than a benevolent devil.
“Breathe, Satoru, breathe,” he murmurs, exhaling the words into a liquifying warmth, so soft they’re more hums vibrating into a core than words spoken to an ear. They work, though, and the meaningless undulating is forgotten in favor of Satoru finally sucking in a rattling breath. Sometimes he forgets that he needs to, foggy soaking in agony and fuzzy writhing in anticipation for Suguru to fuck him.
“Good,” Suguru praises, finally raising his tongue to lap a long, warm streak down the seam under his parted lips, refusing to suck or point it into a triangle when Satoru’s hips buck up. He reaches up with a hand, pressing sharp hips back onto the bed, a silent warning to behave Satoru only begrudgingly listens to after another twitch that Suguru knows means he’s sorely thinking about testing it.
‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ Suguru thinks, sardonic and mostly a joke, because he only knows the religious words from the lyrics of a song, and busies himself with leveling the hot flat of his tongue all along Satoru’s most sensitive places until he’s finally calmed some.
It always works, though never quickly. Once Satoru finally has it beat over his metaphorical head that he won’t be rushing, he gives in, and he surrenders. Stops fighting it, stops pressing, goes pliant and limp and waits instead for Suguru to give instead of trying to take. If the expanse of his open skin is addicting, watching it happen is probably some kind of overdose.
So, Suguru’s expecting it when a trembling hand flutters down to grasp onto his own, fingers weakened and shaky as they curl into his, squeezing when he finally slips his tongue inside. He holds tight for Satoru’s ruined coordination as he laps at each and every wall he can reach, gentle maybe but searing anyway against the thrumming want he can feel like a fire below him.
Satoru hisses when he drags the flat of his tongue up the underside of his vulva, catching on the spot he likes most as his thumb wanders, brushing over velvet skin until he finds the swollen nub of flushed clit. It earns him a plaintive noise buried in the back of a throat when he swipes over it, refusing to press hard as instead, he barely touches it at all. Grazes wrinkled skin, breezes a flick just shy of the edge, uses a ghost of a nail to jolt sparks down arched spine.
The orgasm hits quickly, with his tongue buried as far as it’ll go and the non-stimulation a flighty, over-engorged thing when it’s so little. Satoru goes rigid, tensing harshly as he sucks in a tepid inhale, lips parting and showing off a row of perfect bottom teeth, panting breath spilling over. It lasts five, six, seven seconds, and then he relaxes, a little less desperate than before.
‘One,’ Suguru thinks, slowly counting to ten.
The next one is even easier with Satoru’s body expecting it, simple to pull out of him with his hand drifting up to press at a perked nippled and his mouth wandering away to lap at his clit, instead. One minute, two, and Satoru’s harshened breaths give way to tiny moans, breathy keens, there and yet delicate. Three minutes and the thighs clamped around his head start to shake.
‘Suguru,’ they warn, slithering down his body to hook over his waist. ‘Suguru, Suguru please,’ crying without a voice as they lock ankle to ankle, shaking still but desperate in a different way than the useless squirm of before.
Satoru already knows, though he’d never tell him otherwise, but when he shoves down the waistband of his pants and his briefs, there comes the typical kick of a powerhigh from standing between the legs of his best friend, not a scrap of fabric to hide any part of him. Bare, just for Suguru, all for Suguru, only for Suguru.
Heels dig into the small of his back when he slips two fingers deep into the wetted warmth of his cunt, lips pulling back into the making of a snarl until he sets his thumb over the clit sitting pretty above it, red and already abused. It’s the easiest sort of relief Satoru gets from the migraines, he knows.
‘I dunno why, so don’t ask me,’ he’d said, when Suguru had asked the second time they’d done it, ‘but it makes it blank. Like, there’s no noise, there’s no nothing. Like destructive interference, or something.’ He hadn’t really understood the physics, but then he hadn’t needed to.
Suguru pistons his fingers, thumbs gently over the pulse of throbbing clit, and watches Satoru steadily drool into the sheets, one hand clutching his own and the other thrown over his eyes, tangling in the bedding for purchase. His lips fall slack, tongue lolling to the side of his cheek, breaths heavy if forgotten about entirely. Legs trembling, yet holding tight. Anchoring as he drifts away.
He so willfully trusts Suguru, so shamefully relies on Suguru, that it maybe makes him wonder what would happen if he were to use that trust. What if he were to pounce on it, with Satoru laid out before him as easily as a sacrificial lamb?
The lamb that is happy, Suguru knows, to be being sacrificed.
“...Suguru,” Satoru rasps, whole body twitching as he comes down from his fourth orgasm, hips barely rocking from the motion of his hand as he keeps on dragging his fingers in and out, steady as he pulls out a fifth. “S’g’u c’mon,” he whines, faint, pleading, waiting for Suguru to give him what he will.
And give, well. He pulls his fingers out, wiping them off of sticky and wet and slick on the cream of one unblemished thigh, eyes burning on the sight in front of him. Give god will.
He’s already hard, god how couldn’t he be watching this? But it’s typically forgotten about hanging between his legs in favor of tearing away as much of Satoru as he’ll let him. All he has to do is grab it, shove the tip of his cock up against the pretty gape of Satoru’s slickened cunt, push just a little for it to catch and suck in all by itself to the chorus of Satoru’s baseless moans. That’s all. It happens every time, as certain as clockwork.
‘God,’ Suguru thinks, taking his sweet time as he reshuffles Satoru’s thigh’s slightly, eye level with the flower plucked petalless he’s been abusing for at least half an hour now. ‘You’re beautiful.’ And he is.
Satoru’s swollen, a heartbeat caught in the heat of his skin, and when Suguru thumbs one velvety lip to the side, a little more sticky liquid dribbles the mess even larger. He’s gooey, perfect, warm and so sloppy it’s maddening. Suguru made him like this, unperfect and ruined, turned God into something animalistic. Something messy, something waiting to be fucked and used and then thrown away when done with.
‘I would never throw you away,’ he promises, pressing a kiss to the crown of Satoru’s shaved pussy, the only hair ever left on it above where everything really matters. He thinks it’s funny, Suguru wants to see it grown out one day. They’ll compromise eventually.
Satoru stirs when he starts to lap at the mess, twitching and moaning and weak as he shifts and tries to pull away only because it’s not Suguru’s tongue he wants, and the both of them know it. But Suguru loves him this way, loves watching him struggle to even fight back against not getting what he wants, watching him give in anyway because he only defers to Suguru and Suguru alone, because who is God to defer to anyone? God only listens to the person who he loses to, after all.
“S’guru,” Satoru whines, sounding near tears, and if they weren’t doing this because of a migraine Suguru would have certainly latched onto that sound and made it worse. As it is, Satoru will cry if he doesn’t give him what he wants, because what he wants is a break from the pain, and teasing works slightly but wholly not enough.
“Sorry, sorry,” he murmurs, kissing away a last few times before he pulls back, cock in hand and motions gentle as he lines them up. “Here,” he says, and pushes, just enough to catch, and stands there in the awe that will never fade as he barely has to work for the entire length of his dick to find its way inside. Predictably, Satoru sighs, legs finally going slack as soon as Suguru has his palms under his thighs, sinking boneless into the mattress in a way that could only ever be described as pavlovian.
It’s in no way unearned.
Satoru’s body limply jerks as Suguru works him, his thrusts harsh and smacking and loud slapping in his dorm room, reverberating off the walls, echoing like a cry. He barely makes any noise at all save for punched out little breaths, lost in the bliss of the mindlessness and clearly having some respite when his arm falls off his eyes with all the motion, and Satoru doesn’t even seem to notice.
His blue eyes are rolled up in their sockets, face slack, lips lax and tongue spilling out slightly, drooling into the sheets like before but even more brainless. Good, Suguru thinks, and goes for number seven with the heel of his palm shoved into Satoru’s lower belly.
That has him gasping, twitching, legs trying to clamp and yet unable where they’re jelly around his waist, dull moans spilling past shiny lips. Suguru watches the climax pull through him like spun string, jittering and jostling until it’s left him even limper than before. Satoru will complain about feeling like lead tomorrow, maybe, but he won’t be in pain tonight.
‘Three more,’ Suguru thinks, muscles aching slightly from the pace he’s set, abdomen tight from each snap of his hips, but that’s doable. Satoru’s on a precipice, a light breeze could knock him off of it. And besides, Suguru gets to cum in that gooey mess once he’s fallen, gets to spend himself dry in the best place in the world as he rediscovers rapture. He gets to watch white trickle out and play with it on greedy fingers stuffing it back inside. That’s more than worth three of Satoru’s orgasms.
“Come on, over, ‘Toru,” he says, and it’s only slightly panted. The guide is not much better than useless, and he knows that, doing all of the work to pause for a moment and turn Satoru over onto his stomach, the only help he has the trembling shift of twitching hips too fuck drunk to even support themselves.
He tries, at least, to shove them back. To rake the underside of his flushed, reddened pussy over Suguru’s eyes, to get him a nice giant mouthful before he slips back in. Satoru doesn’t make it, not really, not until Suguru slides a hand beneath his stomach and lifts trembling body for him.
Satoru moans as he does it, limp as he surrenders in another way and another motion, lets his legs be squeezed together in Suguru’s palm, lets his fingers pry at the lips of his cunt. Another dribble of slick falls down his squished legs under the pull of his thumb, a shiver raking down smooth spine, and Suguru can’t help the wolfish thing that pulls his lips into a smile as he slips two fingers inside, watching Satoru struggle to keep his squirming thighs pressed together. Poor thing.
It’s a guttural noise that tears out of his throat when Suguru shoves his cock roughly back inside, one that means blue eyes are rolling up again and pleasure racking shudders through a skeleton. ‘Eight,’ Suguru counts, drawing out to the head and snapping back to the cervix.
Nine is easy, letting Satoru’s face mash down into the bedding as he clamps palms over his thighs and squeezes them together as he pounds into him from behind, dragging over all the right places with each push and pull. Ten is shoving him down completely after jamming a pillow under his hips, corner to clit, and shoving on sharp bones and dimpled asscheeks as he keeps the pace ruthless and unforgiving. The tears stain the sheets dark, but when they come, Suguru knows they’re not from the migraine.
Only then does he let himself loose, only after Satoru’s nothing better than an open mouthed slut fucked to incoherency, unable to even string together a line of words much less a thought. It’s gratifying, having reduced him to trembles in an empty head as well as a mindless husk who can’t feel the pain beyond the haze of overblown lust.
“Thank you, thank you, you’re so good, okay?” Suguru whispers, carefully turning Satoru back around, gentle as he rearranges him so he can see his face, because it’s the bliss of the nothing that gets him the most, kinks be damned. “You’re so good.”
Satoru doesn’t respond, but then again like this, he never will.
His end comes far too quickly and far too easy, holding his thighs up and apart to ruin what’s left of what’s in between, one hand shifting last minute to under Satoru’s upper back so that he’s fallen almost like one of Michelangelo’s paintings as he’s used. Limp completely, hips on the bed but one thigh held high; back arched but spine curving down too, so his head’s tilted back until his hair is falling over his forehead and his chest is completely exposed. A myriad of angles, an angel both fallen and alive only for him.
‘You’re beautiful,’ Suguru thinks, watching the slant of that body as he finally comes, sliding home deep and then staying there, watching the rise and fall of pale stomach, thin ribs. God, giving nothing to anyone but giving anything to him.
When he pulls back, reluctant to leave, Satoru makes a noise low in his throat but doesn’t otherwise bother to move. He lets his legs be lowered and rearranged, arms splayed out on rumpled sheets and mussed pillows, eyes shut and quiet because he’s calm.
The trickle of his own spend dribbling out of his swollen pussy, though, serves a valiant effort to get his dick to try to twitch again. It doesn’t win, but it tries.
Settling on his knees, Suguru leans down, dragging a thumb through it before stuffing it back inside, palm on one milky thigh and eyes locked on a very tepid, ever unfulfilled promise.
“Nh,” Satoru moans, leg twitching. “No.”
“Sorry-” Suguru starts, only to be greeted with a wrinkled nose and abject disdain.
“No,” Satoru mumbles, eyes stubbornly shut as he cants his hips up as much as his sore body will let him. “In. Now.”
If it took a genius to get the meaning, Suguru would be very unlucky indeed.
As it is, he feels lucky laying there with Satoru, fucked to oblivion and yet still with enough greed to make him shove his cock back inside him again. He cradles easily, cuddles soundlessly, some sort of state in between awake and dreaming, and Suguru is content to take a nap like this, worn out in a way himself.
One weakened hand slithers over his shoulder, pulling him close, possessive in its hold, and Suguru smiles into sweaty collar, exhales into soft hair. God wants, maybe, but so does he.