Chapter Text
Satoshi woke to heat. Not the gentle kind. Not the sleepy sort that made you curl up tighter under the blankets. No, this was oppressive. Li
Satoshi woke to heat.
Not the gentle kind. Not the sleepy sort that made you curl up tighter under the blankets. No, this was oppressive. Like being caught between two sun-warmed boulders—big, broad, masculine boulders that radiated body heat like saunas with personal vendettas.
He groaned, voice thick with sleep. "We really need to get… lighter blankets…"
No one answered. Which was weird.
Usually Shirou would grunt or shift, and Ashwatthama would at least snort at him. But now there was tension in the air. The kind that made goosebumps crawl over his flushed skin despite the stifling warmth.
That's when he realized something was off. Very off.
Shirou was where he always was—pressed firmly to his back, hand curled low around his waist, warm breath brushing his nape. That was normal. Predictable. Comforting, even.
But the heat on his front? It was not a pillow or a blanket. That was Ashwatthama. Chest to chest. Leg to leg. Hip to damn hand.
Satoshi tensed.
Because while Shirou's hand rested solidly on his stomach—grounding and familiar—the other hand was… lower and suspiciously close to his ass.
Dear god—was that… were those fingers flexing?
His eyes snapped open—straight into the smooth column of Ashwatthama's neck, because apparently the man had buried his face against the top of his head sometime in the night. Great.
Satoshi made a very dignified, very high-pitched noise.
Both men tensed again.
Ashwatthama's hand froze like a thief caught mid-pinch.
Shirou didn't say anything, but his arm tightened, tugging Satoshi closer in retaliation—enough that he was now mashed between the two like a very flustered mochi in a warrior sandwich.
Satoshi tried not to die of embarrassment.
Instead, he muttered, "…Seriously. Summer blankets. We'll melt at this rate."
That earned a soft, dangerous snort from above his head. Ashwatthama's voice was a gravelly whisper near his temple. "You're saying that like this is our fault."
Satoshi refused to answer. He was too busy pretending to be asleep again so he didn't have to deal with the fact that two dangerous men were practically cuddling him like a body pillow. With one hand dangerously close to grounds it had no business approaching.
"This is just practice," Ashwatthama murmured near his ear, low and rich with amusement.
Satoshi barely had time to squint in suspicion before the man leaned in and kissed his flushed cheek, lingering far too long for something so innocent.
"Just practice," he repeated, like that explained anything.
Before Satoshi could even respond—or breathe properly—he felt Shirou's lips at his neck. Slow. Precise. Familiar. Dangerous.
Not a peck. Not even chaste.
And Satoshi didn't need to turn to know that Shirou was glaring daggers over his shoulder at Ashwatthama, even while leaving open-mouthed kisses against his throat.
His breath caught when he felt a tongue behind his ear. "D-Did you… did you fight again?"
Neither answered which was answer enough.
Then came the final blow. Ashwatthama's lips pressed to his own—gently. No heat, no dominance, just a soft pressure that almost made Satoshi's heart stop from how unexpectedly tender it was. This was not for show. Not for Riley.
Just… for him.
And that annoyed him. No. Everything annoyed him.
Especially when Shirou's kisses grew more purposeful, trailing across his shoulder like he was marking territory with perfect, silent spite.
Too much. Too hot. Too everything.
Satoshi shoved them both back with a breathless, furious groan. "Stop—stop putting me in the middle of your pissing contest!"
He sat up, flushed to the ears, glaring at both of them as they looked mildly amused—and not at all sorry.
And then—Ashwatthama tilted his head slightly. His eyes weren't on Satoshi's face anymore. They were looking lower.
"…You seem happy enough," he said dryly, finger pointing toward the blanket. Specifically, the rather obvious tent forming beneath it.
Satoshi's mouth dropped open.
"That's—That's a normal response when someone's sandwiched between two walking furnaces, thank you!" he hissed, crossing his arms over his chest and pouting.
Neither of them looked convinced. Worse—they chuckled.
Satoshi buried his face in his hands with a muffled, "I hate both of you."
"You say that," Shirou said mildly, "but you're still here."
"Not my fault you're both clingy."
Ashwatthama grinned. "Practice makes perfect, no?"
Satoshi opened his mouth, fully prepared to yell more—to unleash righteous, embarrassed fury at the two musclebound idiots lounging smugly in his bed like they hadn't just turned him into a flustered mess.
But then—ding.
A soft chime from the Company's tablet.
He froze.
The tension snapped like a rubber band, and for once, Satoshi welcomed the distraction. He stood up far too quickly, still muttering to himself, refusing to acknowledge the unfortunate tent in his boxers or the smug chuckles behind him.
"Better not be Dragon. Or worse. The damn Company. Always at the worst timing," he grumbled, grabbing the tablet with the kind of dread most men reserved for tax audits and exes.
The screen flickered to life and his brows furrowed as he read the notification:
Credits Gained for Capture: 288
New Total Available: 432
"…Huh?"
His thumb hovered over the blinking line as his brain struggled to parse the sudden windfall. That was more than even the Gray Boy or Crimson missions had offered. He hadn't submitted a mission recently. No kill orders. No bounty.
So what— He tapped on the word 'Capture'.
The notification expanded.
Capture Confirmed:
Companion #1: EMIYA Shirou – [Confirmed]: 144 credits
Companion #2: Ashwatthama – [Confirmed]: 288 credits
Bonus Applied: Willful Integration + Psychological Stability Maintained.
Satoshi blinked. Once. Twice.
Then very, very slowly turned to look at the bed.
Shirou was still reclining against the pillows like a smug panther, expression unreadable except for the faint twitch of his brow—the only sign he may have suspected something.
Ashwatthama was shirtless, one brow arched as he watched Satoshi with casual curiosity.
"Captured."
The word rang like a bell in his head. Satoshi made a strangled noise and turned on his heel, clutching the tablet like it had personally insulted his morals.
No.
Nope.
Not dealing with this.
Straight to the kitchen.
He marched past the hallway in a blur of flustered limbs and mortification, muttering under his breath like a man unraveling.
"They were already here—already in bed—how does that count as captured?! We weren't even doing anything too explicit! No collars, no bindings, no nothing—"
His heart raced. Not because of the number, but because of what it meant. The Company had officially marked them before. He hadn't seen their tattoos, yet, but he knew that, in some twisted way, they belonged to him now.
And now they were captured?
Satoshi braced his hands on the kitchen counter, head hanging down, breath uneven.
"…I didn't mean to capture anyone," he whispered to himself.
Not Shirou.
Not Ashwatthama.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
"God, I need coffee."
They entered the kitchen slowly—too slowly—like they knew exactly how mortified—ashamed—he was. Satoshi turned to face them, tablet clutched like a cursed artifact, panic bubbling over before either could speak.
"I'm sorry," he said quickly, waving the device like it might start smoking. "I don't know how it happened! It says I captured you both, which—what does that even mean?! You were already my companions, right? So why—how—why—?!"
Shirou held out his hand, calm as ever, and Satoshi gave him the tablet, still rambling, "I didn't bind you, I didn't mark you—I swear I didn't do anything—"
"I know," Shirou said simply, eyes scanning the screen. He made a quiet, thoughtful noise. "Huh."
That wasn't helpful.
Then Shirou pointed to the date next to his name. "I was marked as 'captured' a couple of days after Ashwatthama arrived."
Satoshi squinted. "Okay… and?"
Ashwatthama stepped closer, peering over Shirou's shoulder at the screen. His arms crossed. "Mine says it happened this morning."
"Yes!" Satoshi said, throwing up his hands. "And I don't understand why!"
"I do," Shirou said.
Satoshi blinked at him. "You do?"
Shirou didn't even hesitate. He pointed at the timestamp again, then looked Satoshi square in the eye. "That was the day I realized I had romantic feelings for you."
The kitchen went still as Satoshi's brain froze. "What."
Ashwatthama hummed, glancing down at the tablet again. "Makes sense. Because today I realized the same."
"WHAT."
They said it so casually. So bluntly. Like they were commenting on the weather.
Shirou was checking the kettle while Ashwatthama grabbed a glass of water, both of them waiting for Satoshi to calm. But he couldn't, so he was standing there, red from ear to soul, mouth opening and closing like a confused goldfish.
He finally croaked, "You're both insane."
Shirou shrugged, pouring the hot water.
Ashwatthama grinned. "You say that, but we're yours now. Apparently."
Satoshi made a noise somewhere between a whimper and a scream and dropped his face into his hands. "I didn't sign up for this."
From beside him, Shirou handed him a mug of tea. "You did. Literally. In the catalog."
"Not for romance!" he groaned.
Ashwatthama chuckled. "Then maybe don't cook like love tastes."
Satoshi tried to melt into the floor.
Unfortunately, it didn't work, so he sat down heavily at the kitchen table, face still burning, hands cradling the warm mug Shirou had given him.
Neither of them spoke right away. Shirou leaned against the counter, arms folded loosely, while Ashwatthama leaned on the opposite wall, one ankle crossed over the other, gaze thoughtful.
It was Shirou who spoke first—quiet, direct.
"I know I'm not your type," he said. "I've seen the catalog options and I know what kind of faces you lingered on." His eyes didn't accuse. Just understood. "But feelings aren't always about types. Sometimes it's about time. And trust. And closeness."
Ashwatthama nodded, gaze flicking from Shirou to Satoshi.
"I'm not your type either," he said, voice quieter than usual—stripped of the usual teasing. "I'm not delicate. I'm not soft. I've got too much anger in me and not enough patience most days. But still…"
He stepped forward, one hand resting on the back of the chair across from Satoshi as he leaned towards him. "I know what it's like to want to help others and not know how to ask for anything yourself. I've watched you work yourself ragged just to make sure Riley, Ralts, and even us are okay. You cook for us. You smile through your exhaustion. And you never ask for thanks."
Satoshi stared down into his tea. His throat felt tight.
Ashwatthama's voice dropped. "So yeah, I realized it this morning. I like you. And I'm not gonna pretend I don't."
"And I realized it a while ago," Shirou added, gently. "I've been trying not to… push it. Because you didn't ask for this. For us. But now it's here."
There was a pause. Then Shirou said, firmly: "So I intend to earn it."
Ashwatthama nodded, expression serious.
"Love's a battle," he said. "And I'm a warrior. I'll fight for it."
Satoshi looked between them—two people who, despite their immense strength, were offering something impossibly fragile: Their feelings.
And not with demands. Not with assumptions. But with intent.
Slowly, he exhaled, fingers tightening around the mug. "You guys are really unfair, you know that?"
"Absolutely," Shirou said.
"Definitely," Ashwatthama agreed.
And just like that, the tension broke—like morning sun cracking through the fog.
Satoshi laughed, breath shaky but real. "You both suck."
"We try," they said in unison.