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Here is a well-known fact: Gojo Satoru is the strongest sorcerer alive.
They'll love you for it, people say. They'll hate you for it, people say. They'll lose money and bodies to learn how to flay you alive, people say. As if his strength is the only thing attractive about him, as if everything else must be dimmed down to something palatable for him to be considered man enough to love.
You're a great fighter, Suguru says.
Satoru looks at him, one arm hooked over the edge of the bath, draping along its side.
You're a great fighter, Suguru says. But you’re an even better teacher, Satoru.
It’s something I can watch you do forever.
_____
[ 2014 ]
_____
“The most underrated thing to know about close combat,” says Satoru, “is to always — always, always, always — know where your weight lies.”
“What?” says Megumi. “Really?”
“Really,” says Satoru.
Megumi squints at him.
“Speaking from experience.” Satoru beams.
They’re out on the training grounds of the college now, the setting sun casting their shadows over the stonewalk, golden light over the building vines. It's warm. Satoru’s throat is like dry land at this point; strands of hair stuck to his forehead from sweat. It’s been an entire long day of training with Megumi, and, knowing full well the amount of accidental bruises this usually induces, Shoko has decided to tag along as well.
Megumi’s an insanely good learner. Attentive. Durable, too, considering the exhausting number of hours they’ve spent under the heat and how much Megumi is still willing to see it through to the end, no matter.
Fortunately, they’re now in the close of their training; reaching the end of their sparring session that should last until Megumi becomes too worn to stand upright. Which, judging by the way the boy’s eyes are losing focus, means it should only be another couple minutes. His balance is already off.
"What do you mean,” asks Megumi. (Despite the suspicion in his voice, his fists are raised to the corners of his mouth— just the way Satoru instructed him to. It’s a little endearing.)
Satoru waves his hand dismissively.
“People will say things like ‘protect your head, maintain eye contact, keep cool’, et cetera,” he says. “And that’s great and all. But since you’ve asked so very nicely, Megumi, for your favourite teacher's advice—”
“I’ve never—” begins Megumi.
“—you have to constantly be aware of where your weight lies during a fight,” continues Satoru. “It's important for footwork. Else you get slower. Lose balance.”
Megumi narrows his eyes again, obvious doubt etched on his face. It would’ve maybe been offensive, if Satoru doesn’t notice the way Megumi’s shifting his feet accordingly. How adorable.
“…Any other advice?” Megumi mutters.
Satoru charges toward him. Sees the sudden, startled surprise in Megumi’s eyes, before he grabs Megumi’s elbow and kicks him in the back of his knees.
Megumi falls to the ground. It's a graceless thud, with his shoulder bracing the impact to prevent himself from collapsing face-first. Dust from the ground puffs around him for a moment, then settles.
“The other advice,” Satoru says cheerily, “is to surprise them!”
“Ow, ugh, dammit,” Megumi says, wincing, because he's too polite a boy to use harsher profanities than that. Satoru wants to pat him on the head.
“Congratulations, you beat your student,” Shoko calls. She’s sitting, cross-legged, on a bench a few feet away from them, donned in her white lab coat with a bottle of beer in her hand. Satoru wonders if she just wanted to avoid actual work.
“And you are doing what, exactly,” says Satoru.
“Avoiding work,” says Shoko, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she takes another swig. It looks cold, the beer, judging by the water droplets streaming down it, perspiring in the sun. “Not beating up my students.”
“I'll have you know,” Satoru starts to say, but is interrupted when a voice behind him goes, light and breezy:
“Is Satoru misbehaving again?”
And how strange it is— nine years they’ve known each other, five years they’ve dated, and Satoru still gets that same rush of happiness whenever they’re in the same vicinity.
“Suguru!” Satoru exclaims, turning around.
He can’t help the smile pulling over his face. Suguru is approaching them, walking into the open air with his silhouette tall against the orange sunlight, a black tank top on with a towel slung over his shoulder, hair tied up in a bun. It’s so damn warm that Satoru can feel his skin stewing, sweating like a rat— yet Suguru doesn’t seem at all bothered by the heat, sauntering toward them with so much gaiety it’s nearly too attractive to watch. Satoru wants to pounce on him.
Suguru laughs. “Excited to see me?”
And then — from either side of Suguru — two small figures appear, sprinting forward, and within the next moment Satoru finds himself with an armful of—
“Gojo!”
Satoru laughs as Nanako and Mimiko cling to him, arms wrapped around each of his legs. They’re hugging him so tight that it’s sending a tingle up his calves.
“Gojo!” Nanako cries. “When are we getting more crepes?”
Satoru smiles. It's the sort of adoration he hasn't gotten from Megumi — or, well, any of the other students, really — so he souses in it as much as he can.
“Hey,” Satoru chides. The height difference is still too stark for the girls to grab onto anything higher than his waist, so he bends down into a squat, one hand on each of their heads, and ruffles the silky locks of hair that they surely have spent a lot of time combing. It smells like lilacs. “We've talked about this before. If Suguru is Master Getou, you guys have to call me Master Gojo too.”
Their faces turn horrified.
“…Okay,” says Satoru. “Otherwise you get no crepes.”
“Don't blackmail them,” says Suguru, nearing.
“It’s not blackmail,” says Satoru, “it’s bargaining.”
“Who gave you a teaching license,” Suguru says wryly. When Satoru looks up at him, Suguru is smiling, his expression as mild as the tone of his reprimand. He looks about ready to pinch Satoru's cheek. There is a fondness there in the way he’s staring, a familiar warmth—
Along with an emotion that Satoru can't yet place.
Hm, Satoru thinks.
He settles into a sitting position on the ground, legs crossed. Nanako and Mimiko have now left his side. They've ambled over to Megumi, who is flat on the ground a few steps away, straightening his legs to stretch the soreness away. He inches away from them as they approach with excited calls of his name, but his voice is kind, fawn-soft, when he tells them to calm down, hey, don’t touch that, it’s dangerous to wield around.
“How was training with Megumi?” asks Suguru.
“Good,” says Satoru, still fixing his eyes on the three of them. It's slightly bizarre, to think that it's been five years since they've brought these children back to the college. Five years since the village, since the Zenin clan lost another one of their best. It’s bizarre to think about how easily he and Suguru had plunged themselves into this, had thrown themselves into it headlong — raising these kids not only as teachers but as some strange form of parental figure — not even stopping to think that they could leave at any time. Not that they would ever want to. Satoru wants to do right by these kids, as sappy as that may sound.
“He'll grow to be really strong, y'know,” Satoru continues. “Fast reaction time. Just needs to be a bit more aware of what he's good at.” A pause, as he watches Nanako and Mimiko try to imitate Megumi’s stretches, a little more comical and less incorrect than he expected. “I think the girls should also do more of these close combat drills, Suguru. It’ll be beneficial for them.”
Suguru doesn't answer.
Not for a few moments, and then: “You're very good with kids.”
Satoru turns back to him.
Suguru has both hands tucked in his pockets, eyes set directly on Satoru with a sort of curious light in them. Satoru wonders, briefly, how on earth is it that meeting someone’s gaze can have his fingers itching to reach this much, a small flush of heat spreading from his chest outwards. There isn't even anything new in Suguru's expression— only that same, infinitesimal curve of the corners of his mouth, something eager reflected in his smile. That fondness, familiar warmth…
And oh, Satoru knows what that emotion is now.
“Why,” says Satoru, voice pitched low and quiet. “So are you, Master Getou.”
Suguru's brows narrow, just that tiny bit in warning.
“Gojo!” shouts Mimiko. “Master Getou! We have a question!”
Satoru holds Suguru's gaze for a second longer — just to see that Suguru is not breaking contact first, eyes held steady and unfalteringly on Satoru’s face — before dragging it back toward their students.
“Mimiko!” he says cheerfully. “What’s up?”
“We wanted to know,” says Mimiko, “who between the two of you is the better fighter?”
Satoru’s brain halts.
Mimiko and Nanako and Megumi look back at him, expectant. Even Shoko pauses mid-drink from over on the bench, her hand hovering in the air.
“Like, in close combat,” Nanako clarifies, when the silence hangs.
Satoru glances back at Suguru.
Who is — as expected — blinking in surprise at the sudden question. But there's a smile creeping there, surfacing gradually at the corners of his eyes, his mouth. Almost as if he thinks that there's a sure answer to this.
Like hell there is.
“It's me,” Satoru announces, “of course.”
Suguru looks at him. “Now hold on a sec—”
“I'm the stronger sorcerer,” Satoru says. “I can beat you in anything.”
Suguru turns his body fully to him now, eyebrows arched in something between disbelief and amusement. It’s a reaction that Satoru has grown to love riling out of him— although it’s unintended, in this particular moment. “Hold on a second,” Suguru repeats. “We're talking about physical strength here. And if I remember correctly, I’ve been knocking you down in every single—”
“La la la!” sings Satoru. “What’s that I hear in the wind? Are those whiffs of lies? Whispers of bullshit?”
“I can’t believe he’s twenty-four,” mutters Megumi.
Satoru pouts.
“I can’t believe you’re twenty-four,” says Suguru, looking like he’s holding back laughter. “Have you regressed in maturity?”
“I just haven’t regressed in strength,” says Satoru, “unlike you.”
Suguru rolls his eyes. “Zero manners.”
But instead of sounding irritated or displeased like Satoru expects him to, he only sounds mildly charmed. And it's confirmed when a smile spreads across his face — slow, somehow devious — as a drop of sweat finally slides down the skin on his neck, over to his collarbone and then under his shirt—
Satoru shakes himself out of it.
See, here's the thing. Suguru is incredible at hand-to-hand combat, Satoru will give him that. It would be blatantly dishonest if Satoru doesn't admit this as fact. But strength is something you hone, something you file; strength is something you define yourself with. And as close to a toss-up as they are for the title of better fighter, Satoru's pride will not allow him to admit that someone else might have the upper hand on him, when it comes to this.
“Second strongest isn't a bad title to have,” Satoru says slyly. “Suguru should know.”
Suguru catches his eyes. There's a glint of humour there, an echo of a joke. “Fine,” he says. “If you’re so insistent on your so-called strength, let’s have a match afterwards to settle this.”
“Later?” Satoru frowns. “Why can’t it be now?”
Suguru raises an eyebrow. “Do you want to lose face in front of everyone?”
“Oh, to hell with you.”
“Prideful brat.”
“Sore loser!”
“Shithead clown.”
Shoko sighs.
“Don’t mind them,” she says, turning to the students as Satoru aims a kick at Suguru. “They never change. This was them in high school too.”
“Yes, well,” says Megumi. “My condolences.”
_____
Here is a well-known fact: Gojo Satoru and Getou Suguru are the two strongest jujutsu sorcerers alive.
The two Special Grades we'll all have to look out for, they say. And that would've been regarded as typical, sure, whatever; every century has its own set of sorcerers so strong they're venerable. But what separates Satoru and Suguru from the rest of them — at least, according to hearsay — is that they are both utterly, incredibly, and wonderfully competent teachers.
(I would, um, object to that, Megumi might say, but Satoru advises you to pay him no mind.)
Megumi, Nanako, Mimiko. Maki, Inumaki, Panda. All students that Satoru and Suguru have taken under their wings and harbored with them a reputation for training the most powerful next generation of sorcerers. We'll raise with us a stronger world, Suguru had told him once. No one left behind. Satoru doesn't intend to let that fail.
Except.
Except that means Satoru can’t lose face.
Which means he cannot let Suguru beat him in close combat. Especially not when Suguru is smiling at him, gleaming with some fiendish glee, all the while suggesting that they should move their match to a dojo to avoid Yaga accidentally stumbling upon them.
Better lighting, too, Suguru adds.
_____
So Satoru cannot lose face.
“I am not letting you beat me,” Satoru declares.
“I know already,” says Suguru. “Jeez.”
It’s nearly nighttime now. They’re in one of the smaller training rooms — a dojo — of the college, the lantern lights on the ceiling casting a bright glow over the drawn windows. Wooden columns, straw mats lining the floorboards. The smell of incense.
Apparently Shoko and Megumi have had enough of them, and refused to come witness this match. There’s more to life than your childish, domestic fight, Shoko said, winking. Megumi simply scurried away the moment training ended.
(Strangely enough, Nanako and Mimiko also disappeared somewhere along the way. Satoru's not sure why, given how enthusiastic they were to know the answer.)
So it's just Satoru and Suguru here: both barefoot on the mat, the cuffs of their pants rolled up past their ankles. Blindfold and glasses off. Satoru thought it would be sensible to wear a loose t-shirt, too, allowing easy access for all movements— but Suguru has taken it one step further with the black tank top he’s donning. Half of his hair is tied and half let down, the muscles of his arms toned under the lights as he draws them back, set to strike.
“Ready?” says Suguru.
“I’m confused,” says Satoru, bending his knees, “why did you want the match to be here? This is the smallest dojo we have.”
Suguru’s eyes crinkle.
…Weird, Satoru thinks. There are plenty of other training rooms at the college. Some of them are able to house a class of twenty, if they ever need, or give enough space to spar without bumping into things. But this room is the smallest: walk twelve paces ahead and you’re sure to collide with the opposite wall. There's even a table in one corner with a random bag on top of it. What’s that for.
“Why,” says Suguru, “do we need a larger space for me to incapacitate you?”
Satoru glares at him.
“No techniques, no cursed energy,” Suguru reminds cheerily. He seems like he’s enjoying this far too much for someone merely looking forward to a fight. “Only physical strength.”
Satoru huffs. He bends his knees even further, then, and shifts the weight off his heels.
“Well,” Satoru says, “what are we waiting for.”
Suguru smiles.
And lunges for him.
The good thing about knowing Suguru for nine years now — the good thing about dating him for five of those — is that Satoru can predict all of Suguru’s movements, no matter how minute.
Suguru aims for a strike at his stomach: Satoru twists to the side. A knee to his hip: blocks. One swing at his head: ducks. That's also another thing about sparring with Suguru— you have to be fast, have to beware that he’ll have tricks up his sleeves, keep out a keen eye. It's not like Satoru hasn't had his fair share of battles with curses and enemies alike, but it's a different thing when it's someone on his level, someone he trusts, someone who knows his movements just as well.
Focus.
Suguru's fist charges toward his chest. Satoru can feel the air move, shifts his weight, and reflexively turns so that Suguru's knuckles collide with his arm instead. Pain immediately flares.
“Ah.” Suguru jerks back, his eyes wide. “Sorry—"
Satoru lands a punch to his stomach.
Suguru makes a surprised noise and stumbles back a step, one hand clutching over the spot, coughing dry. His eyes immediately lift up to Satoru’s — bright, clear, alight with something violently sharp — and Satoru feels a surge of adrenaline then. A swelling thrill, like cool mint and winter air racing through his veins.
“If you can’t bring yourself to hurt me,” Satoru says, grinning giddily, “I've already won, Suguru.”
Suguru studies him, mute and careful, chest still rising and falling to catch his breath.
Then he crouches, quick as light, and—
Satoru feels something collide with the back of his ankles. Off kilter and startled, he falls backwards, elbows bent out to brace himself, but before he even comes close to touching the floor, Suguru grabs him by the front of his shirt and yanks him forward, throws him sideways—
—and slams Satoru against the wall.
The impact almost knocks the wind out of his chest. It’s neither rough nor painful, but the action is so lightning-fast that Satoru barely has time to comprehend. It's only after he crashes against the hard surface, chest-first, that Satoru’s aware of Suguru’s hand on the back of his neck, the other hand locking both of Satoru’s wrists behind him.
“You were saying?” comes Suguru's voice.
“Fuck,” Satoru coughs out.
“That’s a record, then,” says Suguru, jaunty like he’s having fun. “Two minutes.”
Satoru tugs his hands. They don't budge, Suguru's grip around him ironclad.
Shit, he thinks, for emphasis.
Suguru is, by far, the most competent person at martial arts he knows. Satoru doesn't think he's ever met anyone who has this impeccable a posture, who has such succinct body mechanics, such practical footing. A sound mind. Instincts of a lion.
So for someone who prides himself on his strength, it's pretty fucking nerve-grating to know that he can be beaten by someone in close combat. Even if that someone is Suguru.
“Not yet,” Satoru grits out, angling his head to glare back.
And hell, he's pissed now. Pissed, and annoyed, because on top of this Suguru is wearing a lazy expression, blasé and laxed, seeming so unsurprised with the fact that he has Satoru pinned against the wall like it is effortless. Like he’s predicted this all along. It’s pissing Satoru the fuck off, and the irritation propels him to struggle, move his hands away, out, trying to get free of Suguru’s hold, and—
Suguru leans in close, and licks his ear.
Satoru almost caves to the ground in shock. His legs give out, a sudden, quick drain of energy.
“Wha— what are you,” he stammers.
He doesn’t have time to steel himself for it because, with a single movement, Suguru is pressing into him, the warmth of his body flushed against Satoru’s back. Satoru's breath stutters, alarmed, heart beginning to beat fast at the sudden proximity, so close that Satoru can smell the traces of linen, of curses and fresh earth on the other man’s body.
What are you, he tries to protest, but the words falter in his throat when Suguru — slowly, almost tentatively, all while still holding Satoru's wrist in a firm grip — traces his fingers over the small of Satoru's back, drawing at the dip just above his ass where Satoru can now feel the hard, hot bulge of Suguru's...
Satoru's ears burn.
Suguru’s mouth is so close to his cheek that he can sense the smile spreading there, instead of hearing it when Suguru says, in a low drawl, “Satoru is so easy.”
Then Satoru hears a click as something locks around his wrists.
He stills.
Tries to pull on his hands, and finds that he can't. Suguru’s fingers aren’t there anymore, but there’s a familiar object there, feathery and soft.
Handcuffs.
And it dawns on Satoru, then, with a flip of his stomach: choosing to use the smallest dojo the college has, separated away from the frequented hallways. The girls not showing up. A random bag atop the table in the corner of the room— which, Satoru only now registers, is just right beside him, an arm's reach away from Suguru.
“...Hah,” Satoru breathes out. Amused, even through the frustration and embarrassment of being pinned to the wall. “You sneaky bastard.”
“Come on,” Suguru murmurs, and god, Satoru’s cheeks are still heating at the sound of it. It's too soothing, too gentle compared to the heavy force of his body weighing against Satoru. “If you got distracted like this during a real fight, you would've been dead.”
“I’d never—” Satoru says, and immediately flushes upon hearing how it comes out so hoarse with want. “I'd never get distracted like this. This is cheating.”
“Is it,” says Suguru.
“You can't just—”
“Didn't you say,” Suguru whispers, a faint breath against Satoru's ear, “that the trick to winning close combat is surprise?”
Satoru cranes backwards to glare, indignant, but freezes— when Suguru presses a kiss to his neck.
It's neither a soft brush of his lips, nor is it a hard press that'll bruise. Just a simple, open-mouthed kiss, warm and wet, his teeth scraping lightly on Satoru's skin. Just a simple kiss, but Satoru has to reign in all his dignity to not whimper, the area on his neck tingly, rippling with something almost electrifying. It shoots straight down to where his cock is now straining, even against the loose fit of his trousers.
He knows what’ll happen when Suguru gets like this. Knows exactly where this is heading, how he’ll need, and crave, reduced to a mass of shameless filth.
“I didn't,” he says, “I didn’t lose,” and is glad it comes out more harsh than desperate.
A smile curves over Suguru’s lips.
He grabs Satoru by the back of his shirt, whirls him around. Through the shock of being hauled and thrown so roughly, so unexpectedly, Satoru barely has time to react as Suguru rams him face-down onto the table, his chest slamming against the wooden surface, rocking the structure off its stance. Satoru coughs out a grunt— and then, without warning, his trousers are shoved down.
“Suguru,” Satoru gasps out, shocked, the sudden exposure of his ass to the cool air making his legs tremble, his breath shaky.
“If Satoru can admit that you lost,” comes Suguru's voice behind him, seeped in amusement, “I'll go easy on you.”
Satoru turns his head to look back.
Suguru looks pleased. Full of mirth, this sadistic bastard, and anticipation. He looks ready to unravel Satoru apart.
And despite everything in Satoru's mind telling him to not surrender so quickly, to wrench open the handcuffs at the cost of blood, all he can feel right now is the calloused skin of Suguru's palm over the back of his neck, the shift of Suguru's warm, tight trousers brushing softly at his entrance. All he can feel is a low coil in his stomach, a restless tingle along his back.
“Fine,” Satoru says breathlessly, pulling as sardonic a grin as he can muster. “Good luck then. I’m not gonna resort to begging, if that’s what you’re going for.”
Suguru’s laugh is quiet.
“How unfortunate,” he says. And surely, Satoru thinks, it can't be possible for his own erection to swell even larger at the sound of a mere sentence, at a simple slur against him. But it can, and it does, when Suguru's voice takes on a playful lilt, pitched even lower as he leans down to Satoru’s ear and murmurs: “The strongest sorcerer alive is a liar.”
_____
Satoru prefers rough sex. Always has.
It's something they have established early on in their relationship. It's something Suguru has indulged him in, fortunately, constantly, most likely because — despite Suguru’s protests — Satoru suspects that Suguru enjoys it quite a bit more than he does. Satoru would be left with bruises more often than not. Scratches and red marks all over his body, unable to properly walk, let alone teach, for the entirety of the next day.
It's not like they don't enjoy the nights when they make love. Slow, gentle. So tender he's afraid it's unreal sometimes, undeserved. It's not like they don't take pleasure in it. But both their tastes have always veered more on the rougher side, on reducing Satoru to an incoherent mess.
Satoru has always preferred rough sex. Suguru knows this.
It's how Satoru finds himself in this position, now. Fully naked, both knees on the ground, ass raised high in the air with his hands tied behind his back. A cock ring on to prevent him from coming. And Suguru is behind him, fingers digging into his hips as he thrusts, hard and sharp— fucking into Satoru with so much force that he’s keening on the floor, gasping and reeling with his cheek on the mattress. He can feel every thrust in his stomach, in his throat.
“Quiet, now,” Suguru says, rather unsteadily. “Anyone can hear you, can walk in on you like this.”
Satoru swallows back a groan.
“You—” his voice wavers despite his best efforts, so he tries again. “You’re gonna have to do better than this, Suguru, if you want me to—”
Suguru lifts his hips up — enough for his knees to part from the ground momentarily — and rams into him, full to the hilt.
Satoru muffles down a moan.
“Too much?” Suguru says, only slightly out of breath. From the lightness in his tone, Satoru knows that he's smirking.
Before Satoru can say anything, before he can retaliate with something to save even an ounce of his dignity, Suguru continues fucking into him. Resumes the rhythm with teasing rolls of his hips, nails painful on Satoru's skin, somehow even more unrelenting than before. Meaner.
And every time Satoru's body begins to sag down, flattening onto the floor, his thighs aching and trembling with the strain of holding this position, Suguru's hands would hoist them back up, pulling Satoru backwards onto his cock. Satoru’s knees are weak against the ground, squirming, but Suguru doesn’t let up, doesn’t slow the snap of his thrusts, hands firm on either side of Satoru’s hipbones.
“Stay still,” says Suguru.
Satoru moans. His own erection is still untouched and leaking, and god, the inability to reach down and touch himself is sending him into a lightheaded haze of pain. He can barely see — there are tears in his eyes that he can’t wipe because his hands are tied — and his mouth is watering from the overload of sensation, slack open, unable to catch his breath.
He tries to rut against the floor next, for some friction — for anything — but Suguru only yanks his hips up even higher, and says, in a voice that is unfairly steady: “No.”
Satoru’s mind is, at this point, too hazy and addled to react to this with grace.
He clenches down on Suguru’s cock.
Suguru falters a little. Through Satoru's muzzy, lust-driven consciousness, he thinks he can hear Suguru groan, a strangled noise from the back of his throat. It’s a satisfying sound.
“Satoru is not being very obedient,” Suguru says, panting slightly, “is he.”
Then — without warning — Suguru slides out of him in one swift movement, and flips him over.
Satoru yelps. He’s splayed on his back now— or rather, leaning down onto his shoulders, given that Suguru still has his hands on Satoru's waist, supporting the lower half of his body and raising it to level with Suguru's cock, one leg over Suguru's shoulder. It’s such a bare position, with his own erection now in full view for Suguru to see, leaking against his stomach and pulsing with the cock ring around its base, blocking him from any release.
And like this, Satoru can see the other man in full view as well: cheeks flushed red, chest heaving with the muscles of his abdomen tight, beads of sweat running down his skin. God, Satoru could come from this sight alone, if only he's allowed to.
“So,” says Suguru. “Want to admit that you lost?”
The muscles in Satoru's arms are aching, bound underneath him. His fingernails scratch shakily against the mattress.
Still, he smiles up at Suguru, lightheaded, and whispers, “No.”
It’s all the warning he could’ve given himself before Suguru slams back into him.
Satoru feels all the air pushed out of his lungs, his throat dry and raw. He doesn't know how Suguru is doing it — how he’s keeping Satoru hoisted up by the waist, considering how sweat-slicked their bodies are — but he is, and his rhythm is still setting a maddening, unyielding pace. Satoru’s entire body is shaking now, desperate, and god, this is dangerous, because there’s only so much of it he can take.
Then Suguru drives himself in at a slightly different angle. Lifts Satoru up a bit higher, and aims for that tangle of nerves. The head of his cock scrapes against it, and Satoru feels himself go so unbearably tight around Suguru, trembling all the way down to his fingertips, and he moans out loud before he can swallow it down.
“Oh?” says Suguru. He pulls out almost entirely, then plunges back in at the same spot, and this time—
“Fuck,” Satoru chokes out, eyes wide, as he arches up and pants for air. He doesn’t manage to stifle the whimpers this time, all of it tearing out of him as a wave of pleasure courses through his spine, curling his toes. The ring is painful around his cock.
“Look at you,” Suguru mumbles. “What would people think, hm, if they saw you like this?”
He opens his mouth to add something, but Satoru cuts him off with a gasped, “No,” shaking his head weakly. “No, I'm not gonna— I won't, I—”
Suguru huffs out a laugh.
Still half-buried inside, he sets Satoru onto the ground. Onto his bound arms beneath. And then slowly, steadily, teasingly spreads Satoru's legs as wide as they will go.
Satoru tries to speak, tries to call for the other man's name, but the vulnerability of this position has his lips pressing together instead, so tightly he's afraid they'll be swollen, bitten raw. His thighs are trembling with shame.
Suguru lines himself back— and despite the resolve left within him, Satoru finds himself saying, “B-be gentle,” the words coming out desperate, a plea.
Suguru glances up at him through the strands of black hair falling over his forehead. There's an edge of an adrenaline smirk playing across his mouth, and he's eager, this Suguru. Hungry.
“Then beg me for it.”
He grinds himself back in, and oh— the angle—
Suguru keeps up a faster pace, aiming for those sensitive nerves with his hands prying Satoru's legs wide open, over and over again. And Satoru starts to writhe, knowing that he won't be a match for Suguru's strength the way they are now, but if he's squirming, it'll at least be more difficult for Suguru to hold him in place, for the thrusts to be as punishing. But all it does is tighten the clutch Suguru has on him.
He thinks he hears himself sobbing. Oh god, fuck, his voice a wreck, Suguru. Satoru's vision clouds. Everything is heat, and heat, and heat — Suguru inside him, filling him, their bodies scorching — and Satoru is beginning to not be able to see properly with the tears in his eyes. He thinks maybe this is when he should give up and dissolve into headshakes and nods. He can't find his own voice. He can't even find any oxygen in his lungs.
“Hey,” Suguru says. “Don't pass out on me now.”
“I,” Satoru whispers, wondering if it’s even loud enough for Suguru to hear. “I can't...” and his voice is punched out by a particularly sharp thrust.
His cock is twitching, throbbing painfully at this point. Untouched. The ring is still secure around it, keeping him at the edge every time he nears it, so repeatedly that Satoru's beginning to numb from the waist down. Even his arms are prickling from being bound for so long. He tries to breathe through gasps, the thick solid length of Suguru's cock stretching him open, and god, every thrust has him crying out from oversensitivity now, it's too sore, too hot, too much, his rim must be so swollen, body tensing like a drawn bow, and he can't, he can't, he can't, he—
—Suguru bends down, and flicks his tongue across Satoru's nipple.
It's at this point that Satoru loses all composure and whines.
“I lost,” he sobs, so brokenly that he’s not sure if Suguru even catches what he’s saying. “I lost. Please— please, Suguru— I need—”
Suguru smiles.
He shifts forward, and captures Satoru's lips in a surprisingly chaste kiss. Gentle, indulgent. Like an apology.
“Good boy,” Suguru murmurs. “That wasn’t so bad now, was it?”
Then he fucks himself back in. Unfastens the ring, wraps his hand around Satoru's cock, and muffles Satoru's scream with his mouth.
_____
When Satoru regains consciousness, he's in Suguru’s arms.
Ah, he thinks hazily.
It’s been a while since he was last bridal carried like this. Weeks, perhaps, or maybe months. Normally he would be too embarrassed, too proud to let it be; would wrestle his way out of the hold and claim that he's able to walk on his own, even if he limps the whole way through.
But it's a welcome embrace, tonight. A blanket is draped over him; he's naked underneath, his feet cold, but the floral scent of laundered fabric is cozy, warming him through. There's the drumming sound of water nearby.
“Ow,” Satoru says, because predictably…
“You okay?” Suguru says hastily, a thin edge of concern in his voice. “Sorry, did I—?”
“Please.” Satoru rolls his eyes, even as he nestles into Suguru's chest. “What do you take me for.”
The words come out somewhat frail, his throat still raw. Suguru most likely hears the wound it in too, because his hands instinctively folds Satoru closer towards him. Satoru doesn't complain.
They've already left the dojo. The room they're in now is darker, smelling of sandalwood, a cool breeze cresting over the windowsill in a corner. Their room. The bedroom they’ve been sleeping in together for the past few years: that familiar table, that ashtray, that dying cigarette as charred as the hand that used it. It brings Satoru comfort, this touch of home.
Suguru is dressed again in the same clothes from earlier. He’s walking toward the bathroom, and oh, that’s where the sound of running water comes from. A bath has been drawn for him, Satoru realizes, smiling. How predictable. How adorably expected.
“I'm not someone you're gonna shatter, y'know,” says Satoru. “You don't have to coddle me every time.”
“But I want to,” says Suguru, simple as that.
The blanket slides off Satoru on the way to the bathroom door; Suguru carefully shakes away the last threads of it hanging on Satoru's body as he comes to a stop at the tub. The tiles are wet already, humid from the steam.
“I can take it from here,” says Satoru, amused.
There’s a beat of hesitation... and then he's slowly lowered into the warm water. It's almost scalding, the contact, but once Satoru sinks deeper down to his jaw, the heat of it envelops him so blissfully that he feels all the muscles of his joints relax. Even his bones seem to ease.
Suguru kneels at the side of the bath. “How are you feeling?” he asks.
Satoru lifts his chin up.
He has a good look at Suguru now: black locks clinging to his forehead from perspiration, hair completely down, his lips crooked into a smile. There's still that slightly apologetic expression on his—
Satoru smacks his palm against Suguru's face.
“Gah,” Suguru yelps.
“I'm gonna be offended,” Satoru scolds, without rancor, as Suguru rubs at his nose in half confusion, “at how much you're underestimating me. Do you know how many times we’ve done this?”
“I haven't,” says Suguru, “haven't gone that hard in a while.”
Satoru grins. “You were turned on, weren’t you?” he says. “When I was bargaining with the girls.”
“Blackmail,” Suguru corrects. “Well… I guess if you put it that way, yes.”
Satoru laughs. “You pervert.”
“I meant that you looked cute with them,” Suguru says, frowning a little. And perhaps it's from the steam rising around them, but his cheeks are tinting a faint pink. Satoru notes with delight that he's averting his eyes as well, his voice falling quieter. “Megumi, too. I… I like seeing you be a good teacher.” A pause, as he clears his throat. “I like watching you around the kids.”
Satoru smiles.
He tips his head back, rests it on the edge of the porcelain tub. The steam curls out past the open doorway, a pleasant dampness in the air.
“Come here,” he says, hooking his finger inward.
Suguru hesitates, a flicker of something akin to guilt in his eyes. It would've been a sight for Satoru to rag and poke fun at, if he wasn't feeling so lethargic at the moment, so unwound.
Suguru nudges closer, finally. Settles atop the tiles and grout a few inches away from Satoru, expectant like Satoru's about to tell him off. It's a little funny, in all honesty, and a lot endearing. God, Satoru thinks, what do I do with you, as he lifts one hand from the bath — hears the sloshing of water echoing off the walls — and reaches over to ruffle Suguru's hair.
Suguru doesn't make any noise, but his chin tips down, a gesture so puppy-like Satoru nearly bonks his fist on Suguru's head.
“Good boy,” Satoru says instead, watching the water snake down the smooth length of Suguru's cheek. “Guess I lost that round, huh. But don't make the mistake of thinking that I’m worse than you are at close combat.”
Suguru's returning smile is fond. “How stubborn,” he mutters, closing his fingers around Satoru's wrist and rubbing his thumb over the skin there, the touch feather-light.
And it's really too unfair, Satoru thinks drowsily, how one man can have this much of an effect on him. There was a time, long ago, when he felt like Suguru was a series of snapshot photographs. Something there only for my memories, like a skipping record, like a stone across a stream. There was a time when Satoru felt like his heart was about to be broken at any minute.
But Suguru is here with him now.
Suguru is here by my side. Suguru — made for better things than this, worth a thousand hulls of me — is here, fingers dancing across his skin, gentle like Satoru is not anything made human, not anything born mortal. Not anything of reverence solely for his strength.
Suguru leans in.
He brushes his lips over Satoru's cheek. Solemnly, earnestly; the kiss as shy as a caress.
“Would the strongest sorcerer,” Suguru whispers, “allow me to wash his hair?”
And the way Satoru smiles, then— it must have been as light as he feels, as bright as he feels, because Suguru looks taken aback at the sight of it.
“Stupid question,” Satoru says, and pulls him in.
.