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“Gojo, are you certain this is the correct path?”
Satoru looks up, seeing Captain Geto standing at the prow, face pulled tight with frustration.
He hums, mostly to himself, and looks back down at the map, ignoring the urge to snap back. His thumb smudges at the sodden ink where yesterday’s heavy rainwater has soaked through, trying to salvage what’s left of the route lines. The sky is slate and heavy this early morning, the wood slick beneath his boots, and every now and then the ship will lurch so roughly that he has to stabilize himself with a palm to the railing.
He hears Captain Geto mutter something again quietly, voice impatient, coiled tight like a snake holding itself back just before the strike. Satoru can practically feel the man’s eyes burning holes in the side of his head.
The truth is, he could answer. Not with anything helpful, but he could argue. He could indulge in another round of back-and-forth with the Captain, a routine that’s grown disturbingly easy the longer they’ve been at sea. The urge is strong now, alive in his skin, running back and forth across his chest.
However, if he engages, he knows it will only result in higher tensions, which wouldn’t be the wisest decision for today. They’ve gotten off course thanks to the severe thunderstorms over the last few days, all unpredictable and unusually violent. It was the price of secrecy: without access to his company’s better ships or up-to-date navigation tools, he had to make do with what they had. The crew, unsurprisingly, had taken it all in stride. They followed the Captain’s orders without question, as if they’d been born for emergencies.
Of course, part of this mess was Satoru’s own fault. He’d convinced Captain Geto he knew a shortcut— insisted he was familiar with these waters, even got his apprentice, Yuta, to back him up. At first, Geto refused, wary and skeptical, but Satoru offered more money for the expedition and something else, a favor he hasn’t yet named. Eventually, the Captain relented, though not without a warning: if things went south, Satoru would have to work with him to get them back on track. Which is what they were trying to do now, though Satoru does not appreciate the way the man had forced him into it.
He remembers Captain Geto’s words now, clear as the burn they’d left:
"Gojo, I only agreed to take you this route because you and Okkotsu swore up and down that cutting through the Gen Current would get us to Shinraku faster. From now on, you only use the map we have. Got it?"
The way he’d said it was soft and polite, which Satoru didn’t mind. It was the sting surrounding the tone of his words, the kind of authority that made Satoru feel like a kid being reprimanded by an older cousin. His eyes also told the same story, eyes burning with a kind of exasperation Satoru was no stranger to.
The man had a knack for getting under his skin, drawing out the worst in him, and Satoru refuses to let him win that easily.
It’s a mystery why the universe decided to bestow such an infuriating set of qualities upon Geto Suguru, of all people. Every night, Satoru considered asking God directly, though he doubts it would listen, why it would grant this man such a gift for being both insufferable and, somehow, impossible to ignore?
See, Captain Geto isn’t just passionate. He’s righteous to a fault, sharp-tongued and witted, and if Satoru were to be honest, secretive. He carries himself like he knows something no one else does. Could be arrogance, could be something else, or a mix of both. There’s this tension to him, like he’s always wound just a bit too tight, yet Satoru has seen something else lurking beneath the surface.
He’s seen it on nights when the rain lets up and the sky clears, when the crew gathers with battered bottles and laughter, and the starlight spills across the deck, turning the Captain’s eyes warm as honey. The contrast between the amber in his gaze and the cool blues and purples of the night sky never fails to unnerve Satoru. Sometimes, if he’s close enough to catch their reflection in the man’s eyes, the effect is almost otherworldly— like watching warmth float in a sea of cold. There’s a natural charisma about him, a quiet gravity that draws the crew in. Satoru notices it most in Haibara, the younger deckhand, who looks at Captain Geto like he hung the stars himself. It could be read as endearing, but most of the time it just irks Satoru.
It’s in those moments, with the crew, when Satoru sees him laugh, real and bright, almost boisterous. The silent arrogance turns loud, his wit cutting but not cruel, and Satoru is left thinking that perhaps the man is almost likeable.
Almost.
Of course, none of that side is ever directed at Satoru. No, with him, Captain Geto is always composed, always a little cold. Well— “composed” isn’t even the right word. It’s more like the man tries his very best to be composed, but Satoru can see right through him.
For all of Captain Geto’s supposed poise, the man’s expressions never lie. If he ever disagreed with something Satoru says, he’d wrinkle his nose, eyebrows knitting, and say, ‘Gojo, I understand you’re used to being told you’re always right, but…’ And whenever he was annoyed or starting to lose his patience, he’d press his thumb to his forehead, close his eyes, and Satoru would see that vein in his temple start to show.
Actually, should he even call him that? “Captain” feels over-the-top in Satoru’s opinion. The man is a fraud. Admirable, but a fraud. And Satoru is starting to see why people are cautious seeking out these sorts of services— settling for unregistered expeditions, on a ship that may very well be stolen.
He can also tell the man looks down on him. Geto is always the first to chastise Satoru’s “lack of manners” or bring up his privileged upbringing, which Satoru finds hypocritical given Geto’s own disregard for the laws of the sea. If order is so important, why is he the one ferrying smugglers and running from the authorities? The argument, however, feels hollow in his mind. He knows, deep down, that Geto’s judgments aren’t entirely wrong. That doesn’t make them any less irritating.
On top of that, there’s just… the way Geto looks at him sometimes. That stare— unreadable, but intense. It’s infuriating and never fails to get under Satoru’s skin. And yet, for some reason, it makes his stomach twist, pooling with something he’d rather not name.
There were moments, perhaps when the moonlight caught the main deck rather intensely, or when the crew passed around too many bottles of rum after a long day, where Satoru would catch Geto’s gaze lingering on him. Not looking down on him, not judging, but something almost appraising, sharp, borderline magnetic. It made his skin crawl with discomfort, yet it excited him.
His thoughts snap to a halt when he feels a warm hand clamp down on his shoulder. He turns to find Geto’s gaze leveled at him, eyes tense with irritation.
“Have you been looking at the map?” Geto says. There’s some bite to his tone, though not enough to alarm Satoru.
He has to stifle a laugh at it— despite all the drawbacks that came with arguing, there’s something addicting about watching Geto’s face tense up, his eyes alight with a particular kind of annoyance that always humors Satoru. Instead of responding directly, he just lets out a quiet, “Hm?” and squints past Geto at the horizon. He knows it’ll get on his nerves, as the man is always harping about “eye contact” and “respect during conversations.”
Geto doesn’t disappoint. He reaches forward and snatches the map out of Satoru’s hands, giving him a flat look. “Are you sure you’re looking at what I gave you?”
Satoru relents, shrugging. “Yes, Captain, this is the map you gave me. If your crew hadn’t left them out in the rain last night, maybe it wouldn’t have gotten soaked. It’s barely legible.”
Geto frowns, holding the map up closer to his face, tilting it so the light hits the dampened paper. Satoru watches the way his eyes move over the sheet, quick and calculating. He can see Geto’s jaw tighten, the way he swallows. Now, he knows he’s right, but Geto would never admit it.
“You can still make out the general path,” Geto says at last, voice clipped. “A few islands on the way, and our destination. You just have to look a little harder.”
Satoru lifts an eyebrow, “Oh, is that all? Maybe if you’d let me upgrade us to a real ship, you wouldn’t have to squint.” He snatches the map back, giving it another once-over. “Also, you’re lying. Unless you see something I can’t, Shinraku isn’t visible on this map anymore.”
Geto shoots him a look. “Maybe if you had any patience, we wouldn’t be lost.”
Satoru mutters, “It’s not my fault,” just loud enough for Geto to hear, but doesn’t look up.
Geto sighs, running a hand through his damp hair as he glances over the deck. Down by the stairwell, Nanami and Haibara emerge from the hold, blinking into the gray daylight. Geto’s gaze lingers on them for a second— seeming to count heads, take stock, watch out (as he always does)— before he turns back to Satoru.
“Alright,” he says, voice low, “we just need to make it through the Tenzai Strait. It’s rough, but it’s the only way we can get back on track before tomorrow. I don’t see any other option.”
Satoru frowns at the map, then stabs a finger at another stretch of water inked in faded red. “What about the Devil’s Belt? If we cut through there, we could shave off a whole day.”
For the briefest moment, Geto’s eyes widen, then he lets out a dry, humorless laugh. Satoru stares at him blankly, unsure of what he’s supposed to be understanding. Geto looks at him for a few seconds longer before his face becomes awfully serious.
“Gojo, we can’t go through that. The currents are unpredictable, and half the time the rocks are hidden just under the surface. That shortcut’s gotten more ships wrecked than I can count.”
Satoru shrugs. “It’ll save us time. Plus, we managed that other shortcut just fine, didn’t we?”
“That was different,” Geto says, slowly. “We had better weather and more supplies then. Now we’re running light, and this crew doesn’t need any more trouble. I’m not risking anyone for your bright ideas.”
“Ok man, I was just offering an alternative plan. I think we’re skilled enough to go through with it.”
“Don’t call me ‘man’.” Geto frowns. “Also, I’m aware of that, and appreciate your ambition, but it would help if you actually thought through said plans instead of just blurting out what you, and only you, think is a good idea.”
“Then fuck off and leave me alone.” Oops. He hadn’t meant to say that, but the thought slips out unbidden. Perhaps the Captain had a point.
Geto halts, eyebrows slightly creasing. “What?”
Satoru leans back against the rail, crossing his arms. “I mean, you’re the Captain, right? You have the last word. If you think my ideas aren’t helpful, then by all means, just do your job.” He holds Geto’s gaze, just a little too long.
Geto’s eyes have a flat, unreadable intensity. For a moment, Satoru is thrown off as he’s usually able to discern the man’s feelings, but he refuses to be the one to look away. He squares his shoulders, head tilting just so, chin up. “It’s clear you don’t trust me, and that’s fine. Just don’t make me ‘help’,” he throws air quotes around the word, “if you’re not going to listen to any of my input.”
Geto exhales sharply, like he’s biting back half a dozen replies. “Okay, Gojo…” he says, tone clipped. His gaze flicks off toward the horizon.
Then he gives Satoru a direct, level look, standing a little straighter. Though Satoru’s a few centimeters taller, Geto’s presence more than fills the space between them. “Just keep in mind, I’m doing this as a favor. A very generous favor, in case you forgot. I usually don’t take on jobs like this, but it seemed like you had a decent enough cause.” He chews the inside of his cheek, and for the briefest second his gaze drops to Satoru’s chest— quick, almost imperceptible, but Satoru catches it.
Geto continues, “If I’d known how difficult you’d be to work with, I would have turned you down from the start. But it’s too late for that now.” He gestures to the battered map. “We will make it to Shinraku, and you will do whatever it is you came here to do. But for that to happen, I need you to cooperate. I thought it might be a good idea to let you help out with navigation, since you were so adamant about knowing the right way.”
He lets out a small laugh, almost to himself. “I thought that maybe you could learn a few things, if you ever plan on doing something like this again, without my crew. But it’s clear you don’t care.”
He steps back, giving Satoru a swift once-over, then turns and strides away toward the deck, boots thudding dully against the slick wood.
Satoru is left standing there, a little stunned, though he refuses to show it. He sighs and drags a hand over his face, letting the morning’s chill settle against his skin. The sun is hardly visible on the horizon, but he’d gotten up early, as he always does, to take in the ocean. Geto had somehow been up before him, already positioned at the prow. Judging by the tension in his shoulders, Satoru could tell it would be a morning full of bitching, and, as usual, he’d been right.
The conversation had started out almost civil; until Geto practically forced him into helping plan the day and gave him a useless map. However, with the man’s words echoing in his head now, Satoru feels a flicker of guilt. He had insisted on the shortcut that has them in this current predicament, after all.
But even now, stubborn as he is, he stands by his reasons. The reason for this entire trip. He has always been ambitious, aggressive even, when it comes to his work. And he knows even Geto sees it, being here.
The kyonagi, an elusive aquatic species, heavily rumored to have healing properties. Even if only half of the stories are true, it’s enough to change the world. They’re native only to Shinraku, and thanks to their vulnerable status and reputation as dangerous, they’ve been all but outlawed in his home country.
For the past year, he’d been obsessed, reading every text and travel log he could get his hands on, squinting at diagrams, writing up half a dozen proposals that all got shot down the moment his parents or anyone at the Gojo Maritime Authority caught wind.
Absolutely not, Satoru, too dangerous, too expensive, and what if someone finds out?
It’s funny how predictable their answers had been. Like he hadn’t already weighed every risk, like he actually ever cared about permission.
No one wanted to sponsor a trip to Shinraku for an animal that’s supposedly sacred, illegal to even touch, much less haul halfway across the world for research. But he couldn’t just let it go. If he could get a live sample, or even some tissue, he’s convinced it could lead to a breakthrough. Others in his field agreed, though not many. Scientists, after all, could be as fickle as politicians depending on who was in charge, who was watching, who was paying. Still, there were a core few who supported him, but none were invested enough to come along. None except Yuta Okkotsu, his young apprentice, much too earnest for his own good. He saw the same world-changing potential in this as Satoru did.
So when he started snooping around for other options, when he started to hear the name Geto Suguru come up— only whispered in half-lit back rooms with a mix of awe and warning— he knew what his next steps were.
A captain who ran underground expeditions for people who couldn’t or wouldn’t go through the usual channels. The man was apparently infamous for getting people where they needed to go, no matter how impossible. Though, always at a price, and always off the record. Satoru didn’t know how he’d never heard of him before, his parents being involved in the industry and all.
At first, Geto seemed very interested. He was surprisingly enthusiastic over letters. The man wrote back quickly, almost excited, laying out possible routes, debating crew size, even offering two or three different ships depending on what Satoru wanted. He was practical, thorough, a little too formal at times, but it was better than anything. Much better, really. For a few weeks, Satoru even thought he liked him. That ended the moment they met in person.
He remembers their first meeting clearly on this very boat, anchored to a dock on a secluded shore. The salt-heavy wind tossed Geto’s hair back as he waited at the rails, and his presence almost immediately ignited something in Satoru too. He had barely gotten out a few words after introducing his full name before he caught a shift— something subtle but definite in Geto’s eyes. It was a sort of narrowing, like he was sizing Satoru up and not quite liking what he saw.
His face darkened— or maybe it just brightened with some kind of impassioned indignation. Satoru isn’t sure, even now, what exactly went wrong in those first few minutes. Maybe it’s just that Satoru can be a lot, in person. He’s heard that before. He’s also heard that people fear him, which he usually finds amusing.
That day, he remembers looking at Geto, noting the tension after discussing a few details about the expedition.
“You seem hesitant, Captain Geto. If you’re worried about the size of the ship, I can just get a larger one from my parents’ company. No one has to know.”
Geto goes a little stiff at that, polite but obviously not pleased. He presses his lips together, the line of his jaw tightening. “I don’t think that’s the best idea, Gojo. Isn’t the whole point to not use their resources? We want to keep this on the low.”
Satoru rolls his eyes, quick to answer, “It can still be a secret. I don’t care about the ship, I just want you and your crew. If anything happens, I’ll take full responsibility.”
There’s a pause, heavy with something Satoru can’t place. Geto’s next words are polite enough, but his throat moves like he’s swallowing back the urge to say something sharper. His eyes, though— those stayed fixed on Satoru, intense in a way that almost feels invasive.
“I appreciate your… dedication,” Geto finally says, the corners of his mouth twitching, though not up into a smile Satoru would consider kind. “But my crew is used to working a certain way. If secrecy is what you want, trust me. My way is best.”
To his word, Geto ended up pulling through, and rounded up a crew of around a dozen, while Satoru brought along Yuta.
He shakes the memory off with a scoff, and stretches. Dwelling on first impressions won’t help him now, especially now that Geto’s upset with him and they were still off course, the sky growing lighter by the second and the crew beginning to emerge from below.
The morning air is briny and cold, biting through the thin fabric of his button up. He tucks the battered map under his arm, and heads down the deck toward the cluster of figures by the mast.
Nanami is there, sleeves rolled up despite the cold, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Haibara waves as Satoru approaches, a little too chipper for the hour in his opinion. A few others are gathered, Toji glowering over a mug of tea, and Shoko, hair twisted back and eyes sharp even while half-awake. She’s leaning against the railing, and offers Satoru a nod. Yuta is also there, and gives him a small smile.
For a moment, he wonders if anyone else caught the tail end of his “argument” with Geto.
The Captain himself stands at the center, hands on his hips, gazing sweeping over his crew as he explains something. His presence is magnetic, as usual, drawing everyone’s focus even as he spouts nonsense.
He doesn’t look at Satoru as he draws near, just pauses and clears his throat. He continues, voice carrying over the slap of the waves. “We need to make it through Tenzai Strait by nightfall. If the weather holds, we’ll cut east along the current and avoid the worst of the reefs. Nanami, you’ll keep an eye on the depth markers. Shoko, make sure we have enough fresh water up top. If we hit rougher weather, we’ll need everyone on deck.”
Satoru leans against the rigging, studying the group. He catches Haibara looking between him and Geto, and he raises an eyebrow at the younger man.
Geto finally turns to him, gaze somewhat flat. “Gojo, since you’re so eager to help, you and Yuta will be on lookout. The fog’s coming in thick, so I want eyes sharp. If you see anything strange, rocks, wreckage or otherwise, let us know immediately.”
Satoru clicks his tongue. Didn’t Geto just tell him he’d start leaving him alone? Claiming that he didn’t care about this?
“Is that all? I was hoping for a more glamorous assignment.”
He looks over to Yuta, who’s already paling. “Hey, buddy, maybe we can start naming clouds to keep ourselves entertained. I’m sure the Captain would love a list of our favorites.”
Nanami sighs, rubbing his temples. “If you must talk, do it quietly. Some of us have headaches.”
Haibara perks up. “I can take lookout with you, Gojo! I love clouds, and I’m good at spotting birds.”
“He was joking, Haibara.”
“Oh… Still, it’d be fun.”
Geto’s eyes are still on Satoru, unimpressed. “Please refrain from roping my crew into your hobbies, Gojo. Don’t infect them with your… spirit.”
Satoru raises his hands, all innocence. “What? Oh, c’mon, Captain, that one wasn’t even my fault.”
Shoko, leaning against the railing, chimes in, “Yeah, Suguru, let the man joke.” She eyes Satoru up and down, a smirk spreading across her lips. “And Gojo, button up your shirt, would you? A few more loose buttons, and I’m going to see your happy trail.”
Satoru glances down, surprised at the deep V. “Oh,” he frowns, hastily moving to do up a button before he realizes it’s gone. It must have fallen somewhere. “Didn’t realize.”
Haibara pipes up, “I think it looks stylish, Gojo. It’s impressive, being a scientist and maintaining such a strong build. With Captain Geto, it makes sense, given his job and all—”
Everyone stares at Haibara. Nanami puts a heavy, pitying hand on the man’s shoulder.
Haibara’s face turns red. “No, I just meant… it can’t be easy, right?”
Geto laughs, and it’s an honest, nice sound. Satoru squints and zeroes in on his expression, taking advantage of the rare sight. He can’t lie, it’s pleasant to look at. Geto’s eyes curve in soft crescents, the kind of smile that creases at the corners and makes his face seem gentler, younger, almost kind. It suits him, he thinks, though he’d never say it out loud.
Geto places a reassuring hand on Haibara’s other shoulder. “Don’t worry, Haibara. Gojo’s vanity is legendary, so I’m sure he appreciates the compliment.”
Haibara turns even redder, ducking his head. Satoru feels the urge to tease him further, maybe poke fun at how obviously flustered he is around Geto, but for once, he lets it go. It’d be too much, even for him.
Still, Geto’s comment doesn’t escape unnoticed. Legendary vanity? Satoru’s not oblivious— he knows his reputation precedes him, that money and status can define a man before anything else.
But still, it’s frustrating hearing it from Geto’s mouth, as if the man’s already decided who he is and where he fits, no matter what Satoru actually does. And the truth is, they don’t know each other that well, despite being stuck on the same ship for weeks. Satoru, however, does know the Captain’s type: the kind that will accost him no matter the circumstance, sharp and ready with a judgment even before any verdict’s in. It’s irritating, but he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t at least a little intriguing. He wants to know more about him— about Geto’s real thoughts, about why he acts the way he does. The man might be easy to read, but there’s always something held back, something Satoru can’t quite pin down. For all his transparency, he’s still an enigma.
He glances at Geto, who catches his eye and arches an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement lingering. The tension between them seems to thin, just a little, and Satoru finds himself smiling.
The rest of the crew, mostly Toji’s men and a few stragglers, finally shuffle up from below deck. There’s a quiet rhythm to it, boots scuffing wood, shoulders brushing past each other in passing that Satoru’s gotten used to, almost appreciates now. Geto explains the day’s plan again in more detail, and everyone listens attentively. When no one raises objections, the meeting begins to dissolve. They scatter in slow waves, peeling off into assigned duties, slipping back into the hum of motion.
Satoru stays put, gaze fixed somewhere just past Geto’s shoulder, pretending not to notice the way the Captain still hasn’t looked at him again.
Eventually, Yuta slides up beside him with a quiet, “I guess we’re on cloud duty.”
Satoru laughs. “Yeah, guess we are.”
They make their way toward the lookout post near the bow, clambering up to the raised platform with the ease of practice. The wind’s picked up since the early morning, now briny, sharp, and cold enough to nip. Satoru should grab another layer, but he’s handled worse.
The fog’s beginning to creep in, curling slow and quiet across the sea’s surface like smoke from a dying fire. For a while the two of them are quiet, leaning against the rail. Yuta points at a flock of birds off to the left.
“Those aren’t common this far out,” he murmurs. “Glaucous-winged gulls, I think. If they’re moving this way, it might mean land nearby.”
Satoru hums in acknowledgment, though he’s no longer listening. His eyes are already drifting. Not to the birds, not even to the horizon, but back across the deck where Geto is giving final orders to a few crew members before moving toward the helm. There’s a weariness in the way he walks today, something tight in his shoulders.
Yuta glances at him, then follows his gaze. “You and Captain Geto seem… tense today.”
“We’re always tense,” Satoru replies, maybe too quickly. He adds, jokingly, “It’s how we bond.”
Yuta makes a soft, noncommittal sound. “Right.”
Satoru doesn’t answer. He keeps his gaze trained on the deck, eyes tracking the movement of Geto’s broad frame as he hauls a rope back into place, and he can hear his voice from here, low but commanding. It’s like he’s been stitched into the ship itself, a part of the wood and the wind and the breath of the sea.
Even from this distance, Satoru can feel it again, that odd pull. A pull so subtle, yet intense. The one he’s been trying to ignore, but find it increasingly pointless. Geto Suguru is a magnet, and Satoru is iron, drawn in against his better judgment.
He’s curious about the man. About what makes him tick, or laugh, or stumble over his words. About what might make his cheeks flush, because Satoru did see it once— early on, before the crew grew wary and the weather rough.
It was maybe the third or fourth night, rum and whisky flowing too freely. Geto had laughed at something, head tilted back, cheeks flushed pink beneath the lamplight. Someone said something to him— a compliment or crude joke— and he’d covered his face, embarrassed. His eyes had also gone warm and bright and startled, and it stuck in Satoru’s memory like a photo burned into film.
It hits him then, not suddenly but with the slow creep of tidewater, inevitable. Watching him now, he notices the way the man moves across the deck, hair pulled back in its usual tie, a strand or two curling loose near the base of his neck.
Haibara wasn’t wrong, he is built. Of course, he’s noticed this already, but it’s hard to push the thought away as he watches him work.
Satoru, though many things, prides himself on a select handful: his looks, his ability to get what he wants, his low tolerance for weak and stupid people, his noble commitment to changing the world despite those same people constantly getting in his way, and lastly, his honesty. Or, at least, to those who deserved it. One of those people being himself.
So yes, Satoru can and will admit to himself that Geto was a handsome man. Beautiful, even. Distractingly so. Not in the way that demands attention the moment he walks into a room, though that happens too, but in subtler ways. It creeps up on him. It’s when the light hits just right, casting shadows on his cheekbones or catching on the line of his jaw. It’s when he’s watching him speak, and suddenly realizes he’s been too focused on the shape of his mouth.
All of it is… frustrating. The kind of realization that makes him stiffen his shoulders, redirect his gaze, say something biting just to shake it off.
Geto’s features are gorgeously refined. Sharp when he’s annoyed, soft when he smiles, though it’s hardly ever directed at Satoru. His amber eyes hold this depth that Satoru can’t look into for too long without feeling like something inside him might slip. His mouth is something else altogether. Full, a little downturned at rest, but expressive when he speaks.
There’s also his hair… long, thick, always tied back with that simple cord, but somehow it still manages to fall in just the right way. There are strands that curl slightly when wet, dark and damp against the curve of his neck, and Satoru has noticed. Always against his better judgment, he’s noticed.
He’s also noticed a few other things.
He’s seen Geto’s back— broad, scarred, steady—when they occasionally cross paths changing before bed. He’s seen the way his body moves when he pulls himself out of the sea after a quick swim, water cascading down thick arms and a torso built to haul weight.
When Geto climbs the rigging in the morning light, or hauls the fishing nets in, forearms flexed and shirt sticking to his back, he sees. He knows the lines of that body by now, more intimately than he should.
And it’s not just the back or the arms. It’s also Geto’s ass. He’s seen more than he means to when they bathe at the same time, when towels slip or conversations last too long, and he lingers in the doorway pretending not to be looking. But Satoru is a curious man.
Geto’s ass is solid and muscled in a way that shouldn’t be possible. And it matches the rest of him, too. His legs, his chest, the way he carries himself like he knows exactly what effect he has. Satoru tells himself it’s not a big deal. It’s just anatomy.
Still, it’s hard not to look. Not when it’s right there, or when they pass each other in close quarters and it brushes against him like a magnet. Full, and most likely firm.
However, despite Geto’s allure, the strange pull he has on him, Satoru likes women, always has, he thinks. Breasts, hips, thighs, the sound of their voices in his ear— he likes it all. He doesn’t need to question that, nor does he want to.
The rest of the morning passes without incident. The fog lifts, the sea evens out, and the crew settles into their routines with the quiet rhythm that only comes from long days at sea. By midday, the sun is starting to win its battle with the clouds. The crew gathers around crates and benches, passing bowls of fish stew, hunks of bread, and water.
Satoru sits with his back to the rail, listening to Haibara and Yuta trade stories about phantom lights on the water. Nanami says little, eating with a precision that makes Satoru want to tease him just for the sake of it. Shoko is already sprawled with her boots up, smoking and snorting at everyone’s expense. Even Geto has seemed to relax a little, nursing a cup, smile looser than it’s been all morning.
For a while, Satoru manages to relax and enjoy his cold soup, at least until Haibara starts asking about shipboard duels. It all sounds made up, but it piques Satoru’s interest immediately.
“Is it true Captain Geto once fought off three men at once?” he says, eyes huge.
Geto glances at Satoru for some reason, a faint grin quirking his mouth. “Rumors always get bigger at sea,” he says. Typical deflection he’s come to expect from the Captain, but he notices the claim isn’t denied.
Yuta nudges Satoru. “Hey, you’re not bad yourself, sensei. You should show us some of those moves from the academy.”
What the fuck, Yuta.
He laughs, shaking his head.
Toji pipes in after a beat of silence, “Is this Gojo denying a fight? Are you afraid you’ll lose against Geto?”
He really doesn’t want to give in, hasn’t even finished his meal, but the opportunity presents itself like gold.
He stretches his legs out, letting his gaze drift lazily over the crew, finally settling on Geto. “Lose? Please. If anything, it’s Captain Geto who ought to worry.”
Shoko lifts her brow. “You two are going to brawl?”
Geto rolls his eyes, but there’s amusement there. “We’re not brawling, it’s called training. The crew should know how to handle themselves.”
“Besides,” Satoru drawls, “it’s the only time Captain Geto gets to show off for an audience.”
A ripple of laughter goes around. Even Nanami almost cracks a smile.
Geto stands, rolling his shoulders. “Fine,” he says, turning to Satoru. “Let’s go for a few rounds, yeah?”
It’s the most animated Satoru’s seen him in days, and he grins, energy buzzing in his blood. They both grab hand wraps, winding the coarse cloth over their knuckles and palms.
The first few rounds are mostly for show: trading feints, locked arms, shoulder shoves. Both of them seem careful not to go too far, but neither wants to be the first to back down. After a while, the crew starts to drift off.
The afternoon sun slips out from behind the clouds just enough to remind them that nightfall is nowhere near, the deck boards warm underfoot.
“Again?” Geto asks, shirt now discarded and slung over a beam nearby.
Satoru shrugs, rolling his sleeves back to the elbows. “I don’t know… I mean, you haven’t impressed me yet, but I guess I want to see how your form holds up when you’re not hiding behind a Captain’s coat.” Geto doesn’t wear a Captain’s coat, of course, but he likes to rub his status in his face whenever the opportunity presents itself. The man does the same to him, so naturally, it’s only fair.
A few of the crew linger nearby, polishing railings or coiling ropes, but almost everyone has left by now. Shoko leans against the mast, still smoking. Yuta and Haibara watch quietly, exchanging words Satoru cannot hear.
“I don’t wear a Captain’s coat,” Geto says, biting like a fish taking bait. He steps forward into the open space they’ve cleared near the stern. “So, is this all about ego for you?”
“It’s always about ego,” Satoru answers, adjusting the wrap around his palm. “What, you thought I woke up and decided I cared about bonding?”
Geto smiles. “You’re terrible at pretending you don’t enjoy this.”
And maybe he’s right. Satoru knows he’s been on edge for days— irritated, restless, too many thoughts coiled behind his ribs like salt-rusted wire. He’s not proud of how much he wants to touch something, fight someone. Get a rise, get under skin. And who better than the man who’s been antagonizing him since the minute they set foot on this boat?
They circle each other first— barefoot, breath held, eyes scanning for a weak spot. Geto’s stance looks practiced, stable, something he’s polished over the years. Satoru believes his to be flashier, a bit looser, born more of instinct than any formal technique.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Geto says, tilting his chin.
It only takes a second. Satoru lunges, aiming low, and their bodies collide with a satisfying thud of forearms and torsos. Bare skin brushes as they grapple, and Satoru feels a spark of energy flow right through him. There’s also something deeply primal about this. Their feet skid slightly against the damp deck, arms lock tight, heavy breathing accompanying it all.
Geto lands a well-aimed shove and Satoru stumbles back a step, barefoot but still graceful. “You’re stronger than you look.”
“Funny,” Geto says, already closing the distance again. “I was about to say the same to you.”
They clash again, harder this time. Satoru’s hands go for Geto’s wrist, then his shoulder, trying to twist him off balance. But Geto is relentless, steady like the tide. He shifts his weight and slides behind him. Before Satoru can fully react, he’s being dragged down with a grunt onto the wood.
“Fuck—”
“Language,” Geto murmurs, smug, as he straddles him.
Geto sits on top of him, smirking, bare chest glistening with sweat as drops trickle down his long thick neck. Satoru almost feels unwell at the sight, something inside of him activating. His heart thuds a little too loud in his ears.
He goes to push up, he has to, until Geto lays a flat palm on him, that same smug look still plastered across his face, and presses his torso down.
“Oh, now you want to leave?” Geto’s tone is playful, but there’s something edged about it, something that digs under Satoru’s skin like a long, bent nail. “After talking such a big game?”
Satoru swallows hard. He can feel Geto’s thighs bracketing his hips, the press of muscle and weight. He’s not even sure where the contact is anymore, only that it’s everywhere. Heat, pressure, and proximity. Whatever has activated, however, suddenly wants to move south, and Satoru cannot have that.
“I need to get up,” he mutters, low, nearly a whisper. If he doesn’t, he realizes with dread, an erection’s going to make an appearance, and that will be a whole new problem.
But Geto doesn’t move. He just presses down a little firmer, mouth widening slightly.
“I think…” he says, gaze flicking to the horizon, voice casual, “I think we should stay here a while. Yeah? You can accept your defeat, stay under me, and watch the sunset. Does that sound okay to you, Gojo?”
Satoru doesn’t answer, he doesn’t trust himself to. The way Geto’s leaning over him, sweat still clinging to his throat, the heavy weight of his hips centered so close—
“Or are you going to ruin me?” Geto asks, brow raised, eyes glittering. “Just like your parents do with anyone who won’t abide by their every rule?”
Satoru turns his face away, cheek pressed to the wooden deck. He refuses to look up at the man above him. He already knows what he’ll see. A mocking warmth, amusement, maybe a hint of something darker or daring. And maybe it’s better if he doesn’t look, because again, the weight currently settled on him is warm and solid and if he moves even a few centimeters… No.
He swallows and tries not to think about the obvious, the way Geto’s ass is right above his cock, soft yet firm, and God, if he bucked even once he’s sure he’d be able to feel a friction that he will not forget for days. The thought feels insanely intrusive, and anger bubbles inside of him, mainly at himself. He doesn’t know why he’s thinking about the Captain this way. Another man, at that, and one who he dislikes.
“I should throw you overboard,” Satoru mutters, voice strained.
Geto chuckles, and Satoru feels the sound vibrate all the way through him. It buzzes against his chest and travels lower, heat pooling deep in his gut then his cock.
“Sure you could,” Geto says. “After all, you’re very strong, Gojo.”
Satoru glares at the horizon, face flushed. If Geto doesn’t get off soon, someone else is going to notice the problem he’s developing. He’s not used to this— being pinned, being toyed with— and he hates that his body is responding, that he secretly likes it. That the press of Geto’s hips over his is enough to have his cock interested and his brain short-circuiting.
“This doesn’t mean you’re stronger than me,” Satoru mutters, “It just means your technique happens to be better.”
Geto hums, like he’s considering it. “That could be true,” he concedes lightly. “But I am also stronger than you.”
“No, you’re not.”
Geto shrugs. “Then try to get up.”
Satoru grits his teeth and pushes up with one elbow, trying to move out from under the weight— but the second he lifts his hips, he feels it. The feel of Geto’s ass against his cock, the firm curve grinding right into him, and he freezes.
He feels the color drain from his face, then rush back in tenfold as blood surges south, cock twitching in response, hardening. Heat blooms under his skin like wildfire.
Geto stills, peering down at him. Satoru feels the man shift a little and his breath stutters out in a sharp groan before he can stop it. Fuck.
Geto raises an eyebrow, a flicker of something crossing his face. It’s not surprise, not exactly. No, Satoru would recognize surprise. It’s assessing, intense, and almost feels like a confirmation, like Geto already knew.
He glances around quickly, then down at Satoru again, voice low, teasing. “I didn’t know you’d be this excited to fight me, Gojo.”
“Shut up,” Satoru mutters, voice hoarse. “It’s just… warm. And I haven’t gotten off in a while. Get off of me.”
Geto pauses for a moment. “You haven’t masturbated at all?” He sounds genuinely curious.
Satoru glares. “No? Are you joking?”
Geto shrugs, unbothered.
“When do you even have the time?” Satoru asks, expecting the Captain to deflect, or answer with something that will irk him.
But Geto just looks at him then, slow and lazy, eyes lingering on his flushed face, then down to his throat, where he feels a thin bead of sweat trailing down toward his chest. His gaze lands there for a moment, and Satoru tries not to squirm beneath it. He tries to avoid Geto’s eyes like the plague, but the warm pools of honey sear against his skin, and Satoru is hopelessly captivated.
“You can find the time and privacy if you try hard enough,” Geto replies, voice lower than before.
Satoru scoffs. “I’m not a pervert like you. What would I even think about while on a ship in the middle of the fucking ocean? A past lover? A woman I haven’t seen in months?”
Geto tilts his head, still smiling. “Pervert? You’re the one with an erection right now.”
Then he shifts again, just slightly, and Satoru’s cock twitches hard in his pants, betraying him completely. He lets out a hiss between his teeth, knuckles tightening against the deck.
“Ok, sure, whatever, call it what you want,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’d like for you to get off me now.”
“I thought you were strong enough to push me off?” Geto’s eyes are so warm, so beautiful, that it makes it easy for Satoru to nearly miss the smugness painted over his lips. Fucking bastard.
Satoru groans, pressing the back of his head to the wood. “Is this your way of saying you want me to fuck you?”
He tries to laugh, like it’s a joke, like he’s not imagining it now, like he doesn’t feel his cock throb at the mental image of it. But the sound comes out hoarse, too real.
Geto barks a laugh, loud and genuine this time. “You would not be the one fucking me,” he says, looking down at him.
Satoru bristles. “Excuse me?”
Geto leans down slightly, bringing their faces closer. “You think just because you’re loud and obnoxious, I’d want you to fuck me?”
“I could,” Satoru snaps back, now fully hard and getting dizzier by the second. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore. It was a joke to begin with, and Geto, for some reason, decided to play along.
“No, you couldn’t,” Geto replies, voice smoother now. “You’d melt the second I really touch you.”
Satoru opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He imagines the thought, and it sends something hot and wicked in his gut. How would Geto touch him? He shouldn’t fantasize about it, and yet, here he was, thinking about the possibilities. Still, if anything were to happen, and Satoru’s sure it never will, he thinks he’d want to be the one to fuck Geto.
“You’d let me fuck you so easy, Gojo. You’re already half gone from just a little pressure.”
The words make Satoru swallow hard. They’re lewd, outrageous, absolutely nothing like the measured way Geto usually speaks. The Captain, usually the picture of discipline, seems to slip right through Satoru’s hands now, like dry sand crumbling at the shore, only to be replaced by something wetter and heavier. There’s hunger in him now, something reckless, all teeth and appetite, threatening to pull in Satoru completely.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” Geto says, and then he shifts again, hips rolling subtly forward, pressing down. Satoru’s eyes flutter, throat tight with a sound he barely manages to muffle.
“You talk a big game,” Geto continues, mouth near his ear, “but I think you’d be good for me like this. All squirmy and mean, pretending you don’t love every second of it.”
Satoru swallows hard, every nerve lit. “You—”
“I’d make it feel good,” Geto adds. He’s the devil. “So good you wouldn’t want anyone else ever again.”
And Satoru, head on the deck, heart pounding, cock painfully and pathetically hard beneath him, can’t think of a single comeback.
So instead, he says the only thing his pride will let him.
“I’m still stronger than you.”
Geto laughs again, and Satoru feels it like lightning in his spine. “Sure,” he says, finally standing, finally giving Satoru space to breathe, though the damage is long done.
Satoru pushes himself up, rolling his shoulders, and shifts his trousers a bit, tugging at the waistband to get a little air where his cock needs it. God, he hopes no one noticed. Of course, as he glances up, Shoko’s eyes are already on him, though her expression is unreadable. He doesn’t give her the satisfaction of reacting so he glances elsewhere. Yuta and Haibara, thankfully, are nowhere to be seen. Satoru lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
The wind picks up just then, colder and meaner than before. The sun ducks behind a mass of clouds, disappearing so quickly it’s like a child hiding behind its mother’s skirts. The light on the water turns gray and restless, rippling in uneasy patterns. Satoru feels the shift, a little prickle down his back that tells him the weather’s about to turn for the worse.
He brushes his hands off on his thighs and heads below deck for a change of clothes, determined not to let himself get bested by Geto again. At least not so easily.
𓊝 𓊝 𓊝
By nightfall, however, nothing is easy anymore. The wind is howling and the sea beneath them feels alive in a way that never means anything good. The boat lurches and groans with every swell. It’s not the first storm Satoru’s seen on this trip, but there’s something meaner about this one that puts everyone on edge.
The crew gathers on deck under yellow lantern light at some point, faces drawn and alert. Geto takes the helm, jaw set, with rainwater streaking his hair back as he barks orders with a clarity that brooks no argument. Satoru can’t help but watch him, a little mesmerized. The way his hands move confidently over the wheel, the focus in his eyes. It’s a different kind of charisma, one that calms and corrals the ocean’s chaos by force of will alone.
Now is no time for that.
Nanami moves briskly along the starboard side, securing ropes with Haibara, who’s doing his best to keep up, knuckles white but jaw stubbornly set. Satoru drifts over, lending a hand where he can since he feels lost himself, tossing Haibara a look that says “don’t panic,” though his own heart is pounding. Every now and then, the boat rocks so violently that Satoru is forced to grab the railing, cursing under his breath.
Shoko, who claims she’s “just a medic” for the expedition but ends up doing more than her share of real work, passes out foul-weather gear and mutters instructions no one listens to.
Rain starts pouring, and the waves keep coming, higher and heavier. Satoru’s boots are soaked through now, hair plastered to his forehead. The noise is constant and overwhelming— ropes creaking, wood straining, but Geto’s voice occasionally rises above it all:
“Hold fast!”
“Keep that line clear!”
“We ride this out, nobody does anything stupid!”
Somewhere in the confusion, Yuta appears at his side, face pale, but he seems determined. “Should I help Haibara or stay with the medic?”
“Go with Haibara.” Satoru claps him on the shoulder and Yuta nods, scampering off into the dark.
Satoru glances back at Geto, just once, and catches him already looking. Not annoyed, not this time. There’s something else written across his face. Worry, maybe, or frustration, or a kind of silent understanding, a plea, or maybe even gratitude. Despite all their back-and-forth, despite the power struggle, in moments like these, Satoru thinks that two men like them have no choice but to trust each other, to take command and hold the reins. To make sure everyone’s safe, that no one gets left behind. The connection is brief, but it settles something anxious in Satoru’s chest.
If he could just get closer, maybe then he’d see the moonlight reflected in those warm eyes, even through all the clouds. The moon…
A prickle goes up Satoru’s neck. He glances up, half-distracted by the thought of Geto, but something’s off. The clouds seem to thin for a moment, parting a clear section like a fleeting gift. Between them, the moon is hanging too high — the wrong position for where they’re supposed to be. The stars are off, too. He blinks, squinting, trying to match what he sees to memory, and he feels his gut twist.
Satoru grabs the battered spyglass hanging from a peg and angles it skyward, checking, checking again. The constellations are all wrong for their intended route. He scans the horizon, and his stomach drops as he can just make out a strange formation of black water and jagged rocks.
Geto is suddenly beside him, coat thrown over his head to keep the rain out, face all tight and filled with tension. He’s holding one of the maps, eyes darting back and forth.
Satoru speaks first, voice low. “Geto… this isn’t right. We’re off course, way off.”
Geto doesn’t look up, but his voice is unusually clipped. “Gojo, this is the Devil’s Belt. We’re approaching the Devil’s Belt.”
For a second, Satoru’s mind blanks. The words hit him in the chest, and he remembers their conversation from earlier.
“I thought you said we wouldn’t take it?”
Geto finally looks up, anger and something close to panic behind his eyes. “Yes, that’s exactly what I said. So are you going to tell me how the hell we got here?” He says with ice and calm, shouldering past Satoru while heading for the helm, boots slipping a little on the deck.
Satoru frowns, the accusation sparking something hot inside of him. Then it hits — Geto thinks he did this. That he deliberately somehow veered them off course, maybe as payback for the morning, or for pride, or some other idiotic reason. He follows Geto, snapping back, “I didn’t fucking do this. I told you, I will respect your last word as the Captain. I didn’t want anything to do with navigation after the shortcut mess.”
Geto wheels around to him. “I know you like when things go your way, but did you ever consider how it could affect everyone else?”
Satoru throws up his hands, failing to keep his cool. “I didn’t do this, man. I haven’t been anywhere near the helm since yesterday. I’ve barely touched the fucking wheel at all.”
Geto’s jaw clenches, his eyes wild with a kind of furious calm. The warm amber in his gaze no longer reminds Satoru of honey. No, right now, it’s the kind used to preserve, to trap, the kind you find in petrified forests or old museums. And Satoru, in this moment, feels like some enormous insect, still twitching, caught and struggling in the thick resin. He’s half-drowned and already hardening into something that will never escape.
“Then how are we here? I don’t understand,” Geto asks, voice low but still tight. “I’ve been watching it all day, only stepped away during the evening because we were in good hands— Toji’s man was handling it.” He chews his bottom lip, looking as if he’s running calculations in his head. “When did you change our course?”
“For the last time, I didn’t do it!” Satoru nearly shouts.
Geto shoots him a look. “Then who did?”
Satoru glares right back. “You tell me, you’re the Captain.”
For a moment, Geto just stares at him with his eyes narrowed. Something seems to pass through his mind, or at least temporarily settle, because the furrow in his brow relaxes. He presses a hand to his forehead, massaging at the vein that always seems to pop up when Satoru’s involved. He exhales through his nose, but his mind’s clearly spinning. Satoru can see it in his eyes.
“I don’t understand who else could have…” Geto mutters, mostly to himself, the words swallowed up by the wind.
Then, with a sudden decision, he gestures sharply at Satoru. “Watch the front. If you see anything— rocks, debris, anything— yell. I’ll be back.”
Without waiting for an answer, Geto turns and stalks back toward the main deck. The rain begins to sting harder, wind shrieking through the rigging, and Satoru wipes water from his eyes, heart hammering as he moves to the prow, eyes straining through the darkness for anything.
In the chaos, he glances to his side, and for a split second, he swears he sees something on the water. A flicker of light, much too bright, almost artificial. For a breathless moment, he thinks it must be another ship, but it vanishes just as quickly as it appeared, leaving him blinking rain from his eyes, full of dread and uncertainty.
Then, the deck shudders beneath his boots, wind howling so loud it nearly drowns out the next sound— a scream. It’s sharp and desperate, sending a chill up Satoru’s entire body. He whips his head around, but he realizes can’t leave the prow. They’re rushing headlong toward the rocks, black teeth rising out of the froth, water turning white as the boat moves closer.
There’s some shouting behind him— Geto’s voice, he thinks. Someone else audibly panics, then something heavy slams across the boards. The rain comes down harder, needling his skin, and the mast swings wildly above, sails snapping in the wind like frantic wings. Another shout splits the night, followed by a guttural curse— he thinks it’s Nanami, maybe Toji, but everything is too jumbled. Loud thunder cracks just overhead, briefly painting the dark night with a harsh light.
A sudden, violent lurch nearly sends Satoru sprawling. His hands slam down on the slick wood, barely catching himself. Something massive grinds beneath the hull followed by a silence so complete it’s almost sacred. Then all at once, everything tilts.
There’s no time for Satoru to brace, or realize what’s happening before it’s too late. The ship lists hard, the deck pitching up and to the side, tossing crew and cargo everywhere. He hears Shoko yell, hears Geto shout something that’s immediately swallowed by the wind.
The sky is suddenly gone, replaced by a wall of dark water crashing over the rail. Satoru tries to grab hold of something, anything— rope, railing, or someone’s outstretched arm— but it all slips away without control. The cold hits him next, straight to the bone, swallowing sound, breath, and thought.
He’s dimly aware of the mast coming down, of splintering wood and a single, pained noise that might be his own voice. Then the world collapses inward: pain and cold and black, black, black.
Everything is noise, then nothing at all.
𓊝 𓊝 𓊝
Satoru comes to with a jolt, coughing up seawater that burns his throat, hands digging blindly into wet sand. Someone is awfully close to his face, and he feels his lips tingling and lungs breaking. The person pulls away, now shaking his shoulders, steady, not too violently, but urgent. The world is dark and unfamiliar as shadows lap against the beach, wind cutting cold over his skin. He blinks several times, disoriented, until a face swims into view above him.
It’s Geto, hair wild and dripping, eyes heavy with worry. He’s half-lit by the pale moon overhead, and for a moment, Satoru isn’t sure if he’s seeing a ghost or a vision. Geto’s features are almost too soft, too beautiful in the gloom: the rain beads along the angles of his cheekbones, dark lashes clumped and glistening, a line of blood curling down from his temple. His shirt— nothing but a thin, white, soaked layer now— clings to his chest, the fabric nearly transparent. His top coat is gone, left to the sea or perhaps ripped away in the chaos.
“Hey, Gojo, look at me. Are you with me?”
Satoru tries to answer but only manages another wet cough, spitting tasteless, grainy sand and brine onto the shore. He feels shaky, vulnerable in a way he’s never been before.
“What…” His voice is hoarse. “What happened?”
Geto crouches closer, fingers brushing wet hair from Satoru’s face. His hands are a little rough, but the touch is gentle. “The ship’s gone, wrecked on the rocks. I just pulled you in— you’re quite fortunate, it was bad.” His words send a shiver down Satoru’s spine, though he isn’t sure if it’s from the cold or from the way Geto is looking at him.
Of course, the man is worried about him. A life is a life, even if they hadn’t gotten along. Right? But there’s something in Geto’s expression— the intensity Satoru recognizes, the kind that makes him see into Geto, get a glimpse of the man beneath. If he were braver, or maybe just less frazzled, maybe he’d look even closer. And maybe, he could almost swear that, for a moment, their deep breaths fall into sync. Clouds of relief and worry tangle between them, swirling in Geto’s dark eyes, bottomless as the ocean itself.
For a second, Satoru can’t do anything but stare. His cheeks burn— God, he’s actually blushing— and he looks away, struggling to push himself upright. He looks down at his own clothes, seeing they’re just as bad. Half his shirt is torn, everything else stuck to his skin, heavy with salt and seawater. He can see his own breath ghosting in the chill as he sits up, glancing out across the empty, ruined beach. The rain seems to have finally eased, a soft drizzle lingering, but it’s no longer enough to hide the shape looming at the edge of the rocks behind them.
A lighthouse?
It stands alone at the far end of the beach, rising out of the rocks like something ancient and misplaced. The placement feels wrong, almost, oddly pressed against the battered coast. The base is square and thick, constructed of stone blocks the color of old bone that are mottled with patches of something, streaked black in a few areas. The tower itself is tall and narrow, just a little too slender for comfort, its top vanishing into the low mist. The lantern room glass is clouded over, metal frame gone green with salt and presumably, time.
Even from here, Satoru can see the faded outlines of painted symbols running along the doorway— characters he half-recognizes or maybe something older still. On the leeward side, a narrow balcony curves out over the drop. The whole thing feels off to Satoru, everything slightly wrong in its proportions, but it could also be the haze clouding his thoughts.
Geto follows Satoru’s gaze, silent for a long moment as the lighthouse looms in the gray distance. Then he looks back, eyes searching Satoru’s face, and asks, softer than Satoru expects, “You alright?”
He offers a hand, and Satoru takes it, letting himself be pulled to his feet. His limbs feel leaden and numb, but he manages to stand, swaying only a little. Geto’s hand then lingers by his waist and the contact burns hot, a nice contrast to the chilled breeze.
“Yeah,” Satoru lies, forcing a crooked grin. “Just cold.” He looks Geto over, frowning at the cut on his forehead. “You?”
Geto gives him a look like he’s not buying the answer. His fingers graze Satoru’s waist for a moment, then his eyes sweep down, quick, as if making sure Satoru can actually stand. “Just a small cut on my head. I’ll survive,” he says, but his faint smile is softer. The cut didn’t look too bad, but the blood still concerns Satoru.
Then, he remembers.
“The others?”
Geto completely lets go of him and gestures down the shore. “Nanami, Haibara, Shoko, Yuta— they’re all alright, I believe. They’re just down the beach, catching their breath.” His voice drops, roughened by something heavier. “A lot of the others… didn’t make it, or we can’t find them. The wreck happened too fast.”
He hesitates, glancing at the sea, before he adds quietly, “When I left you at the prow, I went aft to check the helm and found one of Toji’s men out cold. He was the same one who was supposed to be watching the wheel that evening. Once I saw him and tried to get him up, everything just…” He shakes his head. “The force that hit the ship didn’t feel natural. It’s almost as if the water turned all at once.”
Satoru is silent, the words settling in his gut. He stares at the ground, piecing together fragments. The misplaced moon, the wrong stars, the flash of light he saw for a brief second. “Yeah,” he finally murmurs. “I didn’t think we were that close to the rocks yet, at least from what I saw. I mean, sure, we were off course, but…” He trails off, unsure of what he could say.
For a while, a silence sits between them. Then Geto shifts his weight, the faintest flush coloring his ears as he tries for levity. “Well, either way, I walked the shore to look for you. I was hoping you’d show up… and you did.” His voice goes quiet at the end, a warmth softening the edge. The sound and sight is so unfamiliar that Satoru forgets, just for a second, the wreck, the cold, the ache. He finds himself smiling back, helpless.
The uncanny feeling of being watched washes over him suddenly, and Satoru’s spine straightens. His eyes drift again to the lighthouse. He tilts his chin toward it, voice dry but curious. “Think it’s worth checking out?”
Geto follows his gaze, studying the odd silhouette. “Yes, I think so.” He looks back at Satoru, “It was my first thought, actually, and Shoko agreed. If it’s still working, there might be a radio. Even if it’s abandoned, it’s shelter— and lighthouses are usually built to be seen, to signal for help, or at least as a landmark. If anyone comes looking, that’s where they’ll head first.” He glances at Satoru, a little smile creeping in, trying for optimism. “And, you know. I doubt anything in there is worse than what we just survived.”
Satoru snorts, pushing his hair back out of his eyes. “Speak for yourself, Captain. I’ve heard a lot of horror stories.”
Geto actually laughs, a breathless sound that manages to unsteady Satoru more than anything else has in the past hour. “Hmm… I guess we’ll find out who’s braver, then.”
They start down the shore then, feet squelching through kelp and broken shells, every few steps punctuated by the soft, exhausted hush of the waves rolling in and receding. For a few minutes, conversation comes easy between them and Satoru wonders if it’s always been possible. There’s a small lull in the conversation, and Geto lets out a deep breath, head turning to the ocean, the endless, beautiful void. It’s only now, as Satoru follows his gaze, that he realizes the rain has fully let up. The last of the drizzle must have slipped away unnoticed, leaving only a dampness in the air. The moon is out, bright and silver, with very few clouds crowding its shine. He watches how the light catches on Geto’s hair and the sharp line of his jaw. The look is reminiscent of nights on the deck when Satoru would catch himself staring, and then staring some more. For a moment, he almost glows, the sea behind him nothing but black glass.
Satoru smiles, lets the wind fill the silence. He can taste the salt in every breath, thick in his mouth, and the ache in his chest reminds him of how close he came to not breathing at all. He tries to ignore the intrusive image of Geto hauling him out of the water, what he must have looked like. How submerged was he, really? How much water could his lungs have held before Death decided to pay him a visit? The thought sticks, persistent, until he forces his attention forward.
They come upon the others, huddled together not far from the lighthouse’s shadow. Nanami is wringing out his shirt; Shoko sits on an overturned crate, lighting a cigarette with hands that shake a little. How in the world she managed to keep a pack is beyond Satoru. Haibara and Yuta hover nearby, looking battered but upright. There are quick, wordless greetings, relief muttered between chapped lips. No one seems eager to talk about what happened.
“Shoko, any other injuries?” Geto asks.
“Nothing life-threatening. Nanami’s leg has a cut that could take a closer look, and Yuta has barfed a few times.” she says, glancing at the other men, briefly pausing at Satoru, then back to Geto. “We’ll all need a real meal and sleep, though. Preferably somewhere that isn’t about to wash away.”
The two talk about the plan to enter the lighthouse, and Satoru turns his attention to Yuta. “You okay, kid?”
Yuta manages a faint smile, though the dark shadows beneath his eyes are even starker in the moonlight. He shrugs, rubbing one arm. Satoru watches him for a moment, feeling a sharp twinge of guilt. He’d been so eager for the expedition, so sure of himself, and Satoru let him come despite the danger of it all. He wonders, not for the first time, if he’d made a mistake, dragging him this far for the sake of science. But who was he to deny a young researcher his dream?
“Yeah, I’m okay,” Yuta says at last. “I’m just glad Geto found you. I didn’t think he’d actually look for you, given…” He trails off, letting his hands gesture vaguely at the space between Satoru and Geto.
Satoru laughs, a little rough around the edges. “We’re grown men, Yuta. I’m sure we can set aside our differences long enough to keep each other alive.” He claps Yuta on the shoulder, adding, “And listen, I’m really sorry about all of this. Obviously, I can’t predict a shipwreck, but if you want to quit the field or focus on something safer when we get back, I wouldn’t blame you. This is no place for a young man.”
Yuta doesn’t reply at first. His mouth works, and for a moment Satoru wonders if he’ll argue. But instead, Yuta nods, face set in that stubborn, earnest way he gets when he’s made up his mind.
“I’ll think about it, but I don’t think this will change anything,” he says quietly.
They gather their things, or rather, what little washed up with them. Geto pulls on his boots and hands Satoru a spare pair, Yuta picks up his satchel, and Haibara helps Nanami steady himself.
Satisfied, they follow Geto as he leads the way to the lighthouse. The closer they get, the more Satoru realizes how wrong the place looks. Up close, the blocks are pitted and stained, half-eaten by moss and something dark he hopes isn’t mold. Old, painted glyphs and tangled string charms frame the entrance. Windows are set oddly, some too high, some crooked; the topmost panes are so caked in salt that they barely let any light out or in. Again, the proportions seem off and Satoru wonders if it's a matter of architecture style or something else. But what else could it be?
Charms made of dried shells and bone clatter against the wind, hanging in clusters from broken nails. The sound throws Satoru off and he looks around, wondering if anyone else feels off. However, no one says anything, just silently taking in the new environment.
Geto tests the door, shoving with his shoulder. The hinges shriek, but the door gives way, swinging open into a darkness thick with brine and the must of things left alone for too long. Satoru, close behind him, feels the temperature drop another degree, and a draft swirls out as if the lighthouse itself is exhaling. The others cluster at the threshold, half in and out, blinking as their eyes adjust.
Satoru has always had sharp eyes, or so he’s been told. Even in the dimness, he quickly takes in the room.
Inside, the first floor is a circular chamber with low ceilings, smelling of wet stone, rust, and old oil. There’s a spiral stair rising up one side, the iron balustrade shining with condensation. Smashed crates, a half-collapsed table, and what might have once been a cot are scattered across the floor. On the far wall, a few painted symbols run in uneven lines, though it’s somewhat obscured by mildew.
In the corner, Satoru spots a battered lantern on a small desk. He walks toward it and kneels, fingers brushing away a crust of salt before checking the reservoir. To his surprise, there’s still enough oil left. He fishes a match from the drawer, strikes it against the lantern’s base, and lights the wick. The glass glows faintly gold, illuminating more of the chamber than he expects. Shadows leap across the stone and ceiling, however, so the eerie feeling remains.
Satoru walks around with the lantern, the light throwing everything into a kind of sharp relief: Shoko examining the symbols on the wall, Nanami standing with arms crossed and jaw clenched, Yuta clutching his satchel to his chest, and Haibara shuffling from foot to foot.
For a moment, no one speaks, and the only sound is the clatter of charms outside and the distant crash of waves.
Satoru then looks at Geto, who stands a few steps ahead, closer to the stairs, looking around with an expression that’s all sharp angles. The glow casts a line of gold along his cheekbone and throws his eyes into shadow, making his face unreadable for a moment. It’s clear he’s tense, though, as Satoru has come to recognize the slope of his shoulders well.
He moves to his side, and rests an easy hand on his shoulder, hoping for some relief. “You know,” he says, voice pitched low so only Geto can hear, “for a place built to keep people safe, it’s not exactly welcoming.” He tries for a wry smile, but even to him, it feels a little thin.
Geto’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. His gaze flicks over to Satoru, then away again, eyes a little foggy around the edges, almost distant. “Well, I suppose it’s survived worse than us.”
“Yeah, guess so,” Satoru says, clearing his throat, and the sound echoes strangely off the stone. “We should see what’s actually here. Maybe there’s a radio, or something to burn, or… I don’t know, anything that works.” He glances at the others. “We should split up and look around, but stick in pairs.”
For a second, he hopes he can pair up with Geto. But as Yuta edges into his line of sight, worry still written plain on his face, Satoru feels a prick of guilt. He can’t be too selfish, not tonight, not after everything. Yuta deserves to have someone looking out for him, too. He makes eye contact with the boy and offers a reassuring thumbs up, to which Yuta returns.
Geto nods slowly, and it’s like some sort of familiarity returns in his eyes, a determined flame. He claps his hands, drawing everyone’s attention. “Nanami, Haibara— check the storage room to the left. See if there’s food, dry clothes, or anything we can use. Take it easy, Nanami. Haibara make sure you take the lead. Yuta, you’re with Shoko. Search the back and look for any kind of first aid or tools. Please be careful, don’t touch anything suspicious.”
He pauses, receives a few nods, then continues, “Satoru and I will check upstairs, see if there’s a signal beacon or a light mechanism that still works.”
His voice steadies as he gives orders, and some of the tension lifts from his shoulders. Satoru almost wants to laugh at the sight, it’s almost as if purpose settles over him like an armor. There are a few murmurs and clarifying questions, then the pairs break off.
It looks like God has decided to bless Satoru with a scrap of luck tonight. Why Geto wants him as his partner in this lighthouse is beyond him, but the last thing he’ll do is object.
The spiral stair groans under their weight as they walk up, every step echoing up the narrow shaft. Satoru holds the lantern high and the light catches on flakes of rust and old spiderwebs. Up close, the lighthouse feels even more wrong— angles skewed, breathing walls, a draft that sighs through cracks somewhere overhead.
They finally reach the first landing and it’s a cramped space with a single, warped window. Shelves sag under old ledgers and bits of debris. Satoru glances around, expecting something to move in the gloom, but after a few seconds, nothing does.
“Could use a little redecorating,” he mutters, brushing dust from the nearest shelf, trying to keep things light. He tries a switch.
Geto pokes through a pile of rotted rope and rusted tools. His shoulders are set, but he doesn’t say much. Satoru swings the lantern in a slow arc, light pushing back the shadows. “A place like this… you’d think they’d have left a radio, or at least a bottle of whiskey.” His voice bounces off the stone, and it sounds thinner than he means it to.
Geto just hums as a response, not quite answering. He risks a look at the man, sees the way his brow is furrowed. Satoru thinks about making a joke, but the words catch in his throat. The space between them fills up with the quiet, the distant crash of waves, the soft clatter of charms against the door downstairs.
All of a sudden, a feeling passes over Satoru. Not quite annoyance, at least that’s what he tells himself, but something close to it. Despite their moment on the beach, he supposes things aren’t entirely settled between them. Geto’s silence, the way he moves around the cramped landing, checking ledgers and debris with a frown, needles at him. Satoru tries to ignore it, settling on the thought that maybe he’s being unfair. Geto’s just worried. Things must be fine. Right?
They keep searching, neither speaking much. Satoru swings the lantern higher, scanning the edges of the room until something glints. It’s an old radio set, the boxy frame wedged between two piles of papers and tangled cords. He steps over and lets out a little laugh of relief. “Look at this. We’re in luck, Geto. If this thing still works, we could get a signal out. Maybe even reach the Gojo Maritime Authority.” He glances at Geto, half-expecting him to look relieved.
But Geto only tenses, eyes shadowed. “That’s not an option, Gojo,” he says quietly, not meeting Satoru’s gaze. “If we broadcast from here, it’ll flag our position. The Authority will know this was an unregistered expedition. I’m not risking my crew for that.”
Satoru frowns, the beginnings of a heat prickling under his skin. “So you don’t want help? You’d rather keep us stranded and hope someone stumbles across us? Yuta is only eighteen, you know.”
Geto pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs. “That’s not what I said, of course I want help. But you need to think for once, Gojo. If we call it in, everyone pays the price. The Authority doesn’t just rescue, you know? They prosecute, blacklist, and seize boats. It ruins lives.”
“So what, we just wait? Hope for a miracle? If it were just you and me, maybe I’d risk it. But there are others, we don’t have time to play it safe.”
Geto’s voice goes thin, “I know what’s at stake. But you can’t always fix things by running straight to authority, Satoru. Sometimes, you have to think beyond yourself.”
Satoru glances away, jaw tight. “I don’t run to authority, first of all. I know what you may think of me, but I’m not my parents. I don’t even agree with how they run things.”
Geto lets out a small, humorless breath, “I’m not saying you always run to authority—”
“That’s what you just said,” Satoru interrupts, quieter now, frustration mixing with something like hurt.
Geto finally looks at him, holding his gaze. His voice is a little softer, more reasonable. “I’m saying we need to be careful. That’s all. We can try the radio, but we have to be smart about it. We send a distress call, keep it vague, don’t use names. If we make noise, we do it in a way that buys us time. Not the kind that gets the wrong people involved.”
Satoru’s shoulders drop, some of the tension leaking out. He’s tired of arguing, tired of feeling like everything he does is both a mistake and a necessity with Geto. “Fine,” he says, “we’ll do it your way. But if things get worse, I’m not sitting around while people get hurt just to protect your reputation.”
Geto opens his mouth to retort— probably something stupid, Satoru thinks— but instead just stares at him for a long beat. Then he turns back to the radio, running a hand over the battered controls. “Just… help me check if it works,” he says quietly.
They work in silence for a minute, the only sounds the dull scrape of dials and Satoru’s quiet sighs as he fiddles with the set. Static coughs through the speaker, but no matter how they turn the knobs or shift the antenna, nothing but dead air answers back. Satoru gives the case a few gentle taps, as if that might bring it to life, but the lantern glow only throws their tired faces into harsher relief.
“Figures,” he mutters, a little too loud. “Of course it’s busted. We could be stranded here forever and my Captain doesn’t ca—”
“Could you just,” Geto snaps, the words harsh in the close space. “Be quiet for a second?”
Satoru closes his mouth, more out of shock than compliance. He watches Geto’s hands flex over the radio, knuckles pale, before forcing himself to look away.
He gestures up the next narrow flight of stairs. “Let’s just go up. Maybe the beacon works, or there’s something else. Unless you have a better plan?”
Geto gives him a flat, unreadable look. It’s one of those long, heavy stares Satoru’s learned to dislike. The judgmental kind, the one he summons too easily. Then, without a word, Geto turns and starts up the stairs, boots echoing loudly. He doesn’t even wait. Satoru follows, irritation blooming in his chest.
So be it, he thinks. If Geto wants to be like that, Satoru will match him step for step.
On the next landing, the space opens into what looks like a cramped service room. Shelves buckle under old supplies, and in the far corner, nearly swallowed by crumbled masonry and a fallen beam, Satoru spots something metallic. It looks like an emergency kit or maybe a flare box, glinting dully in the lantern light.
“There,” he says, moving to investigate. The box is wedged behind a chunk of stone nearly as wide as his chest, as if it were dropped from above during some past storm. But it makes no sense. How did a boulder like that end up inside a lighthouse? More so, without completely shattering a window or making the roof collapse? Still, it’s their first sign of luck.
Geto steps up, plants his feet, and braces his shoulder against the rock, trying to shove it aside. The stone barely shifts. Satoru watches him struggle for a second, then can’t help himself.
“Step aside, your form’s all wrong.”
Geto glances over, scowling, but moves out of the way. Satoru plants his hands, gets low, and manages to nudge the rock a fraction of an inch further with a grunt. It’s not much, but it’s better than whatever Geto did. He straightens up, grinning wide.
“See? Sometimes you can have brains and brawn, Captain. Maybe next time you’ll let me go first.”
Geto’s eyes are locked on him, and Satoru doesn’t miss how they flick over his arms, then linger.
He smirks, “Like what you see?”
Geto’s smile comes, but it’s slow and fake, lips barely moving. “No, I’m just surprised you managed to move it, that’s all.” But his gaze drops again, this time slower, as it moves up his entire body and Satoru starts to feel that familiar heat pool in his gut.
“I work out a lot,” Satoru says, looking away, “probably more than you.”
“Sure you do,” Geto replies, flat but not entirely convincing, and the look he gives Satoru is enough to make his ears go warm.
Satoru tries to move the rock again, and digs his heels into the stone floor. The rock shifts, but barely, less than before. His palms ache and a line of sweat starts to slip down his back as he exerts more force, but it doesn’t budge anymore.
A low whistle cuts through the silence. Satoru glances up to see Geto watching him, a smirk on his lips.
“You have a problem?”
“No problem at all,” Geto says, voice light, “I could watch you struggle all day. But I’m mostly just waiting for you to suggest we push it together, you know, and actually get somewhere.”
Satoru almost laughs, catching himself. “I was going to suggest that, actually. Have some patience for once, Captain. Isn’t that what you’re always saying to me?”
Geto rolls his eyes, but he moves in beside Satoru, shoulder to shoulder. “Alright, on three.”
They brace themselves, count off, and push with all their combined weight. The rock shudders and then finally gives, scraping aside with a loud, grinding protest. Satoru stumbles back, a little out of breath, but the box is finally free.
He crouches and pulls it into the light: it’s an emergency kit, a little battered but intact. They open it and find a large pouch of flares, bandages, antiseptic, a half-rusted multitool, some matches, a few other small items, and an unopened bottle of water wedged in the foam lining. Satoru holds it up and Geto lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“Okay, this is good,” Geto says, scanning the contents quickly. He pulls out a flare and turns it over in his palm. For a second, his face flickers with something Satoru can’t read.
Then Geto hesitates, still crouched by the box. “Should we take this down to the others, or keep going up?” His tone is uncertain, more open than usual. Satoru takes it as a good sign. “There might be more up top.”
Satoru thinks about it, teetering on the edge. They haven’t been gone that long, but the urge to check on everyone tugs at him. Still, there’s momentum in their search, a kind of forward pull, he thinks.
He glances at Geto, then at the dark stairs winding up. “Let’s keep going,” he says, voice steady. “We’re already here so we might as well see what else we can find. The others can manage for a few more minutes.”
Geto studies him for a moment, then hums, tucking the flare into his pocket. “Alright, Gojo. You lead the way.”
They climb, Satoru holding the lantern high as they wind up the narrow stairs, Geto’s boots muffled behind him. The higher they go, the heavier and suffocating the hush, almost like the lighthouse itself is listening.
The next room is different. It isn’t as empty or ruined like the others. To Satoru’s surprise, there are several candles flickering softly, their flames moving with the faint draft, and the air smells faintly of melted wax and something clean— herbal, almost out of place with the salt and damp. He pauses, lantern lifted, and takes it in.
A window lets moonshine spill across the room, and there’s a bed against the far wall. It’s neatly made, the blanket tucked tight and not a speck of dust in sight. A small desk sits under the window, books stacked in neat piles, drawers closed, everything arranged just so. Shelves run along one wall, filled with a mix of journals and old, leather-bound texts that look like they belong to another century. There are also a few jars with liquid, some clear and others not.
It all looks too orderly, not like a place that’s been abandoned, but one that’s been cared for. Very recently, if the candles are any indication.
Geto’s footsteps slow behind him. “This isn’t right,” he murmurs, voice low. “Someone’s been here. Maybe still is.”
Satoru says nothing at first, eyes darting over the bookshelves, the edges of the room, searching for any sign of life. He doesn’t think anyone is actually in here, but they should be careful. However, nothing seems to move.
Then, he notices a book open on the desk, the page spread wide as if left mid-read. He glances at Geto, then drifts over, careful not to bump anything.
He squints at the text, the lantern’s glow warming the page. The writing is cramped and slanted, not in any language Satoru immediately recognizes, until he catches a familiar word. Kyonagi. He leans in, reading past diagrams of a fishlike creature, sketches half-drowned in ink. Geto comes up behind him, his chest almost brushing Satoru’s back as he peers over his shoulder.
Satoru barely has the presence of mind to notice how close Geto is standing, his breath stirring the hairs on the back of Satoru’s neck. He’s so warm.
“Check this out,” Satoru mutters, gesturing to the word.
Geto leans in even further, “Is that—”
“Yeah,” Satoru says, “it’s about the kyonagi. Some kind of field notes or a log, maybe.”
He flips the page, fingers careful. The notes are strange, but he finds one that’s legible and reads it:
When the storms rise, the kyonagi slip through the waves unseen, marked by a silver glow. Some say the creatures can call winds, summon heavy rain. There are records of those who catch one. Lucky or cursed, but never both.
His eyes scan the page, finding another note.
It brings healing, but never without a price. To find one is to invite the sea’s torment. Yet if one appears, it means the hour is right. Legend says the kyonagi only reveal themselves to those with a purpose, or a burden that’s too heavy to carry alone.
There’s something else besides it, a margin note. The script looks more hurried.
The creature’s warmth is said to be drawn to the heat of two souls set alight. It will only break the surface when called by a pair: two bound by desire, or by fate, or something perilously close to love. The oldest stories warn, do not ignore the quickening in your chest, or warmth in the air, for it is a sign they are near. In rare cases, to acknowledge that heat, whether out loud or with touch, can summon them from the depths. When the creature is successfully summoned, walls will rattle, and a light so heavenly will flash the waters.
He glances at Geto, who’s reading over his shoulder, brow furrowed. Satoru laughs. “Come on. In what world does a fish have magical powers? I get the biology, the scales and regenerative tissue, sure, but that’s natural law. Not…” he waves a hand at the page, “sea curses and fate.”
Geto’s lips quirk, but there’s something serious in his eyes. “You don’t believe it?”
Satoru shrugs. “I know what I’ve seen in the lab. The kyonagi’s properties, if they exist, can be explained. All this other stuff, storms, luck, fate… desire….” he lets out a breath, “that has to be myth.”
But Geto doesn’t look away. “It’s still worth a read. You shouldn’t brush it off so easily, Gojo.”
There’s a quiet between them, the candles flickering. Satoru closes the book, feeling the weight of Geto’s gaze linger.
They look further, quietly. Satoru pokes through the drawers, shuffling aside a stack of yellowed papers and a pair of reading glasses. In the corner, Geto moves to the bed, his attention fixed on a neat stack of cloths folded over the blanket. Satoru shifts his attention as he watches him pick one up, inspect it closely, then reach for a small glass jar on the nightstand. Geto unscrews the lid, dips a finger in, and brings it to his nose. After a long moment, he deems it safe, wets the cloth, and gently presses it to his forehead, cleaning away the dried blood. The streak of red lifts, staining the white.
Satoru doesn’t look away. There’s something careful, almost reverent, about the way Geto handles himself— like every movement has to be considered twice. It’s oddly captivating, and his nerves tingle at the sight.
He forces himself to shrug the thought away, glancing down at his own shirt. It’s still somewhat damp and torn down one side. Might as well change while they’re up here. He rifles through a drawer and finds a handful of clean shirts. Not his usual style, but better than nothing.
He peels his own shirt off with a wet noise, not bothering to look away as he tosses it over the bedframe and starts sorting through the drawer. “What are you doing?” Geto asks from behind him.
“Getting a new shirt,” Satoru replies, holding one up to inspect it. “What does it look like?”
Geto frowns. “What if it’s not safe? You shouldn’t just put on whatever you find. There could be—” He waves vaguely, “—something in the fabric.”
Satoru gives him a flat look. “You just used water from a suspicious jar to clean your head. I don’t want to hear it.”
“That’s different, I checked it.”
Satoru snorts, then grabs a shirt and flaps it out, making a big show of inspecting the seams and every button, as if expecting to find poison sewn inside. “Looks fine to me!” he announces.
Geto’s frown doesn’t fade, but after a second, he shrugs and in one smooth motion, pulls off his own shirt. The move is casual but it leaves Satoru suddenly silent.
Geto’s body is, well, distracting. Satoru has established this already, acknowledged that Geto Suguru is objectively handsome, well-built. But still, he can’t help but stare. His skin is gold in the candlelight, streaked with old scars and the marks of a dozen rough years at sea. Shoulders broad, chest thick, defined and cut with muscle, his waist tight and lean beneath the shadow of his ribs. There’s a small trail of hair from his navel disappearing beneath the edge of his trousers, and the sight is enough to make Satoru’s thoughts stutter. The cut on his forehead, freshly cleaned, stands out against the sharp but beautiful lines of his face, and yet, it doesn’t take away from the effect. If anything, it only makes him look better.
Satoru swallows, then glances away, feigning more interest in the drawer than the man right beside him. He tosses the old shirt he’d been inspecting aside and runs a hand through his hair, as if that might cool him off. The size was too small, anyway.
It’s then that he notices the air has changed. At first, he thinks maybe another few candles caught— maybe something in the room is burning hotter than before. But as he stands there, he realizes the warmth is blooming, thickening everywhere. The small space starts to feel close, almost humid, the kind of heat that curls against your skin and settles in your lungs.
He clears his throat, rolling his shoulders. “Is it just me, or is it actually getting hot in here?”
Geto pauses, halfway through taking off his boots. He looks around, as if also expecting to find the source. “Feels warmer, yeah,” he says, tone oddly distracted. “Maybe too many candles?” He’s still shirtless, the candlelight glancing off his collarbones and throwing deep shadows across his chest.
Satoru exhales a slow breath, tries to focus on anything else, but it’s impossible not to notice the way Geto’s hair falls loose, how his muscles flex as he moves. The room is already small, and it feels smaller by the second.
After a moment, Satoru gives up the pretense of digging through the drawers and leans back against the desk, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Alright, maybe I’m being dramatic,” he mutters, “but I feel like I’m about to overheat. We should head back down.”
Geto raises an eyebrow, lips quirking as he leans his weight against the edge of the bed. “It’s not even that hot, Gojo. You can’t handle a little heat?”
Satoru rolls his eyes, determined not to give him the satisfaction. “No, I can, it’s just…” He catches himself, realizing anything he says will sound like an excuse. He glances away, trying and failing to look unaffected.
Geto’s grin sharpens, just a little. “Big baby,” he teases, his voice dipping. “What, you want to take your pants off too? Think that’ll make you cooler?”
Satoru shoots him a look, mouth twitching despite himself. He thinks, not for the first time, that for all Geto’s posturing, he loves provoking just as much as Satoru does. Maybe more. They like to pretend Satoru’s the instigator, but he’s not the only one who starts things.
He decides to play along with the joke. Why not? He won’t get bested this time, not like their brawl on the deck. “You know what? Maybe I will. You first, Captain.”
The words hang between them, and Satoru can feel his pulse everywhere at once.
Geto laughs, low and easy, and the sound settles in Satoru’s chest like a physical thing. “You’re such a pain,” he says, but there’s no edge to it. If anything, he sounds a little out of breath. The look he gives Satoru lingers, darker than the candlelit corners of the room.
For a moment, the space between them thickens. The heat in the air feels even heavier if it’s possible, like it’s pressing them closer together. Satoru finds himself shifting, uncertain if he wants to take a step forward or a step back, but unable to choose. He can see the pulse jumping at Geto’s throat, the flicker of something wild in his eyes.
He means to say something, something easy, another joke to keep the mood light but it slips away as Geto’s gaze drops. He traces the lines of his chest, the curve of his waist and Satoru’s breath stutters; he tries not to show it, but the feeling is impossible to ignore.
For a second, neither moves. The air feels thick, stifling. But then Satoru shifts closer, almost unconsciously, and lets his hand drift up, fingers grazing lightly across Geto’s chest where an old scar cuts through golden skin.
“You’re sweating,” Satoru murmurs. It’s a meaningless comment, but he can’t say anything else.
Geto’s breathing is heavier than before, chest rising and falling just under Satoru’s palm. “You’re sweating too,” he replies, so low it’s almost lost in the quiet.
Geto tilts his head, eyes flicking up to meet Satoru’s. There’s a beat, charged and hesitant, and then he watches as Geto’s gaze drops to his lips, lingers there, then back up to his eyes, then down again, and this time they don’t leave. Heat flares up everywhere; Satoru feels it in his cheeks, in his chest, pooling low in his stomach, blood rushing to his cock.
He starts to close the gap, so close now their bodies are just barely brushing. Every point of contact sends static racing up his spine. Geto’s eyes catch the candlelight, a rich deep honey that seems to glow even brighter up close. He feels like a bear drawn to its sweetness, helpless against it, greedy for more. He can smell salt and sweat and something alive, some warm pulse that thrums in the space between them.
His hand hovers over Geto’s skin, fingers itching to touch, to take. The world narrows to the way Geto is looking at him now. All wide-eyed, hungry, but open, like he’s daring Satoru to close the last inch between them.
Then their mouths crash together, wet heat and breath and teeth. No finesse, not at first— just pure hunger. Geto pulls Satoru in with one thick arm hooked around his neck, the other planted firm against his ribs like he’s holding him in place, like he can’t let go. Bare skin smacks against bare skin, chests sticky with sweat.
Geto makes a quiet noise, low in his throat and opens his mouth wider, Satoru licks in and hums, arms curling around Suguru’s back. They press closer while their mouths start to move harder, open and wet.
Satoru’s fingers flex along Geto’s waist before he trails them down, hesitating only half a second before sliding them down the curve of Geto’s ass. Then he squeezes.
Geto immediately pauses, just enough to suck in a breath, a rough “oh” escaping, barely voiced, more exhale than word. He pulls back just a little, lips kiss-swollen, and stares at Satoru. A low smirk slowly forms at the corners of his mouth, eyebrows raising. There’s something teasing just beneath the surface, something about the way he looks at him— sharp, assessing— that makes Satoru’s heart leap into his throat.
“I—” Satoru starts, trying not to sound winded. “Is this okay?”
His voice comes out breathier than he wants, a little hoarse, too honest.
Geto laughs, a warm little huff against his cheek, and then dips back down to mouth at his throat. He sucks just beneath his jaw, bites down a little too hard, tongue smoothing over the sting. “Whatever you want right now, Gojo,” he murmurs, voice dark and muffled against his skin.
Satoru laughs too, more from nerves than anything, but doesn’t stop his hands. He kneads at Geto’s cheeks— testing and squeezing— and Geto hums low, dragging his mouth down along the slope of Satoru’s throat, the dip of his collarbone, his tongue hot and steady.
Then Geto grabs his ass.
Satoru jerks. The sound that comes out of him is high, involuntary, more surprised than anything, but the contact goes straight to his cock, sharp and hot.
Geto pulls back again, just enough to look him in the eye.
“Is this okay?” he asks. His voice is sweet and low, but with a grain to it, like honey steeped in heat. It lands heavy in Satoru’s stomach, dragging his cock up harder against the seam of his pants.
“Yeah, I— yeah, of course. I don’t mind,” Satoru says quickly. “Do whatever you want, man. It’s all, uh… fair game.”
Geto snorts, shaking his head. “You’re hilarious, Gojo.”
Satoru frowns. “What?”
He doesn’t get an answer, just the force of Geto’s fingers digging in again, pulling their hips together with a sweet clash. The friction feels perfect as their cocks drag against each other through the thin barrier of fabric. A delicious heat sears through damp cloth, the pressure becoming almost unbearable. Geto nips at his earlobe and Satoru chokes on a moan, trying to swallow it down, but it slips out anyway, unguarded.
“Mmm,” Geto breathes at the sound. He kisses him again, slower this time but deeper, his tongue sliding and licking into Satoru’s mouth like he owns it. Satoru melts into it, fingers curled tight in Geto’s hair now, grinding helplessly into him.
They stagger backwards until they hit the bed, half-blind, and collapse onto it in a sprawl of limbs and burning skin. Satoru kicks off his shoes, feet digging into the sheets.
Geto rolls on top of him immediately, slotting their bodies together with such ease it feels inevitable. His hips rock down slow, deliberate, grinding the length of their cocks together. Satoru lets out a sound that’s almost a whimper, head tipping back. He feels his hair sticking to his forehead, and wonders if he looks as fucked as he feels.
“Fuck,” he hisses, legs twitching around Geto’s waist.
Geto’s moving down, kissing and biting down his chest. One hand plants beside Satoru’s head, the other sneaks under his back, holding him still as he licks across one of Satoru’s nipples, then sucks it into his mouth.
Satoru moans, full-voiced now, writhing up into it. His cock throbs, now wet with so much pre-cum he’s sure the fabric is soaked straight through.
Geto hums at the sound and grinds down harder. Satoru opens his legs a little without thinking— just to breathe, to make space— but it backfires. Geto presses in closer, the full weight of his hips pinning Satoru in place, and the friction of it all is too much. Too thick, too hot, every movement winding him tighter. His thighs shake. His hands find Geto’s ass again, digging in, grinding him down hard.
Geto groans low into his chest, hips stuttering, dropping to his elbows above him, fucking slow and hard through the fabric. Their cocks slip and rub, wet with sweat and pre, too close to the edge.
“Geto,” Satoru breathes, feeling flushed from throat to forehead, “Geto, wait— let’s flip—”
“Hmm?” Geto kisses against his skin, not stopping. His cock continues to fuck against his, and Satoru feels release approaching embarrassingly quick. “You don’t like this?”
“I do, I just…” He swallows hard. “Let’s switch, okay?”
He can’t fucking come like this. Not just from this. He needs to pull it back, needs the Captain to come first, needs control in his hands again, or at least enough to not fall apart like this. Especially if he’s going to fuck him later, and at this point, it seems very likely.
Geto pulls back, eyes half-lidded, lips wet. He looks down at him, and Satoru hates how fucking knowing his expression is.
“Alright, Gojo,” he says, smooth as ever. “Your move.”
They switch positions, and Satoru clambers over Geto like he’s got something to prove.
He shifts over him, fumbling a bit as he tries to find the right angle— knees planted, palms braced near Geto’s ribs, his hips lowering like he means business. It’s an interesting feeling, the sensation of two hot, large cocks rubbing against each other. A stimulation that is both foreign and beyond blissful. With the women he’s slept with before, he doesn’t remember building up like this. Sure, he’d share some kisses and whatnot, but the goal for both parties was to get to bed. Straightforward, completely expected. With Geto, however, the anticipation almost felt better than the real thing itself.
No, not almost.
Now that Satoru thinks about it, this feels better than any other sexual encounter he’s ever experienced, and he hasn’t even stuck his cock in Geto’s ass yet.
Below him, the Captain’s hair is sprawled out— long inky waves plastered with sweat, clinging to his neck and shoulders like darkened spider webs. It’s hot, and Satoru can’t stop staring at the man beneath him, the beautiful slope of his nose, the warmth in his eyes, pink lips, handsome yet soft features that look even better flushed and waiting.
“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” Satoru says, the words tumbling before he can stop them. He’s not sure if he’s confessing or accusing or praying, but it doesn’t matter, not with Geto looking at him like this.
Geto stares up at him, cheeks painted with a deep red. “Touch me, then.” His voice is low, somewhere between a command and a plea.
Satoru smiles down at him, resisting the urge to bite at Geto’s cheeks and bury his head in the nook of his shoulder. To melt into him completely, to lose himself.
Instead, he bites his lip and tries to do it just like Geto did: strong, smooth, deep rolls of the hips that feel confident and calculated. But instead, it comes off uncoordinated at first. He doesn’t slot in the same way, or rather, the angle is wrong. The fabric catches and their cocks drag past each other instead of together.
Geto’s body is solid beneath him, too firm, too hot, like it’s radiating heat through every inch of contact.
Satoru clenches his jaw and tries again. He attempts another slow roll of his hips, then another, the fabric of their pants sticking where they’re soaked through. His cock rubs along Geto’s lower belly instead of where he wants it, and a frustrated noise curls low in his throat.
“Having trouble?” Geto teases, voice thick with heat, lazy. His hands don’t move, just currently spread across his sides. He just watches, breathing slow and heavy, letting Satoru do what he wants.
“Shut up,” Satoru mutters. He feels his cheeks flush as he leans in more, hips grinding harder, trying to recreate the rhythm that had him melting just a minute before. It’s not quite right, not yet, but he’s getting somewhe—
Geto shifts beneath him, one hand sliding down the curve of his back, slow and certain.
Then the other follows.
They settle on his ass. Big, steady palms spread him, gripping him, and Satoru falters. His spine nearly arches, the contact being neither soft nor hesitant. He gasps when Geto inches down, then pulls Satoru hard, cock grinding up against the crease of his cheeks. The pressure is so good, so thick, it drags a quiet groan from his throat before he can stop it.
And now, without even realizing how, it’s easier.
Geto guides him up, then down again, dragging his ass over the heavy shape of his cock, letting it grind right up into the split of Satoru’s pants where he’s dripping and sensitive. He gasps, arms faltering as he steadies himself, and his knees slide further apart.
By the time he notices it, it’s too late.
He’s straddling Geto now, fully.
His knees are braced wide, thighs shaking, as his ass grinds down into the hard ridge beneath him. He rocks his hips forward, chasing the drag, and Geto meets him there, pressing up just enough to deepen the friction. Hands find his lower back, guiding him to ride.
And Satoru does.
He chases it— mindlessly, lips parted, breath catching— hips grinding with open rhythm almost frantically. The heat coils tighter in his belly with every pass, pressure building deep and low.
Geto groans beneath him, fingers digging in harder, somehow. “That’s it,” he murmurs, voice all heat. “Just like that.”
Satoru’s head drops forward, a few loose hairs falling into his eyes, his whole body rolling with it. He’s dripping now, the front of his pants fully wet and sticky, slick sounds catching in the space between them.
“Fuck,” he gasps, rutting harder now. “God, you feel— ah— fuck, you feel good.”
Geto breathes a low, wicked laugh beneath him. “Keep moving like that and I’m going to think you like it, Gojo.”
Satoru doesn’t respond, he can’t. He’s grinding harder now, hands fisting in the sheets, every nerve pulled taut. His hips then bounce once— just a short, stuttering motion— and the friction afterward makes his whole body seize. He lowers himself again, grinding deep, and Geto groans at the pressure, hands clamping down tight as they drag him forward, then back. They continue this for several more seconds, Satoru lifting up his hips a few centimeters only to come back down hard on Geto’s cock through his pants.
The pressure feels so good, it pulls a loud moan from his throat before he can stop it.
“Geto,” he breathes.
Geto smiles up at him, squeezing him, fingers playing with the flesh on his cheeks until Satoru’s breath hitches. “Yeah,” he mutters, “Feel that?” He coaxes Satoru up, and he meets him halfway this time, thrusting up, and Satoru feels the full press of Geto’s cock through it, thick and hot and perfectly placed.
“I knew you’d ride it like this.”
Satoru’s whole body shudders at Geto’s words. His rhythm stutters but he keeps moving. He can’t stop now, chasing the friction like a starved man. The base of Geto’s cock grinds right into him, perfectly nestled under his ass, and the drag of it makes his stomach clench, his cock ache.
“You’re close,” Geto says low, “I can feel it.”
“Shut— fuck, shut up—”
Satoru’s voice breaks on a whimper. His hips falter, legs trembling. He’s leaking so much now that the front of his trousers are soaked, clinging to his cock and upper thighs.
Geto shifts beneath him and sits up, propping himself against the headboard. Satoru ends up on his lap again, chest flush to chest, skin hot and burning. Their cocks grind together again through the sodden fabric and Satoru moans helplessly.
One hand cups his jaw, guiding him into a kiss. The other dips low, slipping past the waistband of Satoru’s trousers.
Satoru jolts.
Geto’s fingers wrap around his cock, finally, and it’s so much worse than before. Hot, wet, too much. Satoru bucks into the grip, hips stuttering, breath punching out of him in short and frantic bursts.
Geto strokes him a few times, palm twisting, thumb catching on the head. Satoru immediately breaks.
His head drops to Geto’s shoulder, body curling forward as he comes hard, spilling into Geto’s hand with a desperate, shaking sound. The pleasure rips through him, mortifyingly strong, his entire body wracked with it.
Geto holds him through it, murmuring something low and unintelligible against his ear, lips brushing the sweat-damp skin of his neck. He strokes him slow until it’s too much and Satoru’s twitching in his lap, gasping for breath, completely undone.
He’s still straddling him, wet and shaky as his cock softens in Geto’s palm.
“Oh, fuck,” Satoru breathes, barely audible, forehead pressed to Geto’s collarbone. “That was… God.”
Geto laughs and the vibrations rumble through his chest like the low roll of distant thunder. Satoru tries to shift, but Geto’s still hard beneath him. His cock is pressed up against him, and Satoru’s hips twitch slightly at the sensation. He straightens and starts to move back, reaching a hand between them as if to help, but Geto catches his wrist gently.
“No, no, it’s alright,” he murmurs. “You just sit there, Gojo. Relax.”
“But–”
“Shhh,” Geto smiles, nudging his nose against Satoru’s cheek. “Just stay.”
And Satoru does, unmoving, heart now racing with a different kind of feeling.
Geto’s free hand curls around his own cock, the head already glistening as it peeks through from his half-undone trousers. It’s heavy and flushed, dark hair at the base matted with the slick sheen of Satoru’s release smeared across him. His pace is steady, confident, like he knows exactly what he wants from himself and how to get there. He pulls back a little as his other arm holds Satoru close, hand flat between his shoulder blades.
His eyes are half-lidded, lashes dark with sweat, and his mouth slackens as he works himself toward the edge.
Satoru watches the entire thing quietly.
He doesn’t realize how still he’s gone, how transfixed, until Geto tips his head back with a breath, exposing the long stretch of his throat. Satoru finds himself staring at the sweat beading at the hollow of his neck, a thin trail trickling down between his collarbones, glowing in the dim light. He wants to lick it, lap at Geto’s skin until all he can remember is the taste of salt and the echo of his own name.
After a few moments, Geto’s eyes flick downward, dragging from the ceiling back to him, locking in with an intensity that briefly startles Satoru.
It almost reminds Satoru of a predator’s stare, locking onto its prey seconds before it strikes. However, the feeling doesn’t quite fit, as it lacks all the malice. Instead, Geto’s eyes shine with something akin to fondness, paired with the flush still gathered in his cheeks. His hunger is nestled under an amber warmth, and he looks almost unguarded.
Geto’s hand works faster, breath hitching. His hips twitch under Satoru’s weight, and he whispers, “Gojo,” as his breath catches.
His stomach tenses, muscles pulling tight beneath Satoru’s thighs, and his cock jerks in his grip— thick and flushed dark. He tips his head again, and then he comes with a deep, low groan pulled straight from his chest.
Warmth spreads between them as cum paints their bellies, even brushing the bottom of Satoru’s ribs. A hot mess that sticks and slicks where their bodies press together.
Geto exhales slowly, body slackening, and lets his hand fall limp beside him.
Satoru stares, momentarily overwhelmed by the silence after. Their cocks are now soft and pinned between them, the mess of it squishing gently every time either of them shifts. Geto’s body slides down a little against the headboard, and the heat of his thighs beneath him starts to burn.
His ass is also beginning to ache from the pressure and friction. It’s not exactly uncomfortable, but Satoru feels an impending bag of emotions looming over him, the shoulder strap hanging on by a thread. He’s sure the full weight of this will hit him later, but for now, he just breathes and watches the beautiful man beneath him.
After a few seconds, he realizes he should say something. A few words weasel their way to his mouth without second thought, “Do you want to…?”
He’s unsure of the meaning behind his words.
Do you want to fuck now?
Do you want to talk about it?
Do you want to get up, clean this mess, and never mention it again?
He’s unsure of what expression paints his features now, and Geto’s face does nothing to quell his nerves. There’s a storm of emotions present in his eyes, running through uncertainty, desire, and something close to hurt. Satoru then suddenly feels too much. Every thought tries to rise to the surface at once, crowding in his throat like water.
“I…” Geto starts, then stops. He tilts his head slightly, his eyes tracing over Satoru’s face. He lifts a hand and brushes it gently against Satoru’s cheek, making his skin heat up all over again. Geto’s arm hovers for a moment, as if suspended by invisible strings, as if God’s own nimble fingers knew exactly what to do to make Satoru swoon. After a breath, he lets his arm fall, his hand landing on Satoru’s thigh.
They stay like that, Satoru still straddling him, a long, strange silence stretching out. Satoru swallows, hyper-aware of every small twitch, every shared breath. Finally, he shifts, lifting himself off Geto’s lap. His legs are unsteady as he slides to stand beside the bed.
In the back of his mind, he’d known what this would mean the moment he let himself look at Geto's bare chest for too long. The moment he allowed this man to guide him onto the bed.
No, it was before that.
It was the moment he admitted, even if only in the deepest part of himself, that he wasn’t just trying to “figure” Geto out. It wasn’t just his curiosity or ego or irritation that pulled him back to the Captain again and again, provoking him, forming arguments just to see Geto’s eyes on him, and only on him. He wanted the man all for himself, to wash away every other feeling and person just to have him close.
Desire— this is desire for another man. He likes Captain Geto, craves his presence in a way he has no script for. He wants to live in the other man’s skin, experience ecstasy until neither can handle it anymore. The thought hits him now like an iceberg, sudden, massive, and far too late to steer around. But instead, there’s no ship to sink anymore, just the echo of what’s already been wrecked. The mast of denial flutters in the wind, completely useless.
Satoru stands beside the bed, muscles twitching, skin still flushed, as more thoughts flood in too fast to hold back.
He let himself get touched, held, practically fucked, and come in his pants like a mess. Not only that, but he enjoyed it more than anything else he’s ever experienced. And Geto seemed to like it too. He lets out a quiet sigh, more breath than sound.
What does this mean? Can it really be this easy? The thought circles, sticky and electric. It shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t be able to just… let go. Of what his future implies, what his parents have set out for him, for Geto’s lifestyle. He can’t let go with someone like Geto, not with a man who’s spent so much time getting under his skin, but who now feels like the only thing holding him together.
He wants to say something, something clever, maybe a joke, anything to keep the weight of the moment from settling too heavy. But the words won’t come, and for once, Satoru finds himself… quiet.
Geto clears his throat, eyes darting away. “Let’s clean up. I can find some towels or cloths somewhere…” He half-turns, scooting to the other side of the bed.
Satoru nods, barely trusting himself to speak. The ghost of Geto’s touch lingers hot on his skin, and it’s impossible to shake off.
Geto returns first with a few cloths and the jar of water, wordless as he offers them out. Satoru takes both, careful not to let their fingers brush, and turns his back to the room as he cleans himself off. He can feel Geto’s gaze on him, but he doesn’t dare look up, not yet. The urge to say something is back, but his mouth is dry. So instead, he wipes himself off, face burning.
Behind him, Geto rustles through the mess for a minute, cleaning up. The quiet stretches, thick and close, until Satoru starts rifling through the drawers again. He finds a shirt that almost fits. It’s a bit tight across the chest, sleeves too short, but it has to do. He throws another shirt at Geto without looking. He catches it with a soft grunt, mutters a quiet “thanks”. There are also extra pants, to which Satoru grabs for them. They change in silence.
It’s only then that Satoru notices the oppressive heat is gone, whatever had been roaming in the air has disappeared. He gathers what they need— the lantern, the kit, and a few cloths. Geto moves in sync with him, stacking supplies, anything that seems useful. Neither of them says a word.
By the time they’re ready, the awkwardness has faded into something else. Not frustration or anger, but a certain kind of tension. If anything, it feels suspended, like a wave they’re both riding out, waiting to see where it breaks. Whatever had happened on that bed is somewhere else now, tucked beneath the surface.
They trade one last look, something flickering between them, then leave the room.
Down the spiral stairs, the lighthouse air is damp again, echoing each step. At the base, Shoko, Nanami, Haibara, and Yuta are clustered together, half-shivering but awake, heads snapping up as the two descend. There are a few lanterns out, lighting up the room, meaning they must have found some spare ones while looking down here.
Nanami fixes them both with a flat look. “Finally. What took you so long?”
Satoru shrugs, but the motion feels tight over his shoulders. Geto is completely silent.
Shoko’s eyes flick between their faces. “Did someone die?” she asks, “What’s with the faces?”
For a second, no one speaks. Then Satoru snorts, tossing the kit onto the nearest table. “Not yet,” he says, and something like relief runs through the group.
“We found this upstairs.” He flicks the latch. “There’s bandages, antiseptic, and a few rolls of gauze.”
Shoko is first to peer in, brows lifting. “This isn’t too bad. I’ve worked with worse.” She’s already snapping on gloves, nudging Nanami to sit. “Let’s see that leg.”
Haibara helps her unpack the rest, spreading the supplies out.
“Yuta, check if the flare works,” Geto says, handing it over. “And see if those matches are still good. Haibara, help Shoko.” His voice is calm, a steadiness settling over him that Satoru recognizes from the deck— when things go bad, Geto tends to get focused. He also catches that Geto conveniently forgets to assign him a task.
They all work quietly, soft sounds filling the room. Shoko cleans Nanami’s cut while Haibara peels apart bandages, tongue sticking out in concentration. Yuta cracks open the flare, examining the trigger. Satoru hovers for a second, uncertain, then starts stacking up the leftover supplies. Geto offers everyone water, which is gladly accepted.
When the tasks are done and the kit is mostly picked clean, Haibara perks up, “Should we try to get some air?” he asks, gathering items on the table.
“Yeah, let’s go outside. We can try the flare,” Satoru says, already moving to the entrance, eager to break the tension lingering in the lighthouse. Or really, whatever is up with Geto.
He reaches for the handle, gives it a tug. It doesn’t budge. He tries again, harder, pushing his shoulder against the wood, but nothing. He glances at the others. “It’s stuck.”
Geto steps up, brushing past him. “Let me try.” He plants his feet, gives the door a solid shove, but no luck. The hinges shriek, but the door holds.
Satoru sighs, arms crossed. “If you couldn’t move that rock upstairs, what makes you think you can break down this door before I can?”
Geto gives him a look, intense and unreadable. For a moment, Satoru expects a snappy comeback, but instead there’s a pause, as if Geto is weighing something. Then something flashes across his eyes, almost like an acceptance of sorts, somewhat smug. As if he had an inside joke with himself.
He steps closer, voice pitched low, barely above a whisper meant just for him. “Well, if you don’t remember, I’m the one who was on top of you on the boat and you couldn’t get up from under me because your cock was hard.” He leans back, “So forgive me for thinking maybe you aren’t thinking straight right now.”
Satoru’s mouth falls open, cheeks burning. He glances quickly at the group— Yuta busy with the flare, Haibara still fussing with the kit, Shoko talking lowly with Nanami.
He clears his throat, forcing his voice steady. “Shut up,” he mutters, too quiet for anyone else to hear, but not so quiet Geto misses it.
Geto’s eyes shine and a slow smile spreads across his lips. The tension between them lingers, but for now, Satoru lets it be, stepping aside so Geto can try the door again.
For a second, Satoru almost wants to laugh at how quickly this energy came back, how easily it snuck up on them and now burns in the pit of his stomach. For a while, he thought he’d ruined whatever fragile thing existed between them on the bed. This budding friendship or rivalry, he isn’t sure. Romance? No, definitely not. Unless…?
Before he can spiral further, Shoko’s voice cuts through, dry. “If you two are done flirting, maybe check the windows next? I’d like to know if we’re trapped before the next round of bickering.”
Geto snaps his head toward her, movements exaggerated, almost cartoonish. His eyes are wide, brows raised, then jerks his chin subtly in Satoru’s direction. Shoko just snorts, not even trying to hide her amusement. The corners of her mouth twitch, and Satoru is suddenly, acutely aware of her scrutiny.
He wonders, not for the first time, if she and Geto have talked about him before. The way she hardly reacted after watching their fight on the deck had been revealing enough, but he ignored it at the time. He had been too embarrassed to talk to her about it or too stubborn to care. So maybe they all have, he thinks, a little uneasy. Maybe he’s been the butt of some running joke for weeks now.
He tries to play it off, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll check the windows,” he mutters, and steps away, heart thudding a little too fast. He feels Geto’s gaze follow him.
Before he can even take a step toward the stairs, Yuta cuts in. “Wait, did you guys find anything else up there?” Yuta asks, eyes wide, clutching his satchel like it’s a lifeline. “Any information?”
Satoru shakes his head, forcing a careless shrug. “Not really, the radio was shot. There was a kit, but, uh… that’s about it.”
Geto, ever the completist, adds, “There was a journal, too. Some kind of log, with old entries. Seemed like… research notes.” He keeps his tone measured, but Satoru sees the way Yuta’s interest flickers. His shoulders square, eyes lighting up for the first time since the shipwreck.
Yuta perks up. “A journal? What was it about?”
Satoru hesitates, then says, “It was mostly myth, I believe. Old sailor stories, stuff about kyonagi. Nothing we could really use.” He regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth— the way Yuta’s face dims, shoulders sloping. He feels a twist of guilt, but can’t bring himself to backtrack. It really didn’t seem useful, offered no information about their habitat, how to catch them, or anything about Shinraku. In fact, it’s strange the island wasn’t mentioned at all. Don’t they only inhabit the waters there?
Haibara, ever the optimist, pipes up, “Did you make it all the way to the top?” His gaze bounces between them. “The, uh… the lantern room, is that what it’s called?”
Satoru blinks, realizing he hadn’t even thought about the highest floor. “No, actually. We didn’t.”
Geto chimes in, frowning in thought, “We never got to the lantern room. Last window we saw was… third level? Maybe the fourth.” He glances at Satoru for confirmation, but it’s clear neither of them remembers exactly.
Nanami arches an eyebrow. “You don’t remember? You two must have taken a long time inspecting each room.”
Shoko’s smirk is sharp as a knife. “Yeah, you don’t remember, Suguru? Were you two too busy doing something else or what? Found a new wardrobe?”
Geto snaps his gaze to her again, this time with mock indignation but Shoko just snorts and goes back to playing with bandages.
Haibara, trying to keep the mood up, says, “I think the book might be worth checking out. Even if it’s just myths, those can have real information. Right, Yuta?”
Yuta nods eagerly, “Yeah. Gojo, if it’s still up there, can you bring it down after you check the window? I’d like to look at it, maybe there’s something useful.”
Satoru lets out a little sigh, but nods. “Of course, I’ll grab it,” he says, giving Yuta a smile. He thinks it won’t really be of any help, but if it can calm the group and get Yuta thinking about anything besides their situation, it’s worth an effort.
He glances at the group. “The window might be on the same floor, so I’ll see if it opens.”
Shoko, without missing a beat, turns to Geto. “Suguru, you should go with Gojo.”
Both Satoru and Geto turn to look at her, nearly in sync. She lifts a brow, the hint of a smirk on her lips. “What? The window might be stuck. Or there might be something in the way.”
Nanami just snorts, “Try not to take an hour this time.”
Geto, expression unreadable for once, just says, “Ok… alright. Ready, Gojo?”
Satoru grabs the lantern again, shooting Shoko a look. He’s almost sure she’s enjoying this. He glances at Yuta, who manages a shy smile, then nods for Geto to follow him.
As they start up the stairs, Satoru can’t help but feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on their backs. He tries to ignore it, focusing on the task but it’s hard, with Geto so close behind. He says over his shoulder, half-teasing, “Let’s make this quick, before someone accuses us of getting lost on purpose,” but his voice comes out a little hoarse.
Geto’s answering hum is noncommittal.
They ascend in silence, the spiral tightening around them, each pass of the lantern throwing more shadows along the walls. Satoru can feel his own pulse in his fingertips, jittery and loud.
The old wood creaks beneath their weight as they climb and Satoru catches the faint brush of Geto’s hand at his back. Maybe it’s meant to be as steadying, but it lingers, thumb dragging a half-circle before it’s gone. The small touch sears through the fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t say anything but every sense feels sharpened, his breath coming quicker as they round another turn.
Satoru glances over his shoulder, lantern tilting, catching the gold in Geto’s eyes. They reach the landing, shoes scraping against dusty floorboards. The familiar room stretches before them— bed still somewhat unmade, the journal still where they left it, candles flickering. Satoru sets the lantern on the desk, knuckles white around the handle, then flexes his hand open. A small bottle of oil now sits on the surface as well, Satoru hadn’t noticed it before.
He means to say something but all he manages is a half-breath, staring at the pale stripe of moonlight across Geto’s face. The quiet becomes a living thing. He stands just a little too close, body heat radiating in the thin air.
Satoru looks down, feigning interest in the journal, but he can feel Geto’s gaze like a touch, drawn to every inch of bare skin. Their arms brush and Satoru shivers. He swallows, tries again. “Window’s over there,” he says, and the words sound empty, thin. He doesn’t move.
Instead, Satoru listens to the rise and fall of Geto’s breath behind him, the low, uneven sound of it. He’s aware of every point where they’re almost touching— the heat from Geto’s body rolling off him in waves. It’s stifling, so hot it feels deliberate, like the air itself is closing in around them. Is the heat back?
He glances over, and Geto’s gaze is fixed. This time, Satoru doesn’t lie to himself, or ignore what’s so obvious. The man is hungry, ready to eat him. Satoru’s pulse kicks. He wets his lips, nerves and anticipation warring in his chest.
Geto’s eyes are a honey-dark, pupils blown wide, and Satoru feels the world tilt. Geto’s hand rises to the hem of his shirt. He doesn’t take his eyes off Satoru as he strips it off, baring his chest to the flickering candlelight. He tilts his head as a silent invitation, and something like a challenge glints in his eyes.
Satoru bites his lip, unable to tear his gaze away. His own skin feels too tight, his chest too hot, and without really thinking, he peels his shirt over his head, letting it fall to the floor between them.
For a long moment they just stare, drinking each other in, like two magnets locked in that sharp pause before the snap. Satoru’s lips twitch into a smirk, but the confidence trembles under the heat pooling in his gut. He steps in until the line of his chest just barely brushes Geto’s, the warmth of their skin sparking shivers up his spine.
Geto lifts a hand and slides it along Satoru’s jaw, thumb grazing the edge of his lip before Satoru captures it between his teeth, sucking, pulling a low rumble from Geto’s throat. Then Satoru takes his mouth, slow at first, lips pressing, then hungrier, tongues tangling with wet insistence. A groan vibrates from Geto’s chest when Satoru bites down gently on his lower lip, tugging it.
“God,” Geto breathes against him, the sound almost a plea. His hand drags down the ridge of Satoru’s spine, mapping every hollow and curve, before sliding lower, over the curve of his ass, fingers squeezing hard enough to make Satoru gasp into his mouth.
Satoru’s moan spills against Geto’s lips, head tipping back slightly as the grip tightens. With an impatient grunt, he kicks off his shoes, nudging at Geto’s ankle until Geto huffs a laugh and toes his own free, the thud of leather hitting the floor echoing before Satoru tugs him backward. They stumble toward the bed with their mouths still locked, unwilling to lose the heat for even a second.
Geto slides over him and grips his sides with an almost bruising force, and his body arches under the touch, skin prickling with need. He breaks the kiss only to murmur against Geto’s jaw, voice low and rough, “You gonna keep teasing, or actually do something?”
There’s a glint in Geto’s eyes when he pulls back from the kiss. He watches Satoru, watches his lips parting, the slight tremble in his thighs where they rest along Geto’s hips.
“I want to,” Geto says, voice low and honest. “Let me touch you.” He pulls back, eyes tracing lines everywhere. “Everywhere.”
It’s not phrased as a question, and yet he still waits. His hand doesn’t move until Satoru gives the faintest nod, then shifts back, letting Geto slide his hand down. Over the sharp angle of his hip, the line of his outer thigh, and then he shifts, cupping hard between his legs.
Satoru hisses through his teeth, body jerking into the touch. His cock’s already leaking, thick against his belly, the thin fabric of his trousers soaked through. Geto strokes him lightly through it, just once, and Satoru groans, hand flying to the bedsheets.
“Geto— don’t fuck around—”
“I’m not,” he murmurs quietly.
Geto shifts slowly, taking his hands off Satoru only to plant them flat on either side of his head. His palms are braced against the mattress, caging him in. Satoru nearly whines at the loss of contact but keeps his mouth shut, biting down on the sound, instead staring up at Geto’s face.
Geto gives him a soft, almost wicked smile and lowers his head. He kisses down the center of Satoru’s chest, his stomach, until he’s low enough to mouth at the waistband of his trousers. Satoru’s head shoots up, startled despite himself. The contact is expected but still shocks him, cock straining beneath the fabric, eagerly anticipating air. Geto is steady, peeling his trousers down inch by inch, exposing skin flushed and damp. Cool air meets Satoru’s cock and he lets out a quiet sound he can’t catch.
And then, Geto looks up at him.
The sight is heavenly.
His face and mouth are close to his cock, the heat of his breath ghosting over the head, eyes dark and hungry, as if he were staring at his last meal on earth. Satoru nearly shivers at the sight.
Geto’s eyes flicker briefly, widening just a fraction, before one arm stretches up. He brushes Satoru’s cheek, fingers trailing down to his neck, coaxing him down against the pillows with a touch so light it almost feels reverent.
“Relax, Gojo,” he murmurs.
Satoru lets his head fall back into the mattress. His legs fall apart without prompting, the muscles twitching slightly as Geto moves between them.
“God,” Geto says as he leans in, hands gripping Satoru’s thighs. “Look at you…”
He fumbles briefly behind him for a small bottle of oil, uncaps it with one hand. The smell is faint and Satoru feels his breath catch. He pours a bit into his palm, warms it between his fingers, and his touch turns slick and patient, stroking along the inside of Satoru’s thighs, coaxing his legs wider with each pass.
“You feel alright?” he asks as his lips graze the crease of Satoru’s hip.
Satoru nods, barely a breath. “Yeah.”
Geto props him slightly, one hand guiding Satoru’s knee higher, angling him so his hips tilt just enough. Satoru realizes what’s happening, what’s about to happen, and it hits him like a wave. Geto will be inside him. Geto will fuck him. A few nerves curl sharply in his stomach, mostly with excitement, though there’s a tremor of worry.
But one thing is certain: he has never wanted anyone as badly as this.
A deeper voice in his mind supplies another thought, sudden but steady— he would let this man do anything to him right now. It’s insane, he realizes. But it’s true. Geto is his. His captain, his conquest, his new lover. He can’t imagine a future where he lets him go, lets him drift off into the sea again to God knows where with God knows who.
The first finger slips in slow. He feels some resistance, his tight muscles clenching around the intrusion. Then, a warmth, slick and deep. Satoru exhales hard, gripping the sheets tighter.
Geto watches him the whole time, watches the furrow between his brows smooth with each careful push, each retreat and he takes his time.
The second finger slides in after the first, and Satoru swears, arching slightly. “It’s fine,” he says too quickly, breath ragged. “It’s just— fuck, keep going.”
Geto pauses. “Are you sure?”
Satoru nods, blinking rapidly. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
Geto kisses his knee and continues, fingers curling just right, scissoring slowly. Satoru’s hips twitch under the touch, and he can feel how his body is caught between resisting and welcoming the stretch.
By the third finger, Satoru’s cock is twitching again, leaking steadily, mouth open in soft gasps as his thighs press wider. His breath comes faster now, and a sheen of sweat gathers at his temple. His head tips back against the pillows and a small, involuntary sound escapes him, a half-moan or whimper, at the steady drag of Geto’s fingers opening him up. Each slow stroke brushes against that same spot inside and it makes his stomach jump, makes his cock pulse against his own belly.
“You’re ready,” Geto says quietly after a while. It almost sounds like he says it to himself rather than Satoru, but he doesn’t care. He’s too far gone, too busy feeling the whole damn universe stretch him open.
“Yeah. Yeah, just—” He doesn’t finish. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, eyes fluttering shut again.
Geto shifts up, settling between Satoru’s legs. There’s a pause and then a warm palm presses to Satoru’s forehead. It drags slow down his face, then lower, trailing the line of his throat until it flattens across his chest, right over his heart.
Satoru’s eyes crack open. Geto’s fingers splay out, pressing gently, like he’s reading something underneath his skin. His pulse, maybe. Satoru’s heartbeat jumps beneath his touch.
“Gojo,” Geto says softly. “If it’s too much, just say.”
Their eyes lock, and Geto’s gaze is impossibly warm. It looks calmer than his own, somehow gentler than the hand on his chest.
Now is no time for weakness, for his ego to flare. Satoru smiles back, lopsided. “Do your worst, Captain”
Geto huffs a laugh, shaking his head, and it looks like he lets out a breath he’s been holding. He leans forward, removing his hand, and reaches down between them. He guides himself to Satoru’s entrance.
The head nudges in, slow, and Satoru tenses immediately, muscles clenching with the stretch. A sharp breath cuts through his teeth despite his best efforts, and the burn is intense. He forces himself to breathe deeper, to stay open.
Geto leans over him, chest brushing his, bracing himself on his forearms.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, voice close to his ear. “There you go…”
Satoru gasps, forehead pressing to Geto’s shoulder. “Fuck, okay–”
Geto stills once he’s in all the way, letting Satoru adjust. The heat, the pressure— it’s all overwhelming. The way Satoru squeezes around him, so tight and hot it nearly makes Geto’s hips stutter. He closes his eyes, exhales slow and careful.
“Tell me when,” Geto whispers.
Satoru shudders, but then nods, hips shifting subtly, pushing back just enough. He feels Geto twitch inside him, and he bites his lip so hard blood threatens to break through. It’s just that… he doesn't know what the signal should be. He doesn’t know what’s right, when it will be right. But the look on Geto’s face when he opens his eyes again, something akin to reverence, makes the decision for him.
“Now,” Satoru whispers. “Fuck me.”
Geto’s breath catches.
The first thrust is slow. Heavy, deep. Satoru moans unguarded, and his legs wrap tight around Geto’s waist, heels locking behind his back. Geto pulls out just enough to push back in, slow again, and then again, each roll of his hips dragging deep and steady, splitting Satoru open.
The pace builds gradually, and the bed beneath them starts creaking with every movement. Skin slaps wet and hot as Geto sets a rhythm, rough and intentional, like he wants Satoru to feel every inch, every pull and drag.
Satoru’s hands claw up his back, searching for something to hold onto, grounding himself in the slick heat of skin and muscle.
“Geto,” he pants, voice high, breaking.
Geto leans in, lips brushing his jaw. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “You’re doing so good for me.”
Each thrust rocks him up the mattress, every grind pushing deeper, every pull out dragging against that sweet spot. His cock leaks untouched between them, and it smears slick over both of their stomachs. He gasps every time Geto slams back in, voice catching high in his throat.
It all feels so good— too good. Almost overwhelmingly so. But still, he wants more, needs more. He can see it even through the haze, the way Geto’s holding back, the way his thrusts stay careful, controlled, meeting him instead of breaking him.
The thought feels insane, but it’s true, painfully true. He yearns to see the Captain do his worst, to let himself go. Geto may be on top of him, but Satoru wants to see him crumble.
“More, Geto” he pants. “Harder.”
Geto stills for a heartbeat, eyes flicking up to Satoru’s. Something electric flashes there and Satoru feels himself clench at the sight. Geto’s jaw tightens and his grip shifts, hands sliding down to palm Satoru’s hips. He digs his fingers in, thumbs pressing indents into the tender skin at the crease of his thighs.
“You want it harder?” His voice is low, roughened with restraint. “Then hold on.”
The rhythm quickens and becomes strong, borderline relentless. Geto starts fucking him deep, hips slapping hard. Obscene sounds fill the room and it only makes Satoru feel hotter, more exposed, as unfamiliar sounds are pulled from him. Geto’s cock drives in to the base, drags out, slams back in again, and Satoru feels every inch of it drawn through his body.
Geto’s mouth finds Satoru’s neck, jaw, collarbone. He kisses, sucks, and bites down when Satoru moans too loud, teeth catching enough to make him jolt.
The bed creaks wildly now, frame groaning with every push. Satoru’s voice dissolves into soft, ragged cries, fingers locked tight around Geto’s back, nails dragging at the muscles there.
Geto drags his tongue up Satoru’s throat, lips pressing against his ear. “That’s it,” he mutters between thrusts. “Take it— just like that.”
Satoru can’t even answer, can’t even take in the sight of Geto losing himself because he’s losing it more. His cock aches so hard now it feels swollen. It’s sprung up uselessly, slick with pre-cum, begging to be touched, bumping against Geto’s stomach with every push.
“Touch me,” he whispers, voice breaking.
Geto groans low in his chest, one hand sliding down between their bodies. His palm finds Satoru’s cock, hot and wet, and he starts to stroke him in time with his thrusts— long, firm pulls from root to tip. The continuous friction sends violent shudders through Satoru. His head tips back into the pillow, mouth open.
Geto fucks him even harder, hips pistoning now, cock hitting deep with every push. His hand tightens just enough to make Satoru’s hips jerk up. Their skin slaps wet and fast, the sound filthy and constant, bedframe shaking under the force.
Satoru’s moans turn into little cries, and he finds that he doesn’t care in the slightest. Each one is punched out of him on the downstroke, body trembling as Geto grinds him open. His thighs fall wider as his cock pulses under Geto’s palm, slicking his grip. He raises his arm to his face, the back of his hand resting on his forehead as he watches Geto above him, overwhelmed with feeling.
Geto’s eyes flicker down where they’re joined, then up at Satoru’s face. He slows his hips just enough to reposition, palm sliding from Satoru’s cock back to his hip.
After a few more shallow thrusts, Geto eases out, the head of his cock dragging wetly before slipping free. Satoru makes a low noise at the loss, but Geto’s already moving, manhandling him gently onto his side. He fits himself in behind, spooning close, one big hand curling around Satoru’s thigh to pull it up over his own.
Geto pushes back in slow.
Satoru gasps. It hits deeper like this, and a moan is dragged straight from his chest.
“Fuck— oh my God—”
Geto groans against his back, chest pressed flat to him now, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I want you to feel good, feel me.”
He starts thrusting again, heavier, hips rolling in with control. Every push rocks Satoru forward into the mattress. The squelch of wet friction is obscene, louder now in the room, each stroke making Satoru tremble harder, keening against the pillow.
“I can’t take much more,” he pants.
“Yes you can,” Geto murmurs, voice at his ear. “Bear with me a little longer, since you’re so strong.”
Satoru shudders at his tone, unable to answer. He lets Geto move him again. This time, he pulls him up until Satoru’s back is flush to his chest, both of them upright, Geto seated back on his heels, Satoru in his lap.
One arm wraps around his chest. The other slips down, stroking his cock again, rhythm tight, matching every thrust upward.
Satoru lets his head fall back onto Geto’s shoulder, mouth parted, body melting. His chest rises and falls against the Captain’s arm, his thighs spreading wider as Geto’s cock drives up into him from below, wet and hot and precise.
Every stroke is deep, every thrust grinds perfectly into him, the head pushing into his sweet spot with merciless accuracy all the while Geto’s slick fingers pull at his cock. Satoru’s voice goes high and ruined, moaning openly, hips twitching and jerking every time the pleasure crests.
“I’m gonna— I’m close—”
“Let go, Gojo,” Geto whispers, dragging his teeth down his neck, biting just enough to make Satoru arch. “Come for me.”
Satoru comes hard, whole body locking up, cock spilling over Geto’s fist as his voice breaks into a broken sound. His thighs clamp down. He jerks in his lap, trembling, fucked through the aftershocks.
Geto follows, thrusting up three more times, cock grinding deep as he moans into Satoru’s neck. He comes with a long exhale, holding Satoru close, still buried inside.
Satoru doesn’t say anything, but his fingers slide down, over Geto’s thigh, as if asking for more. He laughs lightly as a response, humming near Satoru’s back.
He stays buried deep for a while, their bodies slicked together, breath still ragged and mingling. The softening weight of his cock nudges inside with every faint twitch of his hips, but he doesn’t pull out yet. Instead, he rocks just enough to keep them shifting, shallow movements that draw a fresh hiss from Satoru’s lips, sensitivity raw and trembling.
“Mmhh—” Satoru lets out a helpless sound, somewhere between a laugh and a moan, his head rolling back against Geto’s shoulder. He’s shivering from the overstimulation but he doesn’t stop him, just melts more against his chest. The gentle grind is enough to make his cock twitch weakly, soft but still drooling against his thigh.
Geto bends to him, slow kisses peppering the sweaty slope of his neck, his lips dragging over the skin. He nips, playful but sharp enough to make Satoru jolt and let out a laugh.
“Fuck,” he chuckles breathlessly, eyes closing as he takes the sting of teeth with something that feels like affection. Or at least he hopes so. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Stop pretending you don’t like it,” Geto murmurs it against his skin. He then presses one more open-mouthed kiss just under his ear. His arms curl around Satoru’s chest, holding him through the last lazy shifts of his hips until finally, finally, he eases back. The slide out is excruciatingly slow, wet, and leaves Satoru gasping and trembling as his body gives way.
Satoru collapses down first, sprawling across the mattress with his chest heaving. Geto follows after, settling beside him with the languid heaviness of a man who’s been emptied of all his strength. For a moment they just breathe in unison, the room filled with nothing but the faint ticking of the headboard settling back into place.
Eventually Satoru shifts, rolling onto his side. He finds Geto’s face already inches away, and a smile forms on his lips.
Satoru smirks faintly, “You’re a menace.”
Geto huffs a laugh, his hand sliding lazily along the curve of Satoru’s hip before stilling. “And you kept asking for it,” he counters, but his tone is fond.
Satoru wants to linger here, bask in the glow of something that feels suspiciously like happiness, but a sudden, distant sound cuts through the room. A shout, loud enough to echo up the stone of the lighthouse. Then another, and another. They don’t sound panicked or desperate, but rather jubilant, almost incredulous.
He sits up abruptly, hair a mess, mind scrambling to catch up. “Shit, we need to go down.”
Geto startles, then laughs again, quick and breathless as he finds his shirt. “Oh yeah, can’t have them doing stuff without us.”
They scramble into their clothes, barely managing buttons, boots thudding against the old wood. But even before they’re fully dressed, something changes in the air. A sudden crackle snaps, like the whole world just took a deep breath. The floorboards tremble underfoot; every shadow seems to pulse with an unearthly glow.
Satoru stares at the wall, watching as veins of light begin to spiderweb through the stone, gold and silver and too-bright blue, as if the lighthouse itself is waking. Below them, the ocean’s voice seems to rise, a roar that shakes the glass, thunderous and alive.
“Did we do that?” Geto asks, not quite joking.
Satoru doesn’t answer right away, throat feeling tight. “I don’t think so,” he says, “I don’t know what the hell is happening.” He steps back instinctively, as if the shifting light might burn.
Geto’s eyes flick over the room, sharp but unsettled. “That’s not normal, right? This isn’t a ship or anything…” He breaks off.
Satoru shakes his head, almost laughing, nerves high and electric. “No way.” He tries to sound flippant, but it comes out as a whisper. The light grows brighter, so dazzling it eats away all the shadows. It reminds him of the light he saw right before the shipwreck, much too bright, like it was artificial. Now, it seems more mystical than anything.
For a second, the two of them just stand there, half-dressed, bathed in the impossible glow. Satoru’s skin prickles, every hair on end, and a surge of instinct says run, go, see what’s out there.
“Let’s go,” he says suddenly, grabbing Geto’s wrist without thinking.
They bolt for the stairs, nearly colliding on the landings. As they reach the base, the air is blinding with even more light, and the whole room glows with the mystical energy. The front door, which just several minutes ago refused to budge, stands wide open, a corridor of light stretching out toward the sea.
Outside, the others are already spilling onto the rocks, faces upturned, bathed in the strange radiance. Shoko is laughing and Nanami’s eyes are round, mouth parted. Yuta is pointing, shaking, tears streaming down his cheeks. Haibara lets out a whoop that splits the air.
And there, just past the surf, Satoru instantly recognizes it, the creature they’d been searching for all along— the kyonagi— rises from the waves.
It’s bigger than Satoru imagined, scales flashing silver and pearl beneath the moon. Long fins fan out behind it, shimmering with bioluminescent light, each movement sending ripples of color across the surface of the water. The air tastes of ozone and salt, thick with something sacred.
For a heartbeat, no one moves. Satoru stands at Geto’s side, shoulder brushing his. He can feel Geto’s hand, hesitant, settle at the small of his back.
“Do you see that?” Geto whispers, awed.
“Yeah,” Satoru breathes, wonder settling in his bones. “I do.”
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