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Satoru doesn’t think it’s a problem, exactly.
Not the kind of problem that requires intervention, no — Satoru isn't an idiot. He’s not gonna tell his gorgeous, brilliant, dick-obsessed lover to stop doing the very thing that keeps Satoru in a permanent state of blissed-out, mind-numbed euphoria. No. He’s just… noticing.
If it were anyone else, maybe. If it were someone random and not Suguru — his Suguru, the love of his weird, fucked-up, perfect life — he might have said something about boundaries. About overstimulation. About “hey, maybe we should give it a rest before my dick starts peeling”
But it's Suguru. And Suguru is so sweet about it. So annoyingly quiet and sincere about his obsession with Satoru’s cock that it’s not even annoying, it's just—
Well. A little concerning.
In theory.
In practice, it’s mostly hot.
A little much.
But mostly hot.
It started after Amanai.
Which sounds like the worst possible time for this kind of thing to start, but trauma makes people act weird. They'd been curled up together after Suguru finally, finally started talking — really talking — about what the curses tasted like. How it all sounded. How humanity tasted. How loud and sick and ugly it could be.
Satoru, being the emotionally literate genius he is, said: "I bet my cum tastes better."
And somehow… that actually helped.
Now? Now, Satoru can’t sit on the goddamn couch without getting his pants yanked down. Suguru doesn't even ask. He just climbs into his lap, pulls Satoru’s sweats down to his knees, and puts it in his mouth.
No preamble. No eye contact. Sometimes no hello.
Just: slurp.
And then he's got a whole nine and a half fat inches filling up his throat, arms folded. And he's good at it — horrifyingly good. Expert-level suction. Tongue pressure that makes Satoru see actual colors. Hollowed cheeks, fluttery lashes, pink lips stretched wide.
Even when Satoru comes (and he always comes), Suguru doesn’t stop. He keeps going. Sucks Satoru through the overstimulation.
And when it's over?
When Satoru’s brain is liquid and leaking out his ears and he's twitching?
Suguru still doesn’t let go. Just keeps it in his mouth, lips gently sealed around the tip, soft and wet and hot.
Like a pacifier.
“Suguru,” Satoru groans one night, when they’re curled up in bed, Suguru’s head in his lap again — cock snug in his mouth. “my pretty little cumslut. You’re insatiable.”
Suguru hums, not letting it slip from his mouth. Satoru feels it vibrate. A bolt of pleasure shoots up his spine.
“You already made me come three times,” he says, a little breathless. “You’re gonna chafe my dick.”
A pause. Another slow, idle suck. Suguru nuzzles his nose against the base of it.
“I mean it,” Satoru murmurs. “This is starting to feel medically significant.”
Suguru breathes a soft noise of acknowledgment. One of his hands is curled loosely around Satoru’s thigh, fingers stroking absently.
He’s not even jerking off. Doesn’t even look hard. He’s just... like this.
Calm. Happy.
And then, to Satoru’s horror and helpless adoration, he falls asleep with Satoru’s cock still in his mouth.
Deadass. Full-on asleep. Slow, steady breathing, lashes still, mouth slack but not enough to let go. Satoru’s dick is just resting there in his wet, warm mouth.
Satoru stares at the ceiling.
He could turn on Infinity and be done with it — a tiny, invisible distance and the problem would vanish. But he knows what that would do to Suguru. It would break him in some small, invisible way, the way everything after Amanai already had. Like he’s always just a little off balance, and Satoru’s body — his cock, especially — is the only anchor point that makes him feel okay.
So now, when Satoru leaves for missions, Suguru goes full kitten mode. Big glassy eyes. Gentle tug on his sleeve. A quiet, “Can I, before you go?”
And what’s Satoru supposed to say to that?
No?
"Sorry Suguru, I’m late for my Class-A exorcism in Niigata, I can’t have your pretty little lips around my dick right now"?
He’s not made of stone.
And Suguru would get that look again — the wounded one, the one that always comes before the tears. He’d go quiet for hours, lips pressed tight, eyes all red at the corners. Then he’d pretend nothing happened. And Satoru would feel bad. Like, bad-bad. Because his best friend — his partner, his dick-obsessed roommate, and his forever person — is a crybaby at heart.
A big one.
Huge.
Suguru cries over shit that doesn’t even make sense. Like that time Satoru bought him the wrong drink and he just stared at it and whispered,"I was looking forward to that, you know." And Satoru was like, “It’s still a matcha latte, babe,” and Suguru just sniffled and looked away like Satoru had personally betrayed his ancestors.
(And then sucked his dick for twenty-four minutes straight, without blinking.)
It’s not even about the orgasm. That’s the thing. Suguru doesn’t suck him off for release, not really. He doesn’t care if Satoru comes — he just likes having it in his mouth. Likes curling up in Satoru’s lap like a warm, wet cat and suckling on it. Sure, he’ll do it after swallowing curses too, when his mouth tastes like ash and bile. He’ll collapse in Satoru’s lap, mouth open, silently begging for something better to taste. And of course Satoru obliges. Of course he gives it to him.
He likes helping. Likes being the only one Suguru trusts to make him feel clean again.
It’s sweet.
Tender, even.
But.
“GOJŌ! Why aren’t you ready yet?! The mission’s in five minutes!”
That’s Yaga, yelling from the hallway.
Satoru stares at the ceiling. He can’t move.
Because in his lap is a man who has not stopped sucking his dick for forty-seven minutes. Uninterrupted. No break. No jerking. No stroking. Just gentle, rhythmic suction like he’s listening to lo-fi beats to study/relax/to.
Suguru hums softly around the shaft, like he’s comforting him.
Satoru’s dick is somewhere between fully hard and permanently damaged.
Yaga knocks harder.
“Satoru, I swear to God—”
“CAN’T TALK,” Satoru yells, deadpan. “GETTING HEAD.”
There’s a pause.
A long one.
Then: “...Tell him to hurry it up.”
Satoru sighs and shakes him gently. “Suguru.”
A little tug on his shoulder. “Hey.”
Suguru blinks up at him, eyes wet, long lashes all fluttery, lips still stretched around the head of Satoru’s cock, cheeks warm and pink and—goddamn, this isn’t fair. This should be illegal. Suguru should need a license to be this pretty when he’s sleepy.
“Su-gu-ruuuu,” Satoru groans, brushing hair from his face, “I have to go on a mission. I told you. Remember? The one with the sea-cursed thingie in Ibaraki?”
Suguru’s brows knit like this is brand new information.
He pops off Satoru’s cock with a soft gluck, bottom lip glistening.
“But…” his voice comes out all quiet and broken and wet, still rasped from all the sucking, “but ‘toruuu, you said—”
“I said you can suck me later, babe.”
“But ‘s not later now,” Suguru mumbles, pout deepening. His head drops back down onto Satoru’s thigh, like he’s going to re-attach himself via mouth again. “Feels good now.”
“I know, sweetheart, but Yaga’s two seconds from busting down the door with a baseball bat. Say yes. C’mon. Say ‘yes Satoru, I’ll wait patiently like a good little cumslut.’ Just once.”
“M’not a cumslut,” Suguru mutters, which is a lie. A bald-faced lie. The biggest lie in Tokyo.
“You fell asleep with my dick in your mouth yesterday.”
“Was tired.”
“You suck it after eating curses, Suguru. That’s not normal-person behavior.”
“They taste like puke,” Suguru says, curling tighter around his thigh. “Wanna taste you.”
“God.” Satoru drags a hand down his face, cock still semi-hard, now aching from the temperature shift. “You’re impossible.”
“Wanna suck…”
“Later!”
“Toruuu,” Suguru whines, soft and drawn out, dragging Satoru’s name, “‘m not even hard, it’s not for me, ‘s for you... wanna help…”
“You helped four times already, Suguru! My soul has left my body. My balls are on strike. My cock’s asking for union benefits.”
Suguru blinks, confused by everything except one word. “...Union?”
“No!” Satoru claps both hands on his face and gently shoves his beautiful idiot off his lap. “I’m going. I love you. Don’t be pathetic while I’m gone.”
“Can I come?”
“No.”
“Can I watch?”
“No.”
“Can I at least smell it later?”
“SUGURU—!”
“I’ll be good,” Suguru says quickly, burying his face in the blanket. “I’ll be good. I’ll wait. I’ll… I’ll suck it so good when you get back. Promise. Even let you fuck my face this time. Just…” he peeks one eye out. “...’kay if I miss you lots?”
Satoru pauses in the doorway.
Turns back.
“...You’re such a fucking crybaby.”
Suguru hums.
“I’ll cry on your dick,” he whispers, “if you let me.”
Satoru slams the door behind him.
Five seconds later, he opens it again, sticks his head back in.
“If you’re not naked when I get back I’m making you beg.”
Suguru smiles, teeth sinking into his bottom lip.
Then nods. “Yes Satoru. I’ll wait like a good little cumslut.”
Satoru groans.
And leaves before he changes his mind.
Satoru came back from his mission with a lot of sweets.
Swiss chocolate, fluffy German gummies, British biscuits in pretty tins, creamy Korean milk candies, weird little violet-flavored chews from a place he doesn't even remember — and, of course, a bag full of PeroPero Kyandī.
Because he wants Suguru to suck on them.
Wants to see the shape of it on his tongue, the glossy stretch of his lips around the plastic stick, the slow drag of his mouth. He wants to sit across from Suguru, warm and full and soft after a nap, and watch him idly suck on a candy. Like he doesn’t want to take the candy out and replace it with his cock just to see the way Suguru would blink all slow and lazy, like: oh? this again?
Satoru teleports because he can. Because it's easy. Because it's funny. Because crossing the world in one breath makes him feel like he's cheating. (He is.)
But now he's back, and he has candy, and he wants to find Suguru.
Wants to give it to him.
He stops by Shoko's place first.
Not because he needs to — just because he likes checking in. Because she worries about him in that quiet, headachy way she always has. Because she’s the only person in the world who doesn’t flinch when he jokes about how much power he has. She just sighs. Tells him to shut up and take his vitamins.
Today, though, she looks worse than usual.
Tired in a way that doesn’t go away with sleep. Eyes ringed dark, medical gloves hanging off her wrist, lab coat stained from another day of doing too much for too many dead people. Her hair’s a mess. Her cigarette’s burning too fast. She blinks up at him like he startled her, and that’s not normal.
“You good?” he asks.
She makes a noise. Half-laugh, half-growl.
“Fine. You?”
He holds up a bag of almond mochi truffles.
She snatches them out of his hand and eats one without saying thank you. That’s how he knows she’s really tired.
“Have you seen Suguru?” he asks, casually.
But it doesn’t land casual. Not really. It never does, when it comes to Suguru.
Shoko squints, chewing. “Not in a while. Hasn’t come by.”
Satoru frowns. “Oh.”
Because.
He used to.
Suguru used to stop by Shoko’s office with dumb excuses. Dropping off paperwork. Asking for painkillers. Making fun of her playlist. Helping her sort toe tags. Something. Anything. And she’d roll her eyes and hand him a drink and they’d bitch about Satoru and talk about the old days.
But now?
Now Suguru barely even leaves the dorms.
Doesn’t hang out with Haibara. Barely talks to Nanami. Avoids the Kyoto kids. Dodges phone calls unless it’s Satoru’s voice on the other end.
And it’s not like Satoru minds, really. He likes that Suguru is all his. He likes being the only one who gets to see him soft. But...
But sometimes it’s like Suguru's world shrank down to just him and Satoru doesn’t know if that’s devotion or damage.
Both, maybe.
It’s hard to tell.
“Maybe I should get him out more,” Satoru mutters, scratching the back of his neck.
Shoko exhales, smoke curling into the air. “He won't go unless it’s with you.”
“...Yeah.”
She doesn’t say anything else.
She doesn’t have to.
Satoru leaves with his pockets still full of candy. One lollipop already unwrapped in his hand. Cherry-flavored. Red and clear and gleaming.
He wants to get home.
Wants to hand it to Suguru without saying anything.
Wants to watch Suguru’s lips part around the stick.
Wants to see that blissed-out, dumb little face he makes.
Wants to know, for just a minute, that he still tastes better.
And that Suguru still wants him more than anything else in the world.
Even if he’s the only thing left in it.
He steps into their room, candy still sticky in his fingers, and nearly drops dead on the spot.
Because Suguru’s already in bed.
Naked.
Laid out on his stomach, arms folded under the pillow, legs slightly parted, back curved into that lazy, arching shape he only does when he’s been waiting a while. And his ass—his ass, holy shit—
It’s round. Soft. Gleaming. All plush skin and relaxed muscle and just—out there. Like it belongs to Satoru. Like it’s always belonged to him.
Satoru swears he drools.
His hand tightens around the candy stick.
From the back, he looks like a fucking girl.
Not that it matters. It’s not even that. It’s just—he’s pretty. He’s always been pretty, stupidly so, and it’s unfair.
Satoru exhales through his nose and sets the candy on the bedside table.
He’ll need both hands for this.
He walks slow, deliberate. Kicks his shoes off without taking his eyes off Suguru’s ass.
“Per the request,” Satoru says, voice dry but burning underneath, “I see you followed instructions.”
Suguru shifts a little but doesn’t look up. Mumbles, soft and syrupy: “Was hot. Took a nap. Waited for you.”
His voice is always like that when he’s like this—warm and sweet and wrecked, even when he hasn’t been touched yet. Like he’s already halfway gone just from missing Satoru.
Satoru climbs onto the bed, kneels between Suguru’s legs. His hands settle on his hips. His thumbs press into the plush give of his ass.
“You're so hot it’s actually getting inconvenient,” Satoru mutters.
Suguru makes a sleepy noise. Doesn’t open his eyes. “I missed you.”
Satoru leans down, kisses the small of his back.
“I can tell.”
His cock is already hard. Achingly. Has been since the hallway, if he’s honest. Since Shoko said he hasn’t come by and Satoru’s stomach dropped out.
He lines himself up—barely rests his cock against Suguru’s ass. Just the weight of it, the heat.
Suguru hums.
“Can I suck it?” he whispers.
Satoru groans.
He will never get over this. Over him.
“You’re gonna suck my soul out of my body one day.”
Suguru turns his head, cheek smushed into the pillow. His lashes flutter. He looks dazed. Sweet. A little wrecked from just missing him.
“Don’t care,” he mumbles. “Want it.”
“Even if I chafe?”
“Reverse it.”
“Even if you fall asleep on it again?”
“‘S comfy.”
Satoru laughs, helpless.
Reaches over. Picks up the PeroPero Kyandī (lollipop) from the table. Unwraps it, plastic crinkling.
He taps it once against Suguru’s lips. “Start with this,” he says. “Wanna see how your mouth looks around something sweet before I give you the real thing.”
Suguru obeys instantly.
Mouth parts. Tongue peeks. He wraps his lips around the lollipop and sucks. Slowly. Deliberately.
And Satoru watches.
Watches his jaw work. Watches his tongue swirl around the candy. Watches the bob of his throat as he swallows.
He grips his cock at the base to stop from coming on the spot.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re really never gonna stop, are you?”
Suguru pulls off the candy, spit trailing. Looks up at him through half-lidded eyes.
“Only if you make me,” he says. “And you won’t.”
And he’s right.
Satoru won’t.
He’ll take it again. Let his dick chafe again. Use reverse cursed technique until he’s raw and healed and raw again, just to feel that mouth on him. Just to know that Suguru still wants him more than anything else in the world.
“Does the candy stop the taste?” Satoru asks cock twitching.
He’s rubbing it lazily between Suguru’s chest, dragging the tip along the soft curve of one pectoral, the edge of a nipple, down into the warm, plush space between. Suguru’s fat fucking tits, Satoru thinks, vulgar and in love. They’re warm and perfect and huge when he’s lying down like this, body all relaxed and loose and full.
Suguru hums, as if actually evaluating the flavor.
“Mmm... yeah. It helps.”
He pauses. Licks the flat of the lollipop once more, then lets it clack lightly against his teeth.
“But your dick’s better.”
Satoru laughs—short, breathy.
“God.” He exhales “You’re so fucking cute when you talk like that.”
Suguru blinks up at him, dazed and honest.
Satoru strokes a hand down his cheek. The sticky red candy stick is still hanging from his lips.
“I should reward you, huh?” Satoru murmurs, thumb brushing over the corner of Suguru’s mouth. He traces the sugar-slick trail of spit at the edge of his lip, presses down lightly on the dip of his bottom lip. “For being so good.”
Suguru looks up at him—
—all bratty and cute, lashes fluttering, mouth parted just slightly, red-slick and glossy from the lollipop.
“Is it Satoru’s cock?” he says, soft and lilting and mean in the way that makes Satoru’s whole spine tingle.
“Mm, I love Sa-to-ru’s cock.”
He purrs it.
Rolls his name on his tongue like he’s tasting it. Like it’s the first bite of something hot and soft and sweet.
Satoru's dick throbs. He actually has to breathe.
He slips his thumb between Suguru’s lips.
Suguru bites it first — playful and soft, just a little pressure from his teeth, before his tongue flicks out and sucks. Long and slow.
Satoru watches.
Watches the way his lips close around it. Watches his cheeks hollow a little, tongue swirling around the knuckle. Watches his eyes — wide and innocent and so full of mischief.
“Brat,” he says, low.
Suguru pulls off with a soft pop.
“Wanna be,” he whispers, tongue flicking at the pad of Satoru’s thumb, breath warm. “If it makes you touch me more.”
Satoru groans. His cock’s already leaking, pressed between Suguru’s tits. He flexes his hips and watches it drag along that soft, sweat-warm skin.
“You really love my cock, huh?”
Suguru nods, all faux-solemn.
“More than candy. More than sleep.” His voice drops into a whisper.
Satoru laughs sliding his hand down, cups one of Suguru’s pecs, squeezes. “Fuck. I love your tits.”
Suguru’s lashes flutter.
“Use them,” he murmurs. “Wanna feel you come all over me. ‘S warm.”
That voice again. That sweet, sleepy, ruined voice like he’s already been fucked stupid. Like he never really wakes up all the way unless Satoru’s inside him or down his throat or pressed to his skin.
Satoru positions his cock between those fat tits again. Pushes them together with both hands. Suguru lets out a soft breath when it slots into place.
“Gonna fuck these till I drip all over your pretty face,” Satoru mutters. “That sound like a good reward?”
Suguru smiles. All teeth. Tongue slipping out again, eager.
“Only if you let me clean it up with my mouth after.”
“Fuck—say less.”
He tightens his grip on Suguru’s chest, presses those soft, heavy tits tighter around his cock until they make the perfect little channel—tight, warm, wet with sweat and spit and candy-gloss residue. A plush vise. Like a mouth. Like a hole.
Like a pussy, almost. Almost. But better.
Because it’s Suguru. Because he’s looking up at him with glassy eyes and pink cheeks, so obedient, so pretty, so happy just being used.
Satoru rocks his hips forward, slow at first. Testing the friction. The slide.
The squelch of spit and lube and sweat in between Suguru’s pecs is obscene.
And every time the tip of his cock pushes out between them, Suguru leans in and licks it. Quick little flicks of his tongue.
Satoru stares. His hands tighten.
“You’re such a good boy,” he grits out, thrusts starting to snap harder. “Fuck, you make it feel so fucking good— Suguru, baby, your tits—”
“Like them?” Suguru breathes, voice high, fluttery, teeth grazing the head on one pass. “They’re soft for you. Always soft for you.”
Satoru almost comes right then.
He groans, loud, can’t help it. Fucking into the curve of Suguru’s chest, tip sliding in and out, smeared wet with spit. He’s panting now, already too close, already overwhelmed, already dizzy from watching Suguru’s tongue flash out and lick him clean, over and over.
Suguru’s moaning now too, even though he’s not being touched—little needy noises, like Satoru’s pleasure is his pleasure, like this is what he gets off on: being useful.
Being good.
Being full.
“I’m close,” Satoru gasps. “Fuck—Suguru, baby, you’re—ah—fuck—”
“Come on me,” Suguru whispers, eyes wide, breath hot, tits still clamped around his cock. “Do it, please—want it on my face—on my tongue—wanna taste it—wanna taste you—”
And that’s it.
Satoru lets out a broken sound—something between a moan and a deep groan—and spills.
Thick and hot and endless.
The first spurt hits Suguru’s cheek. The second paints his lips. The third lands right on his tongue, because he’s already leaning forward, mouth open, eyes fluttering, waiting for it.
Satoru shudders, hips twitching. The last few ropes spill over Suguru’s chin and down his neck, dripping into the warm crease between his tits.
Suguru hums. Happy. Smeared with come and still licking.
“Mm,” he whispers, tongue dragging over his upper lip. “Told you. Better than candy.”
Satoru breathes out a laugh—wrecked and winded.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, pushing sweaty hair back from Suguru’s forehead, thumb brushing against a trail of come under his eye. “Then be a good boy and clean the rest.”
Suguru nods, slow and obedient, and leans down.
He licks the come off his own chest.
Tongue dragging through the mess in lazy swipes. Licking between his tits. Sucking at the curve of one pec where it pooled. Moaning, like it tastes divine. Like it’s his.
Satoru watches him the whole time, cock twitching again despite himself.
"N'now I can suck, please, Tōru—"
His voice is all breathy and needy, already shifting into position before Satoru can even finish laughing. Suguru's knees hit the hardwood, quick and practiced, palms bracing against the edge of the bed as he leans in, already mouthing at Satoru’s half-hard cock. Tongue flat, licking up the base like he's starving. Like he missed this. Like he needs it.
And, well—he does.
"Someone's eager," Satoru muses, settling back against the headboard, one arm thrown lazily behind him. His grin cuts bright across his face. “You sure you’re not addicted to this or something?”
Suguru groans, mouth full, lips already stretched around the thick weight of Satoru’s cock. He doesn’t answer right away—not because he can’t, but because he doesn’t want to move. Doesn’t want to let go. He talks with it still in his mouth, garbled around spit and Satoru’s length.
"Mm—‘s better than tasting curses all day."
“Ah?”
Suguru pulls off with a wet pop, brow furrowed, annoyed.
“Tastes like shit and vomit,” he says bluntly, tone bratty, eyes narrowed. Then he dives back down, like he’s punishing Satoru for making him talk in the first place.
Satoru hums thoughtfully, letting him suck. Thumb brushing idly across Suguru’s cheekbone, watching the way his mouth works.
“Mm... must suck, huh?”
Suguru glares up at him with his mouth full. The irony is not lost on either of them.
“Curses get inside you all the time,” Satoru says, half-laughing, half-curious. “Not me, though. Infinity and all that.”
Suguru hums around his cock. It sends a jolt straight through Satoru’s spine.
“I was just thinking,” Satoru says, that slow, dangerous lilt entering his voice—the one that means he’s about to say something so ridiculous it might actually be genius, “if they have to get inside you, is there another way to, y’know…”
Suguru stills. Slowly, he pulls back, lips red and wet and swollen. His voice is high with disbelief.
“You are not insinuating what I think you are.”
“What?” Satoru blinks innocently, already grinning. “I’m just saying, who decided they have to go in your mouth? Cursed balls, cursed ass—same diff, right?”
“Satoru.”
“I’m serious!”
“You’re not serious.”
“Why not? If they’re small enough to swallow…”
Satoru laughs, full-bodied now, hand carding through Suguru’s loose hair. “God, you’re so cute when you act all prudish with my cock still in your mouth. You’re literally my personal cumrag, but this is where you draw the line?”
Suguru flushes red to the tips of his ears, eyes dropping, embarrassed and indignant and still rock-hard from nothing but sucking and Satoru’s voice. His lips part again, tongue dragging against Satoru’s length in something almost sulky. He leans in, lets Satoru’s cock rest back on his tongue. Doesn’t move much. Just keeps it there, slow and steady, sucking with lazy rhythm.
And Satoru—Satoru just watches for a moment, fond and entertained, until the novelty wears off and he picks up his phone, unlocking it with one lazy tap. Suguru doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t look up. Doesn’t care.
Satoru scrolls aimlessly. Bright screen casting sharp white light over the dip of Suguru’s shoulder, the shine of spit on his cock, the faint tremble in Suguru’s throat every time he swallows a little too deep. Nothing frantic. Nothing desperate. Just... steady suction.
Every few seconds, Suguru hums. Deep and pleased. Like Satoru’s cock is candy, or a popsicle, or one of those suckable pressed-sugar sticks from childhood, and this is just something to keep his mouth busy while his thoughts wander. And Satoru—
Satoru lets him.
Fingers tapping across the screen, smirking at something stupid Shoko texted. Lighting in the photo is shit, he thinks. He might tell her. Then maybe not. He shifts a little, sighs, glances down at Suguru.
“Oi,” he says.
Suguru glances up without pulling off. Eyes a little dazed, a little glossy, lips puffed and wet, cheeks hollowed just slightly around the head of Satoru’s cock.
“I wanna try somethin’.”
Suguru blinks. Hums questioningly, cock still on his tongue.
Satoru reaches over to the nightstand and grabs a strawberry lollipop from the small glass bowl there—(yes, he has a bowl of candy by the bed. No, he doesn’t explain it)—and with no warning, unwraps it and slips it in alongside his dick.
Suguru chokes.
Just a little.
His brows knit, hands gripping Satoru’s thighs as he adjusts to the new shape in his mouth. He tries to glare up at him, but it’s not very effective when his mouth is stuffed full of both cock and candy and he’s literally drooling.
Satoru grins wide, phone now forgotten on the bed beside him.
"Ha! Thought you’d hate that more. But look at you," he coos, thumb swiping a string of spit from Suguru’s chin. “You like it. My cute little sucker.”
Suguru flushes deeper, whines around the double intrusion, but doesn’t pull off. His cheeks are so full he can barely suck properly, but he tries anyway, lips stretched wide, jaw sore. The sweet artificial strawberry flavor blends with the salt-tinged heat of Satoru’s skin. Sugar and sin. Saccharine and obscene.
“Mmhh... 'Toru… my mouf’s so full…!” he whimpers, like it’s Satoru’s fault his greedy little mouth wanted both. “It’s sticky… nghh, 'tastes so weird, too—wanna spit it out, but—but I don't...”
His lips tremble like he’s about to cry from how badly he wants to keep going.
Satoru laughs, genuinely delighted. “You sound so fucking cute, y’know that? Poor baby can’t even suck right 'cause you’re too busy trying to eat candy and my cock at the same time. That’s so you.”
“Wanna suck!” Suguru says suddenly, louder now, desperate. “Wanna suck you, 'Toru, not the candy—just wanna taste you…!”
“Oh?” Satoru tilts his head, all mock innocence. “I thought you loved sugar. Isn’t that your favorite flavor?”
“Nnn—” Suguru’s head shakes in these pathetic little jerks, like his brain can’t handle two thoughts at once. “Nooo—wanna taste your cock, not the lollipop, s’not the same!” he whines, like he’s genuinely distressed by the injustice. His hands tug at Satoru’s thighs again, like he needs more of him, like sucking isn’t enough if he can’t focus. “'Toru please, take it out...!”
Satoru hums, amused, brushing the pad of his thumb over Suguru’s spit-shiny cheek.
“So needy,” he says, not unkind. “Alright, alright. You win. Say ‘ahhh’ for me.”
Suguru opens his mouth immediately, like a good little bitch, lips wet and glistening and trembling. Satoru leans in, plucks the sticky lollipop from his mouth, then—
—pops it into his own.
Suguru watches, stunned. Stares as Satoru rolls it over his tongue with exaggerated delight, then smirks at him like he’s won something.
“Mm, you’re right,” he says casually, rolling the stick between his fingers. “You taste way better.”
Suguru chokes on a moan. “S’not fair…”
“Aww.” Satoru leans forward, taps the candy lightly against Suguru’s lips. “Wanna taste it again?”
“No!” Suguru blurts, cheeks red, hands slapping against Satoru’s thighs. “Wanna taste you again!”
Satoru raises a brow, smug as ever. “Then get back to it, baby. Mouth open.”
Suguru dives back in with a shuddery, relieved sigh like he’s been deprived of air and Satoru’s cock is his oxygen. And honestly? Satoru lets him. Lets him suck like that, cling like that. Let's his pretty mouth stay full and messy and useless, even though he knows damn well this isn't about getting him off.
It’s not pathetic. Not exactly. Satoru wouldn’t say that.
But sometimes—sometimes when he’s got one hand cradling Suguru’s head and the other scrolling aimlessly through his phone, just letting his cock sit heavy on Suguru’s tongue while he hums and moans and drools like he’s in fucking heat—sometimes he thinks maybe he’s the one being a little pathetic for indulging it so much. For enabling it. For never saying no.
Because it feels good. Of course it feels good. Suguru’s mouth is perfect, warm and wet and greedy in the most ridiculous, adorable way. But more than that—it's the way Suguru looks at him, wants him. All that attention, all that affection, channeled into one very specific act over and over and over. Satoru tells himself it's just a little oral fixation, nothing serious. Not codependence. Not obsession.
Except... it might be becoming a problem.
Suguru doesn’t really hang with Nanami anymore. Doesn’t spend late nights at Shoko’s the way he used to. Barely even talks to Haibara unless it’s in passing. These days, he’s always here. Always near. Always reaching for Satoru’s hand or hoodie or lap or dick, and it’s—
It’s a lot.
So yeah, maybe Satoru’s been laying here for forty minutes with a half-hard cock in Suguru’s mouth while his stomach growls and a notification from UberEats lights up his lockscreen.
“Hey,” Satoru says casually, like he hasn’t just let this happen without complaint. “How long you wanna suck my cock for, Suguru? ‘Cause I’m hungry.”
Suguru immediately makes a noise—indignant, muffled, bratty. Doesn’t stop sucking, but his brows furrow like he’s offended. Then, without warning—
Nibble.
“OW—! Fuck!” Satoru jerks his hips back, half-laughing, half-pained. “Did you bite me?”
Suguru pulls off with a slick pop, chin wet, mouth red and pouting.
“Don’t interrupt me,” he says, all high-pitched and pissy, like he's the one being wronged. “M’not done…”
“Seriously.”
“I was in the zone,” Suguru whines, lower lip trembling just a little too much to be totally sincere. “Feels good. Tastes good. Don’t make me stop…”
Satoru blinks down at him.
“…You’re acting like I just ripped a pacifier outta your mouth.”
Suguru stares. Blinks once.
And then turns bright red.
“Shut up,” he hisses, and ducks back down to hide his face—and immediately puts Satoru’s cock back in his mouth.
Like it’s safer there. Like he can’t get embarrassed if he’s gagged.
Satoru stares at the ceiling for a long moment. Sighs through his nose.
"Fine. Five more minutes. Then I’m ordering takeout and you’re letting me up."
Suguru gives a muffled hum that might be agreement, or just pleasure, or defiance. Hard to tell.
Satoru closes his eyes, and lets him suck.
Five minutes pass.
He checks.
Exactly five.
Then he threads his fingers through Suguru’s hair, smooth and gentle at first, like he’s petting him. Then he tightens the grip—not yanking, not cruel, just firm. Just enough to make sure he’s listened to.
“Alright,” he says, “that’s enough for now. You’ll get your serving later. Promise.”
Suguru groans, head refusing to move at first, whole body going heavy like dead weight. It’s only when Satoru gives the hair at his crown a slight tug that he actually pulls off, slow and sulky, face flushed and wet and pouty.
“I wasn’t done,” he mutters, barely a whisper.
“I know,” Satoru says, with the tone of someone who’s already too tired to argue. “Here.”
He reaches to the bedside table again—same bowl, new wrapper. Peels it open with one hand and offers it out like a peace treaty.
Suguru eyes it. Scowls. Then takes the lollipop between his lips with exaggerated reluctance, like it's a punishment.
It’s cherry this time. Bright red. Matches the flush still staining his cheeks.
Satoru ruffles his hair again, then flops backward dramatically, grabbing his phone and tapping into the food app.
“Okay, let’s see... ramen? Curry? Hot pot? Nah, too many moving parts... Sushi?”
He scrolls aimlessly for a bit, but somewhere between unagi and takoyaki, something else crosses his mind.
A different kind of hunger.
Not his.
Suguru.
The fact that he hasn’t seen anyone else in days. He doesn’t know how to care about other people’s feelings. Not really. Not unless those people are Suguru. And even then, it’s... messy. But he does know what guilt feels like. It’s not sharp. It’s not even that painful. It’s just this low-level weight. Like the room gets quieter, or the air gets thick.
Whatever.
He opens the group chat anyway.
Satoru:
come over
i’m ordering food
suguru’s here
we have lollipops
Nanami replies immediately.
Nanami:
No.
You’re deranged.
Tell Geto-senpai to stop avoiding people.
Satoru:
he's not avoiding u he’s just obsessed with my dick
Nanami:
Thank you. That’s enough.
Haibara sends three emojis. 🧍🍡🍥. No context.
Shoko just replies:
on my way
Satoru smiles to himself, tosses the phone on the bed, and glances sideways.
Suguru’s still sitting there on the floor, cross-legged like a kid in time-out, cheeks puffed, lips wrapped around that cherry red lollipop. His eyes are half-lidded, lazy and content. He doesn’t even look like he’s listening.
But then he says, through the candy, “I don’t wanna see anyone.”
“I know,” Satoru replies, grabbing his pants off the floor, not bothering to put them on yet. “But I do.”
Suguru glares, slow and sour, like he’s trying to decide if that’s a betrayal or not. He huffs around the lollipop.
Satoru shrugs. “Shoko misses you.”
“I don’t care,” Suguru says automatically, too fast to be true.
“Liar.”
Suguru sucks harder. Looks away.
Satoru chuckles, stretching. “Besides, I like pissing off Nanami. He always acts like he’s better than me.”
“…He is better than you.”
“Betrayal!” Satoru clutches his chest. “From my own dick-sucking disciple!”
Suguru doesn’t respond. Just takes the lollipop out of his mouth with a soft pop, licks it once, then slips it back between his lips.
“You owe me later,” he mumbles, around it.
“Oh, I’ll pay you back,” Satoru grins. “With interest.”
By the time the others arrive, Suguru is on his fourth lollipop.
Cherry. Again. Not even his favorite, but he hasn’t asked to change flavors, and Satoru hasn’t offered. He’s curled up in the middle of Satoru’s bed, head in his lap, long black hair spilled over Satoru’s thigh. One of his arms is tucked against his chest. The other is dangling off the edge of the mattress. He’s not really looking at anything—eyes half-lidded, lashes low—but his mouth is working, slow and rhythmic, suckling at the candy with almost meditative focus.
Satoru’s phone is in one hand. The remote in the other. He’s wearing sweatpants now, but only just barely. His cock is half-hard under the fabric, thanks to Suguru trying to lick through it a few minutes ago. Satoru had just sighed and stuck another lollipop between his lips. It worked. Of course it did. Foolproof.
He spent more on the sushi than he meant to. He’d say it was for Suguru, but that’s not the full truth. Shoko’s hard to read and Haibara eats like a vacuum and Nanami brings his own food anyway, but Satoru... doesn't want the room to feel empty. Doesn't want Suguru to forget that he has a world outside of the bed and Satoru's cock.
He won't say that, obviously.
Freeloader at heart, still spent 7,800 yen on raw fish.
Whatever.
The front door opens with zero knocking—Shoko, obviously—and footsteps follow. Satoru doesn’t look up.
Shoko appears first, shoes still half-off, already stealing sushi from the spread on the coffee table. She pops a roll into her mouth, chewing with lazy disinterest, and scans the room. Her eyes land on Suguru.
She raises a brow.
Suguru doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t greet her. Just gives her a brief, sleepy side-eye and keeps sucking on the candy like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
“Huh,” she says, voice flat. “You broke him.”
“No I didn’t,” Satoru says. “He was already like this.”
Shoko takes another roll and flops into the beanbag chair like she owns the place.
Next comes Haibara—bright, loud, and still wearing his work uniform. He grins like an idiot the second he sees Suguru, drops to his knees next to the bed, and reaches out like he’s petting a very well-trained animal.
“Geto-senpai!! How have you been?!”
He pats Suguru’s head twice. Suguru blinks. Then blinks again. Lollipop stick tilts in his mouth like a dog with a chew toy.
“…’m fine,” he mumbles, mouth full of sugar. His tone isn’t annoyed. It’s soft. Gentle. A little off.
Haibara pauses. Looks at him. Then looks up at Satoru.
Satoru shrugs, already peeling the lid off a sauce container. “He’s in a phase.”
Haibara doesn’t ask for clarification.
Nanami enters last. Quietly, like he didn’t want to come at all. He’s carrying his own lunch box—neatly packed, clearly home-prepped, with actual vegetables in it—and a look on his face like he’s preemptively disappointed in all of them.
His eyes flick to Suguru, then to Satoru, then to the bed, then to the lollipop.
“I'm not touching anything in this apartment,” he says.
“That’s fair,” Shoko says, mouth full. “These two have been gross all week.”
“We haven’t—” Satoru starts, then stops. Rethinks it. “Okay. A little.”
The conversation drifts from there. From campus gossip to dumb curse incidents to which convenience store has the best onigiri (Nanami is weirdly opinionated about it), to Shoko threatening to give everyone unlicensed psychiatric diagnoses just for fun.
Suguru stays quiet.
He’s not asleep—Satoru can feel his weight shifting subtly in his lap, the soft rhythm of him rolling the lollipop between his lips, the occasional blink—but he’s somewhere else. Not zoned out, exactly. Just... not invested. Not in the room.
Satoru knows why.
He doesn’t think about Amanai Riko much. Not out loud, anyway.
Satoru had been fast.
But not fast enough.
And Suguru had nearly died.
He reaches down, absently, and curls his fingers into Suguru’s sleeve. Just holds. Anchors. His thumb rubs small circles against Suguru’s upper arm.
Suguru doesn’t react at first. But then, slowly, he shifts—presses his cheek more firmly into Satoru’s thigh, exhales soft through his nose. His lollipop shifts to the other side of his mouth with a lazy pop.
They’re watching something dumb on the TV now. Some trashy rom-com Satoru picked because it was colorful and loud and didn’t require emotional investment. Nobody’s really watching it.
Suguru speaks, finally.
"Shoko," he says, voice slow and warm and a little nasally from the candy, "this is the worst movie I’ve ever seen."
Shoko glances over. “You only say that because the main guy looks like Satoru.”
“He doesn’t,” Satoru says.
“He does,” Nanami agrees, completely deadpan.
Haibara giggles. “He’s like, Diet Gojo.”
“I’ll kill you all,” Satoru says cheerfully.
Suguru hums a laugh, light and breathy around the lollipop stick. “He’s not even hot. Just tall and loud and annoying.”
“You’ve just described yourself,” Satoru says, without missing a beat.
“Shut up,” Suguru mutters, but he’s smiling a little, and that’s something. That’s more than he’s given anyone all week.
Satoru softens. Tightens his arm around Suguru just a little more.
The others don’t notice. Or maybe they do and pretend not to.
The lollipop clicks faintly against Suguru’s teeth as he shifts it again, still sucking. Still working his jaw with that mindless rhythm. There’s something about it—comforting and sad at the same time. He’s like a kid who never got to grow up. Like something in him broke and stayed that way. Maybe it’s the curses. Maybe it’s what they’ve done to him—what they still do.
Satoru swallows, throat tight.
He thinks about what it must feel like, having that rot inside you all the time. Curses in your stomach. Sliding down your throat. Crawling through your gut like parasites. He can’t even look at them half the time without getting nauseous. But Suguru eats them. He eats them. Every day.
Of course he wants something sweet in his mouth. Of course he clings to things that taste like strawberries and cherries and fake artificial flavors instead of blood and bile and death. Of course he wants to suck on something that doesn’t fight back.
Satoru looks down at him.
Suguru’s eyes are closed now, not quite asleep. His lips are red and glossy, cheeks soft, hair tucked behind one ear. He looks peaceful. Or maybe just tired. Satoru kisses the top of his head without thinking. Doesn’t say anything. Just presses his lips there and stays.
He thinks, you shouldn't have had to live like this.
He thinks, if I had been stronger, faster, better—maybe you wouldn’t be like this now.
But he doesn’t say it.
And Suguru keeps sucking on that lollipop like he’s trying to forget something too.
He’s not an emotional person. Never has been. He’s a person of action. Impulse. Big moves, fast decisions. He thinks with his head when he has to and his dick when he doesn’t. And yeah, he’s smart — smarter than people give him credit for, which is probably his own fault — but being smart doesn’t mean he knows what to say.
It just means he knows when someone’s not okay.
And Suguru is not okay.
Satoru had missions but he skipped them. All of them. Let them pile up. Ignored calls, deleted messages. The higher-ups could wait. The world could wait. Suguru couldn’t.
And that was the thing, wasn’t it?
He wasn’t going to let Suguru be alone again. Not after that.
So yeah. He’s been lazy. He’s been indulgent. He’s been giving him lollipops and cuddles and letting him use his cock like a pacifier. But it’s helping. Little by little, it’s helping. Suguru speaks more. Smiles sometimes. Mocks his movie choices. Sucks less out of desperation and more just because it’s... comforting.
That’s enough for now.
After the others leave — after Haibara hugs Suguru twice, after Nanami mutters something dry about "personal boundaries" and "eating off the floor," after Shoko steals another handful of sushi and tells Suguru she’ll see him when he actually answers his phone — it’s quiet again.
Suguru sits on the bed for a while, silent.
Then he says, “Wanna go to the vending machines.”
Satoru doesn’t even hesitate. “Okay.”
They head out. No jackets. No real conversation. Just Suguru in loose sweats and Satoru in mismatched socks. The night air is cool and soft. The quiet hum of street lamps. A cat slips past their legs and disappears into the bushes.
The vending machine glows.
Suguru stands in front of it for a good thirty seconds, sucking on what’s left of his fourth lollipop, head tilted. Satoru stands behind him, hands in his hoodie pocket, watching the soft slope of his shoulders, the way the light casts a blue hue over his skin.
“Which one?” Satoru asks.
“Soda.”
“Which soda?”
“Mm. Grape.”
Satoru nods. “Grape soda it is.”
He pulls out his wallet, slips in the coins. Presses the button without asking what he wants. He already knows.
He wants whatever Suguru’s getting.
The machine rattles. Two cans drop.
They walk back slowly, both sipping their grape soda. Suguru’s lollipop is gone now. His lips are still red from it. He doesn’t say much. Just holds the cold can in one hand, occasionally sipping, occasionally brushing against Satoru’s side like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.
Satoru lets him.
The night is quiet. There’s a breeze. The world feels momentarily still.
Suguru glances over. “Thanks for staying.”
Satoru doesn’t say you don’t have to thank me. Doesn’t say I’ll always stay. Doesn’t say I’ll never leave you again.
He just bumps his can lightly against Suguru’s and says, “You’re buying next time.”
Suguru hums a soft laugh. And takes another sip.
They start heading back but don’t quite make it — halfway to the dorm, the sky breaks open and starts to rain. That soft, chilly kind of autumn rain that comes out of nowhere and makes your clothes stick to your skin. It’s not heavy, but it’s insistent. Unapologetic.
They duck under a metal awning near the vending machines again, slip onto the little public bench tucked beneath it. The rain pings soft against the roof. Suguru exhales and leans back, ankles crossed, can of soda still cold in his hand. His hair’s damp at the edges, stuck to his neck.
He looks tired. Not sleepy. Just worn.
Eyes a little unfocused. Lips parted. Breathing slow.
Satoru watches him in silence for a bit. Sips his own soda. Thinks about the way Suguru’s face goes soft like this when he thinks no one’s looking. Vulnerable. Unarmed.
Then Suguru’s eyes flick downward.
At first, Satoru thinks he’s spacing out again. But then he sees it. The look. The tilt of his gaze.
He’s staring at Satoru’s dick. Right through the fabric of his pants.
Satoru huffs a soft laugh, more amused than anything.
“Seriously?” he says, mouth twitching into a grin. “You really are addicted.”
Suguru blinks, slow and blank. Doesn’t even deny it.
“Satoruuuu…” he whines, voice small and drawn out, all pout and need.
Satoru huffs, rolling his eyes, one hand automatically finding its way to Suguru’s hair. His fingers slide through it, slow, lazy, grounding. The kind of touch that says I’m here, even when he doesn’t say it aloud.
“Man, you’re hopeless,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. “If anyone sees you like this…”
Suguru just hums, eyes slipping half‑closed, and the sound vibrates against Satoru’s thigh. He’s not listening. Or maybe he is — just doesn’t care.
Satoru sighs, glances around the quiet hallway out of habit. No one’s there. Of course not. It’s late. The air hums faintly with the vending machines, the smell of asphalt and night air wrapping around them.
“Be quick,” he says finally, voice softer than he means it to be. “We can’t get caught, okay?”
Suguru nods against him, not moving, still folded in that small, trusting posture — like a cat curling closer to warmth.
He nuzzles in closer, lips brushing against the growing heat between Satoru’s legs. His hands are warm, reverent, tugging Satoru’s waistband down just enough to free him. No ceremony. No teasing. Just this deep, desperate need to have his mouth full.
As soon as the head of Satoru’s cock touches his lips, Suguru exhales like it’s a relief. Like it’s water in a desert. He opens his mouth, wet and soft and ready, and takes him in.
Satoru’s breath catches, just a little. Not from surprise. From familiarity. From how stupidly good it always feels when Suguru wraps his lips around him like this—no games, no act, just that relentless, devoted suction. Like this is what calms him down. Like this is what keeps him stable.
“You’re unbelievable,” Satoru murmurs, voice low, glancing at the street again, watching for movement. “You’re gonna get us arrested.”
Suguru hums around his cock, not even pretending to care. His tongue moves slow, languid, just the way Satoru likes. He bobs his head only a little, letting Satoru’s cock sit heavy on his tongue, drool already sliding out the corner of his mouth.
Satoru hisses a breath through his teeth. Runs a hand through Suguru’s hair, keeping it back, thumb brushing against his temple. There’s no urgency, just heat. Just this thick intimacy pressed into a moment that should’ve been fleeting.
The vending machine beeps once behind them. A can drops inside, echoing hollow against the metal.
Suguru doesn’t even flinch.
Just sucks deeper.
Satoru glances back at the quiet street, jaw tight, mind already fraying a little at the edges.
"You're seriously—fuck, Suguru—"
Suguru moans around him, high and breathy, lips stretched wide, eyes fluttering.
Satoru bites his lip.
They are definitely not getting back to the apartment anytime soon.
When Satoru comes, it’s with a deep, low groan, hips bucking just a little too sharp, hand gripping Suguru’s hair like it’s all he can do to stay tethered. His cock pulses on Suguru’s tongue, thick, warm release spilling straight down his throat — and Suguru doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t pull off. Doesn’t gag.
Just keeps sucking.
Still.
Steady.
Like it’s not even about the come. Like it’s just about the contact.
Satoru pants, chest rising and falling. His knees ache from crouching, gravel biting into the soles of his feet. The breeze is picking up, and the post-orgasm sensitivity is crawling up his spine. He could turn it off — reverse cursed technique is right there, ready, waiting — but...
He’s lazy.
And more than that, he just wants to go home. Get in bed. Tangle his limbs with Suguru’s and fall asleep with the TV on.
“Su-gu-ruuu,” he whines, exaggerating the syllables, dragging his hand down his face. “I’m tired, baby. You can suck more tomorrow, ‘kay? Just let me—ah, fuck—let me rest...”
Suguru makes a face.
One of those faces — bratty and pouty and clingy all at once — cheeks puffing out, brows pinched, his mouth still stretched around Satoru’s softening cock. He shakes his head, stubborn, and gives a little nnnnhh.
And Satoru...
Satoru doesn’t mean to snap.
He really doesn’t.
He never snaps at Suguru. Ever. Not his baby, not his sweet clingy Suguru with the sad eyes and lollipop tongue and body that curls into his like it was made to. Not the one who barely talks to anyone else anymore. Not the one he nearly lost.
But the chill. The ache. The sticky guilt still sitting somewhere deep in his gut — it all tips over.
He raises his voice. Just a little.
“Suguru—enough.”
It cuts.
Clean through the dark.
Suguru flinches.
Not big. Not dramatic. Just this tiny, instinctive jolt — eyes wide for a half-second, lips pulling back, fingers tightening where they rest on Satoru’s thigh. And then his mouth pulls off with a soft pop. Quiet. Head bowed.
And he doesn’t say anything.
No eye roll. No comeback. No shove. No dry sarcasm. No fight.
Satoru freezes.
Because the old Suguru — his Suguru — would’ve punched him in the ribs for that. Called him a dick. Thrown his own soda can at his head. Picked a fight just for the hell of it.
But this Suguru…
This Suguru just looks down.
Like he’s already accepted that he was wrong.
And Satoru realizes something, right then, in the silence between them.
Somewhere along the line, it stopped being “we’re the strongest.”
It’s just “Satoru is the strongest” now.
And Suguru — Suguru stopped fighting him.
Not because he agrees. But because he’s too tired to disagree.
Fuck.
He fucked up.
“…Baby,” Satoru says, voice low now, soft and raw at the edges, the way it only ever is when he’s about to beg. “I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean to yell. I’m sorry, hey—look at me, c’mon—”
Suguru doesn’t move.
Not at first.
Still kneeling. Still quiet.
Then, slowly, he lifts his head — and the look in his eyes…
It’s not anger. Not even disappointment.
It’s worse.
It’s hurt.
And Satoru wants to rip his own fucking throat out for putting it there.
When Satoru raised his voice, he didn’t see Suguru for a few days. He told himself it was because of missions. That was true — mostly. They both had assignments; they always did. Just never together anymore. The higher-ups — those crusty old bastards with their dry voices and fossilized ideas — had decided it was better that way. “Conflict of temperament,” they’d said, as if they knew anything about them.
Satoru hated them. Every last one of them. Wrinkled relics sitting on their asses making decisions about people they didn’t understand.
Still, it had been three days since that night, and the absence was gnawing at him. He missed his idiot. His baby. His Suguru.
So when he finally got a half‑day off, he went straight to Suguru’s dorm. He had this half‑assed apology planned out — something dumb and light, like hey, sorry for being a dick (ha, pun intended) — maybe bring him snacks, maybe tease him until he smiled again. That was Satoru’s style. Patch the wound with humor before either of them could admit it hurt.
He knocked. No answer.
He knocked again, a little louder.
Still nothing.
“Maybe he’s on a mission,” he muttered, already turning the handle. The door wasn’t locked. Typical Suguru.
He slipped inside.
The room was exactly the way it always was — neat in that careless way that looked unintentional but wasn’t. Suguru’s bed looked like something out of a teenager’s dream: soft pink Hello Kitty covers, little charms hanging off the headboard, plushies lined up like they were on guard duty. Cute. Stupidly cute.
Satoru kicked off his shoes and flopped down right in the middle of it. He buried his face in Suguru’s pillow. It smelled like him — incense and shampoo and something faintly sweet.
“Princess bed,” he mumbled. “Figures.”
He stretched out, folding his arms under his head. He’d wait. Suguru would be back soon. They’d talk. He’d apologize. Easy.
Except — when the door finally opened, and Suguru stepped in —
Satoru sat up so fast he nearly tripped over the blanket.
Suguru’s eyes were red. Puffy. His cheeks blotched in that way that only comes from crying too hard for too long. His shoulders were slumped, his hair tangled, his uniform jacket half‑off like he couldn’t even be bothered to finish taking it off.
For a second, Satoru didn’t say anything. He just looked at him. The sound that left his mouth was small, involuntary.
“...What the hell—”
Suguru froze when he noticed Satoru sitting on his bed. Their eyes met.
The silence was heavy.
“Did—” Satoru started, then stopped, his voice catching in a way he hated. He tried again. “Did someone hurt you?”
Suguru shook his head. Didn’t speak. He looked exhausted.
Satoru crossed the room in two steps. His hands twitched like he wanted to grab him, but he hesitated. He didn’t know if he was allowed to.
“Hey,” he said, softer now. “Talk to me, yeah? I came to apologize. I was... I shouldn’t’ve yelled. That’s on me. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I’m fine,” Suguru said. Flat. Unconvincing. Robotic.
Satoru didn’t believe that for one fucking second.
“You’ve been crying.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Your eyes are red.”
“Probably from cursed smoke.”
“You smell like blood.”
“I exorcised three of them.”
“And your voice is shaking.”
Suguru went quiet.
Satoru crossed the room, slow, careful. He reached out — gently — fingers brushing Suguru’s wrist. “What happened?”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
Suguru flinched.
Not from the words.
From the softness.
And that scared Satoru more than anything.
“I fucked up,” Satoru said, suddenly, urgently. “I know I did. I shouldn’t have snapped. I shouldn’t have—baby, I didn’t mean to make you feel like you couldn’t—fuck, I’m bad at this, okay? I’m a cocky piece of shit with no emotional regulation, and you—you just—”
Suguru made a quiet, choked sound.
Satoru’s heart cracked open.
He pulled him in, arms wrapping around Suguru’s waist, hands splaying against his back. Suguru resisted for half a second. Then melted. Collapsed. Folded into him like he’d been waiting to fall apart.
Satoru held him tighter. Felt the way his shoulders trembled. The way his breath stuttered against his neck.
“I’m tired, Satoru,” Suguru said, voice cracking in the middle. “I’m so tired—”
“I know,” Satoru murmured, burying his face in Suguru’s hair. “I know, baby.”
“I can taste them,” Suguru gasped, suddenly, voice rising. “It won’t go away—it won’t—they’re still in my mouth, in my stomach, I can feel them, they’re rotting me from the inside out—”
“Hey, hey—” Satoru pulled back just enough to cup his face. “C’mere. Look at me. Just me.”
Suguru’s eyes were wild — glassy, red, desperate. His lips were trembling. His whole body shook like his skin was too thin to hold everything in.
Satoru didn’t think. He just moved.
He slid down, pulling Suguru with him onto the bed, cradling him close, kissing his cheek, his temple, the corners of his mouth. Anything to replace that awful taste with him.
“You wanna taste something else?” he whispered, hand already dragging down the zipper of his pants. “Wanna replace it, baby? Get them out of your mouth?”
Suguru shuddered.
Didn’t answer.
Just nodded.
A tiny, broken motion.
Satoru pulled himself out — half-hard, already pulsing with the heat of it, the gravity of it — and tilted Suguru’s face down gently, fingers stroking through his hair.
“Shh,” he murmured. “You can suck. Take your time. It’s okay.”
Suguru leaned in immediately, like a starving thing. Like it wasn’t about arousal, but escape. He wrapped his lips around Satoru’s cock and moaned — this awful, relieved sound like he’d just been given air after drowning.
His mouth was hot. Wet. Hungry.
But more than that, it was desperate.
Like he needed this. Like tasting Satoru was the only thing tethering him to the now.
“That’s it, baby,” Satoru whispered, stroking his cheek as he moved. “You’re doing so good. You’re okay. You’re okay.”
Suguru sucked slow, messy, not even trying to be neat. His nose was stuffy. His cheeks were damp. Every few strokes he moaned — deep and raw — like he was crying into Satoru’s cock and didn’t know how else to stop himself from breaking.
And Satoru let him.
Held his head.
Ran fingers through his hair and whispered soft little things like:
“You’re safe.”
“You’re not dirty.”
“I’ve got you.”
“You’re mine.”
Suguru choked on a sob but didn’t pull away. Just sucked harder, deeper, like he was trying to erase the taste of curses with Satoru’s skin. With his warmth. With the salt of him and the comfort and the love he wouldn’t let himself say out loud.
Satoru bit back the urge to come right then. Not because it didn’t feel good — it felt too good — but because this wasn’t about getting off.
This was about giving.
Giving his Suguru something else to hold onto.
Something that wasn’t death.
Suguru sucked slow and soft, mouth still clumsy from crying, until his body sagged and his eyes fluttered shut. His lips slipped off Satoru’s cock with a wet little sigh, head dropping against his thigh, breath warm and steady.
Asleep.
Just like that.
Satoru stared down at him, heart twisting.
“Baby,” he whispered, brushing Suguru’s hair out of his face, smoothing the damp strands back behind his ear. “You can’t keep doing this…”
But Suguru was out cold. Worn down. His lashes rested like little shadows against flushed cheeks, lips still faintly parted, spit-slick and trembling from exhaustion.
Satoru sighed and eased him down onto the pillows. Covered him with the Hello Kitty blanket. Kissed his temple, soft.
Then got up.
Zipped himself back into his pants, mind still full of static. Crossed the room. Turned the faucet in the bathroom and let the tub fill — warm, not hot. A splash of that lemon bath oil Suguru liked. Something that didn’t smell like blood or curses or anything sharp.
And as the water rose, so did the question that had been circling in his head for months now.
Is it really in his best interests to stay a sorcerer?
If swallowing curses hurts him this much — if it’s eating him from the inside — why the fuck is he still doing it?
Why the fuck is Satoru letting him?
He stared at the rippling surface of the bath, jaw tight.
There’s a fine line between helping someone cope and enabling their destruction.
He didn’t know which side of the line he was on anymore.
He didn’t even know if there was a line.
Behind him, the sheets rustled.
“Satoru?” Suguru’s voice — soft, groggy, half-lost in sleep.
Satoru turned, immediately. “I’m here.”
Suguru blinked blearily, still curled up, hair sticking to his cheek. “Where’d you go…?”
Satoru hummed as he grabbed the lemon water from the desk. “Just running your bath, baby.”
He crossed back to the bed and crouched down, holding the cool bottle to Suguru’s lips.
“Open,” he said gently. “Ah—careful. Not all at one go.”
Suguru obeyed, weakly. Sipped. His eyes fluttered closed again as the coolness hit his tongue.
Satoru huffed, lips twitching upward in something too soft to be called a smile.
“You’re such a brat,” he murmured, tipping the bottle a little more. “But you’re my brat.”
Suguru gave a tiny noise. Something like contentment. Something like pain.
Satoru pulled the bottle back, set it down, and pressed his forehead to Suguru’s.
They sat there like that for a moment — warm breath, sticky skin, tangled exhaustion — until he felt movement at his waist.
A soft tug.
A zipper.
Satoru huffed a laugh under his breath, not annoyed, not surprised. Just tired. Just him.
“Really?” he muttered. “Didn’t even let your mouth dry yet.”
Suguru didn’t answer. Just blinked up at him all lazy, like a cat pawing at the same toy it’s already chewed to death.
Satoru caught his wrist gently. Not to stop him — not exactly. Just to pause. Recenter.
He reached behind him, grabbed a lollipop from the half-open drawer. Unwrapped it with one hand. Brought it to Suguru’s lips.
“Open,” he said softly.
Suguru did.
Satoru pressed the candy past his lips with two fingers — slow, indulgent — and let his thumb rest on Suguru’s bottom lip for a second too long, swirling against the warm wetness there.
“Good boy,” he whispered. “There. That’s better, huh?”
Suguru sucked.
Didn’t pout this time. Didn’t fight it.
His eyes fluttered half-shut, and he leaned into Satoru’s hand, the sticky sweet already gluing to his tongue. He let the lollipop roll in his mouth like it meant something. Like it filled the hole those curses left behind.
Satoru cupped his cheek.
“Wanna bath, baby?” he asked.
Suguru didn’t answer right away.
He just nodded — slow, soft, lips still wrapped around the candy.
Satoru smiled, small.
He stood up, stretching his arms overhead with a quiet groan, then offered both hands out.
“C’mon. I’ll hold you the whole time.”
Suguru let the lollipop shift to one side of his mouth, then reached up and took Satoru’s hands. Let himself be pulled to his feet, body warm and heavy against Satoru’s chest.
Satoru undressed him slowly.
His hands skimmed over the curve of Suguru’s hips — wide and soft, his body still carrying more gentleness than it should for someone who devours curses for a living. His waist dipped in just enough that Satoru, not for the first time, marveled at how he could wrap both hands around it and almost touch his fingers.
“Unfair,” he muttered under his breath. “You’ve got no business being this pretty when you’re this fucked up.”
Suguru didn’t reply.
Didn’t roll his eyes. Didn’t make a sarcastic comment. He just leaned in, heavy against him, the faint stick of the lollipop still tucked into the corner of his mouth.
He’d never been like this before — not even after Amanai, not even when the missions got bloody. Never quiet like this. Never so small.
Satoru didn’t have the heart to take the candy away.
Didn’t say anything as he pulled off the last of Suguru’s clothes, folded them neatly on the counter like he might somehow keep order by touching fabric the right way. Then he undressed himself with less care — faster, sloppier — and stepped into the tub behind him.
The water was warm. Fragrant. The lemon scent rose up in the steam, soft and sharp and clean.
Suguru sank in first, breath hitching at the heat, but he didn’t pull away. He just folded into it, like his body remembered what softness was supposed to feel like. Satoru slipped in behind him and pulled him back, fitting Suguru’s body against his chest, arms wrapping loosely around his waist. Suguru’s skin was damp, fever-warm under the surface. His head lolled back onto Satoru’s shoulder, hair damp at the edges, lollipop still resting between barely-parted lips.
Neither of them spoke.
The only sound was the gentle ripple of the water as Satoru shifted, adjusting them both until they were settled. Chest to back. Heart to heart.
He let his hands wander — slow, calming motions over Suguru’s ribs, his belly, his hips.
“You don’t have to talk,” Satoru said eventually, mouth near Suguru’s ear. “Not if you don’t want to.”
Suguru didn’t answer. Just made a soft, tired sound and leaned more of his weight into Satoru’s body.
So Satoru held him.
Let him sit there, soaked in lemon water and silence and safety, while his fingers traced lazy circles over his skin. No curses here. No missions. No higher-ups. Just the two of them and the slow breath of healing.
He tilted his head, pressed a kiss to Suguru’s temple.
“You’re not alone,” he whispered.
Suguru didn’t answer.
But he didn’t let go either.
After that night, Suguru didn’t talk much about what happened.
He didn’t have to.
Because Satoru felt it.
The way he clung tighter in bed. The way he went quiet after missions again. The way he looked at candy — not like it was a craving, but a coping mechanism. Like he could drown out the taste of death with cherry syrup and artificial fruit.
And his oral fixation?
Worse.
Or better. Depending on who you asked.
He wanted lollipops constantly. Carried them in his sleeves, tucked into his bag, crinkling wrappers by Satoru’s ear when they sat in class. Sucked on them through lectures, through naps, through cuddles on Satoru’s bed.
And then, of course, there was the other thing.
The cock-sucking thing.
It got worse, too. And by worse, Satoru meant: constant.
Suguru would tug on his pants while they were watching movies. Crawl into his lap after dinner. Nudge him under the sheets in the middle of the night like a sleepy, spoiled cat and mumble, “Can I?”
Sometimes he didn’t even say anything. Just looked at him with those dark, soft eyes and reached down, slow and patient and hungry.
And for once, Satoru didn’t see it as a problem.
Didn’t scold him. Didn’t call it a kink. Didn’t call it anything.
Because this was just Suguru now.
Suguru, who needed something in his mouth to block out the taste of what he swallowed.
Suguru, who soothed himself with sucking the way others did with humming or rocking or chewing their nails. Suguru, who looked peaceful when he did it — present, grounded, alive.
And Satoru?
He loved him.
Just like that.
Just like this.
Suguru would stretch out on his bed in nothing but a hoodie, lollipop tucked in his cheek, cheeks flushed and pouty, and Satoru would look at him and think:
Fuck, he’s mine.
Mouthy and bratty and broken and soft.
His.
Exactly the way he is.