Chapter Text
The blunt that’s caught loosely between his lips nearly feels as heavy as the ache settling deep in his muscles; exhaustion washing over him in thick, suffocating waves; and he rolls his shoulders, squeezing his bicep tightly before he brings the lighter to his mouth.
With one flick of his thumb, the flame comes to life in his steady grip, staunch and fierce, and he closes his eyes as he lights the end of the blunt, groaning when he takes a long pull, feeling a mild head-rush as the smoke cascades into his hankering lungs.
Somehow, it’s not much, yet it’s more than enough at the same time; the effects of the weed plunging into his system in earnest – making him feel light and airy, the near-restorative properties feeling like chaste, gentle kisses pressed against his weary muscles.
He brings the blunt to his mouth again, taking a bigger, mind-numbing hit, and it’s as if every ounce of fatigue leaves his body, replaced by something delicate, something that has him smiling softly as a sense of complacency blankets his frame.
God, he needed this shit.
Definitely one of his vices that he won’t be giving up any time soon.
Suguru walks over to the sizable sofa near the middle of the room, modish and oh, so inviting, letting out a harsh exhale as he sits down, brushing off the thin line of dust that has somehow accumulated on the material of his slacks.
This is truly one of his favourite places to be.
In the Recuperation Room of some favoured night lounge in downtown Osaka. He likes to think that the pristine, white walls and the strong, oak wood of the door act as his safeguard – a safeguard that separates him from the lobby – away from the hustle and bustle of this popular night spot, away from any duties, any responsibilities, any stress or burden.
Any inconvenience.
Although that’s merely him being swept away by his misconceptions and disillusions because all those dire happenings can still snake their way here – through the cracks, breaching every crevice, weaving expertly through every nook and cranny.
Sullying the divinity of his haven.
It would be much more fitting for him to regard the room for what it is: somewhere that he can recline for a bit – a place for brief, intermittent relaxation and nothing more, rather than an unrealistic sanctuary that’s able to keep him at peace and protected.
He takes another hit, and the sound of the door being pushed open with enough staggering force to drive the doorknob into the wall roughly jolts him from his thoughts, startling him, and he nearly chokes on the weed that stings his throat and lungs.
Utahime saunters into the room, letting out a gaudy noise of exasperation when she sees Suguru on the sofa.
“Shouldn’t be smoking in here,” she seethes, eyebrows twitching in annoyance as she carelessly tosses her folder onto the high-gloss coffee table.
“That’s cute,” Suguru chuckles, wrapping his lips around the end of the blunt and taking a deep, ragged inhale. “Very cute, Utahime.”
“I’m serious,” she mutters dryly, sinking into the seat beside him before she throws her pen somewhere across the room.
“Hmm,” he gives her a deadpan look, breathing in another lungful of weed and calmly blowing the smoke into the open air. “And what are you gonna do? Fire me?”
Shoko walks in then, tapping away at her phone absentmindedly, and she settles herself on the other side of Suguru, the plush comfort of the sofa doing absolute wonders for the dull ache blooming in her lower back.
“For fuck’s sake, Suguru,” Utahime spits, completely agitated, nothing short of indignation darkening the depths of her eyes. “Don’t make my day any harder than it already fucking is.”
Suguru blinks, folding his arms across his chest, squinting before he turns to Shok. “What crawled up her ass and died?”
Shoko waves him off, clearing her throat. “Stagehand fucked up the lighting – which, by the way, we’ll be needing you to oversee until we find a replacement because she went fucking crazy and fired his ass.”
Suguru arches a brow, forcing himself to hold back a cough, his throat stinging as the hit turns his brain into a pile of molten lava in his skull. Shoko hums happily as she reaches for the blunt in his hand and takes a deep pull for herself, a prickling sensation blossoming along the surface of her skin as the drug seems to, ever so slowly, sanctify her weakened body.
Suguru snickers, eyeing Utahime calculatingly before he speaks, his tone vexing and sickeningly sweet. “Up my pay, and it wouldn’t be a problem, boss lady.”
She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Whatever.”
Shoko takes another hit and sinks deeper into the sofa, a small smile dancing on her lips as the weed clouding her brain alternatively turns each of her limbs to jelly – heavy and inoperative.
This shit is potent.
Potent to the point where each hit is more intimidating than the last.
Just the way she likes it.
Suguru grins, watching her stare at the blunt in her hand with glossy eyes. “Good, right?”
Shoko sighs blissfully as electricity shoots from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. “The fucking best.”
Utahime makes a sound of irritation, and it cuts through the air with a heavy impact. “Shouldn’t be –”
“Smoking in here? Yeah, I heard you the first six hundred times, princess.”
“You gotta loosen up, man,” Shoko murmurs, blunt secured between her fingertips as she stands on near-unsteady feet, moving over to where Utahime sits, and climbing onto her lap with little effort. “Come here.”
Shoko straddles her thighs comfortably, bringing the blunt to her lips and taking a long pull from it, humming as the smoke fills her mouth before she leans forward, slackening Utahime’s jaw with a firm squeeze of her free hand, pressing against a pair of glossy lips and carefully blowing the cannabis-tinged smoke into her waiting, pliant mouth.
Utahime rests her hands on Shoko’s waist, digging into the skin gently, grunts as she wholly accepts what’s offered to her, holding the heady smoke in her lungs as Shoko peppers light kisses along her jawline.
“Feels good?” Shoko lilts, muffled as her lips are still working against reddened, flushed skin.
Utahime hums the affirmative, nodding as smoke leaks from the toothy grin tugging at her lips, wrapping her arms around Shoko’s waist and pulling her closer.
“Which lighting is it?” Suguru wonders aloud, reaching for the blunt in Shoko’s hand and holding it between his teeth.
“The one that faces the stage,” Shoko answers, sighing as Utahime rubs circles into her skin.
Fuck.
That’s bad news.
“And the ones surrounding it,” Utahime adds, provocation bleeding onto her features anew.
That’s really bad news.
Suguru grimaces. “Shit. And tonight is –”
“Live Entertainment Night, yeah.”
Shoko can practically feel the anger blooming deep and fervent within Utahime’s chest.
“We are five hours away from our biggest gig of the week,” she spits, nails sinking deeper into Shoko’s skin. “Do you know how much money we can lose if Live Entertainment Night gets cancelled?”
Suguru supposes that Utahime’s foul mood is completely justified. Live Entertainment Night is an absolute crowd favourite; the highly anticipated event of the week, where they usually make triple their average profit, if not more. That’s not to say that business is poor on “regular” days – because they have multiple events ongoing throughout the full expanse of the week, but it would be foolish not to acknowledge the raw impact that the band, Yorikuya, has on the nightlife scene.
On their nightlife scene.
Which is why ensuring that all goes well in the end is of utmost priority.
“I know an electrician; good with his hands, kinda inflexible with his time, but he owes me a favour,” Suguru offers, running his free hand through his hair that pools beyond his shoulders. “Hopefully, he’s free to check it out.”
The uncertainty that floats about in the air makes a nasty shiver run down Utahime’s spine.
She looks at him with cold eyes. “Make it happen.”
Suguru stares at her, emotionless, for several seconds that seem to drag on for hours, saying nothing.
Wordless and impassive.
“I know what can pull that stick from your ass, you know,” Suguru finally says, relighting the blunt and holding it up, grinning as he waves it in her face. “Service with a smile, princess.”
“Fuck off,” Utahime grumbles – nonetheless accepting the offer – taking the blunt with quick, nimble fingers and placing it between her lips.
“Heard they got their bassist back,” Shoko comments offhandedly, shifting on Utahime’s lap until she’s sitting sideways, back pressed against the soft arm of the sofa, legs thrown carelessly across Suguru’s thighs.
“They have a bassist?” Suguru falters, unable to hide the shock that leaks onto his face, because this band has been playing at Greycliff Night Lounge for months, and he’s never seen anyone on the bass. He just assumed that they didn’t have one.
“Yeah, man. Nanami told me he was finishing up some self-studies with his cousin overseas. It’s been a year now, apparently. Didn’t ask what he was studying, though. Figured it wasn’t my business.”
Suguru whistles, eyebrows shooting up into his hairline. “If they were playing music that good without their bassist, imagine how it’ll sound now.”
Utahime cackles before she takes another hit of the blunt. “Better music means more money for us.”
“Honestly. Is that all you think about?” Shoko asks playfully, laughing as she throws an arm around Utahime’s neck.
“Yes, babe. That’s what pays the bills around here,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss against Shoko’s cheek. “Now get that electrician on the fucking line, Suguru.”
.·:*¨༺ ❀ ༻¨*:·.
Polished, prim and proper.
Three words that can be used to describe Greycliff Night Lounge’s notoriety amongst the locals.
Greycliff’s mark on Osaka’s nightlife scene is nothing short of incredible. Hordes of clubs and bars long for the popularity that Greycliff has accumulated over the years.
It’s a remarkably inspiring story of social mobility; of a steady climb of the social ladder; of how ambition and back-breaking work can be the sparks needed to fan the flames of advancement.
Oh, but it surely wasn’t easy.
Success and popularity weren’t handed to Greycliff Night Lounge on a fucking silver platter – Suguru, Shoko and Utahime weren’t born with silver spoons in their mouths; divested of any privilege that would get their feet in the door, at the very least. Therefore, regarding Greycliff’s undeniable prowess and its impressive dominance on the nightlife scene, they had to fucking work for it.
And they had to work hard, too.
But what was great about Suguru, Shoko, and Utahime was their synergy. Having known each other since their high school years, they knew which approach to their joint effort gave the best results – what method of consulting worked to keep their partnership thriving against all odds.
They can all attest to the fact that three heads were better than one.
Their system of getting things done could only be described as a jungle – thick foliage with overgrown trees that had grown high enough to create its overpass; the leafage becoming overwhelming to the point where it could honestly come off as suffocating, but somehow, despite all of this, the pathway to walk on was nearly clear. Sure, there were some overgrown leafage that tugged at one’s ankles as they ambled through – but it was manageable and painless.
As chaotic as it was, it worked.
Extremely well.
Their dynamic surprisingly did wonders to balance everything out.
The Greycliff of today has brought enormous prestige, and greatness steadily comes rolling in without much effort these days, but it was never this smooth at the start of it all.
Situated in the epicentre of Osaka, one of the cities in Japan known for its vibrant and incredible nightlife – an entertainment melting pot, as Suguru liked to call it.
As the demand for social activities grew, so did the establishment of entertainment businesses that were striving for two common goals – success and recognition. That is, until the market itself became oversaturated. Suguru lamented the highly competitive state of affairs, competitive to the point where one either learned how to stand out among the tough crowd or struggled to make ends meet, until they eventually teetered into liquidation and crumbled to dust among their peers.
Sink or swim, simply put.
And they refused to fucking sink.
It was difficult trying to stand out amongst the plethora of dance clubs and lounges along Dotonbori, where youthful partygoers flocked to with the sole purpose of unwinding, taking a much-needed break from the stressors of their daily lives.
Back then, Suguru figured that a night lounge with a high energy factor was the winning ticket, the solution to their dilemma, and he poured his all into what he liked to call his personal project.
It has been a steady rise – thankfully, a rise toward the most favourable outcome.
And with the three gathered in tandem, pairing each other’s strengths and weaknesses, a ghastly network of differing temperaments, backgrounds and beliefs; differing mindsets that worked collectively to create something good was what made this lounge Suguru’s proudest achievement.
They had scrambled through so many compositions, namely Suguru, who dipped his toes into distinct styles of interior design, figuring out which approach would be best, which style of furniture would look perfect and aesthetically pleasing for the space they managed to get a hold of.
Then it went a little deeper to Suguru contemplating which types of lighting would bring life to the night lounge without being overbearing – it jumped to renovations and endless construction, expansions and redesigns here and there.
Just a tedious trial-and-error process that dragged on for nearly two years, at the cost of a huge chunk of capital and his mental stability. A maddening push and pull that led to Suguru finally deciding on which style created a more comforting ambience, which atmosphere drew in more people.
More acclamation.
He had to decide on the branding itself and which demographic they'd typically want to market their business to.
And Suguru affirms that what kick-started their success was the impeccable marketing, which Utahime and Shoko mostly handled at the time, while he handled the designing and the renovations.
Something else that they have come to terms with is that even though they may be tasting some tendrils of success now, it's never guaranteed to stay within their grasp. If the public begins to lose interest, then they sink along with the other unsuccessful lot that got eaten alive by the feral market.
It’s an unsettling feeling.
Nearly ominous.
Nagging and loud – to know that what they worked so hard to build can come crashing down at their feet one day.
But that’s why they try their best to keep the gears rolling – finding it optimal to have their events consistently give off a fresh and new feeling.
To never let it get boring.
Because if they manage to keep the attention of the public, then their place at the top will always be secured.
Of course, with this amount of weight and pressure, this overwhelming need to improve – to do better – it is no secret, nor is it a surprise, that the upkeep and management is exhausting as fuck. The need to be wholly present physically, mentally and emotionally; and to be present often; to be incredibly involved, down to every nitty, gritty detail, at all times –
God.
Suguru is grateful for what they have, but fuck, sometimes he feels as if he needs a break from it all.
It’s a bleak sentiment that’s shared amongst the three.
They all feel the strain of their own goals and expectations, but Suguru is hopeful that their current line of staff can expand with trustworthy people to equally share this substantial weight with, instead of struggling to shoulder it all by themselves.
It, by all means, isn’t healthy, and they know that – so when Utahime manages to get a moment of reprieve from the incessant press calls, collaboration offers, or brand endorsement deals, she’s facilitating interviews, swinging the hiring process that Greycliff desperately needs into motion.
It’s tedious and it adds to the mind-boggling load that already weighs heavily onto her weakened shoulders, but she pushes forward with the belief that it’ll all be worth it in the end.
And it will.
Because more hands are needed.
More hands for Suguru, Shoko and Utahime’s pride and joy.
What’s important is that Suguru can say that he’s proud of the current interior of the lounge.
Utahime and Shoko left the design completely up to him and his better judgment, and at the time, Suguru was taken aback by their faith in him and his capabilities. But he supposes that a big factor in what makes their partnership work as well as it does is the trust they have in each other.
And he decides that it feels damn good.
To be trusted wholeheartedly, lifting their hands off this project in particular is a testament; it's an assurance of their willingness to let go when they deem it necessary.
Opting for a sleek and modern look, he believes that he chose well with clean-cut and minimalist designs. The walls of the interior are coated in navy, satin paint to add a sense of richness, of depth and dimension to the space. It's truly a sight to behold, a splendid choice in all its glory as a durable, satin finish that adds complementary lustre to the lounge.
Months prior, Suguru decided that comfortable yet functional, neutral-coloured furniture that has the durability to withstand any wear and tear is what they needed to boost Greycliff’s wow-factor. A total of ten beige, curved sectional sofas bedeck the space, all lined with LED strip lights that are attached to the welt cords near the bottom, following the seam line around the circumference of each seating.
Each sectional sofa is paired with round tables for potential dining purposes, the surface primed and sealed with high-gloss paint to bring forth a reflective lift to the room.
Matching chaises and ottomans seem to adorn this hideaway, as some patrons affectionately call it, littered handsomely with a few tufted lounge chairs, and the soft seating adds a slight touch of contemporary for balance.
Thoughtfully-placed strobe lights, wash lights, and spotlights all come together to evoke different moods that reflect the event for the night.
But by far, the bar is his favourite – a sizeable amount of different brands of liquor and polished glasses displayed in illuminated bar shelving and bar gantries, LED trays for serving drinks to patrons, stylish bar stools that match well with the glossy marble countertop.
On the grand scheme of things, Suguru supposes the real star of the show would be the stage – the large, raised platform for the performers has dark flooring; sealed with high gloss around the perimeter, lined with strip lights – an attractive matte and gloss combination that works well together.
All things considered, the most luxurious touch to the lounge would be the 'window walls' – floor-to-ceiling windows that stretch along the full expanse of the room. And as this lounge sits haughtily on the fifteenth floor, an attractive feature of Greycliff is the ability to overlook the lively and vibrant streets of Dotonbori during the busy nighttime.
The DJ booth and modern décor all help to offer an upbeat atmosphere that the public came to love.
But those strobe and wash lights that Suguru has come to appreciate lie near his feet, taken apart by a pair of dexterous hands.
“Any good news, Ijichi?” Suguru asks, taking a sip from the bottle of water in his hand.
“It had several loose wire connections,” Ijichi sighs as he finishes up tending to his work. “I genuinely don’t know how the Stagehand managed to do this, but please tell them to be careful next time.”
“No need,” Suguru shrugs. “Princess got rid of his ass.”
Ijichi looks up, his eyebrows furrowed in curiosity. “Princess?”
“Boss lady.”
“Ah, the one you’ve told me about,” he says, tightening the screws on the back plating for one of the strobe lights. “Your partner in crime. So, who’s gonna be handling all this?”
Suguru takes another sip of his water. “Me, apparently. Until she finds someone else.”
“That’s...a lot to deal with.”
“Tell me about it,” Surguru grunts with an indignant roll of his eyes. “Production runner, interior designer, marketing assistant and stagehand would look pretty fucking hefty on my resume, wouldn’t it?”
“Sure would! Jack of all trades,” Ijichi laughs heartily before he continues. “Just changed the connections. And I replaced the batteries just in case. Everything should be good to go. The rest of the stage crew just gotta put them back up now.”
“With three and a half hours to spare!” Suguru beams, slapping the electrician’s shoulder carelessly. “Ijichi, you’re a fucking lifesaver, man.”
“Save your breath because if it wasn’t for that favour, I wasn’t showing up today.”
“Right,” Suguru mutters dryly. “Well, what’s important is that the situation is resolved, and my head won’t be placed on the chopping block for someone else’s fuck-up.”
Ijichi cracks a smile at this, shifting slightly from his place on the floor and lazily putting his tools into his handbag. “I'll send the invoice via email. Let me know if anything else goes wrong with it. Although it shouldn’t. I took preemptive measures.”
“Yes, yes. Of course. Thank you, my good man.”
Suguru leads Ijichi to the door, making idle conversation to fill the few beats of silence; a few gentle smiles that he knows Ijichi doesn’t care for.
But it seems as if basic decency and courtesy are something that’s not lost on him, because the grin plastered on Ijichi’s face is wide – wide to the point where it creeps along the edges of evoking a mild and fleeting sense of discomfort under Suguru’s skin.
He opens the door with a firm twist of his hand, jolting in surprise when he sees someone standing there, arm slightly raised as if he was in the middle of reaching for the doorknob –
Suguru squints dutifully.
A man.
A man standing beyond the threshold, dressed in black from head to toe – white hair mostly covered by a black beanie, the black, round-framed sunglasses that sits atop the bridge of his nose, the black mask that obscures half of his face, the black coat that stretches past his knees, the black slacks that cling to the meat of his thighs, the black, short-heeled boots that does well to tie the whole look together.
In a way, it’s almost pretentious.
And, for some strange reason, Suguru can’t shake the acrid taste that brews in his mouth.
He mutters a curse under his breath when Ijichi brushes past him and the man to escape the edges of this standoff, and Suguru finds himself arching an eyebrow when the man begins to slowly remove the darkened frames on his face, with vibrantly brilliant blue eyes coming into view.
Brilliant blue eyes that bore into his.
Eyes that seem to hold a modest sense of contempt for nearly everything that surrounds him, albeit a direct result of unfamiliarity, but still enough to have that bitter taste become, in essence, unbearable as it blooms on Suguru’s taste buds.
The stench of egotism wafts up his nostrils, hitting the back of his throat with every putrid inhale.
Yet another thing that seems to catch him off guard is the stifling air of superiority – the air of self-assured importance – something eerily close to arrogance encircling the frame of his very being as he waits for Suguru to address him first.
Under different circumstances, Suguru would laugh at the situation in its entirety because not a single word was exchanged, but those vibrant eyes, that demeanour of his, have already revealed so much.
The vibrant eyes of this stranger, of this potential patron, who’s currently trying to ease his way past the threshold.
“I’m sorry, but we don’t open our doors until 7 pm,” Suguru says casually, but in a way that’s nothing short of meticulous, because he has had the absolute misfortune of dealing with many difficult personalities from the moment Greycliff was established – so it’s easy to be able to spot one from miles away.
“Don’t care. Move,” the stranger mutters crudely, cool blue eyes burning into his before he roughly pushes Suguru to the side and enters the lounge of his own volition.
The rude command is more than enough to have his blood boiling, and yet –
Shoved.
He is shoved.
Into the doorframe.
Suguru stands there, baffled and at a genuine loss for words. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, hey!” Yuuji beams excitedly when he catches a glimpse of the man walking amongst the array of sectionals and tables. “You’re here much earlier than I thought.”
If it’s one thing that Suguru refuses to tolerate is tactless people, no matter the circumstances. It’s aggravating – exasperating – to be on the receiving end of such god-awful behaviour, yet, considering his line of work, still expected to be respectful; and, truthfully, he isn’t well-versed in handling these things at all.
Damage mitigation? It’s beyond him.
He simply lacks the patience –
The fortitude needed to be able to quell the nasty attitudes of those who reek of self-importance.
Suguru can’t count how many times he has left Shoko to deal with unpleasant night-goers, to keep them and their shitty personalities at bay, placing the responsibility entirely in her hands because he’s just too petulant to even think about subduing anyone.
But here he is – alone – with his willingness to endure, his restraint and diligence being put to the test.
A test that he will fail immediately.
And miserably, at that.
In such a questionably short amount of time, Suguru feels as if he’s learned all there is to know about this man.
And to be frank, he wants to pat himself on the back for being able to pick up on his sickening personality before he even had a chance to open his mouth – entirely convinced of his bad-mannered temperament just from his disposition alone.
It’s a skill – to be able to read people like that; to be able to read people this well; and his act of calming himself down comes to a complete halt when he hears the grating tone of the Mystery Man’s laughter when Yuuji pulls him into a bone-crushing hug.
“Wanted to check out the place before I stopped home,” Beanie-Wearing Freak remarks, and with each word uttered, Suguru can feel his blood pressure rising several fractions. “Since I’ve been hearing good things.”
“Impressed with the look?” Yuuji laughs, pointing his index finger in his direction. “That’s all Suguru’s magic.”
“Him?”
There’s a questionable stare that lingers on the exposed skin of his arms – something inexplicable lurking amongst the endless depths of his eyes; so striking.
So blue.
A piercing gaze that rakes over the rise and fall of his biceps, that seems to focus on every complex design that is inked beautifully on the skin of his left arm.
It’s a stare that Suguru misses entirely, too blinded by his disdain, by the indignation that brews heavily in his chest.
Can only focus on the mild discomfort that blooms beneath his skin from being shoved into the doorframe by Single-Number-IQ’s fucking disgusting hands.
And Suguru –
He doesn’t mind failing this test.
Because, above all, there’s nothing better than knocking an egoist down a few pegs.
“Yuuji?” he seethes, both parties flinching at the near-deafening timbre of his voice. “You know this cunt?”
Mystery Bitch squints and tilts his head before he arches an eyebrow questioningly. “Cunt?”
The man seems a bit peeved by the insult, which is fucking perfect, Suguru thinks as he makes his way closer to the two, disregarding the way Yuuji’s body seems to quake with stress from taking note of how visibly upset he is.
But the one thing that he can’t let go of is that facial expression. That smug smile is now replaced with a bothered frown, relaxed eyebrows being replaced with a pair of furrowed ones, and all it took was one insult.
One insult, one word that seems to evoke a strong irritation that nearly mirrors his own.
Good.
It’s exactly the type of reaction that he was looking for – and if he would do anything to continue prying this reaction out of him.
“You left your manners at the door, dickhead,” Suguru spits. “Of course, that’s what I’m gonna fucking call you. Be thankful I didn’t toss your sorry ass outside.”
“Toss me outside?” the man asks, looking at him incredulously as he barks out a dry laugh. “With what muscles, Quasimodo?”
When Suguru steps closer with his fingers flexing in anger, Yuuji can feel himself choking on the increasingly tense atmosphere, and he holds his hands up as he trails off, his tone soft and incredibly long-winded. “Guys...”
And that’s enough to have Suguru immediately turning to him for an answer. “Who the fuck is this bitch anyway?”
“Don’t worry about it,” the man scoffs, rolling his eyes and leaning against the arm of one of the sectionals, his gaze briefly moving to the tattoo sleeve that manages to snag his attention every so often.
Or the lengthy loose strands of hair that spill attractively from the loosened security of Suguru’s messy bun.
“Sorry, Suguru,” Yuuji starts, his voice muted as he looks at him beseechingly. “I’m apologising on his behalf. Let this one slide, please?”
Suguru laughs at the mere ridiculousness of this stupid fucking situation. “On his behalf? He’s too good to open his fucking mouth?”
The way that Bag-of-Dicks stares at him has the lingering tendrils of anger thrumming beneath his skin; the unwavering and seemingly calculating gaze that fails to intimidate him, only serving to rile him up further.
That same gaze that begins to drift to a set of sinewy pectorals, the stretchy material of Suguru's tank top clinging to every curve, every dip, every rise and fall of the toned muscles.
“Suguru, please,” Yuuji looks at him with pleading eyes, and Suguru lets out a long, drawn-out sigh.
“Whatever,” Suguru shoves both hands into his pockets, turning around and walking away from the two. “You and pretty boy over there got five minutes to get outta here.”
For Yuuji's sake, he ignores the incessant mumbling from Mystery Man, in all his miserable glory, before he walks out of the night lounge.
As he walks along the dampened streets of Dotonbori, he can’t help but think about white hair peeking from beneath that ugly ass beanie, those annoying fucking blue eyes.
And that snarky, nasty attitude.
God.
What in the actual fuck was that?
.·:*¨༺ ❀ ༻¨*:·.
When Suguru returns to Greycliff that evening, the crowd doesn’t surprise him. It’s half past seven, and with each passing second, another person walks through the door to purchase their tickets, their bodies thrumming in anticipation for this highly-awaited event.
It’s normal. It’s natural.
It’s expected.
Live Entertainment Night has the prowess to bring even the most reserved of introverts and wallflowers out of hiding.
He moves past the sea of people, walking into the Recuperation Room and sucking in a few deep breaths before he closes the door behind him, taking a hearty sip from the cup of the iced latte that sits in his hand.
When he sits on the sofa, he has a brief moment of reprieve before he hears the telltale sound of the doorknob turning.
He doesn’t bother to turn his head to see who it is.
“Suguru, quick question,” and the familiarity of Shoko’s voice filling the air has him sinking a little deeper into the sofa. “You think we need more people for the production crew? Utahime is in the middle of hiring more people for the kitchen.”
Suguru tilts his head in thought. “Tell her we could use a few more. Maybe cap it at three.”
“Gotcha,” Shoko nods as she quickly jots something down onto the small notepad in her hand. “And where’s mine?”
Suguru already knows where this is going.
He hums. “Where’s your what?”
“Whatever you’re drinking,” Shoko professes, staring at him calculatingly as she stands in front of him, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
“I’m not drinking anything,” Suguru shrugs, taking another sip of his latte, sporting a blank expression as he holds Shoko’s eye contact with ease, straw pursed between his lips when he shakes the ice in the cup roughly.
Shoko’s stare doesn’t waver. “What are you sucking on, then?”
“Your mother.”
The signature cheeky smile that usually takes up a fraction of his face isn’t there this time. Just an air of nonchalance that Shoko has learned how to feel from a distance –
Which can only mean one thing:
Tension's rising.
She sighs tiredly, rubbing at her temple. “You’re insufferable. You should be a little kinder to your best friends, Suguru.”
He closes his eyes as he lets out a curt noise of disapproval. “Colleagues.”
“Fine. Colleagues,” she muses smugly. “Especially to your colleague who was thinking about paying for dinner tonight.”
The finger that has been absentmindedly tapping against the cool surface of the cup abruptly comes to a halt.
Suguru cracks an eye open.
Paying for dinner?
Shoko continues caustically, drawling out each syllable. “At a five-star restaurant. Completely covered.”
“My beautiful, lovely friend. My best friend,” Suguru chirps, the words coming out clipped and frantic, and he leans forward to use his free hand to hold onto her wrist. “Please excuse my impudence. I don’t know what came over me. I appreciate you so much.”
“Get your fucking hands off me, colleague,” Shoko spits, wrenching her wrist from his firm grip. “Now get my damn coffee.”
Suguru reluctantly brings himself to his feet before he gives her a pointed stare. “I’m ordering everything on the fucking menu later.”
.·:*¨༺ ❀ ༻¨*:·.
Placating the residential drama queen of the trio has its perks – at least, that’s what Suguru prefers to believe. Because here Shoko is, drinking her frappuccino happily as she browses the menu for one of the most expensive restaurants in Osaka.
“Two minutes until showtime,” he says, reaching out to pull Shoko from her place against the sofa. “Where’s princess?”
“Hime?” Shoko looks up then, locking her phone and putting it in her pocket. “She was finishing up a few things earlier, but she should be out there now.”
Suguru hums, still holding onto her hand and leading her into the lounge area, quickly settling into one of the seats near the back of the room.
Suguru can see the band doing their last-minute preparations for their hour-long performance – with Choso, the vocalist, tapping the microphone in his hand as he and the Stagehand communicate as they test the preamp gain; Nanami testing the bass pedal on his drum set as he twirls a drumstick between his nimble fingers, Toji and Yuuta wiping the surface of their tuned electric guitars with microfibre cloths.
But – hold on.
Suguru feels his interest pique when he notices the fifth member of the group, his eyes widening in surprise when he notices... unmistakably white hair.
There is absolutely no fucking way.
When he notices those vibrant blue eyes glance at Toji as they engage in idle conversation, he notices the smile that tugs at his lips when Toji leans in a little closer, those same annoying eyes looking at the pegs as he quickly tunes his bass.
To think that the irritating, bad-mannered bitch from earlier is their highly-anticipated bassist...
The same bassist who has been missing in action solely because of some quest for self-development.
You really can’t make this shit up.
Just reflecting on their previous interaction is enough to have his blood boiling all over again, the feeling akin to molten lava weaving through every vein, through every artery. And what manages to tick him off even more is the fact that he looks a little different here.
Almost... agreeable.
Suguru takes note of the fact that the utter disdain that he had seen in those eyes earlier is nowhere to be found – seemingly replaced with a sense of complacency –
Or is it self-righteousness?
Truthfully, he isn’t sure. But what he is sure of is that those eyes are softer now, a little happier; like that’s where he’s meant to be – onstage, amongst his bandmates, sharing warm laughter; catching up on lost time with every passing second.
And he cuts that nagging line of thinking short; supposes that it’s none of his business, in any event. He lets out a curt sigh of relief.
That’s easier.
He barely acknowledges Utahime settling in the seating next to him, his eyes brimming with curiosity, watching the way that the bassist hands his guitar to Yuuta who holds onto it with a smile, before he stands to his feet, unbuttoning the coat that conceals his torso before he tosses it to Yuuji who stands at the foot of the stage.
Suguru swallows at the bassist’s outfit, his mouth running dry before he even has the chance to manage his reaction to it, an almost knee-jerk response to seeing lean torso and toned abdominals coming into view – little skin being covered by the black, sleeveless crop-top.
There’s a silver matinee necklace that sits between his clothed pectorals, the waistband of the olive cargo pants sitting loosely on his hips. The black, fingerless leather gloves and the black harness leather platform boots –
God.
He really doesn’t want to admit it, but black is a colour that looks damn good against his skin, and he shifts slightly on the surface of the seating when the stage lights catch his exposed stomach a little too well for his liking and comfort.
It’s also painful for him to realise that he’s conjuring these incessant thoughts that teeter a little on the complimentary side for someone who does not fucking deserve them.
And you know what?
Fuck him, actually.
The sound of the microphone being tapped once again immediately pulls him out of his reverie, and he’s honestly thankful for it, letting a small sigh fall from his lips when Choso takes a hold of his attention, the vocalist sporting a bright smile on his face as he brings the microphone a little closer to his lips.
And so it begins, Suguru thinks.
“Thank you for having us tonight,” Choso says into the loudspeaker, the rich timbre of his voice reverberating through the room. “As always, it’s an absolute pleasure to be here.”
It’s strange and a bit unnerving, but Suguru can’t seem to take his eyes off the bassist, his eyes wandering past the vocalist’s frame, locking on the ...the toned body that’s situated behind him, near his left, with a leather-clad hand giving a final, subtle twist to one of the pegs on his bass.
He’d like to pin it to his curiosity, his thirst to know exactly what it is that this man brings to the table; curious about his creativity, his ethics; if he’s able to add something good, something great, to the band’s holistic sound – or if he’ll be drowned out by pairs of more capable hands that can bring out the most of their respective instruments.
Curious to see if his presence here will be made meaningless.
“And tonight is a very special night for us,” Choso continues, the smile on his face brightening with each passing second. “Because of the long-awaited return of our bassist.”
The bassist in question seems to be a little caught off guard by this, his eyes widening at the excited cheers from the audience, laughing at Yuuta’s comforting hand that finds its way to his shoulder.
“I’m sure this may come as a shock to many of you because he hasn’t played with us in a while.”
Toji takes a few steps forward until he’s standing next to Choso, leaning over so that his lips can be close to the microphone. “Leaving us high and dry to study overseas like some prissy ass bitch. Who would’ve guessed?”
The bassist throws his head back and barks out a laugh, a laugh that can be heard faintly on the speakers as it’s picked up through the mic, digging the tip of his boots into Toji’s chin when he steps back and settles next to him.
“Of course, he’s just kidding,” Choso chuckles, clearing his throat briefly. “Please give our bassist, Satoru, a very warm welcome.”
Satoru?
That’s his name?
Interesting.
The round of applause that follows is deafening, and Suguru feels a little miffed at the recognition that he’s getting – like he’s not some rude bitch with awful people-skills.
“Let’s go.”
With four taps of Nanami’s drumsticks, the music starts – a fast-paced drumline, followed by both electric guitars swinging in full effect – and it seems as if this is something that was not rehearsed because the bassist, Satoru, uses two full measures to listen to the melody, to get a feel of how he should tackle this beat.
Suguru watches intently as Satoru nods his head, feeling the groove, giving an experimental pluck from the strings, filling the room with a drawn-out, rich sound as he decides on what approach would be best.
At the start of the fifth measure, there’s a somewhat cheeky smile on his face as he kickstarts his bassline into full effect, and Choso takes that as his signal to add his vocals to the mix, his voice soft like velvet, smooth and thick like honey, the audience clinging onto every hum, to every adlib that falls from his lips.
On Live Entertainment Nights, the band either performs their music, covers or an elite mixture of the two.
Suguru notes that tonight, an original work is being played – something that they haven’t heard before – which poses as a shock to know that amongst their schedules throughout the week, as well as failing to neglect their personal lives, the members of the band still manage to work on yet another original piece; still finding the time to bring their artistry together to birth something new.
That’s what Suguru likes the most about them. Not only are they skilful as a whole, a team with individual strengths that work in a way that makes sense, but also, the fact that their work ethics are top-notch.
But what’s impressive is how this bassist eased himself into the score with little effort or difficulty.
In only five measures?
He’s quick.
Efficient.
Suguru gives him a once-over before he finds himself drawn to his hands.
And the bass?
Absolutely stunning.
Truly an impressive-looking instrument. The Ibanez Premium SR1600D bass in the Autumn Sunset Sky finish, a beautiful four-string bass that gives off such a deep, full-bodied tone that blends beautifully with the layers of the other instruments.
But what’s just as beautiful is the appearance of the bass, which is held in a pair of skilful hands.
The decorative texture of the orange and blue poplar burl surface is utterly eye-catching – enough for Suguru to find himself getting lost in the intricate swirl design of the veneer itself, the stage lights reflecting off the glossed finish.
Suguru can feel every pluck of those strings, as if the notes themselves delve deep beneath his skin, as if they seem to course through his veins – his ears clinging to every slap, to every tap, to every thump that leaks from the speakers.
What a shame, he thinks.
That someone like him has the capabilities, the artistry to play so well.
He’d rather not attest to the clear display of skill and raw talent but –
He supposes that he should give credit where it is due.
Often, the playing of a bassist may get drowned out by the stronger-sounding instruments. The sharp sound of a drum set and the biting melody of electric guitars usually overshadow the rich timbre that a bassist brings to the table.
But not here.
The other members of this band are truly capable – but it’s just that it’s as if his ability to handle his instrument the way that he does is miles beyond their own.
Leagues ahead.
Which, in itself, is an incredible feat.
The technique, the ability to keep meter, the impeccable timing – knowing when to add fills, and knowing when it would be best to keep his musical measure nice and spacious. Even his fretboard knowledge is top-notch, with the way that he rarely feels the need to look down at the fretboard as he plucks those strings with fervour.
Opting to either play with his eyes closed and letting the groove melt seep into his bones, or he finds himself surveying the crowd, his lips tugging in the corner whenever a patron screams out praises.
He continues to scan the crowd, as if he’s looking for something – or rather, someone – and Suguru is still captivated by the music that fills the expanse of the room;
Until their eyes meet.
Suguru leans back into the seat, finding himself holding the gaze, a pair of blue eyes searing into his own once again.
He notes that this man’s gaze always burns, somehow; scorching – always intense and profound – fervent.
As if something about Suguru excites him.
As if there’s something about him that’s intriguing.
It’s strange and unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome; at least, under the current circumstances. Not when he’s playing this well, with unrivalled musicality that has his muscles becoming relaxed and pliant beneath his skin.
With Choso’s vocals, Nanami’s rhythmic drumming, Toji’s shredding on the electric guitar, followed closely by Yuuta’s great pacing and riffs –
All paired wonderfully with the slaps and taps that thrum from Satoru’s bass.
Suguru can admit that this is the best that they have sounded thus far.
He genuinely didn’t think it was possible, but here they are: exceeding every expectation, going above and beyond – raising the bar and effortlessly doing so.
Suguru barely feels the time as it melts away – an hour-long event feeling like mere minutes, thoroughly enjoying every second of the performance.
The happenings begin to blur together as he tries to sort out the... more unfortunate realisations that float around in his head, loud and a bit overbearing, and he stretches slightly as the band members give their closing statements, barely heard over the sound of endless cheering from the audience.
Nanami holds the microphone loosely between his fingertips. “See you next week!”
When the band members leave the stage to head into the Recuperation Room, Shoko, Utahime, and Suguru wordlessly follow suit, easily moving around the bodies that now begin to sway to the beat of the music that the DJ plays on the speakers.
Free from his reverie, tension begins to bleed into his muscles the moment that he steps into the room and sees Satoru up close once again, his gaze filled with mirth once he takes notice of him, leaning against the arm of the sofa.
He doesn’t bother to be cordial, entirely driven not only by his aversion to his very being, but by some strange inkling that this is what the bassist may prefer. “Surprised to see that this piece of shit is the one on the bass.”
The heated insult comes as a surprise to nearly everyone in the room, save for the piece of shit bassist in question, who’s watching him with a smug smile tugging on his lips.
Suguru tries his best not to look at the exposed skin of his stomach.
Fuck him and that stupid fucking crop-top.
“Don’t talk about me like that, babe,” Satoru chastises softly, his voice filling the deafening silence. “I just might get off on it.”
God. He’s aggravating.
Suguru sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re fucking gross, man.”
Shoko eyes him warily. “Uh—”
“Hold on,” Utahime asks, baffled as she digs her index finger into Suguru’s chest, arching an eyebrow. “You’ve met?”
Suguru winces at the finger that digs unforgivingly into his sternum. “Unfortunately.”
“I wanna say it’s good that you two are already acquainted, but it’s clearly not on good terms, right?” Yuuta falters, folding his arm across his chest and shooting Satoru a pointed look.
A pointed look at that, Satoru doesn’t notice – as he’s too busy staring at the tattoo inked into Suguru’s wrist.
Shoko takes a tentative step forward. “I’m a little confused. How—”
“He came here while you and Utahime were in a meeting in the office,” Suguru offers easily. “Rude as fuck, by the way.”
He reaches up to remove the tie that secures his bun in place a little too tightly for his comfort, his lengthy hair spilling past his shoulders and down his back, and Satoru leans back slightly as he sits on the armrest, letting out a long, silent breath as he watches him intently.
Suguru can feel his gaze raking over his skin, but he pays it no mind.
“Damn, really?”
“Seriously, Satoru,” Toji shakes his head, an accusatory tone filling his voice. “What did you do this time?”
“This time?” Suguru croaks. “So this shit happens often?”
Yuuta rubs the back of his neck. “He can be a bit...”
“Off-putting, yeah.”
The feigned exasperation that Satoru wears on his face is almost frighteningly clear. “Is anyone interested in hearing my side of the story?”
Nanami chimes in helpfully. “Not at all.”
There’s another playful smile that settles comfortably on Satoru’s lips, playful as if he’s mocking him – and rather than feeling anger, there’s something else that settles deep in his gut.
Something a little darker.
Something that longs for – that's attracted to - the mere challenge that presents itself; the urge to subjugate that holds its arms wide, beckoning him closer; drawing him in like some pathetic, demented puppet on a string. He swallows down that feeling, that strange and arbitrary compulsion that threatened to overtake him completely, replacing it with the familiar tendrils of anger and frustration.
Simply because that’s what he’s accustomed to.
It’s what he’s comfortable with.
Perhaps disregarding this bassist’s existence will be in his best interest.
“Came out of left field,” Suguru continues talking with ease as if his thoughts aren’t completely jumbled in the confines of his head, as if his mind isn’t racing a mile a minute. “Had no clue who the fuck he was, but he just started prancing about like he owned the fucking place.”
“Ah, sorry, Surugu,” the contrite apology from Choso is enough to yank him from his musing. “I forgot to mention that he planned on stopping by before Greycliff opened for the evening. I was gonna give you a call, but it completely slipped my mind.”
Satoru barks out a laugh. “Oh, so this is Choso’s fault.”
“Still very much your fault,” Nanami comments, elbowing him harshly. “For not only being fucking rude, but for not explaining who you were when he didn’t know.”
Choso throws an arm around Suguru’s shoulder, pulling him a bit closer before he mumbles another apology, feeling partly responsible for Suguru’s dreadful first encounter with their bassist.
Though he has no reason to be.
Satoru watches as Choso’s fingers squeeze Suguru’s shoulder as he speaks.
And the smile on his face falters slightly.
“Choso, it’s fine,” Suguru reassures softly. “Just keep that little dick on a leash.”
“Of course,” Choso nods, glancing at Satoru, who wears a visibly sour expression as if it’s a second skin, his eyebrows knitted together as he watches them intently, his heated gaze burning into the hand that sits atop Suguru’s shoulder.
“Excellent playing, by the way,” Suguru praises, glancing at everyone except Satoru, as if he’s excluding him from the compliment. “Impressive vocals as always, Choso.”
“Thanks, man. I appreciate that.”
“Seriously, you guys were great,” Utahime quips. “The crowd loved it. I loved it. Shoko loved it. It was perfect.”
Most of the band members begin muttering shyly at the incessant praise, all save for one who has his gaze locked on Suguru.
Once again, it’s something that he can feel without making eye contact – his skin prickling under such a heated gaze, and Suguru knows exactly what the look means.
It reads as a subtle request –
For attention, for acknowledgement; a suggestion, perhaps.
One that he has absolutely no intention of honouring.
Shoko smiles warmly. “Can’t wait for next week.”
“Well, guys,” Utahime says with a firm clap of her hands. “As always, it’s great having you here.”
“And it’s always great being here,” Choso’s grin is wide and nearly blinding. “Is there somewhere we can go to discuss a few things amongst ourselves? About our upcoming gigs?”
Utahime nods. “Sure! You can use the guest office. Megumi can show you where it is.”
“Food and drinks are on the house,” Shoko beams. “If anyone needs me, just send a text.”
.·:*¨༺ ❀ ༻¨*:·.
Suguru sits on the sofa in the Recuperation Room, idly tapping away at the phone in his hand, softly humming a tune as he unwinds from the taxing day that he had – trying his best not to think about white hair and blue eyes.
In this haven, he wills himself to relax completely, planting any thoughts of inconveniences, any thoughts of aggravating people to the extreme back of his mind, a place cluttered and unkempt with lack of use.
Many things here have never seen the light of his mental forefront, completely and utterly forgotten.
And Suguru hopes to add another element to his forgotten collection.
To his neglected and discarded memories.
There, settled amongst the disarray, Satoru resides comfortably, in the furthest dark, damp crevice of mind, his flesh brushing against the cobwebs, his very being nestled closely with the notional spiders that seemed to have made a home here.
And Suguru prefers to keep it that way.
But he hears the faintest sound of that familiar voice – familiar and aggravating – that same voice getting louder as heavy footsteps get closer; and with the sound of those footsteps, and the sound of that voice, the Satoru at the back of his mind begins to free himself from those damp corridors, brushing himself off as he stands to his feet.
It’s fruitless to fight the thoughts once they’ve managed to free themselves, so Suguru lets out a long-drawn-out sigh, leans back into the seat as images of a shit-eating grin enshroud his mind’s eye.
Suddenly, the doorknob of the Recuperation Room slams into the wall when it swings open, and he tears his eyes away from the screen of his phone to Satoru’s exposed waist before meeting his gaze and holding it.
And just like that, the sanctity of his haven has been ruined once again.
Absolutely sullied and made useless.
“Hey,” Satoru greets as he sits next to him, and Suguru tries not to focus on the warmth that he can feel emanating from his body. “You still mad at me?”
The question catches Suguru off guard, and there’s a moment of silence as his face twists into a nasty scowl, absolutely floored because it seems as if this man’s impudence knows no bounds.
“Anyone would be?” Suguru remarks, arching an eyebrow. “You got a few screws loose or something?”
“Cut me some slack, man,” Satoru sighs, waving him off dismissively. “I’m trying to right my wrongs or whatever.”
“And this is your way of going about it?”
“Okay, okay, Suguru. I admit that we got off on the wrong foot –”
“And whose fault is that?”
“You’re really not making this easy for me, huh?”
Suguru clicks his tongue, shrugging. “Apologise properly and I’ll consider it.”
The sceptical look on Satoru’s face, the heady look of hesitation mixed with contempt, has a smile tugging at his lips.
One that’s impossible to miss.
And Satoru latches onto it like a vice.
“You can do it, pretty boy,” Suguru coos, reaching out to grab Satoru’s chin, his fingertips digging into his skin. “Use your big boy words.”
Now this –
This comes as a surprise to Satoru, his eyes widening near-comically when Suguru pulls him in a little closer, his touch searing into his skin. The feeling of his palm pressing below his chin, his fingers brushing against the corner of his lips.
And he’s looking at him smugly, expectantly, but he’s patient with it – though he can tell that his patience tends to wear thin pretty quickly because with each passing second, the hand holding his chin adds a little more pressure to his grip.
Urging him to start talking.
There’s a slight flush that colours Satoru’s cheeks that they don’t bother to acknowledge.
Satoru takes a deep breath, gritting his teeth. “I’m sorry.”
Suguru can feel how hard he’s gritting his teeth, too, humming when he feels muscles flexing beneath his fingertips.
“It nearly killed you to say that, didn’t it?” Suguru comments offhandedly, and Satoru makes a curt noise of disapproval when he tries to pull himself back, to give himself a little distance, a little space to breathe – only to realise that he’s unable to because Suguru’s unwavering grip is still holding him in place.
Satoru holds his gaze easily. “Almost bit my tongue off so I could bleed to death.”
“Now, there’s a challenge,” Suguru hums, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Say it two more times and I’ll let you go.”
Satoru looks at him incredulously. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
“Two more times,” Suguru croons, tightening the hold on his chin by a mere fraction – but it’s more than enough to let Satoru know that he’s fucking serious.
And still – he tries.
“Suguru,” he croaks out, unable to swallow down the pleading tone that drips from his voice.
“Two.”
“Stop fucking playing.”
“Not playing, pretty boy. You’re lucky I’m not making you grovel on the floor and kiss my feet for forgiveness,” Suguru taunts, and Satoru grimaces as he feels heat rushing to his face. “Or is that something else you get off on?”
For the first time in his life, Satoru is rendered speechless.
A snarky remark is always blooming at the tip of his tongue, rebuttals constantly knocking about in his head, an accumulation of counterstatements rotating constantly for his perusal.
But here?
In this very moment?
His mind is a blank slate.
Wiped clean just for Suguru to disgrace the surface, to disgrace every edge, every crevice with his sinful hands.
He doesn’t quite understand what manages to do it, though. Maybe it’s the firm gaze that burns into his, maybe it’s the strong hand holding him in place, maybe it’s the silky strands of hair that cascades down his body, maybe it’s the bulging biceps, the brawny muscles that pulls his top taut against his skin; maybe it’s the fucking tattoo sleeve that captivated him from the moment he took his first step inside this night lounge.
Perhaps, it’s all of the above.
“Thought you wanted to right your wrongs?” Suguru questions innocently, tilting his head in a way that’s derisive and vexatious. “Then say it.”
Fuck.
“I’m sorry,” Satoru mutters, the apology coming out a little easier this time, his jaw no longer tense beneath Suguru’s firm hold, feeling a modest sense of gratification from being subdued like this, his fingers digging into the plush seating beneath him.
Suguru smiles sweetly. “One more time.”
“Fuck— I’m sorry, Suguru.”
“And what are you sorry for?”
Satoru lets out a laboured breath. “For being rude.”
Something strange brews in his chest once Suguru frees him from his grip – the act itself is sudden, as if the hand on his chin was never there, as if that whole encounter was a figment of his imagination; some hallucination birthed entirely from the tendrils of captivation.
He immediately finds himself longing for that hand again – perhaps, squeezing him a little tighter, more fervent and rougher with his actions, his breath catching in his throat as his thoughts spiral, his initial fascination teetering into something a little dangerous.
“Good. Humiliation looks perfect on you, Satoru,” Suguru leers, standing to his feet. “Maybe if you were a bit humble, we would get along better.”
Satoru clears his throat, and Suguru looks at him from over his shoulder.
“How... did I do today?” Satoru asks, sinking a little deeper into the chair, the tips of his ears burning, and he decides that he should be a bit clearer with his words. “The gig.”
Suguru purses his lips. “Fishing for compliments, Satoru?”
Satoru laughs at this, a light and somewhat breathy sound that has heat creeping up Suguru’s neck.
“Yes, by all means,” he starts, a biting edge to the timbre of his voice. “I love attention.”
Suguru sighs. “Well, at least you’re honest. And what if I said it was subpar?”
“Then I’d know you’d be lying,” Satoru shrugs, a sense of aloofness emanating from his frame as he tries to hold onto the frayed edges of his dignity and self-control. “Saw your shocked face in the crowd. The funny thing about facial expressions is that they don’t lie, Suguru.”
Suguru gives him a pointed stare. “Mmm. If you know the answer, then why ask?”
“Because I wanna hear you say it. Just like how you wanted me to hear my apology,” Satoru asserts, rolling his eyes. “You know, for being rude.”
Well, that’s fair, he supposes.
In that case, Suguru is happy to oblige.
“I see,” he hums, reaching for one of Satoru’s hands, and he trails his thumb across a set of knuckles as he speaks again. “Your performance was dull as fuck.”
“Mediocre,” a gentle caress to the back of Satoru’s hand.
“Left much to be desired,” another press of his thumb.
“You’re a dead weight to your team,” he interlocks their fingers briefly.
There’s the sound of a sharp intake of breath before Satoru speaks, soft and broken. “Anything else?”
Satoru’s utterly frozen in place, his heartbeat quickening in his chest at the attention Suguru gives to his hand, at the insults that swim mutely in his ears, at the daunting realisation that there’s no bite behind any of it – a mere series of elaborate and misleading lies because Suguru knows that he’ll know better.
“Terribly second-rate. There was nothing gratifying about you or your musicality. Nothing impressive. It’s such a shame that a bass as pretty as the one you own has to be played by such ugly, talentless hands,” Suguru says with graceful simplicity and, feeling emboldened, he presses a chaste kiss between the first and second knuckle of Satoru's hand before he lets it go entirely.
And when Suguru speaks again, there’s a controlled smile on his lips. "I hope that sated your curiosity, pretty boy. See you around.”
After a moment’s reflection, the only thing that Satoru can do is stare; his eyes glued to Suguru’s back as he leaves the room, his mouth dry as he nervously swallows the lump that builds in his throat.
Suddenly, the sofa feels too warm, too thick, too stifling – it's as if he’s sitting in a pile of heated sludge, his temperature skyrocketing to near-frightening levels as he settles reflectively; still reeling from the lingering sensation of Suguru’s lips pressing against his skin.
And for the first time in his life, Satoru has been rendered speechless for the second time in less than an hour.
In less than a day.
Holy shit.
.·:*¨༺ ❀ ༻¨*:·.
“So,” Shoko begins, chewing as she cuts into her serving of wagyu. “The bassist.”
Suguru hums, non-committal. “The bassist.”
Utahime says nothing, letting Shoko take the reins for now, glancing at the two as she listens in on what seems to be the start of a conversation, taking a sip of the bellini cocktail in her hand.
“What do you think of him?” Shoko lilts, a curious tenor dripping from her tone as he puts her knife down before bringing the sliced meat to her lips.
“I don’t.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Shoko muses. “I see.”
Suguru arches an eyebrow. “Are you insinuating something?”
“No, Suguru. I’m just curious about what you think of him,” Shoko reassures, peering at him from beneath a set of thick eyelashes. “Since you had more chances to interact with him.”
“It was one chance.”
“Was it?” Utahime chimes in then. “Because Megumi said he went looking for you after they were done with the guest office.”
Suguru lets out a long, drawn-out sigh. “Two chances.”
“Right,” Utahime hums, her food forgotten. “So what do you think of him?”
“Well, for starters, he’s awful and insufferable.”
Shoko nods curtly. “You guys should get along very well then.”
There’s a moment of silence before Suguru shifts in his seat, clearing his throat. “Hmm, you’re paying for dinner, correct? Did I hear that right?”
Another moment of silence.
Suguru smiles. “I heard that right, didn’t I?”
He beckons a waiter over with his hand, holding back a laugh because the man is quick on his feet, rushing over to their table with the sole purpose of going above and beyond.
As per usual.
The customer service in his restaurant has always been great.
“Can I get a bottle of your most expensive wine?” he asks when the waiter leans over to hear his request over the sound of the music flowing through the speakers. “Thank you.”
When the waiter returns with the bottle in his hand, Suguru hums as he accepts it gracefully, watching as some of the upscale wine is carefully poured into a clean glass.
“Whatever. Drink up, Suguru. I don’t mind paying this time,” Shoko comments as she swirls the wine in her glass before taking a small sip. “But the way that he plays is very good. Didn’t even notice that something was missing from their performances until tonight.”
He shrugs. “I guess.”
Utahime makes a noise of agreement. “True. His presence was definitely felt tonight.”
“Pretty good news for Greycliff.”
Words uplifting Satoru, compliments extended to him in Suguru’s presence – something about it begins to ruin his appetite. But he continues to bite into his meal in silence, willing himself to rid his mind of thoughts of nimble fingers against his and a pair of flushed cheeks.
.·:*¨༺ ❀ ༻¨*:·.
Suguru believes that it’s something that he should be put down for, but he finds himself looking forward to yet another Saturday rolling around, harbouring some twisted, newfound interest in Live Entertainment Night altogether.
And for reasons he wishes not to talk about.
Or think about.
Business today is even better compared to last week, with the way the interest in Live Entertainment Night has nearly doubled, and Greycliff swims in profit, and news that the band now has an attractive new addition spreading like wildfire by word of mouth along the lively streets of Osaka.
Suguru can barely hear his steady stream of thoughts over the sound of a large portion of the audience cheering, every blood, every sweat, every tear being poured into the controlled screams that tear from their throats;
As if they lay their hearts bare.
Bare to the music.
Bare to the artistry.
Bare to the skilful fingers that produce these addicting melodies that their hungry ears cling to.
Bare to the rich, soulful vocals that have shudders rippling down their backs, that have chills blooming on their skin.
And here –
Suguru can empathise with the sentiment.
The hour goes by just as fast as it did the week before, though the intensity is on a grander scale – hearing each high-energy song is like tossing your entire body into a freezing body of water in the dead of winter, feeling the stinging remnants on your skin as you get out, the frigid temperature bleeding below the surface, past every muscle, settling deep in your bones.
Just watching the performance makes you feel fucking high.
High off the claws of adrenaline, as Yuuta and Toji shred on their guitars as if they both have something to prove, feeding off the energy of the crowd as if they’re thirsty for it, with Nanami following closely behind –
But, of course, the person who snags his attention is that highly favoured bassist.
The head rush that Satoru feels has him smiling lazily as he slaps the strings of his guitar, adding fills that serve to complement Yuuta and Toji’s chord melodies.
Suguru leans forward as he listens intently, sighing at that delicious-sounding bassline that fills the room, and he doesn’t have much time to enjoy the musical solitude, pulled out of his trance before he fully tumbles into it by a pair of blue eyes.
The intensity that usually lurks behind those eyes burns tenfold, caused by the rush, by the adrenaline that has him unable to think clearly. Satoru’s body moves with conviction as he grooves to what they create, alternating between closing his eyes as he fully embraces the feeling of being strung so high and staring at the enticing man who’s wearing a fitted button-down that has him biting back a groan.
It’s a shame that his tattoo sleeve is covered today, but Satoru can’t help but acknowledge how good he looks.
Stoic.
Cool, calm and collected.
As if he isn’t affected.
But Satoru knows better.
.·:*¨༺ ❀ ༻¨*:·.
Once again, the sanctity that once bracketed his haven is reduced to nothing, even now as he takes a deep pull of the blunt between his lips, but today –
He doesn’t mind it at all.
It’s something that he looks forward to.
And the source of that ruin stands before him, haughty as he basks in the post-performance glow, and Suguru watches as the purity that fills the room melts around him, akin to a red veil that falls only to pool at his feet.
Helplessly.
Inevitably.
“Here,” Satoru says, putting in the effort to sound friendly; to sound amiable, as he hands Suguru a bottle of high-end beer – a beer that Suguru doesn’t bother to reach for.
He holds the blunt loosely between his fingers, tilting his head. “What’s this?”
“A peace offering.”
“Keep it.”
Satoru sighs deeply. “I insist you have it.”
“Don’t want it.”
Perhaps playing hard to get is something he should add to his resume, among the lengthy lists of his practical skills and accomplishments, because this is something he's undeniably skilled at.
He does it with little to no difficulty, too.
He finds it easy to ignore the raw feeling that blooms in his chest, finds it easy to pack away the urge to wipe that cocky smirk off this bassist’s lips – because he knows that the blatant disregard for Satoru’s interest in him is more than enough to keep him pliant and wanting.
It’s enough to keep Satoru seeking Suguru out continuously.
It’s enough to keep him frustrated.
Just like now – with the way Satoru tightens his jaw, gripping the bottle to the point where his knuckles turn white.
And Suguru keeps his outward display to a minimum, and even though the smile on his lips is like a whisper – faint and barely-there – Satoru can still see the flippancy that stains it in its entirety.
“Suguru,” Yuuji calls out as he suddenly walks in, briefly warmly greeting Satoru before he tosses a liquor bottle to Suguru that he catches with ease. “I brought you a drink. Megumi and I are gonna start our rounds for tonight.”
Suguru eyes the bottle carefully, grinning with gratitude. “Thanks, Yuuji. Tell Megumi to see me after you guys are done.”
“Princess,” he continues when Yuuji gives him a questioning look. “You know how she is. Needs an extra hand and wants him to run some errands for the kitchen while she’s on her date with Shoko later. You can join him if you want. I’m sure she won’t mind.”
Yuuji smiles, nodding dutifully at Suguru as he leaves the Recuperation Room, and Satoru’s eyes rake over the material of the dress shirt that hugs his torso so tightly.
Besides that, he can’t help but be stunted by irritation at how Suguru accepted Yuuji’s bottle of liquor so easily but denied his peace offering.
Though he’s sure not to show that on his face.
Not to Yuuji, at least.
Satoru speaks reflectively as he flips the beer bottle in his hand. “There’s no way you can still be upset.”
“Sorry, Satoru,” Suguru hums, leaning forward to place the bottle of liquor on the coffee table, intentional in the way that his arm brushes against Satoru’s calf in the process. “I’m pretty big on first impressions.”
“You know, my first impression of you wasn’t that good either,” Satoru asserts. “Yet here I am. Trying.”
Suguru stares at him for a few agonising seconds, leaning back into the sofa. “And why is that? Because I called you a cunt? Sorry to hurt your pride, pretty boy, but that was well-deserved.”
“Suguru, for fuck’s sake. I’m trying.”
“Didn’t ask you to.”
There’s a moment of silence – and suddenly, Satoru smiles – bright and dazzling because there seems to be an invitation here, a solicitation that has his body moving before he has a chance to think too much about it.
One thing is terribly clear:
Words won’t work here.
Perhaps... action will hit a little harder to break that seemingly unyielding façade.
“You’re right,” Satoru concedes, the wide smile melting into a contented smirk as he decides to test the waters, resting the beer bottle on the coffee table and slowly climbing onto his lap, straddling his waist. “You didn’t ask me to.”
Suguru’s body stiffens under him immediately, his eyes widening by a mere fraction when Satoru settles comfortably onto his thighs and there’s that fleeting moment where the deception shatters, where the front he puts up disappears all at once, and for one second – and one second only – every emotion bleeds onto his face before that familiar façade is back.
And if Satoru didn’t know exactly what to look for, he’d miss it.
The initial shock wears off, and Suguru seems to be relaxed now, bringing the blunt to his lips, holding the heated eye contact as he takes a long pull from the blunt, and Satoru giggles when Suguru blows the smoke into his face, feigning a sense of indifference that has his toes curling in his shoes.
What a piece of shit.
Satoru wants him so fucking bad.
Suguru’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Then why do you keep fucking bothering me?”
He doesn’t shift. He doesn’t push him off. He doesn’t chastise him for his bold actions, for sitting on his lap like this. He just holds onto his blunt, looking at him with expectation lurking within the depths of his eyes, as if waiting to see how far he’s willing to take it.
After testing the waters, he deduces that the tide is low today; there are no harsh, unforgiving waves; no signs of the sea biting back against Satoru’s emboldened advances.
Perfect.
“Good question,” Satoru hums, wrapping his arms around Suguru’s neck, idly toying with the strands that are within the reach of his fingertips. “Maybe I love attention much more than I thought.”
Suguru huffs with a roll of his eyes. “Maybe I should stop giving it to you.”
“Maybe you should,” Satoru agrees easily, trying his best not to lose his fucking mind at how muscular Suguru feels against him. “But that’ll only make me want it more.”
“You want my attention.”
There’s no questioning inflection in those words – because it’s a statement, presented as a fact, completely uncaring of whether Satoru confirms or denies the claim.
“Maybe I need it, maybe I don’t,” Satoru shrugs, his eyes trailing to the ink of his tattoo that peeks from beneath the cuff of his shirt. “Haven’t figured out that part yet.”
Suguru doesn’t react when Satoru leans back slightly, he doesn’t flinch when he feels a pair of hands covering his own – leading them, guiding them to the rise and fall of his ass cheeks – and Satoru holds them there for a moment, the dark glint in his eyes intensifying when he moves his hand, heat stirring in his body when Suguru keeps his hands there of his own volition.
Suguru arches an eyebrow, careful to keep the lit end of the blunt pointed away from Satoru’s body. “And why should I give it to you?”
“You don't like me?”
“Not at all.”
Satoru leans in, smiling as he whispers in his ear. “You lie a lot, Suguru. But you think I’m pretty.”
“Don’t get cocky, Satoru,” Suguru mutters through gritted teeth as he feels a tongue trailing along the shell of his ear, followed closely by teeth tugging on his earlobe.
Satoru breathes against his skin. “I’m dying to be full of it, actually.”
“Suguru, I need you to— Oh.”
Both men turn their heads to look at the source of the voice that ruins their moment of closeness, both parties uncaring of the fact that they were caught like this, and Shoko stands there by the doorframe, surprise visible on her features as she takes a few tentative steps deeper into the room.
She clears her throat. “Am I interrupting something?”
Satoru makes it his business to reply with brutal honesty. “Yeah, you are.”
“Well, my apologies, Satoru,” Shoko bites out, her eye twitching in annoyance. “I need to talk to Suguru about some... internal operations.”
Suguru says nothing, watching Shoko as he takes another hit of his blunt, blowing the smoke into the open air, but keeping the blunt itself caught between his teeth.
Satoru sighs. “Can’t it wait?”
Shoko’s words are clipped with irritation. “I’m afraid not.”
Satoru can’t help the nasty scowl that settles clearly on his face, staring her down as he slowly moves off Suguru’s lap and stands to his feet.
He reaches for the blunt that’s held between Suguru’s lips. “I’ll be taking this.”
Satoru gives Shoko a final glare as he takes a hit of the blunt as he leaves the room, and Shoko turns to look at him incredulously, her eyes blown wide with the fucking need for explanations and answers.
But Suguru doesn’t have any of those to give.
“Thought you said he was awful and insufferable,” Shoko seethes as she sits next to him, and Suguru honestly doesn’t know what she’s more upset about – Satoru’s nasty attitude or the sight that her eyes were subjected to.
Either way, he doesn’t question it.
Suguru shrugs. “He is.”
“Why was he in your lap then?”
“Climbed there.”
“You let him.”
“Guess I did.”
“So, what now?” Shoko probes heatedly. “You’re fucking him?”
“He came onto me,” Suguru corrects softly.
“And you let him,” she says, gesturing vaguely out of pure frustration. “The so-called insufferable bassist for the band that makes us the most fucking money in this lounge.”
“Mhm.”
Shoko pinches the bridge of her nose. “Fuck, whatever, Suguru. Whatever it is... don’t fuck it up.”
.·:*¨༺ ❀ ༻¨*:·.
Two more weeks go by, and Suguru finds himself counting down the days until it’s Saturday again. He can find every excuse to come up with – as to why Saturdays are well on their way to being the day that he looks forward to the most – but he doesn’t bother.
Not this time.
Because the answer is as clear as day.
As usual, another stellar performance on a near-grandiose scale.
More adrenaline, more energy.
Energy that builds and builds until it peaks, adding to the stifling and constrained feeling that threatens to swallow him whole. He isn’t sure how much longer he can hold out for – with the way Satoru always manages to find him in the crowd, easily.
And what’s becoming rather difficult for him to process is how Satoru holds the gaze once their eyes meet, like this performance is for nobody but him, his way of putting on a show for him, as if he’s hoping that somewhere down the line, he’ll be praised for it.
Praised by Suguru, that is.
And he’ll continue to seek him out – no matter the circumstances, because both of their wants, both of their needs have always been frighteningly clear.
Which is why, hours later, into the absolute dead of the night, Suguru isn’t surprised to see Satoru sitting comfortably near the stage when he walks out of the office after taking on the monumental task of drafting future marketing plans.
No, Suguru can’t say that he’s surprised – in the slightest – to see Satoru sitting there.
On the night that he’s offered to close the night lounge.
He glances at the clock – 3 am, an hour past the time that Greycliff usually shuts its doors to patrons.
3 am and it’s quiet, as one would expect it to be; quiet to the point where he can hear himself swallow down the lump that threatens to build in his throat.
Suguru thinks that he can even hear the telltale sound of Satoru’s breathing as he sits there, waiting patiently for him to break the silence –
Because Satoru has presented himself.
He has moved his piece on the chessboard, and now it’s Suguru’s turn to consider his next play.
“It’s late,” Suguru points out, sitting next to him on the sectional and, fuck, from this distance, Satoru can smell the heady scent of cologne on his skin, hitting the back of his throat and, with that, he grows hungrier by the second.
“It is.”
Satoru tries not to think about how Suguru took off the dress shirt that he was wearing hours ago, while he was stuck in the office working, sporting that fucking black tank top that often has him feeling restless.
Suguru stares at him for a moment. “That’s my way of asking why you’re still here.”
Although he already knows the answer to that question.
Satoru bats his eyelashes. “Was waiting for you.”
“You were waiting for me.”
“Mhm.”
Suguru can’t help the chuckle that escapes his lips. “God, you really are persistent.”
Satoru shrugs. “That’s how I usually am when I see someone I want.”
“Confident, I see,” Satoru hums, and he doesn’t move away when Satoru reaches for his hand to idly toy with the tips of his fingers. “Or is that cockiness?”
“I’ll leave that up for you to decide.”
“Is that so?”
“Of course,” he affirms. “But I always get what I want, Suguru.”
Suguru regards him carefully. “Hmm. And do you think it’s gonna work this time?”
“It already has.”
Suguru doesn’t have a retort for that one, so he stays silent, reaching for the blunt that’s tucked behind his ears before he brings it to his lips, quickly fishing in his pocket for a lighter before he lights the end of it, taking a few shallow pulls to ensure that it burns well.
Suguru’s eyes flutter as he takes a deep pull from it, smoke filling his lungs, and he holds his breath for several seconds as he hands the blunt to Satoru, who leans back into the seating, accepting it gracefully.
Suguru can’t help the groan that he lets out, immediately feeling light, all the strain and tension that has his muscles wound tightly melt away into nothing.
Which is a sentiment that Satoru understands completely, slowly exhaling the smoke and feeling every worry, every doubt leave his body one by one.
“You’re good at what you do,” is what Suguru finally decides to say, laughing airily when Satoru looks at him with a pair of confused eyes. “The bass.”
Satoru lets out a sound of affirmation, taking another hit and grinning lazily, the world around him blurring around the edges as the weed does a number on his system.
“It’s about time you were honest about it,” Satoru laughs, handing him the blunt and watching him take a long hit from it. “The only thing you’ve said about my skills was... what was it? My hands are talentless? I’m a dead weight to my team?”
Suguru nearly chokes on the smoke that he holds in his lungs, grinning as he lets it out in one harsh exhale. “Can’t boost your ego too much. But you knew what I meant, anyway.”
“I did. It was the kiss that sold it, you know?”
“Whatever,” Suguru rolls his eyes. “How long have you been playing?”
Satoru stares reflectively. “Hmm... about seven years now.”
Suguru hums, pausing to breathe in another air of smoke, his lids growing heavy as his body grows hot, and he reaches for Satoru – who takes the hint immediately – and climbs onto his lap. Satoru can’t help the flush that begins to colour his cheeks, his desire intensifying as the weed runs rampant throughout his body.
“Do you prefer doing covers or original works?” Suguru breathes against his skin, his free hand finding Satoru’s ass quickly, as if he were dying to hold it again, to feel it beneath his palms, and he gives it a dutiful squeeze, his lips tugging into a smirk when Satoru relaxes against him.
“Well, there’s always gonna be a lot of love for what me and the guys create together, so that’s a given,” Satoru says, leaning back to hold Suguru’s chin as he tips his head back. “Nothing to debate there. But I love covers, too.”
“But what’s with all the questions?” Satoru arches an eyebrow, holding his chin a little tighter. “Curious to know more about me?”
“Maybe. Are you gonna make it worth my while?”
“Me? There’s one thing that I love more than attention and that’s pleasing the people that I like,” Satoru giggle breathily when Suguru moves out of his hold to kiss along the skin of his neck, fueled by how fucking good the confession sounds as it weighs on his ears. “Everyone else can go to hell.”
There’s a hand that lightly massages his scalp before it strokes his hair, and Suguru closes his eyes to savour the feeling of nimble fingers combing through his strands.
Suguru gently nips at his chin. “What songs do you like to cover?”
Satoru hums in thought. “I like difficult pieces like ‘Cattleya.’”
“Yorushika?”
“Yeah, man. I like the slaps in the bassline, but honestly, every part of it is good. 'Hysteria by Muse'. Fuck, then there’s 'Yoru ni Kakeru by Yoasobi'. I fucking love that one.”
Suguru smiles against his neck, the blunt in his hand long-forgotten.
“And one I’ve been really into these days is ‘Special Affair by The Internet.’ It’s a simple bassline that’s repetitive, but it’s so good, I’m telling you. Especially for the mood of the song, you know?”
Suguru reluctantly moves his lips from the skin of his neck, leaning back, but Satoru’s hands don’t waver, still combing through, giving gentle tugs here and there.
Suguru lilts softly. “Play it for me?”
Satoru lets out a winded breath, incredulous. “Play it for you?”
“Turns out you don’t like to please as much as you say you do,” Suguru speaks slowly as he shakes his head, looking at him warily as he puts the neglected blunt on the table. “What a crying shame.”
“Fuck off. I’ll fucking play it.”
Satoru rolls his eyes as he hesitantly brings himself to his feet, already missing the comfort of Suguru’s lap, of his touch, of his lips kissing along his neck – and he lets out a long sigh, gathering the remnants of his sanity as he walks onto the stage.
Suguru grins as he watches him unlatch the hard-shell case, pulling the gorgeous orange and blue coloured bass from its confines, and Suguru is rendered speechless every time that he sees it.
What a beauty.
Satoru takes a moment to blow a kiss at him playfully before he turns to plug one end of the instrument cable into his guitar and plug the other end into the amplifier near the drum set. He’s quick to connect his phone to the speakers, and he deems himself ready once he has the edited version of the song, where the bassline is removed, pulled up and ready to go.
Satoru gives Suguru a once-over before he taps the play button, a metronome of five counts filling the room before he begins to pluck the strings, a deep and rich timbre reverberating through Suguru’s very being as Satoru works his way through the measures.
The track itself is more than pleasing to the ears, permeated with every essence of rhythm and blues; silky vocals spill into his eardrums as Satoru plays a nuzzling bassline that has him nodding his head.
He watches as Satoru moves his fingers along the fretboard with ease and precision, completely feeling the groove of this intimate-sounding track and, with the effects of the weed still enshrouding his mind, Suguru swears that he can feel every element to this song – every layer, every synth, every backing vocal, every harmony etches itself wholly into the expanse of his skin.
And Satoru doesn’t make it any easier for him.
Finds himself watching, enraptured, as he brings the simple bassline to life with the mere touch of his artistry – adding fills and slapping the notes where he feels necessary, somehow managing to deepen the richness of the resonance that this track brings forth.
The attraction to Satoru is something that’s worn on his sleeve in that moment, loud and overbearing, and Satoru gasps when he catches the sight of it – the yearning, the temptation that he battles against;
The want.
The need.
God, Satoru thinks that this song can’t fucking end fast enough.
And when it finally does, he’s careful to put his guitar back in its case, disconnecting his phone before he shoves it in his pocket and makes his way to where Suguru’s still seated.
He sighs blissfully once he settles back onto his lap, that now-familiar sturdiness drawing him in, muscular arms wrapping around his torso, pulling him closer.
“Fuck, Suguru,” Satoru breathes, becoming more deranged with each passing second. “How much longer are you gonna make me wait?”
Suguru’s eyelashes flutter when he feels a curious hand pressing into his crotch, the pads of his fingertips running along the seam, swearing under his breath when he feels Suguru slowly begin to harden under his touch.
The arms holding him in place, the fingers holding him close dig into his skin through the material of his clothes, the remnants of his self-control burning to ash under Satoru’s heated gaze.
“I’ve been good, haven’t I?”
Satoru moves his lips to Suguru’s ear. “Put me in my place.”
Suguru grits his teeth, holding onto Satoru carefully as he stands to his feet – biting back a smile at the noise of surprise that Satoru lets out as he holds onto him tightly, quickly reaching for his small tote bag on the table closest to the Recouperation Room as Suguru carries him past it.
He wants to ask where he’s being taken, but the question doesn’t make it past his lips, words dying in his throat at the thought of being held up so easily, at the feeling of Suguru’s forearms completely supporting his weight as he clings to his neck.
Suguru walks into the Recuperation Room, past the sofa, to the door at the far back of the room. Beyond that door lies a full-sized bathroom, with yet another door that he quickly opens, leading to a decent-sized, fully-furnished bedroom.
During the tedious remodelling process, Suguru had this bathroom and bedroom designed for himself during the times where he needed to pull all-nighters, during those unforgiving moments in history where he wouldn’t dare to go home, where he wouldn't dare to give himself a break – too preoccupied with the need to improve Greycliff’s amenability amongst the nightlife market.
For a brief moment, Satoru doesn’t know what to do with himself once Suguru lowers him to the edge of the bed, that is, until his arousal begins to make itself known as he nonchalantly drops his tote bag onto the floor, his hands gliding down a tattooed bicep.
Satoru holds onto his waist, shamelessly nuzzling against his crotch; Suguru lets out a ragged breath, canting his hips forward, and his eyes become lidded when he feels Suguru’s cock twitching against his cheek.
He looks up when Suguru pulls his tank top over his head, can see him toeing off his shoes in his peripheral vision, and Suguru gently rests his hand atop Satoru’s head, not urging him in any way – just... feeling.
Appreciating, even.
And it’s something that Satoru immediately falls in love with – the sensation of being doted on – even in a restrained way, such as this; as curious fingers glide through the white strands of his hair.
And it’s the bit of encouragement that he needs.
Satoru runs his hand along the rise and fall of Suguru’s muscles, reaching up to touch his chest, to trail the pads of his fingers along the plane of his stomach, feeling the ridges, the sinewy plane of his torso. He can feel himself growing addicted to the way that the muscles flex beneath his touch, the way Suguru looks at him, his eyes darkened as their depths are tainted with the same unbridled want that thrums beneath his skin.
“Take them off, baby,” Suguru instructs softly, and Satoru reaches for his slacks with a pair of unstable hands, his fingers digging beneath the waistband of his underwear, holding it tightly as he slowly pushes it down his thighs.
Satoru feels fucking hypnotised when Suguru’s hardening cock springs free, enamoured with the way it bobs between his legs, the way it twitches with the need for attention under his heated gaze.
He’s close enough where he can see it up close and personal, close enough where he’s able to count the sparse hair at the base of his erection, close enough where that intoxicating smell of his arousal wafts up his nostrils with every inhale, the scent of his musk settling at the back of his throat.
And, fuck, Satoru can practically taste him on his tongue.
Satoru takes a deep breath, as a means of collecting himself, as he pushes the slacks and underwear down his legs; Suguru steps out of them quickly, kicking them to the side before he reaches down to wrap his fingers around himself, stroking slowly as his lips pull into a small smile.
Satoru watches him with wide eyes, his mouth running dry at the sight of Suguru’s naked body, the sight of his muscles, the sight of him playing with himself – the slight, slick sound of his hand moving along the skin of his cock nearly echoing in every crevice of his mind.
He thinks that it’s fucking crazy;
Because there’s no way that someone can be this attractive. He briefly wonders if this is a dream; a figment of his imagination leading him astray again – but Satoru thinks that the hand that’s suddenly tugging at his hair is real, the hand that pulls him out of his reverie, the hand that grounds him as it brings him back to reality in the near-rough way that he craves.
He leans forward to press a line of kisses against the skin of Suguru’s lower stomach as he jerks himself off, and Satoru feels enlivened by the soft groan that falls from the man’s lips.
“I want you so bad,” Satoru murmurs against his lower stomach, his hand reaching up to gently cup his balls as he strokes himself, watching closely at the way precum begins to bead at the tip of his erection, his cock hard and aching in his pants.
He needs something, he needs anything – and he shudders as he looks at Suguru with pleading eyes, trailing his finger along the seam of his ballsack before he gives it a soft, experimental squeeze, his heart hammering beneath his ribcage at the sound of Suguru’s sharp intake of breath.
The intensity swimming in Suguru’s eyes, his muscles flexing with tension, with barely-concealed desire – with restraint – the way he takes his time working his hand along his cock, squeezing himself tightly, his jaw tense as he looks down at him, his long hair spilling down his torso.
And fuck – the fucking scent of him. That mind-blowing smell of his cologne, mixing with the heady scent of his erection, is enough to have his mouth watering.
And Satoru can feel himself starting to leak from arousal.
“You look so fucking good like this,” Satoru rasps, his pupils blown, his tone desperate and unhinged, fingers digging into his hips. “Could cum just from looking at you.”
He nips lightly at his pelvic bone, shuddering at the smile that Suguru gives him. “Everything about you makes me go fucking crazy.”
The dull ache in his groin has him biting back a whimper, ragged breath falling from his lips as the blunt tip of his nails forms crescent moons on Suguru’s skin.
“Touch me, please,” it comes out as a plea that drips with unparalleled lust, nearly delirious as the tail-end of arousal settles deep into his bones.
Suguru’s hand comes to a halt, moving from his erection entirely to hold onto Satoru’s chin, his grip firm and nearly unforgiving in a way that he loves.
His voice is soft when he speaks. “Of course, baby. Show me where.”
Satoru’s jaw slackens when he feels the warmth of that hand leaving his skin, with Suguru taking a small step back, and he swallows thickly – already missing the fingers pressing against his cheek, the warmth of his body so close to his.
The rational part of Satoru no longer exists, not here in this room, not with Suguru’s hungry eyes raking down his body, his judgment completely clouded by the thick haze of desire that has him so overwhelmed; longing to be touched, to be held close with Suguru’s strong hands.
And it’s maddening to know that he’s fucking close to getting what he wants.
To get what he needs.
To get what he’s been craving the exact moment he walked beyond Greycliff’s doors for the very first time.
Satoru holds the heated eye contact as he quickly pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it to the side and reaching up to run the pads of his fingers along one of his nipples, gasping as the sensitivity adds to the ache that blooms vehemently between his legs.
Suguru urges him on. “Keep going.”
Satoru leans forward to remove his boots, followed closely by his socks, before unsteady fingers begin to fumble with the button of his ripped denim. It isn’t long before he’s pushing his jeans and underwear down his legs, kicking the heavy material off his ankles, and Suguru becomes slack-jawed at the sight of Satoru’s erection – hard, leaking and reddened at the tip.
So pretty.
Satoru spreads his legs invitingly, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he reaches down to curl his fingers around his hardened length. “I want you to touch me here.”
He moans as he throws his head back, tightening the grip that he has on his erection, panting into the open air as he strokes himself dutifully, heat stirring deep in his groin, coaxing a full-body shudder that has a bead of precum gathering at the slit of his cock.
Suguru struggles to ignore his arousal as he watches Satoru touch himself, swallowing down every groan that threatens to bubble in his throat at the sight of Satoru rolling his hips into his hand, slowly succumbing to the pleasure that nips at his skin.
It takes a great deal of strength for Satoru to move his hand away from his length, letting out a deep and ragged breath, a lopsided grin on his face as he looks down to watch his cock twitch against his stomach, a string of precum connecting to his skin for a fleeting moment.
But when Satoru begins to turn around –
Fuck.
Suguru becomes fucking weak in the knees, his jaw flexing with tension as his eyes lock on two dermal piercings, the gorgeous diamond studs shimmering in the dimples of his back, somehow glistening even in the dull lighting of this room.
Satoru looks over his shoulder briefly, can’t help but enjoy the sight of Suguru’s sanity unravelling, visible and profound, as his gaze burns into his lower back, transfixed on the piercings that adorn his skin.
And Satoru takes the initiative to add fuel to the fire, reaching for one of Suguru’s hands and pulling him a little closer to the edge of the bed before he bends over, his back arching beautifully, his upper body pressed against the sheets as he reaches behind himself to guide one of Suguru’s fingers to his hole.
“And here,” he says a little breathlessly, pressing the pad of Suguru’s finger to his puckered rim, and Suguru can’t help the groan that falls from his parted lips, his free hand coming to grip his waist tightly.
Satoru relaxes his entire body, nearly boneless as he holds himself up, adding more pressure to Suguru’s finger with his own, until it breaches the rim shallowly, and he tightens around the tip, enough to suck him in by a mere fraction. “Feel that?”
He can feel the way Suguru's hand trembles slightly as he holds onto it.
Satoru says brokenly. “Won’t you make me feel good, Suguru?”
“Fuck. Satoru, god,” Suguru croaks out, pulling the tip of his finger out and trailing it from his taint to his rim when Satoru moves his hand. “So fucking pretty.”
Curious fingers make themselves at home between the dermal piercings, Satoru’s dimples deepening because of the arch of his back, and Suguru gently touches each gemstone before circling his thumbs around the piercing sites.
Satoru gasps at the feeling of something hot and heavy resting against his ass cheeks, trembling at the thought of Suguru’s cock being so close to where he wants it most.
“Is this what you want?” Suguru asks hotly, his hands moving to the curvature of Satoru’s waist, holding him in place as he grinds his erection into the cleft of his ass, beads of precum smearing across his skin. “Want me to fuck you like this?”
“Yeah, but first,” Satoru slowly moves to face him, kneeling on the bed before he leans forward to press a kiss against the leaking tip of Suguru’s cock. “This.”
Suguru hums, gripping the base of his erection. “Hold out your tongue.”
Satoru is quick to obey, his chest rising and falling as he takes in laboured breaths, holding his tongue out, his brows slightly furrowed, and Suguru nearly cums from the sight alone.
He taps the head of his cock against the smooth plane of Satoru’s tongue, and Satoru finds himself moaning at the weight of it – the girth, the taste of the remnants of his precum has saliva pooling in his mouth with the need for more, spilling past the seam of his parted lips.
“Look at you, drooling already,” Suguru chuckles, using his free hand to wipe away the saliva that trickles down his chin. “You want it that bad?”
The furrow between Satoru’s eyebrows deepens considerably, and he lets out a garbled noise of affirmation as he continues to hold his tongue out, nodding as he moves his hands to hold onto the bare skin of Suguru’s thighs.
Suguru moves his hand to hold onto Satoru’s hair, his fingers tightly curling in the strands as he slowly guides his cock into his waiting mouth. A groan rumbles deep within Satoru’s chest as the taste of him that blooms beautifully on his tongue becomes more profound, more pungent, as he takes in inch after inch.
Until Satoru’s gag reflex threatens to come into play as Suguru’s cock slides near the back of his throat, and Satoru begins to tense up, his grip tightening on the thighs beneath his fingertips, moving his head back against Suguru’s hold.
“Uh-uh,” Suguru chastises softly, smiling when he feels Satoru immediately relaxing against him. “Take it all in.”
Suguru pulls back a little and gives him a moment to collect himself, his fingers gently massaging Satoru’s scalp.
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Suguru croons tauntingly, sucking in a harsh breath when Satoru looks at him with lidded eyes. “Then be good and let me fuck that mouth of yours, hmm?”
Suguru drags the head of his cock along his bottom lip. “Can you do that for me, Satoru?”
Yeah, Satoru thinks that he can do it.
He can be good.
Satoru nods mutely before he opens his mouth again, giving Suguru the green light to slowly push his cock inside once again, hissing at the moist heat that envelopes half of his shaft – and when he pushes further, Satoru gags at the intrusion, his upper stomach lurching; he squeezes his eyes shut as he makes a noise of frustration as he shifts on the bed.
“Aww, baby,” Suguru coos, and Satoru is grateful for the fact that there is no trace of mockery in his tone. “Try again.”
Satoru opts to hold his tongue out, and Suguru taps his erection on his tongue once more.
“Look at me and try to stay relaxed, okay?”
Satoru does as he’s told, ridding his entire body of any tension, his muscles completely relaxed as he maintains the heady eye contact – and Suguru moves a little slower this time, gritting his teeth once that now-familiar moist heat welcomes his cock again.
Satoru focuses on breathing through his nose, successfully keeping his throat relaxed, and there’s a shift in Suguru’s facial expression when he manages to take more in this time, taking him a little deeper.
“There you go,” Suguru grins, and the praise has his cock screaming for friction between his thighs. “Just like that.”
Suguru lets out a drawn-out moan when he buries himself to the base, and Satoru can feel his cock twitching at the back of his throat, grinding against him briefly, and he’s fascinated by the way Suguru’s face twists in pleasure – adamant on keeping himself relaxed so that he can use him as he pleases.
“Fuck, Satoru,” he says breathily, pulling out before rolling his hips forward. “You’re fucking perfect.”
Suguru holds his head in place, reaching further below to press his hand against the skin of Satoru’s neck, so that he can feel the way his cock fills his throat with every thrust. He starts up a fast pace, and Satoru swirls his tongue along the shaft as Suguru fucks his throat with caution thrown to the wind.
It’s hot.
It’s messy.
It’s fucking sloppy – with the way saliva steadily leaks from his lips, rolling down his chin and onto his collarbones. His eyes begin to well with unshed tears, and he moans every time he feels his girth pushing into his throat.
With each thrust, Suguru can feel pressure building steadily in his lower stomach, a pressure that intensifies when tears fall down Satoru’s flushed cheeks, when he hears those guttural, garbled moans – the wet sound of Satoru working his tongue along the expanse of his cock as he fucks his mouth roughly.
Satoru eyes roll back as he reaches down to gently toy with the tip of his erection, whimpers bubbling in his throat as Suguru whispers a stream of filthy praises, a litany of breathless moans falling from his lips as his stomach lurches unforgivingly – and he buries himself in that heat a final time before he pulls out, stroking himself quickly.
“Open wide,” Suguru instructs gently, swearing under his breath when Satoru opens his mouth, groaning when his orgasm crashes onto him, thick ropes of cum landing on Satoru’s tongue.
“Now swallow.”
Suguru releases the grip on his hair, and Satoru easily swallows the load in his mouth, whimpering at the taste of his release overriding his senses before opening his mouth again, holding his tongue out to show that he swallowed all of it.
Suguru chuckles darkly. “Fucking slut.”
Satoru leans forward to nuzzle his cheek against his hips. “Yours.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
Satoru moves away briefly to reach into his tote bag near the feet of the bed, quickly pulling out a bottle of lubricant before he reaches for Suguru’s hand, pulling him along as he moves near the head of the bed, his head resting on the pillow.
Suguru lies next to him, the tips of his fingers playing with the strands that brush against Satoru’s neck before he leans in to capture his lips in a heated kiss, smiling when Satoru's quick to eagerly press his tongue against his own.
The initial sweetness of it gives way to something more heated, something fervent and filled with lust, and Suguru is there to swallow every one of Satoru’s moans, kissing him deeply as his hand moves down to pinch one of his nipples.
The noises that Satoru makes are fucking sinful – harsh gasps that ebb into soft moans of pleasure as Suguru moves his hand lower and lower, until his hand meets the tip of Satoru’s erection.
Satoru pulls away then, his jaw slackening when Suguru wraps his fingers around his erection; Suguru holds the eye contact, can feel his cock springing to life between his legs – with the way that Satoru looks at him with glazed-over, lidded eyes; with the way he reaches to hold his chin, his index finger trailing along Suguru’s bottom lip.
Suguru can feel Satoru’s breath fanning against his skin with every ragged exhale, and he strokes his cock at a steady pace, holding his mouth open so that Satoru can push his finger into his mouth. He groans at the way his cock jumps in his hand, precum trickling down his shaft to make the slide a little smoother, and Satoru’s body starts to tremble when Suguru tightens his grip around him.
Suguru sucks on the finger in his mouth, and Satoru has a visceral reaction to this – moaning loudly as he snaps his hips forward, pulling his finger free and kissing him harshly.
Satoru doesn’t need to say anything because he knows.
He can practically feel his distress, fully understanding that he’s close to breaking.
Suguru pulls away reluctantly, finding solace in the plush softness of Satoru’s lips, in the desperate hands that hold him close, in the heady voice that seems to call out to him brokenly. He reaches for one of the free pillows near Satoru’s head, making his way down the bed, helping Satoru lift his hips so that he can ensure that the pillow supports his lower back and hips.
Reaching for the bottle of lubricant near his body, he pours a generous amount onto his fingers before he situates himself between Satoru’s legs, coaxing him into spreading his thighs a little wider.
Satoru can’t believe the sight, his body trembling in anticipation, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth at the feeling of Suguru pressing open-mouthed kisses along the expanse of his inner thigh.
“Hold still,” Suguru warns softly, rubbing the slicked tip of his finger against Satoru’s rim, teasing him briefly before he slowly pushes it inside, groaning at the sight of Satoru’s eyes rolling back, at the way he spreads his thighs wider, immediately begging for more.
It’s enough to have Suguru obliging quickly, considering just how long he has been holding out for, but still exercising a sense of caution as he adds another finger, looking out for any visible indication of pain or discomfort.
But the only thing that reads on Satoru’s face is pleasure – raw and carnal, a blissful expression at the feeling of being filled, and although he still longs to be stretched further, these fingers do him well, with the way that they work him open skillfully.
Somehow knowing how and where to push, where to prod; how to loosen him up in a way that’s quick and efficient.
And with an adjustment of Suguru’s angle, Satoru’s back arches off the bed, a scream tearing from his throat. “S-shit. R-right there, Suguru.”
And that’s all that he needs to hear to focus on that spot, adding another finger before he crooks them slightly, the pads of his fingers digging into his prostate with every shallow thrust.
It’s overwhelming.
It’s unforgiving.
And his eyes well with unshed tears as his stomach lurches somewhat painfully, as his desperate pleas, his breathless moans and cries of pleasure fill the room. It feels too fucking good to be cared for like this, and Satoru begins to writhe against the sheets, his nails digging painfully into his inner thighs when Suguru pushes his fingers in as deep as they can go.
Suguru presses a kiss against the shaft of his cock. “Poor baby. Can’t take it?”
Satoru whines loudly, his thighs quaking as the coil in his stomach tightens, his eyes widening in surprise when Suguru suddenly takes him into his mouth, relaxing his throat as he swallows him down easily. The pleasure is insurmountable, and Satoru calls out his name brokenly, reaching down to hold Suguru’s hair out of his face as he bobs his head quickly – licking along his shaft, the tip of his tongue digging into his slit.
Suguru hollows his cheeks as he sucks him off mercilessly, thick saliva spilling down his shaft as he deepthroats him, until he pulls off slowly, stroking Satoru quickly as he presses against his prostate – and with one final rub to the head of his cock, he’s cumming hard; sobbing as full-body tremors wrack his frame as his release lands along the plane of his stomach.
“Fuck, baby; you needed that one, didn’t you?” Suguru breathes against the skin of his thigh. “Look at how much came out.”
Satoru’s still trying to catch his breath, letting out soft whimpers as he basks in the tail-end of his orgasm, his entire body tingling as he watches Suguru hold himself up before dipping his head to lick the cum that gathered on his stomach.
It’s fucking filthy and Satoru takes the time to appreciate how pretty Suguru looks between his legs like this – his unkempt hair, his slightly flushed cheeks and he lets out a breath when he feels a tongue trailing along his softened shaft.
“Can you come again for me, Satoru?” Suguru asks, a sly glint in his eyes, moving his fingers slowly inside of him, careful not to overdo it as Satoru bites past the overwhelming waves of sensitivity. “Don’t you think you deserve to cum again?”
Suguru’s words seem to relight the flames that burned beneath his skin, moaning openly as he watches the way that his cock slowly grows hard under his ministration, his fingers pressing against his prostate once more.
“You deserve it, don’t you, baby?”
“Y-yeah, I deserve it,” Satoru whimpers, throwing his head back when he feels those fingers working him open with renewed fervour, fucking into him slowly before increasing the pace, and he rolls his hips into Suguru’s hand, his cock now fully hard and pressing against his stomach. “Mmh, I f-fucking deserve it.”
“That’s it,” Suguru purrs, shifting until he’s kneeling on the bed, massaging the head of his cock as he toys with his prostate.
It isn’t long before Satoru is whining desperately with every thrust of his fingers, gripping the sheets tightly as if he needs to hold onto something to keep himself grounded, each press against his sweet spot bringing him closer and closer to the edge.
His sanity is holding on by a thin thread, a thin, frayed thread that threatens to snap under the overwhelming weight of pleasure that inundates his body – shuddering when Suguru tells him how tight he feels around his fingers, how he’s good for him, how he’s sucking him in.
How he’s so fucking greedy for more.
Such filth uttered in that deep, rich timbre of Suguru’s voice is enough to have another orgasm rolling in like high tide, rough and encompassing, gasped-out pleas floating into the open air as Suguru slowly works him through it.
When he pulls his fingers out, he watches the way his rim flutters around nothing, already missing being filled so wonderfully, and he trails the tip of his finger up towards his taint, pressing into it softly, absentmindedly, before Satoru sits up, pulling him on top of him and kissing him hotly.
Suguru groans into the kiss, his erection pressing into Satoru’s hips, and he rolls his hips down, chasing the pleasure that has a shiver crawling up his spine.
“What do you want, Suguru?” Satoru breathes against his lips, holding him impossibly close, kissing along his jawline as he raises his hips, giving Suguru a better angle to grind his cock into the skin of his lower stomach.
Suguru lets out a shuddering breath. “You.”
“Then have me.”
Satoru barely registers when he’s flipped onto his stomach, his cheek pressing into the sheets before strong hands pull his hips up, his knees bent as he arches his back without much thought, smiling when Suguru groans at the sight of those back dermals once again.
Suguru can feel himself losing patience, drunk off the need to be inside him, and he quickly pours some lubricant onto his erection, tossing the bottle aside carelessly before he uses his hands to spread his cheeks apart, holding his breath as he slowly pushes inside.
It’s a tight fit – with the way that Satoru tightens around him, nearly holding him in place as his hole stretches to accommodate the considerable girth of his cock.
“You can take it, baby,” Suguru asserts through gritted teeth, and Satoru whines as he grips the sheets. “I know you can.”
Suguru stops his movement, rubbing comforting circles into his hips, until he feels Satoru relaxing around him, until Satoru pushes his hips against him gently, urging him to continue.
“All the way,” he whispers, breathing deeply as he pushes further, gasping when his hole flutters around his shaft, getting used to the size. “Almost there.”
Satoru’s jaw drops when Suguru’s completely seated inside him, feeling so unbelievably full, spreading his thighs a little wider as Suguru pulls back, before pushing back inside, pulling a loud groan from the depths of his chest.
The pace that Suguru starts is slow, and Satoru can feel every inch as he fucks into him, can feel the vein on the underside that drags along his inner walls, the dull burn gradually subsiding when Suguru shifts his angle, the blunt tip of his cock digging into that spot inside of him.
He trembles as he fucks back against him, wordlessly asking for more of that feeling – chasing it, needing it more than fucking air, heat washing over his body in thick, mind-numbing waves as he takes Suguru’s cock to the base.
“How does it feel, baby?” Suguru asks, a little winded as Satoru tightens around him, gripping his hips tightly as he fucks into him harder – faster – the force behind each thrust knocking the wind from his lungs.
“Feels...so f-fucking – s-so fucking g-good,” Satoru babbles mindlessly, his eyes rolling back as he rolls his hips harshly, each thrust to his prostate has sparks settling within his stomach, a thin trail of saliva trickling from the seam of his lips to the skin of his neck.
Suguru’s lips pull into a smirk as he fucks into him fervently. “Just like that, huh? You want more?”
“P-please, god. F-fuck, I need it,” Satoru gasps out. “You feel so... f-fucking good inside me.”
Suguru lets out a ragged breath, the tendrils of his orgasm rearing their ugly head, and he swallows thickly, watching the way Satoru’s ass ripples with each thrust, watching those sinful piercings that shimmer against his skin.
When Satoru reaches between his legs to stroke himself in time with his thrusts, he clenches tightly, and Suguru groans, clipped and broken, as he slams his hips forward.
“Sh-shit. You’re gonna make me cum, Satoru.”
Suguru maintains his pace, moaning lowly in his throat with every roll of his hips, clinging onto Satoru’s whines like a lifeline, focusing on the feeling of being sucked in completely, the mere pressure becoming mind-blowingly intense.
With a harsh thrust to his prostate, Satoru’s cumming onto the sheets below, his cock twitching helplessly as Suguru fucks into him, harsh and frantic, whispering his name like a mantra, in between a series of gasps and broken moans, until his pleasure peaks; and he holds Satoru in place as he cums inside of him, filling him with his release.
Utterly boneless, Satoru drops his hips – with Suguru following suit, their jagged breathing filling the air as they both ride out the remaining waves of their orgasms. Satoru looks at him with bleary eyes, smiling lazily as he holds onto him.
Suguru finds himself leaning into every kiss that’s seared into his skin, into every gentle caress to the most sensitive areas on his body.
And he reciprocates wholly – each kiss met with one of his own, each touch of his lingering longer than the last.
He holds onto the arms that are pulling him close.
Suguru smiles to himself, knowing that his fate is sealed.
