Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Sa-to-ruuuu~ why are you being so mean to me?”

Suguru’s voice is all fake-wounded and pouty, chin tucked into his chest like he’s some poor mistreated housewife and not currently kneeling in the middle of Satoru’s apartment with his hands tied behind his back in the prettiest red rope Satoru owns.

Which, by the way, he only bought because he knew this exact moment would come.

“I'm not being mean,” Satoru says, lounging on the edge of the couch, one leg draped over the other. “I’m just not giving brats special treatment.”

He reaches for his milkshake. Drinks it slowly. Suguru glares at him like he just pissed in it.

See, Satoru’s always been a bit of an asshole. He’s aware. He’s made peace with it. But nothing — and he means nothing — amps up his natural assholery quite like Suguru being tied up and pouty and desperate on his knees, hair falling into his face, thighs trembling just a little. Pretending like he’s not completely soaked through his slutty little panties.

And look — this wasn’t supposed to be a thing. It started because Suguru got drunk one night, called Satoru at 2:11 AM and said:

“Satoruuuuu~”

“...Suguru?”

"S’toru… I miss your dick."

Which — unprovoked! Not even a “hi.” Satoru, being a man of taste and restraint, did not fuck him. He went to his shitty little cult, tucked him into bed, gave him water, and laid down next to him like the gentleman he totally is. Spoon mode. Hands to himself. Even though Suguru kept arching back into him and moaning in his sleep like some kind of pornographic anime girl.

The next morning, Suguru woke up hungover and pissy. Insulted Satoru’s cooking. Called him “insufferable.” Tried to leave with a dramatic hair toss and a door slam.

So naturally, Satoru did what any normal ex-boyfriend-who-should-be-killing-him would do: Yanked him back in, threw him over his knee, and spanked him with the only thing he had on hand which happened to be a plastic backscratcher. It made an awful thwack noise. Suguru cried and bitched and came untouched, hips grinding into Satoru’s thigh like a bitch in heat.

Now they meet up once a week. Satoru calls them fuckdates. Suguru pretends they’re just “stress relief.”

It could be daily, if Suguru wasn’t busy scamming cultists like a busted little sugar baby, collecting donations like he’s hot and destitute.

Which — well. One out of two.

“You remember what got you punished last time?” he asks casually, setting his cup down. He rises to his feet, stalks over to where Suguru is kneeling on the floor tapping the backscratcher against his palm.

Suguru’s eyes flick to it and he snorts.

“Oh no, not the mighty weapon of domestic discipline,” he deadpans. “Gonna spank me into submission, Gojo-senpai?”

Satoru tsks, dragging the tip of it up Suguru’s inner thigh with deliberate slowness.

“You sound like you want to be spanked,” he says, calm and mean. “Should I test that theory?”

There’s a pause. Suguru glares up at him, mouth twitching.

“Because I bit you?”

“Nope.”

“Because I came without permission?”

“Try again.”

“Because I threatened to be fucked by someone else just to see your dumbass face twitch—”

“There it is.”

Satoru swings the backscratcher once — loud and sharp against Suguru’s thigh. Suguru flinches, gasps, then bites his lip.

“You like this, huh?” Satoru murmurs, leaning in. “Getting punished by your ex-best friend. The one who’s supposed to kill you.”

“You won’t kill me,” Suguru mumbles.

“No?” He nips his ear. “Why not?”

“Because I let you use me and you’re weak.”

Satoru laughs, biting his shoulder.

“Shitty thing to say to the strongest, babe.”

But he’s not even mad. Because Suguru’s not wrong.

Satoru’s still the strongest. But Suguru — Suguru does something to him. Like cracking open a rib cage and poking around inside. Like saying: You can control the whole world, but you’ll never control me unless I let you.

And he lets him. That’s what drives Satoru insane.

He still remembers — 16, buzzed on power and ego, yelling in some back alley in Shinjuku after a mission:

“You’re not listening to me—”

 “Because you don’t control me, Satoru!”

 “Well maybe I fucking should!”

God. He was such a little shit. Still is. But the difference now is — Suguru’s back. Sort of. Sometimes. When he wants. When he needs— under his hand.

Satoru likes control. Always has.

He can’t imagine a world where he doesn’t have it — doesn’t want to. He needs his hands on the wheel at all times. Needs to know how it ends. Needs to win.

So when Suguru walked away — left KFC, left him — it wasn’t just betrayal.

It was losing.

And Satoru doesn’t lose.

Back then, he didn’t have words for it. Just this gnawing, aching thing in his chest — fury and grief and that twisted teen love, the kind that feels like a natural disaster.

He kept thinking: If I’m the strongest, why couldn’t I keep you?

Why didn’t he make him stay?

Maybe it was ego. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was the fact that Suguru’s always been the one thing he couldn’t fully control. Could only love.

And Suguru might be down bad in his own quiet, masochistic way — showing up plugged, roped, ready — but Satoru knows the truth.

He’d do anything for him.

He already has.

And he will again.

He runs a palm down Suguru’s back, over the rope, over the soft skin of his hips and thighs.

He could do anything to him like this.

Twist him into any shape he wants. Make him cry, make him beg, make him say “please, daddy, don’t stop.” Put a collar on him. Brand him. Breed him till he breaks.  Suguru would take it. Because he lets him.

Satoru’s cock twitches with the thought.

“I’m not weak,” he says finally, voice low and firm as he presses his chest to Suguru’s back. “You just make me—”

He cuts himself off. Bites his lip. Swallows the confession because it’s ugly and soft and dangerous.

(You just make me feel like I’d burn the whole world down if you asked nicely enough.)

(You just make me wish I could live a life where you never left.)

(You just make me fucking love you.)

He pulls Suguru’s hair back and whispers against his neck:

“You’re only like this with me. You know that, right?”

Suguru doesn’t answer. He’s breathing fast now, back arching, hole twitching around the plug.

“Slutty little thing. You come crawling back every time. No shame. No pride.”

Suguru laughs softly, bitter and breathless.

“And you always let me in. Who’s the weak one again?”

Satoru slaps his ass hard. Suguru moans. He’s already drooling again.

Satoru licks the drool off his chin, sucks on his bottom lip, then yanks the plug out slowly — painfully. He watches as Suguru’s hole flutters open and starts leaking.

“Mm. Look at that. Your hole missed me.”

He strokes himself slowly, deliberately, and lines up.

“Go ahead, baby,” he whispers, just before pushing in. “Tell me you’re mine again.”

Suguru turns his head — and gives him the brattiest, bitchiest look Satoru’s ever seen.

Eyes narrowed. Lips curled. Pure evil in one pretty, slutty little package.

And then — he spits. In his fucking face.

Right cheek. Messy. Warm. A glob of spit trailing down Satoru’s jaw.

Satoru blinks once.

“Wow,” he says flatly, wiping it with the back of his hand. “You little bitch.”

The backscratcher swings again — not once, not twice, but five times in quick succession, loud and sharp.

THWACK. THWACK. THWACK. THWACK. THWACK.

Suguru jolts and gasps with every hit, hips twisting in the rope, breath punching out of him in short, frantic little whines.

By the end of it, his thighs are shaking. His ass is glowing. His head is drooped like he’s finally starting to break.

"Call me daddy again," Satoru says, breathless, voice low and vicious. "I dare you."

Suguru smirks like he’s proud of himself.

“C’mon then, daddy. You gonna fuck me or just—”

THWACK.

The backscratcher lands hard across his ass, perfectly timed, and Suguru yelps, whole body jolting against the rope.

“You’re such a slut,” Satoru says casually, raising it again. “I swear to god, you were born for this.”

THWACK.

“Sa–to–ruuuuuu~” Suguru wails, high-pitched and sing-song, like he’s enjoying this. Which — obviously. He is.

It has kind of been their thing since that first time. Satoru and his dumb plastic backscratcher. Suguru tied up like a present. Slapped into submission until he melts.

Satoru raises the backscratcher again. Lets it hover.

Suguru’s ass twitches in anticipation.

THWACK.

Again. And again. And again. Until his pale skin is glowing red, rope digging into the plush meat of his thighs, plug long discarded and his hole fluttering around nothing — begging.

“Slut,” Satoru says affectionately, tapping the backscratcher against his lips.

Suguru moans, eyes glossy. “Only for you.”

“Damn right,” Satoru mutters.

But the second Satoru grabs his hips to line up — just presses the head of his cock against that aching, twitching hole —Suguru squirms. Moves. Fucking shifts his ass out of reach.

“Su-gu-ruuuu—” Satoru groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You little shit—”

Satoru grabs the backscratcher and slaps it twice against Suguru’s inner thigh — fast and stinging.

“Bad boy.”

Suguru yelps. Smirks. Rubs his face against the sheets.

So Satoru slaps him again — harder this time, right across the crease of his ass.

“Keep that up,” he growls, “and I’ll leave you like this. Plugged and untouched. See how long you last without getting filled.”

Suguru giggles. Full-on, shameless, teeth showing. He’s on all fours — well, mostly. The ropes have his legs bent and spread, back arched just right, his body practically offering itself up.

And he’s still being a brat.

“Oops,” he says. Like it was an accident. Like he didn’t do it on purpose.

Satoru stares at him. Blinks grabbing the backscratcher again and presses the tip of it against Suguru’s already sore ass. 

“If you move again,” he says, voice low and even, “you’re going over my knee.”

Suguru’s mouth twitches.

Then he smiles.

Grins. 

“Is that a threat, Sa-to-ruu?”

Satoru tsks, shaking his head like he’s disappointed, even as he’s getting harder. 

“Suguru is just so naughty,” he sighs, dragging the backscratcher down the curve of his spine. “You think because you’re tied up, I’ll go easy on you?”

And then he grabs him by the hair, drags him upright with practiced ease, unclips the leg ropes in one motion—and hauls him over his lap.

Suguru yelps — a short, breathy sound — but he doesn’t fight it. He just goes limp, like a ragdoll, like he wants this. His cock’s already twitching again.

Satoru sits on the edge of the bed, Suguru facedown across his thighs, perfect ass in the air, red and sore and so ready for more.

“You like testing me, huh?” Satoru says, backscratcher in hand. “You like being a little pain in the ass?”

Suguru giggles, cheek pressed to the blankets. “I like your pain in my ass.”

Satoru rolls his eyes and brings the backscratcher down — not soft.

THWACK.

Suguru gasps, body jolting, but there’s no protest. Just a low moan and another giggle, muffled this time.

Satoru spanks him again. And again. Harder.

Suguru’s thighs start to tremble.

“Still got something to say?” Satoru grunts, slapping his other cheek.

“Y-yeah,” Suguru huffs, breathless. “You hit like a virgin.”

Satoru growls, spanking him harder with full force the kind that stings. 

Suguru gasps, hips twitching involuntarily, his cock dragging across Satoru’s thigh with every impact.

“M’gonna make you cry,” Satoru says, gritting his teeth. “You wanna keep playing, I’ll give you something to cry about.”

Suguru’s voice is high now, whimpering: “T-then do it—daddy, c’mon, I’m not scared—”

SLAP. SLAP. SLAP.

Redder. Wetter. Louder.

He’s writhing now, full-body shivers, legs kicking weakly as Satoru spanks the brat right out of him.

Well. Tries to.

Because the thing is: Suguru doesn’t break from spanking.

He gasps, yeah. He jolts. He sobs a little when it stings just right. But that’s not what melts him. That’s not what unravels him.

Satoru’s cock does that.

Satoru tsks under his breath, drops the backscratcher a little too hard onto the floor — somewhere out of reach. Good. He’s done playing games. This isn’t about teasing anymore.

It’s about fucking.

He shifts, pushing Suguru flat again — chest to the bed, legs forced apart. Suguru’s thighs are trembling, rope-burned, his ass pink and glowing, hole fluttering and open, still wet from earlier, still begging.

But still—

“You prepped, right?” Satoru murmurs, running his hand down Suguru’s lower back, soothing now.

Suguru nods weakly, cheek to the sheets. His voice is wrecked and small: “Used the plug.”

Satoru grins. “Good boy.”

Because he has to prep. Every time.

Satoru’s cock is too big to just fuck him open on the spot. He’s huge — stupidly, unfairly

He’s split Suguru once or twice in the past when they got sloppy. It’s not happening again. Not when Suguru’s so soft and warm and pliant like this.

He strokes the curve of Suguru’s ass. Spreads him open. His cock twitches, heavy and leaking, just from looking.

“Still might be tight,” he mutters, voice thick. “You always get tight when you’re bratty. Like your ass is trying to talk back.”

Suguru huffs a laugh — breathless, barely there.

Satoru lines up.

Pushes forward, slow. Too slow.

Even with the prep, even with how loose Suguru was around that plug, it’s still a squeeze. A stretch. 

Suguru whines the second the head breaches him — body stiffening, hands gripping the sheets.

“Fuuuck,your so tight.” Satoru hisses. “Always so fucking—mmph—you clench like you missed me.”

Suguru moans into the sheets, hair stuck to his face.

“I did miss you,” he whines, voice cracking. “You didn’t call last week, you fucker—”

Satoru spanks him again mid-sentence. “You’re not allowed to be mad.”

“I am mad. You said every Thursday.”

“You were busy playing cult leader.”

“You were busy playing sad virgin.”

Satoru thrusts in hard.

Suguru chokes on a moan.

“Say you’re mine,” Satoru growls, fucking him deeper. “Say it, or I’m making this a two-hour session, no lube.”

“You like it raw,” Suguru spits back. “Don’t pretend you’re doing it for me.”

“I’m gonna fuck the attitude out of you,” he promises, pounding him brutally.

“You always say that—ah—fuck—!”

Satoru leans down, chest flush against Suguru’s sweaty back. Mouth to ear.

“Say it.”

A long pause. Ragged breaths.

Then—

“Make me, daddy.”

Satoru doesn’t say anything. He just brings the backscratcher down one last time — slow, heavy, deliberate.

“That’s for talking back earlier.”

Another strike.

“That’s for being late.”

One more, right on the swell of his ass.

“And that one…” he whispers, leaning close, voice low and mean, “is just because I fucking missed you.”

Then he buries himself to the hilt.

Suguru chokes on a moan, body shivering. It’s always a stretch. Always too big. Always too deep. Always makes him whimper like this — broken and breathless, like it’s the first time all over again.

“F-Fuck—Satoru—can’t—ngh—can’t take it—”

“You can,” Satoru hisses, gripping his tiny waist. “Stop clenching. Fucking relax.”

“I can’t—” Suguru gasps, trying to squirm, but he’s bound up tight. Ropes biting into his thighs, back arched, hole stuffed full. “Hah—Satoruuu—”

Satoru grins — the kind of grin that means nothing good is about to happen. He grabs a fistful of hair and yanks Suguru’s head back until his throat is bare, shining with sweat.

“Fine,” he mutters, voice low and sing-song, “you need a little reminder, huh?”

He presses the edge of the backscratcher into Suguru’s ass — right where the flesh is already bruised and glowing. Slowly, purposefully.

 Suguru jerks. “Satoru—what—”

Satoru leans in and whispers, filthy and smug: “Stay still. Gotta finish carving your name.”

And he drags the dull edge of the backscratcher against Suguru’s asscheek, digging into the hot skin like he’s drawing in clay. 

S. L.

Suguru cries out — high-pitched and breathless — hips trembling under the pressure.

“Fuuuuck—Satoru—fuck, you asshole, what the hell—”

Satoru just grins. Full teeth. No remorse.

He’s always had a sadistic streak, sure. He doesn’t go around hurting people for fun — that’s not his thing — but pain is information, and control is peace. 

And when it comes to Suguru? 

There’s just something about spanking the attitude out of him that hits every single goddamn nerve Satoru has.

It’s not about the pain. It’s about the power. The surrender. The way Suguru melts into it — fights it at first, claws and bites, then gives up with that perfect little whimper like he just remembered who owns him.

And Suguru?

Suguru is the loudest fucking masochist Satoru’s ever met.

Even when he pretends he isn’t.

Especially then.

Suguru moans again — high, drawn-out, broken. His voice cracks in the middle like he’s holding back tears and coming at the same time.

“Hnng—hah—Satoru—ngh—s’too much—”

He says it like a complaint. Like he’s mad. But his back arches up, ass pressing back into Satoru’s hips, starving for more.

Satoru wants to laugh. Wants to kiss him and bite him and split him open all at once.

He drags his fingers down the welts he just carved into Suguru’s ass. The makeshift “S.L.” stings under his touch.

Suguru flinches. Moans. Still bratty even with tears in his lashes.

Satoru leans over, voice mock-thoughtful:

“Hmm.”

Slow, drawled out, the way he knows Suguru hates.

“I wonder what the monkeys would think if they saw you like this.”

Suguru flinches. His whole body goes tight. 

Satoru smirks meanly, grinding his hips down, deep and punishing. 

“Orrrr~” he purrs, dragging the backscratcher up Suguru’s inner thigh, slow as syrup, “what about Shoko? Or the higher-ups? You think Gakuganji would pop a blood vessel if he saw the great and terrible Geto Suguru stuffed full of my cock and begging for more?”

He slaps the backscratcher down again — sharp and fast.

Suguru moans. Loud glaring back over his shoulder — hair stuck to his face, lips wet and swollen, cheeks red and eyes blazing.

“Let them watch,” he spits, voice rough. “Let all the monkeys see how good I get fucked. Maybe they’ll learn something.”

Satoru groans low in his throat.

God. He lives for this.

Suguru — bratty and cocky even with his ass in the air, tears in his lashes and rope burns across his thighs. Suguru — talking shit with Satoru’s dick buried.

Satoru leans in, breath hot against Suguru’s damp neck, and licks a long stripe up the side of it — slow and filthy. He feels Suguru shiver under him.

“Su-gu-ru…” Satoru hums, that cruel little smile curling his lips.

And then—because he’s a bastard, because he’s evil, because he knows exactly how to get him—

He pulls out. All the way.

Suguru gasps, a sound of betrayal and panic all at once, hips trying to push back, searching for friction, voice high and accusing:

“Satoru—don’t you fucking—”

SLAM.

Satoru drives back in — hard, fast, deep —

Suguru screams, high and breathless. His stomach shifts — a little bump, obscene and unmistakable, Satoru’s cock outlined under his skin.

Perfect.

Satoru’s hand moves to it like it belongs there, palm splayed wide, fingers pressing gently admiring the work.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, possessive and smug. “You’re shaped around me, baby. You’re mine all the way in.”

He rubs the bulge. Suguru sobs, lashes fluttering, whole body shaking in the ropes. His cock’s dripping, not even being touched and he’s leaking like he’s about to cum just from getting split open.

“F-fuck—” he breathes. “Satoru, I—”

His voice breaks.

His whole body is trembling now, his head dropping low, hair falling into his eyes, shoulders rising with each sharp breath. But he’s still trying. Still pretending. Still clinging to pride with his nails digging into nothing.

“Y-you’re such a dick—” he slurs. “Always—always gotta prove something—ugh—you’re such a fucking show-off—”

Satoru laughs, husky and mean, and reaches up to his blindfold.

He pulls it off.

Suguru turns his head to look — just barely — and their eyes meet.

Time stops.

Suguru’s pupils are blown wide, hair a mess, lips swollen from moaning. His face is a trainwreck — and Satoru thinks it might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He grins — cocky and cruel, but full of love underneath it.

“I know, I know,” he says, smug as hell, “Satoru’s so beautiful. Satoru’s sooo handsome. That’s what you’re thinking, right, Suguru?”

Suguru tries to glare. He really tries. But he’s cock-drunk and pink and sweating, and the look on his face is not helping his case.

His mouth opens and closes once. Then—

“So—so full—” he whimpers. “Can’t—fuck—Satoru—s’too much, m’gonna break—”

He shudders, face crumpling, thighs clenching around nothing, and it all hits at once:

the pressure, the stretch, the eye contact, the fucking bulge under his skin—

Satoru’s grin widens. He knew it.

“Aw, is my baby getting dumb on my cock already?” he coos, fingers tracing slow circles around the bulge in Suguru’s belly. “That was fast. I thought you were supposed to be dangerous.”

“Shut—shut up—” Suguru stammers, but it’s weak, barely there, his voice shaky and ruined. “Stop talking—talking like that, I’m—I’m—”

“You’re what?” Satoru whispers, bending low, his mouth brushing over Suguru’s ear. “Gonna cum? Gonna cry? Gonna tell me how hot I am while I ruin your ass?”

Suguru’s whole body trembles.

His voice is wet, glossy, pathetic.

“Satoru—Satoru, please—please slow down, I can’t—I can’t, you’re too deep—fuck—you're so deep—”

He sounds on the verge of tears.

Satoru hums again, loving it.

“You’re taking me so well, baby. Don’t you wanna make me proud?”

Suguru nods, whimpering, practically writhing under him.

“Y-Yeah—wan’—wanna be good, I—fuck—wanna be good f’you—Satoru—hahh—so full—”

Satoru’s thrusts get meaner.

“Say it again.”

“Yours,” Suguru chokes out, eyes fluttering, spit trailing down his chin. “I’m yours, Satoru, m’yours—your good boy, your dumb slut, jus’ wanna make you feel good—”

He sobs as Satoru presses down on his stomach again, the bulge thick and obscene under his palm.

“You do,” Satoru breathes, chest tight with something he doesn’t want to name. “Fuck, Suguru—you feel so good, I could live inside you.”

Suguru whines — a high, needy, animal sound — and rubs his face against the sheets like he’s trying to ground himself.

“M’not gonna last,” he gasps. “Please—please, Satoru, lemme—lemme cum—”

THWACK.

Satoru slaps his ass again with the backscratcher, sharp and loud. His palm tingles from the rebound.

Suguru jerks, sobs, hips shaking violently in their bindings.

Satoru sighs, long and theatrical, like he’s disappointed in the best way.

“Still begging, huh?”

He leans in and presses the dull edge of the backscratcher to Suguru’s welted skin — right where he left the first two letters — and drags it, carving slow, deliberate pressure into the meat of his ass.

U.

Right next to the L he scratched in earlier.

S. L. U. 

So close to what he really wants. He wants to finish it. Wants to write it out clear as day.

SLUT.

He wants to tattoo it there, permanent and public. Wants people to see. Wants Suguru to walk into his next dumb little cult meeting with a sore, bruised, blood-rimmed label stamped across his ass like property.

“Ne, Suguru?” he says, voice a little shaky, a little breathless, totally fucking gone. “Look at me.”

Suguru tries — barely — head lolling sideways, face smeared with tears and spit and sweat. His eyes are wrecked. Hazy, red-rimmed, so far in subspace he probably doesn’t even know his last name.

Satoru makes a noise — some pitiful, horny, broken little groan — like his name is catching in his throat.

“Ughhh—fuck, Suguru—Suguru, Suguru, Suguru—”

He can’t stop. His hips are pounding. He’s still holding the backscratcher in one hand, dragging it lightly over Suguru’s inner thigh, but he can’t stop whispering his name. 

Because Suguru looks beautiful like this.
Sickly beautiful. Sacred. Tears on his cheeks. Rope burns on his wrists. Ass red and trembling, carved up and leaking. His whole body shaking with every thrust, voice high and slurred and sweet.

There’s a thin trickle of blood sliding from the spot where Satoru pressed a little too hard — just a drop, just a nick — but it’s enough.

Satoru sees red and gets feral with it.

He leans in and licks the blood from Suguru’s skin — messily, hungrily, like he’s starved for it.

“Baby—” he gasps, brain short-circuiting. “Fuck, I wanna ruin you—tattoo you—tie you up and keep you like this forever—”

Suguru whimpers. That soft, perfect mewling sound.

“M’—yours—” he slurs, drunk on cock, on pain, on love. “Always—Satoru—just—yours—”

Satoru loses it. He drops the backscratcher, grabs Suguru’s hips with both hands, and slams into him over and over, chasing that high, chasing his name out of Suguru’s throat like he’s trying to brand it into his lungs.

He’s gonna cum.

But not before he finishes the word.

He spits on his fingers and scrawls it out sloppily over the letters he’s already marked.

S. L. U. T.

There. Done. Perfect.

Suguru sobs — and Satoru kisses the back of his neck.

“You’re so weak like this, Suguru,” he pants, breath hot against his skin. His voice is gone — hoarse, broken, needy.

“Hah—can’t even use reverse cursed technique, so you—” A sharp, ragged groan leaves his throat. His hips stutter. His eyes go crossed. He’s not even seeing straight.

“—so you just bleed and bleed—”

His fingers dig into Suguru’s hips like he’s trying to fuse them together. His thrusts are punishing now — deep and fast, balls slapping against skin slick with sweat and spit and blood.

Suguru doesn’t say anything back.

He can’t.

His mouth is open but useless, face mashed into the pillow, moaning Satoru’s name like it’s the only word he remembers. Over and over again — broken and breathy and wrecked: 

“Satoru—Satoru—Satoru—Satoru—”

He’s panting, shaking, fucking gone.

But not scared.

Never scared.

Because he knows. Knows the word is there if he needs it. Knows “red” ends it instantly. No questions, no delay.

But he doesn’t say it. Won’t say it. Because even with Satoru fucking him like a man possessed, saying the cruelest things he can spit out between moans, he knows he’s safe.

He’s Satoru’s. Satoru is his. And this is how they say it — with hands and rope and bruises and cum.

Satoru leans down, forehead pressed between Suguru’s shoulder blades, his voice fucked and soft and vicious all at once.

“You’re mine,” he chants. “Mine, mine, mine—”

He slams in once, twice more, balls clapping wetly against Suguru’s ruined ass—

 And then—

“F-fuck— g’nna—g’nna—fuck, Suguru—gonna fill you up—”

He groans, loud and shameless, cock jerking deep inside him.

Suguru cries out when he feels it — a long, soft, wrecked moan as Satoru squeezes his dick harshly—

“Daddy—daddy, g’na—g’na—g’nna—”

His whole body tenses

He cums hard — untouched, overstimulated, cock twitching and spilling messily all over the sheets. Hips jerking. Rope straining. Voice all high and cracked like he’s sobbing his orgasm out of his chest.

And Satoru—

Satoru lets out this ragged, punched-out moan, hips slamming in to the base and staying there, cock buried so deep the bulge is still visible.

He cums with him.

The moment Suguru’s hole clenches around him, Satoru’s gone — coming, emptying himself inside him with long, grinding thrusts and desperate groans. Holding Suguru’s hips like he’s afraid he’ll disappear. Filling him up until it leaks back out, warm and slow and obscene.

Suguru shudders under him— completely unspooling, head sinking back into the pillow, face slack and wet and blissed-out. His thighs are trembling. His lashes are sticky with tears. He looks wrecked.

Satoru can’t stop staring.

Can’t stop panting, either.

Can’t stop his hand from sliding down to touch where their bodies are still connected — fingers grazing the slick, messy heat between Suguru’s thighs.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “I filled you up so much. Gonna leak for hours, baby.”

Suguru makes a small noise. Barely human. A whimper with no words behind it.

His whole body is loose now, the fight gone, the tension drained. Just soft and slow and soaked, hole twitching around Satoru’s cock, still seated deep inside.

Satoru groans again and lays his chest over Suguru’s back, wraps his arms around him tight.

He doesn’t pull out.

Not yet.

He just holds Suguru close, spooning him, arms wrapped around his waist, chest sticky against his back.

He licks the sweat off Suguru’s brow, then down to his cheekbone, then lazily across his collarbone — tongue dragging.

Suguru’s so beautiful. Too beautiful. All flushed and marked up, skin glowing from pain and pleasure, hair clinging to his cheeks, lips parted like he’s dreaming.
His eyes are barely open. His lashes are wet. His whole body still trembling from the comedown.

Satoru could stay like this forever. Breathing in Suguru’s scent. Feeling his body mold to his. Thinking: Suguru, Suguru, Suguru — 

But—

There’s blood. And cum. And rope. He needs to clean him up. Needs to untie the knots. Run a bath. Bring water. Towel. Ice, maybe. Suguru’s skin is red in too many places, and the word slut is still scrawled across his ass in spit and spit-shine blood.

Satoru shifts to move—

And Suguru stirs, sluggish and floaty, but his voice comes out sharp, high, panicked:

“’Toru? Daddy, where u goin’...?”

Satoru freezes.

Suguru tries to look over his shoulder — hazy and disoriented, pupils blown wide, lip wobbling.

“Toru? Toru—don’t go, wan’ you, need—”

“Shhh,” Satoru soothes immediately, instinctive. His hand rubs slow circles on Suguru’s side. “I’m right here, baby. Just gonna get a towel—”

Suguru whines — full body flinch, bottom lip caught between his teeth like he’s about to cry.

So Satoru reaches for the backscratcher still tossed beside them on the bed, and gives him a light swat on the ass.

Only a tap. Not meant to hurt. Just enough to ground him.

Suguru jolts, gasping, a little twitch in his bound legs, and then lets out a muffled whimper into the pillow.

“Nnngh—Toru…”

Satoru kisses the back of his neck. Then again. Then lower, over the spine.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs against his skin. “Daddy’s not going anywhere.”

Suguru doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. He just breathes, slow and shallow, head resting limp on the pillow, eyes shut, lips parted, subspace deep. His whole body radiates exhaustion — used and emptied and soft. Satoru could swear he’s glowing.

He leaves just long enough to grab a warm cloth from the bathroom. He doesn’t want to. Doesn’t even want to let go of him for the thirty seconds it takes.

When he comes back, Suguru whines at the first touch — a low, pitiful sound when the cloth brushes over his raw, welted skin. The blood’s sticky. The cuts aren’t deep, but they’re red and swollen.

Satoru winces — more than Suguru does. His heart flinches.

“Sorry, baby,” he whispers, and he means it.

He strokes Suguru’s hair back from his face, slow and gentle, wiping the sweat from his temples. His fingers shake.

He would rip his heart out and hand it to him if Suguru asked. He’d do it smiling. He’d say "is that enough?" with his chest open, ribs cracked. And if Suguru said "more," he’d dig deeper.

Because he’s strong. He’s the strongest.

But with Suguru?

He’s nothing.

He’s a man on his knees. He’s soft where he shouldn’t be. He’s pathetic in a way that’s so real it scares him.

He lets Suguru run his cult. Lets him kill civilians. Lets him walk free while the higher-ups scream about orders and blood and betrayal.

He lets him.

Because in the end—

Satoru Gojo is a weak, weak man for Geto Suguru.