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Suguru spills into the back of Satoru’s throat, eyes glazed with lust. Good-old, regular lust, or bloodlust—Suguru can’t really tell; all he knows is that the sight of Satoru on his knees before him—knees crushed into the cold, gnarled wood of the oaken floor, primed in the act of worship or pleading for mercy—makes Suguru’s lip curl, like a predator playing with its food.
The sight, of course, is glorious. Fire burns hot from the crystalline depths of Satoru’s eyes, his face contorted with anger, a canvas splattered with with the white-hot animosity that they share in equal measure. Suguru’s fingers tighten in Satoru’s hair with a sneer, yanking his hot throat back down onto the engorged tip of his cock with force. Satoru gags, struggling to readjust to the sudden intrusion, but Suguru does not relent. He holds Satoru in place, eyes rolled up into his head as he feels the spasms of the other’s throat milk him. Satoru bangs his fist hard against Suguru’s hips, palm alive with cursed energy that’s sure to leave a myriad of bruises against his skin later on.
But Suguru is unforgiving.
A growl rolls from the depth of his throat, and he walks forward, gruff and heavy, Satoru choking and sputtering, to imprison him against the near wall. The Limitless-user is crushed between his classmate and the hard wood behind his head, unable to move or breathe or do anything that wouldn’t involve destroying the structure of the school to get away. He can’t use Infinity either, or else he might do some serious damage to the black-haired teen, and despite how Suguru feels about him, Satoru does not want him to come to any real harm.
Things have been difficult between them lately, to say the least. Suguru hasn’t been showing up to classes, and there are whispers that his missions aren’t going to plan, either. Yaga is trying to be as understanding and accommodating as possible, more on Tengen’s recommendation than anything, but Satoru sees what’s really happening. Him and Suguru have come to a head a couple of times, but in the past few weeks it’s been especially bad. There’s always been an element of physicality to their relationship, but never like this. Satoru takes it and takes it and takes it because he feels partially responsible for whatever is happening to his best friend, but… there comes a limit. He is merely mindful that with one mindless, uncontrolled twitch of his fingers at any given moment, and he could write Suguru Geto out of existence.
He’d rather endure this pain than that one.
He makes an anguished noise as Suguru’s fingernails scrape his scalp, drawing blood into his snow-white hair. That’ll be a bitch to wash out, he thinks, but his mind goes blank immediately after because Suguru adjusts his hips to allow Satoru a little breathing room, the tip resting just at his tonsils, before he grips Satoru’s head with incredible force and slams it back into the wooden panel behind him, shoving his cock deep into the confines of his oesophagus.
Satoru sees stars; instinctively, he circles his fingers around Suguru’s wrists in an iron grip, digits glowing red with the reversed curse technique he’s mastered to force Suguru away, but Suguru is quick, too. His knuckles come flying at Satoru’s cheek and nose as he backhands the man, and Satoru is left to slump to the floor as his best friend assaults his face and throat relentlessly, hissing with anger and delight and so much pent-up rage that all Satoru can do is allow him to do it, seething in his own violent thoughts.
The issue, for Suguru, is that Satoru just can’t understand. Perhaps that makes Suguru cruel and hateful, but he doesn’t care: Satoru Gojo is the last person on this earth who could ever understand what it means to have to make a choice between becoming powerful or doing what is right. Suguru knows, of course, that it is ‘bad’ to commit acts of genocide—but he also knows that sometimes, the means justify the end. He has been flirting with this idea lately, especially since his talk with Tsukumo, of whether or not he’d really be doing that much of a disservice to humanity if he were to just… let go. The only thing that keeps him on the fence, from falling over to the other side, is the little red string that attaches him to Satoru.
But that string, lately, is beginning to feel more like a noose. And Satoru will not let go.
Not yet.
Suguru’s panting at this point, rolling his hips into the dark, wet cavern of his friend’s throat. The thought of Satoru weak to him, bending to his will, answering to Suguru and Suguru alone, makes him quiver. The idea of Satoru jumping that fence with him is enough to make Suguru’s stomach erupt with butterflies. These are the things he fantasises about when he’s alone with his hand, but when he’s here, leaving watercolour bruises on the canvas of Satoru’s beautiful face, all he can think about is punishment. Of destroying what is inarguably the pinnacle of perfection in this world: Satoru Gojo.
Thoughts of Satoru belonging to Suguru like a cursed spirit revolve in his mind. He pictures, as he fucks Satoru’s throat, what it would be like to have Satoru Gojo under his control, attacking when Suguru orders him to attack, killing when ordered to kill, before crawling back to Suguru on his knees, subservient and pretty. The thought of wielding that amount of monstrous power at his fingertips makes Suguru’s cock twitch, eliciting a hateful growl from Satoru. It’s enough to send him over the edge, red string and all.
He spills bitter seed into Satoru’s throat for the second time, causing Satoru to cough and choke, to shove Suguru away. As his cock leaves his mouth, a string of saliva connects them briefly, before breaking. Suguru’s pelvis is pulsating with pain from Satoru’s restrained power, and Satoru’s throat feels like glass. He glowers at him, wiping his mouth, accidentally smearing it into the very first mess that Suguru made across his face hours ago. Suguru finds it incredibly attractive, and feels the urge to go again, except this time he wants to punish Satoru’s ass, wants to rape it into the ground until he submits. Satoru is having none of it.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Suguru can’t help but bark a laugh in response. If only he knew how to answer—if only it were possible to formulate any combination of words that could possibly even begin to make Satoru Gojo understand exactly what was wrong with him. Instead, Suguru waves his hand flippantly, gathering himself back into the folds of his clothing as he peers down at the other male. “Satoru, I appreciate the effort, but let’s not make a fuss out of things.”
This incenses Satoru: Suguru sees anger slowly scribe its way into the youthful lines of his face, and then all at once, his Adonian features are scrunched with hatred. Suguru steps back as his friend bounces to his feet, looking both glorious and insane with cum smeared across his skin, Six Eyes burning with the fury of the angels. He raises his hand as if to strike the black-haired teen, before letting it drop in defeat. It’s hopeless. Instead, Satoru turns on his heel, pauses for a moment that feels like forever, and finally leaves the room, pale head hung in defeat. There’s nothing more to say.
And then Suguru is alone again, welling with bitterness and resentment, knowing that Satoru would sooner side with monkeys than with him—his best friend, his confidante, his soulma… No. He mustn’t let his brain finish that thought. That’ll undo him. That’ll be the undoing of his glorious purpose, which is the only thing Suguru has left.
A sudden chill sweeps through the room and Suguru holds himself tightly, before grief swallows him again, the inky darkness of nighttime enveloping him once more.