Work Text:
Satoru is being watched.
Whoever they are, they’re discreet - he’ll give them that. But he’s been on this earth long enough to know that prickling feeling on the back of his neck, the uneasy tension in the air. They started following him somewhere between the library and the flower market, clever enough to hide within the crowd each time Satoru whipped his head around, looking between market stalls for someone who wasn’t there.
Worrying his lower lip between his teeth, Satoru stands next to a crowded cafe, scanning the passers by. The sun is setting - he needs to get home soon if he doesn’t want to be stuck here after dark - but he doesn’t want to risk letting the stalker follow him home. If his boyfriend was waiting for him, that would be a different story, but as it is, he’s away for a friend's birthday and won’t be back for a good few days. Satoru isn’t a big guy in the slightest, all tall, long lines; he wishes now, more than ever, that he’d listened and taken those self defence classes his boyfriend had suggested.
He checks the parking lot is empty at least three times before sliding into the driver's seat, setting his shopping down in the passenger seat only once he’s double checked that the car is locked. His breaths come quick as he turns the key in the ignition, the sputtering of the engine putting him on edge. It’s always been the most unbearable thing about his anxiety, his brain's ability to run through every worst case scenario, and now more than ever he wishes he hadn’t forgotten to top up on his medication. The drive home isn’t long - only about fifteen minutes - but he keeps his eyes trained on the rear view mirror, checking and checking again for anyone that might trail his car for a little too long.
At long last, the house comes into view. It’s small, considering neither of them have a huge salary, but it’s his beacon of hope after a long, exhausting, stressful day. Since he’d pulled into their sleepy neighbourhood, the roads have been completely empty, and he breathes a quiet sigh of relief. He’s home. He’s safe now.
Slinging the shopping bags onto one arm and his keys in the other, he climbs out of the car, heading towards the front door. He’s focusing on trying to get the right key in the chain when he stills. The back of his neck heats uncomfortably, the rise and fall of his chest quickening.
There’s something on the doormat. A full bouquet of blood red roses - the very same one he’d stopped to admire at the market.
Realistically, it doesn’t mean anything. It could just be a gift from a neighbour, or a delivery sent to the wrong house. He hears his boyfriend’s voice in his head telling him to breathe , to relax; there’s probably a completely normal explanation. But he can’t help the nagging feeling in the back of his mind that tells him to run . To leave while he still can, get in the car and drive away, or even better, call the police. The logical side of his brain tells him how fucking stupid that sounds. Calling the police over a romantic gift? He’d get laughed away, sent back home with a smile and a cup of water. So instead of listening to his instincts, to the pounding in his ears, he walks closer, kneeling beside the gift and turning over the note attached to the bouquet.
You’re beautiful. I can’t wait to see you again tonight.
His eyes burn as he holds back the wave of panic that washes over him. He needs to think logically. Maybe, it’s a surprise gift from his boyfriend, and he’s coming back early. Pulling out his phone, Satoru calls him, standing with his back against the front door as his eyes track each flicker of the streetlamps, each passing neighbour. After the first call goes unanswered, he rings him again, and again, the ice in his veins spreading with each failed call. His anxiety is already through the roof, and this doesn’t help. What if something had happened to him? What if the guy who left the bouquet had already dealt with his boyfriend, and Satoru was his next victim? He presses cold fingers to the back of his neck, desperate to fight off his imminent panic attack, and types shakily with the other hand.
hey r th flowers frm u 19:34
It’s nearly incoherent, but considering the way his hands are freezing up, how he can practically taste the bile in his throat, it’s the best he can manage. He waits for a few minutes in the cold, tapping his foot. When it becomes clear that his boyfriend really is busy, he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, shoving his phone into his back pocket. With shaky hands he pulls out his keys again, struggling to slot them into the door, but once he’s inside he sets the groceries on the counter and promptly chucks the roses in the bin. He wants to pretend he didn’t see them, to go upstairs and curl up in his bed until the sun comes up, but he can’t keep his mind from running away from him: pictures of thieves and lockpicks and burglars run through his head. Quickly, he puts the groceries away, an eye out behind him the whole time. A stray branch keeps tapping against the window, and each time, he feels his heart rate spike.
As soon as he’s packed everything away, he runs up the stairs, flicking the light off as he passes the switch and using his phone torch to light the way to the bedroom. He’s sure it isn’t the soundest logic, but he hopes that it’ll seem like no one’s home. If someone does break in, they won’t be able to see where they’re going. Then he’ll have time to call the police, and lock himself in the closet - or under the bed. Satoru hasn’t decided which is the optimal hiding place yet.
The night creeps on, second by second, and as the minutes pass Satoru feels himself relax into his mattress. Nothing is coming. Sure, his boyfriend hasn’t replied, but he’s probably out getting shitfaced with his friends. He pulls the covers tighter around him, setting his phone down onto the nightstand, and closes his eyes. He’s more than ready to slip into a dreamless sleep.
Focusing on his breathing, Satoru doesn’t notice the clicking of the backdoor lock, nor the creak of the door hinge. It’s only when the intruder steps too heavily on the creaky floorboard in the downstairs hallway that Satoru stills, his blood turning to ice.
His hand shoots over his mouth, his breathing quick and warm in the hollow of his palm. Wide, blue eyes scan across the room as he sits up, his bare feet light and silent on the carpet as he rushes into the en suite bathroom, clicking the lock and leaning back against the door. He should have trusted his instincts, should have called the police, or gone to a hotel for the night. Gritting his teeth, Satoru breathes through his nose, his eyes closed as he tries to relax; panicking won’t do him any good. He’d left his phone on the nightstand. He could run and grab it, but he risks the intruder finding his hiding spot straight away.
The man is whistling now, low, deep, and sadistic as he climbs the stairs. He’s teasing Satoru, his steps slow and controlled as he speaks.
“Come out, beautiful,” he says, amused. “Didn’t you like my flowers?”
Satoru squeezes his eyes shut, pushing his weight further against the door. It would take a few seconds to run from the bathroom to the nightstand to grab his phone, and it seems like the man is moving up the stairs at a slug’s pace. His anxiety screams at him to run, somehow, to get him out of this situation as soon as possible, but he doesn’t know how to . It’s fight or flight - and he freezes.
“I think you did,” the voice comes closer, “I saw you stop to admire them in the market.”
Steeling himself, Satoru opens the door, wincing at the loud click of the lock. He shuffles carefully to his phone, snatching it off of the nightstand and tip-toeing to hide behind the open bedroom door. Using his left hand, he covers his mouth, using his index finger and thumb to cover the hiss of quickened breath from his nose. He prays to each and every higher power that he’ll wake from this nightmare soon.
The intruder’s footsteps are heavy as he stalks down the hall, peeking through each doorway leisurely as he heads towards the bedroom. The ease with which he navigates the house panics Satoru more; it's almost as if he’s learned its layout.
“Don’t hide from me,” the man pouts audibly, but Satoru can hear the glee in his voice - the thrill of the hunt. He’s close now, close enough that Satoru can hear him breathe, and he tightens the hand over his mouth, holding his breath. His muscles are poised and ready to run, his hand tight around his phone. If he can get away from the man for just a few minutes, Satoru thinks, he can call the police. After that, it’s just a matter of outlasting him.
The intruder takes his sweet time poking around the bedroom. He lifts the bedsheets, kneels to look under the bed, and rifles through the closet, laughing at the more… adventurous pieces that Satoru keeps for special occasions with his boyfriend. It’s like he’s desecrating the memories with his touch, dirtying that special intimacy between Satoru and his partner.
“You’re teasing me with these, doll,” he purrs, throwing a particularly scandalous set onto the bedcovers. The phantom touch sends a cold sensation through Satoru, like a ghost has walked through him. Clenching his fists, he shuffles further behind the door, praying for the man to just leave the room already - and for a moment, it seems like he has. The thunk of his steel-toed boots retreats back into the hallway for a single second, and it’s enough for Satoru to instinctively breathe a sigh of pure relief .
It’s already too late when he realises his mistake.
The man freezes, turning around slowly. He creeps closer, stopping a few feet past the doorway and he yanks the door shut, revealing Satoru’s hiding spot. Satoru’s eyes are wide, unable to look away from the large man in front of him. He’s tall, taller than Satoru, and big , too, but his features are hidden by his zip up, the hood tucked over his head. Thick, black gloves cover his large hands, and Satoru sucks in a breath; there won’t be any fingerprints.
The only thing he can make out from under the hood is his smile . It’s eerily wide, his teeth almost too big for his mouth, and he’s not sure if it’s his overactive imagination, but his canines seem to stretch for miles, glinting under the overhead lights.
“Got you,” he whispers.
In one last ditch attempt, Satoru darts to the side, running past the man and yanking the door open. He has maybe a three second headstart as he thunders down the hallway, taking the steps two at a time as he runs for his fucking life . The intruder is close behind him, laughing as his boots crack down onto the wood flooring, chasing Satoru down the staircase. Without even glancing behind him, Satoru shoots through the living room and into the kitchen, diving for the backdoor. He manages to grab the handle, ripping it open, freedom so close he can taste it-
Two corded arms wrap around his waist, yanking him back into a firm chest and away from the open door. The man isn’t laughing anymore. He’s silent as he hauls Satoru over a thick shoulder, his hold tight as he walks them up the stairs again. Satoru tries to breathe as he’s thrown onto the bed right beside the red lingerie set - his boyfriend’s favourite. An arm is kept over his midsection as the stranger rifles through the nightstand, pulling out a pair of silver handcuffs and forcing Satoru’s arms up and over his head. Fastening a hand into the cuffs, the man threads the chain through the bedrail, clicking the other into place over his other wrist. His cutthroat smile returns as he pats Satoru on the cheek once, then twice, before he stands, heading back towards the hallway.
“Be good for me, doll - I won’t be gone long.” Without a glance behind him, the man heads down the stairs again, and Satoru can hear the backdoor click shut. As he lingers in the kitchen, doing… whatever he’s doing down there, Satoru writhes on the bed, trying desperately to wrench his hands out of the restraints. The metal digs into the soft skin of his wrists, the pain keeping him from dissociating. He whimpers, his eyes wet, but he quiets as the thud of heavy boots returns. The stranger kneels by the side of the bed, holding Satoru’s face in his hand, the tips of his fingers digging into his cheeks.
“Oh, baby,” he coos, “don’t cry. You like this, don’t you? Look,” he says, pressing his other hand into the crotch of Satoru’s jeans, “you’re getting excited already.” He runs his hand over Satoru’s hardening length, grinding his palm against it through his jeans, and Satoru sobs, tugging harder on the cuffs.
“Please don’t,” he gasps, his eyes wet and shiny. “I’m a virgin.”
The confusion is apparent on the man’s face as he looks from wide blue eyes, then to the various undergarment sets in the closet, and finally to the red, clearly used, lingerie set on the bed. Satoru just blinks at him, his eyes wide as he repeats himself. “Please, sir,” he fights back a smile, “I’m a virgin.” The intruder grumbles something under his breath before composing himself, his grin punctuated by his sharp canines.
He crowds up against Satoru, licking the inside of his ear, “I’m glad you saved yourself for me, doll.” Pulling the kitchen scissors out from behind his back, he glides the blade down the front of Satoru’s thin sweater. “Your boyfriend wouldn’t know how to fuck something as pretty as you, anyway.” He holds Satoru down with a large hand over his stomach, pressing him into the mattress as he replaces his tongue with teeth, worrying the shell of Satoru’s ear between his upper and lower canines.
“Now hold still,” he says, the words loud in Satoru’s ear as he begins to cut away at his sweater with the sharp scissors, “I wouldn’t want to nick you.” His depraved smile and the press of his cock against Satoru’s thigh suggests otherwise. One hand piloting the scissors, he brings the other up to his mouth, biting the fabric of the glove and pulling his hand free. It’s tanned and veiny, each his fingers bigger than two of Satoru’s together. The man places his cold palm down on the bare skin of Satoru’s stomach, sliding it up his torso as more and more pale skin is exposed. The touch makes Satoru squirm, but the man’s weight is unyielding, the span of his hips holding Satoru’s legs wide open.
Once he’s cut clean through the sweater, the man leans back, his hungry, red irises eating up the image before him. Satoru can see his own reflection in the blown out pupils: the long line of his smooth chest, his pink, perky nipples, and the way his lower lip trembles with the effort not to scream. With his gloved hand, the stranger rubs his thumb over one of Satoru’s sensitive nipples. The rough fabric makes him hiss like a cornered cat, and the reaction sends a new vigour through the man. He pinches and pulls at Satoru’s nipples like they’re his personal toys, pressing Satoru’s pecs together so he can lick the valley between them. It’s only upon realising that Satoru’s closed his eyes again, sealing his mouth shut, that the man stops.
“Don’t hide from me,” he barks, “I want to hear you.”
Satoru shakes his head into the sheets, silent but defiant, even as the man tugs
hard
on his left nipple. It takes everything in him to keep the whimper from escaping the chamber of his throat.
“Satoru,” he warns, growling now. “I won’t ask again.”
The man squeezes his cheeks in a hand, yanking his head forward, but still, Satoru refuses to open his mouth, biting into the flesh of his inner cheek with the effort it takes to keep it shut. The man watches him for a few more seconds, his fingers tightening on his face, until he pulls away, walking back to the nightstand and pulling something long and shiny out of it.
He climbs back onto the bed, spreading Satoru’s thighs impossibly wide as he settles between them. “Fine,” he spits, “we’ll do it your way.” The gloved hand returns to Satoru’s nipple, rubbing over it quickly and lightly until it hardens. He tugs on the bud, squeezing, before he slips something onto it, slapping Satoru’s cheek in the attempt to coax him out of his rebellion. The man’s canines flash as he tightens the metal around his nipple, and only then does Satoru realise what he’s doing. He tries to sit up, his eyes flying open as the man tugs on the nipple clamp, but the handcuffs do too good a job of restraining him. Instead, the aborted movement ends up with his back arched, practically serving his reddened nipples up on a silver platter. Quickly, the man attaches the other clamp, tugging harshly on the chain between them. The relentless pinch of the metal sends hot lightning into the pit of Satoru’s stomach, the press of his jeans against his arousal suddenly unbearable.
“Stop,” he pleads, his face and chest impossibly warm. His begging is cut off by a high keen as the man tugs the chain again, pressing a thick finger against his raw, bitten lips. He tugs his hood down now, revealing a heavily tattooed face and wild, pink hair. His stare is crazed, darting between Satoru’s sore, swollen chest, his wet eyes, and the imprint of his arousal, hard and straining against his zipper. The stranger’s grin widens in response to the way Satoru bucks desperately against him, dragging his finger slowly down Satoru’s body from his lips. Both his fingers and his eyes linger on the clamps, pulling the chain this way and that, before he continues down to Satoru’s crotch, ignoring the whines and whimpers of the boy beneath him.
When he hears the zipper, feels the lessening pressure on his cock, Satoru sobs harder, thrashing his head against the pillow and pulling hard enough on the handcuffs to rub his skin raw. “Please don’t,” he cries, kicking his legs against the man as he tugs the tight jeans down his legs. “I’ll do anything, please, just stop-” he blinks rapidly as he’s cut off by something wet and warm sliding against his tongue. It’s… something like a kiss, the way the stranger licks into him, exploring the heat of his mouth as he slides the gloved hand into his boxers and around his aching cock. It hurts , both the pressure and the rough, grating texture of the work gloves against his sensitive skin. When the man swipes his thumb over his leaking head, he screams , the noise muffled by the other’s tongue.
The stranger keeps working his hand up and down like that, reaching down to cup Satoru’s balls and squeeze every so often. Paired with the way the man refuses to give his nipples a break, he’s sobbing within minutes, fat, wet tears rolling down his face and onto the white bedsheets. He’s long since lost his fight, his thrashing having been replaced by resigned whining, slumped back onto the pillows. Just as he starts to feel something other than bone deep fear, just as he starts to feel close, the hand tightens around his base, staving off his orgasm. He cries out, throwing his head back against the headboard and groaning, a fresh round of tears escaping him. “Why,” he moans, kicking weakly at the man’s hip, glaring up at him.
“Because, doll,” he says, tugging Satoru’s boxers off, “you’re going to come around me, or you’re not going to come at all.” Folding Satoru’s knees up to the clamps, he grins as he gets an eyeful of his hole. Satoru’s hyperventilating, the skin around his wrists pink and raw as he’s filled with a renewed energy. He has to get out now . The man shuffles down the bed, close enough to bite the soft curve of his pale ass. As the stranger presses a gloved finger against his pink hole, Satoru sucks in a breath, curling his palm so his fingertips all touch, pointing up towards the wall. It makes the width of his left hand just narrow enough to slip through the cuff while the man is preoccupied with sinking his middle finger in up to the knuckle. Satoru gasps, distracted, as the stranger presses and prods at his inner walls, mapping out each ridge with the pad of his finger. He’s quick to add another, oblivious to the way Satoru threads the handcuffs out of the bedpost.
With both hands free now, albeit one still cuffed, Satoru focuses on curating his reactions, waiting for the perfect time to run. There are three fingers inside him, and the texture of the glove against his walls is more unpleasant here than it was against his cock, but the stranger doesn’t care, thrusting in again before adding a fourth. He winces at the stretch, but fucks himself back on the fingers, moaning. He has to sell this if he wants the perfect opportunity to arise.
“It’s good,” he breathes, arching his back, “please, let me come.” It’s not his best performance, but it works; the man rises, his eyes still trained on Satoru’s stretched hole, and he fumbles with his belt, pulling it from his cargos with a crisp snap . From there, he’s quick to shove them down, pulling his dick out and tapping it teasingly against Satoru’s entrance.
It’s now or never, Satoru decides. Driving his foot into the man’s stomach, he rolls over, kicking his jeans and boxers away as he gets to his feet. He’s sure he makes a strange picture, one wrist cuffed and the remains of his sweater dangling off of him like a cape, but regardless, he stumbles towards the door as the stranger groans, winded.
He gets deja vu with the three second lead, and for a moment, he thinks he’s got away, the man slow on his feet as he recovers from the kick. But just as Satoru runs up to the door, he slips on something - the other glove.
He braces himself, squeezing his eyes shut as he careens towards the floor, but the impact never comes. Strong, corded forearms wrap around his bare middle, tugging him back into his chest before pushing him towards the wall.
The side of his face is pressed into the plaster. The stranger yanks his arms back roughly, holding them behind him with one hand around both his wrists as he reattaches the other cuff, tighter this time. It rubs painfully against the already raw skin, and Satoru gasps as the man slides his other hand up his front, yanking on the silver chain before wrapping a large, thick hand around his throat and pressing in. He chokes on his breath, his vision fading with seconds. Only the friction of his sore, clamped nipples against the drywall keeps him alert, his eyelids fluttering with the effort it takes to stay conscious. He feels the man press inside him, but it’s far away, like he’s watching it happen to someone else.
“Fucking brat,” the man hisses meanly into Satoru’s ear. He bites down on the meat between his neck and his shoulder hard enough to break skin. It hurts - Satoru tries to shout, but to no avail. The hand on his neck only presses in harder, cutting off his air supply fully as the man’s thrusts deepen, his hips snapping against Satoru’s ass in time with each of his aborted breaths. His pretty cock is swollen and red, both his chafed nipples and his sensitive cockhead rubbing against the plaster. He’s sure he’s leaking all over the paint, but he’s too light headed to care as the man pounds deeper inside of him, his tattooed cock spreading his rim wide open around it.
Finally
, the man weakens his grip on Satoru’s throat. He gulps down air like a drowned man, unsure when he’ll go under again. His stalker’s thrusts have grown sporadic as he groans into the back of Satoru’s neck, the hand previously choking him out digging into his hip fat instead, the grip strong enough to bruise. Satoru’s arms ache from being stuck behind him for so long, the handcuffs uncomfortable and cold, but he’s so
close
that it doesn’t matter, his attention split only between the hot, wet breaths against his neck and the way the man’s thick cock presses perfectly up against the curve of his prostate. It should feel dirty,
violating
, but instead Satoru throws his head back, moaning as the pleasure overwhelms him. He trembles as he paints the wall with his release, and only then does the man grip his tender cock, stroking him quickly and pushing him over the threshold into overstimulation.
The man stills, and Satoru bites back a scream as he grinds up against his prostate, palming roughly over the raw head of his cock. “Too much,” he gasps, stuck between the wall and the hard plane of the man's body, “too much, stop, please-”
The sound of his begging pushes the intruder over the edge, and with one last push inside, he comes, filling Satoru with that wet warmth. He’s quick to unclasp the cuffs and chuck them onto the bed, wrapping his arms around Satoru’s thin waist and tucking his face into the crook of his neck. Satoru slumps back in his hold, catching his breath with a small grin as he lingers in the aftershocks of his orgasm.
Without any warning, Sukuna hoists him up over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, stalking back towards the bed. Satoru shrieks, swatting at his boyfriend's tight, muscular ass until he drops him back onto the bed with a bounce. He’s just about ready to melt into the sheets, come in his ass be damned, but Sukuna crawls over him, his creepily cute red eyes roving over his frame in some semblance of concern.
“You okay?” he huffs, and while anyone else might cower in fear, Satoru smiles. It’s sweet, the concern, particularly because this whole scene was Satoru’s idea. Sukuna takes Satoru’s hands in his own, slowly massaging out the reddening marks on his wrists before pulling them up to his mouth, kissing Satoru’s palms as red meets blue.
He nods, still smiling. “I would have safeworded if I wasn’t.”
Sukuna nods too, quiet for a moment, before he scowls like he’s smelled something sour. He raises his voice in a slanderous imitation of Satoru’s. “‘ Please don’t fuck me, sir, ” he whines mockingly as Satoru howls with laughter, “ I’m a virgin! ’ Where the fuck did that come from!?” Satoru runs his hands over the corded muscle of Sukuna’s shoulders and around his neck, tugging him close so that their noses brush together. Sukuna grumbles, but when Satoru connects their lips sweetly, he’s quick to chase his warmth. He can front all he wants, Satoru thinks, but really, he’s just a big softie.
Satoru pulls away first, to Sukuna’s disappointment, and presses a manicured nail into his boyfriend’s meaty pec. “Says you,” he cries in outrage, gesturing to the remains of his sweater, “you could have just taken it off like a normal person!” He laughs as Sukuna looks away. His boyfriend is ready to sulk until Satoru pulls him back with a hand on his cheek, leaning forward to kiss him properly.
They kiss languidly, the lines of their bodies relaxed after their shared orgasm, and Satoru hooks a leg up and over Sukuna’s bare hip. While the scene was fun - everything he could have asked for, to be honest - he missed this intimacy, the way that Sukuna’s iron walls come down around him, and only him. He groans into the kiss, happy for the opportunity to show Sukuna just how much he appreciates him; how much he appreciates all the work he put into fulfilling Satoru’s perverted fantasy.
“Shit,” Sukuna curses into his mouth. Satoru can feel him hardening against his leg, and he snakes a hand down and around his boyfriend’s dick. He strokes him to full hardness as he looks cheekily between two intense, red eyes. Hooking his other leg around the opposite hip, Satoru pulls their bellies together, grinding his interested cock against the hard line of Sukuna’s abs and grinning unabashedly.
Reaching blindly down the bed, he snatches the cuffs up, dangling them in the air beside Sukuna’s head. He giggles coyly at the hungry look in his boyfriend’s eyes.
“Round two?”