Chapter Text
"Figured out teleportation?" Suguru said defiantly, placing the cruse into his pocket.
Satoru tilted his head, one brow arched, bridging the frame of his glasses, the dark lenses reflecting nothing back. He smiled—no, worse than that. He fucking smirked.
"I just needed a worthwhile destination," he said, his voice absurdly cheerful.
A beat passed. The distance between them felt fragile, as if the air itself might collapse. There was little sense to anything at all right now.
Whatever he had to say hung around his neck like barbed wire. He could claim he was on a mission—a pitiful, easily disprovable lie. Suguru had never mastered the art of pulling words out of thin air. Not long ago, seeing Satoru like this, chasing after him, might have been a source of comfort. Now, it was anything but—cornering him in a ring he hadn’t even realized existed around them.
Suguru opened his mouth to reply, earnest, though the curse in his pocket felt like it was burning through the fabric. Then it came—a movement so small it might not have existed, but Suguru caught it: Satoru’s hands turning into fists, buried deep in his pockets.
Before a thought could surface in Suguru's mind his body responded. His feet planted firmly, knees bending slightly, a stance that felt instinctual like he was preparing to lunge into a fight.
The silence cracked.
Satoru threw his head back and laughed. The sound ripped through the air, sharp and too bright, splintering like glass under pressure. It was all wrong—too light for the way he’d questioned him, too easy. But whatever his cheerfulness concealed, his cursed energy betrayed entirely.
The hue of it—baby blue—might have passed for a reflection of the snow to anyone else, something clean, something harmless. But Suguru knew better. He tasted it, bitter and electric on his tongue, thick with ozone like the breath of a rain forest storm. He couldn’t mistake it, not now, not ever—not with the way it moved.
It shimmered around Satoru, twisting and spiraling, translucent and predatory, and slowly rippled toward Suguru, slithering like a serpent, winding itself through the air with menace. A living thing, alive in its hunger.
"All right.” Satoru’s tone shifted. “Fight me."
He slipped off his sunglasses with care, folding them and tucked them into the inner pocket of his uniform. The gesture was almost polite, as if this was all some preordained ritual. His smile returned, but it held nothing. Not a trace of humor, not a shred of warmth.
"We haven’t sparred in a while. If you can topple me, you win. I’ll never ask you again. But if I win"—the smile didn’t falter, but something darker bled into it—"you’re gonna tell me everything."
Suguru felt like he was jolted out of a trance. Blinking once. Twice. Feeling nothing but Satoru’s cursed energy and the weight of the curse in his pocket.
He couldn’t win. Suguru knew this. Satoru knew it, too. But he couldn’t step down either.
"No domains," Suguru said.
The other sorcerer didn’t react at first. Just stood there, watching. Then he let out a short laugh, low and almost amused.
"Sure, show me whatcha got," Satoru taunted, the blue hue of his cursed energy getting darker, glinting under the sunlight.
Suguru’s pulse howled under his skin. And then, oh, then Satoru smirked, with that crooked tilt of his lips only Suguru would recognize—lazy, cruel, like he knew something Suguru didn’t. There was nothing playful here.
"Don’t hold back," he shouted, summoning the rainbow dragon it spilled onto the snow in a rush of technicolor ink.
They never went all out, did they?
Not even a flicker of Satoru's body suggested he would move.
The dragon hissed and tensed.
Suguru took a deep breath, counting the seconds as he exhaled.
With a quick wave of his hand, the dragon coiled around him, its scales shimmering like an oil slick before surging forward, roaring and disturbing the pristine snow.
Satoru's hand shot out, summoning Red. In a casual motion, he sent it forward, unleashing a wave of cursed energy that split the dragon open and a rush of the wind that sent sparkles of snow onto Suguru's face.
The sound of its massive body hitting the ground made the birds abandon their nests in the nearby trees. Thick dark-blue-black goo oozed out on the snow, it’s body's twitched and shrieked and the dragon wailed.
Suguru’s vision blurred.
Spit went dry in his mouth.
His body took control over his mind. Reflexes casting aside any emotions and attachments.
His hands summoned more curses. Left. Right. Center in front of him.
They erupted from his body. Gnarly skeletons dragging out from under his skin, their charred bones and grime held together by Suguru’s will.
Another flash of a movement, and he summoned a vengeful spirit that covered the periphery in its electric-blue-black domain suffused with Suguru’s cursed energy. He never said what kind of domains were outlawed.
Satoru huffed, but stood still.
Suguru's gaze swept over the small army of skeletal curses before shifting to the dragon's body. He could use those. Yes, he could try to distract him—attempt to, at least—with the lower-grade curses. The Vengeful Spirit's domain created a space of non-violence—
"Gonna make me wait?" Satoru's voice rang out, mocking from the other side. Suguru's eyes snapped to him.
Suguru's will and cursed energy reacted faster than his mind.
The curses leaped forward, one after another merging and separating like a current.
Suguru’s gaze was fixed on the shimmering flashes of Blue and Red.
Pop. Wave right. Red.
Pop. Wave left. Red. Blue Pop.
It looked like fireworks more than exorcism.
Yet all he could hear were the gunshots echoing off the walls of the Tombs of the Star and the croaked, broken laughter that followed. Those haunting words were etched into his mind: 'Gojo Satoru is dead.'
Without hesitation, the sorcerer summoned another, smaller dragon and leapt onto its slithering body.
Red, Blue followed one after the other turning the attacking curses into ash and slime, splattering on the snowy surface and smudging into a trace of black when Suguru passed them.
The curse's speed made the cold air sting his cheeks, while the knots in his stomach twisted and unraveled in an endless cycle. His focus stayed locked on Satoru, who didn’t move. Not a single inch.
Pop. And more clenches. Wet sounds of curse’s bodies exploding.
Satoru coming closer.
Red. Blue. Red. Red. Red
Satoru was bathed in hues of purple.
Suguru’s hand clenched into a fist, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
'Gojo Satoru is dead.'
"Ah!" Suguru groaned, thrusting his fist forward. Cursed energy crackled around it in a cyan-blue blaze.
There was a brief flicker of a moment before his cursed energy collided with the brutal wall of Limitless, and the overwhelming Blue of it all blinded him. It was a moment when their gazes locked, Satoru’s eyes wide, framed by the snowy whiteness of his thick eyelashes, looking like mouths poised to devour him.
Gojou Satoru wasn’t dead, but perhaps Suguru didn’t fully recognize this version of him either.
Pain exploded in his fist, spreading instantly up his arm. There was a crack, and the force of the collision hurled him backward. He was flung through the air, crashing into the snow and skidding along the slick, muddy ground.
Every nerve screamed in Suguru’s right arm. It felt like the limb feel was swelling and melting, fusing with the frozen ground beneath him. When he tried to move, his body resisted, each muscle protesting like rusted gears. The most he could manage was a feeble lift of his head and a slight bend of his leg at the knee.
The snow crunched faintly. It had to be Satoru.
Suguru didn’t bother to look. Instead, he let his eyes drift to the sky above. Hot liquid slid over his upper lip, and he idly darted his tongue out, tasting the tang of copper.
It had been a long time since someone had beaten him down.
The crunching stopped, and Satoru appeared in his line of vision. His sunglasses were perfectly in place, not a single strand of his hair out of order. That same insufferable smirk tugged at his lips—the one he usually reserved for teasing sorcerers like Utahime-senpai.
The sight of it made the pain twice as sharp.
Satoru hovered above him, acting infuriatingly casual. He dropped to his knees, each one landing on either side of Suguru’s body. The polished frame of his sunglasses caught the light, sending a glint into Suguru’s eyes. He tried to turn his head, tried to move—anything—but all he managed was a low, pained groan.
Satoru tilted his head, the smirk widening just enough to make Suguru’s chest tighten.
“Nice try,” Satoru said, his tone almost sing-song, completely unbothered. "But you don’t use your cursed energy reserves properly."
Suddenly, Satoru poked at the center of Suguru's forehead. The sorcerer yelped, Satoru didn't even flinch.
"What the—" Suguru started but then, another odd little thing happened.
Satoru leaned closer, so much so Suguru could feel the press of his technique, the scent of the rain and ozone thickening around him invading his senses, it was fresh on his tongue and cool on his skin. So much so it almost felt like he was being swaddled in it.
Then, Satoru's thumb swiped slowly across his bloodied lip. Suguru felt everything—the roughness of his fingerpad, the calluses on his knuckles brushing his chin. Even with the shades back over Satoru’s eyes, Suguru could feel their weight, see them in his mind, piercing through him as if trying to unravel the threads of his being.
A succession of short breaths escaped him, misting the cold air between them. Satoru leaned in further, his thumb tracing down from Suguru’s upper lip to rest against the tip of his chin. The touch sent a cold jolt through him. Dazed, Suguru watched as Satoru smeared the bright red stain between his fingers, letting it transfer from one fingertip to another. For a fleeting moment, both of them seemed mesmerized by the stark contrast of crimson against pale skin.
Satoru didn’t stop though, didn’t even break the rhythm of his words.
"You're pretty pent up," His voice was lazy, almost bored. "What’s the point of gathering all those curses if you don’t use them up?"
Absently, he glanced down, his blood-smeared hand pushing his sunglasses up to rest on the top of his head, brushing a small spot of red onto his forehead without a care.
Suguru swallowed.
"It’s all accumulated here."
He followed up with a harsh jab to his gut, the pressure just shy of bruising but sharp enough to force a choked grunt out of Suguru. He could feel the press of Satoru’s nail, digging in with precision just below his Adam's apple.
"Satoru—" Suguru gritted out, his voice rasping, but the other didn’t even acknowledge him.
"You don’t even let it flow along your body. Shame," Satoru continued, almost clinically. His finger dragged slowly down the length of Suguru’s throat, tracing the line of his windpipe. The touch turned feather-light, but it made every nerve in Suguru’s neck tense.
The finger stopped at his right pectoral, poking deliberately, tracing then toward the left, poking there too, the stopping on the sternum. Pressing there. Leaning in. Smiling down at him.
"Satoru—" Suguru tried again, his tone more forceful, but Satoru didn’t flinch, didn’t blink.
"It’s a bit blocked here, too," Satoru muttered, ignoring the plea in Suguru’s voice. His finger slid over the ball of Suguru’s shoulder, setting off an army of goosbumps that followed his touch, spreading on his no doubt bruised arm like an electric current.
"Yeah," Satoru said. "All this shit is useless. You’re leaking more energy than you’re collecting at this point."
As if to prove his point, Satoru’s hand trailed further down Suguru’s arm, stopping at his elbow. He pressed a single finger into the joint with pinpoint accuracy, and the needle-like ache that had been simmering there flared to life. Suguru jerked reflexively.
Satoru didn’t pull back, didn’t offer even a moment of reprieve. Instead, he simply tilted his head, as though dissecting Suguru piece by piece.
"Do I need to remind you of the basics?" he drawled, poking at him, then returning his hand to poke Suguru’s sternum again.
“You’re hurting me, uh,” he said finally.
Satoru blinked. Once. Twice.
His gaze shifted, no longer distant and unfocused. It moved from something far away—something beyond Suguru—to land squarely on him.
Finally, Satoru wasn’t looking through Suguru or past him. He was looking at him. Suguru couldn’t decide what was more unsettling—the force of the Six Eyes or being confronted by Satoru right now.
"Shit, right, I—" Satoru pulled his hand away and straightened on his knees. His gaze darted from Suguru’s battered arm to his face, then back again, looking uncertain.
Suguru managed a few deep, measured breaths, timing them between the spikes of pain that were assaulting his body now, or perhaps he just started noticing.
"I’ll just—" Satoru said, more confident this time.
He stood abruptly, and for a fleeting moment, Suguru felt relief. At least Satoru wasn’t hovering over him anymore. He closed his eyes, letting his left hand gingerly probe the damaged elbow.
He didn’t notice when Satoru moved again—not until hands slid under his knees and shoulder blades. In an instant, Suguru was hoisted off the ground, cradled in Satoru’s arms.
The realization hit like a slap. He scrambled, clutching at Satoru’s neck, his humiliation burning hot across his face and ears.
"The fuck—put me down," Suguru wheezed, his voice tight with outrage.
Satoru spared him a glance, utterly unfazed.
"I’m taking you to Shoko," he said, as if carrying Suguru like a child was the most natural thing in the world.
Suguru tightened his grip on Satoru’s collar, fuming.
"Didn’t you just learn how to teleport?"
"Yeah."
Before Suguru could retort, a deafening thunderclap swallowed the air around them. His vision was consumed by swirling purples and blues, each flash and shift disorienting.
Then came the pull. A tug at his navel, jerking him upward, then abruptly down again.
For a moment, he felt weightless, stranded in the air. And then, slowly... slowly... the sensation changed, spiraling into a stomach-twisting descent.
The pinpricks stabbing his arm suddenly flared into a cascade of white-hot pain.
Suguru screamed, the sound muffled and consumed by the fabric of Satoru’s uniform. The other sorcerer’s grip tightened, pulling him closer against his chest.
His body throbbed, the pain climbing higher and higher with no sign of release.
An eternity seemed to pass before he felt the rough cot of the infirmary beneath him. He heard voices—familiar ones—cutting through the haze. Even with his eyes shut tight, he could recognize Shoko’s strained tone, and Ichiji’s confused, panicked babbling.
Then, all at once, his pain-addled world imploded. Everything turned muted—subdued. Even the sounds were swallowed, reduced to a dull white noise that hummed in the back of his mind.
Suguru forced his eyes open, his vision swimming before locking onto the glow of Shoko’s technique and Satoru's blank expression, ridden of anything.
He gulped for air. Then some. Swallowing through his dry mouth, his eyes drifted to the ceiling, settling on an off-yellow patch from a leak. He studied its shape, tracing the uneven, circular edges as his body was tended to. The sound of scissors filled the air, followed by the rip of fabric as his uniform was cut away.
Careful touches, soft hums, and murmured words filled the air, overlapping. Shoko's voice intertwined with Satoru's. But the words blurred together, incomprehensible. His mind refused to latch on, too focused on one singular, overwhelming need: escape. To break out. Break. Break.
A sharp prick of a needle breached his skin, drawing a hiss from him, immediately followed by a hand resting on his thigh, squeezing gently.
Satoru's and Suguru's eyes met. The hand on his thigh squeezed again, harder this time, as if trying to keep Suguru's attention.
His lips were moving. Shoko's voice grew more insistent, but Satoru’s attention remained fixed on Suguru, his hand still resting there. And—oh—it was warm.
No Limitless between them.
A shaky breath escaped Suguru's lips as Satoru squeezed harder. The warmth of the touch seeped through not only Suguru’s clothes but also into his very consciousness. Satoru’s gaze was locked on his lips, and Suguru exhaled loudly again, hearing the sound of his own breath through the fuzzy fog that slowly began to lift.
"—friendly spar."
"Are you accusing me of beating him up?" Satoru said.
"You said it, not I."
A pressure settled on his side—light but persistent, like the feeling of trying to rouse a sleeping limb. It was strange, almost uncomfortable. Suguru glanced at Shoko. She was looking down at him softly, too soft.
"You’ll be better tomorrow," she said, her eyes offering something like reassurance. "You're under anesthetic, okay?" She squeezed his arm again, a gentle, practiced motion, while Satoru’s hand lingered on his thigh, a pressure that felt almost too much.
Suguru didn’t know if he was just oversensitive or if the collision with Satoru’s Limitless had disrupted his cursed energy, making everything feel sharper, more intense than it should.
Still feeling wobbly, Suguru propped himself up on his left elbow before pushing himself fully upright. His eyes drifted across the room, now empty of Ichiji, then landed on the two people on either side of him, watching him closely, as if he was a bomb set to tick off any moment.
"I'm fine," he said, the words tinged with impatience. "Fine, I'm fine," he clearned his throat.
Satoru's hand slipped away from his thigh, the spot where he rubbed feels neglected in the same moment.
"Sure you are," Shoko said, her tone now completely calm again. She turned, and the only sound was the clatter of metal from her small station near the bed. There were bloody bandages there. Suguru finally looked down at his arm, now swaddled in several layers of white wraps.
"Of course you are," Satoru chirped. His hot palm now slotted over the back of Suguru's neck, and the heat of it spills down his spine.
Satoru’s thumb brushed the center of his nape, his fingers pressing on either side, tightening gently. Suguru felt like a kitten gripped by the scruff.
Without a second thought, Satoru slung Suguru's unharmed arm around his neck and hoisted him to his feet. The motion was too rushed, the vertigo and disorientation still pulsing through his veins. Suguru tipped forward, his forehead pressing against Satoru’s shoulder, his feet shuffling, knees almost buckling. But Satoru was there—everywhere—warm and solid, without Limitless, holding him up, and only then when his skin was pressed against the hot skin of Satoru's palms Suguru realized that he's naked waist up.
His cheeks burned with embarrassment, and he rubbed his forehead against Satoru’s jacket. His fingers slid up his spine, a sensation that was both searing and chilling at once. His palms pressed on his shoulder blades. It felt… it felt like… words were trying to form on the tip of his tongue but they slipped the moment they surfaced atop one another. Suguru doesn't notice how his left hand curled in the fabric of Satoru's jacket.
"Don’t drop him," Shoko said casually.
"I won’t," Satoru replied, his voice so close it almost felt like the two simple words brushed against Suguru’s skin.
"And don’t spar with him, at least for a week," she added, her tone firmer now. Suguru caught the distant click of a pen, followed by the metallic clink of something being set down.
"We’ll stick to verbal training," Satoru said cheerfully, his hold on Suguru tightening just slightly.
Shoko hummed.
Satoru guided them out.
There was something strange about the way Suguru’s skin felt as they moved down the hallway, a tingling that spread like a soft breeze, despite the winter outside. He thought for a second that it might have been comforting if he weren’t so disoriented. Only when the scent of petrichor hit him did his swimming vision catch on the gentle swaddle of baby blue surrounding them.
Limitless.
“Can’t have you getting cold on top of everything else, yeah?” Satoru said, his voice low, his breath skimming the edge of Suguru’s ear.
Suguru felt like he was floating, stretched taut. One hand rested around Satoru’s neck, the other hung limp at his side, while his legs strained to keep up with Satoru’s longer stride.
He barely registered the snow-filled yard as they passed through it. There was no cold, no bite of air against his cheeks. Instead, his mind wandered, drifting in the haze of warmth and memory, back to the first time he had ever heard about “cursed energy.” Yaga-sensei in his family’s living room, speaking in even tones to his parents, before holding out his hands and showing them something only Suguru could ever see. A flicker of pale blue fire, alive and dancing, as if it were breathing. The same color he now felt encasing him. The same color that seemed to pulse between them, blurring where Satoru ended and he began.
When his back hit the starchy sheets of the bed, everything felt—better, somehow. Lighter. As if the day had shifted into something distant, the events of the morning receding into the past, weeks or months ago. His breathing slowed. His eyelids were heavy. He hadn’t felt this tired in ages.
Satoru dragged a chair closer, the legs scraping faintly against the floor. “Well, now tell me,” he said, leaning forward.
Suguru swallowed, but his mouth was too dry for it to feel like anything.
"I need curses to become stronger," he said finally.
The words scratched his throat on the way out.
"Why? I'm the strongest. You don't need to think about it."
It landed on Suguru like tart, black mud, sticking and spreading in places he didn’t want to touched. His right hand clamped around the sheet in a tight fist, and even though the ache was still pulling at his muscles he didn’t let go.
"Just sort out that shoddy flow of yours," Satoru added. "You used to be better at it."
"Well," he said, forcing a laugh that didn’t sound right even to his own ears, "you’re going to fix it, aren’t you, Satoru-sensei?"
He tried to swallow the lump forming in his throat, pressing back the tremble in his lips and the unpleasant warmth rising in his chest, choking him.
He hoped—hoped!—the unsteadiness didn’t creep into his voice, though it rang loud and clear to him. He braced himself, but then Satoru gave him a light kick against the hip, casual, thoughtless. Suguru exhaled slowly, realizing Satoru hadn’t noticed.
Good.
He lifted his arm from his eyes. Satoru was leaning back on the chair, balancing it precariously on two legs. His own arm was draped over his face, long legs stretched across the edge of Suguru’s bed, still in shoes that left streaks of mud on the sheets.
Suguru pushed his legs off the bed, carelessly and sent Satoru’s balance tipping over. The chair tilted back, and the strongest sorcerer of his generation managed only a startled yelp before landing flat on his ass.
"Fucker!" Satoru yelled, the curse word bursting out as a ball of laughter while he scrambled to his feet, grinning.
"No shoes on my sheets!" Suguru said, his voice mock-stern, a teasing edge to the warning.
For a split second, Satoru’s eyes widened in exaggerated disbelief, then he lunged forward. He was on Suguru in an instant, straddling his hips on the bed, his hands clamping down on Suguru’s sides, tickling him ruthlessly.
"Stop!" Suguru wheezed, twisting under him, laughter spilling uncontrollably from his mouth.
"No way, you started it, you lying bastard!" Satoru shot back, his voice gleeful and loud. His fingers worked even harder, relentless, driving Suguru into a fit of breathless, desperate laughter.
Until he stopped.
Suguru hadn’t even noticed when Satoru’s nimble hand slipped into his pocket and produced the curse he’d completely forgotten about.
There was a brief, heavy beat. Satoru’s eyes froze on the black orb resting in his palm. Suguru’s gaze darted from the curse to Satoru and back again.
"Was it worth it?" Satoru asked, his voice low, his eyes still trained on the orb.
Whatever joy they’d shared a moment ago was now tainted by this.
"I don’t—" Suguru began, his mind scrambling for words. But Satoru, ever impatient, cut him off.
"Must be a good curse if you went out of your way to find it, huh?" He straightened and rotated the orb in his hand, inspecting it like a rare object.
"It’s a vengeful spirit," Suguru replied, his voice tight.
Satoru’s eyes flicked briefly toward him, then back to the ball, his smirk widening.
"Hmmm, I suppose you do need more of those," he said, tossing the orb from one hand to the other, playing with it like a cat with a yarn ball. "What happens if I break it?"
He curled his fist around the orb as it settled in his palm, his knuckles turning white, veins standing out along the back of his hand.
Suguru lunged forward, but the motion was clumsy, hindered by the lingering ache in his dominant arm. His left arm was seized effortlessly by Satoru, who pinned it above his head, pressing him back against the bed with ease.
Satoru smiled. Their faces were close now, breaths mingling in the scant space between them.
Suguru squirmed, struggling against the hold, but Satoru barely budged. He huffed, almost amused.
Then there was a crack in the air.
"No!" Suguru hissed.
"I’ve never seen how you eat them," Satoru said suddenly. "What happens if I eat them?"
"I don’t know," Suguru spat, still squirming but achieving nothing but panting and useless huffs.
Satoru smiled. Suguru hated this.
Then, all at once, Satoru released him, just as swiftly as he’d seized him. He dropped the orb, and Suguru caught it on reflex.
Suguru pressed the curse onto his lips before he could think twice about it.
He opened his mouth wide letting the curse slide on his tongue, his glands started producing spit to accommodate and the stretch and the dryness in his mouth definitely wasn't helping, but even in the shame of the moment, being forced to perform this in front of him just to get this over with he couldn't hide from Satoru's ever-present gaze. The Six Eyes were staring at him, not Satoru. He was being assessed and analyzed, and even if Satoru's eyes were not the same as the Gojou clan technique they too were consuming him now.
The glassy surface of the curse began melting on his tongue, its sharp, acidic tang already churning his stomach, dragging heavy and bitter across his taste buds.
Suguru forced himself to swallow the ball.
Satoru’s gaze flicked to his throat.
Suguru’s fingers bunched the sheet in his palm as Satoru planted both hands on either side of him and leaned closer.
He never did this in front of anyone. The shame of it, the disgust, always clung to him. Exorcisms were meant for dark alleys, hurried encounters he could forget. But now, under Satoru’s watchful gaze, it felt like he was being pried open.
Satoru tilted his head, his attention unwavering.
Suguru gulped as the ball began its descent, sticky and slow.
Satoru exhaled, his hot breath brushing against Suguru’s skin, setting it alight.
Suguru’s stomach clenched. He swallowed again, wet, sticky sounds echoing in his ears as the curse slid further down. The taste became distant, an afterthought, as Satoru leaned in closer, his nose grazing—almost, but not quite—Suguru’s cheek, then his chin.
And then he felt it again: the scent of rain, the weight of it crashing over him like a tsunami. It pressed down on his chest, drowning him in an endless, shimmering baby blue—the color of Satoru, glinting under the sun, infinite and inescapable.
A cough rose, Suguru hiccuped, the ball dragged up and down before he gulped desperately, forcing the curse down with repeated swallowing motions, saliva pooling in his mouth.
"Need help?" Satoru asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. His hand clamped over Suguru’s mouth.
Suguru had no choice but to swallow again. And again. And again. The slick wetness filled his mouth, some leaking through the seams of his lips, likely dampening Satoru’s palm. But he couldn’t see Satoru’s face to gauge his intent.
He just lay there, pinned down by Limitless and the weight of Satoru’s body. His blood felt like it was turning to liquid fire—burning from the touch, from their closeness, from the way Satoru’s presence always consumed him.
Everything was too much when it came to Satoru.
"Damn, I love your technique," Satoru whispered, his breath grazing Suguru's throat.
Suguru let out a whine, the words spilling shivers down his spine, from the nape of his neck to the small of his back, settling there and making his hips almost buck on instinct.
"I can see it melting," Satoru added, his fingerpad pressing against the hollow of Suguru's throat, the warmth of his breath joining the touch.
And Suguru could feel it melting. He could feel it itching beneath his skin, mingling with his bloodstream, slithering into his muscles. It scraped at them briefly, leaving them tingling and raw.
He swallowed again, the weight of the curse growing lighter with each motion.
It turned pliant then—tender, obedient—fusing with his cursed energy and sinking into his gut. For a moment, like every time he consumed one, all he could think about was clawing at his skin, ripping it open, letting it bleed out and escape.
Satoru’s press grew firmer before he finally pulled away, taking Limitless with him.
His eyes were wide and gleaming, fixed on the spot his finger had been caressing.
"Hah, you should’ve shown me earlier," Satoru murmured, finally meeting his gaze.
Suguru had no words to offer.
Satoru climbed off him, and the sudden absence of his touch sent a shiver through Suguru, his body reacting in ways he couldn't control.
God. He quickly glanced down, making sure his oversized pants were hiding the growing evidence of his hardening cock.
When he flicked his gaze back toward Satoru he was gripping the handle, cheeks barely flushed compared to the heat that was burning Suguru's neck and face.
"I'll pick you up tomorrow for a mission. It's a special grade in Osaka, you'll love it," Satoru winked at him, and left.
The first time Suguru exorcised a curse, it was a tiny, black ball on his mother’s shoulder. It screeched and yelped when Suguru touched it, too curious for its own good.
His eyes were mesmerized as it swirled into a tight, black ball, slightly larger than the size of his palm. He cradled it in his hands, fascinated by the way it refused to catch any rays of sun, the light unable to penetrate it.
It felt special. He had made it for himself.
The pearl of his collection—his secret toy, hidden from mother just in case.
He held it close to his chest, pressing it harder against his skin. Like it was supposed to be there.
Until a tall man with black glasses and streaks of white in his hair told him what he was supposed to do with them.