For You, My Life.

Bloodhound

To be fair, Satoru didn't think Suguru actually meant it.

But the rate at which his reverse curse technique worked to compensate, not for sleep, but for the number of times Suguru left him gaping and sore- was exorbitant. A measure far beyond anything a normal sorcerer could likely withstand.

As if the night they fucked had carved a particularly wanton, and pornographic collection of future encounters.

Where little morning kisses led to choked breaths. Calm, accompanied showers bridged to Satoru's ass streaked with red hand marks, while his face smushed up against the chill of the tiled wall.

Planned trips to the grocery store oftentimes never allowed the two an opportunity to leave the driveway- too occupied with steaming up the windows of that black 2006 BMW that encased a chorus of shaky moans and greedy grunts.

The patio wasn't safe. Neither the walls. Nor the kitchen.

Recently, Satoru came home starved from a longer day at the school and Suguru's solution to that was to fuck him raw in front of the hot stove on which their dinner was cooking.

The obsidian haired sorcerer had beamed- "Just keep me warm, it's almost done," so nonchalantly as he carefully reached around Satoru's trembling waist to flip filets of salmon. Suguru's dark gaze inherently focused on how the fish changed to a perfect tone of coral and pink under his care, despite how tightly Satoru's asshole squeezed his deeply sheathed cock. The anticipation of movement bubbling within Satoru's veins and emanating in body heat alone. Erotic intentions palpable in the close quarters.

Little flecks of simmering sesame oil lightly splashed ivory skin after a calculated readjustment of the hot pan, making the taller man accidentally, one hundred percent unwillingly, cum against the cabinetry from the unexpected stimulation.

Suguru bit into that pale neck like a vampire, holding his cooking chopsticks in one hand while the other braced their bodies together. Decidedly, the chef's patience shattered like the cry from Satoru's throat. Suguru committed his cock right there, freeing the obscenely whiney Gojo clan member from his misery of excessive arousal.

Suguru recalled how those pink, swollen pecs of the other pressed on cool granite, electrifying the body in his tight, possessive grasp. Suguru's strong, scarred body speared between warm, plush, sloppy cheeks repeatedly until Satoru ordered the man to come with him at the same time.

In the aftermath sat a perfectly cooked dinner, despite Suguru filling his mouth with the nectar of his own sin as he sucked and tongued Satoru's cavity clean. Refusing remorse with the way his fingers left a decoration of little red stamps all over Satoru's gorgeous ass and thighs in the evening light of the pampered man's kitchen.

Suguru couldn't help himself. The daily marks on Satoru's skin only multiplied. Each and every one a privilege to cover such pristine skin.

All just as unique, too. Akin to tattoos of sorts. An ink of desire etched into permanence. A commemoration of time. Instances that the men had burrowed themselves further into one another's psyches.

Satoru had no choice but to start using his reverse curse technique to heal the abundance of equally raw and healing clusters. He could only wear so many long sleeves and pants in the summertime to spite the heat of Tokyo. No thanks to Suguru who bruised hickies way too high on the neck and behind the ears- exposing those crimson broken capillaries enough to be unexplainable to whoever keen enough to catch a glimpse of them.

Yet, the whole appeal of sex and closeness became something less than a game and more like an addiction as time progressed. Satoru's need for candy and Suguru's need for Sprite was mild in the face of their carnal cravings and utter dependence on claiming what was rightful to each of their own.