Suguru would kill him if he knew — would bury him six feet under and hide the body where nobody could find him if he knew what Satoru was thinking. And Satoru is finding it harder and harder to cling to that string of reasoning as he watches you dance with Utahime at some club.

His best friends little sister, only by two years but Suguru was protective of you regardless. You shared his features and yet looked nothing alike at the same time. But still so fucking stunning.

So why the fuck is he here at some shitty club downtown watching you laugh and dance, a rosy flush on your cheeks which he’s pretty sure is from all the drinks you’ve been having all night?

Because he’s a fucking idiot. A good friend but a fucking idiot. Suguru’s away on a mission, in another part of the country tracking some first grade curse, and so when he texted Satoru at ass o’clock asking to pick you up from some club downtown, he had thrown on a jacket and grabbed his car keys.

It’s not like he was disturbed or anything — his sleep schedule is beyond screwed and he’d been flicking through some mission files Yaga had sent him. But this was seriously testing him because you are a fucking vision on a regular day and under the violet lights of the club washing over your flushed skin as you grin and dance? Oh he’s fucked.

Still Satoru forces himself to reign every and all inappropriate thoughts in and tuck them away in a small box titled she’s your best friend’s sister you twat and makes his way to you. He gets closer through the sweaty bodies of twenty-something year olds, the speakers blasting some 90’s beat and gets close enough to see how your cute little dress fits you, your hair all tousled and sweaty and smile blinding.

He approaches, until he’s behind you, bright blue eyes flicking over your form as you laugh. His voice is a low drawl but cuts through the loud music easily and he sees the way you freeze once his words reach you.

“I don’t think big brother’s gonna approve of that drink in your hand.”