The bar you’re in is pulsing with heat, sweat, and smoke, the kind of dive that smells like whiskey and electricity. Satoru is behind the drums, shirtless, slip chain glinting under the lights, white hair damp at the nape of his neck. He’s all rhythm and chaos—foot tapping the pedals, arms a blur as sticks hit the snare and cymbals with practiced recklessness. Choso’s on bass, dark and moody, eyes half-lidded. Suguru’s on rhythm guitar, grinning wickedly into the mic, and Toji’s at the front, heavy on lead, chords snarling from the amp like they want to bite. They're not big yet but soon.

And then the crowd work starts. Suguru grins into the mic during the break between songs, panting a little. “Alright, we gotta little tradition here. Sometimes we pull someone up to have a little fun with us on stage.”

“Satoru’s pick tonight,” Suguru drawls and Satoru grins all teeth. He leans forward from the drum kit, grinning with that reckless, pretty mouth of his. He jerks his head, nodding at you in the crowd. You blink, thrown off for a second, flushed from the heat and the drinks and the thrum of the bassline under your skin.

He’s picked girls before but he never lets them near the kit. Never lets them touch his setup. He always waves them off, keeps them at the edge of the stage with a wink and a smirk. But not tonight. Tonight, Satoru holds his hand out, and the crowd hollers. You climb up, laughing at your friends cheers and the second you're close enough, he pulls you gently by the waist and settles you on his lap facing him, those blue eyes on you.

“You good?” he mutters into your ear, voice rough with adrenaline. You nod, your heart thudding like a second bassline.

Satoru adjusts, arms slotting around you, drumsticks in hand. You can feel every muscle in him shift, feel his breath at your neck, his legs bouncing with the pedals under his feet. Your thighs bounce with the kick of the pedals, and you can feel his breath against your neck when you shift. God, he’s good. Even with you in his lap, he's good.