Ao3 is locked due to AI scrapping. If you need me to tag anything, add any warning, or describe upsetting an scene I will!
Fanfiction Masterlist Part One and Two
Smau masterpost
Currently ongoing longfics: #ily (im not supossed too), #explosions across lifetimes, #hell of a ride, #life series project
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Literally don't steal or use without credit and I'm good.
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Profit off of it
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After a little procrastination, I have created a very small and chill discord server where we can talk about all things sashisu - it's going to be very relaxed, just a place to chat and share your favourite fanworks (and discuss upcoming projects and ideas!)
It's open to anyone 18+ - I have no ability nor desire to police anyone's age and it's not going to be super explicit, but links to mature or explicit content will be allowed as will some casual conversation, so anyone who's put off by this, please keep that in mind!
But, as with everything I do, it's not meant to be anything serious, just something for people who love this particular dynamic to meet and chat about The Blorbos! If that interests you, there's an invite link here that will be open for 30 days, but if you come across this later and are interested, just send me a message :D
His head lingers between her thighs for a time, hungry. Worshipping her in a different way. The only thing that stops Shoko for doing the same for him when he pulls up is the hand spreading her knees apart, impatient. Eager.
Her back hits the sheets, pilant. He doesn't even have to maneuver her for her to go down, tonight. The want surging in her chest is strong, overpowering. She needs him on her like she needs air.
Satoru, as always, is happy to oblige.
______
To Satoru, Shoko is a goddess on Earth.
[note: this fic is rated Mature]
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
To Satoru, Shoko is a goddess on Earth.
To everyone else, she's just a mere woman. A co-worker, an acquaintance to many and true friend to few. She's cold, inside and out; deadpan, never speaking in anything but careful neutral tones. Her heels click of the floor when she walks and her nails clack against countertops on the rare occasion her hands are ungloved. She's precise, in her job and conversation, unwavering. She rarely laughs, and when she does it's a sharp, ugly sound. The scent of tobacco lingers around her and ash is stained into her doctors coats, even three years post addiction.
She's a woman, a pretty one. Physically, at least; with sad almost doe like eyes drawing you in. Her hair is long and little unkempt, always tending to split at it's ends. She doesn't do her makeup and lets the bags that adorn her face speak for themselves. Whatever beauty she possesses is dampered by the cold demeanor, the way she doesn't smile. Shoko's the type of girl sleezy old men tell to smile more. The type they tell to quiet down, because she's stubborn and brazen and has never once done what she's told.
To everyone else, Shoko's a cold shell of a pretty girl, worn down by addiction and Jujutsu. To Satoru, she's all this and more. A goddness in the mortal realm.
Others think him a God instead. Satoru thinks of himself as a lowly man, wrapped around Aphrodite's finger.
The Six Eyes, in all their power, have nothing on the woman before him.
The woman atop him, as she is now, and has she has been since they were eighteen going on thirty. Atop him, where she'll stay for the rest of time immemorial.
He runs his hand down her body, admiring the feel of her under him. Her soft, milky skin, the curve of of her hips, the secret little moles that only he knows about. He already knows it all, better than he knows his own body, but each time he maps it out like it's new, entranced.
(She's gorgeous. Satoru loves her.
He loves that ever-present, sad look she has. He loves her resting bitchface, the almost persistant glare in her eyes. The color of them. He loves how she sometimes snorts instead of laughing and even loves the oily look of her hair, because it's her and she could never be anything less than perfect in his eyes.
He loves when she gets attitude with him, when she's snappy and mean. He loves the sound he can draw from her with just a few careful touches. He loves the slight rasp she has from all the smoking, how she snores lightly in her sleep. Shoko has always played the most wonderful melody.
He loves her body, too. All of it, every single centimeter. The stretch marks she grumbles about, the moles on the underside of her thighs, the slight pudge of her stomach that she's also grown to hate. Every part Shoko says she dislikes, Satoru just learns to love it more.
She complains about her boobs, sometimes, how they sag, how they have too many stretch marks and how self conscious they make her feel. Recently, it's become Satoru's mission to help her love herself again.
He loves her chest, the supple curve of it, the softness, the way it feels in his hands. How easy she is to fluster with just one well placed grab. It's not big, but that doesn't matter. Satoru would still adore it, even if it was the smallest cup size out there. Every part of her is more beautiful than the moon in his eyes.
He tells her this, verbally and with sneaky little kisses to her waist, and prays his goddess has learned to believe in the words of a mere mortal.)
He used to let her breathe smoke into his mouth and didn't even bat an eye when she would put her cigarette out on his thigh, more than happy to be her ashtray. He savored the burn, her closeness, the disgusting taste of tobacco in his mouth, just as he does now and as he always has.
He feels drunk whenever she's around him, pleasantly warm and a fuzzy feeling stirring in his gut. It's a high he never tries of, now matter how many time he tastes it.
Plump red lips meet his, and Satoru has to fight the urge to sigh into her mouth. The taste of old smoke, black coffee and strawberries fill his senses. He's tasted lots of sweet things, far too many to count, but Shoko's so bitter in comparison. Regardless, Satoru's pretty sure she's his favorite thing to savor.
She leaves lipstick stains on his jaw, on his neck, his clavicle, everywhere she can reach without moving his shirt away. The pace for tonight is slow, it seems. Satoru doesn't mind, slow or fast. With the latter, he gets to let go, to lose himself. And with the former, with tonight, he gets to feel her blessing him. To appreciate the woman sitting between his knees and admire her ss she is meant to be admired. Slow, methodical, and for his eyes alone.
The witch before him had cursed him the moment their eyes meet, all the those fleeting years ago, and Satoru couldn't be more pleased. He's hers, content to be over her, under her, beside her, wherever her spell demands him to be. And he'll stay like this 'till the day he dies.
(He's pretty sure she gets off to this. To having the Strongest so entranced with her, under her spell.
He doesn't care, not if it's her. Only her.
Shoko's the last thing on Earth that makes his heart feel full. He needs her, like the plants need the sun and the tides need the moon. He wants, he needs, like he's never done before.
Gojo Satoru isn't supposed to have weaknesses. And yet here one is, laid out on a silver platter.)
Satoru wants to cherish her, hold her close. Shoko wants to take her teeth to his skin and devour him whole.
She's soft curves and refined edges, he's strudy and well-muscled. A wall, a fortress. Impenetrable. Or so everyone thinks he is.
Personailty wise, he's objectively a bit of a loser. He's loud, annoying, insufferable, arrogant. He walks around with an air of confidence that, on any other person, would make her write them off. He doesn't think before he speaks and he's stupid. He's almost twenty-eight years old and he still wear digimon print boxers to bed. He's the Strongest Sorcerer of their generation and he's a fucking dick.
But he's kind, under all that. He gets her favorite daifuku mochi for her on Thursdays and keeps an ashtray for her in his home, in his office, even though she hasn't needed it in three years. He laughs too loud for any room he's in and he cares; so deeply Shoko's convinced it's going to get him killed sooner rather than later.
(He's hot, too, Shoko hates to admit.
Anyone with eyes can tell that he was blessed in the looks department. A symmetrical face, a finely pointed nose, supple, shiny lips and natrual eyelashes most women would kill for. The Six Eyes only enhance his beauty, natural pools of shining blue in his eyes. Shoko has often thought that, if their lives were a different genre and she was the protagonist of a great modern romance, she'd get lost in them. Drown in them over dinner dates and let his silky smooth voice pull her back up to the surface as he sweeps her off her feet.
And oh, that's just his face. The rest of him isn't half bad, either.
He's muscular. In a good way, not the stereotypical ripped look that men have to strave themselves to achieve; the natural way. He's well built, yes, but there's more than just muscle on his limbs. There's still flesh on his arms for her to grab onto, if she wants, plus his legs are great pillows. And fuck, don't get her started on his torso. She can't decide what's better, the six pack or the healthy amount of fat surrounding it. God, Shoko didn't think she was into that stuff, after years of seeing nothing but uncomfortably shredded dude bros, but Satoru turned that on its head.
She thinks she downed an entire bottle of vodka in a hour when she realized Satoru was like eye candy to her, and then another for the last realization and the fact she wanted to feel him under her hands and kiss bites into his skin.
It's funny, really. He wasn't even there, but the mere thought of him had still gotten her drunk.
They're going to ruin each other, hand in unlovable hand; on her fifth bottle of alcohol and daydreams of him flpating through her mind, Shoko is sure of it. More sure than she's ever been of anything else.
It'll be the best death she could ever ask for.)
He's kind, so very much so. Shoko's hypothesis is that this is whay keeps drawing her back to him, trapped in those sky blue eyes and hooked on his laughter. It's the most logical reason she can think of when she finds herself kissing, worshipping, his chest. Every other reason makes her feel like a stupid school girl with her first crush all over again.
(This. This is more than a crush. This is something different, something grand. Something tied into the very Fibre of their souls. It's going to kill them both.)
She runs her hands under his shirt, along his abs, relishing in the gasp he lets out. This is far from the first time she's touched him like this, but he's still so receptive to it. So sensitive.
It makes her want to take him apart, piece by piece, muscle by muscle and tendon by tendon. She wants to break him apart, slowly, lovingly, until all his organs and all his limbs are hers. She wants to dig her nails in and tear. She wants to eat him alive.
She digs her fingers into his abdominal muscles and tries to do just that. She leaves indents all along his body, his chest, his arms, his thighs, anywhere she can reach. She needs to let the world know who the Strongest really belongs to.
She wants, but she's not in a hurry. They'll all find out sooner or later.
They make themselves at home in her bedsheets more frequently these days. It's almost like a bad habit they can't shake. Almost, that's the keyword there. Shoko doesn't know how something so exciting, so heavenly could be bad.
Shoko starts ontop of him, feeling, teasing, but she always ends up on bottom. She always allows Satoru to flip her over however he sees fit that day, his strong hands clutching at dip of her waist.She loves it when he does that, when he manhandles her. It sounds strange to admit and she'll never say it out loud, but she loves it. Feeling a bit of his endless strength, held back and directed to her and only her. Shoko thinks she could get drunk off the rush.
Satoru loves it too, she thinks. Holding her down, being with her like this. The challenge of actually having to restrain himself, to hold something gently. There's a gleam in his eyes when they're together that she never really sees anywhere else.
It's like a game to him, she thinks, and Shoko is his favorite participant. His one and only, for only she has earned the right to lay with him and kept it. Only her.
Their nighttime activities have both stayed the same and changed drastically over the years, just like they have. Shoko sometimes think of it has proof they're still alive, that they're still people under all the blood and guilt and grief.
They're kinder with each other now than when they first started, older and less frenzied. Every movement of their bodies doesn't make her headboard rock against the wall; she no longer gets noise complaints from her neighbors.
That doesn't mean these encounters are any less pleasing. In fact, she fears its the opposite. They only get more blissful, more addicting with time.
Shoko's tasted lots of drugs before, has let them posion and coat her insides as if they always belonged there. The man above her is by far her favorite.
Satoru presses kisses to her skin, mirroring the lipstick stains on his own. He starts with the beauty mark under her right eye, the one he always said was cute, and makes his way down. He kisses along her neck, her collarbone, her chest, all the way down to the meat of her thighs. Where she marked him with cherry red blush, he places a bruise on her. He kisses in places she never thinks to reach, his hands running over her body; gentle, loving, mapping her out. Memorizing her, like he hasn't held her dozens of nights before and won't continue to.
(It's heavenly. It makes her feel warm, cherished, loved. It makes her feel alive.)
Shoko shivers involuntary with every press of his mouth aganist her and bites her lip. She's bad, at being worshipped like this. Satoru takes it, takes worshipping and being worshipped, in stride.
There's no surprise in that, really, he's always been more God than man.
(And in this regard she is stuck down on earth, forever playing catch up.)
His head lingers between her thighs for a time, hungry. Worshipping her in a different way. The only thing that stops Shoko for doing the same for him when he pulls up is the hand spreading her knees apart, impatient. Eager.
Her back hits the sheets, pilant. He doesn't even have to maneuver her for her to go down, tonight. The want surging in her chest is strong, overpowering. She needs him on her like she needs air.
Satoru, as always, is happy to oblige.
He presses her against her, inside her, and Shoko lets everything else melt away; lost in the movement of them.
They rock back and forth together, a well practiced dance. Her arms are wrapped around his shoulders, hands clutching for purpose on his upper back. She's held him here so many times her fingerprints must be forever etched into his skin, leftovers from all the times he makes her feel good. Shoko wouldn't have it any other way.
Her quiet noises are muffled into his shoulder, her thighs trembling. It's always good, when they fall into her bedsheets. He's always good to her. Satoru's taken his time to learn her, to know what makes her tick and what makes her feel good. He knows, in a way, excatly how to make her unravel before him.
Shoko likes to think she knows how to make him unravel in turn, especially when he groans like he is now. When he rocks aganist her and digs his fingers into the soft flesh of her waist, hard enough to leave bruises. He's learned how to maneuver her, take her apart, and she's learned to mold him in turn, how to make his eyes roll back and make the Strongest putty under her hands.
Satoru mumbles praises into her hair. How good she is, how wonderful, how beautiful, how perfect. How he loves her. His hands never move from her waist, holding her steady for him as he starts to lose himself, almost babbling nonsensical praise for her.
Shoko, heart in her throat, can do nothing but drag his head down and catch his lips in hers, over and over again.
They glow in the aftermath, Shoko pressing lazy kisses to his body. He's always so worn out, after sitting at her alter. She thinks he deserves a prize, for his performance, for how good he prayed.
Plus, he stopped her from delivering earlier. Ieiri Shoko takes nothing without giving her own back in turn.
Satoru thinks himself a God, Shoko thinks him a strange mix of man and divine. Not a demi-god, no, nothing close. But mortal and immortal in his own way.
And he may not be a true God, but every divine man deserves to be revered.
Satoru watches through half lidded eyes, his face a deep red and breath catching in his throat, as she repositions them, then drops down to her knees before him.
He worships her like a mere mortal man, knees cracked from sitting at her altar. Head between his thighs, she worships him in her own way in turn.
I know I dont mcyt post much anymore but if anyone has like. A list or something of the ccs known tumblr accounts I would appreciate it. So i can block them. Fandom and boundaries have changed alot since 2022 (when I joined) and I dont want them reading my shit or making a stink over something I wrote when I was 15-16
why is it that when im reading fanfic i feel like i have a fairly good metric for if something is characterized accurately but when im trying to write suddenly its like ive never seen this character in my life. would he say that. would he fucking say that. suddenly i have no idea
His head lingers between her thighs for a time, hungry. Worshipping her in a different way. The only thing that stops Shoko for doing the same for him when he pulls up is the hand spreading her knees apart, impatient. Eager.
Her back hits the sheets, pilant. He doesn't even have to maneuver her for her to go down, tonight. The want surging in her chest is strong, overpowering. She needs him on her like she needs air.
Satoru, as always, is happy to oblige.
______
To Satoru, Shoko is a goddess on Earth.
[note: this fic is rated Mature]
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
To Satoru, Shoko is a goddess on Earth.
To everyone else, she's just a mere woman. A co-worker, an acquaintance to many and true friend to few. She's cold, inside and out; deadpan, never speaking in anything but careful neutral tones. Her heels click of the floor when she walks and her nails clack against countertops on the rare occasion her hands are ungloved. She's precise, in her job and conversation, unwavering. She rarely laughs, and when she does it's a sharp, ugly sound. The scent of tobacco lingers around her and ash is stained into her doctors coats, even three years post addiction.
She's a woman, a pretty one. Physically, at least; with sad almost doe like eyes drawing you in. Her hair is long and little unkempt, always tending to split at it's ends. She doesn't do her makeup and lets the bags that adorn her face speak for themselves. Whatever beauty she possesses is dampered by the cold demeanor, the way she doesn't smile. Shoko's the type of girl sleezy old men tell to smile more. The type they tell to quiet down, because she's stubborn and brazen and has never once done what she's told.
To everyone else, Shoko's a cold shell of a pretty girl, worn down by addiction and Jujutsu. To Satoru, she's all this and more. A goddness in the mortal realm.
Others think him a God instead. Satoru thinks of himself as a lowly man, wrapped around Aphrodite's finger.
The Six Eyes, in all their power, have nothing on the woman before him.
The woman atop him, as she is now, and has she has been since they were eighteen going on thirty. Atop him, where she'll stay for the rest of time immemorial.
He runs his hand down her body, admiring the feel of her under him. Her soft, milky skin, the curve of of her hips, the secret little moles that only he knows about. He already knows it all, better than he knows his own body, but each time he maps it out like it's new, entranced.
(She's gorgeous. Satoru loves her.
He loves that ever-present, sad look she has. He loves her resting bitchface, the almost persistant glare in her eyes. The color of them. He loves how she sometimes snorts instead of laughing and even loves the oily look of her hair, because it's her and she could never be anything less than perfect in his eyes.
He loves when she gets attitude with him, when she's snappy and mean. He loves the sound he can draw from her with just a few careful touches. He loves the slight rasp she has from all the smoking, how she snores lightly in her sleep. Shoko has always played the most wonderful melody.
He loves her body, too. All of it, every single centimeter. The stretch marks she grumbles about, the moles on the underside of her thighs, the slight pudge of her stomach that she's also grown to hate. Every part Shoko says she dislikes, Satoru just learns to love it more.
She complains about her boobs, sometimes, how they sag, how they have too many stretch marks and how self conscious they make her feel. Recently, it's become Satoru's mission to help her love herself again.
He loves her chest, the supple curve of it, the softness, the way it feels in his hands. How easy she is to fluster with just one well placed grab. It's not big, but that doesn't matter. Satoru would still adore it, even if it was the smallest cup size out there. Every part of her is more beautiful than the moon in his eyes.
He tells her this, verbally and with sneaky little kisses to her waist, and prays his goddess has learned to believe in the words of a mere mortal.)
He used to let her breathe smoke into his mouth and didn't even bat an eye when she would put her cigarette out on his thigh, more than happy to be her ashtray. He savored the burn, her closeness, the disgusting taste of tobacco in his mouth, just as he does now and as he always has.
He feels drunk whenever she's around him, pleasantly warm and a fuzzy feeling stirring in his gut. It's a high he never tries of, now matter how many time he tastes it.
Plump red lips meet his, and Satoru has to fight the urge to sigh into her mouth. The taste of old smoke, black coffee and strawberries fill his senses. He's tasted lots of sweet things, far too many to count, but Shoko's so bitter in comparison. Regardless, Satoru's pretty sure she's his favorite thing to savor.
She leaves lipstick stains on his jaw, on his neck, his clavicle, everywhere she can reach without moving his shirt away. The pace for tonight is slow, it seems. Satoru doesn't mind, slow or fast. With the latter, he gets to let go, to lose himself. And with the former, with tonight, he gets to feel her blessing him. To appreciate the woman sitting between his knees and admire her ss she is meant to be admired. Slow, methodical, and for his eyes alone.
The witch before him had cursed him the moment their eyes meet, all the those fleeting years ago, and Satoru couldn't be more pleased. He's hers, content to be over her, under her, beside her, wherever her spell demands him to be. And he'll stay like this 'till the day he dies.
(He's pretty sure she gets off to this. To having the Strongest so entranced with her, under her spell.
He doesn't care, not if it's her. Only her.
Shoko's the last thing on Earth that makes his heart feel full. He needs her, like the plants need the sun and the tides need the moon. He wants, he needs, like he's never done before.
Gojo Satoru isn't supposed to have weaknesses. And yet here one is, laid out on a silver platter.)
Satoru wants to cherish her, hold her close. Shoko wants to take her teeth to his skin and devour him whole.
She's soft curves and refined edges, he's strudy and well-muscled. A wall, a fortress. Impenetrable. Or so everyone thinks he is.
Personailty wise, he's objectively a bit of a loser. He's loud, annoying, insufferable, arrogant. He walks around with an air of confidence that, on any other person, would make her write them off. He doesn't think before he speaks and he's stupid. He's almost twenty-eight years old and he still wear digimon print boxers to bed. He's the Strongest Sorcerer of their generation and he's a fucking dick.
But he's kind, under all that. He gets her favorite daifuku mochi for her on Thursdays and keeps an ashtray for her in his home, in his office, even though she hasn't needed it in three years. He laughs too loud for any room he's in and he cares; so deeply Shoko's convinced it's going to get him killed sooner rather than later.
(He's hot, too, Shoko hates to admit.
Anyone with eyes can tell that he was blessed in the looks department. A symmetrical face, a finely pointed nose, supple, shiny lips and natrual eyelashes most women would kill for. The Six Eyes only enhance his beauty, natural pools of shining blue in his eyes. Shoko has often thought that, if their lives were a different genre and she was the protagonist of a great modern romance, she'd get lost in them. Drown in them over dinner dates and let his silky smooth voice pull her back up to the surface as he sweeps her off her feet.
And oh, that's just his face. The rest of him isn't half bad, either.
He's muscular. In a good way, not the stereotypical ripped look that men have to strave themselves to achieve; the natural way. He's well built, yes, but there's more than just muscle on his limbs. There's still flesh on his arms for her to grab onto, if she wants, plus his legs are great pillows. And fuck, don't get her started on his torso. She can't decide what's better, the six pack or the healthy amount of fat surrounding it. God, Shoko didn't think she was into that stuff, after years of seeing nothing but uncomfortably shredded dude bros, but Satoru turned that on its head.
She thinks she downed an entire bottle of vodka in a hour when she realized Satoru was like eye candy to her, and then another for the last realization and the fact she wanted to feel him under her hands and kiss bites into his skin.
It's funny, really. He wasn't even there, but the mere thought of him had still gotten her drunk.
They're going to ruin each other, hand in unlovable hand; on her fifth bottle of alcohol and daydreams of him flpating through her mind, Shoko is sure of it. More sure than she's ever been of anything else.
It'll be the best death she could ever ask for.)
He's kind, so very much so. Shoko's hypothesis is that this is whay keeps drawing her back to him, trapped in those sky blue eyes and hooked on his laughter. It's the most logical reason she can think of when she finds herself kissing, worshipping, his chest. Every other reason makes her feel like a stupid school girl with her first crush all over again.
(This. This is more than a crush. This is something different, something grand. Something tied into the very Fibre of their souls. It's going to kill them both.)
She runs her hands under his shirt, along his abs, relishing in the gasp he lets out. This is far from the first time she's touched him like this, but he's still so receptive to it. So sensitive.
It makes her want to take him apart, piece by piece, muscle by muscle and tendon by tendon. She wants to break him apart, slowly, lovingly, until all his organs and all his limbs are hers. She wants to dig her nails in and tear. She wants to eat him alive.
She digs her fingers into his abdominal muscles and tries to do just that. She leaves indents all along his body, his chest, his arms, his thighs, anywhere she can reach. She needs to let the world know who the Strongest really belongs to.
She wants, but she's not in a hurry. They'll all find out sooner or later.
They make themselves at home in her bedsheets more frequently these days. It's almost like a bad habit they can't shake. Almost, that's the keyword there. Shoko doesn't know how something so exciting, so heavenly could be bad.
Shoko starts ontop of him, feeling, teasing, but she always ends up on bottom. She always allows Satoru to flip her over however he sees fit that day, his strong hands clutching at dip of her waist.She loves it when he does that, when he manhandles her. It sounds strange to admit and she'll never say it out loud, but she loves it. Feeling a bit of his endless strength, held back and directed to her and only her. Shoko thinks she could get drunk off the rush.
Satoru loves it too, she thinks. Holding her down, being with her like this. The challenge of actually having to restrain himself, to hold something gently. There's a gleam in his eyes when they're together that she never really sees anywhere else.
It's like a game to him, she thinks, and Shoko is his favorite participant. His one and only, for only she has earned the right to lay with him and kept it. Only her.
Their nighttime activities have both stayed the same and changed drastically over the years, just like they have. Shoko sometimes think of it has proof they're still alive, that they're still people under all the blood and guilt and grief.
They're kinder with each other now than when they first started, older and less frenzied. Every movement of their bodies doesn't make her headboard rock against the wall; she no longer gets noise complaints from her neighbors.
That doesn't mean these encounters are any less pleasing. In fact, she fears its the opposite. They only get more blissful, more addicting with time.
Shoko's tasted lots of drugs before, has let them posion and coat her insides as if they always belonged there. The man above her is by far her favorite.
Satoru presses kisses to her skin, mirroring the lipstick stains on his own. He starts with the beauty mark under her right eye, the one he always said was cute, and makes his way down. He kisses along her neck, her collarbone, her chest, all the way down to the meat of her thighs. Where she marked him with cherry red blush, he places a bruise on her. He kisses in places she never thinks to reach, his hands running over her body; gentle, loving, mapping her out. Memorizing her, like he hasn't held her dozens of nights before and won't continue to.
(It's heavenly. It makes her feel warm, cherished, loved. It makes her feel alive.)
Shoko shivers involuntary with every press of his mouth aganist her and bites her lip. She's bad, at being worshipped like this. Satoru takes it, takes worshipping and being worshipped, in stride.
There's no surprise in that, really, he's always been more God than man.
(And in this regard she is stuck down on earth, forever playing catch up.)
His head lingers between her thighs for a time, hungry. Worshipping her in a different way. The only thing that stops Shoko for doing the same for him when he pulls up is the hand spreading her knees apart, impatient. Eager.
Her back hits the sheets, pilant. He doesn't even have to maneuver her for her to go down, tonight. The want surging in her chest is strong, overpowering. She needs him on her like she needs air.
Satoru, as always, is happy to oblige.
He presses her against her, inside her, and Shoko lets everything else melt away; lost in the movement of them.
They rock back and forth together, a well practiced dance. Her arms are wrapped around his shoulders, hands clutching for purpose on his upper back. She's held him here so many times her fingerprints must be forever etched into his skin, leftovers from all the times he makes her feel good. Shoko wouldn't have it any other way.
Her quiet noises are muffled into his shoulder, her thighs trembling. It's always good, when they fall into her bedsheets. He's always good to her. Satoru's taken his time to learn her, to know what makes her tick and what makes her feel good. He knows, in a way, excatly how to make her unravel before him.
Shoko likes to think she knows how to make him unravel in turn, especially when he groans like he is now. When he rocks aganist her and digs his fingers into the soft flesh of her waist, hard enough to leave bruises. He's learned how to maneuver her, take her apart, and she's learned to mold him in turn, how to make his eyes roll back and make the Strongest putty under her hands.
Satoru mumbles praises into her hair. How good she is, how wonderful, how beautiful, how perfect. How he loves her. His hands never move from her waist, holding her steady for him as he starts to lose himself, almost babbling nonsensical praise for her.
Shoko, heart in her throat, can do nothing but drag his head down and catch his lips in hers, over and over again.
They glow in the aftermath, Shoko pressing lazy kisses to his body. He's always so worn out, after sitting at her alter. She thinks he deserves a prize, for his performance, for how good he prayed.
Plus, he stopped her from delivering earlier. Ieiri Shoko takes nothing without giving her own back in turn.
Satoru thinks himself a God, Shoko thinks him a strange mix of man and divine. Not a demi-god, no, nothing close. But mortal and immortal in his own way.
And he may not be a true God, but every divine man deserves to be revered.
Satoru watches through half lidded eyes, his face a deep red and breath catching in his throat, as she repositions them, then drops down to her knees before him.
He worships her like a mere mortal man, knees cracked from sitting at her altar. Head between his thighs, she worships him in her own way in turn.
Between him and Suguru, there is a gap.
Not a physical one, of course, but a gap. Satoru knows it's there, can feel it everytime they so much as glance at each other. It's like a gaping, endless maw, right between Satoru and where he wants to be.
There is a gap between them, a wide one, and Satoru longs to bridge it more than he's ever longed for anything else.
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Between him and Suguru, there is a gap.
Not a physical one, of course, but a gap. Satoru knows it's there, can feel it everytime they so much as glance at each other. It's like a gaping, endless maw, right between Satoru and where he wants to be.
Suguru. That's where he wants to be. Right up next to him, as close as possible. They're best friends, so it's only natural.
But, something is keeping him where he is. Feet rooted to the ground, hundreds of miles away. Exactly where he doesn't want to, loathes, even, to be.
There is a gap between them, a wide one, and Satoru longs to bridge it more than he's ever longed for anything else.
————————
The gap between them is like infinity, Satoru figures.
It is a humid, lazy afternoon. Suguru is sitting next to Shoko in his room, futility trying to guide her through a chemistry worksheet. Shoko's not bad at math, she just hates chemistry. Says it's stupid. (Satoru, notable lover of science, wisely decides to keep his mouth shut and not tell an irritated Shoko about how cool the thing she hates is.) Satoru sits on his rug next to them, paying more attention to their back and forth than he is his own homework. Shoko's being stubborn about this, it's about to make Suguru pop a blood vessel. It's kinda funny.
They are not touching, none of them are. Suguru and Shoko almost do, their hands nearly brushing as he points to the faults in her equation, but they never actually do.
But Satoru wants to. To touch. He wants to reach out so badly it burns.
Something keeps him back, from reaching out. Something keeps him away from Suguru.
Instead of taking this as the warning it may have been, he takes this as challenge.
And, well, it's a good thing Satoru knows how to make the infinite his.
————————
For a fleeting amount of time, Satoru thinks he's begining to bridge the infinite space between them.
Of course he is. He's the Six Eyes. There's nothing he can't do. Infinity is his, his element, and his alone. It was only a matter of time before he overcame this hurdle; doing so came as naturally as (maybe even more so) breathing to him.
Their second year is both a blur and the most wonderful time of his life. It's when Satoru and Suguru both find themselves anew, when they truly and reach out to close that void between.
It starts with shoulder checks and sitting closer than needed on movie nights and at restaurants and in the car. And then it's sleepover, sometimes all three of them but mostly without Shoko. And then it's sharing beds and waking up groggy, running late to class together; Satoru getting distracted by how peaceful Suguru's sleeping face looks and making them both miss their alarms.
And then it's all of that and hand holds at dusk that turn into hand holds in the morning and whenever they feel the need too. Which is often.
It's perfect. It's everything he's ever wanted. It's still not enough.
Throughout all of this, Shoko watches them dance around each other with poorly hidden amusement, a cigarette between her lips. She never says anything of it, but Satoru sees the amused twinkle in her eyes. And, later on when the innocent jabs turn to barely disgused flirting, the annoyed one as she wills them to get just get it over with already.
(He never reaches out towards her.)
Their second year is a blur, it's everything he's dreamed of, everything he's ever wanted and more. Simultaneously, it's not also not enough. The gap is still there.
And then, and then it is. They sit close on evening, and finally, Satoru breaches the infinite space he was destined to.
Their hands brush, shy. Satoru's heart beats like a jackhammer in his chest. Their nose bump together. And finally, finally, he bridges that gap.
Suguru tastes like youth and spring and blue raspberry candy. Satoru's got a sweet tooth like no other, but this is the sweetest thing he's ever tasted.
————————
The Star Plasma Vessel dies.
Infinity closes in on itself, then erupts open again. Gojo Satoru comes back from the dead. He is born anew, awakened, now the Strongest Sorcerer alone.
Geto Suguru doesn't die, but it's a near thing. He's left alive deliberately, and Shoko heals him in just the nick of time.
Though in the end, Satoru supposes none of that really matters. It all comes to an end up just the same.
(Physically, he lives. He dies in all the ways that matter.)
There's blinding rays of purple as the Sorcerer Killier takes his last breaths. The room is coated in both reds and blues when he and Suguru reunite, a girls limp body held in his arms. Together, they are born again, yet separately all the same.
————————
(The gap starts to widen once more.
Satoru pretends not to notice it, sometimes, but he always does. It's hard not to, when they'd been so close before.
Their workload increases. The missons get harder. The three of them, Shoko included, start seeing each other less and less.
The school year drags on, and summer comes around again. Suguru's lost weight.
It's just the heat, he says. Satoru wishes he questioned that sooner.)
————————
Infinity lays between them again. The Village has happened, Shinjuku has happened. It is long over and done with. This time, he can't even see Suguru. His old friend is nothing more than a shadow, a specter, an outline of someone who doesn't exist anymore. When he reaches out to grab it, to pull it back, all Satoru clasps is empty air.
They graduated from Jujutsu High a few years prior, what was left of them. Satoru is gearing up to become a teacher at the very same school, some futile dream of helping the youth guiding him.
Megumi and Tsumiki are about to start sixth grade. They've been in his care for four, almost five, years now, and they're growing up fast. Sooner rather than later, Megumi's gonna be almost as tall as him; Tsumiki's already pretty big for her age. And even sooner than that, Megumi will be joining him at Jujutsu High.
(This is half the reason he's taking uo that teaching position. They can't hage just any hack training his star pupil now, can they?)
Shoko, the last remains of his ramshackle class, is five months away from graduating medical school. After that, she'll return to Jujutsu High with him as the sole healer. Satoru gets the vibe she isn't very thrilled about this, but it's not like she has much choice.
(Unlike Satoru, who does, but he chooses not to think about all that. All that matters, really, is that their orbits are colliding, crashing into each other once more.)
She crashes at his place a lot, these days. Whenever he manages to come home she's there, in his small living room or rummaging about his kitchen. Like she's avoiding her dorm like the plague (Satoru's sure there's a reason, but he figures it's not his place to ask.) He almost regrets giving her the spare key.
Sometimes she's sound asleep when he comes in, dead to the world. Usually on the couch, curled up in a ball like a cat. After three months of this Satoru tells her to just use his bed. She's here more than him, and the couch can't be good for her back. And Shoko makes some joke about him being a prev, inviting a girl to sleep in his bed, but the next time he comes home she's taken him up on the invitation.
Mission success. Not that Satoru thought it would fail. (He did, a little bit. They haven't been....close since high school.)
It's how, in a roundabout way, they start sharing a bed again. But they're also not really sharing it; they don't cuddle or anything like that, they simply exist on the same mattress for a few hours, whenever Satoru has enough time to actually sleep at his own place and not the school.
They practically live together, at least until Shoko's graduated, but she doesn't touch him. He doesn't touch her, either. Infinity stays up, as it always does, blanketing him away from the world.
He doesn't touch much of anything anymore.
(What he has failed to notice is that she never reaches out to touch him back. She hasn't for a while now. What he failed to notice was the space between them, the hand she held out. What he failed to notice was what was right in front of him all along.)
————————
Geto Suguru dies. For real this time.
It's Satoru's fault, because it was always going to be. This, he thinks, was written into the law of the universe. As sure as the Six Eyes connection to the Star Plasma Vessel is. Gojo Satoru is going to kill his best friend. There is no changing this.
Satoru tells him one final thing, a last chance to reach outwards to him, and then it's over. It's done. He's gone.
He really is the Strongest, now. He really is alone.
Satoru leaves his body where it lays, in some back alley of Jujutsu High, because he cannot bear to deal with it himself and he cannot let Shoko shoulder that burden, either. Plus, he has kids to check on. He's pretty sure Suguru didn't kill them, but he's still gonna be really mad if he finds Yuta bleeding out.
As he walks away, infinity, his oldest friend, fills his senses once again. It is the emptiness it's been in a long, long while.
When he looks ahead of him, there is no gap before like there was before, just a void. A cold, empty, expanse. Infinity can never be bridged again.
"What would you say if..." He starts, and then stops himself. It's something he's wondered about often, but never aloud. Putting a voice to these thoughts is scary in a way young Kurapika has never experienced. Almost too much to bear. In some sick twisted way, it feels like if he voices this, Pairo won't love him anymore.
"If?" Pairo prompts. Kurapika's fears are silly. There is nothing but a childlike wonder showing on his friend's face. Malice, as an emotion between them, was never on the table.
Kurapika takes a deep breath, a very big one like Mother told him to do when he's nervous, and blurts out before he can overthink; "If I didn't want to be a man?”
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"Pairo?" Kurapika asks. It's late into the night when he does so, him and Pairo holed up in the latter's bed. They're having a sleepover, as they often do.
His best friend turns to him, eyes wide and more than a little curious. It's not often that Kurapika gets like this, cautious and thoughtful with his words. Usually when he does, he has something important to say.And tonight is no different.
"What would you say if..." He starts, and then stops himself. It's something he's wondered about often, but never aloud. Putting a voice to these thoughts is scary in a way young Kurapika has never experienced. Almost too much to bear. In some sick twisted way, it feels like if he voices this, Pairo won't love him anymore.
"If?" Pairo prompts. Kurapika's fears are silly. There is nothing but a childlike wonder showing on his friend's face. Malice, as an emotion between them, was never on the table.
Kurapika takes a deep breath, a very big one like Mother told him to do when he's nervous, and blurts out before he can overthink; "If I didn't want to be a man?”
Pairo pauses, but only for a second. Only to turn this confession over in his mind once. “I wouldn't mind.” He says, honest. Kurapika's gender does not matter. Pairo's friends with both boys and girls, he plays with all of them all the time. “You'd still be Kurapika, wouldn't you?”
“I suppose I would be.” He agrees. He's not too sure about that, but he supposes Pairo is correct. He'd still be the same person if he wasn't a boy; Kurapika likes the thought of that. At the very least, he isn't sure what it would even change.
Pairo smiles at him, big and wide and full of the innocence only a child has, and Kurapika, who isn't any older himself, decides he's going to believe him.
————————
“I'm not a man.” He whispers one night, months later. Sooner rather than later, he will be leaving the Clan to find Pairo a doctor. This is a realization he's had quite recently, and he would very much like his best friend to know before he leaves. After all, neither of them know when Kurapika will be coming back. (Kurapika Kurta is only twelve years old.)
“Are you a girl then?” Pairo asks. There is no malice in his voice, just like last time. There is only easy acceptance and a tinge of curiosity. (Under all of that, buried not so far down, there is love.)
“No.” He shakes his head. He's thought about this quite a few times, and calling himself a girl has never felt right. It makes him feel like there are ants crawling along his skin, just as calling himself a boy does. “I think I'm something else.”
“Okay.” Pairo promises, a mere six weeks before he dies. “I'll be here when you figure it out.” (Time is the only thing not on their side.)
Kurapika smiles, feeling his friend's head list against his shoulder. He knew he could rely on Pairo.
————————
“I don't tell many people this,” Kurapika starts. Next to them, Leorio startles. “But I'm not a man.”
It is, admittedly, quite early in their relationship when they tell Leorio this. They have yet to even pass the hunter license exam. They're halfway through the test, in the middle of the third phase at Trick Tower. Kurapika and their teammates have been forced to wait out some time they gambled away, making it far more likely that all five of them will fail this portion of the exam. Kurapika is not….satfisted with these results, but they acknowledge that they weren't the biggest help during their matches, so they don't complain. It's better to spend the fifty hours they lost focusing on other things, they figure. Lamenting about being stuck won't get them out any faster.
There's still thirty six hours left on their timer, meaning they've spent only fourteen here. Not even a full day has gone by. And in those thirty six hours, Kurapika has done their fair bit of thinking.
They've concluded that they would like to tell Leorio more about themselves. Naturally, they start with this.
Gon, Killua, and Tonpa are all sound asleep, the former two practically squished together in one sleeping bag. It's almost cute how quickly those two have taken to each other. Kurapika gets the sense that they're going to be friends for a long time yet. (And the latter….well, the less said about Tonpa the better, they think.)
These three sleeping is the only reason Kurapika feels safe enough to voice this. It's not that they don't trust their friends; Gon and Killua seem quite trustworthy (Gon more so, but if he's that fond of Killua then the latter probably isn't a bad person.) It's just something they don't feel the need to share very often.
Kurapika has no problems being perceived as a man, because other people's perceptions of them do not matter. But they're not going to go shouting about how they're neither man nor woman, either. They haven't had a companion since their Clan was slaughtered; they see no need to divulge personal details with only passing strangers in their life.
The Hunter Exam has changed this, they think. Practically with the people in this room (sans Tonpa, obviously.)
Kurapika starts by telling Leorio, and they can't exactly name why. Maybe because he's the same age as them. Maybe they worry that Gon and Killua, as young as they are, may not understand. Maybe it's just the simple fact that Leorio happened to stay awake with him. Regardless, Kurapika tells Leorio first.
Leorio is loud, abrasive, and a little money hungry, but Kurapika can tell he is not a bad person. He's a flawed person, yes, but so nobody's perfect. Leorio is simply….more flawed than others. He is kind, under the persona he presents, more deeply than Kurapika thinks he lets on.
Leorio blinks, clearly taken aback. For a moment, Kurapika regrets ever opening their mouth. Then,
Their friend(?) shrugs. He almost scoffs, but thinks better of it, taking on a gentler tone instead. “You could've told me sooner, ya know. I don't care.”
“It's not information that I like to divulge.” Kurapika hums, their fingers idly drumming against one of the books they'd been reading. At least the examiners had provided them with a decent library; they found passing fifty hours easier with good literature to get lost in.
“Well, if you're not a man, what are you then?” Leorio blurts out what was probably an inside thought, if the instant regret that flashes across his face means anything. “Oh damn, that was rude-”
They laugh at that, a genuine one. “It's fine, I don't mind you asking.”
They don't imagine one meets people like themselves very often. It's a bit rude, as Leorio had admitted, but not a bad question. Kurapika won't blame him for wanting to inquire further.
“I suppose I am just…myself.” Is the answer they settle on. Somehow, it feels right.
“Just Kurapika, huh?” Leorio smiles. Kurapika even thinks he chuckles, a little bit. “That suits you.”
“Thank you.” They smile, because they can tell Leorio isn't lying to them. He means that genuinely.
Just Kurapika suits them.
“Are you going to tell Gon and Killua?” Leorio asks next. Tonpa is not included in his question, for very obvious reasons. Kurapika thinks that all four of them would prefer to never see the man again once the exam is over.
They ponder on it for a minute. They're not sure they'll get the chance to do so during this phase, but after it ends. Or after the exam is over, if the four of them get that far. “Maybe some other time.”
“You can't seriously think they'll reject you.” Leorio grumbles. He sounds offended on their teammates (friends?); Kurapika doesn't think he faults them for being cautious. “I don't know about Killua, but Gon doesn't have a mean bone in his body.”
“It's not that.” Kurapika says. And they're not lying, truly they aren't. This is a problem they and they alone have to overcome. “Any reluctance comes from me and me alone.”
Leorio accepts this with a nod. A rather large yawn escapes him next, and Kurapika has to hold back a laugh. They suppose it is rather late; they've been mostly awake for the past fourteen hours and then some. A little sleep wouldn't hurt.
As they settle down to sleep, once more thought seems to cross Leorio's mind.
“You are pretty androgynous.” He mumbles, and Kurapika isn't sure if that was supposed to be an outside thought. But, well, he'd said it. Again.
“That is the point, yes.” Kurapika supposes it was luck that their facial features are naturally unisex, but they've been making a concentrated effort to keep their hair rather short. A bob is the hairstyle that gets the androgny across most, they've found. “Goodnight, Leorio.”
“G'night.” He mumbles back, turning over in his sleeping bag. And well, that's the end of it.
Despite their current circumstances, Kurapika falls asleep with a smile on his face and a calm feeling in his heart.
————————
What makes them tell Gon and Killua is a little girl named Alluka.
It's not that Kurpika was hiding the information from them, far from it in fact. There was just never a good moment to bring it up. They thought about doing so briefly back in Yorknew City, but things had quickly become far too chaotic far too fast. Kurapika, laser focused on their revenge, had decided the admission would be better suited for some other time, preferably when no spiders were involved.
And it seems the time has come now, sooner than they anticipated. But this is fine. It's best to get it over with sooner rather than later. Bite the bullet, rip the bandaid off, as Leorio would say. Though Kurapika doesn't think there is a bandaid to rip off, at least, not anymore…
(Maybe that's what his coming out to Leorio was. Tearing the bandage off. It was the first time they'd told anyone outside of Pairo, after all, since Kurapika didn't get to tell their parents…)
It's Killua's fierce defense of his sister that convinces them to bring it up casually. It's admirable really, how quickly he shuts down anything that indicates Alluka isn't a girl. And while Gon is not as vocal in this as Killua is, he's very clearly on the same page. Unsurprisingly; Kurapika doesn't think that child has a hateful bone in his body. (And if he does, then they've yet to see it and are probably better without having done so.)
It happens when Gon mentions Kurapika and showing him something, and the latter happens to overhear. And, well, all five of them are here. They figure now is as good a time as any. Who knows when they'll be able to reunite like this next?
“They.” Kurapika corrects, walking over to the little gathering. They hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but it wasn't hard. The little clearing they've convened in isn't exactly big. They and Leorio had only been standing a few scant feet away.
Gon turns his head to them, his eyes wide. It's that same look, so filled with an innocent wonder, that Pairo used to give him all those years ago. “Oh? Is it they now?”
(Kurapika used to be able to make his face look like that, once upon a time. He can only hope Gon doesn't lose his, too.)
They nod, a small smile escaping them. Even Kurapika will admit that is a rare show of emotion these days; it feels only fitting that Gon is the one to draw it out. “It has been for some time.”
“You've been letting us misgender you the whole time?” Killua asks, incredulous. He looks almost offended on Kurapika's behalf.
“It's something I like to keep to myself.” A few years has not changed this fact. Kurapika has never been fond of airing out personal details to people who may not stick around long. The four people around him, along with Melody are notable exceptions to the rule.
“I get that, but I wish you told us sooner. I feel all bad now.” Gon pouts, crossing his arms over his chest. My, he's really upset over this isn't he? That's just like him.
Kurapika laughs softly, a genuine one. “Don't. It didn't hurt me.”
Gon and Killua accept this, though they're both still pouty. The former is soon to get over it soon enough, but Kurapika suspects the latter will hold a bit of a grudge for a lot longer. That's fine, though. They know now. It went just as they thought it would and even better they imagined, somehow all at once.
Alluka simply gives them a smile and a nod from where she sits. Kurapika nods back, and feels the happiest they've felt in quite a long while.
When the three of them have run off again, somewhere into the woods, Leorio nudges them. “Told you so.”
“So you did.” They smile, allowing themselves to lean a fraction of their weight against Leorio. He may be a bumbling fool, but even a broken clock is right twice a day; Kurapika thinks with no shortage of affection.
Leorio preens under the praise, slinging an arm over Kurapika's shoulder. He's happy for them, that much is clear.
