I’ve had some people request to follow my twitter through links I’ve posted here but I recently switched my handles and made that one a private/personal.
So just a psa my new Twitter is below if you would like to follow for otome/joseimuke/anime/writing stuff♡
Its a lot of mainly; SLBP, JJK, Chainsaw Man, Tears of Themis (upon global release), Blackstar Theater Starless, and lots of other stuff randomly sprinkled in like manga im currently reading etc ✨
The latest Tweets from 𝗐𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗒† (@saizous). If “sorry” was enough, we wouldn’t have seppuku || 18+ content || Writer || 𝑂𝑡𝑜𝑚𝑒 • 𝐽𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑖𝑚𝑢𝑘𝑒 • 𝐴𝑛
Shoko stands at the floor-to-ceiling window. Watching the twinkling of city life at night she takes a hearty drag of her cigarette. The silk robe has begun to slip off of one shoulder but she can’t be bothered to fix it. She’s had too much wine. Feels like she hasn’t quite gotten her sea legs yet and god damnit why hasn’t Satoru got any ashtrays around?
“Here,” he comes up from behind her with a familiar small bowl, kisses the exposed skin of her shoulder and it makes her skin prickle.
“Thanks,” she flicks her ashes into it.
“When are you going to quit?” He asks.
“When I feel like it.” She says, cigarette in her teeth. She’s in no mood to have this conversation with him. “When are you going to start eating?”
“I do eat,” he says.
Lies.
His kisses move up to the crook of her neck. Like a distraction. And she hates how much it’s working.
“Not enough. You look thin.”
They lock eyes through the reflection in the clean glass. She lulls her head back at the feel of his teeth.
“So do you.”
Touché.
“I’ve had a lot of work recently,” Shoko says, butting her cigarette into the bowl for Satoru to place to the side. It’s not untrue. She’s tired. Even her fingers ache.
“Then let me help you relax.”
He slips the robe clean from her shoulders. It’s the only thing she’s wearing and now that she’s exposed to the night air she recoils on instinct. Gojo is there to grab her by the wrists, unwind her limbs like vines from where she is wrapped around her own bare chest and place her hands on the glass in front of them.
She should be used to this by now. His kind of love. The kind that makes you open yourself up, sharp scalpel rip from pharynx to navel, exposing all of those nasty things you’ve gone through so much evolution to hide—to protect. Somehow he’d managed to dig his hands inside of her. She could feel him. Feel him squeeze and wrench and grab at all her viscera until it ached. Until there was no space inside her hollow cavity left unaccosted.
He penetrated.
Gojo left her vulnerable. Left her to seek out his warmth, an act that—she had to admit—felt more than comforting after an endless ennui of contact with cold corpses. Their stiffness lingered in her bones like a sickness, blue mouths and prominent veins etched into her minds eye like a map of death itself. He withdrew the chill from her, pressing her against his warm skin and enticing her to touch his pink flesh until she forgot it all.
He wastes no time, lips leaving a trail of kisses down her spine and its not until his forceful hands press her chest against the large window that she realizes the position she’s in. That anyone with a sharp eye or basic telescope can see her—and them—and what they do under cover of moonlight.
But she can’t seem to care. Not when he grips her hips, pulling her backside toward his face. Not when his warm mouth moves between her thighs. Despite the way her head drunkenly spins when she closes her eyes she can manage to focus on the swipe of his tongue and the way his name sounds as it leaves her lips. No longer the mirthful trill of friendship. It’s smoky and lubricious, carried on a whisper that begs for more despite herself.
“You love the way I taste?” She says breathlessly, though she knows the answer already.
“I do. You taste so fucking good,” he hums.
His breathing is heavy against her folds. She can feel every languid lap as he eats her out from behind. Every calculated flick of tongue and the way the tip teases in circles at her most desperate spots. His head shakes into her, bringing her spine to a charming curve. And when he tongues her clit the city lights blur, like stars against a black abyss. They dance in her vision as if she were spinning.
Shoko doesn’t need him to tell her that she tastes good. She knows it. But she enjoys his adoration all the same. The way he does his best to please her. Her hands push his face into where she needs him most, and she loves how he doesn’t fight her on it.
“Keep going. Make me cum,” she whines.
He’s voracious. His tongue wriggles inside of her and his hands rub in circles at her clit until her knees begin to buckle. He’s no stranger to eating her out, knowing exactly how she likes it and where she likes it.
Her hips press back into his face when she cums. She ruts herself against his mouth and chin and the ringing in her ears is almost deafening when she reaches the height of release.
He kisses her thighs, her ass, the small of her back.
“Relaxed?” He asks.
The way he looks up at her, gaze like a puppy waiting for a treat, has her melting in a way that only he can bring about. She cradles his face in her hands. His mouth is wet with her and she swipes at the swell of his bottom lip with her thumb.
“Not quite yet,” she smiles.
___
It smells like rain. Her boot skids on a tiny rock on the sidewalk, the sound all the more loud given the unusual hush draped over the city this evening. She needed cigarettes, he needed something sweet to drink. Under the yellow glow of street lights she opens her new pack, slender fingers pulling a cigarette from the bunch.
“You need to quit,” Gojo harps for what may be the millionth time.
“What I need is a beer,” Shoko lights her cig.
“I have some,” he says, “at my place.”
It’s an invitation for a lot more than beer. She knows this. Knows she should say no. Go home, not muddle their boundaries any more than they already have been. But her place is lonely and cold, and her fridge was empty.
“Okay,” she says.
“Okay then.”
That’s when he does it. The unthinkable. His warm hand reaches out and grabs hold of hers like they had done it a million times before. Like they’re a real couple, not just two lonely people fucking around to fill the emptiness, if only for a little while.
Reflexively, she pulls her hand back.
“Don’t,” she warns. Partially to herself.
He doesn’t say anything. She brushes stray hair behind her ear as they continue to walk in silence. Footsteps echoing, they seemed to get louder and louder. She wants to tell him she’s sorry. That she just doesn’t want anything to get confused.
“Fuck it, fine,” she mutters, grabbing his hand.
She can see the corners of his mouth perk up, and as she watches her feet take one step after another she allows herself a small smile, too.
___
She hates the the chirping of birds. She hates the lemon glow of sunlight pouring in from the windows and the way it warms the bedsheets. She hates the sound of someone rattling around in the kitchen to make breakfast. Shoko hates a lot of things about mornings when she’s hungover.
“Coffee?” Satoru asks.
Just the thought of it alone makes her stomach turn in the most nauseating cyclone. “I’d rather die, thanks.”
She wants to roll onto her side, throw the covers over her head and call it a day. Of course, Gojo would be a morning person, whereas she would sleep until noon if given the chance.
“You can’t sleep all day.”
“Watch me,” she replies, rolling over and away from him.
He slides into the bed. Pulls her onto her back and climbs on top of her.
“Cut it out,” she moves to hit him playfully but he pins her hands above her head.
“You’re so pretty, Shoko,” he says.
It’s so out of nowhere that it leaves her mouth hung open for a moment and she doesn’t know how to react.
Deflect.
“So are you,” she replies.
“I’m serious,” he laughs for a moment. “You are.”
She can hardly take him seriously. Her eyes must be extra dark this morning, her hair a mess about the pillow and she’s only wearing one of his old sweaters—not quite a vision of beauty.
“You are pretty,” he kisses her eyes. “You are pretty,” he kisses her nose. “Pretty,” he kisses her waiting mouth.
She leans into him when he deepens the kiss. Lets him place his weight on top of her and she threads her fingers into his soft hair. Yes, there are a lot of things Shoko hates about mornings, but this isn’t one of them.
___
Sometimes she spots him across the street. A glimpse of long black hair between the moving bodies of the crowd and her feet plant like lead into the sidewalk until she remembers. Until something snaps her back to reality.
“Can I bum a smoke?” A voice startles her from behind.
She turns. “Creep.”
“Sorry I’m late.”
“You could have texted.”
“Then I wouldn’t have been able to scare you,” Gojo smirks.
“Such a child.” Shoko can’t even find it in her to sigh.
“You okay?”
She tucks her hair behind her ear, dragging her eyes off of the crowd and back onto him.
“I’m fine. I just don’t feel much like going out tonight, after all. Can we just go back to my place?”
She’s thankful that although he looks like he wants to ask more, he doesn’t press. And besides, there’s nothing left to gain from chasing old ghosts.
___
Those first sips of cheap red wine set a blaze that rolls from her belly like wildfire, consuming every inch of her. By the fourth glass she’s forgotten all her troubles. Like a phoenix she arises from a pile of her own ashes, shedding her tired body for something new.
“Why here?” She asks, crossing her legs in her seat.
“He liked it,” Gojo replies listlessly.
“There’s nothing but lonely old men in here,” she takes another sip of her drink.
“Should we get dessert?” Gojo asks from behind a menu.
“I don’t care.”
“I think I want dessert. Maybe cheesecake.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? You seem a little…unhinged.”
“Maybe the castella.”
Another lonely soul wanders in from the snow, taking refuge in the warmth and jazzy Christmas music playing overhead. She downs her glass, leaving a lipstick stain on the rim.
“Can I smoke in here?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m going to the ladies room.” She slips her pack into her bra.
There’s no way she’s going to go through the trouble of grabbing her coat from the coat check to stand outside in the cold for a smoke. With any luck, the bathroom will have a window. Ducking around waiters and down a hall, the chatter of the main room growing faint, Shoko pushes into the bathroom, her mouth longing for the feel of a cigarette.
There’s a chill on her back as the door slams behind her. A click of the lock as she turns around and although her mind registers that it’s just Gojo, her heart still hammers in her chest.
“You lost?” She asks as she lights a cigarette between her lips.
Gojo shakes his head.
“What if I had to piss?”
He takes a step toward her. Slowly pulls the smoking cigarette from her mouth and tosses it onto the floor. She’s between him and the wall now and his warm hands feel so good as they slide her dress up her hips before slipping her panties down, just enough so that his fingers can find her.
“Here? Now?”
“Why not?” He answers. His lips kiss her neck until she melts.
Try as she might, her brain can’t come up with a reason to protest. Not when his fingers feel so good inside of her. Not when her hips start to grind on his large palm. His free hand gropes at her breasts and his lips tease down the low cut to her cleavage where he begins to suck at her soft skin.
“Don’t leave marks,” she winces at the feel of his teeth. Uses her hands to grab at his hair and strain to pull him away from her.
“But you like it. It makes you so fucking wet,” he mewls into her tits.
She hates how well he knows her. But she knows him, too. And when she slides his zipper down his cock jumps out, so easy for her to grab hold of. And she can feel him flinch at her touch, so desperate for her hands, her anything.
They breathe heavily into one another, eyes locked as they jerk each other off. His fingers move at lightening speed and when they curl inside of her she shudders, unable to stop herself from moaning out his name. Her own hand moves faster, hammering into the base of his cock until he grunts low and steady.
“You get off from doing this in a public place? Perv.” Shoko pants.
“You’re the one about to cum all over my fingers. You’re soaking wet. Hear how wet you are?”
She could. Every wet squelch of her arousal. There was no denying she was close to orgasm. Or that her body wished it was his cock and not his fingers inside of her right then.
“Never said I wasn’t a perv,” Shoko smiles through her whines.
His palm against her clit has her clenching around his fingers in waves, the slow moan of her orgasm making his cock bounce and his hips stutter until he’s shooting strings of cum against her bare pussy and thigh.
There’s never a knock on the bathroom door. Not even as they get cleaned up. Shoko blows a thin stream of smoke out of the cracked window as snowflakes fall to the ground. The chilly air a bit welcoming to her skin. She butts on the sill before closing it up,
“Let’s go get you your dessert.”
___
Her breathing is as shallow as his love. A maelstrom of memories have done their best to keep them from this point of no return. They flash before her now, the laughter of three friends and spring flowers and late nights when the world is quiet except for whispered secrets.
She’s on the couch, fingers pressed into herself in an act that only she has witnessed until this moment. She closes her eyes but she can still hear him next to her. His groans make her nerves electric and without realizing it, she moves her fingers to the sound of his hand.
One eye peeks open. He’s watching her. The look on his face so achingly sensuous that she has to remember herself.
“No looking,” she scolds him.
“Remind me why I can’t look, again?”
“Because those are the rules. We’re just doing this as—ahh—friends.”
“And friends can’t look?” Gojo pants.
“Friends can’t look.”
“Then don’t look at me, either.”
“I wasn’t going to.” She circles her clit, her hips rolling in pleasure.
“Hnn—you were looking.” Gojo strokes himself faster.
“Only to make sure you weren’t.”
In the corner of her eye she can see him. How long and hard he is. How quickly his hand moves and how strong the muscles of his arms are. How his veins stick out with the strain of what he’s doing and she wonders what it would be like to ride him before shaking the thoughts from her head.
“Yeah right. You want to look, admit it.”
“I…d-don’t.” Shoko clenches around her fingers, lets out a languid mewl.
“Fuck,” Gojo moans, “yes you do.”
“That’s not how this works.”
Their naked bodies grow slick with sweat. She can feel beads of perspiration crawl down the nape of her neck. Her fingers dig until they find the spot that has her toes curling and she pinches a nipple with her free hand.
“Fuck it, I’m looking,” he says.
When they meet eyes she can’t look away. His cheeks are flush, his lips parted for his quick pants and his fist is stroking himself faster and faster as he watches her play with herself. She pretends the fingers are his as she matches his pace. Pretends she’s on top of him, her hands roaming around the tight muscles of his chest and abs and playfully ghosting over his hard nipples until he shivers. She wants to feel his hip bones cut into her thighs. She wants to feel the head of his cock push toward her cervix.
“Ahh, ah,” Gojo jerks himself unabashedly, rubbing a thumb over his swollen head. “You’re so fucking sexy, Shoko.”
Despite herself she lets out a high pitched whine, her orgasm ripping through her in a rush of waves. She can see his eyes roam from her chest to where her hand meets her pussy and she can only wonder what he’s imagining. Her thighs clench together as she cums and it’s only a few seconds before he follows suit. His orgasm coupled with an animalistic groan that sends shivers throughout her body. She hadn’t known he could sound like that. And she knows the sound won’t leave her memory anytime soon.
“We can’t do this ever again,” she tells him.
“Right,” he says, still breathless.
“I’m serious. Let’s promise to never cross this line again. We’re friends.”
“Friends,” he repeats.
“Exactly. Friends,” she replies. But for some reason the word makes her stomach feel hollow.
___
She was drunk. Admiring the way the moonlight shines around his head like a halo and thinking it was a crime for someone to be so god damned pretty. He’s drunk, too. For the first time in a long time. Beer cans and bottles of wine litter the coffee table and the movie they were watching has lost their interest. Her head lay in his lap as she finishes the last of her cigarette.
“It’s true, you’re haunted.”
“I’m not haunted.”
“Yes you are,” Shoko slurs.
“By who’s ghost? Should I burn some sage?” Gojo jokes.
She flicks her ashes, pointing her cigarette up at his face as he looks down on her. “Not by who. By what.”
“The hell does that mean?”
“You’re haunted by a moment.”
She can tell this catches him off guard. He stirs a little in his seat.
“A moment.”
“Yeah, a moment. I think moments can have souls,” she takes a slow drag of her cig.
“How do you know?”
“Because I know you. I can see it in your eyes, you have the weight of sadness. I’ve seen it enough times to know.” She thinks of all the loved ones she’s had to deliver bad news to. All the hope and will to live drained from their faces, the ghosts of what could have been forming inside of them like thick black smog that takes on a life of its own.
“Maybe it’s because you’re haunted by a moment, too.”
“Maybe,” she puts out her cigarette.
“So what’s the big deal?” Gojo attempts to brush it off.
“So, maybe it prevents us from having new moments.”
She doesn’t know how long he looks at her. Or why she grabs his face, running the pads of her thumbs pitifully against his cheeks. She doesn’t know when exactly they start kissing. What she does know is that being in his arms makes her feel better. Lighter. And for now, that’s enough.
“Touch me,” he whispers.
She blames it on their drunkenness. How quickly things escalate. Her head is spinning too fast to think about the consequences of their actions. All she can focus on is how incredibly hard he is and how soft his begging sounds.
Her tongue slides up the length of his cock and he immediately grabs at her hair, messing his fingers through it with a deep exhale. She teases him for a while. Lapping at the head and slapping him against her flat tongue until she can see a rose heat on his face.
It’s sexy, the way he watches her suck him off. His mouth open, sometimes biting his bottom lip enough to leave a mark. The tendons in his neck straining while his head cocks to the side to get a better view.
“You’re so good,” he repeats as she bobs up and down.
She knows she’s a little messy from being drunk, but that only seems to turn him on more. His hips thrust his cock into her mouth and every time she muffles or gags she can feel a forceful twitch as his length jumps.
She gets a good rhythm going. Taking as much of him as she can get and using her hands on his balls and base of his cock.
“Fuuuck, just like that. Take it all,” Gojo grips her hair, pushing her down onto his cock until he’s fucking her face.
She relaxes, letting him fuck into her as fast as he likes. Even when she starts to drool uncontrollably. He goes rough, but not rough enough to hurt her. And if he was, she’d use her teeth to teach him a lesson.
“Your mouth is so hot. Ugh, I’m gonna cum so much,” he moans.
She wants to touch herself but her body won’t coordinate enough. She can only focus on how good his hands feel on her head and how much pleasure she gets from hearing Gojo, the great and powerful, moan for her. How his abs flex and how he smells. How thick and sturdy his thighs feel underneath her palms.
She knows they’re a mess, but in this moment she doesn’t care. If they can find some comfort, even for a night, in each other. Well, that’s enough.
When he cums he presses deep down her throat. Makes her drink it all. His head tilts back, ethereal, and his moan vibrates from his chest so melodically that it rings in her ears like a choirs chorus.
They sleep together on the couch that night, too drunk to move to the bed. He kisses her more, his lips plush and soft as her fingers dance along the lines of his clavicles. Until they both fall into a deep sleep.
___
A drunken man buys her a drink. She buys one back. That’s how it goes. Outside, the shadow of spindly trees sprawl across dark pavement. The wind shakes the door and she startles, an unwelcome hand places itself on her thigh.
“What are your plans for tonight?” He asks.
“I’m not sure,” she says.
It rubs her knee and she wants to smack it with all her strength but instead she takes a sip of her drink, not bothering to acknowledge it.
“A hotel room?” He prompts.
“Not on your life.” She takes another deep sip of her drink. She should have ordered something to eat, she’s feeling a little too floaty.
“Come on,” he urges, crooked teeth showing themselves.
His hand moves up and she breathes silently.
“What the fuck are you smiling about,” she replies seriously, watching his face go blank.
“Yo!” A voice calls following the slide of the door.
She turns to see his figure. How he bounces with confidence each step. Ebullient. How his blue eyes peek at her over the dark rim of his glasses. The hand at her thigh disappears.
“Thought I’d find you here,” Gojo says, taking a seat next to her.
“Come for a drink?” She asks.
“Come for you,” he says.
There is something in his voice that has an edge. Dangerous. She can recognize something sharp when it’s right in front of her. His body language is stiff. Despite it all, she takes another drink, swirling the contents of her glass on the bar top.
“You’re drunk,” he says.
“So?”
She can see him appraise the bar. Watches his eyes survey the patrons with scrutiny. He’s way too fucking observant.
“So it’s time to go home.”
“I’m not done yet,” she replies. It’s not like her to let someone else decide what she can and can’t do.
“Come’on. This wine is cheap, I have better at my place.”
He’s not mean. He’s not even pushy. It’s so like him.
Where have you been?
She’s asked the question so many times, now. But he is here. She wants to pull him by the sweater toward her. Wants to bury her face in him and bang her fists against his chest for leaving on a mission without telling her. Wants to hear his stupid laugh and feel whole again. He’s alive.
“Okay,” is all she can say.
___
Sometimes there are no consequences. There is only a story. A life. Only the feeling of your best friends embrace. Only his kiss and the way he touches you. Only his hand in yours and the familiar scent of his cologne.
She realizes she is staring out the window. The rain is pelting the glass when she sees a dark figure under the street lights moving forward. She puts her drink down on the counter. Unlocks and opens the door to her apartment.
“How did you know it was me?” Gojo asks.
“Just did,” she says.
When he enters she asks if he needs a towel.
“You’ll catch cold.”
“I’m fine.”
There’s only a breath between them before he pushes her against the wall. He pulls his shirt off. Then her night shirt. His skin is chilled and it makes her shudder at his touch. His kiss tastes sweet, his tongue like candy in her mouth and she welcomes him wholeheartedly. He moves fervently. Hungrily. He pulls and kneads at her flesh as if it’s the last time he will ever get to feel her.
“Slower,” she says.
“Not anymore.”
She’s only wearing panties and he makes short work of them, kneeling to the floor as he pulls them down and helping her out of them. He kisses up her thighs. Then her stomach. Then her breasts. She doesn’t know when he removes his own pants but he does.
He’s rough with her this time. His mouth sucking inky crescents into her skin and his hands moving her in every way he likes. He lifts her with ease, letting her legs wrap around his hips while he presses her back into the wall.
She can feel the head of his cock circle around her hole. It’s the first time she feels him here and her head lulls back at the teasing. She lets out a sharp inhale when he presses inside of her for the first time and the groan he makes has her wrapping her arms around his neck as if her life depends on his anchor.
He feels so fucking big that at first it hurts, the way he stretches her. But the more he thrusts the wetter she gets, until she can’t help but grind her hips down into him. Desperate for more. And Gojo holds her up so easily, practically bruising her with the way he slams her down onto him by her hips.
They both breathe and moan into each others mouths. His tongue laps at her lips between sucking on them as he fucks her hard, his kisses moving down her jawline and to her throat.
“You feel so good,” he confesses into her warm skin.
“So do you.”
“I’ve wanted this for a long time.”
“I know,” she says.
She should be less surprised at how easily he holds her up. As if she weighs nothing. He pushes inside of her as deeply as he can, drawing out a string of moans like pearls from her parted lips.
“You’re so good and tight for me.”
“Yeah? You wanna cum inside me?” She pants.
“I do. I’m gonna fill your tight little pussy with cum until you’re dripping with it.”
“I want you…I want you to fill me up,” she whines.
His cock feels so good, the head hitting her deeply just as she likes. He drives into her with pent-up force and she can’t even find it in her to dislike the way his hip bones cut into the soft skin of her thighs. She likes the ache. Likes the sound it makes each time he rams into her. Likes the pounding of her back hitting the cold wall and the way her Hung pictures shake, waiting for the right moment to crash to the ground.
“I knew you’d feel so fucking good, Shoko.”
“Don’t stop—ahh—right there, please,” she begs.
She’s so close, and his hips are merciless. She digs her fingernails into the skin of his back but he doesn’t seem to care. Or notice. He just continues to fuck her right there in the entryway, now using his large hands to push her down on his cock until there’s nothing left for him to give. Their foreheads touch and she concentrates on his thick white lashes as he looks down on her. And the way their breath mingles in what little space is left between them.
When she cums it rolls through her like a vicious storm, hitting hard and fast and when he feels her tighten up he bounces her on his cock, rubbing a thumb into her clit until she’s shaking in his arms. Until his rough bounces push staccato whines from the depths of her chest.
“Fuck yeah,” he groans.
He’s breathless while he fucks her through her orgasm, until she goes limp in his arms and even still he continues to push her down onto his greedy cock.
“God, you’re so wet. I can’t get enough.”
The overstimulation is too much, she tries to break free from his grasp but he won’t let her. Not when he’s so close. He holds her down, grabbing her limbs that are so desperate to break free and pushing them to her sides. Kisses her mouth and holds her by the face, locking her in and she can feel his deep exhales against her skin as he kisses her senseless. She’s so slick now, she can hear it.
His hips stutter when he cums. With each spurt inside of her he groans and they’re holding each other so closely that she can feel the vibrations through her chest. They’re both slick with sweat now and he stays inside of her, pumping slowly until he’s spent every last drop and even then he’s hesitant to pull away.
When he finally does let her down she can hardly walk, legs wobbling like a newborn fawn as they take her to a room she can get cleaned up in. And when they reconvene on the couch its a heavy silence that stretches between the two of them, as if it’s a strip of rubber they’re curious to see how long it can get.
She pulls her pack from the coffee table, lighting her usual cigarette and sighing at the way it makes her tired body tingle and relax.
“I thought you quit,” he says.
“I did.”
Silence. Another crackling inhale. She puts her feet up onto his lap, letting her head fall back onto the arm of the couch.
“I think I love you,” he breaks the silence.
“Oh.”
“I mean, I’ve always loved you as a friend. But I think I love you…more than that.”
“I see.”
She had to know this would eventually happen. That there was no way they could continue on their path without encountering a crossroads. That at some point, some turn she failed to see, they had begun to mean more to one another than simple friendship. Than fleeting comfort on lonely nights. She doesn’t know what path they’re on now, but she knows there is no turning back. She needs a drink, her throat feels dry and her tongue feels heavy in her mouth as she looks to Gojo. His face is so boyish and pitiful as he waits for her to say something. Anything. She rubs her face with a groan, as if it may be torture to say what she is about to say. The cigarette shakes in her trembling hand.
quick satosugu drabble from Geto’s POV | Ao3 Link or read below;
——
The cardboard at the window has come away and daylight feathers in from where it flaps like a piece of dead skin. I called you last week, drove out here to meet you. And now here you are, standing in the doorway. You look the same as ever, white hair reaching down your forehead to meet dark glasses concealing eyes that shed light on those parts of myself I hide in shadows.
I slip my slick palms down to my pocket, pull out a thin cigarette and take a long drag in hopes that my hands will cease their shaking. Are you shaking, too? You give me that look. The one I’ve seen a hundred times only now it brings a hint of bitterness to my mouth and I wish I could spit it out. I flick the ashes onto the stained carpet.
“What? Not going to kiss me now?” I say.
The floor creaks as you move closer and I think I’ve gotta get out of here. Move on. Shed the ghost of you and us like snakeskin and let the earth reclaim those memories. Your arms are welcomed around me, pulling me in and my heart drops like an anchor to this moment and how your lips feel on mine, tongue like honey swimming in the sea of my mouth.
I’m praying you don’t hate me.
You smell of expensive cologne as I slide down your body and when I take you into my mouth it’s a choirs song that escapes your lips and I think its as close to heaven as I’ll ever get. When you move behind me you let my hair down, press your face into the crescent of my neck and breathe me in. I don’t know whether to feel despondent or delighted. My nerves vibrate at a frequency that has my ears screeching static, drowning out the sound of my breathless gasping as you enter. It’s a familiar aching, one I’ve longed for, and it leaves me bending like a reed in your wind.
We move to the beat of some cosmic drum, bringing damp sweat to our bodies and heat to the air. Your hands read me like a map and I’m desperate to know you, too. I pull you closer, until I can’t take any more of you and I know you think it’s still not enough. It will never be enough. Not even when you fill me with all the things you cannot say.
I roll over. It’s quiet and I need another cigarette but my limbs are stuck and I watch the dust dance in the crack of light above. There’s an electricity in the air, like the feeling you get before a storm and I don’t know when it's coming but I know it will blow away the foundation we’ve built between us. I’ll ignore the sirens warning, watching as the heavy clouds roll in and shroud my life in darkness.
7,1k | Explicit | angst, fluff, blood and blowjobs | basically a look through Gojo’s life, from a young child to his relationship with Geto and ultimately how it all ended
Ao3 Link or read below
He’s six but he feels much older. He raises his small round face to the sun and closes his eyes, lets the rays warm his skin in a way that makes him feel free—connected to the universe. He doesn’t talk much. The adults talk. It seems as though they never stop talking about him. About how special he is. It makes him tired.
Little feet jump from rock to rock in the courtyard garden. If he’s caught he’ll be scolded, but he’s sure his plan has been calculated correctly. And being out in the sun is worth the risk.
It’s underneath the thick trunk of the beech tree he hears a sound. It's tiny. Crying out from gnarled roots and leaves. He digs and digs until he uncovers the source. A small bird. It's ugly. Big eyes closed tight, all pink skin and featherless. It’s twig-like legs push itself around the palm of his hand. He doesn’t know how, but he knows it’s sickly. He’s only six but he knows it’s going to die. He can see its energy, weak and fading. The earth is trying to reclaim it. It’s beak, which seems too big for its head lifts up and chirps, as if pleading.
“I can’t help you,” he says.
He understands that all life has its limitations. Some things were just meant to die, and that was that. He skips to the koi pond, leaving the bird there among the leaves and roots, letting nature to do what nature does.
After all, he’s only six.
___
He’s eighteen and his hands won’t stop shaking. The unmistakable—though weak— energy led him to that dark alley. To that slumped body, the stench of his blood overpowering the senses. He’s angry for a million different reasons. They all unfurl in his mind but there’s too many, they get knotted and caught in his dry throat. He swallows them down. They’re heavy, settling in the pit of his stomach.
A multitude of different threads branch out before him. Each one holding a different life. A different memory. One in which this night never occurs, one in which they’re not enemies, one in which he’d been more insistent when his best friend seemed to be struggling.
There’s no hint of malice in Geto’s voice, nor in his smile. He knows every expression, every tiny grin and twitch of brow, and what he sees before him now is not the dangerous curse user but that boy he met in class. The one he laughed with and fought beside. The one who stole kisses in the shadow of empty rooms. If only they could go back.
He kneels down, looking into those familiar eyes. They look tired. He looks tired. He wants to reach out and brush the long hair matted with blood. He tells him what a pain he is, and Geto smiles knowingly. He wants to punch him for putting him in this situation. He wants to hold him. A tiny part of him wants to run away, but he knows his feet won’t comply.
He says the only thing he can say, and Geto laughs. He laughs. And for a moment they’re kids again, before they knew the realities of how cruel the world could be. And he doesn’t know it now, but that laugh will replay in his mind over and over again, especially on sleepless nights under a blanket of pitch black loneliness.
He stands up, desperate to steady his shaking hands. He knows this is where their paths converge and end. Among the million of threads stands the one connecting their souls, and in Gojo’s hands lie the scissors, heavier than anything he has ever held. He knows this is how it has to be. Each of them had chosen, and all life had its end.
He raises his hand. It’s steady now.
He’s eighteen when he ends the life of the only friend he’s ever known.
___
He’s twelve and the maids tell him he’s too loud. He hates them. The small measured steps they take, the sound of them scuffling on the veranda outside his door, always watching. He hates the kaiseki. Tired of the antique plates and the wagyu beef he merely picks at with his chopsticks. It’s raining outside, but he’s not allowed out of his room. He knows he’ll be in trouble again, but he creeps toward the door and slips out anyway.
There’s something exciting about the rain. The way it plinks against his skin and the sound it makes hitting water and rock. The worms wriggle to the surface and he’s careful not to step on them.
He follows the garden path, quieting his steps as he walks passed the glowing rooms, human shadows moving ghoulishly about on the walls. He walks on the large rocks lining the pond, arms out to balance himself. Watches the koi follow him, mouths opening wide above the rippling surface hoping for some food. He loves the fish.
With nowhere else to go, he sits at the base of the beech tree. He’s proper wet now, but he doesn’t care. He takes a stick and draws pictures in the moist dirt. He draws the sun, a dog with a wonky face and stubby legs. He pokes gently at worms and grimaces at the way they twist and leave slime on the tip of the stick. He thinks about feeding some to the koi fish, but he doesn’t want to touch them. Maybe he could pick some up with a leaf. He searches for one that isn’t soaked and floppy and after a while he gives up.
It’s getting colder now but he doesn’t want to go in. Not just yet. He hugs his knees to his chest, starting to shiver slightly. Wind shakes the branches of the tree, causing a wave of water droplets to plummet toward the ground.
He likes how the rain drowns out the other sounds. It’s a respite for his mind. He can’t hear the sound of crickets or the footsteps in the halls or the conversations behind closed doors. Just the heavy plunks of thousands of droplets banging against roof and soil. Sitting under the canopy of branches, only a sliver of moonlight illuminating basic shapes in the night, he feels like the only person in the world. As if he is finally as alone as he feels inside.
___
He’s sixteen and he’s just been knocked onto his ass by a boy with black hair. It takes him a minute to register what happened. The training staff is still in his hand, the wood rough against the soft skin of his palm. His ass aches, and he winces.
“Get up,” Yaga gruffly calls out, “don’t let Geto get the best of you!”
Geto.
That’s right, that was the boys name. They’d only met a while ago. Geto had bowed formally, and he scratched the back of his head uncomfortably in return. So this is who they scouted, he thought. Geto Suguru, with his sharp eyes and cordial smile. He didn’t understand why he acted so dignified, he hated that shit. Like sandpaper on skin.
Grabbing the staff he rose from his spot in the dirt, shaking off the embarrassment as best he could. Didn’t this guy know who he was? Steadying his breathing he got into position, Geto doing the same. They stare at each other, and he can feel a droplet of sweat trailing down his neck.
It’s Geto who moves first, foot taking a quick step forward. It’s a specific whistling sound, the staff cutting through the air. Not this time, Gojo thinks. He begins to twist the staff behind his back, feet moving in a side-step to avoid the blow. It all passes in slow motion. He can see the movements of his opponent before they even happen. It’s laid out in front of him like a map. He opens himself up to the universe, all the information ready to pass through his being. The crawling of the ants just to his left, the birds flapping wings 200 feet above their heads, the direction and speed of the wind. He can see it all. All the data soaks into him like water to root and he spins to avoid the blow just in time. Swiping his own staff at Geto’s feet, who is too quick to be caught off guard by the move. He jumps, avoiding Gojo’s staff with ease. However, Gojo is ready, he’s predicted Geto would dodge and with one flick of his wrists he sends the blunt end of the staff directly into Geto’s stomach. The boy doubles over, coughing and heaving in pain.
“Bastard.” Geto snarls. “That was a cheap shot.”
And it’s true, they weren’t supposed to be aiming for such vulnerable places on the body. But he shrugs, not even bothering to pretend it was an accident.
“So? What’re you gonna do about it?” Gojo snickers. In his mind, they’re even now.
They meet eyes, electricity practically sparking between where they stand on the training grounds.
“Again,” Geto says through grit teeth, still struggling to straighten himself up.
“Ya sure you’re ready for another round, cupcake?”
They both dig their feet into the dirt, stances ready.
“You’re going to regret that,” Geto warns.
“I’m so scared,” he mocks. But in truth, this is the first time he’s felt so alive.
___
They’re in trouble again. It seems like they’re always in trouble for fighting, lately. This time they have to mop the verandas. It’s back breaking work to run the rag up and down the long wooden paths. Last week they had to rake all the leaves on the grounds while Shoko sat under the shade of a tree, smoking and laughing at them both.
The afternoon sun is high in the sky, cicadas crying out in the summer heat. The kind of heat that makes Gojo ache for his younger days, sitting in the cool confines of a room being waited on, shielded from hard work—any work at all, really.
Geto drops his rag, wiping his brow before beginning to walk off.
“Hey! You’re not leaving me with all this shit!”
“Then by all means, come along,” Geto waves his hand up, not looking back.
In a room that seems long since forgotten they shut the door, thankful to be out of the heat for a moment. He doesn’t know what made him follow Geto. He doesn’t know what to say, considering they really don’t have anything in common. He didn’t have anything in common with anyone. Perhaps that was why so many disliked him.
“Want one?” Geto pulls out a pack of cigarettes.
“Sure,” he says, not wanting to admit that he had never smoked before.
Geto lights his first then hands the lighter to Gojo, who has trouble getting it to spark.
“Shit, is it out of fluid already? I swear I just got that one, too. Here,” he comes in close to where Gojo stands, cigarette in mouth. He leans in, lets the tip of their cigarettes touch and Gojo can’t explain why this makes his heart race. Why he finds the smell of Geto pleasant. Why he can’t stop staring at the thick lashes of his eyes, so pleasing up close.
“Inhale,” Geto instructs.
The cigarette lights up and Geto steps back into his own space, leaning against the wall and letting out a large gray puff of smoke. Gojo inhales only to start hacking immediately, his lungs constricting and begging for clean air.
Geto laughs. It’s the first time Gojo has heard him do so. The first time he’s seen him smile like that, cheeks turning red.
“I knew it. You don’t smoke.” He wipes the tears from the corner of his eye.
“If you tell Shoko about this I’ll kick your ass.”
“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” he holds up his hand as if to make a solemn vow.
There’s silence. The tip of the cigarette flares red in the dim room as Geto continues to smoke.
“I’m surprised you ditched out on the chores,” Gojo breaks the silence.
“That’s because you have the wrong idea about me,” Geto flicks his ashes. “Besides, we’re already in trouble. How much more can he make us do?”
He shivers. “I don’t even wanna think about it.”
The sound of cicadas echoes Into the room.
“I heard about you, before I came here.”
“Yeah?”
“Of course. I imagine there aren’t many in our world who haven’t heard about the great Gojo Satoru. Imagine my surprise when I come to find out it’s just a mouthy brat.”
“Fuck off,” Gojo groans.
“Hah. No, but seriously. You’re part of the reason I came here. That, and I want to be stronger,” Geto says. It’s full of resolve. Serious, although he brings it up so casually. But that’s just like Geto to do so.
All of Gojo’s malice melts in the summer heat. This guy and his bangs have been a pain in his ass for weeks now and yet suddenly, the face he has dreamt about punching no longer causes this belly fire to look at. He snickers, partly at the situation and partly at himself, the incredible Gojo, the six-eyes who was too blind to see what was in front of him all this time. The one thing that small boy inside of him has always longed for. He lowers his glasses, like he is seeing Geto for the first time.
“Well, that’s one thing we have in common,” He smirks.
“Satoru! Suguru! Where the hell are you?! Get your asses out here, now!” They hear a scream from across the courtyard.
“Shit.” They both mutter in unison.
“It was only a matter of time,” Geto puts out his cig.
“That old man is really a pain in my ass,” Gojo pouts.
“You and me both.”
“Should we head back?” Gojo asks.
“Wanna take bets on how long it’ll take him to find us?” Geto snickers.
“You’re on.”
___
He’s sixteen. He’s only sixteen and their day was a bloodbath beyond their own comprehension. As he lay in bed he can feel every harsh scrape and deep laceration in his skin. He’d never wished so badly that he could heal himself, he’d give anything to not feel as if there were hot knives stuck into every soft spot of his body.
His joints ache. He turns back and forth in bed but nothing seems to help, no matter what position he chooses. When he closes his eyes he can see the faces. Only the faces. Distorting and screaming the type of scream that lets you know you’ve come face-to-face with death. The women. And worst of all—the children. The people they couldn’t save. The people they were too late for. The people he was too late for.
There’s an anger welling inside of him, bringing hot tears to his eyes. He blinks them away. If he could continue to live, he’d rip out his own heart right there to stop it from feeling. He’s so fucking done with feeling. He thinks of that little bird. Reminds himself that all life comes to an end. It doesn’t help. It doesn’t erase what happened, or the memory of the fear. He hates that the most. How much he feared.
He sits up in bed, though wincing as he does so. Shoko had already threatened what she would do if he reopened the wounds she had closed. That’s when he hears it. Coming from the room next to his own. He doesn’t need to move toward the wall to know what it is. To recognize the agonized moan, like a painful drag of bow on violin string. Geto is crying.
He almost gets up. Almost. Almost walks those few steps down the hall and knocks on Geto’s door to tell him he feels the same way. That he doesn’t have to suffer alone. That he is there, that he knows. The soft sobs continue and Gojo lays back down in bed, looking at the ceiling.
The tears come silently, dripping down from the corner of his eyes and on to the increasingly wet pillow. Everything in him feels tight. Like his insides are wrung as a wet towel, squeezing every ounce of emotion out of his being. He hates himself. Fear and hate. It permeates the air surrounding him. He can’t be there for his friend. The realization sits on his chest as if it were the heaviest weight in the world. He doesn’t have the capacity in himself. Not now. So, he listens to the sobs until he can’t keep his eyes open anymore.
After all, he’s only sixteen.
___
He’s seventeen and he’s the strongest jujutsu sorcerer alive.
___
When his collar is grabbed, head slammed against the wall, he thinks he might be punched. He closes his eyes, bracing for what’s surely to come. But it doesn’t. Instead, warm lips press against his own and it takes him by surprise. So much so that his knees almost buckle underneath him.
He pushes Suguru back, though he doesn’t let go of the grip on his collar.
“What? Don’t tell me you don’t want this, too,” Geto says, breathing heavily.
“I…”
Did he? He doesn’t know. Suddenly he doesn’t know anything at all, except for the tingling feeling that Suguru left on his lips. The silence is slippery, and he feels unequipped for the first time in a long time. Suddenly he’s back in that childhood room, boxed in, quiet and emotionless.
“Satoru?” Geto asks, eyes locked on Gojo’s, waiting for an answer.
Light filters in the window behind him and he can see the dust flecks dancing in the air all around them. Their breathing is labored, lips mere inches apart. A million things flash before his mind. Their laughs, their fights. The way Geto looks when he’s thinking and how he holds his chopsticks in his hands with all the grace in the world. The way they spar together and how he can tell when Geto is annoyed, the little line near his eye deepening despite himself.
He thinks of all these things at once, closing his fist even tighter on the fabric of Geto’s collar. Slowly, so slowly he has time to gulp down his nerves as best he can, he pulls Geto towards him. Until their lips meet again. It feels right. Despite everything, it feels right.
Geto’s tongue swipes at his lips and he opens his mouth to let him in, meeting his tongue with his own. The bangs tickle his face, but he doesn’t break the kiss. They hold each other's faces, lips smacking hungrily in the empty room. Bodies pressing closer and closer together. They’re both warm, hands shakily unsure as they explore each other in that abandoned equipment room. An act that he’ll dream about, pleasantly, for many nights to follow.
___
He’s sixteen and he’s made his first-ever friend. He does everything with Geto, from training to bathing to eating their meals. When Yaga asks them about their uniforms he says he wants to have the same style Geto chooses.
“Why do you want to match with me?” Geto laughs.
“Why wouldn’t I want to match with my darling Suguru,” he says jokingly.
It’s as if he is testing him. Like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Gojo just keeps pressing until the inevitable fallout. Because he can’t possibly have a friend, right? He can’t possibly be tolerable to another human being.
Instead of getting annoyed, as anyone else would, Geto just smiles and shrugs. That’s what he loves about Geto. He can be as loud and obnoxious as he wants to and Geto doesn’t bat an eye. He doesn’t tell him to be quiet, that he’s too loud. That he’s annoying. He doesn’t treat him like royalty, either. A more important point, in Gojo’s eyes.
To Geto, Gojo is just…Gojo. He takes him as he is, and it’s the first time Gojo has experienced something like that. He wishes he had met Geto earlier. When he was young and small and lonely. They could have hunted rocks together. Maybe he could have finally climbed the branches of that beech tree and escaped, had Geto been there to cheer him on.
___
He feels on top of the world. Not only have his solo missions been going well, but he’s had fewer casualties than he’s ever had. He wants to celebrate. Shoko is out for the evening, so he brings beer to Suguru’s room.
“Woah, you look like shit,” he says.
It’s not delicate. But then again, they’ve never been delicate with each other. Geto looks tired, as if he had been napping. His hair falling down around his shoulders instead of in the usual bun he dons.
“Hey,” Geto says, moving over so Gojo can enter his room.
“Sorry for waking you. I was just in a good mood,” he holds the beer up. “Care for a drink?”
“I dunno…” he sighs.
Gojo immediately deflates. He doesn’t want to push, but something feels off.
“Are you okay?” He asks.
“Yeah, just tired,” Geto replies.
“You look thin.”
“This is how I always look, dummy. You just haven’t seen me in a while,” he plays it off.
“Okay…well, if you change your mind you can come to my room.” He backs away.
“Noted,” Geto smiles.
It’s a moment that will replay in Gojo’s mind for many years to come. How he could have stayed. How he could have asked more questions. How he could have pressed more instead of backing away, watching the door close in front of him. It would remain one of his biggest regrets. The sound of the door closing echoing in his nightmares.
___
Geto’s not supposed to be in his room. But then again, there’s a lot of things they do that they aren’t exactly supposed to. Moonlight, blue and melancholy, filters in through the window and washes over their bodies in bed.
Geto has his arm underneath Gojo’s head, free hand bringing a cigarette to his lips. He loves how their bare skin feels against each other. How comforting it is to have another persons arms around him. It takes all he has to not fall asleep right there.
“Don’t fall asleep on me,” Geto says, as if he can read his mind.
“I’m not even tired.”
“Liar.”
He closes his eyes, basking in the scent of Geto’s neck and hair. Even the smell of his burning cigarette, something he has grown accustomed to over time. It’s peaceful and quiet, they don’t have any missions tomorrow so it’s a rare occasion that they get to sleep in and he’s planning on taking full advantage of it.
“Gojo.”
“Yeah.”
“Have you ever thought about where we’re going to be in twenty years?”
“Not really,” he mumbles.
“Not at all?”
“Nah,” he nuzzles into Geto sleepily.
Silence. The familiar sound of a burning cigarette drag.
“Gojo?”
“Hm.”
“We’re supposed to protect people, right?”
“I guess so,” he says, the question coming out of nowhere. His mind is too foggy to come up with anything else to say.
“What if it’s not enough?”
“What are you talking about?”
Geto’s chest rises with the inhale of the cigarette.
“Nothing. Go to sleep,” he says. And Gojo does.
___
“Gojoooo,” a small voice calls out for him.
He doesn’t know where he is, at first. His eyes open slowly. Oh. He’s in his room. It’s cold, bare walls feel like a prison cell. He sits up from his futon, small hands rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
“Gojo,” the voice whispers again.
Slowly, he turns his sleepy head. There it is. A tiny round face in the slit of the door. It bounces up and down when it realized he sees it.
“Come on,” it calls.
“Geto…?”
It giggles.
“Of course, dummy. Now hurry!”
“I can’t,” Gojo shrinks into the blankets. “I’m not allowed.”
“It’s okay, you won’t get in trouble,” he reassures him.
The air is chilly when he rises from his bedclothes and makes his way to the door. The voice giggles again as he slides it open and takes his first step onto the veranda. He can see a dark figure leading him down the hall and he follows it until they reach the garden.
“See!” Tiny Geto exclaims, prancing onto the dewy grass.
Thousands of fireflies light the night sky, their yellow lights blinking all around the courtyard. For a minute he’s stunned, not knowing what to do except watch. Until Geto starts to jump up and down, clapping his hands together in the air.
“Come here, look!”
Gojo runs over to where Geto has his hands clasped together.
“Look,” he says again, cracking his hands slightly.
Gojo leans in, eye pressed to the crack. There, in his enclosed hands, a firefly flicks its wings. It’s glow illuminating the small space.
“So cool,” Gojo gasps.
Geto opens his hands and lets it fly away, the yellow light reflects against his face and Gojo thinks he looks so much like the Geto he knew. Eyes as sharp as ever, though a little more wide and childish. Hair in that familiar bun. And he’s missing a tooth on his bottom jaw that only serves to make him more adorable looking.
They watch the bugs dance in the air around them before they start running, as children do. Laughing and screaming, catching as many bugs as they can fit into their hands and seeing who can gather the most. Until they’re both so worn out they collapse together on the ground. It’s quiet, except for the crickets and frogs.
“They say fireflies are the souls of people that passed,” tiny Geto says. “I hope when I die I can become a firefly.”
Geto looks toward him, giving him a big toothy grin.
Gojo wakes up covered in sweat. Swipes a hand through his hair and tries to calm his breathing. Reflexively, he reaches out to the spot next to him on the bed, but it’s empty.
___
It’s the first snow of his sixteenth year and he’s bundled up because Suguru has dragged him outside.
“I hate this,” he grumbles.
“Don’t be such a sourpuss,” Geto grabs his hand, dragging him through the snow.
“It’s cold.”
“No shit.”
There are clumps of snow falling from the trees around them. Heavy flakes float down and cling to their hats and scarves. He can see his breath and he’d much rather be snuggling under a kotatsu with some grilled beef instead of trudging through satan’s winter wonderland. But that’s what Geto does. He has a way of making him experience all things, whether he likes it or not.
“Isn’t this fun? It’s so pretty,” he looks up to the sky to see the flakes falling toward their faces.
Gojo doesn’t have the heart to say no. Especially not when Geto looks over at him, all big grin and rosy cheeks and frost-bitten nose. There are flakes of snow in his eyelashes and Gojo pulls him close, intending on kissing his cheek but causing them both to trip and fall into the snow.
“Fuck, that’s cold!”
“Oh calm down,” Geto laughs from on top of Gojo’s chest. “I’ll warm you up later.”
Geto’s lips are cold but his tongue is pleasantly warm, and all of a sudden he forgets about the snow.
___
He rushes home from his mission, clinging to the small hope that he’d get to spend some time with Suguru. They’d been going on separate missions lately and hadn’t had as much time together as usual. Even a day together would be a small blessing.
Opening the door to his room, he finds Shoko instead of Geto. She’s rummaging around his things.
“What are you doing?”
“Geto said I could have a pack of his cigs, I’m out,” she tosses an old shirt up from the floor. “Aha! Bingo,” she kisses the pack she finds.
“Where is he?” Gojo asks, trying his best to sound nonchalant.
“Just missed him.”
He can feel the color draining from his face, all his hopes flattened, stomped out by time’s merciless heel.
“Oh,” he chokes.
“But here, he said to give these to you.” She tosses a box at him before leaving the room.
He waits until he gets back to his room before he opens it up. Inside there are various cream puffs from his favorite place. Granted, a few missing from the box. And a note he opens carefully.
—Ate all the ones you hate. Don’t worry, see you soon
He pops one into his mouth, unable to keep the smile from spreading on his lips.
___
He’s twenty-three and he’s buying a pack of cigarettes at the convenience store. The familiar pack in hand, he makes his way to the nearest park bench. December has sucked the light from the city, street lamps just beginning to glow and a few couples walk hand-in-hand, all bundled up from the chill.
He presses a cig between his lips. Lights it. The nostalgic smell, the taste, it brings on a relief that spreads warm over his soul. He doesn’t smoke often, but he doesn’t cough anymore. Not like when he was sixteen.
The wind blows stray leaves, chilling his nose, but he doesn’t want to head home. Not just yet. In his hand, he turns the small box, its label he’s seen a thousand times. He takes another drag, savoring it. The taste on his tongue like a kiss from a ghost. It’s one of the few things he has to remember the one he loved most. If he closes his eyes he can imagine him there, laying in bed blowing a stream of smoke into the air. Suguru.
___
“Are you sure you don’t want any help? Yaga said he can take care of this.” Shoko leans in the door frame.
“It’s fine, I got it.”
“You’re so stubborn.”
“I know,” Gojo replies flatly. He doesn’t have the energy to have a back-and-forth with her today.
“Alright then, have it your way,” she sighs before leaving down the hall.
Geto’s room is eerily quiet, and the box he has in front of him doesn’t seem nearly big enough to fit a whole life. All the things left behind. He wants to save them all, in case Suguru comes back to him. In case he realizes he’s wrong, that it doesn’t have to be this way. That their bond is too strong to break like this. He knows that it won’t happen, but lying to himself is the only small comfort he has at the moment.
He starts with the clothes in the drawer. His sweaters, the shirt he wore on their first sight-seeing trip together. The one he wore to the beach, that one golden day they chased each other in the sand, splashing and laughing between salty kisses. There’s his winter hat, he holds it in his hand, feels the soft fabric and remembers the cherry red of his cold cheeks in the snow.
There are photographs, too. Pictures from their travels, a snapshot of Geto asleep in bed, his hair splayed over the pillow and a serene look on his face. He smiles, remembering the morning he took that one. There’s a picture of all three of them during Hanami. Shoko was already drunk on saké and her smile big and cheesy as she made rabbit ears behind Geto’s unsuspecting head. He remembers that day so well. He had eaten so much dango that Geto had to cut him off.
“You’re going to be sick,” Geto had warned, ever the responsible one.
“And fat,” Shoko added.
“No way! I’m just gettin’ started. Look, let’s try that stall over there!”
Geto had rolled his eyes with a resigned sigh but followed along anyway.
When they split up to take pictures, he had grabbed Geto’s hand and pulled him behind the cover of a stump. The cherry blossom petals swirled around them in the wind and Geto laughed, plucking a stray petal from Gojo’s hair.
They move in close, Geto’s hand resting on his chest and when their lips met it felt like something out of a cheesy movie but he couldn’t get enough. Their kiss growing deeper and deeper, they made out under the cherry tree until they heard Shoko drunkenly calling out for them in the crowd.
Smiling fondly, Gojo tucks the photo into his pocket for safekeeping.
There are a few hair ties, they still smell of Suguru. And some books. He loved to lay on Geto’s chest while he read. Some hair products, a brush, odds and ends. Things of little consequence. Things with specific memories. He could see Suguru’s face as he touched each object. Pieces of their life at Jujutsu High.
He closes the box, taking one last look at the room. The freshly made bed and the empty walls and shelves. Then, reluctantly, he closes the door.
___
It’s a chilly fall evening and they’re supposed to meet Shoko for their last round of training. However, Geto has other plans. The nights insects are just beginning their song when he’s pressed against the wall, their lips unrelenting and fervent.
“We should go,” he says between kisses.
“Not yet,” Geto replies, running a hand down Gojo’s body and bringing him to quiver.
“What’s gotten into you?”
“Nothing,” he kisses along Gojo’s jawline. “Are you really so eager to train?”
The kisses move down to his throat. A hand creeps up his thigh. Moves to the left and strokes where it’s obvious he’s grown hard. He jumps at the sudden sensation, moan sneaking past his lips.
“No,” he submits to the touches, eyes rolling back in pleasure.
Geto continues to touch him. Stroking up and down until he feels him grow against his palm. It’s nothing they haven’t done before, but each time still feels like the first, in some way. Like it’s a dream he’ll wake up from.
It doesn’t register right away when Geto snakes down his body and to his knees. Time stands still while hands work at lightening speed to unbuckle his pants. His cock is free, and Geto’s mouth is moving toward it.
“Wait,” he exhales.
“What?” Suguru pauses, looking up at him.
He doesn’t know how to properly convey all the feeling threatening to overflow from the well of his heart. His mind is processing at lightening speed but his tongue stumbles on every syllable he tries to produce.
“I never…” he starts.
Geto smiles coyly at the realization. The corners of his mouth pulling devilishly into his cheeks.
“Just relax,” Suguru reassures him.
When the warm tongue caresses his tip he feels like he finally understands euphoria. Every nerve ending ignites, his knees shake, his head lulls to the side and he gasps, so loudly that he’s sure anyone even remotely close would have heard. It’s the greatest pleasure he’s ever felt. Suguru’s mouth is so warm and so soft. So wet.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he pants.
There’s an eagerness to the way Geto sucks, and he thinks he could happily die right here and now. He doesn’t want to hurt him, but he can’t help but buck his hips and push his cock deeper into that willing mouth. Geto chokes a little, and the tightening of his throat has Gojo biting his lip so hard he thinks he might draw blood.
It’s when Geto caresses his balls that he loses all sense of time and place. He leans back, practically melting into the wall and it takes everything in him not to drop to the floor.
“So sensitive,” Geto coos when he pops off of his cock.
“You enjoying this?” He manages, he can feel his hair dampening with sweat.
“Does it turn you on that I am?” Geto smirks.
He watches Geto’s head dip closer, feels that tongue lap at his balls before his mouth begins to suck. Gojo’s hands find purchase in that long black hair and he pulls, unable to control himself. The tip of the tongue trails back up to his length and when he’s brought back into that delicious mouth he moans out ‘Suguru,’ he’s not sure how many times.
His toes curl, his vision frays and when he closes his eyes he can see blinking dots that make him dizzy. Being sucked off only fuels his fire. He wants more. He wants to rip Geto’s clothes off, throw him into bed. He wants to touch his hard body and watch him squirm in pleasure. He wants to fuck him. Flip him over and press inside of him, pull his hair and tell him he belongs to him. He’s thought about it before. It’s all he thinks about when they touch each other. Thinks about Geto’s eyes half-lidded, expression all fucked out and begging for more.
His hips thrust quicker, but Geto doesn’t seem to mind. They move as if they’d done this a thousand times, everything in sync. And when Geto moans around his cock, the sound low and needy, he cums so hard he’s sure he pulls a muscle in his leg. That brilliant mouth taking it all in, every drop, until his body relaxes and his hips cease their jerking.
Geto wipes his mouth, and Gojo buckles up his pants. For a minute they don’t say anything. He can feel his heart still hammering away in his chest, and he knows his face must be flush. He needs a drink, his mouth is all cotton. And Suguru looks as composed and handsome as ever.
“You didn’t have to,” he says, straightening his uniform.
“I know. I wanted to.”
Suguru fixes his hair and there is silence again. He has the urge to say something stupid, to make a joke to fill the void. He has a habit of joking when he’s uncomfortable.
He rubs the back of his neck nervously. “Should I say thank you or somethin’? I don’t know how this works.”
Geto laughs. “No thanks necessary. But next time, warn me before you cum.”
His brain short-circuits for a moment. Only two words registered in his mind. Next time. Next time? He repeats it over and over.
“Next time,” he whispers aloud, as if that would make the possibility real. And he can feel the blood in his body rushing at the thought.
___
He’s twenty and he has a house all his own. There’s a bookshelf stuffed to the brim and expensive, tasteful art on every wall. Large windows that let the sun in and at night he can relax and watch the moon. There’s a large bed. The softest sheets. A spacious kitchen in which he can cook. There’s a pool. And a koi pond that he can walk out and visit anytime he wants. On warm evenings he walks the stones of the garden path and listens to the crickets song echoing into the air.
He hates it.
The big open rooms, so cold and empty. Cooking for one. The art he doesn’t give a shit about and the large windows that let the sun in, waking him up to remind him that it’s another day the other side of the bed is empty. He’s alone again, just like he was all those years ago.
Coming home from missions, turning a key and opening a door to silence is agony. Movies and video games don’t fill the void anymore. And Shoko visits when he buys booze but even then she only stays the night when she’s too drunk to leave. And she hogs all the covers.
He finds himself spending as much time away from home as he can. He lives on the road, in hotel rooms and expensive inns. On extremely lonely nights there’s a body in his bed. But it never lasts more than a night. And it always feels sour come morning.
Yet no matter how far he travels or how long he’s gone, he always has to come back to that same empty place.
___
He’s the world’s strongest jujutsu sorcerer, and right now he wishes he were anything but. Wishes he were anywhere but here.
His hands are stained with blood and he dips the rag into the water, ringing down pale pink water into the metal bucket. He continues to clean the cold body. Gently, he wipes flecks of blood from Suguru’s face. Marveling at those thick lashes he’s always loved. And how he looks as if you shook him hard enough he would wake and this nightmare would be over.
He washes each leg, Each arm. They feel heavy as he holds them up, and he remembers a time they’d be wrapped around him so warm and comforting.
He washes the long black hair. It’s so much longer than when they were in school. He used to help Suguru trim it, although he wasn’t very good. They’d sit on the floor of his room and he’d brush it out, taking the scissors to those thick strands, tongue sticking out in concentration as he tried his best to keep it even. Geto must have been crazy to trust him with something like that, now that he thinks about it.
He trims Geto’s fingernails. Styles his hair the way he would have liked. He runs his hands over the contusions and wounds in soft apology. And when he’s ready, he begins to dress him in fresh clothes.
He doesn’t know how long he sits in the room, and he doesn’t know when Shoko will be back. He hasn’t cried yet, and he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to. He knows that some small part of him has yet to accept what’s happened. And until then, all that fills him is a toxic mix of anger and disbelief. It swirls inside of him like sludge, weighing him down.
At some point, he stumbles out of the room and onto the street. It’s freezing out and he doubles over, ready to vomit. He can see his breath with every heaving pant. Yet still, the tears won’t come. They’re stuck, hot, behind his eyes. He clenches his fists until his knuckles are white as snow.
That’s when he sees it. A little yellow blinking light, just passing over his face. He stands up straight. Holds his hand out in the air and watches as it lands, just there on his finger. A firefly. It crawls on his hand, flicking its wings and blinking away before taking off into the night sky. He laughs, hot tears rolling down his cheeks.
Satosugu mini fic written for STSG winter week on twitter. <3
Ao3 link or ; read below
“You’ve been smoking like a fucking chimney,” Gojo says, waving to clear the air in front of his face. It doesn’t help.
“Gimme a break, it’s been a long, shitty night,” Shoko replies before taking another shaky drag. “Are you sure you don’t want any more help?”
“I got it.”
“Okay then. Clean up after yourself, and don’t destroy the place,” Shoko calls out before tiredly leaving the room.
On the medical cot in front of Gojo lies the still body of his best friend. It’s eerily quiet now. The yellow tint in the lights above are making his stomach turn, and he swallows it down with a mouthful of saliva.
He starts by removing Geto’s clothing. First his shirt, then his pants. The water in the bowl is warm enough, and he delicately dips the rag. Just enough to wet a finger's worth, so he might dab at the laceration on Suguru’s forehead. The dried blood weeping from the wound looking very much like sprouting spider lilies creeping across his skin.
He’s never considered himself particularly light-handed. Not in the way he walks, or the way he speaks—not in anything. But he is proud of the precise way he bandages Geto’s first wound. His tongue peeks out from the grip of his teeth in his concentration, and he uses the butterfly stitches just as Shoko had shown him. Taking time to wipe the sweat beading on Geto’s brow.
He moves on to the chest now. The skin seems abnormally pale. Slowly, he caresses the rag over the sculpted muscles that rise and plunge so low. Water runs through the river of his abs, pools at his belly button and spills over. Down to the lines of his hips. There are so many scrapes and cuts that when he dips the rag into the water it begins to turn a shade of pink Gojo finds vile in color. There are bruises blooming on his ribs and left shoulder, splotching pale skin in ink spots of purple and blue.
Gojo uses gauze for the larger wounds, more butterfly stitches. His fingertips inspect the cool skin. Soft bandage wrapped attentively around the wounds of his arms and legs.
He dresses his friend's body in fresh clothes. He begins to brush his long hair, the scent of lemongrass a welcome reprieve from the coppery odor of blood. It isn’t the first time he’s brushed Geto’s hair. He enjoys the way it slips through his fingers like black silk. But he was more careful than ever in tying it up in a neat bun. In a way he thinks would please Geto.
There’s no sound but the ticking of a clock on the wall. It echoes in the space, reminding Gojo just how late it really is. His eyes are stinging hot with exhaustion, the closing of the lid feels like sandpaper.
He grabs Geto’s hand, hoping he might stir a bit.
Nothing.
Tik, tik. The clock bellows.
Gojo leans over. Studies Geto’s dark lashes and the pores of his face, committing his solemn expression to memory. His large hands swipe the bangs away from his forehead.
“You idiot,” he whispers, then presses kisses into Geto’s cold lips.
---
When Geto wakes up there’s soft lemonade light streaming in from the window, and his eyes instinctively shut themselves away from the brightness. His head is booming and hot. There’s a sharp pain emanating from the bridge of his nose and an ache in all of his bones, ones he never knew he could feel.
His eyes drift to the warmth of his right hand. Curiously, he finds his fingers intertwined with another's. He follows the arm and finds Gojo asleep in a chair next to the bed. His eyes are bandaged, but Geto knows he’s asleep by the way his head lulls and his lips parts open. By the way he breaths so calmly and rhythmically.
He knows what he’ll probably say. Why didn’t you ask for backup?! What were you thinking? What were you trying to prove? And the truth is, he wishes he had an answer for any one of those. An answer aside from the one stark reality. The truth is that he was trying to come to terms with being…alone.
When he squeezes Gojo’s hand he stirs awake, his free hand lifting at the bandages of his eyes. As if he had to truly see for himself that Geto was awake.
He expected a lecture. That Satoru might rip into him right then and there. But his friend just smirked, gripping his hand even tighter still.
I’ve had some people request to follow my twitter through links I’ve posted here but I recently switched my handles and made that one a private/personal.
So just a psa my new Twitter is below if you would like to follow for otome/joseimuke/anime/writing stuff♡
Its a lot of mainly; SLBP, JJK, Chainsaw Man, Tears of Themis (upon global release), Blackstar Theater Starless, and lots of other stuff randomly sprinkled in like manga im currently reading etc ✨
The latest Tweets from 𝗐𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗒† (@saizous). If “sorry” was enough, we wouldn’t have seppuku || 18+ content || Writer || 𝑂𝑡𝑜𝑚𝑒 • 𝐽𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑖𝑚𝑢𝑘𝑒 • 𝐴𝑛
I don't HATE yooosung, but because of an ex who was violently possessive of me and was alot like yandere yoosung, I strongly dislike him. :')
I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I can understand why you’d feel the way that you do, I hope you have a good support system rn that helps you recover♡
I’ve had some people request to follow my twitter through links I’ve posted here but I recently switched my handles and made that one a private/personal.
So just a psa my new Twitter is below if you would like to follow for otome/joseimuke/anime/writing stuff♡
Its a lot of mainly; SLBP, JJK, Chainsaw Man, Tears of Themis (upon global release), Blackstar Theater Starless, and lots of other stuff randomly sprinkled in like manga im currently reading etc ✨
The latest Tweets from 𝗐𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗒† (@saizous). If “sorry” was enough, we wouldn’t have seppuku || 18+ content || Writer || 𝑂𝑡𝑜𝑚𝑒 • 𝐽𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑖𝑚𝑢𝑘𝑒 • 𝐴𝑛
