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“In another life, Satoru.”
The man rolls over, long arm draping over Saturo’s body like a blanket. Pinning him there, softly, but with intent, I don’t want to leave you again, but I have to.
He looks almost redeemable in this light. The dawn had always been kind to Suguru; it’s balmy fingers had a way of blending his cutthroat edges into doughy swells of round, pink flesh, soft and young and fuckable – in the same way that the candidness of nightfall ages him, daybreak takes years from him, and he is Getou. Just Getou.
Satoru, despite this, makes a noise of vague disapproval.
“Lame,” he says. “You’d make the same choices again, don’t act like you wouldn’t.”
“Maybe –,”
“ – shut up, Suguru.”
It had become an unspoken rule that on the rare occasion Suguru found himself sharing Saturo’s bed that they didn’t discuss their respective life choices. If they never spoke about it, Satoru could pretend it wasn’t real, this demarcation between good and evil that had sent them down such different paths. It wasn’t about this moral greyness that hung over him like a fucking raincloud – Satoru knew to which side of the fence he belonged. It was that Suguru had chosen this life, without even including him, without ever letting him in to that mental shift that had led him from his apparent nonpartisanism to this great antagonist.
Now, for reasons unbeknownst to him, Suguru is the most talkative he’d been in years. It pisses Satoru off, this pretend guilelessness.
The mattress shifts beneath their weight as Suguru moves.
He knows what’s coming; they move like clockwork, and Saturo sighs as the other crowds him, hips moving up by muscle memory. Feels good, to have Suguru like this, pliant and willing, grinding his body down and up, slotting into Satoru like a puzzle piece. Feels like old times, when Suguru wasn’t the poster child for worldwide destruction.
“Two sides of the same coin?” breathes Suguru, breath warm against his skin. “You know I love a metaphor.”
Satoru scoffs. “Stop romanticising everything. You sound like a teenage girl.”
And, really, he should have seen it coming –
“But you make me feel romantic.”
It’s cruel, really, because Suguru knows how to manipulate him. Knows he’s the only person alive capable of it, and Satoru closes his eyes, turns his face into the pillow. Feels the lazy drag of a tongue over his throat, and he swallows, Adam’s apple trapped at the junction of Suguru’s devilish mouth.
Suguru huffs, bored with his struggle.
“C’mon, babe,” he says, knee forcing it’s way between Satoru’s thighs. “I don’t think I’ll take much prep. Still stretched pretty good from earlier.”
It’s wicked, and Satoru sighs, toes curling into the bedsheets.
“Yeah?” he resigns, cock twitching in interest.
Suguru smiles. If he could count on one thing, it’s Satoru’s ego.
“Oh, yeah. Could still get a finger in there, I reckon.”
It’s a cheap shot. Satoru sticks his tongue into his cheek and sighs.
“If you couldn’t tell, I’m pissed off at you. If I fuck you again, I won’t be gentle.”
Delicate fingers twist themselves deep against Satoru's scalp, olive skin like buried gold against the incandescence of his hair.
“Is that a promise?” whispers Suguru. It’s a wicked move, an echo of years before. Satoru groans, lets his head be pulled back until the skin of his throat stretches thin and ghostly, like the reflection of the pale moon against the ocean. Most of the time, Suguru kisses Satoru like a prize. Gentle, maps his skin with his mouth, commits him to memory. Now, he kisses like he expects it to be the last time; starving, though somehow never sated.
Satoru will never tell Suguru that he loves him.
Instead, he tilts his chin down once more, takes Suguru’s face in his hand, forcefully. Demands eye contact as he pinches his cheeks together, uses his free hand to slowly work his fingers into his mouth.
“Suck.”
And Getou, he does just that; sucks until he’s drooling onto his chin, deliberately, thick, milky rivulets that have Satoru licking his own lips, cock hard and heavy against his stomach.
“Come,” beckons Satoru, fingers sliding out of his mouth. Getou shuffles forward, enough so that Satoru can lap the saliva from his chin, long tongue a felony against his face, and Getou hums, mouth slack, hands curling desperately into the lapels of Gojo’s open shirt.
“Baby,” he croons, “sweet boy –,”
And Satoru, he steals the words right from his mouth, kisses messily, uncoordinated, because Suguru, true to character, is playing with him. This awful, cruel man he’d become – he knows exactly how to manipulate Gojo.
Understands that it takes but a few carefully chosen words to have him as putty in his hands, fantasising naively that they might really stay this way for good this time.
“Shut up,” Satoru breathes against him. “I’ll kill you. I could kill you.”
It’s an empty threat, said with the barest hint of a smile.
Getou laughs this biting, patronising laugh. Shifts until he’s straddling Satoru’s thighs, leans forward to ghost the palms of his hands down his lover’s chest. Circles around a perfectly pink nipple just for the gasp it draws from the man below.
“Oh, I know. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he teases, grinding down hard enough to draw a pained moan from Satoru. “You’d do it just so that no one else could touch me. Fuck me raw and then slit my throat, watch me bleed out. Bet you’d be hard doing it, too, huh, babe?”
Physically, Satoru could over power him. It would be as easy as breathing. Even easier when buried balls deep inside him, with Suguru crying his name, defenceless, but he doesn’t, for some twisted reason that continuously evades him, balancing perilously somewhere between love and hate. And Suguru is right, the way he always is.
Some fucked up, twisted part of Satoru would love to watch the life drain from his eyes as his come weeps from deep inside him.
And he wouldn’t, all at once, because for all his wrongdoings, Suguru breathes a life into Satoru that defies all logic, all sense of right and wrong. Being the most powerful sorcerer in the world had a way of making you feel desperately lonely.
(No one around him needed to know the truth. The kids had enough to deal with, especially Itadori.)
The covers around them rustle as Suguru rids himself of his clothes. Satoru watches, hand sliding into his own pants, and Suguru tuts, dropping his shirt to the floor.
“You’ve no patience,” he reprimands, “so desperate to be ridden.”
“So stop teasing and get on my cock,” bites Satoru.
“I will,” promises Getou, bottom lip jutting out just so. “But you’re so big, Satoru. Let me work up a just little bit.”
Sounds like a cop out, and Gojo pouts.
“So that was all talk, just now? My cock not enough to keep you nice and ready?” asks Satoru, the faintest hint of irritation creeping it’s way into his voice. “You said I stretched you good.”
Suguru smirks. Curls his fingers into Satoru’s underwear, peels back the waistband. Unsheathes his lover’s cock like a loaded weapon, carefully, slowly – and the look on his face as his trophy springs free, Satoru could stare at him forever –
“Not all talk – but can you blame me?” he marvels. Puts on a right show of being awestruck because he knows Satoru gets off on it. (Years of being applauded as something spectacular will do that to a person). “Look at you. Fuck.” Suguru gapes at him. Squeezes his cock head tight enough to express the little drops of pre cum beading at the tip, flushed red and twitching in anticipation, and Satoru bares his teeth, sucks in a breath. “I’d ride this exact cock every day for the rest of my life if I could.”
You could, Satoru wants to say. The notion of it throws him for a second – a lifetime with Suguru, the two of them, night and day, forever – and he swallows around the sudden and unwelcome lump in his throat.
Getou would tell him he’s getting soft in his old age and Satoru would agree. (Had been growing soft since Megumi ever turned up, really, as though the boy had unlocked some dormant part of him, something he hadn’t known himself able to house until then – this fundamental desire to hone and refine and protect, to make better, against all odds.)
With Getou sliding a soft palm over the length of his shaft, however, what he says in place of all that is a much less eloquent.
“Fucking sit on it, Getou,” he demands, neck flushing magenta against the ivory of his skin, “fuck, wait – no, put it in your mouth, fucking choke on it, go on.”
“Which is it, sweet boy?” Suguru chides. “You’re not being very clear.”
Sweet boy. There was very little truly sweet about Satoru. Feels his power like static thrumming below his skin right through to the tips of his fingers, alive and tangible. This terrifying energy that twists and curls inside of him, and especially now, with Getou pushing him – and Satoru thinks he must be glutton for punishment, really. He could destroy Suguru right now if he wanted, pick him apart until there was nothing left to prove he ever even existed save for the ache in Satoru’s chest, this great fucking cavity to ache and bleed and taunt.
And so, he doesn’t. Instead, he launches himself at Getou, palms landing flat against the firm swell of his biceps – and it’s not pretty, or decent, (but neither was he, really, when it came down to it). Growls like a starved animal as he forces him down with ease, until the man is on his back, thin eyebrow cocked in a self satisfied expression that Satoru only just resists the temptation to slap right off.
It’s no surprise when Satoru tears his boxers down his legs, and then shuffles up the length of Suguru’s body until his cock bobs heavily above his face. Doesn’t give a second of warning before he’s pulling his mouth open, index and forefinger curling over his bottom teeth, yanking, and Getou, he responds in kind.
Sticks his tongue so far out that Satoru can see the dusting of cherry-wine bumps over the waiting muscle, so compliant. Satoru wonders if he can still taste his release from mere hours before, when Satoru had come inside of him just to drive his fingers deep into the weeping hole only seconds later, scooping himself out like the dregs of a honey pot just to have Suguru lick it from his fingers, famished.
He hates Suguru. Even more as he rams his cock down his throat, and Getou gags, hands flying up to grip his lover’s thighs. Digs his nails into the flesh just for something to hold; something to keep him anchored. Suguru had made his bed – there was only ever one outcome to the sort of taunting he’d subject Satoru to.
When provoked, Gojo was nothing if not cruel.
”I’ll only tell you this once,” he’d said, a lifetime ago. "Pick your battles. Once I’m in that frame of mind, there’s not a thing you can do that will stop me.” And Getou, ever the masochist, had smiled had said, “Promise?”
So, now, Satoru doesn’t feel the slightest bit guilty as he snaps his hips forward, hands tangled so tight into Suguru’s hair that his scalp pulls at his eyebrows. Doesn’t feel guilty as he leers at him, teeth bared.
“Fucking whore,” he hisses. “Knew exactly what you were doing – ngh, fuck...”
Satoru doesn’t recognise himself in these moments.
Watches from somewhere else, untethered to his own body, as this monster wearing his flesh fucks and tears and pulls.
No one except Getou would ever see it.
(No one except Getou would ever accept him for it).
It isn’t long before Getou is choking. Crying, tears slipping over his cheekbones, these great panicked sobs tearing from between his lungs, and it’s nice, it feels so fucking good, the vibrations of his discomfort like a white hot poker to Satoru’s gut. It’s better, like this. Better to have Suguru suffocating around his cock instead of filling his head with far fetched imaginings of the two of them, in love and together and decidedly not at war. He couldn’t lie if he couldn’t breathe, after all.
It’s a shame when he finally pulls himself out of Getou’s mouth, if only for the glum coalition of relief and disappointment that crosses Suguru’s face when he does. Hisses against the grate of teeth against his shaft and frowns, displeased, if only a little. There’s a line of spit connecting the two of them, and Satoru drags his fingers through it, Getou’s face a canvas as he uses it to paint his eyelashes, the knife-edge of his cheekbones. Tragically beautiful.
"Too much teeth,” Satoru tuts. “Should have opened up wider.”
Getou smiles, pained and lopsided.
It’s a small reprieve before Satoru is wedging himself between Suguru’s thighs, hooking his hands beneath his knees. Forces his legs so far apart to make room for his narrow hips, because he can, because he wants Suguru to feel his skin burn in every which way; stretched too big, too much, and yet still not enough, all at once.
Getou cries as Satoru breaches him, two fingers deep when he’d been right about maybe just one. Gojo moans in tandem, long and low, feels his heart slam against his ribcage with every panicked twitch of Suguru’s body, trembling and hungry and still sucking him in for more, despite the sting.
He’s so hard beneath him that Gojo wants to bully him for it. Wants to laugh at how desperate Getou is for him, how utterly fucking ridiculous it is that he chooses not to have this all the time, when Satoru would let him, would fucking die a thousand deaths just to have Getou surrender –
“Sweet thing,” murmurs Getou, voice a strained whisper as Satoru scissors him open, sinfully long fingers prying him apart, making room, but only just. “Beautiful, the way you use me.”
He blinks, wet lashes fanning delicately over a set of shiny, pleading eyes, and it makes Satoru’s heart ache.
“Shouldn’t trust me,” Satoru grunts, head spinning. “You never learn.”
The truth is – and he’d spent a very long time trying to ignore it – something ugly waits for him at the corners of his vision. Lurks at the periphery of his subconscious, leering, teeth bared, ready to drag him away, kicking and screaming.
As though reading his mind, Getou smirks.
“Clearly, neither do you.” Pauses. Then, a gentle hand at Satoru’s cheek. “Satoru,” he whimpers, flushed and panting below. Satoru hesitates, long fingers frozen in place knuckle deep inside of him. “Sweet boy. You know this isn’t real, don’t you?”
And Satoru, he frowns. Bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. Pulls his fingers from Suguru’s hole in favour of lining up his cock, red raw with the effort of not coming there and then at the threat of it all being over too soon, the edges of his vision falling away before his very eyes.
“Of course I know that,” he sighs, deflated. “Such a spoil-sport.”
He’s bottoming out before his mind can catch up.
Suguru keens below him, “yes, darling boy, that’s it, hard as you can,” and Satoru does just that, thrusting into him at a pace that defies all logic.
“Feel good?” he asks, like it matters, as though Suguru were the real thing, miles of lean skin and bone and muscle quivering beneath him, and Getou’s mouth falls open, too wrecked to even respond. (That’s how Satoru remembers him – ruined to the point of insanity, the way he liked it).
Feels too good to be real, anyway. Suguru never would have promised another life.
It’s always imperfect.
Getou doesn’t last long. It’s only minutes before Satoru had wrapped a hand around him, fisting his cock in time with his thrusts, and Getou cries, his lover’s name a strangled prayer on his lips.
Gojo follows seconds after, and it’s good, it’s wet and warm and so palpable that he sags beneath the weight of it all, aching body crashing into Suguru’s like a wave against the shore, and Suguru embraces him, mouth gentle against the damp curve of his neck.
“And you say I’m the teenage girl,” he jibes. “Look at all of this. This is all you.”
He’ll wake up, soon, and that’s the part he hates.
For now, though, he sighs into Suguru’s hair, and Suguru laughs. Drapes the curtain of sleek black nothingness over his eyes like a blanket, safe and sound. Waits with Satoru until the ugly fog of reality comes creeping back to claim him once more, the same way it always did.
Still very much alone.
Alone, alone, alone.