Work Text:
Gojo Satoru's first thought about her is directed to the asymmetrical bangs falling over her face, the length stopping at the hollows of her cheeks. The black strands of fine hair carry a glossy sheen, circling around her small head, almost as bright as an obsidian crown; the tresses bunch up in a loose bun, held together by a red kumihimo ribbon.
The girl's features are absolutely delicate, clashing starkly with the heavy gauges piercing her earlobes and her practical uniform– she supports high-waisted pants instead of the standard skirt, it keeps her legs covered, but it makes her waist look so tiny compared to her round hips.
When she stands in front of their empty class and introduces herself –to him, to the other student and their teacher– her voice sounds soft and calm, peaceful even, though it is coated with an alluring note that calls to him in a baser way he isn't ready to scrutinize yet.
She writes her name on the board and cleans the chalk's white dust from her fingers right after. Her name is weird, quite uncommon for a girl– Suguru–, it echoes around his head and weights, rolling along his tongue as if pushing itself out, compelling him to call for her without any formality that classmates are encouraged to preserve. At the very least, during the first day of classes. Her eyes are weird too, they drill through him, searching something behind the lenses of his shades.
He feels torn apart.
Defiled by her violet eyes.
Satoru is excruciatingly arrogant and he knows it. He's self-aware enough not to try any attempt at pretense humility, knowing how ridiculous he'd sound. He was groomed to rule over Jujutsu society, basically from the moment he could understand what other people talked around him– amused gasps, followed by awe and the unstoppable curiosity to have a closer look into the child's eyes.
He was a boy shrouded in adoration, covered by flattery, which made him a powerful monster with an unbearable personality.
He is curious, though. And since Suguru explained her technique to him he needs to actually see it, to bare his Six-eyes and meticulously dissect whatever curse manipulation truly entails.
He isn't so sure it could be as extraordinary as Yaga-sensei's impressed face suggested. Even Shoko, whose nonchalant expression is the default, seemed taken aback by Suguru's descriptive summary of the curses she owns.
In contrast, when he explained Limitless and the nature of his Six-eyes, Shoko didn't even bat an eye, staring longingly outside the open window– beyond any doubt wishing for a pack of cigarettes– completely disregarding.
He still feels the sting burning his pride, so he looks for Suguru after lunch. It's a simple task to engage with when his eyes can basically track cursed energy, consequently in an instant he knows where she is. Her signature is so peculiar that Satoru can even smell it– honey and cinder, viscous and powdery.
Suguru sits by the sprint track, leaning back on the bleachers and enjoying her rest. She's bathed in the afternoon sun, a slit of her slender neck displayed as she lets her head fall back, basking in the brazen brightness.
“You,” he smugly shouts with a smile springing across his lips upon witnessing a frown form on the previously smooth surface of her forehead and her mouth instantly pursing, her shoulders tensing and her gaze, locked on his approach, glints like an amethyst under sunlight. Satoru finds solace in her bothered demeanor, a buzz runs through his veins when he has her attention.
“May I help you with something?”
The girl retorts with courteous words, but her eyes are cutting like sharpened knives and her tone betrays the mask of politeness she keeps hiding behind.
“Show me,” Satoru demands, arms crossed in front of his chest, facing her with the kind of haughtiness that can only be cultivated by a pampered child so different from everyone else. So special. Anything but ordinary.
“Show you what exactly?”
Suguru appears to be genuinely confused, watching him as if he suddenly grew a pair of horns or a fluffy tail. Despite her lacking ability to comprehend basic speech, Satoru, in his unending benevolence, decides to elucidate her.
“Your technique, of course,” the boy snorts.
“Well, I can't,” she claims, picking herself up and mirroring his stance. She confronts him, too close for his liking. She denies his well-behaved request unflinchingly, showing the true nature of her peasant’s etiquette. Despite that, the admittance of her own faults appeases him endlessly.
Moreover, what comforts him most is the way he towers above her entire figure, showcasing the abysmal gap between them just by existing next to her. The boy looks down on her. He's bigger, undoubtedly stronger.
“Why not– did you forget how to conjure your curses?” Satoru provokes, raising his brow just to put on a show, pretending to have obnoxious doubts about the girl he's, in truth, so curious about. “Maybe you never knew it in the first place,” he pauses reveling in her indignant expression, “maybe you are a liar.”
“Are you stupid?” Suguru scoffs, letting a disbelieving sigh leave her petal colored mouth, their proximity guarantees that his specs’ lenses turn blurry, “I can't use it inside Tengen's barrier!”
“Oh, I didn't even think about that.” Satoru's tone softens, his eyes glued to hers, partly obscured by the curve of his glasses, still she pierces through it with her angry gaze, sparking electricity across his spine, his tendons and each fold of his encephalon.
“That's new for me,” she roots her feet on the grass, steadily maintaining her stance, unfaltering as a rock, “I wouldn't have guessed thinking was within your incomparable abilities.”
Gojo Satoru swallows a dramatic gasp, followed by disgruntled hiss. But instead of protecting his dignity he ends up inhaling deeply the scent of her, ingloriously failing to win a match he's absolutely unprepared for. His inadequacy might be something to hold his family accountable for, a direct consequence of his sheltered life prior to school.
Because no measure of clan policy or curse studies could have prepared him to the fury of this girl, whose pervasive beauty quakes his body, stabs his heart.
“Later, then,” he finally mumbles before he flees.
The heavy drops of rain tap the rectangular stones outside the Jujutsu tech area in the same cadence of a standing ovation, sounding exactly like a blessing from heaven. It should have been taken as an omen of their compatibility, a sign sent to tell them they were set to be victorious when they work together, like a proper team. Still, Gojo Satoru is vexed.
“Do you know how to get there?” Satoru glares at Suguru, arrogant and dry while he steps outside and lets the rain pour against the infinity cloaking him.
“I do.”
“Then I'll meet you there,” he barks dismissively and anxious to prove his superiority, “call a manager and hurry up, and maybe by the time you arrive you can watch me finish the exorcism.”
“And how do you even plan to get there,” Suguru tilts her head, hands on her waist as if she was scolding her naughty child. “Gonna call your private chauffeur to fetch you the limo?”
“Nah, not with this weather, my mom would kill me if her Bentley gets muddy,” he drawls pretending to entertain the idea, his expensive leather shoes tap the stones and he goes up, floating a few inches above the ground.
“Nice,” the girl steps closer, chin up and a periwinkle gaze that locks on his face, her hair immediately dappled with wet spots, “so superman does fly, huh, and he's mommy's boy,” Suguru teases, aiming directly for Satoru's ego, her playful tone hits true and does the trick.
“This superman flies alone, so don't come begging me to carry you like a maiden.” Satoru retorts ignoring her mean comments implying he's overly attached to his mother when the truth is the exact opposite. If both of them meet, they might have a bitch-off and settle once and for all who is the most malevolent woman to ever grace the planet's surface.
“I won't, I can keep up,” the girl smirks, mischief tugging the corner of her pink lips, twisting pride across her demeanor.
“How? Will you chase my tail, Suguru?”
Satoru walks over thin air, his steps are silent, they defy gravity and basic laws of the universe. Laws that apply to anyone but him and him alone. His voice lowers and muscle beneath his skin prickles with sensations that have nothing to do with the usual hum of his inherited abilities, and most likely everything to do with getting closer to this one girl. He feels like a teenage boy, she makes him like that, which belies the God-like nature he is believed to possess.
How dare she?
Suguru, who may be telepathic for all Satoru knows, answers in her own way, displaying her power, her astounding technique. She lets the tendrils of her cursed energy spread and whirl into a circle behind her, made of tall shadows and oil, as dark as a black hole, capturing light and holding it hostage of its inescapable force. And, from this unique portal a creature springs, yellow eyed and green tongued, with gnarly horns and fur as white as snow.
She's just summoned a fucking dragon.
Then, she mounts it, cross legged, like this is part of her most basic routine on a boring rainy tuesday morning.
“What the–?”
The white dragon takes off vertically, casting pure sunlight over a thousand droplets, leaving a path of rainbow on its wake.
When he follows, Satoru's mouth is still agape.
The incense fog swirls around them, thick and unsettling, while Suguru manages to exorcize it. She's soaked from the dripping tips of her hair to her toes and extends her arms towards the weakened curse, using her innate ability to transmorph it into a sleek shining ball. Satoru watches as she takes it from the temple floor, quiet and somber like a priestess performing a ritual.
The sphere is basically the size of a tennis ball, but instead of fluffy and lemon green it is as dark as midnight, but also iridescent.
Satoru watches Suguru, expectantly. Tremendously curious about how she gets to tame the curses that make her so dangerous–so absolutely unpredictable when amidst a fight, using her perfect timing to strategically summon from her vast arsenal.
Without a word the curse manipulator ingests it. Mouth opened, impossibly wide, the condensed curse too big to fit, still Suguru pushes it down her throat.
And Satoru just stares, mesmerized and horrified until Suguru falls to her knees, with a nauseated expression, delicate features drained and getting paler by the second, her arms curl over stomach and she throws up her breakfast. In that precise moment, he is entirely terrified.
Satoru is immediately by her side, too many confusing questions rippling across his head, but the most clear thought is the stabbing concern he feels for the other student. The boy keeps her hair out of the way, helping her to keep it clean, just supporting her. Before he knows, he's hushing Suguru and vowing to her that she'll feel better soon; patting the nape of her head with endless promises and soft touches when she coughs and shivers, vomiting some more.
“I'm sorry,” she blurts out while her cursed energy calms down; when the first grade curse finally is consumed and her nausea subsides.
“ ‘s okay,” he interrupts, shaking his head. His fingers, entwined through her straight hair, caress the base of her skull with more care and possessiveness he thought to be possible. He's gentle with her, like he never was with anybody else and he doesn't know where this behavior comes from.
“No, I-I know it's repulsive,” her voice lowers to a whisper, her eyes look down to the half digested food that pools in front of her, it's scent acrid and acidic like her bile, it's not pleasant at all, “but you're being–kind now.”
She offers him a smile so precious and shy that unscrews his brain from his body and terminates his cognitive functions. He only understands long lashes crunching purple eyes and beautiful lips lifting plump cheeks.
“Thank you, Satoru.”
They both blush, aware that it's the first time she calls him by his name– he loves it, he loves it and wants to hear it a million times and then one more.
“ ‘s okay,” he repeats with a grin broader than his own mouth, “I don't mind,” he finishes, wishing his short circuited mind provides him with anything better, but he's clearly unable to properly behave around the prettiest girl he's ever laid eyes upon when she's speaking his name in fragile sigh.
He uses the sleeve of his jacket to wipe spit off her face.
“I don't know, man, she looks a bit intimidating,” Satoru overhears the group of boys waiting for their order in front of the counter, just like him. Immediately, their conversation picks up his scrutiny, but he resists the instinctive urge to glare at them, keeping his blue stare on the barista's work. He just knows who is the subject they are spitting nonsense about.
Unbeknownst to the high-schoolers, Geto Suguru isn't only intimidating, she is able to twist their guts and then spill their bowls all over the gray shiny floor. If she so wants to, she would maim them without warning.
She is all bite and no bark.
“But those are the ones who really want to get dicked,” another enthusiastic teenager provides, he doesn't even try to be discreet, ogling the girl outside, having her smoke unconcerned, “they put on an effort to look unapproachable, but what they really want is attention.”
Satoru nearly snorts, no girl would want to be in those creeps’ radar. They are all inflamed pimples and greasy hair, unkempt uniforms and high-pitched arrogant voices. What a delusional bunch, to entertain the idea that a girl like Suguru would even spare a glance at them. Moreover, the curse manipulator is formidable. Probably the strongest person Satoru ever fixed his six eyes onto, concerning both physical prowess and cursed technique.
On the other hand, they are weaklings who dare to daydream about the virtues and habits of someone they're ignorant of.
They judge by what they see. Compared to Suguru, they are misbehaved, inappropriate monkeys.
“Do you guys think she has a tattoo?”
She doesn't.
“I bet she does have a pierced belly button.”
Nope.
“She'd fuck anyone that shows enough interest.”
Satoru's anger rises swiftly at the ridiculously illogical remark, he fights hard not to smash the kraft paper coffee-carrier, fists clenching when he grabs both their beverages from the coffee shop employee, plain black coffee for Suguru and a latte with cream for him. It's part of their missions now, almost like a closing ritual. Everytime Suguru ingests a curse they go out to grab anything for her to erase the foul taste off her mouth. They've already tried vanilla milkshakes, per Satoru's suggestion, and matcha pastries that have turned Suguru's grimace into a quiet smile. Now, she awaits outside the store, smoking one of the Shoko's cigarettes she's stolen. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her back faces the vending machine; her gaze perfectly matches the lilac painted over the sky– it gleams with the same softness of the twilight that frames the world in its fading shine.
“She looks hot though, maybe she's trying to compensate, you know?”
Through the glass, their undeserving eyes watch her preposterous mouth close around the cigarette as she inhales deeply. The girl's profile is perfect and it's through her upturned nose she decides to let out the smoke. Her round chest heaves slowly.
Satoru holds his own breath.
“It's daddy issues, right?”
Wrong.
The white haired boy turns, stepping away from those pathetic students. A foreign kind of rage torments him as he stomps outside the store, busting the door open and hoping it would somehow explode. This turmoil twisting his insides is so different from how he feels goring a curse; so strange and unbidden, but it only increases when her dusken eyes meet his, celestial and in the same shade of all bruises she could bestow upon him.
“Satoru–,” her pretty mouth almost twitches up, holding the shape of his name and carrying a quiver when he invades her space. He looms above her, his free hand hitting the glass right over her dark head. An aggrieved frown forms between his brow, telling her he would not accept her usual opposition; he would only have her compliance.
And she seems pliant enough, mouth slightly opened, eyes growing round.
“Here's your coffee.”
He gives the cup to her, focused on her tiniest movements, the experimental swallow she takes before her tongue darts to lick the coffee from her bottom lip–which appeases his horrible mood, yet fills his belly with sharp impulsive hunger.
The black liquid is bitter just the way he hates, he's sure, but he wants to taste it so bad.
“It's perfect,” she mutters politely, but breathless in a way that doesn't really sound proper, making Satoru hope she's not really addressing the hot beverage in her slender hand.
They drink without moving an inch. Satoru only looks away to give the kids inside the shop a death glare baring all his generational power and hoping it would crush them.
He is so tired, spent in a way he rarely feels. The prodigy regrets dismissing the manager's assistance, for he lacks the strength to even stand up, so flying back to Jujutsu tech is an outlandish possibility. His muscles are sore and his energy at his lowest.
Satoru needs to blame Suguru for that, but he simply can't. Predictably, Suguru was flawless and much more level headed than himself, keeping her distance from the group of curses before each killing strike. Satoru's eagerness, nevertheless, pushed him too far whilst his focus was elsewhere. More precisely, his full attention was –and has been for quite some time– on his partner.
The girl approaches him with the confidence earned by her victory. She slayed the last enemies, she conquered them like a true mistress of curses. And unlike Satoru, she lookspristine, observing him from above, where he collapsed.
“Satoru, can you stand?”
The question comes detached from any warmth, sounding as dispassionate as protocolar lines. It vexes him, like most things she does– like the way her black hair is tied, perfectly secured by her ribbon, dark and smooth as raven's feathers; like the condescending structure her full lips take when she performs well in a mission, as if she's deserving of praise.
“No.”
“Are you okay?”
Suguru's feet are by his ears, one at each side of his pale head of unruly hair. She bends her torso, studying his face and eclipsing the golden shine of sunrise. The girl engulfs his world in shadows, and as a consequence, violet is the only light he sees– violet eyes, glinting. They turn him into something devoid of reflection, a body that knows only impulse.
His arm shots up, by its own volition, stealing every drop of energy he does not have anymore. Long limbed as he is, his hand reaches her kumihimo and the thin red rope uncoils, falling loosely between his thumb and forefinger, releasing the black silken tresses, instantly framing the girl's face. Satoru swears a blush creeps along her cheeks. He also swears he's never seen someone as breathtaking as her.
“I'm well enough to take this,” he drags the words lazily, shaking the hair tie close to her delicate nose.
“You are too arrogant for someone who can't even get up,” Suguru accuses while she kneels. And when Satoru thinks she's getting closer–but not as nearly as close enough– she earnestly orders him, “turn your infinity off.”
A hushed command, said like it was a secret or an act forbidden.
Their stares capture each other; sapphire holds amethyst, chained by an unnamed feeling that keeps feeding this rivalry they have been cultivating since day one.
Satoru just nods, unblinking. However, he doesn't disclose the fact that his guard is always down when Suguru is nearby, that he feels safe beside her. The curse manipulator doesn't waste a second and lays his head carefully over her thighs. As a result, the boy's heartbeat reverberates wildly inside his ribcage.
Although his speed proves to be unmatched, even when his body acts on instinct, Satoru knows he lost when Suguru decided to touch him in this torturous manner. Violence is something he knows, and controls, and wields; but this gentleness is unknown and overwhelming, it undoes him. The boy fights the urge to flutter his eyes shut the moment she starts to untangle his snow-white locks and throws away a couple of leaves and dirt clinging to it. Then, her nails scratch the nape of his neck, melting Satoru into a puddle.
“I just need a moment,” the boy explains, trying to think of anything but the softness of her legs and the tenderness of her slender digits, her gorgeous face hovering high up, so perfect.
“Let's stay put, then.”
“As you say,” Satoru mutters, wishing Suguru would care for him until the end of time.
Gojo Satoru wakes in the middle of the night, gasping for air as if he was drowning just a moment before. His room grows more suffocating as the sheets of his bed cling to his body, glued to it by the sweat prickling his skin, beading and trickling down his neck. Despite the late hour and his lack of proper sleep, the boy finds himself in a stage of weariness, completely unable to relax.
Not for the first-time the midnight heat constricts him, clutching him by his shameful weaknesses in a vice-like grasp. Which would be considered completely normal for every teenage boy that isn't the heir of the Gojo clan. For him, these sensations are abhorrent and filled with contempt.
This feeling twisting the guts of his lower abdomen, while his face feels feverish and his flesh seems to split open in the darkness, aching for–.
He is rock hard, his underwear stretching obscenely over his lap, soaked with a copious amount of pre-cum.
He feels disgusting, defeated by his absolute lack of self-restraint.
Yet, Satoru bites back an unsettled grunt, palming his hardness over his boxers. He's so worked up that the slightest amount of friction feels unbearably good, so much so that the first contact has his hips kicking up and his erection pulsing, fed by his dreadful dreams of her.
They're a constant that Satoru's come to accept, as the more he refused to acknowledge his longings when he was conscious– going through class and missions alike, repeating a mantra of denial– the more of Suguru he saw behind his closed lids, when his psyche took away the reins of his sleeping brain. It all seemed inescapable–the accentuated dip of her waist; her raven hair, unbound and silken; slender arms and legs; her gorgeous smile, but most of all her obliquus eyes, soul-stirring.
Purple. Purple. Purple.
And, as guilt consumes him, he fists his member in a punishing grip, willing the all encompassing yearning to go away, but hissing loudly instead. His hand is shaky as he decides to settle at an agonizingly slow pace, savoring the pleasure and teasing himself –in a way he would kill for Suguru to touch him. Or even worse, he'd beg.
The boy pictures her, stubborn and ever so willing to torment him. He knows Suguru's mouth would ruin him, he sees her dark head lowering in front of him. She'd kneel and Satoru would be forever thankful–blessed, honored– and after taunting him until he'd beseech and promise everything she had ever wanted, only then she'd take his length between her lips and suck.
He shivers as the twist at the base of his cock tightens, he bites back a moan and a thousand curses as he slides into his fingers, unable to stop his mind from imagining the velvety wetness of Suguru's mouth and pushing himself further in the chase of his release.
Yaga-sensei decides to give them instructions to go to the second floor of the old gymnasium, claiming that it would be the best place for a spar and that his cursed puppets were not enough of a challenge for them anymore. The place is musty and the gathering dust is visible, accumulated over surfaces and the training room's corners, specks of it float in the center of the golden sliver of light trespassing the slit of the window; the boards croak under their feet and the tatami in the center is peeling off at the edges.
“Isn't there a nastier place for us to train,” he complains, huffing and puffing, bringing forward his rich boy mannerisms, which are way harder to escape than he thought they would be, because he could never have accounted for how the higher-ups would be cheap. So fucking cheap.
“Your attitude is not gonna make it cleaner,” Suguru offers from behind him, already stretching her arms and cracking her bony knuckles.
In her next move the unthinkable happens. Suguru lifts the hem of her jacket, raising her arms up in a swift motion to take it off. It messes her hair, it exposes her forearms and Satoru gawks at the rare view of her clavicle under her dress shirt. His mouth waters and dries when his eyes instinctively go down, following from the stream of straining buttons to the apparent swell of her breasts. His throat bobbs, wolfing down his faltering composure.
“I bet you'll be the one with a sour mood when I use you to sweep the floors,” he points, accusingly, trying not to stutter. The prospect of this threat stretches slowly across his lips, showing Suguru how sharp his teeth are and how manic his pretty features can morph into. Insanity overtakes him just by glimpsing more of her.
The girl's face is deadly serious annoying the fuck out of him, not as nearly affected as he is. That won't do. He wants to wipe off the furrow of her brow, the focused squint of her periwinkle eyes and the haughty pout on her lips. He needs to claw it away, scrape her features raw until she is defeated and sweet.
Gojo Satoru is eager and he attacks first, his long legs lunging him straight to Suguru's open stance. Then her fist stops his, quickly aiming for his face with her left hand. He grabs her wrist, his palm engulfs it and he thumbs the nearest group of veins delicately panting her uncovered flesh, searching skin as if by its own volition, tracing the delicate lattice of blood vessel absentmindedly.
Still, they struggle for control, keeping the other's hand away from a full blow. Suguru matches Satoru's sheer strength and speed with technique and patience. Their difference in size gives the natural advantage to Satoru until Suguru presses her foot to one of his thighs, digging one heel on hard muscle, and then the other, basically climbing him. She spins on her own axis, before letting go of him and kicking his ribcage.
Satoru is pushed to the other end of the room, his eyes glued to Suguru's form. She lands gracefully, like a delicate ballerina; deadly, like a cold killer. Precise with every maneuver she spends her energy on, fully conscious of her body.
The boy grins, while he uses his birthright to increase his speed, crossing the distance by firing himself like a bullet. He would love to brag about how easy it was to win or how she was submissive the minute he established his prowess as the strongest, which would be as far as possible from accurate reality.
He throws punches, backed by blue, matching Suguru's rhythm, emulating her flow. Trying to slap her, knee her, hit her, anything. However, she skips or dodges, frustrates his every effort; but as soon as he sees an opportunity, he seizes it. When she retreats further till she has nowhere else to escape, bumping her head to the wall, Satoru traps her body between bricks and his own relentless frame. Something he thought about often– at least once a day, but that he could never admit.
Rather than confessing his dirty fantasies out loud, his left hand snakes around her neck, enveloping it completely and then squeezing in a tight clutch, increasing pressure until her breath hitches. Satoru appreciates the feeling of it, fanning near his clenched jaw, if she tilts her chin up she could nuzzle the sensitive spot below his ear. God, he would love that.
Instead, Suguru fights back. Blunt ails digging his thicker fist, her struggle to swallow gulfs of air results solely on choked noises and her body flushed against his, squirming. It's filthy. Suguru's foot stomps on the gym's wall, knees bending and bucking her hips to push him off her or maybe hit his groin, Satoru isn't sure. What she actually accomplishes is a grinding motion, making his blood travel south, rubbing her front against him and creating unholy friction. However, she is kept firmly pinned. It doesn't make any difference that the boy's skin flickers, nearly bursting at the seams. His thumb pressing itself, uncontrolled and unyielding, over the pulsing point so hot under her sticky flesh just to see her tremble.
There's no curse in hell nor earth that could make him step away or slacken his vice like grip, but, undoubtedly, something possesses his mind– his fingers, his actions, this conduct too un-fitting of the future Gojo's clan head. His free hand meets her collar bone, fingertips trailing from the milky flesh to the white cotton covering her and Satoru unbuttons the offending thing.
One. Two.
The girl lets him drink the sight of her, peaking the sinuous curve of her heaving cleavage. Suguru is not fighting anymore, she pants laboriously, yet she allows him to admire the revealed slice of her torso. One of her palms haul itself up to his face, fingertips brushing his cheekbones, taking off his specs slowly, asking permission and giving him time to flee. He doesn't. Despite himself, he surrenders the only true shield he can put up against her– like the fool she's made of him.
Satoru blinks, pale eyelashes flutter like an opening curtain. Suddenly, it is too much, he is assaulted by all the stimulation arising from Suguru. Everywhere they touch feels electric and raw, like a livewire. Her lower belly pulses and it reverberates directly onto his growing erection, his guts boiling and liquefying one in the same. His mind nearly fractures trying to chase all the sensations at once.
The pair of his unrestricted heavenly orbs finds hers, feline and twinkling with purpose, pupils blown wide almost spamming the iris completely, only a thin purple ring remains, watching his face as she intentionally rolls her hips, up and down his clothed length.
The sound that climbs away from his throat is pathetic. If he had to categorize it, he'd place it between a moan and a sob, but all he knows for sure is that he sounds broken, prompting him to stagger backwards, waking him up from whatever spell she casted upon him. He's so scared of his own response that he immediately retreats, burnt by the heat they create together.
Suguru brings his round lenses to her chest, above her erratic beating heart. He’s not strong enough to demand it back. Not when his Six eyes are wild, absorbing the solid form of her soul. Not when her smell entices him and has a shape to it that he can look at. Not when he knows it will haunt him at night and will chase him during his rest. Not when her breath is as loud as if it's the one and only sound he'll ever wish to hear. And worst of all, the boy sees her arousal, coiling in her core, promising him warm completion.
Satoru veils himself with Infinity once more and runs for the door, shutting his eyes closed. He tries to find any trace of disgust, but he can only feel pleasure.
And a delicious kind of madness.
Satoru barges into Shoko's room. She's laying on her bed, wearing the biggest headphones known to mankind and drumming her fingers over her huge anatomy book like she always does when she wants a smoke-break.
“You should knock on other people's doors,” she scolds without inflection or much intent, “you’re too spoiled to know, but it's just common sense, Satoru.”
“I need help,” he pleads, wearing his most convincing pout to try and persuade Shoko to bless him with her feminine wisdom.
“Try a psychiatrist,” she mocks him, her sarcasm so unaware of his conflict, “I think you're way beyond my abilities.”
He rolls his blue eyes and huffs just to antagonize her, knowing full well how his dramatic antics annoy her profusely, managing to get too close to the breaking point of her unaffected facade.
“Wait–where are your glasses?” Shoko doesn't keep her silence, her glare as sharp as knives, awaiting him to give an actual answer with actual words.
“I need help with Suguru,” Satoru spills out, anxiously pacing her room. His long strides thumping the wooden boards as he stomps to avoid the feelings he came to talk about.
“You don't need help with Suguru, believe me,” the healer scoffs, an all-knowing grin spreading across her face. “She is ridiculously interested in you, Satoru.”
“How do you even know?” Satoru blurts out, undignified and doubting his friend's assured statement, “did she tell you that?”
“Damn,” she drawls, looking for a pack of cigarettes in her back pocket. “For someone with a technique called Six-eyes you're fucking blind.”
The girl stands and goes for a window, her frown only subsides when she starts smoking, complying to her addiction, carelessly. Then, she inhales deeply to placate whatever headache Satoru gives her. He looks at her, expectant.
“You two are so stupid, I just can't,” she sighs and her expression really softens, “just talk to her.”
Shit.
Satoru fumbles the keys in his hand with a metallic clink and nearly drops it on the chapped wooden floor. There's a delay as his mind tries to catch up, cataloging the furniture ahead. The moment he swings the door open he notices a desk, an office chair and the loneliest bed across the room. His brain processes the purely white linen sheets and a pair of soft looking pillows and it runs the predicament of the situation one more time, overanalyzing. What is a bed even for?
For him and Suguru. For them to lay together.
The boy's mouth is suddenly dry. Plus, his voice is gone. The air seems to both thin out inside his lungs and turn heavier around them as his head snaps to her, his eyes focusing on hers for the first-time in what feels like eons –they're a shade darker, but her face is as frozen as a mask.
Suguru exhales a shuddering breath to center herself. Then, she takes the first step. The girl might be the braver one for she enters the place first with a set jaw and wrists curled in a tight fist. Swiftly, she darts to the bathroom, flaunting the nonchalance that was definitely learned from Shoko.
Shoko, whose advice Satoru steadily and consistently ignored.
The boy didn't chase Suguru. They didn't talk at all. Besides, during this endless stream of days of his own ailing silence consuming what's left of his sanity–like a festering wound that kept feeding on his anxiety instead of flesh, and bone and blood; never properly healed, conjuring the ghostly pain that was the memory of her against him and calling forth his sickly impulse to expose her, to see more of Suguru than the arbitrary line of her school shirt allowed– it seems like they never will.
Throughout classes their usual bickering was cold and mute, resembling more one of the many corpses lying over a metal table, that Shoko studied in her morgue, than the heated back and forth that the healer teasingly calls flirting.
Silence stretched awkwardly even during missions. Suguru maintained her words sparse, clinical; methodically related to curses, strategies, context and background information. As for Satoru, he kept his distance even when Suguru fell forward and emptied her stomach. He listened to the gurgling noises as the mistress of curses threw up breakfast and coughed after.
He does feel like the utmost trash. Nevertheless, the tension that strangles them and tightens in-between their forms never gets to affect their work. It's the tiniest consolation that they, at least, haven't dealt with any uncomfortable query nor suspicious doubts from Yaga-sensei– or worse, the higher-ups– questioning their place and reputation as the best duo actively performing exorcisms.
Shoko, of course, also wouldn't express any more opinions she has on the matter. She wouldn't even provoke Satoru when he stutters or discreetly blushes. She would ignore the soulless tone Suguru adopts anytime Satoru was near. She didn't ask about his glasses nor why he keeps popping painkillers like they're candy.
She'd roll her eyes and start to chain-smoke. In such a proficient display of detachment that Satoru could feel her indifference linger longer than the grey clouds that left her nostrils only to rise and disappear before hitting the ceiling.
However, the secure blanket of unwillingness to sort out his own feelings is torn by this penurious reservation of a room with a single bed. Satoru's embarrassment rockets when he hears the dribbling sound of water. His untamed imagination is fueled by his innate technique.
Satoru feels Suguru's cursed energy seeping into the clear walls. Her peeving presence is everywhere, ingrained deep in every crevice of the thin door that separates them and the hardwood floor solid beneath his wavering feet. Although the room is meant to be a private sanctuary and solace after a successful task, the corners and empty spaces are beginning to be filled by Suguru's affliction.
The wicked image emerging at the forefront of his mind takes the shape of a girl, covered in nothing but the glistening drops, then the rivulets traveling the expanse of her body. Twinkling like a galaxy of falling stars–.
Satoru actually staggers to the chair and has to take a seat before he faints. Mechanically, he takes off his jacket and pretends to occupy his head by unloading the contents of his backpack and soon he's staring at manila folders scattered across the hotel's table, forgotten mission reports he completed ages ago abiding by the expectations thrown upon his shoulders by Jujutsu society, allowing the printed text to take his attention off her– off his nefarious daydream of her soaked skin, her nakedness.
The bathroom door creaks when she opens it.
“We can't ignore each other like that,” she sighs, defeated.
“No, we can't,” Satoru acquiesces in control of his voice, calmer than the dark waters of a still lake, yet facing a complete storm in his abdomen. He sits on the swivel chair, but lacks the energy to turn it towards her and face the girl with uncovered eyes.
“I didn't mean to upset you,” she steps closer, increasing his desperation and making it harder to ignore. “I'm so sorry I caused you to feel distressed.”
Her voice is quiet by what Satoru assumes is shame.
“I thought we–,” she interrupts herself, fiddling with his round sunglasses while her nails tap over the reflective black lenses. She is right behind him. “I didn't think, actually, but I'd never wanted to overstep your boundaries.”
“So, you thought that was within my boundaries?”
“I did, yeah.” Suguru admits without embarrassment or hesitation. The six-eyes picks the disappointment, though. Every single word coming out of her is an arrow aiming directly at himself. “But it's fine, nothing serious happened, let's just forget it.”
Never.
He tugs at the collar of his shirt, bothered by the thin cotton and the idea that she can just put anything past her, moving on with such ease while every inch of his body remembers the scorching brand of her touch and longs for more. Still feeling as hot as a furnace, the boy struggles to keep sincerity from climbing up his throat.
However, it's a battle lost.
“Was it within your boundaries?”
It's the way he says it, the way he phrases it, sounding too hopeful and unimaginably flustered. His face feels ablaze and he knows he's blushing profusely.
Tense silence follows and every second of it feels like anticipation before torture– like Suguru would get a flaying knife and start to peel the skin of his ring finger off until he'd implore her to cut it all together. Instead, she bends her torso and lays his glasses on the desk in front of him.
“Look at me,” is what she finally says, softer than before for she is so close that if she moves another inch her lips will brush his ear. The girl supports her pitiful weight on the cushioned arms of the chair, indenting the spot right next to his wrists. “Satoru.”
He shudders.
She takes her time as she turns the chair on its axis, his toes scrape the clean and even surface of the wooden floor as his nose scrunches with a frown that creases between his brows.
The girl scoffs when she sees his face.
“C'mon, Satoru, open your eyes,” Suguru requests without missing a beat, her voice laced with mischief and the most terrible and sweetest of promises, She hasn't spoken his name in weeks, so when she finally does is as if she casts a spell over it, compelling him to do her bidding more effectively than any sorcerer capable of using the cursed speech.
As powerless as Satoru is, he unshuts his tightly sealed eyes, unable to contain the orbs’ abilities. Leisurely, his snowy lashes flutter, capturing the slivers of light crossing the room and landing over Suguru's face – over her arched brows, her high cheekbones, her perfect heart shaped lips– and fracturing into every color where it touches the edges of her soul. The legacy of his clan, improved and meticulously designed over the centuries finally meets its purpose now, eagerly watching the object of his direst undisclosed desire.
Satoru fails to contain a defeated sigh when his gaze skims the full length of her body; bare feet and dainty toes, her slender, long legs covered by measly shorts and over her torso a black strap shirt, molded to her full breasts like second skin, clinging to sinuous curves and the taught flesh of her stomach. Her hair is still damp and loose– the way he prefers–, cascading down her shoulder, gleaming and smooth. The boy can pick the tantalizing sight of Suguru's navel in the creamy space in-between her clothes. He immediately wants to lick it, kiss it, bite it. And even if he tried to avert his gaze, the girl is so close that everywhere his stare fleets, he can only look at more of Suguru.
Fuck.
“Do you trust me?”
Her question charges the air around them. Its echoes ripple across the electricity that floods his veins and the shivers running through his spine. Suguru's blown out pupils flicker down towards his gaping mouth turning her expression into hunger, an exact mirror to the feeling in the pit of his abdomen. The unquenchable thirst that weakens his restraint and poisons his judgment.
Satoru knows what she'll do if he answers and he has never wanted anything more than he wants her. And, somewhere amidst this insatiable appetite and his lapsing rationality, he understands there's no feasible way to really own another person, but it's so hard to ignore how the blood drained down from his brain screams a lonely word in tandem with his heartbeat.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
“Yes,” he breathes out, a meek murmur of admission, but still loud enough for him to hear over the thumping inside his ribcage.
They sway forward, meeting in the middle. He tilts his head up waiting for her mouth to press upon his, but Suguru stops a hair's breadth away from his face. The girl's palms cradle his face, handling him with care, as if he is so dear to her.
“We can go slow, Satoru” she assures him and their lips brush nearly shattering every atom in his body, inducing the boy to believe he's just one second closer to internal combustion, “we can do whatever you want–”
Oh, God. Yes.
Gojo Satoru has never understood the concept of a breaking point until he reaches his. Until her sharp words puncture his marrow and strike his mind and, like silvery blades alive with light, cut through the last thread holding his self-control together.
The boy snaps, foregoing his fraying rationality and in its absence what remains is pure, unchecked desire. A whimper escapes the back of his windpipe, needy and feral all the same. Her mouth is an unavoidable trajectory for he can no longer resist her gravity, he pulls her to his lap as if she weighs no more than a doll. Refusing to be apart any longer, his lips capture hers.
Immediately, she settles her pulsing core on top of his hardening length. They fit together like pieces falling into place, or maybe twin stars burning as they reunite; for she melts his neurons, liquefies his bones.
The boy kisses her like he does all things, indulgently and consumed by his will to take any scrap Suguru is willing to bless him with, a testimony of his selfish disposition. His right hand goes to the back of her head, intertwining with dark hair just to see how soft it truly feels, pulling a little in order to change the angle and allow his tongue to assault her hot mouth. The velvety feel is as close to heaven as he's ever been. As he'll ever be.
There's a familiar ache persisting with every heartbeat, especially when his left palm sinks into her hip and yank Suguru further into him. This familiar bittersweet pleasure he's associated with Suguru's presence, the crushing grief born from the knowledge that there won't be anyone else that compares to her. The kind of pain he's so eager to let ruin him and, in turn, ruin her too.
Suguru moans and he swallows greedily–because it's his and he owns it, and he yearns for everything which is hers–. The noise runs throughout every single of his nerve endings, as she tastes him back, molding her mouth and body to his. Satoru fights the urge to rut and jerk up his pelvis as her heaving breasts flush against the plane of his chest, her fingers gentle and yet exploratory running their course over the lower part of his torso, engraving slightly the ridges of trim muscles.
Satoru lets out a wrecked sounding growl when she grinds down on his cock so perfectly that her cursed energy flares, reverberating inside him and, for a second, their pleasure blur. He grabs the back of her thighs just to pull her against him once again, chasing fast ecstasy just to discover the loveliest anguish.
The heir of the most prestigious clan is past plausible deniability. The way his skin longs for hers, fevered; the desperation with which his fingers seek her heat, marking all the way up there with the red print of his hands, too forceful and uncurbed; the pitiful whine that escapes his lips when he finds Suguru dripping wet–.
It all betrayed him.
When he finally sinks inside her, he knows what it feels like to be deserving of paradise.