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Contrary to popular belief, Gojo Satoru is not a god.
Despite his absolutely absurd, god-given combination of power in the form of his Six Eyes and Limitless technique, he has human flaws, feels human emotions, and experiences human sensations. And there is nothing more human than sinking down into your chair, shoving a hand down your pants, and palming yourself to the thought of your best friend through the thin fabric of your briefs. Even the strongest sorcerer alive gets horny sometimes.
Eager to indulge in his human-ly desires, he didn’t bother to peel the garments off his body (with the exception of his sweaty blindfold, which he ripped off his forehead the moment he was behind closed doors). His black uniform, although composed of flexible, lightweight fabric, clings to his body, which is beginning to get hotter and hotter with each second. Satoru lets out a heavy sigh, further leans his head back, and shuts his eyes.
It used to be like this - him and Suguru.
Years ago, Satoru used to fight demons, restraining from eating his partner’s lips in the middle of the hallway as if their dorm wasn’t just five paces away. Almost like telling a dog to wait on its favorite treat. Each and every time, Suguru would put a finger up to Satoru’s lips with a frown. “Can you wait, like, two seconds?”
Although Satoru swears Suguru only pretended to dislike his needy tendencies. He remembers the keenness in which Suguru’s lips would latch onto him as soon as they made it into their dorm.
He remembers how, even after his defection, Suguru would groan and press his clothed boner against Satoru’s abdomen. He remembers how they would search for friction and use each other’s bodies to get off. How Suguru’s mouth used to take him whole, his violet, almost blackened eyes staring up and daring Satoru to look away. The way tears would form in the corner of his eyes because he refused to pull away, drool and cum dripping down his chin, warm tongue swirling over his tip as he swallowed as much of Satoru as he could. No one could look away from a sight like that.
Fuck.
Satoru swipes a thumb over the clothed head of his cock and lets a groan slip out of his mouth. There’s a wet patch on his briefs now.
Typically, Satoru isn’t one to tease himself. It’s not often that he gets the time to touch himself to begin with. On the rare occasion he does allow himself to release his pent-up energy and stress, it’s nothing more than exactly that – a way to momentarily release the stress of being the strongest.
But with Suguru, Satoru would dangle on the edge of release for hours, a direct contrast from the haste in which he would typically indulge himself when he was alone. To think the strongest let himself be controlled by an enemy of Jujutsu Society - it's almost laughable. All of those secret hookups were missed opportunities to fully restrain and kill Suguru, yet they would both give in to their primal desires.
Ten years have passed since his defection - seven years since their last hookup, yet Satoru still remembers Suguru and the feel of his delicate fingertips like the back of his hand. Copious amounts of lube slathered on his dick and an unbearable, yet tender touch were routine, as if Suguru refused to grasp Satoru's length in full. His fingers would trace up and down the veins along his length, with focused attention on the head that would have Satoru itching for more.
It would take at least twenty minutes of dry humping and messily swapping saliva for Suguru to permit Satoru to cum, or allow Satoru to fully indulge in Suguru's body - fucking years worth of yearning, hurt, confusion, and love into him, who accepted the emotions entirely. You’re mine. I hate you. Why did you leave me? I love you. Fuck you. Please come back.
Or the opposite: Satoru's face in the pillows, moaning muffled nonsense as Suguru slowly dragged his dick in and out of his shaking body. He would see a familiar, yet different side of Suguru then, when Satoru bottomed; he'd see Suguru that was tender, like during their student days, but even more vulnerable and raw. Even when Satoru was on his hands and knees, feeling fucked out of his mind, he would sense a softness in Suguru's touch as ropes of cum painted his back.
There was still good in him - he's convinced. Satoru never stopped seeing the good in him.
"Kill me if you want. There's a meaning to that."
Satoru winces and casts the thought aside.
Seven years have passed since their last hookup. But, right now, if he shuts his eyes tight enough, Satoru can almost pretend it’s the tip of Suguru’s fingers that are lightly teasing and ghosting their way up and down the length of his clothed dick. He imagines Suguru’s undressed body on top of his own and a warm mouth suckling marks into his neck - one of Satoru's sensitive spots.
But it’s not enough. It’s never enough.
Satoru’s hands are too rough. There’s no large, muscular weight on his body to keep him grounded, nor can he feel Suguru’s hot breath tickling his ear.
All Satoru can do is remember, remember, remember. There’s only so much you can do with remembering and replaying years worth of memories as jerk-off material. He shoves the waistband of his briefs down, fully gives up on teasing himself, and grips the base of his now-exposed dick.
“Do you fuck anyone else like this?”
Satoru whimpered and panted like a dog into the back of Suguru’s shoulder. Damp, jet black hair soaked with sweat stuck to both of their skins, but neither of them could care.
Satoru only let out a long, drawn-out whine in response. It was pathetic, the way he sounded. One of his hands grasped Suguru's exposed waist, the other gripping the back of his neck as if he’d escape. He drove himself in and out of Suguru's hole, chasing both of their releases like his life depended on it.
He doesn't answer or admit it out loud. They both know; there was no need to say it out loud. The only person who ever understood Satoru was laying below him with his ass up, part of his face smushed against the mattress. His best friend, partner, fuck-buddy, lover, his one and only.
Suguru looked beautiful there, eyes shut, glistening lips parted and letting out soft pants. His black hair was let loose across the white sheets, like flowing ink on a canvas. A gorgeous, red flush mixed with the moonlight's touch spread over his cheeks, neck, and down his back.
Satoru's eyes scanned over every inch of his body. The prettiest body - lithe and flexible, yet sturdy and muscular. He refused to shut his eyes; he wanted to capture this. Commit the physical sensation of Suguru swallowing him whole and seer the image of Suguru offering himself into the deepest, most concealed part of his brain.
And to the deepest, most concealed part of Satoru's brain it went. He only digs in there during times like this, when Suguru's absence weighs in on his mind.
Satoru doesn't realize he's biting his lips until the skin breaks and he tastes metal. His palm is sticky, pre-cum reduced to a thin film after god knows how many minutes of stroking himself. When he opens his eyes, he sees stars and a rope of pre-cum slowly dribbling out of his dick, down his hand and onto his black uniform. Whatever.
In his daze, Satoru tears the zipper of his uniform down and fumbles out of his long sleeves. His dick is aching for a release, but his mind is still dizzy with Suguru, Suguru, Suguru. Suguru's voice. Suguru's mouth. Suguru's cock. Suguru's taste. The pre-cum makes it easier for Satoru to slip his grasp up and down his length, and his blood begins to buzz even more.
Suguru's eyes were always shut when he came, but Satoru watched. He watched, took in every little detail during their secret encounters. Black, fluttering eyelashes fanned out onto pink cheeks; thin, furrowed brows; a wide, open mouth letting out low, breathy sounds as Satoru let himself be used.
It's not enough. Satoru needs more, he needs to feel Suguru use his body while he strokes himself. Needs to completely overwhelm himself with Suguru.
Satoru reaches up and shoves two fingers in his mouth - as far as his gag reflex can handle it - as if that could replicate feeling the heavy weight of Suguru's dick on his tongue. His moans are steadily growing louder and needier, reduced to pathetic whines and muffled by the digits in his mouth. The sting of tears hit his eyes.
"Satoru, god, you're so- fuck-"
He's close, Satoru could tell. Looking up through half-lidded eyes and the blur of his tears, he saw it: brows furrowed together, shut eyes, parted lips, and heavy breathing. Suguru's tightened grasp on the back of his head combined with the grip under his jaw made the gagging mess worth it. Maybe this was his purpose - offering his mouth and his throat and every inch of his being to provide Suguru pleasure.
Suguru's lids fluttered open and Satoru's teary gaze met his. The cursed energy surrounding them buzzed.
The eyes are the window to the soul, they say. Despite the unforgiving pace at which Suguru thrust down his throat, Satoru looked past those violet irises and instead stared at the outline of his best friend's soul.
As much as the body tries to deny, deny, deny, the eyes reveal everything. What Satoru saw was tenderness, love, desire, but also sorrow and longing. Suguru could not fully cast his true emotions away. If he could fully cast it away, he wouldn't have "failed to conceal" the traces of his cursed energy, knowing Satoru could detect it from miles away. He wouldn't have been here, hovering over Satoru, chasing his orgasm. They wouldn't have refused to acknowledge the massive elephant in the room for the sake of reviving their physical and emotional intimacy, one last time.
Satoru hoped this wasn't the last time. He was Suguru's other half. How could Suguru leave his other half behind?
Suguru's pants grew heavier and heavier until he pulled Satoru off of his dick, leaving him hanging with tears stinging the corner of his eyes and spit smeared down his open mouth. He let out a pathetic noise as Suguru's fingers caressed his cheek, making their way down to his jaw.
Everything was hazy. Satoru's jaw ached and he leaned into Suguru's warm touch. When Suguru swiped his thumb over Satoru's swollen, spit-slicked lips, Satoru took it into his mouth without sharing a word, maintaining the gaze they shared.
Suguru simply hummed in response. He bent down, and after what felt like hours of eye contact, pressed his lips against Satoru's, who closed his eyes and allowed Suguru to consume him.
That was the last time Satoru was able to glimpse into Suguru's soul - the last time before they met each other on that little road and exchanged their final words to each other.
The stinging tears in Satoru's eyes grow, not just out of pleasure, but also out of the bitterness of losing Suguru, his only pillar. What made him think Suguru would stay, after those nights filled with unspoken desire and raw lust? "This is the life I’ve chosen," he said, years ago on the streets of Shinjuku, oblivious passersby buzzing around them. Suguru killed his own parents, much to Satoru's disbelief. It was obvious they couldn't stay together; you can't have the best of both worlds. Suguru couldn't have upheld his opposing philosophy if they were to continue seeing each other, and neither could Satoru.
To remain with Satoru was to betray his principles. A buried, deeply selfish part of Satoru almost wished for Suguru to abandon his ideals and return to Jujutsu Society - return to Jujutsu Society for him. Although, that was never going to happen.
They both knew deep down those secret hookups were never sustainable, but part of Satoru didn't care. Even now, he can't help but cling to those memories. Despite these bitter thoughts, he continues stroking himself. Even as he shamelessly pleasures himself like a bitch in heat, fingers in his mouth to replace Suguru's cock, Satoru still clings on. That's all he can do, now that Suguru is gone.
To run his fingers through long, jet black hair again. To lay on his bare chest. To fall asleep in his embrace and feel the rise and fall of his lungs. To meet up at Satoru's dorm in the middle of the night to make out until their lips are numb. Or feel thick, silky strands tickle his neck as Suguru hovers over him and fucks his brain into a daze again. Satoru clings on.
Satoru's muffled chants fill the empty room, "Suguru, ah, Suguru," as if he's right in front of him, smiling at Satoru's shameful display of lust and longing, encouraging him to continue. His chest heaves, the flames in his core brewing faster and faster. The prickling tears in his eyes grow - from grief, pleasure, or simply his body reacting to the fingers he shoved down his throat, it doesn't matter. It feels good to cling on, it hurts so good to cling on, like putting pressure on a tender bruise.
He imagines Suguru with a fistful of his own white hair right above him, stroking himself in mutual haste and fervor.
"Cum on me," Satoru would beg. He knows Suguru would relish the hoarseness of his voice after he wreaks havoc on his throat. He knows Suguru would press his cock against his face, and the heat and weight on his cheek would make Satoru's own dick throb in response. Ropes of Suguru's hot cum would paint his face, his chest, his mouth - whichever part of his body Suguru would want to claim, Satoru doesn't care. But the thought alone sends himself over the edge, pleasure consuming and pulsing through his body.
A choked whine slips out of his lips, perhaps too loud against the stillness of the room, and his mind blanks. His body quivers as the built-up tension escapes his body in pulses, his own climax utterly wrecking his body. Satoru is too consumed, too fucked out to mentally curse himself for the streaks of cum that fall on his black uniform pants. He needs to embrace Suguru's body, sink his teeth into his shoulder to muffle the cries and leave marks on his back, but there's nothing to stabilize him. It's empty in Satoru's room - his rooms were always empty, since Suguru left.
Satoru stares at the ceiling in his intoxicated haze, mentally and physically coming down from his high. The silence, aside from his breathing, and the loneliness of his apartment sober him. They're blaring in his ears, to the point where the daze leaves his body and all Satoru can feel is emptiness. But that's normal, despite being surrounded by students and sorcerers that respect him. It's not like he has the time to house others.
All this raw, physical strength, power, cursed energy, yet Satoru feels powerless against the emotional tie he shared with Suguru. The thought only becomes louder and harder to ignore now that Satoru isn't high off pleasure, sitting in the aftermath of his indulgence. He couldn't save Suguru from the darkness that consumed him, and so he clings on. But the truth can't be avoided. Suguru is long gone. He was gone the moment Satoru found him on that busy city street, yet he lingers in every aspect of his life. The only ones I can save are those who are ready to be saved.
Satoru's limbs ache dully. He can't be bothered to haul himself off the sofa, and so he bitterly chuckles to himself. The strongest sorcerer alive is still human.