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He is beautiful.
As beautiful as the last time he’d seen him- well, when his body had seen him. All long limbs, lithe frame accentuated with muscle in all the right places. The rigidity of his stance faltering as those awe inspiring sapphire eyes hone in on him. Fluttering eyelashes to match the snow white hair that falls on his face. The whole reunion was electric and satisfying and perfect.
Absolutely bewitching.
It had made Kenjaku’s body yearn- and so, he himself yearned, too.
Yearned for more, for that euphoric feeling of seeing the greatest sorcerer alive trembling and frozen in fear at not only the open maw of the Prison Realm, but he, himself.
Well, as much of himself was the body that he controlled. But, what were semantics in this case? All his body knew was the pulsing urge of more more more. More stimulation, more of that desperation bleeding from those beautiful blue eyes as all hope died, trapped in a snare of love’s making. The thought made his lips quirk in a sneering smile as the vocal cords at his command called his attention forward, all that energy and both those eyes on him.
“Yo, Satoru.”
If he thought what he felt before was perfection, the feelings that bloomed in his chest at seeing The Gojo Satoru , bound and furious before him, was divine.
The fear fluttering about in those blue eyes was akin to a canary in a coal mine. Frantic, and so very alert of the danger that stood before him- and yet, so powerless to protect himself against it. If he could have taken him there, held firm by the binding force of the prison realm, he would have.
No matter, he thought to himself, bidding a short lived farewell- he had all the time in the world to bring Satoru to heel.
It’s not a cold space, but the lack of light and general feel of living things sends a shiver down Satoru’s spine. It feels like the void of space- or rather, what Satoru would imagine space to feel like. It’s lonely, foreign- the creeping feeling of too many eyes in a small space hyper focused on him like a specimen in a glass bottle. Even amidst the darkness, he can still feel the energy of the space, swirling around him lazily like an orbiting presence. Satoru almost wishes to close his eyes and reawaken back in the underground- almost wishes to be back in that claustrophobic space of curses and concrete.
He doesn’t wish to be surrounded by a feeling of dread mingled with a long forgotten aura of a man long dead. Sickening thoughts intermingle with his own at the recognition. Sliding down his throat to curl and coil in his stomach like a serpent, waiting for the moment to strike, to lash out and immobilize him from the inside out.
It’s hard gauging time- minutes, hours, days… weeks? His body moves, legs carrying him in a pacing fit, never seeming to tire yet he feels his bones wail and cry with every push forward. He tries counting the seconds, getting to minutes, struggling with hours… before giving up entirely. He’d started this journey with a thought of everything being fine, yet as his feet marched forward, as the thread in his pocket wears thin, as his mind is forced to wander just as aimlessly through the depths of this inescapable voidhell as much as he is…
Satoru starts to wonder if everything truly is, or will be, alright.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
The first words he’s heard that aren’t his own thoughts ring through the space, filling his mind with static and fury. Satoru’s head snaps up, his gaze usually so full of the darkness that he’s not even sure he’ll properly be able to see afterwards. He has to blink a few times to re-gauge where he is- where he stands, and who stands before him. His stomach feels like he’s just plummeted from the top of a rollercoaster- dropping as he realizes what is up and what is down in this space of nothingness.
And before him, nestled in the darkness, stands Suguru. The same gentle smile on his features stares at him with adoration, eyes creased with loving familiarity that Satoru swears will drive him to insanity before the Prison Realm ever can. His strides have stopped, leaving him stock still, a good few paces away.
Hesitancy fills out his mind, his hand finds that loose bit of thread, nails tugging and pulling until he swears a hole will form. That same hole seems to grow wider in his chest, an aching tightness numbing him from the inside out as the being before him moves to close the gap.
“A good millennia, I believe,” he muses, and Satoru wants to strangle him as he speaks.
“That can’t be right,” Satoru manages, his throat dry from disuse, his tongue swollen against the roof of his mouth. He has no way of proving the other man wrong, other than his own, desperate wish for it. Suguru’s body shakes with an uncharacteristic chuckle, reminding Satoru of a puppet being made to quiver and dance in a poor imitation of humor. The stitching on his forehead pulls taught- the flesh refusing to give in any way while a colorless liquid dribbles down a creased temple. Satoru shudders, his feet shuffling backwards before he can compose himself, and Suguru’s body freezes- the laughter stops.
“Ah, my apologies,” he croons, reaching up with a cloth procured from his sleeves, “Sometimes this vessel leaks under certain stresses. I’m still figuring out a few of the more… fine details.”
Vessel?
Satoru’s stomach drops harder, revulsion apparent on his face as he notices the space between them diminishing once again as this imposter sporting Suguru’s face stalks forwards. The distance shortens, and Satoru can better make out the said ‘finer details’ of the figure before him. As a hand reaches out, reaches for him, Satoru realizes with bile lapping at the back of his throat just how much is familiar- and how much is different.
This being- the body is Suguru.
Yet- older, more defined… but, the curve of his hips are the same. The soft fingertips that play over his skin are the same. He closes his eyes- choosing to ignore, pretending that what he has just been faced with is little more than a lost phantom, a trick of the mind in his deprived state. A soft chuckle meets his ears, heightened senses suffocating him with too harsh touches and sounds that threaten to bust his eardrums. That voice, though worn with age, is the same. A breath fans over his neck, and Satoru bristles. His head swivels to the side, eyes shooting open once more, searching for the source… only to find nothing in the space around him. He’s alone, he swears- his own eyes and ears straining against the overbearing weight of the Prison Realm that suffocates his techniques with an overwhelming force. He can still feel eyes, raking over him, watching and waiting for his next move, and he knows that he must be just as calculating as the one that has him in the palm of his hand.
Nothing else comes for him- for a while, at least.
He’s left alone, with nothing but the neverending darkness and a low droning sound of silence in his ears as he paces the neverending space. Nothing touches him, nothing calls out for him- even without Infinity and even without his six eyes, he feels nothing- sees nothing.
An itch in the back of his mind begins to gnaw at him. A place he cannot scratch, aching and sizzling like a frayed wire exposed to the elements. He wants to dig his nails into his hairline and claw at his skin until he meets bone, but with no certainty of his healing coming to save him, he instead moves to worry at the inside of his pants pocket- a small bit of thread averting his attention from just how inescapably, unbearably alone he is.
He continues on his faithful march, choosing not to stay in one spot long enough for the specters of his youth to find him, heart and mind racing at just who all else might find him in this desolate space. The figure’s words haunt him in their place-
A millennia… truly, had such a time spanned in the blink of an eye? Was the outside world still there- awaiting his release with bated breath? Satoru’s mind feels like someone has just dunked him in cold water.
Would anyone even be left to wait for him? Had they mourned his memory- left with nothing physical to put to rest as time marched faithfully on? Would he, in turn, carry his own mourning in the silence of a world completely foreign to him?
He brushes the slew of morbid thoughts away- choosing to call the bluff placed before him.
‘Would it truly be so horrid?’ a voice calls to him, and Satoru has to worry his lip to keep himself from biting through his tongue. Choking on his own blood to nothing but his own desperate, lonesome cries would do no one any good.
“Yes,” he states simply, and a lilting laugh fills out the space around him once more with familiar grace. It makes the pit of his stomach roil and churn as the voice continues to wiggle between his ears, settling behind his eyes and nestling with its thorns of uncertainty amidst his frontal lobe.
'It won't be so bad- We're the strongest.'
“We're the only ones.”
'My Satoru.'
No, not yours. Satoru wants to scream- has fought that urge since he got here- But the prison realm's void is immeasurable, its power suffocating. He could kick and scream and curse until his lungs gave out, but no one is there to respond to his calls for answers. He waits, for god knows how long, just for something to happen. He waits, yet time seems at a standstill. One more thing taken from Gojo Satoru.
He walks.
Satoru thinks he's been truly and wholly abandoned and forgotten about, when a fluttering robe steps in time with him- joining him, relieving him of the deafening loneliness that trails after him like a veil. Bridal or mourning, Satoru feels the weight of it lifted ever so slightly, and a sigh escapes his chest past twitching lips. He doesn't look at his companion- can't bear to see the cruelty in those twisted features. The last time they'd spoken to one another…
"It seems you were the one who cursed me a little," Satoru notes to the darkness, all the intended bite in his words dying on that shaky breath. The figure hums passively, their hands tucked in their sleeves, stride never faltering.
"Love is a malleable thing- so easy to twist and distort with little more than a knowledgeable hand. I'd thought it would take more to reign you in, yet," the figure laughs sharply once, "You rolled over so nicely for me. It was almost a waste- the amount of time I spent preparing."
Satoru stops, watching the figure continue a few steps, and steels himself as they prepare to turn back towards him on their heel. He knows what to expect, won't be taken off guard again. The other looks at him fondly- a learned motion. Not organic. It's a fake smile, the tips of his lips not pulling past those dark eyes, as if any sudden expression will tear open the stitches that lay so neatly below his hairline. The muscles know, but the mind refuses to give in to their memory commands. Satoru takes a step back, in horror and disgust, and readies himself to flip into a defensive stance.
"Come now, Satoru- I've stunned you into submission once. Do you really want me to do it again?"
The question lingers, little more of a threat than a promise. He doesn't know if it would happen again, isn't sure if he even would be able to do anything in retaliation. Kenjaku studies him, fondness gracing his features as he steps forward- closing the distance that Satoru should have closed all those years ago. He’s as still as he was then, hands clenched tightly, painfully, and he doesn’t let himself release the breath he’s holding until familiar hands raise to him in worship, palms up and face reverent.
His hands find Satoru’s face- the soft flesh of his cheeks indenting under the gentle press of his thumbs, an ache of yearning blooming across his features as those gorgeous blue eyes flutter closed. It’s all Kenjaku has wanted since fusing with the shell he currently holds. The Strongest Sorcerer, molded into an image that befits his venerated status.
“So soft for me,” Kenjaku’s voice envelops him nearly as much as his body does, tracing remembered paths across veins and down valleys, the dip of Satoru’s throat down to his collar bones a well known sensitive area. All that he finds is soft skin, like marble sculpted by masters of old, unyielding and unmarred by any but him. Satoru’s cries are just as soft, simple whimpers as he grinds against Kenjaku’s leg and the action is almost pitiful as he twists and arches up to make more friction.
“Completely, unequivocally mine, aren’t you, Satoru? Just like when we were younger,” he chuckles, letting the sudden shaking stop be his cue as to what is going on in Satoru’s head. He sits frozen as Kenjaku continues, mapping out the flesh of his lower back with groping hands.
“Though, here… you don’t have to be nearly as quiet as then. It’s not like we’ll be caught- unless, that is… you want to.”
The threat is empty, Satoru knows that, but he still finds himself choking on a snarl as the space between them continues to diminish, the Prison Realm itself seeming to close in and press against their bodies, suffocating in its intensity that Satoru fears if he exhales in shock there’ll be no more oxygen to take in. Kenjaku’s touches keep him grounded, reality a vice grip in his mind as a hand finds his stomach, pushing and tugging at fabric and modesty that may as well not even be there.
He moves him, causing Satoru to lose his sense of equilibrium- after all, what does knowing up from down and left from right matter to him here?
Kenjaku’s eyes don’t miss the way Satoru’s body tenses and jerks, twisting away from a touch to press fully against another as he tries to pull away from the encroaching darkness. It’s almost adorable, Kenjaku thinks, how much control Satoru thinks he still has over the situation. He presses forwards- his tongue and lips leaving a dusting trail of sensations down Satoru’s chest in a mocking reminder of a younger year. Kenjaku knows Satoru remembers it- the sweltering heat of the summer that he and his vessel first twisted and tangled, all limbs and teeth in a supply closet. He’d never forgiven Suguru for the obvious marks that littered from behind his ears downwards, all the snide comments and remarks from the higher ups grating on his nerves.
Looking back on it, Satoru thinks that he’d much rather deal with the insufferable looks and not so subtle glances than the humiliating affair happening right before him. A soft whimper is pulled from him as a kiss is placed against his pelvic bone, steely eyes glancing up to catch him watching the ever too familiar face delving down further and further.
“It’s easier to play make believe if your eyes are closed, Satoru,” Kenjaku purrs, relishing in the way Satoru’s eyes blink harshly against a fresh well of tears. Mourning fills those tears, threatening to pour over those glassy, ocean sky eyes.
“Oh, what’s wrong, Satoru? I distinctly remember you being a bit more accepting of my affections in our teenage years.” It’s not a lie- not completely. Kenjaku knows all that Geto Suguru knew... in a sense. Satoru’s sight wavers- the line between Kenjaku and Suguru further muddling in his brain. His eyes, his own eyes, look so weary as he struggles to grasp who it is that is before him. Oh, if only the Six Eyes knew, could tell him of the horrific truth that lay beneath cranial bone and sewn together flesh.
But they’d have time to talk about that. Kenjaku’s plan had gone perfectly- everyone had played their part, and Satoru was here for a very, very long time. After all, they’d have an eternity together. Here, with them alone- no one to cut into this dance for two.
He holds Satoru’s hips between his hands- gently, more gentle than the other seems to have thought him capable of, and Satoru’s eyes waver before shutting tightly. His face scrunches up, his brows furrowed in anger as he tries to pull away. It’s then that Kanjaku’s hold becomes more harsh, more bruising- forcing him to continue to lay complacent beneath him, crawling back upwards from between his thighs. Satoru’s mouth opens in a strangled gasp as Kenjaku’s stolen hands encircle his face, his fingers pulling back soft skin to peel his eyes open, forcing those brilliant sapphire depths to meet his own dark depths. The way his blue eyes shake and dart from side to side sends a sick trill through Kanjaku’s body, one that has the stitches on his head strain and leak, and he grins with a little too much visible delight at just how uncomfortable Satoru looks beneath him.
Satoru’s body is tight with anxiety and rage. Every muscle, every fiber of his being, scream and thrash and ring every siren, wave every red flag…
And yet, as those familiar fingers indent in his skin, reigniting memories from a long lost fairy tale that never got its happy ending…
He can’t help but want .
‘Grant yourself to this, Gojo Satoru, and let my feelings consume your mortal body and eternal soul.’
His head throbs, and Satoru wants only to scream until he makes himself hoarse- anything to drown out the other’s voice which looms in every fiber of his being, watching with that intense gaze that still unnerves Satoru to this day.
Those eyes, always careful, always prowling- they take Satoru apart and stitch him together in his image. In the image that Kenjaku deems divine and wholly his. The honored prodigy taken apart with loving care that can only be gifted upon his flesh by one who is so worthy. His lips graze the perfect expanse of Satoru’s throat- always perfect, always unmarred. He’d want nothing less- not even letting the marks that monkey made on him ruin the dips and valleys of Satoru’s jugular. Still, the skin could be consummate, but the memory lingers.
A stain.
A disgrace .
Kenjaku’s lips curl into a grimace, his usual lackadaisical smile gone in a flash as his hand jerks forward, clenching around Satoru’s throat- as if he could claw out the ghosts that persist in Satoru’s muscles even to this day.
It does nothing against the straggled gasp that Satoru pushes out- his own hands shooting to clasp at the sudden pressure, his struggling persisting even as Kenjaku leans forward, those dark, calculating eyes holding him in contempt as he studies him as one would a pinned dragonfly.
“Such a shame,” Kenjaku’s voice is not his own, a borrowed birdsong that leaves Satoru a frozen fragment in the shattered time the Prison Realm grants him, “My beloved Satoru. How I’d wished to make you mine once more- before I lay waste to this pitiful world and raze the entirety of mankind to ashes.”
That seems to snap him out of whatever fanciful reverie Satoru has nestled himself into, his eyes snapping open, alert and wary, and his struggling renews. It’s of no matter to Kenjaku- his hands moving just as deftly, parrying any stray blows, his body moving with memories of muscles honed and trained to fight the unseen. He closes the gap, seamless and effortlessly bridging the distance between him and Satoru with a clean strike that would be deemed poetic in any other sense of the word. The fight is barely that- only in name but little more in what truly transpires. A sick sound leaves Satoru as he’s pressed into the darkness, an ache blooming in the base of his skull, the itch from before returning with Kenjaku’s own deft touches.
He holds him, head tilted upwards, mouth open as he presses himself into the space that was molded to fit his body years prior. Puzzle pieces could only wish to fit as perfectly, his hands caressing the expanse of Satoru’s nape, watching those blue eyes flutter closed as he allows the sorcerer to find a small bit of respite- tongue pressing against the inside of his teeth as he fills the other- and in turn, gets his own fill of him.
Kenjaku’s other hand is held loosely by Satoru’s own- little more than fingers encircling his wrist in a groove that never fully filled out, never truly wasn’t his body’s own- as he trails down the front of his uniform. A thought flares in the back of his subconscious at how atrocious the outfit is- always thought they were- but Kenjaku’s mind corrects itself, returning to its desired path with little more than a wet, sticky feeling leaking from an upper temple. He forces himself to focus, bringing himself to the forefront of this body’s cognitive functions even as Satoru moans against his ever present tongue. He cries out, strung tightly and too far thin as his body arches into the touches against his inner thigh.
It could be hours, it could be mere minutes- Satoru’s unsure of how long those puppeted hands caress and move over him. There’s no way to gauge how long he’s been made to succumb to faint ministrations, the flick of a tongue over hardening flesh, a warm, gentle hum as he flings his head back and bucks his hips- whether in protest or lust, he’s too exhausted to know for certain. His body yearns for peace and solace… he knows he won’t be receiving either for a while. Not if the continuing electrical trails of Kenjaku’s tongue are anything to go by, a gentle wail escaping him as he finally pulls away, a deadly cold encroaching on his cock as the spit cools and sends shivers down his spine.
Satoru almost thinks it’s over- taken to the edge and dropped so suddenly into that dark emptiness of isolation from before- when that warm tongue once again finds him, presses against him, breath fanning over his balls and hands gripping him open in warning. The first swipe isn’t hesitant, isn’t tender like their first time- and the voracious nature that spills forward from the body of his once love and friend has Satoru in a vice grip all anew.
Kenjaku’s tongue swirls around him, nose pressed up into his sack, and Satoru’s body is a lit torch beneath his touches. Warmth, scalding in its intensity, radiates off of him as he throws his head back, choking himself on his sounds as he so obviously tries to retreat into his own mind. So desperate to black out what’s happening, he’d sooner strangle himself on the growing amount of saliva in his throat than look down into dark eyes that hold merely a fraction of the soul his own once knew. A soft sound comes from Kenjaku, a well rehearsed thing as he replaces his tongue with a finger, then two, scissoring Satoru open with muscles that are like a well oiled machine- delving into the depths that his body once knew so intimately that he could trace its inner workings out with pen and paper.
There’s the sign of resistance- even after all the buildup he had the grace to offer, Satoru’s body still refuses to relent, still fights against him even if his cries of mercy have fizzled out like sparklers in a rainstorm. No matter, Kenjaku decides, he knows how best to unravel that tight knot that keeps Satoru tied away from him.
"Oh? You never took another? How foolish- is this your penitence? Your hope for forgiveness from a dying man? As if he'd come back to you and make you whole all over again?"
Satoru shakes his head, but there's no objections to be found on his lips.
"Don't worry, love. I'll fill that aching hole for him." He punctuates his sentence with another cruel motion, curling his fingers in a practiced way that’s more muscle than memory.
Kenjaku thinks of doing just that, once he’s done, maybe let Satoru watch, maybe let others… a keening wail calls him back, his eyes once again turning upwards to Satoru’s unfocused gaze. He knew that Satoru couldn’t keep his eyes away for long, that aching pain in his chest far too big a hole to fill to not cast a curious glance downwards.
Eternity swirls in those dark depths- engulfing and ensnaring Satoru’s own personal thoughts of infinity, his gaze locked on those scrutinizing eyes. Air traps inside him, his chest extended in a held breath as he waits beneath him. Kenjaku’s own chest feels tight, and he comes to the conclusion that it’s not for the breathtaking sight of the strongest beneath him- of a long lost lover come back from the dead with little more than a smile and affectionate words- but for the sight of having that same man so utterly lost in his own delusions that he’s trapped himself in the snare so lovingly placed out.
He’d not so much wandered unknowingly into it, as willingly laid himself out into the silver lined claws of Kenjaku’s meticulous plans. He’d practically given himself up as a lamb for the slaughter- offering his own throat to the lions while attempting leverage for the remainder of the flock.
Even amidst his initial struggling, besides the aforementioned trials and objections and unwilling pleas of mercy and magnanimity- Kenjaku’s own thoughts of benevolence fill him just as he fills Satoru with another finger. He moves, and Satoru moves with him, achingly slow and dizzyingly fast all at once.
A fountain of words escapes him- intelligible sounds mixed with breathy gasps and cut off groans as Satoru’s head falls back. It’s little more than a drop in the ocean to Kenjaku- searching and craving for that which would give him an unending, torrential stream to drink from of Satoru’s loyalty and desire. Names of a long dead sorcerer are one thing- but if they hold the meaning…
Spilling, filling, overflowing… There isn’t a word that Kenjaku could possibly use to describe the dizzyingly delicious feeling of release that searches out every single crack and break in Satoru’s psyche. He tilts his head up, quenching Satoru’s thirst that he isn’t even sure of having with sickeningly sweet kisses and words spoken in a long forgotten voice. Bits spill out from him, funny phrases and little quirks to further cement doubt in Satoru’s mind that maybe- just maybe- this truly is his long lost Suguru. Come to find him, come to save him from this wretched, skeletal waste of decay and threatening thoughts of being forgotten.
And so, he pushes and pulls, and fills Satoru to the brim, a swelling of emotions and long thought forgotten memories as he once again takes his weeping cock in his mouth. He watches from his throne between Satoru’s thighs, eyes glittering as he drinks in his fill of Satoru’s attempts to keep his eyes forward, fighting the urge to let them drift downwards and ruin the illusion he’s created for himself. Softly, breathlessly, words and sounds catch in the well of his throat, pooling in his gullet as Kenjaku’s fingers churn the waves of carnal pleasure deep in his soul.
Words hold far more value to him when the tongue that speaks them is full of devotion and adoration, held only for the sanctity of one. And when the one he wished to ensnare is revered by all as an ascended being, profoundly above their peers and those deemed as mere mortal man-
The burning of his own personal Icarus is a match he wishes to burn with his own sensual flame.
“Su- Suguru…”
Satoru’s words are heavy and wet, and Kenjaku glances up just in time to watch the first tear fall. Catches the way it glitters down his cheek like a falling star, and Kenjaku wishes to see more.
“Ah, so the tears begin,” he whispers, mouthing against Satoru’s quivering thighs as a hiccupping cry escapes the Strongest, "I was wondering just how long you'd keep me waiting."
Satoru's body shudders, broken beneath him, begging to be put back together. By his hand alone, he'd graft their bodies into one perfect being- his ode to the artistic masters of old. Kenjaku feels pity for the creature beneath him- and what is pity, if not love in a pure form of compassion and devoutness? He alone pays his devotion towards this being, the object of his vessel’s affection and in turn, his own guiding light towards his goal. He offers Satoru salvation, and with a trembling hand, Satoru takes it.
Love- undying, unconditional and wholly his own washes from him as he marks Satoru as his own with the fervency of a dying star, the benignity of a lover once lost to time and given back- and as he takes him further in in a mockery of an embrace, Satoru’s body bows to meet him. Wordless cries and open mouthed prayer escapes him, filling Kenjaku’s mind and throat in equal measure.
And what is he, if not a faithful worshipper, succumbing body and soul to his love? Kenjaku removes himself from Satoru’s limbs gently, a marring trail of praise and kisses left in his wake as he pulls away, leaving little more than one final glance at the once strongest sorcerer, brought to kneel now at his benevolent wake, and Kenjaku lets his body remember and hold dear the yearning tightness in his cock. To remember. To cherish. Later, he tells himself, he has all the time in the world.
"You're not him," Satoru slurs out, half to Suguru's body and half to himself. His gaze is hazy with tears melding messily with sex and ghostly delusions, “You never were… and you never will be.”
Once more, that familiar sight fills his vision- his best friend, turning away from him, and leaving him behind as he marches faithfully onwards. Something akin to hatred fights to escape his throat, nestling in his depths amidst his sorrow, and Satoru finds himself failing miserably to keep the tears at bay for any longer, feeling shame enveloping him as hot wetness flows freely down his cheeks. Kenjaku says nothing- simply looks at him, before turning to leave, and Satoru once again feels that hollow emptiness threaten to swallow him whole as he watches his best friend’s back depart from him once more.
His one and only.