Chapter Text
There exist very limited things Satoru regrets doing. His logic is simple: why bother with regret when he can just fix it. For example, if he goes to Aichi for uiro-mochi but the shops are closed because of a storm he can blast it away. If he prefers the yuzu flavor to the chestnut flavor for his mochi he can teleport back and exchange them. If he grows sick of the mochi, no problem, he can always order in more good ol’ Tokyo Banana. Point being, Satoru does not do this whole regret business because there is virtually nothing his awesome powers and bottomless wealth cannot remedy.
But of course, the rules that the world bends itself around for Gojo Satoru have never applied to Geto Suguru. For the first time in a long while, Satoru is presented with a conundrum in the form of his best friend who came back as a cursed spirit. A cursed spirit who bypasses his Infinity as easily as a needle poking holes in a condom and certainly sees less worth in his money than a prisoner in their own anal virginity. A cursed spirit who gave Satoru a pussy and is currently hell-bent on fucking said pussy into incontinence.
“Su…gu…ruu,” Satoru slurs. Each syllable rolls out of his mouth in a bundle of nonsense until it is stitched together by a punch to his cervix that is more of a slam from a pile driver. “ Ahh —Suguru! Hahh —”
From the day he manifested, Suguru had claimed Satoru’s pussy and made it a cunt – his cunt – by the barbaric yet effective tactic of pounding it into submission. Satoru hardly remembers the last time he was without Suguru’s cock inside or on him in the past few months. At the funeral – a formality, really, with its empty closed casket and an exact audience of three – Satoru made the farewell speech with the deceased’s semen under the floor of his tongue, coating the walls of his stomach and stuffing his holes full.
“The students— mhmm —are waiting—”
“Satoru … ”
“Cum for me—p-please.... Ohh —” Satoru’s eyes roll into the back of his skull when Suguru bottoms out again, his cock driven in so deep as though he is intent on crushing Satoru’s womb. Satoru’s cunt, ever the well-trained and obedient slave of said cock, clamps down as if on an unspoken command despite the extra weight the cock is putting on his full bladder. The pressure sends a jolt of pleasure zipping through his body, so potent it breaches the fog of lust clouding his brain with the intensity of a dozen floodlights and grants him a brief moment of clarity.
One. Two. Satoru tries to blink the tears out of his eyes. His lashes, sopping and entangled, add a misty quality to his surroundings. He faintly registers the toilet under him, how the water in the bowl faithfully reflects the debauchery being perpetrated against his cunt. Along the span of his legs coil snakes the size of his wrists, spreading them wide. Following the stretch of his leg muscles, he finds one of his feet, socked, perching precariously on the rim of the toilet bowl. The other, shoed, is left tiptoeing on the tiled floor. Traveling upward, he arrives at Suguru’s arm firm around his neck, confining him to a chokehold. In between that junction are his fingers, wet with snot and tears, clawing at Suguru’s arm in kitten scratches to pry him off.
“C-Can’t breathe— S’uguruu — N-No— ” Satoru yelps. One of his hands flies to the toilet tank when Suguru rams into him with another vicious thrust, still single-minded in forcing a white-flag out of his cervix.
“Satoru, breathe with both your nose and mouth … .” A drawn-out hiss. Then a finger swipes across Satoru’s lips and soothes the clench of his teeth until his mouth hangs open. Something moist and cold, split at the end, glides from behind Satoru’s ears down his chin. It licks up the overflowing drool, drop by drop, trickle by trickle.
“A-At least lemme pee first?” Satoru negotiates, though he has never seen success. “ Ahh ? Ahhhh —” A tiny snake wraps itself around his clit. One twist and Satoru’s speech is reduced to meows.
“Satoru has always peed with my cock inside. Always ,” Susguru stresses and shoves Satoru down on his cock at the same time. In a typical traitorous fashion, Satoru’s cunt throbs at the authoritative lilt of Suguru’s voice and clams up tighter to invite more abuse onto his bladder.
The death grip does nothing to slow Suguru’s pistoning. The shaft of Suguru’s cock – veiny and thick, about half the size of his forearms – drags against Satoru’s walls deliciously. When Suguru pulls out, it is with the overturned flesh of Satoru’s swollen cunt clinging to his cock with the tenacity of gum sticking to hair. When Suguru plunges back in, the flesh follows like a loyal wife but with a hunger only found in seasoned prostitutes. His labia, without the blessing of cock, has to make do with sucking on Suguru’s wiry pubic hair and heavy balls in the brief instances of contact the snaps of Suguru’s hip affords it.
Suguru presses Satoru forward by the head, a silent urge to watch his common whore of a greedy cunt gorging on cock as though Satoru is not already watching. As though Satoru does not already know .
Parts of Satoru want to let it go and free his bladder from this torment already but if he does, he will cum. While Suguru has never denied Satoru an orgasm, he never cums unless Satoru begs him to. Worse, he only cums in Satoru’s cumming cunt, no matter which hole he has been fucking. The only exception is when Satoru’s cunt is too full, and even then he will only cum inside Satoru’s mouth or anus. So far, Satoru has not done enough of the begging and too much of the cumming and he doubts he can survive this round of routine morning dicking for class if he does not milk an orgasm out of Suguru soon.
Satoru removes the hand that was clawing at Suguru’s arm to reach behind and tugs at Suguru’s hair until Suguru lowers his head for Satoru to pull his face close.
“Sug’ru,” Satoru garbles, possessing all the eloquence of a drunkard arguing about his speeding ticket. Regardless, the officer that is Suguru gives Satoru all the leeway because Suguru can never not give in to Satoru’s demands. The punishing pace of his cock eases into lazy pumps then comes to a complete still. His cockhead grinds against Satoru’s cervix still, not that Satoru expects him to back down on that front.
“S’guru,” Satoru repeats, trying to find the right pitch.
“ S’guru ,” He repeats, again, a pleading note to his tone now – what he imagines a songbird would sing to its captor. “My pussy is so t-thirsty.” He guides Suguru’s head down further at the same time bucking his hips for his cunt to come into view. “I’ve been so good, haven’t I? Irrigate my pussy with your semen. Please? ”
Satoru knows it is his victory when he hears the unmistakable hitch in Suguru’s breath and the rattling of his snakes.
“Satoru, it’s not a pussy. It’s a cunt. Mine ,” Suguru corrects and wastes no time picking his pace back up.
“Y-Yes— Hahh — yours .”
“Mine to feed on.” The tiny snake gulfs down on his clit and Satoru throws his head back with a shrill that puts white bellbirds in mating season to shame.
“Mine to fuck.” Another strike to his cervix. A reminder that while Suguru might delay the conquering of his womb for now, the long-term goal still ends with its absolute subjugation similar to his lecherous slut of a vagina.
“Mine to breed ,” Suguru punctuates with a thrust and slams his hips flush against Satoru’s ass. Just like that, Satoru cums. His squirt splashes the toilet cover with the force of a decisive homerun and his bladder gives, the urethra opening gaping for a few beats before setting loose a steady stream of piss which he has half a mind to aim inside the toilet bowl. Right on cue, thick ropes of semen bang on the closed doors of his cervix in jets, a balm offered to compensate for the cock’s earlier brutality and a generous donation Satoru’s cunt drinks up with glee.
Between the burn of virile semen sanctifying his cervix and the long overdue sweet relief of his bladder, Satoru misses the nozzle extending from under the toilet seat until a gush of tepid water hits his cunt, effectively shutting down the weakening rivulet of his pee.
“N-No…. There’s still a bit left…hicc—” Satoru slurs between hiccups and thumbs his bowel to get the pee going again but the spray is too strong for his urethra opening to afford any breathing room.
“Sug’ru…let go!” Momentarily, the thumping of Satoru’s free elbow against Suguru’s bicep overtakes the squelching sung by his cunt and the orchestra of his moans. Suguru’s hand on the bidet control panel remains steadfast, however, proving Satoru’s plight futile.
“Bad boy,” Suguru chides as the rolls of his hips take on a sharper rhythm, cock still uncompromisingly hard despite his ongoing ejaculation. Damn Suguru and his non-existent refractory period as a cursed spirit!
“Stay still so I can wash your cunt, Satoru.” A command veiled as a request. Satoru does not even have the capacity to process it before Suguru changes the water mode to pulsate, alternating between strong and weak sprays and dashing any hopes Satoru has left of continuing his urination.
In a last ditch effort to save his cunt, Satoru squeezes his thighs together. It backfires terribly when Suguru notices the attempt and, with all the creativity he utilized back in the days to help them escape Yaga’s surveillance to loiter along the shadiest Shinjuku streets looking for something that was not curses to beat up, maneuvers Satoru into a pose that should be impractical in theory. With one hand, he squishes Satoru’s thighs together and grounds them there. With the other, he pins Satoru’s shoed foot on the toilet paper dispenser while keeping Satoru’s other foot hanging off the rim of the toilet bowl – an obscene recreation of a mermaid’s flaring tail fin. A pose theoretically impractical, yet disgustingly efficacious at forcing Satoru’s cunt wide open for harassment.
“S’guru…. hicc— meanie ,” is all Satoru manages before his half-coherent speech deteriorates into incoherence with every spray of water, every burst of semen.
“There, there. It’s important to maintain proper hygiene.” Ever the hypocrite, Suguru lectures patiently. Because of course he has to justify even his perversion although it is glaring to anyone with functional eyes he is just terrorizing Satoru’s cunt for the love of the game.
Satoru’s head lolls backward as the fight bleeds from his body. He takes in the too-bright fluorescent lighting – kaleidoscopic through the tear-matted blinds of his lashes, vaguely aware of the ache in his legs and the stitch in his lower back. But he cannot find it in himself to care, not when there is—
Water assaulting his cunt from the outside.
Semen crucifying his cervix from the inside.
—It is all too much.
This time, Satoru reaches his climax quietly: his cry scarcely above the chirp of a fledgeling, his thrashes summarized into mere arches of his back. His descent, on the other hand, is much less graceful, but it does not matter because—
Right as Satoru’s legs give out, Suguru hauls him up with his giant snake tail. He brushes the hair stuck to Satoru’s eyes by the glue of sweat and coos, “ Satoru .”
Satoru leans into the touch and allows himself to bask in the afterglow. He waits until Suguru’s cock finishes ejaculating, then waits another few minutes before patting on Suguru’s tail.
Suguru’s tail gives his legs another squeeze before slithering away and letting him down. Satoru does not immediately stand, instead he bends over, wipes up his dripping cunt with a few hastily torn sheets of toilet paper and digs into his pocket.
“Suguru,” Satoru calls after he locates what he is looking for. Suguru nods and starts to pull himself out. At the same time, Satoru clenches his legs together to keep his cunt as tight as he can to “clean” the remaining semen off the retreating cock. He shoots Suguru a glare when he feels said cock hardening halfway and another cock emerging from its hidden sack.
Satoru grits his teeth, “Class. In. Thirty . Minutes . ”
Suguru returns him an understanding smile that is not at all apologetic.
Perverted bastard .
They would not have to go through all this hassle every time if Suguru were not so obsessed with having Satoru’s cunt retain his semen down to the very last drop.
Once the tip leaves his cunt with a wet pop, Satoru slaps a silicone adhesive pad over his vaginal opening and slides his briefs back on. Suguru traces the waistband, looking the same as all the times Satoru booted him off the PS3. Satoru whacks his hand away. He eyes his soiled trousers and decides to leave them on the floor once he deems them unsalvageable. Suguru, always the diligent one between them, has his tail drop the trousers into the nearby laundry basket. Then, he turns back to Satoru and—
The sheer audacity of this shameless bastard to present Satoru a pair of white lacy thongs with blue bows he is pretty sure he flung to the back of his closet!
“Why no more thongs?” Suguru whimpers, as though Satoru is his highschool bully who is taunting him after stealing his crush – wait, Satoru is both – he realizes and abandons the comparison.
“Because thongs can’t keep the adhesive pad in place!”
“And no, I’m not letting you plug me up with your cock 24/7.”
Suguru hisses. His tail thrashes back and forth like an especially restless pendulum.
Satoru doubles down, “No.”
Suguru whines. Satoru would have taken pity on him had Satoru not spent weeks as his portable fleshlight before Satoru discovered the blessing that is the adhesive pad. Not to mention Suguru wants Satoru in thongs simply for the benefit of instant and easy access to his holes. Satoru has woken up to Suguru fucking him through the flimsy strings of the thong enough times to smell the blatant ulterior motive.
Satoru snatches the thong back and wonders if he should Purple it.
In the end, Satoru decides against it. Writing a report on why Suguru goes on another rampage is something he would rather not repeat.
Satoru drills a finger into Suguru’s chest and reminds him he has only got himself to blame, “You don’t allow me a plug or even a mooncup—”
Suguru growls. His tail slams heavily against the floor, as if the mere idea of Satoru’s cunt being penetrated by something else is blasphemy incarnate. Satoru smacks him with the thong but Suguru only slams his tail harder.
“Fine. Fine . Anything that’s not your cock, your mouth, your fingers, your tail, whatever, anything that’s not yours is banned from entering my pussy—” Suguru’s pupils thin into slits and Satoru quickly rectifies before Suguru pounces at him to demonstrate how he already reformed said pussy into a cunt, “—my cunt. Happy?”
Perverted, shameless, possessive bastard.
Suguru nods, his tail swaying, even his little snakes poke their heads out like mushrooms breaking soil to rise after the rain. His cocks, now at full-mast, swell an angry purple red. One of them wears the sheen of Satoru’s slick with the pride of a medalist and Satoru’s cunt quivers at the prospect of baptizing the other. He follows the glossy trail of slick down Suguru’s ballsack: an engorged, wrinkled thing under a forest of dark, wiry pubic hair. Suguru’s cocks twitch and Satoru hears himself swallow when his eyes flick up to catch their beading tips.
Maybe he should have let Suguru fuck his hole earlier, too.… Maybe an extra shot of semen into his cunt to start off the day is not that big of a deal.…
Satoru drops down on his knees. He drags his nose along the length of the upper cock and his tongue along the one under, savoring both the scent of manly musk mixed with slick and the sweaty, salty taste of cock. Then he gathers the cocks together and licks the precum off their tips.
A little more cream in his breakfast never hurts, right?
Satoru somehow manages to be on-time for class after Suguru empties two loads of semen down his throat.
After explaining the basics behind body reinforcement with cursed energy for combat, Satoru claps his hands. “Enough talking. Time for the real thing!” He glides up in front of the blackboard and points two thumbs at himself. “And who is a better opponent than your reliable sensei!”
“Fish flakes.” Toge forms an X with his forearms. Then, after a pause, shakes his head for good measure.
“Panda needs a bathroom break.” Panda bolts up from where he has been sitting on the snow and speeds away without looking back. The snow clouds dredged up by his footwork so cartoonish and consequently comical Satoru is temporarily distracted from the fact metabolism is not a concept for cursed corpses.
Maki eyes the top of Satoru’s head, grunts and goes back to polishing her polearm.
“Can I team up with Inumaki for practice, sensei?” Yuta clears his throat and tugs Toge over by the scarf. Again, his eyes roam too high for it to not be suspicious.
“He won’t bite,” Satoru promises.
Yuta slides a finger back and forth under his cold-flushed nose.
“He really won’t!”
It is true. Suguru has never bitten anyone in their previous lessons.
Yuta keeps his gaze fixed on the ground. Satoru very much likes to know if there is any grand discovery to be made from the occasional grass blades sticking out of pure snow.
“He really, really won’t! Pinky swear!”
Desperation drives people to commit the worst shenanigans. In Satoru’s case, he is half-way through drafting up a comprehensive list on the blackboard on why the Suguru (not-so-tiny but definitely portable python-form Suguru) currently hibernating on him is as intimidating as a spoon (no offense, fellow koutaliaphobiacs!) when intervention comes in the form of one Inumaki Toge.
“Salmon,” is all Toge offers before he wraps his scarf around Yuta’s neck, piling it like soft-serve on a cone until Yuta becomes this matcha ice cream with the most unusual topping of eye-bagged boba pearls and spiky chocolate flakes.
“Here, I’ll show you,” Satoru proclaims, loudly, and pokes at Suguru’s head buried in the fluff of his hair. Slits open to reveal gold eyes and the brush of forked tongue on his fingertip is the only warning Satoru gets before sharp fangs puncture skin and draw blood.
“Ouch.” Before anyone says otherwise, no, that just now is not a squeal.
The looks on his students’ faces tell him they do not believe it one bit.
There goes all of his credibility.
“Thanks, Suguru.” Satoru jabs at Suguru with his other hand. Harder this time because he deserves it. The traitor flicks his tongue in the most obnoxious ‘You’re welcome’ and winds himself tighter around Satoru’s waist.
“Ahem…. Gojo-sensei,” coughs Yuta, now a concoction of matcha, strawberry vanilla and sugar-powdered dark chocolate with the scarf resting under his chin, pink freckling his gust-blown cheeks and snow dusting his hair. “I’d love to do hand-to-hand combat with you.” He strokes his elbow how one soothes a tender bruise, no doubt reminiscing Satoru’s Blue-infused punches and Satoru can hear a ‘but dot dot dot’ incoming.
“But…” Call it. “Two on one is hardly fair.”
“What do you mean two-on-one?” Satoru needs a clue-in here because he is decidedly not the one having the Queen of Curses as an assist every time they spar.
“Your—ah—he’s never very fond of anyone getting near you.” As if eager to prove Yuta’s point, the ‘ah’ in question lets out a long hiss before a black hole rips itself into existence and out come gangly arms, ghastly in their crooked shape and dotted livor mortis that half-shield Satoru and half ready to maim. The school alarm flares for the – seventh? second? fifth? – time this month and Satoru has ten minutes to evacuate before he is automatically registered for a scolding session.
“Class is dismissed,” Satoru groans, less of an announcement and more of a resignation.
Maki rolls her eyes and goes back to hacking her training dummy. Toge has already seated himself in a corner furthest away from Satoru and is beckoning Yuta over to him. Yuta, on the other hand, does not seem to notice the invitation and is making snow angels with his feet. To his side, Rika is half-manifested and rearing to play a bloody game of tug-of-war with the arms.
“Sensei,” Yuta finally says. “I understand what it’s like.” The ‘from one haunted to another’ is left unsaid and Satoru has a vague idea of what is coming. “I’m not sure if he’s similar to Rika or—”
Satoru does not think about it. Or rather, he has been avoiding the whole ‘Did he curse Suguru or did Suguru curse him or did they both curse each other’. Something about processing it makes his palms sweat. Not in the sort of way palms do when their human is a bundle of nerves but in the way palms do when they are shoved into an ice hole, their human desperate to salvage a sinking catch destined for the bottom of the ocean.
Humanity and by extension, Satoru, despite his transcendence, knows not the extent of what lies within the Hadal Zone. Where trenches run so deep not even Mount Everest can scale, where the sun cannot reach and darkness prevails, where pressure alone can kill in worse ways than heartbreaks. Even there – a place named after the ruler of hell, Satoru thinks, can never come anywhere close to the true hell he survived.
Survived. Not lived. No longer living.
Yuta continues, hesitant and careful, as a forest ranger would approach a wounded beast orphaned of its mate, “And you don’t—I don’t wish for you to have to do it again with your own hands.”
To Satoru, hell is a space, a moment, a memory.
“Maybe there’s another way—”
“—to move forward, to go on…to let go.”
To Satoru, hell is perpetuated with the dying light of a dying sun on a dying day, underlined in dying rills of red accompanied by dying breaths that bequeathed dying words.
“Satoru,” he breathed. Breathing. Alive.
“In the end, I really can’t bear forcing your hand.”
Dying cursed energy erupted with the resolve of a dying star and dying rills of red broke into dying rivers. Down the gorges between fingers they cascaded, sustained by the dying beat of a heart once synced with Satoru’s own. Pools of red blossomed into flowers:
Something like orange blossom. Something like primrose. Something like arbutus.
Undying like the osmanthus flowers Satoru weaved into his hair.
“ Satoru…. ”
The weight on top of Satoru’s head shifts and dark curtains of hair frame his vision, blocking out the eye-prickling pristine white of sunlight bouncing off snow glaze. Arms circle his shoulders and middle. The body around his waist is replaced by tendrils of cursed energy.
Chaotic, sinister, furious cursed energy.
“I know cursed spirits aren’t ghosts. But what if—what if we fulfill his desires so he can pass on?” Yuta’s scream, near indiscernible from the alarm bells, echoes a touch of melancholy.
“His lifelong ambition is the extinction of non-sorcerers,” snickers Satoru. He looks up in search of amber and is met by gold eyes with trenches for pupils – the personal hell of his own choosing.
“I disagree, sensei.” Rika has fully manifested. More and more curses crawl out of the tear in space. They pile on top of each other, crowding the walls and corners like overstuffed goodies bending the sides of a cardboard box. The Night Parade of a Hundred Demons at home – Satoru would joke, but the person who used to laugh with him has flowers in his hair no more.
“He’s with you,” Yuta says with the idealistic innocence written all over ignorance. “If ridding the world of non-sorcerers had been his unfulfilled desire, he would’ve done so the moment he came back.”
Instead, Satoru spent Christmas’ night getting his pussy deflowered by his best friend’s curse in said best friend’s room that had long been sealed off.
“You want to exorcize me, Satoru?” Suguru’s torso opens up, a venus flytrap welcoming Satoru into its syrupy embrace.
A pair of hands cover his eyes. A pair of hands cup his ears. A pair of hands hover over his lips.
“Sensei! Even if it doesn’t work, you’re still making up for his past regrets.”
Whose past regrets exactly?
“…. What do you suggest?” Satoru finally says. The embrace tightens to the point of suffocating yet Infinity lays dormant. Intertwined with his choked-up breaths are coaxes ‘Let me stay with you Satoru’ which quickly devolve into threats ‘If you abandon me, I’ll kill every last one of those monkeys’ before rounding back to sweet nothings ‘You’re mine, Satoru. Your slutty cunt, your pretty mouth, all mine.”
“Marriage. Or at least a wedding.”
The whispers cease. By no means is Satoru a free man but the cocoon-trap unwraps bit by bit and soon, his skin and lungs relearn the crispy air.
The Six Eyes shudders. Tendrils retreat in favor of tails. Nine large tails that can only belong to one Suguru form. The one who never plays nice.
Sharp nails scrape the skin between his neck and chin. Then comes the cusp of a palm to pacify the angry scores. The classic stick and carrot. Fluffy ears tickle his forehead when their owner leans in and deposits an entire body’s weight. The new iron grip enclosing his waist means Satoru has nowhere to go.
In the voice of the snake that offers apples, Suguru entices, “My, my . Marriage? Do enlighten me, won’t you?”