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Satoru’s always been a lightweight, so it doesn’t take much for his mind to cloud. He can’t stop thinking about it, about him – his face, his voice. The last thing he saw before the prison realm, left to torture him in his confines, then no relief when he was freed. It was him again. Wearing Suguru’s face so shamelessly, the malign yet saccharine tone a mockery of what he used to sound like. It sounded wrong. It felt wrong.
And yet.
No amount of distractions could rid Satoru of this ache– the pull was still there, even after all this time. Like it never left, because it didn’t. He just learned to live with it, learned to carry the absence like a hole in the middle of his chest. For such a silly, easy-going guy, Satoru sure knew how to carry grief like a pile of bricks tied to his ankles. A part of him hoped that when his time finally came, they would be reunited, and he could finally shed all that weight. But now, is that even a possibility? Suguru’s body desecrated like that– what would that do to the soul? Was the real Suguru waiting for him somewhere out in the ether? Did he find peace? Could Satoru find peace as well?
Not like this, no. Not while that monster wears Suguru’s face.
Satoru takes another swig from the bottle resting heavily in his hand, the liquid burning down his throat and all the way to his stomach. The fog in his brain grows, but he can still see him. He just won't leave him alone, will he? He's going to haunt him for the rest of his miserable life, however short that may be.
They’d made arrangements, set a date. Satoru wanted to honor Suguru’s death. Less than a month from now, one of them will be gone. One thing is for sure, though– no matter what the result of that battle is, whatever remnants of Suguru's soul remain in this world will disappear as well. If Satoru succeeds, what's left of Suguru in that body will cease to exist. He'll truly be dead. But if he fails, if Satoru dies by this demon’s hand– if the demon uses Suguru's hand to take Satoru's life–, well, he knows Suguru couldn't live with that. Not after everything.
Satoru thinks back to his last words in that alley, Suguru's bleeding form on the dirty floor, the way his eyes softened when Satoru spoke. He knew Suguru was relieved. Perhaps deep down he'd always known that Satoru would be the one to kill him and not the other way around. He still tried, of course. But he accepted defeat when the time came, and Satoru saw in his eyes a weight lift off his shoulders. Satoru indulged during Suguru's final moments, spoke the words he wished he'd said a decade earlier, and Suguru–
“I'm glad it's you. It's finally over.”
And if Satoru brushed his lips against his enemy’s, gently cradled in his arms, before taking him from this world, no one would ever know.
A part of Satoru died that day too.
They were supposed to die together. If he’s killed by him , Satoru will take whatever is left of Suguru to the grave with him.
He wipes the wetness on his lips with his sleeve as he puts the bottle down. He's not going to wait. He’s waited long enough, fuck it. Every minute that thing runs around free is another minute Satoru has failed Suguru.
He gets up, hands coming to rest on the table for support as he wobbles slightly. Perhaps his judgement is impaired but he can't bring himself to care. He's going to find him and he's going to kill him.
He doesn't know where he is, so he starts by visiting the old compound Suguru used to run his cult from. The place has been stripped clean, only dust and a few pieces of old furniture covering the floor. He looks in a few other places with no luck. After another failed attempt, Satoru finds himself instinctively guided to an old safehouse he used to share with Suguru. He bitterly remembers their secret meetings, the unmarked locations, the heated encounters.
There’s a scent lingering in the air, sickly sweet and stagnant. It’s familiar in a distant way, something he can’t quite put his finger on. Then, he senses something else. He hones in on it, follows the trail it’s left behind. Residuals. He’s here, or has been here recently. Satoru picks up the pace, almost running until he reaches a small terrace.
He looks just like him.
Suguru.
But no, it’s not him, he reminds himself. He doesn’t turn when he hears Satoru approach, though Satoru knows he can feel his presence, heard his footsteps. Satoru stops just a couple feet behind the figure, catching himself before reaching for him.
“What are you doing here?” Satoru spits.
“He brought me here.” Suguru finally turns around to look at him. No, not Suguru. Kenjaku. He wears Suguru’s pleasant smile like a cloak, and the crinkle at the corners of his eyes is almost enough to undo Satoru completely. He clenches his fists so tightly he feels his bones might break.
“Who?” Satoru asks, though the answer is obvious.
“This body has been giving me trouble. It’s quite stubborn, this one. It was just annoying at first but it’s become rather distracting. He won’t leave me alone.” Kenjaku tilts his head to the side, staring hard into Satoru’s eyes. “I’m growing tired of seeing your face everywhere I go, Gojo Satoru.”
A shiver runs down Satoru’s spine involuntarily. Something turns in his stomach at the thought of Suguru’s body fighting back for him.
“Lucky for you I came to end your suffering,” Satoru replies with a snarl. He lunges for Kenjaku, landing a fist right on his face before his hands close around the curse user’s throat. Blood trickles from his nose, his face growing red, but he manages to punch Satoru in the ribs hard enough to make him lose his balance. Kenjaku takes this opportunity to free himself and switch their positions, locking both of Satoru’s arms behind his back and pushing him face first against the nearest wall.
“Just couldn’t wait to get your hands on me, could you?” Kenjaku mocks, his warm breath tickling Satoru’s ear. Satoru suppresses a shiver, tries to shake his head to clear some of the haziness. Suguru’s–no, Kenjaku’s– body pressing against him is making him feel things he shouldn’t.
“Get the fuck off me,” he shouts as he pushes back as hard as he can, knocking Kenjaku off his feet. Satoru is on him in a second, legs straddling his waist on the floor as he crosses his fingers to ready Blue right in front of Kejaku’s face. His wicked laughter makes Satoru’s blood boil. There’s a distinct ring to it, a hint of cruelness, that’s different from Suguru’s laugh. Satoru despises it. He’s about to release his attack, when suddenly, Kenjaku’s expression changes– his eyebrows arch and his eyes soften, morphing into a surprised, almost pleading look.
“ Satoru. ” That voice. The way his name falls from his lips, so softly, so painfully familiar, makes Satoru freeze. One of Kenjaku’s hands reaches to caress Satoru’s cheek, while the other grips his own wrist in an attempt to stop it.
Satoru jumps back as if he’d been burned, eyes wide as saucers. It can’t be. It’s just a trick, it has to be. Or perhaps he’s drunker than he thought. But Kenjaku doesn’t look surprised, he looks pissed, a little disgusted.
“As I was saying, he won’t leave me alone. Day and night, I am tormented by this body’s memories. You have become a plague in my mind, Gojo Satoru.” The words come out between clenched teeth as Kenjaku dusts off his robes. “I have to end you to gain full control of this body.”
Satoru is still on the floor, his hands holding him up behind him as he looks up at Kenjaku. He’s breathing hard, his mind running a thousand miles a second, his thoughts jumbled and frantic. That was Suguru. His Suguru. A primal, irrational part of him claws at his chest, begging for him to reach out, he can reach him he can reach him, if only–
It’s not him, he reminds himself for the millionth time. He wants to scream.
He fires Blue, anger and yearning twisting in the pit of his stomach in a grim little dance. He doesn’t think, he reacts purely guided by instinct, needing to rid the world of this abomination– needing to rid himself of the torture that is looking at the man in front of him.
Kenjaku manages to summon a curse just in time to take the brunt of the attack, but he’s still pushed through the glass door by its sheer force, landing in a bed of jagged shards inside the house. Satoru dodges the following attack, but his movements are slow and sloppy. They exchange savage blows, and soon the room they are in is little more than a pile of rubble.
Kenjaku is bleeding in several places, caught in the flying debris, and Satoru would be faring no better if it wasn’t for his Infinity. They’re both breathing hard, eyeing each other like angry street cats.
“You know, both you and I still have unfinished business in this world. As fun as this is, maybe we should save the fighting for the date you set. You’re the one that wanted to wait, remember?” Kenjaku eyes him in a way that makes Satoru think he’s plotting something but can’t quite decipher what that is.
“I thought you were sick of seeing Suguru’s memories of me. Change your mind?” Satoru gives him a predatory smile. “Am I growing on you after all?”
Kenjaku’s expression is unreadable for a moment, then it turns pensive as he slowly approaches Satoru.
“There is one other way I could gain control.” The way he says it makes the hairs on Satoru’s arms stand on end. “Appeasing the body. If I give him what he wants, he’ll finally be quiet.” He has backed Satoru into a corner without him realizing, and he’s so close he can smell the blood mixed with his soap. Satoru feels a pang in his chest when he realizes it’s the same one Suguru used.
“What the fuck does that mean?” Satoru asks guardedly. He thinks he knows what he’s implying but the thought is so absurd he’s sure he must be misinterpreting it. Kenjaku tips Satoru’s chin up with his index finger until their eyes lock, and this close Satoru notes the way his eyes are hooded and his pupils slightly dilated. Okay, so he wasn’t misinterpreting.
“As if I would ever let you touch me,” Satoru turns his head away from him defiantly, refusing to look him in the eyes any longer.
“You already are, Satoru. Did you not notice you dropped your Infinity?” Satoru has to suppress a small wounded noise at the use of his name, and Kenjaku smiles wide and cruel.
“Do not fucking call me that. You don’t get to– only Suguru ever called me that.” Satoru can hardly breathe, hardly think, his eyes shut tightly as he tries to maintain his resolve.
It’s a particularly agonizing kind of pain, being this close to Suguru and yet so completely out of reach. The loss has been a part of him since the day he watched Suguru walk away all those years ago, growing like a limb until he didn’t know who he was without it. He held on desperately to whatever part of Suguru he could take and refused to let go. He couldn’t let go, not ever. And neither could Suguru– there was comfort in that. However messy and painful it was meeting in secret all those years, Satoru knew it meant that Suguru couldn’t let him go either. And here he is, proof that even in death, he is still reaching out to him, still holding on to Satoru. How could he not reach back?
“Satoru?” With his eyes closed, the voice is the same, the body pressed against him a familiar weight, the warmth blanketing him in a memory too painful for words.
Inhale. Exhale. No, he can’t acknowledge him, it would be an insult to Suguru’s memory. But if a part of him was somehow still in there…
He feels a pair of warm hands on his chest, roaming up until they’re cupping his face. It even feels the same, the same gentle yet firm grip, the soft fingers.
“Suguru?” Satoru can feel his heart breaking all over again as he whispers his name, knowing it’s not really him but wanting so badly for it to be. If there was a god to hear his prayers, he would be on his knees right now pleading for Suguru, to have him one last time. But the closest thing to a god on this earth is Satoru, and he couldn’t bring him back. For all his power, he couldn’t have the only thing he’d ever wanted.
But maybe he could pretend. Just for a minute.
Satoru feels all the fight leaving his body.
The strongest sorcerer had one single weakness and Kenjaku had known that. He exploited it to seal him, and he is exploiting it now, once again, to get what he wants. And once again, Satoru is too weak to stop him.
He tilts his head forward slightly, resting his forehead against Suguru’s. Fingers caress his cheek and Satoru feels himself coming undone. He hasn't been touched in so long even such a small gesture feels intense enough to make him crumble. It hurts, it fucking hurts– sharply, in the middle of his chest, in his lungs. But he needs it.
“I can feel how much he wants you.” Suguru’s breath fans across Satoru’s lips, and it makes him dizzy. He wants him too, so much he’s drowning in it. But it’s not him.
“Shut up. Don’t– just don’t fucking talk.” Satoru gingerly lifts his hands and lets his trembling fingers hover an inch from Suguru for what feels like an eternity. A part of him thinks this might be a dream, and that Suguru will vanish as soon as Satoru touches him. When his fingers sink into long, silky strands, Suguru doesn’t disappear, but all of Satoru’s willpower does.
There’s no coming back from this.
Satoru grips Suguru’s hair tighter and captures Suguru’s lips in a searing kiss. It tastes like desperation, longing, and regret, like a thousand words gone unsaid. It tastes like Suguru. It’s too much, it’s not enough, it’s not him.
Satoru pulls him closer, finds his lips again and again, lets strong hands hold his waist and push him farther against the wall. He tastes blood from where the debris had cut Suguru’s lip earlier and he bites down, wanting to draw more. The taste of iron mixes with that of salt as tears fall from Satoru's tightly shut eyes, and he knows crying in front of this demon, being willingly touched by him, might be the lowest point of his life, but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, because it’s Suguru.
Satoru feels fingers gently carding through his hair before gripping it tightly, pulling his head to the side. Suguru’s lips leave a hot trail along the column of his throat, nibbling right under his jaw. He feels teeth teasingly scraping the skin, and then they’re sinking down, painfully, but it’s just how Satoru likes it– Suguru always knew that. This body knows Satoru’s better than anyone else left alive in this world, knows exactly which buttons to press to take him apart. As Suguru sucks on the skin, Satoru knows there will be marks, but he doesn’t fight it. Maybe the bruises will serve as a reminder that this was real, for better or for worse.
Bitterly, Satoru remembers how badly he had wanted to be marked every time he met Suguru in secret, how badly he wanted to mark him. Suguru never allowed it, but he indulged Satoru, marking him in places that would not be visible. He remembers how much time he spent looking at the indents left by Suguru’s teeth, the purpling skin, how he liked to poke at the bruises because the pain meant that it was all real, Suguru was still his. He felt him slip through his fingers every single time, only feeling truly alive when Suguru was touching him, needing so desperately to feel any remnants of their encounters when he was alone.
Does he even want to remember this? – the shame of his weakness in such an unforgivable act. But the thought of forgetting how Suguru's mouth feels on him is unbearable.
Satoru leaves himself open, to be ruined, to be defiled so sweetly. Suguru's hands find the hem of his shirt and slip underneath, his warm palms roaming over pale skin as his lips find Satoru's again. Satoru could be burning alive right now and he wouldn't care. He can't help but lean into each touch, feeling starved in more ways than one. He slides his own hands under Suguru's robes, and both their movements turn frantic, the need to feel more skin overpowering. Satoru's shirt comes off and the front of Suguru's kesa is ripped open. They grind against each other, pulling groans and pleased sounds out of them both. Satoru can feel heat pooling below his stomach as he grows hard against Suguru's leg.
They claw at each other furiously, tongues colliding in what can barely be called a kiss anymore. Then, to Satoru's surprise, Suguru kisses down the expanse of his chest, his navel, until he's kneeling right in front of him. Satoru's panting, his head clouded over, but he doesn't miss the conflicted look on Suguru's face. Of course he would fight such a compromising position– Kenjaku would never, in a thousand lifetimes, kneel for Gojo Satoru. Yet here he is, seemingly unable to control Suguru's will. Satoru's heart flutters in his chest– his Suguru wants him so badly he's brought one of the strongest curse users in history to his knees for him.
Suguru's hands find the waistband of Satoru's pants and pull down, freeing his erection. The hungry look in his eyes makes Satoru's knees feel weak. He can't look. It looks just like him– he licks a stripe on the underside of his dick and takes him into his mouth just like Suguru would, just like he used to. Satoru never thought he would feel this again and it's so overwhelming he almost pushes Suguru away, but it feels heavenly.
The wrongness of it is almost forgotten as Suguru bobs his head up and down, taking Satoru's length down his throat expertly. The rational part of Satoru's brain, the one with the survival instinct still intact, urges Satoru to stay alert. This could very well be a trap to make Satoru get lost in the feeling, leaving himself vulnerable. But it goes both ways. He could easily kill the curse inhabiting Suguru's body right now. But he knows he won’t. There’s not a force in this world that could take him away from where he is right now, falling apart at the hands of Suguru one last time.
Satoru lets his head fall backward to rest against the wall as he tangles his fingers in Suguru’s hair. It feels good, so good, every move of Suguru's lips unraveling him with the wet heat enveloping him. Suguru swirls his tongue around the tip and Satoru moans louder than he intended to. At this rate, he’s going to come much too soon, and he wants to make this last.
He uses the hold he has on Suguru’s hair to pull him off his dick with a wet pop. Satoru looks down and quickly regrets it. Suguru’s eyes are hooded, his lips red and shiny with spit– it’s his Suguru, and he looks beautiful, debauched and almost angelic. Except when Satoru looks farther down, he sees the hand Suguru is holding against his own throat in a feeble attempt to stop himself. Because it’s not him. Suguru’s body may want this, and Kenjaku allows it to a certain point, but this– this goes beyond what his pride would tolerate. Good, Satoru thinks, a sick kind of satisfaction twisting in his gut at the thought that he’s not the only one humiliating himself by doing this.
Suguru grabs a hold of the hand Satoru had in his hair as he stands up, and roughly pins it to the wall next to his head. Something about it feels familiar, reminiscent of the nights when Satoru found no tenderness under Suguru’s touch. They both needed that sometimes– a way to let the anger out, a way to remind themselves that no matter how much they pretended, they were, and would always be, enemies. Nothing more and nothing less.
Satoru wants it to hurt. He thinks maybe, somehow, all the pain he receives now will rid him of any more future grief, as if by giving himself over completely to Suguru’s body he can finally be free after all the years he’s spent mourning him.
He guides Suguru’s hand to his own neck, inviting him to press his fingers against his pulse. Suguru closes the distance between them, stopping only a centimeter from Satoru’s lips. Their gazes meet, but Satoru can’t hold it. He looks away from those empty, lifeless fucking eyes and the stitches on his forehead that are the only tell that this is not his Suguru. Everything he does will have to be with his eyes closed. A wave of nausea hits him, but he pushes it out of his mind.
He focuses on the scent instead, because that’s still the same. Suguru bites Satoru's lip as he applies pressure on the hand he has around Satoru’s neck, who welcomes the haziness. The least he has to think, the better. He kisses back ravenously, guided purely by instinct and hunger, pulling Suguru closer to him until there’s no space left between them. Suguru releases Satoru’s throat and allows him a few seconds to gasp for air against his lips before he’s picking him up off the floor, and Satoru instinctively wraps his legs around Suguru’s waist as he’s carried to the bedroom.
A quick look around reveals it’s stayed exactly the same as how they left it the last time they were here. Something about that stings but comforts him as well. It’s so familiar. Like this is just another one of their clandestine rendezvous.
Satoru is thrown into the bed unceremoniously, landing in a pile of soft pillows. He hears Suguru rummaging in the drawers of their old nightstand, and he takes this opportunity to try and calm his breathing. Something heavy sits on his chest, an ache so ancient he almost doesn't remember a time without it.
He feels a warm pair of hands running up his clothed thighs before thumbs hook on the waistband and pull them off him completely. Satoru stares at the ceiling, naked and exposed, torn between wanting to run away and knowing he couldn't live with himself if he did.
He closes his eyes again.
Satoru feels warm skin on his and a familiar weight on top of him. His chin is tilted up to meet Suguru's lips, the grip gentle yet possessive as Suguru's tongue explores Satoru's mouth slowly but deliberately. He feels Suguru press one of his legs between Satoru's and the friction is so delicious Satoru can't help the moan that escapes him, loud and needy. He wraps his arms around Suguru’s shoulders, pulling him closer, grinding his hips upward as Suguru grinds down on him.
Satoru knows this dance well– the push and pull of their bodies, the gliding of skin on skin, the growing haziness in his mind as pleasure overtakes him. He holds onto Suguru like a lifeline, like he’s not the very thing that will lead him to ruin.
He wants to reach down between their bodies and touch Suguru but he’s not sure he can do that without breaking down completely. He needs to be touched, the heat at his core building up until it’s all-consuming, but asking for anything right now would feel like begging and that’s one thing Satoru refuses to do. Not to him. Because it’s not him.
Instead, he reaches for Suguru’s hand, resting on the pillow by Satoru’s head, and guides it down until Suguru gets the message and reaches between them to fist both of their cocks in one of his hands. Suguru groans against Satoru’s lips as his hand moves up and down their lengths in a sinful glide aided by their combined precum. Satoru is already panting like he’s running a marathon, the pleasure overwhelming, but he still needs more.
He needs Suguru. He needs him inside him, needs him so badly his whole body is burning with it, his lungs straining against the pool of hunger at his core. He’s not going to beg, he’s not.
“Su–Suguru,” he stammers. The name burns his throat on the way out. Calling him by Suguru’s name somehow feels even more wrong than letting him touch him, but Satoru’s desperate to pretend, clinging with every fiber of his being to any remnant of Suguru in there. He wants to look, wants to open his eyes and meet warm honey, but he knows he won’t find what he’s looking for.
Even at their worst, Satoru could always see right into Suguru’s soul. No matter how much anger or resentment they harbored, no matter how much pain clouded over everything underneath, Satoru knew if he looked hard enough, he could always find the same unconditional and undying adoration. Nothing and no one could ever take that away from them.
He yearns for that reassurance, even if it’s just for a moment; he would give up everything he has to see that one more time, to feel seen and cared for and loved. Satoru’s always been greedy like that. He supposes Suguru indulged him too much, even at the end.
But this is not Suguru, and wishing for something so impossible feels like swallowing razors, so Satoru digs his nails into sweaty skin and bites into Suguru’s neck and tries to focus on something that’s not the giant black hole in the middle of his chest.
He turns his attention to the feeling of Suguru’s lips on his jaw, the open-mouthed kisses he leaves along his neck, the way he bites at his collarbones.
“Come on–,” Satoru urges, growing impatient.
“Always so bratty,” Suguru murmurs as he nibbles on Satoru’s ear. He must need it just as bad, though, because he immediately pats the bed with his free hand, looking for the bottle of lube he’d retrieved from the nightstand earlier. Satoru hears the cap pop open, and soon feels a cool, wet finger prodding at his entrance. Suguru only pushes in to the first knuckle before pulling his finger back almost all the way out. It’s odd– how patient he’s being, as if he’s trying to be careful with Satoru.
But Satoru doesn’t want careful, he doesn’t want patient, he’s done waiting and he wants it now. He grinds his hips to push Suguru’s finger deeper inside him, groaning at the sensation. Suguru speeds up his movements, then soon adds a second finger. Satoru welcomes the stretch and the roughness of Suguru’s fingers. The moan Suguru pulls from him when he hits Satoru’s prostate is downright filthy, and it seems to spur Suguru on because his movements turn harsher as he hits that same spot over and over.
Satoru writhes under Suguru, grasping at the sheets and quickly losing any semblance of control. And still, he needs more. He needs to feel more of Suguru, wants him to be the only thing he can feel.
But he won’t beg, he won’t.
He won’t.
He–
He feels like he’s coming apart at the seams with this need.
“Please.” The word falls out of Satoru’s mouth unbidden, ripped from deep within, but he doesn’t have time to regret it right now. “Please, I need–”
“What do you need, baby?”
Oh, that’s not fair. That’s not fair at all. Suguru always knew he was weak to that pet name. It feels like a weapon now, made entirely to undo Satoru. And so, he unravels.
“Inside– please, I need you inside,” Satoru practically sobs.
Suguru doesn’t laugh at him, he doesn’t exploit this moment of weakness. He pulls out his fingers and kisses Satoru on the lips as he lines himself up. It’s almost like it’s truly him.
Suguru pushes in slowly, but the stretch still borders on painful. Something about the pain is satisfying– fitting, perhaps. Everything about this hurts. Suguru’s movements are agonizingly slow, and Satoru almost wants to scream at him to not be gentle, to break him, to fuck every single thought out of his head.
With one last push, Suguru bottoms out, making both of them moan in unison.
There was a recurrent dream Satoru used to have. For years after Suguru left, it plagued his nights, leaving him to wake up gasping for air, his whole body trembling in a cold sweat. The dream was simple, really. It did not warrant such a bodily reaction. There was an endless void, so large and oppressing Satoru couldn’t feel anything outside of his body. He reached out a hand as he fell into it, trying desperately to hold onto something so he wouldn’t get swallowed by it. In the distance, a pair of golden eyes would appear, and for a second, Satoru was filled with relief, reaching for it, always reaching. But the void swallowed him every time.
Being touched by this imitation of Suguru feels just like that.
With him sheathed inside him like this, Satoru wonders if this is how Suguru felt all those years, letting his body be tainted every time he swallowed a curse. He imagines having to do this time and time again and he finally understands why Suguru did what he did. The irony isn't lost on him– a lifetime of resenting Suguru only to finally understand him when he's not even him anymore, when he’s long dead, killed by Satoru's own hand, when there’s a monster in his stead. Cursed even in death.
I'm sorry, Suguru. I'm sorry it took me so long.
Perhaps Satoru deserves to be cursed like this too.
He opens his eyes and sees nothing, blurred by unshed tears as Suguru starts to move. Satoru holds on tighter, pulls him closer, desire and grief mixing until they’re unrecognizable. The heat of Suguru’s cock inside him feels like a brand, marking his insides permanently so he will never forget this.
He claws at Suguru’s back as he fucks into Satoru hard and deep, and he grinds his hips to meet Suguru's thrusts. One of Suguru's hands grips Satoru's hip so tightly he's sure it's going to bruise. His thrusts speed up, become harsher, more desperate. Satoru’s quickly becoming a babbling mess, curses and moans spilling from his lips every time Suguru hits his prostate.
“Satoru–” Suguru practically growls as he bites down on Satoru's neck, hips snapping forward relentlessly. He's hitting that same spot with every thrust now, making Satoru see stars behind his eyelids.
“Harder,” Satoru demands. “ Fuck – fuck me harder.”
“With pleasure,” Suguru replies, shifting back his weight onto his knees as he readjusts their positions so that Satoru’s legs rest on Suguru’s shoulders. The angle is even deeper this way, and Satoru practically screams when Suguru starts fucking him into the mattress with renewed fervor.
Heat is quickly building in the pit of Satoru's stomach, tears of pleasure and pain gathering at the corners of his eyes, and suddenly it’s too much. He moves his legs down so that they’re around Suguru’s hips and uses the leverage to flip their positions until he’s sitting in Suguru’s lap. He looks down– he can’t help it. Suguru’s hair fans out on the pillows like black tendrils, a sheen of sweat decorates his forehead, and his expression is slightly surprised at the sudden change in position but it quickly morphs into pure desire.
Suguru’s hands come to hold Satoru’s hips, moving him up and down his cock. He moans when Satoru clenches down on him and the sound is like velvet blanketing Satoru. He moves his hips to meet Suguru’s thrusts, the slapping sound of their bodies and the creak of the bed filling the room.
“Satoru,” Suguru moans. Satoru, I–”
Satoru slaps a hand on Suguru’s mouth, refusing to hear what comes next. Whatever he has to say right now doesn’t matter– it’s not real, it’s not him.
He grinds his hips down with more force, one hand heavy on Suguru’s face and the other on his chest for leverage as he chases his own pleasure. He looks away, face tilting upward as his eyes roll back.
Don’t, Satoru thinks. Don’t.
Don’t say a fucking word.
He’s so close, his movements becoming erratic, aided by Suguru’s grip as he loses himself in the feeling. Suguru then holds his hips still, but Satoru doesn’t have time to protest as Suguru thrusts up so hard, Satoru’s vision whitens and he cums with a scream, spilling on Suguru’s chest. He slumps forward bonelessly, riding the last waves of his orgasm, almost shaking with the intensity of it. Suguru continues fucking up into him mercilessly, his grip bruising as he chases his own release. The pleasure is bordering on pain from overstimulation, but all Satoru can do is lie there and take it, mouthing at Suguru’s neck as he recovers. Then, with one last thrust, Suguru holds Satoru’s hips down as he spills inside him, his moan echoing around the room. Satoru mindlessly grinds his hips back to fuck him through it.
The grip on Satoru’s hip bones loosens, and he feels two strong arms wrapping around his body. They’re both panting, out of breath, sweaty, and spent. Satoru slides down to lie on his side, immediately mourning the loss of Suguru’s warmth inside him. After a moment, Suguru speaks.
“Satoru–” Satoru opens his eyes against his better judgement. It’s like a siren call, leading him to depths he knows he won’t be able to come back from. “Can I tell you something?”
How nice of him to ask, Satoru thinks. The answer should be no, of course– Satoru knows damn well nothing good could possibly come out of it. But his walls are down, all but rubble like the room outside, and despite everything, he feels warm and almost safe in Suguru’s arms right now. Throwing caution to the wind, he meets Suguru’s eyes and nods.
“I love you,” Suguru chokes out, as if the words had been ripped out of him against his will.
Satoru’s heart shatters.
He’s heard these same words, in this same order, in his dreams countless times over the last decade. Every single time hurt more than the last. Because it was never real. Time and time again, he’d wake up, covered in a cold layer of sweat, panting, sobbing, wanting to forget he ever heard those words come out of Suguru’s mouth. Because he never did, did he?
Because the only time Satoru heard them was deep in painful dreams. Those words were never meant for him. They were never meant to stay. They never meant anything other than a deep, humiliating ache he tried to bury. He had no time to fantasize about hearing them in any way that mattered. Because he never would.
Right now is no different. It doesn’t mean anything.
Satoru feels every single nerve ending in his body corroding under the acid of these words, under the weight of such an impossible truth. This is the one thing he never allowed himself to even imagine– not while conscious, at least– too painful to even wish for, so he refused to let it materialize in his mind. And here it is, thrown at him like it’s simple, like it’s true. Like there is any reality in this world or the next where he gets to hear this and keep it– where he gets to hear it without becoming undone, without losing everything.
“Don’t–”, the words come out strangled, ripped from Satoru’s very core as he closes his eyes tightly again. “Don’t fucking tell me that. Please.” And this– this is begging. This is where he’s pleading, without any thoughts about shame or regret, because there is nothing else in the entire world he fears more, nothing that can break him more than the words that just tumbled out of Suguru’s mouth. No, not Suguru. Not Suguru. It’s not. him. He wouldn’t do this to him.
No human could be this cruel, Satoru thinks. It’s a curse. It’s not Suguru, it’s a curse, a monster. Someone who doesn’t feel remorse when uttering those words knowing they don’t mean anything, knowing that it’s all a lie. Knowing that it’s the one thing Satoru could never recover from. But no one would know that, other than Suguru.
Satoru blinks his eyes open, tears spilling down the sides of his face, dampening the pillow. For a brief moment, it’s them again. Somehow that hurts even more. It would be easier if he could convince himself that Kenjaku was just being cruel to get back at him, to remind him that he’s the one in control, not Suguru, and that he has the power to break him because he can see his memories and knows exactly how to destroy him. But for the briefest of moments, the light is there in Suguru's eyes, warm honey under summer sunlight, leaving Satoru to wonder if there was any truth to any of this. He’ll probably never know.
And just like that, he blinks and all the warmth in Suguru’s eyes is gone, replaced by that same deep nothingness Satoru hates. He raises back his infinity as he watches Suguru get up off the bed, putting his clothes back on with measured movements and without turning around to look at him.
He stops by the door, and only then does he turn his head to face Satoru.
“I shall see you again, Gojo Satoru.” And then he's gone.
Every second Satoru has spent mourning Suguru is condensed and crystallized into this moment, watching Suguru leave one last time. He gets under the covers, shivering despite being unable to feel the cold air of the room, feeling more exhausted than he ever has in his life. He should leave. He can feel Suguru’s cum leaking out and pooling between his legs, his own cum drying on his chest. It’s disgusting, probably. He doesn’t know, because suddenly, he can’t feel anything at all. Good, it’s better this way.
Satoru turns on his side, letting that same old void overtake him once again.
When he wakes, he wipes himself clean, gets dressed, and readies a Hollow Purple as he steps out the door. He watches the whole building collapse and walks away.