Chapter Text
When Gojo Satoru was born, the whole Jujutsu world reeled. It seized him, swallowed his existence whole, and perfectly encompassed both the Limitless and the Six Eyes at once.
Satoru adapt to the Jujutsu society? Or did the Jujutsu society adapt to him?
His first birthday was commemorated by the clan with the reverence of a religious holiday and the grim satisfaction of a successful military transaction.
A deity had taken up residence in their sanctuary. In modern terms, a nuclear bomb had begun its countdown.
It was customary to offer prayers to power in general. But before Satoru's power, one was to bow their head and keep silent.
That, however, would only come once he grew up. For now, toys, sweets, and amusements sufficed—given on holidays or whims, yet always within decorum's bounds; after all, this was the future clan head.
Boredom caught him, as it catches any spoiled child.
"My parents got me a PlayStation!" Haibara shared one day, back at the Jujutsu Tech after a rare weekend home. "Dad hit up a bunch of sales to find a cheap secondhand one. So I'm gonna send 'em my whole scholarship next month!"
Ugh.
Sickeningly sweet.
Haibara’s face wore its usual naive cheerfulness, but a tender gratitude made his smile even brighter.
Satoru, too, always smiled: a flash of white teeth, arrogant and challenging—aimed at no one and everyone at once.
By then, the PlayStation in Satoru’s room had been gathering dust since its release. Satoru’s father hadn’t saved up for it, let alone traveled around to buy it himself.
Ever since Satoru enrolled at the Jujutsu Tech a year and a half ago, gifts had naturally been replaced by bank transfers, the balance always a cool six digits.
He didn’t visit the estate because he didn’t want to. No one coaxed him back; no care packages arrived with homemade tsukemono or printed-out digital photos.
Sentimentality was ill-suited power and control.
Satoru had no need for it.
Satoru started his sixteenth birthday in the kitchen, concocting something that was meant to be a hybrid of coffee, milkshake, matcha, and pure sugar, but in practice turned out to be nothing more than an insult to Asian cuisine.
Or biological weapon—Shoko thought, rolling a toothpick around in her mouth.
She hadn’t smoked for about an hour and was still refraining from lighting up only because it would require opening the window. Snow was falling heavily outside—it was the coldest winter in the last five years, after all—and Satoru couldn't stand the cold.
Once a year, she could make concessions.
Satoru held a mug emblazoned with "Death Note," topped with a mountain of whipped cream. For good measure, he squirted an equal amount straight into his mouth and swallowed. Even that failed to mask the taste of coffee.
He hated coffee too, yet remained silent. He didn't even remember Shoko's birthday himself, relying on Haibara—who, apparently, had inherited his knack for caring about others from his parents.
At midnight, Haibara had sent Satoru a birthday message and had even woken up Nanami, who was on a mission with him, to do the same. That concluded the well-wishes.
Satoru would have traded them all for good weather without a second thought.
The cold licked at his skin even through his winter uniform, making him hunch his shoulders uncomfortably, tuck his chin in, and bury his fingers deep in his sleeves.
Evening in Shibuya was less bitingly cold.
The December air was warmed by the breath of passersby, steam rising from subway grates, and the aromas of street food.
Satoru's outing had no particular aim: he'd teleported beyond the Tengen's outer barrier, boarded a commuter train, and ridden it into the city.
Venturing into Tokyo always felt like a small journey into the future—a neon embodiment of urbanism that had never quite managed to reach the Japanese mountains, no matter how hard it tried.
Satoru stood at a crosswalk, waiting for the light and munching on taiyaki, when his Six Eyes detected a faint flow of cursed energy emanating from an alleyway roughly five hundred meters away. A Grade 2 curse, newly manifested, judging by how its energy writhed in the air, resonating with the thrum of the night city.
Satoru was never opposed to stretching his legs, so he pivoted on his heel. Half a minute later, he stood in a narrow, crooked alley squeezed between two high-rises. The harsh light stopped pressing on his brain.
The curse spun towards him almost instantly, fixing its wet black eyes point-blank before scrambling backwards; not fear, but instinct. One rat-like claw kept clutching the hair of a severed human head, desperate to finish its meal.
Some student didn't make it home tonight.
Satoru extended his hand, fingers forming the sign for Red. But before he could activate the tech, the curse erupted in brilliant blue light. Its skin flayed away first, then the flesh beneath, then its bones shattered.
The sorcerer standing opposite popped the perfectly smooth orb—the curse's condensed form—into his mouth. He helped it down with a nudge from fingers tipped in fresh black polish and swallowed.
An adam's apple bobbed sharply beneath his skin.
Satoru mirrored the motion, swallowing the saliva that had pooled in his own mouth for some reason.
Something cold and unpleasant stirred in his gut.
Premonition.
Interest.
Something.
"Gross," he thought aloud. He pushed his glasses—fogged by the cold—up from the bridge of his nose and slowly closed the distance to arm's length. He didn't even need his usual slight stoop to catch the other's gaze.
Well, go on. Look me in the eyes.
Figured out who's standing in front of you?
Whatcha gonna do?
The sorcerer stared at him as if he encountered tactless, heaven-blessed, all-powerful teenagers in grimy back alleys every single day.
"I didn't ask for commentary on my cursed technique. Thank you," came the reply.
The sorcerer pulled a kiseru from the pocket of his long black coat and began filling it with tobacco. In the alley's gloom, a match flared to life—a warning flare. The sight held an almost liturgical solemnity.
Long strong fingers.
Black-lacquered nails.
Satoru cocked his head to the side, the street light catching in his ridiculous white eyelashes as he smirked.
"Ohhh, so we're doing the whole mysterious villain aesthetic now?" He took an exaggerated step closer, invading sorcerer's personal space simply because it started where Satoru decided. Limitless was still buzzing on skin. "First the dramatic curse eating, now the smoking? Next you'll tell me you brood on rooftops at midnight."
Sorcerer took a deep drag and exhaled smoke directly into Satoru's face in response, as if he had any right. The smell was earthy and slightly sweet—not at all like Choco cigarettes.
It took all of Satoru's self-control not to cough, and with one inhuman quick movement, he tore kiseru from sorcerer's fingers and turned it over—warm.
Some kind of unfamiliar emotion flashed in sorcerer's eyes, and it took Satoru a couple of seconds to guess condescension in it.
Seriously?
Condescension?
"Soooo," Satoru drawled, bending down so that they were almost nose to nose, but the sorcerer's face remained annoyingly calm, "What's a guy like you doing in a place like this? Stalking me on my birthday or just looking for a fight?"
And if his pulse jumped because the sorcerer didn't recoil, it was simply because he expected a different reaction.
"Of course, the world revolves around you."
Annoying.
"Does everyone at the tech still give a fuck about where their students walk at night?" he added after short pause.
So he knew where Satoru was from.
So he knew who Satoru was.
Good.
Good.
It's not like anyone from the Jujutsu world hasn't heard of Gojo Satoru.
Satoru's grin sharpened like a blade catching moonlight.
"Oho? So you do know who I am," He twirled kiseru one more time before letting it vanish into his pocket—an obvious theft, just to see if he'd protest. "And yet here you are, lecturing me about curfews like some fussy teacher. Adorable."
Stranger rolled his eyes and remained silent.
There was something thrilling about sorcerer’s indifference, the way he didn’t flinch or grovel.
A first.
"Weeell," Satoru gasped, draping an arm over sorcerer’s broad shoulders. Limitless still humming between them, a tease of closeness without actual touch. "Since you’re so concerned about my safety, how about you walk me back to campus?" He fluttered his lashes, all mock innocence. "I am just a helpless second-year, after all"
His voice dripped with sarcasm, but his breath betrayed him.
No one in their right mind would agree.
"Apparently, your instinct of self-preservation is completely atrophied, if you ask me about it."
Who is "me"?
Satoru had no idea who was in front of him.
Sorcerer who had swallowed a curse right in front of Satoru like it was nothing.
And for some reason, that felt like the most interesting thing that had happened to Satoru in years.
Satoru let out a joyful laugh—sharp and ringing in the quiet alley.
"Oh, you're funny," he cooed, spinning on his heel to walk backwards in front of sorcerer, hands laced behind his head. "Do I look like someone who worries about self-preservation?" He leaned in suddenly, close enough that if not for Limitless, their noses might’ve brushed. "But fine, fine. You wanna play mysterious? I love games." His breath hitched-just slightly-as stranger didn’t even flinch. "Tell you what: let’s make a bet. If I can guess your technique before we get to campus, you buy me mochi. If I can’t…" He tapped a finger to his lips, feigning thought. "I’ll graciously return your fancy little pipe."
Liar.
He’d already memorized the way sorcerer’s fingers had curled around it-long, steady, purposeful. No way was he giving it back.
"There is no losing in this bet for you. Win-win, huh? Okay, Gojo—A deal," sorcerer said, not moving away at all.
Satoru's voice stuttered—just for a fraction of a second—before he schooled his expression back into its usual lazy amusement.
His Limitless never faltered.
Never.
And yet here it was, wavering just because some curse-swallowing weirdo couldn't be bothered to step away from him like a normal person.
"Oh? I think you're taking a lot on yourself," Satoru teased, and finally pulled away. For some reason, it became easier to breathe.
They turned out of the alley and back onto a well-lit street. The mutilated body of an unlucky student without a head was lying grotesquely in the dark.
"And you talk too much, Gojo."
Satoru reeled back with an exaggerated pout, throwing an arm over his face. "Rude! And here I was gonna guess your technique is something cool, like—" He playfully narrowed his eyes, offering his most ridiculous version."—absorbing curses and vomiting them back up like a haunted Pez dispenser."
Clearly, no.
But admitting that would mean the game was over—and Satoru wasn't ready for that yet.
Not when sorcerer still hadn't looked at him like he was a monster.
Not when the night air between them still crackled with something dangerously close to possibility.
"I'm parked not far from here," sorcerer replied with an invitation.
"Oho?" Satoru drawled, stepping forward with deliberate laziness, letting the distance between them shrink again. "So this is where you kidnap me, huh? Should I be screaming for help?"
His voice was all playful mockery, but something beneath it wavered—something raw and off-balance.
And if his pulse kicked up at the thought of hands on the steering wheel, long fingers flexing as he drove them god-knows-where—well. That was between him and the Tokyo moist night air.
The streets blurred around them, all artificial light and cold air, but Satoru could only focus on the way sorcerer moved—smooth, unhurried, like he wasn’t just walking through Tokyo but owning it.
Actually it was right up Satoru’s alley.
"But if this is a kidnapping, you gotta at least tell me your name. Can't write 'ransom note' properly otherwise"
"Geto Suguru," he finally introduced himself.
For some reason, Satoru wasn't surprised that their names rhymed.
"Geto Suguru," he repeated, just to feel the shape of it, the way the syllables clicked into place between them.
He had never heard of that name—not a single association.
His eyes flicked over Suguru’s silhouette against the neon haze—so different from his own chaotic brightness, fluffy scarf and ripped jeans, all dark elegance and effortless control—and he felt something hot and restless begin to itch under his skin.
"Y’know," Satoru mused, falling into step beside him with exaggerated nonchalance, "we look like some kinda fucked-up yin-yang thing right now. Should we hold hands to complete the aesthetic, or—?"
"If you shut up for even a minute, will it finally stop snowing in Tokyo?" Suguru cut him off, the most emotional thing he said that evening, and that's when Satoru noticed it.
Pierced tongue.
The silver glint of metal flashed between Suguru’s teeth for just a second—just long enough to short-circuit every coherent thought in Satoru’s brain.
Six eyes stared at Suguru’s mouth.
His own mouth went dry.
"Wha—" He mumbled. "Oh my god, do you have any idea how unsanitary that is with your whole curse-swallowing habit? What if it catches or something like that?"
His cheeks were burning because now all he could think about was how that piercing would feel—
Stop.
"What else are you hiding, huh?" Satoru accused, jabbing a finger at Suguru’s chest when they stopped at a traffic light. Limitless flickering erratic between them. "Secret tattoos? A criminal record?"
And if his stomach clenched at the thought—well. That was definitely the mochi craving talking.
Suguru just exhaled steam, unimpressed. "You’re loud."
"You're pissing me off," Satoru spat.
He whirled around before Suguru could see the way his ears flushed scarlet, stomping ahead toward the parking lot.
Why would an normal person need metal in their mouth?
"Anyway! Your car better have heated seats, or I’m haunting you as a curse when I freeze to death. A really annoying one."
Of course, bastard had a shamelessly expensive car.
Black and annoyingly shiny Toyota Century.
Just like his long hair.
Satoru was in the passenger seat faster than Suguru himself, deliberately carelessly slammed the door.
Satoru's fingers still sticky after taiyaki itched to touch the dashboard just to prove he could—just to leave smudges on the pristine leather because fuck if Suguru wasn't the most insufferably perfect thing he'd ever seen.
After Satoru himself.
Of course.
"Wow," he drawled, sprawling across the passenger seat like he owned it and Suguru was his personal driver. "Either you're a trust-fund baby like me, or you're really good at gambling on cursed spirit fights. Which is it?"
The engine purred to life, vibrating through Satoru's bones.
"Seatbelt," Suguru said, voice low.
Not request.
"You do not tell me what to—" Satoru shot back automatically.
A beat.
Then Suguru leaned over him—close, too close, the scent of smoke and something bitter-sweet flooding Satoru's senses—and yanked the seatbelt across his chest.
The buckle clicked.
The car moved off soundlessly and softly.
His eyes caught on Suguru's hands again—those stupid, elegant fingers, the way they flexed against the wheel, black polish glinting under the dashboard lights. He wondered, suddenly and with violent clarity, what they'd feel like wrapped around his—
Nope.
What the…
"So, any ideas about my technique?"
Tokyo floated by in bright spots outside the windows: a sea of neon hieroglyphs, the headlights of passing cars illuminating the glass and concrete around.
City lights slid over Suguru's profile like he was something carved out of the night itself.
"Hmm," Satoru hummed, tilting his head back against the headrest, deliberately casual.
"Let’s see. You absorb curses—gross, by the way—but that’s not the fun part." He tapped his thigh with his finger. "The fun part is what you do with them after?Just digesting them? Auctioning off like little animals in your black, black yakuza house?" His grin turned sharp. He paused "—manipulating them as you wish?"
The car accelerated slightly—just a fraction—and Satoru’s pulse jumped with it.
Got you.
"You hate being predictable," Satoru noticed slyly, pointing at Suguru’s fingers tightening on the wheel. "Don’t worry, Geto? It's hard not to be with me. I have good eyes."
Satoru lowered his glasses. The blue eyes stared unblinkingly on Suguru.
"You’re full of yourself" Suguru said smoothly.
"Or you’re underestimating me," Satoru parried, tucking his leg under himself. He looked again: first at the Suguru's clenched jaw, then at the wet glass and added. "But question of how many curses you can have at a time remains open. Ten? Like a shikigami."
"No limitations. As many curses as I want. Any grades,"
Oh, this—this changed everything.
Satoru sat up straighter, pose lost its relaxation in one moment. Six Eyes flaring reflexively, dissecting every flicker of cursed energy around Suguru with renewed hunger.
He had to concentrate. Even with Six Eyes, most sorcerers were frustratingly dim candles.
But still.
No limitations.
Any grade.
Condescension.
"Bullshit," he breathed, fingers digging into his own thighs. "That's—you'd have to be—"
Special grade.
Just like me.
The realization hit like a punch to the gut. He caught his own reflection in the rearview mirror, surprised even through his sunglasses.
The car slowed, pulling up to the curb beside the konbini, but Satoru barely noticed.
A slow, wild grin split his face.
"Ohhh, shit," he hissed, twisting fully toward him, knee knocking against the center console. "You're serious. You're actually—" His voice caught, giddy and little awestruck. "—you're strong, aren't you?"
Nobody was strong.
Not like him.
Not until now.
Suguru just smirked, killing the engine. The sudden silence roared in Satoru's ears.
"Took you long enough," Suguru said, voice dripping with amusement.
Of course, Satoru thought he would have been told about another special grade walking around Tokyo.
Something in the spirit of: Oh, by the way, Satoru, have you heard…
It didn't happen.
The moment they stepped into the shop, Satoru made a beeline for the display case, pressing his palms against the glass like an overexcited kid. "Strawberry, matcha, black sesame—oh, fuck, they have yuzu—" His voice was louder than necessary, fingers tapping against every flavor he pointed at, just to watch Suguru’s eyebrow twitch in quiet exasperation.
The saleswoman’s gaze flicked between them—lingering on Suguru’s elegant composure, then Satoru’s chaotic energy—and her lips pursed in that particular oh, they’re together together way.
Satoru loved to play to a crowdt.
"Y’know," he whispered to Suguru, leaning in just enough that their shoulders almost brushed, "I think she thinks we’re on a date."
Suguru gave him an unreadable look.
"Add these," he said, reaching past him to point at a tray of daifuku. To the saleswoman, not to Satoru.
Huh?
Satoru’s face burned.
"Rude!" he squawked jabbing a finger at Suguru's chest. "I’m the one ordering, remember? You’re just the wallet. I won!"
The saleswoman bagged their mochi with deliberate slowness, eyes darting between them again.
Suguru handed over his card without looking away from Satoru.
"You guessed half of tech," he corrected, mouth curling at the edges.
Satoru’s breath caught.
Irritation.
Obviously.
"There was no such condition," Satoru hissed, snatching the mochi bag before Suguru could.
The bell above the door jingled as they stepped back into the night, and Satoru didn’t miss the way the saleswoman shook her head faintly as they left.
Good.
"You're not giving what you stole, are you?" Suguru asked when they returned to the night.
Tokyo was gradually falling asleep, or rather calming down around them.
"Excuse me? I win! If you're deaf by any chance."
"Halfway."
Satoru rolled his eyes.
A win's a win.
But then something clicked in his mischievous head, and he smirked shamelessly.
"Come and take it, if you want it that badly."
Suguru arched an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Okay. My condition: no Limitless. Just physical strength."
Satoru froze mid-bite, mochi halfway to his mouth, fingertips sticky with powdered sugar.
His blood roared in his ears.
No Limitless.
Very bad idea, Satoru.
Suguru’s smirk deepened, slow and understanding, as he leaned against the storefront’s awning.
The streetlight cut shadows across his face—sharp jaw, darker eyes, that damn tongue piercing glinting when he spoke.
"You’re shaking, Gojo," he murmured.
"Why should I?"
He was.
His hands tightening around the mochi bag. Box cracked pitifully in his hands.
No Limitless meant touch.
No Limitless meant Suguru could—could reach him, could grab him, could—
"Y’know what?" Satoru tossed the bag onto the hood of Suguru’s stupidly expensive car and squared his shoulders, forcing a grin. "Try it."
His voice didn’t waver.
His knees did.
Suguru pushed off the wall, stalking toward him with deliberate, unhurried steps.
Satoru’s throat went dry.
Fuck.
For the first time in years, something stirred in Satoru's chest—something he didn't immediately recognize as the instinct for self-preservation.
This was happening.Satoru dropped into a fighting stance, rolled his shoulders, his scarf flaring defiantly in the wind.
He was magnificent in hand-to-hand combat. Even if he’d never had a worthy sparring partner.
Because he was Gojo Satoru. He excelled at everything.
A minute later, he found himself pinned hard against the disgusting, cold pavement.
Suguru’s elbow pressed his hands down, while Suguru’s knee dug too sharply into his thigh.
His cheek hadn’t yet scraped the asphalt only because Suguru’s other elbow was crushing his neck.
Satoru helplessly kicked his ridiculously long legs—useless flailing that did nothing to turn the tide.
His sneakers skittered across the sidewalk with a gritty scrape.
Satoru felt an irrational urge for Suguru to say something like
"Naughty boy."
Of course, he didn’t.
Fuck it.
He still hadn’t turn on Limitless solely because, for once, he’d decided to play by the rules.
"Fuck you," Satoru gasped, but his voice came out wrecked, ragged at the edges. His body felt hot. "That—that was a cheap move—!"
Suguru just stared down at him, unimpressed. His hair curtained around them, blocking out the city lights, and for a dizzying second, it was just them—just the heat of Suguru's body, the press of his elbows, the smugness in his expression which Satoru felt in his nape.
His face flushed a deep, genuine crimson.
Suguru opened his mouth, undoubtedly about to say something absurd and make the whole situation even more awkward—
"Shut up," Satoru beat him to it, squirming, desperate to claw back some dignity. "I could—nnf—I could get out of this anytime—"
Liar.
Not by physical force.
His hips jerked up instinctively, trying to buck Suguru off, because his arms and legs still were useless but all it did was make their bodies slide together in a way that sent fire licking through his veins.
Suguru exhaled, slow, amused.
"...Disgraceful," he finally made a conclusion.
And god, Satoru hated how his stomach dropped at that, how his breath stuttered, how his fingers twitched like they wanted to grab.
"You're disgraceful if you want to fight with a teenager." he barked weakly.
Suguru leaned down, close enough that his breath ghosted over Satoru's ear.
"Keep struggling," he murmured. "See what happens."
Satoru stopped breathing.
He also stopped struggling.
Suguru’s fingers—warm, firm, too fucking deft—dug past the tight fabric of his jeans, brushing against the sharp jut of his hipbone before closing around the stolen kiseru.
"This thing belongs to me," Suguru said, and Satoru died inside. But before—
He made a noise.
A noise. High, punched-out, embarrassing.
Which could only be described as a "whine" if it wasn't about the magnificent Gojo Satoru, of course.
"Mine," Suguru whispered.
Fine.
Maybe Satoru whined.
And immediately wanted to throw himself into the nearest dumpster out of sheer mortification.
His thighs trembled the most, but only because Suguru's elbow was pressing on his neck and maybe because Suguru’s hair—oh, fuck—was tickling his neck, soft and heavy, smelling like smoke and something expensive.
Satoru’s lashes fluttered as he tipped his head back, exposing more of his throat without thinking, his lips parted around a shaky exhale.
Suguru leaned in, his voice a dark murmur against Satoru’s ear.
"Want to argue?," he asked, fingers finally withdrawing—slow, so fucking slow—kiseru glinting in the neon light.
"I—you—ugh!" Satoru thrashed again, but it was half-hearted at best. "Very well! Take your dumb pipe! Like I even wanted it!"
He did.
He really did.
He wanted it back in his pocket.
He wanted Suguru’s hand back in his pocket.
Suguru smirked, finally—finally—released him, giving him a deliberate little shove forward for good measure, and rose with infuriating grace while Satoru thudded heavily onto the ground.
At least he managed to get hands out in front.
He sat there for several endless seconds.
"Get up," Suguru said "Before I change my mind."
Satoru wanted to blast him with Red.
He scrambled to his feet so fast he nearly tangled in his own legs.
His scarf was sodden with December slush, but at least it hid just how hard he was.
Fine.
Maybe disgraceful .
"Seems the heir to the Gojo clan can't do anything without his ancient techniques," Suguru exhaled smoke rings; the kiseru finding its rightful place between his fingers with practiced ease.
"Oh fuck off," he snapped, voice cracking as he pointed an accusatory finger. "I—I let you win! Obviously!" His knees still felt like gelatin, his pulse still pounded in his throat, and now this bastard was blowing smoke rings like he hadn't just—just—UGH!
He jabbed a finger at the kiseru, desperate to redirect. "And that's bad for you, by the way! Lung cancer! Early death! You'll be coughing up curses before you hit thirty!"
Suguru just took another slow drag, exhaling directly into Satoru's face.
This time, Satoru did cough, waving his hand in front of his face.
"Anyway," Satoru snorted, continuing a one-sided dispute, "I could destroy you in a real fight. Anytime. Anywhere. Just say the word."
Suguru's eyes gleamed.
Dangerous.
"...Later," he said simply, turning to walk back to the car.
Satoru's heart lurched once again.
"Wha—LATER?!" he squawked, scrambling after him, straightening his ridiculous scarf. "Hey! Hey! What's that supposed to—Geto! I'm talking with you—"
Satoru caught sight of his own reflection getting into the car.
The marks were clearly visible on pale skin of his throat.
This thing belongs to me.
The mochi bag crinkled in his white-knuckled grip as he swallowed hard, forcing his voice into something teasing, something normal.
"Y'know," Satoru drawled, slumping back in the seat with exaggerated laziness, "most people just say 'good game' after a spar. Not maul their opponent like some kinda feral—mmf!"
A mochi was shoved into his mouth.
Strawberry and sweet.
Suguru didn’t even glance at him as he pulled onto the road, one hand resting carelessly on the steering wheel.
"You’re loud," he said, as if that explained anything.
Satoru couldn’t stop feeling the heat in his cheeks for a single second.
He chewed obnoxiously, slinging his dirt-caked sneakers onto the dashboard—just a little revenge.
"You're being weird," he said, mouth full. "First you beating me half to death, now you feed me? Make up your mind, Geto."
The car hummed smoothly beneath them—expensive, sleek—and Satoru ignored the feeling of safety, jarringly out of place here.
Suguru exhaled, slow.
"You're a walking disaster."
The marks on his throat ached.
He hoped they'd last.
Satoru grinned, licking powdered sugar from his fingers with deliberate slowness.
"Thanks."
Satoru wanted to press on—something equally absurd and grating to drive the point home.
But Suguru decided to spare himself the entertainment, turning on the music instead. Not J-pop, not alternative—but some ancient American pop-rock straight from the dinosaur era.
Satoru's jaw dropped—partly at the sheer audacity of Suguru daring to cut him off with music, but mostly—
"Oh my god." Satoru wheezed, clutching his stomach as laughter punched out of him in sharp, delighted bursts. "What even IS this?! Are you—pfft—are you secretly a middle-aged salaryman, Geto? Should I call you ojisan now?!" He kicked his feet against the dash, laughing hysterically as the horribly dated guitar riff blared through the speakers.
Then—
Then Suguru sang.
"Baby are you holding, holding anything but me?
Because I'm a real straight-shooter
If you know what I mean."
His voice sounded unchanged whether he spoke English or Japanese.
A low and warm sound. Almost purring. Confident. His fingers tapped the wheel in time with the beat.
Satoru's laughter died in his throat.
Suguru's voice curling around the lyrics like he didn't care how ridiculous they were in 2006. Like he didn't care that Satoru was gawking at him.
"Are you fucking kidding?" Satoru whispered, horrified, as his traitorous face burned hotter.
This wasn't fair. He couldn't be getting flustered over this. Over Suguru massacring some ancient rock song like—
"Baby are you holdiiiin'" Suguru drawled, slanting him a look that was all smirk.
Satoru squeaked.
He lunged for the stereo, scrambling over the center console like a feral cat, elbow jabbing Suguru's ribs in the process. "NOPE! NO WAY! We are not doing this! I refuse to die of secondhand embarrassment in your stupid rich-boy car—hey!"
It seems out of shame Satoru forgot how to keep Limitless on because Suguru caught his wrist effortlessly, grip firm as he held Satoru at bay, still singing.
Satoru went limp, accepting the second defeat in one night.
"Fucking shame," he whined, collapsing back into his seat, powerless against the combination of Suguru's voice, his hands, that stupid piercing glinting when he enunciated the lyrics—
The music swelled.
Satoru groaned, throwing an arm over his face.
"I'm nineteen," Suguru said offhandedly.
Satoru thought he'd finally lost it. There was no way this Geto Suguru was only three years older than him. It wasn't even about how he looked, but how he carried himself.
"Pf. Guess eating curses really does a number on your looks," he lied.
And Suguru did the most unexpected thing imaginable.
He turned his head toward Satoru, stuck out his pierced tongue, and gave him the middle finger.
For one surreal second, he just gaped, brain completely blue-screening—
— because holy shit, Suguru Geto, the enigmatic, elegant, curse-swallowing terror, had just flipped him off like some bratty high schooler while sticking out his pierced tongue—
And Satoru lost it.
"HAH?!" he shrieked, lunging across the console again, trying to scratch out Suguru's eyes. "DO THAT AGAIN. DO IT AGAIN. I DARE YOU—"
The car swerved slightly as Suguru easily fended him off with one hand, the other steady on the wheel, but—but—
His lips were twitching.
Satoru froze.
"...Oh no," he murmured, pupils blowing wide. "You're laughing."
Suguru turned his face away sharply, but it was too late—Satoru had seen. The crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the way his mouth had fought to stay stern before betraying him.
Something molten and bright burst in Satoru's chest.
"AHA!" he jabbed a victorious finger in the air. "You do have a sense of humor! I knew you weren't just some boring, brooding,—"
Suguru's hand clamped over his mouth.
Satoru shut up.
The music played on, absurd and loud, but all Satoru could focus on was the warmth of Suguru's palm, the way his pulse thundered against his skin, the glint of that damn piercing he still hadn't recovered from—
Suguru removed his hand.
Satoru inhaled shakily.
"...Dick," he muttered, but there was no bite in it.
He definitely didn't sneak glances at Suguru for the rest of the drive.
They stopped at the foot of the mountain where the Jujutsu tech, and Satoru found himself fused to the obscenely expensive leather seat. His fingers tightened on the bag of mochi, half-crushed after everything it had been through.
This is it?
Just…
Just...goodbye?
The silence stretched, thick and awkward in a way Satoru hated. He cleared his throat, plastering on his smuggest grin.
"So! Guess this is where you ditch me, huh?" He kicked the door open with more force than necessary, scarf flapping dramatically in the cold air. "Thanks for the mochi, old man. Don't forget to ice your back after that brutal workout you got pinning down a helpless high schooler—"
Suguru's hand shot out, grabbing Satoru's wrist before he could fully escape.
Satoru was motionless.
Slowly and deliberately, Suguru turned Satoru's palm upward and placed his kiseru into it. Still faintly warm because he was smoking in the car.
"Keep it for yourself,"
Satoru instinctively squeezed his hand, but still made some questioning sound.
"You looked like you wanted it more than mochi."
The implication sent heat rushing to Satoru's ears. He fumbled the pipe, nearly dropping it twice before shoving it haphazardly into his pocket. "Sh-shut up! I was just—it's a trophy! Proof I won our bet!"
Suguru hummed, unconvinced.
The car door began to close on its own—automatic, and for Satoru, it was in slow motion.
"Wait!" He shot his foot out—and was suddenly halfway back inside the cabin, which, if he was honest with himself, he didn't actually want to leave at all.
Satoru bit his lip, then ripped the crushed strawberry mochi from the bag and shoved it at Suguru.
"Here! Trade!" he blurted, face burning. "It's—it's rude not to exchange gifts! And this one's the worst flavor, by the way. Well, obviously I wouldn’t give you the best one..."
(It was the best)
Suguru stared at the crushed mochi before shifting to Satoru’s face.
This logic had at least two flaws: First, politeness had never been Satoru’s strong suit. Second, Suguru himself had bought these mochi.
"Besides!" Satoru blustered. "You’re just abandon me in the mountains? Alone? There are bears, boars, foxes, and God knows what else out here! They’ll attack me 'cause I smell like food!"
Another inconsistency: As if anything in these mountains could actually threaten Satoru.
As if anything in all of Japan could.
"My presence near jujutsu tech would be...problematic." Suguru murmured, studying the offered mochi as if it held the secrets of the universe.
"...Too good for this place, huh?" Satoru tried to tease, but his voice came out softer than he meant it to.
The night air between them felt charged, thick with something unspoken.
Suguru exhaled through his nose, popping the mochi into his mouth in one smooth motion.
"Something like that."
And Satoru shouldn't have stared at his lips like that, shouldn't have stared at the way his adam's apple was twitching under his skin, shouldn't—
"Cool," Satoru huffed, shoving his hands into his pockets—the one with the kiseru still warm against his thigh. "But hypothetically, if I needed to contact you—"
For combat practice.
No other reason.
"Hypothetically," Suguru repeated, mocking and reading between the lines
Then he slid a hand into his coat and held something out to Satoru.
Satoru didn’t register it immediately because he’d decided that if this was truly their first and last meeting, he could allow himself to stare at Suguru's face just a little longer than proper.
A business card.
Black.
Embossed.
Obscenely unique, just like the car, just like him.
Satoru ran his eyes over the golden letters.
GETO SUGURU
Just a name.
Just a number.
Just a challenge.
Satoru's grin was all teeth. Victory tasted sweeter than all the mochi he’d eaten that day.
"Wow, how corporate of you"
"Call when you can go five minutes without whining,"
And he was gone—car door shutting, engine purring almost soundlessly, taillights bleeding into the dark like Satoru had imagined the whole thing.
But there was a business card in his hands.
Kiseru in his pocket
Marks on his throat.
In an instant, the foothills around him took on an intentionally mystical air—as if Tokyo with its skyscrapers and cars had never existed at all, and he had just encountered some ancient creature that undoubtedly wanted to drive him to madness.
The card burned in his fingers as Satoru's feet pounded up the stone steps two at a time, his stupidly long legs eating up the path like he was being chased. His heart hammered in his chest—not from exertion, but from the manic energy crackling under his skin, the I-can't-believe-that-just-happened giddiness bubbling up his throat.
Satoru crossed the inner Tengen’s barrier. He spun in a circle, clutching the business card in one hand and the kiseru in the other, face splitting into a grin so wide it hurt.
"Holy shit," he whispered then yelped as a bat fluttered past his head. He didn’t even care.
Satoru’s fingers flew to his throat, tracing the faint pressure still lingering there.
He ran the rest of the way to the dorms, teleporting from time to time, laughter spilling out of him like he’d lost control of it.
And when he finally collapsed onto his bed, the business card clutched tight in his fist, his first thought wasn’t about strength, or techniques, or even the fact that he’d just met someone who might—just might—be his equal.
No.
His first thought—his only thought—was:
I need to see him again.
Satoru always had a very good imagination, unfortunately for him. Very useful for using the cursed energy.
It was a pity it couldn’t be switched off on command.
The image of Suguru stuck in his mind.
Strong hands.
Long dark hair.
Pierced tongue.
Why did HE have his tongue pierced at all?
Why did people have their tongues pierced?
Satoru's head hit his pillow with a muffled thump.
He groaned, rolling onto his stomach and pressing his burning face into the sheets.
His traitorous brain kept replaying it—the glint of metal between Suguru's teeth, the way his lips curled around the kiseru, the implications of that damn piercing.
"Ugh!" Satoru kicked his legs like a petulant child, fists clenching in the blankets. "Why does it matter?! It's just—just a thing! A dumb body modification or whatever!"
He rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, one hand absently drifting to his own mouth—finger hovering over his bottom lip, tracing along the back of the tongue to the place where the silver piercing rod should have been.
Satoru’s stomach swooped.
His cock twitched in pajama pants.
He yanked his hand away like it had betrayed him, flipping over again with a growl.
"It’s just because he’s strong," he muttered into the pillow.
"That’s all. I just—I’ve never met someone who could—who could actually—"
Pin me down.
Touch me.
Leave marks.
His trembling fingers slipped under the waistband on their own, his cock already hard and aching in his grip.
Suguru's voice curled through his mind again—deep, possessive, dripping with something dark.
This thing belongs to me.
Mine.
He bit his lip until it bled, but it didn’t stop the images—Suguru’s hands on him, Suguru’s mouth, Suguru’s tongue—that goddamn piercing dragging over his skin, cold metal and hot breath and—
"Nngh—" His hips jerked up into his own touch, slick with desperation. The movements were uncoordinated. He didn’t care.
He imagined them in the car. Front seat. Satoru is on Suguru's lap. The way Suguru's gaze would change from condescending to hungry, how those long fingers would cling to his hips, holding him in place, because Satoru squirm, he would whine, he would—
"S-Suguru—" The name tore out of him in a broken gasp, his thighs shaking violently, his free hand fisting the sheets until they tore.
The kiseru lay abandoned on the nightstand, gleaming in the dim light—his now, because Suguru had given it to him, because Suguru had wanted him to have it—and the thought alone made his spine back arched sharply.
Satoru didn't think about anything but his name, his hands, his mouth, and maybe—just maybe his cock, when Satoru's own thumb slid over the head. He sped up without thinking, because it became impossible to hold back.
And when he came, shuddering and gasping into the empty room, it was with Suguru’s voice in his ears and Suguru’s phantom touch branding his skin.
He lost for the third time that night.