Work Text:
Shoko finds him on a Tuesday.
Suguru doesn’t believe in fate anymore. He believes in accumulation: of curses, of filth, of choices that cling to his skin no matter how often he showers. But if fate did exist, it would probably look like this—a rain-wet Tokyo backstreet, cigarette smoke curling above Shoko Ieiri’s head, and the familiar spike in his chest when she turns, like she sensed him before she saw him.
He almost walks past her anyway. His sandal splashes through a shallow puddle; her shoulders tense, then ease. She blows smoke sideways, not up—polite, as always. Her eyes flick to him, not a single speck of surprise in them.
“Hey, Suguru.”
His fingers curl around the strap of his bag. Behind his ribs, he can feel a small, momentary unease that has the curses in him murmur, restless. He’d long ago learned to live with the faint, ever-present sound of the curses he absorbed, but there were times—times like these—where they were a bit too loud, echoing every sound and making everything feel too crowded.
“Shoko,” he answers, as casually as he can manage. “You look like shit.”
“Doctor’s life.” She taps ash against the alley wall, tucking a hand into the pocket of her lab coat. Dark circles paint the underneath of her eyes. Her hair’s pulled up messily—it’s longer than when he’d last seen her, and a few baby strands stick out along her hairline, but it suits her. “You look…like a cult leader.”
He snorts, quiet, tired. “Occupational hazard, I’m afraid.”
Silence stretches between them. It’s neither awkward nor comfortable, just a heavy silence between two people that used to know each other inside and out, who used to go through life together, friends that are no longer friends but not exactly strangers. Rain patters against plastic awnings, and the street hums with distant traffic. Suguru realizes he’s missed this kind of quiet more than he should have—the kind that isn’t filled with whispers and worship and the stench of curses. Nothing he could do about the stench of monkeys. On the streets of the city, that was hard to avoid, but alas. Every rose has its thorns.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she says finally.
“I live here,” he replied. “Or is Tokyo yours now?”
Her lips twitch. “Please. I’d ask for a better city if I was going to claim one.”
He studies her profile. There’s a faint scar at the edge of her jaw he doesn’t remember. Time has moved on without him. Of course it has. It’s been five years since he walked away, since he chose, since he broke everything that mattered between his teeth and spat the pieces out.
“Did you come to kill me?” he asks. He keeps his tone light, but the curses writhe inside him, invisible, interested.
“If I was here for that,” she mutters, “you’d already be on the floor.”
“Ah,” Suguru says, smiling. “Still as heartless as I remember.”
“And you’re still as dramatic as I remember.”
Her phone buzzes in her coat pocket. She glances at the screen, and something in her posture shifts—tiny, almost imperceptible, but he’s always been good at reading the people he cares about.
Cared.
He watches her thumb move, quick and efficient, then pause. Her gaze flicks up at him, then back to the phone, her eyes tightening the slightest bit.
“Who is it?” he asks, even though he already knows.
“Work,” she lies, and it’s so blatant it’s almost insulting.
He scoffs. “Shoko. Come on now.”
She exhales smoke, the plume drifting between them. “You really shouldn’t be here, Suguru,” she repeats. “They’re serious about you, you know. They want you dead.” She rolls the word like it tastes bad. “Kill on sight. No talking, no reminiscing, no catching up.”
“That does sound like them.”
Her phone buzzes again. She doesn’t check it this time. Just slips it back into her pocket and studies him, eyes narrowing like she’s trying to reconcile the boy from high school with the man standing in front of her in black robes, hair longer, eyes tired.
“You look worse,” she says, her voice unexpectedly soft. “Not physically. Just… inside.”
He laughs, a short, humorless thing. “Occupational hazard,” he repeats.
She finishes the cigarette down to the filter, crushes it under her heel, and for a moment he thinks she might say something that matters—something like I miss you or Why did you go or We would’ve tried to understand.
But that’s never been Shoko. Instead, she says, “Can I give you some advice?”
“By all means.”
“Run.”
He raises a brow. “From you?”
“From what’s coming.” Her hand is already halfway to her pocket again. He can feel the tension coiling in her aura now, not aimed at him but at the air, the street, the future. He realizes, belatedly, that she’s buying time.
“Shoko.”
She meets his eyes without flinching. “You should go, Suguru. Now.”
“Did you call him?” he asks. She doesn’t answer. He feels something twist in his chest, the jagged and old disappointment of betrayal. “You’re going to let him kill me?”
“I’m going to let him do what he’s going to do,” she says, voice flat. “He doesn’t listen to me. He barely listens to himself.”
He tries to smile, but his mouth feels stiff. “Still dramatic, you said?”
“Always. Both of you.” She steps back, tucking her hands into her coat pockets. “Okay. I have to go. Patients. Paperwork. Higher-ups breathing down my neck.”
“Shoko,” he says again, because he doesn’t know what else to say.
She looks at him like she’s memorizing him and then looks away too quickly. “See you on the flipside,” she murmurs, and the phrase lands wrong—heavy, like a coin dropped in water, sinking out of reach. Then she turns and walks away, shoulders hunched, white coat disappearing into the wet gray.
He doesn’t run. He tells himself it’s pride. That he’s not going to flee like some frightened curse user caught in the headlights. That if Gojo Satoru wants to kill him, he can look him in the eye while he does it. But the truth curls cold and petty inside him: he wants to see him. Just once. Just to measure the distance between who they were then and who they are now.
The air changes like a pressure drop before a storm. Suguru feels it before he hears him—reality thinning, a familiar warp in space, that buzzing crackle at the back of his skull that always meant Gojo was close. The curses stir uneasily, instinctively wary. He dismisses them with a thought, sending them slinking back into the darkness. They wouldn’t help here.
Footsteps splash lazily through the puddles.
“Well, well,” Gojo calls, like this is a joke, like everything is a joke. “Look who decided to grace Tokyo with his presence.”
Suguru turns slowly. Gojo is standing at the mouth of the alley, hands shoved into the pockets of his dark coat, sunglasses pushed up into his hair despite the rain. His blindfold is gone; the Six Eyes are bared, bright and merciless, pinning Suguru like an insect on a board.
He’s taller than Suguru remembers. Broader in the shoulders. Older, in tiny ways—the set of his mouth, the hard edges around his eyes. The rest of him is exactly the same. The sight hits Suguru like a physical blow.
“Satoru,” he says, because what else can he say?
At the sound of his name, Gojo’s jaw clenches. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like we’re still…” He waves a hand, the movement jerky. “Whatever we were.”
Suguru smiles faintly. “Friends?”
Gojo’s aura flares, Limitless humming, space itself vibrating around him. Rain drops hit an invisible barrier and slide sideways, never touching his skin. “You killed people,” Gojo snaps, voice loud in the narrow alley. “You butchered humans. You declared war. You made a cult, Suguru. A cult.”
“Cult is such a strong word, we usually prefer ideologically aligned community.” He grins, waiting for the familiar chuckle from his old friend. When Gojo doesn’t say anything, Suguru sighs. “Yes, I did.”
“Why?” The question tears out of him, raw, like he still doesn’t understand, like five years and countless corpses haven’t been enough to dull that bewildered hurt. “Why couldn’t you just—just stay, you idiot?”
Because I was drowning, Suguru thinks. Because the voices of the helpless were louder than yours. Because every day felt like gouging out parts of myself and calling it duty. He shrugs instead. “Our ideals didn’t align.”
“Your ideals?” Gojo’s laugh is harsh, brittle. “So mass murder is an ideal now?”
“It’s a solution. We’ve been through this already.”
“You’re so full of shit.”
They stare at each other across the wet concrete, the distance between them a graveyard of every word, every step back, every action that cracked that rift between them wider.
“Geto Suguru,” Gojo says finally, the air around him sharpening. “You know the orders I’ve been given.”
Suguru feels the words slide into his chest like a knife. He inhales slowly, cold fear and acceptance coating his insides. “I do.” He exhales. “Well then. Let’s get it over with.”
For a heartbeat, Gojo’s expression fractures—pain, rage, panic flickering behind his eyes. Then it’s gone, replaced by that infuriating, cocky grin. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he says. “You don’t get to do that anymore.”
Suguru shifts his stance, weight balanced. Curses rustle inside him, eager, hungry.
“You’re not going to run?” Gojo asks. There’s something almost hopeful in his tone.
Suguru shakes his head. “You’d catch me. You always do.”
“Yeah,” Gojo says softly. “I do.” He moves first. Space folds, and Suguru barely sees the blur of his coat before Gojo is in front of him, hand reaching, fingers curving like he’s about to grab Suguru by the wrist—
What the—?
Instinct screams. Suguru jerks his arm back, twisting away. “We’re fighting, Satoru,” he snaps. “Not—”
“Yeah, fighting,” Gojo snarls, but his grip is tight, desperate, like he’s trying to anchor something. “You think you can just show up here and—and—”
Suguru wrenches his arm, cursed energy flaring. “Let go.”
“Make me.”
He does. A summoned curse surges between them, jagged and shrieking, mouth full of needle teeth. Suguru uses it as cover to drive his elbow toward Gojo’s ribs. The impact is like hitting stone—Limitless softens it, space distorting, but it still knocks Gojo half a step back.
“Oh, that was a cheap shot,” Gojo growls.
“You grabbed me first,” Suguru says, calling more curses, their presence thickening the air. They swarm, shadows in the rain, eyes glittering.
Gojo’s eyes flick around, assessing, calculating. “You know this won’t work,” he says. “Right?”
Suguru sends the curses forward anyway.
They explode against Infinity like bugs against glass, bodies tearing apart, curses dissipating with keening shrieks. Gojo walks through them, untouchable, his expression twisting. “You’re really going all out?” he shouts over the cacophony. “Here? In my city?”
“Your city?” Suguru snaps back, redirecting a surviving curse to lash at Gojo from behind. “You don’t own Tokyo, Satoru.”
“I own you,” Gojo spits without thinking.
The words hit the air like thunder. Suguru freezes for half a heartbeat, something hot and ugly flaring beneath his ribs.
Gojo’s eyes widen like he realized what he said. “Not—I didn’t—”
Suguru doesn’t give him time to correct himself. He lunges, aiming a palm strike at Gojo’s jaw, breath catching on something that feels too much like grief. “Shut up,” he says.
Gojo ducks, barely, hand snapping up—this time not for his wrist, but for his face. Suguru’s curses scream a warning, seconds too late. He feels infinity shift as the world tilts. Suguru’s stomach lurches as space folds again, his balance yanked out from under him. Gojo’s fist connects with his temple, the contact making his head fill with fuzz and then—
Black.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
He wakes with the taste of iron and cotton in his mouth. His head throbs, a slow, dull pound at the base of his skull. The first thing he registers is the cool, dry air. No wind, no sky, no city noise or distant traffic. The silence is thick, almost muffled.
He opens his eyes. The ceiling above him is unfinished wood beams and pipes. Fluorescent light hums softly overhead. He’s lying on a futon on a concrete floor, blanket half-tangled around his waist. His hands are free, and his mouth isn’t gagged. That’s… unexpected.
Suguru pushes himself up, muscles protesting. The room comes into focus: some sort of basement, wide and windowless. One wall was lined with shelves of neatly stacked boxes. Another had a low bookcase, a small TV on top, game console tucked underneath. There’s a door—a solid metal thing with a reinforced frame—and beside it, a narrow door that looks like it leads to a bathroom. There’s a desk and chair in the corner, a small table next to it with two mismatched mugs.
And across from the futon, on a low table, a familiar black-lacquered box, like the kind that would usually hold his calligraphy brushes, the inkstone and rolls of washi paper that he uses to wind down at the end of the day. He stares at the box.
Footsteps sound overhead: the thump and creak of movement, the faint give of old floorboards. Suguru’s heart jumps, stupid and animalistic, and he forces himself to breathe slowly. Gathering cursed energy, he reaches inward, testing the edges of his confinement. He finds it immediately; a fine and intricate barrier, woven into the very structure of the room. It wasn’t a simple seal but something more tailored, keyed to him. The moment his cursed energy brushes against it, it pushes back, not violently but firmly, locking him in place for a moment like invisible hands closing over his shoulders.
He exhales sharply. “Of course.”
The footsteps move toward what he assumes is the basement door, then down the stairs, steady and unhurried. Gojo appears at the bottom in house clothes—grey sweats, a loose t-shit, hair still damp from a shower. No blindfold, no sunglasses, bare feet padding against the cold concrete. He squints at Suguru, then breaks into a crooked smile.
“Oh good,” he says. “You’re awake. I wasn’t sure how hard to hit you.”
Suguru’s fingers curl into the blanket. “Where am I?”
“My house.”
“You have a basement?”
“I do now. It’s a… recent development.”
Suguru’s gaze slides around the room again. “You built this for me?”
“Obviously not,” Gojo scoffs. “I just happened to have a fully furnished, reinforced, escape-proof man cave just lying around. Like any normal person.”
Suguru exhales through his nose, fighting the urge to rub his temples. “So you didn’t kill me.”
“No,” Gojo says. His voice drops, the word heavy. “I didn’t.”
“Defying orders from the higher-ups,” Suguru murmurs. “How rebellious. I’m impressed.”
Gojo rolls his eyes and steps fully into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him. There’s a momentary shimmer as the barrier seals, like a heat haze.
“I’m not doing this for your approval, dickhead.” He crosses to the low table, picks up a bottle of water, and tosses it lightly. It arcs through the air, landing within arm’s reach of Suguru on the futon. “Drink. You’ve been out for… uh. A while.”
“How long is ‘a while’?” Suguru asks, unscrewing the cap. Gojo wouldn’t save him just to poison him—he hopes. Plastic meets his lips and his throat is dry enough that the first mouthful of water hurts.
Gojo squints at an imaginary watch. “Couple days?”
Suguru chokes, water burning as it goes down wrong. He coughs, eyes watering, and Gojo winces at the sound.
“Yeah, okay, I should’ve led with that. Relax, Shoko checked you. You’re fine.”
“Shoko—?” His voice cracks.
“She patched you up, bitched me out, then helped me stabilize the barrier so you wouldn’t blow yourself up trying to leave.” Gojo scratches the back of his neck. “Can’t say she did it happily. And she said she doesn’t want anything more to do with this, so… Don’t count on a surprise visit from her any time soon.”
Suguru imagines Shoko leaning over his unconscious body in this sterile basement, cigarette dangling from her lips, muttering curses at both of them. Something tightens in his chest.
“So,” he says slowly, lowering the bottle. “Let me clarify. You fought me, kidnapped me, brought me to your home, imprisoned me in your basement, and had our mutual friend medically examine me while I was unconscious… so you wouldn’t have to kill me.”
“Yep,” Gojo says. “Pretty much.”
Suguru snorts, the sound coming out more tired than amused. “You realize how insane that is.”
“Pot, meet kettle.”
“Satoru.”
For a moment, they just look at each other, the weight of five years pressing down. There’s anger there, and hurt, and something brittle and terrified behind Gojo’s eyes that Suguru doesn’t know how to name.
“You were ordered to kill me,” Suguru says.
“Yeah,” Gojo replies.
“And you didn’t.”
“Clearly.”
“They’re going to notice.”
“Also clearly.”
“And when they do?”
Gojo shrugs, jaw grinding. “I’ll deal with it.”
“How?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Satoru—”
“I said it doesn’t matter,” Gojo snaps loudly. The air shivers, barrier humming in response. He drags a hand through his hair, breathing hard for a second, then exhales. “Look. I’m not having this argument with you right now, okay? Point is: you’re not dead. You’re here. You’re safe.”
“Safe,” Suguru echoes, glancing at the barrier.
“Well. Safe-ish. Basement safe.”
“The word you’re looking for is captive.”
Gojo flinches. “Suguru…”
He holds his gaze, unblinking. “Is that not what I am?”
Gojo’s mouth presses into a thin line. “...Yes,” he says finally, the word scraping out behind clenched teeth. “You’re my captive. Congratulations. You happy now?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.” Gojo drops down onto the futon opposite him without asking, legs folding awkwardly, knees almost toughing Suguru’s. He smells like soap and fabric softener, and the faint tang of overused cursed energy. It hits Suguru’s senses and sifts through his memory—dorm rooms and late nights and shoulders pressed together over shared textbooks.
He looks away.
“Why?” he asks quietly. Gojo is silent for a long beat. The fluorescent light hums above them, casting pale shadows.
“You were going to let me kill you,” Gojo whispers. “You just—stood there. You didn’t even try to run, didn’t even try to fight.”
Suguru is suddenly very aware of every place their bodies are almost but not quite touching. “You always catch me,” he says, the words feeling foolish in his mouth now.
Gojo laughs once, bitterly. “Exactly. You knew that. So you were just gonna… let me do it. To you. Me.”
“Yes,” Suguru says. No point in lying.
“Yeah, see.” Gojo leans back on his palms, staring up at the ceiling. “That didn’t really work for me.”
“You were ordered—”
“I don’t care,” Gojo snaps, eyes flashing down at him. “I don’t care what those old bastards want. I don’t care about their balance or their justice or whatever bullshit word they’re using this week. I’m not killing you. Not happening.”
“And kidnapping me is better?” Suguru asks, unable to keep the sharp edge from his tone.
Gojo winces. “No,” he admits. “It’s… the only thing I could think of. If you’re here, they can’t get to you without going through me. And if you’re here, you’re not…” He gestures vaguely, like the word murdering refuses to come out. “Out there.”
“So this is your compromise.” Suguru lets out a breath. “You lock me up like a prisoner, and expect me to call that mercy.”
“Yeah,” Gojo says quietly.
Something sinks inside Suguru, slow and heavy. He looks again at the calligraphy set, at the neatly stacked books on the shelf, at the TV and game console and the small, almost homey touches.
“You planned this,” he realizes.
Gojo shrugs, eyes darting away. “Shoko said you’d, uh. Lose your mind faster if it was just four walls and a bucket. So.” He waves a hand. “I stocked up.”
“What about my girls?” Panic pulls at his chest, two small figures flashing to the forefront of his mind. “Mimi and Nana, what did you do to them?”
Gojo’s eyebrows bunch up, hands coming up as if to pat Suguru in reassurance, but they stop short, dropping back into his lap. “They’re fine. I swung by yesterday. Your assistant’s looking after them, the young one. She seemed to be on top of things.”
“They don’t—” Suguru’s voice breaks. “They can’t survive without me. I have to be there. I need to be there for them.”
“Suguru—”
“No!” The faces of his daughters burn into the back of his eyelids every time he blinks, and he pushes Gojo away, eyes scanning for a way out again. You don’t understand—they need me. They need me. Please, please—I have to see them—”
Hands came up, squeezing his shoulders tightly. “Suguru, breathe. They’re safe. I swear to you.
But Suguru can’t stop. He grasps desperately at Satoru’s hands, at his arms, his chest. Fear is clawing inside him, a feeling of love and intensity that he reserved for very few people these days. He couldn’t leave his daughters behind. The thought alone causes his stomach to twist, and tears well up in his eyes. “Please, Satoru. I’m begging you, do you understand me? I’m begging you. My girls need me.”
Gojo stares at him, unspeaking, jaw working, throat bobbing. Then, quietly—reluctantly—he says, “I can bring them here.”
“No.” Suguru recoils instinctively, shaking his head. His daughters don’t belong in a place like this. “Absolutely not. They can’t see me like this.”
Gojo nods once, slowly. “Then I’ll arrange a meeting. Somewhere safe and supervised, soon.”
Suguru doesn’t respond. Not right away. He stares past Gojo’s shoulder, at the low table, at the familiar black calligraphy box sitting there like a ghost from another life, and the weight of it crashes into him.
There is no good path, no way out that doesn’t end in death—his, or someone else's. He’s not going to sweet-talk his way out of this basement. He’s not going to breach Gojo’s barrier. And this… this might be his only card. His best chance to see his daughters’ faces again, even for a moment. Whether he plans to break out, or just wants to feel human again—it doesn’t matter.
This is it.
His hands loosen in Gojo’s shirt. His throat feels raw when he finally speaks. “Fine,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Arrange it. Soon.”
Gojo doesn’t smile. He just nods, quiet and serious.
Suguru glances again at the calligraphy box, something bitter curling in his chest. His throat feels tight as he forces himself to speak, forcing some semblance of normalcy. “You remembered I do calligraphy.”
“Of course I remember.” Gojo’s gaze snaps back to him, offended. “I used to wake up at two a.m. to the sound of your stupid brush scratching. Do you think I could forget that?”
“It calms me,” Suguru says softly, eyes tracing the smooth line of the inkstone. “Helps me order my thoughts.”
“I know,” Gojo says. Then, more quietly: “You’ve looked… disordered for a long time.”
“Satoru…” He sighs, looking around the room once more before turning over and lying down, pulling the blanket up to his chin. “Just go.”
There silence, as if Gojo’s waiting for him to say something more, but he holds his resolve, staring at the blank wall until he feels the body next to him stand, hears the steps patter to the door, open it, and let it fall shut again, two muffled metal clinks indicating some sort of lock. Great. Just… great. He stayed there, staring unseeing at the wall, until his eyelids sank and he felt sleep pull him under again.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Time becomes strange in the basement.
There are no windows, no sun, no moon. Just the steady hum of artificial light, the monotony of the concrete floor, the rhythm of footsteps overhead like distant thunder. Suguru wakes when he’s tired, eats when food appears at the little table, reads when his eyes can’t look at the walls anymore.
At first, he tests the barrier constantly. Poking at it, pushing cursed energy against it in different patterns, searching for flaws. It pushes back each time, patient and implacable, tailored precisely to the shape of his power. Every time he thinks he’s found a weakness, it shifts, adjusting, humming with Gojo’s signature.
Sometimes, when he presses his palm flat to the invisible wall, he feels an answering touch from the other side—Gojo, somewhere upstairs, reinforcing it, murmuring something he can’t hear. He stops after the barrier throws his own cursed energy back at him hard enough to leave him gasping on the floor, ears ringing.
After that, the days begin to smear together. Gojo is there often. Suguru had imagined his captivity would be solitary—cold, impersonal, like a prison cell in a higher-up facility. Instead, Gojo seems determined to populate every inch of the basement with his presence.
He comes down in the mornings sometimes, hair a mess, yawning, throwing himself onto the futon and complaining about meetings. He brings takeaway containers and snacks, complains about traffic, about students, about missions. He sits cross-legged on the floor and watches Suguru carefully grind ink, the sound of the brush on paper steady and soothing.
“You’re doing that wrong,” he says one day, chin on his folded arms as he lies on his stomach, watching.
Suguru arches a brow. “You’ve never held a brush properly in your life.”
“Yeah, but I’ve watched you do it enough to be an expert,” Gojo replies. “You’re pressing too hard. That’s a stressed stroke.”
“Perhaps I’m stressed,” Suguru says dryly. “Could you think of a reason for that, Satoru?”
Gojo makes a thoughtful hum. “Huh. Wonder why, my beloved captive.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Don’t be so grumpy, I’m just teasing.”
Some days, Gojo doesn’t come. Those are the worst. The silence feels different when he’s gone—heavier, thicker, crawling under Suguru’s skin. Without Gojo’s constant noise, the air fills with whispers: curses murmuring at the edges of his mind, memories replaying on loop, his own thoughts turning sour and tight.
He paces, counting the ceiling beams and reciting sutras he hasn’t believed in since he was a teenager. He writes calligraphy until his fingers ache, sheets of paper covered in the same characters over and over: 空虚, 空虚, 空虚.
Emptiness, emptiness, emptiness.
He pretends he doesn’t look at the door, that he doesn’t listen for those footsteps, that he doesn’t feel something like relief when Gojo finally bursts in, griping about some idiotic first-year nearly getting themselves killed.
Every mention of his students brings Suguru’s daughters to the forefront of his mind. He can’t go but a few hours without thinking of them—just another form of torture in this monotonous existence he now lives.
“Any word from them?” Suguru asks one evening, not looking up from the ink he’s grinding. He asks so often now that Gojo doesn’t even need to ask who Suguru is talking about.
He simply pauses in the middle of setting two bowls of curry on the table. “Not yet. But I haven’t forgotten. I’m working on it.”
Suguru doesn’t say anything. The grinding stone is too loud. He keeps his eyes on the ink.
“But,” Gojo says, dropping a plastic bag onto the futon. “I got you something. Payment for putting up with my face.”
Suguru eyes the bag warily. “If it’s another weird snack—”
“It’s not,” Gojo says, offended. “My taste in snacks is impeccable, but no. Look.”
He pulls out a neatly folded pile of dark fabric and shakes it out. It’s a yukata—simple, black, the way Suguru used to prefer them when they were teenagers. The pattern along the hem is subtle: thin lines, like brush strokes.
“I remembered your size,” Gojo says, too casual.
Suguru's throat tightens. “I might’ve grown since then. It’s been a long time.” But he hasn’t. He knows he hasn’t. He tells himself he only changes into it because his old clothes are stiff with dried blood and dust. But when the soft cotton settles over his shoulders just right, when he catches Gojo’s quiet, satisfied exhale, something in him unkinks, just a fraction.
They establish routines without meaning to.
Movies after missions, Gojo flopping down beside him on the futon with a bowl of popcorn and some illegally downloaded film. Gojo playing video games obnoxiously loudly while Suguru reads, occasionally glancing up to see Gojo’s ridiculous concentration face. Late-night conversations that start with “Did you ever think—” and end with both of them staring at the ceiling, not speaking.
Physical closeness creeps in slowly, like mold. At first, it’s incidental. Knees bumping on the futon, hands brushing when they both reach for the same snack. Gojo leans too far over to see what he’s writing, his chin hovering over Suguru’s shoulder, his breath warm against Suguru’s neck.
“Satoru,” Suguru warns.
“What? I’m not touching you.” His voice is too innocent.
“You’re breathing on me.”
“Oh, so you want me to stop breathing? Rude.”
But he doesn’t move away. One evening, they’re watching some stupid comedy, the kind of movie Gojo loves because it requires no thought. Gojo comes in late, drops onto the futon with a heavy exhale, and just… tips over, his head landing right in Suguru’s lap.
Suguru goes rigid. “What are you doing.”
“Lying down,” Gojo mumbles, already half-asleep. Dark smudges bruise the skin beneath his eyes. “M’tired.”
“On me?”
“You’re comfy.”
“Satoru.”
“Shhh, movie.”
Suguru glares down at him. Gojo’s lashes are long, ridiculous. His mouth is soft when he’s not smirking. The sight is so painfully familiar that it makes Suguru’s chest ache. He should push him off. He should shove him away, remind him of what he’s done, of the fact that this is a kidnapping, a cage, a betrayal. Instead, he exhales slowly and lets his hand rest, hesitantly, on Gojo’s hair. Soft strands spill between his fingers as he gently scratches his scalp. Gojo sighs, a little pleased sound, and the knot in Suguru’s stomach tightens.
After that, the line blurs constantly.
Sometimes Gojo falls asleep down there, too tired to drag himself back upstairs. He stretches out beside Suguru on the futon, arms thrown wide, one leg somehow always ending up pressed against Suguru’s calf. He snores, he talks in his sleep. Once, he rolls over and presses his face into Suguru’s shoulder, muttering something that sounds embarrassingly like “don’t go.”
Suguru lies awake, staring at the ceiling, his heart hammering unevenly. He could, he thinks sometimes, kill him like this. One precise movement. One curse called in silence. Gojo is the strongest, but everyone is vulnerable when they sleep. He never does it. Instead, his hand finds its way into Gojo’s hair again, fingers combing idly through the soft white strands, his chest a riot of guilt and longing and confusion.
Some nights, when Gojo drapes an arm over him, Suguru stares at the ceiling and thinks of Mimikoi and Nanako. Their beds must be cold now. Their rice always too salty, since he wasn’t the one cooking it. He wants to believe Gojo’s promises. That they’re fine. That he’ll see them. But some small, cold part of him knows—this is the closest he’s going to get.
He is losing track of days. Of himself.
There are moments when he forgets—just for a heartbeat—that he’s in a basement prison. When Gojo laughs at something stupid he says, head tipping back, throat exposed, and the world narrows to the way his eyes crinkle. When they argue about game strategies or movie endings, voices overlapping, and Suguru has to stop himself from saying we should tell Shoko about this, like they’re still kids who live in the same dorm building.
Then Gojo stands up to leave, stretches, yawns, and the barrier hums as he goes through the door. The click of the lock echoes loud in the sudden quiet, and everything comes crashing back.
The silence is horrible then. Suguru can feel the shape of the room pressing against his skin. No wind. No sky. Just concrete and stale air and the fading warmth of Gojo’s presence on the futon beside him.
He finds himself counting minutes until he hears the footsteps again. At some point—he isn’t sure when—he starts thinking of the basement not as a cell, but as his room. Home, his mind supplies one evening when he’s straightening the stack of books on the low shelf, and he stops, hand hovering in mid-air.
No.
He stares at the walls. The calligraphy hung carefully by Gojo’s clumsy hands. The blanket Gojo brought him last week—soft, warm, smelling faintly of detergent and Gojo’s skin. The mug on the table that says #1 Sensei in obnoxious, bold letters.
This isn’t home. Home was… what? The temple? The dorm? His cult compound? None of those fit, not exactly. He presses his palms against his eyes until he sees sparks.
“It’s a cage,” he tells himself out loud, just to hear it. “You’re a prisoner.”
The words sound small in the empty room. When Gojo comes down that night, Suguru snaps at him. Over nothing, over the way he leaves his socks on the floor, or the way he eats potato chips too loudly, or the way he keeps doing random shit that makes no sense.
Gojo blinks, hurt flashing across his face before he masks it with irritation. “Jesus, you’re cranky today. You want me to leave you alone?”
Suguru opens his mouth to say yes. Instead, what comes out is: “No.”
Gojo pauses. His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing, focusing. Suguru feels pinned again, dissected. “Okay,” he says quietly. He tosses the chip bag aside and shifts closer, shoulder pressing against Suguru’s. “Then I’ll stay.”
They watch the rest of the movie in silence, the sound of the TV a dull murmur under the frantic beat of Suguru’s heart. At some point, without looking, Gojo’s hand finds his under the blanket. Their fingers curl together, slow, hesitant. Suguru stares straight ahead, breathing shallowly.
He should pull away, but he doesn’t. His thumb brushes Gojo’s knuckle. Once, twice. His pulse is a drum in his ears.
When did this become the thing he looks forward to the most? The warmth of another body in this cold concrete box, the way Gojo’s presence chases away the whispers in his head, the way his laugh makes the fluorescent light seem less harsh.
When did he start thinking, in quiet moments, that if he has to be caged, at least it’s with him?
He knows, academically, what this is. Captives falling for their captors, rationalizing, reframing. Stockholm syndrome, some monkey-brained therapist would call it. He’s not stupid—even he can see the pattern.
Still, it does nothing to stop his chest from loosening every time he hears the basement door open. It doesn’t matter, really. He’s just… adjusting. Surviving. One day, he’ll find a way out, a way to slip past the barrier, to vanish. To carve a space where he can exist without Jujutsu High’s collar or his followers’ worship.
He starts planning quietly how he might live without being caught. New identities, places the higher-ups don’t care about. Ways to keep his curses fed without drawing attention. The plans always falter when he imagines leaving this house and never hearing Gojo’s ridiculous commentary again.
It’s infuriating.
It’s terrifying.
It’s also the only thing that makes him feel less like he’s dissolving.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
One night, Gojo comes home later than usual.
Suguru has stopped counting hours, but even without a clock he can tell it’s late. His internal rhythm is tuned to the pattern of Gojo’s life now—the creak of the floorboards above when he wakes, the timing of meals, the rhythm of mission briefings and debriefings. Tonight, that rhythm is broken. He paces for a while. Sits. Stands. Toys with the brush in his fingers without dipping it in ink. Every little sound—the hum of the fridge, the tick of unseen pipes—scrapes along his nerves. When the door finally opens, he almost gasps.
Gojo stumbles in, shoulders slumped, blood on his sleeve and chest and neck. Not his, Suguru notes automatically—the way it’s smeared, the absence of wounds…it couldn’t be. His face is drawn, lips pressed tight, eyes covered by a black blindfold.
Suguru is on his feet without realizing it. “What happened?”
“Mission,” Gojo says shortly. He kicks off his shoes, letting them fall messily. “Brats didn’t listen. Someone died. You know how it goes.”
The offhand tone doesn’t match the set of his jaw. Suguru steps closer, hand half-lifting before he catches himself. “You’re not hurt?”
Satoru snorts. “You know better than to ask that.”
“I do. Humor me.”
Gojo rolls his eyes but obliges, lifting his arms, turning a little. “See? No holes. Strongest and all that.”
“Your shirt is ruined,” Suguru says quietly.
“Yeah.” Gojo glances down like he’s only just noticed. “Guess I should shower.”
He doesn’t move. Instead, he just… stands there, in the middle of the basement, seeming a little dazed, fingers flexing at his sides. The silence presses in, and Suguru’s chest aches.
“Come here,” he says.
Gojo blinks, focus snapping back to him. “Huh?”
Suguru steps forward before he can second-guess it. His hands come up, slow, careful, closing around Gojo’s wrists. He guides him toward the futon without force, just steady pressure. “Sit,” he murmurs.
Gojo sits. Up close, Suguru can see tiny flecks of blood on his cheek, spatter across his neck. He reaches for a tissue from the table, wets it with a little water from his bottle, and begins to wipe them away, slow and methodical.
Gojo watches him, eyes wide, uncharacteristically quiet. “You’re being weirdly nice,” he says after a moment. His voice is hoarse.
“Shut up,” Suguru replies, too gentle to carry any real bite. He wipes the blood from Gojo’s throat, thumb lingering a heartbeat too long against the steady beat of his pulse. Gojo swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “You smell like smoke,” Suguru murmurs.
“Curses,” Satoru says. “Burned a nest.”
“Mm.”
He lifts the blindfold off, dropping it onto the floor, and cleans Gojo’s cheekbones and jaw. He keeps cleaning until there’s no red left, only pale skin and the faint pink of where he’s rubbed too hard. His fingers trail up, brushing a stray lock of hair away from Gojo’s forehead. Without thinking, he leaves his hand there.
Gojo’s eyes flutter shut. He leans into the touch like a cat seeking warmth. “I hate this job,” he says, almost too quietly to hear. “I hate sending kids out there. I hate having to be the one who comes back when they don’t.”
Suguru’s heart stutters. “You always were sentimental.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” Gojo mutters. “I’ve got a reputation.”
Suguru huffs, his thumb unconsciously stroking along Gojo’s temple. “Strongest sorcerer, softest heart.”
“Only for you,” He says, eyes still closed.
The words hang between them, heavy, dangerous. Suguru’s breath catches. He could pull away. He should. Every line he’s drawn in his head is blurring, smudged by proximity and shared history and this suffocating intimacy. Instead, his hand slides from Gojo’s temple down along his cheek, fingers curling at the angle of his jaw. His lashes lift, bright blue eyes focusing on him with an intensity that makes Suguru’s knees weak.
“Suguru,” Gojo says, like hope, like prayer.
Suguru swallows. His thumb brushes the corner of Gojo’s mouth. He feels the way his breath hitches, the way his lips part slightly, the way his whole body leans infinitesimally closer without moving at all.
He wants, suddenly, fiercely, stupidly, to kiss him.
The urge hits like a curse, like an addiction. He can almost feel the shape of it: the warmth of Gojo’s mouth, the ridiculous, inevitable way he’d probably grin into it, the way the world might tilt and settle at a new angle.
This is wrong, a voice in his head whispers. He kidnapped you. He caged you. He’s the jailer and you’re the prisoner and this is just another chain.
Another voice, quieter, says: He’s the only person who stayed.
And it’s true. Of everyone that he loved, everyone that loved him, Gojo was the only one that still wanted him. The only one that would be given a direct order such as Kill Geto Suguru On Sight and ignore it completely. Suguru’s hand trembles slightly on Gojo’s jaw. They’re so close now that he can feel each exhale against his own lips, feel the faint static of cursed energy dancing between their skin.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Gojo whispers.
“How am I looking at you?” Suguru asks, his own voice coming out rough and low.
“Like I’m not a monster,” Gojo says. “Like you didn’t see me do all those things. Like I’m still… yours.”
Suguru’s chest feels too tight; there’s no space for air. “You think you’re the monster in this situation?”
“I kidnapped you,” A bitter laugh catches in his throat. “Pretty sure I win that one.”
“You also saved my life,” Suguru replies. “Against orders. Against reason.”
“Yeah, well.” Gojo’s gaze drops to Suguru’s mouth, then snaps back up again, like he’s afraid of what he’ll do if he lingers. “You’re not the only one with bad ideals.”
Their foreheads are almost touching now. Suguru can count the faint constellations of barely-there freckles across Gojo’s nose. His fingers curl a little tighter, anchoring himself.
The basement seems to shrink around them, the concrete walls falling away. There’s only this: Gojo’s breath ghosting over his lips, the nervous twitch of his mouth, the way his fingers are flexing uselessly against his own thighs like he wants to reach out but doesn’t dare.
“Tell me to stop,” Suguru murmurs.
Gojo’s laugh is a shaky exhale. “Oh come on Sugu, I’ve never been good at that.” His hands finally move, lifting slowly like he’s underwater. They hover at Suguru’s waist, fingers splayed, not quite touching. “Suguru,” he whispers. “I need you. I’ll always need you. You know that, right?” His hands settle, finally, warm and solid at Suguru’s sides.
Suguru feels something inside him crack, a fault line shifting. He leans in, breath mingling with Gojo’s, the world narrowing down to the thin, electric space between their mouths, his heart pounding so loud he’s sure Gojo can feel it through his chest, through his hands, through every place they’re finally, irrevocably touching.
There isn’t a decision, not really. One second there’s that knife-edge of almost, the thin electrified air between them, and the next Suguru is closing the distance because not kissing him feels like ripping his own throat out.
Gojo makes a tiny sound into his mouth, surprised and almost pained, like the first breath after drowning. His lips are warm and a little chapped, tasting faintly of cheap coffee and the excessive amounts of sugar he always dumps into it like a child. The contact is clumsy at first—of course it is, nothing between them has ever been simple—but then Gojo shifts, tilts his head, and it slots into place with ridiculous inevitability.
Suguru’s fingers flex against his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of Gojo’s mouth as if to check that this is real, that he hasn’t slipped into some cruel hallucination. Gojo leans into the touch with a helpless little exhale, like he can’t help himself.
The world stays broken and ugly and unforgivable.
The world, for one impossible moment, feels like it might still be survivable.
Gojo’s hands tighten at Suguru’s waist, finally gripping, anchoring. He pulls him closer with a shaky, dragging movement, like his strength is there but his nerve isn’t. Suguru goes without resistance, shuffling in until there’s no space left, until the rough fabric of Gojo’s clothes is pressed to his and he can feel the frantic stutter of his heartbeat through their chests. Suguru parts his lips, feels Gojo’s breath stumble, feels that familiar overwhelming presence of him—too much in everything, even this. The way he kisses is like the way he fights: wholehearted, reckless, all-in. He mouths at Suguru’s lower lip like he’s memorizing it, like he’s afraid it’ll vanish the second he looks away.
It hits Suguru then, out of nowhere: all the years between them, all the deaths and almost-deaths, all the choices, good and bad and unforgivable, all led them here—to a basement, a cage, a kiss that shouldn’t be happening.
He makes a sound, low and ragged, into Gojo’s mouth. Gojo freezes. For a heartbeat the world hangs suspended. Then Gojo starts to pull back, fingers loosening at Suguru’s waist, mouth breaking away as if he’s forcing it, like it hurts.
“Wait,” Suguru whispers, breath catching. His hand slides from Gojo’s jaw to the back of his neck, thumb pressed against the tremor in his pulse. “Don’t—”
“Baby,” Gojo says, voice wrecked and too soft. His blindfold is still off, eyes exposed, and they’re shining in the low light—too bright, too much, always too much. “If I don’t stop now, I’m not going to. I’ll get… greedy.”
Suguru huffs a laugh that comes out more like a shiver. “You already kidnapped me. I think your greed is established.”
Gojo flinches. It’s small, almost nothing—a tiny tightening around his mouth, a flicker in his eyes—but Suguru feels it like a punch. His fingers curl at the back of Gojo’s neck, nails lightly grazing skin, keeping him close when instinct wants to retreat.
“I didn’t mean—” he starts.
“No, you did,” Gojo says, and now his smile looks like something he cut himself on. “You should. You should mean it. I put you in a literal cage, remember? It’s not… romantic.”
The word sounds awkward in his mouth, like he’s trying on a language that doesn’t belong to him. Suguru’s heart twists.
“Nothing about us was ever romantic,” he says quietly. “Not in the way people mean it. We’ve always been covered in blood. We fell in love in the middle of a war.”
Gojo’s throat works. “You said the word.”
“What, war?”
“Love.”
Suguru swallows. The cursed energy in the air hums against his skin, responding to his agitation, to Gojo’s. The basement feels too small, too loud. His hand is still on Gojo’s neck; he can feel every breath, every tiny shift.
“I’m tired of pretending I don’t still feel it,” he answers. “It didn’t die just because I decided to become someone you had to kill.”
Gojo lets out a shaky laugh, eyes closing for a second like it physically hurts to hear that. “I never had to kill you,” he murmurs. “That was the problem.”
His fingers flex again at Suguru’s waist, clutching now, like he’s afraid Suguru will slip away if he doesn’t hold on. It’s stupid; there’s nowhere to go. Concrete walls, a locked door, cursed seals layered thick enough that Suguru can feel them pulsing like low thunder under his feet.
“You talk like you didn’t,” Suguru says. “You stood there, Satoru. You watched me. You could’ve—”
“Don’t,” Gojo cuts in, voice suddenly sharp. His eyes flash open, all that restrained violence and impossible power flickering there for an instant. “Don’t finish that sentence, Suguru. You know I couldn’t.”
“You’re the strongest.”
“And that’s exactly why.” Gojo’s breath hitches, and for a second he looks almost angry, but Suguru realizes fast that it isn’t anger at him. “If I’d killed you, if I’d actually done it, there wouldn’t be anything left of me worth saving. You get that, right? You were… you are the line. The last one.”
Suguru stares at him, the words hitting like stones dropped in deep water. The ripples spread through everything he thought he knew. “Then why the cage?” he asks, voice softer, but no less raw. “Why this?”
Gojo’s hands tighten. His gaze drops, skittering over Suguru’s mouth before dragging away again. “Because letting you go meant losing you,” he says, each word forced. “And killing you meant losing you. I can’t—” his voice cracked. “I can’t lose you, Suguru. I just can’t.”
There’s a pause, as he watches Gojo catch his breath, swallowing back unshed tears. He doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing at all, waiting until Gojo speaks again.
“So I picked the option where you’re… here. Breathing. Talking and insulting me and calling me a monster, but at least it’s to my face.” His lips twitch. “At least this way, I get to hear you say it.”
“I didn’t call you a monster,” Suguru says.
“You should have.” Gojo’s fingers dig into Suguru’s jaw, not to hurt, but to hold him there—hold him still like something precious and breakable and maybe already broken.
“Tell me again,” Gojo says, voice low and hoarse. “Tell me you love me.”
Suguru swallows. “I love you,” he whispers. “I love you. I want to be yours. Even if it costs me everything, even if it doesn’t make you… happy. I still want to.”
There’s a twitch in Gojo’s jaw, a flicker in his cursed energy, restrained only by sheer force of will. He exhales, long and shuddering. “You’re so fucking wrong for that,” Gojo murmurs. “You should hate me. You should burn me to the ground.”
Suguru swallows hard. His breath hitches when Gojo presses forward, noses brushing, breath mingling. Gojo kisses him like punishment. Like mercy. Like he’s trying to erase the war between them with the drag of his tongue, the sting of his teeth. Suguru moans into his mouth, soft and pitiful.
When Gojo pulls back, they’re both breathing hard. Gojo stands, pulling him over to the couch and pressing Suguru down onto the floor, down onto his knees. He sits in front of him, clothes quickly shed, and Suguru follows suit, pants gone this way, shirt flung that way.
Suguru shuffles forward, knees scuffing against the cold floor until he’s kneeling between Gojo’s legs. Hands come down gripping at his hair and pulling him in. He leans in, placing kisses along Gojo’s inner thigh. He drags his lips over skin, breathes him in. Gojo’s scent is thick—warm, slightly bitter with sweat, and intoxicating. When he reaches the space between Gojo’s cheeks, he doesn’t hesitate. He parts them gently, lovingly, and buries his face.
His tongue works slowly at first, reverent licks and kisses over Gojo’s hole, tasting the slight musk and the softness of skin. Gojo hums softly above him, shifting, spreading his legs wider to give Suguru more room.
“Messier,” Gojo murmurs. “More, please baby.”
Suguru moans against him, saliva flooding his mouth as he laps hungrily, desperately, drawing soft slick sounds with each stroke of his tongue. He wants to melt into this, wants to make Gojo feel, wants to worship him until he can’t breathe. Gojo’s hand pushes at his forehead, gently but firmly.
“That’s enough. Go sit over there.”
Suguru’s heart seizes. He looks up, breathless, lips wet, mouth open to protest—but Gojo just points to the far wall. “There. Now.”
Suguru obeys, body aching, thighs trembling. He kneels across the room, hands fisting at his legs. He doesn’t even realize he’s digging his nails into his skin until he feels the sting—long, trembling gouges dragged down his own thighs as he watches.
Gojo stretches back on the couch, one leg bent up, the other draped lazily to the side. He drags his fingers down between his cheeks again, gathering spit, and pushes one inside himself. Suguru’s breath shudders.
Gojo doesn’t look at him. He just keeps working his fingers in, slow and deep, curling. His head tilts back, mouth parting slightly in a gasp—and Suguru whines. His cock jerks against the air. He presses his thighs down hard, trying to stay still, trying to be good.
“God, you’re fucking pathetic,” Gojo breathes, finally glancing over. “You like this? Watching me fuck myself while you just sit there?”
Suguru nods, frantic. “Yes, yes—I love it, Satoru. I love you. I’d—please—please let me—”
Gojo cuts him off with a look. Then, calmly, he crooks his fingers deeper and sighs. Suguru groans, voice breaking. His nails dig in deeper. He feels as if he could come untouched if this keeps going, only supplied with the erotic image in front of him, the sounds and sight and smell of Satoru, here, after five long years, after so much, after everything.
Gojo lifts his gaze again. “Crawl to me.”
Suguru stares. His mouth falls open.
Gojo smiles faintly. “You want it so badly? Hands and knees. Come get it.”
Suguru doesn’t think. He drops instantly, hands slapping the floor. His body trembles as he drags himself forward, each movement slow, agonizing. The sound of Gojo’s fingers moving inside himself grows louder the closer Suguru gets.
By the time he reaches the couch, his breath is ragged, chest heaving. “Can I—”
“Yeah, yeah fuck—” Gojo doesn’t stop fingering himself as he nods, legs falling a bit wider to let Suguru in.
Suguru whimpers. “Yes—thank you—” and leans in, pressing his mouth to Gojo’s hole again, licking desperately around the fingers already stretching him open. He moans at the taste, the texture, the scent. His tongue laps around Gojo’s knuckles, trying to push deeper, trying to claim every inch Gojo allows him to reach.
Above him, Gojo breathes out a laugh. “Look at you,” he murmurs, “so good for me.” Suguru can’t speak. Can’t stop. Can’t think. All he knows is this: Gojo is letting him close, Gojo is letting him love.
Gojo’s fingers slip from his own body with a wet sound, and Suguru almost sobs at the loss of it. But then he shifts forward, gaze heavy and unreadable, and crooks a finger at him. “Come up here baby, lie back.”
Suguru obeys instantly, hands shaking. He climbs onto the couch, positioning himself flat against the cushions, legs parted, breath ragged. His cock stands red and flushed, slick at the tip, aching for any kind of relief. Gojo climbs on top of him—graceful, smooth. His knees settle on either side of Suguru’s hips, and his fingers reach down between them, guiding the head of Suguru’s cock to his entrance.
“Don’t move,” Gojo says, voice low. “Don’t you dare.”
Suguru nods, wide-eyed, throat dry. “I won’t—I promise—I—”
Gojo sinks down. It’s slow and agonizing, a drag of heat and tightness and resistance that pulls a ragged cry from Suguru’s chest.
“Oh fuck—Satoru—please—fuck, it’s—” He breaks off in a whimper, fingers curling against the cushions. Gojo’s body is too hot, too tight, gripping him like it’s never going to let go. “You feel—so good—fuck, please, Satoru—”
Gojo exhales shakily as he takes him in deeper, inch by inch, until he’s seated fully in Suguru’s lap. The stretch, the pressure, it nearly breaks him. When he finally settles, Gojo lets his head tip back, hair brushing his shoulders, sweat glistening down his chest.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Stay still. Feel how deep you are? You’re not allowed to come until I say so, okay?”
Suguru’s hands tremble as they find Gojo’s hips—then slide reverently up, tracing the edges of his waist, the plane of his stomach. His fingers move gently, rediscovering skin he once knew by heart. He brushes over a scar he forgot Gojo had, the dip beneath his ribs, the faint, sensitive line just under his pec where Gojo always twitched at the lightest touch.
Gojo starts to move. Rolling his hips, smooth and slow. The friction is devastating—tight, wet, and rhythmic.
“God—” Suguru gasps, head falling back. “You’re—fuck, you’re perfect—let me on top, please, just—”
“No,” Gojo says, soft but sharp. “Stay where you are. Stay still.” He rides Suguru with a steady pace, cock bouncing slightly, his breath coming faster as he angles himself just right. His own fingers tease at his nipples, tugging lightly, making himself moan low in his throat.
Suguru is gone. His hands glide again, up Gojo’s thighs, over his stomach, sliding up his chest. He memorizes every sound Gojo makes, every clench of his body. He’s crying again, a little—frustrated, overwhelmed, devoted, whimpering at each movement.
“I missed this,” Suguru says, voice broken. “Missed you. Let me have you. Let me make you come—please, I’ll do anything—anything—”
Gojo moans. “You’re doing so good baby, so good just—ah, just stay still.”
Suguru groans, hips twitching beneath him, but he forces himself still. His cock throbs helplessly inside Gojo’s body, trapped in heat and pressure and love. He drags his fingers back down Gojo’s torso, worshipful, remembering, relearning, hurting with how much he loves him.
Gojo rides harder.
Sweat drips from his chin onto Suguru’s chest. His hand sneaks down between them, playing with himself as he rocks back harder, angling just right to grind on Suguru’s pelvis.
Suguru chokes on a sob. “You’re gonna make me—fuck, I can’t—”
“Hold it.”
“I’m gonna come,” he gasps, eyes wet. “I’m gonna—Satoru, I can’t—”
Gojo leans in, grips his jaw tight. “You’ll wait. Say it.”
Suguru chokes. “I’ll wait—I’ll wait, I’ll—please—!”
He doesn’t know how long he holds on—seconds, minutes, centuries. Gojo's pace stutters slightly, breath hitching, and Suguru can feel him getting close. He waits, he waits and he waits and he waits. Gojo’s hands fly down, one bracing against Suguru’s chest, the other grabbing his own swollen cock again, working it over furiously.
“You wanna make me come baby?” He asks, bouncing hard enough that Suguru feels like his hips will bruise from it, pulling up until just Suguru’s tip is inside him, then slamming down and back up again. “You wanna fuck me, help me make a mess all over you?”
“Please, please Satoru I—fuck, yes. Yes. Yes.” His hands come down, gripping Gojo’s hips, following the curved path as he fucks himself onto Suguru’s dick.
“Yes,” he repeats, over and over, letting himself be used. Yes yes yes yes yes. If it was for Gojo, he would do anything. He would sit here forever, letting Gojo use him however he saw fit. Nothing else mattered—not the world outside, not the fights they’d had, not the abduction and the holding him captive and the never letting him go. Suguru thought he knew what he wanted, thought he needed to escape to feel free, but as his fingers dig into the meat of Gojo’s sides, he realizes: he doesn’t want to be free.
He can’t leave Gojo. It was never going to be an option for him. Gojo Satoru, his best friend, his partner in crime, the love of his life—Suguru could never leave him behind for good. He couldn’t survive it, if something were to happen to him, if he weren’t there to stop it. So no, there was nothing in this world that ever had happened or would happen that was going to tear him away now that he’d finally found where he belonged again. If freedom meant losing this, losing Satoru, then no. He would stay right where he was at.
“Fuck, Sugu, you feel—oh god you feel so good,” Gojo moaned, working his hand a little quicker. “Fuck me, fuck up into me—oh—!”
Gojo hasn’t even finished his sentence before Suguru’s pulling his hips up and slamming them back down, thrusting upward to meet him, angling his body in a way he knows will hit Gojo's prostate on each down stroke. Satoru is open-mouthed above him, a thin line of drool trailing and falling down onto Suguru’s chest, but he couldn’t care less.
Suguru’s hands fly up, arms circling Gojo’s waist as he thrusts up hard, deep, one last time—and his orgasm hits him like a fucking tidal wave. His mouth falls open in a silent sob, his cock pulsing inside Gojo’s trembling body, pumping heat deep into him. He’s not even aware he’s crying until the wetness hits the corners of his mouth.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Suguru can faintly hear his own voice filling the air, a raspy, whispered litany of prayer and declaration of love and thanks as he rides out his pleasure, head spinning. His body jerks—once, twice—limbs twitching in the aftermath. He feels emptied, like something sacred has been wrung out of him, heart and soul and seed, but Gojo doesn’t slow. Instead, his hand presses flat against Suguru’s chest, pushing him deeper into the couch cushions.
“Don’t stop,” he pants, voice wrecked. “I’m not done yet.”
Suguru gasps, the words slicing through the haze like a shock to the system. “I—Satoru—I can’t—”
Gojo lifts himself slightly, then slams back down again, dragging against Suguru’s cock, against raw, spent nerves—and the pain crackles through Suguru’s spine like lightning. His hands tighten around Gojo’s waist, trembling violently.
It hurts. Every thrust is electric, his cock screaming from the overstimulation, nerves frayed and skin hypersensitive—but God, it feels good. Too good. His head spins, the edges of his vision blurring. “I—it’s too much,” he whimpers, voice cracking.
Gojo leans in, lips brushing the corner of his mouth, kissing and licking up the tears that are trailing there. “I know. I know baby, you’re okay.”
Suguru moans, broken and open, hips twitching up as Gojo rides him through it, squeezing down around him in wet, greedy pulses. He doesn’t know how long it lasts. A minute? An hour? Time folds in on itself under the pressure of pleasure laced with pain. He feels Gojo clenching around him, milking him, forcing his cock to stay hard when it’s screaming not to.
And yet—he loves it. Loves the way Gojo uses him, loves that he’s still inside, that Gojo won’t let him stop. That he’s trusted enough to take it, to give everything, to be claimed like this.
Gojo is coming undone above him—moaning, mouth slack, movements erratic and wet and real. Suguru watches every twitch of muscle, every clench around his cock, every ragged breath he takes. And when Gojo’s back arches, hips jerking forward as he cries out, "Sugu!"—that’s it.
Hot, sticky ribbons of cum splatter across Suguru’s chest, the force driving it up to his neck, his mouth. Gojo’s hand keeps working even after the first shot, milking himself through it, as if trying to carve the moment into Suguru’s body. He keeps rocking until he’s completely spent, collapsing forward, face burying into Suguru’s shoulder.
Suguru holds him, shaking, weeping softly into his hair. “Thank you,” he whispers again, throat raw. “Thank you.”
Gojo is heavy on top of him, breathing slow but erratic, his body slack with release. The stickiness between them is cooling now, smearing across their chests, their stomachs. Suguru’s hands are still at his waist, too tired to let go, too unwilling.
For a moment, neither of them speaks.
Suguru just listens—to the low hum of the barrier, to the wet sound of Gojo's breath against his neck, to the echo of his own pulse fading down from a roar to a tremble.
Gojo shifts a little, just enough to nuzzle into the hollow beneath Suguru’s jaw. His voice is soft, muffled. “Still with me?”
“Yeah,” Suguru whispers, hoarse. “Still here.”
Gojo lets out a breath that shudders through them both. “Wasn’t too much?” Suguru almost laughs—almost. He lets one hand drift up to Gojo’s back, sliding against bare skin, shaking his head no. Eventually, Gojo slides off of him with a reluctant groan, sprawling beside him on the couch, still naked, their legs tangled. Suguru turns toward him instinctively, drawn like gravity. Gojo grabs a blanket from the back of the couch, half-heartedly tossing it over them. It barely covers their lower bodies, but it’s warm, and Suguru’s too tired to care.
“Sleep here tonight,” Suguru mumbles, fingers finding Gojo’s under the blanket.
“I wasn’t planning on leaving,” Gojo says.
Suguru hums. “Good.”
Yes, this is exactly how it should be. No stupid monkeys in the way, no irritating cult followers or old jujutsu higher-ups nagging Satoru to take care of things. This was exactly where Suguru was meant to be, no doubt about it. Here, in Gojo’s arms, wrapped in love and the aftermath of lust, used to make Gojo feel his best. It was all he ever wanted, it was the only reason he left in the first place.
Well, perhaps not the only reason, but a big enough one. He saw a world where Gojo didn’t have to be a weapon, where he could just be Satoru. His Satoru. This was it, this was that world. He could stay here forever, if it meant they could be happy together. This was exactly where he belonged. Here, in his best friend's arms.
He should feel guilty, he thinks. Somewhere out there, his daughters are waiting, counting on him. But at this moment, he doesn’t feel any guilt or displeasure, no anger or sadness or indignity. He only feels warmth.
And maybe it was bad to think in this way, but as long as he stays here, he knows they’ll be safe. Gojo will look after them, make sure they stay out of trouble, as long as he stays. And really, staying wouldn’t be the end of the world. He would be with his best friend and love of his life. He has books, T.V., no obligations, no cult, no burning desire to tear the world down and build it anew, ushering in an age of pure sorcerers. Staying could actually be quite nice, when he thinks about it.
Gojo’s fingers twitch in his sleep, pulling him back to the present. As the fluorescent light hums overhead, as the barrier settles around them like the walls of a strange, familiar home, Suguru lets himself drift, curled around the only person he’s ever truly belonged to.
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