Archive of Our Own ^beta

The feeling of hair under his fingertips it's always funny: limitless makes it hardly possible for him to truly feel, dulling the edge of touch based feedback from his nerve to his brain. Satoru is mostly used to it after two decades, but it still manages to catch him off guard when certain textures registers on his skin.

Nanami's blond bangs cover his eyes while he sleeps, signaling the only time Satoru gets to touch him freely.

It wasn't supposed to happen, but it's not like most of his life is planned ahead of time: sleep three hours at night, go on whatever mission is dangerous enough to warrant his involvement and then go straight back to the kids, with varying degrees of the unforeseen added to the list. So, yeah, stopping by Nanami's loft wasn't planned, but he couldn't go back to the school covered in blood and brain matter.

Nanami had opened the door with a leveling look, reminding Satoru he has a phone to warn about his visits and that it's rude showing up at eleven p.m. on a working day, all of which fell on deaf ears as Satoru sauntered inside with a cheeky grin, brushing past the other man only to stand in the middle of the open space, white light tinting everything an unnatural blue-gray tone, far too harsh on the already minimal style of Nanami's apartment.

'“Well, your place sure is… tidy?”

Satoru's voice had the usual tease to it, like nothing really mattered and Nanami's penchant for utilitarian furniture was just another quirk for him to laugh about, instead of the very reason he'd picked this place to crash at. The fact Shoko would have resumed her smoking if she'd seen his current condition definitely did not play into his decision-making process.

Not at all.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

Nanami sounded tired and exasperated, but not overly pissed off or worried about him, which is exactly why Satoru had picked this place to show up to: he’d had a rough couple of days — he didn't need babying, but he sure as hell would appreciate the reminder there was a world out there that needed him to keep doing what he did. Nanami was that world, a little dull and monotonous, just the tiniest bit suffocating for him, but nonetheless steadying and calming in its routine. Satoru is not a nice man, he doesn't care for humanity as a whole, but he cares about Nanami. He can care about humanity, if Nanami thinks of it as worth of his time, as something he struggles to integrate into.

He still hadn't answered, but the younger sorcerer didn't prod or urge him on, simply standing there, sleepy and tired and slightly miffed. Even in his selfishness, he regretted pulling him out of bed for… this. Nanami had made it clear he didn't want to be involved in jujutsu society, and there he went shoving this bullshit down his throat, even though he knew it wasn't fair.

Maybe he could just teleport in his dorm room, grab some spare clothes, and then lay off at a shabby motel to try and pick up the pieces, scrub off dried blood, and slip back into the reassuring mask his students needed him to wear.

It was definitely better than standing in the too cold light of Nanami's loft, where every single one of his sins was bathed in the harsh tones of the neon for the other man to put under scrutiny. It was better for Nanami too, who didn't ask for any of it to be his problem, but somehow still got caught in it, because Satoru was nothing but chaos made flesh in the shape of a man.

“Sit.”

Nanami's voice was hoarse from sleep or tiredness, or maybe both, and Satoru found himself obeying before his brain could react to the impulse of running away. He plopped on the nearest chair — an uncomfortable metal thing that had no right being called a chair, if he had a say in it — , long legs stretching in front of him, under the table, as his knuckles brushed the parquet on each side of his seat.

The blindfold was still on, shielding his pupils from the worst of the neon, but the headache had been blooming behind his eyelids way before he even stepped foot into the loft, and was now threatening to have him lay in absolute darkness for the next two days — needing a downtime he didn't have to spare. He wouldn't rest, and that headache would soon turn into a splitting migraine he'd have to deal with for weeks.

The neon was off in a click.

“Wh—”

“How long has it been since you slept for more than a couple of hours consecutively?”

There went the scolding tone that always had people assuming Nanami was older than his biological age. He sounded in control, just the tiniest bit disappointed in Satoru’s lack of judgment, and all in all the right side of gentle, the one he had needed tonight.

He raised an arm, and it felt like lead as he did that, forefinger pointed up with a smirk that felt humorless on his own lips, “I'll let you know my sleeping schedule is consistent.”

“A couple of hours per day doesn't sound consistent, or healthy, to me.”

“Ah, it's actually three. And I'm perfectly fine! Beauty sleep isn't a thing when you're as good looking as me.”

Nanami tsk-ed, a tight-lipped sound hissing through his teeth as he moved through the now dark room, stopping at Satoru's right side.

“I'll get you something for the headache — Yes, I know about it. Just stay here as I find a way to get you out of this clothes without any further damage to you, or my home.”

“If you wanted to see me naked you just had to ask,” Satoru's lips had curled up in a real smile then, warm and inviting and just the right side of flirty as Nanami muttered something about his childishness and left the room.

Satoru allowed him to keep his dignity by not pointing out he could see the blush on his sharp cheekbones as he retreated.

He was nice like that.

☆☆☆

On the way back to the open space, Nanami had tripped two times, which almost made Satoru turn on the lights and slip into the closed door on the side that he was quite sure was the bathroom, all by himself. But Nanami had always been proud and stubborn, and not inclined to accept Satoru's help, so he just stayed sat on that too tiny chair as his brain throbbed in his skull.

“Here,” a glass of water materialized on the table, along with a tablet of pills, and he wondered if ten would suffice to put him out of his misery for good, but found out on a second inspection only one rested in its socket.

“You're no fun,” he whined, shaking the empty tablet like a white flag, to which Nanami huffed, but didn't grace with an answer.

He downed the water like it was straight vodka and just leaned back on the chair, groaning along with the strained metal, with the rising threat of throwing up on the spotless floor.

“Let's get you comfortable so we both can sleep.”

The thing about Nanami was he didn't waste time: he was relentless, focused, and had little to no respect for anything that delayed his schedule. Satoru had no doubt he didn't like his presence for this very reason: the day he was born, he upset the natural balance of the world —disorder was woven into his very existence —, and that made him the bane of a man who had built his future on the premise of living a mundane life.

But, just this once, he would have played along, if only because Nanami had opened his door to a man he didn't like, from a world that he had left behind, all due to a sense of responsibility that he couldn't shake off. And for that, Satoru was grateful, and it was enough to not argue about it, standing despite the way he staggered on his feet, docilely following Nanami's lead to the cramped but polished bathroom.

The headache wasn't receding, and neither was the nausea, which didn't help in the already disgusting process of tearing off gory clothes. He was left standing naked in a bathroom only dimly lit by the light on the vanity, as Nanami walked out and in again, with a pile of towels and clean clothes in his hands and the neat command of getting himself ready for bed.

If only it were so easy.

The blindfold had crumpled in Satoru's hand, the fabric rustling as he let it rest by the basin. Above it, the mirror reflected the haunting traits of a ghost, too blue eyes casting an eerie look to his face, amplified by the crimson of red smeared on his cheek and jaw.

Another wave of nausea, another piercing throb in his skull, and as blood ran off his nose, he bent over the porcelain and heaved. Nothing came out but saliva and bile, the taste bitter as he spit down the drain, head pounding and body trembling feverishly. He felt like shit.

It wasn't new, but it wasn't fun. Ever.

The blood loss and brain damage wouldn't kill him, but it was still a pain to deal with as his rct put the tissue back together, and he desperately wanted to feel better, at least enough to fall asleep without worrying about having to change the pillowcase in the morning as blood seeped into it.

Pushing himself off the basin, he'd reached for the shower, sluggish and uncoordinated, relishing the perfectly mixed water — warm enough to loosen his muscle and ease his pain, but not too hot as to exacerbate it, thank god for Nanami's obsession with details — and the reassuring clean scent of the other man, musky with the slightest hint of something ripe — like the smell of rain on green grass — that had no right being as soothing as it was.

Cleaning up was made efficient by years of grueling missions, and Satoru didn't bother drying himself past the point of not dripping on the pavement as he made his way out of the bathroom.

Nanami was waiting for him, or at least that had to be the only reasonable explanation for him to stand against the dining table with a concerned look barely disguised as annoyance. By now, it must have been close to midnight, and he was already overstaying his welcome.

“I’ll get going. Don't bother washing my uniform, I don't think that can be salvaged anyway, and it's not like the school can't spare one. So… Thanks. For letting me stop by. I won't wake you up in the middle of the night again.”

“That's a relief to hear, and a poor lie at the same time. Come on, let me take a look at you.”

“Huh?”

Nanami was walking closer, and Satoru could feel the instinctive rise of his limitless, the barrier forming before it even registered to him what was happening. He wasn't in any danger, and it would let Nanami touch him if he decided to do so, but his cursed energy was lingering anyway. The fact that Satoru hadn't felt this worn down in a long time didn't help to put a stop on the process.

Nanami, bless his observing nature, took his hesitation for what it was, and pressed on: a big, yet gentle, hand closed on his wrist like it was normal routine for them to be in this position, gently leading him back to the kitchen, sitting him down in that same chair, as Nanami scoured his figure for any trace of wounds.

“I'm sorry for the lights, but I can't see without them,” it was said with real displeasure, as if Nanami considered it rude to not have thought ahead of Satoru's tendency of ignoring personal boundaries and adapted his home to what best suits the other's needs.

“It's okay.”

“No, it's not. You are not okay, Gojo. Just because you like pretending, it doesn't mean I have to play along with your delusions,” Nanami's hand was cool but dry on his forehead, and Satoru couldn't help but watching it move, the gentleness in its touch, the elegant line of his fingers, the curated nails — short and clean and even — and the lighter band of skin along his wrist, were his watch rested every day. His eyes hurt with the strain, but it didn't matter: he could see flesh moving, sinews shift just underneath, sliding over bones that had been broken and healed at least twice. He could see it all with his eyes, the imprints of Nanami's cursed energy left on his skin, and the flow of it in his limbs. It was hypnotic: there was so much about this otherwise stoic man, a man that was allowing Satoru to pick him apart and understand him, seeing things no one but him could have seen. Was anyone even watching?

Nanami was a complex man to observe, closed off and reserved, but not in a way that suggested timidity: he didn't like the fuss, the bother, the idea of the unscripted in his life. Satoru would have loved to watch him move in the space he carved for himself, in a world that was boring at best, but that had Nanami in it, and that alone was enough for him to make it worth of seeing. He didn't have the time to, but he would have, if he could. Right now, they were standing at the edge of that world, Satoru sitting idly for once, in a too modern house, with a man that repelled jujutsu, but was allowing the strongest living sorcerer to find shelter in his kitchen. And for once, he didn't feel the need to try and get a rise out of the younger man: Nanami didn't seem bothered by his presence as his fingertips found their way to each of Satoru's temples, drawing small circles in a kind but vain attempt to ease the pain; Satoru didn't feel the urge to rile him up, to force him out of his shell and just let himself be learned.

The silence wasn't deafening. It was lulling, brimming with familiarity and trust, and he didn't know how or when it happened, but at one point he'd rested his head against Nanami's shoulder, breath even as his cursed energy coiled around the both of them like a cover, eyes falling closed under the promise of sleep.

He didn't expect to feel Nanami's body so distinctively, but it wasn't unpleasant: he was cool and solid, muscles pulled tight as he lifted Satoru like he wasn't a tall guy with a decent built, and walked up to the stairs.

By the time he reached the first step, Satoru was already drifting off.

☆☆☆

Waking up in bed with Nanami isn't a shock: as a practical man he must not have seen a good reason for either of them to sleep on the couch, for which Satoru is more than grateful as he stretches his legs with a yawn, his headache reduced to nothing but a distant reminder of the pain from the night prior. Nanami is still fast asleep next to him, and that's what compels him to touch in the first place.

His limitless lays dormant, anticipating the contact with someone else's cursed energy, only for him to ignore it in favor of threading his fingers through dirty blond hair, finding it soft and silky.

The first pass is hesitant, a tiny joy he'll treasure as it registers on his skin, dulled nerves coming alight with the magic that is the feeling of another's body; but the second one is bold in its affection, as he sweeps blond bangs off of Nanami's forehead, catching a glimpse of a couple of shut eyes and a slightly open mouth.

The third one is the beginning of his addiction, Satoru knows he won't be able to stop himself from wanting to do this again and again, as he lets his fingernails scrape gently at the crown of Nanami's head, earning a soft huff from the sleeping sorcerer.

He adjusts, shifting on his side to take a better look at Nanami's sleeping face, fingers getting bolder and bolder as they thread through the usually slicked back hair, indulging on the shell of an ear, and then down along the column of an elegant neck. There's the hint of stubble on the soft skin of his throat, and it's such a novelty, Satoru's touch lingers on the scraping surface, enjoying the light irritation as it grounds him in the moment. Nanami is blissfully unaware of his eyes focused on him, watching him exist in a state of weakness. For the first time since — since he was a teen, his hand was touching another with intent, with the need of mapping them out, of knowing them with such certainty he doesn't need to see them to know everything about them. The fact that the someone making him feel this way is Nanami out of all people it's ironic.

It also makes an incredible amount of sense.

He won't be able to share the burden of being the strongest with him, but Nanami never failed to call him out on his extravagances; he's also the only sorcerer he'd blindly trust with taking care of his students. He was always that: a safe harbor to stop by, even if it usually results in Satoru getting yelled at for not behaving like a proper adult, even if Nanami will never see the world from his perspective. He doesn't need to: he'll do what he can because it's his responsibility. They both share a burden, Satoru simply chose to use that in favor of the greater good, while Nanami opted out of being forced to step in, yet still lingered enough to prop up those who need him.

It's not like he resents that choice either, though he suspects Nanami is convinced otherwise. After what happened with Suguru… He'd rather watch a friend leave on good terms for a better life, than be forced to kill them. That's not why he's always trying to catch up with him though: if Nanami had been happy in his life as a salaryman, Satoru would have left him to his own device by now. But he is not happy. He's frustrated, snappy, full of pent up energy and a growing restlessness that nobody else is going to address, for the simple fact no one is watching.

Not the way Satoru is.

So he keeps looking, keeps cataloguing, keeps pushing the buttons and challenging the boundaries, and he'll do so until the day Nanami will be ready to get back to them. Satoru will keep watching, because the last time he turned his gaze away his best friend snapped. And he's not had a peaceful night ever since.

Nanami is not Suguru. In a way, he's harder: he's a pragmatic man with no hope for redemption — not for them, nor the people they save —, and that makes everything easier and far more complex to deal with at the same time. But he's also softer, far easier to coax into doing the right thing at the expense of his own life: even if he'll grumble on the way to doing it, there's no way Nanami will go back on what's proper.

Satoru's hand itches with the beard-burn, but it's pleasant in its own way: feeling something until your skin begs for reprieve is a luxury for a man that can't allow touch to happen, that was groomed to be paranoid about affection — whether it is showing or receiving it, it doesn't matter — and that only ever lets it happen when he's too tired or too close to his own breaking point. Usually, that translates to seeking out his students, their touch brief and easy, and heartwarming enough it reminds him he can't just kill every single one of the higher ups and be done with it because those kids are still just that, kids, and Satoru had sworn himself he would spend his life shaping a better future for them, through them.

But sometimes… sometimes that resolve falters, as a mission proves to strike a nerve, to push him too close to a point he wouldn't give a shit about who he is fighting anymore, and then coming back is hard. He'll take the long way back to the dorm, get cleaned up, check on the kids if they are still awake, just to see them react to him without an ounce of fear, and that is enough to remind him he has to keep up the facade, to not let them see what horrors lurk outside and inside the school.

There will come a time he won't be able to spare them the view, but until then, he won't be a monster for them to fear. If he has to be honest, he needs that for himself as much as he needs it for them; the day the mask falls he'll be left to witness the extent of the damage he's taken on, the misshapen left over of a man that killed his love for duty.

Duty. Nanami would scoff at that. Satoru isn't a man that enjoys flaunting all the ways he's bowed his head in the face of what has to be down, but sometimes he wonders if anyone even notices what it cost him. If he's yet again the only one watching.

The way Nanami took him in last night, is proof enough at least he had noticed, that he saw Satoru drowning and reached out for him to serve as an anchor. He still does, as he allows slender fingers to map out the sharp cut of his jaw, hazel eyes fluttering open to match the unnatural pair drinking him in.

He looks soft, and human, and a far cry from the man that has his own life sorted out: just woken up, Nanami is a twenty-seven years old, with languid eyes and an adorable blush gentling the harsh features of his face. And Satoru is not a nice man, he is not a man that lives for duty or respectability. He is a monster with a dream and a goal and a hunger that begs to be let out, and so he pins Nanami's gaze down with his own, as his fingers are threading once again through the soft locks at the base of his skull, mussing them up with a satisfied grin.

“Good morning!” He chirps with an enthusiastic attitude that's not just for show, at least not today. He's genuinely excited to see what's coming his way, fingers still buried in Nanami's undercut, inching closer until he can touch his nose with the tip of his own, watching Nanami so closely that the sight of blood rushing through the capillary on his cheek is a delightful spectacle Satoru is blessed to witness in real time. He keeps touching, keeps staring, cursed energy sprawling around them like a big cat in the sun, and Satoru knows he must feel terrifying, that he's giving up on his control and that's against everything he's been taught, yet he finds out for the second time in his life he doesn't care.

Suguru had shown him the way, the first time he touched him with more than just a budding friendship born from a good natured rivalry, but Satoru never trusted anyone to understand him — all of him, all that stays buried underneath what's safe to show —, not since he was sixteen and in love. What he feels for Nanami doesn't classify as love, he's pretty sure the other sorcerer would get sick at the mere thought it could be, but there's a level of… acceptance, like his chaos won't affect Nanami's stability, that allows him to show his hand without fear of being turned away.

Nanami had seen the monster coming back from the hunt and didn't recoil; he'd let Satoru in, lulled him until he felt safe, and now is letting Satoru touch him, see him, study him with the serene compliance of a man that doesn't have anything to prove, that's sure in his skin.

He wants to keep watching him, keep touching him, and so he does — selfish, childish, flamboyant and all things in-between —, and Nanami allows him, with that same calm resignation he always displays to his antics, letting himself be moved until their lips are touching too. It's like a zap of electricity, the feeling of a charged up sky before a storm breaks, and Satoru is already hungry for more, diving in with an eagerness Nanami would consider unbecoming on a man of his age, and yet he feels young and free for the first time in years, as he bites on a thin lip with a playful chuckle that soon blooms into a full laughter.

Nanami doesn't chastise him for it, smiling indulgently as Satoru sits up to straddle him, happily lapping into his open mouth with a giddy giggle rumbling out of his chest. He doesn't expect the shove against his chest, Nanami's palms splayed on his pecs, the cool skin he got used to last night turned warm by the soft covers he's still enveloped in, still so distinctively alive through the soft fabric of a worn out shirt.

“What?” He whines, hands trying to sneak under the covers, despite Nanami's resistance. They end up tangling up even more, as one of Nanami's hand grabs at the hem to keep them up, just as he tries to pry them off.

“Come on, don't be a fool, I'm late to work —”

“Call in sick,” a kiss along a jaw that's diamond sharp, and Nanami lights up like fireworks under him. There's a strong hand pushing him, but he knows Nanami is just as invested in this unexpected pleasure as himself. It's obvious in the rushing of blood under thin skin, it's written on each puff of air, each suppressed groan as Satoru slowly leans over to kiss and trace and mark like he's claiming an uncharted territory. Even with his eyes half lidded, he sees it all, and it's so precious, so enticing, he tries his best to keep them open against the wave of heat pooling in his belly, cursed energy unwrapping around them, engulfing the whole room like it's nothing. Nanami's own cursed energy not clashing with his, harmonizing in that subtle way Satoru is familiar with since they were kids, that steady flow of energy that never breaks or surges.

“Can't get my phone if you keep this up,” the mere fact the other sorcerer seems receptive to his idea, without any complaint about behaving like an adult since they both have a role to fulfill, tells Satoru everything he needs to know about their standing.

By the time Nanami notices he's straightened, Satoru is already downstairs, ready to be scolded about the improper use of his cursed technique after he locates the incriminated phone with just minimal effort. The place is soaked in Nanami's cursed energy, but even so it's not hard to find his phone, given the way it's ringing in the corner of the kitchen counter. He swipes at the screen, turning off the alarm, before landing to the side of the bed, handing the phone to a far more composed Nanami, and obediently sitting at his feet.

He watches with hawk-like focus as Nanami swipes and scrolls, until he finally lifts the phone to his ear, with the hint of a smirk and mussed up blond locks falling over his eyes. I'm throwing away all that gel comes the unbidden thought, and since there's no way the younger man can yell at him while on the phone with his boss, Satoru figures that's the perfect time to do just that.

He walks off to the bathroom with one last glance from an increasingly perplexed Nanami, before disappearing inside. The room is brighter than the night before, which doesn't exactly help with his headache, but it's bearable: it's nothing but a small occasional throb, effectively shushed by the intoxicating feeling of nerves set on fire by cool skin and an even cooler disposition.

Rummaging through the cabinet should elicit a modicum of guilt, but he has long since learned he was born without it, and so he explores each and every crook and crevice of the small room, until he finds a neatly organized row of gel. He promptly grabs the whole stash before reappearing in the kitchen and dumping them in the waste bin with a victorious smirk and a dusting off of his palms.

He can hear Nanami's voice, the resolution in his tone, and he's almost tempted to eavesdrop, but ultimately decides to take that time to take a better look around, snooping about the book abandoned on the couch which is, surprisingly enough, a romance. Satoru picks it up with care, skims through the pages — sharp eyes scanning the paper in hope he'd catch anything that would tell him more about the man rumbling lowly somewhere upstairs — and gets lost in the imprints of Nanami's finger on the flimsy pages, wondering if they'd look the same on his skin.

It's a silly thought — lovesick and foolish, and so delectable it has his heart beat faster and his cheeks blushing like a schoolboy on his way to meet his crush —, which has no right being as appealing and encompassing as he makes his way up the stairs, a breathless huff as he finally makes eye contact with the other sorcerer.

Nanami looks at him with a quirked up eyebrow and nothing more, and Satoru feels his hesitation dissipate as the dam breaks and he charges forward.

There's no resistance as Nanami lets himself be engulfed in his arms, mouth opening under the insistent swipe of his tongue. They're so new to this, to each other, that they clash more than once: hands grabbing and pushing at the wrong time, angles all wrong as they kiss, bodies colliding and yet incapable of straying too far. There's hunger and need and something that tastes suspiciously like homecoming transpiring with each kiss, with each slide of Satoru's tongue inside a mouth that welcomes him in with devious eagerness, that demands more of this, more of him, as it bites into plump lips. Nanami's hands hold nothing of the gentleness of the prior night, nor of the hesitance of this morning, as he tugs on the worn, old, stretched out shirt until Satoru is left with no option but to keep chasing after his taste, moaning and whining as a strong hand finds its way to his undercut.

He's never loved being held — a reminiscence of his earlier years, or maybe jut an instinctual uneasiness born out of his technique, there's no way to know for sure —, but Nanami's palm pressing commandingly on his nape is intoxicating. It has him want to get down on his knees and obey, wondering if that would be enough to earn such sparsely given praises from the man currently urging him on. There might not be another chance to find out, so he kneels like that's the natural order of things, like he belongs on his knees as he noses along the inseam of Nanami's pajamas, savoring the way sleek fingers hold him in place like their grasp alone could stop his whole world from spinning out of control. Maybe it's true, maybe what Satoru truly seeks is the pressure of a fair hand around his throat, and maybe that hand can only come attached to a man that would put duty and accountability above anything.

Or, maybe, what he needs is Nanami's fond gaze, the hint of surprise as he stares down at his face, not believing the sight of the strongest at his feet — not because he's forced to, but because he chooses to, wants to. Satoru hasn't wanted something this much in years, and the feeling of anticipation alone is enough to have him gasp for air as he looks up into Nanami's eyes with a feeling he's not sure he's supposed to name —not now, not like this, not if it's about him —, and yet… yet something must show on his face, because Nanami's hold falters, a shadow falls on his face as he looks away.

It's like a wall of glass has suddenly put distance between them — and Satoru sure has some experience about it —, the air around them crackling with misaligned cursed energy. Nanami is the one breaking the stalemate, hand snatching back as if his skin had scorched him, like he crossed a line he was never supposed to step over. It's sudden and unwavering, the way he closes back inside his shell, and Satoru is left kneeling like a fool, lovesick and rejected.

It shouldn't hurt. By now, he should have learned people didn't feel at ease when it comes to having him around. He's useful, like a gun: a deterrent or a ace up someone's sleeve, though it doesn't ever afford him the acceptance of the people using him.

He thought it'd be different. That Nanami would get him. He was a fool for thinking anyone would spare him some level of understanding.

So he blinks, just once, giving himself that split second of blissful ignorance, before standing back up, an easy smile that's not easy at all to display, as he takes a step back. Nanami's eyes catch the movement, indulge on him as if to stop him, but ultimately he doesn't move. He just stares at him, expression torn between the will to say something to ease the blow, and the innate understanding that Satoru doesn't want to hear what's been left unspoken his whole life — that line that goes you're too much to handle, you don't need anyone, you're not meant to be wanted.

“I guess I'll see you around, yeah?”

Nanami doesn't answer, doesn't nod, just stares and his jaw slacks and shuts with a click, words evading him as Satoru's walls are back in place, the mask slipping comfortably over old wounds until not a single scar shows. He's a master at this. He reaches for the blindfold, the fabric dampening the silhouette of the other man enough that Satoru is spared the view of his conflict. Sometimes ignorance is a blessing, and closing your eyes is the only way to push forward.

He smiles, practiced and flamboyant, like this was all some sort of fever dream, a sordid story to keep buried between them instead of the first time in a decade he got close to unraveling for someone else to see. It's what Nanami asked for, anyway, with his withdrawal, and Satoru can't fault him for backing down the moment the gravitas of what was needed of him settled. It stings, though. That much is true, no matter how well he can pretend, there's the truth plain and simple and so hard to cover up.

He walks down the stairs, taking his time as if wishing Nanami would stop him, call back for him — anything to prove it's not just a misguided feeling of loneliness that pushed them together —, one hand already on the handle when Nanami finally speaks.

“Please, don't come back.”

He saw it coming from a mile away, but it still manages to hit him like a bullet train. The rejection, the ultimatum.

Satoru smiles anyway, because he understands all to well: acceptance was never meant to be his.

“Fine. And don't worry Nanamin: I don't kiss and tell.”

☆☆☆

More missions pile up, but it's nothing unusual. If anything, they provide a decent distraction from the recurring memory of Nanami's skin on his, of his lips and the hint of his desire coloring the way he looked at him.

Finding himself staring wide eyed at the roof of his room is a new low, and an objectively unsavory way to spend the sparse free time allowed for his rest, but it's not like he is intentionally remembering the feeling of Nanami's lips of his own, the way his breath had hitched before smoothing out, a semblance of reciprocation soon enough snuffed out by the full display of Satoru's need — of his damage, of all the way he kept failing at being the man he was meant to be.

Nanami hadn't reached out afterwards, and Satoru kept his word. He didn't show up at his place anymore, didn't text or call. But he still watched, looking from afar as the other sorcerer went on with his life like that night never happened, like they both didn't almost succumb to the weight of their own misery, searching for comfort in the only person stubborn enough to show up.

Sometimes he regrets it. Getting close enough to someone he ended up hurt by their actions; it’s a mistake he swore never to make again: he can't afford it, the world can't afford a heartbroken Satoru Gojo, so he simply shut it off. After Suguru, he didn't have to try all that much: he thought his heart buried alongside the only man that ever earned his love. He was so completely sure of it, that he didn't even notice how frequently he ended up gravitating around Nanami. For all his stuck up attitude, he had been steadily providing a stability Satoru longed for, with none of the judgment that usually followed him when he looked for connection with Shoko or Utahime. Nanami would simply let him do his thing, affirm that that's no proper way to carry oneself, and yet witness Satoru do it anyway without batting an eye. In turn, he'd accept to be endlessly taunted, simply for the fun of it, simply because Satoru needed a space where he didn't have to be the one in charge, the responsible one, the problem solver.

He thought Nanami understood this, the level of trust he put in their dynamic, and accepted it for what it was. Apparently, that wasn't the case.

It still didn't stop Satoru's heart to skip a beat every time his phone chimed with a text, desperately hoping for a name that would never appear on his screen.

Laying in wait isn't really his style, but what is he supposed to do? Barge in Nanami's too bright, too empty, too impersonal loft and demand to kiss and make up? They didn't even have a fight. Satoru being Satoru isn’t enough of a good reason for an argument, not when Nanami had been subjected to his antics since he was fourteen. At this point, they worked off the basis of mutual ignorance: they'd pretend not to remember what the other said or did, and it always worked just fine.

Until now, anyway.

A few kisses. Was that all that needed to happen for Nanami to put a stop to it? Or was it the sight of him at his feet, pliant and begging and so very ready to comply with any request so long as it kept that steady hand around his neck? Was that where Nanami draw the line? Additional duty? Satoru never asked of him anything more than what he'd already been providing outside of the bedroom. It just happened to morph in shape, reach deeper, scratch an itch that went unacknowledged since Suguru defected. Maybe that had been crossing a line, but he couldn't help but yearn.

The mere taste of it had been enough to chase away every chance of rest. It's what kept him up now, in the middle of the night, as silence stretched around him.

☆☆☆

Satoru likes to think everything is back to normal, despite Megumi's occasional side eyed glance telling him his getting-better process still needs some time to work. Shoko's furrowed brows every time he passes by her office, with a scalding black coffee for her and a sweet latte for himself, tell him just the same. Contrary to Megumi, she does ask, the downsides of knowing each other for as long as they have.

“What's going on with you?” She's organizing her patients’ records, but he can tell she's been itching to ask this question for a good while now. Her fingers tap on the nearest folder, like they would on the butt of a cigarette.

“Me? Oh, the usual. Exorcise the big bad, make sure the higher ups don't go about their scheming and keep an eye on the kids.”

She turns to look at him, and Satoru is almost tempted to point out her dark circles are growing darker, that she needs a break, a vacation, something far far far away from death and gore, but he keeps his mouth shut because that's plain hypocritical and he tries to steer away from becoming the type of old man he despises.

“Is that why you're checking your phone every five minutes?”

Ah. Satoru didn't notice he'd picked up that habit. He thought he'd been subtle about the whole come on Nanami, just a text yearning, and here came Shoko with her feigned innocence pointing out he does, in fact, keep unlocking the screen in hope he somehow missed a notification.

“Yep! I’m always on-call, you know that,” to his own ears he sounds desperate to have her buy his mediocre lie. Of course she doesn't: she didn't when he swore up and down him and Suguru were never ever going to be friends, and then later when he said Nah, I don't like him like that. He kept lying, to himself, to her, to everyone, because what else was he supposed to do? Go out on dates? When did he even get the time to do that? And after, when Suguru left, he kept lying: No, I don't know where he is, no I never came across him or any trace of his cursed energy, and that too had been false. He had kept track of Suguru, of his cult, of his wrongdoings against non-sorcerers, and had done nothing to stop him because he clearly didn't want Satoru to meddle. Satoru has never been good at severing a tie once it formed..He had to know, to see for himself that there was no chance for redemption, for recomposing that fracture that divided them, pushed them further and further away, even when there was no real animosity. And even after witnessing everything with his own two eyes, he hadn't been to give up on Suguru, on the hope he might still change, that he might reach out to where he watched with tearful eyes dutifully covered up.

Shoko hums, unconvinced, more a stim than a real expression of feelings. She looks up at him with her perpetually tired gaze, one hand reaching for his blindfold. He could stop her, of course, but he doesn't want to; she pulls the fabric down to his neck, her other hand brushing his hair off his eyes, and just stares at him.

He's used to being the victor of any staring matches for obvious reason, but Shoko's plain brown eyes hold his gaze without a flinch, until he finds himself being the one studied, opening up to her scrutiny like a body on the cold metal table of her ambulatory. It's not that she'll find anything but a broken heart and a man in desperate need for someone to reach out. No. Not just someone.

“What happened with Nanami?”

Her voice is softer, straight up from a memory of him curled up with his head on her lap as he pretended not to be crying as Suguru blamed him for a power he never wanted in the first place, for being himself, for being the strongest and failing to realize just how much weight rested on his shoulders, just how much he'd give to turn the tides of time back to that day and make sure no one died so that Suguru might still watch people and see them as such instead of animals to exploit and exterminate.

“Why do you think something happened with Nanami of all people?”

He tries to slip away from her scrutiny, only for her to grab at the blindfold now resting around his neck. She isn't strong enough to keep him in place, but he's not about to fight her either. So he stays.

“He's not answering my texts either. It's not like him to do that. And he's started behaving like that at the same time as you started acting like a lovesick puppy. So spill the beans.”

He could refuse, could keep his mouth shut, could tell her to mind her business. But deep down he knows there's a reason he's been gravitating more and more around her now that Nanami has shut him off. She is the last of his friends, the only one left in Tokyo to know him since before he was the strongest. The only living person he can show some level pf vulnerability.

“I messed up. I know, I know, nothing new under the sun but… I think this is it. And the best part is I don't even know why he reacted like that when it was nothing —” breathe in, breathe out. Shoko's hand rests on the side of his jaw like she's scared he'll flee if she takes it off. A sniffle, a pathetic little thing that barely classifies as sound, something he's ashamed of, something that rips out of him without his permission.

“I kissed him.”

Shoko doesn't look surprised. Her gaze softens, and Satoru is ready to hole up in his room and not face anyone for a month at best. He doesn't need pity, he knows she's thinking poor little Gojo can't help but have his heart broken in a thousands pieces any time he falls in love and he can't stand her sympathy right now.

“It's fine. I'm over it. It wasn't anything special,” what's one more lie in the face of all the things he's buried and omitted? Kissing Nanami had been like breathing again after years of numbness, but even if he were to admit that, it wouldn't change a damned thing. Nanami doesn't want him — not as more than a quick fuck and an annoying acquaintance. Satoru never thought he wanted to be more, but now that he knows what it feels like to have those gentle hands take care of him he can't pretend not to yearn for the other man to see him as something worth keeping for more than his skills and his strength. It's selfish, but he's never claimed to be a selfless man.

“If it were true, you wouldn't look so hopeless. Even the kids noticed, you know?”

“What did you tell them?”

“That you've been a lot busier lately, that's why you haven't been around as much. And that they shouldn't worry about their teacher,” she makes it sound like the truth it's not, and Satoru is glad she is a far better liar than himself. What he's not glad for is for the kids to be worried about something that shouldn't even weigh on them.

He needs to put a stop to this. He needs to see Nanami, talk to him, apologize, argue, anything but this silence that his draining him and affecting all the people around him.

“Thank you,” Shoko doesn't like physical touch all that much, but she lets him pull her into a hug, his head resting on top of hers like he used to do when they were kids and everything felt less bleak. She relaxes in his arms, head on his chest and one hand patting his back like she's not sure where it's safe to touch. It's quite funny, given her profession. He doesn't tease her for it, simply lets the feeling of her body and cursed energy ground him as he mulls over the next step.

“You're welcome. You're such a pain to deal with when you're moping.”

“I'm not moping. I'm scheming.”

“I hope that scheming involves a lot of talking about feelings, because I'm not a therapist.”

☆☆☆

Nanami is not at work.

Satoru knows his schedule by heart: get up at 6 AM, get ready, commute, have breakfast and buy lunch at that cute little store at the corner, clock in at 9AM, lunch break at 1 PM, back to work until 5 PM, commute, get home, go out for a run, go back home, shower, prepare dinner, eat, read a book, go to sleep. That's it.

So when he shows up at Nanami's workplace only to be told he had handed in his notice three months ago, on that same day they almost —, his world starts spinning and Satoru finds himself experimenting that uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu.

He's not even aware he's panicking when he bursts through the front door of Nanami's loft, only to find the other man sitting at that same kitchen table with his glasses off, shirtless, and with a bloody gash on the side of his chest.

“What the hell?”

He's not even sure if he's yelling or whispering, every sense tuned out as he walks up to the other sorcerer, his own glasses ripped off and discarded as he kneels to Nanami's side, scanning the wound as if he's got any medical knowledge to assess its level of danger.

“What are you doing here?”

Nanami sounded far too composed, and Satoru really needs to take a deep breath before answering, but everything is so far off, so distant, so numb, that the only thing he can do is look up at Nanami and watch him flinch at the sight of a side of him he's never had to witness.

“I was looking for you! Looks like I really can't take a day off: everyone is just hellbent on getting killed if I'm not watching.”

“I'm not dying. And I'm not one of the kids, Gojo. I don't need your scolding or pampering, or whatever you think you're doing by barging into my house like I didn't ask you not to step in here again,” Nanami's tone is stern, devoid of that usual calmness. He's pissed, too bad Satoru is too.

“How could I know you're not dying or plotting some mass murder when you quit your job three months ago and went M.I.A., not texting or calling either me or Shoko? How could I know when I had to come find you hoping you were not —” A stop, a breath. His cursed energy is lashing out, swirling around like a coiled snake ready to strike. He's not doing that. He's not fighting Nanami. He's not standing there pretending not to see the signs as he walks away. He's not —

“I'm not Geto!” The one thing about Nanami is that he never raises his voice, and yet this time it reverberates across the room like a ricocheting bullet.

Satoru flinches, mind stopping dead in his tracks as he takes in the other man's face. Nanami looks distressed. Not in pain despite the sluggish dripping of blood from the wound — which looks a lot more superficial than it had in his panicked mind just five minutes ago. What worries him is the emotion on the blond sorcerer's face the way his thin lips waver. The way his breath comes in fast puffs through his nose. And then there's the tremor, like he's physically unable to contain the feeling he must be experiencing.

Is it anger? Disappointment? Envy? Regret?

He doesn't know. But it's strong enough to stop him. To center him.

“I never expected you to be. Is this what it's all about?”

He tries not to sound judgmental, not to let a nervous laughter break through as the pieces slot in place. So this is what held him back? The fear of not measuring up to Suguru? The fear Satoru only wanted him as a stand in? As if Nanami isn't his own person worthy of love and appreciation, and of Satoru's interest.

Nanami looks at him, fighting to appear composed, fighting to hide everything back under the rug. He doesn't do a good job, emotion too raw, his body's response to Satoru's question far too evident. He looks smaller, almost crushed under the weight of an imaginary inadequacy. Defeated.

“You love him, Gojo. Don't even try denying it: you still do, you always will. It won’t change just because you think you can fool yourself by pretending to care about me. And I'm not delusional enough to go along with this.”

“Of course I love him. Doesn't mean I can't — I can't feel something for you,” He's almost laughing now, because of the surreality of the situation, because of how similar to a scolded child Nanami looks, curled up in that steely chair. “you're uptight and a bit boring, and sometimes I really, really, want to mess with you just to see what you'd look like free of all that grown-up bullshit. But I care for you, Kento.”

He stays put, sitting on his heels, waiting for Nanami to weigh his words, to trace the features of his face, to sound the truth in his voice and find in himself the will to accept it.

Nanami doesn't open up immediately.

He stays curled up, watching him like a foreign presence in his space, until, finally, he nods. It's not assured, it looks more like a self-soothing gesture than anything, but Satoru will take the win and see that the point is driven across.

“Come on, let's dress that nasty scratch, then we talk. Mh?”

☆☆☆

“You went looking for me at my workplace?” Nanami sounds genuinely indignant, as if of all the transgressions Satoru has piled up throughout the years, this takes the cake.

“It's 4 PM, you should have been working.”

“I was. How do you think I got this?”

They're sitting on the couch, Nanami still shirtless and slightly flinching every time Satoru's hands pull at the gash in attempt to clean it up before dressing it.

“What do you mean?”

Nanami meets his gaze, eyes conveying that annoyance that's his brand when he's talking to Satoru. Annoyance with just a sprinkle of fondness that has something in Satoru's chest squeeze and tingle in response.

“I mean that I resumed my job as a first grade sorcerer.”

It's like a pin dropping in absolute silence.

It should be good news, right? After all he has been tailing Nanami, pestering him at every chance, dragging him by the foot to keep him inside their world. It was all for selfish reasons: he missed having him around. He missed seeing him at Jujutsu Tech. He missed Nanami. But now that he finally got his way, he isn't satisfied about these news at all: on one side, sorcerers need each other's support. They'll die alone one day, doing what they have to do to protect the rest of the world, but even knowing that no one can go an entire life of bloodshed and horror without some level of companionship. Even Sukuna couldn't do that, even he had sought out company in his own skewered way.

So what chances do they have to be able to go on their lonesome way without sinking into madness? Satoru has spent most of his life trying to deconstruct the belief the strongest must be alone. He's dedicated his power to build a future in which young sorcerers will all stand on equal ground — all strong, all with the others to back them up — , but he still had to live in a present in which he was left to his own devices, deprived of most human interactions whether for a lack of time or a lack of mutual understanding. Nanami's quiet acceptance of him, of his overbearing personality and ego, had been a balm to deeper wounds, to the fear of never being enough, of having to earn love through service and sacrifice. In his own way, Nanami had exceeded even Suguru's ability to truly see him: Suguru had been a rival first and a partner later on, someone who saw him as the strongest, and Satoru had believed he could have shared the burden with him. But eventually, the gap had started to widen: Suguru had come to see him more and more as someone who wielded immense power with no ideals to back it up, had come to envy what Satoru never saw as a blessing.

He had been born with six eyes and limitless, it was blind luck at best, not something he'd wished for. He didn't mind the power he had, but it was not as easy as they all assumed to learn to use it, to bear this weight, to spend most of his childhood alone and scared, pressured into being the perfect little soldier; all of that in hope he wouldn't die by the hand of an assassin. He'll never forget the paranoia instilled in him before he was even old enough to have a proper sense of self.

Nanami never measured his worth on his strength: it was always about his behavior, his disregard for anything and anyone who tried to harm the future he's slowly building, his tendency to brush off other's concerns and struggles in favor of the greater picture. But he never blamed him for the choices he had to make, for the way he had shut everyone off after Suguru's defection and, later, after his death. Nanami had seen his pain, his guilt, his need to fix a rigged system so that no one will ever have to go through what he had, what Suguru, Nanami and Shoko had.

The rare praise Nanami had for him always revolved around his dedication to his students, despite the way they didn't see eye to eye on his teaching methods. Nanami saw him nurture and foster the next generation, saw his efforts, and measured his worth as a man by his willingness to put his life on the line, in service of those that needed his protection to have a chance at living a better life.

“Are you sure about this?”

He tries to convey the implications of what's being asked. He can't loose Nanami, he can't see him hurt or dead — because that's what's going to happen, even all of Satoru's attention won't spare him when his time comes. They all die alone anyway — or, worst even, broken by all the shit they have to wade through.

Nanami sighs, hand brushing his wrist like he's unsure whether or not he's allowed to touch.

“No, but I couldn't stand one more second analyzing stock values and thinking is this everything life has to offer? Does it even matter what I do? I don't like being a sorcerer, but it's still better than spending eight hours a day doing absolutely nothing useful.”

Satoru traces the outline of the wound with a fingertip, featherlight, gentle, and Nanami lets him, fingers still loosely laced around a bony wrist. Both of them are waiting, both of them avoiding the reason why they are sitting there, breaths coming in hushed huffs, eyes searching the other's and then diverting as soon as they eventually meet.

“I don't want you to die,” his voice sounds foreign to his own ears, deep and gentle and honest to a fault. It's the truth as he feels it through his bones and heart, electric blue irises finally pinning hazel ones. Nanami's breath itches, a hiccup strangled in his throat, as his Adam's apple bobs, swallowing around nothing.

“We all have to die, Gojo. What we can do is make sure we don't turn into curses when the time comes.”

“It's not enough! I don't — I'm tired of loosing people. I can't just sit here and watch you get hurt and hope today it's not the day you won't be back.”

He pulls at his hand, slipping through the soft grip holding it in place, jaw tight and eyes closed. He doesn't want to see Nanami's resigned expression. He doesn't want reason. He wants someone to meet him in the eye of the maelstrom ravaging him, feelings confused and impossible of being truly expressed, of truly impacting him deeper than the superficial level of knowing he is feeling them. That stunted emotional growth he'll never overcome, no matter how much he tries to empathize with the kid he was, he's a man with a beating heart and so many silent regrets and wishes he has no idea how to deal with them.

Nanami gets him, though. He feels for the both of them; despite his stoic exterior, he doesn't hide his sorrows or bitterness. He attends to them politely, but he faces it. Satoru would rather spare those feelings no thought: he can't change the past, he can't fix what went wrong with himself.

Nanami's hand is just as cool and dry as he remembers, limitless acquiescing to the now familiar touch, allowing for the skin contact between them. Fingers brush his left cheek, tilting his head so that they're back to facing each other.

He wants to run, wants to haul Nanami on his shoulders and get him far away from Tokyo, from Japan, from curses and dangers and himself, too. He brought this back to Nanami's door. He shoved himself inside of a neat routine, wrought havoc upon it all to find solace in that curated calmness, and duty followed through the door he burst open, pulling them both back down that path of sure death. He never wanted it. He wanted Nanami to stay close to him. He wanted Nanami to be his safe place, his hideout. His.

The only thing he got was loosing Nanami again in the name of duty and responsibility. He can't do that, can't lose another friend —something more, a voice screams in his head like a blaring alarm.

“Gojo, look at me.”

He doesn't. He looks down at his hands now wriggling in his lap.

Nanami doesn't let up, his fingers trace down the jaw, pushing against his chin until Satoru is forced to look him in the eye. Nanami's gaze is soft —like that morning, like they were in the instant before Satoru fucked up and kissed him. It's a Pavlovian response that has him parting his lips and inch closer, his own hand stretching to rest on Nanami's hip, in a vain attempt to keep him close, to convey just how much he needs him to stay.

“Please don't do this,” Satoru has not once pleaded in his entire life. Never had to: the strongest doesn't beg, he demands and takes. They tried to drill it into his brain, but he’s never seen the appeal in prevarication: he'll stand his ground, but he won't push for more. He won't take what's not willingly given to him. Right now, he'd grovel to get Nanami to agree, to have him turn back and never step a foot ever again into Satoru's world of destruction.

It was always meant to be the other way around: an escape to Jujutsu in Nanami's mundane world. He never though the other way around could be just as much as a possible outcome.

“Now you know what it feels like to see you take on mission after mission with utter disregard for your health. What it's like to have you show up the next day acting like nothing happen, like Satoru Gojo doesn't have a damn worry in the world. You have no idea how it makes me want to punch you, because that's plain false. It's an obnoxious charade you've been dragging on for years and I'm forced to witness it every single time you decide to show up at my door. And yet, I'd rather have you tormenting me every waking second than go a day without this, knowing full well not even you are immune to death.”

Nanami's voice barely raises above a whisper, tongue moving around the shape of each word like it's savoring it, like he's not annoyed by Satoru's flamboyance. He's almost fond, in the way he cups his face, a thin-lipped smile as he rants on. It's the most words Satoru has ever heard coming from his mouth in one interaction, and he cherishes each and every one of them. The sincere worry for his well being touches something inside of him, the remains of the child that was never cuddled to sleep after a tough mission. Nanami hears his cry and consoles it, one steady word at a time.

There is so much love in this little cocoon made of long overdue confessions, that Satoru is almost overwhelmed, almost uncomfortable with how openly he's been welcomed into Nanami's heart.

There's a pang of guilt for all the anxiety his actions put him through, for all the ways he's emotional distance had led Nanami to wonder whether or not he would even listen to his concerns. It all comes crumbling down as he pushes forward, body stretching so that he can wrap himself over Nanami, who lets himself be pushed down under the weight of a muscled body, cushioned by the pillows and warmed by too hot skin and an even hotter breath fanning along his neck, where Satoru has buried his nose in attempt to drench all of his senses in the other's presence.

“Why even bother with stitching that scratch if you're so hellbent on having the stitches come out in minutes?”

Despite his reprimand, Nanami does absolutely nothing to push him off, instead shifting slightly under him, one hand wrapped around his shoulder blades, the other resting on his side.

“Doesn't sound to me like you're objecting,” he nuzzles along Nanami's shaved neck like a kitten, and he'd be almost ashamed of how needy he feels, how heady the sensation of long fingers scratching his nape, if it weren't for the fact he can feel just how affected Nanami is too. His heartbeat drums fast under the skin, heating to their proximity. Satoru knows there's attraction there, and he'd be lying if he'd say he didn't enjoy the way Nanami desires him. But it's more than that: it's the quiet happiness of being held and cherished, of knowing that his worry is reciprocated, because he's just as precious to Nanami as Nanami is to him.

“I can hear the cogs turning, Gojo. Stop thinking. Just rest.”

The hand in his hair pulls gently, as if to stop any train of thoughts to depart the station. He sighs, letting his eyelids droop along with his limitless; he doesn't need either here, not when Nanami is safe and sound next to him, not when he can physically confirm he's alive and well.

Just a five minutes nap, he thinks.

Just five minutes.

☆☆☆

It's a kiss that wakes him up. Soft and barely there, on the crown of his head. And then another, on his temple, immediately followed by one on his eyelid. He chuckles, low and relaxed, as he stretches to cover more of Nanami's body.

“I didn't mean to wake you up.”

His hair are mussed up by laying down, and Satoru doesn't stop himself from curling a strand of it around his fingers.

“Kiss me and I'll forgive you,” he tries, just the tiniest bit flirty, expecting Nanami to blush, to retreat a bit, being utterly taken aback when thin lips press against his with no hesitation. He moans a little, touch-starved fool in love that he is, slacking his jaw just enough to allow for Nanami's tongue to slip inside, slowly but assuredly, mapping him, tasting him, teasing him.

He's already growing half hard at that, embarrassing as it sounds, at the explicit confirmation of Nanami's desire for him, at his will to commit to this partnership of theirs — however that will turn out to be.

The hand playing with the blond locks move slightly, accommodated by the way they both turn to their sides, facing the others as they kiss, allowing for his fingers to grip better, pulling roughly with no real intention to hurt, just overstimulated and in need of an outlet for all the sensations barraging through his senses. Nanami hisses at that, but he doesn't pull away, doesn't grab at his wrist. Instead, he kisses deeper and hungrier, bodies attempting to slide in tandem on the too small couch creaking in protest at the two grown men grinding against each other.

“Bed?” Satoru manages to force out between kisses and giggles, as the other sorcerer follows him the very moment he tries to pull back. You wouldn't expect Nanami of all people — always so reserved, so well mannered — to curse under his breath as he chases after Satoru's ever moving face, motivated by the other man's growing impatience to drag out this make-out session. He complies to the kiss as soon as Nanami's other hand lowers enough to push on his small-back, fingers dangerously close to his ass, keeping them flush as he's distracted by yet another fiery kiss. He finds himself roaming the expanse of the other's chest — still chiselled despite the years spent at a desk, proof to how much dedication and discipline Nanami puts into everything —, skimming the edge of the bandage and then trailing downward, to the dark leather belt keeping him decent.

“Didn't think you'd be the type to do it on a sofa, honestly. But then again, I didn't think you were the type to kiss like you want to devour me either,” he can't help but tease as Nanami's hand slowly inches down his back, until there's the distinct feeling of a palm against his backside, pulling him closer until the grind has him gasp for air, pleasure shooting to his body like a lightning strike, every nerve alight and unused to the feeling.

He's always been sensitive, when it comes to sex. Suguru liked that about him, how easy it was to rile him up, to push him over the edge with just a bit of petting and the tiniest bit of touch; but after him, Satoru hadn't really been looking for this kind of pleasure. It required too much trust to involve a stranger, and he didn't feel comfortable sharing what little experience he had with someone he knew and that would end up disappointed in the fact the strongest sorcerer of their era might shoot it off too fast.

Nanami doesn't seem bothered by how quickly he's climbing up the stairs of pleasure, reveling in each gasp as he stops tormenting his lips, dedicating his effort to unbuttoning the upper part of Satoru's uniform and then working out an angle that allowed to bite and lick at his nipples. The effect is immediate, as Satoru's hands find their way through the already messed up hair, nails scraping the scalp as he groans and moans something that could be an encouragement or a request for reprieve, he's not sure which he would want the most.

“Can you cum like this?” Nanami's voice is raspy and curious, eyes watching over his scrunched up expression with what can only be described as famish.

“Yeah, yeah I think so — Just a little more — Ah!”

Nanami's right hand keep touching him, branding him, playing him like an harp, until there's so much stimuli he's sure his RCT must have given up on suppressing it all, mind going blank as he stops breathing.

He comes down from his high with Nanami looking at him like one would at a piece of art, which definitely doesn't apply to a sweaty, flustered, satisfied Satoru, donning a very noticeable dark patch on the front of his pants.

“You could have at least let me undress. This is going to be a pain to clean up,” he grumbles, but there's not a single part of him that's not absolutely ecstatic at the way Nanami is still touching him, still looking at him with that fondness, with that hunger.

“I'm sure the school can provide another uniform,” he answers, a callback to that night, and it must register to him too because he goes quiet, before Satoru leans in to kiss him again.

“I'll submit a request in the morning. In the meantime, I suppose I'm stuck here. How unfair,” he sighs dramatically, plopping back down on the sofa that's far too cramped up now that they're both awake and fired up by the other’s proximity.

“How do you suggest we spend this time?” Nanami's voice would be pensive to anyone that doesn't know him. He's playing along, waiting for Satoru to pull one of his crazy ideas out of his metaphorical top hat. This time is nothing crazy, it's just the natural evolution of what's been growing between them, of three months devoid of contact that almost had them go out of their mind.

“Why don't you finish what you started? On a bed, this time, you're welcome. My back is killing me.”

Nanami quirks up a sleek eyebrow, eyes doubtful.

“First of all, you started this. Second of all, you're twenty-eight, Gojo. Stop talking like an old man.”

“That's still older than you, Nanamin.”

“Don't call me that.”

“Why not? It's cute. I mean, you're not cute, so I had to come up with something to make you less serious.”

“How magnanimous.”

Nanami shifts, one leg making contact with the pavement, and then the other. He's turned in a way that Satoru can't see his face, but he doesn't need that to know he's smiling.

“Yeah, I know. It's easy when it's you.”

It should have been just a bit of a banter, but it comes out truthful and heartfelt. Oh, well, he might as well commit to it at this point.

He snuggles an arm around Nanami's waist, hand resting flat on his belly, as he kisses his clavicle. There's a little hiccup underneath him, that has him check on the other man.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“If you didn't like that —”

“I did.” A little shift forward. Nope, he's not running this time.

Satoru's cursed energy curls up around his arm just the tiniest bit, red coating it with it's gravitational pull.

“Gojo, let go.”

“Not until you tell me what's wrong.”

“Nothing's wrong, don't be childish. Let go.”

Nanami doesn't try to force himself onward, knowing full well it would be pointless. But he shimmies back, resting against Satoru's chest, working alongside red's pull to get them closer.

“I felt the way you tensed up. If you're not sure about this, or you don't want to do anything else, it’ fine. Just tell me.”

“Will you ever stop assuming the worst case scenario? I'm ticklish. I didn't want to tell you because I know you'll use that information for mischief.”

Nanami's body is flush against his, not even a hint of uncertainty or uneasiness in the way he's almost reclined against his chest; in fact, there's an added pressure to his front, in the wake of Nanami's effort to get close enough to kiss the underside of his jaw. His cursed energy disperses around them, as he relaxes into the contact, a deep sigh escaping his lips as he lowers his head, shoulders curved as he attempts to fold himself over the other man.

“Sorry,” he mumbles against Nanami's collarbone.

“I'm not running, okay?”

“Yeah.”

But Satoru doesn't let him go, doesn't slacken his hold on the other's waist. It's not even sexual desire that drives him at this point, it's just the terrifying need to have someone stay. Not for a night, not for the fleeting moment of a quick reprieve. He wants Nanami to stay, to be the one he can return to, not just after an awful day when he needs a reality check by someone who have known him for years and that's not afraid to tell him off. He wants to come back here after the good days too, the ones spent with his students, in relative peace. He wants Nanami to kiss him like it's natural and normal, like it doesn't even occur to him that there was a time they didn't do that.

“Gojo,” Nanami breaths out like he doesn't believe him. Rightfully enough because Satoru didn't fool himself either. He doesn't answer, basking into the lukewarm weight against his chest.

“Gojo,” Nanami, voice is shaded by both fondness and irritation, hand caressing the back of the one splayed on his stomach, with a tenderness that does nothing to convince him that's not something worth protecting.

“Satoru?”

His own name from Nanami's lips sounds foreign, like he's not sure how to pronounce it, how to work it out in his mouth and release it into the world. It sounds like a curse, hesitant and blasphemous. It sounds good and right and it's another piece slotting in place as he finally lets go of his grip, though Nanami stays. He's still sat between his legs, still half reclined on him, not because Satoru wouldn't let him go, but because he wants to stay there.

He tries to accept that knowledge, to let it sink in and soothe that part of his mind refusing to believe Nanami isn't leaving, not of his own accord at least.

And Satoru isn't either, isn't letting him go. They'll have to pry this man, this love, from his cold dead hands.

“I'm scared.”

It's shameful to admit, even in the tiny space of their makeshift embrace.

“So am I.”

“It's not the same —”

“Isn't it? Is my worry less justified because you're Satoru Gojo?”

The way Nanami says it feel like a flashback. He shifts, uncomfortably reminded of the time Suguru had asked him if he defined strength or if strength defined him. Nanami isn't asking the same question, even the reasoning behind it is different, and yet somehow Satoru is left with that same doubt. Is he anything more than a useful weapon? Does his status above every other being preclude him from being entitled to compassion and care?

Nanami doesn't wait for his answer, no doubt taking in the slight tremble in his hand.

“I don't think it is. I'm scared of losing you. I'm scared your drive to be what changes this world will take you away from me sooner than we both can imagine. I'm scared my death will be your breaking point. I'm scared we're a bad idea waiting to happen. I'm scared of a lot of things, Satoru. I understand how you feel, and you have a right to feel the way you do. But I'm not leaving, I'm not. I'm not, okay? I wouldn't even if you pushed me away.”

Satoru snorts, not because he doesn't trust him. He just can't imagine anyone wanting him for him. Annoying, distant, arrogant and mostly useful only when it comes to curses. He's not the type of guy that knows how to woo anyone, and looks can only carry a relationship so far. Nanami is well aware of this, and yet he's still sitting there, still indulging Satoru's bout of insecurity instead of chastising him for it.

“You don't believe me.”

It's not phrased like a question, since it isn't. There's nothing but plain understanding of the silence between them. Nanami sighs, pulling away slightly, just enough to have sufficient space to look up at him and touch his face. The hands circling him still firmly in place, still holding them close physically even as they can't seem to comment at a deeper level. Satoru's old habit of putting space between his hopes and his reality proving a resilient foe to Nanami's reassurance.

“Look at me.”

“I am. I always am, Nanami,”His voice is quieter than usual. Not boisterous, not steady and cutting. It's an hum meant for just the both of them.

“Then look closer. Am I lying?”

“Never thought you were. I don't need proof of your integrity. You always were the best of us.”

It's Nanami's turn to scoff, a bitter smile on his lips.

“We’re sorcerers. None of us is without blame. You aren't. I'm not. And I don't care about it. Love isn't supposed to be conditional.”

There are years of piled up experiences proving Nanami wrong — starting as far back as his first memory, cold and alone in his bare room, with no covers to shield him from the cold as he tried and failed to use his limitless as a physical buffer from the freezing air. But Satoru doesn't argue. He wants to believe Nanami is right. He wants to believe he won't be judged for all the people he failed.

The hand on his cheek is grounding, solid pressure bypassing his technique, far more intimate than any kiss, any touch they have shared so far. He leans into it, lips brushing Nanami's wrist, eyes closing with the mutual understanding that it's safe to do so, that Nanami's touch won't ever hurt him. The only thing that hurt was its absence.

“You really want me?”

His eyes are firmly shut. His breath almost stopped entirely by the weight pushing down on his chest.

“Yes. Yes. I spent three months replaying that night in my mind, the way you let me in and — and the way I freaked out and shut you off because I'm — I'm still so terrified of you getting tired of me and —” Nanami's breath itches and it motivates him to open his eyes, taking in the sight of cheeks flushed with embarrassment. To Satoru, it's nothing but a proof of his courage, of how much it costs him to wear his heart on his sleeve for him to crush in his own grip.

“I'll never tire of you.”

“So you say. But one day you'll look at me and want an equal in everything and I'm never going to be that, I can't be that. And yet it, I want you anyway. Even knowing it will hurt me when it happens.”

Satoru's whole body goes lax with the weight lifted off his shoulders with the reassurance he's not the only one far too attached to this mutual feeling, nor the only one terrified of the prospect of being deprived of it again.

“I don't want you to be anyone but you, Kento. Though I'm pretty sure you'd rather have me be a little less me,” he teases, incapable of dealing with the reality of being reciprocated, of being once again tossed into a relationship he's not sure he's going to survive — he's not sure he's surviving without it, and isn't that reason enough to dive in head first?

“I want you to be more yourself, and less the man you pretend to be for everyone's sake.”

Nanami's so soft in his request, so openly wishing for Satoru to trust him, that it aches not to tell him he's already trusted more than anyone else ever was, just as much as Satoru trusted Suguru before everything went down. And even after they were pulled apart by the reality of their world, by their conflicting ideology, Satoru had never stopped trusting him — just as much as he would trust Kento with his life and his reformist project in the remote possibility he won't be there to see it done —, because deep down Satoru knows once he gives access to his heart, he can never shut that door completely. It's the one Achilles’ heel he can never overcome, not if he wants to retain his humanity.

He'd rather suffer through it than evolve, than surpassing humanity so completely he'll never experience sorrow again, but also never be able to understand their suffering and feel mercy for them. Love was a blessing to counterbalance the curse of the strongest, something he received twice and was loathe to dismiss.

“Can you do that for me?”

Asking that to a man that could raze the world to the ground if he so desired was silly, but so in character for Nanami that Satoru can't help but smile. He'd go above and beyond to acquiesce the wishes of those dear to him. He'll do as asked, even if it feels like a strenuous effort to unlearn every defense mechanism put in place throughout years of masterful detachment paired up with intense yearn for human contact.

“As if I would fail you,” he scoffs with a smirk that's supposed to hide just how uncertain he truly is, all for Nanami to cup his neck and peck his lips, eyes firmly locked with his, until Satoru crumbles and nods, once, with no sign of hesitation.

It's only then that Nanami pulls him in with more impetus, as they both try to get off the couch without tripping. They almost fall in a heap of limbs. They don't, barely, and only thanks to Satoru's limitless working overtime, flickering momentarily as he considers skipping the walk up the stairs, but ultimately deciding it's worth dealing with it, if it means he has Nanami's hands on his body for a few minutes more.

He relishes in the frantic touches of nimble fingers pulling his uniform off his body without any trace of modesty left to them, chuckling low and unabashedly excited into famished lips. He refrains from reciprocating, watching Nanami's movements get increasingly urgent with the need consuming him, heat finally warming up otherwise cool skin with each passing second of unsatisfied passion.

It all stops as Nanami's hand tries and fails to unbutton his pants, much to his chagrin and Satoru's amusement.

“You could at least help me,” he growls as gel slowly dissolves from his hair with each passing second, sweat starting to dampen the skin along his temples and neck.

“Nah, I think I'll let you work for it. You had three months to fantasize about this. Why spoil it?”

He kisses along the column of a bared neck, biting lightly as his tongue dips out to taste skin and salt, nose filled with the faintest trace of cologne and masculine musk. Nanami always smells good, even in the aftermath of missions he always smells clean. The hint of musk and sweat is what drives Satoru crazy with the need to taste and bury his nose into the spot behind his ear. It's the knowledge he's privy to a version of Nanami no one else gets to experience. It's the fact he gets to see him in his most human facet and appreciate it. Something feral and possessive claws at his ribcage. begging to be let out, to seize the other man and never let him out of his sight, of his personal space.

“Want you. Want you so fucking much,” he groans low and desperate, urging on Kento's effort to undress them both. It leads to the button on his pant flying somewhere, fabric torn under unyielding hands, as he steps out of both that and his underwear nonchalantly, admiring the way Kento makes quick work of what little he himself is still wearing.

“Me too. Fuck, I should have done this that day. Should have kept you in my bed. Shouldn't have let you out until you were covered in marks and everyone knew you're mine,” He's never heard Nanami swear. But then again, he's never had him mapping out his naked body as they stumble over every step leading them up to a tidy bedroom.

“You didn't strike me as the possessive type. I'm not complaining, mind you” he quips, pulling back up with an index finger raised between them as Nanami goes to argue. Cute. He's so cute, all disheveled and grumpy with unsatisfied lust. Even through his glaring, he can't help but grind his naked erection against Satoru's thigh. Not that he minds, not at all, he's quite pleased with the way that famous self-control has crumbled, “but it surely is a surprise. Prim and proper Kento Nanami grinding against my slutty self with no shame in the world. Even going so far as wanting everyone to know what kind of debauchery he indulges in behind closed doors? My my, I'm such a bad influence —”

“Oh, shut up, Gojo!”

He manages a chocked up laugh, before Nanami is devouring him again, one hand getting hold of his cock with no such thing as shyness. Satoru hisses in the kiss, brain short-circuiting as pleasure flares up through numbed down nerves. His cursed energy flickers, limitless unsure if this overwhelming pleasure should register as a threat. Satoru's mouth quirks up at the thought of this being what takes him out: death by too steamy sex.

“Should I ask what's so funny?”

“Why waste our time when you could keep making us feel good?”

Nanami seems to agree because he forgets all about Satoru's penchant for getting distracted at the worst possible time, in favor of sucking a bruise on his neck, high enough that even the collar of his uniform won't cover it up. Possessive freak.

Still, Satoru is nothing but turned on at the thought of being claimed, branded, belonging to someone. He's never truly felt a part of anything: not a clan, not a group, not a family. Even Suguru refused to have him as his own, refused to see them as a pair instead of two individuals pit against the other. No matter how Satoru had begged him to lie and come back to him, to let him shield from the consequences of his own actions. At sixteen, he was foolish enough to think that his own privileges would extend to his best friend if they'd come back together. At almost thirty he knew that wouldn't be the case, and yet a part of him had hoped that Suguru would change his mind once confronted with the reality of having a new generation of young sorcerers outgrowing them both,, changing the system that had spoiled their youth and innocence.

Nanami isn't letting him go, he's taking the step, claiming the strongest, offering him a place to call home. And in turn, Satoru will dedicate his life to see his vision done, to make sure the burden they're both carrying will be equally distributed through strong sorcerers with a solid network of peers to rely on. No one will suffer the alienation both of them went through. And if everything works out as intended, Satoru will finally manage to take a step back and give him the future he craves for.

They make it to the bed, barely, as Nanami spins them around, pushing him back against its edge until Satoru falls on the soft mattress. He lets himself be manhandled, long legs spreading invitingly, flush crawling down from his face fo his neck and chest, as it fills with every fast intake of air.

From this position, he gets to admire the spectacle of Nanami's predatory stance, body coiled and ready to pounce. He's familiar with it, having witnessed it many times in the field. There's so much heat in his eyes, features sharp as he analyses the way Satoru's limbs shift in response to his scrutiny. He's not self conscious — he knows he's hot, he knows Nanami wants him —, but he can't help that tiny spark of uneasiness from settling in the pit of his belly, alongside that raging inferno of arousal ravaging him from the inside. He's leaking, already on the verge of climaxing again after nothing but foreplay. He's not even ashamed of it: if Nanami asked him to come untouched right now, he's sure he would, and he'd gladly comply.

Sex with Suguru had consisted of straying hands and curious mouths — two teenagers experimenting in the quiet of night after long hours of studying and training —, and it had been cute and hot, but nothing even remotely close to this. He wonders how many more milestones he's been robbed off by those that took away his youth. He doesn't indulge on the souring thought, instead choosing to sink into the moment.

Satoru stretches, lazy and coquettish, lips parting with the relief of joints finally allowed their complete range, back arching invitingly as an arm raises above his head, touching the wall behind it.

The effect is immediate, as Nanami finally climbs on the bed and on top of him, rough palm stroking his length, thumb toying with the sensitive head, as Satoru mewls under him, volume rising with every sweeping motion.

“We're gonna get a noise complaint. Hush.”

“That's your fault for being too sexy,” he bites back with no heat and no qualm to raise his voice even higher, moaning obnoxiously just to get on the other man's nerves.

Nanami rolls his eyes, a smacking sound accompanying it, as Satoru belatedly registers the slap on his backside. It's not painful, limitless not even bothering to soften the already soft spank, but it's something he could get behind enthusiastically and he moans again, for real this time, gasping at the unexpected response of his own body. It shouldn't come as a surprise that he enjoys the illusion of being put in place, not when the feeling of Nanami's hand collaring him had gotten him off countless times in the months they were apart, but the faint slap solidified that knowledge. The answering jerk of his dick did too.

“Is this what you want, Satoru?”

Nanami's voice is a low rasp laced with dark intentions and lustful promises. The full body shiver traveling through his body is more than justified as he squirms helplessly, strong hands holding him down by the hips. He could free himself, but the point is he wants to be hold down. He wants the bruises he can feel forming on his pelvis.

“Depends. What are you offering, Nanamin?” He deliberately uses the nickname, knowing perfectly well the other sorcerer doesn't appreciate it. Precise like clockwork, Kento slaps him again, harder this time. Hard enough Satoru has to keep a grip on his limitless to avoid the spank from not hitting.

“I'm offering my full attention to your pleasure. I'm offering complete service. But only if you'll be good for me. Can you do that, Satoru?”

They're close enough hot breath fans over his face, close enough Satoru could tilting his head up and kiss him. But he doesn't. He'll be good.

“Of course I can. The question is, does it get you off, Kento?”

“What exactly?”

Satoru lifts his head enough he can brush his lips directly on his lover's ear, “having the strongest as your personal whore?”

He's shoved back just a second later, a short chuckle dying on his lips as Kento's palm presses on his throat, his mouth just millimeters from red-bitten lips.

“Only as much as you enjoy being my slut.”

Oh, and Satoru doesn't simply enjoy that. He loves the way he's falling naturally into this dynamic, cursed energy dispersed and discarded as he lets Nanami do whatever he wants to him. Each touch is a gift he cherishes, each pulse of pleasure and overstimulation igniting his nerves a solid reminder of Nanami's presence, of his care. He's finally found a place where he doesn't have to perform, doesn't have to lead.

Relaxing and looking pretty as Kento ravages him isn't a bad spot to find himself in. If anything, it's exactly how he hopes to spend the rest of his life.

The hand collaring him lifts, caressing frown along his torso without any hurry, finally settling back on his hipbone. It's an anchor in the rising tide of pleasure washing over him as Kento lowers his lips on his swollen head.

“Fuck, you can't be seriously going to —”

The glare shot at him is nothing but challenging, as a raspy tongue licks a long stripe from his perineum up to his glans,eagerly cleaning any trace of wetness it encounters. His eyes are overloading on visual information his brain doesn't have enough power to compute, not while it’s actively being fried by constant shocks of lust.

“Kento, please!” He's gasping around the feelings of a hand cupping his balls as that same devious mouth finally pulls him in, just the tiniest bit, suckling on his head as if it was a lollipop. The feedback is intense, his eyes still scanning, still analyzing, at war with his body frantically begging to let itself be used and pleased, with no care for how or what it's being done to him. Satoru could shut his eyes and let the climb up be faster, but he wants to watch, wants to take in the sight of Kento between his legs, hellbent on having him come by his touch. He wants to commit this sight to memory. He wants to keep his gaze glued to Kento's when he breaks.

The insistent sucking has his hips buck up, only held still by a strong hand, as the other man keeps teasing, finally using his other hand to stroke in tandem, until Satoru is left gasping for air at every added stimuli, the tight coil in his belly pulling tighter and tighter until it's almost painful, until it's throbbing along with his pupils, until he's arching off the bed with the sudden release cursing through him — pleasure and pain mixing up, swirling together through him, limbs trembling and cursed energy swiping the room like a tornado, items tainted by its intensity.

It takes him a while to come back to his senses, eyes finally shutting. They hurt, but every little pinprick of pain is worth the sight of Kento's self-assured expression as he came undone under his ministrations.

“Good?”

“Ask me in minute. Fuck that was… a lot.”

He's grinning, even as his own hand lifts up to shield his already closed eyes.

“Do I get the blindfold?”

“Mh, kinky.”

A bite. Fuck, why does the idea of Kento biting every inch of his skin while he's blindfolded him make him so hot and bothered? Other than for the fact he's probably in love and Kento is fucking hot when he's bossing him around.

“I'm serious. That looks painful.”

“Nothing I'm not used to. I told you: that was a lot.”

“Good or bad lot?” Kento inquires, as he kisses along strong thighs. Ah, Satoru is more than ready to get more of that. He could spend a lifetime with his legs spread and his eyes closed. If only there weren't curses and curse users out to get them-self killed.

“Do you really have to ask? Are you fishing for compliments?” A little smile on his skin. So he is. “Never cum that much in my whole life. I hope you're not done already though…” He takes a peak through spread fingers, a shit-eating grin across his face.

“Do you still want more? Greedy.”

“Guilty as charged. Plus I want that inside.”

He's pointing at Kento's erection, one eyed stare glued to the red flush of it, as the other man's throat works around a chocked groan. Embarrassment or lust? Probably both, given the way he's sitting on his heels, exposing himself more to Satoru's scrutiny.

“You can't just say things like that.”

“Why not? I want it Kento. And you promised to give me what I want.”

“I said I'd give you pleasure, never said anything about giving in to your every whim,” Kento clarifies, but he's slowly inching closer, one hand loosely gripping himself, hissing as a dry palm makes contact with wet skin.

Satoru would suck him dry. Maybe he should.

“How about I give you whatever you want?”

There's undeniable desire in the hazel irises, and if that wasn't enough of a give away, the bob of his length sure would have been.

“You don't have to.”

He crawls closer, forefinger pressing at the center of Kento's chest. His eyes hurt with the way his cursed energy lights up around them, but he ignores the discomfort in favor of taking in the pale skin glistening with sweat and trembling with barely suppressed desire to pounce.

“Let me get a little taste. Yeah?”

He's panting too, body reacting as if he was the one being touched. Instead, he gets to catalogue each and every blemish on Kento's skin, the way his body temperature rises to scalding hot while aroused, the way his length curves up along his pelvis, just shy of reaching his belly button, the damp stickiness of seminal fluid leaking out of him — not as much as his own, but surely more than he'd ever seen in his nights with Suguru.

He takes him in, naked and vulnerable and horny. Alive.

He dares a kitten lick against the glans, marveling at the guttural sound slipping out of the man's throat. He can have him beg in minutes. He knows he can.

Satoru Gojo is a master at whatever he attempts, so it's not surprising when he figures out pretty quickly the ancient art of sucking a dick. He takes it in his mouth like that's not his first time on his knees, jaw slacking enough to allow for Kento's girth to slip inside. It's a heavy weight on his tongue, and it requires a little adjustment to slip more than a couple of inches inside.

He never takes his gaze off Kento, his six eyes providing in real time feedback for each swipe of his tongue as he figures out a rhythm.

It's not enough. He pushes deeper, gagging twice before the feeling of something solid pressing in the back of his throat finally seems acceptable, each time warranting a growl and a curse form the sorcerer currently cupping his jaw, feeling how stretched out he is to accommodate him.

The thought sends a spark through his every nerve, an answering clenching in his hole as he imagines himself speared open and panting unabashedly, Kento's hand on his throat or his hair, his blindfold used as a collar as he's forced to watch everything —

“Focus on me, Satoru.”

The voice is gravelly now, but it's enough to pull him back to the present as he bobs his head gently, a thumb contouring his lips, a murmured praise on his beauty.

He keeps it up, getting familiar with each vein, each throb, each added trickle mixing with his saliva, until there's no thought in his brain anymore and every detail making past his eyes is simply stored for later use, with no effort to contextualize it.

At some point, a hand pulls at his hair, inviting him to open up and let go. He obeys, begrudgingly, already missing Kento's bitter taste.

“How do you want me?”

He's already moving, shifting achy joints, as his lover ponders an answer. To Satoru, the only thing that matter is for the sorcerer to take him. He needs it, more than he needs air.

He wants to remember what it's like to be shielded by a hot body taking you apart. He wants —

“On you hands and knees. And don't look.”

“But what if I want to?” He whines, earning himself a kiss for his troubles. It's enough to shush any complaints, as he takes in the way Kanto's whole body moves to cage him, shield him, embrace him. Oh, he's so gone for this secretly soft man that would do everything for him to feel loved.

“Do you really want to?”

“Mh, maybe next time.” He concedes, nuzzling along a clean shaved cheek, licking and biting and kissing, as if he can't get enough of the other man's taste on his tongue.

Kento pushes him down gently, watching him turn around and spread his legs. Like this, he can't physically see what's happening behind him, meaning his six eyes would have to work overtime to keep him aware. He decides to dismiss that option, focusing solely on the physical stimuli Kento will provide to him — like the rough palm pushing his legs further apart as a knee sets between them, or the way he is mouthing at his column, or even the sound of a drawer being opened and closed.

“Still okay?”

Satoru ducks his head to resist the temptation of turning around for a kiss. He's promised not to watch after all.

“Yeah. I'm all yours.”

Kento hums, as the sharp sound of a bottle being uncapped fills the room. Satoru has to remind himself he's not allowed to look, not even when a slick finger traces a wet line from his lower back to his hole, circling it, wavering just a second before pressing in. Judging by the length of it, it's probably Kento's forefinger, the right one going by the direction of his movements. The slight pressure isn't anything new, anything he has not done to himself in the rare down time he gets.

What's new is the fact he's not the one controlling the tempo, it's not his own finger tracing his insides, crooking and caressing until there are sparkles behind his eyelids, body already tensing up as Kento chuckles lowly. Suddenly there’s a second finger pressing in, joining the first, hitting his spot like a metronome, and then a third — the stretch satisfactory but not quite perfect, not until the sorcerer is pulling out and sliding in, hips pushing forward relentlessly into Satoru's heat, to the point they're both panting and gasping by the time he bottoms out.

“Remind me why we didn't do this sooner?” He manages to to wrangle out just before Nanami is pulling back, rolling his lips in a leisure pace.

They're flushed together, back to chest, the added weight making it easier to bend more, ass up and face down, Kento's arm keeping him up and the other braced next to his own. It doesn't evade him the way his hand twitches. as if tempted to reach out. It's not exactly cheating if Kento's restlessness is forcing him to look down and he happens to notice he'd like Satoru to do something about it.

He shifts, balancing on just one arm, in order to grab at Kento's hand lacing their fingers together.

“Because we're both idiots.”

“Speak for yourself, I was not the one asking my incredibly sexy and willing friend to get out of my house after making out for hours.”

He deserves the harsh thrust. He doesn't mind the spicy memo of their position. But other than that, Kento keeps it slow and gentle, hips barely grinding and it's enough to drive him crazy with lust.

“I'm not complaining but —”

“It sounds like a complaint.”

“Okay, okay. I'm partially complaining. Can you speed up?”

“Why? Do you have somewhere else to be?”

And there it is, that same possessiveness as before, lacing Kento's baritone with ill-masked jealousy. Not because Satoru would be seeing someone else, not because he'd be devoting his time to people that don't care for him, stealing what little free time he has from Kento. He slows his pace even more, forcing Satoru to focus on the grind of their bodies, on the way his girth keeps him stretched and full, and at his mercy until he'll be satisfied.

“No! No, I just — I need more…” He's blushing, heat tinting his words and his body, but it acquiesces his lover. Kento doesn't speed up much: he goes back to his original rhythm, but he adds a little more strength to his thrusts, enough so that Satoru feels every movement in the back of his throat, bed thumping against the thin wall. They might actually get a noise complaint, if not for the creaking of the bed, then for the way Satoru's voice keeps rising in volume, groans turning to moans and finally whimpers, begging for one of Kento's hands to touch him. Kento doesn't concede, all of his fingers laced with Satoru's, as he's basically bent over him, murmuring praises in that hot rasp of his.

“You're doing so good. You're perfect. So precious —” He chokes on a groan as Satoru involuntarily squeezes him, body trembling with heartfelt praises. He's not even coherent enough to answer with anything but moans and babbles of how well Kento is giving it to him.

“Kento! Please more, please I — Oh fuck! So close, so good — Need —”

More. Less. Everything. Nothing. All of it and none, and somehow Kento understands him because he's finally putting more force behind his thrusts, pulling back entirely before bottoming out again and again at a breakneck speed. He's done playing, and Satoru is so glad he's finally getting what he wanted, because Nanami is a wild beast when he's close, huffing in his ear like a racehorse.

His eyes are open now, taking in the sight of balls slapping on the skin of his thighs, already feeling the chafing, already taking in the signs of Nanami's impending climax. He wishes he could see his face when it happens, but it's an inconsequential thought: even with his six eyes, his brain his so overwhelmed by pleasure he wouldn't be able to see much. He very much prefers the absence of sight, as it allows him to focus on the way Kento's body flushes against his from tip to toe, on the way he whines in his ear as liquid pleasure fills him to the brim, just as his own body finds its release.

Kento stills inside of him, giving them both time to come down from their high, before pulling out gently as they fall on the sullied sheets.

He's handsome like this: ruffled, disheveled, panting and grinning with self satisfaction. Satoru is on him in an instant, open mouths clashing as they pant into each other, saliva and sweat mixing up on their lips and tongues.

“If I knew you fuck like this Nanamin…”

The blond's face scrunches up in disapproval at his crassness, but there's still a glint of pride in the sharp eyes.

“Inappropriate.”

“You were railing me into next Thursday just a minute ago and that is inappropriate?”

“Yes. Though I'm pleased my… performance satisfied you.”

“You're a strange man, you know that, right?”

He shuffles closer, ignoring the wet spot between them in favor of curling up along Kento's side. A gentle hand settles on his hip just as soon as his fingers smooth out sweaty locks out of his lover's face.

They're looking at each other with nothing between them, naked both physically and metaphorically, finding solace in their closeness.

“Any stranger than a man that could have everything and still chooses a strange man for himself?”

Satoru hums. He's already made up his mind. He's staying. And he's going to shop for a ring as soon as his limbs stop feeling like jello.

“No. That's why we make perfect sense. We don't, but somehow we still make it work.”

“You're not making any sense. I guess I have to bear part of the blame for your current state.”

Satoru bristles at that, head rising up to get a good glare at his — boyfriend? fiancée? Does any of it apply if Kento doesn't know? Well, he is going to put a ring on the man, what's the harm in thinking if him as a boyfriend?

“Are you implying your dick made me stupid?”

Kento just shrugs, still taking the bait because that's what they do.

“Well, we both know what happened.”

“Oh, and what happened?” He challenges, only to be met with a kiss and a smirk that has his heart make flip flops in his ribcage. How disgustingly cute.

“We happened to fall in love somewhere somehow and now we both are stuck with the other.”

That drains whatever simmer of fire had ignited in Satoru's body, completely shushed out by Kento's fond stare and declaration. He's not surviving this man.

“How unfortunate.” He grumbles, settling back down next to the blond

“Indeed.”

They settle into an amicable silence, breaths synchronizing as sleep slowly claims them.

“Hey, Kento.”

“Satoru?”

“What's your ring size?”

There's an hazel eye looking down at him wearily.

“Why?"

“Because I'm marrying you. Tomorrow.”

“No you're not.”

Satoru just grins, shuffling closer, a tiny peck on a furrowed brows as he settles back down, already thinking about what kind of obnoxiously big diamond he's going to slip on Kento's finger.

He's gonna be so pissed at how impractical that will be. And Satoru will make it a show of kissing the frown away. It's going to be perfect.

For the first time in years, he goes to sleep with the thought he can't wait for a new day to start.