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The glass is cold. Geto holds his hand to it, blocking out the reflections as he peers inside. The sleeping figure of Riko, the Star Plasma Vessel, lies sprawled on a cot beneath a thin white blanket, her mouth open, snoring and exhausted. Kuroi has fallen asleep in an armchair not far away, a paperback hanging from a limp hand as her head rests on her shoulder. Geto smiles.
He’s tried to stay detached. In the morning, if all goes according to plan, he will be saying goodbye to this girl. He will lead her to her tomb beneath Jujutsu High and will watch as she ceases to exist. He will watch her adoptive parent lose her child.
He can no longer deny that he likes her. He likes them both. Basically being on holiday in Okinawa hasn’t helped, exploring the island in near perfect summer weather with Satoru by his side. His hand lowers, realising with a sharp pang that this trip might become a deeply painful memory.
Still, he moves from the window certain that Satoru made the right decision. The Curse Users, if any had even followed them from the mainland, seem to have gotten the message that the girl is off limits. That they are both just too damn strong. And it’d been fun, in spite of everything, to spend another day on the island. Important too, Suguru thinks. Riko deserved an extra day. Tomorrow would be goodbyes and impossible decisions. And travel. And more passengers for Gojo to interrogate.
As Suguru ponders whether Riko would like to travel with him, following the plane on the back of his Rainbow Dragon spirit, he spots Satoru sitting on the ground, leaning against the fence of the holiday retreat. He’s staring at Riko’s cottage, eyes burning blue and hot against the darkness; overworked. Dangerously overworked. He doesn’t look up as Suguru approaches.
“Relax, Satoru,” he says, sliding down the wall beside him. Gojo glances over, a tired expression on his face. His eyes look almost painful. He puts on a tough facade around the girls and usually keeps it up when he’s alone. In his presence, though, Suguru watches it melt away entirely, eyes narrowed as he turns back to the building, to the dark row of palm trees and the ink-black sea.
“It’s one o’clock,” says Geto, watching the surf melt into the sand. “Ten more hours.”
Satoru nods. It isn’t exactly true; their flight leaves at eleven in the morning but it would be a while before they were totally safe. Suguru imagines they won’t be back within Jujutsu High’s barrier until the afternoon. It makes no difference to him, but he’d actually gotten some sleep in the past twenty-four hours. He hasn’t had to use his technique since yesterday. Satoru is still sharp but he’s wearing himself down. Slowly, painfully slowly, his edge is going blunt. More than the physical and mental strain, Geto thinks, the thing really eating at Satoru is not being as strong as he normally is.
He looks at him, reaching back and peeling the hair tie from his head. He shakes out his long black locks and sweeps a handful over his ear. “You’re nervous,” he says, pocketing the tie.
Suguru watches as a mosquito floats by, attempting to land on Gojo’s arm and getting rebuffed by his Limitless. It bounces uselessly off his technique. Satoru shoos it away and hums softly. He’s not denying it.
“Why?” Suguru reaches over, pinching the edge of Satoru’s shirt sleeve and rolling it between his fingers. “What are you worried about?”
He lets Geto play with his shirt while his free hand rubs the back of his neck. It leaves with a few loose grains of sand stuck to his fingers. He rubs them together, then flicks them away.
“Do you…” whispers Satoru, curling to hug his knees to his chest, eyes unblinking as he stares out over the water. “Do you think we should have left this morning?” There’s weakness in his voice, tender and vulnerable. It’s an admission of fallibility which he never exposes to anyone, under any circumstances, besides Suguru.
Suguru turns slightly and lays a hand on his shoulder. Satoru still refuses to meet his gaze. “You’re overthinking things.”
Gojo regresses a little further into his tangled ball of knees and elbows, his eyes barely peaking out above his folded arms.
Suguru grips lightly, tracing his thumb over the crest of his shoulder and down to the collarbone. “Tengen, right? You think Amanai will want to stay.”
For the barest moment, Gojo closes his eyes. He shakes his head as they reopen, shifting occasionally from the beach to the cottage, from the cottage to the treeline. Anywhere with shadow.
“No,” he says. “Well, maybe? I don’t know. Something just feels… off, for some reason. Like someone’s behind me, watching me. Like there’s something I’ve forgotten.”
Suguru huffs, cocking his head with a smile. “Knowing you, you probably have. Lucky I’m here to remember for you.”
A slight glance and Satoru unfolds himself, lowering into a slouch. The muscles of his shoulder are still taut beneath Suguru’s fingers. Releasing the grip, he laces his arm behind Gojo’s back, sidling close and pressing into him. Satoru allows him to slip past his technique and the pressure is returned, but only just. So tense, thinks Geto.
“We’re fine, Satoru. The bounty will be taken down in the morning, we’ll return to Jujutsu High, and then we’re finished. We might have to beat up Tengen. We might not. Either way, we’ll be fine.”
Satoru sighs. Suguru takes his hand from his shoulder and moves it to his head, twirling a finger through a strand of white hair. “Can you say it for me?”
“Say what?”
“That we’ll be fine. Show me you know it’s true.”
A smile flickers and fades at the edge of his mouth. He can see that he wants to play this game, the yes and no, the back and forth, but something is holding him back. Some nameless, dull anxiety, grown ambient and underlying.
“Yeah. We’ll be fine.”
Getting too in-his-own-head isn’t a regular problem for Satoru. He’s far from stupid, in spite of his efforts to make people think otherwise, but their pairing of unrivaled strength has taught them irreverence, a colossal buffer against those dull, hard emotions which breed hesitation and doubt.
Satoru agonising over their situation will not help him. Or Suguru. Or Amanai. He is only too tired to see it. Too tightly wound. Suguru can do nothing more to ease the reality of their situation. Besides, maybe, bringing out a special grade to sit and watch with them, but that has its own issues. Satoru is activating his technique non-stop. Suguru, without the Six Eyes, would burn through his reserves much faster. At least one of them needs to be in top form. His time would be better spent aiding Gojo through the fatigue.
This is his forty-eighth hour awake, after all. The least he can do is help calm him down. “Hey.” His voice softens as his free hand moves, curls, presses a knuckle under Satoru’s chin, lifting and turning his face. “Pretty boy,” he says, grazing his lip with his thumb. “You’re sulking.”
He lets Satoru set the pace, doesn’t deepen the kiss until Satoru turns his head, until his mouth opens and his hand slides up the back of Suguru’s neck, taking a handful of his loose black hair and squeezing lightly. Suguru cups his jaw and kisses back hungrily, pinches the flesh of his cheek and holds him still, pulling rough at the skin as he nips at Gojo’s lower lip. Aggressive. Hard. The way Satoru likes it. Suguru presses further and his boyfriend pushes back, whining against his mouth when he loses the struggle. Satoru is panting as they break for air. He can feel it, how much he needs this, how much he’s missed going higher and getting lost in the chaotic sensations of one another.
They collide again. Suguru makes a game of coaxing out Satoru’s tongue and catching it with his incisors. They’d gotten good at this, at wringing as much eroticism from mere lip-to-lip contact as possible. Hidden, electric moments stolen in the utilities closet in Jujutsu High’s gymnasium, under the midday sun as Ieri and Mei Mei left the training grounds or in the dressing room while Kuroi and Riko carried paddles to their kayaks by the mangroves, tasting the echoes of sex through tongue and fingertip.
Here, in the dark trenches of early morning, they’re allowed to let go. To push further. Deeper. Then, for a microinstant, Satoru’s lips tense and go rigid.
Suguru’s eyes flutter and sees that Satoru’s are open, moving away from their embrace, back to the shadows and the water. Suguru pulls away, kissing his teeth in annoyance and taking hold of Satoru’s face, squeezing with playful firmness as those bright blue eyes are forced back to attention.
“I don’t like you distracted.”
Satoru’s grin is squashed in Geto’s hold. “This is me being focused,” he mumbles. “Making out with you is the distraction, Suguru.”
Geto wants to chide him, to spar a little before getting back to business, but he can see Satoru’s gaze already weakening, already slipping from his and glancing back to the ocean.
Suguru huffs, dropping his hand. Fine. Still seated, Suguru folds a knee beneath himself, just enough height to beat out Gojo’s languid slouch. Satoru’s Six Eyes snap back, smile weakening with confusion as two hands slip beneath his armpits. Before he can speak, before he can even get his own legs underneath him, Satoru is lifted from his position against the wall, spun, and placed in front of Suguru, chest to back, with his weight resting comfortably on the ground between Geto’s legs.
“What is this?” asks Satoru, looking over his shoulder, smirking though unsure. “Are you manhandling me?”
“Shoosh.” Suguru scootches back, hard against the wall, and Satoru slides lower, very slightly lower, bringing the back of his head and neck in line with Suguru’s lips. He snakes an arm back under Satoru’s and down across his chest, holding him firm. The skin of his neck, sloping gently from the collar of his shirt, is pink, sunburned and sore. Suguru breathes on that skin. Blows on it gently, watches the little translucent hairs, nearly invisible, rise with the gooseflesh. He kisses the back of Satoru’s neck.
Gojo sighs but doesn’t pull away. “Suguru, wha-”
Suguru moves upwards, placing a firm kiss just behind the ear. One of his good spots. Satoru cuts himself with an exhale. “Focus,” he says, tracing a path down from the ear and back to the tender flesh below. He opens his mouth a little, lets his tongue graze the skin before moving again. Another exhale as Satoru shifts, pressing back into his body.
“Stay focused, Satoru,” he whispers against his shoulder. “You don’t want to get distracted, right?” Suguru’s arm moves to the shirt hanging loose over his boyfriend’s chest, drawing a thin line from clavicle to pectoral, tracing an idle path around where he knows his nipple sits. He doesn’t touch it, or even get that close to it, but Satoru’s breath hitches gently as his fingernail skirts the perimeter. It’s been a while since they’ve done anything besides kiss. Suguru likes how reactive he’s being.
He feels Satoru reach back, planting his hand on ground as he melts further into Suguru’s body. With his free left hand, Suguru wraps his fingers around the wrist while his right moves inwards, to the buttons of Gojo’s shirt, and begins undoing them one-by-one. As it widens, Suguru takes the shirt collar between his teeth and peels the garment over his shoulder, exposing more of that soft white muscle. He wastes no time in tasting it, kissing, teasing with lip and tongue as his right hand unclips the final button, then dragging his palm up and over the lean contours of his abs, then back down, letting half a fingertip dip beneath the waist of his shorts. Gojo rolls his hips at the touch as his breathing stutters. Suguru can feel his heartbeat thudding through the wall of his chest.
Suguru pauses and pulls his hand away. They’re getting dangerously close to the edge, to falling from their barely PG teasing into something irrecoverably explicit. He wants to fall. Badly. He wants to see Satoru squirming and helpless, to taste him and ruin him and mark his flesh beyond redemption. Still. Satoru is exhausted and flush with negative emotion. It’s not the sexiest combo. And, well… they’re outside. Suguru thinks it’s unlikely that either Riko or Kuroi would wake for anything besides the sun, but their sleeping bodies are about fifteen metres and one thin wall away. Suguru wouldn’t blame him for finding it all a bit much.
“Satoru,” he whispers, nuzzling his shoulder and wrapping him tighter, palm now laying flat and warm against his stomach. “How do you feel?”
The question is a signpost, a nested declaration of what they’re heading toward and an opportunity to pause, to stay where they are, or turn around. Whether Gojo likes it the way it is or wants it to go further.
More orange juice, Satoru? he thinks, exhaling against his skin.
Or saké?
Satoru squeezes out a breath, taking his hand from the ground and reaching back, searching for Suguru’s face. He finds it. Pressure and urgency.
Satoru nods.
He twists and Suguru leans forward. It’s an awkward angle but their lips find each other’s, sloppy and desperate as his fingers resume their dance, scraping along the apex of his hips. Suguru breaks contact, the rim of his eyes tense as he feels his pupils dilate.
“Undo them.”
Satoru’s breath catches at the order. Suguru feels him shiver as his hands move down, past his own, to begin untying the drawstrings which keep his body from Suguru’s prying hands. They are undone. He wastes no time. Satoru’s hand quickly returns to bracing himself, pressing hard into Suguru’s chest as he explores the soft, warm skin of his inner thigh. His other hand rises up his chest, finally giving his nipple some long overdue attention. But not too much. Nor any for his cock, rock hard and pressing desperately against the fabric of his shorts. As his boyfriend sighs and shakes, as his flesh burns where he is touched and aches with need where he isn’t, Suguru takes his time.
“Suguru,” he whispers, practically squirming as his hips chase Geto’s hand, the fingertips lighting, fingernails dragging across the sensitive skin beneath his shorts, the thumb dragging up along the valley of his groin, feverish with heat. “Please.”
He smiles, dragging his lips over the gentle swell of his shoulder. He then takes his nipple between two fingers, rolling and pinching. A too-loud moan breaks out between clenched teeth.
Suguru hushes him and pinches a little harder. A choked groan. Pleading.
“You have to be quiet, my love. Can you do that?” He’s being very mean. He imagines that Satoru is cursing him out in his head. Too bad, Suguru thinks, grinning wide and running his tongue over a canine. It’s only then that his lower hand moves, finally making bare and fleeting contact with his dick, all pre-cum and electricity. Satoru whines again and the touch is broken. Suguru tuts in his ear. “Because if you can’t be quiet, I’ll have to stop. If you’re too loud you’ll wake the others, and then I can’t help you focus. Is that what you want?”
Satoru shakes his head urgently, whimpering something which could be a ‘no’ but could also be a mindless utterance of need and starved nerves. Suguru’s hand returns, running his fingers up and down the shaft. A twitch and Satoru shimmies lower, chasing his embrace, then finding the object of his desire and rubbing the slick head of his cock into Suguru’s wide, accepting palm. Then it's gone again, back to the inner thigh, the hard tendon braced against the slope from hip to ass. Grabbing, pinching, scratching. Satoru groans low, lost in an abyss of frustration and fragile, sparkling sensation. Suguru licks a stripe from Gojo’s exposed shoulder to neck, takes some delicate skin between his teeth and bites hard, sucking and pulling. Suguru tastes iron from deliciously ruptured capillaries and Satoru’s spine arches.
“Fuck…!”
“Shh,” Suguru whispers against his flesh, kissing the angry red mark left by his teeth. For every step they take towards the edge, Suguru walks him half a step back. A delicate balance, equal parts intoxicating and incredibly fucking frustrating. Suguru keeps it like this, barely moving forward, touching fully then hardly touching then not touching at all. He coaxes him along, letting his body betray every modicum of need which Suguru has carved into his body until Satoru finally caves.
“Please,” he whispers, Suguru’s fingers peeling at his lower lip. “Please, help me. I need to… I can’t-”
“Quiet, darling,” he whispers back, placing another firm kiss behind his ear. “Use your words. Help you what?”
Suguru leaves a gentle nibble on his earlobe as he departs, then grinding his hand into the tip of his dick, fingers sliding and parting over its smooth wetness. Satoru hisses. Suguru smirks.
“What, Satoru? Do you need me to help you focus? Tell me. I’ll only help you if you tell me. What do you need me to do for you?”
Satoru looks over his shoulder, eyes burning like twin stars, thrusting absently into Suguru’s elusive touch. “Make me come.”
He freezes. Maybe Suguru had gotten a little too caught up in their stress-relief role play because that word, in its naked admission of what they are doing, hits him like a tidal wave. He runs his tongue along his teeth and his own cock begins to ache, hard and trapped against Satoru’s back.
“You can feel me, right?” says Suguru, then grabbing Satoru’s cock in earnest, beginning with slow strokes, squeezing the tip at the apex of his motion. Satoru begins to moan, properly moan, actually-having-sex moan, before shoving his hand between his teeth and biting to keep the sounds from leaking out. “What you’re doing to me? How hard I am for you? You’ve been so good for me, sweetheart, and I think that means you get to come. What do you think? Right here? Right now? While you’re on the job, while the others are sleeping?” He’s stroking, another bite on the shoulder. Iron. Sweat. “You’ve worked so hard, haven’t you? I think you deserve it.”
Satoru whines, matching the movement of Suguru’s hand as he nods desperately.
“Tell me. What do you deserve?”
“To come,” he whispers, breathless. Suguru strokes, agonisingly slow, letting his pinky and ringfinger graze the rest of Satoru’s genitals as his hand rises and falls. Where Gojo chases, he flees, teasing, quiet pleases and moans spilling from his mouth. Suguru imagines it must be excruciating. The thought makes pleasure swirl in the pit of his stomach.
Gradually, millimetre by millimetre, Suguru increases his pace, pumping harder, squeezing tighter, latching his teeth on every unmarked patch of skin and feeling every part of his body his free hand can reach. Nipples, hair, entwining his fingers with Satoru’s before pushing them into his mouth, lets him bite them to keep quiet, holds his mandible and turns his face to dot his cheek and chin with kisses. Harder. Further. Feel more, chase pleasure wherever it goes. Suguru pinches, chastises Satoru when he makes too much noise but does everything in his power to hear more.
Satoru is rendered useless, a beautiful wriggling mess with bared teeth and sweat-slick skin, sinking in a pool of foaming black water, swimming down and never reaching the bottom. Starving, unthinking, mindless, body and sensation only. A few more moments before Suguru leads him to the apex and lets him collide with it; the only place where mortal flesh may touch infinity.
Suguru feels his cock twitch and slaps his free hand against Satoru’s mouth. It doesn’t do much to stifle his voice, bursting free from the tender cage of his lungs in pleading exhalations of lust. His chest shivers, feet scraping uselessly against the wood as his hips buck into Suguru’s fist. Slick warmth, pulsating wetness as Gojo’s body constricts and writhes, plus a strange feeling of static repulsion as the Limitless flickers with the spasms. Suguru slows, focusing his movements on light, repeated squeezes on the tip, coaxing every dram of cum and pleasure from Satoru’s body as he crawls down from the peak of his orgasm. His rubbing slows as his boyfriend’s body weakens, as the desperate moans soften into gasps. He rides him out to the end, ‘till Satoru is limp as a corpse, curling against Suguru’s chest who continues kissing the naked skin of his neck and shoulder, flushed red with affection and dotted with bite marks.
In the end, Satoru has slid, boneless, to the ground, his head and upper chest the only things remaining in Suguru’s lap. Suguru’s hand has slipped from his shorts, fingers webbed with cum. Satoru’s chest heaves, hungry for air after so many stifled screams. Geto looks down at him with a smile.
He wonders what to do about the mess of his hand. He closes his fingers, reopens, and the off-white fluid sticks between them. He notices that Satoru, pale flesh blushing with a post-orgasmic glow, is looking up at him.
He smirks back. Eh, he thinks, bringing his hand to his mouth. Whatever. He begins slowly, laboriously, licking Satoru’s cum from his fingers. He makes a little show of it, seeing how wide those blue eyes get as he begins, lets his tongue curl around each. He swallows once his hand is clean.
They are silent for a moment, Satoru staring through the haze of sex and Suguru staring back, his dark purple eyes gleaming with satisfaction as waves continue breaking on the shore.
Satoru is the first to break the stalemate. “Gross, Suguru.”
He cannot help but laugh, falling back against the fence. There is catharsis in it. Suguru realises for the first time how stressed he was before he let Satoru come into his hand.
“You feel better?” he says, returning to loom over Satoru’s exhausted face. His boyfriend sighs heavily, then raises a hand to wipe a line of sweat from his brow.
“Fuck, Suguru,” he says. “That was kind of awesome.”
Suguru smiles and caresses his face. “I’m glad.”
With a sigh, Satoru extracts himself from Suguru’s lap, leaning forward and tugging at the crotch of his pants. “I’m dirty now.”
“Go take a shower, then,” he says, sitting back against the wall and crossing his legs. “It’s getting kinda cold, hey? You can borrow my sweatpants when you’re finished, if you want.”
“What about-”
“Shut it,” he interrupts, “I’ll watch them. What else am I here for?”
With a huff Satoru stands, a little wobbly, bracing himself against the fence for support. He looks down at Suguru with a wide, blissed out grin. His eyes glow a much healthier shade of blue.
“I could think of a few things…”
Geto smiles, reaching forward to carve a long black wound into the air, bleeding with tar. The hunched figure of Kuchisake-Onna steps through. “Yeah, I bet you could.” The cursed spirit then stands sentinel beside Suguru, head downturned and face obscured by a waterfall of moist black hair. “Go on,” he continues, reaching up and giving Satoru’s hand a squeeze. “Take a break, my love.”
Satoru squeezes back, leans down, and kisses him. Their tongues wrestle like tired old serpents before he breaks away, letting his long white palm drag across Suguru’s face as he stands and waddles towards his cabin, holding the hem of his loose board shorts. He’s being careful not to let anything drip. Suguru snorts at the sight.
Then he is alone. The special grade curse sways beside him, her hair swept past her bandaged face as a cool breeze arrives from the shore. Suguru watches her rock back and forth and feels, bizarrely, something knot and go taut at the trunk of his spine. A flicker, sharp and uncomfortable, which makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. His back straightens and he looks around, over his shoulder, to all the dark corners of the resort which Satoru had surveyed with so much disquiet.
It’s then that he understands what Satoru was feeling. It’s like there’s something they’ve forgotten. Like he’s been seen.
Something’s off…
Suguru feels a sudden itch spreading out from a spot on his bare calf. He looks down and spots a mean looking welt, the lone pink bump risen out of his lightly tanned skin. He spots a mosquito floating noiselessly away, disappearing out past the cabins where Riko and Kuroi sleep as waves dissolve into the shore.