#chaoslulled \ satoru gojo

[gravesung]

@chaoslulled ( satoru ) — binding vows.

SUGURU GETO KNOWS HE SHOULD BE more nervous than he is. perhaps he should even be angry, shunted off by his family as a bargaining chip to unite their clans politically without any say in the matter. and he is bitter about it, but only in the same way he has been bitter for his entire life: this is not new. it only proves what he has already known about his family since he was very young.

that bitterness, he knows, is his own. he cradles it carefully within his heart, guards it like a starving dog against the curses that shove stolen emotions into his soul like a hand down the throat. surges of anger, fear, envy, melancholy, rejection linger on the back of his tongue, but the bitterness is his. so is the shame at the root of it all, deeper still.

the gojo clan estate is massive. easily several times the size of his family home and exponentially more opulent, he finds himself feeling lost as he stares up at the entryway. no one told him what to do when he actually got here. was he supposed to wait at the gates? should he knock? the place is so damn big, how is anyone even supposed to hear it if he does—

suguru's hand is already poised at the wood of the door when it swings open, and suddenly he is face to face with the bluest pair of eyes he has ever seen. even behind the shades, they are arresting, wide and gleaming, framed by snowy lashes and a face that can only be described as objectively beautiful. when they met before, it was brief and gojo was shrouded in a hood to hide away from the rest of the suitors. suguru remembers the flash of those eyes when they stood together on the balcony and he handed the frustrated heir a lighter. the hint of a cheekbone and tousled white hair. but that was just it: a flash, like a passing car.

here, right in front of him, gojo's ethereal beauty is almost overwhelming.

❝ gojo-san—! apologies, i... ❞ he stammers, steps back out of gojo's personal space. ❝ wasn't sure where to go. are you... ❞

a glance up and down at the bedhead, the slippers, the tousled clothing. ❝ did you just wake up? ❞

[huntershowl]

‘I played god once and it did not end well.’ *SATORU

EVERYTHING IS DIFFERENT THROUGH the eyes of a curse.

if, in fact, that is what the collector has turned her into. she certainly feels like a curse. corporeal and incorporeal, human and inhuman like the one they call mahito, but at the same time still a host for the soul of persephone aisa. she still feels like ... herself. though, looking in the mirror reveals something closer to what she saw herself as in her mind's eye. deep gray eyes now glow a bright purplish red, black markings score across her face, and she feels at all times the sharp-toothed and many-limbed creature that threatens to tear loose from their skin.

playing god is the most accurate description, she supposes, for what the collector can do. their body ( the body they've stolen, rather ) is weak and feeble, but their power stretches so far across cosmic possibility that it matters very little. when they first approached seph years ago, trapped in a house with a monster, they explained that they could create binding vows on a world-altering scale — other than the vow affecting only the contract holder, there was no limit to what wish they could grant. it was simply the collector's choice, piece of shit they are, that their targets had to agree to the contracts without knowing what toll they were going to extract. or when they were going to extract it.

persephone, as lethe, told them to go shove a contract up their ass. sure, she was miserable — but no amount of misery alleviated is worth putting their entire life in the hands of a cruel deal-making god. what if they took orion from them? what if they caused some horrible consequence to befall her later that made it all worthless anyway? from what she was able to dig up, that is an extremely common outcome with the collector. the victory is always pyrrhic. the price they pay makes life worse for them, in the end.

some part of the collector must have been a masochist, however, because they never left her the fuck alone. time and time again, with each misery that fell upon her came the whispered offer of a deal from the shadows; a dark-suited form haunting the corner of her vision. but seph never paid them any mind. she treated them like another one of her many hallucinations: there one second and gone the next, unreal and unimportant.

that is, until the world fell to pieces around her.

as it turns out, persephone would stake everything on a deal if she was desperate enough. that desperation came in the form of a very real, very imminent threat to the one person she thought could never be threatened.

satoru gojo has been their safe haven, their shelter, a home to come back to. persephone never expected to become so close with him — it was an accident, a bond borne of mutual isolation and a fondness for smoking that brought them back together again and again and again. both of them had loved and lost. they'd put up fortresses around themselves and promised never to let someone close enough to hurt them again.

regrettably, beautifully, it didn't pan out that way. still she refused to feel the pain of loss again, but this time, she was going to fucking do something about it. MAKE ME POWERFUL ENOUGH TO SAVE HIM. one sentence, a single domino crashing to the ground, and a handshake threaded with power, and the course of their fates was altered forever. as far as prices from the collector go, it wasn't so cruel to be turned into whatever the hell she is now — curse, half-curse, some fucked-up third thing. orion is safe; thanks to the deal, satoru is safe; persephone grapples with a very real monster now, but they are still themself. at their core, underneath it all, something heart-like still beats.

but it's his heart she listens to now, ear pressed up against his chest, its steady rhythm proof that he isn't a hallucination — that he is alive, here, true and existent. she feels their world-altering auras meld together, their cursed energy swirling into each other like two different colors of smoke. now that her body is — this, this otherworldly shapeshifting vessel, her cursed energy no longer screams to be set free from a cage. it simply is, written into their re-formed bones, their new and untested power finally expansive enough to fit. after a few more moments of silence other than the rush of blood and the beating of his heart, seph tilts her head up and rests their chin on his chest to look at him. ❝ what happened? ❞

[barrenstars]

@chaoslulled : his knees dig into the plush rug, his nose nudging up underneath her wrist before he drags his tongue along her fingers. " c'mon, shoks. i can be a good boy. i'm the best boy. please? " his voice is breathy, lilts softly as he slowly takes her fingers into his mouth, moving back and forth.

tired chocolate hues lock with bright cerulean ones, downcast from her sitting position on her desk chair, fixating on the tongue that innocently runs across her fingers. there's a slight tilt of her head as he speaks, pleading, begging; trying to convince her. shoko doesn't react, her lips don't pull from their small frown, not until he takes her fingers into his mouth all so boldly, bobbing his head back and forth around her index and middle finger. only now does her lips twitch, one half curling into an amused smirk. opposite elbow meets the desk, her hand cushioning her head as she holds it up, angled perfectly to continue watching the sight before her. she'd be lying if she didn't admit watching him, gojo satoru, the strongest of them all, submissively beg on his knees for her didn't turn her on. it did.

suddenly, shoko inches forward, uncrossing her legs and bending down closer to his height, brunette locks cascading down her shoulders. " please? " she repeats, the fingers his kissable lips are wrapped around moving around his tongue, hooking themself at the corners of his mouth and tugging him up onto his knees so he could meet her at a perfect height - despite the fact he was so much taller than her. " you are such a good boy, satoru, " free hand moves, fingers brushing strands of pure white hair from his face, " and such a pretty boy. "

tilting her head, glossed lips connect with his cheek, leaving a small trail of sweet kisses down to his jaw, stopping when the neck of his uniform jacket prevents her from going any lower. staying where she is, shoko allows her breath to fan over his jaw, brown eyes flickering up to watch his expression as her fingers still remain hooked around his cheek. " but i don't know what it is you want, sweetheart. " planting one final kiss to his jaw, she rises back up to sit, her back meeting her desk chair once again. crossing one leg over the other, once again, glossy lips part as she slowly, agonizingly slowly, retracts her fingers from his mouth, allowing the strings of saliva to drip. meeting his gaze once again, she maintains eye contact as she pushes her saliva-drenched fingers by her own lips, proceeding to suck the taste of him off and savour it for a brief moment. once finished, she pulls her fingers out, casting the male her signature, gentle smile. " what is it you want, darling? "

[saiakv]

Cont. from x ft. @chaoslulled ♥

From disembarking the train to Tokyo with a sightseeing guide tucked under his arm to scrunching his nose over the city stench at some penthouse in Roppongi, it felt like several lifetimes had passed. Suguru had grown so used to the quietude of reclusion, that the constant buzz embracing their duality was overstimulating. In search of solace, his mind would naturally gravitate towards the faint white noise of Limitless running beside him.

They stand side by side against the railing and his own aura ebbs and flows between them; taking a chance, withdrawing back into his mind. He's long stopped noticing the way cold has seeped in through his socks, snuggling into his haori — even with the ceremonial kasaya exchanged for a humble hakama, he still looked whimsically out of place in the urban scenery. The traffic ambience is dulled under the clarity of his own thoughts and the aftertaste of smoke at the roof of his mouth. His fingers twitch towards the pale hand coming to pry at the Mevius Light, handing it over and receiving it back with intimate synchronization.

The second time they had met in secret, he had found a head of white dusted with maple leaves at that clearance he introduced Satoru to — his heart had clenched with the realization that it was so pointless to find him slumped there and not be his pillow and the mattress all at once. A familiar saying about sorcerers and regret had been swimming around his mind, when Satoru had casually let it slip that he would be leaving overseas in the coming weeks. After that, his friend's voice had melted into word-soup whilst Suguru sat there frigid, as if struck by lightning. If he never came back again, how could he blame him? Selfishly, he had bit down on his pout. You want any souvenirs?

I want you to stay.

He hadn't mulled it over or memorized some elaborate speech; gone were the days when he played by the rules, anyway. And if nothing good came out of this, well — there was not much left to lose when they were already just another ghost in each other's past, was there? At most, Satoru would stop dropping by. Suguru's life return to what it was before this wary reunion; he would go back to caring for his family and tolerating cult hearings; accumulate curses until he could become one himself. Then Satoru might come back to stop him from realizing that vision; or might not; when at open war, it would cease to matter.

Though, these self-affirmations would sound so ridiculous if he could see his own expression in that moment. Eyes gleaming like amethysts reflect the pallid glow of a bashful moon as he holds that smile — the one laden with his bittersweet revelation.

The same smile that would once bloom when he caught his sunglasses just as they slipped off an angelic expression, Satoru dozing off against his shoulder on the car ride home. The same smile that lingered in the aftermath of roaring laughter when Satoru got furikake stuck up his nostril like a stupid idiot.

The same one that meets his six eyes now; and contorts upon the sight. Studying his features, there's so little to deduct beyond an initial shock that could mean anything, really.

❝ Eh? ❞ Suguru's expression draws a blank, just as heat licks at his middle finger — shit, it's burning out. He sneaks in one last drag, puts it out against the railing while Satoru turns to gawk at him like an owl. Momentarily they linger in comical juxtaposition; his calmly slanted face and Satoru's bulging glare, trying to read each other in tandem. Of all the things he had been expecting, an inquisition was hardly on the table. His gaze fell from penetrating blues to the crumpled filter he has been fiddling between his fingers; evidently mulling his words over.

❝ Relax. I was just thinking about it, is all. I'm not asking you to say anything back. ❞ A finalizing breath before he flicks it off the balcony, into the street below. Where once he would be the first to make a fuss about littering.

There's a pause. Suguru pinches the bridge of his nose and a pained smirk begins to grow on his lips. His eyes slip shut with the shadow of his palm hovering over them like a safeguard. It's not regretful, but he can't help confronting himself on his own hypocrisy. He had made that pact with himself to come into this without expectations, so what was that bitter taste in his mouth now that his affection wasn't reciprocated? Worse, that it had beckoned such a brazenly negative reaction too. Even though it was fair; and expected. And even though he was aware that he had no right to ask for anything more.

❝ Bah, Satoru — you could have at least tried to be more sympathetic when you're turning someone down. ❞ It's palpable that whatever it is he's processing has brought about a pang of shame; it can almost be heard under the awkward laugh he huffs.

[soulsballad]

@chaoslulled: " come on, open up wide! " he holds the sushi out between the chopsticks, wide ass grin settled onto his features. he's being absolutely obnoxious, but he was out of town for megumi's birthday and he's got to do something for the kid. " i'll start making plane noises, don't you doubt me. " white eyebrow raises at the other, but there's something absolutely serious in his tone. as if on cue, he starts to make plane noises while flying the sushi through the air –– at the very not toddler megumi fushiguro across from him. * satoru!

he's absolutely mortified. gojo, of course, has to embarrass him once again. it's been the same since he was a child, but it was more tolerable back then, because he was just a kid, and gojo acting like this was understood by other people. but now, as they sit together at some sushi joint that the older male had picked out, megumi thinks he'd much rather be taking on sukuna with no shadows, just his hands and feet. perhaps even sukuna, the curse king, would be understanding given this situation.

green hues watch with dread as gojo grins at him, and he has no doubt in his mind that the idiot would stand up and fly himself around the fricking restaurant just to embarrass megumi further, but like hell he was going to eat from his chopsticks. that wasn't even something he did as a child, and it's definitely not going to be something he does as a teenager. so, naturally, all the ravenet does is glare at the elder, internally pleading that he doesn't betray him like this. he'd like to think there was a heart somewhere in the ice-cold chest of his, not one he just pretended to have. ( he knows gojo has a heart, but right now, it's clearly missing. )

but, of course, gojo satoru does as he says he would. dark brows shoot up when the noises tumble from his mouth, he watches as his lips smack together to create the sounds, and he sinks low in his seat when laughter from around the shop echoes in his ears. it was mostly elderly people, but there were some couples, maybe a few people his own age. this sucked.

❝ stop, ❞ he pleads, but gojo does not. ❝ gojo, stop, damnit! okay, fine! ❞ feeling his entire face burn hotly, the young boy takes a deep breath and pushes his ego aside. sitting up, he leans a little into the table, gaze fixated upon the white-haired male as he glares daggers at him, and he parts his lips for him to feed him the sushi. ❝ you're unbelievable. ❞

[penumbraal]

❝ ⸻ YOU LOOK TOO PLEASED RIGHT NOW. ❞

and that's potentially dangerous for megumi, who more or less has somehow become the most entertaining person to embarrass. in his eyes, gojo's default state is up - to - no - good ; so a small alarm bell goes off in one corner of his mind when he can even sniff something out of place.

he regards gojo with narrowed eyes, makes no effort to stand from his seat at the foot of a courtyard oak tree.

❝ whatever you're doing, i don't want any part of it. ❞

@chaoslulled // for gojo satoru !!

[spydcddya]

⭑ STARTER CALL. ➝ @chaoslulled / gojo satoru

❛❛ you're managing a rambunctious teen sharing bodies with our greatest enemy yet, a free spirit &. the melancholic son to a known killer - explain to me why i shouldn't pull any one of them from being part of the cause, when they're all a problem. ❜ he hated cutting the kindness ( short ), but the thought of losing their footing over one person's fearlessness gave him pause. gojo's impulsivity leveled all the subserving sorcerer's opinions like loid's own, however. but that doesn't mean he wouldn't step in to mediate.

[pontevoix]

hc + geto for satoru from here | @chaoslulled

gojo satoru & his perspective on geto suguru

introduction.

if  you  feel  dirty,  then  get  clean.  gojo  satoru  could  spend  days  under  boiling  water  &  still  not  be  clean  of  suguru  geto���s  betrayal.  he  could  spend  days  with  eyes  shut  &  still  see  the  signature  of  suguru  geto’s  cursed  energy.  he  could  spend  days,  &  there  could  still  be  a  lot  of  unknowns.  because  (  for  better  or  for  worse  )  geto  suguru  had  introduced  a  second  part  of  him.

satoru  refuses  to  feel  grateful.  he  can’t  quite  stop  himself  from  feeling  devastated,  though.

first  world.

gojo  satoru’s  childhood  is  first  defined  by  the  family  grounds.  he  spends  his  time  training  or  with  too  much  non-freedom.  everything  is  his  &  promised  to  be  his.  the  grounds  are  set  firmly,  legally.  they’re  set  on  paper.

the  grounds  aren’t  the  priority,  even  within  the  clan.  so  he  takes  it  for  granted.  this  is  what  he’s  told  by  authority  figures.

of  course,  he  disagrees.  it  doesn’t  feel  like  he’s  taking  it  for  granted,  really,  because  he  doesn’t  care  that  much  about  the  outcome  —-  still,  he  cannot  deny  (even  as  a  child)  that  he  feels  inevitable.

the  first  version  of  himself  that  satoru  imagines  for  himself  is  determined  by  the  world  of  the  gojo  clan.  the  grounds  are  a  secondary  priority  because  the  system  matters  more.  jujutsu  energy  &  cursed  energy  &  that  sort  of  thing  —in  other  words,  satoru  gojo  will  be  the  strongest  because  the  hierarchy  of  the  system  says  so.  everything  else  will  follow.

it  makes  him  a  little  flat.  it  makes  him  absorb  values  that  are  only  partially  his  own.  it  makes  him  better  than  everyone,  it  objectifies  him  to  everyone.

satoru  hates  the  phrase  to  paint  a  target  on  someone  because  it’s  naive;  it  doesn’t  reflect  that  there  are  those  who  are  born  targets.  the  great  are  born  to  be  targets.  the  great  are  great  no  matter  what.

there’s  a  lot  that  he  hates.  there’s  a  lot  of  pride  that  he  feels  because  he  has  to,  because  sometimes  his  head  aches  too  much  for  him  to  imagine  that  the  strength  he  has  may  be  anything  but  a  blessing.

there’s  a  lot  that  he  forgets  to  hate,  too.  even  if  he  was  certain  of  being  a  target,  of  being  distrusting  —  he  had  been  young  enough  that  he  didn’t  question  how:

someone  else  chooses  his  clothing,  chooses  everything  for  him.  touches  are  fleeting  things.  daylight  sometimes  hurts.   he  is  kept  at  distance.   cats  should  only  have  unofficial  names.  parts  of  the  self  are  meant  to  collect  dust.

this  is  how  things  should  be.

he  doesn’t  question  what  it  means  to  be  the  strongest,  what  it  means  to  be  the  greatest.

in  hindsight,  forgetting  to  question  was  a  mistake.

second  world.

it  had  been  a  battle  between  someone  &  someone  whether  he  should  go  to  the  tokyo  school.  satoru  himself  had  been  a  part  of  that  battle  —  he  laughs  in  authority’s  face;  he  makes  threats.  ultimately,  he  isn’t  really  sure  if  he  cares  either  way,  but  —

it’s  funny.  as  he  gets  older,  the  greater  difficulty  people  have  telling  him  no.

it’s  funny,  too.  as  he  gets  older,  he  can’t  fully  shake  from  his  body  the  feeling  of  old  laws  &  customs  &  authorities.  (  as  he  grows  older  still,  grows  into  adulthood  —  he  does  better  about  disagreeing  with  these  old  ways  ).

still,  satoru  is  the  product  of  old  worlds  whether  he  likes  it  or  not.

his  family  (  his  clan  )  expects  him  to  act  old  when  he  goes  to  school.  ideally,  he  would  act  with  some  sort  of  immovable  elegance.  to  be  frank,  satoru  expects  it  of  himself  as  well.  but  then  he  gets  there,  &  his  teachers  expect  nothing  of  him.

they  had  worked  with  the  children  of  the  clans  before.  despite  all  expectations,  the  teachers  keep  discovering  that  children  are  always  children  when  they  are  allowed  the  freedom.

satoru  sinks  into  himself  —  trying  things  because  he  can,  pushing  boundaries  because  he  can,  feeling  their  consequences  differently  for  maybe  the  first  time.

amid  all  that  :

it’s  one  thing  to  be  told  you’re  the  strongest.  it’s  another  thing  to  not  yet  be  the  strongest.  it’s  a  third  thing  to  meet  someone  else  who  stands  on  strength  the  that  satoru  does.  there’s  shoko,  of  course;  she  stands  on  a  mountain  of  strength  that  she  builds  for  herself  with  measured  components.  &  then  there’s  geto,  self-made  &  making  the  earth  rise  beneath  his  feet.  his  mountain  is  self-made,  but  it  feels  like  it’s  a  natural  phenomenon.

suguru  used  to  joke  that  he  was  the  strongest  of  his  family,  too.  &  satoru  found  it  funny  because  —  yeah,  he  guesses  so.  what  does  that  mean  though  ?  to  think  of  strength  in  the  jujutsu  world  outside  the  influence  of  old  families  ?

either  way,  he  &  suguru  work  well  together.  grass  sticks  to  their  necks  &  knees  when  they  collapse  in  the  school’s  field  —  training  or  laughing  or  something  like  that.  they  work  well  together  in  the  way  that  satoru  cracks  with  the  energy  recently  released,  that  suguru  ambles  &  commands  space  around  him.

suguru  is  elegant  in  the  way  that  satoru  might  have  been.  elegant,  in  the  limited  way  that  a  teenager  can  be,  soured  with  some  attitude  &  presumption  &  attitude.

there’s  no  concrete  moment  that  they  become  friends.  but  it  feels  as  though  suguru  (  force  of  nature  though  he  is  )  instrumented  it  —  there’s  something  about  him  that  presides  over  forces  of  nature.  it  feels  like  he  manages  to  make  satoru  grow  taller.

.  .  .  satoru  supposes  too  that  suguru  is  someone  kind  to  him.  even  when  they  fight  (&  they  fight  often  )  ,  bumping  heads  &  sometimes  sparring  without  pulling  punches.  suguru  has  a  habit  of  tugging  on  satoru’s  ear  when  he  thinks  satoru  is  being  extremely  annoying  but  —

suguru  is  a  collage  of  habits  &  familiarities  that  satoru  learns  to  trust.

third  world.

riko  amanai,  of  course,  changed  everything.  &  years  later  when  satoru  is  twenty-eight,  satoru  waves  a  hand  &  says  something  like  well,  we  all  know  how  that  went.  he  has  a  terrible  habit  of  making  light  of  serious  things,  of  laughing  a  little  at  things  that  make  him  uncomfortable.  honestly,  he  doesn’t  know  where  the  habit  came  from.  it  wasn’t  something  that  he  did  as  a  child  —

but  then  again,  maybe  he  hadn’t  felt  discomfort  like  the  way  he  does  until  riko  amanai.  the  star  plasma  vessel.  when  satoru  hears  those  words,  he  always  pictures  them  in  lights  —-  star  plasma  vessel.  as  though  they  were  some  fantastic  spectacle  on  the  american  streets  of  vegas.

the  star  plasma  vessel  dies,  of  course.  a  couple  of  years  after  her  death,  satoru  still  can’t  decide  if  he  feels  triumphant  or  sick  at  how  the  most  visceral  memory  of  all  of  that  is  not  how  she  died,  but  how  he  felt  when  satoru  himself  died.  his  body  keeps  telling  him  that  he  died,  &  his  body  keeps  telling  him  how  good  it  felt  when  he  survived.

he  is  certain  that  he  remembers  everything  after  he  survived  —  how  he  found  the  dead  girl,  how  he  had  found  suguru.  or  maybe  he  hadn’t  found  them  ?  maybe  someone  else  had  found  them  ?  but  still  satoru  had  seen  them,  probably,  &  his  body  had  been  so  sick  on  survival  that  he  didn’t  care  as  much  as  he  might  have.  he  left  before  shoko  got  to  suguru,  but  he  knew  that  she  was  coming.  he  thinks  he  knew  that  she  was  coming.

it  was  very  gojo  of  him,  he  supposes.  the  clan  would  approve.

he  teleported  for  the  first  time.

he  remembers  everything  after  he  survived  —  including  how  easily  he  had  made  toji  fushijuro  fall,  how  he  had  laughed.

he  doesn’t  remember  the  sound  of  people’s  clapping  at  the  girl’s  death  though.

suguru  does.

in  the  aftermath,  it’s  not  as  though  satoru  doesn’t  see  that  suguru  is  fraying.  however,  he  also  see  suguru  through  a  type  of  fog,  built  from  both  the  residuals  of  continued  survival  &  the  things  that  he’s  learning.  satoru  is  just  wired.

&  besides  that  .  .  .  suguru  has  always  been  consistent  &  reliable.  satoru  can’t  quite  bring  himself  not  to  have  faith  in  suguru’s  being  who  he  knows  him  to  be.

it  is  a  mark  of  bias.  maybe  it’s  because  somewhere  along  the  way,  suguru  became  one  of  his  firsts.

super  cheesy  to  say,  right?  haha.

satoru  has  a  terrible  habit  of  making  light  of  serious  things,  of  laughing  a  little  at  things  that  make  him  uncomfortable.  honestly,  he  doesn’t  know  where  the  habit  came  from.

satoru  is  certain  that  suguru  knows.

fourth  world.

whatever  suguru  knows  about  satoru,  it  doesn’t  change  things.  &  there’s  room  for  self-blame  there,  too,  of  course.  even  if  satoru  remembers  everything  after  he  survived,  he  doesn’t  remember  everything  about  the  aftermath.  After  all,  there  was  that  fog  of  residuals  from  continued  survival  &  things  that  he  was  learning.  he  had  been  wired.

&  he  didn’t  pay  enough  attention  to  stop  suguru  from  massacring  a  village.

honestly,  he  doesn’t  care  much  about  the  village.  he  cares  more  than  he  used  to,  probably.  after  the  dead  girl,  satoru  feels  a  little  more  that  maybe  he’s  starting  to  see  normal  people  as  being  more  than  weak  contestants  in  survival  of  the  fittest.  he’s  feeling  a  little  proud  of  himself,  because  it’s  something  that  suguru  could  agree  with  —-

except  not  any  more.  now  suguru  is  slated  for  execution.

he  starts  to  wonder  sometimes  if  it  comes  back  to  what  satoru  hadn’t  done  to  prevent  haibara  yu’s  death.

for  the  record,  there  hadn’t  been  anything  that  satoru  could  have  done  to  prevent  his  death.  he  hadn’t  been  on  the  scene  until  later.  but  even  then,  he  was  wired.

when  thinking  about  the  choice  that  suguru  had  made,  it  becomes  apparent  that  this  is  the  first  time  that  that  satoru  hasn’t  been  enough,  that  there’s  nothing  he  can  do  to  be  enough.

suguru  becomes  one  of  satoru’s  firsts  for  more  than  just  the  good.  he  is  the  first  that  knows  satoru  too  well,  that  knows  weaknesses  satoru  hadn’t  considered.  he  is  the  first  to  use  himself  against  satoru.

he  is  the  first  time  that  another  person  can  be  satoru’s  downfall.

the  fourth  world  lasts  years.  &  suguru  keeps  rubbing  salt  in  open  wounds,  &  it’s  infuriating  because  it  makes  satoru  think  that  suguru  probably  doesn’t  believe  everything  he’s  doing  either.  it  makes  satoru  think  that  suguru  is  waiting  to  weaponize  satoru,  that  he  is  intentionally  using  satoru  as  a  mode  of  self-destruction.

satoru  can’t  clean  himself  of  that  feeling.

suguru  mocks  him  on  the  street,  outside  of  a  cheap  fried  chicken  chain.  he  challenges  him,  &  satoru  lets  him.  it’s  weakness,  &  it  is  not  in-line  with  the  values  of  the  gojo  clan.  it  is  not  in-line  with  the  values  that  satoru  sets  for  himself.  suguru  claims  checkmate.

a  week  later,  shoko  asks  satoru  if  he  can  capture  a  curse  for  her.  weapon,  he  hears.  so  he  says  a  lot  of  nasty  things,  &  he  doesn’t  mean  them.  she  knows.

he  starts  to  do  better  faking  sunshine  &  fucking  daises  after  that.  hopefully,  it’s  not  always  fake,  to  be  fair.  satoru  really  likes  teaching.

the  fourth  world  lasts  years.

until  it  doesn’t.

fifth  world.

the  new  world  doesn’t  start  when  he  walks  away  from  the  body  of  suguru  geto.  suguru  geto  shouldn’t  have  been  allowed  to  fester,  but  satoru  let  him.  suguru  shouldn’t  have  been  allowed  as  much  sway  over  satoru  as  he  did,  but  satoru  let  him.  the  night  parade  of  a  hundred  demons  shouldn’t  have  happened,  but  it  did.

satoru  walks  away  from  suguru’s  body  smiling  —  because  he’s  a  teacher,  &  he’s  fixating  on  being  a  teacher,  &  it  matters.  for  a  lot  of  reasons,  it  matters.

satoru  walks  away  from  suguru’s  body  a  loser.  suguru’s  destruction  is  his  own.

as  much  as  satoru  has  loved  suguru  geto,  he  cannot  forgive  him  for  making  him  do  that.

suguru  has  given  satoru  has  much  opportunity  for  love  as  he  has  given  him  for  hatred,  for  guilt.

incidentally,  suguru  has  also  given  satoru  a  path  forward.

the  new  world  starts  a  week  after  he  walks  away  from  the  body  of  suguru  geto  —  when  he  washes  his  face  in  the  morning,  sees  flecks  of  toothpaste  on  his  mirror,  &  suddenly  feels  dirty.

if  you  feel  dirty,  then  get  clean.  gojo  satoru  could  spend  days  under  boiling  water  &  still  not  be  clean  of  suguru  geto’s  betrayal.  he  could  spend  days  with  his  eyes  shut  &  still  see  the  signature  of  suguru  geto’s  cursed  energy.  he  could  spend  days  &  there  could  still  be  a  lot  of  unknowns.  because  (  for  better  or  for  worse  )  geto  suguru  had  introduced  worlds  to  him.

satoru  refuses  to  feel  grateful.  he  can’t  quite  stop  himself  from  feeling  devastated,  though.

end.

then  there’s  more.  then  there’s  the  contamination  called  kenjaku.

betrayal  from  the  grave,  guilt  sent  to  the  grave.  it’s  the  product  of  negligence.

it  just  feels  like  hurt.

[heartsbind]

a furtive glance at his watch tells nanami he ought to have been home two hours ago, scotch on the rocks in one hand and a book in the other.

instead, he's just now wrapping up, the residuals of a freshly exorcised curse behind him and in front of him none other than gojo. nanami sighs, displeased that his assistance was even needed in the first place. ( or, perhaps he simply wished the call had been made sooner, to prevent so much time from being wasted. )

hunger comes knocking, and he idly wonders if it would be impossible to acquire a fresh loaf of bread at this hour for the leftover soup that awaits him. perhaps that would make this evening salvageable.

❝ ⸻ i'll be going now, ❞ he announces, perhaps futilely ; he knows that typically with satoru gojo, that's not quite all there is to it.

@chaoslulled / for gojo !

[huntershowl]

some threads ive been enjoying pt. 1 — chats w/ @chaoslulled gojo under a cherry tree

yes infinity is keeping the petals from falling on him lmfao

[saiakv]

[ wrap ]  –  for the sender’s muse to casually wrap their arms around the receiver’s neck and lean on their shoulder from behind. * for the boys!

hand prompt: accepting

Surrounding a desolate mountainside, the woods are dense as a barrier, shielding the cabin from the faintest roar of a car passing by the nearest highway. If a breath is held, the ambience of wind brushing past the trees and birds chirping fades into hollow silence. The sort of quietude that's only found in ascetic pursuits. Suguru often gets lost in the loudness of his own thoughts when he's the one waiting.

And usually, he is. The hounds have been on their trail as of late and they reverted to being extra careful. In between each lovesick retreat Suguru keeps telling himself 'he'll come around, he'll think it over'; but Satoru insists he's doing things in his own way and if he doesn't want to be a hypocrite, he'll have to respect that. Especially since he is the one who made a fuss about not having his own choices respected. He has debated making his presence in the sorcerer's life provocative if only to push him to that inevitable revelation ( changing the system from within? what a farcical idea; as long as monkeys existed to bleed curses into the world, the problem was only being recycled ) — but every time they meet, he somehow always ends up dropping that thought between lean thighs. He takes one look at that towering mess of white and knows he could never bring himself to upset the tender heart within it. For all his resilience — he has this six foot two weakness.

In this deafening silence of the mountains, waiting for him to come home becomes agonizing. He has come up with a few little routines to give his itching hands something to do; from dipping fruit in sugar to burning incense, airing out the rooms, grooming himself, getting everything chopped up for when they'll cook dinner. There's something calming about it — taking care of their haven. It was a bubble of safety; and it was a lie. But Suguru, for once, was doing everything in his power to keep those grounding thoughts at bay; chasing after his reward for it.

A reward that enters inconspicuously when sliding doors part; out to the balcony overlooking the expanse of green. At once foxy smile presses to Suguru's shoulder as he turns to look his better half over, kiseru still smoking in his grip. Within a step or two they have rejoiced with an unspoken 'welcome home' lingering under the younger's smile. The weight falls over his shoulders like a blanket, energies happily swirling around each other's like sparrows in the throes of love; courting until they settle for the lull of a peaceful waltz. The characteristic notes of his perfume tickle his nostrils and Suguru lets out the softest hum of contentment, not quite registering the tease about how clean the place smells. ( cue the shit-eating grin; 'where is your apron?' ) His gaze falls to the lanky arms looped around him like a collar, trapping him in this all encompassing embrace. The contours of their bodies are so different from back then; Suguru's growth stunted with the death of his old self. But old habits die hard.

When Satoru leans on him, it earns a (feigned) snappy grunt, before he maneuvers his way around that embrace to face him. He's always pretended like his added weight would serve to further the curl in his own spine — 'you're too heavy, Satoru! you're going to give me a hunchback!', a whisper from the past carried onto the breeze that sweeps through their hair. The kiseru ends up smoking next to his ear when Suguru rests his wrist over his shoulder as if to lather him in the tobacco's scent and cover the monkey stench that lingers.

❝ Mm, you think you're so big, don't you. ❞ A smirk. He lets his own palm wonder up the creased lapel to his shirt and loop around his nape, fingers stroking up the fresh undercut in a leisurely fashion. Sultry gaze wonders over the sweet-stained lips awaiting him, his own pucker slightly as though to tease a kiss; just enough to blow some smoke in his face as a cover for prying the blindfold loose. It slips around pale flesh and rests over his neck like a makeshift collar, when Suguru grabs and twists it from the front. A light tug, a slow drag from the pipe, his eyelids droop with a beguiling smirk when pulling him down — pulling their faces closer. ❝ You know, Satoru, height won't do much for you when you're on your back. ❞

[saiakv]

💏 from satoru!

50 ways to kiss ♥ : accepting ! 4. where it hurts.

Musical ambient fills Suguru's dorm room from the portable radio; displayed on the windowsill, right next to his sole potted plant ( that, too, had begun to rot in lack of sufficient light, but for once he didn't seem to have noticed ) It was a chilly evening outside, the residuals of heavy winter melting into a dreary spring.

Which meant this would be their only chance to visit that new pancake shop he had scouted one day while walking to the train in some time. Makes them both salty and sweet; it was ideal. For weeks now, the mental image of himself and Satoru catching up at one of those lovely tables by the window overlooking the tracks with a fat stack of steaming hot pancakes between them had become the thought that drags him out of bed in the morning. It would be one of those few moments where Suguru could breathe a little easier and trick himself into feeling it was just like back then. When they were kids.

Now he feels like an overworked adult nearing retirement. Watching himself all dressed up in the bathroom mirror almost feels unreal — it's been so long since he wore something other than his uniform or a tracksuit; even his nightwear is freshly folded in a closet that thankfully Satoru had not thought to pry in. Fingertips brush over the cross looped around his gauge, momentarily debating whether it's excessive with the fit. He dabs some sweet yet mellow perfume under his wrists whilst mulling it over. Such frivolous thoughts and yet he craves them like the desert does rain; they only seem to be accessible to him when it's just him and Satoru. Some kind of stress-bond situation, the therapist said.

It's rather unfortunate, then, that he's bonded with the guy who's away on missions half the time. And training when he isn't. And attending clan meetings. And there's always another and.

This next one awaits Suguru when he finally walks out of the bathroom, in his favorite off-white turtleneck, hair in a half updo ( it's the very first time he's switching up the style! ) and the hope rekindled in eyes framed with kohl.

❝ So, what do you think— ❞

Eyes widen upon the sight of Tokyo's prodigal son curled up on the bed with his face half-buried in the pillow. It's a familiar sight that plants a pang in Suguru's chest every time; because he knows what it means. Just as well as he knows what he's going to hear if he brings it up; 'No, we can go, it's okay, it's not that bad'. It's not like Satoru doesn't know it himself; they're overworking him to the bone. But he has never been allowed to be weak, not outside this room, at least.

Briefly, Suguru swallows his pout -- his disappointment. It's felt, but blown away by the sweet whistle of a promise of sleep. So he falls silent, instantaneously, and shrugs off his jacket. Next thing he's rolling down the blinds and normally that would be the point where his friend realizes what is happening and puts up resistance. But before Satoru has a chance to express anything, the younger sorcerer is already knelt by his bedside, taking his cool hand between his palms with an affectionate expression.

❝ It's okay. We'll go another time. ❞ Ah, the indefinite 'other time' that Suguru always mentions in such situations. If he wanted to count the number of reverberations of this exact sentence during this past year on his fingers, he would need several more arms.

Still, his lips are warm and tender when they press over white tufts, lingering on his forehead. It's only a few seconds, but if he could suck some of his pain then and there into himself, Suguru knows it in his soul that he would. And not just this migraine. The burdens, the pressure, the things that make the Gojo Satoru yet another exploitable resource; a cog. Suguru tries not to think about it whien he holds his stupid pretty face, grinds a callused thumb over his cheek. A deep breath into his hair that comes so naturally before parting; with the usual reassuring smile that somewhat makes his tired eyes look less puffy.

He peers into the crack of cerulean under a silver lining — looks into his dearest friend's gaze until a weary smile reflects within them. And it's contagious; Suguru smirks right after and shuffles the covers to crawl into bed with him.

❝ Now move over, Mr. Starfish. You're taking up all the space. ❞

For one thing, at least sleep will come easy.

[saiakv]

[ wounded ] sender patches up receiver's wounds from satoru!

ANGST PROMPTS || accepting

IT HAS ONLY BEEN A FEW HOURS, yet his heartbeat has dulled to a simmer. Each time, the recovery process becomes a little shorter. But what lies at the core of jujutsu is naught more than a give and take and Suguru Geto is not exempt from this rule. Those seconds of turmoil trimmed from his psyche as his resolve hardens with each mission demand a sacrifice in turn. Lose a little life, lose a little light, lose a little —

Blood.

Ah, the smell of it only adds to the lingering nausea the special grade left behind. Lips purse to contain a soft grunt as he reaches for another mint from the table. The small box is buried somewhere under food wrappings and untouched take out boxes, so he shuffles. His company's relentless teases have faded into a monotone. A sole light green bead is procurred and brought to his lips, rolled on the tongue against the palate. He slouches, sinking into the couch as his hunched back sizzles with each jab from that damned saline drenched cloth Satoru keeps burning him with. Suddenly, Suguru becomes very aware of how it must feel for cows and animals like that to get branded.

A particularly abrasive touch forces a hiss between his teeth and a beaming glare follows. There, Suguru's eyes narrow over the snow white lashes fluttering with angelic innocence. Try as he might, he can't be mad at him. At the end of the day, as much of an asshat as Gojo Satoru can be, he still took time from his day to help him.

Even though it was his own fault for leaving his defenses open a moment too long and getting injured.

Suguru understands the delicate balance between acknowledging his friend's efforts and fanning Gojo's gargantuan ego, though.

❝ We're all just lucky you didn't get into nursing, Satoru. ❞ But it's not quite bitter, he wouldn't want to come off as ungrateful. Because the truth is far from it. A small smile hides under the ruffled bangs dangling over his face. ❝ ... thanks. ❞ The tone grows mellow.

❝ It's alright, you don't have to spend more time on it. It's not a very deep gush so I probably won't need to change the bandages again until tomorrow. Thank you for helping me reach back there. Let me buy you something nice for dessert? ❞

[huntershowl]

@chaoslulled said:

❛ Your fear of looking stupid is holding you back. ❜ sato!

pinterest quotes. ACCEPTING

THE WORST PART OF IT IS THAT HE'S RIGHT. persephone has been avoiding her cursed energy for her entire life; she's always known it sheds from her in sickening waves, an absolutely absurd amount for one person to produce. but with no effort put into learning what their innate technique is, that's all it is: energy. it's just noise. over time they've learned to use it to empower their martial strikes, but even that barely scratches the surface of what it can really do. something in her knows this.

but what if it's not? what if persephone has no technique — just a fountain of useless energy, the false promise of power? something in them has been too nervous to find out ever since they enrolled at jujutsu tech, leading to an over-reliance on simple non-jujutsu fighting methods.

but gojo won't let them off the hook for that. under his hand, they have been pushed farther than they thought possible, risen to heights no one knew they were capable of reaching. but still, that nagging thing in the back of her mind. what if there's nothing there? what if they reach the edges of her power, the far shores of her potential, and find... nothing? what if she tries something new and fumbles with air? would she lose gojo's respect — if she ever had it in the first place? they still have no idea what he really thinks of them, how weak he must think they are. what he hides behind quips and smiles.

❝ holding me back from what? ❞ her face darkens as she stumbles back, breaths a labored wheeze from nearly an hour of constant action. the frustration is reaching a boiling point; she can feel the cursed energy bubbling over, untapped, but still has no idea what the fuck to do about it. there's a barrier she keeps hitting, intangible and invisible until she slams against it. ❝ i don't get it, ❞ they snap, hand coming up to rake through hair that's come loose from its long braid. ❝ what the hell is wrong with me? ❞

[saiakv]

❝ i miss the way you smell. ❞ *satoru ~

yet another angsty meme : accepting, i have a problem y'all

Ever since that night in Roppongi, they have only gotten worse.

Suguru's subconscious is plagued by the thought of that red thread and the ghost of it looped around his finger; pulled taut when they are apart, weaved into a warm blanket when they join. In many ways, it was everything he'd wanted — Satoru there by his side in the grand realization of his utopia; in others, it was a feeling worse than the taste of a thousand curses. Suguru remembers being secretly judgemental of addicts back in the day; so there was an added layer of hyprocrisy to pitching the burner phone idea amidst an episode of ( what could only be paralleled to ) withdrawals.

It came with a binding vow attached; the rules for which they negotiated thoroughly under the sheets, on the hotel carpet, in the shower and several other surfaces. The conversations were contained in a barrier held up with their individual energy — otherwise they'd end up carrying each other's residuals. If either party withdraws from the pact, they would be burned from their minds. There had been something oddly calming in working together to imbue the curse, little by little, with cheeky smiles under convening glances. Suguru didn't say it then, but he felt it deep in his bones that they are so hopelessly, helplessly entangled with one another; they'll end up walking like blind men, hand in hand, towards the cliff.

Honestly, it would have been more sufferable if Satoru had just hated him.

And yet, alarming as it was, leaning agaist the doorframe with Satoru's voice pressed to his ear came so naturally. He latched onto every vibration from the phone brushing against his lobe like a parched man folds over the fountain. Suguru could go on for hours; listening to him talk about his day, some movie he had recently watched, what K-pop songs were overrated and if there had been updates on their favorite manga. But there was a high output to maintain those barriers; it wouldn't be discreet if they pushed it.

How was it fair? Satoru had his personal time wholly suspended in the service of people who should be revering him. When the sliding doors to his audience chamber would part, that thought only served to fuel Suguru's hatred. For each monkey dead would be one moment longer with the man he loved, so, so deeply.

It came with conflicted ease, when he drip fed him that love under the palm covering the phone's speaker, lest he drown from it. The conversation had derailed this time, one step further into the madness — playing pretend that this was just a casual phone call in their reality; that they were bickering over what's for dinner. That once they'd hung up Suguru would chop the pork loins and Satoru would start on the soup. And from that, inevitably, to tender confessions of yearning — the sort Suguru had made it a principle to avoid; and then went against his own word.

❝ Is that why you had that pack of Mevius on you? Pft, you're lonely, Satoru ~ ❞ The playful lilt trails off into a soft chuckle. His forehead presses to the wood as he faces towards the sunset, envisioning those long legs folded atop some table and Satoru leaning back in his chair to where you'd think he's going to fall on his head — but it never happens. It's an image Suguru wishes to live in, with guilt. And that guilt manifests into a pang to the left side of his chest when his eye catches a glimpse of Manami motioning for him around the room's corner.

He's quick to hold up a palm to her, to press his lips in a reassuring smile as if this is just some random phone call and he'll be coming along shortly. And he can see the shadow of concern crossing her features before she silently takes his word for it and walks off — to prepare the ground for that next audience. There's a pregnant pause on the line and Suguru belatedly realizes that his beloved asked some question that he never registered; instead, his hand burrows in the folds of his sleeve and procurs a piece of folded paper.

❝ Hey, can I read something to you for a moment? ❞ Eyes squint over his own crumpled handwriting where the ink has bled into a splotch from something wet dripping on it — reads the haiku as though he's reciting some theater monologue. With its true meaning held between his teeth, with its yearning coating his tongue.

The fishing-boats are tossed about, when stormy winds blow strong; with rudder lost, how can they reach the port for which they long?

Pause.

❝ Satoru ? — I have to go now. We'll talk another time. ❞

[saiakv]

[  VISITING  HOURS  ]:     upon waking in a hospital bed, one of the muses turns their head, and finds the other sleeping in an uncomfortable chair by their bedside. from satoru!

SETTINGS WITH POTENTIAL : accepting

On the second blink of white lights, thick lashes fluttered open. He awakened to a constant buzz and the whisper of a saxophone playing faintly. And there was a third, undetermined pitched noise that his chest seemed to synchronize with. Heaving and falling. Briefly, music lulls the mind to an image of a thick mattress bouncing under bare feet. Laughing faces that each wore their mirth so differently, yet were melded in that moment; jumping on the hotel room bed without a care in the world — connected through their fingertips.

Suguru begins to realize that he is lying down on his back.

A small tilt and his neck cracks as if to inform him that he has been flat like this for much too long — just as his breath spurs the machine into beeping with more passion. Through heavy lids, he begins to take in his surroundings. The first thing that hits is the smell of sanitizer and something tangy, like second hand smoke that has lingered for too long. Next, he focuses on sound and the blurry ambience begins to fade in. Finally, his eye cracks open just enough to glimpse of white tufts in the corner of the room — and it all becomes white noise once more. He begins to feel those ripples in their shared pond, where each other's presence was always so disruptive.

Satoru's aura now feels like a weighted blanket.

Before he knows it, Suguru is in a warm bed on a cold winter's eve, fading in and out of sleep. During one of those cycles his eyes take in some more of the comforting sight; slumped across an armchair that can make park benches look like the perfect seat, his chest heaves rhythmically, lips slightly parted as the expression has loosened from his face into that seraphic innocence that Suguru had once secretly relished. Satoru was too big for that chair. He was too big for this room, really, but definitely not cut out to sleep crumpled up like this — Suguru's veiny hand begins to reach, then, and his fingers twitch in his friend's direction. To move; to tuck his jacket under his head so he won't have a sore neck tomorrow.

And that was the fateful moment. A rain of needles shoots up his right side and Suguru bites down on a grunt out of instinct. The choked noise that comes out is buried somewhere under the saxophone's trill. It abducts his direction and his eyes track the source; a TV, small and black and fixed to the wall. The kind you find in a hospital room. It's playing some add. Suguru swallows then; and it pricks at the dryness of his throat. He can't taste anything, as though he has not eaten in days.

At least not through the mouth. It's then that he notes the IV, the gauzes, how the stench of sanitizer seems to be so pungent around his form. With a labored exhale, he tries to shift again, to get up. But it's almost as though his own limbs betrayed him, or someone has tied him to the bed. With that suspicion, he turns to look at one hand, and then —

What? Where is —

' Obata's University! Crazy makes the future! ' The TV exclaims; and Suguru counts the beats of his own heart in his mouth. With trepidation, his eyes fall on Satoru's sleeping form once more. Then the room — his eye snaps to the nightstand, browses over the half empty cup of water, the assortment of napkins and hand sanitizer, a plastic bag of sour candies, the TV remote. A flare widens bruised eyes. With brows furrowing in reluctance, his fingertips begin to crawl like a spider on the mattress until they come to hover in the space between it and the nightstand. Shit. It's too far. He needs to roll on his injured side a bit to reach.

❝ Hh— agkh.... ah, gkh— ❞ An assortment of noises orchestrates his labor. It's agonizing. In that moment, Suguru thinks it might be the second most agonizing thing he has had to carry through; yet he bites down on that same agony to keep him going. That remote suddenly becomes a Golden Chalice; and he, ever the crusader, sucks in a finalizing breath before shifting with a cry and reaching for it — a short-lived triumph. Panting he rolls on his back and does not wait for the fresh wave of pain to subside, anxiously pushing his thumb into the buttons, zapping through channels -- modelling, dramas, cooking show, news. Violet eyes shrink to the size of a pinhead whilst browsing over the titles; fix on the date.

December 26th.

Time stops; freezing the shock atop his features. It's why he only noticed the shifting by his bedside when Satoru's voice was already filling the deafening silence in his mind; like a beam of pure light for one shipwrecked in the middle of a dark and hostile sea. Or maybe it had been the sedatives. In either case, Suguru seems far from happy to see him, when their faces meet. He's sure he looks pathetic in many ways in that moment, but the concern does not even slip between the myriad of thoughts coursing through his dazed head. Oh, it's beginning to wear him out already.

❝ Can— water. ❞ It lacks the usual jubilance, stripped of its charm; it's a plea. And if his tone left any room to doubt that, his wet gaze would rectify it.