( for a long moment, he stares at his device--willing the text bubble to pop up, willing some kind of typing, willing any sort of response that will explain this is not what he thinks it is. he's not just some thing that can be summoned with the clap of a sorcerer's hand; he's never been that kind of person, even when he'd been working with kenjaku and the like. if anything, a part of him stubbornly considers staying put: if gojou satoru wants him so bad, then gojou satoru can come for him himself.
that stubbornness lasts only for about five minutes. ugh, why does he have to be like this? it feels like he's drawn in his direction, and it's not just because he wants to make sure everything is alright.
begrudgingly, he shows up about ten minutes later: he's gotten a penchant for bringing things to others, cups of tea and coffee and small snacks he can smuggle from the cafe or the cafeteria for little cost, but he's coming empty-handed like it's some silent punishment for gojou summoning him like this. his knuckles close in a knock against the wood; suppressing a sigh of breath, he reaches for the door handle instead, turning it to find it unlocked.
that seems a little odd. immediately he's opening the door, leaning his shoulders into the doorway-- )
Are you in danger? ( mildly, as his tired eyes immediately seek out gojou in the room; pointedly, he's not actually stepping inside of it yet. )
Gojo is lounged on his bed with a book--some trashy romance (for book club)--that he tosses aside easily when Choso pokes his head in the door. It took Choso longer than he'd expected, but who knows, maybe he wasn't in the Valentia, or he had to blow off someone else in order to obey Gojo. Or maybe the curse just has ten minutes worth of self-respect.
Gojo's cat ears are permanent now, and his fingers look a little bit wrong. The nails have warped into retractable claws. His eyes are uncovered, at the moment (it is unpleasant to read using only the limited version of his Six Eyes that remains to him), with their slitted cat pupils.
To Gojo's credit, he doesn't snap his fingers to summon Choso closer. He has some sense of how far he can push Choso, and he's getting better at learning those boundaries. (So as to push them as far as possible.) The summons was already a victory, a mocking little power play. He has more mocking little power plays in mind, but for now he can be the one to close the distance. ]
No danger.
[ Rising to his feet, he crosses the room in one leggy stride, moving into Choso's personal space. If Choso retreats, he'll pursue for at least a step or two. His hand reaches for Choso's throat, intending to grip firm but gently, thumb resting over the pulse point. His head tips to bring his lips close to Choso's ear. ] Hi, curse.
( no danger gojou satoru says, as if his entire existence isn't danger itself--as if he can't feel his whole body tensing, ready for impact, when gojou crosses the room towards him. one flick of a finger and he could be decimated into pieces; he's no fool, but condensing his blood in for one last attack seems almost petty, in the face of what they've had here so far. agreements and understandings, quiet moments of appreciation, and hands on gojou's skin that he hasn't forgotten; the memory only seems to grow larger, overtaking thought and reason, as that hand reaches up for his throat. he should stop it, but what would it matter? is he crossing infinity's border, or will he just scrape up against it like a car crash, skidding metal and bone? let it bring him destruction or delight.
his chin lifts, defiant, as though creating more space there against his skin. they're not human hands, and he can tell just with a glance, before those slender fingers wrap firm around his throat; those eyes aren't human eyes, but then they never have been, have they? he's never had the opportunity to look right into them, really, until this place; he'd always skirted eye contact, mostly, when they had been back home.
now, he sees the narrowed, slitted pupil--and like a cat, he wonders if they might grow larger, warm and round and excited, at the sight of him, or whether that's his own ridiculous thinking. such a bright blue, and he wants to see himself hollowed out in it, framed like the stars. )
You asked my name for no reason, then.
( his voice rumbles, low and defeated, beneath gojou's hand; his pulse patters away beneath his thumb, and with their contact, he can't feel any irritation; that damn imprinting mess has made a mess of him, too, made him stand there, mostly pliant, in that grip.
still: despite himself, his nerves show briefly, in the sickly sweet floral scent that peels off of him like pollen in a breeze, and rather than linger there in the doorframe, he forces himself forward a step, and therefore gojou back a step, enough space to feel for the door and close it behind him. the last thing he needs is someone out in the hallway perceiving them. )
Gojou Satoru. No, Satoru. ( let's try it this way, then, he's got his own tricks. his gaze turns, narrows, looks at gojou's face with bland pleasure. ) I'm not your prey.
The flood of it through him is dizzying. He still doesn't understand why he's reacting like this. More than the imprint--or at least more than with his other imprints in this place. Despite the trauma that's still very fresh under his skin, with Choso having been there and actively working with the individuals who had caused that trauma.
Satisfaction and challenge bubbles under his skin as Choso lets him do this, lets Gojo bully him, but also pushes back against him, challenges him in return. Calls him by his given name, and that's a familiarity he didn't expect, which pierces deeper than he would have expected.
This is where he wanted Choso, anyway. Inside his room, door closed.
His curse. His.
Gojo pulls him forward another step with that hand on his throat, then turns to shove him back onto the bed. These tiny beds are too small for either one of them, and certainly too small for both, but Gojo's already gotten used to that, since he keeps bringing men back to his room. (Truly a testament to the amount of men with unfortunate taste in the Augmented population.) He just sprawls atop Choso, using him like a mattress, lazily draping his arms over Choso's chest and gazing down at him with the precise smugness of any house cat sitting on their person's chest.]
So have you also been getting the gentle hints that perhaps we Augmented should find alternate lodging? Which seems unfair, honestly, but we do now have income since they've continued paying us for our excursions, and at this point I'm about ready to kill for a decent king-sized bed. Do you have any thoughts about what kind of place we should look for?
( he's not prey, but he's being guided like a pet--like a dog on a leash, or perhaps more accurately, like a snake held between pinchers, outstretched at a distance, wary of poison fangs. his chin lifts, steady, above gojou's hand, but it's only another moment of this, walked through the room, before their weights twist; he's used to fighting, used to combat, used to weaving himself around with ease, just as gojou is: he's just not used to being shoved onto a bed, knees buckling as his weight teeters and he hits the mattress. in complaint, the springs wheeze beneath his weight; he only has enough time to dig his elbows in and shift himself up to lay properly before he has sudden company.
he should have expected this. should have expected it from the beginning, rather than tensing up for some kind of battle of pride--but he's completely out of his depths, here, feeling his own heart beat, feeling gojou's heart beat, feeling his breath, his touch, the weight of strong muscle and slim hips and long arms and legs draped all over him.
his head sinks back into the pillows, and he tries to stare up at the ceiling. he knows gojou's looking at him like a cat that's got the cream. )
Moving...? ( he parses it with a huff of breath, disgruntled--mostly because he's caught off-guard. sure, he'd heard that their lodgings here would be temporary, but he hadn't given it much thought. mostly because he's never really had to think about where to stay, before: with kenjaku and company, space had been provided, and after that, he'd just tagged along with everyone else.
a small swallow, as he closes his eyes. )
'We'. ( what kind of place we should look for. of course he'd get roped into this. but if he's going to make good on his personal pledge to look out for gojou, what else is he to do? )
...Somewhere with grass. A garden. Somewhere to put plants.
( his hands slide down, palming over gojou's upper arms before he stops himself. ) Somewhere with sun. Windows. You'd want that too.
[ Oh, he's being petted. That's nice. He likes being petted. Choso stops, but Gojo has hopes that he'll start again soon, once he realizes that nothing bad will happen.
Pleased that Choso accepts the premise of moving in together easily enough, Gojo settles his head down on Choso's chest, enjoying the warmth of him. Plants. How cute. His little swamp blossom. (Perhaps not naturally a swamp plant, but that's the context Gojo's got for Choso as a plant right now.)]
Sounds nice.
Do you want to ask Felwinter to move in with us? The three of us make a good team, and, y'know. He'd probably actually help you out with household chores. Unlike me. [ A little smirk because ... yeah. There's no point in pretending otherwise. He will make Choso cook and clean for him, and he feels pretty confident in getting his way in that. At most maybe he'll have to whip out the pitiful kitty-cat eyes. ]
You can say no. I'm genuinely asking your preference. [ Better to specify when he's being genuine since ... at this point Choso really should just assume by default that he's being a facetious ass. Gojo sits up again to let Choso see his expression: blandly unconcerned either way, content about already getting what he wanted. ]
( his swallow pushes feelings down, but they end up centered somewhere in his chest, where gojou lays his head down--it feels intimate in a way that should be wrong, but isn't, and the urge to put his arms around gojou and hold him in against him feels unnatural, like he can't be sure where it's coming from. which part of him wants that, and why? is it just the warmth of another person, daring to be this close to him? no, if it were that, it would be a different kind of feeling. is it the imprinting business, then? it could be, but that would only account for the comfort.
is he taking this protection detail too seriously? his own idea, and now he's wrapping himself up in it too closely, too intently. they won't be here forever. or maybe, more accurately, gojou won't be here forever--he lets out a slow exhale, taking his breath in just as severely.
better to focus on the words, instead of the weight of silvery hair on his chest. )
Felwinter. ( he repeats it quietly, but his voice has an obvious air of approval. ) I think I would like that.
( more importantly, he thinks gojou would like that, too. from what he's observed so far, they seem to get along well, and enjoy each other's company; that gets him a pass in his book, but as gojou lifts to sit up again, his own mouth turns into a frown of disappointment.
both of his hands lift, palming over gojou's shoulders, pushing at them gently. )
[ Good, that's determined. Gojo's pleased, and he's glad that Choso and Felwinter seem to get along so well. He's been surprised by how quickly the two of them have taken up such central roles in his life, but he's grateful for it. They're a source of stability for him, and he likes how they balance each other, too. ]
I'm not going anywhere! I wanted to make sure you knew I was serious.
[ He settles again, arms on Choso's chest, watching him with a little smirk. One fingertip trails along Choso's collarbone, tracing it through the fabric of his clothes. If he wanted, he could settle for just cuddling like this. It feels nice. Cozy and safe.
Or he could tease Choso a little more, push these boundaries a little further. ]
Are you a virgin? [ He's certain he knows the answer to that already, and his smirk says as much, eyes sparkling with playful challenge. ]
( there's a faint frown, but as gojou settles back down against him, his hands slide back as if satisfied; he lets them loop around gojou's back, palms spread, fingers unmoving, as though the slight pressure there might keep him from moving again.
it's--an odd thing to take comfort in, but he finds he likes it. the weight of him there, the quiet of the room, the smell of something familiar; it feels much better than sitting in the room that they've given him, here, the room that doesn't feel like his at all.
and, of course, leave it to gojou to ruin all that the moment he opens his mouth again. )
--What? ( the blood mark quivers, threatening to spread out further across his face, as though the question is a direct attack; his eyes narrow, lips fitting into a firm, disapproving frown. )
What does that have to do with anything? You're asking ridiculous things.
( he forces his eyes up to the ceiling, jaw locking in defiance. no, he's not answering that, even though the answer is obvious now. )
[ Gojo’s smirk widens, smug and satisfied, because of course he’s a
virgin. The way the stripe of blood on his face quivers with emotion is
fascinating, though. Gojo wants to touch it. He resists (for now), and
traces his fingertip along Choso’s jaw instead. ]
I think it’s a perfectly reasonable question.
[ Choso’s good at avoiding questions using bluster like this, and
Gojo’s tempted to see how long it would take to push through that. A
playground quarrel of ‘no you answer my question. Which of them is
more petty, in the end?
… Might be Choso, in this. Gojo’s too impatient. He’s childish enough to
pursue it like that if he was bored enough, if they were stuck in a waiting
room with nothing else to discuss. But in this case, the tangent is a win
for Choso. It’s better for him to keep the topic stalled forever. Gojo,
however, wants to flirt more. He feels good about his prospects, with Choso
embracing him like this. Insisting on keeping him here. Though he’s not yet
sure that’s due to desire at all, rather than just the imprint and their
alliance. ]
( he wants to avoid reacting--wants to keep his hands wandering, slightly, the small flex of his fingertips as they slide down gojou's back, mapping out where he might feel his spine through his clothes; he wants to keep any manner of inquiry about that kind of thing behind locked doors, because he hasn't figured out how to react to it yet. hasn't figured out what it means, what he wants, if it's something he should permit himself, or not: the idea of it is simple enough, it's not like he doesn't understand.
but sex is a hard subject for a creature created out of the pain of copulation--it's a subject he doesn't find himself lingering on, mostly because then he would be forced to contend with that aching loneliness, the worry that the creation of himself, and his brothers, brought his mother no joy, that the result of something that should be genuinely good ended in the pursuit of a true evil.
and gojou wouldn't be confident like this, wouldn't be asking like this, if he hadn't already engaged in it to some extreme degree, right? now there's a thought that's never crossed his mind, until now.
it's embarrassing to think about. back home, gojou satoru had simply been some annoying, untouchable thing, made good only by virtue of being the one who would presumably defeat sukuna, who would go on teaching his brother how to think critically in sorcerer society, who might even continue to guide sorcerers to think beyond the constraints that hold them back. here, it's entirely different: this is not his gojou satoru, or rather, not the one that he saw from a distance, not the one who perished, not the one who proclaimed confidently that his students were watching and therefore he'd win. it's a gojou satoru he can touch, like he is, that he can talk to, like he does. and, apparently, a gojou satoru that claims him, and asks him things like this to get under his skin.
just to get under his skin? it's hard to say. maybe that's the point that has him relenting, slowly drawing his gaze back down to steady itself with gojou's face. )
...I don't know. ( even though the answer is flat, it's honest. ) I don't know how it's supposed to feel, I don't know if it's good, I don't know if it matters.
( it feels a little presumptuous to assume that anyone would want to do that sort of thing with him, though he realizes, belatedly, that's what gojou might be teasing about. )
Do you ever think of it? When you lost yours? Do you want it back? These are more important questions, to me.
[ They’re unexpected questions, and Gojo’s lips purse in thought. His head tilts, taking the inquiry seriously. It isn’t how he’d ever thought about the topic, so he has to recalibrate and mull over his response. ]
No, [ he says at last, though the word drags out with a hint of uncertainty. ] Because it’s not actually a thing to lose. It’s the lack of a thing. Virginity is not actually a state of being, it’s a lack of experience. The first experience of any type is significant, just because it’s likely to be the most memorable. Like the first time you tasted chocolate, maybe. [ Not something Gojo remembers for himself, but he's willing to bet that Choso remembers his first taste of a lot of foods. ] Any chocolate is good, but it's nice if that first taste is something special. It'd suck if the first chocolate you got to try was something shitty and stale. Even if you got better chocolate later.
So the state of having not tried chocolate yet? It's ... not anything. It's the lack of a thing. You could want the specialness of trying chocolate for the first time, but you wouldn't want to be back in the state of not knowing what chocolate tasted like. Even if your first taste of chocolate was disappointing, you've still got so many types of chocolate--and other candies--to try. Which is exciting. [ He carried that metaphor farther than he expected to, but he still feels like it worked out for him. It represents the subject adequately, and he's pretty sure he can assume Choso has tried at least two different types of chocolate.
Giving that all a moment to sink in, Gojo cups his hand around Choso's jaw, intentionally echoing the way Choso held his face when they were in the imprinting experiment. His thumb drifts over Choso's lips, slow and teasing, then returns to Choso's jaw as Gojo dips his head with the intention of kissing him. He moves slowly, so that Choso will have plenty of opportunity to get a hand in his face to push him away and prevent this. ]
( it's not a metaphor that goes over his head--but it does annoy him, a little, the way that gojo carries on with it, the way that it makes sense. of course the guy with a literal sweet tooth would compare something this serious to chocolate; his mouth dips a little, hinting towards a frown, but it isn't any more severe than the way he usually looks at him, like he's concerned, like he's not sure what to think. and it's true, he still isn't sure: if it's not something that matters, if it's just an experience that becomes an actual, lived experience, then why does it always sound so important? humans make such a fuss about sex, but he doesn't know where the pleasure of it comes from.
he wants to hope there's something pleasurable about it. the feeling isn't terrible, the way that his breath stills, stuck in his throat, when gojo touches him: the way that his mouth parts, seemingly unbidden, at the brush of his thumb over his lip.
he can understand it now, what's so appealing about him. objectively, gojo satoru is a beautiful creature, but a creature crafted to enact terrible harm; there's never been any argument against that. his large ego, his boasting voice, his confidence, his intelligence: all things that no one has ever contested, really. but this close, he can see the pale sweep of his lashes, the gloss of his lower lip--the way he moves slowly, like a predator cat slinking in for the killing swipe. to have all of that still, and focus in on him? no, he understands it. understands why everyone turns themselves towards gojo like a sunflower twisting to the sun.
a soft, tentative kiss, then: from someone who isn't practiced, but isn't entirely uncertain of himself; he lets gojo's mouth meet his with an echoing touch, slow, measured, lingering just enough to close his throat up with anticipation, that giddy feeling that rolls through him when he tilts his head back to end the kiss before it can deepen further. a tease, for a tease. )
[ It's a surprise when Choso lets him do this, responds to it, doesn't push him away. For a moment, it seems impossible that Choso would want this from him, with him. They're such an unlikely couple, especially when their last meeting before coming here was an event that still weighs heavily in Gojo's mind and heart, laying new scars over old damage. It's strange that his attitude toward Choso has shifted so quickly. The imprint has helped, and the camaraderie of traveling together, but the easy trust and desire still feels as though it's come out of nowhere.
As the kiss breaks, Gojo's hand slips down an inch, from Choso's jaw to his throat, and his fingers tighten. There's a quiver to his fingertips. He's uncertain in his own desire, fighting with his control over himself. This is a curse. A distillation of hate and pain, formed from cruelty. Choso's history in particular is a horrible thing. But Choso has been kind, and his moral character has begun to show its own determination. He's not just pantomiming Yuji's morals, the way that Gojo--on his worse days--believes himself to only be pantomiming Geto's. Choso's strong-willed and driven to be good entirely on his own merit.
Gojo kisses him again, fiercer this time, driven by his desire for Choso and his need to escape and distract himself from his own pain. He can be possessive toward Choso. Even though he's aware that his own behavior is unfair and that he's been taking things out on Choso, that he's using Choso's half-curse nature as an excuse. He learned quickly that Choso will let him get away with things, that he responds to Gojo's flirtation and boundary pushing with a sort of careful stillness, so careful not to draw away or discourage. Because Choso wants more of that attention, or because he's realized that this is a way to keep Gojo calm and controlled? He wouldn't be the first to figure out that Gojo needs to have safe, human obsessions to help keep him focused. He needs acceptable outlets for his intensity and energy.
It doesn't matter. He wants Choso, and he's decided that Choso is safe.
Releasing his hand from Choso's throat as he breaks the kiss, Gojo shifts a little to the side, opening enough access between their bodies for that hand to slide down, cupping around Choso's groin and giving him a squeeze. ]
( checkmate, maybe. it would be, if he could feel any of the blinding pain of cursed energy, swept through gojou's fingers around his throat: it would be the kind of play that he would never expect. the kind of death that would come as a result of his own stupidity, his own desire, to trust a sorcerer who had shown him that there could be change in the world.
but it doesn't come. there's a trembling there that he can't read, and maybe it's that gojou is disgusted with himself, maybe he can't imagine that he's doing what he's doing because he wants to do it. maybe he's coming to terms with it. there are a thousand secrets written into the way that gojou's eyes close and the way his tongue tastes and he doesn't think that even the people closest to him know them all; in that, it feels like there's a distinct loneliness, something that he wants to remember, wants to ruminate on for later.
a deeper kiss, something warm and wrought with passion against his mouth--it stirs his human body just as he would expect it to, and he almost misses the way that hand moves, drops down from his throat, shifts to move between them. partially because he still feels it all there, caught up in his windpipe, like gojou's still touching him there; partially because he isn't expecting the sudden shape of long fingers, down around him, squeezing in interest. his body reacts before he can understand it, then: a tightening in his stomach, a twitch of his hips, a breath he steals from between their lips like he needs it.
he doesn't fully understand it, but one of his own hands drops, traces along gojou's arm, reaches for his wrist and closes around it--he doesn't drag him away just yet, but he does put pressure there, wrapped around him with a strong grip. )
It won't be that easy, Satoru. ( something about using his given name had really gotten to him, earlier--now he says it lowly, in that slender space between them. )
You get to wonder what I taste like-- ( the chocolate metaphor, he means-- ) --until you get tired of imagining it.
( it's not so easy to bring gojou's hand up, away from the half-hard press of himself through his clothes; but he does it because he likes that, too, the idea of being wanted, and conversely, the idea of wanting--he bends gojou's arm out, forces him to meet his own, sliding them palm to palm, fingers between fingers, in a pointed squeeze. )
[ Gojo lets his hand be pulled up, lets their fingers be wound together. Choso's words don't make sense to him: it sounds like a rejection, that he'll be left wondering what sex would be like with Choso, and yet Choso's linking their hands instead of pushing him away. Not a rejection, then, a deferral? The implication being that he'll get tired of trying before he succeeds? That seems unlikely. Even at his most distractible, he's pretty sure it isn't going to take him all that long to succeed, and Choso's got his attention pretty securely fixated.
Instead of puzzling over the statement, Gojo decides to ... just ignore it. He marks it as unimportant and discards it from his mind. There are better things to focus on. Like, ]
What makes you think you can call me Satoru? [ It's not a proscription, though. Brickston had recently called him Satoru, incorrectly guessing which part of his name to use, and Gojo had snapped a correction at him. He's tolerating this from Choso, for now. Choso's testing him, and Gojo's too intrigued to put a stop to it.
He folds his fingers around Choso's hand, accepting that they're just going to be holding hands right now. (He still has another hand free to get into mischief, and he has a new idea for that.)
Shifting to straddle Choso's lap, Gojo sits up a little, smirking down at him. ] Right, you wanted to learn about tickling, didn't you?
[ His free hand jabs in to tickle at Choso's side in order to provide that lesson. He expects to have this hand captured promptly, too, and intends to allow that to happen readily enough. Only a brief tickling demonstration is necessary, after all. ]
( he's not the one with the wiles, here, not the one that has sharpened his charms down to a point, the kind that bring blood, or bring pleasure, depending on the application. he's not the one that has made heads turn, apparently, in all kinds of directions, judging from how yuuji speaks of him, how everyone speaks of him. he has no right, and no place--no claim--to be calling him satoru, and he knows that he knows that, too.
so maybe it's a misstep. maybe he misread that interest, if it were interest--he doesn't have a chance to correct it.
instead, that free hand jabs itself down against his side and there's a whole new sensation: the kind that he wants to squirm away from, immediately tenting to the side as though he can smash gojo's fingers away with just the movement. )
--I changed my mind. ( adamantly, breathy, because he's threatening to laugh--just because the feeling is so ridiculous. ) It's strange. Stop it.
( --which means he does, as predicted, move his other hand down, and then it's both of gojo's hands, caught up in his grip; he doesn't know what to do with them, then, except force them down near either of gojo's thighs, where he's straddling his lap--he's trying to frown, but it just won't come. )
What do you want to be called? Tell me that. I'll do it.
Just call me Gojo. Everyone does. [ He shrugs, as if it's as simple as that and he doesn't have half a dozen weird hangups about being Gojo and half a dozen weird hangups about being anything else. He hates his family and hates everything the clan name stands for, but at least Gojo gets to wield all that wealth and power, at least he's the Strongest. When he's Gojo, he's a universe worth of power.
Satoru is just a goofy nerd with a sappier heart than he wants to admit. Satoru is vulnerable.
Better to reserve that additional bit of keeping people at arm's length.
(Even though he kind of liked Choso calling him that, pressing that boundary. And he's pretty sure that now that he's specified against it, Choso will be too respectful to defy it. He'd have to give actual permission if he ever wanted that particular boundary-pushing to come back.) ]
You can tickle me, if you'd rather. [ Gojo doesn't resist Choso keeping his arms down by his thighs like that. He just leans forward anyway, trusting his core strength to allow him to hover their faces just an inch apart, breath teasing over Choso's lips. ] Or I could suck your cock.
[ Despite what he told himself, a part of his mind did hold on to Choso's words.
You get to wonder what I taste like until you get tired of imagining it.
Has he been rejected? He hasn't been shoved off yet, though. So he wants to try pushing a little farther. ] You wanna?
( an odd feeling that doesn't quite settle, like it's too fluttery to hold onto: disappointment, worry, a tinge of sadness. he knows his manners well enough to know what's expected, but he's preferred to stick with full names, as though they carry the weight that they should; itadori yuuji, his brother's killer. fushiguro megumi, yuuji's close ally. gojou satoru, the strongest. the one above him now, tempered only by his hold on his hands, who cranes down anyway to get closer to him.
physically closer--emotionally distant. he can understand that much. gojou's name puts space between them, because gojou wants there to be space; because these physical things are just physical things, just yearnings, just hormones, or maybe just the imprint at work in a different way.
his breath tastes cold, over his lips. even when his tongue skates over his own to taste it, it feels a little lonely, or maybe he's just imagining it. )
I told you. ( --which isn't an answer, but his grip loosens on gojou's hands, enough that he can feel, instead, for his thighs, bracing his palms there without pushing back. ) But...
( keeping his voice even and steady is a little harder when gojou's mouth is right there to swallow it up. )
When I've earned 'Satoru', you've earned that. ( he doesn't want to admit that his swallow feels like it's full of nerves; the thought of it all isn't unappealing, but he's determined to stick to a little more play, a little more yearning, a little more--intimacy. ) It's a fair trade, isn't it?
[ Gojo settles his arms on either side of Choso's head again once his hands are released, and something settles a little bit in him as Choso's hands return to his thighs and his own are freed again so that he's allowed to touch.
Those terms bring a tense, surprised twitch to his shoulders, head lifting, and there's a momentary flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes, then a more careful wariness for about a second and a half as he debates between hiding his face in Choso's shoulder and seeking comfort, or hiding behind his usual insouciant smile. The vulnerability is more than he can take. He smirks and straightens up, though he keeps his seat on Choso's lap. ] Hm. Interesting bargain.
[ His own name always feels so raw. So few people call him that, and really only those who have known him since childhood.
Satoru, in Yaga's stern, impatient tones, the mentor who Gojo still trusts.
Satoru, from the elders in his clan, scolding and irritated, a combination of resentful and reverent that still doesn't make sense even after having grown up under the reality of it.
Satoru, a hundred different ways from Suguru. Laughing, fond, annoyed, warning, trusting, sleepy, mocking, wary--
Hey, Satoru.
He flinches.
Blinks. Shakes his head. He's been staring at Choso, guarded as he processes, and even though he's left no more than two seconds of pause, it still couldn't be more obvious that he just got lost in his own head.
The same choice again. Seek comfort or brush it off and hide it--less effectively this time, no doubt.
He can't let himself seek comfort.
Choso knows he's broken. Fine. Let him see a few more of the cracks while Gojo processes.
His head drops forward, one hand bracing against Choso's shoulder, the other falling limp against Choso's side.
Why does his own name make him feel so exposed?
And yet he'd offered it so easily to Johann. Never considered anything else. Using formality with his monster was laughable. Gojo was the face he showed the world, the mask he used to navigate civilization.
His mind is such a tangle. Why does Choso always turn him introspective? What would it take to get him to offer his own name? If he gives that to Choso, he'll have to give it to Fel, too. It feels like handing out crowbars to let people pry him open and get at the meat inside.
His ability to process emotions overheats from effort, and he just gives up and flops sideways with a whine, tucking himself against Choso's side with an arm draped lightly over Choso's shoulder. Like he wants to make himself small and hide, which is an absurd thing for a creature as long and sprawling as he is.
No answer. Nothing else offered instead. Satoru.exe has crashed. ]
( this is the kind of thing that he isn't meant to see. he can tell, even looking at gojo's face for those few seconds: he can tell that there's something there, some wall that he's building, or perhaps some wall that he's tearing down; maybe it's a tower that he's climbing, or a tower that he's been put into, waiting for someone to scale it to meet him. it's there and gone again, and interesting bargain or not, he's clearly slipped gojo into some position that he doesn't like--and why is it that he wants to apologize? his tongue hurries in his mouth to make the words, but his lips stay shut; he sits there, stony in his silence, like he could bear the entire weight of gojo's staring if it helped him find some way to feel better.
he doesn't know what it is. some kind of memory, maybe. he only knows a little about gojo's past, or at least, parts of it that were colored by kenjaku's retelling, or even yuuji's retelling, or yuki's. he's never heard it directly from the source--and maybe he never will.
maybe he has to learn to be okay with that.
the way that gojo collapses down against him isn't strange, to him, but it is something new. without thinking, he shifts, just a little, twisting slightly to face him so that he can get his arms up around gojo's shoulders; it's a hug that drags him in against his chest, lifting his own chin so that he can tuck it down, matter-of-fact, into a bed of pale hair.
if gojo wants to hide away, then let him hide away. there's nowhere that he has to be, and nothing that he needs to be, either. holding him in silence is easy; far easier that what he imagines gojo holds inside of himself. )
We'll talk about it later. ( he decides, after a moment, quiet and low; his own eyes are shut, squeezing gojo gently in against him. )
Relax, now. You've got nothing to bargain for, now. I'm already here.
[ Gojo isn't used to this kind of care and comfort. He's not sure he's ever been held like this before. None of his family members had ever held him like this, not even the very few who were relatively kind to him. Suguru had let him get away with just about any physical touches he wanted, but they both tended to hide their vulnerabilities and enabled that in each other. If one of them was upset, the other would politely ignore it, create topic changes and distractions, start fights.
This is new, and Gojo's lashes flutter in surprise at Choso's gentle words, brushing against Choso's collarbones. He's so kind, and he keeps winning his way deeper into Gojo's heart, right past all of Gojo's thorough defenses at an absolutely shocking rate. It's bewildering to Gojo how fast he went from loathing this curse to feeling safest with him.
Part of Gojo's mind keeps reviewing their interactions so far, looking for the inconsistency, the flaw in the logic, the trap. He recently met an augmented with the power of suggestion, and Gojo had found himself susceptible to it. He'd had to start carefully analyzing each impulse he had, making certain it was probably his own before allowing himself to act. Tricky, and it had made him feel a little insane, but doable. Interacting with Choso felt similar, but every time he went over it, his conclusions held. There were no gaps in his reasoning, no missing memories or suspicious impulses where his own reaction seemed unusual upon retrospect.
The imprint was an external influence, but it was a known influence. He'd imprinted a lot harder and a lot faster with both Johann and Felwinter. (Which, to be fair, had involved some pretty intense sex from the original imprinting encounter in both cases.) He'd forged a small handful of lesser bonds, enough to be familiar with the feeling and how much the imprint influenced him.
It definitely helped the speed of his affection and trust with Choso, but he doesn't think the feelings are false because of that. He'd had one interaction with a potential imprint partner that had made him balk, and he still quarrels with his imprint partners just fine. He never feels like it impedes or overrides his judgement, it just makes his warm feelings a lot warmer.
He doesn't want to think about the question of his own name. He just wants to think about Choso. His curse. His Choso.
For now, he just winds his arms possessively around Choso's waist, nuzzling a little against his shoulder and then letting himself relax, as instructed.
In an hour or two, he'll complain about being hungry, and then he'll complain about the food at the Valentia (while eating it), and he's likely to stay clingy for the rest of the evening, but he'll let Choso go at the end of the night and go back to his room alone.
(And if he thinks about Choso after that, it's nobody's business.) ]
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that stubbornness lasts only for about five minutes. ugh, why does he have to be like this? it feels like he's drawn in his direction, and it's not just because he wants to make sure everything is alright.
begrudgingly, he shows up about ten minutes later: he's gotten a penchant for bringing things to others, cups of tea and coffee and small snacks he can smuggle from the cafe or the cafeteria for little cost, but he's coming empty-handed like it's some silent punishment for gojou summoning him like this. his knuckles close in a knock against the wood; suppressing a sigh of breath, he reaches for the door handle instead, turning it to find it unlocked.
that seems a little odd. immediately he's opening the door, leaning his shoulders into the doorway-- )
Are you in danger? ( mildly, as his tired eyes immediately seek out gojou in the room; pointedly, he's not actually stepping inside of it yet. )
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Gojo is lounged on his bed with a book--some trashy romance (for book club)--that he tosses aside easily when Choso pokes his head in the door. It took Choso longer than he'd expected, but who knows, maybe he wasn't in the Valentia, or he had to blow off someone else in order to obey Gojo. Or maybe the curse just has ten minutes worth of self-respect.
Gojo's cat ears are permanent now, and his fingers look a little bit wrong. The nails have warped into retractable claws. His eyes are uncovered, at the moment (it is unpleasant to read using only the limited version of his Six Eyes that remains to him), with their slitted cat pupils.
To Gojo's credit, he doesn't snap his fingers to summon Choso closer. He has some sense of how far he can push Choso, and he's getting better at learning those boundaries. (So as to push them as far as possible.) The summons was already a victory, a mocking little power play. He has more mocking little power plays in mind, but for now he can be the one to close the distance. ]
No danger.
[ Rising to his feet, he crosses the room in one leggy stride, moving into Choso's personal space. If Choso retreats, he'll pursue for at least a step or two. His hand reaches for Choso's throat, intending to grip firm but gently, thumb resting over the pulse point. His head tips to bring his lips close to Choso's ear. ] Hi, curse.
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his chin lifts, defiant, as though creating more space there against his skin. they're not human hands, and he can tell just with a glance, before those slender fingers wrap firm around his throat; those eyes aren't human eyes, but then they never have been, have they? he's never had the opportunity to look right into them, really, until this place; he'd always skirted eye contact, mostly, when they had been back home.
now, he sees the narrowed, slitted pupil--and like a cat, he wonders if they might grow larger, warm and round and excited, at the sight of him, or whether that's his own ridiculous thinking. such a bright blue, and he wants to see himself hollowed out in it, framed like the stars. )
You asked my name for no reason, then.
( his voice rumbles, low and defeated, beneath gojou's hand; his pulse patters away beneath his thumb, and with their contact, he can't feel any irritation; that damn imprinting mess has made a mess of him, too, made him stand there, mostly pliant, in that grip.
still: despite himself, his nerves show briefly, in the sickly sweet floral scent that peels off of him like pollen in a breeze, and rather than linger there in the doorframe, he forces himself forward a step, and therefore gojou back a step, enough space to feel for the door and close it behind him. the last thing he needs is someone out in the hallway perceiving them. )
Gojou Satoru. No, Satoru. ( let's try it this way, then, he's got his own tricks. his gaze turns, narrows, looks at gojou's face with bland pleasure. ) I'm not your prey.
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The flood of it through him is dizzying. He still doesn't understand why he's reacting like this. More than the imprint--or at least more than with his other imprints in this place. Despite the trauma that's still very fresh under his skin, with Choso having been there and actively working with the individuals who had caused that trauma.
Satisfaction and challenge bubbles under his skin as Choso lets him do this, lets Gojo bully him, but also pushes back against him, challenges him in return. Calls him by his given name, and that's a familiarity he didn't expect, which pierces deeper than he would have expected.
This is where he wanted Choso, anyway. Inside his room, door closed.
His curse. His.
Gojo pulls him forward another step with that hand on his throat, then turns to shove him back onto the bed. These tiny beds are too small for either one of them, and certainly too small for both, but Gojo's already gotten used to that, since he keeps bringing men back to his room. (Truly a testament to the amount of men with unfortunate taste in the Augmented population.) He just sprawls atop Choso, using him like a mattress, lazily draping his arms over Choso's chest and gazing down at him with the precise smugness of any house cat sitting on their person's chest.]
So have you also been getting the gentle hints that perhaps we Augmented should find alternate lodging? Which seems unfair, honestly, but we do now have income since they've continued paying us for our excursions, and at this point I'm about ready to kill for a decent king-sized bed. Do you have any thoughts about what kind of place we should look for?
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he should have expected this. should have expected it from the beginning, rather than tensing up for some kind of battle of pride--but he's completely out of his depths, here, feeling his own heart beat, feeling gojou's heart beat, feeling his breath, his touch, the weight of strong muscle and slim hips and long arms and legs draped all over him.
his head sinks back into the pillows, and he tries to stare up at the ceiling. he knows gojou's looking at him like a cat that's got the cream. )
Moving...? ( he parses it with a huff of breath, disgruntled--mostly because he's caught off-guard. sure, he'd heard that their lodgings here would be temporary, but he hadn't given it much thought. mostly because he's never really had to think about where to stay, before: with kenjaku and company, space had been provided, and after that, he'd just tagged along with everyone else.
a small swallow, as he closes his eyes. )
'We'. ( what kind of place we should look for. of course he'd get roped into this. but if he's going to make good on his personal pledge to look out for gojou, what else is he to do? )
...Somewhere with grass. A garden. Somewhere to put plants.
( his hands slide down, palming over gojou's upper arms before he stops himself. ) Somewhere with sun. Windows. You'd want that too.
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Pleased that Choso accepts the premise of moving in together easily enough, Gojo settles his head down on Choso's chest, enjoying the warmth of him. Plants. How cute. His little swamp blossom. (Perhaps not naturally a swamp plant, but that's the context Gojo's got for Choso as a plant right now.)]
Sounds nice.
Do you want to ask Felwinter to move in with us? The three of us make a good team, and, y'know. He'd probably actually help you out with household chores. Unlike me. [ A little smirk because ... yeah. There's no point in pretending otherwise. He will make Choso cook and clean for him, and he feels pretty confident in getting his way in that. At most maybe he'll have to whip out the pitiful kitty-cat eyes. ]
You can say no. I'm genuinely asking your preference. [ Better to specify when he's being genuine since ... at this point Choso really should just assume by default that he's being a facetious ass. Gojo sits up again to let Choso see his expression: blandly unconcerned either way, content about already getting what he wanted. ]
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is he taking this protection detail too seriously? his own idea, and now he's wrapping himself up in it too closely, too intently. they won't be here forever. or maybe, more accurately, gojou won't be here forever--he lets out a slow exhale, taking his breath in just as severely.
better to focus on the words, instead of the weight of silvery hair on his chest. )
Felwinter. ( he repeats it quietly, but his voice has an obvious air of approval. ) I think I would like that.
( more importantly, he thinks gojou would like that, too. from what he's observed so far, they seem to get along well, and enjoy each other's company; that gets him a pass in his book, but as gojou lifts to sit up again, his own mouth turns into a frown of disappointment.
both of his hands lift, palming over gojou's shoulders, pushing at them gently. )
Where are you going? Lay back down.
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I'm not going anywhere! I wanted to make sure you knew I was serious.
[ He settles again, arms on Choso's chest, watching him with a little smirk. One fingertip trails along Choso's collarbone, tracing it through the fabric of his clothes. If he wanted, he could settle for just cuddling like this. It feels nice. Cozy and safe.
Or he could tease Choso a little more, push these boundaries a little further. ]
Are you a virgin? [ He's certain he knows the answer to that already, and his smirk says as much, eyes sparkling with playful challenge. ]
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it's--an odd thing to take comfort in, but he finds he likes it. the weight of him there, the quiet of the room, the smell of something familiar; it feels much better than sitting in the room that they've given him, here, the room that doesn't feel like his at all.
and, of course, leave it to gojou to ruin all that the moment he opens his mouth again. )
--What? ( the blood mark quivers, threatening to spread out further across his face, as though the question is a direct attack; his eyes narrow, lips fitting into a firm, disapproving frown. )
What does that have to do with anything? You're asking ridiculous things.
( he forces his eyes up to the ceiling, jaw locking in defiance. no, he's not answering that, even though the answer is obvious now. )
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How is it a ridiculous question?
[ Gojo’s smirk widens, smug and satisfied, because of course he’s a virgin. The way the stripe of blood on his face quivers with emotion is fascinating, though. Gojo wants to touch it. He resists (for now), and traces his fingertip along Choso’s jaw instead. ]
I think it’s a perfectly reasonable question.
[ Choso’s good at avoiding questions using bluster like this, and Gojo’s tempted to see how long it would take to push through that. A playground quarrel of ‘no you answer my question. Which of them is more petty, in the end?
… Might be Choso, in this. Gojo’s too impatient. He’s childish enough to pursue it like that if he was bored enough, if they were stuck in a waiting room with nothing else to discuss. But in this case, the tangent is a win for Choso. It’s better for him to keep the topic stalled forever. Gojo, however, wants to flirt more. He feels good about his prospects, with Choso embracing him like this. Insisting on keeping him here. Though he’s not yet sure that’s due to desire at all, rather than just the imprint and their alliance. ]
Do you want to not be?
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but sex is a hard subject for a creature created out of the pain of copulation--it's a subject he doesn't find himself lingering on, mostly because then he would be forced to contend with that aching loneliness, the worry that the creation of himself, and his brothers, brought his mother no joy, that the result of something that should be genuinely good ended in the pursuit of a true evil.
and gojou wouldn't be confident like this, wouldn't be asking like this, if he hadn't already engaged in it to some extreme degree, right? now there's a thought that's never crossed his mind, until now.
it's embarrassing to think about. back home, gojou satoru had simply been some annoying, untouchable thing, made good only by virtue of being the one who would presumably defeat sukuna, who would go on teaching his brother how to think critically in sorcerer society, who might even continue to guide sorcerers to think beyond the constraints that hold them back. here, it's entirely different: this is not his gojou satoru, or rather, not the one that he saw from a distance, not the one who perished, not the one who proclaimed confidently that his students were watching and therefore he'd win. it's a gojou satoru he can touch, like he is, that he can talk to, like he does. and, apparently, a gojou satoru that claims him, and asks him things like this to get under his skin.
just to get under his skin? it's hard to say. maybe that's the point that has him relenting, slowly drawing his gaze back down to steady itself with gojou's face. )
...I don't know. ( even though the answer is flat, it's honest. ) I don't know how it's supposed to feel, I don't know if it's good, I don't know if it matters.
( it feels a little presumptuous to assume that anyone would want to do that sort of thing with him, though he realizes, belatedly, that's what gojou might be teasing about. )
Do you ever think of it? When you lost yours? Do you want it back? These are more important questions, to me.
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No, [ he says at last, though the word drags out with a hint of uncertainty. ] Because it’s not actually a thing to lose. It’s the lack of a thing. Virginity is not actually a state of being, it’s a lack of experience. The first experience of any type is significant, just because it’s likely to be the most memorable. Like the first time you tasted chocolate, maybe. [ Not something Gojo remembers for himself, but he's willing to bet that Choso remembers his first taste of a lot of foods. ] Any chocolate is good, but it's nice if that first taste is something special. It'd suck if the first chocolate you got to try was something shitty and stale. Even if you got better chocolate later.
So the state of having not tried chocolate yet? It's ... not anything. It's the lack of a thing. You could want the specialness of trying chocolate for the first time, but you wouldn't want to be back in the state of not knowing what chocolate tasted like. Even if your first taste of chocolate was disappointing, you've still got so many types of chocolate--and other candies--to try. Which is exciting. [ He carried that metaphor farther than he expected to, but he still feels like it worked out for him. It represents the subject adequately, and he's pretty sure he can assume Choso has tried at least two different types of chocolate.
Giving that all a moment to sink in, Gojo cups his hand around Choso's jaw, intentionally echoing the way Choso held his face when they were in the imprinting experiment. His thumb drifts over Choso's lips, slow and teasing, then returns to Choso's jaw as Gojo dips his head with the intention of kissing him. He moves slowly, so that Choso will have plenty of opportunity to get a hand in his face to push him away and prevent this. ]
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he wants to hope there's something pleasurable about it. the feeling isn't terrible, the way that his breath stills, stuck in his throat, when gojo touches him: the way that his mouth parts, seemingly unbidden, at the brush of his thumb over his lip.
he can understand it now, what's so appealing about him. objectively, gojo satoru is a beautiful creature, but a creature crafted to enact terrible harm; there's never been any argument against that. his large ego, his boasting voice, his confidence, his intelligence: all things that no one has ever contested, really. but this close, he can see the pale sweep of his lashes, the gloss of his lower lip--the way he moves slowly, like a predator cat slinking in for the killing swipe. to have all of that still, and focus in on him? no, he understands it. understands why everyone turns themselves towards gojo like a sunflower twisting to the sun.
a soft, tentative kiss, then: from someone who isn't practiced, but isn't entirely uncertain of himself; he lets gojo's mouth meet his with an echoing touch, slow, measured, lingering just enough to close his throat up with anticipation, that giddy feeling that rolls through him when he tilts his head back to end the kiss before it can deepen further. a tease, for a tease. )
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As the kiss breaks, Gojo's hand slips down an inch, from Choso's jaw to his throat, and his fingers tighten. There's a quiver to his fingertips. He's uncertain in his own desire, fighting with his control over himself. This is a curse. A distillation of hate and pain, formed from cruelty. Choso's history in particular is a horrible thing. But Choso has been kind, and his moral character has begun to show its own determination. He's not just pantomiming Yuji's morals, the way that Gojo--on his worse days--believes himself to only be pantomiming Geto's. Choso's strong-willed and driven to be good entirely on his own merit.
Gojo kisses him again, fiercer this time, driven by his desire for Choso and his need to escape and distract himself from his own pain. He can be possessive toward Choso. Even though he's aware that his own behavior is unfair and that he's been taking things out on Choso, that he's using Choso's half-curse nature as an excuse. He learned quickly that Choso will let him get away with things, that he responds to Gojo's flirtation and boundary pushing with a sort of careful stillness, so careful not to draw away or discourage. Because Choso wants more of that attention, or because he's realized that this is a way to keep Gojo calm and controlled? He wouldn't be the first to figure out that Gojo needs to have safe, human obsessions to help keep him focused. He needs acceptable outlets for his intensity and energy.
It doesn't matter. He wants Choso, and he's decided that Choso is safe.
Releasing his hand from Choso's throat as he breaks the kiss, Gojo shifts a little to the side, opening enough access between their bodies for that hand to slide down, cupping around Choso's groin and giving him a squeeze. ]
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but it doesn't come. there's a trembling there that he can't read, and maybe it's that gojou is disgusted with himself, maybe he can't imagine that he's doing what he's doing because he wants to do it. maybe he's coming to terms with it. there are a thousand secrets written into the way that gojou's eyes close and the way his tongue tastes and he doesn't think that even the people closest to him know them all; in that, it feels like there's a distinct loneliness, something that he wants to remember, wants to ruminate on for later.
a deeper kiss, something warm and wrought with passion against his mouth--it stirs his human body just as he would expect it to, and he almost misses the way that hand moves, drops down from his throat, shifts to move between them. partially because he still feels it all there, caught up in his windpipe, like gojou's still touching him there; partially because he isn't expecting the sudden shape of long fingers, down around him, squeezing in interest. his body reacts before he can understand it, then: a tightening in his stomach, a twitch of his hips, a breath he steals from between their lips like he needs it.
he doesn't fully understand it, but one of his own hands drops, traces along gojou's arm, reaches for his wrist and closes around it--he doesn't drag him away just yet, but he does put pressure there, wrapped around him with a strong grip. )
It won't be that easy, Satoru. ( something about using his given name had really gotten to him, earlier--now he says it lowly, in that slender space between them. )
You get to wonder what I taste like-- ( the chocolate metaphor, he means-- ) --until you get tired of imagining it.
( it's not so easy to bring gojou's hand up, away from the half-hard press of himself through his clothes; but he does it because he likes that, too, the idea of being wanted, and conversely, the idea of wanting--he bends gojou's arm out, forces him to meet his own, sliding them palm to palm, fingers between fingers, in a pointed squeeze. )
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Instead of puzzling over the statement, Gojo decides to ... just ignore it. He marks it as unimportant and discards it from his mind. There are better things to focus on. Like, ]
What makes you think you can call me Satoru? [ It's not a proscription, though. Brickston had recently called him Satoru, incorrectly guessing which part of his name to use, and Gojo had snapped a correction at him. He's tolerating this from Choso, for now. Choso's testing him, and Gojo's too intrigued to put a stop to it.
He folds his fingers around Choso's hand, accepting that they're just going to be holding hands right now. (He still has another hand free to get into mischief, and he has a new idea for that.)
Shifting to straddle Choso's lap, Gojo sits up a little, smirking down at him. ] Right, you wanted to learn about tickling, didn't you?
[ His free hand jabs in to tickle at Choso's side in order to provide that lesson. He expects to have this hand captured promptly, too, and intends to allow that to happen readily enough. Only a brief tickling demonstration is necessary, after all. ]
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so maybe it's a misstep. maybe he misread that interest, if it were interest--he doesn't have a chance to correct it.
instead, that free hand jabs itself down against his side and there's a whole new sensation: the kind that he wants to squirm away from, immediately tenting to the side as though he can smash gojo's fingers away with just the movement. )
--I changed my mind. ( adamantly, breathy, because he's threatening to laugh--just because the feeling is so ridiculous. ) It's strange. Stop it.
( --which means he does, as predicted, move his other hand down, and then it's both of gojo's hands, caught up in his grip; he doesn't know what to do with them, then, except force them down near either of gojo's thighs, where he's straddling his lap--he's trying to frown, but it just won't come. )
What do you want to be called? Tell me that. I'll do it.
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Satoru is just a goofy nerd with a sappier heart than he wants to admit. Satoru is vulnerable.
Better to reserve that additional bit of keeping people at arm's length.
(Even though he kind of liked Choso calling him that, pressing that boundary. And he's pretty sure that now that he's specified against it, Choso will be too respectful to defy it. He'd have to give actual permission if he ever wanted that particular boundary-pushing to come back.) ]
You can tickle me, if you'd rather. [ Gojo doesn't resist Choso keeping his arms down by his thighs like that. He just leans forward anyway, trusting his core strength to allow him to hover their faces just an inch apart, breath teasing over Choso's lips. ] Or I could suck your cock.
[ Despite what he told himself, a part of his mind did hold on to Choso's words.
You get to wonder what I taste like until you get tired of imagining it.
Has he been rejected? He hasn't been shoved off yet, though. So he wants to try pushing a little farther. ] You wanna?
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physically closer--emotionally distant. he can understand that much. gojou's name puts space between them, because gojou wants there to be space; because these physical things are just physical things, just yearnings, just hormones, or maybe just the imprint at work in a different way.
his breath tastes cold, over his lips. even when his tongue skates over his own to taste it, it feels a little lonely, or maybe he's just imagining it. )
I told you. ( --which isn't an answer, but his grip loosens on gojou's hands, enough that he can feel, instead, for his thighs, bracing his palms there without pushing back. ) But...
( keeping his voice even and steady is a little harder when gojou's mouth is right there to swallow it up. )
When I've earned 'Satoru', you've earned that. ( he doesn't want to admit that his swallow feels like it's full of nerves; the thought of it all isn't unappealing, but he's determined to stick to a little more play, a little more yearning, a little more--intimacy. ) It's a fair trade, isn't it?
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Those terms bring a tense, surprised twitch to his shoulders, head lifting, and there's a momentary flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes, then a more careful wariness for about a second and a half as he debates between hiding his face in Choso's shoulder and seeking comfort, or hiding behind his usual insouciant smile. The vulnerability is more than he can take. He smirks and straightens up, though he keeps his seat on Choso's lap. ] Hm. Interesting bargain.
[ His own name always feels so raw. So few people call him that, and really only those who have known him since childhood.
Satoru, in Yaga's stern, impatient tones, the mentor who Gojo still trusts.
Satoru, from the elders in his clan, scolding and irritated, a combination of resentful and reverent that still doesn't make sense even after having grown up under the reality of it.
Satoru, a hundred different ways from Suguru. Laughing, fond, annoyed, warning, trusting, sleepy, mocking, wary--
Hey, Satoru.
He flinches.
Blinks. Shakes his head. He's been staring at Choso, guarded as he processes, and even though he's left no more than two seconds of pause, it still couldn't be more obvious that he just got lost in his own head.
The same choice again. Seek comfort or brush it off and hide it--less effectively this time, no doubt.
He can't let himself seek comfort.
Choso knows he's broken. Fine. Let him see a few more of the cracks while Gojo processes.
His head drops forward, one hand bracing against Choso's shoulder, the other falling limp against Choso's side.
Why does his own name make him feel so exposed?
And yet he'd offered it so easily to Johann. Never considered anything else. Using formality with his monster was laughable. Gojo was the face he showed the world, the mask he used to navigate civilization.
His mind is such a tangle. Why does Choso always turn him introspective? What would it take to get him to offer his own name? If he gives that to Choso, he'll have to give it to Fel, too. It feels like handing out crowbars to let people pry him open and get at the meat inside.
His ability to process emotions overheats from effort, and he just gives up and flops sideways with a whine, tucking himself against Choso's side with an arm draped lightly over Choso's shoulder. Like he wants to make himself small and hide, which is an absurd thing for a creature as long and sprawling as he is.
No answer. Nothing else offered instead. Satoru.exe has crashed. ]
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he doesn't know what it is. some kind of memory, maybe. he only knows a little about gojo's past, or at least, parts of it that were colored by kenjaku's retelling, or even yuuji's retelling, or yuki's. he's never heard it directly from the source--and maybe he never will.
maybe he has to learn to be okay with that.
the way that gojo collapses down against him isn't strange, to him, but it is something new. without thinking, he shifts, just a little, twisting slightly to face him so that he can get his arms up around gojo's shoulders; it's a hug that drags him in against his chest, lifting his own chin so that he can tuck it down, matter-of-fact, into a bed of pale hair.
if gojo wants to hide away, then let him hide away. there's nowhere that he has to be, and nothing that he needs to be, either. holding him in silence is easy; far easier that what he imagines gojo holds inside of himself. )
We'll talk about it later. ( he decides, after a moment, quiet and low; his own eyes are shut, squeezing gojo gently in against him. )
Relax, now. You've got nothing to bargain for, now. I'm already here.
no subject
This is new, and Gojo's lashes flutter in surprise at Choso's gentle words, brushing against Choso's collarbones. He's so kind, and he keeps winning his way deeper into Gojo's heart, right past all of Gojo's thorough defenses at an absolutely shocking rate. It's bewildering to Gojo how fast he went from loathing this curse to feeling safest with him.
Part of Gojo's mind keeps reviewing their interactions so far, looking for the inconsistency, the flaw in the logic, the trap. He recently met an augmented with the power of suggestion, and Gojo had found himself susceptible to it. He'd had to start carefully analyzing each impulse he had, making certain it was probably his own before allowing himself to act. Tricky, and it had made him feel a little insane, but doable. Interacting with Choso felt similar, but every time he went over it, his conclusions held. There were no gaps in his reasoning, no missing memories or suspicious impulses where his own reaction seemed unusual upon retrospect.
The imprint was an external influence, but it was a known influence. He'd imprinted a lot harder and a lot faster with both Johann and Felwinter. (Which, to be fair, had involved some pretty intense sex from the original imprinting encounter in both cases.) He'd forged a small handful of lesser bonds, enough to be familiar with the feeling and how much the imprint influenced him.
It definitely helped the speed of his affection and trust with Choso, but he doesn't think the feelings are false because of that. He'd had one interaction with a potential imprint partner that had made him balk, and he still quarrels with his imprint partners just fine. He never feels like it impedes or overrides his judgement, it just makes his warm feelings a lot warmer.
He doesn't want to think about the question of his own name. He just wants to think about Choso. His curse. His Choso.
For now, he just winds his arms possessively around Choso's waist, nuzzling a little against his shoulder and then letting himself relax, as instructed.
In an hour or two, he'll complain about being hungry, and then he'll complain about the food at the Valentia (while eating it), and he's likely to stay clingy for the rest of the evening, but he'll let Choso go at the end of the night and go back to his room alone.
(And if he thinks about Choso after that, it's nobody's business.) ]