[ 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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no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.) ]