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Gojo hates Sukuna. Sukuna hates Gojo. But they always drift back together, somehow.
They are- they were friends- best friends- at some point. No human in all of Japan, from the Northernmost points of Hokkaido to the scorching plains of Kyushu, hadn’t heard of the Gojo and Ryomen clans. They weren’t just wealthy conglomerates; they were money, power, and influence personified.
Well, maybe there’s an imbecile out there who hasn’t heard of their clans. But everyone knows that Ryomen is the parent company supplying Japan’s entire military and police force with weapons. And every household needs at least one piece of Limitless technology to function properly.
At the ripe age of twelve, the two met at some long-forgotten ballroom party full of twinkling jewellery and forced smiles. Sparks flew immediately. Turns out they both liked tall girls with long hair and big racks.
It was smooth sailing from there, like a script that was pre-written for them, perfect. They quickly took over the private academy they were enrolled in and competed over, well, everything. Sure, they waltzed together in the hallways with their chins high like they owned the place, but there was a silent rivalry, an underlying pressure born from overwhelming pride.
Neither of them wanted to lose. Losing meant conceding power. It was as if falling behind would mean not being good enough for the other anymore.
In their minds, losing meant losing each other.
He'd never admit that he kept track- but Gojo was the basketball team captain. Sukuna always won kendo championships. Sukuna’s grades were ever so slightly better- but Gojo pulled more girls (and guys).
Not that Sukuna has ever loved a guy that wasn’t Gojo. In fact, Gojo is the only person he’s certain he loved.
Yet, their friendship was an old bridge with too many creaky wooden planks to replace and held by a blistering rope too fragile to be tied again.
Until a certain Suguru Geto set that bridge on fire and made them realise they’d crossed too late at the ripe, passionate age of 17.
“You’re fucking kidding me, right? He’s from a village, Gojo- A commoner.” He emphasised the last bit with as much vexation as he could muster, hate and disgust dripping from his tongue, “He’s dirt poor. No one’s ever heard of the name Suguru Geto.”
“Have you been investigating him? What the fuck dude?!” Gojo emphasized his point by shoving Sukuna back by his shoulders. He didn’t appreciate how Sukuna outgrew him when they entered high school, but right now, stature didn’t matter.
“No, I haven’t. It’s all anyone’s been able to talk about because you’re Satoru fucking Gojo! You don’t commit to anyone. You don’t stay tied down. And of everyone, you pick the charity case?”
“Yeah. I’m gonna marry him.”
“No, you aren't.” Sukuna slammed a fist between Gojo and the backboard of the estate’s empty foyer. “You’re not marrying that gold-digging fag.”
“Fag? Seriously?... Your dick’s been inside me. Wake the fuck up Sukuna!”
“You wake the fuck up. He’s not even that hot. What does he bring to the table except his small dick? He should be kissing the ground you walk on!” Sukuna shouts this time, heaving as the image of Gojo publicly marrying a man, when he’s tried so hard to suppress the ‘queer’ inside of him for so long, surfaces. The note of jealousy didn’t go unnoticed.
Punches fly. Noses break. Skin splits. Knuckles bruise.
Neither of them speaks to the other for 3 years.
Not until they’d both graduated high school and, by some twist of fate (or by natural law of order), ended up in Japan’s most prestigious university.
-
If they were anyone else besides Gojo Satoru and Ryomen Sukuna, they could have blended into the crowd seamlessly and avoided each other for the entire four years of campus life.
But they were. Naturally, they were the forefront of every party worth going to and the college’s headliners for big basketball games.
Sukuna hears them. He always does. They say the Gojo and Ryomen heirs are attending the same year as them. They say Sukuna’s pink hair is all box dye (untrue). They say Satoru plays basketball like he has six eyes (partially true). They say Gojo’s albino everywhere (true).
He wonders if Satoru hears the same rumours. Like how everyone looks at the same moon, but 80% less romance and 20% more subtle connection.
There was no point in remembering ancient history.
Sukuna doesn’t believe in love, not really. To him, love is a cycle that always ends the same way. It’s a chemical reaction that slowly fizzles out, but there’s always just enough pure reactants left to start another one. Then, when there isn’t, that’s called marriage, and you settle into whatever that is until a stranger tells your partner the right thing they needed to hear on the right night.
Sukuna is that stranger.
Gojo was that partner.
The social club was situated atop a tall glass building, decorated by strange contemporary art that somehow fit, combining with the illumination from the bustling city below. He always found modern bars distasteful, aquarium glass furniture especially, but he needed to let loose before his physics 11 test on Monday. Away from the noise, but acknowledging its presence.
The corner of the bar was no place for the platinum hair. Gojo’s always been a centre-table kind of man. His slight slouch told a story.
“Wow. You smell like tequila and regret.” Sukuna has guesses running through his mind as to what brought the great Satoru Gojo to this pitiful state. But he isn’t very interested in goading.
He isn’t entirely sure why he chose to sit next to Gojo that night. He should have walked away and respected his wallowing.
But he doesn’t.
Gojo didn’t meet his eyes, but Sukuna could see all he needed to from the side. Half-lidded, tired, puffy blue eyes peeking out from behind the sunglasses.
“Not tonight.” His voice was coarse, clearly not expecting to talk to anyone.
“Just the fact that you replied tells me this is the night. Talk.” Sukuna motions with four raised fingers for another four shots from the bartender.
Contemplation rested on Gojo’s face as he grumbled, squeezing the temple of his nose just enough to lift his sunglasses and reveal the piercing blue irises that penetrated the dim lighting.
“How much time do you have?”
Sukuna hummed, tapping the rim of his glass. “Depends on how interesting the story is.”
Gojo was being very difficult at first. He refused to let go of this immediate guard that formed when Sukuna was there. Only by Sukuna admitting he was the one who locked Gojo in the bathroom 30 minutes before nationals and 6 drinks later did Gojo finally get to the important part.
It was, to Gojo’s credit, very interesting.
A girl by the name of “Riko Amanai” was assaulted and murdered by a man from the infamous Zenin Clan. Except that the case was never investigated because the Zenins used their dirty money and connections to sweep everything under the rug. Not even two months later, some junior from their old basketball team, Haibara (?) was killed for getting a little too close to the truth.
The string of high school murders was far from the craziest part.
Satoru’s med school boyfriend- now ex-boyfriend - was attempting to kill every important person involved in Japanese high society. In some type of vengeful serial killer fashion.
And he was succeeding, managing to take out two Kamo-clan members.
“I would have done it, you know? I would have implicated myself in murder if he had done so much as ask. With my connections and position, we could do it.”
Sukuna thinks he should be offended at the blunt confession that insinuated he would have targeted Sukuna too, but he stared with a true interest instead. “Think your boytoy could kill me?”
Gojo’s eyes finally concentrated, and he turned to face Sukuna for the first time since they’d sat down. “He’s best at poisons. Do with that what you will.”
He probably shouldn’t, but curiosity always wins. “Say he pulls a gun on me. I’m stuck to a chair, and you have a loaded revolver with one bullet in your pocket.” Sukuna’s gaze rakes him and down Gojo’s lean frame, long navy slacks, and a white dress shirt, simple, but everything looks good on him. “Who do you pick? Me, or him?”
Neither of them is entirely sure he’s talking about the hostage hypothetical anymore.
“...”
The silence hangs between them, for a moment, and Sukuna imagines Gojo’s eyes flickering. Helpless isn’t the right word. Gojo is nothing if not perfect. More like tired, but even then, it does nothing to dampen his flawless looks.
“I love him.”
“Doesn’t answer the question.” Sukuna flinches and reaches out to Gojo’s wrist before he can down another drink. “Slow down.”
Sukuna didn’t think before the unplanned contact. Half a beat after the touch lingered, Sukuna expected something to happen. He expected flames, acid strong enough to burn them both, a lightning strike punishing him for breaking the covenant.
None of it happens.
It feels natural. Like this was meant to happen. Like magnets that found each other’s polar sides.
Sukuna doesn’t miss the tight resistance he feels around his pants.
Gojo is the first to break free, sighing, re-evaluating Sukuna as if he already knows what he’ll find. “Look. I’m only saying this cuz I’m hammered out of my mind right now.” He takes a finger and traces it past the exposed buttons on Sukuna’s shirt down his tats. Too slow. Too intimate. Too familiar. “You can take me home. As friends. No sex. Entiendo?”
Sukuna pockets Gojo’s sunglasses and snakes an arm around his waist, “One, your Spanish still sucks.” His eyes falter to Gojo’s lips this time, slowly agape and as lucious as ever. “Two, we aren’t gonna be friends.”
They barely make it two steps into Satoru’s dorm before their hands are wandering in all their most guarded places. Satoru was rocking into each kiss, passionate, the stench of alcohol you can never quite shake off clung, infecting everything. Their hot breaths, their articles of clothes, which didn’t survive very long, and the rest of the room.
Modesty wasn’t something very familiar to the silver-spoon duo. Being raised in world-pools of money and marble palaces does that to people. Nevertheless, the single-bedroom is partially decorated, jerseys hung up on the side, a mini shooting hoop-
Sukuna breaks free from the uncharacteristically enthusiastic Satoru’s lips. “Wait. You.. You have a hoop in your room? Are you twelve?” Sukuna fought back every twinge in his face to resist the laugh, mildly afraid that he might really get cock-blocked if he did.
“I’ll bite your dick off.” There was something almost endearing about hearing such crass words from such a pretty face. Satoru hadn’t lost his spunk after all.
It was always like this; they were a delicate balance of lust and buried feelings. Neither is willing to admit their feelings for what it will cost them.
They burn. The scales tilt.
Satoru’s back is to the made bed before they know it, ruining the sheets beneath them. Sukuna doesn’t know how many nights he’d spent buried in someone else, imagining it was the white-haired man instead. But the immersion is instantly broken whenever he meets their eyes.
He’s seen his fair share of beautiful eyes. Hollow, maple ones; dark, seductive ones; intelligent, forest ones. As rare as it is in Japan, he’s bedded his fair share of blues as well.
But not like Satoru’s. Never like Satoru’s.
His eyes were blinding. They were an expanse of deep ocean and uncharted stars, endless and abounding. They couldn’t have come from this world.
Those same, starry eyes are looking up at him, hands clawing at his neck as he begs in any way he can. Needing it faster. Deeper. Harder. Wants his own neck choked.
It’s poetic, almost. The way his hands enclosed Satoru’s long and soft neck, pressing in as he continued to move in and out of him relentlessly.
Too lost in his own friction, Sukuna nearly misses the moment the light slips from those piercing blues and the arms reaching for his neck slacken. Too drunk on his own anger and power-tripping to realise how the legs wrapped around his back go limp.
No, Sukuna only noticed once Satoru’s whimpers went silent.
Satoru passed out.
“Shit!.. Satoru- are-are you okay?” Sukuna releases him instantly, hands unsure of where to be as he feels for a pulse.
Nothing.
“Fuck. Satoru.. Satoru stay with me. I’ll call someone.” Just as he can push against the bedframe and pull out of the impossible tightness around him, two hands claw at him.
Still gasping and only just now revitalised, Satoru gets out what he wants to say in battered breaths, “Don’t... Ngh.. stop.. that was so hot. Need you- need you to f-fuck me.” To accommodate Sukuna’s length, he spreads himself even further.
Sukuna thinks if this were any other bitch, he’d recoil in disgust and call it off. But seeing the almighty Gojo Satoru so hot and heavy and lost to pleasure, he can’t help but feel his cock twitching.
He let out a low whistle, ever-impressed by his rival’s libido, the only one to ever match his. “You really were made for me, slut.”
The small whimper Gojo let out was telling. Who knew the spoiled brat who got whatever he wanted from anybody he wanted it from had a degradation kink?
Each thrust was erratic, personal. But there was just enough power and technique to set it apart from back when they were horny, experimental teenagers exploring each other’s boundaries.
-
They used to be such problems. Nearly crashing daddy’s Corvette, partying in hotels with a crowd too old, street fights where they were always outnumbered; they were all reckless abandon and overconfidence. For a while, Sukuna thinks it’ll stay like that forever.
They were different, fundamentally so. There were incidents where Satoru had to physically restrain Sukuna by his shoulders as he continued to beat victims who were already half dead, or had too many court disagreements that had gone awry.
“No.”
“Why not?! Yuta’s an awesome prospect. Yeah, he’s just a freshman, but we made the team when we were first years too.”
“We’re exceptions.”
“Yeah? Well, I found another one.” Satoru literally pouted, crossing his arms and leaning back against the bench as they discussed who to recruit from tryouts.
This time, Sukuna shot up from the bench, snatching the clipboard from Satoru’s chest. After flipping through the papers messily stacked on it, he paused and spun it on Satoru’s face. “This is every single high school, from every single district, in all of Japan. You know what they have in common?”
“...”
“They’re watching us. Our team wins. We always win. As long as that’s true, I’m not wasting my time mentoring bed shitters and pant wetters.” The shouts echoed through the empty gym, reverberating on the walls and settling between them.
“This team’s gonna need a future captain, asshole! Use that valedictorian brain of yours for a sec. Who the hell’s gonna lead once we’re gone?”
Sukuna snickered, low and with a foot half-out the door of their conversation. “Who the hell cares. Not my team, not my Goddamn problem. This is high school basketball, not the Olympics, they’ll find someone.”
Just before Sukuna could take another step, Gojo rose and tightened his grip over Sukuna’s wrist. “...Says who? I’m captain.”
That got his attention. He spun around, eyeing Gojo through his tank and shorts. “Are you seriously pulling rank right now?” Gojo was captain by name, but each decision was shared. They had disagreements before, but this was uncharted waters. Gojo knows the type of complex Sukuna had over this.
Puffing out his chest to appear a little bigger, he found confidence in his previous statement. “..Yeah. Yes, I am.”
A scoff. “Thought this was our team.”
“It was our team, before you decided that you were above all that.”
Sukuna yanked free from Gojo’s loosening grip, making a beeline for the exit with no regard for storing the equipment. “Fine. Your project is on. But you keep wasting time on that brat, and I’ll be captain next year.”
To everyone’s (Sukuna’s) dismay, Gojo was right. Yuta was special. The kid was good. The 5’11 shaky wimp quickly shaped up to be a hot topic among academy and college scouts due to his overwhelming talent for copying other’s movements. His technique could have been on par with Gojo's at times.
It was the night they won nationals that the pair got to reap the spoils of Gojo’s investment.
Yuta Okkotsu’s holes were abused, stretching him to the absolute limit. High off victory and adrenaline, the night stretched on. Of course, none of them knew at the time that Okkotsu was a distant cousin of Gojo’s, but he finds that neither of them would care. Humbling their sexy junior by railing into him for a night straight was the kind of ending that fit their relationship perfectly.
Toxic. Wrong. Hot.
They never argued about Yuta again.
That was how most of their arguments ended- flesh-on-flesh, too many bottles of names they can’t pronounce, white lines they divided using daddy’s credit card.
Until Satoru got a boyfriend, a real one.
Part of Sukuna knew it had to end eventually, that one of them was gonna grow up and move on.
He just didn’t expect it to be Satoru.
-
Sukuna would do something, anything, to push out those memories. So he continues to grind, to move, to motion in and out in a sinful dance. He lashes out at Satoru’s body; slapping his ass, roughing up his hair, pinching his lewd nipples.
Because something about making Satoru cry was the only thing making him feel less insignificant. He could pretend like they meant something to each other again.
Like he wasn’t Gojo’s fuck-and-forget.
The scent of liquor slowly mellowed out the more they kissed, too drunk on each other. He could taste all of Satoru’s humiliation; it tasted nothing like the arrogant bastard he loved to screw, but it was just as intoxicating.
Walls of fleshy ridges clamped down on his cock as he drilled on from an angle that reached parts of Gojo’s ass that hadn’t been visited.Their impending ejaculations tense them both up, intensity increasing and incoherent, slightly muffled moaning unleashed. “Still think Suguru’s better than this dick?”
Gojo doesn’t respond, simply stares with hate and lust hazing over his eyes, clouding his vision as he nearly screams when Sukuna hits the right spot.
He doesn’t miss again. Cackling, Sukuna’s expression borders on insanity. No one, not even Satoru Gojo, is born perfect.
There is something terribly wrong about bringing up someone’s ex while you’re buried 11 inches deep into them, but this is how both of them cope: admitting how fucking pathetic they are beneath the accolades and the power and the money.
Pathetic for each other.