alkhale
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"Just don't ever forget," Gojo said, standing over her, his head pressed to the wall. "You're not allowed to forget. Not ever."
He boxed her in perfectly, towering and blocking her from the rest of the world and the rest of the world from her. She stayed silent, looking up at him. There was an entire world reflected in his eyes, a world untouched and unknown by any other man but him, who reached higher than anyone else.
"You can be reborn as many times as you want," Gojo said. "Look however you want. Become whoever you want."
His head lowered, pressing his forehead to hers. His eyes threatened to swallow her whole.
"I'm the one that named you. Don't you ever forget that."
Or;
A quiet story that takes place a little before Gojo Satoru was born to be the greatest shaman of this era, his youth, triumphs, losses, and his inherent rise to a place unknown by anyone else.
And the one person who bore witness to it all.
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Kenma taps his phone again, right back at your picture. He stares at you with wide, piercing eyes, leaning across the table and quickly saying, reverent and eager—
“I want to buy your game from you.”
Today, sitting here beside you in your bag, are fully equipped items to try and protect you from the creepy, deranged, rich stranger you’d been about to meet. Today, you were fully expecting to unleash a fury building up inside of you over an injustice you can’t tackle on your own in your society on some poor, unsuspecting alpha—
Here, sitting in front of you, is a self-claimed internet game streamer, who wants to buy your… special edition… game?
“You want…” you say, slowly, making sure you don’t have this wrong, “...my game?”
He nods.
You open your mouth. It closes. You open it again, raise a finger, and then press your lips together, staring at him.
“I’m sorry,” you say finally. “What?”
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“Oh,” Hinata says, like it isn’t the most ground-shattering, catastrophically destructive information Atsumu has ever heard. “I never told you guys?”
Hinata turns then, in a full little circle, arms spread wide, showing off his naked chest, grinning from ear to ear. Normally Atsumu would enjoy the little show, but he feels a little broken all of a sudden, unable to process the words slipping sweetly from Hinata’s mouth as he laughs. He even teasingly pulls at the waistband of his shorts, showing a glimpse of equally bare skin.
“I don’t have a soulmate.”
Atsumu's world stops.
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“You want to ruin him," Sukuna says.
Maybe Sukuna isn’t wrong about that, Fushiguro thinks in a daze. Itadori’s heart is too heavy and too precious. It’s a burden that shouldn’t be given to anyone else. Because even Itadori himself can’t take care of it, can’t hold onto it for the life of him because he’d rather become the vessel to the most wretched of all curses just to help two people he’s only known for a few months—to help Fushiguro, who he’d only met that night.
(I can keep it. Fushiguro’s hands move. I can hold onto it, if you want.)
Maybe Sukuna’s definition of ruin wasn’t all that wrong from what Fushiguro wanted after all. Maybe that did make him just as wretched.
But if Itadori was still willing to stay beside him, despite knowing that—
Then there was no reason for Fushiguro to let him go.
Or—
Some dreams start to keep Fushiguro up at night, and the cure to stopping them might be closer than he thinks.
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He’s thinking, after all. He maps out Hinata’s body underneath him in case he can’t do it again. In case this all ends poorly and Sakusa’s left to fend and fight for what’s left. He feels every contour and dip and commits what it feels like to be with Hinata, to be in Hinata, surrounding and boxing and overwhelming every part of this young man who burns like his own miniature sun and have it all to himself.
(Because Sakusa Kiyoomi has a problem, and it’s here, beneath him, around him, hands scorching up his back as Hinata tosses his head back and groans when he strokes that sensitive spot again, just right.)