TITLE: Anchoring the Sky AUTHOR: Saikouchette on AO3
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It's way past midnight when Gojo comes back from his mission, covered in blood.
Geto is reading when the door to his room opens suddenly; he has left it unlocked, as he always does when Gojo is away. His smile freezes on his lips as he looks up.
"Satoru!" He exclaims, dropping his book and rushing at his side. "Are you okay?"
Gojo doesn't answer. Instead, he takes Geto into his arms and holds him so tight it hurts. He's not wearing his shades and his uniform is torn. His cursed energy is flaring with overwhelming intensity, the stench of blood and sulfur surrounds him like a veil; worry tightens Geto's guts.
"Satoru. What happened? Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine."
He's clearly not. His voice sounds tense, on edge. Geto can only see the clenched muscles of his jaw; the rest of Gojo's face is buried in the crook of his neck. What the hell happened to him?
Geto's hands slip under Gojo's vest (what remains of it), caressing, soothing - searching for the faintest trace of injury. He doesn't find any, but-
"Wanna call Shôko?" he asks.
"No. I don't need her." Gojo answers - and slams his mouth against Geto's.
It's a violent kiss, vehement and disordered. Geto is used to Gojo's impatience, yet this is somehow different. Their foreheads bump and their mouths open, teeth rattling, tongues intertwining. There's hunger, craving, and something else that Geto can't quite pinpoint. It's dark, unsettling; unexpectedly arousing.
Gojo's hands are all over him, his movements hectic and his grip too tight. Their crotches are pressed against each other and Geto can't help his hips from rocking approvingly. Gojo reeks from his fight but his mouth tastes of sugar and synthetic berries. Nothing like the metallic tinge of blood that Geto was apprehending; he sighs with relief and something uncurls in his chest. Gojo must've felt it, because he breaks the kiss to whisper:
"Suguru, let's fuck."
His hands tightly squeeze Geto's butt and he kisses him again, not even waiting for an answer. This kiss is wild, avid; familiar. Geto's mind is in overdrive but he can't think, can't breathe. His heart is racing and his hands move on their own - one rests on the small of Gojo's back while the other presses on his nape, fingers tangling in his white locks. They're not as soft as usual, they feel dusty and smeared with suspicious dried dirt. Gojo slips his cold fingers under Geto's t-shirt and presses on his skin, sliding on his abs, his chest, teasing one of his nipples; Geto's breath catches in his throat.
"Satoru, wait-" he mutters.
But his lover ignores him. His lips trace the line of Geto's jaw, nibble on his ear before kissing their way to his throat, lingering on his Adam's apple, sucking harshly on his skin. Geto sighs, shivers; and snaps out of it when Gojo bites the base of his neck. He yanks his head back by the hair; their gazes finally meet and Geto's heart stutters. Now he understands.
