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Satoru turns the handle to the door and slowly steps inside the room, making sure not to drag his feet. The evening light casts a cold glow through the sheer curtains, a crisp breeze swaying the shadows eerily around the room. Careful to keep quiet, he gently clicks the door shut behind him, slipping his hands into his pockets as his focus shifts over to the bed. His gaze falls on the form occupying it, scans the length of his body, bruised and undignified under the twists of the sheets.
Toji’s beaten face turns to him meekly, the scar over his lip hardening the softness of his expression. There’s a sheen on his skin, still running a fever, blood dried on the covers from still open wounds.
Satoru feels his gaze boring into him as his own continue to examine his exposed skin, blotted purple, scarred red. He follows the darkened stains of his bandages to the clean cut of his missing left arm, just a shoulder to show for himself, body of wounds.
“Stare anymore, I’m gonna have to start charging,” Toji jokes, but doesn’t sound amused at all.
Gojo looks up at him, though his arm now rests tiredly over his eyes.
“You shouldn’t be talking,” he says. Toji’s lips turn up, nearly a smirk.
“Gonna kill me about it?” he asks, daring him, almost begging him. It’s fucking pathetic. He’s been putting up a fight at every turn, has proven too much to deal with, had to drag Gojo back to the manor just to see over it. Craving for death, they told him, like someone who’s finally snapped.
“If you want it that badly,” Satoru shrugs. Toji peeks an eye out from under his arm, meets his gaze, debating the seriousness of the offer. His hand runs over his mouth, hides the amusement on his lips but it’s blatant in his eyes. The manic plea, the need. Gojo tuts. “What the fuck’s with that look? I’m not really gonna do that.”
Toji looks up at the ceiling, slipping his hand behind his head, eyes shutting like it’s a pain to keep them open. He wraps a leg over the sheet, unclothed, skin bare from head to toe. Satoru gets distracted by it, his own refusal to lend him anything to wear, eyes perusing up over his side, stare biting into his leg, his ass, his chest.
“I’m hungry,” Toji announces.
Gojo notices it then, the difference in his body. Though his muscles maintain their largeness, his lack of appetite has taken its toll – hollowed cheeks, sharpened jaw, sunken eyes. It’s a protest more than anything else. He refuses to cling to life.
“You already ate,” Gojo counters, slinking towards the bed. He starts to feel his own victory over him dwindling, sinking into the impassivity of Toji’s demeaner, feeling just how little he cares. It burns a hole in his fucking pride.
“Hardly.”
“Your problem.”
Toji’s eyes flutter open, falling on Satoru as he stands over him, a hostile look on his face, jaw set tight. It’s fucking juvenile, he can’t understand it.
“No special treatment? For whatever the fuck I’m here for.”
“Shut up,” Gojo mutters curtly, like he doesn’t know if he wants Toji to hear it,
“Shut up?” Toji repeats, almost wants to laugh. “I haven’t spoken to anyone in days. Humour me, will you?”
“Why should I? You don’t deserve it.”
Toji’s laugh is disbelieving as he shuts his eyes again.
Gojo’s own eyes wander over to Toji’s side, peeking out from under the comforter, and places a cold hand against his skin. Gently, he strokes upwards, just hardly brushing him, his touch as light as a feather. His gaze shifts to the bandages wrapped tightly around his middle, dragging his fingers over them. He had blown a hole right through Toji’s left side in their fight, it’s almost a miracle that he survived it.
Callously, Gojo presses into his wound.
Toji’s body jerks, groaning as he latches onto Satoru’s wrist, face scrunched in agony. “Don’t,” he warns, pleads, his voice strained from the pain, his features acquiescent. Gojo quickly shakes him off, stuffing his hand back in his pocket with a knit in his brow.
“Drugs ain’t working.” It’s almost a threat.
“They’re working fine,” Toji says through gritted teeth, wincing as he rubs over the injury, the ghost of Gojo’s touch. He sinks back against the pillow, clutching at his stomach, breathing unsteadily.
“What’s the big deal?” Gojo grimaces. He notices the way the sheet has fallen to Toji’s hips, and continues distractedly, “It’s been a week.”
“A week,” Toji sneers, sucking in a sharp breath. “I’m not like you.”
“Meaning?”
“Don’t be fucking dense.”
“I’d rather be dense than fucking coldblooded, I mean – fuck – who just-”
“That’s why I’m here?” Toji leans up on his elbow, steeling himself, hair falling over his face. “You wanna judge me? Punish me? Is that what this is? What the fuck do you know? You’re just a kid.”
Gojo slaps him hard across the face.
“Shut your fucking mouth.”
Toji’s face snaps the other way at the impact, but he only grins, laying back down without a word. His cheek blooms red, but despite the sting, he doesn’t tend to it, doesn’t touch a single finger to the spot. Gojo scans over his face, expecting him to say something even still.
“Pulling your punches?” he taunts.
Satoru lifts his chin arrogantly. “You know what I can do.”
“Ooh,” Toji feigns dread, smirks. Gojo scowls and covers Toji’s mouth with his hand. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react, like he’s used to it. Gojo feels his hot breath on his skin, and it’s almost scary how alive he is.
“Maybe I should’ve left you for dead,” he remarks, shoving Toji’s face away. His gaze falls to his bare chest, extends a hand over it, trails his fingers over his nipple and pinches the hardened nub, reddened by the fever. Toji bites back a moan, and Gojo watches his pulled expression with smugness, feeling him stiffen under his touch as he traces his fingers down over his ribs, his waist, his hips.
“No time like the present,” Toji breathes, but his voice shakes, wavers as Satoru’s fingers venture further down, past his pelvic bone, along his thigh. He lifts his head to watch him, consciously shutting his legs, trapping the sheets between them. Gojo thins his lips, unconvinced by his coyness, swiftly spreading his legs apart. Toji leans up anxiously.
“What’s wrong?” Satoru asks, drags the back of his fingers toward his inner thigh. He wraps his hand around the flesh, cocking his head at the image of him, amenable in his grip. He stores it away like a photograph, not sure why.
“What are you doing?” Toji questions, quietly, eyebrows furrowed and absorbed in the thought. Gojo looks his way, features inscrutable, and Toji averts his gaze. “Fuck, you a perv or something?”
“Or something,” Gojo trails off and squeezes his thigh, feels the years of experience forced into his physique. Toji chews on his lip, hair over his eyes, his expression hidden away. Gojo frowns and grasps a handful of his hair, tilting his head up. “They put you through it, didn’t they? We’ve all heard the rumours.”
“Didn’t take you for a gossip,” Toji mutters drily. Satoru breathes a wry laugh and meanly pushes his head back down.
Toji curls his long fingers around his wrist before he can move away. Gojo frowns, unable to hide his surprise at just how much strength is in his body. How much, for someone so ordinary, someone with no cursed energy running through their veins. Someone free. He’s the only silence, Gojo thinks, the only reprieve from the loud buzzing of the rest of the world, nothing more than himself in front of his six eyes. It feels like a miracle, the perfect match, a fated encounter.
His eyes fall to Toji’s hand, unwilling to accept any such prophecy over his own free will.
“Don’t touch me,” he commands weakly, but doesn’t try to pull away. Even in Toji’s state, it’s pointless. “I’ll hit you,” he promises, emptily.
“You did that already.”
Gojo narrows his eyes at him. “I’ll fuck you.”
Toji raises his brows in surprise, but his eyes glint with humour. Satoru swallows uneasily, uncertainties trying to paralyse him, but he musters up the confidence anyway.
“I’ll fuck you,” he repeats, self-assuredly.
“You’ll fuck me?”
Gojo bites at his cheeks insecurely as the words fall from Toji’s lips. Somehow, he gives them their full meaning, fills the emptiness of them, suffocates him with their weight. It’s a question, a challenge, a dare, filled to the brim with doubt.
Gojo scowls and snatches his wrist away. “Think I won’t?”
“Want me to beg you not to?”
“Let me guess: you don’t care what happens to you?” Satoru rolls his eyes, turning his attention to Toji’s bare thigh and pinching his skin. “Don’t be boring.”
Toji groans at the sharp bite of Gojo’s fingers, clenching his eyes shut and gripping the sheet beneath him in a tight fist.
“That hurt?”
“Did what hurt?” Toji breathes, despite how his fingers are still wrangled in the Egyptian cotton, how the marks of Gojo’s touch glow pink on his flesh.
Gojo sighs. Without so much as another thought, he jumps up onto the bed, landing between Toji’s legs. He presses his palms flatly against his bulky chest and shuffles forward until he’s straddling his hips, knees either side of his waist. Toji groans – whines – at the force of his hands pushing into him, turns his face into the pillow to conceal his expression.
“How was-” Gojo begins, but cuts himself off and grabs Toji’s face, turning it back to look at him. “How was that? Did that hurt?” he interrogates, noticing the way Toji’s lips pucker in his hold as his fingers dig into his cheeks. He shakes Toji’s head from side to side when he only stares vacantly, tight-lipped. “Now you wanna be quiet?”
Satoru sighs, slides his fingers down to Toji’s chin and tilts his head up to get a better look at his scar. He thumbs over the mark that cuts across the right side of his mouth, feels its jagged edges, and then the plumpness of his lip around it. Likes the way it looks on him.
“I can give you another one of these,” he offers, mirroring the shape of it on the opposite side of his mouth. Would do it. It’s tempting enough when he looks like this. Gojo tugs his bottom lip down until it bounces back in place, swallows keenly at how perfectly his lips close, at how they part a little to catch his breath.
He stares up at him and mutters, “Might suit me.”
Gojo eases out of his trance and glides his hands across Toji’s chest, smiling.
“Yeah? Could do it the same way if you tell me how it happened.” He’s pushing, he knows. Thinks he sees a flash of irritation on Toji’s face, but it’s gone quicker than it comes.
“You’ve got a mouth on you, you know that?”
Satoru hums, spreads his fingers over Toji’s front. “Not a fond memory, then?”
Toji distractedly puts his hand on Gojo’s thigh. It feels meaningless, and yet undoubtedly assertive, makes Gojo feel small.
“What memory is that?” Toji questions, cocking his head. “More gossip?”
Gojo shrugs dismissively. “If you say so.”
Toji smiles and rubs over his uniformed leg, feels him tense in his grip. “What about you, hm? Big fucking estate, and no one to share it with?”
Gojo pauses, eyes narrowing at him as unwelcome memories come flooding back into his brain. “What the fuck are you getting at?”
“Just saying, we’ve all heard those rumours.”
Satoru’s face twists in distaste. He grabs Toji’s wrist, shoving his hand back against the mattress, and leans over him, breathing hot, angry breaths into his face.
“Don’t talk to me like we’re fucking friends.” He’s annoyed, is riling himself up even more by staring into those impassive fucking eyes. He wants to say more, bite his head off, but doesn’t. Knows he wouldn’t know when to stop if he started.
He inhales heavily and sits back up, keeping his eyes locked on Toji’s. He looks almost timid now, unspeaking, playing the part. It’s jarring.
“Nothing left to say?” Gojo chides.
“What do you want me to say?” Toji asks curiously, can’t hide the smirk that plays on his lips. Satoru clenches down on his teeth annoyedly. He reaches out and pinches Toji’s nipples, twisting them hard between his fingers. Toji squirms, gripping Gojo’s arm in a silent plea for him to stop. Gojo flicks his thumbs over the nubs unsympathetically, and he breathes in sharply, pressing his face into the pillow. It’s so lewd, Gojo almost has to look away.
“Fucking sensitive, aren’t you?” he croaks, mouth going dry. It dizzies him to think of the effect he’s having, even if it is just because of the drugs. So dizzying, in fact, that he can’t even bring himself to grin at the sight before him. He’s never had such complete control over someone outside of battle, usually prefers not to. But he likes how this feels.
Toji hums in response, grin wide and somehow still docile.
“Want me to fuck you that bad?” Gojo taunts, a knit in his brow. Toji starts to laugh, cackle, like a madman, rough and manic and stupid. It’s open-mouthed and shameless. Satoru feels a blush creep to his cheeks, suddenly nervous, or maybe embarrassed is the better word. Perhaps he was too bold, but it angers him all over again. “What the fuck is so funny?”
Toji bites his lip, swallows down his ridicule, splutters one last laugh. He shakes his head as if to dismiss the question. Impatiently, Gojo presses mercilessly into the large wound on his left side, wrapped tight in bloodied bandages. Toji’s legs jolt as the pain shoots through him, whimpering – fucking whimpering. The sound is almost music to his ears. Even as he continues to writhe underneath him in his debilitated condition, Gojo keeps his fingers pressing into the injury sadistically. Can’t find it in himself to care.
Frantically, Toji manages to lean up on his elbow, trying to slip out from under him, but he can barely move his own body. It’s still not ready to obey him completely, too weak, too in agony. His whimpers are reduced to hisses, tilts his head back and accepts the assault, takes it with everything he has. Satoru can only imagine the immensity of the pain; it had taken a lot to repair the damage he’d done to him, hours on end spent on saving him, resources he’d rather not have expended. But the pain is the price, much as it always is. He has to pay it.
“Fuck, stop-” he begs, breathlessly, words slurred into an almost incoherent mumble. He claws at the sheets, attaching to them with a vice grip, knuckles turning white. His hair sticks to his forehead, his body sweat-coated and burning up. Gojo feels the heat radiating from him, the warm stench of recovery. Mere threads hold him to life.
“Oh, so you do know what that means?” he mocks. “Still, it’s a shame you don’t know how to.”
With one final press, he removes his hand from the injury. Toji gasps, breathing a sigh of relief, chest heaving as he collapses back against the bed. Gojo examines his hand as though his own ruthlessness would be painted on his skin, tainting his halo for everybody to see. He’s heard about kicking men when they’re down, but this still doesn’t feel like it. His hands are as clean as his conscience.
“This what you do for fun?” Toji asks, his voice merely a pant. Satoru closes his hand into a fist and shifts his focus back over to him.
“I’m expanding my palate.”
Toji barely lets out a chuckle before he chokes on it, wincing as it wracks his body.
“You talk like fucking old money,” he sneers, clutching at his abdomen.
“I am old money,” Gojo points out. “Not my problem that you renounced your privileges.”
“Oh,” Toji scoffs, “is that what I did?”
“Don’t worry though, I’ll make sure your kid gets the fruits of your labour.” He smiles icily, absentmindedly running his hand over Toji’s bindings. “Or kids, was it? Two, right?” he questions, gripping his waist in threat. “Right?”
Toji tenses, meeting his gaze in confirmation.
A smug expression settles on Gojo’s face. “Been whoring around?”
Toji ignores him.
“How old even are you? Thirty, forty?”
“The girl ain’t mine.”
“Didn’t ask you that.”
“I’m just saying, leave her out of it.”
“Out of what?” Satoru leans down to Toji’s ear and whispers: “I’m not the kid-killer here.”
He props himself back up and smiles. Taps Toji’s cheek lightly, watching him flinch, excepting more, worse. Gojo relishes in it, the control, Toji’s docility. After everything he’s heard about the Zen’in-reject, he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised by his tameness. He’s malleable at the core, too used to being controlled to break free from the curse of it. But it’s more than that, Gojo thinks, it’s like he wants it. After all, belonging nowhere only breeds the desire to belong, and fuck, if it can look this pathetic.
“Look at you.” He shakes his head, tutting. “Who gets to see you like this? Who gets to know that you just want to be fucked?” He latches onto Toji’s neck, wrapping his fingers around his throat. “You act out on purpose, don’t you? Just want some attention.”
Toji averts his eyes, swallowing in his hold.
“Poor baby.”
Gojo shifts on his knees, adjusting his position, feels Toji through the thin sheets, not as dormant as a moment ago. Biting back a smirk, he slides his fingers toward the corners of Toji’s jaw, sharp like a knife, but too blunt to cut him. He feels his pulse beneath his skin, ticking away ardently and with great speed. Gojo rocks his hips a little, slowly pressing down into him, nearly imperceptible with his movements. He can feel the thickness beneath him, semi-interested. Toji squeezes his eye shut.
“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” Satoru asks as his fingers wander wantonly up to Toji’s mouth, running a finger over his bottom lip. He grinds his hips down, and Toji hums at the friction, his voice vibrating through Gojo’s fingers. It’s tickles him, makes him retract his hand, stare at him with wild expectation. “Tell me. Tell me what you tell yourself.”
Toji’s jaw clenches and unclenches, unwilling to engage with the provocation. Gojo sighs.
“It’s in your own interest that you don’t bore me,” he advises, placing his hands on Toji’s waist, so gentle a touch and yet still so intimidating. He taps his fingers. “Who knows what I might do.”
Toji breathes deeply, looking at him through heavy eyelids, thick lines of lashes. He thinks him over, plays with the words in his mouth before he speaks. “What will you do?”
Gojo merely blinks at his audaciousness, commends the resilience, but quickly realises he doesn’t seem any more interested in the answer than he does the reaction.
“Might be easier to ask what I won’t do.”
“Holding out on me?”
“Why, you looking forward to it? Bit of a masochist?”
“Something like that.”
“Hm.”
Gojo grips his waist and pushes down on his hips purposefully, applying more pressure. He revels in the shift in Toji’s expression, feeling him flinch beneath him, his whole body hardened and tense. Toji hides his eyes with his arm, lips between his teeth, bicep strong against his face. Gojo feels his own cock jump as the image of him, the subtle friction getting to him, the sheets leaving almost nothing to the imagination.
He stills with all the willpower he has and shuffles down, snatching the sheet from over Toji’s hips. His eyes fall to Toji’s dick, thick and long and half-hard. It’s a sight and a half to behold, makes him lick his lips, makes him hungry. On a normal day, he might have already been on his knees, throat stuffed. Would’ve maybe liked to have been used by him. Him for all the scandals it would cause. For the complete sacrilege that would be.
Satoru eye’s flit up to Toji’s face, who watches him back, waiting for a verdict. There’s no embarrassment in his expression, though Gojo can’t tell if it’s his overconfidence or his lack of self-respect. Doesn’t know why he thought he’d have any shame at all anyway. He’s probably given it all up for pride, and even that now is a dwindling thing. With almost nothing to his name, it’s no wonder he’s got nothing left to hide.
Gojo raises his brows judgementally. “You really get off to this?”
“To what?” Toji’s voice is hoarse, but firm. “You rub up on my dick and think I won’t react?”
“You’re easy.”
Toji hums, neither in agreement nor denial. “Haven’t gone this long without getting my dick sucked.”
Gojo grimaces at the comment, and digs his nails into Toji’s thighs, but he doesn’t even flinch this time.
“What are you gonna do?” he asks, provoking him.
“Shut up.”
“Just wanted to see me naked?” Toji bites back a smirk. Gojo clenches his jaw and immediately wraps a hand around his cock, squeezing him. Toji’s body jerks as Gojo’s fist encases him in a warm, punishing grip, stifling a moan. “Fuck.”
Gojo runs his thumb along the slit and watches Toji’s eyes roll shut, mouth falling open. He does it again, using his whole palm to rub over the tip,, smooth against the ball of his hand. Toji’s fingers latch onto the covers. He looks a mess already and Gojo rakes his eyes over every inch of his body, swallowing thickly at his lewdness. He feels his pants tighten at the crotch.
“Why-” He curses under his breath as his voice shakes. “Why do you look like that?” He doesn’t know why he asks, but Toji ignores him, subconsciously rutting up for the friction of his grip. Satoru moves his hand tightly down the length, and then back up again, generously twisting his wrist. It’s dry, a little rough, but he keeps his focus on Toji’s lips; the way he chews at them, the way they glisten, the way he opens them to let out a soft breath. He’s fucking pretty like this, and Gojo’s only thoughts are of making a complete mess of him.
He lets him go and Toji’s cock hits his stomach in full attention.
“Wanna get off?” Gojo asks.
Toji just looks at him, the answer written all over his face. Satoru thinks his heart skips a beat, and it scares him, but he’s more distracted by the lust heavy in his eyes. He bows his head, recollecting himself.
“You’ll take what I give you.”
Toji is silent for a moment before he speaks up.
“Your boyfriend gonna be okay with that?”
“Boyfriend?” Gojo frowns in confusion. “What boyfriend?”
“The better looking one. That emo fuck.”
“Suguru?”
“I don’t care what his name is.”
“We’re not a thing,” Gojo yaps, though there’s a tone of resentment in his voice.
“You don’t fuck? Looked like it.”
Gojo grits his teeth. “We fuck. But it’s not like that.”
“Complicated, then?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“It ain’t.” The scar on Toji’s lip pulls as he fights a grin, looking up through bedroom eyes. “Gonna ride me, or what?”
Flustered, Gojo blinks quickly as he feels heat rise to his cheeks. He glares at him, aggravated by his seemingly endless undermining.
“I already told you,” he huffs, “I’m fucking you.”
Toji’s scepticism is evident, humour in his eyes, like he knows everything. “They usually let you on top?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Toji snorts.
Gojo chews his lip, better not to say anything, not to let him under his skin. He drags a cold finger down the curve of Toji’s cock, feels him twitch. Making a sound of approval, he brings his finger to his mouth, pushing it past his lips to suck on it. Toji’s smile drops as he watches Gojo’s lips, tongue swirling around his digit, covering it with spit. His jaw tightens.
With a loud pop, Gojo removes his finger from his mouth, glistening and soaked, dripping even. He grins with a closed mouth, lips shining, placing himself between Toji’s legs. The muscles in his thighs tense as Satoru grabs him with an icy hand, lifting his leg until his knee is bent out of the way.
“Don’t clench,” Gojo warns, eyes falling between his spread legs to his puffy pink entrance, pressing his finger against the rim. He looks up into Toji’s eyes as he softly circles his hole, pupils dilated, his silence both chilling and acquiescent.
Without warning, Gojo pushes his finger inside. It slides in with ease, the flesh close but relaxed around him. He licks his lips, eyeing the intrusion, and twisting his finger, curling it inside of him. He acclimatises to the feeling, fingering in and out of him gently, a steady rhythm guiding him, his own spit allowing him to slip in further.
Toji doesn’t react, not even a sharp breath, not a flutter of flesh around him.
“You’ve done this before,” Gojo realises, pulling his finger out. He rubs over his entrance, looking up for an answer.
“Think you’re the first?” Toji looks up at him in ridicule. “Try again.”
Gojo’s face flashes with annoyance, but he starts to see the picture. It seems obvious now that he would sell his body too. “What was your price?”
Toji only smiles.
“Bet you would’ve done it for anything,” Gojo grimaces, meanly rubbing over his puckered hole. “Cheap slut.” He shoves two fingers past the ring of flesh, a tighter fit but painless still. Toji lays his head back down, propping his arm over his eyes.
Gojo pushes in further, past the first knuckle, and up to the second, setting a slow, purposeful pace. It’s a weird feeling, but the sounds of Toji’s breath getting heavier with each movement is incentive enough, makes his blood run hot. He twists his fingers as he slides in and out, entering him over and over, opening him up little by little. He scissors his fingers, looking up at Toji’s face, his lip caught between his teeth as Gojo pushes against his walls.
“You like it,” he observes smugly, pushing a third finger in, curling his fingers deeply.
Toji curses under his breath, barely holding back a moan.
“Here?” Gojo presses into the flesh again, same spot eliciting the same muffled moan. He massages his fingers into the area gently, hearing Toji’s breathing become noticeably uneven. He marvels at him, at how quickly his walls can come down, how fast he gives into the mercy of another. A fighter, an assassin, abandoning caution for instinct. It makes Gojo want to take complete advantage of him.
Pulling his fingers out all the way, he pushes them back in hard and fast until Toji’s groans escape his lips before he can stop them. His hand slides over his face, hiding his expression. Gojo removes his fingers all together and crawls a knee up over him, watching his face through the cracks in his fingers.
“Zen’in,” he calls in a sing-song voice. Toji’s eyes flash open, hostility lurking within his submission.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Thought you wanted to get off.” Gojo yanks Toji’s hand away from his face, and pins his wrist to the bedding, leaning in closer. “Open your mouth.”
He shoves his fingers past Toji’s lips before he can answer, watching his mouth close instinctively around him, passively and without contest. Gojo smirks. He’s so much better like this, not stirring the pot, mouth full before he gets the chance to run it. This way he at least looks obedient.
Gojo presses down on his tongue, slides along the bumpy flesh and slips in deeper. Toji whines around his digits, not a fight, but not a surrender either.
“Don’t give me that.” Gojo releases his wrist and starts to fumble with the button of his pants. “You fucking owe me.”
He pulls his fly down with some difficulty, half his concentration on swirling his fingers around Toji’s mouth to slick them up. Toji latches onto his wrist and wrenches his fingers from his mouth, glistening with spit as they appear from his lips. He shoves his hand away and rubs over his mouth, wiping the remnants from his chin with an annoyed expression. Gojo half expects him to say something, but he stays quiet.
He positions himself between Toji’s legs, sees his tip already leaking out onto his stomach. Gojo pulls his own cock from the tight confines of his uniform, not nearly as girthy as Toji, but he makes up for it in length. Wrapping his fingers around himself, he strokes the length generously with spit-coated fingers, not hard enough to enter him yet, though twitching with interest. Slowly, he moves his hand up and down, twisting his wrist and palming over the tip, making sure to thoroughly slick himself up.
His eyes dart back to Toji, who watches him with heavy eyes. Gojo can’t tell whether it’s resentment or anticipation that sparkles in them, finds it makes him more determined to ruin him. His hand speeds up, feeling himself harden with every stroke as he stares lustfully into his eyes. Everything about him, his docile appearance, his wordless protests, his flushed face only do more to turn him on.
“You know,” he begins, a little breathless, “for a long time, I couldn’t put a name to the face when I’d overhear things about you. ‘Oh, he’s the hot one, right? Such a shame that he has no cursed energy!’” he recounts. “‘I would certainly risk the repercussions of clan-to-clan politics for just one night with him!’ My, my, I would think, can one person really be so enticing?”
Gojo pushes Toji’s legs further apart, spreads him a little wider. He looks so obscene like this, so fucking whorish, it’s almost too much. He lifts his shirt just out of the way, slows his hand to a stop when he starts to feel that familiar build-up, needs to get inside of him quick.
“Seems like my name’s been in everyone’s mouth,” Toji mutters as Gojo lines himself up, rubbing over his throbbing tip. He shuts his eyes in the sheer bliss of the feeling, his own hand and the mere thought of Toji beneath him close to enough to make him come undone. The temptation hovers over him, to unravel on top of him like this, to release onto his stomach and leave him high and dry. He doesn’t care how bad that would make him; it would never compare.
“For all the wrong reasons.”
He pushes in and immediately bottoms out. He moans shamelessly, uncaring if anyone might hear, and against Toji’s loud, agonised whine, it’s a filthy, loveless melody. Gojo groans, succumbing to the warmth of him, catching his breath in the heaven of it. Toji’s fingers marry to the sheets in a steely fist, chest rising and falling as he adjusts to the stretch.
Gojo flops over him, hands beside his head, breaths blowing hotly onto his face as he tries to keep himself up. He doesn’t make to move, getting lost in the feeling of being inside him, never not blown away by the sensation of flesh completely sheathing him in its warm embrace. He so rarely has the chance to experience intimacy like this. Though, he thinks, it’s not really intimate at all. It feels wrong, but in the same way that taking a bite of the forbidden fruit was a sin – so fucking right.
He looks down between them, at where he disappears inside of him, at Toji’s seeping cock, pressed pink and sore into his front. He’s so desperate, twitching for attention.
“Thought you were used to this?” Satoru breathes, looking up at him, faces so close there’s almost no room for the animosity to hang between them. Almost.
Toji’s lips part like he’s about to speak, but Gojo thrusts into him hard. The sudden movement numbs his brain like a drug, eyes wide and mouth agape. Toji’s eyes squeeze shut, his hand gripping Gojo’s forearm for support.
“Been that long?” Gojo harasses, though he can hardly string a coherent thought together himself. He thrusts in and out, setting a rhythm, eyes scanning over his face as he enters him again and again. It feels so fucking perfect, like he was always meant to fuck him. He bites at his lips to supress his sounds, knows how brazen he can get, always does get, always has to apologise for. But he can stay composed, if just for the poeticism of the moment, bound by the inevitability of their nature.
Toji’s grasp on his arm gets painful, but it’s a dull thing next to the feverishness of his hole, sucking him in frenetically, squeezing around him. Even after he tried so hard to play up his indifference. It’s pathetic.
Gojo lowers his head, entering him at a slightly different angle, pushing down into him, speeding up his pace. Toji’s back arches, and he opens his legs more for ease, making Gojo groan as he gets deeper access. He pushes in further, but it’s dry, too rough now, makes his movements more and more difficult by the second. Toji’s little noises at every thrust seem only to confirm it, a crease in his brow, his jaw clenched.
“What?” Gojo taunts, his face hot, covered in a lustre of sweat. “Too rough?”
It’s rough on them both, but he wants Toji to beg him to make it easier. Gojo wonders how long he’ll hold out for, if he’ll bite his tongue and take it, or if he’ll let go of his pride and ask for it. He drives into him, chest pressing against his, shirt riding up. Toji’s arm goes lax, releasing his hold on him, face turning into his pillow.
“Speak for yourself,” he mumbles, voice breaking with every thrust.
“I don’t know, I kind of like it,” Gojo pants, fucking him hard and deep. Toji’s head rolls back, swallowing a deep groan. “You in pain, trying to act like you’re not.”
He says nothing, does nothing, completely submissive beneath him. Gojo ducks his head and presses his lips to his neck, keenly licking a short stripe over the lump in his throat.
“I’ll admit,” he blows onto the wet surface, “you are strong.”
He drags his teeth over his skin, gently nips at him, nudging his nose behind his ear. Toji tilts his head away, his breath heavy, shaky.
“Almost killed me,” Gojo continues in a whisper. “Stabbed me straight through the chest.”
He immediately pulls off him, and situates himself more comfortably between Toji’s legs, pushing his thighs further apart. He quickly takes to his shirt buttons, opening them hurriedly, top to bottom. Toji’s eyes follow each one until they’re all undone, and Gojo pushes both shirt and blazer aside to reveal his chest. Scarred, surprisingly. Even Gojo had been shocked that his reverse cursed technique (and anything Ieri was able to offer) wasn’t enough to heal him completely. Though annoying, he’s somewhat glad that he has something to show for almost dying that day. And really, he should be grateful for the whole ordeal.
He looks down and admires the hideous scar that travels at an angle across the centre of his chest, a long, almost jagged protrusion. It’s still sore to the touch, but he likes it, feeling something.
“See?” He runs a finger along it, lip between his teeth, pleased. “I’m stuck with this now.”
He meets Toji’s scrutinous gaze, though there’s not even an ember of pride in them. Why the hell not?
“Touch it,” Gojo urges but doesn’t give him the chance to act on the instruction, grasping his hand and pulling it toward his chest. Toji leans up uncomfortably as Gojo places his palm flat against the scar. “You did this.”
Toji examines it, running his fingers along it, unmoved. “Want me to say sorry?”
“Ha!” Gojo laughs incredulously, and pushes him back down against the bed, noses almost touching now. “Will you?”
“Kill me.” It’s a bargain – an apology for a show of mercy.
Gojo thins his lips, watching him disappointedly. “You’re not really sorry, though, are you?”
He closes the distance between their faces, challengingly brushing his lips over Toji’s. He swears Toji leans up into it, but it’s so minor a movement that he’s not sure it even happened. Gojo exhales flatly, expression turning distant.
“No deal.” He backs off and pushes Toji’s hair out of his face, stroking his temple, sweat-coated and burning red. “You’re mine.”
Toji’s eyes fall shut defeatedly, another pitiful look on his face. Gojo feels the high of conquering him seep back into his veins, hot and cold.
He spots a bottle of oil sat on the bedside table, probably used by his house professionals to tend to Toji’s wounds. Quickly, he grabs it, pulling out of Toji and pouring an unnecessary amount over his aching cock. It spills everywhere, on his legs, between Toji’s thighs, all over the sheets underneath them, but he doesn’t care. He throws the bottle to the ground and slathers the lukewarm oil all over his length, coating himself thoroughly, hectically, wasting no time before he pushes back into him.
“Shit.” He shudders at the ease of entry, sliding in all the way, no resistance, no roughness, no regret. He takes a second to let his breath steady, to adjust to the perfect stretch of his hole. it’s so soft and hot inside of him, could just stay like this. He lifts Toji’s leg up over his shoulder, turns his lips into the flesh, humming lustfully into his thigh. He places a kiss there, heat of the moment, pulling out all the way and thrusting back in again.
Toji’s whole body jerks, Gojo’s cock buried so deep inside of him that he slams his hand repeatedly against the mattress, helpless to his cruelty.
Gojo moans fervently as he fucks into him, set in a fast and easy pace, completely dizzied by the ecstasy of it, of him, his conquest. His prize, he deserves this. Needs it more than anything. He chases it, almost can’t hear Toji’s panting over the slick sounds of his cock entering him over and over, or his own gasps each time he bottoms out. He’s throbbing so violently inside him, so wet and perfect, numbing his brain, turning his body into a furnace. Hair sticks to his forehead, sweat running down his face. He thinks this might be enough to drive him crazy.
“I think,” he says between thrusts, loud and breathless, “I’m starting to see what all the fuss was about.”
He goes in hard, attacking Toji’s sweet spot, and he lets out such a guttural moan it could be a sob. His cock twitches against his stomach, neglected like he’s obeying unspoken rules. Or maybe he likes it like this, being dominated, being told no, stop, never.
Gojo runs his fingers through his hair, a smirk on his face. “You really are good like this.”
Toji throws him a look through sex-cast eyes and dark, vampiric bangs. His skin glows red with fever and humiliation.
“You look good like this,” Gojo extends breathily. It’s an honest confession, anyone would agree, and of all the whispers that have fallen upon his ears, he’d certainly been warned. He places a hand to Toji’s stomach, pointedly avoiding his wounded side, his leaking cock. “Zen’in doesn’t belong on a face like yours.”
He fucks him slower but harder, deeper, and Gojo doesn’t think he’s felt anything so intense, done something that turns him on so completely. The image of Toji’s wrecked body beneath him reveals a twisted fantasy with no beginning or end in sight.
“Tell me your name,” he invites in a low voice, the familiar edge burning him up inside, filling him out. He sets down Toji’s shaking leg and leans over him, watching the pants fall from his bitten-raw lips. “What should I call you?”
Toji turns to meet his gaze, hardly even able to focus on Gojo’s words with his cock that deep inside of him, but he considers them undecidedly.
“Don’t think about it, just tell me.”
Silence hangs between them as their eyes bore into one another’s. Toji finally yields.
“Fushiguro.”
Gojo tastes the name on his tongue and hums in acknowledgement. His curiosity swells as he slides in and out of him, burying his face into his neck. “Married?” he pries.
Toji doesn’t breathe a word, appears almost disinclined to provide an answer when Gojo reads his face. He decides not to enquire further.
“Fushiguro.” He regards the word as it falls from his lips, thrusting in hard and fast, stuffing him so completely. Toji arches his back at the suddenness of it, cock pressing up against Gojo’s abdomen, the small amount of contact forcing lewd sounds out of his mouth. “Fushiguro.”
“Fuck.”
Gojo goes faster as Toji finally breaks, watching him claw at the pillow, trying to hide his face in the crook of his arm. Gojo thinks it’s probably the best thing he’s ever seen. Someone as powerful as him, looking as fucked out as he is. It’s unimaginable, so he doesn’t dare tear his eyes away.
“I wanna tell everyone,” he pants. “I wanna tell everyone how good you feel.” Gojo would shout it from the rooftops if Toji wasn’t supposed to be dead, would finally give everyone something to talk about, a real reason. Something of substance, something for the Elders to go truly berserk about.
He holds Toji’s shoulders down and fucks into him, more aggressive, more obsessive. The mere prospect of pissing off an entire cult of traditionalists rots his mind like candy does teeth. It’s so fucking sweet.
“I just – fuck.” Gojo can’t finish his thought. He feels heat in the pit of his stomach like a fanned flame, tightening his muscles, so close to the edge. “You feel unreal.”
He grips Toji’s waist, fingers pressing into him, heartless to his wounds.
“Shit, easy,” Toji hisses, but moans at his cruel touch anyway.
“You don’t want me to stop,” Gojo says knowingly. He rubs his hand over Toji’s stomach, so close to where he needs the attention, but still not enough. He’s practically squirming beneath him. “Do you?”
Toji clamps his eyes shut, trying to hide the truth of his words in them. Gojo grabs his face, forcing him to look, to face the reality, a wholly compliant expression tainting his rough demeanour as he submits to him.
Gojo’s mouth goes dry.
“Tell me,” he implores, his resolve firm but his voice unsteady. “Tell me how badly you wanna get off.” He releases his face and strokes a finger down the length of Toji’s throbbing cock, pink with desperation. “Fushiguro.”
“God, fuck-” Toji curses loudly, shaking in his hold. He whimpers sensitively as Gojo strokes up his shaft, fingers barely brushing him. He grips his thighs, sliding deep inside him in the most perfect way it makes Toji completely unravel. His body arcs off the bed, moaning shamelessly as he spurts out thick, white threads of come all over himself like a fucking virgin. His whining is vulgar, movements lewd, sweaty skin sticking to him. His body winds in pleasure, panting like a dog.
Gojo groans at the sight, Toji’s writhing riling him up, giving him painful friction. It hurts in the best way, so disorienting, so blinding, so damning.
“Shit,” he squeaks, quickly pulling out and wrapping his hand around his cock, jerking himself off until he’s spilling onto Toji’s chest. He bites back his moans as he makes a mess all over him, sullying his bandages, his bruised skin, his body but a gallery of their entwined endeavours.
Panting, he collapses on his knees, huffing exhaustedly, still blissed out. He sighs and puts himself away, zips his trousers, but neglects to button it up. He ruffles his hair into place and looks down at Toji, as much pleased as he is astonished. His chest rises and falls, his breaths deep and loud, still coming down from it all. Gojo could get used to it.
Without another word, he gets up off the bed in one swift motion, landing gracefully by his side. He slides his hands into his pockets, and observes the abused curves of Toji’s body, rumpled within the sheets. It stirs something inside of him, though he can’t tell if it’s guilt or desire.
He glances over to the door, balancing a final thought.
“Some foreign guy came snooping around, asking about you,” he says, and looks back over to him. “Kong, or something. You know him?”
Toji tears his gaze away from the ceiling and turns to him. He doesn’t answer, but Gojo takes the interest on his face as confirmation.
“Anyone else you wanna warn me about?”
Their eyes lock, and there’s a brief moment where things feel different, where the version of events that lead them there are more forgiving. Toji’s snake eyes wander back to the ceiling.
“Guess not, right?” Gojo mutters under his breath and leaves the room without another word.