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The moment he hears the knocking on his door and opens it to find a smug sorcerer standing in his doorway, Nanami instantly, intrinsically, knows to pull him inside, grabbing him by his shirt and tugging, watching the tall, slender man enter his home like a long-lost poltergeist, immediately becoming comfortable in an atmosphere that wasn’t his.
Gojo let down his Infinity for him. He always did. Nanami still finds the thought jarring when he dwells on it for too long. He promptly unclenches his fist from the fabric of the man’s work shirt.
“Hey there,” the white-haired menace greets, soft and… cute.
The tired blond swims in that perpetual irritation that the elder masterfully crafted; but in the midst of it all was a spark of excitement, knowledge of what’s to come, why he was here at such a time.
Although, it wasn’t particularly late. Seven at night. Hardly witching hours. Or whoring hours.
But these two never just hung out for no reason.
There was an agreement, a verbal contract, and though it was intangible, invisible, and by all intents and purposes, unreal, the two of them treated it with the same respect as legitimate legal paperwork.
Nanami, for the first time today, loosens his leopard-print tie, digging his forefinger into the knot and releasing it, before laying the silky fabric on some random table.
“Gojo-san,” he greets politely, his mouth suddenly dry, as if the weight of regret was preemptively placed on his tongue. His heart surged with energy as he watched wisps of Gojo’s excitement swirl around his head so obviously, cursed energy whirling and whirring like a halo. Like a siren beckoning him closer.
He needed this, despite what he’d like to think.
“Sit down,” Gojo instructs, pushing him lightly onto his loveseat.
Nanami falls into its cushions noiselessly, a testament to how pristine most of his furniture is, how little it’s used.
The salaryman lets out a low groan, his legs spreading instinctively as Gojo settles between them, clapping his hands on his thighs like some zealous athlete smacking the skin of their teammate—a gesture somehow packed with layers of subtle coded messaging yet utterly meaningless at the same time.
Gojo hums a pop song—some niche melody only gyarus would know—as he undoes Nanami’s belt, undisturbed by the cold metal of the clasp, and its weight. The tired man can feel himself relaxing already, his soft cock twitching with intrigue.
Gojo’s eyes, sharp like icicles and blue like planet Neptune, glance up at him, hot like anxiety itself, as he makes casual conversation, palming Nanami through his underwear before gently releasing his dick. “Rough day?”
Nanami snorts humorlessly. “I should be asking you.”
“Nah,” Gojo smiles, abnormally wide. Only the absolute bottoms of his top teeth show. The fangs of his canines. The flats of his incisors. Slivers of white between plump pink. Nanami swallows. The active sorcerer flirts, “You made sure of that. Had me walking on air all day.”
“You do that anyway,” Nanami says, though his comment falls flat on its face, because he knew what Gojo meant. Finger-fucking him in a cramped car and bringing that to its natural conclusion would obviously make the sorcerer happier. Gojo was a lot more high-strung than he let others perceive; he needed that. As the saying went, every jujutsu sorcerer was a little bit psycho. Bare minimum. The blond ignores the irksome thought that he may be just as afflicted—both with the insanity and unending lust! He hisses sharply when the man teasingly blows onto the tips of his dick, the feeling making it jump once more, before its met with the warmth of Gojo’s surrounding mouth, pushing past teeth that practically disappeared for the task, and resting on his tongue, before feeling the slick slide of motion. “Ah, so I guess conversation’s dead.”
“Guess so,” Gojo says, popping his lips off to stroke him, using the glossy layer of his saliva as lube. Nanami grunts, quickly being worked to full hardness. Once erect, Gojo tightens his fist and sucks on the head viciously. Nanami grunts, fighting the urge to buck up like a mindless animal, though every bit of him wants to make quick use of the gorgeous sorcerer’s tight throat.
He exhales, long and exhausted, as he looks down as Gojo, his messy tufts of cloud-white hair bobbing as he took him into his mouth happily, jubilantly, giggling around his cock, with the vibrations being zapped through Nanami’s spine in the best way, like he was melting. Like his stress was seeping out of him.
In the midst of the most obscene noises he’s ever heard—and the wicked tranquility that washed over him, knowing that Gojo’s somewhat quiet state was because he was too occupied choking on his cock, slurping precum—Nanami feels the most appeased, elated.
His fingers hook into Gojo’s hair, making the man whine slightly. Nanami can’t see it—can’t see much of anything with his head leaned back in pure bliss—but Gojo touches himself with his free hand, when simply squeezing his thighs together for pressure isn’t enough.
There’s so much the elder sorcerer wants to say, but he decides to show it through his actions, trailing his tongue up and down Nanami’s length like it were ice-cream that he wouldn’t dare waste. It shines, soaked in his spit. He marvels at the weight of it, the way it forces his lips—always rambling a mile a minute—to stretch wider than any word could, than any technique title could. He smacks it against his tongue, dazed, hungry, heavy. He feels his own cock thumping in time with his heart, needy and wet. He was so aroused; it was almost embarrassing. He places a delicate kiss onto the tip, something tender enough to pull Nanami out of the vulgarity for a second, and that’s when the accountant looks at him directly once more.
Namami notices the glimmering rim around Gojo’s eyes. Unshed tears. Strain. From forcing himself to take too much, too quickly—and reveling in it—because he was struggling in safety. If there’s one thing on Earth able to challenge him, he’s glad it’s just the magnitude of Nanami’s cock and the job of appreciating it.
If a battle could no longer give him the satisfaction, then Nanami would.
The white-collar man’s hand slips from his hair to his cheek for a second, and Gojo leans into it, before inhaling sharply.
Playing cool, the elder asks, “What’s up?”
His knees prickled.
“Nothing,” Nanami replied, his breath shuddering. His shoulders shook slightly when a chill overtook him, though it was a visual no one else would notice.
“You don’t want to cum down my throat?” The elder grins, leaning onto his thigh much-too-comfortably.
“Not particularly, no.”
“Isn’t that kinda the whole reason I’m here?”
His voice was rough, only for a moment, before clearing up towards the latter half of his statement.
Nanami doesn’t have an answer, so he pivots. “Get up. We’re going to the bedroom and you’re going to ride me.”
Gojo gives another one of those creepy, bug-eyed smiles. He cheers, overly animated—but then again, Gojo always lived in that slightly unnerving uncanny valley—that blurry, undefinable state of being both man and monster, as well as neither, so obviously and definitively. Nanami wonders if such expressions were the effect of trying to express and condense the emotions of Six spiritual eyes into two physical ones. It surely didn’t translate well, most times. Nanami only knew how to read it because he knew Gojo, truly, beyond his curated persona and beyond the oddities and tics that came with his powers. He knew the blend of all and neither that made up Satoru.
Once in the room, they disrobed immediately, and he pounced on him.
Nanami, in all his fatigue, and in the lazy pursuit of convenient sex, is all-too-pleased with this, laying back and simply admiring Gojo, once below, now above him.
Gojo hovers over him like a glowing, shivering angel, but he moves with the ferocity of a curse, grabbing Nanami’s length and slotting it into himself without a care in the world, letting out a rough moan when he feels the weight of most of it pressing inside.
He holds onto Nanami’s waist, his trembling fingers digging into his flesh as he rolls his hips experimentally. The first swirl was awkward and cautious, just him getting used to things—the stretch, the heat, the ache. His brain throbbed with the undying urge to take it all, to shove it all in at once, to be as close to the other as physically possible, to have his supernatural body subdued by the blond.
After a few shaky revolutions of his hips, Gojo starts bouncing. And that’s when sparks start flying, truly.
He puts all his focus onto his legs and hips, canting up and grinding down periodically, chasing after that wonderful sensation like he was a machine programmed for that sole purpose.
Each motion marks Gojo with the sensation of being filled, opened up, as his hole accommodates the delicious intrusion.
“Oh fuck, Ken,” he’d mewl, eyelids tightly shut, mouth loosely open.
Gojo hastily kept that motion up until he felt like every muscle in his legs were on fire. He shifts slightly, his pussy choking around Nanami’s dick fiercely, making the younger man moan audibly; a sound distinct from his typical, labored breathing and low grunting.
Gojo leans onto him flatly, their bare chests pressed against one another, Nanami’s damp with a light sheen of sweat. The salaryman is conscientious enough to secure his arms around the elder, who was already softening under the heat like a pack of noodles.
With this new position, his legs could strain less, even as he kept the same urgency, pushing against Nanami, determined to swallow his cock whole, stuff it in its rightful place, right up in his—
“Ah!” He whimpered in Nanami’s ear, his lips ghosting over his flesh. An intense wave of heat crashed onto him as his juices gushed out, all around the other, making the intrusion more slick, even wetter, even smoother. The release was so all-consuming and passionate—with his walls repeatedly cinching around Nanami, that all the man could do was fuck into it, letting the welcoming warmth consume him. Gojo squirted, and though its quickness startled him, it didn’t stop him. His hips shook, but they rolled with the same intensity, even as he huffed nothing but gibberish and profanities into his counterpart’s ear. “Holy fuck. It’s so good. Your dick’s so, so—”
He resorted to sucking patterns into Nanami’s salty skin, when the intensity became too much to even attempt speech.
Both their breathing quickened. They grinded into each other. The bedsheets rumpled and soaked underneath them.
Cursed energy spiked like a bomb bursting, cloaking the bed like a gaseous toxin. Gojo’s ecstasy was maddening—the sentiment made ever truer by his slurred run-on sentences, rolling eyes, and utter loss of control.
His voice crumbled around the syllables of Nanami’s name. He cums a second time when Nanami’s dick is pressed deep enough to kiss him from the inside. It’s just as violent and disorienting as the first. Gojo drools down onto Nanami’s skin.
“Hey. Hey, Satoru,” Nanami says, grabbing him harder, halting him, grounding him. The energy was fierce enough to make noise now, like the rustling of dry autumn leaves on a windy day, except, instead of being wholesome or peaceful, it felt like the preamble to a sudden crack of thunder, a hellish storm soon to follow. Intensity, unchecked like this, only builds. Blue eyes meet muddy hazel. Nanami tries not to recoil at the apparent mania. Usually, people disassociated from bad sex; but with Gojo’s nature, he could very well zone out in either direction, especially if he was overstimulated, which could come at the drop of a hat, the moment you touched his bare flesh with his barrier turned off. Multiple orgasms in such quick succession always required a bit of a methodical response. Nanami buries a groan when he feels the man throb around him, hears him hyperventilate, feels him convulse around him and atop him, the man’s body wanting to pull him even deeper inside. For a moment—a very brief one—they had to separate. “Get off, let me get on top. You’re getting too... excited.”
“Is that such a bad thing?”
“You’re overloaded, like a fuse fit to burst. Off, now.”
Gojo spends a noticeable moment trying to catch his breath in pure silence before actually following the directions, both of them making a small, acknowledging noise at the moist, unmistakable sound of their… decoupling.
He flops onto the bed, wiping his face before opening his legs invitingly.
Laid out on Nanami’s bed, he looks utterly delectable.
Times like these remind Nanami that, despite all his grumblings, it really was a privilege to know and have Gojo, especially in this manner.
When his gaze falls on his glistening pussy—and that stupid star—he can’t help but feel drawn to it, a victim of his own biology.
Gojo’s body welcomes him back in with clemency. The man underneath immediately arches when the other plunges into him, deep and decisively slow.
He grabs onto his broad back, his fingernails indenting the blond’s skin.
“Kento,” he pleads.
“You don’t want to rush, do you, Satoru?” Nanami asks, his lips brushing against the elder’s diamond-pierced earlobe. “It’s only good if we savor it. You know what I like.”
Gojo seems to melt into a putty at the words. One of his hands reaches into Nanami’s short hair, secured against his nape, while the other rests on his butt, supporting every sultry stroke that makes his pussy cry steady and slow.
“You like it, Ken? You like this?”
“Mmh,” he answers sluggishly, “I do.”
A gravelly noise escapes him once he pushes up to the very hilt again, making the elder below him tighten completely, rigid like a statue for a moment before gyrating against him, his body begging for speed—for anything more.
“I do too,” he gasps as Nanami hits particularly deep again, something hard and necessary. Slow and indulgent didn’t necessarily mean soft. Maybe this was payback for bothering him while he was on the clock, a massive no-go that Gojo consistently overstepped anyway. He was feeling it now. His moans grew louder, chants of the blond’s name, as ripples of energy stained his skin in a way only the two of them could see. Nanami’s spiked in response, bright aquamarine and highly concentrated. “Hah, ah– oh shit.”
Then Gojo started twisting, his whole body wracked with need, building beyond what he could take. Part of him wanted to run from it, his legs clenching around Nanami’s waist—an automatic move to hide himself, that worked against him in the moment—and he realized he wanted something else more.
“Satoru,” Nanami spoke into his flesh, spawning goosebumps along his neck. His thrusts were languid and purposeful all at once, enough to pull cries out of himself too, especially when Gojo’s throbbing hole so readily responded.
The white-haired sorcerer shivered. His voice was hushed, escaping him like it didn’t belong to him.
“Nut in me.”
“What?”
He became urgent. “Cum inside me, Ken! I want it so bad.”
He wants to feel close to someone, to have him hug him from the deepest place, fill him, like he was some treasure trove, with a token of appreciation, of companionship—anything other than being the lone man at the top, for a second, standing in solitude on the cold ice of Mount Everest.
He couldn’t stand that feeling.
He liked this—he craved this—the other on top of him, inside him, heavy and warm and alive.
“Satoru—”
The proud sorcerer was not beyond begging, biting his lip until it was cherry red. “I want to be full of you. So full. So absolutely full. Please, Ken. I want it—I want it. I want to be full of you even when you pull out!”
It was only then that Nanami recognized his error of not wearing a condom.
Only then when he figured how much messier that made everything.
Only then when the most absurd thought crossed his mind. He had the audacity to be disturbed by the notion of ejaculating in friends—or colleagues, ambivalent acquaintances, whatever the fuck Gojo was to him—as if they hadn’t already been having sex, and that wasn’t normally something people of their standing did.
Only then when he realized just how intimate this whole thing appeared, even without the kissing or massive, repetitive love declarations—and he wondered, beyond the physicality, just how serious it was for the other, how dire it was for him on an emotional level.
It wasn’t supposed to be lovemaking; it was supposed to be repaying a favor. A tit-for-tat they always fell into.
It satisfied a need in both of them; but clearly, those needs weren’t exactly identical.
He’d never asked for this before, especially with such fervency.
Still, you couldn’t—or rather, shouldn’t—cum inside friends.
Nanami doesn’t stop moving, but he decelerates. Of course, the moment his mind starts clearing into that comfortable, empty buzz, Gojo, in all his lunacy, forcefully drags Nanami into lucidity.
But that’s what he’s here for, right? It was a balancing act. Handling him.
“I can’t,” he exhales.
Against all common sense, he wonders how many times Gojo’s made this same request of Geto, way back in the day, when they were together; though, he knows it’s none of his business and utterly irrelevant to this present moment. He blames his biology again, the natural foolishness and jealousy of being human.
“Do it! Do it, Kento, please! It’ll feel so good,” the older rambles, orbs flashing, mouth full of overwhelming giggles that rush out too swiftly. “I’ll hold it safe and sound for you. You know I will.”
“Shut up,” Nanami utters weakly, spinelessly. A shiver courses through him as well. Anticipation. Desire.
“It won’t do anything. Just need to feel it, is all. RCT, remember?”
Reverse Curse Technique. Auto healing.
So what? That meant free rein to be reckless?
Nanami pulled away from the elder, looking down at him as he was bathed in a libidinous glow.
He rubs his palms into his bare flesh, watching another sideways smile splatter onto his face. His hands rub up and down his body, thumbs teasing the folds of his pretty pussy, that’s only ever been kind and accommodating to him. His thumb rubs along his dick sweetly. The man reacts immediately, clenching on nothing.
He thinks—and maybe this is a lapse in judgement that is organically his own, or him folding to peer pressure at his big-ass age—that Gojo deserves to get what he wants.
Nanami firmly hooks his hands under the back of Gojo’s knees, pushing his gangly legs back. The man under him, yelps in surprise at his lean body suddenly repositioned. It leaves him open and waiting, and he can’t help but hold his breath in anticipation.
This pose, with the aid of gravity, meant that he wouldn’t even spill. If fullness was what he wanted, then fullness he was going to get—and stuffed to the brim, at that.
Nanami thanks the ancestors of jujutsu for giving them the formula for RCT.
Then, he dives in, this time, just as indulgent, but even more needy—freed from the notion of caution by virtue of permission, to let absolutely loose—his body overcome with the same urgency that possessed Gojo from the very start!
He adored having the senior sorcerer’s body stretch around him, taking every inch without complaint, instead with cheer. With bliss. Nanami burrowed into him in a way that felt even more thorough than before! Gojo’s smile wavered, only because his expression contorted with pleasure—his pale cheeks flushed like blossoms and his eyebrows pinched together. His legs ached dully with the force of them being held back, knees high on either side of his chest. His hole spewed more fluid as he came again with a loud cry, though Nanami, in a hidden recess of his mind, wondered if that was his body’s way of inviting him—showing off just how sweet it was, how nice it was to be inside, how perfect of a place it’d be to let out his—
After a few more hasty thrusts, Nanami slams in for the grand finale, allowing Gojo’s pussy to milk him completely dry, spilling thickly into the other man, completely flooding him. Gojo mumbles throughout the entire process, narrating every sensation as he feels it.
“Oh, that’s perfect… Yes, cum inside me! I’m so full of you, Ken. I love it…”
Nanami huffs raggedly, stomach clenching, almost reluctant to pull out as he feels himself gradually soften. When he finally does, he, for a moment, is unwilling to release the elder’s trembling legs, still open wide, to show off his beautiful hole, now thoroughly painted white from their little collaborative project.
Gojo, even after experiencing a number of power highs and adrenaline rushes, doesn’t think he’s ever felt so warm in his life. He felt like a fucking person.
He almost says as much, until the blond lay atop him like a weighted blanket, rolling over only after he had sufficiently appreciated the scent of sex on his skin.
Clarity hits a moment later, as expected as the ticking analog clock on his wall. “Why the hell did I do that?” The blond laments, alternating between rubbing his temples and his eyes.
“Don’t worry about it. I liked it, if that wasn’t, y’know, obvious enough,” the taller man snorts, shoving the other as if he wasn’t still shaking like the last leaf holding onto a branch in winter. Forever coy and playful. Knowingly, he prompts, “Did you?”
“I’m not answering that,” the other retorts before groaning. “I have a meeting tomorrow.”
“So do I. You mind if I spend the night?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“Shareholders?”
Nanami nods, then asks, “Gakuganji?”
Gojo nods, then chortles, his body finally calming down, toeing along that line of sleep, a battle the burnt-out salaryman at his side could already feel himself losing. “Damn,” he says finally, encompassing both the good and the bad.
Nanami simply hums in agreement, hitting his pillow the way he likes, getting comfortable, tossing a duvet over them, and deciding to worry about the mess on the bed tomorrow. He grumbles, “Adulting fucking sucks.”
The elder cackles. He feels a gob of the other’s milky, opalescent seed leak out onto his legs. He hopes, for a moment, he made life feel a bit better for Nanami, as he’d done so generously for him. And he really hopes he ditches his day job and hops back into sorcery, where he could have some real fun.