Work Text:
Finishing eight or nine?
Tell me it's the perfect time
I told you I'll be waiting
Hiding from the rainfall
Kento Nanami likes to consider himself a reasonable man. Prides himself on that fact, even. In this garish world of the unknowable and unfathomable, the enforced stability within himself—this body his mind occupies, is something close to a comfort; a stern line to fall back on, to hold him up. The infinitesimal facets he can control—how his hair is styled using that innate ratio; the suit and leopard-print tie he wears to work; when he clocks out; what bakery he frequents for his sandwiches—are the obtainable things he's managed to convince himself he strives for.
So, on that item, it is not exactly a lie when he says personal feelings cease to be a factor the second he steps onto the grounds of Jujutsu High.
What he never reveals, however, is the way time is spent once he leaves.
Many local sorcerers choose to make Jujutsu High their home base, that much is true, but Nanami is an outlier in their niche community in certain ways, this being one. He did not abandon the apartment he leased and funded with his salary-man job—the only fulfilling thing he received from that occupation, really. And why should he? Why cruelly rid himself of the singular place in his life not consumed by work, work, work?
After handfuls of missions and exorcisms, and after filling out his reports, rather than go visit Shoko as he likely should, he only curtly requests Ijichi take him to the nearest train station.
Invariably, the assistant will adjust the rear-view mirror, clammy sweat making his fingers slip, and ask, "Are you sure, Nanami-san?"
A gruff, affirmative hum from Nanami as he prods a sizable bruise blossoming over an indiscriminate sector of his body. A throb flares instantly. He wants a way to recuperate that doesn't include staying on campus unless absolutely necessary—and it typically isn't.
Ijichi swallows audibly and puts the sedan into drive.
The next progression; after the train ride, Nanami plants himself on the curb outside his apartment complex, neck craned as he stares up at lives paused in time, painted in tiny squares of light or absence of it. Some days, he debates going inside or turning and walking down the block to a nearby park or bar. Most of the time, he's covered in ichor and respects that it would be inappropriate to be stained with mysterious blood and viscera in public.
With varying degrees of difficulty, he then drags his heavy limbs up a flight of stairs to his door, fumbles around in his blazer pocket for his keys and lets faint heat and the scents of cedar and occupied space tell him he's home.
A fickle concept. The closest he's ever gotten to obtaining it.
Every time, Nanami ignores the incessant chatter playing in the back of his mind like the old, grungy music he'd play on his handheld CD player when he was a first year. A tune that sounds suspiciously like Gojo's played up cheer.
"Welcome home, Nanamin!"
Nanami attempts a scoff at himself, but with the realization that he's in his apartment alone with no eyes to witness his nightly unraveling, it transforms into a choked laugh. And when he makes the assessment that it would likely be the other way around—Gojo always works longer and later than him, a side effect of being the Strongest—he scorns himself truthfully this time, scraps the thought, and toes off his shoes and shrugs off his suit jacket.
The rest of the ritual commences; three separate but equally promised and blended ways he'll spend his night. Unwritten law that his brain has etched into his bones. Routine.
First, he cooks a quick meal where enjoyment is measured not by taste or satisfaction of effort, but by the perfunctory needs of the human body. Second—and this one is beginning to encroach on the other steps—a drink while he sits in the silence starting to envelop his apartment. Third, a shower before immediately retiring to bed to get a meager few hours of sleep while the cycle resets.
Tonight, Nanami makes it through the first. A hearty, simple-to-make Italian dish with leftovers saved for no one in particular, the presence that should occupy this space with him but does not yet exist. He doesn't taste most of it with how fast he shovels the pasta in his mouth, but he assumes the flavor is splendid.
Dishes scrubbed, rinsed, and left to dry in the rack, Nanami pads to where his soapstone counter merges into a corner. Pushed against the wall, a fine whiskey—he's humble and straightforward, not stingy—halfway empty and steadily on its way to being consumed entirely. He pours a hefty amount into a crystal glass he keeps right next to the bottle, leans back against the counter and imbibes the first sip. The warmth of alcohol blooms on his tongue, the roof of his mouth. Somewhat smoky, somewhat sweet. It's almost enough to satiate.
Except Nanami is not so easily assuaged. Alcohol after an exhausting day is just a shitty band-aid over a metaphysical cut.
He's long accepted life is not about satisfaction or contentment. Rather, it's a test of endurance. An amassment of grievances that go unresolved or, at best, mildly accepted. Life is tolerance and carefully tended distance. Living is alcohol after an exhausting day.
That's what he tells himself to survive it, anyway.
The second path of routine begins. Another sip, then Nanami migrates to his bathroom, glass still in hand. He flicks the light switch and, as it should be, everything is in its proper place, neatly organized and promptly stocked. Unscented hand soap in a beige and gold dispenser he bought from a nondescript home decor shop. Toothbrush in a black clay cup, toothpaste set upright next to it. First aid supplies on the bottom shelf behind the hinged mirror. It is not without its signs of life, though. His mat beneath the sink doesn't match the mat outside of the bathtub because he doesn't have time or energy to care about it. There's telltale smudges on the mirror from palms clearing off shower steam.
Nanami sets the glass of whiskey on the edge of the sink and braces himself on his hands. The mirror is just a notch away from spotless; stains from splattered water droplets, vague fingerprints, but clear enough to see his reflection staring back at him with startling clarity. There's a superficial cut above his left eyebrow, blood spread and dried in the fine hairs. Nothing he hasn't felt before, nothing he won't feel again. If he were to shed his button-up, he'd find a red-yellow lesion from the day's cursed spirit atop his right pec. He's sore and exhausted, but not dead, and that's always the unremarkable goal, isn't it? Not dead.
With an unidentifiable, bitter sound, he returns to the task of nursing his drink. He takes it with him to the floor, expression contorting and an undignified wince escaping as the action of sitting puts strain on all the wrong muscles.
This is the part of his daily ritual Nanami reveals to no one. The part where he drinks alone, on the floor of his bathroom. The part where it's all his effort not to spiral, but if he's already this far—twenty-six years old and brooding in his bathroom instead of using it—he could stand to admit he's failed. There's familiarity to it now, like seeing an old friend who's distant now and whose face only reminds you of a bygone but irremovable era. The presence is essential in a way a parasite assimilates to a host. A void that takes, takes, takes, no matter how much it's fed.
Nanami, with his unoccupied hand, loosens his tie, then his collar. The costly gel holding his hair still made a valiant effort but started failing midway through his shift and now disassembles entirely under his roving fingers. A strand falls in front of his eye. He doesn't bother pushing it back.
Between sips, he stares. Unfocused, not at anything in particular. He lets the worst of it come, the intensity of what he doesn't allow himself to experience on missions, at the school, writing reports, supervising Ino. It oscillates like the waves against the shores of a beach in some country he idly researches but will never get to spend his retirement in.
At the start; an icy, leeching numbness that turns into a simmering everything. Agitation, and whether it's because of the buzz of whiskey or his par-for-the-course disdain for the system is unclear, but they don't seem significantly different in the grand scheme. Regret, for running away from sorcery and for coming back to it. Grief, the bottomless well that houses all he's lost and all he will lose—a deer that sees the headlights and knows its fate is sealed, anticipatory. The nausea of his complicity. All of it comes and recedes. It compounds and boils over.
Above it all, the insufferable longing he hasn't been able to shed since his return to jujutsu society. The insufferable longing that's become a second skin that, if made into a material, would be sewn of the itchiest wool. It chafes, scratches Nanami raw and permits his cowardice to leak from his pores. A taunt the cruelest of all—what he could have now, if only he had the intrepidity to grab it.
White hair that shines like silver tinsel under light. Eyes the hue of a clear sky and glittering oceans and living sapphire. Long limbs unafraid to take up space. A power able to render entire cities into dust and debris, held back by a smug leash.
It plays again: "Welcome home, Nanamin!"
The fantasy greeting is a bastardization of what Gojo said to Nanami before the first mission following his absence. An arm around his shoulder and a beaming, "Welcome back into the fold, Nanami-kun!" into his ear. He can admit it's unrealistic. That doesn't make the thought any less undignified.
Because underneath the protests, Nanami wants. Wants so deeply it's become its own kind of open wound, aching the more he presses and lingers and reminisces. Dressing up the fondness as irritation and chastisement has become second nature, a survival tactic. Only when he's alone can he let the stitches loosen.
Evenings coalesce like this. He stews in it all, lets it spill out of his mind and onto pristine bathroom tile, gets stuck in its viscosity. It's routine.
But, as always, there is a chaotic variable lurking around the corner. An anomaly to throw off his beloved, predictable routine.
His back pocket buzzes. He shuffles awkwardly, hand reaching to fish for the source of interruption and pulls out his phone.
[2 messages from Satoru Gojo]
Ah, Nanami's forgotten. Lost in this nightly drowning, it was easy to forget the longing has place to breathe now—in no small part due to Gojo's stubbornly insistent presence.
It started some months ago, when Nanami made a rare appearance at an after-work outing and got just drunk enough it justified Gojo overseeing his journey home, a task he seemed all too eager to take up;
"Your address is on file, of course I know where you live!"
"I just want to make sure my precious kouhai gets home in one piece, Nanami-kun."
The blather Gojo was intent on spewing for no apparent benefit other than his own enjoyment was grating on inebriated nerves, but. . . the sight of him at Nanami's side was liberating. He latched onto it, tucked it close to his chest where no one could reach it.
Nanami is still Nanami though, and because he despises being indebted—especially to Gojo of all people, he made the older man a meal to express the gratitude for being brought home safely and sent the teacher on his way.
It became a reoccurring event—minus Nanami's drunkenness. Not frequent enough to be written into the routine, but often enough to be something just short of a pattern. After respectively strenuous days, Gojo comes over, Nanami cooks, they eat together, and sometimes they. . . talk. Like friends. Like something a bit more.
Now Nanami remembers why he made enough pasta for two. Muscle memory. Hopeful wishing. The two habits of his clocked-out life have begun bleeding together, and he can't imagine anything more damning.
He exhales a thin breath through his nose. He knows the universe isn't listening, but he thinks it anyway. This is not how you answer a prayer. More vibrations in retort. The universe is sneering at his misery, it seems.
[7 messages from Satoru Gojo]
[Missed call from Satoru Gojo]
Nanami swipes out of his default lock screen, opens the notifications.
Satoru Gojo: Open up Nanamin!!
Satoru Gojo: Plz can you buzz me in it's cold out here and I look like a creep
Satoru Gojo: Hello???
Satoru Gojo: Nanami
Satoru Gojo: Nanami
Satoru Gojo: Nanamiiiiii
Satoru Gojo: Nanamiiiiiiiiii
Nanami's entire system freezes, buffers like his nerves have poor connection. He isn't even remotely put together and Gojo is standing right outside, mere feet away for all intents and purposes. But he can't say no, can he? Rejection at this point would only be insanely rude, and Nanami's a lot of things, but cruel is not one of them.
By some miracle and more lost dignity, he pulls himself up off his bathroom floor, setting down his near-empty glass on the corner of the sink and barrelling into the hallway. Once at his front door, he presses the button that allows Gojo entry. Logically, no other tenants hear the tone, but Nanami feels like his ear drums might rupture. In his chest, his heart beats frantically like a caged bird begging for flight.
He blinks and Gojo's already up the stairs and so close their noses are an inch from brushing. Nanami steps back for his own sake, wondering if he turned on the heater and somehow forgot or if he's the one running warm.
"Gojo-san," he greets, syllables cracked at the end. He clears his throat, tries again. "What are you doing here?"
"Come on, Nanami," Gojo drawls, like the answer is meant to be obvious. He takes the newfound space as only he would interpret it—an invitation—and shoulders his way past the door frame, forcing Nanami aside. "It's Friday. Day off tomorrow—for you, at least. I figured you'd be awake, thought why not visit."
Nanami's response comes out forced as his mind is caught in the midst of catching up to reality. "How characteristic of you, to show up uninvited and unannounced."
Gojo's head lolls over his shoulder, picture-perfect insouciance. "Are you going to kick me out?"
Nanami notices the pinpricks of snowflakes melting into the shoulders of the teacher's jacket. Is it snowing outside? Nanami doesn't recall it snowing on his way home. There are spots of dampness on his sunglasses, too, as if he had been looking up at the sky and catching the falling crystals like a child would with their tongue.
Such an insignificant detail. Mentioning it would be a giveaway to how much of his attention is honed on Gojo; all of it. The question barely registers, because the answer is an instant, instinctual no. But Nanami can't say that either. Too many admissions would crawl out of his throat. How much he wants Gojo in his apartment, just like this, all the time. He wants nothing more than this.
So instead, Nanami cants his head and asks, "How long were you standing outside?"
Gojo's smile is blinding, a better source of light than the honey-warm glow from the standing lamp next to the door that's still wide open. He shrugs and it doesn't take away from the luminescence.
"Long enough. But it doesn't matter. You let me in," he replies.
Nanami has to turn away, has to stop looking at that devastatingly beautiful face.
"You should have told me you were coming sooner," he says as he closes the door and walks toward the kitchen. "The pasta is better fresh."
Gojo is on his heel and Nanami wonders if this is how rabbits feel when they're being hunted by something with much sharper teeth. It's a small relief when he opens the refrigerator and the door provides the slightest barrier between their bodies, even if Gojo is taller and staring down over the top edge.
Nanami takes the glass container from the shelf, just enough food left for one more helping. He never makes more than what he knows will be consumed. If Gojo hadn't found a way of hijacking his life, there would have been no leftovers in the first place.
Gojo's smirk is indecipherable. "Home-cooked meals from the Kento Nanami multiple times a month. It's like Christmas every week, just for me."
"I happened to make extra this time." A bold-faced lie. The descent has started, because Nanami doesn't lie. "Next time, I should force you to eat cold takeout."
A chuckle from Gojo, unburdened and low and almost silent. It settles over the room like a blanket on a frigid night. Breathing comes easier when it's in the air. Nanami loosens the lid of the container for ventilation, pops it in the microwave next to the fridge, and lets the quiet beeps of the buttons speak for him.
As the pasta heats up and a steady hum fills the kitchen, Nanami rolls up his sleeves and goes to reach into the cupboard holding his dish sets. He asks, "Do you want something to drink, Gojo-san?"
"If that's an offer for the bottle in that corner over there—"
"It's not," Nanami interrupts, brazenly offended at the implication. "I know you don't drink alcohol."
"Oh." Gojo's face falls, somewhere between sheepish and surprised that someone cared to remember such a trivial fact. It's an endearing look on him despite of how quickly it ceases. "Such a courteous host, Nanami! I think I'll just help myself to whatever's in your fridge."
Nanami's eyes almost greet the back of his skull with how hard they roll, but he doesn't argue. On nights like this, what's his is also Gojo's for a few sacrosanct hours—and they both know it, however unspoken that fact is.
Gojo procures a bottle of strawberry-flavored soda, a beverage Nanami would never think to buy for himself and had no clue to its presence on the bottom shelf of his refrigerator. It's startling, realizing Gojo must have stocked it at some point.
The confusion must show on his face, because all Gojo does is place the lid against the edge of the counter and give it a hard whack instead of simply asking for a bottle opener. The cap lands somewhere behind them. Nanami scowls and lightly smacks the teacher's arm.
"You'll damage my counter top," he scolds, crouching down to pick up the cap and throw it away properly, like a civilized human being, unlike the careless specimen in his apartment. "Stop."
"Like I can't just pay to get it fixed." Gojo takes a swig of the abominably sweet drink. "You look good bending over like that."
The audacity. Nanami's already hanging on by a thread, one that's fraying by the second. How Gojo manages to worm his way past all his defenses by being a nuisance is a science that must be studied.
"I'm going to hit you, and it's going to be real this time," Nanami replies dryly, standing to toss the cap into the garbage.
Thankfully, before Gojo can open his obscene mouth to argue, the microwave beeps. Nanami pushes him aside, an annoyed gesture to contrast the way he mindfully plates Gojo's dinner and hands it to him. Curls of steam fog his sunglasses.
They move the party to the dining table a few paces away from the kitchen's entrance. Mindlessly, Nanami pulls out a chair for Gojo and immediately wants to bash his head into the nearest wall at the shit-eating grin the teacher gives him.
"Shut up," he grumbles preemptively. "I'll be right back."
Without allowing any more space for words, Nanami goes to retrieve his previously-abandoned drink from the bathroom. He should have known better than to believe Gojo would've heeded his instruction. He turns, and Gojo is standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. Later, he will not confirm or deny flinching.
"Whiskey in the bathroom, Nanamin?" Gojo gleefully asks the question as he fills his mouth with more pasta than should be physically possible. It makes a gross noise when he chews. "What do you do when I'm not here?"
Nanami cringes, both at the sight and at the breach of privacy. "Talking with your mouth full, Gojo-san?" He pushes the other man and there's not a single ounce of give. "Go sit down."
"But there's no fun in that. Come on, let's switch it up! You drink and I eat. In your bathroom like two broke college students."
There it is, that drawl in Gojo's voice. A childish inflection with an indulgent tone. His movements are slow and Nanami can feel the caress of those eyes behind the tinted shades. Irritation erodes instead of hardens. He's never seen something so right. Gojo, in his apartment, eating the food he made, taking up space that's usually so cold. A beautifully bright nuisance.
Longing has a place to breathe—there's never been a more insidious lie uttered. He watches Gojo chew and swallow, and the longing grows teeth. It constricts, becomes its own noose. If he moves, it'll break him.
Nanami sighs, a quiet acquiescence, and allows Gojo this one hammer into his practicality. He leans back, making a breadth wide enough for Gojo to sidle in.
The teacher gracefully sits on the lip of the bathtub and Nanami reclaims his place on the floor with his back against the sink. The knobs to the cupboards dig uncomfortably into his back, but it's just another minor inconvenience. He wouldn't dare change his spot and lose this perfect view.
Gojo continues to speak as he continues piling food into his mouth. The plate is half-clean already. "So, really, what do you do when you're not working?"
Nanami's tempted to make a jab—if you choke, I am not going to give you the Heimlich—but there's a note of sincerity in the question, a shimmering curiosity, that makes him reconsider. Keen on being known, a once-in-a-blue-moon desire, he responds with unfettered honesty.
"I take the train home, make dinner, clean myself up, and go to sleep," Nanami says. "Read a book, if I have the time."
"Damn." Gojo sets the fork down for a second, tilts his head as if observing a new element through a microscope. "That's boring. And a bit sad, Nanamin. You don't do anything spur of the moment? Travel? Go out?"
Nanami's lip curls. So much for honesty being rewarded. He whirls his cup in his hand, watches the whiskey slosh against the glass. "Not all of us are ruled by impulse, Gojo-san. I travel enough for missions and going out, as you put it, is typically a waste of my time and energy."
"But you do go out. I know you do, I've seen you and Shoko partner up for beers. Unless you've forgotten—"
"I haven't. And I repaid your benevolence that same night. If you want to go there, an argument can be made that my unbecoming state was your fault."
Gojo's mouth widens to a comical degree. "My fault?"
"Yes, your fault," Nanami deadpans. "I only attended because of your pestering and because saying no would have made you even more insufferable. Even then, my attendance didn't appease you."
Gojo throws his head back and groans like a man tired of having the same conversation, mirroring exactly how Nanami feels. "Because you're making it sound like I was dragging you over a bed of nails." He shrugs as he takes a few final bites, the entire plate cleaned of food. "You need to have more fun, get out of your head."
Nanami replies before he can stop himself.
"And you've become an expert on what I need, suddenly?"
Gojo goes still. Nanami's regret could create a forest fire with how instantly it feels like he's poured gasoline on an open flame. He wants to take the words back, but they're out, and the shift is clear. Silence reigns, absolute. The bathroom—functional for about one person already, and they're not small men—seems to shrink further until it cramps them together. They can hear each other's breathing. One is frantic, the other is so steady it's clear each intake is strenuously deliberate, and it's unclear which belongs to who.
"I wanna be," Gojo finally replies, so quiet it trembles under its own weight and almost goes unheard.
So tell me, what's the joy of giving if you're never pleased?
On my last strength against you
Baby, tell me what you need
What Nanami knows next is hunger like he's never felt. Not for food, or intellectual sustenance, or the fervent mission to acquire an object of subjective value. A hunger unlike anything that can be described on the scope of reasonable or unconscious. It's the basest human desire and it's so much less than that. It's the image of coming home to something worth the constant strife, worth being wrung through a system that wouldn't even break down if the part he plays were to become dysfunctional or broken off entirely.
He once thought Gojo was that system and bathed in a resentment wrongfully directed. He's grown up now—and, yes, still resentful, but not of the man sitting on the edge of his bathtub. He's grown up now and just as he learned as a first year that Special Grade is not in itself a title to be obtained, but rather a moniker for something utterly unclassified, he can reconcile that Gojo is the result of that system. They're both confined, and if that's to be the case, why not huddle in the dark together, take the few blank moments in between the horrors for themselves?
Why not, as Gojo would phrase it, be greedier.
Really, what was Nanami so afraid of? The routine he's forced upon himself was built out of a need for dependability, and the most dependable man he knows. . . is Gojo. Sure, there's something to be said about the often-obnoxious way Gojo presents that reliability, but Nanami's starting to believe—or perhaps always known—that that's fine. He doesn't need a copy of himself. He needs someone too bright to ignore.
He needs Gojo.
Finally, finally, Nanami lets himself stop thinking. Without taking his eyes off the man in front of him, he sets down his unfinished glass of whiskey and moves forward until he's positioned on his knees in front of Gojo, who copies him by setting the empty plate aside.
It's both a relief and a confirmation he's not being too presumptuous when Gojo tilts to meet him halfway. Almost naturally, one of Nanami's hands lifts to plant itself on Gojo's knee, the other moving to the hinge of his sunglasses to ease them off, so gently it makes the teacher's breath stutter. Vivid cobalt is unveiled, close to glowing, but Nanami's focus is elsewhere; peony-pink lips parted around a feathery breath, the beginnings of a blush on ivory cheeks, soft white lashes fluttering against thin skin. Nanami catalogues it all, takes utmost care to commit it to memory. He places the sunglasses down.
They're so close, his next words are practically whispered into Gojo's mouth. "You want to be an expert, huh?"
"I want it all," Gojo whispers back and their lips nearly brush. It's a herculean effort to listen and not lean in. "Anything you have to give."
Nanami can't help but smile, and Gojo returns the gesture with a mischief in his eyes that he can't scorn this time. "Typical. Always shooting for the highest goal first."
"Well, you've already let me into your apartment a handful of times," Gojo replies, his smile only growing. "You've cooked for me. Let me see you after hours. You've even let me stay the night a few times. Probably more than anyone else. I think that warrants the ambition, don't you?"
Nanami, in his mind, tries to pick apart the argument, but there's no statement in there that he can deny. He has let Gojo see him more than anyone else, even Shoko, whose personality is arguably much more aligned with his. It was never about Gojo invading his space—the empty spots were meant for him, always. He just hadn't figured that out yet.
He opens his mouth to confirm when Gojo lifts a hand and runs a finger over his eyebrow—the one still tainted with dried blood—and coherent thoughts cease to continue. His instinct is to reel back, to make himself presentable before they continue. . . whatever has started and not be caked in the day's grime and sweat with his appearance slovenly. But Gojo's touch keeps him pinned, and he's wont to only stare, captivated.
"Is it weird to say you're kind of sexy like this?" Gojo blurts. "All disheveled and covered in blood."
"I would definitely question your tastes," Nanami replies, trying and failing to fight off the warmth crawling up his neck.
Gojo's delicate fingers continue journeying downward, curling around his neck and brushing through the close crop of his undercut. The shiver that erupts is whole-bodied, and there's no way Gojo misses it. A strange thing, to be rendered little more than the body's need.
"What did you say the next step was after eating dinner? Right," Gojo says, thoughtful like he's speaking to himself. "Cleaning up."
There's a tug on Nanami's collar, and when he looks down, Gojo is in the midst of undoing his tie, pulling on its loops and sliding it free with a sensuality out of place in his bathroom.
"What are you doing?" Nanami asks, quite useless now. "I thought you said my routine was pathetic."
Gojo tugs a bit harder on the first button of his dress shirt, drawing him closer. "Sad, not pathetic. You're putting words in my mouth."
"Are those not the same in this context?"
"Not even a little, Nanamin." A second button, three. Revealing Nanami's chest with a kind of thirst in those striking, all-seeing eyes. "It's very you. Very adult. But you do it alone. I have a way to make it a bit more… proactive."
Fabric falls off Nanami's shoulders to the floor in a hush, leaving him bare from the waist up. His skin shines under the stark white bulbs above the mirror, making his earned muscle even more clear, like a statue chiseled out of stone. Accumulated scars rise from the surface, some clean and straight, others jagged. All healed either by Shoko's RCT or the drag of time.
"Fuck," Gojo breathes, the single word dripping off the tip of his tongue and settling in Nanami's gut.
Warmth travels from Nanami's neck to his face, feeling unbearably feverish. He's compelled to do the once-unthinkable, cross that final boundary. With a surge, he clasps his hands over Gojo's face and pulls him to the floor alongside him. He crashes their lips together. It's less a kiss of tenderness than it is an attack. There's teeth. There's spit. There's desperation. It's loud and it's messy and it's all theirs. Something that can't be taken away.
For his part, Gojo responds with the utmost enthusiasm; parting his lips, panting into the younger's mouth, holding tight to his shoulders like it would kill him not to. Made of perpetual energy, even in this. He gives, and Nanami takes, finding purpose where he never thought he would.
Nanami's hands move to Gojo's thighs, giving a brief squeeze to the firm muscle as he spreads the teacher over his lap, feeling the unmistakable shape of him through the layers he hasn't been stripped of. Gojo intentionally rolls his hips to bring them flush together and Nanami groans like the wind has been snatched from his lungs. It's his turn to swear.
"Not that I'm complaining," Gojo says between kisses, "but this isn't exactly what I meant."
"Satoru." Nanami drags his lips over the pale shell of an ear before taking the lobe between his teeth in a punishing bite. "If you're not complaining, then shut up."
Gojo shudders above him, then almost short-circuits Nanami's mind and whines. "Shit, say my name like that again. It sounds so good when you say it."
He's never heard Gojo sound so needy, and damn—if it doesn't do things to his head, that he's the one causing it. Demanding and somewhat needy himself, he shoves his hands beneath Gojo's dark jacket in the frenzy, searching for more skin to touch, to grab, to claim.
"Take this off, Satoru," he obliges.
And Gojo obeys. What a sight it is, Gojo listening for once. He sits up and Nanami has to remind himself not to mourn the distance in order to reap the reward; Gojo, with a mind-breaking arch to his spine, pulling off the inky fabric with haste. All slim muscle and deceptive lankiness, a milky canvas he cannot wait to paint red and purple. Whereas Nanami is scarred and calloused—effectively battle-worn—Gojo is untouched and softer. Again, deceptively. He knows the power coiled inside that skin, can sense it flickering every few seconds like a fussy light.
Gojo's hand slides to the back of Nanami's head and summons him up and forward for another urgent kiss, moaning softly when Nanami nips his lower lip. He wants to keep going, wants to bite down to the waistband and see how much Gojo can squirm—but the teacher moves back and leaves him following for more.
Gojo's smile is so smug, yet so sweet. He places his palm over Nanami's chest, thumbing around the freshest bruise gently. "We're not doing this on your bathroom floor, Kento."
The effect of Nanami's first name on Gojo's tongue is immense. It gnarls his insides, makes him wide-eyed and leaves him simmering like water left to boil then cool. Until now, it tasted like preemptive loss, a step closer to a mourning more painful and inconveniencing than that of a coworker. But now, in this moment—this small, contained, perfect moment—it's the only right thing to hear.
Gojo extricates himself from Nanami's hold. Not before bestowing the lightest kiss to the tip of his nose, a touch that seems to destabilize the otherwise impenetrable sorcerer above all others. Nanami props himself up on his hands, watching as Gojo stands and turns his back—such a nice back—and sits on the lip of the tub again. He twists at the waist, hands fiddling out of Nanami's line of sight for a second before the spritz of the shower head crashes through the silence.
"What are you doing?" Nanami asks again, realizing he never truly got an answer. His eyes follow as Gojo begins to shuffle out of his pants.
More pale skin revealed, inch by inch. With the light in front of him and bouncing off the alabaster, he glows. Otherworldly—that's a word Nanami would use to describe Gojo like this. Ethereal is another. All mine.
"I thought you were above asking obvious questions." Gojo's voice pulls Nanami out of his awe. He gestures before holding out his hand. "Come on, get up."
Nanami lets himself be helped up, lets the push and pull continue. Steam starts to pile, giving the air a tangible thickness. Gojo holds his gaze as he unzips his trousers, then hooks his thumbs under the waistband and slides them down his hips. Nanami doesn't move, doesn't think, as he's stripped further. He doesn't do anything but submit to the urge to lean in and mouth his way up Gojo's neck. He cups one side of it, an anchor for both himself and Gojo.
He drags his lips against the tender skin, sucking ever so slightly in some spots, making sure to move on right before a mark can bloom—he still has half a mind to not mark anywhere visible, unsure just yet of how far and noticeable Gojo wants to take this. But he'd be a liar to say the noises Gojo is making doesn't make him want to abandon all reason.
Gojo moans, feathery like the wings of an angel, right into his ear. He feels his pants pool around his ankles and he's quick to kick them off, his lips never leaving Gojo's neck. He stays true to his mission, even when he feels palms slide down his back and over his ass, taking a greedy handful with the zeal of a dog given a new toy. When Gojo decides feeling him up through his boxers is no longer satisfactory, he pushes underneath the fabric.
"These are coming off too, you know," Gojo says, in a tone that reads like he's reminding Nanami of crucial information that he's forgotten.
Nanami hums against the spot where neck meets shoulder. "I figured. You seem very impatient."
Gojo barks out a laugh, but it tapers into a breathy sound at the end when he licks a stripe up the column of his throat. "Look who's talking."
Nanami chuckles quietly in return, earnest. It's such a rare sound it surprises even himself—but leave it to Satoru Gojo to bring it out of him.
"The water's warmed up, Kento. So if you would kindly stop trying to eat me—"
"—You didn't sound too opposed a few seconds ago."
"Not the point," Gojo pouts. "It's not fair. You keep throwing me off."
"You keep letting me."
Gojo acknowledges the observation by stepping back and ridding himself of his last layers; a challenge. They're both left standing nude, witnessing each other and experiencing each other. Gojo moves first. Without breaking eye contact, he places one foot in the tub, then the other. Hot water glides down his skin, soaks his hair, and he transforms from an angel into a siren.
Nanami is helpless to the call.
He follows that silent voice. Prowls over to it. Push and pull. A spool in him unwinds when the steaming droplets hit his back. His entire body loosens, all but falls into Gojo's hands as they card through damp blond strands.
Eyes closed, he speaks around a sigh. "What's next, Satoru?"
His hands move and Nanami feels immediately cold; empty; panicked. But they return, lathered with something that smells like cedar and aloe. Nanami's shampoo.
"Next, you stop asking me all these questions and let me take care of you," Gojo replies, the tips of his fingers massaging the soap into Nanami's scalp.
Even as a hum rumbles in the back of his throat, Nanami can't help the banter. "I can think of better things to do."
"I know this is usually your line," Gojo says, "but shut up. I'm trying to be all sweet and romantic."
There are so, so many things Nanami could say to that. They could have eaten dinner at his dining table, like normal people. They could have gone on a traditional date, like normal people. They could have watched a movie, like normal people. But they're not normal and this is Gojo—the Special Grade who never does anything by the book. So he stays quiet, choosing to bask in this unexpected but not unwelcome attention.
Gojo's fingers work through his hair, cleansing Nanami both literally and metaphorically of the burden of filth. Over the day, all his effort and exertion had compounded into bloodstains and sweat and grease. Exorcising curses isn't glorious. The only person who makes it seem so is standing in front of him. There could be something poetic here, but Nanami's too engrossed in the touch building suds in his hair to think of an apt metaphor.
A minute later, Gojo's hands frame his face, guiding his head back and under the stream of water. The shampoo is rinsed from his hair, replaced with light, silky conditioner. Nanami's fine with the silence. Not exactly comfortable, but familiar. It's a companion he's known for a while. But Gojo pushes it aside, careless as he always is. He is an event that can't be ignored.
"So, is this what you did as a corporate guy too?" Gojo asks, sliding product to the very tips of Nanami's hair.
Nanami shakes his head, allows himself an indulgence and glides his hands up Gojo's forearms, kisses his palm. "For all the shit I give sorcery, I can at least say it's… eventful. Tracking stocks is as boring as counting blades of grass."
"What did you do then? To deal with the boredom."
"Same as I do now. Come home to unwind, have a drink. On especially rare occasions, I'd go to a park."
"But you just said—"
"I know what I said. What I meant is there was no you when I was a stockbroker. There was no Shoko, no Ino, no Itadori. No shared meals. No after-work drinks. I had no true colleagues. I wasn't a mentor. It was just me and the money I made and a consuming sense of inconsequentiality."
Gojo looks at him as if he's made some touching philosophical statement like an old king's advisor or a poet stricken with disease and who searches for clarity in ink. Like he's wrapped the universe up in a sentence. Maybe he has. Maybe there's a cell in his body that mulls over inane and effusive things like reason and purpose, that chases after ideas much grander than itself. The rest of them though, they just make up a man guided by a single goal: create a life that isn't soul-sucking.
If this is it, Nanami can almost say he's succeeded.
There's a near imperceptible softness to Gojo now, an openness not often displayed nor explored. His eyes, with a sheen to them now, flick downward to Nanami's mouth, to which he plants a swift kiss. It's light, short—barely a moment compared to minutes ago when they nearly had their tongues down each other's throats—but it's filled with all of the unsaid.
Gojo's still looking down when he pipes up again, like his fascination will give Nanami's words physical form. "What about now, Kento? I mean, you came back. It all must mean something to you."
"Don't confuse my motivations," Nanami says, watching as pale hands move down his neck. "I still hate sorcery. I despise the system and I abhor the higher-ups. But there's nothing else I can do. This is what I'm proficient at."
This—the job—will always be a point of contention between the two men. Take away the background, take away the set pieces, strip sorcery down to its bare bones and it lies in the marrow; Gojo enjoys what he does. He even finds the fun in it. Nanami, full stop, does not. At the end of the day, there's just no one else to do it how he does. No one with his insight, his experience, his depth. And if there is, well, where are they now?
It's a debate they've harped on plenty of times. A misalignment, but no longer an obstacle. No longer an obstacle, because all Gojo replies with as he hangs on to Nanami's shoulders is, "I'd say! Grade One is nothing to laugh at. I bet curses cower when they sense you."
Nanami merely huffs and tilts his head back into the water to rinse the conditioner out before it sits too long and makes his hair greasy instead of soft. While admittedly vain, it's a prized part of his appearance.
"The flattery is unnecessary, Satoru," he replies. "You already got me naked."
Gojo, now looking like a leopard, catches his lip between his teeth and drawls, "My, my, and what a sight it is. You're so hot it's actually insane."
"Are you ever going to give a compliment that doesn't sound like it came from the mouth of a teenager?"
"What, I'm around them all the time. Can you blame me?" Gojo smiles before placing a tease of a kiss on Nanami's collarbone.
"You do not get to use the students as an excuse," Nanami replies, but there is a distinct lack of him pushing Gojo away. "You aren't even at the school enough to pick up such colloquial language."
"Ughhh," goes Gojo's dramatic groan. He chuckles and it's lost in Nanami's skin. "Stop using big words when we're showering together."
"About that, can you hurry this up? You're going to run up my bill."
It's the teeniest lie—Nanami's charges are fixed—but Gojo doesn't need to know that Nanami wants to finish cleaning up because all he cares to do is touch him and be touched in return. Truthfully, if the rest of the night pans out how he assumes they both want it to, this shower will have been ineffective anyway.
Young as I want to know
I will never let you go
Trading a baseball lover as I face the snow
Nanami, per usual, ends up being right. Ineffective that shower was, because the second the water is off and Nanami has secured them some towels, they're charging into Nanami's dim bedroom as one body. Still dripping wet, pressed together from knee to chest, mouth to mouth, the end and beginning of the other indistinguishable.
He imagines again that if they were normal, their night would have started like this. They would have extended the process of undressing from the front door to the mattress, clothes strewn like footprints of their desire. They'd have collided like the love interests of an overdone, cliche-ridden romance film and in the background would play a sensual song written by an artist that sold their rights to their product for the check.
But they're not normal, and this is no movie. There are no cameras. No music. No eyes beyond the glass.
There's just them and this moment—this shred of light beaming through the cracks.
The roles have switched now. Gojo is the one lavishing attention on Nanami's neck, barely leaving him space to breathe or think any proper thought beyond getting him on the bed. In the rush, there's no chance to flip the light switch. They're in the dark for tonight, it seems. A flicker of mourning comes with the thought. Nanami won't be able to really see Gojo.
But. . . he can feel him. And that's not an achievement many get to claim. So the bereavement fades as a mark right beneath his clavicle blooms.
All mine.
Is it the one who bites or the one who gets bitten that stakes its claim?
All mine.
Does it matter?
All mine.
Nanami proceeds to get manhandled in his own bedroom, and while it should bruise his ego, he can't exactly say he hates it. Gojo all but shoves him onto the bed, firmly straddles his hips, and takes what Nanami is learning to freely give.
Their mouths crash and Nanami finally gives up on keeping count of how many times it happens. Nanami bites Gojo's lip again, finding himself insatiable, and the older man opens his mouth without much prodding. Interesting, how docile the Special Grade seems now. He'll have to test these limits, but that venture will be saved for another evening. Nanami introduces his tongue to the equation and is given the most delectable moan from Gojo that he swallows greedily. He searches, plunders with his tongue. Traces the flats of Gojo's teeth, the grooves of the roof of his mouth. Drinks pure heat from the fount of that perfect mouth.
If Gojo was needy on the floor of the bathroom, that was nothing compared to the way he becomes putty in Nanami's hands now, begging to be twisted, molded and bent.
Nanami wants—needs to have Gojo in as many ways as he'll allow.
Gojo pants like he's run a marathon and prods in return with a fervor like he plans to swallow Nanami whole. He starts to roll his hips in tight circles, causing their towels to shift and Nanami's cock to swell. With the desperation of his movements, he imagines Gojo is already hard enough for it to border on painful. He can almost laugh at the irony; Gojo holding him off for the sake of semantics while being the first to pounce once the lights are off and they're on a flat surface.
"Please. Please, Kento. Fuck," Gojo pleads like he's not even cognizant of what exactly he's asking for.
Gojo rips away from the kiss and there's a wet sound that echoes in the usual quiet of Nanami's room, the silence that now refuses to touch him. Gojo takes advantage of his position and starts to crawl down, snatching every opportunity to press open-mouth kisses to Nanami's neck, collarbone, chest, abdomen, leaving marks with tongue and teeth. Reaching the taper of his waist—nowhere near as severe as Gojo's—he nuzzles with the bridge of his nose and licks at the thatch of dark blond hair that leads under the towel.
His eyes flash and meet Nanami's. The hunger that rings those striking blue irises is somehow Gojo's own and a mirror. Lust intertwined. One and the same.
Without breaking his hold on Nanami's gaze, Gojo begins to untuck their towels from where they've been secured over their hips by calloused fingers. He bares Nanami first, then himself.
Nanami always figured himself the type of lover who, when the time came, would sing the appropriate praises to his bedmate. Politely shower them with sensible yet earnest compliments. He'd say what he means without a barrier, tell the other just what he sees. But here? Now? He's rendered speechless, beholden to Gojo's luminescence.
It isn't the nudity that's made a knot of his tongue, not by itself. His curse technique relies on an understanding of anatomy, after all. And, in this grotesque field of work, there's been a handful of instances in which he's had to abandon pride and modesty. Then there's the fact that they were under a shared stream of water only minutes ago.
Context, he supposes, is what makes the difference. Here in his home, on his lap, and smelling like his soap, is Satoru Gojo. Satoru Gojo, who he's spent years pining after and compartmentalizing his want for, wants him back, in a most primal of ways.
White cloth is thrown indiscriminately and left for Nanami to pick up later, likely in the morning. Gojo settles on his haunches between his legs, looking self-satisfied as he runs his hands over the meat of Nanami's thighs, taking more greedy handfuls of muscle. He then lowers himself, until the warmth of his breath is fanning over the flushed head of his cock—which is shamefully aching and desperate already. Just the thought of finding a spot in Gojo's hot mouth is enough to make it twitch.
Nanami, regrettably, is not prepared for the kiss Gojo plants on the shaft. Light and chaste, yet utterly filthy in how deliberate it is. And he's not prepared for the teacher rubbing his cheek against his crotch like a cat showing affection—or more aptly, a dog begging for a treat. All this, while their eyes never look anywhere but at each other's. His breath trips over itself, his hips lift trying to find Gojo's mouth. And Gojo, the brat he is, only blinks up at him innocently, waiting for permission he's had since they stumbled into his bedroom.
"Keep going, Satoru," he breathes, trying to not sound like he's pleading, but the effort comes short with how riled he is.
Gojo responds immediately, giving a kitten lick to the slit before catching the tip of his cock between his lips. Nanami groans and reaches for silver locks, damp with water and now sweat. Entirely instinctual. He needs him closer, deeper.
Gojo offers him mercy, starting slow. He effortlessly changes his breathing, adjusts his throat, traces a vein on the underside.
Or perhaps that's a torture all on its own.
Then the time for lingering is over. A wave crashes over him and drags him under.
Nose pressed to fine hairs, he's taken him to the base, enveloping Nanami's cock in a wet, molten cavern that threatens to sear his skin. He grips Gojo's hair tighter, almost pulls, unsure whether to hold him in place or pull him off and put an end to the overwhelming sensation. The older man hollows his cheeks, swallows around the length, and begins to move.
With each up-and-down motion of Gojo's mouth, each swipe of tongue, each time there's special attention paid to the ridge of the head, Nanami is drawn alarmingly closer to orgasm. It's startling, how expertly the other sucks his dick, like he's finding and pushing every button Nanami wasn't aware existed and doing it with the sole purpose of making him lose all sense of rationality.
And Gojo seems just as lost in it, too. Glossy lips red and stretched with exertion, spit pooling in the corners of his mouth and lathering his cock. Pupils blown wide, eclipsing cerulean almost entirely. Sodden platinum hair stuck to his forehead and sides of his face. He ruts against the striped navy duvet, searching for friction against his neglected cock. He moans around the dick filling his mouth and the vibrations reverberate all the way to Nanami's skull.
Nanami tangles his fingers into that white hair, smooth with his rich conditioner. He pets down, palm splayed over the back of his head, and holds him still as he grinds into that perfect mouth sealing him in a perfect warmth. He can feel the tip brushing the back of Gojo's throat—and to the teacher's credit, he easily accommodates, giving a desperate sound like he wants Nanami to do it again. So he does.
Again, then again, slowly fucking the eager mouth that's tormented him since the first day he was enrolled into Jujutsu Tech.
If only he could show his younger self where he is now and see the look on his bang-covered face.
But it becomes too much, electricity piled atop suffocating heat, and Nanami doesn't want to cum like this, as appealing as it sounds. There are other parts of Gojo he wants to use. He pulls Gojo off his cock, glistening with spit and pre-cum beading at the tip, and he whines like all he was created to do was suck Nanami's dick.
"Kentoooo," Gojo grouses with a true frown on his lips—beautifully pink and puffy from his valiant efforts—voice wobbly like the interruption to his rhythm that was working so well, too well, is enough to bring him to tears. "C'mon, baby, why're you making me stop? You tasted so good—"
Baby. Another crack in the dam. He wants Gojo to call him that again, over and over—screaming it—
"Do you ever stop talking?" Nanami tries to rein himself in, short on sense himself. He cannot control Gojo, but he can at least hold some of the coherence between them. "Lie down. On your back. I want to fuck you."
The authoritative tone paints Gojo's face a shade of crimson not even the most talented, experienced artist could paint with every shade and brand of medium available. A flash, there in his ringed eyes, the war between obeying and the reflex to gnash at being told what to do—but it's Kento Nanami, and so he listens. Rather quickly, too. He rolls off Nanami, though not without a ravenous last glance at Nanami's throbbing cock.
Settling on soft, exorbitant thread-count sheets, the teacher flashes Nanami a giddy smile, unable to resist. "Don't want me face down, ass up? Pound me into this very nice mattress? What is it anyway, memory foam—"
Laughter peters into a drawn out keen as Nanami gives a rough tug to Gojo's flushed cock. It's heavy and dripping, pearls gliding down the shaft and making the slide easy. There's an ember of satisfaction in Nanami's chest—he did this, he's the reason the older man is soaked—one he tries to smother so there's no ego to get in the way of his plans.
He strokes a few more times, just to make sure Gojo stays distracted enough to stop blathering, then lets go to lean over and rummage through the bottom drawer of the nightstand, on a quest for the abandoned bottle of lube he's kept for no real discernible reason up until this very moment. Now he's glad he didn't throw it away. He also grabs a condom, just to be safe. He knows he's clean, and likely Gojo is as well, but it's better to be considerate, even if his fumbling of the product isn't picture-perfect.
Nanami returns to his spot between Gojo's legs, eyes finally adjusted to the darkness—and is stunned into stillness.
Glassy ocean-blues stare up at him, fine and glittering and wide enough to never surface from. His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. White hair is colored silver in the dark, spread on his pillow like the halo of a fallen angel. He tethers himself to the bed, crumpling the duvet with his hands like it's keeping him from floating away into the bleak night. His pale skin emanates a sweet warmth.
Gojo is a light on his own, Nanami knows this intimately. But it's so different now. Now that he's free of Gojo's mouth, the reality is actualized. The infamous Special Grade is no longer blinding, no longer untouchable. His rays are gentler now, like the private warmth of a hearth or the unobtrusive flood of the evening sun through slatted blinds. He is letting himself be held without the expectation of ceaseless, one-sided demands. Cradled, not controlled. Cherished, not deified.
Nanami's heart breaks, then glues itself back together in a matter of seconds. He despises what it took from both of them to get here, but they're here.
Setting aside the urgency, the need, just for a moment, he lowers himself until they're chest to chest and brushes his lips against Gojo's, steady and sure. He cups the other's jaw, deepens the kiss. They drown in each other's flavor, in the want that's been simmering for years and has finally come to a head. Slow, that's how he takes it this time, quietly introducing his tongue, sucking on Gojo's, attaching every sentiment he's never been able to confess out of teenage fear and a skewed sense of preservation.
"Kento," Gojo breathes, wrapping thick arms around Nanami's shoulders, stuck on him like a koala. He's whiny, impetuous. He writhes, trying to grind up into the hard line of Nanami's body. "Baby, please. I thought you were gonna fuck me."
"I'm getting there," Nanami replies, faintly amused and with the ghost of a smile. He starts another languid kiss, more spit than anything else, leaving their lips shining with the mixture. "I wanted to savor this first." He doesn't need to say what this is.
And Nanami is nothing if not a man of his word. One last lick to the crease of Gojo's lips and he picks his mission back up again, uncapping the lube with dexterity and pouring a smooth rivulet down his index and middle fingers. It's unmistakable how Gojo's eyes trace the drip, something eager and anticipatory in his gaze. Nanami brings a hand down, almost making a show of it because he has a feeling that's what Gojo likes. He massages his ring finger down the perineum, reveling in how instantly the older man jolts with a strained sob falling from his lips.
Nanami's slick fingers find the rim of Gojo's puckered hole, stay there as it flutters around nothing but the suggestion of penetration. Insatiable as ever, he thinks to himself, with a fond note this time around, so unwilling to exercise patience. Using his middle finger, he presses against the tight ring, circles it a few times in a quest to ease Gojo into it. As wanton as he is, he's nowhere near prepared, and it's Nanami's task to get him there. That job, he'll shoulder without complaint.
Gojo mewls, whimpers, lets loose a myriad of sounds that, if he were anyone else, would be utterly reputation-destroying. He wants, wants, wants—but he isn't letting himself believe that it's there, his body so wired that it's refusing to sit still and take what's being promised.
"Shhh," Nanami soothes, timing his words just right as he starts to push a finger in. "Let me do this for you. You'll have me soon." And normally, he isn't the type to placate, but there is always an exception to the rule.
"Kento." Gojo's hand clamps down on Nanami's forearm, indenting the sunkissed skin with manicured nails. "I can take it. Just give it to me—fuck!"
Nanami is near-appalled with the teacher's disregard for his own comfort, but manages to keep his voice even, stern in his delivery. "Absolutely not. You may be the Strongest, but not even you can take cock with no prep."
"But—"
He glares at the man beneath him. "No. My bed, my rules. Or I can just stop." A bold-faced lie—he couldn't end this if he tried—but Gojo looks positively panicked, eyes wide and head shaking frantically. And to drive the point home, Nanami snatches his hand away from where it was down to the first knuckle, feeling only a bit cruel.
"No, Kento, don't you dare fucking stop." He bucks angrily, trying to catch Nanami's thick digit again, fuck himself on any part of Nanami he can get purchase on. "I need it—need you—for the longest time. Do not stop."
Nanami holds him in the moment, forces Gojo to the bed with one hand over his sharp hip and the other gripping his thigh and prying him open. He makes sure to grip hard to convey how grave he is about this—and, okay, maybe he selfishly wants to leave marks in the shapes of his hands on the Strongest's pristine body. But, as much as it pains him to admit, these constant fluctuations—from sensual to vehement—have gotten him even harder, cock standing stiff against his lower stomach. He's hung up on doing this properly, but Gojo's domineering approach is dangerously appealing.
This is how it is, how it's always been between them. Opposite poles colliding. Scales balancing and tipping, but always even in the end. Gojo never pulls back, Nanami never falters.
"Then let me do this," Nanami firmly reiterates, relinquishing his hold on Gojo's waist. "Just breathe."
No more words necessary, he returns his fingers to where they were to continue working Gojo open. He's sure Gojo scoffs, but it's beyond him, nothing to worry about with no bite to it. It's who he is; living fast and impatient, getting things done as quickly as possible with little regard for the in between that makes it matter.
Unless, of course, his students are involved, then he's all about the experience. Nanami sees the love Gojo pours into them. How he protects them the way only the Strongest can, often standing directly between them and the higher-ups that have no issue meting out the lives of children like playing cards. Gojo prioritizing the joy and well-being of his kids is one of the many quirks that slowly eroded Nanami's apprehension toward the teacher upon his return to sorcery—toward his homecoming as a whole. It was his first lesson in the concept that towering hubris is not necessarily congruent with apathy.
In the musings of all he admires about Gojo, Nanami finally breaches his rim substantially, middle finger sunken to the base and clamped by his walls in a vice-like grip that has them both groaning. Nanami starts testing the waters—where to push, how much to press, what gets Gojo to moan the loudest. He finds the perfect rhythm rather quickly, with the man's body speaking to him like a manual. One finger becomes two and Gojo's noises become slightly higher in pitch. Two becomes three and Nanami's eyes are fixated on his hole stretched obscenely around his wide fingers, squelching with each quick, relentless thrust of his wrist.
Once Gojo takes those with no resistance, and only then, does Nanami finally move to act on his promise. His ignored need all at once becomes unbearable and painfully prominent. He had been so focused on preparing Gojo, checking off every box, that the onslaught of pure lust knocks his already-fraying sense loose, floods his mind so abruptly and takes every though that's not solely about the man beneath him in its torrent waves.
No worries about whether or not this night will turn out to be a mistake. No concerns about what this night will mean for them going forward, what it'll mean for him.
He has the most powerful man in the world beneath him in his bed, desperate for him, choosing him—and by the God he doesn't believe in, he'd rather burn a fiery death than waste such a ripe opportunity.
Nanami slides his fingers free and Gojo's protest is immediate and full-bodied, all of him rejecting the new feeling of emptiness no matter how short lived. But Nanami has predicted this, and enacts his counter swiftly. Taking his dry hand away from that luscious thigh, he doesn't afford Gojo time to form any coherent word and shoves two fingers in his mouth and presses down on the flat of his tongue. Gojo's eyes—already shiny and blown with desire—become fuzzier, nearly crossing as he gives into the unspoken order, instinct taking him over. He suckles and pulls at the roughened skin, chest rumbling with a muffled moan at the salty tang.
Watching the debauchery of it all, Gojo nipping at his fingertips with pearly teeth, that last thread keeping Nanami tethered to his sanity finally snaps. With a finesse that's surprising considering how his every brain cell is intently honed on getting inside Gojo as fast as humanly possible, he retrieves the condom and the lube from where they were haphazardly tossed into the sheets.
As he goes to tear the wrapping, Gojo grabs his wrist firmly. He's shaking his head, eyes brimming. "Want you, Kento. Raw."
On any other night, maybe Nanami would take the necessary time to consider the ramifications, but his trust in Gojo is unwavering and he's unbelievably horny—as trite as the phrasing is. He tosses the square again and moves on to the lube. Unable to be bothered warming it up, he lathers his cock, the cold pinch a shock that only manages to hasten his pace.
Nanami gives himself a few quick strokes, hissing at the smooth friction, groaning at the thought of where he's about to be. Then, with his hands on the backs of Gojo's knees, he hikes the other's legs up, almost to his chest with how flexible he finds out Gojo to be—definitely another thing to be tested on a later date, if this spark survives past this night. The movement spreads him open, presents him and that pretty hole that's ready to be filled by none other. Nanami lines himself up, gliding his wet cock through the cleft of Gojo's ass. The head catches on the well-stretched rim, with Gojo pushing his hips back in hopes of trapping the entire thing, desperate thing he is.
Nanami settles, hands now braced on the pillows beside Gojo's head, trapping him beneath him as he finally breaches inch by torturous inch. Gojo clamps his corded legs around his hips and clenches down on his cock like a vice. A muscle in Nanami's jaw jumps with how hard he grits his teeth. There's a wet flick on the side of his neck, and he realizes Gojo has sprung up and is licking a straying drop of sweat from his skin. He locks his ankles, draws Nanami in deeper. A permission unspoken but heard so clearly.
In one harsh thrust, Nanami sinks to the base, resulting in twain moans from them both. It's a tremendous feat that Nanami doesn't cum then and there. Nails rake down his back, stinging trails left in their wake, but Nanami could not possibly care less about the pain than he does right now—there's been worse, there will continue to be worse. After letting them both adjust, he starts a steady grind. Deep and punctuated, but far from gentle. Stable, even in his pleasure-addled, love-struck state.
There's not enough time in between the ramming of his hips to fully unpack that latter part. He just knows it's something that resonates every time he looks into those crystalline eyes. Like the ring of a singing bowl that manages to strum inside the nerves. He knows that, and right now, knowing is enough. Tonight, it's all about the unsaid.
Nanami tucks his head in the smooth spot where Gojo's gorgeous neck meets his shoulder, leaves a few distracted kisses as he fucks into him harder, faster, awarded by the sweetest cries as the Strongest unravels underneath him. What leaves Gojo's lips is an incoherent coalescence of pleas, babbles, and the filthiest sounds Nanami has heard to date that only worsen when he bites the lobe of his ear. Not that he's any better off, because the positive feedback loop of sensation is a rather effective aphrodisiac.
His bedroom too becomes a chorus of prurience. Rapid claps of skin against skin, the lewd squelch of Gojo's wet hole swallowing his wetter cock, the creak of his bed frame that he's yet to fully register. For better leverage, Nanami holds onto the ledge of the wooden headboard. He angles his hips just right and—there. That precious spot inside of Gojo that has him scrambling and mewling and grabbing his shoulders, grinding up to meet each thrust with abandon. Nanami hits it with precision, each and every time from that moment onward.
Climax builds and builds for both of them, a storm on the horizon getting closer with every minute. Sweat soaks Nanami's back, Gojo's hair. The teacher has his head thrown back in bliss, brow scrunched cutely as he teeters right on the edge. He sputters a chant of "fuck, fuck, fuck," and Nanami has never agreed with him more. His rhythm begins to suffer, stuttering as he crumbles under the weight of their shared need. His gut somersaults, warmth pooling beneath his navel, and he knows he won't last much longer. But he holds himself back with sheer willpower, currently desiring more than anything else to see Gojo succumb first.
He expedites the process by wrapping his large hand around Gojo's neglected cock, briefly squeezing the base then moving to cup his balls in his palm, fondling. Gojo's legs earnestly lock, and he knows he's hit the mark.
Gojo paints his chest and Nanami's fingers white, cumming with a loud, whiny moan and a bowed spine, held down only by the broad body above him. And just because Nanami has always been a bit mean, he moves his hand back up and thumbs at the weeping head with a firm pressure, literally and figuratively milking Gojo for all he's got.
Still, with Gojo jerking and riding the throes of pleasure, then gradually coming back down with his lips parted around panting breaths, Nanami has never seen him so beautiful. Lax and boneless in the afterglow, only twitching again when Nanami pulls out at the last second to spurt cum onto his stomach, adding to the creamy mixture with an inward sort of glee he'll examine later. His ivory skin is stark in the dimness, almost blurred around the edges like something out of a dream. Flushed and sated. A star being formed.
Nanami blinks away the moisture clinging to his lashes and peels Gojo's legs off of him, their combined sweat making for a sticky and uncomfortable removal. Gojo makes a displeased sound and Nanami would laugh if he had it in him.
"I'm getting up to clean us off," Nanami says against Gojo's sweltering skin, hoarse from doing nothing other than moaning and groaning for the past who knows how long. "I'm not going anywhere, Satoru. It's my apartment."
"Mm, be quick, Ken." And Gojo's voice is properly wrecked, so close to making Nanami want round two. "I wanna cuddle. Maybe take another shower."
Nanami rolls his eyes, but leaves with a parting kiss to Gojo's forehead and moves with as much speed as his sore muscles will allow. He returns with a warm rag and proceeds to wipe them both down, careful around Gojo's ass and softened cock. When he's done, he throws it to where he assumes the earlier towels landed. He shuffles the two of them under the duvet that he'll also have to wash, but he can't bring himself to think of it as an inconvenience.
As soon as his back hits the mattress, Gojo immediately makes a pillow of his chest, despite being the taller of the two, and sighs contentedly. Content himself, Nanami wraps an arm around his shoulders, a sure weight that says, I'm here.
When Nanami woke up this morning, there were a thousand ways his day could have ended, and he never once imagined this would be how it did. He was sure he'd come home to an empty apartment, and he did. But Gojo didn't let it stay that way.
Something bubbles in Nanami's chest. Not animalistic like the heat of sex. Not anxious like a man unsure. But something unfamiliar, something new. Something he wants to keep for as long as he's allowed to hold it.
"Stay here." It comes out like a confession and a prayer at once, whispered against heavenly white hair like it's hesitant to be heard but must be verbalized. "For the night. For however long you want."
Back to being brazen, Gojo now draws nonsensical shapes on a scarred chest, and Nanami is absolutely smitten.
"Oh, Kento, that was exactly my plan."