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At first, Infinity keeps the hand that looks like it’s touching Gojo’s thigh from actually touching it, but he’s a curious man and he’s curious now to see what will happen, so he releases the barrier after a few seconds and lets the hand fall where it may.
Across the town car—a space that appears vast despite the fact that he has no leg room—Higuruma Hiromi sucks in a breath through his teeth. His hand, the shortness of breath—both are unexpected behavior from the quiet, recently minted sorcerer.
Maybe that’s why Gojo’s heart immediately kicks into overdrive. Maybe that’s why, deep down, he desperately wants to poke the bear.
As it turns out, he doesn’t need to focus in with six eyes to know Higuruma’s suddenly taken ill. His skin looks clammy and sallow in the afternoon light which fills the car.
He’d looked healthy and glowing after their successful exorcism, where Higuruma had proven once more to be a powerful and capable sorcerer. Add to that the fact that he isn’t hard on the eyes and Higuruma’s assessments were something Gojo had actually begun looking forward to. He likes watching the way Higuruma moves, circles, paces, until he’s decided with his formidable intellect what his plan of action will be. Gojo’s more than confident that he can be slapped with a certified fresh grade one ranking, but he also senses that Higuruma stands on the cusp of unlocking something far greater from within.
In this moment, however, he looks like he might collapse in on himself altogether.
Gojo clears his throat and Higuruma’s grip on his thigh turns tight like a vice, like he’s between the teeth of a startled animal. It doesn’t hurt—not to him, not to the strongest—but it does drive a point home, the same point that had sent Gojo’s heart racing to begin with.
“Is there something you need from me, Higuruma-san?” There’s unintended politeness in Gojo’s voice, one that twists and turns and spirals with what he’d meant to be a teasing, flirty tone. In his experience, a hand on a thigh usually means only one thing.
Before Higuruma speaks, the six eyes take in every glorious detail of the contraction of his throat, the way his eyes squeeze shut in an attempt not to look at him, sidelong or otherwise. If asked, Gojo would deny any pattern of behavior that suggests he might spend an inordinate amount of time perceiving the minute fluctuations of the man’s body; but it would be just that—a lie. So sue him, he likes to look.
“So formal,” Higuruma says through a strained smile. He’s still facing the seat in front of him and consequently the back of Ijichi’s head, but he gives Gojo’s thigh another squeeze. “You’ve never called me that before. Should I be worried?”
“You’ve never grabbed my thigh before,” Gojo offers carefully, something he’s wholly unaccustomed to. “I don’t need a coveted, hereditary cursed technique to know that something’s up. I’m smart like that.”
Hiromi makes a small, rueful snort. “I think that curse affected me, somehow—”
You don’t say, Gojo thinks, but stops himself from expressing that out loud.
“—I’m sorry. I don’t know how these things work, how to convey this…meaningfully.”
Gojo almost laughs, but keeps that inside, too.
A glance at the rear-view mirror catches Ijichi’s curiosity getting the better of him. Gojo smirks at him until Ijichi focuses all of his attention back on the road, then Gojo lifts his arm to rest along the back of the seat. It’s an open invitation for Higuruma to slide closer but he’s leaving the choice to him. He’s still unsure what’s going on, but he has his suspicions.
To Gojo’s disappointment, Higuruma slumps forward instead of taking the invitation, his head thumping softly on the seat in front of him, his hand slipping away from Gojo’s thigh with the abrupt movement. Gojo misses it immediately.
He leans in a little closer. “Tell me how the curse is affecting you,” he says quietly, trading in the polite tone for one of concern that he doesn’t have to fake.
Even so, Gojo feels giddy. Infinity protects him from the worst aftereffects of curses and working solo means no potentially vulnerable partner has to take one for the team. On the rare occasion when the stars align, it’s always grievous bodily harm, never oh dear me! I’ve been hit with a sex curse!
Until now, anyway—maybe? Dare he hope?
The lump of Higuruma’s throat bobs again before he sucks in another breath.
Gojo tilts his head, pulls down his blindfold, and lets the six eyes scan the man with full force while his natural eyes bathe in the sight of him.
“There’s something burning inside,” Higuruma groans. “It feels hungry and unsatisfied. I feel hungry and unsatisfied.”
Gojo swallows thickly, arousal building quickly in the back of his throat, and spreading.
Through various bodily responses, he can confirm Higuruma’s vitals are running off the charts. Elevated heartbeat, blood pressure, breathing— pretty much everything, and at the center of it, behind his ribs, bright tendrils of cursed energy working in every direction.
Gojo sits back again, studying Ijichi one more time in the mirror. He’s looking unusually stoic in the front seat. Probably because they’re on an empty road in the middle of nowhere and there aren’t a million people around to give him a panic attack every ten feet.
“Ijichi-kun? How’re you doing with your step goal today?”
Ijichi looks at him through the rear-view mirror, one eyebrow cocked, the cogs clearly turning in his head about the relevance of the question.
“Uh. I’m ab-bout three quarters of way there, Gojo-san.”
It’s only early afternoon, that’s actually impressive. Gojo can’t help but wonder if he walks laps around the car while they’re off exorcising curses. It’s enough to make him laugh, except now he can feel the heat radiating off of the man next to him, like a furnace clicked on.
“Oi, pull over.”
Abruptly Ijichi does as he’s told, pulling onto the soft shoulder covered in tall grass and swarms of gnats. Around them are trees and scenic views and a couple of old, abandoned farm buildings, but not much else. They haven’t even seen people for a while, since the whole area has been despoiled by the curse’s presence, which is now living a second life—inside Higuruma.
Gojo leans in close, like it’s Ijichi he’s after.
“Why don’t you get out and go take a few thousand more steps. Hit your goal, double it, even. I’ll call you when it’s okay to come back. Capiche?"
Ijichi’s eyebrows furrow with concern. “Is Higuruma-san okay?”
“He will be,” Gojo says before he lifts his hand and flicks the man’s forehead. A little love tap to his kohai that Ijichi immediately flinches away from. “Now be a good man and run along.”
Before Ijichi’s even closed the door behind him, Gojo’s sidling close to Higuruma again.
“Tell me what you need, Hiromi-san.”
He’s ready to drop the politeness, the formality, though in these rare instances it’s not even feigned, a truth wild horses could not drag out of him.
The hand that had left a ghostly imprint on Gojo’s thigh returns, warmer than before.
“I need you, I think. To satisfy me.”
“You think?” Gojo teases. “Should I bring Ijichi back?”
“No!” The grip on his thigh tightens again, a fear response. Gojo can practically taste it in the air. “He wouldn’t be enough.”
“And you think I will?”
Higuruma breaths in deeply then nods. “I know you will.”
“I see,” Gojo says, a hundred times calmer than he feels.
If there wasn’t already something stirring in his guts, stoking the fire, Higuruma’s words definitely would have done it. Gojo likes people who know what they want, and even more when they aren’t afraid to take it. Curse influence aside, he likes seeing Higuruma this way. He settles a hand on the back of his neck, sliding his fingers through Higuruma’s undercut.
“What do you want to do about it?”
“Everything. Anything—ride you until I’m satisfied. I feel like I’ll combust if I don’t.”
Gojo nearly bites his tongue off, then wonders vaguely if he would be able to grow it back with RCT. He palms the back of Higuruma’s head with his hand, like he’s merely a ball to be played with, his fingers sliding through hair already damp with sweat.
“You shouldn’t give me such blanket permission unless you mean it.”
Trim nails dig past the thin barrier of Gojo’s uniform trousers, and he hisses, surprised, before Higuruma pushes back against his hand and sits up straight, fixing his gaze on him. “I mean it.”
Gojo barely contains a quiet rumble in his throat, feels it reverberate there before spreading through his body like an electric wave. That should give him pause, but he skips right past it like a stone across a glassy lake, too focused on the destination to pay attention.
“Okay,” Gojo says quietly, his voice dropping lower with each word. “Okay. Yeah. Yeah.”
Gojo slumps down until his knees press into the seats in front of him, then guides Higuruma close with only slight direction from the hand on the back of his head, watching as he scrambles into his lap with unchecked enthusiasm, quick to paw at his chest and shoulders.
“Eager boy,” Gojo coos. He settles his hands on Higuruma’s waist, already itching to remove the man’s blazer.
Higuruma tilts his head, eyes narrowing before he speaks, “I’m not a boy, Gojo-kun.”
Gojo laughs, giddy and playful, “No, you’re certainly not.”
Heat pricks the tops of Gojo’s ears and spreads like a fire through his body. No one calls him Gojo-kun, not even when custom dictates they could or should. Even old men who play at having control squeezed tight in their fists still call him Gojo-sama. Even they understand that a flick of his fingers is all that’s necessary to take their power away; but Higuruma knows little of jujutsu politics. He still only sees things from the eyes of civilization, where he’s Gojo’s senior and nothing more.
It should not be his undoing, but it will be. Molecule by molecule he will be picked apart.
He takes a fistful of Higuruma’s hair as he comes back to himself, back to the too-small sedan. His knuckles brush against the roof of the car but he doesn’t care. A little rug burn will disappear in seconds, but the taught lines of Higuruma’s throat, the bob of his Adam’s apple, his panting breaths—all of that will live forever in the vice-like grip of his memory.
Around them, fragrant air gathers. Gojo can’t help but breathe deeply of the unfamiliar scent, saccharine and devastating, in the confines of the car. With a leap over any and all barriers, he brings Higuruma in close, angles his head until their lips meet.
He doesn’t waste time with pleasantries and gentle pecks. Instead, he bullies Higuruma’s lips open to find more of the sweetness that rides on the man’s breath; thinks he tastes fresh honey as he licks into the wet heat; like the sweetest Kikufuku; like waffles drenched in syrup and powdered sugar. His head swims with it, he wants to dive in and devour and ravish like—
Oh.
Oh no.
“Fuck,” Gojo groans as he pulls away reluctantly, as he steadily becomes aware of the way his control has begun to spiral away from him. He can’t help but wonder if he tastes the same to Higuruma, or if it’s a manifestation of their vices and their pleasures. Then he wonders what Higuruma’s vices might be.
“Can we go…somewhere?” A question asked between those sweet, panted breaths.
No, Gojo thinks. We cannot. Right now, he can’t even bring to mind the inside of his Tokyo condo, the nearest place they might go. Forget the school or the estate. Forget calculating the minute change of Earth’s position in space so that, in their micro-second of transit, they don’t end up in a wall, or floating in space, instead of the comfort of his pillow-lined futon.
He reaches a hand out to the door, his vision swimming as he presses the window controls and outside air rushes in. It’s cool but not cool enough.
“Not sure what’ll happen if I teleport us now.”
He’s pausing for air too much, burning too hot on the inside. He pulls his hand from Higuruma’s sweat soaked hair, rubs his clammy fingers together. He should have known better, but he was too wrapped up in Higuruma. The information had been there all along, delivered via six eyes to his distracted brain.
Vaguely, Gojo mumbles mostly to himself, “It’s transmissible. Like a contact high. Sweat, saliva. I’m—not sure how safe this can be anymore.”
“For you?” Higuruma asks.
“No; for you.”
Gojo swallows down a groan and chokes on his discomfort while one hand works his jacket zipper down. He’s burning up, from the inside out, like a bed of coals simmering under the surface of his skin. He sits there, panting under Higuruma’s gaze.
Despite his fledging status as a sorcerer, Gojo can feel the great strength that Higuruma will one day coax from himself; and here, now, he can see it too—his dark eyes convey the magnitude of whatever power he’s hiding. There’s a twinkle there—a dare; a come on; a plea.
Higuruma slips his hands under Gojo’s open jacket, resting firmly along his shoulders, thumbs caressing the neckline of Gojo’s tight compression shirt.
“Keep going,” Higuruma finally says, as if he understands the war that’s raging in Gojo’s head. “I can take it.” He leans in close and growls, “Do your worst.”
Electrified goosebumps run down Gojo’s neck. Something sharp and wicked tingles at his knees, his toes. His dick is rock-hard already.
“How about I do my best?” he manages.
“Yes, that. Do that.”
Gojo sighs, giving in to the desire. He captures Higuruma’s lips with a lunge forward, slotting their mouths together with the occasional clash of tongue and teeth and whimpered sounds which escape them both.
There’s a certain otherness to Higuruma that drives Gojo a little wild—the lack of inhibitions of an otherwise always together man. While Gojo’s always a little feral, Higuruma remains lawyerly, professional, composed—at least, until he’s staring down a curse that’s stumbling into his finishing blow. In those moments Higuruma no longer appears to be a civilian but a sorcerer through and through.
Awkwardly, Gojo starts to shimmy out of his jacket, the heat becoming too much.
Higuruma helps by sliding his fingers over Gojo’s shoulders, pushing the jacket off before massaging Gojo’s muscles with dexterous fingers, pulling from his mouth desperate groans he no longer wishes to contain.
Returning the favor, Gojo unbuttons Higuruma’s blazer, removes it and his tie with fumbling, unsteady fingers. Because their paths don’t cross outside of missions and run-ins at the school, Gojo is flabbergasted by how Higuruma looks without his blazer and tie. He expected a sorcerer’s physique, but he looks normal—like you’d imagine a lawyer would look; uncomplicated—despite the sheen of sweat on his skin and the glow of desire in his eyes. He’s burning up beneath Gojo’s hands when he places them on his neck, his heartbeat pulsing sporadically.
Gojo brings them close again, smashes their lips together before he can say anything stupid or teasing or both. His overactive, limitless-driven brain continues to engage in an all-out war with the curse which is winding its way through his veins. In the end, limitless and his RCT will win out—it has to, because it would be insane for the strongest sorcerer of the modern age to die to a fucking sex curse; but there’s nothing more to do now than let it run its course—to fuck it out of each other and worry about the consequences later.
Groaning at another well-timed grind down into his lap, Gojo stuffs his hand between them and works Higuruma’s pants open enough to free his erection. The second he achieves skin to skin contact Higuruma cries out with ecstasy and pain, pure relief—like a dislocated joint has been forced back into place.
Gojo strokes once, up from the base, then down. An experimental flick of his wrist before Higuruma pushes him back hard against the seat with the grip on his shoulders and gasps into Gojo’s ears, warm breath dancing with sweetness.
“Gojo…” Desire and need fill Higuruma’s whimper. “Fuck. More.”
Gojo obliges him immediately, fisting his erection tighter, switching his errant strokes to a steady rhythm as pre-come drips to ease the slide. With a slight twist of his hand, Gojo strokes up.
Higuruma latches his mouth onto Gojo’s neck, sucking, kissing, his mouth moving over Gojo’s skin with fervor and abandon; just as hungry as he claimed to be. His hands move with a desperation that Gojo tries not to mistake for passion or untainted desire. He won’t let the simmering heat of his pre-existing, boyish attraction to Higuruma overshadow the fact that this situation has been manufactured by the last gasp of a dying curse.
Those consequences he’ll have to deal with later rear their ugly heads again, mocking him with ghoulish laughter, but he pushes them away.
Gojo shifts so that he can take Higuruma’s mouth in a kiss, kicks up more sparks of that fuzzy electric feeling that nearly numbs his lips.
Higuruma’s fucking into his fist now, Gojo squeezing and releasing with his hand as he bucks up hard against him. Higuruma groans into Gojo’s mouth, whispers ‘I’m close’, like it’s a precious secret.
Gojo encourages him with little words: yeah; fuck; I got you. He’s seconds away from coming himself, just from the noises; the sweet grinding; the taste of honey on Higuruma’s lips. He’s surprisingly okay with being a one pump chump like this. Neither of them are going to break any endurance records.
Gojo licks his tongue back into Higuruma’s mouth, tastes the sweetness, squeezes hard on his cock on the down stroke, until Higuruma’s rhythm breaks, falters, crumbles apart as he comes jerkily, whiny, almost pained—all over Gojo’s compression shirt. The first casualty of war.
For all he just came, Higuruma continues fucking into Gojo’s hand, come slick and still hard, whimpering slightly in the new spot where he’s worrying away at Gojo’s neck with his mouth.
It drives Gojo more wild than he already is, the curse and Higuruma pulling his inner demons to the surface second by second despite the iron will he’s trying to impose upon them. He’s never been defeated by a curse on the outside, he’s certainly not about to be defeated by one on the inside.
He might, however, allow Higuruma to defeat him; but he’s going to have to earn it.
Gojo turns his head again, tries to project calm control over the situation, but the shake in his voice betrays him.
“Hiromi,” he all but purrs into Higuruma’s ear before bucking up against him again. “Give a guy a hand, would ya?”
His request doesn’t seem to register at first, but then there’s a stutter and a twitch to Higuruma’s humping; and then he’s bullying his hand between them, working awkwardly at Gojo’s uniform pants until he finds the zipper.
“I’m sorry, Gojo-kun—” (and oh that goes straight to his dick right at the moment that he takes him in hand), “It’s hard to think like this.”
“I know,” Gojo whispers, soothing and understanding as the clammy heat of Higuruma’s grip pulls him from his own pants, exposing him to the shockingly cool air in the car despite the inferno they make together. “I know,” he repeats, growing more desperate by the second.
“You seem to be weathering it well,” Higuruma hisses out as their lengths press against each other.
Gojo gasps, arches up into the touch, wonders how much longer he’ll be able to weather it. “I’m trying not to blow up the car.”
Higuruma laughs then, quiet but sincere. “You don’t have to be careful with me.”
That has to be the curse talking.
“You’ll regret saying that when your atoms are scattered across time and space.”
“If I’m only atoms, then what would I care?”
It’s too practical a response to be the words of a mentally sound man, but Gojo’s always sensed Higuruma’s death wish hanging over him, out of the sight of most; but it’s a common enough trait among sorcerers, even new ones. Especially new ones.
“Nanami would probably care, and Shoko too. Ijichi.” He can’t believe that he’s talking about his friends while Higuruma lazily strokes both of their cocks in his hand. He shifts his gaze down, content to let Higuruma take him along at his own pace, within his own comfort zone. “Yaga would probably rearrange my atoms if I got you killed—”
Higuruma’s lips are on his before he can finish the thought and thank Inari for that.
“Sorry,” he mumbles into the man’s mouth. “I don’t know why I’m babbling.”
“Nerves?”
Gojo scoffs. “What would I be nervous about?”
“What indeed?”
Gojo doesn’t like the mocking singsong of Higuruma’s voice, it’s too familiar in its flippancy.
“Lean back. Getting off takes the edge…off. Try to relax.”
It’s weird how quickly the tables have turned, how calm Higuruma suddenly is, how much Gojo’s heart feels like it’s beating a retreat out of his chest, how much the world has shifted and altered and kick-started his undoing. He leans back as he’s told, eyes fixed on the car roof—not on Higuruma like Gojo wants them to be, but it’s a little easier for him to unwind this way; to be in the moment without splitting the atom by accident.
The glide of Higuruma’s hand is smooth, competent, edging towards rushed as the pleasure builds between them, pre-come and spit spread around as needed.
At first Gojo’s hands scratch and dig helplessly against the leather seats, but then he returns them to the fray, burying one in Higuruma’s hair again—contact be damned when their come is all over each other—and the other he uses to meet Higuruma in the middle, so to speak, adding to the stimulation.
For a moment, their grips and rhythm appear incompatible, but they find a compromise soon enough. Gojo shuts his eyes tight, gasps and shouts out towards the ceiling, until he can’t stand not seeing Higuruma with his own two eyes.
He lifts his head, tilts it down as he squeezes their cocks in his big hand, gets but a glimpse of Higuruma’s shimmering face before there’s a hand under his chin, pushing his head back. The heel of Higuruma’s hand rests just so against the exposed length of Gojo’s throat.
Gojo cries out at the manhandling, takes two deep, panting breaths back-to-back.
Higuruma’s hand isn’t choking him, but it’s a near thing. The press of his fingers under Gojo’s jaw is firm, the pressure against his throat is delicious. When he swallows, then gasps, his tendons press against Higuruma’s hand in a delectable way.
“Relax,” Higuruma reiterates as their hands continue stroking, their bodies continue grinding, their lungs, somehow, continue breathing.
Gojo’s mouth dries by the minute. He whines for a peek at what’s going on between them—with six eyes or two, he doesn’t care, he just wants to see their cocks being stroked, wants to see Higuruma in his utterly domestic undershirt. He wants to come all over it, ruin the facade of togetherness that Higuruma projects when one glance of six eyes tells him all he needs to know. Higuruma’s atoms are ripe for picking apart.
Another upstroke, another wheeze from Gojo’s mouth, and then he’s coming over both their hands, squirming, squeezing, pulling wherever he can. Higuruma comes a second time a few moments later, and he finds he’d been right—the orgasm has taken the edge of just a little, just enough.
Higuruma’s fingers slip away from his throat a moment later, like he’s realizing what he’s done.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’re gonna have to try harder to offend me.”
Higuruma laughs as he trails his hand gently down Gojo’s throat to rest near his collar bone with a light pressure.
Gojo immediately starts digging around in his pockets for his phone, takes it out as he wraps his other arm, sticky mess that his hand is, around Higuruma’s waist.
His bed starts coming into focus in the back of his mind, shining like a beacon through the fog. Who could blame him?
“I’m going to—warp us.” He leaves out the try because that’s no way to instill confidence.
“What happens if it goes badly?”
Gojo rubs his face along the side of Higuruma’s head, holding his phone up over his shoulder so he can message Ijichi.
Use caution, the curse effects are transmissible. Bring clothing to Shoko, she might be able to get residuals for study. Destroy the car, collect insurance. :)
“If we’re lucky, we’ll end up in the wrong place.”
He pulls up Shoko in his contacts, starts a message to her next.
“And if we aren’t lucky?”
Sho! If you don ’t hear from me in twelve hours, come to the Tokyo apartment. Wear a mask!
After tucking the phone back in his pocket, Gojo repositions them so he can look Higuruma in the eyes.
“Then we both die,” he says.
Higuruma tilts his head, like he’s taking this as a challenge.
“Hand in unlovable hand, then?”
Gojo snorts. He’s going to have to pester Shoko for foisting her pessimistic music on him.
“Speak for yourself, my hands are perfectly—”
The car, the field, the whole world except for Higuruma disappears. They land on hardwood flooring with a surprised hiss.
“—lovable.”
Gojo looks around. Good enough.
“Was aiming for the bed,” he says through a groan as one hand automatically slides under Higuruma’s trousers, along the plane of his left ass cheek.
“But this is your place?”
Gojo nods, barely has time to say ‘yeah’ before Higuruma’s pushing the compression shirt up Gojo’s chest, attacking him with his mouth, sucking, biting his stomach, and up, up, up as more of his torso is revealed.
“Oh shiiit,” Gojo groans as he pulls the shirt off the rest of the way and tries to get his bearings. They’re on the living room floor, near the kitchen, about as far as they could be from the bedroom while still being in the apartment.
Meanwhile, Higuruma’s latching onto his nipple with a fury, breathing heavily out his nose and clearly in the process of losing his mind.
Gojo sets a hand on the back of Higuruma’s head, petting, and places the other on the swell of his ass to push their groins together. It feels good, but not good enough. They’re wearing far too many clothes.
For the first time since this whole ordeal began, Gojo actually applies his strength, his speed, his dexterity. He’s going to act like the strongest.
Without warning he flips them over, pins Higuruma down under his hips, returns the favor of removing his button down, and if he pops a button or two off in his haste, he doesn’t care. He’ll learn to sew them back on if he has to, but right now all he cares about is slipping the lightweight shirt off the man’s shoulders and getting rid of his undershirt too.
In contrast to Higuruma, Gojo starts at the man’s throat, licks across his collar bones, kisses down the trail of chest hair while circling one nipple with a thumb. He wants to spend time on those, but not now. There’s something he wants more, and he hastily moves down Higuruma’s body until he gets there.
He rubs his face against the swell of Higuruma’s erection, then grabs the hem of his trousers and briefs and pulls them off in two fast jerks.
After that, he can only stare at the incredibly unlikely picture before him. Former-lawyer-turned-sorcerer, Higuruma Hiromi, sprawled out on his hardwood floor, legs spread, eyes full of lust, mouth open, panting, waiting for him.
How lucky.
Gojo toys with the hem of his own pants. “Still want to ride me?”
Higuruma’s back arches off the hardwood floor, fingernails digging ineffectively into the lacquered grains.
“Yes,” he hisses out.
Time, Gojo knows, is relative. It’s a raging river and it’s molasses, and it never flows at the speed you want it to.
Manhandling Higuruma off the ground feels like a process that takes an eternity.
An epoch or two passes on the short walk to his bedroom.
The fall to Gojo’s oversized, over fluffed, over pillowed futon is like falling from the atmosphere to the ground, short and sweet, but it takes the rest of their life to do it.
Working Higuruma open, watching him writhe, is a useful waste of time, a pleasurable experience, a joy to behold. Every moan, every arc of his spine, every curl of his toes makes Gojo’s head fuzzy, makes his heart pound, makes him contemplate a life of this and only this.
It’s not the curse talking, but the naughty little gremlin in the back of his mind.
He works one finger in, long and lube slicked until Higuruma is back in the state he’d been in in the car—guarded but wanting, holding back in a way that would make him seem respectable if this were a different circumstance.
More lube and a second finger make him squirm, cry out, but not beg, not yet. Gojo wants that, wants to hear him plead for it like he had in the car. He presses his fingers in the right spots, elicits moans from the man, his nails digging into the bedding because Gojo is keeping himself just beyond easy reach.
He grins at the desperation mounting on Higuruma’s face, curls his fingers, presses the sweet spot, and gets a little surprise for it.
“Fuck, I’m—”
Gojo leans down, lightning quick, takes the head of Higuruma’s dick in his mouth just in time to catch his come.
Higuruma shouts, vibrating, threading his fingers in Gojo’s hair, both hands gripping him like a vice, pressing him down further onto his cock which refuses to soften. It feels like it’s going to puncture the back of Gojo’s throat.
Gojo whimpers around it, breaths in through his nose, rubs his cock against his arguably too expensive comforter and comes with Higuruma choking him with his cock. His eyes water and he has to apply his strength to pull away and take a deep breath.
He fucks into Higuruma’s hole with his fingers as they gasp for air, unable to stop to even catch their breath for all it feels like the curse inside them has redoubled its efforts. He applies more lube, impatiently bullies a third finger in, stretches and scissors them, moves to hover over Higuruma balanced on one muscle-strained arm, watching Higuruma squirm below him, riding somewhere in the middle of pleasure and pain.
Time has become a racing river and Gojo would slow it all down to watch this upright man unravel underneath him, or better yet straddling him, riding him, holding on to him for dear life.
Gojo grabs the lube, then presses his body against Higuruma’s, then their mouths. Their cursed energy hums and mixes, Higuruma’s crying out not to be swallowed in the stream of Gojo’s might, but Gojo knows that in time, his too will burn brightly.
Gojo flips them both over, allows himself a moment to watch the expression of Higuruma’s face switch from surprise to want—need.
He slicks himself up one last time then helps Higuruma down onto his cock. Gojo’s hands tighten on Higuruma’s hips at the tight fit. It’s no surprise after the hasty prep; but Higuruma doesn’t appear too bothered by the stretch, even though his hands are vice like grips on Gojo’s wrists.
Time is a river, always moving forward, never flowing back.
Higuruma moves on his cock like this isn't their first time together, lifts and falls back with abandon, squeezes at the right time, slams home with perfection.
Gojo could move with him, but at first, he chooses not to. He lets Higuruma set the pace, the rhythm, to make his demands. Gojo watches and listens, his hands moving from hips to ass to ribs as Higuruma dictates, until he feels a warmth in his gut unlike anything he’s felt that day, perhaps in all of his life.
It’s ecstasy and divinity—because of stupid curse, yes, but it’s because of Higuruma too, it has to be. Gojo needs it to be Higuruma too.
Thumbs tracing over his ribs, Gojo cries out, begs for more like he seldom has before, finally allowing his hips to meet Higuruma’s body as it slaps against his, as the lurid noises of their fucking flows through his apartment like a song, a symphony, to Gojo’s ears.
Higuruma bends over him, strokes himself between their bodies, crying out.
Gojo is struck dumb beneath him, unable to come, unable to move, frozen until Higuruma’s come splatters on his bare stomach and he thrust up into him again and again, his walls constricting around him until Gojo comes inside him, twitching and spasming and crying out his pleasure.
The come down is nice for a minute, with Higuruma’s weight on him, hands gently gripping the supple flesh of Gojo’s pecs, the only things keeping his shaky arms supporting the rest of his body. Gojo can feel the tremors passing through Higuruma as he tries to soothe his exhaustion; fingers dragged up and down his spine, mumbling meaningless bits of phrases and inarticulate sounds into his ear.
When his whole body shudders, Gojo can feel it everywhere, but especially around his cock which remains inside Higuruma and hasn’t flagged since this whole thing started.
He feels good, but he wonders how long it can possibly last.
After a few more minutes of the two of them crumbling apart in each other’s proximity, Higuruma leans down, trails kisses from Gojo’s collarbone to his Adam’s apple, around his jaw line, to his ear. A trail of something a little more than curse induced, but Gojo pushes the thought away.
In his ear, Higuruma’s voice remains quiet and soothing, but there’s still a demand hidden in the shadows.
“One more time, Gojo-kun.” It’s not a question, it doesn’t need to be.
For this, Gojo would make all the time in the world.
Higuruma seems halfway to sleep when Gojo guides him down into the tub, then slips in behind him, allowing him to lean back and use him as a body support. Admittedly, Gojo’s not doing much better in the energy department. He feels like he’s past the worst of it, but limitless is still trying to push the curse out of him completely and it’s using most of his energy stores to do it.
He’s going to need to dive head first into a box of mochi or something soon or there will be nasty damage elsewhere.
Between his legs, Higuruma groans softly as he settles back against Gojo’s waiting body.
“I know you probably wanna sleep this off but were gonna be stuck in a vicious cycle if we don’t wash this sweat—” and everything else “—off our bodies.”
“’S’fine,” Higuruma mutters as he begins to rub one of Gojo’s legs under the water—probably more a reflex than anything else.
When Higuruma’s head falls back onto his chest, Gojo pours some water over it and combs his fingers through the dark strands of his hair, washing it out a little.
Higuruma leans into Gojo’s touch and sighs. It’s a dangerous sound, one that works its way down to Gojo’s stomach, then his groin. He manages to push away the heat of arousal, but there’s something else twisting deeper inside him that reverberates as it makes itself at home.
Eventually soap gets introduced into their bath and lazily they rub their hands over each other, but the curse lingers enough in their system that even this innocent act ends in languid kisses and lazy hand jobs, so that they have to repeat the cleaning process again, only to similar results.
“I’m surprised your dick hasn’t just…fallen off.”
“I wish it would,” Higuruma mutters, thrusting with little effort into Gojo’s hand, before pushing it away entirely. “Just ignore it. I’m too tired and it’s starting to chafe.”
“Alright,” Gojo whispers into Higuruma’s ear. “I just don’t want to leave you unsatisfied.”
“I couldn’t be more satisfied if you paid me to be.”
Gojo laughs, directly into Higuruma’s damp hair. They sit there awhile, in silence, until Higuruma’s dick softens, until time no longer has meaning… or at least until the water gets cold.
“Satoru, you alright?”
Gojo settles down in one of his oversized chairs in the living room where he can peer casually at Higuruma asleep on his futon, under a mound of cushions and blankets. Shoko’s voice in his ear sounds only half-concerned, probably because she thinks she’s going to be inconvenienced more than anything else.
“I dunno, I took this little blue pill and now my dick won’t get soft. The box says if it’s hard for more than four hours I should call a doctor. Hi Doc.”
“You’re disgusting.”
Gojo grins devilishly. “Has anyone told you that your phone consultations could use a little cheer?”
“No. And you’re still disgusting.”
“You know, at least a few people would disagree with you on that point,” he says before sucking down a mouthful of melon soda. If he swallows a little theatrically, so what?
“Are these people still effected by a sex curse?”
“Ha ha ha,” Gojo replies robotically. ‘I’m glad you’re so concerned.”
There’s a moment of silence where it feels like they’re both trying to figure out how far to take the teasing before they admit any kind of concern over the situation. Shoko likes to paint herself as the paragon of adulthood, but she’s just as cracked as the rest of them; though she is the first one to become serious again.
“How’s Higuruma-san?”
“Fine, I think. He says he is, anyway. Tired, too. He’s napping. I’ll get him to eat and drink soon. He’s probably gonna need you to prescribe a cream for chaffing.”
“STOP.”
“Oh, come on Sho, you’ve dealt with worse.” The sugar in his drink works its way into the clutches of Limitless and gets put to work in all the right places. For a moment it makes him a little too needy. “I’m fine too, by the way.”
Silence stretches away into that molasses river.
“Are you fine, Satoru?”
Gojo stares back across the apartment, past the open door to the room lit only by the moon. Something inside him feels suddenly…poetic and he can do nothing but try to flush it out with melon soda.
“Yeah. I guess.”
“Satoru—”
Gojo cringes at Shoko’s tone. She’s too perceptive for her own good, let alone his.
“—oh my god. You have a crush on him, don’t you?”
Gojo’s face burns. “Shut up. Don’t say it like that.”
“How should I say it, then?”
Gojo moves the phone away from his face, sticks his tongue out like a petulant child.
“What’s that? I think my connection’s bad! Sorry Sho!”
He ends the call without further preamble and stares at the motionless lump in his bed. He swishes the rest of his soda in the bottle, mulling over…everything.
After a few more minutes of staring off into the void, Gojo sighs and heads for his bedroom.
Fuck Shoko.
It’s not a crush.