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The life of a sorcerer is never without risk. Kento knows this all too well.
You’re destined for a life of death and destruction, keeping everyone at an arm’s length to shield yourself from the inevitable loss. It’s a pattern as standard and expected as receiving the Sunday paper, and it’s a topic discussed just as easily. But then again, in the midst of the macabre routines, there’s always the outliers—sorcery being a paradoxical world where one must expect the unexpected and always be prepared for what one cannot conceive, lest the world crush you in a blink.
Always be on your toes, always be prepared for the worst case scenario. The occupational hazards in this field are, to put it lightly, numerous.
But Kento’s never experienced anything like this.
The mission was supposed to be simple, one he was assigned to alone and required no backup. Ijichi had been sweating on the car ride over and Kento couldn’t fathom the reason why until they pulled into the shabby parking lot. The joke was not lost on him that they sent the stiff suit to stake out a strip club.
It was abandoned, at least, and the city planned to tear it down to make way for a bigger parking lot. Though, before they could follow through, there was the issue of all the deaths that had been occurring recently in its vicinity. It seemed that anyone who decided to poke around or loiter nearby at late hours of the night, would drop dead and be found on the pavement the next morning. The reason, to a sorcerer, is obvious, and the energy Kento felt upon entering was profoundly negative. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
Betrayed wives and sordid husbands; hopeless dancers and violent pimps. The despair lingered in the air like the most acrid stench.
The mission was supposed to be simple. It was anything but.
The slimy, grotesque cursed spirits appeared in droves, all gnashing teeth and multiocular, tracking his movements from all angles as the creatures warbled and groaned. These, he could handle—these were easy. What followed near the end, however, ended up being a problem. A big fucking problem.
A giant of a woman, Amazonian times ten, finally made its presence known by tearing down the tattered curtain it’d been hiding behind. Long, jet black hair touched its ankles, and the heels of its bare feet were morphed into spikes like stilettos. Its nails were even sharp enough to maim, and blood dripped from its eyes like running mascara. It had three, rouged mouths. Three breasts. It was the culmination of man’s twisted fantasies, a monster of greedy desire pushed into a single, terrorizing entity.
It shrieked and laughed, taunted and cried, all while they chased each other in circles for a solid twenty minutes. In the end, he got it—but not without the cursed spirit getting a hit in too. Just as a forced weak point blew open its chest cavity, it reached out with a long nail to prod him in the chest, somehow strong enough to send him flying across the room just as it was ripped to pieces.
Dazed on the floor and pressed against a crumbling wall, Kento noticed the spot the creature touched had ripped his shirt open. What was left behind burned dark and red: a lipstick print just below his collarbone.
Despite not knowing what this could mean, if it meant anything at all, Kento adhered to protocol and immediately informed Ijichi as soon as he got back into the car of what happened to him—he’ll never be the type of selfish idiot to hide his bite in a zombie apocalypse. Ijichi had been frantic, and Kento had tried with all his might to stick out the two hour car ride back home, but just fifteen minutes in he could feel… something happening. White, searing pain exploding in his lower stomach; a growing ache in his chest as if his bones were shifting. He was going to be sick. They needed to pull over, call Shoko, something.
And that’s how Kento ended up here, locked in the grimy bathroom of the closest motel like he’s back in high school having a panic attack and hiding himself from the rest of the world. Shoko would be here within a couple hours, stuck doing some autopsy but placated by the fact Kento’s no longer in pain—but she took it upon herself to make the worst fucking decision in the meantime: to send Gojo over to look after him until she finally arrived.
“He’s seen some shit,” was the explanation she gave. “Maybe he can figure out an explanation before I even get there.”
Kento nearly crushed the phone in his hand.
Because he does not want Gojo here. He would quite honestly prefer anybody else. But Ijichi was just as confused, and trembled in the face of Kento’s unusual hysteria before sequestering himself in the lobby, and in the last half hour there have been some… developments. Developments he has no idea how to handle, and can only pray aren’t permanent.
Gojo’s voice through the door is enough to amplify his lamenting by a thousand.
“Nanamin,” he calls through the door. “I can’t help you if you don’t let me in.”
Yes, he could. He could warp into this room right now without his consent and do whatever he pleases—he’s just choosing not to, for whatever reason. If Kento were in a better state of mind, he might even appreciate the gesture. But he is so, so far from being clear headed.
“I don’t need your fucking help,” he seethes, knocking the back of his head into the wall. He’s in the empty bathtub, clothes scattered across the floor because it’s the only thing that alleviates even some of this scalding heat licking through his veins. He’s drenched in more sweat than he’s ever produced in his life, and his hands slip to cover this newfound anatomy. This is a nightmare.
“Really?” Gojo muses, that obnoxious, lilting voice of his dripping with sarcasm. “Because you sound pretty desperate to me.”
Something about that makes him tremble, makes him squeeze his thighs together and groan. Desperate. That’s the word. Desperate.
“Please leave, Gojo,” he mumbles, turning his head to feel the cool tile against his cheek.
“A friend in need is a friend indeed,” Gojo sings in return, and in a brief burst of clarity Kento wishes he could bash the other man’s head through the wall.
But it’s too brief to do anything with, and fades as quickly as it comes. He can’t get up; he can’t respond. An unidentifiable ache that isn’t painful but strong, unyielding, wracks his body, calling out, screaming for something he can’t quite name. He whimpers. Loud.
Gojo’s hum of concern is immediate. “I’m coming in,” he says, and Kento can’t even bring himself to object.
He tries, he really does try, to quickly cover his chest and everything else, but Gojo warps in with a cool burst of air that Kento savors every second of, and he can’t help but let his arms go a little slack at the feeling. He’s so hot. Why is he so hot?
Kento’s eyes lazily shift to the tall man now standing near the sink, clad in a white button up and slacks, glasses in place of his typical blindfold, and he looks… irresistible. This isn’t good.
“Oh—” Gojo seems to choke at the sight of him. He stops. Starts again. “Well.” He’s staring, hard, and he must realize it because he swiftly turns his head away to stare into the mirror instead, which he doesn’t seem to like either, before turning his eyes to the door. “This is… unexpected.”
Kento can’t help but snort. “No shit.”
The amusement is short lived, and something hungry in him rebels against Gojo being turned away, no longer gazing upon his exposed skin. It’s wholly unlike him, the way he wants to thrash and arch for Gojo’s attention; this urge to entice. He brings a hand up to squeeze his chest without thinking, just to have something to grasp, and the sensation makes him moan. It doesn’t go unnoticed the way Gojo seems to flinch at the sound.
“Um…” Gojo’s voice breaks, and he clears his throat noisily, still not looking. His arms are crossed over his body like he’s trying to protect himself, or hold himself back. “Run me through what happened, one more time.”
Kento sighs. “The cursed spirit touched me right before I exorcised it,” he recounts with tired ease. “It left a mark on me, and now I have…” He looks down. “These.”
A cunt. Tits.
A waist as small as he’s ever had, but his stomach no longer solid with abs from years of strenuous physical work. It’s smooth, soft to the touch and supple like he’s never experienced. Another mortifying thought hits him, then, of how badly he wants Gojo to squeeze him. To grab him by the waist with those stupidly large hands and watch as the flesh gives under his touch, watch how easily it bruises.
“Right,” Gojo replies. “Are you in any pain?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly?”
“I feel like…” His eyes flutter closed, trying to pinpoint exactly what he’s yearning for. He thinks he knows, deep down in some primal coding of his DNA, but all that flashes through his mind are vague feelings: holding, pinning, filling. “I need something,” he says, almost a whine, and as his eyes blink open, they unconsciously drift toward Gojo, toward the natural bulge ever-present in his slacks. “Like if I had it it would make all this go away.”
Gojo chews nervously on his bottom lip—and isn’t that something, Gojo being nervous—as his foot taps against the floor in thought. “I think…” he starts. “I think I know what’s happening.”
“You do?”
“I’ve seen similar things before. Read stories,” he replies. “I mean, I’ve never seen this before”—He flaps a hand in Kento’s direction—“such a drastic anatomy change, but… I guess it’s some sort of biological attack cursed spirits can have; an extremely rare one. I’ve heard of it being used in… a few ways.”
“What do you mean?”
Kento can see the way Gojo relaxes as he’s allowed this brief respite, getting to fall into lecture mode even if just for a moment. “Well, sometimes its purpose is just reducing you to your most vulnerable state, so you have no choice but to submit and die by their hand,” he explains. “Other times cursed spirits use it to fuse with the human, like some sort of… power up. They’ll force a mating and absorb the human in the process, making themselves stronger.”
Is that what it was trying to do? Kento wonders through the hazy fog of his mind. Transform him into a state more similar to itself, so he would be more easily absorbed?
“Can it be fixed?” he asks, hoping against hope.
Gojo’s reply is clipped. “Yes,” he says. “Probably.”
“How?”
“Ah. Uh…” He stalls for a moment, then finally glaces over. His smile is strained. “By having sex.”
It feels like Kento’s very soul seizes at the word. That’s it. That’s it.
When Kento doesn’t respond, too busy staring up at the ceiling, Gojo elaborates. “Sex with another human typically reverses the effects.”
“Right.” Kento swallows. He looks down at himself again, at his flushed, damp skin and the throbbing arousal between his legs. “So…”
Gojo moves before he can finish, spinning around to grab a towel off the bar on the wall. He shakes it open with a loud smack of fabric against air and rushes over. “Here, we should get you covered up.” He’s shaking, shaking, and Kento almost croons in delight at the thought of making somebody like Gojo squirm.
He gets on his knees and leans over to lay the towel against Kento’s body like the scratchiest of blankets, and the proximity only serves to fan the flames of whatever is smoldering under Kento’s skin. He feels like an animal, reduced to these baser needs like never before—Kento can fucking smell him. If he doesn’t fuck Gojo right this second, he fears he might die.
“Gojo,” he croaks, and those glacial blue eyes snap up to meet him. “Don’t go acting all gentlemanly now.”
Without warning, Kento grabs onto the front of Gojo’s shirt and yanks him forward with all the strength he can muster. The fact that Gojo lets him is telling. The man’s always been free-spirited, has always done what he pleases without any regard for those around him. It’s no surprise his self control in this scenario was just a thin veil so easy to rip through.
Gojo goes sprawling into the tub, gangling legs banging into the sides and shoes squeaking on porcelain. He gracelessly drops on top of him with a grunt and the weight makes Kento moan, his clothes soft and satisfying against his skin, like silk sheets against shaved legs. Without thinking, Kento wraps his arms around Gojo’s broad shoulders and hooks his legs around his waist, pulling him down, down, down until he’s pinned against Kento with no room to move. Gojo goes willingly, shoving his face into the crook of Kento’s damp neck and breathing him in. The hot puffs of air feel like heaven.
“Can I be sappy and say I’ve wanted this for years?” Gojo asks, his voice muffled.
“Will you be annoying if I say I’ve felt the same?”
“Yes.”
“Then nevermind. Fuck me.”
They can discuss this later—no way in hell can he do this now—but a fissure of excitement cracks through him regardless, to know his guilty little crush has been reciprocated all along. Kento wonders if Gojo’s feelings go back as far as his own, when all Kento wanted back in high school was to pummel him into the ground and lick the blood off his smug face after; or when he’d bring new students back to his dorm and Kento would get embarrassingly hard hearing them fuck through the walls.
Later, he thinks to himself. Later.
Now, he’s arching like a cat in heat, nuzzling his face into Gojo’s hair and sinking his claws into his back. Gojo drags his teeth along his neck and Kento pushes his face closer until he gets the hint, biting down and sucking marks into his skin that’ll be too high to cover with the collar of his shirt, but he’s too far gone to have any regrets now. In this hazy delirium, he wants to be marked—he wants to be claimed. He wants Gojo’s curse residuals to linger on his person like a pheromone, so just a glance is all it takes to know who defiled him so thoroughly.
Gojo leaves open mouthed kisses all along his jawline, down to the hollow of his throat before he keeps moving further south, Kento brushing his fingers through Gojo’s hair all the while. None of this is necessary, he knows. Sex in the context of curing this freakish ailment likely just means penetration, but it’s not like Kento’s going to make him stop. He wants to drag this out, to make it last.
When Gojo takes one of his nipples into his mouth, Kento nearly shrieks. They’ve always been sensitive, but never like this.
“Good?” Gojo murmurs into the flesh.
Kento makes some garbled, incomprehensible noise that means, “fuck yes.”
Gojo’s answering chuckle is beyond arrogant. Kento tugs on his hair harder.
He never would’ve pegged Gojo as a tits man, but that seems to be the case with the way he’s showering Kento’s with attention, and he really can’t find it in himself to complain with how fucking good it feels. Gojo laves his tongue across one while he squeezes the other, and Kento lets his own hand travel down to cover Gojo’s, his calloused palm rubbing against smooth knuckles. The added pressure is exquisite and Gojo only squeezes harder, until the skin is red and aching. Kento whimpers as he bites and suckles, kneads like he’s hoping for something to come out, a desperate kitten pleading for milk.
It’s so much, so intense, that for a moment he thinks he could come from this alone. He tugs on the back of Gojo’s shirt and pants, high and needy, as he aches between his legs in a way he’s never felt before. A physical pain that quickly needs tending to. But it soon becomes apparent that this still isn’t enough, that he’s constantly being pushed closer to the edge only for a glass wall to stop him from tipping over. He’s going to die—and when Gojo finally moves his hand even lower, Kento swears he does.
“Gojo—Gojo!” he cries in utter shock at the sensation, and the older man hums in pleased acknowledgement. His mouth hasn’t let up for a second, and Kento knows his chest is going to be so sore after this.
Gojo rubs his index and middle fingers along Kento’s folds, smearing the slick around until his entire cunt is wet and slippery. He spreads his fingers open in a ‘v’ to expose the sensitive inner workings of his new anatomy, and Kento keens as he repeats the motion over and over, doing what Kento wants but not quite. Tears well up in Kento’s eyes unbidden, chest absolutely heaving from the assault of all these… these feelings. He’s never felt this before. Does it always feel this good?
Perhaps, he thinks, it’s just Gojo’s touch alone that’s doing this to him.
The thought’s a little mortifying, but he knows deep down it’s not entirely wrong.
“You want my fingers in you, Kento?” Gojo asks once he finally comes up for a breather, and the use of his given name makes Kento jolt with both pleasure and annoyance. Gojo would be the kind of asshole to use his name in bed without asking first, just to rile him up. But Kento can’t even find it in himself to be mad with how overwhelmed he is—and with how stupidly pretty Gojo looks right now: his lips red and swollen, face flushed cotton candy pink.
“If you don’t do something, I’m just going to take what I want myself,” he growls, bucking his hips to keep those long fingers sliding against him.
Gojo’s breath hitches and he leans in impossibly closer, eyes wild. “That is not the threat you think it is.”
And because he’s so close, and because he’d be an idiot not to, Kento lunges up and pushes their lips together. It’s too fast and too hard, he can taste the inside of his upper lip bleeding against his teeth, but it doesn’t matter. Gojo’s tongue is hot and wet as it glides along his and the moan Gojo emits at the tang of iron being passed between their mouths makes him shudder.
Gojo bites harder than strictly necessary on Kento’s bottom lip just as he shoves his ring and middle fingers into Kento’s cunt without warning, and the dueling sensations have him seeing stars. He all but wails against Gojo’s lips and Gojo moans right along with him, like the wetness around his fingers sends an answering current straight to his cock.
“Feel good?” Gojo breathes in his face, hot and humid and god , Kento’s so fucking sweaty, but he still pushes up closer, until Gojo’s practically speaking into his panting mouth. And it does, it feels so good Kento can barely formulate a single coherent thought anymore. Gojo’s fingers feel unnaturally large inside him, stretching him open and stuffing him full—and yet he still wants more.
“Look at you. You need it bad, huh?” Gojo rambles. “And I’m the only one who gets to feel this pussy around me—fuck, you’re so tight, Kento.”
“Shut up,” he huffs, a knee-jerk reaction, because of course Gojo’s a talker, but the words are affecting him more than he cares to admit. With all these new parts, Kento almost feels like a virgin again—and it really does get him going, knowing that Gojo’s the only one who gets to do this to him, to give this to him.
Gojo hums happily and goes back to mauling at his chest like an animal, and the sting makes him hiss through his teeth while Gojo’s fingers pick up the pace. All former complaints are quickly washed away as Kento leans his head back against the tub and sinks further into this torturous bliss. The obscene squelch of his slick echoes throughout the bathroom and Kento’s face flushes an embarrassing shade of red at the sound of his moans being even louder. He reaches down to lay both hands across the arm currently shoved between them, brushing further down to feel the tension in it, the tendons straining in Gojo’s hand as his fingers fuck him hard and fast. Just then, the hand shifts, and Gojo has his thumb pressed right up against Kento’s clit while the fingers inside him curl at an inhuman speed.
“Yes, yes, like that—fuck!” Kento cries out and frantically grapples for something to hold onto, settling back against Gojo’s hair and yanking it between his fingers. He’s a blubbering mess, the feelings so strong it almost hurts as it mounts higher and higher, building to something, finally, finally—
But Gojo pulls his fingers out and pulls away completely, and Kento lets out an agonized sob at the loss. “Why’d you stop?!” he demands. He’s never been so angry, so upset he feels nearly hysterical.
Gojo doesn’t answer him, and the world suddenly tilts sideways as Gojo hauls him out of the tub with ease and spins them around to lay him out on the bathroom floor, Kento’s head against the bathmat and Gojo’s sunglasses clattering somewhere across the room. Still without a word, looking completely frenzied with his hair nearly plastered to his forehead, Gojo tugs him down and gets onto the floor, throwing Kento’s legs over his shoulders and gripping his waist tight as his head moves lower and lower. Oh, Kento thinks to himself, understanding now, that’s what he’s doing, and moans loud and long once Gojo finally gets his mouth on him.
Kento runs his hands helplessly across the broad expanse of Gojo’s back, up to the nape of his neck to dig his nails in, and Kento shivers as Gojo moans at the sharp pain, a vibration that shakes him to his core. Gojo’s tongue is so wet and so warm, and Kento already knows that even once this is all over, he’s going to be thinking about it for years to come. He alternates between tiny kitten licks to flattening his tongue completely, dipping his tongue inside him only to lick back up to his clit and suck it between those pouting lips—he’s devouring Kento, and he feels tears prick his eyes yet again. He covers his mouth with the back of his hand, because the last thing he needs right now is a noise complaint, but it’s not his fault Gojo’s so goddamn good at this. He even feels a brief flare of anger, thinking about how often he must do this to be so skilled.
Gojo pushes his fingers in again and does something with his tongue, rolls it in some sensual wave that makes Kento arch and push Gojo’s head down, probably suffocating the man between his thighs, but he doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest. He just keeps going, sucking on Kento’s clit like the hard candies he always keeps in his pocket, like Kento’s dripping cunt might finally cure that chronic sweet tooth.
“Why are you so good at this?” Kento keens, eyes squeezed shut and bucking his hips to meet that cruel, agonizing mouth of his.
Gojo lets out an amused, “Haaa,” but doesn’t elaborate, and Kento nearly smacks him upside the head. But he’s too loose-limbed for that sort of coordination right now, and he feels that pressure building again, only this time twice as intense, and his moans spill out despite his attempts to keep them in, breathy and high and only becoming more frequent.
Gojo seems attuned to every movement of Kento’s body and every shift in the pitch of his voice, and he makes sure not to speed up to ruin the climax but to keep doing exactly what he’s doing; it drives Kento fucking insane. The pressure finally releases, and Kento’s orgasm is, quite honestly, mind blowing. He throws his head back with a reverberating groan, tightens his grip on Gojo’s neck and absolutely shakes apart. His body jackknifes as he comes, tensing and relaxing—he feels it in his toes—and Gojo moans into him as Kento tightens his legs even more around his head, surprised the other man’s still breathing. The sound of Gojo’s fingers fucking into him becomes noticeably wetter, sloppier, and Gojo laps it up like a dying man, until Kento’s sensitive and quivering.
Gojo eventually lets up, pressing sticky kisses along his inner thighs, trailing upward to his stomach. His teeth nip against it, pressing his face in like Kento’s newly supple skin is some sort of sensory toy. Kento’s hit with the bizarre urge to hold his head down and see how long the man can hold his breath for, see if he’d actually let Kento do it—willingly be suffocated in Kento’s softness. He groans at the thought, and whatever cravings subsided in the wake of his earth shattering orgasm come roaring back to life. He flops a heavy hand down on Gojo’s back and paws at it, urging him up until he’s licking the acidic tang of his own come out of Gojo’s mouth. Their lips smack together, and on any other day Kento would find it unbelievably embarrassing, but now it only spurs him on.
The size difference between him and Gojo isn’t very notable, but caged in like this, pressed to the floor with the weight of the strongest against his pliant body, it’s all he can think about. He whines and ruts his hips up, and he relishes in the feeling of that obvious hardness. The scratchiness of his slacks against Kento’s cunt is blissful. Gojo grunts and grinds down, gripping his hip with one hand and moving against him in a mimicry of thrusting. It’s so good, so good, and Kento cries out as Gojo starts to really get into it, rocking their bodies together as he teases him with what’s to come. Kento’s so wet he can feel slick dripping down to his ass, spreading across his thighs and probably staining the front of Gojo’s pants. It’s all so much—he needs to be filled; he needs to be fucked.
He reaches down blindly and fumbles with Gojo’s belt, the clinking of metal like music to his ears as he clumsily tries to undo it with one hand. Gojo is quick to help him, their fingers bumping together as the belt finally comes undone and he can pull the zipper down. Kento doesn’t even let him stand to take them off, following his intuition like his body and mind have this all mapped out for him already, and he just needs to follow those primal instincts. He yanks the slacks halfway down Gojo’s thighs and grabs hold of what he’s desired for longer than he’ll ever admit.
His cock is long and throbbing, hot against the palm of Kento’s hand and flushed a needy shade of red. He moves his hand up and down, rough and dry, and finds himself just slightly miffed—because of course, on top of everything else, Gojo’s dick is huge.
Gojo hisses at the sudden touch, nearly collapsing onto Kento once he finally gets his hands on him. “Fucking—Kento,” he groans into his neck. “I’m gonna come in two seconds from a handy like I’m fifteen.”
Kento grips the base to stave off any early release. He can’t have that. If he has to wait another twenty minutes for Gojo to get hard again, he might actually wither away. He turns his head so his lips are pressed right against Gojo’s ear.
“Come in me instead,” he demands. “Don’t waste it.”
Gojo whimpers and Kento guides his cock forward like a leash, leading Gojo to his desired destination without a care for anything else. He needs this, has never needed anything so badly in his life. His cock misses the first time, sliding up through his folds and bumping his sensitive clit. They both gasp at the feeling but are quick to fix it, Gojo finally pushing in and Kento moaning in relief.
Gojo’s cock inside him is rapturous, but far be it from Kento to actually vocalize it. The man’s god complex doesn’t need to get any bigger.
There are no whispered assurances or romantic sweet-nothings, no wait for either to adjust; the second Gojo gets a taste of him, he’s pumping his hips like a man possessed. He grips Kento’s hips and thrusts hard, leaning down to press his mouth against the curse's lipstick print. Kento’s entire body shakes with it. He wails and scrabbles for purchase, clinging to the back of Gojo’s shirt and rucking it up his back so his torso is fully exposed—and what a sight it is, to see someone like Gojo so disheveled, looking completely ridiculous with his clothes halfway off and his dick out, cunt drunk off Kento and fucking like an animal.
Gojo’s moaning like he’s the one being fucked straight into next week, loud and unrelenting like an obnoxious pornstar, yet he somehow manages to make it sound so goddamn hot.
“My pussy’s just that good, huh?” he asks, shooting for something taunting, but it’s a little hard to achieve when he’s so out of breath.
Gojo pushes forward, balls deep, and grinds against him, all while his face stays hidden in the fullness of Kento’s chest. “I think,” he says, gasping, “I’m ruined for anyone else.”
Kento nearly laughs, reaching down to rub his clit and splay his fingers out to feel where the two of their bodies connect. He still aches but it’s different now, like stretching a sore limb after sleeping on it wrong, deep and pleasant.
“That’s what I like to hear.”
Kento lets his hand wander, tugging on the tuft of pubes above Gojo’s cock, sticky with the mess of come and sweat between them, before gliding back down to where Gojo’s pistoning in and out of him, solid and thick against the sides of his fingers. It’s wet, it’s messy—it’s everything he so desperately craved. And the benefit of fucking somebody of Gojo’s caliber is that he never seems to tire, his stamina completely inhuman. Every thrust forward fucks another moan out of Kento, staccato and echoing against the bathroom walls along with another squelch, another smack of flesh. It’s filthy.
He clings to Gojo like a lifeline while the man has one hand on his tit and the other on his waist, fingers slipping too close together and pinching the skin between his fingers but it only serves to make Kento moan louder. Gojo’s stretching him just right, and with the way he bounces and slides against the floor with every thrust, Kento can feel the humiliating puddle forming beneath him, clinging to his ass and lower back. His clit’s so wet with slick he can’t do anything besides rub it in sloppy circles, that wave of pleasure starting to build again.
“Gojo, I’m—” He cuts himself off with a grunt, eyes squeezing shut and head lolling back against the floor.
“Yeah,” Gojo breathes. “Fuck—I got you. I want to feel you come around me, please.”
Something about Gojo begging makes his brain short circuit, and his cunt clenches reflexively until Gojo’s cock somehow feels even bigger inside of him, suddenly hyper aware of the stretch. Gojo makes a noise like he’s been punched in the gut and somehow starts to move even faster. He’s almost flat against Kento, their bodies nearly stuck together as Gojo fucks into him like a horny teenager humping a pillow, feverish and wild, like he’s never experienced anything like this before. The wave finally crests, and with Gojo moaning in his ear and their chests pressed together, Gojo pounding into him with abandon, Kento comes with a shout loud enough for Gojo to shoot a hand up to cover his mouth.
Kento covers the hand with his own, keening loudly and resisting the urge to bite down as Gojo fucks him through (what he’ll never admit is) the strongest orgasm he’s ever had. He feels something gush out of him, a warm liquid dribbling around the base of Gojo’s cock and onto the slippery tiled floor, and Kento has half a mind to worry he seriously just pissed himself, until his mind recalls all those cringe-worthy porn titles he’s seen during moments late into the night where Kento is just like any other man. Gojo just made him squirt, and he’s never going to hear the fucking end of it.
Gojo sounds nearly crazed, half laughing and half moaning over what just happened, and Kento quickly reaches down to squeeze the man’s ass, digging his nails into the flesh and pulling him in as close as possible. He wants to feel it. Gojo’s hips stutter, fucking in as hard as he can with the little space that he has, until he pushes forward one last time with a deep, rumbling groan, vibrating against Kento’s chest. A warmth blooms inside him and Kento sighs in pleasure as Gojo trembles above him, coming so hard that he feels it push back to spill out. Gojo rolls his hips helplessly as his seed trickles out, a white ring forming around the base of his cock that makes Kento moan appreciatively. Gojo pulls back slightly to watch as Kento moves his hand down and under to collect some of the spillage on his fingers, bringing it back up to smear all across his folds and pulsing clit.
Kento feels so deliciously claimed, satiated as the heat recedes.
Gojo looks close to crying.
“That…” Kento starts, eyes closing and breaths shaky. “That wasn’t so bad.”
“Wasn’t so bad?!” Gojo squawks, looking ready to argue but is clearly too drained to really do anything at all. He retaliates by collapsing all of his weight onto Kento at last. Kento groans at the way it pushes Gojo’s softening cock forward. “I literally made you flood the bathroom.”
“Flood is a massive overstatement.”
“I dunno,” Gojo drawls, his voice reverberating through Kento’s head due to their closeness. “Might need to call the front desk to get some extra towels in here.”
Kento rolls his eyes, determined to keep his afterglow alive. “Egotistical.”
“I’m the best lay you’ve ever had.”
“And apparently I’m yours.”
Gojo hums happily. “Seems like we’re a perfect match then.”
The statement makes Kento’s stupid heart flutter—as well as other things. Gojo grunts as he tightens around him, still sensitive and finally taking a moment to pull out with a grimace. It’s both a relief and a disappointment, and only now does Kento feel capable of embarrassment at the way Gojo’s come continuously drools out of him.
Suddenly, before he can get another word in or grab a rag, Kento feels a tingling across his body like a random burst of full-body pins and needles. He tenses, and Gojo sits up to watch in confusion as a curious billowing of smoke kicks up around his body. It covers him in a dark, foggy layer until everything below his collarbones is hidden from view, but as quickly as it comes, it dissipates into thin air. What’s left behind is the body Kento’s more familiar with—unblemished like nothing happened at all.
His chest is back to its somewhat flat state, his abs are chiseled and strong, and his cock lays soft and still wet against his lower stomach. The relief he feels is palpable, but something uglier pops up in the back of his mind too at the sight. Maybe… maybe Gojo will no longer be interested, even though he claimed to be earlier. Maybe all of the hormones and chemicals banging around in his brain made him say things he didn’t mean.
All of those doubts fly out the window when he finally chances a glance up, and Gojo is staring like he wants to eat Kento alive. He lowers back down and presses their bodies together again, only now all broad chests and hard muscle. The slide of their cocks together makes him jolt, wholly different from the earlier sensations, but no less pleasurable. This time, Gojo seems to be the one with fire in his eyes, and his gaze burns a trail of desire through Kento’s body completely separate from his earlier plight.
Kento wants to sink his cock into him, see what sort of noises he makes when he’s really being fucked.
“Wanna do it again?” Gojo purrs, his smirk as sexy and irritating as ever.
Kento clears his throat, glances around the room like he really has anything to consider. “Give me ten minutes.”
It only takes five.