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Satoru Gojo bears six eyes, and six eyes have always followed Fushiguro wherever the cursed world takes him. Like the shadows spilling from his hands, Shikigami summoned from forms and names, Gojo is a presence lingering in the dark that opens the gateways to Fushiguro’s cursed power.
Of course, he isn’t really there when Fushiguro lands on his ass; tumbling face first into the dirt, fingers scrabbling for Maki Zenin’s precious polearm. But in his trembling breath when he twists his head and dodges another life-threatening blow, Gojo’s six eyes watch him carefully in infinity, in imaginary terms, in wistful thoughts too fleeting to recognize as shameful. Fushiguro switches from the polearm to Shikigami toads in a quick sequence of hand formations, watching as the High Grade Curse jittering before him moves with inexplicable grace and crushes the chimeras with inhuman speed and precision. He spits out a swear beneath his breath as dread fills his stomach, counting in his head what else he has left in his arsenal before something lashes out at his feet and he crumples to the ground again.
“You are a fun toy.” The Curse spins on four hands that come together while Fushiguro watches helplessly. He’s out of breath, out of Shikigami, the blood gushing from the side of his face pounding in his ears like the crashing of ocean waves. He can only hope that Itadori is well on his way here and Kugisaki’s found the exit to the barrier that traps them in this godforsaken football field- he can barely remember why they came here in the first place. To save a young boy, at first.
The floor opens up beneath him, to the smell of petrichor and a cushion of weeds. a blanket of rain descends on them alone, the field of grass seemingly infinite once a thick fog settles. Domain Expansion; Fushiguro can barely stand.
“You are a fun toy.” The Curse jitters again. “But I am done playing with you.”
As Fushiguro closes his eyes, he hears the rain pitter-patter around him like asynchronous drumming, an offbeat rhythm to his fearful, thrumming heart. The sound of imminent death is sweet and soothing.
Then six eyes open: omnipresent, omniscient. With two simple words the whole world seems to “repel”, and Fushiguro’s vision goes black.
He reasons to himself, when he wakes up in the curse College’s hospital ward, that life or death experiences are a normality in his line of work. Fushiguro can’t count on his fingers the number of times similar predicaments have arose during his curse education, after all. He does it anyways, past the tens, onto a new hand as it trembles from aftershock and refuses to uncurl. His tongue rasps for water, a ghost of a cry on his lips as he shivers in old fear that still holds on to his bones. Beside him, a broken polearm lays neatly on the white drawer, a sticky-note stitching the two parts together clumsily.
80,000 yen.
“Megumi.” He twists violently to his name. A blindfold meets his gaze, a smile too sickeningly sweet to be genuine. The most powerful man in the world waves cheerfully, takes a seat at the foot of Fushiguro’s bed, feels the weight of his body sink into the sheets.
“Are you feeling better now?”
“Yes.” Fushiguro nods; a blatant lie. After a moment he hangs his head. “How long was I out?”
“A day.” His sensei tilts his head, the smile slipping slightly. “Brought you some souvenirs from my last trip. They’re on the your bedside drawer. Have some.”
“Be honest with me.” Fushiguro dismisses him almost immediately. “I would have died without you there.”
An awkward silence permeates the room as Gojo’s mask slips and the air stills with tension. He gets off the bed, warmth leaving the side of Fushiguro’s leg quickly.
“Maybe.” He says after a moment of respite. “But something like that would never happen.”
“Sensei-“ Fushiguro starts again, but he is already gone.
Satoru Gojo doesn’t really have six eyes. But his existence is an omnipresent thing in Fushiguro’s life- from the moment he stepped into it on that day, crouching down to meet his first-grader height. He remembers the feel of his calloused hand on Fushiguro’s head, patting him softly, making quips and threats like they were the same thing. Wearing shades instead of a blindfold. Nowadays it’s difficult to catch even just a glimpse of his eyes but if Fushiguro concentrates hard enough they are there in his mind: pale white, pale lashes, sharp and all-seeing and more beautiful than anything Fushiguro has known. A sick thought in his head wishes he was really here, with him. Most of Fushiguro’s time cultivating his cursed technique Gojo had been out paying him no attention, and somehow he had managed to still become the cynosure of Fushiguro’s life. Just a gaze here and there; a word of praise; a hand resting on his shoulder. Recently there had been more of these, as if Gojo-sensei’s only just realised how much Fushiguro craves acceptance from him, but it’s a far cry from the thoughts that settle into the pit of his stomach during these lonely hours.
What’s your type of woman?
Aoi’s voice is a distant memory in the back of his mind, resurfacing as he lays awake in bed. It is night outside, around him shadows darker than black are the only tells that he’s still inside his room. A clock’s consistent ticking doesn’t soothe him today - instead it grows louder with every notch of sound - Aoi’s memory asks again: What’s your type of woman? and Fushiguro groans into his hand without an answer.
Six eyes watch him, always. Fushiguro’s body curls up, his bed the only place that he can let himself feel vulnerable. Six eyes blanket their gaze over his body and Fushiguro feels the bed shift with imaginary weight.
Megumi. Satoru Gojo whispers, and he finally falls asleep.
Thinking about him is uneasy, in more ways than one. Fushiguro barely knows a thing about his past- only the barebones answers of what Yaga-sensei will give him when he presses for information and even then the principal admits that it is difficult to get inside Gojo’s head. On the other hand, Fushiguro’s past is an open book to his sensei - he knows more than Fushiguro does at least, knew enough to lay down the stakes and let Fushiguro’s past-self decide on the path that would ultimately lead him here, under Gojo’s guidance, where those six eyes took apart his Curse technique as easily as if it were a child’s puzzle. Small habits Fushiguro’s accumulated over the years haven’t slipped past his sensei’s notice either; the few things he has left in the dark are still just waiting to be found out.
“My precious student is standing behind me.” Gojo muses, head tilted back against his armchair, blindfold sliding a little over the bridge of his nose. “That’s rare. You’re always training.”
“Itadori wanted to take a break.” Fushiguro replies. “He and Kugisaki have headed out for lunch.”
“And they’ve failed to drag you along.” Gojo hums. “Don’t be so antisocial.”
“I’ve seen all there is to see in Tokyo.” Fushiguro sighs, wrist pressed against his forehead.
“Except me?” His tone is innocent, but Gojo’s smile betrays the teasing in his voice.
“Shut up.” all he gets back is low and chuckling laughter. It resonates with the fluttering at his stomach, the red rising in his cheeks. Fushiguro’s eyes trail up Gojo’s jaw, moving as he speaks (it’s all inaudible, drowned out). Along the curve of his throat, his Adam’s apple, skin vanishing where his turtle-neck sweater conceals the rest of his body. Fushiguro’s mouth goes dry watching him, hyperaware of the way his feet root themselves to the ground despite wanting to run desperately. Like he were a curse and Gojo were mere seconds away from snapping his fingers and exorcising him.
“Come closer.” Gojo says, and breaks Fushiguro out of his trance. “It’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“No.” Fushiguro lies. It is a weak lie, and he finds himself shuffling forward like he’s under a trance. His waist meets the crown’s edge of Gojo’s hairline, a pressure at his side Gojo’s fingers as they prod and inspect him.
“Are you alright?” Gojo says with the slightest of smirks. “Do you need to go see Shoko again? You’re hot.”
“You know what it is.” Fushiguro steps back ashamed, humiliation washing over him in waves when Gojo’s fingers curl along his forearm and keep him close. It’s difficult to hide anything from an omniscient man. This one toys with him whenever he feels like it, and all of Fushiguro’s secrets lay themselves bare: one in particular, once so careful concealed, now slowly unravels before him by the very eyes he is so enamored by.
“You don’t have to go.” Gojo’s smirk softens to a smile. “I wouldn’t be opposed to you staying.”
“Of course not.” Fushiguro near-scowls. “You’re enjoying yourself too much.”
“Then I’ll stop.” Gojo’s hand leaves his wrist, settling at his sides, facing him patiently. Gojo knows he’ll take the bait. He knows Fushiguro’s heart better than him.
“I’ll wait for you to start.”
The young shaman lets go of his inhibitions, just this once, to lean down and kiss him.
It’s near impossible to believe that Satoru Gojo has eyes for him when he can have eyes for anyone. Maybe he is tagging along for the ride and Fushiguro is just making a fool of himself by letting him- maybe all of it is a lie and Fushiguro is just a pretty face opening up where Gojo’s mouth meets his own. He wouldn’t be surprised if that were truly the case - there are first-grade shamans who would cast themselves at Gojo’s feet for an ounce of his time, do more for a better bargain if he’d let them. Maybe he plays with Fushiguro because he guards every secret like it’s his last, and Gojo enjoys prying him open with every passing year.
Maybe what humiliates him the most is that Fushiguro would let him do it. Take all of his secrets. Take his heart too.
“And your body?” Gojo tilts his head.
“Pervert.” Fushiguro shoots him a look.
“I’m being frank,” He says, tracing a hand up Fushiguro’s spine. His fingers are long and slender, gripping his waist as his arm slides around, reaching down to his thighs. Fushiguro holds himself back from a shudder, but the feeling of Gojo’s fingers on his naked skin sends him into mild delirium. “I’m quite a selfish person when it comes to you.”
Fushiguro has only been to his room once before and it had been sparsely decorated at the time. A weathered portrait of old friends; a cursed weapon left in the corner collecting dust; some books. It was a fleeting moment between new acquaintances- hardly the same as what was happening at the moment. Now the space is filled with nicer memories, DVDs and tapes and little souvenirs from business trips, and,
Fushiguro’s pants. Gojo’s shoes.
“Megumi.” Gojo exhales, one hand under his shirt, contacting his skin. It flares hot where Gojo presses his palm up against his stomach, the heat spreading up his back, between his legs, his chest, his neck. Fushiguro hasn’t known touch to be so intense- to feel so dangerous and good, and all sorts of strange.
“I-“ Fushiguro’s voice cracks, leaning forward to rest his arms on Gojo’s shoulders, his nose touching Gojo’s nose. “Take whatever you want.”
“You don’t look like you mean that.” Gojo replies, kissing him. “Is it because you feel ashamed?”
They deepen the kiss, tongues stroking tongues. Fushiguro’s teeth click in impatient haste, slowed down by Gojo’s experience as his hand pulls Fushiguro’s legs apart; lets him straddle his waist, tuck in his legs against his back. Gojo is right and Fushiguro doesn’t want to think much more about it, concentrating on the feeling of his tongue as it leaves Fushiguro’s mouth, then pushed against his jaw and forcing his head back slightly. The wet slide of his lips beckons a soft sigh from Fushiguro’s mouth, laving his skin. A free hand roams his shirt, pulling all the way up until he shirks it off, and then his sensei’s hands are on him again.
“Ashamed for liking me?” Gojo muses, peppering kissing along his collar bone. He moves lower, ghosting along his skin, pausing to suck at his nipple as Fushiguro whimpers above him. “Ashamed of what you’d let me do to you? The possibilities are limitless.”
“Take off your blindfold.” Fushiguro bites down hard on his lip, bucking against Gojo’s pants as his hands curl in his hair. “I want to see your eyes.”
“Of course.” It's off in an instant. “I’d like to see yours too.”
Fushiguro opens up his legs a little wider as Gojo tucks him closer to his chest, their bodies flush against each other. The soft growl of Gojo’s voice digs into his neck; he feels his erection press hard against his ass and Fushiguro grinds down instinctively. They pant heavily in the dim afternoon, asynchronous movements spurred on by arousal, Gojo’s hands roaming Fushiguro’s chest and Fushiguro groaning softly as he rubs his lower body down the tent of Gojo’s clothed cock.
Fushiguro inhales sharply when Gojo’s free hand slides downwards, palming his erection through his underwear. It springs up as Gojo’s hands pull it down and Fushiguro buries his head into the crook of his neck. Gojo reaches behind, fishing around in his back pocket for a bottle of lube and spreading it generously on his hand before slipping his fingers between the cleft of Fushiguro’s ass. It’s cold to the touch, his fingers rubbing up and down his slit as Fushiguro bites back a moan. The first finger enters him and the feeling is foreign, invasive, good. Fushiguro nearly tips his head back when Gojo pushes in his second without warning, hissing at the painful stretch of his hole as it accommodates both digits.
“You’re tight,” Gojo notes casually, thrusting his fingers in a steady pace. Fushiguro can feel the Gojo’s knuckles ram against his rim as he scissors, loosening him up. Somehow Gojo’s haphazard attitude turns him on, and that’s not a thought Fushiguro wants to dwell on.
”Just do it,” Fushiguro grits his teeth between quiet gasps, hitched breaths where his body tilts forward at the thrust of Gojo’s fingers. They curl and brush a sweet spot Fushiguro didn’t know he had- he cries out, biting into the muscle of Gojo’s shoulder cap and tasting dry cotton. His hand fumbles lower, curled around his own cock as he tries to get off to Gojo’s pace. He's so hard it hurts, the sensation as he wraps his hand around his base gratifying to the touch.
Then Gojo’s fingers leave his body, shuffling around his waist impatiently as he shrugs his pants away. Fushiguro watches in a stupor as his cock is slicked up, thick and hard, lined up neatly under the younger shaman’s legs. Gojo gives him no forewarning as he hefts Fushiguro up, only placing a chaste kiss at his jaw before slamming Fushiguro on top of him.
Fushiguro gasps as Gojo's cock breaches him and every nerve in his body catches fire, the way its thick hilt splits him open, every vein and imperfection inside him so tightly it feels like something out of a wet dream. (He supposes, in the back of his mind, that this makes sense: Satoru Gojo is naturally good at anything he does, including sex.) Fushiguro rolls his hips instinctively and a burst of pleasure rushes up his chest- he keens, hands gripping Gojo’s shoulders as he rides him sloppily, driving out every inch of pleasure from his dick. Gojo’s hands grip his soft ass, spreading him open as he thrusts up to meet Fushiguro’s tempo in grunts and watches with a reverent gaze as Fushiguro’s once reserved, stoic demeanor shatters completely.
“S-sensei,” Fushiguro bucks and whines, pace increasing as he struggles to match pleasure with pleasure. “It’s not enough, I- I want you, to,”
“What?” Gojo’s stare is tantalizing, one hand slipping between their bodies to fold over the one Fushiguro has around his stiff cock. He tightens his fist, thumb swiping over its dribbling head and sparks of pleasure ignite behind Fushiguro’s eyes. “What do you want?”
“On top.” Fushiguro closes his eyes, head shoved against Gojo’s chest. Too embarrassed to say it to his face. “I want you on top.”
It’s better when it’s him - almighty, all-powerful Satoru Gojo - in the lead. When it’s him pinning Fushiguro down, pounding into Fushiguro relentlessly, separating his insides. Fushiguro’s pleading, wanton look has Gojo by the throat; as much as Fushiguro says he’s all Gojo’s, it is just as right to say that Gojo belongs entirely to him.
Gojo flips them over, careful to not separate them as Fushiguro’s head hits soft blankets.
“Give me a second.” He pushes him back gently, just enough to take them apart, eyes wandering over Fushiguro’s body as he takes off his turtle-neck.
Fushiguro has never seen his naked body up until now - smooth and pale, the thick contours of his muscles sending shudders down his spine. His arms are cut, his abs in rough but perfect segments. The view is better down here too, with his sensei leaning forward, towering above him, knees between Fushiguro's thighs. Gojo-sensei’s strengths are both physical and spiritual; Fushiguro’s wiry frame wilts a little, he feels the sudden need to make himself look wanted despite knowing that such a thought is unwarranted by the way Gojo’s eyes soften at his flushed gaze. Still, Fushiguro tries.
“Gojo-sensei,” his voice is shaky but thick with arousal, as he holds his legs open and throws any ounce of dignity he has left out the window. “I belong to you.”
Gojo smiles- dangerously sweet, and it sends tremors deep into Fushiguro’s skin.
“Haven’t you always?”
They have to reset the pace again, but Gojo takes it a little slower. Slinging one of Fushiguro’s legs over his shoulder he turns his head to kiss it, along his shin, at his knee, to the inside of his thigh. Fushiguro would be impatient if not for Gojo’s searing, almost controlling gaze swooping over his body. He reaches out, teasing Fushiguro’s cock with a hand and smirks a little at the way Fushiguro bucks up to meet him with a moan. Swiping down, Gojo’s fingers find his hole, shiny and wet when he slips his fingers inside him again. Fushiguro’s voice strangles up in his throat, tinny and weak as pleasure spikes up his body. Gojo’s fingers thrust against his sweet spot again, building a climax again, and Fushiguro almost cries in, hands pulling at his hair.
“Gojo-sense-i,” Fushiguro whimpers, body shaking in pleasure with long, racking sobs. “I want to come.”
“You’re impossibly cute, you know that?” Gojo breathes, taking up Fushiguro’s other leg. It settles comfortable against Gojo’s neck.
“Beg for it.” Gojo says. His hands close over Fushiguro’s sweaty waist, his cock rubbing against his opening, the friction of their slick bodies enough for the frustration to pile up in Fushiguro’s throat.
“Please,” Fushiguro wails, legs shaking. “please, please, I need it-“
Gojo slams into him and Fushiguro’s jaw goes slack. His vision blurs, splitting open at the seams - it’s so much better than their first try, as Gojo thrusts into his pliant body, molding his inner walls to fit the shape of his cock. Fushiguro tightens around him, body arching up to meet his timing as the heat of their bodies spurs them on. His hands clutch bedsheets soiled in his sweat, he feels himself pushed up and down against Gojo’s mattress, between his legs Gojo’s cock sliding in and out of his body. It fills him so well, the sound of their bodies wet and intimate and lewd, the buzz at his stomach hitting again and again and again.
“Sensei,” Fushiguro moans, “Gojo-sensei!” He’s lost all sense of his surroundings- only the feeling of their bodies sliding together can place Fushiguro in tangible space. Six white eyes look down at him, half-lidded, hips stuttering against Fushiguro’s open legs as their pace quickens to an erratic rhythm.
“Megumi.” Gojo shudders in kind, leaning down to kiss him.
Soon enough their voices collide, bodies jittering out of pace, Fushiguro’s vision going white as he reaches his climax and comes across his body in hot white spurts. How many times they fuck afterwards is a mystery to him- only the feeling of being connected at their bases, Gojo worked into him so deep it feels like they’re connected by the soul. He knows that Gojo kissed his legs before he threw them over his shoulders and fucked him, that much is pretty clear. He knows how big Gojo feels between his legs, the shape of him engraved into his body, and that the aching pain in his shoulder is a bite that drew blood before they had both crested their orgasms. Throughout the night Fushiguro recalls Gojo’s mouth on his throat, on his chest. Between his legs once, and everywhere else after that. Marked by strong hands that dig into his flesh, hands and teeth that could kill him. The risk is barely there but its existence is a guilty pleasure.
“I don’t want to stop,” Gojo had whispered into his ear. “I’m not going to.”
Fushiguro had let him.
Next morning is a difficult one to explain, but the day hasn’t started and Fushiguro’s pains are still all of Gojo-sensei’s doing. He lies awake as the sun peaks over the horizon, past an arm slung over his waist. The motion is haphazard enough to be genuinely asleep, but with a firmness that suggested an unconscious fear of losing what was in its grasp. Fushiguro has nowhere to go yet; he lets himself fall back against Gojo’s body, where his teacher sleepily fits his head against Fushiguro’s shoulder. They lie in the fading dark, vulnerable together.