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He doesn’t remember the last time he slept through the night.
It wasn’t just the calls from Ijichi that woke him up in the middle of the night to fight curses. Not even the fact that he had to keep up his technique all the time to stop his brain from frying to death.
Maybe because in that cursed technique of a brain, he had thoughts haunting him.
Like a broken gramophone, it played out the moments in his life where everything went to shit. Suguru’s face becoming blurry as he disappeared in the crowd. His fingers, ready to unleash hollow purple.
Riko’s death. Fighting Toji. But most of all, the ecstasy.
He had meant it when he said that he alone was the honored one when he had unleashed the true nature of his power, being drunk off of that alone.
Gojo Satoru found out that being one with the universe during a fight was the same as being high on cocaine.
Or maybe not. He had felt the pleasure and adrenaline in his bones. The sapphire eyes he was cursed with had suddenly decided to show him how beautiful the world was.
It came at a price, of course.
Curses or cursed techniques weren’t superpowers. They are karmic shackles on the souls in a world where cursed energy ties all humans together as fate.
Gojo’s fate, as it has, turned out to be one of the bitter ones.
The infinity that isolated him from everyone, even if he was a hairs breadth away from them. The cursed knowledge of the universe that would literally fry someone’s brains if exposed for even a millisecond.
His own corruption, mind fucked up ever since he was born.
He was never one to crave carnage. He had enjoyed the fight, sure, but the boredom would seep in quickly. Not a lot of things held their ground against him. A minute of his time and he obliterated them as if they never existed in the fabric of time.
There were times though, times that were too shameful to admit to himself, where he enjoyed the destruction.
His fight with Jogo, or Hanami. Even with Sukuna, the fact that he was able to let go of his inhibitions and use the curse he was tainted with, was almost too much pleasure to bear.
In that singular moment when the world was brought to peace, he almost regretted it. He was shameful to know he related to Sukuna when the carnage stopped.
But for all his insanity, you were there.
It’s funny how he found his way back to you after war. Any curse he fights, special grade, first grade, anything that gets his gears going, he’s in front of your doorstep. Because he needed that reprieve. You were punishment and relief wrapped in one, and Gojo knew he didn’t deserve either.
He comes to you, battle-worn, blood dripping from his jowls. You take him in, the soft patter of the rain outside and your invitation a guiding hand on his back, pushing him into your space.
This wasn’t a ritual of sorts. The Jujutsu world knew what you were, but this space between you two, this intimacy, was his little secret.
He intended to keep it that way.
The dorm room is small, but homely. You weren’t a sorcerer, active in the field.
You were void.
You helped them see what wasn’t there. Cursed energy sources undetectable to the eye, a black hole where cursed energy didn’t affect you at all.
It wasn’t like Heavenly Restriction. More like whatever cursed energy or technique was thrown at you, you were a void that sucked it all in.
It was never enough. Even when Gojo had hollow purpled you, it wasn’t enough.
“What was it this time?”
Your voice broke his thoughts, realizing that he was using the towel you gave him to wipe the blood off.
He didn’t answer for a minute, just focusing his attention on you.
You had favored the dim light over the white ones, knowing his senses would appreciate it. The blindfold was in his hands, a raging headache already forming behind his eyes.
He tries to focus on you.
You’re blurry on the edges, having no real sense of cursed energy. It was the first time he had bumped into you, because he couldn’t even see you well.
He only had a full picture of your face through photos, but he was denied the privilege of seeing how you looked like when you tended to him.
Did you look concerned? Was there any apathy on your face to resemble Shoko?
He couldn’t tell. It was frustrating.
His hand clenches around the bloodied towel as you near him, making him rely on his rather human senses.
“Not so much of a fight.”
He answered, voice slightly strained. He made himself home on the lone recliner, the springs practiced into giving under his weight.
You raise an eyebrow at his answer. He came to you to get his fill, to release the adrenaline he got from the fight. He didn’t look so different now either.
“I watched a horror movie. Reminded me too much of Suguru. And Toji.”
Grief and need. A tumultuous mix that brought him right to your doorstep for comfort and a release.
The mention of Suguru comes easy when he is around you. No one dares to mention his name around Gojo, not even Shoko herself, who is used to Gojo’s bullshit.
In this little room of yours, he’s free. He allows himself to have the little freedom he gets.
Despite this, you laugh.
Not a full belly one, but the soft sound reaches his ears nonetheless. It’s an ache to imagine what you looked like when you were laughing.
“Never thought a horror movie would get you worked up like this.”
You say softly, finger carding through his hair, dusting off the flecks of blood from a fight he was lying to you about. Probably a low-grade fight then.
He leans into the touch, forehead hitting the soft of your belly, fingers dancing along the skin of your thighs.
“The fight after the horror movie might’ve played a role.”
He admits later, a hint of shame tinging his tone. Only you knew of his awful tendency to get off on the adrenaline.
But it was this intimacy he craved the most.
Because his eyes, covered by your stomach, couldn’t see anything. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t see anything when he closed his eyes.
Darkness. Nothing else. Oh, how he had craved this.
He pressed himself harder into you, shoulders relaxing, breathing free for the first time.
“What do you see, Gojo?”
You ask him softly, letting him use you for his comfort.
“Nothing.”
He breathes out.
“Nothing but you.”
He lifts his head to look at your eyes this time. It’s slightly out of focus.
You caress his hair again, his need contained to his blown out pupils. You knew that if you refused now, he would lock himself in a cage, nose pressed to the bars, taking in only what you give him.
For once, you let him be the beast.
Your sigh is soft and permissive.
He undresses you slowly, pulling the strings of your nightdress before letting it fall to your feet, gathering like sea foam around your ankles.
You gently take off his uniform, strip him of his duty. A reminder to take his fill.
Your back hits your bed before you realize it, him on top of you.
Damn teleportation.
He only smiles, kissing you softly, agonizingly slow.
Beast that he is, he liked to savor what he ate. Kissing down the skin of your neck, down to your navel before settling in between your thighs, parting the soft skin there with his tongue.
Your back arches, heels digging into the scars of his back when he took the time to savor you.
He takes his time, going slow, savoring his meal. In the midst of your moans, you softly ask him to go faster.
And all of a sudden he’s ravaging, where the acceleration could use some work. But he’s tipping you over the edge all the same, white behind your eyelids as you reach your high.
He reaches back up, face flushed a cherubic pink.
He has never looked more beautiful in the moonlight.
“You’re beautiful.”
You’re saying it before you realize it, panting softly as you get back to reality.
He chuckles.
“I could say the same for you.”
You laugh at the irony.
He reaches back up, kissing you slowly. He’s cool to the touch, like he wanted the evidence that he had touched death to stay on him.
So you let him burrow himself in your warmth, his hands under your ass, his tongue in your lips, his cock on the soft of your belly.
He enters you then, eyes closing in bliss before they open again.
This time, he looked like the wild animal he wanted to be.
He starts slow, but he becomes animalistic in no time at all. He bites your skin, draws blood and laves at the wounds with his tongue, all the while he ruts into you like a starving man.
He was, in a way, a hungry beast after all.
He bites into your flesh when you both reach your climax, your nails clawing his back. He was grateful for the pain, needed something to ground him before he lost himself to the mind-numbing pleasure.
It took you almost a minute to come back to reality, where he was softly laving the wound with his tongue, kissing your body back to existence.
Scraping the remnants of flesh off the bones.
He breathed easier, he felt spent. The adrenaline was gone, in it’s place the void coming back again.
“Satoru.”
He breathes out when he knows you can hear him. He lifts himself slightly to look at your face.
It aches to not know how you look like right now.
“When I’m like this, call me Satoru.”
You pant softly, hand going to his hair and caressing again. It makes him docile.
“Okay.”
You say softly, hand falling back down.
“Satoru.”
He’s hungry again.