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Gojo has always thought there is something a little sobering, or even a little holy, about being wanted by someone intelligent.
Desire is common enough. At least, for him, it is easy enough to provoke desire if one is built the way he is built. People want him all the time. Maybe they desire the spectacle of him, the arrogance of him or the body of him. Mostly, they probably desire the inviolability. They don’t know that sometimes they desire the thing that hovers between him and them: the distance.
Utahime, however, knows better. And she resents him with such articulate precision that her want looks nothing like common desire.
Which is perhaps why the sight of her on her knees between his spread thighs always affects him with the muted violence of religion.
The room (her private quarters at Kyoto Jujutsu High) is dim except for the amber spill of a lamp near the futon. She’ll kick him out later after they’ve fucked, eaten, and bickered, but for now, they are in the indulgent, aureate hollow that they’ve made for their friendship. There is enough light to put some parcel-gilt on the sharp line of her cheekbone and catch in the wetness already glossing the corners of her mouth. Gojo, who had begun this encounter in a state of lazy, anticipatory confidence, one arm thrown over the back of her couch, long legs open with the carelessness of a man comfortable in his own desirability, finds himself laughing softly when she glares up at him through her lashes. Her clothes are almost off. Her expression suggests that she would like to kill him, which makes the fact that his cock is on her tongue feel like a wonderful contradiction.
“You’re making that face again,” he says, voice roughened pleasantly by arousal. “You look like you hate me.”
She pulls off him with a slick sound that nearly makes him shudder outright, lips swollen, breath uneven.
“I do hate you,” she mutters breathlessly, before taking him back into her mouth, determined.
Oh fuck, there it is.
That unbearable thing she does. Irritation and lust become so entangled in her that he cannot tell where one ends and the other begins.
Gojo lets his head fall back for a moment, trying to bite away his grin as he closes his eyes at an old ceiling, despite the heat already tightening low in his abdomen. Utahime sucks him like she has something to prove, one hand braced hard against his uniformed thigh while the other strokes the length of his dick that she cannot fit into her mouth.
It’s too good to miss, so he doesn’t look at the ceiling long. Even through the haze of pleasure, he remains acutely aware of every detail of her. The drag of her saliva. The faint smearing shine of his precum on her cheek. The way her nose wrinkles whenever he nudges too deeply and she refuses to retreat, even then, stubborn enough to gag before relinquishing an inch.
He looks down again. Utahime’s hair has come loose sometime in the last few minutes, dark strands slipping over her shoulders. God.
Gojo knows this version of her intimately.
He knows the clipped little inhale she makes whenever he touches the back of her neck when he’s in her mouth. He understands the look she gets when she is overstimulated and trying not to show it. He is attuned to the exact point at which irritation begins melting into arousal so completely that neither of them bothers distinguishing between the two layers anymore.
Outside Utahime’s quarters, somewhere down the corridor, footsteps pass.
Neither of them pauses.
The realisation sends a pulse of heat through him so suddenly and sharply that he nearly laughs.
Because of course, out there, they all know he is here.
Not officially, obviously. Jujutsu society thrives on the preservation of plausible deniability, upon generations of people politely refusing to acknowledge what is directly before them. Usually, it’s about more gory topics, but sex is not above this either. However, Gojo’s cursed energy floods every room he enters with all the subtlety of a natural disaster. There is no chance his arrival at Kyoto headquarters has gone unnoticed. No chance the lingering density of his presence outside Utahime’s rooms on so many random weeknights has escaped attention.
And still nobody says anything. It almost presents as a challenge to Gojo to see where the line is before someone says something to him.
Even in the broad light of day, no one has ever said anything when he disappears behind her office door for 40 minutes between meetings. How loud could he make Utahime be?
The thought corrupts something pleasantly filthy in him.
He imagines the whispers that probably circulate anyway, scandalised and fascinated in equal measure, the collective awareness that Gojo Satoru keeps coming back to Kyoto, back to Iori Utahime, back to the stern little teacher who can’t stand the sight of him.
So no, she doesn’t hate him.
His smile widens helplessly as he looks down on her between his thighs, struggling a little to keep his cock in her mouth as she moves on it. His smile annoys her, and she grips the base of him more tightly. Gojo enjoys the little spark of pleasure caused by her ire.
“God, you’re so competitive, senpai,” he murmurs.
Her eyes flash at him immediately, furious.
That expression almost undoes him.
He laughs again, quieter this time, and brushes his thumb beneath one of her eyes where moisture has begun to gather from the strain of taking him so deeply. Not yet tears, though her lashes are damp enough to clump together.
“You okay, Hime? Can’t take my whole cock?”
She makes an irritated sound around him that vibrates straight through his spine.
The sensation forces a startled breath from him, hips twitching despite himself, and she notices. Utahime notices everything. Underneath the propriety and the lectures, there exists a woman with an exquisitely cruel instinct for all his weaknesses.
Her mouth tightens around him deliberately.
“Oh, you little—”
The words break apart into a breathed-out laugh edged with something far less stable, his breath coming shorter now as he tries to draw this out.
Gojo has slept with beautiful people. More than beautiful people. He has touched bodies cultivated like art objects, heard moans rehearsed into erotic perfect pitch, watched desire unfold prettily and predictably beneath him and on top of him. Yet nothing has ever compared to this maddening, intimate ugliness, this complete lack of performance between them.
Utahime drools when she sucks his cock. There is something so authentically unaesthetic about it. It is something he tries to give her back in kind. Gojo learns the things she likes with an almost embarrassing sincerity. And he gives it to her messily, greedily, without preserving any illusion of cool detachment. He buries his face between her thighs until his hair is damp with her, cums wherever she prefers. He mouths at her stomach through the splatter of his own spend while she laughs breathlessly at the absurdity of him, this strongest sorcerer alive reduced to something carnal and human on the floor of her office. There is nothing elegant about the way he pleasures her; he praises too much when she comes apart, and lets himself become visibly affected by every reaction he drags from her. Somewhere over the years, in all these hurried, repetitive encounters stolen between meetings and missions, he has developed a fondness for the unvarnished reality of Utahime’s want of him. In response, he offers her his own: enthusiastic, shameless. It would probably terrify him if it existed with anybody else.
Saliva gathers shamelessly at her lips and spills over her fingers in translucent strands whenever she pulls back to breathe, slicking the heavy length of him, dripping warmly onto his thighs. Each time, she gags around him with an expression of incandescent annoyance, eyes watering harder, throat constricting helplessly around his cock. At the same time, he chuckles above her, and, quite suddenly, something hot and helpless twists deeper into his chest.
Because she trusts him enough for this.
The realisation arrives without warning and strikes with enough force to hollow him out, like a thump on the back has knocked all the bones out of him.
Utahime trusts him enough to kneel between his legs without self-consciousness. Trusts him enough to let him see her discreet brown mascara smudging the tops of her cheeks, to let him watch her gag and recover. Trusts him enough to be imperfect with him.
And fuck, he loves her.
The thought unfurls through him with catastrophic clarity, the lashing arm of a great beast brought to life out of stone.
It’s not even abstract. It’s now.
He loves the sharpness of her temper and the way she tries to preserve it even while swallowing around him so obediently that he feels half delirious with how close he is to orgasm. He loves the damp heat of her body and the little sounds of irritation she makes whenever he pets her hair too patronisingly. He loves the fact that she still treats him like an infuriating man instead of a living weapon. Loves the fact that she takes him apart while pretending none of this matters very much.
Gojo looks down at her and feels suddenly, terrifyingly doomed.
Utahime glances up again just as he pushes a hand gently into her hair, white strands falling over his eyes as he smiles at her, slower now, softer around the edges.
“What?” she says hoarsely after pulling off him again, though the word is immediately followed by a cough.
A thin thread of saliva still connects her mouth to the flushed head of his cock before snapping wetly against his skin.
The sight nearly drives him insane.
“Nothin’,” he says.
But his voice has changed enough that she notices.
Utahime always notices.
Her expression shifts fractionally, suspicion threading through the lingering irritation, and Gojo, suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer fondness of his own desire, by the sight of her flushed and angry and dripping spit over her delicately pointed chin while looking at him like she might start an argument mid-blowjob, laughs under his breath and strokes his thumb across her lower lip.
The gesture smears all that imperfection wider across her skin.
“You’re so pretty like this,” he says quietly.
She rolls her eyes immediately, instinctive as breathing, though colour blooms deeper across her cheeks all the same.
“Shut up.”
For one dangerous, suspended moment, Gojo has the absurd instinct to tell her. Right now, while she glares at him like he has personally offended her by loving her. The urge rises through him with such startling tenderness that it nearly frightens him. Then Utahime, still flushed, still breathing unevenly, bites the inside of his thigh hard, just where there is enough skin showing from his hastily shoved-down uniform trousers. The sharp sting of it knocks a laugh out of his chest before he can ruin both their lives.
“Hey,” he chuckles softly.
She licks her lower lip nervously, but does meet his gaze, her mouth at his thigh still.
“Can you come already?” she whispers.
Gojo feels a strange tingling emotion, almost like sadness. Utahime sounds shy. Worse, she sounds careful with him. When Gojo looks down at the tiny crease between her brows and the lingering nervousness in her eyes, he is struck by the sudden, devastating suspicion that he may not be the only person in this room trying very hard not to say something irreversible.
“Sure,” he says, a little hoarse. “Where do you want it?”
“Face,” Utahime says after a moment, and Gojo sees the trust that protects her from embarrassment. Then, more pointedly, because she is actually incapable of leaving anything imprecise: “And don’t get it in my hair this time.”
Gojo laughs softly at that, helplessly, fondly, and slides his hand properly into her hair at last, gathering the dark strands carefully away from her face, momentarily indulging a tenderness that feels far too intimate for what this is supposed to be. In that moment, he realises that the holiness was never in being wanted by someone clever enough to understand him. It is that Utahime understands him completely and still gets on her knees for him anyway.
He closes his eyes as she takes him back into her mouth.
The thought follows him all the way to the edge of release and waits for him after pleasure has swept him away: he might be loved here, and that is holiest of all.