Work Text:
Of all your disastrous coping mechanisms this one gotta be the worst. Two meters tall and cheeky, following you like your own shadow with hands stuffed in pockets and leaning over you at any given opportunity. He never shuts up and never gives up, persistent like only full of shit spoiled brats can be, for whom 'no' is not a boundary but a suggestion—one he usually doesn't follow because he knows better. And, his whole clan be damned, he is right.
Your 'no' has no power since you never truly mean it. He makes you see red in fury and brings out deposits of anger you had no idea you're capable of holding, but somehow you can't live without him anymore, and if he's not around, instead of being relieved you only grow more tense.
He's wrapped you around his pinkie at this point. Worse than heroin.
You let him follow you to the headmaster's office and then home. He tries to insist on using Ijichi as your private chauffeur; you refuse so he joins the commute with you, then walks you through the park. It's one of your favorite routes home and you often stop by to look at plants and birds—now, you've been almost running and he's barely stretched his legs to keep your end up. Getting him lost in the convenience store is a futile wish; he towers over the crowd and sees you wherever you step. At least spares you a word about your choice of dinner (frozen ramen kit, chocolate bar and bottle of soju). When paying, you do your best not to look at condoms he's put on the counter.
The security guard doesn't even spare him a glance—he's been here more frequently than some of the residents. You don't let him sneak into the elevator behind you, but when you arrive at your floor, he's waiting for you already, arms crossed on chest and leaning against the wall next to your door. You want to shove a whole bottle of soju down his throat. Instead, you open the magnetic lock and kick the shoes off, in a slapdash manner.
"Gojo, out!" you bare teeth and point at the door, as if you spoke to a dog, not a man stripping in the genkan of your apartment. Little does he care; he hangs his jacket on the rack and steps in, slouching to avoid the lamp.
"I can't even count for a cup of tea?" The way he feigns a pout boils blood in your veins. "It's so cold out there, you know?"
"No one asked you to walk me home." Ignoring the urge to stab or strangle him, you put your groceries away. He's tailing you, of course, to the kitchen; it's small even without his huge body occupying the space. He hasn't advanced on you yet—and you have no doubt he eventually will—but you already feel cornered.
"Is this how you pay me back for keeping you company?" You hate how thick his arms are when he crosses them on his chest. You hate how his pecs bulge under his black compression shirt. You hate that you know how good it feels to be trapped in the middle, face first into his chest. You hate even your knees and the way they buckle at the thought. "It's pretty lonely here, isn't it?"
He nods towards the living room, dark and empty, so cold after you turned the heating off first thing in the morning—and you left the apartment when it was even darker than now. There's no one waiting for you, no one to draw you a relaxing bath or pre-heat the kotatsu for you. Without him, it would be only you, your frozen ramen kit and booze, and whatever stupid crap they run on the TV at this hour.
You hate the little ping in your chest, that yearning and painful realization that no matter how much you hate Gojo Satoru, it's better to have him by your side than having no one at all.
When he pins you to the kitchen table, you don't protest at all. His cologne has worn out through the day; you can smell his natural musk when he kisses you, hands by your sides, hips between your legs you open as soon as he forces you to climb the surface behind you. It all fits too well—his lips against yours, his tongue in your mouth, the little, breathy moans he lets out when you start returning the kiss and kneading his chest.
Next, he's nibbling your neck—prickly kisses down your throat and towards the shoulder he's stripping bare, your shirt soon unbuttoned and thrown on the floor. It's cold in your apartment right now and you welcome his warmth without complaint, even if knowing well he's only toying with you. It's Gojo's favorite appetizer: your fury and desperation, and your nails trying to break his skin wherever they can reach.
You hate how calculated he is in his hunger. He only tastes, never goes for a proper fill, and doesn't care about the way your body trembles. When he finally ghosts over one of your nipples, you want to pull on his hair until it hurts, and you don't care how much you would rip out while doing so. You hate him after all, no matter what your body says, how wet and heated you're getting with nothing but simple caress.
You want him to suffer. For everything he's done to you—and even more for things he never did.
"Stop fooling around." You hate how close to pleading your voice is, too. "Do you need to be told what to do?"
He's been kissing your tum, teasing at your navel with the tip of his nimble tongue. You can only guess he's looking up at you now; his eyes are hidden behind the black blindfold.
"If you don’t like my teasing—" His hand, big enough to cover most of your chest, wanders up, squeezes your breasts until you must break. "—why are you moaning?"
You shouldn't have caved to easily—yet you're whining and squirming, tears pricking at your eyes with how tight you squeeze your eyelids. His lips and fingertips are torture, liquid fire sprinkled all over your abdomen and neck. He marks you with him, aggressive hickeys you're going to cover tomorrow while shaking in anger and builds up a barrier in your core—Limitless blowing apart the last of your defense.
"Shut the fuck up and fuck me like you mean it."
Gojo is towering over you when he's taking you from behind—and you hate how turned on you are when feeling so small between and the table he's thrown you on. One hand on your throat, the other at your hips, he's filling you up with strong, sharp thrusts. He hasn't prepared you well (he never does), the pleasure he gives you is woven from pain, and you're grateful for that. It's only right like this: no feelings, no attachment, just raw instincts and his fat cock tearing you into pieces. You're a rag doll in his arms, used, mistreated, feeling so fucking good not having to think, worry or yearn. Your apartment is not empty anymore—it's full to the brim with your moans, his sweat, his balls slamming loud against you, your nails scratching the table underneath. Full of shame you're going to air out for weeks, until you cave in again, and let him resupply the eroded reserves.
You hate to want him. You hate how he abuses your insides and cervix and how juices trickle down your thighs. You hate his thick cum, filling you in spasms of his hips. You hate how he drops to his knees to lick you clean, how his fingers reach deeper than most of other cocks could ever achieve. You hate how he gets hard again, how he carries you to the bedroom but gives in on the way and takes you against the wall on the way. And then on the bed. And in the shower when he tries to clean you up. And on the bed again, until you moan what you should never moan, no matter how delirious and how close to the brink of sleep.
Oh, how you hate to love him.