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Gojo would like to say it's not often he finds himself in this position, but that would be lying. He can't even finish the thought of the excuse without laughing to himself.
He shoots a text to confirms the address, towels his damp hair a few more times, throws on a hoodie, toes on his shoes, slams the door behind him, and walks down to the corner of the block for the ride he ordered to pick him up. The eye mask is left at home.
He yaps the driver's ear off the entire way there, grabs the gum that's offered to him. It's gross and sugar-free so he spits it out onto the sidewalk once he exits the car.
The gate, as he was told, was open, so he pushes through and climbs two flights of fire escape stairs and knocks on the door. He rocks back and forth on his heels for a moment before he's greeted by a new face.
The man that opens only knows him from his app profile. Nothing more. All of this is so ridiculously far removed from the Jujutsu world that it excites Gojo every time. This man has no idea he's in front of a god right now. A fucking goddamned living legend.
A rough hand comes up and pulls him through the door by the hair and fuck, he could never sleep with a sorcerer.
They could never push him down to bend over the bed like this, kick his legs open like this, slap his ass like this. He thinks of the other Jujutsu teachers briefly, and the way they could probably flip the city with their sheer power, but could never treat someone the way a regular human does to their fellow citizens.
This man, whatever his name is— Kido? Kida?— can shove two lubed fingers into Gojo and not worry about infinity or energy output or voids. He pushes Gojo's face into the covers and tells him to be good.
Tells him to take it. To be a good bitch.
All Gojo can do in return is moan and laugh and bite his smile into the pillow. The humans; they can be a good thing. A sure thing. They fuck because that's how and what they were brought on this earth for. They have no destiny. This random man doesn't know he's railing the guy who exorcised a special grade curse just down the street last week.
There's no worship here.
There's hardly even kindness. At one point, he nearly has the audacity to ask Gojo if he's alright, if he can continue pushing his fat dick inside, the very one that Gojo drooled over last night when the picture loaded, the one Gojo had been thinking of at the grocery store, after work, in the shower before he came here—
He turns his head around and shoots a mean glare. The kindness can fuck itself. Gojo wants the man to screw him so hard his eyes go crossed. He wants to limp while he walks so everyone knows he got it done good to him and if it is that good, he might ask the guy to film them by the third time, might leave the video open on his laptop and see who bites.
Maybe Nanami. Nanami, if he could be, would be the closest thing to what he's getting now.
Large hands cover the small of his back to hold him there while he gets fucked by a man unchained. If the regular humans can give him what he needs, he might as well be the best they'll ever get. Let them do whatever makes their clock tick and their alarm bell sing. He's not afraid of their base desires when, for a sorcerer, just living is hellish enough as it is.
He lets the air escape his lungs when the man drapes himself over Gojo. Hard muscles under a softer layer of skin covered by dark body hair rub against his back with a punishing rhythm, and it's almost as bliss-inducing as being in his own domain is.
With the little wiggle room he has, he turns his head to the side, looks over his shoulder. There's another reason he can't sleep with sorcerers. They know of the blood on his hands and the distinct lack of empathy. They know of the something-like-evilness that brews under his skin. They know that his best friend almost pulled it out of him.
This man doesn't. Gojo looks at him with his teary baby blues and whines, watching the dark brown eyes become even further blown black.
"Spit on me," Gojo asks with pout to his lips.
The rhythm falters for a second before he feels the glob of wetness hit his cheek. He bites his bottom lip around another smile and groans.
"Thank you, sir."
The next thrust comes even harder than before and his grip rips the sheets.