💛🩵𝕭𝖊𝖍𝖆𝖛𝖊💛🩵
This Day4 of kinkober and is a collaboration with @wildandsmile. The prompt is sounding. Enjoy!
The fluorescent lights of Jujutsu Tech's infirmary hummed a sterile farewell as Nanami Kento slid his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose. Another cursed spirit dissection, another stack of reports taller than Yuji’s optimism. His tailored suit felt like a cage, the wool blend scratching against skin rubbed raw by residual cursed energy. Home. The word echoed in his weary bones like a promise of silence and scotch. He didn’t bother turning off lights; the empty corridors could keep their own ghosts company. His polished Oxfords clicked a precise rhythm against the linoleum, a metronome counting down to solitude.
His apartment door yielded with a soft sigh, revealing the dim sanctuary beyond. Nanami’s shoulders dropped a fraction, the tension leaching away. Until he saw it: his favourite armchair, the deep leather one angled perfectly toward the city skyline, occupied. Gojo Satoru lounged like a fallen star, legs draped over one armrest, blindfold pushed up into messy white hair, crunching Nanami’s expensive imported rice crackers. "Took you long enough, Kento!" Gojo chirped, spraying crumbs. "These are surprisingly addictive. Bit salty, though. Got any plum wine?"
Nanami’s knuckles tightened around his briefcase handle, the leather creaking under the strain. He didn’t raise his voice—didn’t need to. The glacial stillness settling over him was louder than any shout. He methodically hung his coat, aligned his shoes, and walked to the liquor cabinet, ignoring Gojo’s exaggerated crunching. The clink of crystal as he poured two fingers of single malt was precise, surgical. He took a slow sip, letting the peat smoke burn away the day’s residue before turning. Gojo grinned, dangling a cracker like bait. "Thirsty work, waiting for you. You really should stock better snacks."
Nanami set his glass down with deliberate softness, the crystal barely whispering against the lacquered wood. His gaze swept past Gojo’s sprawled form to the bedroom door, lingering for a heartbeat. "Your commentary," he stated, voice flat as a blade, "is as tiresome as your presence." He moved toward the bedroom, footsteps silent on the tatami. Gojo’s grin widened, a flash of teeth in the dimness. "Aw, leaving so soon? And here I thought we could—" The sentence died as Nanami paused in the doorway, one hand resting lightly on the frame.
Nanami didn’t turn. His fingers curled around the silk tie loosened at his throat, sliding it free with a whisper of fabric. Gojo’s playful smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of wary curiosity as Nanami finally pivoted, the tie coiled like a serpent in his palm. The air thickened, charged with the quiet promise of retribution. "Persistent disruptions," Nanami stated, his voice devoid of inflection, "demand persistent solutions." He took a single step forward, the movement economical, deliberate. Gojo shifted, ready to teleport, but Nanami’s cursed energy flared—a crushing, invisible weight pinning Gojo’s limbs to the leather. "Don’t," Nanami warned, the word colder than the scotch he’d abandoned.
Nanami closed the distance in three precise strides, the coiled silk whispering against his knuckles. Gojo strained against the crushing weight of Nanami's cursed energy, Infinity flickering uselessly—Nanami's technique bypassed it entirely, targeting the space *around* him like a vice. "Kento, this is—" Gojo's protest choked off as Nanami's knee pressed into his sternum, pinning him deeper into the leather. The tie slithered around Gojo's wrists with practiced efficiency, knotting tight against the chair's armrest before Nanami hauled him up by the collar.
Nanami hauled Gojo upright, ignoring the choked gasp. The silk tie cinched tighter around Gojo's wrists as Nanami dragged him toward the bedroom, his steps unhurried, deliberate. Gojo stumbled, bare feet scraping against the tatami. "Seriously, Kento? Over crackers?" His voice held a forced lightness, but his eyes—wide and visible without the blindfold—tracked Nanami’s movements with sharp intensity. Nanami didn’t reply. The bedroom door swung open. He shoved Gojo backward onto the bed, the mattress groaning under the impact.
Nanami’s expression remained impassive as he ripped a strip of fabric from Gojo’s own shirt sleeve—a sharp tear echoing in the sudden silence. He gagged the sorcerer efficiently, silencing further protests. Gojo’s muffled laugh vibrated against the cloth, eyes alight with chaotic amusement even as Nanami secured his ankles to the bedpost with ruthless precision using his belt. The mattress dipped under Nanami’s knee pressing into Gojo’s hip, immobilizing him completely. Only then did Nanami retrieve the slender, polished ribbed steel sound from his bedside drawer—a tool normally reserved for cursed object analysis, gleaming coldly under the dim bedroom light.
Nanami's thumb brushed the cool steel, his gaze fixed on Gojo's bound form. The sorcerer's chest rose and fell rapidly beneath torn fabric, muffled sounds vibrating against the gag—not fear, but furious exhilaration. Nanami uncapped the sterile lubricant with clinical detachment. The sharp scent of antiseptic cut through the room as he coated the instrument's length, the viscous fluid catching the low light. Gojo's eyes widened fractionally, tracking the movement with rapt intensity.
Nanami's free hand slid beneath Gojo's waistband, fingers encountering the hot, straining line of his erection. He wrapped his palm around it with deliberate slowness, feeling the pulse beneath velvet skin. Gojo arched off the mattress with a choked groan, the sound thick and desperate against the gag. Nanami's thumb circled the leaking tip, spreading slickness as he leaned down, his breath ghosting over Gojo's exposed collarbone. "Patience," Nanami murmured, teeth grazing a peaked nipple through thin cotton. Gojo jerked against his bonds, muscles corded tight as wire.
Nanami’s fingers deftly unfastened Gojo’s trousers, peeling the fabric down his hips just enough to expose the flushed, straining length beneath. His palm slid along Gojo’s shaft with deliberate, unhurried strokes, thumb swirling over the slick head where precome beaded. Gojo’s hips bucked helplessly against the restraints, a muffled groan tearing from behind the gag as Nanami’s other hand slipped beneath his thin shirt. Calloused fingertips grazed a peaked nipple, pinching lightly until Gojo’s back arched off the mattress like a drawn bow.
The silk underwear slid lower, inch by torturous inch. Nanami hooked his thumbs into the waistband, dragging the fabric down Gojo’s thighs with agonizing slowness. Cool air ghosted over exposed skin, tightening Gojo’s flesh as every nerve ending screamed. Nanami paused, fingertips tracing the sharp jut of Gojo’s hipbone, the frantic pulse pounding in his femoral artery. Below, Gojo’s cock strained upward, flushed dark and leaking onto his abdomen. Nanami’s exhaled sharply through his nose.
The lubricant glistened thickly on the polished steel sound. Nanami’s gaze remained clinical, detached, even as his knuckles whitened around the instrument. He pressed the cool tip against Gojo’s, tracing the slit. Gojo froze, breath hitching audibly through the gag. A tremor ran through him—not fear, but raw anticipation vibrating beneath Nanami’s restraining tie. Nanami applied steady pressure. The tip breached, impossibly intimate, impossibly cold. Gojo’s entire body arched violently, tendons standing out like cables against his throat. A ragged, muffled cry tore free as Nanami advanced the steel with meticulous slowness, inch by excruciating inch, filling him with invasive chill.
The steel slid deeper, a glacial intrusion that scraped nerves raw. Gojo’s muffled scream dissolved into frantic, shallow breaths, his body shuddering against the restraints. Sweat slicked his temples, matting white hair to his skin. Nanami watched the dilation of his pupils—wide, black pools swallowing the blue—as he rotated the instrument with cruel precision. A choked whimper escaped the gag. Nanami leaned close, his voice a low rasp against Gojo’s ear. "Still find disruptions amusing?"
Gojo’s response was a violent jerk, hips straining upward only to be pinned by Nanami’s weight. The sound shifted inside him, grazing sensitive walls. Tears welled, spilling hot tracks down his temples. Nanami withdrew it fractionally, then pushed deeper still, the ribbed steel catching on inner ridges. Gojo’s back bowed off the mattress, every muscle locked in agony. His bound wrists twisted against silk, skin chafing crimson.
The still rod pressed against Gojo’s prostate—a deliberate, unyielding pressure that transformed agony into electric revelation. His body seized, spine arching so violently the leather restraints creaked, every muscle fiber locking around that cold intrusion. A guttural, vibrating moan tore through the gag, muffled but raw with shattered control. Tears streamed freely now, mingling with sweat on his temples as Nanami held the steel perfectly still, letting sensation cascade through Gojo’s nerves like shattering glass.
Nanami watched, impassive, as Gojo’s eyes rolled back, whites showing beneath fluttering lashes. The choked sounds escaping the cloth gag shifted—less protest, more desperate, involuntary plea. Only then did Nanami rotate the instrument minutely, ribbed edges scraping that swollen gland with surgical precision. Gojo convulsed, a silent scream contorting his face as pleasure-pain detonated behind his ribs, radiating down trembling thighs. His abdomen twitched.
Slowly, deliberately, Nanami withdrew the steel. The slide was excruciating—a drawn-out scrape against oversensitized nerves. Gojo gasped wetly against the gag, body collapsing bonelessly onto the mattress, slick with sweat and tears. His chest heaved. Nanami set the gleaming sound aside without ceremony, his gaze lingering on Gojo’s flushed skin, the raw vulnerability laid bare in the harsh light.
Nanami turned toward the bedside drawer again. This time, his fingers closed around something softer, heavier—a slightly longer silicone rod, obsidian-black and ribbed, with a subtle weight to it. A small remote control nestled beside it. He flicked the switch. A low, resonant hum filled the room, vibrating through the floorboards. Gojo’s eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide, tracking Nanami’s movement with dazed terror. The vibration wasn’t painful—yet. It promised something else entirely.
Nanami pushed the obsidian silicone rod into Gojo’s urethra with relentless precision. The ribbed surface caught on delicate tissue, pushing Gojo to the edge. Gojo’s muffled scream hitched into a wet gurgle as his hips jerked against the restraints, veins standing out like blue ropes across his thighs. Nanami watched the invasion clinically, thumb rotating the shaft to feel the internal resistance give way millimeter by millimeter. The low hum intensified, vibrating up through the steel bedframe into Gojo’s spine.
The silicone rod seated fully, its ribbed length vibrating against Gojo's prostate with relentless precision. His entire body seized—a rigid arch lifting his hips off the mattress—before collapsing into violent tremors. Tears streaked freely down his temples, mingling with sweat as muffled cries dissolved into wet, rhythmic gasps against the gag. Nanami watched the involuntary twitches ripple through Gojo’s abdomen, fingers tightening around the remote.
Gojo arched against the restraints, gag soaked through with spit and desperation. With a violent twist of his jaw, he spat the wad of fabric sideways onto the pillow. "Kento—*please*!" His voice cracked, raw and stripped bare. "Let me... let me cum." He gasped wetly as the vibration intensified. "I swear—no more disruptions. No more crackers. Just... I’ll be good."
Nanami's thumb hovered over the remote's intensity dial. Gojo's hips stuttered against the vibrating intrusion, thighs trembling as sweat pooled in the hollow of his throat. The gag hung loose now, saliva-slick silk clinging to his jawline. "Please," he rasped, voice shredded raw, eyes wide and unfocused.
Nanami rotated the dial incrementally. The hum deepened, vibrating through bone. Gojo's spine snapped backward, heels digging into the mattress as a ragged cry tore loose—pure, unadulterated agony laced with something darker. Tears carved fresh tracks through the sheen of sweat. His bound wrists strained against silk, tendons standing out like bridge cables beneath skin. A faint, wet clicking sound echoed inside him with each pulse.
Nanami watched Gojo's body convulse, the vibrations traveling up the silicone rod in visible tremors. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the stained sheets below. "Focus," Nanami commanded, his voice cutting through Gojo's choked whimpers. "Discipline requires clarity." He rotated the remote dial again—minutely—and the vibration deepened into a bone-rattling hum. Gojo's teeth clamped down on the gag, a fresh wave of tears welling as his hips jerked helplessly against the restraints.
The vibration intensified, resonating deep within Gojo’s pelvis. His thighs trembled violently, toes curling inward as sweat pooled beneath his shoulder blades. Nanami observed the precise moment coherence shattered—Gojo’s eyes rolled back, unfocused and wet, while muffled pleas dissolved into guttural, rhythmic gasps. The silicone rod hummed against his prostate, each pulse dragging a fresh shudder up his spine.
“K-Kento please! I’ll—*ah!*—I’ll be quiet!” Gojo choked plea dissolved into a wet gasp as the silicone rod pulsed deeper vibration against his prostate. His thighs trembled, toes curling inward as sweat dripped onto the sheets beneath him. Nanami’s thumb remained poised on the remote dial, watching the raw desperation bloom across Gojo’s tear-streaked face—the dilated pupils, the frantic flutter of his pulse at his throat.
Nanami nodded—a small, almost serene gesture—and withdrew the silicone rod with one smooth, clinical pull. Gojo’s body arched off the mattress violently, a ragged cry tearing loose as the vibrating intrusion vanished. Release slammed into him like a physical blow; hips bucking wildly against the silk restraints, back bowing impossibly high as ropes of cum splattered hot across his own abdomen and chest in thick, shuddering pulses. His cry dissolved into choked, gasping sobs, whole body convulsing through the aftershocks.
Nanami leaned in, pressing a dry, fleeting kiss to the sweat-damp crown of Gojo’s hair—a gesture startlingly tender against the raw aftermath. His fingers worked methodically, unbuckling the silk restraints with the same precision he’d used to bind them. The fabric slithered free, leaving faint crimson imprints on Gojo’s wrists. Nanami fetched a damp cloth from the ensuite, its coolness stark against Gojo’s overheated skin as he wiped away the streaks of tears, sweat, and release. Each pass was clinical, thorough, yet devoid of cruelty—a silent restoration of dignity. Gojo shuddered, limbs loose and trembling, his breath still ragged as he watched Nanami’s impassive face.
Nanami discarded the damp cloth into a basin, the silence stretching taut between them. Gojo lay utterly spent, limbs heavy as lead, his breathing shallow and uneven. The room smelled sharply of sweat, salt, and antiseptic—a jarring blend that clung to the back of Nanami’s throat.
Without a word, Nanami shifted onto the mattress beside him, the springs groaning softly under his weight. He wrapped an arm around Gojo’s trembling shoulders, pulling him close until their bodies aligned—Gojo’s sweat-slicked back pressed flush against Nanami’s chest. The heat radiating from Gojo’s skin seeped through Nanami’s shirt, a visceral reminder of the ordeal. Nanami’s breath stirred the damp hair at Gojo’s nape as he murmured, low and rough-edged, "Are you alright?" The question hung suspended, stripped of judgment, a stark anomaly in the charged air.
“That was amazing. I’m sorry I bothered you,” Gojo mumbled into Nanami’s shirt, his voice muffled and thick with exhaustion. His trembling had subsided to faint shivers, the aftershocks of pleasure still echoing in the slackness of his limbs. The scent of sweat, salt, and something uniquely *Gojo* clung to the air—musky and vulnerable. Nanami’s arm tightened imperceptibly around him, a silent anchor in the dim light.
Nanami’s thumb brushed a damp strand of hair from Gojo’s forehead. The gesture was unexpectedly tender, almost jarring after the violence of their intimacy. “You don’t apologize for existing,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, the instinctive recoil behind the defiance. The mask snapping back into place. He didn’t push. Instead, his gaze drifted to the window where the city lights bled through the blinds, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets. The silence stretched, comfortable now, filled only with Gojo’s slowing breaths and the distant hum of Tokyo at night. A faint smile touched Nanami’s lips—not triumphant, not cruel, but something quieter. Acknowledgment. Understanding.
Nanami smiled and turned off the light, plunging the room into velvet darkness. Only the city's distant glow seeped through the blinds, painting silver stripes across Gojo's exhausted form. The abrupt absence of harsh fluorescence softened everything—the sharp angles of Gojo's shoulders, the tension still lingering in his jaw. Nanami's arm remained around him, a solid weight anchoring Gojo to the present. "Sleep," Nanami commanded, his voice a low rumble against Gojo's spine. "The world can wait."
Nanami's smile lingered in the sudden darkness, a ghost of warmth against Gojo's spine as the city's glow painted silver stripes across their tangled limbs. The abrupt plunge into shadow softened the harsh lines of exhaustion etched into Gojo's face, transforming his tremors into something fragile, almost sacred in the quiet. Nanami's arm tightened possessively around him, fingers splaying wide over Gojo's pounding heartbeat—a silent claim echoing louder than any word. Outside, Tokyo pulsed like a living thing, sirens wailing faintly somewhere near Shibuya, neon signs bleeding crimson and electric blue through the blinds.
