Life as a sorcerer could be really boring.
Sure, the thrill of wondering when you'll die is exquisite, but even the finest food gets dull when you have it everyday. Sure, you could have taken up a hobby. Like knitting. Or buying yourself a couple of succulents, but things like that didn't really appeal to hands that were made to fight.
Lucky for you, entertainment was closer than you think.
"Did I hear you right? You want us to tie you up and fuck you stupid?"
"Wow, Gojo. Could you be any louder? I don't think they heard us all the way to China."
Getou raised an eyebrow at you. A cloud of smoke surrounded him, and you wrinkled your nose at the smell of tobacco. These two were the most powerful beings in the world, but this up close, with their cigarettes and their shit-eating grins, they were nothing but a pair of Tokyo's worst scoundrels.
Gojo was scrolling through his phone, leaning on the back of the bench. He snorted at something funny, then waved his phone obnoxiously in Getou's face, who pushed him away in annoyance.
Another laugh, and Gojo's phone disappeared into his pocket. He looked you up and down, his gaze more than a little scummy. You've heard all about this raging manwhore, heard all about this walking god complex. You've heard all about how his pretty cock, long and graceful and pink at the tip, could go on and on for hours without a single break.
You've heard all about how, for all his obnoxious, childish nature, Gojo was nothing if not frightening in bed. Manchild in the streets, a fucking beast that could send you to the hospital in the sheets.
No, really. Safe, sane and consensual? More like so sadistic it was borderline spiritual.
There's a reason he never stuck to one girl, and that's because he always broke them within five to seven business days, literally.
And as for Getou, he was a bit more discrete, but he had his share of conversations about him, told in whispers and blushes and nervous giggles. You've heard about those hands of his, gripping and squeezing, just with a little more restraint than his white-haired friend. You've heard about that mouth, so proper and prim in public, and how it could send a woman to the heights of heaven itself. You've heard about those eyes that could swallow you just as easily as he swallowed his curses.
You've heard about that handsome face, and how it would look ten times better when soaking wet between your thighs.
Getou Suguru's dick game could make a non-believer praise God. Getou Suguru's tongue could convert even Lucifer himself. Getou Suguru can turn the worst of shrews into a 1950s housewife, ready to fetch his slippers and take all his beatings.
The stories about Gojo and the stories about Getou were absolutely wild. Two young men with the world in their hands and all the women at their feet. It was only fair you got a taste too.
Besides, they weren't exactly vanilla. The stories about Gojo and the stories about Getou were absolutely wild.
But the stories about Gojo and Getou?
The stories about Gojo and Getou, during dull afternoons, when some unfortunate office body would walk in on Gojo and Getou and find— oh, lord.
Gojo and Getou. In empty locker rooms. In abandoned doujins. In one's dorm and in the other's. Out of anyone's earshot or well within it. Today, that pretty pink cock in that clever mouth. Wait until tomorrow and the favor is returned. Those feral blue eyes on equally feral black eyes. Someone's cock in someone's ass and— oh, sweet, merciful lord.
Gojo and Getou. Gojo in Getou. Getou in Gojo. You've heard all about those two, and now you want to see it for yourself.
"What?" Just another coax, just another well-placed snip at the threads of their reluctance. "You won't mind sharing, right? It's not like you'll be fucking each other."
