Chapter Text
Yuuji lazily shuffles through the stack of DVDs on the floor, eyes absentmindedly scanning every title. Gojo had given him a new batch of movies to binge through a few minutes ago and left just as fast as he dropped them off.
After a few days of training with the cursed doll, the atmosphere within the basement dulled. Not because anything changed—the basement was just as gray, cold, and lifeless as the day he'd arrived. He used to hold the doll like it would unleash a barrage of punches on him at any minute. But now that his control over cursed energy has improved immensely, the doll barely wakes up to give him an uppercut, if not at all.
So, Yuuji, in all his lonesome, is extremely bored.
There isn't much to do down there aside from watching movies and training by himself. Gojo would occasionally drop by, maybe watch a movie with him or eat dinner together if he had enough time, but most of Yuuji's days are spent alone with no one but the bear to talk to.
None of the DVDs in his hands are particularly enticing, so he leaves it to chance. Yuuji closes his eyes then points at a random spot, hoping that the movie the gods chose isn't a total snoozefest. He opens his eyes to look at the cover—The Handmaiden—and without looking at the synopsis, he pops it in the player and sits down on the couch. With the cursed doll sitting on his lap, Yuuji gets comfortable as the opening credits start rolling in.
Similar to all of Yuuji's choices in life, maybe leaving things to a higher degree of power isn't necessarily the best decision.
For twenty-five minutes, everything seems fine. The setting has been established; a girl named Sookee is in cahoots with a guy to con another guy with a great fortune—but it isn't his, it's his niece's, who he plans on marrying because of that fortune. So the guy wants to marry her, take her assets, and ship her off to a mental hospital, while Sookee wants a good cut out of the money. The guy parades himself as a Japanese count, while Sookee gets to play the role of an attentive maid for her lady.
A typical movie about con artists, Yuuji thinks, but at least the premise is good enough.
Then the bath scene comes up.
Sookee helps her young lady, Hideko, in taking a bath, when she suddenly feels her tooth "cutting into her." The maid leans in without hesitation, her fingers finding their way past her Lady's lips, in an attempt to, what, smoothen it out? Reduce the ache in the lady's gums? Yuuji doesn't exactly know what happened, but on screen Sookee pressed her fingers inside and Hideko simply allows it. She tilts her head, goes soft and still under the careful attention like this is a perfectly normal thing to do to someone. Something about the whole scene is just so—
Oh, it's that kind of film.
Understanding dawns on him as he glances at the DVD cover on the coffee table, but nothing screamed lesbian at him, so he looks back at the screen where the maid's fingers are still in her lady's mouth, glassy doe eyes looking up at her with something indescribable woven into them.
Yuuji gulps and belatedly realizes that his knees are pressed together, warmth sitting low in his body, but he does nothing and lets the feeling drape over him. The doll sits on his lap, indifferent, then the scene switches to something else and Yuuji lets out a quiet breath he didn't know he was holding.
The film keeps going and he doesn't bother getting up for a water break. He just sits there with the doll in his lap, knees pressed together, following the story with an unexpected investment into it.
The two women circle around each other with the careful distance of people who can't afford what they're starting to feel. Yuuji thinks about Sookee's goal in that house, and how it's slowly being undone by proximity—the fact that they're always next to one another in each and every waking moment, how their lives are slowly being intertwined with barely any space left for breathing. He thinks of how the con is being unraveled by small domesticities that slowly pile up and become something too big to look away from. It's something unplanned, which both of them can only deny in between summons bells and hushed murmurs.
Yuuji recognizes that face on the screen; he doesn't dwell on it.
The first sex scene comes without much warning: the warmth that settled quietly in Yuuji's body shifts into something deeper, pressing lower, a dull ache slowly reverberating from his core. He crosses his legs and tightens them, thighs rubbing against each other. His fingers grip the cursed doll tighter but it doesn't wake up, so he hugs it instead in an attempt to stave off the rising heat in his body.
On the screen Sookee looks at the Hideko with such wonder that Yuuji wants to look away.
A certain someone pops into his head—the broad slope of his shoulders, the warmth of his hand on Yuuji's shoulder before he leaves, the quiet way he says "good job" after training. Yuuji files that thought into the recesses of his mind.
Then the scene changes and Sookee finds the books Hideko has been forced to read since childhood. They're vile, filthy, and she doesn't even need to understand the words written on weathered pages to know that they are things her lady never should have laid eyes on. She tears the books apart with her hands, slashes them with a knife, and throws them in the water with the weight of someone so angry on another person's behalf that her hands don't know what else to do with themselves.
Yuuji's throat closes and his vision slightly clouds over, eyes glassy.
And then, beside Sookee, Hideko reaches for two bottles of ink and throws them onto the books, the pages blooming red. Yuuji presses his lips together and something in him stills.
It isn't sadness, it's the feeling of watching someone destroy the cage they've been trapped in and reclaim their life for what it is, what it should be.
Yuuji has his own version of a cage. He isn't locked in it, never will be. He walked inside that cage when he ate the first finger, and he willingly came back when he extended his death sentence hours later. He chose more fingers, more lives, and ultimately, less time. The key to the cage is right in his pocket, but Yuuji would throw it away if it meant helping even one person.
The ending credits roll in and Yuuji looks down on the cursed doll sitting on his lap.
"Don't tell anyone," he says to the doll, whose eyes remain closed despite the clutter filling his head, a testament to his efforts under Gojo's tutelage. Yuuji sets the doll down on the cushion and finally stands up, leaving his thoughts on the couch.
Time for a breather.
Yuuji goes to the kitchenette in the corner of the basement as the cold tiles of the floor bite into his feet. He needs a distraction; he needs to move, needs to do something with his hands.
The hinges of the refrigerator creak when Yuuji opens it. What used to be a completely bare piece of decor at the basement, a small thing covered in dust and cobwebs, is now almost fully stocked with an assortment of food and ingredients: eggs, cheese, fresh vegetables, a couple of energy drinks, and a comical amount of "sweet treats," as Gojo would like to call them. Even the overhead pantry has rice, cooking oil, sugar, and every other condiment to exist.
Barely two weeks have passed since Gojo brought him there—days of isolation surrounded by four walls, a single bed, and the slow ticking of the clock.
"Sensei, can we buy some stuff for the kitchen? Basic stuff like eggs, salt, and rice. And maybe a pan," Yuuji asked, while both of them were sitting on the couch. They were watching a movie, some cheap thriller that Yuuji could hardly focus on. He watched as the screen casted a blue shadow across Gojo's face.
Gojo raised an eyebrow, or at least Yuuji thought so. "You can cook?"
Yuuji nodded, looking away from Gojo, eyes scanning the old television in front of them.
Gojo hummed, a slow smile spreading across his face. He turned to look at Yuuji, eyes unreadable behind the blindfold.
"Write down everything you need. Don't skimp, okay?" Gojo said, long, delicate fingers tapping on his own thigh. "I'll buy them all. In exchange, I get to taste your cooking sometime. Deal?"
Yuuji made a noise of approval, hands already reaching for paper and a pen underneath the coffee table.
However, Gojo barely had the time to taste his cooking. Yuuji could count on one hand how many times they actually sat down together, most of them just little bites his teacher could hardly savor before he had to leave again.
Missions, classes, reports—something and someone always needed Gojo Satoru first.
Yuuji didn't really mind it. He had weeks of waiting for the Goodwill event, weeks of hiding in the basement. He was here of his own accord, and that made the loneliness easier to stomach.
However, the basement was still quiet, and he missed the presence of another human being; someone who thrummed with life, someone else whose breathe could be heard in the same room.
Yuuji takes out four eggs and cheese from the fridge. He cracks the eggs into a bowl, adds a pinch of salt, and whisks until the yolks and whites turn into a pale yellow and the surface is covered in tiny bubbles.
The pan hisses when he pours half the egg mixture in. He reduces the heat immediately, tilting the pan and pushing the cooked edges toward the center with his spatula, letting the uncooked egg flow underneath until the top is soft and barely set. He adds half the cheese in small cubes across the center, then folds one side over, then the other, and flips it onto a plate.
He makes a second omelette without thinking, always cooking for two even when no one is there.
Yuuji leans against the wall and eats while standing up. The eggs are fluffy and the cheese stretches when he bites into it, but eating doesn't deter his mind from wandering to something else, or someone else.
His thoughts inadvertently trace the shape of Gojo's hands; long, slender fingers that are always moving—tapping against his thigh, adjusting his blindfold, gesturing while he talks. Then his mind drifts to Gojo's voice, playful and ever confident, sometimes dropping to a low timbre that rattles Yuuji from the inside in a way he can't describe. He thinks about the way Gojo crosses his legs, carefree and easy, like he doesn't know how distracting it is—Yuuji himself doesn't know why it's distracting him.
Yuuji blinks and shoves the last bite into his mouth. He isn't sure why he's thinking about any of this, attention now on the second omelette he made for no one in particular, and eats it. It's cold now, but he doesn't mind. He scrapes the plate clean, washes it in the sink, and sets it in the rack to dry.
Gojo-sensei would probably prefer his eggs with sugar in it, and maybe a splash of milk.
Yuuji dries his hands and walks back to the couch where the doll is sitting, eyes still closed and fast asleep. He picks it up and turns it to face him.
"You're creepy, but I guess you're kinda cute," Yuuji says to the doll, but it doesn't so much as stir.
The first few days with the doll were absolute torture. Its tiny boxing gloves packed the strength of an actual bear, a ridiculous contradiction to its own size. Every punch knocked the air out of him and left bruises that bloomed yellow and purple across his body.
But every hit was a reminder of his own weakness, of a world he never could have thought existed, and of the life he somehow managed to prolong. So when the doll is asleep and the basement gets too quiet, when the silence presses in from all sides, he talks to it. Like a child would to a stuffed toy; like it might answer back with words instead of fists.
Yuuji puts it back down on the couch and sits beside it. The cushion sighs under his weight as he stares at the ceiling.
The basement door suddenly creaks open, and Gojo's voice floats in the enclosed space before Yuuji sees him.
"Talking to yourself already? I leave you alone for a few hours..." Gojo says, an amused lilt to his voice.
Yuuji quickly turns around to see him, the man he starts missing halfway into a movie, the presence he started longing for two days into this whole hiding escapade.
Gojo's eyes flick to the clean plates by the sink as he walks to the couch, the faint smell of eggs still hanging in the air.
"You cooked," Gojo says. He plops down beside Yuuji, the cursed doll in between them.
"Omelette," Yuuji replies, his voice coming out quieter than he intended.
"Any left?"
Yuuji shakes his head. "Ate both."
Gojo's mouth twitches into something between a pout and a frown. "You're supposed to save some for me. That was the deal."
"You never show up when there's food," Yuuji says, and regret trickles in his body after the words leave his mouth. He sounds like a kid throwing a tantrum, accusing someone of never being there when he needs them.
"I'm showing up now," Gojo simply says.
Yuuji looks at the man beside him. The blindfold, the messy white hair falling over his forehead, the way he's sitting like he's posing for a picture even when he isn't. Gojo's company fills the room with a warmth that concrete walls cannot provide.
"There's cheese left," Yuuji says. "And eggs. I can make another one."
The corners of Gojo's mouth slowly curve upward, a small smile gracing his face.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Gojo picks up the doll between them and places it on his own lap, fingers scratching its head like one would to a cat.
"Time to cook, Yuuji! Don't leave little old me starving," Gojo pouts, and Yuuji fights the urge to push his teacher's arm.
Instead, he stands up and walks to the tiny kitchen.
Gojo doesn't stay long on the couch. Yuuji hears him walk across the room until he's right beside him, leaning against the counter, close enough that their bodies almost touch. Gojo's warm; Yuuji can feel it even through the fabric of his hoodie. Or maybe he's the one who's warm.
"Smells good," Gojo says, tilting his head slightly to look at the pan.
Yuuji keeps his eyes on the eggs. "Sensei, I can't really move like this."
"I'm supervising you."
"You're hovering."
Gojo grins, a triumphant little thing. Yuuji can see it out of the corner of his eye: the flash of teeth, the curve of his mouth. "Same thing," he says.
Yuuji can feel Gojo's gaze on his hands, on the way he moves the spatula. He can somehow feel it trace his nape, but he's probably imagining it.
"So," Gojo says, voice light, like he's asking about the weather, but something about it isn't casual at all. "What were you watching earlier?"
Yuuji's hand stills for a second.
"Nothing too interesting," he says, but his voice comes out wrong—too quick, too defensive.
"Hmm… doesn't seem like nothing to me," Gojo replies, an accusing tone coloring his voice.
An unwanted heat envelops Yuuji's body, a different kind from the warmth he felt while watching the movie. It creeps up from his neck, to his cheeks, then to the tips of his ears. He's red, he knows it—feels it. Yuuji stares harder at the eggs, watching the bubbles form and pop as the edges turn golden.
"Just another movie, sensei," he finally replies.
"What kind of movie?" Gojo asks. His voice hasn't changed, but somehow it feels like he's leaning even closer, or maybe that's just his imagination.
Yuuji doesn't answer. He flips the omelette instead.
"You're blushing," Gojo observes, and there's a note of genuine curiosity to his voice.
"The stove is hot," Yuuji mutters.
"Uh-huh," Gojo says, but doesn't push further.
The both of them stand by the stove, close but not touching. Silence stretches between them except for the oil popping on the pan, but it isn't uncomfortable.
The omelette finally comes together and Yuuji slides it onto a plate. Steam rises from the surface, curling up toward the ceiling.
Yuuji hands it over to Gojo without meeting his eyes.
Their fingers brush against each other, a whisper of skin against skin. Gojo's fingers feel warm to the touch and neither of them make an attempt to pull away.
Yuuji's chest tightens—a small squeeze, a flutter. He doesn't know what to call it.
"Thanks," Gojo says quietly, his voice lower than before.
Gojo walks back to the couch and settles into the cushions. He takes a big bite and chews slowly, as if the simplest eggs Yuuji could whip up was something worth savoring.
Yuuji watches him from the kitchen, half parts nervous and excited.
"Yuuji," Gojo says after a moment, not looking up from his plate.
"Yes, Sensei?" Yuuji asks, heart thrumming in an unfamiliar beat.
"It's sweet." Gojo takes another bite. "I like it."
Yuuji's heart does something small and unfamiliar; a warmth that isn't from the stove spreads from his chest and caresses his ribs. He turns back to the sink to wash the pan, hiding his face. When he finishes, he dries his hands on the thin gray towel and walks back to the couch.
Gojo is still there, plate empty, the doll sitting beside him. He's leaning back onto the cushions with his hands intertwined on his lap and he looks like he might fall asleep at any moment.
Yuuji sits down beside him, their bodies still separated by the doll, but close enough to smell his cologne—a scent Yuuji can't describe, all he knows is that it smells good.
"You're still avoiding the question," Gojo says, voice soft and almost sleepy.
"What question?" Yuuji asks, even though he already knows.
"The movie." Gojo's lips curl slightly, morphing into something that isn't quite a smile. "You're red again, Yuuji."
"It's hot in here," Yuuji tries, even though the basement is always cold.
"Gotta try better than that, Yuuji," Gojo counters.
Yuuji doesn't answer. He looks down at his hands resting on his knees. The silence stretches, long and patient, like Gojo is willing to wait all night. The basement hums around them—the pipes in the walls, the distant creak of the buildings above ground.
"You know I gave you those DVDs, right?" Gojo says after a while. His voice is quieter but meaner, like he's finally trying to wring an answer out of Yuuji. "I know what titles you picked from."
Yuuji's face warms again. He can feel it, the slow creep of heat he doesn't want to acknowledge a second time.
"It's not a big deal," he says, voice coming out smaller than intended.
"Didn't say it was." Gojo shifts, turning his head slightly toward Yuuji. The black blindfold catches the dim light from the kitchenette, the satin fabric pulled taut across his face. "You can tell me. I won't judge."
Yuuji wants to believe him. He looks at Gojo—how his white hair falls over the black blindfold, the small smile still playing at the corner of his lips, at the relaxed set of his shoulders. Yuuji doesn't dare say anything. It's embarrassing.
Seemingly tired of waiting for a response, Gojo reaches over and picks up the doll.
He turns it over in his hands, humming softly. His fingers trace the seams where the brown fabric has been stitched together, running along the stuffed arms, the tiny blue boxing gloves covering its paws.
"You've been practicing," Gojo says, still looking at the doll.
Yuuji nods. "Yeah."
Gojo holds the doll out and Yuuji takes it. The fabric is soft and worn from use, brown fur matted in places where Yuuji held it too tightly. The cursed energy hums beneath his fingertips in a steady, controlled rate, nothing like the wild pulses from when he first started.
Gojo watches him. His face is relaxed, but his attention is focused, sharp behind the black blindfold. His head is tilted slightly, like he's listening to something Yuuji can't hear—maybe the hum of cursed energy, maybe the ragged thudding of Yuuji's own heartbeat.
Gojo smiles at him, small and genuine, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes underneath the blindfold, creating tiny lines at the edges of the fabric.
"Good," he says quietly. "You're doing well."
Yuuji looks down at the doll. His thumb presses against its stuffed belly. "It's getting easier," he admits.
"That's because you're getting better," Gojo replies.
The words settle comfortably inside the cage of Yuuji's ribs. It's a feeling he wants to hold onto; a feeling he wants gather in his hands and keep it somewhere safe.
Gojo shifts on the couch. He leans his head back against the cushions and goes still, his face relaxing behind the black blindfold. His breathing slows and the shadows under his cheekbones seem more pronounced in the dim light.
"I have to leave in a few hours," he says. His voice sounds flat, stripped of its usual playfulness. "Mission."
Yuuji's stomach tightens. It's not like Gojo hasn't left before. It's not like he isn't used to being alone in this basement. The unfamiliar feeling settles uncomfortably in his throat.
"How long?" Yuuji asks, keeping his voice steady.
"Few days. Maybe a week."
Gojo stands up and the couch creaks under the shift of weight.
"I should go," he says. "Need to pack."
"Okay," Yuuji says.
They look at each other. Gojo opens his mouth like he wants to say something, then closes it. His jaw works for a moment, like he's chewing on words and swallowing them back down.
Instead, he reaches out. His hand finds Yuuji's shoulder and squeezes it, warm and brief, the pressure of his fingers seeping through Yuuji's hoodie.
Then he drops his hand and walks toward the door, his footsteps echoing on the concrete, the soles of his shoes scuffing against each step.
"I'll check in when I can," Gojo says.
Then he's gone.
Yuuji stares at the door long after the footsteps fade.
The basement is quiet again, the kind of quiet that presses against Yuuji's ears and makes him aware of his own breathing, his own heartbeat.
He picks up his phone and the screen glows bright in the dark, hurting his eyes a little.
Yuuji taps on his last conversation with Gojo. He had texted Yuuji to go ahead and sleep since he wasn't going to make it on the time they agreed on. He scrolls up through the old messages and they all have the same impersonal tone, unlike the way they actually speak to each other in person.
Yuuji types, "are you okay?"
But it feels off, so he deletes it.
"get back safe"
He sounds too clingy. Delete.
His thumb hovers over the keyboard. He wants to say something but he doesn't know how. The words never come out right; they feel too heavy or too light, never the right weight.
Finally, he types, "i'll make you pancakes if you want some when you get back."
Then he sends it before he can change his mind.
The three dots appear almost immediately, pulsing for a long moment as if Gojo is typing and deleting too.
"Can't wait."
Yuuji stares at the screen. He wants to say something else, but the words evade him, so he sets his phone down instead.
Yuuji lies down on the couch, body settling on the spot Gojo sat on before he left. Yuuji curls on his side, knees bent and arms tucked close to his chest. The basement is cold except for the warmth Gojo left behind on the cushion, and he closes his eyes. It smells like the two of them now, like Gojo's cologne, his own sweat, and the faint scent of cooked eggs.
Sleep comes faster than he expects.
The dream starts in a bathtub, steam rising from the water. The air is thick and warm, heavy with humidity and the scent of something floral.
Yuuji recognizes the bathroom, the tub, the light coming in from the window. A young lady sits with her back to him, dark hair spilling down her spine. A maid kneels behind her, pouring oil into her palm, working it through the dark strands with slow, reverent hands.
Yuuji is the maid, or he's supposed to be. His hands are the ones reaching for the ceramic bottle, his knees are the ones pressed against the floor.
But when the young lady turns her head to the side, something changes.
Her jaw morphs into something sharper, her neck becomes thicker, and her long, black hair lightens at the edges until it's white as it slowly recedes to a shorter length. A black blindfold is suddenly covering her eyes, pushed up into messy white hair.
Sensei.
He's wearing nothing but steam and shadows as water clings to his collarbone and his shoulders. Droplets slide down his chest, following the lines of muscle, disappearing into the water.
"You're staring," Gojo says. His voice is low and amused, but it doesn't sound like he minds.
Yuuji's hands shake as he pours the oil into his palm, warming it in between his hand, then reaches out.
In this dream, he's a maid. He's supposed to be washing Gojo's hair, gentle and careful, like the movements he saw in the movie. But his fingers tremble every time he touches Gojo's scalp, his breath comes too fast when Gojo leans back into his hands, eyes closed, mouth soft and relaxed.
"That's it," Gojo murmurs. "Just like that."
Yuuji works the oil through to the scalp, massaging slow circles with his fingertips. He watches the way Gojo's breathing deepens, each inhale pressing his chest against the surface of the water.
"You're shaking," Gojo suddenly says. "Nervous?"
Yuuji's throat somehow works. "No," he manages.
"Liar."
Gojo turns and the water sloshes against the sides of the tub, splashing warm over Yuuji's knees, soaking into the fabric of his skirt. He catches Yuuji's wrist, leaving damp fingerprints on Yuuji's skin.
"You're supposed to be gentle," Gojo says, as he pulls Yuuji's palm to cup his face. His skin is smooth to the touch, a stark contrast against Yuuji's calloused fingertips.
"Go on," Gojo says. "Wash me."
The world tilts. The steam dissolves like smoke, the warmth of the water evaporating into something cooler, drier. Yuuji blinks and he's sitting on a tatami mat, the kind that's thin from years of footsteps. Above him loom dozens of shelves, but none of them house a single book.
Gojo is already there, kneeling between Yuuji's spread legs. He's still naked, still wet from the bath that no longer exists, water dripping from his hair and onto his collarbones, tracking down his chest.
He's hard.
Yuuji's eyes catch on it before he can stop them—thick and flushed, resting heavy against his stomach, the tip already wet with arousal.
"Eyes up here," Gojo says, but his voice is soft, teasing. He taps two fingers under Yuuji's chin, tilting his face up. "Or don't. I don't mind you looking."
Yuuji's mouth goes dry. He realizes he's still in the maid outfit. The skirt is bunched around his hips, the apron clinging to his chest. He's leaning back with his hands supporting him, legs spread wide with Gojo kneeling between them, and the position makes him feel exposed, vulnerable.
"You're trembling," Gojo murmurs, and the observation lands warm, settling low in Yuuji's gut. "Cold?"
Yuuji shakes his head, unable to find his voice. He's anything but cold; he's burning up, his skin too sensitive, his breath coming too fast. He feels the creep of a scorching warmth down where he's exposed, and it throbs with want.
Gojo shifts his weight, settling back on his heels, and Yuuji watches as he wraps his hand around himself, giving himself a slow stroke. The movement is hypnotic, the way his hand moves over his own skin, the way the tip glistens in the dim light. Yuuji's mouth waters. He's never been this close to someone like this, never had someone hard and wanting right in front of him, and some part of him wants to lean forward, get a taste.
"Open wider," Gojo commands softly.
Yuuji obeys, his legs falling open further, and the air hits the wetness between his legs. He's soaked through his underwear, mortified and aroused all at once. He's never been this wet before, not even when he's touched himself alone in the dark.
Gojo notices the wet patch in his underwear. His eyes darken, his strokes slowing as he takes in the sight of Yuuji spread out beneath him. "Touch yourself," he says. "Show me how you like it."
Yuuji's hand shakes as he slides them over his skirt. His underwear is damp, clinging to him like second skin, and he pushes it aside with trembling fingers. The first brush against his clit makes him gasp, hips jerking up involuntarily. It's shameful, it's degrading, but Yuuji feels a bead of slick slip out of his hole and it only fires the flames of humiliation and arousal deep inside him.
"Slow," Gojo warns. "I want to watch."
Yuuji whimpers but obeys, circling his fingers in slow, teasing strokes. He had always touched himself roughly, fingers abusing his clit to reach climax as fast as he possible. Now it feels as if he's being denied of something he clearly wants, but for some reason he's already so close just from Gojo's eyes on him.
Gojo watches him for a long moment, head tilted. Then he leans forward, bracing himself on one hand on Yuuji's shoulder, and suddenly his cock is there, hanging heavy between them, close enough that Yuuji can feel the heat radiating from his skin. The scent hits him, salt and musk, something heady, and his mouth waters again, tongue darting out to wet his lips.
Gojo shifts his hips and the head of his cock rests against Yuuji's lips, but not pushing in. Yuuji's breath stutters, his lips parting on a gasp. He can taste him already, and he wants more, wants to lean forward and take it, but Gojo pulls back with a soft chuckle.
"Not yet," he murmurs, and Yuuji whines, high and broken, the sound escaping before he can stop it. His body isn't obeying him, noises spill out of him without him wanting to.
Gojo trails the length of his cock down Yuuji's chin, his throat, leaving a wet stripe against his skin. Yuuji follows the movement with his eyes, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his hand stilling between his legs.
"Keep touching yourself," Gojo reminds him, and Yuuji obeys, fingers finding his clit again, moving in slow circles.
Gojo keeps moving lower, over Yuuji's collarbone, down his chest, his stomach, and Yuuji doesn't know where he's going, until Gojo positions himself lower, and then there's something hot and heavy pressing against him, sliding through the wetness between his legs.
Yuuji cries out, his whole body jerking, because it's not fingers, it's not anything he's ever felt before. It's thick and hard and sliding through his folds with aggravating slowness, and his pussy throbs around nothing, clenching on emptiness, desperate for something it doesn't know how to ask for.
"You're soaked," Gojo breathes, wonder painting his voice. He drags himself through Yuuji's folds again, the head of his cock catching on Yuuji's clit, and Yuuji cries out, hips bucking upward. "All this, for me?"
Yuuji nods frantically, tears pricking at his eyes. He's so close, wound so tight, and he doesn't understand how this could feel so good, why he's aching for something he's never even thought about before.
Gojo keeps moving, grinding the length of his cock against Yuuji's clit, dragging it through his folds in slow, deliberate strokes. The wet sounds are obscene, loud in the quiet library, and Yuuji is whimpering, high and needy. His hand moves back to support his weight, and maybe, to get a better view of the cock sliding against him.
"How many fingers?" Gojo asks suddenly, his movements slowing.
Yuuji blinks up at him, confused, his hips chasing the friction. "What?"
"When you touch yourself," Gojo clarifies, still grinding, teasing. "How many fingers do you use?"
Yuuji's face burns. "One," he admits, his voice barely a whisper. "Just... just one. Sometimes."
Gojo stills completely, his cock resting heavy against Yuuji's clit, throbbing.
"One?" he repeats, and there's shock in his voice, genuine surprise. His eyes widen slightly, something almost tender flickering across his face.
"You've never—" He breaks off, something fierce flashing across his features. "You've never had anything else?"
Yuuji shakes his head, mortified, his face burning. "Never had anyone," he gasps out. "Fingers never really felt… good inside."
Gojo stares down at him for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he's moving again, grinding harder, and his voice is rough when he speaks.
"Just my cock, then," he murmurs, dragging himself through Yuuji's folds in tight circles. "Grinding against you. That's all you've had?"
Yuuji nods, whining high in his throat, desperation clawing through him in explosive bursts.
"And you want more," Gojo says, states. He keeps grinding, slow and relentless, the head of his cock catching on Yuuji's clit with every stroke. "Want me inside you."
"I don't—" Yuuji gasps as Gojo shifts again, the head of his cock catching on his clit just right. "I don't know, I just— please, sensei…!"
"Shh." Gojo leans down, his breath hot against Yuuji's ear. "I know what you need."
He keeps grinding, the pressure perfect, maddening, and Yuuji keens high in his throat, mouth spilling whimpers and gasps and broken pleas that he can't control. The wet sounds are louder now, Gojo's cock sliding through his arousal, and every drag sends sparks up Yuuji's spine.
"Come, baby," Gojo commands, his voice rough. "Let me feel your cunt, just like this."
Yuuji's orgasm suddenly crashes over him, his pussy clenching hard around nothing as he cries out. He keeps rubbing, chasing the aftershocks, his vision blurring at the edges, and through the haze he feels Gojo still grinding against him, still dragging himself through the mess of his wetness, until finally he stills, his cock throbbing against Yuuji's sensitive clit while cum paints his thighs and his skirt, marking him.
"Good boy," Gojo whispers—
—and then pain explodes across Yuuji's jaw, sharp and sudden, snapping him awake.
He gasps, lurching upright in bed, his heart hammering against his ribs. The basement is dark, silent, and there's a weight on his chest. The cursed doll is mad and awake, tiny fists rounding up for another punch.
He'd lost control of his cursed energy.
Yuuji collapses back against the couch, his whole body trembling, the dream still clinging to his skin like smoke. He can still feel it—the heat, the phantom friction, Gojo's voice in his ear. He presses his thighs together, a feeble attempt to ease the throbbing ache, and squeezes his eyes shut.
"Fuck," Yuuji whispers, a dawning realization washing over him.
It was just a dream.
But his body doesn't believe him.