One moment you're drifting in that heavy, dreamless sleep of the exhausted pregnant woman. The next, your eyes are wide open, and there's a singular thought taking up every inch of your brain:
Toji's mother's dumplings.
Not regular dumplings. Not the ones from the shop down the street with the good dipping sauce. Not the frozen bags you keep in the freezer for emergencies.
Her dumplings. The ones she makes by hand. Thin, delicate wrappers. That specific filling — pork and cabbage with a hint of ginger and something else you've never been able to identify. The way they taste when they're fresh off the pan, slightly crispy on the bottom, steaming when you bite into them.
Your mouth floods with saliva.
Your stomach growls.
And then the realization hits you like a brick.
It's 3 a.m. There is no universe in which you can have those dumplings right now. You're not even sure where Toji's mother keeps her recipe. The woman lives across town. It's dark out. Everyone's asleep. The whole world is asleep except for you and this baby who has apparently decided that her dumplings are a non-negotiable demand at an absolutely ungodly hour.
You try to reason with yourself.
You're being ridiculous. It's a craving. Pregnant women get cravings. They pass. You'll think about something else.
You don't think about something else.
You lie there for ten minutes, staring at the ceiling, your hand resting on the curve of your belly. The baby kicks, like they're reminding you. Hey. We want dumplings. Don't forget.
The kicking makes it worse.
You carefully slide out of bed, trying not to disturb Toji. He's sprawled out beside you, one arm thrown over your empty pillow, his breathing deep and even. He's been working double shifts all week, coming home with dark circles under his eyes and that tired droop to his shoulders that makes your chest ache. He needs this sleep. He deserves this sleep.
You pad barefoot into the kitchen.
You drink a glass of water. Then another. You open the fridge and stare at its contents like you're hoping the dumplings will materialize. They don't. You eat a spoonful of peanut butter because you read somewhere that protein helps with cravings. It doesn't help. The peanut butter just makes you sad because it's not a dumpling.
You walk around the living room, back and forth, your hand pressed to your lower back where it's been aching for weeks. You try the bathroom. You try sitting on the couch and scrolling through your phone. Nothing works.
Every thought circles back to those dumplings.
The texture. The smell. The way Toji's mother always sets out a little dish of vinegar and chili oil because she knows you like it spicy. The way she watches you eat with this soft, pleased expression, like feeding you brings her genuine joy.
Your eyes start to burn.
"No," you whisper to yourself. "No, you are not crying over dumplings."
But you are.
By the time you give up and sink into one of the kitchen chairs, the tears are rolling down your cheeks. You're crying silently, pathetically, one hand on your belly, the other pressing against your mouth to muffle any sound. You're so tired. You're so emotional. Your body hurts. Your feet are swollen. You look like a whale and you feel like one and all you wanted was a single plate of your mother-in-law's dumplings and you can't have them because it's a completely insane time of night and you're a grown woman crying in her kitchen like a child.
You're so busy being miserably embarrassed that you don't hear the footsteps.
"Baby?"
You jump, whipping around.
Toji is standing in the kitchen doorway, shirtless, wearing only his boxers, his hair a mess, his eyes heavy with sleep. But the sleepiness is already fading, replaced by sharp alertness as he takes in the scene: you sitting at the table, face wet, shoulders shaking.
"What's wrong?" His voice goes rough, urgent. He crosses the kitchen in three long strides and crouches in front of you, one big hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing across your wet cheek. "Baby, talk to me. What happened? Is it the baby? Are you in pain?"
You shake your head, but that just makes more tears fall.
"I'm fine," you manage. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to bed."
"Bullshit." His eyes are scanning you, checking you over like he's trying to find the injury. "You're crying. That's not fine. Tell me."
You press your lips together. Your face is hot with shame. This is so stupid. This is so stupid. You're going to have to admit that you woke him up because you're crying about dumplings.
"It's nothing," you whisper. "I just — it's dumb. I'm being crazy. Pregnancy hormones. You need to sleep."
"Pretty girl."
The way he says it — soft but firm, that low voice he uses when he's not taking no for an answer — breaks something in you.
"I want your mother's dumplings!"
It comes out as a wail, barely contained, your voice cracking on the last word. You slap your hand over your mouth immediately, eyes wide, but it's too late. It's out there. He knows.
You start crying harder.
"I'm sorry," you sob. "I know it's insane. I know it's three in the morning. I tried to ignore it, I really did, I drank water and I walked around and I tried to think about something else but I can't and I know there's no way to get them and I'm so sorry I woke you up over something so stupid — "
"Mom's dumplings?"
He says it so flat that you freeze.
You nod, sniffling miserably.
Toji stares at you for a long moment. His expression is unreadable. You brace yourself for him to tell you that you're being ridiculous. That it's 3 a.m. That he needs to sleep. That you'll get over it.
He gets up.
You watch him walk out of the kitchen. For a second, you think he's going back to bed, and the disappointment hits you so hard it makes your chest ache.
Then you hear him in the bedroom. The rustle of fabric. The jingle of keys.
"What are you doing?" you call out, your voice wobbly.
He appears again in the kitchen doorway, now wearing a pair of sweatpants and pulling on a jacket. His keys are in his hand. His face is set with that quiet, determined expression you know well — the one he gets when he's going to do something and nothing you say will stop him.
"Toji, no." You're already standing, waddling toward him. "It's fine. Really. It's three in the morning, you can't drive across town for dumplings — "
"Watch me."
"I'll get over it," you insist, reaching for his arm. "Please. Go back to sleep. I'll drink some tea. I'll — "
He stops, turns, and looks at you. And when his hand comes up to cup your face again, it's so gentle it makes your bottom lip tremble.
"I'll be back," he says. "Don't stay up."
And then he's gone.
You hear the front door close. The lock clicks. A minute later, the distant sound of his truck engine starting up in the driveway.
You stand in the middle of the kitchen, still crying, one hand pressed to your chest, not sure whether to laugh or sob.
---
Toji's mother lives in the old neighborhood, about twenty minutes away when traffic is normal. At 3 a.m., it's closer to fifteen. The streets are empty, the stoplights blinking yellow, the city settled into that dead quiet that only exists in the deepest part of night.
He pulls up in front of his childhood home at 3:17 a.m.
The lights are on in the kitchen.
He doesn't question it. His mother has always been an insomniac, one of those people who can never quite find the off switch in her brain. When he was a kid, he'd find her at the kitchen table at all hours, drinking tea and reading old magazines, the TV muted in the background.
He knocks.
The door opens after a few seconds. His mother blinks at him through the screen door, a faded floral robe wrapped around her thin frame, her silver-streaked hair pulled back in a loose bun.
She looks at him — at her grown son standing on her porch in sweatpants at three in the morning — and doesn't ask if something's wrong. She just tilts her head.
"What happened?"
Toji rubs the back of his neck. He's not good at this. He's never been good at talking about feelings, at admitting when he needs something, at being anything other than self-sufficient and stubborn.
"She wants your dumplings."
There's a beat of silence.
His mother's eyebrows go up. Then the corner of her mouth twitches.
"The girl's craving my dumplings at three in the morning?"
"Yeah."
"And you drove across town to get them?"
"Yeah."
She stares at him for another beat. And then she smiles. A real smile, warm and knowing, the kind she gives him when he does something that reminds her he actually has a heart under all that gruff exterior.
"Well," she says, pushing the screen door open. "Don't just stand there. Come help me chop cabbage."
---
The kitchen smells like home.
Toji stands at the counter, sleeves rolled up, knife in hand, while his mother pulls ingredients from the fridge. Flour. Pork. Cabbage. Ginger. Green onions. A bottle of soy sauce.
"You got her eating well, I hope?" his mother asks, not looking up from where she's mixing the dough.
"Yeah."
"More than convenience store food? She looks too thin."
"She eats fine, Ma."
"She better. She's carrying my grandchild." She shoots him a look. "I'll know if you're slacking."
Toji grunts, focusing on the cabbage. He's never been a good cook, but he knows how to follow instructions, and his mother's voice guides him through it — chop finer, don't press the water out too hard, you need more ginger, no that's too much ginger, let me do it.
They fall into a rhythm. The familiar chaos of their kitchen. His mother muttering under her breath as she rolls out wrappers with practiced ease, her small hands moving fast. Toji at the stove, heating oil in the pan, the sizzle loud in the quiet house.
"How far along is she now?" his mother asks.
"Eight months."
"Eight months." She shakes her head, a soft sound escaping her. "I remember being eight months pregnant with you. I would've killed a man for a bowl of my mother's ramen at three in the morning."
Toji looks at her.
"I'm serious," she says. "Pregnancy cravings don't care about the time of day. They don't care what's reasonable. They just are. Your wife's not crazy. She's pregnant."
"I know she's not crazy."
"Good." She presses a wrapper into his hands. "Here. Fold."
He fumbles through it, his big fingers clumsy with the delicate dough. His mother watches, bites her lip to keep from laughing, and eventually takes over with a put-upon sigh.
"Hopeless," she mutters.
"Worth a shot."
She laughs. It's a good sound. Rare, these days. She's always been proud of him, but she doesn't show it often — not with words, anyway. But the way she's making these dumplings at 3 a.m., the way she didn't hesitate when he showed up at her door, says everything.
"You love her," his mother says quietly. It's not a question.
Toji doesn't answer. He doesn't have to.
"Good," his mother says again, softer this time. "She's good for you."
---
At home, you're pacing.
It's been over an hour. You've convinced yourself three separate times that Toji is not actually going to his mother's house. He probably drove around the block, cooled off, and is sleeping on the couch right now. Or he got there, realized how insane this is, and turned around. Or he's dead in a ditch because you sent your husband out into the world at three in the morning for dumplings and something horrible has happened —
The front door opens.
You whip around so fast your back twinges.
Toji walks in, looking exhausted in the dim light, his jacket dusted with the cold air from outside. He's carrying something.
A container.
A plastic takeout container, the kind you use for leftovers, and through the translucent lid you can see them.
Dumplings.
Steam is fogging the inside of the container. They're fresh.
Your hand flies to your mouth.
"Don't," Toji says, pointing at you with his free hand. "Don't start crying again. I'm not doing this twice."
You're already crying.
"I said don't — "
"She made them," you whisper, your voice breaking. "Your mother made them. At three in the morning. For me."
Toji sighs, long and heavy, but there's no real annoyance in it. He walks over to the table and sets the container down, then pulls out a chair for you.
"Sit. Eat. And then you're going back to bed, because I'm exhausted and you need sleep."
You sit. Your hands are shaking when you open the container. The smell hits you — that warm, savory, perfect smell — and you think you might actually die of happiness. The dumplings are arranged in neat rows, slightly golden on the bottom, still warm. There's a tiny container of dipping sauce tucked in beside them. Soy sauce, vinegar, a swirl of chili oil.
Your mother-in-law packed dipping sauce.
You start crying again.
Toji drops into the chair beside you, letting his head fall back, eyes already closing. "You're hopeless."
"I love your mother," you say, picking up a dumpling with reverent fingers. "I love you. I love this dumpling."
"Eat your dumpling, ma."
You take a bite.
The wrapper gives way with that perfect chew. The filling is hot, savory, packed with ginger and pork and cabbage and that thing you can never identify. It's exactly what you wanted. It's everything you wanted. You make a sound that's embarrassingly close to a moan.
Toji cracks one eye open. Sees you eating. Sees the expression on your face — pure, unguarded happiness.
The corner of his mouth lifts.
He doesn't say anything. He just sits there, half-asleep, his hand coming to rest on your knee under the table, thumb rubbing a slow circle into the fabric of your pajama pants.
You eat another dumpling. Then another. The baby kicks, like they're approving.
And when you look over at Toji, his eyes are fully closed now, his breathing evening out, his hand still warm on your knee.
He drove across town in the middle of the night for you. His mother made you dumplings at 3 a.m. because you asked.
You take another bite, smiling through the last of your tears, and press your hand over his on your knee.
"Thank you," you whisper.
He doesn't answer. He's already asleep.
But his fingers tighten on your knee, just slightly, before they go slack.
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The headboard presses cool against his bare shoulders, but you don't notice any of that. All you register is the solid wall of his chest against your back, the way his thighs bracket your hips, the slow, steady rhythm of his breath against your ear.
"This is going to work," Gojo says, and even without seeing his face you can hear the smirk in his voice. His hands rest on your stomach, fingers splayed wide, ownership in every point of contact. "I've done my research. Extensive research. Very scientific."
"You watched porn," you murmur.
"I conducted a thorough investigation of available resources." He presses a kiss to the side of your neck, right where your pulse jumps. "For you. For us. For science."
You're naked, spread open against him, your legs draped over his thighs. The position leaves you completely exposed — your pussy wet and open, your clit already hard and aching from nothing but his voice and the heat of his body and the way he keeps trailing his fingers down your stomach, lower, lower, never quite touching where you need him.
"You're so wet already," he observes, and his voice drops, loses some of that teasing edge. Gets heavier. Realer. "I can feel it. The air's all slick with you. Is this all for me?"
"Yes," you breathe.
"Yeah?" His hand finally cups you, palm pressing against your pubic bone, fingers grazing your slit. He doesn't enter. Just holds you, feels the heat of you, the wetness smearing against his skin. "Fuck. You're drenched. And I haven't even done anything yet."
You push your hips into his hand and he clicks his tongue.
"Ah-ah. Patience. We're doing this right." His fingers slide up, parting your folds, finding your clit with an accuracy that makes your whole body jerk. He doesn't rub. Just rests the pad of his middle finger against it, pressure without motion, and waits until you settle back against him with a shaky exhale.
"Good girl," he says, and the words hit you right in the chest. "There she is. Relaxed. Trusting. Letting me take care of you."
His other hand comes up to your mouth. "Suck."
You part your lips and take his first two fingers in, tasting salt and skin. He watches — you can feel the weight of his gaze even though you can't see him — as you hollow your cheeks, run your tongue along the underside of his fingers, get them good and wet.
"That's it. So pretty like this." He pulls them out slowly, a string of saliva connecting his fingers to your lips. "Now. Let me show you what I learned."
His wet fingers find your clit again, and this time he circles it — slow, deliberate, three times to the left, then two to the right, watching your reactions like he's reading a manual written in your body. Your hips twitch. Your breath catches.
"Okay," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "The key is consistency. Same rhythm. Same pressure. You need to build it up, not chase it." His finger traces down, collecting wetness, bringing it back up to spread around your clit. "And you need to find the right spot."
"What spot?" Your voice comes out rough.
"The spot." He sounds smug. "The one that makes you feel like you're going to pee."
Your eyes snap open. "Satoru—"
"Relax." He kisses your shoulder. "I know it sounds weird. But that's the feeling. That pressure. Most women clamp down on it because they think they're actually going to piss themselves, and that stops the orgasm from breaking through." His finger keeps circling, steady, relentless. "But you're not going to hold back, are you? You're going to let go for me."
"I don't know if I can—"
"Sure you can." His voice is soft now, almost tender. "You trust me?"
"Of course."
"Then let me show you." His finger slides down, and this time he presses — not hard, but deep, finding that spot inside you that makes your whole body lock up. Not the G-spot, not quite. Something else. Something that sends a hot spike of almost-pain, almost-pleasure straight through your pelvis.
"There," he says, and he sounds satisfied. Like he just solved a puzzle. "Right there."
He starts to move. Two fingers, curved, pressing against that spot in a steady rhythm while his thumb finds your clit and matches the pace. In and out. Press and circle. The sensation is overwhelming — too much and not enough, a pressure that builds in your lower belly like a fist clenching, tightening, demanding release.
"That's it," Gojo breathes against your ear. "Feel that? That pressure? That's it building. Don't fight it. Let it get bigger."
"I—" Your hands fly down, grabbing his thighs, nails digging into his skin. "Satoru, I feel like I—"
"Like you need to pee?"
"Yes."
"Good." His fingers speed up, curl harder. "That's exactly right. You're doing so good. Don't stop it. Push against my fingers like you're trying to push me out."
"That's—that's gross—"
"It's not gross." His voice hardens, just a fraction. Loses the playfulness. "It's your body. And I want to see it. I want to feel you come all over my hand. I want you to soak my fingers and this bed and every fucking thing in a three-foot radius. Can you do that for me?"
Your breath comes in short gasps. The pressure builds, swells, crests inside you like a wave gathering height.
"Answer me." His fingers curl harder, press deeper, and his thumb circles your clit with punishing precision. "Can you come for me? Can you let go?"
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
"That's my good girl." His voice wraps around you, warm and filthy and proud. "That's my perfect fucking girl. Let it happen. Don't think. Just feel. Just let me have it."
His fingers work you relentlessly — curl, press, circle, repeat — and your whole body starts to shake. The pressure becomes unbearable, a hot swollen ache that fills your entire pelvis, your thighs, your stomach. Your muscles clench. Your back arches against his chest.
"That's it. That's it. Right fucking there." He's breathing hard now too, his voice ragged against your ear. "I can feel you clenching around my fingers. You're so close. You're so close. Come on, baby. One more. One more push. Give it to me."
You bear down against his fingers like he told you to, and something shifts. The pressure peaks. Breaks. And then—
It's not like a normal orgasm. It's deeper, hotter, a release that starts in your core and floods outward. Your body locks up and then goes liquid all at once, and you feel it — a gush of liquid that pulses out of you, soaking his hand, splashing against his stomach, streaming down your thighs and onto the sheets.
"Holy shit," Gojo breathes.
Your orgasm keeps going, keeps pulsing, and every contraction pushes more liquid out of you. You can't stop it. You don't want to. You just grip his thighs and ride it out while he keeps working his fingers through it, slower now, gentler, drawing every last drop from your body.
When it finally subsides, you slump against him, completely boneless. Your pussy clenches around nothing, oversensitive, and you whimper when his fingers slide out.
"Look at that." His voice is hushed, almost awed. He holds his hand up in front of you — fingers slick, dripping, catching the lamplight. "You made such a mess. Such a beautiful fucking mess."
He brings his fingers to your lips. "Taste yourself. Taste what you did."
You part your lips and take them in, and the taste is sharp and sweet and unmistakably you. He watches your tongue work across his skin, and you feel his cock twitch against your lower back, hard and hot.
"That was incredible," he says, and the teasing is back but softer now, tinged with something real. "My perfect girl. First try. I knew you had it in you." He presses a kiss to your temple. "Literally. Inside you. I knew it was in there."
You laugh, weak and breathless. "Shut up."
"No." He wraps his arms around you, pulls you tighter against his chest. The wet sheets squelch beneath you. "I'm going to be insufferable about this. I learned a new skill. I made my girlfriend squirt. I'm allowed to be insufferable."
"You're always insufferable."
"True. But now I'm insufferable and smug." He nuzzles into your hair. "And I'm not done yet."
You feel his hand slide down your stomach again, fingers tracing the slick mess between your legs.
"One more time," he says, and his voice drops back into that low, possessive register. "I want to watch you do it again. I want to feel it hit my chest this time. Think you can give me one more?"
Your pussy clenches at his words. Empty. Wanting.
"Maybe," you manage.
"Good girl." His fingers find your clit again, already moving. "Because I've got all night. And I'm not stopping until you're empty."
You were using his phone because yours had died—something innocent, just pulling up the recipe for the curry you'd promised to make him tonight. His passcode was your birthday. It had been your birthday since the third month of dating, when he'd handed you his phone at a restaurant and told you to put in something you'd remember. You'd blushed, keyed in the numbers, and he'd never changed it.
You were in the photos folder by accident. You meant to open Safari. But your thumb slipped, or the screen lagged, and there it was: a folder titled simply *p.*
You almost didn't open it. But your thumb moved before your brain caught up.
And then your heart stopped.
The first photo was you on his couch, three months into dating. You were asleep, your mouth slightly open, your hair a wreck across the throw pillow. One of his dress shirts, the pale blue one—hung off your shoulder, the collar bunched under your chin. The lamp was on behind you, casting soft gold across your cheekbones, and you looked... peaceful. Soft. Like something that belonged exactly where it was.
You didn't remember him taking it.
You didn't remember anyone taking a photo of you that looked like that.
Your thumb swiped left.
You in his kitchen, wearing nothing but his sweater and those old grey shorts with the frayed hem. You were stirring something on the stove, your brow furrowed in concentration, and there was a smudge of flour on your left cheek. You were biting your lower lip—your habit when you were focused on a recipe. The morning light came through his window and caught the flyaway hairs around your face, and you looked so absorbed, so wholly yourself, that something in your chest cracked.
You swiped again.
You at the park, sitting on a bench, reading a paperback. Your legs were crossed. Your thumb was tracing the spine of the book. You hadn't known anyone was watching.
You in bed, the sheets tangled around your waist, your hair a dark spill across the pillow. You were smiling in your sleep. Actually smiling. Like you were having a good dream.
You laughing at something he'd said—your head thrown back, your hand over your mouth, your eyes squeezed shut. The photo was slightly blurry, like he'd been trying to catch it before it passed.
You with your hands wrapped around a mug of tea, your knuckles pink from the heat, your gaze distant and soft.
You crying. It was the night you'd told him about your mother, about the things she'd said to you when you were fourteen, about how you'd never felt pretty enough. Your face was blotchy, your nose was running, and you looked raw and wrecked and human. And the photo was tender. The angle was low, like he'd been sitting at your feet, looking up at you with something unbearable in his chest.
You kept swiping.
There were hundreds.
Hundreds.
Photos of your hands while you talked. Photos of your profile while you stared out his car window. Photos of you tying your hair up. Photos of you untangling your necklaces. Photos of you distracted, thoughtful, tired, moody, happy, annoyed, peaceful. Photos of you in clothes you hated. Photos of you with acne. Photos of you in the morning with crust in your eyes and your breath still bad. Photos of you that you would have deleted instantly if you'd known they existed.
Every single one of them was beautiful.
Not in a polished way. Not in the way you'd tried to force yourself to look for high school photos or family gatherings or the rare occasions you let someone point a camera at you. Beautiful in the way that someone had been watching you for months, years and had found you worth remembering.
Your hands were shaking.
The phone felt too heavy.
You heard the bathroom door open. The soft pad of his bare feet on the hardwood. He'd just gotten out of the shower; you could smell his soap, that clean cedar and something faintly smoky that lived in his skin.
"Did you find the recipe?"
His voice was low, quiet, the way it always was. Calm. Even. Hiromi Higuruma, who never raised his voice, who met every crisis with that steady, unhurried presence that made you feel like nothing could actually fall apart as long as he was in the room.
You couldn't answer.
He must have sensed something, because his footsteps slowed. You heard the shift of fabric as he dried his hair with the towel one last time, and then he was rounding the couch, his dark hair still damp, his glasses slightly fogged from the shower steam.
He saw your face.
He saw the phone in your hands.
And something flickered across his expression—a crack in that calm composure—before he smoothed it away. He set the towel down on the armchair. Adjusted his glasses. Took a breath.
"You found the album."
It wasn't a question.
You opened your mouth. Closed it. The tears you'd been holding back broke free, sliding hot and fast down your cheeks, and you hated it—you *hated* crying in front of people, hated the way your face went blotchy and your nose streamed and you looked like a disaster—but you couldn't stop. You couldn't even breathe properly.
"Why—" Your voice cracked. Broke. You had to try again. "Why do you have so many pictures of me?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then he moved, slow and deliberate, lowering himself onto the couch beside you. Not crowding you. Just close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body, the faint humidity still clinging to his skin. His shoulder brushed yours.
"Because I like looking at you."
The words were so simple. So matter-of-fact. Like he was telling you the sky was blue, or that two plus two was four. Like it was obvious.
You shook your head, a broken, desperate motion. "But I look—these aren't—I'm not even doing anything. I'm just existing."
"Yes."
"That's not—that's not interesting. That's not worth keeping."
He turned his head. Looked at you with those dark, intelligent eyes. And for the first time, you saw something raw in them. Something almost like hurt—but not for himself.
"You delete every photo of yourself," he said quietly. "I've seen you do it. You take a selfie, look at it for three seconds, and delete it. Sometimes you don't even take the photo. You just look at your reflection and walk away."
Your breath caught.
"I notice," he said. "I notice everything."
"I didn't think you—"
"I know." His voice was gentle. Devastatingly gentle. "You don't think I see you. But I do. I see you when you don't want to be seen. And those moments—" He gestured at the phone, still clutched in your trembling hands. "Those are the moments I want to remember."
"Why?"
It came out as a whisper. Small and broken and genuinely confused.
"Why would you want to remember me like this? When I'm not trying. When I'm not performing. When I'm just....ordinary."
He reached out. Slow. Giving you time to pull away. His fingers brushed the tears from your cheek, and his touch was so gentle it made you ache.
"Because you're beautiful," he said.
A sob escaped you. "I'm not."
"You are."
"I look horrible in half of those."
"You look real in half of those." His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone, feather-light. "You look like the person I fell in love with. Not the person you perform for the world. The person who exists when you think no one is watching."
"But that person isn't—"
"She's the only one I want to see."
You broke.
You couldn't help it. The tears came harder, ugly and heaving, and you dropped the phone on the cushion and pressed your hands to your face, ashamed of how raw you must look, how red and swollen and *ugly*—
His arms wrapped around you.
Not hesitating. Not waiting for permission. He just pulled you into his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm and steady across your back. His heart was beating against your ear. Steady. Calm. *Here.*
"I'm sorry," you gasped into his chest. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm—"
"Don't apologize."
"But I'm getting your shirt wet—"
"Then I'll change it."
"But—"
"Let me hold you."
The words weren't a command. They were a request. Soft and open and *wanting,* and somehow that made it worse. Someone *wanted* to hold you. Someone wanted to absorb your messy, ugly tears into his clean shirt and hold you through it.
You cried into his chest until you had nothing left.
He held you the whole time.
When your sobs faded to hiccups, and the hiccups faded to shaky breaths, he pressed his lips to the top of your head. Slow. Lingering.
"Better?"
You nodded against his collarbone.
"Talk to me."
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His glasses were slightly fogged again—from your body heat, from the humidity of your tears. His eyes were soft. Patient. He looked at you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing.
"I don't—" You swallowed. "I don't understand how you can look at those photos and see something beautiful. I look at myself and I just see... flaws. Things I want to fix. Things I wish were different."
"I know."
"And you see something else."
"Yes."
"*Why?*"
He was quiet for a moment. Then he reached for his phone, still sitting on the cushion beside you. He unlocked it and scrolled to a photo near the bottom of the album.
You at his kitchen table, poring over a legal textbook he'd lent you. Your brow furrowed. Your lips moving silently as you read. Your hand tangled in your hair, holding it off your face. The afternoon light was gold and warm, and there was a softness to your expression that you'd never noticed before.
"This one," he said quietly. "Do you remember when this was?"
You shook your head.
"It was the week before my bar exam. I was drowning in study materials, and you came over to keep me company. You brought dinner. You sat at my kitchen table for four hours, reading a textbook you didn't need to read, just so I wouldn't have to study alone."
Your throat tightened.
"You don't do things because you want to be seen," he said. "You do them because you care. And that—" He tapped the screen, right over your furrowed brow. "That is the most beautiful thing about you. You don't know how to stop caring. Even when it costs you. Even when no one is watching."
"But I'm not—"
"You don't get to argue with me about this."
The firmness in his voice caught you off guard. You blinked at him.
"I have spent two years watching you," he said. "Two years memorizing the way you move, the way you laugh, the way you cry, the way you look when you're concentrating so hard you forget to blink. Two years of falling in love with you more deeply every single day. So if I say you're beautiful—" He held your gaze, steady and sure. "—then you are."
"Even when I look like *that?*" You gestured vaguely at your tear-streaked face, your swollen eyes, your red nose.
"Especially when you look like that."
Your lip wobbled.
He leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours. His glasses nudged against your temple. His breath was warm on your lips.
"Can I show you something?"
You nodded mutely.
He shifted. Lifted his phone. And very deliberately, very gently, he pointed the camera at your face.
"Hiromi—"
"Don't move."
"I look *terrible* right now—"
"You look like my girlfriend." His thumb hovered over the shutter. "You look like someone who just trusted me with something fragile. You look like the person I want to wake up next to for the rest of my life."
Your breath caught.
The shutter clicked.
He lowered the phone, looked at the screen, and smiled. A real smile. The kind that softened his whole face, that made him look younger, lighter, like the weight of the world had lifted for just a moment.
"See?" He turned the phone toward you.
It was you. Red-eyed, blotchy-cheeked, tear-streaked. Your hair was a mess. Your nose was running. You looked wrecked.
And you also looked... soft. Vulnerable. *Held,* somehow, even though the only thing holding you was his gaze through the lens.
Your smile broke through before you could stop it. Wobbly and shy and completely involuntary.
"That's a terrible photo," you said.
"It's my new favorite."
"It's not even *good—*"
"I'm keeping it."
You laughed. A real laugh, surprised out of you, wet and broken and genuine. And in that laugh, something shifted. Some tight, knotted thing in your chest—the thing that had been wound tight since you were fourteen years old, since the first time someone made you feel like you weren't enough—loosened. Just a fraction.
He set the phone down. Gently, he cupped your face in both hands, his thumbs brushing the last of the tears from your cheeks.
"I'm going to keep taking photos of you," he said quietly. "Every time you laugh. Every time you cry. Every time you look at me like you're afraid I'll look away. Because I won't. I will never look away."
"Hiromi..."
"One day," he said, "you're going to look at yourself and see what I see. And until that day comes, I'm going to be here. Showing you. Again and again."
He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Soft. Lingering. His lips stayed there for a long moment, warm and gentle against your skin.
When he pulled back, you were smiling again. Small and shy and still a little watery.
"Can I see the photo you just took?" you asked.
He raised an eyebrow. "You're not going to delete it?"
"Not tonight."
He handed you the phone.
You looked at the photo. Really looked. For a long moment, you didn't say anything. Then, slowly, tentatively, you whispered: "Maybe... maybe it's not that bad."
"I told you."
"You're biased."
"I'm in love with you. There's a difference."
You laughed again, clearer this time, warmer and handed the phone back. He tucked it into his pocket, then wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you into his side.
And for a long, quiet moment, you just sat there. His heart beating against your temple. His hand warm on your arm. The weight of his love settled around you like a blanket you were finally, *finally* starting to believe you deserved.
Everyone expects frat Gojo to be the freak, but nobody knows that nerd Gojo is actually the biggest freak of them all. He just look innocent. But you know deep down in your heart, your boyfriend is not innocent at all.
Wc: 2.9k
Dom!gojo, sub!reader, college au, p in v, unprotected, rough sex, dirty talk, oral (gojo receiving & you receiving), facefucking, pussy eating, fingering, creampies, squirting, spitting, overstimulation, manhandling, degradation, praise, and aftercare.
Everyone thinks they know what Satoru Gojo is like in bed.
The rumors circulate through the sorority group chats, passed between girls who've never been within six inches of him but speak with authority anyway. They say he's probably shy. Too lanky to know what he's doing. The type who asks permission before holding your hand. They look at his round glasses and his messy white hair and the way he giggles at his own stupid jokes, and they decide: harmless. Sweet. A little pathetic, maybe.
You let them think that.
You sit in the dining hall while your friends dissect him over iced coffees, and you nod along. You let them call him cute, innocent, probably a virgin. You let your roommate tell you that you could do better, that frat boys who look like librarians are never any good in bed, and you just stir your straw through the melting ice and say nothing.
Because if you opened your mouth, you'd tell them the truth.
That Satoru Gojo has hands that know exactly where to go. That he talks dirty like he's reciting poetry — low and unhurried, like he's been saving up the words all day. That the same fingers that dog-ear his manga pages can make you fall apart in under a minute flat.
They don't know.
They've never seen the way his eyes go dark behind those glasses. Never heard the shift in his voice from honey to gravel. Never felt his palm wrap around their throat, gentle and final, while he leans down to whisper exactly what he's about to do.
But you have.
And every time, you forget. Every time, you let yourself believe the mask, too — that he's just your sweet, goofy boyfriend who brings you pastries from the campus bakery and kisses your forehead in the library stacks. He's so good at the soft version of himself that you almost believe it's all of him.
Until he gets you alone.
Until the door clicks shut.
---
It starts in his dorm room, like it always does.
You're sitting cross-legged on his bed, scrolling through your phone while he fusses with his bookshelf, arranging volumes of some sci-fi series for the third time this week. The late afternoon light cuts through the blinds in golden stripes across the floor. Everything is soft, domestic, ordinary.
He's wearing that oversized grey hoodie you love, the one with the frayed cuffs. His glasses are pushed up into his hair, and he's squinting at a crooked spine like it personally offended him.
"You're staring," he says without turning around.
"I'm appreciating."
He snorts. Shifts a book a millimeter to the left. Then another. You watch his hands — long fingers, elegant knuckles — and you think about how those same hands felt on your skin last night, and a heat climbs up the back of your neck.
"Done?" you ask.
"Almost." He moves a third book, then turns, finally, and gives you that sunshine smile. The one that makes freshman girls swoon in the student center. "Miss me?"
"You were three feet away."
"Three feet too many."
He crosses the room in four long strides and drops onto the bed beside you, all loose limbs and easy grace. The mattress dips. He's warm — he's always warm, like a furnace under all that lean muscle. His hand finds your thigh, casual, like he's not even thinking about it.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Mhm."
"Tired?"
"A little."
He hums, and his thumb starts tracing circles on your jeans. Slow. Soothing. "We can just hang out," he says. "Watch something. Order food."
It sounds so reasonable. So sweet. You almost believe he means it.
But you know him. You know the way his thumb is pressing just a little harder now, the way his breathing hasn't changed but something in the air between you has. You know he's testing, waiting to see if you'll call his bluff.
You don't.
"Actually," you say, and you're proud that your voice comes out steady, "I was thinking about something else."
"Hm?" Innocent. Wide-eyed. The mask.
You reach up and push his glasses back down onto his face, just to see the flicker — the way something sharp moves behind the lenses before the smile smooths it over again.
"Take them off," you say quietly.
And there it is.
The smile doesn't disappear, exactly, but it changes. Curves different. His hand on your thigh stops its lazy circles and squeezes, once, firm enough to make your breath catch.
"Yeah?" he asks, and his voice has dropped an octave.
"Yeah."
He takes his glasses off slowly, folds them, sets them on the nightstand. When he looks back at you, his eyes are the color of a summer storm — bright and dark at once, with nothing soft behind them.
"Use your words," he says, and now it's not a question. "Tell me what you were thinking about."
Your mouth goes dry.
"I was thinking about — about your mouth."
"Good start." He shifts closer, one knee sinking into the mattress between your thighs.
"And?"
"And your hands."
"Where?"
Everywhere, you want to say. But the word sticks, because he's looking at you like he's already undressed you, like he knows every inch of you and is deciding where to start.
"Around," you manage.
His laugh is low, breathless. "Close enough."
And then his mouth is on yours, and you remember.
He kisses different when the door is shut. Nothing like the pecks he gives you in public, the shy little brushes that make people coo. This is a claiming. His hand cups the back of your neck, tilts your head, and he takes the kiss deeper like he's been starving for it. His tongue slides against yours, and his teeth graze your bottom lip, and you gasp into his mouth.
"That's it," he murmurs against you. "I've been wanting to do that all day."
"Then why didn't you?"
"Because I like watching you wait for it."
He pushes you back onto the mattress, and you go easily — you always do. He hovers over you, forearms braced on either side of your head, and for a moment he just looks at you. Drinks you in. His hair falls forward, brushing his brow, and his pupils are blown so wide his eyes look almost black.
"Tell me what you want," he says.
"You."
"Too vague."
I want you to ruin me, you think. I want you to make me forget my name. I want everyone who thinks they know you to be dead wrong.
"You know what I want," you whisper instead.
His smile turns wolfish. "I want to hear you say it."
"Then make me."
Something flares in his gaze. A challenge accepted.
"Wrong answer," he says softly, and then his hands are everywhere at once.
He strips you with an efficiency that makes your head spin — jeans gone, shirt gone, bra undone with a single flick of his fingers. You're left in nothing but your underwear, and he's still fully dressed, and the imbalance makes you feel exposed in a way that only makes the heat pool hotter.
"So pretty." He trails a finger down your sternum, between your breasts, over your stomach. "You have no idea what you do to me."
"Show me."
"I plan to."
He sits back on his heels and pulls his hoodie off in one motion. The t-shirt goes with it, and you forget how to breathe for a second — because you've seen him shirtless before, but you never get used to it. The sharp lines of his collarbones, the lean muscle of his chest, the way his waist narrows and his shoulders stretch broad. He's built like a swimmer, all economy and power.
He catches you staring and his mouth quirks. "Like what you see?"
"You know I do."
"Yeah." He leans down, kisses your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breast. "I know."
His mouth traces lower, and lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, your hips, the sensitive skin just above the waistband of your underwear. His fingers hook into the fabric and pull it down slowly, deliberately, like he's unwrapping a gift he's been saving.
"I'm gonna take my time with you," he says against your thigh. "We've got all night."
You don't have all night. You have maybe four hours before his roommate comes back, and you both know it. That's exactly the point.
He settles between your legs, and his breath is hot against you, and you brace yourself for the first touch of his tongue.
It doesn't come.
"Look at you," he says, and his voice is casual, almost conversational. "So wet already. And I haven't even done anything yet."
"Gojo — "
"Satoru." He bites your inner thigh, just hard enough to sting. "Use my name when I'm between your legs."
"Satoru." It comes out breathless.
"There we go." His thumb traces your slit, featherlight, not quite where you need him. "You ready for me, baby?"
"Yes — please — "
"Please what?"
Your head falls back against the pillow. You're going to kill him. You're going to goddamn kill him.
But then his mouth finally meets you, and murder is the last thing on your mind.
His tongue is merciless. He knows exactly where to press, exactly how to flick, exactly when to pull back and let you chase his mouth. He eats you out like a man possessed, like he's been thirsting for it, and maybe he has — because Satoru in private is insatiable in a way that no one would ever guess.
"That's it," he says, pulling back just enough to speak, and his chin is slick and his lips are wet and the sight of it makes you clench around nothing. "You taste so fucking good. I could stay here forever."
His fingers find you without warning — two at once, crooked just right, and you cry out. He doesn't slow down. He pumps them in rhythm with his tongue, fast and deep, and you're already close, embarrassingly close, because he's done this to you before and he knows exactly how to break you.
"Don't you dare come yet," he says against you.
"I — Satoru — "
"I said not yet."
He pulls his fingers out, and you whimper at the loss. He shushes you, soft and cruel, and then he's shifting, crawling up your body, and his mouth finds yours.
You taste yourself on his tongue. Salty and intimate in a way that makes your head spin.
"Suck," he says, and pushes two fingers past your lips.
You taste yourself on them too. You suck without thinking, hollowing your cheeks, and the groan he lets out is raw, guttural.
"God, your mouth." He pulls his fingers free and drags them down your chin, your throat, your chest. "Look at you. So pretty on your knees for me."
"But I'm not on my knees."
"Not yet."
He shifts off the bed, lands on his feet, and offers you his hand. You take it, and he pulls you up, guides you off the mattress until you're kneeling on the floor in front of him.
"That's better." His voice is a low caress. "Now show me what that mouth can do."
Your hands find his belt. Your fingers fumble with the buckle, and he lets you struggle for a moment before he covers your hands with his, guides you through it.
"Eager," he says, not unkindly. "I like that."
His jeans drop, then his boxers, and he's hard and heavy and right in front of your face. He's already leaking, a bead of moisture at the tip, and you lick your lips without thinking.
"Go on," he says, and his hand settles in your hair — not pulling, not yet. Just resting there. A reminder of whose hands are in charge.
You wrap your lips around him, and his head falls back, and the sound he makes is wrecked.
"That's — fuck, yeah. Just like that."
You take him deeper. His grip tightens in your hair, not quite pushing, just holding. Waiting.
"More," he says. "Take more."
You try. You gag, and he shushes you again, but this time his hips twitch forward, just a fraction, just enough.
"Breathe through your nose," he reminds you. "You can do it. I know you can."
You focus on breathing, on relaxing your throat, and you take him deeper. He groans, long and low, and his hips start to move — small, shallow thrusts at first, testing.
"That's my girl. Taking me so well."
His pace picks up. His hand in your hair tightens, and you let him guide you, let him fuck your throat at the rhythm he wants. It's messy and wet and your eyes are watering and you've never felt more completely owned.
"S'too good," he pants. "Gonna — don't stop — "
You don't stop. You double down, take him deeper, and when he comes with a guttural moan, you swallow everything he gives you.
He stays there for a moment, breathing hard, his hand still tangled in your hair. Then he pulls out slowly, and his thumb traces your bottom lip, smearing the moisture there.
"Look at you." His voice is gentler now, but still rough. "Did so good for me."
He lifts you to your feet and kisses you, soft and slow, like he didn't just have your throat wrapped around him. Like he's reverent.
"Get on the bed," he says against your lips. "On your hands and knees."
You scramble onto the mattress. You hear him behind you and then his hands find your hips.
"You ready?"
"Yes."
"I need to hear you say it."
"I'm ready, Satoru."
He pushes into you in one smooth stroke, and you both moan.
"Jesus Christ," he breathes. "You're so tight. So perfect."
He bottoms out and stays there for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel full. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise, and you don't mind. You want the marks.
"Move," you beg.
"Since you asked so nicely."
He pulls out and thrusts back in, and the pace he sets is brutal from the start. Deep, punishing strokes that hit somewhere so deep you see stars. His balls slap against you with every thrust, and the sound of it — wet — fills the room.
"Yeah, take it," he grunts. "Take all of it. You can do that for me, can't you?"
"Yes — "
"Good girl."
One hand leaves your hip and snakes around to press against your clit. He rubs tight, fast circles in time with his thrusts, and you're already so close, teetering on the edge.
"You gonna come for me?"
"Yes — Satoru, please — "
"Then come. Now."
And you do. You shatter around him, crying out his name, and he fucks you through it, doesn't stop, doesn't slow down.
"That's one," he says. "I want another."
"Too much — "
"No, it's not." He slows his thrusts, grinds deep, and the overstimulation makes you keen. "You can give me more. I know you can."
His fingers keep working, relentless, and he pistons into you at a new angle that has your vision going white. The pressure builds again, impossibly fast, and you're coming before you can warn him, gushing around his cock.
"Oh, fuck," he groans. "That's it. That's so fucking hot."
He doesn't let up. He fucks you through the aftershocks, and a third orgasm builds somewhere behind the first two, too much and not enough.
"Please — I can't — "
"One more," he says, and his voice is breaking. "One more and I'll let you rest. Give me one more."
You sob his name, and it crests over you, and this time he follows — three more jerky thrusts and he's coming with a sound that's almost pained, his body shuddering against yours.
He collapses forward, his chest pressing against your back, his breath hot against your neck. You feel every inch of him, heavy and warm, and you're shaking.
For a long moment, neither of you moves.
Then he pulls out, and you wince at the emptiness. You hear him cross the room, the sink running, and then he's back with a warm, damp cloth. He cleans you with the same care he used to take you apart — gentle, thorough, reverent.
"Roll over," he says softly.
You do, and he's there above you, his hair a mess, his eyes soft again. The mask is back. Or maybe this is the real him, too. Maybe both versions are true.
He kisses your forehead. Your nose. Your lips.
"You okay?"
You nod, still breathless.
"Was I too rough?"
You shake your head.
"Use your words, baby."
"No. It was perfect. You're perfect." A pause. "I keep forgetting."
"Forgetting what?"
"That you're like this." You reach up and touch his jaw. "Everyone thinks they know you. And they have no idea."
His smile is small, private, meant only for you. "Good."
He settles beside you and pulls you against his chest. His arms wrap around you, and he kisses the top of your head.
"Let's order food," he murmurs. "I'm starving."
"You're always starving. You just — "
"Shh." He grins, and for a second, he's just your goofy boyfriend again. "Don't ruin the moment."
You laugh and burrow into his chest, and his hand traces lazy patterns on your back.
The apartment was dim when he walked in, lit only by the amber glow of the candles you'd arranged along the dresser and nightstand. Their flames threw soft shadows across the walls, made the whole room feel warmer, smaller, more intimate. The door clicked shut behind him with that familiar heavy sound, and you heard him pause in the entryway.
You stayed still on the bed, heart hammering against your ribs.
Petals. You'd scattered them from the front door all the way down the hall — deep red rose petals, the ones he'd bought you last week that you'd pressed between books to preserve. You'd pulled them out tonight, crushed some on purpose just to get the scent into the air. The whole apartment smelled like roses and the vanilla candle you'd lit an hour ago.
He cleared his throat. "Baby?"
His voice was rough, tired. That end-of-day gravel that always made something twist low in your stomach. You heard his briefcase hit the floor — not the stand, just the floor — and you knew he was too exhausted to care. His footsteps followed the trail of petals, slow at first, then picking up.
You watched the bedroom doorway.
When he appeared there, he stopped dead.
Nanami Kento filled the frame like he always did — broad shoulders, that beige overcoat still on, his tie loosened but still hanging crooked around his neck. His hair was messier than when he'd left, a few strands falling across his forehead, and there were shadows under his eyes that spoke to the kind of day that didn't end so much as collapse.
He blinked at you. Once. Twice.
"What —" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "What are you doing?"
You were wearing the set he'd bought you three months ago for your anniversary. Black lace, barely-there, with delicate straps that draped over your shoulders and a little bow at the center of the chest. The matching garter belt sat high on your thighs. You'd spent an hour on your makeup, curled your hair just the way he liked it, put on the perfume he'd nuzzle into every time you walked past him.
You swung your legs off the bed slowly, let him watch the way the lace shifted over your skin. The petals crunched softly under your bare feet as you crossed to him.
"I know you had a long day at work," you said, and your voice came out softer than you intended. You reached for his chest, flattened your palms against the fabric of his coat. "Let me take care of you."
His breath hitched. You felt it under your hands.
You pushed him. He let you — stumbled back a step, then another, until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed and he dropped onto it with a soft grunt. He looked up at you, still stunned, his glasses slightly askew.
You climbed onto his lap, straddling him, the lace of your underwear pressing against the rough fabric of his trousers. You leaned in close enough to feel his breath on your lips.
"Use me however you like."
His eyes searched yours. The tiredness was still there, but something else was waking up behind it — a flicker, a warmth. He looked away first, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He shook his head.
"Baby," he said, soft, almost embarrassed. "You don't have to do this."
"But I want to." You cupped his jaw, turned his face back toward you. "I want you to use me like the little slut that I am."
His brow furrowed immediately. "You're not a slut."
"But I'm your slut."
He stared at you. For a long, heavy moment, the only sound was the candles sputtering and the distant hum of traffic from the street below.
Then he laughed. A quiet, breathless thing, like he couldn't help himself. He pressed his palm to his face and dragged it down slowly, and when he looked at you again, something had shifted in his expression. The tiredness was still there, but it was banked now, secondary to the heat blooming behind his eyes.
"You're going to kill me one day," he said.
"Probably."
He reached up and pulled his tie loose in one smooth motion, the silk sliding through his fingers. The sound it made — that soft whisper of fabric — sent a shiver straight down your spine.
"You want me to use you?" His voice had dropped, gone lower, rougher.
You nodded. "Uh-huh. I'm your slut today."
"Turn around. Hands behind your back."
You moved without thinking, sliding off his lap and turning, crossing your wrists behind you. The position made your back arch naturally, pushed your chest forward, and you heard his breath catch again. You felt the cool silk of his tie wrap around your wrists, felt him cinch it tight — not painful, but firm. Secure. You tested it once, and the knot held.
"Good girl," he murmured, and those two words sent heat flooding through your chest.
His hand found your shoulder, guided you down. "Knees."
You lowered yourself onto the plush carpet, the petals soft beneath your knees. You heard the familiar sounds of him unbuckling his belt, the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of fabric. Then his hand was in your hair, fingers curling into the roots, guiding you forward.
"Open."
You did. Wide. Looked up at him through your lashes as he guided himself to your lips. The taste of him hit your tongue — salt and skin, warm and familiar. You took him in, let your eyes flutter shut for just a second as you adjusted to the familiar weight of him against your tongue.
"Look at me," he said.
You opened your eyes. Held his gaze.
And you went to work.
You knew him. Three years of dating, three years of marriage — you knew every sound he made, every hitch in his breath, every subtle shift in his hips. You knew that if you hollowed your cheeks just right and took him deeper, he'd make that sound, the one that was half groan and half sigh. You knew that if you kept your eyes on him while you did it, his jaw would go tight and his hand would tighten in your hair.
So you did all of it.
You took him deep, let him hit the back of your throat, felt that familiar pressure that made your eyes water but you didn't stop. You kept going, kept your rhythm steady, kept your eyes locked on his.
His head tipped back. His throat worked.
"Fuck," he said, and it came out like a prayer. "You're doing so good, baby."
His hand guided your head, pushed you down just a little deeper. You felt him hit the back of your throat again, felt yourself relax around him, take him in. His hips bucked once, involuntary.
"Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, just like that."
You kept going. Hollowed your cheeks on the upstroke, let your tongue work against the underside of him on the way down. You could feel him getting close — his breathing had gone ragged, his thighs were tensing under your hands, his grip in your hair had tightened to something almost desperate.
"Fuck, you're gonna make me cum."
You doubled your efforts. Took him deeper, faster, let the wet sounds fill the room. You wanted this. Wanted to taste him, wanted to feel him fall apart because of you.
He came with a groan that was almost pained, his hips bucking, his hand fisting in your hair. You took it all, swallowed, kept your eyes on him the entire time.
When he finally went still, breathing hard, you pulled back slowly. Smiled up at him.
He looked down at you, dazed. His lips parted.
"You're such a bad girl," he said, but there was no heat in it. Just wonder.
"I'm your bad girl."
He stared at you for another long moment. Then that smile crept back — tired, fond, a little bit wrecked. He shook his head slowly, like he couldn't quite believe his luck.
"Get up."
You rose on unsteady legs, your hands still bound behind you with his tie. He stood too, and for a moment you were chest to chest, his warmth bleeding through the thin lace. Then his hands found your shoulders, pushed you back, guided you until your knees hit the mattress and you sank onto it.
He climbed over you, his body blocking out the candlelight, casting you in shadow. His knee pressed between your thighs, nudging them apart.
"Spread."
You opened for him. Let your thighs fall apart, felt the cool air hit the damp lace of your underwear. His hand found the small zipper at the side of the lingerie — the one he'd pointed out when he bought it, the one he'd said was *convenient* — and pulled it down.
Then his mouth was on you, and you forgot how to think.
He ate you like a man starved. Like he'd been waiting for this all day, like the hours of paperwork and difficult clients and endless meetings had been building toward this single moment. His tongue worked against you with an expertise that made your hips buck, made you gasp, made you twist your bound hands against the mattress.
You tried to talk, but the words came out warped, broken by moans. "Fuck — babe — I wanted to — to take care of you —"
He came up for air, and the sight of him — his lips slick and glistening, his glasses fogged, his hair a disaster — stole the breath from your lungs.
"This is taking care of me," he said.
Then he went back down, and you stopped trying to form sentences.
He was relentless. His tongue found every spot that made you see stars, circled and pressed and teased until you were a mess of moans and trembling thighs. You came with a cry that was almost a sob, your body arching off the bed, your bound hands pulling uselessly against the tie.
He didn't stop. He rode you through it, gentler now, until you collapsed back onto the mattress, gasping.
Then he was climbing up, his body covering yours, his mouth finding yours. You tasted yourself on his lips. Felt him align himself with your entrance, just the tip pressing against that sensitive heat.
He kissed you deep as he pushed in — just the tip, just enough to make you moan into his mouth. He swallowed the sound.
"Are you gonna be a good slut for me today?"
Your eyes flew open. He'd never — he was actually doing it, actually playing along. A grin split your face before you could stop it.
"You're not —"
"Use your words."
"Yes," you breathed. "Yes."
The grin he gave you was sharp, hungry, and full of love.
He pushed in, and you both groaned at the same time. The feeling of him inside you — full, stretching, perfect — made your eyes roll back. He bottomed out, held still for a moment, let you adjust.
"Fuck," he breathed against your neck. "You're so tight."
"Move," you begged. "Please, baby, please —"
He did.
He set a rhythm that was deep and steady, each thrust pressing him against that spot inside you that made your vision go white at the edges. His mouth found your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder. He was everywhere, all heat and muscle and the familiar weight of him.
"You're doing so good," he said, his voice wrecked. "Feel so good. This pussy is mine, isn't it?"
"Yes," you moaned. "Yours, baby, always yours —"
He pulled out, and you whined at the loss. He ignored it, gripping your hips, turning you over until you were on your knees, face-down, ass-up. He settled behind you, his hands bracketing your hips, and pushed back in with a single smooth stroke.
The angle was perfect. He hit that spot on every thrust, and you stopped trying to form words. All you could do was moan, and scream, as he fucked you into the mattress.
The sound of skin against skin filled the room, wet and rhythmic. The candles flickered. The bed creaked beneath you.
"Fuck," he groaned, his rhythm faltering. "I'm so close."
"Inside," you begged. "Please, inside —"
"Yeah?" His hand found your hair, pulled gently until your back arched. "You wanna have my babies?"
"Yes — yes — *please* —"
He came with a sound that was half groan, half sigh, and you felt him spill inside you, felt your own body tighten around him, milking him through it. You came with a cry, your body giving out, collapsing onto the mattress as he followed you down.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Then he pulled out slowly, and you felt the warmth of him trickling down your thigh. He collapsed beside you, chest heaving, and reached for your bound wrists. His fingers found the knot, worked it loose.
The tie fell away. You flexed your wrists, rolled your shoulders, and he pulled you into his arms.
He kissed your forehead. Your nose. Your lips.
"Thank you," he said.
You smiled against his mouth. "Of course. I always do anything for you. Just let me know when you're having a bad day."
You winked. It was terrible. Cheesy.
He laughed — a real laugh, bright and warm, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He shook his head, pressed his forehead to yours.
"You are so weird."
"You love it."
"I do." He kissed you again, softer this time. "I really do."
You laughed together, tangled in the sheets and the petals and the fading scent of vanilla, the candles burning low, the night stretching out warm and dark around you.
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You've lost count of how many times he's brought you to the edge.
Four. Five. Maybe more. The numbers blur together somewhere around the third denial, when your brain turned to static and all you could do was feel, his fingers, his mouth, the slow, torturous rhythm that never quite tips you over. Your wrists burn against the belt. Your thighs are slick, shining in the low lamplight, and the sheets beneath you are ruined.
Toji shifts above you, one knee pressing into the mattress beside your hip, and the movement drags his jeans against your bare, oversensitive skin. You flinch. He notices. That smile curves against your throat.
"Sensitive?" He asks it like he doesn't already know. Like he can't feel the way your whole body trembles every time his breath hits your skin.
"Toji—" Your voice cracks. Breaks. "Please. I can't—I can't take anymore, please, I need—"
"Shh." He kisses your cheek. Soft. His hand never stops moving. Two fingers buried deep inside you, palm pressed against your clit with every thrust, and the wet sounds fill the room—that obscene, slick noise of your own arousal, loud enough that you'd be embarrassed if you had any dignity left.
"You can take more." His voice is honey and gravel. "You've taken everything I've given you so far. Every time I push you to the edge, you come right back for more. You're so fucking good for me."
He curls his fingers, hits that spot, and your back arches off the mattress. A broken sound tears out of your throat—half moan, half sob—and he watches your face with those dark eyes, cataloging every twitch, every flutter, every desperate gasp.
"There she is." He speeds up. Just a little. Just enough that the pressure starts building again, that familiar coil winding tight in your belly. "Right there. Feel it building?"
"Yes—yes, yes, please, Toji, please let me—"
"I'm thinking about it."
He's killing you. He's going to kill you with his fingers and his voice and the way he keeps kissing you like he loves you while he tortures you. His thumb finds your clit, circles slow and deliberate, and the noise you make is inhuman.
"You wanna cum?" He presses down. Your vision whites out for a second. "Tell me what you want."
"I want to cum—please, please, I need it, I've been so good—"
"Yeah, you have." He kisses you, deep and slow, his tongue sliding against yours while his fingers keep working. "You've been so good for me. Taking everything I give you. Begging so pretty."
His rhythm changes. Deeper. Harder. His palm slaps against your clit with every thrust, and the wet sounds get louder, and you're climbing, climbing, the edge rushing toward you so fast you can barely breathe.
"Please—Toji—please, I'm gonna—"
"I know." He shifts above you, eyes locked on yours. "You want it?"
"Yes—fuck, yes—"
"Then take it."
His thumb presses hard on your clit. His fingers curl, hitting that spot inside you with brutal precision, and he doesn't stop. He keeps fucking you through it as the orgasm crashes through you like a wave—no, like a goddamn tsunami, pulling you under, dragging you through the current until you can't tell up from down.
Your scream is muffled against his mouth. He kisses you through it, swallows the sound, his tongue sliding against yours while your body convulses around his fingers. The belt strains against your wrists as you pull, trying to find something to hold onto, but there's nothing—just him, just his hand, just the relentless pressure that won't stop.
"Toji—too much—it's too much—"
"One more." He doesn't slow down. "You've got one more for me. I know you do."
"You said—you said I could cum—"
"You did." He kisses the corner of your mouth. "Now give me another one."
The oversensitivity is brutal. Every stroke of his fingers sends sparks through your nerves, pleasure and pain tangled so tight you can't separate them. Your hips try to twist away, but his other hand slams down on your hip, pinning you in place.
"Take it." His voice drops, dark and commanding. "Take it. You can give me one more. I've seen you give me five. Don't tell me you're done after one."
"I can't—"
"You can." He doesn't let up. Doesn't slow. His thumb keeps circling your clit, and the second wave is already building, rising out of the aftershocks of the first. "Look at me."
You do. His eyes are locked on yours, dark and hungry and full of something that makes your chest ache.
"I've got you," he says. "Let go. I'll catch you."
And you do.
The second orgasm hits harder than the first. It rips through you, pulls you under before you can breathe, and this time you don't scream—you just make a sound, high and broken, your whole body arching off the mattress as you clench around his fingers. He keeps moving through it, slow, steady, milking every last drop until you're limp beneath him, trembling, gasping for air.
He pulls his fingers out slowly. Drags them through the mess he made, then brings them to his mouth. His eyes never leave yours as he sucks them clean.
"Good girl," he murmurs. And then he leans down and kisses you—soft, gentle, like he didn't just destroy you. "That's my good girl."
The apartment is yours — yours and his, though most days it feels more like his with the way the living room smells like cheap beer and the remnants of whatever instant ramen he and his friends crushed between rounds of whatever game they're hooked on tonight. You stand in the doorway of the bedroom, your bare feet pressing into the carpet, wearing nothing but one of his shirts — black, worn soft, hanging loose off your shoulder. You'd been lying in bed scrolling through the same apps for the last hour, the glow of your phone doing nothing to kill the boredom coiling in your chest. The walls aren't thick enough to mute the sound of his voice from down the hall — low, casual, slipping into that familiar rhythm he uses when he's playing with the guys. Gojo's laugh cuts through the static every few minutes, sharp and obnoxious, and you hear Sukuna grunt something, probably a complaint, probably about dying.
You push off the doorframe and walk toward the sound.
The office door is cracked open, yellow light spilling across the hallway floor. You can see him through the gap — broad back hunched forward in his gaming chair, headset crooked over his dark hair, bare shoulders catching the glow of the monitor. He's shirtless. Sweatpants. Barefoot. His thumb moves over the controller with the kind of muscle memory that doesn't require thought.
You push the door open just enough to slip through, and you lean against the wall just inside, watching him for a second. He doesn't notice you. His jaw is set, his brows pulled together in that focused way he gets — tongue pressing against his bottom lip.
You whisper his name.
“Toji.”
He doesn't hear. Gojo is yelling something about a supply drop.
You try again, softer this time, the sound barely leaving your mouth.
“Toji.”
This time, his head snaps around. His eyes find you — dark, sharp, and something in them shifts immediately. The game noise continues through his headset, tinny and distant, but he's not looking at the screen anymore. He's looking at you. At the shirt. At your legs. At the way you're pressing your thighs together, bored and needy and not even trying to hide it.
He doesn't say anything. Just lifts his chin. Come here.
You cross the room in a few quiet steps, and he shifts back in the chair, making room. Your body moves before you think about it — settling onto his lap, His thighs are solid underneath you, the skin warm through the sweatpants. His left hand lands on your hip automatically, his right still holding the controller, the game still running on the screen behind him.
His mouth finds your ear.
“What's wrong?”
You shake your head, tucking your face into the curve of his neck. The skin there is warm, salted faintly from the night. You can smell him — soap and something muskier underneath, the scent that clings to his pillow.
“Nothing. I just missed you.”
His thumb traces a slow circle against your hip bone. He doesn't say anything back, but his arm curls around your waist, pulling you closer against his chest. The game resumes. Explosions pop on the monitor. Gojo's voice rattles through the headset, but it all sounds far away.
You rest your head on his shoulder and let your eyes close.
For a few minutes, it's just that — you on his lap, his heart beating steady against your cheek, the controller clicking under his thumbs. The boring night is suddenly worth it. The boredom, the restlessness, the way you'd been tossing around in bed — all of it melts when you're this close to him.
His mouth brushes your ear again.
“Are you hungry?”
You shake your head, the movement pressing your nose deeper into his neck.
“No.”
“Thirsty?“
“No.“
His chest rumbles with a quiet sound, something between a hum and a laugh. “Then you just wanted to be close.“
It's not a question. You don't answer.
From the headset, Gojo's voice cuts through: “Yo, who are you talking to? I just heard you say something.“
Toji's thumb pauses on the controller. His jaw ticks. You feel the small tension run through him before he answers, his voice flat, casual.
“Nobody. Just my mom.“
“Your mom?“ Gojo's laugh is sharp. “Why the hell is your mom calling you this late?“
“She needed something. Look, hurry it up, guys. I gotta go soon.“
Sukuna's voice, low and heavy: “Why?“
“My mom needs me to do something. Let's wrap this round.“
The words are clipped, dismissive. Toji reaches up and mutes the microphone on his headset in one fluid motion, dropping his hand back to your waist. The sound of his friends' voices continues faintly through the speakers — Gojo still complaining, Gato saying something you don't catch, Choso's quieter tone asking about loot.
But Toji isn't listening to them anymore.
His hand slides from your hip to your jaw, fingers curling under your chin, and he lifts your head from his shoulder. His eyes meet yours — dark, heavy-lidded, the way they get when he's decided something. He doesn't ask. He just leans in and kisses you.
The kiss is slow at first, a warm press of his mouth against yours, his thumb stroking along your jawline. But it deepens quickly — his tongue sliding against your bottom lip, his hand moving from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. The controller drops onto his thigh. The screen flickers forgotten. You taste the faint remnant of whatever drink he had earlier — something sweet and sharp.
His hand slides down your body, palm skimming over the curve of your waist, over your hip, settling on your bare thigh where the shirt has ridden up. His fingers press into the skin, warm and deliberate.
He pulls back just enough to speak, his voice low, rough against your mouth.
“Lift your hips up a bit.“
You do.
His hands find the waistband of his sweatpants, pushing them down enough to free himself. Your panties — the only thing you wore under his shirt — get slid to the side, the fabric pulled tight against your hip. You feel the heat of him against your thigh first, then the press of his tip against your entrance, barely there, just resting.
“Kiss me,“ he says.
You do.
His mouth covers yours as he pushes up into you. Slow. Inch by inch. The stretch makes you gasp against his lips, and he swallows the sound, his tongue sliding into your mouth, his hand pressing flat against your lower back to keep you steady. You feel every inch of him filling you, the heat spreading through your stomach, your thighs trembling as you take all of him.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe against your mouth, “Good girl.“
Then he pats your hip.
“Go ahead. Move.“
You start slow, rocking your hips, adjusting to the fullness of him inside you. The chair creaks beneath you, a soft rhythm that you try to control, try to keep quiet. Your hands find his shoulders, your nails pressing into his skin as you rise and fall, finding the pace that makes your toes curl.
From the speakers: “Yo, Toji, you there?“
Toji's voice is calm, steady — like he isn't buried inside you, like your hips aren't rolling against his, like your breath isn't stuttering against his collarbone.
“Yeah, I'm here. Almost done.“
You bury your face in his neck, biting down on your lip, forcing the sounds down your throat. His hand finds your ass, palm flat, fingers pressing into the flesh as you move, guiding you up and down, setting a rhythm that has your thighs burning and your stomach tightening.
He leans close to your ear, his voice barely a whisper.
“You're doing so good, baby. Keep going. Just like that.“
The praise curls through you, hot and desperate, and you pick up the pace, rocking harder, the chair groaning beneath you. His hand grips your ass tighter, guiding you faster, deeper.
On the monitor, his character stands still. Gojo is yelling something about a storm closing in. Choso says something about rotating.
Toji's free hand reaches up, fumbles for the headset unmute button.
“Hey guys, I gotta go. My mom's waiting.“
Sukuna: “The hell she want at this hour?“
“Something. Later.”
He yanks the headset off and tosses it onto the desk.
The moment the connection cuts, his other hand cups the back of your head, tilting your face up, and he kisses you hard — open-mouthed, hungry, his tongue sliding against yours. His hand on your ass stops guiding and starts gripping, fingers digging into your flesh as he bucks up into you, taking control of the rhythm.
You stop holding back.
The moans spill out against his mouth, his name breaking apart on your tongue. “Toji—“
“Fuck,“ he breathes, his forehead pressing against yours, his eyes half-lidded, dark. “You feel so good. So fucking good for me.“
His hand moves, slipping between your bodies, his thumb finding where you're joined, pressing in slow circles. Your whole body jerks, a sharp cry catching in your throat.
“Let go,“ he says, his voice rough, almost a growl. “Cum for me. I've got you.“
You do.
The orgasm hits you like a wave breaking — your body clenching around him, your nails dragging down his shoulders, your mouth pressed to his, swallowing his groan as he follows, spilling inside you with a shudder that runs through both of you.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. His forehead stays pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard, the air thick and warm between you.
Then his hand comes up to grip your ass again, squeezing, and he kisses you slow — lazy and deep, the kind of kiss that says he's not done with you, but he's satisfied for now.
You whimper against his mouth.
He laughs softly, the sound vibrating through his chest.
“Stay.“
You don't argue.
You settle back onto his shoulder, your body still wrapped around his, still connected, the warmth of him deep inside you. Your legs drape over the sides of the chair, your head finds the curve of his neck, and you let your eyes close.
He picks the headset back up. Unmutes.
“Alright. I'm back.“
Gojo's voice: “The hell happened with your mom?“
“Nothing. She just needed help with something.“
Sukuna: “Took you long enough.“
“Shut up and play.“
His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your hip. The game resumes on the screen — gunfire, footsteps, someone yelling about a heal. You can feel every word he says vibrating through his chest, feel the pulse still thrumming in his neck beneath your cheek, feel him still inside you, warm and solid and yours.
You smile against his skin and let your breath settle into his rhythm.
The bedroom is dim, just the amber glow of the bedside lamp cutting through the shadows. Toji's sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head hanging forward. His work shirt is half-unbuttoned, hanging open over his chest. The muscles in his shoulders are corded tight from a long fucking day—you can see it in the way he breathes, deep and slow, like he's still carrying the weight of whatever bullshit went down.
You crawl across the floor and settle between his spread thighs. The carpet is rough against your bare knees. He doesn't look up at first, just lets out a long, tired exhale, and you watch his chest rise and fall. His cock is already half-hard, straining against his boxers, a dark spot of precum blooming at the fabric.
"You gonna take care of me or just stare all night?" His voice is rough, shot through with exhaustion and something darker.
You reach up and palm him through the cotton, feeling the heat of him, the weight. He twitches under your hand and finally lifts his head, those heavy-lidded eyes locking on you. His hand comes down to cup the back of your skull, thumb rubbing a slow circle behind your ear.
"Been waiting for this all day," he says, voice dropping low. "Thinking about that pretty mouth while I was dealing with those fucking idiots. Only thing that kept me from killing someone."
You tug his boxers down and his cock springs free, thick and fully hard now, the head flushed dark. Precum glistens at the tip, and you lean in without hesitating, running your tongue flat along the underside from base to tip. He hisses through his teeth, his grip in your hair tightening.
"Yeah, there you go. Use that tongue."
You swirl your tongue around the head, tasting salt and the faint bitterness of his precum, and then you take him into your mouth. Your lips stretch wide around the girth of him. You bob your head slowly, letting him feel every inch of your throat, your tongue, the wet heat of your mouth.
His hips shift, pressing deeper. "That's it. Open up. Take it all, you greedy little slut."
You moan around him and the vibration makes his breath hitch. You work your way down until your nose brushes the coarse hair at his base, his cock lodged deep in your throat. You hold there, eyes watering, throat clenching around him, and you look up at him from between his thighs.
He's watching you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, lips parted. A vein pulses in his neck.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Look at those fucking eyes. Begging for more while you're choking on my cock. You love this, don't you? Love having your throat stuffed full."
You can't answer, can't do anything but hum and swallow around him, tears spilling over your lashes. He pulls you off by the hair, letting you gasp for air, and slaps his cock against your wet lips.
"You gonna answer me or just drool all over yourself?"
"Yes," you choke out, voice raw. "I love it, I love—"
"Didn't ask you to talk," he cuts in, but there's a smirk tugging at his mouth now. He guides his cock back between your lips and you take him eagerly, opening your throat, letting him use you.
He sets a rhythm—slow, deep thrusts that press you down onto him until you gag, then a pause, then another. His breathing gets ragged, his hips losing their rhythm. Your hands grip his thighs, nails digging in, and the sounds you make are obscene—wet, thick, desperate.
"Fuck, I'm close," he growls. "You want it on that pretty face, don't you? Want me to paint you up so everyone knows who you belong to?"
You moan your agreement around his cock and that's all the answer he needs. He pulls out swiftly, hand already working his shaft, and you keep your mouth open, tongue out, looking up at him with ruined, watery eyes.
The first shot hits your tongue, thick and hot. The second lands across your lips and cheek. He strokes himself through it, groaning, and ropes of cum streak across your nose, your eyelids, your forehead. Drops land in your hair and slide down your temple. You feel it dripping off your chin, warm and slick, pooling on your thighs where you kneel.
He keeps going until he's empty, his chest heaving, his softening cock still in his hand. You're a mess. Cum drips from your lashes, from the tip of your nose, sliding slow and white down your cheek. Your lips are swollen, your throat raw, and you're still kneeling there, looking up at him like he hung the moon.
You swallow the cum in your mouth, then lick your lips. Your voice comes out small and shaky.
"Did I do a good job?"
His hand cups your jaw, thumb smearing cum across your cheekbone. He tilts your face side to side, admiring his work.
"Yeah, you did good."
"And..." you hesitate, voice barely a whisper. "Am I a good girl?"
He lets out a low laugh, rough and fond, and leans down to press his lips—sticky with sweat and spit—against your forehead.
