⡴ gym teacher!sukuna has an embarrassingly known crush on school nurse!reader
lowkey wanna turn this into a full oneshot
if he heard one more twelve year old’s squeaky voice whispering to one another, saying he’s ‘got a crush on the school nurse’ he swears he’s gonna write up the whole grade.
god, it’s even worse when one of the eighth grade girls come up to him when he’s on lunch duty.
“mr., mr. ! did you know the nurse mentioned she likes tall guys when i went into her room for a tylenol !”
“what does that have to do with me ?” he grumbles, scrunching his face while the girl and her friend stare up at him.
“well everyone knows you like like her—”
“GO SIT DOWN!”
he swears the whole lunchroom conveniently goes quiet when he yells that as the girls squirm away back to their tables and start whispering around gossip.
and even worse than the girls that draw hearts around you and sukuna’s staff photos next to eachother in the main office, he’s got gojo. gojo, who ships you two and nags him like worse-than a middle school girl. gojo, who shoves you two together for any school event.
“what game do you have planned for tomorrow?” you ask, leaning over to whisper to sukuna as eighth grade awards are called for each subject, timing claps inbetween your words while names are called. you smirk, “how many kids am i gonna have sent my way next time?”
“just dodgeball.” he leans down to whisper flatly against your ear, still staring down a kid giggling in the seating rows of the auditorium and effectively getting him to stop with his gaze.
“your version of dodgeball is basically to the death, i might have to have paramedics in my room on standby.” you joke, turning to smile at him so sweetly. in his mind, this counts as him making you laugh and therefore counts as a win.
he chuckles lightly, just a quick huff of his chest, but essentially the hardest he can laugh if he’s not looking at a kid getting tackled in class. “these kids will toughen up eventually, i am just teaching them to do it early.”
“were you a weak kid that needed to toughen up? i can really only picture you as a big scary dude.”
“i was actually a severely malnourished child due to my mothers impoverished state during her pregnancy.“ he says, truly not realizing how solemn he sounds in his voice even as he means it as a light hearted jest.
you blink at him, face contorted in confusion and awkwardness. he wants to hit himself.
the only thing that saves him from not saying anything stupid again is the end of the assembly, marked by gojo yelling into a megaphone and for kids to round up by homeroom.
the following week he’s still embarrassed to even look you in the eyes. he’s mulling over how stupid he must’ve looked infront of you while sifting through the equipment closet.
he hears steps echo throughout the currently empty gym before he yells out.
“gojo i’m not covering your lunch break, fuck off—” he turns around to not see the usual suspect he finds during his free period. instead, he sees you, leaning against the door in scrubs and white coat clinging to your body. he stills in his motion.
you speak before he can (if he can speak at all in his embarrassed state).
“i understand the confusion, he bothers me all the time too.” you dismiss, smiling at him with your glossed lips he probably thinks about hourly. waitwaitwait, gojo talks to you all the time ? he’s going to kill that lanky fuck. “just wanted to drop these off for yuri in your next period.” you jostle around a pill bottle in your hand, “she can get fainty on gym days so give these to her just in case to help prevent that.” he knows it’s your job and all, but your concern is honestly kinda cute.
“uhh yeah i’ll be sure to.” he nods, right as you drop the bottle on top of a stack of rubber cones by the door before you walk out. and he would just like it to be known he definitely didn’t stare at your ass as you left.
and he typically makes it easier for himself to deny how down bad he is to you, but now, after you spent a week of saved up sick days out last week, he’s kind of craving your voice. so who can blame him when he calls his 6th grade nephew into his office while he’s supposed to be at lunch.
“look, kid. i’m going to need you to do something, and i’m gonna need you to not be annoying about it, kay?”
yuji furrows his brows, fiddling with the strings of his hoodie.
“you,” he gestures to his nephew, “are going to act like you collapsed and let me bring you up to the school nurse. you are then going to be quiet when i talk to her.”
“is it cause you have a crush on her—”
sukuna tenses before cutting him off.
“do a good job acting and i will consider buying you that human earthworm blu-ray. do you hear me, brat?”
yuji’s eyes light up at the mention of the dvd.
“is this impression good enough then?” yuji leans and clutches at his side in fake fatigue while moaning dramatically for help, then immediately straightens up with a smile like he’s waiting for a rating. sukuna shakes his head and genuinely wonders how he’s related to this—in sukuna’s words— pea brained doofus.
he dials your number on his offices phone, sitting tense in his chair while he shh’s yuji. yuji nods and salutes as sukuna continues to roll his eyes.
yuji could’ve sworn he saw him smile when you pick up. he continues to watch sukuna fiddle with the curled wire of the phone as he explains yuji’s apparently dire situation. he can just barely hear the muffled sound of you saying ‘just bring him up and i’ll check him out.” over the speaker of the phone before sukuna hangs up and fixes his hair.
sukuna walks out the door and desperately tries to ignore yuji’s terrible post fainting impression behind him as his nephew follows his step to your room.
just before they step into your room he whispers to yuji as he leans over.
“if you can bring up me being single i’ll take you out for ice cream, brat.”
you step into your apartment, keys dropped somewhere, shoes half-kicked off, your bag slumped against the tile.
“you’re late.”
his voice comes from the living room, low and steady. you peek around the corner and there he is, tie loosened, sleeves rolled. higuruma doesn’t look up right away, pen still moving.
“double shift,” you mumble, voice scratchy. “someone called in sick. then someone else. then a code blue—”
he looks up and clicks his pen shut, soft smile on his face. “come here, love.”
you shuffle over, limbs heavy. he stands before you reach him and his hand comes up, thumb brushing under your eye.
“you didn’t eat,” he says.
“i did,” you lie weakly.
his brow twitches. he doesn’t argue. instead, he exhales, slowly, and sits back down.
“sit.”
you expect the couch. instead, he guides you down onto his lap, firm hands at your waist before you can protest. you let out a soft noise, half-surprised, half-relieved, melting against him without meaning to.
“you’re burning out,” he murmurs against your temple.
“mm. can’t. patients—”
“i know.” his voice softens, almost unbearably so. “i know.”
his hand slides up your back, slow and grounding.
you sigh, head dropping into his shoulder. his fingers trace absent patterns along your spine, then lower, then back up again, deliberate, thoughtful.
“you take care of everyone,” he says, voice dipping. “but you come home like this.” his grip tightens just a little at your waist. “that’s unacceptable.”
you huff a tired laugh. “sort of my job.”
his hand slips under the hem of your shirt, palm warm against your skin. you inhale sharply, more awake now, nerves flickering back to life under his touch.
“hiromi…”
“you need to be reminded,” he continues, voice calm but laced with something heavier now, “that you’re allowed to feel good too.”
his lips brush your ear and you curl your fingers onto his shirt. “will you let me take care of you, love?” he murmurs into your neck, kissing the crook of it softly.
you nod into his chest and he hums, slowly turning you so your back is to the couch, and he sinks to his knees between your legs, large palms spreading your thighs as he gazes up at you with a softness that makes you ache.
“will you let me?” he repeats, quieter, tugging down your scrubs and kissing the soft skin of your thighs.
“y—yeah,” you breathe out, sighing, tugging at his hair.
hiromi always has you cumming in minutes.
it never takes long with him and his gentle, reverent kisses. the way he knows each spot that makes you squirm. how his tongue laps at your cunt so carefully, licking and pushing into you with practiced ease.
these kinds of nights end the same way too. after you fall apart on his tongue, moaning his name between gasps, he carries you to bed, eats you out again, then fucks you slowly and deeply and softly.
until your mind goes quiet and your body finally, finally rests. his touch stays unhurried, like there’s nowhere else he needs to be. and when he presses his forehead to yours, it feels less like an ending and more like something he plans to keep proving to you, over and over again.
ꮼ sweetheart fratboy!sukuna & you make each other feel special after the first time
ᦸ making love is sweet, but aftercare is sweeter.
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 : art is by hunnismokah. ⸝⸝ valentine event. ⸝⸝ not proofread.
"Wow." That was the first word from your boyfriend's lips after collapsing onto your chest.
Nothing big or extravagant, just a sweet reverent "wow" that he'd purred into your throat.
He'd been very aware that you'd been a virgin—patiently waiting till you were completely ready, & he made sure to treat you like a princess the entire night.
Thoroughly fucked-out and tired, and he still looked heavenly as he pressed soft kisses up your jaw, pulling back just enough to cradle your face with rough fingertips.
"You okay?" He whispered, taking in the sight of your mussed-up hair as smeared makeup with a breathy groan, "Didn't go too rough on ya?"
"M' fine." You assured, fingers ghosting over the various scratches you'd left on Ryomen's back. "I think I did just a little more damage than you did."
He ducked down, pressing two gentle kisses to your lips. "You need anything? Water? Snack? Sleep? Anything—I'll get it."
"Ryo—" you groaned, lips chasing after his for a proper kiss. "—I'm fine. Calm down; there's no need for you to be more nervous than me, idiot." You teased, tugging him down on top of you.
"I just want to make sure tonight's memorable for you and perfect." He huffed, shoving his face into the crook of your neck, beefy arms quickly finding purchase around your waist.
There was no secret how careful he'd been in your entire relationship; stereotypes of frat boys always being total dicks, or playboys—he constantly made sure you knew he wasn't like that.
Ryomen always wanted to make it obvious just how much he loved you—in his own peculiar ways, of course, that you'd grown fond of.
Even when he was a bumbling, worried idiot instead of the smooth romantic he normally was.
You dug your nose into the pink tuffs of hair with a sigh. "Ryo, baby. I was with you." Your fingers rubbed soothingly over his back, a deeper flush dusting your cheeks as he kissed your shoulder. "You already made it perfect."
"Yeah? So I didn't ruin your first time?" He sighed, grip tightening & pressing quick kisses down your shoulder. "I was so worried I had."
"Baby... you've got to be kidding me," you groaned, tangling your hand into his hair to peel him off. "I'm still seeing stars, you idiot—it was amazing. You made me feel amazing. I was worried it wasn't good for you."
One quick kiss to his lips, a second.
"You did so good for me, you know." He whispered, tapping his forehead against yours. "Only an idiot would think that was less than perfect."
"Oh, you're just saying that." You groaned, eyes rolling just a little as Ryomen's thumb rubbed teasingly slow over your hipbone. "You just want to make me feel better."
"No. Not at all," Suluna rasped, dragging a hand up your side. "That was heavenly for me. I have never felt like that before." He pressed his lips to yours again for another chaste kiss. "You're perfect."
You simply hummed, eyes flickering over his face quickly, settling on his lips. "Yeah? You promise?"
"Yes. I promise, pretty girl. This has been the best night of my life."
bully! shoko nudging the tip of her strap deep into her quiet little dormmate's hole, fucking your ass and burying herself deep into your ass to claim the anal virginity she feels entitled to. one hand on your hip and the other pronouncing the arch in your back as she pounds into you and watches your ass jiggle with each thrust. she snakes an arm between your thighs, harshly circling your clit and cutting off your tearful whines with a harsh 'shut up', telling you to take it until she rips a mind-numbing orgasm out of you.
︵ ೀ mdni. barista!suguru who writes.. special instructions on your coffee cup every morning
the first time you noticed geto suguru behind the counter, it was innocent enough.
late afternoon light slanted through the big front windows of the little indie shop tucked between a bookstore and a vinyl record place. the air smelled like fresh grounds and cedar. he wore a black apron tied loose around narrow hips, sleeves rolled to the elbows, long dark hair pulled into a messy half-bun that somehow looked deliberate. when you ordered your usual oat flat white, he didn’t smile the customer-service smile. he just looked at you—hazel eyes steady, almost amused, like he already knew you’d be back tomorrow.
“extra hot?” he asked, voice low and smooth, the kind that settled warm in your stomach.
“always,” you said.
he nodded once. wrote your name on the cup in sharp, slanted handwriting. when he handed it over, his fingers brushed yours for half a second longer than necessary. you told yourself it was nothing.
but you came back the next day. and the day after.
it started small.
a doodled cat on your cup sleeve one morning. then a tiny middle finger the next time you complained about the line being slow (he’d smirked when you laughed). then words: “you look tired. rough night?” scrawled under your name. you wrote back on a napkin—“you offering to make it better?”—and left it under your empty mug. he found it after closing, apparently, because the next day your cup said “maybe. close at 8. don’t be late.”
you showed up at 7:55 wearing the shortest skirt you owned and a cropped sweater that left a thin strip of stomach bare. the shop was quiet, last customers trickling out. he flipped the open sign to closed, locked the door, drew the blinds with one slow tug of the cord. slats of the blinds rattled softly as they dropped, cutting the late-afternoon glow into thin golden stripes across the wooden floor. the shop went quiet except for the low hiss of the espresso machine cooling down and the faint tick of the wall clock.
geto turned the key in the lock with a decisive click. then he faced you.
no apron now. just the black t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, jeans slung low enough that you could see the sharp cut of his hipbones when he moved. he walked toward you slow, deliberate, like he was giving you time to change your mind.
you didn’t.
he stopped close enough that you could smell coffee and clean skin and something faintly smoky, like incense he burned at home. his eyes flicked down to your mouth, then lower—to the way your cropped sweater rode up just enough to show skin, to the hem of your skirt that barely skimmed mid-thigh.
“you came back,” he said. voice quieter now, rougher at the edges.
“you told me not to be late.”
a small, crooked smile. “i did.”
his hand lifted. fingertips grazed the bare strip of your waist, light at first, testing. when you didn’t flinch—when you actually leaned into it—his palm flattened, warm and sure, sliding up under the hem of your sweater until his thumb brushed the underside of your breast. no bra. just soft skin and the quick rise of your breathing.
“fuck,” he breathed, almost to himself. “no underwear either?”
“panties,” you corrected, voice catching when his thumb circled higher, grazing your nipple. “just… not much of them.”
his other hand found the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head so he could look at you properly. hazel eyes dark now, pupils blown.
“show me.”
it wasn’t a question.
you reached down, caught the hem of your skirt, and dragged it up slow. the black lace came into view—thin straps, barely-there triangle in front, already damp at the center. his gaze dropped like a physical touch. he exhaled hard through his nose.
“turn around.”
you did. palms flat on the counter. he stepped in behind you, chest to your back, heat rolling off him. one arm banded around your waist, pulling you flush against the hard line of his cock through his jeans. the other hand slid down, cupping you over the lace, middle finger pressing right against your clit through the fabric.
you gasped. he groaned low against your ear.
“already soaked. been thinking about this all shift?”
“yes.”
“me too.” he rocked against you once, slow grind, letting you feel every thick inch. “kept getting hard every time you walked in. had to go in the back and breathe for a minute.”
his fingers slipped under the edge of the lace, found slick skin, parted you gently. one long finger circled your entrance, teasing, then pushed in knuckle-deep. you moaned, loud in the empty shop. he added a second, curled them, pressed against that spot that made your knees buckle.
“that’s it,” he murmured. “let me hear you. no one else gets to now.”
he worked you open slow, filthy wet sounds filling the quiet. thumb on your clit, steady circles, fingers stroking inside until your thighs shook. when you started to clench around him he pulled out—abrupt—leaving you empty and whining.
“not yet.”
he spun you around, lifted you onto the counter in one smooth motion. your ass hit the cool wood, skirt rucked up around your hips. he stepped between your thighs, shoved them wider with his hips. hands on your waist, he tugged the cropped sweater up and over your head. tossed it somewhere behind him.
bare now except for the scrap of lace and the skirt bunched at your waist. he looked at you like he was starving.
then he dropped to his knees.
right there on the floor behind the counter. broad shoulders forcing your legs apart. he hooked the lace aside with two fingers, bared you completely, and licked a slow, flat stripe from your entrance to your clit.
your head fell back. “fuck—suguru—”
he growled against you at the sound of his name. sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking fast, then slow, then fast again. two fingers slid back inside, pumping in time with his mouth. you grabbed his hair, the messy bun coming loose, black strands spilling over your thighs.
he ate you like he’d been fantasizing about it for weeks. messy. hungry. nose pressed to your mound, lips sealed around you, humming low so the vibration shot straight through your core. when your hips started bucking he pinned them down with one forearm across your pelvis, held you still so he could devour.
you came hard. thighs clamping around his head, back arching off the counter, a broken cry tearing out of your throat. he didn’t stop—kept licking through it, slower now, until you were trembling and oversensitive and pushing weakly at his shoulders.
he stood. wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes glassy and dark. jeans unbuttoned, cock already out—thick, flushed, leaking at the tip. he fisted himself once, twice, staring at the mess he’d made between your legs.
“condom?” you managed.
“wallet. back pocket.”
you reached around him, fished it out, tore the packet with your teeth. rolled it on him with shaking fingers. he hissed when your hand closed around him—hot, velvet-hard, twitching in your grip.
“now,” he said. voice wrecked. “need to be inside you.”
he lined up, nudged the head against your entrance, pushed in slow.
you both groaned.
he was thick—stretching you open inch by inch until he bottomed out, hips flush to yours. he stayed there a second, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.
“so fucking tight,” he muttered. “knew you’d feel like this.”
then he started moving. slow at first. deep, rolling thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. hands on your ass, pulling you into each stroke. the counter creaked under you. your nails dug into his shoulders through his shirt.
faster. harder.
skin slapping skin. wet, obscene sounds. his mouth on your throat, sucking marks you’d have to cover tomorrow. one hand slid up to palm your breast, thumb rolling your nipple, pinching just enough to make you clench around him.
“fuck—do that again,” he growled.
you did. clenched hard. he swore, hips snapping forward, pace turning brutal.
“gonna come,” you gasped. “suguru—i’m—”
“come for me.” he reached between you, thumb finding your clit, rubbing fast messy circles. “come on my cock. let me feel it.”
you shattered again. harder this time. walls fluttering, pulsing, milking him. he fucked you through it—short, sharp thrusts—until his rhythm broke. he buried himself deep, groaned long and low against your neck, hips jerking as he came. you felt the pulse of him inside the condom, the way his whole body tensed then shuddered.
for a long minute neither of you moved. just panting, sweat-slick, tangled together on the counter that still smelled faintly of coffee grounds.
he pulled out slow. tied off the condom, tossed it in the trash under the register like it was nothing. then he was back between your thighs, softer now, kissing you slow and lazy. tongue sliding against yours, tasting yourself on him.
when he finally pulled back he rested his forehead against yours again.
“you’re coming back tomorrow,” he said. not a question.
you smiled, still breathless. “only if you write something dirtier on my cup.”
he laughed—low, rough, real. kissed the corner of your mouth.
“deal.”
he helped you down. fixed your skirt. found your sweater. walked you to the door, unlocked it, held it open. outside the street was dark, lamps just flickering on. he leaned in one last time. murmured against your ear: “wear even less next time.”
then he shut the door behind you, flipped the lock, and disappeared into the dim shop—leaving you standing on the sidewalk, thighs still trembling, tasting coffee and him on your tongue, already counting the hours until morning.
the next morning you walk in at 7:42, hair still damp from the shower, wearing the same skirt but a different top—something soft and low-cut that clings when you move. the bell above the door chimes. geto is already behind the counter, sleeves rolled, hair tied back again. he doesn’t look up right away. just keeps pulling shots, steam wand hissing.
when it’s your turn he finally meets your eyes. slow smile. the kind that says he remembers exactly how you tasted last night.
“usual?” he asks.
“extra hot,” you reply, voice steady even though your pulse isn’t.
he nods. writes on the cup. slides it across the counter without a word.
you take it. flip the sleeve.
in his sharp handwriting:
“wear red ones today. i want to know they’re soaked by noon.”
your thighs clench on instinct. you glance up—he’s already serving the next person, expression neutral, like he didn’t just tell you to ruin your panties thinking about him.
you leave without answering. but you do change into red lace set before work.
the day after that:
“no bra. let me see how hard your nipples get when you read this.”
you obey. the sweater you pick is thin cashmere. every time the ac kicks on, the fabric drags across your chest and you have to bite your lip to keep from moaning in the middle of a meeting.
by the third morning he’s escalated.
“touch yourself in the bathroom before you leave the office. send proof. one finger. don’t come.”
you do it in the single-stall restroom on the fourth floor, back against the door, skirt hiked, middle finger circling slow while you stare at your phone screen—his message staring back. you snap the photo: just your hand between your thighs, lace pushed aside, glistening. send it. heart hammering.
his reply comes thirty seconds later. one word.
“good girl.”
that afternoon you show up at closing again. this time he doesn’t bother with small talk. door locked. blinds down. he’s on you before the deadbolt clicks—mouth crashing into yours, hands shoving your skirt up, finding the red lace already dark and clinging.
“fuck, you listened,” he mutters against your lips. fingers slip inside the fabric, two plunging deep without warning. you gasp into his kiss. “been wet for me all day?”
“since morning,” you admit.
he groans. spins you around. bends you over the same counter. yanks the lace down your thighs just enough to bare you. you hear his zipper, the crinkle of foil. then he’s there—thick head nudging, pushing in slow, stretching you open until your palms slap the wood and your back arches.
“hold still,” he says. voice gravel. one hand fists your hair, the other grips your hip. he bottoms out in one smooth thrust. you both curse at the same time.
he doesn’t give you time to adjust. starts fucking you hard—deep, punishing strokes that make the counter rattle, cups and spoons clinking in their trays. every time he bottoms out you feel the blunt head kiss that spot inside that makes your vision blur.
“you like this?” he growls. “getting railed where anyone could walk by if i forgot to lock up?”
“yes—fuck—suguru—”
“come for me. right here. let the whole street hear how much you need it.”
you do. shattering around him, walls pulsing, thighs shaking so hard he has to hold you up. he fucks you through it—relentless—until his rhythm stutters and he buries himself deep, coming with a low, broken groan against the back of your neck.
he stays inside you for a minute after. breathing hard. kissing the sweat-damp skin behind your ear.
then he pulls out slow. cleans you up with a stack of napkins like it’s the most normal thing in the world. helps you fix your skirt. kisses you soft this time—lazy, lingering.
“tomorrow,” he says. “i’m writing something worse.”
the pattern sets.
every morning a new message. filthier each time.
“finger yourself under your desk during your 10 a.m. call. think of my tongue.”
“no panties today. spread your legs when you sit at the counter. let me see.”
“come in at lunch. i’ll eat you out in the storage room.”
you obey them all.
some days you fuck right after your shift coffee—him bending you over the back counter, skirt shoved up, one of your legs hooked over his shoulder while the espresso machine gurgles like background music.
other days he drags you into the tiny storage room between sacks of beans and stacks of cups. door barely shut. he drops to his knees again, hikes one of your thighs over his shoulder, and licks you until you’re gripping shelves, biting your own arm to stay quiet while boxes of syrup rattle above your head.
once he makes you ride him in the office chair behind the register. blinds cracked just enough for slivers of streetlight to stripe across your bare tits as you bounce. he watches like he’s memorizing every roll of your hips, every hitch in your breath. when you clench around him he flips you onto the desk, papers scattering, and fucks up into you until you both come so hard the chair wheels squeak across the floor.
the messages keep coming.
“tonight. my place. no underwear. i want to fuck you against every window.”
“call in sick tomorrow. i’m closing early. going to take my time.”
“you’re mine now. say it when you walk in.”
you do.
every single morning.
and every night he proves it again—slow, filthy, relentless—until the only thing written on your skin is his name in bruises and bite marks, and the only instructions you follow are the ones he growls against your throat while he’s buried inside you.
18+, choso x fem reader, smut, marathon sex, cumming dry, cowgirl, college au
choso hasn’t come out of his dorm singlet since finals week started.
and it’s not because of the flu, or exam anxiety. it’s definitely not because he’s been studying.
sex. a lot of it. and not the blushy, fumbling type of sex you'd expect from a guy as quiet as him. the kind of sex that's loud enough to warrant furious knocking on the walls that bar either side of his room from his neighbors that are clearly trying to get a good nights sleep.
fuck, smoke, then fuck again. that’s all the two of you have done since monday morning when you dropped by for a quick round or two of pick-me-up sex to get you through your exams.
and it’s not like a fuck-marathon was his intended plan for finals week. he should be studying, nose in a book at his desk and not, y’know, seven inches deep with his hands clutching the pillows.
“fuck, I think I'm shooting blanks” he whines, face scrunched up with a mix of pleasure and pain. choso's head lolls against the pillows as you ride him with both hands on his heaving chest, bottom lip pinched between his teeth.
“that’s okay.” you breathe, “wanna keep going?” the incessant press of your ass against his hips slows to a tiny roll as you await an answer.
he nods, wordlessly. then clears his throat, screwing his eyes shut as a full body shiver wracks him from head to toe.
"yes--oh fuck." he groans, words coming out garbled. choso's hips jutting up and into you like his body isn't his own. you can feel the way his cock twitches inside of you. how his balls pulse like they always do do when he's about to cum.
except, that telltale feeling of warmth flooding your lower half doesn't come. instead, two strong hands curl unravel from the pillows and curl around your thighs, holding you steady and pliant.
"don't. don't move." he grits, eyes still screwed shut. you swear you hear him stifle a whimper between each word.
"did you just cum dry?" you ask him.
"maybe? I don't know. " he huffs. like the question itself is the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard. like nothing else matters besides the fact that he's still hard and throbbing inside of you. "think I'm still--" he cuts himself off with a hearty groan, eyes shooting open as another wave of pleasure takes over.
he interlaces your fingers with a shaky hand, cock still twitching up agains that spot that drives you crazy. you watch in pure awe, rolling your hips just the slightest bit to test the waters, and the noise choso makes is so broken you're positive the neighbors have heard you now.
"keep going." he urges. "I know you know how to, c'mon." choso plants his feet against the mattress, using the newfound leverage to pound into you from below. you feel pleasure surge deep inside your belly, sending shockwaves all the way up to your hairline.
"are you sure?" you whimper, nearing on the edge of your, what, fifth? sixth orgasm of the night? his hands are cupping the curve of your ass now, guiding you up and down on his cock with concerning ease.
"until I pass out." he nods, pulling you in for a sloppy kiss.
you’re already giggling like a menace before he’s even fully inside you.
toji’s got you laid out across the mattress, his huge frame looming over yours, one hand planted beside your head and the other gripping his cock at the base, lazily tapping it against your folds before guiding it in. he’s taking his time with it, which should be sweet— should be romantic— should be kind.
but he’s been teasing you for forty-five minutes. tongue deep in your pussy, fingers pumping slow and mean, mouthing at your tits like he’s got all night, and now he’s dragging this out too??
“you’re so annoying,” you huff dramatically, even though your thighs are trembling and your back’s already arching off the sheets in anticipation.
“hm?” toji murmurs, his voice low and teasing, eyes flicking up at you with that lazy little smirk. “thought you liked my mouth, baby.”
“i do,” you snap, pouty. “that’s not the problem. you’re the problem. you’re being evil on purpose.”
he chuckles, slow and amused, as he finally starts to push the thick, girthy head of his cock into your soaking cunt. you gasp instinctively, but then—
then you remember your plan.
you blink at him, totally deadpan, and say:
“did you put it in?”
toji goes still. literally freezes in place, halfway in. stares at you.
“…what?” he says blankly, like he didn’t hear you right. like maybe he’s about to give you the benefit of the doubt.
you smile sweetly. too sweetly.
“i said,” you repeat slowly, innocently, “did you put it in yet?”
silence.
his jaw flexes.
“…you tryna be funny?”
you shrug, keeping your best straight face even though you can feel your lower half already clenching around the bare minimum he’s given you.
“i mean, i just- i don’t feel anything. maybe you’re not as big as you keep saying you are,” you add with a lilting, bratty smile, knowing damn well the second you open your mouth again, you’re dead.
his brow twitches.
“‘s that right?”
you nod, biting your lip— smug, way too smug, still playing the part of an unbothered princess when really, your fingers are curling tight in the sheets, already dripping and pulsing around the little bit of him he’s fed you.
and then, just to seal your fate, you whisper, “maybe you should go get the other one—”
“shut the fuck up.”
his voice snaps. and so do his hips.
you don’t even get to finish your sentence.
his cock slams into you in one swift, brutal stroke, so deep and sudden your mouth drops open in a choked gasp.
“oh—!” you yelp, legs twitching as your entire body jerks with the force.
“what was that, baby?” toji growls, voice mocking as he draws his hips back and slams in again, harder this time. “didn’t feel it? that right?”
you whimper, toes curling, arms reaching up to shove at his chest—but it’s hopeless. he’s already got your knees hooked over his arms and pressed against your chest, folding you in half, pounding into you so hard the bedframe starts creaking.
“don’t feel anything, huh?” he snarls, not letting up for a second. “then why’s this pussy so fuckin’ loud?”
he’s drilling into you now, hips snapping forward in quick, merciless thrusts, cock stretching you to the brim with each one. the harsh, wet clap of each thrust echoes off the walls, lewd and filthy and unrelenting.
“f-fuck—!” you cry out, hands scrambling for purchase against his biceps, nails digging in as your eyes roll back. “toji, fuck- oh my god!”
he grins, breathless and triumphant.
“there she is. couldn’t hear you over all that smart-ass shit earlier.”
“you’re such a dick—”
“mmhm. and now you’re chokin’ on it, ain’t you?”
he’s right. he’s so fucking deep, the head of his cock battering against that sensitive spot inside you over and over again, his pace going animalistic now. there’s nothing gentle left in him— just raw, punishing need. every stroke knocks the breath out of you, eyes fluttering as your body convulses under him.
“g-god, baby, please, harder—!” you cry out, barely able to get the words out fast enough before his hips pick up speed again, somehow going even faster, cock pistoning in and out of you so hard the entire bed starts to rock beneath you.
“harder?” he growls, sweat dripping from his brow, abs flexing with every thrust. “you sure? might split you open for real, sweetheart.”
“please- want it, want it so bad,” you babble, tears forming in your lashes now, your voice cracking from how hard he’s fucking you. “don’t stop—”
he doesn’t. not for a single second.
you can’t even keep your legs up anymore— he lets them fall limp around his waist, grabs you by the hips, and drags your body up the mattress as he slams into you again and again, fucking you ragged, fucking you completely dumb.
you’re moaning outright now, loud and messy and uncontrollable. every breath, every word, gets knocked out of you before it can form.
“yeah, that’s what i thought,” toji hisses through clenched teeth, voice dripping with self-satisfaction. “don’t talk shit unless you can take it, princess.”
you can’t. you absolutely can’t.
your orgasm detonates inside you, sudden and violent and body-shaking. your cunt spasms around him, milking him desperately as your vision whites out and your back bows off the bed.
toji doesn’t stop. not even when you sob out his name, not even when your body trembles with overstimulation, not even when you’re gasping for air.
he just fucks you through it, chasing his own high now— fast and wild and relentless.
“next time you say some dumb shit like that,” he pants, thrusting hard enough to bounce you up the bed, “i’m not stoppin’ till you pass out.”
and honestly?
you’re already halfway there.
i feel like toji would be saur fun to ragebait in bed bc he’d always fall for it sjdjsjs i need him so bad guys 😣😣😣
𝜗𝜚 maybe giving your hot best friend boner meds wasn’t very smart . . .
( mdni. cw: gojo suffers from erectile dysfunction, reader gives him viagra without him knowing, degradation, dumbification, multiple orgasms, multiple positions, overstim, gojo has a huge dih )
repost !!
you thought you were doing him a favor.
“i’m just saying,” he’d slurred a few nights ago, drunk off three beers and half a shot, head in your lap as he whined about his “tragic dick situation.”
you were scrolling on your phone, half-listening, idly scratching your nails through his hair like you always did when he gets drunk and clingy. “what tragic dick situation?” you asked, barely looking up.
“i think i’m broken, dude.”
your thumb paused over the screen. “…what?”
“no for real,” he groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over his face like he couldn’t bear to speak the words out loud. “couldn’t even get it up the other night. she was hot, too.”
you blinked. “maybe you were nervous?”
he groaned louder. “no. it was limp. like a noodle. a sad, floppy—”
“please shut up.”
“it’s dead, y/n,” he mumbled, with the conviction of a man who just lost everything in the divorce. “i have a ghost dick.”
you had to shove him off your lap for that one, laughing too hard to even be gentle about it. he rolled onto the floor and just lay there, dramatically sprawled, staring at the ceiling with the emptiest expression known to man. you thought it was a joke. something stupid he’d say while drunk and overly theatrical. but later that night, when you’re in bed staring off into space, his words kept replaying in your head.
a ghost dick. a broken dick. gojo satoru… flaccid?
you couldn’t stop thinking about it.
not that you cared about his random hookup or worried for his ego. but because, objectively, there was absolutely no reason for a man like him to ever be soft unless he wanted to be. 6’3, gorgeous, cocky as hell. dumb pretty eyes and long fingers and abs for days. he once moaned in your ear during a horror movie when you jumped and accidentally sat on his lap— said it was your fault. another time he leaned over you to grab the remote and whispered “do i make you nervous?” because your breath hitched. and don’t even get started on the way he’d sometimes walk around your apartment like it was his, half-naked in those cursed grey sweatpants, scratching his toned stomach and yawning like he wasn’t already the center of your personal hell.
so yeah. it wasn’t fair. the universe couldn’t just throw a man like that into your life and then also curse him with a broken dick. it didn’t make sense. it bothered you.
and because your brain was absolutely not wired correctly, you decided to take matters into your own hands.
three— maybe four— little blue pills. the bottle said one, sure, but you wanted to be certain it would take effect. crushed, mixed, stirred into his gatorade before he got there for your usual saturday night hang. he drank it without a second thought, sitting on your couch with one leg folded under him, sipping like he always did while complaining about how hard it is being this hot and pretending not to watch you stretch across the floor in your tiny shorts.
you weren’t even planning on doing anything. not really. you just wanted to see if it worked. wanted proof that his dick still functioned, for scientific purposes or whatever. just a little experiment. harmless!
you did not expect to spend the next hour getting absolutely annihilated.
+
“what the fuck did you give me,” he pants, white strands sticking to his forehead, sweat dripping down his temples, dick still hard, still buried balls deep inside your swollen, aching pussy.
your whole body’s trembling. thighs twitching, arms weak, lungs barely catching breath between sobs. you’ve already cum— twice? no, three times. maybe four. you’re not even keeping track anymore. everything’s sticky, slick, drenched in sweat and spit and the mess between your legs, and your voice comes out wrecked when you finally manage to breathe:
“just… a lil viagra…”
he blinks, once. then laughs— sharp and breathless and slightly unhinged as he grips your hips again, fingertips digging so hard you know you’re gonna bruise. “a little?” he echoes, cock pulsing inside you. “baby, this isn’t a little. this is the fuckin’ olympics.”
you barely get chance to protest before he starts moving again, hips snapping up, driving into you with utmost force like he’s trying to touch your fucking lungs. you squeal, legs kicking uselessly, eyes rolling back as the stretch hits again— painful, dizzying, toe-curling. it doesn’t even feel like you’ve had a break. every inch of your cunt’s raw and sore and he’s still fucking you like he just started. you swear he’s gotten harder. thicker. the first time he pushed in you genuinely thought he was going to break you, and now, it’s just worse. it’s been hell. delicious, addicting, horrifying hell.
“you wanted to help?” he grits out, slamming up again, his voice low and mean, sharp enough to slice through the moan that slips out of you. the squelch from between your legs is embarrassing in volume and way too revealing. “wanted to fix me?”
“yes- i’m sorry, fuck, ‘toru, you’re so big- i didn’t know—!”
“nah,” he spits, pulling out just to ram himself back in all at once, making your entire body spasm. your mouth falls open in a silent cry, tears leaking down your cheeks as your pussy clenches around him, begging for mercy. “don’t apologize now. you did this. you wanted to see if my dick still worked?” he thrusts again, even deeper. “here you fuckin’ go.”
his pace is brutal. relentless. his stamina? inhuman. everytime you try to crawl away, squirm, or twist your hips and breathe, he clasps your thighs and drags you right back down onto him, using your body as his own personal toy. your cunt’s soaked, slippery, stretched out beyond imagination from the constant pressure and the punishing way he keeps fucking into you like he can’t stop— like the drug is pumping through his veins and turning him into a machine. his cock glides in and out with wet, messy sounds, the fat tip dragging across your abused walls, kissing your cervix with every stroke.
“gonna write a report on it?” he huffs against your neck, biting your shoulder hard enough to make you jolt. “‘viagra results: gojo satoru fucks like a demon.’ put that shit in a thesis.”
“shut up—!” you cry, slapping weakly at his arm, but it’s no use. your moans betray you anyway— breathy, high-pitched, stupid. your body’s giving up, your pussy’s giving in, clenching so tight around him it’s like your brain’s trying to melt out of your ears.
“make me,” he snarls, thrusting harder, faster, he’s so deep your vision goes white for a second.
you try. you really do. but he’s fucking you so hard now you can barely think, let alone speak. every word dies on your tongue, strangled by the way your breath stutters, whimpers tumbling out of your mouth like sobs. your moans get slurred, choked, punched out of you with every thrust. your eyes roll back and still, he doesn’t stop.
“fuck, listen to you,” he pants, staring down at the way your tits bounce wildly with every roll of his hips. “actin’ like a lil sex doll. my dumb, pretty fucktoy.” he leans closer, tongue dragging across the rim of your jaw. “you wanted me hard? wanted me desperate? look at what you did to me.”
you nod dumbly, overwhelmed to the point you could hardly remember your own name. the moment those words leave his mouth, your pussy squeezes like it’s trying to trap him in. he groans, deep and ragged, cock twitching violently inside you.
“toru, i can’t, i can’t anymore—” you sob, voice cracking completely.
“yes you can,” he growls, “you will. i’m not done testing.”
and then he flips you over, quick and brutal, your face shoved into the sheets before you even have time to react. you shriek when he yanks your hips up and slams back inside, no warning, no mercy, the angle curves his cock right into your g-spot with maddening precision. you scream into the pillow. scream again when he grabs your hair and pulls, arching your back for him, his hips pistoning into your ass with a sound so loud it’s practically pornographic.
you don’t even try to crawl anymore. it’s pointless. your body’s done. broken in. you just lay there and take it, crying into the sheets while he wrecks you from behind, drilling into you over and over and over. as one of his hands fists your hair, the other’s slapping your ass so hard it burns, the sting blooming across your skin in waves.
“so fuckin’ tight,” he moans, jaw clenched. “so wet. so mine. god, look at you. takin’ this monster cock like you were made for it.”
you can’t stop clenching. can’t stop cumming. he fucks you through another orgasm, and another, until your thighs seize up and your brain’s nothing but static. your drool seeps into the pillow. your moans have dissolved into nothing but mindless gasps and cracked cries. you’re babbling nonsense, stuttering, barely conscious.
and the most terrifying part?
he still isn’t done.
+
you wake up the next morning with your legs completely numb and gojo snuggled up beside you, soft snores puffing against your neck, his heavy arm draped across your waist like dead weight. your entire body aches. your thighs are sticky. your hips feel as if they’ve been dislocated. you try to move— just a little— and immediately regret it. your knees wobble at the mere thought of standing. your pussy’s still twitching, your sheets are ruined, and he’s still somehow half-hard against your ass.
you groan softly. try to sit up. fail instantly.
gojo stirs beside you, yawns into your skin, then peels himself away with a pitiful grunt. he blinks around the room like he has no idea where he is, squints down at his still throbbing erection and mutters something about “fuckin’ viagra from hell” under his breath. then he limps off to the bathroom, still naked, cupping his dick like he’s protecting it from a sniper.
you’re barely awake when your phone buzzes on the nightstand. the screen lights up with a notification.
gojo (dumbass 🫶):
bro
this thing still won’t go down
can’t even piss
help 😭
rip gojo after this bc he’s def dying from that lethal dose of viagra 🕊️💔 (i was debating on reposting this tbhhh, but i feel like i gave enough warnings at the top so if anyone still reads it and gets #triggered then that’s on u babes)
