Limitless Love

- stories written from the heart

[limitlesslovess]

♡ limitless love ♡

jjk fanfics | fluff | angst | romance | smut

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[limitlesslovess]

Toji after a long day of work

Wc: 0.8k

TW: SMUT, degrading, toji is coming back from a bad day of work

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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.

"The best fucking girl I've got."

[owwllly]

on my way

[officially-overit]

Toji is such a disgusting, desperate whore for his girlfriend and he can’t seem to get enough of her.

Tags: cursing, needy Toji, I lowkey wrote this at work during my 15 min break

Back to Masterlist

“Come onnnn, just sit on my face” Toji whined from across the couch, desperate for you.

“No, ‘Ji, let me live in peace.” Shooting him daggers, you turned back to your phone and curled up on the other end of the couch more.

He threw his head back, groaning loudly.

“Come on babe…. I know you want it, I see you squirming over there”

“Im not squirming, I’m scooting away from your disgustingly needy ass.”

“Sure, sure, that’s why I can see the wet spot on your panties from here” he nodded his head, not believing you in the slightest.

“Oh shut up. Didn’t we literally just have sex, like, 15 minutes ago??”

“Yeah, but I miss your sweet pussy already…”

“Oh, my god. Shut up.” You covered your face with your phone before you felt the couch dip by your hips.

You removed the phone from your vision to see Toji leaning over you with that desperate ass smirk of his.

“Come on, Princess, you know how good I am at it… just let me look at her…”

“If I even let you near her, you not gonna leave her alone for hours. So no. I won’t let you even look at her.”

A loud groan escaped his lips.

“You’re such a buzz kill.”

He crossed his arms and turned his head, pouting his lip.

“UGHHH.” You put your phone down on the couch, climbing over to Toji who now refused to look at you.

“10 minutes. I will give you 10 minutes to do whatever you want with her.”

That made the man’s eyes sparkle.

“10 minutes?”

“Yes.”

“Deal.”

Without even giving you a second to breath, he had your hips positioned over him with his index finger tugging at your underwear.

Pt. 2???? 🫪

[limitlesslovess]

Husbandtoji X Pregnantwifereader

TW: Fluff and Fluff

wc:2.5k

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You wake up at 3 a.m. like a switch got flipped.

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.

And that's enough.

[binkblg]

You always take whatever Toji gives you,

cw: PORN WITH NO PLOT, NOT EVEN AN INTRO. IT'S JUST STRAIGHT PORN. Bruising, spanking, spitting, breeding, implied marathons, implied dom/sub dynamic, implied free use. Based on this ask!! | Masterlist.ᐟ | Drabble!

especially when his eyes meet yours—all dark and hungry—rough fingers pinching bruises into your puffy cheeks.

You take it every time.

The harsh smacks! against your ass, hard enough to leave a hand-shaped reminder blooming red on your plush skin.

The deep rutting of his heavy cock—bullying its way into your gummy walls as you gush around him.

The warm loads of his creamy release filling you so deliciously—pacifying that deep tingle inside that wants nothing more than to be bred by that big bad man of yours.

But the thing you love taking the most?

The globs of his wet saliva landing firmly onto the skin of your tongue.

He thinks it’s so cute, the way you perk up—knees bent and pressed against your chest as you proudly present your tongue—shamelessly lolled out in anticipation.

Fuck, he could cum right then and there—feeling the way your cunt pulses, greedily sucking him in, drowning him in your sweetness.

And how fucking spoiled you look when he finally spits—it's pathetic.

The way his drool curls around the dips of your tongue, dripping down your chin in a foamy, debaucherous mess. He watches you giggle, fucked out in a state of pure bliss as you present the slicked muscle—now clean and painfully bare.

“Greedy fuckin’ thing, aren’t ya?” He growls, and all you can do is nod fervently, eyes glossy and rolling back when he resumes his punishing tempo.

It’s intoxicating to have such a pretty toy like you—ready and willing to take whatever he gives. His hands on the backs of your thighs, he presses you further into the mattress with a low huff, cock twitching at the sight of you all twitchy and desperate.

He grinds deeper just to watch your eyes roll, grips your throat just to watch your chest flutter, pins you down just to watch you struggle.

And yet, he’s never fully satisfied till he’s had you in every position, in every way—till you’re bloated and dripping with everything he has to give. <3

Masterlist | Next> A/N: AND THEY SAID HE WASNT A GIVERRRRR... HEY SO THIS WAS KINDA INTENSE BUT OKAYYY !!! hope u enjoyed even if it's short, i #DELETED an entire angst fic abt dada jiji and now i have to re-write that shit from memory sooo u get this in the meantime. <3 love u cuties, will maybe post a crackfic draft tonite if im feelin nice hihi

[limitlesslovess]

Older bf toji: Oversimulating you

TW: Smut and lotsssss of it

wc: 910

This may be ooc, sorry.

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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."

need me a man like toji fr

[fireflyschiikawa]

husband!sukuna : groggy

you’d only meant to check on them for a second.

instead, you stopped in the doorway and forgot how to move.

the room was quiet almost fragile. pale afternoon light leaked through the curtains in soft stripes, painting the sheets gold.

and there they were.

baby!yuji was sprawled across sukuna’s chest like a starfish, one chubby cheek smushed against bare skin and tiny fist tangled in the collar of your husband’s shirt.

and sukuna..looked devastatingly human half-asleep.

his face was softened with exhaustion, eyes still closed, long lashes resting against his cheeks.

both their heads were a soft messy tuft of pink.

you felt your heart physically hurt.

and for a moment, neither of them noticed you.

until the floor creaked.

yuji stirs first with a tiny whine, blinking blearily. his little eyes are unfocused, heavy with sleep, and the second he spots you standing there his entire face lights up.

“mama…” it comes out all raspy and small his little hands reaching for you immediately without even sitting up properly.

and your husband, still barely conscious, tightens his arm around his son on instinct, protective even in slumber. his eyes crack open slowly.

“what..” he mutters, voice rough with sleep.

he sounds offended by consciousness itself it could not get more ridiculous and adorable than that.

you simultaneously want to laugh and pounce at him because he just looks so soft!

yuji continues make grabby hands at you and unable to resist you walk over, perching on the edge of the bed making the mattress slightly dip.

bad decision.

because suddenly both of them gravitate toward you like magnets.

yuji crawls directly onto your lap with all the coordination of a sleepy toddler, burying his face into your stomach while sukuna exhales deeply beside you, eyes already falling shut again as he tucks you close to his side almost pulling you on top of him.

someone is being clingy..

his cheek is warm against your neck, hair tickling your skin. he smells like sleep and something comforting you can never name properly.

“you’ve both been napping for so long” you whisper, “it’s time to wake up” while both of them grunt a daft refusal and curl into you tighter.

yuji is already dozing off again, tiny fingers curled into your shirt.

sukuna shifts quietly before mumbling, barely coherent, “cold without you”

you blink at him.

then at the child asleep in your lap.

then back at sukuna, who seems to realize what he admitted a full three seconds too late because one eye opens again, glaring weakly.

“don’t”

“i didn’t say anything”

“don’t let it get to your head”

“oh it’s getting to my head alright”

he groans.

“too late” you grin.

despite the threat in his voice, he presses closer anyway, half asleep again before the conversation even finishes.

and somehow you too fall asleep surrounded by tangled blankets and warm bodies and terrible bedheads.

firefly; i just LOVE soft sleepy nap time fics it’s the most domestic thing ever RAHHH (do u guys want me to write longer fics? i kinda like the bite-sized format but lmk!)

series m.list

[polaroidsex]

★ . . “don’t leave me.” mid-makeout with ex husband!nanami.

you sink down onto him slow, thighs trembling as his thick cock stretches you open inch by inch.

nanami’s hands grip your hips hard enough to leave marks, breath ragged against your mouth while you settle fully in his lap. the bedroom is dim, just the low lamp casting gold across his bare chest and the way sweat already beads at his collarbone.

he kisses you like he’s starving, tongue sliding deep, tasting every soft sound you make. your fingers thread through his blond hair, tugging lightly as you start to roll your hips, riding him with that slow grind that makes his thighs tense beneath you. wet sounds fill the room each time you lift and drop, slick coating his length and dripping down to his balls.

“fuck,” he murmurs into your lips, voice hoarse and wrecked.

one hand slides up your back, pressing you closer until your breasts crush against him. his other hand stays on your ass, guiding you, helping you bounce a little faster. every drag of his cock inside you hits that spot that makes your toes curl.

you lean in to kiss him deeper, tongues tangled, breaths shared hot and messy. his hips buck up to meet you, driving himself even deeper. that’s when he breaks the kiss just enough to pant against your mouth, forehead pressed to yours, eyes half-lidded and desperate.

“don’t leave me again,” he whispers, the words raw and trembling right there in the middle of it all. his voice cracks just a little on the last syllable, like the thought alone hurts. he pulls you back into the kiss before you can answer, hungrier now, teeth grazing your bottom lip as he thrusts up harder.

you ride him through it, clenching around his cock with every rise and fall, skin slapping softly together. his hands roam like he can’t get enough of you, palms mapping your waist, your ribs, the curve of your spine. he groans low when you grind down and circle your hips, milking him just right.

“need you here,” he breathes between kisses, “right here with me.” his thrusts grow erratic, chasing that edge while you keep riding him steady, lost in the heat of his body and the way he holds onto you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

[limitlesslovess]

Higuruma photo album

wc: 2.4k

TW: fluff and flufffff

------------------------------------------------------------

You didn't mean to find it.

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.

sighhhh this came from the bottom of my heart.

[jammintine]

ᕱ⑅ᕱ 𝓒hoso 𝓚amo loves your lace nightgowns.

warnings : mdni | dry humping, whimpering choso, choso nuts in his boxers, designer!reader. for @yoonsucks lace event!

choso loves when you wear lace gowns, the ones you hand design yourself to fit your every curve. you have an entirely miniature closet dedicated to them, in every color, design, and fabrics you could think of. hell, you were known in the fashion world solely for your love of lace. gloves, jackets, skirts, petticoats, shirts, socks, and of course, those seductive lace gowns. choso had been grown used to you prancing around the house in them, but that didn't mean he still didn't go wild with need. watching you from a distance as you did household tasks in nothing but little thin scraps of lace? it was too much for him, every time. he yearned to reach out and touch and fondle and taste. you just look so pretty over there, cooking dinner in that little red night gown— his favorite color. so much so he can't even catch himself before he's striding over to you, hands plastered on your hips like he'd die if he didn't. " m'love, don't you know how .. how that— your outfit. y-you know how pretty you look? just— just wanna.."

he takes a deep swallow, trying to pace himself. it doesn't work for long, since within mere seconds he's burying his face in the crook of your neck. you don't even have time to register his presence before he's licking columns down your neck, before biting down hard on your shoulder. riding your silky lace gown up to rest on your waist. he fumbles around with your panties— also lacy and cute. did you make these yourself? most likely, given the pretty C.K embroidered in the fabric. choso can't help but rip them off your plush body, finding them already damp. "..this, this is all f'me? you're getting wet." the flush on your cheeks make his whole day. all for him. you getting all hot and bothered because of him? his excitement only gets fueled by your timid nod. for such a confident, beautiful, well-known designer to be almost nervous around him makes his cock twitch with the need to get started.

"cho', what are you— mmph!—"

choso wishes he had just an ounce more self control then he does at the moment, wishing he could've licked and suckled at your pretty cunt until you came in his mouth. but, he could save that for another day. instead, he kisses you deeply, hiking up your leg up onto his hip and grinding down slowly. well, not slow for long. it's mere minutes of this tortuous pace before he gives up, apologizing and whimpering in your ear as he ruts against you like a dog in fucking heat. panting and throwing his head back as your slick creates a damp patch on his sweats. he can barely think clearly as he angles you bent over the kitchen counter, holding your arms back with him, creating the perfect arch. your legs spread perfectly for him, allowing the rough fabric of his sweats to rub your clit so nicely, the rough texture both painful and pleasurable at the same time, turning your brain into mush. "m'so sorry, m'so sorry, m'sorry— fu-fuck, fuck, fuck— hic!"

choso wasn't exactly sure what he was sorry for, it was just a force of habit. his body kept jerking, clearly telling him to slow down, but choso, none the wiser, kept rutting against your bare pussy. until he glanced down as warmth spread all over his lower regions. he had.. came in his pants. like a fucking loser. it felt so sticky, and embarrassing, he couldn't even look you in the eyes. his face, from his chin to the tips of his ears went pure red. ".. fuck, i'm sorry, i—" "choso, it's fine. take them off for me, huh, pretty boy?" "but i—" "don't back-talk." "yes, ma'am." choso quickly slid off his now ruined sweatpants, and his boxers. his cock, not quite thick, but curved, long, and beautifully kept, cum still oozing from the tip, drooling down his shaft until it dripped into a puddle on the wood floors. he let you guide his length to your folds, rubbing his dick in between them like some sausage party reenactment. though, the action makes him groan out your name in broken cries, as he thrusts against you, smearing his cum and your slick all over your reddened cunt. the act is enough for him to cum again, whining as the fluids drench the outside of your pussy a creamy white. you, however, don't seem to mind, the haze in your mind slowly beginning to fade. after a few moments of catching your breath, you straighten back up and begin looking for your pretty, custom, expensive, embroidered panties. choso doesn't say a word, but drops them on the counter, ripped, ruined, and sticky. "cho' honey?" your voice was sickeningly sweet. which meant, nothing could be good coming out this conversation. "yes..?" "you're buying me some new lace. that was my most expensive fabric, how could you ruin it like this! i swear—"

a/n : dominant!user and submissive!choso will always make sense, can't see it any other way lowkey

[yoonsucks]

ANOTHER ENTRYYY RO THE EVENTT

[limitlesslovess]

Boyfriend gojo making you squirt for the first time

TW: smut, nsfw, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

wc: 1.5k

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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."

[its-luna-noel]

18+ daddy kink with nanami | ♡ smut

i think nanami is mortified when he gets hard after you call him daddy for the first time

like especially if he’s a little older than you. he thinks it’s uncouth, fundamentally disrespectful to you to think that way. the tips of his ears burn red, and his jaw clenches, and he tells you to stop but it’s in that sexy, stern, slightly paternal voice that makes your pussy throb.

so you, of course, keep doing it to push his buttons.

he can almost excuse it when you're saying it in the middle of getting fucked through the mattress. you whine it so breathlessly, your lips against his ear as you beg for daddy to fuck you harder. he just tells himself that you're lost in the pleasure, rendered nearly incoherent.

it's when you grin up at him and drop your voice to that bratty little teasing tone, saying "thanks daddy" when he makes you breakfast or pays for dinner or comes home with flowers.

it's the fact that it never fails to make his dick twitch in his pants.

it's filthy, he tries to remind himself.

but that doesn't stop him from wanting to bend you over and show you exactly what daddy can give you.

thanks for reading! -luna xx masterlist

[gojosconsort]

︵ ೀ mdni. megumi’s tired of hearing people call you yuji’s girlfriend; so he makes sure they hear you moaning the right name instead

megumi fushiguro never thought he would be the jealous type.

he’s dating you. officially. you hold his hand in public, kiss his cheek before missions, and fall asleep on his chest almost every night. but for some reason, the world seems determined to believe you belong to someone else.

“yuji! your girlfriend is so cute today,” someone says loudly in the common room, grinning as you walk in wearing one of yuji’s spare hoodies (you got cold and he tossed it to you without thinking).

yuji laughs and scratches the back of his neck. “huh? oh— wait, that’s not—”

but you just smile politely and sit down next to megumi. but still, the comment lingers. and it happens constantly.

teachers, underclassmen, even random staff at jujutsu tech keep referring to you as “itadori’s girlfriend.” you and yuji are close, after all. you laugh at his dumb jokes, share food, and have that easy, bright energy together. to outsiders, it makes sense.

to megumi, it feels like a slow knife twisting in his chest.

he doesn’t say anything at first. he’s megumi, after all. he keeps his face neutral, shoulders relaxed, but you notice the way his jaw tightens every time someone makes the mistake. the way his hand finds yours under the table and squeezes just a little too hard. one afternoon after training, it happens again.

a group of second-years walks by. one of them waves at you. “hey, itadori’s girl! tell your boyfriend his cleave was insane yesterday!”

you open your mouth to correct them, but megumi speaks first, voice low and sharp.

“she’s not itadori’s girlfriend.”

the second-years blink. the air grows awkward. you gently squeeze megumi’s hand, but he doesn’t relax.

later that evening, you find him sitting alone on the rooftop, elbows on his knees, staring at the city lights. you sit beside him and rest your head on his shoulder.

“you’ve been quiet,” you murmur.

megumi stays silent for a long moment before he finally speaks. “…i hate it,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “i know it’s stupid. yuji’s my best friend. i trust both of you. but every time someone calls you his girlfriend… it feels like the world is reminding me that i’m not the obvious choice.”

you lift your head, surprised by the vulnerability.

megumi continues, eyes fixed on the horizon. “he’s loud and warm and makes people smile without trying. i’m… not like that. so when people assume you’re with him, part of me wonders if they’re right. if you’d be happier with someone easier.”

your heart aches. you crawl into his lap, straddling him so you can cup his face with both hands.

“megumi,” you begin, “i don’t want easy. i want you. the boy who grumbles about sharing his umbrella but still holds it over me even when it means he gets completely soaked. the one who pretends he doesn’t care but remembers exactly how i like my tea. the one who stays up with me when i have nightmares and acts like it’s no big deal, like he wasn’t exhausted from a mission.”

megumi’s hands settle on your waist, gripping you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. he leans forward and presses his forehead to yours.

“i know,” he whispers. “but i still want them to know you’re mine too.”

“then let’s make it obvious,” you murmur against his lips. “we can hold hands more in public, sit together during lunch, i’ll wear your hoodies around campus… whatever you want. we don’t have to hide it anymore.”

megumi nods. “okay. we’ll do that.” but in his mind, he already has other plans.

holding hands and wearing his clothes is sweet—and he’ll do it, of course he will—but it’s not enough. he wants more. he wants to kiss you in the hallway between classes where everyone can see. he wants to pull you onto his lap during movie nights with the others. he wants to leave marks on your neck that no one can mistake. he wants them to hear the way you moan his name when he fucks you in the dorms at night.

he may not be loud and happy and sunshine like yuji. but he’s going to make sure every single person at jujutsu tech knows exactly who you belong to.

later that night, megumi pulls you into his room in the dorm, closing the door behind you with a soft click. the moment you’re alone, he cups your face with both hands and kisses you—deep, slow, and full of everything he couldn’t say on the rooftop.

he kisses you like he’s trying to erase every single time someone called you yuji’s girlfriend. his lips move against yours with intensity, tongue sliding into your mouth as he presses you back against the door. you sigh into the kiss, hands fisting his shirt, and he groans softly, tilting his head to kiss you deeper.

you pull back just enough to breathe, cheeks flushed. “megumi… it’s late. everyone is asleep already.”

“i don’t care. let them hear.”

he walks you toward the bed without breaking the kiss, hands sliding under your shirt to feel your skin. when the back of your knees hit the mattress, he gently lays you down, crawling over you. his mouth never leaves yours for long—kissing your lips, your jaw, your neck, sucking lightly until faint marks bloom on your skin.

megumi slowly moves lower, pushing your shirt up as he goes. he kisses down your stomach and when he reaches your shorts, he hooks his fingers into the waistband and looks up at you, eyes dark but asking. you nod.

he pulls your shorts and panties down together, tossing them aside. instead of going straight between your legs, he starts kissing your inner thighs. he takes his time, sucking gently on the sensitive skin, leaving faint hickeys as he moves closer and closer to where you need him.

“megumi…” you whisper, fingers threading through his dark hair.

he hums against your thigh, then finally leans in. his tongue drags slowly up your folds, tasting you, before he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks gently. you moan, back arching off the bed. megumi groans at the sound, the vibration sending sparks through you. and then he eats you out like he has something to prove.

his tongue is relentless but tender—licking, sucking, circling your clit before dipping down to push inside you. he keeps one arm draped over your hips, holding you in place while the other hand gently squeezes your thigh. every moan you let out seems to spur him on.

you whimper as he slides two fingers inside you, curling them perfectly while his mouth returns to your clit. he sucks harder, faster. your thighs tremble around his head, fingers tightening in his hair as pleasure coils tighter and tighter.

“megumi— fuck, i’m—”

megumi groans against your clit at the sound of your voice, the vibration shooting through you. a selfish, possessive part of him wants everyone in the dorm to hear exactly who’s making you feel this good. he knows he should keep you quiet—the walls aren’t that thick—but the thought of someone hearing you moan his name makes something dark and satisfied twist in his chest.

instead of covering your mouth like he usually does, he pulls his fingers out and pushes them back in deeper, curling them firmly against that spot while sucking hard on your clit.

you cry out, louder than before. “ah— megumi!” your voice echoes in the room. your hips jerk against his face, but he holds you down with one arm, refusing to let you escape him.

he wants it louder.

he sucks harder, tongue flicking rapidly over your swollen clit while his fingers thrust faster, wet sounds filling the room along with your moans. every time you try to stay quiet, he doubles down—sucking, licking, curling his fingers just right until another loud, needy moan spills from your lips.

“let them hear,” he murmurs against your pussy, barely pulling away. “let them know who makes you sound like this.”

you sob his name again, louder this time, fingers tightening painfully in his hair as your orgasm crashes into you. your back arches hard off the bed, thighs shaking uncontrollably around his head as you cum.

“megumi—! fuck—!”

megumi doesn’t stop. he keeps licking you through it, slower but still firm, drawing out every wave until you’re whimpering and twitching from the overstimulation. when he finally pulls back his lips are all shiny and chin wet.

he crawls up your body, eyes dark and satisfied as he looks down at your flushed, dazed face. he kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“good girl,” he breathes against your lips. “so fucking good for me. you sounded so pretty when you came on my tongue… i hope everyone heard how well i take care of you.”

you’re still panting, legs trembling as you cling to him. megumi presses soft kisses along your jaw, then your neck, a small, rare smirk tugging at his lips.

he may not be loud like yuji.

but tonight, he made sure the whole dorm heard exactly who makes his girlfriend cum this loud.

[grenadehearts]

boxer!toji needs his good luck kiss. . .

warnings ⋮ ⌗ ┆mdni, brief mention of 18+ content !!!

toji isn’t a sentimental man, he doesn’t cry, he doesn’t let himself feel any negative emotions, if he feels something he simply turns it into anger, into seething rage that he displays in the boxing ring, a wicked grin and piercing eyes, a snarl so cruel it sends a grown man to his knees and leaves you very turned on..

but there’s one thing toji is, and that’s determined to win every match, he’s never left without a victory, and that train of good luck only started when you came into his life.

you both had just started seeing each other, it was casual, nothing more nothing less, and without thinking, when he came up during a five minute break all glistening with sweat and a grin that displayed his sharp teeth, chest rising and falling from exertion, your brain short circuited and you kissed him.

his brain also went haywire although he’ll never admit it to you.

“what the hell was that for?” he’d muttered, brows pinched together, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward like he was trying to fight it.

you shrugged, suddenly shy. “good luck kiss?”

he stared at you for a second, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek before he huffed out a quiet, “tch. dumb.” though he didn’t move away.

he won after that night, and the next after, and after that, a constant loop of victories under his belt.

all because of you, as long as he kisses you, he wins.

sure your kiss probably isn’t magical or anything, but it pumps his body full of adrenaline, makes him want to win, chasing the victory because he has to, because he wants to win when you’re watching, wants to see that look on your face when he walks back victorious.

which is why he’s currently in the ring with his coach beside him, anxiously looking towards the crowd to see if you’re there, you’re not.

toji is not a dramatic man, yet he’s panicking, utterly fucking panicking. he doesn’t think he’s ever been this anxious, leg bouncing up and down in a nervous tick, jaw tight, eyes scanning the crowd every second like if he looks hard enough you’ll magically appear.

“quit lookin’,” his coach mutters, arms crossed. “fight starts in a minute.”

toji clicks his tongue, annoyed. “shut up.”

minutes pass, and he’s about to start, and just when he’s sure you won’t arrive, sure you got caught up in something, that’s when he sees you walking towards the seats. toji looks at the timer, then at his coach’s displeased face because he already knows what toji is about to do, giving him a tiny disapproving nod. toji’s lips curl into a slightly lifted smirk as he stares at the timer now counting down to thirty seconds on the clock.

then he’s jumping off the ring through the ropes, the white rag still clutched between his calloused hands, large body barreling through the unassuming crowd, gripping you with feverish hands, movements urgent as he cages you against him inside a burning kiss, breath hot against your lips as he mutters against your mouth, “need my damn kiss.”

the crowd cheers as he pulls away, lips slick with saliva, deep obsidian blue eyes narrowed, raven hair painting his devilish features in sweat slick strands, lips tugging into a cruel smirk.

“you make me crazy, stupid woman.”

then he’s looking out to the crowd cheering, all while heat pools low in your stomach and something deep at your core tingles.

he wins that match, left with a slight gash to his chapped lip that you’re left to clean, and he’s thanking you afterwards with the brutal snap of his hips, pressed into a mean mating press, his large hands wrapped around your ankles, determined to make up for every victory you’ve handed him.

masterlist - kofi - emergency commissions

note - prob dookie, from the queue.. i wrote this four months ago lol

taglist: @seraphsmuse @xoxojisu @esilek @candiiee @cvnt4him @panchikogirlfriend @lotusstarr @cupkiki @3lenaatvt @the-faceless-bride @badslittlemuffin @dreamcastgirl99 @wonubby @dienamiight @sofi4dsam @kawaiiclubdaily @therefore-evermore @luckybibucky @sk1ppy-art @myths-and-ledgends @icanread-icantwrite @changkyunnnie @twoplayergaymers @socialobligation @calliopemanga @izutwos @doubelieveme @ivankinnieclatter @roronoafushiguroaratakahakari @green-orange-bloom @sparklylanddetective @lem-hhn @gaige312 @ryobaby @hrts4cupid @buuxbear @b00rants @v4mp1r3b4tzz @trilxogyyy @loveergirll @searchingfornothinggg @megumisrighttoe @rarebambi take a look at this post to be added, or removed!

[pupisized]

[neuriscent]

accidentally baby trapping satoru while riding him

the room is thick with the smell of sex and sweat. gojo is sprawled beneath you on the ruined sheets, his usual infinity long gone, silver hair sticking to his damp forehead. his chest rises and falls rapidly, pale skin flushed pink all the way down to the sharp v of his hips. you’ve already made him cum once, but you never stopped riding him. now he’s overstimulated, cock still rock-hard and throbbing inside your soaked pussy, every drag of your walls making him twitch and curse.

“fuck—baby, slow down,” he groans, voice hoarse and broken. his fingers dig bruises into your hips as you grind down on him again, taking every inch until his tip kisses your cervix. “i’m too sensitive—shit— you’re gonna kill me.”

you’re not listening. not really. your own orgasm is already building again, hot and vicious, your clit grinding against his pelvis with every roll of your hips. you’re dripping down his cock, creamy white streaks of both your releases coating his shaft and dripping onto his balls. the wet, filthy sounds echo with every bounce.

“you feel so fucking good, satoru…” you whimper, bracing your hands on his abs and lifting yourself until only his flushed tip is inside you, then slamming back down hard. his cock stretches you so perfectly, thick and veiny, pulsing against your walls like it was made for you.

gojo’s head tips back, white lashes fluttering, mouth open in a silent moan. “princess—ahh—fuck, i’m serious. i’m gonna cum again if you keep—ngh—keep squeezing me like that.” his abs tense under your palms, hips jerking up involuntarily to meet your rhythm.

you lean forward, pressing your tits against his chest, and start riding him faster. the new angle makes his cock drag right over that spongy spot inside you with every thrust. your pussy flutters and clenches greedily around him, milking his overstimulated length without mercy.

“shit—wait, baby—slow— i’m close again,” he gasps, voice cracking. his hands slide up your back, then back down to grip your ass, trying to control your pace. “you gotta pull off— i can’t— fuck, i’m gonna cum inside if you don’t—pull out—!”

the words barely register. everything feels too good. his cock is swelling even thicker inside you, twitching wildly, the heat of him overwhelming. your thighs burn, your clit throbs, and another orgasm is rushing up on you like a freight train. instead of lifting off, you grind down harder, rolling your hips in tight circles so his cock stirs deep in your pussy.

you cum with a broken cry, walls clamping down around him like a vice. your cunt spasms violently, rhythmic pulses squeezing and fluttering around his cock as pleasure whites out your vision. gojo chokes on a moan, hips stuttering up into you.

“fuck— no, wait— i’m cumming— i’m—!”

he tries to pull you off at the last second, but your thighs lock tight around his waist, keeping him buried to the hilt. thick, hot ropes of cum flood deep inside you as he cums harder than the first time. pulse after heavy pulse, his cock jerking and spurting against your cervix while your pussy keeps milking him through your own orgasm. you don’t stop moving—riding him through it in sloppy, desperate strokes, prolonging both your highs until his cum is leaking out around his cock with every bounce.

gojo’s eyes roll back, a wrecked, broken sound leaving his throat as you keep fucking yourself on his oversensitive dick. “too much—fuck— you’re still going—hah— you little menace…”

only when your orgasm finally ebbs do you collapse onto his chest, both of you panting, trembling, and covered in sweat. his cock is still buried deep in your cum-stuffed pussy, twitching weakly with aftershocks. you can feel how full you are—his warm seed sloshing inside you with every tiny shift of your hips.

gojo lets out a breathless, slightly delirious laugh, wrapping his strong arms around you and holding you flush against him. one hand slides down to press firmly on your lower belly, right where his cum is settled deep.

“you… you didn’t pull off,” he murmurs against your hair, voice rough and sex-drunk. there’s a dark, possessive edge beneath the amusement. “i told you to pull out and you just rode me harder. greedy girl.”

you hide your flushed face in his neck, smiling against his skin as you give one slow, lazy roll of your hips. his cock twitches inside you again, pushing more of his cum deeper.

“oops,” you whisper, clenching around him on purpose.

gojo groans, hips bucking up weakly. “yeah… real convincing ‘oops.’” he kisses the top of your head, then tilts your chin up so he can claim your mouth in a messy, tongue-heavy kiss. when he pulls back, his blue eyes are half-lidded and hungry. “guess you baby-trapped me, huh? fuck… why is that so hot?”

his hand rubs slow circles over your belly. you can feel his cock starting to harden again inside your messy, cum-filled cunt.

“you’re not going anywhere,” he says, voice dropping lower as he starts rocking up into you again, slow and deep. “not until i fill you up at least one more time. since we’re already making a mess… might as well commit.”

you moan softly, already moving with him.

looks like you’re keeping every single drop tonight.