Literally nobody asked for this but what about Toji folding you into a mean mating press so he can fuck you full of cum? Think about it…
。・:*:・゚★,。・:*:・゚☆ 。・:*:・゚★,。・
You’re not even sure how it got to this point—your plush thighs pressed to your chest, poor, drooling pussy stretched obscenely wide, and your pretty lips gaped in incredulity—all while Toji is unforgivingly pile driving into your sloppy hole over, and over, and over again, fucking you with his entire being, a fat thumb pressed to your ravaged clit. The deranged man has you in a fucking mating press.
“Talk to me, doll,” he’s muttering between the relentless batter of his hips, leaning down to kiss the corner of your wet, parted lips, his ears perking curiously at your choked sobs of rapture, “use your fuckin’ words n’ tell me you love my cock,” he’s so close, the tip of his large nose brushing yours, warm breath fanning your lips, “say it.”
“Nngh—love it… I love it—hah… love it s’muchhh!” Your eyes are crossing while you babble incoherently, sweet tongue lolling out as he fucks you into a stupid, drooling mess. “Love your c-cock s’much, Toji baby… always fuck me so good… s’fuckin’ good!” You’re slurring over yourself, only hoping that he’ll make sense of your broken jargon.
The dopey, languid grin that slowly mars his scarred lips is nothing short of sinful. Time and time again, he always manages to get you like this—so slutty, so mindless, so fucking stupid for cock, yet somehow, he thinks you look prettiest this way. Just like this. In fact, he wouldn’t have it any other way—have you any other way.
“Heh, yeaaah? You loveee takin’ all my fuckin’ cock, don’t you, baby?” His head is cocking to the right in query, the merciless thrust of his hips steadily bullying his fat cock deeper and deeper, the leaking, mushroom tip kissing your battered cervix. “Bet you’d die without it, huh? Can’t live without being fucked so deep like this every fucking day can you, baby?” He doesn’t miss the way you shake your head dumbly, lust-stricken eyes threatening to roll to the back of your head. A gruff, humorous chuckle slips past his lips as he admires your drunken mien. God, you’re such a pretty, fucked-out mess for him. “Always get so stupid for me, look at youuu… such a pretty, obedient girl for that cock. You’ll do anything I say, won’t you, doll?”
You nod, of course. There isn’t a line you wouldn’t cross for this man, a rule you wouldn’t break, a boundary you wouldn’t bend, because if there’s any word to sum you up faultlessly, it’s obedient. Yet, your obedience strays far beyond simple compliance and abidance. Instead, you’re somewhere else—somewhere so far gone, so depraved, that you’re positive you’re only a shell of your former self. Now, you’re something of Toji’s creation, his perfect, handcrafted slut whose only purpose is to take, and take, and take. But is there anything more fulfilling than being his good girl? More consummate than feeling like you belong? Like you’re good enough to be his? At what point does it become obsession? Does it even matter?
“Fuuuck, open that pretty mouth fa’me.” He demands, creeping a large, calloused hand allll the way up, up, up your tummy, past your kiss-bitten breasts, and toward your face to roughly squish your flushed cheeks, rudely forcing your mouth open. “Wider, doll… say ahhh.” Not a second thought passes as you nearly unhinge your jaw for him, lolling out your tongue, waiting patiently for whatever he’s willing to give.
Toji begins gathering saliva in his mouth before leaning closer, puckering his scarred lips, and spitting onto the plush center of your tongue. Two, thick digits are sliding into your mouth, all the way down the slick muscle, forcing his saliva impossibly deeper. The cruel, bewitching grin that plays his wet lips as you gag around his fingers has your poor cunt weeping in arousal, drooling down the girth of his cock.
He spits into your mouth once more for good measure before leaning down to catch your lips in a sloppy, haphazard kiss. You hardly register the warm, eager tongue that bullies its way into your mouth, licking and tasting you from the source. You’re beyond delirious as you feverishly kiss him back, whining so sultrily as a sinful stream of his saliva dribbles from the corners of your swollen lips and down your cheeks, staining your pretty face.
You can’t do anything but take him, all of him—his tongue, his cock, his fingers, his spit, and soon, his cum. After all, it’s what you do best—what you were meant to do all along. That’s why Toji fucks you the way he does—because he knows it’s the only way you’ll ever be satisfied. A tender kiss is never enough, nor is the simple act of making love. You yearn for more—to be fucked, to be destroyed and ruined and defiled. What better man to do it than Toji Fushiguro?
“Hold your legs up f’me,” two, rough hands are searching for yours, hooking them behind the back of your knees, “yeaaah that’s a good girl for daddy, hold ‘em up just like that, baby, fuuuuck… want you to feel allll of me—all of my cock inside you. Gonna cum so deep in that pretty pussy, doll. You want that? Will that satisfy your needy little cunt?” A prolonged hiss of pleasure drags from his gritted teeth as he reels his hips back slowly, “Gonna fuck you so full of my cum… you want a baby? Want me to get you fuckin’ pregnant?” He babbles mindlessly while harshly pummeling his heavy hips forward in staccato, fucking himself impossibly deeper, his full, swollen balls repeatedly striking the fat of your ass.
“Mhmm—yes! I need it, I need it! Fuck fuck fuck, please, Toji baby… need your cum,” you’re head his rolling from side to side while you pant like a bitch in heat, arms growing fatigued as you stretch yourself so wide for him and only him, “pleaseee cum inside, wanna be a mommy… wan’ your babies!” Your delirious eyes search for his, eyebrows furrowing in nothing but your overstimulated pleasure.
A sinful, guttural groan drags from the depths of his chest at your filthy words of encouragement, cock twitching so lewdly against your sticky, beckoning walls, wordlessly threatening to fill you up. “Yeah? Will that make my nasty girl happy?” You can only nod meekly as you hug your knees to your chest, sweet mouth gaped in pleasure while you moan so prettily for him, waiting like a patient, obedient slut for his cum. “F— fuuuck, I’m gonna cum s’muchhh n’ yer gonna take it all, you hear me?” He’s stifling an onslaught of gutteral moans that threaten to spill from his parted lips, “Mhmmm—fuck, you gonna take it all? You gonna take all of my cum like a good fuckin’ girl, hm? Like my good lil’ slut?” Toji huffs out ragged breaths between his feral groans of rapture, heavy thrusts growing haphazard and sloppy as he pummels toward his orgasm.
A helpless, “Please…” is all you can manage—a weak, pathetic plead but then, you feel it.
An incoherent, slew of profanities tumble past Toji’s lips as he fucks several, viscous gushes of cum inside of you. His usual timbre voice hoarse and ragged, breaking so sinfully as he stuffs you full, yet still, his bucking hips never falter. Obscene rivulets of his seed drip from your overfilled cunt, pooling beneath your bodies in a messy little puddle. Eventually, he wills himself away, slipping out of your poor cunt, but only to swipe two, deft digits along his stray seed on the sheets, gathering his release to fuck it back inside of you, ensuring none of it goes to waste.
“Look… you’re so full of me, doll,” he drawls in a low, tantalizing hum, pulling his wet fingers out of you to show you proof—his thick fingers dripping in his own cum, “you gonna clean me up?” He grins wildly, flashing his cuspids at you.
Duh.
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insomniac | ljh (m)
there are certainly worse ways to tire yourself out.
summary: it’s 2:00 am, and you can’t turn your brain off. thankfully, your boyfriend knows just how to scramble it.
pairing: lee jihoon x reader
au: established relationship
type: one-shot (smut)
word count: 5.2k
rating: 18+
cw: reader is afab but no pronouns are used; reader has insomnia (unspecified re: prof. diagnosed or self-diagnosed); there’s a sentence about reader taking “an inadvisable amount of melatonin gummies” — don’t do this! — but they’re not impaired in any way; reader’s internal monologue is kind of angsty/self-deprecating at times; blonde!woozi has his hair in a bun, which is a warning in and of itself; completely unedited because my perfectionism has killed every wip i’ve attempted for months.
✰ minors do not have my consent to interact with me and/or my work.
smut warnings: big dick lee jihoon™️, nipple stim, v fingering, unprotected p in v penetration, wee bit of aftercare. there are a total of six (6) orgasms in here because i believe in going big from home, incl. nipple stim & a-spot orgasms.
a/n: i haven’t written anything in forever, due in large part to the fact that i’m exhausted but can never fucking sleep. i truly hope this isn’t incoherent garbage. 😵💫 dedicated to my fellow woozi-simping insomniac, @sailorrhansol. may we eventually rest in peace.
multi permanent taglist. seventeen permanent taglist.
You should be asleep.
With the day you’ve had, you should’ve drifted off the second your body hit the sheets; and you should’ve stayed that way — unmoving, unconscious — for several hours, at minimum.
If the week’s worth of sleep debt wasn’t exhausting enough in and of itself, every single circumstance surrounding you begs you to give into the weight of your eyelids. To let yourself be lulled, just this once. Soothed.
From the vent in the corner, the gentle hum of the aircon goads you. It does its very best to convince you to curl up under the softness of your comforter, and to some extent, you’ve listened. You’re burrowed beneath your blankets with only the upper half of your face exposed, which should be more than enough to sway you.
It’s not, though.
With no ability to keep your eyes closed, you stare dejectedly at the wall in front of you. Laying on your side, gazing straight ahead, you watch the faint echoes of the city lights as they wash over white paint. Not much bleeds through the blinds, leaving only hints of cobalt and red to blend into some sleepy shade of lilac. Whether or not you want to be awake to perceive it in the first place, you have to admit it: it’s beautiful.
But it’s not enough.
You squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing down the groan building in your chest. With how closely he’s got you nestled against his body, Jihoon would feel it if you let that frustration manifest. You already ache from the sheer amount of time you’ve been policing your own posture; making any amount of noise now would interrupt the slow, delicate breaths he’s aiming into the back of your neck. Frankly, you’d rather die.
Taking his silence as a sign that you’ve remained off his radar, you let out a measured sigh, too worried that the full rise and fall of your chest will disturb him.
Nothing.
But then, the arm draped over your waist shifts.
“Fuck,” you mouth to no one.
It wouldn’t be out-of-character for Jihoon to feel the restless energy pouring out of you in waves, even in the depths of a sleep cycle. He senses every tiny change in your ecosystem long before you do. As unlikely as he is to ever admit it, it has to be exhausting to be attuned to someone so neurotic. He deserves every second of sleep he can manage to get.
You grit your teeth and demand yourself to calm down, all while refusing to acknowledge how completely your actions and commands conflict.
Maybe, you attempt to bamboozle yourself, you can sleep vicariously through him.
He’ll wake up rested, and when you look in the mirror later, the first thing you see won’t be the cartoonish bags under your eyes.
It’ll be fine.
It’ll be fine.
If you go to sleep right now, you’ll get five hours and thirty —
“You haven’t unclenched a single muscle since you climbed into bed,” notes the world’s groggiest voice from over your shoulder.
Jihoon’s lips brush against the sensitive skin of your neck when he speaks. Without that tickling sensation, you might’ve deluded yourself into thinking that you were simply hearing things just now. That it was merely a hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation and the inadvisable number of melatonin gummies you ate before brushing your teeth.
He shifts again. This time, there’s no mistaking his movements. The arm slung over your side pulls you closer. So close, in fact, that you can feel the contented sigh leave his body, like his isn’t separate from yours at all.
With the distance erased, his face — the cold tip of his nose and the sheet-creased warmth of his cheeks — can nuzzle properly into the crook of your neck. You swear you feel the hint of a smile there somewhere, too. If you had to guess, it matches the upward curve on your lips.
“What are we spinning our wheels over tonight?” He asks without a hint of judgment, as if your burdens are automatically his, too.
The fact that he can’t see your face doesn’t stop you from frowning. Yet again, you’ve managed to drag him into your insomnia. Jihoon may never fault you for it, but you don’t need him to. You’ll hold it against yourself — grudge by proxy.
“I don’t even know,” you admit with a frustrated huff. “There’s nothing coherent going on up there.” You lift your hand and gesture vaguely in the dark. “Nothing articulable, just… blender brain.”
“Mmm.”
Jihoon sounds so fucking sleepy, so at peace next to you, that it makes your stomach hurt. You wish you could be like him. For as calm as his presence makes you, you’ve learned that you’re incapable of feeling fully relaxed. At least, not in the way he is when he’s got his arms around you. He deserves to have that effect on you.
A beat passes in silence, save for his soft breathing. For a minute, you’re convinced that he’s fallen back asleep; and you pray to whoever that he has. He deserves that, too.
“How do we unplug the blender?”
You have to bite back a smile for two reasons: the way his words sound slurred when delivered directly to your skin, and the distinctly Jihoon drive he has to fix a problem that isn’t his.
When the love sickness leaves you down bad, and you forget to respond with words, Jihoon prompts you softly. “Hmm?”
He punctuates this reminder with a kiss to your shoulder, then lets his lips linger against your skin, musing, “I can think of two things that usually do the trick: getting you hotteok from that cart down the block, which is currently closed, and —”
The rest of that thought fades out. Leaving you on the edge of your seat, Jihoon continues to kiss a languid line along the perimeter of your shoulder, as if he’s conducting some meticulous, geographical survey. Like missing a single spot will have grave consequences. A perfectionist through and through, even half-asleep.
You feel yourself melting, bit by bit, into his torso; the warmth of his bare chest against your back only expedites the process. Nevertheless, you peep, “What’s the second thing?”
His answer comes with a slip of his hand, down down down along the slope of your waist to your hip, long before he verbalizes it. It’s simple, delivered in that rough, early-morning voice you love so much. It’s more than enough to make you shiver:
“Making you cum.”
But as crazy as that statement makes you, you can’t make yourself act on it.
At any other time, you’d jump on that opportunity — jump on him — in a heartbeat. All you’re able to do now is jump to the worst conclusion in a single bound.
Somewhere, deep down, you know he wouldn’t have brought it up if he didn’t truly want it, want you; but that goddamned, sleep-deprived goblin taking up space in the far reaches of your mind is far louder than the voice of reason.
He’s only offering so you’ll stop keeping him awake.
He’s as exhausted as you are, if not more so for having to deal with your disorder again.
Burden.
Placing your hand on top of his, you slip your fingers into the spaces you find and squeeze once for emphasis. “I love you,” you start. He stills. “But, Jihoon, you’re so tired. I can hear it in your voice. Please, go back to sleep. It’s okay — I’m okay.”
Jihoon doesn’t push back. He stays within bounds, honors your shitty decision because, after all, it’s yours to make. With another kiss to your shoulder and a squeeze to your hand, he murmurs, “Love you,” before relaxing back against the pillows.
Minutes pass.
Maybe hours, for all you know.
As the window of opportunity creaks shut, regret seeps through the gap. You know you’re wrong; you know he meant it; and you know that someone would have to be out of their fucking gourd to politely decline what he’s offering.
The unbearable heat licking up your neck is either embarrassment or the ghost of orgasms lost coming to haunt you.
Maybe you’d be better equipped to tell the difference if you could just — fucking — sleep.
Driven half mad, you try to keep from squirming.
You fail.
Maybe, since you can’t sleep, you and your wilted little brain should’ve let your perfect, empathetic boyfriend fu —
“That’s enough,” Jihoon grunts.
The hand underneath yours is suddenly above it, overtaking it and tugging carefully until your whole body moves. In the time it takes for you to roll from your side, Jihoon sits up and clears space for your frame to settle. You barely have time to blink dumbly up at him from your back before he cages you in with one hand on either side of your head, knees now on either side of your thighs.
Your breath seems to have gotten lost in the fray, but it’s not the sudden moves that shook it loose; it’s the sight of him looming over you, damn near scowling despite his lead-lidded eyes. It’s the disheveled bun of platinum hair at the crown of his head, which must’ve shifted in his sleep and spilled out the tendrils that now frame his set jaw.
The very best you can come up with is, “You’re awake.”
“So are you,” he retorts without missing a beat.
That face — god, that face — doesn’t budge. On the contrary, your stomach flips. This the most stern you’ve ever seen him. Confusingly, his tone isn’t even remotely harsh when he continues, “If those gears in your head grind any louder, the whole neighborhood will be, too.”
Grimacing, you open your mouth to apologize, but Jihoon’s eyes are searching your face with a distinct flicker of concern. You know that look. You also know that nothing you can think to say will make it disappear.
He speaks when you don’t, hard edges softening slightly. “I can fix it,” he insists, though you know him well enough to hear the plea hidden in there.
Let me take care of you.
That little spark of desperation burns you up in a flash. You wonder if he can feel the fire spread when he lifts his right hand off the mattress just to swipe his thumb slowly over the edge of your cheekbone. Without thinking, you let go of the tension in your neck. Your head tilts automatically, seeking comfort you’ve only ever found in him, and rests against his palm.
“I have to admit it, though,” Jihoon confesses. “Yours isn’t the only mind that’s restless.”
He moves his hand away from your face but keeps his eyes trained on you. The incessant need you feel to apologize bubbles up yet again, uninvited. You swallow it. As you do, his fingertips trail down the length of your neck at a snail’s pace, effectively turning your thoughts to static.
“I’ve been holding you for hours now, and all that time —”
He pauses just long enough to glance down at his hand, which hasn’t.
“— I’ve been wondering if I should have you channel that energy and tire yourself out on top of me —”
His touch whispers over your collarbone. It’s the only proof that you have any bones at all. Until now, you were sure that the rest of you had melted entirely, puddling uselessly on the sheets below. This time, when you bite your lips and swallow weakly, it’s not an apology that you’re keeping to yourself but a whimper.
“— or lay you back against the pillows —”
You don’t mean to directly contradict his statement the moment he makes it, but you can’t help it. The thin, cotton fabric of your top does nothing to dull the sensation of his hand on your left breast; leaves you with the unmitigated brush of his thumb tracing delicate swirls over your nipple. The breath you’ve been holding comes out shuddered, back arching off the mattress to chase his touch.
Emboldened by your reaction, Jihoon pulls his gaze off his own ministrations and directs it through his lashes back up at you. One eyebrow momentarily flexes in challenge. “— Take my time, and —”
Whatever desperate look you give him earns you some amount of mercy. He picks up where he left off in that dizzyingly deep voice of his, words molten, and drags the hem of your shirt up your torso. “Fuck you deep, until the only thing you can do is relax.”
Gobsmacked is too weak a word for the impact that suggestion has on you. The idea alone sparks a kind of relief so foreign and so sorely needed that it almost makes you cry.
You don’t, thankfully.
Instead, you stagger along the borderline of babbling.
“I want that,” you announce on a shaky exhale. Then, with a shake of your head, you correct yourself, “No, it’s not even want. It’s —” Frustration over your inability to form a coherent thought drives you to scrub your hands over your face. “— need. I need you.”
You accompany that declaration by slapping your hands down at your sides, finishing off with a muted thump when your palms hit the mattress with enough force to bounce them upwards again.
Even with your eyes screwed shut, you know Jihoon is sitting back on his knees, watching you with equal parts surprise and amusement. There’s no need to open them to confirm it, but you do anyway. His pupils have dilated widely enough to rival the moon floating over the skyline.
Though he’d be well within bounds to tell you to chill the fuck out, he doesn’t. He never has, as far as you can recall. In fact, Jihoon doesn’t say a thing. His hands speak for him, reaching for the shirt he so nearly got off your body before you lost whatever was left of your mind.
Keeping his word, as always, Jihoon takes his time. He takes care in sliding that tank top up and over your head without snagging your earrings, then he wordlessly drops it off the side of the bed to be forgotten about.
With your chest bare, it’s obvious how rapid your breathing is. Noting the quick rise and fall, he traces the curve of your waist with the side of his right index finger and softly says the quiet part out loud: “Let me take care of you.”
And you do.
You let him maneuver your body so he can settle with one knee between your thighs, rather than straddle them. You let go of your death grip on the sheets and thread your fingers through his hair when he leans back down to kiss you; and when he licks into your mouth, you let him swallow the moan that builds under the delicious weight of his body on yours.
Already, you feel every shitty, stupid thought begin to dissolve. You should’ve known this would be the case.
He said he’d fix it, didn't he?
And here he is, proving to you that his touch is magic. All it takes to coax the tension out of your muscles is the tender pass of his hand.
Whatever effect Jihoon has on you seems to be mutual. When he pulls back, he’s equally as breathless, likely just as starry-eyed. Awash in that lilac glow peeking in from the outside, he’s downright celestial — almost too divine to look at directly without watering eyes.
Undeterred, you stare right back at him and sigh, “You’re beautiful.”
His nose scrunches for a split second, just like it always does when you make him suffer through a compliment. Your exposure therapy is working, though. For once, Jihoon doesn’t groan or tell you to keep your praise to yourself. The corner of his mouth curves upward — just barely — and he shakes his head.
“I mean it,” you quietly insist.
Smirking slightly, he extends the index finger on his right hand and holds it to his lips. “You’re relaxing, remember?”
Though you could double-down, any fight you might’ve had in you fizzles out the second he bows his head and connects his lips to the underside of your jaw. Your head tilts further back with every centimeter he trails down the length of your neck, granting him increased access to wreck you even further. You have to keep your hands on whatever you can grip of his biceps — which ultimately isn’t much at all — to keep from floating away.
“Bold of you to call me beautiful,” he murmurs against your body, “When you just exist like this.”
You don’t argue. You can’t argue with a man who sounds so fucking reverent. Not in good faith, anyway. He says it with the kind of sincerity that underlines an undisputed fact; and you know better than to debate an expert.
With nothing to say, all you have left is to keen and melt even further into the mattress.
Like everything else he does, the way Jihoon kisses you is rhythmic. Steady and thoughtful, each feather-light graze of his lips on your skin causes your eyelids to flutter until you eventually decide to keep them shut. To cut out the visual and hone in on the physical sensation; to be truly present in the body he can’t get enough of.
As it turns out, being present earns the gift of his tongue circling one of your nipples. Soon after, you get the plush heat of his mouth enveloping the sensitive bud; the slow, deep pull of the suction he creates.
Eloquent as always, you moan, “Fuuuuck.”
The hand not holding up his weight massages your other breast, too considerate to leave half of you lonely. Whatever gentle pressure he maintains there builds inside you, further down.
It’s incredible.
No, it’s fucking perfect.
Jihoon switches sides, grazes your other nipple carefully with his teeth, and it’s over for you. You shudder beneath his body, back arching and a breathy sigh floating out of your chest.
Apparently, he’s just as surprised by this turn of events as you are. Your eyes blink open and find him hovering over you with his jaw partially dropped, still smiling somehow.
Your questions overlap.
“Did you just —”
“— make me cum from this?”
His bemusement switches in an instant to something you can only describe as bewitched. Voice gravel-lined, Jihoon groans, “Oh, shit.” Adding immediately and twice as earnestly, “Goddamn.”
A flash of conflict makes him freeze. You know he’s facing the same internal debate that you are: he needs to be inside of you in the worst way, right now, but that’s not a conclusion the pair of you can just — leap to.
There’s simply too much of him to take if he doesn’t fuck you open with his fingers first.
Jihoon shakes his head, as if he’s telling himself no. Like he’s reminding himself of what he promised — or threatened, more like — earlier, that he’s taking his time.
As much as you want to beg otherwise, you know you shouldn’t. So, you don’t. You reach out, encircle his wrist in your hand, and bring him back within reach.
With undivided attention and darkening eyes, Jihoon watches you take his index and middle finger into your mouth, cheeks hollowing and tongue circling. He fights to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head, all the while professing, “You’re perfect.”
Not generally, no.
However, Jihoon has a habit of ending up correct, even if you disagree. This isn’t a battle worth picking. In this moment, you’re willing to entertain the possibility that you’re perfect for him.
A soft pop underscores your choice to release him. His mouth must’ve gotten jealous; it swiftly replaces his fingers, tongue reclaiming any territory he wrongfully assumes he’s lost.
You’d be content to stay this way forever — and likely could, if it came down to it — but Jihoon has an agenda. He sticks to it, to the letter, and in dropping his hand down your body, he lets his knuckles drag softly over the trail he blazes. The little sleep shorts you wear are moved aside, and your thighs part for him, too, offering unrestricted access.
Two fingers slip inside of you easily, no doubt aided by the orgasm that snuck up on you — the one you’re still thinking about; the one he’ll secretly hang his hat on forever, having brought it on without touching you here at all.
“Listen to you,” he smirks against your lips with a curl of his fingers.
As if you weren’t already acutely aware of the way you’ve drenched him to the base knuckles, he rolls his wrist, stroking your g-spot while the heel of his hand nudges your clit. Even the dulcet hum of the aircon isn’t enough to mute the obscenity; you hear the slick rush with every slow thrust of his fingers.
You respond with some sort of whimper. The sound barely registers without any breath behind it. If Jihoon hears it, he doesn’t let it affect his pace — just the stretch. He scissors his middle and index on the way out, then returns with his ring finger, unearthing a proper moan from the very bottom of your lungs.
His head tilts to the side. Warm breath hits the shell of your ear, prompting a contradictory shiver. “I think you’ve got another one for me, don’t you?”
Buried in you, he taps his fingers against that same, spongy spot. Every neuron you have begins to buzz.
“In fact, I think you want to cum all over my fingers,” he whispers, goading you with his rough voice dropped low. “Think you wanna soak my fucking hand, so I can fill you properly.”
You think you’ll have to apologize later for the crescent-shaped indents your nails leave on his shoulders.
When your second orgasm overtakes you, you feel it tingling all the way up at the crown of your head. Just like the first, it’s not a clap of thunder but a roll — patient. The intensity only builds, the longer it lasts. Jihoon makes sure it does — makes no adjustment to the slow, steady tempo, as it pulls you fully apart.
Every muscle you tensed as you came goes limp. It’s anyone’s guess whether you have any bones left. You’re sure that the only thing keeping you from seeping like honey through the mattress, or pooling on the floor below, is Jihoon’s body caging you in.
“Don’t ask me what my name is.” Your head droops to the side, and you mumble, “I do not remember, and I do not care.”
He kisses the temple that isn’t smushed against his left forearm, which, coupled with his elbow, now holds both of your weight. “If you’re spent, I can sto—”
“Don’t you dare.”
The emphatic look you muster lacks energy, you’re sure, but the point still stands, even if your stamina doesn’t. Half-lidded, you stare at him with all the force you can find.
“I’ll stay awake for the rest of my life if you stop now. I swear to you, Lee Jihoon, I will die on this hill.”
“Easy, tiger,” he purrs. Out of the corner of your narrowed eyes, you clock the fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The whole point of this was for you to relax.”
To prove that you haven’t lost the plot entirely, you close your eyes, rather than roll them. Then, you cave completely.
You whisper, leaving no question as to how badly you need him, “Jihoon… Please.”
“I’ve got you.” He nudges your temple with the tip of his nose. “But I can’t fuck you unless you give my arm back.”
Begrudgingly, you scoot your head several centimeters across the pillow, heaving a put-upon sigh as if he’s asked you to move a mountain instead. You give yourself a moment to mourn the loss of your headrest, then you open your eyes. As you do, any thought of pouting flies out the window.
Having crawled back to the end of your bed, Jihoon gets to his feet. Once there, he drops his hands and eyes to the loose knot cinching the waistband of his sweatpants. It’s a sight you’ve seen a thousand times — his naked chest so pale in contrast with his usual, all-black attire — yet it’s one you’ll never truly get over. Even harder to cope with is the fact that he’s never been in a hurry; not once in his goddamn life.
If you’re being honest, that’s one of the things you’ve always loved most about him. Envied, even. You fret endlessly about the process, whatever that may be; he trusts it. You scale the walls in anticipation; he’s never been caught sweating.
The best example of this comes the second he finishes addressing that knot. His sweatpants pool at his ankles; he kicks them aside; and you immediately set to wondering how in the motherfuck he managed to be so patient with you when he’s this incomprehensibly hard.
Really, you don’t deserve him.
Nevertheless, you get him anyway.
Him pushing his flyways out of his face; him reaching out slowly to hook his fingers under the elastic band of your shorts; him cursing under his breath when he tosses those shorts over his shoulder and finds you wet and wanting.
In return, Jihoon gets you right where he wants you — trembling underneath him, with pliant legs opening wider at the request of his hands on your thighs. When his body fills the space between them, those same legs wrap around his back to keep him close, just like the arms you slink around his neck.
“Deep breath,” he reminds you as he lines himself up, only half-jokingly.
It’s good advice — something Jihoon probably should’ve heeded.
He doesn’t.
You keep your eyes on his when he slides inside of you, and you swear you see his mind blow in real time. Not that you have room to judge, however. In fact, that’s precisely what’s causing you to short-circuit: the perfect pressure of his length within your heat, sinking in slowly so as to not shock the system.
When he eventually bottoms out, low moan splintering from the depths of his chest, you have to blink quickly to keep tears within your waterline.
To check in, Jihoon runs his hand along the side of your thigh then back again. “Alright?”
Whatever you say in response comes out through a dreamy sigh, framed in quotation marks by fluttering lashes. Nonsense, most likely, or never better. In either case, he’ll understand; he always does.
Placing your hand on his, you slip your fingers over the top and pull him forward. He lets you, comes down carefully until the comfort of his weight against your frame makes you feel anchored. With every inch that’s erased between you, he fills you further, pushing out whatever air remains in your lungs through some needy little whine.
Among the million sensations you have to grapple with, the most hard-hitting, ironically, is comfort. Pure and unadulterated. You enveloping him, enveloping you.
To prove it to yourself that you’re not dreaming, you slip your fingers into his hair, nails scratching delicately over his scalp. In return, he rolls his hips forward, just like he promised — slow, steady, deep. You clench around him involuntarily, a reflex your body must’ve learned to keep him close.
“Love the way you grip me, but...” Jihoon exhales a sigh against your neck, head tilted to keep your face in his periphery. Pulling out further just to thrust in deeper, he warns, “You keep that up, and I’ll cum too soon.”
He’s one to talk.
Every time he grinds his hips languidly towards yours, you have to talk yourself off the ledge.
If you let him wear you down again, you fear that there won’t be enough left of you to savor this; and you never want this moment to end. You want to live in it — to feel the delicious drag of his cock along your walls — to hear that obscene tide ebb and flow whenever he fucks himself further in you — to feel so fucking full — for as long as he gives you.
It was a valiant effort on your part, if you do say so yourself. Futile, though, because Jihoon pulls out all the stops. The next time he pulls himself from you just to roll back in, he swivels his hips as he thrusts, ensuring that you feel him everywhere.
“Oh.”
One syllable on a gasping breath, then you forget every single word in your vocabulary. Like warm molasses, bliss washes over you at half-speed, seeping in and sticking until the blender motor in your brain is fucked beyond repair.
At least you’re not the only one.
“Fuck, fuck —”
Holding him as closely as you are, you feel each muscle in Jihoon’s body tense one-by-one, rippling as your third orgasm steals his first, going lax when his release floods. “— Fuck,” he groans, all the while twitching inside you.
Though he slows, he doesn’t stop. It’s not until he pants, “Kiss me,” that you realize it: Jihoon doesn’t intend to stop.
Neither, it seems, do you.
Maybe you’re greedy. Maybe you’re too obsessed with the brush of his tip against your cervix with every gentle, shallow thrust. Maybe, above all, it’s the way his cock doesn’t soften inside of you but his face does when he catches you looking at him from under a heavy curtain of lashes.
You catch him by the mouth, just like he asked. It’s indulgent — messy, echoing the other point where the two of you connect. Licking into him while he fucks himself into you, ragged breaths barely loud enough to overpower the explicit, sodden sound below.
“Can you still speak in sentences?” He pants in a rare moment when his lips break from yours.
Can feel you in my stomach, you want to say.
“I’m — you’re gonna make me —”
You can’t choke out the words, though you suspect Jihoon gets the point. This far in, his touch reaches a detonator you didn’t even know existed; there’s no way he misses the explosion of pleasure throughout your entire goddamn body.
He’s caught in your blast radius, your walls pulsing and spasming to such an insane degree that he can barely move. Mind blown to fucking smithereens, your ears ring too loudly to hear whatever he says to you when he cums again — hard — and the arms bearing his weight buckle.
Jihoon’s flushed cheek winds up pressed to your shoulder. He stays there while your joint trembling subsides, then any muscle that could make him move is too spent to do so.
“What just happened?” He sounds as delirious as you feel. “That was… shit. What did your body just do?”
You have no idea.
You have no capacity to form any.
All you have is the weight of his frame on yours and that of your eyelids, which flutter as you try and fail to keep them open. The best you can give is a non-responsive, utterly fucked-out sound — not enough shape to be a word, not enough breath to be a sigh.
Eventually, although you can’t imagine how, Jihoon finds enough strength to shift himself off of you. You don’t see anything that happens next, but you feel it all — the kiss to your temple; the hollowness when he pulls out and the sticky rush that chases him when he leaves.
“I’m coming back to clean you up,” he promises in a hushed tone from a million miles away. Chuckling despite his own sleepiness, he adds, “Don’t move.”
I won’t, you think but don’t say.
And you don’t move.
At least, not until the smell of hotteok reaches you eight hours later.
svt taglist: @ashonheavenscloud @variety-is-the-joy-of-life @rasparagus @bouclesdefeu @ourkivee @sourkimchi @gyuguys
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ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — TEEN DAD! GOJO x FEM READER
When Megumi gets injured on a mission, you realize you’re not capable of taking care of a child.
wc — 1.8k
tags — misunderstandings; self doubt; the pitfalls of teenage parenting when you’re all child soldiers; mild angst with a happy ending; happens post sometimes a family is you, teen dad Gojo, and the six year old child he accidentally orphaned, part I of teen dad gojoverse, in which you and Gojo raise Megumi together.
You shove Megumi into his arms, a bundle of bloody black fabric and dead weight. Gojo doesn’t stumble - he never does - but it’s a close call as he instinctively wraps his arms around whatever you’ve pushed onto him.
“Teleport! Teleport!” You’re so frantic you’re incoherent. It takes a full minute, a minute you don’t have, before you realize that you can’t just say things. Gojo, as invincible as he is, can’t read your mind. You have to explain what’s going on, but how can you focus when Megumi is bleeding out? His little face is growing paler and paler by the second.
His hands are so tiny. Why is that the only thing you can focus on? They’re grasping the front of Gojo’s jacket for dear life as he coughs weakly.
“Teleport him back to HQ! Get Shoko!”
You resist the urge to shake Gojo by his lapels, slap some sense into him. It would only hurt Megumi. Why won’t he move?
“I can’t!”
“What do you mean you can’t? Go! He’s losing so much blood, you have to go now!”
You know you’re getting hysterical, but Megumi is dying right in front of you.
“I can’t teleport! There are conditions-“
“He’s going to die!”
“Stop- I need to think!”
In the back of your head, you can hear Shoko telling you in that cool and detached tone of hers that you’re hyperventilating.
Look, she says, you see that? You’re breathing too quickly. You feel lightheaded, right?
Gojo spreads his jacket out on the ground of the forest. “Help me get him ready. I’m going to sew up the cut.”
“Let me-“
“I’ll do it. I’ve done Getou’s before. You just focus on keeping him breathing.”
You can do that.
Hunched over Megumi’s body, Gojo gets to work. He looks so frail, spread on the grass with only Gojo’s jacket beneath him. His eyes are normally dark, but they’re blacker with pain, his pupils swallowing up his irises.
The first puncture of the needle makes him wail before he slaps his hand over his mouth. You peel it back and make vaguely soothing noises, trying to be comforting.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you murmur, letting him rest his head in your lap.
“You can scream, Megumi. I know it hurts. Oh, honey, I know. I know.” He’s making this face that agonizes you. His nose is all scrunched up as he clenches his jaw. He’s the type of kid that would rather chew up his suffering and swallow it back down then let anyone see it.
This happened on your watch.
Sick self hatred rises in your throat.
Gojo would’ve never let anything happen to Megumi.
He whimpers quietly and you flinch. Without even thinking of it, you reach for his hand. You force yourself not to tremble. You’re an adult. It’s your responsibility not to scare him like that.
His eyes are closed as Gojo grimly works the needle through, but there’s a jump in his frantic heartbeat, as tiny as a rabbit’s. You can detect it through the pulsing vein in his wrist, funneling blood to the injury only to waste it on air.
He’s such a brave kid - your brave little boy. You smooth his sticky wet hair back from his face, damp with sweat. He moans in pain and twists away. Your heart crumples.
It takes so much for him to be vocal about anything that hurts him. How much pain must he be in?
“Gojo,” you say.
“I’m trying!”
You know. Going any faster is likely to have dangerous consequences. This is the only way. How cruel. You have to hurt him to help him, and isn’t that just the story of your parenthood?
You curl around him, protective as if your body can shield him from his own body working against itself. The more blood he loses, the harder his body fights to keep him alive.
It’s an infinitely long minute before Gojo proclaims the grim deed finished. Megumi had passed out long beforehand, his death grip on your fingers slackening as the pain pushed him into nothingness.
He wakes up on the long drive back to campus. Ijichi has never bent so many speeding limits in his life. Normally a careful driver, he shoots furtive looks at the kid staining his back seats red. You can feel his judgment of what kind of parent you are settling over you.
Shoko must be thinking the same thing as she patches Megumi up in your kitchen. Her reverse cursed technique seals the cut up in seconds flat, though a scar remains, puckering the flesh of his forearm.
“Just like Utahime,” Gojo tells him, pinching his cheek. “You didn’t cry either, so you’re better than her.”
“Don’t talk about your seniors like that,” you say absentmindedly, though your mind could not be further from disciplining Gojo for his poor behavior.
You can’t send Megumi to the Zenins. You know what they’d do to a sweet kid like him. They’d turn him into a monster like his father. You shudder, thinking of the creature from your nightmares who had stolen the life of a sixteen year old girl, and nearly taken Gojo with him. You could never let them do that to Megumi. They probably wouldn’t take care of Tsumiki either, unless to hold her over his head. But just because they aren’t fit caretakers doesn’t mean you are.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
Gojo’s been trying to get your attention for who knows how long. When he sees that he finally has it, he sends Megumi off to bed and jerks his thumb at the door. Wordlessly, you follow him to the porch. It’s dimly lit from a singular overhead bulb without a covering. The two of you stand in a circle of light, the night outside pressing in against the walls of your home.
“What is it?” He says impatiently. “I fixed everything, didn’t I? Why are you still upset?”
“It’s not you,” you say. It’s so cliche, but what else is there to say? “It’s my fault.”
“Don’t,” he says softly.
You pull your hand back when he tries to take it. There’s a perverse sense of satisfaction in denying both of you what you want. You don’t deserve this.
He’s silent for a long time. You let the silence stew, determined to outlast him. Quickly, it becomes clear who has the upper hand. You shift from side to side, nervous and tense, while he just waits with his hands shoved in his pockets. When you finally look over, he’s wearing his sunglasses again. His hair glows under the porch light, attracting moths. “Finally felt like playing nice?”
He’s attractive when he’s mean. You hate that about him, the way the cruel twist of his mouth ties knots into your stomach. It would all be easier if you could hate him, but everything he does only makes you love him more.
What a twisted little family you’ve built for yourself.
He sighs. “Stop that. Don’t-“ he waves his hand in your general direction in frustration. “You always do that. It’s not your fault.”
“He needs a real parent, Gojo. I couldn’t protect him.”
“I was there too,” he says. “You don’t see me agonizing over my mistakes. It happens.”
What mistake, you think bitterly. Gojo’s only fault is trusting you with Megumi. He’s the strongest. If it was him, nothing would’ve happened.
“It wasn’t your mistake. It was mine. If I hadn’t been there, everything would have been fine.”
“Again?” Gojo says quietly.
It’s a forceful reminder of how much you sound like Getou right now. He never recovered from what that monster - Megumi’s father - did to him. Even now, your class lives with the scars of that day. Gojo’s face is wistful for a brief moment, deluged by memories. Then it’s gone, wiped from his expression like it had never been there.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, wondering if it’s too late to take it back.
Gojo never falters. He’s unreasonable and childish, but he’s as solid as stone. You’ve watched him shoulder every single burden he’s ever been asked to carry since he was a child, and now he’s taken on one more. You promised Gojo that you would watch his back, regardless of whether he needed you or not. The words you spoke in a fit of anger and self pity bring you regret now. Weakness isn’t just failing to shield Megumi from all the dangers of sorcery that you wish you and Gojo had been protected from. Weakness is running away when it gets hard.
Megumi’s your baby.
You’re not going to give him up.
A step forward has you pressing into Gojo’s space. He doesn’t yield, watching you with those ancient eyes.
“I know it’ll only get harder, but it has to be us, right? Who else will keep him safe from the Zenins? I won’t leave, Gojo. I promise.”
His relieved expression contrasts with his smug words. There’s a crooked smile on his face when he says, “I knew you wouldn’t just abandon us. You think Megumi wants to stay with me? You’re the one keeping him here.”
“I get it,” you smack his arm. “No need for flattery. I’m with you until the end.”
“I’m not kidding,” he protests. “There’s no universe in which Megumi likes me more than you.”
How can you stay upset when he looks so proud of himself for finally figuring out the right thing to say to get you to stay?
“He doesn’t,” you insist.
Gojo rolls his eyes. “Don’t lie to me. Here, I’ll prove it.”
It’s not uncommon for Gojo to put Megumi to bed. In fact, it’s a chore he fights you for. It’s probably one of his favorite parts of having Megumi around. He likes telling stories, and surprisingly enough, he’s good at it. He gives each character its own voice. More often than not, he ends up as invested in the bedtime story as Megumi is. Tonight, when he closes the book, he doesn’t leave. The soft light of the lamp on the bedside table shines through a crack in the door as Gojo and Megumi talk in hushed whispers.
“I want my mom,” he says quietly.
You lean against the door, pressing your head to the wood to try to keep yourself from falling to the ground. You want to try. You want to be there for him. But Megumi needs his mother, not some teenager who can’t even take control of her own life, much less a child’s. You’re all he has, though, and you have to make it work. You wish Mrs. Fushiguro was still alive, even if that means you would’ve never gotten to meet him.
“Then ask her to come in,” Gojo says.
Megumi makes a startled noise. You can almost see him burrowing into his blankets.
“Go on,” Gojo coaxes. “Oh, come on. Don’t be shy now. You really won’t? Fine.”
He calls to you. “Come in, sweetheart. Don’t keep us waiting.”
The first thing you see when you open the door is Megumi’s head buried beneath the covers. Gojo’s trying to peel the sheets back.
“What are you hiding for? I brought you your mom! You should be thanking me!”
“I hate you!”
“I told you,” Gojo says. “He loves you more than me.”
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