#the jackal cast | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cumironi · 1 month ago

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CAST(CH) ME OUTSIDE? (HOW ’BOUT DAT PU$$Y?)

feat. gojo satoru x college au.

summary. he is dumb and got cast, he is also horny while getting cast. what’s the worse? he can’t move to bend you over or you ride him dumb? because, like gojo said, as his fwb, you have to take care of him.

triggers/warnings. non-sorcerer!, gojo is injured and insufferable, castfuck adjacent energy, fwb dynamic with too many feelings, cockdrunk reader, pussydrunk gojo, nipple piercing mention, clingier gojo (covert), possessive behavior disguised as perversion, praise kink, dirty talk, whimpering, crying (reader), pussy-drunk characterization (both), overstimulation, orgasm denial / powerplay, handjob, internal ejaculation, cum leaking, pussy worship by proxy (he praises it like a god), breathplay-adjacent (moaning into chest), affectionate degradation, light dumbification, reader being too far gone to speak, post-sex caretaking, wet kisses / forehead kiss, swearing / explicit language.

he screamed mid-air and hit the water wrong—full-body slap like a corpse belly-flopping from ten meters up. and for what? because geto fucking dared him to. “i bet you won’t,” he’d said, squinting through the sun with a half-dead beer in hand, grinning like a jackal. gojo barely blinked. dropped his sunglasses to you, tossed his shirt into the sand, and launched himself off the rock with a running start and not one single coherent thought. he came back up with his knee bent wrong and his arm dragging like he’d forgotten what limbs were for. the lifeguards didn’t even try to look surprised.

the hospital was a blur of x-rays, splints, bitching. now, days later, he’s got a fiberglass cast running hip to ankle in white, another holding his dominant arm stiff in sling and straps, and enough prescription painkillers in his system to keep him slurring every third word. he insisted on going home early. wouldn’t let anyone else pick him up but you.

you’re regretting it by the time you’re dragging his six-foot-three dumbass through his front door, his full weight leaning into your shoulder like he’s trying to break your back next.

“can you not grab my tit every five steps?” you hiss, adjusting the bag on your other arm, your sandals half-off your feet already.

“huh? ‘m just balancing,” he mumbles innocently, fingers curled perfectly around your left breast through thin cotton. not even pretending to hide it. “you walk like a drunk deer.”

“yeah, ‘cause you’re three times my size and heavy as hell, satoru.”

his place is a contradiction. high-rise, top floor, view of half the skyline, sleek automatic blinds that shift with the sun—so rich it’s actually insulting—but the inside is all disjointed aesthetic chaos. it’s clean, obsessively clean, but it looks like three different interior designers fought over the layout and gave up halfway through. huge sunken couch in champagne velvet, expensive but perpetually draped in half-folded laundry. black marble kitchen island, but covered in protein bar wrappers and empty evian bottles. wine fridge filled with soda and red bull. one corner of the living room holds a five-figure sound system; the other has an oversized beanbag and a framed poster of a cartoon dog with sunglasses. still smells like him—cashmere, bergamot, and faint chlorine from the hospital shower.

you help him limp toward the couch. you’re sweating. your thighs stick when you bend to help lower him down, his hand slipping higher up your waist.

“fuck, careful—” he hisses as his knee bumps the edge, the weight jostling his leg.

“maybe don’t dive off fucking cliffs next time, stupid.”

“maybe don’t look so hot on beach day. got distracted.”

“don’t flatter me. you can’t see past your ego.”

“nuh uh,” he grins, sweat beading on his lip, “i see your nipples just fine.”

you shove him down harder than necessary and step back, scowling, tugging your shirt down over your chest. oversized and thin cotton, loose at the hem, hangs just barely to the curve of your ass. no bra. too hot for it. too humid, too much salt in your skin. the piercing barbell under the fabric presses tight against the cloth, obvious. he’s been bumping it with his fingers every chance he gets since you picked him up, soft little grazes like he wasn’t absolutely doing it on purpose.

your skirt’s short. way too short for this. pleated and black and barely covering anything once you bent over. but you hadn’t planned on hauling him around today—you were supposed to meet sukuna. you were supposed to get railed into next week.

you flick on the lights. low, gold-white, warm, the kind that make skin glow. he’s already manspread across the couch, cast propped, shirt half unbuttoned because he’s hot or because he’s trying to be sexy—probably both. his hair’s a mess. he shaved, though. you notice. always do.

“you know i was supposed to get dick tonight,” you mutter, crossing your arms, shifting your weight.

“mm. you still can,” he says, looking smug.

“from sukuna, dumbass. he promised. he promised me dinner and being bent over the hood of his car. you ruined it.”

“yikes,” gojo laughs, voice light, “you really let him sweet talk you like that? guy’s got the emotional range of a tire iron.”

you roll your eyes. “should’ve called geto. he probably would’ve gotten you here without trying to cop a feel.”

gojo’s lips twitch into a slow smirk. “but then i wouldn’t get to imagine you whining all night about being stood up while dripping all over my couch.”

you freeze, eyes narrowing. “fuck you.”

he shrugs—or tries to, at least, the cast locking his shoulder. “you’re my fwb. it’s in the contract. friends—who baby me when i’m dying—and benefits.”

you walk back over and slap the back of his head. not hard. just enough to make his mouth fall open in scandal.

“i will leave you here to rot.”

you’re still glaring when you bend down to rummage through his tote bag—one of those overpriced canvas ones with a designer logo like that somehow makes it worth three hundred bucks, filled with hospital paperwork, a half-eaten chocolate croissant he smuggled from the cafeteria, and a ziplock full of orange bottles with child-proof caps you’re ninety-nine percent sure he’s going to open with his teeth. you drag the biggest one out, rattle it, read the label. “okay, you need to take two of these every six hours, with food,” you say, squinting at the instructions like you didn’t just memorize them in the car ride over. “don’t mix it with alcohol, don’t take more if it ‘stops working,’ and don’t be a dumbass about it.”

gojo groans, head flopping back against the cushion. “food’s a scam. just let me dry swallow and die.”

“too bad,” you reply, reaching in again. “this one’s for inflammation, one pill twice a day. and this—” you pull out another and hold it up like exhibit c— “you don’t touch unless you’re literally about to cry.”

“you mean right now,” he whines, sticking out his bottom lip like some fucked-up parody of a hospital drama. “my whole leg feels like it got hate-crimed.”

“good. maybe it’ll teach you not to jump off cliffs like a brainless himbo.”

he grins, tired but smug. “you think i’m hot when i’m brainless?”

“i think you’re hot when you shut the fuck up and take your pills,” you say, tossing them into his lap before standing. your skirt rides up a little with the motion, and you know he notices because his eyes drop like he’s been given a blessing straight from heaven. “do you want to move to bed before i go?”

he perks up like a dog hearing the word ‘walk’. “bed, yeah. bed sounds nice. bed is where your tits should be.”

“god, you’re disgusting.”

“but you love me.”

you sigh dramatically, moving back to his side and looping his uninjured arm over your shoulder. he leans heavily on you again, letting out the most unnecessary moan you’ve ever heard as he stands.

“hnngghhh—ow. my dick.”

“you’re fine.”

“i’m not. you broke me.”

“you broke yourself, idiot.”

you haul him, limping and groaning and dramatically whispering “ow” every ten seconds, through the open layout of his apartment. his bedroom is stupid. king bed, eight pillows, a mattress that probably costs more than your entire wardrobe. sheets are slate gray, soft enough to make your fingertips tingle, and there’s a fucking mirror on the ceiling he swears he had “before he met you.” you help him sit down on the edge, then lower him with care. his cast thumps the bed. he winces. you sigh.

“do you need anything?” you ask, hands on your hips, sweat still glistening along your neck and down your collarbone.

“yeah. you. naked. mouth full.”

you roll your eyes so hard you almost see another dimension, but your lips twitch into a reluctant smile anyway. “you’re insufferable.”

he tilts his head, cocky. “but you’re smiling.”

you step closer. your thighs press to the edge of the mattress, hands coming to cradle his neck. you lean down, your chest inches from his face, and he immediately tilts forward like he’s trying to bury his nose in your cleavage. you let him. just for a second. then you press your mouth to his, soft and slow and stupidly sweet. his fingers curl at your waist, trying to pull, like he could forget the whole one-arm-two-broken-bones thing and manhandle you anyway.

“idiot,” you murmur against his lips. “fucking idiot. taking geto’s dare like some frat pledge with no common sense.”

he grins into your mouth. “thought you liked me dumb.”

“i like you useful,” you reply, pulling back just enough to bite at his lower lip. “can’t even finger me right now.”

he exhales like you’ve personally wounded him. “fuck. you’re so mean to the disabled.”

you kiss the corner of his mouth, then the edge of his jaw. “call me if you need anything. i’ll come back later.”

he narrows his eyes, predatory. “how much later?”

you smirk. “if you’re lucky, i’ll even stay the night.”

“fuck,” he breathes, head falling back dramatically. “god loves me.”

you turn, swaying your hips as you disappear into his hallway. “you better pray he does.”

the thing is, you didn’t mean to fall into a routine. it just… happened. it started with him getting hurt—of course it did, because gojo can’t go a single weekend without turning a dare into an emergency room visit—and it just spiraled. one visit turned into two, turned into dropping by every night with food and charging cables and fresh clothes from his place, turned into bickering in his kitchen while heating soup you know damn well he won’t eat unless you spoon-feed him like the pathetic broken playboy he is. he’s a menace. an entitled little brat in five thousand dollar pajamas with one working arm and a mouth that never shuts the fuck up unless you’re sitting on it.

shoko stops by once with a pack of cigarettes and glares at you both like she’s judging your entire existence. “is he milking the injury?” she asks dryly. “he’s moaning like he’s birthing twins.”

geto lounges on the couch another afternoon, flipping through gojo’s copy of GQ and throwing gummy bears at your ass while you try to change the bedsheets around that stupid fucking cast. nanami refuses to sit down the one time he visits, just drinks a black coffee standing by the window like he’s resisting the urge to throw himself out of it. utahime rolls her eyes so hard you’re worried they’ll stay like that, and haibara, bless his stupid golden retriever heart, brings gojo a cookie tin and tells him to stay strong with actual tears in his eyes.

but some nights, it’s just you. and gojo. and that ridiculous mattress and the quiet hum of his apartment, and the soft weight of his voice when he’s not posturing for attention. you don’t mean to care as much as you do. but he gets all flushed when he’s in pain, lashes darker, breath shallower, and he leans into your touch like he needs it, like you’re the only thing grounding him. you end up sleeping over more than once. at first on the couch. then beside him. then with him, pressed close, his cast awkwardly angled but his hand still between your thighs under the sheets, whispering shit he has no business saying with that many painkillers in his system.

tonight you don’t even text first.

you push the door open with your hip, dress clinging silk-smooth to your skin, the kind of fabric that looks innocent until it shifts wrong and suddenly your nipple’s visible, your thigh’s bare, the illusion of modesty destroyed by one wrong move. it’s backless. you didn’t wear underwear. you knew you’d be staying.

you lock the door behind you without thinking—habit now—and the apartment’s dim and quiet. not dark, but soft-lit in that golden evening way, the city buzzing low through the balcony glass. it’s too quiet. gojo’s usually yelling about something by now, or sending a voice note to geto full of moans and fake sobs like he’s being tortured because he can’t reach the remote. but nothing. not a sound. you frown. toss your bag on the kitchen counter, grab a clean glass from the cabinet and fill it with water because he probably hasn’t taken his meds yet. you swear to god if he passed out without them again you’re going to force-feed him in his sleep.

“baby, i’m here,” you call, voice easy, casual, already moving down the hallway toward his room, footsteps soft on the wood.

then you hear it.

soft. low. strained.

a moan.

then another.

longer this time, hitching near the end.

and a muttered—half-grunted—

“f-fuck, yeah, just like that, fuck, baby—”

your name.

you stop. blink. tilt your head.

your smile starts slow. creeps across your mouth like a sin.

“no fucking way,” you whisper under your breath, barely resisting the urge to laugh.

you tiptoe toward the bedroom door, the sound of rustling sheets and hitched breath growing clearer, sharper, the rhythmic squeak of mattress springs unmistakable. the door’s slightly ajar. the air’s warmer here, heavier. you can hear the wet slick-slick-slick of skin, can hear the little guttural noises he makes when he’s close, that desperate frustration because he can’t grip right with one hand, the cast shifting every time he thrusts up into his palm.

you peer in, just enough.

gojo’s sprawled across the mattress like the picture of spoiled debauchery. shirtless, hair a mess, sweat-slick at the temples. his broken leg’s angled wide, cast propped on a pillow, good arm working furiously between his thighs. he’s flushed to the neck, mouth open, panting, head thrown back, mumbling absolute filth into the ceiling.

“fuck, baby, your mouth’s so—mmmgh—miss it, fuck, need you, where the fuck are you—fuck—”

you press your palm to your mouth, nearly wheezing, because he’s literally jerking off while fantasizing out loud about you, and he doesn’t even hear you coming down the hall. he’s so far gone, so worked up and pathetically horny that he doesn’t even realize you’re home, water still in your hand, dress clinging to the heat between your thighs.

he groans again, louder, thrusts up into his fist like it’s your cunt, desperate, hissing through his teeth—

and your name again, low and raw, almost a sob.

you grin.

you knock gently on the door with your knuckle, voice syrupy sweet, teasing.

“baby, i said i’m here. need a hand?”

gojo doesn’t even stop.

doesn’t flinch, doesn’t cover himself, doesn’t pull the sheet up or pretend he was doing something else like a normal person. no, he keeps going—hips jerking up in short, frustrated little thrusts, hand still working his cock in a rhythm that’s sloppy and furious and just this side of tragic. if anything, he whines, deep in the back of his throat like you’ve walked in and interrupted him, like you’re the problem for not showing up sooner to ride him into next week. his eyes crack open, dazed and shiny, that stupid smirk dragging at the corner of his mouth while he looks you up and down like you’re the last glass of water in a desert and he’s been crawling toward you on broken knees.

“oh my god, finally,” he groans, throwing his head back again. “you said you’d come tonight and i’ve been dying.”

you’re still standing there in the doorway, dress clinging to every curve, and he’s sprawled out in the center of a king-size mattress like an oversexed greek tragedy. sweat on his chest, the veins in his forearm flexing with every twist of his wrist, the tip of his cock flushed angry-red and leaking onto his stomach, dripping just above the scar from that one stupid snowboarding accident you told him not to do. he looks like a disaster. the most fuckable, shameless, needy disaster alive.

“i told you,” he pants, voice cracked, “i’m addicted to your pussy. this is your fault. you did this to me.”

you squint at him like he’s grown an extra head. “you are unbelievable.”

he huffs, like you’re being unreasonable. “you haven’t touched me in days. i’m going insane. i’ve been telling you every night to fuck me.”

“you’ve also been high as shit on meds and threatening to send a dick pic to my boss.”

“because he needs to know what he’s up against,” gojo fires back immediately, rolling his head to the side, eyes gleaming. “what if he’s into you? what if he thinks he has a chance?”

you step into the room finally, slow and unimpressed, crossing to his nightstand and setting the glass down like you’re at a damn parent-teacher conference and not standing two feet away from a man actively jerking his dick in your direction.

he watches you the entire time, panting, lazy and hungry, eyes dragging over your thighs, the dip of your waist, the cling of silk around your tits, nipples outlined and obvious in the soft low light.

“you can’t even fuck,” you say flatly, waving a hand at his busted leg like it’s exhibit A.

“okay rude, first of all,” he says, sitting up slightly with a wince, “and second, yes i can. i’ve been thinking about it. you’ll do all the work. i’ll just lay back and take it. dead fish style.”

you blink.

he grins.

“call it princess treatment. you get to bounce on daddy’s cock while he tells you how perfect you are. everybody wins.”

you blink harder. “you’re disgusting.”

“you love how disgusting i am,” he sings, pushing his hips up again like he’s trying to prove a point, precum still smeared over his abs. “you literally called me a menace while riding me last week.”

“and you cried when i didn’t let you come for twenty minutes.”

“you said you liked when i begged!”

you roll your eyes so hard your whole neck moves, but you don’t leave. you just cross your arms and look at him, standing at the edge of his stupid oversized bed in your stupid slutty dress like this is just another tuesday. which, unfortunately, it kind of is.

he whines again, full body now, dramatic and loud, the kind of noise that would have a neighbor calling the cops if you lived anywhere that wasn’t a penthouse suite.

“come on, baby,” he groans. “i’m so hard it hurts. i had a dream you were choking me with your tits last night and i woke up leaking. you’ve broken me. congratulations. hope you’re proud.”

you say nothing.

you just tilt your head and mutter, dry as hell—

“you’re fucking disgusting.”

and he moans.

you sigh like it’s the most annoying thing in the world. like helping him nut is a chore, like you didn’t just soak through the delicate little triangle of your dress when you heard him groaning your name down the hallway. you sigh like a martyr, dramatic and exasperated, dragging your hands through your hair like you’re about to tackle filing taxes, not sit down and handle the neediest, most sex-deprived idiot you’ve ever loved with the force of a thousand hurricanes.

gojo watches you like you’re a mirage. mouth open, chest heaving, dick throbbing where it rests against his stomach, hand still wrapped around it but going still now because he knows—oh he fucking knows—that look on your face. the one that says you’re going to do something terrible to him just to shut him up. he grins wide, teeth flashing, lashes fluttering like he’s done something right for once in his life. which is rich, coming from the same man who sprained two ribs sneezing last month and still tried to rawdog you on the balcony afterward.

“don’t you dare smile at me,” you mutter as you climb up onto the bed, settling slow between his legs with one knee brushing the edge of the cast and the other folded carefully beside his hip. “you’re lucky i’m merciful. you’re lucky i’m charitable.”

he gasps like he’s touched. “baby… are you saying you’re gonna feed the poor?”

“no, i’m saying i’m gonna ruin the poor and then leave him crying.”

“god,” he whimpers, reaching for you with his good hand but missing by a mile. “you know i love when you talk like that.”

you’re perched between his thighs now, straddling him in a way that keeps you just high enough not to jostle the cast, dress riding up until the cool silk barely covers your ass, clinging wet at the crease of your thighs. his breath catches audibly when you reach down and wrap your fingers around the base of his cock, cool palm meeting overheated skin, and he arches helplessly into your hand like a plant toward sunlight.

“jesus fuck,” he pants, head falling back again.

“don’t move,” you warn, tightening your grip just a little. “i swear to god if i accidentally hurt you, i’m not taking responsibility.”

he chokes on a laugh. “you say that like you didn’t already dislocate my shoulder once.”

“that was an accident!”

“you were on top! you said and i quote—‘ride or die, bitch.’”

“and you said you could handle it,” you snap, giving his cock a pointed little jerk that makes him twitch. “you always say you can handle it. then you cry.”

“i like crying!”

“yeah, and i like peace and quiet, but guess what i’m not getting tonight?”

he tries to smirk but it dissolves into a breathless moan when your hand glides up, twisting slick at the tip, thumb rolling across the head with a practiced flick that makes his whole spine arc off the bed.

“fuck, you’re so mean to me,” he gasps.

“yeah?” you murmur, stroking him slow now, lazy, deliberate, watching the way his abs flutter with every pass. “then why’s your cock so fucking hard, baby? if i’m so cruel?”

he looks at you like he wants to cry again. “because you’re perfect and you know it.”

you grin. “say that again.”

“you’re perfect,” he whines immediately, voice cracking halfway through like it’s instinct. “you’re so—fuck,—you’re so good, you’re so pretty, you touch me like you own me—”

“because i do,” you say sweetly, nails dragging down the length of his shaft just hard enough to make him twitch. “you belong to me, right? broken leg and all?”

he nods like his brain’s short-circuiting. “yesyesyes, fuck, please, do whatever you want, i’m yours—”

and that’s when you lean in, close, lips by his ear as your hand keeps stroking him just a little mean, just a little tight—

“good. then shut up and take it.”

his thigh tightens under you suddenly, all instinct and raw, useless tension—muscle flexing like he’s about to thrust up into nothing, like he forgot for a split second that one leg’s fully out of commission and you’re sitting half on the other. it makes you jolt just slightly, your palm sliding lower down his cock, and gojo makes a sound that’s half moan, half hiss, like the pleasure’s so sharp it burns a little. you don’t stop. not even close. your hand keeps moving, slick and steady, wrist working with slow precision that’s just infuriating enough to drive him insane without giving him what he wants.

“baby,” he whimpers, hips twitching, cast thumping helplessly against the bed. “baby, please, you’re being evil—”

“i told you,” you murmur as you lean in closer, your chest pressing flush to his, the heat of your body soaking through silk and skin and whatever flimsy grip on control he had left. “i’m not taking responsibility if you break something again. i warned you. this is all on you now.”

your mouth finds his jaw, soft and warm, lips brushing over that stubborn stubble he hasn’t bothered to shave today. you kiss down the line of it, right to the edge of his throat, slow and lingering, teeth grazing just hard enough to make him shiver under you. and still—still—your hand doesn’t stop. you’re jerking him with the kind of rhythm that’s practiced, cruel, and absolutely soaked in affection. not fast, not enough to get him off, just enough to keep him floating in that awful, delicious space where he can’t think anymore.

“this is torture,” he breathes, voice ragged, his one good hand fisting the sheets beside your hip. “you’re actually—oh my god—this is abuse.”

“and yet,” you say, kissing the corner of his mouth now, “you’re still the hardest you’ve ever been.”

he whines. whines. like an animal. like something helpless and needy and ruined. his whole body’s tense under yours, and you can feel the way his thigh clenches, trying to buck up even as you grind just slightly against it, the pressure hitting right where you want it through the soaked curve of your panties and the clingy hem of that silk dress.

“you know,” he gasps, head turning toward your mouth, eyes fluttering half-lidded, lashes damp, “i was thinking about your tits the entire time i was trying to jerk off earlier—like, specifically the way they bounce when you’re on top, when you get all bratty and tell me to shut up, like you’re not the one dripping all over my dick—fuck, fuck, just like that, oh my god—”

you snort, breath warm against his cheek. “you’re unbelievable.”

“i’m desperate,” he moans, jerking weakly under you. “i’m injured. i need this. i need you.”

“you’re disgusting.”

“you said that already.”

“and it’s still true.”

you nip at his jaw again, your hand tightening just slightly at the base of him, thumb rubbing under the head, slow and brutal, and gojo’s voice cracks completely. he moans so loud you feel it vibrate in his chest, echoing against yours, and the sound goes straight down your spine. he’s sweating. begging. thighs trembling under your hips, his leg flexing uselessly in the cast while his good hand tries to reach for your ass, fingers twitching like he’s about to throw you down and rut into you if only his body would fucking cooperate.

but he can’t.

so he has to take it.

and god, he loves that.

he’s panting like he’s running a fucking marathon, chest rising and falling under yours in these frantic, shallow little gasps that make your nipples drag slow over the sweat-slick skin of him through the thin silk of your dress, and he groans at that too—just the friction, just the goddamn idea of your body against his, so close and still so unfair, so teasing, like his whole existence has narrowed to the glide of your hand and the heat of your mouth on his jaw and the wet little grind of your cunt over the meat of his thigh every time you shift your weight. he’s not even inside you and he looks like he’s seconds from dying, from ascending, from losing consciousness in the worst and best way possible.

you stroke him harder, now, just a little—fingers twisting at the top, base snug in your grip, wrist flicking at just the right angle that you can feel him throb helpless against your palm with every pass—and the sound he makes is this strangled, wrecked little whimper, like he wants to thank you and scream at you and cry in your arms all at once. his head tips back so far he nearly bangs it against the pillows, neck stretched long, hair clinging damp at the temples, and he’s muttering half-broken nonsense, voice breathless and wrecked:

“f-fuck, your hand—your fucking hand, baby, shit, no one touches me like this, no one ever—fuck, you’re so good, you’re so fucking good to me, so perfect, i can’t—oh my god, don’t stop, don’t ever stop—”

“needy little mess,” you murmur, kissing just below his ear, lips dragging sticky slow against his skin as your hand pumps him with cruel steadiness, not rushing it, not letting him fall apart just yet. “you always talk this much when you’re about to cum?”

“only with you,” he gasps. “only with you, fuck, fuck, you ruin me—can’t even look at my own cock without thinking about your cunt, your mouth, the way you laugh when i beg—”

“because you beg so pretty.”

“i do! i do, i’ll say anything you want, please, i’ll—i’ll fucking sing, i’ll write a speech, i’ll—oh fuck, don’t stop, don’t you dare, i’m gonna cum—”

you tighten your grip right at the base again, just to fuck with him, just to feel his entire body seize like a live wire under yours, the tension snapping down his spine in a shudder so intense it makes his injured leg twitch and his good one slam down into the mattress, heel digging in. you press your mouth to his throat and moan, deep and low and absolutely unfair, right into the place where his pulse is hammering, and his hips buck so hard he nearly lifts you with him.

“fuck, fuck, fuck—baby, please, lemme cum, please, i’ll be so good, i’ll be so fucking good, i’ll let you ride me every night till my dick falls off, i’ll make you breakfast with one arm, i’ll eat you out so long you forget your name, just let me cum—”

and you’re laughing now, soft and breathless and wicked, because he’s just babbling, he’s a complete mess, slick and twitching and glazed over, eyes unfocused, mouth open like he’s trying to catch your kiss, like he doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore—only that you’re touching him, stroking him, praising him in that sweet poisonous voice that always makes him lose his mind.

“you gonna cum for me, baby?” you coo, dragging your tongue across his throat just as your wrist twists again, milking him with a rhythm that makes him sob, makes him clutch at the sheets like they’re gonna anchor him. “gonna make a mess all over my hand like the desperate little slut you are?”

“yes, yes—fuck, i’m your slut, i’m your little fucktoy, please, pleasepleaseplea—aahh—”

he cums hard, hips jerking, thighs shaking, cock pulsing so violently in your hand you have to hold him down at the base to keep him from hurting himself, hot and messy across his stomach, his abs, his wrist, even the underside of your wrist where it splatters thick and sticky—filthy, messy, perfect. he’s gone. completely. moaning your name like it’s the only word he remembers, chest heaving, mouth slack, tears beading at the corner of his eye from how intense it hit him.

you slow your strokes but don’t stop, milking every last tremble out of him, every twitch, every helpless buck of his hips, until he’s panting beneath you, legs limp, body melted into the mattress like you cracked him open and licked the soul out of him.

and still, breathless, ruined, eyes glazed, he gasps:

“round two in twenty minutes?”

you let it drip down your wrist for a second—warm, thick, lazy trails sliding across your skin like it belongs there, and he’s still gasping under you, blinking slow like he’s been drugged, like he’s just been exorcised, like you’re the second coming of god and sin combined. he’s a mess. sweat plastered across his collarbones, his whole chest streaked in sticky white, twitching every few seconds like the aftershocks are still working through his system. his hair’s a wreck. his thighs are still tense and trembling under you, the good one twitching from where it tried—and failed—to fuck up into you the entire time, and the casted one just sort of laying there like it’s given up on life.

your hand’s coated. you tilt your head, twist your wrist slowly, watching the light catch where it’s clinging to your fingers, webbing between them, cooling already.

“jesus christ,” gojo groans, head thudding back against the pillow like he’s physically unable to move anymore. “you’re gonna kill me.”

“that’s the idea,” you murmur, bringing your hand up to your mouth, locking eyes with him as you slide your tongue between two fingers and lick—slow, deliberate, all the way to the base. you hum as you taste him, sticky and warm and filthy, spit slicking over your knuckles as you take your time, cleaning every inch like it’s a ritual, like it’s yours, like it’s his reward for being so fucking obedient and pretty and ruinable.

he whines. hand fisting uselessly into the sheets again. mouth open, eyes wide, so turned on by his own fucking cum on your tongue that you actually see him twitch again, cock giving one sad little pulse against his stomach like it’s trying to rise from the grave.

“you’re a demon,” he says, hoarse. “an actual—unholy—sex demon.”

“but your demon,” you say sweetly, before leaning down and kissing him.

he makes a noise like he’s being electrocuted. your tongue’s still wet with him when it slips into his mouth, and he groans into it like it’s divine, like he wants to drink down his own orgasm just because it came from you. he kisses messy, desperate, tongue pushing back against yours like he’s trying to fuck you with it, like he can taste himself and doesn’t even care—like he likes it. he does. of course he does. he’s so far gone he’d let you sit on his face right now, broken leg be damned.

you lick into him slow, tongue curling over his teeth, hand threading through the wreck of his hair, pressing your chest into his, the whole length of your body flush against his spent, twitching, still-too-sensitive frame. he moans under you again, soft and ruined, and you feel the smile in it.

“taste good?” you murmur against his lips.

he pants. “i should be paying you for this.”

“you already do. with your dignity.”

“oh my god, marry me.”

you snort, licking the edge of his mouth, and whisper:

“earn it first.”

his laugh is cracked and breathless, comes out half a wheeze, half a whimper, because he can’t fucking believe you’re still on top of him—silk sticking to your hips, lips swollen from kissing, your tongue sliding across the edge of his mouth like you’re teasing the idea of devouring him whole. he’s a wreck, a post-nut carcass, and somehow you’re still composed, still smug, still looking down at him with that maddening little tilt to your chin like you haven’t just jerked the soul out of his body and licked it clean off your fingers like a five-star dessert.

“earn it,” he echoes, dazed, chest heaving under yours, and he’s so far gone it takes a second for the meaning to register, but when it does? oh, he grins like you’ve just told him the lottery numbers and given him a blowjob at the same time. “baby, if i had both arms and no broken bones, you’d be bent right now. folded like a goddamn origami swan.”

you cock a brow. “yeah?”

“swear to god,” he breathes, eyes dropping to your mouth, your tits, your hips, the way your thighs squeeze around him like you’re built to hold him in place. “i’d have you crying, begging, i’d make you forget your name. i’d make you come so hard your soul leaves your body and asks for directions back.”

you laugh, full and slow and hot against his lips, dragging your tongue along the shell of his ear because you know he can’t take it, you know he’s sensitive now, overstimmed and raw, nerves all exposed like a live wire—and you press against it anyway, mouth wicked, teeth grazing the lobe before you whisper:

“you’re so fucking full of yourself.”

“baby,” he gasps, one trembling hand curling around your thigh like he’s trying to anchor himself back to the planet. “i’m full of you. my bloodstream’s like eighty percent your pussy at this point.”

“you mean my mercy,” you correct, dragging your palm back down his chest, fingers slow, just barely ghosting over his cock again—just to make him flinch, to make him squeal—and yeah, he does, the whiny little ahh! that escapes him sounds like someone just stepped on a cat.

“fuck, fuckfuckfuck, why are you like this—!”

“because you like it.”

“because i’m weak,” he moans, trying to grind his hips and immediately hissing from the jolt it sends through his leg. “you’ve turned me into a one-limb pillow princess.”

you snort, sliding down his body enough to trail kisses along the hard line of his collarbone, your tongue hot against salt-slick skin. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“i used to be a man, baby,” he groans dramatically, hand flopping to his forehead like a fainting maiden, “a man! now i get hard if you breathe in my direction.”

you kiss his chest, right over his heart. “good. i should be the only thing that makes your dick twitch.”

“you are,” he moans, hips shifting like he’s already trying to get hard again even though his body is clearly ten steps behind. “fucking demonic—you’ve hexed me. cursed my cock.”

“cursed it to only want me,” you agree sweetly, licking a slow path down the center of his chest, “forever and ever.”

he moans again—loud, wrecked, legs tensing. “yes, please. i’ll sign a fucking contract. chain me to the bed. tell god you own me.”

“i already do.” you glance up, lips brushing his navel. “he’s just watching now.”

and the sound that tears out of him at that? not even human. somewhere between a whimper and a laugh and a sob, like he’s trying to thank you and cum again and offer you his social security number all at once. “please don’t stop,” he begs, voice hoarse. “please don’t ever stop. you make me wanna pray, and i don’t even believe in anything.”

you hum against his skin.

“you do now.”

you shift over him like a threat—slow and languid, like a storm building heat in the air right before the lightning hits, your hands sliding up from his ribs to press flat against his shoulders, pushing down just enough to make him feel how heavy you could be if you wanted, how hard you could fuck him if you didn’t give a single shit about his healing bones or his fragile little human limits. his chest gives under your palms, all flushed skin and desperate breath, and you don’t even need to look down to feel the way his cock twitches between you, stiffening again fast like he’s been waiting for this moment since the second he finished. he’s already hard. already leaking again. already pathetically ready to suffer for you.

“you better start praying,” you murmur, grinding your hips down slow, dragging silk against skin until the slick wet drag of your panties presses sticky-warm across the top of his cock, smearing precum and spit and what’s left of your sanity between your bodies, “because i swear to god if you so much as twitch wrong and make me hurt your dumbass leg again, i will end you.”

he gasps like he’s in love, fingers clenching around the sheets, neck straining. “oh my god, you’re so scary, i love you so much—”

“not love,” you correct, dragging your hand down your belly, slow and evil, nails scratching just enough to make him track the movement like a starving animal, eyes locked to the glide of your fingers disappearing beneath the hem of your dress, “just submission.”

and then you hook your thumb into the soaked band of your panties, shift them aside, and grind down hard.

he screams.

not a moan. not a groan. a scream—ragged and high, punched out of him from the shock of it, the heat of you, the sheer filthy, aching wetness of your cunt grinding right over his cock with no pretense, no teasing, just full-body pressure that makes both of you jolt from the sheer mess of it. you’re soaking, panties pushed aside, your folds dragging slick and heavy over his length like you’ve been worked up for hours and only now getting your fix. and the sound he makes when he feels the drip of your arousal slide down onto his stomach? fucking unholy.

“baby,” he gasps, eyes rolling back, “you’re gonna fucking kill me—”

“maybe,” you breathe, leaning in, mouth at his ear, still grinding slow, filthy, enough friction to make your thighs twitch, “but you’ll die with my pussy on your cock. tell me that’s not the way you dreamed of going.”

“it is,” he cries, whole body arching under you, desperate to thrust but too injured, too wrecked, too fucking fragile to do more than rut helplessly upward while you work yourself against the full, thick press of his cock like it’s a toy made just for your cunt. “it is, baby, oh fuck, you feel so—god, you’re perfect, you’re heaven, you’re every fucked up prayer i’ve ever said at 3 a.m. with my hand on my dick—”

you laugh, moan low and hot into his jaw, and keep grinding, faster now, sharper, your hand slipping back between you to spread your slick open over his length with every pass of your clit over his tip, juices clinging to both of you like you’ve already been fucking for hours, like this is round four instead of two. his good leg kicks once, desperate to buck up, and he hisses when his broken one shifts slightly wrong beneath the pillow.

“careful,” you whisper, tongue sliding across his cheek, “you don’t wanna lose your riding privileges, do you?”

“no, fuck, no,” he pants, practically sobbing now. “i’ll be good. i’ll be so good. i’ll lay still and let you use me, i’ll stay broken forever if it means i can just feel your cunt again, i swear, baby—baby, please, ride me—”

you smirk.

“that’s better.”

and then you lift, angle him with one hand, and drop your hips, slow and merciless, sheathing him in one thick, wet slide like you’ve been starving and this is the only thing left in the fucking world that can feed you.

you drop onto him like a guillotine—slow at first, dragging every inch of his cock through the clutch of your cunt, that obscene stretch made wetter and messier from how goddamn soaked you are, the head of him parting you thick and wide like your pussy's too desperate to wait, too fucking greedy to play coy, and it punches the air out of his lungs in a choked, strangled “fuck—oh my god—” that ends somewhere between religious rapture and a near-death experience. he’s not even inside all the way yet and he’s already shaking, thighs quivering under yours, his whole torso trying to arch like his body’s trying to crawl up into yours and never come back out.

you pause, half-seated, walls fluttering around the crown of him, and he’s whining, god, actually fucking whining, like you’re starving him on purpose, like he hasn’t already been in your hand, your mouth, your head every day this week.

“you sure you can handle this, baby?” you purr, hands braced on his shoulders, hips shifting just slightly to tease yourself lower inch by inch, dragging his cock against every trembling spot inside you like you’re aligning the universe by force. “you’re awfully delicate these days.”

he moans like it physically hurts. “i can take it, i promise, you can break me, please, please, just fuck me, i’ll be so fucking good—”

“you say that,” you murmur, letting yourself drop a little more, taking more of him, your walls squeezing down wet and needy, “but the second i cum you’re gonna cry again.”

“please make me cry,” he chokes, voice thick and wet. “please make me fucking sob, i want you to ruin my entire nervous system, ride me so hard i start speaking tongues, i want to forget math, baby, do it, take everything—”

you let out this gasping, unhinged little laugh and sink down the rest of the way, hips flush, your thighs meeting his, and the sound that rips out of him is fucking feral—like he’s being possessed, like he’s been waiting his whole life just to be inside you again, to feel you clamp down on him like that, clench and pulse and grind like your body was made for his.

he’s fully seated now, twitching and babbling, and you’re not even moving yet, just rocking your hips enough to make your clit slide over the base of him in these slow, filthy circles, cunt milking him like it’s hungry, like it’s not gonna let him leave until he gives up every drop of cum in his entire fucking body.

“oh my fucking god,” he gasps, hands scrabbling against the sheets, one palm trying to slide up your back like he’s trying to ground himself, like touching you will keep him from unraveling. “you’re—you’re perfect, you’re so fucking tight, you’re better than anything, better than life, you make my brain shut off, i don’t know how to think when i’m inside you—”

“good,” you breathe against his throat, sucking a mark into the skin just under his jaw as you start to move, slow at first, just enough to feel the wet slide of him inside you, the thick pulse of his cock against your walls, “thinking’s not your job tonight, baby.”

he whimpers. “what’s my job?”

you smile against his neck, nails dragging down his chest. “to sit there and take it while i ride the fucking life out of you.”

“yes,” he breathes, head falling back, “yesyesyes, i’m yours, use me, please, i’m your toy, fuck me till i’m stupid, i don’t care, i’ll cum wherever you want, just don’t stop—”

you slam down on him hard, and he screams.

it’s always like this.

every time you think you have the upper hand—when you’ve got him gasping under you, ruined and shaking and babbling for it like a whore in heat—he pulls this shit. every time. it’s like the moment you get his cock all the way inside you, something in him flips, some switch gets yanked hard in his smooth, bratty brain, and suddenly it’s you who’s fucked. you who’s at his mercy, even when he’s the one with a goddamn broken leg and a non-functional arm. it doesn’t matter. once he’s buried deep, once he’s seated tight inside you, his cock dragging against that tender spot that makes you lose your breath halfway through a moan, he remembers who the fuck he is—and what he owns.

and unfortunately for you, it’s your entire body.

you drop down onto him, hard again, your thighs slapping against his as you try to force him back into that stuttering, needy mess—but instead he grabs your hip, good hand clenched tight like he’s anchoring himself to you, and meets your grind with a slow, deep thrust of his own, the only one he can manage, dragging his cock through you so fucking thick and slow that it knocks the wind straight out of your chest.

“yeah,” he growls, low and gravel-deep, eyes dark and locked onto you, his mouth flushed and lips slick, “that’s it. you feel that, baby?”

you blink. whimper.

“that’s me stretching you open,” he huffs, another deliberate push up into you, cock grinding right against your sweet spot like he’s mapping your insides with the precision of a goddamn GPS, “that’s your greedy little pussy sucking me in like you were fucking made for this. fuck, i can feel you clenching. you’re close already, aren’t you?”

you try to say no, try to tell him fuck off, that you’re fine, that you’re still in control—but your voice cracks on the inhale, and all that comes out is this pathetic little noise in the back of your throat, high and wrecked, eyes rolling like he’s already got you twitching on the edge.

he grins. smirks. fucking preens like he hasn’t just spent the last ten minutes getting wrecked by your hand. like you’re the one who came so hard you went blind for a second.

“aww, baby,” he croons, cock dragging slow and mean inside you, splitting you open in that perfect way he always does, “what happened to all that attitude? where’d my little menace go?”

you grit your teeth. try to roll your hips down hard again. his hips meet you with another deep grind and it shuts your mouth instantly.

“thought you were gonna ruin me,” he pants, voice slipping into that low, nasty edge that makes your toes curl, “thought you were gonna make me cry. but look at you now. shaking like a virgin. fuck, i can feel your legs trembling.”

they are. they’re shaking. and he knows it. knows you’re losing it, knows the control’s slipping through your fingers with every slow thrust he manages to meet you with, every deep drag of his cock against your walls that forces moan after moan out of you without your permission.

“you like this dick too much, baby,” he murmurs, hand sliding up your back, tugging you down until your chest is flush with his, lips brushing your jaw as he fills you again, so deep your breath catches in your throat, “you act like you’re in charge but the second i’m inside, you go all dumb and sweet. just my perfect little fuckdoll.”

you try to argue. try to spit something back, sharp and vicious—but he fucks up into you again, angle just right, pressure just brutal enough, and your mouth falls open uselessly.

he groans against your skin, open-mouthed kisses dragging across your throat as he speaks, voice hot and mean:

“that’s what i thought.”

it’s actually humiliating—shameful in a way that would make your ancestors weep if they could see you now, drooling on the bare chest of a man who spent the last thirty minutes whining about his broken leg like a dying Victorian child, and yet here you are, cheeks smashed against his pec like a broken toy, mouth open and leaking spit onto skin that still smells like overpriced cologne and whatever that god-awful body wash he buys in bulk is, unable to form a single coherent sentence because your pussy decided to betray you the second he got inside. he’s not even going fast. he can’t. the cast makes any full-body motion basically impossible and his one working arm is busy palming your ass like he’s using it to steer you like a fucking tugboat—and somehow? somehow he’s still running you like a machine.

“fuck,” he whispers into your hair, his voice all low and loving like he’s not currently treating your orgasm like a yo-yo, keeping it just barely out of reach like a toddler pulling candy away from a puppy. “you’re so close, baby. so close, huh?”

you want to scream. you want to slap him and beg him and spit in his mouth all at once because it’s true—you’ve been teetering on the edge since the second he bottomed out inside you, since the moment that fat, perfect cock dragged across the exact spot that turns your brain to soup, and now it’s just endless, this drawn-out, torturous, insufferable wave that never crashes, because every time you get right there—legs shaking, cunt fluttering, clit aching—he pulls back, slows down, grinds, not thrusts, grinds just enough to set your nerves on fire without giving you the goddamn push you need to tip over.

“oh no,” he croons, mock-pitying, like you’re some sweet little thing that just tripped over your own feet. “is someone about to cum? already? that fast, baby? fuck, that’s adorable.”

you whine, the sound desperate and wet, muffled where your cheek’s mashed against his chest, and you can’t even lift your head because your neck’s gone noodle-soft, your whole body melted into this useless puddle of please let me cum and fuck you, gojo satoru. you try to roll your hips, try to take over, but his hand tightens around your waist, holds you down, keeps you flush to him, pinned like a butterfly to glass.

“nah,” he mutters, breath hot against your temple as he fucks you slow, mean, each thrust dragging so deep, then stopping right before you can break, “you don’t get to finish yet. not until you beg. not until you say please.”

you do beg. you’ve been begging. you’re still begging, in fact, except none of the words make sense anymore—just this slurred mess of vowels and consonants against his skin, your voice shaking, hips twitching like you’re riding out little baby aftershocks of an orgasm that won’t fucking arrive, and he loves it, the smug bastard, the way your cunt clenches on him every time he pulls halfway out and sinks back in like he’s fucking you through molasses.

“that’s it,” he moans, breath catching when your walls flutter hard around him. “fuck, you’re so tight like this, you’re begging and i haven’t even let you cum. look at you, drooling on my chest, can’t even talk, you love this, don’t you? my little mess.”

you nod. you hate yourself for it but you nod, eyes glassy, mouth open, and he just laughs, breathless and fucked-out and stupidly in love with himself for what he’s doing to you.

“good girl,” he purrs. “my perfect little cockdrunk angel. don’t worry. i’ll let you cum eventually.”

and then he stops. just stops moving, buried to the hilt inside you.

you actually scream into his chest.

you don’t even realize it’s happening at first. your body’s still locked into the rhythm he’d been setting, hips twitching down like you’re trying to chase the movement he stole from you, trying to find friction in the empty space where he stopped thrusting. you’re riding phantom strokes now, grinding on nothing, your cunt still pulsing like it’s waiting to be filled again, like it doesn’t believe he actually fucking stopped—but he did. and he stays there, cock deep, still hard, perfectly nestled in that spot that makes you want to cry, not moving, not twitching, just sitting there like he’s got infinite patience, like he’s the victim in all this.

your eyes crack open and everything’s blurred, unfocused, like you’re seeing him through a sheet of heat. your mouth opens, closes, opens again, lips slick, chin wet, your voice cracking like static through a busted speaker.

“p—please,” you gasp, hips rocking slow like a glitch in the system, like if you just move right maybe he’ll let you have it again. “please, baby, please, i need it, i—i need it, i’ll be good, i swear, i’ll—fuck, please move, please move—”

your voice catches on the word, breaks apart like it’s been run through a paper shredder. your whole body trembles. your thighs are numb. your pussy is throbbing, clenching around him like it’s trying to suck the motion out of him, and he just hums against your cheek, that smug low noise like he’s considering whether or not you’ve earned it.

“what was that?” he purrs, lips brushing against the wet corner of your mouth. “can’t hear you, baby. speak up.”

“please,” you sob, voice cracking into little shards. “please fuck me, please let me cum, i can’t take it, you feel so good, you’re so deep, i’m gonna fucking die—”

his hand smooths down your back like he’s petting a very expensive, very overstimulated cat. “you gonna cry if i don’t move?”

you nod, full-body shuddering into it, breath hitching, chest heaving. “yes. yes, i’ll cry, i’ll sob, i’ll beg, i don’t care, i’ll say whatever you want, just don’t stop—don’t leave me like this, please, baby, please, fuck me—”

and that’s what does it. the desperation. the tears in your voice. the sheer wreckage you’ve become, ruined on top of him, throat raw from begging, drool sticking your cheek to his chest, cunt fluttering around his cock like it’s trying to plead for you when your mouth can’t keep up. he groans, deep in his chest, almost pained, and his hand tightens on your waist like he’s finally, finally done teasing.

“fuck,” he growls, breath hot against your temple. “you sound so good when you break. go on then, baby. take it.”

and then he starts to move.

and you shatter.

he starts slow—not teasing this time, not deliberate, not cruel, just deep, like he’s making up for lost time, like every second he wasn’t thrusting into you was a crime against nature that needs immediate correction, and the way he moves under you now is unrelenting, full-bodied, somehow precise even with half his limbs out of service, like every stroke is calibrated, refined, engineered to reach the deepest part of you and keep you right there, right in that teetering edge of ruin. his hips shift, grind upward into your cunt at the exact angle that makes your breath stutter and your legs start to shake, cock dragging through the flutter of your walls with each thrust like he’s trying to wring every sound out of you—but there’s nothing left to give.

your mouth is open—barely—but you can’t moan. not really. it’s just little sounds now, soft and short, punched out of you like he’s knocking the air from your lungs with every push.

“uh—hh—ahh—”

they spill past your lips in helpless little gasps, high and broken, the wet shape of them catching against his skin because you’re still drooling on him, mouth slack and open, pressed against the sweat-slick curve of his chest while your tongue lays heavy in your mouth and your throat won’t fucking work. it’s hot where your cheek sticks to him, spit pooling between your lips and his skin, smeared by the shake of your head and the way your body jolts every time he sinks in again, and he feels it—feels the wet trail of it sliding down his pec, your mouth hot and damp and needy without even kissing him, just leaking against him like you’re too far gone to care.

he groans low, voice barely holding together.

“you’re making a mess,” he huffs, breathless, and the edge in his tone is this stupid, smug awe like he can’t believe how pathetic you are for him. “you’re drooling on me, baby, fuck—you’re so gone. cockdrunk beyond saving.”

your nails dig into his shoulder, fingers slipping from sweat and the sheer uselessness of your own muscles. your body’s not yours anymore—it’s his now, wrapped around him, clenching on him like it’s begging to keep him inside, your clit catching just enough on the upward grind that your whole spine jolts with each stroke, but you can’t say anything, can’t even beg, can’t plead, because you’re too busy melting, too full, too overwhelmed, too wrecked.

“there it is,” he whispers, fucking into you harder now, pace steady but mean, deep enough to hurt, to stretch, to break, “there’s my dumb little baby. feel good? feel so good you can’t even speak?”

you nod—barely. maybe. it’s more a twitch of your head than anything. maybe a whimper that could be a yes, maybe just the sound of your soul leaving your body again.

“god, i love you like this,” he moans. “you’re perfect like this. stupid and full and mine.”

and still—still—you can’t speak.

just a breathy little “uh—” against his skin as your eyes roll back and your pussy tightens again, and again, and again.

he watches it build in you like it’s his fucking job, like your orgasm is some rare, slow-forming storm and he’s the pervert meteorologist tracking every tremble in your thighs, every tight flutter in your cunt around him, every high little breathless squeak that escapes from your spit-wet mouth—mouth still open against his chest, cheek still pressed sticky to his skin like you’ve fused with him, like you can’t leave now even if you wanted to, not with the way your body’s locked down tight around his cock and your whole frame is shaking like a livewire under a live hand. you’re twitching. you’re gone. and he knows it. knows it and still holds you right on that fucking edge, each slow, devastating thrust sinking into you like he’s planting flags, claiming territory, keeping you right there, teetering on that precipice of orgasm like he owns your entire fucking nervous system.

and that’s it. that’s all it takes. like a goddamn trigger.

he presses his lips to your temple and murmurs, low, warm, cruel:

“go ahead. let go for me. be good and cum for me, baby.”

your whole body snaps—visibly, violently, like the last thread holding you upright just gave out. you fall forward fully onto him with a gasping, choked-out moan, one long and wet and shaking, breaking over your lips like it got dragged out of your chest, “ahhh—hhHNNN—fuuuhk—fuck, oh my god—” and your walls clamp down around him so hard and fast it punches a ragged groan out of him, your pussy spasming in pulsing, desperate waves like it’s trying to milk him, draw everything out of him all at once, your cunt crying for more even as you fall apart.

your whole body shakes. legs trembling, thighs seizing against his, arms giving out under you as your moans turn high and broken, “ah—ah—ahh—baby, baby, f-fuck—” each one smaller, thinner, like you can’t get the breath in to say anything else, to think anything else, your head spinning from the sheer intensity of it. your orgasm rolls over you like a freight train—loud and crushing and completely unstoppable—and you grind helplessly through it, riding his cock with these pathetic little spasms, cunt squeezing so tight around him that your muscles cramp and your mouth goes slack again, drool spilling fresh against his chest with your head hung, fucked-out and limp and still twitching.

he’s holding you through it, voice in your ear now, all low heat and praise:

“that’s it. fuck, that’s it, baby, just like that—so fucking pretty, look at you cum on me—god, you feel so good when you fall apart, so fucking tight, my perfect girl—fuck—fuck, ride it out, baby, let me feel it, let me feel everything—”

and you do. god, you do, whole body pulsing around him while your moans taper off into breathy, broken whimpers, every last nerve in you lit up like fire, every inch of you owned.

you’re still twitching, little aftershocks making your thighs spasm around his hips, body limp and boneless but still clamped down on his cock like your pussy forgot the ride was over, like it’s still begging even after you just came hard enough to see god, and gojo—gojo’s a fucking asshole about it, of course he is, because he’s barely holding it together himself now, jaw clenched, breath coming in shallow little huffs through his nose, and yet somehow, somefuckinghow, he’s still laughing.

not full-on, not loud, but that low, smug, breathless chuckle against your temple that says he’s seen the way your eyes rolled back and your mouth dropped open like a porn star in the last five minutes of a gangbang and he’s never letting you live it down. his hips are still moving—slow now, shallow, more grinding than thrusting, just enough to keep your walls fluttering around him and keep himself from tipping over into the kind of orgasm that would probably put him in the hospital again—but you can feel how close he is, the tightness in his abs, the shake in his good thigh, the way his cock twitches with every squeeze of your cunt.

and still, through grit teeth and wrecked breath, he fucking teases you.

“jesus christ,” he murmurs, almost lovingly, almost reverently, but with that shit-eating edge he reserves just for you, “you really just folded, huh? one little ‘go ahead, baby,’ and you lost your entire brain.”

you try to respond. fail. all you get out is some pathetic post-orgasmic mewl that sounds like a dying animal, and he grins, groans, the kind that’s half-sex, half-smugness, like your body is his favorite joke.

“you’re so fucking cock drunk,” he whispers against your cheek, fucking moaning the words, like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever said to you. “look at you—listen to you—can’t even talk anymore, huh? just moaning into my chest like the only thing you understand is dick. fuck, i’m not even moving and you’re still shaking.”

you are. and it’s humiliating. your whole body feels like it’s short-circuited, nerves twitching under your skin with every lazy grind of his cock inside you, every soft friction that keeps your walls squeezing down like they’re trying to beg him to fill you up already, to finish, to breed.

“pussy’s still pulsing,” he says, like he’s reading your mind, voice dropping to that hoarse, reverent tone again, “she doesn’t wanna let go of me. she’s spoiled. already got what she wanted, and now she wants more.”

you’re still drooling. your cheek sticks to his chest. your breath comes out in soft, broken little pants, and you can feel your body responding again even as he teases, as he holds back his own orgasm like some twisted show of strength.

“you gonna cum again before i do?” he whispers. “fuck, baby, don’t tell me you’re that needy. you gonna cry if i don’t fill you up?”

you manage a choked, desperate little noise.

he chuckles again, voice shaking now, close, so close.

“yeah,” he pants, thrusting up just a little deeper, dragging a moan out of both of you, “that’s what i thought.”

he holds out for as long as he fucking can—longer than he should, longer than anyone sane would try to, because he’s got this sick, obsessive little god complex that makes him want to be the last one to break, always, wants to be the one holding the leash, the one watching you collapse, wants to see you twitch and writhe and whimper before he lets himself cum, because in his head he’s the one giving you pleasure, not the other way around, like he’s gifting you orgasms from a place of divine benevolence and not because your pussy has turned his brain into soup—but even he has limits, and right now he’s got the prettiest, dumbest, most-fucked-out version of you drooling on his chest, clenching around him with post-orgasm aftershocks and still soaking wet, still making those soft, airy little noises every time he shifts inside you.

so when it hits him—when he finally lets himself go—it’s with this sudden, violent groan that comes from so deep in his chest it rumbles through you like a wave, his whole body tensing under yours, good arm locking tight around your waist, holding you flush to him like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he doesn’t keep you pinned there. his hips jerk once—hard, desperate, sloppy—and he grinds in deep, impossibly deep, pressing into that sweet, aching part of you like he’s trying to brand your insides, like he wants you to feel him for days, and he fucking growls through his teeth:

“oh fuck, baby—i’m cumming, i’m fucking—take it, take all of it, god, you’re so fucking good, you’re mine—”

and then he lets go.

it’s messy. brutal. hot.

he cums deep, cock twitching hard, thick spurts filling you so fast and so much you can feel it spilling back out already, sliding down his cock and your thighs in sticky, hot streams. his breath breaks apart in little gasping moans against your ear, body trembling under yours with every spasm, every pulse of release he pumps into you. it’s not graceful. it’s not silent. he moans, loud and wrecked, your name tangled with curses, his hips rolling like he can’t stop, like he needs to fuck it in deeper, like he’s trying to plug you up with it, and it just keeps coming, like he’s been saving it, like you ruined him so bad his whole body forgot what stopping felt like.

“fuck—fuuuuck, that’s it, that’s my girl, fuckfuckfuck, just like that—i’m filling you up, baby, you feel it? feel how much i need to cum in you, fuck, you take me so good, your pussy’s perfect, you’re perfect—”

and when it finally ebbs, when his cock stops pulsing and his body sags beneath you, his chest heaving and sweat-damp, lips parted like he’s just survived a war, he lets out this long, slow exhale like he just saw god and she was sitting on his dick.

“holy shit,” he pants, still twitching a little, “we’re never going back to the hospital. ever. i’ll die here like this. and i’ll thank you for it.”

he stays inside you. softening slowly, cock still twitching just a little from the aftershocks, still buried in that overstretched, creamy heat that doesn’t want to let go, like your pussy’s still clinging to him on instinct even though the war’s over, even though you both already came so hard you broke half your shared IQ. his grip loosens around your waist but never leaves; his hand flattens on the small of your back, sliding up in a lazy, half-conscious drag that feels more like a claim than comfort, like even in the haze of orgasm he’s still marking territory, still holding you there like something precious and filthy, because both are true when it comes to you, and he knows it, and he’s proud of it.

you’re still collapsed against his chest. still leaking. your thighs ache and your skin’s too hot, and your whole body feels like it got electrocuted, and he’s still inside, warm and slowly softening but still thick enough to keep you stretched and sensitive, and you can’t move, won’t move, because it feels too good to be like this, plugged full and held close and utterly fucking wrecked.

he breathes slow, deep, like he’s coming down from a high, and then—of course—he moves. not his hips, not his cock, not the part of him that’d send you back into a full-body seizure if he so much as twitched inside you right now—but his hand slides up, cups your jaw, fingers curled just a little too firm, and he tilts your head up. your eyes barely open, half-lidded and hazy, and his mouth is already on you before you can process the movement.

his tongue licks the drool off the corner of your lips first. slow. hot. intimate, in the most deranged, post-fuck way imaginable. then down your chin, where it dripped, tracing the line of your jaw in a path that makes your toes curl again even though you’re barely holding it together. he licks it up, savoring it like he’s fucking proud—like your mess on his chest is some kind of trophy, some badge of honor, and he’s not wasting a drop.

“look at this,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “fucked you so dumb you forgot how to swallow.”

you don’t even answer. can’t. your mouth opens a little, gasping for air, and he grins at it—leans in again and kisses you, open-mouthed and warm and slow, not messy like earlier, but deep and steady, tongue sliding lazy against yours like he’s reasserting ownership, like he’s sealing something in you, branding you with it.

and then he pulls back just far enough to kiss your forehead. one hand still cradling your face. cock still resting inside you, spent and soft but present, like it belongs there.

“my perfect girl,” he murmurs, breath still rough. “you were so fucking good for me.”

you just melt deeper against his chest, and he doesn’t let go.

it takes a long time for either of you to move again—really move, not just shift lazily or sigh against each other like sunbaked animals, but anything resembling full-body consciousness, because the aftermath is thick and heavy and warm, the kind of heat that seeps into the bones, the kind that lingers like a sex-stained memory, musk and sweat and come still sticky between your thighs and drying down your inner legs while his cock rests limp and soft but still comfortably stuffed inside, more presence than pressure now. your body’s melted over him like furniture, chest rising and falling in slow, matching rhythm, your skin sticking to his in all the right places, cheek smushed against his collarbone while his arm—his good one—rests draped over your lower back, thumb grazing your spine every few seconds like he’s not even thinking about it, like you’re a reflex.

you’re not even sure how long it’s been. time kind of broke somewhere around the second orgasm, or maybe right after he whispered something deranged like “i want you pregnant with my name tattooed on your ass cheek” into your ear while he came, and you didn’t even blink. it’s quiet now. lazy. intimate. the room still smells like heat and sex and him, that expensive fucking cologne of his mingled with skin and sweat and your perfume, and somewhere far away the city hums like you’ve left the world behind and just curled up in its absence.

you’re lying on his chest, legs sprawled between his, one hand tucked under your chin and the other slowly, absentmindedly tracing over the cast on his arm. you’ve done it five times now, maybe ten, the pad of your finger gliding in soft little circles and squiggles across the fiberglass like it’s skin, not plaster. you follow the edges where it meets his wrist, then up toward the elbow, then back down again. he doesn’t say anything. just keeps rubbing your back with that lazy rhythm, like he’s stuck in the same haze you are, floating.

after a long stretch of silence, you finally speak, voice quiet, soft like it might shatter the room if it gets too loud.

“…does it still hurt?”

he shifts just slightly, exhaling hard through his nose like the effort of thinking is just a bit too much right now. “…what, the leg or the arm?”

you flick his cast, gentle but annoyed. “obviously the arm, you idiot.”

“oh.” another pause. “i dunno. kinda. feels like it’s not even real anymore. like it’s just part of the mattress now.”

you snort into his chest. “great. so when they cut it off it’ll be like losing a pillow.”

“exactly,” he says solemnly. “i’ll hold a funeral. you can say a few words.”

your finger drags another slow, lazy circle around the edge of the cast. “what would i even say?”

“probably something dirty,” he mutters, yawning, hand now splaying a little wider across your back, “you’d cry. tell my cast how good it made you feel. thank it for holding me still while you rode the life out of me.”

you hum. smile a little. drag your nail up the seam of it with just enough pressure to make him twitch. “was it that bad?”

he chuckles, soft and satisfied and still half-high. “nah. you were perfect.”

you smile into his skin. let the silence fall again. let your finger start tracing over the same spot again, slow, gentle, small shapes drawn over and over into the surface of him. safe. still. soft in the aftermath of all the mess.

and this time, he doesn’t even flinch.

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