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It’s surprising how much getting hit by a car feels like, well, getting hit by a car. Everything hurts incessantly. Satoru’s body is heavy as lead, his arms swaddled tightly in a rigid white cast and gently elevated away from his bruised torso, likely to protect him from himself. He doesn’t remember much about the accident, but apparently the other driver has minimal injuries and was able to leave the hospital after having a few dressings stuck to their face. Must be nice, explaining that to a man with two broken arms and a cracked rib. Megumi will laugh when he finds out – if he hasn’t already – and make some slanderous statement about Satoru’s ‘reckless driving’ without a single sympathetic bone in that small, angsty body of his.
The painkillers were a merciful reprieve until they stopped working their magic a few hours ago, and his entire body throbs from head to toe. He’s so tired but he can’t sleep, the exhaustion nestled deep between the fractures in his bones and jumbling his thoughts of dissimulative whimsy with something more maudlin. It claws at the base of his skull, the echoes of laughter filter through the corridor feeling more like mockery than the nurses shirking off their duties before the end of their shift. At least someone is having fun out there. The few nurses he’s met have been amiable; soft cooing voices doting on Satoru while they hand fed him morphine like a suckling babe, dabbing away the sticky excess with manicured fingers and explained to him in hushed tones that he’s oh so lucky his pretty face is intact.
“Urgh,” he moans pitifully into his sterile room.
He turns his neck to look at the clock on the wall, but all he sees is the clumsy, white bulk of his useless arm blocking his peripheral vision. The pale ceiling blurs around weary eyes, swimming in a mix of tunnel vision and bone-deep torment. Judging by the oppressive brightness pooling in through the window, it’s early afternoon. Satoru hasn’t had morphine since breakfast.
“Mr Gojo?”
A melodious voice cuts through Satoru with a serrated edge, temporarily knitting his consciousness back together with saccharine putty just long enough to concentrate. He croaks out an affirmative and looks for the voice’s source, settling on a soft, rounded face that peeks through the doorway. Thick, glossy hair frames his face, the same shade as the ink that would surely have signed Satoru’s death certificate if he hadn’t swerved at the last second.
Suddenly, he doesn’t regret the accident so much.
“I could hear you from out here, is everything okay?”
Thin, nearly severe features adorn the nurse’s full face. His eyes are narrow, but wide enough to show the golden sparkle glittering under the sickly hospital lighting. Beneath them sit two heavy cheeks obscuring the angular cheekbones that would otherwise match his pointed nose and fox-like gaze. A thick double chin completes his memorable face, bringing a contradictory gentleness to him. Almost motherly, in a way. The type of mother that would spoil her children with abandon and kill anyone who dares come close to his brood.
A traditional beauty by any metric, the nurse looks as if he’d stepped out of an ukiyo-e print from the Edo period, gained a few hundred pounds from the novel indulgence of modern life, and squeezed himself into much smaller woman’s nurse cosplay.
He's arrestingly gorgeous. He’s everything Satoru has never conquered in his many years of being an emotionally unavailable player. Perhaps that’s why he finds himself enamoured by this paradoxical man, and the harmony of his inconsistencies.
The nurse walks into Satoru’s room with an exaggerated sway in his hips as they skim the doorframe, barely waddling through unscathed. Satoru hungrily observes his wobbly hips, packed tightly into a nurse’s dress to the point of bondage. Another contradiction, something Satoru can’t help but be intensely attracted by.
In front of him trundles a small trolley holding what Satoru assumes to be his pain medicine and a pitcher of water to take it with. That which he wanted less than five minutes ago now is irrelevant to him in the face of something new and supple to take the edge off. He curses the pills for obscuring what he knows is a pillowy soft middle pulling his uniform taut, pressing into the metal bar of the trolley.
“Are you in pain, Mr Gojo? It’s about time for your medication if you’re ready for another dose.”
Gojo reaches out towards the nurse and receives a white-hot jolt of pain crackling from his fingertips to his spine.
Oh.
He almost forgot he’s strung up like a Christmas ham. A hot, plus size nurse nearly made him forget he’d gotten hit by a car and broken both of his arms, landing him in the hospital for an unforeseen amount of time.
Gojo doesn’t know whether to laugh, or cry at the situation. It’s so foolish.
“Yes, please,” he croaks out, unsure of what he’s really asking for.
“My name is Nurse Geto, and I’ll be taking care of you for the remainder of the day. Maybe for longer, if my shift schedule allows for it. Unfortunately, it seems that you will be here with us for quite a while, Gojo. Your injuries are…substantial, to put it lightly.”
Satoru tries his best to greet the beautiful nurse with a bow and cringes from the pain that shoots down his spine. If he were able, he’d even make a joke about not wanting anything lightly, not while this sexy nurse is on the ward. Nurse Geto coos at Satoru’s woe like the nurses who came before him and shuffles towards the bed, narrowly avoiding knocking over the pill bottles with his heaving belly and overly generous ass. “Hey, don’t move too much or you’ll only make yourself worse.”
He takes Satoru’s face into his pudgy hands and settles him back into the pillows, shushing him in the same manner he would a fussy child. “Poor thing,” the nurse muses. “Without your arms you’ll need me to do everything for you.”
Satoru’s pallid face flames in Geto’s hold and he becomes instantly hyperaware of his currently vulnerability. It only takes a moment for him to will away his concerns and he leans into the warm palm cupping his cheek, relishing in how soothing it is against his broken body. It must have been the right move to make because the nurse huffs an amused sigh before stroking his cheek with a velvet thumbpad.
“I’ll have to change your IV, but would you like a glass of water first to wet your mouth? I don’t want to do anything that might bring you discomfort, Satoru.”
Hearing his given name nearly brings his heart to a shuddering stop, before remembering that the nurse would have read his chart before attending to him. He’s just a patient. This is a hospital ward, not a date. He’s just doing his job, nothing more, no matter how much Gojo might want him to be.
Geto doesn’t wait for him to respond and pulls away to fix a small glass for Gojo, pouring the water with the effortless expertise of a bartender. Liquid courage would be good right now, given the choice. He tips Satoru’s head back gently with a crooked finger and pours a tiny splash of water between his cracked lips. He swallows it eagerly, suddenly overcome with a gnawing thirst that burns in his throat and stomach. The dimpled knuckles of Geto’s other hand brush over Satoru’s exposed neck, feeling the liquid slide down his throat with every swallow. “Good job.”
The praise is molasses thick in Gojo’s sluggish veins, placating the misery of shattered bones and bruised flesh. The sudden change in temperature brings with it a brief wave of nausea, the churning in his gut morphing from pain to pleasure the longer the nurse’s knuckles caress his windpipe. Gojo tries to croak out a thank you, but nothing comes.
“Shh, don’t strain yourself. Let me look after you. You’ll start to feel much better once I swap out your meds.”
After a few valiant attempts, the nurse swings a thick thigh over Gojo’s bed, pausing for a moment to catch his breath before hauling his whole bulk up onto the mattress. The bed dips dangerously. It’s a narrow fit, though surely less narrow than if he’d just walked around the cot and over to the other side of Gojo’s head. Nurse Geto crawls up the length of Gojo’s body, shoulders rolling, and muscles likely coiled tightly like a black panther stalking his prey. His hanging belly touches the bed when he’s on all fours and pulls the blanket away with each unsteady movement, pooling around his chubby, stocking-clad knees.
“Nurse?”
“It’s easier for me to reach this way,” he pants. “I don’t think I’d be able to squeeze myself into the small gap between your bed and the window, and you wouldn’t let me embarrass myself by trying, would you, Satoru?”
Slowly, Geto closes the gap between them, and the ample overhang of his belly presses flush to Satoru’s crotch, enveloping him in a pillowy heat that jiggles with every strained beath. The angle causes his dress to slip upwards, threatening to let the underside of his tummy and the fupa nestled cozily underneath it to peek out. Geto rocks back and forth on his padded knees to build momentum, effectively grinding his trembling middle further into his patient’s steadily swelling cock.
Gojo tries to muffle a surprised moan into an exasperated sigh, but the mirth in the nurse’s eyes while smirking at him quickly silences the attempt.
The bag of liquid in Geto’s hand sloshes and he crawls up Gojo’s lithe body to get closer to the IV stand. Gojo watches as Geto’s chest gets closer to his face until he can’t see anything at all, his face caught between two impossibly large breasts that only expand with every laboured breath. In a moment of bad judgement, he tries to breathe in deeply and luxuriate in what he knows will be an addictive, heady scent, but nothing comes.
Not even a single lungful of air flows through his nostrils, causing his throat to constrict in a panic. He can hear the crinkle of plastic and assumes that the nurse is properly tending to his needs, but his vision begins to blur as oxygen is robbed from him, seeing only starched white fabric and the outline of a nametag slamming into his face.
A part of Gojo savours the tranquillity that comes with being smothered by the corpulence of an ethereal creature like Geto, with how easily his head sinks into the nurse just as he imagines clouds to feel, carrying him away from the cold, painful existence up into the sky while also grounding him. That dichotomy is back, stuffing cotton into his brain and confusing him with these contradictions. He doesn’t need the drugs, not while simply laying here, wedged between two plump tits is a potent paradisiac.
Fading feels nice.
He’s fading.
Suddenly, Geto drops his entire body weight onto Satoru’s lap, crushing his aroused crotch between two ample cheeks with a giggle. He rises again and drops on top of Gojo once again, as rhythmic as a beat and as devastating as a wrecking ball. His hips smart, and his head swims and swims and drowns. It’s impossible to even gasp in pain, not with the way his eyes, nose and throat are burning from deprivation; his blood vessels threatening to burst in his head like firecrackers during a midsummer festival.
“Just a second, darling, and you’ll feel so good. That, I can promise you.”
Gojo’s diaphragm spasms, forcing him to take strangled, frenzied breaths that feel like hiccups. What’s left of his oxygen dampens the front of Geto’s uniform, smearing saliva across his face. It’s making his head fill with the fuzzy static of an old television failing to find a signal, and he thrashes his head to try and find reprieve. Instead, he finds more breast.
Geto’s sardonic tone is muffled, but there’s a ringing in his ear that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, falling out of sync with the heartbeat in Gojo’s temples that threatens to burst at any moment.
“Ngh--!”
Geto pulls back with a pleased grin before bouncing on Gojo’s pelvis once more with the power of a hydraulic press dialled up to eleven. Something cracks, but he doesn’t know if it’s the bed, the floor, over even Gojo’s own skeleton. The force of his movement pulls his dick out from the cheap hospital pyjamas the nurses keep putting him in after an embarrassing sponge bath. The waistband settles conveniently just below his balls.
An offering.
With a playful pantomime of a gasp, Geto watches Gojo’s cock spring upwards towards Satoru’s bellybutton at full attention. It’s heavy and red, clearly making use of the blood that isn’t able to rush to his head.
A rush of oxygen fills Gojo’s hungry lungs, hitting him all at once and making his cock weep. A single string of saliva connects his wet mouth with Geto’s tits until it snaps, severing their connection.
The dizziness takes a moment to fade, and all of a sudden, he’s hyperaware of the hundreds of pounds pinning him to the bed. From this angle, the nurse’s belly doubles over into rolls that flow from his waist onto Gojo and the mattress, coveting anything and everything he’s able to touch and making it all his own plaything to possess. It’s beautiful, watching the man take up as much space as he does, loudly announcing to the world his worth just by his waistline alone, and in turn, it all bows to his immensity.
Gojo’s legs threaten to go numb under Geto’s massive weight pinning him. His toes already tingle with something, and it’s a wonder he’s still hard after the damage the nurse’s fat ass has done to him. Its maddening, the perverse torture he’s enduring as Geto’s plaything, strung up like he’s being crucified for the crime of indulging in a beautiful man’s professional malpractice. His fingers can barely flex and twitch miserably in tandem with his untouched cock, reaching out for something warm and engorge to slip into.
Satoru Gojo has never been denied sex before – had even thought that was something beneath him – and he doesn’t want to experience it now. It’ll probably be more humiliating than being hit by a metal death trap on the way to work, and honestly, he’d rather get hit by another car than get inside Geto’s extra-large panties. He’s good at charming his way into people’s beds and weaselling himself out of them just as fast. He could convince Geto to let him hit if his tongue wasn’t tied and arms suspended. Hell, he doesn’t even need his arms when his cock and mouth are all but universally praised. Usually his appearance is all the advertising he needs, but there won’t be a gun show until further notice.
Most of the staff have seen his cock at this point, so maybe nurse station gossip can be the marketing team he needs, if push comes to shove.
Geto smiles down at him like a fat tom cat that got the cream and drowned a mouse in it for extra flavour. He leans back until the shelf of his ass is hanging from Gojo’s gently bent knees and his belly kisses the head of his weeping cock, layers of decadent fat grazing the sticky shaft.
“Is there something you need from me, Mr Gojo?”
A pathetic sound slips from the back of Gojo’s throat, somewhere between a whimper and a wheeze. It sounds pained, but Geto doesn’t let up, shifting his ass side-to-side until he feels comfortable on his brand-new skinny, quivering throne. His trust in the strength of Satoru’s femurs is admirable, and he clucks a vaguely sympathetic sound while he watches Gojo struggle to contain himself.
“Please—”
“Please what? I may be good at my job, but even I can benefit from some direction now and then.”
Gojo weakly bucks his hips and his dick bobs upwards, slapping against his slim belly and leaking onto the pale dusting of hair feathering out towards his belly button. His suspended arms scream in agony, preventing him from making any more dramatic movements than a pitiful thrust.
“Touch me!” he warbles around the fat, lolling tongue that threatens to choke him. “Please.”
The nurse leans forward in an instant, engulfing his neglected cock between a warm crease in his belly and plants a wet kiss on Gojo’s scratched cheek. Gojo takes advantage and tries to fuck up into the soft, blanket of warm fat before it’s cruelly pulled away from him. The cold air is sharp, making Gojo hiss something that sounds a little like Geto’s name, mourning the confiscation of his blubbery makeshift fleshlight. Each pathetic thrash of his hips start to make his limbs feel heavier and clumsier, toes curling in anticipation for something more.
Geto’s fingers creep down the battered planes of Gojo’s body, from the slight swell of his chest to his gently concaved stomach painted purple and blue from his injuries. His abs have faded from misuse since the accident, a reality Gojo mourns more than he probably should. A nurse passes by in the hallway, their hurried footsteps muffled from behind the closed door, lost in the euphony of ragged, erotic breaths.
“Please,” Gojo begs weakly once more. “If you don’t touch me, I think I might die.”
Frankly, it’s a dramatic statement to make, considering he nearly died a few minutes prior and only grew more erect from the experience.
Bleary blue eyes fight to bear witness to Geto’s imposing figure, thoroughly enchanted by how readily his breasts could burst forth from his uniform, blessing Gojo with the divinity that would be Geto’s naked, bountiful form and all of its potential. There’s just so much of him. Enough to choke him, overpower him, break him.
If he sits on Gojo for much longer, he might swallow him whole, bones and sinew crushed beneath his expansive blubber until Gojo Satoru becomes no more than a puddle of viscera on the floor.
It would be a happy death, honestly.
A finger trails along the pulsing vein on the underside of his cock, the barely-there scratch of fingernail almost too much for him to handle, but he can’t pull away, stuck at the mercy of his unforgiving caregiver. His eyes flutter shut for a moment and snap back open, unwilling to tear his eyes from the dark-haired beauty he delusionally believes will promise pleasure beyond his imagination.
“Look at you. I’m glad this part of your body is still working, unlike the rest.”
Geto purposely takes his throbbing length into a hand and lazily pumps once from root to hilt. Warmth bleeds out from the pads of his fingers dancing along his cock, a too-kind smile stretching across his round cheeks as he studies Gojo’s reactions to the gentle teasing.
In Gojo’s experience, hand jobs are nothing special, but this is different. A biblical experience, or something venereal granted by Aphrodite herself in exchange for great suffering. A punishment for the blasé manner Gojo has treated his partners up until this very second. Either way, there is no way he will forget this lifechanging act.
He’s already about to burst, cock numb and overstimulated by Geto’s entire weight bouncing up and down on his hips as he played with him like a toy about to overstay its welcome. Meaty thighs kiss his tightening balls with every movement, slick with sweat and the fount of precum descending from Gojo’s dick.
“Nurse, don’t st—stop, please.”
Geto squeezes the shaft tightly in his hand. “Stop?”
Satoru shakes his head wildly until stray tendrils of white hair tumble into his eyes, sticking to tears he hadn’t realised he’d begun to shed. He’s not going to last long, and the tight vice around him does little to dissuade his incoming orgasm, cording his muscles tight as a bow. “No. I want. Inside.”
The nurse shoots him an incredulous look, his slack jaw accentuating the roundness of his chin, letting it bloom forward into his neck. “I can’t let you cum inside me, that’s unprofessional.”
Gojo very quickly feels very stupid, like he’s in the wrong here.
That’s the limit? Like he isn’t sat in his patient’s lap with his fist round him, about to pump him dry?
Geto releases his grasp a little and strokes him long and lazy before Satoru can refute his ludicrous claim. He bites his tongue and allows his jaw to go slack, throwing his head back as Geto twists his wrist in a way that tickles Satoru’s brain perfectly, thumb prodding his overstimulated cockhead and smearing his wetness across the surface.
“You’re dripping, Gojo. Do you not masturbate very much, or am I that lucky?”
Gojo audibly curses, hips snapping forward as much as his cumbersome casts will allow, desperate to chase this pleasure until the very end. His pelvis burns from Geto’s previous toying, the sparks of pain reminding him of the very essence of Geto’s shape and size, physically etching the memory into his body. He’s coiled tight in manic pleasure and Geto picks up pace, the speed causing his upper arms to wobble like jelly that spreads through his body like an earthquake until every inch of excess fat ripples from the exertion caused by bringing Satoru to the brink.
“What a pitiful little boy you are. I hope there isn’t a Mrs Gojo at home waiting for you. I’d assume not, since no one has come to visit you, but you can never be so sure.”
It stings a little, catches in his throat and threatens to choke him with the reminder of his own inadequacy. The nurse isn’t wrong though, there’s no difference between being tied up in these starched sheets and the quiet contemplation found in his apartment. Gojo shakes his head to deny the allegations, lest the pretty nurse learn precisely who Gojo Satoru truly is.
“I’ve thought about it since you got here, you know. A pretty face stuck in a bed, begging for me to suffocate you with my body. I didn’t think you’d be into it though, but you surprised me. You’re a pervert, mister.” Geto purrs, voice full of venom and hidden with honey. Gojo swallows it like a spoonful of bitter medicine promising to do the body good.
His limp body goes rigid – arms wailing in agony – as he comes apart in his nurse’s hand, riding out his painful orgasm into the skilled hand milking him for all he’s worth and more. The moans ripping from his hoarse throat sound almost haunted, laced with anguish. Cum paints his torso and spills over onto Geto’s chubby fingers, pooling in his knuckle’s indents. It doesn’t stay there long enough to cool, and he wipes the tacky mess onto Gojo’s damp skin with a bored expression.
“Thank you,” he croaks. “You didn’t have to do all—"
“Just make sure you haven’t ripped out your IV,” nurse Geto’s voice frosts over. “The nightshift nurses won’t be best pleased if you’ve damaged a vein, and I don’t want my name on that report.”
He gawks dumbfoundedly as Geto slips away from his bed and fixes his uniform, pulling the skirt back down over his immense thighs. A few buttons had unfastened, showing an abundance of soft, milky flesh bulging every which way from the fabric’s yoke. It takes a moment to fasten them again, his fat fingers shaking with how hard he has to yank the dress.
It’s too much to bear. He wishes his arms weren’t broken so he could grab the nurse’s belly and touch him all over, relishing in the fluffy curves he never got to embrace. He wishes the nurse would kiss him on the lips, just one time. He wishes he could fuck him, or even just know what junk is hiding underneath all of that girth, swollen, and dripping from Satoru’s experienced hands. Whatever is down there, he wants it on his face.
Once Geto looks appropriate enough to return to his station, he turns away from Gojo and begins to leave the room, ass cheeks wobbling mightily to fight for respite in his short, unyielding skirt. He looks back at Gojo for a second, eyes flickering between his bare chest and the mess on his own belly with the ghost of a soft smile wavering at the edges of his cheeks.
“Clean yourself up. If you’re lucky, I’ll come play with you again.”
Geto waddles out of the room to finish his shift unperturbed, abandoning Gojo covered in his own drying cum and unable to clean himself.
“Fuck,” Gojo whispers into the empty room, head clearer now the pain had begun to pass. His head feels lighter, more focused with the continuous dripping of pain medication into his system.
The next morning, the doctor on shift looks at Gojo’s charts with a perplexed expression. A few young residents crowd around him to take a better look. A few younger female nurses peek around the corner, whispering to each other and giggling softly like schoolgirls. He recognises one of them as the woman who found him the day before, splattered in his own filth.
“I’m so sorry, but it seems from this morning’s X-Ray that you must have received a hairline fracture to your pelvis, sir. I apologise on behalf of my staff for not noticing the injury sooner, I don’t know how we missed it until now.” The doctor splutters, red in the face from what he assumes to be his own error. The doctor continues to prattle on about the recovery plan they’ve put together for him, but Gojo drowns it out, focusing on the slow, dissonant sound of heavy footsteps echoing through the hallway, getting closer and louder with each step.
Beneath the profound numbness and medicated haze, Gojo’s cock stirs.