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Why They Would Cheat On You

Gojo

He got bored. Of course, you were never just a toy to him. Having been friends for a while, he truly enjoyed your company more than you’ll ever know. You’d gone through a lot together, had each other’s backs more than times than he could count, and you understood him better than anyone. He owed you a lot. Perhaps that was why he didn’t reject you when you finally confessed your feelings, why he let it go on for so long, and why he didn’t realise that what he felt for you wasn’t love but, rather, loyalty. 

She wasn’t anyone special, just a girl he thought was cute. So was the other girl, and the one after her. They were all cute. Nice enough, too. It was never an ego thing, he thinks, but it was nice to have people look at him like he’s a god, rather than just, ‘Toru who’s late to the date because he was off saving people. Again.’ Or ‘Toru who doesn’t text for days because he forgot about your existence, since, you know, he’s saving people. Again.’ 

You asked him, ‘Why? Why would you do this to me?’, when you found out. There was a calmness to your voice and it was so familiar, his lip twitched. He never wanted to hurt you but surely you knew that it was never going to be a forever thing, that just wasn't how things worked in your world.

Having no answer he could give you, he instead offered to stay as friends. You were appalled. He could tell when you did that eyebrow twitch you always did. It was cute. You tried to slap him. His infinity was up. And both of you went your separate ways, wondering how long it had been like that.

Geto

He no longer needed you. You were a resourceful person; he respected that. Loyal, intelligent, strong, you were everything he needed to start his mission. Unfortunately, your loyalty came with strings – you wanted love. Needed it. And well, he wasn’t exactly opposed. You weren't terrible company and he did enjoy his time with you. Long walks, light chatter, a warm body, obedient pet, it was all perfect… until you eventually grew complacent, started taking on roles far exceeding your rank simply because you thought your connection with him equated to a partnership, and dared mutter some useless thing about abandoning your posts together to live a quiet life. 

You didn’t understand. 

She did, though. She never reached out first, always waited for his time, his approval, and prioritised the work over everything else. It was all he wanted: someone who shared his vision and could appreciate the future he’s trying to build. 

You caught them in the act and he did resent the tackiness of it all — it wasn't his style and was so far beneath him. But you had to find out eventually, he supposed. When you left wordlessly, he moved her in faster than you could even pack your things up.

He never thought about you again, not until you were there on the battlefield, on the other side of things. Kind smile was met with a sneer and he didn’t blame you, not even in his final moments.

Choso

He liked the attention. At first, he was so happy you were attracted to him and that you wanted to go on a date. Ecstatic even. Having you as his girlfriend was fun! He had someone who shared his interests, who was patient and understanding. You were sweet and kind too.

But then it stopped being fun. You’d nag him to clean up after himself, tell him he shouldn’t eat this and that, that he should hang out with his brother less because that’s all he did and you missed him. He didn't understand why you did since you lived together, though he didn’t dare argue that. Being a boyfriend was a lot of work; it was like he was doing everything wrong. You wanted flowers but you didn't want to have to ask so how was he supposed to know when to get you flowers?

You wanted space when you were down but then you'd get mad at him if he didn't chase after you. He had to guess what you wanted for lunch every single time when he just wanted to eat. It was tiring.

She was your best friend. She always gave him so many compliments, looked at him like everything he said and did was so interesting, so funny, whereas you didn't have that spark in your eyes anymore. You only thought about the laundry, the mortgage, and the cost of the things you used to like. It was nice to be understood – she had your qualities but none of your burden.

You didn’t even get angry when you found out. Just told him the lease is under your name so he can find somewhere else to live. It’s odd though that when he turned up to her house, she didn’t answer the door, or his messages. The two of you just disappeared from his life.

Toji

He needed some cash. That thing between you was never serious. You were lonely and he didn’t have a place to live. And man, you took him in faster than everyone else. Guess you were really pent up. For a while, you were managing well – had a steady job, big enough house, and a car. And sure, you nagged him about his bad habits but you always let him get away with nabbing a couple hundred from your wallet, so it was fair game.

Your body ain’t bad either, better than lots of the women he’d slept with, cleaned well too, which was a rarity amongst the people he hung around with. He put up with all the sex, the fixing things up round the house, and all the hand holding and cheesy matching couple fits, or whatever, ‘cause you kept him fed. Yeah, he had it good.

Then, you lost your job and became a real pain in the ass.

She had money.

Pity actually arose in his head when you begged him to stay, to give you some time to figure things out, and promised you’ll do better, give him more than he’s ever had. God, lonely women were pushy. And as much as he’d love to stay in one place, he couldn’t handle how clingy you were. Such a turn off.

Guess he'll have to try his luck elsewhere. Again.

Nanami

He needed to feel like a man again. Your marriage was perfect. A literal fairytale. He’s never been happier and he was doing it all with his dream woman. When did things fall apart, he couldn’t say for sure, but he did know why: you wanted to give him a big family. It was all you wanted, the one thing you thought you needed to give him in exchange for all the love he gave you.

The doctors told you it just wasn’t going to happen and you were so stuck on the idea of doing it naturally and having your very own children that you didn’t listen to any of the times he vowed you were more than enough. Sex was planned around your ovulation period. You didn’t touch him outside of that, shrugging him off when he’d lay kisses on your shoulder or cheeks. When you did have sex, you weren’t even there, just counting down the seconds until he could cum inside you. You wouldn’t even bother taking off your clothes, much less foreplay. It was like he was making love to a corpse. 

She was warm, young, alive. He never thought the new associate would take an interest in an older, more worn down man like him, but she flirted like the ring wasn’t on his finger, and eventually, he did stop wearing it; she didn’t like the feel of it on her skin. 

You were distraught when you found out, clinging to yourself and sobbing. You repeated, again and again, ‘I knew it. I knew it.’

Like a switch had been flicked, he begged for you to forgive him, promising that he’ll do better, that it’ll never happen again, but the damage had been done. Leaving your ring with him, you went away, last he heard, to your hometown, rekindled some lost thing with someone you once knew. You never did have any children.

And he never remarried.

Sukuna

He never promised otherwise. For a human, you were actually interesting, or rather, he found you interesting. All the things you showed him made him feel things, things he never got to experience and never saw the value in doing before. That was probably what he liked so much about you – your ability to entertain. And he thought for as long as you fulfilled your purpose as his new object of interest, he’d be satisfied living a quiet life, but all humans do is disappoint. And change. Soon, you were lecturing him about the sanctity of life, admonishing him for being cruel, scolding him like a child. Fuck, humans are annoying. One day, when he had killed someone you were close to, he tried to explain that they deserved it, that their spirit reeked of ill-intentions but you flinched. 

She didn’t. In fact, the filthy little thing liked the things he did to her, even wanted him to go further. Now, that was entertaining. He didn’t even realise how bored he was getting with all the ‘make love’ bullshit you spewed; going slow was never his style. Neither was vanilla missionary with all the fucking eye contact. She never looked at him with disappointment every time he acted out, not even when blood reached her shoes, or when she was covered in it. 

None of the women who’d offer themselves up to him did. 

So, when you found out and that was all that filled your eyes, the sight took him aback, just as your cries did. He didn’t ask you to stay but he thought, in that one moment you hesitated, that maybe you expected him to.

Pathetic.

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★ SATORU GOJO ★

butterfly effect | series, sukugo

creep!nerd!jo (masterlist) | suggestive, dark

convergence theory (masterlist)

jock!satoru | minor comfort, fluff

home | angst

bad days | hurt/comfort

adulthood | fluff, crack

begonias | angst

orange peels (smau)

bf!satoru texts (smau)

distance | angst

different things | angst

the sun and it's moon | angst

paper flowers never die | angst

the sides of a coin | pillow thoughts

revolving | angst

cuts and bruises | fluff

sunday mornings | fluff, minor crack

the stars above | angst

puppy paw-demonium | crack

neurosurgeon!gojo | minor smut, fluff

baby fever!satoru | minor fluff, angst

older boyfriend!satoru | fluff

beyond clouds | hurt/comfort, fluff

april's fools | fluff

counting sheep | fluff

commando | smut

obsessed | fluff

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"i miss him" says girl about the fictional guy she thinks about every hour of every day

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what happens when satoru gojo tries to draw you and accidentally confesses five times?

a/n: yayy free throws and figure drawings crumbs. missed writing these two so bad… they hold such a stupidly special place in my heart. like sorry they healed the evil horny in me and rewired my brain chemistry. actually the most powerful duo to ever exist. i am once again simply a vessel.

the first time satoru tries to draw you, he steals one of your half-used sketchbooks like a raccoon with zero shame and far too much confidence, grinning to himself like he's cracked some sort of divine code.

“i’m gonna sketch you,” he announces, already sprawling across your floor like he pays rent, hoodie rumpled and riding up his stomach, hair still damp from practice and poking in every possible direction. he props himself on his elbows, legs swinging lazily behind him, the picture of unseriousness in your very serious, very paint-splattered dorm room.

you don’t even look up from the page you’re shading in. you're curled into your desk chair, hoodie sleeves shoved up to your elbows, pencil smudges on the side of your hand, and shoulders already tense with suspicion.

“you can’t just say that like it’s normal,” you mutter, not bothering to hide your wariness.

“it is normal,” he says breezily, flipping the sketchbook open like it’s his birthright. “i let you draw me all the time. fair’s fair.”

“that’s different,” you reply, glancing at him through your lashes. “you’re an athlete. you’re used to being stared at. modeled. immortalized in sketch form.”

he rolls onto his side with a dramatic little noise, cheek smushed against the hardwood, one hand supporting his jaw as he squints up at you like you're being deliberately obtuse.

“and you’re my girlfriend,” he says, soft and smug. “i’m used to being in love with you. same thing.”

you throw a pencil at him.

it bounces off his chest and rolls under the bed. he groans like you’ve injured him, dragging himself dramatically across the floor to retrieve it.

“rude,” he grumbles, holding it up triumphantly—then frowns. “it’s not even sharpened.”

he tosses it aside and grabs a pen instead. clicking it twice, then once more for flair, he dives in like he’s gearing up for a renaissance masterpiece.

fifteen minutes later, after a symphony of pen taps, frustrated mutters, and at least one full-body sigh, he flips the sketchbook around.

“ta-da.”

you blink.

on the page: a stick figure. it has massive, round eyes that take up a third of the head. there’s a rectangle clutched in your hand—possibly a paintbrush, maybe a sword, possibly a baguette. there are swirls surrounding your head like a storm cloud. the background is a shaky box filled with jagged lines.

he beams like he’s just unveiled a lost da vinci.

“do i have noodle arms?” you ask flatly.

“you have delicate limbs,” he corrects solemnly. “artist arms. sensitive. expressive. obviously.”

“and those spirals?” you point at the mess circling your head.

“your aura,” he says confidently. “you have... radiant vibes.”

“what about the eyes?”

he shrugs. “windows to your soul. they’re big because i see everything in you.”

you squint at him. he grins wider, completely unfazed.

with a sigh, you close the sketchbook gently, fingers brushing over the slightly curled page.

“okay,” you say. “no more pen privileges.”

he gasps, hand clutching his chest. “you’re just intimidated by my artistic vision.”

“i’m admitting you need glasses.”

he groans and flops onto his back, arms sprawled out like he’s been defeated in battle. “and i’m admitting that drawing you is impossible,” he says to the ceiling, voice suddenly quieter, “the original’s too pretty.”

the silence that follows is soft. the low buzz of your tiny desk fan fills the space, blending with the occasional creak of the floorboards and the sound of a pencil scratching lightly against paper. the golden light from your window pools across the room, warming the edges of paint tubes and tangled limbs.

you glance over your shoulder.

he’s watching you—chin in hand again, head tilted slightly, blue eyes sleepy but impossibly bright. there’s a smudge of ink on his cheekbone. he hasn’t noticed.

your chest tightens.

“what number sketch is this?” you ask quietly, the corner of your mouth twitching.

he hums, pretending to think, then shrugs. “first one of you. but i’m still winning. two hundred fifty-four to one.”

he taps the sketchbook once, then looks back at you with a flash of something uncharacteristically sincere.

“actually, make it three hundred,” he adds, voice dipping lower. “you just blinked in that lighting and i fell in love all over again.”

you throw another pencil.

this time, he catches it one-handed, barely looking.

“deadly reflexes,” he says, cocky and glowing. “i’m unstoppable.”

you shake your head, trying and failing to suppress your smile, and he sees it—of course he does.

he always sees it.

he doesn’t stop smiling the rest of the afternoon. even when you grumble about your ruined pencil. even when he tries to steal another sketchbook. even when he falls asleep on your floor, cheek squished into your hoodie sleeve, mouth parted, dreaming of something soft.

additional a/n: if you’ve made it here and haven’t read free throws and figure drawings… what are you doing bestie. go meet the disaster basketball boy and the overworked artist who accidentally steals his heart. if you want more of this soft chaos—this fluffy, smitten, mildly feral kind of love—that’s where the madness began. they’re so special to me it’s stupid. i think about them more than i think about my responsibilities. go. read. fall in love too.

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satoru has really big ears and big hands and big feet and a big co—

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gojo satoru did you know that i love you?

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the face of a man who has a wife and child waiting for him to come home

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even softer than expected

yandere senpai satoru x kouhai reader, dubcon, yandere themes, obsessive behavior, manipulation, power imbalance, fingering, making out, dirty talk, orgasm denial, praise kink, bodily fluids, semi-public setting. 2.5k wc. 18+ only, MDNI.

a/n : i let him weaponize tenderness and gave him full custody of her dazed little heart. i write this with no intention of touching grass.

it starts with you clinging.

satoru thinks it’s adorable, of course. no—he thinks it’s perfect.

senpai and kouhai. that’s what everyone sees. he likes that word on your lips when you say it, likes the way you trail after him with that polite, reluctant look like you aren’t entirely sure why he bothers with you. he bothers because you’re his. you just don’t know it yet.

it’s the soft little inhale you make when the first jump scare goes off near the props closet, followed by your fingers instinctively curling into the back of his uniform jacket like he’s some kind of shield. and in a way, he is. a self-appointed one. a role he’s studied, perfected.

"what, scared already?" he drawls, but he’s not teasing you like he does the others. there’s a smile in his voice, yes, but it’s quieter. smug. almost fond. a shade softer than usual.

he doesn’t miss the way you flinch when the speaker hisses static again, your shoulders tensing beneath his palm. your eyes flicker nervously toward every new shadow. you’re cute when you’re scared. cute in the kind of way that makes his jaw tense. makes his fingers twitch with the urge to pull you closer, tuck you under his arm, let the whole world know you’re off-limits.

not that he’d let you notice that.

not yet.

he made sure you were assigned together, of course. loitered around the haunted house committee like it was a casual whim. a flash of teeth, a tilt of his sunglasses, and the upperclassmen agreed before they knew what hit them. you, on the other hand, were blissfully unaware. just grateful he’d offered to go with you. just flustered enough to say thank you with your eyes slightly downcast.

he nudges you a little deeper into the dark hallway, hand warm and deliberate on the small of your back. another jump scare—a skeleton rig this time—clatters down, and you make a soft noise, half-gasp, half-laugh. you press yourself a little closer. he leans down, lips almost grazing your ear.

“don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs, breath warm. “i’m the scariest thing here anyway.”

you stiffen in his hold. he feels it. not from fear of the decorations. something deeper. something that starts low in your gut and coils tightly. and god, it makes his heart race. his fingers flex slightly at your hip.

his white hair looks almost silver under the dim lights, falling in soft disarray over his forehead. his eyes, uncovered for once, glint pale and bright behind the gloom—focused solely on you. there's something wolfish about the way he watches you. head tilted. gaze sharp. patient. a predator who already knows his prey will come willingly.

you don’t know it yet, but he memorizes every little twitch of your expression. the way your brows pinch when you’re unsure. the way your lips part slightly when you’re startled. how your grip tightens on his sleeve each time something rattles. he’s attuned to every breath you take like it’s a song written for him.

he drapes an arm around your shoulders casually, fingers brushing your neck. you let him. maybe you think it’s harmless. senpai being playful again. maybe you think it’s all part of the act. a little fun, a little flirting.

but it’s not an act. not to him. not even close.

another clang. a metal bucket this time. you jolt, and he pulls you into him by the waist. your body fits against his so neatly, too neatly. the scent of you—shampoo, warm cotton, something faintly sweet—rushes up and makes his chest tighten. he wonders, briefly, how soft your hair would feel tangled around his fingers.

“you okay?” he murmurs, close enough that his lips graze your temple. you nod shakily, and he smiles. not a soft smile. something sharper. something that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. something that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.

his hand trails slowly up your spine, fingers warm and certain. “you know,” he says lightly, “if you’re this jumpy, we should hide in one of the back rooms until the crowd clears. i’ll keep you safe. promise.”

your eyes meet his, hesitant. wary. something in your gaze flits—trust, maybe. or the early seeds of it. you nod once, barely. he gives you that familiar grin—the one he knows works. the one that masks everything else simmering underneath.

and he doesn’t wait for permission.

he tugs you through a side door, down a narrow hallway the others won’t check. it’s quieter here, colder. the flickering lights are weaker, their hum drowned by distant screams and the occasional thud of footsteps in the main hall. the walls are paper-thin, barely holding together with peeling black paint and old festival flyers. satoru’s steps echo soft and certain. yours trail behind—hesitant.

he picks the door at the very end. tiny, half-rotted, marked “staff only.” inside, the room is even darker. cobwebs stretch across the corners like veins. an old box television hisses static in the far corner, its glow barely illuminating the room. it smells like paint, dust, something older too—mildew maybe. the door creaks closed behind you, and the lock clicks before you can speak.

“see?” he murmurs, voice low and warm like syrup. “much better.”

he doesn’t wait for your reaction. your back hits the wall a moment later—not harsh, but sudden, enough to draw a startled breath. his arms come up, caging you in. close. too close. the static paints shadows on his face, making his smirk seem carved. strands of his hair catch the flickering light, messy and white like winter snow, and his blindfold is pushed up like a crown of silk, revealing eyes too bright, too knowing.

he watches you like he always does—like it’s easy. like you’re something soft, small, and entirely his. you’re flushed already, fingers twitching at your sides. your eyes dart between his face and the door.

“you’re still shaking,” he says, tilting his head. “i thought i said i’d protect you.”

he thinks it’s adorable. how shy you still are, even now. how you pretend to resist him, even though your breath hitches when he gets close. he loves the way your mouth opens like you might object—but nothing comes out.

“senpai, we shouldn’t—someone might come—”

“they won’t,” he says, voice soft but decisive. “it’s dark. it’s loud. no one’s gonna hear you. not unless you want them to.”

he leans in, his breath a warm, teasing gust, carrying the faint tang of cherry candy clinging to his lips. his fingers trail up your throat, slow, feeling the frantic pulse jumping under your skin, each beat a little gift just for him. they cradle your jaw, possessive, his thumb stroking your bottom lip, tugging it down until it quivers. “besides,” he murmurs, voice a low, velvet taunt, “don’t you trust me?”

you nod, just barely, a shaky little jerk that makes his eyes flash with something hungry.

he kisses you, slow but fucking feral, a claiming kind of kiss that screams you’re his, like he’s carving his name into your soul with his mouth. his lips crash against yours, slick and bruising, not gentle but deliberate, a sloppy, greedy mess that makes your head spin. it’s your first kiss, and he knows it—fuck, he loves it—your inexperience is like blood in the water to him.

his tongue shoves in, no hesitation, thick and hot, prying your lips apart until you’re gasping into his mouth. he tastes you—warm, soft, the faint salt of your nervous sweat, the cherry chapstick you didn’t know he’d noticed—and it’s better than any wet dream he’s jerked off to.

his teeth graze your bottom lip, a sharp nip that makes you whimper, and he sucks on the sting, drawing a bead of spit that smears across your chin. his breath is heavy, ragged, mixing with yours, the air between you thick with heat and the sour-sweet tang of his candy-laced saliva.

your tongue fumbles, clumsy, unsure, and he groans, low and filthy, loving how you’re floundering, drowning in him. spit drips, slick and warm, pooling at the corner of your mouth, and he licks it up, sloppy, his tongue dragging across your jaw like he’s marking you. your hands grab his shirt, knuckles white, clutching like you’re clinging to a lifeline, and he feels like a fucking god, your desperation pumping his ego until it’s bursting.

when he pulls back, you’re breathless, dazed, lips puffy and glistening. he tilts his head, smirking, eyes raking over your flushed face. “you’re not scared anymore, huh?” he drawls, voice thick with smug amusement. “or is this just a different kind of scared?”

his thigh wedges between yours, hard muscle forcing your legs apart, his hips grinding in slow, deliberate, the bulge in his pants pressing just right to make you squirm.

you let out a gasp that dies into a moan, raw and shaky, and he drinks it in, watching your face twist, eyes fluttering shut then snapping open like you’re fighting to stay grounded. he’s obsessed with it—every fucking second of your struggle is his.

“you look so pretty like this,” he murmurs, voice soft but cutting, like a compliment laced with venom. “caught.”

his fingers tap your chin once, a playful little pat, before two of them—long, deft, warm—press against your lips. “open up,” he says, a command wrapped in a smile.

you do, lips parting, trembling, and he slides them in, slow, letting you feel the weight. your tongue brushes his skin, slick and hesitant, and he groans softly, low in his throat, loving the wet heat of your mouth. his knuckles graze your lips, teasing, and he watches you struggle—watches the drool spill, slicking your chin, your eyes watering as you try not to choke.

it’s fucking gorgeous, the way you’re falling apart already.

“there you go,” he coos, voice dripping with condescension, sweet and patronizing. “good girl.”

he pulls them out, slow, spit clinging to his fingers, a glossy thread snapping against your lip. his cock twitches, aching, but he’s too caught up in this—your flushed cheeks, your shaky breaths, the way you’re already his without a fight. his hand dives under your skirt, yanking your underwear aside with a rough tug. the fabric rips, a sharp sound that makes you flinch, and he smirks, loving that little jolt of fear.

his fingers press into you, two at first, thick and unyielding, sliding in slow, savoring the way your cunt clenches, so wet it’s almost obscene. the heat of you is unreal, slick and tight, and he bites his lip, eyes locked on your face.

“goddamn, look at you,” he purrs, voice low and syrupy, full of praise. “taking my fingers so nice, like you were born for this. my perfect pretty girl, huh?”

your gasp is high, broken, and he feels you shudder, your thighs trembling against his. he curls his fingers, slow, dragging them against your walls, feeling every pulse, every flutter. the wet squelch is loud, filthy, echoing in the cramped, mildewed room, and he loves it—loves how it’s proof of your body begging for him.

“listen to that,” he murmurs, almost reverent, his lips grazing your ear. “your pussy’s singing for me, baby. so fucking eager.”

he pushes deeper, knuckles brushing your entrance, and your hips jerk, instinctive, a whimper spilling from your lips. he adds a third finger, stretching you, the burn making you whine—a sharp, desperate sound that makes his chest tighten.

“shh, you’re doing so good,” he praises, voice soft but edged with that condescending lilt. “look at you, opening up for me like a sweet little thing. bet you didn’t know you could take this much, did you?”

his thumb finds your clit, circling slow, deliberate, each swipe sparking shocks through your shaking body. your nails claw at his arms, leaving red scratches, and he fucking loves it—loves the proof you’re losing it for him.

his fingers pump, curling, twisting, hitting that spot that makes your eyes roll back. he slows, teasing, dragging them out, slick and shining, before slamming them back in, deep and hard. the rhythm’s relentless, the wet slap of his hand against your cunt filling the air, mixing with your gasps and moans.

“you’re so fucking perfect,” he breathes, voice thick with awe, his eyes never leaving your face. “every little twitch, every sound—fuck, you’re my masterpiece.”

he’s not imagining anything else; this is it, the real deal, your body trembling under his hands, your cunt dripping for him, your face twisting in ways he wants burned into his brain.

he presses harder, fingers curling tighter, thumb grinding your clit faster, and you’re sobbing now, soft, broken sounds that make his cock throb and twitch in his pants.

“that’s it, cry for me,” he murmurs, voice dripping with praise, a touch of mockery. “such a pretty mess, all for your senpai. you’re making me so fucking proud, baby.”

your hips grind against his hand, chasing the friction, and he grins, holding you still with his free arm, pinning you to the wall like he owns you. “no running, sweetheart. you’re gonna take it all, just like you were meant to.”

he’s relentless, fingers plunging, curling, stretching, his thumb circling your clit with brutal precision. the squelch of your slick is deafening, dripping down his wrist, pooling on the floor, and he’s drunk on it—on the heat, the wetness, the way your body’s screaming his name without words.

“fuck, you’re soaking me,” he purrs, voice low and adoring. “making such a filthy little puddle. my good girl, giving me everything.”

he leans in, lips brushing your temple, tasting the salt of your sweat, and he groans, low and filthy, because you’re better than any fantasy he’s ever had.

you’re close, he feels it—your walls clenching, your breath hitching, your legs shaking like they’re about to give out. “gonna fall apart for me?” he whispers, voice soft but taunting, lips grazing your ear. “gonna cream all over my fingers like my perfect little angel? go on, show me how good you can be.”

he’s relentless, fingers pumping, thumb pressing, every motion pushing you higher, your moans turning into desperate, keening cries.

but then he stops, fingers buried deep, still as stone. you choke on a sob, hips bucking, chasing a release he’s ripped away. your cunt flutters, greedy, aching, and he smirks, loving how you’re practically fucking yourself on his hand.

“mm-mm,” he hums, sweet and cruel, like honey over a razor. “not yet, baby. you don’t get to cum until i say.”

he holds you there, suspended in agony, your body trembling, slick coating his hand, dripping down his arm. he leans in, breath hot against your ear, voice a soft, devastating whisper. “besides, we shouldn’t go any further,” he says, careful, calculated, a perfect trap. “not unless we’re, y’know, actually dating or something.”

you freeze, eyes wide, lips trembling, spit-slick and swollen. he’s still inside you, fingers heavy, a constant, torturous pressure.

he grins, lazy, smug, lips brushing your cheek. “so, what do you think, sweetheart?” he murmurs, fingers twitching just enough to make you whimper. “wanna be mine?”

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Dark Waves - Claudia Keep , 2024.

American , b. 1993 -

Oil on masonite panel , 30.5 x 35.5 in.

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you know how when you go out in the middle of the woods, your phone loses internet service? that is because the trees naturally protect you from the evil dark energy rays generated by influencers and twitter opinions. follow for more information about the beauty of nature

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Gojo and his kids ☺️

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*𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗯𝘂𝗿𝗻𝘁-𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗰𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗲𝗰𝗵𝗻𝗶𝗾𝘂𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗲 𝗰𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗲𝗰𝗵𝗻𝗶𝗾𝘂𝗲.*

*𝘀𝗲𝗲𝗺𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗲𝘅𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳*

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the king's cock crown

it's easy to fall in love - and perhaps even easier to fall out of it when you discover the penpal who captured your heart might not be the man whose signature is on his letters

synopsis: a poor princess. a playboy emperor. and a devoted duke at his aide. heavy is the head that wears the crown - and heavier is the hand that wears the ring binding them together. what happens when you're up for the role of a bride? or the future empress?

pairing: emperor!gojo x princess!reader, duke!Geto x princess!reader

content: mdni, angst and smut and fluff, royal fantasy sort of au, she falls first, he falls harder, gojo is a spoiled brat at first lol, gojo getting brutally humbled, Geto trying to steal reader from him, falling in love, heavy pining/yearning, hurt/comfort, kidnapping, mentions of murder/injury, handcuffs, character growth, political schemes, unprotected piv sex, breeding kink, fingering, creampie, marriage, more tags to be added

art by @/modorinlychee and divider by @/fairytopea !!

TEASER BELOW

Satoru Gojo was born lucky.

Beautiful and blessed. The sole heir to an empire that spawned over centuries, more wishes and wealth than any man could dream afforded to him before he could even walk.

Anything he wanted was his.

And if he didn't want it?

"I don't like her," Gojo complained, glaring through the stained glass at his afternoon play date, a potential bride - although at age twelve, he was still at least a decade away from dealing with something as dreadful as marriage.

"Please be nice," His attendant reminded him, fixing the collars on his shirt and huffing as she hurried to fix a stray strand of hair. "She's a princess too, you know."

"She's strange," He muttered under his breath, watching you sit politely at the table, hands folded in your lap, only occasionally smoothing out the skirt of your dress.

It was too big on you, probably passed down from a sister or some other family member. Frayed at the helm, like it'd been worn quite a few times before.

Some princess you were.

You'd been clinging to the shadows his whole life, attending bi-annual balls with your family just to cling to the background like a piece of art no one bothered to look at. He wouldn't have noticed, really, but your attention was annoyingly always on him.

He promised to be on his best behavior before they shooed him out to greet you, rolling his bright blue eyes the second they turned around and sticking a bug in your tea ten minutes into your so-called date just to see you squeak.

You pushed off the table trying to stand up, but it just made your cup spill in your lap instead - bug included.

It was almost cute to watch you panic, brows pushed together in a frustrated pout as you desperately tried to clean yourself, maids and attendants rushing out to see the commotion and their young master responsible for it.

But somehow, you were the only one who got scolded for it.

The perks of being a prince, he supposed.

You were just the unlucky one here.

Gojo always got his way - so why should he marry you?

He didn't even have to complain this time - whatever distant family member that brought you to the palace caught some grave illness, and you returned with them to whatever impoverished kingdom you came from.

Occasionally, he'd receive letters from you over the next handful or two of years, but they went unopened, shoved off on his aide while he busied himself with politics and parties. Geto scolded him for it, insisted he should maintain a positive relationship even if he wasn't going to marry you, but what was the point of listening when he was supposed to be the man everyone listened to?

You didn't attend the balls anymore, but your letters grew more frequent, at least two a month left in the stack on his desk before Geto snatched the pile to reply for him.

"Why is she sending so many?" Gojo groaned, picking up one and squinting at the neat script on the front of the envelope, the ornate wax seal carefully stamped on. He reclined back in his office chair, legs sprawled out as he traced over the ink splotches on the ivory.

"Hm?" Geto murmured, too distracted with whatever form he was filling out to look up.

"Our favorite princess," He dryly replied. You'd become something of a joke, more with himself than to Geto. A constant that was never even there, a shadow that followed him despite the years and distance that separated you. A running gag of a girl who couldn't take a hint.

He caught a whiff of a surprisingly intoxicating perfume, blinking a few times before realizing it must be from your letter. Geto noticed what he was holding a second too late, but Gojo was already cutting the envelope open and pulling the papers out.

"Wait-"

"It's addressed to me, isn't it?" Gojo teased, standing up and walking over to the sun-lit window to read it.

And the first line in its pretty cursive and swirling letters had him laughing already.

"My dearest Satoru?" He repeated incredulously, glancing back over his shoulder at his very much guilty friend.

"Look," Geto started, dark eyes narrowed as he let out a sigh.

"Is she under the impression I'm the one writing to her?" Honestly, before this moment? He'd never considered what Geto did with any of yours letters after he received them. Perhaps just polite replies?

Nothing that would make you comfortable enough to call him that.

pls comment to be tagged <3 (who else is ready to see this man grovelling and begging on his knees?)

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Ahh I love your dividers and saw your requests are currently open! Would you be open to doing some cozy orangey Autumn dividers like campfire, leaves etc?

ahh fall is my fave season, I'm already dreaming about it! Here's some autumnal dividers! I pulled a couple from previous sets & added some new ones as well. thanks for sending this in!! ⛺️💖🍂

[Free] Masterlist Headers & Dividers!

Please consider liking or reblogging if you use 💕

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You hide an injury from them

Including: Gojo, Nanami, Choso, Sukuna, Toji, Yuuji, and Megumi.

〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰

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SNOWING

⋆౨ৎ˚✧ ₊ in which your dealer finds out you’re a girl

ft. Gojo, Geto, Toji, Sukuna, Shiu, Ino

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a/n; boom take this whle i work on chem!teacher gojo ^_^

your dressing room door is locked. your back’s pressed hard to the mirror, the glass cool against your shoulder blades. your legs are locked tight around gojo’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back, and he’s buried so deep inside you it feels like he’s never leaving—his breath hot and uneven where it fans across your throat.

“fuck, you feel unreal,” he groans, forehead resting against yours, one hand gripping your thigh so tight it’ll bruise, the other braced flat against the wall to keep him from unraveling completely.

“don’t stop,” you whisper, head tilting back, lashes fluttering. “don’t even think about stopping.”

his mouth crashes into yours breathlessly, his tongue sliding against yours. and then he goes back to start moving—hips rolling slow at first, but deep enough to make your head spin, then faster, rougher. he can’t help himself. the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the small space, desperate and slick, your breath catching with every thrust. your fingernails rake down his back. he moans into your mouth, a broken, vibrating sound that makes your pussy clench.

and then—

knock! knock! knock!

“y/n? we need you for touch ups!”

and you both freeze.

he’s still inside you. still hard. still throbbing.

your eyes snap open. you glance at the door, then grin widely and wicked.

“give me a sec!” you call out, voice breathless but still weirdly steady.

the hallway goes quiet.

gojo’s face is buried in your neck now, trying not to laugh. “you’ve gotta be kidding.”

you look down at him, his cheeks flushed, white hair a mess, lips kiss bitten and eyes blown wide with pure need.

“yeah,” you whisper, grinding your hips into his again. “now fuck me quieter.”

and he does.

his thrusts turn slower, somehow more controlled, every drag of his hips deep enough to make your toes curl. you choke on a moan, biting your lip so hard you taste metallic, cold blood. his hand claps over your mouth, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown and dilated.

“you’re insane,” he mutters under a breathy chuckle, voice all cracked. “what if we get caught-”

you lick a long, slow stripe across his palm so he could remove it off your lips.

“worth it.”

and oh, it so is.