#★ mine!

[amuromi]

★ ₊ ⊹ ⋆˙ ┈ 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ┈ 9.9k

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ┈ NSFW! heian era!au, concubine!reader, true form!Sukuna, unprotected sex, established relationship (married), canon typical violence, era typical misogyny/gender roles, unhealthy obsession, mentions of death, mentions of cannibalism and blood, (Sukuna is a lunatic), Sukuna is referred to exclusively as “Lord Sukuna”

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐀!𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ┈ I got a bit carried away with this one. My love of psychological horror was clawing to be free but I think I kept it pretty contained…

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈

✮ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 & 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!! ✮

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 ✦ ⋆˙ engawa ┈ a hallway-like path surrounding the house ⋆ shoji ┈ a sliding door/divider ⋆ koto ┈ a Japanese zither/stringed instrument

The winter storm has leached everything into bleak shades of black and white, like ink on parchment. The trees are thick black strokes against the deep gray clouds, dusted with a thick layer of snow as flurries fall like stars through the courtyard. In the moonlight each snowflake shines like pearls, soft and lustrous as they dance on the wind. From the edge of the engawa it almost looks like staring into the great gaping mouth of a beast that’s swallowed the world, spears of ice hanging like jagged teeth from the edge of the roof, the wind shuddering through the estate in howling gusts. The cold night is scented with dreams of spring, sweet smelling coal burning in braziers, wafting gray wisps of floral-scented smoke into the wind. 

It’s quiet aside from the sharp whistling of the wind and the hissing of snow melting over hot coals, then, somewhere within the estate, a bell tolls for the Hour of the Rooster. Nightfall, despite the veil of darkness already laid out by the storm clouds. Suddenly there’s the sound of footsteps soft as summer rain, pattering through the estate and the shoji begin to blossom with the warmth of firelight as candles are lit throughout the sprawling house. More snow gathers in soft sheets over the courtyard before there’s a gentle knock to announce a soft-footed servant coming to renew the braziers and light the lanterns. The scent of lavender is renewed as the coals are sifted and replaced and the engawa is streaked with blushing shades of gold as the pink-tinged paper lanterns are lit in turn. 

Of all the rooms in the vast estate, yours is the most adorned. Which is to say, it looks as though your room is used for more than sleeping. There’s a modest desk with inks and paper, a small table for combs and perfumes, and a trunk for miscellaneous things beside the chest of drawers filled with kimono. When she’s lit the last lantern, you ask the girl to send for your personal maid. A dowry servant, though not originally one of yours. Life in this estate is fleeting in that way. 

An unbalanced teacup had been the undoing of the girl your father sent to accompany you in your marriage. Stained silk and scalded skin, later soaked with splatters of blood. But the tatami were changed and the kimono and girl were replaced. Your new maid is a bit older–a few years your senior–originally belonging to a woman that came before you. Certainly not First Mistress because she would loathe to see you even look upon anything of hers. No, she served a less honored concubine that wasn’t worthy of the title “wife,” even if it’s a hollow honor in itself. Still, your maid had belonged to the unknown mistress before she perished. It all happened before you were brought to the estate, but the haggard weight of the loss still sits heavy on her shoulders. Her face always looks like a crumpled piece of paper that someone tried to smooth flat, creased with hidden worries. She arrives quickly, kneeling to await her orders. 

“I’m happy,” you tell her. “A new Mistress is joining the family tonight, isn’t that right? Happy news.” The maid hums something to the tune of affirmation, long since grown used to your unflinchingly jovial disposition. She once asked if you wear a smiling mask throughout the day and take it off once you sleep. It’s a silly question, of course, but you like to imagine that you smile even in your sleep. There is nothing to be sad about. Living a life such as this is no different than a deer grazing in a meadow. There is nothing beyond the grass. Nothing farther than the horizon or higher than the tallest tree. What is there to be sad about when the world has been folded into something small enough to hold in your hands, a piece of origami meant to be appreciated and not pondered. There’s happiness in the simplicity that this life provides, though you seem to be the only one to realize it. 

The other two Mistresses of the house say that you should be locked up in a rice chest and left out to die. That it’s cruel to let you live in such a state of delusion. How little they know, yet it’s still too much. At times, it seems that they are far deeper in their minds than you’ve ever been. Caught up in worries and tribulations that haven’t plagued you in a long time, since you let go of your humanity. What use is pretending to be human when you’re treated like a pet. Treasured and pampered but still inferior to the master of the house. Because your husband has no true use for human brides. In keeping the three of you, he has honored each of your families with the knowledge that their blood has produced something too intriguing to kill off just yet. Perhaps if he desires an offspring to assume his legacy he’ll have a true use for one of you. 

Other brides have been offered and had their families culled like squashing bugs. It made you feel some air of superiority, knowing that you were chosen from a dozen women to be honored as a new wife to the King of Curses. It only took a few months for you to realize your place in all this and the last thread of your humanity snapped like a frayed koto string. Thinking of yourself as a person is useless when the person that holds your life within his hands sees you as no more than a doll to be toyed with as he sees fit. 

“I’m happy.” You always mean it when you say it. Happiness is all you have left when faced with the truth of how finite your existence is. There is no world beyond the walls of this estate. No people beyond its residence and staff. No purpose outside of serving your husband with unwavering loyalty. In that regard you are the most precious of his wives. The others, their devotion wavers. You’ve seen it in the way they still hesitate to follow simple instructions, still tremble and shrink in Lord Sukuna’s presence even as you bloom like a flower in the light of the sun. He is your sun. There is no life without him. Which is why you are happy to simply exist in this small world that he’s made for you. 

His power has greatly uncomplicated your existence, turned it to something purposeful, something that will end when you’re no longer of use. And Lord Sukuna will always tell you when you serve no further purpose to him. How many underlings has he executed because they were no longer of use? You imagine they must’ve felt great pride in the moments before their demise at the hands of their King. Pride in knowing that they did what they were made to do. As a child you had scoffed at the idea that your only purpose was to be wed and serve your husband as a proper wife should, but that was when the husband of your future was set to be someone unremarkable. Lord Sukuna is greater than any man that’s ever lived. Perhaps even ascended beyond the concept of a man to become the strongest sorcerer to ever live. As the daughter of a highly regarded family known for birthing remarkable sorcerers, you take pride in your small but purposeful place in all this. The culling of clans, the clashing of factions trying to unseat your husband. History will remember you because you will play your part until the very end. An end you’ll greet with a smile if it should come by your husband’s hand. 

“Will the Fourth Mistress be here soon?” A new deer to join the herd, a new flower planted in the garden. 

“By the Hour of the Bird, the last message said.” Your maid agrees. Soon, a new Mistress will be here. It’s been so long since another woman has joined hands with Lord Sukuna. The last being yourself nearly two years ago. First Mistress had been collected three years ago, and Second Mistress came along only a short few months behind her. Lord Sukuna had waited half a year after that to marry a third wife, and you must’ve served him well because there’s been no need for another until now. It makes you wonder if death is close at hand. A raven had come earlier in the day, before the snow began to fall, announcing that Lord Sukuna would be returning from his excursion by nightfall. Perhaps he wanted to arrive home in time to greet his new bride. 

Fourth Mistress. Unlucky number Four, terrible number Four. Blowing into her marriage with a snow storm. It’s all terribly inauspicious, but Lord Sukuna has reason for everything he does. Nothing is without purpose. Even death has cause when dealt by his hand. Even if it comes tonight you will go towards it fully satisfied. The snowfall looks beautiful, and the cold isn’t so terrible with the legion of braziers burning around you and the thick furs draped over your shoulders. It’s a wonderful night to die if it should come to that. 

“Shall we go welcome her?” 

“First Mistress insisted that you need not be present for Fourth Mistress’ arrival, your highness.” First Mistress, Jurina, whose hatred towards you cannot be quelled by any manner of platitudes. 

When you first arrived, you’re sure it was mere jealousy that compelled her to act out against you. A multitude of wives is not uncommon among high ranking men, but rarely is it expected that they should all live together. Most wives are left in their parents’ homes to be visited whenever their husband deems it fit. To walk the hall of your home and come across the woman your husband sees when he is not with you must be jarring to the first woman he married. Jurina seemed adamant about dispelling you from the family upon your first arrival. Now, her animosity isn’t borne of jealousy, but discomfort. 

Your happiness makes her nervous. She’s said it herself. Snapping and raging at you for your unflinching smile even as she and Second Mistress have slowly begun to lose themselves in the monotony of this life. Sitting and waiting, then serving when Lord Sukuna comes home. To them, your complacency, your happiness, is something eerie and othered. Akin to the curses your families seek to eradicate. Unnatural. Inhuman. Though it hardly matters what they think of you. They are not your reason for being, and Lord Sukuna seems to find your smile charming. 

Despite the chill, you find yourself reaching for a fan. A gift from Uraume. They’re strangely doting towards you in a way that they aren’t to Lord Sukuna’s other wives, bringing you gifts when they accompany Lord Sukuna on long trips away from the estate. A set of calligraphy brushes, a jade bracelet, a new kimono. You’ve amassed quite a collection of possessions by Uraume’s spoiling, though the fans are your favorite. All made a beautifully lacquered wood, some painted with gilded designs, the folded paper painted by the hands of careful artists. Crashing waves and blossoming trees decorate each of your fans and you take great pride in keeping them all in pristine condition because you’d hate to perform a dance with a damaged fan. 

Of all of the things filling your room, your koto is the most precious. It had belonged to your mother and she offered it with teary eyes as your wedding gift, absolutely bereft that she had to marry her daughter off to a monster to appease the head of your father’s clan. But such was your purpose in being born into a highly acclaimed sorcerer clan. Take your blood and lend your body to another clan so that you might make more powerful jujutsu users. Your father had complained of the waste in sending you off to quell the King of Curses, insisting that sending you to Lord Sukuna would be a waste of a bride. Curses have no use for brides nor, truly, does their King. Still, Lord Sukuna keeps all of you alive and well in his home. To what end? It’s hardly your concern. 

“Bring my koto,” you hum. “I want to dance.” 

The maid goes about carrying the large stringed instrument to the edge of the room where the opened shoji separates the warmth of your room from the chill of the engawa. It is a happy coincidence that your maid had been taught to play the koto some years ago when she was still an eligible maiden. But her father grew ill and when he passed her mother sent her off to find work to support herself because she couldn’t afford a dowry to marry her off properly. So she sits and serves, waiting for you to name your song of choice with her fingers poised over the strings. The song you choose is one of comfort, the first your mother ever taught you when you were learning to dance and play. There’s a practiced grace to your movements, smooth as a flowing river as you dance with your fan. The song is short but it is always your favorite to perform. 

A rare beauty in the north, she’s the finest woman on earth. A glance from her, the city falls. A second glance leaves the nation in ruins. There exists no city or nation that has been more cherished than a beauty like this.

Flecks of snow melt against the bare nape of your neck, so cold it feels like burning, but you want to keep dancing. The weather has no bearing on your mood. Rain or shine you are happy to sing and dance, amusing yourself as you wait to be of use to your lord husband. Perhaps he has already returned home along with his new bride but without the order to accompany him you will stay in your room, performing to your heart’s content. Your maid begins to pluck out the notes of your next song request, fingers stuttering over the strings as if she’s forgotten how to play the melody. That’s alright, you will dance even without proper music, swinging your fan with practiced poise as your voice contests with the howling of the storm. It’s a song of longing and melancholy. Fitting for a woman separated from her husband. 

Are you going away? Leaving me alone? How could I live if you’ve gone away? Are you going away? Leaving me alone? I want to keep you unhappy with me. I fear you may never return. Sadly, I will let you go–

“Stop whining, I’m here.” A voice interrupts your singing, a smooth timbre that rumbles like a roll of thunder. So please, come back soon after you leave. In a heartbeat you’re on the floor, kneeling before your husband. Lord Sukuna is soiled from his travels. Kimono stained and torn, the scent of blood lingering heavily around him, along with the buzzing aura of excess cursed energy leaking into the cold air around him. 

“Welcome home, Lord Sukuna.” He purrs at how you prostrate yourself at his feet, always so satisfied with your absolute submission. He once told you your lack of fear was something intriguing, your unwavering adoration far more interesting than submission borne of fear. It’s something he’s found in so few of his followers and you imagine it’s why he shows such preference for Uraume’s company. Of all of your husband’s subordinates, they are by far the most devout. Perhaps even more than you because they know what Lord Sukuna is trying to achieve with all the calamity he causes. Your lord husband has never made you privy to that knowledge, and as a good wife you remember it is not your place to ask. If you are meant to know something, he’ll tell you. 

“Get out.” His voice is thick with something akin to revulsion, though you don’t bother to raise your head. Lord Sukuna hasn’t spoken to you so gruffly since you first proved your devotion to him. Behind you there’s the sound of frantic movements as your maid assumedly makes herself scarce in the presence of her master. When she’s gone Lord Sukuna gives you permission to lift your head. In the low light, you can hardly see his face. It’s hard to tell Lord Sukuna’s mood even in bright lighting. He hardly changes from his stoic expression unless there’s blood being spilled, then a smile–more like a deranged baring of his fanged teeth–finds its way onto his face. 

“Come bathe with me.” He doesn’t wait for you to react, already halfway down the engawa by the time you gather yourself enough to stand. Lord Sukuna traverses the estate with practiced ease, as if this was his childhood home and not all place of residence usurped from some affluent family. Though the perks of Lord Sukuna’s minions commandeering such a luxurious home for their leader and his family are the accommodations afforded to only the highest nobility. Because only families with more money than time to spend it can afford to build their home large enough to encompass a hot spring along with all the other necessary land. The air is humid around the bathhouse, curtained with steam as clouds of warm air seep out of the secluded space. 

Lord Sukuna stands expectantly at the edge of the rocks surrounding the steaming pool, waiting for you to fulfill your wifely duties. With great haste you begin to undress him. His kimono is ruined beyond repair, delicate white silk tattered and stained with browning patches of blood. Still, you take great care in folding each article as it’s removed from his body. There’s no added layers despite the inclement weather, no added underclothes beneath the outer layer of clothing. Your hands reach skin sooner than you expected, flinching away from the warmth of his muscles as if his skin were an open flame. Despite your status as his wife and your consequently intimate knowledge of his body, you still err on the side of caution when it comes to touching Lord Sukuna. He had only asked you to undress him, not to run your fingers over the corded muscles of his arms. Luckily, your husband seems unconcerned with the wayward touch. Instead of snapping at you he rolls his shoulders as if the layers of clothes had been restricting his movements. In all likelihood, they probably have. 

Lord Sukuna is something that is no longer human. A higher being ascended beyond the physicality of a normal man, as if his body could no longer handle the brunt of his power and needed to evolve to fit the newly emerging shape of his soul. Once, before you first laid eyes upon him, Lord Sukuna had the appearance of a mere man. An unremarkable face and body. But now he has become something beyond the shape of a human. “A two faced demon with four arms,” as the members of your clan had called him when talks of appeasing the great King of Curses began whispering through the halls of your maiden home. Of course his rumored differences held no bearing on whether or not the clan would be willing to sacrifice a bride to satisfy the Disgraced One. His four eyes and black markings make no difference to your devotion. He is still the husband you’ve dedicated your life to. 

Tentatively, you try to strike up a conversation as Lord Sukuna settles himself in the warm pool. “Has Fourth Mistress arrived yet?” 

“Yes, she arrived before I did. I expected you to be with the others, fawning over her. Why weren’t you?” His tone is calculated as if he is trying to decide if there is cause for punishment. Your next words are chosen carefully. 

“First Mistress did not think–it was requested that I not attend to Fourth Mistress’ arrival.” 

“Are you not my wife?” Lord Sukuna asks, annoyance thick in his tone. Of course you are. In this life you are nothing if not his wife. “I expect that you’ll act your part. The lady of the house is meant to greet guests upon their arrival. I don’t care what Jurina says. You’re of noble birth. You know the rules on how to conduct yourself. Act like it.” 

“Forgive me for speaking out of turn, my lord, but I am not the lady of the house. That is First Mistress Jurina’s title.” To go against your husband’s word is wrong, reason enough for him to lash out at you, but it is the truth that Jurina is always reminding you of. She is First Mistress, the matron of the estate. It is you that is a lowly concubine in comparison to her status as a legal wife. Lord Sukuna bristles at your insolence and you duck your head to receive your reproach. He’s a short distance away, submerged to his waist in the warm water, but Lord Sukuna can move like a striking snake. It would only take half a beat of your heart for him to reach you and tear it from your chest if he so desires it. 

Tonight’s admonishment is far less violent. Coming in the form of a disparaging growl before he snaps at you to undress. You do so with the same care that you disrobed your husband. As his wife, you are an extension of him, and you dare not mistreat his items in his presence. Once your clothes are folded you approach Lord Sukuna with hesitant steps. You’ve discovered that drowning and burning are the worst means of death and the boiling water of the hot spring is a combination of both. Still, if tonight will be wasted on death, at least it will come in Lord Sukuna’s arms. He reaches to help you into the water, drawing you close while his second pair of arms stay splayed on the rocks behind him. He moves you as he pleases like a doll being perched on a shelf, positioning you to straddle his thigh. 

“Look at me, woman.” His tone doesn’t sound angry, but that has never been a successful way to guess at Lord Sukuna’s intentions. He can execute someone with a smile. You hope he’ll offer you that same cruel grin when he pushes hot beneath the bubbling water. 

“I do not care what order I married any of you in. It should be clear by now that you are the woman of this house. First or third, it doesn’t matter. Jurina’s words hold no weight over you. Do I make myself clear?” There’s a franticness to the way you nod your head, chirping out a pinched “yes, Lord Sukuna!” as he holds your chin to keep your eyes on his. 

“You’re the only wife that matters to me, stupid woman. The rest,” he scoffs, “I wouldn’t spit down their throats even if their lungs were on fire. Even the new one. Jurina is nothing and no one. I will kill her right now if it will please you.” 

And that had been the original crux of Jurina’s jealousy. The priority with which Lord Sukuna always seemed to treat you. There were always rumors about the estate that you are the favored wife, the one that truly matters, but it is hard to believe rumors when Lord Sukuna hardly does anything to validate them. Though his constant quelling of his temper in your presence should be evidence enough. It’s a rare thing for your husband to lash out at you, but you always assumed it was simply because you were careful with your actions. Never giving him any reason to turn his ire against you. It’s plain to see now that the reason for your persisted well treatment is simple. You are his favorite wife. 

Possessive as he is, Lord Sukuna has favorites in everything. Cursed weapons that he favors over all others, and servants that he calls on more often than the rest. To know you hold weight among his most precious possessions is dizzying. Of course, to Lord Sukuna, a favorite thing is a useful thing. It’s easy to imagine that you’re the most useful of his four wives. Neither of your seniors have remarkable cursed techniques despite hailing from quite notable families in the hierarchy of the jujutsu world. And any technique they do possess is woefully untrained as is expected of women in the world of sorcery. Women of jujutsu-laden clans are meant to be vessels from which the next generation of male sorcerers are born, not taught to be sorcerers in their own right. 

It was only by a terrible coincidence that you were able to train your own technique. A jealous cousin and a well. A harsh push to your back after she whispered about how she should be the one to marry first despite her inferior talents as a homemaker. She got her wish, the husband she so covetously desired. Last you heard she’d been returned to your family’s estate after being set aside for a more fitting woman. 

When she pushed you, falling felt like flying and dying felt like burning as your lungs filled with water. In the end you’d spent nearly a week at the bottom of that seldom used well, floundering for your life as your cursed technique kept you in a constant loop of dying and reviving, bursting back to life stronger than when you died. Chrysalis is what your family had taken to calling your ability when you were finally fished out with a bucket of water. Death was something impermanent to you, though the manner of which you passed holds bearing on how long you’ll be stuck in your “cocooned” state. You imagine being killed by means of jujutsu would kill you properly, forever, but no one has been bold enough to try. Certainly not now that you are a treasured wife of the King of Curses. Though you’re sure Lord Sukuna will kill you eventually, when your purpose has been served. For now, it seems your purpose is to provide him with the comforts a wife can offer her husband. 

“Kiss me.” He commands, hand on your jaw already pulling you towards him. There’s never been anything delicate about Lord Sukuna as far as you could tell. He’s always had an air of harshness to him, something wild and untamed that bleeds into his every movement. You’ve decided it must be because he lives the same as you, unimpeded by the world around him. The King of Curses bows to nothing and no one, so why should he govern himself by the laws and morals of humanity. Kindness, restraint, it doesn’t seem to exist to your lord husband. The same way fear no longer exists to you. So when Lord Sukuna’s hand–large enough to hold your head in his palm–pulls you towards his fanged mouth, you feel nothing but unadulterated lust. It’s unbecoming of a woman to find herself so lost in her bodily whims but you’re no longer just a woman. You’re Lord Sukuna’s woman, and within the walls of his home, shame no longer exists. You melt against him as his sharp teeth find the softness of your lips. Blood spills between your open mouths, dripping down your bodies before dripping into the water with a soft tinge of pink. 

“Sweet,” he hums. 

It’s no secret that Lord Sukuna is prone to fits of bloodlust so blinding he’ll tear his teeth into anything soft he can find, no matter the origin of the flesh. Animal or human it’s all the same when he’s tearing his claws through a warm body. He’s mentioned sampling your body once. How he’s thought about tearing off bits and pieces of you to taste. Of course, he told you that he would only maim you in such a way as punishment for misbehavior–it hardly matters when death would only find you mended and made anew–though it hasn’t stopped him from sinking his teeth into you when he’s wrapped up in another kind of lust.

Usually imperceptible if you aren’t looking for it, the only sign of Lord Sukuna’s arousal stands proudly between your legs, so large they breach the surface of the water as he holds you steady in his lap. His upper arms are still splayed out on the stone behind him as he reclines as if he is seated on a throne. He’s shown you what a throne fit for the King of Curses would look like, but only once. In his domain. An infinite wasteland bathed in blood with a single shrine standing at its heart. A corrupted chinjusha of flesh and bone. All gaping maws and cracked skulls. A shrine dedicated to the only higher power Lord Sukuna will ever respect; himself. The strange mouth splitting a seam between his muscles always reminds you of his Malevolent Shrine, of the four grotesque mouths that stand where the four doors of a shrine would be. Its tongue is strangely textured, like that of a cat’s as it lolls out of his stomach to lap at your skin. Sometimes you find yourself wondering if Lord Sukuna has control over the appendage or if it acts of its own volition each time the grainy feeling drags over your body, but it isn’t your place to ask. Who has control or not, it doesn’t matter. Lord Sukuna is your husband and you relish even the smallest touch whether it’s intentional or not. 

“Are you going to please your husband?” He asks. The answer is always simple. Yes. It is your sole purpose now that he’s taken you as his wife and torn your world into the smallest pieces until only this single scrap remains. It’s becoming so precious no matter how small and defaced it becomes. Sometimes you wonder what would happen if you stepped out of line. Tried to leave the estate, tried to defy Lord Sukuna. In truth, you’ll never know. Your husband is your world and your world is your husband. Of course you will do everything within your power to please him. He seems satisfied with just the look in your eyes as you stare up at him, waiting for his next command. If it would please him you’d slash yourself open, spill your innards into his lap and watch him feast on your flesh. His true wish is far more gentle, something a more humble husband would ask of his bride. 

“Touch me.” His clawed hand is already guiding yours to his stiffness, wrapping your fingers over the length of him. It’s so strange that curses can bleed, but Lord Sukuna isn’t exactly a curse nor is he a human. He’s something more but his heart beats just the same. You feel it in your palm as his cock twitches in your grip, thick veins thrumming under his skin. Perhaps it’s the water or more likely it’s something innate to your husband because he always feels hot to the touch, his skin is nearly scalding as you wrap your hands around his twin cocks, fingers spread too wide to touch around his girth. Lord Sukuna looks pleased as he leans back, eyes watching you as if to catch a flaw in your presentation. A rogue frown or unintended scowl that would prove your supposed dedication false. 

Even after so long he’s waiting for you to break, to truly realize what you’re doing and be disgusted enough to shrink away. The only thing you feel at this moment is heady arousal. It pools like molten lava deep in your stomach, seeping between your legs and into the water. There’s been no permission given so you remain still, but your hips ache to shift against the strength of Lord Sukuna’s chiseled thigh, to relieve a bit of the tension his lingering gaze has caused. But his hand hasn’t strayed from your hip, in fact his grip has tightened with each stroke of your hands. There’s a stinging bite as his claws dig through your skin, burying deep enough to draw blood despite the composure still set in stone on his face. He is still a man in some regard. Still a husband enjoying the touch of his wife. The thought blooms sweetly in your chest, lifting a soft smile to your lips. Lord Sukuna notices in an instant, four eyes still trained on your face. He snatches your chin up, straining your neck with how quickly he guides your eyes towards his. 

“What are you smiling about, brat?” Another attempt to catch you in a lie, to find some falsehood in your contentment. Even your lord husband finds himself questioning if your happiness is true. You thumb over the head of one of his cocks, bringing the taste to your lips. And because he is watching you so intensely you make a coquettish show of dragging your tongue over the pad of your finger, gasping when Lord Sukuna’s fingers bury deeper into your delicate skin. There will be cuts and bruises when he’s done with you. There always are. Then your maid–or, on some occasions, Uraume–will come to tend to your body marked by your husband’s touch. You like the way your body burns when he’s through with you, memories of his touch simmering in your mind. He scoffs when you wrap your lips around your thumb. With a cruel smile he hooks his own thumb into your mouth, talon scraping against your tongue as he pulls your jaw until your mouth is as wide as you can bear with only the slightest twinge of pain. 

Drool pools in your mouth, dripping out of the corners as they sting with the strain of Lord Sukuna’s strength. He sneers, looking pleased with the mess you’re making as he leans down to lick it up before spitting it back into your open mouth. You nearly choke and rush to swallow with a rattling cough. It tastes like blood, likely your own though you wonder if your husband sank his teeth into something before coming to you. The blood on his clothes looked dry, though you can never be certain with Lord Sukuna. You banish the thought, thrilled with the way he no longer seems to be dividing his focus. 

Before he had looked uninterested, as if his mind was elsewhere even as he looked at you servicing him so happily. Now he’s leaned in close enough for you to see his eyelashes, a rare treat with his immense stature. He’s nearly all you can see, all you can feel and you revel in it as your world shrinks to this tiny pinprick. There’s nothing outside this bathhouse. Only the infinite nothingness that surrounds a domain. The world could come apart outside these four walls and you wouldn’t care as long as Lord Sukuna keeps you in his arms. As if he knows your thoughts, the very deepest desires of your heart, Lord Sukuna drags you up his leg by the hand still embedded in the fat of your hips and the feeling sings through your body as your clit catches against the firmness of his thigh. Your hands tighten around his cocks still pulsing in your hands, though his only reaction is the slightest twitch of his lip. 

“Am I doing a good job, Lord Sukuna?” You ask around his thumb, truly desperate for approval. If you were any more pitiful he might’ve pet your hair like a loyal hound. Instead he laughs, something short and sardonic as his teeth nip at your cheek. Warmth blooms then drips down the curve of your face and you know he’s broken skin once more. 

“Enough with the stupid questions. If you want my praise you know how to earn it. Show me how badly you want it and I might reward your efforts.” You slip from his lap, mourning the loss of his leg pressing between yours as you kneel in the water. It’s up to your neck as your knees meet the bottom of the pool, steam billowing like a veil in front of your eyes as you center yourself at the apex of Lord Sukuna’s thighs. He’s spread out above you like a proud effigy, a statue meant to be worshiped. You feel a transcendent kind of devotion kneeling at the feet of your lord husband. The taste of him lands heavy on your tongue as your lips tease at the head of his dick, swallowing him in slow increments. Despite the harsh preparation of your mouth, you still wish to savor every moment spent servicing your husband. 

His face is clouded in shadows again as he leans back, head tilted towards the ceiling. The lanterns flicker playful shadows across his body, highlighting and shrouding pieces of him as you bow to take him into your mouth in earnest. Your jaw still aches from the way he nearly unhinged it, but it works in your favor as your lips wrap around his length. 

There’s nothing dignified about the way you’re swallowing his dick, little focus being allotted to your own comfort as you take him as deeply as his size will allow. His body is strange, of course, but it’s all you’ve ever known of a man. Aside from Lord Sukuna you’ve never seen any man bared beyond his chest, although you know innately that humans aren’t meant to have the endowments he does. His second cock presses against your cheek, dribbling over your skin as you hollow your cheeks until Lord Sukuna’s thighs twitch. Muscles seizing tighter as the head of his cock meets the tightness of your throat. Breathing is far from your mind, a need secondary to pleasing your husband. It’s a messy endeavor and you loathe to think of how terrible you must look. It’s always been a point of pride to preen yourself to perfection because husbands like their women to look beautiful when they arrive home, or at least Lord Sukuna seems to prefer it. Though he never seems bothered by what is surely a horrid display as split slicks down your chin and tears dot along your lash line as you gag around his dick. 

Lord Sukuna flicks your forehead after a while, likely drawing another scratch between your brows. It’s a fraction of his power. It’s likely he could take your head apart as easily as squashing a peach under his heel yet he hardly puts effort behind the reproach. Only enough to draw your attention as he drags you, coughing and drooling, off of his cock. They’re both gathered into one fist so he can drag the taste of his leaking precum over your parted lips. 

“You know better.” Lord Sukuna does not take things in half measures. His intentions are clear. If you’re going to pleasure him, do it right and do it well. Your jaw pops open again, wide enough to take his twin cocks into your mouth. He stretched and strained your mouth but there’s only so much that can be done with the sheer size of him. And while he does well to shield his thoughts at the best of times, you imagine he must be gleaning a fair bit of pleasure from your messy sucking as his hand remains in your hair. His claws scratch against your scalp, gentle enough to keep your skin intact as he keeps your mouth wrapped around him. A burning type of exertion settles painfully in your jaw but you’ll endure. Lord Sukuna never likes to keep you like this for long. With both of his weeping cocks tangled between your lips you can hardly take more than the head of each. In the end, his preference will always be the wet heat brewing between your legs. Another bout of pain sings through your scalp as Lord Sukuna pulls your mouth away from him, leaving threads of spit dripping between your bodies. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, pressing against the grooves where his teeth bit into your skin until they begin to bleed anew.

He manipulates your body as if you’re merely a puppet dancing on strings. A flex of his arm and you’re lifting off your knees, hips stretched wide to accommodate the width of his body between them. His spit-laden cocks are pressed between your bodies, grinding into the soft expanse of your stomach as he pulls your bleeding mouth to his. He suckles at your torn skin, humming at the taste of your blood seeping onto his tongue. His hands find your hips, pressing into the marks he’s already left there as he hikes you higher against his body. The tongue lolling out of his stomach finds its way between your thighs, lapping at the mess that’s left after the water washed away the first wave of your arousal. It’s nearly too much with how textured the wide appendage is but you welcome any type of relief you can find as Lord Sukuna pulls your head to the side quick enough to send a stinging twinge up the column of your neck. The pain is only intensified as he noses against the soft curve where your neck meets your shoulder, as if he’s looking for something. 

His tongue sweeps over your skin before his fanged teeth make a home in it. There’s a rippling groan that thunders in his chest as a true taste of your blood spills into his mouth. Before long, your head is spinning from blood loss. Lord Sukuna must feel the change in your pulse as it turns slippery, harder to catch beneath your skin. He pulls away with a satisfied groan as his hands press your hips deeper into the expanse of his lower tongue. 

“Enjoying yourself, brat?” Lord Sukuna sneers, and because you have no sense of shame you find yourself nodding earnestly. He’s hardly touched you and what touches he’s shared have been steeped in equal parts pain and pleasure, yet you’ve enjoyed it all the same. It’s awkward and teasing because there’s no tact to the way his lower tongue moves between your legs. It’s like striking a flint without starting a fire, dull sparks of teasing pleasure that leave you wanting more. You’d rather have his face between your legs and a more dexterous tongue teasing you to the edge, but it would be presumptuous to make any kind of demands of your husband especially when he’s a man like Lord Sukuna. 

In most regards, your pleasure is incidental. Secondary to his own. So when his teeth snap over his claws, biting the sharp points into flattened nubs, you feel your excitement growing. He’s learned from experience that his rough treatment of your body should not extend to certain places. After only a few times he pressed his clawed fingers inside you, Lord Sukuna learned that it would better serve him if his nails were dulled before he went poking them inside you. And they’ll be grown back to full length by night’s end. He can manipulate the shape of his body as easily as fire melting snow. His hand smooths over the side of your body, sliding against your ribs and hips as he makes his way between your legs. His fingers plunge inside with little warning, forcing you open with a swiftness you could almost call desperation. If something so undignified could ever be said about the King of Curses. 

Lord Sukuna is a behemoth, dwarfing you in every regard, and his hands are no different. His fingers reach deep inside you, stroking over the place that has your back bowing as he makes space for himself inside you. He hums at how easily you take his fingers, sounding somewhere between amused and approving. It flutters through your chest and settles atop the arousal already building inside you. 

“Give your body to me, woman. Open yourself to your king.” You try to say something as he slips another finger inside you but it comes out as little more than a breathy whine. This is already too much and yet it can’t compare to how full you’ll feel when he gets his cocks inside you. His fingers are a luxury offered in preparation for his true reward and you take it happily. He smirks at the way your thighs strain as you try to grind against his touch. The heel of his hand is pressed tight against your clit and you buck your hips against the feeling. Lord Sukuna’s skin is thick, nothing like the softness of your own and it feels just the right amount of rough against your clit. One of Lord Sukuna’s hands finds your hair again, yanking hard until you’re looking up at him with tears shimmering in your vision. 

“There’s my spoiled brat. This is how you act. This is how the wife of a king is meant to be. Take what you want, woman, take everything I give you.” A dark laugh booms through the room as you whine and paw at Lord Sukuna’s chest. He adds another to the litany of scratches decorating your skin as his teeth nip at your neck, distracting you from the sting of another finger finding its way inside you. 

“You were made for this,” he reminds you. “Made to be mine. My bride. You can take it.” He sounds almost patronizing, voice softening to a teasing lilt as his thumb presses against your clit. Like with everything, Lord Sukuna is harsh, forcing you to the edge quicker than expected. Each curl of his fingers yanks at the string tightening inside you, pulling you closer and closer to the edge as he moves his hands with inhuman speed inside you. Everything is hard and fast and your thighs start to tremble in his hold, body shivering as Lord Sukuna all but wrings the orgasm out of your body. You clench hard around his fingers, pussy dripping down your thighs as you try to steady yourself with your hands on Lord Sukuna’s shoulders. He allows it, revels in it as he pulls you into another bloody kiss. But even as you tremble in his arms, Lord Sukuna doesn’t stop. His thumb is still circling your twitching bud even as you try to whine out a plea for mercy. It only brings a fanged smile to his lips. 

“Take it,” he grunts, “I know you can.” It really feels like you can’t. The tension brought on by your orgasm hasn’t dispersed and you feel like a knot being pulled ever tighter, back curling until your face is buried against his chest. He smells like the bath. Like sweet oils and wildflowers as your nose is buried against his scalding skin. With your forehead pressed against his chest your eyes have nowhere to look but down. Down at the way his cocks are straining to be touched, flushed and leaking just out of reach. You look up to distract yourself with the black markings etched into Lord Sukuna’s chest. Your kisses are sloppy, wet and open-mouthed as your tongue peeks out to trace the shape of each tattoo. It’s not until your teeth begin to nip at his chest that Lord Sukuna scruffs you once more. 

“Trying to leave a mark on me, brat?” As if you could. Your teeth are likely no different than trying to pierce his skin with a blade of grass. “What a greedy little bride I have. So eager to defer to another wife’s authority when you’re this possessive of your husband. Isn’t that right, woman?” You try to shake your head. Of course, you aren’t possessive of him, you know your place. You are the Third Mistress. Perhaps you are his favorite but there is a hierarchy that must be upheld in the household. To so brazenly try to claim full authority over your lord husband would be lunacy. There is no higher authority than the King of Curses himself. You’re simply a pebble lingering in the shadow of the highest mountain. 

“Yes you are,” he grins. You whine as he pulls his hand from between your legs. “Look at the mess you’ve made trying to mark me up like a bitch in heat.” There’s no sense of embarrassment welling at his degrading words. What sense is there in hiding how well your husband pleasures you? And Lord Sukuna seems proud as his tongue licks up the mess you’ve made on his hand before pressing a kiss to your parted lips. You taste yourself on his tongue. Your blood and your pleasure. 

“You’re going to take me so well, aren’t you?” It’s hardly a question. Simply an ordered phrased as if you could deny yourself the feeling of being split open on Lord Sukuna’s cocks. He starts with one, always. Dragging the leaking head through the mess he’s made of your cunt, tapping against your clit until he finally presses inside. His body is a marvel and you’re blessed to be so acquainted with it as the length not pressing inside you grinds against your clit as he makes you take him as deep as your body will allow. Lord Sukuna has been known to be rash and unpredictable, a being of pure chaos when the mood strikes him, but when he’s with you like this everything he does is deliberate. 

He’s rough but not destructively so. Yes, you’re bleeding as he bounces you in his lap, drawing a litany of breathless sounds from your lips, but he’s always intentional when drawing blood. You’ve been trained well in these years of marriage to take him. To weather any storm Lord Sukuna throws at you. His hands are bruising on your hips as he drags you up and down his length, hands that could shatter your bones with the slightest bit of effort and yet he only uses enough strength to hold you close. You’re not deluded enough to think that Lord Sukuna loves you, certainly not in the way a lover should, but he cares enough to treat you with a level of gentility. 

“Thank you,” you babble it like a prayer, over and over. Worshiping at your husband’s altar for even the briefest thought given to your safety, your pleasure. It can never be said that Lord Sukuna is a neglecting lover, at least not with you. He’s everywhere all at once. Hands on your hips and at your breasts, pinching at the aching peaks of your nipples. His face is buried against your throat, teeth surely raising welts as his tongue laps at the taste of blood and sweat dampening your skin. You cling to him in turn, nails digging into the thick muscles of his arms with no hope of ever drawing blood. Still, he grunts out a laugh as you drag your dull nails across his skin, leaving nothing but the whisper of claw marks behind. An arm slips out from under your grasp, unbalancing you, but Lord Sukuna is quick to steady your boneless body as he reaches between you to take hold of his second cock. It’s thick and straining, leaking against your skin as he presses it in beside the first. The stretch is harsh, a stinging pinch between your legs soothed only in part by his thumb drawing shapes against your clit. He hushes you when your whining gets too loud, hands clamping tight to your hips to keep you from squirming away from taking all of him.

“Be a good wife and accept your reward.” Lord Sukuna hisses as he presses deep inside you. The weight of him settles like molten heat inside you, his hand pressing over the shape of himself through your stomach. “Hush, you can take it.” He hisses, biting at your cheek as tears well in your eyes once more. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s a strange feeling to be so full all at once. 

“My pretty wife.” He’s only this sweet when he has you close to breaking, teetering on the edge of insanity from the way he’s taking his pleasure from your body. “Look at me, woman. Keep your eyes on your king.” It’s hard to look anywhere else. He isn’t sweating, this is hardly more than a leisurely stroll for him, but the humidity has left his skin beaded with moisture. It makes him shimmer in the torchlight like the divine being that he is, wasting his time on a creature as lowly as you. It’s your blessing that he’s so enraptured with you at the moment. Your eyes slip shut, tears streaming down your cheeks as every corner of your body feels lit aflame, the heat only made worse as Lord Sukuna’s hand finds your jaw. 

“I said, eyes. On. Me.” He growls. With a bit of resistance, your eyes flutter open, white light swimming at the edge of your vision as Lord Sukuna drags you to the precipice of insanity. He’s close. Far less careful and coherent as he drags you up and down his lengths with startling strength. He’s pressing against every sweet spot inside you, igniting a thousand flames at once that threaten to swallow you whole. There’s a pitchy mantra of “wait, wait, wait” playing on your tongue but it only seems to further entice your husband. 

“You gonna sing for me, woman? Go on, let me hear something pretty when you come for your king.” He’s taunting you, laughing at how shrill your voice sounds. It nearly does sound like you’re singing as you wail his name, back bowing as he rips another orgasm from your spent body. It’s as quick as a lightning strike and nearly as blinding, eyes clouding white for a moment as you fight to keep your eyelids from fluttering. From taking your eyes off Lord Sukuna for even a moment. You feel yourself clawing at him, clinging and grasping to keep yourself grounded as pleasure shatters through your body. Vaguely you can hear Lord Sukuna laughing, something tinged dark with amusement as he works you through your orgasm. He has no patience to wait for you to regain your breath, to see the light of coherence return to your eyes. Instead, his hands grip tighter to your waist, nails biting into your skin as he works you faster over his cocks. His voice dips low, a rasping gravel as he grunts, squeezing every bit of his own pleasure from your body. It’s barely a change, just the slightest shift, but you’ve done this so many times that you can almost sense when he gets close. 

Lord Sukuna gathers your loosening muscles back into some semblance of an embrace, holding you tight to his chest as he pushes your hips low enough for your bodies to meet in earnest. The feeling is a wet slide of skin against skin, the mess of your joined pleasure slicking up your bodies. It nearly feels like choking as he holds you still, the shape of him pressing every so slightly against the softness of your stomach. He’s more gentle now, but only by a hair’s breadth, as he thumbs over the shape of his body making a home for itself inside yours. There’s always a hint of softness at the edges of moments like this. A bit of the darkness bleeds from Lord Sukuna’s eyes as he guides your hips to grind against him, thumbing where he sees himself beneath your skin. Lord Sukuna has always been smart, his intelligence far exceeding that of your woefully undereducated mind. 

There’s never been a time where you were certain of his thoughts, but in moments like these you think there’s a hint of curiosity sparkling in his eyes. Something desirous of the unknown and intangible. He moves in shallow thrusts, thumb dancing lazily over your puffy clit for only a moment more before he’s spilling inside you with a satisfied groan. But, still, he keeps you there. As if forcing your body to take to everything he’s given you. If it were up to you, your womb would quicken to give him a child; proof of your devotion. But even the fantasy sounds impossible. Lord Sukuna has shed his humanity and with it, you assume, his ability to continue his legacy by way of heirs. Though he hardly needs them. 

Lord Sukuna is a shining beacon of the height of jujutsu, proof of what greatness can be achieved when you’re willing to go beyond the standards set out by society. He’s immortal, indomitable. Children would only be another jewel in his crown, more pawns to serve his greater will. And it’s unlikely such children of greatness will ever come to pass. In all your years of marriage, there’s never been a single moment where you thought for even a moment that Lord Sukuna’s seed took. And it likely never will. It’s wasted as he lifts you off of his softening length, everything he gave you dripping out into the spring water. The light flickers and for a moment it almost looks like there’s a spark of disappointment in his eye, then the torches shift again and the shadows are gone.

“You did well, woman.” He hums, running his hands over the length of your body. The heat of his palms and the babbling water works to soothe the aches and pains of being so thoroughly used by your behemoth of a husband. “Who do you love, wife?” He asks after the breath finally returns to your lungs. Of course it’s him. There is no one else. No man could compare, like a pebble being compared to a shining jewel. 

“Good girl.” He says when you’ve finished your babbling. Like a true king, Lord Sukuna loves to hear his own praises and you’re more than happy to sing them. Sometimes it’s startling how perfectly the two of you exist together. He’s the sun and you’re a flower turning your face to gaze upon him always. Which of his other wives could ever share in a fraction of your devotion? No one will ever love Lord Sukuna as you do, save for maybe Uraume. Perhaps they don’t love him, but there is a fine line between love and admiration. The loyal servant comes bustling into the bathhouse after Lord Sukuna has had his fill of soft caresses and breathless praises. 

The fact that both of you are bare makes no difference to Uraume. They lift you from Lord Sukuna’s arms with startling strength, hands frigid against your skin as they guide you to sit and go about drying your body and combing your hair. It’s always strange to be tended to by someone other than your personal maid, more so when it’s by the hands of Lord Sukuna’s most trusted servant, but it seems Uraume sees you as an extension of Lord Sukuna as much as you do. They dry and dress you, sending you back to your room so that they may speak privately with your husband. Some time later when the bells of the estate are tolling for the Hour of the Dog, the strumming of your koto is interrupted further by screaming. Something bloodcurdling terrified as it rings through the house, echoing into the snow speckled night. Vaguely you think of how the screaming sounds like First Mistress Jurina. 

[anime-to-the-t]

[florietas]

[princessantisocial]

[lachatalovematcha]

* . ﹢ ˖ ✦ ¸ .🍓 ﹢ ° ¸. ° ⭐˖ ･ ·̩ ｡ ☆ ﾟ ＊🎀˖ ･ ·̩ ｡ ☆ ﾟ ＊

(๑˃́ꇴ˂̀๑)🍓⭐️🎀クリーミーなイチゴ🍓⭐️🎀

* . ﹢ ˖ ✦ ¸ .🍓 ﹢ ° ¸. ° ⭐˖ ･ ·̩ ｡ ☆ ﾟ ＊🎀˖ ･ ·̩ ｡ ☆ ﾟ ＊

[horechattalove]

🎀⭐🎀ヾ(☆＾Д’)o*★*―やあやあ？✧˖°🎀⭐🎀

[enter-sandmann]

NEW SERIES!: Sweet Child O' Mine

|| Another Neglectful Yandere Batfam Series... ★

— Synopsis: You, an 11 year old orphan, growing up as a street rat- getting into constant fights and using your great sense of awareness to survive Gothams bloodstained backstreets. Until you become too ambitious, and try to steal from the great Wayne mansion deep into the night... You were caught, unsurprisingly, by a kind old butler. Being taken in under his wing, and in turn, Bruce's. You soon find out you're not as welcome as Alfred made it seem... As well as finding out a couple more secrets that you don't know if you want uncovered...

|| Parts?: Coming Soon!

DAMNIT I FORGOT TO PUT INFO—

Info: This series will contain both romantic and platonic yandere's, it will also get dark pretty fast. Just to mention I'm not that well versed in the comics, yet I am in the series's. So I will do research on the characters that I know less about. I apologize for inconsistencies in some characters canonicity. I will try my best. And I hope you all enjoy!

★...

|| Taglist: @missikkj, @imaginarydreams, @ocean-mochi, @preciouslittlething ..

[keroppigifs]

-★·.· JESSICA ALEXANDER-- paid pack !!

ʚїɞ in the source link you will be able to purchase [1140 gifs] of Jessica Alexander in Fallen series. All these gifs were made by me from scratch don't edit, redistribute or claim as your own. if you like them, shared them by giving reblog. thank you !!! semi-private commision *

[wojenka]

[amethystinam]

𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒌 🦇🔮 | day 1 : firsts

« it's like music, poetry, physical beauty all rolled into one and given expression through the senses. would you like to experience this? »

[cryptid-moone]

FUTURISTIC FORCE GIF MANIPS :3

(For my AU)

I’m so proud of these yall don’t even know

[amuromi]

★ ₊ ⊹ ⋆˙ ┈ 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ┈ 6.2k

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ┈ NSFW! baby fever!gojo, breeding kink, unprotected sex, established relationship, pet names (mama, baby), oral (f!receiving), talks of having kids and starting a family, ooc!gojo

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐀!𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ┈ The sequel is here! I felt like I couldn’t continue the storyline without at least mentioning the complications of someone like Gojo having a kid. It’s inevitable that they’re going to have a high level of cursed energy, so I wanted to explore the idea of sorcerers trying to live outside of jujutsu society constraints while also still having to adhere to them.

✮ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 & 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!! ✮

The heat is on because it’s mid-winter and it’s finally gotten cold enough to snow, but somewhere in Gojo’s sprawling apartment a window is open. Not wide enough to cause a terrible draft–not that Gojo cares because he can afford to open all the windows while the heat is blasting at full tilt–but just enough to let in the smell of the crisp air outside. Gojo admittedly isn’t overly in tune with his sense of smell, all things considered. His strength is in his eyes so he’s never bothered to mull over the things that aren’t associated with his sight. He can’t exactly see the scent of frost and he can only smell it as well as any other person, but the window is open because he knows you like the smell of light snowfall. 

His staring problem comes with the territory, but, in the comfort of his own home, Gojo can’t really be faulted for looking too hard at any one thing. Especially not when his eyes are locked on his pretty girlfriend laid up on his couch. You’re curled up like a kitten in a nest, tucked into another one of his shirts and bundled beneath the giant fleece he bought because you’re always catching a random chill. It probably has something to do with low iron levels and leaving the window open in the winter. He briefly considers buying supplements but the thought is lost as soon as it forms when his eyes catch on the distracting length of your leg peeking out of the fuzzy blanket. It’s a wide expanse of bare skin that belies a lack of pants or at least anything beyond another pair of those damningly short shorts you love to wear around the house. There’s the fleeting thought that your aversion to longer pants might also be a contributing factor to your constant chill but he isn’t about to mention it. You’ve never had any qualms about going against things he says, but it’ll be just his luck that you actually decide to start wearing pants around the house and then where would he be? 

Infinity makes his footsteps imperceptible, especially with the adage of the downy carpet. There isn’t even a twitch of your lashes as he crouches in front of you, staring at your face half buried in the blanket before he reaches out to touch your leg. There’s no need for him to have his Infinity up in the house, but it’s habitual at this point, as easy as breathing. It’s the dropping it that always gives him pause. After going so many hours, day after day, never truly touching anything, it always feels like he’s relaxing a tense muscle when his barrier comes down. Not necessarily painful but palpable. The same way you can always smell when a storm is coming, Gojo can feel when his Infinity dissipates even though it’s intangible by nature. And once it’s gone he can feel everything. Hot or cold, the temperature never really matters because he’s always in his little bubble of body heat, but now he can feel the artificial rush of the vents pumping out waves of warm air and the slightest chill from the open window. 

Goosebumps rise over your skin as he traces his finger up the length of your leg. The jut of your ankle, the slope of your calf and the curve of your knee to settle over the softness of your thigh. You’re warm in a way that’s different from the blasting heat. Soft and comforting and Gojo tries not to dwell on what that might mean for his constant lack of physical contact. He drops his Infinity on occasion. Especially to interact with you or his students that are doing nothing but feeding into his desire for fatherhood, but it’s still few and far between. More often than not, Gojo is locked inside the untouchable barrier of his cursed technique. It’s not exactly loneliness that he’s feeling but some type of longing that makes him settle next to the couch so he can lay his cheek against your leg and just feel. His Six Eyes still tries to tell him things, outlining the shape of your body buried elusively beneath the blankets in a silhouette of cursed energy, but he closes his mind to it as best he can.  

It’s always been something unspoken between you; your level of cursed energy. You ended up a bit like Nanami, a bit like Suguru, turning your back on jujutsu for your own reasons. He’s never forced you to come back, never really even asked why you left because he doesn’t exactly care. All Gojo needs to know is that you’re happier with your life as it is, living as a non-sorcerer. He can’t really wrap his head around your love of working retail when it’s such a mixed bag of benign and volatile customers, annoying bosses, and ridiculous hours from what you tell him. But it’s leagues safer than fieldwork and Gojo isn’t about to be the one to coax you back into active duty. He barely tolerates when the higher ups call you in to do menial managerial tasks when the school is shorthanded. 

Their excuse for still keeping you on the payroll even after all these years always boils down to something about death being the only way a sorcerer ever really leaves the business. As if jujutsu society is some kind of yakuza holding members hostage. The people in charge act like sorcery is an inescapable cult and Gojo will be glad when he’s done tearing them down from the inside out. And as if you can sense him working himself up even in your sleep, Gojo watches your lashes pinch and flutter before a hand comes slinking out of your fuzzy cocoon to settle on his head. Your eyes are still closed but the momentary tension leaves your brow as soon as your fingers skim over his hair. No Infinity, only comfort. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” It’s always so instinctual the way you reach out to him. You always have an innate ability to tell when he’s falling and needs catching. Even just the sound of your voice, low and thickened with sleep, is enough to banish any worries from his mind. At least for the moment. 

“Nothing,” he says just to hear you mumble back “it’s something,” like you always do when he lies about what’s on his mind. It isn’t a matter of trust because Gojo trusts you with his life. He just doesn’t want to plague you with all the things he’s mulling over. It’s really only important to him. You’ve already declared your disinterest in sorcery, he’s not about to force you to listen to him formulating a plan to reform jujutsu society. And besides, he can’t have you worrying because it isn’t good to worry when you’re pregnant. Something about stress not being good for the baby. Sure, you aren’t pregnant yet, but he can see it coming in the near future. 

It’s not like he’s worn you down, you’ve always been way too steadfast to be bending to anyone’s whims. It’s more so just that it’s time. That ever constant “soon” looming closer and closer on the horizon. 

“Quit your job,” Gojo says, sounding every bit like a petulant child. Finally, your eyes open. Just barely, only enough to give him a hazily unimpressed look. 

“I know that’s not what you were thinking about.” He knows you know, but he also knows you won’t press him on it. Even when you were an active sorcerer, there were just some things you didn’t want to know about for plausible deniability’s sake. No need to get your hands dirty, especially now that you’re not even active anymore. Gojo’s strong enough to take on the consequences of his actions, strong enough to keep you safe from the fallout of his decisions. And anyway, he’s far more concerned with his personal life at the moment. What he does at work becomes virtually irrelevant the second he’s alone with you. 

“It’s what I’m thinking about now!” He’s whining because it’s really all he has on his mind now. The idea of coming home from a long day of work and being greeted by the pattering of little feet as your babies rush to meet him at the door. He imagines them all chubby cheeked and starry eyed, pushing to be the first one he hugs when he gets home. He’s annoyingly fixated on the thought and thumps his forehead against your thigh, knocking against you over and over until you’re fisting your fingers in his hair to keep him still. 

“You’re annoying.” You mean it but he can hear the endearment in your voice. And just to really get on your nerves, Gojo starts pouting. 

“I’m lonely.” It’s true in a way he doesn’t want to admit. Never mind the fact that he has his cheek pressed against your leg, arms wrapped tight around your thigh. There’s always been that nagging sense of loneliness. The looming feeling that something is missing. Children or something else, Gojo doesn’t know. But he does know that he wants babies. Your babies. Preferably sometime in the very near future if you’ll let him. 

“Lonely? Then what am I?” He feels you flex your leg as if to remind him that there’s no space for loneliness between his skin and yours. But there’s a hint of something in your voice, that heaviness of unspoken acknowledgment. You’ve known him for so long, been together for so many years. Some things don’t need to be said for you to know. It’s innate, intrinsic. And he loves you for it. You’re everything to him, but what he decides to say is,

“The mother of my children.” There’s desperation in his voice but Gojo doesn’t care to be embarrassed. He’s been stuck on this for most of your relationship and he isn’t about to get flustered asking for what he wants for the umpteenth time. You haven’t shamed him the first thousand times he’s asked so he isn’t expecting to get teased on attempted one thousand and one. 

“I’m not pregnant yet.” Gojo perks up. That’s new. The two of you have had this conversation in some variation at least once a week for months now and Gojo has grown used to all the answers you usually give him. It’s always something like “not yet,” or “let’s wait a little while longer.” And he does wait, but he’s also woefully impatient. Gojo knows you’re not pregnant and that’s the torture of it all. You’ve already said you’ll have his children. Kissed his forehead and reminded him that not now doesn’t mean not even whenever he gets particularly sulky after being told to be patient. It’s always just a matter of when but he’s eager for when to be now. And something about your answer makes him look at you with wide eyes. 

I’m not pregnant yet. It’s teasingly open-ended, like you’re taunting him with the knowledge that you’re not pregnant but you could be. But Gojo knows you wouldn’t tease him like that. Not about this. He’s always been a tad bit overzealous in his pursuit of babies but that’s because he wants it so bad, and he knows you wouldn’t be cruel enough to taunt him with it. He trails a hand up your thigh, dipping beneath the blanket as he maps out the curve of your hip. A shiver runs through your body as his fingers dip under the hem of your shorts. 

“Not pregnant… yet?” It’s hopeful. A question lingering in his tone. Is it time? Will today be the day? You smile, going back to petting his head, and that’s all the answer he needs. “You looking to change that, mama?” 

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask again,” you tease. “Thought you kept track of my ovulation window.” You’ve been waiting? Gojo’s heart stutters in his chest. All he had to do was ask. It’s always been that way really. He’s been begging you for so long because he knew it was just a matter of asking when, but after so long of being told to wait a while it seems almost too good to be true hearing you say you’re ready now. 

“You better be serious.” He knows you are because you know how desperate he’s been for it, but he can’t help but want to hear you say it again. Hear you ask in so many words. He’s always begging and pleading and Gojo wants to hear you want it just as plainly as he does. 

“Don’t make me beg, Satoru.” It isn’t what he wants to hear but he scoops you and your blanket into his arms even still. He’s got all the time in the world to hear you ask for it and he’s not about to delay it any longer just because you want to play coy. He can see it in the way you’re biting at your lips trying to hide a smile, feel it in the way your arms wind around his neck. There’s a slight tremor to your hand as you run your fingertips up the column of his neck. He can almost hear the way your heartbeat has spiked, blood swelling with desire as he lays you down in his bed. It’ll be your bed soon because there’s no way he’s about to spend even a second more than necessary away from you. He’s been begging to get rid of your apartment for almost as long as he’s been wanting a baby, and Gojo is looking to have it all in one fell swoop. 

“Gonna have to move in with me, mama,” he reminds you. Marriage is a more amorphous thought. Really it’s just a piece of paper that will serve to complicate your lives. He’s the head of a clan and his wife will have certain expectations imposed upon her that he doesn’t want to wrestle with right now. Maybe later, when he’s made things better. But for now he’s happy just having you. You don’t have to be a Gojo just yet because you’re his regardless. You’re in his bed, wearing his clothes, wanting to have his baby. Gojo can’t put a bigger mark on you than that but he’ll sure as hell try as his mouth latches onto the sensitive skin of your neck. You make that same gasping sound you always do, a little shiver running through your body as your hands find his hair again. Your grip is tighter than before, pulling at the roots as he digs his teeth into your delicate skin. Usually he’d be more careful about where he’s putting his little love bites but he can’t bring himself to care right now, and you don’t seem to mind. 

“You gonna ask for it, mama? I’m not gonna give it to you if you don’t ask for it properly.” As much as he’s been begging for it, Gojo won’t settle for anything less than hearing you tell him exactly what you want from him. All he’s been hearing is you telling him to wait, so he’s not giving you anything without explicit permission. Of course you take your time with that, too, and Gojo is more than happy to indulge you. It’s like running a marathon and finally seeing the finish line so close within reach. He can count the steps, the breaths, the heartbeats it will take until he crosses the line and finally, finally gets what he wants. It’s what you want too, or else you wouldn’t have said anything. It’s easy to provoke him when it comes to this and he hasn’t heard exactly what he wants yet, but he’s still keen to get you out of your clothes. And for all your smirking silence, you let him. Lifting your hips and arching your back as he strips you out of your clothes. 

For a moment, all he can do is savor the sight. His girl laid out on his bed, so close to asking for his child. You squeak when his nose presses into the space between your breasts, skin cold without his Infinity to regulate his temperature but he’ll be warm soon enough. Already he’s soaking in the heat pouring off your skin. You’re that fuzzy sort of warm that comes with the first waves of wakefulness, eyes still half-lidded and skin nearly feverish as he rubs his cheek against your bare chest. You smell nice. A perfect balance between his scent and your own, mingled together in a heady fragrance that has his tongue drawing wet streaks across your skin. He shivers as you thumb at the nape of his neck, brushing over the cropped hair at the back of his head because you can’t get enough of the feeling. Gojo is almost certain he’ll be just as insistent with touching your stomach when you start to show. 

He can already imagine how you’ll look. Only a few months pregnant, belly just starting to show. In his shirts you’d look the same as you always do. They hang so big off your frame that no one would be able to tell what was growing beneath it. But he’d know. And when you got bigger the whole world would know. Belly round and breasts heavy, whole body changing to accommodate the little life you made together. Gojo already can’t stay off you and he imagines your first pregnancy will shatter what little is left of his restraint. 

“You’ll tell me what I wanna hear, right, mama?” He murmurs against your stomach. He kisses around your naval, moving lower to dig his fingers into the thickness of your hips. You return the favor, running a hand through his hair until your grip tightens, pulling his eyes towards you. It sends a stinging twinge of pleasure down his spine, scalp prickling beneath your rough treatment as he stares up at you. He realizes you’re holding so tight because you need something to ground you. He can feel the way you’re squirming beneath his weight, hips shifting awkwardly as he pins you down with his bright blue gaze. Gojo has always been so open about wanting to start a family yet you can hardly articulate the words to ask him. It’s what you both want, but after so long saying no he can imagine how hard it is to fix your lips to say yes. It’ll be hard to collar him again once you let him off the leash. 

“Satoru,” he nearly melts at the sound of his name on your tongue. The way you say it with such sweet reverence. He can hear the affection in every syllable. “I want it.” It isn’t some heartfelt confession but it’s just as sincere, and Gojo hasn’t exactly been asking for it in the most romantic terms. You aren’t begging yet but it’s a start. A slow one compared to how feverish he’s been in his desire to get you pregnant but it’s enough for the moment. He can hear threads popping with how quickly he works to get your clothes off. It’s his shirt anyway and he has the money to buy you as many new sets of underwear that you want for nearly ripping your panties in half as he yanks them down your thighs. The poor lace is mangled as you kick it off your ankle but he doesn’t hear you complaining. In fact, you’re giggling. Laughing and smiling so pretty as he kisses your knee. 

“What’s so funny, baby?” He asks. You poke him square in the forehead as he looks up at you. 

“You are.” You’re still laughing. “You’re like a damn puppy.” It’s not the first time you’ve called him that but it makes him smile every time. He presses his grinning lips against your skin and smiles wider when you call him a weirdo as he licks the inside of your thigh. 

“Don’t complain now. In a few minutes you’re gonna want my tongue all over you.” His tone is joking but he watches the word land. The way you go quiet, nipping at your lip to hide your smile behind a shy pout. He can feel your thigh flexing as he rests his head against your leg, squirming at just the thought of him touching you. Gojo has regained some of his control, reigning in his eagerness so he doesn’t get overzealous. The last thing he’d want is to hurt you. He wants the conception of his first baby–all his babies–to be perfect. Even if it’s him that’s asking for it, it’s not really about him. It’s about you. Your body. You’re the one that’s going to be going through the woes of pregnancy, so the least Gojo can do is make the prelude feel good. He kisses your leg again, sinking his face into the soft skin, absolutely melting as he frames himself between your thighs.

There’s an ease to the way his arms hook behind your knees, pulling you down the bed until you’re flush against his face. The sound you make when his nose nudges at your clit has his head going hazy, empty to anything that isn’t you. Sleep still clings around the edges as you moan his name, a low hum that’s steeped in fading fatigue. He can feel your body rising to full consciousness, finally catching up with your mind as your legs shift along the curve of his shoulders. 

You’re still so warm, that sleepy heat lingering as your thighs close around his head the moment he wraps his lips around your clit. He’s only got his lips on you for a second and you’re already squirming, half trying to run away from his mouth. Gojo laughs, the sound rolling off his tongue to tease at your clit. You whine, pushing at his head even as your thighs pull him closer. He whines when you scramble far enough to get away from his mouth, glassy eyes staring up at you like you just slapped him across the face. There’s tears sparkling in your eyes as you look down at him, brows furrowed and lips caught between your teeth. Gojo leans in again, real slow like you won’t notice if he moves at a steady pace. You whimper and start squirming again the second his lips brush against your skin. He tries to be gentle, kissing over the swollen hood of your clit as his tongue parts your sticky lips. A faint, whimpered “wait!” falls from your lips and Gojo pulls away, forcing back a groan, trying not to look at the way your pussy is drooling on his sheets. 

He presses a kiss over the curve of your mound, doing anything to distract himself from thinking about where he really wants his mouth to be. The mess of your arousal is drying sticky on his lips, leaving glossy little prints as he kisses across your stomach. 

“What do you need, baby? Tell me.” His voice is breathless, muffled against your chest as he crawls up your body. You’re still trying to pull him closer and push him away, thighs locked around his waist even as you knot a fist in his hair to pull him away from your pert little nipples. 

“Fucking tease,” he mumbles against your collarbone, void of any true malice. It would almost be amusing if he wasn’t nearly vibrating out of his skin with the strength it’s taking to restrain himself. 

He can’t help but grind against you when you pull him into a kiss. It’s a heated mess of tongue and teeth, barely passing for affection. It’s desperation on the cusp of frenzied aggression as he grinds against you, cursing at the barrier of fabric between you. You’re already clawing at his shirt and there’s no mistaking the sound as Gojo shreds the fabric to be closer to you. His pants are a bit harder to contend with, made infinitely more difficult with the way you’re all but fucking him through the fabric, legs locked so tight that he can barely inch his hand between you to shove the last piece of distance between you out of the way. He knows the moment you register his skin against yours. You’re babbling, close to tears as you whimper his name. It’s a broken mantra that sounds so sweet on your lips. He only gets his pants down to his knees before you’re shoving his hand out of the way. He nearly misses the determined mumble of “make it fit,” too focused on the way your hand feels wrapped around his dick. 

It snaps him back to focus for a second. Long enough to worry about you hurting yourself without his fingers to stretch you open first. But all thoughts melt from his mind the moment you guide his dick between your thighs. He can feel the last threads of his self control unwinding bit by bit as you clumsily guide him where you want him. It’s a messy drag up and down your slit before he catches against your entrance. He can feel how eager you are, clenching at his head as he grips at your hips to keep you still. 

“Just the tip,” he stutters even as you groan out your despair. “Be patient, baby, you’re gonna hurt yourself.” He still has the taste of you on the back of his tongue, that orgasm that you ruined for yourself. He can feel the way you’re still trying to pull him in closer, heels digging into the small of his back to no avail. Gojo is stronger than you. The strongest ever. And even when he’s on the cusp of coming–pitiful when he’s barely inside you–he can keep himself from giving into temptation if it means keeping you from harm. Even if you want it now, you’ll be cursing and whining about how sore you are later and he wants this to be a good memory. It’s messy and fast but he can still practically see the hearts in your eyes when he looks down at you. Then you smile and he knows he’s a goner. 

“I’m gonna come,” Gojo says without a shred of embarrassment. He’s long past that as he feels your pussy suck at the tip of his cock. He doesn’t go any deeper, still feeding you shallow thrusts as he goes over the edge. It’s a disappointment to watch the steaks of white spilling out of you when he pulls back, sticky threads still clinging between you. 

“Gotta keep it inside, mama,” he murmurs, already cleaning up the mess with his fingers. Your hand is on his shoulder the second he curls his fingers inside you. Pushing and pulling as your nails scratch across his skin. Only you can ever leave marks on him, only you can ever touch him like this. He gets drunk off the thought, balancing himself on his forearm as he presses his forehead against yours. Your face is wet, smeared with tears and spit and sweat. You look dewy in the lowlight, eyes glittering up at him. It’s muscle memory getting you to the edge. He knows just where to press, just how deep you need it. It’s so second nature that Gojo nearly forgets he’s got his fingers inside you until you shove your hand between your bodies, rubbing desperately at your neglected clit until your back is arching, pressing your chest against his. He can feel your heart fluttering behind your breasts as your nipples skim over his bare skin. 

When you finally sag against the sheets, coming down from the high, your hand slinks over his shoulder until you’re cupping his cheek. Gojo leans into the touch like it’s the last thing he’ll ever feel. 

“It’s time, Satoru,” you say, voice soft and breathless. “Let’s have a baby.” 

The sound he makes sounds pitifully desperate even to his own ears but Gojo can’t bring himself to stifle his voice. He only gets louder when he’s inside you again. An orgasm has you loosened enough to take him now, pulling him in with three deep strokes.

“Just like that, mama,” he murmurs. You’re less erratic now, far calmer after coming once already. “Not running now, are you?” You have the nerve to look bashful, looking away as he rubs his hands down your sides. It’s easy to guide you now, to get you to follow his rhythm as he bottoms out inside you with each thrust. There’s something so enamored about your eyes as you stare up at him. Dazed and half-lidded, full of adoration as you catch his arm where he’s holding your hips. The adoration that floods through him the moment he feels your thumb brushing against his wrist is enough to nearly choke him. Fuck, he wants to marry you. Wants you to be his in every way possible. But there’s still a thousand things he needs to do first. Things to make the world better for you and your baby. His eyes fall to your stomach, vision almost doubling from how hard he’s staring at your tummy. There’ll be a baby in there soon. His baby. Gojo feels himself getting close at the thought. 

“Eyes on me, baby.” It’s a sound like music as you call his attention back to your face. Something you only say when his eyes are closed. He was lost in his dreams of the future. Of babies with his name and your face. 

“I’m here,” he assures you, panting the words against your parted lips in a messy imitation of a kiss. Words are spilled in a slurred litany between soaked mouths with no clear distinction between either whining voice. The sentiment is the same no matter which one of you is saying it. I love you, I love you, I love you. 

“What do you want?” Gojo feels himself murmuring. It’s a hushed mumbling that comes as the end of a long drawl of your name, so low that the syllables come out as graveled sounds against the edge of your ear. Still, you answer to the barest hint of his voice, back bowing off the bed like you’re drawn towards him like a flower to the sun. His arm fills the space, wrapping around your waist. He can feel the way you shiver on the cusp of falling over the edge, can hear it in your voice as you babble your answer of, “you, you, you, just you!” 

“My babies?” He can’t help but goad and tease even though he’s so deep inside you that there’s no question of what you want from him. Still, you answer. Clawing at his shoulders as you do. 

“Yes, Satoru! Your babies, only yours!” It lights something deep and possessive in his chest as he reaches a hand down to rub the shape of his name on your clit. It’s the best he can offer with no ring, no wedding. Writing his name on your skin, pressing his mark into every corner of your body until he can do it the right way. 

“My babies. My girl.” He sets his teeth against the skin of your throat, tasting the sweat as the sound of your voice vibrates across his tongue. There’s no mistake of what you want when you come. Your legs lock tight around him like he’d try to run from the way you’re milking his cock. Squeeze tight like you never want him to leave. He squeezes you tighter in turn, fingers pressed tight against the shivering column of your spine. He spells his name there too, tracing each muscle as they move under his fingertips. He feels your hands in his hair again, scratching at the back of his head. It’s a feeling he’s come to associate with comfort–with you–and it’s enough to throw him headlong over the edge. 

When he tosses his head back, cursing towards the ceiling, your hand is still there to catch him. Brushing against the nape of his neck as your nose tucks up under his chin. He feels your lips wet and hot against the place his pulse is racing in his throat, and knows you can feel each whining pant of your name as it falls from his lips. It’s the only word he knows as his stomach flexes, ropes of come spilling inside you. So much that it starts to leak out in a dribbling mess. Gojo is quick to pull you up, struggling to his knees so he can keep his come where it needs to be. He’s still pulsing inside you, achy from the sensitivity as your walls squeeze around him. You start squirming as the high fades, wiggling in his hold and mumbling about “put me down.” 

Gojo hikes one of your legs higher, pressing a kiss to your ankle. “Can’t, mama. Gotta keep it in or it won’t stick.” 

He placates you with another orgasm, thumbing at your clit until you’re whining and shivering. He can feel the dull pulses as it washes over you, clenching his dick as he softens inside you. You’re so warm that it feels like he’s melting but Gojo can’t suffer the thought of pulling out just yet. But he does finally let you down. He follows you as you sprawl across the rumpled bedding, resting his head against your chest. He nuzzles against your breast until you snap at him to quit it when he sneaks a nipple into his mouth. He pulls away with a pout, kissing across your chest because he can still feel the way your heart is hammering behind your ribs. Your skin is hot beneath his lips and tacky with sweat but he can feel the goosebumps starting to rise with each kiss. 

A car honks outside. The sound carries from down the hall where, somewhere in the apartment, a window is still open. A draft blows in through the half-open bedroom door. He’s not cold yet, but he can feel the shivers starting as you cling to him, soaking up the warmth of his body. He lets you pull him in, reveling in the closeness. 

“Puppy,” you mumble affectionately as he nuzzles closer. You press kisses to his eyebrow, the bridge of his nose, the corner of his mouth. Places only you can touch. Even without his Infinity, people act like Gojo’s face–his eyes–are something beyond human. Sometimes he feels like something divine and untouchable but then your lips press softly against his eyelids and he’s suddenly just a man. A desperate, possessive man. He catches your mouth against his, licking at the seam of your lips until they part to let him taste your tongue against his. When he’s done he takes the liberty of licking a bead of sweat from your temple and you push him away, whining about him being gross. 

“S’not gross,” he pouts. “I love you.” He says it like an explanation. Like everything he does can trace back to the fact that he can’t breathe if he goes without touching you for too long. Tasting your sweat is one of the tamer things he’s done to prove his love. Sometimes Gojo wonders if you forget that he’d burn the world down for you. Then he remembers that he’s already doing it. For you, for your baby. For himself. His hand squeezes between your bodies to press against your stomach. Soon, he smiles at the thought. Now. 

“You should eat something, baby.” He hears you talking, hears the concern in that soft, satisfied tone, but you’re stroking his hair like you’d rather he fall asleep against your chest. 

“C’mon,” you say when he doesn’t move, patting where your nails left scratches across his shoulders. “I’ll make you food and then we can go again later.” Gojo chokes on his breath with how fast he’s trying to get his words out. “Calm down, baby, I know it takes more than once to make a baby.” 

Gojo watches you grab his shirt off the floor–the one he just took off, not the one you’d been wearing all day–tucking your nose into the collar as you waddle to the bathroom with your knees hugged tight to keep the mess he made from dripping on the carpet. Fuck, he wants to marry you. The look you give him when you come out of the en-suite, eyeing the way he’s tenting the sheets just thinking about his come spilling out of you does little to make him feel ashamed. He waits long enough for his body to calm down before he’s pulling on a pair of shorts and joining you in the kitchen. You’re bouncing around in front of the stove, making eggs even though it’s late in the evening. Gojo crosses his legs and tries not to imagine that you’re making breakfast before school, waiting for your oldest to finish getting dressed as you bounce your youngest on your hip. 

“You want pancakes?” He must nod because you start making batter. 

“You gotta move in with me,” Gojo reminds you, eyes watching the way your–his!–shirt hikes up every time you lift your arms too high, conspicuously checking for a peek of what’s hidden just beneath the black fabric. 

“My lease is up in like two weeks.” And just like with your teasing not pregnant yet, Gojo knows he has you. For good. Happiness suddenly smells like freshly fallen snow and maple syrup. 

[anime-to-the-t]

[yourgirlmary]

I love him so much, it just turns to rage I fake it so real, I am beyond fake someday you will ache like I ache doll parts - hole

[princessantisocial]

🐬🎀*。☆。なつＰａｒａｄｉｓｅ *。☆。🐬🎀

[lachatalovematcha]

🎀🥞₊ ˙ ◌ ⁎˚ 〇ＳＵＧＡＲ☆ＣＯＡＴ₊ ˙ ◌ ⁎˚ 〇🎀🥞

🥮🌈︶︶୨୧ ︶︶⏝⏝︶︶୨୧ ︶︶⏝⏝︶︶୨୧ ︶︶🥮🌈 ⭐(⁠◡⁠ ⁠ω⁠ ⁠◡⁠)+✿.*+✿.*ミツバチと蜂蜜+✿.*+✿.*🥞🌟‧₊˚ ⋅˚ ๑‧˚₊‧₊˚ ⋅˚ ๑‧˚₊‧₊˚ ⋅˚ ๑‧˚₊‧₊˚ ⋅˚ ๑‧˚₊‧🧇🎀🌈₊˚ ⋅˚ ๑‧˚₊‧₊˚ ⋅˚ ๑‧˚₊‧₊˚ 🧇🎀🌈⋅˚ ๑‧˚₊‧₊˚ ⋅˚ ๑‧˚₊‧₊˚ ⋅˚

🎀🥞🌈﹒₊˚︵ ★﹒₊‧ Ｐａｎｃａｋｅ﹒₊˚︵ ★﹒₊‧🎀🥞🌈・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・🍮🎀🌈。・。.・゜✭・🍮🎀🌈.・(๑˃́ꇴ˂̀๑) ⭐️🎀♥ 📒🎀- ♥ - ♥ＰＡ☆ＰＡＮＣＡＫＥお菓子♥ - ♥ - ♥📒🎀

🥮🌈︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶︶⠀୨♡୧⠀︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶︶🥮🌈