#tw.dumbification

notes: actually scared to post this. :( but hi! this is post-divorce art donaldson and yeah… he’s rich. lonely. washed. pushing 40. still hot. still got those sad little eyes. i just know he’d lose his mind if a pretty lil thing started sleeping in his bed. so soft. so warm. he didn’t want to be left ever again. he’d do anything to keep you close. even if it’s twisted. even if it’s wrong. this is manipulative dilf art dick. he’s emotionally unavailable and physically unavoidable. yes it’s wrong. yes he’s crazy. ANYWAYYYYYYY enjoy and if u want more fics or have requests or want to throw something unhinged at me pls do. i’m taking requests. thanks love u 💗

You sleep like you trust him.

You do. That’s the case. You sleep like you will be comfortable in your dreams because he’s just beside you to hug you. Like your body’s never been hurt. He doesn’t hurt you. Never. He will kill himself first before he lands a hand on you. (Unless it’s for sex and you asked it, or not, maybe) Like no one’s ever lied to you or walked away. You know he’s not lying to you. At least in front of your face, no. Like you don’t know what he is. You don’t, honestly.

He likes staying up late than you. You never knew why. He just said he’s not tired. Or he can’t sleep. Insomnia, sometimes, is what he’s saying to you. But in reality? He likes watching you. Like tonight is the same as the others, he watches you wide-eyed in the dark.

The sheets are already wrapped around you from the movements. You are not a mover, but don’t stay in the same place. Your cotton sleep shirt riding high over your ass, too big for you, too comfy, the collar pulled half off your shoulder like it always ends up that way. You didn’t even wear panties tonight. You never do when you fall asleep in his bed. It’s comfortable, you say. More air or your cunt can breathe, or whatever bullshit you say. Art doesn’t mind. It’s a raging go signal for him. Well, that’s what he thinks. He could lift your shirt, nightgown, or whatever loose or comfortable you are wearing, and he’ll cup you over it, sometimes rub his fingers if he’s aiming for tame, or slide in if he’s so horny. You don’t complain. Said that it helps him sleep by touching you or fucking you. And you like to help him.

That used to scare him. That sweetness. That trust. Especially when you’re just letting him take it. He even joked about you being his free use doll when he was inside of you. You whine and giggle. It scared and excited him. The idea that maybe you didn’t think he was capable of anything ugly.

Well, at first, he’s like that. But now? It doesn’t scare him anymore.

His fingers gently run into the back of your hair, and he watches you shift. He makes those little expressions when you sleep. You look soft. You look like you are at peace. Your skin’s so warm there. Your pulse flutters when he presses. It’s slow, steady, alive.

Sometimes, he’s praying to God because you’re so alive. So young than him. He prayed that others wouldn’t take you away from him. The thing is, he won’t even let them do that. You’ve got no idea what kind of things a man like him can do, do you?

He slips the drawer open quietly while his other hand is still touching you like he’s scared to slip his hand away from you.

Finds the little box. Peels one patch from the back.

Your thigh shifts when he touches it. He gently caresses the flesh. Feels hot beneath his palm, your skin soft and bare. He sticks the nicotine patch just under the curve of your ass, just below your cheek, where the hem of your shirt won’t hide it, but you won’t notice it.

You don’t even move.

Art smooths a hand down your leg. Feeling its smoothness under his palm. Just once. Then, back up again, where his thumb grazes the patch, which warms under your skin. His heart thuds in his chest like he’s done something filthy. Maybe he has.

Because fuck it. Every time he puts one on you, especially when it’s your thighs, or your ass, or the soft dip of your hip... he gets hard from it like clockwork. Like some part of his brain associates the feel of your unconscious body under his hands.

He shouldn’t want it this much. He shouldn’t. This is fucked up, even for him.

But he does. He’s willing to bend his morals just for you. You’re his girl, after all.

Your breath is soft and slow. Your chest rises and falls like you’re dreaming something sweet. Maybe you are. Perhaps it’s about him. Maybe you’re dreaming something filthy. Maybe your cunt is as warm as your mouth gets when you’re half-asleep and draped over him, murmuring his name like it’s instinct.

His cock throbs.

He palms himself through his boxers.

God, he thinks. He could slide right in like this. (It’s not like he didn’t try it already)

You wouldn’t wake up. Maybe you’d shift a little and let out one of those broken sighs, legs parting out of habit. And he’d be so gentle with you. He’s not even going to be full-on fucking you. He’ll just thrust slowly and deep. Just a little. Just enough. Feel you clench around him in your sleep like your body knows who you belong to.

He’d never forgive himself.

But he might still do it.

He strokes himself slowly, silently, teeth sinking into his lip.

It’s not just the patch. It’s the trust. It’s the faith you are giving him. You are devoted. The way your body gives without knowing. The way you turn into him when he touches you is like instinct. Like your body knows it’s bim. Like your whole system has rewired around him.

You always crawl to him. Literally. Or figuratively. Always coming back into his arms when you try to leave. Do you even dare to do that?

It makes him dizzy.

You’ve tried. Three times now. Bags packed, the door slammed, voice shaking. When he tries to text you, you’ll say that he should delete your number. He never really replied after that. He’s so comfortable with the idea of you coming back. Because you always do, every time, within days, you’re back. Pale and trembling. Clingy. Teary. Like you need him.

Like something inside you can’t bear the idea of being without him.

You don’t know why. But Art does.

You will bury and nuzzle your face into his chest. You will sob, your cries shake. Your shoulders are shaking, your fingers are holding tight to his clothes like you are apologizing for thinking about leaving, and you have it hard like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered. His palm slides up and down your spine, slow and calming, while you try to speak through the hiccuping wreck of your voice.

“I don’t know why...” your breath hitches and breaks. “But I- I can’t-” you inhale sharply, nearly gagging. Stuttering as always. “I can’t sleep without you. It’s like my skin itches. I feel vomiting every time. My skin feels scrawling. I feel sick. My head hurts all the time. I-” You clutch into him tighter. “I need you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

You sound so scared when you say it. You’re ashamed. It’s as if she’s the only one who wants to return, and he will continue to accept you as he does in a charity case.

But he’s not. He’s not ashamed.

Art hushes you, presses a kiss to your hair, and murmurs something like “Shh, I’ve got you, baby,” while his thumb circles just under the swell of your ass, right over where the patch had been the night before the day you left. He continuously removes them before you realize it’s there.

You don’t know what’s wrong with you.

But Art does.

He watches your breathing slow again. Thumb trailing down the back of your thigh, the spot just beneath the patch. His other hand is palming your ass, just gently, not groping it. You murmur something in your sleep, lashes fluttering, body arching slightly toward the touch.

His heart squeezes.

God, he wants to ruin you.

Wants to keep you this soft forever. He wants to be able to watch you sleep for hours. Keep you warm and drugged and fucked out and barely thinking, brain all mushy and just needing him, wrapped up in him like a koala that doesn’t know better. He wants to get you pregnant by accident. Watch you cry about it. Then he’ll comfort you into accepting it. Watch you stay.

You shift again, thighs pressing together. He watches the ripple of muscle, the heat in your skin, the spot where the shirt rides high enough to show the curve of your hip.

You’re not even awake, but he knows you’d let him.

If he touched you now, eased a hand between your legs, thumb soft against your clit, you’d whine for him. Quietly. Just enough to let out a sound. Maybe spread without waking. Let him finger you through your dream and wake up sore, aching, and full. God. He knows how easily you get wet.

Jesus.

He strokes his cock harder now. But not sloppy. Not the one who will make a sound. It’s just slow, desperate pulls, his other hand pressed to your hip like he’s steadying himself.

He comes quietly. Barely breathing. Fingers tight. Come sticky on his stomach, hips twitching. Your body shifts, barely, like it knows. His name almost falls from your mouth in your sleep. He quickly cleans it up, always having tissue beside the bed.

He watches you for a while longer.

You don’t wake.

You never do.

And he’s already up by the time the sun rises, turning the curtains lighter. Already cleaned up. But you’re still curled on your side. One leg is hooked over the blankets, patch warm, and pulsing on the soft meat of your thigh.

He peels it off gently.

Always before you wake. Always with a breath caught low in his throat.

God, you never notice how deep you sleep. That’s what he likes about you. The way you sleep early but even wake up later than him. Like you are enjoying your sleep, he loves how much warmer your body has run lately, how you turn into his touch before you’re even conscious of it. He knows your body better than you do now, how it reacts, clings and practically melts into the mattress when he moves behind you in the mornings.

He likes the morning the most. Sometimes, you’re still half-asleep when he fucks you. Sometimes, you sleep right through the first few strokes and mewling softly, legs parting, clit twitching under his fingers without thought. He’s not even rubbing it aggressively. Just slow flicks to make you more wet. To make you more slippery around him.

And sometimes you wake up in the middle of it. You are hazy and dazed and clingy as hell. Fuck he loves it. Already have you whimpering “Don’t stop,” like you’re the one who begged for it. Like it’s your idea. Like he’s not fucking you while you’re sleeping before you’re a whimpering mess. Like your cunt isn’t already dripping around him, greedy and fluttering and open for more.

It makes him crazy. The way you arch into him instinctively. You whine when he tries to slow down, like you’ll break apart if he leaves you empty. The way you cry into his neck with your face buried and say things like...

“Mmph… dunno why…” you breathes into his chest, lips barely moving, voice sticky with sleep. “Sleep so good when you’re here…”

A soft “ah-” slips out when he shifts, cock still half-hard, still pressed against the mess between your thighs. “Feels good… don’t go yet… don’t-” you mumbles, clinging tighter, legs tangled with his while he’s thrusting his cock slowly, just how you like.

A choked little “mmph, fuck-” when he moves again, just enough to press deeper. To find your spot.

“Hurts when you’re not- when you’re not touching me…” you sniffles hiccups. “You make it go away… I don’t know how… I just need-”

You trail off in a breathy whine like your words are too much. Like you’re overwhelmed just being near him. Your face always buries in his neck, damp and hot, tears cooling your cheeks. Your hips shift without meaning to. It made you whine.

You don’t even know what you’re saying. Doesn’t realize how deep it’s sunk. How wrecked you already are. How utterly, unconsciously, you’re his.

You don’t know what’s keeping you here.

But Art does.

And every morning, he gives her body another reason to stay.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

— this man may be quiet and deemed as perfect but he is anything but such…you owned a donut shop in big moms territory, he loved the shop an you so it’s only right that he gets to take both for himself correct? plus you’ve already seen underneath his scarf multiple times so there’s no way in hell that he’d ever let you go.

— most citizens think it’s cute that he follows you around ‘like a lost puppy’ but it’s anything but sort.. he follows you around because he doesn’t want you his flour flower to run away from him that’d just be plain rude

— if you could go a week without an escape attempt you’d be met with loving kissing and praise as he road you through an orgasm

— if you had an escape attempt you could expect to be used like a fleshlight for each time you tried.

— you have a cute little collar that has a bell that you wear 24/7 and he likes to hear it ring with each thrust into your cunt <3

— loves to watch you struggle with breathing so you can definitely expect him having you choke on his balls.

“ you look so handsome like this” he moaned as he kept shoving his length down your throat . he moved his hand down towards your throat and caressed it feeling his length slide in and out of the wet cavern causing his eyes to roll back in pleasure

“poor baby can’t take anymore? he asked mockingly grabbing your hair as you moaned at the sudden action

He holds a harsh grip on your chin, forcing you to meet his sweet and cold eyes. “Are you shy? Don’t look away from me..” He gasps out, his heavy breaths constricted from the sensation of fucking your soft plush body.

His words convey a playful tease but is laced with threat. You’re too fucked full to feel his energy shift to something more sinister. Your eyes feel heavy and your mind feels high. Feeling him slide in and out as you focus on his snow-white hair rustle against his pale sheen forehead.

Moaning and writhing beneath him, you’re entranced by his lean and milky body arch and maneuver in such an obscene manner that pleases you infinitely. The glimpse of his back muscles constricting and relaxing as he pushes forward another hard thrust leaves you aching.

Each pump into your soaking pussy has meaning.

He grips onto the soft, fragile flesh of your neck, sending shivers up your spine from the dominance of his touch.

Your vision is drunkenly hazy. His mouth is moving and you can barely make out the muffled words from his soft lips.

Look at you moan baby..

You gotta like this, don’t you?

C’mon, tell me sweetheart..

He liked you so much he just wanted to practically hurt you. Watching you mewl to stop while still begging for more as he bullies your insides was like pretending to throw a ball for an eager dog. You both loved every second of it.

It was so good he almost convinced you he actually loved you - loved by thee Satoru Gojo.

Gojo Satoru was not the type to love or be loved so easily.

He was a white rose with thorns. It irked him why you always seemed to not get the hint you were supposed to keep away.

Months of trying to redirect you away from his path, you still always ended up following his pace. His red flags looked green if you were infactuated enough.

Your fingers are pricked and you bled and bled trying to get a firm grip on the stem, no matter how much it hurt.

Can anyone really blame you for following him like a lost puppy?

Everyone knew a man like him belonged in the middle of a marble museum. He’s always been the main attraction. The center of an exhibit of a series of the most exquisite, bodily sculptures there is. He was the type to be guarded by red velvet rope, so tempting to be touched and admired by anyone who looked, but never touched. Tempting to run your finger through the cold and hard ridges of his abdomen and muscle that was attentively carved.

Satoru Gojo is a man that was carefully crafted by god himself.

A type of man rumored to have some of god’s power as well.

To think someone so divine as him would settle down after he got his fill was a joke. Did you think you were special?

Yet with every pump to your leaking hole you started to doubt if your uncertainty was warranted.

Gojo pulls out and rolls you onto your stomach, wasting no time as he pushed himself right back into your pussy with a gasp, squeezing his shaft from tip to base so good it makes him lightheaded. He grips the base root of your hair, keeping you flat down, the perfect position to keep fuck how he wants, how he needs.

Your eyes are lidded, a euphoric buzz down your body as your tears soak into the pillow..

“Look at your pretty pussy cry for me, too, baby..”

Gojo shuffles his hand to grip onto your lower pelvic, pushing and massaging your sensitive area. “Does it feel good right here, hm? Does it?” You flinch from the sudden arousel, fueling the claps of your skin and squelch of both your sex. You whine feeling yourself drip down your thigh to the white sheets below as you lazily try to push his hand away.

“Don’t you feel pathetic, sweetheart? How easy you make this?” He whispers against the shell of your ear, panting. “Does it feel good to be used like this? Like a fucking fleshlight?”

The sounds of his pelvis hitting your ass echos against the walls of the room, the sound bouncing back into your ears just as aggressively as he’s fucking you.

“Are you gonna be my good baby and hold all my cum in like one, too?”

“Mhm.. I wanna take all of it-“ You mumble, forcing yourself to sound coherent, face still laced with tears.

Tilting your head to the side you wanted to look at him. You wanted to see how he made you feel what you are feeling. How every light touch of his sent shivers down your back and every raspy word made your tummy flutter.

You could shed down that power into tiny fragments from one sensual look and didn’t even know.

He couldn’t let himself fall apart like this.

You yelp as he pushes your head back into the fluffy pillow before you can see past his shoulder. His force and sudden demeanor to not just make you moan, but to make you scream.

He revels in it.

Your pillow soaking in every teardrop and moan, muffled to try and hide your eager desperation. Your ass pushing back on his hard cock, both of your arousel building at the base.

His restricted moans vibrate down your sheen body. Gojo bends his arm to grip your neck, the light sensation of his abs hits your back with his carnal digs to kiss your cervix and give it a sweet gift.

“I want it, please, I want it.” You breathe. Your stream of tears roll down to his hand, and he found it erotic.

“Should I finish, huh? You want my cum, baby?” He prods. “You want me to cum right here?”

God, for your subservient nature there was no other place meant for you. You let this happen to yourself, and he never had a problem letting himself be a little selfish.

“Yeah, you’re gonna take all of it. It’s the least you could do..” Through your encased ecstasy you can hear Gojo’s brief repeated mumbles of just how much you owe him this.

Such a compromising position you were in yet you’re the one still begging.

Gojo couldn’t stop himself from wanting to send himself over the edge. He basked in that euphoric feeling of rapture with every drop of his cum pushed into your pussy, letting his hips roll back in for safe measure.

Little drips of your cum mixed with his seeps out the corners of your hole.

Lifting his weight off your back, you roll to the side in exhaustion. Catching your breath, you feel a sudden clasp on your hand.

He softly guides your fingers down to where your cum is mixed, letting the soft pads run through your slippery folds. Such a lewd position he puts you in. You can feel where his cum runs down your thigh.

Gasping, Gojo pushes your fingers into yourself. “What do you say?” He murmurs softly. His face can be read as expressionless, but his words are condescending.

For a second, you wonder how many more tears you have to spill until he realizes they are more than what he thinks.

Did you have to bottle them up in a jar as a gift for him to see you will give everything you have for his assurance and love?

It is a rocky climb up the pedestal of which he is the center of.

All you wanted was to be by his side.

He watches you carefully for your next choice of words, following the last stray tear tumbling down your flushed cheek.

“Thank you.”

These past couple months have been so rough for me mentally, i struggled to write but im glad I was able to finish this :)

This was inspired by twice’s cry for me who I recently saw on tour and they were amazing.

Ok love you guys hopefully I can finish Dabi, sorry for the absence, I will work harder!

You can’t recall entirely how you ended up there, here. Right side of your body leaning into the balancing beam, hands gripping onto the leather-clad frame so tightly, the skin around your knuckles stretched white. Eyes shut so tight it made your body tremble. Or maybe it wasn’t that—maybe it was the man you confided in to help you stretch, pressed up against you. Maybe it was the way he had his growing bulge pressed right up to your clothed sex. Clothed, hah. There was nothing stopping him from tearing the flimsy fabric off your aching body. And that, he knew

“When’d ya start growin’ up on me, huh?” He’d mouth against your calf, pressing a wet kiss to the pudge. He was using the pads of his thumbs to rub deep circles into the muscle to loosen you up, muttering something about how it’s important you do this with him and only him because he understood your body. And who were you to argue? He was your coach. He knew what your body could and couldn’t tolerate more than anyone. He helped you get to where you are now. “Got it?”

“Yes,” You’d breathe out and he’d hum in response, pressing his warm lips to the dip of your calf. Another kiss and down your leg goes. You were so giving, so willing. He knew this, you knew this. He’s the reason you’re successful and you’ve no reason to be anything but. You’d carry his name in your mouth like it was one of your trophies, “My Gojo-sama taught me!” Those moments played in his head often, his chest swelling with pride each time. Even now. Who were you to deny him anyways. You’d fail without him

Now you’re trapped. Chest-to-floor. Against one of your mats, the ones you had bragged about just the day before because of their comfortable cushioning. Your shorts were tugged just below the curve of your ass, the stubborn hem painfully straining against the fat of your thighs and there was your Gojo-sama, straddling you with his legs on either side. You could hear his groan of approval while he stretched apart your ass with the pads of his fingers, watching as your pathetic excuse for underwear fell into the dip to cover you. He let out a chuckle, “Look at that..” he’d hum out “Lucky girl,” “Looks like your intimates are protected” and you squeeze your thighs in response to quell the throbbing. Intimates. That’s what you call them when you would locker talk with your friends, you hated the vulgarity. And he was being so so vulgar, so mean, and you swore up and down you didn’t like it but here you were, squeezing your thighs for some relief

He was attentive to the way you’d react to his touch, to his kisses, to his attention. And he wasn’t going to call you out on it. The man is mean but he isn’t heartless! That’s enough of a reason for you to stay, he thinks so at least.

He hovered above you before leaning down to brush his lips against your earlobe, leaving a trail of wet kisses down your jawline, down your neck, down your curved spine. And your body would react so naturally, arching itself into the cushion of your mat, offering more of yourself to him. Don’t think it went unnoticed. He kissed and kissed, nuzzling the tip of his nose against the flesh your hips. He was making his presence known. Pressing himself against you in ways he’d know would leave a lingering warmth. Planting innocent kisses along the way only to pull back and blow on them, watching you squirm as the cold air washed up against the wet kisses.

And it wasn’t until he finally reached the plush of your ass that he found he couldn’t hold himself back. He’d reach the elastic of your “underwear” (he used the air quotes himself), tip of his nose making contact with it. He would immediately loop his index around the loose hem of his current enemy, huffing out in annoyance. “Just wanna see something,” he’d mutter while tugging the cloth down your legs. You were naive and trusted that he really only wanted to see. He’d argue that it’s not naivety, it’s being dumb but that it’s okay because it’s your natural state of being. You believed him all along the way and that was no one’s fault but your own

Now here you were. Last compromising position of the night. His eyes boring into your exposed sex, a wicked smirk making its way to his lips as his gaze trailed to your puckered rim. Watching it wink up at him whenever you’d squirm. He’d spread you wide for his own sick pleasure and you’d wail in embarrassment. “N-no!” You’d exclaim, trying to wriggle out from beneath him. And he’d snicker at you. “Not there?” He’d pout, feigning a hurt expression. You’d shake your head, no! No means no, he taught you that. “Please no, that’s dirty, no!” You’d manage to get out before he shut you up, sliding his thumb past your gaping lips and pressing the pad of it against your tongue, as deep as it could go. Your lips instinctively wrapped around the digit, drooling around it as you sucked and blinked away your tears

He shook his head in response to your actions. Every plead went in one ear, out the other. You were stupid enough to believe he only wanted to help you stretch and stupid enough to believe he’d be listening to you. “Didn’t teach you be this way,” he’d tut and shake his head once more “Taught you better. To respect your superiors.” He’d sigh out, his free hand digging into the flesh of your ass as he spread you open once more before giving it a harsh smack, thwap! Earning him a jolt and a cry. “Promise to be good n’ I won’t touch where it’s dirty. Won’t even look, ‘kay?” He offered while you could only sniffle and nod. You flinched when you felt a glob of split land itself on your hole. It wasn’t until you felt pressure, a twinge sound your tight ring of muscles that you noticed your mouth was no longer preoccupied.