nanami would never ignore you. but sometimes he likes to pretend he didn’t hear you call his name just so he can hear your sweet chirp one more time.
which actually shocked him when he first realized it because he usually hates when people say his name. it’s like nails on a chalkboard when gojo calls for him. he merely tolerates it when yuuji says his name because he knows the boy means no harm. hates when anyone else says his name because he knows 9 times out of 10 they’re going to have an annoying request of him.
however, when you’re in the other room & let out that sweet “keeennnn”, he doesn’t feel the irritation bubbling in him like it does with everyone else. it’s the opposite- he gets butterflies. all giddy, excited to see what it is you need. whether it’s help for something, his opinion, or just his presence, he loves to hear his name tumble off your tongue.
“ken?” you repeat, ending in a higher tone wondering if you weren’t loud enough the first time. but he heard you. & he thinks about not responding once more just to hear you again, but decides his desire to actually go find you is much more powerful. he smiles lightly to himself, putting his book on the coffee table before getting up and following the sound of your voice to the bedroom. he walks in, hands in his pockets and smile still plastered, leaning against the doorframe to find you sitting criss-cross in fronr of your shared body mirror. you see him in your reflection & match his smile, whipping your head around before asking
stealing your husband’s chocolate and finding out it was laced with an aphrodisiac!
[content: MDNI, crack smųt, a very unserious piece of work, piv, hair pulling, use of aphrodisiacs, sukuna’s sour but then he’s sweet]
Never in your life have you been so horny it hurt.
“Kuna, please—harder,” you cry out.
“I’m going as hard as I fucking can, you little slut,” he snaps, each thrust matching every harsh word that gets spat through his teeth. “THIS IS WHY YOU DON’T EAT RANDOM. CHOCOLATE. ON. THE. COUNTER.”
“I’m sorry! Fuck!! I didn’t know!”
“There was a note saying DON’T eat it—you just didn’t give a shit because you’re a thief and a glutton. A liar now, too,” he continues to scold you over the chocolate bar he was going to give to Jin so he’d stop groveling over his ex. It’s been 6 fucking months, he’s tired of having to listen to him go on and on about Kaori. Enough is enough—he needs to go out and sleep with someone.
And now Jin’s never going to shut up. Sukuna doesn’t even want to look at you right now—let alone reward your behavior with dick.
“And now you’re cryin’ like it’s my fuckin’ fault.” It’s him who should be crying right now. “It’s simple: Leave my fucking snacks alone. I always get multiples of each so you’d keep your grubby little hands off them. Why can’t you just be normal and go in my wallet?? Fuck—Arch that back some more.” He cracks his palm over your ass. “Yeah, hike it up nice and high.”
“I can’t!” It feels like it’s about to break with all the weight he’s putting on it! Both of his hands pinning you down, burying every last inch of his cock inside of you.
He scoffs, nudging for you to close your thighs, then planting his knees right next to yours so they stay that way. “Do you want to cum?”
“…yes,” you whimper.
“Then fucking arch it.”
You sniffle. “Okay.”
He breaks character and huffs out a laugh as he watches you continue to helplessly stretch and squelch around him, making a creamy mess all along his shaft. He straightens his back, big hands now firmly grabbing your hips as he picks up the pace.
“Yeahh—stay right there,” his chest rumbles as he lets out a low, drawn-out groan. The smack of his hips growing louder, driving himself right into that little spot that won’t stop screaming for his attention.
It has his attention now.
The new angle had you whining into the pillow, absolutely reeling from how good he was at this, despite his complaints. He knows how to be rough. Nearly lifting you off the bed once he starts pulling your hips back, heavy balls smacking against your sensitive clit as he makes you meet each and every rough thrust he delivers.
“F-fuckk!” you choke out, barely able to form a coherent sentence as you start babbling out a bunch of words.
“So fuckin’ spoiled.” He complains, but just barely. “C’mon brat—you’ve been working me like a fuckin’ dog, give it to me already.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” He doesn’t believe you. You sound like you’re in heaven right now. “Mmhh—I love you so much.” His scowl deepens. “So, so much—you’re so fucking big.“
“Tch.” He grabs a handful of your hair, then yanks you back until you’re up against his chest, lips grazing your ear while muttering in it. “I don’t want an apology. What I want is for you to cum on my fuckin’ cock already. Or should I just stop?”
“No, no don’t! Please! I’m trying, I swear,” you begin to plead with the man.
“Try harder.” Then he smiled, because he felt you squeeze around him. “Jesus Christ—you need to me talk you through it too? The chocolates supposed to make you horny, sweetheart. Not useless.”
“It’s not my fault,” you whimper, and squeeze around him again, pulling a condescending huff out of him.
“You poor thing,” he hums. “Probably spent the whole day waiting for me to come home so I could make you feel better, huh?”
His breath tickles your ear and you nearly moan. “Mhm—I thought about it all day.”
“Well aren’t you sweet,” he mutters, tone as condescending as ever. “You got what you wanted, too. I’ve been taking care of you for a while now. How many times have I cum in you now?”
“I… I don’t know—“
“Of course you fuckin’ don’t.” He cuts you off, unamused by your answer. “Want me to do it again? Fill you up, make you feel all nice and warm?”
“Please.”
“Give me what I want then. If these sheets aren’t soaked by the time I’m about to cum again, I’m pulling out and finishing on your face,” he lets go of your hair and begins to laugh. You don’t get much of a chance to react before you feel the pads of his fingers on your clit, pulling a gasp out of you once he starts rubbing little circles on top of already fucking you. “Heh—let’s see if playing with this cute little clit saves you.”
And he knows you don’t deserve it—any of it, honestly. Unfortunately, he can’t help himself, not with the reactions he gets out of you. He married you for many reasons—getting to spend the rest of his life with a squirter was one of them. The moment your breathing grows labored and you sound like you’re gonna start to cry, his lids grow heavy and he starts saying all the things he told himself he wouldn’t say today.
"Yeahhh, that’s it, baby—fuuuuck—takin’ it so good.” He is fucking gone. Voice thick, filled with nothing but lust and awe as he presses against your lower belly. “C’mon, you want it here, right? Yeah, you know what to do—don’t let some fuckin’ asshole finish on your sweet little face.”
Yes. Your husband just degraded himself. And you just egg him on without meaning to. You were already whining about how it was too much, the incoherent “want it inside,” just made it better worse.
“I will, I’ll give you so fuckin’ much if you just give me one—just one. Easy. Shit—I’ll fill you up as much as you want afterwards.” He doesn’t know what he’s saying, but that doesn’t matter when it’s what has you crying and trembling and finally gushing around his cock.“Yeah, that’s it. That’s it, that’s—fuuuuck yeah. Good job, sweetheart—good fuckin’ job. Fuck.”
Funny enough, he came right after you, which was a relief because that meant his job was done and he was finally able to give his dick a fucking break after hours of feeling like he was working for free, when he had already worked a regular eight hour shift prior. The biggest relief of all was seeing you lie limp in bed, after slightly worrying if you ever actually would.
He leans over you with a smug smile, already having forgotten how much you pissed him off earlier as he moved some hair away from your face. Checking to see if you’re actually asleep or not, then feeling a deep sense of peace when seeing that you are. He presses a kiss against your cheekbone, and in the most loving way hopes you stay that way because he cannot do that again. Then finally, he gets up to use the bathroom.
The peace is only lasts four steps until it’s completely shattered again when he hears your weak voice.
head shoved deep into the soft cotton of the hotel's crisp sheets, you let out another drawn out moan; back arched into the harshest curve as your husband thrust deep into you, loud SLAP echoing in the room from where your hips met his.
“hhhck—so deeep ken” drool spilled out from the corner of your mouth uncontrollably, walls fluttering around his girth with each stroke.
you were on your yearly vacation to malaysia, moonlight streaming in through the open balcony door, curtains fluttering in the light breeze.
sex with your husband was always breathtaking, but there was something in the air overseas that just made him feral.
it was as if the water was laced with an aphrodisiac, with cool nights melting into warm mornings as nanami kento spent hours exploring every curve and crease of your body.
you weren’t even sure how your body was still functioning, well honestly it really wasn’t, frame slumped over scrunched sheets as you just lay there and took every last inch your husband so gracefully gave to you.
“that feel good honey?” he rasped, both hands holding onto your hips with a pressure that was certainly going to add to the litany of marks that already adorned your skin.
you tried to respond but every time your mouth fell open soft whimpers spilled out instead, air getting knocked right out of your lungs with each push of his hips.
“yessssssss” you eventually lisped, the cold metal of his wedding band searing into the warmth of your skin—body melting into the mattress as you got closer and closer to finishing, leaking tip rubbing up right against your sweet spot.
“this s’gonna—fuck—be the time—” you could feel him leaning down close over you, large frame caging you in as his breath fanned over the shell of your ear.
“—this s’gonna be the time i put a baby, r-right here.” his hand moved from your hip round to your stomach, pressing down hard enough that he could feel how deep he was hitting inside of you.
you heard him hiss through gritted teeth at the way you clamped down around him as he spoke, gummy walls tightly hugging every vein and ridge of his cock.
“that a—hmmm-promise?” you purred, using your last remnants of strength to bounce back onto him.
“its a guarantee.”
a/n :: guess who's got a big girl job interview TOMORROW 😛 wish me luck y'all!!!! (UPDATE: I GOT THE JOB!!!! HERE'S A PT.2 AS MY THANK YOU GIFT FOR ALL THE LOVE 🩷🩷🩷🩷)
logging onto tumblr like heyyy i'm thinking about the same character i've spent the past few weeks thinking about. no change here. just wanted to let yall know
❤︎ SYNOPSIS: eijirō feels like he’s going insane. he wants to fuck his best friends girlfriend, but, like, also his best friend? is he the asshole?
❤︎ CONTENT: f!reader, alternate universe - modern!au, slight perv!kiri, domestic fluff, eiji feeding kat grapes on the beach (no i wont elaborate), semi-unsanctioned voyeurism, blowjobs, penetrative sex, riding…18+, minors and ageless blogs DNI.
❤︎ XOXO, PUMA: i need perv!kiri like i need air. eijirō cry count: 7
❤︎ NOW PLAYING: this is why, paramore.
read on ao3 | 5k words | masterlist.
r/AmItheAsshole
u/redredriot
AITA FOR HAVING WANTING TO FUCK MY BEST FRIENDS’ GIRLFRIEND?
okokok. hear me out.
i [26M] have a best friend and roommate [also 26M]. i’ve known the guy since high school and we’re pretty close (obviously, best friends) but hes like, my best-best friend, yk? the bestest. i love the guy (platonically) and idk what id do without him, so i really dont want to fuck that up.
now. my best friend has a girlfriend. shes super sweet and nice and makes him so happy. like soooo happy. like i didnt realize my bro could be so happy. but thats besides the problem. the problem is that she moved in. and shes a good roommate, im not complaining about any of that, but also like…shes hot…?
which is fine. its sooo fine and cool and i would never do anything that got in the way of my bros relationship. i love him!! (platonically) but the problem is that she lives here. she eats in our kitchen and takes naps on the couch and walks around with no bra and tiny shorts and i’m LOSING MY MIND
i feel bad. i definitely FEEL like an asshole bc its like im j some misogynistic asshole that cant stop viewing women as sex symbols, but i swear its not my fault. i literally found one of her panties in my laundry load im going to cry.
but yeah. AITA??? i feel like the asshole depending on the day. is there a help line for this???
suckmyclituchiha
dude, no. NTA as long as you keep it in your pants.
notthatkentakakura
Mmm a little? I feel like you shouldn’t have a crush on your best friends girlfriend…
gogogokudolls
NTA. I fear we’ve all been there, my guy
6ixeyes
How gay are you for your bro????
Eijirō’s moving out. That’s the only logical course of events.
“Katsuki—! Oh my God—”
Eijirō groans, sinking a head into his hands. He threads fingers through his bright red hair and tugs. He’s going insane—he’s going to be in a straight jacket in two years if he doesn’t leave right now, this isn’t even fair, this is—
“Oh fuck, right there, right there, right there—”
What is the fucking point of walls. What is the fucking point, when it sounds like you’re right here.
Maybe, you guys don’t realize he’s home. Which is fair—by the time he got back, you two were already hidden away in Katsuki’s room. He should send a text, or knock on the door to be like hey, shut up please, or at least, put headphones in. But, no—instead, he chooses to torture himself, listening to you whine on his best friend’s cock.
“Yeah, Baby? You like that?”
The headboard slams hard enough to rattle the wall, and Eijirō debates on crying. He wants to see. He wants to see so bad that it hurts.
He suffers that night, just like he does all the others. Reddit doesn’t help, and neither does the throbbing between his thighs.
Eijirō likes to make breakfast. It’s the only meal he can make, really, other than chicken and rice. And broccoli—he can make broccoli. But, since you moved in, he likes making breakfast for a different reason.
“G’mornin’, Eiji.”
You come in yawning, bleary eyed and bra-less, just the way he likes. He doesn’t let his eyes drift the expanse of your thighs for too long—just enough to remember until tomorrow morning. Until he sees you in those shorts, again.
“Hey! How’d you sleep?”
Because, he slept horribly. He fell asleep halfway through the sex marathon, and doesn’t know if he had a wet dream, or heard you past the fuzz of slumber. Either way, he fell asleep at two and woke up at six, wholly unrested.
“Mm…good…” You stumble over to the fancy coffee machine he bought for Katsuki’s birthday last year. You maneuver around the kitchen with half a mind, and Eijirō tries to avoid burning breakfast. God forbid Katsuki wakes up to the smoke alarm in a panic, worried the world is on fire. You open the fridge to get water, nearly hitting yourself upside the head with the door, and Eijirō snorts, catching your forehead from his spot by the island.
You sniff, blearily blinking up with a nod as a thank you. “What’cha making?”
“Pancakes,” he grins, gesturing to the freshly poured griddle. “Try not to concuss yourself before then?”
“No promises,” you mumble past a sleepy smile, and its cute enough to make his heart hurt. He returns it, hoping it comes across less endearing than he feels. You shuffle closer to watch pancake batter bubble under the heat. “Ugh, pancakes are gonna hit. Thank you.”
You let out a moan, one that sounds a little too similar to what he heard through the walls last night. He focuses on flipping the pancakes with an unsteady hand, refusing to feel the edges of your molecules when you get too close.
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” he preaches with a laugh, and you nod vehemently in agreement. The coffee machine starts to whirr.
“Yeah, ‘n if not for you, I’d be having straight coffee for breakfast.”
“That’s…horrible,” he realizes aloud, and you snort in response, collapsing your face into his arm. His arm, which is, now, nearly pinned between your breasts—and Eijirō wants to cry for the twentieth time this week. “You should definitely not do that.”
“But, I don’t even like breakfast,” you whine, jutting out a bottom lip. Eijirō takes a very deep breath, before flipping the last pancake. He fucks it up, and the battered side folds in half.
Then, he remembers what you just said, and frowns. “You eat it, though—I’ve seen you.”
“I eat your breakfast,” you argue sleepily, and the coffee machine beeps for attention. You leave to grab the full cup, leaving his right side much colder than you found it. “You cook good breakfast.”
Eijirō isn’t fully sure what you mean by that, but beams nonetheless. “Thank y—”
Katsuki stretches in the kitchen doorway. Languid like a cat, with arms above his head, and groaning loud enough to startle. He’s shirtless, and Eijirō does not see the purpling hickey on his neck. Does not.
Katsuki waltzes over to you and drapes himself across your shoulders, eyes swollen and voice rugged from sleep. He steals a kiss from your cheek before asking, “Coffee.”
You hum, lifting the mug closer to his collapsed self. “Want some?”
Katsuki scrunches a nose and shakes his head, only for his face to end up in your neck. “Not from you.”
That earns him a gasp and a flick in the forehead, both of which Katsuki takes in stride. He snickers into your skin, biting behind your ear until you yelp, with a hand tight around your hip to ensure you don’t squirm to far.
And, it’s sickening.
It’s sickening, because these are the moments when Eijirō doesn’t quite know who he wishes to be—you, or his best friend. Katsuki mutes a smile in your skin, and Eijirō wants to feel it, but he also wants his hand on your hip, and he wants, he wants—
“Oi, Shitty Hair—the pancakes are on fire.”
Eijirō looks down at charred circles he once called pancakes. He wants to cry.
With a snort, Katsuki moves past you to grab a plate. Then, he’s nudging Eijirō in the shoulder, and the redhead starts plating the useless ones with a pout.
“I can’t believe I messed up the first batch,” he whines, because now they’ll have half the amount they normally would for leftovers. And, he was sort of hoping to not cook breakfast tomorrow. (Though, he’s not as sad about it as he’d like to be—which makes him even more annoyed with himself, in turn.)
Katsuki just rolls his eyes, setting the burnt plate aside, probably to let it cool before throwing it away. “What the fuck was so fascinating outside?”
Eijirō’s eyes flicker to the window he was allegedly looking out of—he doesn’t really remember, to be honest—and irritation floods his being tenfold as he huffs, “Dude, literally nothing. Literally zoned out.”
Which is a half-lie—he did zone out—and luckily, Katsuki’s back is turned to grab the bowl of batter, so he doesn’t have to look him in the eyes. Eijirō can lie, as long as he isn’t looking Katsuki in the eyes.
But, Katsuki turns around with a knowing smirk, like he does know it’s a lie. That makes Eijirō doubt his lying capabilities.
“Uh-huh,” he hums, and starts pouring pancakes in perfect circles while barely looking. Which, Eijirō thinks is wholly unfair—he has to really lock in, and even then, they come out vaguely dinosaur shaped. Don’t ask him why. He doesn’t know.
“Ooh! I want a heart pancake!”
Katsuki eyes finally leave Eijirō—thank God, he can breathe now—to narrow at you. “…Baby. I just poured the last one.”
But, Katsuki knows you’re not going to let up, as does Eijirō. You have that look in your eyes when you want something, and want it now.
Before you can even open your mouth, Katsuki’s warning, “Wait for the next batch.”
You whine and melt, propping your chin onto the island counter with the biggest pout known to man. The most effective pout, because Eijirō would fold for it time and time again, if he had the chance.
“But, I want it now,” you whimper, and while Katsuki sighs out of his nose, Eijirō has an idea.
He walks over to a small cupboard, the one with the straws and syrup cups, and dips a hand between both for a container of toothpicks. Thanks to Katsuki, they always have some on deck—because, every time they go out to eat, Katsuki is convinced he has something in his teeth, and simultaneously convinced that everyone is lying to him, including his phone camera. So, Eijirō sacrifices one of Katsuki’s holy toothpicks to bend a bubbling pancake into a heart. It only kind of works.
“Fuckin—no, Shitty Hair, y’gotta start from the middle an’ go down—”
“No! Start with the edges first! If he takes too long, my heart is gonna have a round bottom!”
“…Y’know who else has a round bottom—”
“Finish that statement and you’re fired, Katsuki. This is serious business.”
Eijirō Kirishima cannot function under this conditions.
“Guys,” he chokes, looking down at what is now a squiggly mess of pancake. It looks nothing like a heart, but definitely an accurate depiction of how Eijirō’s heart feels—squishy and out of shape and useless. Like an amoeba. Or a blobfish.
Yeah. His heart feels like a blobfish.
“I give up.”
He releases the cake-covered toothpick, and it sticks to the counter in a quietly depressing splat. Katsuki huffs, shoving him out of the way to snatch the toothpick and try himself. And, try he does.
But, the issue is that the pancakes are cooking quick—the others have already been flipped and now, they’re almost ready. Meanwhile, the flailing heart shaped pancake is burnt around the edges and gooey in the middle, but they’re still committed.
Eventually, the three of you look at the burnt ball of dough with a sigh.
“We tried. On that front, we get an A, right?”
“If you look at it from the side and squint your eyes…it, like…kind of looks like an actual heart, so I say yeah.”
“…It looks like shit.”
You all prepare to eat the successful pancakes in a dejected silence. You end up cutting a heart out of your pancake instead. Eijirō eats the corners.
6ixeyes
How gay are you for your bro????
redredriot
um. probably gayer than i should b.
6ixeyes
Wait, srsly
Beach is bad. Beach is horrible—Eijirō will never beach again.
‘Guys, I wanna go to the beach,’ you said. ‘It’s so hot today, it’ll be fun,’ you said. ‘Eijirō’s going to be so miserable, and have to fight a hard-on the entire time,’ you didn’t say. He should’ve seen it coming.
Because, if he can barely handle you in pajamas, how the hell is he supposed to be chill while you practically prance around the sand in a bra and panties. He’s going to cry.
And, Katsuki—Katsuki isn’t helping one bit.
“God, fuckin’ look at her,” he groans, adjusting the sunglasses on his nose. You’re in the water alone, because Katsuki refuses to (’I’m not gettin’ fuckin’ wet just to have fuck-ass sand stick to me—no.’) and honestly, Eijirō would join you if he wasn’t suffering. “Ain’t she a pretty li’l thing.”
And like, what is Eijirō supposed to say to that? What is the socially correct thing to say when your bro is frothing over his girl. Do you agree, and possibly look like you want to fuck her, or do you not agree, and by proxy, call his girlfriend ugly?
Eijirō decides not responding is the safest option. He focuses on the self-help book in his lap, but he’s can’t read right now. The words rearrange into something accusatory, and it’s undeniable:
YOU ARE THE ASSHOLE.
Fuck.
“Don’t know how I bagged that,” Katsuki mutters to himself, before reclining underneath the umbrella. Because he burns too easy, and the sun makes him sleepy, and—why does Eijirō know this? He doesn’t need to know this.
“Awh, c’mon dude,” he shoves Katsuki in the shoulder from his seated spot in the sun. His words come out stilted and awkward, because how do you let your bro know he’s a catch without letting him know you’d probably be down to suck his dick. “You’re, like…hot. You guys are the same level of hotness.”
Katsuki snorts, and rolls his head until it’s facing Eijirō. He cracks an eye open. “D’you think I’m hot?”
Eijirō chokes on air. What kind of question is that.
“I mean,” he blows a raspberry and shrugs, and suddenly, can’t look at his roommate. He watches the horizon until you shift into frame, and then, he switches to the sky. “Yeah, of course, Dude. You’re, like, an objectively hot guy.”
“Objectively,” Katsuki repeats, and Eijirō’s eyes dart to the side just in time to see that quiet smirk from earlier return, from breakfast when Eijirō lied before, and he’s starting to worry Katsuki might be onto him. Which is not good. Not good at all.
“Yep, mhm.” His eyes squint into the sun, in hopes it’ll burn his retinas and give him some form of brain-fried amnesia. That would be great. When it doesn’t work, Eijirō finds himself rummaging through the snack bag instead, hoping that stuffing his mouth shut might keep him from saying anything stupid.
“Oi,” Katsuki perks up. “I want fuckin’ grapes.”
Eijirō laughs, nearly collapsing his face into the snack bag when the arm he rests weight on starts to wobble. “Lucky for you, we brought ‘fuckin’ grapes.’”
“I know, that’s why I said it, Dumbass,” Katsuki faux-bristles. “Feed ‘em to me.”
Eijirō swallows.
“Uh, no Dude, feed them to yourself,” he snorts (and very proud of how he played it off, thank you) and grabs a protein bar out of the bag, along with a Ziploc bag of grapes with a melting ice pack in it. He drops them at Katsuki’s side, but Katsuki knocks them over like a petulant cat.
“My hands are sandy,” he says like it’s obvious, and lifts them up. Respectfully, they are not sandy—but ‘sandy’ to Katsuki means that his hands can feel the ‘sand dust,’ or whatever he said, and Katsuki is stubborn. Eijirō knows he won’t have his grapes untainted.
“Then get Y/N to do it,” he grunts, teeth preoccupied with tearing the label away from his protein bar. “She’ll be out soon, I think.”
“No,” Katsuki groans, loud and useless, and grabs the bag of grapes at his side to chuck them at Eijirō’s head. And, chuck them he does—it gets Eijirō in the side of his face, and the flaxen blond snorts at the sound. “Her hands‘re gonna be all sandy and salty. You do it.”
Eijirō scratches his scalp and sighs.
Eijirō Kirishima, at twenty-six years old, is being forced to feed his Bro grapes on the beach like Katsuki is Cleopatra, while you frolic in the water, half-naked and mouth-watering. What series of events led him here, exactly?
“Then just, like…eat it out the bag, or something.”
Katsuki’s eyes narrow beneath his aviators. “If you don’t, I’m telling Y/N that you think she’s hot.”
Eijirō stiffens.
“Fine. Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine—fine,” Eijirō huffs, and feels his face go hot as he scoots closer. Katsuki gives him a self-satisfied smirk, like he enjoys watching his best friend fumble like an oaf. Over him—over you.
This is so not fair.
Katsuki crosses arms behind his head while Eijirō pops the Ziploc open. Eijirō’s not exactly sure how to go about this, but once he picks a firm grape with no strange squishy spots (Katsuki will have a fit), Katsuki’s lips part, and Eijirō just…drops the grape right in there. Katsuki’s jaw pops as he chews with a nod, like the redhead did good in finding a grape he deems decent enough. It makes him feel all warm and gooey, like a chocolate cookie fresh out the oven, and because Eijirō can blame that feeling on the sun, he lets himself bask in it a bit.
It gets quiet, save for the crashing of waves, music from teenagers seated not too far from them, and the occasional pop of a grape. It’s kind of nice—he finds a rhythm, and space in between Katsuki’s chomps and grabbing grapes to nibble on his protein bar, which is gone quick. He must be hungrier than he thought…We should get actual food soon.
Eijirō zones out, thinking about possible food options and how, honestly, he could go for any of them. Then, he feels something round in his hands, and turns to Katsuki, who’s staring at him with a scrutiny that makes Eijirō think he’s got something on his face. He purses his lips, trying to figure out what Katsuki wants for based off expressions—and finds nothing. He finds nothing that he wants to see, and everything he doesn’t—from the sweat forming in Katsuki’s cupids bow, to freckle in his hairline that darkens with the sun, to the curve of his brows and color in his cheeks.
“…What?”
Katsuki blinks himself out of whatever that was, and the lax expression on his face turns into a scowl as he points.
“Grape.”
redredriot
why does that even matter tho
6ixeyes
Ngl, bc I’m going thru somn similar and tryna figure it out LMAO
redredriot
oh damn my condolences bro
For the third time today, Eijirō would like to know how the fuck he got into this predicament.
You come out the water like a…a fucking beach goddess, water clinging to your form like a sheer dress with sand as an jewelry. The sun seems to agree, as it douses you in something ethereal, something just for you.
Eijirō wants to tear his hair out. He’s already suffering because of one set of sweaty tits, he doesn’t need another—
“What are you guys doing?” You snort after getting enough to see Eijirō hover another grape over your boyfriend’s mouth. The redhead pouts.
“I’m being forced into servitude!”
“I see that,” you laugh, and instead of sitting next to Katsuki, you sit next to Eijirō. He tells himself it’s because you need to dry off, and he’s sat in the sun—not that Katsuki minds, seemingly content on consuming grapes from Eijirō’s hand for the foreseeable future. You squish your wet side into Eijirō’s to get a look in the snack bag, and he shivers for all the wrong reasons.
“Ah! You’re cold!”
Plays it off well, though.
“Sorry,” you giggle, but don’t move until you pull out a fruit roll-up, snatching a grape on the way back. “Damn Kat, you ate all the grapes—fat ass bitch.”
Eijirō didn’t even notice, and looks into his lap—where you just had your hand, mind you—to a severely empty bag, now mainly left with undesirables.
“Oh, right, it’s fat ass bitch now, but later it’s ‘oh my god, Kat, your muscles—oh my god, Kat, you’re so big—oh my god—”
Eijirō is going to die.
Katsuki mocks your voice with an unsteady and nasally falsetto, causing you to reach behind Eijirō, balancing a hand on his shoulder while you try to wack your boyfriend in the head. You miss due to range, and because Katsuki sways his head right with a cackle.
“That is not how I sound,” you hiss, resigning yourself to the other side of Eijirō, even though you could easily walk over to give Katsuki a piece of your mind. He shrugs, eyes flitting to Eijirō, and, uh oh, why is he—
“Oh, that’s totally how you sound,” but he’s looking at Eijirō, like he could confirm, and he doesn’t think the blond talking about how you sound outside the bedroom. Fuck. “Right?”
He’s not asking you—he’s asking Eijirō.
And Eijirō, poor Eijirō, quickly looks out to sea like it’ll put a partition between him and this conversation. Maybe, he should try to burn his retinas again. Maybe, he didn’t try hard enough.
He plays dumb.
“Don’t include me in your couple’s quarrel, Dude!” He says, but its more to the sky. “I’m not even here. I’m a ghost. I’m invisible.”
“Well. In that case,” Katsuki grunts. You squeal as your arm gets yanked in Eijirō’s peripheral, falling behind him and into the sand with a thump. “C’mere.”
“Kat—mmph!”
Who knew kissing could be so loud?
If Eijirō lets out a tear, it’s because his fucking dick hurts.
AITA FOR HAVING WANTING TO FUCK MY BEST FRIENDS’ GIRLFRIEND?
u/redredriot
edit: kay my bro is kinda hot but that just makes things SO MUCH WORSE WHAT DO I DO???????
bigdaddytamaki
petition to be a third!
sasakilovesmiyano
Plot-MF-Twist, I’m so invested.
kusuo_saiki
Get a therapist.
redredriot
THATS WHAT YALL ARE FOR
komicommunicatesverywell
Or get a girlfriend!
That night, Eijirō commits a sin.
It’s not his fault—he’s pent up, because you guys are pent up. He had to drive that fucking car, dammit, and had to ignore the fact that he enjoyed watching you and Katsuki makeout in the rearview mirror more than he should.
And, it’s not his fault again, because you and Katsuki decide to fuck in the living room—the living room that his door faces. It’s like you’re trying to kill him, at this point.
So. Maybe, he leaves his door cracked. It’s not like it matters—moonlight spills through the window above his bed, and barely illuminates te edges. While you engage in foreplay, Eijirō gets ready for bed (skips brushing his teeth, because he’s impatient, and so, so horny) and by the time he’s sliding under the covers, you’re sat comfortably between Katsuki’s legs with a full mouth.
“Fuck yeah, Baby—just like that.”
Tucked under his duvet, Eijirō shucks his boxers down to his hips and grabs himself. His eyes flutter at the feeling, underwear and cock soaked enough that anyone lacking context would assume he already came. Meaning, the slide is easy, and he peeks through the doorway and into the lovingly lit living room.
Eijirō shouldn’t be doing this. He also shouldn’t be obsessed with the way his best friend’s cock fits in your mouth. Not all the way, but enough to make you tear and choke and gag. All Eijirō can really see is the back of your head and Katsuki’s blissed out face, both of which he thinks is wildly unfair.
Katsuki shivers, and it’s a full body affair. Eijirō’s hand wraps tight around the base of his dick because, jeez. Give a guy a warning before you do something really hot next time?
Katsuki lets out something akin to a whimper, which was not a sound he thought his bro could make. But now, he wants to hear it again and again, and possibly occasionally be the reason, every once in a while.
You’re not any better—you’re humming around his cock like you’re the one getting a blowjob, and it’s messy, Eijirō can fucking hear it, and it’s driving him insane. Katsuki grabs ahold of your hair and tugs, causing you to mewl, fall further down his cock, then choke. Katsuki groans and Eijirō stifles his own, praying to every God out there that he remains sane after tonight.
It’s a losing battle.
“Yeah? Y’like imagining that this is his cock, huh?” Katsuki takes control, moving your head at his will, and Eijirō’s arm flexes to match the pace. You whine, and Katsuki chuckles. “Dirty fuckin’ girl.”
You huff, irritated, and pinching Katsuki in his inner thigh, which earns you a jolt and a groan. Wow, Eijirō’s learning so many new things today. Like how you get cock drunk easy, and that Katsuki’s a pain slut. And Eijirō, who will never have any use for this information, stores it anyways.
Katsuki tips his head back and moans at something, and for a moment, Eijirō worries he’s been seen. Only for a moment—the ice in his blood is gone as quick as it came as Katsuki’s eyes flit back to you, and melts straight into his dick. No, despite what his dick says, he does not want to be caught—because that would be very, very bad.
As time goes on, he seems to care less about getting caught, too preoccupied with getting his fix. Which, makes him sound like an addict, but it’s not his fault, you guys are fucking right outside his door.
Eijirō nearly cums when Katsuki pulls you off his dick. Debates on it, for a good while.
Your mouth is swollen, with teary eyes to match the gloss of spit and pre-cum on your lips. Eijirō knows, because Katsuki pulls you up and sits you right on his dick, with your back pressed flush to his chest. And, like, Eijirō’s imagined this moment—the moment where he finally sees you naked—but figured it’d be some panicked walk in, a time when he wouldn’t be able to take in all of you and regret it, and most definitely not this.
Your bathing suit is still on, but barely. It’s misshapen and askew and doesn’t cover what it’s supposed to, covers the exact opposite of what it’s supposed to, actually. Eijirō bites back a groan.
“F-Fuck, Kat—’s too big,” you huff, wiping at the corners of your lips like you might be drooling. Are you drooling? Or is it leftover from the fucking amazing head he just watched you give his best friend?
Katsuki coos, clutching you tight to his body like you might scramble. His other hand holds your thigh open, enough that Eijirō can see your entrance stretch around Katsuki’s cock, and he wants to scream.
“You can take it,” he insists, low and heavy, but still loud enough for Eijirō to hear. You whimper and collapse into his chest, and the hand that holds you upright drifts, tweaking and pinching where it deems fit. “Y’wanna put on a show, don’t you?”
That’s the first time Eijirō catches it. A show for who?
You nod, but push at the couch cushions like you regret letting Katsuki in to begin with. Is this how you look every night? If so, Eijirō’s going to need you two to start fucking on the couch more often, ASAP.
“K-Kat, I can’t—”
Katsuki’s free hand finds your clit then, and whatever you were going to say is left to the wind, molded into something choked and garbled and completely unintelligible.
“What’s got you all worked up?” He snorts, like he’s any better, like he isn’t flushed to his chest and fluttering his eyes every time you shift just right. Eijirō squeezes the base of his dick.
You clumsily shove your boyfriend in the side of the head, who’s thrusts never falter. “Fuck you, you know why—Oh my god, Kat, slow the fuck down—”
“No,” he huffs with petulance, before, if anything, speeding up. “You’re greedy—you can take it.”
“It’s—” your leg kicks, seemingly involuntary, and Katsuki laughs at it. “That’s different.”
God, you whine is the same during sex and in the kitchen. How the fuck is he supposed to hear that the same again.
“How,” Katsuki chuckles, and pinches your clit. You squirm and tuck your head in his neck. “How the fuck are you supposed to take both of us when you can barely take me, huh? It’d be worse with Eijirō’s fat ass on top of you—shit—”
Now.
Eijirō has three thoughts, all of which he thinks at the exact same time:
hey! he’s not fat! he’s well-muscled with the right amount of squish!
damn kat…you think his ass is fat, though?
wait. why are we saying his name, why are we saying his name, why are saying his name—
The third thought is the loudest and lasts much longer than the rest, lasts perpetually, actually, and Eijirō almost cums at hearing Katsuki say his name. His actual name—not Shitty Hair, not Fuck-Face or Dumbass, but Eijirō—and while having sex, no less! With his girlfriend! What the fuck is this?!
You moan even louder, like you like that idea, like that’s something you could be into, and Eijirō doesn’t know what to make of that. Katsuki doesn’t seem to care, and Eijirō doesn’t know what to make of that, either. All he knows is that he’s cumming regardless, despite his best efforts, biting tight into the fat of his hand with a strained groan that he really, really hopes no one heard.
He’s so confused.
He still watches, though—watches you cum on Katsuki’s cock twice before he’s stuffing you full with a groan of his own, eyes trained on the gap between Eijirō’s door. Like he knows Eijirō is still watching, even if you two have been fucking for over an hour.
Eijirō waits until you both peel away from the couch and pad into the bathroom before moving a muscle. He finally gets up to close the door, and scrapes at the dried cum on his stomach with an old t-shirt until his skin turns red, and frowns as he watches it flake. What the fuck. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck—
He needs to update Reddit. He needs to know what to do.
AITA FOR HAVING WANTING TO FUCK MY BEST FRIENDS’ GIRLFRIEND?
coworker!simon x cybersecurity!reader hcs (mdni, 18+)
coworker!simon who likes to pretend he’s going into the tech lounge for a cup of coffee (he prefers tea) when really he just wants to see if you’re in there taking a break.
“u techies ain’t doin anythin all day?” is what you hear as bootstraps come into your line of sight. you raise a brow and look up at him from where you’re brewing a fresh cup of coffee. “don’t you soldiers have your own break room to bother people in??” you uttered with barely hidden distaste. he was glad for his mask covering that small smirk-your attitude went straight to his dick. “this place ‘as got the good coffee” he looks down at you, his voice gravelly in your ears. “soap said u hate coffee.” you call him out with a slow sip from the mug. he mentally curses the scott. “must be confused.”
coworker!simon who enjoys teasing you even though the man barely utters more than 5 words per conversation most of the time. he just loooves being in your space, not even to make fun of you, but just to see what you’re up to.
“whaddya even do when there’s no missions on schedule aye?” he comes up behind you and asks in that low scratchy accent you only hear in the mornings..hot. but that doesn’t matter. “do you always bother people who are trying to work” you grumble out as your eyes focus on the code at hand, fingers typing rapidly. he lets out a gruff …laugh? you’re not entirely sure. “too pretty to be wasting your time behind that screen.” you freeze, he doesn’t compliment you usually, just the annoying comment here and there. “well i enjoy my job.” “yeah?” you could hear the smirk in his voice. “what if i convinced you to look away from that g’damn screen. this weekend. dinner?” you tilted your head, a smug look crossing your face as you look up at him. he raised a brow, waiting.he’d never let on, but fuck was he nervous. “sure.” one short word from you lit him up.
coworker!simon who loomed gravely outside your comparatively cute and dainty house as he waited for you to open the door. you did, in a number that did crazy shit to his heart ..and dick.
“knew you’d look even more beautiful when you’re not behind that desk.” his mask was off, wanted to be real with you-not ghost but simon. you smiled slightly and stepped out. “thank you simon.” his following grin should indicate how the date went. a fancy restaurant followed by a dinner full of laughs, longing looks, and simon trying his fucking best to hide how much he wanted you. safe to say it went well on both sides.
coworker!simon who really really liked you. and he may not be great with words and that sappy bullshit but his mouth did wonders on its own.
he currently had tremendous amounts of blood rushing south in this moment. why? cus you were sitting on his face currently gripping the headboard for dear life as he dug his tongue deeper in your pussy. “si-simon wait” you breathed rapidly, knot forming fast in your stomach. he shook his head, groaning as he bucked his hips up into the air desperate for his own release. but he was too focused on you. “cum for me pretty, i wanna taste it.” he slurred into your flesh as he ate like you both didn’t just have dinner. “soo sweet” he panted. your high reached its peak and u tried to get off but he didn’t let you, fingers plunging in as you came hard, shivering and whimpering his name.
“oh my god..” you covered your face as the high wore off and you looked at the mess on his face “simon im so-“ he cut you off immediately “nah none of that. fuckin loved it, yeah?” he grinned, handsome face covered in you “never knew nerds could squirt” “don’t ruin this for yourself.” you bite back, covering his mouth while he smirks. little did you know he came in his pants a moment ago, all because of you.
𓂃✍︎ 18+ mdni · in which sukuna asks you to sit on him
"This is ridiculous!"
"Woman! You're being ridiculous!"
"Keep talking to me like that, and you just won't have it then!" You scream indignantly, looking past your bare stomach, from underneath your bush, and just enough to see his glare piercing straight at you.
"Let me eat you out. Look at yourself! You're already so wet for me. So, just sit for —" Sukuna sighs sharply, unknowingly sending a warm bubble of air directly against your clit.
The sudden wave of heat quickly encompasses you, and you instinctively clamp your knees against his ears, buckling down hard to his mouth, effectively cutting a poetry of curses from Sukuna.
"Oh, shit!" You squawk, immediately raising yourself. "Why the fuck would you even do that!"
"Is it my fault you're the sensitive one? Do it again. I like it. Come here." He positions you back in place, your cunt directly above his mouth, and your clit torturously erect when he flicks it.
"No, wait!"
"You can't kill me, that'll be stupid even for a curse like me." He pushes your hands away when you try to grab a fistful of his hair and yank him down to the pillows.
"J-Just, hold on!"
You've been in this position for the past fifteen minutes, debating with yourself if he should just eat you out because seeing his heated gaze straight to your clit and your breathless cunt being pried wide open with his fingers, looking intently for any signs of your release flowing out, is enough for you to come at this sensation alone.
But the thing is that you're simply nervous because it hasn't been long since he first ate you out, and while it was new and so fucking good, you're still embarrassed about the whole prospect of it.
"I just need . . ." you prep yourself up, "I get ticklish when I think too much about it."
"There's hardly anything you think about these days, and you have to think right now?"
"Shut the fuck up, or I'm walking out of here."
"Baby," he calls a little gentler, though it doesn't sound any different than how he would curse another, "just sit. Please."
"Oh?" You manage to entice a chuckling tease, "You never say please that way."
"For fuck's sake, you're being too unrea — mmphh!"
𓂃✍︎ 18+ mdni · in which sukuna asks you to sit on him
"This is ridiculous!"
"Woman! You're being ridiculous!"
"Keep talking to me like that, and you just won't have it then!" You scream indignantly, looking past your bare stomach, from underneath your bush, and just enough to see his glare piercing straight at you.
"Let me eat you out. Look at yourself! You're already so wet for me. So, just sit for —" Sukuna sighs sharply, unknowingly sending a warm bubble of air directly against your clit.
The sudden wave of heat quickly encompasses you, and you instinctively clamp your knees against his ears, buckling down hard to his mouth, effectively cutting a poetry of curses from Sukuna.
"Oh, shit!" You squawk, immediately raising yourself. "Why the fuck would you even do that!"
"Is it my fault you're the sensitive one? Do it again. I like it. Come here." He positions you back in place, your cunt directly above his mouth, and your clit torturously erect when he flicks it.
"No, wait!"
"You can't kill me, that'll be stupid even for a curse like me." He pushes your hands away when you try to grab a fistful of his hair and yank him down to the pillows.
"J-Just, hold on!"
You've been in this position for the past fifteen minutes, debating with yourself if he should just eat you out because seeing his heated gaze straight to your clit and your breathless cunt being pried wide open with his fingers, looking intently for any signs of your release flowing out, is enough for you to come at this sensation alone.
But the thing is that you're simply nervous because it hasn't been long since he first ate you out, and while it was new and so fucking good, you're still embarrassed about the whole prospect of it.
"I just need . . ." you prep yourself up, "I get ticklish when I think too much about it."
"There's hardly anything you think about these days, and you have to think right now?"
"Shut the fuck up, or I'm walking out of here."
"Baby," he calls a little gentler, though it doesn't sound any different than how he would curse another, "just sit. Please."
"Oh?" You manage to entice a chuckling tease, "You never say please that way."
"For fuck's sake, you're being too unrea — mmphh!"
"love, no... don't go," nanami rasped, voice low still laced with sleep. his breath tickled the back of your neck as he spoke. the hold of his hand around your waist was somehow tighter, even after when you thought you couldn't possibly get any closer than this; your back on his chest without any space in between.
"let me gooo, i want to make my coffee," you whined softly, the tone made it apparent that you couldn't hold a smile at the sight of your usual collected man being so clingy. provoking him further, you once more tried to release the grasp of his hand on your stomach. the man responded with a disapproving grunt, the vibration from his lips against your skin made you shiver.
"stay, please. i'll make it for you later," he pleaded, trailing lazy kisses along your shoulder blade in hope to get you stay in bed, going as far as bringing his leg over both of yours, practically keeping you in his embrace. you chuckled.
"but i want it now," you replied, yet despite those words you couldn't help but put your hand on his cheek, seeing how the blond nuzzled closer to it, chasing the contact like a cat basking under the attention.
"not yet," he murmured, doubling down by gently turning you over, bringing you closer as you rested your head on his chest. you caved under his relentless touch, both his arms folded snugly behind your back. nanami wore a satisfied smile, like he just achieved something great. "i need another hour of this. of you."
"didn't know i'll be held hostage in some mornings when i went into this marriage," you teased, the comfort of his warm hug made you abandon the scheme you never planned to follow through. your fingers made their way to draw random patterns on the navy shirt he was wearing.
he caught your digits, planting a soft kiss at the back of your hand, "and you promised to accept me as i am in your vow, so i'm afraid you'll have to put up with this for the rest of your life."
I have so much love and respect for women who are honest about their own loneliness but also find the good in it like when audrey hepburn said “I have to be alone very often. I’d be quite happy if I spent from Saturday night until Monday morning alone in my apartment. That’s how I refuel” and when charlotte bronte said “I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself” and when jenny slate said “I think I’ve come to terms with the fact that there will always be a ribbon of loneliness running through who I am. But that’s why I want to do comedy, and why I want to connect with people. You can use that ribbon to be a part of a finer tapestry, or you can choke yourself out with it! Your choice!” and when mary oliver said “whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh & exciting - over & over announcing your place in the family of things”
sometimes it’s about guy u sometimes fuck called katsuki and he gives you a house tour and then eats you out and sends you home after. has you messaging him two days later like… can’t stop thinking about you. are you free???? and he replies Busy with work for the next few days maybe Wednesday? and then a few minutes later as if he remembered he didn’t reply he says I have been thinking about you a fuck load also though and wednesday is ages away so you just have to firm it because he ate you out so good had your back arching in ways you’ve never done before and when you were trying to push his head away because it was so intense he only gripped your thighs harder and then you came over his face twice. it means you reply yes wednesday i can come over anytime. and this time when you go to this man’s house, he eats you out again has you coming over his face but he asks if you wanna go on top. this big sexy man wants you to sit on his cock. now you’re shy, not sure but you’re so wet and still so horny that you sit on him and you don’t even have to do anything. he lifts you in the air and thrusts his hips up into you. then adjusts by thrusting you on top of him. another experience that completely blows your mind. then he sends you home sated and kissed on the forehead which leads you to, first thing in the morning, we need to make this a regular thing i can’t stop thinking about your cock and mouth
Please have a moment of silence for the people who were killed instead of freed when news of emancipation finally reached the furthest corners of the american south.
have another moment for the ledgers, catalogs, and records that were burned and the homes that were destroyed to hide the presence of very much alive and still enslaved people on dozens of plantations and homesteads across the south for decades after emancipation.
and have a third moment for those who were hunted and killed while fleeing the south to find safety across the border, overseas, in the north and to the west.
black people. light a candle, write a note to those who have passed telling them what you have achieved in spite of the racist and intolerant conditions of this world, feel the warmth of the flame under your hand, say a prayer of rememberance if you are religious, place the note under the candle, and then blow it out.
if you have children, sit them down and tell them anything you know about the life of oldest black person you've ever met. it doesn't have to be your own family. tell them what you know about what life was like for us in the days, years, decades after emancipation. if you don't know much, look it up and learn about it together.
This is Juneteenth.
white people CAN interact with this post. share it, spread it.
ᝰ.ᐟ nanami with a girlfriend who has sensitive thighs ⸝⸝ 18+ mdni
bf!nanami is a man of physical habit, when you two are winding down on the couch after his long shift—his heavy, warm hand naturally finds a home on your thigh. the first time it happens, he’s just reading the paper, but he feels the immediate, rigid tension in your muscles.
he casually glances over, assuming you’re just caught off guard or feeling a bit shy. "are you cold?" he asks, his deep voice slicing through the quiet room. when you quickly shake your head, he simply pats your knee and shrugs it off, returning to his reading, though his observant mind notes the slight tremor in your frame.
bf!nanami who starts getting genuinely suspicious after the third or fourth time. it doesn't matter if his touch is a passive weight or a gentle, absentminded caress through your sweatpants—your breath hitches every single time. he notices the way your toes curl, the subtle shiver that runs up your spine, and the way you try to casually shift away from his reach.
nanami is nothing if not analytical; he knows compliance versus involuntary reaction, and you are definitely hiding something. he begins to purposely linger his touch, tracing the seam of your pants just to watch your eyelashes flutter and your lips part in a silent gasp.
bf!nanami decides to test his hypothesis on a rainy saturday afternoon. you're both cuddled up, your guard completely down as you watch a movie. without a word or a shift in his stoic expression, his large hand slides up your inner thigh and delivers a sudden, firm squeeze.
bf!nanami watches you gasp, a high, completely involuntary sound escaping your throat—a sharp, needy little squeak that cuts off the moment you realize what you've done. "oh? and what exactly was that noise for?" your hands fly to grip his wrist, trying to pull his hand away, but he doesn't let go.
instead, a slow, incredibly rare, and distinctly smug smirk pulls at the corner of his lips. he looks down at you through his glasses, thoroughly amused by your bright red face. "i don't recall the movie being quite that exciting," he drawls, his fingers sinking deeper into the soft flesh.
bf!nanami who is a little bit mean about it, but in the most intoxicating way possible. he deliberately applies just a fraction more pressure, kneading the sensitive muscle with his broad palm and watching you squirm helplessly against him. "i didn't realize a simple touch could reduce you to this," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a gravelly warmth that tells you he finds this incredibly hot.
he teases you relentlessly, leaning down so his lips brush your burning ear. "look at me. tell me why you're trembling so much just from my hand. if you don't answer, i'll just have to keep squeezing until you do." he refuses to let you look away until you confess just how sensitive your thighs actually are.
bf!nanami who likes to abuse this newfound knowledge at every single opportunity, especially when he wants to fluster you in public. if you're out at a quiet restaurant, his hand will slide under the tablecloth, his fingers mapping out the soft skin of your thighs.
he loves watching you try to maintain a straight face while ordering food, your fingers white-knuckling the menu because he's lightly scratching the apex of your thigh. when you catch his eye, pleading with him silently, he just takes a calm sip of his wine and whispers, "focus on the waiter, sweetheart. tell him what you want to eat."
bf!nanami turns into an absolute menace behind closed doors. during sex, your thighs become his absolute favorite target. he likes to pin your legs wide apart, his heavy palms bruising your hips before sliding down to grip your thighs with enough force to leave faint, temporary marks.
he loves to deeply knead the ultra-sensitive skin right where your leg meets your hip, watching your back arch off the bed as you let out a ragged sob. "look at how flushed you get here," he grunts, his thumb pressing firmly into the sweet spot, relishing the way your thighs clamp around his waist in a desperate bid for relief.
bf!nanami who pairs his heavy-handed groping with sensory overload. while he’s driving himself into you, he’ll lean down to bite and press open-mouthed kisses against your inner thighs, deliberately targeting the spots that make your hips stutter-step and bring a sob to your throat.
he loves the contrast of his rough, calloused hands soothing over the ultra-sensitive skin, murmuring praises against your neck while ensuring you can't think about anything else but his touch.
he'll deliberately slow his pace just to focus entirely on your thighs, sinking his teeth into the soft skin until you're completely undone. "good girl," he rumbles against your skin, "let me hear you make that sound again."
a few friends had gathered to celebrate a mutual friend’s engagement, and of course, to fawn over the giant rock sitting pretty on her left hand.
“it was the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen,” she says, eyes misting up. “flowers everywhere. candlelit dinner on this beautiful terrace. he even hired a string quartet.”
everyone awws at once.
you twist your own ring around your finger.
“you’ll never believe what james did for me!” someone else says, and like it always does when you all get together, it becomes less of a conversation and more of a contest.
they all take turns gushing over their partners and all the grand, romantic gestures that have happened recently, each story somehow bigger than the last. flowers. surprise trips. hotel rooms covered in rose petals. tickets to shows they had only mentioned wanting to see once.
all in some absurd, glittering attempt to prove who is adored more.
they all turn to you.
what had you and simon been up to recently?
you swallow.
the last date the two of you had been on had been watching a movie on Netflix, takeout and wine littering your coffee table, your legs thrown over his lap while he rubbed absent circles into your ankle.
it had been nice.
it had been normal.
but at this table, normal feels embarrassingly small.
“when you’ve been together so long, and with his schedule, it’s hard, y’know, to find those moments—”
another friend waves her hand, not unkindly, but ready to move away from what clearly wasn’t going to be an interesting enough story.
“that’s why you have to find those moments. what has he done for you lately? like for example, jack just planned this entire weekend getaway for us after my boss had been such an asshole and it was so romantic. he bought us tickets to—”
her voice begins to fade into the background.
you look down at your ring again.
it’s not that you think simon doesn’t love you.
of course he loves you.
he loves with the weight of his hand at the small of your back in crowded rooms. he loves with the way he always sleeps closest to the door. he loves with the way he notices when you are too tired to eat and sets something in front of you without asking. he loves with the way he comes home half-dead and still checks the locks, the windows, the thermostat, anything that might touch you before it touches him.
but sitting there, surrounded by candlelit dinners and surprise weekends away, a different question curls itself beneath your ribs.
does he still care?
you had already known what you’d signed up for when starting this relationship. simon was never one for giant declarations of love or grand, pretty spectacles. he didn’t perform affection well. never had.
hell, you couldn’t even remember the last time he’d brought you flowers or planned a proper date.
you shuffle in your seat.
“that’s really sweet,” you sigh.
rugby playing on the tv is what greets you, simon fully settled on the couch, a beer in hand.
his head lifts as soon as he hears your key in the door, shoulders falling even more relaxed at the sound of your footsteps entering the house.
usually, that would be your cue.
you’d toe your shoes off by the door, wander straight to the couch, and drop yourself onto him like it was the most perfect fit. he’d grunt like you’d knocked the air out of him, even though you both knew he could carry you around the house with one arm if he wanted to.
you’d recount whatever pointless gossip had been fed to you that morning, and he’d pretend not to be listening while remembering all of it.
instead, you busy yourself with the mail in the kitchen.
simon notices.
because of course he does.
you try the sink next, if only to give your hands something to do.
the tap sticks.
you yank it harder, and when nothing comes out but a high-pitched wheeze, you let out a frustrated groan.
simon is behind you before you can even turn around.
“probably clogged,” he says.
you sigh.
“i can call a plumber tomorrow.” then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn to face him. “we should do something tonight.”
his head tilts.
“we are,” he says, voice low and rough with confusion. “watching that new movie you wanted to see.”
you make a small noise under your breath.
his eyes flicker from the sink to you.
“no, si. i mean get dressed up. go out.” you swallow around the embarrassment already forming. “a real date.”
“why?”
your stomach lurches.
you know him. know he doesn’t mean it with any malice or cruelty.
but after an entire morning of listening to women talk about being chosen loudly, extravagantly, beautifully, that one word lands like proof.
why would he need to?
why would he think to?
why would he care to?
why would you ask for more when this is what you agreed to?
“forget it,” you say quickly, already stepping away. “i have a bit of a headache. ’m going to take a nap.”
simon says your name, but you don’t turn around.
the clanking of metal banging against each other is what wakes you.
for a moment, you don’t move.
you just lie there, blinking at the dim light of your bedroom, listening to the low metallic scrape from somewhere down the hall. the house is quiet around it, warm with evening, the television now turned down low enough that you can barely hear the commentator’s voice.
another clank.
a muttered curse.
you rub at your eyes and make your way to the kitchen.
simon has wedged himself inside the cabinet beneath the sink, broad shoulders barely fitting in the cramped space, one arm braced against the floor while the other reaches up into the mess of pipes above him.
“si?”
he grunts, focused on giving the valve one final screw and your gaze follows down to the toolbox lying next to his hip.
“line was damaged,” he says from under the sink. “it’ll need replacing proper, but i’ve got it for now. try it.”
wordlessly, you step to the sink and lift the handle.
water rushes out, hot and clear.
for some reason, it makes your eyes burn.
simon shifts, dragging himself out from under the cabinet with a quiet exhale. he sits back on his heels and looks up at you from the floor, forearms smudged, hair mussed, expression unreadable except for the little crease between his brows.
“i told you i could call a plumber,” you say.
he shrugs.
“got me right here, don’t you? i don’t mind.”
your chest tightens.
because it was never going to be flowers. it was never going to be candlelit dinners. it was never going to be a string quartet playing underneath a perfect night.
it was always going to be simon, sitting on your kitchen floor with a wrench in his hand, looking at you like the solution to a problem is obvious because he’s already there.
you sit down at your kitchen table, eyes already watering from overwhelm, when a memory comes so quickly it almost embarrasses you.
you, curled on the couch with him months ago with your laptop open, showing him a table from architectural digest with the sigh that you do when you’ve found something you absolutely loved.
“look at this, simon. isn’t it perfect?”
he had just hummed as you continued scrolling before you start laughing.
“absolutely not. who spends five thousand dollars on a table?”
simon hadn’t said much at the time. he rarely did when something lodged itself somewhere deep in his mind. continued stroking your hair, looked at the screen for a second longer than necessary, and went back to whatever match had been playing on the tv.
three weeks later, there had been lumber in the garage.
then sketches.
then sawdust tracked through the hallway.
then simon, scowling and cursing at a video tutorial, rewinding the same twenty seconds over and over until he understood the joint he wanted to make.
you’d laughed then.
you remember that, too.
you remember standing in the garage while he sanded the surface smooth, remember telling him he was insane, remember him saying it wasn’t that hard with all the grim seriousness of a man who had absolutely made it hard.
you remember the first night you ate dinner at it.
you remember how pleased he’d looked when you wouldn’t stop touching the grain.
you remember tearing up at the effort before sinking to your knees beneath that very table and thanking him so thoroughly that, to this day, he can’t sit at the damn thing for too long without his eyes darkening and his pants growing tight.
your eyes move across the room.
towards the cabinets he sanded down because you said the old ones made the kitchen feel too dark.
the backsplash he learned to tile because you had paused too long on a photo of handmade ceramic.
the wall he knocked through because you hated how boxed-in the room felt.
the bedroom he painted three times because the first two colors looked different once they dried, and he had only sighed, changed shirts, and opened another tin.
a house that had been perfectly fine when you bought it, just never quite yours, until simon got it in his head that he could make it so.
your heartbeat quickens.
the whole morning suddenly feels absurd in a way that makes your chest ache.
his gaze lands heavy as he watches every expression form across your face.
“you wanna tell me what got you in a mood earlier?” he asks.
his voice is even, but his hand drums once against his thigh.
your six-foot-four lieutenant of a husband, nervous at the thought of upsetting you.
you shake your head at first
then stop.
because no, that isn’t fair either.
he does love you. he loves you in fixed pipes and sanded wood and walls torn down to let in more light. he loves you in the things he can touch, carry, mend, build. he loves you so steadily that it has become the floor beneath your feet.
but you still want flowers sometimes.
you still want to be asked to put on a dress.
you still want him to look at you across a dinner table he did not build and make you feel, just for an evening, like loving you is not only something he maintains but something he celebrates.
“i know you care about me,” you say quietly.
his brow furrows.
“never said you didn’t.”
simon stills.
“i know that,” you repeat, softer this time, because you do. God, you do. “I just… I think I need more sometimes.”
something shifts in his face.
“more,” he repeats.
you huff a laugh, embarrassed now. “not more than this.”
your hand moves over the table again and his eyes follow the movement.
“just more…” You search for the words, then give up on making them perfect. “more on purpose, maybe. dinner. flowers. you telling me to get dressed because you made plans. stupid things.”
“they’re not stupid.” he immediately corrects you, firm and like he’s already offended on your behalf.
you look up at him and he pushes himself off of the floor.
you watch him stand, slow and heavy, wiping his hands on a rag before setting it aside. he comes toward you with that careful, deliberate look that always makes your stomach dip, like every bit of his attention has narrowed down to one target.
you.
“friday,” he says.
you blink. “friday?”
“dinner.” his gaze drops over you, not subtle in the slightest. “wear somethin’ nice.”
despite yourself, you laugh, small and wet in disbelief at how easy it is with him.
simon’s hand comes up, thumb brushing beneath your eye before a tear can fall.
“are you asking me on a date, riley?”
his mouth twitches.
“seems like i am.”
you look down at the table, at the careful seams, the polished wood, the impossible thing he made with his own two hands because you wanted it and he saw no reason you shouldn’t have it.
then back at him.
“good,” you say, standing slowly. “and since you fixed the sink…”
simon’s eyes darken.
you take one step toward him, then another, until your fingers catch in the waistband of his jeans and tug him close.
his hand finds the edge of the table behind you.
your table.
his eyes flick down to it, and whatever memory crosses his mind makes his jaw tighten.
you smile.
“careful,” you murmur. “you look a little proud of yourself.”
his hand settles heavy at your waist, lifting you to rest on the edge.
thinking about Simon Riley who can't sleep without you. he'd wake up breathless from a nightmare, breath uneven. his fists clenched, that familiar military instinct to grab his firearm shooting pure adrenaline through his veins.
his mind is still stuck in that post dream state, mission still fresh in his mind as he scanned around in the darkness, eyes starting around the shadows for any sign of movement.
soft breathing beside him broke through his haze and he squinted, catching sight of your figure sleeping soundly next to him, calm and breathing.
safe he thought, reassuring - forcing himself to take a breath as he tried to calm down, the sound of his heartbeat loud in his ears.
you stirred, feeling the rustling of his unrest.
"si?" you mumbled sleepily, turning towards him. his eyes softened. even half asleep you were still attentive, still worried about him.
he was quick to wrap his arms around you, warm and strong around your body as he pulled you against him. the knot in his chest loosened at the contact of your body against his, the tension in his shoulders fading as he buried his face in your neck - breathing in your scent.
still here he thought, closing his eyes in relief.
"shh lovie, go back to sleep" he replied huskily, settling against you.
you relaxed back into his arms, resting your cheek against his broad chest as sleep took over you again.
other nights when he'd wake up without you, he'd panic. dread settling in as he grasped the sheets next to him, seeking out your presence only to find it empty. he'd sit up wide awake, alert only to exhale when he heard you moving around in the bathroom, light shining beneath the door.
when you'd come out and see his expression, the left over anxiety in his eyes you'd rush over, cupping his face and smiling when he melted in your hold.
"still here" you'd whisper, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
his eyes would close at the contact of your lips, shoulders dropping and he'd wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you down onto the bed. you'd giggle at the abrupt action to which he smiled, the sound erasing whatever post nightmare plagued him and grounding him in the sound.
with you in his embrace, right where you belonged, he'd drift slowly back into slumber. peacefully.
Fratjo breaks up with you and instantly regrets it — series
Part 2B: Replaced
The invitation sits unopened in Satoru’s backpack for a while.
He only notices it because he’s digging around for a missing assignment after practice and the pink-colored card slips free, landing on the floor of his dorm.
For a second he just stares at it. Then he remembers.
You had handed it to him almost three months ago outside the student center. When you were still together.
You’d looked nervous, a little excited.
“Will you come?” you’d asked, fidgeting with your fingers.
Satoru had been halfway through answering a text from a teammate. “Come to what?”
“My art showcase.” He remembers the way your face lit up when you started explaining it.
How the department had chosen student projects and everyone would have their own display section if they qualified.
At the time he’d barely listened, but now; he somehow remembers.
He’d kissed your forehead and promised he’d try. Then he’d forgotten about it almost immediately.
The memory makes his stomach twist because he never went.The guys wanted to celebrate a win and he forgot to text you.
What he hadn’t realized then, was there were two dates on the invitation. A voting stage, which had passed; and the winners event, which was tonight.
An annual exhibition, open to the public. After a quick search on the university website, he found a list of featured artists.
To his surprise your name was first on the list.
To Gojo, this was another great opportunity to get back into your life after you shunned him.
But his irritation quickly rises when he looks down the list and recognizes another name. “Choso Kamo.”
Maybe because he’s heard it too often lately. Every time someone mentions you recently, Choso’s name seems to follow.
He shoves the invitation back into his bag and by seven o’clock he’s standing outside the gallery.
He tells himself he’s only here because Suguru mentioned there would be free food and drinks. What a terrible lie.
——-
The building is crowded when he walks in. Students drift between exhibits; holding glasses of wine and tiny paper plates stacked with appetizers.
Soft music sets the quiet atmosphere, nothing like a fraternity party or a football game.
He almost leaves, but then he sees you… and everything else disappears.
You’re standing near the center of the room beside a display table; smiling at something a professor says.
You’re wearing the same expression you used to wear whenever you talked about something you loved.
The same expression he’d spent so much time ignoring.
For a moment he just watches. Then his eyes drift to the display behind you.
The breath leaves his lungs. The entire section belongs to you. Dozens of pieces carefully arranged across the wall. Some are landscapes. Others are portraits.
He didn’t know you were this talented. The realization causes a dull ache; not because you kept it from him, you tried to show him over and over.
He remembers you asking if he’d look through your portfolio. He remembers promising to look at it, and never getting around to it.
A group gathers around your display asking about your inspiration and advice. You begin explaining one of the photographs, a proud look on your face.
Satoru suddenly felt sick; because all those years you were talking to him about this exact stuff.
And most of the time he’d been checking football scores under the table.
The shame settles heavily in his chest. Then someone appears beside you.
Choso.
Satoru recognizes him immediately.
Tall. Dark-haired. The kind of guy who manages to look effortlessly cool without trying.
You glance at him and smile like there was more to be said.
Satoru hates how much that bothers him.
Choso leans down and whispers something only for you, and your laugh carries throughout the room.
And suddenly Satoru remembers every time you’d laughed like that with him.
Every late-night drive. Every movie marathon. Every stupid joke.
Back when making you happy had felt effortless, before he’d gotten comfortable. Before he assumed you’d always be there.
A professor approaches Choso’s display nearby.
Satoru follows a crowd without thinking. At first he only intends to glance at it.
Then he stops.
The entire section is incredible. Large paintings cover the walls. Sketches. Mixed media pieces.
Months of work displayed under bright gallery lights.
People keep stopping to compliment them. Choso accepts every compliment with an awkward smile but somehow redirects every compliment to you.
“Y/n actually helped me choose that one.”
“She stayed up until three helping me finish that display.”
“I almost scrapped this project, but she talked me out of it.”
Every comment feels like another knife.
Because Choso isn’t bragging. He isn’t trying to make Gojo jealous. He didn’t even realize he was there.
If anything, he seems genuinely grateful.
And Satoru remembers what it felt like when you used to support him like that.
You attended every game and made arrangements to come to away games. You learned the rules, listened to him complain after losses, celebrated wins like they were your own.
You built entire weekends around supporting him.
And he can’t remember attending a single thing that mattered to you.
Not one.
The realization follows him through the rest of the evening.
Everywhere he looks, there are reminders. Evidence of an entire world he’d never bothered to learn about.
Eventually he finds himself standing in front of one photograph longer than the others.
A nighttime campus scene.
Soft lights reflected across rain-soaked pavement.
Beautiful. Quiet. Lonely.
The title card beneath it catches his attention. The date listed underneath makes his stomach drop. He knows that date.
You took this photograph the night of one of his championship games. The same night you’d asked him to come with you afterward.
The same night he’d blown you off for a party.
You’d gone alone and taken this photo, creating something beautiful out of something painful.
For the first time all evening, Satoru leaves the gallery overwhelmed.
People continue filtering in through the entrance behind him.
Inside, through the glass windows, he can still see you surrounded by people who appreciate what you create.
And suddenly he understands something.
He’d spent months convincing himself that the breakup happened because football demanded too much of him.
Standing here now, none of those excuses survive.
The truth is much simpler; you had spent years showing him exactly who you were, inviting him into your world.
And every time he’d treated them like something he could look at later.
Now someone else knows your favorite projects. Someone else knows your dreams. Someone else gets to stand beside you on the nights that matter.
Satoru stays outside until the gallery closes.
He watches you leave through the front doors surrounded by friends, arms hooked with Choso. Your head leaning on him, accompanied by the widest grin possible.
And for the first time since the breakup, he doesn’t feel angry or jealous, just devastated.
