[fwops]

nanami’s the best kisser

higuruma’s marriage quirks (ft. bdsm)

nerd satoru eats the sorority president

higuruma’s penchant for head pats

satoru’s being weird (ft. triplets)

zuko’s breeding kink (ft. electrostimulation)

aang’s breeding kink (ft. avatar state sex)

[fwops]

aang, in all his avatar glory, is not above tongue-fucking his cum right back into your quivering, convulsing pussy. his wide, stupefied eyes glow white as he licks and scoops and sucks with relentless obsession, lithe tongue sweeping across your folds with striking precision only a master of the four elements could possess. powerful arms pin your thighs against the mattress while roughened hands palm over your lower stomach, cradling the skin above your uterus with something almost reverent in their touch.

“it has to take. . .” he’s mumbling to himself, practically incoherent, but you can still hear the raw desperation threaded through his guttural chanting. “has to, has to, has to—!”

“a-aang, mmph! what’s wrong? did something happen on your trip—?” you whimper through the haze of overstimulation, hands scrambling against his coiled shoulders as you search for something to ground yourself with. he’s been at it for hours, ever since he returned from his home air temple. had stormed into your shared bedroom with the doors rattling against the walls behind him, barely a greeting leaving his mouth before he was climbing over you, frantic hands shoving the hefty layers of his robes and beads from his body like they’ve suddenly become unbearable.

in mere seconds he had you striped and flat on your back.

then on all fours.

and then on your side and everything else in between.

the room is in absolute shambles— feathers spilling from torn pillows and swirling through the air in frantic, whirling currents. the bed barely remains intact beneath you, headboard split apart and canopy hanging in splintered ruin, all of it unable to withstand the force of him as the elements hum beneath his tortured skin.

“aang, honey, are you— hah!— okay? talk to me, baby. please.”

what new revelation could he have possibly had for him to suddenly fold you into a million different positions?

and you tried to run, to tap out after the nth round, but did you really think you could escape the hold of an avatar in his avatar state? a handsome, beefy, six-foot-five, one-hundred-something kilogram man so utterly desperate to revive an entire bloodline, yet far too in love to want to do it with anyone else but you?

aang’s voice comes out rough, wrecked with pathetic want. “need to get you pregnant,” he finally admits, lips never leaving your twitching clit. “need it right fucking now.”

his sharp, unfamiliar words send a shiver down your spine.

he begrudgingly sits up, one hand keeping you spread for him while the other drags down his chiseled abs, ghosting over the twin downward arrows that curl just above his v–line. he fists his burly cock in slow, measured strokes as he readies another thick load, bright eyes trailing from your flushed face to your heaving breasts, tongue-in-cheek.

your heart jumps. you know that look. “aang, i know how much reviving air bending means to you, the duty you have to your people—” you start in an attempt to soothe.

because when he gets like this you tend to wobble for weeks.

he cuts you off with a dry, humorless chuckle. “you think that’s what this is about?” he tilts his head, eyes narrowing.

you could only gulp in response.

then, he’s rising above you, broad, muscular shoulders boxing you in as he settles between your thighs. the heavy heat of his dick presses against your sensitive, aching entrance, his incandescent gaze dragging over your face like he’s trying to memorize every expression, every shaky inhale.

as if he was mapping out your features to store in the forefront of his mind. to painfully revisit over and over again.

the realization that had struck him back at the temple as he looked at every mural, every worn painting and towering statue of the air nomads. they all looked like his people. familiar faces, familiar smiles, familiar powers.

but none of them resembled you.

none carried the curve of your lashes or the little furrow in your brow when you worried. none had your laugh, the unique slope of your nose, your warmth, your favor for sour over sweet, your gentleness for children and particular bugs. none exuded your enchanting presence, whether you could bend or not. and suddenly, the grief that sat in his chest for years changed shape entirely. because what would be the point of preserving the world he lost if, in doing so, he lost every trace of the person he loved most within it?

“this—this isn’t about me reviving airbenders or a duty to save my dying culture. this isn’t about avatar sonam or tagah or monk gyatso or anything that has to do with bending. this is about you and me and me wanting to start a family with you,” he states with that heavy, solid avatar voice of his. firm and sure, thumb brushing along your jaw, “this is about me making sure that a part of you will always exist in a world where the avatar exists. that your lips, your eyes, your soul. . . live on for eternity. so that every time i look into this world through the eyes of the new avatar, i can still see you. see you in our grandchildren, in our great-great grandchildren, in the people that will come to exist because we loved each other. . . to know that you’ll always be in my life someway, somehow.”

“aang. . .”

“i realize now that there will come a day when airbending returns, whether in our lifetime or long after we’re gone.” he presses his forehead against yours, tone softer despite the ache in his words. “i know that i’ll get to see that vision through the eyes of the avatars who will come after me. and if i keep chasing impossible answers, impossible resolves— if i keep throwing myself at a future i can’t force into existence— i’ll lose you in the process. i’ll waste the little time we’re given together. with our friends. with our children. the thought of losing you to time. . .”

it killed him.

“what would become of you if i go down this path?”

and you feel it. the shift in him. the sincerity behind every broken word, every trembling breath. the sheer despair that claws through him at the thought of you leaving nothing behind of yourself, of the love the two of you share. the regret he’d forever live with if he only prioritized the revival of air-bending or the kids that would inherit it. and the fact that he still hasn’t left the avatar state only makes it worse, every emotion stripped raw and vulnerable beneath glowing eyes and tattoos and shaking hands.

“so i vow now that i will never neglect your life or your culture for the sake of mine. whether we have airbending children or not. . . that is up to the universe.”

his hands cup your cheeks gently as he leans in, drawing you into a slow, sloppy kiss. you could only gasp softly when his tongue slips past your lips, kissing you like he’s trying to seal his fate with yours.

he slowly pulls away, thick fingers easing you open as he makes room for himself. “i can live without other airbenders. i can make due with the acolyte family we’ve founded. what i cannot live without is you. what i cannot imagine not ingrained in this world beyond my lifetime is you.”

aang smiles for the first time tonight, like the image in his mind was far more beautiful than anything he could’ve ever imagined. he sinks inside, massive and overwhelming, drawing a raspy breath from your lungs at the sheer stretch of him. still, you pull him closer, wanting nothing more than to feel the slow, heavy drag of him inside you.

“aang!”

“sh, deep breaths, baby. yes, like that. be good. fuck, there we go. was made for this.” and he settles there for a minute, buried at the hilt. “my sweet, perfect, silly girl.”

his body hums as you shake beneath him.

“so for now,” he whispers, breath warm against your lips as he begins moving slowly, in and out, “all i want is a child with you. one that embodies everything that you are. one that will carry on your memory, your curiosity, your strength, your traits.” gone was the glow of the avatar state, the white fading slowly from his eyes until they were simply his again, fixed on yours with a tenderness so deep it was almost unbearable. “so i’m begging you. . . give me a baby that looks just like you.”

you cry out helplessly as he buries his face into your throat, holding you impossibly close. every stroke is long and deliberate, driven far less by hunger and more by an emotion too large for words. the slick of your arousal coats his balls as you helplessly grind against him, cunt fluttering around the girthiness of his base. you could feel all the veins that line him, tracing your walls as he fucked you like he needed you to breathe.

you blink back the tears threatening to spill. “b-but i do want our baby to be like you. i do want to help you—”

he shakes his head fervently, fingers tightening around you like he’s afraid you still don’t understand. “no. no,” he rasps, “i don’t want this to be some duty you carry for me. i want this because it’s us. because it’s the life we chose together. no obligations. no sacrifices.”

you feel the dampness at the corner of his eyes as he clings to you, hands roaming your body in a worship-like trance, as though he was reassuring himself that you were real and here and present and his. to have and to hold and to sink himself into when the world is in chaos.

“please,” he croaks hoarsely into your neck, voice cracking around the word, and the raw vulnerability in it makes your chest ache more than anything else ever could. “say you’ll give me a baby, sweetheart. say you’ll give me this one thing. even if they come without air-bending.”

a broken sound leaves your throat as you cling to his shoulders, nodding desperately against him, back arching into his warmth. “yes,” you breathe out shakily, fingers curling around his nape. “yes, yes, yes. of course, i will.”

the words—your defining proclamation—undo him entirely. he groans into the curve of your neck, holding you so tightly it almost hurts, every breath hot, cold, then hot again against your skin. you run a hand down his spine, flattening your palm against the scar on his back.

his hand glides down the length of your stomach until it finds your sensitive clit. his thumb traces slow, firm circles over the small, aching bundle of nerves, each deliberate stroke sending another wave of pleasure through you. your vision flashes white as your body trembles, every muscle tightening before you shudder beneath his touch. he follows as he cums in thick, long spurts, coating your insides pearly white as you cream on his cock, legs caging him in. his tattoos begin to faintly glow once more as he shivers, hips still pumping his seed into you, forehead pressed beneath your jaw, as though he can’t bear even an inch of distance between you.

when he finally pulls back, his eyes have returned to their natural state, shining with something far softer than desire.

devotion, perhaps. a need to always keep you safe. to give you—and your children—a world that offers everything and takes nothing in return.

“i love you,” he murmurs softly, brushing the damp strands of your hair from your face. he rests his forehead against yours again, eyes slipping closed as his heart, for once, is at ease. “thank you.”

your lips tremble into a tired smile, fingers curling weakly around his head. “you never have to thank me for loving you.”

though your words alone could never truly capture the depth of everything you’ve given him.

[fwops]

despite the tremendous growth zuko has had over the years in regulating his emotions and reeling back his more sadistic ways of achieving his goals, it’s no surprise that there are still moments where his past behavior peeks through in places that aren’t quite. . . standard for him.

“hm? I didn’t quite catch that, baby,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on your flushed face as he pulls you closer, grip possessive, vice, the tension between you palpable and unmistakable. he forcefully bounces you on his thick cock as steam curls around you, water harshly sloshing with every sharp thrust your husband plants to your abused hole. it’s nothing unusual for zuko to pull you into the royal baths like this, craving a quiet escape from his relentless advisors and the chaos of certain friends who have always surrounded him.

but this time. . . this time was different.

“i—mph! i’m sorry! i’msorryi’msorryi’msorry—!”

“sorry for what? be more clear.”

“for ah! running straight into danger when you told me not to.”

“exactly. with absolutely no regard for your safety.” he clicks his tongue, a large hand coming down to swat at your asscheeks. “i know you’re a big, strong girl, but dealing with bandits alone isn’t something i want my wife to be doing in her spare time, especially when i’m off on avatar business,” he growls, tone edged with something firm but familiar.

frustration, worry. a deep desire to keep you safe in his domain.

you nod frantically, eyes glossed over with a mix of pleasure and guilt. you know how much zuko worries about you, a non-bender from foreign lands still unfamiliar with the true weight and danger of the fire nation territory.

you aren’t used to this, to life as royalty. to be waited on by maids and fed by famous chefs. you were a kyoshi warrior, above all. the only thing you knew here was him. his patience, steady presence, and strength. the way he looks at you like you hung up the moon and stars.

the fiery, dilated eyes that you cannot currently see.

“wanna look at you, zuko. haven’t seen your face in days.” you whimper, tears staining the crimson ribbon, the one tight around your eyes— the one he uses to keep his hair up.

“bad girls don’t get to have their way, princess. make me cum, and maybe i’ll grant you your wish.”

he slides his hands up your torso, teasing and featherlike. you could only shudder as you kept moving against him, your hands clinging to his shoulders and arms, stronger and broader than you remember, shaped by the years that have passed around him.

he thumbs at your nipples, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face as his thoughts begin to wander. he feels the subtle change in you, the way you tense and draw closer, and his expression shifts into something more devious (and a tad vengeful) as he watches you carefully.

zap!

you gasp at the sharp sting against your chest.

lightening. from his fingertips.

“i didn’t tell you to stop, sweetheart. you don’t get to stop until i punish you properly.” he tilts his head. “now, should i make you count?”

he’s still angry, but not unfair. zuko soothes the sting with his mouth, lips pressing and suctioning and lingering where the heat blooms, easing it with slow, careful attention from his hot tongue— the way he does to your achy cunt on the days of your period where your cramps hurt the most.

then, he does it again. lets a spark flicker against the flesh of your ass, clit, and chest again and again until you’re trembling against him, unable to keep yourself upright.

relentless and ruthless and so, so, so in love with you.

“i’m sorry, zuko. won’t ever do it again.”

“i know you are, baby. but i can’t forgive you just yet.”

“wh-what can i do to make you feel better?”

he pauses, thoughts drifting once more as he begins to picture you warm and glowing, a soft hand resting over the gentle curve of your stomach. that’s all he’s been thinking about, really. in meetings and missions, at night when he’s got an arm slung over your tummy as you sleep.

what it would be like for you to bear his children.

you have always been so patient, so natural with aang’s son bumi, and the image lingers longer than he expects. he can’t fathom anyone else standing beside him, anyone else he would trust with something as important as having his heir, something that felt like a future he once never thought he’d have.

(and it’d give him all the more right to be fussy and obsessive about your safety. to keep you in his palace and in his line of sight at all times.

to tie you to him for eternity and more.)

“a baby.” he quickens his pace, rough hands glued to your hips, now full on slamming into you. he’s delirious with want, the animalistic need to mark you and solidify your position as lady of this land once and for all. “give me a— fuuuck— baby. i want an heir, princess.”

“ah—! ah—! zuko, slow down! a wh-what? a-a baby?”

“yes. need you bred and pregnant by the end of the week— no— by tonight. that’s an order.” he jests, but there’s a heavy glint in his eye. your walls flutter at his words. “and i think this pretty cunt agrees with me.”

a vow. you would bare his child at once.

“o-of course, zuko.”

“then we can’t have the water washing away my cum now can we? gotta make sure it takes.” he presses a kiss to the side of your head, slow and lingering. then his teeth catch lightly on the ribbon, tugging it loose before he pulls it away from your face, letting it fall as he finally looks at you again.

he grips your ass. makes a move to stand, cock still buried to the hilt of your quivering pussy. you instinctively tighten around him, grappling at the expanse of his muscular figure.

“missed you so much.” you sigh, nuzzling into his face and nipping at his scar. he breathes in your scent. agonizes over the fact that you’d smell so much sweeter once you’re full of milk and spiritual energy. “wan’ a baby with you too, zuko. been wanting one for so long.”

he begins fucking upwards again, letting gravity drag you down his girthy length. “why didn’t you say so before, petal?”

“you were so busy with nation affairs and. . . with everything you’ve been through.” you bite your lip. “and we cannot guarantee our first born would inherit fire-bending.”

he chuckles. his sweet, thoughtful girl. “all the more reason to have one, flower. or many. it would strengthen the throne— strengthen foreign alliances— regardless if the fire lord can bend fire or not. and it would heal my past wounds in ways that you can’t even imagine. to see you and watch you be the most amazing mother to our children. . .” he groans as he feels himself drawing close.

you moan at his words, at the weight of him inside you and what this meant. “i’m so close, zuko. wanna feel you fill me. wanna give you a baby. make you a good father, too.”

his hips falter for a moment, breath catching. your arms wind around his neck, pulling him down as your lips meet his in a rushed, desperate kiss, the kind that says more than either of you can put into words as zuko leans into you without hesitation. he cums with a moan into your mouth, his semen coating your guts in long, endless spills. he feels your slick envelope him, walls milking him for everything he has.

“i love you.” he whispers into the crown of your head. “what an honor it’d be to start this new chapter with you.”

you can only smile against his chest, eyes drifting closed as sleep slowly takes you. you trust that he’ll always make sure you’re clean and ready for bed, wrapped safely in his arms.

your dreams blur soft and warm, filled with him, with the quiet image of zuko standing tall, a smaller version of him clutching the front of his robes as he holds them close, steady and sure like everything you’ve come to find in him.

[fwops]

even with all the light and love you harbored for your boyfriend of three months, you were seriously starting to get real fuckin’ sick of gojo’s constant mood swings.

one minute he’s curled up on top of you, outdated argyle sweater and beige slacks tossed somewhere on the floor. clunky glasses slip crooked against your boobs as he grinds into your plush thighs, half-whining, half-bargaining, half-begging—asking you to quote, “spit in his mouth” and “ride him so hard he cries post-postcoital syncope” (passing out), as a reward for completing your biochemistry homework.

“wanna explore your insides like apollo thirteen, princess. . .” he breathes, voice breaking into a soft whimper as his hips stutters, fingers pushing deeper into your tight opening, like he’s trying to map and probe every inch of you. “don’t need a cosmology textbook to know this cute cunt’s out of this world.”

“can you be normal? for once?”

“with you splayed open like this for a dork like me? how can i be?” with his free hand, he manhandles you into an almost sitting position, fingers still pistoning into you. he slides allll the way down until he’s faced with your fluttering entrance. “this pussy— and my poncho-wearing pikachu: xy promo card— are the two things i love most in the world.”

“shut up, plea—” you gasp, cut off as his tongue drags a slow stripe up your slit. his mouth seals around your clit, sucking with infuriating precision, relentless in a way that makes your thighs tremble, like he has all the time in the world and every intention of undoing you completely.

“m-might squirt, g-get off.” you attempt to pry him off, and like a puppy who wants it’s mommy’s milk, he shakes his head vigorously.

“in my mouth. now.”

the next moment, he’s got a stupid snapback and wife beater on, folding you into a meeeeean arch as he drags his fat tip slow across your ass, smearing his nut all over your reddened cheeks—courtesy of his miniature greek paddle— with a wicked smirk. somewhere behind you, there’s a faint click, followed by the soft whir of a polaroid developing.

“hold that pose, petal. yes, like that— fuuuuck. love the way my load just leaks out of that slutty little hole. i bet your classmates can’t even imagine how much of a whore their teacher’s pet is for some good fuckin’ dick. shit, i need a picture for my snap’s ‘my eyes only’ too.”

(and to send it to two very specific individuals.)

a lightbulb goes off in his empty head.

he reaches over to his bedside table, grabbing a black marker and gnawing the cap off. the sound alone makes your stomach flip.

you shift, glancing back at him. “w-what’re you doing?”

“nothing, gorgeous,” he bites his lip, one hand steadying your hip, thumb brushing slow, absent circles into your skin. there’s a grin in his voice, easy and teasing. “just sit still f’me, yeah? let daddy do his thing.”

he chuckles deviously as he admires his work. gojo property— right on your left ass cheek.

and even worse, he has days where he’s almost too normal; casually taking you out to fancy dinners in the classiest of button-ups and watches, playing your favorite songs on the piano like he’s done it a hundred times before, replacing your laptop without a second thought when yours broke, making love to you in missionary with your face cradled in his hands, coaxing you to cum together. . .

“fuckin’ beautiful. i love you so much. can’t wait ‘til you’re my wife. gonna spoil you lots. . . yeah? want me to take care of this pretty pussy forever?” he clicks his tongue when you try to hide behind your hands, voice softening just a touch. “hey. . . don’t do that, sweetheart. don’t hide from me. wanna see you— wanna watch your face when we fall apart together.”

you nod vigorously as he thrusts harder. “such a needy, clammy thing. . . cum, baby. good girl.” he purrs. “need to feel you tighten up on me.”

it was almost like you were dating two, no, three different men.

“you had her last fucking sunday, shithead,” sutarō spits, crushing another beer down in a few gulps before swearing at the empty can. “we’re already halfway through that stupid mormon show she likes. says she can’t watch it without me. then we’ve got a pilates class after my chapter meet— and i know you can’t handle that shit. i barely can.”

“she can finish the show with me,” sotari shoots back, pushing his glasses up his nose. “besides, she has an exam coming up and i promised i’d help her. i told her sunday was going to be our study date.”

satoru could only shake his head at his other, visually identical, pathetic thirds. he’s already given up his sunday with you twice. it was his turn to see you for an extra day of the week.

“look,” he starts, “i haven’t had a sunday with her in two weeks. she’s probably stressed out of her mind over that exam and could use an actual rest day. and sutarō— you seriously traumatized her at that ‘spring break spree with kaisen phi’ darty you dragged her to today. imagine how she felt when her supposedly very nerdy, piano-playing boyfriend with an. . . occasional sadistic streak suddenly did a handstand keg stand while a crowd of frat bros started chanting, ‘that’s our sexy, perverted pledge master’ around him.”

“sotari’stheactualpervert.” sutarō grumbles under his breath.

“i heard that, asshole.”

satoru exhales, running a hand through his hair.

“just let me take her out on a normal dinner date. she’s been craving sushi, and i just bought her a new bath bomb that she’s been wanting us to try. i even put my card in her phone wallet and told her to go get her nails done.”

“french tip?” they ask simultaneously, looking almost starry-eyed.

he sighs. “of course.”

“her birthday is coming up,” sutarō says, leaning back in his chair. “isn’t it about time we tell her the truth? she might even enjoy having all three of us.” he licks his lips. “at once.”

“or she’d have a cerebrovascular accident.” sotari quips.

“bitch, just say stroke. she’d have a stroke.”

“okay, know-it-all,” look in the mirror, sotari, “how about you tell me what the symptoms of a stroke are?”

“spazzing out, going brazy. . . man, you’re just mad your bread ain’t up.”

“actually, we’re both unemployed. at least i have my research lab—”

“it might be wise,” satoru cuts in, firmer now. “to tell her. we’d still have to take turns, but at least we could all spend time with her without lying.”

for once, sutarō doesn’t immediately argue. he just tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling, jaw working like he’s chewing on something he can’t quite spit out.

“or,” he mutters after a beat, “she laughs. calls us insane. slams the door in our faces. never talks to any of us again.”

“or,” satoru counters, “she doesn’t.”

the room falls quiet, thick with the weight of it. possibility, risk, all of it balanced on something as fragile as your reaction.

“she can barely handle one.”

“imagine two.” sotari shakes his head.

“no, imagine—”

click.

the triplets freeze.

a soft mechanical whir follows, unmistakable.

slowly, their heads turn.

and there you were, standing in the doorway, a freshly printed polaroid sliding out into your hand as your eyes flicker between them with an expression so unreadable.

“. . .three?”

[fwops]

after many years of marriage, higuruma has grown into a quiet, almost absentminded habit of petting you. whether you’re lock-jawed and slobbering all over his long, fat cock or your face is buried into the column of his throat as he rams into you after a long day, he’s always got a heavy palm on your head, large and calloused, steadily running his fingers over your scalp, as if to comfort you— ground you.

to let you know that he’s there and present.

“filthy girl. . . you like it when i treat my wife like a little cock sleeve?” he growls into your ear one night, the crook of his elbow tight around your throat as he fucks you from behind, prone bone, the other hand firm against your head. he tilts your face back just enough to bite and kiss and lick along your cheek, making sure you never forget who was driving you into oblivion. “can barely fit myself into this pretty pussy and i work it open every fucking night. isn’t that something?”

he’s rough. relentless. reverent. your pleasure driving him to an almost inhuman rhythm, each thrust knocking the breath from your lungs. it has you reaching out for anything to hold onto, your nose mere inches from the headboard. if he bottoms out, sinks any deeper, thrusts any harder. . . you’re quite literally slamming your face right into it.

he knows, though. he always does. his hand stays warm and steady, braced between you and the wood; a solid, measured shield, keeping you safe from the force of him even as he loses himself in it.

“don’t run from this, sweetheart. you’ll only hurt yourself.”

“g-gonna cum.” you whine, bucking back against his crotch. “feel it coming.”

“cum then, baby. make a mess. i’m not stopping you.”

you could only whimper incoherently as he quickens his pace, punctuating every surge of his hips with a jab to your cervix.

the sounds are obscene.

“look at how talkative this sweet cunt is, love. look at how ah— how she’s fucking me back. can’t believe i get to come home and stuff her every night.”

you pull his hand from your hair and guide his fingers into your mouth, lips closing around them as you suck softly, slow and deliberate, like you would his lengthy cock. your tongue traces along his digits, gliding over the cool edge of his thick, metallic wedding band.

“keep this going and we’ll give our kids another fuckin’ sibling, baby.” and there’s already three. “bet you want that, hm?”

he groans as you clamp around him in pleasure and milk him for everything he’s worth. can’t help but follow suit as he clenches his abs and leave a nasty bite on your burning shoulder, coating your abused guts white with his thick semen.

he doesn’t pull out until much, much later.

honestly, he doesn’t even realize how often his hand ends up resting on your head. even on quieter, more mundane days—when you’re lying with your head on his thigh while you both read on the couch, or when you wrap your arms around him the second he gets home—he always has a strong hand resting on your head, or at the back of your neck, absentmindedly massaging or working through any tangles. smoothing it back in careful strokes, over and over.

and if you pause, if you look at him or shift just slightly, his hand stills for a fraction of a second, like he’s been caught. his brows knit, just barely, before he clears his throat and withdraws. . . only to return a moment later, softer this time, more intentional.

but sometimes you do get annoyed with his insistent, repetitive petting.

“good bite, honey.” he purrs, patting your head a couple of times after you try his first— and perfect— attempt at steak pasta, taking a big, dramatic forkful. he knows you’re playing it up, of course; he likes it when you make a show of enjoying his food. (with your three kids also sharing the same large appetite as their mother.)

“m’ not a dog, hiromi.”

“no, you’re not,” he says, settling into the seat beside you. he takes a slow sip of his wine, glancing over with the corner of his lips curled, a mischievous dimple appearing. “but you’re my good girl, aren’t you?”

you don’t answer. you don’t have to.

he knows the answer.

“come here.” he taps his thigh once, thick and muscular. you sit right down, as if it’s second nature. he leans in and inhales against your chest. “don’t wanna to make you feel infantilized, sweetheart. just love touching you.”

“i know, hiromi. i love it too,” you sigh, hands gliding up his chest before looping loosely around his neck. he lets out a soft sound as you lean in, closing the distance to kiss him. feels his pants tighten as you slowly grind over his hardening shaft, teasing. your hands drifts upward, slipping into his dark hair, fingers tangling as you pull him just a little closer.

you yank his hair back hard, drawing a groan that spills straight into your mouth. pulling back just enough, you spit onto his overworked tongue, then lean in again, kissing him deeply and pushing the warm glob inside.

“i like you petting my hair.” you gasp into his mouth. “but i know you like me pulling yours.”

he could only grin into your lips. lets his lips lull open as you let a slick droplet of spit drip onto his tongue. he tightens his hold on your hips.

there’s something in the way his touch lingers; safe, familiar, consistent, no, devotional, that makes it feel less like a habit and more like a quiet confession he doesn’t know how to say out loud. . .

but one you understand always.

[fwops]

nerdy little satoru, above anything, is a big, fat, munch!

“keep riding my face, gorgeous. don’t stop. oh fuuuuck— just like that, beautiful. you’re doing so well. you smell so fuckin’ good, baby. i could probably come like this, no hands. just you. assaulting my face with your glorious pussy. using it like you hate me. can you sit on it next? canyousitonitnextcanyousitonitne—”

“please, for the love of all that is good, satoru. just eat me out. normally. with minimal dialogue. please.”

“baby—”

“please.”

the night started off like any other friday evening: superficially formed study groups in full swing, your socials blowing up with sorority invites to shitty fraternity mixers, ino begging you to put him on your baddie friend (hell no), todo snapping a photo of his bare ass for streaks, campus streamer noaya getting “frame-mogged” by fraternity president sukuna at the kaisen phi house, and you staring blankly at your shower wall, still reeling from choso losing your vape right before your anxiety-inducing four-hour morning chemistry lab.

somewhere a few kilometers away, a poor student was getting slimed out by a scooter with a 200-pound student-athlete (hakari) on it.

‘tis the highs and lows of university.

and to top off all your weekday chaos, your “best friend” satoru decides to show up at your studio apartment for the nth time, armed with a self-proclaimed “very thorough” and “detailed, covers all your bases” recap of your upcoming physics midterm— because, of course, he took the same class (ta’d for it, actually) way back when.

and as usual (as of last drunken weekend during the “ski with kaisen phi” party, with you in attendance as the deadbeat sorority, jujutsu tau, president), the night ends with three of satoru’s crooked and stupidly thick fingers lodged deep inside your soaping cunt. he curls and drags his long digits in tandem with the pace he’s set with his tongue, curved thumb drawing tight, expert circles on your swollen clit. he pauses his ministrations only to brainlessly nuzzle and sniff at your abused entrance. (weirdo.)

for whatever reason, tonight he finds himself sitting on the floor (not new), back pressed against the end of your bed. you face him, one knee perched on the mattress beside his head for leverage, the other leg planted firmly on the floor.

oh, he can practically see everything under your blessed, satoru-installed kärrnocka room light!

he urges you to grind on his face with a simple, “i’ll shut up if you do,” and it’s almost embarrassing, really, the sounds he makes and the drool he produces when he’s feverishly making out with your cunt. he retains absolutely zero dignity or resolve when it comes to him, a wall, and making you cum with his mouth, hands, or any available body part. (you could probably ask him to tattoo your name on his chest and he’d ask what size and font.) his free fist pumps his monstrous cock slowly—ever the multitasker—thumb milking his angry tip for all he’s worth.

he eats, no, feasts like he’s starving, despite this being the third time today alone that he’s had his face buried between your thighs. a reward he promised for every section you complete with near-perfect marks. he uses your elevation as an excuse to give your ass a tight squeeze, earning a yelp and pressing you flatter against his salivating mouth.

satoru’s eyes roll back in pleasure and concentration, cheeks flushed deep red, muscular arms— he took up boxing after overhearing you say you liked buff guys in tenth grade— straining to pull you closer to your high.

your annoyingly skilled best friend almost looks ethereal like this. you can almost see why girls obsess over him.

too bad he can’t seem to shut the fuck up.

(you like it a little; the fact that he scares the hoes away.)

with visible restraint, he pulls his slobbery lips off your clit but doesn’t stop finger-fucking you as he yaps. “love this sweet, irresistible pussy so fucking much.” he pecks your clit.

he looks up at you with his godforsaken fluorescent blue orbs. “there has to be a scientific, no, divine reason why i crave you every waking moment of my life.”

you stop grinding just long enough to roll your eyes and shove his head back into your fluttering hole, pinching and tweaking your own nipples to distract yourself from the bullshit he just spewed.

the fuckin’ geek practically humps the air, imagining it was you bouncing on his lap.

he pulls away again— god, he wishes he could breathe in pussy—for another breath, fucked-out eyes dropping to his flushed length. ideally, he’d have both your hands wrapped around his base right now, maybe fondling his aching balls, but. . .

your cute feet. . . look a bit. . . inviting.

you gasp as his large hand curls around your ankle, the one dangling off the bed.

slowly, he drags it toward his crotch, thick cock practically thumping with anticipation. he presses the sole of your foot flat against him and, like some makeshift pocket pussy, begins fucking himself between your foot and his hand, tongue still deep between your folds. he groans and whines into your heat nonstop, mumbling incoherently, as if your cunt is draining him of every sense.

to be frank, you can barely make out his sentences. pussy really has him speaking five different languages. but fragments of “sweetest, perfect pussy,” “could die happy right now,” and “god, just let me drown like this asdfgh” slip through his pathetic babbling.

you flutter at his words.

and if satoru is being totally honest, this moment is eons better than any fantasy he’s had before meeting you. even his stupid nerd-goggles-for-glasses (the ones he designed and 3D-printed specifically for pussy-eating so they don’t scratch you when you rut against his face) fog up at the thought of you fucking his face with your ass next.

you grind harder as your climax closes in. he feels your body lurch and fold, your hands coming down to cup his cheeks, his head, his ears in search of purchase. you’re practically crying with him at this point. he’s nasty, but you’re a “real big slut” (—shoko) for coming twice as fast just because he’s got your foot on his dick.

“oh, sweetheart. don’t you dare fucking stop. gonna come so hard with you.” you clench instinctively around his fingers. “yeah? want me to come all over you, pretty girl?” he teases your clit with his nose, sucks the pebbled pearl into his mouth with fervor, dragging your foot up and down his cock even faster. “you’re practically withering on my tongue, baby. want me to make you come?”

you can practically feel his smirk against you.

that egomaniacal pervert.

“s-shut up, w-weirdo,” you groan, fisting his hair harder, yanking it. he likes it—likes everything you do—but he definitely swells at the balm of your foot. “don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“i’ll take that as a yes, beautiful.”

like clockwork, you come on his face from a long lick that starts at the curve of your ass and ends at your puffy nub. your palms slap against the bed as you try to steady yourself, thighs clamping around his head—his happy place—holding him hostage. white blooms behind your eyelids. he shudders as he follows, thick ropes of release painting your feet and ass, his abs and chest. wetter than usual, like he’d squirted in your place.

“f-fuck. always my favorite part—orgasming with my future wife’s pussy on my face.” he sighs, leaning back to nuzzle your stomach, pressing a kiss to your belly button. you feel his janky-ass glasses bump against your tits when you slide into his lap and let him bury his face in your chest. it’s quiet for a few moments as you both catch your breath.

you really want to say something snarky. like, “you haven’t even asked me to be your girlfriend, dork.”

but he did just give you the best orgasm of your life. (without his cock involved.)

so you let it slide.

after a minute, he lightly slaps your ass. “get on the bed, angel. need to cum in your ass next.”

“ugh. you wish, wonder boy.”

[fwops]

higuruma, like every wife-obsessed man, had his quirks.

he likes to steal your panties, for one. (“collecting evidence,” he calls it.) hoards them under his pillow (he sleeps on the right, always), or in his briefcase. prefers your cutely patterned cotton hipsters over the fancy lace ones— they hold your scent the best.

prefers to slap his ridiculously big, thick cock on your tongue before the real party starts. slips the tip in slowly. has a thumb inside to keep your mouth open nice and wide. receiving head isn’t high on his foreplay list— he likes pleasing you the most— but it’s always a treat for both of you when it’s added to the night play.

punishes you when he has a bad court day. belt around your throat. black tie secured over your eyes. clamps attached to your pre-pinched, sucked, and bitten nipples. a vibrating device plugging up your ass. the pocket square from his three–piece suit holding your wrists together. hair intricately braided by his big hands. curt commands. “kneel.” and then, “deeper. yes, like that. take it all in, sweetheart, i know you can. make me feel better.” watches you rut your cunt against his brand new shoes, moaning desperately when your clit catches on the textured fabric of his charcoal grey socks. clicks his tongue and even checks his watch cause he knows his nonchalance eggs you on more. nudges your head down a few more inches, until your nose is met with soft tufts of hair. it has your eyes zeroing in on his iliac furrow and the happiest of happy trails. “swallow all of it. make sure you can still taste me when you’re at your book club tomorrow. . . and be a good girl for me. don’t forget to bring the fruit i pack for you again. i’ll spank your ass raw if you do.” (you forget to. on purpose.)

gives hard, deliberate strokes when he finally gets inside of you. he’s weird in the sense that he loves it when it gets messy in bed. clean and crisp on an everyday basis, but when the clock strikes twelve. . .he’s coming inside and on your face, tits, and stomach. (an orgasm never really softens your husband.) always wants you squirting at least once or twice, and that usually happens in full nelson. he never takes off his accessories, so there’s always a thick patek watch pressed against your right ear, and a silver band pressed against your left. the cool of the metal is welcoming against the overwhelming heat that is your appending pinnacle. knows exactly when you come, too. feels you tighten on him like vice, hands scrambling to hold him and lock him in a spit-inducing make out.

holds your head when he feels you spasming around him. adds an arm around your neck if he’s fucking you from behind. likes to keep you pinned when he’s drilling his cock into you. let’s you bite and suck him everywhere. his arms, his neck, his chest. . . it makes him cum faster and harder when you leave a mark on his throat. (secretly also likes it when you lightly suck on his nipples.)

“tight fuckin’ cunt doesn’t wanna let me go. soak my cock, baby.” he growls, plowing deeper into your cervix.

loves, loves, loves to refer to your pussy as his “sweet, pretty girl” and blatantly ignoring you when he’s mad at you. thinks it’s funny when you’re envious of her. “does my sweet girl miss me? want me to give her the biggest load? maybe leave a kiss on her pretty clit?” he clicks his tongue, “but you haven’t been very good, have you? making me all worried while i’m in court because you’re not eating enough. how can i give you the love you need when you can’t last for more than one round?”

hates it when you shave. prefers to eat that pussy in its rawest form. nuzzles your cute curls with his nose when he’s tongue deep. still inhales deeply with or without hair. leaves bite marks on your inner thighs like a map. is a little obsessed with your tummy, the one that he seems to overfeed (and overbreed) at times. bites and nuzzles when you’re orgasmed-out and he’s kissing back up.

he’s not a feet person, really. he’s just obsessed with all of you, including your feet. likes it when you sit across from him in the tub and tease his cock with your pretty, freshly pedicured feet (thanks to him.) running it down his length and back up. this usually happens during aftercare. watches you with a lazy, heated stare while you play with your nipples at the same time. can cum like that, if he’s particularly exhausted.

above all, he loves the way you latch onto him in your sleep. face stuffed between his pectorals, his hand shoved under your shorts to cup your naked cheek. legs tangled together. drool drying on his chest. sometimes you mumble in your sleep. most of the time the words “i love you” slip out when you’re completely conked out.

and every time he falls asleep it’s with a smile pressed against the crown of your head.

[fwops]

kento’s such a big kisser.

god, he loves giving his pretty partner the fattest of kisses! all tongue, a bit of teeth, lots of sucking— the works. has his big, rough, calloused hands palming your soft ass before they slide up to unzip your blouse. drags the zipper down slow, matching the languid pace of his tongue.

his eyes tend to flutter open when you guys go at it. likes to watch your earnest face scrunch up as you try to breathe through your nose and match his passion. thinks it’s cute when you subconsciously reach up to cup his pecs.

he pulls away, a lengthy string of spit clinging to your swollen lips. “lay down for me sweetheart.” he presses you against the couch. “let your husband take off your panties. with his teeth.”

he loves to kiss your other sweet, pearly lips too.