emotionally attached to fictional characters and actors, makes layouts and posts random shit. ADHD. living off hyperfixations. super emotional and sensitive. kind of tall. gamer girl who plays a lot of cod. loves candles, the winter and autumn. obsessed with the rain (can’t sleep without it). loves cooking and baking. doesn’t know what to do with her life and is stressing every day :p
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ blog status:
NSFW! dark, soft and everything in between. minors dni. mostly reposts, randoms little rants, and layouts.
DMs are ALWAYS open but i tend to ghost like a victorian child in a foggy manor (not always, i promise).
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ DNI IF:
You’re a minor, racist, homophobic, a terf, a p*do, a straight ignorant man, a weirdo, someone who makes fun of others interests or people who haven’t done anything to you, someone who fetishizes people, pro israel, trump supporter, rightist
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ my type:
hmm, glasses wearing men who could ruin my life? villains, cute losers, maybe something in between, sometimes someone who could be my father or mother. it changes daily.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ current obsessions:
weak hero: na baekjin, geum seongje, go hyuntak, yeon siuen, ahn suho, seo juntae, baku
bloodhounds: kim gunwoo, hong woojin
d.p.: jang sungmin/nina (I will never forgot you pookie ilysm), han hoyeol, an junho, seo eun, shin ahwi, lim jiseob, park beomgu
trauma code: dr. baek, yang jaewon
study group: yoon gamin, park geonyeob, lee joon, lee hyunwoo, pi hanwool, lee jiwoo, choi heewon
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ layout stuff:
feel free to request layouts! I’ll do anything. like anime, movies, moods, characters. i’m not perfect but i’ll try for you :) ⤷ masterlist
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ now playing:
Sex, Drugs, Etc. – Beach Weather
Let Me In. Cosmic Symphony Ver. - Tanerélle
Gossip Folks - Missy Elliot, Ludacris
Rather Be - GIVÉON
One Call - Pino, Norah‘s World
Oh My Little Baby Boy (Hardstyle)
Belly - Sailorr
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ tag guide:
#lae’s rants — random stuff, like opinions on shows
I just want to bask in appreciation for Boy Kavalier for a sec. As an antagonist he's so fun. Like this guy walks into a scene eating an apple (forbidden fruit of knowledge, whatup) talks how he's not motivated by ego, then proceeds to say he funded 'human potential' out of boredom essentially (EGO).
i mean, the guy's name is Kavalier, and he has a cavalier attitude to the lives of the people he sees as below him. Yet, he's kind of extremely entertaining to watch in his assholery. Off to a great start truly.
The actor said that his character is not as bad as people think, this makes him even better, because he creates the feeling of an antagonist, but perhaps he will show himself from another side, I am so excited about each episode, I hope that they will not kill him at least until season 2
It's me. I found you. I-I've been watching you all the time on the screens. I watch you go to work, I watch you ride in boats. You help people. "Face my fury." You remember? And I'm sorry. It is my fault.
Kirsh is SO FUNNY to me because he so clearly walked out of one of the prequels that love to dramatically explore religion and science and shit. And he's been stuck with a bunch of kids who think they're the Goonies.
synopsis ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ nanami accidentally finds your small, anxious-but-sincere vlogs and quietly falls for you through the screen. and when you meet, he becomes a gentle, faceless presence behind the camera—helping you grow, and loving you all the while.
tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ this was so fun to write
nanami doesn’t really use youtube. it’s too loud, too cluttered, too full of people trying too hard. he’s more of a quiet reader or podcast listener—he likes his content slow and thoughtful. but sometimes, during quiet lunch breaks or sleepless nights, he finds himself scrolling, searching for something simple to fill the silence.
the first time he sees your face, he skips the video. it’s nothing personal. the thumbnail just seems… ordinary. a soft smile, a blurry background of what looks like a street food stall, and a simple title: “trying something new today (๑•́‿•̀๑)”. he doesn’t think much of it.
but youtube, in all its persistence, keeps putting you in his recommendations.
every few days, your face reappears. new title. new blurry background. another small smile. there’s something oddly comforting about it, even if he hasn’t clicked yet. eventually, curiosity wins. one night, half-asleep and curled up on his couch, he taps on a thumbnail without thinking.
the video is quiet. not silent, but there’s no obnoxious background music or jump cuts. just you. talking a little nervously to the camera, explaining how you’ve never tried this kind of food before, how it makes you anxious to eat alone in public but you’re doing it anyway, for yourself. you pause a lot. laugh at yourself. your editing is minimal—sometimes you just leave long clips in where you sit there silently, debating the next bite.
and nanami… stays.
he doesn’t mean to. he thinks he’ll just let the video play in the background while he dozes off. but he finds himself watching. then clicking on another one. and another. you talk to the camera like it’s a friend. you say things like “i know no one’s really watching this, but…” and “this was scary for me, but i’m proud of myself anyway.”
there’s no performance. no show. just you, trying. trying to live a little braver. trying to make the world a little softer for yourself. and even though your videos have only a few thousand views at most, and a comment section with maybe ten or twenty kind words, nanami can tell you read every single one. you reply with gratitude and sincerity. you sign your replies with hearts and “thank you for watching!!” even when someone just says “nice vid :)”.
he doesn’t comment for a long time. he watches quietly, always late at night, a silent companion to your small adventures. his favorite video becomes one where you try to bike through a park trail you’ve never been on before. the camera shakes the entire time, the sky is gray, and you end up getting rained on halfway through. soaked and breathless, you laugh and say, “this was a disaster. but i don’t regret it.” and something about that sticks in his chest.
he comments on a video one day. it’s short, awkwardly formal:
“i admire your courage to keep stepping outside your comfort zone. thank you for sharing.”
a few hours later, you reply.
“thank you so much!!! i get really nervous about posting sometimes so this means a lot ;; i’m trying my best!! ♡”
nanami reads that reply more times than he’d like to admit.
—
he doesn’t think he’ll ever meet you. you feel like a little glowing orb in his private world. something precious that lives on his phone, just a click away, not real, not tangible.
but then, he’s at a weekend market. the kind of place you’d probably vlog, actually. he’s just there to buy fresh bread, enjoy the quiet, maybe grab a coffee. he’s walking past a stand selling handmade keychains when he hears a familiar voice.
soft. a little unsure. asking for the price of something.
he turns.
and you’re there.
you look just like your videos—maybe a little shorter, bundled in a cardigan despite the warmth, your bag too big for your frame, holding a small camera that’s not even recording. your hair’s a little messy. your eyes bright, darting around nervously. you’re alone.
and suddenly, nanami is nervous in a way he hasn’t been in years.
he debates not saying anything. he could let this pass. keep you as a digital secret. but then you glance in his direction, and smile—just polite, a brief flicker of recognition for another passerby—and nanami finds himself stepping forward before his brain catches up.
“…excuse me,” he says, and your eyes widen a little.
“yes?” you ask, voice soft.
“i’ve… watched your videos,” he says, and you freeze for a second. “they mean a lot to me.”
you blink. your mouth opens a little in surprise, then closes. and then you smile.
“really?” you say, a little breathless. “you… you actually watch them?”
“yes,” he says simply. “i think you’re brave.”
your hand flies up to your mouth, eyes darting away. “oh my god,” you mumble. “that’s—thank you. that’s so nice. i didn’t think anyone recognized me. my channel’s tiny.”
“doesn’t change the impact,” he says, and it’s honest. the way he always is.
you talk for a while after that. awkwardly at first—your nerves, his reserved nature—but slowly, something soft and lovely builds in the air between you. you laugh a lot, mostly just nervous. he listens a lot, mostly because that’s just the way he is. he tells you his name is kento. you tell him you were scared to even leave the house today, but you’re glad you did. he smiles.
before you part ways, you ask, very shyly, if he’d be okay with you filming just a little. not his face, of course—just his voice, his presence. he agrees.
that night, a new video goes up.
“a tiny adventure at the weekend market ✿ i made a new friend today…”
nanami watches it from his bed, and when his offscreen voice appears—gentle, amused, offering to carry your bag for you—his heart does something strange in his chest.
—
the first time nanami appears in a vlog, it’s his hand passing you a coffee.
you call him “a friend i made recently,” and giggle when he corrects your pronunciation of a pastry. he’s never shown — not fully. a shoulder here. the back of his head. your viewers are very curious. you just smile, almost bashful, and say, “he’s camera-shy, but he’s very sweet.”
you start mentioning him more in your vlogs. he’s still off-screen, but you’ll glance his way and smile. say something like “he helped me set this up,” or “he picked this place,” or just “he’s here with me.”
you don’t have to say his name. he stays a faceless figure in your videos. your viewers start to notice something more.
you never confirm anything. you just smile, cheeks pink, and say, “he’s really sweet. i’m lucky.”
nanami doesn’t need the spotlight. he’s happy to carry your bag, offer a steady hand when you’re nervous, and hold the camera when you want to capture something new. he’s happy to be the one encouraging you behind the scenes, whispering that you’re doing great when you doubt yourself.
you film together more and more. he goes with you to bookstores, little food stalls, quiet museums. he carries your tripod. holds your coat. gives you gentle encouragement when you freeze up in public and smile too hard when it’s over.
he falls in love with you quietly. over time. he doesn’t say it at first. he lets it bloom through little gestures — buying the tea you liked, learning how to edit videos just to help you with cuts, leaving voice notes when you’re too anxious to leave the house. he listens. he supports. he stays.
and he’s happiest when, in a quiet clip near the end of a video, you look off-camera and say, “i think i’m a little less scared of the world lately.”
he squeezes your hand off-screen. you smile at the touch.
and your viewers never hear the softest part—how, when the camera stops recording, you lean into his side and whisper, “thank you for finding me.”
nanami, who never believed in fate or chance or algorithms, just kisses your cheek and replies, “thank you for being found.”
satoru absolutely baby talks you when you’re sick.
not in a mocking way. no. this is full-blown softie satoru, disgusting levels of wife guy activated, baby voice on max, coddling you like you’re the most precious, fragile little thing in the universe—and not because he thinks you’re weak, but because it’s the one time you let him get away with it without putting up your usual walls.
because you’re sick. hot forehead, flushed cheeks, big watery eyes that blink up at him like you’re seeing god—or worse, like you might actually cry if he leaves the room. like you need him. and honestly? that does something to him. wrecks him, even.
and you do need him. you’re fevered, shivering, curled up in bed in one of his oversized shirts, your hair a mess, nose stuffy, brain thoroughly fried. your fingers twitch like you want to reach for him but can’t be bothered to try, lips parted in a weak sigh as you breathe through your mouth. your usual bratty, mouthy, too-proud-for-help self? gone. obliterated. absolutely bulldozed by the flu. all that’s left is a miserable little lump of a wife who clings to his sleeve like a koala and mumbles, “’toru… i feel like a soggy towel…”
his whole body stills. there’s a twitch in his brow, like his heart has physically clenched. his lips part, just a little, before curling up in the softest grin. eyes soften behind pale lashes—just a hint of red at the corners from how tired he is too—but none of that matters. not when you’re looking up at him like that. the corner of his mouth tugs upward, not in amusement—but in something far gentler. reverent, even. and then god. he melts. instantly. his heart shatters into a million pieces and reforms just to explode again.
“awww, my poor widdle baby,” he coos, already pressing a kiss to your damp forehead. his breath is warm, his nose brushing yours. “does my soggy towel need her soup? wanna be spoon-fed by the hottest nurse in the world?”
you don’t even roll your eyes. you nod. actually nod. sluggish, dazed. and then flop into his arms like dead weight, forehead nudging his neck, skin hot against his collarbone. you let him hold you like you’re made of glass.
he almost cries. really. because you’re letting yourself be coddled. cuddled. taken care of. no sass. no biting remarks. just tiny, pitiful sniffles and pouty faces and your arms wrapping around his waist like he’s your anchor. like you don’t want him to go anywhere. like you can’t function without him.
and satoru eats that up like it’s a feast.
“you want juice, angel? how about some water? apple slices? forehead kisses every ten minutes? medicine with a kiss as a chaser?”
“mmm… apple. but peeled…” you whisper, voice small and hoarse, eyes half-lidded and glossy.
“of course, peeled! only the finest fruits for my fevered little dumpling,” he gasps, hand dramatically on his chest like he’s been knighted for a sacred quest. there’s a shine in his eyes—something starry, something stupidly in love.
he tucks you in like a burrito, tugs the blankets up to your chin, and then scoops you onto his lap because apparently that’s where you sleep best. his fingers comb through your hair, slow and tender, while your cheek rests limp against his shirt. he puts on your comfort show, even though you barely keep your eyes open long enough to register the sound.
he hums something soft—tuneless and low—while cradling you like a fevered woodland creature. his tone dips lower when he leans in again.
“do you still love me even if i’m gross and sweaty and my nose is red?” you mumble, lips wobbling, brows pinched like the thought genuinely upsets you.
his hand smooths along your cheek. “i love you way more,” he says instantly. “you’re my sweaty, sniffly soulmate. cutest germ gremlin i’ve ever seen.”
“you’re lying…”
“baby, i would kiss your snotty nose right now if you asked.”
there’s something almost reverent in the way he says it—like it’s a vow. and he means it. he’d do it without hesitation, wouldn’t even flinch. because if it’s you, there’s no such thing as gross. not when he’s this stupidly in love. not when every part of you, even at your messiest, makes him want to wrap you up in his arms and never let go.
you groan into his shirt, muffled and pitiful, and he grins like you just serenaded him.
“who’s the most handsome man in the world?” he asks out of nowhere, fingers curling behind your ear, brushing tenderly as if coaxing the answer out. his voice dips low, honey-sweet and just a little smug. not because he expects the answer—no, he needs it. his entire self-worth depends on your silly little validation right now.
“you are,” you mumble, cheeks squished slightly against his chest, nuzzling closer without shame.
his fingers twitch where they cradle your skull. his whole face lights up like a sunrise. pale lashes flutter, and his pupils dilate like he’s just been told he won a lifetime supply of you.
“louder.”
“toruuuuu… it’s you…”
the pleased little noise he makes is downright sinful. his lashes flutter shut as he closes his eyes in smug bliss, and he tilts his head back like he’s soaking in the warmth of your praise. if he had a tail, it would be wagging.
“that’s right,” he beams, practically preening, fingers now stroking under your chin. “say it again. for my health.”
“you’re the handsomest… in the whole world… even when your hair’s stupid…”
he gasps, clutching his chest with a hand like you just shot cupid’s arrow straight through it. “rude and true. i’ll take it.”
his heart is doing somersaults. he’s convinced there’s never been a more fulfilling moment in his life. not the promotions, not the accolades, not even the recognition. just this—this feverish little version of you, croaky and honest and too tired to pretend you’re not as in love with him as he is with you.
he whispers the dumbest, softest shit while holding you against his chest like you’re something sacred. calls you every pet name in the book and then invents new ones on the spot: baby, sweetheart, princess, dumpling, snugglebug, fever bean, coughy cake, angel face mcsweats-a-lot.
you blink up at him between fits of sleep, lips parted like you want to say something else—but all that comes out is a pathetic little whimper. his hand smooths over your spine again, touch featherlight.
“what was that, baby?” he whispers.
“love you…” you murmur, eyes falling shut.
his heart flips. flips, spirals, and lands in a fucking somersault.
he kisses your temple and you go quiet.
and when you finally pass out, nose smooshed into his collarbone, snoring faintly like the most adorable little gremlin, he exhales like it’s the best moment of his life. like the universe aligned just for this. like his purpose has been fulfilled. his hand never stops moving—stroking your spine, combing your hair, tracing shapes into your shoulder blade beneath the fabric of his shirt.
he lives for clingy, soft, unguarded sick-you. because even though he adores the bratty, sharp-tongued, little menace version of you that picks fights and flicks him on the forehead and makes him earn every kiss—this version? this sleepy, dependent little furnace wrapped in blankets and his love? she needs him.
and satoru loves being needed. loves being the one you reach for, even when you’re half-delirious. especially when you’re half-delirious.
he leans down again, voice barely audible now.
“rest up, baby,” he whispers, brushing your hair from your clammy forehead. “you’ll feel better soon. and then i’ll go back to being emotionally bullied by my beloved wife.”
satoru absolutely baby talks you when you’re sick.
not in a mocking way. no. this is full-blown softie satoru, disgusting levels of wife guy activated, baby voice on max, coddling you like you’re the most precious, fragile little thing in the universe—and not because he thinks you’re weak, but because it’s the one time you let him get away with it without putting up your usual walls.
because you’re sick. hot forehead, flushed cheeks, big watery eyes that blink up at him like you’re seeing god—or worse, like you might actually cry if he leaves the room. like you need him. and honestly? that does something to him. wrecks him, even.
and you do need him. you’re fevered, shivering, curled up in bed in one of his oversized shirts, your hair a mess, nose stuffy, brain thoroughly fried. your fingers twitch like you want to reach for him but can’t be bothered to try, lips parted in a weak sigh as you breathe through your mouth. your usual bratty, mouthy, too-proud-for-help self? gone. obliterated. absolutely bulldozed by the flu. all that’s left is a miserable little lump of a wife who clings to his sleeve like a koala and mumbles, “’toru… i feel like a soggy towel…”
his whole body stills. there’s a twitch in his brow, like his heart has physically clenched. his lips part, just a little, before curling up in the softest grin. eyes soften behind pale lashes—just a hint of red at the corners from how tired he is too—but none of that matters. not when you’re looking up at him like that. the corner of his mouth tugs upward, not in amusement—but in something far gentler. reverent, even. and then god. he melts. instantly. his heart shatters into a million pieces and reforms just to explode again.
“awww, my poor widdle baby,” he coos, already pressing a kiss to your damp forehead. his breath is warm, his nose brushing yours. “does my soggy towel need her soup? wanna be spoon-fed by the hottest nurse in the world?”
you don’t even roll your eyes. you nod. actually nod. sluggish, dazed. and then flop into his arms like dead weight, forehead nudging his neck, skin hot against his collarbone. you let him hold you like you’re made of glass.
he almost cries. really. because you’re letting yourself be coddled. cuddled. taken care of. no sass. no biting remarks. just tiny, pitiful sniffles and pouty faces and your arms wrapping around his waist like he’s your anchor. like you don’t want him to go anywhere. like you can’t function without him.
and satoru eats that up like it’s a feast.
“you want juice, angel? how about some water? apple slices? forehead kisses every ten minutes? medicine with a kiss as a chaser?”
“mmm… apple. but peeled…” you whisper, voice small and hoarse, eyes half-lidded and glossy.
“of course, peeled! only the finest fruits for my fevered little dumpling,” he gasps, hand dramatically on his chest like he’s been knighted for a sacred quest. there’s a shine in his eyes—something starry, something stupidly in love.
he tucks you in like a burrito, tugs the blankets up to your chin, and then scoops you onto his lap because apparently that’s where you sleep best. his fingers comb through your hair, slow and tender, while your cheek rests limp against his shirt. he puts on your comfort show, even though you barely keep your eyes open long enough to register the sound.
he hums something soft—tuneless and low—while cradling you like a fevered woodland creature. his tone dips lower when he leans in again.
“do you still love me even if i’m gross and sweaty and my nose is red?” you mumble, lips wobbling, brows pinched like the thought genuinely upsets you.
his hand smooths along your cheek. “i love you way more,” he says instantly. “you’re my sweaty, sniffly soulmate. cutest germ gremlin i’ve ever seen.”
“you’re lying…”
“baby, i would kiss your snotty nose right now if you asked.”
there’s something almost reverent in the way he says it—like it’s a vow. and he means it. he’d do it without hesitation, wouldn’t even flinch. because if it’s you, there’s no such thing as gross. not when he’s this stupidly in love. not when every part of you, even at your messiest, makes him want to wrap you up in his arms and never let go.
you groan into his shirt, muffled and pitiful, and he grins like you just serenaded him.
“who’s the most handsome man in the world?” he asks out of nowhere, fingers curling behind your ear, brushing tenderly as if coaxing the answer out. his voice dips low, honey-sweet and just a little smug. not because he expects the answer—no, he needs it. his entire self-worth depends on your silly little validation right now.
“you are,” you mumble, cheeks squished slightly against his chest, nuzzling closer without shame.
his fingers twitch where they cradle your skull. his whole face lights up like a sunrise. pale lashes flutter, and his pupils dilate like he’s just been told he won a lifetime supply of you.
“louder.”
“toruuuuu… it’s you…”
the pleased little noise he makes is downright sinful. his lashes flutter shut as he closes his eyes in smug bliss, and he tilts his head back like he’s soaking in the warmth of your praise. if he had a tail, it would be wagging.
“that’s right,” he beams, practically preening, fingers now stroking under your chin. “say it again. for my health.”
“you’re the handsomest… in the whole world… even when your hair’s stupid…”
he gasps, clutching his chest with a hand like you just shot cupid’s arrow straight through it. “rude and true. i’ll take it.”
his heart is doing somersaults. he’s convinced there’s never been a more fulfilling moment in his life. not the promotions, not the accolades, not even the recognition. just this—this feverish little version of you, croaky and honest and too tired to pretend you’re not as in love with him as he is with you.
he whispers the dumbest, softest shit while holding you against his chest like you’re something sacred. calls you every pet name in the book and then invents new ones on the spot: baby, sweetheart, princess, dumpling, snugglebug, fever bean, coughy cake, angel face mcsweats-a-lot.
you blink up at him between fits of sleep, lips parted like you want to say something else—but all that comes out is a pathetic little whimper. his hand smooths over your spine again, touch featherlight.
“what was that, baby?” he whispers.
“love you…” you murmur, eyes falling shut.
his heart flips. flips, spirals, and lands in a fucking somersault.
he kisses your temple and you go quiet.
and when you finally pass out, nose smooshed into his collarbone, snoring faintly like the most adorable little gremlin, he exhales like it’s the best moment of his life. like the universe aligned just for this. like his purpose has been fulfilled. his hand never stops moving—stroking your spine, combing your hair, tracing shapes into your shoulder blade beneath the fabric of his shirt.
he lives for clingy, soft, unguarded sick-you. because even though he adores the bratty, sharp-tongued, little menace version of you that picks fights and flicks him on the forehead and makes him earn every kiss—this version? this sleepy, dependent little furnace wrapped in blankets and his love? she needs him.
and satoru loves being needed. loves being the one you reach for, even when you’re half-delirious. especially when you’re half-delirious.
he leans down again, voice barely audible now.
“rest up, baby,” he whispers, brushing your hair from your clammy forehead. “you’ll feel better soon. and then i’ll go back to being emotionally bullied by my beloved wife.”
summary. what? just because you are six months pregnant your husband is gonna stop worshipping you? nooooo. . . he became worse, and the idea of making sure you are pregnant (despite the bump) makes them go crazy, especially with your little sweet bump.
trigger/warnings. non-sorcerer, everyone trying to be a gentleman (fails), calling reader “mama,” pussy-drunk behavior, pregnant sex, belly worship, size kink, deep penetration, unprotected vaginal sex, leg-folding position, full nelson vibes, praise kink, possessive language, swearing / explicit language, references to breeding kink (implied), overstimulation, internal ejaculation, cum leaking, soft dom / feral energy blend, emotional intensity, aftercare / caretaking (gentle touches, kisses), power imbalance (older man / younger woman), oral fixation (kissing, belly + knee worship)
GOJO SATORU
“—you’re gonna kill me,” gojo groans, forehead pressed against yours, voice ragged like he’s been running for miles, but really, all he’s been doing is holding himself together—barely—as your legs wrap tighter around his waist and you moan his name like it’s a damn prayer and a curse all at once. “no, seriously, baby, i’m—i’m dying. you’re murdering me with this pussy. it’s a crime. i should call the cops. except i am the fucking cops. i’m the fbi. i’m the law. and you’re under arrest. for being—fuck—for being too hot while pregnant.”
you try to say something, maybe something like “shut up” or “just keep going” or maybe just his name again, but you can’t—you’re too full, too stretched, too wrecked already and he hasn’t even really started yet.
“so tight,” he breathes, like the thought has him hypnotized. “how are you tighter while pregnant? is that a thing? can i google it later? because this is—jesus, baby—this is like heaven. like… like heaven wrapped in velvet wrapped in a vice grip wrapped in the greatest porn i’ve ever watched except it’s real and it’s you and it’s mine.”
he kisses your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts that’s grown fuller over the last few weeks—his obsession. he talks to them like they’re separate beings. he’s lost his mind and he’s made peace with it.
“gonna feed our baby with these,” he mutters, latching onto one nipple like it’s instinct, groaning like the taste of your skin alone could make him cum. “gonna wake up at 3am to help you, promise, swear to god. but only if i get to do this first. every night. every fucking night, sweetheart.”
you whimper, and it makes his whole body stutter, hips rocking deeper, harder, like your sound gives him permission to lose rhythm entirely.
“there it is,” he grins, breathless and boyish, completely wrecked and stupid and so very in love. “that’s the sound. the one that says i’m the best dick you’ve ever had. right? right, baby? tell me. tell me i’m better than anyone you’ve ever let near this sweet pussy.”
you moan, back arching. he whines, literally whines, like your approval is the only thing keeping him alive.
“please—please just say it. tell me i’m your favorite. tell me this cock is your favorite. tell me i ruined you for other men. tell me you forgot what it feels like to walk straight.”
you grab his face and pull him down to kiss you, hard, messy, open-mouthed and wet, your teeth knocking a little and your breath catching when he grinds into that exact spot inside you that makes you cry out his name again, and he groans, forehead falling to your shoulder.
“fuck, fuck, yes. that’s it, baby. say it again—no, scream it, moan it, tattoo it into my brain. god, i’m so fucking obsessed with you. you don’t even know. you don’t. i think about you 24/7. i check your pregnancy tracker app more than you do. i’m unwell. i’m feral.”
his hips move faster, deeper now, but not rough—he still holds your body like it’s made of glass, one hand bracing under your lower back to tilt your hips just right, the other rubbing slow, firm circles over your clit like he’s trying to make you finish before him and prove a point.
“wanna cum in you again,” he growls against your throat, “wanna fill you up more even though you’re already pregnant, like my dumb caveman brain doesn’t understand we already did it. it just wants to do it again, because it likes you like this. likes you glowing, round, leaking—fuck, baby, you’re leaking, i’m gonna go insane—”
“satoru,” you gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulder as your thighs start to tremble, “satoru, i—i’m gonna—”
“yes,” he hisses, pace erratic now, “do it, do it, cum on this cock, make it tight, milk me, baby, do it so good i forget my own damn name—”
you shatter under him with a cry that hits the ceiling, your body pulsing around him so hard he lets out a strangled noise, like he’s not sure if it’s a moan or a sob or both.
he falls apart seconds later, buried deep, coming with a broken gasp of your name and a string of barely intelligible worship like “so good, so pretty, made for me, mine, mine, mine” until he finally collapses onto your chest, heart racing, sweat-slick, and completely, utterly gone.
a long beat of silence passes.
“…you good?” you murmur, stroking his hair.
he doesn’t move. just groans into your neck like he might cry.
“i think i left my soul in your pussy.”
you laugh.
“i’m serious,” he says, lifting his head with that wild, disheveled, utterly sexed-out look he wears so well. “if you don’t name our baby after this pussy i’m gonna be personally offended.”
“you want me to name our child… pussy satoru gojo?”
“well, i mean—middle name at least. or like a secret codename. for the groupchat.”
you sigh, rolling your eyes.
he grins like you’ve just married him.
“love you, baby. love you so much. let’s do it again in like fifteen minutes. or five. i’m stupid. i make bad decisions.”
“clearly.”
“i would literally die if you asked.”
“…fine.”
“i’m naming the second one ‘round two.’”
GETO SUGURU
“you know what you do to me?” geto growls into your mouth, lips slick from kissing, voice thick like smoke and syrup as he thrusts into you again—deep, slow, brutal. “you fuckin’ know what this pussy’s done to me, baby?”
you gasp—louder than you mean to, thighs trembling where they’re wrapped around his hips, nails clawing down his shoulders because there’s no logic in your body right now, just raw sensation. he laughs—a dark, low, chest-rumbling sound—and grabs your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek, not hard, just enough to keep you right there.
“oh, don’t go dumb on me now,” he coos, filthy and fond and absolutely feral. “we’re just gettin’ started, sweet thing. gotta give me that voice, yeah? lemme hear what my good girl sounds like when she’s pregnant and cockdrunk.”
you whimper, and he moans, like your breath is enough to push him right over the edge.
“that’s it,” he hisses, licking the corner of your mouth, forehead pressed to yours. “fuck. fuck, you’re so good like this. all fucked out, all round and soft and warm for me—jesus, this body? i could live inside you. no house. no job. just this pussy, twenty-four-seven. put me on your goddamn lease.”
his hips snap forward hard, and the sound your body makes when he hits bottom is wet, obscene, absolutely unholy.
“listen to that,” he pants, dragging your leg higher over his shoulder, splitting you open wider. “god, you’re so fucking wet, baby—like you like when i fuck you like this. like you want me to ruin you. knock you up again, even though you’re already full.”
he palms your belly—his belly, really—with one big, gentle hand, cupping the firm swell like it’s the most sacred thing in the world. his thumb moves in lazy circles as he rocks into you, slower now, deeper, pressing against every spot inside you that makes your toes curl and your eyes roll back.
“you’re everything,” he says, softer now, reverent in the worst way, like he’s praying to the altar of your body while rearranging your insides. “everything. this body—fuck. your tits are bigger. hips too. got this glow, baby, you know that? like you were made to carry me. to take me. to breed for me.”
you clench around him so hard he stutters, eyes going wide, mouth falling open.
“oh fuck—fuck,” he moans, suddenly undone. “you like that? yeah? you like when i talk about putting a ring on this pussy? you like hearing how ruined i am for you?”
you nod, frantic and breathless, and he kisses you hard—sloppy and hungry—before dragging his lips down your neck, biting just enough to make you gasp.
“gonna cum inside,” he growls against your skin. “gonna stuff you full and hold it in with my cock. keep it there. make sure every drop stays in, yeah?”
“suguru—” you cry, already close, voice breaking on his name like it’s the only thing you know anymore.
he fucking shudders.
“say it again,” he gasps. “say my name while i fill you up. say it like you want it.”
“suguru, suguru, i—fuck—i’m gonna—”
“yeah, baby,” he moans, gripping your hips, thrusts rougher now, faster. “cum on it. cum on this dick, show me how good i fucked you, lemme feel this pussy milk me dry—”
you tighten, legs locking around him, and then you're gone—clenching, shaking, falling apart under him while he watches you unravel with this fucking look on his face like you’re a miracle and a sin and the only thing that matters.
he cums right after, hips jerking as he empties into you with a loud, broken sound, like he’s dying and being reborn at the same time.
you nod, dazed. “you’re insane.”
for a long moment, all you hear is your heart racing and his breath—harsh, warm, uneven—ghosting across your skin. then, soft, “you okay?” he whispers, stroking your thigh, still inside you, not even thinking about moving yet.
“mhm,” he grins, kissing your temple. “insane for you. and for that pussy.”
you slap his chest halfheartedly.
he just laughs, still deep in you, still hardening again.
“round two?” he murmurs, voice all wicked sweetness. “or you want me to eat you ‘til you cry first?”
NANAMI KENTO
“i can be patient,” nanami grits out from behind you, voice low and sharp like he’s holding himself together with string and sheer willpower. “i can be—gentle.”
you’re on your side, belly cradled by soft pillows, one leg bent forward over his thigh as he moves behind you, slowly rocking into you like he’s afraid you’ll break if he goes too hard—like he doesn’t already know how filthy you get for him when he’s trying to behave.
and he’s trying. god, he is. his hand’s on your hip, warm and steady. the other one cups under your belly, like he’s shielding you even as he’s pushing deep, deep into you from behind.
“you’re doing so well,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and reverent, brushing kisses to your shoulder. “i don’t want to hurt you. i want to take care of you. i want to make you feel good, not—”
you moan.
just a little. just a soft, breathy “kento—” as your fingers grip the sheets and your hips push back into him.
and that’s it.
the last thread of his control snaps.
he groans—growls, almost—and suddenly he’s pressing forward harder, deeper, his breath catching as he ruts into you like he’s been holding back for weeks.
“fuck,” he grits, forehead pressed to your back. “you’re so goddamn warm. too soft. too tight. i can’t—I’m trying to—shit—”
his grip on your hip tightens, dragging you back against him with every thrust now, and his hand slides from under your belly to your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip so he can push in even deeper.
“you feel that?” he groans into your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “feel how deep i am, sweetheart? god—i can’t be gentle when you sound like that. when you feel like this.”
you whimper, back arching, and he moans again—louder this time, raw and low and completely undone.
“you’re perfect,” he pants, hips snapping faster. “everything about you. this body—this sweet, wet little cunt—fuck, it’s made for me. even pregnant, you take me so well. better than anyone ever has.”
you choke on a moan and he presses his palm to your belly again, as if the feel of it grounds him.
“i think about you all day,” he confesses, fucking into you now with slow, brutal depth. “about this. about how you sound. about how you feel when i’m inside you, tight and hot and fluttering like you’re made to be full.”
he kisses your shoulder, your neck, his other hand sliding between your legs to find your clit—slow, careful, precise.
“come for me,” he whispers, mouth right against your ear, filthy and tender all at once. “come around me while i’m deep inside you. show me how good i make you feel.”
and you do—shaking, moaning, gasping his name like it’s the only thing you know, and he follows with a desperate groan, spilling into you so deep you feel the warmth spread through your belly, his body trembling against yours.
after, he doesn’t move. just stays inside you, one hand over your womb, the other tangled with yours in the sheets.
“…i was trying to be gentle,” he says quietly, embarrassed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.
you hum, sated. “you tried.”
he sighs. “i’ll try again tomorrow.”
pause.
“after round two.”
TOJI FUSHIGURO
“slow,” toji murmurs, his big hands gripping your hips just barely, letting you grind down on him with shaky control, his cock sheathed inside you and twitching like it’s barely surviving this torture. “take your time, baby. i’m good. i’m—fuck—i’m fine.”
he is not fine.
he’s seated on the couch, thighs spread wide, muscles tense as hell under your legs, back arched ever so slightly, jaw tight. you’re four months pregnant, round and glowing and gorgeous, your belly pressing against his abs as you roll your hips slow and sweet—just like he asked for. like he said he wanted.
and he’s dying.
“look at you,” he groans, eyes glued to the way you take him. “ridin’ me so good. so pretty. so fuckin’ wet. you were always tight, but now? now you’re perfect.”
your hands are on his shoulders, clinging. your breath catches every time your body takes him deeper, and he feels it—feels how warm you are, how your walls squeeze around him like you don’t want him to leave. it’s driving him insane.
“you said slow,” you remind him, voice breaking with a whimper as your rhythm falters.
and that’s his breaking point.
because your voice? shaking, breathless, wanting?
it wrecks him.
“fuck that,” toji snarls suddenly, surging forward, arms wrapping around your back and pulling you flush to his chest. “nah. no. fuck slow. i can’t. you sound like that, and expect me to wait? you’re outta your mind.”
he lifts his hips, thrusting up into you so hard your mouth drops open in a silent moan, hands scrambling for his chest as he sets a brutal pace from underneath.
“you wanted gentle?” he growls against your throat, licking and biting at your skin while he pistons into you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. “you’re riding me, baby. i’m not gonna sit here like some saint while this tight fuckin’ pussy squeezes the life outta me.”
you cry out, and he grins, savage and wild and in love with the way your face goes all slack and overwhelmed.
“that’s it,” he pants, one hand gripping your ass, the other sliding between your bodies to rub tight, fast circles over your clit. “gimme that look. gimme those sounds. lemme hear how good i’m fucking my pregnant girl.”
you whine his name, and he loses it.
“say it again,” he groans. “fuckin’ say it, baby. tell me who put this baby in you.”
“you,” you cry, clinging to him, “you did—”
“damn right i did,” he growls, pounding up into you, your belly bouncing slightly between your bodies with each thrust, “and i’ll do it again. and again. keep you pregnant. keep you full. keep you so cockdrunk you forget how to fucking walk.”
your orgasm hits you like a lightning bolt, your whole body spasming in his lap, and he catches you with a moan of pure worship, holding you tight as you milk every drop of his release from him.
“shit, baby,” he pants, hips twitching. “you were made for this. made to take me. made to carry me.”
he collapses back against the couch, pulling you with him, still inside you, cradling your body in his massive arms.
a beat of silence.
“that was you being gentle?” you ask, breathless.
he shrugs, smug. “i didn’t bend you over. that counts.”
you groan.
he kisses your shoulder and mutters, “round two, though? i’m not holdin’ back.”
RYOMEN SUKUNA
“slow,” he grits out, jaw clenched, breath shaking as he presses his hips flush to your ass, thick cock buried deep and throbbing inside your soaking heat. “we’re going slow, sweetheart. we’re taking our time. i’m not gonna break you.”
he says that, but his hands are already digging into your thighs, thumbs pressed to the crease between your cheeks and your legs like he’s trying to brand you with his grip. you’re four months pregnant, hips rounder, belly starting to show—and you’re on all fours, arms trembling, moaning into the pillow with every slow, too-deep roll of his hips.
“you good?” he mutters, pretending to breathe through it like he’s not the one seconds from blacking out. “you okay, baby?”
you nod, gasping, “yes—yes, ‘kuna—feels so good—”
and that breaks him.
“fuckin’—shit,” he growls, slamming into you with a sharp, wet slap, and you cry out, head dropping, body jolting forward from the force. “don’t say my name like that. don’t moan for me like that and expect me to stay sane.”
he grips your hips hard, pulling you back into every brutal thrust now, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room.
“you were made for this,” he snarls, staring down at the way your body takes him, slick and tight and fluttering around him like you like being used. “look at this greedy little cunt. fuckin’ dripping. goddamn soaking me. you like getting fucked with my baby in you, huh?”
you sob out a moan, and his grin turns feral.
“you want me gentle?” he pants, fucking into you so hard your thighs shake. “or you want me to fuck you like i own you?”
you can’t even answer. you’re too wrecked already, too full, too overwhelmed by the pressure and heat and the way he hits that deep spot inside you like he knows exactly what it does.
“that’s what i thought,” he hisses. “fuckin’ moaning like you need it rough. like you need me to snap. you want it, don’t you? want to be fucked so hard you forget where you are. want to feel me dripping outta you all day like a good little cumdump.”
his hand snakes around your waist, palm spreading over your bump, possessive and so wrong and reverent all at once.
“this?” he mutters, low and filthy in your ear as he leans over your back, “this is mine. you’re mine. and this pussy? fuck, this pussy’s the tightest shit i’ve ever had. i could stay buried in you for hours. days.”
your legs buckle as your orgasm builds, loud and fast and impossible to stop. he feels it.
“there it is,” he growls, fucking into you harder, faster, punishing. “you’re close, huh? gonna cream around me like the perfect little thing you are? let me feel it. let me feel you lose it.”
you shatter—screaming, shaking, convulsing around his cock—and sukuna doesn’t slow down. he snarls, slams into you one last time, and groans as he cums deep, spilling inside you with a raw, broken moan like he’s being torn apart.
he stays there—buried, panting, shaking, his chest pressed to your back, both hands cradling your belly now like he’s apologizing with touch.
then:
“…i was trying to behave,” he mutters, voice raspy, and you wheeze out a laugh.
“you said ‘slow’ and then folded in thirty seconds.”
“yeah, well,” he grins, cock still twitching inside you, “you were moaning. that’s cheating.”
he kisses your shoulder, pulls out with a groan, and watches his cum spill from you with the most self-satisfied, absolutely feral look you’ve ever seen.
“round two’s gonna be worse,” he promises.
“worse how?”
“i’m not gonna pretend to be nice next time.”
SHIU KONG
“you feel that, mama?” shiu murmurs low, breath thick with smoke as he exhales slowly, cock buried deep inside you from behind, dragging it out slow just to watch your legs shake. “feel how this pussy keeps suckin’ me back in? like she misses me every time i pull out.”
your cheek’s pressed to the desk, fingers curled around the edge, thighs trembling. you try to say something—but he thrusts back in, sharp and deep, and your words turn into a soft, broken moan.
“fuck, yeah,” he grins, watching the way your back arches. “that’s my good girl. takin’ it like a champ even with my baby in your belly. still greedy. still so tight. you got no shame, huh? gettin’ fucked over my desk like this?”
you whimper, and he groans, gripping your hips tighter, his tone dropping deeper.
“god, look at you. four months pregnant and still so fuckin’ sexy. makin’ me obsessed. makin’ me stupid. you know what it does to me when you walk around like this, belly all round, tits all full, smellin’ like sweat and sweetness and mine?”
he grinds his hips forward again, harder now, making your body jolt. you moan his name, voice wrecked, and he smirks around his cigarette.
“there we go,” he breathes. “that’s it, mama. keep callin’ me like that. makes me wanna knock you up all over again, see how many times i can stretch this body before you break.”
he pulls out halfway and slams back in, deep and deliberate, the desk creaking beneath you. you gasp, and his hand slides down your spine, warm and heavy, keeping you flat against the desk.
“y’know,” he says, smoke curling from his mouth as he fucks you in slow, ruthless strokes, “i tell myself every time i’ll go easy on you. that i’ll be nice, treat my baby mama with respect.”
he laughs, low and wrecked.
“and then you bend over like this, ass up, pussy drippin’ down your thighs, beggin’ for it—an’ suddenly i’m back to being a filthy fuck who can’t stop.”
you cry out as his hips slam into you again, and he moans—loud and shameless.
“you feel that, mama?” he pants. “that’s my cock hitting the back of your fuckin’ throat from the wrong direction. you’re so full right now—goddamn, i can feel you pulse.”
his hand slips down, two fingers circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your knees buckle.
“c’mon, baby,” he urges, voice hoarse and wrecked, “give it to me. let this cock ruin you. let daddy hear how good he’s fuckin’ his perfect little mama.”
you cum with a cry, clenching around him so hard he curses, nearly drops the cigarette, and loses rhythm entirely as he groans, slamming into you once, twice, again—before burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a rough, filthy moan of your name.
he stays there, panting, one hand on your belly, the other sliding up your back to your neck, grounding you both.
then—
“...we’re doin’ this again after you nap,” he mutters, pulling his cigarette back between his lips, grinning like a devil. “mama needs to be real full tonight.”
HIGURUMA HIROMI
“that’s it, mama,” higuruma groans, voice low and rough as he presses deep into you, eyes locked on the curve of your stomach where your bodies meet, “just like that. let me in. let me make you feel good.”
your thighs tremble where they rest on his shoulders, and he tightens his grip around your ankles, palms warm and broad, grounding you as he starts to move—slow at first, like he’s savoring every inch of you, every slick drag of your walls squeezing him in.
“fuck,” he breathes, watching your face contort as you gasp, “you’re so tight. how are you still this tight, mama? this pussy was made to milk me.”
you whimper, one hand cradling your belly, the other tangled in the sheets as he rocks into you with long, deep strokes. your bump rises slightly with every thrust, your body pliant and flushed and already soaked from the way he touched you before this even started.
and he adores it.
he adores you.
“look at you,” he mutters, pace growing faster without meaning to, “legs up, belly out, takin’ my cock like a good mama. my perfect mama.”
you moan his name—ragged and helpless—and his eyes darken, hips snapping harder.
“that’s it,” he growls, leaning in until your knees are almost beside your head, his cock reaching so deep now. “say it again. let me hear how good i fuck my mama.”
“hiromi,” you gasp, back arching, “feels so good—too deep—”
he groans—loud, wrecked—and fucks into you harder.
“you can take it,” he hisses, lips grazing your ear, “you’re so strong, baby. carrying our child, takin’ this dick like it’s yours—‘cause it is. this cock belongs to you. every part of me does.”
your eyes roll back as he slams into that perfect spot inside you, over and over, his pace no longer controlled—he’s feral, now, panting and moaning, eyes flicking down to where you’re stretched open around him, cum-slick and pulsing.
“gonna fill you up again,” he whispers, reverent and wild all at once. “stuff you full, even though you’re already carrying mine. fuck, mama—this pussy needs it. she’s beggin’ for it.”
you’re trembling, legs shaking against his shoulders, and he grabs under your knees, folding you further, giving you nowhere to go—just take it, every inch, every praise-dripping thrust.
“cum for me,” he commands, rough and soft all at once. “cum with me inside. let me feel you. let me feel how good this pussy knows her man.”
you cry out as your orgasm hits, tightening around him like a vice, and his whole body shudders.
he groans your name, hips jerking, and spills inside you with a low, desperate moan.
“fuck, mama—fuck. you’re everything.”
he stays buried for a long moment, breathing hard, watching your body twitch beneath him—flushed, used, loved—and then lowers your legs gently, kissing your knees, your belly, your lips.
“did so well,” he whispers. “my mama’s so good for me.”
you hum sleepily, still dazed. “you went crazy.”
he smiles, brushing your hair back from your face.
“i am crazy,” he says, kissing your forehead, “for you.”
You swear Satoru pretends he’s not as strong when he’s around you. The man will let you shove him and then immediately collapse to the floor, whining that you’re just sooo mean to little ol’ him :(
So, of course, when he’s about to leave for the day, expecting his usual morning kiss, and you’re not exactly giving him what he wants (just those quick, annoying little pecks), he starts getting that look.
That stupid grin.
Big and dopey, blue eyes crinkling as his snowy lashes flutter, leaning in closer each time you try to pull away, chasing your mouth like a fool in love. “Nooo, come back. You know what I want.”
And obviously, you’ve had enough.
You grab him by the front of his jacket, spin him, and pin him up against the wall. One hand cupping his pec, because if you’re gonna do this, you’re gonna do it right, and the other curling around the sharp line of his jaw as you lean in and kiss him.
Sloppy. Messy. Tongue sliding into his mouth, breath warm and close, and you swear you hear a moan slip from the back of his throat.
You murmur against his lips, “This is where you're weak, right?”
And it’s like you hit a pressure point. His legs buckle slightly, spine curving like you knocked the air out of him. If you weren’t holding him up, he’d probably be sliding straight down the wall. His fingers twitch like he wants to grab you, anchor himself, but all he can do is giggle breathlessly against your mouth, brain clearly buffering.
When you finally pull back, he’s flushed. Blinking like you just smacked him. The tips of his ears are pink, his lashes fluttering as he stammers, “What the hell was that, baby, no, nuh uh, you come back here and finish what you started.”
And now he’s whining at the door like the poor, lovesick puppy he is, mumbling about how he’s gonna be thinking about that kiss all day.
You change his contact to 'Masochistic freak' after he finally leaves to go on some random mission.
