Now that I have your attention let me just say you're an amazing person. Reader of Fanfic. 30/f Twitter: @Slow_Bunny_17 I say some funny stuff on there sometimes
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“You can be a good person with a kind heart, and still say no.”
— d.k.
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rednote is the only good social media because its the only one that consistently shows me lambs from xinjiang in little hats

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toji will never admit his has an entire album in his phone dedicated to you sleeping. Yes, the big, brawny man that you call your husband finds it adorable when you’re drooling all over the pillow, mouth hanging open and shirt halfway up your torso. He always manages to wake up before you, finding you in the most odd position before he snaps a photo, silently laughing. Your body is twisted, arms are sprawled, and somehow your bonnet ended up on the bedroom floor (rip your hair).
You were completely unaware until you asked for his phone one day, too lazy to go to the bedroom and grab yours. “Babe, can I see your phone?”
He hands it to you unlocked without any hesitation, eyes fixated on the food in front of him. You just wanted to search a new recipe to try, screenshotting it and sending it to yourself, but then you got the urge to search through his phone. It wasn’t like you didn’t trust him, you were just curious as to what a man like toji kept on his phone. You opened the photos first, gym photos, photos of the kids, photos of you and him, and then you see it…the picture of you sleeping.
It doesn’t take you long to find the album of over one hundred pictures of you sleeping like a complete maniac. “Toji Fushiguro, what the hell is this?!” You snap, showing him his own phone like he didn’t know what was on it.
“Hm?” He raises his head, mouth full of food. His eyes fall onto the collection of photos. “Ohhh,” he chuckles. “Yeah, that’s you sleeping, babe.” He goes back to eating, shoving another spoonful of fried rice in his mouth.
“I look ridiculous!” You argue. “Why is there so many?” You scroll through them, brows furrowing. “I’m drooling in this one! Is this what you wake up to every morning?!”
He laughs again, “yeah.”
“It’s not funny!” You pout, playfully hitting his shoulder.
“But you look so cute! Look, this is my favorite.” He grabs the phone from you, muscle memory helping him find the photo of you nearly halfway off the bed, legs tangled between the blankets and your boob slipping out your tank top. “The girls were escaping,” he snickers.
“I hate you.” You shake your head, standing to your feet and walking out of the living room.
“I love you more, my sleeping beauty!” He shouts.
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In which your husband, Toji, is a marine
Would totally fuck you with his dog tags dangling and scraping against your soft, sensitive skin, clammy and sticky with the evidence of the hours of hard and rough fucking you two have been getting up to. You’d look up and see a smirk on his plump, scarred lips. He’d wink, grunting out, “Like the view, ma? ‘Cause I sure fucking do.”
Would wake up in a cold sweat and reach for you instinctively. If you’re there, he releases a breath of relief and cuddles up behind you, kissing your shoulder and inhaling your scent, reminding himself that you’re here, that he’s home, and you’re both safe. If you’re not, he sits up, rakes a shaky hand through his hair and searches for you. Practically naked, unarmed, but wide awake, he’ll scour the whole house, even the whole city, if he needed to. Toji cannot sleep without you. When you’re out with friends, he’ll stay up all night, waiting for you to walk through the door. Might even patrol the neighbourhood around in his car if you take too long to respond.
He’s not trying to rush you or be controlling – he just knows the darkness of the world and has vowed a long time ago to not let it consume your light.
Would be devastated if he accidentally hit you, whether it was because he moved too fast or he didn’t know you were near. You’d see the realisation drain the blood from his face, the panic set in his wide eyes, and the digging of his nails into his palm, veins popping. Toji wouldn’t go near you for days after. No matter how much coaxing, how many words of reassurance you give him, the number of smiles show. A man like him needs to find that trust in himself. He needs to know the brutal strength that courses through his body would never be exerted on you. That he’d never mark your body with the violence, the depravity, the hopelessness that marked his.
Would eat up every letter, picture, text, and phone call from you he receives whilst deployed. The worst times of his job are when he has to distance himself from you, to shut off the humanity in him, and be a faceless man in uniform. So, the reminder that he has a home waiting for him keeps him alive. Toji's greedy eyes read over every. single. thing. Over and over again, memorising every word, every curve, every smile. He engraves it in his brain, in his heart, in his very soul.
Most of the other guys show off the messages they get from their girlfriends and wives, parading any intimate pictures and declarations of undying love. Not Toji. No, he holds each one dear to him. He’d shrug off every grabbing hands, tell the losers ‘fuck off’ when they ask, and hide it all away. Who gives a shit that he gets called a ‘simp’ or ‘pussy-whipped?’
He owns that shit.
Would jack off in the showers to the picture you sent him of your fingers buried deep in your weeping cunt. Does everything he can to remember your scent, your taste, the tightness, the heat, the love. He imagines it’s your hand wrapped around his red-hot cock, envisions you on your knees looking up at him, and desperately pretends his cum is being swallowed by your throat and not the drain. No orgasm on tour compares to a single kiss from you.
Would never entertain any of the women in the bars who saddle up to his side, squeezing his meaty biceps, and offering a full night of fun. Toji shrugs them off, points them in the direction of a single friend of his with the bottle of his beer, and looks straight ahead at the basketball game playing on the TV. When his buddies ask why he rejected the smoking hot girl in an exotic land, he doesn’t bother answering them, but they all know: she isn’t you.
Wouldn’t let go of you once he gets home. He washes away the dirt, the grime, the shame, guilt with you in his clutches. He eats with you in his lap, spoonfeeding him. Washes the dishes up whilst you’re caged in his arms, face buried in your hair. Not a single drop of the horrors ever makes it into your homes. You live in bliss, and so does he.
Even though the very real promise of him never walking back in through the door hangs over your heads.
Let's pretend I know anything about the military lol if there's inaccuracies here, shhhh no there isn't :)
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satoru "if you see my girl yelling at me, its bc i deserve it, dont help me i'm exactly where i wanna be" gojo + suguru "starts a problem on purpose to make sure my girl still toxic and in love" geto
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----------♡
Eddie is always touching you, he couldn't help it. The moment he became your boyfriend he made sure his hands never left you.
Finger laced into the belt loop of your jeans pulling your back to his chest so that he can rest his hands against the groove of your waist -maybe even slide them underneath the soft fabric of his your shirt so he can feel the heat of your skin against his palms- while waiting in line at the grocery store; he rest his chin on the top of your head letting the smell of your shampoo make his head spin with thoughts of only you. "You smell nice."
Man-spreading so that his knee would press into yours while the two of you hang out with friends, the fabric of his ripped jeans rubs your knee while he wraps his arm around your shoulders pulling your body closer to him because "You're too far away."
Very rarely do you allow him to shower with you because when he does he's too busy pressing himself against you, arms wrapped tightly around your torso or hands greedily pawing at your hips, instead of washing his messy mane of hair like you told him to. No matter the amount you scolded him in how often he got distracted or how he distracted you it went in one ear and out the other. "You shouldn't look so pretty then- It makes it hard to focus."
Cooking dinner with him home was a chore. He drapes himself along your back letting his body weight drop onto you, forcing you to hold him up while you mix something in a pot. When you grumble in annoyance he just smiles against your neck pursing his lips every once in a while to place loving kisses against your warm skin, enjoying the sound of your voice, in which he deemed it angelic, even as you chastise him again.
He just can't help how much he absolutely adores you, sometimes still in disbelief that someone as beautiful as you, inside and out, wanted to be his girlfriend and he knows that, even though you complain and nag at him, you love that he can't help wanting to touch you. He catches the small grin that etches itself across your face when he holds you in the shower or when you cook and he notices the way you hook your pinkie finger into the belt loop of his jeans as he snakes his arms around you in stores or when your hanging out with friends.
So, he'll always make sure his hands are on you, because he loves the way you grumble all without telling him to stop.
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“Table for Two… and a Half”
Sergei ‘Kraven’ Kravinoff x Female Reader + Dmitri
Warnings: Modern AU | Humor + Softness + Third Wheel Dmitri
Summary: Where Kraven takes you out for a little romantic dinner date with a side of unintentional Dmitri chaos.

The place was dimly lit, quiet, and warm—exactly what you imagined when Kraven had said, “I want to take you somewhere nice tonight.”
You’d been together long enough to know his version of “nice” didn’t involve tuxedos or overpriced menus. No, this was cozy, rustic, candlelit—tucked away from the busy streets. The waitstaff wore aprons and the whole place smelled like garlic butter and thyme.
You were already mid-conversation, wine glass in hand, soft smile on your lips as you teased, “So you can be romantic.”
Kraven gave you that rare little smirk, the one he only ever showed when it was just you and him. “Don’t let it get to your head.”
Your fingers brushed across the table and he took your hand gently, his rough thumb rubbing across your knuckles.
Just as the moment settled into something perfect…
“Sergei?!”
You both froze.
That voice.
You turned, and sure enough—
Dmitri.
In a too-tight collared shirt, holding a menu like it was a weapon, brows already raised in glee.
“Oh! What are the odds?” he grinned, striding over like he hadn’t already blown up your peaceful date night.
Kraven’s jaw tensed just a little. “Very small.”
You stifled a laugh.
“I didn’t know you liked this place,” Dmitri continued, casually pulling up the spare chair from the table behind yours. “The risotto here? Phenomenal. Oh—” He looked between you. “Wait. Am I—? Is this a date-date?”
You blinked. “Uh…”
“Yes,” Kraven said firmly.
“Oh.” Dmitri looked sheepish. “Should I… leave?”
Finally. You both thought.
Then—
“Actually, I already ordered a drink at the bar. Mind if I just sit for a bit?”
And that’s how you found yourself on a very romantic date for two… plus Dmitri.
⸻
The waiter returned with your starters, and Dmitri immediately dug into your bread basket like it was communal property.
“So, how did you two actually meet?” he asked mid-chew. “Sergei never tells me anything romantic.”
You smiled politely. “Uh, bookstore. He knocked over a whole display.”
Kraven grunted. “It was unstable.”
“It was a wall of romance novels,” you added, giggling.
“Tragic,” Dmitri deadpanned. “Did you fall in love over Fabio covers?”
Kraven stared at him. “Leave.”
⸻
The rest of the meal was a whirlwind of interrupted glances, shared amusement, and Dmitri pretending not to notice the way Kraven was clenching his fork every time he asked another question.
He even offered to take a photo of you two. “Say ‘couple goals!’”
Kraven: “No.”
You: Trying not to wheeze from laughter.
Finally, when dessert came around and Dmitri got a phone call, he stood up.
“Duty calls,” he sighed dramatically. “You two enjoy your… intimacy. Or whatever.”
Kraven didn’t speak until Dmitri had left the building.
Then, he looked at you with the most serious face.
“Next time, we’re eating at home.”
You leaned over the table, took his hand again, and whispered, “Only if you cook shirtless.”
He paused. “Deal.”
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