mrsimpurity

[mrsimpurity]

fem!reader x nanami kento; pure filth and fluff

18+ mdni

a symphony.

that’s what his first time touching you felt like. every single skim of his fingers was deliberate, calculated. never in your life had you felt so fragile yet so whole and protected.

nanami’s frame was towering over you, the quiet shadows in the room dancing on his back as his muscles flexed deliciously. 

“so beautiful.” he murmured, but it wasn’t meant for your ears.

your body was an entire mystery to him and he was in absolute awe.

and he was about to discover your deepest secrets.

the tips of his fingers ran over your wrists and then his calloused palms massaged your thighs, slightly nudging them open as he positioned himself between you.

his mouth was quick to find your pulse point as you shut your eyes to heighten your other senses. you needed to hear his sighs in your ear as he tugged on your skin gently, leaving a mark and running his tongue over what he just left on your neck.

“are you sure you want this?”

you answered his question with a frantic nod, almost too enthusiastic for your liking.

he let out a chuckle, hand reaching for your face.

“need to hear you say it, sweetheart.” his thumb ran over your cheekbone reassuringly and when your mouth moved to say “take me, kento” he had to skim across your lower lip just to make sure you were real and in his bed at this very moment. 

his fingers moved to run agonizingly slow circles on your swollen clit and your own hand shot out to grab his wrist as if his featherlight touch was too overwhelming for you.

but your sudden reaction only sparked something in him and before you could even process what was happening, nanami had gotten a hold of your two fingers with his own.

your hands travelled a slow path down to your leaking entrance and you felt yourself convulse when all four fingers entered your hole.

“f-fuck.” you squeezed your eyes shut as you tried to overcome the twinge of pain.

nanami’s lips found yours in a kiss much more passionate, which you quickly realized wasn’t meant for him, but to take your mind off the burning sensation. his digits continued to move along yours, though and soon enough your quiet whines turned into desperate moans and sighs inside nanami’s mouth.

filthy wasn’t enough to describe it. 

nanami’s fingers alongside yours deep in your pussy was something you hadn’t quite expected to feel tonight. 

but the stretch was mouthwatering and the moment he started thrusting all of the fingers inside you, you felt yourself transcending to heaven.

the pornographic squelches filling the room only made nanami grow wilder, the painful tent in his boxers now long forgotten as he burned with desire to see you unravel.

the way your bottom lip was caught between your teeth, eyebrows scrunched and eyes shut in pleasure, head thrown back and thighs spreading further and further so you could take more was driving him crazy.

he could see the muscles in your stomach tensing, your thighs clenching as you teetered on the edge, not only letting him take control but moving your own fingers at an unmatched pace like you had long forgotten nanami and were chasing your own pleasure with all you had.

it was all a sight nanami wanted engraved in his mind. he was sure that for weeks ahead, each time he closed his eyes and sat in silence, he would see your pretty little neck adorned with his marks and hear your obscene moan as you drove your fingers in and out of your clenching hole, slick running down your wrist with just how wet you were.

and then he felt it - the moment the knot inside you snapped.

nanami was quick to react before you could, his other hand grabbing your thigh in a strong hold before you could try to shut your legs.

you whined in protest, squirming and grinding on the bed, fingers beginning to give out.

but nanami was relentless, not letting your hand go and thrusting inside you so he could draw out your orgasm the proper way.

“shh, let go for me, sweetheart. let her make a mess on our fingers.”

him referring to your pussy as “her” only flipped a switch inside you and if you hadn’t been wildly anticipating nanami’s cock inside you before this - now you definitely were.

your fingers slowly began to come to a halt as nanami finally took mercy on your pulsing hole and the embarrassingly soaked through bedsheet.

in stark contrast to his previous movements, nanami was slow to pull your digits out of your swollen cunt, almost like he was too afraid to break you.

your eyes met his for a moment and for just a second, before his lips were on you again, you caught a glimpse of the fire you’d ignited in him.

his mouth ran a trail from your breasts to your navel, kissing and licking every single inch. 

his nose nudged at your clit and his tongue shot out for a taste, but you simply couldn’t handle more - so you pulled at his hair with a pitiful whine.

“too sensitive. need to have you in me, nami.”

whether it was the nickname, your glossy eyes staring up at him or his now leaking cock, it only took him a moment to reconsider before he finally decided to give you what you wanted.

the head of his cock was angry, red and leaking pre. he was big and the stretch of the four fingers inside you sounded almost funny now.

nanami wasn’t going to try and act dense or mean. his lips found yours in a soft kiss, almost as if in an apology in advance.

“i’ll go slow. anything hurts, you tell me and i’ll stop immediately, baby. don’t feel pressured to please me.”

and with those words, nanami began to sink his cock inside you.

the heat of your pussy welcomed him in, your walls squeezing him tight as your nails clawed a path down his back, scratching at his skin.

you could hear him hiss at your antics and finally, when he buried himself inside you to the hilt, the two of you let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

his thrusts started out gentle. they were shallow and meant to get you to adjust to his size, his thumb also rubbing at your clit.

you clenched around him at the motion.

“jus’ fuck me properly.”

you were playing with fire.

suddenly, nanami pulled his cock out of your hole and with no warning, slammed himself back inside you. 

you let out a scream and only dug your nails deeper.

your ankles moved to lock behind him, but pent up and begging to fuck his seed into you, nanami pushed down on both your thighs, spreading your legs into an obscene position.

his cock was so deep inside, covered with your slick and pulsing right beneath the skin of your tummy. the bulge made nanami avert his gaze, eyes locked onto the most delicious thing he’d ever seen.

his thrusts only sped up, his cock abusing your hole and reaching places inside you which you thought didn’t even exist.

“gonna fuck this slutty hole. mold your pussy into the shape of my cock.”

“oh my g-god.” your moans were desperate, deprived of any shame.

nanami’s palms were sure to leave a mark on the plush of your thighs, holding you down and fucking into you relentlessly.

“yeah? you’re liking this, sweetheart? can’t hear you.”

his teasing, his hands all over you and his thrusts which had you seeing stars, sent you over the edge and you came around his cock.

“nanami, please! fuck, please don’t stop!” 

your clenching hole was squeezing nanami and he knew he couldn’t last much longer when he saw your tits bouncing, mouth hanging open as you screamed his name.

“take my cum. ‘m gonna fuck it into you, you want that, don’t you, baby?”

his words were filthier than the way you were spread eagle, your pulsing cunt milking him dry as he came inside you with a groan.

his warmth filled your hole as you rode out your high, becoming more and more sensitive to every touch.

nanami stayed inside you for a moment, planting a kiss on your forehead and slowly pulling his cock out.

you moaned out at the loss of warmth and the two of you watched, entranced, as his seed began leaking out of you.

before you could protest, nanami pushed his finger inside your hole, collecting your slick and his cum and pushing it further inside you.

you whined at the overstimulation, but he couldn’t help himself, playing around with you and thrusting his lone finger inside just to hear you cry out and feel your tight hole again.

“ken, ‘m gonna cum if you don’t stop.”

nanami thought it was almost hilarious how you couldn’t even hear what you were saying.

a second finger joined, nanami’s palm rubbing against your clit as the thrusted his fingers inside your obscenely wet cunt, your slutty hole filled with his release.

you felt his fingers speed up and your tummy clench and before you could even say anything, you came hard, pussy gushing around nanami’s fingers, your squirt further soaking the bed.

you were still catching your breath, chest rising up and down, cheeks dusted in shame and arousal.

“that was the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen.” nanami declared, the spark in his eyes evident.

he carefully took his digits out of you, mouth finding yours again to pull you in for a kiss not meant to initiate anything further, but soft enough to get your heart to stop racing.

he pulled away only to look into your eyes and placed another sweet kiss on your lips.

“you did so great. i hope it wasn’t too much.” his voice was tender, full of love and adoration.

“no, nami, i loved it. i’ve never seen you like this.” you admitted with a chuckle, earning a small smile from him.

he grabbed your hand, gently running a thumb over your knuckles. with one last chaste kiss on your forehead, he got up from the bed.

“lavender or coconut?” nanami asked, stopping in the doorway of the bathroom.

“no idea what the hell you’re asking, but lavender.” you answered, laughing at the silly question which he was asking 10 minutes after rearranging your insides.

“bath salts, love.” he answered, heading to prepare a bath for you.

the duality of this man…

[mrsimpurity]

i want your friend, i’m allowed to switch!

notes: satosugu x fem reader, unprotected p in v, switching between the two😋, i hope no one has done this yet. 18+ mdni!

satoru’s face is, like, tomato red.

he’s never felt, so—achingly, insanely turned on in his life.

you—his crush since, like, two years ago—are on top of him, riding the soul out of him. and his best friend, someone he’d been crushing on since high school, sits on the opposite end of the sofa, watching intently.

this is crazy.

“mm—‘toru,” you purr, a sickeningly sweet call towards your current lover. his blue eyes—prettier than ever—are glossed over as he looks up at you, face frozen into a look of awe.

“yeah?” he groans, musing as you lean down to kiss him.

“i—i want,” you mutter out, just before slipping off of satoru’s cock and crawling over to suguru. “sugu.”

gojo is left dumbfounded, length pulsing and throbbing from hitting the cold air so suddenly. he looks down, then up, met with the sight of your cunt, glistening with your arousal while you crawl on top of suguru.

“hmm?” suguru hums, a rough hand of his coming to cradle your face, “what is it, angel?”

“need you,” you whine, pawing at the waistband of geto’s pants, relieved when he lifts his hips to tug his sweats and boxers down at the same time. his length springs free, slaps against his stomach—

satoru can’t understand how chill suguru’s being.

you straddle suguru, lining his cock up and sink down, taking all of him at once. slowly, you grind your hips back and forth, thighs going weak because suguru just hits all those spots. he always does.

“wanna put on a show for ‘toru, huh?” suguru taunts, using the nickname you’d given satoru, piercing his gaze right into his best friend.

“uh huh,” you dumbly mumble, falling against suguru’s chest.

suguru scoots down a little, bends his leg for leverage. his hands tilt your hips up, giving satoru a full view of where the two of you are connected. it’s probably, like, the hottest thing satoru’s ever seen in his life. he can’t comprehend anything, his mind is just—blank.

you—suguru—suguru inside you—in front of him—suguru’s fucking you—

the long-haired man thrusts up into you, forces you to take all his length, but lets you fall into him, practically dead weight. he holds you up where he needs, spreads you open for satoru to see, encourages your moans and whimpers so satoru can hear.

suguru’s deep—deeper than satoru could ever be, probably, not to insult him, he knows. because suguru doesn’t even have to try to get that feeling to coil up in your abdomen, to inflate the bubble and get it to burst.

“tell him how it feels,” suguru demands, smug grin on his face while he looks over your shoulder at satoru.

“so—it’s so deep—.” is all you can muster, all of your strength going towards showing off for satoru.

satoru’s hand weakly strokes his cock, eyes focused on where suguru impales you, and the slick sounds of your cunt and skin slapping. suguru can tell the other man is overwhelmed—and he’s going to use that against him.

“hey, baby,” suguru says, pulling your head back to look at him, “turn over for me, yeah?”

just like that, you stand up on your knees and let suguru slip out, and turn over to crawl on top of satoru again. this time, however, you lay your pretty head on his chest and push your hips back at suguru.

all satoru feels like he can do is hold you, one hand behind your head and the over around your shoulders. this is the type of thing that’s only happened in his dreams, and now that it’s here—he doesn’t know what to do.

“so pretty, huh?” suguru coos, slipping back inside you with a low grunt. satoru nods, feverishly. “kiss ‘er, baby.”

of course, satoru listens—he can’t do much else. suguru just called him baby, for crying out loud—he cups your jaw with his hands, pulls you in, smashes his lips against yours as best he can.

but when suguru starts his hips again, pounding back into you, you’re whimpering pleads against satoru’s lips—it’s too much—oh, god.

satoru loses it.

he cums with a strangled groan, not stimulated by anything but the slightest touches of your skin against his. satoru’s hands pull you in against him, harder now, like you’re his lifeline. you smile against his mouth, kind of coo at him, melting into his touch and the pleasure suguru’s providing.

suguru looks down at the two of you, satisfied.

[mrsimpurity]

tags/warnings ⋆·˚ ༘ * smut, cockwarming, possessiveness, soft dom!nanami, mildly obsessive nanami being a little insane about staying inside you, filthy and tender

you don’t even realize what you’ve done until it’s too late.

it’s a lazy sunday—one of those cloudy mornings where you don’t have anywhere to be, nothing urgent to do. just soft sheets and nanami, his arms wrapped around your waist and your bare back pressed to his chest.

you’re warm, still sleepy, barely awake when you turn your head and mumble,

“baby, can you just stay in me for a bit?”

you meant it as a fleeting thing—like an intimate hug, something sweet and lazy and indulgent. he was already half-hard from how you’d been rubbing against him in your sleep, and when you lifted your leg and guided him in, it was just a sigh of relief, a low hum in your throat at how well he fits.

and god. nanami does not recover from it.

he grunts softly, forehead pressing into the back of your neck, one hand gripping your hip. he stills. doesn’t thrust. doesn’t move. just holds you there, his cock buried deep and his breathing already strained.

you try to go back to sleep, thinking he’s doing the same. but you feel it—the way his cock pulses inside you, the way his fingers flex on your skin.

“baby?” you whisper.

“don’t move,” he murmurs, voice rough. “just—just let me stay here a little longer.”

and he means it.

he stays hard inside you for nearly half an hour, chest rising and falling like he’s meditating. his hips twitch every now and then, like he’s fighting the urge to fuck, but he doesn’t. he just holds you tighter. kisses your shoulder. buries his face in your hair and breathes you in like you’re oxygen.

and you can feel it—how soaked you are around him, how full, how deliciously warm.

eventually, you turn to face him and blink up at him. “kento…”

his eyes are dark.

“you don’t know what you’ve started,” he murmurs.

you raise an eyebrow, teasing. “what, you like cockwarming now?”

he doesn’t smile. he leans down and kisses you, deep. possessive, like he’s branding you from the inside.

“a bit too much,” he rasps.

you giggle, but it’s shaky. because his hand is already sliding up your back. because his cock throbs inside you as he says it.

“i think i’m addicted,” he mutters, mostly to himself, voice thick with something deeper than lust. “feels like your cunt’s the only place i can think straight.”

“kento,” you whisper, breath hitching.

“i should be worried,” he says. “but i’m not.”

he kisses you again, and this time, he rocks his hips forward once—just once—and it’s devastating. you moan. he swallows it with a groan.

“stay in bed all day,” he murmurs. “please. let me stay inside you all fucking day.”

you nod, dazed. he rolls you onto your back. and he slides in deep again, slow and reverent, like you’re his church and he’s saying a prayer.

and he doesn’t fuck you. not yet.

he just stays there. worshipping. obsessing. thanking every god he doesn’t believe in that you asked him to.

[mrsimpurity]

you’d been dodging him all day.

a door closed gently in the morning, an excuse at lunch that even you didn’t believe. you drifted through your home like mist, choreographing your disappearance with practiced steps - ducking around corners, shrinking into silence each time you caught the rustle of his newspaper or the soft clink of his watch as he adjusted it for the third time.

you wore invisibility like a cloak, moving as a ghost through the rooms you used to share with ease.

because your skin had betrayed you again - four angry blemishes rising red and bright across your cheek and jaw, blooming like a constellation born to shame you.

it wasn’t the worst you’d had, sure. but it was enough to make you recoil from the mirror, to keep your face turned away, to lower your face when nanami passed too close.

you couldn’t bear to let him see you like this.

not with the wedding two weeks away, not when the final fitting was tomorrow. not when he was the nanami kento - precise, composed, impossibly, effortlessly elegant - and you felt like a child masquerading in grown woman skin, unraveling just when you should have been most beautiful.

you braced for the change, waited for it like rain preparing to ripple through the clouds, for the shift in his gaze, the falter in his tone, for the quiet moment where his warmth would begin to dim as the fading sunset, and the words you’d feared might surface:

this isn’t working, i didn’t sign up for this, maybe we rushed things.

but of course, he never said any of that - instead, he let you vanish until dinner, when you padded back to the bedroom with a bowl of noodles and a bruised kind of shame, closing the door like it could keep your insecurities contained.

half an hour later, it opened.

you were curled cross legged on the bed, hoodie drawn up over your mouth like a veil, the ceramic bowl empty on the nightstand.

nanami stepped inside with the quiet certainty of a man who never needed to raise his voice to be heard, to be seen. he closed the door behind him. the silence shifted.

you stilled, your eyes stayed low: fixed on the wall in front of you. your shame flared redder than your skin.

“i’m only going to ask once,” he said, voice calm accompanied by the kind of steadiness that cuts through any lie you could form. “are you avoiding me because of a breakout?”

your heart stuttered.

you didn’t answer, just sank deeper into the hoodie, into the fabric, into yourself. the sting behind your eyes crept closer to the surface.

he sighed - not with anger, but with weariness. the kind born not of frustration with you, but with the invisible wall you’d built between you both. with the absurd, aching notion that a few angry patches on your skin could shift the foundation of his love for you.

“darling,” he said, the word felt like gravity sucking you into him.

you heard his steps, slow and deliberate, as he crossed the room. felt the bed dip beneath his weight, his hand reached up and gently tugged the hoodie from your face. you turned away of course, instinct as sharp as breath.

but his palm found your jaw, and turned you back, “no,” he murmured. “let me see you.”

you hesitated, then lifted your eyes.

he saw everything - the irritated pink, the heat of humiliation, the unshed tears clinging to your lashes like dew. and in return, gave you no wince. no judgment. just his gaze - gentle, grounded - and his thumb, brushing reverently over the most inflamed of the blemishes.

“i’ve seen you exhausted,” he said. “in pain. crying. afraid. do you really think something as small as this would ever make me hesitate?”

you tried to laugh. it came out watery, brittle.

“kento… don’t say that. it’s not just a breakout. it’s me, i always fall apart before big things happen, and you’re… you. i thought maybe you’d -”

“call it off?” he offered, a brow lifting, eyes calm, you nodded, breath catching, gaze falling.

for a moment, he was quiet.

then, softly, he muttered, “unbelievable.”

you flinched - when he leaned in and pressed his lips to your cheek, to the angriest mark on your face. a kiss - comforting.

“kento -”

“again,” he said, kissing the blemish near your jaw. “and again.”

you squirmed, laughter startled and sharp, pushing at his chest. your face burned now for a different reason.

“stop -!”

“no,” he said, finally brushing his lips against yours. “i’ll stop when you understand this: i didn’t choose you because you were flawless. i chose you because you’re you. skin and all. hormones and all. all of it.”

your heart ached. the kind of ache that cracked you open just enough to breathe as if a weight has been lifted off your chest.

he exhaled, softer now, and pulled you into his arms. folded you beneath his chin, like something precious, something sacred.

“you’re marrying me in two weeks,” he murmured into your hair. “don’t run from me again, sweetheart. i’m not going anywhere.”

you nodded, a sound caught in your throat, small and raw, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like roots into earth.

divider by @/cafekitsune // art by ThisUserIsAngry on twt // not proofread.

[mrsimpurity]

satoru is the type to be sending the most filthiest messages and you just squirm and roll around, thighs squeezing together because you know damn well he can do all of that.

[mrsimpurity]

satoru is absolutely the type to get horny during aftercare.

like, violently.

and he knows how much he just wrecked you. how he folded you into the mattress like he owned it, like he had a point to prove and your body was the only canvas that mattered. the room still hums with heat, shadows curling along the soft sheen of sweat on your skin. your chest heaves as you try to remember how to breathe, legs limp and slightly parted, the plush of your lower lip caught between your teeth as your lashes flutter with exhaustion. your fingers twitch, still faintly curled into the sheets, and your skin is glowing—flushed and warm, painted in shades of him.

and satoru—your menace of a husband, long limbs sprawled like he belongs there, sprawled across your body—has the nerve to look sweet. his lashes fan out over flushed cheeks, the silver-white strands of his hair plastered messily to his temple, glinting faintly in the ambient lamplight. those eyes, sharp and crystal-cut, bright as glacier melt under sunlight, roam your body with open worship. he’s crouched between your thighs now, running a warm cloth over your skin in gentle, loving strokes, trailing kisses like apologies along the inside of your thigh, your hipbone, your knee.

“my pretty girl did so good,” he murmurs, voice thick with affection and that undercurrent of reverence that always makes your chest ache.

he hums while he works. fucking hums. like this isn’t the fifth time he’s split you open tonight.

his neck glistens with sweat, the slope of it flushed, veins subtly visible beneath the surface. the scent of his cologne—the one you picked, subtle and fresh with a little citrus and something smoky—still clings to him beneath the musk of skin and sex and something uniquely his. and that alone would be enough to leave you dizzy. but then—then—you feel it.

his cock, twitching against your thigh. heavy, hot, no longer just interested—eager. you don’t even need to look to know his brows are twitching in that self-satisfied way, that his mouth is curved up in a smile just shy of smug.

“…satoru.”

he blinks at you. innocent. as if he isn’t rock hard again less than ten minutes after he nearly made you sob. he presses a kiss just above your mound, lips dragging slowly.

“yeah?”

his hands are slow as they slide over your hips. one squeezes, grounding. the other strokes the soft inside of your thigh, thumbs sweeping in soothing circles that border on teasing. you see the way his eyes flick up—watching for every twitch in your face, every breath you forget to take, the way your jaw tenses then slackens when he brushes over a particularly sensitive spot.

“you feeling okay, sweetheart?” he asks, almost too gently.

you squint at him. that tone always spells trouble.

he tucks the sheets around you like he’s being helpful. like he’s not also letting his fingers slip under your waistband. “nothing else you need?”

your jaw drops slightly. then you squeak when his mouth descends to your breast, tongue dragging over your nipple with slow, devoted strokes, the kind that make your spine arch despite yourself, your hand flying up to thread through his messy hair.

“satoru,” you say, warning sharp—but shaky.

“‘m trying to behave,” he mumbles into your chest, clearly lying. his fingers dip lower, parting you with an ease born of how well he knows you. your hips jerk when his thumb finds your clit, lazy, slow circles that make your lashes flutter and your thighs twitch. “but baby, you’re just so soft. so warm. i need to be inside you again.”

he rolls his hips against your thigh and the weight of him—all of him—presses into you like a brand. he lifts his head to look at you, pouty and flushed and ridiculously pretty, his wild hair sticking out in tufts, strands fanned out across his forehead. “just a little? i’ll go slow.”

you try to glare. you really do. but your mouth betrays you with the tiniest whimper, your thighs parting without conscious thought.

his grin is instant. too bright. too boyish. he’s already shifting closer, one big hand hooking behind your knee to open you wider. his other hand cradles your face like you’re something holy, while he leans down to kiss your jaw, your temple, nose brushing against yours.

“you still smell like me,” he murmurs, voice cracking. “d’you have any idea what that does to me?”

and instead of pushing in, he teases—rubs the swollen tip of his cock along your folds, slow and languid. back and forth. not enough. never enough. his hand cups your breast again, thumb flicking your nipple in rhythm with his motions below, his mouth grazing the shell of your ear. you shiver, thighs instinctively twitching.

“look at you. god, i don’t even deserve you. but i’m gonna make you feel good again. promise.”

you turn your head away, whimper caught in your throat, and that’s when he shifts—pressing a kiss to your nape, brushing your hair aside like it’s a veil. he rests his forehead there, warm and damp and trembling, breath shuddering as his hand tilts your hips upward.

he doesn’t warn you. doesn’t count. he knows better. he waits until your breath catches—until your nails dig into his arm just slightly—and that’s when he presses in.

slow. stretching. the full length of him inching deeper and deeper until his pelvis meets yours.

he shudders, nose buried in your hair. kisses the nape of your neck once. twice.

then he starts to move.

not frantic. not harsh. worshipful. slow, grinding rolls of his hips that knock the air from your lungs. every thrust has intention, angled to press deep, to feel every inch of you squeezing around him again. your body trembles with overstimulation, jaw slack, breath catching every time he nudges against the spot that makes your toes curl.

he whispers your name like a hymn, his thumb slipping back between your legs to circle your clit again. slow. patient. like he’s building you up on purpose.

“can’t stop,” he breathes. “can’t help it. you’re perfect. mine.”

and every time you start to plead—every time your walls flutter around him like it’s the end—he whispers, “just one more.”

he lies. over and over again. but god, you let him.

because he doesn’t slow. doesn’t stop. not when your legs tremble. not when your fingers claw at the sheets. not when your voice is hoarse from moaning. he just keeps going. another round. and another. and another. until your body forgets what empty feels like.

until you’re soaked and aching and delirious, and he’s still above you, kissing your damp cheeks, murmuring against your skin.

“so good. you’re so good. just one more, baby.”

his thrusts stay slow, but there’s something ravenous behind them now. he’s desperate. trembling. voice cracking with every word he mutters into your neck. his hands are everywhere—your waist, your chest, your jaw. his mouth worships every inch of skin he can reach.

and when you break again, voice barely a whisper of his name, he spills with you—hips stuttering, arms locked around you, face buried in your neck as he breathes you in.

he doesn’t pull out. doesn’t move. he just stays there, pressed deep, body curved over yours like a shield.

“just one more,” he whispers again, breathless.

(you both know better.)

[mrsimpurity]

a/n: super super suggestive but i got lazy. happy birthday to my husband. 18+ mdni!

“happy birthday, ken.”

the clock had just barely hit midnight, and you’re already climbing on top of your husband, ready to give him the first bit of birthday sex he’d be receiving. a silk nightgown—his favorite—barely covers your hips, tastefully riding up when you settle on kento’s lap.

“thank you, sweetheart,” nanami responds, big hands settling on your hips and gripping the fat there, “already giving me a gift?”

“mhm,” you purr, kissing your husband’s jawline and down his neck. your hands grip his shoulders, built and muscular, hard under your soft touch.

his chest presses against yours with every breath, puffs of air landing quietly against your skin. his blond hair is somewhat messy from his shower, still damp at the ends.

you wish you could describe in words how insane your husband drives you, but you’ll have to settle for actions—and even that isn’t enough.

“mm,” you moan into kento’s neck, lips leaving the small mark you’d formed, “can i ride you? please?” your voice is desperate, almost, but you know he’d let you do anything you wanted.

“mhm, yes.”

with his agreement, you slowly begin to lift the hem of your gown up, revealing the champagne-colored lingerie set you bought for tonight. it’s dangerous, almost—hugging too tight around your hips, fabric stretched so thin the outline of your most intimate areas can’t be hidden.

kento shamelessly stares at your body, eyes trailing down, up, and down again. the bulge in his boxers is comfortably nestled against your clothed mound, and god—you drive him crazy, too.

“you like?” you giggle, noting how he simply can’t take his eyes off of you, his mouth parting slightly in concentration. kento hums some sort of confirmation, hands running up and down your thighs.

you smile at nanami, beautifully, and lift yourself off him. he watches as you shift, throw a leg over his lap, straddling him while facing away. his eyes travel down the curve of your back, your shoulder blades and your spine, right down to the band of your panties.

you’re waiting. just how you are, rubbing nanami’s legs, waiting for him to notice. his thumb hooks into the right side of your lingerie, pulling the fabric down.

“what’s this?” he hums, dazed.

the pad of his thumb runs over the sore skin, still a little inflamed from your appointment earlier. it’s a pretty tattoo, a pretty font that almost matches nanami’s own handwriting.

k—his initial.

his mark on you, something that’ll last longer than the imprint of your wedding ring or the hickies he gives you every night.

“happy birthday, baby,” you breathe, moving your hips against kento before leaning back against his chest. nanami breathes deeply, composure about to snap, arms instinctively wrapping around you.

“yeah,” kento grits, voice dropping low, “happy birthday.”

[mrsimpurity]

cw: age gap, gen reader, established relationship, domesticity, emotional intimacy, caretaking, praise, soft nsfw, nanami being dangerously tender.

mw00nie's note⟡: this is like kind of a part 2 to this post because why not? also i can take reqs cuz i have no ideas for oneshots rn. anyways enjoy !! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

older boyfriend!nanami is so good at remembering the little things; how you take your cofee, the name of the coworker you hate, your favorite desserts, your comfort food, your favorite brand of face masks, the tells you have when you're nervous or spiraling. he's always listening and remembering.

older boyfriend!nanami who doesn't let you lift a finger when you're sick. he’s the kind of man who’ll wash your hair for you when you’re too weak. spoon-feed you soup. wrap you in a weighted blanket and scowl at the thermometer like it insulted him personally. and when you croak out “i’m fine,” he says “no, you’re not. and that’s alright.”

older boyfriend!nanami who never works overtime but when he has to he texts you every now and again and apologizes for not being able to be home with you. and if he gets home after you’re asleep, he kisses your shoulder, peels the blanket over you, and murmurs “sorry i’m late” even if you don’t hear it.

older boyfriend!nanami who's a light sleeper which comes in handy if you have nightmare. he doesn't groan, doesn't turn away to let you deal with it. he gently comofrts you and holds you close while running his fingers through your hair until he feels your breath deepen and even out, only then does he fall asleep

older boyfriend!nanami is the type who buys 5 (five) bags of chips because he got one a few days ago and you said "i like it". that's it. that's all it took. and now your pantry never runs out of that one singular brand and flavor.

older boyfriend!nanami who gets aroused from just taking care of you. you in the bath. you in your robe. you yawning and stretching and pressing your cold feet under his thighs. not because it’s sexual, but because loving you is arousal. tenderness is need.

older boyfriend!nanami who always asks "are you okay?" while holding eye contact the second he feels you might be uncomfortable or in pain.

older boyfriend!nanami who loves making you come. quietly obsessed with the way your body responds to him. the change in your voice. the tremble in your thighs. how you reach for him when you’re right on the edge. he’ll whisper praises into your ear. like prayer. and he never stops until you’re done. really done.

older boyfriend!nanami always comes with his arms wrapped around you holding you close. chest to chest, foreheads pressed together. pressing deep into you. shaking with it. he groans your name when he comes, just your name. like it's the only thing that matters.

older boyfriend!nanami who always kisses you afterwards. your forehead. lips. nose. cheeks. jaw. neck. anywhere he can reach without breaking your close contact. he’s not a roll-over-and-snore kind of man. he lingers. holds you close. wipes you down gently, if you’ll let him. always brushes the hair off your face before pulling the blanket up.

older boyfriend!nanami who asks "was that enough?" and when you say yes, you see the way his whole body relaxes. because he needs to know he gave you something soft in a world that never is.

[mrsimpurity]

gojo satoru survived — first thing he does? finds you, fucks you like you're the only thing keeping him alive, as if dying didn’t take, but coming back might.

gojo satoru x f!reader , mdni , mlist , divider by @/cafekitsune

<𝟑 .ᐟ cw: angst and smut, trauma recovery via sex, intense + emotional , breeding kink implied , post-shibuya , reader is grounding him , not proofread , art by HON100_ on twt

gojo satoru stumbles into your space like a collapsing moon, sweat soaked and trembling.

half here, half somewhere else. he doesn't knock. just appears. the air thickened around for a second before it settled with a dull thud, the universe shuddering to spit him back out.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t blink much either;

his eyes aren’t the same. they look too bright — off somehow, shaky, burnt-out from seeing something probably no man should, scorched from trying to hold the strongest image.

he’s breathing as if he clawed his way through hell barefoot, chest heaving under torn tight black fabric, collarbone glistening, a ssmear of blood clinging to the side of his neck, and not all of it is his. some sort of — divine wrath clinging to his skin.

you say his name. once. twice. he doesn’t answer.

he stares, checking if you’re real or just another hallucination from the edge of death. then he touches you — trembling fingers, clumsy, desperate, afraid you’ll vanish.

no words. just breathing. just need. but not the needy toru you're used to.

he kisses you wrong. too hard. too much teeth. it hurts in a way that doesn’t feel unfamiliar — not passion, but a tether to reality.

he’s trying to stay here, with you. grounding himself through you.

you try to pull back, to say something, anything, but he follows, forehead pressed to yours, eyes wild with something you still can’t name.

“...’s over,” he mumbles eventually.

you’re not sure if he means the fight, the world, or himself, but he keeps touching you like you're the only thing left that’s real.

he doesn’t give you a chance to ask what he means. doesn’t give himself the chance to fall apart.

his hands slip under your shirt, rough and shaking — tugging, clawing, desperate. his breath stutters over your cheek as he mouths at your skin, messy and raw, teeth grazing your pulse like he needs to feel it jump to prove he made it out alive.

he moans at the beat beneath your skin. it’s proof. your back hits the nearest surface — wall, table, floor — it doesn’t matter.

he groans when your legs open for him, a low, guttural sound torn from somewhere deep and wounded. starving, frantic.

his hands push your clothes away with no rhythm, no patience — almost furious at the fabric separating you.

“fuck,” he chokes out, voice cracked and breaking at the edges.

his fingers find your cunt, and there's no tenderness — just a desperate press between your thighs, his middle finger dragging over your clit too hard, too fast, panic woven into every movement.

your hips jolt, a startled moan slipping free from your mouth, and he groans again — raw, unfiltered — at the sound.

“fuck—warm,” he breathes, thumb sliding through your slick like salvation. “still warm, you're real.”

he repeats it, barely a whisper. real. real. afraid it might stop being true.

then he’s fumbling his pants down — cock heavy, flushed, the head already wet and twitching. painfully hard. he lines up in one breathless motion. you barely inhale—

and then he’s inside. not slow. not careful. just in.

one brutal thrust, thick cock stretching you wide, pulling a broken sound from your throat as your back arches. your pussy clenches around him, fluttering from the sudden fullness, and he shudders, eyes half shut.

“shit,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. “satoru—”

he pulls back only halfway before slamming in again, deep and messy, hips grinding against yours like he’s chasing something he’s already losing. every drag of his cock scrapes your walls just right, each thrust making your legs tremble around him.

his pelvis grinds your clit with every stroke, heat blooming into something sharp. your head knocks the wall, rhythm caught in the wet slap of flesh.

“can’t—fuck, can’t stop,” he pants, forehead pressed hard to yours. “you feel so—so good—holy shit—” his voice sounds close to breaking.

his cock drives into you with a desperate rhythm, thick and relentless, your slick making it too easy to fuck you deeper, harder. your cunt squeezes around him, soaking, tight, pulling him back in every time he bottoms out.

the air is thick with wet sounds — your pussy squelching, your bodies colliding — as he uses you like you’re the only thing keeping him here.

you feel every inch of him. the way he fills you, stretches you, the blunt head of his cock battering your cervix with each thrust that lands too deep, makes your voice crack.

“fuck—oh my god—satoru—slower—please—”

but you don’t mean it. not when his hand grabs your thigh and hikes it higher, not when his other hand climbs from your stomach to your chest, rough and greedy, thumbs brushing your nipples until they harden under his touch.

“you’re gonna take it,” he growls, voice low and slurred. “gonna take all of it—let me fuck it in deeper—fuck it in good—”

he sounds half possessed, half begging.

your walls clench down, moans spilling louder, wetter, each one driving him to thrust harder. deeper. more. his pace brutalizes the space between you, tries to leave you shaped around him.

you don’t know what the hell happened out there, but this — this feels right. this feels alive.

his cock throbs inside you. you feel it — hips snapping faster, the wet drag of him inside you echoing off the walls.

he buries himself deep, chasing something final.

“you’re mine, you're real,” he groans into your mouth, voice cracking. “mine—fuck—don’t go—don’t go—”

as if he’s already watched you disappear once.

your body’s clenching around him, pussy tightening with each desperate thrust, milking him closer to the edge. your own orgasm builds in heavy waves, still out of reach — but it’s coming.

you can’t breathe. can’t think. just feel. his cock driving into your soaked cunt, clit dragging against his pelvis with every slam, heat building under your skin—

“gonna cum—” he gasps, frantic, hand gripping your ass as he slams in one last time, deep and wrecking —“fuck, i’m cummin'—”

and he spills inside you. hot. thick. endless.

his hips stutter as he fills you up, cock twitching deep, and you feel it flood your insides, dripping between your thighs before he even pulls out. your cunt clenches, still twitching, your own orgasm shuddering behind it.

“fuck—look at me,” you breathe, grabbing his face, and his dazed eyes lock with yours as your pussy spasms around him, squeezing his still hard cock.

“you’re not done,” you whisper, breathless. still trembling. aching. “don’t you dare pull out.”

and he listens. he can’t do anything else. not when your cunt refuses to let him go. not when he’s still buried to the hilt, still leaking into you, still throbbing. not when this is the only place he remembers how to be human.

he doesn’t say a word.

just rocks his hips again, slower now, cock sliding through the mess he left behind — your body soaked, dripping, greedy for more.

and he clings to you, the way only a man who’s died and come back can. desperate, shaken, driven by something deeper than lust — he missed you.

[mrsimpurity]

tags/warnings ⋆·˚ ༘ * lil smutty at the end, nothing serious, this is very short

nanami did not expect to come home from a fourteen-hour day at work and get tackled.

he’d barely taken off his tie, still in his slacks and dress shirt and blazer, the lines under his eyes heavy with exhaustion — when you pounced on him like a starved jungle cat.

“baby—!” you squeal, arms wrapped around his neck. “you’re home!”

he catches you by pure reflex. sighs. you’re giggling.

“…have you been drinking?”

“mmm… maybe just a little.” you hold up a glass, very full. “wine. it’s fancy. i put a strawberry in it.”

“how cultured of you,” he deadpans.

you beam at him. “you look hot.”

“…i just walked in the door.”

“exactly. and already so sexy. tragic.”

nanami exhales through his nose. “sweetheart, can i at least shower first?”

you blink innocently. “you can, or i can do it for you.”

“…you’re drunk.”

“i’m imaginative.”

“you’re harassing a public servant.”

“you’re not a cop.”

“i’m worse,” he mutters, dropping his briefcase and hauling you into his arms with a quiet grunt. “i work in finance.”

“oh my god,” you gasp dramatically. “that is worse.”

he carries you to the bedroom like you weigh nothing. drops you onto the mattress. you giggle the whole way down.

“you’re so strong,” you say dreamily, propping your chin in your hand. “you know i was watching some old footage of you today? that one from the beach where you got all red and your shirt was unbuttoned? pornographic, honestly.”

his eyebrow twitches. “i got sunburnt.”

“so hot.”

“…you’re ridiculous.”

you grin at him, all teeth, and slowly lie back on the bed like some kind of pin-up poster. legs parted, wine glass held lazily in one hand, silk robe sliding off one shoulder.

nanami stares. you wink.

and the last shred of self-restraint he had after his miserable day disappears completely.

—

“—you’re so bossy after one glass of wine,” he mutters against your throat, voice low and hoarse as he pushes your thighs up around his waist. “silly little thing. letting it go to your head.”

“you like it,” you pant, gripping his shoulders. “you like when i climb you like a tree.”

“maybe,” he growls, sinking deeper into you. “but if you’re going to act like a brat, you’re going to get fucked like one.”

you whimper. he bites your neck.

you try to sass him again and he just puts two fingers in your mouth to shut you up.

“quiet,” he murmurs, watching your lips wrap around them. “you wanted this, didn’t you? wanted me to come home and fuck the wine right out of you.”

you nod, big-eyed and flushed, drool slipping down your chin.

he laughs softly. kisses you hard.

and by the time he’s done with you — glass long forgotten, sheets a mess, your legs shaking around his waist — he decides maybe one glass of wine isn’t so bad after all.

[mrsimpurity]

୨୧﹕fem!reader, soft dom mimi

nanami didn't rush.

he was patient—achingly, deliciously so—and when it came to you? that gentleness turned downright devastating.

you were trembling under him, thighs tight together, hands nervously fisting the sheets. every touch had your breath catching, every stroke of his fingers along your skin lighting you up like fire.

“relax,” he murmured, voice low and warm, like golden whiskey. his large hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your flushed skin. “you’re doing beautifully.”

you nodded—barely—eyes wide, lips parted, so shy, so nervous. you couldn’t even look at him.

and he loved that.

“you’re still tense,” he said softly, brushing your thighs apart. you whimpered, instinctively trying to close them again, but he tsked and leaned closer, pressing a tender kiss to your knee. “you have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“i—i just…” your voice cracked. “i’ve never—been like this before.”

“like what?”

“exposed.”

nanami’s eyes darkened just slightly, his gaze flicking down to your trembling body laid out beneath him, soft and vulnerable and so fucking pretty. he let out a slow breath, like the sight of you alone was something sacred.

“good,” he murmured. “because i don’t want you to be anything but yourself.”

you swallowed thickly as he ran his fingers up your inner thigh—light, teasing, barely there. you sucked in a shaky breath.

“kento…”

he looked up immediately.

“do you want me to stop?”

“no! i just…” you squirmed, cheeks burning. “i—i want you.”

that earned you a slow, quiet smile. the kind that made your chest ache. he leaned in again, lips ghosting over yours.

“then let me take care of you,” he whispered, “just like this. slowly. thoroughly.”

you nodded, dizzy.

he kissed you soft, sweet, as his fingers finally brushed over your slit—just enough to make you twitch. his lips never left yours as he traced up and down your folds, collecting slick, circling your clit with reverence.

you moaned into his mouth, hips arching before you could stop them.

“that’s it,” he said against your lips. “let go a little. you’re doing so well for me.”

his words made your toes curl. the praise—soft, low, measured—was almost worse than the touch. he fingered you slowly, two thick fingers sliding in deep, curling just so as his palm rubbed against your clit in gentle circles.

your mouth opened in a soft cry.

nanami groaned, barely audible. “you sound beautiful.”

you tried to hide your face, whimpering, but he caught your chin and turned your face back to his.

“don’t look away,” he said. “i want to see you.”

you nodded, breathless, chest rising and falling in sharp little gasps as he kept working you open, slow and gentle, like he had all the time in the world. his fingers were so good, stroking just the right places inside you, and the way he kept whispering how good you were, how perfect you felt, how much he wanted to see you fall apart—

it was too much.

“kennnn—please—i can’t—”

“yes you can.” his mouth brushed your ear. “be good and cum for me. just once. let me see.”

and when it hit, your whole body trembled, thighs shaking around his wrist, your soft, breathy moans stuttering out of you like a prayer. he held you through it, fingers never stopping until your hips jerked away, too sensitive, too overwhelmed.

he kissed your forehead, gentle as ever. “that’s it. that’s my good girl.”

you whimpered at the praise, still panting, legs falling open completely now, pliant.

“can i keep going?” he asked.

you nodded.

“i need to hear it, sweetheart.”

“y-yes,” you whispered. “please. i want you.”

nanami kissed your lips again, then pulled back, finally reaching for his belt.

“good girl.”

[mrsimpurity]

the room still smelled like sex. faint sweat, your perfume, the deep scent of slick and cum clinging to the tangled sheets. the curtains were half-drawn, moonlight slipping through in silver slats, spilling across kento's bare back where he knelt between your legs — silent, head bent, brows furrowed in concentration.

he hadn’t said much since he came — just a few soft grunts as he pulled out — slow, gentle, offering you an affectionate kiss on the forehead. your swollen pussy was still twitching around nothing, shiny with the thick drip of him starting to seep out. you’d whimpered, overstimulated, but he only shushed you, warm hand pressing flat to your belly. “don’t move sweetheart,” he murmured, voice quiet. “let me see, come on. don’t be shy, it’s jus’ me.”

that was all it took. your shaky legs fell wider apart, thighs trembling with the aftershocks of the orgasm he’d wrung from you not five minutes ago. you were still pulsing, every inch of you soft under the weight of his heavy stare.

kento bent down slightly before he pushed his glasses up his nose. your husband didn’t touch at first — just looked. head tilted, tongue clicking softly behind his teeth — it was enough to make you shy. “look at her,” he muttered. “sensitive, mhm ?”

his thumb brushed down the inside of your thigh, not even close to where you were swollen and leaking. “she took me well. right, honey ?” you whimpered softly as an answer, too sheepish for anything else.

kento scoffed quietly. “cute.” he said simply, shifting lower, close enough to breathe the heat of you.

your face burned, but it was hard to feel embarrassed when your cunt was still glistening with his cum, your thighs damp and sticky, the proof of your pleasure cooling between your legs as your husband inspected the aftermath with precision.

his hands were warm and wide, fingers gently parting you open. “she looks so pretty,” he murmured. “little puffy.”

you keened softly as he traced a finger down the seam of your folds. not pushing in, not teasing. just cataloging. noting the way you clenched, the way slick gathered on his fingertip. “still leaking,” he said absently. “i came deep.” he remarked casually. “you always do, ken...” you breathed.

he glanced up, glasses slipping just slightly, mouth twitching. “you always keep it so well.” the praise landed heavy in your gut. kento leaned forward, exhaled a breath over your abused pussy — watching you twitch. “too much ?” he asked softly. “no,” you whispered. “jus’ sensitive...”

his gaze flicked up again. he smiled faintly, proud, as he ran two fingers up your slit and pressed the pads just slightly to your entrance, gathering more of his release as it seeped out of you in thick, warm drips. “she’s mine,” he murmured. “mhm ? no one else’s.” you nodded, thighs trembling. “uh-huh... always, ken.”

he nodded once. “next time,” he said, slipping his fingers into your mouth without being asked. “you’re keepin’ it in all night.”

the taste hit your tongue — salty, bitter, slick. you moaned softly, lidded eyes fluttering shut before kento kissed the inside of your knee, still watching you. “good girl,” he murmured. “close your legs. let her rest. she worked hard enough tonight.”

[mrsimpurity]

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.”

[mrsimpurity]

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ just reader flashing nanami during an argument yk the usual

tags ⋆·˚ ༘ * established relationship, domestic argument, flashing, crack, nanami is so tired, reader is so unserious

“i just don’t understand why you couldn’t have waited—”

“you’re overreacting.”

“i’m not over—” nanami cuts himself off, jaw tight, eyes narrowed like he’s physically holding the rest of the words back with his molars. “you left the stove on. again.”

“and it didn’t burn anything this time!” you gesture, exasperated. “nothing even smoked! you act like i set the apartment on fire!”

he looks at you. tired. lips pressed into a flat line like he’s debating walking out the door and straight into traffic.

“that is not the defense you think it is.”

“well excuse me for trying to multitask while making us dinner—”

“no,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “you were trying to build ikea shelves and cook pasta at the same time. that is not multitasking. that is split negligence.”

“okay first of all, hot take—”

“no more hot takes. and no more hot stoves.” he’s rubbing his temples now. “you’re going to give me an aneurysm.”

you cross your arms. narrow your eyes. and then, in one swift motion, you lift your oversized shirt and flash him.

nanami goes still like someone hit pause on his soul.

he stares.

silent.

you can hear the tick of the hallway clock.

and then, hoarse, flat, barely audible:

“…why.”

“because you were spiraling and i thought this might help,” you say brightly.

he closes his eyes. breathes in. out. presses his fingers against his eyelids like he’s praying for strength.

“this isn’t—”

a pause. a sigh.

“you’re—i’m trying to have a serious conversation with you.”

“and i’m trying to cheer you up!” you beam.

his eyes drag upward slowly, gaze landing somewhere near the ceiling like he’s trying to manifest divine intervention. “i can’t believe i am saying this— boobs are not a conflict resolution strategy.”

“they’re working, though.”

“…unfortunately,” he mutters.

and they are. because now his arms are crossed but not tense, his jaw’s unclenched, and there’s the smallest tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth. he’s annoyed, but it’s fraying at the edges.

you grin.

“you love me.”

“i do. god help me.”

he finally looks at you.

“…put them away. we’re not done talking about the stove.”

you lift the shirt higher.

“put them away.”

[mrsimpurity]

୨୧﹕fem!reader, ur annoying rich gojo!!

you’re trying to be good. really—you are.

but satoru's fingers are so fucking long, and the leather seat beneath you is soaked.

you’re in the backseat of his sleek, stupidly expensive black car—custom imported, of course. it smells like new leather, money, and his cologne: clean, expensive, dominant. the windows are tinted dark enough to hide the mess he’s making of you, but the way he growls under his breath every time your slick gushes over his knuckles makes you feel completely exposed.

“fuck” he mutters, voice low and biting, eyes flicking down to where your thighs are spread across his lap. his fingers are buried deep in your cunt, his wrist twisting with every thrust. “this is italian leather, sweetheart.”

your body jerks when he curls them just right—right against that spot, knuckle-deep—and your moan breaks into a gasp.

“s-satoru—!”

he clicks his tongue, teeth grit like he’s annoyed, but his smirk betrays him—hungry, smug, dangerous.

“i let you sit in my car and this is how you thank me?” he sneers, thrusting his fingers harder, faster. “getting your needy little pussy juice all over my custom seats?”

your breath hitches. your head hits the seat behind you, spine arching.

“i—i can’t help it,” you whisper, thighs trembling. “your fingers—”

“oh, i know,” he cuts you off, leaning closer, lips brushing your ear. “you like getting used like this, huh? dripping all over shit that doesn’t belong to you. so fucking messy.”

your panties are shoved down to your knees, useless now. his fingers squelch inside you, wet and obscene, the slick noise filling the car in time with your shaky moans. every time you try to close your legs, he slaps the inside of your thigh with his free hand, hard enough to sting.

“no,” he growls. “you spread them like the greedy little thing you are. don’t make me repeat myself.”

you obey.

you’re panting, twitching, gripping the headrest behind you as he fucks you open with those beautiful, slender fingers—rings glinting under the dim ceiling light, one of them probably worth more than your apartment. his thumb presses down on your clit and stays there, grinding in little circles that make your whole body quake.

“look at this fucking mess,” he mutters, glancing down again with narrowed eyes. “you’re gushing all over me now, too. bet your dumb little cunt’s gonna leave a stain.”

you choke out a moan, nails scraping his shoulder. you’re so close. so goddamn close.

he leans in again, lips against your cheek now, voice laced with cruel delight. “you gonna cum and make it worse? huh? gonna ruin my backseat completely like a filthy little brat?”

his fingers slam into you harder, rougher, and your orgasm hits you like a car crash. your back bows, thighs clamping around his wrist as you gush—soaking him, moaning brokenly, legs shaking.

“fuck,” he hisses, pulling his fingers out slow, watching them glisten. he wipes the slick across your thigh, deliberately, like he’s marking you. “i should make you lick this shit off my seats.”

he glances at the spreading wet patch under you and then at your trembling body with a sigh, rolling his eyes dramatically.

“hope you’re ready to pay for a cleaning, sweetheart,” he drawls, already shifting in his seat, undoing his belt. “’cause i’m not done fucking you yet.”

[mrsimpurity]

the slow undressing.

suguru isn’t the type to rush when he has you to himself. he takes his time undressing you, like every button and zipper is something to savor. he enjoys peeling each layer away slowly, fingers brushing against newly exposed skin, eyes drinking in every inch of you and how you shiver. it’s not just about getting you naked—it’s about unwrapping you, piece by piece, with patience.

his quiet touches.

his touch is always soft, but firm. his hands move like he’s learning you all over again, every graze intentional. fingertips dragging over your arms, your back, your waist—he wants to feel you, ground you, remind you he’s right there with you when he pumps you deeply. you can tell he’s memorizing you by the way he moves.

his whispers of affection.

suguru whispers sweet things to you between kisses. such low, intimate little confessions like “you’re so perfect,” or “i’ll never get enough of your sweet pussy.” his voice goes straight to your chest, curling around your heart like a secret only he gets to say, and only you get to hear.

his kisses everywhere.

he kisses more than just your lips—he trails his mouth down your neck, your collarbone, your nipples. he knows exactly where to kiss to get those little gasps he knows and loves. he takes his time with it, tasting every part of you. he’s not in a hurry to get anywhere but here.

his warm voice.

there’s something magnetic about his voice when you’re in his hands. hot, sweet, and steady. it never needs to rise above a murmur to make you listen. he speaks to you as if you’re fragile and precious, even when things get real messy. his words pull you deeper into the moment, helping you let go and feel everything.

his soothing touch.

if things start to get intense, suguru always holds you. fingers through your hair, soft circles traced down your spine. he pauses just to hold you, to remind you that you’re safe. that this is love, not just lust.

the mutual devotion.

the way he looks at you during intimate moments is unreal—like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. you’re the center of his universe in that space. nothing matters more to him than you, and he makes damn sure you feel that in every look, every touch, every breath.

he's a hand holder.

he’s a hand holder, always. during foreplay, during sex, even after. it’s one of the many quiet ways he loves staying connected to you. sometimes he squeezes your fingers right when you need it most, like a silent reminder.

the slow, soft sex.

usually he prefers it slow—thorough and intentional. just to take away your tension with his tenderness. he’s not chasing the finish line. he wants you to feel every second of it. the pace of his cock is steady, each thrust drawn out, like dragging a match along the edge of something combustible.

his love for light teasing.

suguru lives for teasing. he knows your body too well—how to hover just above the places you want him most, how to pull back right when you’re close. he watches you squirm, loving how you ache for him before he finally, finally gives in.

[mrsimpurity]

there’s a quiet to nanami’s love.

not the kind that goes unnoticed, not the kind that slips beneath the radar or hides behind closed doors. no—his love is steady. grounded. ever-present. it wraps around you like a coat in winter, shields you from the harshness of the world, speaks in actions more than words. it’s there in the way he makes your tea just the way you like it without asking. in the way his hand finds the small of your back when you cross a busy street. in how he presses his lips to your temple every night, as if to promise, i am here. i will always be here.

you fell in love with his seriousness first, the way he never made you guess. nanami didn’t play games. when he wanted to see you again after your first date, he said it plainly. when he realized you made him feel at peace, he told you so. and when he began to love you—really love you—he let it be known not with grand gestures or poetic declarations, but in quiet, consistent ways.

he’s the kind of man who learns your routines just so he can help carry the weight of your days. the kind who remembers the name of your annoying coworker because he knows it matters to you when you vent about work. the kind who folds your laundry the exact way you like it without complaint, even if it’s a ridiculous waste of time by his standards.

nanami loves like the ocean—deep, vast, unwavering. and you? you are drunk on it.

you love the way he pulls you into his chest without a word when he comes home late. how he sighs into your hair, burying his nose there like he’s finally found something soft after a day full of sharp edges. you love that he lets you cling to him like a koala in the mornings, even though he’s always up before you and dressed for work. you love how he never rushes you, never demands you be more or less than what you are.

“ridiculous,” he says when you curl into him on the couch like a cat, tracing the veins on his forearm with your fingertip. but his voice is gentle, and his free hand comes up to cradle your head, thumb brushing your cheek in lazy strokes. “you’re clingy, aren’t you.”

“you like it,” you murmur into his shirt.

“maybe,” he says, but his mouth is already pressing to your hairline, soft and indulgent.

he always pretends he doesn’t need affection, but he melts for yours. completely. it disarms him. you’ve seen it in the way his shoulders drop when you kiss the corner of his mouth. how his eyes go warm and soft when you reach for his hand under the table. he acts so unaffected—but when you rest your cheek on his thigh while he reads, he always absentmindedly cards his fingers through your hair. and when you whisper i love you against his collarbone, he still pauses. still swallows thickly. still wraps both arms around you and holds on like he might break if he lets go.

sometimes he says it back in those exact words, voice quiet but full of weight: i love you. other times, he murmurs thank you, like you’ve given him something he’s never had before, something fragile and precious.

you don’t always understand it, the way he sees you. sometimes you think you’re too much. too loud, too emotional, too messy. you cry too easily. forget your umbrella. burn toast. leave half-finished drinks on every surface. but nanami—he never makes you feel like you’re too much. never once.

“you’re human,” he says, when you apologize for the hundredth time over something small. he cups your face with both hands, eyes clear and honest. “and you are loved.”

he says it like a fact. like the sun will rise tomorrow and nanami will still love you.

you can’t help the tears when he says things like that. and he never mocks you for them—just thumbs them away and pulls you into his arms and lets you stay there as long as you want.

sometimes you lie awake beside him just to watch him sleep. the crease between his brows softens in sleep, the tension gone. he looks peaceful. younger. you brush your fingers through his hair, lean over to kiss his cheek, whisper, “you’re so beautiful. i love you so much.”

and though he doesn’t wake, you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch. as if he hears you anyway. as if, even in dreams, he’s listening.

you love the way nanami loves you. and you love him more for letting you love him right back. completely. without shame.

there’s a quiet to his love, yes. but it’s the kind of quiet that feels like home. like safety. like the softest place in the world to land.