I Can't Get The Thought Out Of My Head That Suguru Would Be The Best Friend That You Fuck While Drunk.

Bestfriend! Suguru, who waits for you when you get home late after a night out with your friends. He’s lounging on the couch in sweatpants that hang low on his hips, a book forgotten in his hands, though his eyes are fixed on the door the moment you stumble in. The way your heels click against the floor and your soft curse when you drop your keys pull a quiet laugh from him.

He watches as you crouch down, the hem of your dress riding up dangerously high, revealing just enough to make him grit his teeth and look anywhere but at you. You’re trouble, he thinks, a beautiful, irresistible kind of trouble that he can’t bring himself to resist.

“Lose something?” he asks, voice low and amused, as you finally find your keys and straighten up with a triumphant grin.

By the time you’ve kicked off your heels and wandered into the bathroom, he’s already following, a silent shadow at your back. He doesn’t say anything as he sets you on the icy counter, his hands steady on your waist when you wobble slightly, laughing softly at your own clumsiness.

“Had fun?” he murmurs, already pulling out a cotton pad and your makeup remover from the cabinet.

“You kiddin' ? ...It was the best,” you giggle, leaning forward a little, your knees brushing his sides as he steps between your legs. “You should’ve come thoughhh.... they were asking about you....you know?”

“I bet,” he replies, a flicker of a smirk tugging at his lips as he starts carefully wiping the remnants of makeup from your face.

His touch is gentle, the rough pads of his fingers brushing against your skin as he works. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of his presence wrap around you like a blanket., his focus so intense it makes your stomach flutter.

But when he reaches your lips, he hesitates. The gloss sheen of your lip gloss catches the light, and his thumb lingers near the corner of your mouth, his breath hitching. You feel the pause, your dreamy haze giving way to a spark of awareness, and without thinking, you close the gap, pressing your lips to his.

He freezes for half a second, caught off guard, but then his hand on your thigh tightens, drawing you closer, and his lips press firmly back against yours. It’s soft at first, tentative and searching, like he’s savoring something he’s longed for but never thought he’d have. His other hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up as the kiss deepens, slow and unhurried, but impossibly intense.

Your hands drift to his shoulders, then to his neck, fingers threading into his hair as you pull him even closer. He groans softly against your lips, the sound low and guttural, and it sends a shiver down your spine. His thumb strokes the curve of your jaw as his lips move against yours, exploring, teasing, claiming.

When you part just barely for air, his forehead rests against yours, his breath hot and uneven. But he doesn’t pull away—not yet. Instead, his lips find yours again, a little firmer this time, hungrier, like he’s trying to make up for all the times he held himself back. His hand slides to your lower back, guiding you closer to the edge of the counter until there’s no space left between you.

You lose track of time, your mind a haze of warmth and Suguru. The way his lips meld perfectly with yours, the way his hand anchors you in place, the faint hum of satisfaction he lets out when your fingers tug at his hair—all of it feels like the world has narrowed down to just the two of you.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his dark eyes heavy with something that makes your heart race.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the sound of your own pounding heartbeat.

His lips curve into a slow, devastating smile, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “Oh, I do,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the moment I met you.”

And before you can respond, he’s kissing you again, like he has all the time in the world—and like he plans to spend every second of it with you.

a friendly reminder: paths!Levi

birthday candles with gojo !

"what," satoru whines, twisting his fingers into the hem of your old sweater. "is it illegal to want m'girl blowing out the birthday candles?"

you squirm in his lap to no avail, hips trapped by his arms and shoulder pinned under his chin. your boyfriend pouts up at you, big blue eyes sparkling.

"they're your candles, 'toru."

"but you're my girl," he counters, sidling up close to press a sticky kiss to your cheek. "look, the wax is melting already."

you reach back, brushing over the short, white hairs curling around his nape. "need me to do everything for you, huh?"

with a short puff, the room goes dark. little boxes of light still blink in through the slats in the blinds of satoru's apartment, but now it's mostly just you cradled in his lap, saccharine candle smoke wafting around your heads.

a quiet exchange of breaths, and—

"ahh," satoru voices next to your ear, finger pointing at his open mouth.

you oblige (as you always do), sinking a fork into cream and chiffon.

turning in his lap, you cup his jaw in one hand and shove the cake into his mouth with the other. and as a gift, you seal it with a kiss, smearing cream on your lips.

"happy?" it's a question that comes with a head tilt and a smile.

"best birthday ever," is what satoru says before diving back in.

— hbd to my glorious blue eyed king.. pls talk/interact if u enjoyed, gojo said so ᡣ𐭩

© mawaaru 2024 :: do not repost, plagiarize, translate, modify, or use any works to train ai

November 3rd

art by @ _3aem on twt!!

bestfriend!satoru who spam comments under all your posts and makes sure to let everyone know that he’s the one who took the pic

bestfriend!satoru who doesn’t ever let your read your books. he lays his head in your lap and demands you read aloud to him.

bestfriend!satoru who’s always kissing your cheeks to say hello and bye bye. sometimes they linger a bit too long but it’s only cos he finds you so cute .

bestfriend!satoru who talks suguru’s ears off about you. every detail about your outfit, the new shade of gloss you had on today, the way your ass looked absolutely perfect in those jeans. frankly suguru is sick of him.

bestfriend!satoru who sulks as soon as he finds out you’re going on a date. he’d lie on your bed with your plushies squished in between his biceps and whine about you being too pretty for this guy.

bestfriend!satoru who waits patiently for your return and can’t help but smile at your tipsy state. clearly date didn’t go too well. he helps you undress, fingers caressing the smooth silky skin of your back as he lets your dress fall.

bestfriend!satoru who gets mad when you say you’re fine to sit in sugurus lap since there aren’t any seats left in the car. he abruptly slams the car door in sugurus face and drags you over to his side. ‘come on baby you don’t sit in anyone’s lap but mine.’ and next thing you know your snug in his lap with his bulky arms wrapped tight around your waist. ‘just to keep you safe pretty.’

bestfriend!satoru who claims ‘one kiss won’t change anything’ and then he’s pressing his plush lips to yours. his tongue making its way into your mouth as his hands pet at the small of your back. ‘course it’s fine we’re best friends’

bestfriend!satoru who towers over you and always has a spare hoodie ready for you because he knows you never wrap up warm. truthfully he adores the way you look in his clothes, his hoodie reaching mid thigh on you and still you had miles of legs left on display. he’s always saying how much he loves your legs but he doesn’t think you know to what extent. plush thighs and a round ass that he had dreamt of far too many times.

bestfriend!satoru who knows it’s sick but everytime you nap in his room he picks you up and places you in his lap. just so he can feel your soft breasts pushed against him. his hands will wander until one of them is squeezing at your ass and the other is stroking the soft skin at your thighs. ‘sorry baby you’re just so pretty when you sleep’

bestfriend!satoru who peeks at you when you’re changing in his room. baby pink underwear with a little bow dotted right at the front.

part 2 !! part 3!!

thinking of aftercare with toji but it’s not the typical aftercare you think of. This man has just taken you to pound town, your hair a mess, skin covered in marks and your entire body already feels so sore. Yeah, sure you guys cuddled a little and he gave you some kisses and told you how good you were at taking him, praising and assuring you, but one thing that never fails…he always orders food for the both of you after. Both of you sit in bed, naked, blankets draped over you as you stuff your mouth with a chicken tender dipped in sauce. “How you feeling, mama?” Toji glances over you at you, smirking. “Even better than before,” you hum, taking another bite of your food. “This is just what I needed after back to back orgasms.” He chuckles at your words, leaning over to press a kiss to your cheek before wiping the corner of your mouth with his thumb, licking the sauce off his finger. Your eyes flutter shut as you chew your food, resting your head on his shoulder. “Open up,” he says. You do as he says with no hesitation and he places some fries in your mouth. And in return, you give him a bite of your chicken. “I swear this shit tastes heavenly,” you say with your mouth full. “I love you, baby.” You look up at him through thick lashes. “I love you more. Good sex and good food, what more could we ask for?” He lets out a satisfied sigh. Nodding in agreement, you also add, “a good shower. You’re carrying me to the bathroom though. I don't think I can walk.” You poke his arm.

gojo as leon kennedy

Sukuna's the type of boyfriend where you confess to him first and he acts like he knew all along. He didn't - and he does a major fistbump the moment you look away.

The type where he'll click his tongue at wherever you want to drag him during your date, then snatch your hand and take you there anyway.

The type where he lets you put on face masks and eyeliner on him to your hearts content - no matter how much says it's stupid, and he doesn't need that shit, anyway, you always catch him keeping it on.

The type to make you pretty bracelets - not buy, make. Picking out charms and colors he thinks you'd love and then thrusting it into your hands saying it "wasn't a big deal, anyway." But you catch that pretty blush on his cheeks.

The type that makes your coworkers slightly concerned when a towering, beefy man is waiting for you on his rugged motorbike. And they've got their fingers on the phone already, peering anxiously outside as you cling onto the very man with a tight hug. And only - only - when they catch him fastening on your helmet, oh-so-gently do they breathe out in relief, realizing that maybe he's just that type.

disequilibrium

tags: armin x reader, modern au, mutual pining, secret crushes, yearning, drunk armin, sober reader, armin makes the first move, groping, foul-mouthed armin, making out, handsy armin, men who BEG, doesn't go past heavy petting - no dubcon

warnings: sexual content - MDNI; inebriation, mentions of drinking

It takes so little. A look. A breeze. Then his eyes are on you, and you know, with no uncertain doubt, that something is just about to give in. Or the one in which you and Armin are left alone in the midst of a party, and Armin makes his feelings clear to you.

word count: 2.7k

When the evening had just begun, early summer night hot and humid, the lot of you stuffed giddily around a table bearing drinks and cards alike, you knew something, eventually, would somehow give.

You aren't sure what it was, even now. If it was the air around you, tense and thin on that humid night; if it was the way he would pull himself towards you, as if magnetised by some unknown, incorporeal force, arms touching the whole night; if it was something else.

The truth, you think now, is that it must have been something else altogether; something you had no way of knowing, or naming, or stopping in any shape or form.

It's a casual evening. Early June summer break in full swing for the lot of you, being college students; cards and shot glasses set haphazardly at the table as the sun sets slowly and the group trickles, one by two by three, into Eren's home. You come with Armin, your college group mate, bearing wine you will not drink, and though you are new and foreign here still, having met his friends just the few months prior, you are met with glee and hugs and pats on the shoulder, and a place is set for you with just as much ease.

You had met Armin first, a year ago; a stupid-long project in a stupid-hard class bringing the two of you together, twining you both in a friendship unlike any either of you have had before, and inseparable is what you are called now, though you tell yourself, with no grief spared, that you find the idea quite absurd. You tell yourself, firm and disciplined, that friends is all that you are – even if he is the first thought in you when you wake, and, more often than not, the last before you sleep.

Friends is what you simply are, and friends is what you simply will be; or so you say, on some mornings as you wait for his inevitable text; or so you say, some nights, when you remind yourself that a mistake should not be made when it comes to a matter concerning him.

And it doesn't take much for the party to come into a full swing of things; music unwinding, cards shuffling, laughter bubbling, and you watch, contently, sat comfortably upon the corner on a sofa, as the life around you buzzes. Armin sits by you, like he always does, arm brushing yours once every while, reminding you of him there; shoulder leaning into yours, smile soft and knowing, and it curls around you like it always does, swelling large within your heart. You are new here still, sometimes awkward and quiet, but not always, and not for long; Armin helps you, leading with words and with gestures, inviting you, often and loud and enthusiastic, to join the conversation; and it awes you, really, with how effortless, how easy it is for this shy, quiet boy to transform into such fervour when he is surrounded by those he loves. He welcomes you with sheer abandon, and you find that his friends, in turn, do so, too; and it's easy, when he is here – everything always is when he gets roped into things.

It magnetises you, effortlessly. You find yourself watching him, smile full of teeth and lungs full of laughter; you find yourself involved and participating, and though you don't drink you watch as they do, and things don't shift until they do, and when they do, you are gone beyond comprehension that something, something had given way.

It's so slow at first; you don't truly notice a thing. When he'd lean into you when telling a joke; when his arm would brush and linger next to yours while telling a story; when you would catch him, once, then twice, then again, looking at you. Not just in jest, or in camaraderie, but these lingering, intrigued glances that would cross to your eyes, then, seldomly and just briefly, to your lips.

When he would say your name, requesting you to agree with him, or to add onto a story which you had been witness to; mouth curling around the syllables, lulling in ways that has you squirming beneath this newfound, strange heat within his gaze, and it has you wondering, mind adrift and groundless, if you had gone mad. If it is just you, losing grip on reality as those nights of dreaming had begun to catch up with you, or if it is him, truly, looking at you in this way.

Something is giving, slowly; unwinding, like a broken clock, or like a ribbon too-tight and breaking, and the more he drinks, the more you feel it, and you think it will, eventually, simply snap.

It doesn't.

At least, not the way you expect it to.

You don't expect just how quick the room clears out when Connie demands pizza; when they all conglomerate, agglutinate into a band ready to get them all food. You don't expect to be told, the only sober person here, to watch the house; you don't expect, most of all, for Armin to stay behind, too.

You don't expect the look he gives you then, when it is all quiet and lone, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock stood firm by the wall. Cold, you think at first, but you are wrong; it takes a glance, and a second, averting and shy in ways you had not expected yourself to feel around him, but then you do; you do look. He watches you with a hawkish look to him, careful and curious, lips parted and cheeks pink from the alcohol, and you would breathe were you able to, but you simply cannot. You sit there, your breath baited and gaze locked, waiting – waiting for something; waiting for it to give.

You think not to say something, but you do not need to; he reaches for you, quiet and wordless, his thumb brushing haphazardly at your cheek. Soft and gently uncoordinated and skin warm against your cheek, his hand touches a strand of your hair, brushing it, thereafter, behind your ear.

You inhale then, finally; sharp and loud enough to hear, and in the moment between this and air filling your lungs, he leans in swiftly, eyes focusing furthermore on you, steeling in a way that you can't quite read. "Can I kiss you?" He asks you then, with no abandon or reservation, words clear and understandable, and yet it still has you shocked and disoriented, your newfound air lost somewhere in your chest.

He waits, in this brief moment. He waits and he watches you, eyes half-lidded and dark and patient, and you think to say no, you think to move away quickly, your body in protest at the thought alone; not for your sake, not for lack of want or need of it, but for his own, for the mistake he is about to make under inebriation, and your lips part to say it, they do, but his thumb brushes against your bottom lip and it silences you so thoroughly that not a sound leaves your throat, and it's enough. It's enough for him.

He leans in, both gentle and quick; lips soft against your own, low notes of vanilla and rum buzzing within his breath, and it's gentle at first – so gentle it has you leaning into him, towards him, south pole to north and inescapable black holes. "Armin," you whimper weakly, once tepid coils superheating quickly, disastrously, and there's both a push and a pull in you as you push away and yet pull him to you, desperately, fists curled into his shirt.

"Let me kiss you," he pleads in response, quick and merciless, palm enveloping your jaw. He watches you and gasps for air, leaning further into the steel grasp you have on him. "Please, Y/N. I want to kiss you," he leans in, lips touching your cheek. You feel him whisper; you feel the breath of his fan against your skin, warm and intoxicating. "Please," he says, and you can't say no, not anymore; skin on fire and needy in his grasp, knees shaking and voiceless, you allow it. You lean to him, and in the act of it you tell yourself that it's just a small gesture; a mistake, the tiniest the two of you could make, a thing to forget once morning comes – and as you do, Armin follows suit, leaning into you, too.

And this, this gesture and this kiss, once soft and delicate and innocent, sizzles and sets itself afire; he kisses you deep and sloppy, your skin heating at the touch of his alone, and his tongue ventures forth with sheer abandon as both his palms grasp and hold you firmly at your jaw; he kisses you fierce and needy; he kisses you in ways you thought Armin never could, and your head spins and spins, and in seconds of you sitting flushly side by side you are pulled forward – all of you, bone and skin and muscle and sinew, as if you were weightless to him – and you find yourself straddling him, your thighs parted and digging into his hips. His arms circle your waist and pull you forward taut and firm, and you feel the sofa dip beneath your knees; you think, here, your skin hot and sweaty already, your lips tender from his teeth, that you should stop and scold him; you think, here, that you should stand and leave, but you are sealed to him, drawn in ways that you could not stop if you tried, and in the feeling of his tongue against yours you think, what of another mistake? What of another mistake, with him?

His hands sit still and prim for just a moment, gentlemanly in the way you have known Armin to be, and then they, too, begin to roam haphazardly; exploratory in ways so unlike Armin that it has your head spinning, and you keen in earnest then – muscles taut, back arching, needy in ways that you have had yet to find yourself to be, and as your skin covers in gooseflesh in the wake of his touch, you find yourself heating more, and in this you find yourself thinking, knowing, admitting that you had wanted this, mistakes be damned; you had wanted him, even if it meant disturbing this delicate equilibrium between the two of you, and here, right here, beneath the hot weight of his hands, beneath the needle of his gaze, this disturbance, this imminent disequilibrium feels worth it beyond measure.

As if feeling it, as if on the same, wordless cue that you were, Armin shifts and deepens the kiss, hands squeezing at your waist as you sigh into his mouth, and you feel yourself shifting, too; hands digging greedily into his scalp, thighs shuffling, ever so slowly, closer towards him, and it is then that you gasp in both pleasure and a startle, feeling as his palm drags itself beneath your skirt and across your thigh. You watch him break for just a moment, his hand squeezing, fingers dipping gently into the flesh mere inches from the apex of your thighs, and he does not move forward, he does not touch more, but he chuckles when you look at him, smiling wicked and self-satisfied when he murmurs: "I knew you would sound pretty when you feel good."

And then he kisses you again; his hand squeezing once more, if just for him to hear you make that sound again, and you whine at his attention when he moves his mouth towards neck, lapping and nibbling like a dog starved, and you feel, with a striking lucidity, as cohesion begins to slip your mind with a violent swiftness. You feel his palm circle to your stomach, fingers soft and gentle as they climb up and up, and a thigh of his brushes against a thigh of yours when he pleads, lips at your throat: "Can I rub you against my cock?" Armin begs, quiet and husky and so needy and foul that you find yourself in lack of thought. "Please," he whines, kissing at your clavicle, and your hands dig into his hair, tugging desperately – to stop or to continue, even you do not know.

"No," you gasp out, voice found within your throat at last, feeling his teeth graze gently against your pulse, and your thighs shake as you feel his hand slide lower at your rejection; for a moment, far too brief to fully register, you think that this alone will make him stop and reject you in return, but he just hums, pulling you closer; kissing you further.

"Alright," he murmurs into your lips, and then his hands are on your cheeks again, pulling you lovingly to not stop kissing him; and you submit, you allow him, you let his tongue glide softly against your own, hums quiet and gentle and hands warm on your skin, and it is here, amidst the delicate affection, that you finally find the strength to break away.

"Armin," you say, and to this he just smiles; as if sated by the sound of his name alone. "Armin, we've got to stop now," you tell him, watching, breath baited, as his smile slowly turns into a feather-light pout. "You're too drunk," you gasp, still short on air, and you feel, in distinct, precise detail, as his palm slides down the slope of your back.

"'M not," he replies, head leaning back into the backrest of the sofa. "I could do this all night," he says then, smile coy and mischievous and boyish, and it squeezes something fierce in your chest; he is quiet, for a moment, holding onto you so carefully. Time thins in this one moment, insular and private, quiet in a way you have had to yet experience with Armin until this exact bundle of disjointed seconds, and it is in this quietude that he says it. "I want you, Y/N," he whispers, not needy or desperate but fervent, cerulean gleaming with something you can't place or name, and the words alone make your skin heat in ways that you can't simply shake off.

Your breath shakes, in response. Your hands tremble. You shift and settle, leaning them onto his shoulders for purchase, and you try to catch your breath as his hand curls around your wrist, waiting. And he just watches you like this, that silver, bewitching glint swirling within his eyes; waiting for you to reject or accept him, to have him like this or never again. To this you lean, helplessly, to kiss him on the cheek, and it gives a finality to this dance, one the both of you acquiesce in your own ways – you, with leaning backwards, and him, with this committed, quiet grunt. "Let's see what you think when you're sober," you tell him then, waiting, quite pitifully, for your thighs to stop the trembling before climbing off.

And he just laughs. Hearty, and light, rumbling in his chest, as if he were truly amused by what you had said.

"Sweetheart," he says then, cheeks pink as if in some delight, and then he smiles at you with that gentle, bright smile of his that makes your heart squeeze swiftly and violently. He, warm, and welcoming, and hushed in his voice; knuckles brushing against your knee and hair tousled and so, so beautiful; he tells you, with no untimely restraint: "I think of you every day of my life. That won't be a problem."

And he lets you go like this; fingers brushing against the fabric of your sleeve, eyes tracing the slow, methodical movements of your body as you disentangle from him. He is quiet, he says not a word; he simply watches you, all the way through the remainder of the night, eyes warm and knowing, speaking of words whispered against the precipice of your skin when no one else could hear; even when your friends return; even when you all part.

And come morning, when you wake with a gasp and a memory of dream full and heated; when the screen of your phone lights up with a singular message beholding a singular line; when you smell him on you still, incorporeal and unbearably real upon your skin, you know, then, that nothing will be the same again.

dividers by saradika and cafekitsune

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@chiinni @nilaaaas @ryoiii

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@minminlert @dressycobra7

reblogs are dearly appreciated 💗

thinking of aftercare with toji but it’s not the typical aftercare you think of. This man has just taken you to pound town, your hair a mess, skin covered in marks and your entire body already feels so sore. Yeah, sure you guys cuddled a little and he gave you some kisses and told you how good you were at taking him, praising and assuring you, but one thing that never fails…he always orders food for the both of you after. Both of you sit in bed, naked, blankets draped over you as you stuff your mouth with a chicken tender dipped in sauce. “How you feeling, mama?” Toji glances over you at you, smirking. “Even better than before,” you hum, taking another bite of your food. “This is just what I needed after back to back orgasms.” He chuckles at your words, leaning over to press a kiss to your cheek before wiping the corner of your mouth with his thumb, licking the sauce off his finger. Your eyes flutter shut as you chew your food, resting your head on his shoulder. “Open up,” he says. You do as he says with no hesitation and he places some fries in your mouth. And in return, you give him a bite of your chicken. “I swear this shit tastes heavenly,” you say with your mouth full. “I love you, baby.” You look up at him through thick lashes. “I love you more. Good sex and good food, what more could we ask for?” He lets out a satisfied sigh. Nodding in agreement, you also add, “a good shower. You’re carrying me to the bathroom though. I don't think I can walk.” You poke his arm.