He Thinks He's Gonna Eat Him

Toji Zenin as your arranged husband in the Zenin clan, would really not regard you as his wife initially, even later on he would have a hard time wrapping his head around the whole idea of it.

Toji Zenin as your arranged husband would make two beds/futons on two extreme ends of your shared bedroom in the clan estate, would not even turn in your direction as he sleeps, and would slip out of the door, quietly, at the very break of dawn.

Toji Zenin as your arranged husband, who would let you latch onto his arm at a family gathering where everyone in the clan has gathered into the large banquet hall, but only because he sees it as a formal necessity.

Toji Zenin as your arranged husband, who would intentionally keep you away from the old geezers and Naoya, at the said gatherings because he knows how deeply condescending they are towards women, even their own kin.

Toji Zenin as your arranged husband, who doesn’t really care about this marriage but doesn’t really care about the idea of being with another woman outside of it either. Like moss on the base of trees, he remains unmoving and unbothered in this specific field.

Toji Zenin as your arranged husband, who is actually taken aback when you tell him he can do whatever he wants outside of this marriage as long as he keeps it under the wraps. Because this leads him to believe you’re doing something of the sort.

Toji Zenin as your arranged husband, who is so baffled by his own envy and rage over the mere notion of his wife partaking in an act of infidelity that he has to begrudgingly retreat to a spare bedroom at the end of everyday because he cannot fathom what he’ll do if he looks at you.

Toji Zenin as your arranged husband, who is finally forced to face you after almost two weeks due to unforeseeable circumstances and he almost retches at the bitterness scorching the back of his throat.

Toji Zenin as your arranged husband, who finally decides to confront you so he closes the bedroom door behind him and walks forward, grabs your wrist and pulls you towards him.

Toji Zenin as your arranged husband, who doesn’t miss the slight widening of your eyes and the warmth of your face and the glitter of your eyes, and he hopes, hopes that despite everything, you choose him. He is willing to put this behind, to forgive and forget, because god his wife is so beautiful, he would do anything to have you love him, or atleast try to.

Toji Zenin as your arranged husband, who approaches the topic directly without any hesitation, because what is the point of beating around the bush when the truth is already there in his face.

“Have you been with other men?”

And he hates, he hates the way your eyes widen because it is a clear indication of something that he refuses to accept.

“What?”

He understands. Toji really does understand. Why would you or anyone for that matter, be willing to openly confess about something as such.

“Ya heard me.”

He doesn’t miss the way your brows furrow, and he anticipates violence and anger and everything red, with the way your mouth presses itself into a thin line and your forehead creases in thought. He is already convincing himself of a life where he has to live with the burden of knowing, yet forgiving.

“What exactly gave you the idea?”

Now this irks him. Toji wishes you would just be out with it, hell, he already knows, he’s convincing his poor heart of a future where you can still try to love him despite all this, so why would you drag this on any longer than you need to?

“You told me I could do whatever I wanted outside of this marriage.”

“And that led you to believe that I was doing the same?”

Toji frowns. He likes the way your eyes soften and the corners of your mouth quirk up, your lower lip tuck itself under your upper one, despite the fact that it all seems to be mocking, he likes it. But he is still confused so he simply frowns, and luckily for him, you seem to catch onto his reasoning real quick.

You free your hand from his hold and step closer to him, torsos touching, before you get on your tippy toes and loop your arms around his neck. Toji bends down to accommodate you in this position, it all seems to new, so soft to him that he is momentarily taken aback.

“You thought I was cheating.” You state, there’s no offence in your tone, but simple mirth that glimmers in your eyes and reaches down to your upturned mouth.

“Is that why you’ve been sleeping in a different room because you thought I was compromising this marriage?”

And Toji frowns deeper, like a kicked puppy. His arms hang stiffly by his side and he wishes he could loop them around your waist.

“Toji.” You whisper, leaning in to brush your nose against his.

Your smile disappears, his breath mingles with yours and both your and his eyes flicker down, then up.

“I haven’t. I would never.” You say.

And you hold back your tongue from admitting the fact that your offer was a half hearted, unwilling one, that the days he slept away from you, you would curl in your bed and cradle your aching heart and chest.

“Yeah?” Toji whispers back. He is breathless now. He feels like a large boulder has been lifted off his chest, so now he can finally breathe, like a man submerged underwater, he laps at the surface, gasping for air, desperate.

“I have a husband.”

And it sets off a fuse in him.

He snakes his big arms around your waist, and pulls you closer until the warmth of your bodies becomes a shared one, and then he’s leaning down, eyes half lidded and drunk on love, love that he didn’t realise he was nurturing, with intent.

But you stop him, with a hesitant hand to his chest.

“Have you?……been with other women?”

And Toji doesn’t like how small you sound all of a sudden, how your sparkly eyes look at him with hesitance, and fear, of knowing something you couldn’t stomach. He doesn’t like how you visibly shrink in his arms.

“Why would I? I have a wife.” He says with a cheeky grin before leaning down and taking your mouth into his.

Toji Zenin as your husband who sleeps with you nestled in his arms that night. And stays unmoving hours after waking up, basking in your warmth.

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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reblogs are dearly appreciated 💗

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.

waking up freezing and shivering, teeth chattering every night because your husband is a blanket hog. you know it's not on purpose. he just can't help it. doesn't even know he does it most times. you'd think after years together you'd be used to it, but waking up curled into the fetal position as you try to retain even a smidge of warmth is something you don't think you'll ever adjust to.

so you reach behind you, feeling your spouses large form wrapped snug as a bug in your shared blanket and you grip onto the fabric. you pull as hard as you can but you don't manage to move him even an inch. you try once more...same result.

"ken..." you whisper, wrapping your arms around yourself. no response. "kento..."

he doesn't budge. you're tempted to just get up and go grab another blanket, but your husband, despite his seriousness, can get quite pouty when you do that. so you tap him hard instead sure to jab him in the spot you know is his most sensitive. this seems to do the trick as he grunts in response.

"I'm cold," you tell nanami and he sits up quickly, realizing what he's done. his pajama top hangs off one shoulder. his blonde hair is pointing every which way and sleep is heavy on his eyelids, threatening to weigh him down again any minute.

"I'm sorry, love," nanami speaks, voice rough and deep with exhaustion, but the sincerity in his apology clear.

then he's throwing the blanket back over you both. only he adds in a little extra warmth as he wraps his arm around your waist and throws a large leg over your body.

nanami buries his face in your neck, adjusting himself so that he can be as close to you as possible. only a few seconds pass before you hear his light snoring behind you. and you know the warmth you feel is from more than just his touch.

clingy!armin who can’t leave you alone to save his life.

“where you goin? can i go?”

“wait on me.”

“hold on.”

“come wit’ me.”

you heard at least one of those phrases everyday. not that it was a problem, but it was sure odd. armin was never that close to anyone else but you. he’d never admit that though.

sometimes when he realized it, he told his self he’d stop. until you asked him if he wanted to go to the store with you.

and don’t let it be night time because sleeping is absolutely draining around this man.

you get peace from sleeping around him, yes, but it’s in the middle of the night when you wake up wondering why it’s so hot, then see his full arm across your head. and since he’s drenched in sweat too.

or before you get in the shower, he’s always in the bathroom before you.

he always has to hold your hand anywhere. even at home. in the car, of course shopping, if it’s snowing outside, he’ll beg to hold your hand.

at any family event where his family invites you, or your family invites him, he’ll hang around you every time. he wouldn’t say it’s because he’s antisocial, he just doesn’t like talking to people like that. but he’s respectful.

he honestly follows you around everywhere like a lost puppy😭.

and when he’s out by his self (which is rare), he always has to facetime you, whether he’s saying something or not. when he’s staying somewhere else or when you’re staying somewhere else, going to sleep on the phone is mandatory.

both of you are clueless why he does the things he does when he’s around you, he just loves it.

levi ackerman marry me 😻😻😻😻

i cant find any gifs of s4 levi on here which is crazy bc he’s so daddy 😞

— 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘺𝘢

"Really?" Toji asks, nudging your shoulder to wake you up, when he gets a good look at your back turned to him. His voice is slightly raspy with sleep, low in volume from its lack of use.

"Mm..." you hum in response, eyes shut as you try to ease back into slumber. You're in a curled position, your limbs wrapped around one of your extra pillows.

"Really?" Toji repeats, pawing at your shoulder, again.

"Yes, Toji," you say, quietly, not understanding what he's talking about, but agreeing just so that you can get back to sleep.

"Be serious, ma. Really?"

"What?" You ask, your tone somewhat laced with irritation, now.

It goes quiet for a few seconds, and then out of nowhere you hear the sheets rustling and the bed feels lighter. You're thinking there's no way he's so upset that he's leaving the room to sleep on the couch. He's the one who seemingly didn't want to cuddle, so you made do with what you had and grabbed a pillow.

You're snapped out of your attempt to go back to sleep when you feel your pillow trying to be yanked out of your arms.

"Let go of it," Toji mutters.

"What-" you grunt as you pull back and attempt to keep the pillow in your grasp. "What are you doing? Get back in bed, Toji." You hold on as tight as you can to the pillow that is slowly being torn out of your hands. "You're not gonna like when I let go and you're flung towards the wall."

"And you're not gonna like the punishment you earn if that happens. Let go of the pillow. Now."

You stare Toji down, holding your own against him. You know this isn't all of his strength and that he can easily rip the pillow out of your clutches, if he really wanted to, but like a dog with something it shouldn't have in its mouth, you're unwilling to do what he says.

"Listen up, doll, if you don't let go in the next five seconds, you're in for it."

"You're the one who pushed me away."

"Five."

"I need to hug something to sleep comfortably."

"Four."

"It's a pillow, Toji," you say, incredulously.

"Three."

"You're gonna take away my source of comfort?"

"Two."

"Toji."

"One. Let go."

"Oh my god," you groan, irritatedly. "Fine." You release the pillow, allowing Toji to take it away. You watch in disbelief as he throws it at the door so you can't get it without leaving the bed. You huff and scoot as close as you comfortably can to your end of the bed without falling off, before he returns to his side.

"Geeet back here." An arm is thrown over your waist, dragging you closer towards the center of the bed, until your back meets his front and his legs are tangled with yours. "Where are you going, huh? Still chasing after that pillow?"

"All of a sudden you wanna be close to me?" You scoff, in disbelief.

"So much attitude," he murmurs. His hand goes under your shirt, gliding up your warm skin to rest on your tummy. "Need me to give it to you all seven days, now?"

"No," you grumble.

"Well, that's what it's sounding like, to me." A kiss is planted on your shoulder. "Fix that tone, mama."

"You're so unfair. You're the one who didn't want to be held, but as soon as you noticed that I wasn't holding you, you took away my source of comfort. What did you want me to do, Toji?"

"I didn't even push you away, I rolled away in my sleep. It doesn't count."

You just hum in response, no longer in the mood to bicker about something so trivial when you could be working on getting back to sleep. A few seconds of silence go by, a spark of tension formed due to your lack of words.

"Ma?" He calls, barely pinching your soft, warm skin.

You sigh, blinking your eyes open. "What?"

"You mad?" His hand flattens on your tummy, rubbing slowly, as he waits for you to respond.

"No," you say, quiet and icy, even in its subtlety.

"That's a lie," Toji says, chuckling. "Come on, doll. What's got you all hot?"

It's hard not to melt into his touch. The kisses he presses to your shoulder only add on to the difficulty.

"Doesn't matter," you say, still trying to remain stoic.

"Yeah, it does. Now, tell me," he insists. "You're really gonna make me beg at almost two in the morning?"

"I was sleeping, and you woke me up 'cause you were butthurt over me hugging a pillow. There. Does that satisfy you?" You respond, and Toji has the audacity to laugh. You want to laugh too, but your stubbornness and pride will not easily allow you to.

"Poor baby," he coos, a mocking lilt to his tone. "You wanna tell me how to make it better?"

"You're an ass," you bite, no sharpness in your tone whatsoever.

"Ooh, I can hear that pout. You want a kiss? 'Cause I can give you one," he whispers, in your ear.

"Shut up," you mumble, trying not to give away the curling of your lips.

"You want a baby in here?" He asks, gently pressing into your stomach with his index finger.

"No! What?" You say, your giggles finally beginning to surface.

"Gotcha. Made you laugh," he says, pressing his face into the nape of your neck. He presses a kiss to the area before squeezing you in his arms, tight enough to make you groan until he eases up. "Now, tell me how to make it better. Come on, ma. It's not good to go to sleep mad."

You sigh, not wanting to argue with this annoying, yet, charming man, anymore. "Just help me get back to sleep," you mumble.

"Oh, I can do that," he says, a low chuckle homing into your ears. His hand lifts your shirt up more, aiming to get more access to your chest.

"Not like that, you perv!" You chide, pinning his hand on your mid-center. "Can you do that thing you always do?" You guide his hand down, until it rests just above your navel. He knows what you mean, and if this is what it takes for you to not be mad at him, he'll do it.

"You're like a baby that needs to be soothed to sleep," Toji murmurs, as he begins caressing your tummy, drawing little shapes on your skin that fuel your tiredness.

You huff out a laugh. "Acting like you don't drool and snore the second I start playing with your hair when you lay your head on my chest."

a friendly reminder: paths!Levi

armored titan jean 💥au by @quintilli0n

as much as you tried to convince megumi that having a sleepover on this specific day was a coincidence, he wasn't so easily fooled. fortunately, he played along for your sake, because nothing was worth more than getting to see you smile on such a special occasion.

to your misfortune, things didn't go as planned.

you've been struggling to stay awake all night, just waiting for that clock to hit midnight. what wasn't helping was his fingers slowly raking through your hair, tracing behind your neck and over your cheeks. soothing — and he knows exactly what he's doing, trying to soothe you to sleep. after all, he's been trying for hours just to get you to rest, knowing full well you'd try to stay up for him. and it was working... sorta.

"megs..." you manage to mumble, nudging your thigh against his to catch his attention. at first, he remains quiet, assuming you're talking in your sleep, but he responds to your second call. "megs..."

"mm?" he softly mumbles.

"happy birthday, baby..." a drunk sounding giggle leaves your lips as you snuggle closer to him, arms wrapped around his torso with your head nestled perfectly into his shoulder. you don't even know what time it is, going off of pure intuition.

it's adorable to see how far you were willing to go just to make him happy.

carefully, he reaches for his phone on the nightstand, the soft glow of the screen illuminating the darkness around him. he quickly turns down the brightness in fear of disturbing your rest and reads the numbers plastered over the top of his lockscreen. 23:59.

you're a minute early, but who cares? you've still the first person to wish him happy birthday. you're the first to hug him, and now...

megumi watches the clock as the seconds slip away, anticipation building. when it finally ticks over to 00:00, he leans down, a warm smile playing on his lips. his breath brushes against your skin just before his mouth meets yours in a gentle peck, soft and fleeting, yet filled with affection.

you're the first to kiss him too.

jjk m.list