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'exhausted' can't even begin to describe your current state.
you feel like a zombie—if zombies wore straight jackets of corporate attire.
the day has long taken it's toll on you and it seems like the universe is committed to sucking your life-force. it's a miracle that you didn't hit anyone on the way home. with the last of your depleting strength, you make it through the door, bee-lining (more like worm-lining) to your destination.
across the threshold, there's kento, lounging on the couch in all his domestic glory. your heart guides you to him, working independently of the sticks of jelly you call legs.
his nose is deep in a book, reading glasses perched low on his nose and hair down—maybe a little damp from a shower. 'perfect,' you think.
he doesn't notice you, or rather, doesn't say anything until you're arm's length away from him. "welcome home, sweetheart. how was w—"
plop.
apparently, your legs couldn't handle walking the last foot to him. you opt to fling yourself on him, head landing smack dab on his supple chest.
"tehrrihble," you mumble into him.
"i can see that," he says, chuckling.
your curls and whatever shampoo you use tickle his button nose. one of his hands cradles your face, lifting it up by your chin. "can i do anything for you, or do you need chest time?"
"chest time," you reply weakly.
"thought so."
he shifts your face back between his titties pecs, only now, your face is shifted to the side. you always insist on suffocating yourself in the defined masses. "you need to breathe, sweetheart."
"tell my boss that."
he doesn't roll his eyes, but you can tell he wants to. "you're SO lucky you work on demand."
"i'm happy you see it that way," he murmurs, adjusting his glasses. he goes back to his book, long fingers flipping the pages in a way that has your heart doing backflips.
maybe it's the sleep deprivation talking, but you can't help but think about how amazing he looks right now. and he doesn't even know it!
you get to thinking about him, you, him and you, you and him, the list goes on. point is, too many thoughts are running through your head at once.
through careful research, you've found the best method for removing pesky thoughts; shoving your face into kento's hot, thick, sinewy chest.
first, you pull up his linen shirt with what's left of your strength. then you bury your face between his award winning pecs, shaking your head a few times for good measure.
and finally, the last step—absolutely crucial for complete thought removal—taking the heaps of muscle on either side of your head and squueeezing your face with them.
he can't stop your shenanigans until it's already happened.
he sets his book down on the nearby side table, giving you his full attention. "poor thing," he coos. "i didn't know your day was that bad." after years of being together, kento knows 'chest time' is mostly reserved for extreme situations.
even though he's very perceptive, it occasionally takes dire measures for him to understand you. not like it's his fault, though; you're barely capable of speaking in times like this.
just as you're about to take a big exhale of his musk, his hand rests on your head, applying comforting pressure. his voice drops to a whisper.
"feel my heartbeat, sweetheart?"
you make a noise of acknowledgement, head lolling into a nod.
"focus on that for me."
and you do, because what choice do you have? (not like you weren't going to, anyways)
he coils his fingers 'round your curls, fingers dipping to gently rake through your roots to your scalp, scratching softly. your eyes roll in contentment, a soft whimper following.
"i love you, ken."
"i love you too, sweetheart."
he kisses your forehead with all the love he can muster. it's the last thing you feel before drifting off on his thick, pillowy chest.
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🍨...in which simon riley jerks off to a photo of you in his holster ♥
cw: mentions of guns, filth, desperation, jerking off, holding the moan and simon being horny af ♥
a/n: first time writing male masturbation, lowk nervous >.<
two months: 60 days, 59 nights and 1,444 hours since simon riley has last seen you in the flesh.
his mind is racing and his current loco isn't helping much.
the stale air of the warehouse he's holed up in is suffocating. how he got here? a failed mission, courtesy of higher-up's shitty planning. now he's stuck in a dilapidated excuse for a 'hideout,' horny and weary.
crickets chirps outside, men shift in their sleep, the rancid warehouse creaks with the weight of men seasoned in battle. his legs burn from overexertion.
in spite of it all— through the sleep deprivation, hunger and bullet holes— he can only think about you. sweet, warm, you.
except now, the only remnant of you is a photo in the grip of his gun; an old polaroid of you just woken up, puffy eyes and all. you're in nothing but simple pj's and still manage to look angelic. you insisted that 'you look chopped', but to him, you couldn't look more precious.
it's from years ago, distorted with folds and water-stained edges— but that doesn't matter to simon, not when he's this desperate.
taking it out of his holster, he sets the heavy gun right beside his head, handle facing him. all he cares about is grip, more so the pretty polaroid inside of it. already has him palming himself through his tight uniform.
tucked into his two-sizes-too-small sleeping bag, he takes his cock out of his pants. he's already hard, tip flushed with need and a bead a pre.
normally he'd feel a modicum of guilt for masturbating in a room full of 30 other guys, not even showered, but not now. he's already gripping the base, teasing himself as he always does to start off.
pain shoots through his hand mid stroke— the wound from the turret he caught it on is acting up. now it's deadset on distracting him from getting off. annoyed, he pulls up his shirt and bites on it; it'll have to do for now. he knows what desperation can do to a man and he falls right into its claws.
his rough calluses graze the shaft then grip it firm with intent, just how you would. he doesn't masturbate for fun or out of boredom; it's always to simulate your motions, to gaslight his sleep deprived mind, if only for a second, that you're here stroking him.
he lets his fingertips graze against the base for a few seconds as a warm up. twitching, he goes to thumb at the tip. rubs it in circles a few times, teasing himself, just like you've done hundreds of times before. then it trails down, twisting slightly to drag down the underside of his head.
he allows himself a look at your photo. dodgy moonlight being the only illumination, he has to fill in blanks himself— your gentle pout, the same one you have after sucking him dry. silk pajamas with lace detailing, his favorite ones to fuck you in.
he has to bite his lips at that. over and over again he rubs the underside, getting lost in the pleasure of his weak spot rather than any other part of him. eventually he snaps out of it, going back to stroking.
his free hand cups his balls, imagining it was your manicured one doing so. finally, he jerks off properly: one hand stroking the shaft, twisting on the upstroke and then lingering at the tip, copying your exact motions_._
simon has grunted through barrages of bullets and beatings yet can barely hold back moaning your name. he already has to damn near bite his bottom lip in two to stop.
he imagines your wet mouth around him, sloppy and familiar. thankfully, he's leaking enough pre to use it as lube, pretend your mouth really is on him. once calculated strokes devolve into faster jerks of his hands.
every blink is a snapshot. some are innocent, some are naughty memories only he knows. most are of you, a few of the desperate sight that is him masturbating.
he loves to egg himself on by going back to times of foreplay, gripping so hard he nearly cums then and there— just to slow down and open his eyes.
once he grips his base again, he allows another peak at your image. somehow you're even more gorgeous like this— trapped in gloss, soft and vulnerable—skin glowing and sickeningly domestic, resin preserved likeness akin to that of an extinct butterfly.
he puts firm pressure on his balls, squeezing them. pre has coated his entire length, sticking to his thick fingers. he ignores that his stroking is now audible.
without a doubt, he'd be caught if anyone else woke up. up in la la land, the only thing in his sleep deprived ears are your pretty moans, maybe the buzzing of your favorite vibrator.
the callouses of his hands catch on the head of his cock. pleasure jolts through him, jerking his legs. even closed, his eyes are rolling, fingers clutching his throbbing dick for dear life.
now there's no way to stop. no way to edge the inevitable orgasm any longer. flirting with the crowns of ecstasy, his eyes shoot open to glare at 'you'. the confines of the sleeping bag are gone, only him and your photo remain. his eyes don’t dare close, blue irises boring holes into the film. with a huff, simon riley spills all over his chest, some pearlescent ropes reaching his chin. every atom of his being is vibrating, legs, cock, and balls twitching as they pump rope after rope.
even as he catches his breath, he can't stop shaking. his skin buzzes under his sweat stained clothes. the fabric between his lips has long been soaked through with drool. god knows what stains it. cum, too. he feels like a dog.
he bathes in the afterglow for a long while. even with his eyes closed, your image is still there, crystal clear. the moonlight wanes, your ethereal image leaving with it.
he nearly dozes off, but then the clarity sets in; he's in a musty warehouse, slicked in cold sweat and surrounded by fellow soldiers, yet utterly alone. it's only now that he realizes he'll have to find a way to clean up his mess (most times he tucks himself back into his briefs before he cums, but he was too horny to remember)
despite the destitute situation, there is one good thing left; you, his sweetheart.
masterlist | @orangethecarrotcoloredpaperred
a/n: sweetheart grips were a real thing during WWII. soldiers would take glass from air crafts and layer it on the grips of their guns, creating a place to put pictures of wives, girlfriends, children and pin-up girls as a morale boost.
nanami can't stop making sex tapes on his work laptop...
he knows it's stupid. dangerous. absolutely anyone can see that. he also knows it's wrong, that he shouldn't have photo evidence of the ways he turns you out every other night.
but he can't stop. the thrill is too tempting, scandalous nature of recording your screaming orgasms scratching a part of his brain that's never been scratched.
square. stickler for the rules. (unless they're dumb) rigid. all words to describe him. yet he still has you in prone bone, tits pressed flat to the mattress like how his front is to your back, fucking you for the blinking red light to see.
"yes, right there!" your little voice carries to the microphone in spite of its shitty quality. his thrusts are slow, deep, like something out of those one of a kind amateur films.
without fail, his tip is hitting your g spot, sparks of pleasure radiating from your core to your toes.
"you like when i fuck right here?" thrusting hard on the last word, he makes your poor mouth hang open on a silent moan. he's been inside you so many times, mapped out every erogenous zone, he doesn't need to ask where to angle his perfect cock. your walls have every inch of him memorized.
"c'mon, darling. look at the camera. don't you want to look at your pretty face when we play it back?" cooing in your ear, voice like velvet, he guides your face to stare directly into the blinking light.
while he sees it as beautiful, you know you look beyond fucked out: pouty, kiss bitten lips, sweaty neck, ruffled hair and his hand forcing your head into the pillow make for the perfect pornographic look.
disheveled. exhausted. that's how he wants his wife to look after rounds of making love, because that's when he knows you're truly satisfied.
it's why he's grinding into you, free hand snaking around your body to rub that swollen clit. "fuck, ken!" swallowing your moan with a kiss, he finds himself rubbing even tighter circles just the way you like.
"oh my god!" voice fraying at the edges, you can't help the way it cracks when he's fucking you so good. your moans go straight to his cock, rutting into you deep like an animal.
the pressure building in your core is low and familiar. nanami's length damn near kissing your cervix, clit stimulated, your orgasm is sure to crash any moment now.
"s-slow down!" he chuckles at that. "now why would i go slower when you're enjoying it so much?" there's a strain on his words, like he's fighting back a groan. "'s too much!"
too much. like he hasn't heard that before.
"agh-were you not begging for it, though? that text to 'come home soon, i need you to record' just my imagination, hm?" condescension drips from his tone like honey, teasing his silly wife for thinking she couldn't take his mouthwatering dick.
"are you saying i'm lying, darling?" how could he expect you to listen to anything he was saying when he's rearranging your guts so good?
"n-no, ken!" "that's what i fucking thought."
your trembling hands clutch the sheets like a lifeline. surges of pleasure make your legs kick up, but his legs are on top of yours, caging you in. suddenly, he angles his hips up, heavy balls now smacking into your clit while his tip hits your g spot over and over.
"oh my god, i'm gonna cum!" the hand gripping your face lets go, moving to caress your hand. "go ahead and cum for me, my love," he whispers, moving his lips to the nape of your neck, ghosting over the sweaty skin.
nanami watches in awe as you orgasm, hips shaking in pure ecstasy. his eyes, which were previously glued to the screen, are now locked with yours, rolled up as you quake against him.
"just breathe, baby. breathe." he's always there to talk you through your orgasm, suddenly becoming tender as if he wasn't whispering filth in your ear a second ago.
the recording doesn't stop until you've fully come down from your high. off camera, you finished him off, swollen lips giving him stellar head until he came.
but that's not for the camera to see. it's about you, watching you writhe in pleasure filled agony, documenting how many times you can cum, rewatching the first time he made you squirt.
every moment is hidden in that camera, inside of those files.
next time he needs to send a video attachment, god better make sure he clicks the right thing and not another sex tape. the dirty films take up most of his storage.
but maybe he wants people to see them. to see how good he fucks his wife, how loud she moans because no one can fuck her like he can. maybe then his shitty boss will leave him alone, see that nanami kento has no problem "letting loose."
making nanamii a father... for real
𓏲︀𓂃 ֶָ֢ pt.2 of this tomodachi life fic
when he said "talk to me when you're ready to have a real family," you thought he was joking.
as luck would have it, he was dead serious— dead serious about giving you the silent treatment and making you a mother.
"finally" is the first thing you've heard him say in nearly twelve hours. if it weren't for you putting the switch down (albeit begrudgingly), you would've forgotten about his vow of silence completely.
"now," he starts, far too serious for a man mad at a few pixels, "are you ready to have a real family?"
"sure, dork," you say, giggling in a way that says 'i have no idea what i'm getting myself into.'
"are you absolutely, completely irrevocably sure? this is you we're talking about."
frighteningly oblivious, you still think he's pulling your leg. you nod along without question. "yes, kento," you sigh. "can we get on with this?"
something in the air around him shifts, something so imperceptible, only you could notice. oh, you definitely shouldn't have said that.
with an intensity that you've never seen, he drags you to the bedroom and shuts the door, sealing your fate.
you really did think he was joking, but the way you're stuffed to the brim with dick, ready to be bred, you're wholly wrong.
"'m—fuck!— sorry!" brain hazy, you babble apologies endlessly. there's no telling if he's actually listening to (or cares) about them; he's too busy thrusting impossibly deep, fucking like he wants twins.
if it weren't for your current mental state, embarrassment would be charging through you. exposed is an understatement for your soul-bearing position. you're completely entwined, bodies moving in effortless synchronicity.
the worst part is how he's fucking you: firm and deep, hips snapping, yet not rough or unnecessarily fast. though he's trying to control himself, you can't help but feel how desperately he wants to fill you with his seed.
"need me to fill you up, don't you?"
you moan whorishly at his words. "yes, ken, yesyesyes!"
no man but nanami can fuck you like this, break you into fine pieces with his body alone, then put you back together again with affection worthy of endless praise.
"open up for me," he murmurs, strained voice bouncing around in your empty head. he says it innocently as can be, at least, as innocently as he can while buried inside of you.
you oblige quickly, but not quick enough for nanami.
a strong hand hoists your legs up, hips aching slightly from the new angle. maneuvered into a mating press, you're caged by nothing but sweaty, entangled limbs.
the new angle has him massaging your sweet spots on every down stroke. your poor ass jiggles from the force of his precise thrusts. he feels how you clench around him so tightly, wondering if you'll do the same while carrying his child.
your blissed out look has his balls tightening and his mind racing. just as your head rolls for the nth time, his hand grips your jaw to face him.
"which is better? me, or the game?"
the question comes from left field. delirious, your face crinkles into confusion. he picks up on it easily, leaning down to whisper directly into your ear.
"which is better, baby? our kids, or the fake ones?" his voice is even, but you can still hear the uptick in his voice at the mention of the reason you're folded up in the first place.
"o-ours," you mumble.
"perfect answer, gorgeous." he places a tender kiss on your forehead, cradling it in his warm hands.
you don't notice the humour of the situation, too hungry to care about anything but cumming or being cummed in. fortunately for you, nanami is still committed to finishing both of you off.
for every nudge of his head against your deepest corners, you're an inch closer to that sweet release. he could cum anytime now, yet he holds himself back, and for good reason— giving you the first taste of heaven will assure that his seed takes.
thankfully, he won't need to hold back much longer.
"kento," you mewl, "it's close!"
"what's close, baby?"
you mewl again, fumbling around the question. "i need to cum, ken!"
nanami's thrusts suddenly turn unbearable. he takes on a new angle, hips shifted just right.
god, it's so overstimulating, has you gripping his arms for dear life. he pushes you right to that edge, nearly makes you finish early. his head throws back at the vice of your cunt, pussy squeezing so hard in hopes of not disobeying your lover.
on the edge of his own orgasm, he pauses for the first time in what feels like hours. fully seated inside, he grants you that sweet, sweet, permission.
"cum for me, mama."
and you do, so fucking hard.
your body reacts before you can. eyes fully rolled back, legs locked and walls clamped, you cum harder than ever. pleasure has taken hold of you and there's no stopping it. a small "i'm cumming" is caught in your throat on a silent scream.
"theeere, you go. just cum for me." he lowers his forehead to yours in unbearable ecstasy. his eyes gulp down every twitch of your face with need. the exact start, peak, and drawn out end of your earth shattering orgasm is tattooed to the back of his eyelids.
the sight sends him over the edge. he finishes with a painful groan against your quivering lips. overstimulated, he can't bear the pleasure of his orgasm, either. he nearly collapses on top of you.
the mattress rocks under the force of him, his jerking hips shaking it. he stays buried deep, afraid that if he pulls out too far, precious seed will spill; an insult to your shared hard work.
both of you take a long moment to fully come down from your highs. nanami doesn't get off of you immediately despite being covered in sweat from golden crown to toe.
you stay slotted together for a while—legs spread lazily, slick and filled to the brim with cum.
"see," he whispers against your skin, "our kids are better than that lurid game's."
"we don't have any kids, dummy," you argue with the last of your strength. he huffs a laugh, warm air tickling your skin.
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Sadly, today may be the day I lose my babies, the twins Muhammad and Mayar, after everything they have endured and suffered through. 💔
Tonight, they were admitted to the intensive care unit after their condition deteriorated and they lost the ability to breathe. They are now fighting for their lives with the help of medical machines.
I will never forget, and I will not forgive, everyone who sees my post, knows what Muhammad and Mayar are going through, and still chooses to remain silent without offering them any support or even a word of encouragement.
The doctors told me that my baby Mayar’s condition has become extremely critical, and without immediate treatment, she may not survive another night.
Please, can you help me provide the treatment my baby Mayar urgently needs, as well as buy the milk, vitamins, and supplements she desperately needs to regain her strength and keep fighting for her life? 💔🙏
I am begging you as a persecuted mother in Gaza, watching my baby bleed in front of me, unable to stop it. Please donate now and help me save his life before it's too late.
Unfortunately, the medicine for the twins Muhammad and Mayar has run out, and I can no longer afford to buy more.
To everyone who supported us before, I am asking for your help again today. Your support helped keep them alive, and they still desperately need your help. 💔🙏
I say these words with a heart that can no longer bear any more pain. If you see my message and choose to scroll past it, I will never forget that. My babies, the twins Muhammad and Mayar, are fading away before my eyes and desperately need your help now.
Please donate and share. Help me save Muhammad and Mayar before it is too late. 💔🙏
From the heart of Gaza, we reach out to you with deep pain and a plea for help… amelia romain needs your support for Help Wedad's family in
🚨 Urgent: My newborn twins are in critical condition and urgently need infant formula and medical care. Your donation, no matter how small, could save their lives. If you can't donate, please share our story. 🤍
🤍 Thank you to everyone who donated, shared our story, and stood by my newborn twins and my injured husband. Your kindness has given us hope, but our journey is not over yet. We still need your support to provide medical care and infant formula. Every donation, no matter how small, truly makes a difference.
I write these words with a broken heart. To those who read this and choose to ignore it, you can simply scroll past, but I am living through the most difficult moments of my life. My husband is slowly dying before my eyes. Due to a severe head and jaw injury, he has been unable to eat or drink for over a week, his weight has dropped to just 39 kilograms, and he is suffering from severe, life-threatening malnutrition.
The doctors confirmed he needs urgent surgery, but we can't afford the operation and treatment. I feel helpless watching him weaken day by day, while time is running out.💔
I'm not asking for the impossible; I'm simply asking for a chance to save his life. Please, if you can't donate, don't hesitate to share our story. It might reach someone who can give him a new lease on life.💔🙏
I write with tears welling in my eyes and a trembling hand. I'm not asking for the impossible; all I ask is a chance to save his life. Please, donate now, and share our story, so that, thanks to you, our voice may reach everyone.
Please donate now. Hashim is extremely exhausted today. His voice was barely audible from fatigue and weakness, and I couldn't hide my fear as I watched him wither away before my eyes day by day. Please, don't leave Hashim to face this fate alone. 💔
you nod into the pillows, flipped into a cotton mess from your tossing and turning.
"it's been 3 days since i got 6 hours of sleep," you grumble, sleep deprived brain running through the last time you got decent sleep—must be months, now.
"have you tried counting sheep?"
you hate that he made you laugh. "shut up, 'ji."
"what? just tryna help." though it's dark, you can hear the smirk in his voice.
silence settles back into the room. for an honest second, you thought he had drifted back to sleep. now you were free to suffer your unrest by yourself, how you always have.
but you were wrong.
a beefy arm wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against a wall of muscle.
"'ji? what are you doing? it's too hot for this—"
his hand cups over your mouth. it smells like cheap beer and sandalwood. "you always sleep better against me."
he's right, because of course he is.
flopping like a fish out of water has been your signature move during bouts of insomnia. it used to be staying stone still, but that has proven futile.
at least this way you can pretend that you're actually doing something, get all your energy out. except that now, you have a rather large sleeping partner— one you wouldn't want to wake up for the world.
so you scoot away to the edge of the bed, hoping that he can't feel your rocking of the mattress. you're lonelier there, cold and longing for him. but it's better than waking him up, you think.
"i sleep like a dead man, angel. you know that." and that's final.
toji never outright says your problems. his curt replies are enough, subtle actions that you cherish.
you settle into the bed, feeling the ridges of the mattress, the chill of the pillows—stuff you've noticed hundreds of times, too tired to really appreciate them. with him by your side, details aren't another meaningless thing that keeps you awake.
they're little things that make you appreciate him and the quaint life you've built.
his snores grace your ears once more. that calms you, has you sinking into the bed just a little more. his grip on you is tighter, heavier. you love cuddling into his sleeping form.
he feels like an oversized weighted blanket, decked out in affection and care.
and you fall asleep like that, tucked into his loving embrace. not immediately, though— after a couple of hours, maybe 3.
toji may be aloof, sure, but he's the best melatonin you've got.
you nod into the pillows, flipped into a cotton mess from your tossing and turning.
"it's been 3 days since i got 6 hours of sleep," you grumble, sleep deprived brain running through the last time you got decent sleep—must be months, now.
"have you tried counting sheep?"
you hate that he made you laugh. "shut up, 'ji."
"what? just tryna help." though it's dark, you can hear the smirk in his voice.
silence settles back into the room. for an honest second, you thought he had drifted back to sleep. now you were free to suffer your unrest by yourself, how you always have.
but you were wrong.
a beefy arm wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against a wall of muscle.
"'ji? what are you doing? it's too hot for this—"
his hand cups over your mouth. it smells like cheap beer and sandalwood. "you always sleep better against me."
he's right, because of course he is.
flopping like a fish out of water has been your signature move during bouts of insomnia. it used to be staying stone still, but that has proven futile.
at least this way you can pretend that you're actually doing something, get all your energy out. except that now, you have a rather large sleeping partner— one you wouldn't want to wake up for the world.
so you scoot away to the edge of the bed, hoping that he can't feel your rocking of the mattress. you're lonelier there, cold and longing for him. but it's better than waking him up, you think.
"i sleep like a dead man, angel. you know that." and that's final.
toji never outright says your problems. his curt replies are enough, subtle actions that you cherish.
you settle into the bed, feeling the ridges of the mattress, the chill of the pillows—stuff you've noticed hundreds of times, too tired to really appreciate them. with him by your side, details aren't another meaningless thing that keeps you awake.
they're little things that make you appreciate him and the quaint life you've built.
his snores grace your ears once more. that calms you, has you sinking into the bed just a little more. his grip on you is tighter, heavier. you love cuddling into his sleeping form.
he feels like an oversized weighted blanket, decked out in affection and care.
and you fall asleep like that, tucked into his loving embrace. not immediately, though— after a couple of hours, maybe 3.
toji may be aloof, sure, but he's the best melatonin you've got.
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thoughts about nanami barely handling his ravenous wife
it seemed you never grew tired of sex, unlike your husband.
that's not to say he doesn't like how often you want to fuck him. he'd never say no to you, especially not when you beg so sweetly, sometimes with a pout or twinkle in your eyes. the mere sight gets him ready to go in no time, previous tasks long forgotten.
he's just surprised, that's all.
nanami quietly rejected that he was "attractive." he never saw it himself, never boasted about it. by the way you always paw at him, initiate foreplay, and the many other titillating things you do, maybe he could finally accept that he was indeed above average.
he was confused when at the four month mark of your relationship, you seemed on edge constantly.
"one more round," you'd whimper in the morning, knowing one would surely turn into two or three.
"show me," you'd say, begging him to try that new method for stronger orgasms he read about in an article. it worked, yes, but his original ways were definitely better.
back aching, jaw clenched, he'd walk into your shared home. his sorcerer days were long over, yet regular life still takes a toll on him. the grasp of bills, responsibility, and annoying coworkers could never be shaken off, always there to make him regret continuing to work.
yet for some reason, you didn't see any of that. you didn't see a man broken by years of labor, dying for an ounce of coffee.
you saw your husband, tie loosened, thin sheen of sweat coating his skin, hair pushed to the side in a way only you'd ever get to see. dirty thoughts were already crawling into your mind, fantasizing about him.
the way his belt shone under the lamplight, all you could think of was him taking it off and-
"what are you staring at?" he's staring back at you, brows furrowed in that cute way that marks confusion.
"just my hot husband," you'd always say. he watched how your thighs clenched a little, how handsy you got that evening.
"i'm starting to feel like a piece of meat," he'd joke, taking off his tie. that same tie ended up around your wrists, used as leverage to pull you back into his mean thrusts. he's your piece of meat.
the older you got, it seemed the hornier you got. he expected the exact opposite; "she'll get sick of me by the time we're 50," he sometimes thought. he couldn't have been more wrong.
nanami is the kind of man that grows finer with age. grey hairs at his temple, slight stubble, a new layer of fat on his stomach, what's not to love?
"stop lying to me, woman."
"i'm not lying!" you'd retort, giggling.
for whatever reason, he can't see that you love him no matter how much he changes with age.
"your gut just means that i feed you well! it's hot!"
he's hiding his head in his hands, ears poking out with a dusty blush across them.
mumbling, he says "my wife is a pervert." (took him long enough to realize.)
no matter how much his back aches, nanami kento will never stop pleasing his wife. in the morning, occasionally at noon, and at night, he'll always make time to fuck you just the way you need it, because he needs it too.
masterlist
a/n: this idea came to me randomly. if i was nanami's wife, trust we'd be going at it everyday!
(btw, not tagging as smut cause there's no actual descriptions of nanami bending you over or anything)
