dio-doflamingo

[dio-doflamingo]

BREAKING NEWS!

NOW REPORTING...LOCAL GIRL FUCKED MOTHMAN?

synopsis: sent to get the scoop on a strange cult popping up in a small city near you, you're surprised to discover the (moth)man behind it has more than just charm hiding behind his sly smile. but debunking the local cryptid sightings will be harder than you thought when you're sharing a bed with him!

pairing: mothman!Geto x journalist!Reader

content: mdni, smut and fluff and angst, reader is an investigative journalist, cult leader!geto in a different font lol, cryptid!Geto (he has wings), brat taming, hate sex, oral (m! receiving), fingering, unprotected piv sex, recording during sex, (is it too freaky if I add oviposition LMFAO), fights and making up, reader is a bit bitchy at times, slightly unbalanced power dynamics, blackmail, more tags to be added!

cryptid columns

one | two | three | four

five | six | seven | eight

nine | ten | eleven | twelve

comment to be tagged <333

art by @grartsss + divider by @v6que

[dio-doflamingo]

ending the night with nanago clothing swap for strawpage anon <3

[dio-doflamingo]

nanamin for his birthday :D

[dio-doflamingo]

i wish he was real

[dio-doflamingo]

then i did hiromi higuruma and got shadowbanned on tiktok for it!

[dio-doflamingo]

[dio-doflamingo]

Wait I’m seeing it

Some real close friends

[dio-doflamingo]

Is Two Really Better Than One?

Summary: in which Nanami's wife gets hit with a curse and he comes home to two wives, not one... Warnings: smut, married couple/established relationship, f!reader, threesome, dom!nanami, mention of being used as a sex toy, cunnilingus, penetrative sex, spanking, paizuri, spitting, doggy, dual ride/double cowgirl position, cum eating, fingering, dirty talk, degradation, praise kink, slight size kink, slight yuri action, voyeurism/exhibitionism?, totally inaccurate use of the curse science or whatever, not proofread - like literally not at all sowwy Word Count: 4.5k

Nanami is flabbergasted. 

When he came back home after a long hard day’s work, he was impatiently waiting for his wife’s loving embrace and reviving kiss. There’s a routine you two follow and he upholds it like a knight pledging allegiance to the crown – arrive home at 6pm, you greet him, he takes a shower and changes into comfortable clothes whilst you prepare dinner, and then you dine together. He expected you to be at the front door with an excited grin and open arms, just as you did yesterday and the day before that.

What he wasn’t expecting, however, was two wives waiting for him. 

“Ken! Make her go away,” you scream. 

The other you snarls, “No, you go away.”

Apparently, you’ve been hit by a spirit splitting curse – it fragmented your soul into perfect halves. There is no ‘original wife,’ just two different parts of the same woman he loves. At least, that was how Shoko explained it on the phone. How long the effects will last is indeterminable, though Nanami’s simply glad it’s a harmless consequence and not something more disastrous.

“I want her ugly ass gone, Kento,” you growl.

And other you shrieks. “Excuse me? I am literally you. If I’m ugly, so are you, idiot.”

“Yeah? Well, somehow, I’m just prettier, so suck it.”

Sitting in the living room, he loosens his tie and stares up at the ceiling. He supposes it really was just too much to ask to have peace and quiet in his life, to be able to catch up on some rest and sleep, and have dinner with his wife, his only wife. Right now, the two of you are smacking throw pillows at each other’s faces, exchanging limp blows over his body, and insulting one another.

This animosity is unfounded. She is you and you are her. You are both his wife, with the exact same body, personality, past, hopes and dreams. And yet you’re at each other’s throats like there is a long feud between your warring families. Nanami sighs again. “Please, stop fighting. Let’s just get on with our evening and wait for the effects to subside.”

Both of you press close to him, taking a side each. You cling to his arm, cradling his bicep between your breasts, seeping warmth into his skin through his work shirt. Nanami clears his throat. You smell nice – always do – but right now, the scent of you is engulfing him from all sides. Other you pokes his chest. 

With an accusatory tone, you question, “Why aren’t you pushing her away, Kento?”

He leaves a kiss on your head, hoping to soothe your irritation. “I could never push away my wife, darling. I’d sooner die.”

“But I’m your wife.”

“No, I’m his wife.”

Nanami wraps his arms around the both of you, rubbing comforting circles on your backs; if he doesn’t do something, he might just come out of this with no wife. “You are both my wives. Just as beautiful as the other and just as ferocious. So, there’s no need to fight, alright?”

“Oh my god, what if we’re stuck like this forever? I can’t share you, Ken! I won’t. And! What if you start to like her more than me? I’ll kill myself.”

Gaze softening, he holds you tight. “That won’t happen, my love. It just wouldn’t. I’m confident things will go back to normal soon enough and you’ll be whole again. That’s our biggest concern, not ‘who will I prefer.’ That’s a silly thought; I love you in all the possible shapes and forms you come in. I could never choose just one side of you to love, it’s simply impossible.”

A moment of silence passes. 

“He is such a sweet talker, isn’t he?” You ask yourself.

You reply with a chortle. “The absolute sweetest. Thank god we put up with his grumpy ass before he fell for us.”

His heart swells. To watch you two get along fills him with so much pride and he can’t quite explain it. Perhaps it’s because he loves your smile, the way your cheeks get so plump with the force of it. Maybe it’s because he knows how long you’ve struggled to reconcile with the need to love yourself, truly, and how you find it torturous to confront yourself and see all those flaws he thinks creates your perfect soul. 

Maybe it’s simply because he loves you so much; there’s no need to question it.

“Ugh, get your hands off my husband!”

“No, you get your hands off my husband.”

And Nanami sighs again.

On and off, you two keep bickering, momentarily being quieted by his hushed commands to behave before starting up again shortly after. Slowly losing the will to fight, he accepts his indefinite reality. His house might never know peace again and he might never truly clock off work even once he returns home. It seems, outside of the office, he also has to manage stubborn individuals and rising tension. 

Still, it’s not so bad, he thinks. Having two of you is a blessing; he’s always encouraging you to eat more with the rationale of wanting more of you to love, after all.

But, his reasoning at this moment isn’t so pure.

The feeling of your plush bodies in his grasp is distracting. Two sets of your breasts are bouncing against his sides and in his face with every move you both make. Hands rove all over his body, staking their claim, and teasing the skin underneath his clothes. Nails scrape against his thighs, digging in when you try to control your anger, using him as the punching bag. He needs to keep his cool, to maintain control so he can ease your worries and dispel trouble at any time. But damn it if it isn’t taking a lot of effort to stand his ground. 

“Ken,” one of you whispers in his ear, lips brushing the shell, “you’re hard…”

Looking down, he comes face to face with solid evidence of your observation. How embarrassing – his wife was hurt and is facing an indubitably anxiety-provoking situation whereby she might never recover as whole from again, and despite that, he’s aroused. What kind of man is he?

What kind of terrible husband would be so self-centred?

“We can help… if you’d like.”

The kind that’d be married to you, apparently. 

Speechless, Nanami can do nothing but sit back and let his wife unbuckle his belt whilst the other unzips his trousers. One has a look of complete glee when she finds his hard cock already leaking and the other sports a focused expression, working her hand up and down his length. You really are his wife, split or not. No one could ever touch him so seductively, so enticingly, already threatening to shake his entire foundation with simple grazes. 

He should stop you both, should establish boundaries and get on with dinner. Instead of giving into baser instincts, he should lead by example and ensure your safety and wellbeing by being patient. But…how can he when your velvety palms play with his balls, fascinated by the weight of them?

“Come here, sweetheart,” he mutters, losing all grip on reason. He discards his glasses. “Come give Kento a kiss.” 

Two heads rush to his face. They collide with a bang. Hissing, you throw aggravated looks at each other. “He meant me.”

“Uh, no, he meant me.”

Tutting, he cradles both of your faces and brings one up to his lips. He lays a kiss where you bumped your head and then another to your mouth. Slowly and gently, he indulges in your taste, swallowing your breathy moans and teasing your tongue with his. Then, parting ways, he pushes your head down, eager to feel those juicy lips wrap around his throbbing cock. 

He meets your gaze. “You too, love.”

Mirroring the ministrations, he loses himself in the steamy kiss, groaning into your mouth when the you that’s licking his cock from the base to the very tip slides her wet tongue on the slit. Fuck, he needs more. He needs to feel you. 

A hand of his slides down your body, groping a breast, tweaking the nipple, before it ventures further down to between your legs. You’re soaked. Pussy lips swollen, he wastes no time in working two calloused digits inside. Wet, tight, and hot, he can’t get enough of how your cunt clenches around him. 

“Ah, Ken! So good. Thank you!”

The wife that’s drooling on his balls pouts. “Me too, Ken. Make me feel good too, please.”

He smiles. “My sweet wives, always so polite. Tilt your hips this way, darling, show me your pretty pussy. That’s it. And you, sweetheart, let me kiss your beautiful breasts.”

Now, both of his hands are being thoroughly coated in your wetness, squelching their way inside your pulsing canals. Mouth full of your breast, sucking and flicking your hard nipple, he lets himself be consumed by your scent, your warmth, your softness, and the wondrous sounds of your barely subdued whimpers and squeals. 

Being weighed down by your body, the reminder of your love and need for him, of which reflects his own for you, is the purest form of bliss he never would have thought he was deserving of. There is nothing more rewarding than drawing out your pleasure, than curling his fingers in just right against that gummy spot inside you that pushes out even more sloppy juices, and washing away your fears and worries. 

In this moment, as both of your hips are grinding down onto his hands, he wishes there was another of him. He can meet all your needs at once, overwhelm you with his body and drive you crazy. Then, there’d be no need to be jealous or possessive. Though…Nanami has a dark realisation that perhaps the sight of a cock that isn’t really his pushing its way inside your body would drive him to madness and not the pleasurable kind.

“Fuck, Ken! I’m gonna–”

“Cum!”

You orgasm at the same time as your other half, juices flying and soaking the sofa underneath your bodies. Speckles land on his creased trousers, drowning his hands and dribbling juices down his wrists. Nanami throbs, cock jolting in the cold air.

Slumped over his body, one of your heads perks up. “Hey, uglier me, wanna give him a boob job together?”

“I’m ignoring that insult, bitch, but yeah, whatever.” You roll your eyes and then land a peck on Nanami’s cheek, giving him a wink.

Getting down onto your knees, you force his legs to spread wide to accommodate yourselves. A little frazzled at seeing you two collude and leave him out of the decision making process, no word of complaint can manifest before he throws his head back, unable to stand the sight of impish joy all over your irresistible eyes doubled as you watch his cock bob once and twice. 

“Ugh, isn’t his dick so pretty?”

The kitten licks you leave on his frenulum are your answer. Then, you both wrap your breasts around his cock, nipples kissing each other and his sharp intake of breath elicits giggles. Up and down, you rub his heated length with your supple breasts. His fingers thread through your hair, unable to keep his hands off you. 

“Is it good, Ken? Do you like it?”

Nanami groans. “Y-yes, it feels amazing, sweetheart. You’re so good to me…always so good to your husband, aren’t you?”

Giggling again, you two exchange grins, feeling mighty proud of yourself, he supposes. And he knows he can cum just like this, that his cum will spurt all over your faces and breasts. It’ll coat your plump lips and you’ll be able to taste his salty spend. Lightheaded, he gasps for air, intent to get his bearings, to not let you two have your way with him, but then you surprise him one more time. 

Lips locked, you two make a big show of moaning into each other’s mouths, tongue twisting together in an obscene display that has his heart thumping faster and faster until he’s sure he’s losing his mind. 

You might never stop surprising him no matter how long he’s loved you. 

He can’t take it anymore. The smell of your sweetness, the evidence of your euphoria coating his skin, the doughy blanket of your breasts around his cock is driving him insane. He needs you and he needs you now. In agile haste, he stands and takes his clothes off all while you both watch. 

“I-I need to be inside you, darlings.” There isn’t enough space on the sofa for what he wants. So, with a grunt, he lifts you two and carries your bodies up, biting back a smile when you squeal and giggle, into the bedroom. You both bounce into each other’s embrace when he drops you off on the mattress. “Strip.”

Clumsily, you remove every article of clothing. Your arms get caught in your shirt and your panties get tangled around your ankles. “Ugh, Ken, help.”

“I’m here. I’m here.” He helps you two out, wrangling your clothes off. “There we go, honey. Upsi-daisy.”

Though he might never admit how pleased he gets when he’s needed, he’s sure you know. There’s no way you don’t. You feel the evidence of it when he pins you to the kitchen counter to fetch the plate you’re reaching for and you surely see the way his eyes darken as you place a foot on his lap, wordlessly asking him to clasp your heels on for you.

As soon as your clothes are off, he pounces – sloppily swallowing your wet moans, he devours you and then the other you, swapping and switching till he gets frustrated and gasps for air. 

“Oh, sweetheart. I love you so much. All of you. In every life, in every time. Always.” You’re lying so prettily for him. Whatever he has done to deserve you today, he hopes he’ll do it again and again so he may never part from you, not even in death. His hands don’t know where to stay, exploring, groping and squeezing and pinching wherever they please. There’s so much of you he wants to feel at once and it’s like an urge he can’t fight. The need to be with you, to please you, to immerse himself in your essence wholeheartedly is choking him up, calling forth tears in his eyes. “God, if only you could see yourself from my eyes.”

“Ken, I love when you get all emotional, I swear, but please just fuck me already.”

He gulps. “Yes, love. I will.”

“No, wait, fuck me first.”

“Wait your fricking turn, oh my god.”

Another fight breaks out. 

Nails are out, hands are flying, hair is being pulled. Kento huffs. He’s trying to get in between you two without using force, without accidentally hurting you, and just as he’s about to pull you apart, a resounding SLAP!echoes. It’s a grating noise that steals his breath. In a flash, he’s got you behind him and you pinned to the bed. 

“No.” Nanami growls. Breathing hard, he shakes off the sudden anger coursing through his veins. Wide eyed, you just watch him release his punishing hold on your neck that he didn’t even realise he had on you. The scolding fire in him doesn't disappear. “No one hurts my wife. Not even you. Understand?”

You nod frantically. 

“Good. You know I hate to punish you but you won’t disagree when I say you need to be reminded of the rules, would you?” You shake your head. “Use your big girl words.”

“I need to be punished, Ken. I need to be reminded of the rules.”

Satisfied, he leans back on his haunches and beckons the other you to his front. There’s a mark on your cheek and it makes his chest squeeze painfully. “Oh, look what you’ve done to your pretty face. My darling wife and her penchant for violence. You’re going to give me more grey hairs.”

“I hope so; you’ll be a silver fox. Yum.”   

A fruitless frustration builds inside – it’s akin to that cuteness aggression you claim overcomes you often, he thinks. Well, he won’t deny himself any longer. He tugs your neck and kisses you. It’s rough, it’s messy, it’s sloppy. And he does it all while keeping his eyes on the you that’s in near tears. “Why don’t you -hah- show my wife how to be a good girl? Show her the reward you deserve.”

“Okay, Ken.”

Leaning back into his firm, sturdy body, you hiss as the threatening stretch of his fat cockhead pushes through the tight ring of muscles at your entrance. Slowly but surely, he’s worming his way into your pulsing cunt. Nanami grunts when he finally bottoms out, balls constricting with the labour of keeping his cum in his balls and not in your pussy prematurely. This is all far too much for him. To be thrusting into you, holding you upright by your arms as you watch his cock shine with your juices, is an insane fantasy he never even dreamed of, but it is his reality and he damn sure will make the most of it. 

“Ngh, tell my wife h-how you’re feeling, sweetheart.”

Breathless, you try to talk despite the delirium-inducing pleasure he’s ramming into your tight cunt. “G-good. I feel good. Ken’s so big a-and I’m feeling so full. Fuck, Ken, fuck me harder.”

The sound of skin slapping, the squelching of your pussy, and the heady moans and grunts are all going straight to his head. Overstimulated, he clutches your breast for a tether, grounded by the weight and the softness. His pace quickens. “Like this? Hmm? You like this, darling?”

“Yes, Ken! Fuck, I’m close. More, Kento. Fuck me more.”

Over your shoulder, he watches you writhe and squirm on the bed, a hand squeezing your breast the way he is and fingers pumping inside your needy cunt at the pace his cock is working its way into your other half. Impatient, you whine. “Hurry, Ken. I want your cock too.”

He licks his lip. Sweaty, eyesight ever so slightly blurry, and growing closer and closer to his climax, urged on by the tight pulsing of your pussy, he continues thrusting inside. “Behave. Can’t you see I’m -ah, fuck- p-pleasuring my wife? Bad girls don’t get to touch, do they? They don’t get to have their cake. And. Eat. It. Ngh. Too!”

To highlight his point, he lets you slip through his grasp. You fall on top of yourself, bouncing breasts pressed tightly against each other. Your face is buried into the crook of your neck, uncaring about how loud your moans are. Nanami finds purchase against your slippery ass and holds it still as he fucks his cock into you, using you as a glorified cock sleeve. 

“Give me something. Anything, Ken. Please. Pleasepleaseplease.”

Nanami grunts. “Open up.”

A fat drop of his spit lands with a plop onto your awaiting tongue. You gulp it down eagerly. Your fingers work themselves inside your cunt even faster, unperturbed by the weight of yourself pinning you to the bed, sweaty and shaking. Dare your husband say, you rather like it. His cock pulses.

“Soon, honey. Just be patient, a-alright? And then I’ll -hah- fill you up. Just have to -ngh- make my wife cum first.” 

Expert hips grind into your tight pussy, cockhead hissing your g-spot and stretching out your gooey walls again and again. If he had it his way, he’d never leave your cunt, but he has a responsibility to make you both cum. He can’t be selfish.

“Ugh, hurry up, you whore,” you mutter into your ear. Then, he sees your mischievous hand trail down your other’s spine until it descends between your legs. When the moans get louder and the clenching of your pussy steals Nanami’s breath, he can only assume you’ve taken matters into your own hands.

You cum around his cock with a scream. 

Hips stuttering, his orgasm soon follows. “Ah, f-fuck! So tight. So fucking good.”

His choked groans are all that can be heard as you lay limp. He too falls to the bed, lying beside your bodies. That had to have been one of the strongest orgasms he had ever had. Never a dull day with you. Just when he thinks he’s got you all figured out, you prove him wrong. What a privilege it is to learn all about you every day for the rest of his life.

“Hey, my turn!”

Brushing back his blond locks, he chuckles to himself as he watches his cock throb back to life. It seems his body has adapted to be sure he can attend to his wife’s needs. Both of them. “Get up here, sweetheart. Take what you want.”

Excited, you shove your other half off and rush to straddle your husband’s hips. You don’t wait; his cock slides inside with ease from your juices. “Oh, god, yessss. Fuck, Ken, I can feel you in my lungs.”

Bracing himself by holding onto your thighs, he can do nothing else against the desperate bouncing of your ass. The pleats inside of your perfect pussy are attempting to wring him dry all over again and Nanami’s abs flex with the building pressure. His cock is still recovering and it’s sensitive but you don’t care. Now, he’s the one being used like a mere toy. 

“S-slow down, honey.” He hisses. “Hah, slow -hngh!- d-down.”

“Hmm, shit, Kento. Y-you’ve gotten so big…” Ignoring his pleas, you must be referring to the layer of fat that’s grown on his body, thanks to the delicious food you’ve been cooking for him. Wholly embracing married life by skipping visits to the gym in lieu of staying longer in bed with you, he’s realised that his clothes no longer fit as they did. It’s embarrassing for a man who prided himself in being fit and put together but it gets you so wet and so needy, he doesn’t dare change a thing. “I want to -ah ah ah fuuuuck- drown in you.”

His chuckle is punctuated by the grunts that your incessant bouncing is forcing out of him. “If it’ll make you happy, my love.”

You clench down. 

“Ah, don’t -oh fuck- squeeze so tight.” He reaches for your clit, thumbing at it. You yelp, hips bouncing faster. Looking so absolutely beautiful, he can’t keep his eyes off the recoiling breasts in his line of vision. Suddenly, his mouth is suffocated with something hot, wet, and delicious. “Hmmph!”

You’ve sat on his face, leaning forward on his stomach, clearly keen to be involved once more in the fun. Submerged in your scent and taste, he doesn’t hesitate to slurrrrrrp! up your juices. He can taste his cum too and it dribbles down his chin. Cunt wrapped around his cock and another leaking wetness right into his mouth, Nanami swears he’s in heaven, delirious with the devastating gratification of pleasuring his wife. “Ride me faster…my face…my cock…that’s it, dear…doing so -ngh- great for me…my -hah hah- perfect wife.”

Lapping up your juices, he throbs when you squeal on his tongue.

“Is that how I really sound when you eat me out? Ew.”

Other you growls. “And is that what I really look like when I ride you?”

SMACK!

SMACK!

“Don’t t-talk badly about yourself. I won’t have it.”

Rubbing your sore ass, you mumble, “Mmm, sorry, Ken.”

“Yeah, s-sorry.”

Soon, you three work back into a punishing rhythm. Nanami hates to be so strict, but he can’t bear to hear you be so mean to yourself. It makes the hairs on his arms stand. If his eyes aren’t rolling to the back of his head, he’d lecture you about the importance of loving yourself. Again. But he can’t string full sentences together. Not right now. Now when you’re all so close. 

Your clit is bumping against his nose whilst his tongue pierces your cunt and he wonders if you can both feel the specific kind of bliss the other is – a cock kissing your g-spot, filling you up, and your pussy being thoroughly ravished by his greedy mouth. 

“Yes, Ken, suck my clit…hmm, just like that… yes yes yessss.”

“Fuck, Ken, your cock feels so good. I love it! More more more. I need it.”

Whatever his wife wants, he’ll oblige. Planting his feet, he fucks up into you, jostling your body. You shriek. His pace is relentless, merciless, and they push you further and further until your climax nears. Off balance, your face falls in between other you’s breasts. Whatever you’re doing to those tits he loves so much is making his wife’s eyes roll to the back of her head too. 

Nanami’s nearing his end. He needs you to get there first. Always. “Come on, sweetheart. Make me –ah make Kento– proud, won’t you? Let me h-hear, feel a-and taste my darling wife -hah- cum.”

“Yes, Ken!” You both screech.

And soon after, your husband finds himself covered in a flood of your juices. 

“FUCK!” 

“SHIT!”

“OH GOD!”

Nails dig into his skin, scratching and stinging. The grip you have on his cock tightens until he’s robbed of his breath and forced over, hips pumping up into your scalding cunt. Your moans are muffled between your breasts when his searing cum paints your walls white. 

Clinging to each other, the three of you black out. 

Minutes or hours later, Nanami is the first to wake. Finally, the sight that greets him is not anomalous or extraordinary – it’s just his wife, singular and whole, draped naked across his lap and snoring. He’s trying to catch his breath, staring down at your sleeping form. “I’ve -hah- tired you out, huh? Poor thing.”

Just as he wanted, he’s covered in sweat and your juices, owned by you in every way possible. This is how he’d like to spend the rest of his life if he could: attending to your needs and drawing out a smile even in your sleep. He pets your head, a shaky smile on his lips. Your eyes flutter open. 

“There’s my beautiful wife. Hi. I’ve missed you, darling.”

Groggily, you ask, “Am I fixed now, Kenny?”

Bringing up your face to his, he skims his nose against the tip of yours. “You were never broken to begin with, my love.”

“That’s sweet…can we go eat now? I’m hungry.”

Petting your pussy and seeking out your heat as if his fingers are magnetised to it, he whispers against your lips, “You can take one more round, can’t you, honey? For me? For Kento?”

You both know it won’t stop at just one round. 

It never does. 

And thank fuck.

[dio-doflamingo]

he knows you’re watching

[dio-doflamingo]

"you can go deeper than that, cmon. give me one more"

nanami’s low, smooth, sultry voice ghosts past the shell of your ear. his breath sinking into your skin making your hair stand at attention. he's close. so close that his frame swallows you whole. strong, heavy arms bracket your sides, caging you in as he spots your squat.

his cologne clogs your lungs— smoky oud, crisp and cold, the kind of scent that lingers long after he's gone. that curls and twists, winding into the fabric of your clothes, your thoughts. it makes your head swim. your legs shake.

a deep breath swells in your chest, your fingers tightening around the rough metal bar. your knuckles burn, muscles coiling tight. a quick tap to your thigh from the man behind you and you're steadying the tremble in your legs.

"you’re overthinking it," he huffs. his tone is unbearably soft. he knows you too well. "breathe. and push through."

and you do.

heat licks at your muscles as you take a few steps back to unrack the weight, teeth gritted. nanami’s hands hover beneath you, close enough to catch you if you fail, but far enough that you know: he believes in you.

the bar dips … pause. then with a grunt, you push upwards before locking it back into place with a heavy clank that echoes throughout the gym.your chest heaves, sweat slicking your skin, adrenaline pounding through your veins like a drug.

"see," nanami hums, "told you you could."

you smirk, glancing at him through the mirror, "i didn't need a spot"

a suprised expression pops onto his face and his head tilts.

"yeah?" he hums.

then he’s moving.

stepping behind you, his large, rough hands sloowwllyy drag over the softness of your thighs and over your stomach. heat curls before you can stop it, "but you were shaking so much" he breathes, fingers kneading, pressing into the sore muscles, "you sure you didn’t need me?"

a smirk tugs at your lips, and you push your hips back rolling against the faatt bulge in his gym shorts, "are you sure you don't need me?" —

nanami has been your personal trainer for a little over 2 years now. you'd always wanted to start working out, but you knew you needed someone to guide you, to teach you proper form, and—most importantly—to hold you accountable.

at first he was just that.

but after about a year and a half, your relationship changed. you didn't really need him. you had your routine memorized like the back of your hand. he turned into more of a workout partner. a friend. 

the first time he invited you to do something outside of the gym was after a late night workout. he offered to treat you to lunch for pushing yourself.

you should’ve known by then the lines of your relationship had already started to blur.

but, of course, you agreed. how could you not? he was handsome and fucking built— thick, heavy biceps, with a muscular back, slim waist, and perfect abs. he took you to a spot a few blocks from the gym and you two talked for hours. there was more to him than you thought from first glance and he was … sweet.

the first time you fucked?

it was after a work out too, of course.

there’s no way you didn’t expect him to get hard after seeing you in those little shorts. the ones that ride up in the middle. that hug every curve.

you should've know.

shit, maybe you did.

but it didn't matter.

because when his rough hands gripped your thighs, when he pushed you into that locker room, his tongue soft, flush against yours, nothing else existed.

after that you two seemed to fall into a routine: you'd meet him at the gym, get a workout in, then he'd have you right where he wanted— bent over a bench, stretched out nice n' pretty underneath him.

“fuuuckkk ken”

thick, calloused fingers wrap around your neck as he fucks into your sloppy little pussy from the back, each hard smack of his heavy hips echoing throughout the dim locker room.

“shhhh i know .. i know,” your poor pussy struggles to fit him all, cum leaking from your pretty hole in fat, warm globs— so messy.

“she’s takin’ me sooo well baby, so pretty like this” he’s pushing your thighs farther and farther apart, fat spilling from between his finger, to stuff you properly, his thumb grazing your ass as he leans over to let spit fall on your little hole.

the way his cock drags against your walls makes you drool, his strong arms holding your limp body upright practically picking you up and dropping you on his dick all by himself.

your mind is so blank all you can do is moan out broken cries of his name like some whore and take him. he loves it.

you're such a strong woman, inside and out, and he admires you for it. more than you could ever know. so getting to see you go dumb 'round his dick like this, seeing you melt and crumble just does something to him.

you’re already so close. heat coiling deep in your tummy and nanami can feel it so he grabs himself at the thick base and pulls allll the out making you mewl and whine.

“nooooo was- so cl-close,” you cry, turning to look at him over your shoulder with big teary eyes.

“can’t have you cumming that fast mama, wanna play with you just a little longer”

[dio-doflamingo]

୨୧ its your first time sucking his dick, and fuck. its a struggle. mlist

not your fault. his cock is big, thick and wide, stretching your lips as you try to take him deeper, your tongue swirling tentative around the tip.

“sweetheart,” he murmurs. “you’re doing good, take your time.” he’s trying to be gentle, to be a generous husband you love.

but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch at his sides, he’s fighting not to grab you, not to slam the back of your head deeper.

you hum around him, trying again, lips sliding down a bit further, tongue flattening against the vein, you glance up, catching his gaze, and fuck, he looks wrecked, his adam’s parted, breaths short. “fuck,” he breathes, low and gritty, his hand hovering near your hair but pulling back.

“you’re— you’re trying so hard, aren’t you?” his voice has that cheeky lilt, teasing but warm, and it makes you want to do better, even as your jaw aches.

you pull off, panting, a string of spit connecting your lips to his tip. “it’s… a lot.” you admit, voice soft, cheeks flushed.

“you’re too big, kento.” he chuckles. “can’t help that, sweetheart.” he cups your cheek, thumb brushing your lip.

“don’t push yourself. im good.” but he’s not. you can see it, the way his cock twitches, the tight flex of his abs, the way his hand clenches like he’s holding back a beast.

he wants to fuck your throat, to grab your hair and force you deeper, but he won’t, not yet, not with you looking so earnest and new to this.

“c'mon,” you say, voice a little bolder, leaning back in. “i wanna make you feel good.” you take him again, sucking harder, trying to bob deeper, but you gag, eyes watering as you pull back.

“goddamn,” he groans, his control slipping, hand finally landing in your hair, not pulling, just resting there. “keep goin’ like that, and im gonna—fuck, im tryin’ not to…”

you look up, meeting his eyes, and push further, lips stretching, throat burning, he moans, his fingers twitching in your hair, the urge to slam you down so clear it’s practically screaming.

“sweetheart,” he warns, voice tight, “you gotta ease up, or I’m gonna lose it.” you hum, the vibration making him hiss, and keep going, sloppy and eager, tears streaking your cheeks.

“i don’t wanna hurt you, but—shit.” he pulls you off gently, panting, his cock glistening from your efforts. “c’mere.” you climb into his lap, breathless, and he kisses you, deep and slow, tasting himself on your lips.

© 𝐬𝐨𝐝𝐪𝐩𝐮𝐟𝐟 | do not copy, plagiarize or translate any of my works.

[dio-doflamingo]

imagine not liking nanami and this is what he’s up to 🍅 🥖 [old drawing]

[dio-doflamingo]

lucky you! feat. k. nanami

cw: very very suggestive, not proofread at all, probably bad, inspired by my new tattoo ^3^. 18+ mdni!

kento nanami knew his wife was full of surprises.

he learned this exactly three months into your relationship, before the years of marriage and life together, after you undressed for the first time. well—it was more like, after you guys were done with your first time, cuddled up in bed afterwards.

you’d thrown a leg over him, blank ink against the skin under your ass caught his attention. he tried to crane his neck as much as possible without startling you—trying to make out the detail on your leg he somehow missed.

he glanced in the mirror. though tiny, the cursive black letters curved against the round of your ass, and read out two words:

lucky you!

that was about the hottest thing kento had ever seen in his life. so much so he was almost convinced to wake you up for another round—until you began to snore against his chest.

he asked you about it the morning after.

“oh that? i was drunk and my friends convinced me to get it. i’m glad it’s in a place no one can see it.”

secretly, and almost selfishly, kento was too. he took a liking to the tattoo, for reasons unknown to you and to him too, really. he made a point running his thumb over it, started touching your backside more, even pulling up your dress just to see it. to run his hands over it.

to remind him that, yes, he was in fact lucky to even know of such a thing on your body.

what you didn’t know is that your husband is also full of surprises.

later down the line, after a very long work trip, your husband was finally home. he wasn’t your husband then—but he may as well have been. the tension of not seeing one another for so long snapped in an instant, right in the living room.

hands all over eachother, grabbing and kissing and leaving marks on one another’s skin, you dropping to the floor almost immediately—too quick for kento’s liking.

nonetheless, he let you unbuckle his belt and then undo his slacks, you took in his scent like a drug. he bit his lip in anticipation, lifting his hips for you to discard of his pants, almost drawing blood when your fingers hooked into his boxers. you pulled them down slow, teasing, looking him straight in the eyes.

yet something else caught your attention, two words in an almost identical cursive font on the top of your husband’s right thigh, dangerously close to his v-line:

lucky you!

[dio-doflamingo]

based on this figure set because it made me wanna scream and sob

[dio-doflamingo]

୨୧ ― The garage door slams shut with a muffled thud, sealing you both in the dark garage. The car is still warm from the drive home, engine ticking as the leather seats creak under Nanami’s weight. His tie hangs loose around his neck, silk fabric slithering between his fingers as he cages you against the backseat- his knee forcing your legs apart. 

"Seven days…," he grits out, the numbers sharp as his cursed blade… It was rare to hear him talk like that…

"Kento… please don't be mad… w-we ah~," impatient, his large hands shove your dress up your thighs, bunching the fabric around your waist, "We've been so busy with the girls lately." your hands tremble as you run them over the lapels of his jacket.

He catches your wrist and pulls your hand to his mouth. A shiver races up your spine as he kisses your palm, tongue hot and wet as it traces along your skin. His teeth are just as sharp, grazing against your skin in a warning, "I don't want excuses," Nanami growls, the low sound going straight to your cunt, "I want you."

His breath carries hints of bourbon and mint from dinner- restraint absolutely snapped, the kind that’s been simmering all week between packed lunched, overtime with Gojo, and your second grader’s nightmares about how daddy doesn’t come back home from work one day… 

Nanami refuses to waste any more time. Like he said, it’s been seven fucking days. He’s missed having you all to himself. The feeling of your velvety walls wrapped around him- strangling his cock just how he likes it. 

Without hesitation. His thumb hooks into your lace panties, tearing them sideways with a rip that makes you gasp and arch, "F-fuck, Kento-!~"

"Quiet," he growls against your neck, calloused palm smacking your clit once, twice, the crack echoing off the tinted windows, "You've been begging for this all night." The sound of his pants zipper fills the small space, his cock springing free- heavy and angry red with a bead of precum drooling at the tip. "Squirming in your seat. Smirking at me as your heel grazes my thigh."

He doesn't prep you- doesn't need to. Your pussy has been dripping since the appetizers, and he knows, the bastard, smirking as he swipes his tip against your entrance, "Look at you," he taunts, dragging his cock through your slick, coating himself, "So wet for me already. You missed my cock so much, hm?"

Fuck, yesyesyes you missed his cock, missed the stretch and burn and ache when he first plunges into you. A breathless, "Yes~♡ " falls from your lips, followed by a desperate moan as his fat cock rams into your soaked cunt without warning- filling you, stretching you out.

You do your best to choke back a scream. You know better, know to keep your voice down in case your girls and Yuji have fallen asleep- the last thing you need is to wake them. But Nanami is merciless, fucking you open, the squelch of your juices loud enough to drown out any other noise in the confined space, his hips snap up- slamming into you as he fucks you against the leather seats.

"I—fu—I've s'missed you, Kento~"

Nanami's eyes soften then, a small smile forming as his hand cradles your face. The pad of his thumb traces the outline of your lip before pushing in, his gaze darkening at the way your lips part for him so willingly.

His grip on your jaw turns bruising, the way his lips smash against yours- it's painful, but the sting is delicious, "You kept teasing me about wanting another kid," he grunts, sweat dripping off his jaw onto your heaving chest.

His wedding band catches the moonlight streaming through the garage window as he grips your throat, not hard enough to hurt- yet.

"Maybe I will put a third in you tonight. Watch you swell up again…" His voice drops, gravelly and low, "You'd look so beautiful like that, again."

You claw at the part of his chest that's exposed, the fabric wrinkled beyond salvation, and moan, "Y'already... nnf... can't handle two—hah!~"

He slams deeper- hand fisting in your hair cutting you off-  "Try me."

His Mercedes rattles as he flips you onto your knees, face mashed against the fogged window. His palm cracks against your ass, reddening the skin before he yanks your hips back, spearing you in one vicious stroke. Your tits crush against the seat, nipples rubbed raw by the upholstery as he drills into your g-spot.

Somewhere upstairs, he hears a floorboard squeak… The sound traveling easily through the thin wall that connects the garage to the house. Nanami freezes, cock twitching inside you. 

Then, unmistakable in the sudden silence, comes the patter of small feet and excited voices from within the house.

"Daddy and Mommy are home!"

"Shh! Remember what big bro Yuji said? We should be sleeping!"

Nanami’s eyes narrow, "S-shit." He rams home once more, burying his groan in the crook of your neck as he spills, hot and thick, painting your walls white as it floods your womb. His cum leaks down your trembling thighs as he collapses against you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder blade with a defeated thud while muttering, "...they're awake-"

So much for having you to himself the rest of the night…

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

Nine months later, Nanami Kento is changing diapers at 3 am, dark circles under his eyes but with a tender smile that lights up the pink nursery.

"Worth it."

[dio-doflamingo]

the funniest thing about reading Geto Suguru x reader fics in English vs Japanese is that he's characterised so differently

Geto written by the English fanbase is depicted as this doting, loving person usually, and an even more loving boyfriend. worst case scenario, a fuckboy or some toxic guy at the max (from what I usually see).

while Geto written by the Japanese fanbase a lot of times literally portrays him as this devastatingly disgusting womaniser, sleeping with a ton of older women in their 20s/30s (as a high schooler), who lost his virginity at middle school by his university student tutor. a lot of times the reader is quite uncomfortable, uneasy around him or literally does not like him back, sometimes until the very end of the fic (at least he changes by the end I guess)

[dio-doflamingo]

What's left, after fire

A/N: inspired by this headcanon i made, hope this is good

warnings: same as headcanon, mushy shit, bit of smut at the end, this is... way too long, my apologies, 5500 words ish

The phone rings at 2:37 a.m.

Not your usual alarm.

No, this is the specific ringtone you gave to Kento's phone number.

And that’s how you know it’s bad.

You’re up in seconds, phone halfway to your ear with sleep still clinging to your skin. His name on your screen. But it’s not him on the other line. Of course it isn’t.

It’s Shoko.

You’re already standing when she says: “He’s alive.” You’re grabbing your coat- socks, shoes, when she adds: “Barely.”

Your heart punches into your lungs. You don’t ask for details. Don’t ask if it’s Mahito. Don’t ask how bad. Your body moves, all instinct, all panic, scrambling out of your room and into the dark of the apartment like you’ll find him just standing there, like he’ll be whole and warm and unbroken in the kitchen drinking his terrible black coffee.

He’s not.

He’s not anywhere. And you’re running out the door, hopping, trying to put your fucking shoes on when she says, “We’re doing everything we can.”

*-*

You sprint through empty streets like something’s chasing you.

The air tastes like smoke. Not the kind you can smell. The kind that stays lodged behind your teeth long after something’s burned down.

You don’t remember calling a taxi. You don’t remember slipping on shoes. You don’t remember your tears, until you’re choking on them.

You don’t make it into the treatment room.

Shoko hadn’t sugarcoated anything. She never did. She’d told you — steady, low voice, but not emotionless — that Kento was in critical condition. That he’d been caught in the explosion. That Mahito had gotten to him.

And that you couldn’t see him yet.

Not yet.

Tokyo Jujutsu High’s medical ward is quieter than you expected.

No sirens. No chaos. Just antiseptic, fatigue, and grief bleeding out from every cracked breath.

You’re pacing in the waiting corridor when you see him.

“Yuji—”

He looks like a ghost in a teenager’s skin. Pale. Gaunt. Blood still drying on his temple. There's this heavy, empty look in his eyes, like he hasn't come back all the way yet.

"Sensei... you're here," he mumbles, trying to stand straighter when he sees you.

You pull him into a hug before you even think about it.

He winces.

He tenses like he’s not used to it, then melts. Just for a second.

“Sorry, sorry—shit—are you okay?” you breathe, pulling back and frantically looking him over. You want to ask a thousand things, but none of them are the right words. Not now. Not when the person you love is on the other side of that wall.

“Nanami… he was—he saved us. He shouldn’t have been there anymore. He was done. But he… he stayed. For us. For me.” Yuji's voice cracks around the edges.

That breaks something in your chest.

You lower yourself to sit beside him. “Tell me what happened.”

Yuji nods slowly. But his mouth opens and closes a few times. It’s like the words are too tangled, like they hurt to drag out.

He starts anyway.

“Well, uh—Mahito’s a little bitch. So, that’s one thing. He cornered us near the station, and Nanami-senpai, he was already—he looked like he’d been through hell, you know? Like, literally. Not in a metaphor way. Like, real—burning fire, lava, Dante’s Inferno shit—”

“Yuji,” you whisper, pained, but he’s spiraling.

“—and he was talking weird. Like… not himself. But he still fought. He still stood up. Even when—God, even when his shirt was literally fused to his skin—”

“Stop it.”

Megumi’s voice cuts through the fog like cold steel.

He walks up beside the bench you and Yuji are on, hands in his pockets, bandages up his forearm, bruises around his jaw.

“Stop making it worse.”

Yuji swallows hard and sinks in on himself. “Sorry.”

Megumi sighs, eyes softer when he turns to you:

“He took a hit from Mahito’s Idle Transfiguration head-on. And the explosion that followed—he shielded the others from it.”

Your stomach drops.

“His left side took the brunt of it,” Megumi continues. “We don’t know the full extent yet, but… Shoko’s trying everything. He’s stable now, but he was barely breathing when we found him.”

You want to scream. You want to scream and fight and break something and go back in time and throw yourself into the fire instead of him.

But all you can do is sit there, hands shaking.

So you sit.

You sit.

You sit.

And wait.

And burn.

*-*

It’s nearly four hours before someone tells you he’s out of surgery.

Shoko’s expression is unreadable when she appears in the doorway. But the fact that she’s standing at all—that she came herself—makes your lungs stop working.

You almost don't want her to speak.

“You can see him now,” she says.

The room is sterile and dim, but all you can see is him.

Nanami.

At first, you barely recognize him.

He’s half-wrapped in gauze, skin blotched with angry, red burns that creep up his neck and jaw. His left arm is splinted, rigid and shaking with every shallow breath. His chest rises under a thin hospital blanket, uneven. Alive, but broken.

You almost crumple.

You grip the edge of his bed and squeeze until your knuckles go white.

And then his one good eye opens. Slowly. Painfully.

It takes him a second to focus.

“…My love,” he rasps.

That’s it. That’s the dam breaker. You’re crying before you even realize it.

“I thought—I thought I lost you,” you whisper, crawling closer, careful not to touch anywhere that might hurt. “I woke up and you were gone. You didn’t even leave a note, you bastard—”

Nanami gives the faintest chuckle. It hurts to hear. Literally—he winces with it. His throat is raw.

“You’re yelling at a man who’s 60% gauze and regret,” he murmurs.

“You asshole,” you croak. “You absolute—fucking—mummy.”

You’re crying when you say it. Your voice is cracking in half. But it bubbles out, all the same.

“You look like you lost a fight with a sarcophagus.” You add.

You laugh. You cry harder. The sound is ugly.

He blinks, slow. The corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re not funny.”

You rest your forehead lightly on the side of his mattress, biting back a sob. “I am so funny. And you’re going to be stuck with me making jokes for the rest of your life.”

“Promise?”

His voice is barely audible.

You lift your head. “I promise.”

He nods once.

Then his eye—his right eye—shifts slightly to the left, where the other… isn’t. Not anymore. The socket remains, but the eye itself is clouded over. Foggy. Like ash on glass.

“I can’t see you,” he says, voice so low you barely catch it. “Not completely.”

You reach out gently, brushing your fingers across his good hand—where his palm is blistered, but whole. You wrap your hand around his. Firm. Unflinching.

“You see enough,” you say.

You don’t flinch. You don’t cry harder at the sight. You don’t pull away.

This is still him.

This is your Kento. Little bitch Mahito couldn't take that away from you.

You bring his hand to your lips and kiss the back of it gently, like a promise.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper. “You’re stuck with me, mummy man.”

*-*

One week post-discharge: your apartment smells like a funeral.

Too many flowers.

Too many damn flowers. Vases overflowing, petals drooping. You love them—truly. But there’s only so much chrysanthemum and hospital-grade apology cards a girl can take before it feels like someone’s pre-mourning a man who’s still breathing in the next room.

There’s cake, too. Because.. why not.

Yuji sent a cake.

A full, tiered, cream-frosted monstrosity with, “GLAD YOU DIDN’T DIE LOL 🎉” written in red icing. You didn’t cry when you saw it. You laughed so hard you nearly choked. Nanami just blinked at it and said:

“That’s not an appropriate message for a convalescent.” But he ate a piece. Quietly.

Megumi’s card is a single line:

“Glad you lived. Do you want the dogs?”

You taped it to the fridge.

But of course, Nanami doesn’t let you help. With anything.

Not with dressing. Not with his bandages. Not even with pouring his meds into a little ceramic dish you bought specifically for ease.

You try not to get mad. You do. You try, so fucking hard.

But holy shit is it frustrating when he hobbles across the room like a stubborn old man refusing a cane, and you’re watching with your heart in your throat thinking, you almost died, you idiot. you stupid, brave, beautiful idiot— LET ME LOVE YOU.

But he won’t.

He won’t let you see the burns. He won’t let you peel the gauze. He won’t let you clean the ointment-sticky skin that’s trying to knit itself back together.

You know it’s not about vanity. It’s shame. Or something close to it.

You catch him once—shirt halfway off in the bathroom, spine twisting like a shadow—and he slams the door so fast the wall shakes.

It’s not about you. You know that. But it feels like it is. Sometimes.

*-*

Nanami doesn’t talk much. Which, to be fair, is kind of his brand. But now it’s… quieter than before.

Before, his silences had weight. Purpose. You could hear them settle between his words like punctuation.

Now, it’s like he’s waiting for the sound of burning.

He’ll start a sentence. Then just… stop. Eyes distant. Jaw tight. Like the words got lost in the wreckage.

You learn to read the stillness. The breath pauses. You fill the silence without speaking. You sit beside him. Shoulder to shoulder. Fingers brushing but never locking. You never push.

But God, you want to.

You want to hold him down and scream:

I love you. Let me love you. Let me help you. Let me carry some of this fucking weight before it eats you alive—

But you don’t.

Not until the nurse opens her mouth.

She’s only here for fifteen minutes. Every day. And she’s kind enough, in that stiff, overly-brisk medical way. But today she takes you aside, clipboard tucked under her arm, voice flat like an old school principal.

“You need to start helping him with the back application. That scarring is going to restrict muscle movement if it tightens more. He’s not applying it properly to the left lat—”

You blink.

“I know that,” you snap. “I’ve tried. He won’t let me.”

The nurse arches an eyebrow. “Then make him.”

You stare at her. Blank.

She sighs, already scribbling notes. “He’ll let you, if you push. People don’t want to ask for help, especially after trauma. But if he doesn’t soften the tissue, he’ll never get full mobility back.”

And then she leaves. Like she didn’t just detonate a bomb in the hallway.

*-*

That night, you don’t scream. You don’t yell.

But you’re not quiet, either.

You close the bedroom door behind you and cross your arms, staring at where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shirt off, back hunched like he’s apologizing to no one in particular.

“You need to let me help,” you say. Calm. But not soft.

Nanami doesn’t look up. “I’m handling it.”

“You’re not.”

He exhales. Tired. “I don’t want you to see it.”

You take a step forward. “Kento.”

His head bows. Still not meeting your eyes. “It’s not just… burns. It’s parts of me that don’t move anymore. Skin that doesn’t stretch the way it should. It’s ruined.”

And it hits you.

That’s what he thinks. That he’s ruined. Not recovering. Not healing.

Ruined.

You kneel in front of him. Hands on your thighs. Eyes level.

“I’m not scared of what’s broken,” you whisper. “I’m scared of losing you.”

Nanami’s jaw clenches. You watch his throat bob. He still doesn’t cry.

“I want you to let me help you,” you say again, softer now. “Not because you need me to. But because I need to. I need to do something other than sit here and watch you hate your body for surviving.”

Silence. Long. Cold.

Then: “Tomorrow,” he says.

The next morning, he’s waiting for you.

No shirt. Just the bandages hanging loose across his torso, the left side of his back exposed like some ancient wound.

You don’t react. Not right away. You breathe. You wash your hands- fucking thoroughly because you'd rather eat glass than give him an infection. You walk slowly.

And when you’re standing behind him, in the morning light, all you can think is:

He’s still here.

That’s all that matters.

The burn scars are brutal. Pink and raw in places, hardened and shiny in others. Stretching from the curve of his shoulder down to the top of his waist. The kind of injury you don’t just get over.

He’s so still you can hear his breath catch when you raise your hand.

You don’t flinch.

You just press your fingers gently—so gently—to the edges of a scar line.

Like it’s not something ruined. Like it’s something sacred.

His back shudders.

He doesn’t cry. But his hands tremble. Just a little. Enough.

You press your forehead to his spine, between the burns, whisper-soft:

“You’re not ruined.”

He exhales. A low, fractured sound.

You pick up the ointment. And you start working it in, tenderly. Slowly. As if every inch of him is precious. Because it is.

You don’t speak. He doesn’t stop you.

And when you’re done, he reaches back—quiet—and lets his fingers brush your arm.

“Thank you,” he says.

And you finally let yourself cry. Just a little. Quietly. Into his skin.

*-*

The scars are no longer angry. They’ve softened with time—flattened in places, pink fading to a muted, fibrous sheen. The kind of pain that doesn’t scream anymore, just hums in the background like bad wiring.

It’s been three months. Maybe four. Time’s a blur now. All days taste the same—faintly metallic and a little bit tired.

Nanami is… back. Back on his feet. Back at Jujutsu High. Back in classrooms and faculty meetings, sipping shitty coffee and letting Yuji talk his ear off about absolutely nothing.

Not like back back, not like field-ready or fire-forged, shoulder-to-shoulder with kids too young to be this familiar with death—but he’s back. Present. Upright. In motion. You watch the slow, stubborn crawl of it every day. The small wins. The almosts. The tiny resurrections.

He teaches now. Theory, mostly. Cursed technique structure. Domain strategy. Battle rhythm. Things that don’t require limbs or line of sight or the ability to survive explosion-level impact.

Things that live in that clever, tired mind of his. Things that don’t need fists. Things that don’t bleed.

He wears glasses again. One lens. Just the right side.

You joked once—called him your “budget cyclops.”

He didn’t laugh. But he let you kiss the edge of the frame while you giggled into his jaw.

(He let you. That’s enough.)

Yuji’s a little shit, lovingly so.

He practically flings himself at Nanami every time they pass in the halls—makes a big deal out of it, throws his arms around him like he’s still trying to prove Nanami’s real, that he exists, that he lived. Nanami always sighs, but he never shrugs him off.

Megumi, on the other hand, offers the divine dogs like they’re some kind of furry SWAT team. “I can have them patrol the classroom. Just in case,” he says with his usual grim little shrug, like this isn’t the most heartfelt thing anyone’s ever offered.

And sometimes, on no schedule and with no explanation, you’ll walk into the school and find two shikigami sprawled at the classroom door. Nanami never comments. But he reaches out—always—and runs a hand over their heads.

As if to say: thank you for guarding what’s left of me.

*-*

He’s better about letting you help now.

Every night, you sit him down on the edge of the bed, tug his shirt off over his head, and rub the ointment in slow, concentric circles over his ribs, down the old burn tracks along his back. The ones the nurse once scolded you about.

He always tenses at first. Still. The muscles twitch. Then he exhales—slow. Measured. Lets his shoulders drop.

It’s ritual now. Like prayer. Sacred.

Sometimes he tells you about his day. Sometimes he doesn’t.

You always listen, either way. Because he comes home exhausted. Not from the work.

From the existing.

He walks through the door, drops his bag, and collapses face-down on the couch like someone pulled the last pin out of his spine.

And you—always—follow. Curl next to him, press soft kisses to the knobs of his vertebrae, whisper some nonsense against his ribs like:

“Rough day, professor?” you whisper.

He hums. Doesn’t move.

You kiss again. “Want me to fail your students for you?”

That gets a smile. A small one. But it’s there.

“Only Yuji,” he murmurs, muffled by the pillow.

“Cruel,” you say, resting your cheek on his back. “Hot.”

*-*

But the nights are hardest.

The nights—fuck. The nights are where the ghosts crawl in.

He doesn’t sleep well. Doesn’t even pretend to. You wake up to the sharp jolt of his body curling in, breath short, chest heaving. He never screams. Never thrashes. Just… folds.

You pretend to wake up second.

Even if you were already staring at the ceiling when he bolted up, chest slick with sweat, that blind eye open and useless in the dark.

You find him in the bathroom sometimes. Lights off. Just the pale blue hum of the moonlight against his bare skin.

Staring at the mirror. Still.

Not horrified. Not disgusted.

Just… gone.

Like he’s trying to remember who he used to be. The man before Mahito. Before the train station. Before fire kissed half his body and made him something else entirely.

You walk in quietly, every time. Wrap your arms around his middle. Press your cheek to his spine.

“You’re still the man I love,” you say. Soft. Like prayer.

He never replies. But his hand always finds yours.

You don’t tell him you notice the way he hesitates before putting on a tie now. You don’t mention how long he spends folding his sleeves just so, like the line of the fabric might distract from the burn that crawls up his bicep.

You just meet him by the front door every morning, press a kiss to the side of his jaw, and say, “You look sharp enough to kill.”

He snorts. Tired. “I think I’m retired from that.”

“You’re still lethal,” you say. “Just with PowerPoint now.”

*-*

Sometimes, you catch him—really catch him—looking at you like he’s mourning something.

As if he’s afraid you’re clinging to a ghost. Like he’s not convinced he’s still worth the weight of your love.

It’s not about vanity. It never has been.

Nanami doesn’t care that he’s scarred. That his left eye is clouded over, glassy and dead. He cares that he can’t find himself inside that body anymore.

He mourns. Quietly. Constantly.

The version of himself that stood on train tracks and didn’t flinch. The man who walked into fire and came back half-burned. The one who fought beside his students and thought, I can do this. I am enough.

Now?

He bumps into the coffee table sometimes. Low cabinets. The edge of the desk. Vision off by an inch or two, left side always shadowed. Depth perception a constant game of Russian roulette.

You started calling it his “Roomba moments.” He scowled the first time. But when you gently guided his hand around the corner and whispered, “Beep beep, obstacle detected,” he bit back a smile.

He doesn’t joke about it. But he lets you.

One night, he says it. Voice small. Not broken, but close.

“I’m not who you fell in love with.”

You’re brushing your teeth. You pause mid-spit, blinking foam out of your eyes.

You turn. “What?”

He’s sitting on the edge of the tub. Shirtless. Pants loose. Scars dark in the overhead light. He looks like a man still crawling out of the wreckage.

You set your toothbrush down. Walk to him. Kneel.

You take his face in your hands.

“You’re not,” you whisper. “You’re better.”

He scoffs. Eyes tight. “I’m barely functional.”

“Then I’m in love with a barely functional, emotionally constipated, half-blind hot disaster, and I wouldn’t trade that man for anything. Not even the perfect one I met in the staff room.”

He doesn’t laugh. But his shoulders drop. He looks at you like you’re something miraculous. Like you’re unreal.

You lean forward and kiss the jagged edge of the scar that cuts along his collarbone.

You whisper, “You don’t have to be whole to be mine.”

And this time, he cries.

And then:

“Still the handsomest bastard I’ve ever seen.”

And for a moment—just a moment—he believes you.

Quietly. With his face pressed into your shoulder, hands in your hair, your name on his lips like it’s the only truth he has left.

*-*

Nanami reads again.

Long-form fiction, mostly. Hard-boiled detective stuff with monochrome covers and titles like Death on 5th Avenue or The Man Who Knew Too Much. Stuff with men in hats and cigarettes, lies drawn like loaded pistols.

He reads them quietly, glasses slipping down his nose, mouth sometimes twitching at the drier quips.

“The dame had legs for days, and morals that vanished when the gin ran out.”

You tease him mercilessly. Say shit like, “Oh, you like dames now? Should I start wearing fishnets and lying to you?”

He deadpans: “You already do.”

"False information!!!"

You laugh. He smiles. Quiet, but real.

One time, you slipped a raunchy romance novel into the stack.

Some old mass-market paperback with a half-naked pirate and a woman dramatically fainting on the cover.

You handed it to him with a straight face.

“It’s literature, Kento. Read it.”

He rolled his eyes. Later that night, you caught him reading it in bed, expression stuck somewhere between baffled and deeply morally offended.

“‘Her heaving bosom glistened under the moonlight…’? Is this medically accurate?"

“It’s smut. Not an anatomy textbook.”

“‘His member throbbed like a war drum’—how is this allowed in print?”

“Babe, let the war drum live.”

You laughed so hard you actually wheezed. He looked at you like you were personally responsible for the degradation of the English language. Still? He read the whole damn thing.

Twice. (for research purposes apparently).

Now, on evenings when the world slows down enough to breathe, you curl into him—legs over his lap, your cheek on his thigh, while he reads aloud.

His voice is low. Measured. Like honey poured over cracked glass.

It makes you shiver. Every damn time.

Sometimes, he pauses mid-sentence, brushes his fingers over your shoulder absently. Like touch has become a habit. One he’s still relearning.

Other times, when the air gets quiet enough, when the lamplight hits his face just so—you crawl into his lap, tilt his chin, and kiss him soft.

“Still my favorite sound,” you whisper. “That voice of yours.”

He hums.

Kisses your temple. Keeps reading like his hands aren’t trembling just slightly on the page.

He doesn’t initiate intimacy much anymore. Not like before.

Not because he doesn’t want it. God, he wants it.

But shame is a thick thing. Clings to him like smoke. Like old blood.

He thinks you don’t notice the way he tenses when you undress him. The way he subtly turns his left side away from the light. The way his fingers fumble at his own buttons like they’re made of barbed wire.

You do. Of course, you do.

You notice everything about him.

The way he shaves less now. The way he sighs when he thinks you’re not listening. The way his left hand shakes just enough that he can’t always pour tea without spilling.

The first time you crawl into his lap, straddle him slow, kiss him with full-mouth softness and whisper, “Let me love you…”—he trembles.

He literally fucking shakes.

You pull back, but his hands grip your hips, bruising. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold tight enough.

“Hey,” you murmur, brushing your thumb over the scar on his cheek. “I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to flinch when I touch you.”

He doesn’t cry. Not right away.

But when you unbutton his shirt, when you press your lips reverently to the jagged line down his ribs—the burn that turned his skin to ruin—he exhales something broken.

Your kisses there aren’t sexual. They’re worship.

Mouth soft. Touch softer.

“This,” you whisper. “This part of you is holy to me.”

His head falls back. One tear rolls down.

Just one.

But it’s enough to unravel something that’s been tightly wound for months.

“I thought I lost this,” he breathes. “I thought I lost you.”

You kiss his jaw. The curve of his throat. The trembling line of his collarbone.

“You’ll never lose me,” you say, fierce. “Not unless you ask me to leave. And even then, I’d probably wait outside with takeout and threaten you with emotional manipulation until you let me back in.”

A wet laugh escapes him. Sharp. Choked.

You lean back just enough to cup his face. The side he tries to hide. The eye that’s fogged over and useless now. The cheek split once, now healed into scar.

“Look at me,” you whisper.

And when he finally does?

You smile.

“You are so fucking beautiful. You know that?”

He doesn’t believe you. Not fully.

But he wants to. And that’s enough—for now.

*-*

He still wears the cracked watch.

The one that got half-melted in the explosion. The glass shattered, hands frozen.

You found it once in the drawer, nestled beside a box of old cufflinks and painkillers. Asked gently:

“Why keep it?”

He didn’t look at you when he answered.

“It’s a reminder.”

“Of what?”

A pause. Then:

“That I lived. Somehow. And that I should make the time worth it.”

You kissed his knuckles. Didn’t say anything else. Just held his hand, silently promising to help him remember that every day he wakes up is already enough.

*-*

He still doesn’t think he’s sexy.

Not with the way his muscles pull wrong now. Not with the ghost tremor in his left arm. Not with the burns that ripple across his hip like melted wax.

Sex, to him, is something that belonged to another life.

One where he was whole. Strong. Desirable.

You’re trying to show him that this life—this version of him—is still worthy of desire. Want. Love.

One night, you curl against him in bed, thigh hooked over his hip, and start tracing slow circles over his scarred chest.

You kiss the edge of his sternum. The dip of his ribs. The ruined flesh around his side.

“You’re the sexiest man I’ve ever seen,” you murmur. “I’d climb you like a tree if your back could take it.”

He snorts.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re hot. Let me win this one.”

“You already win everything. You’re—” He falters. “…You’re everything.”

You pause. Heart aching in your ribs like it wants to break free.

“You still don’t see it, huh?”

“See what?”

“That I want you. All of you. The broken parts, the bruised parts, the burned ones too. You’re not half a man to me. You’re my whole fucking world.”

His breath catches.

Your hands slide lower. Slow. Gentle. Worship, not greed.

“Let me show you,” you whisper. “Let me remind you what being wanted feels like.”

He doesn’t answer with words. Just pulls you close and kisses you like he’s starving.

*-*

You’re feral for him.

There’s no poetic way to say it. It’s been six months since the incident. Six months since you almost lost him. Six months since he came home wrapped in gauze and silence. And now?

Now he's healing. Scarred, sure. Changed, yes. But alive.

And he’s started going back to the gym again, moving like he trusts his body again. The muscle is coming back slow and thick and solid. And god, it's doing things to you.

He's got this post-war, broad-shouldered, thick-thighed, arms-like-safehouses kind of body. Less soldier, more protector. Bit of softness around the middle.

Dad-bod deluxe.

And your brain? Gone. Melted. Dripping out of your ears every time he walks past shirtless, rubbing a towel over his hair like he's not a fucking walking miracle.

You nibble him. A lot.

The first time was casual. A joke. You were curled up next to him, half on his lap, pressing kisses along his collarbone.

"Mmh," you murmured, lips dragging to his pec, and then—chomp.

Gentle. Teasing. Just enough to feel the heat of him under your teeth.

He blinked at you, stunned. "Did you just bite me?"

You grinned. Feral. "Sure did."

He stared at you like he couldn't decide whether to be scandalized or aroused. You hoped for both.

You started doing it more.

Over breakfast, you’d kiss the back of his neck and give the tiniest nip. After a shower, while he’s shirtless and still damp, you’d sink your teeth softly into the slope of his shoulder. You called them lovebites. He called them a "menace to public decency."

But he never stops you.

*-*

He never used to be vocal. Not during sex. Not even much during intimacy.

Pre-Shibuya Nanami was still. Focused. Always in control. The kind of man who held tension in his back, who kissed you like a promise, who loved you with his body but not often with his voice. And you understood. He was all structure, all integrity. Still waters.

But after Shibuya—

After death came and nearly stole him—

Something cracked.

He holds you now like he’s starving.

Like you might vanish.

Like you’re air in his lungs and blood in his veins and if he doesn’t touch you, he might forget what being alive feels like.

He makes love like a man begging the universe to let him stay.

It’s slow. Deep. Reverent.

He keeps his hand on your face when he’s inside you. His mouth on yours. Whispers your name like it means salvation.

One night, it’s soft. Just you in one of his old button-ups, straddling him in the living room. Soft lamp glow. Rain against the window. He’s shirtless, pants barely pushed down to his thighs, the tension in his shoulders betraying just how wrecked he feels about being desired like this.

You drag your fingers over his stomach, the healed skin, the softness. He tries to hide his face again, and again you speak up:

"Don’t," you whisper. "Don’t look away."

He freezes. You lean in, kiss the scar near his temple.

"I want to see you. All of you."

His voice is hoarse. "I don’t know how you still want me."

"Then let me remind you."

You roll your hips slow. He gasps. His hands clamp to your waist like you’re the only real thing left. And fuck does the stretch sting, just like before, his cock reaching your soft and sensitive cervix- he groans, hips bucking.

You ride him slow. Tender. Every hip movement is a love letter. Every breath a prayer.

When he finally comes, he sobs. Just one broken sound as he buries his face in your neck.

"Thank you," he whispers. Over and over, like a chant. "Thank you. Thank you."

After, he wraps around you like armor. You’re curled together on the couch, limbs tangled, his chest to your back. His hand splays warm and wide over your belly.

You tease him, gentle: "You’re getting soft."

"You’re insatiable," he murmurs. Kisses the curve of your shoulder. "You’re going to kill me."

"Better me than another curse."

He huffs a laugh. Squeezes you closer.

And when you reach back, fingers lacing with his, you whisper:

"You’re still him, you know. Still the man I fell for. I’d bite you when you’re 90."

He kisses your hair. Breathes you in.

He doesn't say it, but you feel it in the way he presses closer.

You brought him back.

And he’ll spend every day trying to be worthy of that.

A/N: cough cough idk if this is worthy, but i hope it was enjoyable for yall.

Masterlist

:)