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glambyk · 10 days ago

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THE TIES THAT BIND ─ chapter 1

nanami x reader - arranged marriage, enemies to lovers au

you didn't choose to marry nanami kento. the marriage was arranged, the love absent, and your heart still clung onto another man who was everything your husband wasn’t - wild, untethered, and free. you thought it would be the end of you. instead, it’s where everything begins. ─ love doesn’t happen all at once, but nanami is nothing if not patient.

content: arranged marriage, reader is a sorcerer, enemies to lovers but it's entirely one sided, nanami is the epitome of quiet devotion that never asks for anything in return, truly a good man, tw: archaic marriage practices, period-typical sexism, lots of sexual tension, references to reader's past lover, past heartbreak and healing, explicit content, non-explicit mentions of violence and suicidal ideation, past domestic abuse, loss of virginity, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, inexperienced reader, MDNI (word count: 5.2k) read on ao3 here!

a/n: my last nanami fic me realise just how many people want to see this man hopelessly yearning, so here it is again, but in a slightly different flavour this time. i kind of put half my soul into this, so i hope you'll like it and follow along for the ride <3 this is essentially a love letter written in appreciation of some of nanami's best traits: his steadiness, his devotion, and his enduring dedication (to you).

main masterlist | series masterlist | chapter 2 (links tba)

chapter tw: vague allusions to SA that could have happened, but did not

(Your life ends when you meet Nanami Kento.)

The first night of your marriage feels nothing like a beginning and everything like an execution.

You sit quietly on the edge of the bed, the silk robe clinging to bare skin, thin as breath. Red rose petals are scattered all around your supposed marital bed, like dark crimson stains mocking you of what's to come. The lace set you’re wearing is sheer and flimsy and just like this marriage, it’s one you didn’t choose. You might as well be naked.

Your fingers twitch in your lap as you listen to the soft click of the door behind him as he enters.

“You’re younger than I expected,” you say flatly, not looking up. Your mother says you should consider yourself lucky. She says he’s handsome, young, and a first grade sorcerer at that. You should be thanking the Gods.

“So are you,” he replies. His voice is low and monotonous, each word clipped with the precision of someone who doesn’t waste breath on the unnecessary. You’re supposed to share a room, a marital bed – your whole life – with a stranger, and the sharpness of his tone is a biting enough reminder of that.

(“That boy you hung out with, the one you liked so much? He couldn’t possibly compare,” she’d said. He’s a window, as they call it. As powerless as they come.)

It’s the first real exchange between you, though you’d stood side by side earlier this morning. A ceremony lined with cold tradition and stifling silk. You hadn’t spoken – not during the tea offering, not during the bows. Not even when the gold band was slipped onto your finger like a shackle.

You don’t even know what his hands feel like.

But here he is. Nanami Kento. Your new husband.

“How are we doing this?” you ask quietly, staring at the ground. How do you want me? Tell me what I must do. You’re a man I’ve only met twice, but I’m supposed to share this bed with you for the rest of our lives. You promised yourself you wouldn’t cry – not in front of him, and certainty not tonight. Still, you can’t summon the courage needed to dispel the shakiness laced in your voice.

“I’m not here to take anything,” he says carefully. His voice gets louder as he walks closer to you, footsteps tentative. “We don’t have to do this.”

Your chest tightens. Of course he’d say that only now, when it was too late to change anything. Of course he’d make it harder.

You rise to your feet. Close the distance between you, just short of touching. The moonlight filters in through the windows and bathes you in a bluish glow, a sombre hue to match the look on your face. The robe falls open loosely – the sheer fabric underneath doing little to hide you. It clings to the curve of your body in the faint light, outlining skin no man has ever seen, but his eyes never leave your face. Not even once. It’s now that you finally allow yourself a good look at his face. Your new husband is dull and stoic, the sharp lines of his facial features almost cutting in the low light. He simply looks at you with an unwavering gaze and a mouth that doesn’t betray what he’s thinking.

Up close, he feels more like an inevitable ending rather than a person. A stranger bound to you by law, tradition, and circumstance. He is the shackle, the cage, the lock without a key. You are his, not because he won your heart, not because you had any choice in the matter at all, but because he was given the right to claim you.

“I’m your wife,” you say bitterly. That title leaves your lips like it’s a curse. Your only sin was being born a woman. And a sorcerer, no less. “Isn’t this what people expect?”

“I don’t care about what people expect,” he’s pulling your robe shut around you and tying the knot before you can react. ‘You don’t owe me anything.”

His fingers skim against the skin of your waist as he does so, but his gaze never travels downwards. There’s nothing lecherous in his stare, nothing demanding. He hasn’t looked at your body once.

(You think of him. His hands were rough, his hair wild; and when he laughed it was free and unrestrained. You’ll remember him with the wind in his face, his brown hair golden under the sun, dirt scuffed into his shoes. He’s chaos and motion, untamed and untethered. Nothing like your husband – serious and straight-faced – you think he’s never known how to have fun like Hayate does.

“You’re always chasing after me!” Hayate teased, looking back at you with a boyish grin that made your heart stumble. The tall grass rippled around him as he ran fast and barefoot.

“That’s because I like you!” you shouted back, chasing after him, breathless with the effort. That just made him laugh harder. “Wait for me!”

“Slowpoke,” he jested, sticking his tongue out at you in an especially childish manner. “You’ll never catch up.”

That part was true.)

You swallow, squeezing your eyes shut. “They’ll want proof. Just do what you have to do.”

“There are ways to fake that,” he says plainly.

You eyes open, uncomprehending for a moment. And then, when you see the sincere look on his face, something in you unravels in relief – the part that was braced for violation tonight. For the inevitable. For sheets to be stained red, for skin to bruise, for him to take. It loosens in a rush of dizzy relief.

There are worse men to be married off to, and you know that. Your mother was right. If you’d been betrothed to that Zenin brute, your robe would be in shreds right now. He’d surely take what he wants from you – he’d push you down on the bed and not away like Nanami does. You wouldn’t have the option to stand here, still clothed, breathing without the weight of someone crushing the air out of you.

But Nanami Kento is kind. He does not seem to want to touch you. He does not push. And somehow?

You resent him even more for it. You’re here, standing in front of the inevitable, his hazel eyes boring into you. No amount of mercy will change that.

You turn away before the burn behind your eyes spill over. “I don’t want your pity,” you manage, low and sharp.

“This isn’t pity,” he says simply. “Get some sleep. You can have the bed.”

He’s already walking off towards the bathroom like this isn’t supposed to be his wedding night. He doesn’t act like it, but he’s entitled to something in the eyes of others. Entitled to you. How can he be so casual about this? Act so normal?

You look around the room. There isn’t a couch, nowhere else for him to rest but the bed that’s been deliberately prepared for the two of you.

He sleeps on the floor that night.

The next morning, Nanami Kento pricks his thumb with a needle. Quietly, and without fanfare. You’ve been up all night, tangled in restless thoughts of wild hair and honeyed eyes, fighting back tears you refuse to shed in front of him. So you stir immediately when he approaches the bed, a drop of blood already trickling down his finger.

He saves you from a humiliating tradition with a soft press of his thumb on the white cotton sheets. You watch quietly as he drags his finger down to leave a smudge of crimson; blood that should have been yours.

“There,” he wipes his thumb on a scrap of tissue. “None the wiser.”

You don’t say anything. You wish you’d been born a man instead, then you could easily spill a drop of blood from your thumb and treat it as mercy. You want him gone.

Nanami collects the sheets in his hands, puts fresh ones on the bed, and simply tells you that you can have this bedroom to yourself.

“I’ll sleep in the guest bedroom going forward,” he says gently, then, he leaves the room without saying another word, the stained sheets in hand.

You have to try really hard not to curse at him as he disappears out the door. Why does his gentleness feel like a weapon?

It gets quiet when he leaves, and you finally allow yourself to cry. You weep for Hayate, for yourself, and the life you’d dared to dream you’ll have despite knowing otherwise, past the point of caring if Nanami overhears your sobbing from outside.

It’s bitterness that floods you. Bitter like the green tea you drank during the marriage ceremony, bitter like the past twenty years of your life so far, made sweeter only by one boy with wild hair and wilder eyes.

(“Hey, Hayate,” you say his name softly, head resting on his shoulder. The two of you lie beneath the wide canopy of the old oak tree by the river, watching the sun come down. The cicadas hum lazily in the summer heat, the sky melting into orange and rose as it slips beyond the horizon. It's time for you to go home; they’ll be looking for you soon. Your mother hates when you hang out with him.

But you just have one question for him before you go.

“What do you think about marriage?”

You already know the answer, but you thought you’d ask again.

Just in case he’d changed his mind.

He pulls a face instantly. His nose scrunches up, and he exhales the word like it’s bitter on his tongue. “Not for me. Thought I told you,” he bumps your shoulder affectionately. “Traps and stupid paperwork.”

Even if it’s with me?

“I see,” you say quietly. The same answer as last time. And the time before that. Hayate doesn’t change his mind; it’s what you both love and hate about him.

He reaches over to take your hand. Warm and rough and a little wet from splashing in the water earlier. “We have something more real, don’t we?”

You perk up a little when you hear that. It’s not quite a promise, not quite the words you want to hear most, but it’s still something precious. It’ll just have to be enough.

“Yeah,” you reply, staring down at where your hands are touching; your feet muddy and bare, bumping into each other in the grass.

You’ll ask him about this again, maybe at a better time.

For now, you’ll just take what he can give.)

An hour later, you crack open the bedroom door and peer outside. Your eyes are swollen from your earlier meltdown, and to your relief, your new husband is nowhere in sight to witness more of your misery.

But there it is – a plate of food left just outside your door. Miso soup, a piece of grilled salmon, and a bowl of steaming white rice. Arranged neatly on a lacquered tray.

You stare at it for a beat too long. The urge to flip it over is immense, but Nanami Kento has not deserved such a level of ire. If it’d been your blood on those sheets, then maybe.

Without a word, you shut the door.

It’s been two months. 67 days, to be exact.

The first month, you cry until your throat is raw and your eyes burn. You confine yourself within the four corners of your room, pressing your face into the thin pillow so it muffles the sound of your despair, curling in on yourself like it might help you disappear.

With every miserable, hollowed night that passes, the hope that anyone will come to save you is snuffed out completely – even Hayate isn't there, hiding behind the stone walls of your house, a mischievous grin and an outstretched hand, waiting to sneak you away like he used to when you were kids.

No one is coming for you.

Especially not Hayate.

Loneliness carves a permanent home in your bones and bitterness settles in your chest like a heavy stone. You wonder why you ever clung onto Hayate so much – perhaps you admired the freedom he seemed to embody so effortlessly, perhaps you were jealous of it.

Perhaps you thought that by being close enough to the sky, you too, could fly free as a bird, losing yourself to the vast blueness you were always destined to admire only from the ground.

Maybe you believed that he could really have saved you. That if you just kept reaching for him, he would sweep you up – the gust of wind that he was – and carry you far away from every shackle, every anchor hellbent on dragging you down until you drowned.

The second month is quieter.

You stop crying, not because the ache lessens, but because even grief has its limits. Your tears dry out, your throat stops burning, and the bitterness that fills the empty space where hope had died out settles into your bones so deeply it no longer feels raw or foreign. That's how the quiet rebellion begins.

You don’t kick up a fuss, you don’t break plates or slam doors, but you stop eating. This is protest in the only form you know how. You may be a girl who grew up in an empty house where laughter never echoed through the hallways, expected to be quieter than the shadows themselves, but you’ll never play the role of a soft-spoken wife they want you to be, with her hands folded demurely at her front and her eyes cast low.

Your husband will never be your master; he will never own you.

You rarely leave your room. You don’t look him in the eye. You move like a ghost through your own house – drifting from bed to bath to bed again. Occasionally creeping out at night to watch the starless sky. No one ever visits. No one says anything. Why would they? They married you off to erase you, to forget about the shame your existence brings.

But three times a day without fail, you find a red lacquered tray in front of your door. Miso soup and salmon at times, pancakes and syrup at others, soft-boiled eggs with steamed greens, fresh fruit carved into delicate slices. You only eat one meal a day, just enough so you don’t wither away.

Still, the trays keep coming.

You never hear him set it down. Never catch him in the act. But you know it has to be him, instead of one of the servants in the house. The dishes had started off looking a little rough at the edges, the salmon burnt, the rice wet and runny. They were shaped by clumsy, hesitant hands; evident in the overcooked meat, the eggs with a piece of shell stuck in them.

Then, against your will, you noticed that they slowly started getting better.

The rice firmed up. The miso soup made with just the right amount of dashi and fresh cut tofu and scallions. Nanami Kento was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, raised with soft linens, pressed collars, and servants at his beck and call. The same life all your siblings lived, with the exception of you, the bastard child. So it’s clear to you these meals aren’t the work of the servants.

You start to think it would have been easier if he’d just taken you the first night. If he’d just proven your brother right when he said that all men were the same. Easily seduced. Easily predictable.

You would be able to openly hate him then, cleanly and without guilt, and without this quiet resentment that festers in the pit of your stomach with nowhere else to go. You want to break plates and slam doors.

Instead, he looked at you with unreadable eyes and said “you don’t owe me anything”.

He’d let you have the bed, whilst he used his arm as a pillow and slept on the cold hardwood floor. He’d lent his own blood and spared yours. He prepares meals for you every day even though it goes cold and untouched. He let you have the bedroom you were supposed to share, quietly retreating to the guest one.

That’s the truth, isn’t it? You resent how kind he was. How patient he’s been. He never argued, never did anything to make you feel justified in hating him. You didn’t want someone like Nanami Kento.

But most of all, you resent how Nanami never fought the marriage, how he’d sat there like a stone statue through it all, whilst you stood beside him with glassy eyes trying to find one scrap of anger or resistance in his amber ones, some sort of shared misery you could cling onto.

The day you were informed about the arrangement, you’d clawed and resisted and screamed till your throat was raw, refusing to go down without a fight. You’d hoped to find some kind of solidarity in Nanami – hoped he’d hate it too, that he’d push back just as you had. That in his eyes you'd somehow find a shred of resistance that mirrored yours, at least some level of accord that might ease your suffocating sense of isolation.

One word from him would probably have been worth more than a lifetime of yours, and it sure as hell would have gone further than your own fruitless efforts. But he’d simply said yes, stoic and composed as he read his vows, silent as he slipped the ring on your finger.

It cost him nothing, because he’s a man.

He’s a man who will never understand what it is like to be a woman, a bastard child raised behind closed doors like a dirty secret and married off the moment you came of age, moulded into their definition of an ideal wife your whole life. His life would remain the same, he was free to seek comfort in other women, free to work as a sorcerer, free to move and say as he pleases.

You had known freedom once – it was brief as it was sweet – on the field as a sorcerer with energy crackling and bubbling in your hands, and lazy afternoons by the river with Hayate by your side, unshackled and so, so free.

Maybe that’s why you decide to go to Nanami again. Not out of desire. But because you want him to fail you. You want him to prove you right. You want him to be the kind of man you can hate. Openly and cleanly.

So one night, you shower and slip on that same robe from the night of your wedding. You’d fished it out from the depths of your closet, then put it on with nothing else underneath. It smells like old cedar and a hint of laundry power, cool and silky on your skin.

You find Nanami in his room – he’s seated on the low futon bed, back resting against the wooden headboard, a book in one hand. The room is dimly lit, two shoji lanterns in each corner casting warm pools of light across the floor.

He looks up as the door slides open with a creak, startled for a second before his eyes land on you – bare legs, that same white silk robe from your wedding night, and a grimace you’re trying to conceal with a defiant look on your face.

“What are you doing?” he asks as he straightens up, voice low and cautious. “I told you, you owe me nothing.”

“It’s been long enough,” you reply, jaw set tight.

“This isn’t about time.” He frowns, closing his book and setting it aside, rubbing his temples like you’re a child giving him trouble.

You swallow, standing your ground despite the tremor in your voice. “I want to.”

“No, you don’t,” he mutters, almost wearily. “That’s enough. I expect nothing from you. Just get some sleep.” It’s almost dismissive, the way he says it, like he’s waving you off with a flick of his wrist. Your eyes narrow.

You shake your head, defiant. “I want this,” you lie.

This is your first time in his bedroom since getting married almost two months ago. The air feels heavy, too quiet, and you move through it like thick fog as you step closer to him. You see the faint crease of his brow as he watches you, but he doesn't move – not even when you reach for the sash of your robe.

Slowly, deliberately, you pull the knot loose, watching his face for his reaction. The sound of fabric slipping against itself seems louder than it should be. Your part the robe, inch by inch, baring skin in the cold air. No man has ever seen you like this, skin bare and unhidden, and still you hold his gaze as if daring him to call your bluff.

The fabric slips off your shoulders, just enough to reveal the angular lines of your collarbones, the soft dip between your breasts. “I want this,” you repeat, softer now, but no less insistent.

You take another step forward, and the robe slips lower.

Nanami’s eyes flicker, briefly, down your body before returning to your face. “You’re the most stubborn woman I’ve met.” A quiet breath of exasperation leaves him and he swallows, jaw clenching.

You almost smile, thinking you’ve proved your brother right – he really is just a man. Easily tempted, after all. But then he continues, voice flatter now. “You don’t want this. You want me to take from you, so you have permission to hate.”

Ah. You frown, irritated. Of course he sees right through you. You didn’t come here to offer yourself to him, belly up and vulnerable. You came here for a fight, the same one you had been denied on the day you were informed of your betrothal to him. To push his limits until he lashes out, so you have a reason to get your claws out.

“Oh yeah?” you sneer. “And you’ve met many women, husband?"

The men in your family would have slapped you across your face if you dared speak to them like this. Your father has, for much less, and you don’t doubt that had you married that bastard Zenin like he wanted, you would find your cheek burning before the words even left your mouth. But Nanami doesn’t take the bait. Just shakes his head and glances away.

When he doesn’t respond, you press further. “You don’t want me because you’ve already sought comfort in other women.”

And he would be justified in doing so, you know that full well. A loveless marriage with a wife like you would drive any man elsewhere. God knows men with loving wives have done the same, if not worse. You wouldn’t blame him, and you don’t even care. All the better for you, in fact. But his reply takes you aback.

“What kind of man do you think I am?” His jaw tenses, but he doesn’t raise his voice at your accusation. “I made a vow to you, didn’t I?” he says evenly.

You cross your arms over your chest, scoffing. “You didn’t even want this. Those vows mean nothing.”

A pause.

Then, comes a maddeningly simple response. “I said yes.”

You roll your eyes. This man is infuriating. “That’s not what I said.”

“…No one forced me,” Nanami answers. “And I’ve never said yes to something I didn’t mean.”

“I see,” you breathe. “This is pity, isn’t it? Poor girl, married off against her will, sulking in her room. Think you can be the knight in shining armour?”

“I don’t pity you,” he says, in that same endlessly patient tone. “I respect you.”

He’s not giving you the fight you want. Not even close. You laugh, sharp and mean. “Don’t insult me.”

“I’m not,” Nanami says pointedly, but still calm as ever. “You’re angry. You’re grieving. And I won’t touch you just to prove a point." His eyes flit down to where your arms are still crossed over your chest, "you think I don't see your hands shaking?"

You swallow hard and look away. Instinctively, you glance down and grip the fabric tight in your fists, as if it could still the trembling he's called out so plainly.

"Look," Nanami sighs as he stands now, rising slowly from the bed like he’s trying not to startle you. "I do not wish to see you miserable."

And just like he did on the first night – he reaches for your robe. His fingers brush against your skin as he does so, gathering the fabric gently in the centre and tying the sash. Your breath hitches when his knuckles graze the hollow of your stomach, and you shudder despite yourself.

“Well,” you bite, heat rising sharp and hot in your cheeks. “I am.”

“I’m not your enemy,” he continues quietly, eyes softening as they rake over the hardened look in your features. “I know you don't believe that… but I'm on your side. I'm doing what I can to prove that to you."

Your gaze flickers down to where his fingers still linger on the belt of your robe, and he looks down too, silent for a moment before slowly dropping his hands. The two ends of your belt fall like wings being cut, fluttering softly down to your sides.

"And… at the very least… I hope for us to be friends," he finishes.

Jaw tensed and tight, you look away. “You don’t even want me.”

You don’t know why you said it. You don’t want him either. You want none of this. Want nothing to do with him.

There’s a long pause. With only the sound of both of your breathing filling the empty space in the room. Then, Nanami’s gaze meets yours, and you can't comprehend why there’s something tender, something sad, hidden in his warm brown eyes. It disarms you for a moment, and the scowl you’d been clinging onto melts away like ice under the sun.

“Of course I do,” Nanami murmurs. Like it’s the most obvious truth. “But not like this.”

Your breath catches.

For a moment, you almost laugh. Because this… This is absurd. Nanami doesn’t know you, he only knows the sorrowful, angry woman that you’ve become in the last few months, with her jaw clenched tight enough to ache, her eyes red and raw from crying.

And he can’t possibly want you; not even the man who said he loved you did. Certainly not in a marriage like this, not after weeks of silence, of meals outside your door going ignored, of him never once even looking at you like a husband should.

You’ve never looked at him like a wife should.

Eyes wide, you back away from him, like a cornered animal would. “You’re lying,” you say shakily, defensively. “Stop that."

Before he can get another word in, you turn around to leave, sharp and quick, before he can see the raw confusion twisting inside of you, or perhaps see through the way your heart thuds hard against your ribs. You rush out of the door, not sparing him another glance, and your footsteps echo throughout the quiet hallway as you hastily make your way to your room.

When you reach, you slam the door shut behind you, immediately pressing your back against the wood like it might keep him out – not that Nanami would ever follow you here. You've learnt that about him by now; he simply doesn't push.

Pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes, you recall his words.

"I'm on your side."

"Of course I do. But not like this."

The words refuse to leave you. They circle in your chest, the same way you've started to pace around the room now, back and forth, and it alarms you how sincere they sounded like coming out of his mouth; as if they belonged to someone who really meant them. Someone who didn't want to hurt you.

All you can see is him; the way he stood there, hands gentle where every other man's would have been demanding, his voice quiet when it could have been sharp.

As a bastard child of an affair that was never spoken of but never forgotten, you grew up in a small, isolated compound away from the sprawling estate that belonged to your father, the clan head. You saw the man only in passing, and his steely gaze would slide over you like you were worth nothing.

You would often wonder, as a young child, why you were never allowed to eat with the rest of your siblings, the way they gathered at the large dining hall every night whilst the clinking of your chopsticks would almost seem to echo in the quiet between you and your mother as you ate opposite each other, eating on a small wooden table in silence.

And yet, you and your mother were allowed to stay. Expected to live quietly with your heads down, like shadows in the night. Spared some pity solely for the fact that one day, when you came of age, you would be useful. As a bargaining chip to be traded, swiftly married off for political gain, so your father could finally be rid of the shame that your very existence carved into the clan’s name.

You’ve seen your whole life that men only take. They take, they demand, they dictate – and women like you, like your mother, and all the women before her? They endure. Stuck in loveless marriages, as second or third wives, or as clandestine meetings confined to the night, slipping in and out of the rooms of men who could never love them in the daylight.

Nanami Kento keeps proving that he isn’t that kind of man. Why has he not taken, even when you have offered yourself up to him, for the second time now? Completely bare, hands shaking and cold as ice when you pulled your robe open in front of him.

If he had decided he wanted you there and then, you wouldn’t have put up a fight. You laid out a carefully planned trap in front of him, hoping that he'll grab you, claim you, ruin you, so you can say there, see? You're just like the rest.

But he hasn’t demanded. If anything, he has only made space for your anger, even though your rage could raze entire buildings to the ground. And he has not dictated. Never once.

You lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. His words repeat in your mind, over and over again. He said he wanted to be friends. His voice soft, careful, unassuming as he regarded you. Eyes that conveyed only a certain kind of hope, but not an expectation.

Friends. That word goes against every single bitter instinct you've built to protect yourself, strange and foreign in a way that makes your chest ache.

But the thought has already begun taking root in your head:

If Nanami isn't anything like the kind of men you've known, not cruel nor cold, but patient and steady, then what does that make him?

And if you find some small, treacherous part of yourself wanting to believe him, wanting to see if he can keep proving you wrong, where does that leave you?

a/n: not gonna lie, i feel really anxious posting this as a series and not a one shot. i tried thinking of ways to make the story shorter, but ultimately i decided to go with what i felt was best, since i really want to do justice to the plot. i hope you’ll follow along to witness their love grow! my inbox is open and i would love to hear your thoughts <3 nanami is truly such a good man i wish he was real because writing him this way is tugging at my poor heartstrings T^T

comments and reblogs are appreciated ^_^ u will get…. a kiss? is that enough….

comment to be added to the taglist // open: @amayaaaxx @friedchicken-tendou @ali-n-wndrlnd55 @eu1a @stuckwith-scarylove @megumuro @ilbsk @twinkletfout @procastinatingbitch @doeionic @tharunnihaa @loverboykirstein @inzayneforaj @nosleepinsomniaking @junuru @felixmr @missbakasauraus @kvntonq @miss-me-and-more @coolgirl6996 @sylviavf @entr4p3 @prome911 @littlemissfiore @dreamy-manhattan @kamuihz @juliarchiv3s @mrsimpurity @nanamin-chan @nina-from-317 @reynnisblog @thecrazyfangirlthings @yourlocalcatscammer @chiiiilittle @moonlitreveri3 @casssiesthings @goddexxluv @tetchurou @icansmellurnappypussy @newnewmememe

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