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mrhaitch · 1 month ago

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Writers cock- I MEAN BLOCK

A/N: im suffering of writers block. heres a fic of nanami (inspired by one of my dear moots)

warnings: smut, ridiculous shit, i don't even know anymore. i can't write, im losing braincells by the second

The cursor blinks.

The screen is taunting you. Flashing like a goddamn middle finger on white space, open doc glowing like it knows you're floundering. No—worse. It’s mocking you. Evil little bastard. You've been stuck on the same paragraph for hours.

Well, okay. Not stuck. That’d imply you wrote something.

But you didn’t. You haven’t. You literally fucking can’t.

And it's not just any scene. No. Of course not. It couldn’t be like… a rainy dialogue scene, or a tender flashback, or a filler chapter. Not even a fight scene. No, it has to be that scene.

The smut scene. The climax, if you will. The penultimate, long-awaited, pants-dropping culmination of twenty chapters’ worth of tension. And you’ve got nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

You’re standing in the middle of your living room like a gremlin about to spontaneously combust, barefoot, in one of Nanami's old dress shirts, hair a fucking mess, coffee mug abandoned on the floor because you got distracted when you thought of a single sentence and then immediately hated it. You're pacing. Your laptop is open on the coffee table. The TV is playing something you forgot to pause.

And the cursor keeps blinking.

Blinking.

Blinking—

You groan. “Fuck.”

(Which is ironice because that's the one thing you can't write).

You drag your hands down your face, down your neck, press your fingers to the back of it like the pressure will make your brain work harder. It doesn’t.

Your characters are right there. You can see them. They're in a bed, or against a wall, or maybe on a balcony—whatever. It doesn’t matter. They want to fuck. You want them to fuck. You just… can’t get there.

And the worst part? The truly infuriating part?

You used to be good at this. But now? Now every time you try to write something even remotely hot, your brain short-circuits like a nun in a strip club. It’s all mechanics and no spark, all “he touches her waist” and “his lips meet hers” and what the fuck am I writing, a 2008 Wattpad vampire fic?

You want it to be gritty. Visceral. A little gross. That kind of sweat-slick, breathless, mind-melting need that feels so real it leaves your skin warm while you type it. The kind of scene you reread ten times because the filth lives in the details and you fucking nailed it.

Except you’re not nailing anything. Especially not your boyfriend.

Your face burns.

That’s part of the problem too. It’s been—what? Two weeks? Maybe more? And not for lack of trying. You’re just so fucking tired. You’ve been writing until 2 a.m. every night, drinking too much coffee, skipping dinner, ignoring your vibrator like it owes you something. And Kento’s been patient. So fucking patient. But you’re feeling the distance. And it’s crawling into your writing like rot.

You groan again. Loudly. Dramatically. The neighbors are probably worried.

“I swear to God if I don’t figure this out I’m going to go outside and let a car hit me.”

And that’s when the door clicks.

Your back goes straight. Your eyes go wide. You freeze like a raccoon caught stealing trash.

“…I’m home,” comes the low, familiar voice of your boyfriend.

Kento Nanami stands in the doorway, tired in the shoulders and sharp in the jaw, a briefcase in one hand and a paper bag from the konbini in the other. His tie is loosened, his hair’s a little wind-tousled, and the second his eyes land on you—wild-eyed, pacing, braless in one of his old button-ups with absolutely no pants on—his brow creases in that soft, concerned way he does when he’s already halfway into husband mode.

“What happened?” he asks immediately.

You throw your arms up. “My brain has betrayed me.”

He sighs. Closes the door. Sets down the bag and the briefcase. You’re already ranting before he even gets his shoes off.

“I can’t do it,” you blurt, breathless. “I’ve tried everything—music, candle, rereading horny fanfiction, even pulled out my annotated smut folder—nothing is working. I’m this close to just writing ‘and then they fucked’ and calling it a day. Do you know how many people are waiting for this book? They’re going to eat me alive. They’ve waited for twenty chapters. Twenty chapters of slow burn. I can’t blue ball them. It’s unethical.”

Nanami blinks once. He’s still by the doorway. Still wearing his coat.

“…You’re talking about your book.”

“What else would I be talking about, Kento?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his eyes sweep over you, slowly, like he’s assessing something under a microscope. The shirt you’re in is unbuttoned too low. Your cheeks are flushed. Your pupils are blown. And you’re pacing like a sex-deprived ghost in an empty Victorian manor.

His voice is patient. “Have you eaten?”

You scoff. “I had coffee.”

He sighs. Again.

You’re back to pacing.

“I just—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I used to be able to write this kind of thing in my sleep. I love writing smut. It’s fun. It’s cathartic. It gets people off, Kento. Off. And now I can’t even get through a paragraph without feeling like I’m writing bad porn with a thesaurus. I tried writing ‘he thrusts his cock’ and almost burst into tears. Thrusts, Kento. Thrusts. I should be jailed.”

He moves through the apartment like a shadow, quiet but grounded. Doesn’t interrupt. Just walks toward the kitchen, rolls his sleeves up as he listens to you lose your mind.

“You wanna know the last thing I wrote before I spiraled?” you continue, arms flailing like a madwoman, “It was ‘she whimpered into his kiss.’ Whimpered, Kento. What am I, writing for Harlequin?? It’s off-brand. It’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassing. I’m a fraud. You should break up with me before my career tanks and we have to sell your ties on Depop—”

You freeze mid-step.

There’s the soft, comforting sound of the kettle turning on.

Tea. He’s making you tea.

You stare.

“Did you…?” you blink. “Are you making me chamomile right now?”

His voice is calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that borders on deadpan but still warmer than any voice has a right to be.

“You’re spiraling,” he says. “Tea usually helps.”

You want to cry. Or kiss him. Or both. Maybe kiss him while crying. That feels thematically appropriate.

Instead, you flop face-first onto the couch.

“This is humiliating.”

You hear the sounds of mugs. The little metal clink of honey being stirred.

“It’s not,” he says. “You’re passionate. It matters to you.”

You roll onto your side. Dramatic. Limp. Tragic heroine in a period piece.

“I haven’t gotten laid in fifteen days. I counted.”

A pause.

Then, the quietest, most curious tone: “Did you actually count?”

You groan into a pillow.

He brings you the mug.

You sit up. Hold it with both hands. Sniff it, because you’re deranged and in love and want to smell the care he put into steeping it.

And when you glance up at him—tired but still composed, sleeves rolled, forearms taut, a tenderness in his eyes that no man has any business aiming so directly at you—you feel the curl of something in your gut that’s got nothing to do with writing.

“…I think I need to get railed,” you say.

He blinks.

You sip your tea.

“Not now,” you clarify. “Maybe later. Just. You know. For research.”

He sits beside you. Brushes your hair back from your forehead with those stupidly gentle fingers. Kisses the top of your head like he’s not been thinking the exact same thing for the last two weeks but was too fucking respectful to push.

“Research,” he murmurs.

You nod solemnly. “Purely academic.”

His fingers trail down the nape of your neck.

“I’m happy to assist,” he says.

And God, it’s that voice. That low, calm, reverent voice. Like he’s not offering to rearrange your organs but confessing something sacred. You shiver.

You glance at your laptop.

“…What if I just wrote ‘he makes her tea and then fucks her into the next dimension’ and left it at that?”

He hums. “I’d read it.”

You sigh, a little softer this time. Lean into him.

And just like that, the pressure eases. The storm calms. Not gone. Not fixed.

But... quiet enough to breathe.

(You still don’t know what your characters are doing.)

*-*

You should be in horny jail.

Like. Maximum security. Life sentence. No parole. No visitation rights.

Because somehow, after the tea and the breakdown and the spiraling monologue about the unethical crime of blueballing your readers, you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the couch next to Nanami Kento—a saint of a man—and pitching him porn for three hours straight.

“And what about—wait, hold on—what if he like…pinned her hands above her head, right?” You mime it with one hand as you type with the other. “Like, just held them there, totally in control, all that delicious dominance energy. And she’s begging for it, but he’s being all patient, just dragging it out—”

Nanami hums quietly. “You mentioned something similar an hour ago.”

You blink. “Did I?”

“Yes,” he says, glancing over your shoulder, where the screen glows with paragraph fragments and open tabs of inspiration references, “You also suggested shower sex, balcony sex, and something you referred to as ‘reverse cowgirl but make it grief-stricken.’”

“Oh right. Yeah. I’m keeping that one.”

Nanami just nods. Patiently. Politely. While you—a menace with a MacBook—start into yet another brainstorm.

“And maybe—wait, okay—what if she rides him, but like…not in a hot way at first? In that slow, kind of…deliberate way, like she’s got something to prove. Like, ‘I can take it, I can do it myself.’ But then it turns messy, and she starts sobbing and he’s just watching her lose her mind and—"

“Love,” he says, calm as ever, “you’ve described seven positions. It’s almost one in the morning.”

You freeze mid-keystroke.

“Wait…what?”

He lifts his wrist, glances at his watch like it betrayed him. “Twelve fifty-six. You haven’t stopped talking for approximately…three hours.”

You blink. The cursor is still blinking back at you. You glance at your notes. There are at least five bullet points titled “HE MAKES HER SEE GOD.” Your fingers are cramping.

“I…” You squint. “Oh my god. I haven’t even written the scene.”

Nanami reaches across you—warm, slow, deliberate—and closes your laptop.

“HEY!”

“You’re clearly exhausted.”

You are, actually. Your joints ache, your thoughts are melting into soup, and your shirt (still his, still oversized, still unbuttoned to dangerous depths) is sticking to your back with sweat. But there’s so much work to do, so much to write down, and what if you forget the really juicy bit about riding his thigh and *—

Nanami picks you up.

“Kento!”

“Sleep schedules are important,” he says, already walking toward the bedroom like you don’t weigh a damn thing, like you’re not flailing in his arms and protesting weakly while your thighs cling instinctively around his hips. “If you’re not going to rest on your own, I’ll help you.”

You’re spluttering. “You can’t just—carry me off like this! I’m an artist, I have processes!”

“Your process involves vibrating with sexual frustration until you pass out,” he says, dry.

“Exactly! It’s called passion!”

He tosses you gently onto the bed. You bounce. The mattress sighs beneath you. He’s already removing his tie.

You swallow.

“Wait,” you whisper, watching the deliberate way his fingers work the buttons of his shirt, sleeves already rolled to his elbows. “Wait, what are you—?”

“You wanted to do research,” he says, calmly, his gaze dark and deadly steady. “So. Let’s research.”

Your mouth goes dry.

Oh. Oh shit.

He kneels on the edge of the bed, palms sliding up your bare thighs, thumbs brushing where his shirt barely covers you. You forgot you weren’t wearing panties.

You forgot everything.

“You’ve been teasing yourself all night,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up to meet yours, that glint of softness always in his gaze but buried now beneath something far darker. “Talking about all the ways your characters should be touched. How they should fall apart. But you haven’t even come once, have you?”

Your breath stutters. “N-No.”

“I know.” His hands splay across your hips. “I’ve noticed.”

And then he’s got you under him. Fast. Sure. Effortless. You gasp—your shirt bunched around your ribs, wrists pinned in one of his hands while the other drags down your ribs, down your belly, lower—

“Let’s fix that,” he murmurs.

He tastes you like you’re something he paid for. No. Like something he earned.

Tongue slow. Precision exact. Hands on your hips like a scholar anchoring a page, steadying the corners of a sacred text so he can devour it one line at a time.

He doesn’t even fuck you at first.

He studies.

He kisses the inside of your thigh like he’s thanking it. Fingers brushing along the skin like parchment, reverent. There’s something devastating about how silent he is, how deliberate—how he doesn’t even make a sound when his mouth finally finds you, lips dragging across your cunt like worship, and then—

“Fuck—Kento—”

—then he moans, low and broken, as if he’s finally found the thing he’s been starving for.

And it doesn’t stop.

Not when your legs start shaking. Not when your hips buck and your voice rises. Not when your fingers curl in his hair and your thighs clamp around his ears. He wants that. Encourages it. Growls against you like your desperation is a reward.

“Don’t hold back,” he breathes into you. “Let me feel it.”

You come on his tongue like prayer. Like sin.

But he doesn’t stop. Not even when you whimper that you can’t, not even when you twitch away. He just tightens his grip and keeps going, like this is the only thing in the world that matters.

You lose count.

Two orgasms. Three. Four.

You don’t even know what time it is anymore. All you know is that his mouth is unforgiving, his voice is wrecked, and you’re falling apart.

And then he lets you breathe.

Not for long.

Because he’s guiding you up, settling onto the bed with his thighs spread wide, voice rough as gravel. “Come here.”

“Kento—”

He drags you into his lap and sets you on his thigh.

“You wanted to know what this felt like,” he murmurs, voice fraying at the edges. “So learn it. Ride me.”

Your hips jerk the second you grind down, slick already soaking his skin, and the heat of him, the thickness of that muscle under you—it has you gasping.

“Keep going, sweetheart,” he whispers, hands on your waist. “You’re doing so well.”

You drag your cunt across his thigh, riding it with stuttered moans, every pass against that muscle sparking another little burst of electricity through your spine. You can’t look at him. You can’t. But he’s watching you, rapt, chest heaving.

“Good girl. Just like that.”

You come again.

Hard. Loud. Legs trembling.

He shudders beneath you, like just watching you fall apart on his thigh is almost too much.

And then he flips you, fast and fluid and impossibly gentle, and you gasp as he lays you flat and kisses the underside of your jaw, your throat, your collarbone—marks you up with a quiet kind of urgency.

When he slides inside you, he groans like it hurts.

You choke.

Because he’s so deep, and he doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, pressed all the way in, forehead to yours, breath warm across your lips. And then—

Then he fucks you like he’s got all the time in the world and a point to prove.

A slow, devastating rhythm. Your legs bent near double, his body bearing down over yours like gravity, like fate. You hear your own voice but it sounds far away. Like someone else's moans. Like background noise.

All you can focus on is the way he’s moving. The way he holds you—one hand cradling your head, the other gripping your hip tight enough to bruise. The way he says your name between clenched teeth every time you tighten around him.

"You take me so well,” he breathes. “Fuck—look at me, baby—look at me while I ruin you."

You do.

You do, and your vision blurs.

It’s too much. He knows it. You know it. But he keeps going. Keeps pushing. Keeps telling you how beautiful you are, how perfect you feel, how he’s going to make sure you remember exactly what this scene should look like.

You lose count of your orgasms.

Seven. Maybe eight. Maybe nine.

You’re not sure, because at some point time stopped existing and all you could focus on was his voice—low and thick with praise, telling you to keep going, to take it, to look at him—and his body, golden and solid and warm and unrelenting over yours.

You ride him. Again. Even when your thighs are shaking and your arms are too weak to hold yourself upright. He just holds your hips and guides you, gaze locked to yours, like he can will you through it. Like you owe it to yourself to take every last bit he gives.

When your head falls forward, he catches you. Pulls you to his chest. Wraps an arm around your waist and lets you fuck yourself into oblivion on his cock, whispering—

“You’re so good, sweetheart. You wanted to write this? Then feel it. Learn it. Memorize how full you are, how much you can take. Fuck—you’re squeezing me so tight—”

You’re sobbing.

Actually sobbing. Lips trembling. Eyes wet. Nails digging into his shoulders as another orgasm rips through you, messy and sharp.

You collapse against him.

And then he flips you over again.

No words now. No teasing. Just him, panting, sweat-slicked and gorgeous and desperate as he lays you on your stomach and fucks you from behind, hand flat between your shoulders to keep you steady, mouth at your ear as he breaks you open.

“You’re not done,” he groans. “I know—baby, I know you’re tired. Just one more. Let me see you fall apart for me one more time—fuck, I need it—”

You come with a wail, the angle, the pressure, the way he’s losing rhythm and moaning into your neck as he fucks you through it—

You’re not even sure what happens next.

Just heat. And light. And the feeling of his mouth on your shoulder, murmuring something half-shattered and worshipful as he fills you, cock twitching inside you as he finally lets go.

And then silence.

Not real silence. Just softness. The kind that comes after a storm.

You’re both shaking.

He kisses your back. Your spine. The backs of your thighs. Pulls out slowly. Gently.

And Nanami—quiet, reverent, glowing in the dim light—presses his forehead to yours and says, “You did so well.”

You’re limp. Boneless. Soup in human form.

He carries you to the shower. Washes you gently. Kisses each bruise, each bite. Dries you off with a fluffy towel and lets you wear another one of his shirts. Brushes your hair. Gives you water. Holds you under the blankets like you’re glass. Like you matter more than anything.

His voice, low and exhausted and loving, whispering thank yous into your skin like you gave him something sacred.

You fall asleep with his fingers trailing patterns on your spine and the hum of his voice saying, “Just rest. I’ve got you.”

You don’t remember falling asleep.

*-*

You wake up at 12:47PM.

But you wake up the next day with bruises on your hips, bite marks on your neck, and so much goddamn inspiration you can barely type fast enough.

Your thighs are screaming. Your hips ache. You roll over and whimper softly, wondering if your spine was replaced with a wet spaghetti noodle.

Nanami is not in bed. The smell of something savory is wafting from the kitchen.

You try to get up. You fail. You try again. Your legs shake.

“Don’t push it,” comes the voice from the door.

You blink. He’s standing there in his lounge pants, hair mussed, a spatula in hand.

“You’re not allowed out of bed yet,” he says, walking over, brushing your cheek with his knuckles like you didn’t ride his face for ten minutes last night, “You’re still recovering.”

You pout.

“But—”

He cuts you off with a kiss to your temple.

“You can write from bed.”

Your stomach flutters.

So you do.

Laptop open. Bruised thighs spread lazily under the sheets. You start to write—really write—fingers clacking fast and free, as the scene finally clicks.

And you narrate while Nanami plates brunch in the kitchen.

“So then,” you murmur, typing, “she spreads her legs for him, but instead of going straight for it, he just kisses her knee. Real soft. And she starts shaking because she knows what’s coming.”

Nanami hums thoughtfully from the stove. “Add that he holds eye contact. The whole time.”

You grin.

“I’ll dedicate the chapter to you.”

“You already did,” he says, walking back in with eggs and rice and a proud little smile. “And I’m very flattered. Write it down while it’s fresh, sweetheart. But brunch is in ten.”

You write:

“He made her come so many times she forgot her own name. She remembered it when he whispered it, kissed it, spoke it like it was a benediction.”

And then:

“She’d never written a better chapter in her life.”

And then:

“Extensive. Fucking. Research.”

A/N: live laugh love writters block, i wanna explode

edit: i realised as i re-read this, that i didn't tag who this was for, its for @pseudowho, good luck with your book!

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