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gojonanami · 6 months

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❝ 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐈'𝐌 𝐀 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 (𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈'𝐋𝐋 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌) ❞

❝ WHAT HAPPENS YOU TAKE CARE OF NANAMI ALL YOUR LIFE -- AND HE DOES THE SAME FOR YOU ? ❞

✧ pairing: nanami kento x sorcerer!reader

✧ summary: throughout your years of jujutsu tech, you take care of kento, whether its a wound from a curse or a simple cut his finger -- and when he returns he finds you still ready to take care of him -- even after shibuya.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, fluff, hurt / comfort w/ a happy ending, domesticity, jjk canon compliant au (because nanami is alive) reader is the same age as nanami, set during through the events of star plasma vessel to end of jjk, nanami getting hurt and reader taking care of him, reader gets a cold and nanami takes care of her, jealous! nanami, kitchen counter sex, soft dom! nanami, oral (f), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, swearing

✧ wc: 7,657

✧ for my 2k celebration event: item 3 has been sold to two anons!

“Show me,” Nanami furrows his brow in reply, jaw set as he glares, but he knew no amount of staring would get you to let this go. You stood in the doorway of his dorm room — your room was clear across on the other side where the girls resided, so he wondered for a split second how you knew he returned when it had barely been an hour, but answered his own question without having to utter a word (Haibara).

“It’s not bad. It’ll heal by itself—“ and you’re shaking your head, and his lips purse, “it really isn’t worth speaking to Ieiri about — it’s not a wound, just a bruise—“

But still you stood, as immovable as ever — and he finally relented, unbuttoning his jacket, as he shrugged it off, unable to hide his wince as he revealed the large bruise that colored his skin in red, his skin peeling and angry, and surely would turn into a lovely mish-mash of purple and blue.

You brush past him into the dorm room, as you brought a first aid kit in, setting it on the bed, turning your head before tilting it as if to say, “well?”

He repents, as he always did with you — he knew a battle of wills with you was as unwinnable as a battle of jujutsu with Gojo — not to mention needlessly frustrating. He sat at the edge of his bed, eyes fixed to the floor, as you grabbed a washcloth from the kit, heading for his bathroom. He hears the sounds of water running, and the squeak of the faucet closing.

You return as you lift his arm slightly, rolling up the sleeve of his t-shirt to his shoulder.

Your touch is gentle — Nanami was always surprised at how gentle you always were. With the line of work you all did, it was easy to be rough, to find smooth edges corroded and jagged, but no, you remained as smooth and soft as you always were.

He flinches when you bring the wet washcloth to raw skin, and you’re careful even as you seemingly pick out pieces of gravel and dirt stuck in his flesh. And you frown at the sight of it, doing your best to clean every bit.

“So what happened?” you ask, and he gives a terse chuckle.

“Didn’t Haibara tell you?” And you shrug, “I know he told you we’re back,” and your lips curl ever so slightly as your eyes meet him, a small amount of mirth returning.

“Maybe I’m just a stalker,” and he can’t bite back the small smile on his lips, “Haibara told me you didn’t go to Ieiri, and that you got hurt protecting him on your mission,”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his head, “Ieiri was busy dealing with Haibara, he got it worse than I did—“

“Even if your injury is less serious, it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t look after yourself,” and he sighs, as his eyes slide to you, “you need to learn to care about yourself, Nanami,”

And he knew you were right on some level — he didn’t have a delusion of invincibility and he also didn’t have a strong enough desire to strive to be stronger, but — his fingers grasp at his sheets —that didn’t mean he wanted to see his friends die. “You don’t have to do this,” he says again, and you don’t meet his gaze when he looks over at you, your brow set in concentration, “it’s not important—“

“Nanami, you don’t ever seem to value yourself properly,” you finish cleaning his arm, before grabbing bandages and tape from the kit, “you are important — even if you don’t think you are,”

And he opens and shuts his mouth — before a smile pulls at his lips — you were far too kind, especially for a jujutsu sorcerer.

And then you add, “and if you don’t get your wounds tended to, I’m going to tell Gojo you want to take a sweets tour of Tokyo,”

…maybe he spoke too soon.

~~~~

“How did you manage to hurt yourself so badly during training?” You offer Nanami a makeshift ice pack, a small cloth wrapped up with ice from his freezer, and his lips pursed in disgust as his reply, “ah, Gojo,” the mattress shifted under his weight as he sat,

“That arrogant idiot,” Nanami grumbled, as he pressed the ice pack to the back of his head, “his excuse was that he didn’t know his own strength — he’s lucky that he had infinity or I would have—“

You chuckle, “You know he’s just messing with you, it’s just because you react,” and he scowls at his floor of his room, as if his carpet was the six eyes sorcerer itself, “he’s not so bad—“

He raises an eyebrow, his mouth parted in disbelief, “Are you defending him right now?” And you chuckle, as you lean back against the side of his bed, your head leaning back against the soft comforter that you had bought him and guaranteed would help him sleep better (it only guaranteed that you would be asleep underneath it half the time they spent in his dorm relaxing).

You wave him off, “Lower your blood pressure. I’m not defending him, I’m just saying, it can’t be easy being the strongest — all those eyes on you, the way people treat you, the—”

“The weight of your overinflated ego that you have to carry around—” and you roll your eyes, and the action bites at his last nerve, because he thought if anyone would have his back, it would be you — the next words spit like venom out of his mouth, “I thought you were better than those girls that moon over Gojo,”

And he regrets the words as they leave his lips, as you stare at him wordlessly — not with anger, but frustration — which hurts all the more, “If I was so in love with Gojo, then why am I with you instead of him?” He doesn’t have a reply as you rise to your feet and make your way out the door, the click of the door far too deafening, leaving him with a throbbing in his head — but not just from being hurt.

His fingers curled tighter around the ice pack. Because why—why did the thought of you liking Gojo make his chest ache—the idea of your care and time spent on someone else, not even Gojo, but anyone else, made his stomach churn at the idea.

He had told himself when he decided to become a sorcerer, he would do anything to avoid relationships — even friendships if he could do so. When you work a job like this, it can only end in disaster. but— his eyes slide to the closed door you had just left through.

Why did this feel so much worse?”

~~~

“You can’t stay here all night,” your voice cuts through the silence of the morgue — the only life left in the room. Because he too had died along with Haibara.

Or rather he should have.

He kept the towel over his eyes, unmoving from his chair, head resting back against the cold metal — as if it would protect him — from seeing Haibara sliced half over and over, last words dying on his lips said in pure chaos but somehow Nanami could still hear them ring in his ears— just as the sick crumple of his torso hitting the ground after being ripped from his body. The words leaving his lips as the last vestiges of life left his body, fingers twitching as his lips moved—

You got it from here.

The hopeful optimism from a person seconds before death did little to comfort him. Not when that person should have been the one who lived. He had the one thing that was so rare in his shit world of jujutsu — kindness—

The very thing that left half his body lying against a metal slab.

“I can’t leave until…” he trails off, he didn’t wish to leave until his body was inspected and then taken to be…disposed of. He knew it was for the best that his body is turned to ash, but it made it no easier to consider the person that he knew to be his best friend would be nothing but ash in a few hours time, “I won’t leave him alone,”

You nod, and the silence makes him wonder if you’re leaving, but instead he hears footsteps and the slight scraping of a metal chair against the floor. And he feels the slight brush of you beside him as you sit.

And you don’t say a thing. The only thing is that your fingers brush his tentatively and when he doesn’t pull away you intertwine them. And that’s enough—for now.

Until they take his body away.

A sorcerer glances at the two of you, “Do either of you have contact with next of kin? We need to notify—“

“I’ll handle it,” Nanami says, the towel pulled away from his gaze, hoping his dark bags and red tinged eyes aren’t noticeable to you, but he sees the purse of your lips and knows they are.

The sorcerer shifts, “Have you considered asking his family for—“

“That’s not an option,” Nanami cuts him off with a stare, and the sorcerer parts his mouth before shutting it again with a nod, “okay, please allow us to take his body,”

And they do, pulling the sheet down ever so slightly that Nanami sees a flash of his face — no hint of that smile he always unfailingly had on his lips — it too was gone, just like he was. And they carefully wheel his body away — assumedly to be burned. And the door swings shut behind them — leaving only him and you. Silence hangs over the room, the finality of the moment leaves nothing in its wake but regret.

And regret only felt hollow — just as his heart did.

You choose to break the silence, a shaky sigh leaving your throat, as you quickly scrub tears away from your face, clearing your throat, “Come on, let’s go—”

“You can go ahead, I’m going to stay here for a while,” and your eyes try to find his own, but he still stares at the spot where Haibara’s body had laid for hours. The essence of cursed energy was almost too easy to understand compared to the concept of death — a person can be living, breathing, and talking one day to be nothing but a husk the next. And now, he knew it would be a lifetime of feeling as if something is missing — as if something was wrong — and moments where it felt fine would be overcome by only guilt and anger.

What was the point of all of this? His fingers formed into fists, nails digging into his palms — were they nothing but pawns to be used in an unending game that forced sorcerers to not only to put their lives on the line, but their colleagues as well. A twisted game that only ended in a pile of corpses.

“Nanami, you can’t stay here all night—”

“I’m fine,” he rubs at his temples — and how long would it be until he’s staring at your body on that slab? Or maybe you’d be staring at his own—crying over his body just as he had done for Haibara, “you can go—”

“I’m not leaving you, and you shouldn’t stay here — you need sleep—”

“You don’t have to take care of me,” he snaps, his gaze meets yours, “I’m not injured, I didn’t even get hurt— ”

“Yes you did,” you say quietly, as you step closer to him, but his eyes refuse to meet your own.

“No—” and your hand finds his chest.

“This pain is worse than any physical pain you could put in — and I wouldn't leave you to deal with a bruise by yourself, so what makes you think I’d leave you now?” you say softly, and tears burn at his eyes, as your hands gently pull him into your arms, his head buried against your chest, “I’m not leaving you, Nanami,” you murmur quietly, as your fingers slowly run through his hair.

And you didn’t — he was the one who left you.

~~~~

You never get sick. That’s what you loved to brag about — especially yesterday when you got home from spending an entire two days in the rain soaking wet and ice cold without a hint of cold symptoms.

You supposed your bragging was a curse in and of itself because now you were buried under your comforter. You barely manage to text Shoko that you’re sick and you won’t be able to make it to class today. And now you had to wonder if it was worth the effort to get out of bed to take your medication or to simply sleep it off.

But your body made the choice for you as your eyes fluttered shut and you slipped into a fitful sleep, body burning from the inside out.

Consciousness faded in and out, as you felt something brush against your forehead, your eyes heavy as they open ever so slightly, a flash of blue and blond, before you fall back into sleep.

Your head aches, muscles heavy, and the smell of spices wafted through the apartment, “Are you finally awake?” a voice said, as your eyes flutter open, still burning at the corners as your head turns.

“Nanami?” You croak out, throat raw and dry, as if your flesh was raked across coals, “what are you—“

He turns his head from your kitchenette — a ladle in hand, before he sets it down, wiping his hand with a dishcloth. And he steps over to your bed, pulling the washcloth from your forehead, before placing a cold washcloth, “your fever went down a little,” he said, “but I brought cold medicine and I made some soup for you,”

“You didn’t—“

“Have to?” his lips quirked up, “I know I didn’t have to, I wanted to,”

“How did you know I was—“ and his eyes find yours, “Shoko,” and he nods, you relax back into your bed, “how long have you been here?”

He turns back around to finish cooking the soup for you, stirring, the metal of the ladle slightly clinking against the sides of the pot, his eyes flicker to your clock, “About an hour and half, hasn’t been too long,”

“Why are you taking care of me?” you mumble, glancing at his back, as he lifted the ladle to pour into a small bowl to taste the seasoning of the soup, “you don’t owe me anything—“

“I owe you a lot,” he cuts you off, the clatter of the bowl against the counter as he sets it down, the click of the stovetop as he shut it off, “but that’s not the reason I did it,” and your brow is furrowing under the washcloth, as he walks over to you, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Then why?”

And he raises an eyebrow, “Why do you think?” And his fingers brush your cheek, “you’re the only reason I’ve stayed here as long as I have, otherwise I would have left, a long time ago,” and you don’t know how it’s possible for your face to grow warmer but it does from his words and his touch that lingers against your cheek.

And he’s gone as quickly as he came, going over to the stove to take out a bowl of soup for you to drink, “can you stay after I finish eating? Until I fall asleep?” You ask, as he brings the bowl over, as you sit up slowly, head spinning as you do still.

“Of course,” and he does, staying by your side after you eat and take your medicine, hearing your quiet murmur, “thank you, Kento,”

And he realizes, as his lips curl into a smile, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, just how much he liked hearing his name on your lips.

~~~

“How did you manage to hurt yourself on our last mission together as students?” you sigh, the worry in your voice making his lips curl — as the two of you had just found yourselves in his dorm room, as you rifle through his bathroom to pull out the first aid kit you had given him (after you had learned he didn’t own one).

You return to him sitting on the edge of his bed, holding his hand up in such a way that he didn’t drip blood all over his sheets. Your fingers brush his own, and he’s still surprised at how soft your hands are. His hands had grown rough from the years of jujutsu, calloused from the grip of his fingers around his blade handle, but somehow, yours were always as soft as he remembered them.

Your fingers found his, warmth blooming as your brow wrinkled as you scruntized the cut on his hand, “Maybe we should ask Shoko to look at it—”

“There wasn’t any cursed energy that cut me — it was just—”

“Debris, I know,” and this seemingly did little to soothe your worries, had gotten when pushing you out of the way of the curse, “I had it handled — you shouldn’t have dove in—”

“It’s fine, it’s not that bad—” but your glare cuts off his sentence, as you begin to clean the wound.

You shake your head, “What am I going to do with you? Every time you go on a mission, I’m going to be worrying about what trouble you’re going to get yourself into,”

He’s silent, his eyes unable to meet yours — he can’t keep hiding this from you. He had made the decision months ago — and it was only a matter of time before someone else slipped up and told you (most likely Gojo).

“I’m leaving after graduation,” he says the words like ripping off the bandage, but it hurts him all the more when your fingers are still for a moment, your eyes finding his own, as you stare at him.

“You’re—” you cut off, and you don’t protest, you don’t argue — you only ask one question — “Why?”

And that one question was more difficult to answer than any other you could have asked, a sigh stuck in his throat, as he shook his head.

“I can’t do this anymore — I haven’t wanted to since—” he cuts off, mouth impossibly dry — it was easy to tell Yaga he wasn’t going to continue, even easier to take care of half a dozen grade 2 curses at once — but this was— “I can’t stand by and watch my colleagues die one by one beside me — I don’t want to live like this. I’m sorry—”

“You don’t have to be sorry, Kento,” his heart squeezes at the sound of your voice wrapped around his name — what you had taken to calling him recently — “as long it’s what you want. I know it’s been difficult—I was surprised you hadn’t left when—” and your voice falters, neither of you could bear to bring up his name, refusing to even utter it around the other — as if it would summon every horrible memory from that time—and your voice is soft, “I just want you to be happy,”

And there’s nothing more than he wanted to be the one to make you happy — nothing more than he wanted to ask you to be by his side, let him be the one to take care of you, and nothing more he wanted than to ask you to leave with him—

But that was the one thing he could never ask you to do.

Just as you would never ask him to stay for you.

“I want you to be happy too,” he murmurs, as you continue to clean his cut, before your fingers are moving to grab the bandages, slowly beginning to wrap them around his palm, “more than even myself,”

“What’s new?” he wrinkled his brow, and you chuckle, “I mean, you never put yourself first, and I’m glad you are now. You deserve to be happy, even if it’s not….here,” and you finish bandaging his hand, but his fingers curl around yours, “Ken—“

He squeezes your hand softly and his words are just as soft, “You would be the only one who could ever make me happy,” and he hears your breath catch, and it only makes him want to steal it from your lips with his own, “because I know that being by your side would be only thing that could satisfy me,”

Your fingers brush against his cheek, “Too bad I’m apparently in love with Gojo—“ you tease, all too pretty smile as you do, and his lips draw even closer, “Kento—“

“And if you’re so in love with Gojo, why are you here with me?” And he waits, waits for you to pull away, to stop him, to show any indication you didn’t want this—

But you close the gap instead, lips barely brushing his, so chaste, and yet it’s a spark to kindling — a fire neither of you should have lit. And yet, his lips find yours, insistent, his fingers cup your cheek, featherlight touch drawing a shiver down your body that he relishes in.

“Kento—“

“Why is it my name on your lips?” And he kisses you again and again, your noses brushing each other’s, he’s murmuring your name like a prayer, and if it was, he would worship at your altar each day, “Why it is that you’re kissing me?”

And your lips curl against his, as they find his again, “You kissed me first,” and he can taste the sweetness of the melon bread you had shared with him that morning, but something even sweeter that only be you, “so why did you do that?”

But you knew why — especially from the smile gracing your features, one that he wished he could have etched in the inside of his mind, “Isn’t it obvious?” and your lips part to answer, but he cuts you off with another brush of your lips, “I love you,”

And your eyes widen only slightly, but you’re kissing him again, arms curling around his neck, fingers sliding behind his neck — “Figured that out when you got jealous of Gojo, but I’m glad you admitted it,” and your forehead finds his, “and that I love you too,”

You loved him — you loved him — he had to tell himself again and again, but he still couldn’t fathom it. Was it a dream? You were always a dream to him — something he could nearly grasp with his fingers, but always remained just out of reach.

And now he held you in his hands and he never wanted to let go. But he had to — he knew he had to.

So he would — even if it would hurt — hurt that no bandage would fix.

He kissed you again, unless you were the one to place it.

“Why is it that I always find you like this?” Nanami’s eyes slowly met yours — he sat in Ieiri’s office, waiting to be seen, only find you there in the doorway instead, “it’s as if you’re asking to be patched up by me, Kento,”

How long had it been? And somehow he knows the answer before even thinking about it — it had been nearly a decade. A decade since the two of you had graduated — you moving to Kyoto to help run the campus there, while he had moved onto a regular college and then a corporate job — one that had nearly sucked his soul dry of any life he had to begin with. And it was only when he had received gratitude for the first time in a long time — that he remembered the reason he had stayed a jujutsu sorcerer after Haibara…

And now, here was the other.

He murmurs your name, nearly sounding foreign on his lips, “How did you—”

“I ran into your student, Nanamin,” and he furrows his brow at the nickname — Itadori’s little name for him after he had refused to be his sensei. Because he wasn’t one — Gojo may have taken up the mantle of teacher for his own personal ego trip — but he wasn’t ready to form relationships like that. And yet…his lips curl, there you were, “didn’t think you wanted to be a teacher,”

“I don’t, but how can I refuse that white haired idiot?” he half grumbled with a sigh, eyes still slowly grazing over you, “but I don’t want to talk about him right now,”

You draw a step closer, shutting the door behind you, a lilt in your voice as lovely as your grin, “Then what do you want to talk about?” and you stop right in front of him, as your fingers reach out, and he’s nearly leaning into your touch, but he’s wincing, as your fingers press against his bruised body, “because I want to talk about how you ended up in such rough shape,”

A sigh stuck in his throat, his next words nearly along with it, “It could have been much, much worse,” he murmurs, “if Itadori wasn’t there, I—” he breaks off, “that special grade — he could touch my soul and it had caught me in its domain—”

And your arms are pulling you into a tight hug, your fingers running through his hair, “But you’re here, you’re okay,” you murmur softly, your palm pressed against his chest, you can feel his heart pump under your fingers, “you made it,”

“But—”

“But nothing, Kento, you’ll make it back every time,” your fingers cup his cheek, pressing your forehead against his, “right?”

Your touch was the only thing that could truly make him feel whole again — as if every crack in his soul had been mended with gold, “how do you know?”

And your lips curl into a soft smile, your head tilting ever so slightly, “Because you love me, right?”

The chuckle on his lips is nearly enough to bite back his nerves as the words leave his lips, “I’ve loved you for years, sweetheart, that’s nothing new,”

You’re shaking your head, “And all these years, we always found our way back to the other, right?” your hand finds purchase on his shoulder now, the other against his cheek, “so we just have to keep doing that,”

“You make it sound so simple,” he murmurs, and your lips find his — and it makes him wonder how he had spent so much time without your touch, because right now it was the only thing keeping him whole — stealing the doubts from his head and the aches from his body — leaving only heat filling the empty gaps left behind.

“It is simple,” your hand interlaces with his, “if we let be.”

~~~

“I’m starting to think you hurt yourself on purpose around me more now that we’ve moved in together,” you examine the small cut on his finger, a nick from the knife that the ratio sorcerer had been using to slice his freshly baked loaf of bread. Scarlet slipped from the small cut, and his soft murmur of ‘ouch’ unfortunately had not gone unheard by you. He swore you must have selective hearing — you wouldn’t listen when he told you to go to bed, but you��d hear him hiss in pain under his breath even when half asleep on

“It’s not too deep, I think just a bandage should be fine,“ Your brow knit together as you purse your lips, and he bit back his smile, knowing it would only serve for him to get scolded for not being more careful.

“It’s nothing, love, I can take care of it—“ and his breath catches when your lips find their way around his finger, sucking slightly to ease the bleeding, your tongue flicking over the cut, “sweetheart—“ he swears under his breath, a distinct flush burning at the crown of his cheeks, “what—“

“They say saliva can help a cut heal faster,” you smile, before pulling a bandage out of the first aid kit you had pulled out, and your lips press a sweet kiss to his cut again, a smirk as you meet his gaze, “Ken—”

And he’s kissing you, your body tenses a moment only to melt into his touch, your arms wrapping around his neck — he can taste his blood on your lips, raking your fingers through his hair. He can only think about getting closer, closer, closer — he needs you. His hands slide down your back, until they find your hips, squeezing, as he presses himself to you.

“Baby,” you murmur breathlessly, as your lips part his, a gasp that turns to a soft moan when his lips press heated kisses down your jaw. His nose brushes against the soft skin of your neck, as he presses you against the counter of his apartment, his hands slide down, large palms grasping your ass, “I need—”

“What do you need?” his fingers sneaking up and down the sides of your body. His teeth graze your pulse, your head falls back, exposing more of your neck to him, as his tongue soothes the mark he left behind, “because you know I’ll give you anything you ask for, sweetheart,”

And his fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs as he lifts you onto the counter, calloused palms pressing your legs apart — but he barely has to, your thighs already spreading for him. And he finds your shorts nearly soaked through — your drenched cunt visible even through the two layers of fabric stuck together from your arousal.

But you don’t need to ask for him to know what you want — it’s second nature, it’s instinct for his fingers to dip inside the waistband of your shorts and underwear alike, tugging them both down, until you were kicking them off.

“Is all this for me?” he murmurs, pressing a sweet kiss to your inner thigh, as two fingers graze down your slit, gathering your pre on his fingertips, before he meets your gaze only to lick his fingers clean, “I was never one for sweets — except when it came to you. Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,”

Your head lolls back, as his thick fingers circle your clit with practiced ease, pulling back only to drag his tongue up the length of your needy cunt. And your eyes find his again, heady gaze heavy with need and his pretty lips and chin already glossy with your juices.

“Kento—fuck,” your fingers thread through his blonde locks. First, one finger sinks in and then another —

his nose bumping against your clit as his tongue stretches your walls in tandem with your fingers, grinding against his face, “s’good, I can’t—“

But he’s relentless, the wet squelch of your messy walls and your choked out moans ring in his ears and are nearly enough to make him cum right in his pants — already far too tight, blood rushing downwards far too quick.

Another

“Such a good girl,” Kento murmurs, and you are, so perfect — “just let me take care of you,”

“Kento, please, more, need—“ and his lips find your clit, tongue flicking against the hardened bud, before sucking long and hard, while a third finger joins the other two. Your back arches, the coil in your stomach grows tighter and hotter — your slick dripping from your messy hole onto the counter.

His fingers squeeze at your flesh, and he could live between your legs forever — it could be his meal morning, noon, and night — he could spend hours lapping at you until you fell apart over and over. His fingers stretch you out far too deliciously, and your walls are giving that telltale flutter.

“Kento—g’nna cum—I—“ and his fingers are fucking you harder and his lips close around your clit, sucking hard, until you’re moaning his name, muscles growing tight as you fall apart. You’re a mess, your fingers trying to press his head impossibly closer as you grind against him, riding out your orgasm, as your juices gush over his face — and he’s lapping up every drop, as you fall limp against the counter, his arm slipping around your back to support you.

Your eyes flutter open to watch him pulling away with a pop, strings spit and cum connecting you to your cunt. His gaze drags over you, watching your juices drip against the counter, as he murmurs quiet praises, licking his lips clean of your release.

And your fingers find his cheeks, pulling him into a deep kiss, moaning as you taste yourself on his lips, the filthiness of it all enough for his cock to grow even harder against your thigh. And it’s a matter of moments, before your fingers are tugging at his sweatpants and boxers, freeing his erection, his pretty cock all but ready for you — lovely ruddy head dripping with pearly white beads of precum.

“Look at what you do to me, love,” he murmurs, as your eyes meet his, gaze blown out in lust.

“Kento, please,” and his lips curl, his fingers raking through your hair, as he pulls you even closer, his erection bumping against your sopping pussy, “I want—“

He drags his cock over your slit, watching his pre mix with your release, the two of you groaning when his tip catches on your clit, “what do you want sweetheart? Tell me, tell me what you need,” his arms are hooked around your knees, pressing them to your chest.

You keen when his tip teases your sopping hole, “I need you to fuck me—“ and you’re whining as his cock pressed into you, splitting you open on his length — and god you could never get used to how big he was — you could feel very pretty vein and delicious curve—

Fuck, he could bust just looking down at you, at the way your lips parted for him as he had sunk into you, the way he could see how your pussy stretched around his dick — like you were made for him. Pleasure ripped up his spine at the sight — his fingernails digging crescents into your hips.

And he knew that he was certainly made for you.

“S’good, s’full — please,” you’re nearly mewling, begging for him to move, “Kento—“ and he obliges, unable to hold back any longer, as he begins to slowly rock his hips against you, each stroke getting longer and deeper. His balls slap against your hips, as he picks up the pace — your walls squeezing around him.

“Fuck, sweetheart, didn’t think you could get any tighter,” he grunts, his cock stuffed inside your walls, and he’s gritting his teeth, your soft moans and the noises of your pretty pussy becoming too much for him. White ring of release formed around his base — his balls growing tight as he inches closer and closer to blow his load, “you always can f’me, can’t you?”

And he gives a particularly hard thrust, right as his lips find yours in a messy, sloppy kiss — all tongue and teeth, your head falls back when his tip finds your g-spot again and again. You squirt all over his length, soaking him and the counter with your release, as he fucks you through your orgasm, again and again. Your toes curl when he finally comes, his release painting your walls with his thick, hot release — fucking it deeper and deeper, and he’s notching himself inside.

You’re slumping against him, your eyes shut, as he pulls you closer into his arms, pressing sweet kisses all over your face until he finds your lips again.

“I love you,” you mumble, eyes fluttering open as he cups your chin, a soft smile on his lips.

“I love you more,” and he’s slowly lifting you, carrying you over to your shared bed, and you’re burying your face in the crook of his neck.

“But what about your cut?” You mumble, and a chuckle on his lips, as he presses a kiss to your forehead, as he sets you down on the bed, grabbing a damp washcloth to clean you up.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, you’ve done plenty,” he murmurs, as he finishes cleaning you up, only to slip into bed beside you — “let me take care of you.”

~~~

It was over.

That’s what Nanami had thought when Mahito had stopped him in his tracks, his hand pressed against his chest, but more importantly, against his soul.

“I didn’t know you were here,” Nanami said, his eyes unable to tear away from the curse’s.

He could barely feel anything anymore — the stinging had dulled somewhere between his trek down the winding tunnels of Shibuya station. Instead, he could only hear the echo of his footsteps, as he had forced himself to take one step forward over and over and over — and that’s when he had seen them.

The congregation of curses or mutated humans — he didn’t know which they were, but did it really matter at this point? It didn’t. He dispatched them all the same — all while his thoughts were only filled of you — you, you, you and you.

And a beach in Malaysia.

“Yeah, Kuantan would have been nice,” and it would have been — it was only a few months away. The vacation the two of you had meticulously planned out. The days spent out walking the beach, lounging by the water with the books neither of you had never read, and nights falling asleep by each other’s side to the metronome of the waves crashing.

And now, he had found himself, staring death in the face — an echo of his near death from only a few months ago. How had it come to this already? He had always felt he was running out of time — constantly watching the clock, trying to run it out for his retirement, only for it to run out before he could make it to those sandy shores he had dreamed of.

“Yup. The whole time,” Mahito replies, lips in an easy smile, “Wanna chat? We go way back, after all,”

Nanami’s eyes fall to the floor, the dirtied and bloodied tiles underneath his feet — he didn’t feel like spilling his guts to a curse.

Haibara, what the hell was I trying to do? He asks in his mind, not even daring to say the words aloud, I ran. Even though I ran away, I came back with the vague reason of finding the work worthwhile.

And then he sees Haibara, appearing in front of him, patented smile on his lips, as he points south — points right at—

“Itadori,” Mahito says.

“Nanamin!” his eyes wide as he takes in his state — horror painted on his face, already so helpless — what else had he seen and now he had to see this too? He shouldn’t have had to see this. He should have been a normal kid — worrying about normal things — not fighting monsters in some damned subway tunnel.

But what could he do about what now? What could he do but stop?

Could he finally stop?

No, Haibara. That’s not right. I can’t say that to him. It’ll just end up becoming a curse for him.

But it’s a curse every jujutsu sorcerer had to bear — made to bear until there were either no curses or no sorcerers left.

But he couldn’t regret it now.

“Itadori,” his lips curl, smiling for the last time, “you’ve got it from—“

And then there’s a crash — screaming, the sound of blood splattering. It takes him a minute to realize it wasn’t him.

It was you.

You had crashed between the two of them, sending the curse flying with your cursed energy, the impact drawing blood from you and Mahito alike. Your arm was around his body — and Nanami is whispering your name.

“I told you, Kento, we’re always going to come home — even if I have to drag you there,” you say, your eyes still flickering between Itadori and Mahito, “Itadori, tske Nanami—“

“No, this is my fight,” he shakes his head, his fingers clenched into fists, “I almost let Nanamin die — I have to do this—“

“Yuji—“ you say, but he’s already barreling towards Mahito, and you’re whispering fuck, as you take Nanami in the opposite direction.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry,” and his eyes are barely able to stay open, as you help carry his weight alone the deserted subway, “I’m sorry—“

“Why are you sorry—“ but he’s barely awake along enough to hear your question, until it’s all black.

It takes him several months to recover. Cursed energy healing could only do so much, especially since Ieiri was spread thin enough with everything between Shibuya, the Culling Games, and everything else that came after.

Most of the brunt of his care had fallen on you — you changed his bandages, tended to his wounds, dealt with any signs of infection with help from Ieiri, and handled everything else around the house.

“Why do you do all of this for me?” He asks quietly, one day while he sits, your back turned while you washed the dishes from lunch — the clinking of plates and the sound of water running that squeaks shut when he asks.

You turn, lips in a frown, “what do you mean, Kento?”

His fingernails dig into his knee, biting back a sigh, as you walk over after wiping your hands off, “it’s been months of you just…taking care of me. I don’t get it — I didn’t understand when we were students when you insisted on caring for me, and now…” he swallows, his throat still impossibly dry—even after all treatment, nothing still tasted the same, “I’ve just become a burden—“

You cup his cheeks, “Kento, you are never a burden to me—“

“But—“

“But nothing — wouldn’t you do the same for me if I was in your position?” But he’s shaking his head.

“It’s not—“

“Kento, do you remember our first mission together?” he blinks, his brow furrowing, but you only smooth it with your fingers, “it was my first mission — I had barely gotten the hang of using cursed energy — I hadn’t even exorcised a curse before, but as always, jujutsu society had left children to bear the burden of survival amongst themselves,” and your fingers find his, “but you never left me alone. I froze in front of the curse. I didn’t know what to do with myself �� even while you dealt with two others on your own — you still managed to save me, even though you managed to hurt yourself in the process,” your voice was soft, your hand finding his, lacing your fingers with his, squeezing his hand — but he’s not sure whether it’s to remind him you’re here or to remind yourself that he’s still here, “and you don’t remember it do you?” his lips purse, as his eyes can’t find yours, gaze cast downwards, but he hears you give a soft chuckle.

“I look at you and I see all the ways a soul can bruise — because you’ve taken hits that weren’t yours to take — you’ve taken challenges that shouldn’t have been yours to bear,” your fingers skim over his cheeks, “even in what you thought were your last moments,” your voice breaks, swallowing back tears, “your thoughts were of others — of helping your students, of Itadori, of me—” you shake your head, “and you think I’m doing too much for you? I think you deserve so much more than me—“

“All I need is you,” his voice is breaking, swallowing thickly, “that’s all I ever wanted,”

“Then just stay here with me — that would be enough for me,” you lean close and press your lips to his — and even still, the taste of your kiss was never any less sweet, “all I want is to come home to you, you think you can handle that?”

His lips find yours again, as they always would, “I’ll show you.”

~~~

“It doesn’t hurt that bad,” and Nanami chuckles, his hands hooked around your knees and thighs, as your arms wrapped around his neck, your head resting on one of his shoulders, “Kentoooo, you don’t have to—“

“I want to, and I’m not going to risk it getting any worse by letting you walk on the sand — the sunset was painting the water in hues of gold, pinks, and purples — and the beauty of this beach was only made better by your presence, “just let me do this for you, love,” and you sigh, relenting, as you bury your face in the side of his neck.

“My husband is so doting, just a small cut on sea glass makes you this crazy?” and he shivers slightly, but it’s not from the slight sea breeze tickling his nose, but from your nose brushing against your neck, “are we headed back already?”

“How else will we treat your foot?” your hands slide over his bare skin — the skin still scarred as it always would be, an eye tucked away under an eyepatch — unable to be saved — but your husband was saved all the same, “unless Ieiri taught you how to used reversed cursed technique before our vacation,”

“It’s really not that bad—”

“Is this your first time being a patient?” and you pout, as he chuckles, vibration of his sweet laugh against your chest as you press yourself impossibly closer, especially when you see the looks of others as the two of you walk by.

“It’s embarrassing to be carried like this,” you murmur, “come on baby, I can walk the rest of the way,” but he only hums, casting a small glance over his shoulder.

“I like carrying you like this,” his lips curled in a smirk, “everyone knows you’re mine this way,” and your cheeks burn, and you kiss his cheek, pouting as you do, “we’ll be back on the beach soon enough — we have all the time in the world sweetheart,”

And you did — you bury your face in the side of his neck again — with him—

Always.

✧ a/n: this has been a long time coming!! i feel like with every one of these fics i'm never happy with them, but then they end up being better than i remember. apparently i just don't like my writing very much haha. i hope you guys enjoy <3 it's been so long since i wrote nanamin, so i hope it came out good <3

✧ taglist: @1angel-digits1, @i-spilt-ink-on-my-phone, @freaky-show, @strangehuman101, @nanamis-baker, @hanxyy, @chosobeee, @luneriaa, @being-me-is-not-a-sin, @forest-fruits-jam, @unorthodoxfaithxx, @caelestine-the-caelicatto, @kenmei, @somrou, @spider-fan72, @missukiyo

#sab [mlist]#nanami kento x reader #nanami kento smut #nanami kento fluff #nanami kento x you #nanami x reader #nanami smut #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #nanami kento fanfiction #nanami x you #kento nanami smut #kento nanami x reader

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swordsandholly · 2 months

Text

Cherry Bomb - tattoo parlor anthology

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | masterlist

Part Nine: The Expo

Your eyes widen to saucers as you climb out of John’s work van. The event hall in front of you is huge - the largest in the city. A big, glass dome with a high-end hotel attached. It glows in the morning sun. Lines of people have already formed out front. You passed them on your way around to the vendor entrance. It’s the twentieth anniversary for the Tattoo Expo, apparently, which means they expect massive crowds.

“I hate that Kyle couldn’t come.” You frown as a security worker hands over your badge. It’s fancy - heavy weight with brightly colored, neo-traditional graphics. Something about having the word VENDOR hanging around your neck makes your heart skip.

John sighs, heaving one of the boxes of his books onto your dolly. “Yeah. He tried but he couldn’t get his head out of the toilet long enough to do much of anythin’.”

You wrinkle your nose. Apparently he had caught some nasty stomach bug, poor guy. You thought about calling and checking in on him, but you worried that was too clingy. After… everything, you don’t want to come off as anything other than normal about it. Which you are. Totally normal.

At least Johnny was home for the day to help him out.

“Has Simon ever come?” You ask, titling the dolly pack to push into the convention hall.

John’s arms flex as he fights with his rolling tool box to get the handle back out so he can pull it. He just had to wear a sleeveless muscle tee, didn’t he? It’s rude, frankly. You look over his more rarely exposed shoulder and upper arm pieces - some more faded than others. Some more colorful, some better crafted. Part of you wants to reach out - to trace them the same way you want to with Simon. You want to ask him in detail about each one. Maybe he’ll let you, someday.

“Can you actually picture Simon in a convention hall?” He chuckles eventually, finally getting the toolbox rolling properly.

You laugh. “Guess not.”

The 141 booth sits in the center of the floor, surrounded by a few other big-name shops and figures in the community. You glance around at them, only recognizing a few. You don’t get much time to look around. There are only a couple hours designated for set up and you have to help hang all the flash options, get the cash box sorted, and be ready for the flood when it comes. You’ve mentally prepared for chaos, reading through pretty much every reddit and twitter thread you could find about convention disasters. You know that won’t happen here, and even if something did, John wouldn’t abandon you to it. Still, you feel better being mentally prepared for anything - no matter how unrealistic.

“Why do you still do these?” You ask, pinning one of the large flash sheets to the display board. “I mean - you don’t exactly have to get your name out there.”

“I enjoy them- the community. I was here when this was still bein’ held underground in an old warehouse.” John looks around, eyes scanning the rows of artists. He doesn’t share his thoughts, just stands there quietly for a moment with his hands on his hips. After a few beats he grumbles quietly, “Gettin’ old…”

You focus on setting up the front table where you’ll be stationed. John brought a few prints of work as well as several copies of his book. He brought a few signed ones as well, only selling them for about twenty more bucks than the usual price. You asked why he doesn’t mark them up more, but he just shrugged you off with a mutter of ‘I’m not all that’ before moving on to another task. You decided it was best not to argue that he is, indeed, all that. His books are literally filled until the late fall.

Maybe you shouldn’t be so proud of setting up a decently aesthetically pleasing display all on your own when you’re surrounded by real artists, but you still grin wide with your hands on your hips. It’s simple, with cards for each of the boys lining one sit and a roll of tattoo tickets for the day beside the cash box. The table cloth with the shop’s name looks nearly identical to the sign. One might call it lazy marketing, you find it charming.

“Somethin’ happen with you and Kyle?” John asks suddenly, back turned as he messes with something in his rolling tool box full of supplies.

You freeze, eyes wide and mouth dry. Did Kyle say something? You thought you’d been normal about it. Kyle hadn’t acted any differently - which shouldn’t have hurt your feelings - and you were sure you’d met him with the same level of normalcy. The past weeks race through your mind. Every moment, every interaction, picking each apart into threads in milliseconds.

“Uh, no? Why?” It comes out squeaky. Unsure. Lord, you really are a terrible liar.

John hums. He’s quiet for barely a beat, a moment that seems to stretch for lifetimes. You can almost feel your cells aging while you wait. “You’ve been quieter than usual around him. Just wanted t’make sure.”

“Oh.” Had you? You thought you’d been the same as always. Both of you totally moved on from… the incident. Well, except for those few times you caught yourself staring - zoning out while thinking about the way his lips pressed to yours. Imagining Kyle pulling you into the back room again. Another kiss with less nervousness and more heat. Actually bending you over the desk properly-

“Y’with me, love?” John snaps you back to reality.

“Yeah!” You jump and stutter. “Yeah. No. We’re fine. I’m… fine.”

You wonder if the giant guy in the weird homemade mask at the booth across from yours would smash your head in if you paid him. Let him free you from the torment of embarrassment. It had been eating away at you, if you’re honest with yourself, and now lying right to John’s face just feels… awful. He’ll find out. You know he will. Maybe he already knows as that was a test. Fuck if it was, you totally just failed.

The clock turns to nine, and you have no choice but to let that be a problem for your future self.

Something you realize rather quickly as the attendees begin to flood the hall is that John is a god here. People don’t meet his eye. They speak meekly, even to you, with voices low and faces flushed. The line for your booth stretches down the walkway as soon as the doors open - appointment tickets practically flying out of your hands. You overhear a pair of friends muttering about sleeping outside overnight to get in early enough for John’s booth. It makes your head spin.

You wonder if they’d still act that way if they saw him snoring open-mouthed at the desk in the back room mid-afternoon.

“Thought I heard 141 got a new front desk girl.” A syrupy southern accident lilts above you just as you finish selling tickets. He’s handsome. Blonde and blue eyed with a little scar gracing his cheekbone. Not much younger than John, you don’t think. Probably around Simon’s age.

You slip on your usual customer service smile. “Hello! How can I-”

“Graves.” John grunts behind you, not even looking up from the work in front of him. “What d’you want?”

“Just wanted to come see how you were.” The man - Graves - grins wide. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “And to meet your new front of house. Philip.”

You take the hand he holds out, giving a perfunctory shake and your name. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that John doesn’t like this guy, whoever he is, and you’re inclined to trust his judgement. You opt for basic small talk. “Are you an artist?”

Graves nods. “I own Shadow & Co. It’s a few blocks over from your place.”

Oh. You’d heard of them. They came highly recommended when you were looking for artists in the area initially. In the end you opted for John based entirely on vibes. The Shadow building is far too modern - to minimalist - for your liking. Too corporate.

“Y’know, we’re looking for a new desk girl as well.” Graves smiles. You do your best not to sneer at his use of desk girl. “We’re growing pretty quick - even if you wanted to split your time-”

“She’s full time with us.” John snaps - blatant irritation lining the edges of his voice. He still doesn’t turn around.

The blonde man pauses, glancing between you. Something passes over his eyes - some implicit knowing that you don’t quite get - but it’s gone just as fast as it came. He digs into his pocket, flipping open a too-new wallet and pulling out a business card. “Well, if you ever want to work somewhere more exciting-” you nearly laugh at that. “-give us a call, hm?”

You glance up to his face, then back down at the card. John’s tattoo gun continues to buzz behind you, but you can tell he’s slowed down. He’s listening. Before even really thinking you extend your hand, pushing the card he holds away from you.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m very happy here.”

Philip scoffs, dropping the card on the table. “Keep us in mind, yeah?”

He disappears into the crowd easily - blending in just like his shop’s namesake. Your nose wrinkles. You snatch up the card and tear it in two. “Dickhead.”

You think you hear John chuckling behind you, but can’t be sure over the roar of the convention.

The day flies by - people bustle by your booth. You run out of signed books just over halfway through - prints not long after. Your voice feels hoarse from talking to so many people. The hall has grown quite hot and you’re sure that your hair looks insane at this point. Either way, you’re having a great time. You get to talk to a with full body trash polka that you like for some reason. You get to meet one of the people involved in the stage competition - her massive thigh piece holding some of the best color work you’ve ever seen. All in all, despite the discomfort, you think this ranks in your top ten favorite days. Maybe top five.

“Excuse me?” Murmurs a voice so soft you almost miss it entirely over the roar of the convention. When you look up, you’re met with a painfully young face. Definitely not old enough for the 17+ entrance requirement.

“Hi!” You put on your warmest smile. “How can I help you?”

“I, uh, I was just…” They stutter, shifting in place. “I- Are there any signed copies left?”

You look them over, a too-familiar pang in your chest. You know those eyes, that anxiety. The jumpy way they look around at the people passing by and tug at their sleeves. Your teeth sink into your lip and you look over at the three blanks that make up your entire left over stock. Glancing over your shoulder, you see John finishing with his current client - giving the man a firm handshake before turning to clean up his station. There’s a fifteen minute break until the next one - his last for the night - and as much as you don’t want to take up his precious little time to set up…

“Let me check!” You squeak, shaky as you grab one of the blanks with all the subtlety of a brick over the head and cross the few feet over to where John sits. You lean over to speak in his ear, low enough that the kid won’t hear you. “John?”

“Hm?” He hums, turning slightly on his stool.

“Can you sign this one?” You chew your lip. “I know you had a set amount but this kid looks so…”

He glances behind you at the teenager in question, bashfully staring at their feet.

“I’m sorry, I know you need to set up for the next-”

John cuts you off by taking the book from your hands and standing.

“Thanks, dove.” He gives you that lovely, warm smile and rolls his shoulders before making his way over to the front table.

The teenager’s eyes go so wide you think they might pop out of their head. You decide to hang back and not interrupt their moment. John sets the book on the table and grabs a sharpie from your back up stash of pens. The kid mumbles something you can’t understand. John’s voice lowers as well. You can’t hear them, but you watch John scrawl something in the book and hand it over. He pushes away the crumpled, messy wad of cash the teenager tries to give him, shaking his head and saying something else that you don’t catch. The kid looks like they’re about to cry, a wide, wet grin splitting their face as they say goodbye and practically prance away.

You melt, shoulders slouching and what you’re sure is a very stupid smile breaking out across your lips. You don’t know why you doubted him for even a moment.

“What’s that face?” John scoffs, cocking a brow at you.

“Nothing.” You shake your head and re-take your spot at the table.

The ending of the convention is rather uneventful. Some of the other booths begin clearing up early. You take the time to count the cash box - which is absolutely stuffed to the brim. John rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck about five times in the span of a few minutes. Maybe you could convince them to do a company yoga class. It’s easy to see how tense and tired they get. You file that idea away for later.

Luckily most of the booth set up belonged to the venue and, since you sold out of books and prints, you don’t have haul those back to the van. All you have to take is John’s rolling toolbox and tattooing table. All things that easily fit in your bag and dolly. Thank god. Neither of you speak much on the drive back to the shop - opting for comfortable silence. Your ears ring ever so slightly from the noise of the convention hall. When you were in it, you hadn’t realized just how loud it was. John’s eyes are locked on the road, the slight glow from the setting sun warming his skin.

The sun just disappears over the horizon as you put the last of the equipment in the backroom - stacked rather messily but that’s another problem for future you. You’ve been working for a grand total of fourteen hours and, somehow, it still has yet to hit you. Adrenaline and excited energy still pulse under your skin.

John sighs loudly, crossing each arm over his chest to stretch them out. “Could really go for a scotch right now. You want a nightcap?”

Your cheeks warm, still riding high from the excitement of the day you agree easily. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

He gives you a gentle smile, softened further by the low street lights. “Let me show you a spot.”

The place John leads you to is small. Local. You sit at the bar and take a moment to look around. Three pool tables take up half the floor space. It looks like a small tournament is going on - a white board showing the matches and who will go against who next. Two ski-ball machines are tucked in a corner beside the bathroom, currently taken up by two younger men who you aren’t completely sure are drinking age. The lights and music are both low. One of the bartenders is posted up on the opposite end of the bar with two other people watching Shin Godzilla on the mounted television. It’s cozy and oh-so very John Price.

You get an easy sipper, something fruity and sweet as a treat for the long day you’ve had. It’s nice against the warmth of the summer evening. A heat that’s only aggravated by the one that settles in your spine whenever the guys are around. John especially.

“Think that kid was a little young for the event…” You blurt in a poor attempt to make conversation.

John nods along. “Definitely.”

“That was really nice of you. I didn’t want to… I don’t know.” You murmur, unsure why exactly the words won’t stop. You blame the drinks and exhaustion. Seems realistic enough. “They just seemed so sad.”

“Wasn’t nice. Just the right thing t’do.” John shrugs. His words come slow, almost as if he’s unsure if he should say them. Though, you find it hard to believe he has ever been unsure about anything in his life. “I know what its like… to need t’escape. Lied about my age just to enlist.”

Your eyes widen. “R-really?”

He hums. “They didn’t care much back then.”

For some reason you never thought about John’s childhood - his homelife. You know he has a mom somewhere. Kyle let it slip a couple of times - said she’s a really good cook. John doesn’t volunteer information about himself often, you gathered that much. He’s worse than Simon, somehow, which says a fucking lot.

“Did-” you mull over your words. “You didn’t grow up around here, yeah?”

It’s a clumsy attempt at getting him to talk, but it works well enough. He nods. “Hereford. My mum’s still out there.”

Score. “Do you visit her much?”

John shrugs, chuckling. “When I can. I could move back home and it wouldn’t be enough for her.”

You snicker.

“She’s the best woman I’ve ever known…” He murmurs, eyes far away. It’s only for a moment, but they look past you. Defocused in a way that seems to out of character for the hyper-aware man.

Your faces are close. Hunched in like school kids exchanging secrets and gossip during recess. Your eyes dart from his to his lips and back. It’s confusing. All of this. The intimacy you have with each of them in these moments is overwhelming. You like Kyle - you liked kissing Kyle - you really shouldn’t be wanting that from your boss, though. A co-worker is bad enough but John… John is off limits. You know that. Even so, you find yourself subconsciously leaning just a bit closer, eyes roving over the freckles you don’t see standing further away and the grey flecks in his eyes. You think, for barely a millisecond, that he leans in too.

Until he sits up straight, tossing back what little is left of his drink. “Let’s head out. Could go for a smoke.”

You nod, swallowing down your thoughts and following him out of the bar like a lost puppy. You’d follow him to the end of the earth, you think. Even if it hurts that you can’t get as close as you want, you’d go anywhere for him. Yeah, that’s definitely the drink and tiredness talking. Part of you also knows that it is undoubtedly true.

John rounds a corner to the side of the bar. It’s moderately lit, a single street lamp just down the way giving you just enough light to see. You lean against the wall beside John, the exhaustion beginning to cling to your eyes.

“Are you?” John asks suddenly.

“Hm?” You hum, unsure of what he’s asking about.

“Happy here?” He cuts the end off a cigar he pulled from the silver box that lives in his back pocket.

In the low light of the alley, his pupils overtake most of his irises. Dark and intense as he looks you over from head to toe. You see it, suddenly. The god that the others do. He’s not as physically large as Simon, or as loud as Johnny, but he fills every inch of any space he enters regardless. You suppose you became so used to being in that radius that you forgot just how much presence he carries. You’ve wrapped yourself in it like a blanket. A shield.

Your cheeks warm and you shuffle your feet. “I… yeah.”

“Good.” John sighs out a cloud of smoke. “It’d be a pain in the arse to replace you. The boys care about you too much.”

You stare up at him. You can feel something on the edge of his tone - some weight that you don’t understand. There always seems to be another layer to the things he says. Implications that you can’t understand, context that you’re missing. Part of you wants to ask, needs to ask, but the words get stuck in your throat. What would you say? You’re not even entirely sure what you need to ask. You know they care about you, and you care for them in turn, so why does it feel like there’s something missing?

“Does the boys include you?” You blurt, one again wishing that big guy from the convention was here to smash your head in like wile e. cayote and the anvil.

He looks you up and down, slightly taken aback while you debate on bolting. “Thought that was obvious.”

You scoff, still flustered. “You’re hard to read.”

“Am I, now?”

You nod. A comfortable silence falls over you, despite the awkwardness surely emanating from you. Your lip catches between your teeth, eyes on your feet. “John?”

“Dove?” He tilts his head, once again leaning ever so slightly closer to you.

“Thank you. For everything.” You murmur, voice low and unsure. “It’s… it’s really good here.”

“Think nothin’ of it, love.”

You look up at those pretty blue eyes. They always make your chest ache with some deep hole you haven’t been able to pin down. At first you could blame it on wanting to do well - to be a good employee. It’s more than that, though. It starts in your chest and seeps it’s way through the rest of you. A want. A craving. That’s the word. You crave those eyes on you. The weight of his hands, the fortitude of him.

You’re not sure who closes the gap - whether it’s you or him - but either way it closes. It’s too natural for the context of your relationship. You slot together too well. It’s not like with Kyle. John carries an intensity with him that Kyle never could. His beard scratches not unpleasantly. His lips are warm - you can taste hints of scotch and his cigar. He smells of spice and earth. Your hands rest on his broad shoulders - unsure of where to put them.

This is wrong. It’s messy. You already lied about Kyle, which he’ll surely find out. If he hasn’t already. What about Johnny? Or Simon? Will they think less of you? Are you less for this? For impulsively kissing your boss in some back alley? Will Kyle be angry if he finds out? Your thoughts surge, all chaotic waves crashing against each other in an attempt to make sense of this situation you find yourself in.

John’s arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer into him. Your arms drape around his neck as you push onto your tips toes to meet him.

That’s a problem for future you.

A/N: Sorry this part took so long, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to escalate it or not but I want to get a move on with these boys

#poly 141 #poly 141 x reader #tf 141 x reader #141 x reader #captain john price x reader #captain john price #captain price x reader #captain price #john price x you #john price x reader #john price #kyle gaz garrick x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #john soap mctavish x reader #fem reader #plus size reader #fat reader

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dmitriene · 1 month

Text

cw: dubcon (?), reader is something akin to a hybrid.

simon riley picks up a stray, a small kitten that was balled up in some small, carton box in a narrow alleyway, black fur clumped together with grime and wetness from the rain, seeing the little thing all soaking under cold weather makes him feel a tiny spark of something unfamiliar smoke bitterly behind his ribs, so he picks the stray with him.

he almost gets his eyes clawed out, little claws digging into the skin of his scarred hands and shirt, trying to flee away with skittish hisses and loud mewls, but he still bundles the kitten, hiding the stray behind the thick fabric of his coat, calloused fingers scratching behind small, tightly pressed ears purposefully, making the amount of self protective noises subside to tiny growls.

simon tidies to the thing, washes the soft fur as softly as possible, untangling the thick clumps, making the water turn as black as the color of the fur, before curling the kitten in a big, fluffy towel that soaks all the wetness, carrying it to the kitchen, and the little stray already purring loudly in his hold, curled in the crook of his elbow as he enters the kitchen.

he feeds the stray with chunks of sausages from the fridge, simon doesn't has anything better, yet the little thing swallows it's all down with rumbling purrs and loud chewing sounds, mingling with small possessive growls, afraid someone gonna take it from her, but simon only pats the little thing at the head, before scooping the kitten up once all the sausages gone.

simon wakes up at morning to the small, pointed nails raking against his abdomen like talons, kneading at his skin under the crumpled shirt, his body sweating with warmth knotting beneath his navel, scorching deep in his gut, and when he opens his eyes, trying to lift himself on his elbows, he's greeted by pretty thing bouncing on his cock, thick girth buried deep down in the hot clutches of gooey hole.

his hands move to grip onto your round hips, squeezing at the fat, and your pussy clenches at the sudden movement, the fat tip of his cock jamming against your spongy spot as you bounce up and down, your soft ass plapping onto his thighs that is still covered by his pajama pants, as simon growls, biting at his thin bottom lip as his cock jerks, pale eyelashes fluttering with an urge to roll his eyes back.

simon doesn't knows who you are and how did you get inside, sleep hazed mind trying desperately to comprehend the events, but then there's thin, black tail swishing behind your back, rubbing against his leg and crumpled sheets, tiny ears peeking from your hair, pressed tightly against your skull as you gasp, canting your hips with jerky, rolling movements, and you start to mewl whiny, strained gratitudes.

your movements increasing, turning sloppy, and simon can't do anything but grasp tighter at your hips, helping you to rock down on his throbbing cock, squelching wet at the amount of the oozing slick that coats your puffy, spread folds, wetting his curly pubic hair, as his tip grazes just one more time against your little gooey spot, before you cum, clamping tightly with ripple of your warm walls around his jerking cock, gushing.

simon fills you up, reaching his climax right after yours, making his whole body shudder, as you pump your hole full of his milky cum that spills from your tight, fat pussy, holding him in a vice just right, rumbling purrs that vibrate against his chest, calling him your handler, and as your fluffy tail curls around his thigh, and you rub your face against the crook of his neck, he knows he picked more than just a simple stray kitten.

main masterlist. quidelines.

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textmel8r · 2 months

Text

[ DRABBLE ] 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 ! ( tenth installment ) in which you are forced to plan a corporate event with your office enemy .

୨୧˚ part; one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight. nine. ten. eleven.

୨୧˚ incl; kento nanami

୨୧˚ cw; profanity , smuttish , pure unadulterated fluff

୨୧˚ an; thank you all for the patience 😭😭 so sorry i’ve been busy getting back into uni shit but omg!!! slowburn is peaking!!! also the tag list is officially closed because i have reached the max # of tags!!!

୨୧˚ join my discord server ! we share headcanons, fanfic recs, color roles, and more drooling emoji

Nanami’s morning routine doesn’t deviate from the norm. An alarm clock was built into his genetic code, and he rouses at half past six in the morning. Unfurling his long limbs from the confines of the couch—the suede thing was big, but Nanami was bigger. Joints popped under sheets of muscle and flesh when he gave a hearty stretch, and with that, he was ready to start his Sunday.

Fueled purely on motor memory, he filters through each step of the habitual customs he’s grown to associate with mornings. You’re still sleeping soundly in his bed, and the risk of waking you condemns Nanami to his downstairs bathroom rather than the personal en suite tailing off his bedroom. It doesn’t pose much of an inconvenience; Nanami was nothing if not prepared. The slender closet in his downstairs bathroom housed spare toiletries—handkerchiefs, tooth brushes, soaps and oils.

He brushes his teeth first, watching his reflection with tired eyes. Minty foam froths at the corners of his lips. Nanami collects the mess with his tongue before spitting into the porcelain bowl of the sink. He’s thorough, scrubbing every corner of his mouth, followed by a pass through with charcoal infused floss. Next, the man is dabbing a button of facial cleanser onto a small square of towel, wetting it under the faucet. Scouring his cheeks, then forehead, then nose. His hair is mussed from tossing in his sleep, and if not for the guest upstairs, Nanami would probably leave it as is. But you’re his guest, and for some reason that means something to him, so he slicks back the blonde frizz with wet hands.

Another staple of Nanami’s morning routine: a good cup of coffee. The machine was expensive—Nanami tends to splurge when it comes to matters that mean most to him. He doesn’t mind spending a little extra on his suit wear, his beloved watches, and certainly not his coffee. Crafted from titanium and stainless steel, it sat heavily on the black marble countertop and whirred quietly as it compressed beans into the filter.

Ingredients line the island at the center of his extravagant kitchen. Weekends were the only days in which Nanami had enough time to cook breakfast for himself, rather than grabbing a bagel or danish from the convenience store on his way to the office. It was a shame, really, because he enjoyed the gratification of cooking his own meals. And not to toot his own horn, but he was rather proud of his skills.

He never cooks for two, though.

Nanami peruses the ingredient assembly line, looking from the organic eggs, to the all purpose flour, to the carton of mixed berries. It would be rude of him not to consider your palate. Did you prefer a savory breakfast? Or perhaps you’d rather have something on the sweeter side like pancakes? He nibbled his lower lip in thought.

A divine aroma saturates the entirety of downstairs. Nanami focuses on folding a second omellette, tucking the concoction of whipped egg, chopped bell peppers, caramelized onions, diced tomatoes, and grated sharp cheddar on itself with the delicacy of a surgeon. He’s knee deep in concentration, back turned towards his staircase so your presence goes entirely unnoticed.

Hands clap together somewhere over his shoulder. He jerks with a startled gasp, the fork in his hand clattering to vinyl tiles. Nanami presses a palm to his racing chest, twisting to find your hands just inches away from his ear. What a little shit, you are. He doesn’t waste effort trying to stifle his grimace. “Was that necessary?”

You’re crouched down, retrieving the silverware off the floor. “Now we’re even.”

“Even?”

“Yeah,” you hand him the fork, to which he blinks at the useless thing. It’s been dirtied by the floor, so Nanami instructs you to toss it in the sink and grab another from the utensil drawer at the end of his pointed finger. As you play fetch, you explain. “Do you know how scared shitless I was waking up in a strange bedroom? In strange clothes?” He’s watching you toy aimlessly with the abundance of extra material bunched up around the trussed waistband of your—his—sweatpants. Nanami’s clothes cloak you more than enough; cotton t-shirt hanging just below mid-thigh, and those damned oversized sweats rolled up in stupidly big cuffs at the ankles stopping over your socked feet. You must’ve adjusted them accordingly when you stepped out of bed. Something akin to apprehension pulled at your face. “We didn’t…”

Blonde brows scrunch as he attempts to decipher your blathering. When you beckon a hand between your chest and his, Nanami abruptly chokes on his saliva. “Are you out of your mind?” He’s quick to sputter, spinning back to face the sizzling pans and contain the tickle in his throat. A white bowl and whisk are gathered into strong arms—homemade blueberry pancake batter sloshes against the wiry bristles of Nanami’s whisk. He pours three more precise circles of batter onto the second frying pan, and the sweet paste fizzles against nonstick cookware. “You were intoxicated, Y/n. Couldn’t even remember your own address.” He paused. “A change of clothes seemed ideal in the moment. Something cozier.”

You hum in acknowledgement. Footsteps pad closer, and you appear beside him, resting your back against the counter. Your head lolls, cheek falling against your shoulder. He can feel your eyes gouging into the side of his face while he flips the pancake triplets. “You changed me?”

There’s a foreign tonality bleeding into your words, something almost playful, and he’s vexed. Are you teasing him? A trimmed thumb nail burrows into the silicone grip of a spatula. Or is that genuine curiosity? “I did,” Nanami gives you honesty, licking his lip as he does so. On it, he tastes a vague note of spearmint. “You needed some help.”

“God,” you touch a hand to your forehead and laugh, “that does sound like me.” There is no perturbation or embarrassment there, only relief, and he thanks God for your uncanny ability to bypass awkwardness in situations such as these. Had the roles been reversed and it was Nanami receiving word that a coworker of the opposite sex had dressed him in a period of inebriation, well, he’d probably send in a letter of resignation to the company the next day. “Sorry for being so difficult for you.”

He wags his head, dismissing the remorse. “Please, your apologies are far from necessary.”

“Oh I think they’re completely neces—”

“Aht.” A spatula stabs through the air stopping a few inches shy of your nose. There’s a sharpness that eclipses sepia eyes behind the crystalline shield of Nanami’s wire-framed glasses; a barbed glance that telepathically urges you to drop the argument before it begins. With that same spatula, he dives below fluffy circles of speckled cake and transports them from pan to plates, divvying up the pancakes into two even portions. “You took the medication I left for you, yes? They were beside the glass of water on the side table.”

“Yeah, thanks. I’m feelin’ better already.”

“Good,” he nods with a subtle, tight-lipped grin. “That’s good. Though you should probably get some food down. Fill your stomach with something other than tylenol.” Nanami stops his ministrations, satisfied with the presentation of both plates of breakfast, and pitches you a simple question. “Coffee?”

You practically moan, “coffee sounds really fucking amazing right now.”

Coffee it is then. Nanami proposes that you go settle yourself in a seat, and that he’d handle the rest. Forfeiting another argument, you buckle and slip into a high stool at the breakfast bar that is associated along the island in the midst of the kitchen. Two twin mugs are poached from the highest shelf, crafted of gray ceramic with uneven, white polka dots. He owned a whole dining set donning those same frivolous dots; Nanami always had an absurd fascination with peculiar patterns, they were charming to the man. Perhaps his collection of ugly things were meaningful because of how violently they contrasted to his otherwise ordinary life. In both mugs, scalding coffee brimmed and emanated laces of smoke slithering up to the ceiling. Nanami didn’t bother asking you how you took your coffee—he just knew. Knew from stealing glances at you over the past year, watching you concoct a disastrous potion of lukewarm coffee poured from the communal pot that you so desperately despised, skim milk from the carton in the office floor’s minifridge, and a concerning amount of sugar packets that made him feel inclined to alert your doctor. Nanami does his best to match the ratio of coffee to milk to sugar, gives it a stir, and hopes it’s up to your eccentric taste buds.

He sets your plate and mug down, sliding it across the counter’s surface to sit before you. Nanami chooses to stand where he is, leaning against the opposite end of the island. His foot, clad in a thick, black sock, taps quietly against the floor. “I wasn’t aware of your preferences so—”

“So you made…” You go quiet, prodding at the unusual combination of food on your plate: a vegetable-ridden omelette on one side and a few blueberry-encrusted flapjacks glazed in a modest squirt of maple syrup on the other. You hate it, he thinks shortly, but then a smile splits on your lips and Nanami fears he may have jumped the gun. “Eggs and pancakes?”

“You do like eggs and pancakes, don’t you?”

“Yes sir,” you respond, enthused. “It’s perfect.”

Nanami cringes. “I’d like it if you didn’t call me that outside of the workplace.”

“What? Sir?”

He hums. “Formalities remind me of work; I don’t like to think about work when I’m eating my breakfast.” He punctuates the request with a sip from his mug. Black, unsweetened coffee scathes his tongue with powerful calidity, but he’s well acquainted with its heat by now, and doesn’t wince.

“I’ll just stick to Nanami, then.”

“Actually, I—” Was it even worth mentioning? That he’d handed you the rights to use his first name last night? The tiny, bothersome devil on Nanami’s shoulder was whispering yes. “Kento will do.”

True, unadulterated glee beamed from your person, wafting a certain warmth across the counter to smack him in the face. “Holy shit, yeah that’s right! I remember now!” Using your fork as an arrow to point at the man, “last night, you told me that. You said I can call you Kennnn-Tooooo—”

“Okay, alright.” He’s jaded by your antics, swatting his hand in the air lazily. It’s too early in the morning to get serenaded by his own name. “Say it normally, or don’t say it at all.”

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just so crazy to think that we’re on a first name basis now, y’know?” You ask before shoveling a forkful of pancake into your mouth, sighing blissfully at the taste. Gratefulness oozed into your gestures, materializing in the way you simpered up at him following each and every bite. Smiles so broad that Nanami wondered if they were out of politeness or if you really just enjoyed his cooking that much.

He can cheers to your observation. “If you would’ve told me five months ago that you’d be sitting across from me in my home—sharing breakfast with me, no less—I would have…” Laughed in your face? Had a conniption? A combination of the two? Nanami trails off into thought, shaking his head. “I don’t know what I’d have done.”

So hellbent on sticking to his judgment, Nanami rarely changed his mind about people post first impressions. First impressions were something he valued, both in himself and in others. A snap perception is made based upon the first bits of information he collects from a person, and it wasn’t a stretch of the imagination to say that your initial communication was less than stellar. Since then, Nanami’s one-track mind had pinned associations onto you like a bulletin board, assigning your name with attributes like sleazy and trashy and (God, he felt the worst about this one) slutty. This entire time, it was Nanami’s stubbornness and penchant to be right that shielded him from the realization that you were none of those cancerous aspersions.

You are you.

You are a diligent worker. You are never on time. Your favorite color is (f/c). You are easy to talk to, easy to approach. You like pistachio cheesecake and criminally sweet coffee. You are insecure about your presentation skills, though Nanami can’t understand why. You are determined. You are rarely shy about asking for something you need, a quality he appreciates in someone. You make him laugh. You can’t hold your liquor. With the way you’re drooling over your plate like a hungry puppy, it’s apparent that you like his cooking. And he likes you.

He… what?

“Yeah, well,” you tilt your head, and the melodic chuckle that follows is enough to yank Nanami from his dazedness. Lifting your mug, you push it towards him in a sort of gesture. “Good thing the past doesn’t matter, huh? We were both lame in the past, but look at us now.” You retract the mug to your lips, taking a swig. “Future us is awesome. Are awesome? Is?”

You mumble to yourself, befuddled by grammar. Meanwhile, Nanami brews in thought. Your undying fearlessness of what’s to come in life always rendered him bewildered.

“I’m jealous,” he admits, idly tracing the rim of his cup with his thumb.

You perk up. “Of?”

“Your ability to embrace the future. It’s brave.”

“I think you’re giving me too much credit,” you sweatdrop, itching your cheek. “I wouldn’t call it bravery. Maybe security? I’m—yeah, I’m secure with the route I’ve taken in life.”

“You’re secure with white collar work?”

“I can’t see myself in any other profession,” you smile, flicking him a brow. “What about you?”

Honesty permitted, Nanami would describe his job as the bane of his misery. There used to be a point in his life in which he was sure that this was his ultimate goal: a senior executive position with an esteemed, high-profile company. Younger Nanami was content to endure years of early mornings and late nights with busy schedules jammed in between because it’d all be worth it when he finally tastes that sweet senior title. Except, now he’s tasted it. He’s licked it dry, and despite that, that feeling of fulfillment Nanami had been vying for his whole career remains frustratingly dormant. The notion that this will be his routine until retirement kills him.

He chews thoughtfully on a sliver of pancake before responding. “We touched on this a little over text.”

“You want to travel.”

You remembered. He hums. “I do.”

“And you want a family.”

“I do,” Nanami sighs longingly.

You don’t make an effort to stifle a chuckle at his supposed foolishness. Shaking your head and cutting your eggs with the blunt side of a fork; “You talk about these things as if it’s all some sort of cushiony pipe dream. It’s really fucking hilarious all things considered.”

“All things considered?” Perplexed, Nanami pries for an expansion.

And with all the seriousness in the world, you begin to count on your digits. “You are probably the most charming, most intelligent, most wealthy—”

“Y/n,” Nanami yawps at your conviction. When you jest, you do it in such an obvious way. He’s come to familiarize himself with the clever quirk of your mouth’s corner, or that playfully irritating glint in your smile-squinted eyes. But now, Nanami can’t find any evidence of joking in your stoney expression. You’re sincere when you say these things about him. It makes his heart pound so viciously that it vibrates his ear drums.

“Most hard-working man I’ve ever met.” Unfazed by his apparent flusteredness, you finish with a nonchalant shrug. “Just funny, is all, that you of all people are stressing over these things when you have the ingredients to make your ambitions a reality.”

“Your compliments are… thanked…” The blonde ducks his head in an awkward, halfhearted bow, “but I can’t ever hope to truly begin my life when I don’t have the time granted to do so.” Nanami touches an index and middle finger to his temple, rubbing in soothing circles. It doesn’t do much to quell the oncoming migraine that this nightmarish topic never fails to cast upon him. “I’ve tried. Believe me when I say that I have worked my ass off trying to balance my job alongside nurturing a relationship. But I’ve come to realize how unfair of me that is—to ask a woman to bear with my neglect because I got held up at the office for the fifth night in a row. A relationship isn’t much of a relationship at all if both people still feel lonely.”

Unbeknownst to him, his tone had slipped away for a moment. He became bitter, recalling the lineup of failures that made up his dating history. Bitter and lonely. It’s been almost two years now that Nanami has abandoned the dating scene, if not for his sake than for the sake of his next girlfriend. Though, he can’t help but have moments of tenderness in which he thinks that maybe all of his occupational achievements would have been more gratifying if he had someone to share them with.

He clears his throat, lowering his voice back down when he apologizes for getting emotional.

“Don’t say sorry.” You offer a reassuring grin. “I’m sorry for assuming shit about your life. That was uncool of me.”

“Don’t say sorry,” Nanami parrots, returning your grin with a sheepish one of his own, and tilts his head toward his shoulder. “I didn’t exactly mind the compliments.”

“Conceited bastard.”

He hides his simper well behind his mug. “I’d still like to know what makes you happy, if that offer is still on the table.”

“Why’s that?”

“I just would like to.” Nanami licks his lower lip, eyes grazing yours. “Do I need a more convoluted reason than that?”

Your face reads like a book. It tells him don’t be a smartass, so he yields to your unimpressed frown. “You’re not gonna like my answer. Working makes me happy.”

The revelation doesn’t shock him. “You are demonstrably proficient, Y/n. In my professional opinion, I have no doubts that you’ll be successful.” Nanami does his best to mirror your sincerity.

“More successful than you?” You tease.

“Oh forget me, I give it five years before you’re replacing Gakuganji,” he laughs gently before pressing a finger to his lips, mimicking secrecy. “Let’s keep that between us, though.”

“The day you take orders from me is the day I can die happy.”

I wouldn’t mind that day.

“But to be honest, I think it cuts deeper than the success aspects. Ah, It’s kinda hard to put it into words…” You take a moment to string together an explanation while Nanami waits patiently. “I’m sort of a mess in my personal life. I fuck a lot of things up, I make bad judgement calls, I can get a little lazy sometimes—I just do shit wrong. Or at least, that’s what I feel like.”

Nanami hangs on every word.

“So, like, to come to work everyday and be organized and–and put on this presentation of competency,” your tongue clicks sweetly, “I need that. I need people to see me that way—I think that’s why it affected me so much when you… when you saw me…”

“At the party?” He clarifies.

You purr in agreement. “Yeah. That. I felt like, I don't know, like I shattered my whole ‘persona’ and you saw me. You really saw me.”

He can’t look away from you. The way you’re visibly shrinking, collapsing in on yourself like a wounded animal. Constricting your own torso with your arms in a self-soothing hug. Are you ashamed?

When Nanami finally speaks, he keeps his voice calm. Soft and cottony. “Do you always have such degrading thoughts about yourself?”

“I wouldn’t call it degradation…”

“I would.” Brows furrow, and he leans further into the conversation with his elbows on the island’s surface. “You talk about yourself as if you’re two separate people.”

“Don’t you see it, too?” You ask him gravely, as though you’re hinging on Nanami’s opinion. Like his insubstantial assessment of you is the only thing that matters. “You won’t offend me, I swear.”

Unperturbed, he blinks. “Not at all.”

“Then you’re fucking blind,” you cluck. “Those glasses aren’t doing much for you.”

Nanami nips the inner seam of his cheek, unamused. Right now, he isn’t much in the mood for jokes. Not when he now understands the extent of the disdain that you have for yourself. It irks him that you can’t see how rare of a person you are.

“My eyesight has no relevance, stop deflecting with humor.” “I’m not deflecting!”

“Yes, you are. Now please, stop and let me talk for a moment,” Nanami shows you his palm, and you find your silence. “You are not two people, Y/n, you’re just one. Just you. Sure, you have your quirks and flaws—as does everyone else—but they are what makes you you. They make you nice to be around.”

“You think I’m nice to be around?”

“We meet nearly every weekend now, have you been under the impression that I hated your presence?”

“It’s hard to tell with you sometimes. I assumed you were still hanging out with me because you felt like you owed me. Which you totally did, by the way.” You purse your lip together, stiff. “But, um, your debt has long been paid, especially with this delicious breakfast. So… y’know, if you don’t want to go out, you can just tell me.”

A breathy, humorous exhale huffs through Nanami’s nostrils. “I am a grown man. If I don’t want to do something, then I won’t do it. This,” he gestures between himself then you, “isn’t occurring out of pity or some strange form of charity. You’re here right now because I want you to be, okay?”

That little declaration pulls a coy smile from you, something Nanami introspectively overthinks. He tells himself that you’re blushing, just barely noticeable past your complexion. “Okay.” You whisper, the apples of your cheeks more pronounced than he’s ever seen them before.

Baring witness to a skittish Y/n was not on the docket for Nanami’s Sunday. He’s aware that this little discussion should stop. It was enroute to breaching something—something intimate and foreign and never to be acknowledged between you both. Unspoken chemistry that Nanami intended to let shrivel up and rot within his core because he doesn’t have the strength to snuff out the beacon of light you’ve shown in his life when he inevitably ruins yet another relationship.

But…

“I’ve had more fun in the past month than in my twenty-seven years of life. With you, I mean. So please don’t shun the side of you that exists outside of the office, because you have this spark that I haven’t seen in any of my associates in a long time. I’m… I would be upset if you let yourself turn into another copy-and-paste corporate zombie.”

There is an obvious shift in the kitchen air. It’s blossomed deep and heavy; Nanami feels like it’s become a struggle to keep himself from sinking into the floor. Your gaze is bolted to him, his to yours, in a quiet exchange of consciousness. Can you hear his thoughts? You look at him so intensely, he fears you might be able to hear how beautiful he thinks you look under the fluorescent light bulbs fixed into the ceiling.

You slip off your stool. Nanami watches your trek around the curve of the island. Onto his side.

It’s through feathery lashes that you look up at him.

“Do you find me attractive?”

The spine you have to ask such an audacious question. Visceral palpitations strike through the beating organ in his chest. His hand brushes the ledge of the countertop, then grips it for stability. “Yes.” So attractive, that he felt he could die right now.

“Even after I vomited on your shoes?”

“I thought you didn’t remember last night?” Nanami goads.

“It’s coming back to me.”

You feign cheekiness. “Yeah,” he swallows, taking a shaky breath for himself. “Still beautiful.”

Beautiful, even with remnants of day-old eyeliner smudges below those doe eyes. Messy in the most enticing way. An urge swells within Nanami, to cradle your precious face and swipe the makeup off your flesh with his thumb. However, you moved first.

Reaching upwards, you pluck the pair of glasses off his nose. He lets you. Folded, they sit on the island.

Nanami gives a subtle shake of his head, tonguing the sharp corner of his lip. “What are you doing?” It comes out hushed, like he’s telling a secret.

“I don’t know,” you reply impishly.

The following events can only be categorized as amorous. Ever so slowly, your hand touches. Pressing to his chest, feeling every valley and peak on its ascension to his collarbone. It peeks out from over top the collar of his raggedy, white tee shirt, and you feel him there. Offhandedly, he believes this may be the first time you’ve seen him outside of suitwear. Long, languid breaths keep him grounded, but Nanami can barely stand this torture. Though for you, he does. He lets you touch everything you want, biting his lip all the while.

“What are you doing?” It comes again, more breathy than the last.

You don’t answer, far too enraptured by the panes of his neck. He feels you drag a fingertip down the trail of a vein. Resolve unravels, he’s slipping.

“Kento.”

If he looked into a mirror at this moment, would he even recognize himself? Nanami knows he’s a better man than this. It should take more than the pillowy drawl of his name to snap the wavering thread of self-discipline within him.

Chest touches chest; he’s got you trapped against the kitchen island. The same island you both were sharing breakfast with five minutes ago. The same island, Nanami kisses you now.

Your face is sandwiched between two large hands. Nanami holds you to him, angling your neck back so he can grind his tongue deeper into your warm throat. There is no buildup, no preemptive apprehension that repels him from committing to bury himself in your mouth. He kisses you with no regrets, just desire and stifling yearning.

Moans vibrate the slobbery mess. Nanami feels a bouquet of fingers latch onto his hip and pull—he rewards you, sucking sensually against the tip of your tongue. It’s fucking hot. He’s hot. And hard. Nanami’s sweating. He’s grabbing. He’s rubbing. He’s—-

Beep!

The kiss stops synchronously with twin gasps. You gawk up at him, wide-eyed at the sudden auditory intrusion. He’s looking right back down at you, panting.

“It's the oven.”

“Oh.”

All the passion had seemingly drained, Nanami felt the altar in the atmosphere. With all the reluctance in the world, he pushes himself back to give you sizable space. Unsure of how this aftermath would play out. Awkwardly, he clears his throat, swabbing excess saliva from his chin with a palm. “I uhm—I was baking some bread.”

You nod, avoiding eye contact. “That’s cool.”

You look mortified, and that makes him feel mortified. “Y/n, I’m sorry for—”

“It’s fine.”

His heart sinks to his guts. “No, it’s not fine. Please, let me ap—”

“Kento,” you cut him off, “you didn’t do anything wrong. Like, at all, so stop apologizing. If anyone should be sorry, it’s me.”

Nanami’s brows pinch together, and he gapes at that. “You haven’t done a single thing wrong either.” You don’t seem to believe him, what with the way you sway from left foot to right foot, hands twiddling restlessly. Cautious, he takes a step closer. “You look anxious. I’m by no means kicking you out, but I don’t want to keep you here if it makes you uncomfortable. Just say the word and I’ll call you a ride home.”

A sigh graces your kiss-swollen lips, and you bow graciously. “Please, that would be great, thanks.”

“Yeah,” Nanami says gently, moving to fish his phone out of the pocket of his flannel pajama bottoms. “Of course.”

“I’ll go change out of your clothes—”

“Keep them on, I insist.” He’s quick to halt you. “And leave yours upstairs, I’ll run them through the washing machine. We can exchange them tomorrow.”

“I—okay, thank you.” You look so apologetic, it wounds him. “Thank you for everything. For taking me home last night, for breakfast, for–for this.”

“You don’t have to thank me. But you’re very welcome.”

Your taxi shows up a few minutes later. It’s hard to watch you go, especially when you left him on dubious terms. Were you upset by his kiss? Nanami hopes to God that’s not the case. Or maybe you were appalled? Fearful, even?

Nanami needs to turn his brain off—this cancerous spiral of thinking would only send him into a dark pit of guilt, and he had a web meeting later in the evening. After washing the dishes leftover from the breakfast endeavor, he sits on the sofa with his head in his hands

You tasted like fucking maple syrup.

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bandgie · 1 month

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Green-Eyed Perv | Armageddon Event

Request: Envy | Han Jisung ft. Bangchan (SKZ) by anon song!

warnings: MDNI18+, voyeurism, masturbaiting (m!), chan is dating reader, han uses readers undies, han gets caught, crying (m!), mxm implications, pussy eating (implied), squirting, 3some implied, chan called daddy like twice

1.8k words

He knew you were over the moment Jisung entered his home.

Even if you weren’t moaning upstairs from getting your back blown out by his roommate, Chan, Jisung would still know because of the clothes littered throughout the house.

The two of you must have come already eager, ripping the clothes off each other that trail to the stairs. Jisung notices your skirt in a lump, almost tauntingly.

To be fair, he did tell Chan he would be home late. His roomie probably took that as an invite to bring his girlfriend over for some…quality time. It’s just by pure coincidence that work had finished up early enough for Jisung to listen to your moaning and begging.

And no, he is not jealous. That ugly feeling in the pit of his stomach is not from knowing it’s Chan getting to fuck you. Being able to see your body in all its glory - wet, sticky, and everything beautiful.

And no Jisung doesn’t get worked up from hearing you two either. He doesn’t even pay attention to the way your whimpers muffle through the walls. And he most definitely does not creep to that pile of clothes, bending down to search for those pretty panties he always sees poking from the top of your skirts.

They’re lavender. Such a gentle color that seems too innocent to be wrapped around his cock, but that’s exactly what Jisung is thinking of doing. He brings the material to his face first, tilting so that his nose can get a good smell of you.

And, shit, he groans. Jisung’s hand tightens around your panties and he practically shoves it in his face.

It smells raw, like a musk that only you and Chan should know. It won’t hurt for Jisung to know too, just a little secret between the three of you.

He stands, keeping the material to his nose while quietly walking up the stairs. Jisung doesn’t have to worry too much about the noise. Chan’s bedroom squeaks and groans anyway, further disguising his presence.

And, like always, the door is cracked just enough. A habit from Chan, just in the rare case there’s an emergency he has to attend to quickly. There’s no way he would have known his caring trait would result in Jisung’s perversion. That it only adds aid to the swelling of his cock as he gets to peer at you two.

You’re not on your hands and knees like Jisung imagined. Instead, Chan seems to squat over you, your legs wide and open so that he can fuck into you mercilessly. This breeding position gives a great view from behind, seeing how your cunt breaks and opens for the cock burying inside.

In the beginning, Jisung always felt guilty. He hesitated in pulling his cock out, tugging at it unconfidently. Now, this scene is almost like a recurring episode. It’s all with familiarity that Jisung yanks his sweats low enough to pull himself out, struggling only a bit since his other hand still holds the underwear to his nose.

So much cream oozes down your ass. It slides down until melting into the sheets underneath.

A waste, Jisung thinks. He could be under you, mouth on your pussy while Chan keeps drilling into you. If you smell this good already, he can’t imagine how you'd taste. Your pretty moans would only increase. Even if you don’t use his cock, if Chan doesn’t allow him to get a feel of your pussy wrapped around him, he’d still be of use.

Jisung can be good. He can be so good. He’ll even help his hyung get hard if it means getting to feel your clit throb on his tongue.

He can imagine all he wants, but the fact is that he pathetically watches from the cracked door while pumping himself. The pre-cum acts as lube as Jisung strokes himself. Your panties grow wet from his drooling. He opts to make it drenched, widening his mouth to get a brief taste.

Your whimpers mask his own. Jisung can’t help the sound leaving his throat with your savor mixing with his spit.

“Ch-Channie.” You gasp out your lover's name. “I’m gonna cum.”

Already? No, no, no he just got here. Jisung may finish pretty quick himself, but he wants to keep watching.

“Yeah? Cum on my cock, baby.” Chan only encourages you further. His thrusts quicken. His sack slaps on your ass so hard that the noise echoes.

You squeal. Jisung watches your fingers thread into Chan’s hair, tugging his curls almost painfully. “Yesyesyesyes…”

He wishes he could see your face, how your face would twist in pleasure. The way your pretty lips would curve into a blissful smile.

Or would you keep your mouth open? Pouring out the uncontrollable moans and pleas that Chan fucks out of you.

Jisung had barely gotten your panties around his cock when you cum. Clear fluid spurts from your cunt, hitting the edge of the bed.

And Chan, Chan keeps fucking you. Jisung can see the glistening cum on the back of your thighs, on Chan’s cock that drills into you. How his hyung doesn’t slip out once, Jisung doesn’t know.

But Jisung is grateful for Chan’s endurance. It lets him be able to feel the soft cotton on his cock. It’s so wet, so warm that if Jisung closes his eyes, he can pretend it’s your cunt and the noises you’re making are because of him.

“Yeah, that’s it.” Chan groans. “Cum on it. Who’s fucking you? Huh? Who’s fucking this pussy?”

Way to ruin it, Jisung thinks. But he prepares. He waits for the name that will naturally tumble from those swollen lips.

Cha-

“H-Han.”

What? No, he misheard. Their names are similar, a mere letter difference, but you keep saying it over and over.

“Han! Hanhanhan. D-door.”

Jisung’s eyes snap open. When he looks into the room again, he sees your head around Chan’s body, straining your neck to catch him in the act.

Chan’s thrusts slow, stopping so his cock is buried deep. You squeal, but your eyes don’t leave Jisung’s once.

“Han.”

His heart drops to his stomach. You have to know. You have to see your underwear being used as a fleshlight and the flush in Jisung’s cheeks. Adrenaline courses through his body, but he freezes instead of running away like he should.

“Told you.” Your words are directed at Chan. “I told you he watches.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Jisung feels the sting in his eyes. It was only a matter of time before he got caught, but he was being so careful. He was sure it wouldn’t be until a while before-

“Guess you did.” Jisung can hear a smile in his hyung’s voice. “Looks like you were right after all.”

You giggle. Laughing like your boyfriend’s roommate wasn’t just perving on you two.

Your attention turns back to Jisung, beckoning him with your head. “Don’t just stand there, weirdo. Come in.”

It must be a trick. Jisung is convinced Chan will beat him up the moment he walks through the door, but no harm is done even as Jisung stands next to you and him, hiding his cock with your underwear.

He has to apologize before it’s too late. What if he messes up your relationship with Channie? What if Chan doesn’t want to be his friend anymore? Jisung wouldn’t blame him if he kicked him out, but fuck, it would hurt.

Instead, Jisungs chokes on a sob. He tries so hard to blink the tears away, but he can’t help the few that fall.

You coo immediately. Chan pulls out to let you sit up and reach for Jisung, pulling his wrist so he sits on the damp bed.

“Hannie, nooo.” You use your thumb to swipe a tear away. “I’m not mad.”

Jisung gasps for air, clutching onto your panties for dear life. “Y-you’re not?”

You shake your head, but Jisung finds it hard to believe you. “But I was watching you two. I was…I was being gross and-”

“I like it.” You scoot closer. “I like it when you watch.”

“Even…even if it's gross?”

You smile. “Well, isn’t that why it feels so good? You watching us and us knowing, it’s gross both ways.” Your lips curve lustfully. “But it makes me so wet. Makes Channie want to fuck me harder.”

Jisung turns to his hyung who turns pink. “I mean…I might as well if someone’s watching.”

“See?” You grab hold of Jisung’s chin to make him look at you. “We’re all a little gross. You don’t have to feel bad.”

Maybe that’s true. It’s even gross for some people to be comforted by someone completely naked. But Jisung only leans into your touch more, finding himself being consoled by your nude self.

“I just don’t want you to hate me.”

Words don’t seem to be helping. You opt to show Jisung, pulling him further until he lays on the bed on top of you.

Chan brushes the hair from your face, letting Jisung get a good look.

You’re still flushed, pink from being fucked only minutes ago. The space between your breasts is riddled with bruises and Jisung wishes he could only add more.

“Never.” You’re whispering now. “We could never hate you.”

Are you going to let him fuck you? While your boyfriend watches? That would be such a turnover. It would feel good to make his hyung watch how good he would fuck his girl. You might swap men if he does it right.

His cock chubs up at the thought. He’s still nervous, but it’s not from fear like before. Your eyes and touches are reassuring in the best way.

“Oh, I don’t think so buddy.” Chan places a hand on Jisung’s shoulder. “I know what you’re thinking. You are not getting to fuck her.”

Jisung turns, lower lip jutting out in a pout. “No?”

“No.” Chan’s firm. “You’re not ready for that.”

In desperation, Jisung looks at you. His eyes plead for you to say otherwise, but you’re already shaking your head.

“Daddy makes the rules around here.”

Chan laughs, but his grip tightens on Jisung. “Yeah. And daddy says no.” The thick hand on Jisung’s shoulder pushes him until he has no choice but to crawl down. It’s not until his face is to your cunt that Chan releases him.

You happily giggle, spreading your legs immediately and holding the back of your thighs.

Some remnants of your cream and squirt remain on your cunt. Your hole flutters just slightly, coaxing Jisung’s tongue from his mouth.

It looks so beautiful this close. Your swollen clit peeking from the hood. Your lips flush in a dark pink that has Jisung leaking again.

“You can clean her up for the next round.” Chan lays next to you, groping your tits and pinching your nipples. “And after that, you can watch and keep humping her underwear. Deal?”

Jisung can’t tell if he wants to thank Chan or glare at him, but he nods anyway. He already told himself that he’d do anything to get a taste of you. If this is what it must be, being nothing but a munch and a perv, then so be it.

His cock will be satisfied with your panties, like always.

#smut #skz smut #stray kids smut #stray kids #skz #skz hard hours #skz hard thoughts #skz han smut #skz han jisung #skz han #skz bangchan #bangchan smut #bangchan #chan smut #skz jisung #bang chan smut #bang chan #armageddon event!

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maddragon15 · 4 months

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Obscenely late hermitaday day #23 & 25! - Impulse & Tango

Was this meant to be a simple cel shaded drawing on the 30th? Yeah, yeah it was lmao but somehow the power of fire excels at overtaking the rendering capabilities.

But since it's late I'll use this as excuse to ramble below about well, the headcanons and the process down yonder. Also there's variations.

(Also just realized that the compression is high with this one, please click on it to see the details pretty pleasee)

So! Let's talk about that haircut shall we? First off Tango's haircut is basically just me slapping my very neglected oc's haircut onto him lol. There's no function usage or any other lore about it, literally just I wanted to use that haircut more. But Miners and Crafters that's not all! The intensity of the flame actually has meaning believe it or not.

Since Tango in the headcanons is already a nether born blaze hybrid the redstone kinda didn't have an effect on him. This is because blazes produce glowstone which is a power source onto itself. He gets minor effects instead which is a mild (there's literally no other word) high, a intensified hair flame and a brighter eye night shine. Negative effects include mild joint & jaw pain, and a small localized headache behind the left eye.

I like to imagine that other blaze hybrids' hair flame aren't normally that intense, not white-hot heat but rather more red n orange hot similar to the flats. Mainly due to the fact that glowstone is not as powerful as redstone and it's also dependent on how strong a blaze is. Now imagine with me that blazes determine how strong each other are via the color they're emitting. Now remember the blaze boss Minecraft had a vote on to add or not to add? What if Tango is constantly mistaken as a high ranking blaze because of how intense his fire is and he doesn't get attacked a whole lot except for the few that want to challenge him. Meanwhile Tango is just highly infused with redstone like all the other redstoners and he doesn't know what's happening half time as seen by his terrified scream-laughs /hj

He's also semi modified with redstone for the pure purpose of comms just like the other redstoners minus mumbo. I also would've leaned into the steampunk aspect of this season but I figured I'd do a character sheet like etho for all of the redstoners and finalize the aspects on those.

Onto Impulse!

I like to imagine that Impulse was a regular human and over the course of redstone exposure he gained pointed ears and horns. For what reasons? I have no idea but redstone works in mysterious ways and mutates on whatever happens to be in their system. You may see that he has purple lines across his face but then red pupils, why is that? Well since he's cyperpunk themed this season he modified his redstone implants to be rgb. He can change everything else except his pupils because those are deeply affected by redstone and would require surgery to remove the build up of redstone. Will any of the redstoners ever actually get rid of it? No but you can beg all day.

You also might be wondering what's happening in their ears? Well those are the advanced comms that are actually used across all hermits except the ones who've opted out for glowstone variants. They kinda work like bluetooth except more hermit-magic way. I haven't had time to fully think of how it'd work down to the circuitry (that's my usual process for headcanons before I ship them out) but I'll post about it when I think of the full layout. Other design aspects on impulse are derived from his skin and the poster design by applestruda!

Process wise for this piece was kinda a rollercoaster heh. I had started this piece a while ago (can't remember the day on the dot) and then I got insanely busy during the last week of hermitaday. I had done sketch, refined sketch and flats in two days. Then events proceeded forth and we arrive on the 4th which I tried for an entire day to figure out how to render this piece. I then gave up and tried again the day after and pulled up references this round on Pinterest. Tango was surprisingly easy to paint with ref and went rather fast. I will admit the entire time I was rendering him I did say every minute or so "I love you man" because he was turning out so good. Halfway through I then realized I still had to render Impulse. That's when I pretty much ended that night because it was already 5 am working on Tango and demotivation was setting in fast. The next day I was able to continue with hesitancy on Impulse but I managed to keep on keeping on and in the early hours of today I finished up the piece. Where I'm now writing about it close to 2 pm in a restaurant. Man though it was kinda hard to make Impulse and Tango look like cohesive and as if they were painted together.

Enjoy!

(Side note I applied for inprint and if I am to be accepted this will be available along side the three different eefs I've drawn and doc.)

#hermitaday #(by the gods this is late)#hermitcraft #impulsesv #impulse fanart #hermitcraft impulse #tangotek #tango fanart #hermitcraft tango #par art

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chibsandchill · 1 month

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Stolen moments under silk sheets (18+)

Fandom: HOTD (House of the dragon)

Pairing: Aemond x AFAB!reader

Summary: Aemond is touch starved. That’s it. That’s the whole story. Kind of.

Masterlist

My requests are open!

MDNI NSFW (warnings under the page break). SFW version here!

Warnings: Including but not exclusively slivers of angst sprinkled here and there, fluff, oral sex (m & f receiving), p in v sex, creampie, obsessive behavior, obsessive thoughts, descriptions of metaphorical self-harm, very brief mentions of the dance and the events that happened (some canon divergence), Aemond is his own warning, canon typical themes, the beginning is a bit slow, grammatical and spelling errors (English is not my first language)

I am not responsible for your media consumption

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

The roses in your garden have begun to wilt. Summer is leaving, and winter claims all, but you remain untouched by the darkness that crept ever closer with each passing cycle. Your roses may have lost their vibrant colors but your face remained as bright and beautiful as ever. You thrive even in desolation – the harsh winds cannot steal the warmth from your cheeks or the spark from your eyes.

“And you say you do not care for gardening, my love.”

He’s almost startled by your presence, but since the war very little caught him off guard. But that look in your eyes? The overwhelming affection? That was something Aemond reckoned he would never get used to. And yet he could not get enough, you had awakened a beast inside him that fed and craved all things you. A smile did not satiate him like it used to, a night spent together felt like a fleeting moment spirited away by vengeful gods.

Aemond hums. “Your passions are my passions.”

You wrap your arms around his waist, resting your face on his shoulder. He felt, in that moment, as if he was standing on jelly, his knees threatening to buckle and his spine like liquid. There was not enough of you pressed against him. He felt burning hot and freezing cold at the same time, his skin crawling with want and desire, his cock half-hard already and his mind buzzing.

“Clever.” You chuckle into the crook of his neck. Aemond shivers as your warm breath hits the sensitive skin there.

“Did I wake you?”

His words are a whisper. Soft and with underlying guilt. You do not sleep well anymore, not without him. Too much has happened. The death of Jaehaerys proved that there is no sanctuary that cannot be breached, not a lock that cannot be broken, and not a part of you that will not suffer.

You shake your head.

“Liar.”

“I was already awake. I like to…”

“Hm? There is no judgment here.”

There was not an inch of you that he would part from – not a sliver of you he would not take, and not a piece of you he did not dream of devouring. The opposite was also true, for he craved to be taken, to be devoured and kept more than he ever dreamt of possessing. Aemond would have all of you, had woven that promise into the very fabrics of your marriage, embedded the words as if they were a spell into his vows, and oh, how sweetly you had smiled upon hearing them. He doubted you heard them for what they truly were. Are.

“I watch you,” you confess, “when you sleep. You look so… so peaceful. The war has yet to poison that.”

He blinks. Seconds tick by, but Aemond is too busy staving off the greedy blush from turning him red to respond. He is unable to respond, truly, even were he not practically glowing at your words. Words clump together on his tongue.

“I should speak to the Housekeeper then,” Aemond clears his throat, “ if the room is so lacking you need to resort to staring at me. Though, perhaps I should thank her for her oversight that surely allows you to fall asleep quickly.”

The corners of your lips fall, barely, but there is nothing about you he does not notice. There is nothing you can hide from his greedy eyes.

“Twas a compliment, husband.”

“Perhaps a visit to the Maester is needed-”

You press a hand flat against his cheek and he falls silent. Your thumb brushes across his cheekbone to the apple of his cheek, to under his eye. There it rests, caressing him. He wants more. Your touch is only skin-deep, and it is not enough. If he could, he would press himself against your skin until all that remained of him was fading heat. Until he was but a faint whisper on the wind and his memory lived on only in you, for there was not a part of him he did not wish to give you. He would carve a place for him in you – in your heart, so that he would be close always. You would beat as one, breathe as one.

“Yours is a beauty that the gods go to war for.”

“Perhaps once.” Aemond looks away.

“Scars are stories of hardships overcome. They are marks of victory, do not think they make you less. They never will. Not to me.”

“Perhaps so, but I am not whole. There is a piece of me that was stolen and I can never get it back. The gods would not even glance at a man such as I for anything other than a feat of greatness.”

“And you have shown them many,” you press a short kiss against his neck. “You claimed the Queen of all Dragons,” another kiss, “you won many battles on dragonback,” another kiss, “you showed mercy to your enemies,” a series of kisses follow that claim, all inching up his neck. “You saved your brother and Sunfyre,” a kiss on his cheek, “you were crowned King by the smallfolk”, this kiss fell on the corner of his lips, “and you have been a most attentive husband.”

A kiss straight on his lips. Aemond melts into it, pressing himself into you. You pull away too soon and he finds himself chasing after you, desperate for one more touch.

“The gods give the toughest battles to their strongest soldiers.” You thumb the skin under his eye, “and you have won them all. Take pride in that. Gods know I do.”

“You do?” He asks.

He did not think himself strong, or a champion of god given battles. His weaknesses tower over the oasis of strength, and so they are hidden to him. But he is not a vain man, that is not why he hates Luke for stealing his eye.

You smile. “Of course. And I think all the beauty in the world fades compared to yours. Scars and all.”

Aemond is not sure he believes your words, but he believes you. It is a conflicting mess of jumbled thoughts mingling with the words of others. He was never the beauty of the family, his dragon was not the beauty of her kin. His life was one of hiding, of pride hidden beneath compliance, of hatred festering under blushing skin.

“You flatter me, my love.” He says before his eyes wander back to your roses. “Yours is the only opinion worth hearing. The only one that matters.”

You hum. “Come back to bed, Aemond.”

“As my Queen commands.”

The draping curtains flutter in the soft autumn wind, and from Aemond’s side of the bed he could see out across the Blackwater Bay. Sometimes when the wind is harsh and the rain plenty, Aemond is back in the skies above Storm’s End. He dreams of thousands of ways he could have saved Luke, though he does not wish he lived, not truly. In some dreams he thought of ways he could harm him further – truly punish him for what he took from Aemond that night.

You can never have all of him. Not anymore. Though he dares not tell you that is why he cannot look at himself in mirrors. He would not show you the twisted being that hid under his skin. The one that would gouge out his other eye without hesitation were you to ask and smile as he did so.

He could never, would never forgive Luke for what he stole from you. It is a hatred so woven into his very being that he would carry that with him even in all Seven Hells.

“Come,” you beckon, kneeling on the bed. “If my words alone are not enough, I will prove it to you.”

“Prove what?”

His voice is low, filled with desires transcending earthly flesh. His is one of hunger for your very soul.

“Come here and I will show you.” Your smile is coy, playful even. There are half-wilted petals from your roses on the bed behind you. They form no pattern, haphazardly thrown across the sheets.

He wonders when you put them there.

Aemond comes to a stop in front of you, hands clasped behind his back, posture ramrod straight. He feels as though he is standing in front of the gods themselves, awaiting judgment. He hopes that he is enough, even if he cannot offer you all of him. There will always be a piece of him enduring the times alone.

He does not feel worthy of you. No amount of petals carefully gathered off prickly stems will soften the harsh edges of his being. The love he grew up around was conditional, and though he was rarely struck, their words were as sharp as daggers, and left deep scars that will never heal. It left him jagged, bleeding, tearing at the seams with a beast untamed. In the image of you he tried to mend himself, with your love he patched the holes left by cruel words. He tore the flames from his breath so that his wrath could never burn you, the claws from his hands so that his touch would always be gentle. Not a piece of him was worth suffering in the absence of anything you.

He was a dragon playing at being a lover.

But he broke his wings for just a glimpse of you, then forced himself to fly when you desired to feel the wind against your face. You could not see the darkness oozing from the cracks of him, of your husband as you knew him.

If it meant losing you, he would be a dragon no longer.

He could simply be him.

Aemond.

But Aemond knew not who he was anymore. He knew who he was forced to become, and who war made him. But war was no longer, and yet the man rising from the ashes of his kin’s pyres remained.

“Aemond?”

“Yes?”

“Where do you go when you get so lost in your head?”

He does not wish to reveal to you how deep his longing for you goes. It is etched into the walls of his heart, it is a bottomless pit that calls only your name. He can never fill it. It aches and aches, and he longs and longs. His envy knows no bound, it is endless in its hunger for you. He would have all of you if he could, just as he wants you to have all of him. Every thought in your head, every feeling, every sensation.

“Lost. I get… lost.” He confesses. The words are raw and a piece of his armor is cracked open to reveal mangled flesh of all Aemond’s that has been and will be. His recreation of himself in your image is as endless as his need to please.

“Oh, my love,” you whisper. “Let me take care of you.”

You reach for the strings on his trousers before you pull them down. He steps out of them easy enough, though he feels awkward standing there with his tunic on. Though you did not leave him to suffer for long before you pulled his shirt off as well. You palm at his chest, touching every divot and lean muscle on his chest. It is overwhelming. He almost feels like crying.

Your fingers massage, they scratch, they soothe and they burn his feverish skin. Your touch sets him alight. He can feel your love through every pass of your fingers over his skin. You press against the lean muscle, caress the slopes and divots of his flesh. Though you have long since memorized each other’s bodies, you touch him as if it is your first. His mind is dizzy with you, he feels as if he’s falling and drowning at the same time. The pleasure fills his throat, his lungs, and yet it also sweeps him off his feet, knocks the breath out of his chest. He wants more. He wants you to press harder, to mark him. You could press through his skin, through his muscles and ribs, and grasp his very heart, and you would still be so far away he wanted to weep.

His cock stiffens, though you keep touching him. You brush over his right nipple, then the left, then both. It is a strange sensation – one he’s not wholly against.

Then,

your fingers brush against his abdomen, trace the outline of his abs, then dips below. You grasp him firm in hand, and Aemond thinks he sees stars. You are so very soft, and he is so very very hard.

The whore Aegon forced on him at his thirteenth name-day held him tightly, too tightly, then rubbed his skin raw, and still he could not force himself to come. He remained flaccid and cold in her calloused hands, even as Aegon jeered and leered from his place on the dais.

But you showed none of her cruelty, none of the cold indifference. Just your presence took him halfway to completion, and he doubted it would take much more. Your other hand reaches below to cup his balls. That touch is less gentle, more firm. You start to twist the hand holding his cock, bringing it back and then forth in long, slow movements. You switch between firm, soft, fast, and then slower. But it is never not gentle. And you never look away from his eyes.

Though half-lidded, jaw slack and chest heavy, he stares at you. Pleasure of the flesh is second to the connection he finds in your eyes.

His eye blinks wide open at the new sensation. Your mouth is warm and soft like silk. It is heaven made flesh, and it makes his knees tremble. You envelop him, tongue hot on his cock. You pay special attention to his head; trace the veins and the weeping slit with extra care. And, oh, is he weeping.

Aemond needs more.

He wraps his fingers around your hair, then gently guides you back and forth. A single shake of your head would free you from him, should you wish, but you don’t. Your tear-filled eyes plead with him for a tighter hold, and he complies. A bit. But he is soon lost to the pleasure of your mouth, and so as his eye flutter shut and he shudders, he finds himself guiding you all the way down so that your nose meets the short hairs at his base, and then back up just far enough that your lips wrap around his head.

The reverence of a septon to the gods are nothing compared to that which he whispers your name.

Though if he finds the most pleasure from your sucking his cock or from knowing that a piece of him was inside you, he would never know. You swallow him down so easily, and with so much enthusiasm he is mournful that there is not more he can give.

There is a knife on the chest by his feet. He wonders, would you swallow all of him as easily as his seed? If he cut himself would you lap at his wounds?

Then, you pull away. You crawl up the bed until you fall down on the many pillows at the top of the bed. He follows without thought, kicking off his shoes and socks. His hair tie is next and his pale hair falls down his back. You are not prey, and he is not a predator, but he feels a thrill chasing after you into your marital bed. It sets his blood alight with desire.

“That was cruel.” He says. “I was close.”

He wasn’t. Your passions are his passion, your pleasure his pleasure.

“Then I suppose you should get revenge.” You bite your lip.

Your nightwear is thin. It is easily swept away from your body and thrown on the floor.

“Yours is the beauty gods would die for.”

“It is all for you.” You tell him as you lean back against the pillows.

His eye rove over you. Not an inch of you is not perfect, not an inch he did not love. All of you on display for him; an offering for a vengeful man. You are not unmarred by the war, and there is not a scar he does not kiss. He feels your pain as if it was his, and each wound on your body is his failure.

“We match,” you told him once.

He did not have the heart to tell you that this was done in your honor, to take the pain from you and deliver it upon him. He cut himself open for all the gods to see, then demanded they scar him as they did you.

Aemond runs his hands along your form with the same careful love as you did him. His hands caress the skin on your ribs, dance around your sensitive nipples to lay flat over your heart. It pounds against your skin, calling out to him. His beats in turn. Then, he turns his attention to your breasts. You are most sensitive there. His lips wrap around a nipple, and you gasp. His hand wanders down your stomach, through the hair covering your cunt, and then he presses down on your clit. You jump into his touch, eyes widening at the sudden pleasure.

“Aemond.” You moan.

His mouth comes off your nipple with a wet ‘pop’ before he leans down and claims the other. He presses tight circles into your clit, alternating directions, then he moves his index finger to nudge at your entrance. His thumb stays on your clit, but the motions are lazy. He spells his name, then yours, then he stops.

Aemond pulls away, but not for long.

He moves down your body, about to put his lips against your cunt, when you pull at his hair. Aemond groans into your flesh. His desire for you is akin to drunkenness. He is dizzy with it, crazed with a need that can never be satisfied. Still, he presses himself against your folds, tongue darting out to lap at the wetness there.

It trickles down the abyss of his desire, and in turn it grows. The hunger deepens, hollows out his chest.

His thumb stays on your clit, but only for a moment before his nose replaces it. He grabs your hips and brings you closer to him. His face is all but buried in you, and yet it is not enough. Your wetness covers his lips, his chin, his cheeks. His tongue digs inside you for more, tip of his nose pressing against your clit in that way that makes your head spin.

Time seems to stop, your pleasure endless, his chase bringing him closer and closer, and deeper. He presses a finger inside your entrance, before you give way and he thrusts it inside. He pumps it when his tongue darts away, so that you are never empty of him.

Then, just as your hips start to shake, and your moans grow louder, you pull him away. He protests, loudly, but it falls on deaf ears. You pull him up to you, and he is reluctant to follow. Aemond feels cold and lost, but is then altogether found and warm when your hands wrap around his cock again.

And the next moment he’s burning.

You guide his cock inside you, and he sputters to life. His lips press down on yours, uncaring of the taste of him inside your mouth. He needs the connection, needs you. Aemond thrusts wildly against you for a few moments, his cock driving in and out of you with filthy wet sounds.

You hold his face in your hands as you kiss, and his thrusts grow more controlled. Aemond wants it to last. Wants to drag out your connection for as long as he can, but he can feel his orgasm building already. His lower back aches with it, his toes curling against the bedsheets. He moves to slow down but the second he tries, you wrap your legs around his hips, pressing your feet against his buttocks to slam him into you. It is the same when he tries again, until he drives back with the same force as you drive him back in.

The pace is maddening, your sounds so sweet he feels like he’s drowning. He knows not where he ends and you start, but he would have it no other way. If he pushes into you hard enough would you truly become one? In body as you are in soul?

“Gods, Aemond,” you gasp at a particularly hard thrust.

Aemond brings his finger back down to thumb at your clit as apology, and you sing even sweeter for it.

Time means nothing, there is only you and him. And then you’re falling over the cliff of pleasure, and he dives after you, clinging to you with bleeding fingers. Your pleasure is his pleasure, two halves of a whole finally forcing themselves together. There is not a crack in your connection, and Aemond thinks he sees stars as his vision goes white. He gasps and moans into your mouth, your pants and sounds of pleasure drowned by his need to bring himself closer to you.

He lets himself fall upon you, cock softening inside you. His head spins still, but his heart beats like a drum in his chest at knowing that he’s once again been claimed by you. Even when he pulls himself free (reluctantly) there is still a piece of him in you. A piece that would never blossom into something more, for Aemond would not part with a single part of you, not even for himself.

“I love you,” you pant into his ear.

“Not as much as I love you,” he says in return.

You laugh. “‘Tis not a competition, husband.”

“No.” He agrees, with an easy smile. It is the truth.

Aemond had won the war, and he had proven himself. And so he would never part from you again, even were the gods to try and force him from your side. The threads of your destiny are weaved together into one singular past, present, future.

His beauty may be what gods fought for,

but Aemond?

Aemond would fight all the Gods, both old and new,

for just one more stolen moment under silk sheets.

#house of the dragon #hotd imagine #house of the dragon imagines #hotd #aemond imagine #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd aemond #aemond x you #aemond smut #aemond x reader #aemond x reader smut #hotd x reader #hotd smut

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seungfl0wer · 2 months

Text

*Bite Marks*

Pairing: Felix x Reader (Fem)

Genre: Smut

Warnings: Biting, Creampie, Mentions of Knotting, Female Receiving, Scratching, Role play, Reader is a monster lover (cause same), there’s honestly not much plot. Not proofread

Kink(s): Role Play + Monster Fucker

Side note I hate the title wanted to make it something better but couldn’t think of anything :(

˚ ༘♡Master List (Here) for the 1K Event

-🩵

The man infront of you stood fully naked, making his way to you pushing your body against the bed somehow roughly but also gentle? The man’s eyes were a piercing red color, soft ears pointed straight up. He leaned his body down into you as he left sloppy kisses on your neck moving to your mouth. His tongue darted between your lips as he wrestled with your own tongue.

His hands wondered across your body sharp nails softly scratching you as he did. His throbbing cock pressed against your half clothed cunt, it felt so warm against you. The man above you started to rut his body into you as he deepened the make out session sucking harshly at your bottom lip. He placed wet kisses down your body getting to your pretty little panties, he almost ripped them off of you.

The animal like man dove his head quickly into your heat lapping up all the juices that were already spilling from you. He groaned at the taste his tongue burring deep into your cunt. You let out little whimpers body squirming under him at the hot feeling. He smirked against your pussy softly biting at your thigh as he looked up at you “Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted” he said his voice low.

He found his way to your sensitive little nub as he sucked roughly. His fingers trailed your thighs digging his nails into you making you moan at the slight pain. He swiftly pushed a few fingers into your dripping cunt. Your walls instantly gripping around him trying to suck him in. You could see him through your hooded eyes humping into the bed as he licked a long strip from your needy whole to your aching clit.

The man below was becoming more and more feral by the second his movements becoming more animalistic. His mouth dripped with your juices the flood gates that is your high ready to break through the damn. “My sweet baby, let me taste all of you. Cum on my tongue” he groaned out. His fingers twirling inside you arching to hit your sweet spot. He was fucking you into a different dimension.

Your head spinning as you continued to let out those sweet noises, your high quickly flooding through. Your legs fold around his head making him let out a low moan against your core. Your hands reached for anything to grip pulling at the bed sheets. Your body shook as he lapped up all of your sweetness. Biting at your skin in contrast of the meek kisses that followed.

He made his way up to you those beautiful red orbs staring down at you. “Gonna take me all darling? Gonna let me pump you full of my knot?” He asks slapping his cock on your abused clit. You nod staring up at him eyes glossed over “please” you whimper.

He wastes no time pushing his thick cock into you. Your walls eagerly taking him all in letting out a strewn of sinful noises. He starts to move slow at first before bottoming out. His cock buried deep into your sloppy cunt. His head rolls back taking in all of the warmth that’s now hugging his cock so perfectly.

You let out a small whine needing him to move before you go crazy, he chuckles a bit at the sound. “Needy aren’t we?” He said smiling. He leaned his body down to kiss you as he started thrusting into you with brutal force. His cock hitting your g-spot with every thrust. His kisses were sloppy as he, and you both swallowed each other’s moans.

He pulled away slowly a string of saliva connecting you to still. He speedily attached his mouth to your neck. Sucking ravishingly on it leaving marks as he dug his sharp canines into you. “Gonna mark you- everyone will know you’re mine” he thrusted in harshly his speed picking up as he let his free hand play with your sensitive nub. “Mine” he kept repeating as he pounded mercilessly into you. His sharp teeth digging into your skin leaving visible bite marks along with the small purple sucker bite.

Your legs wrapped around him, letting out moans drool dripping down your face. “Fucking hell” he growled out his body starting to stutter as his high approached. “Ready for my knot baby? Gonna stay stuck all night till I’m ready to pump you full again?” His words slurred as he spoke. Your walls choking his cock as your high washed over you “Felix!” You almost all but screamed out as you felt the man thrust hard one more time feeling a pressure as he did.

“Ah- fuck- fuck” he moaned out pumping you full of all his cum. The hot liquid plastered your walls coating it nicely. “You- you took all of it so well” he said looking down at the soft red like flesh keeping you two stuck together.

As you both came down from your high Felix kissed you softly. “Lix” you said breathy he nods in response with a soft hmm. “That was the hottest roll play I’ve ever experienced” you said smiling up at him. Receiving a smile in return “definitely was” he said leaning down to kiss you again. “The red contacts were a nice touch” you giggled.

“Thanks I was hoping they weren’t gonna be too much.” He admitted. He moved his body a bit making you whimper at the feeling “ah lix” you said feeling the ‘knot’ still in you. “Oh shit right!” He said quickly deflating it. You looked down at him seeing the small thing deflating around his cock. “Where did you even find that type of thing?” You laughed a bit.

“I got my sources” he says making you both laugh now. “Is it the same place you got the ears from?” You ask looking up at them. He nods “yep and my tail- My tail! I forgot it!” He whines. Making you laugh as he pouts off to find it.

💙 If you’d like to read more of my stuff you can find it Here: Master List . Thank you for reading and if requests are open or you just wanna talk feel free to send me something🩵

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sturnsdoll · 5 months

Text

𝙂𝙄𝙍𝙇𝙔 𝙂𝙁 ˚୨୧⋆｡ - M.S

(headcannons!)

pairing: matt x girly/hyperfem!reader

warnings: hc's, sfw and nsfw but they are labelled as such.

nsfw warnings: dom!matt, sub!reader, implied spanking, dirty talk, mostly just super suggestive.

authors note: multiple people requested a matt version so here you go <3

SFW !

ೃ⁀➷ one of the first things matt loved about you was the way you express yourself through your style.

ೃ⁀➷ how could he keep his eyes off you with bows dangling and intertwined through your hair, belt loops or pretty much anything else you could stick em' on

ೃ⁀➷ watching you lay peacefully against your pink silk sheets never fails to lure him into crawling under your matching covers to cuddle and stroke your perfectly cared for hair into further relaxation.

ೃ⁀➷ anytime your cake-esque fragrance is sprayed around him he has to pull you into him. he's addicted to it like crack. he has to bury his face into your neck, inhaling like he'll never be graced with it again.

ೃ⁀➷ anytime he's out he's looking for things you'd accesorize with..

ೃ⁀➷ matt would be searching through every color of ribbon in every store he's in for a color, size or texture that you don't have.

ೃ⁀➷ matt would want to buy you makeup because he knows how good you feel about yourself while wearing it.. not saying he'd be good at picking out the right shades but hey, he tries right??

ೃ⁀➷ matt loves watching the bottom of your skirt dance and twirl while you bounce around your room with your fav artist playing..

ೃ⁀➷ you hum the lyrics while organizing your closet that's drowned in shades of pink..

ೃ⁀➷ "need help sweetheart?" "i'm okay, thanks" and even though he knew you were sincere from the sweet grin on your pretty lips, he'd get up from the comfort of your bed to assist anyways. he couldn't let your pretty little head get too exhausted now could he?

ೃ⁀➷ he knows how capable you are though, there's no doubt. he enjoys taking care of you but knows your more than able on your own

ೃ⁀➷ he would try his hardest to be assertive when he's angry but it was always impossible.

ೃ⁀➷ mid arguement you'd find yourself inching closer till you reach him. you take his hand. he can't ignore your perfect shiny acrylic nails (that he paid for) grazing along his palm to slowly interlock with his longer, masculine fingers.

ೃ⁀➷ "i'm sorry matt, i'll make it up to you. " you'd apologize sincerly.

ೃ⁀➷ before he could even think about saying no, your lashes batting up at him with doe eyes beneath them would usually force him to the final decision of teaching you how to behave another way...

NSFW !

ೃ⁀➷ "you think you look all innocent don't you?" now your backed up and corned against your makeup table. a few lipglosses knock over when the back of your thighs hit the table, your hands coming behind to steady yourself.

ೃ⁀➷ you'd nod your head. matt's dry laugh makes wetness pool beneath your skirt faster than you're willing to admit. "we'll see how much of a good girl you really are then yeah?" then next thing you know you'd be holding off your orgasms, being left begging for at least the 3rd time in a row.

ೃ⁀➷ and it never took much to get him going.

ೃ⁀➷ matt and you would be with his friends and all it'd take would be a graze of your perfect nails against his jeans for him to crave them wrapped around his dick.

ೃ⁀➷ your perfect pink lips pouting at him as you asked to go home early..

ೃ⁀➷ your eyes telling him you weren't wearing the shortest skirt you could find for no reason.

ೃ⁀➷ matt never really cared about you doing much for him sexually. making you feel good is what got him off. you were his princess and you needed to feel as such, in and out of the bedroom.

ೃ⁀➷ contradictory to that though, being a princess means being a bit of a brat and he knows how to deal with you when needed.

ೃ⁀➷ if it came to it, he'd pull you out of any social event (dinner, party, hangout, doesn't matter) and take you to his car.

ೃ⁀➷ your sweet demeanor never stopped him from ruining you.

ೃ⁀➷ "you think that shit's cute?" you quickly mutter back a "no" while knowing damn well that being bent over his lap in the backseat as your tears of pain and pleasure ruined your makeup was exactly what you were hoping for.

ೃ⁀➷ "who's dog was in here?" nick would ask matt the next day, eyeing at the nail shaped imprints in the seat cover. chris' head whips around from the front to spot your hair ribbon discarded on the floor. he put two and two together. "matt, there's absaloutely no way dude... in nick's seat seriously?!"

(sorry if any of the tags didn't work) tags ᥫ᭡ : @mattsrod @sturncakez @sturniololovesss @sturniolosstar @sstvrnioloo @watercolorskyy @pettydollie @sturniol0s @6ix9inewiturmom @sonicsmacks @orangelala

#matt sturniolo #sturnsdoll #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo headcannons #matt sturniolo x girly reader #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo triplets fanfic

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synthetickitsune · 5 months

Text

Petty ✧ h.js

Pairing: Joshua Hong x gn!reader Genre: angst/fluff Summary: Joshua can be a bit petty when he's tired and feels wronged. Even if he's at fault all along. Word count: 2.3k A/N: please get me out of here, i've been in shua brainrot since january and this is once again @hanniedream's fault >:(

Joshua has never hated your bedroom more than he hates it at this moment.

The room is too big. The walls are the wrong color. The windows are too big and it feels like the whole world can see him and laugh at him. The bedroom should be the only room in your house. It wouldn’t be so empty then.

The bed is too big to be sleeping in it alone. It’s cold. The sheets feel like ice around him, no matter how tightly he wraps himself in them, and his arms are empty even though your scent lingers on your pillow. He won’t be as pitiful as hugging it to sleep, he refuses.

Where are you anyway?

Pout pulls on his lips without his permission as he strains his ears but he can’t hear a single sound. He checks the clock again, then checks one more time that he’s not seeing wrong. You should be here by now. He accounted for everything - how long your night routine takes, a little snack if you felt like it, the time you’d need to be away from him after the fight, the time you’d waste on thinking whether you should hang onto the resentment or not. You should be here already. You should’ve been here ages ago. So where are you?

It goes against his pride that he gets up and makes his way to the living room where he expects you’d be sulking. And you are there - sleeping soundly.

He huffs in disbelief, hands on his hips as he watches you sleep while he can’t even keep his eyes closed. Does he mean nothing to you? How can you sleep without him?

He has half a mind to wake you up - he walks up to you and leans down, still undecided whether he should do it. What would he say? He can’t admit he can’t sleep without you, so he’d just look like a dick. Besides, you sleeping here means you’re still upset, so you wouldn’t come to bed anyway. Then he notices the dried tears in the corner of your eyes.

He frowns, any thoughts of waking you up gone from his head. Were you actually mad? The argument wasn’t long or, in his eyes, that big of a deal. True, he was also quite exhausted, so it’s kind of foggy and he knows he was a bit too harsh. He also admits he was in the wrong, a fact he realized during the first two hours of his tossing and turning when he remembered that the events happened differently from what he initially thought. But it wasn’t a big deal anyway… You don’t usually cry over petty arguments. And he knows better than to hope for any sleep now.

Joshua leaves for the bedroom quietly, sighing once he lies down in bed. The pout tugs on his lips again. He feels wronged too. You could’ve just told him instead of immediately getting defensive and calling him wrong when he just didn’t remember at the moment. Why would you cry? Was he really that mean? He doesn’t think he was. He tries to sleep, but over what remains of the night, he can’t get more than a couple minutes of sleep at the time.

Safe to say it didn’t exactly help his sour mood that he didn’t rest at all. As soon as he decides to get up for the day, he struts into the kitchen and starts on boiling the water for his coffee and taking out things to prepare himself breakfast.

“What the fuck, Joshua?” you groan from the adjacent room, voice dripping with annoyance and hostility. Of course the noise would wake you up. And now he can’t exactly explain why he thought he’d get his usual morning greeting - well he didn’t think at all, but now that the routine is broken and not one nice word is spoken to him, he pauses. He swallows uneasily thinking of how it usually goes - waking up with you in his arms or you hovering above him, wishing him a good morning with the sweetest kisses. Not this.

He snaps out of his, his pettiness wavering a little, but not enough. He was in the wrong, but you could’ve explained that to him more yesterday. Not like he was in a state of mind to listen to you, but you could’ve tried… He’s too tired for this.

So he keeps doing his thing, taking out the vegetables to cut. He notices you disappearing into the bedroom, to change and freshen up he supposes. It doesn’t feel great to have you walk away from him without another word.

He’s cutting vegetables when you return. At this point he doesn’t expect much, but he also doesn’t expect you to walk straight past him, barely stop the cupboard door from hitting his head when you take out your mug. He also feels something die inside him when you pour the boiling water into only one mug, making a drink for yourself despite there being enough water for both of you.

His focus is more on you than the knife in his hand, which is not the safest thing when he’s trying to cut the carrot, but he needs to be ready and catch every word you’ll say. Because you need to say something, right? Wrong, apparently. You’re just sitting there sipping your coffee and scrolling on your phone without paying any attention to him. Does he not matter to you?

He wants to get angry, wants to heave a long and angry sigh, slam the knife down and confront you - but that’s not him. It does cross his mind, he just can’t do it. It’d scare you and it’d make him feel like one of those stereotypical angry husbands and that’s the exact opposite of what he wants. Opposite of what he should do if he wants to ever have the chance to call himself your husband.

He closes his eyes and takes a couple of deep breaths. This situation was ridiculous. He can’t go another day without a proper sleep and he doesn’t think he can get through breakfast with you ignoring him. Was Joshua’s pride really more important than you? No. Of course not. Especially not when it was all so stupid and ultimately his fault.

“I was wrong,” he sighs, he finally puts the knife down before he can cut his finger off, “I’m sorry.”

He turns around, and after what feels like eternity you’re looking at him. You sigh too, rubbing your eyes. Properly seeing you now, he notices you must’ve had a restless night just like him. It makes the last remains of his pettiness dissipate. He opens his arms cautiously, hoping, wishing… You get up and hug him back, let him hold you as he wraps his arm around your middle and cradles your head with the other one. Finally he feels like he can breathe.

“I’m glad you apologized,” you rub his back, and fortunately you don’t flinch away when he kisses the side of your head. He hums sheepishly, squeezing you a little tighter. “I was really frustrated with you. It wasn’t even that big of a deal, you could’ve already apologized yesterday.”

“I know,” he acknowledges. Looking back, he shouldn’t have brought out the issue out of nowhere in the first place. “Are you still mad at me?”

“I wasn’t mad, just frustrated,” you repeat, “It’s fine now.”

He nods, letting you go just enough that he can kiss you properly. His morning feels much better immediately. You smile at him and he’s wondering why would he ever do anything to threaten that smile. He doesn’t want to let you go now that he has you back in his arms, but he’s hungry and he thinks you must be too. “I’ll make breakfast for us, hm?”

You free yourself from his embrace rather than him allowing you to pull away. His reluctance shows in his hands taking hold of yours and bringing them to his lips, lingering. You give him a reassuring smile and only then does he let go.

What you notice before going back to your chair, before moving from the spot, is Joshua looking at your cup on the table in a way that you can only describe as a puppy watching his favorite toy spinning in the washer. You don’t think he noticed you saw, or that he meant for you to see at all, and it takes a lot not to start laughing. It does give you some satisfaction, though, to know that the argument and his own mistake didn’t leave him unaffected. His shoulders are still slumping and he looks so down you’d think you didn’t make up already.

“Joshua?” you call his name and he quickly turns his head towards you as soon as he puts the knife down again. You chuckle and rest your head on his shoulder. “Should I make you a cup of coffee?”

“Yes please, thank you,” he beams at you, eyes turning into crescents when you kiss his cheek.

You pull out a mug, conscious of his eyes following your every movement. Something about your choice of the piece of ceramics must be not up to his standards if his displeased grunt is any indication. However when you look at him, he only gives you a small smile.

“What’s wrong?” you cross your arms over your chest. He grows timid, looking away. You roll your eyes. You’re almost sure you’re being played for attention, but you will give him the benefit of a doubt this time because he seemed genuinely sorry for the fight. It’s cute how he melts into you when you hug him from behind, your hands resting on his stomach.

“What about the matching ones we got for Christmas instead?” he mumbles almost too quiet for you to hear.

“I already have my own cup though,” you frown.

“You need to make a new one,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world

“Huh?”

“We’re gonna restart this morning,” he explains calmly, “I won’t be an asshole and we’ll have a nice breakfast together with our cute matching cups.”

“You called them cringy before.”

“Don’t ruin the vision,” he warns playfully. You hold his gaze, hoping he’ll cave but he doesn’t. You break first.

“What am I supposed to do with the other cup though?” you laugh at your ridiculous boyfriend, but he’s not done being unreasonable.

“Bring it to me,” his tone is suspicious, so you have no idea why you listen. You get to watch as he downs the rest of your morning drink in a few long gulps and puts the cup in a sink. “There, problem solved.”

“Joshua Hong, you’re insane,” you sigh. You’re smiling though - so it’s his win anyway. He won and now he’ll get to watch you boil more water and prepare coffee for both of you, because you need to match one hundred percent of course. It’s still not the safest to cut vegetables when he’s so distracted but his fragile heart is practically jumping off his chest when you take out the very cheesy matching Christmas cups and set them down. “Stop staring.”

“I need to make sure you’re doing it right,” he teases. He’s happy that everything is fine, happy that his morning returned to normal and happy that-

“Do you think I can’t?” you quirk a brow at him, pausing the preparations.

He swallows and nearly trips over his over feet closing the distance between you and cupping your face in his hands.

“No, baby, I’m so sorry,” he frowns, kissing your forehead and lingering there, waiting for your verdict. He hears you sigh and his chest feels thigh.

“You’re so cute, Shua,” there’s a smile in your voice and his heart skips a beat when he hears his nickname, “I’m not upset, I’m just playing with you.”

“Don’t do this to me,” he whines, burying his face into your shoulder. His arms wrap around you and you’re stuck between his body and the counter, trapped in his hug. All you can do is hug him back and press some kisses to his neck.

“I’m sorry, baby,” you smile, “How about I finish the coffee, hm? Then I can hug you and cling to you to make up for it.”

“I made you upset first,” he mumbles. You roll your eyes at his sudden self-awareness. He pulls away to look at you, a slight pout on his lips. “But you took advantage of that. I think I deserve a kiss as well.”

You should’ve known it was all a manipulation tactic.

But knowing or not, it doesn’t change the fact that you kiss him and smile against his lips as you do when you feel him smile too. He doesn’t let go until he’s had his fill, until he leaves you breathless and chasing after his lips.

“I missed you,” he whispers, coming back for just one more kiss, “Hurry up with the coffee.”

You should scold him. You should remind him that he is the reason why your morning is so messy.

But you don’t.

Instead you do exactly as he told you and enjoy having him close again once the coffee is done. And you enjoy as Joshua feeds you the first piece of breakfast for a taste test, and you enjoy him pulling out a chair for you, bringing you your plate, and holding your hand the entire time you eat.

Most of all you enjoy his warm embrace when you lay down for a nap that won’t make up for the cold and lonely night, but that feels heavenly nonetheless.

#seventeen scenarios #seventeen x reader #joshua x reader #joshua scenario #svthub #seventeen imagines #seventeen angst #joshua angst #svt angst #svt x reader

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androdragynous · 1 year

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It's almost July so 'tis the season, and I haven't really seen an information post go around despite Tumblr being full of artists and OCs, so for those not informed -

What is Art Fight?

copied from https://artfight.net/info/about , illustrated by Queijac

Art Fight is an annual art game that lasts for 1 month. [ Note: usually takes place during July ] Users can register on the site to join in. Each year, participants are split into two teams to which they are assigned randomly.

[ Illustration: a furry character colored blue and a human character colored red brandish art supplies at each other like weapons. ]

Players "attack" people of the opposing team by making art of original characters you choose belonging to members of the other team. You are free to use almost any style (see Attack Rules section of the rules).

Your team receives points based on what you create for the other team with each attack.

[ illustration: the blue furry character shows off a red drawing to the red human character, who is bending down to see it and looks excited. ]

The artist that receives the attack can then counter that attack by drawing the character belonging to the person who attacked them, or pay it forward by attacking a different person on the other team.

At the end of the month, the team with the greater score wins.

[ Illustration: the red human is sitting at a table with drawing tools in front of them thinking of a blue character. They are holding a pen and looking determined. ]

But remember, while there are point scores, the real goal is to celebrate characters with your fellow artists. Art Fight is about giving and recieving amazing art. ♥

If you're interested in joining up before this year's event period starts (or during it! You can join at any time) come and take part here ! The teams for this year are going to be revealed on the 23rd, so you have plenty of time to add your characters and scope out potential targets :3c

Extra info:

Digital art and traditional art are both accepted, including sculpture, fursuits, 3d modeling, animation, and more!

There is sometimes a bit of site downtime at the start of the event as traffic spikes. This is normal, is briefer each year, and will resolve after a bit. I recommend downloading a few ref sheets in advance if you plan on drawing from the first minute

Don't start art early! It's against the spirit of the thing to sneak in extra work time. If you're just doing it to give people art, you can always make it a normal, no-points-involved gift!

Character reference images and attacks created have to be non-sexual. The site has content filter guides and submission rules that go into more detail about what is and isn't allowed!

Don't have character references finished? Here's a quick guide on what's best to include at the minimum.

my profile is @ canonkiller owo

#patch me through to palaven command #art fight #art fight 2023

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delusionsofgrandeur13 · 4 months

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girl, i wanna see you undo it

i wanna see you but you’re not mine.

how the other batboys react to a breakup

18+, mdni !!!!!!

readers can expect: a fem reader, lotttta angst, cursing, mentions of violence, sexually explicit scenes including mentions of penetration, oral, and masturbation. also tim drake being a creep via e-stalking but reader is aware of it and more or less okay with it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

your ex boyfriend, bruce wayne, was avoiding alfred.

his butler was insisting on signing him up for therapy, and bruce was dodging him, hard. he didn’t have it in him. he wouldn’t go pay a professional to hear how pathetic he was over the lack of you in his life. couldn’t. he’s found a much more effective way to get out his emotions.

one that involves his fists and a goon’s face.

it was probably cruel, these poor goons were just trying to feed their families, or something, but batman was indifferent.

he was now always nearing dangerously close to breaking his no-kill rule. almost always teetering over that edge. even with his own life. he’d head out in the batsuit, prowling the seediest streets of gotham, hoping, practically praying, for someone to do something illegal. he would put himself in the most deadly situations just to feel alive. wasn’t the healthiest solution, but.

did he care? no.

bruce was numb, unfeeling to those around him. he couldn’t even look at himself in the mirror, not at the stupid fuck who’d lost the love of his life. he’d lagged behind in his case solving, gordon was growing increasingly more concerned. he was rude to the paparazzi asking after you, almost able to hear your voice in his ear, telling him to be nicer to them, whacking him on the bicep. he’d throw his usual charity galas, sure, but would send dick or jason in his place to showboat. he didn’t have the patience to talk to reporters. didn’t want to show face if you weren’t there on his arm. you always made the social aspect much more bearable. would always help him relieve the stress of it all after the event had ended.

but did he still care about you? yes.

just like when you were dating, bruce taking care of you was second nature.

he wouldn’t dare cancel the flower deliveries he’d set up when the two of you were together. they appeared at your apartment door every week and a half, always something different, but always in your favorite colors. you couldn’t stay mad at them either, the flowers brightened up your kitchen so nicely. when you and bruce were dating, he’d merged your calendars, just so scheduling was easier. you’d since deleted the connection, but he somehow still knows when you have appointments, as you’ll come out of your building’s lobby to a sleek black wayne enterprises car. the chauffeur opening the car door for you silently. you’d take it over the subway every time, even if it was a little awkward.

the dating app you’d downloaded after the breakup kept glitching, never letting you text any of your matches back. if you cared more, you’d contact support, but it was so odd. everything else on your phone works perfectly fine! but you had a gut feeling it had something to do with your ex boyfriend.

bruce might’ve slipped oracle a few bills for her silence over that favor.

he tried not to think about the fact you were already willing to start dating again. he couldn’t fathom being with anyone else. could not possibly wrap his head around it. why would he want anyone when he could have you? when he had already had you? everyone else seemed..lackluster.

it’s the same reason he’d been celibate since the breakup. after you, he was tainted. he didn’t think he’d ever be able to have sex again without thinking of you. especially in his own house. the two of you had fucked on every surface possible, seriously. tried every position.

it’d been difficult just sleeping in his own bed when he used to share it with you. used to make your legs shake as you gripped at the sheets. would never make you beg for anything, eating you out until you couldn’t take it anymore. that’s when bruce would press you up against him, holding you up with his huge arms as he pounded into you, his balls slapping against your clit as you whined, barely able to form words.

he’d never been with anyone the way he had with you. so obviously he wasn’t even able to finish with his own hand. it was nothing, nothing compared to the way you felt. his imagination would never have him moaning the way you could. could never make him melt the way you oh so easily were able to, with just a look.

so he was numb. and bruce just figured that’s how he’d stay.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

your ex boyfriend, jason todd, throws his book across the room, flinching when it thuds against the wall opposite.

annoyed at the surprise romantic subplot, he huffs out a breath from behind his hands. he has to get over his sudden aversion to romance, but it feels impossible after losing you. he can’t watch any of his favorite movies, can only read a select few of his favorite books.

he barely even goes out anymore, mostly to avoid seeing couples on dates. the two of you loved going out together, loved going out to community events like concerts in the park, fairs in the summer. he missed accompanying you to your nephew’s t-ball games, watching you cheer and beam up at him in one of his old baseball hats.

so he barely goes out. he doesn’t have you with him!

he saw an elderly couple strolling in the park the other day. jason had promptly turned in the opposite direction, to avoid crumpling into a ball and sobbing or throwing up into the nearest trash can.

he’d gotten back onto his bike and rode home, going way over the speed limit. he didn’t care about being safe on it anymore, not when you weren’t there to ask him to or be his backpack. he missed the way you’d hold on to him, your thighs bracketing his torso as the bike roared. how at stoplights you’d rub your palms over his chest, grabbing his pecs with your gloved hands. your resulting giggle was muffled through your motorcycle helmet, but it was still the sweetest sound in the world to him.

but jason stopped bothering trying to function out in public after that, only ever really leaving his place for missions and to train at wayne manor.

and boy, had he been training. ever since the two of you had broken up, he’d been working out to the point of exhaustion.

barely peeling himself off of the floor after each workout, always heading straight to the shower to rinse the sweat off while he zoned out into the steam. after his workouts was the only time he would relieve himself. he’d hunch over with one hand propping him up opposite the tiled wall, the other fisted around his cock as he thought of your pretty smile, your gorgeous eyes, the meat of your thighs, the curve of your ass. how you’d clench around his cock with yet another orgasm, moaning his name into the mattress.

he’d finish, hard, his body shuddering, leaving him to be ashamed with himself.

he wasn’t allowed to do this, he wasn’t allowed to think of you like you were still his. all this and yet the pain in his muscles still didn’t ease the pain in his heart, the pain seeping into his bones whenever he thought about you.

jason was still hesitant to be around his siblings.

you had left your perfume in his bathroom, and while he knows it sounds crazy, he's been spraying it on his clothes. he misses the way they would smell like you after you’d borrow them. he still hadn’t touched one of his flannels, the one you loved to steal and loved to see him in. he didn’t see the point in wearing it if you weren’t there to see it.

the last time he’d seen damian, his little brother had loudly asked him why he “smelled girly.”

jason had turned bright red and mumbled something probably unintelligible before briskly walking away, bumping into the doorframe on his way out.

he’s been spraying your perfume on the pillow you’d always use too, snuggling it close to his chest like he used to with you while he fell asleep.

it’s definitely not the same, but it’s the closest jason has to the real thing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

tim drake, your ex boyfriend, swiveled in his desk chair, spinning back and forth. the monitors covering the wall above his desk were alive with various video feeds and social media websites.

@user892548276 was viewing your instagram story, a gorgeous selfie of you that tim had already screenshotted. he had plans for that later. @gothamite69 was liking your latest tweet, while @ilovedoggiess couldn’t get enough of your latest tiktok.

he knew he had to switch up the users so you’d think it was bots. you’d figure it out otherwise. too bad he had a thing for smart people.

he nodded, satisfied at the cctv feed of the street your apartment building was on, before throwing a hoodie on over his bare chest. tim strolled into the kitchen, his sweats slung low on his hips. he ran a hand through his hair, using the other to grab the coffee pot to refill his mug.

“hey, tim. whatcha up to?” jason leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed.

tim jumped, turning around.

“just some surveillance, nothing much.” he replied, hoping he sounded nonchalant.

“ohh, that case for bats?”

“mmhm.” tim cracked his knuckles, something of a nervous habit he’d developed after the breakup. and his serious lack of sleep.

“well, i won’t keep you. tell y/n i said hi!”

tim flinched at the mention of you as jason left in the direction of the garage. it’s not his brother’s fault. jay had been really busy with the outlaws lately, never home long enough to realize tim hadn’t brought you over in weeks. tim scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair. maybe it was the exhaustion muddling things, but tim can’t remember the last time he’d had a full night’s sleep. it was already difficult falling asleep. it only made it worse that every time he did fall asleep he dreamed about you.

but dick had noticed. he had slowly transitioned tim’s assignments to mainly desk work. his older brother was probably worried about him being too tired on the field and getting hurt. but he hadn’t told bruce. tim preferred it that way. he didn’t need a big fuss about if he was okay or his performance level as a hero.

tim grabbed his mug, making his way back to his bedroom. he caught a glimpse of a dark figure in the window, spooking himself. he was on edge so much worse than usual. his reflection stared back at him, his face skinny and his eyebags dark against the pale skin of his cheeks.

tim shook his head, heading into his bedroom. he swayed a little, locking the door behind him. he set his mug on his desk, sitting down in his chair just in time to see you heading down the street.

he stood up so fast his chair rocketed back, hitting the wall. you usually don’t go out on thursday nights. is everything okay??

he types frantically, finding different angles to effectively follow you down the street, physically recoiling to see you stop at a restaurant. just another date.

you stopped, looking around, waving when you spot a blond guy walking towards you. tim enhances the best he can, zooming in on this asshole who thinks he’s good enough for you. tim scoffs out loud at the wrinkled shirt your date has on, looking ridiculous in comparison to your beauty.

the sundress you’re in is one of his favorites, red and white and flowery. he gulps down a sip of coffee at his screen when you turn around, the fabric hugging your body. he blinks, snapping out of it as your date ushers you into the restaurant. tim cracks his knuckles. he reaches for his phone, pulling up your contact. he itches to call you, to pull you out of the date you’re on, to make you think about him instead of that tool you’re with.

but he can’t. he shouldn’t.

he pulls up the screenshot of your story instead, staring at the selfie of you in his favorite sundress. his cock twitches against the fabric of his sweats. he can’t even count how many times he’s had you rutting against him with that dress hiked up to your waist.

he tosses his phone onto his bed, sitting back in his desk chair as he palms his cock, his brain full of thoughts of you.

you pressed up against him in a slinky dress as you slow dance at a wayne gala. waking up in your bed how the two of you fell asleep, naked, limbs intertwined. dancing in a gotham nightclub together, your hair in your face as you throw your arms up and swivel your hips in his direction in your shortest dress. the texts and pictures you’d been sending back and forth after the breakup, unable to let each other go.

tim throws his head back as he finishes, your name on his lips. his body rigid, the warm liquid all over his hands. he cleans himself off, staring into nothing until his computer dings at the motion detected on your street. you’re strutting down the sidewalk, the street empty. before you head inside your building, you stare into the cctv camera across the street. you wave, smiling coyly. tim sits up straighter, holding his breath. you hold up your thumb, and tim groans. that guy??

but you flip your thumb down at the camera, shaking your head. bad date.

tim whoops, beaming.

he shuts down his computer before flopping onto his bed, burrowing under the covers. five minutes later, he’s fast asleep as his coffee grows cold where it sits on his desk.

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