cw: praise, oral sex and blowjob, intense yearning.
put in your guesses now...who do you think it is?
The door swings shut behind you with a soft click. There’s a heady scent in the air, and it’s so overwhelming it makes your head spin. There’s a soft purple rug at your feet, stretching into the hazy fog. You have no way of knowing just how long the room is.
And yet, you go deeper, following the path of the lush purple carpet. The floors look wooden and unfinished across the rest of the room. You shouldn’t step on something so raw, lest you get splinters on the bottom of your feet. You don’t walk more than fifteen paces before the fog starts to lift.
There’s a light and airy feeling that comes with spotting the couch. A figure is spread across it, his knees bent to accommodate his figure to the cushions. His elbow rests on the arm rest, arm draped across the fabric. He looks up at you as you step through the haze, the rug ending in a large, circular shape.
His gaze is piercing, stripping you completely of your apprehension. He always seems to know exactly what you’re thinking, and exactly how to keep you safe and happy. He wastes no time, sliding off the couch with the grace of a man who knows what he wants, who's been waiting for it forever—and he stops in front of you.
“Would you allow me to undress you?” he asks softly, lifting your hand to his mouth.
You nod, and he kisses the skin just above your knuckles.
Your clothes fall to the floor, the soft thump of them meeting the carpet muffled in your lust ridden haze. Haku doesn’t seem to be faring any better, his hands shaking slightly as he touches you, fleeting and unsure. It isn’t long before he is fully clothed and you’re as naked as the day you were born, scars and marks and hair on display for him and him alone.
“Princess...” he sighs, resting his hands on your waist, “You’re so lovely.”
“And you’re unfair,” you whisper, tugging at the fabric hiding him from you.
He chuckles softly, looking at you through his lashes. The challenge is there—why don’t you help him undress too? You exhale sharply, a fond smile on your face as you slip off his robe, unsurprised to find him completely naked underneath.
“Haku,” you breathe, embracing him.
“Princess,” he murmurs into your neck, pressing a soft kiss to the warm skin, “Would you allow me to worship you?”
If it were anyone else, that line might have sounded cheesy. But to you and Haku, it’s the light at the end of the tunnel, the resolution of a yearning that transcends the stars. You whisper out your affirmation, your plea, your request of your humble servant. Once again, Haku complies without a second thought, sweeping you off your feet and whisking you away to the couch.
He lays you against the cushions, looking breathless above you, his brow furrowed with want. You reach out, trailing your fingers down his belly and giggling when it clenches. He lets out a breathless laugh.
“Please, princess. Don’t tease me too much,” he sighs, bracing himself above you with his arm, “Haven’t we done this enough?”
He laughs, like it's some sort of joke. Like you two haven’t been fated from the very beginning. Like he wasn’t the only person in this heaven-forsaken school that you could see yourself confiding in.
Perhaps not so forsaken. This was truly happening, after all. He was yours.
Haku takes a deep breath, face suddenly serious, His free hand reaches down and holds your wrist, stopping you from moving any further. You whine, shooting him a displeased frown.
“Let me, princess. Please.” he begs, wetting his lips.
“Okay, Haku,” you cup his cheek, “I’d let you do anything you wanted to me.”
His eyes darkened as he tilts his head to kiss your palm. You know exactly what he’s thinking—you don’t know what you’re asking—but you do, because it’s Haku, and you know him better than most.
He drifts down your body like a spectre, eyes sharp with want. His hands trail down the slope of your waist and hips, coming to rest on your thighs. He lifts your left leg gently, hooking it over the side of the couch. You gasp at how exposed your lower half now is to his gaze, but Haku doesn’t bat an eye. His breathing grows ragged as he lifts your right leg and rests it over his shoulder, looking at you through his lashes.
“May I?” he whispers, holding you like you’re the greatest treasure he’ll ever be allowed to have.
“Yes, yes, please Haku, just—”
He hauls your lower half up to his mouth and sucks a wet kiss onto your clit, smearing your slick across his chin. You gasp and latch onto his hair, digging your fingers into the strands. Haku chuckles against you, licking a flat stripe up your core, pressing his face deeper into your wetness. Your thighs are unable to snap around his head because of his grip and the damn couch, so you thrash in place as you moan.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, coming off of your clit just slightly, his hand leaving your thigh to prod at your opening, “You’re so beautiful.”
It’s all consuming worship, his fingers dipping inside you, crooking just enough to search for that spot that sends your head spinning. He laughs, almost delirious when he finds it, eyes shooting up to your face to watch your mouth fall open and eyes roll back. Hips jolting against the couch, he returns to your clit, the combination of his fingers and mouth sending you over the edge.
“You did so well,” he coos, sliding your leg off his shoulder and unhooking your leg from the back of the couch, “Are you doing alright?”
“Mmm,” you hum, blissed out.
“Haha, sorry about that,” Haku laughs, almost shy, his cheeks stained red, “Didn’t think I’d tucker you out that much. How about I—”
“Stay,” you grab his hand, taking a deep breath.
Haku obeys, sitting back down on the couch. His eyes go wide when you lower yourself to shaking knees, looking at him like he’d place the entire world into your hands at any given moment.
“Oh, MC—” he breathes, hands clutching his thighs, “You don’t—”
“I want you,” you raise yourself up on your knees, wrapping your hand around him, the skin red and angry and oversensitive, “You’re always so nice to me, Haku. I want to make you feel good.”
“Fuck, princess—” he drags his hand through his messy, sweat slicked hair, “How could I say no to that?”
You take him into your mouth, going slow to savor it. You’re not sure when you’ll ever get the chance to do this again, maybe the doors will be your only chance.
You don't want to think about that. Pushing those thoughts aside, you take him as deep as you can. Haku’s eyes never leave you, his gaze searing into the top of your head. You look up to meet his gaze and his eyes go wide at the view.
Your hand shakes down between your legs, rubbing small little circles on your clit as you bob up and down on his dick. Haku’s eyes flick to your arm and he groans when he realizes what you’re doing.
“Princess, you’re too much,” his fingers cup the back of your head, gently guiding your pace, “Was that not enough for you—? Shit—”
You take him deeper and moan around him, a silent stop joking! that he seems to understand. Haku keeps his hips still for you, biting his lip raw with the effort of restraining himself. Your knees burn from shifting on the rug for so long, but you double your efforts and look up at him when he finishes in your mouth.
While Haku sits there panting, marvelling at the sight of you, you open your mouth, shut it, and shallow. Haku groans again when you open your mouth for the second time, his thumb slipping into your mouth and pressing down on your tongue.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he breathes.
You smile up at him as you lift yourself from the rug, stealing the first kiss of the night from his parted lips.
so this is the result of me losing my mind idk man. bear with me here. subaru and lyca threesome let's GO!!!
cw: unprotected piv, praise and begging, consensual voyeurism / cucking (?), creampies all around, KNOTTING, subaru totally orchestrated this lol
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT !!!!!
There’s an almost electrical anticipation in the air as Subaru’s hands find your thighs, smoothing across the soft skin. You’re seated on his lap as he lies against the pillows, propped up just enough for Lyca’s proper viewing. Your heart thunders in your chest as the mood turns sensual, pressing against you on all sides just as Subaru is doing now.
“Are you truly okay with this?” he whispers in your ear, and you have to stop your hips from jerking toward his hands, begging for their touch.
“Yes. And I remember the safe word, too,” you murmur, reaching behind you to cup the back of his head.
He’s such a worrier when it comes to you. It’s sweet enough to make your legs shake.
He starts slowly, sliding his fingers across your thighs again, this time towards the swell of your belly. Lyca watches with a fiery blush on his face, clenching and unclenching the sheets under his fingers, uncharacteristically silent. The only sound in the room is Subaru’s soft cooing and the rustling of your clothes.
“Show him what my love can do,” he breathes, pressing one hand down on your belly and dipping the first finger into you.
You toss your head back and gasp, the feeling of eyes on you more than you can bear. It feels wanton and hungry, like Lyca is sizing you up, already wondering just how good you’ll taste. Cracking open your eyes, you reach out to Lyca with your other hand, beckoning him closer.
You see him look over your shoulder at Subaru, as if for approval—what you don’t see is the dark-eyed nod Subaru gives him in return.
“See how they stretch open, Lyca?” Subaru asks, adding another finger for emphasis, “Look at them.”
“It’s...embarrassing,” Lyca gnaws at his bottom lip, eyes flickering from your hole to the other side of the bed.
“It’s not,” he reassures, “It feels really good. Just look.”
A whine from you snaps Lyca’s attention back to where the two of you connect, his eyes wide with awe. Subaru presses down on your belly and you twitch as his fingers curl. It’s easy to tell that Lyca's still unsure, still apprehensive, but it’s lovely to see him warm up to you.
“Do you think they’re ready, Lyca?” Subaru asks softly, adding a third finger as you muffle your own whines.
Without waiting for an answer, Subaru tsks and grasps your jaw with his free hand.
The message is clear. Don't quiet yourself.
Your mouth falls open obediently, accepting his fingers between your lips. Spit coats his gloves, dripping down your chin as Lyca looks on, every muscle in his body tense.
“Take...what?” he asks, enraptured.
Subaru doesn’t answer him with words. Instead, he pulls his fingers out of both holes and grasps your hips. You follow his lead, lifting yourself up and allowing the tip of his cock to kiss your opening. Lyca shudders at the sound of your desperate pleas.
“Pleaseee, pleaseplease—been so good—” you beg, wiggling your hips to tempt him.
“You have, you have,” he reassures you, “But this is for Lyca, remember? Make him happy. Make me proud.”
It’s a sentence meant only for your ears, but with Lyca’s super hearing you’re sure he caught at least some of it. Shaking, you lower yourself down on him, mouth falling open wider and wider with every inch you take.
“Suba...” Lyca trails off, beholding you as though you were Venus herself, “They look...”
“It’s a nice view, right?” he coos, trailing the back of his hand over your cheek.
The stretch is manageable, you’ve done it before. It’s his words and Lyca’s gaze that make it harder. You clench down on him, sucking him inch by inch.
“They’re gonna take you like this too, Lyca.”
You sink down on him entirely with a whole body shudder, the force of it wracking your limbs. As if sensing your ecstasy, Subaru’s hand slides over the expanse of your thigh and finds your clit. His touch is feathery light and you know he’s teasing you, riling you up, making a show for his dearest friend—so you indulge him.
Rolling your hips forward, you inhale sharply at the gentle wet noises of his cock inside you. Lyca seems to have an even stronger reaction, his tail and ears making an appearance as he leans closer. Shame is thrown to the wayside as you raise and lower yourself on him over and over, then rocking back and forth as he nudges your clit with his fingertips.
Sensitivity builds faster than usual as you make eye contact with Lyca. He’s much closer now, nose twitching as the scent of sex and sweat fill the room.
“Good, good, you’re doing so good for me. That’s it. Lovely,” Subaru breaths, voice gravelly and dark, his hand gradually increasing its pace, “You’re close, love, I can feel it. Just a little more.”
You whine, high pitched and needy as you take him deeper, grinding instead of bouncing, not wanting him out of you for even a second. You can tell he’s holding himself back for you too, waiting til you can cum together, your pleasures mixing as one.
“Subaru!” you shout, gripping his arms so hard your nails dig into his sleeve.
“Shh, shh, I know, I know,” he murmurs, soothing you, “Go ahead.”
And you shatter, throwing your head back so hard it hits the back of his shoulder, letting your moans fall freely from your mouth as he fucks you through it. This must be the first time Lyca is seeing something like this so you lower your head, riding out the rest of your high while staring into his eyes.
He swallows thickly, cock twitching inside his slacks.
“That’s it, lovely,” Subaru purrs, securing your hips with his hands as he lifts you off of him, “Now go help Lyca, okay?”
You nod shakily, your pleasured haze radiating off of you. Getting on your hands and knees, you moan weakly at the feeling of Subaru’s release dripping down your thighs as you make your way to Lyca. He freezes completely when you sit in his lap, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Do you still want this, Lyca?” you ask softly, placing your hand on his belly.
“Obviously,” he grumbles, looking away with a blush, “...Do you?”
“Of course I do,” you grin, lovedrunk and satisfied, glowing with the aftermath of Subaru, “Let me take care of you, then.”
It’s easy to get him out of his pants—he doesn’t try to fight you. You know werewolf anatomy, you’re not surprised at what you find—and yet it still sends a thrill through you all the same. Biting your lower lip, you shimmy your way up his thighs, keenly aware of Subaru’s eyes on your back.
You drop down in one smooth motion, rocking your hips to take him easier.
“Shit—” Lyca curses, tearing the sheets with his claws.
There’s a sick sense of satisfaction you get from making him swear, from being able to affect him as much as you did. You immediately start moving, wrapping your arms around him.
He groans out your name, hands jerking towards your hips before he slams them back down on the bed, tears leaking from his clenched eyelids as you ride him. A part of you want to turn back and look at Subaru, but you know this is about Lyca—and so, you cup his face and coax his eyes open.
“There you are,” you murmur, offering him a reverend smile, “Keep looking at me, okay?”
“Can’t—Gonna finish too fast if I do that,” he grunts, turning away from you.
“It’s okay,” you coo, “This is about you.”
“No it’s not! Suba made you cum, and I’m gonna do that too,” he huffs, stubbornly looking down at where you connect.
His hand fumbles around until he finds your oversensitive clit. You gasp and jerk your hips and he immediately zeros in on that spot, averting his gaze to your upper thigh so he doesn't have to see your desperate movements.
“Lycaaaaa,” you whine, gasping and moaning into his shoulder, “Please, please—”
“I got you, alright!? Stop—squirming.” he says lamely, gritting his teeth, “Shit—”
“Cum inside, Lyca,” you coo, Subaru’s release still dripping from your hole, “Do it for me.”
And he does.
You feel the gush of warmth burst inside of you at the same time as your climax, your hips and thighs aching with the force of your grinding. Fully satisfied, you sink even further down, taking his knot with a pleasured whine.
Subaru is by your side in an instant, looking at you and then the mess between your thighs, eyes dark as he appraises the sight. His release, Lyca’s release, and where both of them are stuffed inside you.
Kept inside you.
“You both did wonderful,” he praises, patting Lyca’s head and stroking his own, “...Would either of you like some tea?”
“Yes please,” you murmur sleepily, nuzzling Lycca’s neck.
“Thanks, Suba,” Lyca replies, equally as sleepy, his arms locked around you.
You both are going to be here for a while, Might as well relax in the meantime.
dating atsumu miya is like signing up for a lifetime of secondhand embarrassment, dramatic public antics, and the kind of teasing that makes you want to strangle him—lovingly. from chaotic ikea trips to amusement park disasters and beach blunders with the team, he somehow manages to push every button you have… and still be the one you want to come home to. he’s exhausting, ridiculous, and completely yours—and honestly? you wouldn’t have it any other way.
haikyuu masterlist.
leave a little stardust on my ko-fi
starring. miya atsumu x fem!reader
genre: fluff, romance, timeskip!atsumu
wc: 3.3k
warning: 18+ nsfw, minors dni. smut (not really detaile) at the end, atsumu can be menance but he's whipped
author's note: tsumu can be menance but he loves you so... and also this is a bit self endulgent but i hope you guys enjoy reading it hehe
atsumu likes to make you mad.
not in the cruel way. never that. but in the boyish, infuriating, insufferably smug way—because for some reason, your narrowed eyes and hissed curses made his heart do backflips. to him, every exasperated “atsumu, i swear—!” was basically a love letter.
you learned that the hard way when you two started dating.
for the past few years, you’ve been with atsumu miya—setter for the msby black jackals, walking headline factory, and certified menace. and if there was one thing more consistent than his post-match protein shakes, it was his relentless mission to poke, prod, and pester you into mild (or not-so-mild) fury.
even when you first met him—at one of those fancy corporate parties your father made you attend as the daughter of one of msby’s owners—atsumu had annoyed the living hell out of you.
he had swaggered right up to you, half a drink in hand, hair perfectly messy like it had been styled by chaos itself. he wasn’t exactly drunk, but he had the buzz of someone who knew he was charming and planned to weaponize it all night.
you remember standing near the back of the banquet room, fingers curled around your glass, when he grinned at you like he knew a secret about you before you’d even spoken.
and then he spoke.
“didn’t know angels showed up to team events,” he’d said. “or are ya one of those rich execs lookin’ to buy me for a new team?”
you blinked once. slowly.
“no,” you said flatly. “i’m here to make sure no one gives you another drink.”
he laughed, bright and unapologetic. “feisty. i like ya already.”
you did not like him already.
in fact, if you had to describe atsumu miya that night, it would’ve been: golden retriever with rabies.
too loud, too fast, too much.
he bounced between conversations with the grace of a wrecking ball, flirted like it was an olympic sport, and somehow made even the waitstaff laugh with his stupid impressions and over-the-top compliments. he was chaos incarnate, dipped in cologne and wrapped in designer dress shoes.
you told yourself, nope. not my type. never in a million years.
because if there was one thing you couldn’t stand, it was men who lived like the world owed them attention—and atsumu practically demanded a spotlight with every breath.
so of course, the universe laughed and decided he’d be the one you’d fall stupidly in love with.
what made it worse was the fact that atsumu fell first.
you didn’t even notice at first. he was always annoying—flirting with reckless abandon, texting you dumb memes at 3 a.m., showing up to msby events with two drinks but only ever offering you the one he didn’t want. he called you “princess” with the kind of teasing lilt that made you want to throw things at him. and he lived to press your buttons.
but the thing was—he never stopped showing up.
when you had a bad day, he was there, kicking at your foot under the table until you cracked a smile. when your father’s meetings went long and you were stuck waiting, atsumu kept you company with a steady stream of ridiculous stories about his teammates. when he found out you liked this specific strawberry mochi from a hole-in-the-wall shop in osaka, he remembered—and brought you one every single week.
you accused him of being annoying.
he said he was “just persistent.”
but eventually, you started seeing the signs.
the way his eyes lit up when you rolled yours at him.
the way he laughed the hardest when you were mid-rant, threatening to throw your shoe at his head.
the way he looked at you—not like you were yelling at him, but like you were somehow the best part of his day anyway.
one afternoon, in a particularly dramatic moment of you scolding him for nearly tripping over your chair on purpose (again), you muttered, “you’re such a masochist.”
he grinned, smug as ever. “only fer you, sweetheart.”
and you hated how warm your face got.
because somehow, you had fallen too.
maybe it was the way he never made you feel silly for being mad. maybe it was the way he never once pushed you to soften yourself. or maybe it was just the fact that, beneath all the teasing and chaos, atsumu was always steady with you.
loud, but loyal.
annoying, but tender when it mattered.
exhausting, but kind—so achingly kind in ways he didn’t even realize.
so yes, he fell first. but when you finally let yourself fall, you didn’t fall halfway.
you fell hard.
you still hated when he stole your food.
still threatened to break up with him every time he called you “grumpy-bun.”
still screamed into a pillow when he left his socks all over your apartment.
but god—you loved him.
even though he does know how to push your buttons—and actively seems to seek out new ones just to see how far he can go—you still agreed to let him help you furnish your shared penthouse near the msby training grounds.
which was mistake number one.
the second you walked into ikea, atsumu’s eyes lit up like a kid in a toy store. dangerous. already grinning. already plotting.
you held your phone and your curated list of must-buys with all the efficiency of a woman on a mission. he had zero interest in your list.
“first stop—lighting,” you said, eyeing the showroom map.
“first stop—vibe check,” he replied, immediately veering off course to plop himself into the nearest armchair. “gotta make sure the thrones are worthy of yer royal ass.”
you stared. “we haven’t even started yet.”
he leaned back dramatically, arms spread over the chair’s armrests like a sitcom dad. “this one’s too stiff. no soul. next!”
and then he stood up, made a show of rotating his shoulders, and moved to the next chair over like this was some sacred ritual. sat. grunted thoughtfully. kicked his feet.
you blinked once. “are you trying out every single chair in ikea?”
he looked at you, dead serious. “i’m makin’ sure our future dinner guests have an emotionally supportive place to sit, babe.”
you exhaled slowly. “i’m going to lose my mind.”
by the fifth chair and third exaggerated sigh, you genuinely debated leaving him in the office furniture section. but it got worse when you hit the bedroom displays.
“atsumu.”
“hmm?” he says, already halfway through dramatically stretching across a king-size display bed, arms behind his head like he’s about to take a nap in the middle of ikea.
“get off the bed, atsumu.”
he turns his head, flashing that smug, boyish grin you should honestly be paid to endure. “but what if the bed isn't suitable for… certain activities that involve the two of us?”
you gasp, mortified, as a family strolls past—with children. one of the kids is definitely old enough to understand. the mom gives you a sharp look. the dad stifles a laugh.
you whip back toward him, eyes wide. “oh my god, shut up,” you hiss.
atsumu just laughs, unbothered, shamelessly lounging like he owns the place. “i’m just sayin’, babe. what if it squeaks? what if the springs suck? what if halfway through—”
“we are not testing the beds for that,” you snap through gritted teeth, cutting him off before he can scar another family of four.
he shrugs, eyes dancing with mischief. “seems like important research to me.”
you lean over the bed, grab a pillow, and slap it right across his face.
he lets out a dramatic groan and flops onto his side like he’s been mortally wounded. “abused in broad daylight… by the woman i love… in front of innocent bystanders…”
you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose, the edge of a smile betraying your exasperation. “can’t take you anywhere.”
from his dramatic sprawl across the bed, atsumu peeks up at you from beneath the pillow, one eye squinted shut like he’s barely surviving the assault.
“yeah,” he says, voice lazy and smug, “but ya keep takin’ me places…”
then he lifts the pillow just enough to flash a grin that spells danger.
“…and i can also take you to places.”
you pause.
he winks.
your soul leaves your body.
“atsumu miya,” you say, slowly, like you’re preparing to sentence him to life in ikea jail, “i swear to every god in this overpriced swedish maze—”
“emotionally. mentally. spiritually,” he continues, completely ignoring the warning in your voice, stretching like a cat across the bed. “also, like, physically. frequently.”
you smack the back of his head with the product catalog.
he howls with laughter, muffled by the bedding. “worth it!”
you roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they come back down. “if i go to jail for murder today, i want it on record that it was completely justified.”
“ya say that now,” he says, sitting up and leaning in close, voice dropping low, “but ya love it when i talk like that.”
you don’t answer.
you don’t have to.
because your face is already betraying you—and atsumu knows it.
“god, yer so hot when yer about to strangle me,” he adds with a grin, voice dipping low as he leans closer, “like, i genuinely can’t wait to try the couch and the bed once we get home… for activities, of course.”
you groan, cheeks burning, and shove the cart forward with more force than necessary. “pick a damn couch before i turn this into a crime scene.”
he jogs after you, still laughing, totally unfazed by the judgmental glances from other shoppers. “ooo, that one looks like it’d survive both of us jumpin’ on it!”
“atsumu—”
“i’m just sayin’!” he throws his hands up in mock innocence. “gotta think long-term! like, comfort, durability, spring tension, stain resistance…”
you shoot him a glare so deadly, a nearby employee quietly steers a family away from your aisle.
he grins anyway, bouncing on the edge of a sleek gray sectional like a child testing trampolines. “yeah, this one’s got some give. real flexible. just like—”
“finish that sentence and i’m leaving you here to live among the storage bins.”
he freezes dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “cruel. and after i committed to a lifetime of ikea dates with ya.”
you snort despite yourself, dragging the cart toward the checkout. “we’re never doing this again.”
“sure we will,” he says, catching up and bumping your shoulder with his. “next time we need a rug or—oh, a dining table. one that’s real sturdy. for, y’know…”
you cut him off with a sharp glare, but your lips twitch. “you have one brain cell and it’s entirely dedicated to being inappropriate.”
“and makin’ you laugh,” he adds, nudging you again, softer this time. “can’t forget that part.”
you sigh, giving in to the tiniest smile. “you’re lucky i love you.”
“yer lucky i make ikea fun.”
“that’s… debatably true.”
“ya smiled, didn’t ya?”
you huff. “shut up.”
but you lace your fingers with his anyway.
and he beams like he just won a trophy.
then, without warning, he tugs you a little closer—right there between the discount lamps and a stack of folded futons—and presses a kiss to your forehead, then another quick one to your lips. soft, sweet, and utterly smug.
you blink at him.
he’s already laughing.
“what now?” you mumble, heat creeping up your neck.
“you looked like ya were gonna punch me,” he says, grin stretching wide, “but then ya kissed me back. that's love, baby.”
you roll your eyes, but you're smiling for real this time.
and when he kisses you again—gentle, warm, like he’s sealing every chaotic, loud, ridiculous moment with one quiet promise—you let him.
because yeah, he’s annoying. yeah, he’ll probably embarrass you again before you even make it to checkout. but he’s yours.
and you wouldn’t trade him for the world—though you’d possibly trade him for a solo ikea trip. just once. maybe twice.
you thought, foolishly, that a day at the amusement park would be a calmer choice.
cute. fun. public enough to keep atsumu from getting too handsy. or inappropriate. or, you know… atsumu.
you were wrong.
it started with him dragging you to the carnival games like an overgrown golden retriever on a mission.
“this one!” he pointed, eyes locked on a claw machine full of stuffed animals, all wildly overpriced and rigged to hell. “that angry-lookin’ one in the back? kinda looks like ya.”
you shot him a look.
“i’m sayin’ that lovingly,” he said, already inserting coins. “yer cute when yer mad. i mean, look at its tiny frown.”
it took him three tries and way too much cheering from nearby children, but he won it. a small, round, very grumpy-looking red bear with permanently furrowed brows.
he handed it to you proudly. “perfect match.”
you narrowed your eyes. “i’m giving this to the next toddler i see.”
“you won’t,” he grinned, already snapping a photo of you holding it. “yer soft like that.”
you weren’t.
(you were.)
the haunted house was next. you didn’t even want to go in. but of course, atsumu insisted—because “what if you get scared and jump into my arms like in the movies?”
spoiler: he got scared first.
the second a fake zombie popped out of the wall, he jumped and cursed so loud the couple behind you burst into laughter. he latched onto your arm, half hiding behind you and muttering, “that thing moved too fast, what the hell—”
“you’re a professional athlete,” you deadpanned.
“exactly! my body’s a temple. i gotta protect it from jump scares.”
by the end of the haunted hallway, you were rolling your eyes and dragging him out like a bodyguard escorting an emotionally fragile celebrity. he claimed he “let you lead to feel safe.”
sure.
you thought the chaos would mellow out during snacks. it did not.
he bought cotton candy the size of his head, shoved a chunk in his mouth, and leaned in to kiss you with sticky lips and fingers.
“don’t even—” you started.
“too late,” he mumbled through sugar, already leaning forward.
you shoved a packet of wet wipes right into his face.
he froze, blinking as you dabbed at his mouth like a scolding daycare teacher.
“this is why you’re not allowed near fondue fountains,” you muttered.
he chuckled, lips still sweet. “but i wanna kiss ya.”
“then don’t taste like a cavity.”
“i can’t help it. i’m sweet-natured.”
“you’re a menace.”
“same thing.”
the sky had begun to melt into soft hues of purple and gold, a cotton-candy swirl of evening settling over the amusement park. from the moment atsumu suggested the ferris wheel to “end the day right,” you had your suspicions.
you were right to.
as soon as the gondola doors clicked shut and the wheel jerked into motion, slowly climbing, atsumu’s head tilted toward you, lips already pulled into a grin so smug it should be illegal.
“you know…” he started, settling back lazily into the bench with one arm stretched across the backrest, “the windows are tinted, and it’s all closed off…”
you didn’t even look at him. “don’t.”
“i'm just sayin’,” he drawled. “would be the perfect place for a quickie.”
you turned your head, slowly, expression blank.
“atsumu.”
“what?” he said innocently. “it’s efficient. romantic. environmentally conscious, even—savin’ energy and all that.”
“i will open this door and throw you off.”
he laughed. “you love me too much.”
“you really wanna test that theory while we’re suspended thirty feet in the air?”
he was still laughing when he slid closer, arm dipping down to hook around your waist—pulling you right into his lap with zero warning.
“atsumu—!” you gasped, clinging to his hoodie as your balance tipped and your legs swung over his.
he gave you that shit-eating grin, eyes warm and golden in the late light. “this is better.”
“you are unbelievable,” you muttered, though you didn’t move from his lap. not even when his hand slid comfortably to your waist and his other cradled the back of your head like it belonged there.
“just one kiss,” he said, voice quieter now, lips inches from yours. “promise.”
“you never stop at one.”
“can’t help it,” he murmured, brushing your lips with his. “yer addictive.”
and maybe you were tired of resisting. maybe you knew the second you sat on his lap, you'd lose.
the first kiss was testing the waters—barely a brush. the second sank deeper, lips moving slowly, deliberately, like he had time and wasn’t about to waste a second. you curled your fingers into the collar of his hoodie, holding tight as his hand caressed your back, dragging you closer until your chest pressed to his and there was no space left between you.
the third kiss made you forget about the height. the crowds below. the gentle swaying of the gondola. all of it faded under the heat curling in your stomach as he kissed you deeper, his lips parting yours with practiced ease, coaxing soft, secret things from your throat you hadn’t meant to give away.
when you finally pulled back—barely, breathless—your noses touched, foreheads pressed together in the quiet aftermath.
“you’re gonna marry me someday,” he whispered.
you let out a breathy laugh. “you’re so delusional.”
“maybe,” he murmured, brushing a kiss to your cheek, “but you still let me kiss ya like that.”
you were quiet for a second, lips parted, voice lower when you finally spoke.
“with everything i’ve been through… all the crap i’ve had to deal with—do you really think anyone else would still put up with you like this?”
his arms tightened around you.
there was a flicker in his eyes—still playful, still warm, but something deeper underneath. his thumb brushed slow circles against your side.
“no,” he said softly. “that’s why i’m never lettin’ go.”
you kissed him again, gently this time. a little slower. a little more like a promise.
then he leaned back just enough to flash that boyish grin again, eyes flicking up to the soft glow of the night sky through the glass above.
“so…” he said, lips brushing yours, “still no quickie? we’re already at the top. got at least fifteen minutes left…”
you didn’t even hesitate. you slapped a hand over his mouth. “one more word and i will make out with the emergency call button instead.”
he laughed against your palm.
and when you pulled your hand away, his smile stayed—so damn full of love, mischief, and that chaos you’d fallen headfirst for. you curled up against him, his arms wrapped around you like second nature, and you both stayed like that—quiet, warm, and tangled—as the wheel began its slow descent.
maybe he was exhausting.
but he was yours.
and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
most of the time.
because sometimes—sometimes—he went a little too far.
like the beach trip two weeks later.
it was one of those rare weekends where the whole msby black jackals roster and a few familiar faces from their high school volleyball days managed to get time off together. bokuto had screamed “beach day!” in the group chat at 3 a.m. and by noon the next day, coolers, towels, umbrellas, and an absurd amount of sports drinks were packed into every available car.
you’d tagged along, of course. not because you loved the idea of being around a bunch of hypercompetitive athletes throwing volleyballs at each other on sand—but because atsumu had begged with those stupid golden eyes and promised to “be chill.”
which was your first mistake: believing that miya atsumu could ever be chill.
at first, it was fine. you were under the umbrella, sipping from your cold drink, watching them chase each other down the shoreline and attempt increasingly dramatic dives into the water like grown children.
atsumu had broken away at one point and jogged toward you, skin warm from the sun, a crooked smile on his face.
“c’mon,” he said, already reaching for you. “let’s go in the water.”
“no thanks,” you replied easily, shifting your sunglasses. “i don’t wanna get wet. i’m good right here.”
“but yer wearin’ a swimsuit,” he said, as if that nullified your statement entirely.
“yes, a dry one.”
he huffed, flopped down beside you, then dramatically laid his head in your lap like you’d just wounded him with your refusal.
but eventually, as always, he got back up. the ocean called. so did bokuto’s challenge to a water wrestling match.
you didn’t notice he was planning something until he came back with a glint in his eyes and a grin that should’ve warned you.
“atsumu,” you said warily as he bent down and scooped you into his arms with far too much ease. “put me down. i’m serious. i told you i don’t wanna get—”
too late.
he ran straight into the water.
you screamed—not out of fear, but rage—arms clinging to his neck as he laughed like a maniac and jumped forward, plunging the both of you straight into a crashing wave.
the water soaked you instantly—hair, clothes, everything.
you surfaced sputtering, soaked and furious, while he popped up beside you, still holding onto your waist, beaming like an idiot.
“you—atsumu—i told you!” you shouted, slapping the water. “i didn’t want to get wet!”
“i know, i know,” he said quickly, hands raised as if surrendering. “but it was hot! and you looked like you needed coolin’ off!”
you didn’t answer. you just turned and stormed your way back to the shore, dripping wet, your wet cover-up clinging to you, your sunglasses gone to sea, and your pride in shambles.
you didn’t stop until you were back under the umbrella, towel wrapped around your shoulders as you flopped angrily onto the beach chair and crossed your arms.
atsumu stayed in the water a little longer, laughing weakly as bokuto made some joke about how he was “gonna die out there.”
eventually, he trudged back—wet and sandy and clearly knowing he was in deep shit.
he hovered at the edge of the umbrella’s shade like a kicked puppy.
“…babe?”
you didn’t look at him.
he crouched beside your chair, arms resting on the armrest, eyes wide and guilty. “hey. i’m sorry. i really am. i know you said no, and i shouldn’t’ve pushed it.”
you said nothing, arms still folded.
“i just… you were smilin’ earlier and i thought maybe i could make you laugh, but—i crossed a line. i know that. and i’m sorry.”
you glanced at him finally, just long enough to catch the way his wet bangs stuck to his forehead and how sincere he looked. the frustration was still there, sitting like a lump in your throat—but so was the ache of knowing he had meant well. in the dumb, atsumu way he always did.
“you owe me a new drink,” you muttered.
he grinned. “and a dry towel?”
“two towels.”
“done.”
he leaned in carefully, brushing a kiss to your shoulder like an apology. “still love me?”
you narrowed your eyes. “barely.”
but he smiled anyway. because he knew you meant yes.
even if you were still plotting revenge.
even if you were still soaked and cranky and low-key traumatized from your unwanted dip in the ocean.
and maybe—maybe—he knew he had to go above and beyond this time.
which is why, on the drive home, he took a sudden detour without warning. you frowned from the passenger seat until you realized exactly where he was headed.
your favorite dessert café. the one that made those ridiculous, over-the-top ice cream creations that barely fit in a bowl and stocked cakes so rich they could kill a man in two bites.
“you’re bribing me,” you said flatly as he came out carrying two bags—one with cake, the other with a parfait the size of your face.
“nope,” he grinned, handing them to you. “this is what lawyers call reparations.”
you tried to hold your glare, but it faltered the second the first spoonful of your favorite flavor hit your tongue. he watched you closely, like a man waiting for a verdict. you stayed quiet as you slowly worked through the dessert, ignoring how smug he looked when you didn’t push it away.
by the time you got home, you were tired. the good kind. your skin still carried traces of salt and sunscreen, and your legs ached a little from walking in the sand—but atsumu, for all his idiocy earlier, had managed to soften the memory into something survivable.
and maybe that’s why you let him tug you into the shower with him.
not that he was very subtle about it.
not when his hands slid over your hips the second the water hit, or when his lips pressed to your neck with quiet, murmured apologies that had less to do with actual regret and more to do with making sure you forgot everything but the way he could touch you like no one else could.
he knew your body better than he knew his own playbook. knew exactly how to coax those gasps from your lips, how to make you dig your nails into his shoulders, how to pull you against the cold tile just right to get that sound out of you that made his knees weak.
it was slow at first, unhurried. like he was worshiping you with his hands, not just touching you to feel good but touching you to make it right.
and then it wasn’t so slow anymore.
not when you pulled him down with a kiss that tasted like want, not when his grip on your thighs tightened, not when your back arched and you both forgot everything except this.
by the time the shower fogged over the glass and the water began to cool, you were both breathless—wet skin pressed against wet skin, your back to the tile, his mouth on your neck, his hands on your thighs, everywhere and overwhelming in the way only he could be.
but of course, atsumu wasn’t done.
not even close.
you barely had a moment to catch your breath before he was toweling the two of you off in a mess of laughter, kisses, and clumsy stumbles into the bedroom—still trailing droplets, still drunk on each other.
he didn’t even make it to the bed first.
you found yourself pinned against the wall near the dresser, his hands framing your face like he couldn’t get enough of looking at you, even now—especially now.
“you’re so damn pretty when you’re mad,” he breathed against your lips.
“you’re gonna make me mad again if you don’t shut up.”
he grinned into the kiss you gave him to shut him up. that’s what he wanted. you always knew.
and from there it was all fire and heat.
he lifted you easily, your legs wrapping around his waist like instinct, your name falling from his mouth in a reverent groan as he carried you to the bed—only to miss it entirely and press you down into the plush carpet just beside it.
not that you cared.
there was something raw and aching about the way he touched you then. not hurried, not rushed, but desperate in that slow-burning way that made your heart beat louder than your thoughts. every kiss on your chest, every scrape of his teeth, every hoarse whisper of your name sent sparks up your spine.
by the time you made it to the bed—finally—it wasn’t even about revenge or apology anymore.
it was just you and him.
it was him kneeling between your legs, worshiping every inch of you like he still couldn’t believe you were real. it was the way he whispered “mine,” like he needed to remind the universe. it was you arching under him, pulling him closer, holding nothing back.
and it was love. god, it was all love.
the kind that burned in your lungs when you moaned his name.
the kind that cracked his voice when he whispered yours back.
the kind that had you tangled up in the sheets by the time it was over—legs still wrapped around each other, skin warm, hearts slower now but just as full.
atsumu brushed a hand over your hair, kissed your temple, and collapsed beside you with a satisfied groan.
“…still mad?”
you didn’t answer right away. just sighed and rolled toward him, cheek on his chest.
“…you’re lucky i love you.”
he chuckled, lazy and smug. “so… you did like the make-up sex.”
you snorted. “it’s the only thing keeping you alive right now.”
he smiled against your hair.
"course it is.”
and yeah… he was exhausting. overbearing. sometimes completely ridiculous.
but he was also yours.
and he knew exactly how to make you fall in love with him again—over and over and over.
even if you’d still rather go to ikea alone next time.
…looks like he walked straight out of a salaryman noir manga panel: the sleeves rolled to his forearms like he’s about to interrogate the universe, glasses glinting under harsh fluorescent lights, tie knotted just a little too tight — the only rebellion he allows himself.
He’s the kind of man who doesn’t believe in fate but still believes in coffee breaks, perfectly aligned spreadsheets, and you.
You — his boss's secretary — with your meticulous little notepads and your fucking dangerous ass in those high-waisted pencil skirts.
Nanami Kento is many things, but a pervert isn't one of them.
Still, God is testing him, because every time you lean over the copy machine or reach for a file in the archives, the curve of you burns into the folds of his starched professional brain like a branding iron.
But it’s not just the ass. (Okay, the ass helps. A lot. Criminal, actually. Someone should arrest you. Maybe him-oh yes please actually.)
It’s the way you push your glasses up with the same damn gesture every time. The way your voice drops into hyperfocus mode when you’re knee-deep in logistics hell, mumbling deadlines to yourself and tapping your pen against your cheek. The way you go unnoticed by most of the office— dismissed as “odd” or “quirky” — because neurotypical assholes can’t comprehend brilliance when it walks past them in kitten heels, carrying three iced coffees and a seven-color-coded planner.
see's what you do. You work yourself to the bone. Nanami sees it. Nanami feels it, in his fucking soul. And god, you intimidate him more than the cursed spirits ever did.
He’s not even supposed to notice you. You’re technically his superior. Kind of. Sort of. Whatever. It’s messy.
But Nanami fucking Kento is also crushing. Hard.
Salaryman!Nanami....
Who knows it all goes to shit with a late night.
Not unusual in your line of work — late nights are your mistress and your enemy. The office is mostly dead, only the low hum of vending machines and the hiss of an ancient espresso machine filling the void.
He doesn't even notice you’re still there until he hears your chair creak as you stretch, letting out this tiny, exhausted sigh. You’re muttering something about "quarterly projections being the devil's Sudoku" when he rounds the corner and nearly walks into you.
“Ah— Nanami-san,” you blink at him, looking like you haven’t slept since the Meiji era. “Didn’t realize anyone else was still here.”
“Likewise,” he says, shifting awkwardly with his briefcase in hand. “You should… get some rest. It’s almost midnight.”
You nod, yawning. “Can’t. I promised I’d reorganize the department’s invoice backlog tonight. Deadlines are comforting.”
Who realises you're a lunatic. A beautiful, mesmerizing, overworked lunatic. And Nanami is so fucking gone it’s ridiculous.
“Would you like… help?” he offers before he can even think about it.
You tilt your head, surprise flickering across your face like a glitch. “Really? You don’t have to—”
“I insist.”
So you work together. A quiet, unspoken rhythm forms — like watching two clocks tick in sync. You discover you both hate the same flavor of canned coffee.
He finds out you name all your files absurd things like “THE BIG STUPID BINDER OF NIGHTMARES” and “killmenow.xlsx.” He laughs. Actually laughs.
You tell him about your dream of writing a novel — sci-fi mystery, space lesbian noir with angry cats and interstellar bureaucracy. “It’s shit. No one will read it.”
“I’d read it,” he says.
You blink. “Really?”
He nods. “Especially if there are angry cats.”
Your smile is crooked. Weird. Perfect. “You’re not bad, Nanami-san. For a numbers guy.”
Salaryman!Nanami....
Who thinks he might have gone to heaven the instant he stepped in the cat café.
You engineer it — sneakily, like the little chaos gremlin you are. Your day off conveniently aligning with his. You make it seem like coincidence. (He doesn’t know you hacked the scheduling system. Yet.)
He shows up in casual clothes — still a button-up shirt, but unbuttoned at the throat, no tie. You almost choke on your boba. He looks unfairly good.
The café is cozy, full of velvet pillows and lazy cats, and for a moment, Nanami relaxes. You tell him about Chairman Meow :
“My absolute bastard son. Look.”;and show him a photo of a tuxedo cat in a miniature Pikachu hat. The cat is judging the world. You light up when you talk about him. It does something to Nanami’s chest.
He listens. He actually listens. About your writing. Your hyperfixation on obscure mythology. Your annoyance at being called “eccentric.” The way you feel like you take up too much space and not enough, all at once.
Who doesn’t interrupt. He just watches you. Eyes soft. Too soft.
You both go home buzzing with something unsaid. Something simmering just under the surface.
That night, Nanami jerks off to the memory of your laugh, your voice, your goddamn smile. He tries not to. Really, he does.
He fails.
Who then finds your socials. You followed him back. He scrolls. Obsessively. One pic of Chairman Meow in a maid costume makes him bark out a laugh.
(You, on the other hand, spend the night rereading his book recommendations on Goodreads like a lunatic, imagining how his hands would feel on your thighs. You're not any better.)
Who knows when not to push it (or so he thinks) so things stall ater that.
You both act normal. Too normal. You keep things professional to a painful degree. Every brush of your hands when passing documents feels like a fucking felony.
You don’t want to scare him. You know you’re “too much” for most people. So you play it safe. Keep your crush buried under spreadsheets and sarcasm.
Nanami does the same. He’s not exactly Casanova. He doesn’t want to cross lines. You’re brilliant. Intimidating. Out of his league.
So it simmers. Burns quietly.
Until it doesn’t.
Until it all comes to a head in the parking lot (super romantic).
Who really hates how upper management -like seriously. One of the upper managers — loud, balding, comb-over piece of shit — yells at you in front of everyone over a missing report. Something you didn't even do. It was the boss. But you take it. You shut down. You stand there, letting the words hit like shrapnel while everyone watches.
Nanami’s jaw tightens. He wants to deck the guy.
But you vanish before he can say anything.
He finds you in the parking garage, hunched against your car, hands shaking, glasses askew.
“Are you alright?” he asks quietly.
You flinch. Then crumble. “I didn’t even do anything. And everyone saw. I hate being seen like that.”
He puts his hand on your shoulder — warm, grounding. “You didn’t deserve that.”
You look up at him, eyes watery and wild. “Nanami— I…”
And then you kiss him. Or maybe he kisses you. It’s messy. Too fast. Your noses bump. Teeth clack. It’s terrible.
You pull away, horrified. “Oh my god— I didn’t— I’m so sorry, I—”
But Nanami cups your face. Kisses you again.
Slower. Deeper.
With all the pent-up desire of six months of silent pining and half-hard morning meetings.
You moan into his mouth and that’s it. He’s fucking gone.
Salaryman!Nanami...
Who, that night, meets Chairman Meow.
The cat scratches him immediately.
You’re mortified. “He likes you, I swear.”
Nanami’s already rolling up his sleeves. “Good. I like a challenge.”
You laugh. You look up at him. There’s a beat of silence.
Then you’re on him. On the couch. On the floor. You ride him with your skirt bunched around your waist, moaning his name like a prayer, while Chairman Meow judges from the top of the bookshelf (he'd been locked in the bathroom but that little shit knows how to open doors).
Who fucks you like he’s been starved. Like you’re something holy and filthy at the same time.
“You feel— fuck— perfect,” he groans into your neck.
“You’re thicker than I expected,” you whisper back, half-laughing, half-breathless.
He growls. “You talk too much.”
“Make me shut up, then.”
So he does.
Over and over.
You fuck like rabbits. Like stress relief. Like a bomb going off. Every pent-up emotion explodes between your thighs.
Who eats you out on your dining table while spreadsheets flutter to the floor.
You suck him off during a break in your writing, glasses askew, lipstick smudged, looking like every forbidden fantasy he’s ever had.
He calls you his “perfect little freak.”
You call him “Daddy Spreadsheet.” JOKINGLY. Nanami lowkey likes it.
Who, of course, doesn't NOT ask you out. Hello?? Of course he does. With flowers. Food. And head of course.
You start dating in secret. Kind of. People at work start noticing Nanami smiling more. You have a new glow. Chairman Meow tolerates Nanami’s presence.
Eventually, the secret comes out.
And no one’s surprised.
You’re just two neurotic, overworked, weirdly well-dressed weirdos who found something tender and raw in each other.
And maybe, just maybe, Japan’s population might actually recover.
You’re working on it. Frequently.
A/N: not my most amazing ik, but i still think its a bit funny. hope its not too bad
hasn’t picked up a brush in six months. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because the inside of his skull is empty. Blank canvases everywhere. He stares at his hands and they feel like foreign things, useless things, and his agent keeps fucking calling.
“Kento, people are waiting. You’re not some niche little street painter anymore, you’re Nanami Kento. The Nanami Kento. You can't just—disappear.”
He can, and he does.
He ends up in a countryside town so old it’s practically rotting. A skeleton of a village clinging to tradition by its fingernails. He rents a house that might collapse in a strong wind. Tatami eaten by mold, sliding doors barely sliding, a garden overgrown with weeds that look more alive than him.
And god—he tries.
He sits for hours, brush in hand, sketchpad on thigh, ink bleeding into paper and… nothing. No curses come, no blood-slicked dreams, no grotesque beauty. Not even landscapes. Just static.
His hands tremble and his jaw aches from clenching. The house groans in the wind like it’s mourning something.
He walks the town like a ghost. In slacks and a turtleneck, cream linen coat over his shoulders, glasses sliding down his nose. A little too polished for this place, too handsome, too tense. He doesn’t speak to anyone. Just walks. Takes photos of rusted bike chains and shrines blackened with time.
And then.
He sees you for the first time through the glass window of a crumbling book café. You're shelving something. Maybe coffee-stained poetry, maybe a cookbook from 1987. Doesn’t matter.
Because suddenly everything matters.
You move like a quiet hymn. Your hands speak in soft phrases. You pour coffee like a ceremony, you breathe like you’re made of silk. He forgets how to breathe entirely. His spine straightens like he’s been struck.
And he knows what this is. He’s painted obsession before. He’s dissected it, hollowed it out on canvas. But this?
This is maddening.
Artist!Nanami who…
starts bringing his sketchbook everywhere. And suddenly, he’s not drawing rusted gates or decay.
He’s drawing your hands.
Your hands slicing cake.
Your hands tying your apron.
Your wrists bent to pick up a teacup.
Your shoulders when you stretch, your spine when you bend to organize the bottom shelf, your fingers curled around the spine of a Murakami.
No face. Never your face. Too intimate. Too much.
But your presence is in every page now. Every sketch a fucking confession.
He starts showing up at the café at the same time every day. He claims the seat by the window. Orders black coffee. Never drinks it. His sketchpad lives open in his lap. He never speaks to you. Just nods. Eyes dark, sunken, flickering. Watching. Worshipping.
Your voice, when it floats over to him—some gentle “Will that be all?” or “Thank you”—is gospel.
Artist!Nanami who…
paints again.
Oh he paints like he’s possessed.
Your hands in chiaroscuro, dripping with ink.
Your profile turned away, soft and blurry.
Your apron hung up like a flag of surrender.
An abstract piece: the hue of your eye color melted into a storm of golds, browns, copper, with a vein of violet through it like lightning.
He paints your shadow on a tatami mat.
He paints a coffee cup you touched.
He paints a room he imagines you sleep in.
And the canvas is wet for weeks.
He starts dreaming again.
Not of curses. Not of disemboweled gods or nightmarish holes in the earth.
But of you.
And those dreams are just as violent.
You, biting your lip.
You, whispering something he can’t hear.
You, curling your hand around the back of his neck.
He wakes up sweating, palms stained with paint, heart racing like he ran through hell.
He sends the pieces to his agent with no explanation. No names. Just a title: “She Pours Coffee.”
Another: “Still Life with Apron.”
Another: “Untouched.”
And the most sold one: “Softest Violence.”
“Kento. Who is she?”
“A muse,” he says, deadpan.
“Christ. This woman’s not real, is she?”
“She’s the only real thing I’ve ever painted.”
He refuses to explain you. Not with human words.
He speaks of you in metaphors. You are light filtered through lace. You are silence just before the thunder. You are the taste of something you can’t name but you miss for the rest of your life.
And his agent eats it up because the collectors are starving.
The art world falls to its knees for you.
And still, you don’t know.
You don’t know what he’s done.
You don’t know he’s turning you into oil and canvas and paper and dreams.
You don’t know that every breath you take is being archived, turned into divinity.
Artist!Nanami who…
is losing his goddamn mind because he’s never touched you, but he knows the exact way your hand folds over a pen, and how your shoulders twitch when you laugh. He knows you like your tea lukewarm, and that you dog-ear your pages even though you feel guilty about it.
He knows you’ll be there at 8:03am every Tuesday.
He knows the shape of your silhouette against the morning sun.
He knows the distance between you and him like it's a wound.
He doesn’t want to ruin it by speaking.
Because how do you talk to God?
How do you say “I need to paint you until my fingers bleed” and make it sound like anything other than a confession?
Artist! Nanami who...
gets caught.
You find him with his head bent over a sketchpad, one long-fingered hand twitching with a charcoal pencil, the other pressed flat against the paper like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth. You're just doing your job. Another slow, soft day in the book café. Pouring tea. Tucking novels back on sagging shelves. Breathing. Existing.
And he’s—watching. Drawing. Eyes flicking up and down between the page and you like you’re a fucking eclipse.
You look over, finally, and his hand freezes mid-line.
Like a deer. Or a man caught with blood on his teeth.
You cross the room, curiosity painted across your features like light through lace curtains. You tilt your head, your voice gentler than he deserves.
“Can I see?”
He feels his ribcage collapse.
Because he never planned for this. Never planned for you to look back. You were supposed to be myth, motif, silhouette. A sacred thing from a distance. The moment you see, the fantasy becomes flesh and that terrifies him more than all the curses he’s ever painted.
But you’re looking at him now, and he’s not struck down.
He’s just a man. And you’re just… smiling.
You, who end up sitting across from him.
You, who laugh a little and say,
“You draw like you’re in love with your subject.”
And fuck. He’s never been more exposed in his entire life.
He almost says it. Right then. Just lets it spill: “I am.”
But his tongue is a coward and so instead he swallows glass and says:
“It’s… a habit.”
“You’re good,” you reply. “I mean, really good.”
And somehow, that hurts more. Like praise from the divine.
Artist! Nanami who...
talks to you for hours after that.
The café closes. Neither of you care.
The sky bruises with cloud, wind bending through narrow streets like breath.
Rain starts to fall. Heavy, urgent. No umbrellas.
You bite your lip, laugh, shrug.
“Well… I live just upstairs. Want to come in until it stops?”
Does he want to?
Nanami would let himself drown in a flooded street if you asked him to.
He follows you up the creaking stairs like a man being led to the gallows. And your place? It’s a womb. Warm and soft and cluttered with books and plants and cat hair. The fat black and white cat on the window sill judges him immediately. He bows to it.
“That’s Soba,” you say. “He bites.”
“I deserve it.”
He means that.
You make tea in a chipped porcelain pot. He watches your hands like he always does. Your rhythm, your grace, the way you blow gently into the steam before sipping. He thinks about painting that, too.
He helps with dinner. You laugh at how precise he chops vegetables. You talk about art. Life. Regret. Loneliness.
“I used to paint,” you say, offhand. “Just a little. Studied it in college. Nothing serious.”
And that sentence alone shatters him.
You understand. You could see him, truly see him.
He feels like a boy again, desperate to impress.
Artist! Nanami who…
goes home after dinner in a daze.
Hair damp from the rain. Fingers twitching.
And then—
He snaps.
He paints for three days straight. No food. No sleep. Just brush, oil, canvas. The world disappears. Only you exists.
This isn’t a portrait. This is a fucking seance.
The aura of you. The frequency. The breath.
Light hitting your eyes like holy fire.
The unspoken softness. The goddamn divinity of you.
Paint under his nails. Sweat on his neck. A high like nothing he’s ever tasted.
Three canvases. Six. Twelve. He’s losing count.
The countryside. The cats. The curve of the river.
But you are in every frame.
You, who walk through his unlocked door on the third day.
Left Soba home alone.
He hasn’t shown up at the café. Not even to stalk. You’re worried.
The house is a cathedral of art now.
You step into the shrine he built out of you.
And Nanami— Nanami is on the floor, eyes bloodshot, shirt stained with paint, brush twitching in his hand like he’s holding a match about to burn him alive.
He looks up like he’s caught mid-prayer.
“You— You weren’t supposed to see this.”
“The door was open.”
“I was… working.”
“Clearly.”
You walk slowly, looking around. Paintings stacked against the walls like confessions. You recognize yourself in all of them. Not literally. Not always. But… the curve of your spine, your shadow, your hands. The light in your living room. The slope of your cat’s tail. Your essence. Your being.
You crouch beside a canvas still drying. You squint.
“Your color composition is insane,” you murmur. “That’s… that’s gorgeous linework.”
Artist! Nanami who...
nearly dies on the spot.
Because instead of screaming or running or calling him a fucking psycho—
You see.
You understand.
You start talking about brush strokes, composition, saturation.
He could cry. He might.
“You studied art,” he says, dumbly.
“I told you I did.”
“I forgot.”
“You were too busy sketching me while I made coffee.”
He chokes on nothing.
And then, because he’s riding the high of total creative surrender, because he’s sleep-deprived and madly in love, he asks:
“Will you pose for me?”
“Like… now?”
“I’ll make tea.”
“Then yes.”
He sets you up in the golden light of late afternoon.
Nothing dramatic. Just you, in your everyday skin. Perched on a stool. A book in hand. Your hair tied up lazily.
You’re not trying. And that kills him.
The painting he makes is real. Like, dangerously real. No abstractions. Just you. Exactly as you are. Rendered in painful, fucking devotional clarity. Your eye-liner. Your lips parted slightly. The small mole he only ever saw once.
And you hold still. For him.
For him.
He invites you to stay for dinner.
As a thank-you, he says. Casual. Awkward.
He tries not to sound like he’s begging.
“It’s nothing fancy. Just soba.”
“Fitting.”
You stay. Of course you do.
Because now you’re in the painting.
And he thinks—maybe, just maybe—he’s in you, too.
Artist! Nanami who…
spends the week like it’s borrowed time. Like God might notice he’s finally happy and rip it away with bloodied hands.
He sees you every day. Every fucking day. No excuses. No self-preservation.
You come over for tea and never leave before midnight. You cook in his cursed kitchen with music playing on your cracked phone. You try to teach him to dance in the garden. He sketches you as you water the plants, as you nap under open windows, as you scribble grocery lists.
He kisses your wrist once. Just to see.
You don’t flinch.
And that — that is the beginning of the end.
Artist! Nanami who…
kisses you again. Properly.
It happens like a break.
Like the world finally splits.
It’s dusk, and you’re laughing at something he said. (He wasn’t even trying to be funny. You just make him feel clever.) You tilt your face up. Hair a mess. Shirt slipping off one shoulder. You reach for your cup and instead his hand finds yours, and then —
he’s kissing you.
Desperate. Sharp. Too much, too fast.
His glasses bump your cheek. You don’t care.
His breath is hot against your mouth. You moan into it and that ruins him.
“Fuck—sorry,” he rasps. “I shouldn’t—”
“Do it again.”
“God—okay.”
Artist! Nanami who...
carries you to the bedroom like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he looks away.
Clothes fall like feathers, like sins shed at the altar.
You pull his shirt over his head, and he exhales like you’ve cracked open his chest.
He touches your skin like he’s scared it’ll burn him. It does.
Your hands on his shoulders, his back, his ribs—he shakes. Like he’s never been held. Like this is the first time someone touched him without expecting blood.
He moans when you kiss his throat. He gasps when you kiss his sternum.
He hasn’t had sex in a year. Maybe longer. He doesn’t even remember.
No one’s touched him since he became Nanami Kento, The Artist.
But you — you undress him like he’s just a man. Like you want him, not the name.
He’s rough, and he’s soft.
Fingers digging into your thighs, then brushing your cheek so gently you almost cry.
His mouth is everywhere—neck, chest, stomach—he kisses like he’s writing sonnets with his tongue.
“Tell me you want me,” he groans, teeth at your shoulder.
“I want you.”
“Say it again.”
“Kento, I want you.”
“Holy fuck.”
You slide onto him and his hands tremble.
His head falls back. He groans like it hurts.
“You feel—Jesus, you feel like fucking—art.”
Artist! Nanami who…
makes love like it’s penance.
Like he’s praying with every thrust.
Worshipping. Adoring.
He keeps whispering your name like a refrain.
Keeps kissing your chest like he’s afraid this is all a dream and he’ll wake up back in the silence.
Your hands cradle his face. He stares down at you like you’re a sunrise.
“You’re real,” he says. “You’re real.”
“I’m here.”
“I love you.”
And you kiss him so hard you taste tears.
Artist! Nanami who…
can’t stop painting after that.
He paints with your scent still on him.
Paints with his back sore and lips bitten and body raw from being so, so alive.
His house becomes a temple again.
You — naked under moonlight, laughing in the garden, asleep on his chest.
But it’s more than you now. It’s what you’ve done to him.
Color. Movement. Joy. Fire.
There are still dark paintings. Sure.
The trauma doesn’t vanish.
But now they sit beside portraits glowing with golds and warm browns.
Beside a still life of your breakfast, half-eaten.
A study of your cat curled on your lap.
An abstract of your voice. A fucking echo in oils.
And months later—
His agent comes to see the collection.
It’s hanging in a private space. A small gallery, just for the press and collectors.
Nanami stands near the back, your hand in his. You’re beyond happy for him, glad to see him happier and calmer than before. You're calm, exited. His anchor.
The agent takes one lap around and stares. Mouth open.
Nanami glances at you. Just briefly.
You smile. He could die from it.
“I found new inspiration,” he says.
“Is she real?”
“She’s the realest thing I’ve ever known.”
Artist! Nanami who…
doesn’t tell the world it’s you.
He keeps you sacred.
The muse behind the curtain.
The reason color returned to his life.
But everyone knows. Everyone feels it.
The critics talk about “tenderness” and “yearning” and “a turn toward intimacy.”
They compare it to love. To divinity. To rebirth.
They weep in front of his work now.
Artist! Nanami who…
goes home with you that night.
Paints your back as you sleep.
Wakes up next to you like it’s the first morning after the world ended.
This was devotion. Of the purest kind.
A/N: wee woo idk what i'm writting, i hope this was okay, i think its kinda creepy
ever wanted to take a peek inside of your loverboy's head? ever wanted to see what he thinks about you when the stars come out and the lights are dimmed? here's your chance!!
nsfw event details below the cut, minors BEGONE.
find out a sexual fantasy your ghoul has for the low low price of ... a single ask? wow!!
this event will run until all slots have been filled!!
how the event will work:
one request per person!! since anon is on i will go by the honors system. don't ruin it and make me turn it off T0T
in order to request a fantasy of the ghoul, just send in an ask with their name and whatever you like about them. (yes i am encouraging rambling <3)
since you do not get to request a specific fantasy and ALL fantasies are a surprise, they will all be pretty vanilla. if they are NOT, i will include tws for the more hardcore parts so you can skip over it if you wish ^^
these will be pretty short in length, maybe about 300 words. im planning on post multiple a day C:
be nice to me (and ritsu) but mostly me. rude/ uncaring asks will be deleted as always.
— "you are cursed by an aphrodisiac anomaly!! who do you call?"
— "tohma ishibashi."
cw: fingering, squirting, tohma ties you up, improper stigma use, praise kink, aphrodisiac obvi!! implied handjob.
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
part i.
The only response you can manage to the three sharp knocks on your door is a soft whimper.
Tohma lets himself in, looking as composed as usual as he strolls over to your bedside. Weakly, you reach out to him, eyes watery and lower lip trembling. He sighs, leans into your touch, and allows you to pull him close.
“You poor thing,” he murmurs, cradling the back of your head, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be here sooner, I know you need me.”
“Tohma,” you whimper, rubbing your thighs together, “I need you now.”
He sighs, removing himself from your arms despite your protesting. You sit up on your knees, hospital grown crinkling as you move. Tohma focuses his efforts on removing his clothing, slowly and methodically undoing his tie, then his blazer, then his shirt. It’s like he’s performing a strip tease for you with the way he moves, arching his back as his shirt falls over his shoulders, taking his gloves in between his teeth as he pulls them off. It’s torture, how he pays you no mind even as you whine, crying rivers as your core aches for him.
Once he’s left only in his underwear, he turns his gaze to you. It must look pathetic, the way you’re perched on the edge of your bed, wobbly lips parting as if to beg. He smiles, takes pity on you, and approaches you with his tie in his fist.
“Be good for me and put your hands above your head, would you?” he coos, placing a hand on your collarbone.
He pushes you back down and you follow, mesmerized by his bare chest and piercing eyes. His hair falls into his face but he doesn’t move it aside, too busy pinning your hands to the headboard and tying your wrists to the wood. You’d do anything he asked at this point, if only he’d fuck you already—
“You know, it’s quite the honor to be considered your most trusted,” he hums, finishing off the knot, “It’s not too tight, is it?”
You shake your head violently, humping the thigh that forces your legs apart. He smiles tenderly at you and leans in, placing the softest kiss between your brows. You whimper, crying harder, the need turning to wildfire inside you.
Tohma takes pity on you and finally, finally kisses you for real, pushing up the material of your hospital gown as he presses his weight into you.
With the way he was acting you’d never would have guessed that he was as hard as he is, his cock throbbing in the confines of his underwear. You jerk your arms forward to shove them off of him, but are stopping by the tie.
“What do you want, my dear?” he coos, half lidded eyes staring down at you as he pulls away, “All you have to do is say the word.”
“I need you inside me!” you wail, bucking against him.
It’s almost violent, the way your hips grind against each other, his hands making quick work of his and your undergarments. He doesn’t bother removing the gown or your bra, he just frees your lower half and presses his fingers into your wet heat.
“Oh,” he groans, cheeks blushing pink, “You’re so wet, dearest. I’ve barely done anything. Do you know how much you could affect a man’s ego by being so needy?”
“Don’t care...don’t care...only want you,” you slur, babbling nonsense as his fingers sink into you.
They feel divine, the way them pump in and out of you, reaching the furthest depths. He curls them just right and you yelp, jolting towards him. You want more the sensation, you want more of him, even when he rubs your clit with his thumb and sinks down until he's eye level with your heat, is still isn't enough—
Argeas.
You scream so loud Tohma is sure any ghouls still waiting outside can hear it as vibrations tear through your body, a white hot pleasure burning you from the inside out as you squirt on his fingers. Tohma lets you ride it out as your eyes roll back, wails and yelps slipping past your kiss stained lips. Unable to resist, he leans down to kiss you, stealing your breath away as he slows his fingers. You whimper softly, blearly eyed and pliant as he pulls away.
“Do you feel better, my dear?” he asks, brushing his fingers against your cheekbone.
“Mhm...” you mumble.
Tohma reaches up and unties the knot holding your arms aloft, chuckling sympathetically when you wince. Your eyes still take in his body, even after you’ve been relieved, and they stop at his flushed and leaking cock.
“Tohma,” you murmur, reaching a hand down to him, “Let me help you with that.”
“Ah, ah, ah,” he grasps your wrist gently, stopping you from moving further, “Are you certain? Please do not feel obligated to continue our activities if your motive is simply to return the favor.”
“It’s not,” you huff, seemingly pouting, “I want you still.”
Tohma chuckles again, pleasantly surprised.
“To think you would want me too,” he sighs, unable to hold back from kissing your forehead, the corner of your eyes, your cheeks, your neck—
“I always have,” you whisper, and wrap your hand around him.
— "you are cursed by an aphrodisiac anomaly!! who do you call?"
— "jin kamurai."
cw: unprotected sex (jin pulls out), improper stigma use, praise kink, aphrodisiac obvi, a lil bit of angst but DW.
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
part i.
Jin’s stride can only be described as confident as he opens the door to your room.
Truthfully, he is anything but.
He’s careful to shut the door behind him, hands shaking the slightest bit as he does so. It’d be a lie to say that he wasn’t nervous, even if it was only just you.
Jin turns and you’re laid out on your bed, staring at him with bleary eyes and a lopsided smile. His heart squeezes in his chest as he takes in your form, clad in a hospital gown, laid on your bedsheets.
It shouldn’t be arousing. This shouldn’t be getting to him.
But when you open your arms and encourage him to come to your side, he listens.
“Thank you for coming, Jin,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around his neck, “When...When I explained everything on the phone, I thought...”
“Of course I did,” he huffs, kicking off his shoes before climbing into your bed, “You need me, don’t you?”
It’s like you didn’t even hear what he said as you tug him into you, kissing him feverishly. Jin sheds his blazer and shoves his pants down his thighs, paying attention to each whimper and gasp you let out for him. It’s hard to even begin undressing when your hands are all over him, worshipping his body like he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. Jin reaches under your gown and fumbles for your underwear as you eat him alive, groping at his back and moaning against his mouth, your clenched thighs grinding against him.
Jin sucks in a breath when he finds your core, dipping his fingers against your wetness. You whine loudly, grinding against his hand with vigor, panting against his lips. Jin bites down on his lower lip as he looks at your face, warm and pleasured and overwhelmed. It’s like you’re already overstimulated.
“You look beautiful,” he murmurs in a rare moment of vulnerability.
“Jin...Please fuck me...” you sob, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, “I need you, need you so bad, please.”
It’s frenzied, the way you grasp for him, your hands raking down his back until you're tugging at his waistband, yanking the fabric down as his cock springs free. It’s swollen and flushed bright pink, throbbing as it makes contact with your wet heat. Jin helps you unbutton his shirt with shaking hands, his breaths coming out in short bursts as you shake and whine underneath him. You’re so pliant and gentle, he could almost fool himself into thinking you loved him—he knows for certain he loves you. He’s known for a long time.
He’d give you anything you want.
You wiggle your hips, desperately trying to push him inside, whining pathetically when you can’t manage it on your own. Jin sucks in a breath before pushing the head inside of you. Your walls clench around him, almost instinctively, like your cunt knows it's him and wants him to stay. Your legs wrap around his waist and force him the rest of the way in, the absurd amount of slick contributing to his easy entrance. This time, Jin grunts, bracing himself on his elbows in front of you. You can smell the smoke on him but you don’t even care, not when he’s growling and tearing the hospital gown off your body, or when he’s groping your tits as he thrusts into you, or as he kisses your nipples and worships your flesh.
“JIn!” you whine, “More, more, please give me more—it feels so good, Jin!”
The rest of your words turn into useless babbles as he fucks you, hands sliding down your body to grip your hips, using you as a glorified fleshlight. It isn’t long before your eyes roll into the back of your head, a dopey cockdrunk smile on your face as you slide up and down the bedsheets. Jin pants heavily, swearing the aphrodisiac has affected him too as he approaches his peak way faster than usual.
Maybe, just maybe, it’s you.
You’re slurring your words now, mumbling praise and reassurances, your body thrashing across the sheets as your voice climbs higher in pitch. Your hips buck in tandem, grinding against each other, the fire within you reaching its peak as you clench around him one final time. Your legs tighten around his waist and keep him inside, but he grabs your hand right before he cums.
“Release,” he commands, and your legs fall back onto the bed sheets as you cum.
Jin bites his lip as he pulls out, leaving you painfully empty as your hole flutters around nothing. Jin cums across your stomach, your hips grinding against him for any sort of stability as you whimper and cry. The fire in you slowly ebbs away alone with your orgasm, and you nearly sob in relief when you feel normal again.
“Jin,” you huff, wrapping your arms around him, “Thank you.”
He rests his body on top of you, the tackiness of your releases pressed in between your bodies as his cock goes soft. Jin presses his face in between your chest, hiding his expression from you. Pulling your lower lip in between your teeth, you shyly bring a sweaty hand up to stroke his hair.
“Jin,” you murmur, “You know you’re my favorite, right? That’s why I asked for your help. I couldn’t imagine asking anyone else.”
He grunts, burying his face further into your flesh.
“I’m serious!” you pout, gently yanking on his hair.
An I love you sits on the tip of your tongue, but you dare not say it. Jin seems to know what you mean, anyway, if the soft smile you can feel tugging at his lips is any indication.
— "you are cursed by an aphrodisiac anomaly!! who do you call?"
cw: aphrodisiacs obvi!! this is just the intro chapter, so each character will get individual content warnings.
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
“What can you hear, Leo?”
“Shut up, I’m trying to focus.”
“Urk...”
Somehow, your presence was enough to summon every ghoul in Darkwick. After an interdorm mission with a handful of ghouls, you had been hit by an unidentified anomaly before it was swiftly dispatched.
Furthermore, after the events of the mission, you had become nearly feverish, shaking and unable to stand. The ghouls had taken you back to your dorm and called Professor Nicolas as quickly as possible (much to Yuri’s chagrin) and were now waiting anxiously outside.
What a miracle worker you were, getting them all in one place like this. How touching.
Leo’s nose wrinkles as he strains his ears, catching snippets of your conversation with the doctor from inside.
“I would recommend someone you trust for the treatment, Honor’s Student. This unfortunately isn’t something we can cure with medication...even anomalous ones.”
“No other option?”
That was your voice. You sound so weak.
“I wish there was another way. I’m sorry. The aphrodisiac won’t wear off unless you wait it out, or partake in sexual intercourse.”
A beat of silence.
“You don't have to do this, Honor’s Student. It's far from embarrassing, this sort of thing just happens sometimes. It doesn’t have to be a ghoul if you don’t want it to be, whoever you’re closest with will do, or you can just—”
“No, I’ll do it. I do not want to stay like this.”
You sound like you’re in pain, whimpering and shifting in your seat. Leo’s face must look some sort of way, because the pesky ghouls immediately start pestering him with questions. He rolls his eyes and brushes them off, stepping closer to the center of the group.
“Listen up. It seems like the Honor Roll has been infected by an aphrodisiac,” he drawls, placing a hand on his hip smugly, “The only ways to solve it are to wait it out, or to fuck—”
“Hey. Don’t be crude,” Sho scolds, glaring hard at him.
Touchyyy. Okay then.
Leo shrugs. “Fine, suit yourselves. I’m sure you’ve got enough brain cells to figure out what they need anyway.”
There are mixed reactions from the crowd. Some look anxious, others look like they’re blaming themselves. Some look indifferent, others look like they’re trying not to get too excited.
The werewolf boy looks confused and the turbo nerd is scrawling something in his notebook with unreadable handwriting. Sho won’t stop glaring at him. The cap is hunched over like he’s waiting to be sentenced again.
Damn, way to keep the atmosphere bleak guys. This is exactly what the Honor Roll would want.
“If...someone needs to take care of them, wouldn’t they contact one of us?” Kaito squeaks, cheeks flushed bright red, “They trust us the most, right?”
Great! The tension just got ten times worse. Good job Fuji, you’re doing the whole world a favor by drooling all over the Honor Roll’s feet.
“Would they? I don’t think we should assume they even want that treatment.” Subaru points out, soft and placating, “It’s likely they’d rather just wait it out than risk compromising their relationships with us.”
“Yeah guys, let’s all just calm down, alright?” Haku smiles, crossing his arms over his chest.
“You seem to have the impression that they will pick you over the rest of us,” Tohma tilts his head, eyes razor sharp.
“No one is saying that,” Jiro cuts it, voice monotone as ever.
“Hey, let’s all just calm down, okay?” Rui soothes, raising his hands in the air.
“I don’t know, I find this entertaining,” Edward muses.
“What about this is entertaining!?” Romeo snaps. Taiga sits by his side, staring daggers at the front door.
“I feel that it’s important to remind everyone present that your remarks are being recorded,” Ritsu speaks up, unflappable as ever.
“...~~~.” Towa grunts, looking far more menacing than usual as he stands off to the side.
Ren sits across the room from him, face shoved into his phone screen, earbuds crammed in his ears.
Haru stands by Towa's side, anxiously bouncing his leg as he stares at the ground.
Leo’s eyes dart to the Cap, then a mumbling Yuri, and seconds before he's about to take pity on his classmates, the sound of a phone buzzing breaks the thick silence.
All eyes turn to one ghoul as he takes out his phone and checks the screen, sucking in a soft breath as he does.
“It’s them,” he says, suddenly going rigid, “They’re calling for me.”
who are you calling?
jin kamurai. tohma ishibashi. kaito fuji. lucas errant.
Ghoul of your choosing (NOT RITSU, love you but I am putting that man in protective custody for some time) with a partner that unintentionally teases them.
"Yeah, you like that baby?" and his mind just goes blank and then reader goes about their day but they didn't know they were working him up until they get home.
Is this ... is this ANYTHING?!
yk this is crazy but im going to write this for kaito fuji methinks. he deserves it. UNFAIR that i cant write for ritsu BOOOOOO
mostly unedited (◡_◡)
cw: dom/sub dynamics, kaito gets obsessive, kinda sub rebelling? he loses his shit a lil bit, overstim, fantasizing about unsafe sex, extreme jealousy.
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
All it takes is your nails stretching his scalp just right, and Kaito melts into you. It’s almost embarrassing how fast he flops against you, boneless and pleasured as you rub his head.
“Ooh, you like that, baby?” you coo, looking down at him with the sweetest gaze.
Kaito freezes. He fights the urge to yelp and scramble away from you at the twitch in his pants, worried that you’ll figure him out. He can’t be feeling this way, not when you’re being so sweet to him and so kind. You’ve shown him the love that nobody else has even thought to.
He can’t ruin this.
And so, he goes about his day with you, shopping at the grocery store and picking up stationary, offering his babbled opinions whenever you ask. You seem to think it’s cute, you always do, and he’s never been more glad for it.
The second you’ve brought all the groceries inside, he trails after you like a lost puppy, the hard-on in his pants twitching with anticipation. You don’t seem to notice, or maybe you’re just being mean, but Kaito knows how to be good and he knows what he needs to do.
So he whines your name.
You stop what you’re doing and finally look at him, taking in his wobbly lower lip and flushed cheeks, his hands shaking near his thighs as his dick presses uncomfortably against his pants.
“Oh no, baby,” you coo, brow furrowing in concern, “How long have you been worked up?”
“Since you patted my head...and asked if I liked it,” Kaito whimpers.
It’s like heaven when your arm wraps around his waist, holding him up as his knees buckle. You’re so beautiful when you stare at him like that, and he’s sure he looks half fucked out already. Your hands slip past his waistband and he bucks into you with a soft moan, allowing his head to fall on your shoulder.
You murmur that you’re taking him to the bedroom. He nods, delirious and pleasured by just the sound of your voice alone. It’s like his mind is in a haze when you undress him carefully, his arms and legs moving with your instructions, his lips wet with spit and desire. Kaito knows he's desperate and pathetic, especially when he shivers hard at the sight of your bare tits as your bra falls to the floor, but for once he allows his self hatred to take the backseat.
You seat yourself on his lap, sliding a condom on his cock and applying a good amount of lube as he fidgets beneath you. It’s cold, not like you or your insides, and Kaito whines when you start to pump him steadily.
“Be patient, baby. I’m gonna get you ready so it’s easy for me to fuck you, okay?”
You say it so sweetly. Kaito would do anything for you if you asked him in that tone of voice. He’d be your bitch, your personal toy that you could fuck yourself on whenever you wanted. He’d do it all to see your face twist with pleasure like it does now as you sink onto him, his fingers shaking as they fumble for your clit.
“Thank you, baby,” you hiss, gasping for breath when he makes contact with your bundle of nerves.
Your chest heaves with the force of your breaths. He’s mesmerized by the way your tits bounce in front of his face as you gradually work yourself up. Kaito can’t do anything but let out little gasps and whimpers of pleasure, his brow scrunched with the effort of holding himself back. He wants nothing more than to fuck up into you, to grab your hips and manhandle you until he’s drilling you into the mattress, but he knows how to do this best.
Shoving his head into your neck, Kaito kisses the bare skin in between sobs. His eyes are clenched shut and he knows he’s shaking all over, your walls feels so warm and soft and good, and they’re clamping down on him and squeezing and—
“Wait! I’m gonna cum!” he wails, throwing his head back when you don’t stop.
“It’s okay. I wasn’t planning on stopping anyway,” you smile breathlessly, looking as smug as ever, “You can cum.”
His vision flashes white as he cums, way too fast, his release flooding the condom. He wishes it wasn’t there. He wishes he could fill you up over and over and over so that all the other ghouls on campus would know who you fucked every night. The smallest movements you made had him keening under you, his shaking hands grasping at your hips for any sound of grounding.
In a flash, his tummy clenches and he flips the two of you over.
You gasp as your back hits the sheets and Kaito flops on top of you, bucking into you still, his eyes bloodshot and wet with tears as he cries between your tits.
“Pleasepleaseplease—” he cries out, clearly overstimulated out of his mind, humping at you like he knows nothing else.
If he couldn’t be your toy, he’d just have to fuck you like one himself. You wouldn’t even have to lift a finger. He could be better, do better, than any hunk of plastic or Jin or Tohma or Luca—
“Kaito!” you yelp, shocked by his unrelenting thrusts, your body being yanked and tugged against the bedsheets.
“Please say my name,” he whines, unable to even pull all the way out anymore, fucking into you with deep grinding thrusts.
“Kaito!” you cry out, nails raking down his back as you clench around him, soaking your lower halves and the bedsheets.
“Love you—love you so much, MC...” Kaito sobs, “You feel so good ‘nd warm...I never wanna leave you...you won’t leave me right? It’s only me, right?”
“Only you—!” you choke out, his hips still moving against yours, “Kaito—are you okay?”
“Haaa...” he wraps his arms tight around you, slowly grinding into you until he comes to a full stop, sweaty and hot on top of you, “I’ve never been better.”
size difference kink but in the “i grew up being made fun of for being chubby so now the idea of a giant of a man being able to toss me around and tower over me without making my weight a problem makes me really horny” way, you get what im saying?
areudirty
ellievsbear
2087
origamiaround
titsay
baratheonpilled
janainaart
