Nanami is losing his mind. Three dates in, and she's still calling him "Nanami"—or worse, "sir"—while using first names with everyone else from waiters to coworkers. He starts orchestrating increasingly desperate schemes to hear "Kento" cross her lips just once, but she remains stubbornly, devastatingly formal.
There is a sound he is dying to hear, and it is killing him slowly.
Three dates. Three official, documented, calendar-worthy dates outside the fluorescent-lit halls of Jujutsu Technical College where you still—still, after three dates, after he has kissed you goodnight at your door, after he has held your hand across restaurant tables, after he has memorized the exact cadence of your laugh—call him Nanami.
Or worse. Sir.
Or worse still, with that professional precision that makes him want to scream into the void, Mr. Nanami.
"Nanami," you say now, approaching his desk at 4:47 PM, your shadow falling across his paperwork. "The mission report needs your signature."
He looks up. You are smiling, casual, your elbow resting on the partition, your hair escaping its clip in a way that makes his fingers twitch. Three dates, and you are still standing three feet away. Three dates, and you still use the same tone you use for Gojo, for Ijichi, for the mailman who delivers packages to the lobby.
"Of course," he says, and his voice sounds strange in his own ears—tight, desperate, disguised as professional.
You lean over his desk to point at the line, and your sleeve brushes his hand, and he stops breathing. You smell like the cheap coffee from the break room and something else, something you, and he wants to bury his face in your neck and beg. Just beg. Say it. My name. The one my mother gave me. The one I stopped hearing when my father died. The one that only exists now in government documents and the mouths of strangers. Say it like you mean it. Say it like I'm yours.
"Here," you say, tapping the paper. "Nanami."
He signs. His hand shakes. You do not notice.
The first scheme is pathetic. He knows it is pathetic even as he orchestrates it, standing in the convenience store at 9 PM, staring at the refrigerated case like it holds the secrets of the universe.
Date four. Technically date four, though he has stopped counting because numbers imply progress and there has been none. You still call him Nanami. You called the waiter by his first name after reading his nametag once. You call your coworkers by nicknames he does not know the origins of. You are informal with everyone. Everyone except him.
He buys water. Two bottles. He does not need two bottles. He buys them because the plan has formed, desperate and humiliating, and he cannot stop now.
You meet him outside. You are wearing the blue sweater he likes, the one that makes your eyes look like the ocean at dawn, and he forgets his own name, let alone his plan to make you say it.
"Nanami," you greet, falling into step beside him.
His heart sinks. Then: determination.
"I need to show you something," he says, and his voice is too loud, too casual, a performance of nonchalance he has never perfected. He reaches for his wallet. His hands tremble. He extracts his driver's license and holds it out to you, invented excuse ready on his tongue—I think the photo looks terrible, do you agree, is my hair really that color, what do you think—but when you take it, when your fingers brush his and you look down at the small plastic card, he loses all capacity for speech.
You study it. He studies you. The streetlight catches your eyelashes, the curve of your cheek, the way your mouth moves as you read silently.
"Kento Nanami," you murmur, and his knees actually weaken, actually threaten to buckle, because there it is, there it is, the sound of his name in your mouth, the K and the en and the to, the three syllables he has been craving like oxygen, like water, like grace.
But then you look up, hand back the license, smile. "You were right. The photo is terrible. Your hair looks much better now, Nanami."
Nanami.
He takes the license. He puts it away. He walks beside you in silence, screaming internally, wondering if you are doing this deliberately, if this is torture, if you know that you have tasted his name and returned to the formal distance and he is left starving, starving, with the ghost of Kento hanging between you like smoke.
The second scheme involves the restaurant.
He chooses it specifically because he knows the owner, because he has arranged in advance, because he is losing his mind and dignity is a luxury he can no longer afford. You arrive together. You are beautiful. You are always beautiful. He cannot focus on the menu because he is watching your mouth, waiting, hoping.
The waiter arrives. Young. Enthusiastic. Part of the plan.
"Good evening," the waiter says, smiling. "Table for two under… Kento?"
He watches your face. He watches your mouth form the shape of recognition, the slight nod, the casual acceptance. Yes, that's us. Kento.
You do not repeat it. You do not look at him and say Kento, that's you, that's your name, I know that now, I will use it. You simply follow the waiter, sliding into the booth, unfolding your napkin, asking about the specials.
"Nanami," you say, looking at the wine list. "Do you prefer red or white?"
He orders whiskey. He drinks it too fast. He spends the entire meal inventing reasons to touch you—your hand, your shoulder, your knee beneath the table—hoping that proximity will breed intimacy, that intimacy will collapse the distance of formality. You let him touch you. You smile. You call him Nanami with every sentence, with every glance, with every shared laugh, and he feels himself fracturing, coming apart at the seams, held together only by the desperate hope that someday, someday, you will break.
The third scheme is accidental. Or rather, he tells himself it is accidental, though he has been carrying his phone like a weapon for days, waiting for the opportunity.
You are at his apartment. Date five, though who is counting anymore, certainly not him, certainly not the man who has started keeping a tally in his mind of how many times you have said his surname versus how many times you have said his given name (the ratio is devastating, the ratio is infinity to zero).
You are looking at his bookshelf, running your fingers along spines, and he sees his chance.
"I should save your number," he says, casual, so casual, holding out his phone. "Properly. What do you have me saved as?"
He holds his breath. He holds his entire life in suspension. Tell me, he thinks. Tell me you have me as Kento. Tell me you whisper it to yourself when you are alone. Tell me you practice it. Tell me you want to say it but you are scared, tell me you are waiting for permission, tell me—
"Nanami," you say, not looking up from the books. "Just Nanami. With a work emoji."
A work emoji.
He takes his phone back. He saves your number with shaking hands. He adds a heart emoji. He deletes it. He adds it again. He puts the phone down and goes to the kitchen and leans against the refrigerator and wonders if it is possible to die from wanting.
When he returns, you are holding a photo album he forgot to hide. Childhood photos. His mother. His father. The funeral.
"Kento," you say, reading the inscription on the back of a photograph, and he freezes, freezes, because there it is again, accidental, unmeant, just you reading words not addressing him, but still—still—the sound of his name in your mouth, the K and the en and the to, and he wants to fall to his knees, he wants to beg you to read every document he owns, every book in his library, every word ever written that contains those five letters in that order.
"Nanami?" you ask, looking up, concerned by his expression.
He realizes he is staring. He realizes he has tears in his eyes. He realizes he is in love with you, desperately, terminally, completely in love, and you will not call him by his first name.
"Nothing," he lies. "Just… memories."
The fourth scheme involves a phone call that is not a scheme at all, that is just cruel coincidence, that is the universe laughing at him.
You are at his apartment again. You are cooking. He is watching, hypnotized by the way you move, the efficiency of your hands, the casual intimacy of being in his space, using his stove, wearing his spare shirt because you spilled something on yours.
His phone rings.
He ignores it. He is ignoring everything that is not you.
It rings again. And again.
"Nanami," you say, laughing, "aren't you going to get that? It might be important."
Nanami. Nanami. Nanami.
"It can wait," he says, but you are already reaching for it, already looking at the screen, and he sees the moment you read the name, the moment you see the characters, the moment you know.
"Kento," you say, holding out the phone. "It's for you. Someone named… Kento?"
His heart stops. Actually stops. Then restarts at double speed, triple, a drum solo, a war cry.
"That's…" he starts, reaching for the phone, his hand brushing yours, his mind white noise and static. "That's… me. That's my name. That's…"
But you are already turning back to the stove, already casual, already moving on. "You should answer, Nanami. You're being rude."
Nanami.
He answers the phone. It is a wrong number. He does not hear a word they say. He stands in his kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, watching you stir something that smells like heaven, and he thinks: You said it. You said it. You said it and you didn't even notice. You said it like it was nothing. You said it like it didn't change everything. You said it and walked away.
He ends the call. He sets the phone down. He stands behind you at the stove and wraps his arms around your waist and buries his face in your hair and breathes, just breathes, trying to memorize the exact moment, the exact temperature of the room, the exact configuration of atoms that allowed you to say his name and mean him.
"Nanami?" you ask, surprised by the embrace.
He squeezes tighter. He does not correct you. He is beyond correction. He is in the desert, and you have shown him water, and he is dying of thirst, and you are calling him Mr. Nanami from across an ocean.
The fifth scheme is not a scheme. It is surrender.
He stops trying. He accepts his fate. He is Nanami to you, will always be Nanami, Mr. Nanami, Sir, the colleague, the date, the almost-lover who cannot cross the final inch into intimacy because you will not let him have his name.
He takes you to bed. Not like that—though he wants to, God he wants to— but actually to bed, to sleep, because it is late and you are tired and he is desperate for any proximity you will allow. You wear his shirt. You look like you belong there. You look like you have always belonged there.
He lies beside you, rigid, terrified, ecstatic. You are here. In his bed. Breathing his air. He can hear your heartbeat, or he imagines he can, and he lies on his back staring at the ceiling and wondering if this is happiness or if happiness requires you to whisper Kento in the dark.
You shift. You roll toward him in your sleep, seeking warmth, and your hand finds his chest, and your leg tangles with his, and he stops breathing entirely.
"Mm," you murmur, a sound of contentment, of safety, of trust.
He dares to touch your hair. He dares to press his lips to your forehead. He dares to hope.
You settle closer. Your breath ghosts against his neck. He feels the shape of your mouth moving against his skin, forming words he cannot hear, dreams he cannot share.
Then, soft as prayer, barely a breath, you whisper:
"Kento."
He short-circuits.
His body, which has survived cursed spirit attacks, which has endured bone breaks and blood loss and the particular horror of Gojo Satoru's friendship, simply fails. His vision whites out. His muscles seize. He rolls—actually rolls—off the bed and hits the floor with a thud that should wake the dead, that should certainly wake you, but you are drifting deeper, you are smiling in your sleep, you have no idea you have just destroyed him.
He lies on the floor, staring at the ceiling, his heart a bomb in his chest.
Kento.
You said it. You said it. Not reading, not repeating, not addressing a stranger. You said it in your sleep, unguarded, unconscious, true. You said it like it belonged to you. You said it like you had been saying it forever, like you were keeping it secret, like it was a name you whispered to yourself when you were alone.
He scrambles up. He is on his knees beside the bed. He is touching your shoulder, your face, his hands shaking so violently he can barely control them.
"Again," he begs, his voice broken, raw, wrecked. "Please. Again. Say it again. Please, I'm begging you, say it again, say my name, please—"
You murmur something unintelligible. You shift away from his touch, seeking comfort, seeking sleep.
"Please," he whispers, tears in his eyes, his forehead pressed to the mattress beside your head. "Please. I need to hear it. I need to know you know it. I need you to say it like you mean it. Please. Kento. Say Kento. Please."
But you are gone. Deep in dreams where he cannot follow. Smiling at something he cannot see.
He stays there, kneeling, destroyed, rebuilt, destroyed again. He stays until his knees ache and his back screams and the sun begins to rise, painting the room in gold that catches your eyelashes, your cheekbones, the peaceful curve of your mouth.
You wake to find him watching you with an expression you cannot read—devastated, triumphant, desperate, in love.
"Nanami?" you ask, confused by his intensity, by his tears, by the way he reaches for your hand and kisses your palm with reverence that borders on religious ecstasy.
"Nothing," he lies, because he cannot tell you, because if he tells you he heard you say it, you might stop. You might retreat back into formality. You might remember that you are not supposed to be this intimate, this close, this his.
But later, when you are dressing, when you are gathering your things, when you pause at his door and look back at him with that expression he cannot decipher, you open your mouth and hesitate.
He stops breathing. He stops existing. He waits.
"Thank you," you say finally. "For last night. Kento."
You say it. You look at him and you say it. Kento.
Then you blush—actually blush, pink spreading across your cheeks like sunrise—and you flee, closing the door behind you, leaving him standing in his apartment with his name ringing in his ears and his heart in pieces on the floor and the devastating knowledge that you know exactly what you are doing, you have always known, and you were just waiting for him to break first.
He slides down the wall. He sits on the floor. He presses his hands to his face and laughs, cries, screams into the empty room.
CONTENT. Its late he's tired, he's mean for a bit, oral f.rec, p in v, creampied, fluff, good endings
WC. 4.9k
A/N. Part Two <333
You’ve kept the lights low on purpose.
The soft glow from the kitchen spills down the hallway, casting the apartment in amber warmth. The scent of ginger and honey still lingers faintly in the air from the tea you made an hour ago—lukewarm now, untouched on the counter. A pot of rice you started sits covered on the stove. He always says he doesn’t need anything when he gets home late, but you know better. Nanami always eats if you ask him to.
You’re barefoot in one of his button-ups—thin cotton and a little too big, hanging just at mid-thigh. You’d picked it on purpose. Comfort and softness and him, all at once.
The clock reads 11:24 p.m.
You hear the lock turn before you see him.
“Hi,” you say, voice soft, stepping out into the hall. “Welcome home, baby.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Nanami Kento looks like the night chewed him up and spit him out. His shirt is still tucked in, but crooked. His sleeves are rolled halfway, one button missing. There’s blood drying along the crease of his collarbone—someone else’s, you hope—and a faint line of bruising across the knuckles of his right hand. His tie hangs limp around his neck, and his eyes—
His eyes don’t meet yours.
You reach for him gently, both hands brushing his chest, offering comfort without a word. Your thumb grazes a spot just over his heart. “Rough night?” you murmur. “I can draw your bath—”
“Can I please come home just once,” he says, voice sharp and low, “without being smothered?”
You blink.
The words hit harder than a slap. His tone is stripped of affection—just blunt exhaustion, cruel in its honesty. You drop your hands slowly.
“It’s always something with you,” he continues as he walks past you, not even looking back. “Talking, hovering, asking. Just one night of peace. Is that so hard?”
You don’t say anything.
The apartment hums in the silence he leaves behind. A door clicks shut—the bedroom—and your heart follows it, folding in on itself.
You stand there for a moment, frozen, mouth slightly open like you were still halfway through a sentence. The tea kettle lets out a soft pop. The lights feel too warm now, like they’re spotlighting the hurt.
You don’t follow him.
Instead, you turn toward the bathroom.
The bath is only halfway filled when you kneel down beside the tub. You twist the hot water knob gently, the steam rising around your face. You don’t look at yourself in the mirror. You can’t.
You add a few drops of the cedarwood oil he likes, the one that smells clean and masculine and grounding. You test the temperature with your wrist, adjusting it exactly the way he prefers. You fold the towel and set it by the tub, then go to the cabinet for the soft robe he always wears afterward.
Each motion feels automatic. Practiced. Quiet. You’re not sure if you’re trying to comfort him or hold yourself together.
And then—finally—your throat tightens.
The tears come in silence at first. Your hands start shaking as you smooth the towel a third time, then a fourth. A lump forms deep in your chest, thick and choking. You sit back on your heels, lower lip trembling, blinking fast.
“Can I please come home without being smothered?”
It repeats like a loop in your skull. He looked right past you. Like you were too much.
Like your love—your softness, your waiting up, your effort—was noise.
You press a hand to your mouth just as the first sob breaks through. It’s small and ugly, a hitching sound that feels like it doesn’t belong to you. And then another. And another. Your shoulders shake.
You curl forward slightly, arms around your knees on the cool bathroom tile, letting yourself cry.
No yelling. No throwing things. No running after him to defend yourself.
You just fall apart quietly, with the bath still running.
Nanami doesn’t even remember dropping his keys.
He only notices when he hears them clatter faintly to the floor, near the threshold where he’d passed you without thinking—without seeing. They lay next to the small dish you always put out for him, the one with little white sakura etched into the ceramic. The one he never uses, but you keep setting out anyway.
The bedroom is dark.
His jacket is draped across the foot of the bed now, his tie tossed beside it. He unbuttons his shirt slowly, methodically, one cuff at a time. He doesn’t sit down. His body aches from the mission, the tension wound so tightly in his shoulders that it feels like his spine might snap.
But now—it’s quiet.
Too quiet.
No soft voice calling for him from the other room. No footsteps padding toward him. No tea cup gently placed on the nightstand.
The guilt doesn’t come all at once.
It creeps in slow—seeps into the spaces where your warmth should be. He frowns as he steps back into the hallway, bare feet on polished wood, tension pressing heavy on his chest.
And then he hears it.
Water running.
Faint sniffles.
The bathroom door is cracked open slightly.
He stops there in the hall, one hand braced against the frame.
The light inside is soft, golden. The steam has begun to cling to the mirror, and the bath is full—just the way he likes it. Cedarwood and citrus. A towel folded neatly on the rack. A robe hanging nearby. The dim sound of water lapping gently at porcelain.
And you’re gone.
No hum of your voice. No greeting. Not even footsteps echoing through the apartment.
But he sees it: a small folded note propped against the sink faucet.
He steps inside. Picks it up.
You don’t have to talk to me. Just thought you’d still want the bath. I’ll be in the other room. I’m sorry if I overwhelmed you.
It hits like a punch to the gut.
His hand tightens around the note until it crinkles.
You hadn’t defended yourself. Hadn’t pushed back. You’d drawn his bath anyway. The same hands he’d brushed off with a cutting remark had turned down the sheets, folded his towel, and left quietly so he wouldn’t be disturbed.
And now, he realizes, he hasn’t heard your voice since.
He finds you curled up in the living room—half-buried beneath the throw blanket, your back to the hallway. Your shoulders are still trembling faintly. Your hand is curled into a fist against your chest, and you’re shaking. Trying to breathe quietly through sobs that won't stop.
You’re trying not to let him hear.
That shatters him.
“Sweetheart…”
His voice is rough. Barely above a whisper.
You flinch. You don’t turn around. He steps closer, slowly, until he’s kneeling beside the couch.
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
You don’t respond.
He reaches forward, hesitates, then gently brushes the back of his fingers along your shoulder. The touch is light. Tentative. He knows he lost the right to hold you without permission tonight.
“I was tired,” he says quietly. “That’s not an excuse. But it’s the truth. I came home wound too tight to see what I had right in front of me.”
Your breath hitches. You squeeze your eyes shut.
He shifts closer. His hand comes to rest near your hip, not touching—just there. “You were waiting for me,” he murmurs. “In my shirt. With tea. With warmth. And I… I tore through it like it meant nothing.”
Still nothing.
Until you whisper, voice raw, “I just wanted to say hi.”
His heart breaks. Fully, cleanly, completely.
You finally roll to face him, and the sight of your tearstained cheeks—your trembling mouth, your red eyes—makes him swallow hard.
“I’m so sorry,” he says again, fingers brushing your cheek with reverence now. “I came home and treated love like noise. And you still… you still made me a bath.”
You nod, barely. “Because I love you.”
“I know.” His voice is ragged. “And I’ve never deserved it more than in this moment. Please let me make it right.”
You don’t speak again.
But you don’t pull away either.
And that’s enough.
His hand rises to cup your cheek fully, thumb catching the edge of a tear. He leans in slowly, deliberately, resting his forehead against yours.
“I don’t want peace without you,” he whispers. “I want to come home to you. Always.”
The air between you shifts. Warms. Softens.
He doesn't kiss you right away.
Instead, he just keeps his forehead pressed against yours, eyes closed, breath slow and steady like he’s anchoring himself in your skin. His fingers linger on your cheek, tracing soft, penitent circles beneath your eye.
Your hands curl loosely in the fabric of his half-unbuttoned shirt. You still haven’t said much, and that hurts him more than yelling ever could.
He whispers, “Can I touch you?”
Your nod is barely there. A small tilt of your chin. But it’s enough.
He exhales like he’s been holding it all day.
Then, finally—finally—he kisses you.
Not rough. Not fast. Just warm, and open, and heartbreakingly gentle.
His mouth moves slowly over yours, like an apology spelled out in vowels. He doesn’t try to deepen it too quickly. Doesn’t chase your tongue. He just kisses you again and again, soft and reverent, his thumb still brushing your cheek as if he can soothe the words he never should’ve said.
You sigh into him. A sound of surrender, of ache, of wanting so badly to forgive.
His hand slides down from your cheek to your waist, curling gently around you as he draws you upright from the couch. Your knees come together as he pulls you closer, and he kneels between them, looking up at you now—golden hair tousled, shirt hanging open, eyes full of something wounded and worshipful.
“Let me take this off,” he murmurs, voice low and rough as his fingers toy with the hem of the shirt you’re wearing. His shirt.
You nod again, and raise your arms.
He peels it up slowly, revealing skin inch by inch. He pauses to press his lips to your sternum, just beneath your collarbone. Another apology. Then your ribs. Then the soft curve of your stomach.
By the time he lifts the shirt fully off, you’re flushed all over, breath trembling as you sit in nothing but a pair of soft panties.
“I didn’t even look at you,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You looked so beautiful when I walked in. I didn’t even see you.”
You open your mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a soft sound—half breath, half broken plea.
He answers it with his hands.
They slide up your thighs slowly, stroking your skin with careful reverence. He leans forward and kisses just above your navel, then lower, until your thighs are twitching gently under his touch.
“I don’t want you to forgive me because I’m touching you,” he whispers. “But I need to show you how sorry I am. I need you to feel it.”
You nod.
“Lie back for me, sweetheart.”
You do. Carefully. Your body is still tense, unsure—but the warmth in his voice, the softness of his touch, it starts to melt something in you.
He pulls your panties down next—slow, watching your face the entire time, like he’s checking for any sign of hesitation. There is none.
You lift your hips without being asked.
The air feels thick now. Not just with steam or want—but with emotion. That fragile edge of pain that still lingers, now curled tight with desire. He tosses the panties aside, then leans in over your bare body, dragging his lips from your thigh up to your hip, then to your ribs, then back to your mouth.
When he kisses you again, he sighs into it. Like he’s home.
And then, finally, he whispers:
“Let me worship you the way you deserve.”
You’re laid out beneath him like something holy.
Warm, bare, and still sniffling faintly when his hand drags slowly down your stomach—open-palmed, deliberate. He watches you closely. Watches the way your chest rises unevenly. The soft glisten still clinging to your lashes. Your lip, a little swollen from where you’ve bitten it trying not to cry again.
He bends over you again, murmuring low against your neck, “I don’t need to talk to be understood. But you—you’ve always spoken in care. In waiting. In touches. I think it’s time I spoke in your language.”
He kisses your shoulder. Then lower. Then lower.
You tremble.
His mouth hovers just over your breast, and he doesn’t dive in hungrily. He pauses. Waits. His eyes lift.
“Let me?” he murmurs.
You nod. Again. Quieter this time. Your voice barely works, but your body listens for you.
He presses a kiss there—soft and wet, then another, open-mouthed over your nipple. He warms it with his tongue, lips drawing around the sensitive skin until your back arches. You gasp, still soft from crying, and he hums low in response.
“Still so good for me,” he murmurs. “Even when I don’t deserve you.”
His hand slips between your legs, fingers slow as they find you already warm, already soft and aching. You’re slick at the edges—grief and longing swirled together like heat beneath the skin.
You whimper when he slides two fingers down the seam of your cunt.
“You always open up for me,” he murmurs, lips still brushing your chest, fingers now dipping inside, so slowly. “Even when I’ve been cruel. That’s what breaks me.”
You clench around his fingers, a small sob escaping—not from pain, but want.
He stills immediately, whispering, “You okay?”
You nod fast. Then swallow hard. “Don’t stop.”
That’s when the reverence turns filthy.
His fingers begin to move, shallow thrusts coaxing your body open, dragging wet sounds from between your thighs. You moan softly. Hiccuping still. Your eyes glassy and shining in the low light as he watches you fall apart slowly for him.
“I should’ve come home,” he breathes, “and gotten on my knees.”
His mouth trails lower. Down your stomach. Down your hip. He presses a kiss to the crease of your thigh, then bites—just lightly—until you whine.
“I should’ve dropped everything,” he continues, voice ragged, “and kissed you just like this—” and his tongue swipes a long, slow line over your folds, his fingers spreading you open to taste you properly—“until you were sobbing for me in the right way.”
You gasp. Your hips jerk.
He groans against your cunt, wet and open and obscene.
“I’m going to make you come with your thighs trembling,” he whispers. “With your hands fisting the couch. I’m going to eat you like you’re the only damn peace I’ll ever need.”
You’re already close.
You didn’t even realize how tightly wound you were—how much your body wanted to be loved like this. Handled like this. Like every inch of you deserved soft kisses and filth spoken into your skin.
“F-Fuck, ngh- Kento—” you choke, and his tongue circles your clit, his fingers still fucking into you slowly, deeply, until the pressure makes your whole spine curl.
Your thighs lock around his head. You cry out.
And he doesn’t stop.
Not even when you start to break—hips twitching, sobs turning into moans that sound like yes, yes, yes— not even when you finish, wet and hot around his fingers, pulsing so hard it feels like everything you’ve been holding back is flooding through your skin.
He groans. Kisses your thigh. Kisses your stomach. Then looks up at you.
“More,” he whispers. “Please. Let me keep touching you.”
Your legs are still trembling when he moves over you.
Not hovering—covering. Like a weight you’ve been craving. Warm and solid and safe. His hand slides behind your knee, lifting one leg to hook over his waist as he settles between your thighs. You’re still gasping, eyes glassy, lips parted, flushed from crying and climaxing both.
“You don’t have to—” you start to whisper, but his mouth silences you with a kiss that tastes like apology and salt.
“I need to,” he breathes. “Please. If you’ll let me.”
You nod. Soft. Immediate.
His hands cup your thighs as he pushes them further open—gentle, but commanding. He wants to see all of you. His gaze flickers down as his hips shift against yours, the heavy press of him sliding slow and hot along your slick folds.
You twitch.
“I should’ve come home and touched you like this,” he whispers, guiding himself to your entrance. “Held you open. Slid inside so slow you could feel every word I didn’t say.”
You let out a ragged gasp as he presses in—deep.
Not fast.
Not rough.
Just... there.
Thick and stretching and present. The kind of slow that makes your eyes roll back and your mouth fall open because it’s too much and not enough at the same time.
Your body clenches around him immediately, desperate and aching.
“Oh—fuck,” you cry, hands flying to his shoulders. “Kento—!”
His breath stutters. “There she is.”
He pushes in the rest of the way, hips flush against you, groaning as your walls squeeze around him like you never want to let him go.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers against your neck, rocking his hips just slightly. “I didn’t come home to be loved like this. But you—you gave it to me anyway.”
Each slow thrust sinks deeper. More reverent. More filthy.
“You still opened up for me.”
Your nails dig into his shoulders. Your back arches.
“You still made the bath.”
He fucks into you again—so deep—and you choke on a sob, your thighs twitching around him.
“You still curled up alone and cried so I could have peace.”
His pace stays slow, but his voice roughens.
“You deserve more than my silence.”
Your body clenches again. Your sob turns into a moan, high and trembling. “K-Kento—”
He grinds in, deep enough to knock the breath from your lungs, his mouth trailing along your jaw as he whispers, “I’m going to fill you, sweetheart. Slow. Until you forget every second I made you feel unwanted.”
You shake beneath him. You’re not crying anymore—you’re whimpering, soft and overwhelmed, your body too raw to speak back.
But he keeps going.
“You like when I fuck you like this, don’t you?” he whispers. “When I take my time. When I stay deep.”
You nod—hard. You can’t find your voice, but your body’s screaming it, clenching around him, trembling again.
“Say it,” he murmurs, biting your earlobe. “Let me hear you say you want it.”
“I-I want it,” you sob. “Kento—I need—”
“That’s right,” he growls, pace still slow but grinding now, filling every inch of you with unbearable fullness. “My perfect girl. So wet. So good. Still letting me in.”
He kisses you again—messy this time, tongues tangling, breath mixing—before pulling back just enough to look into your eyes.
“I’m gonna come inside you.”
You whimper.
“Gonna keep it there. Let it stay, let it soak in while you sleep in my arms.”
You gasp. Your body tenses—tightens—and then you’re coming again, helpless around him, clenching so hard he has to groan your name into your shoulder.
And then he follows—hips flush, cock buried as deep as it’ll go, filling you with slow, aching pulses while you sob and shake and hold on like you’ll disappear otherwise.
You don’t speak.
Neither does he.
Not for a long time.
Just breath and skin and the soft sound of his lips pressing to your temple.
You don’t even realize how hard you’re shaking until he kisses your forehead and murmurs, “I’ve got you. Don’t move, sweetheart.”
His voice is hoarse. Tender. He’s still inside you, still so deep and full and warm, and your body’s trembling under the weight of it—his words, his apology, his love. It’s not just sex anymore. It never was. Not with him.
You let out a tiny, shivering breath. And then another.
Nanami exhales with you, forehead brushing against yours, hand sliding up to cradle your face.
“I’m not leaving,” he whispers. “Not for a second.”
You nod, barely. A blink. A soft noise of understanding, but your body’s too limp, too overstimulated to respond in words. Your fingers twitch at his shoulders, like maybe if you move them just enough, he’ll stay right where he is forever.
He kisses you again—this time slower. Nothing sexual. Just mouth to mouth, patient and real.
Then, after a moment, he moves.
Carefully. Easing himself out of you with a groan so deep it sounds mourning, and your breath catches again as his release trickles down the back of your thigh.
He sees it. Sees your soaked skin and red eyes and how you instinctively close your legs in embarrassment.
“No,” he says, firm but gentle. “None of that.”
He kneels beside the couch and presses his lips to the inside of your knee. “You were perfect for me.”
Then higher. The soft skin of your thigh. “You took me so well.”
Then the bend of your hip, where your pulse still flutters. “You let me say it the only way I knew how.”
He rises again, scoops you into his arms like you weigh nothing, and you bury your face in his chest. You’re not crying now, but your body’s still trembling with something you can’t name. A bruise that sits beneath your ribs—not from pain, but from the tenderness of being seen again.
He carries you straight to the bathroom.
The one you had prepared for him.
The bath is still warm, thank god. The water is still milky, lavender-scented, filled with everything you thought would comfort him.
Now, it’s for you.
Nanami sits on the edge of the tub, pulls you into his lap, and steps you both in. He keeps you against him the whole time, arms tight around your waist, your thighs draped over his.
You sit in the water together—quiet, breath mingling with steam, your ear pressed to his heartbeat.
His hands don’t wander. Not in lust. Not now.
They smooth over your back. Up your spine. Across your hips. Slow, reverent. He murmurs soft things in your hair as he dips the sponge in warm water and runs it over your arms, your chest, your thighs—gentle, slow strokes like he’s washing off everything he said, everything he didn’t say.
When he rinses your hair, he cradles your head to his shoulder.
When you start crying again—this time quiet, soundless—he just kisses your temple and says, “I know. I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I should have come home to this. I should have come home to you.”
You don’t say anything.
But you reach for his hand under the water.
And when you squeeze it, he squeezes back like he’s never letting go.
He dries you off like you’ll shatter if he goes too fast.
A soft towel across your back. One hand wrapped gently around your wrist. Every motion slow, warm, methodical—his sleeves still damp from the bathwater, his hair curling slightly from the steam. He doesn’t ask you to stand. He kneels in front of you instead, pressing the towel between your thighs to dry you carefully, like even now, hours later, you’re still too tender for roughness.
You are.
Your body aches, but not badly. Not the way it would if this was just sex. The soreness is slow, deep in your hips, between your legs, in your throat. It’s from the weight of everything that passed between you—the strain of loving him even when he didn’t have the strength to return it.
“Here,” he murmurs, and holds out one of his shirts. It’s soft. Grey. Worn thin and familiar, and you slip your arms through the sleeves like it’s a kind of armor.
He helps guide it down over your shoulders.
Then lifts you again, bridal-style.
“Still with me?” he asks quietly.
You nod against his collarbone. “Mhm.”
It’s barely a sound. But he hears it. His fingers tighten at your waist.
He carries you to the bed like you weigh nothing. Lowers you down onto cool sheets. Then follows, sitting beside you, pulling the comforter up around your thighs before brushing your damp hair back from your face.
You watch him in silence.
His brows are drawn. His throat moves like he wants to speak but doesn’t know how. His hand lingers over your hip without squeezing—just rests there, warm and steady.
“Kento?” you whisper, voice hoarse from earlier.
He meets your eyes.
You know that look.
The aching one. The one that says: I’m scared you don’t want me anymore.
You sit up slowly. Crawl into his lap again, straddling his thighs, your arms wrapping around his neck even though your body is exhausted.
“I’m still yours,” you whisper into the shell of his ear. “I was always yours.”
He lets out a sound—something like a breath that got stuck in his chest all day and is only now finding its way out.
His hands come up. One at your back. One at the base of your skull.
He kisses you.
Softly. Slowly.
But not like he did earlier.
This kiss is fragile. Hungry. Sleepy. It tastes like thank you and I missed you and please don’t ever leave me alone like that again.
You whimper into it. Press your chest to his.
He moans quietly, nose brushing yours, voice shaking as he whispers, “Say it again.”
“I’m yours.”
“And I’m sorry.”
“I know,” you breathe.
“I’ll come home better next time.”
You nod.
“You’re everything,” he whispers.
You press a kiss to his cheek. His jaw. His lips again. Then rest your forehead against his, your fingers curling into his shirt.
“I missed you,” you whisper.
“I’m right here,” he promises. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
And then he pulls you under the covers, gathers you into his chest, and holds you there long past the moment your breathing softens. You fall asleep to the rhythm of his thumb brushing over your hip. To the warmth of his chest under your cheek. To the quiet, steady reminder that even after his worst days—
He always finds his way home to you.
When you wake, the bed is warm.
You’re tucked in tight—his shirt still clinging to your skin, thighs a little sore, muscles soft and heavy with sleep. The light is dim. Golden. The curtains are only half-drawn, letting in that quiet kind of morning sun that doesn’t ask anything of you.
He’s not beside you.
But his warmth lingers, soaked into the pillow, the sheets, your skin. You stretch slowly, groaning under your breath as you shift your hips, your body still tender in a way that makes your heart ache a little—but not from pain.
From everything else.
The door creaks a moment later.
And there he is.
Kento, barefoot, shirtless, hair mussed, holding a steaming mug in one hand and something wrapped in a napkin in the other. His eyes catch yours instantly.
“You’re awake,” he murmurs, softer than your breath.
You nod.
He crosses the room slowly and kneels beside the bed—kneels, again, like it’s instinct now. He sets the mug on your nightstand and rests the napkin beside it. Inside, folded and still warm, is a thick slice of honey toast. Slightly uneven. Burnt just a little at the edge.
You stare at it.
Then back at him.
“I tried to make breakfast,” he says. “But I don’t know where you keep the good pan.”
Your throat tightens. Not because it’s funny. Not because it’s perfect. Because it’s him. Because he got up before you did. Because he touched your kitchen and thought about feeding you.
“You didn’t have to,” you whisper.
“I did,” he says, brushing your hair back with his fingers. “I needed to.”
You sit up slowly and he helps, tucking pillows behind your back. Then he holds the mug out—your favorite tea, steeped just the way you like it. You take it. Hands trembling.
He doesn’t speak for a moment.
But then, quiet—so quiet you almost miss it—
“I don’t know how you do it,” he says. “The way you love me.”
You look up.
His eyes are wet.
Your heart shatters all over again.
“I come home cold,” he continues, “and you make it warm. I shut down, and you open up. I say something cruel—” his voice falters, “—and you still run the bath.”
You don’t say anything.
You just reach for him.
He comes to you instantly. Curls up beside you in bed like he needs the warmth more than the air, arms wrapping around your waist as you pull the blanket over you both. Your tea cools beside you. The toast goes untouched. His head buries into your chest and he exhales like he hasn’t taken a real breath in days.
“I want to be better for you,” he says.
You kiss his hair.
“You are.”
“I hurt you.”
“You healed me.”
He tightens his grip.
And then—
“I love you.”
You close your eyes.
“I know.”
And you do. You’ve always known. Even when he didn’t say it. Even when he walked through the door and gave you nothing but silence and distance. You knew. You felt it in the way he lingered when he took off his tie. In the way he always left the bathroom light on for you. In the way he came back.
18+ ⸝⸝⸝ 𝐉𝐉𝐊 𝐌𝐄𝐍 and body worship w/ insecure!reader
including: nanami x reader with body hair, geto x reader w/ body acne, gojo w/ small chested reader, and toji x reader with stretch marks <3
𓂃 𓈒𓏸 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎 // body hair
with the weather getting cooler, shaving had slipped off your list of priorities completely. your entire life, your hair had grown back faster and thicker than you could keep up with and recently you had given up like you did every winter. it wasn’t supposed to matter.
but now…? with your husbands hands drifting lower?
you’re cursing every lazy choice you made.
it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen the hairy version of you before. it was just… he had only today gotten back from his weeks long work trip. and because of that, you hadn’t shaved in weeks.
he’s never seen you this hairy. especially down there…. you’ve only been married for a year and you always, always kept yourself neat enough.
you pull away as his hands slip up your thighs so suddenly it makes him frown immediately. you hadn’t wanted to pull away at all and you’re still panting at the intensity of his lips on yours. alas, you had to. you couldn’t let him see you like this.
he had been gone for so long and the confused look that grows on his face only makes your chest ache. “what’s wrong, dear?”
you look away in shame immediately. “i don’t think we should…”
his frown deepens, “did i do something?”
“no!” the response embarrassingly quick that you’re afraid he’ll think you’re lying.
nanami scans you briefly—you’re fustered and breathing heavily. it was clear as day you wanted to go further. “then what’s wrong, honey?”
you melt at his words. you really don’t want to admit what’s wrong with you… but the look on his face forces you to tell the truth.
“well… i haven’t shaved in a while.”
he blinks as if he hadn’t expected that at all, brows quirking. “so?”
your mouth falls open. “so? so— i’m really gross down there!”
he stares at you for a long, quiet moment, unreadable. it’s the kind of look that makes you want to curl in on yourself in embarrassment and just disappear.
“gross?” he repeats, like he’s genuinely trying to understand the meaning of the word. “you think that would ever bother me?”
you shake your head quickly, pressing your hands to his chest, cheeks burning so hot they hurt.
“kento, no— seriously, it’s bad,” you whine, voice cracking. “you don’t get it. i haven’t shaved in weeks. it’s— it’s like— it’s like a jungle, okay?” you ramble, “you’re gonna see it and be like, ‘what the fuck is this?’”
your dear husband just blinks at you.
then his lips twitch, just the faintest reaction—dangerous, because you know that look.
“a jungle,” he repeats calmly. “is that so?”
you groan and hide your face in your hands. “don’t say it like that!”
he gently pulls your hands away from your face, his grip warm and steady, but there’s something new in his eyes now.
“darling,” he murmurs, leaning in until his nose brushes yours, “you’re talking like this is an actual problem.”
“it is!” you insist. “it’s gonna be prickly and weird and—”
“and utterly insignificant to me,” he finishes, voice dipping lower. “but you’re very cute when you panic.”
a whine escapes you like a child, “kento—!”
he hums, amused, sliding a hand up your thigh again—not higher, not yet, just enough to make your entire body jolt. “you’re this embarrassed over something so small?”
“it’s not… small,” you grumble defensively.
his thumb strokes slow circles against your skin, warm and unhurried. “you’re embarrassed in front of your own husband?”
“y-yes…?”
and god, that makes him smile—not mocking. soft. and somehow that’s even worse.
“then i suppose,” he whispers, lips grazing your jaw, “i should find a way to make you even more embarrassed.”
heat rises to your cheeks, scandalized at the implication. “ugh- kento!”
“because if you’re already hiding your face over something so natural…” his hand inches higher, deliberately slow, almost lazy, “…i’d like to see what you look like when i give you an actual reason to blush.”
you grab his wrist, not to push it away—just holding it, trembling. “i’m serious,” you sniff, frustration mixing with heat. “you’re not listening.”
oh, but he’s listening alright. maybe too closely.
“i hear you,” he murmurs. “you’re worried i’ll think differently of you because of some hair on you that doesn’t matter.” he nips lightly at your neck making your defenses weaken. “i won’t.”
you whimper, head dropping to his shoulder in pure mortification. “but it’s so much—”
nanami chuckles quietly against your skin, arm sliding around your waist to keep you close.
“then show me.”
“what?”
“show me,” he repeats, tone maddeningly gentle. “if it truly bothers you that much let me see it.” his fingers brush the waistband of your clothes. “i promise you, love. i’ll still want you. possibly even more.”
you shake your head frantically. “th-that doesn’t even make sense! i can’t!”
“can’t?” he echoes, voice low in a way that makes your stomach flip. “or won’t?”
you whine, burying your face deeper into him, practically vibrating in embarrassment. “kento, please…”
his hand cups the back of your head, with a sigh, thumb stroking soothingly. “my precious wife,” he murmurs, voice warm enough to melt bone. “so worried over something i find completely unimportant.”
then, with a slow, deliberate drag of his palm down your thigh, “keep whining like that and i’m going to forget you were trying to stop me at all.”
you jolt when his fingers hook into the waistband of your bottoms—not tugging, just resting there steadily like he’s giving you one last chance to run.
“ken—” you whisper, mortified. “i don’t want you to look…”
“i intend to do far more than look,” he murmurs, breath hot against your ear.
your whole body trembles. “i’m serious,” you try again, voice almost a squeak. “it’s really bad—”
“then i’ll see just how ‘bad’ it is,” he says simply, thumbs slipping beneath the fabric. “and i’ll tell you the truth you refuse to believe.”
you grab his forearm, weak and useless. “kento, wait—”
he presses a soft kiss to the side of your neck.
“lift your hips.”
the words hit you like a shock, your breath catching. “n-no—”
he kisses your throat. then your jaw. then the corner of your mouth.
“lift your hips, sweetheart.”
it’s barely a whisper. gentle. patient. impossible to disobey.
so you do. enough for him to start easing the fabric down. he lays you onto the bed where you’re desperately trying not to look at him.
“stop— stop looking—”
you know he can probably see the unruly pubic hair bunched underneath the cotton of your soiled panties already.
“i told you already that i don’t care about the hair.”
the fabric of your bottoms slides lower. “i care about you.” and then lower. “and i care,” he adds, brushing his lips over your temple, “that you trust me enough to let me see all of you.”
the pants catch at your ankles, and you squeeze your eyes shut in embarrassment—even though every word sends heat through you.
“ken—”
“breathe,” he murmurs. “i’ve got you.”
without missing another beat, his finger hooks under the waistband of your panties. this time he doesn’t wait for permission he knows you won’t give out loud.
slowly, he slides them down your hips.
your breath trips, a tiny gasp escaping as the cool air hits your skin. you clutch at his shoulders, trying instinctively to close your thighs— but his hands are already there, guiding them open again.
now you’re bare. completely exposed to him. and nanami is kneeling between your legs, looking at you like you’re the home he’s been aching to come home to.
“kento, don’t—” you whisper, voice trembling. “let’s just stop here. don’t look, please— it’s really— it’s bad, it’s so bad—” you beg.
his hands slide up your thighs, thumbs brushing your sensitive inner thighs.
“look at me,” he says.
you can’t. but you try. you manage half a second before your gaze flinches away. nanami’s fingers lift your chin gently, guiding your eyes back to his.
“look,” he says again, softer but firmer. you gulp, throat tight, but you keep your eyes open. he holds your gaze as he speaks. “this is the part you’re ashamed of? the part you keep calling bad?”
your breath hitches audibly, your face burning so hot it almost hurts.
“i just… i didn’t take care of it,” you ramble, mortified, looking anywhere but at him. “i didn’t shave, i didn’t trim, i didn’t do anything. it’s… a lot. i- i don’t want you to think i don’t try for you.”
nanami’s expression shifts, just slightly—a flicker of something sharper beneath all that gentleness. not anger though. never anger. just disbelief that you’d think so little of yourself.
“so that’s it,” he murmurs, thumb stroking your thigh, sending shivers up your spine. “you think i care about grooming more than i care about you.”
“no— that’s not- that’s not what i meant—!”
“it’s exactly what you meant,” he says softly, firmly. “and you’re wrong.”
“kento—”
“i don’t want you to perform for me,” he continues, leaning in, voice dropping lower. “i want you as you are. every version. in every season.”
your lower lip wobbles, “but… i didn’t want your first night home to be ruined because i look gross. i- i shouldn’t have gotten lazy and forgotten to shave… i just thought you’d be tired tonight and we wouldn’t—”
he tsks sharply, effectively making you shut up.
nanami stares at you for a moment—long enough to make your pulse hammer.
then he places both hands on your thighs and spreads them open wide.
“my night isn’t ruined,” he says, gaze unwavering. “but maybe i’ll be ruining you for thinking so lowly of me.”
“i- i don’t—“
you gasp sharply at his words but he’s already lowering himself between your legs, the heat of his breath ghosting over your swollen cunt. “don’t hide from me. not for this.”
your thighs tremble.
he looks up at you as he leans in. reverent and hungry.
“you say it’s a lot?” he kisses your inner thigh. “good. because i want all of it. you should know that by now.”
you let out a broken, helpless sound—your hands clutching at the sheets, your legs trembling so hard he has to steady them with his palms.
and then he puts his mouth on you.
no hesitation. just a slow, deep slide of his tongue against your wet hole like he’s been waiting for this from the moment he stepped through the door.
your hips jolt, a cry tearing out of you. “kento—! oh—”
nanami groans against you, hands gripping your thighs, holding you open for him as he tastes you again—unbothered by anything except how badly he’s wanted you.
“you see?” he murmurs, lips brushing you, already stained in your arousal. “nothing here is bad…” another kiss to puncture his words, “nothing here is wrong...” his voice dips. “everything here is mine.”
he parts the pubic hair, exposing your throbbing clit.
and then he groans. a noise punched straight out of him.
“fuck…” his breath hits your skin, hot and disbelieving. “you’re asking me to stay away from this?”
your thighs jerk, embarrassment slamming through you, but it only makes his grip tighten. his thumb presses lightly beside your clit—not touching, just close enough that your whole body tenses in anticipation, arousal seeping out of you.
“look at you,” he murmurs, eyes heavy, voice ruined. “you really thought i wouldn’t lose my mind over you and this pretty cunt?”
before you can respond, he hooks his hands under your thighs and drags you closer the same he’d pull a meal toward himself.
you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders.
“w-wait—”
“no.” his voice comes out dark, final. “you’ve been whining. you’re gonna let me taste and prove you wrong.”
and then his mouth is back on you.
his tongue flattens against your clit in one slow, claiming stroke that has your hips arching off the bed. he growls into you at the movement, fingers digging into your thighs to pin you down.
“that’s it,” he mutters against you sending vibrations up your spine, already going back in, hungrier. “keep doing that.”
he spreads you wider with his thumbs, dragging them slowly through the soft, bushy curls between your legs—separating them, feeling them, savoring the sight like it’s something he’s been starving for.
he dips his head again, deliberately letting his nose brush through the thick, warm hair on your mound. he inhales—actually inhales—and you hear the broken sound he makes from it.
“you’re perfect like this,” he breathes, voice shaking with how hard he’s holding back.
then he licks you again, starting lower this time, dragging his tongue up through the wetness that’s gathered in the curls, tasting everything.
it’s obscene. filthy. almost like he wants to make you hear how wet you are on his tongue. a slow, filthy slurp sounds in the quiet room—loud enough that your entire body jolts.
your hands fly to your face, burning hot, but he’s faster. nanami presses one large palm to your thigh, pinning you open, the other sliding up to gently tug your hands away from your eyes.
“darling. don’t you dare hide from me again,” he groans against you.
he goes in—deeper this time—the pink muscle thick and deliberate as it pushes past the hair, past your embarrassment, licking a path that makes your hips twitch helplessly.
you feel his jaw working against you, slow and hungry. he’s savoring every sound you make.
another slick sound fills the air as he moves, and you choke on a gasp. his grip on your thigh tightens.
“oh- oh my god— kento!”
“listen,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “that’s you. that’s how badly she wants me.”
your stomach flips so violently you whine, the noise small and desperate.
“messy,” he murmurs, almost praising. “perfect.”
after that there’s nothing gentle left in him.
his hands hook under your thighs and he drags you even closer in one smooth pull, your hips lifting off the bed. he throws your legs over his shoulders and before you can make sense of the movement, his mouth is back on you—hard.
all thoughts leave your body.
his tongue is relentless, sliding through everything he’s already made of you—slick, hot, swollen—lapping you up like he’s starved. he buries his face deeper, the coarse drag of your hair brushing his cheeks, his nose, and he just keeps going. like the mess only makes him hungrier.
your thighs jerk around his shoulders, trembling violently, but he doesn’t let you move—his grip is unshakeable, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips, holding you exactly where he wants you.
you try to say something—his name, a plea, a warning—but all that comes out is a broken gasp that dissolves into a whimper. your voice doesn’t work. your brain doesn’t work. nothing works except the desperate arch of your back and the tightening knot in your stomach.
he tongues you in long, heavy strokes—then shorter, quicker ones—until he seals his lips around your clit and sucks so hard your vision goes white at the edges. your hands shoot forward, grabbing at anything—his blond strands, the sheets, the fucking air until you’re clawing at the mattress just to stay grounded.
your hips try to pull away, overwhelmed—but he follows, mouth locked to you, dragging you back down on his tongue until you’re shaking.
wet sounds fill the room, your arousal clinging to his mouth, dripping down his chin. every time you twitch, he presses in deeper, tongue pushing past heat and hair and any scrap of composure you had left.
your breath comes out in high, helpless little gasps now—no words, no protests, just pure need spilling out of you in every sound.
your thighs are trembling uncontrollably. your stomach is tightening too quickly, the pressure coiling and coiling until you can barely breathe.
you’re gone. reduced to a mess, feeling and hearing nothing but the sensation of how his mouth and how it sounds between your legs. every flick of his tongue, every press of his lips, every slide of his fingers along your thighs drives you closer and closer, your body trembling beyond control. your stomach is tightening into a coil that refuses to release… until it finally does.
a strangled cry tears from your throat as your hips jerk violently, your thighs clamping around his head, quivering uncontrollably. the sensation is so intense it makes your vision blur.
your hands are tangled in his hair, tugging, unable to stop yourself. your back arches off the bed, head thrown back, toes curled over his broad shoulders, mouth open in a wordless scream—completely lost in the explosion of pleasure ripping through you.
“that’s it, darling. let go.”
he coaxes you though your orgasm, milking you dry until your body is a quivering mess.
slowly, it begins to ebb—your body collapsing against the mattress, boneless, lips parted, and eyes completely glossy and unfocused.
he lifts his head just slightly, leaving a wet trail along your folds. you force yourself to look at him and the sight of the bottom half of his face coated in your arousal makes heat pool deep in your core all over again. your whole body tingles, every thought scrambled into nothing but the memory of what he’s done to you.
“so sweet,” he breathes, giving you a soft smile that makes you melt and heat and want to marry him all over again. “my goodness. my wife came so hard.”
you give him a dopey, flustered smile in return before he moves up your body to kiss you, forcing your to taste yourself on his tongue.
your legs are still over draped over his shoulders as he presses you deeper into the mattress making you gasp into his lips at the strain.
you barely have time to catch your breath before you feel him settling between your thighs, his hips slotting into the cradle of yours like they were made for it, clothed bulge staining against his slacks and pressing against your bare heat.
your hips jerking instinctively.
he groans.
“feel that, darling? that’s what you do to me.”
and that’s how you know he’ll fuck you so good you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.
𓂃 𓈒𓏸 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 // body acne
he knew something was wrong the second you didn’t want to take your shirt off after an intense makeout session. he knew you. and of course, your boyfriend geto had seen you naked before.
so what was different about today?
—
your body acne was flaring up again—angry, red, and painful in the worst places. no matter what medicine you applied this week, it wouldn’t budge.
he’d seen the bumps, the scars, but it hadn’t been this bad since before you had began dating him.
you didn’t want him to see it.
it wasn’t even because you thought he’d judge you—no, suguru would never. you just thought it was yucky, the acne made you feel yucky and he didn’t need to see it all.
he raises a brow, confused. “what is it?”
“can’t i just keep it on?”
he squints at you like he’s trying to read your thoughts. “princess, you know you always beg to get your shirt off when we start anyway because you run hot.”
you swallow. he’s right. “well… i just don’t feel like it today!”
there’s no teasing from him this time. no sly grin, no little laugh to coax you out of your shell. instead, he watches you quietly, something warm and heavy settling behind his eyes.
“come here,” he says, gentle.
you hesitate, but you go, letting him pull you into his lap. his hands stay on your hips, grounding.
he leans back slightly to get a better look at your face. “is it hurting again?” he asks.
your breath hitches.
“how…” you start, blinking at him.
you didn’t say anything about pain. you didn’t mention your skin, didn’t tug your shirt in a way that would’ve given it away, didn’t even glance down at the places your acne had flared up under your top the worst.
he raises a brow like the answer is obvious. “sweetheart.” he cups your cheek with one hand, thumb sweeping slow over your skin. “you think i wouldn’t notice when something’s bothering you?”
you open your mouth, then close it. you’re shocked. but maybe you shouldn’t be. this is suguru. of course he noticed. he always notices.
he huffs a soft, almost fond sound, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “you’ve been sitting different,” he says quietly. “like you’re trying not to brush your back against anything. and you haven’t leaned into me once since we sat.”
heat creeps up your neck. you didn’t even realize.
“suguru…” your voice comes out small.
“yeah,” he murmurs, pulling you a little closer, “i know.”
he presses a gentle kiss to your temple, lingering like he’s trying to wordlessly tell you there’s nothing wrong with you and nothing to hide.
“you don’t have to tell me everything for me to see you,” he says against your skin. “i already do.”
slowly his hands slide up from your hips to your ribs, slipping under the fabric of your shirt. you tense immediately, breath catching, but his palms stay warm, steady, unmoving.
“hey,” he murmurs, voice soft as his thumb strokes your side, “look at me.”
you do reluctantly.
his eyes aren’t heavy, or curious, or scanning your skin. he looks at you like he always does—like you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing.
“i’m going to take this off,” he says quietly, “only if you want me to.”
your throat works around a tiny, “mkay.”
he lifts the shirt an inch at a time, slow enough that you could stop him with the slightest touch. when the first patch of irritated skin is revealed, your instinct is to flinch away, hunch your shoulders, fold into yourself… but he pulls you closer instead.
his mouth kisses the corner of your jaw. then your cheek. then your temple.
every kiss is tender enough to ache.
“none of that,” he whispers. “don’t hide from me.”
another inch, another kiss at the base of your throat.
“it’s so ugly,” you whisper, barely audible.
he presses his forehead to yours, breath warm. “there’s nothing ugly about you.”
your shirt comes off fully, and he drops it to the side without even glancing at your body. not because he’s avoiding it—because he’s focused entirely on you.
his hands come up to cradle your waist, thumbs brushing your skin in slow, reassuring strokes.
then, without warning, he bows his head and kisses just above the irritated area on your chest, soft enough to make your eyes sting.
“see?” he murmurs into your skin. “doesn’t gross me out. doesn’t even make me blink.”
you shake slightly, not from fear—just from the way relief and want and tenderness collide all at once. he wraps an arm around your back, careful of the sensitive spots, pulling you gently into his chest, cradling you there.
“come here,” he whispers, tucking your head into his shoulder. “let me kiss you better.”
and he does. he keeps kissing your skin, always just beside the places that hurt. his lips trail along the curve of your shoulder, the dip of your collarbone, the soft skin beneath your jaw. every touch feels like an apology for the pain you’ve been carrying all day.
his hands never leave your waist. one holds you steady, warm around your middle, while the other slides gently up to the center of your painfully irritated back, fingers spreading wide and light to not hurt any pimples, guiding you closer until your chest is pressed to his.
“there you go,” he whispers, breath brushing your ear. “just stay right here.”
you melt into him without, head resting on his shoulder, hands clutching weakly at his shirt. he rubs your back in slow, soothing lines, careful of everything.
“you’re still shaking,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek. “…let me make you feel good.”
your breath catches, heat blooming low in your stomach at the softness of his voice—like he’s offering something sacred, not sexual.
“suguru…”
he shushes you gently, lips brushing your temple. “you were so worked up before. you don’t have to stop letting me take care of you just because you’re just having a bad skin day.”
his hand slides down from your waist, over your hip, slow enough to make your heart stutter. he slips it between your thighs, pressing his palm over your shorts, cupping your mound and mapping the warmth he knows he put there during the heated kisses earlier.
“you’re still warm,” he murmurs, voice dropping just a little.
your hips twitch.
he exhales a soft, pleased sound into your neck. “there she is.”
his fingers ease under your waistband—no rush, no pressure—just enough to touch bare skin.
he finds your slit, dragging a slow finger through the wetness there, and your whole body trembles in his lap.
“oh angel,” he breathes into your ear, unable to help it, “you’re soaked.”
you bury your face in his throat and he smiles against your hair, kissing your crown.
“don’t hide,” he whispers, curling his finger to circle your clit in slow, gentle motions. “you’re allowed to want this even now.”
your hips roll despite your embarrassment. his hand on your back tightens, pulling you snug against his chest, cradling you while he touches you like he’s worshipping you.
“that’s it,” he murmurs, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “just feel me. don’t think about anything else.”
your breath stutters, and he keeps his movements soft, almost lazy—like he’s got all the time in the world to unravel you.
his fingers slip lower, teasing your entrance, spreading you open with delicate, slow pressure.
“want my fingers inside you?”
you nod, too breathless to answer.
he kisses the corner of your mouth for the nod alone. “good girl.”
he pushes one of his thick fingers in slowly, the stretch making your hips jump. he swallows your sound with a kiss to your jaw, holding you tighter, rocking you gently into his hand.
“that’s it,” he whispers, moving inside you in slow, careful strokes. “i’ve got you.”
his thumb brushes your clit again, as soft as a sigh.
“just let me help you feel good,” he murmurs. “you deserve it.”
he moves inside you slowly, his finger curling just enough to make your hips twitch and he feels it how wet you are. how your body clings to him, slick and warm, like you’ve been ready for him long before he even touched you.
a quiet breath leaves him against your cheek.
his fingers glide so easily through your slick that you can hear it already, obscene in the quiet room.
god. you’re dripping. and it’s not just because he’s touching you.
because he’s him. because he pulled you into his lap like you mattered and he noticed the pain you didn’t even speak.
because he sees you so clearly it hurts.
your thoughts scatter the moment he adds a slow second finger, stretching you carefully, your wetness coating his knuckles. you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.
he kisses your jaw, steadying you. “easy,” he murmurs, voice warm. “i’ve got you.”
the words sink deep, deeper than his fingers, deeper than anything else. something inside you loosens, uncoils, melts. and your body answers before you can think—more slick spilling onto his hand, your thighs trembling around him.
you can’t stop it. you don’t want to.
“mgh… suguru… feels s’good…” you bury your face in his throat, breath shaky. he tightens his hold on your waist, grounding you as his fingers work slowly inside you, each movement unhurried, so careful.
“mhm, that’s it,” he whispers, kissing your temple. “let yourself feel it.”
you do. fuck you do.
a soft, broken sound leaves your mouth when his thumb finds your clit again, barely there strokes that make your body jolt.
you’re obscenely soaked—slick coating his fingers, dripping onto his lap, your body giving him everything without reserve or hesitation.
you’re shaking by the time he makes another slow circle over your clit, pleasure curling warm and insistent low in your belly. it’s overwhelming in the gentlest way, like he’s unraveling you with care instead of force.
your fingers clutch at his shirt, desperate for something to hold onto. “sugu…” it comes out a whisper, thin and breathless. you can’t even get his whole name out anymore.
his voice drops, warm at your ear. “mm? i’m right here.”
you swallow hard, your forehead pressing into his neck as another wave of pleasure rolls through you. you don’t know how to say it—how to put the feeling into words—how to tell him what it means that he’s touching you like this, today of all days. how he made you feel safe when you were so sure you were something to hide.
“thank you,” you breathe—so soft he almost misses it.
but he freezes for just a moment. only a moment. then his hand tightens protectively on your waist, pulling you closer, holding you like the words hit somewhere deep.
“my sweet girl…” his voice is barely a murmur, almost a sigh.
he kisses the side of your head—slow, lingering. he starts moving his fingers again, slower but deeper, coaxing, reassuring.
“you don’t have to thank me,” he whispers, brushing his nose against your cheek. “i always want to take care of you.”
your breath stutters when his thumb catches your clit with more pressure, making your hips jerk helplessly in his lap. you’re so wet it’s almost embarrassing—slick dripping down his fingers because of his honeyed words, pooling warm against his palm.
but he doesn’t comment. he just holds you through it, guiding your motion, keeping you grounded.
“suguru,” you gasp, voice trembling, “it’s so— ah— so much.”
“i know,” he murmurs, kissing beneath your ear, “but you’re doing so well.”
you nod against him, eyes squeezed shut, letting yourself melt into every slow press of his fingers, every warm breath on your skin.
“i’m here,” he repeats softly, thumb stroking your clit in gentle circles. “you wanna cum for me soon?”
“mmmh— mhm…” your hips rock into his hand harder without meaning to.
you’re giving him everything. and he’s holding all of it like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
your breathing turns uneven, shallow, every exhale catching on the next slow curl of his fingers. the pressure builds so quickly you almost don’t notice it at first—like warmth pooling under your skin, growing hotter, tighter, harder to contain.
“fuck- m’gonna—”
“i know angel,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek, your jaw, anywhere he can reach. “i can feel it.”
your hips jerk again, helpless, grinding down into his hand because you can’t stop yourself. you’re shaking, thighs trembling around his hand, slick dripping messily onto his palm with every movement. he groans softly when he feels it—soft, breathy, more emotion than hunger.
“let it happen,” he whispers, voice steady, thumb rubbing slow circles over your clit. “you don’t have to hold back.”
your breath catches hard—your whole body tightening around his fingers, heat spiraling upward so fast you can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but cling to him.
“suguru—” his name breaks on your tongue, fragile and desperate.
his arms wrap around you, keeping you anchored. “i’ve got you,” he murmurs against your skin. “come for me, sweetheart.”
the words hit you like a shock.
your body pulls tight—every muscle trembling—and then it breaks. the pleasure crashes over you all at once, sharp and warm and overwhelming. you gasp, then sob out a soft, broken sound as you come, clenching around his fingers, your slick spilling over his hand in hot, pulsing waves.
he holds you through all of it.
one arm around your waist, holding you steady on his lap.
the other still working you gently, coaxing you through your release with soft, slow strokes.
his mouth pressed to your temple whispering, “that’s it… that’s it… i’ve got you… you’re okay…”
your thighs tremble uncontrollably, your fingers twisting in his shirt as you try to pull in air.
the aftershocks make you whimper, your hips twitching weakly, and he slows immediately—softening every touch, kissing your cheek as if to soothe the tremble in your body.
“there you go,” he whispers, stroking your side with his free hand. “breathe for me. that’s it.”
you melt against him, exhausted, still shaking.
he just holds you like he has all the time in the world. like being your anchor is the easiest thing he’s ever done.
𓂃 𓈒𓏸 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 // small chest
lately, you’ve been more particular about them than usual.
you blame it on that girl who was pressed up against your boyfriend at a party—her breasts the complete opposite of yours—full and pushed together in a way yours would never be.
the image stuck with you longer than it should’ve.
and the worse thing was, it wasn’t even her fault you were feeling this way. she was fucking drop dead gorgeous with tits that sat maddeningly perfect in her tight top—tipsy with no idea the man who looked like he’d been handcrafted by the heavens already had a girlfriend, (a lame looking one) she came up to your man with a confidence you didn’t have.
though, when she learned you were his girlfriend later, she apologized profusely.
that only make you feel even worse at how quickly something ugly and jealous twisted low in your stomach when you saw them next to each other (even after satoru had made a face at her and pushed her away in less 2 seconds).
less than a week later, you’re lying on the couch with said boyfriend, one leg draped over his lap, absently scrolling through your phone.
the afternoon sun spills across the room, warm and lazy, and you feel safe enough to speak without thinking. you always do.
“hey…” you murmur, almost to yourself. “do you ever wish i had bigger boobs? so you could… y’know…feel them more?”
gojo freezes mid inhale. actually freezes.
then he sits up so abruptly your legs slip off his lap, eyes blown wide with something like pure, offended, disbelief. “what?” he blurts, staring at you like he’s seeing a ghost. “wait—wait. you actually think that?”
heat floods your face, realizing the gravity of your words. “i- i mean… it’s dumb, i was just—”
“no.” he cuts you off instantly. “no. absolutely not.”
he cups your face in both hands, leaning in with that rare seriousness that always makes your stomach twist. “baby, how could you even think that?”
“well— sometimes i notice other girls, and—”
“stop.” he interrupts firmly, eyebrows drawing together like the thought physically pains him. “stop right there.”
you gulp. “you asked! i just meant—like, hypothetically—”
“no,” he says again, softer but still insistent. “i don’t want to hear it. because it’s wrong. you are perfect. these?” he gestures to your chest, cupping your tits carefully, “they’re perfect. i love them. every little bit. do you understand?”
your cheeks burn at his words and touch—yet you still retort, “but… they’re… so small.”
he groans—dramatically, exasperatedly, forehead dropping to your shoulder like you’re killing him. “small?! so?? do you know how much i love that?”
his hands creep under your shirt and then slide up your sides, warm.
“they’re soft,” he continues, kissing along your neck, “they fit perfectly in my hands…” another kiss, “…and you have no idea how much i think about having them in my mouth.”
your face burns instantly. of course he would be like this. you shouldn’t have said anything.
“satoru— stop—” you whine.
your breath catches, heat pooling low in your stomach as his thumbs creep under your bra without warning, brushing lightly over your nipples.
he lifts his head, eyes molten and earnest.
“i mean it. i want you exactly the way you are. i love exactly the way you’re made.” he sees your still unconvinced look and sighs.
“fine. i guess i’ll just have to show you how much i love them…” his fingers trace gentle circles over your chest. “these perfect little things of yours…”
“shut up.” you stammer, cheeks flushing further.
he doesn’t wait another moment before cupping your breasts completely with warm, soft palms. your breath catches, hips pressing slightly toward him.
“you’re so soft,” he murmurs, thumb brushing lightly over a nipple, rolling it gently between his fingers. “i love this. i love you.”
you whine softly, heat pooling low in your gut at his earnest words. yet you still ask, just to be sure, “do you really…” your voice trembles, barely audible, “…love them that much?”
he looks up at you with wide eyes like you’ve asked the saddest question in the world.
“baby,” he breathes, “i adore them.”
without a moments hesitation, he pushes your shirt and bra all the way off. his lips close around your nipple, sucking, making your back arch immediately.
you let out a small gasp and he hums against the flesh.
he presses you back into the couch with one unhurried push of his palm, settling his weight between your thighs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. his hands slide up your ribs, slow and sure, until he’s cupping your tits again as if he’s been waiting to touch you properly the whole day.
“shit,” he exhales, almost to himself, thumbs brushing over them in deliberate, lazy circles that make your stomach twist. “look at you.”
he doesn’t give you time to be embarrassed again. he’s already lowering his mouth, kissing the soft swell of one breast, and then the other, lips trailing heat until he’s right where you need him.
“satoru!” you gasp when his tongue flicks lightly over your nipple—once, then again, slower, like he’s savoring every second.
your hands fly to his shoulders, nails curling into his shirt as your hips lift helplessly toward him.
“yeah,” he murmurs against your skin, breath warm, mouth shaping around you, “that’s it. let me make you forget everything else.”
his mouth closes over your nipple again, and this time there’s no patience in him at all. he sucks hard, tongue dragging over you, teasing, licking, biting just enough to make you gasp, shiver, and arch into him all at once.
his hands cup every inch of your small breasts, thumbs rolling over your nipples again and again, kneading, worshipping them like he can’t get enough.
“fuck, you’re perfect,” he groans, teeth grazing the sensitive tip, mouth hot and desperate. “i could do this all day…”
he bites lightly, above the nub, marking you, and groans as your hips jerk against him. “so soft… ngh— so fucking good,” he rasps.
his one hand move faster now, fingers tweaking one while his mouth trails kissing the curve of your other breast, teasing the underside, sucking, licking, and marking every inch.
you whimper, voice trembling, hips pressing helplessly into him.
his hands trail lower, teasing along your sides before slipping under the waistband of your pants. your breath catches, hips jerking instinctively, and he hums low against your chest—a guttural, hungry sound that makes you clench around nothing once more.
slowly, he drags your pants down your legs along with your panties, leaving you completely bare, every inch of your slick, glistening folds exposed in the afternoon light.
and then he frees himself to press his cock into your wet heat.
it’s slow and heavy in the best way—the perfect weight of need pressing into you, making your back arch and your hips tilt into him without thinking.
he uses the movement to his advantage, hands returning to your chest, rolling your nipples between his fingers as his cock rocks with meticulous precision against your cunt. each slow grind drags fresh waves of fire up your spine.
the slick between you spreads, coating him, warm and sticky, and you gasp at every drag, fingers tangling in his snowy hair, pulling him closer.
“so wet baby for me baby…” he lets out rough with want, lips dragging from your jaw to your collarbone and back down, kissing the swell of your breasts, teasing each peak. “you feel so good.”
it should be you that should be saying that.
satoru doesn’t rush, but every movement is designed to consume you—his hardness dragging across your slit repeatedly, until his thumb joins in, circling your clit in torturous, exquisite precision. each rub makes your stomach coil tighter, chest rising with uneven, shallow breaths.
you whimper, and he groans, teeth grazing your shoulder, lips pressing to your neck, marking every inch of your skin reacting to him.
all the while, his hands never stop kneading your breasts with obsessive devotion, thumbs rolling over nipples that are hard under his touch.
his lips find yours again, messier—tongue sliding, teeth grazing, moaning into your mouth as your knees tremble and hips jerk.
“god, i love you—” he grinds against your clit, slow and deep, the head of his cock hitting it so that it makes your whole body jerk, “haah— i love these pretty little tits…” he squeezes them both, reverent and filthy all at once. “…and this— ugh—gorgeous, gorgeous girl.”
a whine punctures out of you and you’re too gone for any response to form.
you love him so much. you really do.
but you’re too gone in him to say the 3 words back.
you try to show it instead in the way you look at him, you really do. your nails drag down his shoulders, hips bucking, heat pooling so intensely you feel dizzy.
“you feel that?” he rasps, dragging himself through your slick again, the sound obscene. “you’re dripping, baby. fuck—”
he pulls back just enough to look at you. your hair messy, lips swollen, chest littered with love bites and heaving in his hands.
he leans in just slightly, and your bodies shift together naturally. his cock brushes through your slick again—not purposeful this time—just the inevitable result of how close he is, how tightly your legs cradle his hips, how desperate his hands are on your chest.
his focus is nowhere near his own body. he’s buried in you—mouth at your neck, breath warm, kissing down the slope of your breast like he’s memorizing every inch. his hands never stop showing his devotion to you, kneading gently, rolling your nipples between his fingers with this shaking devotion like he’s afraid he’ll never get enough.
you gasp when his teeth graze your chest once more, your back arching into his palms—and that slight arch guides him lower. your thighs pull him in closer without you realizing, and he just follows, shuddering, lips parted against your skin.
your nipple brushes his mouth, soft and perfect, and he exhales a broken, helpless sound against you—and that’s when it happens.
not planned. not even conscious.
his cock slips inside you.
his mushroom tip pushes into your entrance in one smooth, wet glide—so easy, so shockingly perfect that both of you gasp at the exact same time.
his breath catches hard in his throat.
your fingers clutch at his back instantly, a soft, strangled sound escaping you as your body opens around him, warm and tight and instinctively welcoming him deeper.
his whole body goes rigid, trembling.
he didn’t mean to, hadn’t been paying attention—too caught up in worshipping your tits, your sounds, your warmth, the feeling of your nipples perked under his thumbs.
“oh—” he chokes out, voice cracking, forehead dropping to your breast. “baby…”
satoru doesn’t pull away. doesn’t stop. doesn’t even speak again.
he just… sinks deeper.
guided by the slick and the way your hips tilt up for him without thinking, his cock pushes into you. he keeps mouthing at your chest as he pushes deeper, breaths shaking against your skin like he’s overwhelmed to the point of breaking.
you feel every inch of him filling you, stretching you, sliding into the softest parts of you.
his fingers tighten around your breasts, holding you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the world.
when his hips finally meet yours, when he’s fully inside you, he lets out a sound you’ve never heard from him—something small, broken, reverent, like a prayer whispered into your skin.
“you feel… so good,” he murmurs, dazed and breathless, lips brushing your breast as he lifts his head just barely. “didn’t… didn’t mean to— but god…”
your eyes meet, his blown wide, soft with awe, completely undone.
“you’re perfect.”
you throw your head back, his unstopping praise combined with him inside you all too overwhelming.
he snaps.
the sight of you—neck arched, lips parted, breasts lifting into his hands as you gasp around him—breaks something in him clean in half. all the careful worship, all the soft kisses, all the restraint he didn’t even realize he was holding vanishes.
a guttural sound rips from his chest as his fingers tighten around your breasts, squeezing. his hips lurch forward, not slow this anymore—just pure instinct, pure want, pure need.
“fuck—” he breathes, voice wrecked, “baby, i can’t—”
he pulls out and then thrusts again, harder, the slick heat of you pulling him in like nothing has ever fit him so well. he buries his face in your neck, kissing you, breathing you in, almost shaking with how good you feel.
your gasps turns into a choked moan, your thighs clamping desperately around his hips.
“satoru—!”
that’s all it takes.
he groans into your skin, hips snapping into you again, the sudden intensity making your body jolt up the couch. he pulls almost all the way out before driving back in, the wet slap of your bodies meeting echoing in the thick, breathless air between you.
“you’re so—” he pants, kissing your collarbone hard, “warm and tight—fuck, baby, i’m losing my mind—”
his hands don’t leave your chest.
even as he thrusts into you, even as he fucks you with this raw, hungry desperation, his palms keep cupping your small breasts, holding them like they’re the center of his world. thumbs brushing over your nipples, fingers squeezing when your breath catches, worship and possession tangled perfectly together.
“look at you,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to see your face, his hips still moving, slow but deep, controlled only by a thread. “you’re—god—you’re perfect, you hear me?”
you whimper—a trembling, breathless sound you can’t stop—and his eyes flicker, pupils blown, jaw clenching like the noise punched straight through him.
“don’t- don’t make that sound,” he whispers, voice cracking as his hips slam into you again, harder this time. “i’ll lose it. i’ll fucking lose it—”
he grabs your thigh, lifting it higher around his waist, sinking even deeper into you. you feel him everywhere—heat, weight, breath, lips, hands—and you can’t tell where your body ends and his begins.
your hips jerk up into his without thinking, needing him closer, deeper, more—and he breaks again.
“baby—please,” he groans, forehead pressing to yours, thrusts turning messy, hungry, like he can’t control himself anymore. “i need you—i need you so bad—”
he kisses you—deep, messy, and desperate—his mouth claiming yours with the same intensity as his hips.
he doesn’t stop—he can’t—but the rhythm falters, growing shaky, every thrust needier than the last.
“wait—” he pants, though he doesn’t slow at all, “baby—hold on— i’m… fuck—”
his voice cracks, hips stuttering as your walls clench around him. his eyes squeeze shut like he’s in pain, head dropping to your shoulder.
“shit— shit— don’t do that—” he groans as you unintentionally tighten again, his entire body jerking against yours. “i’m gonna—i can’t—”
your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and a broken noise tears from his throat, raw and helpless.
he’s right there.
already.
you can feel it in the way his breath catches, in the way his thighs shake against yours, in the way he claws at control with both hands and still slides deeper into you like he’s drowning.
“baby…” he whispers, voice shaking, chest pressed to yours, “i’m— gonna cum—fuck—”
“m-me too— sa—ah! satoru—”
your voice breaks apart as your hips meet his in frantic, messy rhythm. his forehead drops to yours, breath hot and trembling, like he’s barely holding himself together.
“stay with me,” he pleads.
you nod, nails dragging down his back, trying to keep him close as the pleasure coils tight and sharp inside you. his thrusts stutter, rhythm falling apart, a strangled sound tearing from his throat.
“shit— baby—please—”
your cry shatters when it hits you, pleasure exploding through you hard enough to arch your back off the couch. your thighs clamp around his hips, your whole body shaking as you cum, helpless and loud.
he feels it—feels you clench around him—and it ruins him.
“oh— f-fuck—” he moans, voice cracking as he spills inside you, hips jerking uncontrollably. he collapses onto you, still trembling, still pulsing, his mouth pressed to your shoulder as he tries to breathe.
you hold him through the aftershocks, both of you shaking, chests rising against each other, neither willing to move.
finally, he exhales a shaky laugh against your skin. “you made me bust in like— ugh- five minutes. that enough proof you’re perfect?”
you groan a half hearted, “shut up” but you can’t hold your grin back. “i love you idiot.”
𓂃 𓈒𓏸 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎 // stretch marks
you’d been standing in front of the bathroom mirror longer than you realized, towel loosely wrapped around you, hair half damp from your shower.
your gaze kept drifting to the faint lines along your hips and ass, and you couldn’t help rolling your eyes at them.
so wrapped up in your thoughts, you didn’t notice your perv of a husband sneaking into the doorway, leaning casually with that infuriating smirk on his face.
with all your years with him, you still didn’t know how the fuck such a large, beefy man could be so quiet sneaking up on you.
“hey,” he drawls. “what’re ya doin’ doll?”
you startle, spinning just slightly and tightening your towel around yourself. “nothing,” you mumble, cheeks heating.
“towel for what?” he asks, stepping into the bathroom, eyes narrowing playfully as he tilts his head. “nothin’ i haven’t seen.”
you glance away, focusing on the counter instead of him, hoping he hadn’t noticed the way you’d been looking at the faint stretch marks along your hips.
toji chuckles that infuriating sound that always makes you want to roll your eyes harder. “hmmm, sure looks like somethin’,” he says, door, arms crossed. “you’re actin’ all suspicious, ma. what’re you hiding?”
you huff, shooing him away. “i’m not hiding anything. just… checking something,” you grumble, avoiding his gaze in the mirror.
“checking?” he repeats, one brow raised. “right. checking your ass for…what? quality?”
you groan, hitting his beefy arm, doing no damage at all.
of course he saw. the bastard just wanted to tease you.
“stop. you’re ridiculous! at least close the door! you’re letting all the cold air in—”
he grins, closing the door and only stepping closer, thumbs brushing lightly over the curve of your waist over your towel. “ridiculous? baby, you’re the one giving me that look like you’ve caught some crime scene back there.”
“it’s annoying, okay? that’s all,” you snap, exasperated, folding your arms over your chest. “these stupid lines— just… it’s whatever.”
his large hands slide to the sides of it, giving it a cheeky tug. “come on, i wanna see what’s got you so worked up.”
“toji!” you exclaim, yanking it back.
he just laughs, that deep, rumbling laugh that makes it impossible to stay mad. “nah. lemme see doll,” he says, tugging again—this time firmly—and before you can react, the towel slips from your body, leaving you completely exposed to him.
“tojiiii!” you whine, flustered, trying to cover yourself with your hands.
he doesn’t even flinch, smirk growing wider. “jesus, ma, it’s just you. nothing i haven’t seen before.” his large hands land on your hips, thumbs brushing over the faint stretch marks along your ass and sides. “this is what’s got your panties in a twist? baby, your stretch marks?”
you groan, crossing your arms over your tits, trying to cover yourself even though he’s clearly not taking you seriously. “i’m not… they’re just annoying, okay? they’re ugly lines and—”
toji snorts, making your thoughts haywire as he leans in closer, “ugly? you’re ridiculous. i think they’re hot.”
you freeze, jaw dropping slightly. “…hot?”
“yeah,” he grunts, thumbs sliding over your hips again, brushing right over the faint stretch marks on your ass. “hot. makes me want you even more. think i’d complain about a few ‘lines’?”
you groan, pressing your face into your hands, cheeks burning. “you’re impossible.”
“and you’re the sexiest woman in the world.” he grins wickedly.
“fuck off,” you groan again, shaking your head. yet you can’t hide the tiny, begrudging smile weaseling its way towards your lips, “stupid man.”
“mhmm,” he responds, hands sliding lower to rest just above your thighs, thumbs tracing lightly over the curves of your hips, “but this stupid man knows exactly what he likes…”
he murmurs, leaning even closer, and then spinning you around to face the mirror so his chest presses against your back. his thumbs slide lower, brushing over the tops of your thighs, guiding your bare, damp body flush against the cool surface of the counter.
you let out a groan, pressing your hands flat against it for balance, the slight chill against your wet skin doing nothing to dull the heat pooling between you.
toji against you presses harder, his hands firm on your hips, thumbs tracing the faint stretch marks along your ass and sides. “all of this? mine,” he says lowly, lips brushing against your ear.
your body shivers, the mirror reflecting both of you—his wicked grin, your flushed, damp skin, the way his hands claim you without reservation.
his hands linger on your hips, thumbs brushing over the stretch marks you were trying to ignore. the mirror catches every flicker of expression—your jaw tight, lips parted, eyes darting, caught between irritation and something else.
he shifts slightly, pressing closer, and his fingers trace lower along your thighs. his fingers don’t stop sliding until reaching right along the slick heat between your thighs, teasing over your folds with slow, deliberate pressure.
you hiss, pressing back into him, hands gripping the counter like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.
“fuck… toji—” you breathe, but your tone’s half scold, half all consuming heat.
he chuckles and presses himself against your ass, just so you can feel him beginning to harder, jaw brushing your shoulder. “yeah, you’re soaked for me already, baby. not just from the shower, huh?”
your hips jerk against his hand despite yourself. “shut up!”
he ignores you completely, “mmmh, this is my favorite thing. you love me knowing exactly how wet you are for me, don’t ya?”
you groan, head dropping forward, eyes closing, trying to hide the flush spreading down your neck. “ugh— you—”
he hums against your skin, teasing your ear. “don’t fight it, baby… i wanna feel everything.”
your hands leave the counter to grip his arms, trying—and failing—to push him away, but he’s too strong, holding you flush against him, pressing his finger deeper in to make you shiver.
“you’re so wet…” he growls, slipping another finger inside without warning, curling it just enough to make you gasp and arch into him. “all for me, doll… huh?”
you can’t respond, only let out a broken whine, hips rocking instinctively, body trembling.
“you’re driving me crazy.” his other hand slides down to your ass, squeezing lightly, thumbs brushing over the stretch marks that had annoyed you just moments ago. “these stretch marks? they make me want to fuck you senseless right here.”
your knees threaten to give out, and the only thing stopping you from collapsing fully is the counter and him. your towel forgotten, body bare, leaking, and shivering under his touch.
“toji— please…” you gasp.
he growls, satisfied, pressing you harder into the counter. “fuck, ma… that’s it. beg for it.”
he curls his fingers inside you again, slow, merciless, watching you crumble against him.
toji’s fingers slide out one last time, dragging through your slick heat before he pulls back just enough to let you feel the emptiness. you whine, hips trembling, already aching for more.
he smirks, chest pressing against your back, large hands gripping your hips like he owns you. “look at yourself,” he grunts, gripping your cheeks with his fingers stained in your own arousal so you’re forced to see your reflection in the mirror. “watch what i’m gonna do to you.”
you swallow, face heating, cheeks burning, heart hammering. “toji… i— ugh, stop teasing—”
“nah,” he interrupts, low and rough, teeth grazing your shoulder as he lines himself up. “gonna make you watch yourself get fucked.”
before you can blink, the tip of him presses against your wet entrance and you can’t help the gasp that escapes. “fuck… oh god—”
“shit… my little wife’s dripping just for me,” he growls, pressing in slowly, giving you a moment to feel him stretch you, watch yourself in the mirror arching under him. “look at that… you like this, huh? gettin’ fucked right here so i can prove i don’t give a fuck about your stretch marks?”
he slaps your ass to emphasize his words making you whine and arch into the counter.
“toji… move— please—!”
he smirks against your shoulder, tilting his hips just enough, filling you inch by inch. “beggin’ for it now huh?” he cuts himself off with a groan. “god— ya feel like heaven…” he grips your jaw, forcing you to pry your eyes open. “see yourself, doll? look at how perfect you are f’me.”
you obey, watching the ruined woman in the mirror, eyes half lidded, “uh— uh-huh…”
toji starts a slow rhythm, hips rolling, pressing just right, dragging out every gasp and whine that leaves your lips.
your hands clutch the counter desperately. it’s too much.
“can’t even believe you hate these. they make ya so hot.” he brings his palm down to your ass again making you clench around him, the recoil echoing. “love this ass no matter how much you hate these stretch marks. gonna make you like them too.” he murmurs, squeezing to soothe it.
at his words, you squeeze around his cock. hard enough for his eyes to roll back.
you see it all. he tries to pretend it never happened, slapping your ass again, “say thank you.”
“h-huh?” another slap, your breath fogs the mirror, “ah—! mpfhh— th-thank you toji—”
he gives your ass a pat, admiring his work, “goood girl,” he drawls, rewarding you by ramming into you harder. “thank me for loving every inch of you.”
his hands move to your shoulders, gripping you so he can piston into your cunt.
“mghh— tojiii!” you moan, head dropping for only a second.
“tch. look at me.” he grunts, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking, forcing your glazed eyes to lock onto his smug expression through the mirror. “watch how pretty you look when you’re full of me. so dumb already aren’t ya?”
his thrusts turn relentless, each one stealing your breath as the mirror fogs with your moans and sweat.
“n-no! m’gonna cum!” your hands flail—the counter isn’t enough anymore. you need him.
he scoffs. “already?”
you grip his arms, “mmmh! y-yeah—”
toji pushes you forward until your hands are flat against the cold mirror, your chest pressed against the glass. you’re a wreck. he leans forward, his chest pressing against your back, a hot and heavy body pinning you in place, trapping you.
“then cum for me.”
you do.
but still, he doesn't let up—driving into you through every gush, every clench.
“that's it, ma,” he murmurs against your neck, breath ragged. “ya feel so good coming on my cock.” his hips snap harder, chasing his own edge. “gotta make you take more... gonna fill you up just like this...”
“nghh— toji! s’too much!”
he groans in your ear, the sound deep and rich. “no such thing, baby.” his hand moves up your body, gripping your throat and you watch him in the mirror. he twitches inside you and reaches his high right there, hips stuttering as he fills you deep. your second orgasm comes too, piggybacking off the first.
he keeps his face buried in your shoulder, breath hot on your skin. it's only when you shift under him that he speaks again.“still hate those stretch marks of yours?”
“no…” you pant heavily. “not anymore.”
he smirks. “good. now you can ride me in reverse so i can get a nice little view.”
suuper self indulgent (but when am i not?) this is basically a list of my insecurities lmaoo
on a more serious note, i hope this was comforting and relatable! and to everyone reading this—you’re gorgeous and perfect just the way you are <3
nanami hates working overtime because working overtime equals time away from you.
“tomorrow’s a holiday, if you work you can get paid time and a half.”
“no.”
“the boss requested your assistance on the extra project. you’ll get a nice bonus.”
“no.”
“you don’t mind staying late, right? you can clock in the extra hours it takes you to finish the report.”
“no.”
because no amount of extra compensation is worth it, not when you’re at home.
“I apologize, but my wife is expecting me for dinner.”
“oh c’mon, don’t you want an excuse to spend some time away from the ol’ ball and chain?”
giving his coworker and incredulous look, nanami is quick to reply, “I don’t know what your relationship is like, but I ask that you not project your shortcomings as an insecure husband onto me. my wife is waiting for me at home, and any second I’m not with her is a second wasted.”
family man | nanami kento
↳ things between you and kento have been casual the past couple of months, at least that’s what you think. he’s been crushing on you for a lot longer than that. he just adores everything about you. all of your little quirks, the way you smile, how you style your hair…it’s all a wondrous kind of beauty to him. problem is, you’ve been keeping a secret. not necessarily on purpose, but now that it’s coming to light, you’re sure it will be nanami’s deal-breaker, that he’ll have no choice but to break up with you. 7.4k words
a/n: hello hello!! thank you anon for this lovely idea :] I don't really know how to feel about it, it's not my favorite thing I've ever posted, but I'm proud of it nonetheless. I tried to make it angsty like you asked, but my man nanami is too pookie for that kind of behavior. warnings: infertility/talking about having children, cussing, mental health stuff, fem!reader. I hope this is what you were lookin' for anon, and thanks again for requesting!
it begins innocently. dinners that stretch long past closing time, candles burning down to nothing while you trace the rim of your glass and ask him what he wanted to be when he was ten. sleepovers that don’t end in sex, not always, but do end with your fingers curled against the inside of his wrist like you’re anchoring yourself there. like you’ve chosen him as your safe place, if only for the night.
he tells himself it’s casual. you say it like it’s obvious. casual, like the way you slip your shoes off by the door and tuck your legs under you on his couch. casual, like the shared toothbrush you pretend not to notice in his medicine cabinet. like the text you send after your first night staying over: thank you. I felt safe. safe. it echoes in his chest louder than it should.
you bring him warm bread on tuesdays. always from the same place, always still wrapped in wax paper, still warm when it hits his desk. he pretends he doesn’t notice the way your hand brushes his as you pass it to him. he pretends he doesn’t linger on the smell of it—of you—after you leave.
you remember things. things no one else ever does. the way he takes his coffee. the kind of tie clip he prefers. how he dislikes certain textures in food, but won’t say it outright. you remember, and more than that—you accommodate, without making a spectacle of it. just gentle kindness. just care. like it’s easy for you. like it’s instinct.
and he adores you for it. completely. wholly. it’s frightening, if he lets himself think too long about it. because he is falling. fast. and he cannot stop. more terrifying still, he doesn’t want to.
he thinks the first time he realizes he’s in trouble is on a wednesday afternoon. you’re sitting across from him at a coffee shop, the kind of tucked-away place he would’ve never found on his own. your hands are wrapped around a cup of something absurdly sweet, syrup lining the lid, a dollop of whipped cream sliding sideways, threatening a spill. he’s still mildly horrified you ordered it in front of the barista without shame.
you take a sip and immediately hum like it’s divine. “want to try it?” you ask, sliding the cup his way with a knowing smile. he declines, politely. you shrug. “your loss.” he watches you drink it with pink whipped cream on your nose, and he’s pretty sure his soul leaves his body.
he takes you on walks down along the waterfront, half because it gives him an excuse to spend time with you without distractions, and half because he likes the way the wind makes your nose pink and your hair messier than usual. you shiver even under your coat, but you never complain. never ask to turn back. you’re like that—endlessly game, endlessly bright. and he always walks just a little closer, always tempted to sweep you up and carry you the rest of the way home. not because you ask him to. because he wants to. because you’d let him.
the first time he does, you squeal in delight, burying your frozen face in his neck. “this is ridiculous,” you giggle. maybe it is, but he keeps walking. he doesn’t put you down until he’s set you in front of the heater in his apartment with a blanket and a steaming mug of chamomile.
god, his apartment. you never seem to want to leave it. and he never wants you to. it’s simple—neutral tones, clean lines, warm light. soft rugs underfoot, a record player in the corner he hardly ever uses until you put something on one night and danced barefoot in his kitchen. the walls smell like sandalwood and bergamot. like him, you say. and you breathe deeper when you step inside. there’s a throw blanket that’s permanently yours now. the first time he found it crumpled on his bed with your perfume still clinging to the fibers, he sat down and held it to his chest for an hour.
you are everything soft and strange. and he cannot get enough of you. you wear gowns to his formal jujutsu events—effortless and devastating, like you walked out of a painting and into his life. and the second you’re through his front door again, you toss your heels into the corner with a groan, flop onto his couch with your dress bunched around your thighs like royalty gone rogue. he offers you clothes. you always pick his ugliest pajama pants. plaid, red and black, cotton-worn and embarrassingly beloved. they swallow you whole, cinched tight with the drawstring, and yet somehow you make them look like high fashion. you always do.
you tell him they’re hot when he wears them. you call his biceps “biteable,” and once actually bit him mid-workout because you “couldn’t help it.” he’d blushed so hard he had to pretend he was suddenly exhausted and needed to stop. you just laughed and poked at his chest like you knew exactly what you were doing.
when he’s away—missions, business trips, one unfortunate week-long summit—you facetimed every night. it wasn’t something he ever asked for. he assumed you’d want space. assumed, foolishly, that your affection was casual, fleeting, like you said. but you answered every call, bundled up in his hoodie, hair messy, cheeks sleepy. you always had a tub of ice cream with you. “it’s fine,” you told him once. “this counts as dinner.” he frowns, but he memorized the flavor. wrote it down in the notes app on his phone along with a list of everything else you like. your favorite flowers, the perfume scents you like, the chapstick you buy.
and it all…it overwhelms him. because you are funny and vibrant and strange and shameless. you make him laugh out loud, which is something he didn't even realize he’d stopped doing. and you like him. really like him. he thinks. but you also call it casual, so he plays along. because the alternative—the possibility of losing you if he asks for too much—terrifies him more than silence ever did.
he hasn’t dated much. not like this. not anyone like you. before you, there were stilted dinners with ambitious businesswomen who wanted to compare portfolios. brief, forgettable flings with jujutsu sorcerers who talked about curses even during sex. there was never laughter. never whipped cream mustaches. never someone pressing their cold feet against his calves under the kotatsu and nuzzling into his chest.
he is terrified of how easy it is. how hard he’s falling. how none of it feels casual. he doesn’t know how to ask you what this is—what it could be. so instead, he folds another note into the pocket of your coat when you’re not looking. be safe. text me when you get home. you send him a selfie when you do, flashing a thumbs up with a big grin, and he saves the photo in a folder he visits on the rare occasions you don’t sleep at his apartment.
—
of course you like him. you must. you let him hold your hand, fingers woven like thread. you steal sips from his tea and grimace when it’s bitter. you wear his shirts to bed—always the same faded one with the loose neckline and a bleach stain at the hem, like it’s your favorite thing he owns. maybe it is. he wouldn’t know how to ask.
you press kisses to the back of his neck when you pass behind him in the kitchen. you text him on your lunch breaks. you beg him to take the little personality quizzes that float through your feed (“if I was a moth, what kind of lamp would I love most?”) and you call him on missions just to say goodnight.
he’s not imagining this. you like him. and yet—“he’s just so good to me,” you’re saying, in the distance, sitting with utahime and shoko. his students are warming up on the training field, practicing stance drills. gojo’s yelling about something in the background, but nanami hears your voice so clearly it’s as if the whole world falls quiet. “he’s so nice. I like him so much. I just hope he likes me as much as I like him.”
he stills. the sound of it—hopeful. uncertain. your voice, so soft. like you don’t know. like he hasn’t made it obvious. he’s disgusted with himself. furious. nauseated.
what more can he do? what hasn’t he offered you? you’re in every fold of his routine now, the gravity that orients his every plan. and still, somehow, you are unsure. tentative. wondering if he likes you. likes. as if that word could ever come close to what he feels for you. no, nanami doesn’t like you. he adores you. reveres you. he is obsessed with your every breath, every freckle, every sigh you release when you crawl into his lap and pretend you aren’t using him like a weighted blanket.
his hands tremble where they hang at his sides. he grips them into fists. he wants to walk over. wants to pull you away from shoko’s amused smirk and utahime’s knowing grin and push you against the side of the school’s old brick wall and tell you that you’re everything. that he’d marry you today, right now, if you let him. that you’ve already taken root inside his chest and every time you walk away he’s left scrambling to piece himself back together until you return.
but he doesn’t. of course he doesn’t. that’s not nanami; he’s not prone to the big gesture. instead he adjusts the cuff of his dress shirt, turns back to his students, and counts their stances like his blood isn’t burning beneath his skin. you hope he likes you. god, if only you knew.
—
he’s trying.he’s never tried like this before—not with the businessmen who introduced him to their high-powered daughters over stiff white-tablecloth dinners, not with the jujutsu sorcerers who flinched when he reached for their hand or laughed at the idea of a quiet life. but he’s trying now. because it’s you.
ever since that overheard confession—soft, tentative, delicate like glass he didn’t realize he was holding—he’s been desperate to prove it. not through grand speeches or some dramatic declaration (he’s never been one for performance), but in the little things. the small, deliberate choices. the love that blooms in the details.
he takes a personal day, for the first time in months. you both take the train to shimokitazawa, wandering bookshops and vintage stalls while you try on every oversized pair of sunglasses you find. he buys you a ring from a local vendor, nothing flashy—just a simple band with a tiny pearl. he doesn’t say what it means. he doesn’t have to.
you drag him to a matcha café, one of those absurd ones with neon signs and floating cloud decor, where everything comes shaped like a bear. you bounce on your heels with excitement as you order a matcha parfait, and because you look so happy, he orders one too. he takes one bite and regrets it immediately. it tastes like earth. bitter, grassy earth. but you’re smiling. so he takes another spoonful, and he nods when you ask, “isn’t it good?”
when you get home, you curl up on his couch and complain about your chipped manicure. he wordlessly disappears and returns with your polish bag, setting a towel across his lap and gesturing for your hands. the color you chose is a soft pink—subtle, warm, gentle. you tease him for concentrating so hard, and he only grumbles under his breath, a small crease between his brows as he perfects the edges. later, you’ll hold up your hands to the light and marvel at how clean the job is.
and through it all, sprawled across his lap like royalty, is cat. ceremoniously named kento jr. by you because of it’s soft, almost yellow fur. nanami simply calls him cat. nanami doesn’t like animals. they’re unpredictable, often messy, always shedding. but you showed up outside his apartment one afternoon with a kitten swaddled in your scarf, whispering “he followed me home,” and now cat lives here. cat purrs like an old engine, sleeps on his tax documents, and shredded one of his ferragamo oxfords. “cat, please remove yourself from the stovetop,” nanami sighs, gently lifting him away with a dish towel.
you just laugh and kiss his cheek. “he loves you.”
nanami’s not sure how he ended up with a clawed little gremlin in his apartment. but then again, he wasn’t sure how he ended up with you either. not sure what on earth he must’ve done in some past life to deserve even a fraction of you in this life.
he is completely, irreversibly in love with you. and god, he thinks you might be trying too. you set your alarm for 8:45, even though you’re the kind of person who thrives at 2am. you groggily crawl into bed beside him and wrap your arms around his waist, sighing into his chest. you pack him a lunch for work, slicing fruit, wrapping sandwiches with care. you even bought that odd oat milk he likes for his coffee and told him you’re “trying to acquire the taste.”
you’re always trying. meeting him halfway. offering him your time, your care, your thoughtfulness. but he sees it—the shift.
the way your smile falters when he holds your gaze too long. the way your laughter dips into something unsteady when he jokes about how cat will love having a little one in the house one day. how the idea of a family, of permanence, of building a life together—makes you shrink. retreat inward like a tide pulling back from the shore. and it kills him. because everything else is perfect.
but this—this love, this intensity, this truth in his heart that he can’t seem to temper—it seems to scare you. makes you look at him like he’s offering something too fragile, too heavy, too much. so he hides it. quiets the way his hands itch to hold you tighter. swallows the words burning the back of his throat every night he watches you fall asleep beside him. he’s trying not to drown in all of it. because he loves you. and if loving you quietly is the only way to keep you, then he’ll whisper his affection into the smallest spaces, again and again, until you believe it. until you let him stay.
—
it wasn't supposed to happen like this. nanami kento does not do impulsive. he is meticulous—every sock drawer, every budget spreadsheet, every vacation itinerary color-coded to match the mood of the trip. he is calm. calculating. the kind of man who triple-checks his grocery list before stepping into the store. so how—how in god’s name—did he let it slip?
the words taste like a wound the moment they leave him. not because they aren’t true—no, they’re so true they ache—but because they came uninvited, messy, chaotic, dropped into the air like a match over kindling.
and your face. your beautiful, expressive face. you turn to him on the steps of your little apartment, all golden light from the porch lamp spilling over your features. your lips part softly. your eyes widen. fingers twitch like you’ve been caught in the middle of a note you don’t know how to sing. he’s ruined it. he knows.
the night was already teetering on the edge of bittersweet. you’d told him earlier—softly, apologetically—that you’d need to be back at your place tonight. something about work. something about the morning. and he tried not to let his heart sink like an anchor in his chest. of course he understood. he always does.
you’d tucked yourself into his coat anyway, your frame swallowed by the warm fabric that still faintly smells like him—cedar and clove and the faintest trace of ink from the pen always clipped to the inside. he’d walked you home, matching your rhythm even though you kept stopping to point out interesting architecture, store signs, passing cats. you do that—wander through life like you’re tasting it, sampling it, delighting in every odd flavor.
and he loves you. god, he loves you. he’d been looking at you then, your cheeks flushed from the walk, lips moving a mile a minute about something he couldn’t even track anymore, too busy counting the ways your hands moved when you got excited, the way your lashes fluttered when you laughed. and suddenly the words weren’t in his head anymore—they were out there, between you.
"I love you."
he sees it happen in real-time. your body stills. your breath catches. your smile falters at the edges. and nanami panics. “I—I didn’t mean to pressure you,” he says quickly, too quickly, his hands rising in that calm-the-situation motion. “you don’t have to say anything. I know you weren’t expecting it, I just—I was trying to say that I've really enjoyed—”
but you stop him. not with a hand or a voice, but with a look. one he can’t quite name. something soft, and afraid, and reverent. "I love you, too.”
his world stills. but before he can breathe again, before he can even start to hope—you whisper it. broken. "I love you, too...but I don't know if I'm good for you." it knocks the wind from him.
you look at him like he’s divine. like he’s a monument to all things pure and steady. and you—you look ashamed, small, like loving you is something that should be hard. “you’re perfect, nanami. you’re thoughtful, and brilliant, and good to me. and I'm just…” you trail off, eyes glassy. “I'm just a mess. there are–there are things you don’t know about me. things I haven’t told you. I don't know how to do this the way you deserve. you should have someone funnier. someone better. someone who can give you what you want.”
someone who can give him what he wants. he’s never wanted to yell at a sentence before. scream at it. tear it into ribbons with his bare hands and cast it into the wind. but that one? that one skewers him. because what he wants—what he’s always wanted—is you. not a checklist of traits. not a curated resume of romantic compatibility. just you. with your chipped nail polish and your cracked phone screen and your way of flopping across his bed with a bag of chips and asking “so what did gojo do to piss you off today?”
he loves you, and he’s not ashamed of it. so he takes your hand, slowly, gently. as if you might run if he moves too fast. "I want you,” he says. quiet but firm. "I don’t care about perfect. I don't care if you’re a mess. I care about you.”
“I—thank you, nanami.” nanami? no, that’s kento to you. “I'll…I'll—we can talk about it more tomorrow.” talk about what? he wants to haul your ass back down the steps and talk about it now. give him what he wants? you’ve given him everything he could ever possibly want just with the mere presence of you in his life. but he lets your hand slip of out of his, chest cracking at the lingering look you give him before stepping inside.
he may have said it too soon, he may have jumped the gun. but still—that is not the reaction he’d been expecting. you’d said it back. you love him, too. so why does this hurt so badly? why does it feel like you just broke up with him? he sits down on the steps outside of your complex and replays every moment he can possibly think of that would’ve ever made you think you weren’t exactly what he wanted. it doesn’t help. it fixes nothing.
what on earth do you think you could tell him that would take away this ache; this gnawing, beautiful love that pervades his very being? there are things you don’t know about me. things I haven’t told you. and you continued not to tell him. you could’ve, right then and there. he’d have stood on this steps all night and listened to you tell him, and yet, you chose not to.
you hadn’t broken up with him, but the dynamic of your relationship had changed. and despite his most desperate efforts, you did not seem willing to let him fix it.
—
he spends the next few days in a kind of quiet agony. there are no words for it—not really. it’s not heartbreak, not yet. it’s the ache before the break, that slow pressure behind the ribs, like waiting for a wave to crest and not knowing if it will carry him gently to shore or drag him under.
you don’t disappear. not completely. you still text him goodnight. still send him a photo of the way your cat has somehow managed to crawl inside your hoodie again. still tell him, casually, sweetly, that your coffee tasted better when he makes it.
but he can feel it. that subtle shift. the quiet retreat. the way your sentences grow shorter. your replies more scattered. he knows people like you don’t mean to slip away. not deliberately. you don’t want to hurt him. you’re just scared. and he can’t blame you for that—not when he’s scared, too.
but god, he doesn’t know what to do. he’s never had to fight for something like this before. in his line of work, everything is practical. there’s a technique for every enemy, a strategy for every battle. but this? this is a war he doesn't know how to win without hurting you in the process.
so he gives you space. he doesn’t text first. doesn’t press. lets days pass where he imagines you curled up in your apartment, lights low, pretending it doesn’t hurt to not be near him. but he’s crumbling. because the truth is simple and terrible: he cannot lose you. he cannot.
so he tries the only thing he knows. not big gestures, not flowers or speeches. but the quiet language of effort, a language he’s fluent in. he drops off pastries at your office in the school, still warm. a book you mentioned once—once—three months ago, now wrapped in brown paper with your name in small, careful print. a single note, tucked beneath the ribbon: you said you liked stories with hopeful endings. he sends a photo of kento jr. in the windowsill, captioned only: he misses you. I do, too. he walks past your favorite boba shop and brings home your favorite flavor, sets it in his fridge, and never drinks it. just in case you come by. and all the while, he’s trying to understand.
“there are things you don’t know about me,” you’d whispered, voice trembling just slightly, not quite meeting his gaze. “things I haven’t told you.” and then silence. you never told him what. and god, it eats at him. gnaws at the base of his spine like a warning he can’t decipher. he wakes up breathless in the middle of the night, palm stretched toward the empty side of the bed, heart hammering like it knows. like it understands something he doesn’t. like you feel guilty. about something he can’t name. something he won’t be able to name until you let him in.
and what did you mean? someone who can provide what he wants. what did you think he wanted? perfection? structure? someone who could wrap their life in neat little boxes, a future on a clipboard?
no. he wants you. you, chaotic and wonderful. you, with mismatched socks and dreams that shift like the tide. you, who once said "I love you” like it hurt, like it burned your mouth to admit something so soft.
he doesn’t need a provider. he doesn’t need a flawless partner. he needs you, in whatever form you’re willing to give him. if all he gets is weekends and laughter and maybe a few stolen mornings in between, he’ll take it. if you can never say the words again, but still show up with coffee and curl up in his bed and whisper your thoughts into his chest, he’ll take that too. because he’s in love with you, fully, painfully, and beautifully. and he will not lose you without trying to tell you, in every way he knows, that you are already enough. you always have been.
—
you’re internally freaking the fuck out. full-body, bone-deep panic—like you’ve been flung from a moving train and left to crawl in the gravel. like there’s a hole in your chest no one else seems to notice, widening with every passing second. you want to be calm. composed. rational. but how can you, when you’ve seen this story play out before?
because this isn’t the first time. you’ve been here before—watched someone’s face change when you told them the truth. not right away. not always. but eventually, it always came.
that first boyfriend, the one who’d laughed too hard and kissed with teeth—he’d told you it wasn’t a dealbreaker, then stopped answering your texts three months later. the second had been kinder, in the way a storm is kind when it gives warning before it hits. he’d held your hands when you cried. said he understood. and then he left anyway. it’s not you, he’d said. I just always pictured kids. a family. you understand, right?
so you do. you understand perfectly now. this is the part where nanami realizes you’re broken. this is the part where he walks away, too. you don’t want to pull away from him. don’t want to shut him out. don’t want to feel your own body curl into itself like a dying star every time he mentions a future, or a home, or anything tender and terrifying.
you want him. desperately. deeply. you want to stay. but you can’t think of any other direction in which the story goes. you’re devastated. desolate. alone in a way you haven’t felt since long before you met him. before his laugh became your favorite sound. before his apartment started to smell like your shampoo. before his cat started crying at your door even when you weren’t there.
you try to talk to shoko about it. try to piece the words together in a way that doesn’t sound pathetic or pitiful or broken. she listens quietly, eyes soft behind her usual sarcasm. and then, in typical shoko fashion, she gives it to you straight: "you have to tell him."
you hate that answer. it’s not the one you wanted. you were hoping she’d tell you to run. to hide. to change the subject every time he brings it up until the fear stops chewing at your insides. but she doesn't. she just says, "he loves you. but he can't prove that if you won't let him see all of you." and maybe—maybe that’s what terrifies you most.
because you want to believe that this doesn’t define you. that you are more than the parts of you that don’t work the way they’re supposed to. more than the absence of something you were told should come naturally. more than your inability to give him what others can. but some days, that lie feels bigger than your body.
—
you open the door and he’s there. you didn’t know he’d come. weren’t sure if you wanted him to. weren’t sure if seeing him would make it easier or worse. but then there he is.
coat unbuttoned. shoulders tight. hands wrung together like he’d been trying to warm them against his own pulse. his gaze finds yours, and you know in that instant—he’s been worrying. unraveling. trying to reach you with little scraps of normal: texts about his book, a photo of his coffee, a blurry picture of the cat sitting in his briefcase. all attempts to touch you without pushing you. and you’d ignored them all. not because you don’t love him. but because you do. so much that it hurts. so much that it’s unbearable.
when he steps in, he closes the door behind him like it’s something gentle. something ceremonial. he doesn’t speak right away, just takes you in—your red-rimmed eyes, your oversized hoodie, the way your fingers tug the sleeves over your hands like a child hiding in plain sight.
then he pulls you into his arms. you let him. and it wrecks you. because he’s always so steady. he smells like bergamot and cedar, like clean laundry and the pages of whatever novel he keeps on his nightstand. his arms wrap around you like he was made to hold you, and you think: he deserves everything.
and that is precisely why you feel so ruined. so broken. so wrong. you swallow hard against the burn in your throat. keep your face tucked to his shoulder so he won’t see your tears, not fresh ones.
it’s been years. years since you got the diagnosis. since they used soft words and gentler voices and still managed to gut you clean open. since they told you—kindly, technically, permanently—that you’d never be able to have children. you don’t talk about it. not with most people. not with anyone, really.
you tried, once. with someone you loved. and he blinked and said, “oh.” and two weeks later, he started canceling plans. three weeks after that, he forgot your birthday. it happened again with someone else. different name, same silence. same empty goodbye. some of the relationships had been serious. some had been casual. the result was the same. it happened again and again until you learned. learned to shut your mouth. learned to make jokes about not being the “motherly type.” learned to make peace with a future you never asked for and didn’t want.
and then nanami came along, and it was just supposed to be dinner. just a few dates. just something light. but then he smiled at you like you were the punchline to the universe’s best-kept secret. held your hand like it was precious. built a quiet, sacred little life with you like he was laying bricks, one soft moment at a time. and now here you are. your chest against his, your breath hitching quietly while he strokes your back in slow, careful lines.
he’s everything. everything you want. and he doesn’t know. he doesn’t know what you can’t give him. doesn’t know what the future couldn’t hold. and worse—you know he wants it. the future. the house. the family. and you know you can’t be the one to give it to him. the thought alone makes you dizzy. nauseous. your stomach twists in on itself, a familiar kind of sick. the kind you’ve only ever felt in sterile clinics and cold bathrooms.
his hand comes up to cup your face. “hey,” he whispers, brow creased. “what’s wrong?” you want to tell him. you do. but the words catch like glass in your throat.
he lowers his face to your hair. breathes you in. and then, quiet—just for you, just between your temple and his lips: “whatever it is. whatever you’re carrying. it doesn’t scare me. I'm not going anywhere.” you tremble. just once. oh, you think, but you will.
finally, you cave and tell him right there in the doorway because it’s where you finally ran out of strength to keep lying by omission. the words come out of you in a tremble, like they’ve been waiting at the edge of your throat for months and now that they’re free, they don’t stop.
you try to make it sound calm, like it’s not a big deal. like it doesn’t matter. like you don’t matter. you tell him he doesn’t have to stay. that you’d understand. that it’s okay if he doesn’t love you anymore. because he was always clear. from the beginning. he wants a family. he talks about it like it’s holy—like he’s been building a future in the back of his mind since he first learned how to daydream. he deserves that. and you can’t give it to him.
and you hadn’t told him. until now. he doesn’t speak for a beat. or maybe two. maybe a hundred. you can’t tell. the silence is a living thing—wide and wet and crushing. you can’t look at him. you’re not even sure you can breathe.
you can feel it coming before it hits: the tears. the ugly kind. the sobs that crack open your ribs and scrape your spine and turn your voice into something broken and raw. it’s humiliating. it’s crushing. you curl in on yourself like your bones are ashamed of their own structure.
and then he’s holding you. arms around you, hands clutching, not tight but firm. like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold you steady. you don’t even register the way he shifts—lifting you effortlessly, carrying you to the bedroom. your legs draped over his arm, your face buried in his chest. his breathing is shallow, jaw clenched tight, but he doesn’t let go.
not when he lays you down. not when you curl against him like it’s instinct. not when your hands fist in the fabric of his dress shirt. you sob into him, and he takes it. absorbs it. one hand cards slowly through your hair. the other stays planted firm between your shoulder blades, as if keeping you from falling apart further.
you can’t speak. you can’t stop crying. and still, he says nothing. just shh. just a thumb brushing over your temple. just a soft, steady rhythm like a heartbeat saying I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. you don’t know how long it lasts. the tears dull eventually, worn out. your hiccuping breath evens into something closer to sleep, though your eyes stay shut tight—more out of shame than rest.
and nanami? he lays there in his slacks and wrinkled shirt, staring at the ceiling. arms locked around you. unmoving. he feels sick. not because of what you told him. but because of what it must have taken for you to tell him. how many nights had you laid awake beside him, wondering if you were enough? how many times had he mentioned the future, noticing how you flinched, and still didn’t say anything? what kind of man had he been, to make the woman he loves believe that this would ever change anything?
he presses a kiss to your hairline. closes his eyes against the heat building behind them. it will not change how he feels. not tonight. not tomorrow. not ever. he’ll tell you when you're ready to hear it. when your heart can bear it. but for now, he will hold you.
—
he wakes alone, which is strange. your side of the bed is empty. the blankets are rumpled but cooling, the soft dip where you’d been curled against him already rising in the absence of your weight. it’s early. he can tell by the light: pale and silvery and just barely brushing against the walls. he takes a moment. not to get up, not yet. just…to sit with it. your confession hums behind his ribs like a second heartbeat. steady. aching. unforgettable.
you’re in the kitchen. he can hear the soft clink of porcelain, the hush of your steps across the floor. and the domesticity of it punches the air from his lungs—because you’re here, because he still gets to have this, have you, even after everything.
he gets up eventually, shuffling toward the bathroom to splash cold water over his face. and then he looks up into the mirror. and there he is. tousled hair. wrinkled shirt. swollen eyes and a face carved too deep by worry.
but underneath it all? he looks so—loved. so in love it’s fucking humiliating. how could you ever think he’d walk away? he grips the edges of the sink and lowers his head, lets his thoughts come one at a time.
you think you’ve failed him. you think you’re broken. you think what you cannot give him will outweigh what you already do. every day. every moment. every time you smile at him like he hung the stars, or curl into him like he’s safe, or talk to him like he matters. he tries to imagine a future without you in it. he can’t. you’re already home. you’re already his.
he never said any of this out loud, not because it wasn’t true, but because he thought you knew. thought it was obvious. that his love was written in every action, every gentle moment. the matcha, the cat, the painted nails, the way he moved through life only slightly tilted now—always leaning toward you.
and now he realizes it wasn’t enough. not for this. not for the dark thing in your heart you’d been too afraid to name. not for the pain you’d been carrying alone, right beside him. and that—god, that kills him. he takes a breath. deep. calming. grounding. then another.
and he resolves, right then, that you’ll never have to feel that kind of alone again. he doesn’t know what he’ll say yet, not exactly. doesn’t want to startle you. doesn’t want to overpromise or speak too quickly or smother the tender wound between you. but he’ll say something. not to fix what was never broken—but to make sure you never question your worth in his life again.
you’re already bracing for it when he walks into the kitchen. arms crossed, jaw tight. like armor. like if you steel yourself hard enough, the blow won’t land as deep.
he just watches you for a moment. in his white button-down and rumpled slacks. eyes soft, sleep-warm. he looks like everything you want and everything you don’t deserve.
“you didn’t have to stay,” you say before he can speak. “you should’ve gone home.”
“this is home,” he says simply, and it shatters something inside you.
you laugh—mean, small, sharp. “don’t do that.”
“do what?”
“don’t act like this is still okay.” he doesn’t move. not toward you, not away from you. he knows enough about cornered animals not to reach too quickly. you swallow. look past him. “it’s not okay. I should've told you earlier. I should've said something before you got this involved. before I got this involved. and now—”
your voice cracks. you cover it with more bitterness. more bite. “now you have to figure out how to make a clean exit and I'm trying to make that easier for you.”
his brows furrow, but only slightly. like even confusion comes gently from him. “I'm not leaving you,” he says.
you scoff. “don’t say that.”
“I'm not.”
“kento,” you snap. “this isn’t some temporary thing. this isn’t a bad day or a bad week. this is forever. forever. I'm never going to wake up and be able to give you children. I'm never going to become someone who can give you what you want.” he’s already shaking his head. “don’t look at me like that,” you say, stepping back like the affection in his gaze is poison. “I'm not going to be your pity case. I'm not going to be some compromise you settle for out of obligation.”
“you’re not,” he says, calm. like he’s reciting scripture. “you’re the one thing I've never had to compromise on.”
you press your hands to your face. “why are you being so calm?”
“because I love you,” he says, stepping forward now, slow, deliberate. like trying not to spook you. “and because you’re scared. and because I know that if I so much as raise my voice, you’ll shut me out and convince yourself it was because of you.”
“you’re damn right I'm scared!” you hiss, and he’s in front of you now, close enough to touch, but he doesn’t. not yet.
you meet his eyes, angry and aching. "I can’t do the whole exes-who-still-text thing, kento. I can’t. if this ends—if you walk out—I can’t have you in my life in pieces. I'm not built that way. if you’re going to leave, just do it now.”
he exhales slowly. “I'm not going to leave,” he says again. like it’s the simplest thing in the world. and when you go to interrupt, to say something cutting or final or cruel-to-yourself, he hushes you. he cups your cheek, thumb brushing your skin like he’s memorizing it. “you think I want a future that doesn’t have you in it?” he whispers. “you think that not having children is some dealbreaker for me? you’re it. you’re the thing I want. the only thing.”
your eyes burn. your lips tremble. "I would bear every sorrow you carry, for the rest of our lives, if it meant I could wake up next to you,” he says. “and I'd never regret a second of it.” you try to look away. he doesn't let you.
“you’re not a burden. you’re my everything.” and when you start crying again, shoulders shaking, he finally wraps his arms around you. like the safest, warmest place on earth. he swallows, pain tightening his jaw. “it hurts. not because it’s hard for me. but because it means someone made you feel like you were unworthy of love because of it. and I'd like to kill them for that.”
you snort, even though it sounds half like a sob. “but then,” he says, softer now, brushing a hand over your arm, "I might never have found you. and you’re all I want.”
you shake your head, whispering, “you don’t know what you’re signing up for.”
“maybe not,” he admits. “but I know it comes with you. so I don't care.” your lip quivers. he holds your gaze. he can’t pretend that this is fixed, that you all of a sudden feel differently than you did before. but he is sure that he’s not going anywhere. he’ll wait as long as he has to for you to figure that out as well.
—
he doesn’t leave. you wait for him to. expect it in the small silences, the shifts in routine, the pauses in conversation where your anxiety gnaws at you like an old, familiar ache. but nanami doesn’t budge. he shows up. every single time.
you tell him you’re still afraid. sometimes out loud. sometimes just with the way your eyes linger too long on his, like you’re watching a sunset you’re sure will end too soon. and he answers with tea brought to bed. with a new toothbrush waiting for you in his bathroom drawer. with the way he never lets you wash the dishes alone.
it isn’t dramatic. it isn’t sweeping. it’s something better. steadier. it’s him pressing a kiss to your temple while you fold laundry together in the late afternoon. it’s the sound of his socks padding across your apartment floor as he carries two mismatched mugs—yours floral, his plain ceramic—and offers you the one with slightly more sugar, because you always take your coffee a little too sweet.
it’s brushing crumbs off your sweater after breakfast. it’s wiping toothpaste off your cheek. it’s silent glances across a grocery store aisle. it’s you realizing—slowly, carefully, achingly—that he means it. all of it. he chooses you, wholly and without expectation. not in spite of the parts of you that you’ve tried to hide, but with them. because of them.
he still talks about family sometimes. but now, it sounds different. family, for him, is no longer defined by children or legacy. it’s defined by warmth. by consistency. by mornings like this. by you.
people ask, sometimes. they ask at parties, at weddings, in checkout lines. older women with kind eyes and too many opinions. Coworkers with harmless smiles. even family, every now and then, with a tilt of the head and a hopeful sort of tone. “so, when are the kids coming?”
nanami handles it the way he handles most things—with grace sharpened at the edges. sometimes it’s a polite smile that never touches his eyes. other times, it’s a look—quiet but cutting—that makes them change the subject fast. and when he’s feeling especially tired of it, he pulls them aside, voice low and firm, and says something you’ll never hear. you’ll only notice how he looks at you afterward. like you’re the whole of his world. like they should know better than to ask for more. because he doesn't need more. his family is already complete.
pt. 3 to a collection of my favorite zoro x reader stories. (pt. 1 & 2 here)
disclaimer: none of the fics are my own works. all writers will be credited. please read all warnings provided by the writers in their respective stories.
scenarios
**other one piece characters are included in these fics**
comforting them after a nightmare brings back memories of their trauma by @strawberrychansora (sfw, hurt/comfort, fluff)
dark times by @clare-875 (sfw, hurt/comfort, fluff)
hands that matter by @inseobts (sfw, hurt/comfort, fluff)
hey daddy by @skyefiles (sfw, fluff)
how do one piece men act before they realize they like you - and when they do by @lyvhhx (sfw, fluff)
how they love you by @imasimpforshanks (sfw, fluff)
irrational fears by clare-875 (sfw, hurt/comfort, fluff)
opposites attract by @donvampiro (sfw, fluff)
placement by @rusty-noodle (sfw, fluff)
show me your desire by @alwayssassydreamer (sfw, fluff, little bit of angst/comfort)
skin to skin by @traflawgar (sfw, light angst/comfort, fluff)
tiny but lethal by @avocadorablepirate (sfw, fluff)
what they do when bored on long voyages at sea by @charukii (sfw, fluff)
you’re…me? by @xoxozoro (sfw, fluff)
you around kids by inseobts (sfw, fluff)
you speak his native language to him by @jazzthatonewriterchick (nsfw)
zoro and law, soft moments with s/o by @myonepiece (sfw, fluff)
stand-alone fics
all i could’ve asked for by @sundew199 (nsfw, fluff)
bento battles by @arixella (sfw, fluff)
dreams by sundew199 (sfw, angst/no comfort)
face masks by @shotosjupiter (sfw, fluff)
indisposed by @1-800-zoro (sfw, fluff)
“i wouldn’t be here if i didn’t care” by @eustasssimp sfw, fluff)
jealous? by @lauvsamara (sfw, light hurt/comfort, fluff)
like alcohol vapers by @thus-spoke-lo (sfw, angst/no comfort)
love yours by @backwzzds (nsfw)
mean-mugging by @indydonuts (sfw, fluff)
mirror sex with zoro by @possiblyreallyme (nsfw, fluff)
nap with zoro by @fanaticsnail (sfw, fluff)
new perspectives by @nanasplushy (sfw, fluff)
night air by @djarinova (sfw, fluff)
one night of peace by @custom-fic-studio (nsfw, fluff)
pretty scars by @shy-writer-999 (sfw, fluff)
raindrops by @sleepymarimo (sfw, fluff)
reuniting with zoro in sabaody by @deartokki (nsfw-ish, fluff)
silent by @kuriri9 (sfw, angst/no comfort)
soft by @vikdelrey (nsfw)
soft zoro and praise by @ttojisdoll (nsfw)
something stupid by @scvrgrl (sfw, fluff, light angst/comfort)
steady hands by @yeariess (sfw, fluff)
tears of a warrior by @zosin-ya (sfw, hurt/comfort, fluff)
this better for you? by sundew199 (nsfw)
to have and not to hold by @rollercoasterdeal (sfw, angst/no comfort)
warrior’s executioner by @godjo (nsfw)
wherever you are by @zorosdimples (sfw)
series
**some series are complete**
in the fine print by @zoro-sremedy (nsfw)
soft terror (pt. 1) and sweet idiot (pt. 2) by @youremyonepiece (sfw, fluff, light angst/comfort)
vulture by @loverrin (sfw, fluff)
text/smau
period problems by @luvbazkrekker (sfw, fluff)
updated 06.08.2026
writers: if you would like your fic and/or name removed from this collection, please message me. i will update the list at your request
pt. 3 to a collection of my favorite zoro x reader stories. (pt. 1 & 2 here)
disclaimer: none of the fics are my own works. all writers will be credited. please read all warnings provided by the writers in their respective stories.
scenarios
**other one piece characters are included in these fics**
comforting them after a nightmare brings back memories of their trauma by @strawberrychansora (sfw, hurt/comfort, fluff)
dark times by @clare-875 (sfw, hurt/comfort, fluff)
hands that matter by @inseobts (sfw, hurt/comfort, fluff)
hey daddy by @skyefiles (sfw, fluff)
how do one piece men act before they realize they like you - and when they do by @lyvhhx (sfw, fluff)
how they love you by @imasimpforshanks (sfw, fluff)
irrational fears by clare-875 (sfw, hurt/comfort, fluff)
opposites attract by @donvampiro (sfw, fluff)
placement by @rusty-noodle (sfw, fluff)
show me your desire by @alwayssassydreamer (sfw, fluff, little bit of angst/comfort)
skin to skin by @traflawgar (sfw, light angst/comfort, fluff)
tiny but lethal by @avocadorablepirate (sfw, fluff)
what they do when bored on long voyages at sea by @charukii (sfw, fluff)
you’re…me? by @xoxozoro (sfw, fluff)
you around kids by inseobts (sfw, fluff)
you speak his native language to him by @jazzthatonewriterchick (nsfw)
zoro and law, soft moments with s/o by @myonepiece (sfw, fluff)
stand-alone fics
all i could’ve asked for by @sundew199 (nsfw, fluff)
bento battles by @arixella (sfw, fluff)
dreams by sundew199 (sfw, angst/no comfort)
face masks by @shotosjupiter (sfw, fluff)
indisposed by @1-800-zoro (sfw, fluff)
“i wouldn’t be here if i didn’t care” by @eustasssimp sfw, fluff)
jealous? by @lauvsamara (sfw, light hurt/comfort, fluff)
like alcohol vapers by @thus-spoke-lo (sfw, angst/no comfort)
love yours by @backwzzds (nsfw)
mean-mugging by @indydonuts (sfw, fluff)
mirror sex with zoro by @possiblyreallyme (nsfw, fluff)
nap with zoro by @fanaticsnail (sfw, fluff)
new perspectives by @nanasplushy (sfw, fluff)
night air by @djarinova (sfw, fluff)
one night of peace by @custom-fic-studio (nsfw, fluff)
pretty scars by @shy-writer-999 (sfw, fluff)
raindrops by @sleepymarimo (sfw, fluff)
reuniting with zoro in sabaody by @deartokki (nsfw-ish, fluff)
silent by @kuriri9 (sfw, angst/no comfort)
soft by @vikdelrey (nsfw)
soft zoro and praise by @ttojisdoll (nsfw)
something stupid by @scvrgrl (sfw, fluff, light angst/comfort)
steady hands by @yeariess (sfw, fluff)
tears of a warrior by @zosin-ya (sfw, hurt/comfort, fluff)
this better for you? by sundew199 (nsfw)
to have and not to hold by @rollercoasterdeal (sfw, angst/no comfort)
warrior’s executioner by @godjo (nsfw)
wherever you are by @zorosdimples (sfw)
series
**some series are complete**
in the fine print by @zoro-sremedy (nsfw)
soft terror (pt. 1) and sweet idiot (pt. 2) by @youremyonepiece (sfw, fluff, light angst/comfort)
vulture by @loverrin (sfw, fluff)
text/smau
period problems by @luvbazkrekker (sfw, fluff)
updated 06.08.2026
writers: if you would like your fic and/or name removed from this collection, please message me. i will update the list at your request
