if art can be touched, will you let me hold you? | nanami kento
wc: 7.2k
summary: you press love into each piece of art you create, and nanami wonders if you’ve ever been loved that way.
contains: f!reader, non-curse!au, ceramic artist!reader, pov switching, slowburn, reader wears a skirt, food mentions, bad breakup (mentioned), mentions of art critiques, almost explicit sex, it’s love without words.
a/n: a concept and fic i didn’t expect would be so dear to me; there are some very small personal touches in this but the main inspiration for this is ‘we’ve been loving in silence’, but some bgm are ‘can’t take my eyes off you’, and ‘make you feel my love’.
ao3 (needs account)
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request
prompt: showing ‘i love you’ in all the ways you aren’t used to
CLAY.
Take your material of choice; turn it over, get a feel of it. Is it a suitable medium for your art?
You first meet Nanami in the halls of an echoing applause.
The host’s spiel is muffled through the walls, but you know the program flow like the back of your hand—you’ve rehearsed your entrance every single day since being invited to announce your upcoming exhibit. In just a few minutes, your name will be called.
Yellow cue cards slip through your fingers, scattering to the floor as a result of the haste from your last minute touch-up just moments before.
“Shit,” you curse under your breath, checking the time.
As you crouch low, a pair of brown Derby shoes land in front of you—long and thick fingers reaching for your cue cards on the floor. The time on his wrist matches yours, each second highlighted in the stark contrast of a dark face and silver exterior.
You’re quick to receive his help, taking the cards into your hands as you lightly graze his fingertips. When you look up, you’re met with sharp lines—an angular jaw, eyebrows set straight; a pointed nose and his cheeks carving out hollow shadows.
A geometric study on blank canvas.
It’s embarrassing, the way you fluster and bow, thanking him with a stutter as you’re brought back to the urgency of the matter by the sound of your name being called out.
The rush to the conference hall has you breathing heavily, the nerves hitting you full force as you step up the stage, nearly tripping at the last step. Hues of blue, yellow, purple, and green lights glare at you, and when the host hands you the microphone, you chuckle nervously, clearing your throat before addressing everyone in the room to thank them for coming this afternoon.
Your exhibit is called ‘What is the Face of an (Un)Touched Soul?’—a collection of ceramic sculptures molded to the realism of a human face, with the soul imagined as varying patterns and colors that fit each featured individual.
It’s been half a year since you started, with three out of six sculptures completed already. Two are in-progress, and you have yet to find a subject for one more; there are six more months for you to complete everything.
The audience sounds their applause, sophisticated claps and nods a familiar tune in the many years of your sculpting career. Critics in the room jot down their thoughts, reporters holding up microphones and recording devices to cover your announcement.
You smile wide, the rehearsed kind.
And at the end of your presentation, stepping down the stage, you spot him again.
You think to approach him in that moment, to thank him properly instead of the fumbling mess you’d choked out in the hallway—but you’re pulled towards a crowd of reporters and critics, recording devices pushed just below your chin as you watch him disappear into a sea of faces not nearly as interesting as his.
.
You meet Nanami again in the bustling morning rush at the bakery near your studio.
The past few weeks have been head-down and tedious, late nights working on painting some of the last few pieces for your exhibit. One of them is of your niece, 5-years-old in mint and white innocence; your brushstrokes are featherlight, softly accentuated by sponge dabs—a slate barely filled in, with room for more colors to appear with time.
Another is of your neighbor, an old man whose eyes have seen war beyond your comprehension—a retired soldier, a veteran of the military force. He plants primroses by his windowsill, the pastel yellow a stark contrast to the life he’s lived in red; neither of the colors cancel each other out, neither of them blend. You drag harsh strokes against his jawbone while smoothly gliding watercolor across his eyelids.
The people in your sculptures have sparked an untapped curiosity within you—for stories, for lives, for souls and what those might look like.
You bump into Nanami on his way out, the sandwich in his hand falling to the ground as you frantically attempt to pick it up.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” you turn over the sandwich, checking for any holes or openings in its packaging, “Let me–”
It only registers that it’s him when you notice the same brown Derby shoes, the same watch with that dark face and silver exterior, the same geometric perfection on his face when you look up and finally come eye-to-eye with that same fixed stare.
You clear your throat. Well, this is embarrassing.
“Let me buy you another sandwich.”
He doesn’t exactly look angry, expression set in straight lines, but you can’t tell for sure—there isn’t much you can go by.
“There’s no need,” he dusts off the wrapper, “it’s still sealed.”
“Please, I insist,” you pat down your skirt, linen rough on your fingertips, “As a thank you too, for last time.”
He arches a brow, and for a moment you worry that you’ve remembered him wrong—honey blonde hair and features you’ve been intrigued by since.
“You insist.” he repeats, clarifying more than questioning.
You nod.
He sighs, checking his watch before pocketing his sandwich and turning back to open the bakery doors.
The silence in line to the counter is awkward. Nanami remains impassive, hand tucked inside his pocket—you can’t read a single thing about him.
“I was meaning to thank you after the exhibit announcement,” you start, turning slightly to face him before looking ahead again.
He hums.
“But I couldn’t find you, so…”
He hums again.
The lack of response makes you nervous and quite honestly a bit irritated. Here you are, trying to be nice, and all you’re met with are dry—
“It’s no problem, but that’s thoughtful of you, thank you.” he finally says, “I didn’t expect you to remember.”
A pause.
“I’m sure you meet a lot of faces in your line of work.” he further clarifies, in case his earlier remark had offended you.
You snort, “I wish.”
The line moves forward.
“Ceramic faces, maybe. People not so much.”
When you glance at Nanami, the look he returns is still characteristically inscrutable, but you think the corners of his eyes soften just a bit—to feel for you maybe, you hope, you think.
The line moves quickly after that, and next thing you know it, you’re by the cashier, pointing at one sandwich for you and another for him. You buy him a cup of coffee too, just as an extra kind gesture (—for his time; you’re sure he has places to be and people to see), but he stops you.
“Coffee’s on me.” he pulls out his card.
“Oh,” you look up, surprised, “you don’t have to do that—”
“It’s only fair,” he nods as the cashier punches in the order, “now we’re even.”
You attempt to rebut, but find no room for argument in the unbending weight of his gaze.
An interesting man.
You watch him stand by the claiming booth, hand in the pocket of his khaki suit. Nothing about him feels cohesive, yet he makes it work. Artistically, from a sculpting standpoint, the sharp lines on his face would be an interesting challenge—but beautiful, nonetheless. A study of near-perfection, you think.
And it would seem obvious, that from the rigid cut of his jaw and the sharp edges of his cheekbones that he’d act just as pointed.
Except, he doesn’t—a stark contrast to how much of a gentleman he seems to be.
His blue shirt stands out when you’d assume he prefers subtlety, and it’s ridiculous, but that yellow cow print tie feels simultaneously out of place but so fitting.
He walks toward you with your coffee, sandwich resting on his forearm.
“Thank you, Mr.—” you smile sheepishly, “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name.”
“Nanami Kento.” the corners of his lips lift slightly.
“Mr. Nanami,” you repeat, introducing yourself right after.
“Thank you as well.” he adds on as you both walk towards the doors.
Something tells you this is a missed opportunity. Something tells you there’s more to learn about this interesting man and what lies beneath his straight-faced sincerity.
The chatter from the bakery is replaced by the city’s breaths—cars passing, dogs barking, footsteps on pavement rushing to get to their next destination. And you and Nanami stand by the entrance, neither knowing how to say bye.
“Do you come to this–”
“My studio is just by the corner, so–”
You quickly look at each other. Nanami bows his head slightly, hand gesturing for you to go first.
“Sorry, um,” you tuck your sandwich in the crook of your elbow, “yes, I come here pretty often. My studio is just around the corner, so I drop by for quick meals when I can. You?”
“It’s on the way to work most days.”
You nod, humming.
Another awkward pause.
“I hope you–”
“I should get–”
You look at each other again, a bit more amused this time. The slight wrinkling of his eyes is impossible to hide.
He gestures for you to go first again, but you shake your head, offering him instead.
“I hope the pieces for your exhibit are going well.”
“Thank you,” you smile, bowing your head slightly.
That ‘something’ in your brain speaks to you again.
“Actually,” you begin, “sorry if this is weird, please feel free to decline, but,” you shift your weight, “I have one last piece to do and I was wondering if I could ask you.”
Nanami looks taken aback for a moment, eyes wider than normal as he processes what you’d just said.
“Ask me… for an opinion?” he clarifies.
You mentally facepalm yourself—you really should have made yourself clearer.
“Sorry, no, I meant,” you take a deep breath, fingers fiddling with your skirt, “if you’d like to be the subject for it.”
The expression on his face is as indecipherable as ever.
.
.
.
MOLD.
Be familiar with your art, learn more of its intricacies. What will you shape it to be?
In the most unexpected play of events, Nanami says yes, but not without his hesitations.
You explain your process: the selection of a subject, an interview to get to know them better, then a few meetings at the studio to create the mold of facial features before coating it in plaster.
Never in his entire law career did Nanami ever think he would be into art, much more be chosen to be the subject for it. But he figures, if anyone were to get him to do things so wholly out of character like this, it would be you.
After all, he’s been a fan of your works for a while—from your third exhibit up to your seventh one now.
People love paintings and the strokes on canvas, admiring textures and blends of colors bleeding into one another; Nanami loves sculptures, a mixture of materials and techniques forming an object with more than one viewing plane.
“Have you always loved sculpting?” he asks, sitting still on the wooden stool in your studio.
A few meetings have gone by by now, and he’s told you a few things about himself for this to be a comfortable enough way to spend his Friday night: he’s a lawyer in a firm he’s co-founded with a good friend, evenings being the only free time in his schedule; he lives alone in a two-bedroom apartment and his neighbor’s cat often lands on his balcony every morning; he likes coffee and tea, paperback books and music from the 30’s and 60’s.
He chose to be a lawyer to correct the shitty system that’s vowed to help but has instead made it difficult for anyone genuinely trying to be good.
“I started with paper craft first,” you mold out the slope of his nose, looking back and forth between him and the mass of clay on your desk, “you know that 3D looking paper art that kinda pops out of the page?”
He hums instead, careful of any slight movement that may disrupt the pose you’re trying to replicate.
“And this?”
Your metal scraper drags on the sides of the sculpture’s nose, sharpening it as it narrows to the bridge.
“I picked it up in college, was an outlet to keep me company during that time.”
The PR answer.
Nanami knows most of your general story; pamphlets and exhibits always give a run-down of the artists’ individual histories. You’d started sculpting as soon as you entered college, a need for company while in a completely unfamiliar place with no more home to return to. It was all or nothing, and as the sculptures grew in number, so did your popularity—you are by no means a fresh name to the scene 10 years later.
“Why do you love it?” he looks you in the eye.
You pause, holding his gaze for a few seconds before looking away, focusing on the chunk of wet clay between your fingertips as it turns more pliable.
“It’s gotten me through a lot.” you sigh, attaching the piece of clay to form his lips, “Touching clay feels therapeutic sometimes, and you can tell from how it looks if it’s been molded with love.”
The stillness in your studio is extra quiet, filled only with the faint sounds of your fingertips sticking onto clay; he doesn’t quite know what to say.
“Sorry, that was cheesy.” you scrunch your nose and pout.
He chuckles, a low laugh, “Not at all.”
You lock eyes, the curve of your lips upturned. He feels his eyes soften around its edges.
It makes sense, and he thinks he can understand; there must be a reason why he loves books with creased spines, why he prefers weathered pages—why the scratches on his vinyl records don’t bother him as much as it should.
.
You both like your coffee without milk, just with a bit of sugar for yours.
Nanami’s taken up baking, specifically breadmaking, in his spare time—he brings you sourdough the next Friday you meet.
Your studio is an organized mess, scraps of clay decorating the otherwise bare and white space. To the left of the room is a large cork board filled with pinned sketches and some color swatches—a visual representation of the creative chaos in your mind.
A whiteboard to its right holds your schedule, and everywhere across the room are your art pieces—on shelves, in glass cases. He assumes most of them are the versions that didn’t make it, considering that the ones that have are either auctioned off or left as collector’s pieces in exhibits and art museums.
“That’s the first one I ever made.” you sneak up behind him, biting off the sandwich you hastily put together.
The sculpture is smaller than the busts you’ve made for your current exhibit, but it still occupies a third of your shelf. It’s unlike any of the works you’ve ever done, but he supposes it makes sense, given how much your style has probably evolved over time.
The piece is a lot simpler in comparison to the edgy twists most of your works now contain, but the little girl fast asleep in the sculpture begs questions he’s not sure how to ask you—if he even should.
He continues to stare, clearing his throat; you eye him knowingly and snort.
“Just ask, I know you want to.”
The texture of the carved blanket catches his eyes, the ripples and creases made to conform to the girl’s curled up figure. There’s a sadness underlying her comfort, a search for security while being wrapped in a bundle of safety.
“Who is it?” he asks.
You pause before you answer; he’s worried he’s crossed a line.
“Me.” you admit, a near-whisper.
He hums, back still faced towards you. It explains, then, why he’s always felt an underlying sadness beneath the creases of your smiles.
When he turns his face to the side, an attempt to catch your eyes, you look away, diverting.
“Which one introduced you to me?” you gesture towards the rest of your pieces.
As it’s come to be, Nanami’s learned that you’re good at that too—creating curves of deflections, pockets where you can hide when you feel something’s gotten too close.
He plays along, turning around to view the expanse of your studio; it’s amazing, how the art pieces that stack shelf upon shelf all boil down to your hard work. You briefly mentioned that you haven’t taken a break from creating because you still don’t believe you deserve it.
“It’s not here,” he puts his hands in his pockets, “the one with the hand clutching a heart.”
‘Unhand’—his favorite piece of yours; he’d seen it in one of the museums he had to visit for one of his clients. Hyperrealistic branches of veins and arteries running across an anatomical heart, every curve and indent a carefully placed texture to bring your piece to life. It comes clenched in a hand, the veins streaming across each finger while blending into those of the heart’s—at first glance, it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other starts.
It’s a different view from each angle—that’s why he likes it so much, along with the graphic nature of it. The pain feels vivid, real.
“Ah,” you run your fingers across your work table, fiddling with the small pieces of clay before taking a seat again, “that one.”
Nanami follows but he doesn’t say anything, resuming his place in front of you in the usual way he’s done the past few weeks.
“I didn’t think I was the type to be moved by art.” he confesses, sitting still as you continue the final work on the clay wisps of his hair.
You encourage him to go on, nodding along.
And he does, watching the way your steady hand forms features that look uncannily like him, if not better; strands of your hair always fall from behind your ears and he’s almost tempted to tuck it back to where it came from.
He tells you of the pain he feels from that piece, how it presents itself in different ways depending on the area you focus on—the constricted blood vessels, the buildup of pressure from a vein blocked by a thumb, the strain of muscles at the back of the hand.
A small smile makes its way onto your face, slightly sad but somehow relieved, “Didn’t expect you to be such a poet.”
“Must be from being around you so often,” he responds.
And if it’s a trick of the light, a part of him sinks at that possibility—he thinks your smile stretches wider, suppressed only by the shyness trying to hide it; no pain whatsoever.
Unexpectedly, you share with him the story. Not the filtered version, but the one just as raw and vivid as the sculpture made from it—a failed relationship that had you clinging onto sculpting as your lifeline. You spare him some of the gruesome details but hint at it enough that he can fill in the gaps on his own.
You tell him that you’re a people pleaser, you’ve learned—it’s the only way you can view that relationship with grace, that at least you understand yourself better because of it. That even when the grip on your heart wrung tight enough for each beat to hurt, you still clung on with all your worth.
(Now you know you shouldn’t have.)
People have come to you with stories of their own, sharing how much your art means to them. Critics write articles, both good and bad, detailing the technicalities of your work. The applause follows you everywhere you go, yet it has never touched you—has never gotten too close.
If your art has touched others, has listened and spoken their truth in your handiwork, who does that for you?
.
During one of the last few Friday meetings, you offer to teach him how to mold clay.
He looks at you curiously, watching the way your fingertips pinch and squeeze, how they glide to smoothen the material and press down to create indents on the surface.
“Do you want to try?” you ask, gaze still set on his sculpture in front of you. There’s a teasing edge to your tone, one that’s developed over the months of getting to know you more.
“Would that be troublesome?”
You laugh at his rigidness.
“Of course not.” you push your piece aside, standing up to gather clay from the mound of it to your right. You lay down a wooden platform for him–his own little workspace–and slam a chunk of clay atop it, “I think you might be good at it actually, since you like making bread.”
The movements are familiar but not entirely the same. He rolls up his sleeves, blue cotton pinching at the creases of his elbows; you hand him an apron to protect the rest of his clothing. There’s not much kneading involved, not much palm action too, but he learns to move his fingertips with a force he can only compare to creating little dimples into focaccia dough.
You teach him how to make a bread basket—something practical but beginner-friendly; something he can use and keep as a reminder of you.
The trickiest part of it is mimicking the rattan weavings, and you notice him struggling with it when his strips of clay begin to break.
A screech fills the room as you push back your chair, standing up to go behind him as he attempts to salvage his work.
“Here, let me–” you reach over his shoulders, flattening some of the cracks from above him.
You’ve never been this close before, the thin strands of hair dusting your arms tickling the sides of his ears. These past few months, he’s watched your hands press and pull and form, turning each detail of his face into art. It’s only now, right next to his larger and rougher ones that he’s noticing just how small and delicate yours are.
It’s dainty work, weaving and braiding. He attempts to do it again, but the clay only falls apart when he pulls too hard.
You stifle a giggle, the vibrations tickling his back, “We might take a while here.”
“I don’t mind.” he mumbles.
“You sure you don’t have anywhere else you’d rather be?” you lean forward, pressing closer until he feels your warmth against the back of his head, “I feel bad, I’ve been taking up most of your Friday nights already.”
It shouldn’t mean anything; he shouldn’t feel anything—you seem to be unfazed; art is meant to be taught by doing.
But then your hands go over his, guiding them to lift each strand of clay gently before interweaving them with one another, and he thinks—
—this must be what it feels to be touched by art.
So, no.
There’s no other place he’d rather be.
.
.
.
DRY.
Give it time, let it settle. Watch your art come into form. Is this a good foundation?
“Will you be free next weekend?”
His question surprises you as you stand in line at the bakery. You tend to catch each other at just the right times almost everyday, saving a spot for whoever’s running a little late.
Today, it’s you, rushing in slightly frazzled with your hair sticking out which way; you’d just finished up molding the sculpture late last night, letting it rest out to dry. Nanami’s head is turned towards you, hands in his pockets as he directs the same pointed gaze you’ve become all too accustomed to.
You must have forgotten to mention it.
“Oh,” you turn to him, “there’s no need, our sessions are over.”
His silence makes you nervous, just like it did the first (second) time you met.
Did you upset him? Did he already cancel plans to free up time for your studio?
The entire trip to the cashier is quiet, but you find that he’s ordered ahead for you—your sandwich order and a cup of your usual coffee. He pays for it too, despite your refusal (and confusion).
It’s when he hands over your drink by the corner of the room that he finally speaks.
“Not for a session.”
You tilt your head curiously.
The coffee feels warm on your hand, and you think you see the same warmth at the tips of his ears, dusting it light pink. He coughs, fingers clenching around his tie before loosening it.
“For a date.”
.
You begin to take up his weekends now, too.
Since that day at the bakery, when you’d nearly dropped your coffee before stuttering out your availability, you’ve already gone on seven dates (to you, at least; Nanami would officially count three).
He insists on still visiting you every Friday, bringing you dinner as a reminder that you should eat on time and not the moment you’re keeling over from a rumbling stomach and a pounding headache. You count these as dates too—because what else do you call spending time with someone you like while having night-long conversations over good food?
(Nanami creates a distinction though, prefers his dates to be more planned out and intended. On the three official dates you’ve gone on, he’s brought you to three different locations—a weekend market, a picnic by a lake after you’d mentioned something about it, and a vintage record shop on the outskirts of the city, a place he frequents often).
The near-perfection you once thought of the man, a geometric study on canvas—he’s still every bit of it, still every bit as interesting as what he seemed, just in a completely different way.
For a man typically so nonchalant, he is extremely particular about his tastes, borderline picky with trusted company.
Nanami enjoys coffee (as expected), but the fermented filter kind, dripped down a V60 pour over to extract different notes of sweetness and acidity. You’d think he enjoys a straight black, face stoic enough to handle its bitter bite; but no, his jaw clenches when he dislikes the taste, his tongue sounding the faintest click against the roof of his mouth before he downs the entire thing in one gulp.
He also happens to be extremely gentle, in a way you don’t expect from a man of his stature and build. Veins run through the back of his large hands, branching to webs around the thickness of his fingers; they may not be delicate enough to weave clay, but he carves out different patterns on the sourdough he presents to you every Friday.
The first time he held your hand, it wasn’t exactly planned—an instinctive move to reach out his palm as you climbed the steps of the spiral staircase in the record store out of town. You’d barely felt it then, just the featherlight hold of his thumb pressed against your knuckles as you gripped the fabric of your skirt.
(To your surprise, he kept it up all the way through, slipping his fingers through the gaps between yours as he showed you around vintage vinyls and the sound of love in muffled 60’s tunes.)
You imagine him to be like clay, a softness hardened over the years that have shaped him; smooth but solid to the touch, breaking into powdered shards once you manage to work your way through.
It’s unexpected, but you like that.
And you like him—quite a lot, really.
This date–the tenth, or fourth, whichever–is a lot fancier than all the others, a more formal dinner with a few glasses of delicious wine whose name you by god, don’t remember. You’d been too focused on something else—the handsome way he’d slicked back strands of his honeyed hair.
Black suits him, contrasting the paleness of his skin and complementing the sharpness of his features.
Black, the color of his suit, pressed neatly to fit him perfectly. He looks clean, broad shoulders with straight slacks falling to exactly where they’re supposed to be.
Black, which is the only thing you see, pressed up against him. You’re so close by your doorway, that half-minute of deciding whether to stay or walk away; he has one foot behind him and one firmly planted right next to yours.
You share a breath, fingers lightly intertwined with his.
There had been signs the entire night that it would lead to something like this—he’d played with your fingers a lot more, kept much closer to you than he ever has before.
Every sound around you is amplified—each inhale and exhale, the gulp he makes; your heart beats on rampage.
When you look up, your noses are almost touching, and his eyes are shut, the crease between his eyebrows deepening.
It’s a look you’ve only seen once before, when he’s stuck contemplating.
“Kento,” you whisper.
His eyes blink open slightly, the color of your coffee. He leans forward, forehead resting against yours as he takes a deep breath, “I–”
Then you kiss him.
It’s mostly a peck really, and wholly out of character for you, but it’s that same something that compelled you to ask him to model for your sculpture months ago that’s pushed you to do this right now.
You’re worried for that first split-second because he doesn’t move, shows no sign at all of reciprocating. It’s a moment before you consider parting that he finally softens, relaxing his lips as he glides them over yours. His fingers slot themselves by your ear, palm pressed against your jaw as he deepens it; you almost stumble back, his other hand catching your weight as it leans on your door.
It’s a good thing you did this then, because you learn that he likes you too—very much, actually.
.
Things are good a month until your exhibit.
Things are good until they aren’t.
You end up reading a premature critique on your exhibit, calling it ‘overrated’ and ‘boring’, detailing the trajectory of your decline as an artist, citing your works as having become increasingly more lackluster over the years.
The critic calls your theme ‘lazy’ and ‘unoriginal’, predicting your pieces to be nothing extraordinary or different from your older sculptures.
All this time, your publicist and manager have made it a point to protect you from things like this, requesting that you avoid searching up your name on social media or search engines. You’re usually fed with praises and the occasional constructive criticism, but never anything as spiteful as this.
It’s every possible thing that could be said to invalidate your hard work.
And you break because of it—along with Nanami’s sculpture.
It tips over accidentally, the funk in your mood making you especially clumsy.
The damage is terrible, half of his face is gone, his neck down still intact but chipped off. It’s impossible to repair without redoing the entire thing—which, you don’t have the time for, either.
You groan, banging your head against the table.
Frustration leaks out in your tears, every inch of self-doubt surfacing.
Nanami finds you in your studio that way.
He’d texted you the entire day, tried calling you a few times to no success. It’s a Thursday, but without your usual ‘just got home’ text, he’d gotten worried and rushed over as soon as his meeting ended.
If he’s being honest, you’ve been off this entire week—stressed and distant, overworked from revisiting all your finished sculptures for the exhibit in case of anything to change or tweak.
Then this.
And it’s too much—it’s all too much.
Nanami calls your name from your entryway and you look up with tears streaming down your face. He’s never seen you like this, you could never want him to.
He hurries over, brows immediately furrowed as he digs into his pocket for a handkerchief. The cow print would make you giggle on any other day, but now, he uses it to wipe your tears away.
“What happened?” his gaze shifts to your right, his sculpture half-ruined.
Silence.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asks hesitantly.
You shake your head, swiping at your nose, “It won’t look the same, Ken.”
“Do you want to redo it? I can clear up my schedule every–”
“There’s no time.”
Nanami takes your hands to rub his thumbs over your knuckles, soothing.
“Then we’ll do what we can.”
The sincerity in his voice hurts you, the reassurance in his eyes even moreso. You’ve never had anyone look at you this way.
“There’s no point.” your shoulders slump, lips trembling as another wave of tears pool on your lash line. “People are calling the exhibit a flop.”
“Who?”
You huff out, exhausted, “I don’t know, critics, media. Whoever.”
He furrows his brows, firm, “They don’t understand what you’re doing.”
You chuckle sarcastically, “They’re art critics, Ken, of course they–”
“If it means something to you, what does it matter to anyone else?”
That makes you look up.
Nanami stares at you with the same unwavering gaze, no longer indecipherable to you. There’s a softness in the squint of his eyes that you now know means concern, with every pointed feature only meant to drive his words home.
You’ve been second guessing everything down to the core of your abilities, because of what? A few words? This must be what you get for having a penchant to people please, for hinging on everything everyone has to say.
“If you love what you create, then continue to make it.” he squeezes your hands, as if pressing the words into your bones gently.
.
You remold and repair, and you build up your sculpture to something different but not worse than before.
You remold and repair to build up yourself.
The half that broke off isn’t as symmetrical as you’d like it to be—and it definitely doesn’t do justice to the man it’s sculpted of, but you think you like the softness you added to it, how his eyes look kinder. He means something else to you now, after all, compared to when you first started sculpting him.
And you think, you know just what kind of design speaks of his soul.
.
.
.
PAINT.
Add the final touches, perfect your piece. Bring it to life with colors and details, whether it be for one pair of eyes or many. Do you now see?
Nanami teaches you how to make bread on a Sunday morning.
Flour coats every surface of his counter, dustings of it transferred to the deep blue of his apron. You’re wearing a white one, borrowed from your studio. Elbow-to-elbow you knead, and he only has to teach you once for you to get the hang of it, really.
He smirks, “You’re a natural.”
“Must do stuff like this a lot in another life or something,” you stifle a giggle, playing along.
It’s a beautiful day out, golden sunlight hitting your cheek—Nanami stares, sneaks peeks between every knead. The same strands of hair tucked behind your ear fall to frame your face, and he hooks his pinky around it to tuck it right back (because he can now, without having to hesitate).
You turn to him, daylight in your eyes when you grin your thanks.
His kitchen has an open space, deep wood and black metal detailings as its central theme (the white bread bread basket you made together stands out on the counter, but he’s done that on purpose). There’s a pretty extensive collection of alcohol in his liquor cabinet, along with his very particular coffee set-up right next to his record player slotted in the corner.
On Sunday mornings, Nanami likes to keep his music playing; today, it’s the classic 60’s–’Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’–serving as your background beat, with the soft meows from the cat on his balcony as added accompaniment to the melody.
He watches you sway, his feet tapping along, then you jolt, giggling in surprise when there’s a hiccup in the song (it’s from the scratches on his record, but he can’t bother replacing it with a new one). After that breakdown in your studio, you’ve seemed to loosen up immensely.
“Ken,” you call him, “how much pressure do you usually put into kneading?”
There’s no way to explain it, really, but to make you feel it yourself.
“Let me–” he lets go of his dough, dusting his hands with more flour before coming up behind you.
Nanami is a big man, tall and lean, all chest and shoulders—when he hunches over you, you look so small, delicately tucked into him. Heat rushes to his cheeks, if you turn around you’d see pink; the music is drowned out by his heartbeat.
He leans forward, palms clasping over the back of your hands, fingers slotting themselves between the gaps of yours.
“Like this,” he pushes down, his chest pressed against your back. To get a better look at the dough, he tilts his head to the side, nearly slotting it by your shoulder, “Can you feel it?”
You hum, your swaying gone. He’s trying hard to focus on the bread, but when you turn your head to face him, the tip of your nose touching his cheek, he stops.
The moment is tense, drowned into silence despite the music playing in the background. He can hear your every breath.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
Nanami knows it’s for many things—for agreeing to the sculpture, for spending time on it; for this Sunday morning, for being there when you needed someone the most. But that’s not the whole point of this, he thinks. It’s how you sound, voice heartfelt and filled with something else—a kind of affection he’s all too familiar with himself.
This must be what you mean when you say you can tell if clay has been molded with love.
.
In the quiet, Nanami’s hands move loudly.
He holds you gently, just like he always has, but it’s a permission every time—like he’s asking if he can touch you, love you in ways you aren't used to.
Your apron falls to the floor, followed by your skirt, the fabric pooling by your feet. The faded gray t-shirt you wear during studio days is tugged over your head, dropped next to him. He takes his time with you, turning you over, feeling you, knowing you—thick fingers squeezing the sides of your arms lightly as his lips press against your neck.
A gasp escapes you.
Then you move, nimble hands undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing it open as you feel across the planes of taut muscle on his stomach and chest.
He groans, soft and low, your fingers brushing against his skin, ticklish.
You take a step back and he moves along with you, letting you settle into yourself as you inch backwards, the back of your knees knocking against the edge of your bed. He holds your gaze as you move towards your headrest, your shy smile doing nothing to lessen the butterflies in his chest—you did mention that it’s been a while.
He kneels on your bed, the mattress dipping to accommodate his weight—his slacks have been discarded to the side as he crawls over you.
Beneath him, you look like the very subject art could only wish to replicate.
So, he makes sure to remember all of it—to look close and memorize every detail of you as he dips down, arm planted to the side of your head as his other hand cradles your face, tilting your jaw up for a kiss.
He catches your lower lip between his, running his tongue over it before sucking lightly. You moan, smooth and honey-sweet, bringing him closer with your fingers clasped behind his neck. The room is quiet save for your lips smacking against each other’s, warm and soft as the heat builds between you.
Slowly and tenderly, with the same care you tend to clay, Nanami discovers all your dips and curves; he kneads the flesh of your hips, gripping your thighs as he kisses his way down the slopes of your body.
You squirm in his hold, tugging at his hair when the sensation feels too much, too good.
(But when he reaches between your legs, arms locking your thighs over his shoulders, you realize, nothing could have ever prepared you for this, for him—he treats you as if you are every bit of the art you make, and looks at you like it too.)
Then, Nanami kisses you on the forehead when he’s inside you, lips pressing on the part of your skin that creases when your brow furrows.
A tear drips down your face.
“Should I–” he looks you in the eye, worried.
“No,” you breathe out, a watery smile as you nudge your nose against his chin, “keep going.”
So, he does; he loves you without the applause, with the feel of his hands, leaving no place untouched.
He moves his body against yours.
It’s only after, when he tucks himself into your neck, arms wrapped around you and skin sticking onto skin that you tell him your tears aren’t anything bad.
For the first time in a while, you feel full—perfectly content.
.
He thinks you should be the final piece to your exhibit.
It’s a grand event, the conference hall decked in some of your previous works; blankets of white cloth drape over the stage—the unveiling of all your sculptures. You’re standing to the side, looking pretty in a long white skirt while Nanami blends among the crowd, far back enough to remain hidden from reporters but close enough to catch your eyes should you look his way.
You present each one, introducing the titles with brief descriptions of the people they’re sculpted from. The reasons for your designs are left primarily up to interpretation, but you’ve explained it all to Nanami—he’s listened to every single one.
Then you present his sculpture, finding him through the crowd. The corner of your lips curl up slightly, the stage lights reflecting on your eyes.
He smiles at you the same.
‘The Undoing’ is what you call it—half-perfect and half-salvaged.
It’s far from your original vision for the piece, but you think you like this more, splitting down the part that’d originally broken off into two different colors. His entire color scheme consists of yellows, greens, and browns—the perfected side of his face appears in clean strokes of coffee, with light yellows highlighting his pointed features. The angles are clean and sharp, his gaze straight and dead-on.
Running down the cracks of the broken half is a sky blue line, an almost glowing effect added to the salvaged side. In a way, it’s an emergence, of the part of him you never thought existed—green wisps like leaves, a life springing from within. You add flecks of gold to mimic light bouncing off his irises the same way sand becomes a glittering sea of sunbeams.
To you, Nanami is warm but cold to the touch, and he’s undone you just as much, has chipped away at the parts of you that have built themselves over years of habits reinforced and untouched.
It is as much you as it is him.
That’s what happens when you love someone, he supposes—an intermingling of souls.
Kraft paper crinkles in his grip as he adjusts the bouquet of flowers behind him, deep red carnations and orange tulips decorated with white astilbe flowers—for when you get down, and he can have a moment with you privately.
Now, he looks at you fondly, shifting his feet from where he’s standing. You search for his face, eyes darting to where you know you’ll find him; he meets your gaze, and you smile brighter, that one look ringing louder than the standing roars of an echoing applause.
a/n: each segment represents the steps to making a sculpture that i tried to parallel with the development of their relationship. V60 pour over is a kind of set-up for drip/filter coffee.
thank you notes: for @mididoodles, this is my very late birthday gift for you midi, but i hope you like it! (this also so happens to be your request for my in's and out's event) 🥺 + @soumies @scarabrat for reading through the first third of this and believing in the vision for this when i was so unsure of it, i love you both 🥺 + @stellamancer for helping me figure out what goes in the 'contains' 😭 + @augustinewrites to scratch the nanami itch 🥺
comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡
All of the stories in this collection are based on real life struggles with sex and intimacy. The length and characters will vary. More may be added at a later date. This is an adult series. Please mind the tags on each fic. Minors please do not interact.
Sex is complicated. Sex isn't always what you read about or watch in movies. Things aren't always perfect, but they can be made meaningful with the right person. These stories are a tender sort of exploration of what happens when things aren't always what we envision them to be.
needing clitoral stimulation for orgasm (aged up!megumi fushiguro x f!reader)
impotence (higuruma hiromi x f!reader)
hypersensitive to touch (satoru gojo x reader)
reader with a sensitive gag reflex (nanami kento x reader)
sex being interrupted by children (suguru geto x f!reader)
*more to be added as they are written. I will take (polite) suggestions via inbox if you have an idea or character you'd like to see.
would you be in the mood to write something for peter parker x reader?? it’s been a while since i’ve read anything new for him and i’m missing my boy :( maybe something about things getting heated while making out with peter but he knows reader isn’t ready to go any farther so he has to stop them, and then maybe reader feels guilty for not being ready bc they feel like they’re stringing him along? a good mix of (semi)smut & fluff & angst haha. thank u angel i love u <3
ty for requesting, love u <3 fem!reader, 1k
cw suggestive content
“Is that okay?” he whispers.
You’re nearly too busy trying to kiss him to whisper back. “Yeah, Peter, just–” Fully too busy.
Peter enjoys being on top of you for two reasons; the first, the most imperative in the moment, is because it flicks a switch in your mind that has you all flustered and breathless under his touch, your chest heaving something sorry and your hands a frenetic back-and-forth between roaming and limp on his back; and the second, his guilty pleasure, is that he’s in an optimal position to slide his knee between your thighs and listen for your breathless sigh.
He says your name between kisses to catch your attention, finds he can’t quite get it as your mouth closes up on his and your spit wets his lips. Your hand wanders under his shirt.
Peter has been worse than shirtless around you, a consequence of his strange after-classes hobby, but he’s not so sure you’re ready to peel him out of it. Your fingers ride up his spine.
He fishes your hand from behind him to hold it above your head.
“Hey,” he says, pulling back, your eyes lit and aligned with one another, the brightest light in the room. It feels wrong to speak into the dark like this, disrupting your whispers and your quick breathing. “You don’t wanna do that.”
“I do,” you say. He’s no genius, but he sees the wobble of your lashes for what it is, sudden regret.
“It’s okay, bub. We got too heavy too fast,” he laughs.
You bite the inside of your lip as he sits up. It’s his fault, he shouldn’t have kissed you like that, definitely shouldn’t have let his leg slide up against you, what was he thinking? He’s kissed you so hard your lips are swollen.
You use the flats of your palms to clamber up against the headboard. Your heart is a thudding he can’t ignore, triply loud, and his own pulse is rocketing too.
“I’m sorry,” you say.
“No, that’s okay,” —he reaches for the hem of your sweatpants to tug them back over your hip and stomach— “I was bearing down on you, I shouldn’t have– I–” Peter Parker levels of stuttering occur, to which he can’t subject himself, hiding his face in his hands.
There’s a small silence. Peter attempts to calm down. Your heart rate slowly drops.
“I really am sorry, Pete.”
His neck cricks as he lifts his head. “What?” He lets his legs fall to the side of the bed and shuffles up to the top to see you clearly, squishing the back of your thigh where your legs are up to his hip. “Come on, what do you have to be sorry for?”
“I’m leading you on and stuff. Not cool.”
“What? What are you talking about? I started it.”
“I was giving it just as good as I was getting it,” you say with a regretful smile. “You’re just such a great kisser–”
“Don’t try and distract me, it’s working,” he teases. More seriously, he puts his hand on your knee, thumb pressing to the soft crease underneath it.
“I shouldn’t kiss you like that if I’m not ready for it.”
“Why not? You can kiss me whatever way you like, it doesn’t have to lead to anything.”
“I’m winding you up. Boys don’t like that.”
“I love it,” he says, dropping his chin to his hand to speak to you from just below your eye line. “I love everything you do, I love kissing you, it doesn’t mean you have to be ready for something else.”
You don’t accept his reassurances as quickly as he’d like, leaning back, the rising valley of your chest and tummy two pretty not to look at even as something serious transpires. He adores you, your every hill and curve and rigid line, all of it, and he’d love to fuck you but there’s no rush. What do you need to rush for? Peter’s sure it’ll be just as much fun a few months down the line as it would’ve been tonight, but it’ll be perfect then, because you’ll be ready then.
“Who cares what boys like anyways?” he mumbles, kissing your kneecap appreciatively.
“I just don’t wanna mess it up, Pete. I really like you.”
“You can’t mess it up, it’s not like that, we’re not like that. You mean a whole lot more to me than that,” he says, giving your thigh a squeeze. You meet his eyes with less shyness now, the beginnings of a smile like twitches at the corners of your mouth. “I like you more than you like me, anyways. You can string me along. String me up, if you want.”
“String you up where?” you ask with a laugh.
“From that statue on ESU?”
“What? How would I do that?”
“Get Spider-Man to help you.”
You pull the leg he isn’t leaning on up toward your stomach, knee rubbing along the inside of your opposite thigh, the last trace of regret. “You’re sure you don’t care?”
“Don’t care, don’t mind, just want you to be happy.” He kisses your knee. “I thought you’d know that by now.”
You brace your face in both hands, letting out a long sigh. “I don’t know what I know when you do that thing to me. How about you keep your legs away from my legs for a little while?”
Peter smiles like an idiot, hiding his eyes in your knee and his mouth behind your calf. He doesn’t mind being honest, but you’re making him nervous flirting like that and he isn’t allowed to kiss you again tonight. “I– I can do that. No leg stuff.” He leans away from you suddenly. “God, no leg stuff. You’re beautiful, I wish you didn’t worry about me.”
☆. contains: 18+ mdni; bf!satoru gojo x gn!reader; satoru tries to make his beloved jealous and it works way better than he could've ever imagined; dom!reader, satoru is wearing a tie, degradation, masturbation (m), reader slaps him once, he cums in his pants, a bit of fluff in the end yayy wc: 4.3k
going to fancy big parties can be fun.
can be fun.
it isn't when your boyfriend is acting like a whore though.
you're sitting at one of the big round tables in the corner of the massive ball room all alone after asking satoru to go and buy you another drink. and now you've been glaring at him from the distance for at least ten minutes. you watch him laugh with a pretty blonde, you watch him sling his arm around the man's shoulder like it's nothing. and it's not like satoru is oblivious to your deathly stare either - no, no - he keeps glancing over his shoulder to make sure that you're still looking.
the blonde is into him. of course, he is, why wouldn't he be? satoru knows it too, that's why he chose him. you saw him observing your table, your satoru, a while ago but you're not one to display your ownership like someone else might - you expect satoru to know his place.
but apparently... you need to remind him of it.
you know he's waiting for you to throw yourself over him, kiss him - show that he's taken. sure, it's fun to do that too sometimes but... not today. if satoru wants to play - you'll play.
toying with the empty glass in your hand, you wait for him to come back. his laughter echoes through the whole room as the blonde slaps his chest, chuckling alongside him. you can see the man's heated cheeks from where you're sitting and you roll your eyes. satoru is not that funny. you take a deep breath in and continue burning a hole into the back of his head when a hand on your shoulder breaks you from your thoughts.
"how's the murder attempt going?"
shoko leans closer, placing her head right next to yours, looking at the scene you've been observing for the longest time now.
"he's being very annoying."
she laughs and pats your shoulder before taking a seat next to you. glancing around you search for the dark-haired man. "where'd you put suguru anyway?"
"with haibara."
you hum. she takes a sip of her blood red wine, leaving a stain of the same color onto the glass. she smells like cigarettes and darkly sweet perfume, she smells like she's ready to seduce you.
you almost miss the way satoru's shoulders slump when he notices that your attention is suddenly elsewhere. he says something to his new friend before grabbing the drinks that have been sitting on the counter and makes his way over to you, leaving the blonde man longing after him.
satoru places the two colorful beverages onto to the table over shoko, making her crane her neck to look at him. they share smiles but not the usual ones; the type of smiles that say that i know what you're doing. they exchange a few words - something about not drinking too much and something about not being an idiot.
you keep your eyes on shoko the whole time, completely ignoring your sweetheart as the beginning of the punishment. after catching up with satoru, she turns around and places a hand on your thigh before standing. "have fun."
she winks at you and you let your teeth sink into the soft flesh of your bottom lip. satoru's hands holding onto the back of the chair shoko was just sitting on catch your eye but you tear them away, not wanting to give him even the slightest ego boost right now.
you opt for the drink instead. the glass is cold, water droplets run down the side of it as you raise it to your mouth. parting your lips, you let your tongue slide around the straw as you pull it in. finally raising your gaze, you look up at satoru through your eyelashes when your lips close around the metal and you see how his own eyes focus in on the simple act of seduction.
you take a big sip and hum at the refreshing taste. satoru's lips part as he watches you gulp it down, his fingers squeezing the piece of wood under his palms.
"you not gonna thank me, baby?" he's asking for praise, he's always asking for praise - silly boy.
you pull off the straw with a small pop and blink up at him, fire burning in your eyes. "why would i? the ice has already melted?"
satoru's eye twitches and the corners of his mouth quirks up just a little. "i'm sorry, baby."
"mhmm."
"what were you talking about with shoko?" he inquires, trying to come off as smooth as he can, trying to hide the smile that's threatening to show.
"about you, my love." you bite back. "about you and your new friend." nodding to behind him, you make eye-contact with the man in question and he averts his gaze immediately. satoru keeps his attention on you, he doesn't give a fuck about the guy - the only thing he cares about is that little fake pout that you're currently hitting him with.
he loves the fake pout. the one you pull when you mock him, when you tease him - eyes big, bottom lip jutted out, slowly nodding your head when you ask him blatant questions that just make him sound stupid. he can't get enough of it.
"why?" his heartrate is already through the roof, adrenaline pumping in his veins. "you jealous?"
his teasing lilt makes the fire in your body burn even stronger.
"obviously." you deadpan.
...
his words get stuck in his throat and you can tell that this isn't the reaction he was expecting. he was prepared to have to coax the answer out of you, he was ready to tease you at least a little before getting his shit rocked but this...
is a hundred, no - a thousand times better.
"sit down." you command him like a dog and his body acts faster than his brain ever could; he sits down onto the same chair he's been using as a squeeze toy and slides it closer than you'd like.
you pull your eyes from him, gluing them to the stage instead. there's a band playing but you are far from actually focusing on whatever the fuck they're singing about. how could you not when you can feel satoru's pretty blues boring into you?
satoru is admiring the way your chest rises with focused breaths, a deep one in and a deep one out. he's admiring the way your jaw tenses as you clench your teeth together, probably biting back a snarky little comment. and his lips quirk up into an excited smirk.
he sneaks his hand under the tablecloth and lets his fingers dance on the skin of your thigh but before he can properly press his palm against you - he pulls his hand back at the sharp contact of you slapping it away.
his lips part in a silent ow! as he rubs his hand, clearly overreacting to a little slap. "keep your hands to yourself."
it's stern - just the way he likes it. a couple of friends of you happen to pass by and satoru relishes in the way you surpress your seething anger by flashing a big toothy grin at them. a sudden elbow almost hitting his ribs makes his eyes almost pop out of his head as you hiss out a say hi and he doesn't think twice to disobey the simple order. he offers them a bashful smile and a wave before they disappear into the crowd.
he watches you take another sip; your plump lips rest around the straw and when a droplet escapes from between your lips and dribbles down your chin, he's just about ready to lunge at you.
you wipe the liquid off and pop your finger into your mouth, his own lips parting as the memories of your tongue around his digits flood his mind and he raises his hand to loosen the tie around his neck.
"but shoko is allowed to touch you?" satoru whispers as he leans in closer, fidgeting with the end of the tablecloth.
"it's only fair, don't you think?" the mocking tone is back as you meet his gaze. "you let him touch you too."
you hate the way his eyes shine, the cute heart-shaped fairylights reflecting in them. "i just made a joke, baby, you know that didn't mean anything."
"do i?" you press on. you see his eyes dart to your fingers circling the rim of the glass and then back to yours. "i don't think i do, baby."
you bring your finger to your mouth again, brushing over your lips as you cross your legs under the table.
"i think it meant something to him though. he keeps looking at you - i think he wants you to play with him. don't you want that, hm?"
satoru shakes his head and bites into his lower lip.
"no?" you question him like he's a child keeping a secret. like he's about to spill everything every moment now. "then why did you go and talk with him in the first place?"
he lets out a shaky little laugh, loving the situation he's put himself in. his palms are growing sweaty and his whole body feels like it's about to overheat but he's completely addicted to the way you're glaring at him and he wouldn't take his eyes from yours even if the world was ending.
"because you look so fucking hot when you're mad."
...
he's about to add to his confession but his breath hitches when the tie around his neck tightens. having turned around in your seat, you keep a tight grip on it as you spare him a faux little smile, showing him your sharp canines as anger drips from your lips. leaning toward him, you try not to draw too much attention as you reprimand your sweet little boyfriend.
"i really oughta put a collar on you. you'd fucking like that, wouldn't you?" you hiss out, your hot breath hitting his skin with every syllable.
his eyes are big and wide and there's a growing flush on the apples of his cheeks and in the tips of his ears. his pants are getting tighter and tighter by the second; every venomous word falling from your pretty lips sending the blood from his head right down to his hardening cock.
"you can't act at all today, can you? you want me to fuck you that badly?"
satoru's adam's apple bobs as he swallows the saliva that's been collecting in his mouth and nods shakily.
"slut."
you yank on the tie one more time before letting it go but stay close, prepared to listen to his whines.
"baby..." he cries, motioning at his bulge, his puppy-dog eyes pleading and begging like it's the only thing he knows to do.
"how is that my problem, satoru?" you give him a fake pout back as you mock his problem. "go ask the blonde, i'm sure he'd love to help you out, baby."
"but i want you to..."
"you really think you deserve my help?" you push as you lean over to him, lips brushing the shell of his ear. shivers run down his spine and he takes a deep breath in. "after the stunt you pulled?"
his whole body twitches when he feels your hand on his thigh under the cloth. two fingers tip toeing up his strong muscles, heading straight for where he needs them the most. you slip your hands lower, deeper between his legs and his eyes grow twice their size. satoru clears his throat, his hands gripping onto the seat of the chair he's sitting on.
you're lucky the room is so dark, the only lights being the small fairy lights that hang above your head and the soft glow coming from the stage. you cup his growing bulge and feel his heavy balls in the palm of your hand. his lips part and he lets a little ah-ah slip, making you smile against his skin.
"you think you deserve me?"
"please..."
"'please' - what, sweetheart? what are you begging for?"
unbeknowst to satoru though, your eyes are on the blonde sitting at the bar. you don't even try to hide the smirk that plays on your lips as you purr into your lovers ear. you can see the man's embarrassment; his dilemma between wanting to keep watching the two of you or diverting his gaze. he crosses his leg over the other as you eye him from the shadows, fondling satoru under the table. your boyfriend is getting more flushed by the second and he can't keep his hips from twitching upward and more into your touch. you send a final grin to the blonde before turning back to satoru.
"you... fuck, i want you." he flutters his eyelashes and juts out his lower lip and you think about devouring him whole. "i'll be good, i'll be so fucking good. i promise!"
his voice breaks with the last words and you swear he grows a shade darker at the slight humiliation but he refuses to tear his eyes from yours.
pretending to think over his plea, you twirl the tips of his hair between your fingers. satoru's own fingers curl around the hand that's playing with his bulge under the tablecloth, determined to keep you there at any cost if you refuse his other offer. you roll your eyes dramatically but cup him harder nevertheless. he squeaks out, letting his head hang lower while still keeping his eyes on you. he's so cute.
biting your inner cheek, you decide to succumb to your own desires and grab onto his hand. satoru lets you lead him through the crowd, his eyes catching suguru's and shoko's before he's already being dragged into one of the bathrooms.
"stay there."
like a good pup, he listens and stays standing in front of the closed door, his eyes following you as you step into the small room and plop yourself down onto the counter.
"i'm sorry."
"too fucking late for that." the grin you give him is a mean one, head cocked to the side. "look at yourself."
his eyes grow bigger at your words.
"c'mon, look at yourself." you purr at him lowly and motion to the mirror behind you. "look how pathetic you look, baby."
you can't hold back the laugh that bubbles from your throat.
"that's what you get for not knowing your place. if you still want a hand, i suggest you go find that blonde because you sure as shit won't be getting mine."
satoru takes a desperate step forward but is stopped in his tracks when you point your foot at him with another wicked smile.
"ah-ah-ah! stay." there's something addicting in the way he listens despite the fact that he looks like he's ready to cry, his cock aching inside the confines of his slacks and boxers.
strands of hair are beginning to stick to his forehead and sweat dribbles down his neck, his pale skin is flushed all the way from his neck up to the tips of his ears. his eyes glint in the dim light, low and heavy as he stares at you through his eyelashes.
his hands start wandering down his own body, unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his pants before slipping his fingers underneath his waistband. you wait for him to be an inch away from properly touching himself to stop him.
"nuh-uhh..." you tease him, crossing your legs as you sit pretty on the counter right in front of him. you look like a siren, like a devil and he's ready to worship you. he's ready to get down on his knees and beg.
"please, baby?" satoru's voice comes out all sweet and pleading and it has you pushing your thighs together at the sound of it.
"again."
"please..." his fingers claw at his own shirt.
"again."
"please, pretty please..."
"you're so fucking hot when you're desperate."
his own sentence comes back to bite him in his ass but he couldn't care any less. he feels his pre-cum soaking through his boxers, his balls hurting because of how badly he needs to cum. how badly he needs you to touch him.
patting the counter, you invite him by your side with a dark laugh. "c'mere."
you don't have to say it twice as he pretty much jumps at you. now that he's close and standing right under the ceiling light, you can see his desperation even clearer. he's way more red, his eyes are glassy and he's harder than he seemed from the shadows. the prominent bulge nudges against the edge of the counter and he lets out a soft whine.
you feel your own arousal ruining your underwear as you watch him. he's so pretty like this. his hands grip the counter and his head hangs low. you raise your hand to comb through the pearly white locks and he immediately leans into your touch.
"it hurts." he pouts and he looks cute, oh, so cute.
"yeah?"
your tone couldn't be any further from being worried - it's the opposite. it's filled with lust and need, with hunger like nothing else. it's not a question about whether he wants to stop, it's a question about whether it's hurts enough.
his hips jut into the counter again and his lips part.
"please, touch me?"
"mkmmmm." you drag your fingers from his hair, over his temple, down the side of his face and his neck and watch goosebumps cover his skin.
he stares at you through the mirror before actually meeting your gaze. your lip is starting to swell from you biting down on it and-
he leans forward, his eyes closing and lips puckering.
he just wants to kiss you so badly.
but you grab his cheeks and hold him in place when he's just a breath away. "little sluts like you don't deserve to be kissed."
you keep him there, lips almost touching and he groans out a quiet fuck as he presses himself against the counter even more.
you hum and you brush your nose against his. the white strands tickle your forehead and his cologne fills your nostrils.
"it hurts so bad, baby, please."
"and it hurt seeing you with him but you did that anyway." you place your free hand on his shoulder and let it glide down over his back muscles. you stop when you reach the waistband of his slacks and he hopes, he hopes, you'll slip your hand under it. he needs to feel you against his skin.
but you don't. you simply apply pressure, forcing him to rub himself against the countertop and you keep doing it until he develops a steady rhythm humping the piece of furniture. you nose at his cheek, dragging your lips over the skin right next to his mouth and you hear his breath hitch.
"you should be thankful i came in with you in the first place, satoru."
his lips blindly search for yours as he slurs out his words of gratitude. you laugh into his skin before hooking a finger into his mouth, into his cheek, to pull him away from your face and you don't hold back the second burst of laughter that wants to escape at his fucked out expression.
you can only imagine the big of a mess he's making in his boxers, how pretty his pink tip is, how hard he is, how sensitive he is. you press your finger down onto his tongue and you don't even have to tell him his next instruction - he wraps his glossy lips around it, letting his warm tongue coat it in his saliva. you immediately add another finger and watch his eyes roll back inside his head.
you push them deeper down his throat, making him gag but you refuse to pull away and let him drool around the digits.
"look at me."
he moans. eyes still closed, he bucks his hips faster and sucks on your fingers. spit drips from your hand and falls onto his dress shirt.
but when he doesn't do as he's told - you yank your fingers from him and land a hard slap against his soft cheek instead.
"i said.. look at me."
his crystalline eyes find yours at your sharp words and the look on his face makes you clench your thighs, the band in your stomach growing tighter and tighter. his cheek grows a tint darker and he groans at the tingling pain.
your pupils are dilated and there's a slight flush on your skin aswell. you look beautiful. his face stings and you look beautiful. his fingers claw at the bottom of your shirt - he just needs to feel closer to you. he needs to be closer to you. he needs. he needs. he needs.
the speed of his hips never falters and you cradle his jaw to help him cross the line - despite this being a form of punishment, you can never deny yourself of the pleasure of watching him cum.
the pleasure of watching him cum untouched in his pants.
the feeling of your soft touch on his now stinging cheek, your eyes on him, your demanding hand on his back, the humiliation of him humping a fucking countertop while being fully dressed is, the filthiness of doing it all in a public bathroom, the insanity of doing it with an unlocked door - finally makes the band in his stomach snap.
satoru's whole body shakes as the orgasm takes over and his head falls into the crook of your neck. he whimpers out a row of profanities as you move your hands to run them over his undercut.
he leans almost his full body weight onto you when he feels like his knees are going to buckle from under him and you quietly laugh, lips grazing his temple. big arms circle your waist and satoru is prepared to fully merge the two of you together forever.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
"how fucking long are you two gonna take?" suguru's voice calls from behind the door. "we're thinking about heading home, it's getting boring out here."
satoru whines into his neck, clearly upset at his friend ruining the moment.
you ruffle his hair as you shout back. "one more minute! we'll be right out!"
"real or not?"
you laugh at his doubtful tone. "real-real! i promise!"
he grumbles an okay before tapping on the door twice and heading off.
satoru's lips graze your damp skin an his hands paw at your waist, still so desperate to have more of you. grabbing his soft cheeks, you raise his face to meet your eyes and a coo slips from your bitten lips.
"my baby..."
he does the cutest little mmmm as his tired eyes fall shut again. you pull him closer and finally press your lips to his and he melts into you. even in his exhausted state, he reciprocates the kiss the second he feels you against him - lips molding together like they're supposed to, like two puzzle pieces made to fit each other.
you nip at him before pulling away and he lets out another whine, making you giggle.
"i love you." you press another quick kiss to his lips. "i love you." and another to his nose. "i love you." and one to his forehead. "i love you." and one to his cheek. "i love you." and another to his jaw. "i love you."
the corners of his lips stretch until they reach his ears and a wave of heat overtakes his face once more. his dimples make an appearance and you feel the overwhelming need to kiss him stupid. he presses his forehead to yours and stares at you from the weird angle. "can i kiss you again?"
"oh, how polite..." you boop his nose with a grin before pulling him flush against you. satoru cradles your jaw like you're made out of glass, like you're not the person, who just made him cum in his pants; like you're not the person, who made him hump the counter in a random bathroom at a party.
"you guys have another minute to get your asses out here or we're leaving you behind!" suguru yells again.
"coming!"
"that's disgusting by the way!" he sighs back, making you and satoru both giggle like some lovesick teens.
you jump off the counter and tuck little satoru back inside his pants. he hisses at the touch, his head falling back onto your shoulder. you button his pants and buckle his belt for him and reward him with another kiss on the cheek. "let's go, yeah?"
satoru hums as a reply and you turn to grab the door handle but then he's suddenly grabbing onto your wrist and pulling you into his arms.
"i'm sorry, baby." he presses his lips to your one last time. "i love you so fucking much."
you smile into the kiss and he mirrors your expression. his hands circle your waist as you thread your fingers through his sweaty hair.
"i don't know why you're saying that already, though..."
he quirps a quick hm?.
"do you... do you really think i'm done with you already?" you laugh loudly when his eyes widen. "this was just the warm-up."
"i think you should keep the apologies for later." you pat down his hair in a terrible attempt to make him look more put together. "and... i suggest you let your voice rest while we drive, baby."
without ever giving him a chance to answer, you tug him out the bathroom and towards an annoyed suguru and a very drunk shoko.
satoru's mind fills with the all of the possibilites that might await him at home and he's already hardening again in his pants.
”Hua Cheng would never bottom” are you high. Are you on drugs. What is it you smoke. Is it crack? Weed? Coke? Are you huffing glue? Are you on mushrooms? Xie Lian could politely go ‘I think I wanna top tonight’ in passing conversation and that man (ghost?) would go ‘Ok Gege :D I love you’ and then he’d happily get his back blown out, and he’d be arching the whole time. I know him personally so I can vouch. Get your act together.
content: ~1.3k words. eren jaeger x female reader. modern/college au, porn without plot, friends with benefits, semi-public cunnilingus, potentially dubcon due to alcohol, completely unserious, eren is a menace but we love him anyway, explicit sexual content, explicit language. 18+
“Ah, hah—fuck!”
Your pesky heel threatened to slip from the porcelain beneath you. The left one. The more you sweltered, the more frequent the slips happened, less of a staccato and now like a clean glide off the edge. Each heart-stopping one delayed your goading orgasm.
You sat atop a bathroom sink, legs spread, with your feet on the counter. Your palms were suctioned to the countertop behind you, propping you on wobbly elbows. Kneeled between your legs was your friend with benefits, his face buried in your pussy, and on the other side of the thin wooden door was a crowded house party.
A party you and your supposed-to-be-secret fuck buddy had snuck away from. Kept secret only because you know it would draw comments from your mutual friends. There were fewer questions this way; it was simpler.
It did make things interesting. Like tonight: a night you’d try to find a hookup, but he, Eren, was already right in front of you—looking really good. The only problem was that the rest of your friends were there, too. You could leave the party together, but that would be pretty obvious, wouldn’t it?
But that didn’t mean some harmless flirting was off the table. At least, that was what you told yourself when you would stand closer to him than before; when you would ‘accidentally’ let your fingers brush his. Every shoulder nudge was batted away by your pretty, faux-apologetic eyes, and you would blame it on that last drink, which wasn’t entirely a lie. You were bubbly and tipsy, and it swirled together perfectly with the desire swarming in your stomach. It emboldened you enough to turn lingering gazes into blatant eye fucking. Your friends were too drunk to notice, anyway. And in the kitchen, there were even less prying eyes around.
“I was hoping I wouldn’t see you here,” Eren said once he found you. You barely heard him over your shoulder with the bass thrumming in your ears. You grabbed a can of beer from the refrigerator and turned to him.
“That’s not nice,” you lilted, though you could say the same to him. If he wasn’t here, you could have left an hour ago, and you’d probably be fucking in his apartment by now.
Eren saw through your pout and gave your lips a light flick with his index finger.
You waved his hand away with a soft giggle and an even softer smile, trailing your fingers along the length of his arm as you asked, “Were you hoping to see me somewhere else?”
But teasing was a game for two, and Eren never minded some friendly competition.
“No, this works,” he hummed. He came closer, resting his hands at your waist. “If you’re up for a little fun.”
Confused, mildly intrigued, and slightly wary of the implication, you felt your eyebrows knit together. They beckoned him to continue.
“Beer pong,” Eren said plainly. He leaned into you. “Loser gives head to the winner.”
“Here?”
“Here.” He ticked his head toward the hallway. “Bathroom’s that way.”
You didn’t entertain it at first, scoffing a laugh at such a ridiculous proposition. But then again, it did sound a little fun. The longer you thought it over, the more exciting it became. Temptation won you over, that swarming feeling in your stomach now a little flame, burning deeper, brighter, than you thought you could handle.
Then you extended your hand to Eren, and you shook on it.
You found the most hand-eye-coordinated person you know, starting quarterback Reiner Braun, and Eren recruited your friend Sasha ‘Sharp-Shootin’’ Braus, who had a knack for the game but only after a few drinks.
The game was close. The tension between you and Eren was palpable, and you wondered if Sasha and Reiner noticed between the winks and eyebrow wags you exchanged after every shot.
But we already know who won this game.
The sharp-shooter herself was too drunk to land the winning shot. Eren took the loss hard.
You slipped away to the bathroom together without raising suspicion. He pressed you against the door, closing and locking it before kissing you.
Against your mouth, he chaffed, “I think you cheated.”
“Cheated? How?” You laughed as you accused, “You’re just a sore loser,” then kissed him some more, your lips parting to give his silver tongue something better to do.
Of course Eren was a sore loser—he really wanted that blowjob. But that didn’t mean he lost; he still got to go down on you, and that was far from a chore. He was already hard just thinking about it, straining against his jeans as he imagined you coming undone on his tongue, with dozens upon dozens of people outside this cramped bathroom.
He had you just about there now, having fingered and licked at you for the better half of the last ten minutes; his soft tongue delved between you, flattened and gliding over your clit at a tempo that had you—
“Fuck!”
Again, it wasn’t the kind of ‘fuck!’ you liked. It wasn’t in pleasure but preceded by the thunk of your head when it flung back against the mirror.
You felt the huff of Eren’s chuckle against you. He peered up at you, his green eyes in stark contrast to the flush of his cheeks. Based on your expression, you were okay—more than okay—so he didn’t let up.
Your foot slid from the ledge again. You lazily left your leg dangling over his shoulder, more focused on the fire he was flaming in your pelvis, so close to engulfing you wholly.
Then Eren pulled away. Your eyes shot open at the sudden loss. He pushed his hair away from his face, then began making smeary circles against your clit with his thumb, agonizingly slow.
“Gonna come?” he asked, like he didn’t already know the answer. You hated that he could be such a tease—especially here, right now, of all times and places.
You shimmied your hips against his hand with a whine. His circles quickened, but his mouth kept running.
“C’mon, use your words.” His eyes were still on you, with a smirk growing at the corner of his slick, glossy lips.
Eren lapped at you once. You disappointingly clenched around nothing. On an exasperated exhale, you hastily told him, “Just shut up and make me come.”
You placed a hand on the top of his head in encouragement, and surprisingly, he continued without putting up a fight. He did lose the bet, after all.
He worked you back to your high, and you were nearly there when there was another interruption: a heavy knock on the door. Eren’s licking didn’t relent; he merely steadied your startle with a hand on your thigh.
“Hurry the fuck up in there!”
Eren’s mouth only separated an inch from you before he called back, “Hold on a sec. She’s about to finish.”
You must have had quite the audience. You heard ‘ooh’ and ‘oh, man’ and other fratty, boyish cheers.
You wanted to smack Eren for it. But you didn’t—couldn’t—because he closed his lips around your clit then, gently sucking and flicking his tongue over it until you were coming, loudly. You clasped a hand over your mouth, only for Eren to yank it back down.
“I wanna hear you.” It was nothing more than a sloppy mumble spoken into your skin. “Let ‘em know how fucking good it feels.”
You bit on your bottom lip like it would actually accomplish anything. You pawed at the countertop as if you could pinch it like a bedsheet as the low muscles of your stomach flexed deliciously tight. It dragged an obscene moan out of you as you rolled your hips over Eren’s tongue, riding out your high.
If no one knew about your friends-with-benefits relationship before, they certainly did now. You were still breathing hard when the realization hit that you’d have to face the crowd if you ever wanted to leave this bathroom.
Eren sat back, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist to reveal a suggestive grin. “Down for a rematch?”
✮ tags ; gn!reader, usage of honorfics (-senpai once, -san), submissive ish nanami, blowjobs, anal fingering, 18+
✮ wc ; 1.7k (???????????)
✮ a/n ; i dont know what happened. not even a nanami girl. but. i see a man in need. nanami sorry for what every does to you.
It's so easy to get Nanami to bent out of shape.
He tries his best, you think. He tries hard, and he's a good guy. You always feel bad being around him and pulling your pranks and antics. You're not like Satoru - he's told you, because you're much more conniving. Unlike Satoru, who Nanami finds dishonest - he thinks you're too direct. Too plain in your admission, your admonishment, your praise.
He deserves a break, for all the tremendous pressure he puts on himself to do well and protect. to make something out of his life. There's some part of him you feel a lot of sympathy for, and another part that sees him for what he is. A man under duress who's practically begging for reprieve. He wants to vacation on a beach somewhere, but he can't.
You think it's natural - inevitable, that Nanami will give into your flirting. You lay it on thick every time he comes by. he's only unaffected in the brief stretch of time where he thinks you're teasing him. Because he's older than you, jaded, easy. When he realizes there's even the slightest bit of sincerity in your words, he suddenly can't look you in the eye.
It's a troublesome affair for him to have feelings for his junior. It's inappropriate, and he can't approach you in the way he likes. The way he likes being controlled and practiced. He's quite the gentleman. Later, you'll sure he'll wine and dine you nicely as a proper thank you. A man like that leaves no good deed unaccounted for.
But for now, you don't really want to let Nanami do anything for you. You've always wanted to do something for him. Break him down. Maybe it's your problem, since a man with that kind of neuroses always turns on the worst in you.
Still. Still. You can see something in him that no one else does, a desire to forget himself. You can give that to him without trying that hard at it, but it does take a lot of convincing.
He's got the handsomest face when he's embarrassed out of his fucking mind. He gets red. You've never seen it before - but his face is lit up. Pink up to his ears.
He's haphazard. Shirt unbuttoned but not off, tie loosened. He took off his pants but couldn't manage his boxers. You've been riling him up all evening, teasing and testing and pushing. When he finally kissed you later on in the evening, an expression close to a plea - you knew you had him where you wanted him.
So you made it to his apartment, kissed in his hallway, pulled him onto the couch and dry-humped like two idiot teenagers. He can't see him to control it after all your meticulous bullying and he looks so much better that way. Loosened up and picked apart.
He's so easy. It's unimaginable for you in some ways, that your cool and collected senior could break apart over something like this. He's normally so reserved, but you've breached some upper limit and now he's like this underneath you.
The muscles of his thighs are tense as you sit patiently between his legs, a hand on his knee with another wrapped around his shaft. you laugh a little at the state, the pre-cum dripping down your fingers and
"Nanami-san," you punctuate the honorifics "You alright up there?"
He lets out a sigh like he's been holding it in all evening. He tries so hard. So hard. You respect it, admire his endless resolve. He chokes down a sound as your hands grip around the base of his cock.
"Yes," He says, only barely masking the thin veil of desperation in his voice. He's almost begging you. You think you're probably awful enough to get him there "I'm fine."
"You sure? You're red in the face. Been a while? You seem like the serial monogamist type. When was the last time you got laid?"
In an act of unbelievable cruelty, you decide the best time to blow him is now. You open your jaw wide, stick your tongue out and let the spit pool onto the tip of his length. He hisses, almost bites a hole in his lip looking down at you in disbelief. His cock throbs painfully in your hand and you giggle - which makes him look down at you ashamed.
You blink innocently, silently imploring him to keep going. He sighs, an arm thrown over his eyes and his hand closed into a hard fist. You close your mouth around the head, minding your teeth. Nanami tastes like skin and salt and musk, but not unpleasant at all. His pre-cum taste clean, just like the rest of him is so prim and perfect. You dip your tongue into his slit, watching him squirm before taking him down even further.
"Could you please—for the love of—"
You slide off your mouth of to talk. You can't help but want to press his buttons.
"Come on, Nanami-san. You can withhold a little bit. You're so sturdy, y'know, more than I thought. Tell me about your sex life."
Nanami can recognize your words for what they are, because he knows you and the games you play with him. He frowns hard, meeting your eyes and closing his own with a sigh.
"I don't remember," Nanami tells you, honest - nearly biting a hole into his lower lip as you massage his balls with your hands, soft as you kiss down his shaft and lave your tongue over the thin skin "It's been a long time. Years."
"That so? You deserve an orgasm, Nanami-senpai. A good one. You really work hard," You punctuate every word with a touch, a squeeze before he shivers himself into a mess. "Every had anything up there?"
His eyes widen in shock and dismay, but not disgust.
"....A very, very long time ago."
"You okay with it?"
"....Well, yes. I guess so."
"Any lube?"
"There's uhm," Nanami stutters, rubs his eyes like he doesn't know where he is "Oil. In the drawer."
"Kay," You say, casually, patting his thigh as you reach over to get it and return to him no problem. He looks at you awestruck and you look back at him with nothing more to offer "Try and relax,"
You warm the oil up in your fingers first before you pull his cock up enough to touch his ass. The rim of muscle flutters as you touch it, slick thumb drawing circles around. He makes a noise you can't identify, followed by one you can. A moan, slight and quiet enough to go undetected. You grin silently as you ease a finger in, a thumb first then your pointer. Nanami breathes through the motion, and you move slow enough to get him to relax.
Once there's one, you go back to blowing him. He loosens up immediately when he feels the warmth of your mouth, hot and slick, suctioned around his cock. You relax your throat taking him deep, opening his ass at the same time.
It's more attention than he's had in a while. There's an unmistakble quality of lust, gargled words and sounds and shuddering. His chest is so flushed in the bare light of apartment he almost glows. You start with one finger and keep your blowing steady - start him easy with stimulation.
You get another, then another - and when your three fingers in, you decide you have some room to be relentless. Ruthless. You curl your fingers and search for his prostate. You know when you've found it because the sound he lets out is debauched.
It's easy - too easy, to get Nanami completely bent out of shape. Getting him this broken this fast almost feels like a trick of light - his dark brown eyes rimmed red and shaking. Such a composed gentlemanly sort moaning a fucking mess.
His strong chest is trembling as it rises up and down trying to catch a breath. You know when you find the spot because he nearly jerks his hips, but shows enough restraint not to do it. Not to fuck up into his throat animalistically like he wants so badly.
A well-trained man he is. You suppose all men can be a little like dogs.
So you reward him by deep-throating him. It takes all of your willpower and expertise but the reaction is more than worth it.
So polite, he doesn't even swear when he breaks underneath your ministrations. Doesn't cry, doesn't even scream when he wants too. His cock shudders and twitches and pulses against the warmth of your mouth, pre-cum streaming into your throat like a broken faucet. But he doesn't let himself cum, doesn't do anything but let you have your way with him.
No, he wants you to have your way with him.
You pull off and he whines. Whines. His voice, thick and deep, so pitched with need you almost want to laugh. You kiss his cock affectionately.
"You can cum when you feel like it. 'Kay?"
He just nods, speechless. Needy. You feel so good and a little sorry for him at the same time. But you're urged by a silent desire to ruin him at his very foundation.
So for the last time, you let your mouth come down on him and fuck him with your fingers. You give it everything, bobbing your hand and timing your rhythms well enough that your wrists hurt. It's a game of balance, but you manage it - because with even the slightest gestures or veritable movements, Nanami folds.
He caves in on himself, breathing ragged and practically drooling. Poor Nanami, you think. It's just so easy to get him this way, and it's fun too.
The words barely get out of his throat before he can warn you, frantically that he's going to cum. But you don't move, pushing forward and barrelling your way towards his orgasm. You can feel it happen on your tongue, cock twitching hard and he unloads deep into your throat.
You don't taste it so it's easy to swallow, and you swallow hard as you milk him making him pull you off in a desperate plea for mercy.
You laugh as you pull away from him, watching as he stares down at you awestruck and a little afraid. You wipe the corners of your mouth and smile.
"You're so sexy, Nanami-san,"
He groans in shame and embarrassment, still red to the tip of his ears.
WEEK THREE — smoking + aki hayakawa, 18+, fem bodied reader, riding, shotgunning, semi-public sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, creampies, cockwarming, a touch of angst, aki indulges in his two favorite vices: you and his cigarettes
kinktober masterlist
C'mon, Aki. Make me yours.
Aki hasn't been able to focus on anything but those words since he heard them.
First came your hands on his shoulders. You'd squeezed behind his chair as he was lighting his cigarette, his palm cupped around the flame to shield it from the wind. Aki closed his eyes, stiff muscles relaxing from the way you rolled them under your palms; you leaned in, you kissed him softly on the cheek, tilted his head up by his chin to kiss him on the lips.
Your voice is a whisper right next to his ear. They went to bed already. It's just us. You're so tense, you've been stressed all day, haven't you? Do you want to relax now?
Aki swallows. He reaches over and sets his lighter aside. Your fingertips dance across his neck, tapping his skin, feeling out his hurried pulse. He doesn't take long to figure out his answer.
Come here.
You're quick then to make your way in front of him. Climbing into his lap, he watches you, pliant. Your hands find his shoulders and grip tight for leverage, feeling the muscle underneath. The small balcony chair now occupying the two of you creaks slightly from the extra weight. Cool night air flicks sharply against your skin and the back of his neck, it rustles Aki's hair and whispers promises in his ears. The same promises you're affectionately cooing to him.
I'll make you feel good. That's what you want, yeah?
And even though it's late, you shouldn't do this here — Your lips press in warm kisses onto his neck, and Aki is tilting his head to make everything easier. He exhales, his skin tingling. A plane passes overhead like a shooting star's figment. You're sighing already even though he hasn't done anything, he feels your hands blindly fumble with the hem of his sweatpants and he lifts his hips, he doesn't try to stop you.
Aki's heart thuds heavy in his chest, in his ears, a rhythmic drum. Smoke wisps steadily from his unattended cigarette. He holds the small of your back with his free hand, his touch reassuring. You prop yourself up on your knees after you've discarded your shorts, and Aki wraps his thumb around your underwear. His gaze doesn't leave yours as he tugs them down to your thighs.
He pulls you closer, his arm holding your back again. Your entire body tremors when the head of his cock nudges your entrance. Palm moving to your hip, he doesn't let you hesitate; Aki pulls you down, sinking you onto him. His hand clenches, gripping you tight, he mumbles a swear under his breath. His chest begins to heave once he's all the way inside, he savors the familiarity of your warm cunt while his thumb rubs your skin in soothing circles. He pants between soft exhales of pleasure: So good, oh- you feel so good.
Neither of you can breathe for a couple of moments. Aki's brows twitch the way they do when there's something more he wants to say but can't manage it. His eyes dart from you pressed up on his lap to your face, his expression softening instantly.
The cigarette he's holding has been burning for a while now; he hangs his arm down, he fiddles with it and ash scatters onto the concrete below. The starry night sky glimmers in his gaze, shadows and lights from the city blanket his features. He's all of your vision, and when he's inside you, he becomes all that matters.
You wrap your arms around his shoulders in something like a hug, and Aki's got the ghost of a smile on his face even though you can't tell, he's closing his eyes once your voice fans out warmly over the shell of his ear.
I've missed you, you know.
Aki blinks. He knows, he definitely knows. He rubs your back as his way of answering.
Slowly, he brings his cigarette to his parted lips, the end flares to life as he takes a long drag in. The rich taste of smoke in his lungs is even better than he remembers. You lean backward, his gaze catches yours and he holds his exhale. Sitting up, he closes the distance, he cups your cheek, his head tilting. Warm lips brush yours and he meets you open-mouthed, breathing a steady puff of smoke that lingers in between you once you both pull away.
Your senses spark alight, the taste of his cigarettes is a reminder of all the nights you've shared puffs of smoke with him in the exact same way. It reminds you of the excuses you'd make to kiss him, when everything was indirect and left with more questions. The moments where you'd light one up when you're all alone in hopes of pretending he was still there beside you.
Thought you were dead for a while, you're mumbling, like it's simple, like it isn't a big deal, You worry me sick sometimes.
A pained look grows in intensity on Aki's face, yet you still feel you have no idea what he's thinking. Before you have the chance to speak again, he's desperately pressing his lips to yours. A kiss with no smoke in between is just a kiss. He cradles the back of your neck ever-so gently and you indulge, allowing your fingers tangle in his hair.
One kiss turns into two, and then three, and then you've lost count. Your hips shift impatiently, grinding, and he pulls away to toss his head back with a groan; he pulses hard inside you and you're reeling, dizzy. You can't keep from moving any longer, but he's already coaxing you, grabbing your side and following along with your movement.
Aki shudders. It's like his skin's been set on fire, enveloping warmth spreading onto his back and over his spine. He's already sweating — he can feel the moisture on the side of his face — in spite of the cold temperature outside. His slight grunts of pleasure mix with every echo of skin hitting skin, the sounds quiet and secretive, enough for only the two of you to hear.
That's where you say it.
Aki kisses your jaw, flicking his cigarette over the ashtray. Your soft bounces on his lap have you out of breath already. He can hear the wobble in your voice, overtaken by arousal once you've leaned in close to him.
I want you to make me forget about all of it, Aki. Make me yours.
He freezes, he's shaking, not from the cold but from something different. Aki brings his cigarette back to his mouth with hesitant fingers. He takes a deep breath in, and his hand slips underneath your shirt to find your bare side. You're surrounded by smoke as he breathes out, it clings to the edges of your form in his vision, makes them fuzzy. His gaze connects with yours and he passes the cigarette to you wordlessly. The pace of your hips slows to a halt, you close your eyes to take a drag, exhaling quickly, reaching over to stamp out the spent cigarette.
Perhaps he's thinking about this too much. Maybe it was nothing, just a bit of talking to get him going, no meaning behind it. His stupid heart can't help but tell him differently.
You've always been more to him than he's had the courage to let on. He tells others at the division you're his friend, tells you this is nothing serious, and you might think the same. Might think he's just using you as another vice to get by. Something to forget and stamp out once he's done. God, he's an idiot.
None of that could be any further from the truth, he never meant to push you away, never wanted to be apart from you for as long as he has. You're precious to him, you're infinitely precious and for once, he wants you to know that.
"Yeah," Aki starts in response. Voice all husky, his eyes half-lidded, he's made up his mind, "I'll make you mine."
He's cupping your cheek and pulling you in for a kiss immediately. Teeth nip gently at your lower lip, and he groans in the space between you, he kisses you hard and lets his tongue crash into yours. His taste is like smoke, ashy and familiar. He grips you hard, he begins to guide your movement until you're taking the hint, arms wrapping around him while you bounce to a faster, needier pace.
His hot breath on your lips, he praises before he kisses you, "There, just like that. Just like that."
Your moans into his mouth grow louder, your eyebrows knit together from the pressure. The sound echoing each time you move is getting wetter. Aki kisses your lips over and over again to keep your noises muffled, allowing no-one else to hear. His thumb caresses your cheek as a form of encouragement, too tender for how dirty this is, for how wildly you're riding him.
And between your perfect noises and the squeeze of your slick pussy around him, he can't help himself — He rocks his hips up into you, the fat tip of his cock nudges right where you wanted it and your cunt is pulsing. He separates from you with one last kiss, he strokes your shoulders gently because you're suddenly panting so hard it sounds like it hurts.
Aki gives you a moment. Then, he's taking in a shaky breath. "Did you-"
"Can't help it," You answer, and Aki's gulping, his throat dryer the more you go on, "I haven't since the last time you were here. I didn't even touch myself."
"Shit," He rubs his temple with his fingers, trying not to stutter, "You were waiting for me?"
You wrap your arms around him innocently, you hum an mhmm into his ears. Aki feels heavy, your lips press to the side of his neck and scatter kisses onto his skin, and he finds your hips, grinding you close. Already, you're quickly working your way back up, humping against him messily with trembling thighs, chasing as much pleasure as you are willing to take.
Aki mutters a Careful, into your ear, slowing you a bit. His hold on your hip keeps you going at a lax pace, getting yourself used to it again, gentle arcs of your hips still more than enough to make you moan.
He won't make you wait. Not now, not ever. Aki's going to have you come undone for him over and over again, until you can't take anymore. Until pleads of his name are stuck in your throat, until there's no doubt in your mind that he's yours.
This time, he thrusts up into you without any hesitance, gasps and whines leave his lips in tandem with your own, just as loud. Your movements are ragged, you're sensitive since you've already came and Aki takes full advantage — Rutting his dick nice and deep, he's got you falling towards the edge already. It's completely different to have him in control, to have him fuck you how he knows you like, to feel him stuttering because he doesn't want to come undone yet and to hear his focused breathing in your ear, heavy and all for you.
He melts at your earnest little noises, he kisses your cheek, kisses you like he loves you. You ask him for more and he nods, he gives you everything. More of his cock, more of his devotion.
"Aki-" You drop your forehead to his shoulder and oh, you sound perfect, "I'm gonna cum-"
Aki tremors with the weight of how close he is, his heart pounds fiercely in his chest. He holds you as close as he can get you and rocks you on his cock, giving you just enough.
"I've got you," He pants, palm working up to hold your back, his words are syrupy and warm, "I'm gonna cum inside you- Let go for me."
A few more moments and you're finishing in unison; Aki spills inside, thick and dripping, his chest heaves, his arms are trembling. Your core fills with warmth, he mutters a quiet shhh into your ear because you're getting loud. You fall limp against him and Aki keeps you close. He opens his eyes slowly, his vision a blur, coming into focus after a couple of blinks.
Your hips lift to allow him to slip out. Aki's lips purse, his palm caresses your side. He brings you up more and he presses the tip of his still hard cock to your entrance, easing in just barely at first, and then sighing along with you as he easily slides all the way back inside.
"Don't stop," Aki chokes, you can't tell if it's a plea or a command, "Not yet."
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. "Someone's gonna see us."
"Let them." He strokes your sides, speaks right up against your nape, "Just... stay still. Don't push yourself. But don't move. I'm begging you."
Your legs are beginning to hurt. Your head is spinning, he holds you and murmurs under his breath a weak apology, one you don't even know what for. Aki isn't a selfish man, he isn't greedy. Everything he does, he does for you, and you're sure of it. You have no idea if you can cum anymore but you're willing to try, you're going to try, because you know that's exactly what he's after.
You catch your breath for a few moments longer. Every fiber of yourself sears in the shape of his name, you start to rock your hips shallowly — The smallest movements, and yet they're still so goddamn overwhelming. Aki reminds you that you can take more with his lips on your jaw, his kind touch on your spine.
Your whole body aches with pleasure. It's hard to move, so wet and slippery from his cum. His shaft is a creamy, sticky white when you lift up nearly all the way only to sink back down. The faint kisses he gives to your neck make Aki's lips quiver, he sneaks a glance at the sight of you taking him and thinks his heart might beat right out of his chest.
You're both so fucking messy. Your thighs are soaked, his cum is leaking everywhere each time you move; you've got his chair filthy, his lap even filthier. He was supposed to pull out and he'd planned on it until he got those thoughts in his head about you being his, and despite how risky it is, all he can think of now is how badly he wants to give you some more.
He thinks he's straight-laced, yet he gives in to your temptation all too easily. He can't stop. Though, neither can you.
You can feel him in your stomach, and it's too fucking good, too perfect. Aki makes the prettiest face when he's inside you, you stare at him the moment before your foreheads touch and he looks like he might cry, but you wouldn't mind that. You'd wipe the shiny droplets from his pretty face and tell him to promise to fuck you like this for the rest of his days, never holding back, love-filled and burning with longing.
He's got you bouncing on him faster now, one hand in yours, the other resting on your ass. His bangs form a sweaty mess around his face. He keeps his forehead to your own, laces his fingers with yours and holds on like you're his only tether. He feels you slow down, listens to your feeble gasps for breath. You steady, and he takes the reigns away from you, rolling his hips, fucking you deeply with no chance to rest.
You give him one more grind into his lap with the last of your energy.
"Oh, f-fuuuck, that's it-" He's breathless, just as overwhelmed as you are, "Fuck, fuck… Say my name. Please."
You whine, shaky hand grabbing onto his tightly as he thrusts into you over and over: never rough, just heady and intense, more than you've ever been used to, but everything you need. You pant his name between heavy gasps of pleasure. Aki, Aki, Aki…
"God…" Aki can't take this, he shuts his eyes to keep them from rolling into the back of his head, "I'll never leave you, I won't leave you again I swear. Look at me."
You know he's telling the truth, you'd never doubt his words but when he holds your cheek in his hand and guides you to meet his eyes you're sure he isn't lying. Pupils blown wide, but eyes still so blue, the night sky's reflection on the ocean. His breath hitches the instant you're looking at him, his face is so hot he can't stand it. He's gonna lose it, he thinks he'll lose everything right here and now and he wouldn't even care, as long as you're with him, as long as you're happy. He needs to make you happy. Nothing else matters, nothing.
"Please, I- I'm sorry," He can hardly speak, talking through clumsy bucks of his hips, "I r-really am, 'm sorry, you're so important to me, you're everything."
You whine something inaudible, Aki kisses your lips and tastes the smoke on your breath — He wants to say more, wants desperately to mumble some nonsense about how he's gonna fix it, he won't make you miss him anymore, you can run away together or something stupid, and you're gonna be his and it'll be perfect. But once he's close, he can hardly manage anything near that, so he just says the best happy medium.
"Love you," Aki gulps, his whole body feels warm, so warm. "I really do."
You moan loud for him, you reach for his shoulders and hold onto him tight. "Love you more than anything, Aki-"
That's it. That's all he needed to hear.
Aki whimpers hard, you feel him promptly throb inside you; he freezes up and needs another second to start hastily fucking into you again. He pulls you into a hug way too tender for this, he thrusts into you as best he can with clumsy movements and weak knees, his hand gently holding the back of your head.
"I- I love you," He's crying now, he's definitely crying, "I'm so- I love you, I'm gonna- Are... are you close?"
As if on queue, you nod your head quickly and you manage to gasp, "Cumming again, I'm gonna cum-"
Aki kisses the side of your face, he curls into you, he chants your name like it's all he knows.
With a few final rocks of his hips, he brings you to the edge, you're louder than you've ever been and he says a silent prayer that none of your neighbors are out tonight. He was already close, but the feeling of you pulsing around him, tight and warm, has him cumming again right after you, filling you up for the second time. He slows gradually, he takes you to a gentle peak. You come down nice and easy, while Aki holds your chin and kisses every inch of your face.
You breathe one final huff, and then you collapse right into his chest.
"You alright?" Aki rubs your back, he lifts you off of him and briefly stumbles from the sudden lack of sensation. "Think you can keep going?"
You laugh, your voice all raspy. He smiles to himself, finding it pretty. You bury your face in his shoulder. "Dunno. Maybe."
"I'll help you clean up first. And go get condoms. The corner store a few blocks down is still open this late, I think."
"Not necessary. The second thing you said, not the first."
"I still miss you." Aki admits, honest, "I know that doesn't make any sense because you're right here, but…"
Your breathing's grown deep. You lean back, and you've got a grin tugging at your cheeks as you reach to brush stray strands of hair away from his face and behind his ears.
"We can keep going, I'd like to. If you give me a little bit to relax."
From here on out, he'll give you all that he has.
Aki wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. He gestures for you to go inside.
thinking about since canonically Geto is more popular with girls than Gojo he’s gotten used to them looking past him to get to Geto but what if Gojo and Geto are out for drinks with the other teachers one night and he gets approached by the reader but he thinks she’s just coming over to ask him for Geto’s number and so he prepares his ‘responsible best friend’ act and then SHE ASKS ABOUT HIM INSTEAD, ALL BLUSHY AND STUFF BECAUSE HE LOOKED LIKE HE WAS GONNA BRUSH HER OFF
AHH I LOVE HIM SM 😔😔😔
pairing: gojo satoru x reader | 1k words
summary: fluff, pining, reader is a simp but same, satoru is a good wingman but he needs attention too, au ig bc suguru's alive LMAO, idiots in love?
rheya's note: oh my god shut up this is so cute and YOU'RE ABSOLUTELY RIGHT??? i can just imagine that he's gotten so used to judging whether or not the person is even worth suguru's attention before deciding to pass on his info...and after a while his brain just defaults to thinking that everyone wants suguru but he FORGETS that there are gojo girlies out there (me asf) !! thanks for the ask nonnie babes i love this idea so so much <33
OK SO
it's obvious that there are quite a few women at the bar eyeing the group. young, attractive teachers spending an evening trying to relax and take their minds off of the stress of jujutsu work. nanami is in deep conversation with shoko about something while ijichi quietly listens. further down the table utahime is quietly sipping her drink while mei mei orders another. shoko makes a comment and suguru bursts into unabashed laughter.
the flush of alcohol dusts over each of their cheeks, but satoru remans the only one who has barely touched his glass, the sting of the bitterness a little too harsh for him to enjoy. he opts for instead letting his eyes roam over the faces in the crowd, taking little notice of all the eyes and smiles sent in their direction.
well until he notices you anyway.
you're already looking in his direction curiously, face illuminated by the dim lighting of the bar as your friends giggle around you. when his eyes lock with yours, you immediately tear your gaze away, trying to play it off by immediately delving into conversation, though satoru can tell that there's a flush crawling up your neck now.
he doesn't look away though, too caught up in the crinkle of your eyes and the smile lines that grace your face as you laugh at something. a minute later you're looking back in their direction, and when you catch him staring, you turn away yet again.
satoru glances to his side, knowing that you're probably watching suguru take a sip of his drink and most likely falling for his charming smile.
typical and so predictable.
some time passes like this. you'll look, and turn away, and satoru will watch you do it over and over again. it isn't until a while later that satoru catches your friends pushing your shoulders and giggling, and he knows that they're urging you to come up and ask about suguru. you're shaking your head, the nervousness clear as day as your brows pinch. but eventually you succumb to peer pressure and stand up from your table, taking anxious strides towards him.
and usually, satoru will make a face or turn his back or do something to look as unapproachable as possible. because almost every person who comes up asking for suguru's contact info has been obnoxious as hell.
but you're quite pretty and you look sweet enough, and he doesn't think it'd be right to deter you.
suguru would probably like you too.
so satoru decides to let you try at least, and if you seem to be as nice as you look maybe he'd bridge the gap between you and his best friend.
you make your way up to him, and as soon as he finally gets a good look at you he's thinking you're a lot prettier up close.
dammit.
"hi." you say, face hot as you try your best to maintain steady eye contact with him. you look so nervous, fidgeting with the fabric of your clothes as you attempt to strike up conversation, and he doesn't have it in him to watch you struggle.
"yeah i can give you his number." he says, voice clipped as he tries to hide the disappointment in it. you watch him grab a napkin and begin scribbling something down, confusion clear as he hands you the digits.
"um…?" you look at the napkin and then at him. "sorry, who's number is this?"
satoru balks, lips parting as he mirrors your confusion. "uh…suguru's? the guy behind me?"
realization dawns on your face and you shift your weight from foot to foot.
"oh actually," you suck your teeth nervously, trying to hide behind an awkward little smile. "i came to talk to you."
satoru can only blink, cerulean eyes widening behind his glasses as he stares at you in surprise.
you take his silence as a bad sign, shoulders dropping and embarrassment settling in your frown as you look anywhere but his face. "s-sorry if that's weird. i don't wanna make you uncomfortable or anything so-"
he's grinning before he can stop himself, heart dangerously swelling with affection as he motions toward the empty stool next to him. "not weird at all."
the pleasant surprise on your face makes him bite back a chuckle, and you take the seat. "huh...i wasn't expecting you to be okay with it."
satoru raises a brow curiously, tilting his head. "why not?"
you shrug with a careless grin. "i had a feeling you were gonna brush me off from the moment i first looked over."
satoru winces, and he can practically feel suguru's knowing smirk on his back. he chooses to ignore that for now, eyes trailing over the mirth in your expression, and he can only smile helplessly. "no way in hell."
your laugh comes instantly, sweet and bright, and you take it as a sign to continue talking. satoru listens on, sipping his drink to hide his giddy smile and ignoring the sting of bitterness once again.
honestly, with the amount of sweetness he's just found, satoru would tolerate as much bitterness as he needed to.
“Still no update?” Girli am currently pursuing a degree in biochemistry. I’m literally learning how to cure cancer. How about we be a bit more polite babe?
you get locked in a closet at a drunken house party with a slightly inebriated aki and you expect him to make a move but instead he just awkwardly stares at you and asks you how your night is going
₊˚⊹｡ see me through the morning glow | gojo satoru
wc: 1.0k
summary: you and gojo have a slow morning.
contains: f!reader in mind, suggestive if you squint, food descriptions.
a/n: unedited, i honestly dk what this is i just really needed to get this out of my system! this is how i cope with 236.
re-uploaded because i accidentally deleted!
You slip out of bed faced with the promise of sunlight.
The curtains in your bedroom radiate a glow that bounces off the man lying next to you; it’s soft, near-white, almost ethereal, the color of his skin, hair, and bones. His back is exposed, arm reaching out over the (now) empty space beside him—the crinkles and folds where you once were.
You’ve always thought your bedroom had good lighting, and now you can confirm why: in the shadows, deepening the line that runs down his spine; in the highlights, guiding your eyes to the pockets of muscle behind his shoulders.
You look away, trying your best not to stare; the only reason he’s undressed is because of a cold sweat, from the nightmares—and the very need for skin-to-skin, to ground him in your touch.
On mornings like this, you let Gojo sleep in.
(Because you’re lucky if he can fall back asleep again).
It’s slow today—no work, no missions that need you or Gojo. It’s your favorite kind of day, and Gojo’s too (once he wakes up and smells the waffles you’ve prepared, double topped with whipped cream and maple syrup—his special, of course).
A steady stream of warmth flows through the window to your kitchen countertop, the marble glimmering as light hits. The material was his choice; you don’t care much for glamor but Gojo likes pretty things—you especially, he likes to say.
The batter is quick to prepare, a recipe you’ve done many times before, so you ladle it into the waffle maker before letting it set on its own. Then, you grab a pan to heat up, spooning in last night’s leftover rice, some soy sauce, and mirin, adding salt to taste, as needed. A standard fried rice breakfast, with a yolk to mix in later.
The sound of his footsteps are concealed by the sizzles of the pan in front of you, but you’re caught off guard by arms wrapped around your waist, and his chin nestling itself into your shoulder as he nuzzles you.
He’s still shirtless, you notice, so you inch backwards in case of any oil spatter.
“Good sleep?” you mumble, certain that he heard you.
He hums, before whispering, lips tickling the edges of your ear on purpose, pouting, “Not anymore when you left.”
This man—a giant baby, puffed cheeks with long limbs hunched over you.
Your big baby.
Despite his whines, he’s telling the truth, you know, and you feel warm because of it, affection seeping in the cracks between his arms and the kitchen stove.
You blow on a spoonful of rice before lifting it up to his lips. Gojo’s breakfasts are always sweet, but every time you cook, he looks forward to this: waiting right behind you to be fed over your shoulder.
His review will always be the same, of course, everything you touch turns out good.
He reaches for the waffle maker with one hand while the other keeps you close, and you plate his little breakfast for him, whipped cream with little hearts drawn in maple syrup.
You grab a bowl for your rice and sit by the counter, Gojo sitting thigh-to-thigh beside you despite the abundance of space around you.
You realize then, that Gojo tends to hover.
Not necessarily in a bad way, just that, he does it all the time—always wanting to be near.
And for someone so perceiving, practically all-seeing, he doesn’t really have to for him to know what you’re up to, but with every opportunity he has, he never misses a moment to be close to you.
When you wash the dishes by the sink, he stays beside you, shoulder-to-shoulder, even when the sink is wide enough to accommodate him a few inches farther.
Even the walk to the bathroom has him tailing you, following your footsteps as he traces the footprints of slow mornings with you.
Your bathroom counter has two sinks, but of course, today, he chooses to stay by yours.
“Skincare?” you raise a tub of face mask.
He doesn’t need it, but you love pampering him, so he nods, whatever you want.
You struggle for a bit (he’s just too tall), so he picks you up by the waist and rests you on the bathroom counter, against the mirror.
He stays in the space between your legs, hands flat against your thighs. His thumb kneads your skin gently, and any other time, this position would end very differently, but there’s a look he’s giving you—all words without speaking.
And—
“Quit staring,” you mumble, turning shy. You’re about to rub the product onto his cheeks, under his eyes.
“What, I can’t look at you?” he moves closer, keeping his eyes locked on you as he rubs circles on your thighs.
“No, you can, but,” you swallow, “you’re looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” his brows furrow.
“Like that.” you sigh, gesturing to his face.
“Like I love you?”
And it is like that. Like he loves you. That’s why he says it so casually.
Because he does.
You stay quiet, stunned, before you clear your throat and finish up the final area on his face.
“Yeah.” you mumble, reaching over to wash your hands on the sink.
Gojo waits for you to finish before he takes a small towel to dry your hands with it.
“As if you don’t know.” he scoffs, pulling you closer to the edge of the counter.
He’s right—it’s been said before, but there’s something else in his eyes right now, shiny and devoted, as if this is all he could ever want. As if you, on this slow morning, in this too-big bathroom is all he could ever need.
But he doesn’t say anything. At least, not what he really means.
“Not my fault you’re so pretty today,” he adds on, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
It should be funny, that he’s telling you all this with a mask slathered all over his face, but his compliments always speak to the depths of you, even when you don’t expect them to.
His fingers mold against your cheek, to your ears, down to the back of your head, bringing you closer until he kisses you softly, a gentle peck.
Bits of the face mask transfer to your nose and you giggle, wiping it off.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, they say.” you joke.
Gojo smiles, that look on his face, “Good for you then, you’re the only one I see.”
re-uploaded because i accidentally deleted!
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