close to you.

18+. multifandom writing blog. check out my pinned post!

[dayglovv]

status: semi-active. inbox: open for chats, closed for suggestions.

― MOST RECENT.

   headcanon: holding you for the first time ft. Gojo Satoru, Nanami Kento, & Ieiri Shoko    fic: restless ft. Kento Nanami    interests: jjk + jjba

― NAVI.

   rules.    masterlist.    about.    ao3.    main blog.

[dayglovv]

𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

↳ Risotto Nero & Bruno Bucciarati

suggestions: 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯 asked: "Oh! I didnt mean to fall asleep leaning on you" with risotto?💕 // 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯 asked: ooooo if youre still doing this maybe 'i love how soft your lips are' w/ bruno pls! i love your work (≧◡≦) // 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯 asked: “Did you do that on purpose?” with a flirty bruno !!!!

ask game: physical contact starters  — closed.

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts for 1.5 weeks... pls enjoy this horribly expired food, friends.

warnings: mentions of death in Risotto’s part.

— risotto nero.

you know Risotto cares. it doesn’t take a genius to see it. he’s the first to heal your teammates, using Metallica to gather the iron their blood cells for faster recovery. he was the last to leave Sorbet and Gelato’s funeral. and now, after a completed mission, he’s letting you sleep on his shoulder. ↳ “oh! I didn’t mean to fall asleep leaning on you.”    “it’s fine. get your rest.”

what your teammates don’t see is how physically affectionate he can be. it’s not something that happened right away, though. in fact, the first time you held Risotto’s hand, you could feel his entire body go rigid.

but with time, touching you became as natural as breathing. he touches you any time the squad isn’t looking. little things, like brushing your hair from your face or adjusting the collar of your shirt. for as small as these moments are, they’re all things he relishes nonetheless.

you’ll never forget the first time he kissed you out of his own accord. normally he lets you take the lead, but maybe watching you die made him act on pure adrenaline. you took a bullet to the heart. you could hear him yelling, followed by a gushing sound coming from the perpetrator. a quick death from Metallica, unusual from someone like Risotto. but when it was revealed that the wallet in your chest pocket saved your life, that stony exterior faded to something so much more desperate. 

he collided his lips against yours, holding your face so tightly yet so carefully. he had to feel everything about you — your warmth, the rumble from your lips when you moaned, the way your fingers found themselves in his hair. he needed to make sure this was real. you were real. because for a moment, even if for a second, he thought he lost the person most important to him. ↳ “I failed you. I should have been more diligent to protect you and... I’m sorry. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d lost you.”

— bruno bucciarati.

Bucciarati has this warm but almost intimidating aura around him. while he’s widely respected in the community, he didn’t become a capo from being kind to everyone. he’s ruthless, cunning in the missions he carries out. it’s no wonder why troublemakers scurry away the moment they see him.

it’s fair, you think. he has a reputation to uphold. he can’t let people think that he’s weak. that’s why it throws you off when you find out how smooth he can be.

like the first time he held your hand. he asked you if you could hold something for him, and when you stuck your palm out, he laced his fingers with yours. you couldn’t even think of a good reply to that; you just turned away, face red, while Bucciarati chuckled at your response.

after several moments like this, you want to get back at him. it’s late and it’s a weeknight, so not many people are around. quiet nights like these are when he’s most comfortable with dumb antics. that’s when you take your cue. you stop him in his tracks, saying there’s something on his mouth. you ask him to hold still so you can get it. then, before he has much time to respond, you place a quick peck on his lips. he freezes. then he blinks. and finally, he says, ↳ “did you do that on purpose?”

you think you’ve gotten him. you think that after all this time, you’ve finally out-smoothed him. but then he proves you wrong, that you can and will never best him. it’s a lesson you learn as Bucciarati holds your face in his palm before kissing you again, so, so sweetly. he’s smiling. and when you wrap your arms around his neck and you feel him laugh against your lips, your heart just swells. ↳ “you should do that more. I love how soft your lips are.”

[dayglovv]

𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞.

↳ Gojo Satoru, Nanami Kento, & Ieiri Shoko

suggestions:  𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯 asked: gojo with “I bet I’m strong enough to pick you up.” ʕ •ₒ• ʔ // 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯 asked: "I bet I'm strong enough to pick you up." For Gojo please! //  𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯 asked: hello miss toya i hope you're well!! how about "you dont mind me touching you there right" + nanami? you write him so well :') // @yisxn​ asked: “i bet i’m strong enough to pick you up” + nanamin 😌 alternatively, “that stung a little. go easy on me next time” + best wife shoko whichever you have more muse for! 💕

ask game: physical contact starters  — closed.

a/n: hi friends! apologies for the horribly belated response to these prompts, but I hope you like what I came up with!! thanks for sticking around and enjoy <33

warnings: Gojo picks up Reader, mentions of a sprained ankle and black eye in Gojo and Shoko’s parts respectively, cut for length.

— gojo satoru.

“I bet I’m strong enough to pick you up!”

no. absolutely not. even if your ankle is throbbing, even if every step you take shoots pain up your entire goddamn body — you refuse to let Gojo Satoru pick you up.

you don’t even know why Yaga sent you on this mission with him. he’s Special Grade; surely he wouldn’t need help from a Grade 1 sorcerer. you’d only get in his way and the fact you sprained your ankle was evidence enough. how embarrassing. you thought sprained ankles were something only kids who got too rowdy at the playground suffered from.

yet here you are, having Gojo hold you as you limp back to the car.

maybe you shouldn’t have let your pride get the best of you. maybe if you hadn’t tried so hard to prove you could be as strong as Gojo, then you wouldn’t have messed up your footing and ended up in this situation. ugh. just your luck. of course this would happen to you.

despite that, Gojo doesn’t seem bothered. amused sure, but concerned more than anything else. which is... odd. you’re so used to seeing him joke with the kids, or annoy Nanami, or make some smart remark to Yaga that having him be so careful with you feels, in short, fucking weird.

but you’ll take it. you had this coming.

despite your protesting, Gojo doesn’t listen. of course he wouldn’t; he never listens. and the fact you’re approaching stairs — a necessary step to get back to the car — is testing his patience.

so he lifts you up. he does it in one motion, hooking one arm under your legs and holding your back with the other. it happens too suddenly for you to protest, so the only thing that comes from your mouth is a quiet “h-hey!”, followed by your holding his neck for support.

this earns you a laugh from him. it’s not the usual, obnoxious laugh he makes when he’s teasing you. it’s... light. airy. he’s not laughing at you. and as much as you hate to admit it, it does bring you some sort of comfort.

you’ve never been this close to him. normally you try to avoid it. but... he smells nice. earthy, like bergamot and sage. and he’s much warmer than you gave him credit for. it’s comforting. 

you’re finding he’s pleasant when he’s quiet. so much so that you start to lean your head against Gojo’s chest, and he merely hums in response.

you didn’t think he’s strong enough to carry you. he’s so damn lanky and his cursed technique doesn’t require any physical strength. but he’s got you in his arms and there aren’t any complaints about bringing you down the stairs. just a pleased grin and a curt, “told you so.”

— nanami kento.

it’s 2 AM and you’re avoiding a lead. you’re both struggling to stay awake, with your heavy eyelids and Nanami’s constant yawns. but this could be a big break, and both of you could force yourselves awake if it meant a hefty end-of-the-month bonus. god. you can just taste all the food you’d buy once it hits your checking account.

but for right now, all that matters is you, Nanami, and solving this case. focus, moron. food can wait.

after copying the lead’s info from her laptop onto a USB, you both fled from the scene. she and her goons are looking for you. thankfully, no one got a good look at you or Nanami’s face.

but then Nanami clicks his tongue and that’s all you need to know something isn’t right. he tells you to hold on, before pushing you against a brick wall. you knock your head and he ushers a quiet apology, then uses his figure to box you away from sight.

that’s when you see the lead and her subordinates push through the crowds. they’re swinging their heads frantically, eyes darting from person to person as if they just saw you, you were just here, where the hell did you go?

“you don’t mind my touching you here, right?”

your eyes flicker back to Nanami and... wow. okay. yeah. he’s really close. his forearm is above your head, leaning close to you to keep your faces out of sight. his face is in front of yours, breath bouncing of your skin, eyes directly in line with your own. you can hear him breathing and how he swallows hard — from being so close to you or nearly getting caught, you can’t tell. this is close. this is... really, really close.

his hand is ghosting over your hip, and then it hits you: he’s trying to play a role. that’s right. he always says PDA makes him uncomfortable. surely, it did for everyone else. he’s trying to protect you — snap out of it!

you oblige, and Nanami’s hand instantly finds the soft part of your side. then he pulls you close to him. not a gentle tug, mind you, he yanks you to his figure with a soft grunt. it’s just a role, it’s just a role, it’s just a role.

the lead glances at you, pauses, then gets flustered and turns away. success.

“nicely done,” he tells you as he releases you. although he’s using that firm tone you’ve come so well to know, you swear, even for a second, you catch the faintest tint of pink on his ears.

— ieiri shoko.

“that stung a little. go easy on me next time.”

Shoko chuckles as she places the pads of her fingers on your eyelid. “we’ll see about that,” she responds. 

she’s already apologized twice, and you suppose this would count as her third. reverse cursed techniques take up a lot of energy. normally, she wouldn’t use them on something as minor as a black eye. but she owes you this much, even if this is technically your fault.

it’s been quiet at the school lately. with the kids on summer break and most of the other faculty either visiting family or taking care of their own missions, it’s just been you and Shoko at the school. 

she’s been toiling away on some research project that even after her explanation, it’s something that’s way over your head. you’ve been working on lesson plans for when the kids come back. and sure, those are things that could be done at home, but being at Jujutsu Tech helps you be productive. (so you say. being in such close proximity to your colleague is always a welcomed change, though something you wouldn’t tell her outright.)

being the only two faculty at school, it was easy to memorize each others’ schedules. that’s why you know when she likes to go out for her smoke breaks. that’s why you thought it’d be funny to scare her while she’s distracted. and that’s why you ended up with a black eye after she punched you from surprise.

for as no nonsense as she is, Shoko is surprisingly gentle with you. her fingers feel cold against your swollen eye, but it’s nothing uncomfortable. if anything, it relieves some pressure from the area. she doesn’t press hard, just enough to work her magic. then, she takes her free hand and places it along your jawline. you think that this is likely to keep your face still, but a part of you hopes that maybe... maybe it’s an excuse to touch you in one more place.

a warm feeling floods your eye, as if she had placed a heated towel against it. then the throbbing lifts, the pressure relieves, and you can finally see from your left eye again.

Shoko pulls away, but not before pressing her index and ring fingers against her lips, then placing them over your eyelid once again. “there. that should do it.”

you’re already plotting more ways to hurt yourself.

[dayglovv]

𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝.

↳ Bruno Bucciarati, Leone Abbacchio, Giorno Giovanna, Narancia Ghirga, & Pannacotta Fugo

suggestions: 𝘪𝘮𝘱 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯 asked: hi toya ! i'm a bit late (also sorry for not popping by for a long time), but if the ask game's still open, i have a suggestion for fugo : “You don’t mind me touching you there, right?”. or, if it gets too angsty, “Be gentle with me.” hope you're doing well // 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯 asked: ignore if u arent doing this anymore buuut "be gentle with me" and fugo for the physical contact prompt!!! this was made for him ^_^ // 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯 asked: "touch me. i don't care how. i just need to feel something right now." with abba being the one saying it? your abbacchio h/c is immaculate. // @haematicsugar​ asked: Aaaa, all of the physical contact starters are so cute,,, I honestly had a hard time picking one. Could I get "Just hold me for awhile. Please." Bruno @ reader, please? He deserves to relax💓 // 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯 asked: narancia and "don't stop stroking my hair" cause orange boy needs more love!🍊 // 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯 asked: Hiii there, could I request "Don't stop stroking my hair..." for Giorno, please and thank you 🥺👉👈

ask game: physical contact starters  — closed.

a/n: ok so I know this ask game is from MONTHS ago but... these are amazing suggestions and I wanted them to be recognized. so I decided to smush em all together into this post! all had the same theme (more or less) so it was easy to come up with an idea. thanks for stopping by, friends; hope you enjoy!

warnings: mentions of drugs and people overdosing in Bucciarati’s part, mentions of depression and unhealthy coping mechanisms in Abbacchio’s part.

— bruno bucciarati.

“just hold me for a while. please.”

drug usage has been on the rise in Naples. just in the past week, Bucciarati found more people overdosing in the alleys. numbers are higher than average. and despite his best efforts, he couldn’t find a good lead on what the hell is causing this rise.

you’re partnered with him on a patrol when you find a couple of kids dealing in an alley. they’re young, probably no more than 14 years old. Bucciarati scares them enough to end the deal, though you notice he seems so still after the fact. not physically. but like he’s trying to process what he just witnessed.

when you ask him what was on his mind, he stops in his tracks. he turns toward you. and then he just rests his head on your shoulder. 

that’s when he asked you to hold him for a while. because truthfully, he doesn’t know how to express what he’s thinking. Naples’s drug problem is getting progressively worse, even with his best efforts. it’s exhausting and he needed someone to support him, even for a second.

but when he feels your arms wrap around him, your face burrowing into the crook of his neck, Bucciarati realizes that maybe it’s okay if he doesn’t change the world for everyone. maybe... maybe he can start with making it better for you.

— leone abbacchio.

“touch me. I don’t care how. I just need to feel something right now.”

he tries to sleep with you after telling you his past. it’s a bad habit, he knows that. he doesn’t even know why he told you something that hurt worse every time he thought about it. he got ahead of himself -- he trusted you, you were so patient in everything he had pulled on you, and yet. you remained.

he’s the King Midas of the team, except instead of gold, everything he touches turns to shit. although he fucking hates it, he can’t stop. he wants to. hell, he didn’t want to do it here either but his mouth moved faster than his thoughts and goddammit--

he's so used to giving in to others. kiss away the pain and forget the embarrassing shit. maybe if he slept with you too, you would come to your senses and see he isn’t worth giving a damn.

yet you didn’t. you didn’t do any of that; give in, see him differently, or... anything. you just pull him into a hug, your cheek smushed against his cheek, with your arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders.

for the first time in a long time, Abbacchio starts to feel something other than hatred or resentment or sorrow in his chest. it’s uncomfortable and foreign but... it’s hope.

— giorno giovanna.

“don’t stop stroking my hair.”

it was a spontaneous happenstance. you noticed a strand of hair was sticking out from his braid, told him to hold on, and then you fixed it for him. it only took a moment. your long fingers gently taking his hair, working so carefully not to tug. you even did it in a matter of seconds (much to his delight and dismay -- he admires your swiftness, but wishes the moment had lasted longer). from then on, he was hooked.

he has a way of asking you without coming off as needy. it’s a talent of his, this weird mastery of words that makes it seem like a simple request. “I trust you more than myself,” he tells you. 

that’s why it’s such a surprise when he tells you to keep stroking his hair. he always frames it as a quick request. but suddenly, he’s leaning into your touch, his eyelids closed as you run your fingers along his golden locks. it’s not the most professional thing. he can acknowledge that.

and sure, it might be a little selfish... but it’s one of the few moments he gets to have for himself. the fact he gets to spend it with you? he’ll take it any chance he gets.

— narancia ghirga.

“don’t stop stroking my hair.”

Narancia comes up with probably the best idea he’s had after watching Giorno do it. asking you to do his hair? easy peasy, you can’t say no to him!

unlike Giorno, however, Narancia is much needier in his request. he comes to you after getting gum stuck in his hair (totally not on purpose). he insists you don’t cut it off, though. he’s spent so long growing it out after bleaching it! cutting it would be a crime.

so then you spend the arduous task of getting the gunk from his locks. despite the challenge though, you remain steadfast and diligent to his request. you start with the tried and true method of using peanut butter. then you try rubbing alcohol. that seems to do the trick.

before you can call it a day, however, Narancia has you right where he wants you: you close to him, your fingers in his hair. he asks that you don’t stop. it’s not demanding, just... quiet. a simple request. 

he doesn’t know how you do it. hell, he’s already scheming how he can get you to play with his hair again. because to him, your touch is the closest thing he’s had to replicating the feeling of home.

— pannacotta fugo.

“be gentle with me.”

he asks you this after a stand battle knocked him off his feet. he landed -- though collided would probably be the better way to describe it -- onto the streets, with nothing but his hands to soften the blow. thankfully the end result wasn’t too alarming. just a pair of horribly scraped palms and a bruised spirit.

you’re usually the one responsible for patching up the boys. hence, you met with Fugo to take care of his hands. normally he would scoff and say he can take care of himself, but. you’re different. he may not say it outwardly, but he trusts you wholly.

he says it with a nervous tinge in his voice. be gentle with me. he knows you will be. it’s more for himself than anyone else. and you oblige, taking his right hand into your own, so delicately, as if he were made of porcelain.

you get to work taking care of him. cleansing the wound, wrapping it up in bandages. you don’t shame him for anything. just emphasize how grateful you are he’s okay.

he hates relinquishing control. there have been two many times where it’s ended poorly for him. but this, this, is not one of them.

[dayglovv]

—𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬.

Nanami Kento x Reader (18+)

desc: Nanami’s always been there for you. When he comes back to your shared hotel room battered and bloody, it’s your chance to return the favor.

rating: explicit

wc: 4.1k

warnings: mentions of blood and stitches, afab reader, kiiiiiiind of dubcon on Nanami’s end?

tags: oral (male receiving), handjob, praise

a/n: a belated piece for Nanami’s birthday! based on a conversation my beloved @densecloud​​​ and I had about healing tropes. Leslie 🤝 me a horn knee desire to take care of Nanami <333

     IN SPITE OF EVERYTHING, you’ve always been mildly terrified of Nanami Kento. Which is ridiculous, considering he hasn't done anything heinous to you. Take the morning you journeyed to Jujutsu Tech for your orientation, when you were so excited to get a formal education on sorcery. It was a fresh start; getting away from junior high and all the people who knew you then. No more embarrassing, middle school you. High school you was all about sophistication, class. You were a cool person now. Wait— a cool person. Emphasis on the italics.

Which is hilarious, because the first thing Cool Person #1 did was fall down the fucking stairs on Tokyo’s subway line.

Coffee went everywhere. Your pants tore. And the fact you could feel your heartbeat on your bottom lip told you that you split your skin there.

No one batted an eye at you. You couldn’t tell if that was the best or worst part of falling. It was like you parted the Red Sea that was businessmen and fellow students scurrying through the hallways. But instead of reveling at the marvel you created, you sat there, soaked in coffee. All on the day of your orientation.

You could start to feel tears bubble at the inner corners of your eyes.

No.

There would be no crying this morning.

Cool people don’t cry.

Even with your eyes burning and your nose beginning to drip, you insisted on that mantra. Take a deep breath. Gather your soggy notebooks and put it all back in your backpack. Dab at your chest to make the stain less apparent. And get on the damn train.

You found an empty seat pretty quickly. Normally Tokyo rush hour saw the elderly and people with children take those seats, but maybe your bloodied lip and ripped pants offered you some sort of reprieve. That was the first thing to go right.

The next was—

Well, it was Nanami himself.

While you helplessly pawed at the stain (shit, why did you just have to get a dark roast today?), you suddenly felt the fluorescents above you darken. Your eyes flickered upwards, and there he was.

Tall and blond, with devastatingly sharp cheekbones. He was frowning, his brow furrowed and hazel eyes staring right at your chest.

“You’re going to make it worse.” 

That was your first impression of him: Captain Obvious.

To be fair, though, his first impression of you was probably "moron."

And then Captain Obvious did what he didn’t have to do. He sighed, unraveling the navy scarf from around his neck, and he gave it to you.

“Take it. You need it more than I do.”

Since then, there have been two constants in your chest (and no, one of them isn’t coffee). The first is the usual uneasiness that comes with yourself. General anxiety or the dread that comes with this profession or whatever else you’ve concerned yourself with that day. The second?

Air, light and weightless, any time you see Nanami.

And that terrifies you.

Being a jujutsu sorcerer is such a dangerous job. It’s an unfortunate lesson you both learned so young, with Haibara’s death during your first year together. Even you’ve had your fair share of close encounters. The scars littered throughout your body are evidence enough. 

And nothing makes that more clear than when he comes back to your shared hotel room.

You don’t want to get attached to him. It’s not so much you’re scared of Nanami himself, but… what could happen to him.

Two separate jobs came up in Sapporo. It was a nice coincidence, with your being assigned one and Nanami being assigned another. But with Sapporo’s Yosakoi Soran Festival happening that same weekend, hotel options were limited. Hence, you suggested you share a room together, and Nanami obliged.

To your delight, there was only one bed.

The thought made you giddy. A room? With Nanami? God, it was just like in all the stories you’d read growing up. Maybe there would only be one bed and maybe you would have to… you know… share.

“I’ll sleep on the carpet,” he told you.

Well. There went that.

He’s always so straightforward and stoic. That’s why this moment scares you so much. 

He comes limping into the room, breaths ragged and a hand at his side. He opens the door to the bathroom and pulls out the first aid kit you left in the drawer. This is typical of Nanami. He takes care of things like this by himself. But he fumbles through the kit for too long, staring helplessly as he tries to think of what he needs. He’s breathing so heavily — long and slow — with his hand hovering over the kit like he’s too exhausted to move it anywhere else.

You’re standing at the door frame by this point, too shocked to offer anything, that you feel like a fucking moron when he places the suture thread, needle, and scissors in your palm.

Right.

Of course.

He hurriedly unbuttons his shirt (or as hurriedly as he can; his fingers keep slipping as he tries to take the damn thing off) while you begin loading the needle. Nanami huffs as the shirt falls onto the floor, and now you can see the result of his most recent mission.

It’s a wound from some kind of sharp edge. A knife, sword, naginata — you don’t know, but his jagged skin tells you that it was something unsharpened. By no means is it a clean cut, but it doesn’t look like it was from something dirty. Thank God. Tonight’s your last night in Sapporo together. You can at least take care of him until the flight back tomorrow. Then he's Shoko's responsibility.

He starts to slump over.

“Whoa, hey, easy now.” You place the needle back on top of its case, rushing to catch him. You bring your arm underneath his own and he hisses in response. It takes you a second to register that you just forced the skin from his wound to tug upwards. “Sorry! Sorry. I’m sorry. Let’s get you to the bed.”

“Bloody,” he heaves. “‘S not a d-deep cut but… bloo… dy. Don’t want to s-stain… th’ sheets.”

“Really? That’s what you’re worried about now?” Of course he’d be concerned about that. “It’s fine. I’ll just ask the housekeepers for more. Come on, work with me.”

You’re not sure if he’s getting weaker or if he’s relaxing to your touch, because he suddenly feels heavier. His feet shuffle as you bring him to the bed, desperately trying to move with you as you assist him. You’re careful to squat as you lower him on the mattress, a small attempt to keep from aggravating the wound more, then rush back to the bathroom to retrieve your supplies.

“Okay,” you start. Despite his previous complaint of dirtying the bed, he’s found his spot laying down on the sheets. Shirtless, eyes closed, and brows knitted from the pain. “Take a deep breath.”

Instead of a giant inhale, you hear him hiss again when you place a pad with alcohol onto the wound. 

“I know, I know…” You try to keep your voice calm. Soothing. Because if you’re being honest, you don’t know what the hell you’re doing. “Can I unfasten your belt? I’m going to lower your pants so I can get to the cut better.”

He grunts.

You’ll take that as a yes. You have to bite your lip as you slide his pants just the slightest to reach the wound. Over his pelvis, your skin against his. He stays still, which you assume is a good sign, because you’re trying really damn hard not to pull on the cut again.

“Stay still.” And then you begin. You pierce his skin with the needle and his hand flies to the back of your arm, holding it in some attempt at finding comfort. His breath hitches, then relaxes as you continue.

Christ, is this real? Are you actually here? You always imagined what it would be like to have Nanami shirtless in bed. He’s not much different than what you thought: muscular and chiseled, perfectly illuminated from the lights above. His skin is so smooth and warm, but you imagine it’s from his temperature rising. 

Sheesh. When you thought of “shirtless in bed,” this isn’t quite what you had in mind.

“Remember when we first met?” One stitch down, God knows how many more to go. This is your best attempt at trying to keep him distracted. “And you saw the mess I made on my shirt? I was mortified, by the way.”

He doesn’t respond, but the quick exhale from his nostrils makes your lips tug upwards.

“It’s thanks to you that no one else saw it. Like, can you imagine if Gojo did?”

“N-Never… see the end of i-it.” 

Christ. He must be all sorts of delirious. Nanami playing along with your joke? Unthinkable. Either way, you keep it up. It’s working. 

“Right? Like, ugh, I can just hear all the dumb nicknames he’d come up with.”

You start on his fourth stitch and Nanami winces, his grip tightening on your arm. Okay, maybe not working as well as you thought. But his thumb runs just the slightest along your skin and that alone fills you with enough courage to finish the job. He’s relying on you. He needs you.

You bite your lip again and continue on.

“How… did it ha—ppen…?”

You blink up at him. Nanami’s eyes are still closed and you can feel his muscles tense as you tie up this fourth stitch. He’s trying to keep the conversation going. A distraction. You stop in your tracks and take your hand and—

Is… Is this okay? You don’t know if this is something appropriate to do with your coworker. And sure, you’ve known each other for over a decade, yet… Is this still okay? He’s so no nonsense. But in the end, he’s trusting you and you reason that any sense of professionalism was out the door ages ago.

So you clasp your hand over his — the one on your arm — before continuing. Such a small gesture but something that makes such a big difference. Because when you return to his wound, you notice his muscles have relaxed.

“I fell,” you reply. “I uh, slipped down the stairs. I dunno, there might’ve been some ice or something. But that’s that and then I met you.”

He doesn’t say anything, but you feel his thumb run along your arm again.

“I don’t know if I ever thanked you,” you continue. “I was really embarrassed and honestly, I think it took me two weeks before I could look at you again.”

Nanami’s stomach quivers under your touch. Another laugh? You’re on a roll.

“But um… thank you. Officially. I still have that scarf, by the way. It’s really warm.”

“Really warm”? Wow, great conversation topic.

You shake the thought from your head and tie up your ninth stitch. 

“I’m almost done.” There are only two inches left of the cut. You’re no doctor, but you figure you can wrap this up soon. “Just stay still.”

Nanami doesn’t say anything at this. His chest only moves up and down, gently, doing everything to listen to you. He’s eased himself significantly since you began. No tight grip on your arm, no tense muscles — just here. On the bed. Listening to you ramble about one of the most embarrassing days of your life.

It’s so intimate. And… really fucking uncomfortable. The only things that break the silence are his groans and your hushed apologies. You’re trying to move quickly so that you can minimize his discomfort. But you’re also trying to take your time. You don’t want to mess this up. And you also want to be here with him just a moment longer, be the one person that he trusts.

He jerks suddenly from the pain, and you give him a moment to let it dissipate before continuing. Okay. Stop daydreaming. Distract him again.

“What was your first impression of me?” A beat. And then: “Err- I mean, if you’re up for responding.” He’s so weak under you. You don’t want to force a conversation from him if he doesn’t have the energy for it. 

Despite that, he answers. “C...Cute.”

...

Okay.

Well.

Maybe he’s more delirious than you thought.

You don’t respond, only continue with your work. I mean, what the hell are you supposed to say to that? “Thanks”? Christ, you’re glad he’s so out of it. Your cheeks are on fire right now. He’s already seen your coffee tits; he definitely doesn’t need to see the bright red display your face is putting on. Besides, you don’t want to push it. He’s in such a vulnerable position right now. You’re curious and so flustered at the thought of his returning your affections, but. There’s a time and place. Keep a straight face for him.

“K-Kind,” he continues. You struggle to calm the sudden tremor in your hands as you feel his grip on your arm tighten again. “Den—se. In a good… w-way.”

“There’s a good way to be dense?” You’re trying to play it up for laughs. He’s joking. He has to be.

“Endear...ing.”

Your stomach is doing all sorts of flips.

But with the snap of the suture scissors, you tie the final stitch clean and put this conversation to rest. You want to hear more. Every fiber of your being wants to hear more. But again: time and place.

“I’m finished,” you say. “Get your rest. You need it.”

Yet even as you pull away, even as you start to get up to lock yourself in the bathroom and splash cold water on your face, reminding yourself to get a grip, moron, oh my God— his hand remains on your arm.

“S-Stay. Please...” 

His voice is so, so weak. Hoarse. Just above a whisper.

“I’m not going anywhere. But you need to rest.”

Nanami’s hand travels from your arm down your forearm, igniting a wildfire in your stomach. His touch feels so soft, his fingers dragging across your skin in such a gentle way. When they find your hand, he laces his fingers with yours and holds on. His grip stronger than his voice would have implied. Secure. Comfortable.

“Come on now,” you laugh, averting his gaze. You’re still trying to play it off. In spite of that, don’t remove your hand from his. “You’re delirious. Go to sleep.”

“N...Need you. Want y-you.” His palms are sweaty. “S-So kind… So good. Tak—ing care of me. Wa… warm. Soft.” For the first time since he came back to the room, he opens his eyes. Hazel and dark and with every intention apparent, he looks at you. “I w-want you.”

You don’t say anything. You’re not even sure where to begin. So instead, you reach over to readjust the pillows behind him. He’s out of it. Way out of it.

But even you know that’s not the truth.

That’s when Nanami releases his hand from yours, only to run it along your cheekbone. You look down at him and his face is, like always, hard to read. But that intention is still there in his eyes, watching you, staring at everything you do for him.

“‘m being… b-being ho...nest.” He tries to sit up but it’s like a jolt of pain surges through him, because his eyes go wide and he winces. Even still, his hand remains on your face. He lets out a shaky exhale before continuing: “W-Wanted… to be with you. Con—fess tonight. W-W… Want you.”

His runs his thumb along your cheek. Just from his gaze alone, he’s got you in the same stupor he’s in. You can’t snap yourself out of it, even if you wanted to.

“How’re you so… so g-good to me? Alway...s. Never a-ask for any—thing in… return.” He inhales, then parts his lips again. “Need… one more th-thing… f-from you.”

Touch. So strong and tender. He keeps using these words to describe you when he’s the same way. You’ve wanted him to hold you like this for so long and now here he is. Dazed yet honest.

“What’s that?” you ask.

“Kiss me.”

You hesitate for a moment. Would this be okay? You… almost feel like you’re taking advantage of him. But the way he says it, in one sentence — not shaky, not hoarse, clear — is enough to convince you that this is what he wants.

Besides, it might tire him out sooner.

Plus... you want to do it, too.

So you kiss him. You kiss him and kiss him and he keeps his hand on your face, kissing you back with everything that he has. And it’s such a nice feeling; knowing that you can share this with him, to melt into his touch and finally give yourself to him since meeting him all those years ago.

But at the same time, it sucks. To a degree, at least. That he was here this whole time, his breath so hot it makes your lungs inflate. You feel like you’re floating. You had no idea he was like this, adoring and loving behind that calculating face and so fucking warm. 

Christ. This is heaven. It’s so stupid and small and simple but it’s a start to exploring every little part of his body. He’s doing that for you right now, licking your bottom lip, teeth clanking against yours. You didn’t know he could be so needy. So slow at exploring you. Guess there’s a lot you’re learning about him today.

But that all comes to an abrupt stop when he winces again.

You quickly pull away, checking the damage. “What’s wrong?”

“N-Not you,” he whispers. “Just… dammit.” He sighs. “I… want you. W-Want to fuck you. C-Can’t. Will hu—rt.”

Oh. 

Well that’s workable.

“It’s okay. Can… Can I take care of you?”

“Yes.”

That’s all you needed. That same courage from before overcomes you, allowing you to start by unbuttoning his slacks. Then you pull them down with his boxers, just enough to reach his length. He shudders feeling your nails drag against his skin as you lower his pants, and once his dick is in full view, his entire spine goes rigid.

“I’ll be gentle.”

You wrap your hand around the shaft, and. Jesus. It’s much bigger than you anticipated. Thick and warm, with precum glistening from the head. He spreads his legs for you, a wordless consent to let you do whatever you want to him.

So you start by pressing your lips to his stomach. He buckles his hips in response, a soft grunt coming from his throat when he feels your grip tighten on him. "Hm,” is all you say, and you move your hand along with his cock through the motion. Then he freezes, as if to remember that you’re the one in control here. You’ll be the one to take care of him.

Right. Take care of him. You’re going to be gentle and slow and he’s going to be comfortable.

So you start by acknowledging he’s dry. Comfortable handjobs aren’t dry. You spit onto his cock, letting your saliva fall from the tip of the head to the base of his length. Nanami moans in response, and you haven’t even started yet.

He exhales as you run your hand along his length. Your hands are calloused from your own mission earlier, but you like to think it might make it better for him. Add more texture, more ridges to your hand as you jerk him off. Maybe if you tighten your grip more, he’ll—

“A-Ah… Shit. Like th-that.”

Annnd there it is. You keep going, moving your hand up and down his length. You keep your pace constant to where he likes it, watching as his brow unfurrows. It’s the first time you’ve seen him relaxed, you think. It’s… kind of hot. There’s something deep in you that awakens, a pit in your stomach telling you that you’re the only one who can make him feel this way.

You take your free hand, massaging his balls as you work. His breath hitches again, and you see more precum leak from the head of his dick. So needy. You add it to the list of things you’re learning about Nanami today.

Like how he likes the way you hold his cock. Hard. His breath becomes so raggedy as you work your hand up and down his length. Or that his balls are incredibly sensitive. Most men’s are, you’ve learned. But he twitches with every gentle caress you give them. 

So you follow up by placing your tongue there. Nanami twitches again when he feels that plush, velvety part of your mouth against his skin. Another pleased hum comes from your throat, and you run your tongue from enveloping one to the other.

“F-Fuck… So good. F-F-Feels… so good…” 

You keep your grip firm on his shaft, unrelenting as you continue to jerk him off. You work your mouth around his balls, sucking, licking, giving them the attention they’ve needed for so long. His skin swells in your mouth; you can feel him struggling to keep his thighs open as you suck him off.

“Close. So c-close.”

Oh? Already?

You remove your mouth from his balls with a tight pop!, then move to swallow the entirety of his dick in one motion.

And that’s what does it.

He cums. A lot. Right down your throat, his hips buckling again as he grabs onto your hair. For support, to keep you there, you’re not sure — but it makes your head spin nonetheless. He lets out a gasp, breathy and broken, as if it came suddenly and he’s not sure how to take it.

A sudden warmth overcomes your mouth, and you take every bit of himself he gives you. It’s difficult to describe: hot, thick, and so fucking delicious that you’re still not sure how you got him to share this moment with you. It’s amazing. It’s dizzying. It’s him.

You try to take it all in (wouldn’t want to add to the clean up, after all), and that alone makes Nanami shudder even more under you. You clean every part of him clean — his dick, the mess you made with his balls, and any excess you missed. This is your handiwork. You want to savor every part of it.

“Good,” he breathes. “You d-did… good.”

It’s dumb. It’s so dumb and stupid how that one little compliment fills you with so much pride. Your head is running a million thoughts a minute from this situation (How long has he felt this way about you? What did he mean when he said he wanted to confess tonight? Shit, should you have gone slower to make this more enjoyable…?) and his praise manages to silence all of it.

And then Nanami interrupts that. All the dizziness, all the thoughts and feelings scurrying in your stupid head come back as he takes one of your hands again, his fingers lacing between your own. But… they aren’t bad thoughts or feelings or concerns. All you can do is focus on him and how since you realized your feelings for him, you finally have him to yourself. His touch is still clammy, yet you like to think that it’s not from the pain anymore. And even though his eyelids have lowered again, his grasp remains tight, unyielding.

Before you can continue this much further, however, his ragged breaths slow. His chest rises and falls. And he falls asleep.

Another wave of pride washes over you as you realize that after all this, you’re finally helping him get the rest he needs.

Still, there’s something about this power trip that’s making your head buzz. Maybe it’s the fact you reduced such a powerful sorcerer to a moaning mess. You’ve seen first-hand his raw strength, his ability to one-shot cursed spirits with ease. How his sturdy hands grip onto his cleaver. Hm. How would they feel on your hips, fucking you senseless once he comes to...?

You shake your head.

The other source of your head buzzing might because after all these years, you were too dense to see he returned your affections all this time.

Hah.

Dense.

Guess he was right about that one.

But for now, you lift his pants over his pelvis once again. You place a kiss on his forehead, in some small way of recreating what you had just moments before. You finish dressing his wound. Then you take the bed sheets, crisp and feathered, and wrap them around his figure.

In the end, you’d reasoned that maybe Nanami Kento isn’t so terrifying after all.

[dayglovv]

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲'𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

↳ Giorno Giovanna, Narancia Ghirga, & Pannacotta Fugo

a/n: annnnd here are the younger Bucci Gang members to go along with Thursday’s post! hope u like it <3

warnings: none.

— giorno giovanna.

Giorno is afraid of your being unhappy.

he knows he made it clear how much his dream meant to him. Italy needs him; this country is festering with disgusting people and even more vile policies that keep them in power. thankfully, everything can be fixed, and he’d be damned if he didn’t at least try.

still, it doesn’t silence his fear that you’d become complacent this situation. he knows you wouldn’t leave him. but he also knows you wouldn’t be honest about your feelings if you were unhappy.

you’re so kind. too damn kind for this world, and especially to him. you know he’s busy and that his priority is his dream. but maybe Giorno emphasized the latter too much.

you try your best to keep from distracting him. always a smile on your face, ready to be there for him. never a burden to him.

that’s the biggest part of his fear: that you’d hide your displeasure with him. he’s not home a lot. and when he is, he’s often focused on matters relating to Passione. would you keep your loneliness from him? would you avoid telling him so you wouldn’t get in the way of his dream?

for as perceptive as he is, though, Giorno can be kind of dense.

it’s true: there’s always this big, goofy smile on your face when you’re with him. it’s not because you’re putting on some act to keep him from worrying, though. it’s all genuine — you’re truly, honestly happy with him. his drive is so inspiring, it honestly makes you feel embarrassed about all your own unfinished tasks (...wait, did you remember to do the dishes last night?). and he cares about you so much. it’s amazing how much love is stored in someone who can be so hard to read.

even though this thought is constant in his head, there’s honestly no other way you’d have it.

— narancia ghirga.

Narancia is afraid of your leaving him.

he knows you would never intentionally hurt him. god, you’re too good to do that. he always needs to have the last word, to verbalize every little stupid thought in his pea brain and you just... don’t do the same. he’s getting better at managing his temper. it’s something you recognize and acknowledge every time he bites his tongue. you’re so patient with him. you always have been.

despite everything, he can still remember hearing the hushed whispers. feeling his former friends’ lingering stares, watching him as he returned to the alleys after being released from jail. for as many embarrassing things he’d done, Narancia had never felt so small as he did then.

you never make him feel like that. even so much as your looking at him fills his chest with air, the way you stare at him like he’s the only person in the world. 

shit. 

it sure makes him feel like it.

he hates he can’t make his brain shut up. he hates that he still worries you’ll abandon him too, just as his friends did. or his big brother. or hell, his father. 

in spite of much as Narancia smiles around you, you know him much better than he gives you credit for. one day, when he’s about to go on a tirade over something minor, you pull him into your chest. it’s such a fast motion that he hardly has time to react. but once it settles in, once he feels your heartbeat against his cheek and your hand against the back of his head, he- well. fuck. it’s embarrassing, but he still doesn’t know how to react.

all that matters is that for the first time in a long time, he can’t hear the stupid voice at the back of his head.

— pannacotta fugo.

Fugo is afraid of not meeting your expectations.

his parents only loved him when he was succeeding. but for as much as Fugo had done — like getting perfect marks on all his tests or graduating from secondary school before he was 15 or receiving standing ovations at his piano recitals — they never quite seemed satisfied. it was always about how he could sail ahead, travel far beyond what any other child his age had imagined. never about the trail he had blazed so far.

he despised them for that reason. in spite of that, he craved their attention.

it’s an unfortunate consequence in his relationship with you. he knows your expectations are few. be kind and be yourself. that’s all you asked from him. 

the first part is easy enough. somewhat. ever since you got together, Bucciarati's noticed a significant improvement in Fugo’s demeanor. so that’s good.

the second part? being himself is much harder than he anticipated. he could build on his current strengths: like his intelligence, patience, or accomplishments. but Giorno is so much more clever,  Mista manages the equivalent of six children at all times, and Bucciarati became a capo at only 20 years old.

Fugo tries to be so hard to be the person you want him to be. the kind of person you deserve to be with. 

it’s ironic. kind of funny, if you’re being honest. because in the face of everything, he already is.

[dayglovv]

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦.

  ↳ Bruno Bucciarati, Leone Abbacchio, & Guido Mista

a/n: just a fun practice to get back into writing! I wanted to try doing something more casual and try a more... idk conversational style?? I’ve been reading a lot of quirky romances and cozy mysteries so I hope I emulated that well here. enjooooy.

warnings: vague mentions of depression in Abbacchio’s portion, unedited.

— bruno bucciarati.

most of the time, it’s lonely.

Bucciarati is a busy man. overseeing Naples and its people is no small task. he comes home late and leaves so early in the morning. it sucks. it really, really sucks. despite everything, though, you have to remind yourself that this is what you agreed to when you started dating.

those sweet hours when he is there? it doesn’t make up for the time he’s gone (not by a long shot), but it comes close. you try not to make any sign of showing you’re awake. you don’t think he picks up. because when he comes home, he always just... sits at the side of the bed, admiring you. he’ll run his finger along your cheek. he’ll whisper a tired yet genuine apology. and then he’ll place the softest kiss on your jawline, before sinking into bed with you, head on your chest.

those four and a half hours are when you find yourself at your happiest. ↳ “I’ll make it up to you, I promise, tesore. just be patient with me.”

— leone abbacchio.

quiet. still.

that’s the best way you can describe it. Abbacchio doesn’t move a muscle when he’s asleep. as soon as the light is out, he is too. you’re always nervous to switch positions in bed (wouldn’t want to wake him up) because... well, if you’re being honest, it’s the most relaxed you see him. the furrowed brow is gone, that curt frown has unraveled into a slightly agape, softly breathing mouth. it’s fucking weird. but... nice. you like seeing him like this.

one day he won’t be so embarrassed to tell you the truth. normally it takes Abbacchio ages until he can finally fall asleep. though ever since he started sleeping next to you, he can finally get the rest he’s needed for so long. the anger subsides. the doubt quells. all that matters is that he’s here, with you, and that’s all he’s ever needed.

everything is quiet, including his thoughts. he has you to thank for that. ↳ “you can get up while I’m still sleeping, you know. just knowing you’re here is... really nice.”

— guido mista.

fucking annoying, that’s what.

he hogs the whole damn bed. and the blankets too, if you’re not careful. and god, the snoring? (jesus christ, Mista.) he’s trying to be better about it after you told him to knock it off, but. well. it’s not going that great. despite his best efforts -- and after six months of dating -- he still manages to take up so much space.

but it’s not his fault. not necessarily. he just... really likes being so close to you. he has this weird sixth sense that when he tells you’ve scooted away (even while asleep), he’ll instinctively move closer to you. part of what makes sharing a bed with you so nice is that he gets to curl up next to his best friend every night, every day of his life.

so yeah it’s a little infuriating. he knows you get annoyed by it. but he can’t help wanting to be next to you. ↳ “did I do it again? augh, sorry! just kick me next time, okay? ...wait, no, don’t do that--”

[dayglovv]

—𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

     Guido Mista x Reader

desc: you’ve been there for Mista for as long as he can remember. that’s just what best friends do. he wants more, but is it worth sacrificing the friendship for his feelings? 

wc: 5.5k

a/n: based on the songs Fuck Up The Friendship and  Lo Que Tú Me Das! I love the friends to lovers trope, and considering I’ve been wanting to write something super long, this was the perfect opportunity to capture both. likewise, I’ve been a lil sad lately so I hope this cheers you up as it did for me 💕 please enjoy, and if you can, spare a lil extra love!! this bad boy took three days to write.

tags: cunnilingus, fingering, hand job, dirty talk, stretching, premature ejaculation, creampie, minor dom!Reader

tw: not sfw, vomiting, mentions of death and alcohol

     HIS MOTHER ALWAYS used to say that burying someone was the living’s way of returning the dead to the Earth. “Back from where they came,” she murmured. “Two meters deep — enough to have the soil hug you.” 

    He first heard it when his nonno died 11 years ago, and again when Nonna died two years later. To be honest, Guido Mista never understood what his mother was talking about.

    Not until he met you.

    You were a storm in the simple life that Mista had so carefully crafted. So full of energy, so full of life. You forced him to feel alive. Your laugh sounded like a million bells chiming in his head. Your ideas, for as dumb as they were, always matched his pace.

    For as chaotic as you were, it felt as if you had always meant to be a part of his life. Which is why he’s in the midst of dragging you back to his apartment.

    “You didn’t have to come to pick me up, yanno,” you slur, the stinging smell of alcohol laced between your words.

    “Yeah, I know.” Fuck, when did you get so heavy? He once read that babies can make themselves heavier when they’re having a tantrum, and honestly, that fits at the moment. “But Trish can’t carry you herself, so. Just shut up.”

    Trish’s text came about an hour ago.

         Trish           hey           [Name] drank a little too much and I need help :(           can you pick us up? ill pay for gas

     Needless to say, Mista was out the door 55 minutes ago. He made it to the bar 30 minutes ago. 20 minutes ago did he drop off Trish. And finally, after force-feeding you water and dabbing the sweat from your forehead, he finally made it home with your arm around his shoulders.

    You’re wearing the perfume that he bought you for your birthday. Spicy yet warm, something he found so perfect for you the moment he found it. He can remember how wide your eyes opened the moment you saw it, how you threw your arms around him and thanked him over and over again for such a thoughtful gift. He’s happy that you’re wearing it now. But that doesn’t negate how fucking pissed he is at the moment.

    That smell permeates his nostrils as he frantically searches for the keys in his pockets. The loud jangling and your heels would surely wake his landlord on the floor below. Mista clicks his tongue at the thought of another scolding — and because of you, goddammit — but he tries to push the idea out of his head. The last thing he needs is another headache.

    His front door creaks open, but with a swift kick, he shuts it back close. It slams within its hinges, causing you both to flinch. Shit. Okay, yeah, he’s definitely going to get a scolding in the morning. Though that’s not his priority at the moment.

    Mista sits you at his kitchen table. You’re still swaying, even in the chair, but he’s glad that you’re at least conscious. He removes your shoes from your feet, and taking a napkin from the table, he dabs that last bit of sweat from your forehead.

    “You’re really stupid, you know that?” Thankfully, you’re functioning, too. That’s why he’s being so mean. Partly because yes, he’s pissed, but also to get it through your thick skull. “Do you even know what time it is?”

    “Midnight thirty,” you mumble. “It’s not even that late. You’re just old.”

    Mista doesn’t even grace you with a response. He simply heaves a long sigh, then fills a glass of water for you. The water finds itself in front of you, with the gunslinger taking the seat beside you.

    But before you can drink it, your hand flies to your mouth, your feet rushing you to Mista’s sink.

    He only sighs again.

    Nonetheless, he stands up from his seat, following you to the sink. His fingers comb through your hair, pulling strands away from your sweat-soaked face. Your hair bunches together into a ponytail held only by his fist, his other hand running along your back. The warm smell of your perfume is replaced by the foul smell of stomach acid and overpriced mixed drinks.

    Christ. Even when you’re vomiting in his sink, you’re beautiful.

      ...

    Wait.

    Ew, what the fuck, Mista? Don’t be weird. You’re his best friend! The gunslinger mentally slaps himself, shaking his head to clear his thoughts.

    It is true to an extent, though. Even when you’re messy and being so stupidly difficult, he can’t help but be in love with you. He knew that loving you would be difficult. He’s always known. You’re a tempest in his neatly-organized, simple life. Accepting you would make that life so much more complicated. 

    He’s never been good with words, but with you, he feels as though he’s being buried. Even though it’s suffocating and it’s dark and it’s scary, it’s where he’s always meant to be. Returning to the Earth as his mom used to say. Right with you.

    You’ve always been there for him. 

    Like when Nonna died. He can remember feeling you entwine your fingers with his as they lowered her casket. It wasn’t raining, but it sure felt like it. His tears wouldn’t stop coming. His nose wouldn’t stop running. And for as pathetic as he looked, you refused to leave his side.

    And at the end of the day, you gave him the most bone-crushingly tight hug he had ever had in his life. When he asked what your deal was, you only smiled and cupped his cheeks between your soft, little hands.

    “To squeeze all the sad out, dummy!”

    The least he could do is be there for you, too.

    Your drawn-out exhale brings Mista out of his thoughts. You sit up from the sink, your hands gripping its steel rim. You’re okay now, mostly sober. He’s seen you drunk out of your mind enough times to know that you are.

    “Here,” he says, reaching back to the table for the glass he brought you. “Drink.”

    You do as told. He knows that the water is too cold for your liking, which is evident enough from your flinching at the cool taste. But you still drink it, forcing down the acidity back to your stomach.

    You finish the water with a long “Ahhh!” before leaving the glass in the sink. Mista knows that your headache will set in soon, and while it’s too soon to give you any painkillers, he places the medicine on the kitchen counter regardless. Just in case you want them sometime in the night.

    “Let’s go lay down,” he continues. He swings your arm around his shoulder once more (not before flushing your mess down the sink drain, of course), and leads you to the humble living room he’s assembled behind his kitchen.

    His couch feels plush against your stiff figure. Mista leans you against the armrest, just in case your stomach acts up and you need to vomit again. The last thing he needs tonight is for you to choke and die. After everything that he’s done? Think again.

    He stands back, satisfied with his work. “Here, I’m gonna grab you something else to wear. Hold on.” But before he can run off to his closet, he feels something tug on his shirt.

    “Wait.” Your voice is raspy and your grip is weak, but it’s enough to catch his attention. “Stay with me.”

    “It’ll just be a couple seconds.”

    “Please, Guido.”

    You never use his first name. Ever since he’s asked you to call him by his last name because that’s what all the cool football players do, you’ve happily obliged. It’s the first time you’ve used his first name since you were kids.

    Mista blinks. Nonetheless, he relents, taking his spot next to you.

    You return his gesture with a smile. “Here. Let me just…” And with the dip of your head, you’re laying on his chest, your arms wrapped around his figure.

    You’ve hugged Mista several times. More times than he can count. That just comes with the territory of being friends for over five years. You’ve hugged him after nights out and many celebrations, but never like this.

    He covers his hand with his mouth, his gaze turning to anything but you. “What is with you tonight?”

    “Why are you taking care of me?”

    Ah. Ignoring his question, he sees. Mista removes his hand from his mouth, placing it on your arm and giving it a squeeze. Keep it cool, Mista. Keep it cool.

    “Because we’re friends and that’s what friends do? C’mon, [Name]. You’re smarter than this.”

    “But this isn’t the first time.” Your grip tightens. “You’ve never left me hanging. Even for all the stupid things I do, you still find me and take me home. I don’t get it. I’m not worth any of this trouble.”

    Not worth any of this trouble? If only you could see his face. His features softened as you said that, his brows knitting and lips forming a tight line. You’re worth all of this, he thinks to himself. I want to do this for you. Because I love you.

    He just can’t get himself to tell you.

    “Not to me.” He moves his hand up and down your arm. It’s his way of comforting you. He’s never been the best at it, admittedly. But he does try.

    “But you called me stupid. Shouldn’t you be spending your time on someone else?”

    “Well, yeah, you’re stupid. But your stupid meshes with my stupid, you get me? I wanna help you because I can. I’m not gonna let some other dumbass try to take care of you. That’s my job.”

    “But why? No one is forcing you to take care of me.”

    That just comes along with my feelings for you.  “Like I said, I can and I will.”

    “You don’t have to.”

    Sure, but I love you. “But I want to.”

    “I just don’t get why.”

    Because I love you. “Because I love you.”

    Wait.

    Did he just say that out loud?

    “I mean! In a platonic way! The way friends are supposed to love each other!” Mista’s desperately trying to take back everything now. That’s what he gets for narrating everything in his head. Who’s the stupid one now?

    “Mista.”

    “Love is subjective anyway, right? There are so many ways to see it.”

    “Mista.”

    “Like, how I love you is definitely not like the romantic kind of love. It’s the 'take care of your friend when they’re stupidly drunk'-type, you know?”

    “Mista.”

    “What?”

    “I love you, too.”

    “...What?”

    You sit up from his chest so that you can face him. Your legs come up from their places, folding themselves in a cross-cross. Your eyes are watching him carefully, the way that always makes him nervous. He always thought your eye color was beautiful, but seeing them look at him the way he’s always wanted them to… He’s overwhelmed, to say the least.

    You try to break the tension by offering him another smile. Mista’s shoulders relax, and he returns your smile the best way he can. 

    “I love you, too,” you repeat. He watches as you take his hands in yours, just as you did all those years ago. “I’m sorry I got mopey… I just really like you. I have for a while now. I couldn’t comprehend someone like you being there for someone like me and. Um... I wasn’t expecting you to confess, but I’m glad that you did.”

     ....Is he dreaming? This can’t be real. He has to play back everything to make sure that he heard you right.

    So there you are. Sitting across from him. Voicing everything he’s thought about back to him. You love him. He loves you. And he’s wasted years pining over you, when he could’ve had you here, with him, this whole time.

    “Are… Are you for real?” A beat. Should he just come clean now? Ah, fuck it. “I've, uh… I’ve thought the same thing about you. But you’re so smart and gorgeous and I’m just… not. I don’t have a lot to offer.”

    You don't even hesitate. “You’ve already offered me more than enough. You don’t have to be smart or rich to impress me. You’ve done so much already.”

    “I could say the same about you. You really are amazing, [Name].”

    “Pfft, and so are you, Guido.”

    There you go again, using his first name. You follow this brief moment of intimacy with bringing the gunslinger’s knuckles to your lips, leaving a soft peck on both. He’s dreamed of this moment for so long, to admit to you how much he’s loved you for all these years, only for you to steal his thunder. How typical of you. But he’s not mad. Not any more. Not in the slightest.

    And while you might have taken the spotlight on sharing your true feelings, he can at least steal the show.

    Mista takes his hand, placing it on your cheek to bring your face to his. He feels you stiffen at his touch, but you return the gesture by cupping his face with your own hands. Within seconds you’re melting, and he can’t help but smile as he kisses you.

    Funny how you did the same thing all those years ago — press your palms against his cheeks to squeeze the sad out — only for you to be doing it again. Yet this time there is no sad to squeeze out. Maybe a little, but only because he’s kicking himself for not confessing sooner.

    And God, you are just so fucking warm. You make him feel warm. So many years of friendship, so many moments he’s thought about how much he loves you and yet you still manage to give him butterflies. He loves kissing you. And he knows you love it, too. Hearing you hum onto his lips as he slips his tongue in is more than enough of an invitation to press further. He wants more.

    “I love you,” he repeats. He moves his hand from your face to the back of your head, supporting your figure as he kisses you. “I love you so damn much.”

    His kisses migrate from your lips to your cheek, then to your jawbone and finally, your neck. You take this as your own invitation to press further, moving from your spot and onto his lap. Mista groans as you do this. Fuck, that’s hot. And there’s so much more he can offer you. He knows you’ll let him. You’ve both spent far too long waiting for this moment.

    His kisses are light and delicate, as small as the baby’s breath blossoms he’d pick for you as children. He loves feeling the rumble of your moan from your throat — so much so that he’ll do anything he can to get more of it.

    So he moves one hand to your ass, while the other gets to work unbuttoning your shirt. He hums as the last button unfurls with a tiny, little pop!, and within seconds, his hand finds itself under your bra.

    “Ah… Guido…” His name sounds so beautiful on your tongue. It’s been years since you’ve used it, and he’s not sure if he’ll ever get used to it. He needs more.

    “You like that, baby?” He takes your sensitive nipple and plays with it, rolling it between the pads of his fingers. Like everything about you, it’s soft. Warm. So fucking lovely. “Say my name again.”

    “That— a-ah. G-Guido!” you manage to force out.

    That’s all he needed. Mista takes your breast in his hand, bringing that sensitive nub to his mouth. One benefit of being your best friend is that you’ve told him everything. Including how you never felt spoiled by any of your previous exes. Christ, he’s so excited to change that.

    So he laps his tongue over your nipple, suckling it, squeezing your breast with his hand. He’s so desperate to make you feel good. There were so many instances where he knew he could treat you better than your exes. Your moans are indication enough that he’s off to a great start. Such a simple sound, yet something that travels to the pit of his stomach nonetheless.

    You taste faintly of salt, likely from dancing with Trish, but Mista keeps licking and sucking and licking and sucking until your nipple is nothing but hot saliva. You whimper as your bud grows sensitive, to which Mista flickers his eyes up to you. Ugh. He forgot how cute you are. He was so focused on making you feel good that he neglected to see your lips pouting — those perfect, full lips — and your eyes shining under his dim overhead light.

    He moves to your other nipple, gaze unmoving from your face. Yet when he sees you cry out in delight, how your eyes squeeze shut and your teeth bite at those perfect fucking lips, he has to kiss you again.

    You wrap your arms around Mista’s neck as he returns his lips to yours, pulling him close to you. He wastes no time slipping his tongue in once more. It’s messy and it’s clumsy, just as he is, but it’s not like you mind, anyway. He knows you don’t. Everything about Mista is improvised. Yet being around him is what coming home feels like. Welcoming. Right.

    He pulls away just for the faintest moment, his dark eyes staring into yours. He blinks. And the goofiest smile emerges on his face. “I love you so fucking much, [Name]. And I promise I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

    “Pfft, you’re shit at keeping promises.”

    “C’mon! Lemme have this moment.”

    And with that, Mista lifts you and places you back onto the couch, facing outward. He wastes no time unbuttoning your pants, and you feel as he drags the fabric from your legs and onto the floor. Oh. Getting hasty so soon?

    “What are you doing?” you ask with a small laugh. Mista’s taking off your panties now. “Wait—”

    “Keeping my promise. Now shut up.”

    Before you can say anything else, Mista runs his tongue over your slit. You respond with another moan, and he can feel that rumble in his stomach again. He’s cursing himself for not being more patient and teasing you more but. Whatever. He’s come this far.

    So he takes your legs and swings them over his shoulders. A way to help balance yourself, he reasons, but also to feel your thighs against him. He wraps one arm around your leg to reach the fold above your clit, forcing it upwards to help maximize your pleasure. You find the other hand over your tit, his fingers at work playing with your nipple once more.

    Within seconds, Mista’s tongue is over your clit. He starts slow, lapping his tongue in long strokes along the fleshy nub. He’s trying to make up for rushing things, to make you feel as spoiled as you really deserve. He’s surprised that you’re this wet already, though not disappointed. How long had you been in love with him? How long had you waited for this moment?

    Feeling you grind against his mouth makes him reason that you’ve been waiting a while. “So greedy,” he teases. He continues with that slow pace, his fingers still at work with your nipple. He wants to electrify you with his touch. If he can make you feel as hot as you do to him, then he knows he’s succeeded.

    “Please,” you start. Your fingers wrap around his chestnut curls in a weak attempt to hasten his pace. “I want more.”

    “Hm.” He removes his hand from your breast, resting his index and his middle finger on the pad of your bottom lip. “You’ll have to do more if you want more.”

    He soon eats his words as he feels you take his fingers into your mouth. Your mouth is so warm and so wet, your tongue swirling around each finger so eagerly and salaciously. Fuck. It’s making his pants tighter. Is that what your pussy feels like? Taking him in with everything you have, opening yourself to be fucked by your best friend?

    You look so lewd with his fingers. Your eyebrows are furrowed as you bob your head, running his fingers along your own tongue. Your eyes stare back at him so innocently, so cutely, that he needs to wipe that smug expression off your face.

    In one last effort to get him to listen, you release his fingers and say, “I want more, Guido.”

    That does it. Mista takes his fingers and forces them into your tight pussy, his tongue running over your clit once more. He curls his fingers against the walls of your opening so perfectly, hitting your spongy insides in a way that makes your stomach twist. More is exactly what he gives you, with his adding another digit to your already-tight opening. He curls and he presses, again and again and again until you feel your head become light.

    “Sh-Shit,” you breathe. “I don’t wanna b-be fucked by anyone other than you.”

    His breath hitches. You know exactly what he wants to hear. The least he can do is reward you. 

    “Why d-did I wait so long f-for this?” you continue. “F-Fuck! Just fuck me!”

    If you say so. 

    He curls and he presses his fingers, running them along the walls of your pussy. He feels you clench his fingers, your thighs shaking against his shoulders. It’s the perfect view to see the quick rising and falling of your chest, your head thrown back as he finger fucks you. So beautiful, he muses to himself. And your reactions are all because of him.

    Mista’s method is, like all else about him, unpolished but entirely eager. He gets so focused on licking your clit that the movements of his finger pulses become jumbled. It’ll be seconds before he realizes that he’s still inside you, yet when he returns to the motion, that lightheadedness returns. He knows that you’re cursing him for being such an idiot, but he’s your idiot and he’s going to make you finish, anyway.

    He tries not to quicken his pace on your clit. Tufts of his hair are held by your perfect hands, a sign he takes as this being the perfect speed. Your grinding against his face is only making him more eager, though. He wants to help you finish so bad. To know that he made you cum. You waited years and years for him to fuck you, and now that he’s here, he wants to give you everything you deserve.

    “[Name],” he breathes. His voice is low in a way that you’ve never heard before, his tone rumbling against your clit. “Cum for me.”

    And that does it. A sudden wetness pools on Mista’s hand, warm and clear, as he pulls away from you. He loves how your thighs shake around his head. Even more, he loves how your eyes are shut, your mouth breathing one last uneven breath. You look even more perfect than how he imagined. 

    But he’s not done.

    And neither are you.

    Your hands rush to the bottom of his shirt, sliding it over his head and tossing it onto his rug. He responds by shimmying your unbuttoned shirt off your shoulders, your bra along with it. His lips find themselves against yours again as you feverishly undo his belt. 

    “See how good you taste?” he murmurs. You don’t say anything; your only response is your pushing Mista’s pants down his toned thighs. “Goddammit... I’ve waited too long to finally have you.”

    You’re smirking as he kisses you. He can feel it. Amongst many other things, he loves knowing everything that you like. Years of whispered secrets and quiet giggles have built up to this. He’s not going to waste it now. 

    It’s a fact that you acknowledge, too. With his boxers off, you hastily wrap your hand around his shaft. You can’t see anything with his pushing into you, his kisses desperate and warm, but. Dear lord. He feels so full in your hand. Much thicker than any of the other men you’ve been with. 

    Even still, you can’t tell how big he is. 15 centimeters, at least. Average, but you know it’s going to hurt once he inserts himself into you. It’s a thought that makes you excited; excited enough to quicken your pace in the same way that he so generously did for you.

    “A-Ah… [Name]...” His joints are so weak under your touch. And even after all this, he still can’t get rid of the butterflies in his stomach. He’s kicking himself for sounding so needy, but with your eager strokes, he can tell that you don’t mind. There are plenty of other embarrassing things Guido Mista has done in front of you.

    “You like being touched by me?” You catch his soft tone immediately. “How many times have you thought of this? How many times did you think of fucking your best friend?”

    He swallows. His head is buried in the crook of your neck now. “Too many times,” he admits.

    You’re not the only one who knows how to use your friendship to your advantage.

    Although you reposition yourself to lay on Mista’s couch, your hand remains unmoving from his cock. Mista follows by placing one leg, bent, on one side of your figure, the other standing to keep himself balanced. Curse this stupidly short couch he found on the corner of the block…

    He moans again as your grip tights, twisting slightly around his dick. He places his head in the crook of your neck again, his hot breath against your collarbone. Do you realize what you do to him? He’s had this moment replayed in his mind for so many years, rehearsed everything he would do to you. Yet the moment he gives you control, he becomes a panting mess. How embarrassing.

    “Sh-Shit…!” You’re rubbing his tip against your wet entrance now. He’s losing more control. But he has to see what you look like, to know exactly how your features twist as he fucks you properly.

    Mista pulls himself from your neck, and. His breath hitches. Not in the same way as before, not pathetic and desperate. He’s in awe. Your pretty eyes stare back at him, begging him to put himself inside you. Your cheeks are still flush from before, and God, it makes you look so damn cute. He loves that your face is still dewy, not because of the alcohol, but because of him. You’re so spent. Yet it’s obvious you want more.

    Despite all that, you take the moment from him again. You place his dick at your entrance and pull him toward you, effectively pushing him inside you. Mista’s breath hitches (just the same as before), and while it takes him a moment to compose himself, he takes this as his cue.

    He knew that being inside you would be good, but he’d never imagined it’d be this good. You feel so tight around him, so much warmer than he anticipated. Every part of your cunt squeezes his dick in just the right way. It’s evident from his uneven breathing as he thrusts in and out of you.

    “I— ah! I-I love you!” you cry. You wrap your arms around his neck in a poor attempt to settle yourself, but let’s be honest, why should you even try? He’s as thick as you thought he was, and even though it stings as he pumps into you, fuck if it doesn’t feel good—

    “Goddammit, I love you too...!” He’s never going to get tired of that confession. He could hear it a million times and it would still make his heart race. And it just makes him even harder. You want him. To be fucked by no one other than him. Only him. And he’s going to make sure he’ll be your last.

    One hand remains on the couch to keep himself steady, while the other is on your cheek, the pad of his thumb stroking your cheekbone. Everything he’s said is true. Even if he’s pumping into you wildly, there’s still that part of him that wants to take care of you. It’s evident in his movements. 

    Mista takes this opportunity to deepen his thrusts. Despite his pace, your pussy still clings to him. He can feel it. You’re so moist under him, covering his cock in that same wetness he forced from you as he ate you out. Your cunt makes such lovely sounds as he pushes into you. And while he can feel the coolness from his apartment as he pulls out, he’s not going to deny you those long, fast thrusts he knows you deserve. After all, he wants to take care of you.

    “You were made for me,” you breathe, your pretty eyes staring back at him. “S-See how perfectly— a-ah! Shit…!” You pull him closer to you. “See how perfectly we f-fit?”

    “Yes, fuck, yes!” He’s babbling at this point now. He hardly has any control over himself. Your wetness, the sounds your pussy’s making, the slap of your ass against his thighs — it’s all so much. His head is spinning. 

    He’s given everything to you now. He quickens his pace as much as he can, driving his dick into you with such reckless abandon that your eyes roll to the back of your head. That sight alone is enough to make him tremble with excitement, though he tries to quell it as much as he can.

    “Fuck me, Guido! Fuck me!”

    He can’t take it.

    Shit.

    Oh, shit.

    No no no no—!

    It happens so fast. He’s pumping into you, and suddenly, warmth surrounds his cock. He feels it. You feel it, too.

    You blink.

    Mista blinks.

    “Did… did you—?” you start.

    “Yep,” he answers.

    Guido Mista did, in fact, just finish inside you without any warning.

    Well. That does it. He’s ending his friendship with you, effective immediately. Out of all the embarrassing things he could’ve done, did he have to fucking finish in such an embarrassing way!? There were so many things he wanted to do with you still, like make you cum two more times, or finally know how your lips feel around his dick, or—

    “Bahahaha! Are you serious?” 

    Your laughing snaps him out of his thoughts. Of course you’d laugh at his premature finish. 

    “What?”

    “This is just so… in character of you.”

    Hold on. Did you expect this to happen? “...What do you mean?”

    You don’t respond, only shooting him a look he recognizes as your ‘you know exactly what I mean, don’t play dumb’-look. Your cheeks are still flushed, but he can’t tell if it’s from laughing or from the heated moment before. 

    Likewise, his own face is beet-red. He’s not just embarrassed, he’s humiliated. He finally has you all to himself, knowing full well that you return his feelings, and this is how he starts it. Way to go, Mista. This must be a bad omen. ...Oh, Christ. What’s going to happen when he has sex with you for the fourth time?

    But just as he can so easily read your expressions, you can read his. And before Mista can embarrass himself much further, he feels your palms press against his cheeks. You’re squeezing his face, jutting his lips out in an awfully comical way. You stifle a laugh as you do so, to which Mista raises a brow.

    “What are you doing?” he asks.

    “Squeezing the sad out,” you respond.

    Ah, yes. Of course. How could he forget?

    “Don’t worry about it, dummy,” you continue. You bring his face to yours, placing a kiss on his puckered lips. “I love you, remember? That includes all of you. All your bad jokes, your stinky armpits—”

    “My armpits aren’t that stinky.”

    “Beside the point. This is one of those moments where I love you most. It’s where you’re the most you.”

    He thinks over this for a moment. And then, “You mean that?”

    “Obviously. Now help me clean up.”

    Where he’s the most him, huh? That… says a lot about his character. He won’t dwell on it, at least not for now. The fact is that he knows you’re telling the truth is enough for him. And the fact that, even after all these years, you’re still there for him even during his most demeaning moments? Well. That says a lot about you.

    This isn’t the first time he’ll have you to himself, he admits. Hell, this isn’t even the first time you’ve slept over. There will be many more moments like these, and many more opportunities for him to make it up to you.

    For now, he’ll start by helping you off the couch and into his arms. “I love you, too,” he whispers. To you. To himself. There will come a moment where he can tell the rest of the world that [Name] [Surname] is finally his. But for now, all that matters is that you’re here, with him, in his arms and in his heart.

    And you hug him back. If he didn’t know any better, it felt like the Earth was embracing him. Bringing him back to where he came, where he always belonged: with you.

[dayglovv]

—𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞.

      Risotto Nero x Reader

desc: it’s been two weeks since Risotto’s been home. needless to say, he’s missed you a lot.

wc: 1.1k

a/n: I saw some peers talking about needy!Risotto and it really resonated with me. there’s so much content of him being a powerful dom. I wanted to take a different approach where all he can talk about is how much he loves his partner!!

tags: stretching, minor dirty talk, creampie

tw: not sfw

    “did you miss me?” those words sound so mocking, especially coming from him. of course you missed him. it’s been 14 days since you saw him last. 14 days since he held you, 14 days since he’s kissed you like this.

     but the way he touches you. god. it feels like he hasn’t left at all. maybe you missed him more than you’d like to admit.

     Risotto’s strong hands hold your hips, his figure towering over you like a watchful figure. you realized long ago that he should’ve spent more time prepping you, but. seeing you here, bent over in front of him; he can’t help but make you his already. after all, it’s been two weeks. he can afford to be greedy.

     “I missed you so much,” he whispers. his breath is hot and his tone is needy. it makes you wonder how he spent his evenings alone. “I hated being away from you...” his breathing picks up. “you’re coming with me next time.”

     it hurts so much to feel his thick cock press into you. just the head is in, you can tell. you’ve done this so many times that it’s instinct. but the stretching, the pull, it feels so good. it’s been too long that it’s all you can think about. how his dick challenges the walls of your pussy, how everything about him feels so hot. you’re trembling. you both love and hate when he takes his time.

     “[Name]...”

     and like that, he thrusts into you, hard. the sudden pain causes you to cry out, to which he whispers a hushed shhhhh. as simple as it is, it does help you relax. he realizes that he moved too hastily, as well. Risotto tries to remedy this by pulling out of you slowly, dragging his dick along your tight cunt.

     he knows that there are tears forming at the corner of your eyes. he can knows you like the back of his hand. you can’t see the worry in his brow, but you can feel it as his calloused hand runs along your ribcage, down to your hip again. once that hand returns to its place, you feel his grip tighten as he begins to push back into you.

     “how’s this?” to be honest, Risotto is having a hard time keeping his thoughts straight. he loves when he can see your backline. so many nights had he ran his fingers down that concave, watched as you smiled in response. although he wants to do it here and now again, all he can think of is how good you feel. so hot against his skin. so tight against his dick. it’s intoxicating. he wants to move faster, but he won’t until he has your okay.

     you nod in response. he takes this as his green light to move slightly faster. you feel him pull in and out of you, pace quickening with every two trusts. “[Name]...” he whispers again, and you feel his fingers dig deeper into your skin.

     in and out.

     in and out.

     it’s his normal pace now. it still hurts, though feeling him heave against you, hands at your hips, almost makes up for it. it’s been a while since you’ve heard his breathing this uneven. Risotto’s such a composed man that it’s amusing to see him this worked up. over you, of all things. you know it’s out of love, and you love him just the same. that’s why you’ll excuse this moment for now. besides, you won’t deny it feels good. 

     “a-ah, Risotto...” you murmur. annnd there it is. finally. he’s waited too long to hear his name on your tongue. your soft mewls are exactly what he’s dreamed of these past two weeks. moaning because of him, because of only what he can do for you. he needs more.

     Risotto lowers himself closer to you, his mouth mere inches away from your ear. he moves one hand to support himself, and with the other, he dips his fingers into your open mouth. you hastily take his digits, lips wrapping around them, tongue encircling them. now it’s Risotto’s time to moan, your name escaping his mouth once more.

      his pace quickens. you feel his skin slap against yours, the curvature of his dick right against your g-spot. your own breathing’s uneven at this point. your knees are weak. but he’s not done with you.

      “I love you,” he hums. and with that, he removes his fingers from your mouth, lowering them to the spot between your legs. 

      oh god. fuck.

     Risotto’s fingers swirl around your clit, adding to the symphony of lewd sounds. you’re almost embarrassed from how wet you are, though Risotto finds this endearing. so wet for him. how had you spent your nights alone? 

     he places a chaste kiss against your temple, his pace unfaltering, but his fingers working delicately on your sex. he knows how you like to be touched. you spoiled him, the least he can do is spoil you. he knows it’s working when he can feel your hips twitch against him. you murmur his name again, to which he responds with another kiss. so cute, he thinks.

     your nerves are electrified and your vision is blurry. he’s pressing onto your clit with just the right amount of pressure. his lips against your temple make you want to turn around, to grab him and pull you into a kiss. but you’re so close, and you can tell that he is, too; 14 days apart has made you both so sensitive.

     “I love you,” he says again, louder this time, breathier. “I’m— ah. I’m g-going to make up for all this time apart...”

     that last “time apart” rumbles from his throat like a low thunder. it echoes through your bones as he says it against your ear. you missed how needy he could get. maybe spending time separately was a good thing.

      you feel your hips twitch again. Risotto’s panting now. you’re both so close. so you take the opportunity to give him what he’s been waiting for this whole time: “I love you, too. I-I need you... please... cum inside me.”

      that’s all it took. those were the magic words. like that, you feel a sudden warmth in your pussy, coming from deep inside you. that same warmth pools from your opening, and within seconds, it’s dripping down your thighs.

     Risotto grunts. yet that’s all your hear. no long sigh, no sign of his being finished. because truthfully, he isn’t.

      “turn around,” you hear instead. “I’m not done yet.”

      all you can think of is his first question: did you miss me? of course you missed him. he has a lot of time to make up for. and as he spins you around, his lips against yours, you think to yourself: yes, I missed you. more than I’d like to admit.

[dayglovv]

name: Toya age: 23 pronouns: she/her likes: y2k chick flicks, street fashion, guys with fatass hongas dislikes: ipas, cilantro, when my face masks get crusty interests (aka things you can suggest): Jujutsu Kaisen, My Hero Academia, Haikyuu!!, Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure, Demon Slayer

nyello. my name’s Toya and I run this blog.

I’m not the best at introductions, but I hope this helps you get a better picture of who I am! I started writing at the tender age of 12, with most of my masterpieces focusing on self-insert Silver the Hedgehog fanfiction. yes. it’s ok. we can laugh together.

in the present, I like to focus on more tasteful pieces. I also run @costellos​, but because that’s my sfw blog, that’s obviously not the best place for more 🌶️🌶️🌶️ content (lol). hence, this blog serves as a way to do that w/o the guilt! guilt-free lusting. good stuff. that’s the only way we can grow.

my interests tend to shift rapidly, so I apologize in advance! I’m also currently suffering enjoying a delightful 9-5, so my posting schedule might be a lil infrequent.

I can’t wait to work with you! we’re going to make some gr8 stuff together.

[dayglovv]

― RULES.

this is an 18+ blog. I will block you if you don’t have your age in your description. I get it, you want to explore your sexuality, but this isn’t the place to do it. I don’t want to be responsible for your well-being. if you violate this, you’re violating the terms of my consent.

only two characters per suggestion. I tend to go ham when writing imagines so this makes it easier for me and faster for you to see your suggestion.

please keep it to one fandom if you’re going to suggest multiple characters. something like, “how would Itadori and Kugisaki react to a s/o who can draw really well?” is a-ok. this just makes it easier for me to tag. you’re welcome to send in another ask with the same hc + different fandom, however!

if a character appears in more than one timeline, make sure you specify which timeline you want their suggestion based on. an example would be pre- and post-timeskip characters in Haikyuu!!. some characters change drastically between their youth and their adulthood, and even if they don’t, it helps me narrow down headcanons.

I don’t take suggestions requesting readers with physical features that don’t apply to everyone. so suggestions like, “Kuroo hcs with a pale, skinny s/o who’s really self-conscious?” will be ignored. these works are meant to be available for anyone, not a select audience.

― NOTES.

I take suggestions instead of requests. this means that I only write for the stuff that interests me the most. no hard feelings if I don’t tackle your suggestion!

on that note, the less characters you suggest, the faster you’ll see your suggestion. again, I go ham when writing, so seeing a fewer characters helps me come up with ideas faster.

I’m biased toward suggestions with detailed scenarios and character breakdowns. the more info you give me, the better. for the latter, “what steps would it take for Fushiguro to be comfortable in a relationship?” would be great.

concepts are always open! these are just bite-sized headcanons. this would be something like “who do you think would be easier to date: Nanami or Gojo?”

I tag potentially triggering material with a slash at the end of the word, such as “drugs /.” if there’s something you’d like me to tag, please let me know. I won’t judge you — I want you to be comfortable with what I post.

outside of suggestions, please don’t hesitate to just talk to me! I loooove interacting with other people and hearing opinions. even if it’s about a cool song you heard!