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KIROKAZE
occasionally subtle
almost home
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Origami Around
izzy's playlists!
pixel skylines
Three Goblin Art
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Keni
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
taylor price
will byers stan first human second
Cosimo Galluzzi
Discoholic 🪩
DEAR READER
we're not kids anymore.
RMH
wallacepolsom
seen from Philippines
seen from Mexico
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Spain
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Malaysia
seen from Netherlands
seen from Mexico
seen from United States
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seen from Bangladesh
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@melangedeparfums
melange de parfums (fr.): a blend of fragrances.
XXIII. she/her. infj. multilingual & multifandom. silly writer. walking contradiction. storm in heels. probably daydreaming about a fictional older man right now.
MASTERLIST 🍒
• sfw and nsfw (MDNI, you will be blocked!)
• hi! likes, reblogs, and comments are welcome, please don’t copy or post my works anywhere without my permission.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR. PRESIDENT
ft. president!kentonanami x !firstlady reader
masterlist
cw: nanami being workaholic (are we even surprised?), mention of gojo & ijichi, ijichi being slightly intimidated (reader was joking, she wouldn’t hurt a fly), attempt to crack, fluff, and SMUT (p in v, fingering, sex in the president's office, praising, begging, use of petnames...)
an: part II of this; writing the emails was my favourite part haha, enjoy 🤭 question: should we turn this into a mini-series? let me know!
────────
FROM: [email protected]
STATUS - Classified ⭕️
Subject: Free my husband
Dear Mr. President, Would it be possible to free my husband for this evening? I would very much appreciate it. See, his birthday is very dear to me, and I have a surprise ready at 8pm for him. Thank you in advance. Good day, The First Lady.
────────
FROM: [email protected]
STATUS - Classified ⭕️
Subject: RE:Free my husband (your husband is perfectly fine)
Dear Mrs. President, I hope you are having a wonderful day. Your husband is currently trying to solve a little crisis. I will do my best to resolve this promptly. I hope you’re not mad at me. I love you, Your dear Kento.
────────
FROM: [email protected]
STATUS - Classified ⭕️
Subject: RE: RE:Free my husband (my husband isn’t fine, he doesn’t even answer his phone)
Mr. President, Mad at my husband? No. At the President of this Free nation? Yes, because you are making my husband work too hard during his day off. I’ll ask Ijichi to clear your schedule tonight. Best regards, The First Lady.
────────
FROM: [email protected]
STATUS - Classified ⭕️
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE:Free my husband (I apologise, I put it on mute but your husband is perfectly fine)
Mrs President, Don’t traumatise my chief of staff again please. He’s still trying to recover from last time - your words are a fresh wound. I love you (even if you don’t say it back), Your Kento.
────────
FROM: [email protected]
STATUS - Classified ⭕️
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE:Free my husband (he’s not, he’s overworked and underfucked these days)
Mr President, Your chief of staff isn’t traumatized - your hyperbole isn’t necessary. I was just trying to inform him of my disagreement. Kind regards, The First Lady. P.S: Trying to guilt trip me into saying it back won’t work, Kento. Don’t you dare.
────────
FROM: [email protected]
STATUS - Classified ⭕️
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE:Free my husband (we are not talking about that now)
Mrs President, Let me freshen up your mind. He almost cried because you threatened to reassign him to Antarctica when he didn’t let you into the Office. I wouldn’t call it hyperbole. I love you, Your Kento. P.S: Is it working?
────────
FROM: [email protected]
STATUS - Classified ⭕️
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE:Free my husband (yes, we are)
Mr President, I forgot about this story. I’m still waiting for you, 8pm sharp. Best, The First Lady. P.S: Yes, it is working. Stop it now.
────────────────────
8pm
Kento was nowhere to be seen outside his Office. You weren’t really surprised - he had been running the country for three years, working day and night without rest, spending hours in the company of his perfectly stacked papers and his half-filled cold coffee cups forgotten on the mahogany desk. You knew him - his dedication to the nation was beyond comprehension and yet, you couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed. Today was his birthday and he wouldn’t even take a break to enjoy his day.
Dressed in the finest silk dress you owned, you finished reapplying your red lipstick, your golden earrings catching the light in the mirror. You were disappointed, yes, but not completely discouraged - and even more determined. Head of state or not, tonight was all about him - and you intended to make him understand that, even if you had to terrorise half the Office in the process.
Moving through the endless corridors, people greeted you as you did the same - the youngest of them intimidated, nose in their papers, stammering and flustered, while others, more mature, gave you nods in respect. Only one person was in your sights tonight - Ijichi, the chief of staff. You could already picture his reaction - glasses perched on the tip of his nose, trembling tissue wiping the sweat off his forehead, flustered and shaking, his phone buzzing nonstop.
“Mrs. President, on your way to scare the chief of staff?”
That made you stop in your tracks. As infuriating as he was beautiful, the right-hand man of your husband was waiting outside Ijichi’s office - carelessly leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, a lazy smile dancing across his plump lips as if nothing or no one in the world could bother him.
Typical of him.
“Vice-president Gojo, good evening to you too.” You greeted him, a knowing smile on your face. People were usually intimidated by the man - and especially by the power he held in his hands. “And no, he isn’t scared of me. I don’t see why everyone says that.”
“The man is practically shaking in his boots every time he sees you.” A small chuckle echoed in the corridor, as he adjusted the golden cufflinks of his suit. “Anyway, you’re here to see Kento, right?”
“Still in his office, I reckon?”
“Ah, sweetheart, the man is practically glued to his desk. I tried to take him out for a drink - and as you can imagine, he refused. We all know he only listens to you.”
Your hand fidgeted with the wedding ring firmly planted on your finger, - a detail that didn’t go unnoticed by Gojo. You admired your husband: Kento was impossibly stubborn - a brilliant mind shaped by a will of steel that no one could break. Coupled with the will to always do the right thing, no matter when, where or how, you ended up with a man that put everything before himself. You sometimes joked about him being married to his desk - but it was reality. You couldn’t be mad at him - he spent his nights apologising to you every time he could.
“And thank God, he listens to you. Otherwise, we would all be doomed.” That earned a small chuckle from you this time. And just like that, pleased with himself, with that signature smile and shining blue eyes, Gojo left, letting you enter Ijichi’s office.
Your earlier imagined vision of him was right. Already flustered, the chief of staff didn’t know where to look, eyes darting everywhere but on your form. Snowed under the many folders that needed to be taken care of, his desk phone ringing without interruption, chaos had taken control of the place. Sweating as if he ran a marathon, Ijichi was sponging himself down with a tissue, hand trembling and lips wobbling.
“It is a bad time, Ijichi?”
“Never, Mrs. President! How… How can I help you?”
The smile on your face did nothing to soothe him - with you, something was up.
“You know what day it is, right?”
“Of course. The President’s birthday, ma’am.”
“So you know that, I’m going to enter this Office, no matter what.”
He blinked, mouth wide open, glasses already slipping off his nose.
“Mrs. President, if I may, this is a very important matter and he doesn’t want to be disturbed unless-“
“No, Ijichi, you may not. It’s been more than nine hours that he’s been locked in his office, Now, listen to me very carefully.” The sweetest smile ever appeared on your lips - honey dripping from them as you spoke softly, which didn’t reassure the poor man before you at all. “If you don’t let me enter this office, and see my husband in the next two seconds, I’ll scream so loud the West wing will hear me, alright?”
“Yes, yes, of course, Mrs. President-“ He nodded eagerly, trying to mask his internal crying, his hand darting to the phone to dial the number of his secretary.
“Thank you very much, Ijichi, you are wonderful as always.” You patted his arm softly, turning on your heels. Before opening the door, you threw him one last smile. “Say hi to your dog by the way. Would love to see him here one day.”
The poor man regretted every choice of his career. Antarctica wasn’t so bad, was it?
────────
Knocking only once on the glossy wooden double doors, you didn’t bother waiting for an answer, and entered the Office - closing it carefully behind you. Without any surprise, Kento was still working, seated behind his mahogany desk, alone in the office, almost lost in the dim light with only a lamp to light him. You could barely see him through the enormous piles of paper - except for his black fountain pen in hand, held so tightly, signing his name across the paper.
Overworked, exhausted and spent, he was still a sight for sore eyes. Sweaty forehead, messy hair which he must have run his hands through too many times, bags under his eyes, he owned the room by his sole presence. He didn’t even look up - too engrossed in whatever financial file he was reading. Judging by the frustrated sigh leaving him, it wasn’t the most interesting document.
“Ijichi, I already told you, no one gets to enter the Office while I-“
“No one? Not even me? You wound me.”
“My love.”
His reaction was immediate, his pen was put down, his attention focused on you, as if his body recognised you before his brain did, the vows taken five years ago going above and beyond the oath he took for the nation.
“Still working?”
“I’m almost finished, I promise, I just need five more minutes and I’ll be all yours after-“
“Remember the night you won the elections?” Your finger caressed the end of the mahogany desk as you walked further into the room, observing the size of the Office, a hint of nostalgia coating your voice. His eyebrows knitted, not following the sudden change of conversation.
“Of course, I remember. How could I not? You wore the blue dress I like so much.” Three years ago. It had been three years. He hadn’t seen the time go in a blink of an eye. But, you, you had stayed. Many things happened - and you remained. The only thing that really mattered was in front of him - walking barefoot in his office, the white silk of your dress catching all the light of the room, ethereal presence coming to comfort him.
“Remember what we did?” You continued, taking a step closer to him.
“We danced. All night.” He could almost see yourselves swaying together, silently in the center of the room, barefoot, tired and happy. Just the two of you. Warmth spread in his chest at the memory, his eyes softening.
“We fled away from the reception, you mean.”
“You know Gojo, he wanted something spectacular.”
“And he was mad at you for weeks after that.”
“Yes, he was. He didn’t even show up for some of our meetings to piss me off.” A deep chuckle left his throat - a real, genuine chuckle, as you turned to him, a content smile on your lips. There he was, you thought. He wasn’t completely relaxed yet - the tool of his daily responsibilities still weighted on his shoulders - but at least, he was less tense, a bit more carefree, away from the usual image people had of the President.
“Feels like yesterday.” He added, your hand ran hrough his messy blond hair - a few white strands peeking out from the gold, as he leaned instinctively into your touch, a soft exhale leaving his lips, his hands finding anchor on your hips. His forehead fell on your stomach, his eyes closing for a second.
Home.
You were home - wrapped in silk and scent of linen and flowers.
“Remember the promise we made to each other that night?” Your voice softened - a soft whisper lingering in the air.
“That no matter what, we wouldn’t let the Office come between us.” Kento replied, his voice muffled against the fabric of your dress. He could stay here, in this position, forever - the warmth of your body against his, your familiar perfume invading his nostrils, the sweetness of your caresses soothing his terrible and constant headache. His chin rested against your stomach, his eyes fluttering shut. “Do you feel like it’s the case?”
“Honestly?” His heart tightened, it tightened so much he thought it would explode. Not because you resented him for it, on the contrary, because he resented himself. His mouth opened, ready to apologise for the thousandth time - the lines of worry on his forehead deepening.
“I know. I know, baby.” You cut him, not wanting him to feel anything but guilty on the day of his birthday - but he wasn’t having it. Strong arms encircled you in a tender embrace, his nose hiding in the column on your neck as he brought you on his lap - needing to have you closer than ever.
“I love you, so much, so much. You know that, right?”
“I love you too, hun’.”
His gaze slipped to your dress for half a second - his heart skipping a beat. Humming in acknowledgment to whatever you were telling him about his birthday dinner, his eyes took a darker shade, his hands mapping your curves over the dress in appreciation. Too many thoughts crossed his mind - his tongue grazing his lower lip. He felt too hot - way too hot for an April evening.
“What is it?”
“You look divine.”
“Really?” The air of the room shifted into something heavier, more charged, almost electrical. You knew this gaze - hazel irises turning into two ambers that were swallowing you whole. Mr. President was hungry - the type of hunger that made your core ache at the simple thought of him wanting you this much, the type that your knees weaken and buckle with the intensity of his look, at the grip of his hands on your hips that was slightly, almost imperceptibly firmer. Your lips grazed over his ear, your hot breath hitting the soft spot there - one of his many weaknesses. “It’s your birthday today. You can get anything you want, you know.”
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
Eyes into yours, he waited for your approval, your nodding was the simple answer he needed.
“Hands on the desk, sweetheart.”
“You are sinful, Mr. President.” You did immediately as he said, bending over. The title made his cock throb with anticipation - you, of all people, calling him that always made his head lighter.
“I am going to take my sweet time with you. Feel that?” His hands guided yours to feel the smoothness of the wooden desk, pinning you with his hips, as a soft exhale left your lips. “It’s thanks to you that we are here.”
Head turned to yours, catching your lips into a kiss, tongue and teeth and lips crushed together into a sensual tango - of which he was the master - linking your souls, ragged breaths, whines and obscene sounds filling the silence of the room. He was consumed body and soul, his heart battering against his thoracic cage. Papers flew everywhere in the air, as he pushed you even more against the desk, your hands gripping the edge of the wood.
“Kento…” You arched your back against his chest, when his fingers traveled from your shoulders to your right breast, rolling the nipple between his index and his thumb over the silk. Face hot, eyebrows knitted, flushed cheeks, he wanted to devour you whole.
“I’m right here, my love.” Lips against your flushed skin, he took his time - tasting his gift with utter reverence, slowly unwrapping it with the most diligence. He couldn’t have wished for better - you were his everything, and he intended to show it to you. His hand disappeared between your thighs, the fabric riding on your hips. When his fingers made contact with your damp panties, a small smile appeared on his face, hot breath grazing your neck, a rasp reverberating through his chest.
“You’re so good to me, Mrs. President. Look at how wet you already are.” And before you could utter a single syllable, he played with the pearl between your smooth thighs, sweet moans singing to his ears.
Oh, he did take the sweetest time with you. Grazing carefully, alternating with the press of his digits on your most sensitive parts, he slipped a finger into your warmth, a gasp rising from your lips, as your hands flew immediately to his forearms to steady yourself, nails digging into the skin.
“You’re taking it so well for well.” He praised, humming against your neck. Nothing seemed to rush him now, hidden in the corners of the Office, worshipping you ask you deserved it. It was too much - your heart was beating furiously. Not enough - your body ached for more. More. More. More. You needed more.
“I need to feel you, Kento. Please, I-“
“You never have to beg with me, baby. I’ll give it to you, of course, I’ll give it you. Always.” He spun you with carefulness and set you on the desk in one swift motion - where you rightfully belonged - spreading your legs and stepping between them. You didn’t waste any time and opened his belt, letting it tangle against his thighs, and undressed him as he grabbed you by the hips, pressing into you, inch by inch. Every ridge of him melded your insides, the feeling making you both moan.
“You’re so… warm, and tight. Oh my…” He stopped himself and kissed you. Again. And again. And again. Until you couldn’t breathe anymore. Until the only thing remaining was the picture of glorious Adonis before you, pounding mercilessly and making you struggle to keep your eyes open - pleasure flowing into your veins, awakening every nerve of your body, his cock huge filling you up to the brim. Caressing the nirvana with the tip of your fingers, your soul floated toward the devastating climax promised to you by him, your sacred pleasure placed in the palm of his hands.
This Office was as rightfully yours as his, and this desk - the symbol of the hard work he endured all those years - was the altar on which he was sanctifying you, the wood trembling under the strength of his devotion. Intertwined hands, matching silver rings pressed together, your climax was near, your breath shorter, almost gasping for mercy.
“Come on, give…give it to me. I know, you can do it. That’s it, baby, you’re doing so good.”
The ravaging thunderstorm inside of you roared and blew out, a sob leaving you, your name on his swollen lips like the only prayer he knew, both of your bodies pressed against each other.
He helped lay you down on the desk, his hands cradling your head gently, his forehead finding its way to your shoulder, trying to catch his breath in the sepulchral silence surrounding both of you. Whispering soft praises into his ear, you held him between your arms, a content feeling washing over you.
“Happy birthday, baby.”
I’M YOUR NATIONAL ANTHEM
ft.president!kento nanami x firstlady!reader
masterlist
an: just trying new things, don’t know what to think about this but there we are! part II: here
“How is Mrs. Nanami, Mr. President?”
“Where is Mrs. Nanami? Does anyone know if she will be here today?”
“I thought she was coming, what’s happening here?”
The conference press was full of frenetic reporters, loud brouhaha with orders and questions thrown one over another, disappointed sighs mixed with some shouting that nobody could really decipher.
There, he stood. Tall, proud, with a crisp perfectly tailored navy blue suit, red tie, golden cufflinks, and combed hair on the side. And yet, no one was really interested in him. Of course, they were - we were talking about the President of the Republic after all - but your name was the only thing that really seemed to matter, constantly repeated as if they were almost begging him to bless them with a glimpse of your presence.
He could already see the headlines of tomorrow.
The Angel of the Presidential House, the First Lady stealing again the show from the President at the conference press.
And he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Look, it’s her!”
His eyes immediately found you in the sea of reporters, as cameras flickered blindly to catch the perfect picture of the First Lady in a beautiful ivory suit, red-bottom stilettos clicking on the marble floor, soft apologetic smile on your face as you greeted them with a gesture of your hand. Kento couldn’t be more proud, taking a little step back to let you join him on the scene, his left hand gently pressed against your back.
“Gorgeous, gorgeous, Mrs. Nanami!”
“There you are sweetheart, everybody was waiting for you.” He whispered into your ear, deep voice rumbling under the incessant shouting of the reporters. “You look perfect.”
“Over here, Mrs. President!”
“You don’t look too bad yourself, Kento.” You turned your head to him, teasing him, head tilted up to meet his gaze. “Did I keep you waiting for too long?”
“Mrs. Nanami, on your right please!”
“Just five minutes, my love. Don’t worry.” His other hand, the right one, tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. “They are particularly wild today.”
“Just a smile, Mr. President!”
“They are always wild.”
“Well, we know who to blame, do we not, Mrs. President?” Mischief bubbled in his half-lidded eyes, filled with warmth whenever they landed on you. “Besides, they are not the only ones wild for you.”
Behind your back, his hand pressed more firmly, fingers digging into your side to keep you against him.
“Oh, really? How so?” Your chuckle stopped the room for a second. Blinking paparazzi stunned because of your reaction, trying to get your attention.
“A comment, Mr President?”
“Did you hear what he said or not?”
He cleared his throat, eyes moving back to the crowd.
“Just telling my wife how lucky I am to be with her.”
“Feeling sentimental today, Mr. President?”
“For her? Always.”
At night, he did show you how sentimental he was. Nothing would compare to the absolute devotion he held for you. Who could have imagined that, at night, when the Presidential House was finally asleep, him - the President of the Republic, the leader of a free nation, with loving eyes and disheveled hair after a terrible day, his tie forgotten somewhere on the floor, wrinkled shirt unbuttoned halfway, strong arms around your waist, head between your legs - was on his knees for his wife, craving her attention? The President was whipped - like the rest of the nation if we are being honest.
And, he wouldn’t have it any other way.
TON AMOUR, TON AMOUR, NOTRE AMOUR
(Your love, your love, our love)
────
“Chéri.”
“Repeat it.”
“Ché-ri.”
Joel just hummed, hazel eyes enraptured by the movements of your lips, tracking how they parted in a beautiful shape to let the sound out - fascinating foreign syllables singing sweetly to his ears. You could talk nonsense for all he cared and he would still listen with the utmost attention. This language - whatever French pet name you just gave him - only mattered because it was you. You and no one else. Your voice was his favourite lullaby, your gleaming eyes luring him more and more every second you repeated the same word to him, your mysterious smile - as if you only held all the secrets of the universe - was the only thing he remembered before closing his eyes.
And yet, he had no idea what chéri or whatever you said meant. Whispered like a secret into the night that was meant only for his ears, it meant everything if it was coming from your loving mouth. He didn’t really need the translation - the depth of your devotion reached his soul before he knew it.
“You wanna know what it means?”
“Don’t need to.”
Cheek squished against the soft pillow, your legs tangled with his in the sheets - he could feel it. The thump of your heart matching his. Like waves coming back to the shore in a tender embrace, yours was calling him back, back home. The feeling of being cherished filled him entirely, so much that he wanted - no, he needed to be closer. To understand you more. To feel more. To hear you more, to hear you say something, anything, everything in your language.
“Sourcil.” His finger traced your eyebrow in a gentle caress, your eyelashes fluttering slowly as you leaned into his rough palm. You whispered against his touch, warmth slowly pooled in your stomach as his index finger went lower, and lower, feeling each of your facial contours. He had all the time in the world - the warm summer night full of promises before the hazy sunrise.
“Nez.” Grazing the tip of your nose, he stopped for a second. Perfection. You were perfection. There was no other possible explanation. How couldn’t it be when you were so patient and gentle with him?
“Joue.” He went lower, against your cheek this time. Your voice was only a soft murmur at this point, waiting for his next move.
And then-
“Lèvre.” You caught his thumb between your lips. A sound left his mouth - something between a deep rumble coming from his chest and a soft groan, his other hand cupping the side of your jaw, ready to taste the sweet promise of your words.
“I like the sound of that one.” And he kissed you. Oh, did he kiss you. Again and again and again and again until the divine touch of your lips against his was imprinted in the marble of his mind. Until he memorised the shape of them, the perfection of how they perfectly fit against his. He did it until he stole the breath from your lungs, leaving you panting, your forehead against his.
“Think you can teach me more?”
“Yes, honey.”
He definitely liked this language now.
────
the perks of being fluent in both languages 🙂↕️ I would sweet-talk him every night btw, he deserves it
hi everyone! just wanted to say that i won’t be active this month, i’ll be back around the end of march, see ya <3
Before meeting you, Joel didn’t see himself as a man anymore, just a shadow thriving on the chaos of the streets of Boston, between the blood and the gunshots, the horror and the fear that came with a life of survival.
And then, he met you and his world fell apart.
His heart was an organ of fire, aglow and always in motion that never ceased beating in a continuous rhythm, keeping him alive. His mind, on the other hand, was a fortress of reason, a bastion of logic, an unbreakable steel frame. Yet, between the two, there was a ceaseless battle, a clash of desires and thoughts; your simple presence short-circuiting the entire system. His heart yearned for what it needed in order to survive, heedless of consequence, while his mind calculated and weighed, striving for equilibrium.
But you, you threatened this precarious equilibrium that he took so much time to build over the years. And yet, you sneaked your way into his scars, and stayed.
Those three precious words, eight letters long, never left his lips - not even once - his irises, two hazel circles where the earth seemed to meet the golden sun in a warm embrace, grounding and reassuring, spoke a thousand and one words instead. He didn’t want to simply love you. He wanted to learn you, to know if you liked your coffee bitter or sweet, to know why you cried when you were eight years old, to know why you hated your old home and what made you flinch. What made you stay. What made you look at him like that. He wanted to reach the deep end of your heart, to see all your sides, the pretty and the dark, and love them, to see all your previous versions and love them endlessly.
To love you endlessly.
────
i should be writing my dissertation, and yet here i am 😃
i think i just need one (ten) hug from joel to help me de-stress, i know for sure he gives the best hugs, the kind of hugs that engulfs you entirely into his warmth, his pinewood perfume invading your nostrils, his beard scrapping your temple, his hot breath against your hair, his lips grazing over the crown of your head as soft praises are whispered. he wouldn’t pull back until you do, never. one of his rough hands would cradle your head, his fingers wiping the few tears escaping from your waterlines, as if he was brushing stardust off your cheeks, his soft hazel eyes never leaving yours.
yes, i need him to comfort me right now :(
wind in your hair, Texas in his eyes
Summary: For you, an aerospace engineering professor at the university, life consisted of elegant equations and the sterile silence of a laboratory. That was until Joel Miller arrived—shaking the building to its foundations with the roar of a construction site and a cloud of cedar dust under the scorching Austin sun.
- or -
A Contractor Joel Miller x Professor Reader Modern AU
Pairing: Joel Miller/Professor!reader
Warnings: Slow Burn, Modern Setting, No Outbreak, Contractor Joel Miller, Professor Reader, Blue Collar x White Collar, Age Gap, Reader Has Gray Hair, Curvy Reader, Austin TX, Additional Tags to Be Added
Word Count: 3.9k
Chapters: 1/?
Find it also on ao3
Chapter One: A Crack in the Foundation
“he looks like he works with his hands
and smells like Marlboro reds”
you cannot tell me this ain’t preoutbreak!joelmiller working as a blue-collar, grease staining his face, big calloused hands caressing the wood with expertise, grumbling under his breath. i’m sure he feels like cigarettes and paradise.
and yes, he’s my new obsession of the moment, a grumpy dilf in his 50s that looks like he probably needs more than just a hug? i don’t need more, i’m in☝🏻
thank you very much, guys even though i probably don’t deserve it as i disappear every five minutes ☹️❤️
Toji at the souk
“Don’t even think about talking.”
“What?”
Leading him through the covered market, big old Toji was following you like a lost puppy put on a leash. Taller than most people, his broad frame hid yours - much smaller compared to his. His hands were full of bags that you handed him every time you bought something, and honestly, you’d nearly bought half of the souk at this rate. He didn’t understand the language - focusing mostly on your reactions to follow your conversations.
It was his first time in here and everything felt different from what he’d known before: pieces of gold jewellery displayed in the storefronts caught his attention, as well as the well-known smell of spices, the delicious fried food and the fruits reached his sharp senses - you even told him about the honeyed figs of this old man called Hakim in the corner of the secret passage that you knew too well - accompanied by the constant noises, the oud playing from dawn to dusk, the laughing of kids chasing each other, the mewling of cats - and, all of this felt like home for you.
Even if it felt foreign to him, home belonged wherever you were, so if this was your home, he would consider it home too. So, he followed you everywhere, grumbling when you gave him a new bag, and shut his mouth when you offered him some food.
“They’ll double the prices if they hear your accent, and I’m not paying for pistachios that cost a couple of bucks, honestly.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Your “does it look like I’m kidding?” glare could have killed him on the spot - a grumble leaving his lips. He was impressed by your negotiating skills - but if you told him that his accent was a giveaway, he would listen.
“So, just nod to everything I say, and hopefully, we’ll get through this.”
“Whatever you say, ma’.”
────
You had been prepared to this scenario: losing toji in the passages, and finding him standing like a toddler, hands full of bags, waiting for you to come get him. That had to happen eventually.
But nothing prepared you for this: like an old man, he was sitting on a white plastic chair at the entrance of a little shop, a cup of hot mint tea in his hand, eating pistachios and actually talking - if that could be considered talking, when all he was doing was humming and nodding - with the seller who seemed a bit too enthiusiastic. They didn’t even speak the same language, for God’s sake, and yet, somehow, the language barrier wasn’t a problem anymore.
You blinked. Once. Twice. You opened your mouth, then closed it - the seller giving you a cup of tea, which you accepted, thanking him.
“I think he likes me.” Toji finally acknowledged you - as if you hadn’t spend half an hour searching for your man in every single little shop, worried he might get in trouble, while he was unbothered, stuffing his mouth with pistachios, enjoying the sweet life.
“I think he’s trying to sell you three kilos of pistachios for a price you can’t afford, Toji.”
He choked on the pistachios.
GETO was majestic. i can’t even find another word to describe him. his long silk hair. his half lidded eyes. his sharp jaw. his mannerism. his velvet voice. his smile lighting up his entire face. always soft spoken, and well behaved. patient and caring. considerate. he was tragically beautiful. the gentlest soul in a chaotic world that didn’t understand him. a heart that felt too much in a world that cared so little about him. he was power wrapped in silk. carrying himself with grace and strength. written in melancholy.
kento nanami fic recs
in honor of jjk season three trailer coming out, im going to start posting all of my jjk recs, so stay tuned bachchas, more updates to come xx
nanamiiii my husbanddd mahito, when i catch you mahito
lobby | other shelves | more jjk
thank you for adding me to your list, love 🫶🏻
on your honeymoon, nanami would feel bolder than usual. the malaysian heat would probably make him melt, the first buttons of his damp shirt carelessly opened, his golden hair falling back on his forehead. he wouldn’t really like it - the sweat rolling over his warm skin - but the sight of you swaying to the rhythm of the marimba would bewitch him entirely that he would forget about it.
if his wife wanted to dance, he would certainly grab you by the waist, his feet a bit clumsy - he would definitely step on your feet once or twice, his hands too sweaty, he would have to wipe them on his linen pants - his cheekbones flushed, the tip of his ears pink, trying to match your steps, and making you sway like the lazy ocean hugging the shore.
keeping you close, he would hum the melody playing in the background into your ear, his deep voice rumbling through his chest, as your hips would move against his. his soft eyes would never leave your face - you would be his light in the middle of the night, and he would intend to cherish you for the rest of his life.
(i want to dance with him until my feet hurt ☹️)
i’ve never talked about my love for gojo and geto’s relationship here, should i write about them? they make me feel sick and miserable, but i cannot spend a day without talking about them 💔
“husband,” you call lazily from the bathroom, foam around your lips, “can you grab me a shirt?”
he freezes in the middle of buttoning his own. it’s the simplest word. he’s heard it before—friends have said it, coworkers, even strangers who don’t know your name call him your husband when they see the ring on his hand.
but it’s different when it’s you and it’s somehow different like this.
barefoot in your shared bathroom, not even looking at him. not saying it to get a reaction, not trying to make him blush. just calling for your husband like it’s always been this way. that’s who he is only to you—not nanami kento, not some unreachable salaryman, not an exorcist or a colleague or even a boyfriend—but your husband. like the word is already stitched into your every breath.
his fingers fumble on the button. his eyes drop to the shirt in his hand, then to your open drawer, then back to where you’re still brushing your teeth, waiting.
he goes to your dresser, still a little dazed, and pulls out one of his shirts instead of yours. carries it to you quietly, eyes soft, heart doing something embarrassing in his chest.
you glance up when he steps in, eyebrows raised.
“this isn’t mine.”
“i know,” he says, voice quiet, and holds it out anyway. “wear it anyway.”
you eye him for a second—he’s looking at you too gently, too closely—and you smile around your toothbrush, shrugging as you spit and rinse and tug it over your head. it falls past your thighs and smells like him, clean and warm, and for a second, he just watches even though it’s a sight etched in his brain from a long time ago.
“what,” you mumble as you towel off your hair.
he doesn’t answer right away. just comes closer. presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw.
“say it again,” he says softly, almost whispering into your damp skin.
“what?”
his arms come around your waist, slow and firm, pulling you close. “call me that again.”
your heart stumbles. “husband?”
he sighs, like you’ve just dropped him into a warm bath, like you’ve just given him something he didn’t know he needed.
“mm, that’s right,” he hums, pressing his forehead to yours, “again.”
“husband,” you whisper this time, smiling now, leaning into him.
his eyes close. “again.”
“my husband.”
his lips find yours, gentle and grateful. he kisses you because he loves you far too much right now to keep himself away, as if he can’t believe this is his life and he wants to hear it every day for the rest of your lives.
because he does. because he’s yours.
because he’s your husband.
My beautiful, pretty, beauty, effortless, opulent, unparalleled, glamorous, magnificent, bewitching, immaculate, spectacular, exotic, bewitching, radiating, coveted, commanding, unrivaled, supreme, unassallable, unmatched, resplendent, enthralling, spellbinding, enigmatic, distinguished, unfading, irresistible, striking, vivacious, regal, impressive, majestic, ethereal, unforgettable, incomparable, breathtaking, sumptuous, elegant, resplendent, radiant, alluring, enchanting, ethereal, elegant, gorgeous graceful, unrivaled, graceful, mesmerizing, impeccable, charming, ravishing, sophisticated, bewitching, authentic, exceptional, sophisticated, sublime, opulent, gorgeous, awe-inspiring, awesome, statuesque, exquisite, alluring, prettiest, dazzling, effortless, cutest, perfect, princess, supreme HUSBAND.
being in nanami’s arms while he reads.
resting your head on the crook of his neck, inhaling a scent you’d always call as home. his hold on you was tight, secure; even though his whole focus in that moment was on the words of his thick book. you nestled closer, and the man just complied even without you saying anything, tilting his head to give you further access. silently needing you as close as you physically could as well.
you closed your eyes, and what followed was his quiet hums, the crisp sound of pages being turned, soft kisses he gave atop of your head like it’s a habit nanami couldn’t quit.
“feeling comfy, love?” he asked, now holding the book with just one hand as he used the other to rub your back gently. you nodded happily in response, “mhm, how many pages you have left?” you mumbled to his neck still closing your eyes; a question that will get easily answered if you’d just turned your head a little.
“a few more,” he replied, glee was apparent on his feature—the indescribable joy at seeing you feeling so relaxed and unguarded in his arms. it’s worth everything, he thought, as nanami got back to his book, rereading the last chapter for the fourth time in twenty minutes.
he didn’t need to do that, perhaps.
he could just say he’d finished the book. but at the risk of you getting up and out from his embrace? nanami is not taking that chance.
will definitely read it over and over, i love him so much (am i touch starved? yes, maybe 🥴)
