ren

there wasn't enough time to begin with

[octrellue-ren22]

just the general bio

✯ 21 ⬆️ and struggling in college

✯ early anime starter kit, early I mean literally ancient type anime (ex: goku still has a tail and was a kid)

✯ hoyoverse game addiction (Hi3rd, HSR, ToT, GI, ZZZ)

✯ trying to lessen screen time but failed miserably

✯ warning!! my translations (if i translate some things) are rudimentary at best

✯ writes stuff on ao3

✯ just started posting random thoughts

✯ will reblog stories that I will surely read again in the future.

[tays-writing]

Older bf!Nanami x Reader

Kento Nanami has rules. You have a skirt, a filthy mouth, and zero intention of letting him keep them. He never stood a chance.

cw: NSFW. Age gap, older bf!nanami x university student!reader, Daddy kink, Sir kink, scolding, discipline, authority kink, bratty reader, hypersexual reader, obsessive reader, a bit manipulative reader, Soft Dom Nanami, Nanami tries to resist, dirty talk, mating press, creampie, rough sex, breeding kink, aftercare, established relationship.

cr: @ilameys

The fluorescent hum of the office ceased to exist for Kento Nanami the moment he stepped past his front door.

Arms wound tightly around his waist before he could even close it. Your face pressed into the crisp cotton of his shirt, breathing him in like you had been starving for his scent all day. He exhaled—a slow release of the rigid professionalism that had governed every movement for the past nine hours.

In the corporate world he was a model of predictable efficiency: precise, organised, impeccable. Here, in the dim quiet of the apartment, that composure was already being dismantled by the woman currently clinging to him like he was the only solid thing left in the world.

“You’re late,” you murmured against his chest, and he already knew you were pouting.

“Management required an unexpected audit, sweetheart.” His voice was low and gravelly, the baritone vibrating against your cheek. 

While he shifted his weight to close the heavy oak door, your hands slid up to the lapels of his suit jacket and pushed it back off his shoulders. The heavy fabric slid down his arms and fell somewhere behind him with a soft thud. He locked the door, then finally settled his hands firmly on your hips.

Even through the thin fabric of his shirt on your body, he could feel the nervous, electric heat radiating from you. You were vibrating with that relentless, consuming energy he had come to know too well: a constant hum of hyperfixation and physical hunger you made no effort to conceal. 

You tilted your head back, still clinging to him. Dark eyes glittering with that familiar, predatory intensity that always made something catch in his throat. There was no patience in your gaze. No gentle transition into domestic evening quiet. Only the sharp hunger of a girl who had spent the entire day waiting for this exact moment.

You rose on your tiptoes, lips brushing his jawline, tasting the skin there. 

“I’ve spent the whole morning staring at the clock,” you said softly, “thinking about the exact angle of your shoulders under this jacket. About how the fabric of your shirt stretches when you move. About you coming home and me putting my mouth on you before you even take your shoes off.”

A flicker of warning crossed his expression—the quiet, rational voice of an older man who still understood propriety, who still valued boundaries and discretion even when his body was already answering yours.

“And your classes?” he asked, moving one hand to stroke his thumb slowly along the small of your back. “I trust the lecture on macroeconomic theory kept your attention better than the clock.”

“Barely.” You laughed, a breathless sound that hitched when his fingers pressed just a fraction deeper. You rose higher onto your toes, the short plaid skirt riding up against bare thighs. “I sat in the first row imagining what you’d look like if I unbuttoned your shirt right there in the lecture hall. Everyone would stare. They’d know you belong to me.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

“That is precisely the kind of thought that needs correcting,” he said, voice still even, still measured. “You are not in a lecture hall to fantasise about stripping me in public. You are there to learn. And I am not a prize you get to claim in front of an audience.”

You weren’t simply attracted to him. You consumed him. Every hour spent apart seemed to act as fuel for an engine that ran exclusively on your obsession with his touch, his voice, the clean scent that followed him everywhere. He had given you the key months ago. He still remembered the look on your face when he placed it in your palm—like it was proof that this was real. That Kento Nanami, the composed man who left for the office in a perfectly pressed suit every weekday, had decided you belonged here enough to come and go as you pleased.

His cologne lingered in the bedroom. His shirts hung in the closet in neat rows. The spare toothbrush he bought for you sat in the holder beside his. Every detail of the apartment whispered his, and that was enough to keep you restless, thighs pressed together under the table while you pretended to focus on your economy project staring back at you from the laptop.

He looked down at the open notebook on the coffee table, the scattered highlighters, the document about your project still open. Then his eyes moved over you once—open collar of his shirt, short skirt, the flush still high on your cheeks.

“You’re not wearing anything underneath, are you? You were studying like this?”

Heat flooded your face, but you didn’t look away. “I got distracted.”

He said your name then—low, measured, like he was already calculating how much restraint he had left. The sound of it did something sharp and immediate to your stomach. You just wanted to press your face into his chest and breathe him in until the ache between your legs quieted.

“I tried,” you said, sliding your hands to the back of his head, stroking the soft blond strands.

His hand rose, hesitating for half a second before settling at the side of your neck. His thumb brushed the hinge of your jaw. Warm. Steady. 

“You’re young,” he said quietly. “I understand that the intensity feels… necessary right now. Hormones. Age. The way everything still runs hotter and faster for you.” His eyes searched yours, serious, almost tired. “But spending an entire day working yourself into this state isn’t healthy. You need boundaries, especially with me. Especially when I get home and you are already like this—wet, distracted, and already half-undressed in my clothes.”

Your hands slid down from his hair and found the knot of his tie. You loosened it slowly, deliberately, then pulled it free and let it drop to the floor.

“Are you listening to me?”

You leaned into his palm, bratty and soft at the same time. “I know you’re right. You’re always right.” Your fingers moved to the front of his shirt, tugging it free from his trousers first, then starting on the buttons one by one. “But I don’t want boundaries when it comes to you. I want you. All day. Every day. I sat here imagining you at your desk—all serious and focused, glasses on, that little frown you get when the numbers don’t line up—and it made me so wet I could barely sit still. Is that what you mean by needing limits?”

Something flickered behind his expression—heat, restraint, the constant private war he fought with himself whenever you pushed like this. He was older. Responsible. The kind of man who planned his week in advance and ironed his shirts on Sunday evenings. You were the variable he hadn’t accounted for, the one who showed up in his carefully ordered life and refused to be anything less than consuming.

“Yes,” he said. “You feel everything so sharply still. And I—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “I should be the one slowing this down. Not encouraging it. I will not take advantage of how completely you want me simply because it flatters the part of me that likes being wanted this completely.”

You rose onto your toes again and brushed your mouth against the corner of his. Soft, testing.

“But you like it,” you whispered. “You like that I’m like this for you. That no one else gets me this desperate. That the age difference makes it feel a little forbidden even though we’re both adults and no one can tell us no. You gave me the key, daddy. You knew exactly what you were letting into your quiet little life.”

He exhaled through his nose once again, the sound almost tired.

“Listen to me,” he said, more firmly this time, even as your palms moved slowly over his stomach. “This is not a game where you win by wearing me down. I am trying to teach you something. Desire is fine. Obsession without self-control is not. You cannot spend every free hour in a state of arousal and then expect me to simply… indulge it the second I walk through the door.”

Your hands traced the hard lines of his abs. You rose onto your toes again and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the side of his neck, right above the collar, tasting the faint salt of a long day and the clean edge of his cologne.

His hands tightened on your hips.

“I know what you’re doing,” he continued, voice lower now, though he still hadn’t pushed you away. “You listen just enough to keep me talking while you touch me. You use that mouth and those hands and that skirt to make the conversation harder. Part of you gets wet precisely because I keep trying to hold it.”

Another kiss, higher this time, just under his jaw. Your teeth grazed lightly.

He was right. It wasn’t just that he was older. It was that he knew he was older. He stood here and tried to speak all rational. And you loved it. You liked the resistance, the scolding. You were waiting for the moment he finally stopped being careful.

You made a soft, affirmative sound against his throat, fingers still moving slowly over his skin.

“I’m listening,” you repeated, softer, almost sweet. “You’re telling me I need to learn control. That I shouldn’t sit in class dripping for you. That I shouldn’t come home already soaked and climb you the second the door closes.” Your palm slid lower, flat against the warm skin of his stomach. “But every time you try to correct me, my body just… reacts harder. Is that part of the lesson too, sir?”

Kento’s breath left him in a controlled rush. His grip on your hips tightened, then loosened, then tightened again—like he was physically fighting the urge to haul you closer.

“You are testing me on purpose,” he said, the gravel in his voice deeper now. “And I am trying very hard not to reward the behaviour.”

“Then stop talking and stop me,” you whispered against his throat. Your hand stayed just above his belt “Or keep talking. I like both. I like when you try to educate me while I’m already touching you. It makes me feel like I’m winning even when you’re scolding me.”

He caught your wrist—gently, but firmly— before you could move your hand lower.

“Enough,” he said, though the word lacked real force. “You are not going to keep touching me while I am still trying to have a serious conversation with you. That is the opposite of learning restraint.”

You looked up at him through your lashes, bratty and soft all at once.

“Then teach me properly,” you said. “Tell me what a good girl would do right now. Tell me how I should be behaving. And while you do it… let me keep touching you. I’ll listen. I swear.”

For a long moment he only stared at you. The internal war was visible in the tight line of his jaw, the slight flare of his nostrils, the way his thumb kept stroking the inside of your wrist even as he held it still.

Then something in him gave.

He released your wrist and slid both hands down to the backs of your thighs, under the short skirt. In one smooth motion he lifted you, settling you astride his waist. Your legs wrapped around him on instinct. He carried you the short distance to the bedroom and laid you down carefully on the edge of the bed, remaining standing between your legs.

His hands settled on your bare hips, thumbs pressing into the soft skin just above where underwear should have been.

“A good girl does not spend the entire day touching herself to thoughts of her older partner. A good girl does not come home already wet and climb him before he has even taken his shoes off. A good girl does not use that filthy mouth to try and break his resolve while he is attempting to teach her self-control.”

He leaned in.

“You are not a good girl right now, are you?”

You shook your head, already rocking faintly against the hard line of him through his trousers. The thick shape of his cock was impossible to ignore—fully hard, straining against the fabric. Your mouth watered at the sight.

“No, sir.”

“No,” he agreed, thumb stroking the skin of your hip. “You’re a spoiled, obsessive little thing who gets wetter the more I try to correct her. And I am done pretending that doesn’t affect me.”

He stayed standing. You opened your legs wider for him without being told.

One hand came to rest on your bare knee, thumb tracing a slow, absent arc against your skin. The touch was careful. Possessive in the restrained way that always made your stomach drop.

“I am still going to talk to you,” he said. “Even now. Especially now.”

“I know.”

“I love you,” he said, quiet and clear. “I am not taking advantage of how much you want this. I am choosing it. There is a difference, and I need you to feel it.”

“Yes daddy, I feel it.”

He looked at you for a long moment. Your flushed skin. The way your thighs were already parted for him. His eyes closed briefly, and when they opened again the restraint was thinner.

“I am trying,” he said, voice low, “to be the responsible one here. To remind you that you have classes. That you shouldn’t rearrange your entire day around waiting for me to come home.” His other hand moved between your legs, two fingers sliding through the slick heat waiting for him. A quiet, almost pained sound left him. “But you make it extremely difficult.”

You whimpered loudly, hips rolling into his hand.

“Please, Ken,” you breathed. “Stop trying to be reasonable. Just take what’s yours. Fuck me. Breed your little girl if you want. I spent the whole day ready for it.”

Kento didn’t answer right away. He straightened, still standing between your open legs, and began undressing with the same quiet precision he applied to everything else. He shrugged his shirt off and folded it neatly over the back of the chair. Then he removed his belt, set it aside, and stepped out of his trousers and boxers, folding those as well. Even now—hard, breathing a little deeper than usual—he refused to leave a mess.

You watched every movement, thighs shifting restlessly against the sheets. Your hand drifted up to cup one breast over his shirt, thumb brushing the nipple. The other hand slid between your legs, two fingers finding your clit.

“Don’t,” he said, voice low but firm. He caught your wrist again before your fingers could really start moving.

A frustrated little sound left you.

“Daddy is soo bad,” you pouted, letting both hands fall to the sheets and gripping the fabric tightly instead, hips still shifting with restless need.

“No,” he corrected quietly. “Daddy is trying to teach you patience.”

Only then did he lean over you. He pulled his shirt the rest of the way off your body and tossed it aside. For a moment he just looked at you—flushed, already slick, legs open for him, the short plaid skirt still bunched around your waist.

His cock twitched hard at the sight. The thick, heavy length of him stood flushed and straining. He settled between your thighs, the blunt head pressing against you, but he didn’t push in yet. His eyes met yours, serious even now.

“I’m going to fuck you slowly,” he said, voice low and controlled. “Not because I don’t want you. Because you need to learn that this doesn’t have to be a frantic race every single time. You will take it at my pace. Do you understand?”

“Yes daddy—please” You nodded, already close to tears from the wait.

Only then did he push into you. Every inch stretched you open at his pace, not yours. The short skirt stayed bunched around your waist, the soft fabric brushing his hips as he bottomed out.

You tried to meet him, rolling your hips up to take him deeper, faster. His hands immediately clamped down on your hips, pinning you firmly to the mattress.

“No,” he said, voice still steady. “You stay still. You take what I give you.”

That was when you decided you’d waited long enough.

Pure, spoiled caprice. You were full of him, soft and stretched around the thick length buried inside you, and the careful educational pace was no longer enough. You rolled your hips up hard against the hold of his hands, clenched deliberately around him, and let the filth spill out against his ear without any filter.

“You’re still trying so hard to be the responsible one, Daddy. Still fucking me like you need to prove you’re not taking advantage of your little slut. But I can feel how hard you are. This heavy cock knows exactly what I am. I’m yours. Your young girlfriend. A little slut who spends all day wet and empty just thinking about you coming home and using me.”

Kento’s next thrust stuttered hard. You felt the crack open.

“You keep behaving like the responsible, mature one,” you continued, voice low and shameless, nails dragging down his back, “but you didn’t take off the skirt. You really like it, don’t you? Leaving it on so you can feel the fabric every time you push into me. So you can look down and see your little university girl still wearing it while you’re buried inside her.”

His forehead dropped against yours. A rough sound left his throat.

“I’d stay attached to you all day if you let me,” you went on. “I’d kneel under your desk at the office with your cock in my mouth while you work. Or I could wait on my knees by the door every evening so the second you walk in you could just shove it down my throat or bend me over the nearest surface and ruin me. No other dick could ever come close to this. Nothing else is this thick, this heavy. You’ve ruined me for anyone else and you know it.”

“Stop—” he tried, but the word came out strained, almost pleading, and his hips had already started moving harder, less precise.

“Why should I stop?” you smiled, bratty and relentless. “Because it’s working? Because the serious older man who irons his shirts and talks about boundaries is starting to fuck his little slut like he can’t help it? Look at you. You’re getting deeper. You’re losing that perfect control the second I remind you what I am. Poor daddy. Stuck with a greedy, obsessed little whore who only gets wetter when you try to educate her.”

“You don’t know when to shut that mouth,” he muttered, voice rough.

“That’s right,” you whispered, clenching around him again. “I love when you try to teach me. When you hold me down and tell me I need limits and then still fill me up anyway. It makes me so fucking wet. If you really want to educate me, maybe you should spank this ass while you fuck me. Or put your hand around my throat and remind me who I belong to. I’d take it. I’d thank you for it. Your little slut needs the lesson, doesn’t she?”

You leaned up, lips brushing his ear.

“Call me your cumdump,” you breathed. “Just once. Say it.”

The words left your mouth hot and shameless, but inside you already knew the truth: he never would. Your boyfriend did not degrade you. He never had. And somehow that knowledge only made the request hotter, the refusal more delicious.

Something in him finally broke. A low, broken curse left him.

“You pushed and pushed until I stopped being careful,” he growled. “Remember that when you’re crying because it’s too much.”

Then he hooked both of your knees high and wide, folding you nearly in half under his weight, and drove down into you in a heavy mating press—his full body pinning you, the new angle letting him sink so deep it punched the air from your lungs.

“Fuck—yes—just like that—” you gasped, completely open under him, legs forced wide. “That’s what I wanted. Stop fighting it —ahhghh—Use your little whore”

The careful composure was fracturing in real time. His hips snapped down harder, the mating press turning every thrust deep, wet, and inescapable.

“You don’t know when to shut that mouth,” he repeated, almost to himself, even as he fucked you with growing force.

“Then make me,” you challenged, voice wrecked and gleeful. “Choke me a little. Spank me. Remind your little cumdump who she belongs to while you ruin her with this perfect cock. No one else could ever stretch me like this. No one else is this big or this good. I’d stay on your cock all day if you’d let me. That’s how badly I need it.”

He made another rough, almost pained sound and gave you exactly what the dirty talk had been dragging out of him. The mating press turned relentless—his weight fully over you, knees forced high, every thrust bottoming out with a wet, heavy impact that left you crying out under him.

Your words started breaking apart. The depth, the force, the way he kept hitting that spot inside you turned your filthy stream of talk into helpless, open sounds.

“Ah—Ah—Ah—”

Tears gathered at the corners of your eyes and slipped down your temples, the overwhelm too much to hold back. You were completely open under him, shaking, no longer able to form a single coherent provocation.

Kento’s breath was hot and uneven against your mouth. He didn’t slow down.

“Why don’t you talk now?” he said, voice low and rough, almost dark with satisfaction. “You tortured me since the second I walked through that door. All that filth. All that pushing. Where did it go?”

You could only whimper, clutching at his back, legs forced wide, taking every heavy thrust. The tension in your stomach coiled tighter and tighter until it snapped.

A broken cry tore out of you as you came hard around him, pulsing and clenching, the orgasm so intense your vision blurred. Your body shook under his weight, slick and desperate, milking him with every spasm.

The feeling of you coming undone around his cock was the last thing that held him together.

A deep, animal sound tore out of his throat—raw, uncontrolled. His hips stuttered hard, then locked deep as he came, pulsing hot inside you, filling you in thick, heavy spurts while you were still clenching around him. 

He stayed buried to the hilt, breathing hard against your neck, still holding your knees open while the last of it emptied into you and the aftershocks kept trembling through both of you.

Eventually he eased out of you, slow and careful. A soft, wet sound followed, and you felt the warm trickle of his come between your thighs. He made a quiet sound of his own at the sight, then reached for the tissues on the nightstand. He cleaned you with the same precise care he applied to everything else before discarding them and pulling you into his arms.

For a while neither of you spoke.

Then the responsible tone returned, quiet but firm.

“This can’t become an everyday thing,” he said. “You need to focus on your coursework. I need to be able to leave for work without wondering whether you’re going to spend eight hours edging yourself in my apartment.”

“I know. I’m sorry I’m like this,” you murmured, looking down at your hand resting on his chest. “I love you.”

His expression softened. He covered your hand with his own.

“I’m sorry for being so strict,” he murmured. “There’s nothing wrong with you. I love you.”

He saw the satisfied smile appear on your face. He knew exactly what it meant. You had talked him past every careful line he had tried to hold, and both of you were long past pretending he had ever stood a real chance once you decided to push.

“You should be sleeping,” Kento said quietly “Your morning lecture begins at nine.”

He stared into the darkness, his mind drifting back to his own world—the boring cubicles, the polite, hollow conversations with colleagues who saw him as an efficient machine. A man who clocked in, did his work, and clocked out without complaint.

They had no idea that behind closed doors he was anchored entirely by a brilliant, hyperfixated university student who devoured his existence with a terrifying, beautiful hunger.

“Sleep” he whispered against your hair, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head and press your face gently into the crook of his neck, where his pulse beat steady and warm. “I’ll still be here in the morning.”

You let out a soft, contented sigh. Your fingers, which had been tracing slow circles over his chest, finally stilled and rested flat against his skin.

“I know,” you murmured against his pulse point. “I’m making sure of it.”

You spent the rest of the week proving, once again, that when it came to the two of you, the younger, relentless one almost always won. And despite everything he said about moderation and the dangers of your obsession, Kento knew—quietly, privately—that he wouldn’t have you any other way.

Reblogs are sooo appreciated ✨

masterlist

[fckmyylife]

laws of attraction | 11

(Higuruma Hiromi x female reader) 18+ only, no minors.

Higuruma was a man of autonomy. He couldn't be tied down by the most impossible cases, yet he was about to bind himself into a marriage with you.

❧ arranged marriage, angst, hurt/comfort, anxiety & anxiety attacks, overthinking, insecurities, hesitation, slow burn, curses, takes place before Higuruma fully awakens as a sorcerer, eventual smut, reader has a vagina. 18+ only, no minors.

previous | fic masterlist | AO3 | taglist

One more chapter next after this, which will be the epilogue to conclude the story.

"Don't fall asleep."

Your lashes fluttered open. At your return to consciousness, you were greeted by pale light and bathroom tiles, trickles of hot water leaking from the faucet and onto your feet.

"Or I'll go next," he spoke.

You yawned deeply. "Then we'll both drown."

A quiet scoff rumbled against your back.

Warm water lapped against your shoulders, sinking further into him. The bath was deep enough for the both of you and for water to reach almost to your collarbones. His legs stretched beneath yours, while yours rested atop and beneath his.

You were unsure if there was ever a time where you felt so relaxed, even after the onsen. You were spent from sex and now handled with care, skin-to-skin with the man that you'd once felt hundreds of miles apart not long ago.

"Something tells me you've fallen asleep in the bath before," you spoke.

At his lack of answer, you tipped your head back to assess his reaction.

He lightly shook his head, looking away with a half-smile.

It was your turn to lightly chuckle in the echoing room.

"I knew it," you said, before yawning again.

"Want to get out now?" he asked.

"Not yet."

He didn't object, and you fell into another silence.

Your eyes drooped at the feel of his heartbeat, but you wanted his time tonight, for as long as you possibly could. Maybe it was selfish since he'd been at work all day, went to dinner with you and exerted his body with yours, but you couldn't help it.

Once you had him, you grew addictive.

You'd showered after you were done, before following him into the bath. The wrinkle and dryness of your palm was an indicator to get out soon.

"You were," he cleared his throat, "amazing tonight. And this whole week."

You looked up, hair brushing against his chest.

You'd felt like a fool the entire week with the amount of embarrassing moments you'd been in.

"That's because you've been around," you said instead.

"Flatterer.

"Really. It's nice."

Your hand trailed over his, pausing at the ring around his finger. You turned it slowly around.

The hand used to be entirely unfamiliar not long ago.

It was surprising that he'd even kept the ring there in the first place. The band of unity once felt like Hiromi's place in your life - an unknown stranger.

Now, whenever you took it off to shower, you felt an odd ache or itch without the feeling of warm silver on your skin. You couldn't forget how panicked you'd been when you found his ring on the floor of the ryokan.

"I've never had anyone like you," he admitted.

"Relationships?"

"None that were serious," he murmured, pensively.

Only you.

"You?" he asked.

You shook your head, watching the small waves of water. "Same here."

The silence allowed space for your next question, not wanting to bombard him.

"Did you ever feel…pressured to get married?"

It felt like a waste of a question in a way, because you already knew that no one could force Hiromi to do anything.

"No. My parents just always mentioned it. I always knew it was going to happen."

Arms loosely wrapped around your bare waist, as if he knew the doubts were about to run your mind.

"They want to see you," he added, in your ear. "I forgot to say."

Your head turned again. "Your parents?"

Droplets of water clung to the edge of his hair. He nodded, a few droplets falling off of his jaw. "They called and said."

Your shoulders relaxed from tension you hadn't realized was there. The time yours and his parents came to visit was a memory you sought to bury.

"I'd love to," you mumured. "At their house?"

"Mm. My childhood home."

A small smile raised on your lips. "I want to see where you grew up."

"I'll let them know we'll come soon."

With that, you rested your head into his chest, eyes closing without realizing.

You barely registered it when he lifted you from the bath.

The ringing jolted you from the edge of sleep. For a moment, you couldn't place where you were.

Darkness clung to your vision, broken by the pale rectangle of light across the ceiling.

Cool ends of your damp hair rested against the pillow, signalling you hadn't been in bed for long. Hiromi's scent found you before memory did.

His breathing sounded even, at least underneath the ringing - he must've been asleep.

You reached blindly for the glowing phone, realizing it was yours.

Mother, the screen read.

Perhaps there wasn't such a thing as a perfect day, if she was calling.

You slipped from the duvet, stealing a glance at Hiromi.

Easing the bedroom door behind you, you stepped into the hallway. "Hello?"

Your voice was hushed and hoarse.

"There you are," you mother said.

You leaned against the wall, body tense. "Things have been busy."

There was a brief silence before it all finally started.

"Well, we were wondering, since you both hadn't called."

The words took you out of tiredness.

One of these days, you wondered if your father would ever make the effort to call either.

"How is Higuruma?" she asked.

You sighed. Her favorite child was already Hiromi, after all. She reached for him more than her own daughter.

How are you or did I wake you? didn't seem to be in her vocabulary.

"He's asleep. But he's fine. Working less," you said, resisting the urge to ask her to get on with it. Hurry up with the berating so you could hang up and go back to bed with your husband.

"He must be home more often. Are you helping him enough?" she asked.

There it was.

Your gaze drifted from the silhouette of the floor, to the ajar door of his bedroom.

Weeks ago, her words like those had become something else - something you'd never known existed. They'd festered in the corner of your bedroom until the fear grew into a creature and almost killed you.

What if it had?

Would your parents miss you?

"Why do you always…ask that?" you asked quietly.

"What?"

"You always check if I'm doing enough for him."

"Marriage is different. Of course I have to check," she said.

You rolled your eyes and scoffed.

"That's funny," you muttered. "Before, you told me to study, instead of cleaning or cooking."

"Because I wanted more for you."

The words passed by your mind, or maybe you'd trailed under them like a bridge.

"Nothing I do will be enough," you stated.

The words were more for you, than for her. All you were doing was naming something that had lived between you for years.

The line went quiet. She'd hang up any moment, so you needed to get it all out.

The silence used to terrify you, make your heartbeat race as you scrambled to ask if she was okay. It was the default silence with your father.

You'd tried to master the art of reading your parents, much more than law. It was more important, after all.

Since you were a young girl, you'd been an expert of hyper-vigilance. You'd become fluent in everyone else's emotions, while your own had become a language you no longer spoke.

Her mood belonged to her and her only tonight. A realization hit you in that moment, that you'd thought of your parents' expectations less and less, the more that Hiromi took up your mind.

"I can't just be your daughter," you said.

I don't even know why you gave birth to me and raised me.

You held that back, even if you were finally coming to terms with it.

"Stop being so dramatic," she finally snapped, voice hushed.

You closed your eyes, despite the dark hallway.

"I don't even care anymore," you spoke. "I'll call another time, I'm tired. Bye."

You ended the call before she could respond, and stood in the hallway for a minute, adrenaline quickly wearing off.

You'd imagined the conversation countless of times over the years, even when you thought law was the path you wanted to walk.

In every version, you were harsher to them and you got everything off your chest. Then it would have felt like a victory. The reality was that you didn't need to win anything.

And instead, you attempted to rid of the guilt filling your heart, but it would always be there.

Maybe it was your mother's way of checking in with you. Love and hurt had grown together for far too long. She'd never been gentle with you, she'd never even laughed or joked with you before.

From what you knew, her mom didn't either.

Yet, it was your mother's fault that you'd been on the receiving end of it.

Did she ever look at you and remember you as a newborn baby in her arms?

When you quietly went back into bed beside Hiromi, you tried not to think about it. He pulled you closer to him in his sleep and you soon surrendered to the darkness.

A few days later, you'd met Hiromi at his office after work, to go to his parents for the evening. His only other colleague Shimizu wasn't here today.

It was the second time you'd ever gone to the place that used to take up ninety percent of his time.

"You look…" His head tilted slightly, eyes flickering down you.

"Too much?" you asked, searching his face.

You realized it was slightly formal for going to see his parents, but you weren't sure how to present yourself. A burgundy draped dress created a wrapped effect on one side of your body - it wasn't the type of thing you'd usually wear. It ended at the knee, of course, appropriate for your in-laws.

"No, it's…you look good," he slightly stammered, eyes travelling back to your face.

Like the last time you'd come to his office, he was wearing the dark green tie you'd gotten him - your peace offering turned secret.

His hand lifted, fingertips lightly brushing the little flower clipped beside your ear. It was your attempt to make you look more casual after you'd finished getting ready.

"This too."

However, when you stepped into their house for the first time, you realized it didn't matter how you came across.

His mother wrapped her arms around you. For a heartbeat, your body forgot how to respond, even though she'd hugged you before. Whenever you saw his mother, you were still shocked her and yours were former classmates.

You could faintly smell food cooking. In the genkan, family photos hung on the wall, that hadn't seemed to have been updated in years.

Your eyes lingered on Hiromi's graduation photos, fresh from his Bachelor's, judging from the robes.

A younger Hiromi smiled brightly. He must have been in his early 20s.

His white teeth were on show, the smile slightly scrunching his nose. You smiled fondly at how happy he looked.

His hair looked shorter in the photos, at least the few strands that now usually fell over his forehead were gelled up.

There was a radiant light in his face, in his eyes, that seemed to have faded now - even if you'd caught glimpses of it recently.

"He was adorable," his mother's voice pulled you back.

"Kaa-san," Hiromi protested with a light chuckle. You'd never seen the slight embarrassment on his face before.

Hiromi showed you around the well-loved house. It was medium-sized, with miscellanous things stored around, unlike Hiromi's that was devoid of things on the counters.

The sofa covers were slightly rumpled from where his parents had relaxed. There were a few old consoles stored below the TV, ones that must've been from when Hiromi was younger.

His father spoke to you and joked around with Hiromi at once, making your husband lightly sigh at puns that he'd probably heard for twenty years.

"I was beginning to think the courthouse had legally adopted you," his dad said, after Hiromi told him he'd worked before coming over today.

You were guided outside, passing the calender hung near the kitchen's backdoor with birthdays circled on it.

The garden glowed, lined with fairy lights.

The patio table was set up with plates, cup glasses and dishes that Hiromi's parents kept bringing out.

"You made so much. Really, you shouldn't have," you said politely, even though your stomach was growling at the sight of everything.

The evening breeze carried scents of both hot food and damp earth, catching your attention to the grass.

You imagined a young boy with brown hair, running through the grass while he was being called for dinner.

The thought made you smile, even if you felt a dull ache.

You'd never known what it was like to grow up somewhere that wanted you to come back, but it was a relief that Hiromi had.

"How have you been setting in?" his mother asked.

You quickly swallowed your mouthful before nodding. "Great, thank you."

The answer came too quickly, and you weren't even sure if it was the correct answer.

The house? Marriage? Living with her son?

A few days had passed since you and him had slept together, figuratively and literally. That night, you'd then bathed together, and he'd carried you to his bed when you'd fallen asleep.

Since then, you hadn't shared his bed again.

"Oh, and the ryokan too?" his mother continued brightly. "How was it?"

"It was amazing," you said, lighter this time, with an honest smile. "We loved it."

Even if you had finally confronted him about his lack of presence in your life before the ryokan, you were glad it had happened. Otherwise, you probably wouldn't be here at his parents' hosue right now.

"Planning another trip already?" his father asked.

The thought hadn't even crossed your mind. You tried to remind yourself that this is what normal families spoke about.

You glanced towards Hiromi. He'd been beside you and listening more than speaking throughout dinner. One of his arms rested along the back of your chair.

His attention found you immediately, even though you'd felt him watching the side of your face previously.

"I'm not sure," you admitted, breaking away from his gaze. "I'd want to earn some money first."

You weren't planning to spend life living from his wallet. After all, that was why you'd already been job-searching.

His mother waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, don't worry. This is what men are for."

Laugher circled the table. You managed a small smile, but it didn't reach your eyes because you didn't want Hiromi to think that.

His thumb traced the condensation of his beer glass, looking to be in thought.

His father returned to you. "So then, what is it you'd like to do?"

You shook your head slowly.

"I'm not sure yet…"

For the first time, you didn't have a plan, and especially not to work until you died.

"I'll let you know if I hear about any jobs," his dad responded, instead of berating you.

You smiled gently and lightly shook your head. "Thank you, I've applied to some, so looking around and waiting for interviews."

Your eyes couldn't help but trail back to Hiromi's. The evening's breeze blew gently through his har, fairly lights glowing the edge of his profile. He leaned back in his chair, attention not drifting from you.

"Are you okay?" you asked.

Hiromi looked up from whatever distant place his thoughts had wondered to.

You draped the blanket over his broad shoulders. He looked down at it, then back at you, as you lowered yourself into the chair beside his.

His parents had long since gone inside to go to sleep after everyone cleared the table, his mother insisting she was "far too old" to keep up with the two of you. They reminded Hiromi to lock up before disappearing into the house and turning the lights off inside.

Outside, the fairy lights remained awake. His face was beautifully lit by the amber glow, as he was turned to you in his chair.

The garden was quiet, without even the chirp or crickets or no traffic humming in the spring air. You wanted to sit out here and enjoy it for longer, even if it was chilly.

"You wear it," he murmured. Before you could object, he took off the blanket and raised it over you. "You don't have a jacket."

You didn't protest to it, although his words had also warmed you.

"Fine," he answered your question, "just thinking."

Your brows rose. "What about?"

"What happened?" His voice was soft, gaze lingering on you. "With law school and your parents."

You could see why he hesitated. It seemed like an off-limits subject for you, but in reality, it took up too much of your life to explain.

You shook your head slightly, glancing to your hands in your lap. "It wasn't just one moment. My Bachelor's was fine."

His intense eyes watched you, observing any micro-expression that would flash on your face.

You exhaled. "And for law school, I guess the pressure was building too much. Anticipating it and fearing I'd disappoint them. It was more important than doing well in the exam."

"In the final exam, I couldn't breathe. But I…I answered every question." Even as you spoke, it came out breathless, as if you were relieving the moment in the exam hall.

It had been unbelievably cold in the exam hall, air conditioning turned up too high, and you'd wore a short-sleeved top too.

Your water bottle had been dripping with condensation, dampening the top of your exam papers. The desk was too small, with not enough room for your legs to stretch apart as you felt suffocated.

And of course, the clock had been ticking too loudly for your brain to think.

"I studied well before, I shut off my phone and didn't talk to anyone," you added, voice distant as you recalled it.

Your phone and friends weren't distractions to you, not with how you'd prioritized your studies and made that very clear - even to your past partners. Every hour spent with anyone other than your studies felt stolen from your future.

No wonder why you could barely connect with anyone now.

"And…" you bit your lip, throat tightening. "I tried. I really did."

It was an admission you could never even say to yourself in your head - that you'd done all you could.

"I believe you," he murmured. "I know."

You didn't care if it was easy for him to say. At least, there was one person in this world on your side.

"It's not that I won't work," you added, hurrying to explain. "But I don't think I can survive that world again. And...my mom called me a few nights ago. After we had a bath and went to sleep."

He stilled, eyes locking on you intensely.

Your cleared your throat. "She asked if I was doing enough for you. And I'm over it. I just told her I don't care, and I really don't."

Two large hands enclosed yours, sheltering them from the breezy air.

You pulled yourself away from the memory of the phone call, back to the hypnotizing pull of his eyes and touch.

"I don't expect anything from you. Work, housework. Or sex…"

His gaze faltered.

You let out an exhale, knot loosening in your chest.

His brows drew together, brown eyes golden in the dim lights. "If you want to go on a trip, we'll go."

You tensed, lips parting to object, but his thumb swept gently across your knuckles, calming the shaking he'd already noticed.

"If you want another ring, I'll find one." A faint smile touched his mouth.

"I know," he added, before you could protest, "I know you aren't that kind of person at all, you never have been. You don't want anything."

His grip tightened slightly, even if you hung onto his every word.

"But I don't expect you to give me anything either. I'll give it to you. I'll give you everything," he murmured.

You swallowed.

"Why?" you managed.

He exhaled, as though he'd held it for years instead of the mere few months he'd known you.

"Because…" he started.

Fingers threaded through yours, intertwining loosely.

"I don't know if it's too soon to tell you," he prefaced.

You shook your head, although you couldn't have ever seen his next words coming.

"I love you," he said.

Your hands went slack, a deep breath escaping you as if you were in tears - although your eyes were dry.

"You're wrong," you whispered, pulse racing under his fingers. "So wrong."

His expression fell slightly, hands traiilng lightly up your wrist. "Wrong? What-"

"Of course I want something," you cut in.

"Tell me," he begged, eyes pleading with concern. "What is it?"

Your hand lifted to his jaw in consolidation, his skin running hot. His eyes flickered up, desperate.

"i want you."

Your foreheads closed, shielding yourself from his eyes - even though you knew he'd never hold any judgement for you.

"Only you. Always you," you whispered. "Hiromi, I love you."

You felt him lean in, breath tickling against your nose.

His warmth embraced you, far more than the blanket. Arms wrapped around you, fingers lifting to your hair.

Your face disappeared into his chest, your own arms circling around him urgently and trying not to fall off the chair from leaning in. He smelled even better than the first time you caught the scent, which felt impossible with how drugged you initially were from it.

Your eyes were aching, heavy and burning. Your nose betrayed you with a sniffle.

He eased you back, reluctantly.

Wide brown eyes scanned your face. Shine gathered along your lashes; you saw it at the top of your peripheral vision.

A few droplets clung to your jaw. You turned away.

It wasn't like you were sobbing, but still, it was embarrassing to shed a couple of tears.

"What happened?" he whispered.

His fingertips pressed to your jaw, encouraging you back to him. When you still couldn't meet his eyes, his cupped your chin.

You shook your head.

"I don't know, this evening, and lately…I feel so loved," you whispered, clearing your throat. Your eyes blurred again, making you rapidly blink and laugh shakily. "It's stupid, but I've never been loved before."

His expression crumpled, before a slow, shaky breath left him.

He took your hand and settled it over the organ rapidly pulsing inside its cage.

You once thought the one behind your own chest was two sizes too big for your own, but it seemed you were wrong. His was beating even faster than yours.

"It's not stupid," he murmured. "Me too. I might die because of it."

You chuckled. "I'll go with you, then."

A fond smile grew on his lips, reaching his eyes. He shook his head gently.

Your own smile mirrored his, before your gaze dropped and your hand trailed away from his chest at the dampness on his tie.

"I'm sorry, your tie…" you mumbled, from where your face had been buried. "I'll buy you another."

He gave an amused huff. "Don't be silly, you-"

He paused, before his head slightly quirked.

"Wait."

Your brows rose, expectantly.

He glanced down at your tie, then back at you.

"Did you get me this tie?"

You slowly nodded, slightly embarrassed at the fact. You forgot you hadn't told him, but then again, you thought he'd figured it out by now.

He let out an exhale, with a laugh. "Of course. I missed another clue."

"You tried to reach out to me," he added, guiltily. "And I didn't even let you."

You shook your head. "I didn't tell you either."

"I didn't exactly give you a chance."

Your mind pulled you back to the night you'd found him in the bath, swaying you away from openly giving him the gift - where you realized you weren't the only one struggling.

"It's okay," you whispered.

You lifted your joined hands to your mouth, pressing a gentle kiss against his knuckles.

It was as though he needed the signal. Now, that your lips had touched his skin, there was nothing stopping him.

His lips reached yours, soft and silken. The familiar warmth blossomed in your chest and consumed you with promises of longevity; the promises absent in nonexistent vows had found you after all.

comments are appreciated | one more chapter to go!

[malaccah]

— 𝙗𝙚𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙙 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙪𝙗𝙩.

Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4

Modern AU | Love Triangle | Post-Divorce | Stalker / Obsessive Hiromi Higuruma | Protective Kento Nanami | Dark Romance | Psychological Tension | Legal & Corporate Rivalry | Cliffhanger

Synopsis: After escaping her chaotic marriage to brilliant, obsessive lawyer Hiromi Higuruma, Y/N finds a safe, orderly sanctuary in the arms of the fiercely protective Nanami Kento. But the peace is shattered when Hiromi resurfaces, using his mastery of legal loopholes and psychological warfare to stalk Y/N and build a "case" to reclaim her. Caught between a terrifyingly brilliant ex-husband who refuses to let go and a current lover willing to cross lethal boundaries to protect his territory, Y/N realizes her freedom is the ultimate prize in a dark, high-stakes trial.

Word Count: ~1.9k

The rain in Tokyo did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slick, reflecting the neon signs of Chiyoda in distorted, bleeding neon pools on the asphalt.

For the past eight months, your life had acquired a novel, almost fragile rhythm. It was a rhythm dictated by the ticking of a grand grandfather clock in a quiet apartment in Minato, by the predictable rustle of the morning paper, and by the smell of black coffee and toasted rye. It was a rhythm anchored entirely by Nanami Kento.

To love Nanami was to understand the profound beauty of boundaries. After the chaotic, unraveling years of your marriage to Hiromi Higuruma—where the line between the courtroom and the living room had eventually eroded into nothingness—Nanami’s structured existence was a sanctuary. He was a man who viewed five minutes past eight as an administrative failure, yet he never made you feel like a burden. He was protective without being smothering, observant without being invasive.

"You're staring again," Nanami remarked, his voice a low, resonant baritone that cut through the soft hum of the refrigerator.

He was standing by the kitchen island, meticulously folding his morning napkin into a perfect rectangle. His tailored suit jacket was already draped over the back of the chair, immaculate, without a single wrinkle. The frames of his signature glasses caught the grey morning light filtering through the sheer curtains.

"Just appreciating the view," you murmured, offering a small, genuine smile over the rim of your mug.

Nanami’s expression softened, a subtle shift in the set of his jaw that only someone who studied him daily would notice. He walked over, placing a large, warm hand gently on your shoulder. The weight of it was grounding.

"You slept poorly last night. You were tossing until three in the morning. Is the workload at the firm becoming unmanageable?"

"No, the firm is fine," you lied softly, leaning into his touch.

You couldn't tell him that you had woken up at 2:45 AM because you thought you heard the distinct, heavy click of a lighter outside your apartment door. You couldn't tell him that when you crept to the peephole, the hallway was empty, but the faint, bitter scent of cheap courtroom tobacco had lingered in the carpeted corridor.

"If it becomes too much, you resign," Nanami said, his tone brook no argument, though his thumb stroked your collarbone gently. "My income is more than sufficient to support us both while you find a position that respects your boundaries. I will not have you burning your youth for institutions that view you as expandable grease for their wheels."

"I know, Kento. Thank you."

He checked his watch—exactly 8:15 AM.

"I must leave for the office. There is an investment audit at nine. I will return by 6:30 PM. Do not wait to eat if I am delayed by even ten minutes."

He leaned down, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to your forehead. It smelled of mint and expensive cedarwood cologne. Safe. Predictable. Clean.

When the heavy deadbolt of the apartment clicked into place behind him, you finally let out the breath you hadn't realized you were holding.

The morning passed in a blur of spreadsheets and legal filings. As a paralegal at a mid-sized firm in Ginza, your job was tedious, but it provided the mundane routine you craved. Yet, today, the walls felt unusually thin. Every time the elevator chimed, your shoulders tensed.

At 1:00 PM, the receptionist knocked on your cubicle wall, holding a large, frosted glass vase filled with a stark, striking arrangement of deep blue delphiniums and white lilies.

"These just arrived for you," the receptionist said, smirking slightly. "Your boyfriend is quite the romantic. No card, though. Just a delivery man who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else."

Your stomach dropped, turning to lead.

Nanami didn't buy delphiniums. Nanami bought red roses on anniversaries, or simple, elegant orchids for the apartment. Blue delphiniums were the flowers you had chosen for your bridal bouquet five years ago, in a small, rushed civil ceremony that Hiromi had nearly missed because a homicide trial had run late.

With trembling fingers, you searched through the thick stems. There was no florist’s tag. No ribbon. But tucked deep inside the dense foliage was a small, silver object.

You pulled it out. It was a cufflink. A heavy, brushed-steel cufflink shaped like a miniature gavel.

The air left your lungs in a sharp gasp. It was Hiromi’s. It was the exact cufflink he had lost three years ago during his descent into absolute cynicism, the night he had come home with blood on his sleeves and eyes that no longer recognized you.

He knows where I work. He knows the flowers. He’s letting me know he’s here.

Your phone buzzed on the desk. An unknown number.

You shouldn't have answered it. Every instinct screamed at you to let it go to voicemail, to call Nanami, to call the police. But the sheer, suffocating gravity of Higuruma Hiromi’s presence always had a way of pulling you back into his orbit.

You pressed the phone to your ear, your voice barely a whisper.

"Hiromi?"

Silence stretched over the line for three agonizing seconds. Only the sound of slow, heavy breathing, followed by the metallic flick of a Zippo lighter.

"You always did prefer the delphiniums," Hiromi’s voice was raspy, exhausted, yet terrifyingly clear. It was the voice of a man who hadn't slept a full night in months, the voice that used to tear prosecutors apart in the Tokyo District Court. "They represent swiftness and lightness. Traits you’ve adopted well, considering how quickly you replaced me."

"Hiromi, stop this," you whispered, gripping the edge of your desk so hard your knuckles turned white. "It’s been eight months. The divorce papers were finalized. You signed them."

"I signed a piece of paper, yes," Hiromi replied calmly, his tone conversational, as if he were discussing a mundane property clause. "But a contract signed under emotional duress is legally voidable. I was... unwell. I let you walk away because I thought it would protect you from the filth I was drowning in. But I’ve cleaned up my docket now. I’ve looked at the evidence. And the conclusion is simple: you belong in my custody."

"I am with someone else. I am happy. Please, Hiromi, leave me alone or I’ll—"

"You’ll call the police?" Hiromi chuckled, a dark, humorless sound that sent shivers down your spine. "The police report to the prosecutors. The prosecutors rely on my briefs. I know every loophole in the anti-stalking laws of this prefecture, Darling. I wrote the annotations for half of them. A delivery of flowers is not a crime. A phone call from an unlisted number is not harassment. It’s merely an ex-husband checking on his investments."

"I’m hanging up."

"He’s too rigid for you," Hiromi said quickly, his voice dropping an octave, losing its legal detachment and exposing the raw, bleeding obsession underneath. "Nanami Kento. A former broker. A man who counts his life in decimal points. He treats you like a budget to be balanced. He doesn't know the texture of your soul like I do. He hasn't seen you cry in the dark when the world is too loud. I am building a case to bring you home, and no injunction will stand in my way. Enjoy the flowers."

The line went dead.

By 6:00 PM, the rain had turned into a torrential downpour. You stood under the awning of your office building, your hands shivering despite the thick wool coat you wore. You hadn't told Nanami about the call. You didn't want to see the tight, stressed line of his mouth, or worse, have him involve himself in a legal battle with a man who used the law as a weapon.

A sleek, black town car pulled up to the curb. The door opened, and Nanami stepped out, holding a massive black umbrella. He looked like an oasis of absolute order in the middle of the chaotic, rain-drenched city.

"You look pale," Nanami said immediately, stepping under the awning and enveloping you in his space. His sharp eyes scanned your face, noting the slight tremor in your lips. "Did something happen?"

"Just... a long day. The rain always makes me tired," you murmured, stepping close to him.

Nanami didn't say a word. He simply guided you into the passenger seat of the car, closing the door firmly before getting into the driver's seat. He didn't start the engine immediately. Instead, he reached over, taking your cold hands into his large, warm palms.

"There is a bouquet of blue delphiniums in the trash bin near the lobby elevators," Nanami said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. It was a flat, dangerous tone. "The receptionist mentioned they were delivered to you. And you aren't wearing your scarf properly."

You froze. "Kento..."

"I am not a jealous man by nature," Nanami continued, his gaze fixed on the rain-streaked windshield. "Jealousy is an inefficient emotion. It wastes energy. But I am a protective man. I recognize the legal stationery your ex-husband uses. I recognize his patterns. He has been tailing my car twice this week during my evening commute."

Your heart stopped. "He’s been following you?"

"He has been trying to find a flaw," Nanami said, finally turning his head to look at you. Behind his glasses, his eyes were incredibly sharp, burning with a quiet, lethal intensity. "He wants to find a reason to litigate me out of your life. He is checking my tax returns, my corporate filings, my past employment records. He thinks because he wears a badge of justice, he can dismantle my life to reclaim you."

Nanami squeezed your hands, just tight enough to border on painful, ensuring he had your absolute attention.

"Listen to me carefully. You are no longer his wife. You are my responsibility. I have already adjusted my schedule to ensure you are never left unattended outside of your working hours. Tomorrow, I am hiring a private security detail for your office perimeter. If he approaches you again, I will not use the courts. The law is too slow, and your ex-husband knows how to make it drag out for years."

Nanami shifted the car into drive, the engine roaring to life with a smooth, expensive purr.

"I will handle Monsieur Higuruma," Nanami said, his knuckles whitening slightly against the steering wheel as he pulled into the Tokyo traffic. "In my world, when an asset is threatened, we liquidate the threat. He will learn to respect the boundaries I have set for you."

As the car drove into the dark, stormy night, you looked out the window. Standing across the street, under the dim light of a flickering streetlamp, a lone figure stood without an umbrella. The rain soaked his dark suit, his long hair matted to his forehead.

Higuruma Hiromi stood there, a dead cigarette between his lips, his dark, hollow eyes locked directly onto the passenger side of Nanami's car. He didn't move. He didn't wave. He just watched you leave, a small, terrifyingly confident smile resting on his lips.

The trial had just begun.

A massive shoutout to the lovely @alebrasil0101 for this incredible request! I truly hope you love how it turned out! ♡

This is officially Part 1 of a 4-chapter mini-series, so buckled up—the trial has only just begun!

Likes are really appreciated and reblogs are what keep this blog alive. If you enjoyed this please consider sharing! (っ˘ω˘ς )♡

@alebrasil0101 @v4mp1r3b4tzz

[lostinsmut]

nanami loves to stuff your cunt before you wake up - morning sex tw somnophilia

his cocks already moving in and out at a slow pace when you get near consciousness. nanami often worked late which left you to find out somewhere in the middle of the night when he came home. in nanami fashion those thick strong arms wrapped around you — his legs tangled between yours.

he had missed you so much at work he just couldn't control himself any longer when the curtain let those small streaks of sun hit your beautiful face.. afterall he had controlled himself all night.

your shorts were already scattered somewhere along the floor. panties shoved to the side while his cock burried itself within your gummy warm walls. the only place on earth he wanted to be. his hips softly smack into yours. his arms still wrapped around your upper body whispering sweets nothings into your ear each time you let out a whine or a moan.

"mmm, shh sleep let your husband take care of you.." "you deserve to feel good as-ah, as soon as you wake up." "you feel so good hon, so, good so good-" he brabbled into your hair, his thrust already messy and his hands becoming clammy from how badly he needed his orgasm.

his large hands splayed out on your hips allowing himself to properly rut into you while whispering soft sorry's for how rough he was being — knowing full well that after he stuffs your cunt with a morning present one that will leave you so confused and jealous you missed out on the fun he will have to make it up to you while you're awake too! <3

dividers masterlist tags 🏷️ - @sugurusplaything @notsoslightlysexual just ask to be added or removed!<3

since i only do nanami in a comforting way ima put out some nasty nanami bc this man is freaky idc.

[crazykinkrottenkiwi]

Pinky Promise | Twisted Oneshots

Pairing: Yandere!Nanami Kento × F!Reader [Modern AU]

Genre: Dark Fiction, Psychological Horror, Yandere, Thriller, Slow Burn

Word Count: 10k

⚠ Content Warning:

Psychological manipulation, gaslighting, obsessive behavior, stalking, captivity, emotional abuse, physical violence, disturbing themes, non-consensual sexual content, graphic sexual content.

Please DO NOT read if you're sensitive to these subjects.

🚫 IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER:

This is a work of fiction intended for mature audiences. The relationships and behaviors portrayed are abusive, unhealthy, and should not be romanticized or normalized in real life. This story is written purely for psychological horror, suspense, and dark fictional storytelling.

This piece was written as a commission. The core idea and dynamics were requested by the client, and I expanded on it with my own interpretation. Thank you for commissioning me<3

Masterlist

You're staring at nothing again. The hum of the building settles into your bones, a low vibration you can't shake since you got back. 

Your eyes feel heavy, and every few minutes you realize you've been standing still, holding the same posture, not really seeing anything.

A voice cuts through. "Hey. You okay?"

You blink, turn. A coworker is looking at you with that mix of curiosity and mild concern. 

"You've been spacing out all day.”

"I've been calling you for like... a whole minute.”

You gave an awkward laugh, rubbing the back of your neck.

"Sorry. Just didn't get much sleep.”

"You seriously need some rest.”

"Yeah," you murmur with a small shrug. "Guess so..."

“Mmh.” They smile, just a casual curve of their lips. "So…”

“How was your trip to Japan?"

“....”

You stare at them for a moment.

Your thoughts drift somewhere else before you quickly pull yourself back, forcing a tight smile onto your face.

"Yeah... it was…”

“Great.”

—

"I'm not really... looking for marriage yet."

The man in front of you watches you for a long moment. His expression barely changes. When he finally answers, his voice remains as calm as ever. 

"Oh..."

A brief pause. 

"I'm not asking you to marry me. Right now."

The words leave you blinking in surprise. Before you can respond, he continues in the same measured tone.

"But at least we need to do something to show that you're committed..." His gaze remains steady.

"...to me.”

The words hang in the air, refusing to settle into your chest.

"...But isn't this... too quick?" Your voice comes out thinner than you intended.

He doesn't answer right away. His gaze drops for a heartbeat—a measured breath escaping him in a quiet exhale. 

There's no frustration in the lines of his face. If anything, he looks like a man trying to piece together a puzzle you didn't know you were building.

When his eyes lift to meet yours again, his voice is steady. Unshaken.

"I don't think it is."

He pauses, letting the weight of his certainty settle between you.

"You've become comfortable around me." His gaze holds yours, unblinking. "Isn't that why you're here?"

Only then do you force yourself to truly see the room.

The living room stretches around you, immaculate, every surface gleaming under the soft amber light spilling through the tall windows. 

Polished hardwood floors reflect the glow, warm and inviting. The navy-blue furnishings are arranged with a precision that speaks of deliberate care—nothing out of place, nothing accidental. 

You hadn't even noticed how naturally you'd stepped inside, how your feet had carried you past the threshold without hesitation.

Your lips part, searching for something to say. "Nanami—…”

"I don't understand.”

“My love..." He continues before you can finish, his voice gentle but unyielding, not interrupting so much as guiding.

Another pause.

"We've enjoyed each other's company for nearly a month." His head tilts, just slightly, a gesture of genuine curiosity.

"We've shared meals."

"We've spent evenings together."

"You've trusted me enough to let me walk you home." His expression doesn't shift. His composure remains intact.

"So help me understand."

The question drops into the space between you like a stone into still water.

"What changed?"

The silence that follows is thick enough to swallow sound. You lower your gaze, your throat tightening.

"...Nothing changed." The words are barely a whisper, fragile as glass.

"It just..." 

"...caught me off guard."

Something flickers across his face—a flicker of understanding, soft and fleeting.

"Hm."

He nods, a small, slow movement. "I can understand that."

The tension in your shoulders eases for a fraction of a second. Then his right hand moves behind him.

When it returns, a small velvet box rests in his palm. Dark blue. The color of midnight.

He looks at it briefly, as though weighing the decision one last time, before holding it out between you.

"I even bought the rings." His voice is quieter now, almost apologetic.

"For us."

Silence…

Your eyes lock onto the box. Your mind refuses to catch up. The velvet looks soft, but the edges of the box are sharp against his palm. 

Nanami watches you with that quiet attentiveness that has always been his hallmark. The kind of attention that makes you feel seen down to your marrow.

He notices your silence.

Without a word, he slowly lowers his hand and closes the box with a soft, decisive click. The sound cuts through the room like a quiet verdict.

"I'm not forcing you."

His tone remains gentle, but there's something underneath it—a thread of resignation, carefully controlled.

"I wouldn't." A faint smile touches his lips, but it doesn't reach his eyes. The corners of his mouth lift, but the warmth doesn't follow.

"I suppose..."

He exhales quietly, and you feel the air shift. "I misunderstood."

He turns the small box over once in his hand, his thumb tracing the edge of the velvet, before slipping it back into his pocket. 

"I believed we were arriving at the same destination."

His gaze drifts to the floor for a moment, and you see the faintest shadow of disappointment cross his features before he masters it.

"Perhaps I was walking a little further ahead than you realized." 

He looks back up, and his composure is intact again, seamless as a mask. "That's my mistake."

The words are calm. Reasonable. Almost too kind. And yet they settle in your chest like a stone, so heavy and cold.

"I don't want you agreeing to something because you feel obligated."

He holds your gaze, steady and unwavering. "If your feelings aren't where mine are..."

A faint nod, almost to himself.

"Then I'll simply have to accept that I was mistaken."

He stands there, composed as ever, the perfect picture of graceful acceptance. 

But the quiet disappointment he carries so effortlessly leaves you feeling as though you've reached into his chest and pulled the warmth out yourself.

You watch him, the way his shoulders relax just a fraction, the faint crease between his brows that smooths as he steadies his breath. 

A thought flickers, unbidden.

It's not marriage yet… So why not?

"...Wait.”

“Are you sure, love?” he asks, his voice, usually so measured, cracks just enough to reveal the vulnerability he keeps hidden.

 “You want to be with me?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, and let out a soft laugh that sounds more like a sigh of relief. “Yes,” you say, the word simple but weighted. “You just shocked me, okay?”

"I see." A faint smile touches his lips. "My apologies."

"I wasn't trying to startle you.”

He exhales slowly, the breath escaping as if he'd been holding it for far too long. 

“Wait here, on the sofa,” he says, his voice low and steady, the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips. “I'll be right back.”

You settle back into the cushions, the fabric cool against your skin, and glance at the wall clock. Five minutes tick by, each second stretching just enough to make you wonder if he’s changed his mind. 

Then, from behind you, a voice—soft, familiar, yet startlingly close—calls your name.

You turn, and there he stands, arms laden with a bouquet of your favorite flowers, their petals a riot of color that seems to catch the light and hold it. 

Beside them sits a massive teddy bear, its fur plush and inviting, and a box of chocolates tied with a satin ribbon. 

He stands there with the bouquet lifted just enough to hide part of his face, a shy gesture that feels utterly out of character for the composed man you know, and yet it makes your heart flutter all the more.

You rise from the sofa, still staring at him in quiet disbelief before carefully taking the bouquet from his hands. Holding it against your chest, you let out a small laugh.

"It's... quite big.”

You gently place the bouquet on the side table before taking the oversized teddy from him, your fingers brushing over its impossibly soft fur. You can't help but smile at the absurdity of its size as you set it carefully beside the bouquet.

He watches you, his eyes warm, and lets out a soft sigh that seems to carry both relief and something akin to awe. 

Slowly, he reaches for one of your hands, his fingers brushing yours with a reverence that feels almost ceremonial. 

From his pocket he produces the same small velvet box, opening it to reveal a ring that catches the light with a quiet brilliance.

“This… is for you,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper that feels like a secret shared between just the two of you. 

He lifts your hand, turning it over so that the back of your palm faces him, and presses a tender kiss to the skin there. 

You look up at him, seeing the faint flush on his cheeks, the way his usual composure has softened into something tender and earnest.

“I… I wasn’t expecting this,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

He smiles, a genuine, unguarded smile that reaches his eyes. “Neither was I,” he replies, his tone carrying a quiet certainty.

"But I wanted you to know..." He slides the ring gently onto your finger. It fits perfectly.

"...that I chose you with every intention of staying." His thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles.

"I hope... you'll allow me to remain by your side.”

—

It had all started with a chance encounter outside Shinjuku Station.

You'd been standing near the East Exit, trying to decide where to go next, when a quiet voice had caught your attention.

"Your first time in Tokyo?"

A stranger in a well-tailored suit had patiently explained the quickest way to Shibuya, pointing you toward the JR Yamanote Line and even telling you which exit would make exploring easier. 

Before you could thank him more than once, he'd simply wished you an enjoyable trip and disappeared back into the evening crowd.

You hadn't expected to see him again.

Yet three days later, amidst the chaos of Shibuya Crossing, your paths crossed once more.

This time, the conversation lasted longer.

You noticed the white bandages wrapped neatly around his left hand—a detail you'd somehow missed during your first encounter. 

Concerned, you'd asked if the injury was serious.

He'd looked down at it for a quiet moment, letting out a soft sigh followed by the faintest chuckle before answering,

"Yeah..."

A small pause.

"It is."

That was also the day the two of you finally exchanged names.

After that, the meetings simply... continued.

At first they felt like coincidences, then familiar routines. You'd cross paths in different districts, different cafés, different stations. 

Sometimes he'd stop to recommend a restaurant, insisting the food was worth trying. Other times he'd quietly hand you a drink before you had the chance to buy one yourself.

Whenever the clock edged toward six in the evening, he'd walk with you for a while before politely excusing himself, never quite accompanying you all the way home.

The conversations remained effortless. Food, work, the city, places worth visiting—nothing personal enough to make you uncomfortable, yet somehow enough to make his company become familiar.

Weeks slipped by without either of you noticing.

Eventually, other people began noticing instead.

Cashiers, shopkeepers, waiters—strangers smiled at the two of you with the easy assumption that you were together. You always laughed it off. Nanami never corrected them.

When you finally asked why, he'd simply stirred his tea before replying, almost absentmindedly,

“I could have.”

A small pause.

“It didn't seem necessary."”

"People seem to mistake us for a couple rather often."

You'd laughed awkwardly. "Yeah... They do."

"Does it bother you?"

You'd thought about it before shaking your head. "Not really."

He'd acknowledged the answer with a single nod.

“I see."

Looking back now, perhaps that had been the moment everything quietly began changing—though you hadn't realized it then.

—

The next morning, you wake to the warmth of sunlight spilling across the bed, blinking slowly as the unfamiliar ceiling comes into focus. 

It takes a second before the memories of yesterday settle back into place, and almost immediately, your eyes wander toward the armchair by the window.

"...Huh?" 

You sit up properly, pushing the blanket from your legs. The chair is empty. You could've sworn you'd left the oversized teddy there before climbing into bed. 

It had been impossible to miss—nearly half your height, ridiculous enough to make you laugh every time you looked at it.

Frowning, you climb to your feet and glance around the room. The bouquet still sits exactly where you'd placed it. The chocolates remain untouched on the dresser.

But the teddy...

It's gone.

You crouch beside the bed first, peering underneath as though something that large could somehow fit there. Nothing.

The wardrobe is next. Then behind the bedroom door. Even the bathroom.

"...That's weird."

Straightening, you scratch absentmindedly at your temple.

Did you move it?

You don't remember doing that.

After another quick look around the room, you give up with a quiet sigh. Maybe you'd left it downstairs last night and simply forgot.

The thought is enough to satisfy you—for now.

By the time you make your way downstairs, the apartment is already filled with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

Nanami is sitting at the dining table, glasses resting low on his nose as he quietly flips through the morning newspaper. A porcelain cup sits beside him, steam still curling lazily into the air.

He notices you almost immediately.

Without saying a word, he folds the newspaper neatly and sets it aside before gesturing toward the empty chair across from him.

"Good morning."

You return the smile, slipping into the seat opposite him. "Morning."

His eyes linger on your face for a moment. "You slept well?"

"I think so."

"I'm glad."

He reaches for his coffee, taking an unhurried sip before setting the cup back onto its saucer. "What would you like for breakfast?"

"I've already prepared everything, but if there's something you'd rather have, I don't mind making it."

You tell him what you're in the mood for.

He nods once. For a moment, silence settles comfortably between you. Then the thought from upstairs returns.

"...Oh."

You glance up. "The teddy you gave me yesterday..."

His fingers pause around the handle of his cup. "Yes?"

"I can't find it."

A small crease forms between his brows. "...The teddy?"

"The really big one!"

He looks at you for a long second. Then, with complete sincerity—

"...Sweetheart." His voice is as gentle as ever. "There wasn't a teddy."

You blink. "What?"

"I bought you flowers." He says it simply, almost apologetically. 

"I'm afraid there wasn't.”

"Huh...?" You let out a small, confused laugh. 

"No... there was." You gesture with your hands, trying to show the size. 

"It was huge!"

His expression doesn't change. "If there had been one," he says softly, "I think I would've remembered carrying something that large."

That…

...actually makes your confidence falter.

"...Maybe..." You rub the back of your neck. 

"Maybe I left it somewhere else.”

“Hm.” He doesn't linger on the subject. Instead, he reaches for his coffee again before asking, almost casually—

"Would you like to spend today together as well?"

You hesitate. "I don't want to keep taking up your time."

He sets the cup down with a quiet click. "I wouldn't have asked if I minded."

The corner of your mouth lifts. "...Okay."

A smile—small but unmistakably genuine—appears on his face.

"Good."

He rises from his chair, stopping beside you just long enough to gently pat the top of your head with his other hand, the one still wrapped in bandages.

"I'll bring your breakfast." His hand slips away as naturally as it arrived. 

"Freshen up."

"We'll leave once you're ready."

You nod, while he disappears into the kitchen. Left alone, your gaze drifts back toward the staircase.

Your brows slowly knit together again.

...There was definitely a teddy.

—

The smell of freshly brewed coffee fills the apartment as Nanami sets a steaming plate in front of you. The eggs are cooked just right, sprinkled with chopped chives that catch the morning light spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. 

He moves calmly, without wasting a single motion—and when he looks at you, his gaze lingers just a little longer than usual.

“Here,” he says, his voice low. " hope it suits your taste.”

“Thanks.” You smile, grateful for the ordinary comfort of the gesture, and lift your fork. 

He watches you eat, his elbows resting on the table, his hands folded loosely. There’s a softness in his eyes, the kind that makes you feel both seen and strangely exposed. 

A faint tapping against the glass draws your attention. You glance toward the windows just as rain begins to fall, droplets gathering before sliding down the panes and blurring the city beyond. 

Nanami follows your gaze, his brow furrowing just slightly. He lets out a breath that sounds part sigh, part resignation.

"I had hoped we could go out today. There's a market nearby I thought you might enjoy. Unfortunately..." 

He glances toward the rain. "...it seems we'll have to postpone that.”

You hum, the sound low and throaty, and let your eyes drop to the plate. The fork hovers over a piece of toast, your appetite suddenly muted by the weight of the words hanging in the air. 

“Could you… drop me off at the hotel?” you say, the question slipping out before you can fully shape it. “I need to pack my things. It’s… almost the end.”

He sets his fork down with a quiet clink, the metal catching the light.  "Of course." A small nod. 

"I'll have your belongings brought here. You don't need to concern yourself with them.”

“But…”

“...Where are you going?” he asks, his voice gentle but probing, as if he’s trying to read the map of your thoughts from the curve of your jaw.

You swallow, the words catching in your throat. “I need to go back,” you say, the phrase feeling both familiar and foreign. “It’s the end of the trip.”

He leans back in his chair, the movement deliberate, his broad shoulders settling against the backrest. 

"I see." He folds his arms, considering your words for a quiet moment. "That would make settling there rather difficult for me." His eyes meet yours.

 "...Do you truly have to go back?”

The question hangs between you, heavy and unexpected. You feel a flash of surprise—had he been imagining a future where his life intertwined with yours in your hometown? The thought is both flattering and terrifying.

“You don’t have to,” you reply quickly, the words tumbling out in an attempt to ease the tension you sense building. 

“We can keep it this way. No need to… change anything.”

He studies you for a long moment, the silence stretching like a taut string. Then, his voice low and earnest, he asks again, "...Would you rather we live apart?”

Your heart thuds against your ribs. You want to answer, to give him the clarity he’s seeking, but the words feel like they might shatter something fragile. 

You look down at your plate, the fork now idle in your hand, and toy with the tines, the metal cool against your fingertips. 

“I… don’t know,” you admit, the honesty raw and unfiltered. “I’m not trying to push you away. I just need to sort things out.”

“….” 

He exhales, a sound that carries both frustration and a hint of something softer—perhaps disappointment, perhaps understanding. 

He rises from his chair with a fluid motion that belies the tension in his shoulders, and moves toward you. 

He places a hand lightly on the back of your chair, his fingers brushing the fabric, his palm resting just above your shoulder. His voice drops, intimate and a little wounded.

"You accepted yesterday." His voice remains calm, though quieter now. "Yet today..." 

A slight furrow appears between his brows. 

"...you're speaking as though nothing has changed." His gaze searches yours. 

"Help me understand, love.”

Your gaze flicks up to his face, searching for the familiar calm that usually anchors him. You see the faint crease between his brows, the way his lips press together as he tries to make sense of the shift. 

Your eyes drift back to the plate, to the fork you’re still twisting between your fingers, “Nanami, it's just—”

Before you can formulate a reply, his hand tightens—not painfully, but with a firm, unmistakable grip—around your throat. 

The pressure is enough to make you turn your head, to force your eyes to meet his. 

"Eyes. On. Me, [Name].”

His fingers remain around your throat for another heartbeat.

Not tight enough to hurt. Just firm enough that every instinct pulling your attention elsewhere quietly dies beneath the weight of his touch.

"You aren't going back." His voice remains even, almost gentle, the words carrying the same calm certainty. 

There isn't a trace of anger in them, nor hesitation. He simply looks at you, those hazel eyes unwavering. 

"...You aren't going anywhere."

For a second you only stare at him, convinced you've misunderstood.

"...What?"

The word escapes you in a breathless laugh, your body reacting before your mind can catch up. 

You push his hands away and begin to stand, instinct telling you to put some distance between the two of you.

The movement barely lasts a second.

His hand slides from the back of your chair onto your shoulder, guiding you back into your seat with quiet, unwavering firmness. 

"Shh."

The single syllable is spoken almost tenderly. 

"We'll talk about this." His thumb brushes once against your shoulder before his hand falls away entirely.

"...But not now."

Then, to your complete disbelief, he reaches toward your plate instead. He straightens the fork you'd abandoned, nudging it a little closer as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened, as though he hasn't just calmly informed you that leaving isn't an option.

"You should eat before it gets cold."

You simply stare at him.

"...No." Your voice comes out quieter than intended.

"Nanami, listen to me…"

“.....”

His attention remains entirely on you, patient as ever, waiting for you to continue.

"Staying here isn't an option." You let out a small, awkward laugh. "I've got a life out there, and..." 

You rub the back of your neck, trying to make him understand without making this bigger than it already feels. 

"...and living here would definitely need citizenship, and I don't have that, or—"

"I'll get you one."

He interrupts so naturally that, for a moment, you forget what you were saying. 

“.....” Your mouth opens but nothing comes out.

Nanami watches you with quiet patience. "It isn't something you need to worry about," he continues in that same composed voice. 

"I'll arrange it."

Silence…

The rain drums steadily against the glass, filling the apartment with a sound that suddenly feels unbearably loud.

You slowly rise to your feet again, this time without looking away from him.

"...Nanami."

He lifts his eyes to meet yours immediately.

"I think..." You search his face, hoping for even the faintest indication that this is some sort of misunderstanding. "...I think you didn't listen to me fully."

A quiet pause.

"I cannot stay here."

Something immediately shifts across his expression.

His brows draw together ever so slightly, as though the sentence you've just spoken simply refuses to fit with everything the two of you discussed yesterday. 

He studies your face for several long seconds, searching it with the same careful attention he always gives you.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is softer than before.

"I'm willing to do anything for you." 

"I mean that." His gaze never leaves yours. "Literally everything."

A faint breath escapes him before he continues. "But..." 

He tilts his head ever so slightly, genuine bewilderment settling behind his eyes. "...you can't do this one thing for me?"

The question isn't accusatory. If anything, it sounds wounded.

"If I could, I would've moved in with you instead." His expression remains calm despite the quiet disappointment creeping into it. "I truly would have."

His eyes soften.

"But that isn't possible, love." He lets the words settle before asking, with quiet, heartbreaking sincerity.

"Can you not understand that?”

“....”

"This isn't how relationships work." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. 

Therefore, he remains silent for a moment. He studies you with quiet concentration.

"...How do they work, then?"

You stare at him.

"What?"

"You said this isn't how relationships work." His voice is as calm as it has always been.

"Then tell me." He takes a small step toward you, his gaze never leaving yours.

"What am I doing incorrectly?"

The question catches you completely off guard.

You open your mouth, only to close it again. This wasn't what you'd expected. You'd expected him to argue. To become frustrated. To tell you that you were overreacting.

Instead...

He sounds genuinely confused.

"You..." You struggle to gather your thoughts, shaking your head slightly. "You can't just expect someone to leave everything behind."

He nods once, thoughtfully, as though carefully considering every word you've said. “I see.”

"And, my job," you continue quickly, relief flickering through you at finally finding something concrete. "I have a job back home.”

"You'll find another."

The answer comes so naturally that you almost miss it.

Your lips part.

"My apartment..."

"We'll arrange it."

You blink.

"My money..."

"I'll take care of it."

Every concern you raise is met with an answer before you've even finished speaking, each one delivered with the same composed certainty he uses when recommending something.

"My family..." Your voice grows noticeably quieter. "They're back home."

"You'll still be able to speak with them." He says it gently, almost reassuringly.

"I would never ask you to lose the people you care about."

You simply stare at him for several long seconds, you can't find a single word. Because he isn't arguing with you. He isn't dismissing your concerns. He's just solving them.

"...No."

You shake your head, taking an unconscious step backward. "No... that's not what I mean."

None of this is making sense.

Why is he acting this way?

"...How long are we going to keep doing this?" 

His voice isn't raised. If anything, it's calmer than before. "I don't believe we're making any progress."

A brief pause follows.

"I suppose it would be better if we left the conversation here."

Before you can respond, his attention shifts past you. Toward the front door. Your eyes follow his almost instinctively. Then you freeze.

Your suitcase. The smaller overnight bag you'd left at the hotel. The shopping bags you'd accumulated throughout your trip.

Even your carry-on.

Every single one of them is neatly arranged beside the entrance, lined up with almost unsettling precision.

Your brows draw together. "...What?" You stare at them, your thoughts grinding to a halt.

When...

When had those gotten here?

You don't remember hearing the doorbell. You don't remember anyone knocking. More importantly—

Who had brought them?

You slowly turn back toward Nanami, confusion written plainly across your face.

He doesn't appear surprised by your reaction. "I'll have them taken upstairs."

"Your room is already prepared."

He offers you a small, reassuring smile. "So..."

His eyes meet yours.

"Let's forget about this rather silly conversation." Then, without waiting for your answer, he turns toward the luggage.

"...Nanami."

He doesn't stop.

"Nanami!" This time your voice comes out louder, enough to make him pause.

His hand stills against the handle of your suitcase, though he doesn't immediately turn around.

"You can't just decide something like this!"

"You're not even listening to me!"

“.....”

"...Go to your room." He says without looking back.

Your eyes widen. "What?"

"I said..." His voice remains calm. "Go to your room."

You don't move. Every instinct in your body refuses.

"No…”

A quiet breath leaves him almost immediately.

His shoulders rise almost imperceptibly before falling again.

Only then does he slowly turn back to face you.

There is something unmistakably stern in his expression. His mouth set into a thin, disapproving line.

He looks at you for several long seconds before speaking.

"...Aren't you being a brat?"

The word hangs between you, leaving you utterly speechless.

He holds your gaze for another moment before calmly pulling out his chair and sitting down once more, his movements as unhurried as ever.

You're still standing there, rooted to the spot, trying to process what just happened, when he moves.

It's faster than you expect from a man who's always so deliberate.

His hand closes around your wrist, and before you can react, you're being pulled forward. A surprised gasp escapes your lips as you tumble off balance, your body twisting mid-fall. 

You land across his lap, stomach pressed against his thighs, your skirt riding up as your legs dangle off the side of the chair.

"What are you—!?"

The words die in your throat.

His bandaged hand comes down hard against your ass.

The SMACK echoes through the room, sharp and precise, and you feel the flesh jiggle beneath the impact. A startled yelp tears from your lips as heat blooms across your skin.

You twist, trying to push yourself up, but his other hand presses firmly against your lower back, pinning you in place.

"Let me go!" You squirm, legs kicking out uselessly. "Nanami—"

Another SMACK. Harder.

You cry out, your fingers gripping the fabric of his trousers as you try to thrash free. But he's stronger than he looks, and each movement only seems to anchor you more firmly against his lap.

"It hurts!—" The words tumble out, breathless and strained. "Please—"

He doesn't answer.

His hand falls again. And again. Each strike precise, measured, landing in rhythmic succession across your buttcheeks. 

The heat builds. Spreads. Your struggles grow weaker, your body trembling with each impact. Your breathing comes in ragged gasps now.

By the time he stops, you can barely move.

You lie there, limp across his lap, your body quivering. Your ass throbs, hot and tender, and you can feel the dampness pooling between your thighs—a shameful, undeniable wetness that's soaked through your panties.

The silence stretches.

Then you feel it.

His bandaged fingers slide beneath the hem of your skirt, brushing against the heated skin of your inner thigh. 

“...Don't!” You inhale sharply, your whole body tensing as his touch trails upward.

He finds the damp spot immediately.

One finger presses against the soaked fabric of your panties, the rough texture of the bandage grazing your most sensitive flesh. You bite your lip, a shaky breath escaping through your nose.

He presses harder, searching, until he finds it—your clit, swollen and aching beneath the wet cotton. His finger circles, the pressure just enough to make you gasp, before he twists, grinding the fabric against you.

His voice drops, low and rough against your ear.

"What are you?"

You shudder, unable to form words.

His finger presses deeper, rolling in slow, torturous circles.

"A masochist bitch?”

“—!?”

Your fingers are curled into the fabric of his trousers, your forehead pressed against his thigh, and you can't form a single word.

He waits.

The silence stretches, broken only by your uneven breathing.

Then his thumb shifts.

It moves, sliding down from your clit, tracing the soaked line of your panties until it finds the dip—a hungry, aching hole begging to be filled.

The cotton presses inward, squeezing your cunt lips together, making the wetness seep through the thin material and stain the fabric with your need. 

Then, with a slow, deliberate pressure, his bandaged thumb nudges against the very entrance, just barely breaching the tight, trembling ring of your fuckhole.

The rough texture of the bandage grazes your sensitive flesh, and you jolt violently, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. 

“mmgh…” Your hips buck instinctively, but his hand on your lower back holds you steady.

For a single, agonizing second, the tip of his thumb is inside you.

Then it's gone.

He pulls back completely, withdrawing his hand from beneath your skirt, and in one fluid motion, he stands.

His arms hook under your knees and around your back, cradling you against his chest.

Your body is still trembling, your ass still throbbing, your core still aching and wet, and you can only stare up at his jaw as he carries you upstairs.

He pushes the bedroom door open with his shoulder, steps inside, and lowers you gently onto the bed. Your body sinks into the mattress, your skirt still bunched up, your panties still damp and clinging to you.

He straightens and turns without a word. Walking out without even looking at you.

The door clicks shut behind him.

A moment later, you hear the unmistakable sound of a lock turning from the outside.

You're alone.

Most importantly... he didn't do anything more.

—

Next day—

The room is still half-dark, painted in shades of gray and blue, and for a long moment you simply lie there, staring at the ceiling.

The memory comes in fragments. The pressure of his fingers around your throat. The way his eyes changed—how they went from warm to something else entirely, something ancient and hungry and utterly without mercy. 

You spent the whole night thinking. 

The apartment was secure in ways you couldn't even begin to understand. And even if you could get out, where would you go? You barely know the streets.

So the only option left was to make him believe.

Make him believe you understood. That you accepted. That you were beginning to see things his way. 

When you find the lock open, you step out of the bedroom, the apartment is quiet. The living room is bathed in pale morning light, and you find him standing by the large window, looking out at the city. 

He's wearing a simple white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he holds a cup of coffee in one hand. 

He doesn't turn when you enter, but you can see the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the cup.

You stop a few feet behind him. 

"Nanami."

He doesn't turn immediately. There's a long pause, a beat of silence that stretches just long enough to make your stomach clench. Then he sets his coffee down on the windowsill and slowly turns to face you.

His eyes are careful. They sweep over your face, taking in every detail, and you can see the question in them—What are you thinking? Are you thinking of arguing again?

“.....”

"I've thought about this the whole night," you say, and your voice comes out softer than you expected. "Everything that happened. Everything you said."

You take a step closer. Not too close—but close enough to show that you're not afraid.

"I'm sorry," you say. "For how I reacted. I know you weren't trying to hurt me. I know that now."

He blinks. 

You take a breath. You let your shoulders drop, let your posture soften, let yourself look vulnerable.

"I just needed time," you continue. "It was all happening too quickly, you know?”

“I didn't know how to process everything. I panicked."

You pause. Letting the silence settle between you.

"I said things I didn't mean," you add quietly. "I was scared. But I've had time to think now. To really think."

You look down at your hands, then back up at him. You try to make your eyes look sincere. You try to let him see the truth—or at least, the truth you want him to see.

"I've been thinking about what you said," you say. "About how you need me to understand. About how this is the only way things can work. And I think... I think I understand now."

His expression shifts. Just slightly. The hardness in his eyes softens by a fraction, and you see something flicker there—hope, maybe.

“....”

You take another step closer. Now you're close enough to touch him, but you don't. You let your hands hang at your sides.

"I'm sorry I fought you," you whisper. "I'm sorry I made it harder than it needed to be."

He stares at you for a long, long moment. Searching your face, your eyes, your body language, trying to find the lie, trying to see if you're manipulating him.

And then, slowly, his shoulders relax.

He takes a step toward you, closing the distance between you.

"I understand, love," he says, and his voice is soft, gentle, the voice of the man you'd first met. 

"This is what I was saying yesterday. I knew you'd come around. I knew you just needed time."

He reaches out and cups your face in his hand, his palm warm against your cheek. His thumb strokes your skin, slow and tender.

"I'm so glad you finally understand," he says, and his voice is thick with something that might be emotion. "I was so worried. I thought I'd lost you. I thought I'd pushed too hard."

You shake your head slightly, careful not to break his hold.

"You didn't lose me," you say. "I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere."

He lets out a breath, a long, shuddering exhale that seems to carry the weight of everything he'd been holding in. 

He pulls you into his arms, wrapping you in a tight embrace, and you feel his face press into your hair.

"Thank you," he whispers against your scalp. 

"Thank you for trying."

—

The rest of the morning passes in a strange, fragile peace. He doesn't lock you up anymore. He doesn't even suggest that you stay in the apartment. Instead, he asks you, with genuine warmth in his voice, if you'd like to go out today.

"Let's visit some places," he says, his hand resting lightly on your lower back. "I want to show you more of Tokyo. The parts you haven't seen yet."

You agree. You smile. You let him guide you out the door and into the soft morning light.

He takes you to a quiet neighborhood in Yanaka, where old wooden houses line narrow streets and cats doze in sunlit doorways. 

He buys you a warm taiyaki from a street vendor—red bean paste, your favorite—and watches you eat it with a soft, fond smile.

He holds your hand as you walk. His thumb traces lazy circles on your skin, and every now and then he stops to point out something interesting—a hidden shrine, a small garden, a shop that sells handmade paper.

By midday, he takes you to a rooftop café in Shibuya, where you can see the scramble crossing below, crowds of people moving like a single organism. 

He orders for you both—a cold brew for himself, a matcha latte for you—and you sit together in comfortable silence, watching the city pulse beneath you.

"Are you tired?" he asks, his eyes on your face.

"A little," you admit.

"Then we'll take it slow. There's no rush."

He reaches across the table and takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. His touch is warm, steady, and you let yourself relax into it. 

You let yourself pretend that this is real. That this is a normal date between two people who love each other.

—

By the time the sun begins to set, the two of you find yourselves walking along a quiet street overlooking the river. 

The city glows in warm shades of orange, its lights slowly flickering to life as evening settles in.

Nanami comes to a stop beside the railing and looks at you.

"Thank you for today," he says. "For giving me a chance. For trying to understand."

You look back at him. In the fading light, he looks like himself again. Calm. Gentle. 

"...You're welcome."

The words leave your mouth before you can think too hard about them.

He steps closer, lifting a hand to your cheek. His thumb brushes your skin once, giving you enough time to pull away if you wanted to.You don't.

He leans in, and his lips meet yours.

The kiss is slow and gentle, nothing like the desperation of the night before. His hand stays lightly against your cheek while you kiss him back, the warmth of the setting sun lingering on your skin.

When he finally pulls away, a small smile settles on his face.

"Dinner?" he asks quietly.

You nod, and he offers you his hand before the two of you continue walking together.

—

The restaurant is hidden in a narrow alley in Ginza, its entrance marked by a simple wooden sign with Japanese characters you can't read. 

You glance at it as you pass, catching a glimpse of black ink on pale wood, but the meaning escapes you.

Nanami holds the door open for you, and you step inside.

The interior is breathtaking. Dark wood, soft lighting, a single long counter made of polished hinoki cypress. 

The air smells of soy and sake and something else—something rich and savory. A chef stands behind the counter, bowing as you enter.

But the room is empty.

There are no other customers. Not a single table is occupied. The only sound is the soft hum of the ventilation and the distant clink of a knife from the kitchen.

You look around, confused. "Is it... always this quiet?"

Nanami smiles, guiding you to a seat at the counter. "I reserved the entire place. I wanted us to have privacy."

You blink. Of course he did. Of course.

You sit down, and he takes the seat beside you. 

But you can't stop thinking about the sign. 

Something about the empty restaurant, the exclusive atmosphere, the way everyone seems to know exactly who Nanami is—it makes you wonder.

You push the thought away. You take a bite of the sushi, and it melts on your tongue, and you let yourself enjoy it.

—

Dinner passes easily between the two of you.

The conversation drifts from one topic to another until, somewhere between courses, Nanami looks at you with a small smile.

"Do you know the first time I saw you?"

"You were walking down the street," he says. "Looking completely lost."

A quiet laugh escapes you.

"I remember thinking..." His eyes drift over your clothes before settling back on your face. "...I mistook you for one of us.”

“...What do you mean?”

“Nothing serious.”

You aren't sure how to respond, so you simply smile and ask him another question. He answers without hesitation, and you listen, nodding along, letting him feel heard as the evening slips by.

—

Dinner comes to an end sooner than you expected. As the last dishes are cleared away, you and Nanami step out of the private dining room together.

You tighten your grip on your purse. It has been resting against your shoulder the entire evening, its familiar weight grounding you. 

Your passport. Your flight ticket. Every important document. You'd slipped them inside before leaving the apartment that morning, telling yourself it was only a precaution. 

If an opportunity ever presented itself, you'd have minutes—nothing more.

You glance down the hallway before looking back at him.

"Um... where's the restroom?”

Nanami follows your gaze. "Just down the hall." He gestures toward the corridor.

"I got a little turned around," you admit with an awkward laugh.

His expression softens. "Take your time. I'll wait here."

You smile. "Thanks."

As you start down the corridor, one of the restaurant staff quietly approaches Nanami and begins speaking to him in Japanese. 

He turns his attention to the conversation without another glance your way.

Only then do you keep going.

You pass the restroom without slowing, your heartbeat beginning to pound harder with every step. Another corner. A narrow hallway leading toward the entrance. The heavy wooden doors come into view.

Don't look back.

You push through them and the cool evening air rushes over your face.

Then you run.

You don't stop until you're at the curb, frantically waving down the first taxi you see. The driver barely has time to unlock the doors before you climb into the back seat.

"The airport, please."

The taxi pulls away from the restaurant, merging into the evening traffic. Only then do you dare glance through the rear window.

Nothing.

No one is chasing after you.

Your lungs finally release the breath you'd been holding as the city slips past outside the glass.

Please...

Please let this work.

By the time the taxi reaches the airport, your hands are trembling so badly you nearly fumble your wallet. You pay the driver, clutch your purse tightly against your side, and hurry inside.

The terminal is crowded. Travelers weave past one another with rolling suitcases, families gather around departure boards, and announcements echo overhead.

Then you notice him.

A man in a dark suit standing near one of the entrances.

You barely think anything of it until you notice another leaning against a pillar farther ahead, an earpiece tucked discreetly beneath his hair.

You turn toward another check-in counter.

One of them moves too.

Your stomach knots.

You keep walking, pretending not to notice, but another suited man comes into view near the security line. None of them approach you. None of them say a word. 

Every now and then one tilts his head slightly, his lips moving as though speaking quietly into his earpiece.

Why are they following me?

The question loops through your head as you force yourself toward security.

Don't panic.

Just keep walking.

The officer takes your passport and boarding pass before glancing past your shoulder.

"Where's your luggage?"

Your heart lurches, but you manage a small smile.

"It's... an emergency. I'm flying home alone. My family's staying here for a little while longer, so the luggage is with them."

He studies your face for a brief moment before giving a small nod.

"I understand."

He stamps your documents, hands them back, and smiles politely. "Have a safe flight."

"Thank you."

You murmur the words before continuing through security. Only after you've crossed to the other side do you finally look back.

The men haven't followed you.

They're still standing exactly where they were, watching from beyond the checkpoint.

Relief washes over you so suddenly your knees nearly give out.

By the time your boarding group is called, your breathing has finally settled. You join the line with the other passengers, your passport already in hand.

Just as you're about to step onto the jet bridge, a familiar voice speaks behind you.

"Miss [Name]."

Your entire body goes rigid.

You turn slowly.

One of the suited men stands several feet away. He doesn't come any closer. Instead, he gives a polite bow before setting down your carry-on that you'd left behind.

"I believe these belong to you."

You stare at him, unable to speak.

"...How?"

The man simply reaches into his jacket and produces a slim envelope.

Inside are the remaining documents you'd thought were gone.

He closes it again and offers another respectful bow.

"Mr. Nanami wishes for you to have a safe flight."

Before you can ask another question, he turns and walks away without another word, disappearing into the crowd as calmly as if nothing unusual had happened.

You remain frozen where you stand, staring after him.

A flight attendant gently smiles.

"Ma'am?"

You blink, forcing your legs to move. 

When you finally land, exhaustion settles deep into your bones. Carrying your purse and your carry-on, you pass the baggage carousel without a second thought—until something familiar catches your eye.

Your suitcase slowly rolls into view, a fresh baggage tag fastened neatly around the handle. You stop in your tracks. You never checked it in. You never even touched it after leaving. 

Yet somehow... it had made the journey home with you.

—

Two months.

Two whole months had passed since you'd stepped off that plane, and yet Japan still found its way back into your thoughts when you least expected it.

You let out a quiet sigh, leaning back against the couch as your phone rested loosely in your hand.

You'd tried to move on.

You'd thrown yourself back into work, answered every worried question from your family with carefully edited half-truths, and convinced yourself that leaving had been the right decision.

It was the right decision.

...Wasn't it?

Sometimes, usually late at night when the house had gone quiet, you couldn't help wondering what would have happened if you'd stayed. If you hadn't run from that restaurant. If you'd gone back to the apartment with him instead…

The thought never lasted long.

Because no matter how gentle he'd been the next morning, no matter how normal that day had felt, there had been something deeply wrong about him.

Something you still couldn't put into words.

You rubbed your temples with a frustrated groan. "Ugh..."

Enough.

There was no point thinking about him anymore.

Unlocking your phone again, you opened the delivery app instead. Your new pair of shoes was supposed to arrive today.

Out for delivery.

A small smile tugged at your lips.

Right on cue, the doorbell rang.

"Perfect timing."

You set your phone aside and walked toward the front door without a second thought. The delivery drivers usually left as soon as the package was handed over anyway.

You unlocked the door, pulled it open and the smile disappeared.

"...”

A tailored black suit.

Blond hair.

Tired eyes behind familiar glasses.

The same calm expression that had haunted your dreams for the past two months.

Nanami.

Your eyes widened.

Before your mind could catch up, your body reacted. You shoved the door with both hands, trying to slam it shut.

It didn't move.

A bandaged hand had already wedged itself against the edge. The muscles in his forearm tightened as he pushed forward with terrifying ease.

"No—"

You threw your weight against the door, both hands straining, your shoulder pressing into the wood with everything you had.

It didn't matter.

The door inched open anyway. Another inch. Then another. Your strength meant nothing against his.

The gap widened just enough for him to step forward.

And once he was inside—

Nanami’s bandaged hand clamped down on your scalp, fingers twisting deep into the roots until the burn spread across your head like fire. 

He yanked you backward without a word, dragging your stumbling body across the floor as your screams tore through the room. The door slammed shut behind him with a final click.

He hauled you straight into the bathroom. The tub was already full. Before you could twist away, he shoved your face under the surface. Cold water rushed up your nose and into your mouth. 

Your lungs seized. You thrashed, hands slapping the porcelain, legs kicking uselessly. He held you there, unmoving, until your chest started to convulse from lack of air.

He pulled you up. You gasped once—then he forced you back down again. Water flooded your throat. Your ears filled. Your eyes stung red and raw. Up. Down. Again. 

Each time longer. Each time your panic spiked harder. You choked, coughed, sobbed between every brutal dunk. Snot and tears mixed with the bathwater running down your chin.

After the fourth time he twisted your hair sharply, forcing your face upward to meet his. His tired eyes stared down through the glasses, calm as ever.

"Do you know how much trouble I’ve faced to get here?"

You couldn’t answer. 

“Uhck…!” You could only wheeze, lungs burning, water still dripping from your lips. And, he shoved you under again without waiting.

Your hands clawed at the air. Your body bucked and twisted in his grip. He kept you pinned until your vision spotted, then yanked you out once more. 

The moment he released your hair you collapsed forward, sucking in ragged breaths, chest heaving.

Nanami stepped back. You heard the shower handle turn. A hard spray of cold water hit your back, then your shoulders, soaking straight through your clothes. 

He moved the stream methodically—over your spine, down your legs—until every inch of you was drenched and shivering. Only when you were completely soaked did he grab you again.

His left hand slammed you against the tiled wall, pinning you there with effortless strength. The shower head came up, blasting your face first, then lower. 

Water hammered across your breasts, your stomach, then straight between your thighs. You tried to turn your head away. He brought the spray back to your face.

"Hold still."

He yanked your soaked pants down in one rough motion. The shower head pressed directly against your exposed pussy, the stream forcing its way between your folds. 

His fingers followed—two of them slapping your clit sharply, then spreading your lips wider so the water could hit deeper. 

Nanami’s fingers shoved straight into your soaked pussy, two at once, curling deep without warning. He pumped them hard and fast, the wet sounds filling the bathroom as he worked you open. 

Every few thrusts he pulled his hand back just to slap your cheek—sharp, stinging little hits that snapped your head to the side and kept your eyes from rolling back.

Your body jerked when the orgasm crashed through you. Your thighs shook, pussy clenching around his fingers, a broken moan tearing from your throat. 

He didn’t let you ride it. The second your knees buckled he yanked you by the arm, dragging you out of the bathroom and across the room. 

You hit the bed face-down, the mattress bouncing under your weight.

“Women like you don’t deserve a gentleman,” he said, voice low and flat. The metallic clink of his belt buckle echoed behind you. 

One hand stroked your ass once, almost gentle, before the first sharp smack landed. Then another. He yanked your pants the rest of the way down and off.

He peeled off his own soaked suit jacket next, then tugged his shirt over his head, tossing both aside.

With your face pinned down, you could only glimpse part of it.

Ink spread across his left shoulder in bold blacks and muted reds. A dragon wound through dark waves and cherry blossoms, stretching across his chest and down his arm.

It was the kind of full-body piece you'd only ever heard whispered about.

Then the belt came next. The first strike cracked across your both asscheeks, heat blooming instantly. 

“AHH..!!!”

Each hit made you cry out, hips twisting, but he held you down with one hand on your lower back.

“I’ve held back myself for this? I did all those things… tried to hide… tried to change for you… just for you to run away!?”

The belt landed again, harder.

“If only I could’ve stopped you at the airport…”

“But that would’ve gotten me in trouble. You knew that, right? That’s why you lied. You never took me for granted.”

Another lash. Your cries grew louder, skin already bruising.

“As if I meant nothing to you. You only used me like a whore. Do you think I’d let it slide!?”

He dropped the belt. You felt the thick, hot length of his cock rub slowly over your burning ass, letting you feel every inch of his hardness against the welts. 

He slapped it against your cheeks a few times, the wet sound mixing with your ragged breathing, then lined up and shoved inside in one brutal THRUST.

He fucked you hard from behind—deep, punishing strokes that rocked the bed. 

He had already taken you once, twice, four times, thirteen times—each thrust a brutal claim that left your insides raw and overflowing. 

His cum leaked from your stretched pussy in thick, messy trails, yet his cock stayed rock-hard, veins pulsing as he fought the urge to unload again.

The restraint showed in every flex of his muscles, every sharp breath he held back while his hips snapped forward with punishing force.

Your breasts twisted under his grip, fingers digging deep into the soft flesh, pinching and rolling your nipples until they throbbed. 

You lolled your head, mouth open in a constant stream of broken moans, cumming nonstop around his driving shaft. 

Each slam pushed you over the edge again, your walls clenching and fluttering as fresh waves of slick and his seed gushed out.

“N-Namami—S… stop—”

But, he kissed you hard, tongue forcing deep while his free hand cracked across your cheek in a stinging slap. 

The impact jolted through you, mixing pain with another helpless orgasm that made your thighs shake. 

You were beyond sense, vision swimming, ears filling with a long, piercing beep that drowned out everything else.

His hips stuttered to a stop mid-thrust, cock buried to the hilt. Your eyes turned hazy, head pounding so fiercely you could barely turn toward his gaze. 

Slowly he withdrew, the thick length dragging along your sensitive walls until it slipped free with a wet sound, leaving you empty, aching, and dripping.

Through blurry sight you watched him peel the bandage from his left hand—the one he always kept covered. 

The cloth fell across your stomach as he revealed the missing pinky, the stump raw and healed over. 

Then the bedroom door swung open, silent on its hinges. A man in a black suit stepped in, his face impassive, carrying something massive in his arms. 

It took you a second to register the shape—a giant teddy bear, cream-colored fur matted in places, a faded red bow tied crookedly around its neck. 

The exact same teddy you’d lost in Japan months ago. The one you’d mentioned in passing, the one Nanami had looked at with empty eyes and said, There’s none.

But here it was.

The suited man crossed the room without a word. He halted beside the bed, held the teddy out toward Nanami. 

Nanami took it without looking, his gaze fixed on you the whole time, that raw stump now resting on his thigh. 

He cradled the bear against his chest for a moment, stroking its matted fur with his four-fingered hand, then leaned over and placed it gently beside your head on the pillow.

“.....?” Your pulse hammered. You couldn't speak.

Without ceremony, Nanami hooked his arms under yours and repositioned you flat on the bed, your back sinking into the mattress, your head lolling to the side where the teddy’s button eyes stared back at you. 

He didn't ask. He just put you there, like arranging a doll he’d been waiting to pose. Then he climbed onto the bed again, knees bracketing your hips, his weight settling over you.

His cock was still hard, he wrapped his hand around it—the missing pinky making his grip look asymmetrical, incomplete, yet practiced. 

He pumped slowly at first, watching your face, the teddy, your face again. A bead of precum glistened at the tip.

He sped up, breath hitching, muscles in his stomach tensing. You could only lie there, the giant teddy’s fur brushing your cheek, as Nanami’s strokes grew frantic. His jaw tightened, a low grunt escaping his throat. 

Then his cock jerked, and thick ropes of cum splashed across your face—warm, sticky, landing on your lips, your eyelids, trailing down your cheek. 

He shifted his aim and painted the teddy’s snout as well, white streaks mingling with the bear’s cream fur.

A long, shuddering exhale. He stayed there, hovering, admiring his work. A satisfied smile crept across his face, slow and deliberate, as he studied the details—the way the cum clung to your lashes.

「その姿は、少し可愛すぎますね。」

He traced a fingertip through the mess on your cheek, smearing it, then brought that finger to his own mouth and licked.

He simply pulled back, off the bed, trousers still undone. He turned to the man in the black suit—who had remained motionless, witness to everything—and spoke. 

The words came in quiet Japanese, too fast for you to follow.

The ringing in your ears grew louder, your headache splitting so fiercely you could barely keep your eyes open, barely even register what was happening around you anymore.

But somewhere in the back of your mind...

It all made sense.

These men always around. Even at the airport. The effortless way your luggage had found its way onto the same flight. 

His promises spoken with absolute certainty.

The private restaurants. The empty streets. The places where no one would interrupt. No one would question.

It had never been confidence.

It had been power all along.

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[senalaced]

pairing :: kento nanami x reader

the position you have yourself in feels all wrong and the angle is, well, utterly embarrassing. you'd been the one to suggest this in the first place, well written smut online fogging your mind and forcing the request past your lips before you could think about the logistics.

he'd said yes, of course. kento's inability to deny you paired with you being too chicken to back out (plus not wanting to out of sheer curiosity), leaves you in your current predicament.

"I don't think it's rocket science, sweetheart." kento's lying flat on his back beneath you, head propped up on a pillow. being awfully patient despite your prolonged stalling. his fingertips draw the barest shapes on either side of your hips, tapping lightly to get you to move higher. your knees bracket his ribs, heat of your cunt burning into the firm ridges of his stomach. "it's just me. nothing to be shy about." his frame shifts just enough to get close, mouth brushing over yours. "you just sit there like you sit on my lap. and then you move."

"I am sitting." you grumble, settling a little lower, ass right up against the band of his slacks. "being on your lap is different."

it really isn't, but he just hums—hands smoothing up and down your sides, finally settling on your hips again. if he thinks looking at you the way he is currently helps, he's wrong. part of you just want to to just throw this idea to hell and take your usual seat, though with far less clothing than you both currently sport.

he's gotten buffer over the last couple months. beefy bi and triceps, chiseled abdomen rigid under where you're molten. what a waste it'd be to not rub yourself all over him. you're in completely uncharted territory. you'd think grinding on your boyfriend's abs would be easier than riding his cock, but the embarrassment you currently feel proves you wrong.

your hips cant forward then back in your first, tentative grind, exhale drawn out as though every breath would help to expel that nervous tension coiled deep in you. one after the other. in and out repeatedly.

it still remains as embarrassing as it was a minute ago, ridiculously enough. he's yours after all. your dignified, unshakeable nanami.

usually fucking you from behind, sideways (however he could get you, really) like it’s his government assigned duty, nanami. all yours...and here you are, shy about just getting off using his abs.

his fingers twitch against your hips, itching to help you out, but he bites back the urge. figures he'll let you work up that courage on your own.

"...this probably looks so silly."

"mm?" large, familiar hands slide upward- settling higher on your sides, fingertips cool against warm skin, "I promise that it doesn't," they coast under the hem of your shirt, spreading wide over the underside of your breasts. "you should see yourself from down here."

you bite the inside of your cheek keep your smile from spreading, letting your hips drag forward, just enough that your clit catches at the indent of a muscle. then backward in a similar motion. "what? you think I look good?" the sensation is a little dull through the fabric but good enough to warrant the continued rolling of your hips. the friction drags a shaky breath out of you, blood pooling hot under your skin. his stomach rises and falls with every breath, rigid plane shifting under you.

with how good it already feels, you figure applying just a little more pressure won't hurt. so you do, leaning close, hands bracing against his broad, firm shoulders for more leverage to rock your hips.

“very. don’t go overthinking it,” he murmurs, eyes flickering down to where you’re moving against him, “just use me.”

and that you do. your rhythm loses that tentative edge to it, speed picking up as you get more desperate. hips rolling, clit throbbing with every pass, soaked cotton catching right where it aches. a vicious ache blooms in your belly, a shaky moan drawn out of you in your building pleasure. "mm, kento.." every drag of your cunt over him leaves another sticky patch across his skin, shine of slick smearing across the hard cut of his abs.

"see? you're doing so well." his hands move low to plant on the curve of your ass over your panties, not at all taking over but guiding whenever he feels your pace begin to stagger. "that feels good, doesn't it?"

you can barely manage more than a breathy 'yeah', starting to enjoy this far more than you'd anticipated. but still, through the fabric is as dull as expected, beginning to cling uncomfortably.

which he notices, of course.

"here, let me.." one hand remains firm on your behind while the other slides between your thighs finger curling into the slick dampened gusset to drag it aside in one smooth, practiced motion. "does that feel better?"

the difference hits you like a breath of air after being underwater —immediate, raw. direct connection of your slick folds against his skin sending a hot zap right up your spine. it just feels so much better like this, incomparable to much else.

"kento,” you hiss, digging your nails into his shoulders, hips jerking forward too fast. “yeah, that’s—god, that’s so much better.”

your embarrassment wanes in the face of your pleasure, lips parting. now that you're comfortable he has no issue at all with guiding your movements on his own, heavy hands squeezing the fat of your ass. pulling you back and forth against his abdomen, letting you grind faster and harder down on him. just watching you, cock already properly hard and neglected behind you, far more caught up in seeing you finish like this.

the sounds filling the air get louder, lewder. squelches that would leave you embarrassed if you had the capacity for anything but bone deep arousal left. both your hands brace on his chest now, letting him get you off. despite the building ache in your thighs, stopping is the last thing you'd hope for. "oh—mm, kento. i'm gonna—oh my god—cum.."

“mhm, you are.” he says, almost under his breath. the words leave him breathless, strained. “keep going. make yourself cum on me. make yourself feel good.”

the ache has gone from something steadily building to a mean, insistent pressure that has your breathing coming fast, practically humping his abs at this point. his thumb—just the pad of it—presses down lightly on your clit mid-grind, just to add to the pressure already making you lose your mind.

and it hits just like that. sudden, white hot pleasure that has you bowing down into him, thumb still sweeping oh so gently over your clit as the other keeps you moving. the slick, sticky pool grows, spilling out over golden skin in a warm rush. he eases up the movement to not overstimulate you, thumb gently circling the sensitive bud to bring you back down.

your stay on his abdomen isn't long lasting after your orgasm. praise and his hands smoothing along your body prove to be the worst pairing when you're already worked up and horny out of your mind.

worse yet, meeting his already stiff cock about to burst through his slacks when you'd slid down to seat yourself on his lap had hijacked every other thought.

maybe you'd make it past 1 round of grinding next time.

author's note :: 𑣲⋆ princess nanami post as promised - repost from previous account <3

comments, likes and reblogs appreciated, thanks for reading!

[kashun]

━━━ SWEETER THAN ANY MEDECINE.

𝓲𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 ♰ you're so feverishly, impossibly hot that nanami, your husband, is losing his mind, trembling and rambling as he completely falls apart inside you.

✿ ◞◟) nanami kento 𝓍 female!reader

𝓬𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 18+ [ MDNI! ], explicit sexual content, established relationship, husband!nanami, unprotected sex (p in v), lots of kisses, praise & sweet talking, reader has a fever and nanami is losing his mind (fever-induced heat kink undertones), crying during orgasm, creampie, nanami is deeply in love.

nanami kento has always been a man of control.

he's precise in the kitchen, methodical with his huge hands, patient in the way he loves you — slow and thorough and devastatingly intentional. even in bed, even when he's buried so deep inside you that you completely forget where you end and he begins, there's a restraint to him; a gentleness, as if nanami is always holding back just enough to make sure you're okay, to make sure you're with him, to make sure he doesn't break you by accident.

but tonight is different.

tonight, you're burning up.

it started this morning — a little fatigue, a little flush in your cheeks that nanami kissed anyway before heading to work. by the time he came home, you were curled on the couch with a blanket and glassy eyes, the thermometer reading 102.3 and your smile still bright enough to make nanami’s chest ache. he'd made you soup, forced water into your hands, tucked you into bed with extra pillows and a cool cloth for your forehead.

the perfect husband, as always, all quiet concern and warm palms against your skin.

but then you'd pulled him down by the collar of his shirt, fever-bright and insistent, and whispered "kento, please" against his mouth, and something in him cracked.

nanami tried to be reasonable. he tried to tell you that you needed rest, that you were sick, that this could wait, but you'd just shaken your head and hooked your leg around his hip, and the sound you made when he'd accidentally pressed against you — half groan, half whimper, all desperate need — had shot straight to his dick like a live wire.

so now here he is.

here he is, kneeling between your thighs on the rumpled sheets of your shared bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp painting everything in shades of gold and amber. here he is, watching you completely fall apart beneath him, your skin flushed an impossible pink, your lips parted and wet and whispering his name like a prayer.

and here he is, losing his goddamn mind.

because you're hot. not just in the way you always are — the way that made him fall in love with you in the first place, the way that still makes his breath catch when you smile at him across the dinner table — but actually, physically hot. like a furnace, like sin wrapped in skin and slick heat and the kind of wet that has him groaning before he's even all the way inside.

nanami sinks into you slow — he always does, because well… he's nanami kento and he believes in savoring things, in making them last — but the moment the head of his cock pushes past your entrance, he freezes.

"f-fuck," nanami breathes, and his voice cracks on the word, splinters right down the middle.

you're so warm.

you’re so impossibly, unbearably warm; it's like slipping into a bath that's just this side of too hot, the kind of heat that steals your breath and makes your muscles go liquid. your walls flutter around him, clenching and pulsing like you're trying to pull him deeper, and he has to brace one hand against the headboard just to keep from collapsing on top of you.

"kento?" your voice is soft, hazy, your eyes half-lidded and glassy in a way that has nothing to do with the fever and everything to do with him. "you okay?"

nanami laughs — it was a short, broken sound that's half sob, half something else entirely.

"am i okay?" he repeats, like you've asked him the most ridiculous question in the world. "sweetheart, you're—"

his hips twitch, an involuntary little thrust that sinks him another inch deeper, and the sound you make is so sweet, so wrecked, that he has to close his eyes.

"you're so hot. inside. it's—god, it's like—"

nanami can't even finish the sentence, he doesn't have the words for what it feels like. the heat is radiating through him, climbing up his spine, settling low in his belly like embers catching flame. every single nerve ending is on fire, every muscle pulled taut, and he hasn't even started moving yet.

you shift beneath him, trying to take more of him, and your hand comes up to cup nanami’s jaw, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. your skin is warm too — not as searing as the rest of you, but warm enough to make him lean into your touch like the tide answering the moon.

"then move," you say, simple as anything else, like you haven't just turned nanami’s entire world inside out. "kento, please. i want you to move."

he's never been able to deny you anything, so he moves.

slow at first — because nanami is trying, he's really trying, to keep some semblance of control. he pulls out until only the tip of his cock remains, then pushes back in with a steady, rolling movement that has you arching off the bed, your nails digging into his shoulders. the wet sounds are obscene, amplified by the quiet of the room, and every single one of them makes his stomach clench with want.

but it's the heat that undoes nanami.

every single thrust feels like coming home and getting burned at the same damn time.

your body is so hot inside, so slick and welcoming and tight, and nanami can feel the fever radiating off you in hot waves; it's in the way your breath stutters against his neck, in the way your legs shake where they're wrapped around his waist, in the way your pulse flutters wildly against his lips when he leans down to kiss your throat.

"you feel—" he gasps, and his hips stutter, rhythm faltering. "you feel incredible. i can't—fuck, sweetheart, i can't think."

and nanami can't.

his brain has completely short-circuited, reduced to nothing but static and sensation. every logical thought has been burned away by the heat of you, replaced by something primal and desperate and almost frightening in its intensity. he wants to be gentle. he wants to take his time, to worship you the way you deserve, to show you just how much he loves you with every careful, deliberate movement.

but his body has other plans.

nanami’s hips are moving faster now, snapping against yours with a rhythm that's more urgent than he intended. the headboard knocks against the wall in a steady, rhythmic beat, and nanami knows he should care about that — nanami knows the neighbors will probably hear, nanami knows he'll be embarrassed about it tomorrow — but right now he can't bring himself to give a single shit.

not when you're making those sounds.

soft little gasps and moans that pitch higher every time he bottoms out, your head thrown back against the pillow, your throat bared and vulnerable and so beautiful it makes his chest hurt. your hands are everywhere — tangled in nanami’s hair, scraping down nanami’s back, gripping nanami’s hips like you're trying to fuse yourself to him.

"k-kento," you whimper, and it's broken, shattered, the kind of sound that goes straight to nanami’s dick and makes him see stars. "kento, don't stop. p-please don't stop."

"not stopping," he grits out, and his voice is ragged, wrecked, nothing like the composed, collected man he usually is. "never stopping. not when you feel—fuck, not when you're this—"

nanami loses his words again, and he buries his face in the curve of your neck instead, breathing you in. you smell like sweat and illness and something uniquely, achingly you, and he wants to live in this moment forever. he wants to drown in the heat of you, in the tight grip of your body, in the way you moan his name like it's the only word you remember.

you're clenching around him — tighter now, your orgasm building, and he can feel it in the way your thighs tremble, in the way your nails dig crescents into his back. but more than that, he can feel the fever; the heat that seems to intensify with every thrust, radiating from your core and soaking into his skin, making him sweat, making him need.

"sweetheart," nanami gasps, and his voice breaks on the word, splinters into something raw and desperate. "i'm—i'm not going to last. you're too hot. you're so hot, i can't—"

you turn your head, catch his mouth in a kiss that's all teeth and tongue and clumsy urgency. it's not graceful — nothing about this is graceful — but it's real, it's you, and he groans into your mouth like a man dying of thirst.

"then don't," you whisper against his lips, and your voice is thick with fever and want and something softer, something sweeter. "don't last. i want to feel you. want you to—ah—want you to cum inside me. please, kento. want to feel you."

nanami going to die.

he's actually going to die, right here, inside his wife, and he's going to die happy.

his hips snap forward harder, faster, every single ounce of control he had evaporating like water on hot pavement. he's gripping your thigh with one huge hand, holding you open for him, and the other is fisted in the sheets beside your head, knuckles white. nanami’s whole body is trembling — from the effort, from the pleasure, from the sheer overwhelming muchness of feeling you like this.

"you're everything," nanami hears himself say, and his voice sounds so strange, so distant, like it's coming from someone else. "you're everything to me. fuck, sweetheart, i love you. i love you so much. i love—"

he's rambling now, words spilling out of him unchecked, and he simple can't stop, he doesn't want to stop.

you're so hot, so wet, so perfect, and every time he pushes inside you, he swears he can feel your heartbeat, he can feel the fever thrumming through your veins, he can feel the way your body clings to him like it never wants to let go.

your orgasm hits you without warning — nanami feels it in the way you gasp loudly, in the way your back entirely bows off the bed, in the way your nails rake down his spine hard enough to sting. but mostly nanami feels it in the way you clench around him, a vise of slick, searing heat that pulses and flutters and tries to completely milk him dry.

"oh god," you sob, and there are tears on your cheeks — from the pleasure, from the fever, from the sheer overwhelming intensity of it all. "kento, oh god, oh god—"

nanami watches you fall apart beneath him, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

your eyes are squeezed shut, your mouth open in a silent scream, your whole body shuddering through wave after wave of pleasure. and through it all, you're so hot, so impossibly, devastatingly hot, and nanami can feel your orgasm like it's his own, nanami can feel it in the way your walls massage his desperate cock, nanami can feel it in the way his name falls from your lips like a benediction.

he follows right after.

there's no warning, no buildup — just a sudden, violent crest of pleasure that crashes over him and drags him under. he buries himself as deep as he can go, hips flush against yours, and spills inside you with a groan that's almost a sob. the heat of you surrounds him, consumes him, and for one perfect, eternal moment, there's nothing else in the universe.

just you.

just him.

just the two of you, unreservedly tangled together in the sweaty sheets, trembling and gasping and so full of love it might actually kill him.

nanami collapses on top of you — careful, always careful, one arm bracing his weight so he doesn't crush you — and presses his forehead to yours. your skin is still warm, still flushed with fever, but there's a softness in your eyes now, a drowsy contentment that makes his heart stutter in his chest.

"that was—" you start, but your voice is hoarse, faded, and you have to clear your throat before trying again. "that was not how i expected tonight to go."

he laughs, breathless and a little unsteady, and presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth.

"you're sick," he says, like it's just now occurring to him. "you have a fever. i shouldn't have—we shouldn't have—"

"kento." you cut him off with a hand on his cheek, turning his face so he has to look at you fully. "i wanted to. i want to. always want to, with you."

he closes his eyes, lets out a shaky breath, and when he opens them again, there's something soft and wondering in his gaze.

"you're going to be the death of me," he murmurs, but it sounds like a declaration of love.

you smile — that bright, brilliant smile that made nanami fall in love with you in the first place — and pull him down for a kiss that's slow and sweet and tastes like forever.

"good," you whisper against his lips. "then you'll die happy."

nanami laughs again, real this time, and gathers you into his arms. you're still too warm, still sick, still in need of soup and water and cool cloths and rest, but right now, in this moment, none of that matters.

right now, you're both exactly where you're supposed to be.

masterlist.

[be-ee]

does nanami make captive!reader wear anything specific? or she can wear her common everyday clothes?

and does captive!reader has something to do while nanami is at work all day?

Thank you for the ask anon!

Most of readers clothes are comfortable lounge wear. Think sweatpants, and hoodies. Nothing restrictive or overly fashionable on a daily basis.But because Nanami buys all of Reader’s clothing, some of his preferences inevitably slip in. Not overly revealing or anything like that, just clothes that fit the image of Reader he’s built in his mind. Things he'd like to see you in. Quietly elegant and feminine peices. Reader intentionally avoids wearing them because they know Nanami would just love it. I feel like she would have just once. A beautiful off- the-shoulder cream sweater he had bought. The smirk on his face was insufferable. You had sworn never to touch it again. A shame too since you really did like it..

Nanami’s ultimate goal in all this is to make your life as "normal" as possible. Captive!Reader’s days settle into a quiet, domestic routine meant to keep them occupied and emotionally stable. Kinda like...not stressing out a pet. Most of the day is spent wandering the house, reading, watching television, making tea, cooking out of boredom, tending to little hobbies Nanami slowly provides, or simply lying on the couch listening to the silence of the house. There are books, blankets,art supplies, plants to water...Honestly with no real control over their future, tiny choices become disproportionately important. And that's what Nanami aims to keep true. It will genuinely start to feel like an extended sleepover you can't leave lol (^q^) once he thinks you're good enough the next step would be to give you faux responsibilities.....

[hallucinagin]

bigbrother!higuruma dad!nanami bigbrother!higuruma dad!nanami bigbrother!higuruma dad!nanami bigbrother!higuruma dad!nanami bigbrother!higuruma dad!nanami bigbrother!higuruma dad!nanami bigbrother!higuruma dad!nanami bigbrother!higuruma dad!nanami bigbrother!higuruma dad!nanami bigbrother!higuruma dad!nanami bigbrother!higuruma dad!nanami

[hqismm]

In sickness and in health

— ft nanami x fem!reader

Syn. You underestimate two things: your fever, and how quickly Nanami will drop everything for you.

Cw .ᐟ : Husband!Nanami, fluff, sick fic WC : 1.1 k

© Art creds : @dickerystuf

If you hold back one more cough, you might actually explode. 

It’s day three of pretending you aren’t sick because the second Nanami finds out, he’ll abandon work entirely and hover over you like a mother hen.

You know how important his job is to him. Even after exhausting shifts and bruises hidden beneath dress shirts, he still insists on working so hard to give you the best life possible. 

Usually, you can handle a slight fever on your own, but today feels different.

You wake up drenched in sweat despite feeling a violent chill throughout your body. Bonnet half way across the room, and head throbbing where it rests against the pillow. 

The short walk to the bathroom nearly kills you. And by the time you stumble back into bed your body gives out against the mattress, trembling from the effort.

You curl beneath the blankets, dizzy and exhausted, using the last of your strength to order chicken soup and tea from a nearby restaurant.

You try to stay awake until it arrives but your eyelids are heavy and eventually you succumb to sleep.

—

The vibration of your phone buzzing against your cheek jolts you awake sometime later. 

Oh shit. The food.

You try sitting up too fast and immediately regret it.  Every muscle in your body aches. There’s absolutely no way you’re making it to the front door. Groaning, you scroll through your contacts before pressing the only person nearby enough to help. 

The call rings twice.

“Heyy, how’s my favorite nanami,” Satoru’s sing-song voice answers cheerfully. “Have you finally come to your senses and realized im the better sorceror?” 

Your short laugh is cut off by a cough so hard it rattles your chest. 

He pauses.

“…Why do you sound like that?”

“Please tell me you’re on lunch break already,” you mumble weakly. “I ordered food but I’m too sick to go to the door, can you stop by the apartment to bring it inside for me? Pleaseee? I’ll owe you.”

Across the office, Nanami looks up from the paperwork in front of him the second he hears your voice through Gojo’s speaker.

His expression changes immediately.

Gojo notices too.

“…Wait,” Gojo says slowly, glancing over. “You’re sick?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Don’t tell Nanami.”

Nanami stands before Gojo can even respond.

“Give me the phone.”

Your stomach drops at the sound of his voice.

“…Kento?”

“You’re sick.”

It isn’t a question.

“I was going to tell you later—”

“You can barely get a word out without wheezing”

“Baby, I’m fine.”

“Yet you called Gojo instead of me.”

The disappointment in his voice somehow feels worse than anger.

You hear rustling, then keys.

“I’m coming home.”

“Ken—”

The line disconnects.

—

Exactly twenty minutes later you hear the front door unlock. 

Nanami walks in carrying multiple bags you definitely didn’t order. Besides your tea and soup he carries a plastic bag filled with medicine, electrolyte drinks, and basically enough supplies to survive a mini apocalypse. You’d roll your eyes at his antics if it wasn’t hard enough keeping them open. 

His tie is gone. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Hair slightly disheveled like he ran straight from work.

The second he sees you trying to sit up, his face tightens.

“Don’t you dare get up.”

You still try anyway.

He’s at your bedside instantly, one hand against your forehead, the other steadying your shoulder as he gently pushes you back into the pillows.

“You’re burning up,” he mutters, brows pinching together. “How long has this been going on?”

“…Three days.”

Nanami goes completely still.

“Three,” he repeats flatly.

You wince under the weight of his stare.

The exhaustion in his face twists into shame.

“Fuck. What kind of husband am I if I don't even notice you’re sick?”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Why’d you hide it from me?”

“Because you would’ve called out of work.”

“I would have.”

There’s no hesitation in his answer.

That’s what gets you. He’s not even frustrated.Just genuinely hurt that you were suffering alone while he sat completely unaware.

His expression softens slightly when he notices yours crumpling.

He sighs quietly, sweeping your braids behind you. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

Despite the scolding tone, he carefully opens the soup container, testing the temperature before handing it to you.

When your shaking hands struggle to hold it steadily, Nanami simply takes the spoon back with another quiet sigh.

“Cmere, open your mouth.”

You shoot him a weak glare but obey anyway, letting him feed you spoonful after spoonful while he watches carefully to make sure you eat enough.

The warmth of the soup settles heavily in your stomach, exhaustion pulling at you all over again.

Nanami notices immediately.

Without a word, he sets the container aside before piling blankets around you. 

He leans down then, pressing a lingering kiss against your feverish forehead.

“You should’ve called me first,” he says quietly against your skin.

Guilt twists in your chest. “I didn’t want you worrying.”

“That was never your decision to make. You’re my wife. I love you and i’ll always worry about you.

“Mm sorry Ken, I love you too, I just didn’t want to be a burden.”

The words come out slurred with exhaustion, barely above a whisper.

Nanami’s expression softens immediately.

“A burden?” he pulls away slightly, like the thought itself burns him.

His hand slides up to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing beneath your eye with careful affection.

“You being sick is not an inconvenience to me.”

You blink tiredly up at him while he adjusts the blankets tighter around your shoulders, making sure not even a sliver of cold air gets through.

“I take care of you because I want to,” he continues. “Not because I have to.”

The fever leaves you too drained to hide how much the words affect you. Your eyes sting slightly as you lean further into his touch.

Nanami notices, of course he does.

“Baby,” he coos softly, brushing his lips against your forehead once more. “Don’t cry now.”

“I’m not,” you mumble weakly, voice wobbling. 

A rare hint of amusement flickers across his face.

“You’re a terrible liar, love.”

Before you can argue, he slips into bed beside you fully clothed, ignoring your weak protest about getting him sick. He simply pulls you carefully against his chest, tucking your head under his chin as one arm wraps securely around your waist.

“Next time you feel like this, I’m your first call. Understand?”

You hesiate. “…Even if you’re working?”

“Especially if I’m working.”

You let out a tired hum of agreement, curling closer into his chest.

“Good,” he says quietly. “Next time your first instinct should be your husband, not the six-foot manchild.

[eevwrites]

More of the loser girl x yan Nanami pleaseee. I just think it’d be cute to see reader who thinks she’ll end up alone and holes herself in her bed. Only to be taken by this hot man. Reader scored but at what cost

TW: non/dub con, kidnapping, depression symptoms, infantilization

loser x loser... what a pair.

i think there's lots of potential here for nanami to become very parasocial. i think it would be really funny if reader was like, basically nanami's discord kitten (not that he'd ever call it that, he could never be that crass towards you). you're just some twenty something unemployed gamer girl who's managing to get by on charging simps for somewhat suggestive phone calls. you pretend you have armies of men falling over you in the real world to give clients the incentive to come back/grow a more personal relationship with you. you can only imagine nanami's confusion when he decides that loving you through the screen isn't enough and shows up to your house to find that you're actually a shut in who hasn't been out in the sun in over a week.

for a while, he'd try to get you to bring out the flirty persona he'd come to know and love you for, halfway convinced that you must be fumbling over your words and incapable of looking him in the eye because you're nervous. and while you are understandably put off by the man who plucked you out of your bedroom and forces you to wear kitty lingerie everyday, he comes to realize that the reason you lay in bed all day and never bother asking to go out in the sun probably runs a little deeper then that.

in a way, it's kind of endearing how horrible you are at caring for yourself. you may not be what he expected, but it's nice knowing that by taking you into his care and forcefully bathing you, making sure you eat three meals and putting you on a consistent sleep schedule, he's probably improving your quality of life. who cares if you'll never step outside again? you didn't have any friends any way, certainly no one who loved you enough to do whats best for you.

and what's best for you is structure and love. every time you fight against him and he has to bring you over his lap like a child, he knows in his heart it's what's best for you. everytime he watches you wrap your lips around the spoon he's feeding you, he knows you're being cared for. and every night when your pulse quickens against his lips as he slips his hand into your lingerie, ignoring your tears as his fingers bury themselves in your folds, he knows he's loving you better then anyone else ever has.

whether you want it or not is inconsequential.

[eevwrites]

Hear me out… Hybrid Yandere Nanami.. What if he’s the hybrid.. Idk I’ve been craving some bat-shit insane dog-hybrid Nanami media and thought about it so much 😩

I mean, you can’t tell me that dumbass dog ISN’T whining, whimpering, begging and demanding that you stay home 24/7 with him.

God forbid a genderfluid individual wants a pathetic man for some happiness, am I right? 😔 ((I missed being in your ask box))

tw: noncon voyeurism, suggested somno,

can’t see nanami being a particularly high maintenance hybrid. would he like to whimper and tear up the cushions whenever you leave him? yes. but he’s got more class then that. nanami is a guard dog, strong, loyal and quiet. always there to comfort you when you’re sad and growl at men who get a little too close when you go on walks.

i think hybrid nanamis ideal situation would be being a guide dog. as a pet hybrid, nanami has emotional sway over you, but only to a certain extent. sure, he can keep you away from men by getting huffy when you talk to them or growling when the postman comes to the door, but you ultimately have free will and can do what you want with your life whether nanami likes it or not. as a guide dog, nanami is your lifeline. your survival depends on his instincts and decisions.

and hes very good at his job, very attentive. you take comfort knowing that, when you’re holding on to nanamis arm, you’ll be safe. you trust him to pick out your outfits each day and cook your food, to let you know when something is hot or sharp, or when something is in your way that you might fall on.

it’s why you trust him enough not to look when you’re in the shower, because he’d never do something as gross at jack off into his hand at the sight of you masturbating. and why you trust him to help you pick out bras and lingerie, not thinking he’ll pick out shameless frilly things that get him hard.

you trust nanami with your life. Just don’t think too much about why you keep on waking up with a wet pussy and nanami sleeping peacefully at the foot of your bed.

[yutanology]

i feel like arguing with yandere husband!hiromi would only make you look stupid. imagine being blinded by rage during a fight about his suffocating protectiveness, you suddenly blurt out, "i swear, sometimes i fucking hate you!" then the room goes dead quiet.

he stares at you long enough to make you realize what you just said and then you get embarrassed. he approaches you, taking you in his arms, cupping your face. "you don't mean that. you're just frustrated and you're lashing out with the biggest, scariest words your brain could find in a panic." his voice remains calm.

"it's what children do when their parents don't let them eat ice cream for dinner." you glare at him, swatting his hand from your face. he chuckles, holding you once again. "if you truly hated me, you wouldn't be wearing this ring." his thumb brushed against the wedding ring on your ring finger.

"you wouldn't sleep next to me every single night and kiss me good morning on sunrise. you love me entirely, but right now, you're angry because you're being disciplined. i forgive you for saying it, because i know you don't mean it." he pressed a kiss on the diamond ring.

"let's not use those silly words anymore, okay?" he makes himself as the wise adult and you as the confused, emotional child who doesn't know her own mind. surprisingly, it works for him every single time.

i randomly thought of this when i was about to sleep amd i jst know i had to write it or else >:)

my masterlist<3

[yutanology]

part 1 | part 2

yandere!hiromi who is a brilliant and respected defense attorney who provides you with an upper-class lifestyle, handles all the household finances, and treats you like his wife more than a girlfriend when you first started dating. the way he looks at you softly but intense with his devotion, made other people change their perspective of him being just a man devoted to his principles and married to his job.

yandere!hiromi who justifies his darkest actions through a lens of "necessity". if he feels like marriage isn't enough to keep you by his side or your independence doesn't waver despite limiting what you can do, he will treat a pregnancy as a strategic intervention. he knows how the family court system works better than anyone.

he knows tgat marriage with a child is a thousand times harder to dissolve than one without. a child gives him permanent leverage. even in the absolute worst-case scenario where you somehow manage to get a divorce, a child guarantees he will have mandatory partial custody, visitation rights, and a permanent legal excuse to be in your life for at least eighteen years.

yandere!hiromi is a genius who thinks ten steps ahead. his method of baby trapping you would be flawless. he wouldn't do anything messy. instead, if you are on oral contraceptives, he would swap your pills with identical placebos. the next few times you'd have sex, he'd just have to make sure you're filled to the brim with his cum.

once the pregnancy is achieved, he uses it to completely strip you of whatever autonomy you had left. he'd use it to justify putting you on strict bed rest and quit your job entirely while you're at it. he doesn't leave your side for a second during labor. he's too afraid you might die while giving birth. he can't afford to lose you. to his relief though, everything went well.

you're not just his wife anymore. you're the mother of his heir.

had to google tons of shit so ik what im sayin here ㅠㅠ

my masterlist<3

[yutanology]

Hi. Would you do a Husband yandere Higuruma Hiromi x wife reader? Please!

part 1 | part 2

yandere!hiromi's obsession love for you is quiet but heavy.

he is very affectionate with you, especially in the comfort of the home he built for you. he loves it when you depend on him because he believes, he's responsible with your whole existence.

because he's always exhausted from work, his favorite way to show physical affection is by pulling you down on the couch or bed with him to cuddle. his kisses are soft, never hurried. from your lips, it'd trail down to your neck, his favorite spot of pressing kisses. he would lay his head on your chest or bury his face on your necj where he could smell your perfume.

when you sleep, he holds you tight in his arms, you're unable to turn. he'd wake up when you try to move his arm off you and go with you to the bathroom when you say you need to pee. it embarrassed you at first but now, you're used to it.

before your marriage, yandere!hiromi will present you legal documents that seem standard but actually designed to strip away ypur autonomy. with your signature, he will manage your assets, your power of attorney, and your housing contracts. he ensures that your existence is tied to his consent.

that way, if you try to leave him, he'll personally show you that you are financially, legally, and socially incapable of leaving. he owns the house, he controls your finances. he'll fabricate evidences if he had to so you can't prove anything against him in court. he spent his entire life learning how to win impossible cases. there's no way you could win against someone like him.

to yandere husband!hiromi, the outside world is guilty until proven innocent. he views everyone as a potential threat, parasites you should never be involved with. to limit your exposure outside, he makes sure that walking away from him would mean absolute ruin for you. leaving him means walking directly to poverty and homelessness.

he handles everything in your household. he loves the domestic side of marriage because it allows him to control your environment. he will do anything, cook for you, and fix things around the house. he will make you realize you don't need to call a plumber, a helper, a financial advisor— because he is all of those things for you. he's everything you could ever need.

if ever you rebel against him, he will book you appointments with top psychologists (who owe him big favors) and manipulate the sessions so you are diagnosed with anxiety or paranoia. a paper trail he prepared so that if you ever try to expose him, he can legally declare you unfit and place you under his permanent legal guardianship.

in every aspect, your yandere!husband's love for you is designed to make you feel cherished, utterly safe, and entirely helpless without him. he'll make you happy so long as you never try to step outside the boundaries of his courtroom.

[be-ee]

Date with Yandere! Nanami x Captive!reader

More yandere Nanami? Ask and you shall receive (*゜▽゜)_□

It had been months since you’d last seen the outside world properly.

At first, after he kidnapped you, you had counted the days obsessively. But eventually, life settled into something somewhat domestic.

Nanami left for work. Nanami came home. Nanami cooked dinner. Nanami read while you pretended not to watch him from across the room.And every locked door remained locked.

So when he suggested a “day out” over breakfast one morning, you genuinely thought he’d lost his mind.

"What?"

Nanami calmly buttered another piece of toast. "It’s nice out today."

You blinked.He smiled faintly, "Let’s consider it a date."

A date.You nearly laughed in his face.But then he stood, and later that day you were stepping out into sunlight for the first time in what felt like forever.

The warmth of the sun kissed your skin so intensely it almost hurt. The roadside bustled with life. Crowded little market stalls lined the streets, overflowing with flowers, handmade crafts, fresh fruit, sweets, fabrics.

People laughed loudly around you. Children ran through the crowd, and somewhere nearby, music played softly.You couldn’t recognize the town at all. Didn’t know where he had brought you.

But who cared?!

Freedom, oh how it intoxicated you.

Your eyes darted everywhere at once as you walked beside him. Taking it all in so quickly it made your chest ache.Nanami stayed quiet, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other occasionally brushed against your back to guide you through crowded paths.

He looked painfully ordinary today. Like any normal man spending a peaceful afternoon with someone he loved.

"Careful.' he murmured as you nearly backed into a fruit stand.You laughed breathlessly before you could stop yourself. Nanami looked at you then, expression softening almost imperceptibly.

"There," he said, nodding toward a nearby vendor. "You were staring at those earlier."

Delicate bracelets and hand beaded necklaces hung from a wooden display from one of the stalls.

You looked at him suspiciously. "You’re buying me those?"

"I buy you things all the time." He smiled down at you, "Blue's still your favourite colour, right?"Your stomach twisted unpleasantly.Before you could respond, Nanami had made his way to the vendor, reaching for his wallet as the man spoke to him.

And for the first time all day—His attention left you.

Run.

The thought slammed into you so violently, your body moved before your mind caught up.You shoved through the crowd, heart pounding wildly against your ribs as voices blurred around you.

Your breathing turned frantic. Desperate.

Someone could help you.

Someone had to help .

Your eyes locked on an elderly woman arranging bundles of lavender beside a flower stall.You rushed toward her so quickly you startled her; grabbing onto her cardigan with shaking hands.

"Please!" you gasped. "Please help me—he kidnapped me—I don’t know where I am—please—"

The woman’s eyes widened immediately with concern. "Oh goodness…"

"He keeps me locked away." you choked out. "I haven’t been outside in months—I—"

"Y/n."

Your blood froze solid.That voice.

Slowly, you turned.Nanami stood only a few feet away.Composed as ever. Not angry. Not even panicked.

The old woman glanced between the two of you before recognition suddenly lit her face."Nanami, dear."she said warmly. "Is this the fiance you’ve spoken so highly of? She’s a pretty one."

Your grip on her tightened desperately. Your trembling worsened.

"She says she was kidnapped…" the woman added uncertainly.Nanami sighed softly, rubbing the back of his neck with practiced exhaustion before letting out a quiet laugh."Really?.., haha." His gaze flicked briefly toward you. "I’m sorry for her outburst…You know how she’s ...sick. I just thought today she was well enough to go out...It’s been a while.."

The woman’s face immediately fell into sympathy."Oh, you poor things…"

"She gets frightened in unfamiliar places sometimes," Nanami continued gently. "It's my fault, I shouldn’t have overwhelmed her.

You stared at him in horror.The old woman carefully peeled your fingers from her sweater despite your resistance."It’s alright, dear," she soothed kindly. "Of course it’s alright."

Then she placed your trembling hands into Nanami’s.His grip closed around yours immediately. His thumb brushed over your knuckles once in a gesture so tender it made you feel ill.

"Thank you." he told the woman politely.Then he looked down at you.

"Come now," he said softly. "You’re shaking."