“you’re going to hurt yourself like that, my love.”
you startle at the voice over you, having been nearly asleep.
“—uh?”
you turn your head to see Nanami looming over your side of the bed. if you were fully conscious, you would see the tiny look of mischief in his eyes as they roam your body, but you’re not, so you take it as his tendency to mother hen you.
and then he’s pushing you to the middle of the bed despite your whining, climbing in beside you. you try to settle in and find you’re still being moved—he’s on his back, shuffling himself down the bed and pulling one of your legs over his chest. you feel him turn his face into your belly in a move that feels suspiciously like nuzzling.
“what’re y’doin,” you slur, a little petulant at being woken up like this, despite it being well past the time you meant to rejoin the living and despite your own desire to seek out the warmth he’s emitting next to you.
“you’re going to hurt your hip, laying like that,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. he runs a hand up the back of your thigh and over your hip, and you sigh a little bit, comforted by the feeling of him.
“i don’t know how you sleep like that,” he continues, absentmindedly dragging his fingers over your skin, making you shiver every now and then.
“feels good,” you grumble, face shoved into the pillow. talking about your bizarre sleeping position and maybe also the way the rough pads of his fingers leave a trail of warmth in their wake. you think you hear him chuckle softly, and you feel him press a kiss to the skin of your belly, right above the hem of your sleep shorts.
it’s soft, chaste—and then it’s not, and you suck in a breath when you feel him kiss you there again, feeling the tip of his tongue drag along the skin that stretches over your hip bone.
and evidently he hears your sharp inhale, because you feel a strong arm sneak around your lower back, pulling you closer to him.
“was still sleeping, you know,” but it’s lost all of its bite and you’re a little breathless now, fixated on the way his free hand slides up the back of your thigh to brush over the sensitive spot just under the curve of your ass.
“go to sleep then,” he says into the soft of your belly, pressing another kiss, opening his mouth a little wider to catch the skin of it between his teeth. he’s turned into you now, and despite yourself, you drag your leg up from his chest so it’s over his shoulder.
he moves to rest his head against your thigh that’s trapped underneath him, and distantly you think that it is more comfortable like this— his head squeezed between your legs having alleviated some of the pressure against your hip from laying on your side. that thought quickly becomes muddled in your head when you feel him latch on to the skin of your inner thigh that rests against his face.
you whine, hips bucking weakly as you squirm under tongue and teeth—both leaning into and trying to get away from the sting of his bite.
“my sweet love,” he coos, running his tongue over the fresh bruise, placating you. you shiver, pressing your face further into the pillow to try to breathe—to ground yourself despite the heat that curls up your spine. he stops, then, and you peak down at him to find that he’s staring back up at you.
“hi,” you whisper, fighting another shudder at the way his lips pull at the corners into a smirk that looks absolutely sinful on him.
“good morning,” he drawls, deep and far too awake. he rests his chin in the space between your hips, pressing a quick kiss above your pubic bone. your hips buck toward him a tiny bit, and his smirk widens when he feels it.
you bring a hand down to run it through his hair, tangling in the blond strands and scratching at his scalp. he closes his eyes and hums, deep in his chest, nuzzling into your thigh. it makes you smile, and it makes you ache.
“want you, ken,” you murmur, squeezing him gently between your thighs and reveling in the groan he lets out.
“i know, sweetheart,” he coos, hands coming up again to grope whatever skin he can reach and pressing a tiny kiss through your shorts, “i can smell you.”
you groan, pressing your head back into the pillow. you’d dragged it into the living room to make yourself a makeshift bed on the couch while you waited for bakugou to get home.
“don’t feel good,” you mumble quietly. your eyes are closed, but you can feel him glaring at you from his spot near the door.
a second passes and you flinch when you feel a rough hand press into your forehead—then both cheeks, your temples, your neck. you’d smile at his doting if you didn’t feel so awful.
“what doesn’t feel good?”
“stomach hurts…my head too. feel really tired.”
“fuckin’ idiot,” he snaps, but there’s no heat to it as he brushes your hair out of your face that’s just a little sweaty, “what’d you stay up for me for then?”
you shrug, keeping your eyes closed at the feeling of his fingers scratching your scalp. “missed you.”
he pauses at that, sucking in a breath. the sentiment always, always disarmed him. he couldn’t help but love the way you needed him so earnestly, even if he hated that you’d kept yourself up despite being sick.
you feel a dip in the couch, and it’s your only warning before he’s hoisting you up off of it. the sudden elevation makes your stomach churn and you whimper, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. he presses a kiss to your hair.
“sorry,” you feel his breath over your face, “just a second.”
to your surprise, he walks past your bedroom and takes you to the bathroom, setting you on the toilet seat. he motions for you to raise your arms, pulling your shirt over your head. you shiver from the cold air, but continue to allow him to undress you. he pulls a towel from under the sink and wraps you in it.
bakugou keeps a warm hand wrapped around your foot while he reaches over to turn on the faucet. he sticks a hand in the tub to make sure the temperature is right—he pulls it from the water and lets it close around your other ankle.
“too hot?”
you sniff, eyes closing at the warmth spreading over your skin. you have a feeling it’s not the virus circulating through you right now—not with the way you’re so fixated on how he has stopped time for you. you shake your head.
he helps you stand and steadies you as you lower yourself into the water. you let out a pleased little sigh, and you don’t miss the way the corners of his mouth turn up just a little bit.
he tells you to tip your head back, and you feel a rush of warmth over your scalp. it takes you a moment to realize what’s happening.
“are you washing my hair?”
he pauses, going a little red. you see him bristle a bit.
“the fuck’s it look like?” he mumbles, and you swear he’s almost pouting.
it makes you smile, and you spare his pride. you close your eyes and do as he asked.
he’s muttering to himself in half hearted annoyance as he dumps another cup of water over your head again, his other hand reaching to your hairline to shield your eyes. you bite your cheek to fight the grin that is already there.
you found out bakugou’s propensity toward domesticity early on in your relationship. you also found out his tendency to be embarrassed when you commented on it, so you tried to keep it to a minimum when you reveled in the way that he cared for you.
you feel his fingers start to scrub your scalp and it pulls a small sound from deep in your chest, leaning into his touch. you open your eyes and turn your head to look at him.
“the fuck are you doin’? close your ey—“
“love you,” you whisper quietly, and you don’t miss the way he buckles under the weight of the words, however minutely.
“shut up,” he murmurs, grabbing you under your jaw to gently turn your head away from him so he can continue. his touch lingers there for a beat too long, fingers running along the sharpness of the bone before he’s scrubbing your scalp again.
you allow a small smile to stretch along your face and your eyes drift closed again. it’s silent between you—expansive and comfortable as he rinses the soap from your hair.
you don’t know how much time has passed when he hauls you from the tub, making sure you can stand upright before wrapping you back up in your towel. he keeps an arm around you as you both walk back to your bedroom. he sets you on the bed while he busies himself with finding a suitable pair of pajamas.
he doesn’t let you dress yourself, either, and you have to hold back the giggle at how he babies you. you let him, though, because you know this is how he shows you that he loves you. the words are hard, but what he can do for you comes as natural to him as breathing.
when you’re dressed, he strips down to his briefs and maneuvers you down underneath the covers. he follows you, pulling you into his body. it’s the warmest you’ve felt all day, and his arms wrap around you tighter when you press into him. you rest your head against his sternum and breathe him in as best you can through your clogged nose.
“do you need to eat?” you ask, suddenly remembering that he’s just gotten home from working all day.
“later,” you feel it rumble through his chest, and he doesn’t leave any room for your protests, cradling your head and pressing a soft kiss to the top of it, “go to sleep.”
you grumble a little despite his firmness and you feel him grin into your hair. his fingers trail softly over your spine and you feel yourself doing what he said, drifting off quickly.
you’re fortunate enough to hear the whispered “i love you” right before sleep claims you.
this fic belongs to me (@gardenofnoah). i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.
hehehe i have izuku on the brain. i want to bite him
cw: explicit oral sex (reader receiving (if one of you gets a community warning put on this i will consider it an act of war and you will be dealt with accordingly. read my warnings you fuckin bozo)), afab reader, no gendered terms used, praise (“pretty baby”, “angel”, etc), terms for body parts (“pussy”, “clit”), izuku being a big slut
i see izuku as a very soft dom. nothing extreme—there’s no bravado or intimidation. you know? he’s just naturally dominant in a gentle way and he’s filthy with how much he needs you.
like, you’re laying on your belly, stretched out down the length of his legs while he’s playing video games. your knees rest on either side of his thighs as you’re scrolling on your phone, he’s focused on the game in front of him but brings a hand down every once in a while to give your thigh or ass a soft squeeze. it’s quiet aside from the sounds of the TV. you start to feel yourself drift off, until you realize he’s quit the game and is now pulling you farther up his lap, until you’re squeezing his waist with your thighs. he goes right to work—fingertips pressing into the skin of your thighs, kneading into the muscles underneath. you let out a pleased sigh, and you feel him tense, just a little bit, above you. his hands move up to grab at the fat of your ass—still gentle, but a little more heated now—and he bends down to kiss the skin that stretches over your spine where your shirt has ridden up.
“izuku,” you breathe out, settling further into his legs and nuzzling your face into the skin below his knee. you feel warm, held by him—every brush of his fingertips leaves a trail of heat that shoots straight to your gut. it settles you, and it ignites something inside of you. you start to squirm.
“pretty baby,” he coos back in response, pressing another kiss to your spine, and it makes you shudder, “got the prettiest view of you right now.”
you’re sure he does—you wiggle your hips at him with a small smile on your lips. his fingertips knead the flesh of your ass, and then he gently pulls you apart—you can hear it, with how wet he’s made you, and you stifle a whimper into his skin. you feel the soft brush of the pad of his thumb over the damp patch of your sleep shorts, and he takes a sharp breath in.
you turn your head to look back at him, and he’s both soft and smoldering—his eyes are so, so dark but his face is tender, a soft smile stretching across his face. it’s adoration that you see—a complete infatuation, running deep inside of him. you know that he will make you feel it.
“hi, angel,” he murmurs, and it makes you smile, “how are you feeling right now?”
“horny,” you tell him honestly, and his grin gets a little wider.
“good,” he says, bending down to press another kiss to the small of your back, eyes never leaving yours, “will you let me make it better?”
you nod, and the corner of his eyes crinkle. you can feel him, hard, pressing between your thighs. you roll your hips down slightly and he sucks in a breath, fingers digging into your ass harshly. his hands move, running over the swell of your hips and holding you where they crease.
“will you lift up your hips for me?”
you push up onto your knees, and his legs spread to accommodate you—you rest your head on the mattress and arch your back a little, offering yourself to him completely.
“like this?”
he sucks in a breath, leaning forward to kiss the back of your thighs, dragging the tip of his nose up to where they meet and inhaling deeply, letting out a low groan.
“yes, baby,” he says, and it’s deep in his chest, “so fucking pretty.”
his fingers reach for the waistband of your shorts, wrapping around the elastic and pulling them from you slowly, kissing every inch of exposed skin he reveals. he drags them over your heat slowly, watching a string of your arousal stretch until it snaps. you feel his breath on you and you squirm.
“got the prettiest pussy,” he tells you, and you feel him spread you open with both hands again. you feel deliciously exposed to him, and it makes you clench. he sees it and lets out a moan that almost sounds pained.
“please,” you whine, muffled by the comforter you press your face into.
“please what, angel?”
“please ‘zuku,” you’re almost slurring now, body buzzing with every puff of air that hits your folds, “need your tongue.”
you can almost hear the smile in his voice. “i know baby. you need it so bad, huh? you need me to suck on your poor little clit.”
you press your face further into the bed, openly whining and squirming in the hands that still have you spread open for him. his teasing makes it worse—every inch of you is on fire and you do need him, more than anything else right now.
his lips meet the juncture of your thigh and your sex, and your whole body shivers. he keeps you open, upright—completely still despite your efforts to push your hips back to his face. the tip of his tongue drags along the skin there, through the dark curls that span your flesh. he presses kisses—everywhere but where you are soaking and aching for him—for so long that you feel you might lose your mind. you are a live wire—shivering and whimpering at every touch. he knows it, and he’s getting off on it, if the bucking of his hips is any indication.
he kisses and teases until he’s had his fill, and then he drags his tongue up the length of you, groaning at the flood of you in his mouth. you gasp, grabbing onto the shin that rests beside your head, needing something to ground you.
“so good” he slurs against you, tongue swiping through your folds again, “you taste so fucking good.”
and suddenly it’s like his life depends on it—his tongue is hot and heavy against you, prodding at your swollen clit, flicking it gently before his lips wrap around it and he sucks. he slurps like he needs it more than you do and the sound is loud, so loud and so disgusting and you can’t help but get off on it—on the way that he needs you.
it makes you cry out—if you weren’t already trapped in his hold, you’d have buckled—and he keeps at it, letting his bottom lip, dripping with you, drag against the little nub, flicking his tongue over it before bringing it into his mouth again.
and god, is it good. you can’t form a single thought—you’re stuttering and crying and groaning and the only thing you feel is him. you open your mouth to ask him for more—to beg him to fill you, to stretch you out—but he beats you there, and suddenly his tongue is inside of you, pushing it’s way into the flesh that squeezes it tightly and you squeal. he lets out a groan that sounds more animal than human.
you feel the pressure of his thumb against your clit as he fucks you on his tongue—deep and prodding, filling you so sweetly as you push your hips back to his face, fucking yourself on the muscle. he’s panting and groaning into you, his other hand bruising in its grip on your ass— you know you are dripping down his chin and onto his shirt and the knowledge of that pushes you closer to a rapidly approaching edge. you feel him writhe underneath you—cock straining against his pants as he chases his own pleasure from yours.
“‘zuku ‘m close,” you gasp out, and the grip izuku has on you tightens. he doesn’t falter at all in his pace, doesn’t pull himself from you to tease you—he just presses down a little harder on your clit, a little faster in his movements as he lets out a moan that vibrates through you from the inside—and it’s all you need to clamp down around his tongue hard, crying into the comforter as your orgasm takes you over completely. your hips buck against his face and you distantly hope you haven’t hurt him with how hard your body convulses. his tongue doesn’t stop for a second—not even after you’ve come down from it, but it’s softer—lapping over you slowly and softly, collecting every bit of you that spilled while you whimper beneath him. you shift, reaching an arm underneath you to palm at him, and you’re met with a damp spot on his pants that you certainly did not make. he sucks in a breath when you brush your fingers over it.
“do you feel what you do to me?” he rasps, running his tongue through your folds again, dipping the tip of it inside you, feeling you clench around it as you whine, shocks of overstimulation rippling through you.
he pulls away with a few soft kisses to your sex, and his hands are all over you—warm and soothing while he coaxes your hips back down to the bed, massaging the flesh and squeezing your sore muscles.
he gets you flat on the bed again and then he is a blanket on top of you—all heat and pressure and pressing kisses to the back of your neck and behind your jaw that make you shiver and sigh his name. he supports himself on an elbow beside your head and runs his free hand up the back of it, tangling into your hair and rubbing your scalp. you turn into him and snuggle into his chest—he lets out a small chuckle and holds you to him, pressing kisses to the top of your head.
“love you,” you whisper, muffled by his shirt.
“i love you,” he tells you, pressing another kiss to your hair and pulling you tighter to his chest, “i love you so much.”
this fic belongs to me (@b-writes-things). i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.
back on my bkg-is-a-softie tirade (i never actually left it. i’ll die here)
cw: fluff, intimacy (nothing sexually explicit, but MDNI to be safe), mentions of blood (no injuries, just my own morbid prose)
bakugou who’s uncomfortable with intimacy, especially when it’s physical. bakugou who wants to be what everyone expects him to be—aggressive, dominant, experienced— but feels violent panic when he tries. bakugou who would much rather listen to the love you have for him fall from your lips while he does what he can for you. tonight, he’s seated you on his lap, and he’s touching you—gently, fingers brushing over your palms, up your arms, your neck, over your jaw. you know that anything more would be too much for him right now. he feels guilty. he wonders if you need more.
“feels good,” you whisper against his lips, tipping your head forward to meet his. pulling him from his thoughts. you let your eyes flutter closed when you feel his hands slip under the fabric of your shirt. “will you pull my hair a little?”
he trails his fingers up your spine and lets them curl around the back of your neck, squeezing softly. they move up until they’re tangling in the hair on the back of your head, and he tightens his grip. it’s not harsh, it’s barely there—just enough to show you that he can do what you ask of him. that he is trying.
you reward him with a soft sigh into his skin and you tip your head back, exposing the gentle curve of your throat to him. he presses chaste kisses up the column of it and he’s unsure if he’s ever loved anything as fiercely as he does you.
“so good to me, katsuki.”
he feels the vibration of your praise on his lips and the rest of him hums with it—the notion that you ask of him nothing and take what he can give like it is gold he’s handing to you.
you curl into him, forehead coming back to meet his. you are looking at him with such adoration that it nearly stops his heart. he thinks that meeting your eyes might be the hardest thing he’s ever done until now, all open and crumbling in front of you, but he doesn’t look away. he watches your eyes crinkle at the corners and takes it as the assurance that he needs.
“there you are,” you say, and it guts him completely. there’s a sweet smile on your lips as they move to ask, “can i touch your chest?”
he nods—he’s tense when he feels your fingers ghost over his shoulder, trailing their way to his collarbone. your thumbs smooth over the bone and the muscle below and take his apprehension with them. he’s cracked wide open when your palm comes to rest over his heart. he puts his own over yours and exhales at the warmth he feels. it’s not like his own—it doesn’t burn. it soothes.
“oh, i love you,” you murmur, leaning forward to press your forehead to his temple. he leans into you, tightening his grip on your hand. he believes you, wholeheartedly, and that really scares him. because even if your love breaks him apart, floods him until he can’t breathe—there’s no assurance that it’s permanent. there’s nothing stopping something horrific from ripping you from him tomorrow. nothing stopping you from simply deciding that you want something different than what he can give you.
he feels your pointer finger tap where it rests above his heart and meets your gaze, and he realizes you’d probably been looking at him while he’d receded into his insecurities. you press into his chest again—lightly, but enough that the compression settles something in him.
“will you tell me?” you ask him, and it’s not an order, and you’re not fishing—it’s a genuine ask. you know that he does, but he recognizes that you’re asking for what you need. that you need to hear it, the way he does. he’d rather die than not give it to you.
“i love you,” he whispers, and he hopes you ignore the way it’s a little broken. hopes you know that he is bleeding out under your hands—under the weight of the love that he feels—and to say the words is the final withdraw of the knife that was both tearing into him and keeping him whole.
“i know,” you say to his words. “i know,” you say to his heart. he thinks he should’ve known better than to ever assume you couldn’t see the blood pooling around you. you, who’d been holding pressure over the wound this whole time. you, who’d carried him while it all dripped from him like poison. who never stopped when he tried to warn you that he’d only take you down with him.
“my love,” you coo, lips pressed to his temple. it’s not a hook—you do not need to draw him in. it is simply the way things are.
this fic belongs to me (@gardenofnoah). i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.
one thing about me is I go feral for the idea of big, strong bakugo needing softness and domesticity at the end of a long day. of him having no idea how to cope with how good it feels to be loved. augh i love him. wc: 1k
Bakugo Katsuki opened the front door quietly, careful not to make too much noise, assuming you’d gone to bed already. He set his gauntlets down, grimacing at the clink of the metal against the hardwood floor. He stood up straight and paused, taking a deep breath into his chest, and holding it until it ached. He let the breath out slowly, head tipping back as he did. It hadn’t been a horribly bad day by any means, but his nerves were still fried. He willed the tension out of his shoulders, and felt it pool into his chest instead. Figured.
He dragged himself up the steps, unsurprised at the dark living room that welcomed him home. What did surprise him, though, was the soft light flooding from the open bathroom door down the hall. He heard the faint sound of the melody of your voice, and he let a gentle smile creep across his face. It was just like you not to listen to him when he told you not to wait up for him. He was glad you did, every time.
He let his feet follow the sound of your voice, coming to stand in the doorway of the bathroom. You had candles sitting on the sink, each flickering flame sending warm light dancing around the room. His eyes drifted to where you faced away from him, feet propped up on the edge of the tub, the rest of you nearly submerged in the bath water. His eyes followed your dark hair as it spilled over the edge closest to him. He didn’t bother saying anything—you were still humming softly to yourself, but he knew that you were aware of his presence. Still, he didn’t want to disturb the peace you’d so carefully crafted for yourself.
He watched as you reached an arm out of the water and slung it over the edge, water dripping off your fingers onto the tile. You beckoned toward him silently, knowing he would come. He waited a beat, watching the candle light lick over your skin. You looked ethereal like this—angelically beautiful and certainly too good for him. He didn’t dare blink, lest the moment be a dream his brain conjured for him as a reward for making it through the day. He wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, either way.
He padded over to you, regretting the way his boots clanked off the tile. He sat down on the lid of the toilet next to the tub, reaching a hand out to thread his fingers through your hair. A soft smile graced your lips, and he thought he’d do anything to burn the image of it in his mind.
“Hi, angel,” he said quietly, leaning over to press a kiss to your temple. You rolled your head to the right to look at him, still smiling at him as you opened your eyes.
“Hi,” you whispered back, arm bending at the elbow to reach the back of his head, scratching his scalp lightly. He let out a long breath and let his head drop to your shoulder. You kissed the top of it and let your face linger in his hair, breathing him in. You would never tire of the way he smelled— like pine and earth and smoke and him. He pulled back and propped both elbows on the edge of the tub, eyes meeting yours. He could barely breathe when you looked at him like you did— all love and forgiveness and warmth, like he’d never done a wrong thing in his life.
“Rough day?” he heard you ask, and he shook his head, not knowing how to talk about it. You hummed in understanding and went back to massaging your fingers through his hair. He was grateful you didn’t pry it out of him—you never did, always letting him process how he needed to before he could talk to you about it. He knew how much you trusted him, knew that you knew he’d always need you, even if he couldn’t accept it right away. You really were too good for him.
“You wait up for me?” He asked, and if he was honest, he was unsure what answer he was hoping for.
“Not a chance,” you told him, but the way you looked at him, with so much vulnerability and love, told him otherwise. You pulled him forward by the back of his head and pressed a devastatingly gentle kiss on his lips. He had to fight not to let out the whimper that crawled up his throat. His emotions swum behind his eyes and he blinked rapidly to keep them at bay.
“Dinner is in the fridge,” you murmured, still running your fingers through his hair, “I’ll be out in a few, if you want me to warm it up for you while you shower.”
He dropped his head to your shoulder again, squeezing his eyes shut as a last ditch effort to stop the flood from dragging him out to where he surely couldn’t touch. This feeling threatened to pull him under all of the time—he had no idea what he’d done to deserve the love that you gave him so freely, as if it was as inherent and involuntary as a heart beat. He couldn’t stand it, and he couldn’t get enough of it. It would rush into his lungs and drown him if he let it—and he knew that, because he did. Often.
He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, and then picked up his head to press another to your temple, and then a final peck to the top of your head. He spared you one more glance, noticing your eyes had fell shut again as he lingered, unable to look away from you. He turned on his heel and made for the doorway, a last ditch effort before he choked on his love right there in the bathroom.
“Katsuki?” Your voice made him pause, head turning to look back at you.
“Mm?”
“I love you,” you told him, and he nearly lost it, “more than you know.”
He felt the burn in his eyes and he took in a breath, silently begging his voice not to shake. “I love you so much.”
this fic belongs to me (@b-writes-things). i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.
i love Nanamin so much it hurts me physically. i also love writing him as a normal (totally alive) human being who is in love and struggles with it sometimes. i’m a big slut like that.
wc: 1k (oops) cw: hurt/comfort, nanami is anxious and in love
Usually someone who revels in the silence, Nanami Kento doesn’t understand why he’s struggling with it tonight. You’re here, form fitted to his body like a second shirt. He knows you are here with him—present, presumably in love, alive. But knowing that doesn’t stop the discomfort from writhing in his gut like a half-dead fish.
Of all the things he knows, he is most acutely aware that this is the last night you will spend in his arms for a while. He knows that he does this every time—on the night before a mission, his strength abandons him, and he can’t beat back the fear.
Fear of leaving you. Fear of not coming back. Fear of not giving you enough of him. Fear of letting you see too much of him.
It terrifies him—the thought of his absences piling one atop of the others—a debt gone unchecked, a weight that eventually causes you to buckle.
Fear of coming home to find it completely devoid of you.
He’s left you behind countless times, and each time you are here when he returns. But it’s worse every time, because what if it’s the final straw that breaks you? He couldn’t bear it. He worries you can’t either.
But you’ve never complained. On nights before he leaves, you let him cling to you. You hold him just as tightly. You’ve never told him that you wished he didn’t have to go—he knows you do, but you spare him the guilt. You carry all of it, and him, like it is only a pillowcase filled with so many feathers. He adds to them, and he hates himself for it.
It’s traditional, in your adopted night-before-missions routine, to let both of your feelings go unspoken. To just be with each other. But tonight the quiet tears at him like the dullest knives and he can’t take it.
“My love,” he whispers into the dark, and it’s strained at best.
“Ken?” He hears you call softly. It is so sweet against his ears, it makes him sick. He holds you closer to him.
“I need you.”
You pick your head up off his shoulder at that, he assumes to look at him, though he can only vaguely make out your features in the dark. He thinks it might be for the best, because he knows he is worse for wear right now, and to see that reflected in your face would be so much more than he could handle.
“I’m right here,” you say gently, squeezing the fingers he has wrapped around yours.
“I know. I just—” he pauses, squeezing his eyes shut—fighting to stay upright on this ship, in this storm, “I’m afraid.”
“Of?”
“Everything,” he whispers, and it’s as earnest as it is broken.
You are silent for a while, and he worries he’s broken whatever fragile façade he’d been holding up. Worries he’s gone and dropped too much of himself into your lap. Too heavy, too heavy, too heavy. Carry it yourself.
“Kento,” you murmur, prying him from his thoughts. He squeezes your hand in response, not trusting himself to speak.
“I’m right here,” you say again—firmer this time, like there’s a point you’re trying to make—“and I’ll be right here when you walk through that door again. You’ll come home to me like you always do.”
He doesn’t know what to say, and even if he did, he doesn’t trust himself to say it. So he says nothing, but the grip he has on your hand is almost bruising. You don’t protest.
You sigh, pushing yourself up with your free hand until you’re straddling his waist, face inches away from his.
“Hey,” you whisper, prompting him to meet your eyes as best he can in the dark, “you can let go.”
And something in him breaks, because of course you know. Of course you understand. He lets go of your hand only to wrap both arms around your middle and pull you on top of him, his face pressing into the skin of your throat. You don’t say anything about the droplets you feel, gathering into the hem of your shirt. You don’t say anything about the way the breath in his chest stutters against yours. You just cradle his head like you are the only thing that can protect him. Right now, you might be.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, muffled and broken. He’d be embarrassed if he could—humiliated at the way one of the strongest sorcerers is reduced to a pathetic mess at the thought of his own inadequacies. But you told him to let it go, and he’s trying. Trying to do what you want him to. Trying to be what you ask for.
“I love you,” you tell him, and he lets out a pitiful whimper against your neck. So you tell him again, and again, and again. You tell him so much that he feels it settle over him like a thick blanket. It’s one that he’ll keep with him—carry with him even when he can’t be here, and he hopes it’ll be enough. He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes deeply and it fills his lungs like so much water.
When he opens his eyes again, there is sunlight streaming through the curtains, cutting through the dark and illuminating little spots over the curve of your shoulder. He finds it hard to look away, captivated by the push and pull of breath that causes your chest to rise and fall. Propping himself up, he can’t help but lean over to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. He gets closer, breathing you in and pressing a kiss to your temple.
“I love you,” he murmurs into your skin, pressing his lips to your face again for good measure. You don’t stir, and he’s grateful—you deserve rest. He hopes you won’t be upset with him for not waking you to say goodbye. He's put you through enough—he considers this to be an act of kindness, even if it hurts you. So you don't have to watch him leave again.
“I’ll be home soon,” he murmurs, and he doesn’t miss the way your hand finds a grip in his shirt.
He means what he says. He doesn’t think there’s anything in the world that could keep him from this.
this fic belongs to me @b-writes-things. i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.
don't mind me—just writing out my rabid nanamin fantasies because i love him and want him to ruin me wc: 1.2k cw: explicit sexual content, afab reader, mentions of blood, pain, period sex, fluff
“Hey, Ken?”
“Mm?”
“Could you do something for me?”
“For you? Anything,” he tells you, looking up at you from his book with a soft smile on his face. You feel your cheeks flush. It’s a tender moment, or it would be—you feel pain radiating through your pelvis again, and it makes your breath hitch.
“Could you just—” another stab of pain cuts you off, “—maybe put your fingers inside me?”
His eyebrows shoot up and his jaw goes slack. You’d laugh if you weren’t in so much pain. “I—you—now?”
“Yeah, just,” a deep breath in, “like two, maybe? M’not horny. It hurts, and I think it could help.”
“Oh,” he breathes, and you watch his confusion fade to understanding— and your heart constricts in your chest, because he is always so understanding, “sure, sweetheart. Do you want to lay down?”
You nod and move to rest on the bed, head meeting the pillow as you try to settle. Another wave of cramping has you curling in on yourself, but Kento is there, and he’s whispering soft words of encouragement to get you to lie back. He asks if he can take your shorts off and you nod in agreement. He slips them off and leans down to press kisses to your hips, your thighs, and down your shins—certainly out of muscle memory—but his mouth is warm and comforting and it helps, a little.
“It’s going to be, uh—bloody,” you stammer, suddenly incredibly aware of what you’ve asked him to do.
“I don’t mind,” he tells you absentmindedly, laying down on his stomach between your legs. He pulls both of them over his shoulders—he's noticed that having your legs elevated seems to relieve you a bit.
“I’m going to start with one, is that okay?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, feeling a little bashful now.
You suck in a breath as you feel him push into you. It’s different, obviously, but it’s not bad—it certainly hasn’t made anything worse, so you’re content to let your eyes flutter closed.
“Doing okay?” He asks gently. You hum in affirmation.
“Would you like two?”
You nod your head and wait for it, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding when you feel it. He sees you tense, and pauses.
“Breathe, my love.”
“Sorry,” you say, meeting his eyes and reaching down to squeeze his shoulder lightly, “I’m okay.”
His fingers massage you gently, and it’s intimate in a way you’ve not yet experienced. He crooks his fingers upward, rubbing gentle circles into the hot flesh they find there. You want to sigh in relief, but another flash of pain turns it into a whimper. He looks up to study your face, frowning slightly.
“Can I try something?”
You squeeze your eyes shut and nod desperately, willing to do anything for even minor relief.
There’s a pause, and then you feel his large, warm hand settle across the skin that stretches between your hip bones. The weight and the heat of his hand is soothing in itself, but then he moves, pressing down in a wave motion, starting with the heel of his palm and rolling to the tips of his fingers. He moves the fingers inside you again.
“Holy shit,” you breathe, and to your amazement, the pain dulls, “how did you know how to do that?”
“Watched a video,” he admits plainly, and you chuckle at his honesty. You swoon a little bit at him wanting to prepare for this—wanting to know how to make you feel better. You reach down to card your fingers through his hair, and he tilts his head to rest it against the inside of your thigh.
You let the silence settle over you, both of you content in the quiet intimacy of the moment. You don’t even notice when you start to squirm, until it's impossible to ignore.
“Sweetheart? You alright?”
“Yeah,” and it’s breathless as you fight the flush crawling up your neck, “just, uh, feels good.”
“Is that why you’re trying to pull my hair out?”
You gasp, immediately releasing your grip. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize—”
You hear his quiet chuckle and look down to meet his gaze, and you notice something in his eyes akin to amusement.
“My love,” he murmurs, and his voice is low as it pools in your gut, “what do you need?”
Your eyes threaten to roll back in your head from his words alone, but his fingers still moving achingly gentle inside you have your brain short-circuiting in your skull.
“Your mouth,” you gasp out, “if you want to, anyway, I don’t want you to feel like you have—”
He presses a kiss to your swollen clit to shut you up, and you nearly keen off the bed. You feel so sensitive, and you think you could cum right then if he kissed you like that again. You meet his brazen stare, and he looks like he’s more than willing to test that.
He presses kisses to the inside of each thigh, open-mouthed and hot, and then moves to lick a heavy stripe where your thigh meets your core. You let out a shuddering moan at his teasing, pushing your hips forward to get more of his mouth. He switches to the other side, ignoring your pleas for more.
He relents once you’re panting and twitching underneath him, slipping his fingers out of you to drag his tongue from your weeping core to your clit. He moans against you, and the rumble of it makes you cry out. You watch him stick his two soiled fingers in his mouth, groaning at the taste of them. It’s disgusting, and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen in your life. You realize just what you've gotten yourself into once you meet his eyes— there's something feral and borderline unhinged in them, because he's turned on by this. He wants you like this.
You let out a broken whimper of his name, and he is a man starved. His lips connect with your swollen clit, and there is nothing in the world that take him from his spot between your thighs. You feel yourself stretch around his fingers again and the stimulation is almost too much. You're not in your body anymore— you're farther off, in a place where there is only him and this feeling only he can give to you. He pulls you back to him with a flick of his tongue against your clit and you absolutely fall apart.
There's a small part of you that's concerned that you've just broken his nose with the way your hips jerk up as you cum, but if you did, he's not bothered in the slightest. His ministrations don't stop until you're whimpering and squirming against his mouth. He pulls away—has to rip himself away, actually— and you steal a glance at his face. You are all over his lips and it stirs something achingly primal inside of you. He wipes the back of his hand over his lips and makes it worse. It makes you grin, the shyness completely gone from you now, and you reach for him, pulling him down to rest his head on your belly. He squirms to get comfortable, and it makes you laugh. You weave your fingers through his hair, and the appreciative rumble reverberates from his chest to yours.
"Was that," you begin, fighting the wave of insecurity that rears its ugly head in your mind, "alright for you?"
And he has the gall to laugh at that, deep and warm as it echoes in his chest.
"Sweetheart," he says, and you hear the smile in his voice, "I have never been as hard as I am right now."
this fic belongs to me (@b-writes-things). i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.
i did not mean to write this. and yet, here we are. nanami breaks my heart every day. i'm debating whether to make this a multi-part thing because personally i am a fan of make up sex but we'll see
wc: 1.2k cw: conflict in established relationship (this is the comfort part)
You’ve been in the kitchen for at least an hour now—standing over the cutting board on the counter, making no move to slice up the vegetables in front of you. Really, all you’ve done is put water in a pot and set it on the stovetop—you didn’t even turn it on. By now you know it’s a lost cause, cooking— but it would be effort you’re not willing to expend to move from the spot where your feet feel like they’re trapped in cement. Because leaving the kitchen means walking past the living room, where you know Kento sits, and if you see him and he looks at you with that face you will split apart at your seams.
You should apologize. You should go out there and tell him you love him because that is what any sensible human being would do for someone they care about after they’ve hurt them. But you can’t, so you don’t. You can’t, because saying the words you’ve been screaming inside you aloud will make this real, and if it’s real then he will have a tangible reason to walk out of this house and never look back. You wouldn’t blame him.
You’d regretted it the moment it left your lips. What he'd said to you cut you deep, and your mouth opened almost automatically. You saw the way it registered with him—shocking at first, that expression quickly replaced by what you knew to be incredible hurt. He said nothing—just turned from you and walked to the bedroom, gently shutting the door behind him. Leaving you to stand in your shame that ricocheted off the walls, cutting you down over and over again. If he was packing his things in there, who could’ve blamed him? It’d be a long time coming.
You’d been at each other’s throats for weeks. Kento was chronically late getting home and you were irritable and distant and standoffish, and it dawned on you that you don’t know which one came first. You don’t even remember how tonight’s argument started—it didn’t feel like it mattered anymore, with the way it escalated—it was something that had been building for far too long and had come to a head the moment you opened your mouth. You might as well have told him he was worthless, with the way you’d cherry-picked your worst words for him. You knew they would hurt him and you said them anyway, that’s what you did when you were hurt and afraid—you’d lash out like an animal caught in a trap. The weight of the aftermath, this time, was more than you could hold.
“Sweetheart?”
A string of expletives leaves your lips as the knife you’d been holding clatters against the cutting board. You spin around, trying to steady your breathing as you take in the man now standing in front of you. The man who is certainly too close and looking far too vulnerable for the way you just punched a hole through his chest. You could feel yourself tense, bracing for impact. The one you get is almost more devastating than the one you’d been expecting.
“Be sweet,” he murmurs gently, lips brushing over your temple. He reaches his arms around your shoulders, one hand coming up to tangle itself in the hair on the back of your head.
“You first,” you sniffle, and you jab him in the side lightly before you allow your fist to unfurl and curl around his shirt, pulling him to you. It’s not what you wanted to say, but you hope he hears what you meant.
“I love you,” he tells you. There’s a soft smile stretching across his face—tentative, like he knows he’s pushing his luck, but he thinks it’s safe to do so— and it is. You need him like you need air. You want to hear him say it again, but you can’t bear to ask. Can’t bear to put him through anything more tonight.
“I’m sorry,” you croak, and he presses another kiss to your hairline. You bury your face in his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, too proud to let him see you cry again. He knows anyway—of course he does—and you feel his arms tighten around you. He presses kisses to the crown of your head and whispers his love to you again. Your grip on his shirt tightens. Anything to tether you here—the alternative, to be without him, is unbearable.
“I don’t want you to leave,” you confess, and it’s barely audible, but you assume he’s heard by the way his grip on you turns to that of a vice.
“Sweetheart,” his voice is strained, and the guilt squeezes around your gut, “look at me, please.”
You take in a shuddering breath to steel your resolve, and you lift your head up to meet his gaze. All you see is hurt. You think he might actually cry, and it breaks your heart again.
“There is no reality that exists in which I belong anywhere but where you are. Do you know that?”
And you can’t say anything. How could you? You can’t tear yourself from his gaze, because he’s showing you everything. He’s torn himself apart just to let you see inside. He does so, full of fear that you’ll reject what you’ve found. He does it anyway.
“We will let each other down—there will be days where you are certain you can’t bear to look at me again, and there will be days where I feel the same. But we’ll still choose to love each other. We’ll still choose to be here.”
You shake in his arms at his words. You’ve not said a thing since your quiet admission, and it doesn’t thwart him at all. He keeps talking—keeps shredding your insides with the love he lets drip off of him like he has spare to give away. You’re bleeding out in front of him and he holds you tighter. Holds you together.
“Do you still love me?”
You look at him, incredulous. “Of course I do,” and it comes out sharper than you intended. He doesn’t flinch. He exhales, like it’s a relief. You think it should feel like a life sentence.
“Do you know that I love you?”
“Yes,” you breathe, and you feel tears well up in your eyes again—your entire body is screaming to look away, to get away—to leave before his love swallows you whole, but you don’t. He’s rooted you to him. You’re surprised that it doesn’t hurt like you thought it would. Not in the ways that would really be damaging.
“Okay,” he whispers, cradling your head against his chest to tuck you under his chin, holding you tightly to him, “okay.”
You let go of his shirt for the first time and let your arms wrap around him, holding him tightly. You feel the tension in his muscles subside—like he was waiting (hoping) for you to hold him upright. He trembles slightly in your arms and you hold him tighter.
“Ken,” your whisper is soft against the fabric of his T-shirt, and he sucks in a breath at the familiar way you shorten his name, “can we go to bed?”
“Yes,” he says wetly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “let’s go to bed, my love.”
this fic belongs to me (@b-writes-things). i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.
