cw breast obsession non-sexual, gentle dominance ig, soft intimacy.
my personal fav fantasy is husband!nanami coming home late. he's super exhausted and he finds you already sleeping.
he sighs in relief at the sight of your peaceful body lying on the bed, the moon light peeking through the curtains, casting a soft glow over you.
you're wearing a delicate crop top, yellow with tiny pink roses on it, thin straps slipping off your shoulders, and lace-trimmed triangles barely covering your breasts— shifted out of place in your sleep. it's Nanami's fav. because he got the chance to cup your tits easily from behind.
it's not in a lustful way!! he's not groping you with some filthy intent not always at least. he holds them in a comforting way, in a way that makes him exhales deeply the moment he slides into bed, feeling the stress of the day melt away as his large, calloused hand finds its rightful place. right over your chest.
it's comforting, the way they fit just right in his palms— they're not too big, not too small, just perfect. like they were meant to be in his hands, like he was meant to touch you this way. he likes the shape of them, the way they mold to his touch, yielding and soft, a stark contrast to the roughness of his palms. he doesn't squeeze hard, doesn't knead them like he's trying to work you up— just holds.
he loves how soft they are when you're relaxed, when you're warm and tucked into his arms, your body completely at ease. how they don't poke or demand attention. they're sitting there all plush and smooth against his fingers, unbothered.
he loves how your breasts change when you're lying down, how they spread just a little, how they lose that roundness but become so soft, so flat, almost like they're becoming one with his hands. he loves the way his fingers can rest along the curve of your ribs, feeling the gently rise and fall of your breath beneath them.
it's instinctual. reaching for you. holding you. owning you.
his favorite way to touch you is when you're on your back, his face buried in the crook of your neck—your floral scent invading his nostrils—'cause that's where he has better access to your tits. he likes to slide his hand up from your waist, fingers ghosting over your ribs before they settle beneath the swell of your breast— his thumb and index supporting the weight ever so slightly, pressing just enough to feel their fullness. and sometimes most of the times he gives the underside a gentle pinch, his lips twitching at the way your body shifts in response, even in your sleep.
and your nipples. god he loves them sooo much. he's totally obsessed when they don't poke or stiffen under his fingers, just stay warm and smooth against his touch, like they trust him enough to relax. he traces lazy circles over them, fingertips gliding over the subtle change in texture. he never presses, never pinches because he knows if he did, if he rolled them just right, they'd start to react. they'd tighten, harden under his touch, and sure—when the mood was for it—he loved that just as much.
but right now, it was only about feeling you.
and if you make some little sound of protest when he adjusts his grip— he simply shushes you, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck, whispering, "go back to sleep, darling." and you do. because how could you not when you were so sweetly wrapped in his warmth?
(*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ)
