reiner’s tired, exhausted, even. exhausted from the burdens he has, exhausted from his responsibilities, from his guilt, from almost everything. memories keep replaying in his head, all of the deaths he’s responsible for, and how he’s leading the next generation of warriors.
his feet tread heavily up the stairs as he looks down, ashamed of his past actions. his hand reaches out, halting on the doorknob of your shared quarters before letting out a sigh and opening the wooden door.
you barely hear the recognizable creak of the door before strong arms wrap around your waist, and reiner places a soft kiss on your cheek.
“how was work?” you whisper, comfortingly rubbing his arm up and down, knowing he won’t respond.
a soft grunt leaves him, and he begins to strip himself of his work clothes, replacing them with a loose-fitting long-sleeve shirt and comfortable sleep pants. the shirt reveals his collarbones and his almost-sickly pale skin, though he tries not to draw attention to it.
he situates himself beside you on the bed, arm slung over your waist, and leg slung over yours. he pulls you closer to him with ease as he rests his head on your chest, right where your heartbeat is.
your hands find their way to his tufts of blonde hair, and he lets out a groan when you run your hands through them. soft mumbles escape his lips as his eyes close, and you questioningly hum.
“missed you today,” he mumbles, nuzzling his face further into your neck in embarrassment.
you try to fight back a smile, “i missed you too, reiner,” you mumble, kissing his forehead, “my sweet boy.”
a quiet whimper escapes his lips as his hands grasp you with a different intensity, and you let out a soft chuckle as you gently scratch up and down his back.
with each thump-thump of your heartbeat, reiner’s breath evens out more and more until he’s knocked out, cheek pressed against your chest with a soft pout on his face.
his eyelashes flutter as if he’s dreaming about something, and he’s already quietly mumbling your name, with something along the lines of “love you.”
a/n: i love reiner so i’m gonna start writing for him! reqs aren’t open at the moment though
You learn this sometime between the grocery store and the pharmacy, when you’re walking beside him with your fingers loosely hooked through his arm, the late afternoon sun slanting through the street.
“Produce first,” he says calmly, adjusting his grip on the reusable tote. “Then dry goods. That way nothing gets crushed.”
You hum, pretending to consider this very seriously. “What about impulse pastries?”
He pauses for half a second but you know him too well now.
“…Those,” Nanami says, “are negotiable.”
You grin, leaning your head against his shoulder as the automatic doors slide open. The grocery store smells faintly of bread and citrus cleaner, and everything feels unhurried in that way that only happens when you’re with him. No rush. Just the quiet luxury of being alive together.
Nanami moves with purpose through the aisles, glasses perched low on his nose as he scans labels, occasionally lifting items into the cart. You trail along, sometimes helpful, sometimes not.
“Do we need more tea?” you ask.
“We always need more tea.”
“Even though we still have three unopened boxes at home?”
He looks at you over the rim of his glasses. “Those are different blends.”
You laugh softly, and he reaches out without looking, squeezing your hand once before returning it to the cart handle. It’s such a small thing, but it makes your chest warm anyway.
At the bakery section, you catch him lingering.
You lean closer, lowering your voice like you’re conspiring. “Nanami. You’re staring.”
“I’m evaluating,” he replies, very seriously.
You tilt your head.
He sighs, resigned, and places two into a bag. “One for you. One for me.”
“You love me,” you say sweetly.
“I married you,” he answers, like that settles everything which, honestly, it does.
By the time you’re checking out, the sky outside has begun to soften into evening. Nanami carries the heavier bags without comment, even when you protest, and you let him, because this is another one of those quiet agreements you’ve made over the years.
At the pharmacy, you wander while he picks up what you came for. When you find him again, he’s standing near the end of the aisle, reading something on his phone with a small, thoughtful frown.
You step into his space, sliding your arms around his waist from behind. “Everything okay?”
He relaxes instantly, one of his hands coming to rest over yours. “Mm. Just checking the weather for tomorrow.”
“And?”
“Rain,” he says. Then, softer, “I thought we might stay in.”
You press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “That sounds perfect.”
Outside, the air has cooled. As you walk back to the car, Nanami stops near the curb, turning to face you. He cups your cheek gently, thumb brushing along your jaw like it belongs there.
“You have something here,” he murmurs.
“Where?”
Instead of answering, he leans in and kisses you slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that tastes like croissants and familiarity and a hundred shared mornings. You melt into it, smiling against his lips.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.
“There,” he says quietly. “Fixed.”
You laugh, breathless. “You did that on purpose.”
“Yes,” Nanami admits, utterly unashamed.
As you drive home with the bags rustling in the backseat and the city slipping by, you think this is it. This softness. This steady, loving life you’ve built together.
And Nanami, reaching over to lace his fingers with yours at a red light, feels the same.
𓇼 with a temper like you 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
⤷ megumi, yuuji, nanami, gojo, sukuna x fem!reader
syn. when you're fighting but they still care. angst to fluff, comfort
tw. mention of drugs/drugging joke in kuna's (it's just medicine guys)
all 600-800 words !
ଳ f. megumi
protecting you on a crowded train
the train jerks forward the moment the doors slide shut, metal whining against rails as the evening rush surges inward.
normally, this part is easy.
megumi would grab one of the overhead straps without even thinking, fingers long and steady, and you’d tuck yourself into his space automatically, arms wrapped around his middle, chin pressed into his chest, chatting his ear off in little whispers so as to not disrupt the eerie quietness of the train. he’d keep you balanced. you’d keep him warm. and he'd get an extra-long hug out of it.
except last night ruined the rhythm.
it hadn’t even been a real fight. nothing explosive. no yelling. just a stupid disagreement that grew teeth because neither of you wanted to back down. you’d eaten dinner on opposite sides of the dorm common area, went to bed turned away from each other, limbs stiff, pride burning hotter than the blankets.
and now, standing shoulder to shoulder on the crowded train, neither of you moves first.
megumi reaches up for a strap.
you don’t step closer.
instead, you brace yourself against the pole near the door, jaw set, eyes forward. the train sways again, harder this time, and you wobble, just slightly, but you catch yourself.
you feel his attention shift instantly.
another lurch. closer. sharper.
your shoulder knocks into his chest.
his hand comes out of instinct, fingers closing around your arm before you even register losing balance.
you huff and pull away immediately, “i can do it myself.” you mutter, glaring at him like it’s his fault gravity exists. because at this point it might as well be
megumi’s mouth tightens. “couldn’t tell.”
he lets go.
that hurts more than you expect. because you wanted him to insist on holding onto you.
the train slows to a stop, doors sliding open with a hiss as a cluster of people shove their way out. they’re laughing, careless, not looking where they’re going. one shoulder slams into you, then another.
you stumble forwards, skidding on your feet. but before you can hit the floor, megumi’s there.
this time, you don’t have the chance to protest.
his grip is solid, arm braced around your waist, the other steadying your elbow. you cling for half a second longer than necessary, heart racing, embarrassment flushing hot up your neck.
the group doesn’t even stop.
one of them snickers.
megumi looks up.
his expression goes cold. dark eyes narrowed, jaw clenched so hard you can see the muscle jump.
“watch where you’re going,” he snaps.
the laughter dies immediately.
they don’t respond. they don’t apologise. they just hurry off the train as the doors close again. he can see them through the window cackling like it was the funniest thing ever.
megumi watches them go with tense shoulders, fury simmering just under the surface. he exhales through his nose once.
then he looks around the carriage, spots an empty seat, and guides you toward it with a hand between your shoulders.
“sit.”
you want to argue.
but don’t.
you sink into the seat with another irritated huff, folding in on yourself, arms crossed tight as you stare down at your hands. your fingers are still trembling, though you’re not sure if it’s from the stumble or the fight or the fact that he caught you anyway.
megumi doesn’t move to take a more comfortable spot.
instead he plants himself right in front of you, arm braced against the window behind your head, body angled protectively despite himself. like he’s daring the train to try something again.
you don’t look up. even if you want to because he probably looks way too good like this.
then you feel your bag shift.
you blink, confused, as he lifts it from your lap and unzips it without asking.
“h-hey—” you start.
he ignores you, rummaging once before pulling something out.
a protein bar.
he presses it into your hands.
you stare at it, then at him, “when did you—”
“you didn’t eat breakfast.” he says flatly.
your mouth opens. closes.
he’s right.
you’d spent too long standing in front of the mirror with your curling iron, replaying the argument in your head, muttering all the clever comebacks you didn’t think of last night. time slipped. you came out with perfectly bouncy curls but no time left to eat.
you scowl anyway, “shut up.”
you tear the wrapper open and take a bite, chewing more aggressively than necessary.
megumi looks away, eyes on the reflection in the window. “there’s yoghurt in there too.”
you pause mid-chew. your eyes shoot up to his, "so you think i eat too much." it's an accusation. not a question.
he sighs, exhausted at this point, pinching his nose bridge, “yeah.” he says sarcastically.
you almost laugh, because you missed annoying him like this. you swallow, throat tight. “…thanks.”
he doesn’t respond, but when you glance up, just for a second, you catch it; the smallest curve of a smile, adoring and fond, gone the moment you notice.
ଳ i. yuuji
tending to your training wounds
yuuji doesn’t look at you while you train.
neither do you. you're busy. punching.
the gym echoes with the dull, rhythmic thud of fists hitting leather. yours hit harder than necessary—sharp, angry strikes that rattle the chains holding the bag. every punch lands with something extra behind it, frustration bleeding through your knuckles, your shoulders, your breath.
yuuji notices.
of course he does.
he’s on the other side of the room, working another bag, movements usually loose and energetic now stiff and off-tempo. his punches are strong, but unfocused. like he’s holding back from putting too much thought into it. like if he does, he might walk over to you and say something stupid.
again.
and make it worse.
so he doesn’t.
neither of you say a word when training ends.
you peel your gloves off with a scowl, fingers already sore, skin red and tender. yuuji wipes sweat from his neck, sneaks a glance at your hands, then quickly looks away when you catch him.
the walk out of the gym is quiet.
too quiet.
normally he’d be yapping about how hungry he is, or how he definitely nailed that last combo, or asking if you wanna grab food after you've retreated to the showers. now there’s just the hum of the vending machines and the soft squeak of your shoes against the floor.
he stops suddenly.
you keep walking for half a step before realizing he’s not beside you anymore. your head snaps back, annoyed. “what.”
“uh... hold on.” he scratches the back of his head, already digging into his pocket.
you watch him punch in the code on the vending machine. coins clink, one drink drops. then another. then he crouches and pulls out a paper cup, filling it with ice from the dispenser nearby.
he hands you your favourite drink first without thinking, wedging his own between his side and his arm while he makes sure the lid of the ice cup is shut tight.
you stare at it. “what’s that for.”
he finally looks at you.
his eyes are soft and worried and a little sad around the edges.
“your hands,” he says quietly.
you scoff. “they’re fine.”
he steps closer anyway.
gently, he takes your wrists, thumbs barely brushing your skin like he’s afraid you’ll pull away, before pressing the cup carefully against your knuckles.
you hiss despite yourself. the skin's broken and raw from the friction of your knuckles and the inside of the gloves. of course, the gloves were supposed to prevent this from happening. but there wasn't really much they could do when you were punching so hard your humerus rattled inside you.
“see?” he murmurs in response to the small wince of pain on your face, “not fine.”
you want to yank your hands back. say something snippy. keep the wall up just a little longer.
but the way he’s holding you; carefully apologetic, like he’s trying to fix something without knowing how—makes your shoulders sag, a little with guilt and a lot with adoration. he's really cute like this.
you let in, allowing him to tend to your wound.
he presses the ice a little more firmly, eyes flicking between your face and your hands. “you looked really cool,” he says, trying to lighten your mood. “i thought that bag was gonna start crying.”
you snort before you can stop yourself.
he smiles a little at that. relieved.
“you’re not supposed to take it out on yourself,” he adds, quieter now.
you look away. “…i wasn’t.”
he doesn’t argue.
he just nods, like he knows better but won’t push. his grip stays steady, grounding. the cold numbs the sting in your knuckles, and with it, some of the tension curling tight in your chest.
“i hate fighting with you,” he admits suddenly.
you glance back at him.
his shoulders slump, like the words weigh something. “i never know what to do. i don’t wanna make it worse. but i also don’t wanna ignore you.” he laughs softly, awkward. “i’m bad at this.”
“yeah,” you mutter, “i know.”
he winces. then chuckles. “i deserve that.”
the silence settles again— but this time it’s different. softer. easier.
after a moment, he exhales, long and dramatic. “thanks for not turning me into the punching bag.”
you finally meet his eyes. they're hurt, but there's a hint of hope in them.
“…you’re lucky,” you say. “i considered it.”
he grins, bright and familiar. “i knew it.”
he keeps holding your hands until the ice melts down into the cup, until the wounds start to scab and stop aching so much.
and when he finally lets go, he stays close—like he’s making sure you don’t drift too far away again.
ଳ n. kento
making you sleep instead of doomscrolling
the room is dark and quiet, save for the low hum of the heater and the steady rhythm of nanami’s breathing beside you.
it’s been two hours since the fight.
not a dramatic one. no raised voices. just clipped sentences and carefully chosen words that still managed to bruise. enough to leave you lying stiffly on your side of the bed, back turned to him, arms tucked close to your chest like you might fold in on yourself if you don’t hold tight.
nanami is asleep.
at least, you think he is.
he lies on his back, glasses placed neatly on the bedside table, one arm resting where you usually curl into him. his face is calm. peaceful, strong chest rising and falling deeply. like nothing’s wrong. like he doesn’t care that you’re still wide awake, chest tight, eyes burning as you scroll mindlessly through your phone.
like he doesn't care that you're still sad. cold. lonely. wanting to be held and comforted.
the blue light stings. it hurts to blink.
you’re not even reading anything. just letting the screen fill the silence so you don’t have to think.
you’re halfway through another dumb cat video when the phone is suddenly lifted from your hands.
“hey!—” you protest, startled.
the screen goes black.
nanami places it on the bedside table with quiet finality, face still turned toward the ceiling.
before you can protest, his other hand comes up, broad palm covering your eyes, blocking out the dim glow of the room.
“sleep,” he murmurs, voice low and rough with drowsiness.
you freeze.
“…you were awake?”
“i am now.”
his arm slips around your waist, firm and unyielding, tugging you back against his chest where you belong
you squirm weakly, “i’m not tired.”
his hand stays over your eyes, thumb brushing once over your brow. grounding. warm, “you are.”
you huff, “you don’t get to decide that.”
“i do,” he replies simply. “it’s past midnight. you have an early morning.”
that almost makes you smile.
your shoulders sag despite yourself.
he shifts closer, breath warm against the back of your neck. his voice drops, softer now. “we can finish talking in the morning. when you’re rested.”
you swallow. “what if i’m still mad.”
“then you’ll be mad after eight hours of sleep.”
his logic is infuriating. as usual.
you’re quiet for a long moment, listening to his heartbeat, steady and reassuring. the hand over your eyes relaxes, fingers threading gently through your hair instead, slow and careful like he’s afraid you’ll slip away again.
“…i'm cold,” you murmur, barely audible and a little whiny.
he breathes out a small laugh, “come.”
you shift closer to him, and he lets you snuggle while he pulls the covers fully around you, tucking them snugly under your chin and back so no cool air can sneak under.
"do you want another blanket?" he offers, ready to get up and go down the hall to the linen cabinet at your call.
you shake your head, hand curling into the fabric of his shirt, "no. stay."
he smiles fondly, "i'm here."
you let out a shaky breath, the last of the tension bleeding out of you as exhaustion finally wins. your eyes close beneath his hand. your body melts back into his, fitting where it always does.
nanami presses a brief kiss to the crown of your head.
“sleep,” he repeats, quieter this time.
and this time, you do.
ଳ g. satoru
keeping you warm in the snow
the argument ends stupidly.
not with closure. not with an apology. just too much ego crashing into too much ego in the narrow hallway outside his dorm, words tripping over each other until you snap and turn on your heel.
“i don’t wanna talk to you right now.”
satoru blinks, offended, then smirks infuriatingly, “aww, no?”
you don’t dignify that with a response. turn on your heel before he can remind you that he's a man anymore.
you storm outside instead, the doors whooshing shut behind you, the cold winter morning air slapping you full in the face. only then do you realise—
shit.
your jacket.
you stop for half a second. consider going back. imagine his stupid grin, the way he’d tease you for forgetting it, the way he’d act like he won something.
not happening.
you keep walking.
the track is unusually empty, lights buzzing overhead, the red and white rubber ground cold even through your shoes and socks. you plop down on the sloped grass edge, hugging your knees to your chest. your breath fogs in front of you in quick little puffs.
it’s freezing. the breeze bites your cheeks rosy.
and you’re mad.
and annoyingly, you’re kind of… really sad, actually.
your shoulders start to shake before you can stop them. you sniff hard, scrubbing at your face with the heel of your hand, mortified at yourself for crying over something so dumb.
you don’t hear him approach.
but feel it.
warmth settles over your shoulders, heavy and familiar. fabric brushing your neck. sleeves being tugged over your arms.
you stiffen.
“go... away,” you mutter weakly, not really meaning it all the way.
too late.
he’s already kneeling behind you, methodical in the most satoru way possible. your uniform jacket goes on first. then your scarf, wrapped twice and tucked in snug like he’s done this a hundred times. mittens pulled onto your hands, thumbs squeezed for good measure. lastly, your beanie, tugged down over your ears.
he hums softly, pleased with himself. “there. crisis averted.”
you turn around, glaring up at him. “i didn’t ask.”
he gasps, hand flying to his chest. “wow. i'm just trying to make sure you don't turn into a popsicle.”
“you’re being annoying.”
he grins. “and you’re being cute.”
“satoru.”
he leans closer, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret. “you know you get this little wrinkle right here when you’re pouting?”
he reaches out and pokes your nose.
you flinch back instinctively, swatting at his hand, “don’t touch me!” the truth is you don't care about the way he's babying you. a stupid part of you actually likes it. you just don't want him to look close and notice your watery eyes.
he laughs, bright and shameless, then stills and softens when he really looks at you. his tilts his head.
“hey,” he says, nudging your knee with his own. “i didn’t mean to upset you.”
you look away, jaw tight. “you treat everything like it’s a joke.”
he sits beside you on the cold track without a second thought, long legs stretched out. “yeah,” he admits. “and sometimes i forget you don’t always wanna be the punchline.”
that shuts you up.
he bumps your shoulder lightly. “i’m sorry. i didn't mean to make you cry. i'll do better.”
you steal a glance at him. he’s not smiling now. not really. just looking at you, waiting for a response.
“…you’re still annoying,” you mumble.
he perks up instantly. “i’ll take that.”
you huff, trying to stay mad, but the warmth he wrapped you in and the way he stays makes it hard.
he nudges your shoulder again. you're shivering. teeth chattering quietly. “c’mon. let’s go inside before you freeze.”
you stand, brushing off your pants, still refusing to look at him. he reaches out automatically, fixing your scarf where it’s slipped, brushing small snowflakes from your hair, then cradles your face in his slender fingers and rubs the last of the tears from your eyes with his thumbs, pressing his lips to your hairline gently.
you turn your head away before he can see your smile, no longer upset, but still not wanting the ego-maniac to win.
ଳ r. sukuna
making you take your medicine
you’re sick.
not the cute kind. not the “stay in bed and be babied” kind. the ugly, miserable, aching, feverish kind where everything feels too loud and your bones hurt and your head won’t stop throbbing and you feel your skull rattle every time you cough into your arm like a poorly victorian child.
and sukuna will not stop hovering. it's sweet. you know it is. you're the only one he's ever this nice and caring to. and you appreciate it. he literally held your hair back while you threw up three separate times today. but you're also moody and you want someone, something to be mad at.
“you have to take it, babe.”
you glare at the small bottle of fever tablets in his hand like it personally insulted you. “i don’t want it.”
“it’s gonna help you.”
“it tastes disgusting.”
"it's a pill, you're not even gonna taste it." he pinches the bridge of his nose, jaw tight. “just take the damn medicine.”
“yes,” you mumble, already regretting it but too stubborn and miserable to take it back. “i can take care of myself.”
something hard flashes across his face.
“fine,” he says flatly, setting the medicine down with a little more force than necessary. “then i won’t worry about you anymore. i'll go home.”
and then he leaves.
the door clicks shut.
the silence after is worse.
half an hour passes. sukuna's left by now. or so you thought. he's actually sitting in the living room. he couldn't leave you, especially not in this state. he knows you probably feel like shit for saying that. it hit a nerve, so he'll let you stew in it for a little.
you roll onto your side, staring at the wall, throat tight. the fight replays in your head, every word sounding harsher now that your fever’s cooling off just enough to let guilt seep in.
you didn’t mean it.
you’re just sick. and cranky. and tired of feeling like a sweaty wad of snot under the covers.
another ten minutes pass.
you’re still staring at the same spot on the wall when the door opens again.
sukuna comes back in without a word, a mug in his hand. steam curls up from it, smelling faintly of honey and something herbal. he sets it on the bedside table, then nudges it toward you.
“drink.”
"you're still here..?" your eyes widen. you push yourself up, wince, head still heavy with congestion, and take it. “…i’m sorry,” you start quietly. “i didn’t mean—”
“shut up,” he says, not unkindly. “drink.”
you do.
the tea is warm. soothing. it goes down easy, easing the scratch in your throat. you finish it without thinking, not having realised how thirsty and dehydrated you were, then hand the empty mug back to him.
he looks at the empty bottom.
then at you.
then smirks. way too satisfied.
something clicks.
your eyes widen. “…kuna.”
“mhm.”
“…did you just drug me.”
he snorts, clearly proud of himself. “you’re welcome.”
you stare at him, betrayed. “i’m calling the police.”
he rolls his eyes, already pulling the blanket up around you and tucking it tight. “yeah, yeah. do it after your fever's gone.”
you grumble, sinking back into the pillows, "i actually felt bad."
"good." he says, smugly unbothered, putting the mug down on the bedside table and laying beside you.
"i hate you." you whisper softly, as he wraps an arm around you, patting your back soothingly as the medicine finally kicks in, getting you drowsy.
"why, 'cuz i'm controlling?" he mocks. you bury your face in his shoulder with an embarrassed noise, voice muffled as you whine at him to shut up, "alright, alright. go to sleep, stupid."
the last thing you see before drifting off is sukuna watching you, expression softer than he’d ever admit.
prettiest dividers by @anitalenia & @bhavihelps here and here !
pt 2 ft suguru, yuuta, inumaki, toji, choso coming soon!!
i have to get up for school in like thirty minutes and havent slept yet... everyone gonna die today
🧁.𖥔 ݁ ˖.°. trying out lotus position with nanami <3
the bedroom glows softly under the warm amber light of nanami’s bedside lamp, casting golden hues across his bare skin. shadows play along the sharp line of his jaw, the defined ridges of his chest and abs as he sits cross-legged on the rumpled sheets, utterly composed despite the evident tension in his frame. he’s stripped down completely, his arousal evident in the thick length resting heavy against his stomach, but it’s his eyes that hold you utterly captive, drawing you in like gravity.
you’ve been dancing on this edge for what feels like an eternity: his skilled fingers buried deep inside you, his relentless mouth on you moments ago, coaxing slick heat with patient strokes of his tongue; your hand wrapped around him in return, teasing slow glides that made his breath hitch ever so slightly. whispers of “not yet” lingered in the air between you, building a shared ache that now hums electric in the quiet room. the faint scent of his cologne mingles with the musky undertone of arousal and your skin prickles with anticipation, every nerve alive.
now, he pats his thigh once. it’s a simple gesture, but his voice drops to that resonant timbre, wrapping around you like velvet. “come here. straddle me.”
it’s easy to submit to nanami, to his steady, grounding, commanding nature. heart pounding against your ribs, you crawl across the mattress, swinging a leg over to settle into his lap. your knees bracket his hips perfectly, cores aligning with intimate precision; his large hands find your waist immediately, thumbs tracing soothing circles in the soft dips above your hipbones, grounding you amid the haze of need.
“guide me in,” he murmurs, his lips brushing feather-light against your collarbone, sending a shiver racing down your spine.
your hand trembles as it wraps around him: velvet over unyielding steel, pulsing hot in your palm. you notch the tip at your entrance, already slick from his earlier attentions, and sink down inch by torturous inch. the stretch is exquisite, a slow burn that steals your breath. he fills you utterly, the angle allowing him to press deep against that sensitive inner ridge, sparking stars behind your eyelids.
he exhales a soft “good,” his head tipping back briefly in evident pleasure before his gaze locks onto yours again, unwavering. his hands slide to your ass, pulling you flush until your clit nestles perfectly against his pubic bone—and it’s too good, inescapable, raw. there’s no room for distance; you feel every rise and fall of his chest against yours, every shared breath, the subtle throb of him buried to the hilt. sweat begins to sheen your skin where bodies connect, the room warming with your combined heat.
you begin to move, rocking your hips in tiny, tentative circles at first— each motion dragging him along your walls, igniting sparks that radiate outward like ripples in still water. his arms encircle you fully, one hand splaying wide up your back to cradle you close, the other kneading your ass with gentle guidance, encouraging the roll without demanding.
“just like that,” he praises quietly, his voice a low rumble vibrating against your ear, warm breath stirring the fine hairs at your nape.
the rhythm builds naturally from there, your hips undulating with growing confidence, lifting slightly for a shallow drop, then grinding deep. breasts brush his chest with every motion, nipples hardening against the friction; sweat slicks the valley between you, and the room fills with the soft, wet sounds of connection, punctuated by your shared, breathy moans. he leans in closer, lips grazing the sensitive skin of your neck in light nips that make you gasp, your pace quickening instinctively.
those hazel eyes never waver, watching every nuance— the flutter of your lashes, the way your lips part on a silent plea, the flush creeping across your chest. it stirs something in you, that intense gaze, stripping you bare.
“don’t hide from me,” he says softly, his hand cupping your jaw to tilt your face up, thumb brushing your lower lip. “let me see you.” the command is gentle, but it pierces straight to your core, hips stuttering as pleasure swells languid and profound.
the new position is relentless in its intimacy— your clit rubbing constantly against him, every circle amplifying the building pressure. “kento— it feels— too much,” you whimper, nails lightly raking his shoulders, leaving faint red trails on his golden skin.
“i know, my love, i know,” he soothes, his own breath hitching now as he bucks up subtly to match you, the twitch of him inside adding friction. “you’re doing beautifully. keep moving—just like this.” one hand dips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with slick, precise circles that sync perfectly with your rolls. the dual sensation coils tighter, muscles quivering, breaths mingling hot and fast.
it overtakes you slowly, shattering in waves rather than a crash—orgasm rolling through like a gentle tide, walls pulsing rhythmically around him. a soft cry escapes, drool slipping from parted lips as you grind through it, warmth soaking where you join. he holds you steady, murmuring “that’s it” against your temple, arms tightening to anchor you in the bliss.
you don’t stop, too lost in the haze. his lips claim yours in a deep, unhurried kiss, tongues tangling slow and messy as aftershocks fade into fresh need. “one more, i know you have it in you,” he whispers against your mouth, hands now lifting and easing you in a controlled rhythm, his arousal thickening anew inside. overstimulated nerves spark brighter, but his sturdy presence fuels you onward.
the second peak builds faster, far more brutal— hips lifting higher for sharper drops, circling for deeper thrusts, the slap of skin growing audible. “with me,” he breathes, thrusts meeting yours. ecstasy rips through again, vision blurring white; he follows in the same breath, burying deep with a stifled groan, warmth flooding you full, spilling over as you clench. you feel him pulse inside of you, his cum painting your insides white and hot. it’s a feeling you can never get used to.
you collapse against him, utterly boneless, still seated intimately in his lap— twitching aftershocks linking your pulses. his arms band around you securely, one hand stroking damp hair from your forehead, the other rubbing soothing circles along your spine.
“flawless,” he whispers, voice tender now. “you were perfect.”
minutes stretch into a cocoon of stillness, his softening length remaining inside as neither of you moves to break the spell. “rest, my darling,” he says finally, pressing a kiss to your temple. “you’ve earned every bit of it.”
𝙣𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙞 𝙠𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙤 had faced curses that bent reality, businessmen who lied for a living, and overtime that tried to kill him more effectively than any sorcerer ever could. none of that prepared him for the sound his wife made behind him.
“hey sexy.”
it wasn’t flirtatious in the usual way. it was a low growl. the kind that curled around the word and sank its teeth in.
nanami paused mid-fold. he stood in the living room, barefoot on the rug, wearing old gray sweatpants and a soft, faded t-shirt he’d owned since before they were married. his hair was slightly out of place, glasses perched on his nose, jaw shadowed with the beginnings of stubble. he had just finished smoothing one of her sweaters with careful, precise motions.
he turned his head slowly. “yes?” he asked, genuinely confused.
she was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes dark with something that had absolutely nothing to do with curses or danger or heroics.
“you’re doing it again,” she said.
“doing what?”
she pushed off the frame and crossed the room, each step unhurried. nanami watched her approach, still holding the sweater like a shield. “that,” she said, nodding at his hands. “folding. neatly. separating the laundry by fabric. like a responsible adult.”
nanami blinked once. “it’s simply more efficient,” he replied. “if we don’t care for our clothes properly, they won’t last—”
she reached out and tugged lightly at the hem of his shirt. “kento,” she murmured warmly, and amused, “you look like a tired dad who just got home from work.”
“i am tired,” he said plainly.
“and i love it.”
that finally made him frown.
she stepped closer, pressing into his space, fingers sliding to his waist, warm through the thin cotton of his shirt. “you’re not fresh from the gym. you’re not dressed up. you’re not saving anyone. you’re just… here. taking care of things. taking care of us.”
nanami felt something shift in his chest, unfamiliar and embarrassingly powerful. he cleared his throat. “i don’t see how that’s—”
she kissed his jaw, right where the stubble was rough. “domestic competence,” she said softly, “is incredibly attractive.”
her hands slipped around his waist, confident, possessive. nanami set the folded sweater down with great care, as if the world might end if he wrinkled it. “i see,” he said after a moment, calmer than he felt.
she smiled against his neck. “you always do this,” she teased. “you think being dependable isn’t sexy.”
“i’ve never claimed it wasn’t,” he replied, adjusting his glasses with one hand while the other rested, uncertain but willing, at her back. “i simply didn’t realize it would provoke… this reaction.”
she laughed quietly. “well. now you know.”
nanami exhaled, slow and steady, allowing himself the smallest smile. “should i fold the towels as well?”
her grip tightened immediately. “yes,” she breathed. “please.”
℘ you love trying to ragebait your lovely boyfriend!
sfw / fluff / crack / nanami being nanami
inspired by the ‘asking my boyfriend ragebait questions’ tiktok trend
wc: 741
masterlist
*
nanami sighs, pretending to be exasperated but holds you close next to him where you sit anyway. he doesn’t know where this is going, but judging by the phone that’s recording you both and the list of “important” questions in your hand, he thinks you’re attempting to get a rise out of him.
“okay, okay, okay!” you titter, grinning with glee. “are you ready?”
“yes.” nanami replies.
he squints at you with slight suspicion but you ignore it. his thumb runs circles over your shoulder.
“am i pretty because you like me or do you like me because i’m pretty?”
nanami opens his mouth. pauses. he seems to realise what he’s walked into but it’s too late to back out now. he is doomed to this fate, damned if he answers incorrectly.
“i like you because you’re pretty. but that’s just an extra perk of being with you.” he adds the last part quickly so you can’t object.
you raise your brows.
“so if you didn’t like me you wouldn’t find me pretty?”
no. no, that’s not what he said.
“what?” he furrows his brows. “i mean…no. yes. i mean…you’re beautiful...”
nanami shrugs, cheeks a little pink and he looks away and scowls.
“…are you blushing?” you asking, giggling when he rolls his eyes. “ugh, you’re so cute when you want to be.”
you kiss his cheek repeatedly and he shrugs again, looking to the side.
“just ask the next question.”
giddy, you move onto the next question.
“ooooo, this is a good one.” you start. “would you rather go out and cheat on me or never have met me?”
nanami doesn’t understand how that’s a “good” question but he doesn’t mention it. how you look so happy and curious while asking these crazy questions is beyond him, truly.
“never have met you.” he answers quite quickly.
you gasp. nanami’s heart almost drops to his balls.
“you would prefer to never have met me?”
“yeah.” he says it like it’s the easiest question to answer. “i don’t want to cheat…?”
you huff.
“but then you wouldn’t have ever met me!”
nanami chooses his next words very carefully.
“i’d rather have never met you than to hurt you in that way.”
you stare at him for a moment, shocked by his answer and how genuinely he answered it. you tear up a little.
nanami leans forwards because of that, looking at you closely.
“are you upset? i’m-“”
“no! no, i’m not upset.” you smile, blinking your eyes to dryness. “that’s sweet…in a way…”
you swiftly move on to your next question before nanami can question you further.
“would you rather kiss me for ten dollars or kiss another person for 10 million dollars?”
and that soft moment is over. nanami closes his eyes is disbelief.
“kiss you for ten dollars.”
you scoff.
nanami tilts his head. confused.
“what?”
you turn your whole body towards him.
“you’d pass up the opportunity to get ten million dollars?”
“yes.”
“we’d never have to work again if we had that kind of money! and you hate work.”
nanami sighs. “that’s true, but…i love you more than i hate work.”
he smiles, so tender and gentle that you almost crumple into tears once again.
you shake “ugh, you’re so annoying.”
nanami heart drops once more.
“what? why?”
“because!” you cross your arms and glare at him. “you’re supposed to be getting angry but instead you're being perfectly calm and you have the perfect answers and you’re being the perfect boyfriend!”
nanami isn’t sure how to react. you’re mad at him because he’s too…perfect?
“yes, i’m mad at you because you’re so perfect.”
oh, so that’s why.
he chuckles lightly and kisses you on the cheek.
“it’s not that. it’s just…these questions aren’t difficult to answer. you make them so easy to answer.”
“kento…”
you plonk your face into his chest and when he laughs, you can feel it rumble in your bones. and you feel so warm and light-headed, so lucky that you found someone like him to love you like he does.
then nanami looks back up at the still recording camera.
“are you going to post this anywhere?”
you giggle mischievously, already imagining all the jealous people in your comments, yearning and begging for what can’t they can’t have.
“oh, definitely.”
(you were right - the comments of that video were in fact filled with people who wished that had the relationship that you did)
Summary: He says he hates clingy, but glues to you every morning
Warnings: none
Enjin was heavy.
That was your first coherent thought of the morning. Not the sunrise painting the room in soft gold, not the birds chirping. No. It was the mass of him. Enjin. All one-meter-and-ninety of him, wrapped around you like a particularly affectionate, heavily-muscled anaconda.
In the beginning of your relationship, you fought it. You wriggled, shoved, complained saying “You’re crushing my organs!” “I can’t feel my legs!” “Enjin, for the love of God, I need to breathe!”
You lost every single argument. He always just grunt, tighten his hold, and mumble something into your hair about you being a “warm little furnace” and “stop moving, thief of my warmth.” Eventually, you surrendered. Your body adapted to the constant pressure, the heat of him, the way his limbs seemed to strategically pin yours.
Now, you were trapped. His arm was a steel band across your ribs, his leg thrown heavily over both of yours, anchoring you to the mattress. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, his slow, even breaths warming your skin. You were effectively swaddled by a giant.
And worse, you needed to pee. Desperately.
A small, sleepy sound of protest escaped you as you tried to shift. You managed to wiggle a hand free to pat at the solid wall of his bicep. “Jin…” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep and helplessness. “J-Jin… c’mon.”
A low, pleased hum vibrated through his chest and directly into your back. He heard it. The bastard was awake enough to hear you use the shortened name he adored, the one that only slipped out when you were half-asleep or completely disarmed.
He didn’t let go. Instead, he nuzzled deeper, his scratchy morning stubble sending a shiver down your spine. “Mm-mm,” he rumbled, his voice a gravelly mess. “Too early. You’re not going anywhere.”
“I have to,” you whined, trying to push his leg off. It was like trying to lift a fallen tree.
“No, you don’t. You’re fine. Be still.” His arm squeezed, pulling you impossibly closer until your back was flush against the entire, heated length of his front. “You’re so warm and little. You are like a personal heater in tiny pajamas.”
He said it with such drowsy, possessive satisfaction. You were his favorite morning ritual. This was his recharge: the weight of you in his arms, the soft smell of your sleep-warmed skin, the way you fit perfectly against him despite the size difference.
“I’m not little,” you grumbled, tucked under his chin. “And I really, really need to get up.”
“Later,” he declared, as if he had any authority over your bladder. He pressed a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to the back of your shoulder, right where the strap of your thin sleep tank had slipped down. “We can talk a little before the day starts..."
“I’ll tell you I’m going to wet your bed if you don’t move.”
He actually chuckled, the sound a warm puff against your neck. “So dramatic. Five more minutes.” His hand, which had been splayed on your stomach, slid up to rest over your breast, his thumb stroking the space just your nipple. It was an impossibly tender gesture from someone holding you hostage.
You were melting, both from the warmth and the sheer, frustrating affection of it all. The urgency in your bladder warred with the deep, primal comfort of being so thoroughly encompassed. You sighed, a sound of ultimate defeat, and let your body relax back into him.
“There she is,” he murmured, triumphant. He tucked his nose back into your hair, his breathing slowing again towards sleep. “See? Perfect.”
You lay there, captive in the best and worst way, listening to his heartbeat sync with yours, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. The sun climbed a little higher. You’d have to escape eventually. But for now, in the quiet fortress of his arms, with his sleepy praise in your ear and the entire, huge weight of his affection literally pinning you down, you could admit (just to yourself) that you lost the battle a long time ago. And you didn't really mind at all.
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