Am I absolutely obsessed with a modern day Steve AU. Yes. Imagine he performs at Lala and meets READER, she’s a pop star. Last minute mixup ; they share the stage. ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL. ART.
( full credit to the original photographers for each photo. All I did was edit Sabrina into the photo <3)
OR. A BOOK. TWO RIVAL POPSTARS - fighting for the fans - then they’re forced to perform together. Slow burn style. Absolutely beautiful.
Please tell me someone gets it. Steve and his pretty girlfriend. Am I absolutely obsessed with Sabrina and Joe, yes. Do I know Sabrina doesn’t go with 80’s core dress , also yes. But anyway.
nanami x reader — arranged marriage, enemies to lovers au
you didn't choose to marry nanami kento. the marriage was arranged, the love absent, and your heart still clung onto another man who was everything your husband wasn’t - wild, untethered, and free. you thought it would be the end of you. instead, it’s where everything begins.
─ love doesn’t happen all at once, but nanami is nothing if not patient.
content: arranged marriage, reader is a sorcerer, enemies to lovers but it's entirely one sided, nanami is the epitome of quiet devotion that never asks for anything in return, truly a good man, tw: archaic marriage practices, period-typical sexism, lots of sexual tension, references to reader's past lover, past heartbreak and healing, explicit content, non-explicit mentions of violence and suicidal ideation, past domestic abuse, loss of virginity, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, inexperienced reader, link to ao3
word count: 5.8k
a/n: oh dear god this took so long. i had to entirely scrap the scenes i originally planned for this chapter and rewrite the majority of it, so it was truly killing me. i literally wrote this ALL weekend like an overdue college assignment lmao. also please note that i am currently too busy and exhausted to upload this chapter on ao3 yet, and it might take a few days before it’s up
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Nothing happens after that almost-kiss.
Not in the way you’d expected it, at least. Your breath had caught, and the space between your bodies had narrowed to the mere width of a pulse – and then the both of you simply stopped. No kiss. Just the tremor of new questions rising to your chest and a look you could feel like heat scorching the full length of your bones.
In the morning, your re-enrolment into Tokyo Jujutsu Technical College is approved.
“Special arrangements have been made,” Nanami tells you over breakfast, when he sets down a plate of eggs made just the way you like it on the table. “You can start school next week, if you’d like.”
“Really?” You perk up instantly. You can hardly keep the smile off your face, but his expression hardly looks pleased.
Nanami nods once, exhaling wearily as he sits down from across you. “It isn’t without conditions, unfortunately. You’ll have to take your classes alone, and as promised–” He pauses, and his lips purse with a silent apology. “I’ll have to be directly responsible for you. I know it’s not the most ideal arrangement, but it’s the best we might be able to get for now.”
“If it’s too much trouble for you, you really don’t have to–”
He’s quick to cut you off. “No,” he shakes his head, voice firm. “Of course not. I only wish there was more I could do for you. They’ve been stalling and stalling, looking for reasons to refuse you outright. If I hadn’t agreed to their terms, they would have pushed your return back indefinitely.”
“You’ve done enough,” you tell him with equal firmness. “This… this is already more than I ever expected.” You stare down at the yolk, breaking upon your fork and spreading like a bleeding sun across the plate. “You don’t have to keep carrying my burdens for me.”
His lips press into a thin line, a grimace of sorts pulling at the edges of his mouth. “I know,” he says gently. “But I want to, if you’ll keep allowing me to do so.”
You nudge the plate a little closer and finally take a bite. It’s warm, the yolk still runny in the centre, and salted perfectly. He told you not to thank him, and that he was only doing what he was supposed to – whatever that means – but gratitude rises once more. You swallow the words, and offer him a small, lopsided smile instead.
“You’re a very stubborn man, Nanami,” you say at last.
“So I’ve been told,” he says, the faintest hint of amusement playing at the edges of his eyes. “Very unfortunate for the administration. Convenient for you, though.”
You roll your eyes, although the corners of your mouth tug upward. You’re grinning before you even realise it – and he’s mirroring you too, his arms loosely folded across his chest, settled back in his chair, simply just… smiling back.
“You really don’t have to look so guilty about it,” you murmur, dipping your head. There’s an unexplainable warmth rushing to your cheeks that cannot be attributed to the onset of summer heat. “I’m… happy, you know.”
The words seem to catch Nanami off guard. His smile doesn’t slip, but it turns into something more careful. “You are?” he asks, eyebrows lifting.
“Yes,” you say, and this time you manage – just barely – to meet his eyes. “I get to go back. I get to study again. And I… get to feel like I have something to move towards. Like my life isn’t just… sitting around and waiting for things to happen to me.”
His expression softens, and then he blinks a couple of times like he’s looking for the right words. “You don’t know how glad I am to hear that,” he murmurs after a moment. “I thought the conditions attached might have put you off.”
You shrug. “It’s a good start, right? It’s better than nothing.”
Nanami nods in agreement. “So. Next week, then. We can go together.”
“Next week,” you echo. The words settle strangely bright on your tongue.
“But maybe try to finish breakfast first,” he adds, and you catch a hint of that dry humour slipping in at last. “You’ll need all the energy you can get.”
You stab at the egg, just a little lighter this time. “Yes sir.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “That’s for the students,” he says. “You can just call me Kento.”
“Okay.” You look away from him immediately. Definitely not the summer heat. “Thank you… Kento. I mean it.”
When next week arrives, you realise Nanami hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said it wasn’t the most ideal arrangement.
Everything you do must be done quietly – and alone – so as to not draw attention to the fact that you are there at all.
So they pencil you in at odd hours. Sit you in empty classrooms. Your timetable is a schedule stitched together around the gaps in other people’s lives, and although you had not expected anything to be warm or welcoming – you hadn’t expected to feel so out of place when handed back the semblance of freedom you had longed for.
A man by the name of Yaga Masamichi – tall, olive-tan skin and ridiculously broad shoulders – meets you in the faculty office on your first day. Lips pursed, sunglasses hooked in the collar of his shirt. He appears half-apologetic and half-inconvenienced by the sight of you.
“Your father has not made things easy,” Yaga tells you, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “but Nanami pushed hard for this. I don’t know what kind of man blacklists his own daughter from getting an education, but–”
He seems to think better of finishing that sentence – possibly because he recalls just how much influence your father holds – and promptly snaps his mouth shut again.
“Ah, whatever.” He waves a hand around with a short sigh. “We’re happy to have you. Just make good on this opportunity. Don’t make Nanami regret all that paperwork.”
You can’t figure out what to do with your hands, and so you clasp them together in front of you. “…Thank you. For agreeing at all,” you say. “I figured it wasn’t simple.”
“Your husband did all the work,” he says with a grunt. “He can be surprisingly insistent. I considered blocking his number because he wouldn’t stop pestering me until the school agreed.”
You bite down on a small laugh. “I think I know that relatively well.”
“I hope that insistence has only been to your benefit, then,” Yaga snorts. He slides your timetable across the desk toward you, tapping on the paper. “Here. Most things will be independent. The fewer people involved, the less trouble this causes.”
You nod. “I understand.”
“Alright then.” His gaze lingers on you for a brief moment, pursing his lips together like he’s holding back something else he wants to say. Then, he grunts, seemingly satisfied enough.“Nanami’s waiting right outside. I won’t keep you any longer – lest I get another call from him.”
And then more quietly, as you thank him and stand from your chair, he gruffly mutters something like, “For someone who never wanted to marry, I never expected him to be so overprotective.”
You choose not to linger too much on that last statement, and quickly step out into the hall, where Nanami is – exactly as promised – waiting, pretending he hasn’t been listening for the sound of the door.
He straightens instantly once he spots you. “Did everything go smoothly?”
You nod. “He said you wouldn’t stop calling him, or something like that. And that I can officially start tomorrow.”
“I was persistent,” Nanami admits, a flash of guilt flickering across his face. “But it was necessary.”
“…He also said that he almost blocked your number.”
“Oh, I am very aware,” Nanami says flatly. “He has… already threatened me with that once or twice.” He winces, glance sliding away for a moment. “I suggested he could do that after we sign the papers.”
You huff a tiny laugh. “That sounds like you.”
“I hope that isn’t a complaint,” He says dryly. “In fact,” he adds, “I was prepared to be a lot more annoying about it.”
“It’s not,” you tell him seriously. “It’s… a good trait to have.”
“What,” he breathes a laugh, “being annoying?”
His eyes do that thing again – something fond gathering softly at the corners when he laughs, and heat crawls up your neck for no good reason at all.
“No,” you say. “Being…” you struggle for words. “…Being caring.”
And then very quietly, in a voice so hushed you almost don’t know if you really intend for him to hear, you whisper, “Thank you. For caring about me.”
His gaze flickers over to yours, and his reply comes equally quietly;
Always.
(It’s a vow, but he doesn’t tell you that.)
You walk past the foyer, and down the steps to where his car is parked. It is rather odd to see Nanami here – or to be walking beside him at all – with school buildings rising around you, instead of estate houses and tall, lacquered gates. The air smells like wet concrete and grass, not of tea and laundry powder.
Outside of the boundaries of the house, you find him to be straighter, sharper. He carries himself differently, jaw whet to an edge, his back held stiff, eyes hardened and unflinching. It’s a version of him you hardly recognise at all – except for the day you had met him for the very first time, and your gaze had flickered back and forth his visage in an attempt to pin him into something comprehensible.
On campus, he is Nanami-san to everyone else. When students walk past, they bow and look at him with the kind of awe you reserve for the very best of the best in the field – a first-grade sorcerer that stands above most others. Here, he is straight-backed and exact – folded into neat professionalism and sharp corners – an origami of composure and discipline.
You realise that there must be two versions of him.
One that belongs to the world – hardened, wrought into function, stone carefully carved into straight lines and measured answers. And the other – the other version must belong to you – or at the very least, it must belong within the threshold of the house you share.
The first one is ironed, made from crisp dress shirts and a subtle weariness that drapes itself over him like a well-made suit. The second one is rumpled at midnight, framed by the warmth of the kitchen light, his collar undone, shirt untucked and hair mussed, silently waiting for you to join him with a second cup of tea.
There might be a third version of him, too – the one who stood very still when his nose brushed your cheek. The one who did not close that last inch lest you mistake his steadiness for taking.
(You don’t have a word for that one yet.)
Really, you wonder how you ever thought of Nanami as a cold man. He is stoic. He is unyielding. But he is nothing but cold.
Does he soften just for you? Does he really spare tenderness just to touch you with gentle hands and watch you with soft eyes? Is patience a virtue that comes easily, or does he reserve the weight of that devotion for you?
Could this version of him really belong to you, and you alone?
You’re still in the middle of pondering about the answer to that question when you hear a rush of steps and a familiar lilt calling from behind you.
Ah.
“Nanami–,” the voice calls, then more loudly again when Nanami immediately lengthens his stride towards the car. “Who is th– Why the hell are you walking so fast– hey!”
You don’t need to turn around to know he’s waving. You can practically hear it in the sound of the steps behind you, careless, then skipping, and entirely incompatible with the hush of the campus.
Nanami stops walking, exhales through his nose, and turns around slowly.
“Gojo,” he greets, almost a tad reluctantly.
The white-haired sorcerer stops in his tracks almost instantly.
“Hello,” you say from beside him. “It’s good to see you again… Satoru. You’ve grown a lot taller.”
“Oh.” Gojo says blankly, blinking a couple of times. His eyebrows furrow, then twitch, and his eyes dart between the both of you, before eventually landing on Nanami’s ring.
“Oh.” He says again, louder now. “You married him? When I heard you got married I– You married Nanami? Kento? What the h–”
“Gojo.” Nanami is quick to cut him off. “Tell no one about this.” A pause, then a reluctant “please.”
Satoru clearly isn’t done gawking, jaw hanging slightly ajar, cerulean eyes wide as saucers, fixated on the ring. The last you’d seen of him had been nearly half a decade ago, back when you were still attending biannual clan gatherings in stiff, expensive clothes, hiding behind your mother’s back with a fist curled around the fabric of her skirts.
You’d never been close enough to be friends, but Gojo always stood out then – a loud streak of white that was always too bright amongst the rest. He stands out just the way same now, with a scandalised look colouring his face, his features twisted in an attempt at comprehension.
“I just–” he blinks again, “–never expected this. Seriously, Nanami?”
“Is there another Nanami I should be worried about?” Nanami asks, tone dry.
“I mean,” Gojo steps back and finally tears his gaze away from the ring. “I guess I always expected you to end up with some old fossil. Not…” he gestures vaguely between the two of you. “This.”
Nanami taps on the door of his car impatiently. “You’re holding us up.”
“Man, you’re touchy these days.” Gojo mutters, tossing his hands up. “I’m happy for you. Both. Truly.” He presses a hand over his chest in a dramatic gesture, before tilting his head, studying you with a bit more focus now. “And you’re… okay? Not being held against your will, or anything?”
The hidden sincerity of his question catches you off guard, but you nod anyway. “I’m going back to school,” you supply. “Starting tomorrow.”
“Congratulations,” he snorts loudly. “Your old man must have been coughing up blood.”
You’ve heard nothing from your father ever since he’d eagerly married you off, but you can easily imagine the look on his face if he were to ever receive word of it – the incredulous scoffing would come first, then the poorly concealed rage blanketing his face, before he would be off to find a meeker servant – or perhaps one of his many mistresses – to direct his disdain towards.
“Probably,” you say lightly. “I wouldn’t really know.”
Nanami clears his throat loudly before Gojo can say another word. “The traffic gets bad at this hour,” he deadpans.
“Yeah, yeah.” Gojo steps back from the car with an exaggerated sort of reluctance. “Go forth and domesticate yourselves, then.”
“Keep this a secret,” Nanami says again, voice low with a warning. He pointedly opens the passenger door for you, and signals for you to get in. “I’m serious, Gojo,” he says flatly. “Only Yaga knows.”
You wave goodbye to Gojo, who grins back, but you otherwise follow Nanami’s direction without protest, if only because he somehow looks a thousand times wearier than before he’d stepped foot on the campus.
You can’t tell if he means the marriage or the arrangement that allowed you back in school, but Gojo nods anyway, flashing a cheery smile. “Relax. I won’t say a word. ‘S not my story to tell, anyway.”
Nanami eyes narrow fractionally, before he exhales. “I appreciate that,” he says finally. “Goodbye, Gojo.”
“See you tomorrow,” Gojo sing-songs, wiggling his fingers at you before turning to walk away. Then, possibly to annoy Nanami just a little more, he adds over his shoulder, “your wife will be in good hands, I promise.”
Nanami simply ignores him, promptly rounding the hood and shutting the car door with a decisive thud. You fixate on the dashboard as he buckles in and starts the engine, trying to ignore how the word wife no longer sounds like a curse to your ears.
The title rests more softly than it should – more kindly than it ever has, and for once – your chest feels oddly fuller for it, instead of achingly hollow.
Safer, too, like the assurance of falling and knowing there’s somewhere soft to land upon. Not without a certain sense of panic, but still, something safe enough to be chosen, not resisted.
You think about the words friends, wife, marriage the entire drive back. You think about how Nanami has rewritten every definition of those words, how they somehow no longer settle heavy in your gut; how you no longer mind the ring on his fourth finger, nor the tea, nor the home you share.
You remember the warmth of his body pressed against yours, the tip of his nose against your cheek, how it made all the resistance abandon you at once when your eyes met.
Nanami asks you questions on the way home – all of them too light for the way the afternoon has shifted the world under your feet – mundane things like how did you become unfortunate enough to know Gojo? Are you okay? Are you cold? Should I turn the air conditioning down? What do you want to eat for dinner?
You only want to ask him one thing.
If there could be some scrap of a universe – of a different timeline, maybe – where you would have been allowed to want him first, free of the circumstances that bound you to him in this one.
Nanami has asked for nothing – he gives and gives, and if he has requested anything from you it is only that you allow him to continue doing so. He demands nothing, dictates nothing, and simply presses forward with the same quiet insistence that spring does.
Both are inevitable things – be it the rhythm of endings and beginnings in nature or the bitter circumstances that cemented this union. But the seasons are neutral forces, you’ve realised, however gentle or cruel they can be. They stop for nothing and no one – blind in their turning, impartial in their pace – and perhaps that is the one difference between your husband and the spring.
Spring comes regardless of whether you are ready, but Nanami seems to wait. There is no tide crashing at your door, only the gentle lapping of waves at your ankles when you walk along the shore.
By the time he turns into your street, there’s a scarier thought that has begun bubbling up at the back of your mind.
What if you’ve begun to want him, anyway?
In this universe, the one with the stolen freedoms and the marriage you never asked for, but also the eggs salted just right and the man with rivers of endless patience, who has never once sought anything from you?
What if you’ve slowly begun to want him, no matter which universe?
It happens one Wednesday.
An utterly ordinary Wednesday, banal, and entirely cruel in its simplicity. It must be the universe’s way of taunting a heart that has only just remembered to beat without a crutch.
You’re getting out of the car when it happens, with Nanami attending to the mailbox and sorting through letters as you close the car door behind you. He pulls out bills and circulars and shuffles through the letters the same way he always does every Wednesday – his routine of sorts – before he stops on a single, kraft-brown envelope, pulling it out from the stack.
You think nothing of it when he stills initially, his eyes scanning the words written across the letter as you wait by the gate. But then the small smile slips off his face entirely, and it goes cold as he straightens, before handing it over to you quietly.
A single envelope, the edges crumpled from travel, your name written on the front with a handwriting you would know as intimately as your own heartbeat.
Hayate.
This is the oldest trick in the world: the door you were shut behind offers to open, just when you find you have learned to breathe the air inside.
You reach for it with hands that have started to tremble – fingers going cold, nausea rising to your stomach – and when your eyes meet you know, that somehow, Nanami must already understand.
Maybe it’s the fact that you never receive any letters, and especially not ones with your name written out in careful ink, the way someone who used to know your face, hold your hand, press his lips against the curve of your neck would write it.
Or maybe it’s the way all colour drains from your face the moment he hands it to you, the one single envelope that is all too heavy with the weight of everything you’ve once longed to hear – explanations, apologies, excuses – I was young. I was scared. I was wrong. I love you. Give me another chance–
You don’t have to read the letter to know it’s a combination of all the above. Confessions and regrets, pleas and prayers all at once, arriving all too late to change anything now.
He’s always been that way, you think. Some things never change.
“…Is it from someone you know?” Nanami asks quietly.
You swallow around the tightness in your throat. “Yes.”
You bring it inside with careful hands, one foot in front of another, as if you might forget even the most basic of movements. You walk to the kitchen. Wash a cup that didn’t need washing. Pick at the skin of your fingernails in a futile attempt to tame a wildly beating heart.
You set the envelope on the table. Move it to the counter. Then back to the table with hands that haven’t stopped trembling. Pretend you don’t see Nanami watching you from the corner of his eye, unsure of whether this is a threshold better crossed or left standing.
He doesn’t ask – and you don’t ask how he looks like he just knows – if he sees it in the same ache written on your face all over again like on the night of your marriage or if he has somehow glimpsed into your heart and saw a boy’s name crossed out in red ink.
You wouldn’t be surprised, either way, since that appears to be in his nature.
You sit in the kitchen with trembling hands and cold feet until the sun drags down the horizon and bleeds itself across the floorboards. Time passes, minutes or hours, but you stay suspended in that moment when you took the crinkled envelope into your hands and felt the wounds in your chest ripping themselves open all over again.
You didn’t want this life – but still, the kettle hisses, the fridge hums, and the kitchen tiles you once hated have come to be the same ones you rest your back towards when Nanami is cooking and you’re peering over his shoulder to watch.
You didn’t want this life, but you’ve finally stumbled upon a choice that seems to be yours to make. Fully yours, no matter the ache.
When you finally speak, your throat is hoarse and the words come out jagged. The hot sting of tears gather, then start overflowing even before you can speak your decision into the open air.
“I– I don’t want to read it. I want to burn it,” you manage. “Help me do it, please.”
Nanami watches you very carefully. The chair barely makes a sound as he stands and walks over to you.
“Okay,” he says, without hesitation. No questions asked. “Come on. We can do it outside.”
He opens a kitchen drawer and rummages for a lighter – then takes it in his palm and lets you follow him towards the engawa. Your legs feel like paper, but you make yourself move, one hand clutching the envelope so tightly the edges dig into your skin.
You think of him.
Boy with river-water hands and a grin as bright as the morning sun. You think of some promises that came true, and some that were left in shards on the gravel of a night that decided your fate.
Nanami slides the door open, and you follow him down the steps, feel the air over your skin and the gentle wind slipping past your ankles.
The next sequence of events is one you can barely hold in a straight line.
There’s the soft click of the lighter. He’s handed it to you, handle-first, told you to be careful not to burn yourself like it’s the only danger in the room.
Then, you are speaking – or trying to – before you know your mouth is even moving; shuddering breaths and quiet gasps for air that leave you hoarse, voice increasingly stripped thin and hollow with every word.
“Y-you have to know that– There was… There was someone,” you sob. The base of your throat aches and you jaw feels locked tight, and every word after that crumbles in your mouth. “Before… Before we got married. S-someone I thought that I–”
Nanami stops you when your voice collapses in on itself, with a shake of his head, a hand coming to rest tentatively on your shoulder. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says. Something in his tone is pained, urgent, as he speaks. “You don’t owe me any explanations. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
“I know all of that,” you choke out, sobbing harder at his gentle words and gentler eyes. “But I– I just want to tell you.”
He watches you with eyes that are prepared to witness something raw. There is nothing cold, nothing stiff or stoic about the expression on his face. He is only ever soft, even when it feels unbearable.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Then I’m here.”
You tell him there was a boy. You say I loved him. I loved him dearly before I could even name what love was, and even that was not enough. You tell him the entire story, from the start to the bitter end, in between sobs that eventually quiet down into sniffles.
Nanami simply listens without judgement; looks at you like he somehow already knows. When your breath shudders in your chest and your shoulders shake like you are about to crumple, he pulls you close like your sorrow is an affliction he’s willing to share the equal weight of.
You stare down at the envelope in your hand. The ink of your name wavers through the blur of tears.
And then you’re holding the lighter to it, not once looking away.
The flame kisses the corners at first, a tongue of orange lapping at the letter. White turns to the colour of old tea as it darkens, and when your name is slowly eaten by the fire you taste old blood in your mouth. The smoke stings your nose, burns your eyes, and you finally drop it to the ground.
You watch the card burn, blackening and curling, slowly caving in on itself and being reduced to ash on the ground. For a moment, your fingers twitch with the urge to stop the fire, to salvage whatever could remain untouched and run your hands through the ash of whatever is too late to save. Silent tears run in burning trails down your cheeks, like acid into skin.
You think of the freedom to choose that you once prayed to have the liberty to make, and how life seems determined to deal you the most painful version of that wish. Here it is, you think bitterly. A choice wholly yours, and yet hurts so much that can you barely breathe around it.
You think of Tuesdays. Of little girls with pencils and holes in their homework pages, of mothers with lipstick like petals crushed under boots. You think of men who are animals, and you think of this man, who is simply a man; who refuses to be more, refuses to be less.
And you realise – quite sharply and vividly – that the ache in your chest is not one born from reluctance nor doubt. It’s born from grief, from the sharp and brutal awareness that you are the one ending this.
Most of all, as you stare down at the ground, ink and apologies now turned to ash and ember, you realised you have finally, finally chosen something for yourself.
Because for the first time, you are not the thing being let go of; but the one doing the letting go.
And in this universe – the one with the perfectly made eggs and chipped kitchen titles – you would rather let Hayate go.
You would rather choose the man beside you.
You sniffle, wipe your tears away on the sleeves of your shirt. “It’s done,” you say, voice thin. It feels oddly like tension being knocked loose, like relief settling into your bones after a storm.
The smile Nanami gives you is something sad. Not pitiful, just fragile at the edges.
It is not a mercy you reject.
He opens his mouth to speak, but you already find yourself moving towards him. For a heartbeat he goes still – and you’re transported to that night all over again. Same place, same time, same arms.
His eyes search your face, careful and questioning, but you loop your arms around him anyway. It’s awkward – clumsy – at first, you struggle to figure out where to put your hand, and you bump his shoulder with your chin, wincing. But then his breath leaves him softly, a shaken exhale, and his arms slowly raise to wrap around you, pulling you in.
“Do you feel okay?” he murmurs. His breath is warm over the shell of your ear, and you shudder involuntarily. “Do you want some water? Anything at all?”
The universe, it seems, has presented you with another choice to make.
“I–” your breath catches and stalls in your throat. “I want–”
Nanami pulls away from you just enough to meet your eyes again, and a warm hand comes up to wipe the tears still drying on your face.
“I–” you try and fail, all over again. The words struggle to come out, thick and clinging to your throat.
I want to make a new choice.
In the end, you lean your forehead to his, bringing a shaky hand to cup his jaw. When your thumb brushes against his skin, you hear his breath hitch.
“What is it?” he asks. His blinks come fast, and his eyebrows draw together, worried, almost. “You don’t have to be afraid to ask me for the things you want.”
“Even… Even this?” you whisper.
Nanami swallows thickly. Something in his eyes grow warmer; soft and deep, all at the same time.
“Especially this,” he murmurs. “But only if it’s what you want.”
You can’t be sure who leans in first; whose lips touch whose first.
What you know is this: the moment his mouth finds yours, you unfurl like something starved for sunlight, moving towards him like everything in you has been waiting for this single, quiet collision.
If Hayate was blazing like an eternal summer, and if you were frozen like last season’s coldest winter, then Nanami must be the spring and autumn all at once.
The entire beauty of autumn, from beginning to ending, from the first sign of crisp in the air to the shedding of leaves, his eyes speak of roasted chestnuts and honey dripping slowly from a spoon. And spring – the gentle way it presses forth, the way flora bloom anew and fauna regain life – spring must be in the way he kisses you.
The world narrows down to just the press of his lips against yours and the sure, steady weight of his hands on your waist.
There’s heartache, and there’s still grief – but it settles softer, like an old wound that is no longer constantly tender. Because you can mourn, and still choose to move forward now.
With him.
You can’t help but wonder what kind of taste he must find past your lips. Is it the dullness of heartache? The sharpness of grief? Can he still taste the bitterness that has lingered on your tongue for so long?
Or does he see beyond it, to discover that the honey in his eyes has coated you a little sweeter, the warm tea he makes you every night has melted all your ice, the way his hands on your skin now stroke a burning flame?
When Nanami kisses you like this, unhurried and steady, you think he must surely taste a little bit of all of it. The darkness and the sweetness, he brushes every single part of your soul with just one kiss.
You’re not sure exactly when it changes, when soft and careful turns into something breathless and needy, but you simply find yourself unable to stop. Your fingers twist in the linen of his shirt, and his arms tighten against your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosened his hold.
Your mouth parts when his tongue seeks entry, whimpering when it deepens and his hands slide up your back to pull you closer.
“K-kento,” you gasp, and when you say his name like that for the first time, you hear his breath audibly shudder against your lips.
“W-wait,” Nanami pants, dragging his mouth from yours just enough to speak. His eyes squeeze shut, and he exhales like he already regrets the word. “We shouldn’t– we shouldn’t go any further than what you’re ready for. I’m s–”
You cut him off by a grab to his collar, pressing one more kiss to his lips that steals whatever apology he was about to choke out. Surprise tastes sweet on him, you feel it in the way he stills momentarily, then answers with a soft sound, fingers flexing against your back.
“Don’t be sorry,” you whisper, still a little breathless. “No more apologies.”
Nanami swallows, throat working as he pulls back to study your face. “Okay,” he says at last, voice rough. “I’m… not stopping because I don’t want you,” he adds, like he needs you to understand this part exactly. “You’ve had a difficult day, and I just… don’t want to be careless with you.”
“You might be the less careless person I have ever met,” you say, huffing a little. It draws the hint of a helpless laugh from him.
Your cheeks burn, and you hesitate again before speaking, but then decide you’ve already set too many things aflame to stop being brave now. “Will you… sleep with me?”
The flicker in his eyes is instantaneous, and you hurriedly stammer out, “I mean– in the same… bed. Or room. I didn’t mean– I don’t know.” Heat crawls up the entire length of your spine, and you quicky look away, flushed. “…I just don’t want to be alone tonight.”
The tension that seemed to render his entire body stiff seems to leave him almost immediately upon your clarification. “Ah,” he breathes, blinking a few times. “…Of course.”
“Are you sure?” you ask, shifting on your feet. “It’s not… an obligation, you know.”
Nanami huffs a very soft, amused breath. “It is not an obligation to me.” He taps your nose lightly with a finger, and you look down on at your hands, suddenly shy. “Come on,” he adds, gentler, “it’s getting cold.”
Later, you’re already tucked under the covers when Nanami cautiously slips in beside you. Chamomile tea is warming your belly, and the sheets are newly washed with the scent of lavender and something clean that you’ve come to quietly associate with home.
He lies on his back, careful to leave plenty of space between you. You can barely feel the dip in the mattress from his weight, with him lying close to the edge. But just when you think that’s all there is to it, his hand suddenly reaches out.
His pinky finger brushes against yours – light, tentative, testing the threshold. Your eyes don’t meet, and you stay flat on your back, staring at the ceiling – but your heart rate spikes at the small, barest hint of contact.
I’m here, he seems to say silently. Always.
For once, you believe him.
You really, really do.
a/n: the long awaited kiss... has finally happened. the kiss scene is actually something i wrote out at the very beginning, back when i was still drafting up the series, and tbh it's one of my favourite few lines out of everything so far.
i missed writing for them, but i've also missed you guys so much T_T as always, please let me know your thoughts <3 i appreciate all your comments and anything you might have to say, it really keeps me going 🙂↕️
‼️Warnings: 18+ / explicit sexual content, smut, and seduction, manipulation, emotional abuse, degradation, angsty romance, unrequited love, hurt/comfort, power dynamics, office romance, obsessive desire, self-loathing, obsession, and raw longing.
Preview
Nine months. Nine months of running yourself ragged for a man who doesn’t notice you the way you notice him. Satoru Gojo is everything you’re not…filthy rich, untouchably charming, cruelly indulgent…and you are just… you. Cute, capable, desperate, and hopelessly, painfully in love with your boss.
Every glance, every word, every fleeting smile from him is a dagger to your heart. He flirts, he toys, he dominates the office… and you’re trapped at his side, a pawn in a game you didn’t even know you were playing. You give your all, yet receive nothing but commands, manipulation, and the subtle degradation of being ignored and overlooked.
You hate him. You crave him. You ache for him.
He leans back in his chair, blue eyes glinting like they know exactly what you’re thinking — like they’ve always known.
“Did you finish it?” His tone is sharp, dismissive, as though you’re nothing but a cog in his empire.
You swallow, your throat dry. “Y-yes, Mr. Gojo.”
He scowls “I hope it’s not fucked up like that last project of yours”
Your stomach knots, a mix of pain & ache twisting through you. Every word, every glance, every casual smirk directed at someone else — it’s torture. You want to scream. You want to throw yourself at him. You want to run away and never come back.
But mostly… you just want him.
And you know, deep down, that wanting him will be the hardest, most dangerous thing you’ll ever do.
I just wanna say thank you for the surge of interest in the posts about an upcoming fanfiction I will be writing. This fanfiction will be based on the popular anime series, Jujutsu Kaisen. I have started to world build for the character I will be inserting into the series, her name is Noa Kusakabe, a vessel for Sukuna. I’m excited to share this character and the idea with you, she will be older than Yuji Itadori but still a vessel holder.
Questions I will answer ahead of time:
Yes, Yuji will still be a primary holder for Sukuna. In addition to another vessel, Noa is consequently considered a back up in Sukuna’s words. Noa will not be an overpowered character just because she is a vessel for Sukuna.
Full credit goes to author , sadly it was traced by another artist. But the original artist is x.com/tenartistt/status/1604905215072813057 on the app known as Twitter / x. Thank you for the anonymous that had sent it to me.
I would like to start writing a fan-fiction based on a female Sukuna Vessel , using the face claim from the known show, Naruto. I have written fan-fiction in the past, but I have learned new ways and severed the wrong ways. I would like to give it a shot, but would anybody possibly read this fan-fiction.
Disclaimer. If I do this. I would not make any plot altering choices that conflict with the main potential and portrayal of the show. It would be rude to the creators of JJK.
You guys ever had any story ideas and it’s clear in your head. You have the characters in your mind so clear you can practically touch them. But then you try and write the story and your hands no longer work.
summary: druig sees the good of humanity in you every day
word count: 2.3k
a/n: the druig brainrot is alive and well, i am so obsessed with this man. anyway, this is the first of many druig fics to come, so if you enjoy it please leave a like and reblog! and of course, send me your requests! i will always try to get to as many as i can :)
There was a time when Druig would never have considered living among humans. That is, without his own personal touch. They were barbaric, they refused to live peacefully together. He would watch them fight over any and every conflict and see relationships fractured, hearts and bones broken alike. He wanted to erase it all, make them see that they could be better.
And then came you.
The first time Druig saw you, you were helping an older woman shop in the grocery store. Pushing her cart along, you reached the items that were too high on the shelf or too heavy for her to pick up. Every so often, he would catch a glimpse of you as you passed an aisle he was in, and there you were: still at the old woman’s side. He kept an eye on your movements as you walked with her to the checkout line, making conversation as you waited.
Eventually, the bag boy took over. He bagged her items and helped her bring them outside as you waved goodbye to the woman. As you went back to the front of the store to retrieve your own cart, Druig realized that you didn’t know this woman. You must have simply helped her because she needed it. It was such a small act of kindness, one that others wouldn’t even think twice about.
But Druig had come to live for those acts of kindness. Too often he was subjected to the horrors of mankind. He had lived for thousands of years, witnessed countless wars, and was ordered to stand back and watch. In this beautiful moment, this small speck of humanity, he refused to let it pass.
“You know, I’ve heard these come in boxes now. More sustainable.”
You turned your head at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. The man standing beside you wasn’t even looking your way, instead, he was looking forward at the cases of water that you were reaching for. You let your eyes wander, taking in his black leather jacket and black jeans, his hands folded behind his back. He turned his head right at the moment you allowed your gaze to travel back up to his face and gave you a half-smile.
You returned it. “Yeah, I’m not really a boxed water kind of girl. And before you accuse me of hating the planet I do use reusable water gallons. These are just for a field trip I’m taking my students on.”
The stranger’s eyebrows went up. “You’re a teacher?”
You nodded. “Third grade. Shaping the minds of today’s youth.”
“That’s good.” He nodded, the half-smile still resting on his face.
You laughed, shaking your head. “You only say that because you don’t know me. All my friends say it was a terrible idea of administration to put me in charge of children.”
“I don’t know, something tells me you make a great teacher. Someone for kids to look up to.” It was only then that you noticed the lilt in his voice, his accent giving his words a melodic tone.
“And what makes you say that?” You asked, playing along.
“Call it intuition.” He said, finally turning to face you fully.
You tried not to be too obvious as you took him in, though you were sure that you failed. Your eyes lingered on the square of his jaw then jumped to his pink lips, pulled up in one corner, as if he was amused. Black hair sat mussed at the top of his head and blue eyes shined as you made eye contact. His presence screamed unbothered and yet here he was concerning himself with a stranger in the supermarket. At that moment, you knew you wanted to get to know him. This man so fiercely declared that she was exactly who she was meant to be, despite not even knowing her.
You glanced at the case of water bottles, then looked back at him. “You mind helping me with this?”
And with that invitation, you earned your first full smile from Druig. Something told you those were not easily given out and you felt a flutter in your stomach as he answered.
“It would be my pleasure.”
//
“Okay, everyone, time’s up!” You said, and you heard collective groans throughout the room of the students who were still working.
“I was so close to finishing!” One little girl, Georgia, whined as she passed her paper forward.
You gave her an encouraging smile as you collected the sheets from the front person in each row. “And I’m sure next time you will finish. Remember guys, these are all for practice. I want to make sure you’re getting the answers correct, not just answering them quickly.”
“Then why is it called a Math Minute?” Jaime called out cheekily. He was on Minute 32, a good few sheets ahead of most of the class, and was very proud of himself for it.
“Okay, so it’s a little bit about solving the problems quickly.” Your students giggled as you took your place at the front of the room. “But I don’t want you to get discouraged if you’re not as fast as you want to be yet. These Math Minutes are also about perseverance. If you want to move forward, you will.”
You watched small heads nod in agreement and smiled as you walked to the whiteboard, where a small wheel was tacked up, with Low, Medium, High in each third. You turned the arrow to the Medium section.
“The volume in this room should not get higher than this, got it??”
“Happy medium!” Lily said, beaming.
“Correct. You may talk to each other as you wait to be dismissed for recess. Remember, happy medium.” You sat at your desk, ready to check over their answers as soft chatter began to fill the room.
A mere thirty seconds later, a knock on the door interrupted your steady flow of marking. You put your pen down, and quickly walked over to the other side of the room, opening the door to reveal a familiar face.
“Druig.” He had a soft smile on his face. “What are you doing here?”
For the past six months that the two of you had been dating, he had never come to your school before. Though you figured it was only a matter of time. As aloof as his persona is, he’s also very charismatic when he wants to be and passionate. But you didn’t have plans to see each other today, hence your surprise at his standing in the third-grade hallway.
Druig held up a bag and as you looked in from the top, you could see a few containers in it, the smell wafting up into your nose reminding you that you haven’t eaten lunch yet.
“Brought you lunch. Figured you could use a pick me up after our conversation today.” He flashed you another charming smile. “Brought these by too.”
He pulled the arm that was hiding behind his back in front of him to reveal a bouquet of flowers, daisies to be exact, and you tried to contain your gasp. During the kids’ spelling test, you had been messaging back and forth and you revealed how stressed you were with work. You loved your job but the students’ end-of-year exams were coming up and it was more of a reflection of you than them. When you relayed your frustrations, Druig made it clear he wanted to relieve you of that pain but you had assumed he mean when you were home. But no, he was here, flowers in one hand and a delicious meal in the other. It was obvious now that the noise in your room had quieted down, which meant that your students were trying to eavesdrop on your conversation, not allowing you to give Druig the greeting you would have were there not peeping eyes.
“Thank you,” You whispered, taking the flowers from his hand.
You gestured him into the room, knowing the hall would be flooded with third graders soon enough and your class seeing him would supply more than enough eight-year-old gossip for today. Lucky for you, you didn’t have to deal with it right then because as soon as you closed the door behind you, the bell for recess rang.
“Your Math Minutes will be on your desk when you come back from lunch!” You called as you reopened the door to allow them to pile out of the room.
“Is that your boyfriend?” You looked down to see Lily standing in front of you, her gaze turned to your desk where Druig had started pulling out food containers from the bag. He must have sensed her gaze on him because at that moment he looked up and gave her a smile.
“He is a good friend of mine,” Was all you responded with. “Now go outside, I’ll see you when you get back.”
She simply giggled and ran out of the room before you closed the door, no doubt going to tell her friends that she had found out their teacher had a boyfriend.
Turning your attention to Druig, you can’t help but smile as you make eye contact with him.
“Druig, I swear to God–”
“How many times do I have to tell you, love, I’m an Eternal, not a god.” His nonchalant response came as he sat in your chair, focus completely on you.
You hummed in response, unable to form words even if you wanted to. Whenever he had his full attention on you like this, you often found it hard to focus on anything else. His eyes always remained the beautiful blue you had originally fallen for and yet you constantly felt like you were under his spell. He had a way of making you feel special; like you were the only one that mattered. When, in reality, you knew he cared all too much about everyone. Walking towards him, his eyes remained on you, the corner of his mouth turned up.
“Hello, beautiful,” He said, his head tilted upwards as you stood in front of him. His hands reached out, resting lightly on your waist and he tugged you forward slightly, so your body was tucked between his legs.
“Hi,” You said, suddenly becoming shy under his gaze. No matter how many times the term of endearment was used, it never failed to make your skin heat up or remind you of how lucky you were that this man had come into your life when he did.
The always enthusiastic, “beautiful!” when you stepped out in a new outfit to show him despite having spent hours in the mall. The low, seductive “so beautiful,” when you were laid bare in front of him, his hands not knowing where to touch first. The whispered beautiful when you were about to fall asleep and he thought you couldn’t hear him. And this.
“Beautiful” as a greeting, a way to convey how he saw you every day. Your soul was beautiful, you showed him that every time you were together. With every smile you sent his way, with every time you brought in morning coffee for your coworkers, with every gold star you added to your students’ papers no matter the grade. Whenever he looked at you, he was reminded of the beauty of humanity. The capacity for kindness and love that humans hold. The most minuscule acts that too often go unnoticed.
Now, Druig’s thumbs were rubbing small circles into your hips, allowing your body to relax against him, your legs still caged in by his own. His touch was so tender and intentional; every caress was thought about before being executed. His goal was to soothe you and it was working. Your hands found their place on the sides of his neck, your thumbs brushing his jawline.
Without saying a word, Druig knew exactly what you needed and allowed you to pull him close enough so that your lips just barely touched. You released a sigh at the feeling of his lips on yours and surged forward, kissing him properly this time. You felt his grip on your hips tighten as your tongue slipped into his mouth. He was letting you take charge of the kiss, allowing you to set the pace and pressure. The low groan into your mouth indicated that this was something he needed as well.
Finally, you pulled back, feeling more at ease in his presence. You watched as his eyelids fluttered open, a glassy look having taken over his eyes, the look of how did I get so lucky, he explained to you once when you asked why he kept glancing at you.
“Come on, let’s eat.” He whispered, nodding to the setup he had on your desk.
Two take-out boxes sat atop your desk, Druig had already moved aside the papers you were marking up to make room. He got up from your desk chair with a light squeeze to your hips, directing you to take his place, and pulled up a second chair from your TA’s desk. Seating himself next to you, he opened up his own box, picking up a fork with his left hand and resting his right hand on your knee.
You were grateful for the contact and it was moments like these that made you appreciate the small touches even more. The simple act of eating with someone else, but to have a hand on them at all times, was something special for you and Druig.
“I really appreciate this Druig, thank you.” You said, sighing as you take your first bite of the pasta that he brought for you.
“Just want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself, Y/N. But I’m always happy to take care of you.” He responded, giving you a small smile. "What would this world be without your beautiful kindness?"
premise: after the emergence, after almost losing druig, the events haunt you in your sleep. but when you wake druig is there to calm you and remind you that he’s not going anywhere.
pairing: druig x (f)eternal!reader
warnings: small dream sequence in the beginning, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, lots of talks of feelings and loss, slight sub!druig, super sappy, angsty, i suck at writing fluff and pacing so don’t act surprised when it sucks, eternals spoilers!! you are in control of your reading consumption so if you don’t vibe with any of the above please do not go on. 18+ only minors dni, you will be blocked.
word count: 2.1k+
etc: i know what you’re thinking: am i sick of writing soft!druig smut with nothing but forehead touches and super intense sap? the answer is no and i never will be! and i hope you all get the hint in this that druig is the king of eating pussy and has sub counterparts that make me weak xoxo.
“He’s gone. We have to go.”
“There’s nothing else we can do.”
“We have to leave him.”
Their voices burn your ears, each syllable sounding like a blowtorch to your ear drum. Your head ringing so loudly, your body shaking with pain, the heartbreak mixed with grief and guilt making your chest feel as if it might implode; all you can do is scream. Scream so loud that you think your throat might start to bleed from how it burns.
But it’s all you can do as you look down at him, his lifeless body, the greying of his skin. His beautiful blue eyes now dull and shadowed. He was dead. Gone. And now you were alone with a whole in your heart and a black abyss forming where your soul should be, sucking in every last feeling and memory you had of him until it’s a festering ball of poison that’s a constant reminder that he’s gone forever.
When you wake your throat feels just as raw as it did in your fevered dream. A sheen of sweat has gathered along your forehead and neck, and you can’t seem to catch your breath, can’t seem to come back to reality. Can’t get the image of your lovers greyed lifeless face out of your mind, can’t stop picturing Ikaris pull him through the sky and slam him to the ground as if he were nothing, meant nothing. Ending your entire world with just one fatal swoop and flash of his eyes.
You feel the tears run down your cheek before you even comprehend that you’re crying, that your grip on the sheets is straining your wrist.
Until you feel his hands on you, at your neck, your cheek, your wrist. “Hey, hey,” his voice is soft and filled with concern, strained with it as he pushes the sheets off of the both of you, moving so he’s now positioned at your front where he can see you better. “Shh, shh.” His hands bracket each side of your cheeks.
“Druig,” it’s soft, choked but it pangs your heart to say his name. Burns your throat even more. There’s a tear filled haze over your eyes that stings as you try to blink them away. “You–“ your breath can’t seem to go back to normal the more you try to speak, the more you cry. “You were gone. Ikaris–“
“Shh, I’m not gone.” Druig pulls you into him, his arms wrapping around you firmly. Your body shaking against his naked chest. “I’m right here,” he presses a gentle kiss to the side of your head, the tips of his fingers running down your back slow and soothingly.
The two of you sit like that for a while, your body coming down. Draining all the adrenaline and heartache from your nightmare—that was almost a reality. Could of been your reality. Your breath returning back to normal as you breathe in each shaky intake of air nice and slow. Your cheek is wet against his shoulder from your tears, you do your best to wipe them as you lift your head and pull back from him. And now you can really see him. The tears no longer in your eyes, the image of his grey and shadowed face gone. He’s here, he’s alive. Your Druig.
“You okay?” His brows are etched with worry as his thumb runs along your cheek.
You nod slowly, sniffing. Your eyes checking him all over for any sign that this might actually be part of the dream. That this wasn’t your reality right now. That he was really gone and this was some fevered apparition of him. “I-you were gone. Ikaris had killed you. I saw your..” you trail off as your chin starts to wobble. The tears threatening to come back, the hurt waiting to bring you down again.
“Ikaris never stood a chance,” he reassures, the upturn of his cocky grin making you chuckle softly. But there’s still sadness in your eyes and it makes Druig’s chest ache. A feeling he knew all too well, one he didn’t like, especially when it came to you. He’d be lying if he said there hadn’t been fear deep within his marrow when he thought this would be it, that Ikaris was finally going to shut him up for good. Images of the times the two of you had spent over centuries together, your beautiful laugh, and the way you kissed him when he wouldn’t shut up, all flashing through his head as he laid helpless in the bedrock.
But Ikaris didn’t kill him. A few scratches were nothing compared to what could of happened. The two of you losing each other. But it had happened the two of you got out of it safe and together, and something like that was never going to happen again, Druig would not allow it to.
He takes your hand and presses it firmly to his chest, his heartbeat beating against your palm. The warmth of his skin against yours once again breathing life into you, making your heart swell and pump faster. “I’m here. I’m alive. No one’s ever going to take me away from you.” He brings your hand up to his lips and presses a kiss to your fingers, “I promise.”
And something within you breaks. Breaks in a way that can only be put back together by him, can only be touched, pressed, kissed, fucked by him. Bring you back to being whole. Remind you that it’s you and him forever. That it would take more than an angry Eternal or God to rip the two of you apart again.
You don’t recollect yourself moaning his name until your back is pressed into the mattress and Druig is on top of you, your sleep clothes gone, his mouth on yours; your cheek, your neck, against your chest where your heartbeats just a little faster. His hands are massaging your breasts in his palm, running the pad of his thumb over your nipple making you moan into his mouth.
And Druig swallows it down, every moan every whimper until all he can breathe and all he can taste is you. His love. His everything.
His lips are searing wet and hot as he kisses down your chest and sternum. Your breath and eyes heavy as you watch him make his descent until he presses a kiss to the top of your mound, his eyes staring up at you before fluttering closed as you feel his tongue move past his lips and slowly run over your clit. Your breath hitching in your throat as your back arches from the bed, your hand going to the top of Druig’s head as your fingers run through his soft hair.
To watch you like this was a gift to him.
Druig remembers watching plenty of artists paint masterpieces throughout the centuries he’s been alive. He remembers watching the beauty of history unfold before his eyes, read poetry from infamous poets. Had people bow down to him as if he were some kind of God. But no matter how many beautiful paintings he saw come to life, or sonnets of everlasting poetry he heard, or the praise from humans; nothing looked or sounded as good as you did when he was between your legs.
The way your moans vibrated through your body, toppling over your beautiful lips and filling the room with a symphony of whimpers and need. The way your legs shook around him, the way your skin felt against his palms when he gripped your thighs, licked, kissed, bit them. And the way you let yourself be consumed by him, pleasured by him, as if this was his last meal and your last time savoring the pleasure. The way you both let it wash all over you and consume you until every nerve ending felt as if stars were exploding in your blood stream. A feeling neither of you could fully comprehend other than; you needed this. Needed each other.
Druig loved having his mouth on every part of you, loved letting you know that your body was a temple he wanted to pray to everyday. Touch everyday if only to feel that beautiful spark it gave off. To be a part of you and the space you took up, the life you breathed into a room, into him. But the telepath was not shy in admitting while he loved devouring every part of you; his mouth watered at the thought of it being on your pussy, daily. He couldn’t look at you without thinking it, wanting it, to taste, kiss, and devour your wet cunt. It was his favorite meal, his favorite treat. Nothing tasted as good as you did, he got drunk off of you. His tongue lapping at your juices, lips wrapping around that sweet bundle of nerves that had you pulling his hair and his eyes rolling back in his head.
And after he’s made you come twice over, your fingers digging into his shoulder as you try to pull him up, “please, Druig,” you moan. His boyish grin making your stomach flutter as he lets his tongue run along your wet folds a few more times before pressing a kiss to them and coming back up to meet your lips, his tongue bombarding your mouth, giving you a taste of your own sweetness.
You let your hand move between the two of you wrapping your fingers around his hardness, as you stroke him slowly. Druig pulling from your lips to let out a breathy groan that fans across your face. His lips even more plump and swollen from his assault between your legs and your own mouth, the wetness that gathers along his bottom lip as he licks them making you want to chase his tongue into his mouth with yours. You’d never get enough of his lips, of kissing him, of any part of him.
The tip of his cock skates across your sensitive clit as you grind your hips against him, your body shaking from the overstimulation and the ache to have him inside of you.
“Fuck,” Druig’s voice is low and deep, barley above a whisper. “Want to be inside of you, love.” He presses a kiss to your lips, runs his hand along the junction of your neck where your jaw meets it, presses his thumb below it to push your gaze up to meet his. “I need it.” Your body trembles at the seriousness in his eyes that mixes so beautiful with lust and desire. His tone on the cusp of begging.
And when he slips inside of you the low breathy grown that falls from both of your lips is dizzying. Both of you feeling that missing ache become whole as Druig bottoms out inside of you. The drag of his cock as he fucks you slow makes your mind go hazy, wild. You have to press your head into the crook of his neck, bite at the flesh there to stop yourself from being too loud. To stop yourself from shaking because it’s so good, he feels so good inside of you. So thick, so big. His moans fanning out at the shell of your ear, as his fingers rub slow circles in time with his thrusts against your clit, quickly pushing you over the edge again. His name a choked sob on your lips.
Druig keeps fucking you through it, that slow gentle way full of passion and heat. Keeps whispering sweet words and moans in your ear, “I’m never going to leave you, love. It’s you and me for centuries to come.” and “Fucking you like this for the rest of my life is the only treasure I need.” And then he’s moving from the crook of your neck to look down at you, to watch your beautiful face contort with pleasure as he fucks you, as you take him so good, so perfect, as if you were made for him, for his cock. For his love.
Your nails digging at his back as he fucks you deeper, a little harder as he feels his release coming. The groans he lets out are nothing short of angels hearings. Your palms press to his cheeks, bringing your foreheads together, hot breath mixed with shaky intakes, “Druig, come for me.” And it takes everything in him not to let his emotions take over as you whisper the words, sending him over the edge buried deep inside of you.
There was a time the only emotion Druig felt was distain and anger. His emotions bottled up and stored away. But then there was you, and then there’s was this. All of it. The shared touches, devotion, love.
And he doesn’t know how he had ever lived without it, and doesn’t think he ever could again.
summary- Theo is brought back from hell, but only starts an inner hell within you
warnings- angst angst angst
word count-1.3k
a/n- After 2050 day hiatus on this account, I finally caught up with Teen Wolf. I have strong feelings and needed to express them somehow. Binge watching TW the last few weeks has made me become hyper fixated again. Also I have became deeply invested in the lil psycho wolf boi chimera just as much as I was when I first saw him in S5 where I left off 4 years ago. Might turn this into a mini series, right now this is just for my enjoyment and my first time writing in 4 years as well. I’m a bit rusty. As I re watched, I wanted to explore a trope with a Stilinski reader (im the worst alright?). Kinda the typical theme with most imagines for Theo, but I’M A SUCKER FOR IT OK!! I hope you enjoy! Credit to gif owner!
“Hello,” you called out as you stepped into Scott McCall’s house. None of your friends had talked to you all day, making you concerned since as of lately they’ve been extra protective of you. Not leaving you by yourself for longer than necessary since the Ghost Riders have been in town. You heard all the voices from the living room cease when you spoke up.
Scott and Liam shuffled into the entrance of his home. “Y/n? What are you doing?” Scott asked nervously. Liam had the same look on his face as well.
“Yeah Y/n, you shouldn’t be here.” Liam groaned as Scott threw an elbow into his side a little too hard. You looked between the two curiously, almost amused if they weren’t being so weird.
pixelskylines
izzy806
ellievsbear
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