nappingmoon

[nappingmoon]

scars in fiction: I got this trying to save my lover from an assassin- but tragically, I was too late. now I carry the mark of my failure with me always, and I can never forget~

scars in real life: so I was trying to open macaroni sauce with a paring knife

[nappingmoon]

the violent urge to be taken care of against my will and wishes

[nappingmoon]

god i love 10+ minute long songs. yes girl take me on a journey

[nappingmoon]

how old were u in 2004 just askin >_<

[nappingmoon]

the tragedy of tumblr is you will inevitably meet people who you should be having a sleepover with. you should be rolling around on their floor and rummaging through their fridge and watching shitty movies with. you should be shopping with should be going out to a cafe with should be wandering through the aquarium with. people who you should be experiencing quotidian joys with... and you cannot! because they live one million miles away

[nappingmoon]

the idea of him swooping in to defend you is so hot to me. “why are you speaking to her like this?” as they place a hand on your stomach and step in front of you to protect you and continue with, “don’t ever speak to her her like this again.” ooooouuuuuuuuuuuh like i don’t know it does something to me

[nappingmoon]

tagging a new mutual for the first time lowkey terrifying what if they hate me and spit on me and burn my house down

[nappingmoon]

nanami kento dresses like he was born in a luxury boutique.

not loud, not flashy—never the type to chase trends or drip for attention—but everything about him is clean, thoughtful, expensive. timeless.

his coats are always perfectly pressed, shoulders sharp. scarves wrapped neatly, double-knotted or draped depending on the weather. leather gloves, suede shoes, watches that don’t scream for your eye but whisper wealth if you know where to look.

you notice it early in your relationship.

how he never wears anything with frayed threads. how his ties are always tied in the same precise windsor knot, centered perfectly between collar points. how his jackets hug his frame like they were tailored for no one else—and they usually are.

at first, it intimidates you. a little.

he has a coat for every season, a scarf for every temperature shift, shoes so nice you hesitate to let them near a sidewalk, and suits so well-tailored they probably sigh in relief when he puts them on. even his casualwear looks like it belongs in a catalogue. relaxed sweaters and pressed slacks, cuffed trousers and button-downs rolled up just so.

but nanami never makes you feel small about it. in fact, he lights up when you ask about his watch one morning, watches the way you turn it over in your fingers. says, “it’s from a danish brand. handcrafted. i can show you their winter catalogue, if you’re curious.”

and you think, god, he’s a nerd for this. and you love it.

he tells you he used to dress messier in university. too busy with exams to iron anything properly or think about quality over comfort, but one summer, while visiting family in copenhagen, his uncle gifted him a trench coat that fit so perfectly, nanami swore never to wear ill-fitted clothing again.

and now, years later, you watch him fasten his cufflinks with practiced ease, collar tucked just right. he brushes a speck of lint from his sleeve like it personally offended him. and you smile at him from the bed, still half-swaddled in blankets, sleepy-eyed and half-naked.

“you’re the best-dressed man in the whole city.”

“hardly,” he says, but you see the little twitch in the corner of his mouth as he steps closer to lean down and kiss your lips, “but thank you, darling.”

—

it starts with little things.

he buys you a scarf. not flashy, just a soft wool blend in a shade he says brings out your eyes. then gloves, beautifully stitched, buttery soft inside. then one day you come home and there’s a box on the coffee table with a note that simply reads:

thought this would look good on you.

—kento

you open it to find a blazer. tailored, sleek, the kind of thing that hugs your shape and makes you stand up straighter just by existing in your space. you call him immediately.

“kento. baby. did you just—did you tailor this??”

“i had your measurements,” he says, like that’s normal. “you mentioned liking double-breasted jackets. i saw this one in navy and thought of you.”

you sit down. hard.

“…you think of me when you’re shopping for suits?”

“i think of you when i breathe,” he says plainly.

you melt. obviously.

but then it keeps happening. not constantly, not overwhelmingly—but here and there, little touches of him finding their way into your wardrobe.

a delicate gold bracelet that matches the buttons on your favorite coat. a pair of loafers, elegant and comfortable, that he slips onto your feet one morning before brunch, crouching down with one knee on the floor.

“fit alright?”

“you’re dressing me like a doll,” you murmur.

“you are a doll, but i like to think that i’m dressing you like someone i love,” he says. “and someone who deserves to feel exquisite.”

you try to argue, once. halfheartedly.

“kento, i don’t need all these clothes—”

“of course you don’t. but do you like them?”

“…yes.”

“then let me give them to you.”

and it’s hard to fight when he says it like that. when he holds up a pair of pearl earrings next to your face and smiles like he’s looking at a museum piece.

“perfect,” he murmurs. “i knew they’d suit you.”

still, you do start dressing a little differently, over time. he doesn’t push you to—but because when nanami hands you a mirror and says “look at you,” in that soft, stunned way, it’s hard not to fall in love with yourself, too.

he never makes you feel like you have to change. he never critiques or compares. if you wear sweatpants all weekend, he still wraps an arm around you and kisses your head and tells you you’re beautiful.

but when you do dress up—when you wear that cream blouse he picked out, or the deep green coat you found together in a boutique downtown—he looks at you like you hung the stars.

“you’re glowing,” he says, voice thick with quiet pride.

“you’re biased,” you tease.

“i’m in love,” he replies, “which is worse.”

eventually, you start shopping together.

he teaches you about fabrics, about tailoring, about how to feel for quality in the seams. you teach him how to take style risks. how to pair color and texture in ways he wouldn’t have dared before. it’s a beautiful exchange that both of you respect dearly.

you buy him a patterned silk tie with tiny, barely noticeable flowers and he looks doubtful.

“try it,” you insist.

he does. and looks incredible.

you kiss him full on the mouth and say, “i’m a genius.”

“you are,” he agrees, breathless.

—

months later, someone at a party compliments your outfit.

“oh my god, that coat—where’s it from?”

you smile and touch the lapel, suddenly warm with affection.

“my husband picked it out.” you say, pride slipping into your tone.

across the room, nanami lifts his glass to you in a quiet toast, already watching. as always.

[nappingmoon]

drunk me returning to post about tsukishima… a moth to a flame I suppose

guys I love tsukishima

[nappingmoon]

guys I love tsukishima

[nappingmoon]

what is your holy trinity of fruits

[nappingmoon]

there's another universe somewhere, where kita shinsuke sees you in his clothes in the morning, making him a cup of tea and scratching at your scalp, your panties being revealed as you move to stretch and playing peek-a-boo with his golden eyes.

in this alternate universe, kita stalks up right behind you, hips grinding into your ass while his legs kick yours open slightly. you mewl and your arm comes up and wraps around his head, cradling him close when you whisper, "'m still sore from earlier," and kita hums a soft "i know." his hands trace down your back, pulling the hem of his shirt up and over your hips and moaning at the sight of your underwear fitting you so deliciously. he pulls the crotch of the panties to the side and lets the tips of his fingers trace your sticky slit, your hiss of overstimulation reminding him to be gentle with you. at first.

at this point kita then eases his fingers inside of your already swollen walls, your mewls at the stretch morphing into moans as he curls his fingers against the spot deep inside of you that only he can find, making white crackles flash over your vision and your jaw slack entirely. his hand adjusts so his thumb can swipe at your clit and the way your knees buckle makes him let in a raspy chuckle, "so worked up already? how're you gonna take my cock if you're already so sensitive, hmm?"

but this isn't an alternate universe. kita is too mindful to bend you over the counter and take you like a beast, an animal with no regard for how you're feeling and just having his way with you whenever he craves.

instead, kita shinsuke comes in, takes his tea and kisses you on the cheek, leaving you in his clothes and panties and desperate to ignore the hard on he has from such a sight, leaving you none the wiser.

[nappingmoon]

love cocksucking but languid... your cheek pillowed on their belly, your tongue slowly running circles around their base before teasing up the shaft to the tip, your spit-slicked lips rubbing along the sensitive veins... the both of you scrolling on your phones, his tummy tensing whenever your flick your tongue or lap at the precum leaking from his tip.

[nappingmoon]

i’m so bad with names but that was extra low on my behalf sorry wherever u are queen

[nappingmoon]

[nappingmoon]

LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO / MASTERLIST

Simon Riley masterlist

Simon Riley/female reader (Daisy) - AO3 141 hospital au - additional content information here Each part to have individual tags and warnings

Transfer Coddled Cherries Cracks Slowly Circulating Halter Visitor Horsefly Booster Oh Friday

Daisy and Riley at home - moodboard title reference

[nappingmoon]

grumble grumble