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vorfreudevortex · 14 days ago

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₍^. .^₎⟆ synposis: soulmate!AU. nanami begins to find things that don't belong to him in his apartment. lipgloss. a single sock. a hair dryer. and in the middle of it all, a fluffy turtle keychain he wishes to give back to his unknown but destined lover. word count: 2.5k

it starts with a plush keychain.

nothing too loud or flashy, just a fluffy yellow turtle with a metal clip on.

gojo nearly falls out of his chair when he spots it tucked between nanami's array of books and reading glasses. it's clearly out of place, cute and plush against the pristine cleanliness and monochromatic chic of nanami's apartment, and nanami doesn't harbor any secret children (that gojo knows of).

"and whoooooose is this? or more likely, which lady's is this?" gojo sing songs, dangling the keychain from his pinky finger. nanami sighs, his back turned to gojo as his coffee finishes brewing, the clipped comment dying in his mouth when he spots what the silver haired man is holding.

nanami has a near photographic memory of everything in his apartment. he's damn near curated every inch of his living space. at first he thinks it's a joke.

"where'd you even get that, gojo." he grumbles, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes.

"it was right here on your bedside table." gojo scoffs at the accusation.

the black coffee burns nanami's throat on the way down.

"if this is some kind of a prank, i'm afraid it's not that funny."

gojo actually pouts at that, like a little child that's been told off, before crossing his arms.

"I'm being serious, nanami! It was laying right here in between your books!" he pauses, before breaking into a big smile. "So you're either hiding a girl-"

"i'm not seeing anyone."

"or this is... the sign."

nanami pretends not to know, in an effort to calm his racing heartbeat.

"what sign?"

gojo's eyes widen.

"what sign? are you hearing yourself? this is your soulmate's lost item! this is so exciting! we have to celebrate! I have to text everyone we know, arrange flowers, there's this amazing restaurant downtown that does the most incredible s-"

whilst his friend rattles on, nanami's eyes remain fixated on the little turtle now sitting on his kitchen table, warmth blooming across his chest. he'd heard the stories of course. soulmates' lost possessions ending up in each other's homes. but he hadn't gotten his hopes up. not everyone in the world would have a soulmate. nor would it be so easy to say with certainty that finding strange items in your house would be attributable to a soulmate. but this...

his hands moved on their own accord, left hand brushing up against the toy. the keychain was soft in his hands, yellow fur and black stitched smile.

"and- hello? are you even listening to me?!"

nanami hums, if only to placate gojo, whose short attention span has now been diverted by a new text from geto. when gojo rushes out the apartment door, stealing a pack of mochi from the kitchen counter whilst rushing out goodbyes, nanami doesn't even bother to look up from where he's standing.

leaning up against the marble countertops of his kitchen, twisting and examining the soft plush from all angles. his heart flutters at the realization that he's holding something that belongs to... his one and only.

patting the small head of the toy turtle, he tucks it into his coat pocket, vowing to reunite it with its owner in the future.

a week later, on a lazy Sunday morning, he finds lipgloss where his extra toothpaste should be.

but not just a tube of lipgloss.

an array of different lipglosses of all shades - dark burgundy, cherry red, barbie pink, soft pink, sparkly peach. it makes nanami's head spin, pulling down one tube of lipgloss after another that have magically appeared in his bathroom mirror cabinet.

examining each one with surgical precision, he notices that one of the shades are clearly more used up than another. barbie pink. he makes a mental note of this, carefully placing away the lipglosses in a spare toiletry bag he keeps under the sink.

over the course of a month, that bag becomes filled with little remnants of his soulmate. nearly empty perfume bottles. a single sock with a print of a golden retriever. multi colored hair ties. a small travel sized shampoo and body wash set. these items appear randomly and suddenly without warning, often when he's having a bad day.

a late 1am return from work, his head pounding from exhaustion and dehydration? he nearly steps on the perfume bottle laying on the floor near his bedroom door. it's clearly well loved, with only a third or so left, and smells distinctively of vanilla and lavender.

a 7am rush as the city wakes up behind him, the streets of tokyo buzzing with energy as he clips on his shoes? he finds a multi pack of hair ties sitting neatly in between the gaps of his shoes in the cupboard.

nanami even almost misses the single sock - navy blue with a golden retriever print on it - hanging from his closet when he's cleaning, because of how natural it looks. when he takes it off from the rack, he turns it over in his hand and smiles: imagining how nice it would be to have her cardigan draped over his couch and pairs of socks tucked into his closet.

now whenever nanami can't sleep, he imagines what his soulmate looks like. is she tall? short? shy? extroverted? a coffee person or a tea person? the type to laugh loudly with her whole chest and heart, or giggle silently to herself in an effort to hide her laugh?

his hands inevitably find the soft turtle keychain sitting by his bed, stroking its fur and imagining what it would be like to hold her hand instead, as his mind starts to drift off to sleep.

he wonders if she'd have some things of his as well. nanami isn't a forgetful or clumsy type of person, but he is human. he can't really name the last thing he's lost - maybe a bookmark or a reusable straw - but he sometimes wonders if he should purposefully forget something so it would end up at her place.

he's not even sure if that's how these things work.

autumn fades into winter, the cold nights bearable only with the surprise of what he might find in his apartment today. he's actually disappointed when he returns to an 'empty' house, everything in place and just as he remembered. he starts to think the universe is playing a cruel joke on him (or that she's gotten good at keeping track of her things) when a full month goes by with no lost items appearing in his place.

then, he spots a portable charger that's not compatible with his phone lying on his bed, and he knows he has her back.

and when he finds three missing items in the span of one week during a particularly rough December - a fraying picnic blanket with square patterns, a pair of fluffy thigh high boots, and an expensive looking hair dryer - he wonders if she's losing these things on purpose.

all in all, his apartment is no longer looking like a one bed bachelor suite belonging to a single salary man. but more of a couple's living space with his and hers items adorning every shelf and table.

it's gotten to the point that having people over - even for a few minutes - is difficult, without being subject to many eyebrow raises and accusations of dating behind his friends' backs.

as the months now stretch into spring, the frostbite of winter melting away into gentle spring breezes and early sunrises, nanami finds himself getting impatient. when will he meet her?

he knows it's foolish, to even think that it'll happen. the fact that he's even been given a soulmate is something to be grateful for. but there's an ache that nibbles on the side of his ribs, a buzzing anticipation that never leaves his mind when he stands in the middle of a crowded place.

in every train station. public crossing. jam packed bar filled with cigarette smoke. he looks for her, one hand always in his coat pocket, stroking the soft pet turtle that started it all. he imagines it'll be like the movies, he'll come across a stranger and he'll just know.

his stomach will flutter, his vision will blur, and his heart will instantly make the connection.

but it never happens, much to his disappointment.

it's now April, a few months to summer. the cherry blossoms are finally out and nanami needs a morning run to clear his mind. a quick shot of espresso and light stretches in his living room are all he needs before his shoes are hitting the pavement, dodging cyclists and pedestrians enjoying their gentle 7am walk.

a few laps in the park later, he's back in his apartment just in time to fold his running clothes for the washing machine and take a long shower.

a man of routine, he combs his hair and applies his meticulous skincare routine, counting downards from ten. whilst adjusting his tie, he inspects his suit for any faults and finishes by spraying himself with the same vanilla and lavender perfume of his soulmate's.

lastly, out of habit, he makes sure that the turtle keychain is kept safe and secured in his coat pocket.

clipping on his watch on his wrist, nanami doesn't look onto the street as he exits the elevator. he collides with a body, the stranger letting out a surprised yelp and the sound of iced coffee splashing the pavement.

"I am so very sorry." nanami immediately says, lowering his glasses to look at you right in your eyes. you thankfully don't seem mad, just a bit sheepish, as you accept his left hand to stand back up on your wobbly feet.

"no worries. i should've been walking so fast." you try and laugh it off, your brain going haywire at just how good looking this guy is. he's blonde, tall, clearly athletic - from how the tight fitting suit is hugging his body - with a jawline that could kill.

he even smells like your favorite perfume, vanilla and lavender.

"not at all, i was preocuppied with my thoughts and didn't look onto the street before stepping out." nanami quips, eyes falling onto the spilled coffee. "could i buy you a new coffee as an apology?"

"oh, i don't want to bother you-" you start, though internally you want nothing more but to keep talking to this handsome stranger.

"please, you wouldn't be." he assures you, heart fluttering at how wide and genuine your smile seems to be when you accept. when you bend over to pick up the split coffee cup, his eyes land on your socks and his throat dries up.

mismatched socks. one plain black sock. and the other, a navy blue sock with a very familiar golden retriever print.

'stay calm, nanami.' he scolds himself as you walk alongside him on the way to the cafe, quiet conversation filling the air about what you both do for work. 'this could mean anything. it could just be a popular sock brand.'

the conversation is easy. you're witty, kind, you hold his bicep to stop him from walking into traffic when he doesn't realize the light has suddenly turned red. then, you get all embarassed, apologizing for grabbing onto his arm without asking.

it makes his heart so warm.

and when you arrive at the cafe, casually slinging your bag over to the other shoulder whilst ordering, he notices the array of keychains hanging from your bag.

his heart skips another beat.

"you like my keychains?" you ask with a quiet laugh, noticing how intensely he's staring at your bag. "i'm a bit of a collector with these things. i just think they make my bags look more... unique and cute."

"do they each tell a story?" he quips, lips curling at the end. god, he finds you so cute, especially when your eyes light up whilst delving into detail about each keychain.

"..but my favorite one I lost sometime last year." you say, thanking the barista as you accept the drinks. your fingers brush against his when you pass him his black americano.

walking side by side on the pavement, nanami's heart beats irregularly at that declaration, but you're none the wiser. only innocently tilting your head sideways and asking if his coffee is good.

"it's great." he lies, as if the bitter coffee isn't burning his throat from the anticipation bubbling in his stomach.

fuck it.

"what was it?" he blurts out, unable to keep it in.

"what was?" you ask, confused.

"the keychain you lost."

"a turtle." you say with a small laugh, licking away the foam of coffee on your lips. "silly, i know but my cousin got it for me."

he stops breathing for a second.

"... was it a yellow turtle by any chance?"

nanami stops in his tracks. you two are back in front of the apartment where he bumped into you. his blood is rushing so loud in his ears that he's worried you can hear it, as your eyes widen in surprise.

"h-how'd you..."

"a fluffy yellow turtle with white fins and a black stitched smile?" he finishes, smile so fond and wide that it blinds you.

you're at a complete loss for words, the gravity of the situation beginning to settle in, when he suddenly takes out (from his coat pocket) the very keychain you had lost and sorely missed.

"i've got it. and every other thing you've misplaced for the past year."

you stare at his open palm in disbelief, eyes carefully examining the object as you take the keychain from his hands and feel its fur against your fingertips. your heart is thundering in your chest, your soulmate smiling at you so brightly.

"i'm nanami, by the way. nanami kento." he introduces himself, ever so the gentleman.

"(y/n). (y/n) (l/n)."

there's an uniterrupted beat of silence, with nanami staring at you so intensely with burning adoration and you suddenly feeling the rush of embarrassment of how much you've lost in the past year.

"oh god, did you really keep everything i've lost?" you groan, nearly whining.

he only chuckles.

"yes i did. neatly categorized and filed in my apartment." he pauses, surveying your reaction. "would you like to come up and see?"

"yes." you say too quickly, before you're shaking your head sideways in an effort to calm yourself. "i mean, yes, uh, that'd be nice."

he turns to let you in, before he turns back around abruptly, stopping you in your tracks. you stare up at him, confused.

he only smiles, soft and gentle.

"hold on." nanami says, stepping closer to you. you're overwhelmed by his scent, mix of aftershave and vanilla lavender perfume, and how gentle his hands are when he takes the turtle keychain from your left hand.

he clips it onto your bag, giving it a gentle tug to ensure it's secure.

"there. don't lose it again." he says lowly, but there's a hint of teasing to his tone.

"and if i do?" you ask quietly, teasing him back, letting him drag you through the doors of his apartment.

nanami takes your hand, but this time, he doesn't let it go.

"you can come back to me."

a/n: ahhhh my first ever fic! i'm absolutely obsessed with nanami at the moment so i wanted to write something sweet for him. i remember reading a marvel fic with this soulmate AU idea a few years ago (soulmates find each other's lost possession in their apartment) so i wanted to give it a spin.

ᯓ★ likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated! ᯓ★

#nanami my beloved #nanami x you #nanami x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento fluff #jjk fluff #jjk x reader #jjk x you #nanami kento #jujustsu kaisen x reader

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vorfreudevortex · 14 days ago

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‎‎‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ HOW TO MAKE: EVERYTHING FEEL OKAY AGAIN

cw. 0.7k ノ not quite fluff; not quite angst. hurt/comfort. for @livteracts — enjoy

aki hayakawa cuts tofu into small, precise cubes. the sound of his knife against the chopping board splinters the silence of his apartment like the ticking of a clock: neat and evenly spaced. counting down to something, though he has nothing planned. tick, tock. he'll go to sleep with the sun tonight; an attempt to feel kinship with something, to remember he exists in space and time. perhaps he won't wake up. tick, tock. an early death.

the chicken broth is simmering on the stove, cracked white pepper speckled on its surface, sliced carrots slowly softening. its rich scent inexplicably reminds him of his mother spooning hot liquid into his mouth which goes on to remind him of things he'd rather forget. he's sweating, even though his apartment is a mild temperature. tick, tock. everybody's dead.

he needs a cigarette. he doesn't light one. he cuts tofu as if an answer is embedded in its flesh. it's restaurant-quality, though he hasn't been to one in a while, and there's no one here to see it. art isn't art without an audience — and it is art, because after all, he's good with blades. killing and soup-making. killing isn’t art, or maybe it is. blood and broth and bone; it’s all the same in the end.

tick, tock.

the lines are so perfect they cease to mean anything. why is he trying to find meaning? why is he trying? he wishes the fall of his knife onto the cutting board was hurried, irregular. that each piece would feel different on his tongue; jagged and new. that he had other things to get to; that he didn't have time to stand and slice, stand and slice. that he was in conversation with someone, not entirely focused. laughing, maybe, hard enough that tears blurred his vision and his hands trembled. or, maybe — most presumptuously of all — maybe someone else was curling their wrist, sliding the blunt edge of the blade along the wooden chopping board, steering the creamy white cubes into place, whisking miso paste into the soup, adding seaweed. tick, tock.

he'd have let himself soak in the bath until the water went cold and his skin wrinkled. he’d be wearing a shirt stained at the hem from takeout the night before. the broth would be missing salt. he’d be wearing hand-knitted socks: lopsided, unravelling. it's a funny series of thoughts to have because they’re barely thoughts anymore, just quiet wishes; tentative, but not in a way that implies the beginning of something — more like the dying embers of a flame long gone out. the hiss of water pouring onto the wood. the billowing white smoke. a dream so intangible he has to squint to make out its shape as it melts into the air and all he’s left with is the breeze of something dead on his face.

aki doesn't even want it anymore. domesticity. he doesn’t think he has the capacity to feel… like that. calm. comfortable. content, if not happy. he doesn't want happiness; he doesn’t want anything. except revenge, but revenge doesn’t do his laundry for him or wash his hair when his hands feel like dead weights at the ends of his arms — foreign; not his own — and when revenge burns it leaves no traces of warmth behind, only something harsh and chemical.

is he crying? his hands tremble. his vision blurs. tick, tock. his rhythm does not falter. it’s him and the clock. he is counting down the seconds to his own demise. the passage of time is a frightening concept; if it’s a passage, then what awaits him on the other side?

cubes. white sheets. stacked mugs. there is not nearly enough joy in his life for him to give in to imperfection. his walls have been scrubbed until they gleam; his fabrics are tucked away into his drawers in soft folds; his katana is unstained. the tofu simmers, fresh green onions like fallen petals. everything in place, fulfilling their functions, and he might disappear.

he brings the ladle to his lips, uncaring of the searing heat. miso soup only takes fifteen minutes; he returns to it like a default. since he's so low on time. since his life is so full of other things.

tick,

oh. he forgot the salt.

tock.

and for the shortest of moments — despite everything — he finds himself smiling.

me when i have horrible writer's block but liv exists

★ want to be added to a taglist? — @lizbix @ayatakanosstuff @alcyneus @stars4you777 @1-800reki @riniaras @astrowaltz @livteracts @vorfreudevortex @adoresia

#aki my beloved #csm x reader #csm #chainsaw man #chainsaw man x reader #aki hayakawa #aki hayakawa x reader #aki hayakawa x you #hayakawa aki #csm aki #aki hayawaka #aki x reader

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vorfreudevortex · 24 days ago

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sorry i disappeared for a while, y’all. i’m depressed as fuck lmao. there won’t be anything new for a while. i’m still on here sometimes but yeah. thought i’d pop in and say hello and that i’m still around!

love you all <333

#sophiespouts

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vorfreudevortex · 1 month ago

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y'know bro

takuma ino .

platonic hcs but you have a crush on him bc who wouldnt?!??! and he clearly likes you too

wc: 0.5k

riea's comments: soldiers, riea is finally out of the takuma ino drought. CAN WE GET SOME DOUBLE U-S IN THIS CHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!

takuma ino is a man of many words, and yet he cannot form coherent sentences.

"y'know, that never really sat right with me cause i don't know, you know…"

"no, i don't know?? what the hell are you talking about."

he's probably the dumbest person you've met and his iq decreases by ten for every piercing he's got. so that's eighty already gone, plus another ten for the one he's getting in a few days

but hey, takuma may be an idiot, but he's your idiot

also takuma likes auramaxxing. shoot me, sue me, throw me in a ditch, i dont care i speak the truth.

can he do it? well… sometimes? like that singular instance where he was sitting at the benches, waiting for you to finish dropping off your books at the library. there was a soft breeze that blew through his hair, the sun brought just the right amount of light to his face, and his legs were crossed as he read the book in his hands. he surely would've been the drive-by crush of everyone nearby if the book wasn't… upside down. you didn't know what was more intriguing, how hot he looked in the moment or how he managed to tell you what he read before you did him a favor and turned the book around

but there was that one time where he spaced out after you left to grab some cotton candy from a street vendor. one hand in his pocket, the other holding his skateboard, accessories laden on his black denim jorts, and eyes looking at the bridge before him. he was like one of those guys that post how aesthetic they are on tiktok and instagram but he was actually being aesthetic

and he wonders why people don't approach him. ho, you're dark and brooding, who cares if you have a sunshine personality?! the sun is being hidden by the clouds and thunder and rainstorms right now!!!!!!!!

firm believer that takuma recreated that tiktok with you (B-BULLETS BULLETS!!!!!!!!!) and he volunteered himself to be pulled in and out of frame while you recorded the one that goes "i used to have hoop dreams until i found out there were other ways to score". you violently pull him in on the part that goes "if you're gonna be my BITCH" btw just putting it out there. he was (unsurprisingly) happy about this, giggled and keke-ed all the way home

an absolute loser but his loser stats get multiplied by themselves thousands of times when it comes to you. he likes to put on this tough guy act around you (that you saw straight through so he stopped doing it) but once a friend says the first syllable of your name, he's suddenly a doormat

that reminds me, it was lowkey funny whenever takuma was acting all "big and bad". you two were walking in the park when he spotted some poor little boy being made fun of

"hey! cut that out or…," he paused, tapping his pointer against his chin, "imgonnastealyourlunchmoney!!!!" it came out as one word "we got timmy tough knuckles over here." one of the boys jeered and the group behind him erupted in laughter

takuma ended up getting bullied too.

jjk taglist

@blendingcaramal @gzchaos @theamazingrain @woah-girlz @voloslobotomyservice

@kyozvy @obessionofagrl @bubybubsters @sugurusbaobei @raindropsonrwses

@c-moon20-12 @saltynanobeanie @theamazingrain @synthiiiiis @ghostlyluminarycloud

@poopyyy @supernatrualqueen @bxrbie-jadeee @laitifly @babysoo-meu

@cheesecake95 @strawberry-cherrypie @makeshiftproject @magiamad0ka @ncitygreen

@mayyhaps @oniondrip @cloudy-yyy @definitely-not-leena @kidd3ath

@atigerandabear @russianremy @ohnoitsamistakee18 @ivy-vivii @inoluvrr

@1ndee @dawnbreakerswife @ancientimes @cupcaketeddybehr @tomikixd

@e-dollly @ozdramaqueen @nymphsdomain @beeksyurr @colorcode

@baekhyunsbestie @vorfreudevortex @leuriss @xaithings @corvid007

#jjk #jjk x reader #jjk ino #ino x reader #ino x black reader #jjk x black reader #ino fluff #jujutsu kaisen ino #ino x you #takuma ino x reader #takuma ino #ino takuma #ino my beloved

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vorfreudevortex · 1 month ago

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happy birthday to the man ever

#nanami kento

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vorfreudevortex · 1 month ago

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something melts inside nanami kento the first time he hears his daughter call him, “dada”.

it's more than melting, though. it's a surrender; an exhalation. a soft puff of dust settling, flowers blooming tenderly in the cracks, dawn over the first breaths of a world revived. and picking his way across the rubble he cannot say he misses the walls he'd built so meticulously around his heart, simply because there is something beautiful in the way he comes undone for you despite everything — you and your silken persistence, like water chipping away at stone.

but even so, there was still a voice inside of him that whispered, this dream is not for you. he supposes he'd convinced himself it was only logical, given the bitter violence his soul was seeped in despite his resolution to make the world at least that little bit more gentle.

you understood; you had seen; you knew. but how could his hands cradle the shape of a child's innocent joy when — even whilst homemade bread rose on the counter and half-finished paintings hung on the walls and there were carefully woven braids in your hair — he sometimes felt that all he knew was the handle of a sword?

he'd thought he'd finally quelled those thoughts for good when he held his daughter for the first time and felt the strength of her tiny hand around his index finger, as if he was the only thing that made sense in her new world. but something had lingered, and only now does he recognise it as it finally leaves him. a laying down of arms.

he is not a child soldier. he is not lost, drowning in blood and then numbers, trying to escape the noise. he is not forging into the unknown alone, offering his body and soul as a shield, unable to comprehend that there could be any further use for him. he is your husband; he is her father.

his soul is soothingly silent, like the ending strains of a song and sunset in the rearview mirror and an earth in perfect balance.

the voice whispers, you can rest.

his daughter babbles, then says it again: “dada”. all confidence and a hint of glee as if she has something to prove from her perch on his chest, and he wonders how something so small could be more precious to him than the entire world and everything in it.

for his family, he would let it all cave in a hundred times over.

slowly recovering from a horrible flu & randomly remembered i can write ... trust me though i WILL forget again.

i need a daughter with nanami kento or so help me god this is our little family

does anybody even want the secret language of flowers part two cus atp i dunno if i do !

★ want to be added to a taglist? — @lizbix @ayatakanosstuff @alcyneus @stars4you777 @1-800reki @riniaras @astrowaltz @livteracts @vorfreudevortex @adoresia

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk smau #nanami kento #kento nanami #jujutsu nanami #jujutsu kaisen nanami #nanami kento jjk #kento angst #kento nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #kento x reader

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vorfreudevortex · 1 month ago

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what happens in the car, stays in the car !? // nanami kento

𓂃୨ৎ you're the young intern who's been fantasizing about your stoic coworker, nanami, and he's the older, unhappily taken man who finally breaks, pinning you down in his car after drinks to fuck you senseless.

𓂃୨ৎ pairing. afab!reader x coworker!nanami

𓂃୨ৎ warnings. mdni. oral (both receiving), fingering, deep throating, spanking, bondage (seatbelt), edging, age gap, overstimulation, cheating (nanami has a girlfriend), gagging (with tie), creampie, drunk driving (don't do that! it's more of a plot hole), car sex

you’re sitting at the bar, the dim lights casting a warm glow over the polished wood counter, the faint hum of chatter and clinking glasses filling the air. it’s been a long week at the office, and you and nanami, your coworker who’s somehow always got that tired look in his eyes, decided to hit this place to unwind.

he’s in his early thirties, a bit older than you and more experienced in your job, but tonight his tie’s loosened, top button undone, and there’s a slight flush on his cheeks from the whiskey he’s drinking.

you’re in your early twenties, still figuring out the corporate grind, and maybe that’s why you’re drawn to him—his steady presence, the way he carries himself like he’s seen it all but hasn’t let it break him.

you’re both a little buzzed, the kind of buzz that makes your laughter come easier and your shoulders relax. the bar’s crowded, but it feels like it’s just the two of you in this corner, elbows brushing on the countertop. he’s telling you about some client who botched a deal today, his voice low and rough, and you’re leaning in closer than you need to, catching the faint scent of his cologne—something expensive, woody, grounding. you make a snarky comment about the client, and he chuckles, a rare sound that makes your stomach flip.

“you’re trouble, you know that?” he says, his eyes flicking to yours, a playful edge to his tone that’s not usually there. he’s got that half-smile, the one that makes him look younger, less burdened. you grin, nudging his arm with yours, your skin lingering against his for a second too long.

“me? trouble? you’re the one who’s been scowling at spreadsheets all week,” you tease, sipping your drink, the burn of alcohol warming your throat. your knee bumps his under the bar, and you don’t pull away. neither does he.

he shakes his head, but his gaze doesn’t leave you. “you make it hard to stay focused,” he mutters, almost to himself, and you catch it, your heart doing a little stutter.

he’s got a girlfriend, you know that—someone he’s been with for years, someone he talks about in passing but never with any warmth. you’ve seen the way his jaw tightens when her name comes up in conversation, the way he changes the subject. it’s none of your business, but you can’t help wondering what’s keeping him there when he looks so damn miserable.

“what, i’m a distraction now?” you say, leaning closer, your voice light but your eyes searching his. you’re treading a line, you both know it, but the alcohol’s got you bold, and the way he’s looking at you makes it hard to care.

he tilts his head, his fingers brushing against yours as he reaches for his glass, and you swear it’s not an accident. “something like that,” he says, his voice softer now, almost dangerous. his thumb grazes your knuckles, just for a second, and it’s enough to make your pulse race. you laugh it off, but your cheeks are warm, and you’re pretty sure he notices.

“careful, kento,” you say, using his first name like you’ve done a hundred times at the office, but here it feels different, heavier. “don’t want to get too friendly.” you’re joking, mostly, but there’s a challenge in your tone, and he picks up on it, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“too late for that, don’t you think?” he replies, and there��s something in his voice—something raw, unguarded—that makes you wonder how long he’s been holding back. his hand shifts, resting on the bar near yours, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his skin. you could pull back, keep it safe, but you don’t. instead, you let your fingers brush his, just enough to feel the spark.

the bartender slides another round your way, breaking the moment, and you both laugh, the tension easing but not disappearing. you talk about work, about the idiots in upper management, about anything that keeps the conversation flowing. but every now and then, your eyes meet, and there’s something unspoken there.

your drinks are running low, and you’re feeling reckless, the kind of reckless that comes from too much whiskey and the way his knee keeps brushing yours under the bar. you’re the one who suggests it, half-joking, half-daring. “wanna play a game? make this night a little more fun?”

he raises an eyebrow, that half-smile creeping back, and you can tell he’s intrigued. “what kind of game?” he asks, his voice low, like he’s already expecting trouble.

“truth or drink,” you say, smirking, tapping your glass with your fingernail. “answer the question or take a shot. no dodging, no bullshit.”

he leans back, considering, his eyes flicking over your face like he’s weighing the risks. “alright,” he says finally, his tone almost challenging. “you first.”

you grin, leaning closer, your elbows on the bar. “okay, kento. what’s the one thing you hate most about your relationship?” it’s a cheap shot, and you know it, but you’re curious, and the alcohol’s making you bold.

his jaw tightens, just for a second, and you think he’s gonna drink. but then he meets your gaze. “she doesn’t see me,” he says, voice quiet but heavy. “not really.” he doesn’t elaborate, just takes a sip of his whiskey anyway.

your heart does a little twist, but you keep your face neutral, nodding. “fair enough. your turn.”

he doesn’t hesitate. “what’s the most reckless thing you’ve ever done for someone you wanted?” his eyes are locked on yours, and you feel the question like a hook, pulling you in.

you laugh, but it’s nervous, and you grab your drink, stalling. “that’s a loaded one,” you mutter, but you don’t drink. instead, you lean in, voice dropping. “snuck into a guy’s apartment at three a.m. just to leave a note on his fridge. didn’t even know if he’d see it.” you don’t mention it was a dumb college crush, not worth the effort. you just watch nanami’s reaction, the way his lips twitch, almost impressed.

“bold,” he says, and there’s something in his tone that makes your skin prickle. “my turn.”

the game goes back and forth, questions getting sharper, flirtier, the shots piling up. you’re both laughing, but it’s tense, like you’re circling something dangerous. you ask him about his first kiss; he asks you about the last time you broke a rule. he’s loosening up, his usual restraint cracking, and you’re eating it up, every brush of his hand against yours sending a jolt through you.

then it’s your turn again, and you’re feeling bold, maybe too bold. “what’s one thing you’ve always wanted to try but never had the guts to do?” you ask, your voice teasing, but your eyes are daring him to cross a line.

he pauses, longer than before, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. then he leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath, and says, “something like this.” before you can process, he grabs a shot from the bartender’s tray, holds it up, and says, “new rule. you hold the shot. i take it.”

your brain short-circuits, but you’re too far gone to back down. “what, like, in my mouth?” you say, half-laughing, half-challenging, but your heart’s pounding.

“exactly like that,” he replies, his voice so low it’s almost a growl, and his eyes are burning into yours, no trace of a joke.

you hesitate, but the way he’s looking at you—like he’s starving—makes you nod. you take the shot glass, tip your head back, and let the tequila pool in your mouth, the burn sharp against your tongue. you’re hyper-aware of everything: the bar’s noise fading, the heat of his body as he stands, the way his hand brushes your jaw as he tilts your face up.

he doesn’t break eye contact, not once, as he leans in, his lips hovering over yours for a split second, close enough that you feel the ghost of his breath. then his mouth closes over the edge of the shot, his lips brushing yours, soft but deliberate, as he takes the tequila, his tongue grazing the corner of your mouth just enough to make your knees weak. he pulls back, swallowing, his eyes dark and unreadable, but the tension’s so thick you could choke on it.

“your turn,” he says, voice rough, sitting back like nothing happened, but his hand’s still near yours, and you know you’re both in way too deep now.

the tequila’s hitting hard now, your head buzzing, the world softening around the edges. you and nanami are slouched closer together, the bar’s noise a distant hum, like it’s just you two in this hazy, charged bubble. your thighs are pressed together under the bar, and you’re not sure who leaned in first, but neither of you’s pulling away. the empty shot glasses are piling up, and your laughter’s getting looser, sloppier, every touch lingering longer than it should.

he’s got that look again, intense, like he’s trying to figure out how far this can go before it breaks. the game’s still on, but the questions are getting reckless, dangerous. it’s his turn, and he leans in, elbow on the bar.

“what’s your biggest fantasy in bed?” he asks, no preamble, no hesitation, his eyes locked on yours like he’s daring you to flinch. it’s filthy, the way he says it, and it sends a shiver down your spine, your breath catching.

you laugh, but it’s shaky, and you take a sip of your drink to buy time, your cheeks burning. you could dodge, take a shot, but the alcohol’s got your guard down, and the way he’s watching you—hungry, unguarded—makes you want to match him. you lean closer, your lips curling into a smirk, and say, “you.”

it’s out before you can stop it, hanging in the air like a spark. his eyes darken, and he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t brush it off. he just stares, his gaze heavy, like he’s imagining it right there. “careful,” he murmurs, but his voice is thick, and you catch the way his hand tightens around his glass. “you don’t know what you’re starting.”

you’re dizzy, from the drinks or him or both, but you don’t back down. “maybe i do,” you say, your voice softer now, teasing.

you’re both drunk, past the point of pretending this is just friendly, his tie long gone, sleeves rolled up, and your hair’s falling messy around your face. his hand’s been creeping closer all night, and now it’s resting on your thigh, warm and heavy through your skirt, his fingers pressing just enough to make your pulse race.

“you wanna know why i don’t get along with my girlfriend anymore?” he says, leaning in so close you can feel the heat of his breath on your cheek. his hand tightens on your thigh, sliding up an inch, and it’s enough to make your whole body go weak, your breath hitching. “yeah,” you manage, your voice barely a whisper, “tell me.”

he’s so close now, his lips almost brushing your ear, his fingers digging into your thigh like he’s anchoring himself. “it’s her,” he says, low and rough, the words spilling out like a dam’s broken. “she doesn’t want me. not the way i need. i want—fuck, i want someone who’ll let me take control, who’ll give themselves up to me, let me push them to the edge and beg for more.”

your knees are jelly, your head spinning, and you’re gripping the edge of the bar to keep yourself upright. his words are filthy, raw, painting pictures in your mind that make heat pool in your core. his hand’s still on your thigh, higher now, his thumb brushing slow circles that send shivers up your spine. you try to speak, but all that comes out is a shaky, “kento…”

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes heavy-lidded, searching your face like he’s waiting for you to stop him. but you don’t. you can’t. you’re too far gone, your body leaning into his touch, your lips parted, and he sees it—the way you’re unraveling under him. “you get it, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice a low growl, his hand sliding up another inch, bold and possessive.

you’re weak, completely undone, your heart pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it. his face is inches from yours, and you’re drowning in the scent of his cologne, the weight of his hand, the promise in his words. you know you’re crossing a line, but right now, with him this close, you don’t care.

he leans back suddenly, his hand slipping from your thigh, leaving your skin cold where his touch had been. “you wanna get out of here?” he asks. it’s not a question, not really; it’s a dare, and you feel it in your bones.

your heart stumbles, but you don’t hesitate. “yeah,” you say. you slide off the stool, legs shaky from the drinks and the way he’s looking at you, and follow him out, the cool night air hitting your skin like a shock.

his car’s parked a block away, a sleek, dark mercedes that screams understated money, and you’re hyper-aware of his presence beside you, his hand brushing your lower back as he guides you through the crowd. neither of you speaks, the silence heavy, loaded. when you reach the car, he unlocks it but doesn’t open the door right away. instead, he turns to you, backing you against the passenger side, his body close but not quite touching, caging you in.

“last chance to walk away,” he says, but you catch the strain in it, like he’s holding himself back by a thread. his eyes search yours, and you can feel the heat radiating off him, the way his hands flex at his sides like he’s itching to touch you.

you don’t walk away. you tilt your chin up, defiant, wanting, and that’s all it takes. he closes the distance, one hand cupping your jaw, firm but not rough, and kisses you like he’s been starving for it.

his lips are hot, demanding, and you melt into him, your hands fisting in his shirt as you pull him closer. the kiss is messy, all teeth and tongue, the taste of whiskey and tequila mingling, and you’re drowning in it, in him.

you arch into him, desperate for more, your body pressing against his, but he’s in control, and he proves it. when you push up on your toes, chasing his mouth, he pulls back just enough to make you whimper, his thumb brushing your lower lip, teasing. “slow down,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl that sends a shiver through you. “we’re doing this my way.”

you’re panting, your body trembling under his gaze, and he’s watching you like he’s memorizing every reaction. his hand slides to your waist, pinning you against the car, and he kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, like he’s savoring it.

you try to arch again, to press yourself closer, but he pulls back just enough to keep you wanting, his lips hovering over yours, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “patience,” he says, and the word alone makes your knees weak, his control wrapping around you like a tether you don’t want to break.

you’re trembling, caught in the push and pull of his restraint, the way he keeps you teetering on the edge with every calculated move. his hand on your waist tightens, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp, and you feel the hard line of his body against yours.

“you’re shaking,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, almost amused, but there’s a hunger in it that makes your stomach flip. his thumb traces a slow line along your hip, slipping just under the hem of your shirt, grazing bare skin. “nervous?”

you shake your head, defiant. “not nervous,” you manage, your voice breathy, betraying you. “just… want you.”

his eyes flash, something dangerous sparking in them, and for a second, you think he’s going to kiss you again, devour you right there. but he doesn’t. instead, he leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “you have no idea what you’re asking for,” he says, his voice a low growl, each word sinking into you like a promise. “but you’re gonna find out.”

before you can respond, he pulls back, his hand leaving your waist to open the passenger door. “get in,” he says, not a request, and the authority in his tone makes your knees weak. you slide into the seat, your pulse racing, and he shuts the door with a quiet click that feels final, like you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross. he rounds the car, sliding into the driver’s seat, and the silence between you is heavy, charged, as he starts the engine.

he doesn’t drive far—just a few blocks to a quieter street, where the city lights are dim and the world feels smaller, just you and him. he cuts the engine and turns to you, his gaze heavy, assessing. “still with me?” he asks, his voice softer now, but still laced with that control that makes your skin prickle.

“yeah,” you breathe, leaning toward him, your hands itching to touch him. you reach out, fingers brushing his jaw, but he catches your wrist, his grip firm, stopping you. your breath hitches, and he smirks, like he’s enjoying how easily he can unravel you.

“not yet,” he says, his thumb stroking the inside of your wrist, slow and deliberate, making your whole body hum. “you don’t get to touch until i say.” he releases your wrist, but his hand slides to your thigh again, higher this time, his fingers spreading possessively over your skin. you arch toward him, desperate, but he pulls back just enough to keep you wanting, his eyes never leaving yours.

“kento,” you whisper, half-pleading, and he leans in, finally kissing you again, slow and deep, his tongue teasing yours until you’re whimpering into his mouth. his hand slides up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher, and you’re melting, completely at his mercy, every nerve sparking under his touch. when you try to press closer, he pulls back again, just enough to make you chase him, his lips curling into that infuriating, controlled smirk.

“good girl,” he murmurs, the words hitting you like a shockwave, and you’re done for, your body trembling, ready to give him anything he wants, right there in the dark of his car.

“you’re so responsive,” he murmurs, like he’s savoring every reaction he pulls from you. his hand slides higher, fingers slipping under the edge of your underwear, and you gasp, your hips jerking instinctively toward him. he pauses, his gaze sharpening, and you feel the weight of his control settle over you like a blanket. “stay still,” he says, his tone firm, leaving no room for argument. “you move when i tell you to.”

you nod, biting your lip, your body trembling with anticipation as his fingers brush against you, teasing, not quite giving you what you want. he’s slow, deliberate, exploring you with a precision that makes your head spin, his touch light but purposeful, building a pressure that’s almost unbearable. you’re already slick, desperate, and he knows it, his lips curling into that smirk that drives you wild.

“you’re so needy,” he says. his fingers trace the edge of your underwear, slow, teasing, brushing the sensitive skin where your thigh meets your core. you’re already aching, slick and hot, and he hasn’t even touched you properly yet. “but you’re gonna be good for me, aren’t you? gonna let me take my time.”

you nod, biting your lip, your body trembling as his fingers hook under the fabric, tugging it aside with agonizing precision. the cool air hits you, and you gasp, hips twitching instinctively, but his other hand presses firmly on your thigh, keeping you still. “what did i say? don’t move,” he orders again.

his fingertip grazes you, feather-light, just along the edge, and it’s torture, the barest touch sending sparks through your nerves. he’s slow, methodical, circling your entrance, spreading your wetness with a deliberate stroke that makes you clench. “so ready,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his eyes flicking to your face, drinking in the way your lips part, the way your chest heaves. “but i’m not letting you have it that easy.”

you whimper, your hands gripping the seat, nails digging in as he presses one finger against you, not pushing in, just resting there, letting you feel the pressure. “kento, please,” you whisper, your voice breaking, but he shakes his head, his thumb brushing over you, teasing your clit for a split second before pulling back.

“patience,” he says, his voice a low growl, and then he’s finally giving you something, his finger sliding in, slow, so slow, the stretch deliberate as he pushes past your entrance. you feel every inch, the way he curls slightly, testing, exploring, his knuckle brushing against your walls as he sinks deeper. your head falls back, a moan slipping out, and he pauses, just holding there, letting you adjust, letting you feel him.

“look at me,” he commands, and you force your eyes open, meeting his gaze, dark and intense, as he starts to move, pulling back almost all the way before pushing in again, deeper this time, his finger curling just right to hit that spot that makes you gasp. when you start to rock your hips, chasing more, he stops, his finger still inside you, and you whine, tears prickling your eyes.

“i said don’t move,” he repeats, his voice firm, his free hand gripping your thigh harder, pinning you in place. “you come when i let you, understand?” you nod, desperate, your body shaking, and he rewards you with a second finger, pushing in alongside the first, the stretch fuller now, making you bite your lip to stifle a sob.

“please, kento,” you beg, your voice a broken whisper, tears spilling over as the pleasure coils tighter, your body screaming for release. he leans closer, his lips brushing your cheek, his breath hot against your skin.

without warning, his pace shifts, his fingers thrusting harder, faster, the rhythm brutal and unrelenting. the wet sound of his movements fills the car, obscene and overwhelming, as he drives into you with a force that makes your whole body jolt.

each thrust is deep, his fingers curling sharply to hit that spot inside you that sends white-hot pleasure shooting through your veins. you cry out, your head falling back against the seat, your hands clawing at the leather as you struggle to hold on.

“kento—fuck,” you sob, your voice breaking, the intensity too much, too good, your body screaming for release. his fingers are merciless, pounding into you, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit with every thrust, sending shockwaves of pleasure that make your vision blur. you’re a mess, trembling, sweating, your hips twitching despite his orders, desperate to meet his brutal pace.

“please, kento, i can’t—i need—”

“no,” he cuts you off. “you’ll wait.” his thumb presses hard against your clit, circling roughly, and you scream, the pleasure so intense it’s almost pain. he’s pushing you to your limit, his fingers relentless, driving into you with a ferocity that leaves you sobbing, your body completely at his mercy.

“look at you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear as he keeps up his punishing rhythm. “crying for me, so desperate. you’re mine right now, aren’t you?” his fingers twist inside you, hitting that spot again, and you nod frantically, tears falling freely, your body shaking as you cling to his words, to his control.

you’re right there, teetering on the edge, the pleasure so overwhelming it’s almost unbearable, your walls clenching tight around his fingers. tears stream down your face, your breaths coming in broken sobs, and you’re so close, so close and he knows—reading every shudder, every gasp, and just as you feel the first wave start to crash, he pulls his fingers out completely, leaving you empty and aching.

you cry out, a raw, desperate sound, your body shaking, leaving you a panting, trembling mess. your thighs are slick, your underwear soaked, and you’re practically sobbing. “no, no, please.”

“i told you,” he says, “you don’t come until i say.” he shifts, his hands moving to his belt, the sound of the buckle clinking loud in the quiet car. your eyes widen, your breath catching as he undoes it with slow, deliberate movements, the leather sliding through the metal with a soft rasp.

“get over here,” he orders, his voice sharp, and you’re moving before you can think, your body obeying on instinct. you lean across the center console, your hands trembling as you reach for him, but he grabs your wrist, stopping you.

“not your hands,” he says, his eyes burning into yours. “your mouth.” he undoes his pants, freeing himself, and you swallow hard, your mouth watering despite the ache still pulsing between your thighs. he’s hard, thick, and the sight of him makes your already shaky resolve crumble.

he guides you down, his hand firm on the back of your neck, not rough but unyielding, and you lower yourself, your lips brushing against him. you’re still reeling, your body screaming for release, but you want to please him, need to, and you take him into your mouth, slow at first, your tongue tracing the length of him. he groans, low and guttural, his fingers tightening in your hair, and the sound sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, his voice rough, guiding you with a steady hand, setting the pace. “take it all.” you do your best, your lips stretching around him, your head bobbing as you try to match his rhythm, but he’s in control, his grip firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

every time you try to speed up, desperate to please, he pulls you back, slowing you down, making you feel every inch of him. you’re a mess, tears and spit mixing, your body still trembling from being left on the edge, but you’re lost in him, in the way he’s using you, in the way he’s watching you with that dark, hungry gaze.

“deeper,” he says, his voice a low growl, thick with want, and you feel his fingers tighten in your hair, pulling you closer. you relax your throat, taking a shaky breath through your nose, and he pushes you down, slow but relentless, his cock sliding deeper until it hits the back of your throat.

you gag slightly, your eyes watering, but he doesn’t let up, his hand steady, holding you there as you adjust. “that’s it,” he murmurs, his voice rough but steady, his thumb stroking the back of your neck like a reward. “take all of me.” your throat constricts around him, the sensation overwhelming, and you’re struggling to breathe, your hands gripping his thighs for balance. he’s so deep now, filling your mouth completely, and you can feel the pulse of him, hot and heavy, as you try to keep up.

he pulls you back just enough to let you catch your breath, your lips slick and swollen, but before you can fully recover, he pushes you down again, harder this time, his hips shifting to meet you. you choke, a muffled whimper escaping. his groans are louder now, raw, and you can feel the tension in his thighs, the way his control is fraying just a little at the edges.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he mutters, his voice tight, and he thrusts into your mouth, shallow but firm, making you take him deeper with each push. his hand in your hair guides you, relentless, and you’re a mess, spit dripping down your chin, your body still throbbing.

you can feel him tensing, his breaths coming faster, rougher, and the way he’s throbbing against your tongue tells you he’s close, so close you can almost taste it.

just as his hips stutter, a low, guttural sound escaping him, he yanks you back by the hair, hard enough to make you gasp. your scalp stings, and you’re panting, spit-slick and dazed, as he holds you there, his eyes blazing with intensity. “not yet,” he growls, his voice rough, strained, like he’s fighting his own edge as much as he’s controlling yours. “you don’t get it that easy.”

your chest heaves, your lips trembling as you try to catch your breath, but before you can process, he’s moving and gestures to the backseat. “get back there,” he says. you scramble over the center console, your body shaky, skirt still bunched around your hips, and he follows.

he doesn’t give you time to settle. his hands are on you, pushing you down face-first onto the seat, your cheek pressed against the cool leather, your knees tucked under. you hear the soft click of the seatbelt being pulled, and then his hands are on your wrists, yanking them behind your back. the seatbelt strap loops around them, tight and unyielding, binding your hands together.

“stay down,” he orders, his voice low, dangerous, as he kneels behind you, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you pinned. you can feel the weight of him, the heat of his body, and the rustle of his clothes as he shifts, his other hand trailing down your spine, slow and deliberate, making you arch despite yourself.

without warning, his hand lifts, and then it comes down hard, a sharp smack against your bare ass that makes you yelp, the sting blooming hot and sudden across your skin. your body jolts, but his other hand keeps you pinned, unmoving, and the mix of pain and pleasure sends a shockwave through you, making you clench instinctively. “fuck,” you gasp, your voice muffled against the seat, and you hear him chuckle, low and dark, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

“you like that,” he says, not a question, his voice rough with control as he delivers another smack, harder this time, the sound echoing in the cramped backseat. your skin burns, the heat spreading, and you whimper, your hips twitching despite his orders to stay still.

he pauses, his hand resting on the stinging flesh, fingers kneading lightly, and you can feel his gaze on you, heavy and assessing. “answer me,” he says, his tone sharp, demanding. “have you thought about this? about me, your coworker, fucking you?”

your breath catches, your face burning as much as your ass, and you’re too far gone to lie, too wrecked to pretend. “yes,” you admit, your voice shaky, barely audible against the leather. “all the time.”

he hums, low and approving, and delivers another sharp spank, this one making you cry out, the sting blending with the throbbing need between your thighs. “good,” he murmurs, his hand lingering, soothing the burn with a slow stroke that makes you tremble. “because i’ve thought about it too. bending you over my desk, making you scream my name.”

he shifts behind you, his hand on your lower back easing up, but the reprieve is brief. “spread your legs,” he orders, and you obey instantly, your knees parting as far as the cramped backseat allows, exposing yourself completely.

without warning, his mouth is on you from behind, his lips and tongue diving into your slick heat with a hunger that makes you cry out. it’s sloppy, relentless, his tongue lapping at you, broad and rough, no trace of gentleness in the way he devours you.

he’s so mean about it, sucking hard on your clit, his teeth grazing just enough to make you jolt, the sensation sharp and overwhelming. “kento—fuck,” you whimper, your voice breaking as you squirm, but his hands grip your hips, pinning you in place, his fingers digging into the tender flesh he spanked raw.

“stay still,” he growls against you, the vibration of his voice sending a shockwave through your core, and you moan, your bound hands twisting uselessly against the seatbelt. he’s merciless, his tongue plunging into you, licking deep, then pulling back to suck and nip at your clit, the wet sounds of his mouth obscene in the quiet car. spit and your arousal mix, dripping down your thighs, and he laps it up, greedy, his stubble scraping your sensitive skin.

he knows exactly what he’s doing, pushing you right to the edge, his lips closing around your clit, sucking hard, then releasing just as you start to unravel, only to dive back in, harder, meaner. “please, kento, i can’t—” you sob, tears spilling down your cheeks, your voice muffled against the seat as the pleasure becomes too much, too intense.

“you can,” he says, his voice muffled but firm, and he doubles down, his tongue fucking into you, fast and deep, his lips smacking wetly against your skin. it’s too much, the sloppy, relentless assault driving you wild, and you’re done for, the coil snapping as your orgasm hits like a wave, crashing through you.

you scream, your body shaking uncontrollably, your hips bucking against his face despite his grip, and he doesn’t stop, licking you through it, drawing out every shudder, every pulse, until you’re a whimpering, oversensitive mess, your thighs trembling, slick and spit coating you.

he finally pulls back, his breath heavy, as he watches you quiver, still bound, completely at his mercy. “that’s one,” he murmurs. you barely have time to catch your breath before you feel him shift, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force, pulling you up just enough to position you how he wants.

without a word, he lines himself up, and before you can brace yourself, he thrusts into you in one swift, brutal motion, his thick cock stretching you so suddenly that you scream, the sound raw and loud in the confined space.

he’s big, impossibly so, filling you completely, and the sensation is overwhelming, your still-sensitive walls clenching around him as your body struggles to adjust. your juices coat him, slick and dripping, making the slide easier but no less intense, and you’re loud, too loud, your cries echoing in the car.

“quiet,” he snaps, and you hear the rustle of fabric before his tie is suddenly at your lips, shoved into your mouth with a quick, firm push. the silk muffles your moans, tasting faintly of him, and you whimper around it, your eyes watering as you bite down, trying to obey.

his hand grips the back of your neck, holding you in place, keeping your face pressed into the seat as he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear. “i said stay quiet,” he growls, his tone low and dangerous, sending a shiver through you even as his cock pulses inside you, buried deep, unmoving for a moment, letting you feel every inch of him.

his hips pull back, slow and deliberate, then slam forward, hard, the force rocking you forward against the seat, your muffled cry stifled by the tie. he sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust deep and relentless, his cock stretching you, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, his voice tight, his hand still firm on your neck, keeping you pinned as he fucks into you, hard and mean. “take it all.” your body is helpless, bound and gagged, completely under his control.

your mind is a haze, completely cockdrunk, lost in the relentless, brutal rhythm of nanami’s thrusts as he fucks you hard into the backseat. the tie in your mouth muffles your moans, but you’re still loud, whimpering and choking around the silk as his thick cock stretches you to your limit, slamming into your cervix with every deep, punishing thrust.

your wrists strain against the seatbelt binding them, your body rocking forward with each movement, face pressed into the sweat-slick leather, your juices dripping down your thighs, pooling beneath you in a sticky mess.

the car is a furnace, the windows fogged up, condensation beading and streaking as the air grows heavy with heat and moisture. sweat clings to your skin, your hair sticking to your neck, and nanami’s no better—his shirt clings to his chest, damp and rumpled, his breath coming in loud, guttural grunts that fill the space every time he drives into you. the sound of him, raw and primal, mixes with the wet slap of his hips against your ass, obscene and unrelenting, making your head spin.

“fuck,” he growls, his voice rough, almost feral, as he pushes in again, deeper, harder, his cock hitting your cervix with a force that makes you see stars. he’s relentless, his hands gripping your hips so tight you’re sure they’ll bruise, pulling you back to meet each thrust, his grunts louder, more desperate, as he loses himself in you.

“look at you,” he growls, his voice rough as he leans over you, his breath hot against your neck. “so fucking dumb on my cock, aren’t you? just a messy little slut, taking it all, crying for me.” his words hit you like a spark, making you clench around him, a muffled sob escaping as the pleasure spikes, sharp and overwhelming.

he slams into you harder, his hips grinding against your ass, and you feel him hit your cervix again, the pressure so intense it’s almost painful, but you’re too far gone to care, your body craving every brutal thrust. “bet you’ve been dreaming about this,” he snarls, his cock throbbing inside you. “getting fucked stupid by your coworker, my fat cock stretching you out, making you drip all over me. you’re such a needy little thing, aren’t you?”

you’re shaking, your mind blank except for his voice, his cock, the way he’s claiming you completely, your walls clenching around him, and he feels it, his grunts getting louder, more desperate. “fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, his thrusts growing erratic, his control fraying. “gonna fill you up, make you take every drop. you want that, don’t you? want me to cum deep inside this perfect little pussy?”

his words, the raw hunger in them, send you spiraling, and you’re done for, the coil in your core snapping as another orgasm crashes through you. you scream into the tie, your body convulsing, your walls clamping down around him so hard it pulls a guttural moan from his throat.

he’s right there with you, his cock pulsing as he slams into you one last time, burying himself deep. “fuck,” he growls, and you feel him cum, hot and thick, filling you, his hips stuttering as he grinds against you, drawing out every shudder, every pulse.

you’re both trembling, panting, the car a haze of heat and sweat, his cock still buried inside you as you both come down, your body limp, completely spent, his cum and your juices mingling, dripping out around him. he leans over you, his breath ragged, his hand stroking your hip, possessive and grounding, as you both try to catch your breath in the sticky, fogged-up confines of the backseat.

he shifts, and you feel him move, his hands gripping your hips again, possessive but slower now. “good girl,” he murmurs, his voice rough, almost hoarse, and before you can process it, he’s pushing into you again, his softening cock sliding through the wet, nasty mess between your legs. it’s sloppy, the slick sounds obscene as he thrusts in, slow and deep, the sensation overwhelming your raw, sensitive walls.

you whimper, high and broken, your body jerking at the overstimulation, every nerve screaming as he fills you again, his cum and yours making everything wetter, messier.

“shh,” he says, but it’s softer now, less a command and more a coaxing, his hands kneading your hips as he rocks into you, lazy but deliberate, savoring the way you clench around him. your whimpers are constant, muffled by the tie, your body trembling uncontrollably, too sensitive, too full, but you can’t stop the way your hips twitch back into him, craving the feeling despite the intensity.

he leans over you, his chest pressing against your bound arms, and you feel his lips on your back, soft and warm, kissing a slow trail down your spine. “so good for me,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice low, almost tender, as he kisses lower, his lips brushing the curve of your back, grounding you in the haze of overstimulation. “look at you, taking it all, so fucking perfect.”

his thrusts slow, becoming more of a grind, his softening cock still buried deep, and you’re trembling, your body a live wire as he kisses down your spine one last time, his breath warm against your skin. he finally stills, his hands stroking your hips, your thighs, soothing the trembling as he stays inside you, letting you both catch your breath.

the car is quiet now, save for your muffled whimpers and his heavy breathing, the air thick with the aftermath, the windows fogged, the leather slick. he presses one final kiss to the small of your back, soft and reverent, before pulling out slowly, leaving you empty, spent, and utterly his in the hazy, sweaty confines of the backseat.

#oh my god #kento my beloved #nanami kento smut #nanami smut #kento smut #nanami x reader smut #kento nanami smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk smut #jjk x reader smut #nanami x reader

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vorfreudevortex · 1 month ago

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“ UBI AMOR, IBI DOLOR ”

nanami kento .

contains: fluff if you're a real lover, angst if you're normal

word count: 1.6k

riea's comments: yk what's so funny guys, that really takuma work i've been talking about for the past few months or so, wypamn, yeah that one, its scrapped lmaooo lets all laugh. oh, that's not funny? oh, okay. anyways, here's something i wrote for it a while back, i hope you like it and THIS is my comeback work okay? NOT my clover. also, special shoutout to the loves of my lives, @mayyhaps and @chericos. i heart yall

you climbed into your car with a shaky exhale, hands gripping the steering wheel as if it might ground you. the engine roared to life under your touch, and you tapped in satoru’s location on the gps with more force than necessary. the route lit up in bright blue, the estimated time mocking you like it somehow knew this night was going to be an ordeal

seriously—what the hell had gotten into kento? of all the people he could’ve called, invited out, confided in… it had to be satoru? and then on top of that, he drank himself nearly unconscious? kento, who once got drunk enough to reenact one of the scenes from his series in shakespearean english, apparently decided tonight was the night to spiral. and with him of all people

the tires hummed as you sped through dimly lit city streets, traffic lights smearing into streaks of red and green through your windshield. the night air hung heavy, pressing in through the crack in your window as you took sharp turns, your mind racing faster than your car. your jaw clenched with every block. if this was some elaborate setup for satoru to make you watch a 40-minute powerpoint-slash-conspiracy video titled " nanami kento is NOT the man you think he is", you were going to walk on the road and pray a car hits you

your phone pinged with a message just as you pulled into the curb:

satoru (sent 2 mins ago):

we're at bar ten. he's been talking about u for like 30 minutes straight and it's getting EMBARRASSING. pls hurry before he recites poetry

satoru (sent just now):

update: he just called your laugh "unfairly pretty" and now he's talking to a bottle of gin

you turned off the engine, sighing again

bar ten had that kind of music that never committed to a real genre. the bass was soft, almost pretending it wasn't there, and the conversations floated over it like bubbles waiting to pop. you scanned the room and spotted them quickly—suguru sitting in a booth with satoru clinging onto him comfortably, hands running through the others hair. kento was slouched across from them with his head tipped back, glasses discarded on the table before him and eyes fixed on the ceiling like it held the correct answer to every bad decision he'd ever made

you approached slowly. suguru caught sight of you first, raising a brow and gesturing toward the table like, please deal with this

"kento?" you called softly, sliding into the seat next to him. it took a few shakes of his shoulder for him to realize someone else was there—you were there. you've only seen him get this drunk once before: a random night a few years ago. somehow the idea of a drinking competition filled the air and every bottle known to man was scattered across kento's kitchen island. little did he know, you had switched out your alcoholic beverages for water, but he was too dazed to realize. so while he drank and drank, you watched on

big, strong arms (though it seemed a considerable amount of their strength was gone) enveloped your frame, "my wife!"

it was a nickname he hadn't used since you were kids. "i want to be your husband when we're older! and you will be my wife! if you want to, of course…" a five-year-old kento said to you bashfully on a spring day at the park, weeds that he thought were flowers clenched in his outstretched fist. the name kept up for a couple of years but you never knew the reason why he stopped

"my wife is here! oh, how i've missed you." his speech was slurred, a result of downing a few bottles of whiskey, rum, and gin—it's a miracle that he's still conscious. his grip got even tighter on you as he burrowed his face into the crook of your neck, "ken?... ken? let's go home." feeling his head shift up and down and his soft breaths on your neck, you gathered all of your strength and lifted off the seat, managing to get him all the way to your car and relaxed in the front seat

by the time you pulled into your building's garage, the city had gone still. not quiet, but softer. as if everything outside had agreed to pause, just for a while. kento didn't ask which floor, didn't ask where to put his shoes, didn't hesitate before settling on the couch like it was his apartment

because it basically was. he'd been coming over since the two of you were kids—after school, after breakups, after shitty college nights where neither of you wanted to talk about what went wrong. this place had always been an anchor. and you never questioned letting him in

you poured a glass of water, eyeing him from the kitchen. "suguru's a menace," he slurred, ridding himself of his blazer and tie with a grunt. "and satoru's louder now than he was at sixteen, how is that possible?"

you cracked a smile, setting the glass on the coffee table. "i ask myself that every time i see him."

kento chuckled—a real one. then it twisted into something sadder. "they're good, though. together, i mean. they make sense. like puzzle pieces. even the jagged parts."

you sat beside him, not too close, but close enough to provide comfort—provide something. he seemed to be sobering up a little bit—after all, alcohol never stayed in his system for long. his eyes shut closed, like he was dissociating but he could feel everything: the cool air from the slightly open window, the fabric of his pants and collared shirt uncomfortably brushing against his skin like it wasn't supposed to do that, the flurry of words dedicated to you that might be impossible to string together even if given the chance, words that were accumulated over years of watching, waiting.

"i loved you before i even knew what that meant," he whispered. "i used to count how many times you said my name in a day. like an idiot."

"you remember that one summer," he continued, "when your ac broke and we just laid on the floor with popsicles all day? you were wearing that stupid tank top with the cartoon frogs."

you smiled, aching. "i remember."

"i couldn't even look at you without getting lightheaded."

he paused, "still can't."

he finally opened his eyes. they were glassy but clear enough to look right at you. right through you.

"i tried to date other people. i tried to un-feel it. but it's you. it's always been you."

you reached out, brushed your fingers against his hand. he caught them. he always did.

"i'm drunk," he said, voice cracking, "and this is unfair to you. but if i don't say it now, i never will."

the room fell silent for a while, heavy with the words spoken and those that didn't need to be. you'd thought kento had dozed off, the exhaustion and alcohol mixing,

but then softly—so softly it could've been mistaken for a sigh—he said:

"you looked too good in white."

you glanced down. his head was on your shoulder, but his eyes were open now, staring at nothing. he swallowed thickly, voice lower. "i told myself i could handle it. that it was just a shoot. just a fake wedding. but then you kissed me in that last shot—like it meant something—and i… i lost."

that shoot was for suguru's moonlight wine collection. you and kento were styled in wedding attire, with matching rings, a high-end ballroom, and a script that called for authentic intimacy. you didn't have to dig far, and it seems… neither did he.

kento pulled away slightly to sit up, rubbing his face. someone unfamiliar with him wouldn't have noticed, but you're his best friend, the one he loves. of course you noticed the slight change in his mannerisms, how he trembled, and how his khakis turned color when he stared downwards. and all it took was a comforting rub on his back to break the dam that was kento's bottled up emotions. he choked on his sobs—fighting everything possible to keep it together, to not completely break down.

"i've been in love with you for most of my life," he said hoarsely, tears streaming down his face but he never made an attempt to wipe them away. like it was his sin, his punishment, something he deserved for keeping it in for this long. "and then i had to stand under that damn arbor, with cameras on us, and look at you like you were mine… when you never were."

the memory flashed—your hand in his, his thumb tracing your knuckles between posing directions like it was muscle memory. the way his eyes never left you, even after the photographer called for a break. kento exhaled. "and i know you've got… everything. people who adore you. a world that spins with you at its center. but for one second that day, i let myself pretend."

"and then," he continued, almost laughing now, "the articles dropped. 'the most believable love story of the season,' they said. 'if you told us they were secretly together, we'd believe it.' and i thought, god, if only they knew how much i wished it were true."

kento has never experienced a first love or a first love. all he knows is a first love, and he's lost her.

for i am a fool, bound by the shackles of unrequited love.

jjk taglist

@blendingcaramal @gzchaos @theamazingrain @woah-girlz @voloslobotomyservice

@kyozvy @obessionofagrl @bubybubsters @sugurusbaobei @raindropsonrwses

@c-moon20-12 @saltynanobeanie @theamazingrain @synthiiiiis @ghostlyluminarycloud

@poopyyy @supernatrualqueen @bxrbie-jadeee @laitifly @babysoo-meu

@cheesecake95 @strawberry-cherrypie @makeshiftproject @magiamad0ka @ncitygreen

@oniondrip @cloudy-yyy @definitely-not-leena @kidd3ath @atigerandabear

@russianremy @ohnoitsamistakee18 @ivy-vivii @inoluvrr @1ndee

@yourhornysister @ancientimes @cupcaketeddybehr @tomikixd @e-dollly

@ozdramaqueen @nymphsdomain @beeksyurr @colorcode @baekhyunsbestie

@vorfreudevortex @leuriss @xaithings @corvid007

#jjk #nanami #nanami kento #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen angst #jujutsu nanami #jujutsu kaisen nanami #kento nanami #nanami kento jjk #kento nanami x reader

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vorfreudevortex · 1 month ago

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grumpy guardian angel levi

#are you picking up what im putting down #levi my beloved #aot levi #levi aot

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vorfreudevortex · 2 months ago

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got very sick and rewatched jjk

#chose my beloved #yeah thats it #jjk fanart #choso #choso kamo #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen fanart #jjk #jjk x reader

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vorfreudevortex · 2 months ago

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then i did hiromi higuruma and got shadowbanned on tiktok for it!

#OH MT GOD #AAAAAAAAAAH #it’s stunning omfg #art #digital art #fanart #artist #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #hiromi #higuruma #higuruma hiromi

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vorfreudevortex · 2 months ago

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Nanami Kento was not getting old. He wasn't. He was not. Forty-five wasn't old.

"Oi! Nanamin! I'll take the left!"

A grown man's voice that still somehow didn't suit Yuuji. A ghost of an image flickered across Kento's mind; a memory; a boy, superimposed over a man.

"Alright. Don't take any unnecessary risks. Meet me in the middle of the lower corridor. We've cut off its exit routes, now."

Kento watched Yuuji leap down a set of stairs that were no longer stairs; their crumbled wreckage structureless, as though the Curse that had befallen the building was akin to a landslide.

The raggedy old block had needed demolishing for years, anyway, such an eyesore, what was city planning doing with his taxes...but perhaps a nice restaurant? No, something else, but not a club, so noisy and there's enough racket from the kids around this city anyw--

Kento stood. He definitely didn't suppress a groan. He definitely didn't grumble at the blood-clot dust on his knees, and trousers that he only ironed that morning and the crease that was perfect and I haven't even had a chance to read my newspaper, ridiculous, senior management these days, should write a letter of complai--

Kento reached the lower corridor. His blood was acid in his lungs. He coughed, dry. He looked left, and right, and left again. He looked down. His shoelace was untied. He tutted. He knelt down. That was his first mistake.

ROAR! THUNDER THUNDER THUNDER

"Nanamin! Move!"

Kento stood on a dice roll; and broke. The pain was excruciating. He must have been stabbed by a thousand knives, Christ, can't move I can't move like an old man like--

"Oh my-- my god, my back--"

"NANAMIN!"

"My back, Yuuji-- my back--"

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

All of the curtains in the house were drawn. Nanami Kento couldn't be seen like this. You crept closer to him, where he stewed on his back on the sofa like a wounded lion. His head turned away, sour and sulking; though, not for you, you knew.

"Hey. Brought you some tea. A little snack. I went to the store. They didn't have the pastries you liked, they said some guy got there just before I did, but I got--"

A scoff. "Why have they always run out? I go in there every day, half the time they haven't got them, and half the time they're stale, and the other half--"

"--that's three halves, my love--"

"--and another thing--"

"--oh my god, Kento, you're like an old man--"

"Don't say it." Silence, stewing again. You opened your mouth to bicker back, and Kento turned to you, so petulant that you had to bite back a laugh. "Don't."

Kento cleared his throat. He straightened his tie. You could not possibly laugh at his indignity, still dressed as if he would still be going back to work in his sorry state.

There was a knock at the door. As you shot Kento one more look of exasperated affection, and headed to the door, he called out in thinly-veiled panic.

"No visitors today, thank you!"

"What, you gonna get up and stop me? Or throw them out? Please."

Critical hit. Silence. Then: "That was uncalled for."

You laughed. You opened the door. Yuuji stood there, grinning.

"How's the old man holding up?"

A grumble from the sofa ("I'm not old!"). You bit your lip in mirth.

"He's as expected. They ran out of his pastries."

Yuuji held up a paper bag, and gave it a shake. "Yeah, they did. Wonder who bought them?"

A yell from the living room.

"Is it Yuuji? Tell him to come back another time."

"When?"

"Never."

"But he's brought you a hot water bottle. And a new newspaper. And some of your pastries."

"Oh. Oh, well then...send him in."

#kento my beloved #jjk #kento nanami #nanami kento #jjk nanami #kento nanami x reader #kento nanami x you #nanami fluff

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vorfreudevortex · 2 months ago

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The Duke and I - N.K.

Synopsis. Dearest gentle reader, it is with great pride that we introduce this season’s most eligible bachelor, Duke Nanami Kento. However, ladies be warned, rumors swirl that our most gallant gentleman already has his eyes (and hands) set on a particular chambermaid. You.

Pairing. Nanami Kento x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!chambermaid!reader, duke!Nanami, BRIDGERTON AU, duke x chambermaid, slight social clashes, he’s SO in love, courting, face-sítting (fem rec.), squírting, spítting, he’s FÉRAL, fíngering, overstím, breaking furniture, dóggy, “just the típ”, manhandIing, HEADLOCKS, creampíes, tummy buIges, chokíng, dúmbifícation, PÚSSYDRÚNK Nanami, the ton, proposals, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 9.0k

A/N. To that one nonnie that made it impossible NOT to think about this…

“And who–pray tell, is that fine gentleman, Shoko?”

“Who?”

“Him.”

It was like watching a parade, of sorts.

Monarchs upon nobles upon countless upper-class elites filtering in and out of the royal palace. Each with a long, satin gown fluttering about, or men with glinting medals that likely cost more than four lifetimes of your wages.

Debutante season had commenced.

And as part of the Queen’s chambermaids, it was your duty to pain-stakingly welcome each special guest deemed worthy of attending her highness’s garden parties.

Which is why - almost on instinct - you’d snapped your head towards the clip-clop! of a carriage steadying to a halt by the hedge-archway entrance. Catching just a flash of sleek blond, who…

Before the footmen swing open the carriage doors, and out steps the most handsome man you’ve ever seen in your entire life-

“Oh, him. That’s Duke Nanami Kento.” Shoko drawls underneath her breath, dipping into synchronized curtsy alongside the household staff. “And he’s staring intently right at you.”

Honestly, Shoko might be one of the Queen’s most favored healers- but you really think she’s been neglecting the health of her eyes lately. Daring to elbow her in the side, “Don’t jest!”

She snickers, and you’re sure you detect the nearby daughter of a merchant family haughtily sniff your way—“I do no such thing.” Though, not for too long, fortunately for the two of your necks, because just then Duke Nanami’s stepping into clear view of the party - and you’d never glimpsed so many aristocratic mouths drop.

So many ladies (and some gentlemen) fluster, and so many older heads of families water at the mouth like they’d just spotted the most delectable prey.

Understandable, however.

Because if Nanami was thoroughly agreeable to your eyes in the few peeks you’d stolen at him- then he was almost other-wordly now.

With the most charming, tidy golden hair pushed back, a few curls coiling at the nape of his high collar. A towering stature that made even the most accomplished generals hunch in on themselves, and you nearly audibly gulp at the broad flex of his arms within his navy jacket. Stern. Stoic.

His molten, intense eyes peek over thin-rimmed glasses at the buzzing guests ahead, and you swear that they begin to stray somewhere near you—

“Heavens! Must I repeat myself, you common scullion?”

Ah, at the way Marquess Zenin Naoya was saddled right behind you and spitting hellfire, surely.

You rush to bend into an apologetic bow, so low that the knobs of your spine start to ache- “Please forgive my impudence, My Lord-”

“Have you nothing between your ears but lint?” He’s growling, spindly hands tightening on his empty goblet of wine until you hear the silver material creak. And it’s hitting you right then n’ there that in your haste to ogle Duke Nanami, you must have failed to heed Naoya’s calls for more drink-

He turns his sharp profile to the side and spits on a patch of clean-cut grass, “A servant that knows not her place is no better than dirt. What do you gawk at like so?”

“N-nothing, My Lord.”

And you can only watch, in slow-motion terror, as Naoya flicks his beady gaze behind you- and his sour face tenses at the vision of the tall newcomer that’d easily - and very obviously - ousted his mantle as the most eligible bachelor present. “That ol’ duke? Heh- dreaming that he’d bed a wench, did you?”

“Forgive me, sir, it was not my intent to give offence.” You’re breathing out, first clenching as you feel the withering looks that were starting to prop up around you two. Everybody loved a scandal. Trembling hands reaching out for his cup, “I-if you would allow me to just refill-”

“Don’t touch me!”

CLANG!

It happens all at once.

The heavy goblet clatters to the floor, a warm chest nuzzles your back, and a strong hand was locked right around Naoya’s raised wrist. Right before he could strike.

“It seems her highness’s liquor is exceptionally strong.” Nanami’s deep baritone sounds above your head and makes your skin bead with a blanket of goosebumps.

And it’s slightly husky. So attractive.

Especially when he’s tilting his head down so close, something primal in his eyes that made it feel like he was on the very verge of devouring you whole. Right there in the middle of the bustling garden party. Humming sternly, “Yuji, please escort our impaired marquess somewhere ah…quieter.”

“Y-yes, Nanamin- I mean, Your Grace!”

You’re watching, speechless, as a younger boy with the most vibrant head of pink locks runs up from behind and grabs onto both of Naoya’s shoulders to bodily steer him away from you.

He must have been stronger than he looked, clearly, because the proud heir was being lugged away like a sack of potatoes no matter how much he squirmed and fought - much to the amusement of the party-dwellers. And you.

But you’re quick to bite back your startled laughter once you’re realizing that Nanami Kento was still holding onto you. And not just stood behind- you must have stumbled amidst all the commotion because he had a large hand gripped onto your hip to steady you.

You were in his arms.

Gasping, “O-oh.” You couldn’t have broken off faster from him, knees strangely weak as you’re forcing them into yet another curtsy, “I am so-”

“My deepest apologies, Honorable Miss.” The duke beats you to it, a strange smile playing along his stern lips as he bends into an even deeper bow. “I should have asked prior to touching a lady.”

“A-a lady!” You’re squawking, in what was most definitely an unladylike manner. Hands wringing to gesture him to straighten as much as you could without it being seen as defiance against one of the crème de la crème of nobility. “I assure you I am no such thing, Your Grace.”

Just then he kisses the back of your hand in greeting, “Please, call me ‘Nanami’- or ‘Kento’, should you wish, ma’am.”

“It- it is beneath you to be designated that by me-”

“I insist.”

And if everyone here was watching the upending chaos before, then they simply couldn’t remove their eyes by now.

Whilst Nanami - still bowed - only tilted his head up with a smile, looking at you through his long, pale lashes.

You lift the humble fabrics of your working dress, a thick, dark-colored wool that marked you different from the tittering daughters of the upper-class. “B-but I am only in service to her highness.”

“Is that so?” And you’re breathing a sigh of relief as he stands back to his broad, proud figure- finally, he’s understood and would prance off as all young bachelors did to- “For I only gaze upon the most beautiful lady that has graced the floor this evening, and my blessed gaze.”

What?

“Have a charmed night-” Nanami has a dimple- he has a dimple that winks from the side of his grin as he turns and nods down with the velvety brim of his hat. “-My Lady.”

My Lady.

Utahime’s hands clap down on your rigid shoulders. “Sole heir to the Nanami fortune. Rich, handsome, aware when to cease talking.” Her low whistle rings in the air- tinged with such scandal, “Fiend seize it! I should hasten to practice your new title then, Duchess Nanami.”

“You have a lamentable deficiency in wit-”

Utahime, reputably sensible tutor to the offspring of the royal ladies-in-waiting, and known blockhead around your little trio. “And you have a lamentable deficiency in eyesight.” Sighing, “The look he bestowed upon you, my dear…”

“Or would it be ‘My Lordliness.’” Shoko croons in as well, sipping on a flute of bubbly champagne definitely not meant for her. “Oh-so-beautiful wife of Duke Nanami-”

“Attend to your duties!”

Dearest gentle reader,

It has come to my attention - and certainly to that of all the ladies who frequent the halls of Mayfair - something for which you should do well to brace your hearts. Whispers spread that the most eligible bachelor of the season, gentle Duke Nanami Kento, erupted quite the scandal during her majesty’s garden soirée by fixing his much sought-after attentions upon none other than a humble chambermaid.

Yes, you read that correctly, dear reader. For someone reputed in the upper echelons of society for being as stoic as he is handsome, Duke Nanami shares his first spark of interest as he searches for a bride this season.

So heed this author’s advice; as the famed noble resides in the royal palace for the rest of his stay, keep an eye about. For you may just be lucky to be named Duchess of the House of Nanami.

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown.

“This is preposterous!”

“It is absolute truth-”

“It is a sham is what it is.” You’re nearly crying out as you shove Lady Whistledown’s latest scandal sheet back into Shoko’s arms. “He- the duke never fixed his attentions on me.”

And your best friend didn’t spare you a word, only a long, narrowed stare of her intelligent eyes that made your stomach twist.

Did Nanami fix his- no. While you and Shoko huddled into a hidden alcove within the sprawling walls of the palace to read the latest on-dit gossip, you smacked yourself back into reality.

The nobility often did have nothing much to entertain themselves with outside of fanning scandal. He was powerful. He was attractive. And he has as many prospects as there were knights in this palace, surely!

Because - of course, for the universe did love to laugh at your expense - he’d taken residency in the palace until the season ended, as one of the Queen’s guests.

Days later you could count every look, every smile, every bow- goodness, there was that one time that you’d been placing cutlery along the winding royal dinner table. Only for Nanami’s engulfing fingertips to brush against yours and make your skin scorch with his whisper, “Thank you, my lady.”

You’re almost befogged why that wasn’t splashed across Lady Whistledown’s writing- chambermaid loses her wits, hear ye!

“Wh-whichever way one looks at it.” You’re stammering out, realizing that you’d been quiet for much too long. “His grace is simply raising some kind of mischief.”

“Certainly.” She was not certain.

“Just you wait- by the end of this season, Duke Nanami will be married to a lady of high standing and I shall–”

“Be disengaged?” That wasn’t the monotone, sarcastic voice of your longest friend.

It was something masculine, something amused. And it was emanating right from the open space of the corridor reading up to the alcove.

You don’t have to turn your head to realize who it is - Nanami Kento.

Though, you do turn anyway. And you almost regret it when you’re stuck by the sheer intensity of his stare, of his face leaned down so close. So intimately that you can’t stop yourself from flitting a sharp glance down at his plush, curving pink lips.

Perhaps Lady Whistledown wasn’t all that wrong - especially about him being handsome…

“Apologies for startling you, ma’am.” Nanami cuts your traitorous thoughts short by slowly tilting something flat and cream-colored in one hand. “Permit me to explain- will you hopefully be disengaged to attend the upcoming Royal Diamond Ball? Perhaps?”

You’re bowing, confused. “Y-yes, Your Grace. I shall be of service during her highness’s ball.”

It was only the most anticipated assembly this entire year, the annual gathering right in the Queen’s Great Hall to announce the diamond of the season.

And in only a week, every single servant of the palace was to work themselves to the bone - welcoming, chaperoning, making note of the newly-made unions to titter over much later.

“Ah, allow me to clarify.” Rubbing a free hand behind his neck, the famed Nanami Kento almost looks…sheepish. “What I meant was- might you be disengaged to…” Staring right at you, hypnotic. “-join me?”

“…What?”

“Of course, it would be no trouble at all if you can not spare a moment, I should be happy to merely converse with you.”

It slips out- “Th-that’s madness. All those ladies-in-waiting-”

Then he’s clasping your hands, he’s pressing the invitation in- but, more importantly, he’s holding you. “And yet, I would like nothing more than the pleasure of your company.” Close. Too close. His breath wafts your lips, “I hope this is not too forward of me. But should you let yourself, trust that I will take care of everything, My Lady.”

And just as soon as you think he’ll kiss you - how uncouth (though, you admittedly wouldn’t complain) - he bends at the waist to gently grasp your hand.

“Everything.” Whispering a soft kiss into the back, Nanami lingers his lips - his gaze - for a long while. “I await eagerly for your word.”

He’s gone almost as softly, and sweetly, as he’d appeared.

Taking with him the scent of golden caramel, and the racing beat of your heart. You swear you’d have been stuck within the alcove staring behind his muscular back until nightfall had it not been for Shoko.

“So…” She plasters a wry smile once you’re turning her way, invitation trembling in your grip. And you’re noticing that upon its envelope dazzles swooping calligraphy of your name, almost certainly written by him. “Would you prefer ‘Your Gracefulness’ or ‘Duchess Nanami’?”

Dearest gentle reader,

The ton is abuzz as her majesty the Queen’s Royal Diamond Ball nears closer. And the sole heir to the house of Nanami is certainly no exception.

This author hears directly from a reputable source within her highness’s Chamberlain Office that Duke Nanami Kento was uncharacteristically fastidious in securing himself an extra invitation. Most claim this as confirmation of his grace’s dedication to finding a bride, most also claim they’d seen the aforementioned, infamous chambermaid being handed it.

Take care of artifice; but such intrigue of a commoner attending the most prestigious ball of the year may be much more than my readers may be able to bear.

So, ladies, grab your finest gowns and shortest shawls to make haste for a chance to snag the eligible bachelor’s heart once and for all this season! And I shall, of course, be in attendance to report on all the scandals that unfold.

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown.

“I look…”

“Enchanting.” Utahime nods.

“I was thinking more toad-eaten.” You have to mentally remind yourself to close your maw and do your very best not to gape at the reflection in the decadent mirror displayed in front of you.

Despite your words, even you couldn’t deny that the deep, sapphire-encrusted gown you were donning made you look every bit the noblewoman that you weren’t. Its Empire waist snugly crowning the flowing muslin, sleeves fashionably puffed, with tasteful gold jewelry that you wouldn’t have so much as dared to look at let alone be dolled-up into.

It was made for you.

Quite literally. Utahime had been the one to write your letter of acceptance to Duke Nanami (after shrieking herself hoarse in excitement first.) And through a week of hushed conversation with his grace, the ball evening had crept up closer and you had an army of modistes and maids knocking at your servants’ quarters.

Scrubbing you raw, painting your face, slipping you into a dress he’d ordered tailored to your exact measurements- how did he even know?

Shoko had to let you use her office, and she was deriving her payment back for it by beaming at the sight of you. “And I was thinking more Duchess of the house of Nanami-”

“Cease!”

“Ah, so you observe? You are noble in all but title already.”

Whilst Shoko and Utahime - the traitors - burst out into peels of laughter, you’re left fiddling with the silken coverings of your gloves. “You…you don’t suppose he’s making a mockery out of me, after all?”

That makes them quieten down, and Utahime hugs your shoulders in a way that thoroughly displeases the attendants and their ruffles. “You shine everyone else down, my dear. He should be lucky to have such a lovely date this evening.”

“Quite so.” Shoko nods, “And should he dare fool around, I have long sought a specimen upon whom to test my latest scalpel-”

“Shoko!”

“Do let me join.”

“U-um, ehem.” The tense, honestly frightened clearing of Itadori, his protégé’s, throat cuts your morbid conversation short. And as he looks at you, the poor boy blushes- whispering something shapes strangely like a little—“Divine.”

Before you know it, you’re being escorted down the high-ceiling corridor just as you’d always watched the sisters and wives of nobility being guided so.

It’s a pathway more than familiar to you, yet seems so foreign once you approach the grand, imposing double doors opened to the ballroom. It was a magnificent thing; one of the Queen’s proudest possessions - with diamond chandeliers that dripped yellow light like a second sun, and a grand polished staircase kissing down from the doorway to a dance floor at the bottom.

Faint orchestra and chatter tainting the sparkling atmosphere, you breathe in nervously and even the flower-scented air seems too expensive for you.

Itadori hands the chief footman your invitation - something that makes the latter’s bushy eyebrows raise as he recognizes your name. And then the boy squeezes your hand before he leaves you off at the edge of the entrance, “His grace will be utterly bewitched, My Lady. He already is.”

Oh- what?

In the blink of an eye, he’s melted back into the crowd of other youngsters networking outside. And with nearly every guest already inside - you could only descend.

Down.

Down, the massive carpeted staircase- and it felt like every pair of eyes were on you. Most stopping mid-dance. Some whispering behind their fans.

And one, Nanami Kento, staring at you breathless and awestruck where he’d been politely conversing with the Queen herself, and a gaggle of entranced admirers. But he only had eyes for you.

Almost frozen. Almost shocked-

Enough so that your satin-covered feet were just a few steps away from reaching down to the marble ballroom floor before you’re thinking of turning right back around and running-

“You.” A hand on your wrist, a soft pair of lips on the back of your hand. Nanami Kento had broken through just about every rule of aristocracy to storm through packs of nobles and catch your wrist before you escaped.

And when he kisses you, it felt like he was finally breathing for the first time after years. “I had- I had not dared to hope that you would truly appear.” Staring at you through thick, golden lashes as he bends deeper into a bow. “You have honored me with the presence of the most beautiful lady to ever grace these floors.”

Languidly, you’re twisting your body back to face him - to face the crowd - and the way that the distracted orchestra has to begin their slow quadrille from the top, several teary debutantes looking between you and Nanami before shoving their faces into their fans, and even Lord Naoya was casting great attention.

Muttering.

‘Might I inquire as to that lady? Does she have prospects-’

‘Do tell- is it true what Lady Whistledown’s paper said- Bollocks! I wanted to bed Duke Nanami.’

‘My, the chambermaid? The scandal! Oh, but they are a most remarkably striking pair…’

You’re gasping when you catch a glimpse of her highness shifting on her throne to peer over curiously. Nanami had authority- but this?

Gulping, “Is this…is this folly really alright?”

“Oh, My Lady.” He fixes you with a lingering look, “For you, nothing would be folly. May I have this dance?”

“M-mmm, Your Grace-”

“What did I tell you, My Lady?” Nanami’s hot, simmering pant tingles your lips as he’s lavishing you with the swirling edge of his tongue. “Call me Kento.”

And you didn’t have any reason not to.

Well, first of all you two were far, far from any of the prying eyes of the ball by now - tucked away inside the empty, luxurious royal office allocated to him by the Queen. And then he had you pushed against the corner of the wide mahogany table in the middle- hands fisted into your gown, mouth searing against yours.

Nanami flicks the slimy edge of his tastebuds between your spit-glossed maw and groans once you’re eagerly sucking. Gasping. Heaving. “O-open your mouth.”

You’d just made the stern, stoic Duke Nanami stutter. And the thought itself is enough for you to knit your brows together and unhinge your jaw even further, “Like this?”

“Wider.”

“Mmm- like-” A glittery ribbon of saliva slicks down the corner of your lips the moment he’s parting his plump, puckered mouth and kissing you in a way you’d never even heard of. “-this?”

So primal. So heated. He’s huffing out a clouded breath through his flared nostrils, and you’re all but melting with each sleazy scour of his tongue.

“Yeah, wider. Lest I be thought ungentlemanly-” With a thumb latching onto the point of your chin, he has one hand angling your face, and the other curving ‘round your waist to support your weakening knees easily. “Suck on my tongue, ma’am.”

Kissing you and kissing you like he’s parched and every drop of sweet, syrupy water was just drooling from your mouth.

Your whirling head barely even realizes when Nanami has you softly falling back onto the frigid surface of the table. Splayed out completely. His beefy forearm eases the impact, mouth decorating with a few strings of spittle when he’s pulling back with a dampened pwah!

Lungs still clouding out in scorching breezes, “If you would allow it, My Lady.” And you’re whimpering when the doughy mountain of his palm comes rovering down your front. Not resting for a split-second until it was right between your poor legs- “I confess, not a morsel crossed my lips throughout the ball- and I find myself quite famished.”

You’re gasping, trying to close your legs- but it’s like his palm was glued to your drivelling core. Hungry. Desperate. “B-but it is beneath your touch to do such a thing-”

“You’re never beneath my touch.” You swear you catch him look down at your clothed cunt and gulp. Fawny irises dark and dilated, “Never.”

And almost as if he’s proving his point, his free, left hand clasps around your own and flies down gingerly to the absolutely massive bulging tenting Nanami’s trousers.

Oh.

He groans.

Oh.

And he’s looking at you through narrowed, predatory eyes- words so gentle even though the way the thick cylindrical curve of his erection was anything but. “See how you make me?” And with a teary nod, your hips find themselves bucking- “Witness how you- ah.”

Rutting.

So carnally, with your gown and chemise falling back, it makes Nanami snap his half-lidded eyes down at you like he’d just stumbled upon a five-course meal. A predator blood-thirsty for prey.

Drooling in a thin, slow trail, he hastily wipes it away like a gentleman. He wasn’t just famished - he was starved.

And by the way his touch shakes ever-so-slightly on your body, it’s a damn miracle that he hasn’t just lost it right now. “We wouldn’t want to waste your talents on just my hand, ma’am.”

Before you can even begin to wonder what his cryptic words meant, Nanami’s making use of the years of his noble training in combat.

Flipping your two positions, laying himself out on the far table, clinging onto your squirming waist to seat you right above his heavily respiring mouth. With your chemise tugged off with one hand, he’s stealing a good look at your naked, geysering pussy and moaning–

“I-I really am quite famished.”

And his voice breaks.

Making you jerk your hips in a slight gyration- unsure where to rest. “Wh-what are you going to- oh.” Whimpering, once he’s planting a firm kiss near the inner parts of your thighs where slick travelled like an adhesive sheen. Only pushing your gown to bunch upwards, “Please!”

“I shall be having my dinner, My Lady.” Lurching you ever-closer, he had your knees straddling each side of his face and it still wasn’t close enough. “Bon appétit.”

All five of his coarse fingerpads digging into the cheeks of your ass, he flicks his wrist and drags you straight into the gaping cavern of his maw. His glistening tongue was propped out just right to spank the surface of your pussylips on his tastebuds.

“A-ah.” Thighs trembling, it feels so strangely and erotically wet with him salivating all over.

He feels a slippery splosh of your juices leak from your slit and straight into his gullet, the creamy taste flooding up his tongue. “O-ohhh–” Savoring. “Has anyone ever made you feel like hah- this?”

“N-not at all, Your Gr-”

“Kento.”

“K-Kento–!” It’s all that you can squeal when the flexible tendril of his muscle crowns your hole and you’re seeing stars. His tongue is just so long n’ girthy that it makes your poor, filthy entrance clench when he’s slipping just an inch inside. “Fuck- n-ngh- fuck–!”

“Charmed you’re enjoying, ma’am.” And he sounds so genuinely elated - breathy, shaken - at the pretty moans falling from your mouth like music.

Though, it’s not enough.

It might never be enough, so the duke can only prop up slightly on one of his strong elbows just to angle his mouth into the perfect French kiss with your cunt. Slapping his tongue right over the puffy folds of your pussy, he’s licking and licking each stray bead of slick bubbling out of you until you’re all tender and glossy.

Only then is he wafting his right thumb vertically down your cute slit, “Though, not to overwork my dear lady- but might you mind lending me a…hand?”

You’re snapping your head down so fast that your chin knocks against your heaving chest, “Wh-what do you need, Your- ah, Kento?”

“Oh, nothing much, my darling. Just…” Tilting his head, Nanami’s rendering you stupidly dizzy each time he twists the callused knob of his thumb in and out of your folds. “Spit in my mouth.”

“Wh-would that be appropriate?” He was filthy.

Feral. “I would love nothing more.”

And he meant it- he truly, completely, and utterly meant it. You’re watching his prominent Adam’s apple bob greedily once the bead of pearly saliva bubbles between your lips and dead-on into his mouth. Only swirlin’ inside for a mere second before spitting right back into your polished cunt. Hard.

Letting the fat wad slip between your lips, and Nanami doesn’t waste a single second before pushing his rugged middle finger inside your hole.

“There we go.” Gazing in pure lecherous wonderment at the way your needy ring of muscle was swallowing him up, every single solid inch right down to his mountainous knuckle. What a tight fit. “There- there, atta girl.”

“It just feels so- ngh- so-” You don’t even know how to control yourself, hips jerking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth until the globes of your ass strike his chin and make you keen. “Ah!”

“Eeeeeasy does it, ma’am.”

And he’s still grunting your name out with that title- even as he’s pryin’ apart your bloated lips and sticking in yet another digit. The fat ends of his index swiping across, engraving his family signet ring against your very walls-

“This is only a prelude, darling.” You’re flinching at the chilling scrape of the band on his second finger, and he grins. Glueing that very grin against your throbbing clit, he spits again- “Only just getting started.”

“Fuck- fuck!” Going against every policy you’d learned in polite society, you’re throwing your hips back and gyrating out looong sloppy drags of your cunt.

Straight from the treacly base of your pussy to where Nanami was nuzzling your sensitive clit with his nose. Again. And again and again- the duke’s kiss-bitten lips were burning and he’s still craning his neck for more. Panting, “Make a mess of me, My Lady. S’what I’m hah- here for.”

“N-ngh, it feels so gooood, Kento.”

And you don’t even have any inhibitions about that little slip-up of titles anymore, back arching into a perfect curvy ‘S’ shape at the way he’s salivating all over your pussy.

Rovering the ridged edges of his tongue in a cutesy lil’ heart over your clit, pressing down just enough pressure on it like a button. And it’s exactly what he needs to make you gasp, your hole winking- so that he can easily slide-slide-sliiide a third finger in with a resonating squelch!

“So wet. So divine.” He’s groaning at the sight of you suckling in on him and all his inches. Fitted in so deeply that your orifice is struggling to even squeeze, thighs clamping over his sweaty temples. Feeling inside you. Searching. “I must ask that you ruin me, darlin’. Ride me faster.”

Thighs aching, breaths shortening. His metal glasses thump the scorching front of your cunt and you whine.

“Faster.”

“P-pleeease!”

It’s like he’s ravaging your pussy with his thrusts, blond brows furrowing in so tight as he’s leaning in even closer. Tuggin’ apart your folds, he’s discovering every sleek, leaking inch of your cunt like he didn’t have enough time. Never would.

And it’s with only spank after spank of his metallic ring that he’s somehow skidding it right down your saccharine walls and directly into your g-spot. “H-here.”

“There.” Even with the kaleidoscope of tears dazzling your vision, you can make out the completely pussydrunken grin that smears across his face.

Rutting up against the swollen slope of your pussy, he laps up every sodden ounce of slick that escapes you once he hits his slimy target. “With greater fervour now, My Lady.” Your throat clogs up every time he reels his fingerpads down to the curvaceous edges and slams back in. “Harder-”

You grip onto the straight ends of his deltoids, flexing with muscular strength. “I-I’m not sure if that is possible-”

“Do not be gentle with me.” And it almost sounds like a command. Though he’s acting upon it like it’s a complete beg- swerving his palm to sticky clammily onto your left ass cheek and pushing you. “Let yourself hah- go. Give me all of you, I beg.”

You had the most powerful, stoic duke of all the season begging.

And he needed it- he was toying with the lacy circle of your garter and snapping it down onto your flesh with a flick of his fingers.

Only to make you wetter.

So wet with sappy, meady slick that he’s gulping down like his favorite liquor- splashing down between his lips and making him more n’ more inebriated by the second.

Glasses still on. Pumping his hips up into the empty air, all he could do was fuck his fingers into your hotly-glossed walls and pretend he’s doing it all with his aching cock. “Do you think you can handle a fourth, darling?”

Gasping, “P-perhaps-”

“Then…brace yourself…”

You couldn’t brace yourself. You couldn’t even intake a steady breath even if you tried.

Because while you’re perching your dripping pussy near the line of his straight nosebridge, Nanami’s slipping in the coiled edge of his lengthy tongue. Not his fingers. His tongue.

In addition to all he was rummaging your melty insides with, he swabs over the texture of his tastebuds down where you were the most delicate and strokes his tongue inside—

“Sh-shit- shit shit shit-” Your mouth juts out into such an adorable pout that makes the man beneath you thrusts his rugged hips upwards. “I-I think I’m…close, Kento.”

“S’that so? Gonna cum?”

So difficult to even breathe when he’s strobing his fingertips down your bulging g-spot, already battered and bruised with the slamming impacts. With the way he swats the side of your thighs stinging with your garter, “Mhm—hck!”

Probin’ every velvety nook and cranny with his touch, Nanami can’t have you on his weeping cock so he’s twisting all his three- now four fingers, and his tongue inside until his wrist aches. His jaw strained. Tastebuds raw, just as much as your pussy was.

“The orchestra is playing, you can be as loud as your heart desires. Say the words, ma’am- I beg of you to please just hah! say the words.”

It makes your vulnerable lips tremble just to formulate the next few scandalous words, never before having been so fucked-out. “Y-yes. Yes, please. Gonna…cum.”

And you swear that the ever-sensible Nanami Kento is gurgling out a wet giggle right between the space of your puffy pussylips, sending white-hot shockwaves down your bowed spine. “I would be-” He wetly gasps out, before slapping his handsome features right back down.

Addicted. He can’t even move.

“I would- hah- I would be quite-” And his spectacles dig in deep until the metal surface sizzles against your core, pushing and pushing himself back. His tongue’s going wild, stirring around with the wettest slurps. “I would be quite offended if you didn’t, my love.”

He doesn’t just mutter the words - he’s biting them right ‘round the perky knob of your clit. Teething his glinting canines just hard enough while he’s slipping his tongue back out - right on time, right at the very second to tastefully receive the way you throw your head back and squirt.

Hot. Hard.

It feels like your entire body’s caught on fire and no matter how much you’re slobbering your hips to the front n’ back, it only makes the sensation worse.

Your eyes water, mouth hanging open stupidly. “Yes- yes yes yes yes- I’m cumming-” Thighs trembling down upon either side of his eardrums at the friction- tight, and he doesn’t even care. “I-I’m cumming.”

“Squirting, My Lady.” Nanami corrects you, gently. Though, it’s a fucking miracle he even had the patience to considering that he’s gasping and panting for air but only pushin’ himself closer to the oodles of cute slick seeping out from you.

He doesn’t even care.

Doesn’t even need air- not when he can perk his head just right and push against your thighs. Wide maw unfastened gluttonously ajar to let the thick trickles of sap drip into his mouth after each zap! of bliss. Drowning him.

Mouth sagging further open, lungs screaming at him. So many bucketloads of syrupy sweet sap that sprays his features until they’re all glittery. “Squirt- oh. You’re- ngh-”

And something’s breaking at the back of his throat when he’s roaming his dexterous, looong tongue between the plumpness of your pussylips, and you’re taking him in so easily.

Overstimulated till you can let off only whines n’ sobs when he’s lazily dabbing his way inside your quivering hole.

“I’m so ruined, Kento.” Riding and riding. He wanted you to use him and you were- “It feels s-so strange.” The peak of your high was one big wave, and it tingles underneath your skin and makes your eyes roll.

Never - even during all those long, lonely nights with your hand slipped underneath the covers - did it ever feel like this. Never were you leaking your essence this much, with your sappy juices falling all down the sides of his rosy red lips. “Never f-felt this ngh- way before, Ken.”

And that makes him groan.

Slowly, gingerly - almost like it hurt for him to detach his hungry lips with yours, he’s pulling you off with one hand stuck to your hips. Surging backwards with- no, he can’t surge backwards.

The duke’s planting one more firm kiss onto your cunt, open-mouthed. And then jerking back- and forth. Another kiss. Another repeat until about five times later and he’s finally ready to say goodbye to your sweet, overspilling pussy.

But he’s not done with his little show- oh, the moment you’re finally spying a good, long look at him, you think you might cum again from just that.

Because Nanami Kento was ruined - blond hair astray, spectacles drooping down his nose, your pussy juices worn all over from the apples of his blushin’ cheeks down to his jawline like a lewd medal.

Waterfalling between the curves of his pectorals, gleaming wherever his pale skin was flushed. He looked as if there was a part of him that was feverish - barely even registering what he’s doing once he’s tugging off his slick-glazed glasses and sucking those pearly beads off of the frame.

Licking his completely wet glasses clean, Nanami tilts his head with a grin like he’s never been more accomplished. “I only live to please you, ma’am.”

“But that’s not fair.” You huff out a stubborn breath, shuffling down his tall body to try and cup the bulging outline between his legs that almost looked painful. “I, too, wish to-”

“Tonight is not the night, I’m hah- afraid.” He’s cleanly cutting off both your plea and your palm. Instead bringing up your shaky hand to kiss the inside of your wrist. Gloves off, his eyes primal and dead set on you. “I could never ask you to get on your knees. Tonight, I only ask that you let me drive you wild, darling. Let me devour you whole.”

And he meant it.

Oh, within sultry seconds Nanami was moving himself off of the tabletop and standing adjacent. Tall. Strong. Not letting you lift a single finger before he loops two hands underneath your thighs and draaaags you to the very edge.

Moistened thighs pasting to his obliques, “Pray, allow me to see to it. To everything.”

And you just wanted to rip the gossamer fabric of your dress off, but Nanami was oh-so-delicate with his hands all over you. Even though he’s fitting himself animalistically between your lewd legs and rutting-

“Why-” His breath catches once your petticoat and stocking are peeled off, both thumbs spreading your swollen pussylips like a lotus. Completely exposed now. “-hello, my love.”

Your mouth parts when you’re realizing that he’s not just talking to you- he’s talking to your cunt. Maw stretched into a smile so utterly lovin’, Nanami keeps that same dopey grin on as he’s leering his face down to spit.

Again.

“Please, Kento.” You’re bucking your hips up impatiently, still shaky with the aftershocks of your high but you wanted more more more. Needed it. “P-put it in.”

He groans- oh, was it him that taught your sweet mouth to say those words. Corrupting you with every second he’s drawing soppy circles on your wet outer pussy, the duke can only tear down his dress coat and his trousers. Careful with yours but he was ripping his own clothes off. “As you wish, my darling.”

It’s just then that he’s finishing tugging down his sensually tight breeches—and you’re drinking in all of him. And fuck- was it a sight only for your most light-skirted dreams.

Because Nanami Kento was naturally chiseled, to the point where you could count each of his eight washboard abs. Every dip and muscular curve of his hardened front just tensed when the cool air hit him, leading a path of gold along his middle.

A light happy trail down, down, down to where his red n’ aching cock sat heavily, so hard that his bulging tip looked just about ready to burst. Eight maybe even nine inches long, and so girthy that it made your mouth drop as if you wanted him fitted inside already.

You’re watching as his pre-glazed tip only coats an even more glistening layer of sap at your sinful attention. Trickling all the way down to his tightening balls, “You’re staring—”

“C-can you blame me?”

“I suppose not.” And the warmth of his towering proximity hits your body like a furnace, making you squirm restlessly when Nanami’s leaning over the edge of the table to tap-tap-tap his thick cockhead down between your legs. Rock-hard. “Brace yourself, ma’am, mhm?”

Then he’s splitting you apart-

And then he’s arching his sculpted shoulders to cage you underneath him and swearing–“Fuck.”

The first time ever that you’re hearing him spew profanities, just barely slipping the pointed globe of his shaft past the texture of your tight, hot cunt was ruining him.

“I-I apologize, My Lady.” It was making him gasp, “I apologize, how uncouth of my character. I didn’t mean to-” It was making him urgently snap his head down in panic and watch with primal awe as he ruts- deeper. “F-fuck!”

“Oh my god-” You’re throwing your head back at the pressure, only to be grappled back in by Nanami just so that he can sliiide his lips across yours. Open-mouthed. “H-how are you going in so deep-”

“I cannot help myself.” Grunting, Nanami doesn’t even feel the stinging pain when he’s slamming his capped knee down on the plane of the desk. Angling his slender hips to shove the slimy crown of his tip into your gooey entrance, “It’s simply- it’s just-”

And Nanami Kento, so articulate and calm, doesn’t have the damn words anymore.

Stuttering, falling over his panic to thrust in and in between your trembling legs. He feels the cute rimming circle of your cunt tighten ‘round his fattened girth, and snaps his head down in panic. Spitting. “I-I must have it fit inside, darling. Please, allow me just the tip, at least.”

“Will- ngh! will it even-”

“Of course.” And he’ll apologize for interrupting your sentence later - much, much later.

But for right now, the only thing that sparks in his fuzzy mind was to raise his toned left forearm up to your drivelling maw. Where you start gnawing wetly down on his skin, he spits-

“Bite down. Harder.” Hips sloppy, knee hiking up even further to maze his flared cock inside. You feel your elastic hole stretch a wider diameter as he’s slipping yet another solid inch in. “Come now, harder. You can ngh- take it.”

“It’s going in.” And you don’t know whether you wanted to slam your hips forwards or jerk vulnerably at the sheer weight of his body leaning down.

He breathes, “Yes- yes.” The breeze of his pants fanning your face, making your entire body erupt in flames by the time he’s squeezing past the tender slit carved onto his shaft. Cementing the bulging edge of his cocktip to the roof of your pussy with a raw sluuurp. “I have you. shall not let you fall- bite.”

And it’s all that you can do.

Because Nanami’s fucking you into office table like he wanted you to splinter straight through.

The half-lidded peripherals of his eyes latching onto where you were speared open like he was watching his personal show, “I hope you know…I’m no- hah- easily satiated man, my love.”

“Wh-what do you- fuck!”

Just on cue, he’s slamming the lines of his hardened hipbones against your inner thighs and making you recoil back near the edge of the table. Dangerously. Barely even giving you a second to pick yourself back up before he reaches over to lace both his rugged palms on top of your clammy scalp. Intertwining. Holding you there.

‘Just the tip’ he said. And yet here he was, pinning you down just to bully his vein-covered length between your snugly stubborn lips.

“Do not think to run from me-”

“Could never- ngh- could never-” You’re babbling easily at this point, because the curvy trails that his veins left along your walls were only driving you mad. “Just want more, Kento.”

“…Pardon?”

You blink your teary eyes up at him in a way that makes his throbbing girth fatten up, every ounce of blood in the duke’s head rushing to the ballooned-up knob of his tip. “M-more, I say-”

“More.” He’s echoing out, more to himself. Higher-pitched. Almost tasting the pure need in that one word, and the very repetition makes him half-thrust straight into the goopy depths of your pussy. “More…more.”

Nanami pants out a husky giggle—“More.” Oh, he’s just so in love with the way your cunt was struggling to swallow him whole n’ yet squeezing as you try. He leans back down and spits once more, thoroughly ungentleman-like. “Forgive my haste. You just m-make- me-”

And you swear you hear the tail end of that particular sentence break off into a whine once he’s finally, finally bottoming out.

So sensitive that all it takes is one, two, three lucious swabs of his drivelling orifice to get you to cum. Throat torn with hoarse moans, head throwing back- “I’m- once more…?”

“F-fuck. You are.” Easing in the girth of his cockhead to be spanked against your cervix and make you see stars. Nanami’s already flooding your pussy with a pour of his scalding hot precum. “What a wonder this enchanting body is for me.”

Again. He has you orgasming all over him again.

He’s feeling just a twinge of disappointment in himself for not making you squirt yet another time- but the night was still young. And your sappy cunt was already so wet, with beads of sparkly juices smearing down his happy trail every time he’s whipping his hips forwards.

Slam after slam.

Your entire body twitches with startles of euphoria, mewling. “Th-there’s so much- so- ah.”

Ah, how he would love to reach his hands over and wipe away the glistening tears streaming down your pretty face.

But no, right now he had them locked on top of your head and was using the leverage to pound you stupid. Harder. Spiking the peaks of your high with each thorough probe of his stout, mushroom tip. “I know. I know I know I-”

CRACK!

Oh.

The desk.

It takes a split-second for both your hazed minds to realize that the ancient mahogany table was sagging on one end, Nanami’s raw natural strength too much for it to handle. And then not even that for him to pull out his cock with a wet plop!

Manhandling you down onto the hardwood floors like a doll, on all fours. It’s such a sinfully new angle to have him looming behind you, tense core plastered against your back once his lengthy cock siiiinks in-

Orgasm still dwindling, entire body shaking. “Fuck- nghhh- fuck, Kento–!”

“You are doing so well, darling.” One hand glues onto the side of your left ass cheek and tugs you back down with his grip. The other carefully rovers just underneath your tummy, “M-makes it so easy to wish to hah- give away to my inclinations.”

A primal sob wrenches from your throat when you’re feeling the slimy drag of his globular, pointed tip. Drawin’ out a zig-zag down and down where you were most delicate, until he reaches the target of your cervix, spank! “Th-then proceed- I beg of you.”

You didn’t know what those guttural words would mean. You didn’t even know if you would make it out alive- but right now you’re starting to doubt it once Nanami gasps.

Once he’s slamming one of his flattened feets by the side of your thigh, deeper. The raw, sensual feeling so much that he can’t control himself. Rutting and rutting away as if he’s gone feral—

“Is this to- to your liking then, ma’am?” The duke’s gurgling out through a translucent froth of spittle, splat-splattering right down the middle of your arched spine. “H-how about now?”

He shutters his eyes furiously and rams the remaining few inches of his cock. Bottomed out and still trying to probe even deeper inside, so all he can do is plant his sock-covered foot over the top of your head and press. Bending. “N-now?”

“I adore it—” You’re keenly whining, “Love it- ngh- please.”

Proudly, Nanami dares to snicker as his left thumb brushes down the plump, roaming tummy bulge he was fucking into you. Pushin’ down just on the curvy tip of where you could feel his split-ended cockhead thrashing your poor insides. “And I should love to hah! make this gorgeous cunt mine- make you mine.”

And he was a man of action.

It was high time you realized that, because within exactly three repeated swats of his plummy, rose-colored shaft- he’s discovering your g-spot. He’s kissing that bullseye with a looong, soppy glide.

“Though…that is what I am doing, that should be no hngh- sham.”

Feeling all the crimson rush to your head, he presses down just as his aching hot cock presses in. “It’s- it’s just- fuck.”

Faster. Harder. So sloppy that the planks of the floorboards start to sing out in singing creaks of protest, soiling with a trickle of syrupy precum and slick being poured from straight between your legs. Constantly.

Rubbing himself swollen n’ redly raw on the cavern of your tight pussy, Nanami doesn’t even want to blink to break his staring contest with your bulging pussylips.

Milking himself.

The sweetest smooch for your sweetest spot, Nanami coos as you shake- struggling to keep your weakened arms straight as you hold yourself up in this lecherous position. “Come now.” Your overstimulated vision spots with pure white as he darts the hand at your stomach to loop around your throat like a necklace - a headlock. Springing you upright—“I have you, My Lady.”

Spittle waterfalls in embarrassing bucketloads from your mouth and stains the front of his beefy forearm, squeezing your airway. Dilated pupils swirlin’ stupidly every time his strawberry divot circles the entrance to your womb. Squealing, “Y-you…ngh!…mm–”

“Hmmm—?”

“You- hck! please, Ken-”

His warm, ravaging cock was so big that the constant stretch of your walls finally had you stupid. Your brain nothing but a pulp of melted mush every time he snaps his clammy hips to your ass with a stinging pap! of skin-on-skin.

“Me…I’m-” And it’s like each time the puffy veins decorating each side of his overworked shaft gets squeezed, Nanami finds himself seeing stars. Sweaty, bulging biceps tightening on your throat even harder- you scream. “I have you, My Lady- I’m yours.”

Your hole gaping, thighs wet. Just taking everything he’s giving as he finally cums—and you do, too.

Though, you’re not registering it at first.

Not when that leaky hole at the very end of his cherry-red shaft pipes out a creamy icing of cum, layering thickly across every inch and cranny of your rummaged insides. Pump after pump- each one has your pathetic pussy overspilling with so many knotted wads of seed, and yet he always had so much more more more-

“O-oh.” He’s grunting out, feeling a particularly big splash of sap at the base of his cock- and it’s only then that you’re both realizing that you’d just squirted. All over again.

It’s traveling down like a flood between your thighs, painting a glistening ring on the tawny curls at his hilt. Soaking him utterly n’ completely that Nanami finds each thrust to let off the most primal sluuuurp!

“You- you really are the most beautiful hck! lady that has graced this Earth, my love.” Your gaze, your smile, that soul. It was your soul he found most beautiful, the instant he laid his eyes upon you.

He simply knew.

“Y-yet, I’m a chambermaid-”

“I care not.”

“You’re just-” It’s a damn wonder that you even could still speak by now, because every rubbin’ massage of his fat cock only left your mind blank. “-saying- mmm- saying that, Kento.”

“I fear you are mistaken.”

His veins indent your walls with lightning bolts, his cum cobwebbed across your spongy cervix and was splashing after each jackhammer.

Nanami drills into you low and slow now just to help your dripping wet cunt suck him dry. Loving the cute, velvety way you were clamping around his rovering shaft tiredly, “Only allow me to prove my ngh- heart.”

You’re so fucked-out that you’re barely even flinching when he’s finally freeing you of his sinful headlock. Taking mere nanoseconds to pluck that infamous House of Nanami signet ring off of his finger- and pushing it straight down the ring finger on your left.

An engagement. A promise.

“I shall get you another ring- one that is proper, one you deserve, when- if you shall have me, My Lady.” The smoky tone of Nanami Kento’s bass tickles the side of your stinging throat, almost a purr. “I swear it upon my word-” He guides that very same boneless hand of yours to cup his plush, thumping left pectoral. “-and my heart, to forever keep you the most beautiful lady upon this Earth. You shall never want, for I pledge to you my body, my soul for your happiness.”

You whimper, thighs still shaking with your high. Tears slipping down your face that he kisses away, “I-if you’ll have me, Your Grace.”

“Kento.”

And by the time the last of his wadded ounces of cum had finished spraying out, Nanami pulls his hips back with a bellowing squelch that makes your body heat flare. Such a creamy mess of ivory glossing your pussylips that he’s taking one glimpse at and gasping-

You mewl, “K-Ken, what are you-”

“It seems…” He drawls, manhandling you spread-out onto your back with his sculptured hands. Snaking his face down to mouth a hot puff over your swollen folds that stick together. Tasting. Drooling like he’d just happened across his favorite dessert. “-that the ball is far from finished, my wife.”

Dearest gentle reader,

It seems we have a rather special (and scandalously romantic!) special announcement. Yes, whilst your lips were whispering at her majesty the Queen’s Royal Diamond Ball the previous night, those of his grace, Duke Nanami Kento, have certainly been up to worse.

The ton reached new heights of hysteria over Duke Nanami’s attendance of the ball with his lovely chambermaid acquaintance. This author personally confirms that her highness’s royal orchestra was barely audible over the sound of shattering hearts!

However, if this was where the story ended, dear readers, we would still possess our wits. Not only had her highness titled this unnamed belle of the ball as the Diamond of the season; aforementioned diamond was not in audience of her naming!

Where was she, you might ask? Why, nowhere else but bedding a certain handsome duke—or so palace patrol whisper amongst the halls.

An impatient dalliance or stirring the pot? You tell me, dear reader, though it certainly doesn’t help that said new diamond was spotted near the end of the evening with both a real diamond and the Nanami signet ring upon one’s betrothal finger!

It’s said that the House of Nanami - and particularly a once-stoic Duke Nanami Kento - has been exceptionally lively in preparation for the blessed union and his new bride.

On the other hand, this author shall have to purchase new robes for a summer wedding.

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown.

A/N. Tell me why it was SAUR difficult to write in regency speak I feel like I don’t even know this language anymore pls-

Plagiarism not authorized.

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vorfreudevortex · 2 months ago

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‎‎‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎AND I WAS TRAPPED. I ALONE HAD NO BODY, NO SENSES, NO FEELINGS. ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎ I WAS IN HELL —

content ノ angst, dissociation, panic attack, vomit, choking, body horror ノ m.list

“fushiguro.”

he flinches. the world swims back into focus. blaring sunlight the colour of eggshells pierces his retinas as he struggles to blink away the grime that ceaselessly seems to coat his eyes (his face his skin his soul). there’s a mild breeze sending leaves rustling in a discordant symphony of white noise that sets his bones on edge, and through it all tears a high ringing in his ears — shredding him apart from the inside, swiftly and violently dismantling all thoughts, abandoning him to suffocate alone with nothing but a horrible, all-engulfing silence.

the air is muggy, stale, as it sits heavily in his lungs. he can’t breathe. he doesn’t try to. he knows if he takes a breath it will not creep past the hollow of his throat and he’ll only end up doubled over, choking on nothing (dry heaving repeatedly retching empty as he memorises the shower drain his entire body trembling as if he could expel from it the vile taste the overwhelming suffocation the helplessness as the cursed finger was shoved down his throat—)

“fushiguro? have you eaten?”

eat? how can he?

“yes,” he lies automatically. because it’s one thing to drown, and it’s another to drag someone down with him. and perhaps itadori yuji is the only other person on earth who could understand the specific, agonising, crawling decay of a soul forced to watch itself suffocated like a candle dwindled to a sputter; who could understand the stench, the overwhelming sin persists like a foul taste in the back of his mouth the revlusion at his own body the sickening concept of skin and bone and blood the slick sliding of his organs within his cavity of flesh the loathing of his limbs moving against his will always to deepen the stains never towards his own throat—

and yet, there is a stark difference between the two of them: itadori yuji is a good person, and fushiguro megumi is not.

itadori yuji fought back,

and fushiguro megumi could not.

“are you sure?” the pink-haired boy asks. “i mean. not that i think you’re lying or anything, but i could get you something… if you need anything…”

itadori’s voice trails off before his rhythm slips into raw helplessness. he stands several steps away from where fushiguro sits — personal space he does not afford anyone else in his life; a clear delineation.

fushiguro is different; respected. possibly. or he is tainted. likely. or the truth of it is that he has managed to push even the most insistently kind person on earth away, and in his bubble of self-isolation he has no one to blame but himself for drawing out this last line of defence that he manages to shield himself behind before the battle has even begun, if there ever was to be one — a habit he wished he wasn’t so good at and perhaps he has become too dependant, too comfortable, too vulnerable with the idea that someone lives and breathes who is able to see right through him and will without hesitation call megumi out on the falsehoods that spill from his lips or the attempted deception in the stiff arrangement of his facial muscles or his feigned disinterest because the man named gojo satoru who would read him like a book by courtesy of his six eyes is not living and he is not breathing and however much he saw through ryomen sukuna he could not find the megumi he knew and despite the fact that gojo satoru is dead by megumi’s own two bloodied hands, by god, he just wants his dad back.

“i need…” fushiguro’s voice is hoarse. dry. a thin layer masking the emptiness left in the wake of the space he occupied before this swift plunge into near-blinding distress. “i need to be alone.”

megumi doesn’t look up. he doesn’t think he can stomach watching someone else walk away — doesn’t think it should still hurt as much as it does. he scorns the voice informing him that his shortness of breath is a precursor to a violent death because if that was the case he would have long since tasted the blessing of complete cessation. instead, sweat beads on his palms and his lungs are trapped in the cage of his ribs and the rhythm of his heart pounds out a silent plea, a longing in him that despite it all remains persistent.

“i’m not leaving you alone,” itadori says. “i’ll give you space, if you need it. but, fushiguro…”

he pauses until the dark-haired boy is forced to meet his gaze: tired; determined; unbearably soft, despite it all, for itadori yuji is a good person. and the humanity of it shreds megumi apart on the inside. something raw and agonising. but a wound must be cleaned before it can heal.

“… megumi.”

itadori has no empty platitudes or meaningless reassurances. he does not say, ‘you are not alone’. he does not say, ‘i understand you’. yet in the bareboned starkness of his words lies comfort; in his naming is an offering and an acceptance. there is vulnerability in the silences cushioning his tone, an admittance that there is no need to fill it in when their shared experience extends beyond any possible expression.

“yuji,” megumi says quietly.

he turns away.

for now, there is nothing else to say.

★ want to be added to a taglist? — @lizbix @ayatakanosstuff @alcyneus @stars4you777 @1-800reki @riniaras @s9mmer @livteracts @vorfreudevortex

#im ripping my heart out #this is SOOO incredible #gege type pain #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #megumi fushiguro #jjk fushiguro #jjk megumi #fushiguro megumi #jujutsu kaisen megumi #yuji itadori

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vorfreudevortex · 2 months ago

Text

Artist!Nanami Kento who....

hasn’t picked up a brush in six months. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because the inside of his skull is empty. Blank canvases everywhere. He stares at his hands and they feel like foreign things, useless things, and his agent keeps fucking calling.

“Kento, people are waiting. You’re not some niche little street painter anymore, you’re Nanami Kento. The Nanami Kento. You can't just—disappear.”

He can, and he does.

He ends up in a countryside town so old it’s practically rotting. A skeleton of a village clinging to tradition by its fingernails. He rents a house that might collapse in a strong wind. Tatami eaten by mold, sliding doors barely sliding, a garden overgrown with weeds that look more alive than him.

And god—he tries. He sits for hours, brush in hand, sketchpad on thigh, ink bleeding into paper and… nothing. No curses come, no blood-slicked dreams, no grotesque beauty. Not even landscapes. Just static. His hands tremble and his jaw aches from clenching. The house groans in the wind like it’s mourning something.

He walks the town like a ghost. In slacks and a turtleneck, cream linen coat over his shoulders, glasses sliding down his nose. A little too polished for this place, too handsome, too tense. He doesn’t speak to anyone. Just walks. Takes photos of rusted bike chains and shrines blackened with time.

And then.

He sees you for the first time through the glass window of a crumbling book café. You're shelving something. Maybe coffee-stained poetry, maybe a cookbook from 1987. Doesn’t matter.

Because suddenly everything matters.

You move like a quiet hymn. Your hands speak in soft phrases. You pour coffee like a ceremony, you breathe like you’re made of silk. He forgets how to breathe entirely. His spine straightens like he’s been struck.

And he knows what this is. He’s painted obsession before. He’s dissected it, hollowed it out on canvas. But this? This is maddening.

Artist!Nanami who…

starts bringing his sketchbook everywhere. And suddenly, he’s not drawing rusted gates or decay. He’s drawing your hands. Your hands slicing cake. Your hands tying your apron. Your wrists bent to pick up a teacup. Your shoulders when you stretch, your spine when you bend to organize the bottom shelf, your fingers curled around the spine of a Murakami.

No face. Never your face. Too intimate. Too much. But your presence is in every page now. Every sketch a fucking confession.

He starts showing up at the café at the same time every day. He claims the seat by the window. Orders black coffee. Never drinks it. His sketchpad lives open in his lap. He never speaks to you. Just nods. Eyes dark, sunken, flickering. Watching. Worshipping.

Your voice, when it floats over to him—some gentle “Will that be all?” or “Thank you”—is gospel.

Artist!Nanami who…

paints again. Oh he paints like he’s possessed.

Your hands in chiaroscuro, dripping with ink. Your profile turned away, soft and blurry. Your apron hung up like a flag of surrender. An abstract piece: the hue of your eye color melted into a storm of golds, browns, copper, with a vein of violet through it like lightning.

He paints your shadow on a tatami mat. He paints a coffee cup you touched. He paints a room he imagines you sleep in.

And the canvas is wet for weeks.

He starts dreaming again. Not of curses. Not of disemboweled gods or nightmarish holes in the earth. But of you. And those dreams are just as violent.

You, biting your lip. You, whispering something he can’t hear. You, curling your hand around the back of his neck. He wakes up sweating, palms stained with paint, heart racing like he ran through hell.

He sends the pieces to his agent with no explanation. No names. Just a title: “She Pours Coffee.” Another: “Still Life with Apron.” Another: “Untouched.” And the most sold one: “Softest Violence.”

“Kento. Who is she?” “A muse,” he says, deadpan. “Christ. This woman’s not real, is she?” “She’s the only real thing I’ve ever painted.”

He refuses to explain you. Not with human words. He speaks of you in metaphors. You are light filtered through lace. You are silence just before the thunder. You are the taste of something you can’t name but you miss for the rest of your life.

And his agent eats it up because the collectors are starving. The art world falls to its knees for you.

And still, you don’t know. You don’t know what he’s done. You don’t know he’s turning you into oil and canvas and paper and dreams. You don’t know that every breath you take is being archived, turned into divinity.

Artist!Nanami who…

is losing his goddamn mind because he’s never touched you, but he knows the exact way your hand folds over a pen, and how your shoulders twitch when you laugh. He knows you like your tea lukewarm, and that you dog-ear your pages even though you feel guilty about it.

He knows you’ll be there at 8:03am every Tuesday. He knows the shape of your silhouette against the morning sun. He knows the distance between you and him like it's a wound.

He doesn’t want to ruin it by speaking. Because how do you talk to God? How do you say “I need to paint you until my fingers bleed” and make it sound like anything other than a confession?

Artist! Nanami who...

gets caught.

You find him with his head bent over a sketchpad, one long-fingered hand twitching with a charcoal pencil, the other pressed flat against the paper like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth. You're just doing your job. Another slow, soft day in the book café. Pouring tea. Tucking novels back on sagging shelves. Breathing. Existing.

And he’s—watching. Drawing. Eyes flicking up and down between the page and you like you’re a fucking eclipse. You look over, finally, and his hand freezes mid-line. Like a deer. Or a man caught with blood on his teeth.

“Are you... drawing me?” “—No.” (Yes. Yes, God, yes.)

You cross the room, curiosity painted across your features like light through lace curtains. You tilt your head, your voice gentler than he deserves.

“Can I see?”

He feels his ribcage collapse.

Because he never planned for this. Never planned for you to look back. You were supposed to be myth, motif, silhouette. A sacred thing from a distance. The moment you see, the fantasy becomes flesh and that terrifies him more than all the curses he’s ever painted.

But you’re looking at him now, and he’s not struck down. He’s just a man. And you’re just… smiling.

You, who end up sitting across from him. You, who laugh a little and say,

“You draw like you’re in love with your subject.”

And fuck. He’s never been more exposed in his entire life. He almost says it. Right then. Just lets it spill: “I am.” But his tongue is a coward and so instead he swallows glass and says:

“It’s… a habit.” “You’re good,” you reply. “I mean, really good.”

And somehow, that hurts more. Like praise from the divine.

Artist! Nanami who...

talks to you for hours after that. The café closes. Neither of you care. The sky bruises with cloud, wind bending through narrow streets like breath. Rain starts to fall. Heavy, urgent. No umbrellas. You bite your lip, laugh, shrug.

“Well… I live just upstairs. Want to come in until it stops?”

Does he want to? Nanami would let himself drown in a flooded street if you asked him to.

He follows you up the creaking stairs like a man being led to the gallows. And your place? It’s a womb. Warm and soft and cluttered with books and plants and cat hair. The fat black and white cat on the window sill judges him immediately. He bows to it.

“That’s Soba,” you say. “He bites.” “I deserve it.”

He means that.

You make tea in a chipped porcelain pot. He watches your hands like he always does. Your rhythm, your grace, the way you blow gently into the steam before sipping. He thinks about painting that, too. He helps with dinner. You laugh at how precise he chops vegetables. You talk about art. Life. Regret. Loneliness.

“I used to paint,” you say, offhand. “Just a little. Studied it in college. Nothing serious.”

And that sentence alone shatters him. You understand. You could see him, truly see him. He feels like a boy again, desperate to impress.

Artist! Nanami who…

goes home after dinner in a daze. Hair damp from the rain. Fingers twitching. And then— He snaps.

He paints for three days straight. No food. No sleep. Just brush, oil, canvas. The world disappears. Only you exists. This isn’t a portrait. This is a fucking seance. The aura of you. The frequency. The breath. Light hitting your eyes like holy fire. The unspoken softness. The goddamn divinity of you.

Paint under his nails. Sweat on his neck. A high like nothing he’s ever tasted. Three canvases. Six. Twelve. He’s losing count. The countryside. The cats. The curve of the river. But you are in every frame.

You, who walk through his unlocked door on the third day. Left Soba home alone. He hasn’t shown up at the café. Not even to stalk. You’re worried.

The house is a cathedral of art now. You step into the shrine he built out of you.

And Nanami— Nanami is on the floor, eyes bloodshot, shirt stained with paint, brush twitching in his hand like he’s holding a match about to burn him alive.

He looks up like he’s caught mid-prayer.

“You— You weren’t supposed to see this.” “The door was open.” “I was… working.” “Clearly.”

You walk slowly, looking around. Paintings stacked against the walls like confessions. You recognize yourself in all of them. Not literally. Not always. But… the curve of your spine, your shadow, your hands. The light in your living room. The slope of your cat’s tail. Your essence. Your being.

You crouch beside a canvas still drying. You squint.

“Your color composition is insane,” you murmur. “That’s… that’s gorgeous linework.”

Artist! Nanami who...

nearly dies on the spot. Because instead of screaming or running or calling him a fucking psycho— You see. You understand. You start talking about brush strokes, composition, saturation.

He could cry. He might.

“You studied art,” he says, dumbly. “I told you I did.” “I forgot.” “You were too busy sketching me while I made coffee.”

He chokes on nothing. And then, because he’s riding the high of total creative surrender, because he’s sleep-deprived and madly in love, he asks:

“Will you pose for me?” “Like… now?” “I’ll make tea.” “Then yes.”

He sets you up in the golden light of late afternoon. Nothing dramatic. Just you, in your everyday skin. Perched on a stool. A book in hand. Your hair tied up lazily.

You’re not trying. And that kills him.

The painting he makes is real. Like, dangerously real. No abstractions. Just you. Exactly as you are. Rendered in painful, fucking devotional clarity. Your eye-liner. Your lips parted slightly. The small mole he only ever saw once.

And you hold still. For him. For him.

He invites you to stay for dinner. As a thank-you, he says. Casual. Awkward. He tries not to sound like he’s begging.

“It’s nothing fancy. Just soba.” “Fitting.”

You stay. Of course you do. Because now you’re in the painting. And he thinks—maybe, just maybe—he’s in you, too.

Artist! Nanami who…

spends the week like it’s borrowed time. Like God might notice he’s finally happy and rip it away with bloodied hands. He sees you every day. Every fucking day. No excuses. No self-preservation.

You come over for tea and never leave before midnight. You cook in his cursed kitchen with music playing on your cracked phone. You try to teach him to dance in the garden. He sketches you as you water the plants, as you nap under open windows, as you scribble grocery lists.

He kisses your wrist once. Just to see. You don’t flinch.

And that — that is the beginning of the end.

Artist! Nanami who…

kisses you again. Properly.

It happens like a break. Like the world finally splits.

It’s dusk, and you’re laughing at something he said. (He wasn’t even trying to be funny. You just make him feel clever.) You tilt your face up. Hair a mess. Shirt slipping off one shoulder. You reach for your cup and instead his hand finds yours, and then — he’s kissing you.

Desperate. Sharp. Too much, too fast. His glasses bump your cheek. You don’t care. His breath is hot against your mouth. You moan into it and that ruins him.

“Fuck—sorry,” he rasps. “I shouldn’t—” “Do it again.” “God—okay.”

Artist! Nanami who...

carries you to the bedroom like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he looks away.

Clothes fall like feathers, like sins shed at the altar. You pull his shirt over his head, and he exhales like you’ve cracked open his chest. He touches your skin like he’s scared it’ll burn him. It does.

Your hands on his shoulders, his back, his ribs—he shakes. Like he’s never been held. Like this is the first time someone touched him without expecting blood. He moans when you kiss his throat. He gasps when you kiss his sternum.

He hasn’t had sex in a year. Maybe longer. He doesn’t even remember. No one’s touched him since he became Nanami Kento, The Artist. But you — you undress him like he’s just a man. Like you want him, not the name.

He’s rough, and he’s soft. Fingers digging into your thighs, then brushing your cheek so gently you almost cry. His mouth is everywhere—neck, chest, stomach—he kisses like he’s writing sonnets with his tongue.

“Tell me you want me,” he groans, teeth at your shoulder. “I want you.” “Say it again.” “Kento, I want you.” “Holy fuck.”

You slide onto him and his hands tremble. His head falls back. He groans like it hurts.

“You feel—Jesus, you feel like fucking—art.”

Artist! Nanami who…

makes love like it’s penance. Like he’s praying with every thrust. Worshipping. Adoring.

He keeps whispering your name like a refrain. Keeps kissing your chest like he’s afraid this is all a dream and he’ll wake up back in the silence.

Your hands cradle his face. He stares down at you like you’re a sunrise.

“You’re real,” he says. “You’re real.” “I’m here.” “I love you.”

And you kiss him so hard you taste tears.

Artist! Nanami who…

can’t stop painting after that. He paints with your scent still on him. Paints with his back sore and lips bitten and body raw from being so, so alive.

His house becomes a temple again. You — naked under moonlight, laughing in the garden, asleep on his chest. But it’s more than you now. It’s what you’ve done to him. Color. Movement. Joy. Fire.

There are still dark paintings. Sure. The trauma doesn’t vanish. But now they sit beside portraits glowing with golds and warm browns. Beside a still life of your breakfast, half-eaten. A study of your cat curled on your lap. An abstract of your voice. A fucking echo in oils.

And months later—

His agent comes to see the collection. It’s hanging in a private space. A small gallery, just for the press and collectors. Nanami stands near the back, your hand in his. You’re beyond happy for him, glad to see him happier and calmer than before. You're calm, exited. His anchor.

The agent takes one lap around and stares. Mouth open.

“This is— Kento. This is… different.” “Yes.” “There’s—God, there’s light now.” “There is.” “What changed?”

Nanami glances at you. Just briefly. You smile. He could die from it.

“I found new inspiration,” he says. “Is she real?” “She’s the realest thing I’ve ever known.”

Artist! Nanami who…

doesn’t tell the world it’s you. He keeps you sacred. The muse behind the curtain. The reason color returned to his life.

But everyone knows. Everyone feels it. The critics talk about “tenderness” and “yearning” and “a turn toward intimacy.” They compare it to love. To divinity. To rebirth. They weep in front of his work now.

Artist! Nanami who…

goes home with you that night. Paints your back as you sleep. Wakes up next to you like it’s the first morning after the world ended.

This was devotion. Of the purest kind.

A/N: wee woo idk what i'm writting, i hope this was okay, i think its kinda creepy

Massterlist.

#are you joking #incredible #kento my beloved #nanami kento x reader #artist au #cat cafe romance #coffee shop au #jjk #jujustu kaisen #nanami imagine #nanami fanfic #jujutsu kaisen nanami #nanami smut #nanami kento #kento nanami #kento nanami x reader #jjk nanami

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vorfreudevortex · 2 months ago

Text

mama's boy

GETO SUGURU is his mama's boy. love isn't enough when he's drowning under the weight of the world's injustice.

content : 2k ノ angst, hurt no comfort, mentioned violence, descriptions of depression, mild blood & injury, autistic!suguru ノ m.list

suguru loves his mother.

when he was younger, the world often felt overwhelming: the injustice, the nuances, the things people let be for the sake of cultural norms or the status quo. he wasn’t naive — he could accept that truth and falsehood were not black and white — yet the lines separating them were clear as day to him.

and still, people danced around the edges, blurred the definitions, and laid waste to innocent lives. his village was small, after all; one inconsequential slip-up could stain you and your family for generations. anyone who protested was seen as conceited; anyone who spoke out too often was ostracised.

suguru loves his mother. because at times where he felt he was being slowly crushed, or like he was losing his mind, he’d sit at her feet and let her brush out his hair: long, soothing strokes. calming. repetitive. safe. something he knew to be true.

“mama,” he’d whisper, the ends of his sentence trailing off into the air like wisps of cotton.

“i’m sorry, my love,” his mother would tell him, her hands gentle, her voice laden with tenderness. “it’s just the way things are.”

staring down at the book in his hands, the ink blurring, pages creasing at the bends of his white-knuckled fingers, he found he simply didn’t have the words to explain it to her. or anyone.

he didn't really, truly have anyone — not in the way it matters.

so he learnt to stay silent when something was troubling him. i’m fine; it’s just the heat. and if he did speak, he twisted his words, coated them in sugar and spice, dripped them in honey until no one was truly certain what his meaning was. he couldn’t change the world, but surely he could change this little corner of it. he watched, listened, absorbed. the things he could say to particular people to get the desired outcome, how best to move without making a fuss, how to phrase something in a way that made the listener think they wanted it for themselves. deceit for the greater good.

which was an especially helpful skill, given the monsters.

he’d glimpsed them periodically as a small child — creatures outside his window at night as he cried for his mother, or figures in his peripheral that vanished as he turned his head to stare across the street, the soccer ball laying forgotten in the knotted weeds of his front yard. as he got older and more disillusioned, he’d catch their stench on the wind, putrid and rotting and ugly; the worst of humankind. creeping, thieving hands; distorted voices; eyes that laughed at him, mocked him, because they knew he must stay silent.

at first he’d laid awake at night, fearful of the corners of his bedroom bathed in shadow — the walls he’d painted and decorated now a creature unknown. slowly, though, he’d stopped caring.

there were other monsters to fear, after all. one inconsequential slip-up...

life changed when he was scouted for jujutsu tech, though — life changed when he met gojo satoru. and suddenly, he wasn’t quite so alone anymore. he had a purpose; a responsibility; a friend.

satoru didn’t really talk about his family; from what suguru had pieced together alongside what he’d learnt about the gojo clan, he didn’t press him — didn’t ask for explanations, didn’t drown him in, why aren’t you going home for break? why aren’t you staying with your family? no; instead of asking after satoru’s family, he offered up his own. casually, as if it’d already been decided — kicking an open suitcase towards the pouting boy.

“hurry up. we’re gonna miss the train.”

“what train?”

he’d sighed. “you’re coming with me, idiot.”

suguru’s mother was at the station to receive them with open arms and an open heart.

“sugu! welcome home, my love,” and she’d pulled him into a tight hug, his body instantly relaxing into the familiarity of her embrace, her palm resting on the back of his head.

satoru was next, his snickering cut off in surprise as she wrapped her arms around him without hesitation as if he were her own son, flesh and blood. his hug lasted a tad longer, was a touch tighter, because mothers know.

and then it was dinner, a tour of the house, mucking around in the yard as the sun went down. suguru’d never thought someone could unload a dishwasher with such glee until he saw satoru that evening. perhaps part of the appeal was being treated like a normal boy: not a six eyes user, not a future clan leader, not someone who’d changed the balance of the world when he was born.

just satoru.

suguru couldn’t pretend parts of it came rushing back: the agonising fear, the feeling of choking on your own words, the pain that the walls of this home had witnessed. but his mother loved him. that was enough. even now, it felt like the world would make sense again if he placed the hairbrush in her hand and sat at her feet — like the love in her homemade cooking could wash away the foul taste of curses that seemed to eternally linger at the back of his throat.

like everything was going to be okay.

“your mum is pretty cool,” satoru said on the train back, staring into his phone, and suguru translated the sentence automatically in his head, filling in the blanks of what the blue-eyed boy could not say out loud.

suguru loves his mother. but when riko is murdered, her blood pooling on the floor in front of him and splattering the parts of his face his mother would kiss, he knows he must keep this far away from her. how could she understand?

at least he’d have satoru, he thinks.

but he doesn’t.

the schedules don’t align, he convinces himself; everyone’s just busy, too busy, trying to get ahead. and they’re growing up and moving on and he’s still left behind, just stuck in this one, terrible place, and he doesn’t have anyone.

when the nightmares come, though, he still calls out for his mother.

messages pile up. calls are left unanswered. why didn’t you come home this summer? is everything okay? the days begin to blur. the weather clears and for a brief moment he hopes his mood will, too, but the heat sinks into his lungs and chokes him, fogging his brain and casting him far, far away from his body — the last place he wants to be. exorcise. consume. exorcise. consume. his body is a tool; his mind is a prison.

he doesn’t recognise himself in the mirror. the bags under his eyes, the ill-fitting clothes, the way his hair tumbles around his face. messy. his mother would be disappointed (she wouldn’t); she’d hate him (he hates himself).

more than anything, though, he hates what he’s been trapped in. he wasn’t naive joining jujutsu tech; he didn’t think he’d become a hero or upturn the system, but he did have hope. he and satoru — they were the strongest, right? he was in a place of power that was previously inaccessible to him; surely he could do something, anything at all, but instead he’s powerless. nothing means anything. no matter how much he tries to do, innocent people continue to suffer at the hands of those above them.

it all comes to a head when haibara dies… no, when he’s killed. he can still see the younger boy’s smile on the back of his eyelids, but when suguru blinks it away he’s confronted with his classmate’s face twisted in death — thinks about the fear he must’ve felt, if haibara regretted it, and all he can think is, we are only pawns.

how much more?

can he handle?

(suguru wants his mother.)

the call to his village is met with trepidation when it comes, but there’s longing, too. perhaps when he steps out of the train into the station he’ll be transported back in time. satoru will be by his side and he’ll be in his mother’s arms again. calming. safe. riko would not have died yet; haibara would be alive as well, and the countless horrors he’s been forced to witness ever since that moment would be washed away in the tides of time.

but the station is empty, because he never told her he was coming, and a throbbing pain sparks behind his right eye.

seeing the girls curled up cold and terrified behind those steel bars, his head feels like it might burst open. he knows their parents, the people locking them up, hell, he knows everyone here, and he knows his own mother would never stand for something like this, so where is she? why is nobody speaking? why must they take out their rage and fear and confusion on the most vulnerable amongst them?

would this have been his fate if he didn’t know to stay silent? that may as well have been him behind those bars, condemned by the very people who raised him. would his mother still call him “my love” if she knew what he could see?

when he spills their blood, he doesn’t regret it. doesn’t even feel it.

she opens the front door with a smile — open arms and open heart — as if an embrace could fix everything. blood stains his hands but it’s too dark for her to see it. he is so far away from his body that he acts on autopilot, and his natural setting is to rest his head on her shoulder and wrap his arms tight around her, likely smudging the back of her shirt. her questions wash over him, fuzzy through the pounding of blood in his ears. my love, i missed you so much. i didn’t know you were coming to visit. you’ve been quiet for so long, i was scared… is everything okay? are you okay?

he closes his eyes and sees their faces. haibara. nanako. mimiko.

why didn’t you do anything?

there’s no rage. he’s too empty for that. the centre of the storm, the middle of a whirlpool. he kills her with the hands she kissed; the hands she raised gentle and nurturing. and only then do his thoughts begin to clear, painfully sharp, but regret is not amongst them.

“mama,” he whispers, falling to his knees beside her. something he hasn’t called her in years. his voice is hoarse and her blood is still warm.

she goes to speak but gurgles instead, choking, a thin stream of red trickling out the corner of her mouth. she shifts, lifts her arms, and then she’s

hugging?

him?

“i… forgive… you.”

he’s weeping. it’s the least he can do. he looks into her face and sees the smile lines etched into her skin, the kind wrinkles of her crows feet, the despair in her eyes.

“my love,” she mouths. even as she’s dying by his hand. her palm rests on the back of his head.

"i love you," he tells her.

her arms sag, fall from around him. her chest stirs lightly with her last breath.

a system does not exist on its own; the wheels and gears are turned by people like these, the ignorant fools he grew up with, who perpetuate every which harm and choose to stay blind, forsaking justice for their own comfort. he knows them all: each and every single one of them. they are all complicit.

even his mother.

'it's just the way things are,' she'd told him — but it never had to be.

he cries until her blood is cold on his skin.

suguru loved his mother. but those twin girls — their parent's love was not enough to save them (by god, they didn't even try). suguru’s love was not enough to save his mother. and her love was not enough to save him.

he hopes satoru will understand. sometimes, to stop the cycle, you must throw yourself in front of the wheel.

thank u mj user vertejay for the enlightening disc we had giving rise to that last sentence. thank u gege for drawing pre jj tech stsg instead of shooting me point blank in the forehead which would've been less painful

"my shayla" and it's a mass murderer idc idcc he was based asl he was his mama's boy don't talk to me

whole tl crashing out everywhere i go none of us are ok and there r at least 5 scheduled group suicides existence is a prison

★ want to be added to a taglist? — @lizbix @ayatakanosstuff @alcyneus @stars4you777 @1-800reki @riniaras @19909 @livteracts @vorfreudevortex

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