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satoru returned from the store. his self-control did not make the trip.
a tub of premium, vanilla bean ice cream.
the plastic bag rustled as satoru set it down on the kitchen counter. it was the good kind, the one that was more cream than air, because satoru was not a heathen.
he picked up the bottle of thick, gooey chocolate syrup next. the kind that was refrigerated and came in a squeeze bottle, for... precision, yes.
he gave it a little shake, smirking at himself in the reflection of the microwave door.
last item now. a bag of colorful, chewy frozen mochi bites, in flavors of strawberry, mango and matcha. because obviously he needed a texture contrast, and a backup plan if the ice cream melted too fast.
which, he knew it would.
after all it was a sweltering sunday afternoon, one where the mugginess of the air made the very act of breathing feel oppressive.
the AC in the apartment had been wheezing valiantly, albeit in a losing battle, and satoru had decided it was too little too late, peeling himself off the couch fifteen minutes ago to declare he was ‘literally evaporating, like, gone, bye-bye’ as he had shuffled out the door.
naturally, you had waved him off from your spot on the couch, too hot to offer any parting words.
and now, he was back.
barefoot, satoru padded into the living room and stood in front of the couch, effectively blocking out the pathetic breeze of a lifeline from the fan. you cracked one eye open.
“what.”
“don't you ‘what’ me,” satoru pouted, offense all mock. “i went on a quest. a perilous journey. have you any idea? i almost melted into a puddle on the sidewalk. is this the thanks i get?”
you squinted at him. his t-shirt had become practically see through at the chest, clinging damply at the collar. his hair was slightly less gravity-defying than usual, wilted in the humidity akin to a golden retriever that just ran through a sprinkler.
“you bought snacks,” you observed.
“i bought solutions,” satoru corrected, holding up the bag with a flourish. “solutions to the heat. solutions to your grumpy face. solutions to—”
“your face is grumpy.”
“my face IS grumpy.” satoru nodded. “like yours.” he dropped to his knees. “and i’m going to fix it.”
you propped yourself up on your elbows, acutely aware of your own wet dishrag-ish state as you shifted—sticky with sweat under your shorts and thin tank top, hair sticking to your neck.
satoru trailed the movement, eyes unhurried, like you were his second lunch.
“i got the good ice cream,” he said pulling the tub out, a veil of cold still clinging to the outer layer. “not the cheap stuff. the good stuff.”
“wow,” you exhaled. “a prince among men.”
“i know!” satoru popped the lid, a puff of cold air kissing his face. he sighed, dramatic and pleased. “ugh, that’s the spot. feel that.” he waved the tub toward you. “put your face in it.”
“i’m not putting my face in—”
“fine. be that way.” satoru dropped the tub on the coffee table. the bag crinkled as he pulled out the chocolate syrup next, setting it beside the tub with a deliberate clunk.
he surveyed his haul like a general reviewing his troops.
“okay,” he said. “here’s the thing.”
you raised an eyebrow.
“see, i was out there. in the heat. just... suffering. existentially.” he gestured vaguely. “and then i start thinking. i’m thinking. i’m thinking about you. and i’m thinking about how much i want something sweet. and then.” he paused, smug smile widening. “it hit me.”
“what hit you?”
“you!” satoru leaned in, close enough that you could feel the residual warmth radiating off his skin. “i want something sweet. and. well, you’re sweet, too.” he tapped the lid of the ice cream. “why not combine them?”
you blinked at him. then looked at the ice cream. then back at him.
“satoru.”
“yes, my love?”
“you want to put ice cream on me.”
“i want to put ice cream and chocolate syrup and maybe a mochi or two on you,” he corrected, utterly unrepentant. “and then i want to lick it all off. slowly. thoroughly.”
you opened your mouth.
“that's—” you stopped, considering. “that's going to be a mess.”
“oh, absolutely,” satoru agreed, already brightening. “a huge mess. a catastrophic mess. we’re going to need like... three showers. minimum. maybe four.” his eyes gleamed. “but don’t worry! i know a way we can save on water, too.”
you groaned.
satoru picked up the chocolate syrup, giving it a playful waggle. “so. whaddya say, you in?”
you looked at him—the ridiculous, impossible, insatiable man he was. hair a mess, sweat beading on his temples. t-shirt stained, glowing in anticipation.
“fine,” you said, the word left your mouth before you could stop it. “but if you get chocolate on the couch—”
“i will get chocolate on the couch,” he blurted cheerfully. “probably on the floor too. maybe the ceiling. i’m very ambitious.”
“satoru.”
“what? no points for honesty?” he was already moving, twisting to grab the ice cream tub and settling it between his knees. “okay. okay. here’s the plan.”
“there’s a plan?”
“oh there’s always a plan.” he scooped out a perfect, creamy mound with his fingers, holding it up to your lips before you could protest. “open.”
you did.
the cold hit your tongue, rich and velvety, the vanilla spreading across your taste buds. you made a small sound of surprise—it was good.
satoru watched you swallow, his gaze sharpening as he tracked the movement of your throat. “how is it? yummy?”
“yeah,” you admitted. “it’s good.”
“told you.” he dipped his finger back into the tub, but this time he didn't offer it to you. instead, he dragged the cold, creamy stripe along your collarbone.
you sucked in a breath.
“cold?”
“yes, you ass—”
“sorry, sorry,” satoru murmured, not sounding sorry at all as he leaned down. his tongue chased the melting trail, hot against your chilled skin.
you shivered.
satoru hummed against your throat. “mm, tastes better on you,” he added, muffled. “way better even.”
“you didn’t—you only tasted it off me. you don’t actually know if—”
“i know.” his lips shined, a little pink from the cold. “i prefer it like this. hmm, but...”
he dipped his fingers back into the tub, scooping out another mound. this time he brought it to his own mouth, tongue darting out to catch the melting edge.
you followed the movement, ready to blame the heat.
“oh,” he said, eyes widening slightly. “okay. no, that’s actually good. i see why people like this stuff.”
“you’ve never had vanilla bean ice cream before?”
“i’ve had ice cream,” he said dismissively. “but this is the good kind. the expensive kind. different.” he scooped up another bite, holding it out to you. “here. taste it again.”
you leaned forward, and he—the bastard—pulled his hand back just before you could reach it, popping the ice cream into his own mouth instead.
“hey!”
“what?” he said, stifled around the cold sweetness. “i’m sharing.”
“that’s not sharing, you’re—”
satoru leaned down and kissed you.
his mouth moved against yours, chilled and mellow, vanilla flooding your senses as his tongue slid against yours in a slow and deliberate pace. you made a noise—surprise, maybe, or something hungrier—and he captured the sound like he’d been waiting for it.
you didn't let him pull back far. your fingers tightened in his hair, keeping him close. his mouth was cold and then hot and then cold again, and you stopped trying to keep up. satoru's breath came in shorter bursts, and when you finally let him go, he looked almost dazed, lips breaking away from yours in a content sigh.
“oh,” he said, voice thin. “okay.”
“now..” satoru made no attempt to break out of the spell you'd put on him, his hand already finding the chocolate syrup. you heard the click of the cap opening.
“where to next?” he mused, more to himself than to you. the cold tip of the bottle traced a path down your sternum, dipping up into the hollow of your throat.
“you know,” you started, voice a little hoarse, “i’m kind of—” you gestured at yourself. “sweaty. it’s gross.”
satoru blinked at you. then he laughed—genuine amusement in his tenor.
“baby.” he said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “i just licked ice cream off your collarbone. you think i care about a little sweat?”
“even so, sato—”
“shh.” he squeezed, thick chocolate ribboning down your chest, pooling in the dip between your breasts.
“a little salt never hurt nobody,” satoru added.
he put the bottle aside and went after it with his tongue—in broad strokes that left nothing behind but a slick, warm patch—rapidly escalating your heartbeat.
“such a nice flavor,” he breathed against your skin, following the glaze with his mouth before it could drip onto the couch. “so fucking sweet. needed that.”
satoru’s hands found the hem of your tank top, pushing it up just enough to expose your stomach.
the ice cream had started to melt in the tub, a shallow puddle of cream pooling at the bottom. “good,” he said, dipping his fingers in. “perfect.”
he painted a cold stripe down your abdomen, going after it again with a drag of his tongue, the contrast of temperatures making you arch into him.
“you know what i thought about,” he started, like he wasn't currently licking ice cream off your stomach. “when i was walking back. in the heat.”
“what?” your voice came out breathier than you intended.
“i thought about how you’d taste.” he pressed a kiss just below your navel. “and i thought about how you’d sound.” another kiss, lower. “and then i thought about how you'd look.”
he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, a smear of chocolate on his lower lip.
you stared at him, your chest heaving. satoru looked entirely in his element—a little messy, unbothered, all while being consumed by you.
then he glanced sideways, a boyish laugh huffing out of his nose.
“wow,” satoru murmured. his thumb traced the line of your hip. “there is... actually so much left.”
“satoru,” you warned, your voice a breathless thread. “if you think you’re painting my entire body with ice—”
“i mean, i was going to,” he interrupted, his fingers dipping into the plastic bag to pull out the small container of mochi bites.
he popped one into his mouth—matcha, green and sweet—and chewed thoughtfully while his eyes locked back onto yours. “but honestly? it’s melting too fast for my liking. plus i’m getting impatient.”
his fingers hooked into the fabric of your shorts, pulling.
“satoru—”
“yeah?” he looked up at you. “tell me to stop.”
you didn’t.
“didn’t think so.”
but before satoru could go further, his hands found your waist—pulling, not rough but insistent, tugging you off the couch and onto the floor with him.
you landed in his lap, caught easily by one hand steadying your hip.
“floor’s better,” he murmured, eyes raking your lips. “more room.”
then he dipped you, guiding you down onto your back and settling between your thighs like he'd found his rightful place.
“there you go,” he breathed. “that’s it.”
satoru dipped his head lower, his lips pressing hot against the jut of your hip bone. his fingers tugged at your panties, pulling them down your thighs with an efficiency that made your breath catch. you lifted your hips to help him, and he made a low sound of approval.
“good, good,” he murmured. “so good for me.”
the undergarment landed somewhere, you didn’t care where—and satoru’s hands settled on your thighs, pushing them apart with a slowness that felt like torture.
“sa—”
“shh,” his lips brushed the inside of your thigh. “i’ve got you.”
he imprinted a kiss. then another, higher. whatever you were going to say dissolved into a sound you barely recognized as your own.
satoru hummed against you, satisfied when the vibration of it made your hips jerk. his hand pressed down, holding you in place.
“patience,” he breathed, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “i told you. slow. thorough.”
true to his word, satoru’s tongue lapped at you in a languid manner, savoring as if he had nowhere else to be, nothing else to do, nothing else in the world to pay attention to but you.
you shuddered, starting to get louder.
“there,” satoru murmured, his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs. “that’s the sound.”
you made it again, just to hear him approve.
satoru worked you open with his mouth, relentlessly, until your thighs were shaking and you couldn't remember your surroundings, twisting fingers in his hair, trying to chase the pressure with your hips. he let you for a moment—let you rut against his mouth—before pulling back just enough to make you sob.
“what?” he asked. “want something?”
“i, ah—” you gasped. “satoru, you know what—”
“i do.” he pressed a kiss to your inner thigh. “wanna tell me anyway?”
you glared down at him, breathless and wrecked. “i hate you.”
“you love me.” he said, a sly smile. “say it.”
“please—” the word broke out of your lips. “just—”
“just what?”
“just more—”
satoru gave it to you. his mouth returned, open tongue nudging into that perfect spot, and he didn't let up until you were arching off the ground, a broken syllable tearing out of you as the pleasure crested.
he worked you through it, gentler now, panting as your body went limp. he pressed a softer kiss to your inner thigh, almost reverent, before pulling back with that insufferable grin, chin slick.
you stared at him, unable to form words, watching as satoru through heavy-lidded eyes wiped his jaw with the back of his hand, licking off your release.
“now... where were we? hm..”
satoru stretched his arm towards the coffee table, dipping his fingers into the puddle of cream. they came up glossy and dripping. “want some?” he asked, holding them out to you.
without overthinking it, you leaned forward and took his fingers into your mouth.
satoru’s breath caught, jaw slacking as your tongue traced the length of his fingers, holding his gaze.
“oh,” he breathed in. “okay. that’s—”
you pulled off with a soft pop, leaving his fingers glistening. “what?”
he stared at you for a long moment, something hungrier passing through his eyes, darkening them. then he laughed— a little incredulous and unhinged.
satoru reached for the melting tub again, dipping his fingers in and bringing them to your lips. you opened for him without hesitation, letting him feed you.
“taste good?” he asked, voice rougher.
“mm.” you sucked his fingers clean. “better the second time.”
“is that so,” his hand drifted to the squeeze bottle, eyes glinting as he picked it up, thumb finding the cap.
“wanna try the chocolate?”
he didn’t wait for an answer.
he pressed the tip against your lower lip—not pushing, just resting there, cool plastic way closer than it needed to be. he tapped it on your cheek, once. twice.
satoru firmed his grip and the syrup released thick, sliding across your lip down the corner of your mouth. you caught it with your tongue instinctively.
satoru watched, easing off the pressure. the bottle stayed where it was, tip still grazing your lip.
“delicious?”
you licked the syrup off your lip, holding his gaze. “yeah.”
he dragged the bottle down—slow—from your mouth to your chin, leaving a glossy trail behind.
“glad,” he breathed. “cause i get to clean that up.”
satoru dropped the bottle. his mouth found your throat, tongue dragging up the trail of syrup.
“mm—”
he got about halfway up before his hips rolled, his next words dissolving into a groan.
“fuck.” his forehead dropped to your chest. “okay. i’ll get the rest later.”
satoru stayed there for a moment—breath hot against your skin, hands still gripping your hips. you could feel him, hard and impatient, pressed against your thigh.
then he lifted his head, and whatever daze he'd been in was gone, replaced by a starved look.
“you know what i want now?” he asked, pulling his hand back. his voice had dropped an octave, playfulness bleeding into something heavier.
“i wonder?”
“you.” his hand found your hip. “on top of me. right now.”
“satoru, we’re both—”
“that’s the point.” he grinned, pulling his shirt off in one fluid motion and tossing it somewhere with the rest of the clothes, his chest damp with sweat.
“c’mon,” he said, reaching for you. “let me feel you.”
you let him pull you up, let him guide you onto his lap—his back against the couch, your knees on the floor, straddling his thighs. his hands found your hips with a firm grip, thumbs pressing into your sides.
“there,” he breathed. “that’s better.”
you could feel him against you, poking through his shorts—hard and warm. he rolled his hips up, just once, and you gasped at the pressure.
“yeah?” he asked, voice low. “you want that?”
you answered by kissing him, messy and desperate, and he laughed against your mouth. “that’s my baby.”
satoru’s hands slid up your back, pulling you closer. you rubbed against him—the heat of his skin meeting the sticky residue of the chocolate smeared across your body, the tight hold of his palms against your hips.
“ride me,” he said, breath ghosting your ear. “i wanna watch you fall apart on top of me.”
satoru lifted his hips, ready to shove the shorts down his thighs in a quick motion before you stopped him, your hands finding the waistband before he could act. “let me.”
satoru went still beneath you, watching with something like wonder as you pushed the fabric down his thighs. “right,” he breathed. “yeah. okay. this is—this is good.”
he sprung, bare below you, hard and ready and waiting. you reached down between you, guiding him to your entrance. satoru hissed at the contact.
you sank down onto him, and whatever he was going to say dissolved into a strangled groan.
“fu—” his fingers pressed harder into your skin. “yes—so fucking good—”
you did it again, faster this time, moaning as satoru’s hands flew to your thighs, gripping like you were the only thing keeping him tethered onto life itself.
“yeah,” he gasped. “fuck yeah, just like that—”
you found a rhythm, slow and deep, and his hands roamed your body like he was taking inventory.
you arched into his touch, and he groaned. “like that?” he asked, voice scraped. “like when i touch you?”
“mh, yes—”
“good.” his thumb circled again. “‘cus ’m not gonna stop.”
satoru felt up your thighs, palm squeezing your hips, fingers tracing the curve of your waist—
then stopping as his eyes landed on a leftover patch of chocolate on your collarbone.
he brought it to his mouth, licking it clean. “saved some for me,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “aren’t you so—so thoughtful.”
you rolled your hips, a gruff sound leaving his parted mouth.
“fuck, look at you,” he mumbled, thumb brushing over your nipple. “riding me like you've got something to prove.”
“maybe i do.”
“oh?” he tilted his head, even as his voice wobbled.
you rolled your hips in a slow circle, evil glimmering in your eyes as you watched satoru lose his composure.
“oh, i see,” he accused, straining, “you’re doing that on purpose,” his voice cracked. “that’s—so mean. fuck, i love it. i—” he broke off with a moan as you did it again.
the fan wheezed uselessly in the corner, neither of you caring. you felt the coiling in your lower body, not realizing how tightly you'd been gripping his shoulder until your fingers ached.
the world had narrowed to this—his hands on your hips, his breath in your ear, the sound of his voice telling you how good you were, how perfect, how much he’d wanted this—and the tight squeeze of your body around him.
your hips fastened, and satoru’s head tipped back fully. “yes—fuuck.”
his hands found their way back to your hips, urging you on. “that’s it,” he murmured. “take what you need baby.”
you did. you took and took and took, and satoru gave it all— hands, voice, the way he looked at you through half-fluttering lids, brows knitting in a fight to not close his eyes.
his lap started meeting yours, thrusting up to meet your movements, and the rhythm broke into something slipshod.
“god—you’re so—” his voice broke. “i need to feel you—please—baby,”
he did. you came apart with his name on your lips and his hands pressing into your skin.
satoru pulled you down against his chest, the slick of his torso sliding against yours as he held you close, shuddering through his own undoing.
for a moment, neither of you moved.
then you felt him shift beneath you, already stirring again.
you laid a hand on his chest, pinning him down. “give me a second.”
he whined—puppylike. “but—”
“a second, satoru.”
he slumped back against the couch, frowning magnificently. “fine. tell me when. i’m counting.”
your forehead drooped to his shoulder, a light chuckle escaping out of you.
satoru laughed with delight in turn, his pout slipping. he stretched his arms behind his head, declaring. “so worth the walk.”
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for years, your hair was as confusing to nanami as voluntary unpaid overtime. beautiful, no doubt, but something he quietly respected without asking many questions out of fear of offending you.
one day he decided to change that. in the true 'nanami way,' he threw himself into learning about textured hair, you being his main source of curiosity.
his questions are never rude, although they are silly. "do you use special growth serums to make it grow so long?"
"does your hair grow out, or down?"
"if i mess up your hair, will you kill me?"
now months later and you're here, sitting in the living room on wash day, warm hands slipping through your curls.
big light off, slow jazz playing and shea butter gliding through your roots, it's like you're right back at home. meanwhile nanami is gripping the comb like his life depends on it, veins bulging from sheer force.
"does it hurt?" he always finds himself asking without a second thought. "no, baby," you giggle, amused by his fussing. "i'll tell you if it does."
"promise?"
"promise."
occasionally he finds a fairy knot, signaled only by your muffled winces. he's doubled over and apologizing for it quicker than he found it, little "please forgive me, darling's" and "i'll be more careful," all topped off with sporadic kisses to your temples.
he takes care of your hair with the utmost reverence.
he gets the hang of it quickly for a guy who had never even seen a curl pattern like yours. originally, you were an anomaly, a foreign beauty he never imagined himself falling in love with. fast forward years later and here he is, your head between his thighs and his hands gripping your hair.
you always lie to him if your hair doesn't look good, not having the heart to break it to him. he already knows, can see the fly aways and messy parting. but he's trying, he really is.
originally, you wanted him to style your hair to avoid high braiding costs. (and so you could stay inside, being a home body and all)
now it's a nightly routine for nanami to do your hair in plats. "so my hair stays stretched," you tell him. he doesn't care why or how he's doing your hair, as long as he's taking care of you.
as he's going through the motions, you're talking him through it, stating which products to use and when. you see him reach for the gel and immediately swat his hand away. "that stuff is for styling, kenny. this is just for sleep."
he doesn't fully understand all the mysticism around your hair, routines or the culture behind it. but he respects it all the same, and you love him for loving you.
masterlist | @orangethecarrotcoloredpaperred
a/n: for all the ppl who wanted explicitly black reader<3 this will have a nsfw part two (hopefully). friendly reminder i have a taglist in my bio, pls tell me if it works!
𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 Gojo Satoru ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ being touchy and super gentle during your pregnancy .✦ ݁˖
The late afternoon sun filtered through the blinds, casting long, golden slats of light across the bedroom floor. You were propped up against a mountain of pillows, trying to find a comfortable angle for your aching lower back, when the door clicked open.
Satoru slipped into the room, unusually quiet. The moment his blindfold was pulled down around his neck, his bright blue eyes locked onto you, softening instantly. He didn't say a word as he shed his black jacket, tossing it carelessly onto a chair, and crossed the room with his signature, lazy stride.
Before you could even greet him, the mattress dipped significantly. Satoru crawled up the bed, maneuvering his long limbs with an unexpected fluidity until he was practically draped over you. He tucked his head into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, his white hair tickling your jaw.
“Welcome home, baby,” you murmured, running a hand through the soft strands of his hair. “Rough day?”
“Immensely,” he groaned, his voice muffled against your skin. “Everyone was loud. Everyone was annoying. And I wasn't here.”
He shifted, lifting his head to look down at you. Without his glasses or blindfold, his gaze was completely unguarded—full of a raw, heavy tenderness that still took your breath away. His large, calloused hand slid down your ribcage, moving with agonizing slowness until it rested flat against the prominent curve of your stomach.
The contrast was always striking. His hand was massive, easily covering a huge portion of your bump, yet the pressure he applied was lighter than a feather. For a man who could level cities with a flick of his fingers, he handled you as if you were made of spun glass.
“How’s my little bean doing today?” Satoru whispered, leaning down to press a soft kiss right next to his thumb. Did they let Mom sleep?”
“A little,” you smiled, leaning back into the pillows as his thumb began tracing slow, rhythmic circles over your clothes. “They've been kicking quite a bit this afternoon, though.”
Satoru’s eyes widened slightly, a bright, boyish grin breaking across his face. He immediately shifted lower on the bed, sliding down until he was kneeling on the floor beside the mattress, bringing him eye-level with your stomach. He gathered the hem of your oversized shirt and gently lifted it, exposing the round warmth of your bare skin.
“Is that right?” he murmured, leaning in close.
He didn't hesitate.
He pressed his cheek directly against your bump, his long silver lashes brushing against your skin as he closed his eyes. He stayed perfectly still, holding his breath, just listening.
As if on cue, a sharp, sudden thump rippled against his cheek.
Satoru let out a soft, breathy laugh, his hand instantly cupping the side of your belly to anchor himself.
“Whoa. Yeah, that’s a strong one. It definitely takes after me.” He kissed the spot where the kick had landed, his lips warm and lingering. “Keep growing big and strong in there, okay? Daddy's waiting.”
He looked up at you, his eyes shimmering in the dimming light of the room.
There was a quiet, profound reverence in his expression that made your chest ache with warmth. He reached up, his long fingers gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before his hand came to rest on your cheek, his thumb wiping away a stray tear you hadn't realized had fallen.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice incredibly soft, a stark contrast to the loud persona he wore outside these walls. “What's this for? Are you hurting anywhere?”
“No,” you whispered, placing your hand over his. “Just happy. You're going to be a wonderful father, Satoru.”
Satoru stared at you for a long moment, the corners of his mouth lifting into a gentle, genuine smile. He leaned up, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips.
“Only because I have you to show me how,” he whispered against your mouth, before drawing you into a slow, deep, and impossibly tender kiss. For the rest of the evening, he didn't move from your side, his hands never leaving you, keeping you wrapped safely in his own quiet world.
well into retirement, nanami thought your bottomless sexual appetite would dwindle. (un)fortunately for him, it's done quite the opposite.
your body has long since given up on the idea of having children, yet your libido hasn't. much to your joy, your husband can still breed you to your hearts content.
you flop onto your back, unfocused eyes staring at the ceiling. musk and sex still cling to the air like glue, just how you like it. his release is still dripping out of you in ropes. warm and full, melting into the bed, your husband still finds the energy to fuss over you.
"are you not sore?" nanami asks, worry etched across his face. for the past hour, he's been bending you every which way, filling you up in hopes that it "takes," as you say.
"nope. in fact, i can go another round." the wiggle of your eyebrows isn't missed by him. he scoffs in your face, pulling you snug into his arms on the bed.
"no more sex for you, missy. we've got brunch plans and you need sleep."
you push him away with no real force behind it. at the end of the day, whatever he says goes, even if your ovaries are desperately begging against it.
"i'm still surprised that you've got so much stamina."
"what? and you haven't got any, mr three rounds in a row?"
he blushes immediately, trying (and failing) to hide his face in the pillows. "that wouldn't have happened if you hadn't begged for it. you know i can't say no to you."
"so you saying 'i fucking love bree—" a pillow to the face cuts you off. "sorry, i was adjusting the sheets." the slightest quirk of his lip tells you he's smiling. if it weren't for years of coexisting, you wouldn't have noticed.
"—ding yu' was ah fihment 'f my imagjinashun?" you giggle when he clasps a hand over your mouth. "how about we stop talking for a little while, hm?"
and you stay like that for hours— limbs tangled together, enjoying his embrace. you're still not totally fucked out, and nanami could surely go for a couple more rounds, but for now, you're two tired souls making the most of a lazy sunday evening.
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a/n: more older reader x older character pls. also i wrote this for both retirement/ old age and breeding prompts of nanami week AND this is a continuation of an older drabble. look at me go
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thoughts about nanami barely handling his ravenous wife
it seemed you never grew tired of sex, unlike your husband.
that's not to say he doesn't like how often you want to fuck him. he'd never say no to you, especially not when you beg so sweetly, sometimes with a pout or twinkle in your eyes. the mere sight gets him ready to go in no time, previous tasks long forgotten.
he's just surprised, that's all.
nanami quietly rejected that he was "attractive." he never saw it himself, never boasted about it. by the way you always paw at him, initiate foreplay, and the many other titillating things you do, maybe he could finally accept that he was indeed above average.
he was confused when at the four month mark of your relationship, you seemed on edge constantly.
"one more round," you'd whimper in the morning, knowing one would surely turn into two or three.
"show me," you'd say, begging him to try that new method for stronger orgasms he read about in an article. it worked, yes, but his original ways were definitely better.
back aching, jaw clenched, he'd walk into your shared home. his sorcerer days were long over, yet regular life still takes a toll on him. the grasp of bills, responsibility, and annoying coworkers could never be shaken off, always there to make him regret continuing to work.
yet for some reason, you didn't see any of that. you didn't see a man broken by years of labor, dying for an ounce of coffee.
you saw your husband, tie loosened, thin sheen of sweat coating his skin, hair pushed to the side in a way only you'd ever get to see. dirty thoughts were already crawling into your mind, fantasizing about him.
the way his belt shone under the lamplight, all you could think of was him taking it off and-
"what are you staring at?" he's staring back at you, brows furrowed in that cute way that marks confusion.
"just my hot husband," you'd always say. he watched how your thighs clenched a little, how handsy you got that evening.
"i'm starting to feel like a piece of meat," he'd joke, taking off his tie. that same tie ended up around your wrists, used as leverage to pull you back into his mean thrusts. he's your piece of meat.
the older you got, it seemed the hornier you got. he expected the exact opposite; "she'll get sick of me by the time we're 50," he sometimes thought. he couldn't have been more wrong.
nanami is the kind of man that grows finer with age. grey hairs at his temple, slight stubble, a new layer of fat on his stomach, what's not to love?
"stop lying to me, woman."
"i'm not lying!" you'd retort, giggling.
for whatever reason, he can't see that you love him no matter how much he changes with age.
"your gut just means that i feed you well! it's hot!"
he's hiding his head in his hands, ears poking out with a dusty blush across them.
mumbling, he says "my wife is a pervert." (took him long enough to realize.)
no matter how much his back aches, nanami kento will never stop pleasing his wife. in the morning, occasionally at noon, and at night, he'll always make time to fuck you just the way you need it, because he needs it too.
masterlist
a/n: this idea came to me randomly. if i was nanami's wife, trust we'd be going at it everyday!
(btw, not tagging as smut cause there's no actual descriptions of nanami bending you over or anything)
Fantasizing about the local baker with the soft arms and the flour-dusted apron?
He wishes that were beneath him.
Unfortunately for him (and fortunately for you), he is a very, very weak man.
*-*
To the average pedestrian, Nanami is an unshakeable pillar of calm.
A man of beige suits and exact timekeeping, eyes like wet ash and a jawline you could dice shallots on. He walks like his spine has never known a slouch. He counts his steps. Breathes in a rhythm. Lives by the ticking of his watch.
He is also, tragically, so far gone for the woman at the corner bakery that he once rescheduled a grade one exorcism because he heard she was testing a new tart recipe.
And you. You’re the problem:
You make pastries like you’re possessed.
Not in a demonic way, though Nanami has considered exorcism as a means of freeing himself from the maddening pull of your whipped cream chantilly and fat little jam-filled beignets.
No, it’s more like—like some unholy mix of talent, divinity, and a deep, sexy knowledge of butter temperatures. You’re too good at what you do. That’s the problem.
You, with your flour-dusted apron, laughing behind the counter with a voice that bubbles like sugar in a pan. You, with your absurdly perfect pastries and your cat. You, who once gave him a free canelé and called him “Mr. Cool Office Guy” with a wink and a grin, and now he hears phantom giggles every time he closes his eyes.
He’s going insane.
He is certain of it.
*-*
The bakery does not need to be this good.
The quiche is illegal. The kouign-amann is weaponized. The “Chairman Meow” bun (a puffy cinnamon roll in the shape of a cat paw, with little sugar-glazed claws) is objectively humiliating for a grown man to buy—especially when he buys two and pretends one is for a friend.
(Lie. Nanami Kento has no friends.)
He tells himself he likes the bakery because the food is good. He’s a practical man. It is close to the office. It is on the way. He is a man of logic, taste, discipline.
Except he also somehow knows the exact week you change your seasonal menu. And the song you always hum when you think no one’s listening. And that you studied pâtisserie in some sleepy town in the south of France that smells like sea salt and burnt sugar, and he knows this not because you told him, but because he stalked your Instagram all the way back to 2014 at 2:12 AM on a Tuesday like a man unhinged.
It’s not his fault you were semi-Instagram famous before you moved to Japan.
It’s not his fault your pastries could be considered legally erotic.
It’s not his fault your smile could kill a man.
He hates himself.
He’s back again the next day anyway.
*-*
Nanami is fully convinced he’s being normal. Entirely neutral. Chill, even.
This is a lie. He tells himself he’s only here for a snack.
He lies. He lies like a dog. A bald-faced sinner.
*-*
The worst part is that he tries to be normal. He tries, God bless him.
Every day he walks in with all the confidence of a man about to negotiate international trade sanctions, and every day he ends up saying something like:
“Hello. One... cat paw... please. The edible one.”
Or worse:
“The raspberry tarts are... wet today. In a good way.”
Or worst of all:
“Is that your cat in the photo? The one in the chef’s hat? He looks like he wants to die... Same.”
He wants to take an expensive flight to France, suffer in the metro and lie face-down in the Seine.
He wants to die beneath the wheels of the bakery delivery van, crushed under boxes of éclairs.
He wants to gouge out the part of his brain that saw the photo of you and the cat—Chairman Meow, a furry war criminal dressed like Paul Hollywood—and thought, God, I wish I was that cat.
He knows where you live. Not technically in a creepy way—he just happened to notice the address on the back of a flyer once, and then happened to walk by, and then happened to notice your curtains were the same color as your bakery logo.
(He thinks about what your kitchen looks like. What your bed looks like. What you look like half-asleep, reaching for coffee in the morning. He thinks about you too much.)
*-*
You like him.
You don’t know why, because he’s a little stiff, a little strange, always looks like he’s trying not to panic when you talk to him—but there’s something about him.
Something sad. Something polite. Something funny, in that deadpan way where you’re not sure if he’s making a joke or confessing to murder.
Like today:
Today, you catch him staring at the strawberry shortcakes like they’ve personally wronged him.
“Rough day?” you chirp, sliding him a paper bag with his usual: one financier, one “Chairman Meow” paw, one espresso.
He blinks.
He swallows.
He looks at the paw like it contains a bomb.
“I wish I were this cat,” he mutters.
You blink back. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing.”
He takes the bag and leaves like the bakery is on fire. You hear the tink of the bell as the door closes. You think maybe, possibly, hopefully... he’s just a little weird.
You like weird.
Oh yeah, you really like weird.
*-*
Nanami dreams about you.
He dreams about your fingers, dusted in powdered sugar, brushing his knuckles as you pass him a macaron. He dreams about your laugh, loud and full, head tossed back as you roll dough at midnight. He dreams about kissing you, bending you over the bakery counter, flour in your hair and his tie yanked off and your mouth tasting like vanilla and bad decisions.
He wakes up hard.
So... well: he goes to the bakery.
You give him a sample of a new custard bun and ask him if he thinks it’s too sweet. You lick some filling off your thumb. He almost dies on the spot.
You say, “You come here a lot, Mr. Office Guy. Don’t you get tired of sweets?”
He says, “Not when you make them.”
He wants to crawl into a hole and never emerge.
*-*
Gojo once caught Nanami lingering outside the bakery like a sad, sad man in slacks and asked him if he was trying to haunt the muffins.
Nanami told him to fuck off.
*-*
He doesn’t know what to do. He’s a grown man. He exorcises curses for a living. He has biceps and trauma and a skincare routine better than most idols.
And he is completely and utterly in love with the woman who sells him pastries shaped like paws.
He tells himself it’s fine. He tells himself he’s not obsessed. He tells himself it’s just a little crush.
Meanwhile, he’s walking ten minutes out of the way just to catch a glimpse of your “Closed” sign flipping to “Open.”
He’s rewriting his schedule to match your bakery hours.
He’s memorized your handwriting from the little chalkboard menus.
He knows the name of your cat, your hometown, your favorite jam flavor, and the exact sound of your laugh.
He’s not obsessed.
He’s just...
...devoted.
That’s better. Right?
*-*
There are moments—brief, glimmering, morally ambiguous moments—when Nanami considers the possibility that you are evil.
Not in a tax fraud way, or a won't turn your phone brightness down in a movie theater way.
No.
He means Evil™. Arcane evil. Seductress evil. French rural witch evil.
You’ve been in his thoughts.
Scratch that. You are his thoughts.
You’ve moved in, settled down, started paying rent with your soft smile and that little hm-hm-hm hum you do when icing eclairs. You haunt his brain like it’s a cozy Airbnb with complimentary brainworms.
Nanami is spiraling. Quietly. Elegantly. With grace.
You are, in his completely unbiased, sexually frustrated opinion, suspiciously good at making custard.
And that is, clearly, a red flag:
“There’s a possibility,” he murmurs over black coffee, “that she’s a low-grade curse user siphoning power through some kind of... hexed brioche.”
“Or,” says Gojo, from his crime against humanity of a bar stool, “you’re just in love with a hot baker and trying not to cum about it.”
Nanami chooses violence and walks away.
But the seed is planted. And like everything around you—it fucking grows.
*-*
You're behind the counter, wiping down trays and humming some old chanson that sounds like longing dipped in honey, and Nanami is watching you through the tainted glass with the grim intensity of a war general studying enemy tactics.
He does not understand his feelings.
Therefore, you must be cursed.
It’s the only logical explanation, the most obvious one.
You: warm, soft, sweet like a madeleine soaked in brandy.
Him: cold, tight, stressed, still has a goddamn Nokia from 2008 because “it functions.”
He looks at you, and his stomach twists. He thinks of biting. He thinks of holding. He thinks of what kind of jam you’d taste like and gets dizzy.
And so, his brain—bless its brittle, tax-paying, emotionally constipated structure—goes full fantasy-paranoia.
He wonders again, very seriously:
“What if she’s some kind of low-level jujutsu sorcerer that bakes cursed confections to seduce men and drain their cursed energy through erotic pastries?”
(This is what happens when you don’t go to therapy.)
*-*
Nanami walks into the bakery like always that morning. Suave. Smooth. Suit pressed, tie aligned. All part of the ritual.
He opens the door. The bell rings. The air smells like vanilla and sex and maybe nutmeg.
He thinks: maybe today will be normal.
HA.
Maybe today, goats will fly and whales will walk.
Because then he walks into your bakery, and the fucking vibes are off.
It’s not the usual good-off, like the time you accidentally put hot pepper flakes in the strawberry jam and called it “emotionally volatile confiture.”
No. This is curse-off.
Stale, crawling, leechy.
Nanami stiffens. Eyes narrow. His gaze immediately shifts—reflex, training, trauma—to the curse floating, slick and shadowy.
It’s leeching off your back like some ugly little leech goblin, gurgling like a clogged sink and pulsing with enough cursed energy to make his stomach twist. Small. Filthy. Leeching your warmth like a perverse little parasite.
It’s touching you.
And Nanami just. Stops.
“Ah,” you greet, beaming. “You're back! Try the cherry brioche today, it’s—”
He is not hearing you.
He is staring. Hard. Jaw clenched.
Because there is a fucking curse crawling up your spine and no one else can see it and what the fuck is the universe’s problem???
“You okay?” you ask, peering up at him with nothing but kindness in your gaze.
“You’re… staring.”
Oh God. You’ve noticed.
You’ve noticed he’s been staring.
You probably think he’s checking you out. (He was last week, for the record. But not now. Now he’s being haunted in real time.)
He opens his mouth to lie. He’s good at lying. Emotionally guarded men always are.
But then—
You blink. Lean in.
And say, soft and slow:
“...Can you see it too?”
HE IMMEDIATELY FREAKS THE FUCK OUT.
Nanami stares at you like you just slapped him with a baguette and whispered, “Surprise, I’m God.”
“What,” he says. Flat. A single syllable drenched in existential crisis.
“What did you just say?”
You glance behind you, at nothing. The curse is wriggling happily like a tapeworm in heat.
“The thing,” you whisper. “The weird… sticky ghost-thing. Can you see it?”
He does not answer.
Instead, he vaults the goddamn counter like a gymnast in a Calvin Klein ad, yanks the blunt sword from his back, and slams it into the curse with enough force to shatter the air itself.
Because of course.
Of course he doesn’t hesitate. One clean strike and the curse explodes into black mist and bitter air, shrieking into the ether.
Silence.
You’re shaking. So is the cat, who just witnessed a goddamn exorcism next to the espresso machine.
Because the thing popped like a cursed piñata.
Nanami straightens his tie. Sheathes the sword.
Silence.
Nanami straightens. Adjusts his tie. Eyes you carefully.
“...Why didn’t you get rid of it yourself?”
You blink. Still catching your breath.
“...Get rid of what?”
He gestures to the sizzling spiritual remnants in the air, still hissing faintly like microwave popcorn.
“The curse.”
You furrow your brows.
“Oh, is that what those are called? My grandma always said they were, like… spirits. Or, y’know, les esprits tordus—twisted souls. She said they couldn’t move on- or y’know, like in yokai stories? Or French folklore. You’re supposed to ignore them. That’s how you make them go away.”
Nanami looks like he just found out the sun is fake.
Nanami squints.
“And… you didn’t think that was concerning? You… you’ve just been ignoring them?”
You shrugged.
“Yeah? My grandma taught me how to like... sorta train my brain to not see them anymore. It’s like a game of ‘don’t perceive the demon writhing in the corner.’”
You grin like this is normal.
He looks like he needs to sit down.
“Also,” you add, “who are you? Why do you have a sword? Are you, like, a priest? Or a demon hunter? Or… like that one anime- whats it called again- Oh yeah, Demon Hunters?”
Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I’m a jujutsu sorcerer,” he mutters.
“That’s not a real thing.”
“It is.”
“That sounds fake.”
“I don’t have time to argue with you. I need to file a report- wait what did your grandmother say??”
“She said I could just ignore them. So I learned to do that. Like when someone tries to sell you MLM oils on Instagram.”
Nanami’s eye twitches. He is visibly malfunctioning.
“You’ve been seeing them your whole life?”
“Yeah, but it got way worse after I moved to Japan. It’s, like, super haunted here. No offense.”
Nanami has so many questions and exactly zero emotional bandwidth to process any of them.
“You’ve never trained? Been contacted? Approached by anyone in the jujutsu world?”
You blink. Again. Slowly, a small smile starting to play on your lips.
“The jujutsu what now?”
You laugh. You actually laugh.
Nanami is… confused. Intrigued. Horny.
"I... I need to go. I need to write a report-"
“Fine, Mr. Sorcerer. But you owe me a pastry explanation. Like… what the hell was that sword? Why does it look like someone sewed a curtain onto a kitchen knife?”
“It’s my weapon.”
“Is it polka-dotted?”
“You’re deflecting.”
“You traumatized my cat.”
Chairman Meow meows in agreement. Divine retribution.
*-*
You wrap a raspberry tart in wax paper. Press it into Nanami’s palm.
“Here. Payment for curse removal. Come back after your… ‘sorcerer job.’ We’ll trade info. You bring me answers. I’ll bring you cake.”
Nanami, for a moment, just looks at the tart like it’s a sacred object.
He nods, curt and awkward, like this is a hostage negotiation.
“I’ll be back at 7:00. After work.”
“Cool,” you say, grinning. “Don’t get cursed.”
“That’s not how it works.”
You wink.
“Still sounds fake.”
He leaves, flustered. Walks directly into the door.
You giggle.
*-*
There is something deeply humiliating about hope.
And Nanami certified hater of modern life, is standing outside a closed bakery at 7:01 p.m., learning that lesson like a child burned by their first oven.
He stares at the “SORRY WE’RE CLOSED” sign like it insulted his mother.
The lights are off. The curtains are drawn. The air smells like cinnamon and delusion. The sun is low, casting long shadows like a noir film, and Nanami is—how do you say—tragically, dicklessly, emotionally unwell.
“I was stupid,” he mutters. To himself. To God. To no one.
“She was being polite. A free tart does not mean she wants to know about my cursed technique. I'm a fucking idiot.”
He turns. Shoulders drooped. Soul crushed. Probably going to cry into his briefcase.
He will go home, eat instant noodles in a three-piece suit like a divorced Victorian ghost, and pretend he doesn’t wish she’d called him back in.
But then—
“MR. WIZAAAARRDDDD!!”
His soul fucking leaves his body.
*-*
He turns around.
There you are, in the bakery’s side door, lit from behind by the golden glow of fairy lights and domestic divinity, waving like a lunatic and calling him “Mr. Wizard” like this is a fucking fantasy novel.
Nanami wants to die. He wants to live. He wants to kiss you on the mouth and then respectfully retreat into a volcano to process his feelings.
“That’s not—” he starts. “I’m not a wizard, I’m a sorcerer.”
“Okay, Gandalf.”
You gesture him over with a grin and a little shimmy of your hips that nearly sends him to hell. He’s so gone for you it’s offensive. Disgusting. Genuinely criminal.
He steps inside. You lock the door behind you. And then you take him through the bakery, past the ovens and cooling racks, through a small hallway…
..to the cutest fucking courtyard he has ever seen.
There's ivy. There's a teapot already steaming on a wrought iron table. There's a string of glowing fairy lights above.
Chairman Meow is lounging on a cushion like a loaf of divine judgment. And across the courtyard is your actual house, which is—fuck—a tiny, two-story cottage with blue shutters and window boxes full of marigolds.
Nanami is having a stroke.
“You live here?” he asks, stunned.
“What, you thought I slept under the bakery counter?”
“I—no—”
“Well. Sometimes naps happen there. But that’s different.”
You usher him to sit. Pour him tea. It smells like lemon balm and honey and sex and crime. There are also pastries. On dainty little plates.
You are the Devil.
This is a trap. And Nanami is walking directly into it with a boner and a prayer.
“So,” you say, settling in with a cookie and a gleam in your eye, “explain the sword thing. And the… curse stuff. What is a jutsutsu sorcerer? Is it a union job?”
Nanami sighs.
And launches into it. Like, really launches. He explains Jujutsu society. The school. The levels of curses. The dumbassery of Gojo Satoru. The politics. The existential dread. The constant dying.
You nod, fascinated.
Nanami explains. Slowly. Methodically. The same way he breaks down curse structures and enemy tactics in debriefs.
“Curses are born from negative emotions. Fear. Hate. Regret. They form in places where humans suffer.”
“Like... hospitals?”
“Or public bathrooms.”
You gasp.
“Do... do they have toilet curses?”
“Yes.”
"Ew."
"Exactly." He answers, as he awkwardly patting the cat, who's loaffed next to him like he’s never touched anything soft in his life.
You continue.
“Your weapon,” you say, pointing to the polka-dotted sheath.
“Why does it look like an umbrella made by Comme des Garçons?”
“It’s a blunt sword. Wrapped in cursed cloth. I activate my technique through it—Ratio Technique.”
“Oh damn,” you mutter. “That sounds hot. What does it do?”
“It mathematically locates a critical point on the target’s body and strikes with guaranteed lethality.”
You blink.
“So you kill people with math.”
“Yes.” He answers, a bit flustered. "As I said, it regulates the ratio of cursed energy to physical force. I use a binding vow to—”
“You’re losing me- the hell is a binding vow?”
He sighs.
“It hits really hard.”
“Hot.”
Chairman Meow chooses this moment to march onto Nanami’s lap like a loaf of divine retribution. He kneads Nanami’s thigh once. Twice. Settles in. Stares up with narrowed, ancient eyes.
Nanami goes completely still.
“He likes you,” you say, sipping your tea like this isn’t war.
“He’s sitting on my tie.”
“Better than him pissing on it.”
Fair point.
*-*
You start talking about your grandmother. The jar lady.
How she would whisper to curses and coax them into tiny glass containers. How no one believed her. How you did. How you could see them, floating like black smoke, pulsing and ugly and weird. And how, when she died—every single one of those jars either shattered or were somehow emptied.
So you explain:
You tilt your head, watching the steam rise off your tea like you’re about to drop lore.
“My grandma used to collect jars,” you say. “Big ones. Old ones. She’d paint little symbols on the lids and store them in this attic no one was allowed to go in.”
Nanami nods, already deeply intrigued.
“Everyone thought she was just old and eccentric. Or maybe a hoarder. But I could see the curses inside. They’d scream sometimes. Look like shadows.”
“She had a technique,” Nanami mutters. “Some kind of seal? Storage-type? A domain fragment—Well it sounds like your grandmother had a cursed technique. One that created sealed areas—a type of containment field. Simple, but effective.””
“Yeah, I think she was trapping them. She said curses were like flies—useless unless you caught them and made them behave. After she died, all the jars were empty.”
“Her cursed energy must’ve dissipated.”
“And then I started seeing them everywhere.”
You both fall silent. The moment is... odd. Gentle. A little holy. You, surrounded by ivy and old ghosts. Him, sword-saint of salarymen, sitting with sugar on his fingers and a cat making biscuits on his thigh.
You talk for hours.
Chairman Meow sleeps on Nanami’s lap. You refill his tea. He eats three pastries and tries not to moan about it.
He wants to kiss you.
He wants to kiss you so bad he feels it in his knees.
Instead, he finishes his tea. Adjusts his tie. And stands.
“I should go. I have an early mission.”
You walk him to the edge of the courtyard.
“Thanks,” you say, softly, “for not thinking I’m crazy.”
“You’re not crazy,” Nanami says. “You’re… terrifyingly competent.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
You hand him a little box.
Inside: a cookie shaped like his sword (made that morning- after the curse incident). And a card.
On the card: your number. With a heart next to it.
He looks up.
You grin.
“Just in case you wanna teach me more wizard stuff.”
“Sorcerer.”
“Sure, Tinkerbell.”
“Don’t text after 10:00 PM,” he mutters. “I turn my phone off.”
“Noted. Grandpa.”
“I’m thirty-five.”
“That’s so hot.”
He leaves.
Still has raspberry jam on his collar.
Doesn’t notice until he’s halfway home.
He leaves, heart hammering. Whole body warm. Soul restored.
It’s the best night he’s had in years.
*-*
You didn’t expect Nanami to be a frequent texter.
You also didn’t expect him to be weirdly fucking good at sending memes. Not good in the conventional sense.
Anyway. The point is: you see him. A lot. Over three weeks, in fact.
Sometimes he shows up after your shift and you sit in the courtyard, drinking whatever the hell tea you felt like brewing, while Chairman Meow does laps around Nanami’s shoes like he’s trying to possess them.
Sometimes you get lunch with him (which is absurdly illegal-feeling; Nanami in daylight? Nanami not in a suit? Nanami with his tie tucked into his shirt like he’s just a guy and not The Sexual Apocalypse incarnate? please call the authorities.)
And every time, you learn something new.
“So Gojo,” you ask once, chewing through an almond croissant like it’s laced with heroin, “he’s... like, strong?”
Nanami sighs like you just asked him to describe the ocean using only corporate buzzwords.
“He’s the most powerful jujutsu sorcerer alive. Technically. He’s also an idiot.”
“Like dumb-hot or hot-dumb?”
“Both. And worse.”
You nod.
“So his power is just… infinity? Like math??”
“He manipulates space.”
“So physics math.”
*-*
You learn about cursed energy. About how most people don’t even know what it is. How kids get scouted from early age if they show signs. About the schools. The missions. The deaths.
“And you’re... like a salaryman by choice?”
“It was either that or therapy.”
*-*
He tells you about cursed techniques over butter cookies. About his Ratio Technique. About how math—math—can be his weapon.
You tell him more about the jars.
“I don’t really remember what happened. It was like... my grandmaa's hands just knew what to do.”
“That’s how most techniques manifest,” he murmurs. “Under stress. Instinctive. Primal.”
You don’t say it, but you do think about the way he says primal.
And you try not to look at his hands.
You fail.
*-*
It’s 10:37PM when you call.
You expect to leave a voicemail.
Instead—
“Hello?”
Nanami’s voice is low. Sleepy. Suspiciously naked-sounding.
“OHMYGOD YOU PICKED UP—HI—SORRY—BUT—I—OKAY—LISTEN—”
“You’re speaking like Gojo. Are you hurt?”
“No! No no. I caught a demon.”
“...I’m sorry?”
“Like a little creepy guy! Kinda cute actually! It jumped at me and now it’s in a jar.”
Silence.
Then:
“...I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
*-*
When he arrives at the park near your bakery, he’s in... a half-suit.
Not half-assed. Literally half.
He’s wearing slacks. A belt.
His button-up is halfway done and his tie is in his teeth.
He looks deranged. He looks like sex and taxes. He looks like he’s ten seconds from either fighting god or proposing to you.
“Where,” he pants, “is the curse.”
You gesture proudly to a large glass jug on the ground beside you. It’s about knee-high. Some sort of old-timey wine demijohn, the kind people repurpose for Pinterest DIYs.
Except inside this one?
There’s a fucking curse.
Squirming like a pissed off eel in a blender. A little smoky bastard with limbs and hatred and a tendency to hiss like a tea kettle.
“See?” you basically cackle in glee.
Nanami squats. Touches the glass.
“It’s sealed,” he mutters. “This is—this is your cursed technique?”
“I mean, I guess?? I wasn’t really trying. It just—happened. I was leaving my friend’s place and it lunged at me and I panicked and wanted it gone and then it was in the jug and my hands were glowing and I—”
“Why didn’t you just run?”
“I was holding cheesecake.” You answer as you lift a very small pastry box.
Nanami makes a face like he’s not sure whether to fuck you or shake you.
“You risked your life for cheesecake.”
“It was Basque-style.”
He closes his eyes. Pinches the bridge of his nose. You can hear him whispering to himself:
“This is fine. This is okay. I can work with this. She’s only mildly suicidal.”
*-*
He carries the jug.
One-handed. Like a man. Like a gentleman.
His shirt flaps in the wind. You want to unbutton the rest. With your teeth.
You get back to your place, usher him inside, put the jug on the floor of your kitchen like it’s your new haunted roommate. The curse growls. You put it next to the trash. It screams. Chairman Meow hisses.
“So,” you say, hands on hips, “what now?”
“Now,” Nanami says, stepping close, “I file a report with the higher-ups, notify the jujutsu authorities, and work to classify your cursed technique as—”
You kiss him.
Because what else are you supposed to do?
He’s been sexy and stressed and saving your life for weeks.
He brought a tie to a park at 10PM and held your ghost jug like a prince cradling a cursed baby.
You kiss him, and he kisses back like he means it.
Hands on your waist. One in your hair. The kind of kiss that’s definitely inappropriate in front of a cursed creature and a cat.
“You’re trouble,” he breathes, biting your lip.
“You’re the one in half a suit, sexy wizard.”
“Sorcerer.”
“Yeah, yeah. Call me later, Gandalf.”
You’re giggling. He’s hard.
You pull him into your kitchen.
You climb up on the counter.
He groans when you pull at his belt.
“This is reckless,” he mutters, voice shaking.
“This is hot.”
“There’s a demon in a jug watching us.”
“It’s called ‘audience participation.’”
You make out.
You grind.
There’s groping and panting and a very clear moment where Nanami moans into your neck and Chairman Meow leaps off the counter in disgust.
It’s beautiful.
It’s filthy.
It smells like vanilla extract and lust.
And.. well. You know it’s going to happen the moment Nanami moans.
Not just any moan, either.
Not your run-of-the-mill "mmm yeah babe" porno crap, no. This is a low, wrecked, real noise—the kind that’s half-strangled behind clenched teeth and a button-down that’s two stressors away from bursting at the seams.
A sound so honest it makes your thighs twitch and your brain sizzle like oil in a pan.
And then—
“We’re not doing this in front of the curse,” he growls, tugging your legs apart like he's Moses and your thighs are the Red Sea.
“I mean, it’s in a jar?”
“And the cat.”
“...Okay, yeah. Chairman Meow is a baby.”
(He's not. He's like 30 in cat years.)
“Exactly.”
Then he picks you up.
PICKS YOU UP.
Like you're weightless. Like you’re nothing but a feathered dream in his arms. Like your chubby little bakery thighs aren’t full of croissant and bad decisions and emotional instability.
“Bedroom,” he says, lips brushing your ear like a threat.
“Now.”
His arms are so strong it’s not even sexy anymore, it’s just disrespectful. You’re clinging to him like a slutty little koala, getting carried bridal style past the ghost jar and Chairman Meow (who squints at Nanami like he’s judging his tax returns), and you're being deposited—gently, reverently—onto your bed.
And then his hands are on you again.
Gliding. Grabbing. Ghosting under your shirt with purpose and precision, like he’s been fantasizing about this since the moment you offered him a butter tart months ago and said, "I made this with love. And a little bit of rage."
The sex?
Oh, well... just average...
WRONG!!!
He lowers himself to your thighs after stripping you like you were something holy and—because yes, he is a gentleman, a scholar, and a man who understands that foreplay is the syllabus of romance—he eats you out like he’s auditioning for a Michelin star in cunnilingus.
And ohhhh my god. He knows. He fucking knows.
He goes down on you like a man on a mission. Like he’s trying to collect all your moans and put them in a jar next to your curse. Like he wants to taste everything and ruin your life in the process.
Every movement precise. Every lick, suck, press, curl of his tongue calculated for maximum chaos and orgasmic destruction.
He is methodical. He is cruel. He is tender. He is earth-shattering.
You arch like a cat possessed. His hands grip your hips, your thighs, your ass. You are trembling, quivering, dripping like a melted sugar sculpture.
His tongue is demonic. Not in a literal sense (to be fair, it might), but in the sense that you would absolutely sell your soul to it.
He finds your clit like a GPS-enabled delivery driver. He moans into you. He fucking moans into you.
His lips wrap around you like you're the holy grail and he’s been dying of thirst for decades. You swear you see God. Or maybe Gojo. Terrifying either way.
“Jesus CHRIST, Kento—”
“I’m not done.”
A loooonnggg lick, his thumb finds your clit.
“Oh my God—okay, okay, yeah—okay—fuck.”
He doesn’t stop until your legs shake. Until you grab the sheets like they owe you money. Until your voice cracks like a fucking opera soprano and your soul does a somersault into the stratosphere.
Then he kisses up your belly like the romantic menace he is.
“Was that okay?” he asks, lips slick with your essence.
“Okay?” you croak, tears in your eyes. “I just saw my own funeral.”
You hand him the lube (because you just can SENSE this man's girth). It’s vanilla scented. It’s all you had.
He laughs.
He laughs. A quiet, hot chuckle that rumbles through his chest and goes straight to your neglected, begging pussy.
“Of course it’s vanilla,” he smirks, opening the cap. “Sweet.”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“It fits you.”
“I am a WHORE, sorcerer sir.”
“You’re adorable.”
He pulls one out of his wallet like a gentleman.
“You don’t need to—”
“I want to. I trust you. But I like being safe. It’s... important.”
STOP IT RIGHT NOW. A man? Respecting you? Checking in? Not trying to rawdog your future against your will?
You nearly marry him on the spot.
You see IT.
You blink. You see it again. OH. OH.
Let’s talk about the cock.
This is no ordinary cock. This is a career-focused, exorcising demons, salaryman-of-your-dreams cock.
Sensational. Groundbreaking. Like an early morning earthquake in the best way. Thick, hard, precise. The kind of thing that makes you forget how to think, makes you forget your own name, makes you absolutely devoted in a way that is borderline illegal.
We’re talking commanding. Regal. A fucking Excalibur of a dick. Thick, weighty, veiny in a way that’s both artistic and slightly threatening.
He rolls the condom over his cock like he’s conducting a sacred ritual. You literally think you might cry from how responsible and fucking sexy this man is.
He slides in slow. Too slow. He holds eye contact the entire time.
“There we go,” he breathes, forehead to yours, voice low and strained. “You feel perfect.”
You do. You feel full. Like a pastry cream pipe got shoved in you and God said, “LET THERE BE SIN.”
And then he fucks you. Slow and deep at first. Then faster. Like he’s trying to rearrange your internal organs into a pie chart that says, “NANAMI KENTO OWNS THIS PUSSY.”
His hands roam. Everywhere. Ass, tits, back, hair. He doesn’t miss a spot. He slams into you in a rhythm that is both brutal and tender. Each thrust a lesson in patience, control, and pure filthy love.
You’re a mess. He’s panting. The bedframe is squeaking.
“Is that good?” he murmurs.
“Yes—fuck—yesyesyes, oh my God—”
“That’s it,” he growls, grabbing your hips like a man possessed.
You come again. Harder this time. So much harder. There are tears.
He follows right after, cursing under his breath, fucking you through it like he’s trying to tattoo your guts with his cock.
You lie there. Sweaty. Destroyed. And so, so loved.
He kisses your collarbone. Your cheek. Your lips. Your heart.
“I like you,” he says, hoarse.
“Yeah,” you breathe, giggling, “I noticed. You ate me like a starving man.”
“You taste better than anything you bake.”
“Shut up. You’re obsessed.”
And outside, in the kitchen, the curse jar sits silently. Still glowing. Maybe a little traumatized... it trembles, possibly jealous.
Chairman Meow licks his paw and looks away. He’s seen worse.
A/N: okay so this was fun. hope you enjoyed:) tomorrow, will be VERY special so i'll post smth extra special.
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while your brain is frying at the edges, every nerve alight, nanami is asking you to do the impossible.
"cum for me again."
you want to, of course, but your sweat clicked body has other plans. no matter how much he grinds, fucks or rubs you at just the right angle, it's not enough to send you over the edge.
he's got you lying on your side, back pressed to him. his heartbeat is hammering against you in time with his thrusts, precise and controlled.
he notices the way you press your ass against him, chasing that high that's just out of reach. "tell me what you need, darling."
"your voice, kento." so quietly, so pathetic it's barely more than a whisper.
but he obeys regardless. pushing your leg up, his tip reaches even deeper, has your cunt gripping him in pleasure. "fuck," he groans. "there you go. taking my cock so well."
that has you mewling, head thrown back on a silent cry. the coil low in your belly tightens, but it's still not enough to send you over the edge.
"more!" you beg, chanting it over and over, brain clouded with lust.
"moan for me, darling. let it all out."
aided by his praise, you moan freely. your sinful noises echo off the walls into his ears. he joins you in making impassioned groans of his own. composure breaking, he hikes one of your legs up, hand gliding down to rub at your clit.
the coil grows tighter, threads of pleasure threatening to break into your peak. it's embarrassing how easily he can turn you on with just his words and that's exactly why you need him more.
"s-shitt, i'm close," you moan. one more thrust and you'll be gushing around him, ecstasy just out of reach.
"you need permission," he cuts himself off with a groan. "don't you?"
"yesyesyes— please let me cum!"
he shifts your position slightly, leg hugged even tighter against your chest and your face pushed into the pillows. the circles on your clit are smaller, sparks of pleasure lighting in your belly.
"cum for me, darling."
your orgasm racks through you without pause. toes curling, body locked up, vision whited out, you're at the complete mercy of it. you're screaming and creaming on him before you realize. through the haze, you can hear nanami groaning behind you, trying (and failing) to stay in control.
thrusts going sloppy, he fucks you through your orgasm, prolonging it until you can barely take it. "fuck, ken!"
he spills inside you, flooding your hole with opaline waves. for every tremor of your walls he's pistoning into you.
finally, both of you finish. rolling onto your back, his cock is free to slip out. his cum cascades out your sopping hole, sticking to your sweaty thighs. silence and the scent of sex hangs in the air for a while. right now, it's just you and him.
shifting to face him, you see he's already looking back, eyes glinting with pure adoration.
"i'll never get tired of your voice."
"same to you, darling."
masterlist | @orangethecarrotcoloredpaperred
a/n: i should've said this ages ago but i have a taglist now! it's linked in my bio. tell me if it doesn't work. hope u enjoyed the fic and ur day luvs <3
Pornstar!Simon who’s been told he can’t fuck you anymore because the way you sound when he’s inside you makes every other costar you’ve had in the past look bad.
The Director pulling him aside with the footage still looping on the monitor, voice low, telling him it was obvious your moans dripping out wet and broken were real in a way you’ve never given the cameras before, obvious now that every gasp and whimper you’d faked with the others was thin and breathy and hollow compared to this and your former costars were bound to complain.
Said it made the lads before him look like they couldn’t even get you properly wet, let alone fuck the sense out of you. Said pairing you with Ghost again was asking for trouble. Too risky. Too fuckin’ real.
Swinging the monitor around to show Ghost the way he had angled his hips so the camera caught his cock stretching your silky cunt half an hour before, thick enough that your walls flutter around him without any acting, slick spilling out around the base every time he bottomed out.
Your fingers scrabbling along the bed every time he ground himself down, too fucked out to really run from the pleasure the way you wanted to, body shaking brain reduced to static goo.
You having a hard time remembering the scripted words you were given, eyes rolling in your sockets, little whimpers and moans punched out “hn-hn-hn-“ every time his hips met yours and the head of his cock kissed your cervix.
Ghost cooing down at you when you miss your cue for the third time, hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other kept your thigh shoved wide, voiced amused when he asks “wha’s amatter? Cat got your tongue, dove?”
Ruined any possibility of you answering when he fucked you deep, making your cunt visibly pulse around him on the monitor, arousal drooling down his balls.
You tried. You really did. You mouth opened, some broken attempt at the first word, but it dissolved into another punched out moan the second he angled just right, letting the camera see the way your eyes rolled in their sockets.
His thumb stroking once over your clit, almost gentle, almost fond. “Tha’s it,” he murmured, “take it. Fuckin’ take it.”
Another missed cue. Another low, rough chuckle. He didn’t really give you room to think. Just kept you pinned and full and dripping while the cameras roled and the script stayed forgotten on the floor somewhere behind the lights.
The director was still talking but Ghost wasn’t listening, instead, just reached over and rewound the tape instead. Watched the part where you tried to speak again. Watched the way your body gave out for him and only him. Watched his own hand on the screen, thumb stroking your clit.
He hit play once more. Let it loop. Thumb hovering over the button, already deciding he didn’t give a fuck what the director had to say about it, he was gonna fuck you again no matter what.
