#there is...not much...to me...other than fat haha...

You’ve personally benefited from that beard. Profusely. Extensively. Indecently. So when Nanami spends the next week squinting at himself in mirrors and muttering about early-onset follicle depigmentation under his breath, you think nothing of it.

This is what happens almost every time: there's ruffling around in the bathroom. Muttering.

“Odd. Hm. Curious. Concerning.”

He glares at himself in the mirror, angling his jaw like an insecure teenage boy before prom. The beard—oh, the magnificent, chiseled, honey-brown beard you’ve spent many a late night sitting on—is indeed looking... spotty. Like some of the hairs around his mouth have been bleached by a spiteful god with too much time and peroxide (he looks like a very cute cat).

Until he—bless him, this king—actually goes to the doctor.

“Just a consultation,” he mumbles, setting down his phone.

“Is it contagious?” you deadpan, feeding Chairman Meow, your fat, bitchy cat who has precisely zero respect for anyone with a salary.

“No.”

“Is it deadly?”

“No.”

“Are you dying?”

“Eventually.”

Okay, fair. You let it lie.

Until one evening, you’re curled up on your couch in your ratty grad-school hoodie and Nanami is pacing like he’s preparing a PowerPoint on Beard-Based Terminal Illnesses.

You’re grading papers at the kitchen island — which is to say, you are actively pretending to grade papers while sipping chamomile from your obscenely large “WORLD’S OKAYEST BIOLOGIST” mug and playing footsie with your husband under the table. Nanami is cooking because he’s hot, domestic, and overqualified to julienne carrots with the precision of a samurai.

But he’s quiet. Too quiet.

Which usually means one of three things:

He’s mentally calculating the pros and cons of early retirement.

He’s planning your next anniversary three months early.

He’s thinking — and oh dear God, when Nanami Kento is thinking, he is Ruminating. Capital R.

Eventually, he speaks. Softly. Gravely. As if announcing a war crime.

“Darling.”

“Yes, my delicious little Wagyu husband?”

He doesn’t even blink at the nickname. He's used to your flavor.

“I think I’m bleaching.”

You lower your red pen. Sip. “Bleaching?”

He turns around. Hands on hips. Furrowed brow. Beard of Concern. “Around my mouth. My beard. The hairs are... pale. Lighter than the rest. Gojo noticed it a couple days ago.”

You almost spit tea. “Gojo noticed your mouth hair?”

He nods, gravely.

“It’s localized. Just here.” He gestures like a man unveiling a murder weapon. “I thought it might be age. But I’ve checked my father’s pictures—his beard never did this. And I feel... fine. No symptoms. No irritation.”

Your brow furrows. Your professional brain does a little jog.

Hmm. Localized depigmentation. No pain. No rash. Consistent exposure to...

And then it hits you. Like a holy epiphany from the Temple of Pussy Itself.

“Maybe it’s stress-induced melanin loss,” he mutters. “Or nutritional deficiencies. Or perhaps an autoimmune—”

“It’s my vagina,” you interrupt gently, sipping your tea.

Nanami blinks. “Pardon?”

You pat the seat beside you. Chairman Meow gives Nanami a withering glance. He sits.

“Ken,” you say, as delicately as one can when explaining face pubes and pussies, “you know how you’ve been... um. Very devoted. Orally.”

You clear your throat.

“And...you know how your favorite hobby is...eating me out like a man on death row?”

Nanami nods, very seriously. “Yes. It brings me peace.”

“Right. And you’ve been very...consistent. Dedicated. Diligent.”

“I try to maintain a regular schedule,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “I always have been.It’s important that you feel safe and pleasured in our marriage.”

“Yes, well, your enthusiasm is melting the pigment out of your beard.”

There’s a long silence. You watch him. He computes.

Loading... Loading... Realization: DOWNLOADED

“...You’re saying my face is being... chemically altered by cunnilingus.”

You nod. Solemn. Holy. A priestess delivering divine cunnilingus scripture.

“Yes, my love. Your beard is being exfoliated by pussy.”

“The pH,” he says slowly. “Of your—of your— vagina.” He gestures vaguely at your entire pelvic region like it’s a war crime.

Then: “…Incredible,” he says, voice low and reverent. “Truly. Your body is…remarkable.”

“Yes- aw that's cute- anyways, I'm mildly acidic, yes,” you say. “It’s healthy! I’m healthy! You just maybe need to come up for air once in a while?”

Nanami looks offended. Deeply. Existentially. Like you told him to abandon the Geneva Conventions of cunnilingus.

You try to say something.

But oh no. It’s too late. He’s spiraling. He’s halfway into a PowerPoint presentation in his own head titled The Art of the Tongue: Pleasuring My Wife Until She Transcends The Mortal Plane.

“Are you not enjoying it?” he asks, horrified.

“What? No! I’m thriving!”

“Is my technique lacking? I’ve been studying the clitoral map—”

“Ken, what—”

“Should I incorporate toys? There are vibrating attachments, I read. Suction-based ones. Edible gels. I can improve, I—”

“KENTO.”

You throw a pillow at him. Chairman Meow chirps in agreement.

He catches the pillow with a tragic expression on his face, like a man whose mouth has been too generous, whose dedication to the cause has come back to haunt him in patchy facial hair and mild oral dermatitis.

“You’re not being punished,” you say softly. “I’m just saying... maybe balance it out? Switch sides? Make it even?”

Nanami frowns. “Even?”

“You know.” You wiggle your brows. “Equal distribution of tongue activity. Left and right. Even out the bleach.”

He stares at you blankly.

“...Oh.” “Oh.” “OH.”

The way his pupils dilate is obscene.

“You’re suggesting I—”

“Yes.”

“To even out—”

“Yes.”

Nanami’s on his feet before you’ve finished your tea. He’s rolling up his sleeves. You’re laughing—no, cackling—as he gently sets aside your mug and Chairman Meow hisses with the outrage of a feline who knows he's about to be exiled from the room for unspeakable acts.

The Thing Is: Nanami Doesn’t Do Anything By Halves

You barely had time to peel off your robe before he was pulling you down by the backs of your thighs, laying you across the dining room table like a sacrifice to some ancient, pussy-loving god. His hands—calloused, reverent—pushed your legs apart with the same solemnity that he uses to file mission reports.

If he’s going to “even out” the light patches in his beard, he’s going to dedicate himself. Like a man in penance. Like a monk on pilgrimage. Like a madman with a tongue blessed by God and techniques forged in the back alleys of Tokyo’s dirtiest libraries.

He doesn’t dive in.

No, Nanami studies. He always has.

He observes your pussy like it’s a text he’s read a hundred times and still finds new footnotes in every time. The man should have a PhD in head. He could teach a masterclass. He could open a temple.

“Is this the left or right side of my beard?” he murmurs absently, already kissing the crease of your thigh. “I don’t know—who cares—” “I care. This is science.”

Science. This man.

His tongue—warm, flat, deliberate—licks a long stripe from your entrance up to your clit, then back again, slower. You gasp, twitch, grab the edge of the table. He hums into you like your pussy is singing his national anthem.

“Still acidic,” he murmurs against your skin.

You bark a laugh. “You checking my pH with your tongue now?”

“Yes,” he says, utterly shameless, “And you’re… dangerously arousing.”

Nanami doesn’t eat you out.

He performs communion.

He presses his mouth to you with worship in his bones. Licks you like he’s trying to map the exact shape of your pleasure with nothing but devotion and grit. That beard—already soft, already damp—is grinding against your inner thighs, dragging, scraping just enough to drive you fucking wild.

He’s thorough. Focused. Trained.

The kind of man who licks you like he’s memorizing scripture. The kind of man who doesn't come up for air unless you're begging him or bleeding. And right now?

You’re doing both.

His tongue circles your clit lazily, teasing, then flicks with precision that makes your back arch. His hands are splayed across your hips, thumbs pressing into your inner thighs to keep you spread open.

You look down at him.

That hair tousled. That golden gaze blown wide. And that beard?

Already shining.

“You taste better than wine,” he says, voice hoarse, lips shiny.

“You say that every time.”

“And I’ll say it again.”

He dives back in before you can respond, licking into you with such obscene, wet pressure that you slap the table with your palm.

He alternates—flat-tongue strokes that melt you, then tight little flicks over your clit, then just holding his tongue there, hot and unyielding, until your thighs are shaking and your vision’s a watercolor blur.

You reach down, thread your fingers through his hair, tug.

He groans.

You clench.

He fucking growls- what in the fanfic is this??

The vibrations rocket through you, make you sob and grind up against his mouth, shameless, whimpering, ruined.

"F-fuck—Kento—"

He hums. The bastard hums. And it sends shockwaves straight through your spine.

“More,” you whimper, already near tears. “Ken, more, please—”

And then—then. He suckles.

Not a little baby lick. Not a polite nibble.

No.

Nanami Kento puts your entire clit in his mouth like it owes him money and sucks like he's trying to draw power from it.

You arch off the bed, fingers in his hair, and he lets you. He moans into your cunt like it’s the only thing that’s ever fed him. The vibrations hit you like a freight train.

“This—” he pants between strokes, “—is for balance.” “Oh my god—” “Symmetry matters.” “Kento, if you stop I’m going to—” “Would never. Never.”

Your orgasm sneaks up on you like a thief in silk. One second you’re breathing, the next you’re screaming, spasming, clenching hard around nothing while Nanami rides it out with you, hands gripping your thighs so tight they’ll bruise.

He only pulls back once to say, “I think the right side still has more pale strands. I need to go again.”

You try to answer. It comes out as a sob. A happy sob.

You lose track of time. It becomes meaningless. The clock ticks, and you don’t care. The sun could explode and you’d still be there, legs spread, husband nestled between your thighs like a man at peace.

And he doesn’t stop, not even when your hips are trembling, your eyes are wet, and your voice is so hoarse you can’t even say his name.

He does lifts his head from time to time, glorious, beard shining like a war trophy, eyes heavy-lidded and smug. His cheeks glisten. His lips are swollen.

He is, in short, a mess (and you know for a fact that man is HARD, probably lowkey cumming from all this).

He doesn’t stop.

You come again before you’ve even caught your breath. This one is messier. Sloppier. Louder. He moans into you like he needs it, like your pleasure is what feeds him.

And honestly?

Maybe it is.

By the time he finally pulls back, the bottom half of his beard is soaking wet, his pupils are nonexistent, and you are one with the table. Spiritually. Physically. Emotionally. You may never walk again.

He licks his lips thoughtfully.

“Do you think it’s even?” he asks, voice rough.

You blink at the ceiling.

“I can’t see the ceiling anymore, Kento. I think we’re good.”

He hums.

Then presses a final kiss to your clit so soft it feels like a blessing.

“You’re the best scientific partner I’ve ever had,” he murmurs.

You wheeze.

From somewhere on the floor, Chairman Meow lets out a judgmental mrow.

*-*

The aftermath is simple:

You’re limp. Boneless. Jellyfish with a mortgage. Nanami lies beside you, beard glowing with postcoital dew and unevenly bleached patches.

“I’ll make a new schedule,” he says hoarsely. “Monday through Thursday: left side. Friday to Sunday: right. Every other national holiday: center.”

“You’re deranged,” you whisper, kissing his reddened jaw. "My precious calico-cat husband."

“You married me,” he says smugly.

You settle against his chest while he lectures you, drowsily, about the socio-political necessity of prioritizing female pleasure and the ethics of oral reciprocity in long-term relationships.

Chairman Meow hops onto the bed and stares at you. Judging. Purring. Knowing.

You mutter, “Don’t say a word.”

He doesn’t. But he does step right onto your tit and curl up there like the little bastard he is.

Life is good.

*-*

The next week, Gojo finds a half-used box of strawberry-flavored dental dams in Nanami’s desk drawer. You buy Nanami a commemorative mug that says “Best Cunnilinguist in Tokyo”. His beard stays patchy. You don’t care. Because every time you look at it, you think: That’s MY pussy bleach.

And honestly?

You’ve never been prouder.

A/N: hope this was good!

Masterlist.

You froze, feeling the heat rush to your face, and somewhere else—it didn’t help that the rubber captain never kept still. Still, you couldn’t find it in you to push him off, as he had looked up at you with an adorably blinding grin, his gummy smile having wormed its way into your heart long ago. 

“Luffy,” you began awkwardly. 

“You’re hard today.” 

You spluttered. “I’m what today?” 

He turned around in your lap to blink innocently at you. “You’re harder than usual today, y/n!” 

“Oh. Haha… I am, aren’t I?” You let out a breath of relief. It hadn’t occurred to you that Luffy quite possibly didn’t know about that sort of stuff; or perhaps wasn’t interested in all, seeing as he never bat an eye to the beautiful, well-endowed Boa Hancock who practically threw herself at him at every chance. 

You were absorbed in your thoughts until you felt a hand palm your hard cock roughly. 

“Luffy!” Your hips bucked upwards, nearly throwing him off your lap. “What was that for—” 

“So yours does the same thing, too. Shishi, I thought my dick was broken when I touched it and it turned hard!” 

Oh. So he had touched himself before. Guess you could save yourself from having to give ‘the talk’ to an absolute airhead. 

“Wow,” Luffy continued to squeeze and fondle your cock through the thin layer of your pants, making you bite your lip to suppress a groan. “You’re pretty big!” 

“Captain,” you snapped, finally, glaring at him as he pouted. “This isn’t appropriate.” 

“But why not?” he protested, still not releasing his death-grip on your cock. 

“This—we—aren’t in that sort of relationship.” 

Luffy simply frowned. “Do we have to be in a relationship to touch each other’s dicks?” 

“Well, no, but—” 

“Good!” 

Before he went back to straight-up kneading your poor cock, you grabbed his wrists and bound them behind his back with one hand. 

“But why?” he whined loudly, bottom lip jutting out as he stared up at you. “I want to! You gotta let me! I’m the captain!” 

You sighed. “You may be my captain, but that doesn’t mean you get to take advantage of your superiority to sexually harass me whenever you want.” 

“I’m not sensually harassing you, or whatever that is!” 

“It’s ‘sexually harass’, not sensually harass. And—why do you even want to do this in the first place? You’ve never acted like this before when you napped on me before.” 

“I just suddenly want to! What’s the matter with that?!” Luffy looked petulant, almost angry as he couldn’t get what he wanted, and he retracted one of his legs hooked around your waist to tramp on your cock. 

You let out a guttural moan at that, and Luffy’s eyes had widened visibly, as though he wanted to hear more. 

“Hey, y/n? My dick’s hard.” 

“Is this what you wanted, baby?” 

Luffy’s knees were pressed into the mattress above his shoulders, making good use of his stretchiness as he shudders and whines a response beneath you. His hole is stretched perfectly around your cock, warm and wet and tight, taking you to the brim so well. 

“Y-yeah, puh—please!” he wailed desperately, raking his nails on your back as you angled your hips, thrusting up into his sweet spot. “So—so big—ah!” 

“There it is.” You grinned, hands fully wrapping around his waist to tug him back onto your cock like a ragdoll, perfectly nailing his prostate again. “Think we found it, mm?” 

Luffy nodded his head weakly, trembling all over as you railed him into the mattress with each heavy thrust, before dragging him back. “Feels really g-good! Right—right there!” 

“Here, captain?” You purposefully missed, tip of your cock barely grazing it, and he whined shamelessly. 

“No! Not there!” he moaned, shaking his head in frustration as he looked at you with pleading eyes. “Y/n, I need it s-so bad!” 

You would have never thought that Luffy was capable of such dirty talking. But right now—with your captain willingly spreading his legs for you, hole stretched wide open and insides rearranging themselves to fit your huge cock, you couldn’t even process it except for how good it felt. 

“And what’s the magic word, love?” 

“M-magic word?” He blinks at you confusedly. “I don’t know any—any magic word! I’m not—a magician, ah, silly!” 

Warmth curled in your chest at how utterly ridiculous Luffy was, and you gave a little laugh, before leaning down to kiss him. Luffy kissed you back with eagerness, biting and sucking impatiently at your lower lip. As you fucked your tongue into that pliant little mouth of his, mirroring your cock’s every thrust, he had sucked on it and moaned around it, drool spilling down the sides of his mouth as though it felt heavenly for him. 

“So full…” Luffy whimpered around your tongue, eyes rolling back in ecstasy—and you couldn’t pinpoint which hole he was referring to. 

You reeled back after a long kiss, going back to pounding into him as he whined for “harder”, for “more”, and “wanting to eat the funny liquid that comes out of your cock”. 

Your breath hitched in surprise as you realised what Luffy meant. “Want me to cum down your throat, baby? That what you want?” You could feel yourself getting closer and closer, his warm, spongy walls pulsating around you every time you pulled back, as though wanting to keep you inside forever. 

“Yes, yes—wanna, wanna know what you taste like, y/n!” he babbled mindlessly, clinging on to your shoulders as you flattened the head of your cock against his prostate, grinding hard and deliberately. “Ugh, ugh—it feels weird—” 

“Yeah? You gonna come for me, sweetheart? Fucking do it—cum on my cock, captain.” 

With the mention of his title, Luffy’s eyes squeezed shut before his head lolled back with a loud, drawn-out moan, body jerking violently and cock spurting all over his chest and abdomen. His hole clenched around you as tight as sin, and you had to hold back with all your willpower to not come on the spot. 

Luffy panted, still twitching beneath you as he raised one shaky finger, bringing it up to his face to point into his open mouth. Asking silently. 

You couldn’t believe what you were seeing, but once you got the green light, you rammed back into his twitching hole, no longer prioritising his pleasure over yours, only able to process how divine it felt to be making love to your captain. As you felt yourself getting closer and closer to your orgasm, you pulled out of his hole all of a sudden and plunged your cock into his ready, parted mouth, cumming so hard down his throat you felt yourself ascend. 

Luffy’s lips wrapped around the base of your cock, sucking hard and milking you throughout your orgasm. You groaned, low and deep, thrusting messily into tight wet heat as cum steadily dribbled down a vacuum, as though insatiable. 

You released your hold on his hair as you felt yourself go soft, staring incredulously down at a red-faced Luffy who was sucking at you as if he was trying to swallow your entire cock. 

“Luff,” you huffed, gently wiping away a line of his own cum that had somehow splattered on his collarbones. “That’s enough.” 

It was then that he finally pulled back, frantically sucking air through his mouth. “I—I couldn’t taste it,” he whined, the corners of his lips turning down unhappily. “Your cum, or whatever. I couldn’t taste it and it went down my throat!” 

Oh. Oh. 

You suppressed a laugh—because that was what he was being prissy about. Caressing his face affectionately, you went to lay down beside him. “I’m sorry. Next time I’ll just put the tip inside.” 

“It’s fine. I felt full enough.” 

Luffy had to stop dropping these one-liners that made you gape. 

“What? Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?” He looked at you, frowning with confusion. “Y’know, this almost made me as full as the banquet-thingy Sanji put together last week. There was so much yummy food! Your dick was really good, too, though—so don’t get jealous.” 

You really had to get used to the way Luffy talked—because he talked way too much and it drove you absolutely crazy. In an almost ‘too good’ way. This had to stop. 

so pheel and i both like kinda weird and quirky looking dragons, i find our tastes overlap a lot haha so that made things a BIT easier. but also it was really hard to choose a dragon because there aren't a lot of things that pheel DOESN'T like, so it was hard to narrow it down!! i knew it had to be an xyz, and not many gem genes.. but that's about it. pheel's open to anything haha. so i was scrolling through like 100 pages of the AH, opening pretty dragons in tabs. then over time i would close down a tab when i found a cooler looking dragon. THIS gal however. I never closed her tab, she sat there the whole time, and i kept coming back and looking at her again and again. sure shes not like ''conventionally pretty'', but there was just something about her..

I like that she came with a name too, Sassy just really fits her and I think that helped me build a character for her. also i was obsessed with her grey sunsail, that instantly screamed grey hair to me and if there's one thing me and pheel love, it's elderly dragons :D