Nicole Piastri Strikes Again

Picturing the JJK men as dads on the beach!

Featuring: Gojo, Geto, Nanami

TW: Fluff, Established Relationships, It's silly if you think of Geto as a cult leader and you really don't know what he does for a living.

Gojo Satoru is definitely the playful type. Gently holds your toddler’s tiny little hand as they take their very first steps onto the beach. You, of course, are a few steps behind, recording the whole thing, his white hair blowing in the breeze, those bright blue eyes flickering back to you with the happiest smile you’ve ever seen.

When your little boy finally reach the wet sand, the first chill of seawater brushes over his little toes as he squeals, cautious of the water. Satoru crouches slightly beside them, steady and so full of joy. You can hear his soft giggles and gentle reassurances, “I got you,” and “Don’t worry, daddy won’t let anything happen”, as he coaxes him forward, step by tiny step.

Each time the waves grow taller, he lets out a playful, “Wooo!” before shielding your little one with his long frame, bursting into laughter that makes your chest ache with love. “That was a big one, huh?” he grins, scooping the toddler closer. Checking them over as they spit out salt water. Helping him rub his little blue eyes that resemble his fathers. “My brave little man”

Eventually, you make your way over, camera tucked away, the salty breeze tangling in your hair. Satoru looks up the second he senses you near, and his grin only widens.

“There’s mama,” he coos, squeezing your toddler's small hand, pulling them close, before reaching for your hand, lacing your fingers with his. “C’mon, join us. The water’s not so scary.”

And just like that, the three of you stand at the edge of the sea, the water coming in cold burts, shells dazzling in the sand. When the next one crashes in, he pulls you both close, laughing loud and bright as cold water splashes up your legs.

“See?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your cheek as your little one squeals with joy. Small little kicks in the water. “Told you I’ve got you.”

------------

Now Geto Suguru, absolutely has a schedule in mind. A bit of time at the beach, a long scenic car ride timed perfectly for the twins to nap, then dinner at a place he made reservations for weeks in advance, with a menu that includes safe foods for the kids and views that he knows you will love.

You, of course, have no clue what the schedule is. You’re just following his lead, letting him steer the day. If he’s being a little overprotective? Well, he means well.

He kneels down to carefully lather sunscreen onto the twins' cheeks, smoothing it into their soft skin with those big gentle hands. Then he sprays down their arms and legs until their glistening (hey do you want two little ones complaining about sunburns? No? Thought so), before adjusting their sun hats and leading them down the sand toward the tide pools.

“The tide’s too rough for little girls,” he murmurs, glancing back at you with playful violet eyes as if daring you to challenge him. He’d said the same thing when school season came up, murmuring something about “not just yet” and “there’s still time.” You’re starting to realize he just doesn’t want them to grow up too fast.

Once you reach the tide pools, it’s like watching a nature documentary, narrated carefully with a smooth, honeyed voice. Suguru who crouches low, sleeves rolled up, pointing to colorful sea anemones and starfish nestled in rock crevices. The occasional hermit crabs scrambling about. He gently holds the girls back with one arm as he explains how we have to be careful, how these creatures are delicate, how we should never touch unless we’re invited. He asks them questions, listens closely to their little answers, and hums in thoughtful praise when they’re right.

You take pictures from behind for his little scrapbook - your husband hunched beside his daughters, the wind tousling his dark hair, a small smile on his face as they eagerly chatter about “funny sea goos” and “squishy blobs.”

Even when the four of you walk along the shore, he’s still tuned in. He picks up every seashell they hand him and slips them into his pockets, keeping each one safe. Talking to you that he will have them do a little craft, maybe decorate a frame for your next family photo. His other hand stays laced in yours, thumb brushing your knuckle like a quiet thank-you for being here, for trusting his rhythm.

And when the twins break into a run, he calls after them, not angry, just firm. Protective.

“Hey, stay where I can see you. Don’t go too far, yeah?”

You can't blame the man for being a little overprotective. He's just trying to protect the only family he has left in the world.

------

Nanami finally got his beach house.

It wasn’t something he ever really thought he’d have, not in the way people dream of it. Certainly not with a wife he adores more than life, and definitely not with a little girl who just turned one. Both surprises. Both blessings he never knew how much he needed until they arrived, warm, loud, full of life and love.

He lounges beneath a large umbrella, reclined in a low chair on the sand with your daughter curled up sound asleep on his chest. A small paperback rests in his hand, the other gently cradling her back as he reads aloud in a quiet, steady voice. Loud enough only for himself to hear. Enough for her to feel the rumble of his chest when he speaks. The soft rise and fall of her breathing tickles his cheek where her chubby face presses into him, her tiny hand curled in the fabric of his white linen shirt.

Every so often, he glances up from the page, eyes following you as you wander the shore barefoot, collecting small shells and smooth stones. Things for her little fingers to hold, to marvel at.

Sometimes, you join him again. Both of you kneeling in the sand with your babbling baby girl perched in your lap. You and Nanami take your time building crooked little castles, digging moats and shaping towers, only to watch her gleefully slam her tiny fists into them, squealing as the grains collapse under her touch. He chuckles each time, murmuring that it’s good for her sensory development, brushing sand from her face and little hairs before beginning again.

Every now and then, Nanami looks at you.

Just looks. Like the tide has swept something open in his chest and left it raw in the most beautiful way. Sometimes he’s still trying to understand how he got here, how he gets to have this. How he deserves to have this.

There’s a softness in his gaze that lingers longer than the shell rustling in the waves. A quiet, awestruck kind of love that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud, because it’s seen in every glance, every kiss to your lips, every shell gently placed in your daughter’s hand.

He never expected this life. But god, he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Poster Request: "f1 driver carlos sainz jr and any of his wins." (2024)

i took some creative liberties with this request but i couldn't resist

nanami prides himself on many things—his discipline, his work ethic, his impeccable taste in ties. but above all, he prides himself on his ability to communicate clearly and concisely, whether in speech or in writing. his text messages are a testament to this:

nanami: I will arrive at 7:30 p.m. Let me know if you need anything.

capitalized. punctuated. grammatically flawless.

then there is you. his lovely girlfriend. his chaotic girlfriend.

you: oks eeu thns

nanami blinks. once. twice. he tilts his phone screen away, then back, as if a different angle might help decipher whatever cryptic language this is. "oks eeu thns" is not english. nor is it japanese. it is… something else. something eldritch.

"what." he mutters to himself.

this is not the first time. nor will it be the last. your texts are a battlefield, a warzone of typos, autocorrect fails, and complete disregard for sentence structure. you do not "text." you unleash a tornado of half-formed thoughts at an alarming rate, as though your thumbs operate on a separate plane of existence.

exhibit a:

you: r u cmg home latr i wan ice cre nanami: Are you asking if I will be home late, and if so, whether you want ice cream? you: ye nanami: …What flavor? you: gimme mint sumn u kno the blue green w the chunks idk idc nanami: You want mint chocolate chip. you: ye

he has, over time, become somewhat of a linguist. an interpreter. a man who now instinctively knows that when you say "bcum," you mean "become" and not whatever horrifying alternative that initially flashes through his mind. but nothing—nothing—prepared him for exhibit b:

you: bby whn u cming hom i wan hug n u also i los a sock idk where she go nanami: I will be home at 6 p.m. I assume you meant to say you lost a sock. you: y au did nanami: What does that mean. you: *ya i did nanami: Understood.

he did not understand. he once tried to gently correct your typos. you responded by sending him "ok grammarly" and proceeding to text even faster with worse errors out of sheer spite. now, nanami has simply adapted.

you: i made pasta bt i dropd some :( rip lil guy nanami: Rest in peace to the fallen. you: he wud hv wantd us to eat his brothr in his honr nanami: Then we shall.

sometimes, he marvels at how two people so fundamentally different could love each other so much. and then he remembers the first time you sleepily texted him "gn ily mwuah" at 1:43 a.m. with no capitalization, no punctuation, just raw, unfiltered affection—

and suddenly, he doesn’t mind deciphering your nonsense at all.

tfw ur wife turns into a cat 🐈 (based on this cute fic by @pseudowho )

husband!nanami who is also the father of your 2 children. dated for 6 years and married for 3–you couldn’t ask for anything more.

husband!nanami who is visibly confused during a conversation he had with his colleagues.

nanami usually avoids the break room whilst it was crowded. unfortunately, on a rare day that he’s forgotten to pick up his coffee from his favourite café, he had to walk into a break room full of a bunch of his coworkers talking about their children’s birthdays. they immediately turn to nanami who was standing in the corner and involved him in the conversation.

“it’s my daughter’s birthday soon. yeah i’m probably getting her one of those dolls and shit—she’s turning 5.” the suited up man takes a sip out of his coffee.

nanami nods apprehensively, wishing to leave the room already. “that’s nice. what are you getting for your wife?” he asks.

“what?” all four of his coworkers turned to look at him, and suddenly it felt like an episode of The Voice.

“…don’t you get your wife a gift when it’s your children’s birthdays??” the only time nanami is ever confused is when he does crossword puzzles. this.. is a whole different level.

his coworkers laugh at the absurd statement, some scoff and one pats nanami on the back.

—

nanami drives back home from work but he was more quiet than usual. he would typically turn the radio on and tap his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat. the car however was dead silent.

“who doesn’t give their wife a gift..? tch.”

“do these young men even love their wives anymore? eugh.”

“y/n always seems really happy when i give her gifts on the girls’ birthday.. i can’t imagine not giving her any.”

—

he arrives home and parks in the garage, sighing and cracking his back before bursting through the door.

“i’m h—” before he could finish his sentence, his 3-year-old twin girls came running to hug him.

“daddy! daddy! you’re home!” they giggle and cling onto his legs as nanami leans over to place his hand on your back and kiss your lips. “hello my darlings,” he smiles.

“you’re home early.”

“just missed my girls a lot.”

—

it’s 11pm. the kids are asleep and you’ve done your skincare, the night lamp on as you lay in bed with your husband.

as you snuggle under the sheets, you suddenly feel big arms snake around your torso. you giggle and pull them closer to you before deciding to turn around and face the man beside you. you lay your head on his chest and he immediately caresses your back.

“my love?” nanami speaks up.

“yeeeees?” you sing. he holds you tighter now, before uttering: “you know how i give you a gift for the girls’ birthday?”

you smile softly at the memory—how could you forget? every birthday for three years, he always manages to surprise you with a gift. he treasures the day dearly. it’s your daughters’ birthday but it’s your birth-day.

“i just found out that not every father does that. at least.. my coworkers don’t.” you look up at him now, seeing his scrunched eyebrows and solemn pout—you can already tell it bothers him. “it’s absurd, isn’t it? what do you think?”

you hum, your eyes never leaving his expression. “to be honest, i’ve never witnessed someone do what you do. it’s not exactly common practice,”

nanami sighs, “i guess you’re right. i just love you so much, you know? i’ll keep showing my appreciation on the day that means a lot to me, to us. it’s the day we became a family and i.. i want to make sure you know how important you are, too.” his voice is soft, as though he's been carrying this thought for a while. you blink, the weight of his words settling in your chest. he doesn't say it often, but when he does, it’s clear he means every syllable.

a small laugh escapes you, touched by his sincerity. “i know, baby. and i’m thankful for it, for you.”

he presses a kiss to your forehead, his arms tightening around you as if he’s trying to hold on to the moment. “me too, darling. more than you’ll ever know.”

͙͘͡★ dividers by @bernardsbendystraws & @cafekitsune 👔

Love Hangover⸻ Gojo Satoru x reader

synopsis: "Call me back. Call me back. Call me back." — love hangover by Jennie & Dominic Fike

Cw: toxic relationship, emotional cheating, manipulation, just sex and NSFW stuff, choking (took something from the mv and applied it where I think they implied it :3 ), lot of back and forth, use of the word 'bitch' to refer to the reader (not by Gojo), hate sex, oral sex, fem anatomy, no particular use of pronouns for reader, lowkey angst sorryyy, they are just both pretty shitty lol. Mention of alcohol consumption and cigarettes

'Call me back' received. 2.13AM 

You and Gojo Satoru might be great people, your respective friends will agree. But when you're together it's as if all hell breaks loose. They do not understand. Neither do you two. He makes you so unlike yourself, so unrecognizable, it's often difficult for you to fathom the person you become around him. 

He becomes an unbearable prick; controlling and smothering you, simply too much for you to handle. In return you become a shady bitch; criticizing his every gesture. “Roses instead of lilies? Did you confuse me for someone else?” One day you would be joking over the dinner you made him, next day you would be wishing he was dead. Going through his phone, shouting at him and asking if he is speaking to his exes, was a regular occurrence. Then you won’t talk altogether, but just fight constantly—while lying under your covers together, while eating, on the phone, in public— just making things harder for everyone and yourselves. Until one of you goes;

‘I’m over, I'm so over.’

But you two would always end up where you started. One coincidental meeting with Gojo Satoru somewhere, anywhere, could be that you're across the street from each other; sitting in different restaurants, with different people— and that would be enough for both of you. Doesn't matter he has some girl hanging off his arms. Or the fact you are on a second date with some guy, thinking this might be something serious; a single, double, triple back from him, and suddenly the fact that he was still entertaining his date while you could practically feel his gaze burning your skin, won’t matter—not that it did not bother you. In fact, to put it simply, you do not really mind when he plays you. Because you two will always end up back in each other’s arms. 

‘One minute, we're growin' apart, and next, I'm in her apartment.’

And here you go again. Doesn't matter how many times either of you tell yourselves and your friends that ‘I swear I'll never do it again!’ But you always do it again, and again, and again. He always ends up ringing your doorbell, unannounced. Does not matter you did not pick up his calls, does not matter you did not answer his texts— One “Call me back” at 2 AM, then suddenly he is at your door. And you know he will be there. No matter what, you two always end up in front of each other’s doors. You may not answer his texts or calls; but when you open the door for him and beckon him inside, he will always be welcomed with two glasses of wine. For the sake of the pretense of wanting to have a civil conversation over wine like two grown adults, finally resolving this push and pull and drawing a firm boundary— is all a faux excuse. you still have the keys to his place, and he still has the keys to yours. And they are not being returned any time soon.  

In a flash you're on your couch, back arching off from its surface and fingernails digging in and ruining the fabric. Again. The other hand would be a tangled mess in his hair. The bigger mess would be pooled under you and around his mouth. Again. Eating you out like he has never before, or he might never again. But he knows better than that. 

So, you would start all over again. Things would be blissful for a while. Sweet talking, going on dates, reminiscing about everything which was good. Thinking this time you would take it slow. Take your time with just hanging out and getting to know each other all over again, promising to not repeat the past. All over again. Though when you two would go out for dinner, all that talk would bore you to death. It is not that you feel like staying with Satoru because of who he is, in fact the more you think about that the more it makes you want to leave him, but you want nothing more than to keep him around, forever. And Satoru knows that, hates that really. Always thinking “what's up with that?” — but just as the waiter would bring out the check, you would gaze at him all sultry and go, 

"Let's head to mine."

And all Satoru would be able to utter is , "Okay, awesome."

Subsequently, there would be just lots, lots of sex. Spending days in bed; skipping work, calling in sick, flaking on friends and practically going missing. And everyone would already know what to expect, nothing new, just the cycle repeating itself. 

Spending days in each other’s company giggling about, high on sex and the thrill of having each other back. Then the nights would pass with him being  buried, as deep as he possibly can be, inside of you. Just spending nights watching you get naked instead of watching the movie he chose himself— roaming his hands all over every ridge and curve on your body, encoding new details, leaving kisses and marks all over you. Places where everyone will be able to see, but also places only he would be able to access; tucked away safe even from your own eyes.  Letting the muscles inside your pussy hug him snug, fitting like she has never known anyone but him, because even she knows no matter who comes and goes— his shape will stay. 

As soon as he would get his hopes back up again. Just as soon the momentary bliss would be unexpectedly cut short. One day you are holding each other to sleep after indulging in each other’s bodies, the next moment you are shaking his hands off you and he is waking up with cold sweat all over him. Then you would stop reciprocating his kisses, leaving his lips cracking. Giving short and curt replies to questions, getting irritated over small things. Not that this is unprovoked. Unknowingly to Satoru, before he could delete the texts from the girls flooding his phone and block their numbers; you saw it all.

Back to square one. Fights and nights spent away from each other doing reckless stuff to provoke each other. Because why are you kissing his eyelids and calling him your one and only one moment, and then accusing him of ruining your life another day.

Soon enough you’re going to a club and letting people openly hit on you. Ignoring his calls and texts, to a point he has no choice but to pull up your location (do not ask how he got that). Then letting him drag you back to his place, shout out profanities at you, rip off every piece of clothing from your body. Doing nothing about him pushing you face down on the bed, pulling on the necklace— which he gave you—on your throat from behind and practically choking you, as the necklace leaves behind marks on top of the marks he previously left behind with his lips and teeth. As he thrusts himself inside you, mercilessly, not even letting you turn back around, putting all his body weight on yours— very literally smothering as always. One hand keeping a firm grasp on your throat while the other comes down to place slaps on your thighs and ass, from time to time. You would barely phrase something between loud moans and whines, “F- fuck you.” 

“You are. As always” all he would reply with with a singular impactful thrust. 

Next morning he would wake up to  empty, cold, and wet sheets. A singular half burnt cigarette would be lying on his bedside table, from the stash of cigarettes in his dresser, despite the fact he does not smoke. And a bottle of whisky would be gone from his collection, even though he does not enjoy whisky. All that would be left of your immediate presence, are the shredded to nothing flimsy pair of painties, which you wore last night. Not like you ever went out of his apartment with the same panties you entered through his doors with. 

Concurrently you would be drowning in alcohol, shooting glasses of shots after another to cure the hangover from the day before. You were not one to drink, but you were also not one to be irrational. Yet here you are, hungover and functioning on autopilot. If anyone asked what is wrong, you would not have an answer. Though you do know what this is, the need to never get over this hangover, instead perpetuating and fostering it. Because you know better than anyone that no alcohol will relieve the itch in your throat the way the whisky in Satoru’s cabinet burns down your chest, and alleviates you. You can buy similar whisky, the same brand even, or maybe even a wine or rum— but it won’t taste the same, it won’t get you drunk the same. 

‘I swore l'd never do it again.’

And after a month, Satoru would wake up to a singular missed call from you. 

‘you know I'm gonna do it again.’

a/n: dividers by @/dollywons & @/aquazero, header from the mv for the said song. essentially saw @jumpinglillies talking about wanting to read a Satoru fic based on this song, thanks to them for bringing the song to my attention i hope this lives up to your expectations <3

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tag list: @madamechrissy @cuntphoric @moonlitwitchdaisy @rriwyu @gojocon @aishi-toru @cuntyji @arcanarix @lover-lyn @kazupop

Sincere Apologies

A/N: apologies for being MIA for a week, finals and papers were just stabbing me violently as i sobbed in a corner. hopefully i pass everything, as an apology, have some cute/darkish nanami content

warnings: trophy wife, kinda sugar daddy behavior, not realistic relationship, nanami dilf, very rich nanami, obsessed nanami, reader that knows exactly how to play the game etc. slight smut? idk, i mean theres dirty talking.

The heavy oak doors to Nanami Kento’s office slam open.

His fingers freeze over his keyboard. His shoulders go stiff. His breath stills in his chest.

Because he already knows.

Before he even looks up, before he even sees you—he knows.

His wife.

His stunning, painstakingly perfect, effortlessly devastating wife.

And she was pouting.

He had a weakness for that pout. It was a dangerous thing—plump lips slightly pursed, red catching the light just enough to remind him that they belonged to him. It was a silent declaration of displeasure, one that he already knew was going to cost him. Dearly.

And when he does lift his gaze, slow, measured, bracing for impact—fuck.

You’re breathtaking.

Black Louboutins clicking against the marble, each step a deliberate statement. A dress that fits so exquisitely it looks like it was painted onto you—sleek, elegant, and sinful all at once, the kind of thing that demands to be touched. Silver jewelry gleaming against your skin, subtle but devastating, the perfect complement to perfection itself. Hair styled, nails manicured, every detail painstakingly crafted. You’re a masterpiece, a walking vision of power and indulgence, and all of it—every inch of it—is his.

And yet—you’re pouting.

A slight downturn of those plush lips, a delicate furrow of your brow, the barest tilt of your chin—but it guts him. Slices through him like a blade.

He knows exactly why you’re here.

Knows because he pays people to know.

His phone had buzzed earlier, a series of updates from the security detail assigned to you—updates he gets religiously.

12:30 PM: Madam has left the penthouse. 12:45 PM: Madam has arrived at Restaurant L'Ambroisie. 1:05 PM: Madam is still waiting. 1:20 PM: Madam has left the restaurant.

And now?

Now you’re here, standing in front of him, looking like that, dressed like that—for him. And he had made you wait.

Nanami’s jaw tightens. His fists clench against the desk.

“Darling—”

“You forgot.”

Your voice is soft. Too soft. Dangerous in a way that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand.

You step closer, impossibly close, hands resting lightly on his desk. The scent of your perfume—expensive, delicate, the one he handpicked for you—wraps around him like a noose. His control is a fragile, fraying thread, snapping one fiber at a time.

His eyes roam—devour. The curve of your waist, the way the fabric hugs your body, the smooth expanse of your throat where your necklace rests.

The pout on your lips.

God, that mouth.

He wants to bite. Wants to mark. Wants to ruin.

“I—” He stops. Swallows. He doesn’t forget things. His mind doesn’t work like that. But work had been relentless, drowning him, dragging him down into a cycle of meetings and reports and phone calls that never ended.

And you—you had been waiting for him.

Dressed like this, expecting him, and he had left you alone.

“Sweetheart.” His voice is rough now, thick with something dark, something possessive. He reaches for you, fingers brushing your wrist—where the bracelet he gifted you glints under the soft glow of his office lights.

Your arms remain crossed.

Your lips press together.

“You know I didn’t mean to,” he says, voice lower now, almost pleading. A thing that no one—not his employees, not his shareholders, not his competitors—would ever think possible.

But with you?

With you, he is nothing if not desperate.

You tilt your head, lashes fluttering, and he knows you’re toying with him. Knows because you are brilliant, because you are calculated, because you know exactly how to play the game.

And Nanami—Nanami will always lose to you.

“Oh, I know,” you hum, stepping forward, placing your hands on his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his crisp white dress shirt. You lean in, lips brushing just barely over his ear, voice syrup-thick.

“You’re so busy, Kento.” Your tone is laced with something dark, something teasing, something lethal. “Too busy to eat. Too busy to see me. Too busy to keep your promises.”

His grip on your waist tightens—too tight.

You let out a soft little sound—half a sigh, half a taunt.

Nanami’s jaw clenches. He wants to snap. Wants to drag you into his lap. Wants to press you into his desk and make up for every second you were sitting at that restaurant alone.

He breathes in slow. Forces restraint into his bones. Forces control into his voice.

“You know that’s not true.”

Your fingers trail down his tie- the very same tie you picked out for him this morning, playing with the silk, teasing him.

“Then make it up to me, Kento.”

His fingers tighten on you.

His vision blurs with want.

*-*

7:45 PM

Nanami Kento is waiting by the car, hands in the pockets of his tailored suit, watching the screen of his personal phone with the same level of intensity he reserves for high-stakes deals.

It’s a habit. A ritual. A necessity.

The only notifications that ever dare to light up this device are hers—or the ones detailing her movements.

7:30 PM: Madam is in the walk-in closet. 7:35 PM: Madam has selected a dress. 7:40 PM: Madam is trying on jewelry.

Nanami Kento had cleared his entire schedule.

Meetings? Cancelled. Calls? Postponed. Obligations? Nonexistent.

For the first time in months, the empire he meticulously built—the empire that consumes every waking hour—takes a backseat. Because his wife—his beautiful, brilliant, ruthlessly enchanting wife—deserves his undivided attention.

And he is a man who learns from his mistakes.

So when you want the best sushi in the country—you get the best sushi in the country.

Never mind the twelve-month waiting list. Never mind that reservations are impossible, that even the country’s elite have to pull strings for a chance at a table.

None of that matters.

Because Nanami fucking Kento wants a table, and when he wants something, the world bends to accommodate him.

So now he’s waiting outside the penthouse, leaning against the sleek, obsidian-black Maybach, his personal driver stationed at the front. His fingers drum against the cool metal of his phone, the only device he keeps on him after hours.

It only has two active notifications:

— You. — And the security detail assigned to you.

(The rest of the world can fuck off right now.)

The screen dings.

🔔 1 New Message [You]: Which necklace? The diamond choker or the one you got me in Milan? I’m wearing the dark blue dress.

Nanami’s breath stalls.

Because attached to the message is a photo.

You—standing before the full-length mirror in your dressing room.

The dress—deep, satin-dark blue, the kind that whispers power, elegance. Form-fitting, thigh-high slit, dangerously backless. But that’s not what sends blood surging through his veins like liquid fire.

No.

It’s the way the plunging neckline showcases your décolletage in unforgivable clarity. The soft, luminous glow of your skin. The subtle curve of your collarbones. The perfect swell of your breasts, barely contained, teasing at the edge of sinful.

His jaw flexes.

Nanami doesn’t move for a full minute.

Two.

His grip on the phone tightens.

His pulse hammers.

Because you know exactly what you’re doing. You’ve always known. You’re a woman who wields your beauty like a blade, precise and devastating, and he is your willing casualty.

He forces himself to exhale, thumb hovering over the screen.

But he’s not stupid.

You want him to suffer.

And he deserves to.

So he forces himself to wait—forces himself to stare, to commit every goddamn detail to memory, to let the slow burn of punishment sear into him.

Only after three minutes of grit-tooth restraint does he finally reply:

[Nanami]: The choker.

And then, because he hates himself:

[Nanami]: Send another photo.

You leave him on read.

God.

By the time you descend the marble staircase, heels tapping softly against polished stone, Nanami is already at the car door, opening it for you.

And fuck.

You are stunning.

No—beyond stunning. Otherworldly. The kind of beauty that destroys men. The choker sits perfectly against your throat, diamonds catching the soft glow of the city lights.

Nanami is silent.

Because words don’t belong in a moment like this.

You step closer, tilting your head up, lashes fluttering. “You’re staring, Kento.”

“I always stare.” His voice is low. Dangerous. “You know that.”

A small, wicked smile curves your lips. You step past him, sliding into the car with all the grace of a woman who knows she owns the room.

Nanami exhales sharply before following.

*-*

The restaurant is decadence incarnate.

An exclusive, private location overlooking the city skyline, filled with only the wealthiest, most powerful names in the country. The kind of place where privacy is sacred, where menus don’t have prices, and where each dish is a masterpiece.

But Nanami doesn’t give a fuck about any of it.

Because you’re across from him.

Because you’re sitting there, fingers delicately tracing the rim of your crystal wine glass, lips just barely brushing the edge before you take a sip. Because you tilt your head, watching him with knowing amusement, eyes full of mischief.

Because you haven’t stopped teasing him.

“You’ve been very quiet tonight,” you muse, voice honeyed. “Something on your mind?”

Nanami’s grip on his glass tightens.

“You know exactly what’s on my mind.”

You let out a soft, syrup-sweet laugh, taking another slow sip of wine. “Oh? Care to elaborate?”

His jaw ticks.

Your foot brushes against his ankle under the table—light, teasing.

Nanami barely suppresses a groan. His entire body is tight, heat simmering beneath his skin, because you haven’t stopped playing with him since the moment you stepped into the car.

You lean forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, giving him a devastating view of your cleavage.

Nanami forces himself to meet your gaze.

A mistake.

Because you’re smirking.

“Distracted?” you ask, voice smooth as silk.

His fingers drum against the table. Slow. Measured. Controlled.

Barely.

“You’re enjoying this,” he states.

Your smile is all innocence.

“Enjoying what?”

Nanami exhales through his nose, clenches his jaw.

Oh, you are so very cruel.

But he deserves this.

He deserves every second of torture, every ounce of punishment, for making you wait at lunch, for making you doubt—even for a second—that you were the center of his world.

And so he lets it happen.

Lets you tease.

Lets you toy with him.

Lets you sit there, whispering filthy little nothings while you sip your obscenely expensive wine, eyes dancing with mock sympathy every time he struggles to maintain composure.

Because tonight—

Tonight is about you.

And when the night is over—when he finally has you alone, pinned beneath him, your lips bruised from his kisses, your body trembling under the weight of his obsession—

You won’t be smirking anymore.

*-*

The torture continues.

Your eyes, bright with mischief, your lips, sweet with wine, your voice, a weapon in silk and lace—you flirt with shameless abandon, reveling in the way your husband unravels before you.

And Nanami lets you.

Lets you drag him to the edge with every low, sultry laugh, every innocent little touch, every deliberate brush of your knee against his under the table.

He sits there, tense, his restraint hanging by a thread, watching the way your tongue darts out to catch a drop of wine from your lip.

“You’re staring, Kento.”

“You give me no choice.” His voice is low, wrecked, his grip tightening around his glass as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.

Your smirk is wicked.

“I give you plenty of choices.” You tilt your head. “You’re just a little obsessed with me.”

Nanami exhales sharply, a dark, humorless laugh escaping his throat.

Obsessed?

My love, obsession doesn’t even begin to cover it.

But he doesn’t say that.

No, he lets you play your game, lets you lean in too close, lets your fingers trail over the rim of your glass too slowly, lets your words sink into his already fevered skin.

“Tell me,” you hum, tracing the stem of your wine glass, “are you enjoying dinner?”

Nanami drags a hand over his face. “Dinner?”

You blink, feigning innocence.

“Yes. The food. You know, the thing you forgot to show up for this afternoon?”

Ah.

So that’s what this is.

Nanami licks his lips, tapping his fingers against the table in slow, deliberate movements, eyes locked onto you with unwavering intensity.

“You’re cruel,” he murmurs, voice deep, edged with something dangerous.

Your eyes dance. “Am I?”

His lips quirk—not quite a smile, not quite a warning.

“You know you are.”

You sigh, all soft and mockingly indulgent, tilting your head as you drag your nails lightly against the table’s surface. “I could go easy on you,” you muse.

Nanami exhales, slow. Measured.

“But you won’t.”

You grin, lifting your glass. “Of course not.”

And Nanami takes it.

Takes the punishment, the taunting, the pure, unfiltered temptation of your presence like a man devoted to suffering.

And when dessert arrives—when the decadent dark chocolate soufflé is set before him, when he takes a bite and it melts like silk on his tongue—he thinks, for a fleeting second, that this might be the best thing he’s ever eaten.

Until he remembers that he’s tasted you.

And then—then nothing compares.

*-*

By the time you return home, you’re still smirking.

But it doesn’t last.

Because the second the door clicks shut, Nanami moves.

You let out a delighted little squeak as he cages you against the wall, hands bracketing your head, his broad, towering form pressing into you, his scent—woodsmoke, spice, and ruinous devotion—curling around you like a promise.

The air thickens.

The teasing, the power play, the entire night of slow, torturous foreplay—it all boils over in an instant.

His fingers graze your jaw, tipping your chin up, and his hunger is absolute.

“I should make you beg,” he murmurs, voice rough, laced with dangerous affection. “I should drag this out, make you feel every second of what you put me through tonight.”

Your pulse skitters.

But then he exhales, a harsh, heavy thing, his forehead dropping to yours as his hands skim over your waist, down, gripping the curve of your hips like he needs something to anchor him.

“But I can’t.” His voice is raw, desperate. “Because I—”

He stops.

Swallows.

Closes his eyes.

When he speaks again, it’s almost reverent.

“I just want you.”

A sharp inhale.

Then—his mouth crashes into yours.

*-*

Nanami takes his time.

Because he can. Because you’re his. Because he will never rush through the ritual of undressing the most beautiful woman in the world.

He peels away your dress, inch by devastating inch, fingers trailing over every new expanse of bare skin as if mapping out something holy.

When he picks you up—when your legs wrap around his waist, when your arms lock around his neck, when he carries you to the bedroom like you weigh nothing at all—you giggle, head thrown back in pure, gleeful delight.

And Nanami smiles.

Because that sound—that sound is everything.

He makes love to you with devotion, with worship, with the kind of reverence only a man who breathes for one person can possess.

And his favorite moments?

When he licks his fingers clean, and the wet sheen catches on his wedding band.

When he laces his fingers with yours, and the glint of your ring reminds him that you are his.

When he kisses you stupid, over and over, until you’re laughing, until you’re sighing his name, until you’re clinging to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

Because, to him—you are.

*-*

The next morning, you wake sore, satisfied, and thoroughly adored.

Nanami watches from the bed as you slip out of his grasp, stretching like a lazy cat, striding toward his walk-in closet.

It’s routine, the way you pick out his tie each morning.

And when you return, holding a rich navy silk tie between two fingers, he smiles.

You press it into his chest, tilting your head.

“This one.”

He hums, looping it around his collar, fingers moving with effortless precision.

Then—before he leaves, before he lets work consume him again—

“Lunch date?”

Your eyes light up. “Of course.”

And Nanami swears he’ll move heaven and earth to make sure he never misses another one.

*-*

And all morning?

He watches you.

Because his security team keeps him updated on your every move.

And every time his phone dings—every time he gets a notification that you’re shopping, reading, drinking coffee, existing somewhere in the world without him—he exhales, taps the screen, and reads every word like scripture.

Because he may be at work.

But his mind?

His mind is always with you.

A/N: i wanted to make this slightly poetic i hope y'all see it. anyways after the angst, a bit of happy fluff is always nice.

Masterlist.

:)

[papamin au 🐅] fall stroll 🍂

edit: a cute little addition courtesy of this twt user

coupled up!

you've got a text! looks like you're about to spend your summer on everyone's favorite trashy reality dating show searching for love (...or that cash prize at the end) will a certain pretty (annoying) blue-eyed boy catch your attention? or perhaps his dark-haired best friend? it seems this villa has a few bombshells in store too!

pairings: Gojo x Reader, Geto x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Choso x Reader

content: MDNI, fluff and smut and light angst, making out, piv sex, handjobs, fingering, oral (m! + f! receiving), threesome, silly summer fun, references to reality tv tropes ofc, lots of games/challenges inspired by love island, secondhand embarrassment, jealousy, evil TV show producers (cough gege cough), misc random jjk pairings as background couples, lots of teasing and tension, friends-to-lovers, exes-to-lovers, you name it, it's probably here lol

episode guide

one | two | three | four | five | six

seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven | twelve

thirteen | fourteen | fifteen | sixteen | seventeen | eighteen

nineteen | twenty | twenty-one | twenty-two | twenty-three | twenty-four

audience participation required!

polls will go up to determine who goes on dates and challenges with our reader - it's up to you to decide who gets sent home or who gets saved at the end of certain episodes! first poll posted here, future polls will all be tagged with #re: coupled up! <3

creds: gorgeous art by @baobei-bu and divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

😔