Kento X Reader - Tumblr Posts

Imagine sitting in the office with Nanami all day because u both chose not to go on a mission until the whole paperwork is done. Unfortunately, Gojo took the chance to load off a bunch of documents on your shared desk and didn't even asked but at least thanked u with the words to bring u souvenirs from his job before he left. Kento wasn't only stressed but also really offended by Gojos' carefree attitude. It was always like that, and u know that even if he only mumbled to himself about that 'infinite jerk', Nanami wouldn't load off his bad feelings towards u. He never did. Towards u of all the people on the school, he was the best gentleman, and sometimes u asked yourself if he might need to relax. Today was one of those days. Gojo left, and because the cooler didn't work, the office was hot, which made working even harder, left alone, staying focused on the work. After some hours passed, u watched Nanami typing on the computer, as u kneeled down to the mini fridge to get a soft drink until a bottle of expensive champagne catched your attention. Let's just say, it didn't took much to convince Kento that it would be nice to have a drink at work when he found out, that it was Gojos bottle that he was saving for a special occasion. The bottle didn't last long, but oh, Nanami did... and the documents? All over the place. U didn't manage to get the work done, but u both could continue satisfied after the build-up tension was out of the way. After that day, u knew how to help Nanami relax 😌...

Jjk men and women reacting to you being followed home

P2 with Todo, Yuji, megumi, nobora, yuta, Inumaki here

Suguru geto

Satoru gojo

Kento nanami

Toji fushiguro

Ryomen sukuna

Shoko leiri

Choso

your whole world

nanami kento; jjk

he comes home to find you crying in bed

s\fw; 1213wc. modern au; family au; pregnant!reader; domestic fluff; slice of life; kissing; hormonal crying; comfort; little yuji and sukuna as twins; lowkey kuwtk ref; girls just want hot dads collection (⌒・⌒)ゞ

thank you @notsissannis for correcting my “otherworldly” typos

“Maybe we can eat out tonight.”

You shake some water off your hand and readjust your ear bud, listening to the sounds of the city as you wait for your husband to reply. He mumbles something you don’t catch as you scrub at a dish leftover from breakfast, rinsing off the soap and putting it in the rack on autopilot.

“I really want something…else to eat.”

There’s a smirk in Nanami’s voice when he asks, “Something else, huh?”

“Yeah,” you say as you wash your hands. “The boys will probably be happy. A restaurant on a weeknight?”

He chuckles. “Don’t get too crazy, baby.”

“Can we go or not? I need to shower if we are,” you explain as you lean on the counter. “ I’m still wearing the shirt Su spilt his milk on.”

“I thought he spilled that yesterday?”

“Exactly, babe.”

Silence hangs on the line for a moment before his laughter bleeds through, causing your face to go hot as the sound fills every inch of you with joy. Your hand comes down to cradle your stomach, a smile forming on your face as your mind's eye pictures him laughing handsomely on the busy city street.

 A silly thought fills your head when you feel your baby move, the idea that she can hear her dad through your ears causing you to laugh, too.

“We can go wherever you want, sweetheart. Do you want me to decide?”

“Yeah,” you push off the counter and head toward your bedroom. “I don’t know what I want. Something good. Maybe Italian.”

“I’ll take care of it. Go ahead and get showered. I’ll be home soon.”

You continue on auto pilot, stripping down and taking a quick shower as you think about having spumoni for dessert in a few hours. There’s time to spare once you’ve gotten yourself half dressed, and you decide to treat yourself to a few minutes in bed as you wait for your boys to get home.

You scroll through your phone once you’re snuggled in, hand slipping under the old t-shirt you’re wearing to rub your belly as you scroll through international headlines.

A gasp escapes you after a few minutes, tears filling your eyes as you read and reread the headline: ‘This Could Be the End’ for NASA’s Mars Opportunity Rover.

“The end???”

You read through the article, hating yourself as you begin to cry about a poor little rover you knew little to nothing about a few minutes ago.

“She died?”

Your mom doesn’t answer your call, and neither does your best friend or cousin. You just barely resist calling your husband back, not wanting him to think you’ve gone mad in your last trimester, but the tears don’t stop coming as you continue to read as many articles as you can find.

“She died,” you confirm, gripping your phone in your hand before burrowing your face into your husband’s pillow and crying your eyes out. You’re not particularly sure why you’re crying, but a little lone robot on a faraway planet sending her last message seems as good a reason as any.

And this is how he finds you, panic in his voice as he pulls you into his arms and attempts to figure out who you’re saying has died through your sobbing.

“O-opportunity, Kento! A l-little Mars R-rover who lo-lost her sister t-to early,” you attempt to explain. He nods along as though he understands. “She g-got stuck in-in-in a dust st-storm and ne-never recovered.

“They’ve been trying to ping her for months b-but nu-noth-inggg. Antennas o-on Earth call out b-but she nev-never repliiiies.” 

“Oh no, sweetheart,” he says, patient and sympathetic. “I can’t imagine how knowing that must make you feel.”

“S-so sa-sad.”

He rubs your back soothingly, offering comforting sounds as you stumble through a jumbled re-explanation of why you’re crying. “So awful, honey,” he agrees. “But she lived a good life.”

“An’ they pl-played Billie Holiday’s I-I-I’ll Be See-ing You.”

“A love song?” He muses. “That’s sweet, yn.”

“An’ her l-last words?” You pull away to look at him, wiping your face on your collar in an attempt to get yourself together. He blinks patiently at you as he waits, tutting when you hiccup and begin to cry again. “I’m sorryyyy.”

“That’s what she said?” He asks, surprise in his voice as he lets you cuddle back into his chest.

“No. She said m-my battery is l-low n’-n’-n’ it’s getting d-d-daarrrk.”

“Oh.” He hesitates a moment before saying, “That’s a bit bleak, isn’t it?”

“All a-alone in a strange pl-place,” you bury your face in his chest as you cry, silence falling between you all.

He rubs your belly soothingly, making a soft sound when he feels the baby move. It helps to calm you, causing you to blink sleepily as you begin to wonder about dinner and your children.

“Ken?” You ask after a few minutes. 

“Yes, my love?”

“Wh-Where are the boys?”

“They’re supposed to be picking out their outfits for dinner…Are you feeling-

“Sweetheart,” he sighs as you begin to cry again, cradling you a little closer. “Opportunity lived a long life, yn. Fourteen years, right? And they only expected a few months.”

“I-I’m n-not cry-ing about thaaaat.”

“Oh, dear. What is it? I’ll take you to see the boys, if you’d like. I’m sure you’re worrying them.”

You clutch at his shirt before wiping your nose with your own and pushing away from your husband. He seems reluctant to let you go, one of his hands settling protectively on your bump as the other brushes hair away from your face. “Yn?”

“Su ha-has awful taste, K-Kento.”

Nanami stiffens in surprise before pressing a kiss to your temple and resting his forehead on your shoulder.

“H-he can’t be tr-trusted t-t-to pick out hi-his own clothesss.”

“Perhaps we should go and help them,” he suggests, a laugh escaping him a moment later.

“Yeah,” you say, a bit pathetically as you make no effort to move. “Do you hey-hate me for crying?”

“Never.”

“Even i-if it’s ab-bout ssstupid things?”

He kisses up your shoulder and encourages you to look at him. “You could ugly cry about losing your diamond  earrings in the ocean and I’d still comfort you, sweetheart.”

You offer him a watery laugh. “I-it’s only beca-cause I’m ha-having your b-baby,” you say as you wipe your tears, grateful that you're calming down again.

“Well. Especially because you're carrying our daughter, yeah. But, children or no children, you know I'd do anything for you. You’re my whole world.”

Another round of tears come, loud and obnoxious, and you can hear the boys running down the hall before breaking into the room as your husband asks, “Wha-why are you crying now?” 

“Amma?” Yuji asks at the same time Sukuna says, “Sweetheart…”

“She’s ok, boys,” Nanami says gently, motioning for them to join you all on the bed. “Remember I told you sometimes Amma gets so full of love for the baby she just has to cry?”

“What baby?” You question huffily, letting both boys invade your space as they reach out to rest their little hands on your stomach, mimicking Nanami as his thumb rubs back and forth.  “‘m not cr-crying because of her. ‘m crying b-because I’m yo-or whole world, Kennyyyyy-”

if art can be touched, will you let me hold you? | nanami kento

wc: 7.2k

summary: ​​you press love into each piece of art you create, and nanami wonders if you’ve ever been loved that way.

contains: f!reader, non-curse!au, ceramic artist!reader, pov switching, slowburn, reader wears a skirt, food mentions, bad breakup (mentioned), mentions of art critiques, almost explicit sex, it’s love without words.

a/n: a concept and fic i didn’t expect would be so dear to me; there are some very small personal touches in this but the main inspiration for this is ‘we’ve been loving in silence’, but some bgm are ‘can’t take my eyes off you’, and ‘make you feel my love’.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: showing ‘i love you’ in all the ways you aren’t used to

CLAY. Take your material of choice; turn it over, get a feel of it. Is it a suitable medium for your art?

You first meet Nanami in the halls of an echoing applause. 

The host’s spiel is muffled through the walls, but you know the program flow like the back of your hand—you’ve rehearsed your entrance every single day since being invited to announce your upcoming exhibit. In just a few minutes, your name will be called. 

Yellow cue cards slip through your fingers, scattering to the floor as a result of the haste from your last minute touch-up just moments before.

“Shit,” you curse under your breath, checking the time. 

As you crouch low, a pair of brown Derby shoes land in front of you—long and thick fingers reaching for your cue cards on the floor. The time on his wrist matches yours, each second highlighted in the stark contrast of a dark face and silver exterior. 

You’re quick to receive his help, taking the cards into your hands as you lightly graze his fingertips. When you look up, you’re met with sharp lines—an angular jaw, eyebrows set straight; a pointed nose and his cheeks carving out hollow shadows.

A geometric study on blank canvas. 

It’s embarrassing, the way you fluster and bow, thanking him with a stutter as you’re brought back to the urgency of the matter by the sound of your name being called out. 

The rush to the conference hall has you breathing heavily, the nerves hitting you full force as you step up the stage, nearly tripping at the last step. Hues of blue, yellow, purple, and green lights glare at you, and when the host hands you the microphone, you chuckle nervously, clearing your throat before addressing everyone in the room to thank them for coming this afternoon.

Your exhibit is called ‘What is the Face of an (Un)Touched Soul?’—a collection of ceramic sculptures molded to the realism of a human face, with the soul imagined as varying patterns and colors that fit each featured individual. 

It’s been half a year since you started, with three out of six sculptures completed already. Two are in-progress, and you have yet to find a subject for one more; there are six more months for you to complete everything.

The audience sounds their applause, sophisticated claps and nods a familiar tune in the many years of your sculpting career. Critics in the room jot down their thoughts, reporters holding up microphones and recording devices to cover your announcement. 

You smile wide, the rehearsed kind. 

And at the end of your presentation, stepping down the stage, you spot him again. 

You think to approach him in that moment, to thank him properly instead of the fumbling mess you’d choked out in the hallway—but you’re pulled towards a crowd of reporters and critics, recording devices pushed just below your chin as you watch him disappear into a sea of faces not nearly as interesting as his. 

.

You meet Nanami again in the bustling morning rush at the bakery near your studio. 

The past few weeks have been head-down and tedious, late nights working on painting some of the last few pieces for your exhibit. One of them is of your niece, 5-years-old in mint and white innocence; your brushstrokes are featherlight, softly accentuated by sponge dabs—a slate barely filled in, with room for more colors to appear with time. 

Another is of your neighbor, an old man whose eyes have seen war beyond your comprehension—a retired soldier, a veteran of the military force. He plants primroses by his windowsill, the pastel yellow a stark contrast to the life he’s lived in red; neither of the colors cancel each other out, neither of them blend. You drag harsh strokes against his jawbone while smoothly gliding watercolor across his eyelids. 

The people in your sculptures have sparked an untapped curiosity within you—for stories, for lives, for souls and what those might look like. 

You bump into Nanami on his way out, the sandwich in his hand falling to the ground as you frantically attempt to pick it up.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” you turn over the sandwich, checking for any holes or openings in its packaging, “Let me–”

It only registers that it’s him when you notice the same brown Derby shoes, the same watch with that dark face and silver exterior, the same geometric perfection on his face when you look up and finally come eye-to-eye with that same fixed stare. 

You clear your throat. Well, this is embarrassing. 

“Let me buy you another sandwich.”

He doesn’t exactly look angry, expression set in straight lines, but you can’t tell for sure—there isn’t much you can go by.

“There’s no need,” he dusts off the wrapper, “it’s still sealed.” 

“Please, I insist,” you pat down your skirt, linen rough on your fingertips, “As a thank you too, for last time.” 

He arches a brow, and for a moment you worry that you’ve remembered him wrong—honey blonde hair and features you’ve been intrigued by since. 

“You insist.” he repeats, clarifying more than questioning. 

You nod. 

He sighs, checking his watch before pocketing his sandwich and turning back to open the bakery doors. 

The silence in line to the counter is awkward. Nanami remains impassive, hand tucked inside his pocket—you can’t read a single thing about him.

“I was meaning to thank you after the exhibit announcement,” you start, turning slightly to face him before looking ahead again. 

He hums. 

“But I couldn’t find you, so…” 

He hums again. 

The lack of response makes you nervous and quite honestly a bit irritated. Here you are, trying to be nice, and all you’re met with are dry—

“It’s no problem, but that’s thoughtful of you, thank you.” he finally says, “I didn’t expect you to remember.” 

A pause. 

“I’m sure you meet a lot of faces in your line of work.” he further clarifies, in case his earlier remark had offended you. 

You snort, “I wish.” 

The line moves forward.

“Ceramic faces, maybe. People not so much.” 

When you glance at Nanami, the look he returns is still characteristically inscrutable, but you think the corners of his eyes soften just a bit—to feel for you maybe, you hope, you think. 

The line moves quickly after that, and next thing you know it, you’re by the cashier, pointing at one sandwich for you and another for him. You buy him a cup of coffee too, just as an extra kind gesture (—for his time; you’re sure he has places to be and people to see), but he stops you. 

“Coffee’s on me.” he pulls out his card. 

“Oh,” you look up, surprised, “you don’t have to do that—”

“It’s only fair,” he nods as the cashier punches in the order, “now we’re even.” 

You attempt to rebut, but find no room for argument in the unbending weight of his gaze. 

An interesting man. 

You watch him stand by the claiming booth, hand in the pocket of his khaki suit. Nothing about him feels cohesive, yet he makes it work. Artistically, from a sculpting standpoint, the sharp lines on his face would be an interesting challenge—but beautiful, nonetheless. A study of near-perfection, you think. 

And it would seem obvious, that from the rigid cut of his jaw and the sharp edges of his cheekbones that he’d act just as pointed. 

Except, he doesn’t—a stark contrast to how much of a gentleman he seems to be. 

His blue shirt stands out when you’d assume he prefers subtlety, and it’s ridiculous, but that yellow cow print tie feels simultaneously out of place but so fitting. 

He walks toward you with your coffee, sandwich resting on his forearm.

“Thank you, Mr.—” you smile sheepishly, “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name.” 

“Nanami Kento.” the corners of his lips lift slightly. 

“Mr. Nanami,” you repeat, introducing yourself right after.

“Thank you as well.” he adds on as you both walk towards the doors. 

Something tells you this is a missed opportunity. Something tells you there’s more to learn about this interesting man and what lies beneath his straight-faced sincerity. 

The chatter from the bakery is replaced by the city’s breaths—cars passing, dogs barking, footsteps on pavement rushing to get to their next destination. And you and Nanami stand by the entrance, neither knowing how to say bye. 

“Do you come to this–” 

“My studio is just by the corner, so–” 

You quickly look at each other. Nanami bows his head slightly, hand gesturing for you to go first.

“Sorry, um,” you tuck your sandwich in the crook of your elbow, “yes, I come here pretty often. My studio is just around the corner, so I drop by for quick meals when I can. You?” 

“It’s on the way to work most days.” 

You nod, humming. 

Another awkward pause.

“I hope you–”

“I should get–”

You look at each other again, a bit more amused this time. The slight wrinkling of his eyes is impossible to hide.

He gestures for you to go first again, but you shake your head, offering him instead. 

“I hope the pieces for your exhibit are going well.” 

“Thank you,” you smile, bowing your head slightly.

That ‘something’ in your brain speaks to you again. 

“Actually,” you begin, “sorry if this is weird, please feel free to decline, but,” you shift your weight, “I have one last piece to do and I was wondering if I could ask you.” 

Nanami looks taken aback for a moment, eyes wider than normal as he processes what you’d just said. 

“Ask me… for an opinion?” he clarifies. 

You mentally facepalm yourself—you really should have made yourself clearer. 

“Sorry, no, I meant,” you take a deep breath, fingers fiddling with your skirt, “if you’d like to be the subject for it.” 

The expression on his face is as indecipherable as ever. 

.

.

.

MOLD.Be familiar with your art, learn more of its intricacies. What will you shape it to be? 

In the most unexpected play of events, Nanami says yes, but not without his hesitations. 

You explain your process: the selection of a subject, an interview to get to know them better, then a few meetings at the studio to create the mold of facial features before coating it in plaster. 

Never in his entire law career did Nanami ever think he would be into art, much more be chosen to be the subject for it. But he figures, if anyone were to get him to do things so wholly out of character like this, it would be you. 

After all, he’s been a fan of your works for a while—from your third exhibit up to your seventh one now. 

People love paintings and the strokes on canvas, admiring textures and blends of colors bleeding into one another; Nanami loves sculptures, a mixture of materials and techniques forming an object with more than one viewing plane.

“Have you always loved sculpting?” he asks, sitting still on the wooden stool in your studio. 

A few meetings have gone by by now, and he’s told you a few things about himself for this to be a comfortable enough way to spend his Friday night: he’s a lawyer in a firm he’s co-founded with a good friend, evenings being the only free time in his schedule; he lives alone in a two-bedroom apartment and his neighbor’s cat often lands on his balcony every morning; he likes coffee and tea, paperback books and music from the 30’s and 60’s. 

He chose to be a lawyer to correct the shitty system that’s vowed to help but has instead made it difficult for anyone genuinely trying to be good. 

“I started with paper craft first,” you mold out the slope of his nose, looking back and forth between him and the mass of clay on your desk, “you know that 3D looking paper art that kinda pops out of the page?” 

He hums instead, careful of any slight movement that may disrupt the pose you’re trying to replicate. 

“And this?” 

Your metal scraper drags on the sides of the sculpture’s nose, sharpening it as it narrows to the bridge. 

“I picked it up in college, was an outlet to keep me company during that time.”

The PR answer. 

Nanami knows most of your general story; pamphlets and exhibits always give a run-down of the artists’ individual histories. You’d started sculpting as soon as you entered college, a need for company while in a completely unfamiliar place with no more home to return to. It was all or nothing, and as the sculptures grew in number, so did your popularity—you are by no means a fresh name to the scene 10 years later. 

“Why do you love it?” he looks you in the eye. 

You pause, holding his gaze for a few seconds before looking away, focusing on the chunk of wet clay between your fingertips as it turns more pliable.

“It’s gotten me through a lot.” you sigh, attaching the piece of clay to form his lips, “Touching clay feels therapeutic sometimes, and you can tell from how it looks if it’s been molded with love.” 

The stillness in your studio is extra quiet, filled only with the faint sounds of your fingertips sticking onto clay; he doesn’t quite know what to say. 

“Sorry, that was cheesy.” you scrunch your nose and pout. 

He chuckles, a low laugh, “Not at all.” 

You lock eyes, the curve of your lips upturned. He feels his eyes soften around its edges. 

It makes sense, and he thinks he can understand; there must be a reason why he loves books with creased spines, why he prefers weathered pages—why the scratches on his vinyl records don’t bother him as much as it should. 

.

You both like your coffee without milk, just with a bit of sugar for yours. 

Nanami’s taken up baking, specifically breadmaking, in his spare time—he brings you sourdough the next Friday you meet. 

Your studio is an organized mess, scraps of clay decorating the otherwise bare and white space. To the left of the room is a large cork board filled with pinned sketches and some color swatches—a visual representation of the creative chaos in your mind. 

A whiteboard to its right holds your schedule, and everywhere across the room are your art pieces—on shelves, in glass cases. He assumes most of them are the versions that didn’t make it, considering that the ones that have are either auctioned off or left as collector’s pieces in exhibits and art museums. 

“That’s the first one I ever made.” you sneak up behind him, biting off the sandwich you hastily put together.

The sculpture is smaller than the busts you’ve made for your current exhibit, but it still occupies a third of your shelf. It’s unlike any of the works you’ve ever done, but he supposes it makes sense, given how much your style has probably evolved over time. 

The piece is a lot simpler in comparison to the edgy twists most of your works now contain, but the little girl fast asleep in the sculpture begs questions he’s not sure how to ask you—if he even should. 

He continues to stare, clearing his throat; you eye him knowingly and snort. 

“Just ask, I know you want to.” 

The texture of the carved blanket catches his eyes, the ripples and creases made to conform to the girl’s curled up figure. There’s a sadness underlying her comfort, a search for security while being wrapped in a bundle of safety. 

“Who is it?” he asks.

You pause before you answer; he’s worried he’s crossed a line. 

“Me.” you admit, a near-whisper. 

He hums, back still faced towards you. It explains, then, why he’s always felt an underlying sadness beneath the creases of your smiles. 

When he turns his face to the side, an attempt to catch your eyes, you look away, diverting. 

“Which one introduced you to me?” you gesture towards the rest of your pieces. 

As it’s come to be, Nanami’s learned that you’re good at that too—creating curves of deflections, pockets where you can hide when you feel something’s gotten too close. 

He plays along, turning around to view the expanse of your studio; it’s amazing, how the art pieces that stack shelf upon shelf all boil down to your hard work. You briefly mentioned that you haven’t taken a break from creating because you still don’t believe you deserve it.

“It’s not here,” he puts his hands in his pockets, “the one with the hand clutching a heart.” 

‘Unhand’—his favorite piece of yours; he’d seen it in one of the museums he had to visit for one of his clients. Hyperrealistic branches of veins and arteries running across an anatomical heart, every curve and indent a carefully placed texture to bring your piece to life. It comes clenched in a hand, the veins streaming across each finger while blending into those of the heart’s—at first glance, it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other starts.

It’s a different view from each angle—that’s why he likes it so much, along with the graphic nature of it. The pain feels vivid, real.

“Ah,” you run your fingers across your work table, fiddling with the small pieces of clay before taking a seat again, “that one.” 

Nanami follows but he doesn’t say anything, resuming his place in front of you in the usual way he’s done the past few weeks.

“I didn’t think I was the type to be moved by art.” he confesses, sitting still as you continue the final work on the clay wisps of his hair.

You encourage him to go on, nodding along. 

And he does, watching the way your steady hand forms features that look uncannily like him, if not better; strands of your hair always fall from behind your ears and he’s almost tempted to tuck it back to where it came from. 

He tells you of the pain he feels from that piece, how it presents itself in different ways depending on the area you focus on—the constricted blood vessels, the buildup of pressure from a vein blocked by a thumb, the strain of muscles at the back of the hand. 

A small smile makes its way onto your face, slightly sad but somehow relieved, “Didn’t expect you to be such a poet.” 

“Must be from being around you so often,” he responds.

And if it’s a trick of the light, a part of him sinks at that possibility—he thinks your smile stretches wider, suppressed only by the shyness trying to hide it; no pain whatsoever. 

Unexpectedly, you share with him the story. Not the filtered version, but the one just as raw and vivid as the sculpture made from it—a failed relationship that had you clinging onto sculpting as your lifeline. You spare him some of the gruesome details but hint at it enough that he can fill in the gaps on his own.

You tell him that you’re a people pleaser, you’ve learned—it’s the only way you can view that relationship with grace, that at least you understand yourself better because of it. That even when the grip on your heart wrung tight enough for each beat to hurt, you still clung on with all your worth. 

(Now you know you shouldn’t have.) 

People have come to you with stories of their own, sharing how much your art means to them. Critics write articles, both good and bad, detailing the technicalities of your work. The applause follows you everywhere you go, yet it has never touched you—has never gotten too close. 

If your art has touched others, has listened and spoken their truth in your handiwork, who does that for you? 

.

During one of the last few Friday meetings, you offer to teach him how to mold clay. 

He looks at you curiously, watching the way your fingertips pinch and squeeze, how they glide to smoothen the material and press down to create indents on the surface. 

“Do you want to try?” you ask, gaze still set on his sculpture in front of you. There’s a teasing edge to your tone, one that’s developed over the months of getting to know you more. 

“Would that be troublesome?” 

You laugh at his rigidness. 

“Of course not.” you push your piece aside, standing up to gather clay from the mound of it to your right. You lay down a wooden platform for him–his own little workspace–and slam a chunk of clay atop it, “I think you might be good at it actually, since you like making bread.” 

The movements are familiar but not entirely the same. He rolls up his sleeves, blue cotton pinching at the creases of his elbows; you hand him an apron to protect the rest of his clothing. There’s not much kneading involved, not much palm action too, but he learns to move his fingertips with a force he can only compare to creating little dimples into focaccia dough. 

You teach him how to make a bread basket—something practical but beginner-friendly; something he can use and keep as a reminder of you. 

The trickiest part of it is mimicking the rattan weavings, and you notice him struggling with it when his strips of clay begin to break. 

A screech fills the room as you push back your chair, standing up to go behind him as he attempts to salvage his work.

“Here, let me–” you reach over his shoulders, flattening some of the cracks from above him.

You’ve never been this close before, the thin strands of hair dusting your arms tickling the sides of his ears. These past few months, he’s watched your hands press and pull and form, turning each detail of his face into art. It’s only now, right next to his larger and rougher ones that he’s noticing just how small and delicate yours are. 

It’s dainty work, weaving and braiding. He attempts to do it again, but the clay only falls apart when he pulls too hard. 

You stifle a giggle, the vibrations tickling his back, “We might take a while here.” 

“I don’t mind.” he mumbles.

“You sure you don’t have anywhere else you’d rather be?” you lean forward, pressing closer until he feels your warmth against the back of his head, “I feel bad, I’ve been taking up most of your Friday nights already.” 

It shouldn’t mean anything; he shouldn’t feel anything—you seem to be unfazed; art is meant to be taught by doing.

But then your hands go over his, guiding them to lift each strand of clay gently before interweaving them with one another, and he thinks—

—this must be what it feels to be touched by art. 

So, no. 

There’s no other place he’d rather be. 

.

.

.

DRY. Give it time, let it settle. Watch your art come into form. Is this a good foundation? 

“Will you be free next weekend?” 

His question surprises you as you stand in line at the bakery. You tend to catch each other at just the right times almost everyday, saving a spot for whoever’s running a little late. 

Today, it’s you, rushing in slightly frazzled with your hair sticking out which way; you’d just finished up molding the sculpture late last night, letting it rest out to dry. Nanami’s head is turned towards you, hands in his pockets as he directs the same pointed gaze you’ve become all too accustomed to.

You must have forgotten to mention it. 

“Oh,” you turn to him, “there’s no need, our sessions are over.” 

His silence makes you nervous, just like it did the first (second) time you met.

Did you upset him? Did he already cancel plans to free up time for your studio? 

The entire trip to the cashier is quiet, but you find that he’s ordered ahead for you—your sandwich order and a cup of your usual coffee. He pays for it too, despite your refusal (and confusion). 

It’s when he hands over your drink by the corner of the room that he finally speaks. 

“Not for a session.” 

You tilt your head curiously. 

The coffee feels warm on your hand, and you think you see the same warmth at the tips of his ears, dusting it light pink. He coughs, fingers clenching around his tie before loosening it. 

“For a date.” 

.

You begin to take up his weekends now, too. 

Since that day at the bakery, when you’d nearly dropped your coffee before stuttering out your availability, you’ve already gone on seven dates (to you, at least; Nanami would officially count three). 

He insists on still visiting you every Friday, bringing you dinner as a reminder that you should eat on time and not the moment you’re keeling over from a rumbling stomach and a pounding headache. You count these as dates too—because what else do you call spending time with someone you like while having night-long conversations over good food? 

(Nanami creates a distinction though, prefers his dates to be more planned out and intended. On the three official dates you’ve gone on, he’s brought you to three different locations—a weekend market, a picnic by a lake after you’d mentioned something about it, and a vintage record shop on the outskirts of the city, a place he frequents often). 

The near-perfection you once thought of the man, a geometric study on canvas—he’s still every bit of it, still every bit as interesting as what he seemed, just in a completely different way. 

For a man typically so nonchalant, he is extremely particular about his tastes, borderline picky with trusted company. 

Nanami enjoys coffee (as expected), but the fermented filter kind, dripped down a V60 pour over to extract different notes of sweetness and acidity. You’d think he enjoys a straight black, face stoic enough to handle its bitter bite; but no, his jaw clenches when he dislikes the taste, his tongue sounding the faintest click against the roof of his mouth before he downs the entire thing in one gulp. 

He also happens to be extremely gentle, in a way you don’t expect from a man of his stature and build. Veins run through the back of his large hands, branching to webs around the thickness of his fingers; they may not be delicate enough to weave clay, but he carves out different patterns on the sourdough he presents to you every Friday. 

The first time he held your hand, it wasn’t exactly planned—an instinctive move to reach out his palm as you climbed the steps of the spiral staircase in the record store out of town. You’d barely felt it then, just the featherlight hold of his thumb pressed against your knuckles as you gripped the fabric of your skirt. 

(To your surprise, he kept it up all the way through, slipping his fingers through the gaps between yours as he showed you around vintage vinyls and the sound of love in muffled 60’s tunes.)

You imagine him to be like clay, a softness hardened over the years that have shaped him; smooth but solid to the touch, breaking into powdered shards once you manage to work your way through. 

It’s unexpected, but you like that. 

And you like him—quite a lot, really. 

This date–the tenth, or fourth, whichever–is a lot fancier than all the others, a more formal dinner with a few glasses of delicious wine whose name you by god, don’t remember. You’d been too focused on something else—the handsome way he’d slicked back strands of his honeyed hair. 

Black suits him, contrasting the paleness of his skin and complementing the sharpness of his features. 

Black, the color of his suit, pressed neatly to fit him perfectly. He looks clean, broad shoulders with straight slacks falling to exactly where they’re supposed to be. 

Black, which is the only thing you see, pressed up against him. You’re so close by your doorway, that half-minute of deciding whether to stay or walk away; he has one foot behind him and one firmly planted right next to yours. 

You share a breath, fingers lightly intertwined with his. 

There had been signs the entire night that it would lead to something like this—he’d played with your fingers a lot more, kept much closer to you than he ever has before. 

Every sound around you is amplified—each inhale and exhale, the gulp he makes; your heart beats on rampage.

When you look up, your noses are almost touching, and his eyes are shut, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. 

It’s a look you’ve only seen once before, when he’s stuck contemplating. 

“Kento,” you whisper. 

His eyes blink open slightly, the color of your coffee. He leans forward, forehead resting against yours as he takes a deep breath, “I–”

Then you kiss him. 

It’s mostly a peck really, and wholly out of character for you, but it’s that same something that compelled you to ask him to model for your sculpture months ago that’s pushed you to do this right now. 

You’re worried for that first split-second because he doesn’t move, shows no sign at all of reciprocating. It’s a moment before you consider parting that he finally softens, relaxing his lips as he glides them over yours. His fingers slot themselves by your ear, palm pressed against your jaw as he deepens it; you almost stumble back, his other hand catching your weight as it leans on your door. 

It’s a good thing you did this then, because you learn that he likes you too—very much, actually. 

.

Things are good a month until your exhibit. 

Things are good until they aren’t. 

You end up reading a premature critique on your exhibit, calling it ‘overrated’ and ‘boring’, detailing the trajectory of your decline as an artist, citing your works as having become increasingly more lackluster over the years. 

The critic calls your theme ‘lazy’ and ‘unoriginal’, predicting your pieces to be nothing extraordinary or different from your older sculptures. 

All this time, your publicist and manager have made it a point to protect you from things like this, requesting that you avoid searching up your name on social media or search engines. You’re usually fed with praises and the occasional constructive criticism, but never anything as spiteful as this. 

It’s every possible thing that could be said to invalidate your hard work. 

And you break because of it—along with Nanami’s sculpture.

It tips over accidentally, the funk in your mood making you especially clumsy. 

The damage is terrible, half of his face is gone, his neck down still intact but chipped off. It’s impossible to repair without redoing the entire thing—which, you don’t have the time for, either. 

You groan, banging your head against the table. 

Frustration leaks out in your tears, every inch of self-doubt surfacing. 

Nanami finds you in your studio that way. 

He’d texted you the entire day, tried calling you a few times to no success. It’s a Thursday, but without your usual ‘just got home’ text, he’d gotten worried and rushed over as soon as his meeting ended. 

If he’s being honest, you’ve been off this entire week—stressed and distant, overworked from revisiting all your finished sculptures for the exhibit in case of anything to change or tweak.

Then this. 

And it’s too much—it’s all too much. 

Nanami calls your name from your entryway and you look up with tears streaming down your face. He’s never seen you like this, you could never want him to. 

He hurries over, brows immediately furrowed as he digs into his pocket for a handkerchief. The cow print would make you giggle on any other day, but now, he uses it to wipe your tears away. 

“What happened?” his gaze shifts to your right, his sculpture half-ruined. 

Silence. 

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks hesitantly. 

You shake your head, swiping at your nose, “It won’t look the same, Ken.” 

“Do you want to redo it? I can clear up my schedule every–”

“There’s no time.” 

Nanami takes your hands to rub his thumbs over your knuckles, soothing. 

“Then we’ll do what we can.” 

The sincerity in his voice hurts you, the reassurance in his eyes even moreso. You’ve never had anyone look at you this way. 

“There’s no point.” your shoulders slump, lips trembling as another wave of tears pool on your lash line. “People are calling the exhibit a flop.” 

“Who?” 

You huff out, exhausted, “I don’t know, critics, media. Whoever.” 

He furrows his brows, firm, “They don’t understand what you’re doing.” 

You chuckle sarcastically, “They’re art critics, Ken, of course they–” 

“If it means something to you, what does it matter to anyone else?” 

That makes you look up. 

Nanami stares at you with the same unwavering gaze, no longer indecipherable to you. There’s a softness in the squint of his eyes that you now know means concern, with every pointed feature only meant to drive his words home. 

You’ve been second guessing everything down to the core of your abilities, because of what? A few words? This must be what you get for having a penchant to people please, for hinging on everything everyone has to say. 

“If you love what you create, then continue to make it.” he squeezes your hands, as if pressing the words into your bones gently. 

.

You remold and repair, and you build up your sculpture to something different but not worse than before. 

You remold and repair to build up yourself. 

The half that broke off isn’t as symmetrical as you’d like it to be—and it definitely doesn’t do justice to the man it’s sculpted of, but you think you like the softness you added to it, how his eyes look kinder. He means something else to you now, after all, compared to when you first started sculpting him. 

And you think, you know just what kind of design speaks of his soul. 

.

.

.

PAINT.Add the final touches, perfect your piece. Bring it to life with colors and details, whether it be for one pair of eyes or many. Do you now see?

Nanami teaches you how to make bread on a Sunday morning. 

Flour coats every surface of his counter, dustings of it transferred to the deep blue of his apron. You’re wearing a white one, borrowed from your studio. Elbow-to-elbow you knead, and he only has to teach you once for you to get the hang of it, really. 

He smirks, “You’re a natural.” 

“Must do stuff like this a lot in another life or something,” you stifle a giggle, playing along. 

It’s a beautiful day out, golden sunlight hitting your cheek—Nanami stares, sneaks peeks between every knead. The same strands of hair tucked behind your ear fall to frame your face, and he hooks his pinky around it to tuck it right back (because he can now, without having to hesitate). 

You turn to him, daylight in your eyes when you grin your thanks. 

His kitchen has an open space, deep wood and black metal detailings as its central theme (the white bread bread basket you made together stands out on the counter, but he’s done that on purpose). There’s a pretty extensive collection of alcohol in his liquor cabinet, along with his very particular coffee set-up right next to his record player slotted in the corner. 

On Sunday mornings, Nanami likes to keep his music playing; today, it’s the classic 60’s–’Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’–serving as your background beat, with the soft meows from the cat on his balcony as added accompaniment to the melody. 

He watches you sway, his feet tapping along, then you jolt, giggling in surprise when there’s a hiccup in the song (it’s from the scratches on his record, but he can’t bother replacing it with a new one). After that breakdown in your studio, you’ve seemed to loosen up immensely. 

“Ken,” you call him, “how much pressure do you usually put into kneading?” 

There’s no way to explain it, really, but to make you feel it yourself. 

“Let me–” he lets go of his dough, dusting his hands with more flour before coming up behind you. 

Nanami is a big man, tall and lean, all chest and shoulders—when he hunches over you, you look so small, delicately tucked into him. Heat rushes to his cheeks, if you turn around you’d see pink; the music is drowned out by his heartbeat. 

He leans forward, palms clasping over the back of your hands, fingers slotting themselves between the gaps of yours. 

“Like this,” he pushes down, his chest pressed against your back. To get a better look at the dough, he tilts his head to the side, nearly slotting it by your shoulder, “Can you feel it?” 

You hum, your swaying gone. He’s trying hard to focus on the bread, but when you turn your head to face him, the tip of your nose touching his cheek, he stops. 

The moment is tense, drowned into silence despite the music playing in the background. He can hear your every breath. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

Nanami knows it’s for many things—for agreeing to the sculpture, for spending time on it; for this Sunday morning, for being there when you needed someone the most. But that’s not the whole point of this, he thinks. It’s how you sound, voice heartfelt and filled with something else—a kind of affection he’s all too familiar with himself. 

This must be what you mean when you say you can tell if clay has been molded with love. 

.

In the quiet, Nanami’s hands move loudly. 

He holds you gently, just like he always has, but it’s a permission every time—like he’s asking if he can touch you, love you in ways you aren't used to. 

Your apron falls to the floor, followed by your skirt, the fabric pooling by your feet. The faded gray t-shirt you wear during studio days is tugged over your head, dropped next to him. He takes his time with you, turning you over, feeling you, knowing you—thick fingers squeezing the sides of your arms lightly as his lips press against your neck. 

A gasp escapes you. 

Then you move, nimble hands undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing it open as you feel across the planes of taut muscle on his stomach and chest. 

He groans, soft and low, your fingers brushing against his skin, ticklish. 

You take a step back and he moves along with you, letting you settle into yourself as you inch backwards, the back of your knees knocking against the edge of your bed. He holds your gaze as you move towards your headrest, your shy smile doing nothing to lessen the butterflies in his chest—you did mention that it’s been a while. 

He kneels on your bed, the mattress dipping to accommodate his weight—his slacks have been discarded to the side as he crawls over you. 

Beneath him, you look like the very subject art could only wish to replicate. 

So, he makes sure to remember all of it—to look close and memorize every detail of you as he dips down, arm planted to the side of your head as his other hand cradles your face, tilting your jaw up for a kiss. 

He catches your lower lip between his, running his tongue over it before sucking lightly. You moan, smooth and honey-sweet, bringing him closer with your fingers clasped behind his neck. The room is quiet save for your lips smacking against each other’s, warm and soft as the heat builds between you.  

Slowly and tenderly, with the same care you tend to clay, Nanami discovers all your dips and curves; he kneads the flesh of your hips, gripping your thighs as he kisses his way down the slopes of your body. 

You squirm in his hold, tugging at his hair when the sensation feels too much, too good. 

(But when he reaches between your legs, arms locking your thighs over his shoulders, you realize, nothing could have ever prepared you for this, for him—he treats you as if you are every bit of the art you make, and looks at you like it too.) 

Then, Nanami kisses you on the forehead when he’s inside you, lips pressing on the part of your skin that creases when your brow furrows. 

A tear drips down your face. 

“Should I–” he looks you in the eye, worried. 

“No,” you breathe out, a watery smile as you nudge your nose against his chin, “keep going.” 

So, he does; he loves you without the applause, with the feel of his hands, leaving no place untouched.

He moves his body against yours. 

It’s only after, when he tucks himself into your neck, arms wrapped around you and skin sticking onto skin that you tell him your tears aren’t anything bad. 

For the first time in a while, you feel full—perfectly content. 

.

He thinks you should be the final piece to your exhibit. 

It’s a grand event, the conference hall decked in some of your previous works; blankets of white cloth drape over the stage—the unveiling of all your sculptures. You’re standing to the side, looking pretty in a long white skirt while Nanami blends among the crowd, far back enough to remain hidden from reporters but close enough to catch your eyes should you look his way. 

You present each one, introducing the titles with brief descriptions of the people they’re sculpted from. The reasons for your designs are left primarily up to interpretation, but you’ve explained it all to Nanami—he’s listened to every single one. 

Then you present his sculpture, finding him through the crowd. The corner of your lips curl up slightly, the stage lights reflecting on your eyes. 

He smiles at you the same. 

‘The Undoing’ is what you call it—half-perfect and half-salvaged. 

It’s far from your original vision for the piece, but you think you like this more, splitting down the part that’d originally broken off into two different colors. His entire color scheme consists of yellows, greens, and browns—the perfected side of his face appears in clean strokes of coffee, with light yellows highlighting his pointed features. The angles are clean and sharp, his gaze straight and dead-on. 

Running down the cracks of the broken half is a sky blue line, an almost glowing effect added to the salvaged side. In a way, it’s an emergence, of the part of him you never thought existed—green wisps like leaves, a life springing from within. You add flecks of gold to mimic light bouncing off his irises the same way sand becomes a glittering sea of sunbeams. 

To you, Nanami is warm but cold to the touch, and he’s undone you just as much, has chipped away at the parts of you that have built themselves over years of habits reinforced and untouched. 

It is as much you as it is him. 

That’s what happens when you love someone, he supposes—an intermingling of souls. 

Kraft paper crinkles in his grip as he adjusts the bouquet of flowers behind him, deep red carnations and orange tulips decorated with white astilbe flowers—for when you get down, and he can have a moment with you privately. 

Now, he looks at you fondly, shifting his feet from where he’s standing. You search for his face, eyes darting to where you know you’ll find him; he meets your gaze, and you smile brighter, that one look ringing louder than the standing roars of an echoing applause.

a/n: each segment represents the steps to making a sculpture that i tried to parallel with the development of their relationship. V60 pour over is a kind of set-up for drip/filter coffee.

thank you notes: for @mididoodles, this is my very late birthday gift for you midi, but i hope you like it! (this also so happens to be your request for my in's and out's event) 🥺 + @soumies @scarabrat for reading through the first third of this and believing in the vision for this when i was so unsure of it, i love you both 🥺 + @stellamancer for helping me figure out what goes in the 'contains' 😭 + @augustinewrites to scratch the nanami itch 🥺

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

moving on

how was your life after nanami died? pairing: nanami x f!reader content: angst and depression but fluff as you go. a/n: my first nanami's fic. sorry this one's sad, i was really in the mood for angst :(. hope u guys enjoy!

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You used to do everything first for him and others and then for yourself. Nanami Kento was a gentleman, somewhat rigid and almost bordering on strict when it came to his desire to please you and do things for you. From the day he met you until the moment of his last breath, the only thing on his mind was you and completely you.

Haibara smiling at him in front of him, memories of moments that had been buried in the back of his head, his heart constricting in his chest with a spasm of pain knowing what would come next.

“I can't leave her.”

“She'll be fine.”

Every time you cooked, you made enough for two plates. Every time you shopped, you kept all the toiletries Kento used in the cart, watching them wistfully as you stood in line to pay.

“You've been coming alone for a couple of weeks now,” the woman at the cash register began, taking the shampoo Kento used to run it through the reader. The beep of the readout the price stabbed your heart. “Is everything okay?”

You watched her keep moving the men's items around, packing them into the brown bag ready to be used, as if there was actually someone at home waiting to use them and not as if they would come to pile up with all the others that were at home that you had already bought months ago because you were unable to get them out once you were getting to the checkouts to pay.

“Yeah, he's been busy,” you almost mumbled and the woman's hands flanked. You didn't know if she had caught you in the lie. It had been a couple of weeks since you had stopped trying to mimic the happiness in your face and voice when you talked about Kento. You hadn't told anyone that he had died.

Every time your parents called and asked about him, you went into a state of mind you didn't want to acknowledge yet that was unhealthy. You didn't know how much time you had already spent alone, but maybe you were close to getting to the point where you started to see him walking the halls of the apartment and feel his ghostly caresses on your skin.

Every time you saw Itadori's name on your cell phone when he called or texted you, a whiplash-like snippet of pain would run through your body, with your head flashing back to everything that had happened and the situation you had been immersed in for the past few months.

But it was good to talk to him. He was probably the only person who knew and felt the pain as much as you did. Maybe you should start diverting that energy you were in the habit of doing things for Kento and do it for Itadori.

“I wanted to ask you if Fushiguro and I could stop by your apartment this weekend. If you're not busy…”

How could you be busy?

The extra food you kept in tupperware in the fridge had found use after so many months. It was no longer your side dishes. Now it was the food you kept for when Itadori and Fushiguro stopped by your apartment. The bathroom and toilet utensils you kept in the same place as Kento began to run out and end up in the bathroom, having to replace them for a completely different reason.

“Are you guys hungry?” the first time they had come to your apartment had followed something strange. It was clear that the life that existed in that place when you lived with Nanami was gone, and the boys were no strangers to the somber sense of loss and sadness that lingered in every space of the place where you followed. “There's plenty of food in the fridge.”

Itadori, eager to make that heaviness dancing in the air disappear, smiled openly and headed for the fridge dragging Fushiguro with him.

“Y/N-san, surely everything will be delici…!”

Itadori's voice trailed off.

“Wow…” Fushiguro let out, giving up fighting Itadori's arm that had dragged him by the collar of his white shirt.

There were no vegetables or fruit in your fridge. There was no packaging of any kind. Every space in the fridge was filled with tupperware, one on top of the other, behind each one there were more and it seemed like there was no end to it. There was endless cooked food and Fushiguro was sure that if they opened the freezer there would be more food in there too.

“This is-” too much, Fushiguro bit his tongue.

“Unbelievable!” Itadori recovered faster than he did. The pink-haired half-turned around on his feet to see you, his body bowing in a curtsy with an emotion that clashed fervently with your sadness. “Thank you so much, y/n-san!”

Itadori bowed a couple more times before returning his attention to the fridge and pulling out as many tuppers as would fit between his arms. Fushiguro watched him with a white, almost reprimanding expression, but let go the moment he found a half-smile gracing your face.

Half of the tuppers had been opened that afternoon.

Itadori and Fushiguro came back to your apartment several times a week since then and it almost seemed like they lived there a couple of weeks later.

“y/n-san…” the pink-haired's voice pulled you out of your mental space as you cooked for them. Amazingly, the food in the fridge had run out, for the first time in months. That night was the first time the boys had stayed over.

You frowned as you met Itadori's evasive gaze. Worry bubbled in your chest at the thought that something had happened, because Itadori looked terribly disgruntled.

“Itadori-kun, what's wro-?”

The young man pulled his hands from behind his back, a gesture you hadn't paid too much attention to, too preoccupied with the way his body hunched forward slightly.

Nanami's shampoo bottle was in his hands.

You felt as if a huge bubble had burst around you, with the disconcerting sound of a balloon.

“Can we use this?”

The way he spoke and lowered his head made it seem like he was too embarrassed to ask. Maybe he was a little right about that. For a moment you felt anger at seeing the container in his hands, out of the place where it belonged and where it was supposed to stay waiting for…. something.

Fushiguro entered the kitchen in a hurry, as if he had run from the room and took the shampoo from Itadori's hands, sending you a look between worried and embarrassed. The black-haired man bowed.

“I'm really sorry, y/n-san. I told Itadori not to take this. I'll leave it in its place.”

Fushiguro started to turn around even without raising his head and a mortifying sensation ran through your body. The formality he was trying to maintain and the care he took with the way he referred to you made you nauseous. This wasn't how you wanted them to feel around you, like they had to tiptoe around you and be accommodating so as not to provoke you.

“It's okay,” you mumbled, almost inaudibly. You cleared your throat, but the boys heard you clearly just the same. “You can use it. It's okay. Anyway, there's too much stuff in there with no use. It's better that than getting damaged... over time, don't you think?”

Itadori and Fushiguro's looks on your face as if they were afraid you'd change your mind at any moment and yell at them made you think about how tough you'd been acting in front of them about everything related to Nanami. For the last few weeks they had been coming over, the only thing you had shared with them that was his had been all that food. But there were plenty of other things you could share with them, if only to buy their company a little longer.

“You can use everything in the bathroom and in the room.”

Letting go is another form of love, so they say.

And so it was. Eventually, you no longer bought the perfumes and toiletries Nanami used automatically, but strolled in the market with Itadori riding in the cart and Fushiguro on the other side walking with his hands inside his sweatshirt, with both of them telling you what products they used and with the cart fuller than usual.

Soon, Kento's side of the bathroom was filled with all the products the boys were using and you didn't dislike the image at all. It was quite comforting, in fact.

“Ah, Megumi's really bad at this,” Itadori spoke to your right, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

The black-haired man let out a grunt in his direction. “Will you shut up?”

“You're doing just fine, Megumi. Don't worry. When you take your time you can tell you're putting a lot of dedication into it. That's good.”

Megumi barely trembled at your words, his hands moving slightly, leaving an odd curve in the cup of the cake he was decorating. If you or Itadori had noticed, neither of you mentioned anything.

“y/n-san, I'm sooo hungry. Can't we eat while Megumi finishes?”

“Patience, Yuji. You could help me with the drinks if you want to distract yourself.”

“Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees!”

It was the third anniversary of Kento's death and it was amazing how a year ago you didn't think you could tolerate making it this far. And you even came to think for a moment that you would spend that year alone too, but Yuji proposed to cook Nanami's favorite dishes to honor his memory and it was physically impossible for you to say no.

The dining table was adorned with various dishes and four chairs, one empty for him.

Yuji was seated to your right and Megumi to your left. Kento would be sitting across from you if he were here…

Many times, the three of you sharing your meals there, you thought about what it would be like if Kento could've lived to spend those experiences with you. You didn't know how the universe or fate did things, because it was such a cruel thought, but you were so grateful that they had inserted themselves into your life.

“I never would've thought Nanamin had such a sweet tooth,” Yuji commented, with a huge spoonful of cake in his mouth. Megumi frowned at him and you felt him kick his leg under the table.

“He wasn't… not as much as Gojo-san, but he always praised me when I made these desserts for him from time to time. Mostly on special dates, it wasn't very often.”

“And rightly so, y/n-san! Everything is delicious!”

“I wasn't the only one who cooked, Yuji.”

“You're right. What Megumi did is a little dry.”

The black-haired man swallowed a grunt, tensing his shoulders. You smiled at the innocent manner of the boys and were thankful that despite everything they got along so well. They were the best thing for each other, and the best thing you had at that moment.

“You did very well for your first time cooking alone, Megumi,” you placed one of your hands on his shoulder, allowing him to unwind and relax a little under your watchful eye and loving smile.

Megumi barely sketched a half-smile that you didn't let go unnoticed.

At that moment, you would have loved to know what Kento would think of being able to see them reunited in his memory, but you kept yourself in the present, hanging on to the conversation the boys were having letting out chuckles from time to time.

Nanami at that moment knew Haibara was right. You would be fine.

back to shibuya

snippets of your life with kento after you both miraculously survived shibuya. pairing: nanami x f!reader content: angst and somehow comfort? a/n: second nanami fic and i can't just drop the angst! but i think this one's more calmer than the last one. hope you guys enjoy! loved seeing your comments <3

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Nanami woke up in the middle of the night, exalted, with a cold sweat running down his body and a terrible disastrous feeling that something horrible had happened. His head did not rest as his arms moved to the left side of the bed… empty. Cold.

For a moment he felt an invisible force steal the breath from his lungs, an uncontainable pressure planted itself in his chest and his erratic breathing only worsened.

In the midst of his shock, he took his gaze around the room.

Dark. Too dark.

Nanami Kento kept having nightmares ever since the Shibuya incident. Waking up after each one was worse when you weren't next to him in bed and it was too hard for him, in the midst of the panic that was gnawing at him, to remember that he had gone to bed the night before with you next to him. Fear clouded his mind and his judgment and without a second thought he found himself crawling out of bed, across the room, the whimpers of your name piercing the silence of the huge house.

“y/n! love…” he almost pleaded.

His feet carried him into the hallway, and from the hallway to the bathroom, from the bathroom to the guest room and from that room to the living room, from the living room to the kitchen where he could barely register the glow of the light on and your figure sprawled on the island chair, sound asleep.

Nanami stood on his feet in the kitchen doorway, his fingers twitching in involuntary spasms. Trying to catch his breath, memories came back to him bit by bit.

That day, when Kento had come in from a heavy day at the office, because he had left the sorcerer world as soon as it was all over in Shibuya, and you were waiting for him at home with one of his favorite dishes. The warmth of the lovingly made food in his mouth, the savoring of your lips on his when he dragged you to bed and didn't let you escape, even though you wanted to watch the new episode of the series you watched together. The tranquility and peace it brought him to have your body curled up with his, between the sheets, with no other care in the world but to have you by his side.

Perhaps he had even sensed when you moved in his arms to get out of bed and from that moment on he had surely begun his nightmare.

Nanami moved towards your figure, his crystallized eyes roaming over your body, his steps light and cautious as if he feared that at any moment you would disappear right in front of his eyes.

With all the good memories also came the bad ones, and his hands clutched at his sides at the spasm of pain that shot through his chest. He would probably never forget the heartbreaking way your lips said his name, repeatedly asking for forgiveness, thinking you would not make it. Inside Shoko's infirmary, holding his hand when by sheer luck he had escaped Mahito's hands with Itadori. But you didn't need to know that, not at that moment, not when Nanami felt you were slipping out of his grip when he had you right in front of him.

Your closed eyes in that awkward posture also brought back those bad memories for him.

“y/n…” Kento stepped closer, reaching up with trembling hands to grab you by the shoulders. He barely brushed against you and his hands contracted. His breathing hadn't calmed at any point, he had simply been fighting back tears. You were there at that moment, fine, alive, he could see the way your body moved slightly as you took in air and expelled it.

You were fine.

So why couldn't he calm down?

Kento watched your profile, deciding not to disturb your sleep, especially since he knew how much it would worry you to see him with that broken expression, with those tears he wasn't being able to hold back.

He dropped down in front of you, his knees touching the cold wood of the floor. His brow furrowed, expression contracted, lips pursed trying not to make even the slightest noise. Tears running down his cheeks, his hands holding his face because he couldn't believe that he still had so much stress and so much fear when too much time had already passed, when Shoko had already saved you, when your recovery was already over. When you were already so well that you had agreed to leave the country to live with him anywhere else in the world.

He didn't know why he was still so full of that anguish when everything was fine. That sometimes made him think that maybe it wasn't true; that he had been imagining that whole journey, that really neither of you had made it past that day and now… and now…

Kento's emotions were too strong and no matter how hard he tried to contain them, it was physically impossible.

When you woke up, you barely registered the yellow light and the view of the kitchen and living room when you heard it. Him.

Your back and neck ached from how fast you moved, frantically looking everywhere until you stood up and your feet bumped into something.

Kento. Huddled in front of you as if he wanted to make himself tiny enough to disappear. His little sobs pierced your soul. Hands covering his face and moving through his hair in an almost desperate gesture.

“kento…” you murmured, trying to get his attention, but that only made his sobs increase. “kento, it's okay. You're okay. We're okay.”

You knelt down in front of him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, feeling something inside him unwind and his arms move extremely quickly to wrap around you just the same. You didn't know what had been going through his head, but from the way he whimpered into the crook of your neck, bringing tears to your own eyes, you knew it was nothing good.

Like every time he had a nightmare, Kento could only go back to Shibuya. It was something that would probably take him years to heal.

“i love you, kento. we're fine.”

A/n About mha but there's so many jjk characters I feel like would do this :3 so sorry for any errors.

Thinking about having a Pro-hero boyfriend that everyone loves, they adore him, he's just so sweet and kind yk?, literally would do anything to protect the civilians, helping people and saving them from villains. Practically risking his life every single day for others with a smile plastered on his face. Everyone looks at him with pure adoration and honor.

But behind closed doors when he's with you, he's not so nice and sweet when he has your body folded in a mating press, heavy balls slapping against your asshole as he's stabbing his cock into you in a reckless pace that has your cunt gushing and creaming all over his length, he makes sure that he's balls deep buried into your cunt to the hilt with every hard thrust. Every. Single. Time, when he's frustrated because of work, whether it's because a villain got away or he didn't get to save a civilian, he takes it all out on your poor cunt as soon he gets home, he doesn't waste a second. He doesn't even bother getting his hero costume completely off before he's rutting his hard cock into your tight hole, splitting it in two around him while he's stretching you apart.

He thrusts himself so fucking hard into you that he might almost break you one day because of how reckless he is with your poor little body, training and working out is a serious thing for him so him being so fucking bigger and stronger than you, even than a normal man is no surprise, matter a fact he practically has the body of a fucking Greek God so manhandling you into whatever fucking position he felt like bullying his cock into you in and fucking you stupid in, wasn’t that difficult for him at all.

He loves having his way with you, it's almost sadistic how he laughs and mocks you every time he has you blabbering a bunch of nonsense on his thick cock with fat tears leaking out your eyes, big strong arms flexing against you, displaying his ripped muscles while he's holding your body effortlessly as he's fucking you in full nelson, your pathetic little babbles and moans filling his ears as he's licking your tears away. Hell, he'd even have you screaming his Hero name while he has your filthy cunt making a mess all over his cock.

And Oh there's no words to describe how much he loves making you nervous and teasing you whether it's circling his thumb over your asshole, and poking it ever so slightly so he can hear the shifting of your moans, making you overthink that he's going to force his thumb inside of you, then he just chuckles and moves his thumb towards your clit to rub sloppy circles on the sensitive bud. Or whispering a bunch of nasty shit to your ear while he's ruining you because he knows how much that shit drives you crazy.

"Fucking hell I'm gonna ruin you, gonna reshape this cunt to the size of my cock so it could be perfect just for me, you get that? You belong to me".

"Such a good little cumslut f'me aren't ya baby? so fucking warm and tight for my cock".

"Fuckkk princess no one can fucking ruin this cunt like I can, your daddy's one of the best fucking heroes, only I can fuck you this good and stupid, yeah?"

being nanami’s baby girl

🔍︎ | kento nanami ✰ fem!reader

s. | nanami kento just going about his day and enjoying life (with you <3)

wc. | 0.4k ✰ fluff

an. | thank you so much @princeasimdiya12 for this request! also i broke my spacebar so i had a really hard time writing this. overall enjoy!

MORNINGS WITH NANAMI ARE AN ABSOLUTE BLESSING. 

him waking up just to fix you a five-star course meal and leaving you in your sleeping state, only for you to be woken up by the sweet scent of bacon cooking and pancakes rising. he greets you with a kiss on your forehead while holding his freshly prepared coffee in his hand, looking at you in the most soft and comforting way. he mutters a quiet, “good morning beautiful.” while he leads you to the dining table to enjoy your meal. as you sit down, nanami finishes up in the kitchen and fixes you a plate first. he loves seeing your reaction while enjoying the meal he made for you. he softly smiles into his hand from across the table at your reaction. “god she is so beautiful.” he thinks to himself.

AFTERNOONS WITH NANAMI ARE AN ABSOLUTE BLESSING.

the park was nice today. not too many people were outside with their kids or their dogs playing fetch. only a few people populated the park by jogging and doing exercisable activities. you and nanami on the other hand were sitting on a bench together enjoying your sandwiches that you bought from a nearby subway. of course, nanami loves subway (obviously) so you decided to give it a try also. you were dazzled by how good the sandwiches tasted and how good the cookies tasted also. nanami usually didn’t get cookies, only the sandwiches. “it tastes good, doesn’t it?” he asked politely, looking in your direction. you happily nodded as a smile grew on nanami’s face. a few crows tried to bite some of your sandwich but nanami scared them away. you two finished off your sandwiches before taking a nice, relaxing walk around the park.

NIGHTS WITH NANAMI ARE AN ABSOLUTE BLESSING.

nanami had just finished washing up as he changed into some sweatpants and a t-shirt that perfectly hugged his muscles. you were wearing his blue button up with nothing underneath (since it felt comfortable to you). you and nanami would usually watch a movie before going to sleep since it puts him to sleep more easily. once the movie was over, nanami would be knocked out with his arm snaked around your waist. you were also asleep also so you didn’t know of these actions, once you woke up from your little nap, you heard nanami’s slow and calm breathing, signaling that he was asleep. you softly smiled as you buried your head into his chest and fell asleep to his soft heartbeat.

NANAMI IS OVERALL AN ABSOLUTE BLESSING.

Wrong

pt.2

Nanami had been acting weird. That much was obvious even to the people who couldn't know less about him. But the reason why? No one knew. Well... no one but you.

It started immediately after his divorce. Obvious in the harsh thrusts of his hips and the low grunts he rarely let out, it was almost....desperation.

The way his tip kissed your g-spot wasn't leaving much room for thought altogether, but you didn't kiss the words that flowed from his lips almost unconsciously.

"G'nna get you pregnant- fuck- 'm gonna fuck my kids in ya...♡"

And it felt like did. One of Nanami's hands kept your head squished on the mattress, the other keeping your ass on display as his hips thruster in you meaningly. He was covered in sweat but his hips did not falter, only getting sloppier when he came and speeding back up.

The way his dick was rutting in you was almost mean, balls slapping against your clit, making you clench down on him like a vice. One of your legs was suddenly lifted in the air, the new angle having him biting down on his lip to save some dignity, brows furrowed. Yet he kept his eyes open, just to see the fucked out expression on your face, unable to think clearly.

You were finally able to breathe when he pulled out and you thought that would be it for the night. Wrong. Nanami flipped you on your back, bringing your knees to your face. Something about his own flushed face, panting and pushing his cum back inside you, had your pussy clenching round his finger.

Even though he had came for the nth time that night, his cock bobbed up to the chiseled muscles of his abdomen every time he moved. A bead of precum covered his tip and before you knew it his hips were back to rutting inside you like a feral dog.

Hands grabing at the sheets to stabilise yourself, the thought of him knocking you up seemed unsurprisingly alluring and no words left your lips besides broken moans and whines.

His tongue muffles all of that though, as his lips crash with yours. The kiss was anything but gentle, tongues fighting with each other, smearing saliva on your lips. His pace was never disturbed and you started to think his words weren't a joke anymore.

" 'M gonna breed this pussy, yeah? And you'll take it all, mhmmm? You gonna be my good girl- fuuck, m'cumming! Shitshitshit- you're gonna be such a good mother...♡"

...

So what if it was wrong?

WHAT THE FUCK 💔💔💔

TW: death & angst

—

“I have . . . a wife.”

Kento Nanami’s last words were painful to utter — both from the serious injuries he sustained and from holding back tears that threatened to fall down his cheeks.

He didn’t mind dying, as he was exhausted. Beyond tired.

But he would never see you again, and he would never get a chance to say goodbye.

He couldn’t think about that right now, though.

If he did, he would cry.

And with Mahito’s chilling hand pressed against his bare back, he didn’t know how much time he had left to speak to his traumatized student.

“I have a wife, Itadori. I love her so, so much.” Nanami smiled sadly — as much as he could with his half-burned face. “Her name is Y/N. F/N L/N. Find her and my daughter. Tell them I love them, okay? Say it over and over again . . . so they won’t forget it. Make sure they aren’t too sad. Keep them safe. Y/N . . . she oversleeps a lot and forgets to take her medicine. She’s very clumsy too, so just . . . watch over her for me. She won’t buy her favorite snacks unless she thinks I’ll eat them with her, so try to share them with her when I’m gone. She hates watching her favorite shows alone . . . and going to the mechanic . . . she hates being alone, Itadori. Please don’t leave her alone. My kid’s young — she won’t remember me in a few years — so when you tell her about me, just tell her that daddy loves her, okay?”

“I-“

“Itadori,” Nanami interrupted sternly, yet tiredly. His grin softened. He imagined the beautiful faces of his wife and daughter one last time. “You’ve got it from here.”

As Nanami exploded from Mahito’s horrific technique, he died with the hope that someday, he would see you and his sweet girl again.

That someday, he might.

And he will be waiting.

Just a Nanami Thought....

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∘₊✧────────────────────────✧₊∘

Thinking about how Nanami simply loves to please you.

Kento Nanami. The man of literally everyone's dreams. He's your man. He's walking perfection. Gentle, Loving, Kind, Always putting others before him, Loyal, Respectful and the list never ends.

But one thing about this man, he NEVER fails to please you, wether it's in day to day life or in the bedroom. He priorities your pleasure over his. Always.

Speaking of which. After a tiring day, you are sitting on Nanami's lap, going on and on about how annoying work has been lately and how much you hate your co worker.

Of course, Nanami is listing to his favorite girl who's complaining but his hands are down to your waist, softly massaging it, not that you mind of course. As your complaints continue, his hands slowly start moving up to your dress shirt, gently unbuttoning it.

"Nami, why are you up in my boobies while im here complaining" she pouts. how adorable, he thinks.

"keep complaining until you feel better baby, I'm listening to it all, just gonna help you feel better okay my love?" he says with a soft smile on his face.

"but Nami, my birth control is over and I don't have any right now, so we can make love" she says looking a bit sorry, feeling like she ruined the mood. it's not like Nanami doesn't use protection but she is just paranoid, which is natural. Nanami being the best boyfriend he is, makes sure they use condoms as well as birth control. just to be extra safe.

"No worries darling, it's completely fine. If we can't make love right now, how about I please you instead, hm? will you like that my love?"

"but what about you nami?"

"don't worry about me darling, I just want to please my love right now" then he leans in closer and whispers "and maybe you could give me a head as a "thank you" later?"

"mhmpmh! okay" she mumbles, blushing softly.

and that's what it takes, to find yourself whimpering and sobbing of pleasure in his arms. His fingers deep into your cunt, a thumb gently rubbing on your clit. Soft whispers of praises in your ears.

"You're doing amazing my love, relax and enjoy, You're so pretty like this, falling apart in my arms" he whispers before gently nibbling on your ear.

" 'm close nami, please please please"

"let go my love. give it to me" he says looking straight into your eyes. That's all it takes, for you to cum all over his fingers, holding onto his shoulders tightly, eyes closed in pure bliss.

"mhm delicious, like always" he says as he licks his fingers clean and runs his free hand through your hair.

"How about we have a nice relaxing bubble bath together and then I'll get you some of your favorite ice cream? sounds good?"

and all you can do is nod and rest yourself in his arms.

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this is my first time ever writing a smut that I actually post so idk how I feel about this, please let me know what you think about this 🤓🫶🏻

✎ Requests are open⇢ ˗ˏˋcheck pinnedˎˊ˗

hello buns!

˗ˏˋ requests are now open ♡ ˎˊ˗

﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋

╰┈➤ ❝ Which Characters I Write About ❞

❋ Jujutsu Kaisen

╰┈➤ ❝ What Do I Write ❞

❋ Headcanons

❋ Drabbles

╰┈➤ ❝ What Genres I Write ❞

❋ Smut

❋ Fluff

╰┈➤ ❝ What Can I write ❞

❋ Kinks

› I can write most of the kinks and yes that includes all the extreme kinks. As long as it's not extremely triggering or disturbing.

╰┈➤ ❝ What I Can't write ❞

❋ Angst

› I unfortunately can't write Angst Fics because they always turn out so bad. That why I prefer to stick to fluff and smut but! special requests are always welcome, I can try my best if you really really want it.

﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋

can i ask how the boys, Geto, Toji, Nanami and Goji, would react with their f!s/o comparing their hands size? and ends up intertwining their fingers together? Thank you!! 🩷🩷

omg this is so cute! here you go!

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Comparing Hands To Ending up Intertwining them.

────────────𓆩⭑♡⭑𓆪────────

──────────𓆩⭑♡⭑𓆪──────────

╰┈➤ Gojo.

"Baby?" you call out to Gojo who's currently laying on the couch.

"Yes Beautiful?"

"I saw a trend where people where comparing their hands with their partner, can we also try?" you mumble while giving him the cutest puppy ever.

"Of course baby, c'mere". He pays the space beside him on the couch. He presses his very obviously big hand against yours.

"Small ass hand you got baby" he smirks, that smirk soon turns into faint blush when you intertwine your fingers with his.

"This feels nice. Did you do that on purpose?" He chuckles softly kissing your hand.

You giggle softly. "Maybe....Maybe not, who knows?"

╰┈➤ Geto.

"And then you chop it finely" Geto reads out the instructions from the new cook book he gifted you.

"Is this much enough sugu?" you mumble while you're focused on chopping up the carrots.

"No baby, see like this" He stands behind you, his hands wrapping around yours as he shows you how to cut the carrots.

"Your hands are big sugu"

"Are they? Or maybe yours are just very small" He mumbles while being careful of not hurting you.

"Noooo! yours are big! seeee!!" you whine as you take his hand and compare yours with it.

"It's just you sugu! your hands are big!" while trying to prove your point, you subconsciously Intertwine your finger with his.

A soft smile appears on his face at the subconscious gesture, he pulls you closer and plants soft kisses all over your hand as you continue to argue that your hand isn't small.

╰┈➤ Nanami

It's finally nanami's day off, he's sitting on the couch with a book in his hands, relaxing on his day off. You're bored out of your mind, laying on his lap.

"Namiiiiiii I'm boreddddd" you whine softly, pulling into his shirt.

"I'm almost done darling" he mumbles fully focued on his book. Yet he doesn't forget to give you attention. He brings his free hand down to caress your face.

Out of habit, you move to play with his fingers. You take in on every detail of his hand, just how rough, big it is.

"Nami would I fly to the moon if you slapped me with your hand?" you ask him as you giggle softly, comparing your hand with his trying to figure out how big it really is.

"I won't ever slap you but to answer your question, yes. you would" He chuckles while placing his book down.

"How was your book nami?" You smile up at him, intertwining your fingers with his.

"It was good, but hold hands with your is the most comforting thing ever" He smiles softly, moving down to kiss your forehead.

╰┈➤ Toji.

"Hey dollface, have you seen my winter gloves?" He says walking into the bathroom where you are.

"Nope, you can use mine though" you mumble while putting your moisturizer on.

"Are you sure about that pretty?" He chuckles as he holds up his hand against yours, raising them a bit higher so you can see from the mirror.

"Oh...well. Then just freeze to death orrrrrrr"

"Or?" He raises his eyebrow.

You spin around, interlocking your fingers with his. "Just hold my hand darling" A soft giggle escapes your mouth which makes him smile as well.

"Doesn't sound that bad actually. Who needs gloves when I got you eh?" He chuckles kissing your knuckles.

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hope you like it 🥲🫶🏻

Hi dear! Could I ask please for some NSFW between Nanami Kento and fem!reader after a LOT of tension? Thank you so much in advance!!❤️❤️

Secret Quickies.

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─────────── ✧《✩》✧ ───────────

Nanami is currently currently attending his office Christmas party, and you his pretty wife is here as his plus one.

Nanami, he's a gentleman and you on the other hand are his brat. This honestly makes your sex life VERY interesting.

Before arriving to the party, while nanami was busy ironing your dress like a gentleman of course, YOU were busy putting Viagra in his drink. The drink being a "Thank you" for ironing and setting up your jewellery for the night when your intentions are to actually get him super riled up....oh how bratty you are.

At the party, Everything seems to be going fine..but Nanami is starting to feel hot. The tiny dress you're wearing isn't helping at all. You already know what's going inside his head. His stare, his sweaty forehead, his arms flexing and jaw clenching, god he's looks so fucking hot, you want his to rail you then and there

Maybe exactly that's what he'll do....

You're lost in your horny thoughts, when a big hand comes up and wraps around your waist.

"Darlin..." he whispers in your ears, his voice low and deep, sending chills down your spine.

"hmm?" you hum trying to keep composure when really you're already dripping.

He kisses the back of your ear before whispering "Come to the family restroom in five." It sounded like an order, an order you'd immediately listen to.

Five minutes later, as you open the door to the restroom, a strong hand pulls you in with force. The same hand grabbing onto your jaw and back you into the sink.

"I need you. At this instance. Please don't say no." You've never seen him sound like this. He's begging as well as ordering. Well, not like you're gonna decline anyways eh?

"Take me. Have me Husband" Oh god he might just cum in his pants with that voice of yours.

"I will wife. I will." He whispers as he turns you to face the mirror. Placing his hands on your hips, he moves to hurriedly raise your skirt and push your panties aside, as he also lowers his pants to let his angry cock free.He'd actually die if he doesn't push inside your right now.

"We don't have time for prep, okay baby? I'm sorry" with that he pushs into your cunt. Loud moans erupt from both of you. Your hands holding the sink, while his grab your waist tight, keeping his pace fast and deep. He needed to finish quick. Quick before anyone could notice you two gone.

He grabs your jaw to make you look up at the two of you Making love. "You like this baby? You see how well we fit together? f-fuck you're so perfect for me Darlin" He moans in your ear, you on the other hand are too cock drunk to even realize what's he's saying.

"You gotta cum quick okay? we don't have much time" he says as his free hand moves down to run you clit, his pace increasing and becoming harsh, yet he places soft kisses along your neck.

"Kento i-im c-close, p-please" Your fingers start to claw on his hands which are on your waist.

"Let go Darlin, bless me my love"

And with that, you let on him, head falling back on his shoulder. Soon after he lets go, filling you up to the brim. He places kisses on your neck and cheek.

"You okay baby?"

"Mhmpmh"

"Let's get you cleaned up and we'll head straight home okay?"

Kneeling down, he helps her clean up before they pull eachother together and head home, holding hands happily.

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Hope your like this 🫶🏻 and is up to your expectations 🤍

✎ Requests are open⇢ ˗ˏˋcheck pinnedˎˊ˗

”Close my eyes, embrace my matter”

Summary: Nanami has a bad day at work, so you decide to help him. Word count: Almost 1K

Cw: sub! Nanami, choking, reader has him in a chokehold, handjob, cum eating, grinding, cursing, marking, dom! reader

A/N: I’ve been missing him, so i decided to treat him and myself.

Nanami Kento is a man burdened with responsibility. 

Even now in his late 20s, as he tries desperately to catch a break, the borderline Sisyphean task of leaving work at work suffocates him. That’s where you come in. You often nag him when he returns to the house with blue-black eyebags and a clear chip on his shoulders. 

“It’s nothing Darling. I just had a rough day at work.” Your ass. 

So you take it upon yourself to care for him in small ways. Making him coffee in the morning. Fixing his tie, or wiping stray hairs or eyelashes out of his face. Ironing and steaming his button-downs to perfection.

Tonight is no different. You wait for Nanami to get out of the shower with some lavender massage oil on your shared nightstand. He’s always told you he thought lavender making you sleepy was an exaggerated pseudo-fact by large wellness corporations, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. 

You hear the drumming of his footsteps and you assume he’ll fall into his usual routine. He’ll put on his boxers, maybe a loose T-shirt if he gets cold. He’ll sit on the edge of the bed while you carefully dry his hair after some gentle convincing. You’ll try and give him a massage, but he’ll stop you once you reach his shoulders. Nanami has never been comfortable being pampered. Then he’ll lay on the bed with his bagged eyes closed until he eventually falls asleep. 

However, he smashes those expectations quickly when he swiftly throws on some boxers and practically throws himself on the bed, still drenched. 

Well. At least now you have your chance. 

You swiftly straddle his chiseled back. The stray water droplets soak into your garment while you lay yourself on top of him. God, he’s beautiful. You can see the curve of his long lashes and the slight pink that remains on his skin from the heat of the shower. 

“Kento.” 

“Mhm?” He muffledly asks from his place on the pillow, not even opening his eyes.

“Want a massage, baby?” 

He pauses. Usually, he would say no, but tonight is full of surprises. 

He gives you an exasperated, “Yes, please.” 

So begins the massage. Your skillful, oil-covered fingers lull him into a pleasant limbo. Then, a third expected thing happens, you grab his neck. 

In moments like these, he would be able to keep his cool, but the exhaustion and the vulnerability flowing through him and the blood rushing towards his dick makes it difficult for him to hold back. You hear his groggy gasp and see the back of his ears shine a reddish hue. 

“Kento…Baby?” 

He has no response other than to just bury his head into the pillow in shame. 

Still, you know better than to give up. 

You lean down pressing your chest into his back, slipping one hand near his jaw and the other close to his happy trail. 

“Kento…Did you like that? It’s ok if you did because I liked it too.” You whisper into his ear. 

He doesn’t respond but the wiggling of his hips tells you everything. 

“Kento, baby, lemme take care of you.” You whisper into his still-burning ear. This night wasn’t supposed to go this way, but fuck, if you both didn’t love it. 

You slowly move your oil-covered hand from his jaw and place it near his neck. 

“Just lift your head for me a bit baby, ok?”

He complies. You slither your arm under his neck until you can feel his adam’s apple bop into your forearm. You squeeze his throat between your arm and he lets out a groan. 

“Good job baby. Tap my arm three times whenever you feel like it's too much ok?” 

He grabs your wrist as confirmation. You kiss below his ear while whispering a “Good boy” as you slide your other hand finally down into his boxers. 

You already feel him throbbing in your hands. The oil on your hand gets mixed with the surprising amount of precum he’s let out. 

“You must really like this. Huh, baby?” You sigh into his nape. He thrusts into your hand. 

You thumb his slit and slowly, but surely stroke him. The whole time you whisper to him in between the kisses you leave on his shaking shoulders: 

“You’re doing such a great job baby. Thank you for letting me take care of you.” 

“You’re so handsome like this. We should do this more often.”

“You’re so turned on right now. Don’t worry, I am too.”

“Fuck, I can’t get enough of you like this. Do you want me to choke you harder?” 

The combination of the restricted airflow, your hands touching his sensitive dick, and feeling you grinding onto his lower back in an attempt to ease the friction between your legs leaves him gasping. However, what drives him over the edge when you suck a Hickie onto the junction of his neck and shoulders. The feeling and knowing that you wanted him so much in this moment you had to physically claim him? Fucking break him. 

He curls his hands into the sheets, almost ripping them underneath his nails as he climaxes. The ropes of his seed shoot into your hand as he convulses under you. He pants and groans as you remove your arm from his neck. You notice you left a red mark around his neck. You suck on your cum covered fingers in an attempt to ease yourself. Tonight truly was something special. 

"Will you do just...one thing for me?" His voice is weak, broken. A stark contrast to the firm aura that he constantly radiated, it being one of his defining qualities.  

But that persona had crumbled the moment that a single realization dawned on Nanami; the idea, or rather the fact, that he would never be able to see you again.  

Just hours ago he would have been waiting for the day to end, counting down the hours, minutes, and then seconds until he was back where he had always loved to be; with you.  

Now? 

Gone was that hope, gone was the counting on his fingers until his work day was over, gone was the wondering what you would prepare for dinner tonight, gone was the longing to lay in bed and simply listen as you rambled about your day. It was all gone. 

Nanami waits, his eyes not once leaving Yuuji's. The shock on the teenager's face is heartbreaking, his eyes wide and his eyebrows raised in disbelief at the current situation. He knows of the outcome, but he doesn't want to accept it, he can't accept it.  

"Find (Y/N). I want you to tell her...what has transpired of today. I want you to remind her, that even if I'm not...there with her, that I love her." 

Yuuji listens silently, already feeling the familiar sensation of tears building in the backs of his eyes. His vision blurs as they flood, clinging desperately to his bottom lashes and just barely threatening to fall down his cheeks. But he doesn't know if his tears are brought on by Nanami's words or by the extended period of time for which he had kept them open.  

"Will you do that for me?" Nanami asks, trying his hardest and failing to hide the slight desperation in his voice. You needed to know, please. He waits, even though the skeletal hands of the Reapers slowly begin to extend for him, counting silently in their heads.  

Yuuji swallows the growing lump in his throat, though it doesn't move. Instead, it only strengthens the tears in his eyes, and against his better judgement, a few of them fall.  

He nods. 

Nanami smiles, his head leaning back in acceptance. His eyes flutter shut, his mind painting just one final image of you. Everything down to the very lashes of your eyes is portrayed to perfection, granting him one final look at you. 

"I'm sorry (Y/N)," Nanami whispers to nobody in particular, already feeling his body weaken. His head turns, gazing into eyes that stare back at him without an ounce of sympathy.  

Yuuji stares in shock as the body of his mentor promptly implodes.  

But he only has a single question. 

Who is (Y/N)? 

Here's a little Nanami snippet to munch on while I write a much bigger piece.

“Ah, there you are. What are you doing out here my love?” 

You lift your head, turning just enough to cast a glance over your shoulder — then met with the sight of Nanami standing in the open doorframe of one of Jujutsu Tech’s many buildings. In his hands is one of his jackets, one that you no doubt would have draped over your shoulders the moment that he approached you.  

You don’t answer him, opting instead to listen to the soft patter of the rain that you had been so attentively listening to just moments before.  

“Jus’ admiring the rain,” you answer after a beat of silence, turning back to stare out at the outdoor grounds of Jujutsu High. Your lips turn upward at the sight of a few students walking about, their jackets tugged over their heads to prevent themselves from getting wet.  

Nanami hums, taking a step forward. Just as you had predicted, he lays the jacket over your shoulders, then lowering himself to sit down at your side. 

Your body shifts closer to him, like a magnet drawn to its opposite. Your cheek leans against his shoulder, with his arm lifting and coming to rest over your shoulders, holding you against his side.  

“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?” Nanami inquires after a pause, tilting his head so that his cheek rests comfortably against the top of your head.  

You chuckle breathily, eyes fluttering shut as your body soaks up the warmth that radiates off of Nanami.  

“Nothing, just thinking of how pretty the rain is,” you murmur in response. Now it’s Nanami’s turn to chuckle, a deep rumble that brings a light pink tint to your cheeks.  

Not nearly as pretty as you, he thinks, still holding you tightly against him.  

NANAMI never considered himself to be a domestic man. His focuses lied elsewhere -- mainly in his work as a Jujutsu Sorcerer and completing the duties that were constantly being forced into his hands.

For a long time, Nanami didn't care about the late nights he spent cooped up at Jujutsu Tech. He didn't care about the pile of paperwork that only seemed to grow in size every time he looked at it. He didn't care about the bags underneath his eyes or the slouch to his shoulders.

But then ... you came along.

And suddenly Nanami wasn't at Jujutsu Tech until two in the morning. He wasn't skipping lunch breaks in favor of working to decrease his workload. He wasn't pouring his focus into paperwork that, quite frankly, could wait until the morning.

Now he was clocking out at exactly 6pm every night, glancing down at his phone and smiling at the little messages that you had sent him throughout the day.

Good morning Ken! Thank you for the coffee, I hope you were able to take some for yourself. Have a good day, and I'll see you later! <3

Hey Ken! I'm on a little break with the first years right now, I swear Gojo never knows how to properly control them. Yuuji says hi!

Hi Ken! I don't mean to keep bothering you so much throughout the day, I get that you must be doing your own thing. I was just texting to make sure you've eaten, it's getting a little late.

Nanami's lips curl upward as he scrolls through every message, reading each word and feeling his chest warm with love for you. He stows his phone away into his pocket, going down the familiar streets to where you wait patiently for him.

Maybe Nanami hadn't previously been a domestic man. But for you?

Yeah ... Nanami was definitely a domestic man.

Your husband Namani ୨ৎ ⠂°⠄🕯

little piece about namani kento as your smitten hubby (was supposed to be drabble + headcannons but i got a lil carried away)

(i gave up after a while but i wanted to post something)

———

content: female!reader , light smut , p in v , housewife reader , lowercase + ass writing skills lmao , virgin!reader , not proof read , pathetic attempt at fluff

nanami kento who’d you married a couple months ago, and you couldn’t be happier with. He was your dream man, caring, loving thoughtful, and just perfect. The time you guys first interacted was something straight out of a christmas hallmark movie. You two met at a fancy restaurant that you worked at. He had been attending a business meeting that had been horribly dull until he laid his eyes on you. The way the work so dutifully for the large party, you seemed so outgoing and friendly. Never complaining nor making a single grimace. (because you knew they had money and you needed that extra tip ) Regardless, he had a respect for women who worked hard. Of course, the way your uniform skirt hugged at the swell of your thighs was attention-stealing enough. He’d had caught your eye as well. His honey-blonde hair, the size of his biceps, and his stoicism is what initially drew you in. “And what would you like to drink sir?” You asked him, voice sugared and smile perfected just for men like him. “W-water.” Kento stuttered, sharp eyes suddenly clouded, drifting over your smaller frame. He cleared his throat and straightened his tie. “Water, please.” He reiterated himself with a monosyllabic tone. Yeah, he was the one.

nanami kento worked up the nerves to write his number below the check signature. He handed the tray back to you, and cleared his throat as you noticed his number along with “come with me to dinner?” written in a neat cursive. You gave him a coy smile and tucked the note into the thin pocket of your apron. “I’d love too.” You told him, waving goodbye to the table. The blond found himself staring after you, warm blush dusted across his pale cheeks. The rest was history as they might say. You guys dating for a couple years, getting to know each other, discovering new things together, and building the blueprint of your upcoming future.

nanami kento who after marrying you, started to care less and less about his job. It was the sole thing he lived for before, taking up his time, energy and thoughts . But now his focus was elsewhere. It was on a woman who he’d met at a restaurant, a woman with her own identity with uniqueness interests and a personality that belonged solely to her. A woman he somehow manage to catch. You were the woman he would treat as his most prized possession, keeping his loving hold steady over you for as long as he could.

nanami kento who before you, woke up at 5; got dressed by 6 and was at work by 7 had tweaked his morning schedule to fit his now married life. He’d set his phone alarm to go off at 6, but would you blame him? He’d need the extra time to rot the morning away with his new wife :( You’d be pressed against his back, arms enclosed around his chest with your sleepy head neatly tucked into the warmth of his neck. He didn’t mind you being the bigger spoon, it just made getting up in the mornings so, so much harder. As he reluctantly tried to pry himself from your relentless grip, nanamni could feel your long, soft lashes flutter against his neck. “Namani…t’s too earlyyy…” you’d drawl, jaw heavy and mouth dry from your sleep. He’d pull himself away even harder, but you were strong and kept his large body flush against your smaller one. “i have to go work today…” he’d whisper to you, which he knew you were aware of this, it was just the routine you’d guys go through every morning. You didn’t respond to his comment, hoping it would mean he’d stay longer. Namani smiled and let you snuggle against him more. He knew how you were though, you’d be greedy for maybe another 10 minutes more before you felt guilty and release your relentless grip on him. “Fine, jus’ go to work.” You’d mutter, sleepy face creased into a bothered expression. Nanami got up from the bed, but not before wrapping the blanket around you and giving your temple a kiss.

nanami kento who would deal with all your troubles and tribulations. Whenever you were on your period, he was like your knight in shining armor (or in a blue collar button-up) the entire week, he’d make your favorite meals when he arrived home by 3:30. Namani would wrap you in as many blankets as you wanted, picking you up and gently placing you on the couch. If you wanted him to stay, he’d stay right by your side, rubbing your back and peppering your face with kisses until you fell asleep. other times you wanted to be left alone and if you did, he would move to a separate room in the cozy house you guys shared, doing laundry, cleaning or whatever domestic chores that would fill your day. After about an hour, you’d always feel lonely and cried from him to come hold you, which he would come running quickly to your aid. (Also to avoid finishing washing the dishes)

nanami kento who made it his life goal to be able to please and provide for you his wife. He convinced you to quit your job. “I rather have you making dinner for just me then a bunch of wealthy assholes.” Kento would comment. You liked being his little housewife who didn’t have much to do. You were both relatively neat people, so they’re wasn’t much cleaning to do. Which you did love to do was cook. Experimenting with recipes you found on Pinterest and surprising your husband when he got home. “Look what i made for dinner, creamy garlic pasta! I found the recipe on Pinterest and it thought you’d like it” You took him by his large forearm and lead him to the kitchen where you had two plates full of the pasta as well as a lit candle and twin drinks. To you, this was just a cozy dinner. For him it was the best way to be welcomed home after a stressful day of work. The amount of thought and time put into the meal was overwhelming to him and he almost shed a tear. When he didn’t say anything, you frowned and thought he didn’t like it. “Ken, is something wrong?” Your voice was shaky and your eyes glassy. Nanami snapped out of his head and took you into an embrace. “No, no. Nothings wrong love, just a little emotional.” You laughed, thinking it was funny how he got emotional over food, but you found it cute. “Let’s eat then now, okay dear?” He’d suggest, blushing at your giggles while pulling out the chair for you to sit in. Of course, in return for any errands or houseworks, Nanami would reward you in anything else. It was only fair, he thought. New clothes? He’d take you to the expensive outlet malls he knew you loved. A new hobby that you wanted to start? He’d pay for anything you’d need plus support you through it (even if you gave up after a month) he’d never bring up your failed ventures either, knowing that it brought you joy in the few moments and he lived for that. Whenever the daily life bored you, Nanami would take you out an adventures. Sometimes it was something as simple as visiting the local farmers market. Others were first class trips around the world. (Malaysia being his personal favorite.) Sometimes, people would make comments on how “he’s spoiling you too much” or “she’ll get bored of you eventually and move to the richer guy,” but Nanami brushed those words carelessly. “I’m not spoiling her,” he’d reply coolly . “I’m reimbursing her for all the work and time she puts into me. My wife does nice things for me, and I do nice things for her.”

namani kento who could please his wife in other ways as well. If there was one thing namani did efficiently was fcking you. You’d both waited until marriage and boy, was it worth it. Namami had the gift of duality when it came to pleasing you. From his mouth, he murmured praises and loving words into your ears. From his body, unrelenting and hungry thrusts assaults on your virgin pussy. Both such drastic differences from his stoicism.“Doing so good for me love, taking me so well.” He’d compliment you causally, as if he wasn’t pumping 8 inches into you. “N-nanami, t’s too much, slow down p-please..” you’d beg, salty tears streaming down your face unto your neck, where’d he’d kiss them away. Namanin never knew how much prettier you could be, especially all sweaty and teary-eyed, but that’s just more of an excuse to do this more often. He caressed your cheek, smiling faintly at your fcked-out expression. You were doing so good for him, especially for your first time, you were just having a little hiccups. “You can take it, cmon just hold out a little longer for me, please? I promise you’ll feel so, so good.” And he kept his promise. Not long after you felt a string being cut in your stomach, causing your voice to go up in octaves and your eyes to screw themselves shut. Your pussy was glistening, covering in your juices and his as well. He didn’t pull out of you yet, and you didn’t want him too. You wanted to savor the feeling of being completely full, of being connected in the deepest way possible with your other half. After what seemed like hours of and bodies melding together. Namani wiped away a single remaining tear and kiss you on your flushed lips.“See, told you it’d be worth it, you did so well. I love you so much y/n.”

“I l-love you too kento.”

END