NANAMI x F. READER ⬩ HEADCANONS ⬩ MATURE ⬩ 4.4K WORDS
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THE DOOR //
Nanami Kento does not love loudly. He makes staying possible.
THE LOCK //
established relationship, canon-compliant emotional logic, mature themes, sorcerer work and burnout, sensory regulation written with care, quiet intimacy, no smut.
THE FILE //
A headcanon set about the careful, exacting devotion of a man who refuses to romanticize suffering, but still chooses love with the full weight of his remaining faith.
THE PALETTE //
pressed shirts ⬩ warm brass ⬩ black tea ⬩ folded towels ⬩ receipt bookmarks ⬩ office at dusk ⬩ love as a structure that holds
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Nanami Kento does not fall in love impulsively.
He arrives at love the way he arrives at every serious conclusion: reluctantly, honestly, and only after the evidence has become impossible to ignore.
At first, he treats his awareness of you as an inconvenience to be managed. Not because you are inconvenient, but because wanting anything too openly has always felt, to him, like leaving a door unlocked in a dangerous neighborhood. He notices you early, and then he notices that he is noticing, which irritates him far more than your existence ever could.
You are not loud when you enter a room. That is the first thing that draws his attention, though he would never describe it as drawing. You simply occupy space with a kind of quiet deliberation he recognizes. You look before you speak. You track exits without making a performance of vigilance. You listen to the shape of conversations rather than merely the words inside them, and when someone interrupts you twice, your face does not change, but your gaze does. It cools by a precise, nearly invisible degree.
Nanami notices that.
He notices the way your thumb presses against the smooth curve of your nail when the room grows too bright. He notices the careful warmth of your jewelry, the heavy gold at your fingers and ears, how it sits against your brown skin like it belongs there rather than decorating you from the outside. He notices the dark weight of your curls when they are pinned up with a claw clip, ringlets escaping anyway, stubborn and alive around your temples and the nape of your neck. He notices that you dress as if texture matters: soft knits, dark skirts, oversized layers, boots sturdy enough to leave without hesitation.
None of this is romantic at first. He tells himself this with firm internal authority.
It is simply information.
Nanami has always respected information.
The first real conversation between you happens after a meeting neither of you wanted to attend. The room is too warm, the overhead lighting is unforgivable, and three different people have spent forty minutes using many words to say almost nothing. You sit at the far end of the table with your arms folded, one boot tucked behind the other, your nails clicking once against a gold ring before going still.
Nanami does not miss the single click.
When the meeting ends, everyone leaves with the forced relief of people pretending their time was not just wasted. Nanami gathers his notes with efficient displeasure. You remain seated for a moment longer, blinking slowly at the empty doorway.
“That was forty minutes of procedural vanity,” you say.
Nanami pauses.
It is not the remark itself. Plenty of people complain. Most people complain badly, with too much heat and not enough accuracy. What stops him is the specificity.
He adjusts his glasses and looks at you properly. “That is a generous description.”
Your eyes move to him, steady and dark with the kind of exhaustion that has teeth. “I was being polite.”
Against his better judgment, the corner of his mouth shifts.
It is not a smile. Not yet.
But it is the first concession.
— — ❖ — —
I. THE PRACTICAL SHAPE OF CARE
Nanami’s affection begins as correction.
Not of you. Never of you. He does not treat you like a problem to be improved, and the first time someone mistakes his attention for managerial instinct, he gives them a look so flat and professionally lethal that they never make the mistake again.
His corrections are environmental.
The café you both end up frequenting has one table near the back where the overhead bulb flickers irregularly. The first time you sit beneath it, your voice goes slightly thinner after twenty minutes. You do not complain. You are speaking about a book you have been reading, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other slowly turning the ring on your index finger. Nanami listens with his usual composed focus, but his eyes lift once toward the light.
The next time you meet there, he has already chosen a different table.
“The other one was available,” you say, unwinding your scarf from your neck.
“Yes,” he replies, pulling out your chair without flourish. “And unsuitable.”
You look at him.
He takes his own seat, perfectly calm, as if he has not just rearranged the world by six feet and expected you to notice.
“Unsuitable,” you repeat.
“The light flickers.”
Your fingers still on your scarf. For a second, your face does something small and unguarded, a door cracking open before you pull it back into place. Nanami sees it. He does not comment on it, because he is not cruel, and because he understands that being accurately perceived can feel like being touched without warning.
He simply opens the menu and says, “The tea here is over-steeped. I would recommend the coffee.”
That is how he gives tenderness room to survive: by placing it beside something ordinary.
Dating Nanami means realizing that he has been taking notes long before he admits to taking anything seriously. He learns the timing of your hunger because your focus turns brittle when you forget to eat. He learns that you can tolerate crowded trains better if you have one ear covered and one hand free. He learns that you prefer black tea in the morning, ginger when your system feels unsteady, and water handed to you without commentary when you have been speaking for too long and forgotten your own body.
He does not say, I am worried about you, unless the moment requires the words.
He says, “You have not eaten since eleven.”
He says, “Bring a jacket. The temperature will drop after sunset.”
He says, “We can leave now, or in ten minutes. I would not recommend longer.”
It should sound clinical. From anyone else, perhaps it would. From Nanami, it becomes a kind of shelter.
He is not interested in making you dependent on him. The thought would offend him. Dependence, to Nanami, is often what careless people create when they want to feel necessary. He has no patience for that. His care is designed to return you to yourself, not make himself the center of your functioning.
If the world has worn you thin, he does not crowd you with concern. He makes the apartment quieter.
The first time he sees you enter shutdown, he does not handle it perfectly. He handles it carefully, which matters more.
You are in his kitchen when it happens. The day has been too loud from the beginning: train announcements overlapping, rain hitting the platform roof in sharp metallic bursts, a colleague speaking too close to your ear, the cheap seam inside your sleeve rubbing against your wrist until your skin feels inhabited by static. By the time you reach Nanami’s apartment, your words have already started leaving you.
He notices before you explain.
Of course he does.
You stand just inside the doorway, one hand still on the strap of your bag, your gaze fixed somewhere near the floor. Your curls are damp from the rain, a heavy strand caught beneath the strap and tugging faintly against your shoulder. Normally, you would free it. Tonight, you do not seem able to organize the movement.
Nanami sets down the dish towel in his hand.
He does not approach immediately.
“Lights?” he asks.
The question is quiet and plain, shaped so that answering will not cost much.
You close your eyes once.
He turns off the overhead light. The kitchen falls into the softer amber of the lamp near the counter. He waits. When your shoulders lower by a fraction, he notes it, then moves to the kettle and turns it off before it can begin its high, needling whistle.
“Same room or separate?”
Your mouth opens. No sound comes. Your thumb presses hard into your palm, the smooth acrylic edge of your nail forming one clean point of pressure.
Nanami looks at your hand, then back to your face.
“You can point,” he says.
You point toward the living room.
“Same room,” he confirms.
Only then does he step closer, stopping at a distance that gives your body room to refuse him. “May I take your bag?”
You nod.
He lifts the strap from your shoulder with a care so exact it almost hurts to notice. His fingers find the trapped curl and pause.
“Your hair is caught.”
You nod again, smaller this time.
“May I?”
Another nod.
He frees the curl slowly, not because it is fragile, but because trust is. The strand slips loose and falls against your collarbone, damp and heavy. Nanami’s hand withdraws immediately after. No lingering. No silent demand for gratitude. He simply sets your bag down, guides you to the couch without touching you again, and places a glass of water within reach.
Then he sits in the chair across from you with a book he does not open.
The silence holds.
It is not absence.
It is architecture.
— — ❖ — —
II. THE BOUNDARY AS DEVOTION
Nanami does not confuse love with access.
This is one of the first reasons you trust him.
He has boundaries so firm they almost have weather. Work ends when work ends, unless something catastrophic prevents it. Phone calls are answered honestly or returned when he is able to be present. If he is upset, he does not make the room guess. If he needs time to think, he says so directly and gives a window for when he will return to the conversation.
The first time he tells you, “I need twenty minutes before I can answer that fairly,” you do not know what to do with yourself.
You are used to silence being a punishment. You are used to people vanishing into their own moods and expecting you to interpret the weather. Nanami does neither. He stands in your kitchen, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his forearms, jaw tight with fatigue, and still gives you the dignity of an explanation.
“Twenty minutes?” you repeat.
“Yes.”
“And then what?”
His brow creases faintly, as if the answer is obvious. “Then I come back.”
You look at him for a long moment. He holds your gaze, steady and tired and entirely present.
“Okay,” you say.
He comes back in eighteen.
Nanami’s honesty is not blunt in the careless way people praise when they want permission to be cruel. His honesty has manners. It has structure. He will tell you the truth, but he will not throw it at your feet and call the impact your responsibility.
If he thinks you are wrong, he says so.
Privately.
Specifically.
With enough context that you can understand the shape of his concern rather than merely feel corrected.
“I don’t think you were being fair to yourself in that conversation,” he tells you one evening, setting a mug beside your elbow.
You look up from where you sit curled into the couch, one knee tucked beneath you, your book lying open but unread in your lap. “That’s a very careful way of saying you think I let her talk over me.”
“Yes,” he says.
Your mouth tightens.
He sits beside you, not too close. “I am not criticizing you for choosing restraint. I am asking whether it was a choice or a reflex.”
That is the terrible thing about Nanami. He is often right in ways that do not allow you the comfort of indignation.
You turn your ring once, jaw shifting. “I didn’t want to make it difficult.”
“It was already difficult,” he replies. “You were simply the only one paying the cost of keeping it pleasant.”
You hate him a little for that sentence.
You love him more for it.
He does not enjoy conflict, but he respects what honest conflict protects. The difference matters to him. Avoidance lets rot gather under the floorboards. Cruelty burns the house down to prove there was mold. Nanami wants neither. He wants the board lifted, the damage named, and the repair done properly before anyone pretends the room is safe to stand in.
When you withdraw during an argument, he does not chase you across the apartment demanding resolution on his timeline. He asks one question: “Are you leaving the conversation, or taking time to return to it?”
The first time he asks, it stops you cold.
You are standing in the hallway with your arms wrapped around yourself, your sweater bunched in your fists, the seams rough against your palms. Your pulse is too fast. Your thoughts are arriving in overlapping strips, none of them useful yet.
“Taking time,” you manage.
He nods once. “How much?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then I’ll check in after thirty minutes. You can ask for more if you need it.”
You stare at him.
He remains where he is, posture straight, face composed, giving no indication that your silence has injured him. It is not that he does not feel. You know by then that he feels deeply, perhaps more deeply than he finds convenient. But he does not make his feelings your emergency while you are trying to find language.
That is how Nanami loves in conflict.
He keeps the door visible.
— — ❖ — —
III. THE QUIET MATHEMATICS OF TOUCH
Nanami touches like a man who understands consequence.
There is nothing casual about his hands.
Not because he is stiff or passionless, though people who do not know him well often mistake restraint for lack. Nanami is not lacking. He is measured. He has spent too much of his life watching carelessness become injury to believe that intention alone is enough to make contact safe.
The first time he reaches for your hand, he does not lace your fingers together immediately. He offers his palm between you on the table, open and still beside your cooling tea.
You look at it. Then at him.
His expression does not change, but something quiet waits in his eyes.
“You’re making this very formal,” you say.
“I am trying not to make it presumptuous.”
Your throat does something inconvenient.
You place your hand in his.
His fingers close around yours with steady warmth. Firm, but not possessive. Present, but not trapping. His thumb rests along the side of your index finger, brushing once over the smooth edge of your ring before going still.
“Is this all right?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He says it simply, but his shoulders ease by a fraction, and that is how you learn to read his relief.
Nanami is not publicly demonstrative in the expected way. He will not drape himself over you in crowded rooms, nor make a performance of claiming what is already freely given. Possessiveness, to him, is often insecurity wearing expensive shoes. He has no interest in humiliating either of you for the sake of proving something to people whose opinions he does not respect.
But he is not distant.
His presence is precise.
A hand at the small of your back when guiding you through a crowded station. Two fingers at your wrist when he wants your attention but does not want to startle you. His shoulder angled slightly forward when someone steps too close, not blocking you from the world, but giving your body a clear line of shelter if you choose to use it.
If someone speaks over you, Nanami lets you decide whether to correct them. He watches, though. The attention becomes visible in the stillness of his jaw, the faint narrowing behind his glasses, the way his body turns slightly toward the speaker with professional calm that should worry them more than it does.
If you handle it yourself, he says nothing until later.
Then, while washing dishes beside you, sleeves rolled up and tie already removed, he says, “You handled that well.”
You glance at him. “That almost sounds like praise.”
“It is praise.”
“You could make it sound more like praise.”
“I could,” he agrees.
You wait.
He dries a plate with infuriating composure. “I won’t.”
The laugh leaves you before you can stop it, sudden and bright. Nanami looks down at the plate, but not quickly enough to hide the small satisfaction at the corner of his mouth.
In private, his affection deepens into weight.
He likes the ordinary intimacy of shared space more than grand romantic gestures. You reading with your legs tucked over his lap. His hand resting warm and broad over your ankle. The steady press of his thigh against yours at the kitchen table. Your curls spilling over his shoulder when you fall asleep against him during a film, heavy enough that he has to lift them gently away from his mouth before he can speak.
The first time one of your curls tangles around the button of his shirt, he stops mid-sentence.
You feel the pause before you understand it. “What?”
“Your hair is caught.”
“Oh.” You start to reach back, but he has already stilled.
“May I?”
You nod, and he lowers his gaze to the trapped strand with the same grave focus he brings to matters other people would consider more important. His fingers are careful, warm against the side of your neck as he works the curl free. He does not pull. He does not rush. When the ringlet slips loose, it springs back against your collarbone, and his hand remains in the air for one extra second before he withdraws.
“You take that very seriously,” you murmur.
He looks at you. “I take anything attached to you seriously.”
You stare at him.
He returns to his book as if he has not just rearranged the room.
Nanami does not flirt often, which makes it significantly worse when he does.
His compliments arrive with the calm devastation of a signed document. No excess. No dramatics. No softening for your survival.
“That color suits you,” he says one morning, glancing at the dark olive of your sweater while fastening his watch.
You look down at yourself, then back at him. “That’s all?”
“Would you like more?”
The question is so evenly delivered that you almost miss the warmth beneath it.
“Maybe.”
He steps close enough for the scent of coffee and soap to reach you. His fingers touch the edge of your sleeve, straightening a fold near your wrist. “It makes the warmth in your skin more noticeable,” he says. “And I like when you wear things that look comfortable enough for you to forget I’m watching.”
Your mouth opens.
Nothing useful comes out.
Nanami’s thumb smooths once over your sleeve before he steps away. “Was that sufficient?”
You consider throwing something at him.
Instead, you say, “You’re late for work.”
“No,” he replies, picking up his bag. “I accounted for this.”
— — ❖ — —
IV. THE WEIGHT HE CARRIES
Nanami’s exhaustion has edges.
It does not sprawl. It does not make itself everyone else’s problem. It enters the apartment with him at the end of the day, removes its shoes by the door, hangs its jacket properly, and stands in the kitchen with one hand braced against the counter while Nanami closes his eyes for exactly three seconds too long.
You learn the signs.
The knot at the hinge of his jaw. The faint imprint of his glasses at the bridge of his nose. The way his shoulders remain squared even when the rest of him is almost painfully tired, as if posture alone can keep a person from collapsing into what the day took from them.
He does not complain about work in the ordinary way because complaint, to him, has to serve a function. If he is naming a problem, it is because the problem requires action or witness. Otherwise, he would rather remove his tie, wash his hands, and stand under the shower until the heat has stripped the day from his skin.
There are evenings when he comes home smelling faintly of rain, dust, and cursed residue, though he has cleaned himself before entering your space. That is how you know it was worse than usual. Nanami is careful with thresholds. He does not bring the work inside if he can help it.
But some things cling.
On those nights, you do not ask, “Are you okay?”
The question is too large and too useless. He is not okay in the way people mean when they ask that. He is alive. He is home. He is standing in front of the sink with water running over his hands long after the soap has gone. Those are the facts.
Instead, you turn the lamp lower.
You put the kettle on before he asks.
You set out the mug he prefers, the one with the slight chip near the handle that he refuses to throw away because it remains fully functional.
When he finally shuts off the water, he looks at the mug, then at you.
“Thank you,” he says.
It is not small from him.
Nothing he gives honestly is small.
Nanami hates overtime with a moral intensity that borders on sacred. People often find this funny until they understand him poorly enough to laugh. It is not laziness. It is not pettiness. It is his refusal to worship a system that would consume him without even producing gratitude as a byproduct.
He believes time matters.
Your time. His time. The stolen years of young people sent into danger by adults who should know better. The quiet evening hours that remain after the worst parts of the world have taken their share. He protects those hours with the discipline of a man guarding a candle in bad weather.
When he says, “I am off the clock,” it is not merely about work.
It is a declaration that life must exist somewhere outside suffering, or suffering wins everything.
That is the part of him that aches most to witness: not the restraint, not the dry humor, not even the exhaustion. It is the stubborn, battered insistence that ordinary life deserves defense.
He buys bread from the bakery near the station because you once mentioned the crust there had the right texture. He keeps a second umbrella by the door because weather should not become a crisis. He folds dish towels in thirds. He sends you messages that look painfully simple from the outside: Train delays on your line. Take the north exit instead. Or, Dinner at seven, if that still suits you. Or, I saw something ridiculous and thought of you.
The ridiculous thing is usually not ridiculous at all. A dog in a raincoat. A bakery sign with a spelling mistake. A cursed little mascot outside a convenience store with eyes too empty to be trusted.
He sends them because he knows the world becomes easier for you when it has specific points of texture.
He sends them because he is thinking of you.
The first time he writes those exact words, you stare at the message for so long your tea goes cold.
I was thinking about you.
No ornament. No performance. No attempt to make the feeling more elegant than it is.
Just the fact, placed in your hand.
— — ❖ — —
V. THE DARKNESS IN THE ROOM
There is a hard part of loving Nanami that has nothing to do with whether he loves you back.
He does.
By the time you understand that, the evidence is everywhere. In the tea. In the second umbrella. In the way he gives you silence without making it feel like abandonment. In the careful pressure of his hand at your back when the station platform crowds too close. In the fact that he has learned the exact difference between your ordinary quiet and the silence that means the world has become too much.
The hard part is that Nanami returned to sorcery knowing exactly what it costs.
He is not naive. He does not possess the bright, reckless idealism of someone who believes courage makes danger clean. He knows the system is exploitative. He knows children are fed to it. He knows good people die badly, sometimes without meaning, sometimes without witness, sometimes because the adults in charge made a calculation and called it necessity.
He knows all of this.
He went back anyway.
That truth sits between you on certain nights like a glass set too close to the edge of a table.
You do not ask him why in the beginning. Not directly. You are too careful with him, and perhaps too careful with yourself. Instead, you ask smaller questions that circle the center without touching it.
“Do you regret leaving the salaryman job?”
Nanami is at your kitchen table, sleeves rolled up, glasses set beside his untouched tea. He has been quiet for several minutes, not in a way that asks to be interrupted. The light above the stove casts a muted gold line along his cheekbone. His hands rest flat on the table, broad and still.
“No,” he says.
You turn your ring once. “Do you miss it?”
“Also no.”
“That was fast.”
His mouth tightens faintly. Not quite a smile. “It was a simple question.”
“I don’t think it is.”
He looks at you then, properly. Behind the tiredness in his face is something older than the day, something sanded down by use but not gone.
“I miss what it represented,” he says. “Predictability. Boundaries. A life in which my labor was unpleasant, but rarely fatal.”
Your throat tightens.
He looks down at his tea. “But it was still labor in service of something empty. Different machinery. Less blood.”
The quiet after that is difficult.
You feel it in your body: the heaviness at the base of your throat, the slight chill along your forearms, the instinctive urge to press him for reassurance you know he would not cheapen by giving falsely. Nanami does not tell you that everything will be fine. He respects you too much to insult you with obvious lies.
Instead, after a long moment, he says, “I am careful.”
You let out a breath that almost becomes a laugh and almost becomes something else. “That’s not the same as safe.”
“No,” he agrees. “It is not.”
You hate that he does not argue.
You love that he does not lie.
He reaches across the table, palm open.
You look at his hand.
Then you place yours in it.
His fingers close around you with steady, deliberate pressure. Not enough to trap. Enough to hold.
“I do not want to make my work romantic to you,” he says quietly.
“Good.”
His thumb brushes once over your knuckles, where your rings sit warm and heavy. “But I would like to come home from it.”
There it is.
The entire terrible arithmetic.
Not a promise. Not comfort. Not the kind of sentence anyone could embroider onto a pillow and survive the honesty of it.
A desire.
Nanami Kento, who rations his hope like a limited resource, saying plainly that he would like to return.
Your hand tightens around his.
“Then come home,” you say.
His eyes lift to yours, and for a second, his composure shifts around something too tender to name directly.
“I will do my best,” he says.
It is the only answer he can give.
It is the only answer you would believe.
— — ❖ — —
VI. THE FINAL CALCULATION
Nanami does not say I love you quickly.
This surprises no one who knows him, least of all you.
What does surprise you is how thoroughly he says it before he says it.
He says it by learning the shape of your mornings. By placing your mug on the left side of the table because your right hand is usually occupied turning a ring while you read. By remembering which train exit has fewer lights. By texting when he will be late, not because he fears your anger, but because ambiguity costs you more than inconvenience.
He says it by noticing when you have disappeared too completely into a book and setting food beside you without making you climb out of the world all at once.
He says it by asking, “Do you want a solution, or do you want me to listen?” and then actually obeying the answer.
He says it by respecting your no the first time, every time, without making you pay for having a boundary.
The spoken words arrive on an ordinary evening, because of course they do.
You are in his apartment while rain worries at the windows, the city blurred into soft streaks of white and red beyond the glass. Dinner is finished. The dishes are drying. Your rings sit in the small ceramic dish near his sink beside his watch, warm metal and disciplined leather occupying the same little circle of space as if they have been doing so for years.
You are sitting on the floor with your back against the couch, your book open in one hand, though you have not turned the page in several minutes. Nanami sits behind you on the sofa, reading over a document with a pen in hand. Every so often, his knee brushes your shoulder. Neither of you comments on it.
The room is quiet in the way rooms become quiet when they are trusted.
Your curls have slipped loose from their clip, falling heavy down your back and over one shoulder. A few ringlets cling to your neck from the warmth of the apartment. Without looking away from his document, Nanami reaches down and gently lifts the hair away from your collar, laying it over your other shoulder so it will not trap heat against your skin.
You glance up. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
He returns to the page.
You return to your book.
Another minute passes.
Then he says, as if noting the weather, “I love you.”
Your entire body goes still.
Nanami does not rush to fill the silence. He does not take the words back, or soften them, or smile as if to make them easier to receive. He lets them stand exactly where he placed them.
Evidence submitted.
No pressure for immediate ruling.
Slowly, you close your book around one finger to hold your place. The page edge presses into your skin. Your heart is beating hard enough that you feel it in your throat.
You turn to look at him.
He has lowered the document. His face is calm, but not untouched. There is tension at the corner of his mouth, a restraint so practiced it looks almost like serenity from a distance. You know better by now. You know he has chosen this moment with care. You know he has likely been carrying the words for longer than he will ever admit.
“Kento,” you say softly.
His gaze remains steady. “You do not need to answer immediately.”
A laugh breaks out of you, quiet and wet around the edges. His brow creases.
“That is a very you thing to say after telling someone you love them.”
“I thought it was considerate.”
“It is,” you say. “It’s also deeply irritating.”
The crease in his brow softens. “Noted.”
You rise onto your knees and move closer, careful of the mug near the couch, the book in your hand, the line of his body waiting without reaching. When you settle beside him, his attention tracks every shift, every inch, giving you the space to arrive rather than pulling you into place.
You set the book down.
Your hand finds his.
“I love you too,” you say.
Nanami closes his eyes for a single breath.
That is all. One breath. One small surrender.
Then his forehead lowers to yours, and his hand tightens around your fingers with a pressure so careful and complete that your chest aches.
He does not say anything else for a while.
He does not need to.
Nanami Kento loves the way he lives when he is being most honest: with structure, with clarity, with a quiet refusal to waste what little time the world permits. His devotion is not decorative. It is load-bearing. It is the second umbrella by the door, the receipt used as a bookmark, the lamp turned down before the room can hurt you, the hand offered open instead of taking.
He will not make suffering beautiful for you.
He will not pretend danger is not danger.
He will not promise what the world has not given him the authority to guarantee.
But he will come home when he can. He will tell you the truth when he cannot. He will build a life out of exact things and ordinary mercies, and if love must be proven through repetition, then Nanami has already made a discipline of proof.
That is the shape of his love: practical, deliberate, and devastating in its restraint.
A man who knows the world is cruel, and still folds the towel in thirds.
A man who has lost faith in many things, but not in the value of coming home.
A man who does the math, finds the answer impossible, and stays anyway.
❖ ─────────────────── ❖
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Synopsis: the ways in which your roommate is a little inappropriate, but it's okay because he's gentlemanly 4.7k
Warnings: smut, a lil fluff ig cause he's sweet, no p in v, some aspect of free use, mention of somno but no actual act, cunnilingus, dubious/unethical behaviour, do not let your roommate do any of these things to you unless he looks and acts like Nanami, grinding, pussyjobs, some voyeurism, pretty mild all things considered I think, Nanami art by @/prenkuarts on twitter, not proofread
Perverted roommate!Nanami is a classy pervert.
He doesn’t consider himself something so lowly — he’s more refined, more respectful, and sophisticated. Indeed, it’s hard to even see him as such because his perversion carries a certain façade of thoughtfulness.
In almost all regards, he’s the perfect roommate: he cleans up after himself, isn’t loud, pays his rent on time, very friendly and caring, and agreeable. But there’s something off about him. Something that raises alarm bells, suggesting he’s not a typical roommate.
For example, you always had a problem with your vibrators dwindling out of charge mid-’selfcare’ session, but since moving in with him, you’ve never run into that problem.
In fact, you can’t even remember the last time you’ve charged any of your toys. Yet somehow they’re always full battery. You could chalk it up to a miracle or luck, if you didn’t suspect that your Type A roommate, who runs the entire apartment like a tight ship, had something to do with it.
When you confront him about it, he merely looks at you over his glasses, placing his book down on the wooden table with a sigh. “Yes, I charge your toys. I began noticing that you oft forget, and your mood’ll sour for the rest of the day. To avoid conflict, I’ve decided to take on the responsibility of ensuring they do not die on you when you’re at your most vulnerable.”
Then, as though it’s an afterthought, he adds, “I am more than happy to stop, if that’s what you’d like.”
His dull eyes hold nothing but the truth. No shame, no creepiness, no hint of danger. Just fact.
Frowning, you retort, “I don’t get grumpy.”
“You called me a boomer who doesn’t deserve the right to vote simply because I said good morning the first time it happened,” he deadpans, already lifting his book up.
“Fine,” you say, glaring at him to send your message across. “But don’t be sniffing around. Literally.”
Perverted roommate!Nanami dryly replies, “There goes my evening plans.”
Another thing you’ve noticed is that you have a habit of forgetting to bring your towel in the bathroom with you when you shower. Despite that, there’s always a fresh one waiting for you on the rack. You’ve never noticed the door opening or a presence watching, perhaps running his eyes over your wet, soapy body, maybe even touching himself through his slacks. So it took you a while to consider it a problem; your first thought was that there’s a ghost that doubles as a fairy godmother always looking out for you before your mind jumps to your salaryman roommate, who’s law abiding and has a strong moral compass.
Again, when you confront him, he flips the pancakes he’s making for breakfast and utters no defence.
Instead, he says, “Yes, I enter the bathroom as you use it to place a towel on the rack — you never lock the door and I’d prefer to inconvenience myself for a couple seconds than to spend minutes mopping the floor after you make a run for your room naked and sopping wet.”
You take the plate he’s readied for you, noticing he’s prepared yours before his own, and wonders cautiously aloud, “Okay, but you’ve never lingered, have you?”
Perverted roommate!Nanami says, “I linger only as much as is necessary to note that you do not wash your scalp long enough and cannot reach a particular spot on your back. Though I suppose I’m simply grateful I have a roommate that practices personal hygiene. The last one wasn’t quite as clean.”
“Well, if it bothers you so much,” you begin, scowling at the subtext of insult, “then you should wash me yourself, since I’m clearly not doing it to your standards.”
“Perhaps I will,” he says. He takes a sip of his coffee and adjusts his glasses. “Expect me later. I shall teach you how to do it right.”
You huff. “Fine!”
“Great.”
That later rolls around soon enough.
Of course, you didn’t actually mean for him to wash you himself; you’re a grown woman!
But you’ve really done it now.
You’re on edge, standing under the shower, not reaching for your shampoo bottle or washcloth. You stand there, back turned to the door, nervous, and wondering if he would really do it. He’s so prim and proper — would he actually do something so inappropriate, so ill-advised, and scandalous?
The answer comes in the form of doors opening and a heavy presence filling the space. You stiffen, holding your breath.
It’s just a little nudity, you tell yourself. He’s seen naked women before. Hell, he’s seen you naked before. And he’s never done anything…but do you want him to?
Perverted roommate!Nanami mutters right by your ear, “Do let me know if I’m too rough.”
Shampoo is lathered on your head, rubbed firmly in your scalp by his strong hands. It’s good. Like getting massaged at the salon. Releasing a low moan, you find yourself leaning back onto him, only for your eyes to open at the realisation that he’s fully clothed.
Your hands feel behind you, touching his thick thighs through the material of his pants clinging to the muscles. “Kento?” you ask, voice hushed, though still audible over the sound of running water, “why’re you wearing clothes?”
“You wanted me to be naked?” he asks back. His voice is raspy with amusement. “Filthy girl…did you expect this to turn into something more? I said I would wash you, properly and thoroughly. I never said I’d fuck you against the tiles. Though,” he adds, “if you were to ask nicely, like a good girl, perhaps I’d consider it.”
Oh, you’re not going to give in first.
Never.
So, as he adjusts you to rinse your hair out, you say, “No. The one with a raging boner in their pants should be the one to ask first. Throw in a please and a ‘mommy’ in there, and I’ll consider it.”
Perverted roommate!Nanami coats your hair with your conditioner, clipping it expertly in the exact position you always do to leave it for a couple minutes. He huskily retorts, “I’ll be sure to remember those conditions when I’m at my most desperate.”
“Which is usually when?”
His hands covered in soap begin venturing down, cupping the mounds of your breasts, feeling the weight and flicking the hardened buds of your nipples. Your back arches.
Lips graze the shell of your ear. “When I hear you moan my name at night with your fingers buried knuckle deep in your cunt, or when you’re riding that flimsy dildo of yours, imagining it’s my cock, all while knowing it’s not anywhere near as big as I am.”
A gasp escapes you. He knows. He knows and he listens and he absorbs every moan, every confession, every orgasm you rub out of yourself that he doesn’t get to taste himself.
Fingers part your puffy pussy lips. They don’t touch the inside, only slowly rubbing the outside, leaving you panting and throwing your head back on his broad shoulder. He doesn’t seem to mind that you’re leaving conditioner and soap all over him.
No, he’s probably much more preoccupied with the sight of your heaving breasts, glistening for his pleasure. His spare hand can’t get enough of them. He alternates in squeezing them both, rolling and pinching the nipple to tug breathy moans from you.
“Ken…”
“Do you clean well enough between your legs? Should I show you how to do it, hmm sweetheart?” Without waiting for a reply, he dips his fingers where your juices are readily flowing. He makes a tortured noise behind you. “Filthy. Downright filthy.”
You shake your head, pulling his hand away.
Spinning to face him, you see how he hasn’t even gotten out of his work clothes, how the water has made his shirt transparent, how he’s unbuttoned the first two buttons revealing the smooth plane of his chest, how locks of hair are stuck to his forehead, how he’s licking the droplets off his lips as his eyes come to life with hunger, and you can certainly see the thick, undeniable outline of a rock hard cock caged down his left thigh.
Weakly, you force a brave tone as you say, “That’s not how you clean a pussy, is it, Kento?”
Hands clutching your waist, he gets down to his knees, pushing you onto the cold tiles. The water pummels his back, soaking him beyond comfort, yet he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t bat an eye, doesn’t give a single fuck as he throws one of your legs over his shoulder and dives right in.
You cry out at the tongue that flicks your clit with no hesitation.
His rough hands are keeping you steady, preventing you from slipping and sliding, or maybe keeping you pinned so you won’t be able to squirm away from him.
Perverted roommate!Nanami groans. “So this is how you taste, fresh from the source. So fucking sweet. It doesn’t compare to my imagination — not even a little bit.”
You ride his face, grinding your clit against his nose. He laps at your sopping slit, suckling on every errant drop, worming his way through every crevice, leaving nothing untouched or untasted.
“Is this how you grind your cunt on your little toys?” he questions, demanding and staring intently up at you. “Do you imagine it’s me? Do you wish I’d walk in and replace your toy with something real?”
“Yes! Yes, Ken!”
Fingers thicker and longer than yours, undeniably masculine, push in. They stretch your soft walls, curling against that spot inside you right under your cervix that has more juices seeping out.
“Then you must only ask,” he growls. “I’ll gladly wring out as many orgasms as you want. And I won’t run out of charge, no matter how long you use me. I’ll make you feel good until you’re satisfied, until you’ve had your fill of me, until you decide to throw me aside.”
It’s hard to fathom why you’d ever discard him when he’s so damn good at eating you out, but that’s hardly what’s on your mind now that he’s thrusting his fingers relentlessly against your g-spot and flicking the tip of his hot tongue on your clit.
When you cum mere minutes later, he doesn’t stop.
Your roommate drinks up the juices oozing out of you, the wetness you’re leaking on his tongue, and sucking hard at your clit as though it’s a dispenser that’ll keep it flowing out and out so he won’t have a reason to part sooner than he’d like.
But you paw at his head, mewling, “No more, Ken. Ngh, it’s too much!”
Blinking, glasses misty, and practically drowning, he pulls away. He’s dazed, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. He stands up, pushing his hair back and shielding you from the water. You’re shuddering, shivering, shaking.
He angles the small shower head over your hair, rinsing out the conditioner with one hand as the other keeps you upright. Perhaps you hear or feel him smell your hair and the crook where your neck and shoulder meets here and there. Perhaps he brings that shower head down to between your legs and lets the water pressure bring you to another orgasm.
Perhaps he pulls his cock out and jerks himself off, staring at your body as he does.
It’s huge.
Naturally.
The mere sight of it has you growing dizzy under the hot water. You know he’s dizzy too with the way he’s throwing his head back and gasping for breath. He’s tugging on his cock furiously. So fast that water is splashing everywhere. Beads of precum slide out, falling to the ceramic basin, and you can only think about what a waste it is.
His clothes still cling to him, all wrinkled and leaving nothing to the imagination. Gone is the controlled, refined salaryman you admire. In his place is a beast of a man drinking up your body, mulling the remnants of your taste on his tongue, and bringing himself to completion.
A hand pushes you down by the shoulder. He tuts. “T-there are -hah fuck- rare occasions I’d ever want to see you on your knees, sweetheart — waiting for my cum is one of them.”
Thumb hooking your jaw down, his flushed cockhead looms above you. You stick your tongue out, practically panting in anticipation for the taste of it exploding all over your face.
“Such a good girl,” he growls, rubbing your cheek.
“Hurry, Ken,” you whine. “I’m getting all prune-y.”
Ropes of pearlescent cum spurts all over you, some landing on your forehead, hair, cheeks, and most on your tongue. You greedily swallow, and then kitten-lick at his tip when most of it’s gone. He groans, cock bobbing and cheeks tinted with pink.
Some time later, when he’s cleaned you and himself up, he says, “I’ll get started on dinner. Take your time.”
Perverted roommate!Nanami disappears, leaving you cold despite the scalding heat of the water.
From then on, it becomes an unspoken routine between you, one that expects him to saunter in the bathroom as you use it to aid you in washing up, except he mostly focuses on cleaning up the pussy he makes a mess out of in the first place.
You soon stop using your toys as frequently as you did before.
Besides that, it’s also normal to expect him to help you stretch out in the mornings, on the weekends when you’re both free. You roll out your yoga mat, put on your leggings and sports bra, and bend in positions you really shouldn’t in the company of a hot-blooded male.
It never used to be a problem; you could put yourself in downwards doggy all you want without wondering if his eyes are on you. Now, you feel their weight on every part of your body, marking you through the thin material of your clothes.
And yeah, maybe you do purposefully jut your ass out in his direction. In your defence, however, you didn’t think he’d one day step up and press a thumb right up against your pussy lips.
“Kento!”
“I don’t see panty lines through your leggings,” he notes, matter-of-factly. His large hands cover the globes of your ass, feeling for what he expected there to be. It’s almost impossible to tell if he’s happy or unhappy by what he’s discovered.
You arch your back, stretching your torso, pretending to not care about how he’s kneeling behind you, nor about how when you push your ass back his boner presses right up against your crotch. With a shrug, you say, “I can’t stand getting wedgies, so I’m not wearing any.”
Perverted roommate!Nanami hums, hand venturing down your back, finger slightly tucking itself under your sports bra, and pushes your upper half down into a lewd version of child’s pose. He’s helping you really stretch out, and you moan with the ache.
Still pressing a thumb to your clothed cunt, he muses, “Yoga helps with stretching your muscles, but I do think it’s a shame it doesn’t help in stretching you out here, where you’re most needy.”
Without needing to look back, you know his eyes are fixed on the print of your pussy visible through the thin material. He can see how it opens up for him the further you stretch out. And you’re sure he can feel the growing warmth and wetness where he’s pressing down with his thumb.
“W-what’re you doing?”
That thumb starts rubbing your clit. You jolt. He holds you down.
“Don’t mind me, sweetheart. Do what you must. I’m simply helping out.”
There’s nothing simple about any of this, and yet the way he’s talking, so calm, so cool, so damn collected, makes you think you’re the pervert for getting wet.
With him right there, very few positions are possible. But you’re not interested in yoga anymore. Maybe you never were to begin with.
You arch even more, shoving your ass to his bulge. Through his sweatpants, his cock bumps your throbbing clit. His hands grip your ass, tightening. They pull you back, harder, bumping again and again till you’re moaning into the mat.
Perverted roommate!Nanami grunts. “You’ve certainly gotten more flexible since you started — what a pleasure to test it out for myself.”
“Right, testing it out,” you say, chuckling breathlessly. “That’s all you’re doing, I’m sure.”
He thrusts his hips forward, thick cock slotting perfectly between your legs and kissing your clit through the layers. Your nails dig into the mat. “Yes, of course,” he says. “Are you suggesting I’m doing something inappropriate?”
“No, Ken. You’re just being a good roommate. The greatest roommate ever, r-rubbing your dick against my pussy so -hah- early in the morning.”
The girthy thing is so warm, and if you focus, really focus, you can almost feel the veins and the cockhead. Or maybe you’re imagining it.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he drawls. “I’m only helping you stretch.”
Despite being unconvinced by his words, you say, “Well, thank you very much, Kento.”
“Thank me when you cum,” he replies, amused.
“So confide—HNGH!”
Strong hands lifted you up by hips, angling you so that your pussy is flushed with his groin. In this new position, he can press all of him to you, can reach your clit even better. And it’s so fucking good your eyes roll to the back of your head.
He grinds his cock onto you as though you’re a pillow or a fleshlight, just a mere toy to rub one out too. But he’s not moaning and whining like you are. Apart from occasional shaky exhales or low grunts, he’s quiet, sounding like he really is focused on aiding your morning yoga routine.
That’s why after you cum — voice muffled by the mat and hips rocking back, riding out your orgasm — you lay limp in his hands, too embarrassed to face him.
Perverted roommate!Nanami brings you up, cool air brushing over your hardened nipples and lips skimming the length of your neck. He asks, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“No.”
“Then why are you hiding your pretty face from me?” he asks, this time tone colder, almost scolding.
Mumbling, you answer, “Because I came like some bitch in heat.”
“And you think I didn’t?”
Before you can give a response, he’s standing up. Your face is smushed to his groin, where an addictive length lies heavy, and where a wet spot meets your lips. The hand he has threaded through your hair angles your head back. You peer up at him, wide eyed and forced to mouth at his softening cock.
“Never doubt the effect you have on me,” your roommate huskily warns. “Any time you start to worry about anything concerning me, you should confront me. Tell me off for being tactless, for being rude, or hurtful; the last thing I’d ever want is for you to think less of yourself. And I’ll apologise for my mistakes.”
Oh god, he’s so hot, so tall, so domineering.
The cock you’ve been thinking about since you saw it face-to-face is hidden behind one or two layers, and it’s taking everything in you not to rip through them, to taste him, to have him fill your throat up.
He doesn’t let you lick at the spot, although you’re already tasting his salty spend on your lips. Instead, he brushes your hair back and mutters an apology for disrupting your solo-yoga session.
Rather cheekily, you admit, you say, “If you’re really sorry, then you’d clean up the mess between my legs.”
Perverted roommate!Nanami’s lips twitch. “I always clean up everything around here, don’t I?”
Though, as he says that, he’s already kneeling down, pulling at your leggings. He lets you lie back down, bare except for your sports bra. Your hips are carried up so that your lower half is lifted up to his face.
“No rest for the wicked,” you say, feeling his breath fanning over your swollen folds, stubble scratching your inner thighs deliciously.
A full blown smile brightens his face, and you’d think you two were talking about the weather, and not about eating you out.
“No,” he agrees, “we’re wholly undeserving.”
Then his mouth consumes you whole.
Perverted roommate!Nanami has no qualms with pulling your dresses or skirts down. He never minds how much or how little you wear around the apartment, but as soon as it’s time to step out, he’ll furrow his brows and look you over, either ending his appraisal with an approving nod, or with a disapproving purse of his lips.
“Isn’t this a little short for grocery shopping?” he asks, pinching the hem and tugging. His fingers graze your thighs, skimming the curve of your ass or brushing against your panties.
You roll your eyes. “Don’t be such a grandpa. This is fine, Ken.”
He shakes his head, flicking the dress up. With one light movement, it reveals your entire crotch to his eyes. In a flash, your pussy’s cupped by his large hand. You gasp.
“If I can easily do this, then someone else can,” he informs you, increasing the force in which he’s gripping you, forcing you onto your tiptoes to avoid the pressure on your clit.
Clutching his muscular arm, you argue, blinking in bewilderment, “No one’s going to do this.”
“They’ll be thinking about it,” he mutters, jaw tensing till a muscle ticks. “No one should know what colour panties you’re wearing or how warm your pussy feels.”
“Except my roommate,” you finish the sentence off for him, intending for it to be a scathing indictment of his wholly hypocritical actions as you glare up at him.
But he only nods.
“Except for your roommate.” He releases you. “Go change, please — I can’t focus on getting the best deals on the produce if I’m constantly worrying about whether you’re flashing anyone every time you bend down.”
Since he’s paying, you think it best to stomp back to your room and put on pants, though not without missing the way he brings his hand to his nose and inhales deeply.
It’s not normal to police the way your roommate dresses, you know, but since he’s doing it for your own safety, you don’t really think much about it. Plus, he always treats you to whatever sweet treats you want, on him so quid pro quo, or whatever.
Perverted roommate!Nanami’s room is always open to you.
A lot of the time you just walk in, barging inside at whatever time you want. Say, 3am, when he’s sleeping on his stomach, shirtless and with his glasses neatly folded on his bedside table. You almost feel bad for what you’re about to do.
Bleary eyes open as you open on his bed, shaking him awake. “Kento!”
“Sweetheart?” he croaks. He’s forcing himself to sit up, running a hand down his face to wake himself. “What’s wrong?”
A little embarrassed, like reason has taken over you, you shake your head though he probably can’t see that movement. “Actually, forget it. It’s stupid.”
Resting a hand on your thigh, he squeezes. “It’s alright. You can always talk to me, you know that.”
You play with his fingers, admiring their length, and whisper, “I’m horny, Ken. Like, really horny. I was using my toys for a while but it’s not enough.”
With a sigh, he falls back to bed, unable to decide whether he’s more relieved that you’re fine or amazed by your mind in an inconvenienced way. “I see. So you strolled in here, jumped on my bed, and woke me for…”
Cheeks flushed, you answer, “I don’t know. Advice? You always know what to do.”
“Advice on how to…”
“Ugh, get me off, Ken! God, you’re slow when you’re half-asleep.”
If he takes offence to that, he doesn’t say. Perhaps he knows you lash out when vulnerable.
Perverted roommate!Nanami huffs, adjusting on the bed. Maybe you made the wrong decision, maybe you overestimated how close you two are despite all the very wrong things you’ve done together, maybe he’s disgusted by how eager you are. But as you consider leaving, he nudges you onto him.
“Forgive me — the only thing I can think of right now is to offer myself up. Take your pick. Whatever means you’d like to get yourself off, you may choose. I’m all yours.”
Excitedly, you straddle his hips, resting your entire weight on his clothed cock, which is already hard and hot beneath you. You moan, leaning on his abdomen. “Ahhh. That’s fucking good.”
“Seems like you were already thinking of this before you came in,” he notes, amused and not sounding the least bit mad. Both of his heavy hands rest on your thighs, they radiate warmth, rubbing away the chill of the night.
His chuckle goes over your head now that you’re grinding on him wantonly, just happy to be able to scratch your itch. Fuck, he feels even better than any of your toys. It’s magical how instantly soothed your hungry cunt is. “Mm, Ken! You’re so hard.”
“The better for you to grind on,” he replies, pleased with himself.
“You have an old man’s sense of humour,” you tell him, smiling.
Hands pull you down, shushing you. He brings the fallen covers up over the both of you. Now, you’re laying on top of him, feeling the hardness of his muscular chest, cocooned by the blankets and hips moved by his own hands.
Perverted roommate!Nanami moves you up and down his cock, grunting when your clit catches onto his cockhead. “Fuck, I can feel how soaked you are. You really were playing with yourself for a while, weren’t you?”
“Hmm. I’m sorry, Ken. This is so wrong of me, I know, but I just needed you.”
He coos, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “It’s alright. I’m happy to help, always.” Then, to himself, he mutters, “Better you turn to me than some other man.”
“What was that?” you ask, distracted by how fucking amazing it is to be using his cock for your own pleasure.
Shaking his head, he aids your movement himself, holding your ass down so you’ll really feel every inch of him. “Nothing, sweetheart. Let’s just get you to cum like this, I’ll clean you up with my mouth, then we can sleep, yes?”
“I can sleep here?”
Perverted roommate!Nanami says, “Of course. You’re always welcome in my bed. Next time you need to cum, you needn’t wake me — just rub yourself on any part of my body. I won’t be mad, unless you leave without giving me a thank you.”
Not much later after he says that, you finally orgasm, mewling onto his chest where you drool. He doesn’t complain, only coos and continues moving you up and down to help you through the waves of pleasure.
“There there, sweet thing. It’s alright.”
Satisfied, you press a kiss to his chin. “Thank you, Ken.”
Those hands urge you up and up till you’re straddling his face and clutching the headboards. He pulls your panties to the side and says, “I don’t want to hear a thank you from those lips.”
“Oh.”
Three orgasms later, he holds you to him after you’ve made a mess all over his face, uncaring of how sticky and sweaty you both are.
Perverted roommate!Nanami doesn’t use this moment of intimacy against you in any arguments, which are far and few between, doesn’t set expectations of a committed relationship, and doesn’t mock you for needing him.
He’s only grateful for any moments you spare him.
And sure, it’s not like you’re a saint either.
It’s clear, as you wake up with him between your legs smiling when he mumbles a good morning to your clit, that you’re right where you want to be.
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