Nanami Kento x Fem!Baker Reader angst MCD :DDD
YES! STOP THIS IS SUCH A CUTE PARING RAAA!!!!
If you haven't gotten to know who we are don't be shy here is our "༺☆༻ Introduction ༺☆༻"
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Nanami Kento x Fem!Baker!Reader
︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶
The bakery was a haven of warmth and the sweet aroma of baked goods, a stark contrast to the cold precision of Nanami’s usual world. The kitchen, usually a place of creative joy, had transformed into an arena where two very different disciplines clashed.
“You’re doing it all wrong,” Nanami’s voice cut through the air, sharp as the knives that lay forgotten on the counter. “God, could you stir any slower?”
You paused, spoon mid-stir in the thick batter, and raised an eyebrow at him. “You try this then!” The challenge was clear in your voice, a dare for him to step into your world.
Nanami accepted the spoon with a skeptical look, his movements meticulous and calculated. To your chagrin, he stirred the mixture with a finesse that belied his inexperience. You watched, torn between annoyance at his smug expression and a begrudging respect for his adaptability.
The kitchen was alive with the sounds of your culinary battle—the sizzle of the pan, the clink of utensils, and the occasional frustrated sigh from Nanami as he encountered yet another baking enigma. The tension was palpable, a tangible thing that danced between you and threatened to explode.
Then, amidst the chaos, Nanami’s composure slipped. A hiss of pain as he touched the hot pan, and you were at his side in an instant, your concern washing over the irritation of moments before. “Here, let me see,” you murmured, running his finger under cool water, the domesticity of the act softening the edges of your earlier spat.
“Did you wash those?” you asked, nodding towards the vegetables he’d been about to chop.
“…Of course,” he lied, and you rolled your eyes at the transparent falsehood, a smile tugging at your lips despite the situation.
The kitchen was a cozy mess, flour dusting the countertops and a myriad of utensils scattered about. The soft light from the overhead lamps bathed the room in a warm glow, contrasting sharply with the biting chill that seeped in through the cracks of the old windows. The clash of your personalities echoed in the clatter of dishes and the frustrated huffs of breath, yet there was a strange harmony to it all—a dance of opposites finding a rhythm.
Nanami’s usually immaculate appearance was slightly disheveled, a streak of flour on his cheek, and his sleeves rolled up to reveal the strong lines of his forearms. You couldn’t help but steal glances, appreciating the rare sight of him out of his element, struggling yet determined.
“You know, you don’t have to do this,” you said softly, a moment of genuine connection breaking through the tension. “I know you’re busy.”
“I wanted to,” he replied, his tone softer than before. “I wanted to see what your world is like.”
A truce seemed to settle between you as you worked together, your movements more in sync. You offered a spoonful of the sauce to his lips, a gesture meant to be sweet, a bridge over troubled waters. But the universe had other plans, and the sauce was scalding, the heat of it a mirror to the heat of the moment. You both winced, and laughter bubbled up, breaking the tension.
The meal, somehow, came together—a testament to your combined efforts. You set the table with mismatched plates and utensils, the casual setting a stark contrast to Nanami’s usual meticulous nature. As you both sat down to eat, the silence was filled with an unspoken understanding, a mutual respect forged in the fires of the kitchen.
“So we agree we’re not attempting this again, right?” you said, leaning back in your chair, exhaustion seeping into your bones.
“Not for a long while,” Nanami agreed, and there was a comfort in that shared decision, a silent acknowledgment of the day’s trials and tribulations.
Halfway through the ordeal, you caught Nanami with his phone out, a guilty look on his face as he placed an order for delivery. “You’re serious? We’re working our asses off here and you ordered chicken,” you couldn’t help but laugh, the absurdity of it all too much.
“We had a rough start, okay? I thought we would have given up by now,” he said, and you shook your head, amused and a little bit impressed by his foresight.
The cleanup was a dance, a choreography of two people moving in sync, finding fun in the mundane. The kitchen, once a battlefield, was now a stage, and you both played your parts with a joy that was infectious. The clink of dishes being washed and the hum of the kitchen appliances became a symphony of domesticity, a song of two hearts finding a rhythm.
But the next day, the laughter was gone, replaced by groans of discomfort as you both lay in bed, victims of your own culinary hubris. Food poisoning was the final, cruel punchline to the joke that had been the previous day’s cooking attempt.
Yet, even as you both suffered, there was a camaraderie in the shared misery, a bond forged in the fires of the kitchen and cemented in the aftermath. It was a day of rest, of recovery, and of silent promises to stick to what you knew best—baking for you, and for Nanami, well, anything but cooking.
As you lay there, the remnants of your culinary misadventure fading into the background, you turned to Nanami, a mischievous glint in your eye. “Next time, you’re staying out of my kitchen.”
He chuckled, his hand finding yours under the covers. “Deal. But I expect some baked goods as compensation.”
“Always,” you replied, the warmth of his touch a comfort against the lingering discomfort. The trials of the kitchen had tested your patience and your partnership, but in the end, it had brought you closer, the shared experience a testament to your growing bond.
snowghoul
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