The Drunk Chronicles.
A/N: heres a cute lil thing. nanami seing you drunk for the first time/ you seing him drunk for the first time. Enjoy!
warnings: alcohol is involved
Drunk in love (and also sake): a very serious tale of Nanami’s downfall:
The first warning sign is the phone call.
You’re knee-deep in a bowl of kettle popcorn, fuzzy socks on, hair tied back, halfway through an aggressively low-rated true crime documentary. Life is simple. Life is good.
Then Gojo Satoru’s name pops up on your screen like a beacon of chaos.
You stare at it.
It stares back.
You answer. Regret is instant.
“HEYOOOOOOO~” Gojo sings, voice far too cheerful and echoey, as if he’s inside a giant beer can. “So. Okay. Hypothetically, if Nanamin were drunk—like, very drunk, like totally wasted, like sexy salaryman has left the building and now only ‘Sad Dad at Karaoke Night’ remains—how fast could you get to my place?”
You blink. “...Hypothetically?”
There’s a clatter in the background, a loud thump, and something that sounds dangerously like Nanami whisper-screaming, “I’M FINE, I’M WEARING A TIE.”
Gojo muffles a laugh. “Yeah, no. He’s gone. Please come get your man before he starts stripping and reciting Shakespeare at my furniture.”
You don’t even put on real pants. This is a sweatpants emergency.
*-*
THE LOCATION: GOJO’S PENTHOUSE OF BAD DECISIONS
You arrive. The door’s already half open. Chairman Meow’s pet carrier sits in your passenger seat, unopened, because you thought you might need backup.
You step inside and you immediately see him.
Nanami Kento. Exorcist of curses. Slayer of high-level threats. Known for his calm demeanor, buttoned-up suits, and general unshakable aura of “I have better things to do.”
Currently?
Red-faced, shirt half-untucked, tie wrapped around his forehead like some kind of weird office headband. He's swaying slightly, glassy-eyed, staring at a decorative mirror like it's challenged him to a duel.
“Oh, thank God,” Gojo sighs, sprawled on a beanbag with an empty bottle of sake balanced on his head like a party trick. “I was gonna have to sedate him.”
Nanami turns at the sound of your voice:
You blink. “Kento?”
He spins around like a surprised cat. Blinks. Squints. And then?
“DARLING??” he gasps, as if he’s seeing the face of God. “My LOVE is here??”
The second he sees you—actually sees you—his entire face lights up.
Like… sunshine.
Like a kid seeing a puppy. Like a puppy seeing another puppy. Like a man seeing the one person who makes him forget that he regularly punches demons in the face for a living.
And then—oh God—he starts to run. Drunkenly. Like a very wobbly, very earnest golden retriever with a tie hanging off one shoulder and shirt buttons that have given up halfway.
“You’re here,” he breathes.
You nod, warily. “I am. And you are… definitely not sober.”
“I missed you,” he slurs, taking a wobbly step toward you. “You’re the prettiest person. The most beautiful. Like a—like a dessert. Like a forbidden bun.”
Gojo snorts.
“Okay, Casanova, let’s go.” You try to guide him toward the door.
He resists. Resists with the full power of floppy limbs and clingy affection.
“Wait, wait, wait—I need to kiss you first. For health reasons.”
“We can kiss in the car, Nanami—”
“NO. You’ll disappear. You always disappear when I blink. I need to kiss you to make sure you’re real.”
“...You mean when you blink normally?”
“No. When I blink long. You know. Like a cat. Like love.”
Gojo wheezes from the floor.
You groan. “Please get in the car.”
“Only if you promise to marry me,” he mumbles into your neck.
“You already proposed last week—”
“I need to hear it again. It helps my digestion.”
*-*
Seatbelt buckling is an Olympic sport. Nanami tries to make out with you the entire time. His hand is on your cheek. Then your hair. Then your boob, briefly, before he apologizes dramatically and starts whispering, “Forgive me, I love you, I didn’t mean to sin—"
Objectively, you are a safe driver.
But it is very hard to focus when your drunk-ass boyfriend is doing the following:
Whispering “God, you’re hot” every 45 seconds, like it’s the first time he’s noticed you exist.
Attempting to caress your face every time you stop at a red light.
Yelling “ILLEGAL TURN!” at every mildly curved road, even though you are going exactly the speed limit.
You barely manage to start the car.
He sighs dreamily and stares at you for the entire ride.
“Did you know,” he says solemnly, “that your thighs are the most comfortable pillows known to mankind?”
You grip the wheel like a NASCAR driver. “Please don’t make me crash this car.”
“You could crash it into my heart.”
“I’m begging you.”
*-*
Chairman Meow greets you both at the door, fluffy body vibrating like a fridge with fury and joy.
“MMMMRRRAAOOOOWWWRRRRRR.”
Nanami gasps. “My son!”
Chairman Meow, your glorious chonky cat (round, red bowtie, war criminal tendencies), yeets himself down the hallway like a furry cannonball.
“MY BOY!!” Nanami screams, slumping to the floor. “MY SON! MY—MY BOY!!!”
Chairman Meow: screams louder
You: “Please stop yelling.”
Nanami: “I CAN’T. I MISSED HIM. LOOK AT HIS LITTLE BOWTIE—HE’S DRESSED FOR BUSINESS.”
Chairman Meow immediately flops onto his back, exposing his belly and demanding tribute. Nanami, naturally, melts into a puddle on the carpet, mumbling, “my beautiful bastard child” while attempting to kiss the cat on the mouth.
“He missed you,” you mutter, trying to juggle keys and a nearly deadweight boyfriend who keeps nuzzling your shoulder. “He’s very vocal about it.”
Chairman Meow screams again. Nanami screams back.
Then starts crying.
“Oh my god,” you mutter. “I’ve broken him.”
“I just love you both so much,” Nanami sniffles. “You and the rotund beast.”
“His name is Chairman Meow.”
“He’s round,” Nanami says, eyes wide with reverence. “He’s like a meatball in a bowtie. A delicious meatball of judgment.”
“Jesus Christ,” you whisper.
*-*
You finally get him into the bathroom. Somehow. It takes twenty whole minutes. He refuses to brush his teeth unless you do it with him. Then he insists on washing his face “like a gentleman” and accidentally slaps himself with a towel.
Chairman Meow watches it all from the sink. Judging. Screaming occasionally.
You get him into pajamas—not easily. He tries to seduce you with a “sultry” voice and winks, but ends up poking himself in the eye.
“You’re gonna see my titties,” he slurs.
“I’ve seen your titties.”
“NOT LIKE THIS.”
You try to unbuckle his belt.
“I’m a respectable man!!” he cries, clutching it like a lifeline.
“You literally just tried to kiss a cat.”
“I’M STILL A GENTLEMAN.”
Eventually, somehow, you get him in a t-shirt and sweatpants. It takes 15 minutes and you nearly break an ankle because Nanami insists on dancing to a song that’s only playing in his head.
He also refers to himself as “The Salaryman of Love.” Twice.
Then it’s time for water.
“Drink this,” you order, handing him a full bottle.
He squints at it. “This isn’t wine.”
“No. It’s hydration. Or your liver’s going to declare bankruptcy.”
“I’ll only drink it if you kiss me.”
You kiss his forehead.
He pouts. “Lips, please. That’s where my feelings are.”
You kiss his lips.
He drinks the water in one go, like a man who has been rewarded.
*-*
You bring him toast. He tries to feed you instead. You both get crumbs everywhere. Chairman Meow steals a corner and acts like he’s earned it.
“I don’t deserve you,” Nanami mumbles, halfway between awake and asleep. “You’re too good. Too soft. You smell like sugar and dreams.”
You stroke his hair. “You smell like stale beer and regret.”
“And yet you stay,” he whispers dramatically. “A goddess among mortals.”
You roll your eyes. “Go to sleep, Shakespeare.”
“Not without kisses.”
You give him one. Then another. Then another, because he keeps whispering, “I’ll perish.”
Eventually, you snuggle in beside him, cat wedged between you like a furry marshmallow of authority. Nanami’s arm wraps around your waist like he’s anchoring himself to a lifeboat. He buries his face in your neck and sighs so deeply it’s like he’s finally home.
And despite everything—the chaos, the drama, the sheer amount of bodily fluids his flushed face produced tonight—you smile.
You kiss his forehead again.
He sleep-mumbles, “We’re getting married tomorrow. Tell the meatball.”
*-*
Absolutely not trying to bang in the parking lot (except she absolutely is):
Nanami: “How much did she drink?” Nobara: “Not… a lot?” Yuji: “It was just six shots. And a fishbowl.” Nanami: “…Of what?” Nobara: “Yes.”
To be clear, Nanami was not surprised.
Concerned? Yes. Deeply. Existentially. On a spiritual level.
But surprised? Not in the slightest.
Because after a long, cursed-spirit-infested week and an even longer mission where you had basically gone full “Final Girl slasher film mode” on a cursed womb and walked away with a cracked nail and a new scar on your thigh (Nanami still hasn't recovered), you were owed a drink. Or five. Or six. And according to the group chat, you had enthusiastically ordered a “Blue Bitch Supreme Deluxe” and shouted “TO BEING THICK, ALIVE, AND IN LOVE!!” before starting your descent into depravity.
Nanami had not heard from you since. Until he got the Call™.
When he arrives, it’s like a scene from a war zone.
You are standing on a bar patio, one heel off, one heel on, holding a slice of pizza like it owes you money, titty out of place, giggling at a potted plant.
Nanami stops dead.
You look up. Beam.
“OH MY GODDDD,” you shriek. “MY HUSBAND!!”
Nanami flinches. You’re not married. You call him your husband when you’re trying to guilt trip him into sex or let you eat cheese in bed.
“HUSBAND!” you repeat, louder, titty bouncing. “I MISSED YOU. YOU’RE SO HOT.”
“Sweetheart,” Nanami says gently, walking over like you’re a wounded animal. “Time to go home.”
You grin. Drop the pizza. Grab his face.
“I would like to climb you like a TREE,” you announce. “Right now. On GOD. In front of the potted plant.”
The plant, probably named Derek or something, trembles in fear.
“Baby,” Nanami tries again, catching your wrists, “you’re drunk.”
“Not that drunk.” You start unbuttoning his shirt. “Just… a little wet.”
“That’s not what that means.”
“WELL IT IS NOW, MR. SALARYMAN.”
Then Came The Wrangling: Nightmare on Titty Street.
You keep trying to kiss him. Open-mouthed. Sloppy. Loud. Every time Nanami turns his head, you grab his butt.
“STILL PLUMP,” you giggle, giving it a squeeze. “Mmm. Beefcake. Sexy loaf.”
“You’re outside,” he hisses, red-faced. “With civilians.”
“Civilians should say thank you.” You squint at a passing car. “HEY, HE’S TAKEN!! EYES TO YOURSELF, PEASANTS!!”
Nanami physically picks you up bridal-style. You start kicking your legs like a gleeful toddler.
“CARRRYYY ME, MUSCLE MAN.”
“Oh my God,” he mutters. “I am never drinking again.”
*-*
Getting you into the car takes fifteen minutes.
You keep trying to grind on the center console.
“Babe,” you whisper, pawing at his thigh. “We could do it in the parking lot. I could be so fast. Like NASCAR.”
“Stop touching the gear shift.”
“THAT’S NOT THE ONLY THING I’M SHIFTIN’—”
“Seatbelt. Now.”
You buckle in. Immediately try to take your top off.
“It’s hot,” you whine.
Nanami rolls all the windows down.
“I can still feel your aura,” you sob dramatically, throwing your head back. “Your dick aura is melting me.”
“Sweetheart.”
“DADDY.”
He swerves a little. “Okay. That’s it. We’re done. No more fishbowl cocktails.”
*-*
The second the door opens:
“MRRRRRRROOOOOOOW.”
Chairman Meow barrels down the hallway like a chunky, furious bowling ball.
“MY BABYYYYY,” you shriek, dropping to your knees.
Chairman Meow screams louder.
You: “I love you, you fat bastard!! Look at your tummy! Look at your bowtie!!”
Chairman Meow: hiss/screeches with the rage of ten thousand suns.
Nanami watches you roll on the floor trying to kiss the cat’s paws and whispering “you are my flesh and blood,” then walks into the kitchen and slams a cup of water on the table.
“She’s your mother,” he tells the cat. “You deal with her.”
Chairman Meow runs.
*-*
Nanami gently pulls your arms up to change your shirt.
You immediately start rubbing his chest. “When did you get so big?”
“I always look like this.”
“Noooo,” you slur, eyes glazed. “You used to be a small, modest prince, and now you’re a thicc god of power.”
“Your shirt is off.”
“It’s called equal rights.”
He tries to help you into a t-shirt. You bite it. Just. Bite the fabric.
Then you try to seduce him while half in your pajama pants.
“Baby,” you purr, crawling on the bed like a drunk jungle cat, “I have a secret.”
“Oh God.”
“My panties match my bra.”
“You’re not wearing a bra.”
You wiggle your eyebrows.
“Exactly.”
*-*
Nanami manages to get you to brush your teeth after you spend five solid minutes insisting you only need to lick toothpaste off his abs.
Then you drink from the faucet and burp like a frat boy.
Chairman Meow watches from the sink.
You stick a toothbrush in your cleavage and scream “I’M MULTITASKINGGGG.”
Nanami stares at his reflection and reconsiders his entire life.
*-*
You are halfway through inhaling a cup of spicy instant ramen when you turn to him, noodle hanging from your lip.
“You ever think about how freaky we could get with ramen?”
“No.”
“You ever wanna do it with noodles between us like Lady and the Tramp but slutty?”
Nanami chugs his tea.
You lean in, saucy and slurred: “You ever wanna use the noodle—”
“YOU’RE EATING. STOP TALKING.”
*-*
You finally collapse onto the bed.
“Love you,” you mumble, face in the pillow.
“I know,” Nanami sighs, pulling the blanket over you.
“Gonna suck your dick tomorrow.”
“Please stop saying these things while the cat is in the room.”
Chairman Meow judges you silently from the windowsill.
You roll into Nanami’s chest. Mumble into his shirt.
“You’re so hot.”
“You’ve said that twelve times.”
“Not enough,” you pout. “You’re the love of my life. The sexy building I want to live in. You’re my—my fleshlight-shaped soulmate.”
Nanami blinks. “That’s enough.”
You latch onto him like a very warm koala. He’s stiff. Resigned. Slightly aroused. Mostly exhausted.
But when you sigh, long and soft, and press your lips to his neck and whisper, “You make me feel safe,” he melts.
Right there. Heart and all.
“Sleep,” he murmurs, kissing your temple.
“Only if you spoon me like a goddamn man,” you whisper, already snoring.
He does.
A/N: heheheh fun stuff.
Masterlist.
:)
