Teaching the ways of the heart.
A/N: salaryman!nanami x teacher!reader. i dont make the rules, this was a must. nanami has custody of yuji in this. also i changed my pfp, yippe
warnings: tried writing smth adorable, sweet, lots of fluff, tiny bit of angst, smut a the end (sorta).
IMAGE REFERENCE: Link to: Instagram, Oretsuu
It starts with curry.
Well. Technically, it starts with a glitter painting of a blonde man with a briefcase and some disturbingly realistic abs for a seven-year-old’s drawing.
But the curry stains come first.
And the glitter.
And then you.
*-*
Nanami Kento had not planned to fall in love. Certainly not at 3:24 PM on a humid Wednesday, standing in front of a tiny, cracked elementary school with its peeling paint and suspiciously leaning flagpole.
No, Nanami had planned to simply pick up his kid, accept the drawing with solemn gratitude, and return home to review Q3 sales reports with a glass of whiskey.
Instead, he found himself paralyzed, hand halfway in his pocket, blinking like he’d seen a curse materialize in the form of a woman who looked like she had walked out of a Ghibli movie and into his very, very tired heart.
You were beautiful in a way that should be illegal during daylight hours. Ethereal but grounded.
Like you read poetry over tea and could probably fix a flat tire without breaking a sweat. Your long, black skirt whispered around your ankles, and your cardigan—was it green? Olive? Sage? Who cared, it was soft-looking and elegant and made you look like the protagonist of a historical fantasy romance.
The kind where the prince never stood a chance.
Nanami stood no chance.
“NANAMIN!!!”
And then Yuji was gone, bolting across the courtyard with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who had just spotted its owner after a year-long expedition to Antarctica.
“Yes,” Nanami replied, calm as ever, despite the absolute chaos buzzing in his chest.
Yuji flung a glitter-covered paper in his face.
“LOOK! I MADE YOU! I EVEN GOT YOUR TIE COLOR RIGHT!”
Indeed, the tie was yellow. There was also an unfortunate amount of glitter on his eyebrows now.
“Thank you, Yuji,” Nanami said, brushing off some of the glitter with the same dignity he used when confronting Grade 1 curses. “This is very… detailed.”
“He worked really hard on it,” said a new voice.
And then there was you.
Nanami looked up.
Up, because of course the universe would choose now to knock the breath clean out of his lungs.
You were smiling. Bright, genuine, sunshine-between-clouds smiling.
“Hi,” you said, offering your hand. “I’m Yuji’s new teacher.”
Nanami stared. Just for a beat too long.
He took it like it was going to shatter in his palm.
Your handshake was warm, confident. Your nails were painted a chipped gold. There was a faint ink stain on your palm.
You were real. Too real.
“Nanami Kento,” he managed. “I’m Yuji’s guardian.”
His voice. It rumbled like a cello note, deep and smooth and carefully measured.
Your brain short-circuited for exactly 2.5 seconds.
“Ah! Nanamin!” you said, laughing, eyes crinkling at the corners. “He’s always talking about you.”
Nanami blinked. “Oh?”
“Mmhm. Says you make the best pancakes and that your briefcase is actually a cursed tool.”
Yuji gasped dramatically. “You weren’t supposed to tell him that!”
“Oops,” you said, grinning at the boy before turning your attention back to Nanami.
He’s never been more envious of a glitter painting in his life.
“I just wanted to apologize,” you continued. “Yuji got a little excited during lunch. There was curry. And, uh, centrifugal force. Long story short, his shirt is in his bag. I hope it’s salvageable.”
Nanami blinked. “Centrifugal force?”
“He was spinning to show off his bento box.”
“I WAS SPINNING LIKE A BEYBLADE,” Yuji added helpfully.
“Right.” Nanami exhaled. “Thank you for taking care of him.”
“He’s a joy,” you said, absolutely and completely sincere.
Nanami could tell you meant it. He could also tell your earrings were shaped like little books. That you wore comfortable shoes because you were on your feet all day. That the ink smudge on your hand matched the color of the dry-erase marker clinging to the sleeve of your cardigan.
He noticed all of it. It was a problem.
The sky was the color of apricots as you handed him a trifold pamphlet.
“So, I know this is short notice, but we’re organizing a class field trip to the dinosaur museum next week,” you said, brushing a stray curl behind your ear. “Yuji mentioned you used to be an archeology major in college before you went into finance?”
Yuji nodded. “He knows ALL the dino names. EVEN THE ONES WITH THE REALLY LONG NAMES.”
“Would you be interested in chaperoning?” you asked, voice gentle but curious.
Nanami, who had not processed anything beyond “field trip” and “next week,” nodded.
You smiled.
The world tilted.
“Wonderful!” you beamed, handing him the pamphlet. “We’ll be leaving at 9:00 AM sharp. There’s a lunch break and a guided tour. I’ll put you on the group text.”
“Text,” Nanami echoed faintly.
“Thank you for volunteering!”
“Of course.”
Yuji beamed. “We’re gonna see the BARYONYX!”
Nanami had absolutely no idea what he’d just agreed to.
*-*
Later that night, Nanami sat in his apartment with a glass of whiskey in one hand and Yuji's glitter painting pinned on the fridge behind him.
He was trying very, very hard not to think about the way your cardigan had fluttered when you turned.
Or the little crease between your brows when you focused on talking to the children.
Or the way you seemed to glow, just a little, in the sunlight.
He failed.
Miserably.
Yuji appeared from the bathroom, wearing dinosaur pajamas and smelling like strawberry toothpaste.
"Nanamin," he said, flopping onto the couch beside him.
"Yes?"
"You like my teacher."
Nanami sipped his whiskey.
"Don’t be ridiculous."
"You blushed. Your ears did the pink thing."
"I did not."
"Did too."
Nanami sighed, tipping his head back against the couch.
He was doomed.
Utterly.
And it was only the first day of school.
*-*
The next morning, Gojo Satoru leaned across their shared booth at a café and said, “So. You’re blushing. Spill.”
“I don’t blush,” Nanami snapped.
“Yuji said you met his teacher. Said she looked like a pretty kung fu librarian.”
Nanami considered stabbing himself with the butter knife.
“What did you agree to?” Gojo asked, too delighted.
“A museum trip.”
“Oh my god,” Gojo cackled. “You got seduced by a cardigan. This is amazing.”
Nanami stabbed the butter.
*-*
The field trip starts with Nanami realizing he's the only man in a sea of volunteer mothers.
He feels it before he sees it — the polite tilts of heads, the way some of the moms size him up like an endangered species in khakis and good posture. He straightens instinctively.
Not that it matters. He came prepared.
And by “prepared,” he means Gojo called it a “Dilf Fit” and threatened to post it on Instagram if he didn’t wear it.
So here he is: beige cardigan, navy slacks (tailored, of course), glasses perched low on his nose, hair slightly tousled from the breeze. A look he’d call “functionally resigned with mild aesthetic intention.” But Gojo had cackled like a demon and said it screamed “emotionally available single dad with a tragic past.”
Nanami hates how right he might be.
Because then you walk in.
And your skirt—your skirt—is covered in hand-drawn, softly colored dinosaurs.
Brachiosaurus. Stegosaurus. Tiny little parasaurolophus curled in a spiral at the hem.
And you walk toward him.
“Oh no,” he mutters under his breath, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Yuji, who immediately squints up at him.
“Nanamin?”
“Nothing,” he says. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
You’re waving, clipboard under one arm, your cardigan a soft lavender today, layered over a white blouse. And the boots. The same tiny-heeled, probably-ridiculously-comfortable boots you always wear.
But then the man himself showed up that morning, standing awkwardly near the museum entrance, a gentle expression that made him look like he’d just wandered off the set of a melancholic film about finding love in the quiet moments.
And—well.
You had not been prepared for him to be that attractive.
Which is saying something, because usually your brain does not clock this kind of thing so easily. Faces are hard. Emotions are harder. Subtext is a cursed language.
But something about Nanami made your neurons all scream in the same direction like an alarm: “ATTENTION. DILF IN CARDIGAN. WE REPEAT. HOT DAD DETECTED.”
So of course, like the absolute fool you are, you walked directly up to him.
“Nanami-san!” you say with a smile that could heal generational trauma. “Thanks for coming today. We really appreciate it.”
“My pleasure,” he replies, even as his brain screams ABORT MISSION SHE’S WEARING A SKIRT WITH DIPLODOCUSES ON IT THIS IS A HOSTILE ENVIRONMENT.
You fall into step beside him, gesturing to the kids who are already pressing their faces to the glass doors of the Natural History Museum.
“I hope you brought earplugs,” you joke, “They get really excited around the animatronic T-Rex.”
“I used to major in archaeology,” he says, playing it off. “I’ve heard worse.”
“Oh right! Yuji said you were a ‘dinosaur nerd with cool bones.’ I wasn’t sure what that meant until now.”
“Cool bones,” he echoes blankly. “Nice skirt,” he adds. Then cleared his throat like it surprised him too. “Thematic.”
You grinned. “Dinosaurs spark joy.”
And then, gods help you, you curtsied. CURTSIED. LIKE A MEDIEVAL LIBRARIAN.
You were going to die. Right there on the concrete.
You laugh anyway, then immediately start calling for the kids to get into pairs. And for the next two hours, Nanami watches you navigate chaos with the grace of a wind chime in a storm — always moving, always calm, somehow both delicate and indestructible.
He helps organize the snack break and accidentally impresses a cluster of seven-year-olds with a spontaneous lecture on hadrosaurs.
“Oh my god,” you whisper after, “You just explained cretaceous herbivores to a bunch of second graders and they understood you. That’s... incredible.”
He clears his throat. “They were attentive.”
You lean a little closer, eyes wide. “Can you stay forever?”
He almost dies.
*-*
The museum garden is surprisingly peaceful for a place surrounded by life-sized skeletons. It smells like grass and sunscreen and fruit gummies. You’re sitting cross-legged on a bench under the shade, Hello Kitty bento box in your lap, smiling as Yuji trades a grape jelly for a rice cracker.
Nanami sits beside you.
His heart stops.
Because there, nestled in your pink, compartmentalized lunch box, are four — count them, four — dinosaur nuggets.
You catch his stare and follow his gaze.
Dinosaur. Nuggets.
You didn’t think twice when you packed them this morning, still half-asleep with your hair in a messy bun and your cardigan inside out. You just thought: “The kids’ll love it. Thematic. Funny.” And also: they were on sale.
But now there’s Nanami Kento. Sitting next to you. Looking like a walking Pinterest board labeled “Divorced Hot Professor Aesthetic,” and you’re holding up a stegosaurus-shaped nugget like it’s the world’s saddest romantic overture.
“…Is that a dinosaur-shaped chicken nugget?” he asks, voice dry but—maybe—you think you detect a hint of amusement?
You blink. Then grin. “Oh. Yeah. Stegosaurus. Or... maybe a weird horse?”
Nanami adjusts his glasses. “It’s definitely a stegosaurus.”
“Thank you,” you say, overly sincerely, as if he’s just confirmed your doctoral thesis. “I try to stay on theme.”
“I noticed.” His eyes flick down to your skirt.
Right. The skirt.
It’s ankle-length. It’s flowy. It’s covered in pastel-colored dinosaur silhouettes. And you wore it on purpose—because the kids would love it and because you’re a sucker for matching your outfit to your lesson plans and because dressing like a chaotic kindergarten Pinterest board gives you comfort.
And maybe a little because someone else might notice.
(He noticed.)
He tries something wild. Something reckless.
He flirts.
Sort of.
You sip juice from a thermos with tiny stars on it.
He tries: “It’s nice. Seeing someone so enthusiastic. You light up when you talk about things you love.”
You blink at him.
“Thanks! That’s really sweet. I try not to get too annoying.”
“You’re not annoying at all.”
You pause, looking genuinely touched. “Oh. Wow. Thank you, Nanami-san. That... means a lot.”
It hits him like a train: you didn’t realize he was flirting. Not even a little.
He is doomed.
You don’t notice the way he looks at you then—soft, curious. Like he’s trying to memorize the way your face lights up when you talk about weird science facts or how you wiggle your shoulders when you’re proud of a lesson plan. He notices everything about you, always has. The chipped gold nail polish. The way you organize your clipboards by color. The fact that you hum Studio Ghibli soundtracks under your breath when you think no one’s listening.
But you’re not listening now. Because Yuji is screaming somewhere in the sand pit.
“OH NO THE FOSSIL IS DEAD AGAIN—”
You sigh. “Time to supervise the excavation, I guess.”
*-*
Term One: The Simpening.
It gets worse.
Or better.
Depends who you ask.
Nanami picks up Yuji every single day, rain or shine, and every single day you say hi. You talk. About school. About Yuji’s drawings. About the latest picture book you found on carnivorous plants.
He brings an umbrella when it rains. Offers you his coffee when you’re yawning. Buys you a little dinosaur keychain because Yuji said you’d like it. (You do. You clip it to your lanyard.)
You think it’s just—friendly. That he’s just a Very Nice Man.
You have no idea that Nanami Kento is living in emotional agony. That he goes home and lays awake thinking about the way your eyes scrunch when you laugh. That he remembers every outfit you’ve worn this semester. That he writes mental poetry about your hair.
That he tries—so many times—to flirt.
“That color looks nice on you,” he says one day, casually.
“Thanks!” you say. “It has pockets!”
He dies a little.
“You always wear such thoughtful accessories,” he tries another time.
“Oh, I got them on clearance!”
Dead. Flatline.
Eventually, he gives up entirely and just... listens. Collects every detail like sacred fossils. He watches you talk to the kids with your whole heart, watches you make jokes with Gojo, sees how Yuji glows when you praise his coloring page.
He wonders—more often than he should—what it would be like if things were different. If he had more time. Less fear.
If he could reach out.
If you’d ever reach back.
*-*
The day you wore the book skirt, Nanami stopped breathing for twelve full seconds.
It wasn’t even that flashy—okay, maybe it was. It was one of those high-waisted, pleated midi skirts with actual book covers printed on it. Little classics: Anne of Green Gables, The Little Prince, The Secret Garden, even Dune of all things, curled near the hem like it was hiding from the sun. You’d paired it with a crisp white blouse and your usual boots, and you had a book clip in your hair. A little enamel one. He noticed it right away.
Of course he did.
Nanami Kento notices everything about you. *
It’s sort of his curse.
How you always carry three pens but only use one.
How you count your steps in sets of four when you’re anxious.
How your handwriting changes depending on what mood you’re in—print when you're focused, cursive when you’re tired.
He notices the way you talk to Yuji like he’s an equal, like his little heart and brain are important.
He notices how you tilt your head when you listen, as if you’re cataloguing everything.
How you always stop to look at the clouds before you unlock your car door.
Nanami also notices that today, your earrings are little open books.
He is—officially—losing his mind.
So he tries.
He flirts.
Sort of.
“Your skirt,” he says, that evening at pickup, hands in his coat pockets, “is impressive. Is there... a theme today?”
You blink up at him, squinting against the sun. “Oh! Yeah. It’s Book Fair Week. You know—literacy encouragement and all that.”
“It suits you,” he says.
You smile. “Thanks! It has pockets.”
He almost screams.
*-*
This goes on for weeks. Flirt. Deflect. Flirt. Completely Missed Cue.
And it’s starting to hurt.
Because he really, really likes you.
But at some point—some horrible, cursed point—Nanami starts to wonder if you’re not just missing his signals.
Maybe you're ignoring them.
And not in a way that’s cute or endearing, but in a way that makes his stomach churn with the sharp guilt of a man raised in a country that taught men to be terrifying by default.
Maybe you're being polite.
Maybe you don’t like him, but also don’t want to upset him. Maybe you’re scared to reject him directly, because you don’t know what kind of man he is. Maybe you’ve been trying to gently pull away for weeks, and he’s been too selfish to notice.
So he stops.
Cold turkey.
No more flirtations. No more “thematic” compliments. No more sidelong glances. No more stolen moments when he pretends to touch your hand accidentally while passing you the clipboard.
He goes back to polite. Distant. Formal.
And it kills him.
*-*
It lasts three days.
You're folding chairs after the Friday morning assembly when you finally ask, straight-up, “Nanami-san, are you okay?”
And he just.
Snaps.
Not in an angry way—no, never. He would never raise his voice around you. But everything in him has been packed tight for weeks, and the stress is leaking out through the cracks in his carefully composed self.
“My boss rejected three quarters of my submitted quarterly figures today,” he says flatly. “I have to redo the entire proposal by midnight or risk losing our most lucrative client.”
“Oh.”
“The cat had an allergic reaction to the new litter. We had to rush him to the vet. Yuji cried for an hour. I cried for forty-five minutes. The vet bill is absurd.”
“Oh no.”
“I have not slept properly in four nights.”
“Nanami-san—”
“And I stopped flirting with you because I thought you were trying to let me down gently, and I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but it’s driving me mad, and I’m exhausted, and I still think about your stupid weather-themed skirt from today—”
You blink.
Once.
Twice.
You look down at your skirt. Pale blue, with clouds stitched along the hem and tiny embroidered suns and raindrops. You paired it with yellow tights and a storm cloud pin.
You wore it because today’s science unit was climate and weather. The kids made rain clouds with cotton balls. Megumi told you that the sun embroidery looked like a fried egg. You’d laughed for a full minute.
Now?
You look at Nanami’s face. Pale. Tight-lipped. Scared.
And suddenly you see it. The way he’s been looking at you for months. The way he tries to speak your language. The way he cares.
“Oh,” you say.
“...I’m sorry,” Nanami adds, voice low. “I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. I just—I couldn’t not say something. Not anymore.”
You nod slowly.
“Well,” you say finally, “me too.”
He blinks. “...What?”
“I like you too,” you say, soft. “You’re very… capable.”
Nanami stares at you.
You smile. Thank him for his honesty.
And walk away.
He stands there at the school gates for an eternity.
Yuji tugs at his pant leg. “Nanamin?”
“…Yes?”
“Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like someone hit you with a dictionary.”
Nanami puts a hand over his face.
*-*
That night, Nanami reevaluates everything.
What did you mean by “me too”? Why did you leave? Did you think he was rejecting you? Did he mess it up? Were you scared again? Did he blow it by being too direct?
He overanalyzes everything. The thank you. The smile. The pause. The weather skirt. The dinosaur nuggets.
He lies in bed and watches the ceiling. He makes a list of every interaction you’ve ever had. He’s going to lose his mind.
*-*
The next day, at pickup, he marches up to you like a man on a mission.
You’re crouching near the garden gate, showing Yuji, Megumi and a gaggle of children a ladybug on your wrist.
He clears his throat.
You look up.
“Oh, Nanami-san! Hi! Look—bug.”
“We need to talk,” he says.
You blink. “Huh?”
“About yesterday.”
You tilt your head. “Which part?”
“The part where we both admitted we liked each other and then you walked away like you’d just told me you liked my tie.”
“Oh,” you say. “That part.”
“Yes. That part.”
You let the ladybug go on a plant, you straighten up, brushing dirt from your palms.
“Sorry,” you say. “I needed to process. I don’t usually—well. Feel things. Like that.”
Nanami tilts his head. “Like what?”
“Big. Loud. Messy things. It’s hard to put them in order. And also... I didn’t want to be wrong.”
You look up at him.
“I do like you,” you say. “I just didn’t know what came next.”
Nanami is quiet for a long moment.
Then he says, “Coffee.”
You blink.
He clears his throat. “Come for coffee. With me. Tomorrow. After school.”
You smile. “Okay.”
Nanami exhales for the first time in months.
Yuji claps. Megumi sighs. Gojo, somewhere in the background (probably in the bushes), yells “I KNEW IT.”
*-*
Okay, so here’s the thing:
Nanami Kento is not someone who typically loses his composure.
He is steady. Reliable. He wears his watch two fingers above the wrist bone because it’s correct, he files his tax return early, and he drinks his coffee black, every time, without fail.
And yet.
The moment he saw you walk into that sleepy, tucked-away coffee shop on the western edge of Tokyo in your goddamn star-themed skirt—he almost dropped the ceramic mug he’d just been handed.
Cardinal blue. Gold thread. Constellations stitched by the gods themselves. The hem swaying just past your knees as you stepped in and shook the drizzle from your worn leather messenger bag. You looked like a vintage painting and smelled like chai and honey and the subtle scent of printer ink from your classroom.
He’s gonna throw up or propose. There is no in-between.
“Hi,” you said softly, pushing a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “Sorry I’m a bit late, I forgot my umbrella and had to borrow a friend’s.”
He stood when you approached, because of course he did, because manners, and helped you hang your bag over the back of the wooden chair. “No problem. I wasn’t waiting long.”
(He was. He got there fifteen minutes early like a weirdo. He’s never been this nervous in his life.)
You sat. The light was warm and soft in the little café, and rain slid in perfect, lazy streaks down the windows.
Aesthetic: immaculate. Your skirt: criminal. Nanami: struggling.
The date? It went stupidly well.
You liked the same books. You both couldn’t stand overly sweet coffee. You told him about your favorite classroom stories—about how Yuji tried to turn a math worksheet into a comic strip, and Megumi once corrected the dictionary in front of the entire class with no shame.
You laughed at his dry commentary. He smiled more than he had in years.
Your foot brushed his under the table by accident (you apologized, he short-circuited). You pointed out the rainbow-colored mug set near the pastry counter and whispered, “I want to live in this café.”
And when it was finally time to go?
It was still pouring.
Of course it was.
So Nanami, ever the gentleman, offered you his umbrella. Walked you to the metro. Held it tilted slightly more over you than himself, because of course he did.
And right there, under the yellow-orange glow of the metro entrance lights, you turned to him and said—
“I had a really nice time.”
He nodded. “Me too.”
Then—
You leaned up and kissed him.
Just.
Kissed him.
Soft. Light. Like stardust and sugar and everything he’d ever wanted. Your fingers brushed his jaw, and your lips pressed gently against his, and then you pulled back and said—
“Thanks for the coffee. See you Monday.”
And just walked away.
You walked away.
And Nanami just.
Stood there.
Absolutely fried.
A blank screen with the cursor blinking.
Then a gust of wind ripped the umbrella out of his hands and he had to chase it down the sidewalk in the rain like a clown, which felt incredibly on brand.
*-*
Pickups after that? Oh.
OH.
Nanami becomes a new man.
There is a kind of pep in his step that could only come from mutually confirmed crushes. He doesn’t skip (he would never), but if he did it would be between 3:18 and 3:22PM every weekday.
You make a point of saying, “Nice tie,” every time he wears the ones that match his socks. He dies. Reincarnates. Dies again.
You keep showing up in your thematic skirts. Snowflakes. Constellations. Pumpkins. Even a ramen-themed one once (he still thinks about that one at night).
You laugh at his dry flirting. You bring him little things—pressed leaves from class activities, sticky notes with Yuji quotes (“My sandwich fell into my feelings”), the occasional ginkgo leaf tucked into the pocket of his coat without him noticing.
He’s thriving.
You start holding hands casually. Nanami’s world explodes quietly in the background every time.
*-*
Then comes Christmas.
The school year winds down. There’s glitter on everything. Paper snowflakes. Holiday cards. Yuji is living on candy canes and joy. You’re exhausted but glowing.
You and Nanami have been dating (yes, dating, real word, real relationship, holy shit) for two months now, and the weekend after Christmas? That’s your dinner date night.
At his place.
Yuji is at Gojo’s with Megumi. Shoko’s coming later. There’s eggnog. It’s chaotic.
But for now?
Just the two of you.
You arrive wearing a dark green wool coat, cheeks flushed from the cold, and underneath—he catches a glint of golden thread.
A skirt again.
Of course.
This one is a deep velvet blue, stitched with little weather motifs—snowflakes, suns, clouds, golden-threaded lightning bolts. When you walk, the hem catches the lamplight like starlight.
Nanami’s already down bad.
You bring a bottle of wine, and two small gifts. He offers you slippers, makes sure the apartment is warm. There’s gentle jazz playing in the background, and the scent of roasted chicken and rosemary lingers in the air from dinner.
It’s quiet, safe, lovely.
When you hand him your gift, his throat tightens: it’s a small book of poetry. Well-worn. Annotated. Tabs and underlines and your handwriting in the margins. “Thought you might like it,” you say. “It’s the one I always borrow from the school library.”
He gives you a scarf, soft cashmere, navy blue to match your cardigan. “I thought it’d go with your weather skirts,” he says softly.
You put it on immediately. “Perfect. Thank you.”
You talk. Eat. Sip wine and tease each other, legs brushing under the table.
And when the plates are cleared, and the movie is halfway in, and the soft sound of wind against the windows hums in the background—
You reach for his hand.
Thread your fingers through his slowly.
He exhales. Tightens his grip. And when he looks over—your eyes are on his mouth.
“Come here,” you whisper.
And that’s the beginning of the end.
The first kiss is slow.
Molten.
You climb into his lap with easy confidence, your thighs straddling him as you pull his cardigan off with practiced hands. “Can I?” you murmur, fingers ghosting the buttons of his shirt.
“God, yes.”
You kiss him like you mean it—mouth warm, insistent, tongue just shy of sinful. He makes a soft sound as you slide your hands under his undershirt, palms smoothing over the firm planes of his stomach. He’s warm, solid, trembling just slightly beneath your touch.
He grips your waist, strong and grounding, then lets one hand drift up your back, feeling every ridge of your spine, every shift in your breath. You shiver, and he doesn’t miss it.
“You cold?” he murmurs against your cheek.
You shake your head. “Warm enough.”
His lips curve. “Let me make sure.”
Nanami carries you to the bedroom. Gently. Reverently.
It’s neat. Softly lit. The bed’s already turned down, the blankets inviting. He sets you down like you’re fragile and precious and peels your cardigan away, fingers brushing your arms like he’s memorizing every inch.
You’re wearing a fitted blouse. He undoes the buttons slowly, one by one, mouth dragging down your collarbone.
He doesn’t rush.
No.
Kento Nanami maps you.
With his mouth.
Your moles, freckles, the faintest scar on your left shoulder—he presses his lips to each one like a cartographer sketching stars. Every kiss is deliberate. Like a prayer.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “You’re so—”
You kiss him again, hands diving into his hair, short blond strands soft between your fingers. You gasp when he pulls your blouse fully off and kisses your sternum, warm mouth leaving heat that pools deep in your belly.
You guide his hand to your skirt.
He raises a brow.
You nod.
And he worships.
When he gets you naked, he doesn't stare. He studies. Like you're a miracle he’s only just earned the right to touch.
His mouth drags down your chest, past your navel, over your hip. You’re shaking by the time he kisses the inside of your thigh.
“Relax,” he murmurs, kissing your knee, your ankle, every delicate part of you. “I’ve got you.”
And he does.
His hands are steady, his mouth sinfully talented. He learns your body by sound—gasps, moans, the sharp inhale you take when his tongue flicks just right.
When you come the first time, you’re half-sobbing, fingers tangled in his hair, thighs clenching around his head.
“Fuck—Kento—”
He just holds you through it.
Kisses your hips as you ride it out. Pulls you up after, wraps you in the blanket for a minute, presses a hand to your chest.
“You okay?”
You blink at him.
“What are you?”
He laughs, low and quiet. “Yours, if you’ll have me.”
Round two begins with you pulling him onto the bed, kissing him slow and sweet and deep. You help him out of his shirt. Then his pants. Your hands roam like you’re learning him too.
“You’re gorgeous,” you breathe, lips against his neck. “So capable. Always holding everything together.”
You kiss down his jaw.
His chest.
Lower.
When you take him into your mouth, he loses it—his hands fisting in the sheets, jaw slack, whispering your name like a sin. You suck him slow. Deep. He’s breathless, ragged, hands trembling when he finally pulls you up.
“Need you,” he growls. “Now.”
You guide him in.
Both of you moaning into each other’s mouths, your nails digging into his back, his lips at your shoulder, your neck—he bites you.
It’s soft. Sharp. Possessive.
You gasp.
“Oh—fuck, do that again—”
He does.
Harder.
You mark him back with your nails.
You ride him, pressed chest-to-chest, whispering praises between every kiss. He holds your hips, guiding your rhythm, groaning your name like it’s the only word he knows.
You both come hard—together.
It’s messy.
Raw.
Feral.
And then it’s tender.
He doesn’t let you move.
He wraps you in blankets, pulls you into his chest, kisses your temple and smooths your hair.
“You’re staying,” he says. “Non-negotiable.”
You hum sleepily. “Good. Too cold to walk anyway.”
“I’ll make you breakfast in the morning.”
“Will it be dinosaur-shaped?”
A low laugh. “I’ll do my best.”
You nuzzle into him. Kiss his neck. He feels the sting from your earlier bite and shivers.
“Marked me,” he murmurs.
“Felt fair,” you reply, dreamy. “You already ruined me.”
He smiles. Kisses your shoulder. “You have no idea.”
*-*
The next morning, Yuji finds Nanami’s cardigan on the lamp.
You wear his shirt to breakfast. He hands you dinosaur pancakes shaped with a cookie cutter. You kiss his cheek.
He pretends he’s not blushing.
You both fail miserably.
A/N:its cute, idc, i needed to write smth cute
Masterlist.
:)
