#nanamiweek2025

[riritzuu]

at the beach where he belongs 🌊

[wibben]

CAREER DAY — NANAMI KENTO

↳ Summary: It's your favorite day of the school year, and you've never met Yuji's father... until now.

↳ WC: 4.2k

↳ AN: my submission for @nanamiweek's Day 1 Papamin prompt! I had such a blast writing this one, I've truly missed my favorite blonde. Perhaps this has the makings for a little mini-collection of Nanami, kid Yuji, and teacher shenanigans. ↳ Links: one | TWO | THREE |

You’d been up to your eyeballs in glitter, paper cups, and rocket fuel caffeine since six o’clock sharp. 

Not a complaint in sight. You adored Bring Your Parent to School Day almost as much as your students did. There was something endlessly endearing about the way they paraded their grown-ups around the classroom like rare Pokémon cards, puffed up with pride, introducing them to friends as if they'd rolled up in a limousine rather than a Subaru. 

“This is my mom!” one girl might yell, face luminous with excitement and star-struck eyes. “She does people’s eyebrows.” 

Gasps all around. You would barely be able to keep a straight face. 

The professions were almost always lost on your second-graders, their tongues tripping merrily over syllables like “chiropractor” and “esthetician” but it didn’t matter. Their awe wasn’t in the job. It was in the magic of presence. That Mom or Dad had stepped out of the nebulous, grown-up world to sit on tiny plastic chairs and drink juice boxes beside them — it made everything feel a little shinier. 

You loved it, honestly. A soft, well-earned reprieve from math drills and shoelace catastrophes. It warmed you from the inside out to see the little duos in action — hands clasped, sneakers swinging under desks, pride glowing from every corner. 

Most of the parents you’d met already — familiar faces from conferences and after-school sports games, or quick hellos in the pickup line. The day was as much about touching base with them as it was about stepping into the background and letting the kids run the show. 

Except for one unfamiliar face paired to a brand new name. 

Yuji Itadori was new this year. A mid-year transfer who had, miraculously, skipped all the usual hurdles and growing pains of social integration. No sulking in the corner, no anxiety-stricken tugs on your sleeve. The boy had walked in, grinned at you with gapped and missing teeth, and within forty-eight hours had more friends than you could count — probably even more than you had yourself. 

You hadn’t met his father. Radio silence on that front aside from slips and papers returned signed in neat calligraphy, and one brief, clipped phone call before Yuji’s first day. The mysterious Mr. Nanami remained just that: a mystery.

But Yuji wrote his own mythology. 

According to him, his dad was very tall, very strong, very good at math, and — most importantly — the best dad in the world.

You’d seen at least four crayon portraits of the man. A scribbled head of blonde hair. Always in a suit. Always holding Yuji’s hand. One even featured a big spotted paddle (sword?), though Yuji was quick to assure you that it wasn’t real. You’d raised a brow and let it slide. You were used to dads in superhero capes and interpretive renditions of fist-fighting monsters. This wasn’t odd. 

When the phone rang that night, you’d answered with the upbeat warmth you always offered new parents — a smile in your voice, ready to build that bridge. But Nanami Kento crossed it first. 

His tone was even, no-nonsense. Not unfriendly, but certainly not one for pleasantries or menial small-talk.

He informed you, calmly and concisely, that his family was undergoing a period of adjustment.

That if Yuji struggled — academically, socially, or emotionally — you were to contact him immediately.

He thanked you. Briefly. And ended the call with a curt, “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” 

No mention of a mother. 

None from Yuji, either. 

You’d read between and colored in enough lines in your career to understand that well enough. 

And even in the brevity of those clean, clinical lines of his voice, you caught a glimpse of him — this man Yuji so obviously admired. Serious. Sharp. The kind of parent who showed up and cared, even if not always in person. 

Still, you hadn’t expected him to show up at all. 

Not until his name appeared on the list for Bring Your Parent to School Day. 

And certainly not with the kind of presence that would make you double-check the dress you wore that morning.

You’d been welcoming parents for the last twenty-five minutes, and each one brought with them another blur of motion — squeaky sneakers pelting down the linoleum hallway, the slap of a hand against the doorframe, a gleeful shriek of your name. You’d pop your head out with a wide smile, crouching low to greet each student like your own, your voice warm and sunflower-bright. 

“Good morning!” 

A gentle pat on the back, and off they’d go — nudged toward the long folding table piled high with boxed donuts, pastries, and room temperature juice boxes. You’d done your best to make this morning a special one within your limited means. 

The parents made for an even more eclectic bunch than their children. Some arrived in scrubs, others in hard hats, mud-streaked boots trailing across your clean rug (you winced, mentally tabbing another steam-clean rental).

One mother came in juggling mannequin heads. Another brought a stethoscope, which she graciously let the kids try on. And one father — clearly playing for keeps — arrived with a black lab from the fire station in tow. The dog wriggled and basked in the attention of twenty sticky-fingered admirers, tail a blur like an overdriven metronome. 

You would definitely have to steam clean the rug. 

There was always one family that stole the spotlight, and this year's frontrunner had all but cinched it with four paws and a lolling tongue. That was hardly fair play. 

Still, as you subtly ushered parents toward the foam cups and coffee station, you couldn’t help but notice one bright face conspicuously missing. Yuji Itadori wasn’t exactly the type to blend in, and he’d never missed a day of school.

You frowned, glancing up at the wall clock just as the minute hand slipped neatly into place. 

8:29. 

Right on cue, the hallway outside your classroom erupted. 

There was a screech — rubber soles skidding like brakes on blacktop — and then Yuji exploded into the room with the exuberance and subtlety of a category five hurricane, sending art projects fluttering and bulletin boards rattling in his wake. He collided into your legs and wrapped himself around them. 

“Told you we were gonna be late!” he howled, already twisting to glare over his shoulder. 

You barely had time to ruffle his hair before a second voice — measured, calm, and cut from a different cloth entirely — followed behind. 

“And I told you we would be right on time.” 

The clock ticked. 8:30 on the dot. 

“And we are.” 

The crisp click of dress shoes in long, confident strides heralded the arrival of a man you’d heard so much about, even if written in the strokes that belonged in something as fantastical as The Odyssey. 

Brown leather shoes shined within an inch of their life, gleaming like mirrors beneath long legs dressed in tailored beige — an unusual suit color, but you decided not an unflattering one. It was immaculate. Pressed. And the faint creases at the elbows and knees were the only lifeline cast to save you from the broad chest and shoulders beneath his jacket, and his face— 

What did Yuji say his dad did for work again…?

You couldn’t tell. He came empty-handed without props or costume, only deepening the mystery and leaving you to your own intrigued speculation. 

A model, maybe. Editorial spreads. GQ. Gentleman’s Digest, something. It had to be. 

You were staring. You were still smiling and you were still staring, and at some point Yuji had un-velcroed himself from your legs and launched into a new tirade, tugging eagerly at his fathers hand. 

“I wanna show you my art! And my favorite toys, and all my friends, and—oh! Nanamin, there’s a dog!” 

Nanami who’d been looking at you turned to his son and took a knee, and you witnessed a 3-second timelapse of glacial melting in the stern lines of his face. His eyes went soft and his mouth untensed into the suggestion of a smile. 

“I’ll look at everything in a moment,” he said, voice gentled for Yuji alone. “May I speak with your teacher first?”

You nodded encouragingly, voice tugging itself back into your throat. 

“Why don’t you grab some breakfast real quick, Yuji? Then we’ll get started.” 

He peeled away, drawn to the scent of sugar like a moth to flame, and behind your back came the cacophony of reunion as if it had been years and not yesterday since his classmates had seen him last. You smiled as Nanami stood, the gentleness in his expression already evaporated. Not unkind, but compartmentalized. 

His warmth was not meant for you. But rather than snubbed, you felt undeniably endeared by such uninhibited paternal adoration. 

“You must be Mr. Nanami,” you greeted amicably, a hand already outstretched to grasp his with a welcoming tilt of your head. He met your handshake with a firm grip, and you self-consciously tightened your own. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

“All good things, I hope.” 

His voice was low — husky with fatigue but smooth enough to suggest that this was just the way he always sounded. He looked tired. Moved like he’d made peace with it. You figured he’d just been designed that way — quiet, composed, and just slightly too serious for a room filled with googly eyes and glitter glue. 

“Only the best,” you assured with a smile. 

There was a small pause. Not awkward — just considered. 

“Thank you,” he said at last. “Yuji speaks about you often. It’s clear he feels safe here.” 

It was rare to receive gratitude for your efforts with your students, and rarer still for it to be delivered with such conclusivity. Non-effusive, Nanami’s appreciation was simply a fact, a fact which made it feel all the more sincere in its lack of grandiosity. 

Your smile softened. “That means a lot. He’s a great kid, you must be really proud.” 

“I am.”

Just like that, it passed — his gaze shifted briefly behind you and his mouth twitched, a convection between an exasperated smile and down-turned fluster, already slipping past you. “Yuji! Wash your hands before eating if you’re going to pet the dog—“ * The morning began in earnest not long after you pressed a conciliatory coffee into Nanami’s hands. Chairs shuffled and screeched into a half-circle and name tags were peeled from their sticker sheets and affixed to breast pockets, labels, scrubs, and sleeves. You ran a quick welcome with your own steaming espresso in hand (god knows you needed it) before handing the floor over to the parents. 

Suddenly your second grade classroom was a parade of bladeless scalpels and stethoscopes, a menagerie of machinery and manicure sets. Laughter bloomed bright and uninhibited in the kids as each grown-up took their turn in the spotlight, answering questions as palatably as possible for their innocent audience. 

You knew one mother was a cardiovascular surgeon, but in front of the class she simply said, “I help hearts feel better when they’re sick,” folding a model valve between her fingers. The lawyer in the corner — slim briefcase at his feet, a heavy gavel making its rounds like a party favor — told them he made sure “bad guys went to jail.” No mention, of course, of the murder trial he’d wrapped up the week prior. 

You encouraged questions, and your students — bless their lack of tact — took you at your word. The shy ones curled against a parent’s leg with owlish eyes, while the bolder kids launched a barrage of increasingly personal inquiries: Has anyone died? Have you ever been to jail? Has your dog ever peed in the fire truck? You did your best to redirect the worst of them, gently steering the conversation away from blood and bladder-related incidents. 

And through it all, Nanami watched it unfold. Tucked into one of the red plastic chairs you’d borrowed from the snack table, he looked like he might snap the thing in half just by breathing too hard. His limbs folded into reluctant submission up toward his chest, tragically origamied, the entire chair tilting forward with each shift. He’d finished his coffee by then and now quietly sipped on a comically tiny juice box. 

Stone-faced, but not indifferent. His gaze tracked each speaker with judicial interest. And when the air grew too thick with awkward silence after a hesitant finish, it was Nanami who occasionally lifted one long arm to ask a polite question — enough to nudge things back into motion and, you suspected by the nature of some of his questions, simply to satisfy his own curiosity of the subject. You liked him for that. 

“Alright…!” You clapped your hands. “Yuji, why don’t you send your dad up here next?” 

Yuji’s eyes blew wide, his mouth popping open in an exaggerated ‘O’, then he swung at Nanami’s arm, batting at him and tugging on his sleeves.

“Gogogo!” he whisper-shouted. 

Nanami looked up at you and you smiled. You spread your arm wide with a flourishing ‘the floor is yours’ gesture. 

Nanami stood, unfolded himself and his ensemble with a smooth brush of his palms over the fabric. He stepped forward to take your place at the front of the room and you happily shifted aside, sitting upon the corner of your desk and crossing your ankles. 

From where he stood, a paper caterpillar peered just over the top of his head with big wobbling eyes. 

He straightened the cuffs of his jacket and adjusted his tie, pinching the pristine Windsor in his palm and hiking it up to his throat. He scanned the room, meeting eyes, chin down-tilted to examine his under four-foot tall crowd. 

“I work in finance,” he began. “Specifically, I manage assets and perform risk assessments on financial portfolios to ensure return on investment, primarily through domestic and international equities.” 

A long silence followed. One of the kids in the corner let out a tiny sniffle. 

Unperturbed, Nanami pressed on. “What that means is I analyze companies and determine whether it is strategically sound to invest money in their future operations. I also track market fluctuations and perform cost-benefit analysis on various classes of stock.”

You saw it happen in real time — the eyes of your students glazing over like the sticky donuts they’d grubbed from the table. Even a few parents tilted their heads, bewilderment blooming in the stitch of their brows as though suddenly realizing they’d forgotten something on the stove.

One girl leaned sideways to whisper to her mother, “Is he saying math?” 

Yuji was practically vibrating in his seat. Elbows on his scuffed knees, chin in both hands, he stared up at his father with the full, undiluted adoration of a boy watching his hero. Nanami could’ve explained the intricacies and importance of counting grains of rice and you were sure Yuji still would’ve looked at him like he’d hung the stars himself. 

If Nanami realized his audience was all but lost to him, he didn’t seem to show it. Not when he turned around to face the white board to erase the cheerful doodles of the water cycle drawn by the meteorologist who’d gone before him, nor when he uncapped a black marker and began sketching out a meticulous diagram — boxes and arrows, sloping trend lines in red and blue, neat little yen symbols penned with paradigm precision. 

He spoke the whole while, low and steady, detailing the invisible scaffolding that held up the adult world: markets, investments, value over time. He laid out the bones of capitalism, and at points showed his true feelings toward the structure with how he’d slice and jab the marker to make particularly impassioned points. You got the impression this particular machine was one he raged against often. 

“And that,” Nanami concluded, recapping the marker and adjusting his tie again, “is the basic structure of my work in a securities firm. Thank you.” 

Silence. 

Yuji led the charge. Loud, earnest applause that rang out in sharp claps, his face split in a grin wide enough to rival the sun. A few other children joined in, more from peer pressure than understanding, while a mother near the back whispered to another nearby: “God, he’s quite serious, isn’t he?” To which the other nodded, “It’s kind of hot.” 

You had to agree. 

You clapped along with them, encouraging the display until it naturally died down. “Thank you, Mr. Nanami! That was… incredibly thorough!” You beamed, he looked at you sideways. “Does anyone have any questions for Mr. Nanami?” 

You hadn’t expected a single hand to raise… except maybe Yuji. But he instead whirled around in his seat, pleading with wide brown eyes and a trembling lip for any excuse to keep his dad at the center of attention. Because really, what would a bunch of second graders want to know about stock exchange or insider trading? But to your delight, one by one, tiny hands shot up like spring sprouts. 

Nanami, too, looked taken aback. He gestured to a boy in the second row.

“Do you have a dog?” 

Nanami blinked. “… No.” 

There was a ripple of dissatisfaction at that. You saw him shift his weight to the opposite leg as he called on a young girl. 

“Are you rich?” 

“Depends on how you define it,” he said. 

“Do you go to the gym?” 

“… Yes.” 

“Ohhh,” someone whispered, followed by a murmur of approval as if this, at last, was finally relevant information. 

Then the questions poured in: 

“Can you lift a car?” 

“Do you fight robbers?” 

“What’s the strongest thing you’ve ever punched?” 

“Can you fight my dad?” 

Nanami blinked once. You watched him recalibrate his entire moral framework in real time. 

“I don’t make a habit of fighting people’s fathers,” he said.

“But could you?”

That made the corners of his mouth twitch — enough that you could tell he was debating the ethics of indulging a six-year-old’s thirst for chaos. 

“I suppose if your father were endangering others, and all other options had been exhausted—” 

Helpfully, Yuji shouted: “He could! I know he could!” 

You saw that boys father shrink in the back, a sickly sallow overtaking his face. He clearly didn’t fancy his odds. 

Nanami glanced at you like he was seeking diplomatic extraction. You gave him a bright, innocent smile and shrugged your shoulders. He should’ve predicted this larger than life reputation set forth by his son with that statistical brain of his. 

“They’re very engaged,” you whispered, and he gave you a look that could only be described as deeply disappointed.

Mercifully, after three more questions about whether he could punch through a wall, you finally stepped in with a laugh, clapping your hands to wrangle the brewing chaos. “Okay, okay! Let’s all thank Mr. Nanami for visiting and giving us a peek into his very responsible, very serious job.” 

The children groaned their disappointment, already half-convinced he must moonlight as a superhero, but they still chorused their thanks with sticky-fingered enthusiasm. By the end, there was a suspicious sparkle in Nanami’s eye that made you think he may have liked the attention more than he let on. * By the time the final parent wrapped up and the dismissal bell rang, your kids and their short attention spans had all but forgotten about Nanami standing in the back of the room, arms crossed against a tall cabinet, clearly having forsaken his small seat. 

You dismissed your class one by one, sent off with folders tucked, backpacks zipped, and final reminders about homework and forgotten lunch boxes as small groups filtered out of the door. The glitter remained in every corner of the room, as did the smell of bleach and acetone from an unfortunate and entirely predictable accident with the fire dog. 

Yuji bounced over to collect his things, tugging at his fathers sleeve as they turned to go. 

“You forgot to tell them about the time you beat that cursed—“ 

Nanami coughed. “—Budget shortfall,” he said, the words surgically clipped in two. 

Yuji frowned. “That’s not what I was gonna—“ 

“Cursed budget shortfalls,” Nanami repeated. “They can be quite aggressive.” 

Yuji pulled a face, eyes narrowed suspiciously and scampered off to barter holographic stickers by the cubbies. A friend had gotten a shiny tiger, which was decidedly much cooler than his dinosaur. 

Nanami hovered by the door a respectful distance from you, his gaze drifting across the emptying classroom. A couple of rogue pencils lay belly-up beneath desks. Someone had left their water bottle weeping onto the reading rug. There was a half eaten donut hooked over the pot of your plant on the windowsill. It seemed he was just as interested in where his son spends his day as the students were in where the adults usually spent theirs. 

You watched him quietly. There was something about Nanami Kento that drew you — nothing overt, not even that he had a nice face. But there was something so… artificial about his authenticity. He presented himself as a boring man, dressed in boring colors, with a boring job, and had a voice that could probably put you to sleep. The type that probably ate oatmeal for breakfast every day, and bland conbini meals on the train home every evening. It’s like he was trying to be unassuming, to snag no second-glances. 

Frankly, you thought that it was bullshit. 

Your intuition was sharp. You knew when your students stole from each other, and could sniff out the culprit in record time. You knew when the dog had actually eaten someone's homework, or if they’d just forgotten it at home. There was something more to Nanami, and you would’ve picked at that thread if you had more time to do so… but curiosity would not kill the cat today. 

But there would be other days.

“Thank you for coming,” you said instead, a sly smile in the Cheshire curl of your lip. “You made quite the impression.” Maybe more on you than on the kids. 

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” Nanami said.

“Oh it is,” you beamed, gesturing to the boardroom-esque diagram still drawn on the whiteboard. “I think I may be teaching the next generation of stock brokers and market analysts here.” 

Nanami grimaced, turning his shoulder away to scrub a hand over his face. “It was a cautionary tale,” he tsked. “They should find something that’s worth doing. Like meteorology. Or baking. Anything but office work. Teaching is a much more rewarding and worthwhile occupation.” 

There it was. The little glint of something more. A cautionary tale of slipping into monotony and tedium, suffering a daily slog with no end in sight, a mere cog in a machine that nobody would notice if it suddenly broke off the belt. Your students would notice your absence. Their parents too, if only because of the inconvenience. But who would notice Nanami, one man in a suit standing on a train full of other men in suits? 

“Well… it made Yuji’s day,” you suggested, softened — not sharp — with conviction. “In fact, he’s going to talk about this until summer break, I can already tell.” 

A preternatural stillness took the business-casual mannequin as he looked over at his son — all spiky pink hair, too-big puffer jacket, trading up his stickers with enough business savvy to make Nanami proud. 

Eventually he sighed, heavy like he’d been holding it in all day as he adjusted the strap of his watch. “He mentions you at home,” he said again.

You smiled, no less warmed by the repetition than you were the first time.

“He’s a pleasure to have in class, honestly. I’m really amazed by how well he settled, most kids struggle to acclimate but…” you watched as Yuji hopped in a circle, one shoe on as he wrestled with the other. “Not him!” 

Nanami gave a small nod, his gaze still fixed outward but you reckoned his attention was much closer. 

“Apparently you give out gummy stars.” 

“… Only for exceptional behavior,” you said with a wide grin. “Or sometimes for being unusually charming.” 

That got you a glance — dry, inscrutable. 

“Then I imagine he’s amassed quite the hoard… and I have you to blame for the frequent sugar highs.” 

You weren’t not flirting with him. Subtle enough to fly over his head if he chose not to acknowledge it, and you had no intention of pushing your luck much further. It was a small miracle you’d met the man behind the mythos at all. But you couldn’t resist a final parting shot. 

You turned and stood on your toes, reaching for a wicker basket stashed high on a shelf, rifling through crinkly cellophane wrappers to procure one such gummy star. You held out your hand — and found yourself pleasantly surprised when Nanami reached out to accept it. 

“For exceptional behavior,” you declared. Or for being unusually charming. 

He regarded the gummy with an expression you couldn’t read, his mouth a neutral set frown that you’d noticed seemed to just be his default expression. He didn’t speak, not until his fingers creaked closed around the treat and retreated into his pocket. 

A win, you think. One glittering, citrus-sugar coated win. 

“Thank you.” 

You merely smiled, gracefully bowing out of the tentative curiosity you’d cast in his direction, just in time for Yuji to veer back towards you both. 

You said your goodbyes and your “see you next week”s, then with one hand swinging Yuji’s backpack and the other resting steadily atop his head, the last of your stragglers stepped out into the sunny hallway. 

You watched them go. 

The gummy star was still in Nanami’s pocket. 

And you were still smiling like a fool.

[lazyjellyfish300]

𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒊 𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒌 𝒅𝒂𝒚 1~𝒑𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒏

🥪 scarred!nanami kento x spouse!reader

🥪 synopsis: Kento reads Junie B. Jones with your little family at bedtime. 💕

🥪words: 1.4k

🥪cw: fluff, post shibuya scarred!kento, no mention of reader's gender but imagined w a wife in mind, you have kids together, excerpts used from the book Junie B. Jones: Boss of Lunch by Barbara Parks. All credit to that amazing woman for a book series I grew up loving. May she rest in peace. 💕

🥪 a/n: my day 1 entry for Nanami Week for the SFW prompt: Papamin. 💕 It's gonna get real kento krazy on my blog this week for my beloved's birthday. 💕💕 Stay tuned for more goodies. 💕 @/nanamiweek thank you so much for letting me participate. 🫶🏽💕 sparkle dividers by @/anitalenia. bread dividers by @/saradika-graphics

🥪 my nanami week masterlist

Thunder rattles the pewter clouds in a rumble of showers, pelting the ground with its evening lullaby. The cows, pig, and goats are tucked into golden pools of hay with gentle snores.

There's one window in the farmhouse that remains alight, soft giggles coming from the other side as your two oldest girls and your youngest little boy all squeeze in a heap of warmth on top of your husband, Kento, huddled around a book.

You can hear them upstairs with your third oldest baby girl attached at your hip as you make her a warm glass of water for the evening.

"You're gonna miss storytime, Noodle." You smile at her as she hides in your pajama pants, pawing at your sweater for uppies.

"Don't you wanna find out what Daddy's reading tonight?"

She hides her face in your neck and wraps her chubby arms halfway around your face.

"C'mon, we'll go up there together." You whisper as you turn out the light.

---

You gently knock at the half opened door to your oldest two daughters' room and creak it open. In the middle is Kento, his long legs practically hanging off the small bed with your oldest with her head on his stomach, your middle daughter in a cozy heap near his feet, and your baby boy tucked under his right arm.

"Don't mind us." You whisper as you sneak in, tiptoeing to the rocking chair on the other side of the room with your baby girl in your arms.

"Well hello." Kento smiles with his eyepatch retired for the evening in his grey t-shirt and fleece pajama pants, warmth in his expression as he catches sight of your daughter being bashful.

"We've got room for one more if you'd like, darling."

"What do you think, Noodle? Wanna go cuddle with Daddy? Oop, looks like Bubba wants to trade you places."

Your baby boy reaches out to you, begging for a spot in your lap and your little girl hesitates, but then eagerly gets down and allows Kento to scoop her up with his free arm so she's laying against his chest.

"Comfy?" Kento asks her and she responds by closing her eyes as she nuzzles closer against him.

"What's the story tonight, sweetheart?" You ask, shifting so your son doesn't crush your arm.

"Junie B. Jones: Boss of Lunch."

Noodle's face lights up with glee.

"See, honey? I knew you wouldn't want to miss it. You love Junie B."

Kento flips the page back. "We're going to start over so Noodle can catch up, is that alright with everyone?"

Your children nod in agreement and Kento clears his throat as he reads from the beginning.

It was adorable how expressive Kento could get, but only in moments like this when he was in the domestic shelter of little ones you created together, the inflections of his normally calm voice became more goofy, less serious, more warm than he usually was, if that was even possible.

He narrates Junie B. Jones' current adventure where the first grader was excited to open her brand new lunch box during class.

"And I reached way down. And I lifted up the lid of my brand-new, shiny—

“LUNCH BOX!” hollered out May. “JUNIE JONES JUST OPENED HER LUNCH BOX AGAIN, MR. SCARY! AND YOU TOLD HER NOT TO DO THAT ANYMORE! REMEMBER?”

May is the tattletale girl who sits next to me.

I do not actually care for her." credit: Barbara Parks

A faint smirk fights to spread on Kento's face as it appears the protagonist of the story also has a classmate she's rather not fond of.

You don't have to guess to know the white haired image that pops into your brain and you give Kento a look that says "Behave." And he continues with a hum.

"After that, I held my lunch box way high in the air so all of Room One could see it. “See all the birdlets, children? There are owlets and eaglets and ducklets and chicklets,” I explained.

I put my lunch box on my desk. And I took out the thermos.

“And see this thermos, people? This thermos has pictures of bird nests on it. Isn’t that cute?”

May made a face. “Ick,” she said. “Who wants to drink out of a stinky, pooey bird’s nest?”

I made a face at her. “ I do, that’s who, May!” I said. “I love drinking out of stinky, pooey birds’ nests.”

May reached into her desk and pulled out a lunch ticket. “Well, I buy my lunch, Junie Jones,” she said. “Bought lunches are much better than brought lunches. Bought lunches don’t sit around all morning and get soggy.” credit: Barbara Parks

Kento raises a brow. "I beg to differ. Perhaps May's mother doesn't toast the bread."

"Ken, honey, keep reading the story."

Kento continues.

"I crossed my arms at that girl. “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard of, May,” I said right back. “ Brought lunches are way better than bought lunches. ’Cause brought lunches are made special by our very own mothers!”"

credit: Barbara Parks

"Good for her!" Your oldest chimes in from her spot on Kento's stomach.

"I agree, love."

Kento continues reading into the next chapter where Junie B's class goes to the cafeteria for lunchtime and all her friends decide to buy hoagies instead of bringing their lunches.

"I think even you would like this hoagie, Junie B.,” he said. “Look. It has ham and salami and cheese and lettuce and tomato.”"

credit: Barbara Parks

"Mmm!" Your kids react to the description, except for your middle daughter.

"Casse Croutes are better."

Kento ruffles her hair with pride. "You're very right about that, Bee."

Kento reaches the end of the chapter and puts a bookmark in and your kids groan in disappointment.

"We wanna find out what happens!" Your oldest pouts as Kento shuffles with all the others in his arms, allowing her to crawl under the covers as he tucks her in and you take care of the others.

"Tomorrow, Jellybean." Kento reassures her. "If we keep reading then we'll finish the book already."

"That's not fair! I saw Daddy reading past his bedtime last night." Your middle daughter tattles as you tuck her under the blankets.

"That so?" You shoot Kento a playful side eye.

Kento smirks, addressing your daughter. "And just what were you doing awake at such a late hour to know such things, Bee?"

Your daughter shrinks back under the covers with a giggle.

"Well, I'll just have to talk to him about that." You turn out the light to the bedroom. "Looks like Noodle and Bubba are already out."

You smile as Kento approaches with your other two sleeping babies. You take Noodle from him while he handles Bubba, and walk down the hall to the nursery, bundling them up in their respective cribs until the house dissolves into a peaceful snooze fest.

------

"I don't know if I like the lessons those books are teaching our children." Kento remarks as he slides into bed on his side.

"Sweetheart, be serious."

"I am, darling. This whole cafeteria bought hoagies versus homemade lunches thing."

"It's a story, Ken. I think it's good for them to read about spunky heroines like Junie B. Besides, Bee saw right through it."

Kento puts a thoughtful hand on your stomach, pulling you closer to him. "Hm. You're right about that."

"You worry too much, my love. But I agree about banning some of the princess stories. At least not the modified versions."

"Ah, the ones where there is consent and the prince doesn't know her when she's still a child while he's an adult?"

"Yep, those ones."

He smiles. "I'm glad we're on the same page."

"I love you."

"I love you...."

More hangs on the tip of your tongue, and you and him both smile at each other knowing it never does any good for you to say it, lest you open another loving can of worms for your eternal banter of back and forth.

"Now, shall we resume our own story?" Kento smiles as he reaches across from you, keeping your face against his heartbeat as he opens a copy of The Princess Bride.

"Mhmm. I'm listening." You murmur, but he doesn't make it through three pages before you're lost to sleep against his chest.

He just smiles and kisses your cheek, stowing the bookmark back where it was as he shuts off the light, until the drumming of raindrops encourages him to tranquil dreaming at your side.

[valleyofwater]

Happy Birthday Nanami! 🍞

[gooseifer07]

day 2: cooking — yes, chef! 👨‍🍳 thank you, chef! don't @ me about the can, i gave up

stay in the loop & get more regular updates here!!

[nanamiweek]

Nanami Week 2025 is upon us!

It's finally here, our favorite sorcerer's birthday week! Some quick PSAs: 1. All rules, guidelines and info can be found on our carrd page! Please make sure to read this thoroughly before posting!

2. Both art pieces and written works are accepted as long as they fit within the guidelines. 3. Important!! Please don't forget to use the appropriate hashtags #nnweek25sfw (SFW) or #nnweek25nsfw (NSFW) so that we can easily find you and share your piece! 4. For written works, anyone posting to AO3 can also use our official collection, which you can find under Nanami_Week_25.

5. You can also find us on X/Twitter here and on Discord here!

Happy Nanami Week, All!

[rahuratna]

Written for the prompt 'Tie' for Nanami Week 2025!

Synopsis: [Nanami x Assistant Manager Reader] Simple gestures of kindness, a can of coffee, an undone shoelace and a broken air-conditioning unit on a sweltering day ... such are the many threads that enmesh your life with Nanami's.

Contents: Romance, humour, fluff, explicit sexual content.

WC: 7817

Dividers by: @hyuneskkami

Waterfall

Don't ever change your ways

Fall with me for a million days

~ 'May this be Love' - Jimi Hendrix

Spring was, supposedly, a season of blossoming change.

All across the grounds of Jujutsu Tech, along the weathered walls that transitioned to clean, modern lines, among the flower beds that burst into a full-throated roar of colour, change was imminent.

Gojo took to wearing light shirts that showed off his enviable physique, vivid hues sometimes evident in the frames of his sunglasses. Shoko started to buy new potted plants which never survived beyond the first three weeks in the morgue.

Ijichi downloaded dating apps which he surreptitiously flicked through on his lunch break, deleting them almost by reflex if anyone called him out.

The students were often sighted out and about in town, trying out new cafes and shopping spots.

You developed hay fever.

Your role as an assistant manager for the last four years had prepared you well enough for the onslaught that came with the change of season. Your desk, your vehicle, the lunch area where you preferred to take your breaks, were all supplied with a discreetly placed box of tissues. Your allergy medication was never far away, either in your bag or in the desk drawer.

On that particular morning, you’d settled into place at your workstation, ready to handle the month’s caseload in a series of spreadsheets that would give anyone a headache, hay fever or not.

Since you’d arrived early, you were able to work in relative peace for an hour. The buzz of conversation began to sound from the canteen nearby, the smell of coffee filtering through to your office, as breakfast was served to hungry, waiting students.

At nine o’ clock, precisely, there was a firm knock at the office door.

A tall man in a tan business suit strode in, stopping before your desk.

You scrambled to your feet. You hadn’t heard anything about a new assistant manager –

“Nanami Kento. Reporting for duty. I was told that you would be able to guide me on the paperwork I’d need to complete to take on missions in the field.”

A sorcerer? 

Returning his stiff bow, you cleared your throat and made your introduction. You now had a sudden recollection of Gojo re-recruiting someone who’d cut ties with Jujutsu Tech a while back.

You hadn’t thought he’d actually show up.  

“Of course, Mister Nanami. Give me a moment?”

He nodded gravely, seating himself on the chair opposite your desk.

As you printed the necessary documents, you were able to shoot a glance or two his way.

The suit was tailored to perfection, sitting with regal elegance over broad shoulders and tapered waist. His brown leather brogues were polished to high shine, a handkerchief folded with origami-like perfection in his breast pocket and a Tag Heuer watch, that probably cost more than a couple months’ worth of your salary, encircling one sinewy wrist. His collar was pinned down, barely a crease visible anywhere, a unique pair of shades perched on the bridge of his nose.

He was very handsome; that was undeniable, but not in an approachable fashion. Everything about Mister Nanami spoke of brisk, detached professionalism.

You shuffled the forms together in the correct order, placing them before him.

“Take your time. These will have to be approved by the committee, so you won’t be able to take on missions immediately. Would you like a pen? I have one here, somewhere - ”

“No need. I’ve brought my own.”

Of course he had.

You set your black biro down with a soft clack  while he fished an expensive fountain pen out of a small case and tapped the stack of forms once more, straightening them further.

He made no intermittent conversation, the eyes concealed behind those shades bent towards the paperwork with unflagging focus. If the silence that followed was awkward, you were sure that you were the only one who thought so.  

You turned back to your spreadsheets, starting to type before you realised how loud the pressing of the keys sounded in the silence. Nanami made no comment, but your fingers eventually stilled, leaving you to stare at your screen in silence.

In the quiet of the office, you felt your nose begin to itch.

No, no, no, no. Not now.

With supreme effort, you suppressed the urge. A sudden thought striking you, you stood, murmuring a faint apology to Nanami. He gave a small nod, barely glancing in your direction.

All the better.

You accelerated once you were out in the hallway, making your way to the break room not far away. Thighs colliding with the table in your haste, you snatched up some tissues before sneezing with force into them.

The relief knocked the wind from your sails.

Sighing, you wiped thoroughly before discarding the tissues in a nearby waste basket.

The vending machine caught your eye, along with a memory of your first nerve-wracking day at the tech. Ijichi had been a lifesaver, helping you organise the overwhelming set of tasks, buying you a coffee to give you that energy boost to get through the day.

Without much thought, you fished some change out of your pocket and purchased a black coffee, carrying it back to the office with you.

Nanami looked up when you entered, and you offered him the can.

“Here. A little something to make your first day more bearable.”

He took the can from you slowly, as if he weren’t accustomed to such gestures, and set it down on the table beside the now-complete paperwork.

“I’m done here.”

“Ah! Already? Wow, and it’s done perfectly too. Mister Gojo really could take a leaf out of your book.”

Nanami shifted slightly on his chair, propping up his glasses.

“You mean his paperwork is not up to standard?”

“Not at all. Often incomplete. Sometimes with suspicious and sticky stains.”

“I’ll have a chat with him about this.”

You’d never heard anyone sound more like a Responsible Adult. Gojo had better watch himself.

Grinning, you checked Nanami’s forms to ensure that everything was in order. His handwriting was impeccable, which didn’t surprise you in the slightest. Sealing it away in a manila envelope, you placed your palms flat on the surface of the table.

“Well, that’s it. I’ll hand these over for approval and you should receive your official permit tomorrow.”

He rose swiftly, heading for the door before pausing.

“Thank you for the coffee.”

“No problem!”

 Your chest deflated as he passed into the corridor outside.     

 If you’d sneezed all over him, you’d never have forgiven yourself.

Over the next month, you spotted Nanami frequently on campus.

His appearance on that first day set the tone for all subsequent encounters.

Always perfectly dressed, not a hair out of place, his greetings polite and cordial. He was the model employee in every sense and seemed to expect the same from his colleagues.

Jujutsu sorcerers, as you well knew, were a chaotic lot, with a number of unresolved issues and unhealthy coping mechanisms. If Nanami possessed the same, he kept it well-hidden, a thought that made you even more curious about him.

You, however, had many pressing responsibilities (and allergies) to attend to, and reassured yourself with the thought that someone as level-headed as Nanami probably had his affairs in much better order than you did.

So, it came as something of a surprise when you entered your office one Tuesday evening to see an exceptionally tired and bedraggled Nanami waiting for you there.

His appearance was such a surprise that you hesitated for a moment before coming forward.

“Mister Nanami?”

 “Ah. You’re here.”

As much as he attempted to maintain the polite and neutral tone, his voice was hoarse with exhaustion, his suit worse for wear with numerous tears and smudges, dirt-streaked blonde hair slowly falling away from its distinctive style.

You hurried forward and grabbed a small package of wet wipes from your desk drawer, handing them over to him.

“Rough day?”

Nanami didn’t answer immediately, instead opting to tug a wipe from the packet. He unclipped the shades from the bridge of his nose, leaving a rather sore-looking red ridge where something had evidently struck the frames into the tender skin there.

You waited as he took a moment to clean his face before he regarded you across the table, gaze steady and compelling, despite the bruising the removal of grime had revealed.

Oh.

What pretty eyes he had.

Banish the traitorous thought as you might, there was no denying that this revelation was a significant one.

Long-lashed, clear and sharp-cornered, flecked with refractive sage in the soft light of your desk lamp, his eyes presented a whole new facet to his face, transforming the harshly impersonal to something chiselled and enigmatic, melancholy even. 

Nanami was speaking into the anticipatory silence.   

“You could say that. Yes, it was rough. I came to file a damaged property report. A vehicle belonging to the Tech has been destroyed.”

There was no need to ask for the grim details. His mission record would reach someone’s desk, perhaps yours, and the entire sequence of events in clinical, precise re-telling, would be laid out there.

No, what he needed now was –

Pulling a blank paper pad towards you, you clicked your ballpoint.

“Give me the registration number.”

“Wouldn’t I have to fill that out myself?”

“No need. These property damage forms are old news around here. I can fill them for you. Just drop by tomorrow morning. You can check that everything is in order and sign off.”

To your surprise, some unknown emotion briefly contorted his features before he pinched at the skin between his brows.

“Hmm. That’s … rather irregular, but – “

Averting your glance, you allowed him to sit with whatever it was he was processing, with some measure of privacy.

Your voice was gentle when you spoke next, surprising even you.

“Go home and get some rest, Nanami. You’ve done more than enough for today.”

The sound of chair legs scraping across the tiled floor reached your ears before you heard slow, steady footsteps make their way to the door.

He paused in the entryway again, arousing a sense of déjà vu.

“Thank you.”

The same words as those he’d spoken on your first meeting, but with an entirely different intonation.

When he left, you found that you were smiling.

It could have been your imagination, but something changed in Nanami’s interactions with you after the incident in your office.

You’d half expected him to withdraw, as that seemed to be part and parcel of his practical, professional nature. Maybe he’d be embarrassed by that show of vulnerability, the fact that he’d accepted an offer of kindness.

Instead, Nanami greeted you with a little more warmth, so subtle as to be unnoticeable to anyone who wasn’t watching for it. Sometimes, you would find items on your table that had not been there before; a can of coffee, a new pen (of a better brand than the one you used) and once, a keychain in the shape of a small penguin with a green bowtie.

You couldn’t be certain that Nanami was responsible for any of these gifts, but the can of coffee was a dead giveaway. He’d also looked rather pleased when he’d spotted the penguin attached to the strap of your bag.

If anything, this new side to Nanami instilled an even greater desire to know more about him.

An opportunity presented itself not long after.

You’d been on an intel run that morning, monitoring curse activity in an old warehouse. There was now enough data to compile the parameters of a mission to be forwarded to Ijichi for a final check.

Pulling up into the Tech carpark, you noted Nanami exiting another vehicle, a frown etched deep on his brow. There was a rather rumpled package tucked under one of his arms.

You climbed out, locked your vehicle and hailed him. His brow cleared, if only momentarily, and he approached.

“Good afternoon.”

Formal as ever.

“Hello, Mister Nanami. Just got back from some recon and I’m starving. Think the café has a special on for egg salad sandwiches.” You rubbed your hands together in cheerful anticipation. “You fancy one too?”

He nodded before hesitating.

“I was … actually, could you assist me with something?”

“Sure.”

You sobered immediately. If Nanami was asking for help again, it must be serious business.

He produced the package from under his arm, the paper rustling slightly.

“It’s the birthday of one of my students today. Itadori Yuuji.”

You nodded. Most of the staff were familiar with the friendly teenager, his boisterous voice echoing across to your office from the canteen, more often than not.

“Is that his gift you’ve got there?”

“Yes. But there’s been an accident. I picked it up between missions and … the packaging was damaged.”

“Ah, so that’s why it looks like that. I just thought your wrapping skills needed some work.”

Nanami mouth twitched in irritation, and you bit back a smile.

“I’m not that bad at presenting gifts. I wondered if you might have something I could use to fix this?”

“I’ve got just the thing. Let’s swing by my office.”

Once you reached there, you rummaged about in a cabinet, digging out some wrapping paper and ribbons you had stored somewhere at the back, a remnant from some other time. The paper would still be fine, as it was sealed in a cellophane roll.

Nanami removed the damaged wrapping, placing the gift carefully on the tabletop. You noted that he’d purchased a pair of tinted glasses for Yuuji in a more youthful style, frameless, with a reddish hue that would complement his customised uniform.

“Nice gift. He’ll love it.”

“Do you think so?”

He sounded uncertain.

“He will, for sure. Place it here.”

You cut a section of paper, and with his help, soon had the box neatly covered.

Next came the ribbons, which you crossed securely before tying them in place. Nanami assisted you in silence, fingers brushing yours as he held corners in place, helped you with the tape, breath mingling with yours as he leaned further across the table, head bowed in concentration.

He smelled nice, a scent that reminded you of a coastal forest, clean and subtle.

You wondered how soft his hair would feel if you touched it.

When you were done, you lifted your hands free and glanced up, blinking once when you realised that he hadn’t moved away.

As unwavering as his gaze always was, even now, you found that proximity to Nanami, where it would have felt awkward with anyone else, came as naturally as a mountain breeze at the start of spring.

He seemed to be examining you as closely as you did him. In that hushed moment, you noted the faint indentations left by his shades, the slightly roughened skin of his cheeks, the barely visible blonde hairs that feathered down along his temple.

The spell was broken by the rustle of paper under the air conditioning.

Inhaling deeply, you backed away and held up the gift.

“Let me know how Yuuji reacts.”

He took it from you, nodding slowly.

“Thanks, again.”

Your replenished box of tissues seemed to have caught his attention.

“Do you have allergies?”

“Ah, yes. Hay fever. Hits me with the change of season.”

“Yes. Your nose looks a little inflamed. And your eyes seem … slightly puffy.”

That’s what he’d been looking at?

You sniffed and folded your arms.

“Well, there was a large tree near me when I did recon earlier. A plum, I think. Don’t think I was very discreet while blowing my nose every five minutes, but there you go.”

Nanami opened his mouth to say something else, then stopped, posture a little stiff before resuming.

“I’ll be on my way then. Have to find Itadori.”

You waved him off, a trifle miffed.

And here you’d been, imagining what it would feel like to trace the line of his cheek with your finger. 

Nanami’s caseload increases over the next few weeks.

You’re aware due to the series of missives that pass through your office, to be authorised by Ijichi.

It is therefore a surprise when you see him heading for the administrative block through your window.

With the amount of work he had, you’d assumed that he’d want to leave straight from home and return there, sending reports by means of other managers.

Half an hour later, you heard the thump of an object being dropped in the hallway outside and a muffled curse.

Curious, you peered out the door. Nanami was standing a few feet away, only recognisable from the tan trousers and leather shoes. He was carrying a towering stack of boxes, some charts rolled up under one arm.

Immediately, you spotted the source of his consternation.

His shoelace had come untied and, probably in an attempt to bend over to rectify the issue, he’d dropped some of the boxes.

Fighting back a smile, you approached him.

“Nanami?”

“What – oh, it’s you.”

He was not wearing his shades today, sleeves rolled up to expose strong, sinewy forearms, the suit jacket absent.

Eyes darting between you and the boxes, he seemed hesitant to ask for help once again, and so you saved him the trouble.

“Here you go. Hold onto those. Wait, wait, I’m not done.”

Before he had a chance to thank you, you dropped to one knee right before him.

Nanami’s eyes widened slightly, and you patted yourself on the back for drawing such a reaction from him.

“Ah, there’s no need for – “

“It’ll only take me a minute – “

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, approaching from the staff lounge.

“Na na mi. Well now. Didn’t take you for one to fraternise with the staff.”

The pile of boxes teetered precariously as Nanami shifted, face instantly drawing into tight lines of aggravation.

“That is not what’s occurring here, I assure you.”

Gojo sauntered closer, catching your placidly uninterrupted fastening of Nanami’s shoelace.

“Wow, you’re so nice. Who would have thought?”

You glanced up at him with a wide smile.

“Well, if you wrote better reports, I might consider being nice to you too.”

“Why don’t you propose to him while you’re down there? Think about it. A lifetime of beautiful reports.”

“Why, I just might. A lifetime of getting him to lecture you on proper sorcerer conduct.”

Gojo backed away, hands coming up in a defensive stance.

“Now, now, let’s not get too serious. Sheesh.”

He nudged Nanami’s arm as he passed and received a scowl in return.

“What are these?”

“Teaching aids.”

You rose, eyeing the boxes and charts with interest.

“Oh, so that’s what it is. You’ve decided to take your role as sensei more seriously?”

“Hardly. I am simply choosing the means of instruction that are most efficient. Field experience is the best in some instances, but not all. Itadori needs to have groundwork laid down, the basics of identifying curses, some instruction on how to fulfil his administrative duties, and of course, there’s mission protocol which he seems to have adopted a rather lackadaisical approach toward – “

Nanami stopped abruptly as he caught the stares being levelled his way. A faint flush tinged the tips of his ears, never given away in his manner.

He cleared his throat and Gojo whistled.

“Damn. Guess I’ve got to step up my own sensei game.”

You nodded sagely.

“Watch out, Mister Gojo. Some of those boxes contain baseball equipment.”

“Huh?”

Nanami swung around to face you.

“It’s not what it looks like. Baseball is a good means to develop reflexes, spatial awareness, core and upper arm strength, as well as co-ordination between team members.”

Gojo flapped his hands.

“So you’re gonna become the fun sensei?”

You examined your fingernails.

“Seems likely.”

Nanami gave a put-upon sigh.

“I’m going to leave these boxes where they belong, in my new cupboard.”

Gojo waved as he started off for the grounds.

“And I’m going to find my cute students, especially Yuuji, and bribe – I mean, reward him with some ice-cream.”

“Gojo, this isn’t some silly competition – “

His words fell on deaf ears as Gojo made his exit, looking rather pouty, a sign that didn’t bode well for anyone.

Nanami glanced across at you, eyes narrowing.

“Quite the instigator today, aren’t you?”

You adopted an attitude of supreme innocence.

“Whatever do you mean?”

 He seemed to be examining you again, even with the mountain of supplies still weighing down his arms.

“Have your allergies cleared up?”

“They have. Now to prepare myself for the next round.”

“Your eyes look … clear. And bright.”

Was he … offering a compliment?

“You mean, they don’t look puffy anymore?”

You couldn’t help yourself, but regretted it a moment later when he didn’t look amused. Instead, his gaze dropped to the floor, voice low and contrite.

“I apologise for my comment last time. It was a tactless observation. I only made mention of it because I was concerned for your health.”

Now you were the one at a loss for words.

“I … oh, don’t worry, Mister Nanami. I’m only – “

“Nanami. Just Nanami is fine.”

“Ah. Well then, Nanami, why don’t I help you with some of those boxes? I’m sure Yuuji will be excited to see the new supplies.”

“There’s no need.”

“You can barely see over that pile.”

“Then … perhaps the ones at the top. Those smaller ones. Yes.”

 “Ready to be the ‘fun’ sensei?”

The corner of his mouth lifted ever-so-slightly, a glimmer of elusive humour.

“He can buy them all the ice-cream he wants, but nothing beats baseball.”

Swearing slightly, you flailed to regain your balance as the chair you were standing on tilted precariously.

Summer was drawing in, and with it, a sudden spike in temperature. Up here in the mountains, you weren’t often hit with the worst of it, but there were days when you felt like you’d exit your car and melt into the tarmac.

Today was just such a day, and, with the eternal luck of the damned that you seemed to possess, your office air conditioning unit had decided to emit a disconcerting death rattle and give up the ghost.

The age of some parts of the Tech meant that central temperature control wasn’t really an option, so here you were, on a chair you’d pulled up for the purpose, feeling around inside the unit to determine the issue.

To worsen matters, you’d forgotten the simple bandeau or grip you’d normally use to hold back your hair, and it was falling across your ears, clinging to the back of your neck, in a manner you hated considering the current heat.   

Wiping off your brow, you didn’t hear Nanami enter the office until he spoke.

“Would you like some help?”

Dropping your heels, the chair nearly tipped over and it was his hand grasping the back of it that protected you from certain disaster.

“Oh! I – I’m sorry, didn’t see you there.”

Did it have to be today that he came by? You were an absolute mess, your office a veritable sauna and his cool, collected appearance in a short-sleeved linen shirt that showed off the highly distracting curve of his bicep certainly wasn’t helping matters.

Yes, you could admit it.

Nanami was the sole source of your embarrassment. It had become evident to you that you’d developed some burgeoning feelings that you were not quite sure what to make of.

Whether he felt anything in return was something you didn’t even bother thinking about. As far as you were concerned, the status quo was fine, and you’d leave things as they were.

Fiddling with the neckline of your shirt, you leaned an elbow on the wall.

“Aircon’s packed up.”

“I can see that. Why don’t you let me have a look?”

You waved him off, nonchalant.

“I’ve got this. It’s the filter. Needs a good clean and a knock or two, and it’s back to normal.”

Bracing yourself, you plunged your arm back in.

God, this thing was dusty.

At the edge of your vision, you registered movement.

You didn’t think much of it, until another chair was placed firmly alongside yours and Nanami stepped up onto it, having removed his shoes.

“What are you – “

“This looks rather uncomfortable. You can handle the aircon, if you want, but I can help with this.”

Suddenly, he was on level with you, restoring the equilibrium of height difference.

He was in your space again, and even with your newfound realisation of your attraction to him, it still felt natural.

“Allow me.”

This close, each word spoken seemed to roll through the vibration generated from his sternum, an intimate strumming of the air between his mouth and the fine strands curling around your ear.

Then, he was reaching out, careful and meticulous as in everything he did, gathering the hair away from the nape of your neck, holding it in place further up. There was a slight tug before his grasp settled, firm and steady.

His arm was now bracketing your shoulder, the gentle warmth of his body comforting even as gooseflesh erupted over all the places where his proximity was so utterly tangible. 

“Is this … too much of a liberty?”

Throat tight, you made sure that your answer was firm, no delay to it. Any hesitation, and you knew he would withdraw immediately.

“No, it isn’t. And … thank you.”

He didn’t reply to that, but you were hyperaware of his scrutiny on the side of your face as you went back to work, removing the filter and emptying it into the waste basket you’d placed beside you for this purpose.

Each movement swung and released like a well-oiled hinge, drawing you back to your original position, his grip on your hair never loosening.

A serpent writhed in the pit of your stomach, borne of the effortless way he held you, kept the disarray from impeding your task with such focused control. It didn’t help that you suddenly remembered the many cans of coffee, with which he’d repaid you in number a hundred times over.

Somewhere, behind you, was the new box of super-soft tissue he’d gifted you, his concern for your allergies clear. Beyond that sat your bag, still with the small penguin attached. Each morning, the green bowtie was visible on the chair across from your bed when you rose to greet the day.

He aroused something in you that went well beyond the desire of one person for another, a strange crushing tenderness that plagued you each time you considered who he was and what he did and how he’d established this connection with you in spite of it all.

The thought injects purpose and speed into your actions, and you close up the unit, one palm placed flat against it.

“I’m done.”

“Hm. Care to test it?”

 His hand falls away from your hair, fingers tangling slightly as they descend. Unable to stop yourself, you turn your head, the line of his jaw on level with your eyes.

“I’ll have to – “

“Let me get down – “

You both start to speak at the same time, and you bite your lip in amusement, chancing a glance up at him.

He really did have pretty eyes.   

Your head tilts, as if to take them in better, but you’re aware that each of your actions is now compelled by a force stronger than you, and perhaps him too.

You wonder what he dreams of, what causes him pain, about the colour of his cabinets and whether he owns any potted plants.

Does he wear an apron when he cooks?

Perhaps he likes the kind of music you can fall asleep to, or possibly the kind you could dance to, slow with soft, heady laughter, an exchange of undying romance, his arm bracketing a waist that, in the mind’s eye, looks increasingly like your own.

Like a satellite, drawn in by your own gravitational pull, his head seems to be angling in turn, his nose brushing gently against yours.

The spectacle of those beautiful irises will have to wait, because your eyelids are fluttering shut, the brush of his lips against yours as much of a shock to your system as it is expected.

Now, his arm really does slide around your waist, anchoring you as he presses closer. He isn’t chaste, neither is he forceful, a simple, solid expression of passion, a clear statement of his intent towards you.

He is overwhelming, and yet familiar, as if the shape of him fits perfectly within the receptacle of your being. Under your exploring fingers, his shoulders are just as powerful as you’d imagined, the ripple of concealed strength giving way to the soft, shorn bristle of his undercut.

The moment his lips separate from yours he is back, tasting once again, almost as if he is unable to help himself. You place your hand on his chest, uttering a small sound of pleasure that has him tug you even closer.

He’s driven you to such distraction that the slow loss of balance goes almost unnoticed at first, until you feel the rocking movement of the chair you stood on. Nanami’s foot comes down on it hard, once again saving you from tipping over.

Your laughter washes hot against his lips, which are now curving in amusement, and something else, irrepressible, a rare moment of joy, uncontained.

Whispering seems appropriate for this stolen moment, in the hush of your office. He speaks against your throat, right beneath the lobe of your ear.

“Was that acceptable?”

“Yes.”   

The seasons have changed, once again, and Kento's presence in your life is a constant, never ostentatious.

He believes in taking things at the proper pace, courting you with the dogged devotion that defines the way he considers everything of significance in his life.

Routine has never been easier to fall into with him, always a source of comfort. You're aware that you are his shelter, his refuge from the world of curses that awaits each time he sets out on a mission.

When he returns to you, it's always with a smile, in varying degrees of weariness, the tender press of his mouth to yours, an enfolding within strong arms that both receive and offer everything you both feel for each other.

To be with Kento is to experience true equality in a relationship, to understand how you balance each other out through the many facets of each other's lives.

Your sweet tooth to his preference for savoury, your well-thumbed mysteries to his meticulously kept bookshelf, your windows boxes of herbs to his baking paraphernalia, each occupying their small, deserved niche. 

These were the hundred ways that your lives slowly coiled together, two tendrils of smoke from the burning of the same blaze, never running short of the persistent fuel that drove the engines of both your hearts.

This is what it means to care for Kento, and when you greet him with a soft kiss to the brow on some mornings, when you trace the curve of his spine as he sleeps, when you prepare him a bento while muttering to yourself about the best combination of ingredients, you can hardly call him anything less than the man you love.

The first time you'd slept together wasn't, by any means, a magical tangling of breath and limb.

You'd recently recovered from a bout of flu, and he'd been fussing a little more than he usually did, dropping by religiously every evening, bringing either food offerings he'd prepared himself, or purchased from a restaurant you both liked.

It was the sight of him in your kitchen, sleeves rolled up, wiping down the counters with precise strokes, shoulders rolling beneath the dark material of his shirt like the restless swell of the ocean, that had done the trick.

He'd looked up, towards the living room to see you watching him with a dreamy smile, the steaming cup of tea he'd prepared forgotten at your elbow.

"Drink your tea while it's hot."

"Yes, sir."

Your coy tone had him raising an amused eyebrow.

"What's gotten into you?"

"Nothing."

"Hmm."

He turned back to his activity, now cleaning the stove top. This provided you with a sterling view of his backside, perfectly shaped beneath the tan slacks that drew taut around delectable, firm flesh as he moved.

Damn, you were lucky.

Almost as if your stray thought had pinged some instinct in his mind, he swung around, catching you red-handed, the microfiber cloth swinging towards you in reprimand.

"Aha."

"Is that really what you say when you catch someone checking you out?"

"It seems appropriate."

You held up your hands in surrender.

"All right, you've got me. You have a nice bum. I was showing some appreciation."

Kento stroked his chin. There was a gleam in his eye that spoke of well-concealed mischief.

"How nice?"

"What?"

He folded the cloth and placed it neatly beside him.

"I haven't received many compliments like that."

"Probably because people are scared of you."

"So, humour me. On a scale of one to ten - "

"You're not serious."

"I'm always serious."

You leaned back in your seat.

"Fine. Twenty."

"The scale was one to ten."

"And I said twenty."

Now he looked a little disconcerted.

"It's ... that nice?"

Your lower lip wobbled traitorously.

"It really is."

Holding out your arms, you beckoned him closer, letting out a pathetic, dry cough.

"Kind sir, would you care to bestow your blessed cheeks upon your ailing sweet one?"

"Please never refer to them as 'blessed cheeks' again."

He approached, nonetheless.

You placed your hands on the backs of his thighs, smiling as you stroked upward, noting the tensing of his muscles in response.

His exhale blew warm through your hair as you gently cupped and squeezed each buttock.

"Has your rating changed?"

"Yes."

"Oh?"

"Now it's one hundred and twenty out of ten."

He huffed out an incredulous laugh.

"Am I allowed to return the favour?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I think we both know that mine doesn't compare."

"I beg to differ."

He caught hold of your wrist, tugging lightly. When you were on your feet, he stepped into your space, chest to chest.

Over time, you'd learned to distinguish the scent of him, against the backdrop of understated cologne, the detergent he used to launder his clothes, and the faint whiff of the hair wax he employed to hold his signature style in place. Underneath it all, something warm, vital, carried by the heat of him.

Pressing your face into the crook of his neck, you took a moment to bask in that scent, each breath shorter than the last as his hands descended along the dip and flare of your waist and hips, sliding down behind you to return the gesture you'd bestowed on him.

The approving rumble in his chest put paid to any doubts you felt.

"Marvelous."

Closing your eyes, your mouth drifted across his jaw.

"Is it?"

In answer, he stepped back. There was a question in his eyes, an uncertainty that you couldn't bear seeing there.

He wanted you, and he clearly thought he was asking too much.

How could he possibly have such a thought?

Wordlessly, you started to move towards the bedroom, now leading him by the tenuous grip he maintained on you.

Of course, you received a protest.

"Aren't you still recovering? I don't want to - "

"I'm fine."

Once within, you stood with him at the foot of your bed, fingers dragging down the knot of his tie.

He breathed soft reverence into you, and you knew that you'd never grow tired of those firm, intentional kisses, steady and immovable, just like he was.

He accepted it all, the way you tugged his buttons open, your fingers gently shaking his hair down from its usual style, the graze of your teeth over his throat.

Then he moved you towards the bed, as if restoring order to the way this game was proceeding.

You could sense it, in the control he exerted over your movements, the large hand that spread over your hip, the effortlessly roll of his bicep as he tipped you back to lie flat, the incredible strength that infused his entire form, reined in by his will alone.

He watched your skin reveal itself under his touch with tight-lipped intensity, undressing you like you'd seen him file an incident report, each garment lifted from your body and placed aside with care, the twitch of muscle in his jaw when he reached around you to unfasten your bra.

You pulled him down with you, unravelling him further, tracing lightly across his back as he finally let out a low groan.

Instead of re-directed him to your own underwear, you stroked up his thigh, cupping where you felt a hardness that surprised you for all the ways he was taking his time with you.

Kento closed his eyes, tensing as you cradled his erection. Even here, in the sanctity of your bedroom, he wouldn't fully let himself go. It was almost as if he was hesitant to let you see that part of himself.

"Look at me."

He complied, molten honey in his gaze as you brushed hair back from his brow. You squeezed him lightly through his trousers, tracing the shape of him, pressing your nose to his as he uttered a short, deep exclamation of surprised pleasure.

He sat up abruptly, unfastening his belt. He wasn't attempting to be seductive, more a functional and quick means of baring himself, but was all the more alluring for it.

The drop of his pants revealed muscular legs, his calves beyond the point of envy. You knew the work he must put in to maintain peak performance as a sorcerer, and the rest of his body was proportioned in ways that made you bite your lip.

Kento stood motionless for a minute, and you frowned, sitting up.

"What's wrong? We don't have to - "

"No, that's not it. I'm just letting you look. You seemed like you were enjoying the view."

He said it with a perfectly straight face, and you gaped slightly at him, before noting that spark of mischief igniting just behind the eye.

Pinching between your brows, you sighed.

"Are you going to hold it against me?"

"Depends. I might hold you against me."

"I'm worried about the fact that your jokes don't make me dry right up."

"Maybe I'm rubbing off on you. Or against you. Either is possible right now."

"Please, spare me."

Your choked response ended with you trying to crawl away from him, but his hand came down around your ankle.

"Where do you think you're going?"

It seemed that your little exchange had eased some of the tension he carried. You tried to tug your foot from his grasp.

"Escaping your bone-dry humour."

He scratched at his chin thoughtfully, before surging onto the bed above you, lips curving as you let out a breathless laugh.

"You know ... "

His voice dropped a few octaves, sending an involuntary shudder through you.

"What?" you prompted, softly.

"You keep up all this talk of 'dry', and yet ... "

Eyes widening, breath snatched away, you stiffened as his fingers slid beneath the sheer material of your underwear, stroking methodically against you.

"And yet, you're like this down here? "

Nothing had altered in his tone, but there was a subtle purr that had infiltrated where you'd never have expected to hear it.

Struggling to keep your voice steady, your hand snaked down over his, taking in the way his wrist moved as he worked you.

"I'm always ... like this ... around you."

"Is that so?"

It seemed that the last thread holding his tightly leashed desire had come undone.

Your underwear was tugged right off, and he was on top of you now, lips colliding with yours as he settled between your thighs. It was obvious that he was trying not to allow his full weight to fall on you.

Hands placed firmly on the small of his back, you pulled him down towards you. He resisted before giving in to your determination to have more of him, to feel the heaviness of muscle, the gentle scrape of the hair across his pectorals on your nipples.

Hot breath misted against your ear as he ground his hips in a small circle, rousing small, barely stifled gasps as the hardness of him caught at you, pushed against you.

You loved how solid, how present he felt in your arms, a direct counterpoint to the distance he often maintained with his polished and proper exterior.

This was your Kento, the man who spoke of his dreams with shy hesitance, who admired the evening sky at your side, who'd kept the silly novelty coffee mug Gojo had gifted him, and complained about it every time he opened his cabinet.

This was Kento, who entered you with painstaking patience, arms bracketing your upper body, whispering soft, soothing words as you stretched around him, head thrown back in pain and pleasure.

This was the man you'd come to care for so deeply, with his strange habits and affinity for sandwiches, easing you further back onto the pillows as he set up a steady pace, rocking into you.

You learned his body, as he learned yours, slowly, awkwardly, finding the rhythm that worked for you both.

He shivered when you grazed your nails across his scalp, or the bottom of his spine, and you found that when you arched your back in a specific way, he hit a place that you really, really liked.

Your soft moans of encouragement soon mounted to cries as he ground deeper, harder into you. His pace slowed slightly, letting you take the full impact of each thrust.

The way he undid you, drove you to the edge was achingly intimate. He was exploring the boundary between tenderness and passion, taking and taking with thorough, straight-edged zeal, but something was wavering, visible in the earnest appeal he held in his eyes as his movements grew more erratic and desperate.

When you could tell he was close, he pushed a hand beneath your head, lifting slightly. You didn't know what he was after, up until you felt his grip tangling in your hair.

You let out a breathless whimper as the familiar tug recalled the first time he'd kissed you, throat extending as you gave in to the slight pressure he exerted.

Kento had more than enough strength to hold himself above you with one hand, groaning loudly as you succumbed to him, eyes glistening with unshed tears as he held you in place.

Seeing you like this, enjoying his tentative exploration of what he preferred, was enough to quicken the coil and plunge of his hips against yours.

Your climax didn't hit you all at once, no screaming, clawing display of ecstasy. He hammered it slowly out of you, an artisan at an anvil of his own making, watching with misted hunger as your mouth fell open, head tilting even further back as you answered each undeviating thrust with a squeeze of your calves against his sides.

Sometime during the exquisite clamp of your flesh around his, he joined you, releasing your hair immediately for fear of hurting you as the intensity of his own orgasm hit, casting a thunderous groan into the pillow beside you.

Your body rested limp against his, sobbing breaths exiting you in raspy, uneven metre.

The rise and fall of his own chest was rapid, sweat collecting on his brow, drawn out along both your bodies from the damp, delicious friction.

You held him tight until the thrumming heat receded, until he shifted from above you to roll to the side, arm draped across your middle.

Turning your head until your forehead rested against his, the magnitude of what you'd both experienced, how far you'd gone, so much more than an expression of need for each other in a physical sense, dawned with sobering effect.

You knew, now, why he'd been so tense at the outset.

Kento was incapable of engaging in this kind of intimacy without revealing all of himself, as was his nature.

In every touch, in the snap of his hips, in the way he'd held you down to receive him, there was a confession of sorts, an indelible message inscribed on your skin that he couldn't give voice to, not just yet.

It was a promise, sealed in sweetness so sharp it could slice through bone, down to the very core of you.

He was staring at you now, as if measuring your own realisation against his. His voice was slightly hoarse when he spoke.

"You all right?"

Nudging him, you smiled, wide, beatific, weary.

"Better than that."

His amusement washed warm across your lips.

"Still recovering, though."

"Eh?"

He reached behind him, to where the tissue box stood on your bedside table, tugging one out and placing it carefully against your nose while wiping thoroughly.

Your eyes widened in horror.

"Wait ... was my nose running the whole time?"

He brushed your hair away from your face.

"No. Only just now."

"Is that a turn-off?"

Of all your questions thus far, this was the one that made his shoulders shudder with silent laughter.

"You've had allergies since the moment we met."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Fine. Then ... "

He reached down along the side of the bed, to where his pants lay, drawing his phone from the pocket. Curiously, you propped your head against his shoulder as he opened up the (admittedly sparse) gallery of photos.

The first, most recent picture was one taken in what looked like a supermarket, a stack of ultra-soft tissues sealed together in clear plastic. Across the front, a large sign for a special half-price deal was emblazoned in red lettering.

"I took advantage of this deal and bought you a three-month supply."

He glanced across at you, subtly proud and a touch smug, and you found that all your adoration for this man could be channelled into this one moment.

You peppered his face with kisses, ignoring his half-hearted protest.

For all the darkness that awaited him beyond your door, for all that you couldn't be the one to protect him, he'd always have a place, here in your arms, whether he accepted it fully or not.

He was your springtime, contrary to what most thought of his nature, unfastening the ties of winter with steadfast warmth. He'd stolen into the hidden spaces of your life, taking root, blossoming into an endless reveal of many-hued splendour.

You supposed, in the grander scheme of things, that you didn't resent the change of season quite so much any longer.

[cmdrfupa]

Another year around the sun must be celebrated. New Traditions aren't always bad to mix with the old.

Nanami x Reader

wc: 4k

No messages, no noise. The world outside is still deciding whether to be warm or gray. Nanami doesn’t mind either way.

He moves through the motions, no thoughts, just vibes as he recalls you saying.

Drip coffee, shirt buttoned but leaving the top two undone, sleeves rolled with precision right below the elbow. Hair brushed back with his handy boar brush, morning skincare with a light layer of spf to top it off. Everything the same.

Except it’s not.

He pauses at his kitchen counter, thumb brushing the faint chip on the edge of the mug he got all those years ago from his visit to to the states.

“July 3rd,” he murmurs. A date his mother never forgot. Even now.

When he was a child, birthdays meant three things: a citrus candle burning at breakfast, a sweet sweet roll rolled with strawberries and dusted sugar, and a quiet hug from his mother as she said, “You’re my favorite person I’ve ever met.”

She meant it every year. He never stopped believing her. Even when he thought she should.

He didn’t mark it with fanfare. Never had really. Not even as a child. But his mother had always insisted on something. A candle tucked into a pastry. A crown made of construction paper, felt and yarn. The Danish flag at the center of the kitchen table. Even after they moved to Japan, she kept those traditions alive with quiet determination, folding them into a life that already demanded so many adjustments of her.

Nanami stood in the kitchen barefoot, the cool tile grounding him. The coffees drip slowed and he moved over to the counter where his coffee maker sat.

He didn’t smile, exactly. But something like it pulled faintly at the corner of his mouth.

He opened the pantry to grab his sugar and paused.

The box of cinnamon sugar stared back at him.

A memory unspooled like yarn rolling down a hill: his mother humming under her breath in Danish, rolling dough with her sleeves pushed up, her long hair tucked under a paisley printed scarf.

The scent of cinnamon thick in the air. She’d place a single kanelsnegl on his plate every year with a candle in the center. Then, with theatrical seriousness, she would sing:

“I dag er det, I dag er det Kento’s fødselsdag, hurra hurra hurra!”

Her voice was not good. But she sang it with her whole chest. He remembered trying not to cringe at age eleven, then remembering that he wouldn’t trade that sound for anything when he was twenty-three, sitting alone in a dormitory, reading her birthday card out loud just to hear Danish again.

He shook the memory off like dust from an old coat.

He poured the coffee over the heap of sugar he poured into his mug, steam curling like breath from something coming alive.

He stood in the kitchen, bathed in soft light, cradling the warmth between his hands letting it bring him back to the moment he cherished forever.

No crown this year. No cinnamon roll, either. He could make one, technically, but it wouldn’t be the same.

Not without her humming. Not without her crooked smile and that ridiculous large flag she always taped to the refrigerator.

Still, the quiet was nice.

He leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee. Across the room, tucked on the console table beneath the mirror, sat a package. A gift. Neatly wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine and stamped with a duck, his name written in his moms handwriting on a flower petal shaped tag.

He hadn't opened it yet.

Not because he forgot.

But because part of him wanted to sit in this space a little longer. To soothe the ache of missing his mother too much. To fill the space between the past and the present, where her voice still lingered, and the scent of cinnamon felt like a hand on his shoulder.

___

It had been a rainy morning and the house was warm inside, smelling of yeast and cinnamon and oranges. The kind of cozy heat that lingered in the corners, soft and full, like a favorite sweater.

He’d just turned fifteen.

It was the first birthday without his father.

The absence sat thick in the air, even if neither he or his mother mentioned it.

His mother, sleeves pushed to her elbows, was busy at the kitchen counter, her hands deft as she worked the dough into spirals. Her blonde hair had been pulled back in a loose braid and tucked under a headscarf, fraying at the edges from the humidity, and her cheeks were pink from the oven’s heat.

He remembered watching her, quiet but intent. How she moved with such fluidity. She was calm, focused, humming a Danish folk tune under her breath as though nothing at all had shattered their lives.

She glanced over at him then, catching him staring.

“Kento,” she beamed, with that soft lilt that always clung to her tone, “kan du hjælpe mig?” (Can you help me?)

He didn’t speak much Danish, not fluently. Not yet at least. But he knew enough to nod.

He’d stepped forward, making notice of how time of life was on his side standing just a few inches above his mother already. Slender hands uncertain, she guided them gently to press the dough, her palms warm over his until she could see the confidence in his technique.

“It’s just us this year,” she breathed, as they worked side by side. “And Farfar, of course.” Her smile flickered with a hint of sadness but didn’t break. “But we still celebrate. That’s what we do! Another beautiful year around the sun.” She pinched his cheek with a dusting of flour still present on her fingertips and smiled.

Later, after the baking and the setting of the table, his grandfather arrived, bringing with him a draft of cold air and the sharp scent of tobacco from his coat. He’d handed Kento a wrapped package—a carved wooden figure, a Viking ship with tiny sails, and ruffled his hair in that curt, fond way older men sometimes did.

They’d sat at the table together, the candle flickering in the center of the cinnamon rolls, little Danish flags poking out from the plate.

She’d sung for him then, her voice strong and sure, in Danish.

“I dag er det Kento’s fødselsdag, hurra, hurra, hurra…”

Her hands had clapped along as she sang, and his grandfather even joined in on the last hurra, gravelly and deep.

And in that moment of jubilee, watching her smile, watching the way she lifted every corner of that brightly colored kitchen with nothing but her presence, Nanami felt something hard to name.

Awe, maybe.

Gratitude.

Love, pressed deep beneath the surface, too big for words at fifteen.

He remembered thinking, She’s stronger than anyone I know.

___

Nanami stayed still for a moment longer, letting the memory settle before he folded it back into its place. It was always tucked away, but never far.

His eyes drifted over to the viking ship sitting between his vast collection of small trinkets. The sails had small signs of wear from years of being moved and toyed with but it still stood tall.

Just as the sound of keys jingling at the door broke the morning hush, he took a sip of his coffee.

A familiar voice followed, warm and slightly breathless. He nodded, realizing it was you as you closed the door and waltzed in further into the apartment.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t be up by the time I got back,” you announced as you stepped inside the living room, arms full with two neatly wrapped presents stacked carefully, balanced with ease. Your light, thoughtful tone carried a feeling of care he’d learned to appreciate over the past few few years of your relationship.

Nanami’s gaze softened, though his expression barely shifted.

“I don’t sleep in,” he replied simply, his voice still low with the remnants of morning.

“I know.” You grinned, kicking your shoes off neatly and setting the gifts down on the table near him. “But I had hope. You deserve a lazy morning at least once.”

He leaned in, wrapping an arm around your waist, brushing a kiss to your cheek, unhurried and soft.

He held you close for several moments, breathing you in. The scent of shea and your favorite summer scent lingered floating up to his nostrils, letting the gesture ground him in the present.

“I didn’t know if you’d want to make a fuss today,” you continued, eyeing him with that knowing look of yours. “So I brought options.”

Nanami pulled away just a bit as you gestured to the gifts, a playful glint in your eye.

“One is something useful,” you said, tapping the smaller, neatly wrapped package. “The other is… sentimental.”

Nanami raised a brow, amused despite himself. “You’re giving me the choice to open either?”

“Mm, no,” you replied, smile widening. “You get both eventually. But it’s your birthday. You get to pick which one first.”

Your words were quite casual, almost too easy. But he heard what you were really offering beneath it.

Control. Space. A way to shape his own day, however he wanted.

You’d been this way before. On the anniversary of the incident that almost cost him his life. Its when he fell for you. Watching you carefully co-curate his day just so he wouldn’t have to think too little or too much of it.

The kind he noticed, and deeply appreciated, even if he rarely said so outright.

Nanami set his coffee down carefully, regarding the two packages for a long moment.

His fingers brushed over the smaller of the two, wrapped in simple brown paper and tied with twine with stickers, not completely unlike how his mother used to wrap gifts when he was a boy, practical but precise.

He looked up, meeting your patient gaze.

“Sentimental first,” he said softly.

you smiled at that, pleased, and settled across from him, chin resting in your hand as you watched him grab the gift

“No rush,” you added gently. “We’ve honestly got the whole day. We can do gifts anytime you like.”

Nanami let out a quiet breath that wasn’t quite a sigh.

He didn’t need the whole day but it was appreciated.

Right now was enough.

______

The morning moved slowly with a pace that suited Nanami. Very unhurried, steady, with space to breathe between sips of coffee, small conversation and quiet glances exchanged across the kitchen table.

You didn’t push him to open the gifts. Not just yet. You simply sat nearby, letting the calm settle between you both as the soft sounds of the city began to hum just beyond the windows.

Eventually, though, the phone on the counter buzzed.

Then it buzzed again. And again.

Nanami reached for it, thumb swiping across the screen, and you caught the faint flicker of a smile tugging at his mouth, brief but genuine.

“Itadori,” he said, setting the phone down again. “He’s waiting.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Of course he’s early.”

“Early enough for breakfast but he insisted on brunch,” Nanami added, his tone dry but not unkind. “Apparently, it’s ‘non-negotiable.’”

You grinned, standing to gather your bag. “You know how he gets when he’s set on something.”

Nanami didn’t argue. He simply finished the last of his coffee, then giving the mug a quick rinse before grabbing his keys from the holder.

As you slipped your shoes on by the door, you glanced over your shoulder at him.

“You okay with this?” you asked, not out of doubt but you’d grown accustomed to his silent approving gestures. You just wanted to hear it from him.

He met your gaze, steady and sure.

“Yes,” he said simply. “More than okay with it.”

----

The café Yuji picked was tucked away on a quiet side street. It was one of those charming little places with mismatched chairs, shelves stacked high with plants and old books and a low hum of an international radio station playing. The air smelled like fresh bread and herbal teas, warm and rich.

Through the window, you spotted Yuji already waving excitedly from a corner booth.

He practically bounced out of his seat as soon as you and Nanami walked in, grinning ear to ear, throwing himself into a group hug with you both.

“Nanamin!” Yuji beamed, voice carrying across the room. “Happy birthday!”

A few patrons turned to glance, but Yuji didn’t seem to notice or even care.

Nanami, for his part, didn’t even flinch.

“Thank you, Itadori,” he said, his voice steady, though there was a softness in his eyes you recognized instantly.

You slid into the booth first, Nanami following close behind at your side. Yuji wasted no time flagging down the server, already eager to order “the biggest brunch platter they had” because, according to him, birthdays required feasting.

“This place makes their own sourdough!” Yuji added, practically bouncing in his seat. “And the owner lets their dog hang out here sometimes. His name is Theo. oh! And they do Danish pancakes and something called Lagkage layer cake? I thought that’d be cool, y’know, since well, you know.”

His grin turned slightly sheepish, but hopeful.

You glanced at Nanami then, watching the subtle flicker of surprise cross his face as he read the menu slowly. He hadn’t expected that. Not from Yuji, not from anyone.

But there it was.

Danish pancakes and Lagkage on the menu, just for him.

You reached under the table, your fingers brushing against his in a quiet, wordless gesture of support.

That small, fleeting smile from him, rare but genuine, came back.

“Thoughtful,” Nanami said softly, looking at Yuji.

Yuji brightened even more. “Right?! I thought it’d be kinda nice. I didn’t wanna mess anything up, but… yeah.”

“I really appreciate this, Itadori. Its perfect.” Nanami said simply.

_____

The table went from bare to soon filled with plates of steaming delights. Toasted sourdough piled high, soft scrambled eggs, thick slices of bacon, and, of course, a tall stack of Danish pancakes, delicate and golden, dusted with powdered sugar and served with lemon wedges and jam.

Yuji’s eyes lit up the second the plates landed.

“I told you they go all out here,” he amused, practically vibrating with excitement. “We gotta do this every year now. It’s tradition.”

Nanami arched a brow, picking up his fork but stopping right before he went for the butter knife. “You’re already planning next year?”

“Obviously!” Yuji grinned. “You don’t just skip out on birthday traditions.”

You laughed softly, nudging Nanami’s arm as you reached for your iced tea. “He’s not wrong.”

Nanami’s lips tugged into the barest hint of a smirk, though his eyes stayed on his plate as he carefully sliced into the pancakes. He squeezed a bit of lemon over them. his motions coming from a place of familiarity, practiced. Like he’d done it many times before.

Yuji watched with fascination, already mid-bite of his own towering breakfast sandwich. “Wait, you really like those, huh?”

“They’re delicious,” Nanami replied simply, smearing a bit of jam of the fluffy can then taking a bite.

You watched the tension slip from his shoulders, just slightly, as he ate. The soft clink of silverware, the low hum of conversations around you, it all blended into a comfortable warmth that couldn’t be beat.

Yuji, as usual, couldn’t let the moment stay too quiet.

“So,” Yuji started, eyes gleaming with curiosity, “what was your best birthday growing up?”

Nanami paused mid-sip of his tea, brow lifting just a fraction.

“That’s… subjective,” he replied dryly, though there was no bite to it.

“Come oooon,” Yuji grinned. “There’s gotta be one! You’ve gotta have at least one funny story.”

You couldn’t help but glance at Nanami too, curiosity sparking in your chest.

To your surprise, after a brief moment, Nanami set down his cup and let out a quiet breath that sounded almost amused.

“There was one,” he said, voice steady but tinged with faint nostalgia. “When I was… nine, I believe.”

Yuji immediately leaned in, eager.

Nanami’s gaze dropped to his plate, as if recalling the details from somewhere far off.

“My father,” he began, “was not… particularly skilled in the kitchen. He insisted on making me a birthday breakfast that year. My mother warned him.”

You saw the faintest glimmer of a smile threatening at the corner of his mouth.

“He burned the pancakes. To a crisp. Nearly set the kitchen towel on fire in the process.”

Yuji let out a loud laugh, grinning wide. “No way!”

Nanami’s eyes crinkled ever so slightly. “My mother calmly took the pan from him before the flames caught anything else. She sent him out to buy a cake instead.”

You grinned, already picturing it.

“And he listened?” you asked, amused.

Nanami gave a slow nod, humor softening his features.

“He returned with a store-bought strawberry cake,” he said. “It had nothing to do with pancakes. But we ate it anyway.”

Yuji looked delighted, practically glowing. “That’s amazing! Man, I can’t picture you eating cake for breakfast.”

Nanami’s gaze flicked to you, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“It wasn’t about the cake,” he said, voice low but fond. “It was… chaotic, but sincere. And perfect for a nine year old.”

You felt your heart soften at the quiet weight of those words.

“Though, I’d do it again anytime.”

Yuji grinned even wider. “See? That’s the kind of story I’m talking about.”

“I’m sure you’ll have plenty of your own chaotic stories to tell,” Nanami replied, he nodded while cutting out another bite size piece of pancakes amused.

Yuji didn’t even try to deny it, laughing as he reached for another piece of bread.

The conversation flowed easily after that, filled with light teasing, soft laughter, and quiet looks exchanged between you and Nanami.

This was a small, steady reminder of how far he’d come from those lonely birthdays of his late teens and twenties.

And sitting there, in the warm little café, you could see it clearly:

This wasn’t the kind of celebration Nanami would’ve ever asked for.

But it was exactly the kind he deserved.

___

Before you knew it, three and a half hours had passed and brunch was over. Yuji insisted on paying, despite Nanami’s immediate (and predictable) protest, waving off the attempt with a grin.

“It’s your birthday,” Yuji said firmly, standing from the booth. “Just let me do this, Nanami.”

Nanami didn’t argue, though you caught the faint sigh he let out as Yuji trotted off to the register, already chatting with the server and telling them “compliments to the chef.”

You bumped your knee gently against his under the table, smiling softly.

“Let him have this,” you murmured.

Nanami’s lips curved just slightly. “I am. But I’m buying him boba on our next outing together.”

He stood, holding his hand out for you to take, and you did, grabbing hold as you stood from the booth. You exchanged a quick hug with Yuji and went your separate ways, leaving the cozy little café behind as the two of you stepped out into the soft afternoon light.

The walk home was comfortably silent, your hands brushed together now and then, the city moving around you but never intrusive on your time moseying down the walkway.

When you finally reached the apartment, Nanami’s steps slowed just a bit at the door. He took a noticeable breath before he unlocked the door and held your hand as he walked through the threshold.

Inside, everything was just as you’d left it.

The unopened packages still sat on the table.

You shrugged off your bag and set it aside, watching as Nanami slipped off his shoes and crossed the room, his gaze drawn immediately, inevitably really, to the small parcel from his mother.

Without a word, he picked it up, fingers tracing the edges of the simple wrapping paper as he brought it to the table in front of the couch.

He sat down on the couch, and you settled next to him, giving him space with a cushion between but staying close enough to offer silent support.

He untied the twine with care, unfolding the paper slowly, almost reverently.

Inside was something soft, delicate with age but clearly well-kept.

A crown.

Faded felt, edges worn, the colors dulled—but still intact. Carefully reinforced, here and there, with new bits of tape and cutout stars you recognized instantly as his mother’s handiwork.

He let out a quiet breath, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. It was very real, and it reached his eyes.

“She kept it,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You smiled, heart softening.

“She always did love that crown,” he said gently.

Without another word, Nanami lifted it from the paper and, with all the calm dignity in the world, settled it onto his head.

It sat slightly askew atop his slightly fluffy hair, comically so. But he didn’t adjust it.

He wore it as if it belonged there.

You couldn’t help but laugh, your chest aching in the best way.

“You’re really going to wear it?” you teased, fondness spilling into every word.

He met your gaze, expression steady but amused.

“She made it,” he said simply, as if that was reason enough.

And it truly was.

You slid your own package toward him then, fingers brushing his lightly.

“My turn?” you asked softly.

Nanami nodded once, still wearing the crown, scooting over closer to you before he untied the ribbon on your gift with that same deliberate care.

Inside, he found a small, leather-bound notebook. A sleek, minimal look, the kind of thing you knew he’d use. Tucked inside its cover was a pressed flower, carefully preserved.

You watched him turn it over in his hands, his thumb brushing the edge of the flower.

“It’s simple,” you said, suddenly a little shy. “I thought you might like something to write in. For… whatever you want.”

He looked up at you then, eyes warm, crown still slightly crooked atop his head.

“I do,” he said, and you could tell by the weight in his voice that he meant it.

Then, after a pause, he spoke again—quietly, but without hesitation.

“My last birthday with my father,” he began, his voice steady, “he gave me a fountain pen.”

You stayed silent, letting him take his time.

“It was a heavy, expensive thing. I was fourteen.” He set the notebook down carefully, leaning back slightly as he continued. “He told me that every man should have something to write his own story with. Something of his own.”

There was no bitterness in his voice—but there was distance, and something older than grief.

“He died a few months later,” Nanami said, gaze steady on yours. “And I never used the pen.”

Your chest ached at the quiet confession, but you didn’t interrupt.

Nanami’s hand moved back to the notebook, tracing the spine lightly.

“This,” he said, lifting it slightly, “Is the perfect place to write my story. This feels different.”

He didn’t explain how.

But he didn’t need to.

You reached over, letting your settle over his.

The paper parts of the crown crinkled slightly as he leaned forward, just enough to close the space between you.

“Thank you,” he said softly, holding your gaze. “For meeting me where I am.”

Your breath caught and all you could do was smile and kiss his cheek.

Because you knew what he meant.

For not forcing celebration on him. For letting him choose the pace. For giving him space for both grief and joy.

You squeezed his hand gently, offering nothing but warmth in return.

“Happy birthday, Kento,” you whispered, smiling.

He smiled back and pressed his lips to your temple. “Thank you, darling.”

And he wore that crown with his head high for the rest of the evening.