I am not a native English speaker, and your choice of words for Yandere Nanami was too advanced. I could feel the content but couldn't understand well.
Does not Nanami let his girlfriend go out? Why didn't Nanami heal? What is his problem in general?
I know we picture Nanami as a very sophisticated and stoic person, this must be the reason why he is so maniac about the perfectionism. But why did the reader lose her freedom?
I hope you understand the struggle I had while reading it and help me out to have better understanding of your story. Thank you!
Hello! Thank you so much for sending in this ask!
So yes, in Mise En Place Nanami's partner is trapped in every sense of the word; physically, emotionally, mentally. But I would say both the captive and captor are stuck, in the sense that Nanami has some deep traumas he's never resolved; eg losing Yu, seeing young sorcerors sacrifice their lives on a fairly regular basis such as in the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons incident, and just in general, jujutsu is a cruelly demanding job. He doesn't want the same fate to befall his beloved, so he becomes overprotective and obsessive beyond reason. He prioritises the basic fact of keeping her 'safe' and being alive over the actual quality of her life.
His exacting behaviour during the food prep scene demonstrates his desire for absolute control, but there are unpredictable challenges to it as well manifesting from his partner's frustrations over their loss of freedom.
I hope this clears things up and I'm always happy to discuss my fics!
A Reflection on How Trauma, Rage & Grief shaped Higuruma & Nanami (Differently)
Nah, Don't be fooled - Higuruma is not Nanami 2.0, or just a rebrand of noble, stoic workaholic. I explore some of these psychological nuances below in depth.
Frequent Comparisons
People draw parallels between Nanami and Higuruma mostly commonly through their Frustrations towards the System. For Nanami, that's been both Capitalism and the Jujutsu world, and for Higuruma it's the Justice system. This results in an aura or impression of emotional detachment, but it's certainly not to be mistaken for apathy. Quite the opposite in fact! It's because both men are so propelled by their principles that they don't permit themselves the "luxury" of (excessive) emotional fervour - but there may be some distinctions with how they go about that too!
Both have been worn down throughout the years, but both also have an Inciting Incident of a significant traumatic episode. I'll explore how both the long-term slog and traumas have affected them, but first let's make a distinction about each of their inciting incidents.
Duelling Dualities
Both Nanami and Higuruma's major turning points are based around how they couldn't protect someone they cared about, namely Yuu Haibara and Keita Oe respectively. These two also represent a loss of innocence for them.
On the surface, the loss and demise of a friend during formative years (Nanami was still in his teens!) would seem to have a much more significant impact than "losing" a client or case as a working adult, plus the degrees of emotional intimacy and investment are vastly different.
Nanami has also suffered this kind of emotional gradual decay but his experiences were less high stakes, less intense and less drawn out. As a salaryman he was only enduring it for himself, and didn't have the added burden of inadequate efforts jeopardizing someone else's life or liberation.
However, his loss is more literal than the lawyer's - as far as we know Keita isn't dead, but I can't imagine his fate to be very favourable given the circumstances around his..."mistrial". (I don't know what the legal ramifications of your attorney going berserk and offing the prosecution is, but I doubt those are good odds. I wonder if Keita's fate weighs on Higuruma too, after the canon events in the manga.)
Speaking of which, having someone die in front of you for the first time is monumental, and here's where we have another distinction; the kind of Guilt Nanami and Higuruma suffer. *Survivor's versus Perpertrator's.
[*As a a caveat, I'm no expert in clinical psychology so I want to add it might not be wholly accurate to characterise Nanami's guilt as classic Survivor's Guilt, and it's hard to say to what degree he experienced this specific sort, or for how long, but I'm sure he felt a significant sense of failure at being unable to protect his friend, which later expands into frustration into being put into such a situation in the first place.]
When I said "these two also represent a loss of innocence" earlier, I wasn't referring to Keita's, but Higuruma's corruption when he kills the prosecutor and judge. We are led to believe that Keita is plausibly innocent and didn't commit the crime, and is thus morally whole - whereas there's absolutely none of that ambiguity on Higuruma's part
Higuruma's is a moral failing, compared to young Nanami's one of ability and insufficient experience, exacerbated by the jujutsu system's flaws. We don't have the details about how Nanami's ill-fated mission with Haibara unfolded, only that they expected a second grade curse but were faced with a higher level opponent, which they weren't skilled enough to take on.
Nanami might be able to "offset" some of his guilt at being unable to save Haibara by blaming broader forces beyond him, or his circumstances of being too young and not being better prepared - although I don't think this is his nature to rely on that sort of naiveté reasoning and he carries that grief with him anyway (any iteration of survivor's guilt can be quite immune to logic.)
But for Higuruma, that burden of his ethical lapse rests entirely on his shoulders.
Higuruma fails in a way that feels or can be deemed to be much more personal; even as his actions are also similarly compounded by an unfair system but at the end of the day, he still killed with his own two hands.
There's no rationalising around such a crime of passion. There's no abstracting it out to the tolls and pressures the system takes, even if they are critical factors. The system is broken, and breaks him, and for a while Higuruma would rather blame and contend with its flaws rather than his own.
A man strung up by his own high ethical standards, what is he to do?
Conceits Revealed Through Self-Deceit
In times of severe emotional crisis, it's common for people to avoid the truth of what they really feel and/or want, because it's saddled with a lot of pain. As mentioned above, there's a specific kind of grief that festers with Higuruma's guilt which isn't present with Nanami's.
Higuruma snaps and he has to pick up the shards of his world view, we actually get a pretty coherent albeit funhouse mirror version of his moral reasonings but to be clear, this is less confrontation and more qualifiers to deal with the fact that he's now a murderer.
It manifests as a cynicism-fueled delusion where he attempts to argue, or rather persuade himself the killings were just or justified, not only that but that Culling Game killings could be an equally valid if alternative recourse for justice - his own Domain is a reflection of a courtroom turned theater, satirizing the legal process. A show trial in other words. 1ichtbringer has an excellent analysis that further unpacks how his Deadly Sentencing technique falsely stages a trial so that it appears to be impartial, and points out how Higuruma tampers with the process too. Highly recommend reading it to understand how beautifully deranged Higu's processing is, despite dressing it up in the rhetoric of logic (omg he's a delulu is the solulu girlie just like us!1!!)
Higuruma attempts to assuage his guilt by disregarding the justice system (and to an extent, the moral parameters) he has worked within his entire life, by harping on its limitations and flaws which are all fairly valid, but doesn't negate the fact that he's a criminal now
Furthermore, he is confronted by the contradiction between his and Yuji's killings, and the way each contextualizes their culpability couldn't be more stark. Yuji immediately confesses and doesn't try to rationalise or make any excuses. Higuruma on the other hand contorts his heart and head through several hoops so he doesn't have to feel such guilt - until he does.
From Higuruma's perspective, Yuji wasn't culpable for the Shibuya slaughter. Even as Yuji feels responsible, he is still innocent because he was acting under the influence of someone else's will - unlike Higuruma who carried out his executions with his own volition and more self-awareness. Quite simply, being blinded by rage doesn't hold up in court as a reason. Emotional states and pressures can be considered during sentencing but I doubt they would be much of a mitigating factor. Unfortunately for Higuruma it's difficult or impossible to defend his violent outburst of emotion since his framework of ethics and justice is premised so much on logic, which makes the nature of his moral lapse even more tragic and a particularly effective example of Gege writing dramatic irony.
And now, let's discuss the fiction Nanami Kento sells himself on.
When we get Nanami's flashback in Ch30, we're lead to believe he's the kind of guy who has never worried about "the meaning of life or his purpose on earth". Oddly enough, I think there is an element of truth to this for Nanami - Having faced an existential threat at such a tender age probably puts one off contending with such existential conundrums.
But then shortly after we get these panels:
This echoes one of Marx's central critiques of Capitalism, where workers are separated from both meaning and the means of production. Technically, Nanami's job scope - presumably as some type of wealth/hedgefund manager (or heaven forbid a stockbroker) - doesn't even have a traditionally tangible means of production, which only further reinforces the lack of importance of who he is as an individual and the sense of alienation, a pretty common phenomenon under Capitalism where workers feel psychologically and probably emotionally estranged from their work. Oh, the routine malaise!
[I fall back in love with him again each time i see the tear wiping part]
I don't think people have such profound insights or realisations if they haven't considered at length these broader philosophical questions regarding their priorities in life - but what I've always found pretty sexy was the simplicity of the scenario that gave Nanami this insight; an epiphany under ordinary, understated circumstances that he set his mind to without further equivocation. (And yes, I said it, it's sexy)
Who knows to what extent Nanami believed in his obsession about money for those four years; was his sole goal really just to retire young and migrate somewhere cheap? We know he still harboured dreams of moving to Malaysia; perhaps he could have afforded to by the time he was in his 30s, but there is also something within him that compels him to earn that retirement, not in an economic sense but rather in a way that addresses the question of what makes him feel like he'd deserved it. In short, how he earns a living in a way that aligns with and finances living a good life, does matter to Nanami. And by good we reference not just quality but morality too of course. The way things are done, the minutiae and attitude towards process matters very much to Nanami, not just the end goal.
I think that might be another way he differs a little from Higuruma, who could be a tad more impatient and results-oriented or focused, hence he'd be willing to take more risks (personal), bend rules and take advantage of loopholes - these tendencies all dovetail with his background navigating an already unfair legal system.
So, now that I've laid out the "lies" Nanami and Higuruma temporarily let themselves buy into, let's unpack what it indicates about their personalities. Gege often puts his (ill-fated?) idealists through their paces and what these pretences or obfuscations suggest about each man is fascinating and endearing to me in different ways!
The justification of his murder of two civilians is the central fib Higuruma tries to believe, but it's a delusion underpinned by disillusionment and years of constantly engaging with the incontrovertible ugliness and darkness of human nature encountered in his profession. That's how he spends his early adulthood.
Nanami, almost on the opposite end, doesn't want to acknowledge, let alone face such suffering and darkness for years - we might call it wilful or deliberate ignorance, or it may even have been a more subconscious choice. Either way, the avoidance stems from the tragedy of his personal history.
One man believes in his self-deception because he has faced the truth for too long, the other pursued a false priority because he has been attempting to avoid the agony and brutal realities of his calling.
When I think about the nature of their jobs, there also seems to be differences in the emotional and psychological tolls they're dealt. Being a sorceror has less overlap with social work and to my mind, has more parallels with law enforcement with missions revolving around investigation, surveillance, nullification of threats and broadly, maintaining a status quo and security for civilians. Most curses are abstract entities birthed from an amorphous mass of negative energy, there is an erasure of sentience, or at least a greatly reduced need to account for it, since they're already monsters meant to be eliminated in the most straightforward sense. A more sensitive take would be that these mutated souls must be put out of their misery.
As for most curse users, fortunately or unfortunately, there's little opportunity, let alone necessity to understand their humanity (apart from Geto, more on him later.)
Compared to a criminal lawyer who has to deal with and get to know (probably not the nicest) individuals over several months, handling their suspicions and doubts, cultivating the trust and human relationships; that takes a lot! No wonder Higuruma gets worn out.
"I have never been and never will be frustrated by my own uselessness." -Nanami Kento
Our bodies have something called a Sympathetic Nervous System and biology predicates its sensitivities and capacities for emotional duress; this also influences how much of others' sorrows we can take on before we become fatigued. Every individual is born with a different endurance. Higuruma and Nanami likely have very high tolerances, but everyone has their limits.
This part is pretty speculative but I think how these two men empathise is different as well; Higuruma definitely uses intellectual empathy primarily, while Nanami experiences emotional empathy slightly more often. He has genuine care and concern for his colleagues, and relationships with them - they may not appear to be exceptionally close ones but they are important to him. Just remember what happened to ponytail guy after he injured Ijichi.
Higuruma on the other hand may not have had the opportunity to cultivate such personal connections with those he works with, either by circumstance, choice or a hybrid of the two. I think he cares about people in a more abstract sense, as representations of his duties, rather than actual individuals whose emotional interiority he must grasp. Perhaps it's out of necessity or an instinct for self-preservation that he maintains this sort of distance. This isn't to say he's callous, just that the way he relates with those in his occupation is more analytical.
Where they are alike is that both probably know it's unsustainable to operate from a baseline of righteous fury or indignation in their jobs. Going off his occasional outbursts, Nanami does seem to have more of that undercurrent but I don't think he's suppressing his anger daily or at least, he has some way of coping with it long term so it doesn't reach a critical mass, whereas Higuruma, if he had any awareness of his encroaching cynicism, probably couldn't afford the time and headspace to process his emotions properly.
Corroding Cynicism, Corroborating Hope
Initially, I had a difficult time understanding a particular line in Higuruma's monologue in Ch166, the version I read translated it as:
"I thought I should value that very depravity, which other animals don't have!"
I realised this line has a resonance with another ardent idealist, Geto, who observes this hideousness in "monkeys" as a trait he abhors, unlike Higuruma who cherishes it and believes it's the thing that sets us apart from other beasts.
It was only after contrasting this pair of idealists' motivations that I could comprehend Higuruma's breakdown.
Unlike Geto, Higuruma's raison d'être (before he gets a taste for homicide) isn't in achieving grand ambitions, he's not trying to permanently overturn a system but would rather manoeuvre within one. It's not so much revolution as it is mitigation (via litigation, hah). He is determined and convinced he can do this despite the odds he's given.
The issue with this granular type of change of course is that it's just as likely to erode their agents, through "the accumulation of little despairs". Not so little in Higuruma's case of course, since even his hard won interventions are significant as they determine the fate of people's freedoms.
What initially confounded me about Higuruma's breaking point and his tirade about how "the darkness before your eyes is just darkness" is that it didn't seem to challenge or contradict the reality he knew about before he snapped, that people can be awful.
Weakness and ugliness will always exist in humans, but I don't think Higuruma anticipated or believed such weakness was embedded in the legal system to such an extent. He's finally made aware of it with Keita's case, and I think that's when he decides the system isn't simply flawed but fundamentally corrupt and that he can no longer make any further progress within it, that his struggle isn't worth it.
The inherent fallibility of humans remain a fact. However, there's a distinction between universal and personal truths; the former often informs the latter, but what really matters for how we act are those individual, internalised truths. Higuruma's most fundamental truth is:
He's someone who operates from his principles, regardless of results or odds - it's why he fights losing battles, it's why he goes up against Sukuna. But for a moment, he's blinded by disappointment and anger and forgets that this is his ultimate north star.
Nanami goes through a lot less to remember his conscience, and I partially attribute that to surviving something as terrible as he does at an early age. Closure might be a bit ambitious, but I'd like to believe how he handled and addressed the loss of Haibara was to honour him by returning to the jujutsu world and looking out for other young sorcerors in his own way, guiding those like Ino and Yuji.
The sense of accountability and empathy he indirectly instills in Yuji is something Higuruma picks up on later, and it gives him some semblance of hope that there are other people like Yuji trying to do the right thing, those worth protecting and supporting, and keeping his eyes open for.
Conclusions
One last thing I want to compare between Nanami and Higuruma is how they approached the talents they were born with. Nanami has his Ratio technique, and Higuruma is intellectually gifted though later we understand his true inherent genius lies in his jujutsu abilities.
In a way it's inevitable for our destinies to be shaped by our capabilities, but I think it's interesting that Nanami tried to deny this innate rare skill as a sorceror and find something else he could do.
If he wanted to lead a fulfilling life helping others, say as an educator or firefighter or paramedic (swoon) I don't doubt he could have, but he chose the path not many people are cut out for, returning to it not because it was pre-determined or cause he'd excel in the area, but because he knew he could guarantee doing it well in the moral sense.
Higuruma strikes me as another individual who'd be impressively competent at almost anything he sets his mind to. But the thing he's best at, given the circumstances he discovered them in, are skills he's now obligated to use in service of jujutsu HQ's higher ups. Higuruma wouldn't go so far as to reject using his natural powers and skills as a sorceror because of the unpleasant association of their origins, but he might struggle with how best to use these new tools, instead of being used. There may be another period of apparent futility he'll have to contend with.
I don't think Higuruma's faith is restored in the justice system by the time the manga concludes, and he'll have a hell of a time navigating the jujutsu one too, however he's more suited to being a sorceror as it would let him act more freely, in accordance with his own assessments, in ways that strike a better balance between his own moral code and jujutsu society's law,; something that he might even be able to shape in the wake of the Culling Games and a paradigm shift for Japan, now it's been forced to reckon with this whole other world.
y'all...it is impossible for me to quantify how much i am missing writing for hiromi 😭
Like, i aint down bad. It's Groundhog Day yall. Im a groundhog. Im BillMurray. I dug myself in deep and this is just my life now, ad infinitum
Just a brutal cycle of: Wake up, realise hes not in my bed, have a lil cry/wish fulfillment sequence over that, eke out a couple hundred words for a heavy fic, fix a snack, have more random thoughts about Hiro (today it was I wonder which pokemon starter he'd go for), sigh some more, get other stuff done, back to bed to be plagued by dreams of him i cant remember. Repeat
Someone remind me what colour the sky is supposed to be? Haha
synopsis: Higuruma makes *you* breakfast in bed for the first time
wc: 1.7k
tags: fluffy! (unlike his eggs) . established relationship. romance.
a/n: inspired by @breekento's absolutely lovely photoset. a lil idyll, a smidge of indulgence. i couldn't help myself when he's so boyfriend-shaped [to the best of his abilities because...it's higuruma after all]
You were both supposed to be paying off some fairly massive sleep debts;and you hadn't even been incurring them in the usual fun ways.
The tradeoff of being slumber deprived to be a little depraved - ok, maybe more than a little - was hardly a dilemma for you and Higuruma; something you had figured out together early on in your relationship. Just one more way the two of you complemented each other, a pair of stubborn night owls turned lovebirds.
But work has been brutal; you're up to your neck in revisions to proposals for the sustainability bureau, and Higuruma's latest case had him building his defense strategy from scratch twice over now.
You can't remember the last time you shared a dinner that wasn't microwaveable. And pretty soon even the heaps of instant ramen packets were replaced by looming piles of onigiri wrappers, threatening to spill out of the bins - because fiddling with tiny sachets of powdered soup and rinsing out pots became too much of a luxury. So it was lots of take out, and very little making out.
You came to cherish the front doorstep to your apartments, a sacred altar where your bodies crossed each other in the morning bustle, swift as pedestrians, surrendering to serendipity; yet Cupid's best efforts could only conspire to the briefest, briskest brushes of your mouths before you hurried off towards your hectic jobs.
Evenings fared little better. Slouching past where he'd be collapsed on the couch at 2am, you'd drop a peck on his forehead when you could, if you had the strength to peel back the post-its with comments on penal code sections and the stacks of annotated alibis, gentle in your excavation of the mountainous documents, even as you know there's never any erosion of Higuruma's workaholism.
So you got good at deciphering the same crabbed handwriting on the fridge's notepad, mostly apologies and promises, before they dwindled down to hasty scratches of frowny emojis, blotting out dates on the calendar. All of it sincere, and all of it thwarted.
Weeks grated by like that, with their numbing addendums of cancelled grocery lists and rainchecks, strings of his snarky texts and your grumpy selfies becoming the lifeline of your relationship.
A month or maybe two, passed and finally, finally the pitches were accepted, as were the plea deals. Surely things could go back to normal now?
So, when you rolled over this morning anticipating a long overdue snuggle against Higuruma's chest, to instead find only a cold spot on his side of bed, the chagrin prickles through you so sharply it pierces through the groggy fog of sleep you still very much need.
"Hiro..." The pillows, absent of even his scent have the further audacity to muffle your grumble. But then you feel a slightly self-conscious chuckle roll honeywarm over your spine, and the dip of the bed as it welcomes the return of a weight that never should have left it at this hour.
"Sorry darling, I got hungry. Figured you might be too."
Your head creaks to the side, a warm scent wafting through the final defenses of your pillow fort. It's one you haven't smelled in a very, very long time.
"Masako's?"
Higuruma chuckles at the disbelief in your voice, still slumber-hoarse.
"That's right, made the pilgrimage all the way to Yoyogi. Just for you."
You hear the scrape of a knife and a rich, buttery aroma mingles with the morning air. Then you hear Higuruma's voice, dredged in huskiness from his drowsiness, drawling close to your ear. "So, forgive me yet?"
Your huff is already half buried in the pillow as you turn away from him and Higuruma sighs, wishing you'd at least treat him to your scowl. But he'll play along, after all it's been a while since the both of you could squander a morning on feigned pettiness.
"It's cute when you pretend to hold out on me," he muses, teasing his fingers through your locks before a heated palm comes to cup your cheek. "But the bagels are getting cold."
You can't help leaning into Higuruma's touch, purely instinctive, a vine supine toward its sun. But still you manage to mutter, "W'er s'posed to cuddle this mrngh."
You feel the grin in his voice long before it sneaks up to the corner of your lips. "We'll have the whole day to cuddle..."
Higuruma's aquiline nose dips down your neck, stopping just short of the spot he knows elicits a hitch in your breath. "Or not cuddle."
Drat him, and those nimble fingertips, just starting to skim beneath the hem of your shirt, summoning butterflies so swiftly you're uncertain if the swoop in your belly is from their innocently tickling antennae, or his digits' dexterous pretense of roaming your skin idly.
"For now, I'd like you to acknowledge the attempt I'm calling an omelette."
Now that has your eyes snapping open and jolting upright, shuffling around to stare at your partner who, for all his towering intellect, has never been able to distinguish a whisk from a sieve.
"You cooked? I didn't hear anything. What happened, were the batteries dead in the smoke alarm?"
"I'll have you know I actually replaced them recently."
Your skepticism retreats as you register Higuruma's mildly wounded expression. He turns to the side table, retrieving a breakfast tray and setting it before you. True, the yellow oblong by the perfectly browned discs is a little squat and misshapen, but it's distinctly missing the burnt, greasy odour you've come to reflexively associate with even his best attempts.
But this morning, you aren't even seeing any flecks of black. In fact, you start to notice the specks of green.
"Scallions?"
You raise the dish, squinting at the garnish, before lowering it to stare at Higuruma.
"Who are you and what have you done with my lover?"
"I guess I'm just some other man who's fallen for the charms of your terribly exacting egg standards," he deadpans, ruffling your hair and pressing a fork into your hand. "Now dear, if you'd be so kind as to make your judgment."
You take a sip of tea, made exactly how you like it (black, half a teaspoon of sugar, sans milk or creamer - maybe this man seated across from you isn't an impostor after all) and once you've washed down your bewilderment, set to properly tackling breakfast.
You take a breath, and let your fork cleave through the omelette. It cuts through cleanly, and doesn't wobble once on its way to your mouth.
It's...edible, you decide. Serviceable even, provided you were getting served at a road side gas station. But then you remember who cooked it, which practically makes it a 3 Michelin Star meal.
"It's good. Properly seasoned and everything." You smile, taking another bite.
"So how many dozens of eggs did you go through before you achieved this masterpiece?"
Higuruma shakes his head and huffs, casting his eyes heavenward. "Oh ye of little faith."
"In my defense, this is a novelty, Hiro. You've never spoiled me this way before."
You chuckle, tweaking his cheek, and his put-upon morose expression falters, as affection glimmers in his eyes instead.
"Three-quarters are still intact," he informs you, watching you sip your tea.
"Three quarters of the carton?" Your lip curls knowingly around the edge of your mug, and something stirs within Higuruma.
"Of the tray," he confesses, pulling your hand into his, starting to rub soft circles against your wrist.
"Couldn't be too cautious, hm?"
"I had Wikihow's assistance. And it's not my first time cooking eggs, you know."
You chew on the bagel for a quiet, contemplative moment.
"But the first time serving them?"
Your partner shrugs, but the way he averts his gaze for a moment tells you what you need to know. You squeeze his hand, and he looks back up at you.
"Thanks, Hiro. For making the morning special." You brush your forehead against his, savouring his happy hum reverberating against your cheeks as you put the tray off to the side.
"With this display of confidence, maybe you could even try tamagoyaki some time."
"Well, now that seems a tad ambitious-" Higuruma begins to equivocate but you shut him up with a kiss, tossing off the quilts and clambering into his lap, your appetite truly having been awakened at last.
He lets your hunger rush over him, falling backwards as his tongue greedily clambers towards yours, feeling a burden lift as your weight presses him back into bed, as your hips settle into their slow, needy grind against his. He kisses you, drinks you in more deeply, tasting the tannins of the tea he'd over-brewed while fussing with that dang omelette, but mingling with your scent and sweetness, it's nothing short of the most potent ambrosia. Higuruma groans, he's been parched of your taste and starved of your touch for weeks and weeks and he wants - needs you to drain him of these reservoirs of ache and desperation that have been suffocating him for so long.
Delirium and his desire floods through you, Higuruma's hands skittering everywhere, almost antsy enough to shred the fabric off of you. Higuruma nips urgently at your lips and you let his tongue, his limbs, his scent coil around you, entwined in his essence and embrace. His name spills from you in shallow gasps, pleading for a minor reprieve from the pleasure, but he persists, busying himself at your nape, suckling eagerly, flint-edged nose and canines planting tender bruises. It's only when you flinch slightly from the overstimulation of his roving mouth that he relents, reluctantly, tipping your head back to assess his efforts.
He likes what he sees; Your skin glowing in roses, dewy with his sweat and spit. Your famished gaze, devouring him as he devours you
"Maybe you should spend more time in the kitchen after all," you giggle, running your hands through his scalp, and you feel that burst of familiar wet heat as Higuruma quivers underneath you, a sodden spot growing and twitching against your core.
He presses his lips to you once more, his smirk both scalding and saccharine as he murmurs, "Never mind my rudimentary culinary skills darling, I'm going to spoil you in all the ways you already know, and then some."
The fic I've always wanted to write
I don't know what to say about this one because it means a lot. Maybe once I get some distance, I've spent too much time with it. I'm just glad to have made it for Nanami's birthday, under the wire. But also it's unbeta'd.
The format is new for me too, sort of a slow-burn triptych, best thought of as snapshots. I want to experiment more with it in the future, so I hope it does well. Please let me know your thoughts!
Thread Count
Genre: Slow Burn, Romance, Friends to Lovers
WC: 5.3k
i.
Ache, behind the eyes. Throbbing. Fizzling fiber optics.
Static hissing. Constant haunting. Pelting silver sibilance. The ghosts chorus against asphalt.
Chill in the air. Condensing upon dewy brows. He tilts his head ever so slightly. Satin relief, the sheets are cool too. Except in one spot.
Warmth already leaching into his palm, from his abdomen. He flexes his fingers against the fabric, to assess how horribly he's stained this bed.
This thread count is too high.
Shit.
"Relax."
His body refuses, does the opposite. Freezes as he hears his name dissolve into a warning. Something fractal spreading in his lungs, spidery and sharp, an icicle breaking off between his ribs as he struggles to sit up.
A hand settles in the crease of his elbow, touch no longer tentative. Firm as the voice, equally familiar. Too familiar.
"It's okay, Akemiuchi's loyalty program is gonna guarantee me a decent discount on the next duvet."
"I'm-"
"It's a good chance to rack up those points. There's this crocheted quilt I've been eyeing? It's the cutest thing ever. I'll show it to you next time."
Nanami winces, sweet intentions souring into an implication. An imposition you've already accepted as inevitable. He's the worst.
He had a few moments of consciousness to spare, he knows he did, could have called Ijichi or Shoko even, directly, but no he'd wasted those final flickering seconds to drag himself over here.
The last thing he remembers before slumping over was your welcome mat. Rubber now, instead of fabric.
He can't keep doing this. Not to you.
"Phone." He rasps.
You fluff the pillows behind his head. "It's charging."
A rectangle glares in the periphery of his slits. 3%. It'll do. Ijichi's prompt with calls, especially those coming in at this hour.
" - a real viper's den of cables, took me a while to find yours. I told you you should switch to Android, that port design is super dumb - Hey."
Fingers clamp down on his wrist before he can even reach the nightstand.
"It's late-"
"I was editing a presentation anyway. Clearly we've both got issues with work boundaries."
His arm stretches out again, sinews shrieking their protest, bones creaking their own echo. He ignores them. Deft fingers skate up his swollen biceps, insistent. There's a pressure at his shoulder and he flinches. When had you gotten so strong?
When had he gotten this weak?
"Crap - sorry. That hasn't healed yet? Or is it new..."
He doesn't dignify you with a response, but the tight seam of his lips reveals enough. Nanami's further given away by the loose slump of his limbs. Defeated and betrayed by the mutiny of his howling muscles.
His body sings its triumph with a fresh pang rolling hot through his gut, crimson banner unfurling over ragged veins. He'll be damned if he admits to such a vicious victory. Nanami sucks in a breath instead.
"Fine, don't tell me."
There's something clipped in your voice, something abrupt in the way you stand and stride to the bathroom. A cabinet creaks, but that's all. Nanami watches the silhouette of your hands meld into the shadows to retrieve something off a shelf.
The lowest shelf.
There isn't any other sound besides the soft shuffle of your returning footsteps. Well, of course you'd know where everything is in your own home. Including the things you rarely had a use for. You hadn't even bothered to switch the lights on. Nanami wishes you did. Wishes he could confirm your dry eyes and blank face, numb and neutral as you moved through the motions of getting medicine for the man who has soaked your front step scarlet again.
Routine, right?
The tub thuds against the table, crisp and resolute.
"There's a quarter of the salve left," you mutter. You aren't looking at him. You wouldn't be able to see him in this dark anyway.
"If it isn't enough, I've another jar. Top drawer. Aspirin's there too."
Easy access, even blind, Nanami thinks. The room's still swathed in navy blues. He's invisible in this ink. It feels safe to smile, just for a moment.
"Thank you."
Your head tilts up and his mouth hardens with restraint once more. They were just two words, you couldn't possibly have detected anything beyond civility in them.
But there's a suspicion, once tightly coiled, now starting to slither from the base of his spine and it's this: People don't unquestioningly accept their ex-colleagues into their apartments at 3am to bleed into their bed, out of sheer politeness.
A sliver of a pause before you say,"You're welcome."
You move to the door.
Nanami exhales, the exhaustion deflates and the stubbornness exsanguinates as his bones relearn their weight. Your palm meets the handle and you let go of the breath you didn't know you were holding. But it hitches when you hear the grunt of your name. You glance over your shoulder.
"Akemiuchi, was it?" An index prods at your comforter.
"Uh. Yeah?"
The confusion furrowing your brows is clear in Nanami's mind, he knows just how those lines will knit and scrunch your puzzled expression. He knows, even at a distance, with you all the way across the room how you'll shrug and shake your head at his apparently random question.
"Okay."
"Okay. Rest well, Nanami."
Then you're gone, and it's safe now.
It's a famous brand, there's a branch three blocks down from his neighbourhood. He's seen the quilt, a recent addition to the autumn collection. An elaborate fuss of mint and pastels, taking pride of place in the storefront window. It's got tassels too.
Gaudy, unabashedly.
Nanami closes his eyes and his mouth twitches.
ii.
He shows up at your doorstep tonight, a night of thunderstorms, looking like an envoy of Zeus and giving you about as much warning. His always imposing silhouette had crumpled in a crack of lightning.
When the skies next belched and blanched, you'd seen his clothes drenched with rain and red. And a goopy violet you'd never seen before.
"What do you tell people?" you had asked early on, not expecting any proper answer. You were right not to.
"They don't ask."
"You don't let them." It's neither question nor confrontation, but you get confirmation in his silence, eyes downcast amidst the downpour.
He'd had the decency to be mollified about the dramatics.
You were people to him too. He'd given you the same answer he gave everyone else. You could tell how well it was rehearsed, even through his grimaces, mumbling his way through something about Private security.
Unlike others however, you weren't polite enough to accept his excuses. Especially not when he dripped all over your carpet.
"I'll replace it," he shudders, heaving himself against the edge of your bathtub.
"It's $3000," you pointed out, kneeling and pressing a towel to his side. He arches a brow, not so much shocked by the hefty price tag, but by your lavish attitude towards interior decorating. You, on the other hand, are startled by a swoosh and soon after, the chime of your phone receiving the bank's notification.
You stare at your screen, then back up at Nanami, who simply pockets his mobile with a small shrug.
Somehow, it seemed smug.
Whatever this new gig was, it paid a hell of a lot better than the previous one at which you two had met. You pull the cloth away.
The fibers are saturated red, staining your fingertips. What kind of job could be worth this? Moral fetters at the expense of financial freedom, was that the trade off Nanami had made? Nanami Kento, whose Monday blues seemed to colour every week for all the years you had known him, whose bleak, sombre expression stayed whether cast under cost-cutting fluorescents or the neon glitz of Shinjuku's excess.
You remembered the distant din of middle management's chants, the chugging and choking of sycophants, all muffled by plumes of cigarette smoke escaping thin lips, and a jacket draped wordlessly over your shoulders. Sobriety never seemed to be an issue for him.
Yet, he always appeared more exhausted than his hungover colleagues, the shadows beneath his naked eyes darker and deeper than those hidden under the department head's sunglasses. Nods to decorum couldn't disguise the stench of alcohol or the slur of his speech, a nasal wheedling appealing to Nanami's efficiency as another stack of files thumped down unceremoniously before him.
You gaze at Nanami now, beneath the bright white lights of your bathroom, teetering on the edge of your tub. He looks just as tired, except now he reeks of iron, not whiskey. Liberated from a desk, still duty-bound. We all pick our poisons and our prisons, you think.
The two of you have an understanding by now. Whatever his next chapter was, that story is sealed behind a steel vault, nothing will ever rust away at its hinges. You don't care. You're just...nosy, occasionally. The fib forming from a few bad habits, like how you couldn't close the door on this particular part of your past.
The consternation had been there before, threatening to bubble over, acidic enough to bleach bones. Yet even then you knew, Nanami had no use for emotional effervescence.
So what could you do, but wipe away the stains and residuals? Return him smudge-free glasses so he's immaculate and impassive once more. Though there's no alternative to ignoring your instincts, the filtrates of fear never quite boiled down to what you could label as mere curiosity; still corrosive, always gnawing away at you.
In the stretch of months after, in his indefinite absences, the fangs drill down to your marrow. You only muzzle its maw when Nanami reappears with gashes and abrasions and an expression masking whatever else his shredded suits can't.
And you, you've gotten pretty decent at disguising the twisted relief that comes with finding his pulse; intermittent, but in your hands.
"You always did have expensive taste," he comments, catching your stare before you can tunnel further down that rabbit hole.
You blink, then snap the clasps on the first aid kit and scoff, "Please, your midweek coffee bill was double my lunch budget for the month."
Your hands make quick work of the packaging.
"Even if I was buying for two," you add.
"Did you want a reimbursement? You always said it was your treat."
You roll your eyes. "Because someone always forgot to take a break. Seriously? Not even a vending machine sandwich? Nobody should be able to survive solely off six espressos."
You pause, laying out a few other implements. "The cafeteria's ciabatta is a lot better now though, after you gave them those tips. Shame you left before you saw the benefit of your feedback pay out."
"Hm."
To anyone else, the sound is non-committal. But you recognize that hum, the rich roundness hinting at his satisfaction, that a minor injustice of yeasty mediocrity had been redressed.
You recognized it, because it was rare and you'd always had to strain to hear it, replaying it in your mind to compensate for the sore dearth set by reality's quota.
"Besides, I couldn't risk our top sales lead collapsing from low blood sugar at an important stakeholders' meeting. Oh, and Shuichi's department head now, so thanks for that."
There's a suspicion of amusement which rumbles low in his chest, a sound you've heard even less frequently, and so conversely, dreamed about more. But it cuts off abruptly into a rough grunt when your fingers ghost over his ribs, swiping antiseptic. You look up sharply.
"This is even worse than-"
"It should have been you." Nanami's interruption rings mildly vexed, to your surprise. He grips your hand with a force that's even more unexpected, as he pulls it away. "You had more seniority than him."
"Yeah well, you know how it is." you mutter, fist clenching around the cotton swab before hurling it into the bin. "Apparently women my age are meant to be running nurseries, not boardrooms."
Nanami watches you fiddle with the surgical thread, spooling it through without hesitation. Meets your gaze, unclouded by worry or weariness. It had been 2am when he had turned up unannounced. And he feels your hands, reassuring warmth hovering over his wound. He nods once, and you touch skims over ruptured skin, where a fresh scar awaits to adorn his obliques.
His breath seems harsh and loud to his own ears.
"You could manage both if that's what you wanted."
"What makes you think that?"
"You're capable of a lot. Discipline and kindness."
The crescent of your eyes and lips glint brighter than the curved piece of silver weaving in and out of his flesh. It's a pleasant distraction, he'll admit that much.
"Ruthlessness too," he adds, wincing as the needle digs into a particularly tender spot.
"Go on," your smile is sardonic, both bee sting and nectar. Nanami feels a twinge in his rib cage, in his chest free from any visible bruises.
"You're beautiful."
Maybe he lost a lot more blood than he realised. He only notices his accident of sincerity when the thread is tugged tense, the needle jerking back abruptly. Then the anvil drops over his windpipe.
He glances at the gleaming point, barely quivering between your thumb and forefinger. The tremble of your lips is terribly obvious by contrast.
Desperation surges through him suddenly, a riptide of an urge to have them quake against his own, to savour your whimpers shaking against his tongue, give you a taste of your own medicine, have the pinprick of his incisors sink into where you're soft and vulnerable. You've given him countless stitches, and he hasn't left a single mark on you. It's unfair. It's cruel.
"How-" A distracting slip of pink darts out to wet your lips. The needle nips into his skin again and he has to hold back a groan.
"How is that trait relevant to being either a manager or a mother?"
Nanami grips the edge of the tub, white-knuckled as its porcelain. There's a pause. Longer than he's comfortable with, though you don't seem to notice. Or comment on it at least. Small mercies.
Then he says, "It doesn't hurt your odds."
"My odds aren't that great."
For a moment, Nanami wonders if you're still fishing for compliments. But then, dorsal finned mischief flashes in your grin and you let him off the hook.
"Most smooth-talkers aren't like you. More style than substance."
Your smile stretches wry, deprecation retreats into the furthest corners of your cheeks. "Not that I meet many of them though."
"It's difficult to find someone compatible." You lean forward, on the pretext of inspecting the knot before you snip the thread. Your hand settles on his knee. His spine stiffens into a limestone column. The caterpillars in Nanami's belly curl into tight cocoons.
"Someone who isn't intimidated by my ambitions," your fingers are feather-light, trailing up his toned hamstrings. Nanami feels the winged creatures twitch in their chrysalis.
"My desires..." Your palm curves higher, like your lips, closer to the apex of his muscled thighs. Newborn butterflies stir, damp with arousal. Nanami swallows, perhaps his spit could extinguish the sparks fluttering in his gut.
"Someone who's sensible and strong, who could hold me down long enough to..." The ridges of your knuckles have met the crest of his seams, any further and you'd feel the effect of your touch, of your smoldering eyes.
"...put a child in me." Your whisper fans the flames in his hollowed cheeks, in his skin scorching and stretched thin over the flint of his jaw, in the recesses of his throat, scratchy with kindling.
"If that's what we both wanted." It's the slightest graze of your thumb, but Nanami's already doomed by the briefest jolt of his hips. Fuck. You definitely felt that. Your eyes flicker, but by some sheer miracle, not downwards.
"Do you know someone like that, Nanami?" you murmur and he breathes hard, sees the vapour of his harsh pants slip behind your own mouth, parted and patient. Your fingers haven't moved a fraction too.
His brushes with death have sculpted his body, corded his chiseled torso with complete control, each synapse wired with lightning to assess curses, salivating for his flesh and demise.
Nanami knows the anaerobic burn of adrenaline, what it is to run on fumes into the jaws of danger, to dispatch nightmares, to delay the inevitable. Countless demons slewed in calculations of perfect precision, in single fell swoops and too close shaves.
You are the greatest peril Nanami has faced in years.
It takes every last fiber of his being, of his battered body, crafted far beyond the demands of labour and the delusions of purpose, not to buck into the threat and promise of your gentle heated hands or crush his mouth to yours.
"No," Nanami croaks. "I don't."
iii.
There's something soupy about the atmosphere tonight, thick with humidity, hot fog rolling in. The sheets stick to his clammy skin.
He doesn't remember how he got here this time.
Regret reverberates together with recognition as his cuticles clink against glass. There's the rustle of foil, conveniently within reach too. The plastic pops twice underneath his nail. The end of the row, Nanami notices.
He wonders if these are the drowsy kind, or maybe it's just a moonless night and all the shadows are melting together. Eventually he finds the silhouette he's looking for, slumped into a chair.
Nanami squints at the world's saddest mountain, gradually losing its slope. It's the blanket sliding off you. It puddles by your ankles, next to a basin of water, tinged pink and tepid by now. You shiver slightly, his eyes dart up and sure enough, there's the rag, twisted in your hands.
An exhale wheezes its way from his ribs and Nanami winces; he should know by now shallow sighs are all his sunken chest will allow. But the pain is dulling everything, pounding against his ivory dome like a petulant brat with balled fists.
His mobile - had you confiscated it? Such sly sweetness - Focus, landline then for a taxi, tip extra for the smears on the seats -
"You should be carrying an umbrella with you these days. Could probably fit one in that holster."
Your admonishment pierces through his haze, sounding less groggy than he'd hoped.
"It'd obstruct movement."
"Or try wearing a poncho, unless you're worried it ruins the lines of your suit." You stand up, retrieving a familiar looking quilt off the floor. The shipping had been free, he recollects.
"Given the latest state of your jacket however, I doubt that's a priority."
Nanami hauls himself up, or tries to. His deltoids have other ideas, and every muscle beneath them agrees. The veto is unanimous, and he grimaces.
You shuffle over, remarking, "I've been looking for a good tailor. I'm sure you have recommendations."
"Bulk orders from the department store," Nanami grunts, combating gravity as he attempts to swing his leaden legs over the bedside. You drag the duvet back over his lap and it might as well be lumber.
"Shame on you," you scoff with such force that he stops struggling for two whole seconds to look askance at you.
"Deluding some atrocious tie designer out there into thinking they have a shot in the fashion industry."
Against his better judgement, Nanami decides a snort is worth the risk. It isn't, obviously. He learns, too late, the appeal of mirth's medicinal qualities is gravely overstated.
"And if I told you they were custom pieces?" he snipes.
"Then I'd applaud whatever keeps attacking you."
A warning filters through the back of his brain, Whatever, not whoever. Suspicion alone is a lethal enough threshold to his world, he can't risk you. And yet he's here, the voice whispers. Far from an emergency.
"My assailants are probably acquainted with decent tailors."
Nanami's cynicism towards humour as a balm ebbs, watching your lips curve.
"I'm in stitches," you state, digits skimming Nanami's pectorals, skirting around the petunias starting to clot there.
"You took a dozen this time," you add, a little softer.
He lets your palm stay on his chest. "Where's my cell?"
"Down the chute."
"I'll use yours then." He brushes your hand away.
"Mine's outta juice too." A fist this time, knuckles pressed to his breastbone.
Nanami's eyes flick up to the ceiling for a moment, he's long suspended belief in heaven or gods, the gravity of his bones remind him of this; Any covenant he's made is between his cursed technique and body - more altar than temple.
"Got a pull out couch?" he asks at last.
"Oh shut up. You're staying here," you huff in disbelief and he looks at you, a Vestal Virgin with embers for irises. A braver man than him would wait for the hint of a spark.
But instead he says, "More water, please."
You nod, handing him a mug that's still warm but empty. "I'll fetch the thermos - oh, hang on. Let me rinse that out, sorry."
Nanami takes a quick sniff before passing it over. "Nicaragua?"
"Guatemala, Santa Isabel," you elaborate. "Tea's probably better for putting you down though."
"Water's fine."
You slip out into the shadows, taking the aroma of the dark roast with you. Nanami reclines against the headboard, your scent lingering in his passageways. Yet another inconvenience he's instigated.
A longstanding tradition, fitting its origins.
There had been a time when you insisted on oolong instead, or the superiority of Ceylon. You were convincing enough in those first few months, with your tiresome tirades and passionate grandstanding in the pantry, all before 8am.
Nanami had almost attributed your bright eyes to the beverages you rigorously argued for, even as he refused to deviate from the ritual masochism of his "sad bean juice". Not so much elixir as IV drip.
"That much caffeine will wreck your melatonin production," you berated him.
He had no idea what you were talking about but then, neither did you. The destruction of Circadian rhythms, the annihilation of any balance beyond the kind in the books you pored over (long after your bosses had dumped them on you a quarter to 7), would never boil down to what was poured into your mug.
The defeat was inevitable. Nanami told himself he didn't miss your near daily trivial one-sided debates; they just interfered with his morning reports.
Still, he had stared too long at the pair of steaming takeaway cups you carried in one day. "A peace offering," you said. "Robusta. The cafe down the street has a fresh batch every Tuesday."
You leaned forward, depositing them under his nose.
"Here's to the grind, on our terms." A croissant wrapped in the white flag of a serviette slides next to his cup, over the grey laminate of the table.
Compromise shouldn't smell this good on you, he had thought.
In your kitchen he's spotted both the conical slopes of the Chemex, and your stash of pyramid pouches with their loose leaf treasures. Just one more thing he's taken away from you on a night like this.
He's an aberration, an intrusion - much like the flavours infringing upon your tongue. It ought to be the routine lull of chamomile, instead it's coffee, keeping you alert; iron and tannin tangling in the air. Nanami's mind drifts to the rude awakening your taste buds must endure, wonders about the sweetness there, more hazelnut than herbal, strong or mellow, aggressive or pliant-
"Here."
Nanami reaches out, fingers grazing ceramic that feels like hearthstones. He finds the handle by sheer luck. The sips he takes are small and slow, tendrils of steam climbing up his sheer cliff face. Over the rim, Nanami feels you watching him absently. Your concern suspended over the ravine between the both of you, silence slack in your carabiners.
Then you murmur, "Your mouth's too hot."
His throat goes taut. "What?"
"I forgot. Now the reading won't be accurate," you sigh.
Something rolls off his shoulders when he recognises the thin beak of the thermometer outlined in your grasp. The sensation is more weighted than mere relief, Nanami can't quite name it. It's a residual sludge in his gut, turning the ground to mud as he tries to trample it.
"I'm fine."
"Liar." The mattress dips and the boulder in his belly plummets as he feels your body brush next to his. He pushes back, it's Sisyphean, your breath against his clavicle, his soles are slipping.
"What are you-"
"Last I checked," you interject, wrestling the covers over your laps, "this is my bed."
His knees buckle as you shove aside his thigh with yours.
"You'll catch this bug." The warning is futile, Nanami knows. He's already set down the mug.
Your tone takes on a solemn timbre. "An extra risk. There's no known cure for cooties either. Sorry to break it to you."
Nanami huffs through his nostrils, he ought to feel more patronized than placated. But there's a levity to your touch, gently pressing him back against the bed.
"And I really hope you're not a blanket hogger because I'll kick you out. Injured or not."
There's already too little space between you and him but Nanami turns on his side, stoic expression that much closer. "You should have kicked me out a long time ago."
"Probably," you agree.
Nanami startles as your fingers sweep beneath his fringe, pressing your palm to his forehead, then to yours, then back to his.
"At least your fever's broken, I think."
Perhaps the pills worked, but Nanami doesn't feel the same relief flooding your gaze.
"Are you sure?"
Your touch lingers, he leans into it. His temperature is rocketing, if anything. Hesitantly, Nanami's hand glides over your temples.
"You're too warm yourself."
"I'm not," you object, despite the steadily building furnace in your cheeks. "Check again."
"This isn't accurate," Nanami mutters, but his touch settles over you. His fingers should stay in a delicate arch over your head but his hand is drifting to cup your face, feeling your smile curve into his palm. He cradles it, together with the quiet of your breathing slowing into sync.
"I should keep a couple of shirts in the closet. What size do you wear?" you mumble sleepily.
"That's not necessary."
You crack open an eye. "So you're gonna insist on staying half-naked in an unmarried woman's bed?"
Nanami retracts his hand swiftly, as if he's been scalded.
"That's not what-"
"Don't get me wrong," you smirk, drowsiness completely vanquished. (Had it really been there in the first place? Nanami wonders.)
"Wearing just perspiration and bandages is a great look on you, but..."
You pull the blanket higher over the distinct curves of his biceps, shifting closer. "You'll get cold. And the forecast said rain tonight."
The meteorologists must be right for once, he thinks.The atmosphere is electric, frenetic with an impending summer storm. He can feel the crackling in his capillaries, heat condensing in the air.
You're an inch, maybe less, away from his face now. Near enough anyway that he can make out the feathered arc of your lashes, can see how they'd flutter with each of his exhalations, if he isn't careful.
Nanami holds his breath, becomes statuesque. You notice.
He's a magnum opus of masonry, Michelangelo's misery, muscles cast in moonlight and breaking all mortal molds - but the truth is, he's built himself from scratch. You know this. You've admired his Adonis belt, cut from alabaster, yes, but you've also witnessed that rigid expression, pale as chalk. The bricks in his abdomen, the welts chiselled crudely into his spine, your hands have traced all this.
It's how you know where to look for movement now, your palm pressing over the telltale pounding in those marble pectorals, fingertips skating the shadows that dance along the column of his throat. Nanami swallows cinders, the inferno in his belly growls. There is smoke in his lungs, his trapped protests, his warnings will taste like ash.
Because Nanami's not sure how much more of your mercy he can take, how many more miracles will lay to waste his mornings and nights as he remembers the softness of your skin, free from soot.
Reality isn't this good to him, Nanami isn't kind enough for it-
But you are.
Your kiss is gentle, glacial. Mouth drifting over his, as innocuous and inevitable as an iceberg.
A kiss so gentle it rips the hull of him wide open.
A hissing, gasoline fumes siphoned from his clenched teeth as he rolls your body on top of him and his cracked ribs, your gasp tangling with the rustle of the sheets. They bunch in your fists as he feels you struggle to push away from him, to alleviate the weight, but Nanami needs it, like pressure upon a spurting wound, grabs your hips and holds them flush to his own as he locks his other hand around your nape. He nips your protest in half, teeth and tongue raking and tilling along your bottom lip, until at last you let submission bloom in the bruises there.
Nanami doesn't know if he will survive this tenderness; if it'll survive him. The struggle is exhausting. But then, your hand clutches the hair at the back of his neck, roots silken in your strong grasp. Soft blonde strands sprout through the gaps of your fingers, the furrow of your brow eases into a plateau, a quiet moan pushes into his mouth; and Nanami knows he's lost.
And found again.
He feels the sickle of your smile, the swipe of your tongue as it reaps the first fruits of spring.
The scent of rain starting to fall can't compare to the taste of you, the scattered sounds are even more vague. Nanami doesn't register the gale's shrill whistle, too focused on the high peals of your whimpers. Precipitation's heavier pitter-patter against the panes is drowned out by the hammering of your heart underneath him, all of heaven's rumbling can't contend with the rushed whispers of his name and yours. Nanami links your hands together, the syllables loop around your bodies tighter and tighter as the intervals between your chants get shorter, breathier.
You pull away from Nanami at last, not quite completely, as he tries to temper his greed by suckling at your neck, your pulse barely a pacifier for his petulance. You pant, head lolling further to the side.
The sky has mistaken itself for the sea, deluge of melodrama lashing against your window. The cityscape is shrouded in silver, though you're not exactly enamoured by the view at the moment.
Nanami coaxes your attention back to him, lips roving over your cheeks and chin and nose. He rests his forehead against yours, gazing deep into your eyes. The silence is different now.
There had always been a certain detachment and distance, as if he were tuned to the frequency of a far away planet, a separate world. Still, you were pulled into each other's orbit; a pair of satellites emitting mixed signals.
You sense him drifting now, calibrating, calculating again; static buzzing as he searches for the right words.
You sigh and tug Nanami into another kiss.
He's a little surprised the atmosphere isn't scorching, that he isn't burning up upon reentry, falling back into your gravity. The heat is still there of course, just under your tongue and evident in the kerosene trails you're painting across his chest. It's diffuse this time, simmering rather than searing. Languid as syrup, as butter browning in a skillet. No flash in the pan, you tell him, lips still occupied.
Nanami closes his eyes, the liquid light filling him brighter than any solar flare. You drag your kiss, slow and soothing, till it's tucked into the hollow of his throat.
"Sweet dreams, Kento."
How redundant, he thinks without verbalizing it, arm curling around his one impossible yearning that has already come true.
Quietness seeps through the room as you curl into Nanami's side, and he allows himself to drift into warmth's embrace; the warmth of a sunbeam spilling through billowing muslin curtains.
Not too long ago I got to this lovely number of followers, so this is my way of saying thank you!
P.S. This is exclusively for JJK Characters x Reader, as it's currently the only fandom I'm writing for!
About the Event
Our diner operates 24/7, we serve breakfast, lunch and dinner (and a couple more specific extras!) Each meal will be loosely based on a type of relationship dynamic and genre. Here's what you can expect:
Just in case the gifs above break, here's the menu again:
Breakfast - Flirtationships/Fluff Or Brunch - Friends to Lovers
Lunch - Established relationship/Domesticity
Dinner - Open Category/Hurt & Comfort (eg Pining)
Or Supper - Friends with Benefits
Kitchen Rules
You'll need to be following my blog @sandsorghum
Like+Reblog this post with #3MAD #sandsorghum
Please make sure you're off anon when submitting your request
(so I can tag or DM you!)
I'll be accepting requests until 30th June.
Limited to one per person
First come, first served: Each character can only be asked for up to 3 times
Please refer here for my general rules re: requests & dark content
Placing Your Order
Here's what else the chef needs to know from you!
Which character will you be dining with?
Is there a specific dish you want featured?
How spicy do you want it? [*0 Chilies = SFW, 1 x chili = Suggestive, 2 x chili = Smut] *All works will be non-spicy by default, unless otherwise requested
Any dietary restrictions/custom ingredients you want? This is where you can add other details. Eg you can ask for a FWB dynamic with Hiromi that doesn't actually involve intercourse! Or a Lunch Special where the couple is engaged or expecting or parents already etc
A sample request would be something like: "Dinner with boyfriend!Suguru (1 x chili, open genre)"
And this is what I could whip up for ya!
Looking forward to hearing from yall, if there's anything you need clarified feel free to DM me or come say hi over mail! :)
Christmas is a time all about Giving & Receiving, so I figured, What better way to celebrate the season than to write about the Love Languages of some of our favourite Jujutsu Kaisen guys?
What's their default way of demonstrating love, and how do they want it reciprocated? In this series published over the next few Tuesdays, I'll be posting analyses + headcanons/mini drabbles of these four characters:
Week One - Gojo Satoru
Week Two - Geto Suguru
Week Three - Nanami Kento
Week Four - Choso Kamo
C H O S O K A M O
Giving: Acts of Service
As a Cursed Womb Death Painting, the concept of love (outside of the kind between brothers) is pretty new and foreign to Choso. His reference points are going to be what he would be willing to do for his siblings, so I think he’ll be rather service-oriented, above all else. He’ll pick you up from work, book the tickets for your movie nights, brew coffee or tea in the morning for you, make reservations at your favourite restaurant on your birthday, etc. He’s thoughtful and takes what you think is a surprising amount of initiative for someone so reserved.
Receiving: Quality Time
I imagine Choso taking a while to adjust to this human concept of romance, it’s pretty puzzling to him. After all, the underlying, fundamental idea of leisure is something else he needs to get accustomed to, since he’s spent centuries existing as a weapon/warrior.
After a whole life of fight or flight, he didn’t expect he’d enjoy going on dates with you so much. When Choso wasn’t in battle, he was probably involved in preparing for the next one, and he has a similarly serious approach to planning your outings.
You’ll be ambushed with a two-day weekend getaway and a highly-detailed packed itinerary. Museum/jetty carnival/ boardwalk sunset stroll. (He hated the spinning teacups). He even schedules “free & easy time”, but you can convince him to let that take up the whole day so you two can do whatever you want, including staying in bed, cuddling (or perhaps more?) till lunch…
Choso also likes sharing a hobby or two with you. It’s likely he’ll eventually invest more research and resources into it than you, so he can enthusiastically text you about it throughout the day. It could really range from anything like crafts (eg candle-making) to sports (how about kickboxing?) or maybe it'll be a musical instrument.
The shopping expeditions for equipment are thinly-veiled excuses to hang out but you don’t mind at all. He’s keen to attend some workshop or courses so you can commit to the activity and grow alongside each other, but he also enjoys your suggestion of figuring it out independently together, just the two of you.
