Synopsis: Hoshina shows up for a standard photoshoot with some reluctance ... but things don't go quite as he expects.
(My first prompt fic for the ShowMeHow writing challenge. My character was Hoshina, and the prompt, provided by the lovely @pmpmyread , was "Show me how fishy you are.")
"Wait, I thought it was going to be Captain Ashiro?"
Setsuna slapped the signed agreement and profile down on the table-top before you.
"Not anymore. Some inter-division meeting came up, and she had to attend. You know how it is in the military. Her Vice Captain is taking her place. You know. Hoshina So - "
"Of course I know who he is!"
You flapped an impatient hand, hurriedly turning the bound pages of the document she'd handed you.
Setsuna sighed.
"Then what's the big deal?"
"They're not fashion models, Setsuna! They're officers of the JAKDF. I tailor each session to make them most comfortable. And now, I haven't even had time to - "
You cut off, staring at one particular line of the Vice Captain's profile that had sprung out at you.
Well, this could certainly come in handy.
________________
Hoshina Soshiro did not have a fashionable hairstyle, by any means, but somehow the sleek, dark, functional fall across his inscrutable eyes, the pert nose and fox-like face, gave him a charm that seemed to defy the times.
There was also the undeniable shift of wiry muscle beneath the casual blue shirt, with a white vest visible beneath, a concession to the warmer weather that had been creeping in.
You knew full well the angle you'd be expected to pursue in photographing him, stylish, sexy, elegant.
The look on his face, however, gave you pause.
He greeted you with easy warmth, the kind that came from interacting with many individuals as part of a career, but you could tell that he was ill at ease, a trifle reluctant, as if hoping to complete the photoshoot as quickly as possible.
You considered him carefully for a moment, before smiling.
"Don't like this kind of thing?"
He shrugged, raising an eyebrow.
"Don't really mind, but ... you can tell?"
"I've been in the business long enough to know. Is publicity not your thing?"
Hoshina's gaze was now traveling around the studio attentively.
"I guess it's one o' the duties that come with the job. I do what I gotta do. Having said that ... nah. Not really my thing, ya know?"
His Kansai-ben was lilting and pleasant on the ear, the sunlight coming through the open windows highlighting the rare violet of his eyes, and you were beginning to see why he was in such demand, even with his unassuming air.
A perfect model, and a model soldier, ideally representing the JAKDF.
You felt a certain stirring of admiration for this man who gave up his free afternoon, one of the few not spent battling kaiju, or overseeing an entire division, just to be here in place of his Captain.
Impulsivity had its claws in you, and you made a decision.
There was that line from his profile.
"Likes to find fun things to do around Tachikawa."
"All right, let's get started!"
______________________________
The first few shots were standard enough.
Hoshina passed at intervals into a changeroom through an adjoining door, appearing before you in an array of high-end menswear.
Monogrammed button-ups, bomber jackets, jeans that hugged the powerful lines of his legs, and fitted shirts that sat tentatively over his impressive pectorals, all highlighting his fine features.
The Vice-Captain would be a wonderful model, indeed, if it weren't for his boredom and despondency, well-hidden beneath impeccable manners.
You could tell that he'd never direct his frustration at you, since you were simply doing your job.
Thus it was that you put your plan into action.
Pausing in the relentless shooting, you looked up from behind the lens.
"Excuse me, Vice-Captain? I have a suggestion."
He cocked his head, curious.
"Sure. Am I not doing somethin' right?"
"Nothing like that! I just thought that you might prefer to make the photoshoot a little more ... fun?"
"Fun?"
He gave minimal outward sign of a shift, but you could tell that he'd perked up, ever so slightly.
Grinning, you gestured to a screen in the corner that closed off a section of the studio floor.
"Well, we've had some mascots from a children's daytime show come along, and they left behind some extras that our own costumes department provided them with. Why don't you have a look?"
Without further prompting, Hoshina hopped off the stool he had been posed on, heading for the screen.
Pushing it aside, he uttered a short, incredulous laugh.
"Wait, for real? I can wear these?"
You tapped your chin in mock contemplation.
"Only if you make them look as fierce as possible. You did bring your weapons with you, right?"
The smile that spread slowly across his face unveiled a level of mischief you hadn't even suspected at that point.
"Well, of course. Wouldn't wanna disappoint."
______________________________
When next the Vice-Captain emerged from the dressing room, it was in a giant mango costume, his face visible through a small open space above the 'seed' that covered his chest and abdomen. His arms, encased in vibrant yellow sleeves, were protruding, blades firmly in his grasp.
You clapped your hands together in delight, before raising your camera.
"Now that's a fearsome fruit, sir!"
He twirled one of the swords deftly, bringing it down to point towards the camera.
"I call this ... the Muromachi Mango. Beware my fructose flurry."
The high speed shutter caught every frame, enshrining the mango costume in a way it had surely never been used before.
Suddenly in his element, Hoshina was a natural before the camera, striking pose after pose, a mango destined for kaiju-slaying greatness.
Next was the giant sunflower.
The petals formed a brilliant burst of colour around his head, and this time his arms were the 'leaves'.
Blades held out horizontally on either side, Hoshina executed an incredible spin in mid-air, a floral whirlwind of steel, photographed to perfection as you hooted and exclaimed.
He landed gracefully, petals swishing.
"And what we calling this one, Vice-Captain?"
"The Shuriken Sunflower. I'll sever 'em good."
"I'll write you a haiku."
"You're a swell kinda photographer."
Third in line was the peanut costume.
You repressed the urge to stuff your fist into your mouth as Hoshina appeared in his most adorable look yet.
Since a greater length of leg was free of confinement in the current costume, Hoshina took advantage of this to move across the floor, so rapidly that dark afterimages were the only indication of the pathway his swords had followed.
Your camera managed to capture what your eye could not, however, and you secured some truly spectacular images of a death-dealing peanut in motion, lean, muscular arms lashing out.
Hoshina slid to a stop, one elbow propped rakishly on the stand nearby.
"You can call me ... Ninjato Nut. Givin' kaiju allergies since I first been shelled."
Your cheeks were now hurting from laughter, but somehow your hands remained steady.
There was no way you'd allow this to go undocumented.
"They're breaking out in hives all the way over in Ariake."
Hoshina's face appeared within the wide open mouth of the fish head, the pupils of its bulbous eyes rolling as they pointed ceiling-ward.
He shot you an engaging wink.
"''Scuse my awful puns, ma'am, but are ya hooked yet?"
"You have no idea. Go on. Show me how fishy you are, Vice-Captain."
"With pleasure."
His arms snapped up, elbows bent, the blades pointed inward. A menacing aura expanded within the room, the charging of the blades generating a pulsing glow that you captured immediately.
Now this ...
Slowly, the edges of the swords came up, then downward, slashing in a vertical 'X' shape.
The effect, in the final photo, was a glowing dissection of the fish into four perfect quarters, the head standing proud above it all.
Exhaling heavily, you glanced up in awe.
"What was that move?"
"Just thought it up, actually. It's gonna be ... the Sashimi Slasher."
"Truly inspired, sir."
Having reached the end of your session with him, you waited for Hoshina to emerge from the dressing room for the last time, now clad in his casual clothes once more, before offering him a deep bow.
"I can say, with confidence, that this has been the most fun I've ever had in a photoshoot with a client."
He rubbed the back of his head, almost sheepishly.
"Now, now, none o' that formal stuff. Gotta admit, that's the most fun I've had in a while too."
You straightened out of the bow, and he considered you, the corner of his mouth curving upward.
CW: mature themes, smut, NSFW/MDNI.
Title: Spellbound
Pairing: Nanami Kento x f!reader
Summary: In which you endeavor to help Nanami decompress at the end of a long day, and you get a little more than you've bargained for.
Content tags: established relationship, canon-divergent, fluff with some humor and some spice
WC: 4.8k
A/N: Written for the #ShowMeHow challenge for the prompt: "Show me how clingy you are." with Nanami! (ty @rahuratna! <3)
As it turns out, there is such a thing as too good a plan.
As you lie in bed within the haziness of your somnolence and in the absence of any other sensible explanation, you begin to consider that you just may have cast a spell upon Nanami Kento.
Directionally speaking, your initial intentions were rather innocent.
Sure, you’d intended nothing less than to ruin Kento, to have him come undone under your touch, unlike ever before, to witness his composure unravel and to make him forget, even if for just a few moments, the daily drudgery that has comprised the last few weeks.
Bonus points if he momentarily forgets his name as well.
After all, your tired, sweet man never complains much, not even when he sheds his proverbial mask at home, nothing beyond the occasional airing of a grievance that he rarely ever carries past the threshold delineated by your genkan. Work is work, work is shit, and home is… not work. It’s a separation that you find Nanami excels at maintaining.
Day in, day out, Nanami ventures out into the world, fingers clawing around the contours of his purpose as he tirelessly carries out the work he’s best suited to—his words, not yours. You’re very much of the opinion that he’s most suited for a life where his desires don’t continually come second to his duties, even more so as of late, as he takes on a slew of extra assignments to cover for other sorcerers who are out of commission over the next few days.
It’s a drop in an ocean, this moment of unrestricted release you seek to extend him, one during which he can relinquish his tightly held control over himself and let you take the lead so that you can reaffirm how worthy, chosen, and desired he is even amidst the chaos brought on by this way of life.
But if not you, his loving partner, then who?
The effects of a spell—such is how you come to attribute the nameless but no less noticeable shift that seems to have occurred within Kento after being subjected to your little improvisation.
As if on cue, his arm’s grip around your waist tightens like a vise, prompting a small gasp to escape through your lips.
“Kento…” you whisper tentatively, loud enough to be audible if he’s awake, quiet enough to let him sleep through if not, but you already understand that the wish you’ve vocalized a few hours earlier, as you’d felt him vigorously spill himself inside you with a devout gasp, has been unerringly granted.
Steady as a metronome, Kento’s shallow breaths brush against the back of your neck, wordlessly pointing to the eventuality that there is little you can do at this point to have him ease his grasp on you.
It’s earlier that afternoon when you find Kento already home. Your assignments for the day have sent you to the other side of town, which has unusually extended your commute back to your apartment. By the time you walk in, it’s much later than you’d prefer, slightly earlier than you’ve calculated, and yet somehow just in time, you find, judging by the way you find Nanami, standing before the stove, patiently waiting for a pot of water he’s set to boil.
You make quick work of taking off your shoes, quicker work of meeting Kento where he stands, of turning off the stove, and of gently seizing the boxed pasta from his hands, and of replacing it with your own as you reach up to give him a chaste peck on the cheek.
You can tell that it’s a familiar level of fatigue that stills him here, with his suit jacket long since discarded, and his tie off and hanging around his neck. However, if he’s a bit perplexed, he doesn’t act on it, certainly doesn’t fight it when you drag him by the hand to the bathroom and lean him back against the sink as you lay a wandering hand precariously low, just under his belt.
He obeys when you tell him to stay here.
Swift in your motion and with utmost efficiency, you proceed with the process of getting a bath started, all of maybe six words exchanged between the two of you since you’ve walked in, and it’s only as you return at his side, only once you solemnly aspire to progress from where he’s already loosened the first two buttons of his shirt, that you eventually slow down.
Your fingers languidly enact the practiced dance of unfastening a day’s worth of Jujutsu-related nonsense by ridding Kento of the remainder of the worn uniform that embodies it. Work is work. Home is where your thumb finds the thin golden chain glistening at his neck, it’s where your second hand slides underneath his undershirt to drag over the planes of his warm chest, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake while eliciting his suppressed shudders under your cool touch.
Home is where you unceremoniously reach back down into his trousers, after unbuckling his belt but leaving it on, bypassing his boxers to find him there, hard and thick, his erection a fulcrum between your bodies. It’s the only place Nanami Kento emits this kind of sound, some delightful thing between a hiss and a groan as his hips reflexively buck forward into your touch. Home sweet home is where you feel the salty taste of the bead that smears at his tip before you’ve even moved to take him into your mouth.
Astute as ever, Kento seems to read the thought right as it crosses your mind, and he halts your intended descent, catching you by the elbows right as you’re about to let your knees find the small gap on the fluffy bathroom rug, just before his feet. He leans down, tasting your tongue just before his lips find yours, suppressing your protest, which melts like snow before you can fully muster it.
“Let me get clean first,” he pours his smooth words into your eventual gasp for air, punctuating them with a light, airy chuckle at the expense of your palpable impatience.
“Let us get clean,” you clarify, only now releasing the rigid length of him that now pokes into your belly in earnest, before stepping back ever so slightly, and letting him witness as you pull your shirt over your head, “And then let me ruin you.”
It’s one of many promises you’re resolved to honor before the evening is through.
Things heat up quite quickly, as they often do with Kento.
The distance between the bathtub and your bed is measured in soft moans and misty breaths. Whatever weariness he might have exhibited earlier seems all but evaporated, replaced by a kinetic vitality that mirrors the profound passion you know him to embody.
Kento accidentally drags the towel he’s used to dry you along with him amidst his rapacious shuffle, only noticing it now as it snags between his legs, almost tripping you both as he carries you across the hall. He curses softly, and you can’t help but giggle into his shoulder at having found a renewed impatience in your man, one that rivals your own and that only further signals that you’ll have to act quickly to gain the upper hand.
So when Nanami tries to gently drop you down onto the mattress, you bracket your legs around his waist, sliding your right heel up his back before digging it there, pressing him to follow you in your descent.
He melts into the side of your neck, his touch a delicate dance of soft nibbles and wet licks, a testament to the untamed winds powering his lustful sails.
“Hey, flip us over?” your low murmur drifts right into his ear, “Let me get on top.”
Kento stills momentarily, and you can almost feel the thought as it crosses his mind, almost hear the remark surfacing through the fog of his stirred-up mind—you’re feeling a little bolder this evening, pleasantly so.
He pulls away, and his gaze seeks yours, as if to assess your certainty.
“Please?” you add, for good measure, lightly stroking his flushed cheek with your thumb.
Thankfully, he does. And that’s phase one of three cleared.
By this point in your relationship, you hold several months’ worth of diligently cataloging the intimate affinities and preferences specific to Nanami under your belt, many of which you gradually come to learn by reading between his lines, gauging him through countless interactions, encounters, and small-scale experiments.
You’ve studied Nanami the way one does a language they want to master, assiduously keeping a ledger of the acts that make your stoic guy tick, of the words that unleash that deliciously merciless side of him, of the many tactile tools at your disposal to successfully launch an offensive on his composure.
At this, you know yourself to be something of an expert.
While he’s never explicitly verbalized that he thoroughly enjoys having you on top of him like this, he also doesn’t need to. You know it, and you see it, even now, as you tower over Kento to straddle him and as he repositions himself on the mattress under you, his hands quickly finding your sides, fingers tightly gripping your hips.
Slowly, you lower yourself to hover just over him, and he never tells you this but you can tell just by the way his face twists into a hard expression, lips tight and brow low, that he loves whenever the length of him glides past your slippery folds to tease you without entering, loves it more when it happens unwittingly as you try to sheathe him inside you, loves it most when you get exasperatedly impatient at this.
So tonight, you play the part.
Your premeditation doesn’t diminish the earnest reaction this all draws from you, from him.
You don’t plan around the pleasured moans that bubble up your chest, surfaced by this lubricious teasing, even if it’s at your own hands that he rubs right at the edge of entering you.
You don’t need to induce the tears that form at the corners of your eyes as Kento slowly, finally and completely rocks up to close those last few inches of distance between your hips, driving into you in the way that you love, nudging you fully open with the delicious stretch of his girth—it’s all organic, your muffled moan to his pleasured groan, and damn, does it feel good, almost too good, certainly enough to lose yourself within.
It’s a seductive, most enticing notion, one that flirts with blotting out the sound part of your mind, but that you must forsake for a future next time, when you won’t need to lock in as much, to tap into your acute insight into the rhythm Nanami Kento likes you to take him.
With a practiced swivel of your hips, you’re careful not to raise yourself too high, seeking to strike that perfect tempo, all while striving to conserve your energy long enough to last at your coveted pace. Kento helps you find said pace, just like you knew he would, guiding your hips, occasionally moving a hand behind you to palm your backside and squeezing in a show of tactile encouragement as you take and hold him tight, all the way to the root.
The bed frame squeaks underneath your combined motions, and you settle into a rhythm that is as sonorous as it is familiar. You shift ever so slightly forward into your knees, taking a bit more control of your motion as Kento pushes up against you, meeting you where your hips flush against one another again and again, a heated pressure building up at the base of your spine.
You’re so wet by now, the rhythmic, audible squelching right where you meet with slippery friction signals as much. Here too, Nanami seems to read your train of thought and slips his thumb between you, over your folds, rubbing your slick all over.
In the swell of your pleasure, a lone thought surfaces over the loud, tumultuous storm of your mind, reminding you of your ultimate objective and of phase two.
There’s a measured delay before the few words you do manage to muster reach your lips, such as they are, and they come out as a murmur under a breath that breaks over the edge of itself.
“All yours, Kento…”
There’s a sharp intake on his next breath, a low grunt as he takes in your erotic artefact; all his.
While he may not be very vocal himself, Kento loves nothing more than to hear you like this, this audibly wanton for him, your words coalescing into the lighthouse that guides him in this dark sea of carnal bliss.
It’s a harsher grip Kento has on your waist now as he tries, as much as you’ll allow him, to drive you onto him. The fullness pushes the air out of your lungs, over and over, a most delicious, punctual stretch with every deepening, hard thrust.
Your cries are louder now, closer as you shift your weight further onto your knees with every thrust, progressively positioning yourself for phase three.
You keep an eye on him, on his expression, on the vein on his forehead that periodically surfaces before disappearing once more, at his labored breaths, precisely rhythmic in time with the buck of his hips when they get into contact with yours.
A flash of a tired smile crosses his face as he perceives you.
“So perfect,” he sighs as he bottoms out and holds, grinding for a bit. Your abdomen pulls taut at the surrendered tone of his words.
“You’re perfect,” you tell him, now earnestly quivering with your impending release.
You’re grateful when you pinpoint it, right down to the millisecond, the moment Kento’s face twists from strained to utterly wrecked, and you now know that much like you, he won’t last much longer.
So here’s phase three, both a culmination and a continuation as you let yourself fall forward in one swift motion, dropping to lean onto your forearms on either side of his head and bringing your hands to slide under his head, over his nape, sweaty fingers quickly finding that sweetly erogenous spot you’ve found over his undercut, rubbing slow, soothing circles over your targeted area.
Kento shudders under your touch, stiffens and jerks upwards, chasing friction as you reduce your movement to a halting grind. You pour your next words straight into his parted lips, your eyes leveled with his, seeking to find the deepest corner of his soul.
“I've got you, always… Don’t let me go.”
He immediately reacts by pulling you down flush against him to press his chest to yours, wrapping his arms around you and squeezing tight as he shifts to a wild, stuttering pace. The bed frame squeaks the loudest now, as you clench reflexively around him, seeking to use the remainder of your functions to keep coaxing his release.
“Fuck,” the rare expletive slips through Kento’s lips as his only warning, your signal to keep going.
So you keep at it, at whimpering whatever comes to mind, raw, and desirous and greedy. Your want to see Kento undone transfigures into a fervent need, one that dangerously feels as good as fulfilling it, so you painstakingly keep your focus on massaging that ever sensitive zone where his blonde hair runs the thinnest, bringing your forehead to his as you squeeze your hips around him and try to meet the frenzied pace at which he snaps up into you.
His angle shifts ever so slightly, sliding into you like silk, perfectly hitting the spot that sends a stinging, bright heat flashing down your spine, and it’s unknowable right up until the moment it happens, right up until you’re utterly gone, your release crashing into you all at once.
And when you vaguely hear Nanami muttering something indecipherable, you know he’s right there with you.
“Come for me, Kento,” your plea is spliced between the tremors of your flickering aftershocks, “don’t let go—”
You feel it tear through his chest and rumble through yours, a succession of deep, satisfied groans as he breaks his rhythm and sputters himself inside you, making you vigorously pulse and flutter around him.
For a moment, it’s just this—your heaving chest to his, your hands still at his nape, his still holding you for dear life, even some nebulous moments later, when you attempt to tear yourself off him.
You chuckle at his resistance, struggling for all of five short seconds before finally resting your eyes and settling into sleepy capitulation. When you hear him release a heavy exhale as if to release a burden, you decide that you can stand to stay here for a little while longer and make peace with the fact that Nanami isn’t planning on letting you go.
You next rouse awake to the bright, digital numbers on the bedside clock indicating it’s almost eleven in the evening.
Your senses slowly reawaken as you gain consciousness, and it takes you a few blinks in the darkness of the night to reorient yourself, to realize that you’re only less than half rolled off from where you’d dozed off on top of Nanami’s warm chest.
A minute shift of your leg reminds you of the sticky mess that still binds you to him, and of the unwavering hold he still has around your form from under the bedsheet he must have pulled over you both prior to passing out.
Your first attempt at untangling your limbs is met with some resistance from said hold—even within the depths of his slumber, Kento still has his arm curled under your waist, just a few inches lower from where he’d held you against him when you’d lost yourselves in each other.
Heat rises to your face, and you become aware of the dull ache settling in your overworked muscles, each sore spot throbbing faintly with the steady pulse of your heartbeat, and you’re overcome by a sudden urge to cool off and freshen up with a lazy, abbreviated version of your nighttime routine.
You inch your way down the mattress, painstakingly careful to slip away unnoticed, lest you disrupt Nanami’s sleep.
On your way to the bathroom, you find the towel that fell in the hall in the heat of your earlier moment. You smile at the memory, at the realization that you’ve accomplished what you’d set out to do, to have Nanami blow off much of the accumulated steam that was discernibly beginning to impact him.
In the hope of avoiding fully awakening yourself, you activate only the low lights and begin to clean up. A short moment later, as you lean back up from the sink after washing your face, you feel your heart give a sharp kick against your ribs, and you startle at the sudden appearance of an unexpected figure at the edge of your mirror’s reflection.
Your head whips around to find Nanami standing there, solely in his boxers, leaning against the doorway while contemplating you.
“Kento!” you breathe out, addressing him through the reflection as you lean over the sink to steady yourself. “You scared the hell out of me!”
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble as he approaches, finding you still trying to regain your composure.
“I thought you were still sleeping? I didn’t hear you walk in here…”
“I know, I know, I should’ve announced myself, forgive me.”
His hands quickly find your waist as soon as he’s within your vicinity, and he leans down to kiss the top of your head.
He stands there behind you, just silently hovering there for a bit as you pat your face dry. When you pivot to face Kento, you find an unreadable expression on his features, not unlike a fleeting mask of concentration, as if grasping for a lost memory. His fingers tangle in your hair, and he gently brings you down towards him, pressing your lightly damp cheek into his bare chest, holding you there before squeezing you tighter and longer than you anticipate.
“Hey…” you meekly whisper after a moment.
“Hmm?” you feel the vibration of his hum resonate right in your ear.
You exhale a laugh, feeling your body leaden with growing fatigue. “What are you doing?” It’s the most coherent question that surfaces as you struggle to grasp onto a more eloquent way to express yourself.
“Making it up to you. For scaring you.”
“Oh. Well, if that’s the case...” your words trail off into another giggle, this time at the solemn edge of his tone. “Though we should get back to bed, we have an early morning tomorrow.”
“Right,” he mumbles, begrudgingly reaching behind you for his toothbrush.
“Are you hungry? We pretty much skipped dinner…”
He shakes his head. “I had a late lunch shortly before you returned.”
“Are you sure? I’ll probably make a quick snack for myself, so just let me know.”
“I’m sure,” he says, as he shakes his head once more with an expression that seems to telegraph a thought that doesn’t quite reach his lips.
After applying your face serum and changing into proper pajamas, you make your way to the kitchen, grabbing two bowls from the cupboard and unceremoniously pouring some granola into each, with plans to supplement it with some dried fruit. If Kento won’t eat this now, you think, at least it will be ready for him in the morning.
The instant you make this reflection, he trails you into the kitchen, as if summoned.
“Yeah, I had a feeling you’d change your mind,” you say with a knowing smirk.
“I’m not here for that,” he says as he draws near to slot himself directly behind you, planting his hands on either of your sides on the counter, caging you in.
“Kento…” you start, a question, a warning. “We need to get back to sleep.”
“We will.”
“You start this now…”
He lets out a nervous chuckle, the sound a little strained. “I’m not starting anything, I promise. Can I just… Let me stay like this with you?”
Tilting your head back towards Kento, your eyes slowly adjust to the dim glow solely emanating from the stove light as you attempt to read his countenance.
“Are you good?” you murmur, your concerned curiosity imbuing your tone.
Kento’s head drops, and a slow, silent tremor runs through his frame, shaking his shoulders. A low, warm rumble travels through his chest, slipping through his lips as what is now an unmistakably unrestrained laugh.
“What—what is going on with you?” You can’t help but amusedly mirror his laughter, puzzled as to what’s gotten into him.
“I don’t know,” he states simply, with a surrendered shake of his head between chuckles.
Your bemused laughter grows and folds into his, a shared, breathless rhythm filling the sparse space between you.
“Okay, we’re clearly too tired, we’ve hit delirium. I need to eat this quickly, and we need to take our asses to sleep.”
You turn back towards the counter, and Nanami reaches for a spoonful of your snack.
“Let me help you,” is all he says, a mumble that rumbles right into your ear as he lightly nibbles it in the practiced way he knows you are unable to deny him. As if for good measure, Nanami also gently places his second hand over where yours might have reached up to halt him.
You quietly yield, and you have him feed you like this, still closely snuggled behind you, in the comfortable silence punctuated only by the periodic light clink of metal against porcelain.
Nanami leaves you long enough to brush your teeth and finish your skincare routine, but the moment is short-lived, concluding as soon as you slide yourself back into bed. Sure enough, he barely waits until you’ve settled before he encircles your waist once more, pulling you into him, his warm breath brushing the back of your neck, and he’s holding you comfortably but noticeably closer than you’re accustomed to.
This is where a subtle shift of your weight within his grasp proves more challenging than expected.
This is when you whisper his name, a soft sound that echoes in the stillness of the night, unheard by the man who is now decidedly fast asleep.
And this is when it first occurs to you, this silly notion that sometime along the course of the evening, Nanami Kento took the words you’d pleaded to in the heat of the moment, in their most literal sense, and that this is, in fact, the clingiest he’s ever been with you, like a man put under a magnetic trance.
It’s with this thought in mind, under Kento’s unyielding grasp, that you drift into a deep sleep of your own.
Some hours later, in the bright light of day, you realize that you didn’t dream any of it.
You usually wake up to Nanami’s alarm, often followed by his light squeezes of your shoulders on the tougher mornings whenever you have trouble waking up. But right now, as you open your eyes to a deceptively languid and slow-moving atmosphere, one that would better befit a leisurely Sunday morning, you already sense that something’s amiss, even before you drag your phone from your nightstand and confirm that it is in fact a busy midweek day.
A wave of panic courses through your veins.
“Shit. Ken—”
“We’re okay,” Nanami’s voice, still rough with sleep, cuts in from behind you in a low rasp, and it’s only now that you realize that he’s still lingering in bed behind you despite the relatively tardy hour. “I didn’t want to wake you just yet,” he adds.
His lips find your hand, leaving a delicate trail of kisses as they move up your arm and towards the curve of your shoulder. It’s a near-hopeless battle to fight, to try not to lean into him and to succumb to the tempting idea of just staying here and completely ignoring the day’s demands.
“Okay, well, you’re definitely going to be late if we don’t get up now.” It’s your own words that jolt you out of the contagious languor that threatens to win over your body and into a state of lucidity. This time, Kento finally yields and loosens his hold as you wiggle to shake him off. “We have to get ready. Now.”
A deep, dramatic exhale of a sigh comes through his nose, but you detect the mirth in his eyes before he speaks again.
“Oh, how inconvenient… I guess being short on time means we’ll have to shower together,” he replies matter-of-factly.
You twist back to face him for the first time since waking, finding him suspiciously evading your gaze in a way that utterly amuses you.
“Right, inconvenient…” you say with a smile, “Let’s pretend this wasn’t your intention all along.”
Within the next hour, Kento is good at doing just that, at snapping back to something that better resembles his usual demeanor on a work morning. He’s efficient as ever, both during and after your shower together, finding the time to get ready, to help you get ready, and to scarf down his breakfast, and by the time he’s waiting by the door, you’re still finishing up.
“I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed you get ready this quickly,” you say as you lean down to fasten your shoes, peering up at him.
“I have a vested interest,” he solemnly says.
“Oh, do you?”
“I want us to take the early train together.”
You pause to take in the implication of his words. “Aren’t you better off on the express—”
“We’re still early enough,” he cuts in. “I’ll make it on time.”
You rise to your feet, looking up at Kento with narrowed eyes.
“The early train is always so packed…”
“Oh, I’m counting on it.”
There they are again, like metal to a magnet, his hands encircling your waist and pulling you flush against him, much like he would on the packed train he usually prefers to avoid.
“You are so—” you cut yourself short, captured by the expression you catch in Kento’s eyes—it’s playful but earnest, it’s vulnerable and open, and it provokes a distinct warmth to spread throughout your chest, one that causes the word clingy to dissolve right there on the tip of your tongue.
You remember the hastiness with which you’d made it home less than twelve hours prior, the eagerness you had in getting to Kento, of distracting him long enough to lighten his mental load even if for a short moment’s time. Watching him now, so tactile and affectionate, eager to prolong in your embrace before duty pulls you away, you feel an irresistible urge to repeat the raw desire you voiced so openly the previous night.
Don’t let me go.
“You’re so going to be late if you keep this up,” is what you say instead for now, with a warm smile, as you snake your arm around his waist, mirroring the way he holds you as you maneuver to unlock the door and step out together, now finding yourself no less clingy than he is.
Title: Well Suited
Characters: Fushiguro Toji x fem handler!Reader
Contents: fluff/humor
Summary: In which Toji comically finds himself out of his element, and you find a new fitting term to describe him.
Word count: 1.6k
A/N: my first submission for the #ShowMeHow writing game/challenge, which you can learn about here. Thank you for the prompt, @rahuratna!
Here is my take on "Show me what a cutiepatootie you are." featuring Toji.
A quick glance at his watch informs Toji that it’s taken him exactly twenty-two minutes to withstand the full scale of the ambush he’s wandered into.
There is no overtness to this kind of attack, no blade at his throat, no gun trained on his spine.
He throws a furtive glance to his left, as if the layout of this ballroom might have shifted in its configuration since Toji crossed its threshold mere minutes ago, when he’d instinctively identified its three exits and mapped the two private security rotations with a single scan of the room.
Of course nothing’s changed—it’s still this ornate champagne tower he’s standing right next to, still a sumptuous, floor-to-high-ceiling, glass wall flanking him on the right toward which his eyes now wander to take in what faint reflection is visible beneath the washed-out glare emanating from a crystal chandelier above him.
In theory, the mission you have for Toji tonight is as simple as the two words that encapsulate his mandate. It’s certainly less complex than the usual jobs you’d enlist him for as his favorite handler.
Blend in.
That is the simple instruction you’ve given him, and yet, so far, this evening has all the markings of something that feels like it could pass for the trial of his life.
There are no targets for him to hit here, though he would almost prefer if there were. There isn’t even so much as a person of interest to surveil. Tonight, he is merely to serve in the capacity of your plus-one.
The live string quartet at the front of the room switches gear, their performance swelling with a renewed, vivacious rhythm, and it’s one that befits Toji’s growing disquiet.
Moving around him is the glittering, slow current of politicians, donors, and executives alike, all donned in black and white.
A hostile environment masquerading as polite society, it is undoubtedly only somewhere like this that his adversary could secure this home advantage.
As Toji glances down at his watch, the sting of only two minutes having passed since his last impatient check fades as a new distraction pulls his attention.
He realizes it, even as he still engages in the motion, that this will mark the beginning of the end.
He finds himself unable not to yield to the urge, anyway.
Bringing his right hand to his left cuff, he tinkers with it, bringing his big, misguided fingers to make an unnecessary adjustment.
Shit, now it’s crooked.
He attempts to fix what he’s just managed to mess up
Damn it, now it’s loose?!
Oh, forget this, he thinks, his first concession of many this evening.
As he raises his head, Toji becomes painfully aware of the measurable margin by which this tight-ass tuxedo jacket limits his shoulder rotation, something he does not appreciate, not one bit.
Instinct seeks to counter restriction with movement, and he takes an involuntary slight step forward, but just as he does, Toji makes another sobering realization, this time taking notice of the way his shoes have the slippery traction of a poor tactical decision, enough to keep him aware of his every step.
“Tch,” he mutters, causing the most egregious culprit of the evening to press into him as his Adam’s apple bobs sharply with the sound.
It might well be what draws the limit. Toji brings a finger up to his neck, to this so-called bowtie that sits at his neck not unlike a garrotte, a decorative object of strangulation, and gives it a firm tug, hearing the fabric yield where you’d neatly fastened the knot an hour prior.
Years of fighting the deadliest Jujutsu sorcerers, of contending with the most dangerous members of this underworld in which he’s long since firmly ensconced himself, all culminating in this moment that has him outplayed, outmaneuvered, and utterly crumbling under the pressure of these small coordinated offensives that constitute acceptable formal wear for an overseas black-tie event.
A few meters away, from the other side of the glass, you finally find a moment to briefly tear yourself away from a conversation that has long taken a backseat to the amusing sight before you.
Unbeknownst to him, you’ve been observing Toji for a solid five minutes now, keeping what very much is a one-sided score on the battle opposing him and his outfit, one whose inception you can trace with certainty to the moment when you’d presented him with the ensemble the evening prior.
His demeanor was what first captured your attention, as you were still engaged in a conversation nearby—the way his hands hovered awkwardly, as if he didn’t know where to place them, the tension in his shoulders, as if there was an invisible set of ropes holding them up and restricting them. It’s the same posture he still has now as you make your approach.
The irony isn’t lost on you that the one thing that should have helped him be virtually invisible has become a cause for him sticking out like a sore thumb.
You gradually slow down in your advance, intent on both extending and savoring the time it takes to take in the invulnerable Fushiguro Toji way outside his element, dismantled by the discomfort brought on by a three-piece suit.
They're all so discernible now, in your newfound proximity—the rosy heat on his cheeks, the irritated crease between his brows, jaw set but eyes unsteady as his lips push forward, all the markings of the expression you associate with whenever one of his ambitious bets doesn’t play out in his favour.
As you navigate between velvet drapes, overdone gold accents, and towering floral arrangements, you admittedly note that this scene isn’t your speed any more than it is Toji’s, but at this moment, it’s only one of you who is visibly pouting about this.
It gives him a handsome yet endearing charm, the kind that leaves you searching for the perfect descriptor.
Just as Toji has half a mind to rip off these damn cufflinks, a hand comes down over his, a light, familiar, almost instantly calming touch that yanks him back to his senses.
“This wouldn’t need fixing if you’d just left it alone,” you say with a quiet, knowing edge as you pluck the golden pin from its misaligned position with your other hand and nudge it back into its rightful spot.
“Fire that tailor of yours,” he grumbles, trying but failing to conceal the slight sigh of relief upon realizing that it’s you who’s somehow managed to approach him incognito.
“Try that again?” you challenge, unfazed by words that aren’t as biting as they could sound.
“The measurements are all wrong.”
His deflection earns him a scoff. “I assure you the measurements are not wrong, I provided them myself,” you pause, lifting your gaze for a second to halt what you anticipate being his retort. “And yes, I double-checked them.”
You both know he won’t question your diligence twice.
“This jacket is too tight,” he says through teeth that aren’t as gritted as they should be anymore.
“It’s supposed to be a snug fit.” The amusement in your smile softens the edges of your voice.
“Is snug a synonym for strangling? Because that’s what’s happening up here, just so you know,” he rebuts as he reaches his free hand to the now-loosened accessory of most of his ire, only for you to gently pull it down to fix his other cuff, a snicker escaping you.
“It is so not strangling you, don’t be dramatic, Fushiguro.”
“I’m glad my pain amuses you. See if I tag along next time.”
“Please. As if you didn’t practically beg to come here with me.”
Your denunciation is met with a vindicating silence, further supported by the growing tinge of rose rising on his cheeks, a pleasingly accidental study in contrasts that livens up his otherwise tough countenance.
As your hands trace the curve of his forearms and arms, his bashfulness intensifies, culminating in a gentle squeeze of his shoulders and a final adjustment of his bowtie.
“You need to relax, Toji,” you say teasingly. “That’s what you need to do.”
“Easy for you to say,” he mumbles, unconvincingly.
“Hey, I’m not exactly in my element either, okay? I’m riding off my one strong shot of espresso as liquid courage. I just need that one conversation with our friend, and we’ll secure enough contracts to keep us fed for at least the next twenty-four months. Just bear with me, okay?”
Toji huffs in response but straightens back up into something that resembles him more.
“That pouting is the thin line separating dashing hunk from cutie patootie, by the way.”
Your words spill out unbidden, carrying a candid, unfiltered energy that gives you both pause as your gazes reconnect.
“From what?” Toji asks with a nervous scoff.
“You know… Big, flustered guy with a sulky face like this. Everyone here would feel safe around such a cutie patootie,” you emphasize your words by poking at his chest with every syllable of his new moniker.
“Yeah, okay,” he grumbles, his face and neck shading the darkest they have so far this evening as he averts his gaze upwards, finding a sudden interest in the chandelier hanging above you. “That sounds entirely like one of your made-up terms that would be more suited for Megumi.”
“It’s very much a real term,” you double down, pleasantly as surprised as you are emboldened by his reaction. “And I’m telling you it’s suited to you.”
“Hey, isn’t that your guy over there? You’d better refocus on your schmoozing and get us those contracts you speak of...”
“Oh, I can multitask,” you say, a renewed fire igniting within you at the idea of having a newfound thing to pester Toji with. “Follow my lead, and I’ll introduce you as my associate, Mr. C,” you add as you hook your hand around his arm, drawing him close.
Toji’s unease about his suit suddenly dissolves under the threat of a much more dire concern.
Link to Meridian, the Toji x Handler!Reader universe this is loosely based on here
Link to my JJK Masterlist here
