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nanamiya3 · 8 months

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toji and a germaphobe!!

toji x gn reader - mentions of killing ppl bc toji is big and mean and scary - pet names (darling, baby) - reader is a germaphobe/has a fear of contamination - fluffffff - wc. 2.6k

nature documentary toji is back i will never stop pushing this agenda. also i love toji sm but i just know he is a slob lolol (i found this in my notes app from like a year ago pls enjoy)

—

Bachelor Toji’s apartment is littered with unwashed dishes, rumpled bedsheets, and old boxes of takeout. He’s never learned how to clean—having grown up in the Zen’in clan meant there was always someone picking up after him, even with how horribly they treated him—and he was always a little too wild to care about looking prim and proper. Now that Toji’s on his own, he’s too busy taking jobs to spend much time at home anyways. The mess and grime don’t bother him since he’s only really home on the rare occasion to sleep and fuck, and the lack of sanitation certainly doesn’t bother his conquests, who are usually too lost in Toji to get lost in the clutter.

But then, he starts dating you.

As a Grade A germaphobe, you nearly faint when you walk into Toji’s apartment for the first time. You’re nothing short of shocked, springing into action immediately: rushing to pull aside the curtains to let light in, opening up the windows to air out the area, picking the clothes off his couch, straightening up the animal figurines on the bookshelf. You’re chewing on your bottom lip, wondering how Toji’s been living like this while the man in question just watches your lip disappear between your teeth, again and again.

Toji thinks he might be going insane, because he keeps feeling weird things when he’s around you. For starters, he feels embarrassed right now, concerned about your reaction to his apartment. He’s never given the mess in his apartment much thought, but right now you’re giving him the weird urge to clean, to make you think highly of him. But Toji thinks this all stems from the weirdest fact of all: the fact that he’s crazy about you.

Toji’s never wanted to actually stay with someone before—his life has always been a string of casual hookups, and that was how he preferred it. With you though, his mind turns to mush, and he thinks he’d do anything you asked. When Toji first saw you at the old dive bar downtown, he knew he wanted you next, beginning his incessant flirting and using the rugged look he always had after a week-long job to his advantage. You’d fallen for his tricks—the good ones always do—but politely declined his invitation to spend the night, looking flustered but staying firm. Normally, Toji would have just cut his losses and went home, waiting for the wire transfer to hit his account while browsing through the Nature channel for any new documentaries. But something inside Toji kept him there, nodding off the rejection, flashing you an unfair smile while murmuring “ ‘s all right darlin’ ” and continuing to charm you. And then, at the end of the night, Toji surprised himself: before walking off, he gave you his phone number. This time, unlike all the other times, Toji pulled out his real phone—not the latest cheap burner phone in his pocket he’d received for his most recent job, but his personal phone—and opened up the contacts app, showing you his full name and phone number. You’d typed his information into your own phone, sending him a small “hi!” to confirm it worked. And when Toji looked down at his messages app and saw your cute little text floating among all the other threads of inquiries into his… services, he felt an odd kick in his heart.

So, now you’re in Toji’s apartment a few weeks later, and this trained killer is feeling… ashamed? Yes, he admits to himself, he is ashamed of his cleanliness (or lack thereof) and would like to clean up his apartment before you start trying to do his laundry.

“Do you have gloves anywhere?” You ask him, surveying his kitchen with your hands on your hips.

“Err….” Toji’s trying to rack his brain for the last time he wore gloves - maybe the time he was sent to Osaka to kill a man and didn’t want blood under his nails; maybe the time he robbed a safe and didn’t want to leave any prints behind; maybe the time he—

Toji coughs, a twinge of embarrassment running through his body. “No, darlin’. Don’t think I’ve got any gloves here.”

“Hmm..” You’re chewing on your lip again, and Toji watches like a lost dog. “I really want to get this apartment clean, but I’m kind of particular about what touches my skin. Do you know where your cleaning supplies are?”

“Uhh…” Toji‘s now trying to think of the last time he cleaned in his apartment - maybe the time he threw away one of the moldy boxes of rice in his fridge; maybe the time he took out the trash and recycling (the recycling bin contained more trash than the actual trash bin); maybe the time he—

No, you asked about cleaning supplies, Toji reminds himself. Toji wasn’t using actual cleaning supplies in any of those examples, he was just throwing shit away. In fact, Toji’s not even sure if he has cleaning supplies.

“Well…” Toji clears his throat. “Think there might be somethin’ under that sink there, remember seein’ some bleach or somethin’ after signin’ my lease.”

The two of you peer underneath the kitchen sink, a single bottle of Ajax greeting your hopeful stares.

Yeah. Toji is feeling real fucking embarrassed right now.

“… Never really learned how t’clean,” Toji mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “… We could go out n buy the good stuff… Just need ya t’point it out f’me.”

You nod quickly, clasping your hands in front of your chest. “Great! That would be amazing,” you chirp, bright smile on your face.

So, Toji walks you down to the market on the corner of the street, watching diligently as you point out the different types of cleaners used on different surfaces, the various brushes and sponges he might want for scrubbing dishes and toilets and whatnot. He listens intently as you explain which disinfectant wipes are most reliable, the detergents you prefer, and the technology behind the available vacuums.

“—and I prefer these gloves, since they’re less rough than some other brands. They’re also soft on the skin and don’t tear easily, and the fact that they’re a solid color makes me feel more reassured than a clear model.. Something about clear gloves makes me feel like they don’t actually prevent germs, and then I think my hands are contaminated, even though I know they’re not—” You ramble on, motioning to the packs of gloves on the shelf.

When the two of you finally walk out of the store, Toji’s arms are decorated with three bags of cleaning supplies and you’re both marching back to Toji’s apartment with a renewed vigor.

You and Toji get to work immediately - you list off orders and Toji follows them to the T. The gloves end up being too small for Toji, so you make him swear to wash his hands after touching anything remotely dirty, your fear of contamination causing your mind to spiral at the idea of Toji’s hands tracking bacteria over things you’d then unwittingly touch.

As Toji deep cleans his apartment with your help, he learns cleaning techniques he’s never even heard of before. For example, Toji had never thought to clean his dishwasher, assuming it was just one of those things that would always be clean. When you show Toji how to combine vinegar and baking soda to clean out the pipes in his bathroom, he looks downright fascinated—like every 8th grader after seeing their science teacher perform the vinegar-baking soda experiment. And, when you explain each of the settings on his washer and dryer unit, Toji is completely in awe of the technology at his fingertips—really? His washing machine lets you pick the water temperature? And it has a special setting for blankets and bedsheets?

Toji also makes a few important revelations about garbage disposal. He’s about to toss the bag of trash down the recycling chute when you stop him, small hand gripping his wrist urgently. You tug his arm with the trash away from the recycling, quickly teaching him the difference between trash and recycling by listing off the items that can be recycled: paper, cardboard, plastic bottles, etc… Pointing to the different trash chutes, you single out the ones dedicated to recyclable materials: there’s the compost area, a glass drop-off bin, the plastic bottle chute, a box for bottle caps, the cavernous channel for cardboard…. And during your rushed lecture, Toji listens to every word, a focused look on his face as he reads the labels and signs organizing the garbage disposal room.

A few weeks later, Toji will go out and buy extra garbage bins for his apartment, sticking labels on the collection bins and scribbling down the intended category of waste. You’ll be shocked when you find the organized garbage system in Toji’s kitchen, a warm bloom of pride striking your chest. For now though, he promises to differentiate between his trash and recycling and to divide up his recyclables into even smaller and more differentiated piles.

After a long day of cleaning is finished and three loads of laundry have been thoroughly laundered, Toji’s apartment looks amazing and he considers himself a changed man. His Planet Earth DVDs have been dusted, the kitchen sink is empty, the six-month old burger in the back of his fridge has been disposed of, and his bathroom smells suspiciously…. good? He’s extremely proud of himself for how hard he worked today—seriously, he’s taken jobs easier than this—and to celebrate, the two of you pick up some ice cream and share it over a documentary about lizards.

When you officially move in a few months later, traces of your influence become visible in every room. First, your candles start popping up in all odd places: one on the bookshelf, three sitting in the kitchen, another on the nightstand, a few in the bathroom, and two in the living room. Toji loves it because the sweet fragrance reminds him of you, and it’s certainly much better than the thick, stale air he used to live in. Then, you teach Toji how to cook, so when dinnertime hits, the apartment starts smelling more like stir-fried veggies and fresh cooked rice. The fridge is now routinely stocked and cleaned, and Toji is still amazed every time he opens up the door and finds very fresh, very not moldy fruit. His weapons are also now sorted and organized: the linen closet across your bedroom now houses Toji’s… job equipment. Before, the closet held half unraveled toilet paper rolls, so you consider it a marginal improvement. At least this way, you won’t shock yourself half to death after pulling open the cutlery drawer and finding a dagger next to the knives.

life with Toji! little sequences :)

The first time Toji coughs into his hands in front of you, you gape at him, looking like you’re about to faint. You usher him into the bathroom quickly, making him wash his hands as you demonstrate how to cough into your elbow. He watches intently, drying off his hands and copying the way you bend your arm and bring it up to your face. You nod excitedly, exclaiming, “Yup! That’s perfect!” as a smile spreads across his face, happy to have learned something new.

When Toji first sees you wearing gloves while using the vacuum, he’s a little confused - is the vacuum contaminated as well? He decides it must be important to you, so he doesn’t question it, instead asking if you’d prefer he also wear gloves when he uses the vacuum. You’re chewing on your lip nervously, and Toji tugs on your chin gently to stop you from digging into the skin any harder. While you don’t want your own rules about contamination to impose on Toji’s life, you do think it would put you at ease to know that the apartment’s safe from cross-contamination with the vacuum.

So, you mumble out that you’d prefer if Toji either wore gloves while dealing with the vacuum and discarded the gloves before touching anything else or if he washed his hands immediately after using the vacuum. Toji doesn’t make any of the invalidating comments you’ve learned to expect— “The vacuum is perfectly fine, you’re overreacting” or “I’m not doing all that because you think you’ll get sick or something” —instead he just nods, murmuring “of course baby,” understanding written all over his face.

And that alone makes you heave a small sigh of relief. You’re not sure why or how to describe it, but something about touching the vacuum causes your mind to spiral over the potential contact with the dirt and grime collected inside the machine. Since you’re pretty sure scrubbing the thing with hot water and soap would probably cause some sort of malfunction within the wiring, you suffice with gloves and hand soap. Knowing that Toji will help you in your efforts to reduce contact and contamination with the vacuum puts you at ease, thankful for his easygoing manner.

The first time Toji tries to kiss you, you freak out. Something about the idea of someone else’s spit mixing with your own makes you shudder, and not in a good way. He’d leaned in, you’d immediately covered your face with your hands, and the silence in the room became deafening. You started to apologize, stumbling over your words as you tried to explain your aversion to “bodily fluids,” and Toji nodded, reassuring you that it was okay—he would wait as long as you needed. You honestly think you might never get over your fear of kissing, but then you kiss Toji for the first time just to get it over with and you’re absolutely melting into him. Your face is on fire as you pull away, but Toji doesn’t let you reel back too far before tugging you in for seconds. He eases you into kissing slowly, letting you get used to the sensation of small, closed-mouth kisses before gradually adding in tongue. And with someone like Toji as your partner, you soon find yourself worrying less about the exponential transfer of bacteria and more about when the next transfer will occur.

Toji’s just finishing up a job, wiping the muzzle of his gun against his shirt as he scans his surroundings. He sighs when he realizes he’s going to need to move the body, muttering under his breath about bacteria and filth as he roughly drags his target away. He checks underneath his fingernails for any traces of dirt or blood once he’s back out on the street, pulling out the travel-size hand sanitizer you gifted him to clean off his hands. Toji plans to head straight home to you, so to prevent any worrying on your part about contamination or germs, he massages the sweet-scented anti-bacterial gel into his skin. When he does get home though, grinning at how much of you he can sense in his apartment, he washes his hands again, changing into clean clothes before helping you with dinner.

Toji’s so grateful to you for being so patient and teaching him so much about taking care of himself. He proudly considers himself a changed man, surprising you by wrapping his loving arms around you whenever possible and relishing in the way you squeak in surprise. He! Loves! You! So! Much!!

—

your honor, this is not weaponized incompetence. he’s just incompetent.

#jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjk toji #toji fluff #toji fushiguro #jujutsu toji #jujutsu kaisen toji #toji zenin #toji x you #toji jjk #toji fushiguro x reader #toji x reader #toji fushiguro jjk #toji fushiguro x you #toji fushiguro fluff #toji fushiguro jujutsu kaisen #toji fic #jjk x you

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nanamiya3 · 8 months

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toji is the john wick of jjk because i said so hehehhehh

also more than 1 post from me in less than a week who am i? jk i wrote this forever ago & forgot about it until now </3

toji x fem reader - reader is toji’s wifey!!!!!! - also kinda bimbo reader lol - mentions of guns, violence, kidnapping - super heavily influenced by john wick - wc. 1.3k

—

Toji’s reputation spells something along the lines of: ruthless killer, refuses to die, and death, death, and more death. His determination, focus, and raw talent define him as the best assassin in Japan. He’s merciless, motivated, and armed with an iron will so strong a bullet would hardly make a dent; it’s why he’s the only one able to walk away from a fight with hardly a scratch. He’s rough around the edges—wild when he fights, lethal when he’s got a target, and flawless in his form.

And yet, Toji has an Achilles heel.

His wife, his love.

Toji the assassin is all of the above, but Toji the husband is soft and sweet and so utterly consumed by love it’s hard for even him to understand.

Toji’s hands are anything but gentle: together, they’re likely responsible for the deaths of thousands. Bruises and cuts and calluses are scattered across his knuckles and palms and fingers, but when those hands touch you? God, he’s achingly sweet, practically the epitome of gentle. A soft sweep of his thumb across your temple, a light tap of his pointer on your bottom lip, a warm press of his palm against your cheek. The same hands that roughly reload magazine after magazine find themselves tangled with your own at the end of the night.

Toji wears his wedding band wherever he goes and it quickly becomes the last thing a good number of people ever see. He never takes it off because he wants everybody to know that he’s completely yours. He also keeps a picture of you tucked into his pocket and he pulls it out, running a thumb over how the apples of your cheeks swell when your mouth splits into a smile, whenever he needs a reminder of the good in the world. Someone shot at him once while he was smiling over that picture of you, a stray bullet nicking the edge of the photograph. So much blood soaked the picture while Toji got his revenge he had to get a new copy printed.

Toji’s not a big talker, so you don’t hear him professing his love for you often. Usually, he opts for three short taps against your thigh, three light squeezes to your hand, three sweet kisses on your forehead—his way of silently confessing he loves you. But, sometimes he’ll murmur out a deep “Love you, darling” and you feel your heart squeeze impossibly tight, immediately whispering it back.

And there’s one rule above all that everybody knows to follow: Don’t touch Toji’s wife.

Is your address relatively secret? No. Almost everybody knows where Toji lives, mostly because they know where to avoid. Would it be easy to harm you? Probably. You’re no crazy martial artist and you’ve never shot a gun, an attempt at self defense would probably hurt you more than your assailant—you’re too sweet to harm even the little spiders that make their way into your home, forcing Toji to catch and release the critters. Despite all of this, is anybody actually willing to hurt you? Absolutely not.

In this case, the risk (inevitable death hand delivered by Toji) vastly outweighs the benefits (hurting you? making Toji suffer? dying before they actually experience the benefit?). In fact, someone tried it once, and they learned firsthand exactly how much Toji values his wife, setting the unfortunate example for any others who might have considered doing the same.

You had been skipping around, shopping for a new summer dress when it happened. You wanted to surprise Toji with a cute little outfit when he came home: he’d been gone for almost a week on some… business… and you desperately missed having his hands on you, the sparkly look in his eyes and the love on his face when you got dolled up for him. But when you stepped into the fitting room, two short little numbers hung up on the rack for you to try, someone came up from behind you and struck you right on that spot by your neck. You crumpled to the floor, your attacker swept you up and away, and Toji didn’t realize something was up until he called you for the nightly phone call you share when he’s out of town and you didn’t pick up.

He called again, and again, and again, blood roaring in his ears with every ring of the unanswered phone, knowing something had to have happened to you. It took two days for him to find you, two days of killing and threatening and bargaining to find the right people who knew the right information to lead him to the right place. And when he did find you…. fuck if you weren’t scared out of your damn mind. The sound of gunshots echoed for almost ten minutes, each one making you flinch harder than the last, before your husband finally stood before you.

And yes, you knew who Toji was; what he did, how he did it. But the sight of him dripping in blood with guns and bullets strapped up and down his body terrified you. And it might have been the panic from the past two days finally setting in, but it took another ten minutes for your shaking to subside enough for you to stand, ten minutes for you to trust Toji and let him touch you, help you up. Through it all, he stayed exceedingly gentle and patient, carefully rubbing your lower back, lightly slipping an arm underneath your shoulders, and slowly walking you to the car with a hand over your eyes to shield you from the aftermath. Then, after spending a week taking care of you, making sure you were well and truly okay, he hunted down each and every person involved in your capture.

And that was the end of that! No more plots against your life, no more stalkers, no more anything related to you. Since then, you’ve lived in peace, surprisingly disconnected from Toji’s world of violence. All you need to worry about is when your husband will be home; what to have for dinner; what you should wear for date night tomorrow; maybe even stocking the first aid kit a little in case Toji comes home scratched up.

On the rare occasion when Toji does come home scratched up, you become a worrywart. In Toji’s opinion, worrywart doesn’t even begin to describe it.

The second you realize Toji’s injured, it’s like you’ve lost your mind. You go into autopilot, rushing to grab the first aid kit, forcing him to show you the wound, stressing so hard one might think you were the one shot. Even though this type of stuff makes you queasy, you stomach your nerves as you help Toji with whatever he needs: handing him a new gauze pad; passing him a clean pair of tweezers; pouring a bottle of antiseptic over the gash. You fret over him, dabbing at the sweat on his forehead with a cool towel as he works. And when he’s done, he kisses your forehead, murmuring, “There we go, good as new,” trying to reassure you that he’s okay.

Later that night, he slips into bed with you, his kisses veering into dangerous territory, and pouts when you smack him lightly and tell him to focus his energy on getting better. “I can’t appreciate my sweet wife?” he’ll tempt, and you just sigh, peeking under his shirt at the wound as you retort, “You can show me you appreciate me by staying safe.” And he’ll sigh, notably louder than yours, complaining, “My wife hates me,” as he grins at you, completely smitten.

—

yup, that’s right. you heard it here first folks!! toji the big, scary brute is a lovesick idiot for his wife (me, i am his wife. we are happily married. please respect our privacy, since, you know, he’s married to me.. ahahhaha……….. yeah…. ☹️)

#jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjk toji #toji fluff #toji fushiguro #toji fushiguro jjk #toji x you #toji x reader #toji fushiguro x reader #toji zenin #jujutsu toji #toji jjk #jujutsu kaisen toji #toji fushiguro jujutsu kaisen #toji fushiguro x you #toji fushiguro fluff

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nanamiya3 · 8 months

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Hello! As an SA survivor, I really appreciated your story with Naoya. My comfort character is Nanami and I was wondering if you could write something similar? Where reader has an anxiety attack bc of her trauma and finally tells nanami about it? She’s worried that he won’t accept her and nanami reminds her he’ll never do that. It’s a heavy topic so I completely understand if you want to pass on this! I appreciate your writing regardless so thank you for taking the time to write & post these stories :)

hii! i'm sorry it's taken me so long to respond (can you believe my last post was almost half a year ago :0) but thank you for the ask! i made this absurdly long because i love backstories but i hope you like it :)

nanami x fem reader (she/her pronouns used) - fluff & comfort - pet names (darling, sweetheart, baby) - wc. 7.7k

please note that there are mentions of SA (nothing explicit/graphic) after the little "exhibit" sections are over. if you aren't comfortable with mentions of past SA (ex: nanami asking if someone has "hurt" reader) please don't read past the little "exhibit" scenarios or don't read/expand the post at all :) again, it's pure fluff in the "exhibit a, b, c" parts, after that SA is discussed/alluded to

Nanami Kento is an exceedingly patient man.

Exhibit A: The time you were an hour late to your first date.

—

“Come on, just trust me on this one!” Shoko exclaims as she pelts you with blueberries—your blueberries.

“Hey!” You glare at your best friend, snatching the bowl of fruit away before any more berries end up on the floor. “Do you know how much blueberries cost these days? They’re not in season right now and—”

“Blah blah,” Shoko sticks her tongue out at you. “I’m not saying you have to marry him.. It’s just one date!” She pauses, tone becoming uncharacteristically serious. “I’ve been friends with him since high school… He’s a really nice guy, very respectful.”

“Oh?” You quirk an eyebrow at your roommate, laughter bubbling over your lips. “Very respectful,” you’re giggling now, “I’m sure he’s veryy respectful.”

Shoko groans, hands scrubbing at her face. “You’re unbelievable—I need a cigarette,” she mutters.

“You’re unbelievable! You’re a med student who smokes!” you cry out, flinging an accusatory finger at her.

Shoko just snorts, waving a dismissive hand in your direction as she pats at her pockets for her lighter. “I’m serious though, I think he would be good for you.”

“Sure, he’s exactly what I need,” you reply dryly. “What was his name again? Nanami something—”

“Kento,” Shoko chimes in.

“—Nanami Kento,” you finish, twirling a blueberry between your thumb and index finger. “I’m sure he’s a great person. But you know there’s a reason why I’m never home when your guy friends are over…” You trail off, shrugging as if you’re unbothered, but Shoko sees the way your brows furrow and lips tremble. “Plus, I’m too busy with my dissertation and research to try to have a life,” you huff, easing the tension with some lighthearted humor, popping the berry into your mouth.

Shoko rolls her eyes at you good-naturedly, waggling her brows as she tries to lift your spirits. “What if I showed you a picture of him?”

Two photos, a not-so-slick mention of Nanami’s height by Shoko, and a sworn testament to his upstanding character later, you fold.

You, 6:47 PM

hey! i’m running late right now, there was an emergency at the lab. can we push the date from 7 to 8? i’m really sorry :(

Nanami Kento, 6:50 PM

Yes, of course. I hope everything is okay, take as long as you need.

You, 6:51 PM

thank you so much! again, i’m really sorry. i should be there by 8 :)

Nanami reads your text, slipping his phone into his pocket as he sighs. He had already arrived at the restaurant by the time he saw your first message—it’s too late to leave and come back now. He takes a seat in the waiting area, glancing at the bouquet in his lap. Shoko had threatened to break both his legs if he so much as breathed at you wrong tonight—he hopes you won’t find the flowers too much for a first date.

Nanami thinks back to what he knows about you. He remembers the first time he was at Shoko’s place: you were nowhere in sight (much to the dismay of Gojo, who kept asking Shoko to play matchmaker for him), but Shoko just explained that you were studying late at the library. Every time after that, it was another excuse: Shoko’s roommate can’t come because she’s busy in the lab, busy at the library, busy writing her dissertation, busy running simulations, busy reading papers, busy being a TA, busy meeting with her advisor. He’s only seen you once while at your apartment, and that was because he accidentally walked into your room thinking it was the bathroom: You’d been hunched over your desk, back to the door, and Nanami had immediately walked right back out into the hallway upon his realization that bathrooms didn’t usually contain beds and desks, shutting the door as quickly as possible so as to not disturb you. You hadn’t even turned around by the time he was gone.

That was the first and last time Nanami Kento ever saw you. At least until last week, when he received a text from Shoko detailing your contact info and a winky face, phone lighting up with a call from your roommate moments later.

“Hello?”

“Kentoooo!!! Guess what??” Shoko’s voice is all high pitched and giggly, barely containing her excitement.

Nanami thinks he knows exactly what she’s up to. “What is it?” he ventures.

“My roommate just agreed to go on a date! With you!!” Shoko’s glee is apparent, even through the tinny speaker on Nanami’s phone. “I just sent—”

“I never asked her out,” Nanami cuts in. He’s frowning slightly: not entirely opposed to the idea, just hoping Shoko hasn’t gone and planned your marriage without his knowledge.

Shoko’s sigh echoes loudly over the line, and Nanami winces at the earful he’s sure to be in for. “I know,” she’s rolling her eyes now. “That’s why—if you would just let me finish my sentence—I sent you her number so you could ask her yourself.”

Nanami’s quiet for a moment, thinking it over before he asks, “Why are you doing this?”

Shoko doesn’t miss a beat. “Because you’re both losers with no lives,” she laughs a little at her own joke, then slowly considers her next words. “And… I think you would treat her well—I know you would be good to her, and she deserves that.”

Nanami can tell how much Shoko cares about you, from the way she spoke about you to the way she threatened to buy 51% of his start up’s shares and tank the company if he ever hurt you. Yeah, he really hopes you don’t think he’s coming on too strong with the flowers.

So, Nanami sits in the restaurant patiently, checking his phone ever so often to make sure he hasn’t missed any messages from you, smiling and telling the hostess he’d like to wait a while longer to be seated. And when you do show up—17 minutes earlier than expected—he’s all smiles and reassurances. You’re feeling (and looking) frazzled, apologies spilling out from your mouth like a dam let loose as you follow him and the hostess to your table. But Nanami’s the quintessential gentleman: waving away your guilt and apologetic expression, pulling your chair out for you, handing you the beautiful arrangement of flowers, pouring you a glass of water to help calm you down, insisting you call him Kento.

And though most people wince and attempt to change the topic when you talk research, Kento’s patient as he listens to your ramblings on the roadblocks you face, the students you have to teach, the lack of common sense in the lab. He makes a point to ask questions about your research, finding it interesting because you find it interesting, loving the way your face lights up when you get to describe the implications of your findings.

You hate to admit it, already hearing Shoko’s “I told you so!” in your head as you think to yourself, but Nanami Kento might just be exactly what you need.

—

Exhibit B: The time you spent 4 consecutive days with your head in a toilet bowl.

—

Shoko Ieri, 1:58 PM

dude, what the hell are you doing right now???

Nanami Kento, 2:01 PM

What do you mean? I’m working.

Shoko Ieri, 2:01 PM

what could possibly be so important with your company that you’d be working right now??

Nanami Kento, 2:02 PM

It’s 2 PM on a Monday… Am I not supposed to be working right now?

Shoko Ieri, 2:02 PM

you’re so fucking dense you would sink in the dead sea. your girlfriend has been throwing up all day and you’re WORKING?

Nanami Kento, 2:02 PM

Throwing up? What do you mean??

**Incoming call from Nanami Kento**

“Hey assho—”

“What do you mean she’s been throwing up all day?” Kento’s voice is tinged with urgency and worry. “Is she okay? Are you there with her? Can you check her temperature? I’ll be there in—”

“Dude,” Shoko cuts in, “Don’t act like you didn’t know. There’s no way you didn’t know—I mean she’s been hurling like crazy since this morning, and you’re an asshole for not checking up on her.”

Kento’s shocked, and still extremely worried, trying to just get Shoko to focus so he can make sure you’re okay. “I really didn’t know, Ieri, she hasn’t texted me at all today.” His voice is strained, concern evident in his tone. “Please tell me you’re at home with her—is she okay?”

“Well…” Shoko considers how to best put your condition so as to not cause Kento a heart attack, a little confused on why you didn’t tell him anything. “She’s been throwing up pretty steadily throughout the day and she’s got a pretty bad fever.”

“How bad are we talking? I’m driving over right now.”

“104 degrees… 104.6 last I checked,” Shoko winces as she says it, knowing how bad it sounds.

“Oh my god.” The absolute terror in Kento’s voice makes Shoko wince even harder. “Ieri, we need to get her to a hospital—this is serious.”

Shoko shakes her head, reporting dejectedly, “She won’t go. I tried a couple hours ago but she said she doesn’t get paid enough by the school to afford an emergency visit.”

Kento’s at a loss for words.

“She said she’ll be fine since I’m ‘basically a doctor,’” Shoko finishes bitterly.

“T-that’s not… You’re not… Y-you’re just a med student—that’s not the same thing—” Kento thinks he might have a heart attack.

“I know, I know,” Shoko sighs. “But, I don’t think it’s anything too bad. She isn’t throwing up blood, her breath and heart rate are both pretty stable, and she was conscious enough to talk back to me when I tried to get her to the hospital.”

“Okay,” Kento says as he takes deep breaths, trying to not think about you dying or suffering or—“Okay. Okay. Okay. I’ll be there soon, then. We can talk later.”

“Alright. Drive safe—I don’t need another patient to look after,” Shoko jokes before hanging up.

5 minutes later, a stressed Nanami Kento is on your doorstep, rushing in as soon as Shoko answers the door, barely listening to what she’s saying as he moves towards your room. And then he’s inside, kneeling before your bed as his eyes dart over your figure, murmuring a gentle, “Hi baby, how are you feeling?”

You blink your eyes open, trying to pull yourself out of that feverish fog blanketing your mind as you slowly register who’s in your line of sight. No… It can’t be. How did he find out? He’s not supposed to be here—you didn’t tell him for a reason.

“Ken?…” You rub at your eyes, sitting up with a whimper as a wave of nausea hits you square in the stomach. “W-why are you here?”

“Because somebody told me you have a 104 fever, and it wasn’t you,” Kento tuts, tone disapproving but eyes gentle.

“Ieri…” you mumble, shaking your head slightly.

“Ieri,” he confirms, shaking his own head—this time at you. “We’ll talk more about that later… Right now, I need to make sure my darling is feeling okay.”

Your mind is still foggy, but your lips quirk up into a small smile as you tease in a small voice, “Your darling is feeling superb.” You give him a weak thumbs up and cheesy grin. “I feel great.”

“Really? Because there’s a bit of vomit on your chin right now,” Kento deadpans, secretly relieved you’re feeling well enough to joke.

And then you cry out in mock outrage, regretting it almost immediately as you clutch at your middle, the outburst costing you a fit of spasms and pain in your stomach. Kento’s mood sobers instantly as he gently rubs at your back, asks if there’s anything he can do for you, adjusting the pillows behind you to help ease you into a more comfortable position.

“You should go,” you whisper as you reach up to grip his hand.

“Now why would I do that?” Kento asks, smiling softly as he feels your hold on his hand tighten.

You turn your face into the pillows, mumbling out a muffled, “I’m sick… and gross. I can’t let you see me like this.” You groan, turning your head back to look at your boyfriend as you caution, “And you’re going to get sick.”

Kento just smiles as he cups your hand between his own. “You never look gross, and I won’t get sick because I don’t overwork myself.”

You huff out a tired sigh, weakly swatting at the hands wrapped around your own as you slur, “It’s rude to torment the sick and dying,” and turn on your side to face the wall—away from your amused caretaker.

For the next three days, Kento—with the help of Shoko, (not quite) M.D.—looks after you as you miraculously manage to regurgitate every bit of sustenance you consume. He’s cleaned that metal “throw-up” bowl on your nightstand—meant to be used in case you couldn’t get to the bathroom in time—more times that he can count. He’s changed your sheets, helped you to the bathroom, and dutifully cooked light soups and stews, spooning them into your mouth before inevitably patting your back reassuringly as you throw it up into the toilet. Most of all, he’s poked and prodded you with that goddamn thermometer: if you had the strength to, you’d steal it right out of his hands and tell him to quit being a mother hen.

But Kento just can’t help his worrying. To take care of you, he’s been staying the night over, sleeping on that couch in the living room he’s definitely too large for. Even Shoko feels a little bad for him, watching him dutifully set alarms for every other hour so he can check up on you throughout the night. The two of them work in tandem to make sure you’re okay, combining the power of Shoko’s education with Kento’s sheer stress to maximize your care.

And when you finally come to—when the haze clouding your thoughts finally clears—he’s just as patient and gentle as he has been over the past few days.

“You’ve gotta stop overworking yourself, sweetheart,” Kento murmurs into the top of your head.

“I can rest when I’m dead,” you protest, twisting from your position on his chest to make a show out of the dramatic wink you send his way.

Kento groans. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he says with a sigh, helping you curl back up on top of him.

You giggle, breath fanning out against his collarbone, amused by Kento’s exasperation. “Thanks for taking care of me though, Ken. You’re the best,” you whisper softly, turning to pressing a kiss against his neck.

“Of course, darling,” he replies quietly, voice full of love. Then, louder, feigning nonchalance, Kento announces, “But if you don’t start taking better care of yourself, you’ll be on your own, and I’ll just watch from a distance and say ‘I told you so’ when you get sick.”

“You wouldn’t do that to me!” you pout, frowning at the thought of him purposely ignoring you.

Kento sighs, pretending to be upset, “You’re right. I wouldn’t do that.” He reports dejectedly, “I just love you too much,” practically able to feel your smile at his words against his skin. “But—” he leans down and tilts your head up to look at him, thumb and forefinger holding your chin in place to maintain steady eye contact. “—the next time you’re sick or in need of help, you’ll tell me directly.” His voice is serious, as firm as his grip on your chin and it makes you nervous, like you’re in trouble, eyes darting around to avoid his gaze. “No trying to hide it, no making me worry. I shouldn’t have found out about your fever from Ieri—you should have told me yourself. I don’t want you hiding things from me, especially if it’s about your health and well-being. Got it?”

You’ve tensed up against Kento, heart hammering in your throat as you feel a wave of guilt wash over you. His free hand moves to soothe your back—trying to show that he’s not angry with you—as he drops his hand from your chin, eyes tracking the way you hang your head to avoid looking at him.

And then, after a bout of anxiousness, you nod, stealing a glance up at Kento to gauge his mood as you start, “I’m sorry, Ken, I didn’t mean to worry you.” You take a deep breath before you continue, “I just didn’t want to bother you. I knew you’d drop everything if you heard I was sick and it wouldn’t have been fair for me to take advantage of you like that.” You pick at a piece of lint on his shirt, avoiding catching his eye and aiming for humor as you add, “And nobody wants to watch their partner throw up, it’s gross. I couldn’t let you fall out of love with me like that.”

Kento cracks a smile. “Darling, if you think throwing up in front of me is going to make me stop loving you, I need to do a much better job of showing you how much you mean to me.”

You huff out a laugh at that, but he’s not done, cupping your hands with his own as he looks down at you. “And you’re never a bother, baby, ever. I’m never going to be upset with you for letting me know you’re not feeling well—and you won’t be ‘taking advantage’ of me by letting me know. It’s my own choice to take care of you and it makes me happy to do it.”

You’re looking down at where Kento’s hands are wrapped around your own, but you nod, letting his words sink in as you duck your head back down into the crook of his neck. “Thanks, Ken,” you whisper, trying to hide how relieved and emotional him saying that makes you feel. “That means… a lot to me. I’ll promise I won’t hide things from you anymore.”

Your boyfriend smiles, replying with a soft “good girl” as he runs his thumb along the back of your hand. He’s glad you’re opening up, and as you doze off on him, exhausted from your past couple of days and lulled to sleep by the comfortable silence and gentle caresses, he feels a surge of affection settle over his heart.

—

Exhibit C: The time you he won a stuffed lion at the fair.

—

Today is a special day. There are no papers to grade, no students to teach, no presentations or talks to prepare, and your research has reached a point where you can confidently take a few days off to rest. Naturally, you decide to optimize this golden opportunity by doing only the essentials: Scheduling a long overdue doctor’s appointment, deep cleaning your apartment, spending as much time with Kento as possible, going to the fair…. Just the essentials!

So—essentially—you’re at the fair with Kento, ignoring your ever growing list of responsibilities in favor of overpriced food and rigged carnival games. Kento’s already sporting a large tote on one shoulder, ready to collect all the prizes you’re eager to win.

Three hours, six stuffed animals, a pizza, two churros, a basket of fries, five rides, and a petting zoo later, you find yourself surveying the prizes on display in front of the cursed ring toss.

“Awww, Ken look at that one!” You’re pointing to a stuffed lion sitting amongst the prizes. “It kinda looks like you, don’t you think?”

The face Kento’s making right now can only be described as… distaste. “No… Love, I don’t see the resemblance.”

“No, no, no, look at the color! It looks just like your hair,” you exclaim, gasping and pointing once more as you realize, “Hey! It even has a little frown on its face! Do you see it Ken?”

“I don’t frown that often,” Kento says with a frown. “I’m quite happy when I’m with you.”

You burst into a fit of laughter, wishing he could have watched himself say that. “Sure, Ken,” you drawl, patting him on the shoulder as you get in line for the game, set on winning his lion-lookalike.

However, after 4 tries and an absurd amount of money, you decide to call for backup.

"Kennn," you singsong as you turn to look at him with big, pleading eyes. "Can you help me win this game?"

Kento's heart sinks, feeling conflicted. On the one hand, he'd do anything to make you happy. On the other hand, if he helps you win the lion, he'll spend the rest of his days hearing "Awww.. Isn't he just so cute?? He looks just like you, baby!" about a stuffed, over-evolved house cat.

But, in the end, the little angel on his shoulder (with a voice that sounds suspiciously similar to yours) wins. As Kento steps up for his try, he half considers putting no effort in and losing the game just so you won’t be able to correlate his good looks to a stuffed animal. Then, he (or maybe the little angel up there) decides he can’t do that to you—it would just be too cruel.

So, Kento gets ready for his turn: rolling his sleeves up, passing you the bag on his shoulder, and sighing without meaning to.

His first try is a failure. Each of the 5 rings supplied magically bounced off the bottlenecks, frustrating him to no end. “This game is rigged, sweetheart. We should find something else to play,” Kento grumbles, turning away from the booth with an irritated expression.

You shake your head, insisting, “But this is the only game we’ve seen that has that stuffed lion!” Then, you bring out the big guns, clasping your hands together and widening your eyes, begging, “Please, Ken..”

Aaaand…. He’s a goner, always so soft and willing when it comes to you.

Reinvigorated by your pleading and determined to make you happy, your boyfriend sets out on a mission to win you that stuffed lion.

After his first try, Kento sighs so hard you think you might physically feel the wind from it tickling at your forehead.

After his second try, Kento turns to you and drops a sweet little kiss on your nose to remind himself why he’s subjecting himself to this frustrating torture.

After his third try, Kento runs a hand through his hair, readjusting his sleeves with more force than necessary as he squints menacingly at the table of glass bottles.

After his fourth try, you tug at his wrist, telling him, “You don’t have to keep trying, Ken. It’s okay.” You feel guilty watching him get more and more frustrated, but he smiles, patting the back of your hand as he tells you it’s okay.

After his fifth try, Kento looks up at the stuffed lion as he takes a deep, calming breath, trying to stay focused on winning the prize and not how annoying this blatantly rigged game is.

After his sixth try, you’re seriously impressed by Kento’s ability to remain calm. You practically had steam coming out of your ears with each of your missed throws, but he’s taking this like a champ—maybe you’ll read some of his self help books to learn his ways.

After his seventh try, Kento curses under his breath, beginning to lose his cool.

After his eighth try, Kento thinks it might be time to start believing in a deity: Maybe he would have won on his first or second try with divine intervention on his side.

And then! After returning to purchase almost ten consecutive attempts and officially creeping out the worker managing the booth, Kento’s fourth ring finally finds its place around the neck of a bottle!!

You jump up and down and clap in celebration, elated by Kento’s victory. He immediately turns toward you, excitement written across his features as he wraps you up in a hug. You’re giggling and pressing kisses onto his cheek, murmuring thank you’s against his skin as you both grin ear to ear—both entirely too old to be so elated over a win at the carnival.

And even as you tease him, holding the stuffed toy up next to his face in comparison, he thinks his patience may have just paid off.

—

Nanami Kento is an exceedingly patient man.

That’s why, as you break down in front of him, he’s patient.

Just minutes ago, you’d been okay—you’d been more than okay. Seated on Kento’s lap, breath heavy as he scattered kisses across your face—moving from cheek to nose to lips to forehead—you’d been beyond okay.

Nothing had been too out of the ordinary: though Kento wasn’t a voracious and demanding lover, the two of you had shared more than a fair amount of kisses and “makeout sessions.” And you enjoyed these kisses, these “sessions,” but you also enjoyed keeping it at that, never progressing further than a few wandering touches and a lost shirt or two. Kento, always happy to follow your lead, to respect your boundaries, would never press further when you’d break away and ask to go to bed, to watch the movie, to cook dinner together.

Tonight, you planned on spending the night together at Kento’s apartment. Falling asleep and waking up next to Kento might be one of your favorite things in the world: his hair is always perfectly mussed, voice deep and raspy, and touch gentle and loving. You always wake up happy and warm all over when you feel his arm around your middle, breath hot on your ear as he murmurs a low “Good morning, darling.”

So, you show up at Kento’s place at around 6, a bag of groceries on your arm, just like usual. The two of you work together in the kitchen, each spoon feeding the other small taste-tests, just like usual. Dinner is a quiet, romantic affair, intimate and sweet, just like usual. After the wining and dining, you two curl up in bed and watch an episode of that show you’re slowly making your way through together, just like usual.

And when you end up straddling him, TV already shut off, fingers gently twisting in his soft, golden hair, Kento thinks he can get used to this being added to your usual. His hands are splayed out across your back, keeping you close to his chest as he smiles into your swollen, kiss-bitten lips. And when he starts dropping sweet little kisses—like a saint delivering small blessings—all over your face, who are you to hold back that little whimper in the back of your throat? Who is Kento to deny the surge of desire flaring low in his stomach at your reactions? His hands slip underneath your shirt, playing with the band of your bra as you squirm against him and tilt your head up to kiss him again. He moves further—further than he’s ever gone with you—and runs a finger along the underside of the waistband of your pants, brushing a knuckle against the soft skin of your pelvis.

That’s when everything changes.

The second you feel Kento touch you lower than your stomach you freeze up, jerking away from the soft kiss you’d been caught up in. Your eyes go wide and you scramble off of his lap, breath frantic as you try to calm the spike of panic blurring your senses. You’re trying to keep an eye on Kento—on his movements and expressions and demeanor—but it’s hard with how suddenly you’ve become overwhelmed and it makes you feel scared, the way you don’t know what exactly he’s going to do next.

It was just one touch, it’s okay. He doesn’t know, he didn’t mean it, he wasn’t trying to... It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s—

“Sweetheart? Are you okay? I’m not gonna hurt you, it’s okay,” Kento tries to soothe you, but you look at him like you’re… scared of him and he hates himself for frightening you so bad.

What happened?

He thinks he might have an idea of what may have set you off, and as your breathing becomes more and more erratic, he begins to worry.

“Baby,” Kento starts, tone gentle. “Has someone ever… hurt you like this? By touching you?”

The way you flinch at his words is enough to confirm his suspicions, but Kento stays quiet, waiting for you to respond.

You don’t want to tell him. Your eyes keep darting around, nervous gaze cast down onto the blanket as you think about how you should lie—

But, wait. You promised Kento that you wouldn’t hide things from him, that you’d tell him things about your health and well-being. You really shouldn’t lie to him, not about this, but you really don’t want to tell him.

You don’t want to tell him because you don’t want him to say that it was your fault, that maybe you deserved it. You don’t want to tell him because you don’t want him to start treating you like you’re dirty or shameful, like an embarrassing secret. You don’t want to tell him because you don’t want him to get angry at you for not telling him sooner, because maybe he wouldn’t have loved you all this time—wasted all this time—if he knew. You don’t want to tell him because you don’t want him to tell you that it isn’t a big deal, that you don’t have a right to be so upset over something like this, that you’re overreacting. You don’t want to tell him because you don’t want to ruin this peaceful little thing between you and him with your own issues and nightmares. You don’t want to tell him because—

Crap. You’ve been stuck in your own head for too long. The air feels thick with an awkwardly long silence as you scramble to mash together an appropriate response, but Kento’s patient and he waits without judgement, kind eyes filled with worry.

And you really don’t want to tell him, eyes welling up with tears because you’re stressed and anxious and not sure about what you’re supposed to do.

Finally, you decide to just lie, choking out a pained, “No—” as hot tears spill over your cheeks. You feel horrible and guilty for lying, knowing that Kento has never been anything but upfront and honest with you, but you’ve never been as good and brave as him so you let the lie spread its wings and shield you.

Your breath is coming out in short, stuttered pants as you try to fight the wave of anxiety attempting to drown you, hands coming up to cover your mouth in an attempt to muffle your choked sobs.

You feel horrible.

You feel horrible for lying.

You feel horrible because you ruined the moment of fun you were having with Kento.

You feel horrible for this breakdown, even if you know you can’t help it, because Kento doesn’t deserve to have to deal with this baggage he didn’t ask for.

You feel horrible because being with Kento has helped you come so far out of your shell, but now it feels like it’s all been ruined, like no matter how much progress you make, you’ll never be able to fully heal, fully escape.

You feel horrible because you can’t get those memories out of your head.

You feel horrible because you keep thinking about the last time someone touched you where Kento did.

You feel horrible for ever correlating Kento and his goodness to that person, even if it’s just in your head, even if you can’t help it, even if it’s involuntary because you’re scared.

You just feel horrible. You feel horrible about everything. And when Kento reaches for you, moving to try and gently tug at your wrist, worried about your frantic breathing and the way you seem to be trying to stop your breathing altogether with your shaking hands, you feel even worse.

When you see Kento’s hand move toward your face, you flinch so hard you choke, gasping behind your palm as you squeeze your eyes shut, shoulders tightening up with fear. You’re so on edge right now and your vision is too blurry with tears to properly gauge if he’s angry at you or not, so you just figure he is. You figure he’s seen through your lie and he’s upset with you, upset for a multitude of reasons that just overwhelm you further. You figure that if your tears dried you’d look up and find an angry Kento looming above you, brows pulled low and lips stretched into a disgusted sneer.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Kento gently murmurs, pulling his hand back, interrupting your self-destructive thoughts. “I need you to take a few deep breaths with me—think you can do that for me baby?”

Numbly, through all the noise in your mind, you follow Kento’s voice like a lifeline, nodding with an uncoordinated jerk of your neck.

“Good girl,” he praises you kindly. “Now I’m gonna need you to move your hands away from your mouth,” Kento instructs, adding softly, “Gotta stop holding your breath sweetheart, gotta let yourself breathe, even if your breathing isn’t quite right yet.”

Taking a shuddering breath, you nod again, dropping your hands from your mouth. But, once your hands drop, you stop trying to control your gasping breathing and begin to panic at the heavy heaving of your chest. Now, you’re breathing too irregularly and awkwardly: inhaling when you need to exhale and exhaling over your exhales and struggling to just take a solid breath in because your lungs won’t listen.

Because you’re breathing too rapidly, you’re simultaneously suffocating and breathing too much, escalating your panic. You’re scared and getting lightheaded and it’s too much—one hand comes up to muffle your mouth again almost immediately.

However, this time Kento is prepared, and his voice pulls you back to reality as he murmurs, “Ohhh, baby. It’s okay, it’s okay.” His voice is low and sweet and it makes you pause, instinctively wanting to listen. “I know it’s scary, but you have to keep your hand away from your mouth. Don’t try to restrict your breathing—there you go, there’s my good girl.”

You’ve tugged your hand away again, placing it in your lap as you blink up at Kento through watery lashes.

“Alright, sweetheart, now I want you to focus on your breathing. I’m going to take a few deep breaths and I want you to try to match your breathing with mine,” he says gently. “Does that sound okay?”

You nod shakily, panic ebbing slightly as you listen to his familiar voice and begin to follow the slow rhythm he sets.

“Inhale…. Exhale…”

“Inhale…” Exhale.

Inhale… Exhale….

“Good girl, that was perfect. You’re doing amazing, love,” he praises. You know he’s just being kind—your breath is stuttering and you’re involuntarily mixing up the inhales and exhales—but Kento’s reassurance makes you feel safe and calm regardless.

After a few more cycles of breath, the dizziness fades and oxygen begins steadily flowing through your lungs as you follow Kento’s lead.

Inhale… “Exhale…”

“Inhale… Exhale…”

Inhale… Exhale….

As you continue to try to control your breathing, you reach out to pick up his hand, trying to silently bridge the gap between you two, making the small first move to show him that you’re slowly becoming more comfortable and grounded. He lets you lace your hand in his, thumb comfortingly brushing against the skin of your hand, the touch gently reassuring you that you’re safe.

Soon, you feel confident enough to wordlessly move towards Kento, letting him wrap you up in a comforting embrace. Being in his arms always makes you feel better, and now that you’ve calmed down enough to realize that he’s not going to hurt you, you press yourself into his chest, searching for his steady patience and gentle manner. Your breathing has evened out, and your mind has cleared enough for you to begin flipping back on what just happened. Kento stays quiet, letting you sort through the cascade of emotions you just experienced, but the silence doesn’t feel hostile—it’s welcoming and patient.

You were kissing Kento, and then he.. he touched you and it freaked you out, and then he was talking to you and… And then he asked you a question. He asked if… He wanted to know if—

Oh my god. You lied to him.

Oh god. You need to apologize—own up to what you did and tell him the truth. But as you think about what to do, your breath begins to stumble over itself again and your heart rate picks up, anxiety taking over your senses.

Your eyes fill up with tears and you look up at Kento, saying in a small voice, “Ken? I… I lied to you… earlier.” Your words are continually interrupted by an emerging pattern of involuntary breaths and hiccups, but you continue on, “I… When y-you asked… S-someone has hurt—hurt me.. before… I lied to—to you.”

You’re fully crying now, and Kento tries calming you down, rubbing your back carefully, heart sinking at your tears and the way your breathing begins to turn into struggling gasps again.

“Oh, darling. I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into the top of your head, continuing to gently soothe your back. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Thank you for telling me—my brave, brave girl.”

Kento’s heart hurts. It hurts knowing that you’ve been hurt in the past, that you’re sobbing in his arms because someone hurt you. It hurts knowing that you felt too scared to tell him the truth, and it hurts even more knowing that you feel scared to admit that you lied. He wants you to feel comfortable with him—to know that you should never be scared of him.

“I-Im,” you choke out through gasping breaths, “‘m sorry—I’m sorry, so—sorry. I’m sorry, K-Ken.”

You’re not sure what you’re apologizing for, you just know that you need to be apologizing for something. Maybe you’re apologizing for lying. Maybe you’re apologizing for having been assaulted. Maybe you’re apologizing to try to appease Kento so he won’t be as angry with you for your betrayal—for not being the person he thought you were. Maybe you’re apologizing for not letting him continue to touch you—for stopping before you’re hurt again.

But Kento just shakes his head kindly, patting your back good-naturedly in response. “It’s okay sweetheart. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. Shhhh, shhhhhh, you’re okay, it’s okay, shhhhh,” he coaxes gently.

“I’m sorry—sorry, ‘m really sorry f-for lying to you.” You keep apologizing, barely registering his words to you. All of your guilt from everything has cumulated, and though you’re apologizing for lying, deep down you’re apologizing for much, much more.

“It’s okay, darling,” Kento tells you quietly, ever so patient as you choke on sob after sob. “I’m not upset with you, it’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong, I’m not angry, baby.”

His voice is so achingly gentle, and the way he rubs circles into your back makes your heart break and shatter. How can a person be filled with so much good? You expected anger and rejection, but Kento is being so accepting and sweet it makes you break down into tears. After being mistreated for so long, it feels odd to be embraced so wholly and kindly, and you feel like you don’t deserve to be treated with so much care.

Kento, however, is on a mission to make you feel better. He gracefully waves off your apologies, insisting that it’s okay, that you have nothing to be sorry for. Instead, he apologizes, bowing his head as he begs your forgiveness for overstepping your boundaries. When you shake your head vehemently, insisting he didn’t do anything wrong, he just scolds you gently, “You don’t need to take the blame for everything—it’s okay to give yourself a break. I know I hurt you, and I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I want you to know that I’m deeply sorry. I pushed you past what you were comfortable with and it’s not your fault, it’s mine.”

That makes you go quiet, the silence split only by your uneven and choppy breathing—remnants of the tears still sporadically tumbling from your lashes. Kento’s apology is earnest, and his insistence that you not blame yourself makes you see the situation in a new light.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s okay for you to give yourself a break once in a while. Maybe you didn’t do anything wrong and you’re just so used to being told it was your fault that you’ve come to believe it. Maybe, even if he didn’t mean you any harm, he still hurt you, and you deserved his apology for the way it scared you.

You’re silent for a little while longer, but then you reach up and pat him on the head, fluffy strands of hair ruffled by the act of affection.

“Thank you, Ken,” you tell him with a sweet, forgiving smile. “Thank you for apologizing, but I don’t blame you for what happened. You didn’t know my exact boundaries and you didn’t mean to hurt me. It’s okay, really.”

However, there’s still one more thing in the back of your mind bothering you.

“But… Do you still.. want to be with me? I mean, does it bother you that—that—” You break off, unable to finish your sentence.

“Hey, hey, hey. Look at me, love.” Kento pulls back slightly, one arm cradling your back as the other moves to wipe at a stray tear on your cheek. “This doesn’t change anything, okay? You’re still the same person I fell in love with, and I’m not ‘bothered’ by anything about you. Nothing about this is your fault, and I would never treat it as such.”

You nod, relief written all over your face as you breathe out, “Okay, okay.”

“Seriously,” he huffs. “Where are you getting these silly ideas from? I would never leave you, especially not over this.”

Kento seems almost offended that you think he’d stoop so low, tapping your nose as he clucks his tongue in disapproval. You just shrug self-consciously, a little flustered by how sincere he’s being.

“Okay, then,” you sigh dramatically, scrubbing away at the last of your tears. “I guess I’ll have to just take one for the team and stay with you forever—since you’re obviously so obsessed with me.”

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. “You’re quite generous, entertaining this obsession.”

“Yup,” you confirm, waving a dismissive hand as you continue in a conspiratorial whisper, “It’s your lucky day. I’m running a one-night special where I grant the favors of my fans.” A grin is slowly making its way onto your face, and your smile bleeds into your tone when you tease, “Don’t get too excited though—I know it’s big news.”

Kento has the most lovesick look on his face as he looks down at you, shaking his head in amusement. “Well, I’m certainly one lucky fan.”

And you giggle at that, wrapping your arms around his middle as you snuggle into his hold. “You’re my favorite fan,” you mumble into his shirt, pressing your cheek against his chest to listen to his steady heartbeat.

“Hey, does that mean you have other fans you like?”

—

bonus:

“What are you watching?” You ask, poking your head over Kento’s shoulder to peek at the video he’s watching on his phone.

He jumps up, shutting off the screen immediately, stuttering, “N-nothing, darling.”

You’re unconvinced, reaching for his phone as you squint at him. “Really? You seem awfully jumpy for someone doing ‘nothing,’” you deadpan. Then, you narrow your eyes, accusing, “You better not be watching extra episodes of that kdrama you said you hated without me. I know you secretly love it—it’s okay, you can admit it!”

You’ve got a smug grin on your face and Kento doesn’t even try to fight it as you enter the passcode to his phone (your birthday, of course), accepting defeat and rubbing at his temples as the screen unlocks to the Youtube video he’d been watching. He’d rather endure the teasing than try to wrestle the device away from you and accidentally hurt or scare you in the process.

“‘Helping Someone Who Is Having A Panic Attack,’” you read out loud, glancing up at your boyfriend as your eyes widen, grin slowly fading. You click on his watch history, jaw dropping as you see his recently played videos.

What Is A Panic Attack?

How To Help Your Friend During A Panic Attack

Signs Of Hyperventilation And How To Stop Hyperventilating

Best Breathing Technique To Calm Panic Attacks And Anxiety

What NOT To Say To Someone Who Is Having An Anxiety Attack

“Oh my.. Oh my god. Oh my god, Ken.” Your eyes have welled up with tears. You can’t believe he’s been researching how to help you—you don’t even have words to describe how emotional this makes you feel.

Kento has a sheepish look on his face, a little embarrassed you caught him binging those videos. “Yeah… I uh..” He clears his throat awkwardly. “Just wanted to… yknow…” He shrugs, and it’s pathetic and lame and it makes you love him that much more. “Wanted to make sure I was doing the right thing… Just in case you ever get… scared.. again.” He coughs a little, looking self-conscious. “Not—not that I think it’ll happen again but—”

You cut him off before he can get another word in, practically suffocating him as you wrap him up in a tight hug. Your arms around his neck are squeezing, but Kento doesn’t make any moves to stop you. Instead, he wraps his arms around your waist, turning his head to press a kiss to your cheek as you whisper, “Thank you,” voice thick with emotion.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

—

if you've made it this far: thank you for reading :) please take care of yourself, and for all of my survivors out there, please know that it's not your fault, never will be your fault, and never has been your fault!! i love you all and i hope everybody has a great rest of their summer :D

#nanami kento #kento nanami #nanami kento x reader #nanami x reader #jjk fluff #jjk comfort #jjk fluff & comfort #nanami fanfic #nanami fluff #kento nanami fluff #jujutsu kaisen nanami #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjk nanami #nanami x you #nanami x fem!reader #nanami kento fluff #nanami kento x you #jujutsu kaisen nanami kento #jujutsu kaisen comfort

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nanamiya3 · 1 year

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Is your convertible efficient enough during rainy days and such? Is it any hassle at all? I lowkey wanna get one 😭

Yes I love it!! It rained a lot where I used to live and it was completely fine. I’m pretty sure there’s even a tiny hole in the top from a scratch or something but it still doesn’t leak when it rains. You should 100% get one!

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nanamiya3 · 1 year

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CEO nanami x fem reader - reader is nanami’s wiiife - mentions of food and gojo - reader probably has some anxiety and self esteem issues but it’s not super major - fluff & comfort - wc. 2.9k

hiii i haven’t posted in so long but i’m back just for this because what would happen if you visited nanami at work?? what would happen if he *gasp* forgot his lunch at home??

As Kento’s stay at home wife, your days usually go something like this:

The alarm rings at exactly 7AM, Kento’s glaring default tone waking you both. You frown, groggy and disoriented and still stuck in that land between awake and asleep as Kento’s arms tighten around your middle. He mumbles a little something, meant to be your name but completely unintelligible, before begrudgingly untangling himself from you. He rubs at his eyes and sits up, your soft, sleepy whines tugging at his heart. Kento heads to the bathroom as you head back to sleep, and he gets himself ready for the day while you curl up beneath the blankets. He cooks breakfast for both of you, wrapping up your plate and setting it on the counter with a sweet little note before wolfing down his own portion. He puts his coat on, grabs his briefcase and the bento you pack him every night, and presses a soft kiss to your forehead before leaving for work.

Except today, Kento makes a terrible mistake. He cooks breakfast, sets aside your plate, elegantly writes “this is the huckleberry jam satoru recommended, no promises that it’ll be good. endlessly yours, kento” on the sticky note by the food, tucks into the huckleberry jam toast (which is unfairly delicious) and eggs, dons his coat, grabs his briefcase, and kisses your forehead before heading out the door. The bento sits in the fridge, untouched and forgotten.

So, you wake up almost an hour after Kento leaves, yawning and stretching this way and that. You run through your typical morning routine before downing the breakfast with the huckleberry jam toast, cursing Satoru for being right about something for once and sending Kento a good morning and thank-you-for-the-breakfast text.

You move on, still oblivious to the bento sitting in the fridge, opening up your laptop to search for the perfect birthday gift for Kento. After an hour of research and brainstorming, you’re smiling down at the list of potential candidates: a new leather notebook (his current one is on its last leg, bursting at the seams with half-sentences and spontaneous thoughts scribbled across the pages), a new mouse (since his current mouse is apparently “too small” for him), a set of custom tailored suits in an array of colors (because if you walk into his closet and see one more row of sand beige suit jackets you might actually have to divorce him), a massage oil gift basket (Kento works so hard :( sometimes after a long day you give him a massage, letting the aromatherapy and kneading relieve his tension), a nude polaroid for his wallet (because… because… because he’s always calling you beautiful and pretty and before him you never actually believed it), and a pair of noise cancelling headphones (apparently Satoru makes the office too loud, and Kento’s been commenting on how noisy the newcomers at his gym are). The gifts aren’t very extravagant, especially considering Kento’s wealth, but you’d feel cheap if you used his own money to buy him an expensive watch that you both knew he’d never wear—he loves his current watch too much to replace it anyways.

Satisfied that you’re the best wife on the planet and deciding to treat yourself to a snack, you poke your head into the fridge and realize with a start: Kento left his lunch at home.

Knowing this is equal parts frightening and exciting. You’re worried, because Kento never forgets his bento, claiming your cooking is way better than the cafeteria that provides free meals for his employees. And, you’re excited, because Kento never forgets his bento, and that means you’ve never had to drop it off for him before. Kento doesn’t try to keep you away from his work—you’ve been to the dinners and charity events and whatnot—but he doesn’t encourage you to visit the office while he’s working either, claiming he’ll be too distracted to function. On the rare occasions that you do visit him, it’s late at night after everybody else has left, with you there to offer… moral support. So, while you’ve met most of the executives (like Satoru, who leaves a pretty abysmal impression), you’re still pretty unfamiliar with the actual office workers. And now, with the perfect opportunity to snoop around at Kento’s other life, you feel a small smile rising up on your lips.

You load the bento into your car, tucking it into the passenger seat gently. The drive over to Kento’s company’s building is filled with excited humming, and you’re grinning as you pull into in the underground garage after telling the security attendant you’re here to drop off your husband’s lunch. Kento doesn’t know you’re here yet, and if you’re being honest, it’s because you know he’d just meet you in the lobby to pick up the bento, signaling the end of your adventure. Even though you were certain Kento would never cheat on you, you knew there were definitely some people in the office that had feelings for him—look at him, for Christ’s sake! You wanted to figure out who: the receptionist? His secretary? Maybe even the head of HR? You’d never get all your snooping done if you couldn’t get past the lobby.

And of course, just because you wanted to get past the lobby, the universe didn’t let you you get past the lobby.

The issue is that you don’t have a badge. Every employee needs to scan their badge to get past the turnstile guarded by the receptionist and two security guards. So, you make a beeline for the receptionist, hoping to plead your case. You tell her your husband’s left his bento at home, holding the lunch up as proof. She remains stoic. You try again, telling her you’re Kento’s wife, that you’re married to the CEO. She laughs in your face, giving you a pointed once over. You’re upset now, because you know Kento’s out of your league but that’s not for her to point out, especially considering he’s miles above her as well. You narrow your eyes, setting the bento down on the counter with more force than necessary to text Kento that you’re in the lobby with his lunch. The receptionist tells you to leave the building. You spin the phone around, trying to prove to her that you really are messaging Kento, that you really are married to him, scrambling to find pictures from your wedding to show her—

There’s a tug on your arm, a rough “That’s enough” sounding from somewhere on your left and a firm “You need to leave” from your right.

You can’t believe this is happening. You try your luck with the two heavyweights about to throw you out of the building, pointing to your ring, pulling up the most recent picture of Kento you could find (a photo you secretly took of him at a small coffeeshop the two of you visited this past weekend). They shake their heads, rumbling about how you can’t enter the building without a badge or visitor’s pass, and then there are hands around your biceps, tugging you, and you’re digging in your heels, making a scene but beyond caring, twisting to try to go back and grab the bento from off the counter—

“Take your hands off my wife.”

Kento’s voice is loud, angry, and stern as it rings across the marble and glass in the lobby. The arms around you let go immediately, and you hang your head, nervous and ashamed about all the trouble you’ve caused. You hear Kento’s voice barking orders to the workers, you see him walking towards you, but your mind is a flurry of activity and it won’t settle down. This is so embarrassing—Kento just watched you get pushed around and he had to come to your rescue. What if you were interrupting a meeting? What if he’d been busy with paperwork before you texted him? What if he’d been mid-conversation with someone? What if he didn’t care about the bento at all? What if he’d already realized he left his lunch at home and decided it wasn’t worth trying to pick up? Maybe he’d already had lunch at the cafeteria and you were just bothering—

There’s a big, familiar palm caressing your cheek, a deep, familiar voice asking if you’re okay, a handsome, familiar blonde filling up your line of sight, a familiar warm brown pair of eyes catching yours. You snap out of your own head, nodding quickly, practically lunging to grab the bento off the counter, stringing together half-sentences and barely there statements in a rush to justify why you’re here. Kento’s nodding patiently, waiting for you to finish, gentle eyes watching your own dart around—he’s always been an excellent listener, attentively hanging on to your every word, even when you’re just stuttering out random, incoherent thoughts. You cut yourself off once you realize you’re probably wasting Kento’s time, extending the bento towards him, hoping your ramblings got your point across. He pauses, concerned about how jittery and anxious you look, before pushing the bento back towards you. You think your heart has just cracked and shattered so violently it was audible, because of course Kento’s already eaten—

“Why don’t we have lunch together in my office? We can share the bento and grab some food from the cafeteria,” Kento proposes gently. He doesn’t want you driving home while so nervous, and he’s more than willing to bet the receptionist said something nasty to make you so insecure and shaky. He knows you’ll overthink your relationship if left alone, so he wants to spend some time with you, making sure you don’t let anything that just happened get to your head.

And of course you agree, happy to spend time with Kento, letting him lead you away from the lobby. He’s murmuring a quiet “Wait right here” as you guys get to the elevator, walking back to the lobby to give the receptionist and security guards a stern talking to. He reprimands them for being so handsy and quick to judge, telling them that they’re to let you in immediately should they ever see you again. Kento’s exceedingly calm, but his low tone is steeped with anger, and he thinks these 3 should call themselves lucky given that they’re still employed. After a few more stammering “yes sir”s and apologies are divulged, he walks back to where you’re waiting, chewing on your lip while clutching the bento for dear life and stressing about how terribly wrong this has all gone. Kento’s hand travels down to your lower back as the two of you wait for the elevator, rubbing small circles to alleviate your anxiety. He apologizes again for how you were treated, asking if you’re okay, if you need anything, if you want to go home instead of coming up to his office. You shake your head—it’s rare that you get to share lunch with Kento on a weekday, and plus, now that you’re finally in the building, you want to maximize your snoopage.

So, the two of you make your way up to Kento’s office, some part of his body touching yours the entire way: a hand on the curve of your back, an arm snaked around your middle, his hand laced with yours. And boy do people stare. This is the Nanami Kento, so strict and efficient in his work that people doubt his capacity for emotion. It’s no secret that Kento’s married, but just knowing that he’s married is very different from actually seeing his wife. And when the Nanami Kento’s wife is such a sweet, pretty thing, there are some raised brows. It’s so shocking that some people actually do a double take, squinting to check that your hand holding the bento really does have a ring on it.

The whispers follow the two of you until you’re finally standing in front of his secretary’s desk, right in front of his office. Kento introduces you, and you give her a nervous smile, extending your hand for a handshake and regretting it immediately, worried it might be too formal. As for his secretary, her mind is racing as well, all the times she’s tried to get him to stay later for drinks with the team, clearly interested in hooking up with him drunk, all met with a kind but firm “My wife is waiting on me,” flashing back to her. She reaches up to shake your hand, exchanging pleasantries, but her eyes are locked on your other hand, the one with the ring, the entire time.

Finally, you’re ushered into Kento’s office, and before you can even place the bento safely on his desk, his arms wrap around you, pressing you to his front, breathing you in. You feel a smile creep up onto your face, setting down the bento and twisting to face him, dropping your head onto his chest.

All of them. Every single one. That’s what you’ve decided. Every single worker in this building is undeniably in love with your husband. You nuzzle against Kento’s chest, mumbling about needing to cover his face when he leaves the house. Kento peers down at you, a little confused, but you just continue to press your face into him, letting your mind calm down before reminding Kento about lunch. Kento, if we’re being completely honest, has already forgotten about lunch, but he quickly straightens up, adjusting his glasses while muttering, “Right… right… the cafeteria.”

And you’re excited to snoop around the cafeteria as well. You’ve heard Kento’s laments about the budgeting: “We allocate so much money to providing the free meals and they still can’t make a decent loaf of sourdough. Do you know how much it costs us quarterly to source the ingredients and pay all of our kitchen staff? Love, it’s ridiculous. Some of these guys get paid more than our office workers and their budget goes up every year, but I still can’t get a good loaf of milk bread. If I had the time, I’d proof the dough myself.”

So, imagine your surprise when the elevator opens up to what might be the most well-designed canteen you’ve ever seen—it’s practically a maze of food. You’re shocked and excited, hands flying up to cover your mouth, and Kento’s looking at you like you’ve grown a second head. “It’s just food,” he mutters, clearly unimpressed with his company’s cafeteria—the same cafeteria which you’re now realizing spans the entire floor and includes a traditional wood fired brick pizza oven, an entire sushi bar, a self serve gelato station, and rows of peking duck roasting in a rotisserie oven, just to name a few. You’re completely flabbergasted, pulling a reluctant Kento forward, insisting on trying every single dish displayed. He grabs a tray, dutifully following you as you ooh and ahh over every section, the furrow between his brows deepening every time the tray becomes weighed down by another plate.

Eventually, Kento stops you, worried about the structural integrity of the tray, how the two of you will finish all of this food, and the fact that the dish with the chocolate cake is sitting fully on top of the crab cakes. You’ve got the sense to at least look a little embarrassed, offering to help carry the tray knowing full well you’d drop its contents in a heartbeat.

Back in Kento’s office, the two of you sit side-by-side with the tray in front of you and the bento in front of him. Kento seems content with the home-packed lunch, shaking his head when you try to offer him a bite of your food. As for you, you’re quickly realizing you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.

“Wasting food is a sin,” Kento comments, pointedly glancing at the tray of food, still three-quarters full, his own lunch already polished off.

You blush, shooting him a half-hearted glare as best you could with a mouth full of food, doing your best to chew and swallow before giggling back, “You could at least help me! It’s your company’s food, if you don’t like it you should just change it. Come on, get to work!”

You’re both laughing, shaking your heads at each other, but Kento picks up his chopsticks and starts to help with the food. He makes faces at the butter and garlic steamed clams, claiming yours are better, but you just swat at him and remind him that lying is also a sin. He thinks you’re ridiculous, but even so, he cancels the rest of his meetings for the day, spending the remainder of his 9-5 feeding you bite after bite of chocolate cake, taste testing meringues off your tongue while lounging in his office.

And when Satoru barrels into the office to complain and ask Kento why he’s leaving Satoru to fend for himself at the executive meeting, he’s not the least bit surprised to find you curled up on Kento’s lap, dozing off while your husband reviews a stack of paperwork. Kento’s raising a finger to his lips, shushing Satoru, glancing down at you with so much love in his eyes Satoru might actually become physically sick. You shift in your sleep, snuggling up against your husband, and Satoru has to stop himself from laughing at how quickly Kento drops the file in his hands to stroke your hair, ensuring your nap is as comfortable and uninterrupted as possible. Kento almost forgets Satoru’s even there, slipping off his suit jacket (camel beige, starchy, ugly) and draping it over your curled up form, releasing a deep sigh when he hears obnoxious giggling and a singsonging “Nanaminnnn” coming from across the room.

“There’s a reason why I’m married and you’re single, Satoru.”

- yea, gojo stumbled out of the office with his hand clenched over his heart, pretending he was stabbed or some shit & everybody ignored him bc this is normal and he is dramatic (nanami pls throw away the tan colored suits)

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nanamiya3 · 2 years

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toji x gn reader - going to the farmers market! - mentions of food - fluff - wc. 680

i need. toji to cook for me. pls (_ _).｡o○

toji is a good cook.

he’s better than good, but he’d never admit it.

he takes you to the farmers market each saturday, buying you flowers from the sweet old ladies who shoot you winks. he plans meals for the week, leading you to the farmstand with two large whole foods bags on one shoulder - list of groceries in one hand and a generous grab of your waist in his other.

he asks you for your input on the heirloom tomatoes piled up in baskets: how many? what color? big or small? do you like the yellow or red ones more? what about the green ones?

toji watches dutifully as you pick up free sample after free sample, and he humors you when you force feed him the leftovers from your bite, insisting it’s delicious and that he has to try it. his card is already in his hand when you spin around to him, eyes wide from your most recent pastry sample.

the whole foods bags are quickly filled with vegetables, breads, and sweets. each item on toji’s list is gradually crossed off—though thanks to a certain someone, he’s bought way more bread and sweets than anticipated. one saltwater taffy sample led to a hefty bag of the chews. a taste test of a honey hard candy meant toji was another $8 in the shit and a bag of candy richer. a nibble of a garlic-rosemary sourdough loaf and toji knew his bag would be sporting yet another parchment wrapped parcel. and—when you’ve got those doll eyes directed right at him—how can he say no to the strawberry rhubarb tart you’re pointing to?

finally, toji steers you away from the baked goods and local chocolatiers towards the fish and butcher stands - toji’s got an absolutely brilliant baked salmon recipe that you can’t go longer than a week without. he also picks up a pound of beef, hoping to slow roast it with the potatoes, onions, and multicolored carrots he bought earlier today.

toji has a plan for everything he buys, so when he’s got enough food for the week, he walks with you back to the car. he’s got both reusable bags filled to the brim, and when you offer to help carry one, he’s nothing short of mortified. does it look like he’s struggling? should he start buying you two bouquets instead of one so both your hands are full? how could he let his love hold such a heavy load? you could end up breaking a nail! needless to say, toji ends up holding both bags: one on his shoulder, another in his hand - leaving one arm free to wrap around your side.

at home, you’re perched on the kitchen counters, slowly eating away at your strawberry rhubarb tart, watching toji move about the kitchen. the two of you chat, bantering playfully while he cooks. toji cuts the heirloom tomatoes you picked out into uniform slices, tossing them into a bowl before sprinkling sugar over the slabs. he covers the bowl with beeswax wrap - bought months ago from the farmers market - and sets it in the fridge to marinate. sugared tomatoes: one of your favorites. then, toji takes the potato fingerlings and quarters them into long strips. they’re tossed with salt, pepper, oil, paprika, onion powder, and crushed garlic before being popped into the oven - baked into the perfect wedges. for veg, toji washes and trims the bundle of asparagus he picked up earlier today, sautéing the shoots with soy sauce and shallots. finally, he cuts the garlic-rosemary bread into thick slices, searing them with butter for extra crunch and flavor.

you hop down from the counter to set the table for two, uncorking a bottle of wine and filling two glasses. toji plates his hard work and sets it down the center of the table, pressing a soft kiss to your temple before sitting down for dinner.

— and before any of y’all get on the reader’s ass for not helping toji cook, i feel like he probably does not care / just enjoys cooking for his loved ones. also i wrote this because i am broke.. and tired of cooking for myself… and would like a big beefy man to buy me a strawberry rhubarb tart…..

#toji x you #toji fushiguro jjk #toji fushiguro x reader #toji jjk #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjk toji #toji fushiguro #toji fluff #jujutsu kaisen toji #jujutsu toji #toji x y/n #toji x reader #toji x self insert #toji fushiguro fluff #toji fushiguro x you #toji zenin

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nanamiya3 · 2 years

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hello! it’s been so long since i last saw u guys! i’ve been super busy but anyways..

i started writing this over a year ago as a way to get some stuff off my mind, so it’s kind of self indulgent in that it’s a classic hurt/comfort trope where the reader is in danger & the other mc has to save them. i’ve been writing it on and off for so long: id pick it up and write like four lines and then let it sit for weeks. this fic is a bit dark at the beginning, though the comfort is very sappy at the end. please read the statements below on specific triggers, thank you! also, i lowkey forgot how to use tumblr so if i don’t do something right tell me!! also also,, this is very not proofread so please ignore any mediocre writing or plot holes.

naoya x fem reader - very obvious allusions to sexual assault - reader is referred to as naoya’s wife - some misogyny (not really from naoya) - reader has PTSD as a result of the SA - hostage situation - hurt/comfort - wc. 4.5k

- please do not expand the post unless you are okay with topics such as sexual assault, violence, and PTSD -

“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” The barrel of a gun lay flat against the dark strands of your hair.

A tear fell past your lashes, tracing the paths left by tears long shed. The watery, winter sun cast your face in a pale, ashen light, and the light breeze rustling the cold clover at your feet forced a shiver from your body.

The Zen’in estate faced your back, as did your captor. In front of you stood Naoya Zen’in, your husband.

You had been wed to the heir of the Zen’in clan three months ago, your hand in marriage gifted as a means to improve relations between yours and the Zen’in clan.

The wedding ceremony was a quiet affair; Naoya was not one to stall, and there were few attendants -- your own parents had quickly left upon your successful engagement.

Consummating the marriage later that night had left quiet tears in your eyes, Naoya’s sticky seed slipping onto your thighs, a light smattering of blood speckling the pale sheets.

The two of you were not in love. You could count on one hand the number of proper conversations you’d had in the three months since your union. Your communication was limited to murmured thank you’s at dinner -- when plates of steaming foods were passed, when your cup was filled with warm tea by his steady hand. When the sun shied and the moon rose and hushed moans and whispered names were exchanged.

Beyond your lewd, nighttime tumbles, Naoya didn’t pay you much attention. Your obedience was not a courtesy, it was required -- expected. Your job was simply to sit at his side and look all the bit the demure, quiet wife; to lay there as Naoya fucked a son - an heir - into the soft curves of your body.

When you sit up in bed, panting and shaking from a nightmare, quiet sobs racking your body because you believe Naoya to be asleep, he does not lower himself to comfort you -- does not bother to give any indication that he is, in fact, not asleep. When you trip over your pretty, patterned kimono, obediently walking three steps behind your superior husband, he does not look back or help you up.

The union that joined you and the heir of the Zen’in clan was not one born of affection; it was a union of convenience, service.

As your mind raced with fleeting thoughts of your marriage, you did not believe that Naoya would make an effort to save you. You had a multitude of reasons to believe so. Reasons that involved the origin of the predicament you were currently in.

Naoya had left the grounds two nights ago on a mission at the request of his father. The guards had been excused: after all, the heir to the Zen’in clan, the one to be protected, was no longer present.

Three months of sleepless nights and you had nothing to show for it. You bore no heir. Your life held no value. If you died, Naoya could always take another wife. The security was unneeded - not for you.

So, someone had taken advantage of your state of unprotected solitude.

He’d made quick work of the remaining help: the chefs who prepared the meals you shared with your husband, the maids who kept your kimonos pressed and clean.

The unnatural stillness that had fallen over your home following the murders of the staff was quickly interrupted by the piercing of sharp screams, the thud of muffled kicking, the rip and ruination of hand-stitched seams.

And so, Naoya returned home, exhausted from his mission, ready to be greeted by a sweet smile on your face, a shy, soft kiss waiting on your lips, a tray of warm food resting next to you on the bed.

Instead, he had walked into the eerily quiet residence, no wife in sight. What he’d found was a trail of bodies, tracks of mud bleeding into the plush greenery behind the manor. He’d followed it, circling around the property to avoid detection, until the house crested in his view once more and a man stood in the backyard, a large hand wrapped around your throat as he waited leisurely for Naoya’s arrival.

Naoya had paused for a moment before walking closer, weighing the scene. His eyes slid across your body, cataloging the bruises on your neck that looked suspiciously similar to handprints. He noted the patterned kimono that he’d secretly grown fond of; the small rips decorating the length of the familiar fabric, the way it seemed messily thrown onto your trembling body.

And Naoya knew you. Three months of sharing a bed had allowed him to learn your habits well enough -- more than well enough, if he was being honest with himself. Naoya knew you in the hushed way that only a silent lover would. Naoya knew that you took great care in dressing yourself, keeping clean. Naoya knew that you scrubbed under your fingernails, bathed with a strict routine, avoided messy activities, took care to never wrinkle your—

Naoya knew because he’d paid attention and wanted so badly to show it, the words crawling out of his throat and the air being torn from his lungs at the same time. His arms ached to hold you and his hands dreamt of yours and he wanted to sweep you into his arms and never let you go—

Naoya knew that you would never allow your kimono to be worn in such a state of disarray. For the seams to be ripped as such, the fabric scrunched and messy… No, you had not dressed yourself.

“She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

Had you… Were you…?

The thought played in his head and Naoya’s stomach turned as he watched helpless tears dribble down your cheeks.

“N… N-Naoya…” Your voice had been reduced to a crushed, desperate whisper.

Did he care? Did he care about the gun against your head? Did he care about Death reaching His hands towards you, glee-filled with the promise of another companion?

You hoped he did.

If you were being honest with yourself, you had developed… feelings… for Naoya. You couldn’t be blamed; not when you spent your nights warming his bed and your days admiring his features from afar.

By all means, Naoya was not a kind-hearted man. He carried a weighty reputation, one that spread talk of his demeaning, dismissive, and impatient attitude. However, on occasion, you’ve deluded yourself into thinking that he might care for you as well -- that he could grow to love you, just as you felt yourself beginning to love him.

You’ve noted that Naoya was… softer towards you -- if Naoya could ever be described as “soft.” He never snaps at you like he does most others. He swallows his sharp tongue and holds back his poisoned words, trading them for small pleasantries - calm silence.

You’ve noticed your heart acting strange around him. You will it to be still, to calm, but when the moon hangs high in the night sky and his lips move up your neck and his murmured praise brings a flushed heat high up to your cheeks--

Your heart can’t help but stutter.

But now, standing in front of Naoya, pinned to the front of a cruel man and trapped by the cold metal of a gun, you feel nothing but shame course through your body as you watch your husband put the pieces together. As he connects the skewed kimono, the bruises on your neck.

You knew that, no matter how many sweet nothings he had once breathed onto your skin under the veil of nightfall, you were ruined.

Perhaps the praise, the validation, had meant something in the moment, when Naoya’s mind had wandered with drink and good food and all he wanted was to take a warm body to his bed; but in this moment, they meant nothing. Why would he want a wife sullied by another man, in his own home, no less?

Yes, you were done. Ruined.

Though you desperately wanted Naoya to care, to prove that your pining was not one-sided by saving you like a knight in a storybook, you understood that he probably did not care. Your captor could scatter your brains across the extensive patchwork of clover beneath your feet, and your husband, you supposed, wouldn’t bat an eye.

Your crying intensified as the panic set in. Your captor would kill you to prove that he could, to mock the Zen’ins, and Naoya would either be too tired or too apathetic to stop him.

You were going to die.

The man ran a hand down the slope of your breast, spanning your stomach, tossing Naoya a sleazy smile, daring him to do something.

The guards had not yet returned, and the three of you were the only ones on the property. Naoya knew he was fast, but was he faster than a bullet? Did he have enough cursed energy -- or even just regular energy -- to save you?

Unbeknownst to you, Naoya did care. Naoya admitted to himself that he liked you, that he cared about you. He just sucked at showing it.

So, he schooled his features into a stoic and bored mask. He dragged his gaze away from where you were held captive and swept it around his surroundings. The man frowned at Naoya’s impassive and unfocused face, bringing his hand back up to your shoulder so he could rest his chin on the top of your head, trying to rile him up. “How did an ass like you marry such a lovely girl?”

Now, it was Naoya’s turn to frown as he directed his attention back to where you were being held hostage.

This hostage guy seriously needed to reconsider who the ass in this situation was.

“You Zen’ins are always so stiff. So… self-absorbed… Stuck up. It makes me want to teach you a lesson…” He trailed off, his hand reaching up to trace your jaw, damp from the tears still rolling down the apples of your cheeks.

The possessive caress didn’t seem to bother Naoya. He knew that the man wouldn’t kill you yet; not when your murder would mean his own similar end. But, Naoya wasn’t too keen on the idea of you dying. So, he stepped forward, stopping a few feet away from where you stood. He inspected your panicked face as his own stayed harsh and cold and unamused.

“You can take her,” Naoya’s frigid voice cut through the chilled air like a whip. His frown deepened. He hoped you wouldn’t take this to heart -- that you’d forgive him after it was all over. “She’s barely fit to serve as my wife. Take her and leave.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Apparently, Naoya didn’t care.

You couldn’t breathe.

Your pining was one-sided; three months of marriage, and you were, in the end, replaceable. The man behind you would steal you away, and if he didn’t kill you he’d keep you to--

Two sets of equally surprised eyes lifted up to meet Naoya’s, and with a whimper, your knees crumpled. The man lost his hold on you, your limp body slipping through his fingers.

Naoya’s eyes narrowed, watching the finger on the trigger lose its place.

As soon as the man’s hands were off you, the gun slipping from your hair as you dropped to the floor, Naoya lunged forward, using his technique to slow time around him, moving faster than should be possible.

Naoya made a mental note to apologize to you for the emotional distress he’d caused. He didn’t mean what he said -- it was just a ploy to derail the man’s attention for a fraction of a second -- but, you had clearly taken his bitter words to heart.

The damp feel and the sweet smell of the clovers beneath you were all you could focus on as your eyes struggled to acknowledge the too-fast fight, the crumple of a black-clad body.

Too much had happened in one day and all you wanted to do was curl up and cry. You were tired and lonely and felt so heartbreakingly empty—

Familiar arms wrapped around your body, picking you up.

A blink, and you were inside, a familiar room around you, so warm in his arms. An exhale, and hands -- so gentle, loving in a way you’d never experienced -- were easing the torn garment from your body.

Averted eyes, a steaming bathtub, peaceful silence.

Hands in your hair, gently cleansing more than physical hurt.

You were quiet. You had nothing to say.

A new pattern swathed over your now-clean body, crisp and unfamiliar.

You felt dizzy and overwhelmed, fingers poking at the red patches fading into purple blooms against your skin.

Big hands guided you into bed, a hushed, “I’ll be back soon,” floating gently into your ear. The soft sheets and plush blankets smothered your skin, and your eyes began to droop.

Everything was okay. Those familiar hands were stroking your cheek, and through your deliria, you reached up to grab one, wanting to know if it was real. A quiet laugh -- no more than a huff of air -- sounded from somewhere above you.

You felt warm and safe.

Tucked into bed - soft blankets pulled up to your chin - hand peeking out to grab your husband’s. You let your mind quiet, breathing deep and succumbing to fatigue.

-------

When you woke up, the room was empty. You pulled yourself to a sitting position, wincing at the ache in your legs. You scanned the room, slightly confused. There was something wrong with the room - like something was missing.

What was wrong? You had closed your eyes for just a second while holding Naoya’s hand—

Naoya.

Where was he? Hadn’t he tucked you in and promised to be right back?

The unease in your chest grew and panic spread through your body. Your eyes darted to the windows, the door. You didn’t feel safe alone.

The sound of maids and other help bustling throughout the house - setting it to rights - reached you, and you fumbled out of bed on tired, clumsy limbs.

Stepping into the hallway, you looked around in confusion at all the new faces.

Oh. Right... The maids you’d grown fond of were gone, their blood likely being scrubbed out of the carpets as you stood there, eyes darting and searching for your husband.

“Excuse me,” you spoke quietly - hoping to minimize the scratch of your throat - to the maid closest to you. “Do you know where Naoya-sama is?”

The young woman bowed low. “He should be in a meeting with the Zen’in clan heads right now, miss.”

You passed her a tired smile, murmuring your thanks as you moved in the direction of the meeting room.

You walked in silence to the end of the hallway, trailing down the stairs, turning past the entryway. You stepped shakily around the living room, doing your best to ignore the dark red stains being worked out of the tiles, as one last turn led you down the hallway that housed the formal rooms: offices, meeting rooms, libraries, and family weapon troves. Months of lonely wandering meant you knew exactly where Naoya’s meeting would take place, but as you approached the door, your steps began to falter.

Why were you even headed to see Naoya? You shouldn’t be interrupting him, especially when he was in a meeting. What would you do if you entered the meeting and made a fool of yourself in front of all of the clan heads? Naoya likely wouldn’t want his wife behaving so out of line in front of his clan leaders. Meeting aside, you weren’t even sure what you’d do when you saw him. You wanted him to comfort you like he’d done earlier, but what if that was just a fluke? What if he had just pitied you in that moment? You shouldn’t test your luck by trying to get him to be sweet with you twice in one day. What if he thought you were too clingy and annoying, always seeking out his attention? You should turn back now - head back to your shared room and ignore your anxiety. You were overthinking it; this house, and you in it, would be safe, safer than ever. Nobody would dare attack with so many sorcerers and guards crawling the property. You didn’t need to hover by Naoya’s side to feel safe, this place was safe enough, and your memories of earlier today were just getting to you.

You knew, logically, that you would be just fine if you trekked back to your room and stayed there, alone for a bit. However, that pit of paranoia illogically embedded itself in your head, and you remained frozen in the hallway.

Naoya had been so kind to you earlier; drawing you a bath, washing your hair, dressing you for bed, tucking you in and holding your hand… Maybe… Maybe he wouldn’t mind your intrusion. Maybe he would be glad to see you awake, even though he was in front of the clan leaders. Maybe he would be sympathetic towards your worries and fears, reassuring you that everything was okay. After all, he’d chosen to save you when he very well could have walked away and let you be killed.

You drew in a deep, steadying breath and knocked on the door.

A few seconds passed.

“Come in,” called an old, stern voice.

You stepped inside, head bowed towards the floor, eyes subtly shifting among the gathered men for Naoya. Having so many important clan members watch you, likely with disdain, made your body tense with fear. Your hands trembled, eyes averted towards the ground. You needed to apologize for the interruption, explain your intrusion, but your throat had closed up all of a sudden.

Naoya stood, addressing the room, “Excuse me.” He walked up to you, took your shaky hands in his own, and led you out the room and into the hallway for some privacy.

“As we were discussing, security has been far too lax—” The door shut, leaving you alone with Naoya in the hallway.

“Sorry for barging in,” you said quietly, staring in front of you at the hands covering your own.

“It’s fine.” He dropped one of your hands as his own ran through his hair. “You’re not interrupting much, just a lot of arguing.”

You nodded, pulling your hand from his and wrapping your arms around your waist. Silence filled the air.

“I… woke up and you were gone.” Realizing how accusatory that might have sounded, you scrambled to explain. “N-not that that’s a problem! I just thought I heard you saying you’d be back, before I fell asleep…” You trailed off, feeling like you were wasting Naoya’s time. You stared at the floor, nervous to avoid eye contact with him. “I woke up feeling kind of… scared, about…” Your hand came up to your neck, fingers tracing mean blotches of purple and yellow, “being alone..”

Deep in his chest, Naoya felt a tug on his heart. He really hadn’t meant to leave you all alone - he’d meant it when he told you he’d be back.

It was just that, after you’d fallen asleep, Naoya had been swamped with work. First, he had to make sure the man outside was really dead (he was - Naoya shot him twice to make sure). Then, he had to contact the clan about why all of the fucking guards had been sent away (you had no inherited cursed technique nor an heir that would be worth protecting). After that, he had to arrange for new staff to be brought in, including more security (turns out none of the Zen’ins were too keen on giving up their cooks and maids to Naoya). Then, the clan leaders arranged to meet at Naoya’s estate to discuss the Hei and the Kukuru Unit and the role they played in overall security (which is to say, they arranged for all the major players in the Zen’in family to yell at each other in Naoya’s home while pretending to care that you’d nearly been killed in what was a catastrophic failure on behalf of Zen’in security). Finally, Naoya, along with the rest of the newly arrived security guards, swept the entire estate grounds to ensure that there were no other intruders (there weren’t - the only intruder was face down in the grass with two holes in his head, as he had been for a few hours).

Naoya sighed, moving forward to pull you into his arms, murmuring, “I’m sorry.” He explained into your hair, “Got a bit busy. I didn’t mean to leave you up there all alone.”

“I… Wanted to be with you..” you mumbled into his chest, eyes closed and body melting against his.

He smiled, you were cute. His adoration faded into concern, though, when he remembered what you’d said earlier - about being scared of being alone. “You have a bad dream?” he asked, uncharacteristic worry in his voice.

You shook your head, nose knocking against his chest. “No… I just…” You chewed on your lip, thinking about how to phrase your feelings. “My mind keeps reminding me of… earlier today. It freaks me out every time.” Your voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s like I’m expecting it to happen again, and I’m scared.”

You were trembling slightly against his body, arms wrapped tight around his middle. He frowned, running a hand up and down the small of your back. “I’m sorry about today. You should have never been alone like that. Security will be tighter, and I’ll be here as well”

You nodded into his chest, head still buried in his pecs. You felt a lot safer with his reassurance, but… “Do you— Are you.. upset? That I’m— I’ve been... by another man…?”

Naoya’s heart dropped, pulling away from you to look at you incredulously. “Are you asking me… if I’m mad at you because he…?” Naoya trailed off, feeling shocked as he watched you give him a small, shameful nod. Did you really think he was so shallow and inconsiderate?

Sure, Naoya had grown up a Zen’in, through and through. He could admit he wasn’t exactly a champion for women’s rights. But, he thought you’d at least known that he cared about you. He’d made it pretty obvious right? He took his meals with you, something he’d almost never seen his relatives do with their wives, because he enjoyed your presence. He never comforted you when you had nightmares because he was worried he’d scare you. Once, he’d shifted in his “sleep” when you were trying to calm yourself down, and you’d jumped up, mashing a shaky hand over your mouth. You were so skittish, he worried that him sitting up and approaching you would send you into a full-fledged mental breakdown. Naoya also took care to make sure that you enjoyed your nights together as much as he did. There was little foreplay, but he’d hold himself off until your breath hitched in a way that made his own feel knocked out of his chest, until you were clenching tight around him, hands scrambling in the sheets. Naoya was usually a selfish lover, but never with you. Didn’t you know that?

“I could never be upset with you for that,” he murmured, pulling you back into his chest.

“Okay,” you whispered, thankful that Naoya was so understanding. You knew that if you were wed to another man, like one of Naoya’s many cousins, he’d likely be taking in a second wife, using your terrors as an excuse to bed other women.

The two of you stood like that—arms wrapped around each other, accustomed to the comfortable silence blanketing the hallway—until Naoya’s arms loosened around your middle and he stepped back. “I’m gonna head back in there and tell them to finish the meeting without me.” He brushed a strand of hair away from your face, “Wait right here, okay?”

A soft smile crept its way onto your face, fears forgotten for the moment, and you nodded in response.

———————

Naoya reaches to cover your shaking hands - wipe away your tears - pull you into his arms - soothe the ache and stress and fear from your shoulders - but you grip his wrist before he can touch you. His eyes are wide and full of concern, and they’re trained right on you.

Your breathing is too heavy and your head is too loud and you don’t think you can deal with another form of input. You just want to cry even harder.

You’re so overwhelmed right now and all you want is Naoya’s comfort, but something in you self-sabotages, and your grip on his wrist remains tight. You wish you could just relax, let him tug you into his arms and melt away the horrors in your mind, but your body remains tense, strung tight as a bow.

You had a long night last night, and Naoya steals glances at you as you take a bite of the Kakitamajiru that he requested the cook make for you.

It’s been about 3 months since everything happened, and Naoya is still patient with you. Sometimes you get so scared you ask him exactly how many guards are on watch, where they are - who they are; sometimes you struggle to speak, lips trembling as they remain shut despite the words bubbling out from your chest; sometimes you jump out of bed and turn on all the lights, eyes shining with guilt as you apologize again and again for waking Naoya up; sometimes you ask him to walk with you to places - the garden when it’s sunny out, the kitchen when you’re hungry but it’s dark at midnight, down the stairs when you’re worried about someone waiting for you around the corner.

And Naoya obliges every single time. He speaks slowly in a gentle voice, detailing not just how many guards are on watch, but their names, when their shifts started, how long he’s known them for, who their families are, and whatever else he can tell you to keep your mind off why you wanted to know all of this in the first place. He’s calm, waiting in silence until you’re ready to talk, sometimes not waiting at all - happy to spend time with you, even if there’s no conversation. He’s understanding, telling you - no, the lights don’t bother him - regardless of the fact that it’s 2:47 AM and you know that he woke up because of you. He’s loving - walking you through the backyard to the garden, avoiding going near the one spot that makes your stomach queasy - accompanying you to the kitchen as you search for snacks - placing a hand on your back as you both round the corner by the staircase.

And sometimes, getting through the night is easy. Sometimes your dreams are sweet, snores uninterrupted - though you swear up and down that you don’t snore (Naoya has a different side of the story to tell). Sometimes it’s not hard at all, with your husband’s big arm around your middle, a day of laughter and peace behind you.

Progress is never linear, but you’ve come a long way in the past 3 months, and both you and Naoya are proud of your growth.

------

i don’t know what this was either please don’t perceive me

#naoya x you #naoya x reader #jjk naoya #naoya zenin #jujutsu kaisen naoya #naoya x y/n #zen’in naoya #zenin naoya #hurt/comfort #sensitive topics

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nanamiya3 · 2 years

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what type of driver i think gojo would be (T . T)

gojo x gn reader - fluff - gojo being a questionable driver - wc. 700

Gojo…

Gojo drives a cube car…. （ーー；）

It’s white, and when you tease him for driving such a gargantuanly shaped vehicle, he just tells you it gets good mileage. You’re left speechless, because this is the same guy who Venmoed you $500 to get your nails done, telling you, “I heard people online say those things were expensive,” when you asked him why the hell he thought a trip to the nail salon would require a $500 withdraw.

He’s also definitely the type of guy to decorate his car. If the two of you celebrate Christmas, he’s got reindeer antlers clipped on the sides of his car and a wreath on the front bumper. If you guys celebrate Chanukah, he’s cutting out Star of David’s and dreidels, coloring them in before ordering menorah stickers so he can attach them all to the rear window. If you and Gojo celebrate Kwanzaa, he tries to get real candles to stick to the top of the car so he can drive around like his car’s a Kinara. You catch him sitting on top of the car with a lighter, melting the ends of the candles so they can stick to the car, and you chew him out, telling him the candles would fly off the second the car went above 20 MPH, hitting whoever was unfortunate enough to be driving behind him. You agree to help him decorate his car, ordering Kwanzaa car stickers and red, green, and black streamers. When it’s not a holiday, he just does whatever. He buys huge ass googly-eyes (I’m talking like 2 feet in diameter) and sticks them on the doors, trunk, hood, and even the roof of his car. One day he picks you up and you see a googly eye covering his license plate. You feel bad, but you tell him that intentionally covering a vehicle’s license plate is illegal, and you make him take it down. He grumbles and sticks it next to the two on the trunk, getting back into the car with an exaggerated sigh.

As for what type of driver Gojo is… He’s definitely not a bad driver.. He’s just,, erratic sometimes.

Definitely speeds up when he sees a yellow light - you’re gripping the center console with one hand and the overhead handle with the other, screaming, “GOJO THE LIGHT IS RED NOW!” … Needless to say, he still whips it across the intersection. He also loves to brake check people and he cackles when they stop following him so closely. He tries to make full stops at stop signs but ends up slowing down to like.. 4 MPH before hitting the gas again. In his defense, the intention was there.

Okay I’m thinking about it a bit more and he’s definitely a mediocre driver.

Gojo has absolutely no idea how roundabouts work and they confuse him to no end. First, he doesn’t know how fast he should be going in them. He shoots into one at 20 MPH, but as soon as that curve hits, everything in the car just shoots over to the right because of how fast he’s squeezing around that tight corner. Second, bigger roundabouts with more than three exits and one lane make his brain hurt. He never knows which lane he should be in, so when he realizes he’s in the wrong lane, he tries to switch lanes inside of the roundabout. You yell at him because cars aren’t supposed to switch lanes when they’re in a roundabout, and people honk at him because they too know that you aren’t supposed to switch lanes when you’re in a roundabout. Gojo just ends up going in a circle around the roundabout a few times before you tell him to take a random exit and make a U-turn to retry the roundabout. This time, you read the signs so that when the roundabout approaches and he panics and asks you, “Baby, what lane am I supposed to be in???” you tell him to move into the right lane.

— i’m so sorry for this but also im not (＾ｰ^)ノ◻️ <— gojo leaning on his car when he picks u up

#jujutsu gojo #gojou satoru x you #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #gojo headcanons #jjk fluff #gojo fluff #gojo satoru fluff #jujutsu kaisen gojo #gojo x reader #gojo x gn!reader #gojo x gender neutral reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen fluff

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nanamiya3 · 2 years

Text

because i wrote about nanami not liking stick & then my brain said… you know who would love driving stick? toji.

toji x fem reader - pet names like baby & princess - no pronouns but princess is a gendered term (?) (pls let me know if it’s fine to tag as gn reader) - toji teaching reader how to drive stick - fluff - wc. 1.8k

toji teaching you how to drive stick…

He’s super patient with you. He takes you to an empty parking lot after showing you some introductory videos at home and just lets you have at it. He watches you stall his black, seven speed, nearly $70k Stingray Corvette and winces in sympathy for the transmission, but when you look at him with wide eyes, opening your mouth to apologize, he smiles, covers your shaky hand over the gear shift with his own, and tells you it’s okay.

“We all messed up a few engines while learning,” Toji reassures. “The car’ll be fine, baby. Just remember to be fast when pushing that clutch down, and a bit more careful when you let it up. Let’s try it again, yeah?”

He has you on a flat stretch of space, just working on stopping and starting again. You stall the car a few times by not getting the clutch all the way down before you hit the brakes to bring the car back to 0, and you stall it a few more times by taking your foot off the clutch a bit too early. Toji tells you it gets easier with experience: you’ll be able to find that sweet spot on the clutch if you keep at it. You spend the rest of the practice drive that day just starting and stopping on that flat concrete. Toji shows you a few tricks - keeping your right foot on the brake (in contrast to where it was hovering over the gas before) while the left foot releases the clutch until the car’s shaking a bit, then taking that right foot off so the car takes off on its own - engaging the parking brake before releasing the clutch to that halfway point, right foot revving up the engine slightly so that when Toji puts the parking brake down (you were too concentrated on what your feet were doing to take your hands off the wheel), the car moves forward easily.

Toji’s got this big, stupid grin on his face as he watches you drive, your brow furrowed slightly in concentration, because he’s so overwhelmingly in love with you and thinks it’s extremely hot that you’re driving (or at least learning to drive) his Corvette. You catch him smiling while watching you, and you’re worried that he thinks your beginner starting & stopping is funny, a small frown forming on your face as you look over at him.

You’re grumbling “What’s so funny?” and feeling slightly embarrassed, but Toji laughs because it’s cute that you’re self-conscious about your driving. He tells you he’s just enjoying the view, and then you feel even more embarrassed, pressing your forehead into the steering wheel, flustered face reminding you of some other things Toji’s said to you in this car. He’s laughing even harder at your reaction, big hand tickling at the back of your neck to make you turn your face toward him. You jump up, squeaking. You’re ticklish, and Toji knows it. You duck your head, turning your body so your arms are out front to protect you from an onslaught of tickles, when your foot slips from the clutch and the car stalls, engine cutting out with a click.

You’re the one laughing now, telling Toji that his engine’s gradual deterioration will be his fault. The car fanatic inside Toji is a bit worried about the state of his transmission, but he can’t help his smile, watching you babble about “instant karma.” After a bit more jesting, the two of you decide to call it a day, and you both climb out of the car to switch seats. As you skip around the front of the car, passing by Toji, he pulls you into his arms for a big bear hug. You jump into his arms, your legs wrapped around his waist, arms flung around his neck.

“You’re doing really well, princess. ’M proud of you,” Toji murmurs into your neck.

You pull back, eyes wide, a big grin on your face. “Really Toji?” You don’t really believe him - you’re pretty sure you just set the world record for “most engine stalls in one day.”

“There’s definitely some room for improvement—” You smack him in the arm for that, “But you’re picking things up really quickly, and that’s great.” Toji’s got on that lovey-dovey smile from earlier, and you smile back at him, grateful he’s such a patient teacher.

—

The two of you are back at the lot the next day, and Toji introduces you to hill starts.

He directs you to drive halfway up an incline in the parking lot and then bring the car to a stop. From there, he wants you to get the car going forward: up the hill.

You quickly realized the issue.

Every time you lifted your foot off the brake, the car would roll backwards, because the left foot engaging the clutch rendered the car in neutral, allowing it to freely roll down the hill. So, to counter the falling-back, you lifted your foot off the clutch quickly, which caused the engine to cut out - meaning the car rolled back down the hill. Then, you started quickly lifting your foot off the brake and slamming it down on the gas, succeeding in nothing but revving up the engine as it dropped down the hill accordingly and making Toji wince.

Toji tried to get you to use the tricks he taught you yesterday to get the car up the hill, but you were getting a bit overwhelmed. “Parking brake,” this. “Car shaking,” that. Everything was so confusing and you kept stalling the car. You felt awful, because Toji was being so gentle with you even though it was his car undergoing your abuse. Your nerves were getting too frayed, so you set the parking brake and turned the car off. You switched spots with Toji, letting him get the car up the hill and into the flat area.

“I’m just gonna work on what we did yesterday,” You mumble, back in the driver’s seat. Your hands are shaking slightly, rubbing at your eyes.

Toji’s nodding, patient as ever. “I shouldn’t have thrown you on that hill first thing today. It’ll be good to get back into the hang of the footwork before trying the hill,” he reasons.

You nod, taking a few shaky breaths before easing the car forward.

Half an hour later, Toji asks if you want to try the hill again. He’s helped you work on those tricks with the parking brake & footing, so he thinks you’ll be better prepared now than you were earlier. You know you feel more comfortable running the car, but the thought of the anxiety that came when actually on the hill, with an expensive car that just wouldn’t go forward, makes you shake your head slowly.

You pick at the leather around the gear shift, telling Toji, “Maybe another day..”

He tells you it’s alright: you guys can work on shifting through the gears. He talks you through how to move up and down the gears, having you move the gear stick from first to second, second to third, etc… while the car is still, so you can practice making sure you’ve got the right gear.

He’s got an eye on the dash, watching the RPM’s and MPH’s, pointing out the sweet spot for first gear, when you want to switch into second, the louder rumble of the engine as the threshold for first gear is met. He tells you to shift into second, and you pull the stick towards the bottom left, towards you. You end up releasing the clutch a bit too quickly, car lurching forward a bit, but Toji ignores it, excited about how well you’re doing. He high-fives you, silly smile on his face, prouder than ever.

—

Six months later, you swear up and down that manual is better than auto. Since Toji taught you how to drive stick, you’d been happy to whip it around town in his black Corvette, joking about how the two of you were out to bring justice in his Batmobile.

That is, until Toji surprises you with your own little Miata.

He had it custom painted a light purple color, a pale lilac shade that shone in the sun. The seats were a tan leather, light beige pairing perfectly with the sweet pastel car. Toji had the front panel on the interior - the area with the heating controls, radio, and other buttons - taken out and replaced with a system that was more… You. The CD slot was joined by a cassette reader, a feature that made you gasp and pepper Toji’s face with kisses. He changed the dials and knobs for the heating & air conditioning system to cute buttons that you could press. The hazard light button became a red heart with a small triangle denoting its purpose in the middle. He programmed the screen to light up with a new message every time you started your car, wooing you from miles away with an “I Love You.” Toji spent hours listening to various horn sounds available for sale, ultimately deciding to change the garish “HONK” to a light “Beeep!” He commissioned the mirror in the flip-down sun blocker to be set around a bed of small diamonds, making sure your mirror pictures would come out with hundreds of small rainbows reflected on your image. Then, Toji had the boring gear stick that read 1-2-3-4-5-R replaced with a beautifully rounded and smoothed Jade ball, various shades of light green crystal segmented by rocky bands of beige. Finally, Toji worked with the manufacturer to change the black cloth top to the same shade as the exterior of the vehicle, allowing for a fluid continuation of color.

When you see all the details Toji embedded into your car - like your initials stitched into the driver’s seatbelt and his in the passenger’s - you feel overcome with gratitude and love.

You take him on a joyride with you in your new car, winding through twisting mountain roads, sweet Beach House soaring through the speakers, red cassette feeding into the refined audio system. The top is down and Toji’s hair is blown out and ruffled, making him look young and relaxed. Or, maybe it’s that he’s with you—maybe he looks so content because it’s you in the driver’s seat, laughing as your new car shoots up the mountain, shifting between gears like it’s second nature. And as he watches it all, Toji’s just glad he taught you how to drive stick.

- i’m p sure my dad had a heart attack every time i stalled his car lol anyways pictures of toji’s car here and here and then i couldn’t find a picture of a light purple miata but imagine this in like a pastel purple :D the garage def looks like this pic where toji’s car is like ٩(˃̶͈̀௰˂̶͈́)و and reader’s car is like *\(^o^)/*

#jjk fluff #jjk toji #toji fluff #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #toji x you #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen toji #toji fushiguro jjk #toji fushiguro jujutsu kaisen #toji scenarios #toji fushiguro x you #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fic #toji fushiguro fluff #toji jjk

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nanamiya3 · 2 years

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just some thoughts about ceo nanami (*/ω＼*)

nanami x gn reader - fluff - nanami is a ceo - how nanami drives because i have things to say - wc. 800

i wrote this while sitting in my bright colored, two seater, manual convertible with heavy bass blasting in the parking lot after class. nanami would hate me.

CEO Nanami drives a sleek, black Mercedes (see picture here). It’s a small, elegant coupe - automatic, because unfortunately, Nanami believes driving stick is a waste of energy. His drives home from the office are for winding down: engine humming softly, classical music flitting over the speakers from a rented, library CD. To spend those sacred drives with an eye on the RPM gauge, right hand resting on the gear shift, music overwhelmed by the forceful engine, would be immoral. He also thinks that manual cars are for rich, old men who have superiority complexes from growing up in the age before auto transmission (he’s not wrong). Not to mention, if Nanami’s right hand was forced to move between gears during weekend traffic, he wouldn’t be able to run it over your thigh lazily, moving slowly among the sea of cars.

Nanami’s a steady driver; he follows the speed limit, obeys traffic signs, and makes full stops at stop signs. He’s calm on the roads, ignoring cars that ride too close to his rear bumper. He never brake-checks tailgaters - he thinks it’s an unnecessary act of spite that can lead to more damage than it’s worth. That being said, he keeps a pristine following distance of 3-5 seconds for normal vehicles, allotting 7-12 seconds for larger vehicles. He doesn’t want to needlessly endanger anybody on the roads by forcing the drivers in front of him to frequently check their rearview mirrors, so he drives carefully and respectfully. He’s never distracted while driving, unless you’re in the passenger seat - when he finds his eyes straying toward your figure, heart racing a bit faster when you slip your hand into his.

Nanami’s neat, organized, and precise. He always adds an extra 5 minutes to his commute to account for any unexpected traffic or road conditions. His drive to the office is only 15 minutes, and it’s a route he’s become very familiar with. Regardless, he leaves for the office at 8:35 AM sharp every morning: 15 minutes for the drive, 5 minutes for flexibility, and 5 minutes to get his car parked in the parking garage and himself up the elevator to his company’s floor.

He tries to leave the office at exactly 5:00 PM, so he can get home to you as soon as possible. You find that Nanami generally ends up coming home at exactly 5:18 PM - countless days of glancing at the clock in the living room as the front door opens, welcome kisses and smiles waiting on both your mouths, point to Nanami’s closely followed routine. He always takes care to shoot you a quick text when he’s running late, a buzz sounding from your phone as it lights up to read, “Sorry love, work is running a bit long. I’ll be home late tonight, don’t wait up.” Nanami hates when meetings run long: they force him to spend more time at the office—overtime. When one meeting spills over into his individual work time, he can’t get everything done in his regular eight hour schedule. And, with the company’s recent successful acquisition of a smaller rival company, Nanami’s been overwhelmed with work concerning the integration of the second company. He ends up grabbing some food to munch on as a makeshift dinner from the company cafeteria, office lights on when the rest of the floor is dark, city lights reflected on the large windowpanes. He’s the last to leave the office, loosening his tie with a sigh that echoes around the empty garage as he unlocks his car, briefcase set on the passenger seat.

He comes home to find a plate of dinner wrapped and set before his seat at the dining table - you saved him dinner in case he hadn’t had much to eat at the office. He’s got a soft smile on his face as he looks at the food, because the late night snacks set out after the cafeteria’s closing are not enough for Nanami’s big appetite, and you know that. He turns toward the living room when he hears some rustling, finding you wrapped up in blankets on the sofa, blinking the drowsiness out of your eyes as you register that Nanami’s home. He’s moving toward you, kneeling before the sofa as he chastises you for waiting up for him. You’re still quite sleepy, arms fumbling their way out of the thick blanket to wrap around his chest, cheek pressed into his neck. His arms do the same, cheek pressed into your hair, a long exhale leaving his chest as he finally forgets the stress of his day.

#jjk fluff #nanami jjk #kento nanami fluff #nanami kento x gender neutral reader #nanami kento fluff #nanami kento #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x reader #nanami fanfic #nanami fluff #jujutsu kaisen nanami #jujutsu kaisen nanami kento #jujutsu kaisen fluff

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nanamiya3 · 2 years

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inspired by @sukunasun ‘s ivy league bf geto (& nanami) posts.

synopsis: nanami in academia - greek plays and literature - with a stem reader

nanami x gn reader - warning: physics - nanami & reader are both professors - wc. 1.1k

Nanami wrote his Ph.D. thesis on irony and rationality, centering his work on the Greek play, Oedipus Rex.

You’re intimidated by him—half his department is. Being near him makes you nervous: he’s so well-spoken and collected, not to mention quite handsome. You do your best to avoid him, afraid of making a fool out of yourself in front of one of the university’s best professors - regardless of the fact that you’re one of the university’s most treasured researchers in the field of Theoretical Physics.

Nanami’s a solemn man - it’s part of why he’s so intimidating. However, he’s a well-respected faculty member for a reason: his teaching is direct and his work is high quality. Nanami doesn’t believe in coddling his students - he releases criticism as he sees fit, red pen dripping over sloppy drafts with little hesitation. However, his feedback is meant to be taken seriously, and he values students who understand that. The students who pass his classes are those who put in serious effort and commitment into the course - Nanami doesn’t understand why he should pass a student if they don’t show enthusiasm for the subject or a willingness to labor over literature, especially at this level.

It’s silly, really. Nanami receives an email one day: a generic, sent-to-the-whole-school announcement that highlights the recent events at the university. He thought he’d set up a filter to send all messages from the university’s reports to the trash folder, but this one must have slipped past the software. He clicks on the email, intending to report it as spam, when he sees your picture. His eyes skim over the caption - paying more attention to the editor’s lack of tone than news of your feature in an acclaimed science journal - ultimately finding his attention drawn back to your picture. He blinks twice, unable to look away from his screen, before he’s pulling up the university’s website for the Department of Mathematics.

You’re shocked, naturally so, when the Nanami Kento enters your lecture hall as you’re packing up after class. The two of you have never spoken before, and he’s practically the university’s Bachelor: both staff and students ogling from a distance, hoping for a rare, red rose. It’s been so long—too long, really—so Nanami’s a bit awkward, and all the literary devices in the world can’t help him as he congratulates you on the journal feature. You’re smiling, waving a hand in a “it’s no big deal” motion and thanking him for the kind regards. Nanami’s a bit entranced by your smile, mind going quiet as he stands there dumbly. You’re wondering if he came all the way over to your class to pat you on the back when he opens his mouth and—

“Do you want to grab coffee together sometime?” Is the best that Nanami Kento, Ph.D., can conjure.

You don’t even consider that Nanami should be infinitely better at romancing you - given that he could probably filet a poem like a fisherman raised on the sea, gutting the meaning and purpose from the text, pen moving like a knife to portion the poem into its best and worst cuts. No, you’re in shock: eyes wide, body frozen—looking like you’re doubting your own hearing. Nanami’s a bit concerned by your reaction because he didn’t think his “pick-up line” was that bad, but—

“Yeah! I would love to.” You’ve got the most beautiful smile on your face, body finally unfreezing, and Nanami seriously considers bracing a hand on the wall. His own smile rivals your own, the two of you standing in an empty lecture hall, probably exuding the most joy the classroom has ever felt.

As the two of you get to know each other better, you realize you’re almost complete opposites. The last time you took an English class was to fulfill a Bachelor’s requirement. You’ve only ever heard of Oedipus Rex in high school, and you’ve certainly never given too much thought to the metrics behind rationality. You think in numbers and abstract plausibility, Nanami thinks in letters (though sometimes it’s characters; depends on the language). Nanami lives for deciphering literary drivel (finding subjective meaning in formerly meaningless compositions), and you live for your research (which, at the moment, is about the hydrodynamics of quasiparticle diffusion when applied to integrable systems).

When Nanami realizes that you’ve never heard of Oedipus Rex, he’s quick to delve into the damning fate of Oedipus and his mirrored actions to his parents, Iokaste and Laios. Nanami’s eyes are wide, a touch of eagerness bringing youth to his face, happy to discuss the parallels present in such a famous story. He brings a barrage of complexity to the subject, analyzing the smallest of details: translation variability and its impact on the play’s meaning.

Nanami’s got big, thick books of the original play in the old Greek language sitting on his bookshelves, weathered spines proudly facing his dim, cluttered office. Nanami being Nanami took excessive classes on Ancient Greek when he was a university student. Years of studying - mumbling about dialects and syntax in his sleep - are reflected in his books, quick notes on possible contradictory translations crammed into corners and line breaks.

He tugs those books from their places on the shelves, showing you his messy notes, recounting a rough quarter of his thesis as he explains the excess of irony - the contrast of rationality. You’re watching him closely, head tilted to the side as you consider his ideas. Nanami feels like he’s just taken in his first breath of fresh air in years, finally able to present his findings to someone who won’t furrow their brow and argue, someone content to listen regardless of right or wrong - just because his passion—he—was enough. You’re a bit confused by a few of his ideas (who decides what is rational? how is rationality quantified and measured?) but still nod along, eyes following his pointer finger as he gestures to a line from the Exodus.

Similarly, Nanami’s happy to listen to you rattle on about your research. When your article fails the peer review, he’s there, listening to you bemoan the state of your life. He stays up late with you as you run simulations on sketchy software, chuckling as you curse the Dean for spending the school’s funds on furthering Nanami’s extensive wardrobe. Before you, the only space Nanami ever cared about was how much space on a document his students’ drafts covered. He’s never given a second thought to gravity: books fall to the floor when they’re dropped (and you lose track of what page you’re on, boo). Now, your big science words are a staple in his life.

Academia can be tough, but you both have each other’s backs, endlessly grateful for each other’s support.

— i only ever write & post at like 1 am .. anyways i need nanami to teach me how to filter out those email announcements bc i do NOT care that men’s gymnastics got its 3rd consecutive ncaa championship (whatever that means)

#nanami jjk #jjk fluff #nanami fanfic #kento nanami #nanami kento #kento nanami fluff #nanami fluff #nanami kento fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen nanami #jjk nanami #nanami x you #nanami x reader #nanami x gender neutral reader #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x gender neutral reader

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nanamiya3 · 2 years

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synopsis: toji being a sweet bf & helping u get toasty n warm (＾ｰ^)ノ

toji x gn reader - reader gets cold easily - fluff - wc. 500

it’s 2am and i’m so tired but this is def super self indulgent my hands are so cold rn </3

You get out of the shower, cold air hitting you like a blast - a harsh contrast from the hot, steamy shower. You’re shivering, drying yourself off as quickly as possible before rushing to the closet to get dressed.

You tug one of Toji’s big hoodies over your head, trying to get all bundled up against the chill of the winter night. You tend to run cold, so even small temperature drops can have your hands freezing up and body shaking. You move from the closet back into the bathroom, picking up the hairdryer to run its heat over your hands when you hear the TV playing in the living room.

Toji’s practically a space heater in his own right - he wouldn’t mind helping you warm up a bit, would he?

You pad into the living room, curling up on the couch next to Toji, barely registering the “Planet Earth” docu-series he’s already watched multiple times through. Toji’s arm wraps around your side, hand absentmindedly resting on your thigh as the TV prattles about the migration patterns of Wildebeest.

“Jesus, baby. You’re like ice,” he murmurs, peering down at you with worried eyes. “Is the hot water not working?” Toji’s hand runs up and down your thigh, warmth spreading through your skin.

You shake your head, mumbling, “Just cold…”

Toji’s frowning as he pulls you onto his lap, big, warm hands covering your cool ones. Your cold, socked feet are pressed against his thigh, body folded up in a fetal position against Toji’s chest. You’ve got a cold cheek pressed into his chest, an unfair amount of heat radiating from his body. Your chilled hands are quickly warmed up, the feeling of numb clumsiness leaving your fingers. Toji’s hands bring your own up to his lips for a quick kiss, scarred lip brushing over smooth knuckles. He gently tucks your warm hands into your chest, his own hands moving to rub up and down the rest of your body. He’s looking down at you ever-so-often, attentive eyes checking to make sure you’re feeling better.

Toji feels your body start to go limp after a while, and when he looks down at you, he sees your eyes fluttering shut. He keeps you in his arms, curled up against his large chest, until your breathing evens out and the credits on the “Planet Earth” episode begin rolling. He shuts off the TV, carrying you to bed and carefully tugging the blankets over your sleepy form.

You guys have three blankets layered on top of each other: one large plush blanket on the bottom because it’s always warm and soft on the skin, a thick comforter stuffed with Geese feathers for warmth, and then a thin plush blanket on top for extra heat and aesthetics. Toji overheats sometimes, but the thought of his baby getting all cold at night - shivering from too few blankets - makes him frown. He can’t stand the thought of you being uncomfortable, so he’s more than happy to accommodate a few extra blankets on the bed. He just loves you so much <3333

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nanamiya3 · 2 years

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synopsis: meeting nanami at the library & cooking breakfast with him :))

nanami x gn reader - reader is a librarian - fluff - mentions of food - suggestive - wc. 1.4k

nanami is such prime husband material fhdhfjhd

Nanami, who you met one day at work, approaching you at the front desk, inquiring politely about the location of a newly released cookbook. You looked up the title in the library database, finding that there was one copy available at your branch. You offered to help him locate the book, Nanami graciously agreeing, murmuring his thanks.

You attempted to make small talk as you walked past corridors filled with tall, organized bookshelves, asking if he baked frequently - as the cookbook he sought was a compilation of various tips, tricks, and recipes for all types of bread. Nanami, ever so humble, admitted he liked to play around with recipes, though his results were never perfect. You laughed, telling him that your food was never perfect either. Nanami asked what you liked cooking, and you grinned back at him, eagerly chatting about your latest fixation: pizza with a sourdough crust. He nodded sagely, it sounded delicious - he would love to make it one day - but his sourdough starter just wouldn’t start. Nanami told you about his uphill battle with sourdough, and you frowned, telling him you’d love to show him some great websites and cookbooks about developing a good starter, that you could maybe even show him how to get his starter going yourself. Nanami passed you a small, grateful smile, thanking you for the consideration.

When you reached the non-fiction section of the library dedicated to food, you scanned the directional plaques on the walls for the shelves containing authors with the last name starting with “P.” You led Nanami down the hallway and up to one particular shelf. Your eyes scanned over the labels on the bottoms of each spine before you bent down, tugging the cookbook out from its position on the lower shelf. Nanami’s eyes guiltily traveled downwards, tracing the slope of your lower half as you obliviously straightened the other books on the shelf to accommodate the gap left by Nanami’s cookbook. He tugged his eyes back to your face as you pulled yourself back up into a standing position, feeling a bit sleazy for ogling your figure while you were helping him find his book. You held out the book, asking if it was what he was looking for. Nanami nodded, a small, “that’s perfect, thank you,” making your insides twist unexpectedly. The two of you walked back to the front of the library slowly, short strides doing their best to prolong your time together, quiet voices conversing about favorite dishes.

Back at the desk, you learned the man’s name was Nanami Kento from the profile pop-up that entered the screen as you scanned his library card. You wished Nanami a good day - and good luck with the recipes - with his last name, a sweet “Nanami-san” falling from your lips as you handed him the book, receipt containing your name, the return date, list of checked out items, library address, and Nanami’s full name tucked into the cover. Nanami found the formality endearing from you, but insisted you call him Kento. He tugged the slip of receipt paper from the book, scanning it quickly for the return date and your name before asking if you had a pen on hand. You handed him the closest one on the desk, neat penmanship flowing from a cheap, plastic, Bic ballpoint pen. On the back of Nanami’s receipt, in a neat scrawl, lay his phone number.

“So you can send me the links to those sourdough starter websites,” he reasoned. You nodded quickly, blushing like crazy, surprised that such a handsome and respectful man would offer you his phone number. He handed you the paper, watching your shaky hands fold it carefully before tucking it in your phone case. Nanami wore a gentle, content smile on his face, gaze full of adoration as you beamed up at him.

---

Two months later, you were sat on the edge of Nanami’s pale-blue tiled kitchen counter. You wore one of his rich, green-blue dress shirts, the chill of the tiles pressing into your bare thighs.

Nanami moved around the kitchen, sleeves rolled up slightly to avoid staining or dirtying the fabric. His brioche was almost ready to go into the oven, he just needed to brush on the egg white and milk mixture.

The two of you decided to make brioche and lemon curd for a lovely homemade breakfast. Preparations had begun last night: Nanami allowed the brioche dough to rest and rise slowly in the fridge overnight - you juiced and zested the lemons, portioning out the small cubes of butter in advance.

You woke up to soft kisses peppered across your face, big arms keeping you close to a big, firm chest. “The brioche is calling, dear,” Nanami murmured into the shell of your ear, breath hot and ticklish.

You groaned, arm coming around to wrap across Nanami’s chest, trying to keep him in bed with you. “Just five more minutes, Ken…”

He smiled, completely whipped. The brioche had been waiting for over ten hours: it could wait another five minutes. Skilled fingers ran through your hair, a large hand cupping the back of your head. You mumbled something incoherent, still in that realm in-between awake and asleep, before snuggling in even closer to Nanami.

Eventually, Nanami pulled you both out of bed, setting you down in front of the closet as he dressed for the day. You opted to stay in the shirt he helped you into last night - when you were too tired and sluggish thanks to certain activities to put on your actual pajamas.

Now in the kitchen, Nanami preheated the oven before shaping the bread into its final form, letting it sit for one last rest as you pulled out the ingredients you’d gotten ready last night, plus some sugar and eggs. He was totally unhelpful as he stood behind you, hands roaming, while you stirred the soon-to-be lemon curd dutifully over a double boiler, adding the butter one cube at a time. You pulled a clean spoon from the dishwasher after some time, Nanami’s big form following you dutifully, and watched as the curd coated the back of the utensil successfully. You turned around, bringing the spoon up between yours and Nanami’s faces, the two of you tasting the tangy desert.

“Mmmmm… That’s good, love,” Nanami praised, leaning down to pull you into a sweet kiss, the tart blend of lemons and sugar spreading between your two mouths. You leaned into the kiss instinctively before pulling back, a big smile on your face, to take the glass bowl of curd off the heat. You poured around three quarters of the curd into small dessert cups, placing the rest into a rimmed dish: to be used as a spread on Nanami’s brioche.

You and Nanami cleaned up the kitchen; placing the dirty whisks, spoons, and bowls into the sink, wiping down the counters, and setting the plastic wrapped cups & dishes of lemon curd into the fridge. You were sitting on the counter, finally the same height as Nanami, kissing without having to crane your neck, when Nanami’s timer, set for half an hour, rang. The brioche was ready to be baked.

You watched him work, separating the yolk from the white, beating in a tablespoon of whole milk, brushing on the finish with delicate precision and care. You sighed, watching his ass stretch as he bent over to slide the brioche into the oven, eyes following his toned figure shamelessly as he moved to set his timer again.

Nanami looked up, seeing your eyes trained on his body, practically filled with hearts. Was his eyesight failing him or was that drool in the corner of your mouth? He moved to you, perched on the counter, his thumb coming up to brush at the edge of your mouth. Yup, that was definitely drool.

“Someone’s looking forward to breakfast,” Nanami chuckled, hand moving to cup your cheek.

You leaned your face into his caress, mumbling something about being, “hungry for him.” Nanami’s a bit shocked - you’re usually a lot shyer - but he smiled at you, clearing his throat before offering, “We’ve got 45 minutes left on the brioche…”

______

#jjk nanami #jjk fluff #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami kento #jujutsu kaisen nanami #kento nanami #nanami fanfic #nanami fluff #nanami jjk

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nanamiya3 · 2 years

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synopsis: short little (O_O) about toji & a shy reader

toji x gn reader - kinda nsfw? def very suggestive - mentions of food - wc. 260

Toji thinks it’s super funny to get you all flustered.

He loves nothing more than coming up behind you while you’re making breakfast, hands settling low on your hips and lips brushing up and down your neck, murmuring a deep, “Good morning,” with his raspy morning voice. He loves watching your hands nervously smooth your hair back as he pulls away, loves seeing you fiddle with the pancake batter, lips pursed, eyes dizzy, blush burning your cheeks.

He loves it when you’re on his lap, both your lips swollen from hours of kissing. You’re like putty in his hands at this point, but when he pulls back to stare you in your eyes, you blush, ducking your head into his chest. He’s grinning, a big hand moving along your lower back, because you’re just so shy and he finds it adorable. He pulls back to look at you again, one hand catching your chin to keep your head tilted towards him, and you’re so flustered he thinks it’s the cutest look in the world. Your eyes can’t seem to hold his for more than a second - darting from his face to the couch behind him, from his eyes to the big chest your hands are currently splayed out on. He’s cooing, hand at your chin coming up to brush against your cheeks, hot to the touch. You’re ducking your head again, and he lets you, two grabby hands running up and down your body as you let out small whimpers into the crook of his neck.

#toji scenarios #toji x reader #toji x you #toji fluff #toji drabbles #toji fushiguro x you #toji fushiguro x reader #jujutsu kaisen toji #toji fushiguro jjk #jjk toji #jjk fluff #toji fushiguro jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen fluff #toji fushiguro #toji fic #toji smut #maybe?#is this smut??#definitely toji filth

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nanamiya3 · 2 years

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toji & adopting a dog!!

toji x gn reader - fluff!!! - dogs&shelters - wc. 2k

toji is so dramatic dhfhshc

Recently, you’d been volunteering at a shelter for neglected animals. You had read online that shelters and rescue centers were always in need of help due to a lack of funding, so you signed yourself up to volunteer.

And…. You loved it. Sure, you had to sweep up poop and clean out cages, but getting to interact with so many adorable animals - from dogs and cats to rabbits and lizards - made the experience worth it. A lot of the animals were shy, a product of past victimization. Showering them with love and gaining their trust was like a personal victory.

One such victory came in the form of a 2 year old, white Great Pyrenees named Atlas.

Atlas had been calling the shelter home for three months before you met him. He was a quiet, broody guy; but with some gentle coaxing and sweet cuddles, he became a carefree pup, happy to lick you up and mess around.

You began to volunteer more frequently to see Atlas. He was so sweet, and had been at the shelter for so long. You knew you wanted to adopt him, so you worked on getting your boyfriend on board.

“Toji! Guess what?” You bounced eagerly in front of him, having just returned from a volunteering shift at the shelter.

Toji turned away from the dinner on the stove, smiling down at your happy form. “What’s up, kid?”

You grinned up at him, “There’s the absolute cutest dog at the shelter. His name’s Atlas, and I swear, he’s so sweet and huge and fluffy!” You reached into your bag, fumbling for your phone. You needed to show Toji some pictures!

You swiped through your phone, pulling up pictures of Atlas - including some selfies you’d taken with the big dog.

“Isn’t he cute, Toji?” You asked, scanning his face for his reaction. “I feel so bad too,” you murmured, chewing on your lip. “He’s been at the shelter for so long… He’s so big, and a lot of people don’t want him because of the size of his breed.” You sighed, placing your phone on the counter. “I hope someone adopts him soon.”

Toji nodded, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Hopefully he’ll find a home soon. Don’t stress too hard about it, dear.” He turned back to the stove, checking on dinner.

You frowned; Toji definitely did not pick up on your hints at all.

So, for the next two weeks, you made it your mission to talk about Atlas as much as possible. You took care to emphasize that, oh… Wasn’t it just so sad that he was still looking for a home?

Every time, Toji would reassure you that Atlas would find his forever home, completely oblivious to your secret agenda. One day, you got tired of waiting for Toji to catch on. You compiled a list of items - kennels, treats, dog toys, etc - that you guys would need for Atlas and where to buy them, links to guides for raising a Great Pyrenees, and most importantly: pictures of Atlas.

When you showed Toji, he frowned. “Baby, I’m not looking to pick up dog shit every day.”

You rolled your eyes, exclaiming, “Atlas is 2 years old!” Toji blinked. “That means he’s already potty trained, idiot.”

“So where does his poop go?” Toji looked genuinely confused.

You were flabbergasted. “He tells us when he needs to go potty, and we take him outside so he can do his business,” you explained slowly.

“We still have to pick it up though,” Toji countered with a frown. “And, he’s a dog. How is he supposed to tell us when he needs to shit?”

“Toji.” You couldn’t believe this was his biggest concern. “You don’t touch the poop with your hands, and Atlas is so sweet, anybody would be happy to pick up his poop.”

Toji looked at you like you were mental. “Babe, that’s weird as hell.”

You punched him in the arm - not that he felt it with those big ass biceps. “Toji, I know you’ll love Atlas.” You thought for a moment, trying to come up with a way to convince him. “Atlas is kinda like you! You’re both big and broody on the outside, with a heart of gold on the inside.”

Toji looked completely grossed out by your comparison, but said slowly, “I’ll think about it…”

You jumped up and down, clapping. “Thank you!” You crawled onto Toji’s lap, pulling him into a hug, squeezing tight.

Toji’s arms came to wrap around you, holding you snug against him. He loved seeing you so happy. If this was how you reacted to him considering taking in Atlas, maybe he should just say yes and do his best to ignore the dog…

“Okay,” he murmured, voice low. “I’ll take the dog.”

You gasped, looking up at Toji. “Really??”

“Yeah, yeah,” He waved you off. “Whatever.” Toji swore you had sparkles in your eyes, smiling at him like he was your damn fairy godmother.

“Awwww,” you cooed, tucking your head into his chest, hugging him close. “Thank you Toji.”

- - - -

A week later, the two of you were at the shelter, ready to take Atlas home.

You’d gone ahead and ordered all of the supplies on your list, forcing Toji to listen as you rattled off tips for taking care of dogs. You scheduled a check-up with a vet to make sure Atlas was healthy and that you were feeding him enough nutrients. Toji was still a bit grossed out by the prospect of picking up dog shit, but you showed him the little plastic baggies that made sure skin-to-poop contact was avoided. He’d sighed, squinting at the plastic as he tried to jam his big hand into the bag.

When the two of you arrived at Atlas’s kennel, you greeted him with a big hug and kisses to the top of his head. Atlas greeted you with a big, booming “WOOF” and some head nuzzles. Toji greeted Atlas with a slight frown, and Atlas greeted Toji with a curious sniff.

“The dog is judging me,” Toji accused, eyes narrowed at Atlas.

You cut Toji a sarcastic stare from your position on the floor - cheek pressed into Atlas’s soft fur. “Atlas has an amazing sixth sense for haters.”

Toji gaped at you as you showered Atlas with encouraging ‘good boy’s and belly rubs. The dog had sniffed him and was being praised halfway to heaven! There was no way..

You knew Toji was just being his usual apathetic self, so you breezed ahead, ignoring his behavior. He’d come around quickly - Toji was just acting grumpy because it was his thing.

At the desk, you’d signed all the papers and thanked the staff members, most of whom already knew your name. You caught a few staring at Toji, the cut of his pecs and swell of his biceps visible through his tight, black shirt.

You couldn’t blame them: Toji looked delicious. Still, you couldn’t ignore the unease in your chest. You stood a bit closer to his side, leaning your head on his shoulder as his arm came to circle around your waist.

After all the paperwork had been dealt with, you headed back to Atlas’s kennel. You clipped a new leash on his collar and led him outside.

The shelter had given you guys some basic things to take home: a bag of kibble, Atlas’s old squeaky toys, a big, wrapped bone, and a folder with Atlas’s known vaccination history and copies of all the adoption papers. Naturally, you dumped all of it into Toji’s empty arms, letting him put those salacious biceps to work.

As you walked in the parking lot, headed for Toji’s large, navy-blue truck, you offered to let him hold Atlas’s leash.

Toji pointedly wiggled the load in his arms before dumping it into the bed of his truck. “Just put the dog in the back,” he grumbled, opening the door for you.

You ignored the open door, setting one foot on the back tire and hoisting yourself up to scour the truck bed. You plucked the folder of papers and bone out of the back, leading Atlas into the backseat and climbing in after him.

Toji’s jaw dropped. Why were you sitting in the back? To be with the big stinking dog? The thought of driving with you so close in the car with him yet so far away made him physically sick. You were supposed to be in the passenger seat, curled up in the corner of his eye.

What was his right hand supposed to do? Hold the steering wheel? Ridiculous. He was supposed to be resting his right hand on your thigh, absentmindedly squeezing at your skin as he drove you home. Instead, his right hand would be fated to dangle over the console uselessly, losing all purpose in life. All so white Clifford could rest his head on your lap in the backseat.

Toji huffed, narrowing his eyes at the dog before closing the door behind you. He had competition.

- - - -

Two weeks later, you walked into your bedroom after a volunteering shift at the shelter, stumbling upon a humorous scene.

Toji was sprawled out on the bed, soft snores floating over to where you stood, struggling to hold in your laughter. What had you whipping out your phone to take pictures wasn’t the way he was positioned - it wasn’t even the way he slept on top of all the blankets despite the fall chill. No; each click of your camera caught a new angle of a snoring Toji (big, menace, broody) resting his head on top of a snoozing Atlas (150 lbs, fluffy, easygoing).

You couldn’t help yourself - you started to giggle.

Atlas’s ears twitched, perking up as he saw you standing there. Toji groaned, mumbling, “Atlas..” He twisted, still half asleep, and wrapped thick arms around his newfound companion.

You grinned, walking up to scratch Atlas behind his ears. You knew Toji had a soft spot for him! Toji stopped complaining about picking up poop only a few days into the adoption, and he always volunteered to take Atlas on walks, grumbling that he was going on a run anyways and Atlas was getting too fat from the treats you spoiled him with.

Toji stirred when Atlas moved to jump off the bed, curling up by your feet as you knelt down to greet him with hugs and kisses. Toji rubbed at his eyes, slipping over the side of the bed to pull you into a hug on the floor. “Hey baby,” he whispered, voice hoarse with sleep. “We missed you.” His hands roamed over your back, running through your hair.

You pulled back to peer up at Toji, lifting an eyebrow, feeling Atlas’s nose poke at your back. “We? Since when were you and Atlas a ‘we’ ?”

Toji shushed you, eyes still lidded with sleep, shifting you to one side of his lap so Atlas could rest his head on the other. He ignored your comment, still too stubborn to admit he loved Atlas as much as you did - even though you caught him napping with the big guy.

So, the next morning, you tease Toji when you catch him tossing Atlas a piece of bacon, telling him he’ll have to take Atlas on an extra walk today to burn off the treats. Toji claims the bacon was burnt - it would have been a shame to waste it in the garbage. You nod, a dry ‘uh-huh’ making its way out of your mouth.

A week later you find Toji napping with Atlas again. This time, he just pulls you down into the bed with him, the three of you snuggling together. You’re grinning, not tired in the slightest, just happy to be curled up with your two babies.

- i want a great pyrenees so bad also… i love toji sm holy cow i just wanna stuff my face in his tittles

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