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18+ slight angst. meet footballer!gojo & his cheerleader fwb !
1. CHEERLEADERS ARE FOR CHEERING—NOT FONDLING!
“girl… isn’t that your man?”
your first mistake is letting your eyes follow shoko’s gaze to the bleachers. your second mistake is making eye contact with golden boy gojo satoru, still in his jersey & ‘hiding’ behind a skinny pole with a very annoyed geto suguru by his side.
you don’t bother correcting shoko. instead you ignore the grin satoru flashes you, taking out the water bottle between your lips with a pop! “is he supposed to be hiding?”
shoko shrugs, turns on her heel. “dunno, ask him. he’s clearly waiting.”
you roll your eyes with a sigh, but you’re already moving.
shoes clicking against the wood gym floor, skirt swishing between your thighs. gojo satoru has long come out of his hiding spot. he’s slumped against the pole now; hands in his pockets, grin lazy, blue eyes glimmering in the orange sun. beside him geto suguru is there, jaw tight in an expression that says he’d rather be anywhere but here.
you still have your bottle in hand when gojo reaches for your hips. “hi, baby…”
you barely murmur back a hi before he’s tugging you in by your skirt. his head dips to kiss your neck, then your cheek, then somewhere else your brain doesn’t register because his hands glide up to squeeze your ass cheeks underneath your skirt. a soft noise slips past your lips as he sucks on your neck.
“mm,” he murmurs, “missed you.”
geto clears his throat.
you let satoru do as he pleases, threading your hands through his hair as his hand dips between your inner thighs. he hums into your neck when you scratch his scalp. “suguru,” you breathe, “how’d you two even get here? coach toji’s gonna kill you guys.”
“kiss,” satoru interrupts. you tilt your head towards him, eyes still on suguru as gojo presses his lips to yours.
suguru’s face twists in disgust, but he doesn’t comment. “satoru bribed him. paid him a couple hundreds to see you for five minutes.”
“right—” your voice strains when gojo gropes your ass once again. “and you followed him because?”
geto is already looking away. “he bribed me too.”
you snort, but it turns into a shiver as satoru sucks on your earlobe. he hums, pleased, when your fingers tighten in his hair.
“mmh… got an away match,” he kisses your jaw. “wanted to see my girl first.”
you’re not his girl, you know you’ll never be, but you still laugh when he squeezes your waist & presses hurried kisses to your cheek. you shove him away & his grin is cocky.
“gonna score for you,” he tugs you back, dipping his head to your ear. “and then you’ll treat me, yeah?”
you hum when his arms snake around your hips once again.
“only if you score the winning goal.”
2. POST MATCH SEXCAPADES !
satoru comes back too late.
you’re not sure exactly why—maybe overtime, maybe the team stopped somewhere to celebrate their win—but you don’t let the thought plague you. you’re more concerned about the fact that it’s nearly evening & you can hear a ball kicking against the gym walls. you’re still in your cheer uniform, tiny skirt & sheer top, standing at the metal doors as you watch gojo dribble on his own.
he stops dribbling to catch his breath, wiping sweat off his chin. and then he’s off to sit at the bleachers, letting water slide down his neck as he chugs from a bottle.
you take it as your cue.
you have your hands behind your back, padding all slow, steps soft as you make your way to him. gojo keeps his bottle pressed to his lips but he sees it. how your skirt clings to your thighs. how your breasts ripple under the thin material. he lets out a low hum as you sit yourself on his lap.
you loop your hands around his neck. “hi.”
his lip tugs. “hi,”
he squeezes your waist as you press yourself into him. your tits smush against his chest, nipples hardening, and his fingers are already tracing the hem of your skirt & gliding up your thigh.
“how was the match?” you mumble.
“was good,” he mutters, but his thumb has already found your panties underneath your skirt. he rubs a slow circle over the bud. “you miss me?”
“no,” you sass, but he presses his thumb into your clit & your hips stutter. satoru laughs.
“i know what you like now,” he hums, left hand gliding up your side as the other rubs slow circles over your panties. “know it only takes a little.”
his thumb finds your nipple through your thin shirt. he rubs a circle over the pebbled peak, slow, but then he raises a brow. “no bra?”
you can’t respond. your breath hitches as your head falls into his shoulder.
“so cute,” he murmurs softly. he lets you press against him, leaving your panties to grope your heavy tits in his palm. he squeezes and fondles, pressing light kisses to your cheek as you make pretty noises in his ear. your hips buck into him.
“needy,” he scoffs, but his hands come up to guide your hips as you rut against him. he’s already hard and your panties are soaked thin and you let the material cling between your folds as your clit rubs against him. he flips up your skirt to find you drenched & slobbering. he bites his cheek.
“fuck, baby,” he rasps, sliding your panties over your aching cunt. you’re still humping him. “why’s your pussy so fucking wet?”
you only whimper as he presses his thumb to your sticky clit, rubbing hard circles over the bud. his other hand gropes your hip, guiding you faster over him. your breathing shudders as his thumb circles your clit faster and harder, until your hips are stuttering & he’s cupping your pussy so you cum in his palm.
you whimper, tears pricking at your lashes as you come down from your high. satoru kisses your cheek slow. “mmh, good job, baby.”
he’s still rubbing his palm over your pussy, massaging your warmth all slow & lazy. your eyes drop to his bulge, his cock practically twitching in his shorts. you reach a hand to glide over it, palming him so his hips twitch. he inhales sharply, “fuck—”
“not in my uniform,” he steals your hand, kissing your jaw. “gonna be a nightmare to clean.”
you glare at him through your lashes. “it’s already dirty, idiot.”
he laughs at your pretty face glaring up at him. your cheeks are still flushed, lashes wet, and your lips are in a frown but satoru swears you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. he folds his hand over yours and dips his head to kiss you warm & slow. you gasp as his tongue pushes in, a soft moan leaving your lips as his tongue grazes yours.
“another time,” he murmurs against your lips. “no pouting, yeah?”
you pout anyways, and satoru kisses it off.
3. NOT YOUR GIRLFRIEND !
satoru is driving too fast.
his jaw is tight, knuckles white against the steering as you clutch your seatbelt beside him. your heart hammers against your ribs but the engine soon slows, his foot easing down on the breaks as the car comes to a stop at a traffic light.
today’s match went bad, really bad, so bad to the point that afterwards you’d tried to console him and he’d simply walked past. you try not to let it get to you. you know how men are when it comes to losing in sports.
but satoru’s breathing settles beside you, so you try once more.
“you played good today.”
silence.
"i know you're upset," you continue, voice soft. "but it's just one game, and you'll get them next time.”
silence again. his jaw only ticks, face illuminated by the traffic light’s red glow. the seconds seem to stretch into minutes, and you fumble with your skirt.
“you did your best,” you turn to him. “that’s all that matters—“
“can you stop?”
you freeze.
satoru doesn’t look at you. his fingers tap against the steering as he lowers his foot to the gas pedal. he’s not speeding anymore, but the silence stretches & you can feel a lump clawing at your throat.
you bite your lip. and satoru’s mad, yes, but he’s got no right to talk to you like that or take his anger out on you. so you suck in a breath, try to correct him. “i was only trying to help. you don’t have to take it out on me—“
“do you ever get tired of talking?”
“what?”
but satoru continues. “you always have something to say, don’t you? you’re not my fucking girlfriend. and i don’t need your fucking comfort.”
you blink. the words don’t register at first, but soon your throat is closing up, and you’re nodding obediently before you can think any better of it. your skirt bunches in your hands as you try to keep your breathing steady. god forbid you give him a reason to snap at you once again.
“you’re right,” you try for sass but it fails. “and i won’t act like it again.”
but satoru sees you through the rearview mirror. your eyes are on your lap, like you’re still trying to process what just happened, your thumbs fiddling with the hem of your skirt. satoru only swallows, glances away. if he ignores you long enough, you’ll be just fine, right?
your breath hitches beside him and he crumbles immediately.
he’s already pulling over, unbuckling his belt to reach over the console. “no baby, i’m sorry,” he pleads, and maybe he shouldn’t because it only makes tears fall from your eyes. “shh baby don’t cry, i’m sorry, i’m so fucking sorry.”
he smushes your face into his chest, carding his fingers through your hair. you try to push him away but he takes your hand and presses it to his chest.
“didn’t mean to snap at you,” his breathing is ragged as he cups your face. “don’t cry baby, you know i hate it when you cry.”
you sniffle as he swipes a thumb over your wet lashes. “then what are we?”
satoru doesn’t answer. instead he presses his lips to yours, slow and warm, head tilting to deepen the kiss. “you’re my girl,” kiss. “my baby,” kiss. “my everything,” kiss.
he doesn’t say my girlfriend. but he doesn’t need to, right?
footballer!gojo doesn’t do relationships. and cheerleaders like you don’t make good girlfriends anyway. so you swallow the lump growing in your throat & let him part open your thighs.
nanami kento; an older boyfriend was all what you needed
Before Kento, you used to think love was supposed to be a loud, volatile thing.
You thought it was measured in the sharp, dizzying spikes of adrenaline after a text left on read, the performative grand gestures that felt more like a stage production than a partnership, and the exhausting requirement to always be on, to be interesting, to be productive, to be small enough not to inconvenience anyone.
Then you hit your final year of college, and the world simply became too heavy to carry.
Between the crushing weight of graduation theses, unpaid internship applications, and the constant, suffocating background noise of family expectations, you had entirely run yourself into the ground.
You spent your days living on black coffee and adrenaline, your room a chaotic battlefield of highlighters and printed drafts, your chest permanently tight with the feeling that you were constantly lagging behind.
It’s a rainy evening when the damp wood of the college library finally expels you. You walk out of your final mid-semester seminar convinced you’ve failed entirely, your throat dry, your eyes burning from staring at academic texts for twelve hours straight.
You stand under the concrete awning of the campus building, watching the heavy rain turn the pavement into a dark, slick mirror.
Your first instinct is to pull out your phone and send a frantic, defensive apology. I'm sorry, I know you're busy at the firm, I can just take the train—
A pair of polished leather shoes steps into the perimeter of your vision.
You lift your head. Kento is standing there. He’s still in his charcoal-grey three-piece suit from his corporate office, his hair perfectly parted, a large, heavy black umbrella held steadily over his head.
The rain is dripping fiercely off the outer edges of the fabric, but his broad shoulders are entirely dry, his light hazel eyes fixing on your tired face behind his signature frames.
"Kento," you breathe out, your voice small, instantly defensive. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you wait. My seminar ran late and I—"
"I wasn't worried about myself," Kento cuts you off, his deep, baritone voice dropping into that steady, unyielding cadence that instantly grounds the air around you.
He steps closer, slanting the large umbrella until you are entirely enclosed within his space, the clean scent of cedarwood and expensive starch instantly neutralizing the damp smell of the campus. "I was worried about you. Let’s get you out of the cold."
He doesn't ask how the exam went. He simply takes your heavy canvas backpack from your shoulder, his large, calloused hand wrapping around the straps with an easy, effortless strength that tells you he’s been waiting to do it all day.
When you get to his car, the passenger side is already warm, the heater set to a perfect, comfortable temperature. Sitting in the cup holder is a hot container of the specific ginger-pork soup from the deli near his apartment.
"I figured you would be hungry," he murmurs, closing your door gently before walking around to the driver's side.
You sit there as the car pulls out into the city traffic, the windshield wipers clicking a rhythmic, soothing pattern against the glass.
You look at the soup, then down at your own hands, and before you can even process the sudden, overwhelming relief of being taken care of, a hot tear slips down your cheek, followed by another.
Kento doesn't slam on the brakes, nor does he offer a clumsy, panicked speech. He simply keeps his left hand steady on the steering wheel, while his right hand moves across the center console, his long, warm fingers wrapping completely around your trembling hand. He squeezes once, a solid, anchoring pressure that lets you cry until the highway opens up.
"You worked hard," he says softly into the quiet car. "That is more than enough."
..............
The apartment is always quiet. Kento’s home is a reflection of the man himself, minimalist, organized, and deeply intentional. There are no dishes left in the sink, no loud televisions blaring, no unpredictable shifts in temperature. It is a sanctuary.
But the habit of being a burden is a hard thing to unlearn.
An hour later, you’re sitting on the edge of his plush cream sofa, your fingers nervously picking at the hem of one of his oversized navy sweaters.
He steps out of the kitchen, carrying two mugs of barley tea. He sets them on the table, his eyes instantly tracking the tense, curled-up posture of your shoulders.
"I can clean the kitchen," you say quickly, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. "I know I’m bothering you by staying over on a weeknight when you have that audit tomorrow. I'll get up early so I'm not in your way—"
He doesn't answer immediately. He slowly drops to one knee on the dark wood floor right in front of you, bringing himself down to your eye level.
He reaches up, his large, cool hands gently capturing your wrists, uncurling your frantic fingers from the sweater fabric and holding them steady within his palms.
"Who taught you," Kento asks, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with a sharp, heavy seriousness that makes your breath catch, "that existing requires an apology?"
You freeze, your lips parting but no sound coming out.
"You are not a project, Y/N," he says softly, his thumb tracing a slow, soothing circle against the inside of your wrist.
"You are not a chore that needs to be managed before I can rest. You don't have to earn kindness with me. Your presence in this space is entirely permitted, at any hour, under any condition."
The silence that follows is thick, but for the first time in months, it doesn't feel heavy. It feels like a space where you are allowed to simply take up room.
As the final semester bleeds into winter, you begin to realize that Kento’s love isn't something he speaks; it’s something he executes with a quiet, terrifying efficiency.
He is the man who always waits in the idling car until he hears the click of your apartment deadbolt before he drives away into the midnight fog.
He is the man whose glove compartment is a curated survival kit for your chaotic schedule, containing your specific brand of painkillers, spare hair ties, a portable charger, and the exact honey candies you like when your throat is dry from presentations.
You find yourself falling asleep everywhere around him.
You fall asleep in his home office while he’s quietly reviewing legal briefs, your head resting against his spare desk. You fall asleep thirty minutes into movie nights, your cheek pressed against his broad shoulder. You fall asleep in the car before he even exits the parking garage.
And he never wakes you.
Every single time, you wake up hours later to the realization that you’ve been lifted with a smooth, iron-clad carefulness and tucked securely into his bed.
The lights are always dimmed, the ambient temperature adjusted, and his heavy charcoal winter coat is always draped over your shoulders if you’ve fallen asleep on the move.
One evening, after a grocery run where you had mindlessly thrown three separate bags of sugary snacks into the cart out of pure stress, you look down to find him quietly adding fresh berries, spinach, and a high-end iron supplement beside your items.
"You'll thank me later," he murmurs, his face entirely serious as he checks the expiration date on a carton of milk.
"Probably," you laugh softly, leaning your head against his upper arm for a split second, feeling the immense, solid warmth of him.
Later that night, you’re sitting on the living room rug, your legs stretched out under his low table, watching him read a financial journal under the soft amber light of the floor lamp.
He’s wearing his reading glasses, his shirt collar unbuttoned by two notches, his large hand rhythmically turning the pages with a slow, deliberate slowness.
You look at the quiet room, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the total absence of chaos in your mind.
You used to think love was supposed to be exciting, a series of high-stakes dramas and reckless fires that left you burnt out and breathless.
But as you look at Kento, you realize that excitement is a young, unstable thing.
What you actually needed was this. You needed the quiet hours. You needed the certainty that someone was holding the perimeter so you could finally close your eyes.
"Kento," you call out quietly.
He doesn't look up immediately, but his hand pauses on the edge of the page. "Yes?"
"Nothing," you whisper, sliding down further against the couch cushions, a small, breathtakingly content smile touching your lips. "Just... thank you."
A very small, nearly imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of his mouth behind his journal. He adjusts his glasses, his voice dropping into that low, protective rumble that makes your whole world feel safe.
"Go to sleep, Y/N. I’ll wake you when it’s time."
Thank you for reading till last. I'm working on another fic right now, that's why I almost forgot to post here.
Usually stoic and respectful man catching you whimpering his name while trying to finger yourself and instead of backing away and closing the door to your room he just. Pauses. Looks. Lingers in the darkness just outside your door. Feels himself grow harder. Rubs himself through his trousers.
a kento nanami fanfiction where he shows you what love is after you got ghosted by your talking stage [from this ask] wc 1.6k
kento nanami x f!reader
ⵌ another request 🤭 took inspiration from my talking stage too for this (he ghosted me too btw) ANYWAYS nanami art from @/chu-cho on tumblr!
after years being single, you finally have a talking stage. well, still not a boyfriend, but you've gone on a date. that.. counts for something, right?
you met this guy through your friend, who swore that the two of you would totally get along. you did get along, pretty well actually.
the first date was a blast. the conversation flowed naturally it didn't feel like the first meeting. he laughed at your dumb jokes, flirted with you effortlessly, and somehow hours passed without either of you noticing.
on the way home, he asked you if you'd like to go on a second date. you, of course, agreed to that.
"Yeah," you said too quickly.
He laughed. "That's a quick answer."
"Was i supposed to make you wait?"
"Not at all."
the smile that settled on his face stayed there for the rest of the drive.
by the time he dropped you off, you practically skipped back to your apartment with a smile plastered on your face, already imagining how the second date would go. maybe he'd take you to somewhere new? or maybe you'd hold his hand? or even kiss him?!
but the fantasy slowly dissolved, day by day.
his replies came a little later than usual. at first, you brushed it off. he's probably just busy, you thought. but then they got shorter. no more good morning text, no more asking about how your day goes.
soon, he was barely active. your messages sat unread for hours, sometimes days.
your excitement had turned into waiting. for a reply. for an explanation. for the second date that never came.
"Do you think i did something wrong to him?" the question slipped out quietly.
Nanami's brows furrowed, looking up from his coffee. "...No," he said simply. "Who are we talking about exactly?"
you let out an exaggerated groan, sinking further on his couch. "My talking stage."
"The one your friend introduced you to?"
you nodded.
"What about him?"
"He asked me on a second date," you said, throwing your hands up in disbelief. "And then he freakin' ghosted me! Can you believe that?!"
Nanami went silent, but the grip on his coffee mug tightened ever so slightly.
"And you know what's embarrassing?" you sighed. "I actually got excited, i was looking forward to seeing him again."
Nanami looked at you for a long moment. "Anyone would."
"Would what?"
"Anyone would be excited after being asked on a second date." he looked away, his voice as even as ever. "There's nothing embarrassing about that."
you laughed bitterly. "Maybe this is the universe's way of telling me to give up on love."
Nanami's head snapped back to you. "Don't say that."
you shrugged, rolling your eyes. "Im being serious. Dating is not for me."
"You met one inconsiderate man."
"One is too much, Ken."
"Still not enough to decide the rest of your life," he said softly.
"Easy for you to say," you looked away.
he watched you quietly, not bothering to argue anymore. but somewhere in the back of his mind, he hoped one day you'd realize someone truly loved you.
. . . .
oh.
someone already did.
and it's him. he loved you, well still until now.
he noticed that you looked exhausted. not physically, but emotionally.
and Nanami hated that. so he made a decision. he wouldn't confess, no, not when you're still dealing with dissapointment someone else caused.
he would wait. and while he waited, he'd show you.
—
you were so, so oblivious. maybe you'd gotten used to Nanami's antics, but lately he'd been much sweeter than before.
like how he'd show up at your office, his blond hair and green-tinted glasses making him more easy to spot in the crowd.
he didn't even tell you beforehand that he'd be visiting. he just showed up out of nowhere while you were eating in the cafeteria.
"... Ken?" you blinked, caught off guard. "What are you doing here?"
"I was just passing by," he replied. "Figured i'd buy you some pastries."
he placed a rather large paper bag into your hands. you peeked inside the bag and found every single one of you favorite pastries, and it was from the bakery you've mentioned a lot of times to him.
"Oh, thanks," you said, still peeking inside of the bag. "You didn't have to go through all that trouble, though. The bakery's in the opposite direction."
Nanami only gave you a small shrug. "It wasn't much of a detour." he said. "Besides, i know you want to try their pastries."
"How did you know?" you tilted your head slightly, and it was so adorable that Nanami felt his heart skip a beat.
"You've mentioned it a lot."
"I did?"
"Mhm."
you frowned, trying to remember. "... Huh," for a moment, you genuinely couldn't recall ever bringing it up once. "Well, thanks, Ken," you smiled, lifting the bag slightly. "I'll give you a review later!"
not only that, he always kept his promises. every. single. one.
if he promised to pick you up after a late shift, he'd already be waiting outside before you even clocked out.
"I thought you were just bluffing!" you admitted, half-surprised.
Nanami raised an eyebrow. "Since when do i bluff?"
or when he promised to take you to the new café you'd been wanting to try, he'd show up at your apartment an hour early.
you opened the door, still in your pajamas and damp hair, only to find Nanami waiting outside.
"Ken?"
"Morning."
You glanced at the clock, then back at him. "We're leaving in an hour."
"I know," he nodded.
"And you're... here?"
"I don't want to be late," he said simply.
"You're an hour early."
"So that i'm not late when i picked you up."
You let out a small laugh. "Unbelievable," you said. "You better help me get ready then!"
he smiled, barely noticeable. "Of course, sweetheart." he muttered that last word.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing."
then came the day you finally realized Nanami was in love with you.
it was when you were hanging out at his apartment, sprawled on his couch, watching whatever was on TV.
during a commercial break, you got up to grab a cup of tea.
"Ken, you want anything?" you called from the kitchen.
"No, thank you."
you opened one of the cabinets and noticed something.
you grabbed a box of tea bags and looked over to him.
"Ken."
"Yeah?"
"Why do you have my favorite tea in your cabinet?"
Nanami looked over to you briefly. "I bought it a while ago," he said. "You drink it, so i thought i'd keep some around."
"Why?" you asked. "I only come over once in a while."
"Exactly," he replied. "It's there when you do."
you looked down at the unopened box of tea in your hands. then, the realization hits.
it wasn't just the tea.
there was your favorite blanket folded neatly over the armrest. your favorite snacks in his pantry, even though he never ate them. the slippers he bought just for you because you hated wearing his.
the pastries, every promises he'd kept, every tiny detail he'd remembered without you asking.
none of it had ever been random.
you slowly lifted your gaze from the box to Nanami.
he was still sitting on the couch, eyes fixed on the television as though nothing had happened.
your heart skipped.
you'd been so caught up in your dissapointment over your talking stage that you never stopped to notice that Nanami was in love with you.
you let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, pressing a hand to your forehead.
"I'm such an idiot."
Nanami looked away from the television. "What is it?"
you met his eyes. the same calm eyes you'd looked into many times before. only now, you saw then differently.
you walked back to the couch. "Nothing," you murmured, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips.
Nanami raised an eyebrow when you sat down unusually close to him. like really close.
"You—"
"I already know, Ken," you said, unable to hide your grin.
Nanami blinked, momentarily at loss for words.
"Know... what?"
you smiled. "You know."
he held your gaze, his expression unreadable.
"I'm afraid i don't," he muttered.
"Liar."
his eyebrows lifted just slightly. "...Liar?"
"Mhm."
he let out a quiet breath. "When did you figure it out?"
you couldn't help but laugh. "Now you are admitting it!"
"I didn't think it was obvious," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"It wasn't, really," you admitted. "I was just.. incredibly oblivious."
the corner of his mouth lifted into the smallest smile. "That's true."
"Excuse me?!" you gasped, lightly nudging his arm.
"I was agreeing with you, not insulting."
you stared at him in mock offense. "Unbelievable."
"Got that a lot."
the familiar banter made you laugh again. then, the laughter faded, replaced by something quieter.
"...You waited a long time, didn't you?"
Nanami's smile softened. "I didn't mind waiting."
"Even if i never figured it out?"
"As long as you were happy," he said quietly. "that was enough for me."
a small smile spread across your face. "You know," you murmured. "You make it really hard not to fall in love with you."
for once, Nanami was speechless. "I wasn't expecting that."
you rolled your eyes playfully. "Figured."
after a brief moment, he reached your hand, his fingers carefully intertwining with yours.
"So, does that mean.."
you gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "It means i love you too, silly."
He laughed softly. "I'm glad."
you rested your head on his shoulder and he leaned just enough for you to notice.
Nanami had been saying i love you all along. and you'd finally noticed him.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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The door of the hotel room clicked shut, sealing out the muted hum of the city outside. Nanami let out a long, slow sigh as he set his briefcase down by the desk. He reached to loosen the knot of his tie with a sharp tug before pulling it over his head and tossing it onto the arm of the single chair.
Before he could even take off his suit jacket, his phone vibrated in his palm. The caller ID brought a sudden, subtle shift to the tight line of Nanami's jaw. He slid the screen open, pressing the phone to his ear as he leaned back against the desk. "Hey, love," he murmured. His voice was lower than usual, roughened by hours of corporate small talk, but laced with a quiet, easy warmth reserved only for you.
"Hey," your voice came through the speaker, instantly cutting through the lingering tension in Nanami's shoulders. "How was your day today?"
"It wasn't too bad," Nanami replied, his eyes drifting down to his leather shoes as he kicked them off. "Still exhausting, though. I just made it back to the hotel. Have you eaten dinner yet?"
"Mhm, had some takeaway," you said. There was a brief pause on the line, the kind of quiet that carried the weight of the distance between you. "I miss you."
The words hit him right in the chest, a sharp pang of longing making Nanami close his eyes. "I miss you, too," he said softly, meaning every syllable. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, pushing the strands back. "Alright... I'm going to have a shower."
"Okay," you hummed, a yawn clipping the edge of your words. "Call me back when you're done. I love you."
"I love you. Speak soon."
Nanami waited for the line to go dead before lowering the phone, the sudden silence of the room feeling twice as heavy now. He stepped over to the bed, reaching out to click on the bedside lamp. The small knob turned, instantly bathing the crisp white sheets in a warm, low glow.
Standing in the newly lit space, Nanami finally shed his suit jacket, draping it over the back of the chair. Reaching into the inside breast pocket of the jacket—the secure spot where he always kept his most important items—his calloused fingers brushed against the familiar, stiff edge of a photo.
He pulled it out, intending to just set it on the nightstand before his shower. But as he unbuttoned his shirt and stripped down to his dark blue boxers, leaving his tailored clothes in a rare, disorganized pile, Nanami’s gaze locked onto the small square of film.
In the dim, sterile glare of the lamp he had just switched on, the polaroid felt like a visual hallucination. The lighting in the photo was golden and overexposed, radiating a warmth that this room desperately lacked. There you were, caught mid-laugh on that beach in Malaysia from your last trip together. The ocean breeze was catching the hem of your white sundress, a single strap slipping carelessly off your shoulder. You looked bright, carefree, and entirely alive in the heat of the coast.
The shower was forgotten.
Nanami moved away from the chair, the weight of his exhaustion swallowed by a throbbing, pulsing ache. He sank onto the edge of the mattress and shifted his large frame back against the pillows. As he settled, his glasses slid down the bridge of his nose—blurring the rest of the room and leaving nothing but you in sharp focus.
Squinting through the shadows, his eyes traced the deep, low dip of the white sundress in the polaroid—the way it beautifully revealed your cleavage made his throat go completely dry.
He couldn’t tear his eyes away. His breathing hitched, a sudden, punishing ache tightening in his groin as his gaze lingered on your cleavage. Your skin still gleamed in the photograph from where he had slowly rubbed sunscreen over your body, his palms smoothing the lotion down the slope of your breasts until you were glistening in the sun—deliberately slipping his thumbs under the fabric of your dress to tease your nipples until they were hard under his touch.
The dark blue fabric of his boxers was already beginning to strain, his length thickening painfully against the cotton from the sheer force of the visual. Hearing your voice just moments ago had been no comfort, but seeing you like this now, with his skin still burning from the memory and the distance between you feeling like an ocean, it was an agonizing temptation.
His mind instantly raced back to that night in Malaysia. He remembered taking you back into the villa, his fingers catching on the fabric of your sundress to slide the straps down your arms. Burying his face in the crook of your neck—his tongue licking a wet trail up your throat, sucking greedily at your skin until you whimpered beneath him. His broad, calloused palms clamped around your breasts, kneading the soft flesh.
Nanami could still feel the exact sensation of sliding his thick, leaking cock between them, using the tight, sweltering cleavage of your chest to ruthlessly pump his length—watching your tits hug his slick shaft while he rasped how badly he wanted to stretch you wide open. The memory was so loud, so violently clear, that his restraint completely dissolved.
Low and frustrated, he groaned under his breath, finally reaching down to cup the heavy bulge straining against his boxers. His hand moved downward past that golden line of hair—the faint blonde happy trail disappearing beneath the dark blue cotton—his gaze locked entirely on the curve of your waist in the photo.
A ragged, breathless sound escaped his throat as he grazed his thumb over his throbbing tip through the fabric—making his stomach muscles flex tightly as the first slick beads of pre began to dampen the material. Unable to handle the restriction for another second, he hooked his fingers into the waistband and finally released his aching cock.
As the veiny, heavy weight sprang free, Nanami's calloused hand wrapped around it desperately—fisting the pre-cum up and down his hard length, his thumb deliberately smearing the wetness over the sensitive head to begin a slow, torturous stroke. Nanami was a man who prided himself on absolute control, but right now, every ounce of usual discipline was utterly gone, burned away by the raw ache of missing you.
He dragged his palm down to the very base of his shaft, knuckles brushing against his thighs before wrapping tightly to pull all the way back up to that leaking head. The slick pre coated his skin, creating a wet, sliding friction that had him closing his eyes just to focus on the sensation.
His brow furrowed deeply, sweat beginning to bead along his hairline and dampen his blonde strands. He kept his eyes wide—refusing to blink, his gaze entirely captivated by your carefree smile, the thin fabric of the sundress hugging your tits, and your warm, shiny skin glowing in the polaroid.
In the sudden heat of illusion, the sterile white noise of the hotel AC unit transformed into the distant crash of ocean waves. He wasn’t in this lonely room anymore. He was back in that villa, pinning you down into the mattress, pressing his lips to the sensitive column of your throat and breathing in the intoxicating scent of salt air and perfume, burying himself balls deep inside you.
Nanami’s hips twitched against the sheets as a large hand clamped around his length, pumping his fist up and down his shaft. Eyes shuttered tight, the memory consumed him entirely—imagining the slick drag of his cock against your wet, parted lips, the crushing friction of being squeezed tight between your tits, and the maddening sensation of driving deep inside your cunt. The urge to hammer into you over and over until you were stretched wide, stuffed completely full of hot seed, almost made him cum right there.
"Ah... fuck," he breathed out. The wire rimmed glasses slid further down his nose, utterly forgotten as his grip tightened. A faster, desperate pace took over, driven by the pleasure coiling tight and demanding inside his lower belly. Here was a man completely stripped of his carefully constructed rules—entirely at the mercy of a single polaroid of you.
His chest heaved, the stark white hotel sheets bunching beneath his massive frame as the rhythm fractured. Keeping a slow pace was no longer an option. Nanami’s knuckles went white, his rough hand fisting his veiny, engorged shaft with a punishing, frantic speed.
The sound of wet squelches filled the quiet room, his jaw locking as his thumb smeared slick over the rigid edge of his head. He brought the polaroid closer to his face, vision blurring with sweat as his eyes traced the line of your collarbone, the curve of your waist, and the soft smile he missed so dearly.
“So beautiful... ah,” he choked out, his voice dropping roughly into a low, rumbling groan. “You're so fucking beautiful, sweetheart...'"
The praise was a desperate murmur, breathed directly into the empty air of the hotel room—as if you were right there beneath him to hear it. His hips jerked upward, mimicking the exact rhythm of driving into your cunt. His thumb swept over his leaking pink tip sending a jolt straight to his groin. The coiled tension in his lower belly tightened into a hard, inescapable knot—his balls tightening. He was right on the edge, completely consumed by the ghost of your touch.
Nanami choked out your name—a ragged, breathless prayer against the quiet room as he finally came. He ruined his hand as the first hot bursts of cum shot straight past his fingers, splashing against his lower stomach before the rest of the thick, heavy load spilled over his knuckles and flooded the blonde patch of hair at his groin.
“F-fuck, I miss you so much,” he groaned, his voice completely undone. Desperate fingers refused to stop, milking his length dry, forcing the oversensitive shaft through those last few strokes while thick, hot cream continued to drip down his twitching cock and palm.
He stayed frozen like that for a few seconds, his chest heaving, his fingers trembling where they still gripped his settling length. The lingering echo of the Malaysian surf dissolved back into the sterile, humming silence of the hotel room.
Slowly, the drugged fog of pleasure began to recede, leaving behind an aching exhaustion. Nanami let out a long, unsteady breath that trembled past his lips. He let his head sink back into the pillows, his glasses sitting crookedly on his nose. With slow movement, he used his clean hand to lift the polaroid back up to his face.
In the dim, warm light of the bedside lamp, you were still there—smiling, carefree, and beautifully out of reach. He stroked a thumb over the glossy surface of the photo—as if he were truly touching you—before setting it gently on the nightstand.
He forced his heavy limbs to move, sitting up on the edge of the bed to clean himself up. The cold reality of the business trip settled back over his shoulders like a lead weight, but as he looked back at the small square of film under the lamp, the lingering warmth in his chest reminded him exactly what he was working so hard to return to.
Nanami reached to grab a few tissues from the nightstand, his fingers still trembling slightly from the aftershocks of the release. But just as his hand brushed the box, his phone buzzed loudly right beside it. He paused, a drop of sweat rolled down his jaw as he looked down at the bright screen.
Thinking about working under someone tough and mean and cold…
Maybe he's your commander, the emperor, or even just your boss. But he's a cold motherfucker, always wearing a scowl on his face, never one to give praise or compliments. Only giving out punishments or looks of disapproval. The looks were worse than any punishment he could give, to be honest. You tried your best, you know you did, you tried everything.
You don't know why, but there was something in you that needed his acknowledgment, his approval. To finally look your way and praise you for all the work you've been doing for him. For him. He never does though, not even when you're on top of the leaderboard, not when everyone else is praising you, and not when you did every single thing he asked of you without question.
It wasn't like he was incapable of giving out praise either. You would feel a lot better if he were the type to never do that. But you seen him praise others, giving them a slap on the back. Hell even he cracked a smile once. (It haunts your dreams, wishing he would smile your way at least once.)
You hated this. Hated him. Hated him for making you work so hard and for what? A couple of words of praise from a guy who looked like he ate nails for breakfast every morning? So one day you finally snapped. You walked right up to him and asked, no, demanded to know why. Why did he hate you so much, what did you do for him to despise you?!
You look pathetic right now, tears falling down your cheeks, voice raw from screaming, and that desperate and sad look in your eyes as you stare him down. He doesn't give you an answer, not at first, just pushing past you before you grab on to his arm. Hands trembling as you quietly asked once more if he really just hates you that much.
You hear a heavy sigh before he pushes you against the wall, a hand around your throat, his eyes focused on you.
"It's because you're insufferable, an annoying little pest that keeps buzzing around me for no good reason." He spoke quietly, like ice, no heat or venom behind his words. Just truth. It hurts so much.
"You're weak. So much weaker than me and you know it too. And yet, you try and you keep trying to catch up to me. And it's…. driving me crazy." His tone changed slightly near the end, if you listened closer, you would hear his voice wavering.
"Sir…?" You call out his name, and the hand around your throat tightens for a moment, making you choke on your next word. You claw at his arms, tears blinking out of your eyes at the loss of air.
"It your fault for making me do this."
That was all he said before you felt his lips on you. Searing hot, heavy, and aggressive. He wasn't giving you even an inch of space between your bodies as he held you close to him. His hand leaves your throat to travel down and squeeze your chest, making your gasp. He lets himself in your mouth at the opportunity. Tasting every single inch of your mouth, mapping it to his memory.
You pound on his chest, trying to push yourself away, but he was right. He's much stronger, bigger, and powerful than you. You were never going to win this. He grinds his body onto yours, and you feel his bulge rubbing up against your body. You cry out more, panicking at what's to come. Out of all the scenarios you envision in your head, this was one that you never thought would come true.
When he finally lets you go, a trail of salvia being the only link between you two now. He looks down at his work, at the hand print around your neck, at your tear-stained face, at the terror in your eyes. His cock twitches at the sight, and he almost goes in for another kiss, but a whimper leaving your lips stops him in his tracks. It was like he regain control of himself in that moment.
His fist slams against the wall next to you, he points to the exit.
"Leave now." His voice was gruff and weak.
You hesitated, unsure if this was a trick or not. Eyes dashing between him and the door.
"Go before you regret it."
You run, and you keep running until you run out of breath. Your mind and heart racing on what just happened back there…
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𝓲𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 ♰ you're so feverishly, impossibly hot that nanami, your husband, is losing his mind, trembling and rambling as he completely falls apart inside you.
✿ ◞◟) nanami kento 𝓍 female!reader
𝓬𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 18+ [ MDNI! ], explicit sexual content, established relationship, husband!nanami, unprotected sex (p in v), lots of kisses, praise & sweet talking, reader has a fever and nanami is losing his mind (fever-induced heat kink undertones), crying during orgasm, creampie, nanami is deeply in love.
nanami kento has always been a man of control.
he's precise in the kitchen, methodical with his huge hands, patient in the way he loves you — slow and thorough and devastatingly intentional. even in bed, even when he's buried so deep inside you that you completely forget where you end and he begins, there's a restraint to him; a gentleness, as if nanami is always holding back just enough to make sure you're okay, to make sure you're with him, to make sure he doesn't break you by accident.
but tonight is different.
tonight, you're burning up.
it started this morning — a little fatigue, a little flush in your cheeks that nanami kissed anyway before heading to work. by the time he came home, you were curled on the couch with a blanket and glassy eyes, the thermometer reading 102.3 and your smile still bright enough to make nanami’s chest ache. he'd made you soup, forced water into your hands, tucked you into bed with extra pillows and a cool cloth for your forehead.
the perfect husband, as always, all quiet concern and warm palms against your skin.
but then you'd pulled him down by the collar of his shirt, fever-bright and insistent, and whispered "kento, please" against his mouth, and something in him cracked.
nanami tried to be reasonable. he tried to tell you that you needed rest, that you were sick, that this could wait, but you'd just shaken your head and hooked your leg around his hip, and the sound you made when he'd accidentally pressed against you — half groan, half whimper, all desperate need — had shot straight to his dick like a live wire.
so now here he is.
here he is, kneeling between your thighs on the rumpled sheets of your shared bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp painting everything in shades of gold and amber. here he is, watching you completely fall apart beneath him, your skin flushed an impossible pink, your lips parted and wet and whispering his name like a prayer.
and here he is, losing his goddamn mind.
because you're hot. not just in the way you always are — the way that made him fall in love with you in the first place, the way that still makes his breath catch when you smile at him across the dinner table — but actually, physically hot. like a furnace, like sin wrapped in skin and slick heat and the kind of wet that has him groaning before he's even all the way inside.
nanami sinks into you slow — he always does, because well… he's nanami kento and he believes in savoring things, in making them last — but the moment the head of his cock pushes past your entrance, he freezes.
"f-fuck," nanami breathes, and his voice cracks on the word, splinters right down the middle.
you're so warm.
you’re so impossibly, unbearably warm; it's like slipping into a bath that's just this side of too hot, the kind of heat that steals your breath and makes your muscles go liquid. your walls flutter around him, clenching and pulsing like you're trying to pull him deeper, and he has to brace one hand against the headboard just to keep from collapsing on top of you.
"kento?" your voice is soft, hazy, your eyes half-lidded and glassy in a way that has nothing to do with the fever and everything to do with him. "you okay?"
nanami laughs — it was a short, broken sound that's half sob, half something else entirely.
"am i okay?" he repeats, like you've asked him the most ridiculous question in the world. "sweetheart, you're—"
his hips twitch, an involuntary little thrust that sinks him another inch deeper, and the sound you make is so sweet, so wrecked, that he has to close his eyes.
"you're so hot. inside. it's—god, it's like—"
nanami can't even finish the sentence, he doesn't have the words for what it feels like. the heat is radiating through him, climbing up his spine, settling low in his belly like embers catching flame. every single nerve ending is on fire, every muscle pulled taut, and he hasn't even started moving yet.
you shift beneath him, trying to take more of him, and your hand comes up to cup nanami’s jaw, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. your skin is warm too — not as searing as the rest of you, but warm enough to make him lean into your touch like the tide answering the moon.
"then move," you say, simple as anything else, like you haven't just turned nanami’s entire world inside out. "kento, please. i want you to move."
he's never been able to deny you anything, so he moves.
slow at first — because nanami is trying, he's really trying, to keep some semblance of control. he pulls out until only the tip of his cock remains, then pushes back in with a steady, rolling movement that has you arching off the bed, your nails digging into his shoulders. the wet sounds are obscene, amplified by the quiet of the room, and every single one of them makes his stomach clench with want.
but it's the heat that undoes nanami.
every single thrust feels like coming home and getting burned at the same damn time.
your body is so hot inside, so slick and welcoming and tight, and nanami can feel the fever radiating off you in hot waves; it's in the way your breath stutters against his neck, in the way your legs shake where they're wrapped around his waist, in the way your pulse flutters wildly against his lips when he leans down to kiss your throat.
"you feel—" he gasps, and his hips stutter, rhythm faltering. "you feel incredible. i can't—fuck, sweetheart, i can't think."
and nanami can't.
his brain has completely short-circuited, reduced to nothing but static and sensation. every logical thought has been burned away by the heat of you, replaced by something primal and desperate and almost frightening in its intensity. he wants to be gentle. he wants to take his time, to worship you the way you deserve, to show you just how much he loves you with every careful, deliberate movement.
but his body has other plans.
nanami’s hips are moving faster now, snapping against yours with a rhythm that's more urgent than he intended. the headboard knocks against the wall in a steady, rhythmic beat, and nanami knows he should care about that — nanami knows the neighbors will probably hear, nanami knows he'll be embarrassed about it tomorrow — but right now he can't bring himself to give a single shit.
not when you're making those sounds.
soft little gasps and moans that pitch higher every time he bottoms out, your head thrown back against the pillow, your throat bared and vulnerable and so beautiful it makes his chest hurt. your hands are everywhere — tangled in nanami’s hair, scraping down nanami’s back, gripping nanami’s hips like you're trying to fuse yourself to him.
"k-kento," you whimper, and it's broken, shattered, the kind of sound that goes straight to nanami’s dick and makes him see stars. "kento, don't stop. p-please don't stop."
"not stopping," he grits out, and his voice is ragged, wrecked, nothing like the composed, collected man he usually is. "never stopping. not when you feel—fuck, not when you're this—"
nanami loses his words again, and he buries his face in the curve of your neck instead, breathing you in. you smell like sweat and illness and something uniquely, achingly you, and he wants to live in this moment forever. he wants to drown in the heat of you, in the tight grip of your body, in the way you moan his name like it's the only word you remember.
you're clenching around him — tighter now, your orgasm building, and he can feel it in the way your thighs tremble, in the way your nails dig crescents into his back. but more than that, he can feel the fever; the heat that seems to intensify with every thrust, radiating from your core and soaking into his skin, making him sweat, making him need.
"sweetheart," nanami gasps, and his voice breaks on the word, splinters into something raw and desperate. "i'm—i'm not going to last. you're too hot. you're so hot, i can't—"
you turn your head, catch his mouth in a kiss that's all teeth and tongue and clumsy urgency. it's not graceful — nothing about this is graceful — but it's real, it's you, and he groans into your mouth like a man dying of thirst.
"then don't," you whisper against his lips, and your voice is thick with fever and want and something softer, something sweeter. "don't last. i want to feel you. want you to—ah—want you to cum inside me. please, kento. want to feel you."
nanami going to die.
he's actually going to die, right here, inside his wife, and he's going to die happy.
his hips snap forward harder, faster, every single ounce of control he had evaporating like water on hot pavement. he's gripping your thigh with one huge hand, holding you open for him, and the other is fisted in the sheets beside your head, knuckles white. nanami’s whole body is trembling — from the effort, from the pleasure, from the sheer overwhelming muchness of feeling you like this.
"you're everything," nanami hears himself say, and his voice sounds so strange, so distant, like it's coming from someone else. "you're everything to me. fuck, sweetheart, i love you. i love you so much. i love—"
he's rambling now, words spilling out of him unchecked, and he simple can't stop, he doesn't want to stop.
you're so hot, so wet, so perfect, and every time he pushes inside you, he swears he can feel your heartbeat, he can feel the fever thrumming through your veins, he can feel the way your body clings to him like it never wants to let go.
your orgasm hits you without warning — nanami feels it in the way you gasp loudly, in the way your back entirely bows off the bed, in the way your nails rake down his spine hard enough to sting. but mostly nanami feels it in the way you clench around him, a vise of slick, searing heat that pulses and flutters and tries to completely milk him dry.
"oh god," you sob, and there are tears on your cheeks — from the pleasure, from the fever, from the sheer overwhelming intensity of it all. "kento, oh god, oh god—"
nanami watches you fall apart beneath him, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
your eyes are squeezed shut, your mouth open in a silent scream, your whole body shuddering through wave after wave of pleasure. and through it all, you're so hot, so impossibly, devastatingly hot, and nanami can feel your orgasm like it's his own, nanami can feel it in the way your walls massage his desperate cock, nanami can feel it in the way his name falls from your lips like a benediction.
he follows right after.
there's no warning, no buildup — just a sudden, violent crest of pleasure that crashes over him and drags him under. he buries himself as deep as he can go, hips flush against yours, and spills inside you with a groan that's almost a sob. the heat of you surrounds him, consumes him, and for one perfect, eternal moment, there's nothing else in the universe.
just you.
just him.
just the two of you, unreservedly tangled together in the sweaty sheets, trembling and gasping and so full of love it might actually kill him.
nanami collapses on top of you — careful, always careful, one arm bracing his weight so he doesn't crush you — and presses his forehead to yours. your skin is still warm, still flushed with fever, but there's a softness in your eyes now, a drowsy contentment that makes his heart stutter in his chest.
"that was—" you start, but your voice is hoarse, faded, and you have to clear your throat before trying again. "that was not how i expected tonight to go."
he laughs, breathless and a little unsteady, and presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth.
"you're sick," he says, like it's just now occurring to him. "you have a fever. i shouldn't have—we shouldn't have—"
"kento." you cut him off with a hand on his cheek, turning his face so he has to look at you fully. "i wanted to. i want to. always want to, with you."
he closes his eyes, lets out a shaky breath, and when he opens them again, there's something soft and wondering in his gaze.
"you're going to be the death of me," he murmurs, but it sounds like a declaration of love.
you smile — that bright, brilliant smile that made nanami fall in love with you in the first place — and pull him down for a kiss that's slow and sweet and tastes like forever.
"good," you whisper against his lips. "then you'll die happy."
nanami laughs again, real this time, and gathers you into his arms. you're still too warm, still sick, still in need of soup and water and cool cloths and rest, but right now, in this moment, none of that matters.
right now, you're both exactly where you're supposed to be.
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I had triple tibia fracture like 15 years ago and I never mentally recovered; whenever someone breaks a bone in movies I close my eyes and cover my ears and wince in phantom pain
neighbor!nanami fixing your car and earning himself a cute date!
“can you hand me the screwdriver?” your neighbor, nanami kento, asked. he wiped his sweat dappled forehead using his shirt that he’d tossed aside, standing across from you shirtless as sweat dripped down his chest.
you almost couldn’t hear what he’d said, way too busy staring at him because what the hell?
that morning, before you’d driven off to the cafe, with all the easiness of a deserved off day for you’d worked nonstop all through the week, you were happy and content and peaceful.
until your gaze caught up on the steam creeping across the cool floor beneath the hood. and let out a horrified scream loud enough to wake the whole neighborhood up.
which, was also the reason your neighbor, nanami kento ended up on your garage, shirtless and sweating.
he talked about some hose clamp and how it loosened, but honestly, you were way too focused staring at his biceps to comprehend what he’d just said.
as he tightened the clamp, he uttered a silent “fuck,” his knuckles splashed with coolant and the warm breeze upon his bare chest made him slightly shiver. ‘this,’ you thought, ‘is the hottest thing i’ve ever seen.’
“what can i help with?” you asked him, purely out of courtesy. kento breathed heavily as he leaned into the car, his arms tightening along. at the beginning you’d wondered if it was that necessary for him to take his shirt off, now thinking again, it certainly was needed. it was a necessity. your eyes lingered on his arms.
“nothing really— it’s almost over anyway.” he muttered under his breath, his muscles still flexing along his every move. “that must’ve scared you.” he added.
“yeah, honestly, once i saw that steam i almost thought the car was gonna blow up.”
he laughed with a strained voice, and you thought how the dry summer air must’ve been making it unbearable, let alone the heated breeze fluttering through the garage here and there.
“thank you, really, you didn’t have to do this.” you kind of felt guilty about how he was wasting his whole weekend morning on fixing your car, but then again, it was him who’d rushed out of his house once he’d heard you scream. with his mug full of coffee on his hand. and his surprisingly cute slippers.
well, you’ve always known that he had a rather unique approach on fashion.
“don’t mention it. i had nothing better to do anyway.” he smiled up at you, his cheeks reddened with a slight flush. his hair was messy in a way that made your heart throb.
“hmm.” you tilted your head to watch him as the leak stopped dripping and he slowly rose up, the warm breeze rippled through the branches across the garage and summer sun stretched across his flushed skin with a soft glow.
he was finished. probably.
“really, thank you so much nanami-“ you tried but he cut you off.
“kento. please.” the words tumbled out as he ruffled his hair with a nervous urgency. although you’d been familiar with each other through years of silent good mornings and shy attempts at conversation, you’d never crossed that invisible distance before. you smiled warmly upon his words.
‘fuck, just go for it,’ you cheered for yourself. there was no way you were letting that shirtless man leave.
“thank you so much kento. genuinely-“ you bit your lip, “actually, i was just about to get my morning coffee. there’s a really nice place i know nearby. how about,” you fidgeted with your hands. “a thank you coffee? my treat.”
you breathed out the last words with such haste that even you couldn’t comprehend what you’d said for a few seconds.
“well, that’s a bit generous for just fixing your car, isn’t it?” he laughed gently.
“a coffee?”
“you.” oh.
with heat creeping into your skin, you giggled, avoiding his gaze. “no, i think i’d say it’s exactly what you’ve earned.”
he, again, breathed out a laugh as he shook his head. wearing his shirt back, with a muffled voice he said, “i don’t think i could ever say no to that.”
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