Gabbag00l - Gabs

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Black!Fem Reader

Rating/CW: Just a fluffy drabble of Nanami Kento loving you.

Summary: Early morning musings.

a/n: I've really been suffering from writer's block these past few months. The words come and go at a pace that's maddening, but thankfully, they stayed long enough for me to write this little piece.

JJK Masterlist | Divider: @saradika-graphics

©mysteria157, all rights reserved. DO NOT copy, plagiarize, reupload, modify, or translate (without permission) my work to other accounts and platforms.

"How did I get so lucky?"

It's the question that surfaces in Nanami's mind as he watches you sleep beside him, early morning light casting gentle shadows across your features. Your breathing is steady, peaceful, a barely there rumble with every inhale that he’s memorized over countless mornings like this one. Just as he’s done many times before, he traces the outline of your form, fingertips ghosting over your skin without disturbing you.

In those first few mornings of your relationship, your eyes would flutter open just from the proximity of his touch, catching him in his admiration. He wouldn’t bother to hide the blush, you would throw him a sleepy smile, then succumb to sleep again. Now, many mornings later, you’ve grown accustomed to his gentle exploration, allowing him to follow the curve of your shoulder, reconnecting the constellations that pepper your brown skin without stirring from your dreams.

In this position, while you sleep on your stomach, he can admire the subtle roll of skin on your neck where it meets your shoulder—a gentle landscape formed by the angle of your head against the silk pillow. It may be his own imaginings, but he can already smell the Shea butter from your neck, warming from the rising sun and wafting to tickle his nose in a half-remembered dream that lingers many hours into his work day.

Your diamond earrings glint in the morning light—beautiful studs you refuse to remove despite his concerns. He’s learned to love this small token of rebellion, unafraid to admit that the way the jewelry complements your skin makes you look particularly ethereal in the waking hours. The sunlight hits these diamonds at the right angle, splintering light in a mix of purple and green that plays across the curve of your cheek, as if nature is adorning you herself.

Even while unconscious, you are beautiful.

He traces up, fingertips brushing your lobe before smoothing through edges that have smeared on your skin like delicate wisps of morning fog. They’re perfect, tiny coils and curls that defy rule and frizz along your hairline, peeking from the cream satin bonnet. That bonnet, somehow still attached to you despite how wildly you sleep, showcases to him all the care you take with yourself, all the traditions passed sacred to you that he’s been allowed to learn, to witness, to cherish.

And god, how he cherishes the uninhibited abandon in which you sleep—the complete trust spoken in the way you sprawl across a mattress that was once solely his. Your cheek is creased from your pillowcase and hands, the corners of your lashes crystallized with evidence of your dreams, and your lips—slightly parted, pillowed with relaxation—glisten at one corner with moisture you have long stopped being embarrassed about in his presence.

It’s you in your purest form—unguarded, unfiltered, displaying a beauty more profound than anything the waking world gets to see. It’s you without makeup, you without measured words, underneath social performances, practiced smiles, and expectations—the raw truth of you, morning breath and all.

Just his. It’s a privilege so deep that it makes his chest ache, the gratitude overwhelming.

"How did I get so lucky?"

Nanami remembers the strict parameters he once set around relationships—the necessary boundaries, the premeditated time commitments, the emotional distance he maintained without thinking. Work—for as firm as he is about clocking out on time—came first, then necessities, then, if time allowed and he had the mental stamina, connection. For him, it was efficient. But terribly lonely.

Naturally, you shifted it all without trying.

The memory of seeing you for the first time still replays in his mind—fresh as the day it happened, enhanced by his own untempered affection that grows over time. He’s carried an unspoken envy for his parents’ love-at-first-sight story his entire life, a curmudgeon of his own making that could also speak of self-sabotage in relationships that never lasted. Surely they were exaggerating? Love at first sight? As if the cosmos aligned at the right moment to bring Mr. and Mrs. Nanami together? Nanami refused to believe it.

And yet he’ll tell anyone who will listen that every grievance he held about the concept evaporated the moment he saw you. Surrounded by greenery and the stifling heat of a plant nursery, perfect textured hair framing your face that pursed with contemplation, neck curved over a large Monstera Deliciosa. A sage sundress that fluttered over your form like gossamer wings catching the sunlight, the shimmer of your sunscreen across the expanse of your shoulders like dewdrops, a cock in your hip as you studied the plant only made you stand out as sublime elegance amongst the foliage.

Admittedly, he remembers feeling only embarrassment when he reached for the plant before his mind could truly register your presence—his original quest into the nursery solely to find a gift for his secretary, who was becoming a new mother.

He remembers the embarrassment flaring liquid hot in his chest when your eyes flashed with surprise and indignation that he would take something you had mentally staked claim to. He remembers how disorienting it all was—the sudden awareness of you as if the rest of the nursery had faded to shadows. Your brow had lifted in disbelief as you rolled your eyes and brushed past him, the subtle scent of what he now knows as Shea butter lingering in the humid air. Nanami found himself frozen, the Monstera forgotten in his hands, his perfectly ordered thoughts scattering like leaves in a sudden breeze.

He remembers how that white hot embarrassment quickly morphed into something unfamiliar, fleeting in previous relationships but never as prominent as in that moment—a flutter in his stomach, a tightness in his chest, and a desperation that he’s thankful to have embraced.

“I’m buying a gift for a new mother, but maybe I can find something that would not require so much care,” he’d said, the words tumbling from his mouth like a wobbling newborn calf as he watched you stop, turn to face him, guarded eyes taking him in. “Do you have any suggestions?”

He remembers how his heart hammered against his ribcage as he waited for your response, how the simple act of breathing seemed almost impossible. How utterly mortifying it was to realize that in thirty seconds, you had changed everything for him. How unbelievably confused he felt when the cosmos he mocked aligned for him when he ran into you at a bookstore days later, giving him the courage to ask you for coffee, for your number, for a date, and the many that followed to create the perfect cacophony of love.

"How did I get so lucky?"

It’s almost ridiculous how fortunate he is. How he gets to hear you laugh—genuine and unrestrained, choked around a snort when he’s said something particularly dry. How he gets to hear your musings in the comfort of your home—the melodic cadence of your humming when you bake, the unprecedented sailor mouth that would make his mother faint, the conversations you have with your dog as he follows you to the backyard. Every day, despite being subject to it many times, it feels like the very first time.

The novelty of it will never fade, because Nanami still calculates how to make you laugh so hard your lashes bubble with tears. He still asks what song you’re humming, knowing you’ll always reply “I made it up”. He still pretends to be shocked that the way a curse word flies from your mouth doesn’t make him unnaturally turned on. He still raises both brows when he hears you conversing with the dog, even though he has embraced the same habit.

"How did I get so lucky?"

The variation of thought comes naturally as his fingers fall back to his side, careful not to disturb you. There was a time when luck meant nothing to him—when grief was the only emotion he allowed himself to fully embrace, a painful reminder of his humanity when everything else felt hollow.

There was only one person who had truly seen him—experienced and witnessed the raw parts of the awkward growth through puberty, commiserated over failed crushes, shared late nights playing video games, and made him laugh until his stomach hurt. When that person was ripped away before their life could truly begin, it left Nanami in denial for so long that isolation became his sanctuary.

Each subsequent attempt at connection through romantic means only reinforced what experience had taught him—that opening a sliver of himself inevitably led to another goodbye, another confirmation that vulnerability was simply an invitation for devastation.

So it’s odd how that worry sprouted in the youth of your relationship with him but was never strong enough to take root. He was healthier, stronger even, and intelligent enough to know that you would not settle for someone who only loved in half-truths. For the first time, the fear of losing someone by not trying, outweighed the fear of the pain that might come with trying and failing.

When Nanami had the choice between protecting himself and never knowing you completely, or risking that devastation for the chance to build something real, he found himself making a choice that his deceased friend would have encouraged with a smile that could make the sun rise.

His efforts have paid off.

As the world wakes up and the noise of cars increases from the cracked window, Nanami counts his lucky stars that he tried. As he watches you sleep, he feels something swell in his chest—a fullness that once scared him but now feels like coming home after a long day.

Soon, he’ll slip out of bed like he does every morning, each day a ritual of thankfulness for the life he almost denied himself. Soon he’ll walk into the kitchen and measure coffee grounds with the same precision he applies to everything, his eyes drifting to the mug you always use—chipped on the handle, crafted from an impromptu class you dragged him to as a second date. He’d been so focused on not embarrassing himself with clumsy hands that he’d missed the exact moment you decided he was worth keeping.

Soon he will slide a fresh cup to you across the counter, taking in your ruffled form—bonnet still secure, eyes heavy with sleep, a blanket wrapped around you because you’re always cold, even in summer. The sight will catch in his throat like it always does, you trusting and vulnerable, showing a version of yourself that transforms his once sterile apartment into a home where love blooms in every corner.

But for now, he watches as you grumble and smack your lips, rolling over until your head is resting on his chest. He blooms with heat, an iridescent sensation that radiates outward from that exact spot, like your memory lives beneath his skin and thrums to life when you’re close. You wrap an arm around him, whether it’s to test the firmness of a pillow or to make sure it’s still him, he’s not quite sure. But it means nothing when you fall back into slumber, snoring softly against him, your breath a metronome that’s synched with his over time.

The rush of it all settles into his bones like it does every morning as he relaxes, his hand tracing the column of your spine absentmindedly.

You chose him. From the moment you rolled your eyes in that nursery, some invisible thread connected you both, and despite it all, that thread held tight. Out of all possibilities, out of all potential paths, you chose this one—with him. Not out of necessity or convenience, but with deliberate, purposeful love that continues to choose him, minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day.

"How did I get so lucky?"

“Kento,” you slur against his chest, voice gravelly with sleep, “stop thinking so loud so I can sleep. It’s too early.”

It’s almost eleven in the morning. But Nanami can do nothing but chuckle softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead, marveling as your curls tickle his nose before his fingers return to their pilgrimage across your body. Each brush of him against you comes with an unspoken promise—that he will never take this for granted, that he will chose you every morning just as purposefully as you chose him.

"How did I get so lucky?"

Who knows. But Nanami will spend every day making sure he deserves it.

Thanks for reading!

the most fun a girl can have is finding parallels, noticing patterns, making connections, contemplating

need a miracle to get through these midterms

so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

need to love and be loved in a place where there's no space or time

page 232 of the broken kingdoms.....nk jemisin when i catch you.... you've already put me through the broken earth trilogy was that not enough? she probably giggles while destroying the relationships i root for

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shoko x f!reader, sfw

cw: mentioned gojo x geto, smoking

notes: first time writing for a female character! though it's an ambiguous relationship... (the crowd boos) in my defense, i love tragic yuri. potentially a projection of my own struggles + confusion with my queer identity. i guess we'll never know! :D anyway, gege akutami, i can confidently say, you FUMBLED THE FUCKING BAG with ieiri shoko. give my hot doctor queen some screentime - you have 5 chapters to do something. Do something about it.

SHOKO WATCHES as ash falls from the butt of her cigarette, which she taps with quick raps of her pointer finger. she’s surprised she’s remembered to put it out at all. you made a big fuss about it when you came home later than she had one evening and caught her smoking indoors. she rolls her eyes and takes one last puff, thinking back to when the two of you had just become roommates.

you used to be the primary doctor over at kyoto jujutsu high but had quit after a short two-year run because you were overworked and exhausted. the two of you met up for drinks right after you quit (you literally called her and utahime up twelve hours after submitting your letter of resignation), and she mentioned briefly that her home was always a mess. you suggested the idea of living together, and she didn’t have a reason to reject your offer. 

anyway, you’ve become a bigger pain in the ass than she had anticipated. yes, you’re a big help when it comes to chores, but you’re also so insistent when it comes to her lifestyle. not that she bothers to listen to you, but you frequently nag about her smoking, drinking, lack of eating, so on and so forth. 

in fact, you’ve taken it upon yourself to take care of her, as if she’s a dying house plant that you’re nurturing back to life. you pack her two bentos every work day, one for lunch and the other for dinner, the meals never identical. you replenished her bare wardrobe with new turtlenecks and work pants because she’s “not steve jobs,” and it’s not like she has an excuse to wear the same thing every day now that you’re doing the laundry and ironing. this is all to say that you’re too involved, too knowledgeable about her mode of operations, for her liking. 

throwing the cigarette onto the floor, she extinguishes it with her foot and heads into your shared apartment. 

not even two steps into the foyer, she hears you call from the couch, “the bath’s ready!”

shoko shrugs her shoulder bag onto the floor next to her heels and pads over to you. “why are you still up?” she asks.

you peel your eyes away from your phone to smile at her. “i was waiting for you,” you reply, a smirk tugging at your lips. 

she heads to the bathroom and says, “go to bed.” you just giggle in response.

in the bathroom, shoko shimmies out of her clothes, brushes her teeth while avoiding her reflection in the mirror, and grabs a towel. when she sinks into the bath, she realizes you’ve added a few drops of jasmine and ylang ylang to the water to help her decompress. somehow, you’ve even managed to figure out her favorite aromatics.

your relationship is peculiar, to say the least. roommates but more. not lovers, of course.

shoko’s long distanced herself from such relationships. she barely has an interest in making friends, let alone find a lifelong partner. yet, upon some introspection, she finds her own behavior and attitude towards you… odd. you bother her, but she hasn’t put a stop to it like she normally does with others. she’s not tired or bored of long conversations with you. even though she’d like it if you gave her some more space and privacy, she doesn’t prevent you from learning more about her.

it’s not that she’s unguarded; she has deliberately lowered her guard around you.

she sinks deeper into the bath, blowing bubbles in the water as she thinks.

she doesn’t love you. (what does being in love even feel like?)

she does like having you around.

ten more minutes of half-conscious musing later, she gets out of the bath and prepares for bed. when she exits from the bathroom, she finds you still sitting on the couch, doom scrolling and humming an inane tune. but this time, she also smells the familiar scent of smoke and bitterness.

she glances at the living room table and spots a small dish. you’re smoking, she realizes.

“i thought you didn’t approve of smoking indoors,” she says.

you look over your shoulder and chuckle. “i’m trying to see what all the hype is. smoking really isn’t all that, you know, shoko?”

your roommate walks over to sit beside you. “you’ve never smoked before?” she asks.

you shrug. “no, i have, when we were much younger. but i remember choking on my first time, so i never bothered to try again.”

“so what made you try this time?”

“you.” you say it so effortlessly. then, you beam at her before scrolling to another video on your phone.

shoko is unsure how to react, so she just leans her head on your shoulder. does she have that much of an influence on you? probably not. it’s common for people to pick up on mannerisms and habits of those around them.

she recalls her high school days with gojo and geto. those two were undeniably close, and they frequently behaved like one another. when she caught wind of the nature of their relationship, it all seemed to make sense – they looked and acted exactly like a couple should.

she wonders if the two of you are anything like her classmates. do you share the same sense of humor? do you have your own language – your own catchphrases and inside jokes and syntax? do you enjoy being around her? does she know you the way you know her?

does she want to know you?

she’s feeling a slight pinch in her temple. she’s not in a rush to figure things out.

shoko reaches across you to take the cigarette from your grasp, acutely aware that she’s taking a breath from where your lips were just moments ago.

“i want something savory tomorrow,” she says.

you nod your head. “i know.”

of course you already know she hates sweet things. she puts out the cigarette.

“I know I’ve told this story before, but my abusive ex refused to let me take birth control. I was on the pill until he found them in my purse. I went to the Student Health Center—they were completely unhelpful, choosing to lecture me about the importance of safe sex (recommending condoms) instead of actually listening to my problem. Then I went to Planned Parenthood. The Nurse Practitioner took one look at my fading bruises and stopped the exam. She called in the doctor. The doctor came in and simply asked me: “Are you ready to leave him?” When I denied that I was being abused, she didn’t argue with me. She just asked me what I needed. I said I need a birth control method that my boyfriend couldn’t detect. She recommended a few options and we decided on Depo. When I told her that my boyfriend read my emails and listened to my phone messages and was known to follow me, she suggested to do the Depo injections at off hours when the clinic was normally closed. She made a note in my chart and instructed the front desk never to leave messages for me—instead, she programmed her personal cell phone number into my phone under the name “Nora”. She told me she would call me to schedule my appointments; she wouldn’t leave a message, but I should call her back when I was able to. And that was it. No judgment. No lecture. She walked me to the door and told me to call her day or night if I needed anything. That she lived 5 blocks from campus and would come get me. That I wasn’t alone. That she just wanted me to be safe. I never called her to come to my rescue. But I have no doubt that she would have come if I had called. She kept me on Depo for a year, giving me those monthly injections in secret, helping me prevent a desperately unwanted pregnancy. I cannot thank Planned Parenthood enough for the work they do.”

—

Curious Georgiana (via grrrlstudies)

I know I’ve reblogged this before, but it bears re-reblogging (?).  This is how you respond to abuse, this is how you give people control over their bodies/uteruses, this is how you act as a generally non-judgmental and compassionate person.  I love this story so fucking much.

(via coffeewithants)

TWD 3.08 // TOWL 1.02

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