Jumpinglillies - Hopi

⠀ㅤ⠀ ⠀𖥻⠀ㅤ⠀﹫⠀kento⠀nanami.

ㅤㅤⓘㅤㅤfluff, reader and kento are married + have a daughter, f!reader as it contains mentions of reader going through motherhood + being called mother, reader is implied to have taken nanami as a last name.

"shhh, shh, it's okay.. it's okay sweetheart.."

it was originally kento that had encouraged you to leave for this trip. you thank all your lucky stars for your husband being as supportive as he was throughout your journey of motherhood. never allowing you to have to pick your career over your family or your family over your career.

he was your balance. your hold onto the ground when you felt like you were ready to float away.

he was your everything.

but now he had begun to regret letting you leave today. your daughter was 7 months old. he had told you, that surely she was okay to spend just two nights away from her mother. but it seemed she had grown near inseparable from her mother. all understanding for just a baby, but in this moment he couldn't bare having to hear his daughter cry further. he was ready to begin breaking down himself at this point.

he tiredly reached for his phone. shamefully calling your number at 2 am, fully aware you had an important meeting early next morning. how he loathed himself at the moment. grumbling out a "dear god" as the phone rang for a few seconds.

you picked up shortly, unsurprisingly. you had made it very clear to him that he should call you no matter what, whenever he needed if he needed help. he had assured you that it wouldn't have to come to that, so you couldn't help but smile when you heard your daughters wailing in the background.

"didn't need me huh?" he didn't even need to see you. he could practically hear your insufferable smirk, that he unfortunately missed more than ever.

"never said that. now please god, sweetheart, she's not stopped crying for a good half an hour." you laughed, still on the other side of the world you were being woken up because of your daughters crying late at night. it was humorous, and strangely sweet.

you requested a facetime, and he accepted quickly. you looked straight into your daughters teary eyes, and she looked back all bug eyed, her crying slowly coming to a stop. you didn't know if she was more thrilled to see you or the metal square shine a bright light in her face.

"hi baby, you're not giving your papa a hard time, right?" your daughter responded in little babbles. your heart warmed a little, and you could see your beloved grinning in the background. you hadn't admitted it- barely even noticed it in fact, how much you truly missed your little family. you needed this too.

you and your daughter continued baby-talking for a good few minutes until you could see her yawning, to which kento had placed a bottle into her mouth. she slowly began to fall asleep, drinking the now lukewarm milk.

you looked at your husband with loving eyes. he looked back at you with just the same fervor. like you were his whole world, like you'd hung up the stars for him. even as you were halfway across the world from him. he would never hate you for caring about your career. it made you practically ill with adoration.

"stay on call with me please? i miss you."

"i miss you too, sweetheart. of course i will."

"goodnight, i love you papamin."

"goodnight mamamin. i love you too."

⠀ㅤ⠀⠀©⠀all work written by ﹫amortxt. do not repost.

How I feel after skipping past all the smut in a fanfic cause I’m only in the mood for fluff

be my valentine?

fluff - parents au. ₊˚⊹ ᰔ preschool teacher! nanami, lots of cuteness from our sunshines◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜happy jaehyun day and happy valentine's ♡ !

little sunshines au

nanami's arts & crafts class quickly grew a buzz around the preschool once he broke the news to the children.

"we'll be making valentine's cards today."

their excited squeals and cheers immediately took over the classroom, his soft chuckle drowned by the kids' celebratory hollering.

"please pick the materials you need. we have colored paper, crayons, and stickers." he gestured to the basket full of supplies sitting on his desk. "if you need to use scissors, please ask for help."

first graders

"what's a valentine?"

the youngest zenin stood on her tiptoes as she tried to catch a look at nanami's desk, the bright pink colored paper drawing her in.

"a valentine is your... sweetheart." was the best explanation he could come up with (for a two-year-old, of course).

"sweet-hart?" she repeated, tilting her head slightly at the familiar word. she had heard it before, especially when her parents were in a good mood!

her little fingers wiggled in hopes of catching the end of the sheet of paper until nanami finally noticed and brought the basket down to her eye level.

"thank you!"

he began to hand out the material, the kids immediately claiming a spot on the floor and decorating their cards. everyone seemed too focused on their tasks, especially the youngest gojo son, as he furiously dragged the crayon back and forth against the piece of paper.

nanami decided to make small talk, not knowing the chaos it'd follow.

"who are you asking to be your valentine?"

"my mama." "mommy!"

"daddy!"

nanami watched the look of indignation in the youngest zenin's face as every kid mentioned their moms instead of dads, her little fingers gripping the crayon.

"why not daddy?" she frowned at the itadori twins since they sat directly in front of her.

the gojo kid stayed silent, clutching the card close to his chest as if protecting it while his eyes switched from the angry toddler to the twins.

"scary." mumbled the girl while her twin brother shrugged, not really having a reason.

second graders

yuuji had his hands full with several sheets of paper and crayons. "one for cho... one for mommy, one for daddy... one for babies–"

"that's a lot." the eldest gojo pointed out, looking at megumi, who immediately nodded his head, agreeing with him.

"that's alright." nanami quickly interrupted before things escalated, patting the gojo kid's back and guiding him back to his seat, and little yuuji frowning as he too walked away. "we can have more than one valentine."

"that's cheating." megumi's tone was nonchalant, but it was enough to ruffle yuuji's feathers.

"no, it's not."

"is."

"no!"

"is!"

yuuji spent the rest of the class hiccuping and wiping his red-rimmed eyes as he sat on nanami's lap, the exhausted teacher helping him with his multiple valentine's cards.

third graders

"she can't read yet, but I'll write a letter to my baby sister!" tsumiki stated proudly, picking a handful of pink stationary to make a card for her sister.

the geto twins instantly cooed at the thought.

"awhhh!" "we should do that for our baby brother!"

happy to encourage such gesture, the eldest zenin joined mimiko and nanako as they brainstormed ideas and shared their colors with her.

for once, nanami allowed himself to relax as the girls gushed about their younger siblings, glad that things finally went smoothly.

GOJO FAMILY

"no."

your sons stare at their dad with their blue eyes wide open. your two-year-old's eyes immediately fill with tears, and you smack your husband's arm, ignoring his childish whine.

"of course I'll be your valentine, baby!" you coo and lift the toddler in your arms, his limbs wrapping around you as he fights with all his might to hold back his sniffles. "i love you."

"love you too, mama."

"and you too!" you quickly add and side hug your eldest. "i love you both so, so much. papa was joking."

"it's just you and me, huh?" satoru pouts at the baby before munching on her soft cheek. however, your baby girl starts to fuss and makes grabby hands at you, fed up with her dad's attention. "not you too!"

ZENIN FAMILY

"daddy... for you."

you have never seen your little girl acting this shy, especially around toji. her hands offer the pink letter to her dad, his usual smug grin gone and replaced by a soft smile.

"c'mere, princess." he sits her on his legs as he opens the envelope, the bright pink paper decorated with colorful stickers. his chest feels tight once he's met with the cutest pink hearts and smiley faces doodled all over. "baby, you made this?"

"yeah."

he makes a mental note to order flower arrangements for his girls, but especially a pink bouquet for his little princess.

ITADORI FAMILY

your babies rush to you with their letters in their hands, clutched tightly in those tiny fingers and nanami right behind them.

sukuna catches sight of his daughter waving goodbye at her teacher, a pink envelope in his hand that looks identical to the one she's handing out to you.

he swears her little crush on the blond man is getting out of hand. so, naturally, he's about to walk up to nanami and have a word with him when his daughter's voice stops him.

"daddy?" her tone is soft, calling for his attention while her chubby little arm is stretched out, offering a heart-shaped lollipop at him.

"for me?" he can't hide his surprise, and when she nods, he lifts her up in his arms with a pleased grin. "thank you, my princess."

suddenly, all is well.

GETO FAMILY

"he can't even read."

"suguru."

"it's an adorable gesture!" he tries to defend himself, crossing his arms over his chest while shrugging, giving the fakest sorry look you've ever seen. "but I would've appreciated the gesture more than a baby who isn't even self-aware."

another sigh from you. the twins look slightly guilty, fearing that they've hurt their dad's feelings.

the sight makes you scowl at your husband who, once again, acts innocent.

"just saying!"

ino is hopeless.

nanami knows it. anyone with half a brain could see it—except for ino himself, apparently.

it starts subtly. little things that nanami catches because he’s perceptive, because it’s in his nature to notice details others overlook. at first, it’s harmless: ino’s eyes lingering on you for a beat too long when you speak, the way he straightens up whenever you enter a room, how he suddenly remembers the most trivial of errands whenever you’re around—just so he has an excuse to stay a little longer.

nanami finds it mildly amusing. he’s well aware of how attractive you are, how effortlessly charming, even without trying. it’s only natural that someone like ino, young and overeager, would fall for you.

but then, it escalates.

one evening, you drop by jujutsu high, bringing nanami a homemade meal because you know he’s been too busy to eat properly. you show up in casual clothes—just a simple, fitted sweater and jeans—but the way ino reacts, you’d think you walked in wearing a red carpet gown.

he visibly stiffens when you greet him, gives you a stammered “hey” that’s painfully awkward. nanami, who’s been flipping through reports at his desk, glances up just in time to see the way ino’s gaze flickers down your body before he forces himself to look away.

ah. so that’s where this is going.

ino is crushing, sure, but there’s something else now—something more desperate, more embarrassing. nanami recognizes it instantly, and this time, he does smirk. just a little.

ino, poor fool that he is, doesn’t realize nanami has noticed.

“kento,” you sigh, walking past ino like he isn’t even there. you set the bento box on nanami’s desk, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to his temple. “you really need to stop skipping meals.”

nanami catches the way ino’s mouth parts slightly, like the air’s been knocked out of him.

“thank you,” nanami says, calmly, like he hasn’t just witnessed his protégé mentally combust.

“it’s nothing,” you hum, straightening up. “besides, if you keep working late, i’ll just have to start showing up every night.”

ino makes a strangled noise. nanami takes a sip of his coffee, unbothered.

—

later, nanami watches as ino struggles to focus during a sparring session.

it’s bad. the kid’s already a mess under normal circumstances, but today, he’s downright sloppy. his stance is off, his movements sluggish, his strikes lacking any real force. nanami doesn’t have to guess why.

he sees it in the way ino flinches when you walk past the training hall, his shoulders tensing like he’s physically holding himself back from looking. but his restraint only lasts a second—his gaze flickers toward you anyway, like a moth drawn to a flame.

it’s pathetic.

nanami doesn’t even need to move much to dodge the sloppy punch ino throws next, sidestepping effortlessly. ino tries to recover, shifting his weight, but nanami can already tell he’s not putting his full strength into it. he’s distracted, his mind clearly elsewhere.

“you’re unfocused,” nanami states plainly, effortlessly blocking another weak attempt at a strike.

ino exhales sharply, shaking out his arms like that’ll somehow fix his obvious lack of composure. “just—just tired, that’s all,” he says, forcing a weak chuckle.

nanami stares at him, unimpressed.

“tired,” he repeats, tone dry.

ino nods, a little too eagerly. “yeah. long night.”

nanami doesn’t comment. he doesn’t need to. he’s known ino long enough to recognize his poor attempts at deflection. besides, nanami doesn’t have to say anything—not when ino completely exposes himself a second later.

because just as nanami steps forward to counter, you laugh at something in the hallway.

it’s not even loud. just a soft, amused sound, barely audible over the rhythmic thuds of sparring in the dojo. but ino hears it. worse, he reacts to it.

his body goes stiff, his focus snapping completely. nanami sees the exact moment his mind short-circuits—his fists unclenching, his stance faltering, his attention slipping from the fight entirely.

and so, nanami does what any good mentor would do.

he knocks ino flat on his ass.

“fuck,” ino groans, wheezing as he stares up at the ceiling.

nanami looms over him, arms crossed.

“if a simple distraction is enough to take you down, you won’t last long in the field,” nanami remarks coolly.

ino groans again, rubbing his face. “that wasn’t—i didn’t—”

nanami tilts his head. “if you’re tired, you should be able to focus through it,” he continues, watching as ino freezes. “unless, of course, something else is affecting your concentration.”

there it is. the telltale flicker of panic in ino’s eyes.

instead of pressing the issue further, he simply offers a hand. ino stares at it like he expects a follow-up attack, before reluctantly grasping it and letting nanami pull him to his feet.

“let’s go again.” nanami says, adjusting his sleeves.

ino exhales heavily. he nods, but nanami doesn’t miss the way his eyes flicker toward the door one last time.

instead of stopping him, nanami lets him suffer through his own turmoil.

—

by the time ino realizes he never had a chance, it’s almost pathetic.

you show up one evening, like always, but this time, you don’t just drape yourself over nanami’s shoulders—you practically melt into him, sighing contentedly as he rests a hand on your hip.

ino looks like he’s about five seconds away from passing out.

it’s honestly impressive—nanami has seen the kid go up against curses twice his level, take hits that should’ve knocked him out cold, but nothing has shaken him quite like this.

the moment you walk in, all warmth and ease as you slide into nanami’s space, ino tenses. nanami doesn’t miss the way his gaze flickers to where your hand rests on his shoulder, fingers curling against the fabric of his suit.

“kento,” you murmur, leaning down just enough that your breath brushes against his ear. “let’s go home.”

nanami hums, his grip on your waist firm as he turns his head slightly, his nose grazing yours before he kisses you—slow and deliberate.

you sigh into it, and nanami uses the moment to deepen the kiss, letting his hand drift lower, just enough to make a point.

when he finally pulls away, he opens his eyes and—ah, there it is.

ino looks wrecked. eyes wide, mouth slightly open, standing there like a man who’s just watched his last shred of hope crumble to dust.

nanami meets his gaze, calm as ever, but there’s something sharp in his expression—something that makes ino straighten up like a scolded dog.

it’s not a threat. not really. nanami doesn’t need to threaten him.

it’s just a simple fact.

you’re his.

and ino? well, ino never had a chance.

—> part two(nsfw).

Sincere Apologies

A/N: apologies for being MIA for a week, finals and papers were just stabbing me violently as i sobbed in a corner. hopefully i pass everything, as an apology, have some cute/darkish nanami content

warnings: trophy wife, kinda sugar daddy behavior, not realistic relationship, nanami dilf, very rich nanami, obsessed nanami, reader that knows exactly how to play the game etc. slight smut? idk, i mean theres dirty talking.

The heavy oak doors to Nanami Kento’s office slam open.

His fingers freeze over his keyboard. His shoulders go stiff. His breath stills in his chest.

Because he already knows.

Before he even looks up, before he even sees you—he knows.

His wife.

His stunning, painstakingly perfect, effortlessly devastating wife.

And she was pouting.

He had a weakness for that pout. It was a dangerous thing—plump lips slightly pursed, red catching the light just enough to remind him that they belonged to him. It was a silent declaration of displeasure, one that he already knew was going to cost him. Dearly.

And when he does lift his gaze, slow, measured, bracing for impact—fuck.

You’re breathtaking.

Black Louboutins clicking against the marble, each step a deliberate statement. A dress that fits so exquisitely it looks like it was painted onto you—sleek, elegant, and sinful all at once, the kind of thing that demands to be touched. Silver jewelry gleaming against your skin, subtle but devastating, the perfect complement to perfection itself. Hair styled, nails manicured, every detail painstakingly crafted. You’re a masterpiece, a walking vision of power and indulgence, and all of it—every inch of it—is his.

And yet—you’re pouting.

A slight downturn of those plush lips, a delicate furrow of your brow, the barest tilt of your chin—but it guts him. Slices through him like a blade.

He knows exactly why you’re here.

Knows because he pays people to know.

His phone had buzzed earlier, a series of updates from the security detail assigned to you—updates he gets religiously.

12:30 PM: Madam has left the penthouse. 12:45 PM: Madam has arrived at Restaurant L'Ambroisie. 1:05 PM: Madam is still waiting. 1:20 PM: Madam has left the restaurant.

And now?

Now you’re here, standing in front of him, looking like that, dressed like that—for him. And he had made you wait.

Nanami’s jaw tightens. His fists clench against the desk.

“Darling—”

“You forgot.”

Your voice is soft. Too soft. Dangerous in a way that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand.

You step closer, impossibly close, hands resting lightly on his desk. The scent of your perfume—expensive, delicate, the one he handpicked for you—wraps around him like a noose. His control is a fragile, fraying thread, snapping one fiber at a time.

His eyes roam—devour. The curve of your waist, the way the fabric hugs your body, the smooth expanse of your throat where your necklace rests.

The pout on your lips.

God, that mouth.

He wants to bite. Wants to mark. Wants to ruin.

“I—” He stops. Swallows. He doesn’t forget things. His mind doesn’t work like that. But work had been relentless, drowning him, dragging him down into a cycle of meetings and reports and phone calls that never ended.

And you—you had been waiting for him.

Dressed like this, expecting him, and he had left you alone.

“Sweetheart.” His voice is rough now, thick with something dark, something possessive. He reaches for you, fingers brushing your wrist—where the bracelet he gifted you glints under the soft glow of his office lights.

Your arms remain crossed.

Your lips press together.

“You know I didn’t mean to,” he says, voice lower now, almost pleading. A thing that no one—not his employees, not his shareholders, not his competitors—would ever think possible.

But with you?

With you, he is nothing if not desperate.

You tilt your head, lashes fluttering, and he knows you’re toying with him. Knows because you are brilliant, because you are calculated, because you know exactly how to play the game.

And Nanami—Nanami will always lose to you.

“Oh, I know,” you hum, stepping forward, placing your hands on his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his crisp white dress shirt. You lean in, lips brushing just barely over his ear, voice syrup-thick.

“You’re so busy, Kento.” Your tone is laced with something dark, something teasing, something lethal. “Too busy to eat. Too busy to see me. Too busy to keep your promises.”

His grip on your waist tightens—too tight.

You let out a soft little sound—half a sigh, half a taunt.

Nanami’s jaw clenches. He wants to snap. Wants to drag you into his lap. Wants to press you into his desk and make up for every second you were sitting at that restaurant alone.

He breathes in slow. Forces restraint into his bones. Forces control into his voice.

“You know that’s not true.”

Your fingers trail down his tie- the very same tie you picked out for him this morning, playing with the silk, teasing him.

“Then make it up to me, Kento.”

His fingers tighten on you.

His vision blurs with want.

*-*

7:45 PM

Nanami Kento is waiting by the car, hands in the pockets of his tailored suit, watching the screen of his personal phone with the same level of intensity he reserves for high-stakes deals.

It’s a habit. A ritual. A necessity.

The only notifications that ever dare to light up this device are hers—or the ones detailing her movements.

7:30 PM: Madam is in the walk-in closet. 7:35 PM: Madam has selected a dress. 7:40 PM: Madam is trying on jewelry.

Nanami Kento had cleared his entire schedule.

Meetings? Cancelled. Calls? Postponed. Obligations? Nonexistent.

For the first time in months, the empire he meticulously built—the empire that consumes every waking hour—takes a backseat. Because his wife—his beautiful, brilliant, ruthlessly enchanting wife—deserves his undivided attention.

And he is a man who learns from his mistakes.

So when you want the best sushi in the country—you get the best sushi in the country.

Never mind the twelve-month waiting list. Never mind that reservations are impossible, that even the country’s elite have to pull strings for a chance at a table.

None of that matters.

Because Nanami fucking Kento wants a table, and when he wants something, the world bends to accommodate him.

So now he’s waiting outside the penthouse, leaning against the sleek, obsidian-black Maybach, his personal driver stationed at the front. His fingers drum against the cool metal of his phone, the only device he keeps on him after hours.

It only has two active notifications:

— You. — And the security detail assigned to you.

(The rest of the world can fuck off right now.)

The screen dings.

🔔 1 New Message [You]: Which necklace? The diamond choker or the one you got me in Milan? I’m wearing the dark blue dress.

Nanami’s breath stalls.

Because attached to the message is a photo.

You—standing before the full-length mirror in your dressing room.

The dress—deep, satin-dark blue, the kind that whispers power, elegance. Form-fitting, thigh-high slit, dangerously backless. But that’s not what sends blood surging through his veins like liquid fire.

No.

It’s the way the plunging neckline showcases your décolletage in unforgivable clarity. The soft, luminous glow of your skin. The subtle curve of your collarbones. The perfect swell of your breasts, barely contained, teasing at the edge of sinful.

His jaw flexes.

Nanami doesn’t move for a full minute.

Two.

His grip on the phone tightens.

His pulse hammers.

Because you know exactly what you’re doing. You’ve always known. You’re a woman who wields your beauty like a blade, precise and devastating, and he is your willing casualty.

He forces himself to exhale, thumb hovering over the screen.

But he’s not stupid.

You want him to suffer.

And he deserves to.

So he forces himself to wait—forces himself to stare, to commit every goddamn detail to memory, to let the slow burn of punishment sear into him.

Only after three minutes of grit-tooth restraint does he finally reply:

[Nanami]: The choker.

And then, because he hates himself:

[Nanami]: Send another photo.

You leave him on read.

God.

By the time you descend the marble staircase, heels tapping softly against polished stone, Nanami is already at the car door, opening it for you.

And fuck.

You are stunning.

No—beyond stunning. Otherworldly. The kind of beauty that destroys men. The choker sits perfectly against your throat, diamonds catching the soft glow of the city lights.

Nanami is silent.

Because words don’t belong in a moment like this.

You step closer, tilting your head up, lashes fluttering. “You’re staring, Kento.”

“I always stare.” His voice is low. Dangerous. “You know that.”

A small, wicked smile curves your lips. You step past him, sliding into the car with all the grace of a woman who knows she owns the room.

Nanami exhales sharply before following.

*-*

The restaurant is decadence incarnate.

An exclusive, private location overlooking the city skyline, filled with only the wealthiest, most powerful names in the country. The kind of place where privacy is sacred, where menus don’t have prices, and where each dish is a masterpiece.

But Nanami doesn’t give a fuck about any of it.

Because you’re across from him.

Because you’re sitting there, fingers delicately tracing the rim of your crystal wine glass, lips just barely brushing the edge before you take a sip. Because you tilt your head, watching him with knowing amusement, eyes full of mischief.

Because you haven’t stopped teasing him.

“You’ve been very quiet tonight,” you muse, voice honeyed. “Something on your mind?”

Nanami’s grip on his glass tightens.

“You know exactly what’s on my mind.”

You let out a soft, syrup-sweet laugh, taking another slow sip of wine. “Oh? Care to elaborate?”

His jaw ticks.

Your foot brushes against his ankle under the table—light, teasing.

Nanami barely suppresses a groan. His entire body is tight, heat simmering beneath his skin, because you haven’t stopped playing with him since the moment you stepped into the car.

You lean forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, giving him a devastating view of your cleavage.

Nanami forces himself to meet your gaze.

A mistake.

Because you’re smirking.

“Distracted?” you ask, voice smooth as silk.

His fingers drum against the table. Slow. Measured. Controlled.

Barely.

“You’re enjoying this,” he states.

Your smile is all innocence.

“Enjoying what?”

Nanami exhales through his nose, clenches his jaw.

Oh, you are so very cruel.

But he deserves this.

He deserves every second of torture, every ounce of punishment, for making you wait at lunch, for making you doubt—even for a second—that you were the center of his world.

And so he lets it happen.

Lets you tease.

Lets you toy with him.

Lets you sit there, whispering filthy little nothings while you sip your obscenely expensive wine, eyes dancing with mock sympathy every time he struggles to maintain composure.

Because tonight—

Tonight is about you.

And when the night is over—when he finally has you alone, pinned beneath him, your lips bruised from his kisses, your body trembling under the weight of his obsession—

You won’t be smirking anymore.

*-*

The torture continues.

Your eyes, bright with mischief, your lips, sweet with wine, your voice, a weapon in silk and lace—you flirt with shameless abandon, reveling in the way your husband unravels before you.

And Nanami lets you.

Lets you drag him to the edge with every low, sultry laugh, every innocent little touch, every deliberate brush of your knee against his under the table.

He sits there, tense, his restraint hanging by a thread, watching the way your tongue darts out to catch a drop of wine from your lip.

“You’re staring, Kento.”

“You give me no choice.” His voice is low, wrecked, his grip tightening around his glass as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.

Your smirk is wicked.

“I give you plenty of choices.” You tilt your head. “You’re just a little obsessed with me.”

Nanami exhales sharply, a dark, humorless laugh escaping his throat.

Obsessed?

My love, obsession doesn’t even begin to cover it.

But he doesn’t say that.

No, he lets you play your game, lets you lean in too close, lets your fingers trail over the rim of your glass too slowly, lets your words sink into his already fevered skin.

“Tell me,” you hum, tracing the stem of your wine glass, “are you enjoying dinner?”

Nanami drags a hand over his face. “Dinner?”

You blink, feigning innocence.

“Yes. The food. You know, the thing you forgot to show up for this afternoon?”

Ah.

So that’s what this is.

Nanami licks his lips, tapping his fingers against the table in slow, deliberate movements, eyes locked onto you with unwavering intensity.

“You’re cruel,” he murmurs, voice deep, edged with something dangerous.

Your eyes dance. “Am I?”

His lips quirk—not quite a smile, not quite a warning.

“You know you are.”

You sigh, all soft and mockingly indulgent, tilting your head as you drag your nails lightly against the table’s surface. “I could go easy on you,” you muse.

Nanami exhales, slow. Measured.

“But you won’t.”

You grin, lifting your glass. “Of course not.”

And Nanami takes it.

Takes the punishment, the taunting, the pure, unfiltered temptation of your presence like a man devoted to suffering.

And when dessert arrives—when the decadent dark chocolate soufflé is set before him, when he takes a bite and it melts like silk on his tongue—he thinks, for a fleeting second, that this might be the best thing he’s ever eaten.

Until he remembers that he’s tasted you.

And then—then nothing compares.

*-*

By the time you return home, you’re still smirking.

But it doesn’t last.

Because the second the door clicks shut, Nanami moves.

You let out a delighted little squeak as he cages you against the wall, hands bracketing your head, his broad, towering form pressing into you, his scent—woodsmoke, spice, and ruinous devotion—curling around you like a promise.

The air thickens.

The teasing, the power play, the entire night of slow, torturous foreplay—it all boils over in an instant.

His fingers graze your jaw, tipping your chin up, and his hunger is absolute.

“I should make you beg,” he murmurs, voice rough, laced with dangerous affection. “I should drag this out, make you feel every second of what you put me through tonight.”

Your pulse skitters.

But then he exhales, a harsh, heavy thing, his forehead dropping to yours as his hands skim over your waist, down, gripping the curve of your hips like he needs something to anchor him.

“But I can’t.” His voice is raw, desperate. “Because I—”

He stops.

Swallows.

Closes his eyes.

When he speaks again, it’s almost reverent.

“I just want you.”

A sharp inhale.

Then—his mouth crashes into yours.

*-*

Nanami takes his time.

Because he can. Because you’re his. Because he will never rush through the ritual of undressing the most beautiful woman in the world.

He peels away your dress, inch by devastating inch, fingers trailing over every new expanse of bare skin as if mapping out something holy.

When he picks you up—when your legs wrap around his waist, when your arms lock around his neck, when he carries you to the bedroom like you weigh nothing at all—you giggle, head thrown back in pure, gleeful delight.

And Nanami smiles.

Because that sound—that sound is everything.

He makes love to you with devotion, with worship, with the kind of reverence only a man who breathes for one person can possess.

And his favorite moments?

When he licks his fingers clean, and the wet sheen catches on his wedding band.

When he laces his fingers with yours, and the glint of your ring reminds him that you are his.

When he kisses you stupid, over and over, until you’re laughing, until you’re sighing his name, until you’re clinging to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

Because, to him—you are.

*-*

The next morning, you wake sore, satisfied, and thoroughly adored.

Nanami watches from the bed as you slip out of his grasp, stretching like a lazy cat, striding toward his walk-in closet.

It’s routine, the way you pick out his tie each morning.

And when you return, holding a rich navy silk tie between two fingers, he smiles.

You press it into his chest, tilting your head.

“This one.”

He hums, looping it around his collar, fingers moving with effortless precision.

Then—before he leaves, before he lets work consume him again—

“Lunch date?”

Your eyes light up. “Of course.”

And Nanami swears he’ll move heaven and earth to make sure he never misses another one.

*-*

And all morning?

He watches you.

Because his security team keeps him updated on your every move.

And every time his phone dings—every time he gets a notification that you’re shopping, reading, drinking coffee, existing somewhere in the world without him—he exhales, taps the screen, and reads every word like scripture.

Because he may be at work.

But his mind?

His mind is always with you.

A/N: i wanted to make this slightly poetic i hope y'all see it. anyways after the angst, a bit of happy fluff is always nice.

Masterlist.

:)

Picturing the JJK men as dads on the beach!

Featuring: Gojo, Geto, Nanami

TW: Fluff, Established Relationships, It's silly if you think of Geto as a cult leader and you really don't know what he does for a living.

Gojo Satoru is definitely the playful type. Gently holds your toddler’s tiny little hand as they take their very first steps onto the beach. You, of course, are a few steps behind, recording the whole thing, his white hair blowing in the breeze, those bright blue eyes flickering back to you with the happiest smile you’ve ever seen.

When your little boy finally reach the wet sand, the first chill of seawater brushes over his little toes as he squeals, cautious of the water. Satoru crouches slightly beside them, steady and so full of joy. You can hear his soft giggles and gentle reassurances, “I got you,” and “Don’t worry, daddy won’t let anything happen”, as he coaxes him forward, step by tiny step.

Each time the waves grow taller, he lets out a playful, “Wooo!” before shielding your little one with his long frame, bursting into laughter that makes your chest ache with love. “That was a big one, huh?” he grins, scooping the toddler closer. Checking them over as they spit out salt water. Helping him rub his little blue eyes that resemble his fathers. “My brave little man”

Eventually, you make your way over, camera tucked away, the salty breeze tangling in your hair. Satoru looks up the second he senses you near, and his grin only widens.

“There’s mama,” he coos, squeezing your toddler's small hand, pulling them close, before reaching for your hand, lacing your fingers with his. “C’mon, join us. The water’s not so scary.”

And just like that, the three of you stand at the edge of the sea, the water coming in cold burts, shells dazzling in the sand. When the next one crashes in, he pulls you both close, laughing loud and bright as cold water splashes up your legs.

“See?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your cheek as your little one squeals with joy. Small little kicks in the water. “Told you I’ve got you.”

------------

Now Geto Suguru, absolutely has a schedule in mind. A bit of time at the beach, a long scenic car ride timed perfectly for the twins to nap, then dinner at a place he made reservations for weeks in advance, with a menu that includes safe foods for the kids and views that he knows you will love.

You, of course, have no clue what the schedule is. You’re just following his lead, letting him steer the day. If he’s being a little overprotective? Well, he means well.

He kneels down to carefully lather sunscreen onto the twins' cheeks, smoothing it into their soft skin with those big gentle hands. Then he sprays down their arms and legs until their glistening (hey do you want two little ones complaining about sunburns? No? Thought so), before adjusting their sun hats and leading them down the sand toward the tide pools.

“The tide’s too rough for little girls,” he murmurs, glancing back at you with playful violet eyes as if daring you to challenge him. He’d said the same thing when school season came up, murmuring something about “not just yet” and “there’s still time.” You’re starting to realize he just doesn’t want them to grow up too fast.

Once you reach the tide pools, it’s like watching a nature documentary, narrated carefully with a smooth, honeyed voice. Suguru who crouches low, sleeves rolled up, pointing to colorful sea anemones and starfish nestled in rock crevices. The occasional hermit crabs scrambling about. He gently holds the girls back with one arm as he explains how we have to be careful, how these creatures are delicate, how we should never touch unless we’re invited. He asks them questions, listens closely to their little answers, and hums in thoughtful praise when they’re right.

You take pictures from behind for his little scrapbook - your husband hunched beside his daughters, the wind tousling his dark hair, a small smile on his face as they eagerly chatter about “funny sea goos” and “squishy blobs.”

Even when the four of you walk along the shore, he’s still tuned in. He picks up every seashell they hand him and slips them into his pockets, keeping each one safe. Talking to you that he will have them do a little craft, maybe decorate a frame for your next family photo. His other hand stays laced in yours, thumb brushing your knuckle like a quiet thank-you for being here, for trusting his rhythm.

And when the twins break into a run, he calls after them, not angry, just firm. Protective.

“Hey, stay where I can see you. Don’t go too far, yeah?”

You can't blame the man for being a little overprotective. He's just trying to protect the only family he has left in the world.

------

Nanami finally got his beach house.

It wasn’t something he ever really thought he’d have, not in the way people dream of it. Certainly not with a wife he adores more than life, and definitely not with a little girl who just turned one. Both surprises. Both blessings he never knew how much he needed until they arrived, warm, loud, full of life and love.

He lounges beneath a large umbrella, reclined in a low chair on the sand with your daughter curled up sound asleep on his chest. A small paperback rests in his hand, the other gently cradling her back as he reads aloud in a quiet, steady voice. Loud enough only for himself to hear. Enough for her to feel the rumble of his chest when he speaks. The soft rise and fall of her breathing tickles his cheek where her chubby face presses into him, her tiny hand curled in the fabric of his white linen shirt.

Every so often, he glances up from the page, eyes following you as you wander the shore barefoot, collecting small shells and smooth stones. Things for her little fingers to hold, to marvel at.

Sometimes, you join him again. Both of you kneeling in the sand with your babbling baby girl perched in your lap. You and Nanami take your time building crooked little castles, digging moats and shaping towers, only to watch her gleefully slam her tiny fists into them, squealing as the grains collapse under her touch. He chuckles each time, murmuring that it’s good for her sensory development, brushing sand from her face and little hairs before beginning again.

Every now and then, Nanami looks at you.

Just looks. Like the tide has swept something open in his chest and left it raw in the most beautiful way. Sometimes he’s still trying to understand how he got here, how he gets to have this. How he deserves to have this.

There’s a softness in his gaze that lingers longer than the shell rustling in the waves. A quiet, awestruck kind of love that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud, because it’s seen in every glance, every kiss to your lips, every shell gently placed in your daughter’s hand.

He never expected this life. But god, he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Absolute art omg

MONA LISA ⋆˚࿔⸻ Nanami Kento

THE WAY YOU LOOK I UNDERSTAND THE HYPE, YOU KNOW YOU'RE JUST MY TYPE꩜ .ᐟ Gotta, gotta, get ya, 'cause you know just what I like.

cw ꩜ .ᐟ nothing, just fluff, but there is a dumbass ex, whirlwind romance sort of cliche, some suggestive stuff, but just me being a poetic dumbass mostly, i heard the song and i was like yes, so just enjoy.

a/n: fully inspired by mona lisa by jhope

Nanami Kento is a connoisseur of art. He is the greatest opponent of the philosophy presented by Plato, that art is an imitation of an imitation, and therefore not a true representation of reality. He believed that art has always been and will always be the direct and indirect reflection of reality. And if Plato were alive today, he would not hesitate to blurt it out in his face. 

So after saving up for a while and doing an insane amount of overtime, when he found himself in Paris, all by himself, he knew exactly where he wanted to explore first and foremost.

The Louvre museum was somewhere he always wanted to explore, not vicariously through a digital screen or how Gojo flew out his girlfriend there for her art history project—he wanted to see everything with his own two eyes, and just get lost in there if possible.

He expected the crowd. Even when he scheduled his visit at an odd time, to enjoy some serenity in those masterful pieces from the past. He wanted to find the Venus de milo, the coronation of Napoleon, and of course, the Mona Lisa.

But instead he found you, standing opposite to the Mona Lisa herself, just staring at Veronese's wedding feast at Cana.

Even when he came on a weekday, during downtime, there was still a crowd in front of the mona Lisa. But honestly, he would get in a queue to watch you instead. Maybe frame you in his eyes forever, if it is possible. He never really got the hype about Mona Lisa anyway, of course it has its own significance with how the colors and techniques were so sophisticated for its time that it was thought to be irreplicable. But Nanami was not fascinated by the, now, dull colors of the painting. But he is sure if it was you that Vinci decided to immortalize in his painting, the crowd would have to be bigger, and the queue has to be longer. And the colors have to be more vibrant and acute. And even then he could not have captured your beauty. 

But then again, you do not need such empty validations.

He never thought of himself as a person to think his type was a pretty face, if you asked him, he would say personality. Yet here he is walking up to the gorgeous woman of his dreams, and asking her if she wanted to stroll around the museum with him. 

If only your, now ex, boyfriend took a second too long before saying he wants to break up with you to get with the younger hotter girl at his office; he would not have been backtracking from that statement in a panic when you told him right after that you got two tickets to Paris for your anniversary. And he would have probably been here standing next to you. But thankfully you threw him out of your apartment, threw everything of his in your home, on the street. And got a considerable amount of refund on his ticket, and made your way to Paris. Fortunately instead of your ex, this gorgeous stranger, who looked really dazed when he came up to you, and gave you company through the rest of your trip. All he said was a simple, 

“Hello.” a gorgeous voice to match a gorgeous voice. 

And suddenly it was as if you two were in a movie, about two strangers falling in love, in the city of love. You did every cliche tourist thing with him, to your heart’s content. From going to the Pont des Arts to the Eiffel tower. And doing things out of visiting historical monuments, like struggling to order a croissant and coffee. The days you spent with Nanami in Paris, became some of the most cherished memories you have created in your life. And you can only hope you get to have him around for more memories to create. 

While you were too busy wallowing in your own head about never possibly seeing him ever again after this—Kento was becoming borderline obsessed with you.

The amount of time you occupied in his thoughts and his journal, was getting concerning. You simply have him bad. And he is ready to submit himself, nay, devote himself to you. Frame you in a picture, make a shrine out of it and call you his religion, his one and only. 

By the third day of knowing Nanami Kento, you somehow ended up in the same hotel as him. With different room numbers to your name, you still somehow always ended up in each other’s rooms. At first it was petty excuses like the bed is better in your room, then it was the shower not working well, the lights in your room were too fluorescent. These were things easily solved by calling the front desk, but then it would mean these were real problems and not made up excuses. 

And everytime your horrible ex tried to call you and ruin your mood, he was there for you with some bottle of wine he found at the grocery store down the street. Along with some variety of cheese and fruits, to make you a charcuterie board of sorts.

And you appreciated it all. The cheap wine, cheap ‘i heart Paris’ t-shirts, wild little flowers from some random park you two stumbled upon, to the diamond earrings he insisted on buying you. Something about them matching your smile too perfectly to let them be bought out by someone else. And you have never felt so at ease to be spoiled like so. Never with your parents, nor with any ex, or even friends. And it was all too much and too easy to get used to. 

“Will I ever see you again, after this?” you were in his bed, fully clothed and in his arms, but never in your life have you ever felt so naked. 

“You are asking the wrong questions sweetheart.” he moved his head just enough to take it off the top of your head, and came eye to eye with you. His one hand steady as ever on your waist, slightly bunching up the satin of your nightdress. While the other held your own hand in comfort, with the most delicate touch. As if you were some exquisite work of art that would crumble with just one thoughtless touch.

“What should I be asking then?”

“How can I look at you for the rest of my life instead?”

FIND MORE OF MY WORKS HERE

a/n: dividers by @/cafekitsune. header is Monalisa by Leonardo da Vinci.

big Plato disliker here. you can say i loathe him even. fuck Plato. first Nanami work woooo!!! also shit i made up from my own trip to paris like when i was a wee baby so it is def not accurate i think.

I LIKE MY GIRLS PRETTY IN THE FACE ART PIECE TO FRAME MONA MONA LISA YEAH I NEED YA

tag list: @cheralith @madamechrissy @gojosperms @gojao @cuntphoric @nanamiskentos @cuntyji @cuntphoric @aishi-toru @fushitoru @rriwyu @alygator77 @exquisink @lover-lyn @buckysm @wwwritererm @indiewritesxoxo @gojosconsort @soupicidesquad @shouiow @user25384959574 @dxmnsaera @kazupop @slayzzz @undercvrfan444 @miizuzu @getoistic @infinitatis-ink @theorphicangel @ricecake-mochi

toji fushiguro is not a man of structure.

he sleeps when he’s tired, eats when he’s hungry, and doesn’t bother with trivial things like routines or household organization. his apartment is livable, sure, but it’s clear he doesn’t put much thought into it—clothes draped over furniture, dishes left in the sink, mail stacked haphazardly on the counter. he knows where everything is (more or less), but it’s not exactly functional.

then you move in.

and suddenly, there are little signs of change.

the first time he notices, it’s in the kitchen—his mismatched, barely-there collection of plates and cups has doubled. your things now sit alongside his, an extra coffee mug on the counter, a set of utensils that actually match.

then, in the bathroom—your toothbrush next to his, your skincare products cluttering the sink. it should annoy him, but it doesn’t. if anything, he finds himself lingering there a little longer, just to see the proof that you’re here.

his bed, once a mess of tangled sheets he never bothered to fix, is suddenly made in the mornings. not neatly, not perfectly, but enough that it looks intentional. toji never cared before, but when you crawl into bed at night and sigh, all content and cozy, he thinks… maybe it’s nice.

it’s a slow shift, but he adjusts—without realizing it, without meaning to.

and then one day, you notice.

you’re standing in the entryway, slipping your shoes on, when something catches your eye. a small wooden tray by the door, something you’re sure wasn’t there before.

and sitting inside it—your keys, alongside his.

your breath catches.

toji, already halfway out the door, glances back. “you comin’?”

you don’t answer right away, just staring at the little tray.

“…did you put this here?” your voice is quiet.

he shrugs. “you always lose your damn keys. figured this’d help.”

your eyes burn.

toji sighs. “don’t start crying over a tray.”

but it’s not just the tray. it’s everything—the way he started putting his laundry in the hamper because you do, the way he doesn’t leave dishes in the sink anymore because he knows you’ll wash them if he does. the way he bought an extra blanket because you always get cold, the way he waits to eat if you’re not home yet.

you sniffle. “you changed for me.”

he steps closer, tilting your chin up. “didn’t change, baby. just—” his thumb brushes your cheek. “—made space.”

your lip wobbles. “for me.”

he smirks. “who else?”

and when you throw yourself at him, arms wrapped tight around his waist, toji just chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

nanami prides himself on many things—his discipline, his work ethic, his impeccable taste in ties. but above all, he prides himself on his ability to communicate clearly and concisely, whether in speech or in writing. his text messages are a testament to this:

nanami: I will arrive at 7:30 p.m. Let me know if you need anything.

capitalized. punctuated. grammatically flawless.

then there is you. his lovely girlfriend. his chaotic girlfriend.

you: oks eeu thns

nanami blinks. once. twice. he tilts his phone screen away, then back, as if a different angle might help decipher whatever cryptic language this is. "oks eeu thns" is not english. nor is it japanese. it is… something else. something eldritch.

"what." he mutters to himself.

this is not the first time. nor will it be the last. your texts are a battlefield, a warzone of typos, autocorrect fails, and complete disregard for sentence structure. you do not "text." you unleash a tornado of half-formed thoughts at an alarming rate, as though your thumbs operate on a separate plane of existence.

exhibit a:

you: r u cmg home latr i wan ice cre nanami: Are you asking if I will be home late, and if so, whether you want ice cream? you: ye nanami: …What flavor? you: gimme mint sumn u kno the blue green w the chunks idk idc nanami: You want mint chocolate chip. you: ye

he has, over time, become somewhat of a linguist. an interpreter. a man who now instinctively knows that when you say "bcum," you mean "become" and not whatever horrifying alternative that initially flashes through his mind. but nothing—nothing—prepared him for exhibit b:

you: bby whn u cming hom i wan hug n u also i los a sock idk where she go nanami: I will be home at 6 p.m. I assume you meant to say you lost a sock. you: y au did nanami: What does that mean. you: *ya i did nanami: Understood.

he did not understand. he once tried to gently correct your typos. you responded by sending him "ok grammarly" and proceeding to text even faster with worse errors out of sheer spite. now, nanami has simply adapted.

you: i made pasta bt i dropd some :( rip lil guy nanami: Rest in peace to the fallen. you: he wud hv wantd us to eat his brothr in his honr nanami: Then we shall.

sometimes, he marvels at how two people so fundamentally different could love each other so much. and then he remembers the first time you sleepily texted him "gn ily mwuah" at 1:43 a.m. with no capitalization, no punctuation, just raw, unfiltered affection—

and suddenly, he doesn’t mind deciphering your nonsense at all.

😔