kenntoria

[kenntoria]

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ just reader flashing nanami during an argument yk the usual

tags ⋆·˚ ༘ * established relationship, domestic argument, flashing, crack, nanami is so tired, reader is so unserious

“i just don’t understand why you couldn’t have waited—”

“you’re overreacting.”

“i’m not over—” nanami cuts himself off, jaw tight, eyes narrowed like he’s physically holding the rest of the words back with his molars. “you left the stove on. again.”

“and it didn’t burn anything this time!” you gesture, exasperated. “nothing even smoked! you act like i set the apartment on fire!”

he looks at you. tired. lips pressed into a flat line like he’s debating walking out the door and straight into traffic.

“that is not the defense you think it is.”

“well excuse me for trying to multitask while making us dinner—”

“no,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “you were trying to build ikea shelves and cook pasta at the same time. that is not multitasking. that is split negligence.”

“okay first of all, hot take—”

“no more hot takes. and no more hot stoves.” he’s rubbing his temples now. “you’re going to give me an aneurysm.”

you cross your arms. narrow your eyes. and then, in one swift motion, you lift your oversized shirt and flash him.

nanami goes still like someone hit pause on his soul.

he stares.

silent.

you can hear the tick of the hallway clock.

and then, hoarse, flat, barely audible:

“…why.”

“because you were spiraling and i thought this might help,” you say brightly.

he closes his eyes. breathes in. out. presses his fingers against his eyelids like he’s praying for strength.

“this isn’t—”

a pause. a sigh.

“you’re—i’m trying to have a serious conversation with you.”

“and i’m trying to cheer you up!” you beam.

his eyes drag upward slowly, gaze landing somewhere near the ceiling like he’s trying to manifest divine intervention. “i can’t believe i am saying this— boobs are not a conflict resolution strategy.”

“they’re working, though.”

“…unfortunately,” he mutters.

and they are. because now his arms are crossed but not tense, his jaw’s unclenched, and there’s the smallest tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth. he’s annoyed, but it’s fraying at the edges.

you grin.

“you love me.”

“i do. god help me.”

he finally looks at you.

“…put them away. we’re not done talking about the stove.”

you lift the shirt higher.

“put them away.”

[kenntoria]

Your writing is so softly gut wrenching and I mean this in the best way, you've encapsulated the fear, relief, and softness of being known and what it MEANS to have someone worm their way into your heart, rather than try to force their way in and I can't get over it!!!!

Your writing is PEAK!!!!!

HEHEHEH THANK YOU, DARLING!!

you are too kind, i literally can’t stop smiling 😭😭 this community has been so nice to me over the past week, and you words just add to how special and lovely everyone here is<33

sending you hugs and kisses 💕💕

[kenntoria]

I just wanted to say that I love reading your works because you write everything with so much love. You love the characters you write about and you handle them with so much care and I can feel that through your writing and I just wanted to let you know that i love YOU. Please never stop writing!!

AWEEE YOU ARE SO SO SWEET!!! I LOVE YOU TOO BBY THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR WRITING THIS!!

i try to convey my love for the characters through every fic i write and i am glad my beautiful readers feel it!! it’s nice to know that we all share these feelings and stories even if it’s fictional <33

[kenntoria]

am i tweaking or did you change your username?? if you did, its really cute ><

i did!!! i just added tori instead of toru in there hehehheehh tysm lovely <33

[kenntoria]

satoru has never been good at waiting.

not for dessert, not for mission briefings, not for six a.m. meetings with principal yaga. and especially not for you.

he was vibrating in place at the altar, tapping his foot, fiddling with the hem of his suit jacket, pushing his blindfold up then down again, his infinity flickering like a faulty streetlamp. nanami stood beside him, utterly unimpressed.

“if you can’t stand still, leave,” nanami muttered, adjusting his tie. he had been roped into officiating the wedding by gojo himself—“because you’re the most boring trustworthy person i know, nanamin! who better to marry us?”

gojo hadn’t stopped pacing since.

“i can’t stand still,” gojo groaned, dramatically flinging his head back. “she’s taking forever.”

“she’s walking from the other end of the garden,” nanami said without looking up from the little booklet in his hand. “twenty meters, not a marathon.”

gojo didn’t respond.

because then—he saw you.

you stepped out from behind the rows of flowers, the sun haloing you like you were something sacred. everyone turned to look, but his breath caught like he was seeing you for the first time.

your dress. your smile. the way your eyes softened when they found him.

you didn’t get more than five steps in before he moved.

“satoru—” nanami hissed, but he was already gone, a blur of white and soft laughter, suit barely holding on to him as he ran down the aisle like a man possessed.

his grin was so wide it’s a miracle his face didn’t split in two. he’s moving fast, ignoring suguru’s hissed “satoru, wait!” from the groom’s side and shoko’s half-hearted “oh, for god’s sake” from the front row.

gasps and laughter broke out among the guests. nanami pinched the bridge of his nose.

“of course.”

gojo reached you, grabbing your waist and lifting you up off the ground before you could say a single word. his lips were on yours before you could even catch your breath, one hand curled at your jaw, the other around your back, anchoring you to him like he never planned to let go again.

you laughed into the kiss, hands clutching his shoulders, and he just whispered, breathless against your lips, “couldn’t wait. couldn’t—baby, you’re so beautiful, i swear i was gonna pass out—”

“you were supposed to wait at the altar,” you teased, brushing his cheek.

“i did wait. like… ten full seconds,” he grinned, kissing you again quickly before scooping you fully into his arms.

“what are you doing—”

“shortcut. come on,” he beamed, already carrying you down the rest of the aisle, bridal style, as if it was his job now to deliver you to the altar. “if i waited for you, i’d die. nanamin, we’re ready!”

“you’ve ruined the timing of the entire ceremony,” nanami said as the two of you arrived in a fit of giggles and flushed cheeks. “you kissed her before the vows.”

“worth it,” gojo said, nuzzling into your temple as he set you down.

“you ran to me,” you whispered, eyes bright.

“i always will,” he murmured. “every damn time.”

[kenntoria]

hi tori!! just wanted to let you know the link to your masterlist in your pinned doesnt work :'(

OH NOO

whyyyy i cant permanently fix that problem

i’ll try again later i’m a bit busy rn

thank you for telling me!!

[kenntoria]

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓’𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐘?

synopsis ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ nanami kento is everything a company dreams of—disciplined, polished, untouchable. you, the effortlessly charming head of hr, decide to make him your next project. what starts as harmless teasing turns into a slow, deliberate seduction that tests his restraint at every turn. office doors close. rules blur. and nanami learns that falling apart has never felt so good.

content warnings ｡𖦹°‧ slow burn, explicit sexual content (starting ch3 onward), power dynamics (co-worker/superior), office setting, mutual obsession, public tension / semi-public encounters, light corruption kink, begging, degradation (light), praise, oral (f & m), fingering, handjob, rough sex, aftercare, emotional vulnerability, soft dom/sub undertones, nanami unraveling under pressure (and loving it)

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ um so comin in hot with some tension rather than fluff, just wanted to test my ability in writing something other than blurbs or short one shots. hopefully, you all like it bc it’s gonna get spicy soon.

it starts with his shoes.

polished leather, clean and practical. not the flashy kind, not designer or trendy. just… efficient. meant for walking quietly and leaving no trace. the soles make a clicking sound on the office floors, and the laces are always tied the same way, symmetrical, snug. no scuffs. no creases. you look for them one morning, just to check—still pristine.

like everything else about him.

measured. understated. exact.

his shoes carry him into the building every morning at exactly 7:53 a.m.—not eight, not five to, but seven fifty-three, like he’s calculated the optimal time to avoid small talk in the lobby but still appear eager. you notice because it’s your job to notice. and once you do, you start seeing the patterns.

always alone. always quiet. nods politely at reception, but doesn’t linger. never uses the revolving door, only the side one. takes the stairs more often than the elevator, even though he works on the seventh floor. by the time the rest of the building starts to stir with the usual morning chaos—coffee orders, copier complaints, someone already gossiping by the front desk—he’s already logged in, tie straight, posture perfect, sleeves unwrinkled.

you hear about him before you meet him.

senior investment analyst. ex-salaryman. transfer from malaysia. handpicked by the director himself. sharp as hell, but a bit of a stiff.

that last part floats your way from three separate departments, all said with a sort of fond amusement, like they’re describing an uptight but lovable office pet. someone to joke about, not with. someone whose quiet makes them loud in a place like this.

but when you see him for the first time—tall, broad-shouldered, framed by the doorway of a meeting room with a company-issued folder under one arm and that subtle, ironclad posture—you think stiff is far too gentle a word.

he’s a walking monolith in beige and navy.

not cold, exactly. just… unreachable. like he exists on a different frequency. someone made of silence and spreadsheets and pressed cotton. glasses perched on a face too handsome for the bland, buzzing light of this office. jaw tight, mouth neutral, no smile in sight. his expression isn’t unfriendly—just unreadable. not trying to impress. not trying to connect.

and that makes you curious.

you’re the head of hr. curiosity is in the job description.

you notice things most people ignore. the way someone grips a pen when they’re nervous. the laugh someone uses when they’re lying. you catalog quirks, soft spots, habits they think are private.

some folks linger at your desk because they want to feel understood. some overshare to fill silence. most forget you’re always watching, always listening.

nanami kento doesn’t forget.

you know it the moment he sits down in your onboarding meeting.

straight-backed. composed. legs at the same perfect angle as his résumé photo. hands folded in his lap, thumbs brushing once, then still.

his gaze flicks to the clock on the wall every six minutes. exactly. not because he’s bored—because he’s tracking something. keeping time.

he doesn’t fidget.

he doesn’t check his phone.

he barely blinks.

he listens, eyes steady on whoever’s speaking, only nodding when prompted. he doesn’t interrupt. doesn’t react when the junior recruiter stumbles through the benefits package. and when you finally open the floor for questions, his reply is smooth, low, and perfectly measured:

“none at the moment, thank you.”

you look at him more closely then.

voice like velvet behind glass. pleasant, but held back—like he’s careful not to give too much. like every word is part of a quota he won’t exceed.

and because you are who you are, you lean forward a little. fold your hands in front of you, just so. tilt your head like you’re opening a door only he can see.

“if anything comes up—even something minor—don’t hesitate to reach out,” you say, voice warm, practiced. “i’m always available.”

his eyes flick to yours, then lower. not fast, but not slow enough to be confident.

“…understood.”

that’s all. two syllables. even, precise. but you see the faintest ripple in the water—his shoulders tensing a breath too long, his throat shifting like he’s swallowing something back.

you almost smile. not because he’s flustered. not yet. but because something about him wants so badly not to be.

and that’s always where the fun begins.

—

the first time you corner him properly is by the break room coffee machine, three days in.

it’s early—quiet except for the low hum of fluorescent lighting and the distant clack of keyboards starting up for the day. your mug is warm in your hands, steam curling up and softening the chill of the office air. you hear him before you see him: the sharp click of his shoes against linoleum, a purposeful rhythm, neither rushed nor casual. like everything else about him. precise.

nanami enters the break room with the same impassive expression he’s worn since onboarding. dark slacks pressed to a knife’s edge, dress shirt crisp, tie perfectly knotted and still flush against his collarbone despite the walk in from outside. his sleeves are buttoned all the way to the wrist. you’d bet money he hasn’t loosened a single thing since arriving. not a hair out of place. not a cuff unfastened.

he reaches for a paper cup and pours the coffee in silence. black. and then, with a calm deliberateness that almost makes you laugh, he stirs in precisely two sugars. two small packets—neatly ripped, emptied fully, folded once, and dropped into the trash. he doesn’t glance at you once. not even when you shift your weight slightly against the counter beside him, mug raised to your lips, watching him through the steam.

he’s halfway to lifting the cup to his mouth when you say, casual and just loud enough to cut through the quiet,

“you know, i’ve never seen someone use that coffee machine with such discipline. most people give up after day one.”

his hand stills. just for a second.

he turns his head slightly toward you, glancing sidelong over his glasses. the look is brief, assessing—like you’ve interrupted a private ritual, and he’s deciding whether or not to tolerate the intrusion.

“…i don’t mind the taste,” he replies, tone low and even.

you hum, letting your eyes drift from his tie—straight as a ruler—to the slight twitch of muscle at his jaw. “you do realize that’s the same coffee we serve in disciplinary hearings, right?”

he pauses. just long enough that you see something flicker in his gaze. then he sets the stir stick down precisely next to the machine, his thumb brushing once over the rim of the cup before he answers:

“i’ll keep that in mind.”

your mouth curves, slow and satisfied. you tilt your head, feigning innocence as you say, “that wasn’t a threat, nanami-san.”

his eyes cut back to you for a beat. there’s the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth—barely—but it’s there.

a ghost of a smile. the first crack in the pristine exterior.

he doesn’t respond, just nods once in that quiet, restrained way of his before raising the coffee to his lips.

you don’t say anything else. just watch the steam rise as he takes a sip, throat working, gaze fixed on the far wall. he doesn’t look back at you again.

but you can tell—by the way he exhales just a fraction slower than necessary—that he’s thinking about it. thinking about you. and that’s enough. for now.

by the end of week one, you’ve made him laugh. once. barely audible, just a puff of breath through his nose and a quiet shake of his head after you told him someone in accounting called him japanese patrick bateman.

he didn’t deny the resemblance—just pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a resigned little sigh, like he’d heard worse.

“you’re very observant,” he said instead, tone neutral, but you caught the faint edge of amusement tucked just beneath it.

“part of the job,” you replied smoothly, folding your arms and leaning back against the doorway. “people like to be seen. even if they pretend not to.”

his brows twitched together, subtle but visible. not annoyance, not confusion—just that flicker of discomfort that told you you’d hit something unspoken. a line he didn’t know he’d drawn.

you smiled anyway. he didn’t.

week two, you begin to study the patterns.

he eats lunch alone. always. same table, same seat, right by the windows overlooking the street. the sun hits the crown of his hair around 12:15, and he doesn’t seem to mind. he doesn’t check his phone. doesn’t scroll. doesn’t so much as glance at his watch. he just eats, quiet and composed, sometimes reading from a folded printout of market trends or economic forecasts. other times, he just stares out at nothing, eyes distant but alert. waiting. thinking. planning.

you don’t interrupt him at first. you just pass through now and then, catching glimpses as you refill your tea or duck into the kitchenette. most people chat. laugh. slouch. he doesn’t. his back stays straight, shoulders squared, posture so perfect it’s almost theatrical. his expression never changes. not until you stop pretending you’re just passing through.

you wait until thursday. the building’s quieter that day. a few people out sick. the lunch crowd thins early.

you approach with a file in hand—his name printed neatly on the tab, a few papers inside.

“nanami-san,” you greet, stopping at his table.

he looks up immediately, polite and attentive as always. “yes?”

you nod toward the folder in your hand. “just a routine benefits check-in,” you say, like it’s a perfectly normal thing to deliver mid-lunch. which, technically, it is. if you’re the type who likes excuses.

he doesn’t argue. just closes the report he’s reading and takes the file when you offer it.

“thank you,” he says, voice low and even. no hint of suspicion. but there’s something guarded in the way he holds the folder—like it might bite him if he opens it too fast.

you take your time flipping through the pages for him, skimming over lines he’s probably already read. but you notice the way his eyes follow the movement of your hand, slow and deliberate, like he’s measuring the space between your fingers and the curve of the paper.

“anything unclear so far?” you ask, tilting your head just slightly.

he’s quiet for a second too long.

“…no,” he says finally. it’s soft, nearly flat, but there’s a pause before the word that gives him away. not uncertainty—hesitation. restraint.

you smile and slide into the chair across from him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

he doesn’t stop you. but he doesn’t relax either.

his posture shifts subtly—shoulders a little tenser, jaw a little tighter. he doesn’t pick his chopsticks back up. doesn’t resume his meal. just keeps his hands resting flat on either side of the tray, fingers curled slightly, like he’s bracing himself.

you don’t say much. just a few idle comments about the cafeteria being out of miso again—“someone must’ve hoarded it,” you joke—and a light, pointed suggestion that he fill out the optional dietary preference form so he doesn’t have to suffer through overly salted soy sauce again.

he replies in short, clipped phrases.

“i’ll look into it.”

“that’s unfortunate.”

“thank you for letting me know.”

no smile. no real eye contact.

but he clears his throat. twice.

and you watch, carefully, as his eyes flick toward the hallway behind you. not to escape, exactly—but to ground himself. you talk for maybe five minutes total. when you finally stand, he doesn’t move until you’re halfway down the corridor.

and only then does he touch his chopsticks again. like the food has only now become safe to eat.

you don’t look back. you don’t need to.

by the end of week three, your interactions have become… recurring.

not frequent. just often enough to feel intentional. just enough for the receptionist to glance between the two of you when you pass in the hallway. just enough for you to know the shape of his stride by the sound of his shoes alone. just enough for him to start looking up a split second before you speak—like he’s already bracing for you.

he never seeks you out, but he doesn’t avoid you either.

you respect that. it means you’re not wasting your time.

he walks through the corridor by the break room and you fall in step beside him, matching his pace effortlessly.

“your tie’s a different shade today,” you say without looking at him, like you’re commenting on the weather.

he pauses mid-step—almost imperceptibly—before glancing down at his chest.

“…is that so?”

“mm. not navy. midnight blue?” you tilt your head, eyes catching on the edge of his lapel. “it softens you. a little.”

his lips part, as if to respond. then close again.

he clears his throat instead. “it was a gift.”

“good taste, whoever picked it.” your smile is light, flippant. practiced. “you should let them dress you more often.”

he doesn’t answer that. you don’t really expect him to.

the next day, he’s reviewing something near the printer—eyeglasses lowered on the bridge of his nose, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. his brow is furrowed, focused.

you lean against the edge of the nearest desk, one hand casually perched at your hip.

“that pen’s very you,” you comment.

he doesn’t look up right away. just finishes his underline—slow, precise.

then, “it’s a pen.”

“it’s matte black and looks expensive.” you gesture toward it. “no nonsense. very nanami kento.”

this time he does glance at you. sharp, assessing. like he’s trying to determine if you’re mocking him or flirting.

you let the silence hang.

“it writes well,” he says finally.

you grin. “i’ll bet it does.”

—

friday afternoon. most people are clocked out mentally, slacking in the lounge or sneaking out early. nanami, of course, is walking with that same steady, perfectly timed stride—folder tucked under one arm, shoulders straight, jaw set.

you catch him just as he’s passing your office door. you don’t even have to stand—just lean a little where you sit, voice light, easy:

“you always look like you’re about to fire someone when you walk down the hallway.”

he stops. turns slightly. not enough to fully face you.

“…is that a complaint?”

“an observation,” you say, lips twitching. “though it does keep morale interesting.”

he doesn’t smile, exactly. but there’s a subtle shift—an exhale through the nose. maybe even a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“i’ll consider adjusting my expression.”

“please don’t,” you say. “it’s fun watching interns scatter.”

this time he does look at you. fully. eyes sharp behind his lenses, mouth set in that thoughtful line.

and once again, you see it—that flicker. that tiny delay before he responds.

a calculation.

maybe he’s weighing whether you’re teasing or investigating. whether you’re harmless or mischievous.

he doesn’t know that you’re both.

maybe you don’t either.

week four, you get bold.

you call him in under the guise of a departmental check-in. nothing unusual—mid-quarter pulse survey, basic review, the kind of thing that rarely gets more than five minutes of attention and a generic thumbs-up from most employees. it’s routine, forgettable. nothing he’d question.

but the moment he walks into your office, the air shifts. not enough for anyone else to notice. but you do.

you’re seated behind your desk, one bare leg crossed neatly over the other, fingers poised over the edge of a manila folder. you glance up like you hadn’t been waiting for this exact moment all morning.

“nanami-san,” you say, voice smooth. “thanks for making time.”

he nods once, steps in with that same stiff, quiet grace you’ve come to recognize—like he’s aware of the space he occupies and determined to disturb none of it.

he closes the door behind him without needing to be told. polite. always polite.

your finger taps gently against the side of your folder. “have a seat.”

“thank you,” he replies, measured as ever.

he settles into the chair across from you, straight-backed, knees aligned, hands folded neatly in his lap. just like the first time. like a template he refuses to break from and the tightness of his posture is some kind of shield.

you wonder if he knows he does that—or if it’s just muscle memory by now.

you open the folder with a deliberate calm, flipping past the actual survey printout with barely a glance.

“this won’t take long,” you say.

he nods. “understood.”

you go through the standard questions. onboarding satisfaction. clarity on expectations. feedback on the team so far. you don’t rush through them, but you don’t linger either. his answers are textbook nanami—short, precise, free of flourish. not cold, but not warm either. not inviting.

but the longer you speak, the more attuned you become to the subtleties. the way his eyes flick down to your hands when you gesture with your pen. how he clears his throat before answering questions that veer even a little into personal territory. how the muscle in his jaw ticks once when you ask if his workload has been manageable.

his voice is smooth but deliberate. carefully neutral. he wants to get through this.

and that’s exactly why you don’t let him.

you close the folder slowly, spine snapping shut with a quiet click. then you rest your elbows on the desk, lace your fingers together, and prop your chin against them. steady. unhurried. entirely unreadable.

his eyes track the motion, then flick back up to yours.

“is there anything i can do,” you ask, voice low and even, “to make your adjustment smoother?”

he pauses.

just a second. but enough to make the silence feel loaded. enough to make it mean something.

“…no,” he says finally. “you’ve been helpful.”

you smile. soft. not wide enough to be cocky, but just enough to register—something private, something a little amused.

“are you sure?”

his throat moves in a slow swallow. “i am.”

your smile lingers.

“good,” you say, tone still feather-light. “i like knowing my employees are comfortable.” you watch him closely now. “especially the ones who look like they’re always calculating risk-to-reward ratios for human contact.”

there’s the twitch.

not quite a smile, not quite a frown—just the briefest movement in his brow, like the math in his head didn’t go as expected.

“…that’s not inaccurate,” he admits after a pause.

“i figured,” you say, tilting your head, elbow sliding just slightly forward on the desk. “do you usually avoid people, nanami-san?”

he exhales quietly through his nose. not quite a sigh—more like the soft let-out of breath from someone trying not to overthink.

“i don’t avoid them,” he says. “i simply prefer not to waste time.”

“mm.” you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning. it’s not a real grin— just a tug at one corner of your mouth, subtle enough to pass as neutral.

“so is this,” you murmur, “a waste of time?”

you watch him process the question—watch the brief moment of flickering calculation in his gaze. the careful read of your tone, your face, your posture.

he doesn’t look away this time.

“…not entirely.”

it lands between you like the soft click of a lock.

and there it is—that flicker. of interest. of awareness. of something neither of you have said aloud, but both of you feel like static between words.

you don’t push, not yet.

you let the silence stretch, just long enough for his gaze to shift again. not away, but down—to your hands still laced together, to the pen you’d set aside, to the gentle curve of your smile that says i see you. i see right through you.

then, slowly, you nod. reach for your pen. your fingers brush the edge of the folder.

“well,” you say, eyes flicking back to his, “you know where to find me.”

he doesn’t respond immediately. instead, he nods once—sharper than before, like he’s trying to reassert control over a moment that’s already slipped out of his hands.

when he stands, it’s with practiced ease. he buttons his suit jacket again. takes a step toward the door.

and then he hesitates.

it’s so brief, you almost miss it. his fingers rest on the handle, but they don’t move. his shoulders are tense—just slightly—and you can feel the war inside him. the part of him that wants to say something, and the part of him that won’t allow it. that restraint, that tight leash he keeps on himself—it’s visible now. it trembles.

quietly, he opens the door and walks out without a word. but you saw it. all of it.

the flex of his hand. the pause. the way he didn’t look back, but didn’t rush either.

you lean back in your chair after the door closes. tap the pen slowly against the desk.

nanami kento has no idea what he’s in for.

you’re going to ruin him.

not all at once. not obviously. but slowly. sweetly.

one stolen glance at a time.

[kenntoria]

“you sure about this?” you ask, perched on the bathroom counter with your legs dangling, a towel spread across your lap like it’s going to save you from making a mess. your eyes sparkle with a mix of nerves and mischief.

nanami’s standing between your knees, already shirtless, towel around his waist, face freshly splashed with warm water. he nods once, the way he always does when he’s already decided.

“i trust you.”

and he does. probably more than he should.

you grin, giddy, and reach for the shaving cream, squirting a generous amount into your hands before smoothing it over his jaw with careful, clumsy fingers. he closes his eyes at the contact. breathes deep.

god, he loves how gentle you are. even when you’re fumbling, even when you smear foam on his lips and immediately gasp and try to wipe it off with your sleeve.

“sorry! sorry, baby,” you murmur, and he catches your wrist before you can scrub at him like a smudge on a window.

“it’s fine,” he says, eyes still closed, voice a low hum. “just… take your time.”

he wants to remember the weight of your touch. how close your face is. how your knees squeeze against his sides for balance. how you smell like his soap, like you’d used it in the shower without asking. it’s not like you need to ask anyway.

you take the razor next, a little hesitant. your hand rests under his chin and he tilts his head obediently.

“you’re being really brave right now,” you whisper dramatically, giggling under your breath.

“you’re holding a blade to my neck. i’d hope so.”

you drag the razor down his cheek with exaggerated care, a little crooked, a little too much pressure. he flinches once—not from pain, but because your nose nearly brushes his and your breath fans warm over his mouth. inviting.

he opens his eyes and sees you biting your lip in focus, eyes flitting down to check your work, and his stomach turns over with affection so strong it feels like gravity.

“did i get it? is that good?” you ask. he doesn’t answer right away. just looks at you.

you blink at him, wide-eyed. “what?”

he leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth. “nothing. keep going.”

you finish the job slowly. carefully. a few small nicks at his jaw and near his chin—tiny pink reminders that you’re not a pro, but you tried, and that’s what makes it precious.

and when you’re done, you clean him up with a warm towel and rub balm into his skin with both palms like you’re afraid he’ll break.

“you look so handsome,” you whisper, proud.

“even with the cuts?”

you kiss one, featherlight. “especially with the cuts.”

he walks around with them for the next few days like they’re badges of honor. and when gojo asks what the hell happened to his face, nanami just touches his jaw, expression softening for a moment before he mutters,

“none of your business.”

but really—he’d let you do it again. a hundred times over. just for the excuse to feel your hands on him like that. so close. so careful. so full of love.

[kenntoria]

just discovered u and im smitten.. apologies for the sp ur writing literally sounds like jeff buckley songs esp everybody here wants u

who knew a writting so sweet is accompanied by a holy priest listener lmafaooo 😭🫰

AWWW SOUNDS LIKE JEFF BUCKLEY SONGS?? STOP THAT IS SUCH A SWEET THING TO SAY AND SO CUTEE AHHH i like jeff buckley a lot😭😭

also ngl i don’t listen to holy priest much but he is so hot i just can’t rawr

ily thank you for dropping byyy

[kenntoria]

Hey there, I found your blog yesterday and literally just did a deepdive and read till 3 in the morning despite work and I have NO REGRETS! The way you write??!!! Hello, so much emotion, you make tiny details and mundane things so beautiful and just in general your writing is absolute peak and has me feeling all sort of things! The Nanami with his baby in office had me kicking my feet especially. Thanks so much for sharing your writing with us! ♥

hello hello!!!

this was so nice to read, i literally couldn’t stop smiling — you’re too kind to me!!! sending you all my love <33

thank you for the support!!

[kenntoria]

damn i am so down bad i even wanna write something for ijichi

[kenntoria]

i’m watching breaking bad and i can’t help but think that brian cranston’s (idk how his name is spelled) voice would suit nanami 😔

[kenntoria]

synopsis ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ nanami accidentally finds your small, anxious-but-sincere vlogs and quietly falls for you through the screen. and when you meet, he becomes a gentle, faceless presence behind the camera—helping you grow, and loving you all the while.

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ this was so fun to write

nanami doesn’t really use youtube. it’s too loud, too cluttered, too full of people trying too hard. he’s more of a quiet reader or podcast listener—he likes his content slow and thoughtful. but sometimes, during quiet lunch breaks or sleepless nights, he finds himself scrolling, searching for something simple to fill the silence.

the first time he sees your face, he skips the video. it’s nothing personal. the thumbnail just seems… ordinary. a soft smile, a blurry background of what looks like a street food stall, and a simple title: “trying something new today (๑•́‿•̀๑)”. he doesn’t think much of it.

but youtube, in all its persistence, keeps putting you in his recommendations.

every few days, your face reappears. new title. new blurry background. another small smile. there’s something oddly comforting about it, even if he hasn’t clicked yet. eventually, curiosity wins. one night, half-asleep and curled up on his couch, he taps on a thumbnail without thinking.

the video is quiet. not silent, but there’s no obnoxious background music or jump cuts. just you. talking a little nervously to the camera, explaining how you’ve never tried this kind of food before, how it makes you anxious to eat alone in public but you’re doing it anyway, for yourself. you pause a lot. laugh at yourself. your editing is minimal—sometimes you just leave long clips in where you sit there silently, debating the next bite.

and nanami… stays.

he doesn’t mean to. he thinks he’ll just let the video play in the background while he dozes off. but he finds himself watching. then clicking on another one. and another. you talk to the camera like it’s a friend. you say things like “i know no one’s really watching this, but…” and “this was scary for me, but i’m proud of myself anyway.”

there’s no performance. no show. just you, trying. trying to live a little braver. trying to make the world a little softer for yourself. and even though your videos have only a few thousand views at most, and a comment section with maybe ten or twenty kind words, nanami can tell you read every single one. you reply with gratitude and sincerity. you sign your replies with hearts and “thank you for watching!!” even when someone just says “nice vid :)”.

he doesn’t comment for a long time. he watches quietly, always late at night, a silent companion to your small adventures. his favorite video becomes one where you try to bike through a park trail you’ve never been on before. the camera shakes the entire time, the sky is gray, and you end up getting rained on halfway through. soaked and breathless, you laugh and say, “this was a disaster. but i don’t regret it.” and something about that sticks in his chest.

he comments on a video one day. it’s short, awkwardly formal:

“i admire your courage to keep stepping outside your comfort zone. thank you for sharing.”

a few hours later, you reply.

“thank you so much!!! i get really nervous about posting sometimes so this means a lot ;; i’m trying my best!! ♡”

nanami reads that reply more times than he’d like to admit.

—

he doesn’t think he’ll ever meet you. you feel like a little glowing orb in his private world. something precious that lives on his phone, just a click away, not real, not tangible.

but then, he’s at a weekend market. the kind of place you’d probably vlog, actually. he’s just there to buy fresh bread, enjoy the quiet, maybe grab a coffee. he’s walking past a stand selling handmade keychains when he hears a familiar voice.

soft. a little unsure. asking for the price of something.

he turns.

and you’re there.

you look just like your videos—maybe a little shorter, bundled in a cardigan despite the warmth, your bag too big for your frame, holding a small camera that’s not even recording. your hair’s a little messy. your eyes bright, darting around nervously. you’re alone.

and suddenly, nanami is nervous in a way he hasn’t been in years.

he debates not saying anything. he could let this pass. keep you as a digital secret. but then you glance in his direction, and smile—just polite, a brief flicker of recognition for another passerby—and nanami finds himself stepping forward before his brain catches up.

“…excuse me,” he says, and your eyes widen a little.

“yes?” you ask, voice soft.

“i’ve… watched your videos,” he says, and you freeze for a second. “they mean a lot to me.”

you blink. your mouth opens a little in surprise, then closes. and then you smile.

“really?” you say, a little breathless. “you… you actually watch them?”

“yes,” he says simply. “i think you’re brave.”

your hand flies up to your mouth, eyes darting away. “oh my god,” you mumble. “that’s—thank you. that’s so nice. i didn’t think anyone recognized me. my channel’s tiny.”

“doesn’t change the impact,” he says, and it’s honest. the way he always is.

you talk for a while after that. awkwardly at first—your nerves, his reserved nature—but slowly, something soft and lovely builds in the air between you. you laugh a lot, mostly just nervous. he listens a lot, mostly because that’s just the way he is. he tells you his name is kento. you tell him you were scared to even leave the house today, but you’re glad you did. he smiles.

before you part ways, you ask, very shyly, if he’d be okay with you filming just a little. not his face, of course—just his voice, his presence. he agrees.

that night, a new video goes up.

“a tiny adventure at the weekend market ✿ i made a new friend today…”

nanami watches it from his bed, and when his offscreen voice appears—gentle, amused, offering to carry your bag for you—his heart does something strange in his chest.

—

the first time nanami appears in a vlog, it’s his hand passing you a coffee.

you call him “a friend i made recently,” and giggle when he corrects your pronunciation of a pastry. he’s never shown — not fully. a shoulder here. the back of his head. your viewers are very curious. you just smile, almost bashful, and say, “he’s camera-shy, but he’s very sweet.”

you start mentioning him more in your vlogs. he’s still off-screen, but you’ll glance his way and smile. say something like “he helped me set this up,” or “he picked this place,” or just “he’s here with me.”

you don’t have to say his name. he stays a faceless figure in your videos. your viewers start to notice something more.

you never confirm anything. you just smile, cheeks pink, and say, “he’s really sweet. i’m lucky.”

nanami doesn’t need the spotlight. he’s happy to carry your bag, offer a steady hand when you’re nervous, and hold the camera when you want to capture something new. he’s happy to be the one encouraging you behind the scenes, whispering that you’re doing great when you doubt yourself.

you film together more and more. he goes with you to bookstores, little food stalls, quiet museums. he carries your tripod. holds your coat. gives you gentle encouragement when you freeze up in public and smile too hard when it’s over.

he falls in love with you quietly. over time. he doesn’t say it at first. he lets it bloom through little gestures — buying the tea you liked, learning how to edit videos just to help you with cuts, leaving voice notes when you’re too anxious to leave the house. he listens. he supports. he stays.

and he’s happiest when, in a quiet clip near the end of a video, you look off-camera and say, “i think i’m a little less scared of the world lately.”

he squeezes your hand off-screen. you smile at the touch.

and your viewers never hear the softest part—how, when the camera stops recording, you lean into his side and whisper, “thank you for finding me.”

nanami, who never believed in fate or chance or algorithms, just kisses your cheek and replies, “thank you for being found.”

[kenntoria]

that holy priest guy is doing some things to me….

the one with the villeicht villeicht song like dude i learned a whole new language for you and you don’t even know i exist??? deplorable

[kenntoria]

i changed my name a bit bc it made sense ahhshagshaga i dunno why i didn’t think of that when i was making this blog

kenntoru -> kenntoria(kenntori was taken😔)

[kenntoria]

the way you write Nanami is so damn good like the characterization is so on point and I love the way you write him!

AWW thank you so so much!!! i’m happy ur enjoying it here <33

[kenntoria]

it’s the way he watches you.

quietly, from where he’s half-sprawled on the couch, arms tucked behind his head, messy hair sticking up like he’s been dragging his hands through it. his blindfold is off, blue eyes shining in the dim light of the apartment. he’s been watching you for the past ten minutes.

you’re curled in a chair by the window, staring out, eyes not really seeing. your mouth is in a small, thoughtful frown and your hands are limp in your lap. you’re not crying. not talking. just… quiet.

too quiet.

gojo’s been thinking for a while now about what to do. if he should say something. if he should leave you be. it’s not like he’s good at this sort of thing. he’s the strongest, but feelings? emotions? gentle things? that’s a whole other kind of battlefield.

he gets up without saying a word. pads to the kitchen. opens and closes cabinets, a little clumsily, like he’s not used to moving around without swagger.

you don’t look.

so he makes hot chocolate.

with the fancy marshmallows you like. the ones shaped like stars. he burns his finger a little trying to fix it just right, and hisses under his breath, and mutters, “get it together, satoru,” like he’s on a mission from god.

he brings it over to you with both hands and kneels beside your chair.

you blink, surprised, when you notice him there.

“for the prettiest girl i know,” he says, trying for lightness, offering the mug like it’s a peace treaty. “warning: it may or may not be made with love and minor kitchen injuries.”

you take it. you don’t say anything at first. you hold the warm mug and look at it like you don’t know what to do with something kind.

and when you finally speak, your voice is too soft.

“…you noticed.”

“’course i noticed,” he says, and now he’s not joking. “you’ve got the world’s most expressive face. and also i love you. that helps.”

your breath catches.

and then, all at once, the tears come. hot, unexpected, falling down your cheeks faster than you can stop them.

gojo panics.

“hey—hey, no, baby, don’t cry—what’s wrong? is it too hot? did i do something? did i say something dumb again? is this about the marshmallows? i knew i should’ve used the heart ones—”

you shake your head, and now you’re really crying, tears slipping down your cheeks, nose scrunched, hands curled into the sleeves of his hoodie.

“satoru,” you croak out, half a laugh buried in a sob. “i’m crying because you love me.”

he stops. blinks at you. the world stills.

you sniffle. “you were being so stupid. and sweet. and you always know when something’s wrong and you try so hard to fix it, even if you don’t know how. and you just—i’m crying because you love me.”

his breath leaves him in a slow exhale, and something soft and stupid blooms behind his ribs.

“…of course i love you,” he says, voice gone quiet in the aftermath. “you’re my favorite person. of course i do.”you nod, like you already knew, like it still made you cry anyway.

he cups your cheeks gently, wipes at your tears with his thumbs, kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your nose. your eyelids. your chin. every bit of you he can reach, like he’s trying to kiss all the sad away.

“you don’t have to cry,” he whispers, grinning a little even as his eyes go glassy. “unless you want to. but if you do, i’m gonna keep kissing you every time. it’s the law.”

you laugh again—soft and wet and warm—and pull him down into your arms.

he buries his face in your neck, and you breathe in the smell of him, cotton and sugar and something stupidly comforting.

the tv keeps playing in the background. neither of you look at it.it’s a quiet kind of comfort. full of warmth and kisses and love you don’t have to earn.

he stays close, holding you like he never wants to let go.

and outside the window, the city moves on. but in this little corner of it, there is only warmth. you, and him, and the cocoa. and all the love in the world.