Kento X Reader - Blog Posts

𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮

➪ 𝐬𝐨 𝐢 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐭. 𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢 𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨

Clingy. Overbearing. Annoying.

The words had been spoken in a fit of anger, harsh and loud, but overall meaningless and facetious.

Unlike them, however, the apology that ensued was anything but. It was sincere, so why, why, couldn’t you shake your newfound insecurities?

Despite the encouragement you received, you couldn’t help but be hesitant to go back to normal. The last thing you’d wanted to do was start another argument about boundaries or a lack thereof, and your concerns translated into your actions.

He notices instantly. Nanami has always been attentive to your emotions, but he’s even more so after such a hurtful fight.

Understandably, he’s incredibly guilty at how his words affected you, but he doesn’t blame you. Apologies are only the first step of many, after all.

“Darling? I’m home!” You peered up from your book, a small smile on your face. “Hey, love! I made dinner, it’s in the fridge.”

His smile softened. “Eat with me?” You fiddled awkwardly with your fingers. “O-oh, I already ate, so I’m going to finish this chapter real quick.”

His face fell, surprise and hurt clouding his eyes as he nodded slowly. “Alright then… I’ll be quick then.” You settled on a simple smile before looking back down at your book. Had you not been so quick to look back to your book, however, you would’ve missed the way his eyes narrowed in contemplation.

Not much changed after that. You were withdrawn and non-responsive for the night, and Nanami only became more concerned as the hours trudged by. It was only when you headed to the bedroom by yourself that his emotions made an appearance.

To his surprise and disappointment, you had shut off the light and already looked to be asleep. The two of you had always made it a point to turn in together.

“Yn, darling… what’s going on…?” You didn’t know how to respond, so you settled for a noncommittal grunt, but it was instantly clear that your lover wasn’t going to let it go. “You’ve been quite distant lately. Can we talk about it?” 

You hesitated before turning over to face him, but you still couldn’t lift your gaze to his. He let out a short sigh before resting a gentle hand on your cheek. “You can tell me anything you’re feeling, this is a safe space. Your comfort will always be my top priority,” Nanami promised. 

You blew out a breath and sat up so that you could give him your full attention. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shut you out,” You began, squeezing the blonde’s hand. “Don’t apologize,” Nanami interjected kindly. You flashed him a small smile before continuing. 

“It’s just… I know you apologized and we already reconciled from our… fight, but I was worried that I might upset you again if I was clingy,” You admitted weakly. His face seemed to crumble at your words, but before you could take them back, his palm was cupping your cheek in a gentle grip. 

“I said many things that I regret, my love, but apologizing was certainly not one of them. I spoke out of anger, but I didn’t mean any of it, that I can promise. Your affection and love are the things that I look forward to most, especially after work,” He promised, leaning in to look you directly in the eyes. 

Tears welled in your eyes, and you leaned into his hand, his words beginning to soothe the ache in your chest. Your relief was nearly palpable and Kento was quick to kiss the tears that fell, putting action behind his words, as he always did. 

“Can we… stay up a little later?” You sniffled, resting your head in the crook of his neck. You felt the vibrations in his chest as he chuckled, the feeling comforting you. “Would you like me to hold you?” He offered, seeing right through your flimsy request. 

“I guess I can let you since you claim to enjoy it so much,” You replied playfully. Kento’s chuckle turned into a laugh as he pulled you down to lay beside him. “It would be an honor, love,” He played along. 

You made yourself comfortable on his chest and interlaced your hands, a soft sigh leaving you. “Love you, Kento,” You murmured, finally feeling at peace. A kiss was pressed to the top of your head and the “I love you” he whispered was just loud enough to reach you as you felt yourself begin to drift off to sleep.

Road Trip w/ Kento 18+ NSFW

The hum of the tires on the highway had become monotonous—and you were bored out of your mind.

“Are we there yet?” you asked, allowing your head to lay against the window.

Kento raised an eyebrow, eyeing the stretch of green rolling past the windows. “Not entirely, no.”

“I thought this was supposed to be a getaway,” you muttered. “You know, fun. Spontaneous.”

From the driver’s seat, Kento gave you a sidelong glance over his glasses.

“It is a getaway,” he said with a slight chuckle. “We’ve been on the road for three hours, haven’t run into a single curse, and the traffic’s been ideal. I fail to see what part of this isn’t enjoyable.”

You huffed, folding your arms across your chest. “Can we at least put on some music? I’m tired of listening to some guy rambling about greek philosophers.”

He sighed, “As you wish but I did allow the auto drive for your comfort. Isn’t that spontaneous enough?”

Your grin was slow. Dangerous. “So you’re not technically driving right now?”

“No. I’m monitoring—why are you smiling like that?”

Your hand slowly creeped across the console until your hand found the inside of his thigh.

“Y/n.” Kento said firmly, his expression unchanging. Kento rarely unraveled easily.

You ignored his voice, fingers sliding upward, teasing the seam of his trousers.

“I’d advise against your suggestive movements.” Kento’s jaw tightened, his eyes still glued to the road.

“Oh come on,” you purred. “I’m just making this trip a bit more interesting.”

“You mean you’re doing something illegal while in a moving vehicle?” Kento asked coolly, though his hand twitched on the wheel. “Because I can assure you, that’s not—”

“Illegal? No.” Your hand was now palming the growing bulge. “Inappropriate? Definitely.”

“Not in public,” he murmured, already losing some of the steel in his tone.

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “But it’s not really public, is it? No one can see in. No cameras. And you’re not even driving.”

His jaw clenched. His pants tightened further beneath your hand. You unbuckled your seatbelt with a click and shifted yourself to get better access.

“You’re insatiable,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

You grinned as your hand toyed with his zipper. As you tugged it down, Kento didn’t resist or flinch as you pulled him free from his boxers. He was hard and already twitching in your hand. The contrast between his restraint and your shamelessness made heat curl in your belly.

You leaned down, pressing a kiss to the head of his cock, slow and teasing. He inhaled through his nose—sharply—but said nothing.

“Eyes on the road, Nanami,” you teased, voice breathy.

He was already squirming in his seat, thighs tense, and his hands gripping onto the steering wheel for dear life.

Your mouth closed over him, slow and wet, taking him in inch by inch while the car hummed quietly around you. The thrill of the open road, the sun dipping low over the horizon, and the absolute obscenity of your position made you moan softly around him.

He hissed at the vibration. You took your time, teasing and pushing him to the edge.

“God,” he murmured. “You’re going to kill me.”

One of his hands found your hair, threading through gently at first but his grip tightened every time you took him all the way. Kento bit back his moans and simply grunted, still conscious of the fact that you were both in a moving vehicle.

You pulled back just enough to speak, lips slick, eyes bright with mischief. “I want you to come in me.”

Kento groaned lowly as his thighs trembled ever so slightly. You sat back up and took off your panties.

“Y/n, please. Not here,” Kento’s voice wavered, watching your every move.

You simply bit your lip, “Recline your seat for me.”

Kento hesitantly complied, completely entranced by the moment. You swung your leg over him and positioned your already wet center above his drooling tip.

Kento swallowed, almost shaking from anticipation and a bit of fear. You sank down onto him slowly, gasping at the stretch. Kento’s hands settled on your hips—firm, but not demanding. Controlled. Like he was holding himself back.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, his brows drawn together as he watched you ride him. Not a single word left his lips.

“You’re too quiet,” you whispered, leaning forward to kiss his neck. “Don’t tell me you’re unaffected.”

“I’m not unaffected,” he replied, voice low and steady. “I’m trying not to lose control in a moving vehicle.”

You smiled against his skin, amused by the way he said it so calmly—while his cock throbbed deep inside you, and his fingers tightened minutely every time you ground down just right.

“Why fight it?” you murmured, starting to move in slow, deliberate rolls. “Just give in.”

He shook his head once, eyes flicking to the road as if that would save him. “You have no patience.”

“And you have too much,” you teased, circling your hips again. “Let me wear you down.”

Kento didn’t respond—but his jaw clenched, and his grip on your waist grew firmer. He was still so maddeningly composed, even as you clenched around him, already slick and aching. You loved the way he held it all in and you loved breaking him down, piece by piece.

You reached between your bodies and stroked your clit, moaning softly as you bounced just a little harder, the wet sounds between you unmistakable now in the quiet car.

“You feel so good,” you breathed. “I wanna make you come so badly.”

Kento drew in a deep, shaky breath. “You need to stop talking like that.”

“Why?” you asked sweetly, cupping his face so he’d look at you. “Is it turning you on?”

Kento’s head tipped back against the seat with a dull thud, jaw tight, hands gripping your thighs like they were the only things tethering him to reality.

You leaned forward, your chest brushing his as you rode him harder now, chasing that perfect rhythm. His hands slid up your back slowly, then down again, finally resting just above your ass. Still not pulling you down, not guiding you. Just there.

“You’re killing me,” he murmured, voice tight.

You kissed him then—soft, slow, and deep—and it was that kiss that finally cracked him. His hands grabbed your hips, grounding you as he began to thrust up into you, sharp and deliberate.

“Keep going,” he said quietly. “Don’t stop.”

You moaned into his mouth, your hands braced on his chest, letting him take the reins now, letting him fuck up into you with control and focus—but his breathing was starting to hitch, his rhythm faltering as you clenched and pulsed around him.

“Give it to me” you whispered. “Please.”

Kento groaned—barely—but you felt it more than heard it, his whole body tensing as he came deep inside you. His arms locked around your waist, holding you close as he rode it out in silence, only the sound of his heavy breathing and the car engine filling the space.

You collapsed against him, breathless and flushed, heart pounding.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “You’re insane.”

You smirked. “And you’re impossible to break. But I’ll keep trying.”

A Man Who Does Not Smile :

Nanami Kento does not go out of his way to frighten children. It just happens.

There is something about the way he exists—tall, severe, measured in movement and speech—that makes small creatures wary of him. Dogs hesitate before wagging their tails. Babies squirm when they sense his presence. And children, most unforgiving of all, take one look at him and decide he is someone to fear.

It is not something he does on purpose. It is not even something he particularly minds. But it is something he has noticed.

---

The first time it happens, he is twelve years old.

He is at a family gathering, the kind that drags on forever and smells like heavy food and too much perfume. His mother has given him a task—keep an eye on his cousin’s toddler while the adults talk.

He does not like children. He does not dislike them, either. They simply exist, in the way that birds and passing clouds do—present, but not worth much thought.

The child is small, unsteady on his feet, and when he sees Nanami, he immediately bursts into tears.

Nanami does not know what to do. He has not done anything. He has not spoken, has not moved. He has simply existed in the same space as this child, and yet, somehow, this is enough to warrant terror.

His mother scolds him later. "You should try being friendlier. Smile more."

Nanami tries. It does not help.

---

Years pass. He grows taller, sharper, more deliberate in his actions. He learns to choose his words carefully, to measure his tone, to move with the kind of efficiency that makes the world a little more tolerable.

But the pattern remains.

Children do not like him.

He is sixteen when he volunteers at a local library, mostly because it is quiet and does not demand much of him. One afternoon, a group of children comes in for story time. The librarian, a woman with a kind face and tired eyes, asks him to help.

Nanami sits down, book in hand. He does not make any sudden movements. He does not raise his voice. He simply reads.

Halfway through, a child starts crying.

The librarian pats Nanami’s arm. “Maybe try sounding a little less... serious?”

He does not understand what she means. He is reading the words as they are written. He is being careful, thoughtful. Isn’t that what people are supposed to want?

But when he looks at the children—small, fidgeting, casting wary glances at him—he knows.

They do not like his voice.

They do not like his face.

They do not like him.

---

He does not try again for many years.

It does not come up often. His life is not the kind that requires interaction with children. His job is not safe, not kind, not something that should be seen by those who still have softness left in them.

But then there is a mission—a simple one, supposedly—and he finds himself standing in a half-destroyed street, staring down at a child no older than six.

She has lost her parents.

She is shaking.

And when she looks up at him, all wide eyes and trembling hands, she does not cry.

Nanami does not know what to do with this.

He kneels, slow and careful. “You are not hurt?”

She shakes her head.

She is too quiet. Too still. He recognizes this—shock, fear held too tightly, the kind that makes people collapse hours later when their bodies finally catch up to their minds.

So he does something he has not done in years.

He smiles.

It is small, just the barest movement of his lips, meant to reassure, to make him seem less imposing. It is an effort. It is, he thinks, something that might be kind.

The child’s face crumples.

She bursts into tears.

---

Later, Gojo laughs so hard he nearly falls out of his chair.

“You made her cry by smiling?” he wheezes, wiping at his eyes. “Man, I knew you were scary, but damn.”

Nanami sighs. He regrets telling him.

“Maybe it was a bad smile,” Gojo continues. “Like, creepy. Serial killer vibes.”

Nanami does not dignify this with a response.

But later, when he stands in front of a mirror, he tries again.

He does not smile often. He never saw the point. But now, looking at his own reflection, he studies the way his face shifts, the way his expression pulls at the edges.

Does it look unnatural?

Does it look forced?

He does not know.

He does not try again.

---

Years later, when he is older, when the weight of his own choices sits heavier in his bones, he finds himself in the presence of another child.

This time, he does not smile.

This time, he simply crouches, keeps his voice steady, his movements slow, and waits.

The child does not cry.

Nanami exhales.

(It is enough.)

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

You know, I think I might be Nanami. Or at least, I deeply relate to his struggle with children. I don’t know if it’s a lack of patience or just the sheer confusion of what am I supposed to do with this tiny, unpredictable human? But yeah, I struggle.

Case in point: My maternal aunt once asked me to watch over my toddler cousin, Riya, during a family gathering while she cooked. Simple, right? Should’ve been easy. Except, the moment my presence registered, she started crying. And I mean, really crying. And what did I do? Nothing. I just stood there, because what do you even do in that situation? Pat her head? Start singing? Apologize for existing?

Anyway, that incident stayed with me, and when I wrote this, I couldn’t help but channel some of that energy into Nanami. The man just exists and children find him terrifying. I get it.

---

So yeah, let me know—do kids like you? Or are you, like me (and Nanami), just out here unintentionally scaring them with your mere presence? Drop a comment, share your thoughts, and let’s collectively figure out how to interact with tiny humans.

✨ Bye and take care, Hope you all have a good day ✨

The First Time He Saw an Office Job, He Thought It Was Freedom :

Nanami Kento thought he understood what freedom was.

It wasn’t some grand concept, not to him. It wasn’t rebellion or escape or even peace. It was something quieter, simpler. It was the absence of exhaustion, the absence of endless blood and death. It was the choice to walk away from a world that took and took and took until there was nothing left.

So when he saw his first office job, he thought—maybe this is it.

Maybe this is what it looks like.

No more curses. No more blood. No more endless nights wondering if tomorrow would be his last. Just a desk, a paycheck, and a life that belonged only to him.

It seemed Clean. Orderly. Safe.

He was wrong, of course.

But at the time, it was the only thing that made sense.

-----

He never had the illusion that he was a hero.

Gojo could talk about justice, about duty, about responsibility, but Nanami? Nanami knew better. He knew that none of it mattered, that the work they did wasn’t noble or righteous. It was just survival. Just a job that needed to be done.

And he hated it. He hated the way it made him feel, the way it carved pieces out of him. He hated the way his hands never felt clean, no matter how many times he washed them.

But the most of all, he hated was how it was all expected.

How no one ever really questioned it.

How this was just the way things were.

So when he looked at that first office building, at the neatly pressed suits and the fluorescent lights and the steady, predictable rhythm of it all—he thought, This is freedom.

Because wasn’t that what freedom was? The ability to walk away? The ability to choose something else?

He thought so.

For a while, he really did.

-----

The thing they don’t tell you about freedom is that it’s not the same as peace.

The office was quiet, yes. Predictable, yes. But it was also empty.

There was no blood, no curses, no constant fight for survival. But there was also no meaning. No purpose. Just an endless series of reports and meetings and numbers that meant nothing.

And at first, he told himself that was fine. That this was better. That this was what he chose.

But some nights, he’d wake up gasping, hands clenched, body tense, as if expecting a fight that never came.

Some nights, he’d find himself staring at his reflection in the office bathroom mirror, wondering why he felt like a ghost in his own life.

Some nights, he’d wonder if he had made a mistake.

-----

The day he walked away from the office was quiet.

No dramatic goodbyes. No second thoughts. Just the simple realization that this wasn’t freedom either. That maybe freedom didn’t exist at all.

But if he had to choose—between an empty life and a painful one—he’d at least choose something that meant something.

And so, he went back.

Back to the blood, the exhaustion, the endless cycle of fighting for a world that would never change.

Because maybe it didn’t matter what he wanted.

Maybe it never did.

-----

Nanami Kento never believed in freedom. Not really.

But when he died, he thought—at least I chose this.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

My sweet, sad bbg Kento… I love him so much it actually makes me angry. Like, imagine being Nanami Kento. You do everything right. You work hard. You try to be practical. You just want a simple, decent life. And what does the world give you in return? Absolutely nothing. No peace, no freedom, not even the illusion of rest. He carried all that weight, all that exhaustion, and for what? For a world that chewed him up and spat him out like he was nothing.

To the people who hate Nanami… meet me in the parking lot. We gotta fight. Right now.

Honestly, I’ll probably write an AU one-shot where he actually gets to retire in Malaysia, eating all the good food his heart desires, because he deserves that. I don’t care what canon says. My man should have been sipping on some tropical drink, watching the sunset, alive.

---

Anyway, hope you liked the one-shot! Feel free to comment and share your thoughts—I’d love for some Nanami worshipers to come together and mourn this man properly.

✨ Bye and take care, Hope you all have a good day ✨

—Nothing Special—

Nanami doesn’t believe in doing things halfway. Not work, not fights, and certainly not meals.

----

It’s something you notice early on, the way he approaches cooking with the same quiet precision he applies to everything else. No shortcuts, no half-hearted attempts. Just careful, deliberate movements—measuring, chopping, stirring, tasting. He doesn’t rush anything, and there’s something almost meditative about the way he works. Like cooking is one of the few things in this world that make sense.

And yet, every time he sets down a plate in front of you, he shrugs it off with a casual, “It’s nothing special.”

Which is, frankly, insane.

Because Nanami’s cooking isn’t just good—it’s absurdly, unfairly good. The kind of good that makes you reconsider every meal you’ve ever had before. It’s balanced and flavorful and just indulgent enough to make you wonder if he missed his true calling.

He didn’t, of course. Because as much as you hate to admit it, he is a good sorcerer.-Even if you’d much rather see him somewhere else, somewhere safer. Somewhere with a kitchen instead of a battlefield.

-----

“You know, most people don’t just whip up a three-course meal on a random weeknight,” you tell him once, staring down at the plate he’s just set in front of you. “This is not ‘nothing special.’”

Nanami exhales through his nose, unamused. “It’s just a simple meal.”

“Nanami, there’s saffron in this.”

He barely reacts. “I had some left over.”

“Of course you did."

It’s a pattern, this quiet form of care he offers. He doesn’t say much about it, doesn’t expect praise or gratitude. But you see it in the way he portions out the food, always making sure your plate is full before serving himself. In the way he adjusts the spice level just enough to match your tastes. In the way he always, always makes sure there’s something comforting on the table after a particularly rough day.

You don’t always call him out on it. Sometimes, you just let it happen—this wordless, steady kind of love that he insists isn’t anything grand.

-----

But one night, after a long, exhausting day, you sit down at the table, take one bite of his cooking, and blurt out, “I think you love me more than I love you.”

Nanami pauses, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. Raises a brow.

You gesture at the food. “This is ridiculous. This is devotion. And I—what? I just show up? I sit here and receive all this?” You shake your head, overwhelmed. “It’s embarrassing, honestly. I need to step up my game.”

For a second, he just looks at you, unreadable as ever. Then, very quietly, he says, “You do more than you realize.”

And maybe it’s the exhaustion talking, or maybe it’s just the way he says it—calm, certain, like an undeniable fact—but you find yourself falling silent. Because when Nanami says something like that, you believe him.

The rest of the meal is quiet. Easy. And when you finish, setting your chopsticks down with a sigh, Nanami gives you a look and says, “So? How was it?”

You meet his eyes, dead serious. “Nothing special.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, just barely. But he doesn’t argue.

He just gets up, takes your plate, and starts cleaning up.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

You know, I’ve been thinking—maybe cooking is a love language. My younger Bhai (cousin brother), for example, is an absolute menace most of the time (as younger siblings tend to be lol)

But when he’s in the kitchen, he always makes something for me too. Not in an overly sweet, “look how much I care” kind of way—more like a casual, “I was already making food, so here, take this” way. No big declarations, no dramatic gestures, just... an unspoken understanding.

Which, honestly, is kind of unfair. Because while I can barely cook to save my life, this little brat could probably become a chef if he wanted to. 😭✋

Meanwhile, I struggle to flip a half fry egg without cracking its yolk. Life is cruel like that. 🗿

But anyway—maybe food is one of those quiet ways people show love. No grand speeches, no poetic confessions—just a plate of something warm, made with care, set in front of you without a word. Feels very Nanami-coded, doesn’t it? lol

---

What about you guys? Do you express love through cooking? Or does someone do that for you? Let me know—I’d love to hear your stories! 🎀