#kento angst

[ze-lan]

the guest arose from their seats, looking back at the graceful bride in white; her face covered with a sheer veil. attached to her father’s right arm, they walked synchronously to the alter, where nanami stood there waiting for her.

nanami, in all his glory, looked simply dashing in his suit. his hair was styled in a way that suited his facial features and his suit was expensively tailored just for him. he stood tall, with his hands crossed over each other in front of him. his facial expression was almost unreadable, if it wasn’t for his temporary smile at this woman.

everything was perfect. except for the fact that it wasn’t. at least to him it wasn’t.

nanami’s mind was elsewhere. he was thinking about you. not the woman who was walking down the aisle. not the woman who he was going to give his undying vows to in just a few minutes. not the woman he felt obligated to marry. no, this wasn’t where he was supposed to be.

he tried his best to smile, to look as if nothing was wrong. but it was because the woman standing across from him at the alter wasn’t you. the woman he was about to marry wasn’t you.

he could tell that she could see his fake facade. nanami wasn’t himself, and what she’s seeing was the shell of the man he never was with you. the guilt ate him up and this was his hell, but he couldn’t deny these emotions. he couldn’t even focus, not even when the officiant looked towards him and told him to repeat after him.

“please repeat after me. i, nanami kento, take you, ishikura emi, to be my lawfully wedded wife.” the officiant said.

this was it nanami thought. he straightened up and cleared his throat.

“i, nanami kento, take you, f/n l/n, to be my lawfully wedded wife.” loud gasps heard from every person in the venue. nanami seemingly snaps back into reality, the weight of his words crushing him. his heart drops. he had said your name. whispers flood the room, and people start shifting in their seats, cringing from his very clear mistake.

there was nothing he could do to fix it. was this his subconscious telling him you were the one? how could he have said your name at his own wedding? you consumed his every waking thought and this didn’t help his case at all. he looked into her eyes, breath hitching at her expression. she gave him a knowing smile, almost as if she expected this moment of defeat.

“go.” she whispered. her voice was barely heard, and nanami swears he hears a slight voice crack. but he didn’t bother checking because he was already loosening his tie and running out the door, in search of you.

author note: i wrote this cause i couldn’t fall asleep :3 also, first tike writing literally anything ever on here so i used a fake name for the woman!!

[aquasoftware]

Icymi

✕ LAME, OKAY…?

FT | Satoru G, Suguru G, Kento N, Choso K, Toji F, Sukuna, R.

Desc | One betrayal after another, the cycle never seems to end. Different faces, same lies ➜ how many times can you be fooled before you finally walk away from the jjk men for good?

Cw | angst, toxic asf, manipulation, cheating, lovebombing, any misspelling is intentional, reader stands up in some and in some she doesn’t, Toji calls the reader ma, etc + established rls. | ML | Other new smaus? ➜ 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, & 6.

Divider/Boarder creds | hyuneskkami, animatedglittergraphics-n-more, & aquazero.

REBLOGS, COMMENTS, & LIKES, ARE HEAVILY APPRECIATED!!! thank u 😚

Pls do not spam like!! Spam reblogs are okay though 🥸

[fumiliar]

warning : angst

"get out."

the blonde man stared at you in disbelief, "what?"

"get out of that damn office before i have to drag you with my own two hands," you said once more to your husband, kento, who has been stuck in his home office all day. you leaned at the door, waiting for him to get up. instead, a laugh echoed through the room.

"i'd like to see you try drag me," a smile appeared on kento's tired face.

"don't test me ken," you marched your way to his side, closing his laptop in the process.

"that had a lot of unsaved work love," guilt crept up your whole body as soon as that sentence left kento's mouth. but all that was present on kento's face was a smile, a smile that only appeared when he was teasing you. and you knew it was a lie.

"how are you going to pay me back for all that work?" kento held your hand, pulling you in between his legs as he stared at you with a glint in his eyes. "how about a kiss?"

"hmmm...," you pretended to think, while kento wrapped you loosely in his arms. "i don't think i'll give you one," you wanted to turn around and leave, but before you could take a step, kento had pulled you back, making you land on his lap.

"i think you owe me one."

"just one?"

"just one."

and as you stared at the empty desk in front of you. the remnants of what your life was, his office. the office he had left that day in a hurry over an emergency in shibuya. the office where you had stayed in as you found out the news of your husband's death. the office that belonged to your now dead husband. you regretted giving him only one kiss. you wished you could give him one more, just one.

[logoleptic-since-06]

Every Corner of This House is Haunted

Pairing: Kento Nanami x Fem!Reader Content: Fem!Reader, Marriage in Crisis, Angst, Profanity, Reader and Nanami are in their 30s, Not Proofread

Chapter III -> Masterlist if this Series

Listen to this for the full experience.

You sit in Shoko’s living room with puffy eyes and a glass of water still shaking in your hands. You have just stopped sobbing into her shoulder. An involuntary shudder runs down your spine every time your phone buzzes with a notification from your husband.

You look at the wedding ring on your finger, now just a jewellery that holds no real significance to it. Your head turns towards the sound of a phone ringing. Not yours, but Shoko’s this time. 

She looks at you. “It’s him.”

“Tell him you don’t know where I am.”

She nods and picks up the call. “Hello?” she says as she puts the phone on speaker.

“Hi, is Y/N there with you?” you hear Kento’s voice from the other side.

“No, she isn’t here, why, what happened?”

There’s a pause before he says, “Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying, I don’t know where she is,” your friend insists.

“Spare me that,” he says as he cuts the call.

You and Shoko give each other a knowing look. “You think he’s gonna be here?”

Before she can get her answer out, the doorbell rings. You hesitantly move towards the door and peek through the peephole. How did he even get here so fast?

Going against your perseverance, you open the door to reveal a panting Kento– dishevelled hair, wrinkled shirt, half-done tie, and a desperate, unstable look in his eyes. You can barely recognise your husband; no one has ever seen this side of Kento as opposed to his usual prim and calm demeanour. You almost feel pity.

“Y/N,” he exasperates.

“No, Kento, stop.”

“Please,” he comes near you and you step backward, “I’m so sorry, love.”

“You could’ve at least told me.”

“I know I messed up, please.”

“You look pathetic.”

“I am pathetic, my love. Shout at me all you want, let’s go home.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” 

He stumbles forward and tries to touch your face but you back away. “Don’t say that.” His voice quivers as the words leave his mouth, his eyes all red and blotchy.

You hold your ground. “Leave me alone. Do this one thing right.”

“I won’t let you go.”

“Please, Kento. Leave.”

He takes a deep breath, trying to collect himself. “Okay, okay. I’ll give you your space for now. Can we talk this out later?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Yes, there is.”

“Kento, I want to be alone. Please leave.”

He steps back slowly. “I’ll come back tomorrow. And if you don’t talk to me then, I’ll come back every day until you do,” he says as he steps out of the apartment. With the heaviest you heart has ever been, you slam the door on his face.

Turning your back against the door, you fall to your knees and begin to sob.

A/N: Not my best work tbh, I've had the worst migraine 😭

tags: @itsafairytalekay @qualitygiantshoepsychic @uzuimirika @coffeeandcrimeshows @lov3vivian @lady-of-blossoms @lavenderdaydream97

[snail-day]

Nanami is that one coworker who’s criminally easy to irritate and even easier to fall for. One offhand comment, one pointed look during a meeting, and you earn that familiar, soft sigh. Tired. Resigned. But somehow… fond. Like he’s used to you. Like he expects you. Like he’s carved out a space for you in his day without meaning to.

You start to chase that sigh. Make a game of it. Sliding your chair just a little too close during briefings. Whispering dry commentary under your breath that earns the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. You pass him scribbled tic-tac-toe grids like kids in school, and he always pretends to ignore them until he doesn’t. Until he gives in with a reluctant little huff and draws a perfect red X like he’s humoring you despite his better judgment.

You learn his rhythms without trying. Black coffee, no sugar. Pushes his sleeves up twice, always twice, before settling into work. Keeps his reading glasses in his top drawer, even though he pretends not to need them. You memorize the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching, calm, curious, something unnameable softening his gaze for just a second too long.

It feels harmless. A crush. A flutter. A little indulgence to carry you through the week.

Until, one morning, just like any other, your pen rolls off the desk. You both reach for it. Fingers brush. You see it.

A simple silver band. Worn, familiar. Not new. Not decorative. Not the kind of thing someone forgets to mention. It had always been there, hadn’t it? You just hadn’t seen it. Or maybe you hadn’t wanted to.

Your hand draws back first.

Something settles in your chest, slow and cold. Not a cinematic heartbreak. No violin swell or sharp intake of breath. Just a steady ache. A quiet knowing. You stop sliding your chair so close. You stop whispering under your breath. The tic-tac-toe games disappear.

But you still smile when he passes by. Still offer answers when he asks questions he knows you know. You play the part. Say all the right things. Pretend you’re not breaking a little every day beneath it all.

And Nanami notices. Of course he does. He watches you now like he’s trying to read between lines you’re no longer writing. Lingers at your desk a little longer than necessary. Opens his mouth like he might say something, then closes it again. Leaves without a word.

He never asks what changed. Never mentions the silence. Never explains the ring. You don’t ask either.

Because this is what you do now. You show up. You work. You smile like nothing cracked, like nothing ever hoped too hard or looked too closely.

Because sometimes, surviving heartbreak doesn’t look like crying in the rain. Sometimes, it’s just learning how to carry it like it weighs nothing at all.

[wibben]

Nanami Kento Masterlist

Hanamichi ( angst ): A life measured in flowers. Four times (plus one) where Nanami Kento received flowers. In collaboration with and co-written by @tsukimefuku

Perfectly Imperfect ( fluff ): You and Kento try to carve pumpkins for Halloween. It's not as easy as it looks.

Photogenic ( fluff ): Kento doesn't like his picture taken. At least he doesn't know about that one picture you have stashed away.

Pocky Day ( fluff ): How can you possibly hint to your coworker Nanami that you like him? With pocky!

Premium Air ( fluff ): You try a viral prank on Kento... but he knows you just a little too well.

[party-poison-218]

hey can i req angst?

like you two are on a long-distance relationship and jjk men are kinda ghosting us, whenever we ask they go like we're busy, are u dumb to understand that?

so we decide to give them space or something like that.

angsty please <3

Heyy!! You didn't tell me who you wanted, and I'm kinda busy, but I wanted to still do this so if it's not the characters you wanted or you want it written differently pls tell me but I tried My best!! I can write more characters or change up the storyline js say the word :33

You're my first request and I'm so excited about this ^_^ I appreciate you heavily!! 🩷🫶🏻 and I've never done angst before I'm sorryy

Online JJK bfs not talking much and snap 💔 :/

Satoru, Suguru, Kento.

Hurt to comfort + left to decide what happened.

Cw: insults, cursing

THIS WAS SO RUSHED IM GENUINELY SO SORRY. I HOPE U LIKE ITTT

[thefemmefatalexo]

Nanami SMAU - A Verdict of Us

Chapter 14 - Closing Arguments

Summary: Kento Nanami was perfect—disciplined, untouchable, and entirely focused on his future. Emotions didn’t fit into his plans. You were everything he avoided—bold, warm, and impossible to ignore. You told yourself he didn’t matter, but you couldn’t stop watching him.

He never looked your way. Not until the day his perfectly controlled world unraveled, and you were at the center of it.

an: I’m sorry for being so inactive my loves 😔 I’ve been going through a rough patch but I’ll be okay! Let me know what you think!! SMOOCHES 💋💋💋

{chapter 13} ; {next}

taglist: @giasssslife @getovibesonly @inthedarkshadows000 @burpzz @sleepykittyenergy @fuzzycollectiondeersblog @hana-patata @sosole @mysteriaqueen

࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

[nanamineedstherapy]

Heat & Dust: Where the Wind Calls Her Name

Modern AU: Nanami Kento x F!Wife Reader

Summary: Nanami & his wife were happy. That was before Rajasthan. Because when the wind howls through the ruins, the whispers call's a name. (A slow-burn tragedy about a love lost & a man who never stopped looking.) Trigger Warnings: Smut (so minors & ageless blogs please touch grass), Heavy Angst, Unreliable Narrator, Shakespearian Tragedy, Haunting Love Stories, Loverboy Kento Nanami, Emotional Torture, Rajasthan & Indian Folklore Lore, Death (Past & New), Ghost Prince GS, Hopeless Romanticism, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Reader is of Indian decent but you can hallucinate whatever you want, body type, skin complexation, etc. descriptions have not been used. The town is real & abandoned overnight for hunting reasons, but the palace described is fictional. A/N: Welcome to My Ted Talk on Why Nanami Kento Can’t Have Peace. So yesterday, I watched an Indian horror movie, & then I remembered a convo I had with my Indian atheist friend (hardcore non-believer), who casually dropped the fact that in India, “Oh yeah, we don’t dress up too much around ruins.” And I was like… excuse me???. Apparently, this isn’t just a "women beware" thing—even guys warn each other about this, because it’s not just women—cute men have also disappeared or gone insane. So instead of reacting like a normal person, my brain said: “What if Nanami Kento went full Majnu?” So naturally, this is now Nanami’s problem. Also, why do I keep making this man suffer? I love him, I really do, but if he’s not in maximum emotional distress, am I really doing my job? Anyway, Nanami is suffering & the narrator is a liar. Believe nothing. Enjoy the pain, bestie. 🖤

Rajasthan was a furnace in late autumn. The sun bled into the horizon, streaking the sky with burnt oranges and bruised purples as a foreigner husband and his local wife trailed behind their tour group.

"Are we really doing this?" She murmured, her fingers lightly brushing his wrist. The tour guide was droning on about the history of Kuldhara, the abandoned village known for its curse. But their real interest lay in the looming structure ahead—the palace of a prince, a name lost in history but kept alive by local whispers.

The palace was breathtaking, a relic of Rajasthan’s royal past, its sandstone walls glowing amber under the setting sun. Nanami Kento had never been one for grand romantic gestures, but even he couldn’t resist the allure of this Mahal, with its intricate mosaics and whispered legends. His wife had been the one to suggest the trip. “It’s a place for lovers,” she’d said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “And we could use a little adventure, don’t you think?”

They had been married for five years, a union that defied cultural expectations—a half-Danish, half-Japanese man and an Indian woman who had met in the unlikeliest of places: a student exchange in Tokyo. Their love had always been quiet but fierce, built on mutual respect and a shared disdain for the supernatural. They were atheists, both of them, grounded in logic and reason. Ghosts, spirits, curses—these were the stuff of fairy tales, not their reality.

Nanami adjusted his sunglasses. "It’s just a palace. You wanted to see something ‘haunted,’ right?"

She scoffed. "I was joking."

"You were not."

A smirk tugged at her lips. "Fine. Maybe a little."

The group paused in front of the arched entryway; the marble cracked and overgrown with creeping vines. A hush settled over them as the guide began to recount the tale:

“This story isn’t in most history books, but ask the locals, and they’ll all tell you the same thing. Hundreds of years ago, a foreign prince came to this land—as a conqueror, though he stayed because of a person who lived here. Some say it was a woman, others say a man. The details were lost over time, but what we do know is that he had wealth, power, and control over vast territories. Yet, despite all of that, he chose to stay here, in a kingdom that wasn’t of his customs.

The prince was renowned for his striking beauty—his unique hair and captivating eyes—a ruler of immense charm but even greater misfortune. He built alliances, settled disputes, even took on the customs of the land. He was even undefeated in wars, a genius strategist. Some say he did it all for them—for the one person he couldn’t bear to leave behind.

But love like that rarely ends well.

One night, he vanished alongside his lover, a woman likely, promised to another. Some say they were caught and killed before they could run. Others say the prince’s enemies set a trap, making sure neither of them left these walls alive. But the strangest stories come from those who claim he never left at all.”

Nanami’s wife rolled her eyes. "He sounds like a tragic anime protagonist."

Nanami exhaled sharply—a rare, barely-there laugh. "You watch too much TV."

She elbowed him, and he caught her wrist, pulling her closer. The air between them shifted—heavy, charged.

"Come on," she whispered. "Let’s go somewhere less... crowded."

His hesitation was brief, a flicker of logic against the pull of her hand. They drifted past a crumbling archway, slipping into the shadowed halls of the abandoned palace. The moment the voices of the group faded behind them, the atmosphere thickened.

It wasn’t fear. It was anticipation.

She tugged him into a hidden alcove, her back pressing against cool stone. "No one’s here," she murmured, fingers curling into his shirt.

"Careful, darling, you sound too eager," he smeirked, his voice lower and rougher.

"Maybe I just believe in you more than the ghosts," she teased.

But the Mahal had other plans.

He kissed her before she could say anything more—slow, deliberate, consuming. The taste of sweat and dust mixed with the softness of her lips, and for a moment, nothing existed beyond this—just the weight of her body against his, the sharp intake of breath when he gripped her waist beneath her t-shirt, the warmth of her skin beneath his palms. Her lips kissing his with a hunger that made his chest ache.

They kissed like they were the only two people in the world, the cool marble at their backs and the faint scent of eucalyptus in the air.

When they finally pulled apart, she laughed, her voice echoing strangely in the empty hall. “This place is magic,” she said, her fingers tracing the patterns on the wall. “Can’t you feel it?”

Nanami smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I feel you,” he replied, his voice low. “That’s enough magic for me.”

And then—

The wind shifted.

A whisper of cool air, unnatural against the desert heat, coiled around them.

She shivered.

He pulled back slightly, brows furrowing. "Are you cold?"

She shook her head. “I just... felt something.” Her voice was soft, almost hesitant, as if she couldn’t quite put it into words.

A beat of silence hung between them, heavy and unspoken as he waited for her to elaborate.

Then she laughed, the sound light and airy, brushing it off like it was nothing. “Forget it. Let’s go back,” she said, her smile returning as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

Her lips brushing against his ear, voice dropping to a whisper. “I want us to start trying for a baby.”

He shivered, a mix of surprise and warmth flooding through him. He’d wanted to have a family with her ever since he’d laid eyes on her.

Without a word, he pulled out his phone and called the driver, his voice steady but tinged with urgency.

As she stepped away, though, she hesitated.

Just for a moment.

Her gaze flickered toward the shadows of the palace, her smile faltering.

But then she shook it off, linking her arm with her husband’s waist, who kissed her forehead and pulled her towards the exit.

---

The first time he noticed something was wrong, it was subtle.

She was quieter on the ride back. Thoughtful. Her fingers tapped against the car window, her gaze unfocused.

"You’re not feeling sick, are you?" he asked, eyes flickering toward her.

She turned to him too slowly, blinking as if shaking herself from a daze. "No. Just tired."

He accepted it. At first.

But the things were going to change forever.

The moment the words had left her lips—“I want us to start trying for a baby”—Nanami’s world had narrowed to her, like it already didn’t revolve around her. His hands, usually so controlled, had trembled as they gripped her hips, pulling her closer. His lips had found hers in a kiss that was equal parts desperation and reverence; his breath had hitched as she melted into him.

“Are you sure?” He’d murmured against her mouth as soon as they walked inside their hotel room, his voice rough with need. When she nodded, his restraint had shattered.

He had been everywhere at once—his hands roaming her body, his lips trailing down her neck, his teeth grazing her skin in a way that made her gasp. He was drunk on her, consumed by the idea of her carrying his child, and it showed in every touch, every kiss, every ragged breath. His composed demeanor was gone, replaced by a raw, primal hunger that left her breathless.

Nanami had been relentless, each thrust drawing a gasp or moan from her lips. He’d already brought her to the edge multiple times, his hands and mouth working in tandem to unravel her completely. But now, as he hovered above her, his hips moving with a rhythm that was almost possessive, he was focused on one thing: filling her. The thought of it—of her carrying his child—had him teetering on the edge of control.

“K…Ken…Ahh,” she had whimpered his name, her nails digging into his back as she arched against him. Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned, his forehead dropping to hers.

“I’ve got you,” he’d murmured, voice rough, breathless. His hand had slid between them, thumb circling her clit as he felt her tighten around him again. “Come for me one more time, love.”

She had, her body shuddering as she cried out his name. He was about to follow her over the edge.

But then, she had frozen. Her eyes wide, as she’d turned her head sharply toward the window. “Do you hear that?” she’d whispered, voice trembling.

Nanami had stilled, his brow furrowing as he tried to catch his breath. “Hear what?” he’d asked; his tone had been calm but tinged with concern.

“Music,” she’d said, her voice barely audible. "It's... it’s faint, but it’s there. Like a sitar or something.”

He had seriously listened but had heard nothing except the sound of their breathing and the faint rustle of the curtains. “I don’t hear anything,” he’d said gently, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Are you sure?”

She’d nodded, eyes wide with confusion. “It’s there, Kento. I’m not imagining it.”

Nanami had studied her face, his analytical mind kicking into gear.

He had known her well enough to recognize when she was serious, and right now, she looked genuinely unsettled.

“Alright,” he’d said softly, pulling out of her and sitting up. “Let’s figure this out.”

She’d blinked, surprised by his calm reaction. “You believe me?”

“I believe that you heard something,” he’d said carefully, his tone measured. “Whether it’s real or not, we’ll find out. But I need you to be honest with me—are you sure you’re ready for this? For us trying for a baby?”

Her eyes had been filled with tears, and she’d shaken her head. “I’m not lying, Kento. I want this. I want us. But I heard something, and it's...”

He’d sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, let’s take a breath and figure this out together.”

As he’d reached for his robe, she’d grabbed his hand, her grip tight. “I’m sorry,” she’d whispered. “I didn’t mean to ruin the moment.”

He’d turned back to her, his expression softening. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he’d said, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. “We’ll figure this out. But for now, let’s just... breathe.”

She’d nodded, but the unease in her eyes remained.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Nanami had muttered before walking away.

She’d sat there, alone and confused, the faint strains of music still echoing in her ears.

Later that night, as they lay in their bed, she had sat up abruptly, her eyes wide. “Did you hear that?” she’d whispered.

“Hear what?” Nanami had asked, already half-asleep.

“A voice. It was… singing.”

He’d dismissed it as a trick of the wind or her exhaustion, but the next day, she’d insisted they return to the palace, her tone urgent and her eyes wide with something he couldn’t quite place. “I need to see it again,” she’d said, her tone urgent. “There’s something there, Kento. I can’t explain it.” He had to spend two hours convincing her it was nothing and they’d stick with their itinerary with the hotel.

Maybe it was the stress of traveling. Maybe the unfamiliar environment was playing tricks on her senses. Or maybe, just maybe, she was overwhelmed by the idea of starting a family. He’d convinced himself it was temporary, something they could work through together.

But then it started happening every time.

Just as he was about to cum inside, she’d flinch, her body tensing as she turned her head sharply, her eyes darting toward some unseen corner of the room. “Do you hear that?” she’d whisper, her voice trembling. “Music. It’s… it’s faint, but it’s there.”

And every time, he’d stop, his patience wearing thinner and thinner. He’d listen, his brow furrowed, but hear nothing. “There’s no music,” he’d say, his voice calm but tinged with frustration. “It’s just us.”

She’d insist, her eyes pleading with him to believe her, but he couldn’t. Not when it kept happening. Not when it felt like she was pulling away from him in the moments they should have been closest.

Nanami was a logical man. He prided himself on his ability to analyze situations, to break them down into manageable parts, and find solutions. But this... this defied logic. He’d run through every possible explanation—stress, fatigue, even the lingering effects of jet lag—but none of them fully accounted for her behavior. And the more it happened, the harder it became to ignore the gnawing doubt in the back of his mind.

Maybe she doesn’t want this. Maybe she doesn’t want kids with me. Maybe she doesn’t want me.

The thought was like a knife to his chest. They’d been together for so long—twelve years of knowing each other, five years of marriage. He’d fought for her, convinced her family to let him marry her, to leave everything behind and build a life with him. He’d never doubted her love before, but now... now he wasn’t so sure.

He didn’t want to believe his intrusive thoughts; he really didn’t.

She loved him, right? She married him.

But then why did this trip feel like he was better off back home than traveling the world with the love of his life?

So next time he hadn't been as kind to her.

“Ken baby,” she’d breathed one night, fingers tangling in his hair as she pulled him closer. They had been in their hotel room, the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the curtains. Her touch had been warm, familiar, and for a moment, he let himself believe everything was okay.

He’d kissed her deeply, his hands sliding under her thighs to lift her onto the bed from the table he’d been fucking her against. His movements were urgent but reverent, as if he couldn’t believe this was real. He wanted her, wanted this, wanted the future they’d talked about for so long.

But then, as he’d continued to roll his hips, tettering on the edge of her and his own release, his eyes dark with desire, she’d froze.

Her head snapped toward the window, her eyes wide with fear. “Do you hear that?” She’d whispered, voice trembling.

Nanami had stilled, jaw tightening. “Hear what?” he’d asked, tone clipped.

“Music,” she’d said. “It’s… it’s coming from somewhere.”

He’d stared at her, his frustration bubbling over.

“There’s no music,” he’d said flatly, voice tight. “Are you... changing your mind? Is that what this is?”

“What? No!” She’d protested, voice rising. “I heard something, Kento. I’m not lying.”

He’d clenched his jaw and pulled out and away, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “If you’re not ready, just say so. Don’t make up excuses.”

Her eyes had been wide, hurt flashing across her face. “I’m not making anything up! I heard music. Why won’t you believe me?”

“Because there’s nothing there!” He’d snapped, voice sharper than he intended. He stood, pacing the room, his frustration boiling over. “If you’re not ready for this, fine. But don’t play games with me.”

She’d stared at him, her chest tightening. “I’m not playing games,” she’d said quietly, voice breaking. “I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m not lying to you.”

Nanami had sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to take a shower,” he’d muttered.

He’d grabbed his robe and left the room without another word.

She’d sat there, alone and confused, the faint strains of a voice singing her name still echoing in her ears.

Kento didn’t know that was the last time he was ever going to have sex with her.

---

Then, back in Tokyo, small things had began piling up.

She flinched at things he couldn’t see.

"You’re being ridiculous," he said one evening when she refused to step into their dimly lit living room. "It’s just shadows."

"You don’t understand," she whispered.

"You’re right," he snapped, patience thinning. "I don’t."

She recoiled as if struck.

Then she’d begun walking in the night, her side of the bed cold. She claimed she heard music, faint and haunting, like the strains of a sitar playing in another room. Nanami would check the apartment, of course, but there was never anything there.

“It’s stress,” he’d said one evening, his tone gentle but firm. “You’ve been working too hard. Maybe you should take some time off.”

She’d glared at him, her usually warm eyes icy. “You think I’m imagining this?”

“I think you’re exhausted,” he’d replied, reaching for her hand. She’d pulled away.

And then there were the whispers—half-heard murmurs when she thought he wasn’t listening.

She’d started to wake up in the middle of the night, staring at the corner of their bedroom. Sometimes mumbling under her breath, as if answering a question.

The fights started small—her frustration at his refusal to believe her, his exhaustion at her growing paranoia.

But resentment festered like a wound left untreated.

She’d insisted she wasn’t crazy and that something—or someone—was following her.

Nanami, the pragmatist, had suggested therapy. “Just to rule things out,” he’d said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Please, darling. For me.”

She’d agreed, but the sessions only seemed to make things worse.

The therapist diagnosed her with schizophrenia, a word that hung between them like a death sentence.

She stopped going to work, retreating into herself. She spent her days at home, staring out the window or pacing the apartment, her once-vibrant personality dulled to a shadow.

Then the arguments got more frequent.

When he suggested starting medication, she laughed.

It wasn’t a kind laugh.

"You think I’m crazy?"

"I think you need help."

Her lips curled. "Of course you do."

She stopped sleeping beside him.

Stopped talking to him unless necessary.

Work became a distant thing, then a nonexistent one.

Nanami tried to be patient, but the distance between them grew. He hated himself for it, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was losing her. The woman he’d married—strong, independent, full of life—was slipping away, replaced by someone he barely recognized.

And one day, he came home to find her in the dark.

---

Nanami had come home to the sound of laughter. It was a sound he hadn’t heard in months, and it stopped him in his tracks.

It had been rich and warm, spilling from her lips like it belonged there.

A weight had lifted from his chest, and for a moment, he allowed himself to hope.

Maybe she’d been getting better. Maybe they’d find their way back to each other. Maybe she’d been finally healing. Maybe—

But as he’d stepped into the living room, his heart sank.

She’d been sitting on the floor, her back to him, knees tucked beneath her, hands gesturing lightly—casual, intimate. Her shoulders had been shaking with laughter as she spoke to someone, voice soft.

Except there had been no one there.

“Darling,” he’d called, his voice trembling.

She’d turned then, still smiling, but the moment she’d seen him, her expression had shifted—a flicker of something unreadable before she’d schooled her features.

Her eyes had still been bright with a joy he hadn’t seen in so long. “Kento. You’re home.” She’d greeted him like he was an afterthought.

He’d forced a smile, though his pulse had thundered in his ears. “Who were you talking to?”

Her expression had faltered, just for a moment. “No one,” she said quickly. “Just… thinking out loud.”

“What was so funny?” he’d pushed.

She hesitated. Then, softly added, "you wouldn’t believe me."

His fists had clenched. "Try me."

Then her eyes had flicked—just slightly—to something over his shoulder.

And that was when he’d felt it.

The air had moved.

A cold breath against the back of his neck.

A presence too close, too real.

He’d turned.

And for the first time in his life, Nanami Kento saw a ghost.

Tall. Pale. Dressed in fine, outdated robes.

Beautiful eyes and hair.

Beautiful white hair and piercing blue eyes.

The man—the prince—was watching him with an unreadable expression.

Like a king appraising a pawn.

Like a conqueror surveying his land.

Nanami’s knees had buckled, and he’d fallen.

His wife had rushed forward, instinct taking over, her hands gripping his face, her touch grounding—alive, but her hands had been cold against his skin.

"Kento—!"

But he wasn’t looking at her.

He’d been looking at him.

And the ghost, Prince Gojo Satoru, had simply smirked.

Like he’d already won.

Nanami had realized then—this wasn’t just madness.

It wasn’t a break, a disorder, a cruel trick of the mind.

She hadn’t been losing herself.

She’d been taken.

And he had let it happen.

The pieces had fallen into place with cruel clarity.

The voice she’d heard in the palace, the laughter, the way she’d become distant—it wasn’t schizophrenia.

It had all been Gojo.

The ghost of a prince who had taken a liking to her, who had followed her home and woven himself into her life.

Nanami felt sick.

He had failed her.

He had dismissed her fears, convinced himself she was ill, when the truth was far more terrifying.

And now he was losing her to a man who wasn’t even alive.

“I’m sorry,” he’d choked out, his voice breaking. “I should have believed you.”

Her face had crumpled, and she’d pulled him into her arms. “It’s not your fault,” she’d whispered. “I didn’t want to believe it either.”

But as they clung to each other, Nanami couldn’t shake the feeling that it was too late.

---

In the weeks that followed, she’d grow weaker, her once-vibrant spirit fading like a dying flame.

Nanami watched helplessly as the woman he loved slipped further and further away, her laughter now a ghostly echo in their empty home.

And in the corner of the room, Gojo watched, his smirk never wavering.

But as he’d sat by her bedside, holding her hand as she slept, he’d make a silent vow. He would find a way to bring her back, even if it meant confronting the dead monarch himself.

After all, love was the only magic he had ever believed in.

Then Nanami had tried everything—doctors, therapists, even a desperate visit to a priestess who had taken one look at him and shaken her head. “There’s nothing I can do,” she’d said. “This is beyond me.”

And now, she was gone.

She died on a quiet morning, as if the universe itself was too ashamed to make a sound.

No violence, no struggle—just silence.

Nanami had left for groceries, and when he returned, the door was ajar.

The air inside was stale, thick, suffocating.

He’d called her name.

No answer.

He found her curled on their bed, her body unnaturally still, her hands resting lightly on her stomach as if she had merely dozed off. Her lips were parted, and for a moment, he swore he saw them move.

But she was cold.

Kento stood there for a long time, unable to move, unable to breathe.

It wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be real.

He shook her once, twice. "Darling."

Her head lolled to the side.

His fingers clenched around her shoulders. "This isn’t funny."

Nothing.

A sound escaped him—raw, broken.

They told him it was heart failure. A tragedy. Sudden. Unexplained.

But he knew better.

The days that followed were a blur.

Nanami moved through them like a ghost himself, his grief a heavy cloak that suffocated him.

He expected to see Gojo’s ghost lurking in the corners of their apartment, taunting him, but the white-haired figure was nowhere to be found. It was as if Gojo had vanished the moment his wife had taken her last breath.

Nanami hated him for it.

Hated him for taking her, for leaving him alone, for existing at all.

But most of all, he hated himself for not being able to save her. For not believing her in time.

The days stretched into weeks. He drifted, weightless, his mind full of echoes.

He stopped speaking to people. Stopped working.

The world became a distant thing, muffled and unreal.

But the pull remained.

---

It was a month after her death when Nanami stood in the shadow of the Mahal, its sandstone walls glowing in the afternoon sun, looming over him like a specter from a past he couldn’t escape. It didn't hold the same allure anymore.

Now, it felt like a tomb.

He didn’t know why he’d come. He hadn’t planned it.

He hadn’t planned on anything at all.

Maybe it was desperation, or maybe it was the faint hope that he could confront Gojo, demand answers, scream at him until his voice gave out.

But deep down, he knew the truth: he was here because he had nowhere else to go.

The palace was empty; no tourists.

Nanami wandered the corridors, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

He found the alcove where it had all begun—the place where he had shared that fateful kiss.

The memory was sharp, painful, and he clenched his fists to keep from breaking down.

There was no sound, no music, only the faint rustle of wind through the palace’s ancient halls. Nanami sank to his knees, his anger giving way to despair. He whispered, his voice cracking. “Why? Why her?”

Still, there was nothing. No ghostly figure, no laughter, no sign that Gojo had ever been there at all.

Nanami felt a surge of frustration.

Had it all been in his head? Had her illness been just that—an illness—and he had been going insane and started seeing it too?

As he sat there, his mind racing, the air got heavy with the scent of eucalyptus and decay, and a faint sound reached his ears.

It was music—soft and haunting, reminiscent of the tunes she had described hearing all those months ago.

But this time, it was accompanied by the gentle jingle of the anklets she’d worn on their wedding day and during Karwachauth ever since.

Nanami’s breath caught in his throat.

He stood, following the sound through the palace’s labyrinthine corridors until he reached a small, hidden chamber.

Inside, the walls were covered in intricate carvings, their details illuminated by the faint light of a single oil lamp.

And there in the center of the room—

She’d looked just as she had in life, her eyes warm and full of love, voice soft. “You shouldn’t have come.”

Nanami stumbled forward, reaching for her, but his hand passed through her like smoke. “Darling,” he choked out. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She smiled, but there was sadness in her eyes. “It’s not your fault.”

“What are you talking about?” Nanami demanded, his voice rising. “You didn’t choose this! He took you from me!”

She shook her head, her form beginning to fade.

“No!” Nanami shouted, lunging for her, but she was already gone, the music fading with her.

The next moment, there was nothing.

Only silence. Vast and consuming.

Then—a shimmer in the air, warping the space around it, like heat rising from the desert sand.

A figure materialized.

White hair. Piercing Blue eyes. Pale skin. A presence that did not belong.

Nanami could barely breathe.

Gojo Satoru stood before him, his gaze vacant, his posture relaxed in a way that felt unnatural—like he was here, but also elsewhere. His voice, when it came, was soft. Too soft.

"Why her?"

There was no malice, no satisfaction. Just neutrality. An absence of feeling.

Nanami swallowed, his throat dry. His fingers curled into trembling fists. "You really don’t know, do you, Kento?"

Nanami’s jaw clenched. "Enlighten me."

Gojo tilted his head slightly, as if considering the request. When he spoke, there was no anger, no cruelty—just a simple, unwavering truth.

"You married an Indian woman. Lived with her. Loved her. And yet, you never learned the most basic rule."

The air around them shifted, thick with something rancid. The wind through the broken palace walls carried the scent of decay, of age, of something that did not want to be disturbed.

Gojo’s voice remained even.

"In India, there’s an unspoken rule—one even atheists follow."

The air grew colder.

"You do not show off your women in ruins."

Nanami’s stomach twisted.

Gojo blinked slowly, like a creature that had forgotten how to mimic human expression. "You don’t dress them up and parade them around cemeteries, old buildings, palaces." His voice lowered. "People get possessed. Things follow them home."

Nanami felt his breath leave him.

The memory came back. The moment he lost her.

The way she had laughed in that alcove, her lips swollen from his kisses, her body pressed against his, flushed and breathless. The gold that had glinted at her wrists, her throat, catching the dying sunlight—making her glow. The way her voice, filled with love, with life, carried through the hollow halls of a palace where no living thing should have heard it.

They had looked so blissful.

But now, the memory felt like a knife twisting in his chest.

Because he’d been watching.

“You looked so happy,” Gojo murmured, his voice almost thoughtful. “So in love.”

There was no malice. No regret. No sympathy.

"And I…" Gojo’s voice barely wavered. "I wanted that."

Nanami’s heart threatened to crawl out of his throat.

Gojo blinked, his expression unchanging. "My love left me," he said. "Married another. Her family pushed her into it, and she stayed once she met him. I waited for her. I waited for her to come back."

His head turned slightly, looking out the window, gaze distant. Like he was watching a memory. Like he was watching something only he could see. "She never did."

The stillness in his voice was unbearable.

Nanami’s vision blurred with rage. "So you took mine instead?"

Gojo turned to face him, eyes boring into Nanami's.

His face was still empty. Void of anything human.

"Maybe I did," he said. "Maybe she left. Maybe she came back to me. Maybe you stole her from me in another life. Maybe she chose you. Maybe she didn’t love me as much as I thought. Or maybe—" Gojo exhaled softly. "Maybe I see why she fell in love with you."

Rage coiled in Nanami’s chest. His hands trembled, nails biting into his palms.

Gojo watched him without blinking. Without caring. "After everything I lost—after she left me to marry someone else because her family pushed her into it—I wanted what you had."

Gojo’s voice did not rise. It did not falter.

"So I took it."

Nanami’s body locked up, something primal and violent rising in his chest. His throat burned. His vision swam. His grief was a wildfire, an avalanche, a noose tightening around his own damn throat.

“You’re a monster.”

Gojo continued, reactionless. "Maybe," he admitted.

Then—Gojo’s head tilted ever so slightly.

"But you’re the one who brought her here."

The words slammed into Nanami’s ribcage like a hammer.

"You didn’t protect her," Gojo murmured. "You thought she was insane before you believed her."

The words hit Nanami like he was being set on fire. 

Because he knew.

He knew.

Deep down, he knew the truth in them.

He’d been so focused on their future, too confident in logic and reason, on starting a family, that he’d ignored the warnings—both spoken and unspoken—the unease in her eyes, the way her voice had shaken when she begged him to listen, to believe her.

And now she was gone.

He would never see her again.

She had slipped through his fingers like smoke, like an illusion he was never meant to hold onto in the first place.

He stood there, rooted in the ruins of a past that no longer existed, a future that had been severed clean from his grasp.

Gojo did not smile.

He did not mock.

He simply stood there, blank and unfeeling, watching as Nanami shattered into something that could never be put back together.

"Give her back."

Nanami’s voice cracked, raw and desperate.

It was not a demand.

It was a plea.

"Please." His fingers twitched, reaching for something that wasn’t there. "Just give her back."

For the first time, Gojo’s expression shifted. Not in pity. Not in regret.

Just something fleeting. Almost human.

"I can’t."

His voice was quiet. Unshaken. Final.

"She’s not mine to give."

And then he was gone.

No shadow left behind.

No footprints in the dust.

As if he had never been there at all.

And maybe he hadn’t.

Nanami never saw Gojo again.

Not in the palace.

Not anywhere.

And neither did he see her.

Not that day.

Not the next.

Not in the ruins where he had kissed her for the last time.

Not in the house where she had once lived, where the echoes of her voice had turned to silence.

But still, he searched.

Through the palace.

Through the crumbling ruins.

Through the empty villages.

Through the desert, where the sand swallowed footsteps whole.

Through the places where even the ghosts had grown tired of lingering.

But there was nothing.

There had never been anything.

No ghosts.

No answers.

Just silence—cold and unrelenting, stretching on and on until it hollowed him out from the inside.

Or maybe—maybe he had seen her.

Maybe she had whispered to him in the dead of night, her voice curled around his ear like a secret. Maybe he had caught glimpses of her in reflections, in the shimmer of heat rising from the sand, in the spaces between dreams and waking.

Or maybe it had all been in his head.

Maybe she had never been there at all.

The whispers started soon after.

Of the foreigner with blond hair who wandered through the ruins, his steps slow, his gaze hollow.

Of the man who murmured to the crumbling palace walls, who spoke to shadows, who waited for a love that would never return.

At first, people tried to help.

They approached him with cautious kindness.

“Are you lost, sir?”

“Do you have family we can call?”

“Here, drink this—eat something.”

But Nanami did not answer.

Did not acknowledge them.

Did not even seem to hear them at all.

He knew you’d be mad. 

You never liked when other women gave him attention.

He would sit in the dust, his fingers tracing invisible patterns into the stone, lips moving in silent conversation.

With whom, no one knew.

And slowly, they learned to leave him alone.

He became part of the ruins themselves.

A figure wrapped in dust and sorrow.

A cautionary tale whispered to children.

"Don’t wander too far, lest you meet the mad foreigner who searches for his dead wife."

The weeks passed. Then the months.

His hair grew long and matted, strands clumping together, dirt and sand tangled in the once-golden locks.

His clothes frayed at the edges, sleeves torn, fabric thinning from exposure to the harsh desert winds.

His face, once sharp with quiet confidence, sank inward—cheekbones too prominent, lips cracked, skin burnt raw by the unrelenting sun.

A living corpse.

The police and NGOs found him once, coaxed him into a rehabilitation center, gave him food, bathed him, handed him clean clothes.

But the moment they turned their backs, he was gone.

He ran.

Back to the palace.

Back to the ruins.

Back to the last place he thought he'd seen her.

He was twenty-seven, but to those who saw him, he was ageless.

A mad saint.

A lost soul.

A pagala baba, dressed in tattered rags, muttering prayers that weren’t prayers—just a name, her name, over and over again.

Still—he walked.

Because maybe, if he searched long enough—

If he wandered through the ruins until his feet bled—

If he kept looking, kept listening, kept believing—

Maybe one day, he would find her again.

Maybe she had just stepped away for a moment.

Maybe she would return.

Maybe one day, he would wake up and she would be beside him.

And the desert, mercifully, swallowed his grief whole.

Because one day—

He disappeared.

No one saw him leave.

No footprints in the sand.

No body was found.

Just gone.

But still—the whispers remained.

At night, when the wind howled through the ruins, when the air was thick with the weight of something unseen—

Some swore they heard it.

A hum.

A laugh.

A faint, lingering strain of music.

Some claimed they saw a figure—tall, blond, beautiful, with kind eyes.

A man, waiting. Searching. Wandering.

Still looking for the love stolen from him.

Still lost in the ruins, long after his body had faded into the sand.

Still hoping—

That maybe, this time, he would find her.

Or maybe he already had.

No one knew.

No one ever would.

But they all agreed on one thing—

That sometimes, in the dead of night, when the desert wind carried the echoes of the past, those who listened closely could hear it—

A faint hum of laughter.

The ghost of a love stolen.

Or the sorrowful strains of music that followed him wherever he went.

A/N: So, my dear readers… how did you like Schizophrenia? No, Just a Rajasthani Prince With No Bitches. Did Nanami ever find her? Did Gojo win? Or did our beloved blond idiot just walk himself into an early grave Majnu-style? Comment below: 🔘 “They were reunited” (Delusional Romantic) 🔘 “Nanami died searching” (Realist Pain Enthusiast) 🔘 “Gojo gaslit gatekept girlbossed all of us” (Clown) Let me know which version of suffering you believe in. Your engagement fuels my villain arc. 💀✨

All Works Masterlist

[kenthoescore]

"sweetheart, do you think we're together in other lifetimes?" kento asks softly, giving you a soft reasurring smile as he feels the lingering heat of mahito's hand on the side of his face.

it was unexpected question, given that he can die at any moment now. Why that question? right now? seriously? A question you've asked him a million times before after watching a tiktok.

But you know the answer too well.

"We are. In every other universe and lifetimes." you answer, a slight quiver in your voice.

He smiles, a gentle and warm smile that's only reserved for the few people he held dearly to his heart.

"I love you, sweetheart. See you later."

explodes.

[aciddrattboyy]

Hҽ'ʂ Mყ Mαɳ

┆ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ - "obsessed stay at home wife unknowingly poisons her husband over time."

ᴍᴏᴠɪᴇ ꜱᴛᴀᴛꜱ: ★ Starring: Kento N. x F! Reader ★ Run Time: 1.5k ★ Genre/Warnings: [Rated R: Drama] angst? i guess?, obsessive reader thinking, unintentional poisoning altho not explicitly mentioned, thats perty much it ★ heavilyyy based off of hes my man by luvcat its an amazingly beautiful song and i recommend everynyan listens to it

▶▶

drip. drip. drip. 

your perfectly manicured nails tap in rhythm with the leaky faucet against wooden table top where you sat in the dreary kitchen. the room was cast a dark grey, the cloudy skies and setting sun only adding to the sombre ambiance. glancing up at the clock, your frown only deepened.

8:52PM

the clock hands only seemed to mock you further. your husband should have been home by now. where was he? what was he doing? you start scratching at the table almost absentmindedly, the feeling of the wood resisting under your nails somewhat grounding. looking over at the stove, you let out a small huff of frustration. the dinner you had worked so hard on was already going cold. the corners of your lips pulled downwards even more and as you looked at the door you could feel your eyes prick with tears. god where was he?! he should have been home nearly two hours ago. what if he left you? what if he was gone from good?

drip. drip. drip.

with a frustrated grunt, you slam both of your hands against the table, relishing the pain as the wood bites at your skin. some part of you worried momentarily about splinters but that wouldn’t matter as soon as your loving husband came home. he would take care of you, just as he always did. you shoot up from the table, sending the chair flying back with a loud scrape against the tile floor, and walk over to the skin. hands gripping the edge of the counter tight, you tried to calm yourself. tried to calm the aching pain in your chest that felt as if it were threatening to consume you at any moment.

drip. drip. drip.

where was your husband? where the fuck could he be? why wasn’t he home yet? why wasnt he fucking home yet?! a pained noise escapes your lips, eyes screwing shut as you tried to block out the noise. you needed your husband. needed him like the air you breathed or the water you drank. this pain was all encompassing, a weight both physical and mental that seemed to rest on your shoulders. your knees grow weak,  body trembling as you slowly slump to the floor. your chest was already heaving, tears already pooling at the corners of your eyes. 

drip. drip. drip. 

your hands find their way into your hair, tugging at the strands lightly. although you knew it wouldn’t take much longer for you to be at the point of ripping your hair out. you felt empty, cold. you were nothing without your husband, he was everything to you. how could he leave? how could he abandon y-

the door creaks open slowly, the sound of light rain could be heard clearly for a moment until your husband closes the door behind him. you immediately scramble up, eyes wide and a huge smile plastered on your face. that is until you took in his appearance. he looked… tired, and that only made you frown. you never wanted your husband to be tired. he deserved all the rest in the world. scurrying over to him, you help him take off his coat. 

“you’re home,” you breathe out, the tension in your chest slowly ebbing as his familiar scent fills your nostrils and calms your brain. “i missed you. why were you late?” nanami only responds with a huff as he toes off his shoes, pressing a rough kiss to your forehead as he walks deeper inside the small house. his frame seemed… smaller? like he was losing weight. but thats impossible. you made sure to feed him every day!

“my head is killing me y/n. please tell me you made dinner.” nanami flops down onto the worn leather arm chair with a groan, running a hand through his hair with a sigh. without missing a beat, you nod your head, pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

“of course honey let me go fix you a plate,” you head off towards the kitchen, humming a random tune as you prepared food for your husband. there was a small smile on your face. you always smiled when nanami was home. it was the only time everything was perfect. thinking about how tired your poor husband looked, you decided to make him some tea as well. he had been having trouble sleeping lately and you’d do anything to help him feel better. “here you go my love,” setting the plate down on the coffee table in front of him, you gingerly handed him his tea, your smile only growing as you watched him blow softly at the steam.

“thank you.” he murmured softly, holding the cup of tea with both hands as he waited for it to cool. the steam made his glasses fog up slightly and you took it upon yourself to push them back up as they slid down the bridge of his nose. nanami smiles up at you then, it’s small, his exhaustion evident on his face. you study his glasses, noticing how the lenses seem to only be getting thicker as the months go by, for reasons both of you didn't know. 

“eat up, i worked extra hard on this meal,” you perch yourself on the armrest of the chair, the worn leather creaking slightly under your weight. you leaned in slightly with a soft hum, running a hand through his blonde hair as he blew on his tea. you watched intently, studying his features, each little movement of the muscles making up his beautiful face. nanami chuckles lightly, glancing up at you briefly before taking a sip of the warm liquid. 

nanami’s nose scrunches slightly as soon as the tea hits his tongue, an odd flavor coating his taste buds. it tasted weird, that same weird he’s been getting used to now over the past few months. you must’ve been using a different blend recently. looking back up at you over the rim of the porcelain cup, seeing you looking down at him as if he was the only man in the world, he couldn’t bring himself to tell you he didn’t want it. so instead, he steeled his mind and sipped more of it past his lips before setting it down to move onto your carefully crafted dinner.

the room was quiet as he ate aside from the sound of utensils hitting the glass plate and the dreaded dripping of the leaky faucet along with the rain that was gradually getting heavier. the room was bathed in a warm orange light from the flower lamp nanami had bought you a year back. you stayed where you were on the armrest, massaging his shoulders and scalp as he ate, content to just work on soothing him. content to be in his presence. 

as soon as his plate was cleared, you get up and grab them before heading to the kitchen. you diligently work on cleaning the dishes. you found peace in the routine, even though none of it mattered when your husband wasnt home. you’d never be at peace when he was away.

you can feel a pair of warm arms wrap around your waist, a low hum leaving your lovers chest as he pressed closer against you from behind. nuzzling his face against the crook of your neck, he places a light kiss to your skin, taking a long moment to just  breathe you in. 

“thank you for dinner love,” he mumbled against your collarbone as he peppered the exposed area with soft kisses. you couldnt help but lean back into his touch, tilting your head lightly to give him better access. but it was over before you knew it, nanami pulling away as he mumbled something about his head still hurting and wanting to get ready for bed. you frown at the reminder that he would be gone tomorrow morning again. the thought of him leaving hurting just as much as always no matter how many times you had to bear it. 

by the time you finish cleaning up the kitchen, nanami has already slipped under the blankets, snoring softly against the silk pillows. the sight made warmth bloom in your chest. he looked so peaceful, so vulnerable, and you were the only one able to see him like this. 

after completing your nightly routine and slipping on your pajamas, you crawl into bed next to him. you scoot in close, your face mere inches away from his as you studied his sleeping face. his cheeks were slightly gaunt, eyebags only growing more prominent as the days went by. it made you upset that he had to go out there and work away, especially since he should be staying home with you. always. 

you move closer, pressing your body against his and holding him close. with a low grumble, nanami wraps his arm around your waist, tugging you as close as possible. pressing a kiss to his shoulder, you murmur a soft ‘goodnight’ before letting yourself drift off in your husbands warm arms, feeling a love so fierce it could consume you both.

i hope you enjoyed !! reblogs/comments are very appreciated <3 ʟᴏʙʙʏ ﹕ꜰɪʟᴍᴏɢʀᴀᴘʜʏ 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

[lemonlover1110]

Please please please write an angst of doctor nanami cheating on reader with a random nurse

Pairing: Kento Nanami x gn!Reader

Warnings: Angst, Cheating

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

*slowly working on requests! They're still closed so don't send anything in

Your husband often works long hours, but as an ER doctor it was expected. The day you started dating Kento, he made it very clear that he works a lot. He’s called in unexpectedly, and while it might seem like he has the day off, he could be called in. You were more than okay with it.

You often feel lonely while Kento works, especially at night. In the beginning you didn’t mind it but you grow lonelier each day. You wonder if you’ve made the right decision by getting married to him. You weren’t made to be so lonely– But whenever you’re thinking of leaving and starting over, he’s off for a day or two, and he reminds you why you’re with him.

He’s so sweet when he’s back around. He gets you flowers, does all the chores that you hate (because he knows that you hate it and he wants to keep you happy), he watches a movie that you like even if he wants to watch something else, and he cooks your favorite food. He’s so affectionate, so loving. He wants you to know that you’re his perfect wife. 

Of course you believe it, why wouldn’t you? Kento has only given you reasons to trust him. You believe his every word, trying to avoid thinking about any thought that makes you doubt your husband. 

He’s called in on your anniversary. He had the day off but things didn’t go your way. However, you had a backup plan because you had an idea this would happen. He’s working now more than ever so of course you had a backup plan.

You wear your pretty little dress, holding a bag with Kento’s favorite food. You also have a box of his favorite chocolate, and a small gift. You wander into the hospital, and the staff already  knows you well so you don’t have an issue getting through.

Majority of the staff knows your plan since you called around. You’re simply just having a romantic dinner– Well as romantic as it can be in a hospital break room. You’re smiling, walking confidently through the hospital hallways. You’re right on Kento’s break, and everyone else assured you that he’d be alone.

When you open the break room’s door, you see that you’ve been lied to. Your heart drops and shatters into a million pieces, the bag that’s in your hand slipping away and falling to the ground. Your eyes widen and they fill with tears. You can’t believe the sight in front of you, your husband’s lips on another woman, and by the looks of it, it wasn’t going to stop with kissing.

You freeze in time, watching your loving husband with someone else. You’re simply shocked. Kento wouldn’t do this to you… Not him. That can’t be your husband. Your hands are shaking, your heart feeling as if it’s about to beat out of your chest. The tears finally begin to spill, and there’s a lump in your throat that holds back a sob. 

No– Kento Nanami wouldn’t. Two other doctors must’ve gotten confused because your husband would never do this to you. You wipe the tears and you swallow the lump in your throat, shaking your head. It’s clearly not your husband. You clear your throat, “Sorry, I must’ve–”

He pulls away, alert. You see his face, and your heart breaks all over again. Even if you try to delude yourself, it won’t work. The woman is also staring at you but you aren’t all too focused on her; you don’t care about her. 

He yells out your name as you turn on your heel and begin to walk away. He’s trying to run after you, but you’re walking as fast as you can. 

“Please! Let me explain!” He yells and you try to block out his voice but it’s hard when he sounds so desperate. He does eventually catch up to you, grabbing your arm. You try to break free from his grasp but it’s too strong. You refuse to look at him, wanting to keep hidden the tears that stream down your face. “Honey, let’s talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about, Kento.” You try to sound as normal as you can even when your voice threatens to break. He still refuses to let go. “Let go of me, I never want to see you again.”

“Can we just talk please? Privately?” He asks, and you take a moment to think. He’s not going to let you go so easily, even if you want to leave. You’ll make it fast. You finally turn to look at him, and while you try to act tough, it’s impossible when you look at his face. The man that you love to the moon and back betrayed you. He’s someone that you wanted to grow old with, to have children with. You gave him your all, however, that doesn’t seem to be enough for him.

“On our anniversary? Really?” You respond, and it feels as if his voice has been taken from him. You wipe your tears before crossing your arms. You have to look away from him. “I thought you’d never do this to me, Kento. I really thought you were the one.”

He bites down his lip, he really doesn’t know what to say. For a minute you stand in complete and utter silence.

“Are you going to say anything?” You ask, and he’s scrambling for words. He comes up with nothing. You end up nodding before walking away. You hear him again,

“Honey, wait!” 

Just this time, he doesn’t run after you.

[califwhite]

Everything is in its right place.

Nanami Kento angst Inspired by Everything In Its Right Place By Radiohead

WC: 500 TW: Vomit, anxiety, heartbreak, angst, death y all the very very bad things..

There was a Japanese myth which Kento introduced to you the day he proposed. He was never much of a mythology buff, but he admitted that your presence in his life gave him a reason to believe it was true. A thin red string tied to the two pinkies of two individuals which the gods had predestined to be together. It was nostalgic, the shaking of his ordinarily steady voice as he explained that the red string twisted and turned, but could never be cut or broken. Everything was in its right place, that was, until it wasn't. His face contorted in pain and the little red thread which was once taught, gave in and laxed to your feet. 

Bile bubbled up in your throat, as you shot up in bed. Your once sleep-rotted consciousness festered with the images of your beloved choking on his own blood. Feet hitting the cold wood floor, you rushed to the toilet to heave the bitter liquid out of your mouth. Your stomach twisted and contorted, ringing out chunks of steak and rice and the bottle of sauvignon blanc you finished yourself. All remnants of the dinner you were supposed to have with your fiance until he told you off the unexpected assignment he had to take on. 

The cold bite of porcelain on your skin did nothing to soothe the shakes that racked your body paired with the anxiety that had you filling its cup. Each heave felt like a flash of your past before your eyes, grieving the future that would never come. Though your mind ceased to find the reason for this all-consuming reaction, an eerily absolute feeling of horror stirred in your gut. On knocking knees, you stood, walking slowly to your phone to hopefully soothe your nerves.  You jabbed your fingers into the screen, pulling up his location. Shibuya… You hurriedly reached for the remote and turned on the news. More bile began twisting out of your throat as you saw the ruins the city was in. Buildings creaked and groaned as they fell, bodies everywhere, the reporter screaming for people to try and seek refuge far from the city. 

The door to your shared bedroom groaned. For a second relief flooded you as you walked forward, a pale hand pushing in with your husband’s tie wrapped around its fist. Everything was okay, he was alive…

Yuji looked at you wide-eyed, tear trails cleared on his face through the muck of caked-on blood. There was only one reason he’d be here. 

“I tried.” He moaned your name in pain. “He asked for you before he went..” 

You felt your eyes roll back, your head lulling to the side, the air rushing against your body as you dropped towards the ground and everything went black. The string will stretch and tangle, but never break. 

Please consider liking and reblogging! Dont steal pls Boarder by the lovely: @saradika

[moncher-ire]

i liked ONE nanami post. ONE.. WHY IS MY FOR YOU FILLED WITH NANAMI?.

[logoleptic-since-06]

Every Corner of This House is Haunted

Pairing: Kento Nanami x Fem!Reader Content: Fem!Reader, Marriage in Crisis, Angst, Profanity, Reader and Nanami are in their 30s, Not Proofread

Chapter IV -> Masterlist if this Series

Listen to this for the full experience.

9:03 AM

2:17 PM

1:32 AM

8:26 AM

As you open the door, you find Kento barely being able to stand, exhausted and overwhelmed. 

“Hi,” he breathes out, his eyes twinkling with hope.

Your expression holds no warmth. “You’re pathetic and an idiot.”

“I’ll be whatever you ask me to be, Y/N, please forgive me.”

You ignore his cries and head to the kitchen and he follows you like a lost puppy.

“Y/N?” he calls out confused as you begin to make scrambled eggs. 

“Why did you not go to work yesterday?” you ask as you almost finish cooking.

“I told you I wasn’t leaving until you talked to me.”

“Fine,” you serve him a plate. “Talk.”

He looks at you, his eyes flooded with guilt and regret. “I’m so so sorry, love. I was in a very important meeting that night and–”

“See, that’s the problem, isn’t it, Kento?” you cut him off, crossing your arms. “Even if I come home with you now, you will never choose me over your work.”

“That’s not true.”

“But it is. It has been for the past few years.”

“And I plan on making it better, love, trust me,” he comes closer and touches your face, and for some reason, you let him. How long has it been since your lips met? You can’t remember. But his breath against the skin of your neck feels good. When he finally kisses you, there’s no spark, but rather a calm breeze, like the solace of home. Your lips move rhythmically, a choreography you both have mastered years ago, a form that’s engraved in your minds like muscle memory.

You moan into his mouth as he slides one arm around your waist, pulling you closer. He trails his kisses down to your neck. “Missed you so much,” he says between his kisses, making you snap into your consciousness.

“Kento, stop.”

“Please, let me do this.”

“No, Kento, stop.” You refuse to lose your self worth to the comfort of familiarity. “I deserve someone who will cherish me without me begging for it, someone who won’t need me gone to realise my true worth.”

“And I’m willing to be that someone, I–”

“Don’t say things you don’t mean!” you snap. “I know you, Kento.”

“Y/N–”

“You wanted to talk, so we did,” you move past him and open the front door, signalling him out. “I will send you the divorce papers soon.”

A/N: Are the SMAUs too confusing to understand?

Tags: @itsafairytalekay  @qualitygiantshoepsychic  @uzuimirika  @coffeeandcrimeshows  @lov3vivian  @lady-of-blossoms  @lavenderdaydream97  @gigiiiiislife  @yeehawbrothers  @heartsforkento  @loveliest-ghostwriter  @darkstudentsaladbakery  @for-hearthand-home

(hope I didn't miss any)

[wibben]

Hanamichi

A life measured in flowers. All of the times in his life in which Nanami received a flower.

↳ warnings: angst, major character death

↳ wc: 3,730

↳ notes: this was a collab with @tsukimefuku over what began as a silly (sad -- very sad) head canon. major credit and props to her, because without her this wouldn't exist! i had a lovely time writing this with you, and i hope we can do it again in the future!

Nanami remembered his mother’s hands, dirt under her fingernails, patient as the earth. Her garden was her temple; she greeted each flower by name, whispered as though they were children needing to be calmed. Nanami, young and fresh-eyed, watched her closely. A solemn boy with hands too small to grasp his mother’s tools, was her loyal shadow. His duty was the simple work – pulling weeds, patting down the dark soil, setting down the watering can at her nod. And when the sun hung high and the garden wore its colors proudly, his mother would offer him a single flower. "One for yourself," she’d say with a wide smile, tucking a loose curl behind her ear beneath the shrouded brim of a drooping sunhat. She’d let him choose – the reddest rose, the brightest marigold, whatever his young eyes fancied. He would carry it like a treasure back to his room, setting it with great care in a glass half-filled with water. One for him, one to keep. For a day or two, the bloom would brighten his room. He would admire it with the quiet devotion of a soul older than his had any right to be. But soon, its edges would curl, its stem would bend, and by the week’s end, it was a crumpled shadow of itself. He watched this with an unspoken sadness, something about it hurt in a way he didn’t quite understand. After a while, he stopped picking the flowers, even when his mother offered. He wanted them to stay as he saw them – in full bloom, untouched. “Why not take one?” she’d ask, her voice as gentle as the soil beneath her hands. But he’d shake his head, glancing out at the garden as though trying to memorize it all in a single look. “They’re prettier here,” he’d murmur, his voice almost too quiet to hear. And his mother would smile, ruffling soft blonde hair with those same earthy hands with a mothers pride; a lesson imparted that sometimes the things you love should be left alone, because love, in its purest form of brilliant colors and sunny smiles and dirty hands, is not about possession, but appreciation. 

******* ***

Nanami wasn’t one for friendships, nor for the loud, messy camaraderie of his classmates. He was the quiet observer, the one whose presence was easy to overlook until you needed a clear answer or a steady hand. Haibara Yu, on the other hand, was the kind of boy who made himself known in every room – friendly, loud, with an irrepressible grin and the easy charm that pulled everyone into his orbit. Haibara was the type who could wander into a stranger’s conversation and be welcomed before he’d even said his name. He would find beauty in the ordinary – a bent blade of grass, an overripe pear, fallen blossoms trodden underfoot – and he gave freely, tossing these pieces of his joy like candy. And somehow, this boy, more golden-retriever than man, became his best friend. During the brief weeks of cherry blossom season, petals blanketed the schoolyard, caught in the breeze, drifting like snow. Haibara would gather them by the handful, tossing them to anyone nearby enough to receive them; like they were something precious, and not just seasonal tree-litter. Nanami found himself on the receiving end of Haibara’s antics more often than not. One particular afternoon, Nanami was deep in a book, crouched against the wall beneath the shade of a tree, when he felt a tug at his collar. Haibara tucked a blossom behind his ear. “Perfect,” he announced, stepping back with a look of proud mischief. “Gotta add a little color to your life, Nanami! Look how pretty!” Nanami had grumbled, brushing the petal from his hair, but Haibara’s smile was contagious. Against his will, he found himself smiling, too, at the absurdity of it all. And despite his protests, he let Haibara continue – tucking flowers into his hair, hiding them in his hood, filling his pockets with petals until they spilled onto the floor. He would humor him, because he knew how deeply Haibara loved every moment of living, and how little he asked in return.

And then, the worst outcome to what should've been just a regular Tuesday happened.

There were no flowers in there. That was the first thought that seeped its way into Nanami's mind as he gazed down at Haibara's covered up body in the morgue, bloodshot eyes prickling with the pain from the day prior. No flowers, only the blossoming petals of coagulated blood that had stained the thin fabric separating what was once someone bigger than life and the harsh reality of their permanent absence.

The stark contrast between the shiny, cold, hard steel over every surface in that room left no space for the green, the pink, the yellow, the resplendent warmth of life that was alien to this mortuary monolith of death. And then, just as grief had dug its teeth around his chest, Nanami came to realize what could only be considered as some sort of self-inflicted torture.

I never gave him any flowers.

The cherry blossoms Haibara had fashioned in his hair, his clothes, all around him on that one sweet, sunny day – it had all stayed with Nanami, the memory of a beautiful moment shared with his closest person now tarnished by the weight of this painful realization. 

Was this it? Did Nanami fail his best friend so spectacularly that the first flowers he'd ever give to Haibara, someone who flourished in everyone's life, would be at his funeral? 

Was this the future reserved for the likes of him and Haibara? The beauty and tenderness of petals only reserved for when it was too little, too late?

It was only after Haibara was killed, a mission so routine that all were left reeling, that the memories stung, sharp as thorns. Sometimes, on nights thick with silence that should’ve been filled with crinkling snack bags and loud laughter well past quiet hours, Nanami would find a blossom pressed between the pages of a book Haibara had borrowed. A reminder, pink as a bleeding bruise, pinned within Nanami’s careful pages. A beautiful life, snipped with violent sheers from the garden – a blossom he’d only started to fully appreciate as its edges were already curdled with decay.

******* ***

There was a dim, unchanging silence in Nanami’s life after Haibara’s death – a grayness that blanketed every hour, every inch of his thoughts; what was a garden without a sun to feed it? It was easier to let himself drift, as though by keeping his mind empty, he might somehow avoid feeling anything at all. And in that space, Nanami found a kind of grim peace. Silence, to him, was a balm. But Gojo Satoru wouldn’t let him have it. Gojo was all brightness and noise, a sharp, irrepressible force that never leashed itself to restraint. He would show up unannounced, talk too much and too loudly, filling Nanami’s presence with his voice. And if Gojo noticed Nanami’s lack of response, he gave no indication – because Gojo Satoru was not something so trivial as the sun, he was a supernova, too brilliant to look upon. On a late afternoon, Nanami retreated to the yard – a place he’d once found calm – when Gojo appeared, holding a bundle of cherry blossoms. He approached with that signature grin, holding the flowers out as though they were some grand token of kindness, something Nanami should be grateful for. “Spring,” Gojo announced, his tone far too cheery, as though the world had every reason to celebrate. “Pretty, right?” Nanami stared at the flowers, his expression blank. The blooms looked too pink, too delicate, too flowery, too perfect. A perfect mockery of what they once meant. He took one sharp breath, feeling the tightness in his chest harden to something cold.

“Take them,” Gojo insisted, practically shoving the blossoms into Nanami’s hand. He didn’t so much as glance down. Instead, he let his hand fall, releasing the flowers without a word. They drifted to the ground, the petals scattering in a small, meaningless heap. Nanami looked away, his gaze fixed somewhere over Gojo’s shoulder, anywhere but at the person who was trying, too hard and without reason, to intrude on his grief.

“Not in the mood. Got it!” Gojo grinned. But Nanami only turned on his heel, walking away without so much as a nod. If Gojo wanted a reaction, he’d get none from him. He felt a grim satisfaction at his refusal, a confirmation that he could still draw a line when he existed in straight lines and statistics and rationality and ratios. Gojo’s flowers, now scattered and forgotten, lay where he had dropped them, as if they’d never held any meaning at all. Because there was no room for flowers in Nanami Kento’s life. They were too fragile, their supple flesh bruised too easily by the fingers of the cruel or the careless. It mattered not if he left the flower to grow in the garden, because for all the care and appreciation he could show it, it would die.

They always did.

******* ***

Nanami Kento grew up, and became a man of small routines and quiet convictions. He was disciplined and solitary, spending his days in a precise pattern of obligations: work, study, sleep, and repeat. He ate alone, walked the same routes, and carried a silence that made most people feel comfortable leaving him well enough alone. Each Monday, he went to the florist down the street from his apartment. It was a small, unremarkable shop, the kind you might pass without a second thought with sun-stained and yellowed windows and old cracked tile. Inside, the flowers were modest – no grand arrangements, no bouquets meant to wow. But every week, Nanami would stand there, studying each bunch with the seriousness he usually reserved for work. As cyclical and predictable as his mundane habits, the flowers were a commitment, something to return to at the end of each day, a small reminder that he had at least one reason to make it home. A cautionary measure of sorts, in case he faltered in his unyielding resolution to keep at his ordinary routine with his ordinary, reliable little comforts. 

They required almost nothing of him – just a fresh glass of water each morning and a moment to discard the wilting petals when they’d had their time. In return, they filled a small corner of his apartment with something bright and alive. A much needed reminder in his line of work. Once, an old colleague had asked him why he didn’t get a pet. “Seems like you could use the company,” they’d said offhand. But he had only shaken his head. A pet would require too much. They grew attached, they needed more than just water and sun – they required presence, a resource Nanami could not afford to offer, not to anyone or anything. If he died, which he viewed as inevitable, it would be left alone, a burden passed along to someone else. No, Nanami couldn't. He wouldn't.

Flowers were different. Their impermanence suited him. They were not expecting a tomorrow, and in that way, they were a comfort he could manage. Aware of his position as a jujutsu sorcerer, clearly to a fault, he'd rather not impose his absence onto another living being, and treat himself like something just as ephemeral as the petals he'd let wither every week in that quiet, little corner of his life. The flowers were not from anyone, not a gift, not a gesture of pity. They were something he gave himself, a small reminder that, perhaps, he deserved to see beauty in his own life, too. They were a nod to survival, to making it through each Monday, then Tuesday, and on and on. He’d place them in the same glass vase, set them on the same narrow ledge near his kitchen window, and allow himself a brief moment to admire the color they brought to the room. And when he returned each evening, the sight of them gave him a small, steady reason to stop, to take a breath, to continue forward. Because as much as he liked to think he was untouched by the world around him, he knew better than to believe he was anything more than mortal. And mortality, as it did for all things, would catch up with him. Nanami honed his life to a blade, sharp and solitary. He worked until the ache in his bones became as familiar as his breath, until each day bled into the next in a march toward the inevitable conclusion he would not name.

******* ***

Mahito’s touch was fire and rot. A thousand memories converged: his mother’s garden, flowers he dared not pick; Haibara’s petals, scattered across his shoulders; Gojo’s blossoms, unappreciated then, but stinging now with the ache of regret left trampled in the dirt. In the blackened periphery of his vision, those flowers now floated, eerie, fragile momentos against the creeping dark in his eyes – or eye, he thinks he has only one now. They reached out in a sea of pale blooms to guide him, open arms to welcome him home. Haibara stood just ahead, haloed in light, and Nanami couldn’t even begin to think that strange. He knew he would be there. The boys smile was as steady as it was in life, unbroken, as though death had granted him nothing but peace. He felt the ache of it most sharply, shuddering through his bloody and broken body. His old friends face like springtime, unspoiled and untouched by the brutal, shrieking world they’d been born into. He need only step forward, to sink, to fall – the cold hand caressing between his shoulder blades would shepherd him to death. But footsteps came echoing down linoleum, pulling him back as he teetered on the razors edge. Yuji. Peach-pink, a small brightness against his vision that grows darker with every cold breath. A flower himself, hopeful and stubborn, rising from the barren soil of their world. His face was desperate, broken in the way his name cracked and fell hollow from his lips with trembling hands that wilted limp to his sides. Nanami’s heart twisted; he’d known this moment would come, that the end had been creeping up behind him all this time. He feared Yuji’s grief, what it could become and what it could do, the way this scene would imprint itself deep in the boy’s memory, sinking roots that might never let go. But in Yuji’s gaze, even beneath flat horror and despair, he saw it – the strength he’d searched for his whole life, something soft and resilient. Yuji was as fragile and as enduring as a wildflower, something untouched and tenacious, able to withstand the bitterest of winds and the worst of natures cruelty. Nanami saw it clearly: Yuji would grow, rise from ruin, bright and alive. He would persist. The edges of his world blurred, discordant shapes curling in the melting pot of his eye, and with a last, soft breath and his best attempt at a smile, Nanami gave what faith he had left. “You’ve got it from here.”

******* ***

The quietude solemnly prevailed over the debris and decay of Shinjuku, and for a fleeting moment, Gojo thought of the irony, how come such chaos left in its wake this indelible absence of sound? No birds chirped in the morning, nor any other animals dared to venture through the battle-scarred surroundings, no man's land for those who insisted on staying behind to fight the King of Curses. 

The silence that laid there laid bare in mourning for the losses.

Gojo gazed out the window as the gray sun set behind a curtain of gray clouds cast over the gray skyline, torn-down buildings scattered all over the gray terrain and pillaged wreckage. The air itself weaved flecks of soot and inhospitality, and it had been days since he saw a murmur of life dredging its way through the barren landscape — a small humming bird, that fleetingly passed its way outside their makeshift bunker before disappearing just as fast as it had come.

In this prevalent, overwhelming absence of green, the best he could haphazardly improvise was poaching a plastic flower from one of the many florals centerpieces on sale in an abandoned, ransacked store around the area. That, and a single incense, with a simple, small, black square incense holder.

Over the windowsill, the sorcerer placed one single faux white rose, the edges of its petals frail and frazzled under dust blemishes. Beside it, Gojo positioned the holder with a simple byakudan incense propped up by the holder's snug. It stood proudly, even if ideally, Gojo would've preferred to spare the right amount of incenses, time, effort, and flowers to hold a proper otsuya in honor of his fallen friend. The incense's smoke snaked and swirled in the air in a lonely stream, and just as Gojo himself, the solitude of the moment he held away from his students and colleagues ensured him once more.

We all die alone. Just like Nanami did.

Joining both his hands in front of his chest in a prayer, Gojo surrendered his six eyes to the quiet, closing his eyelids, regarding the silence for a moment with careful consideration, a small gesture of affection he spared for those he truly cared about. He wondered, caught up in thoughts, if he should indeed chant a sutra in the ratio sorcerer's honor, and as a trick of his imagination bringing forth the amalgam of impressions and memories ingrained in his mind, Gojo could hear the faint ghost of Nanami's voice. He could hear in the measured, precise beats of his usual nonchalant tone how unnecessary that was, and that Gojo, as the strongest, should waste no precious time in other endeavors that weren't dedicated to slay the evil which had brought destruction over Japan. And he heard, just as faintly, that same voice recede quietly in empathetic acceptance of his irrational need to honor a departed colleague.

For all his methodical regard over human matters, Nanami was inexorably kind at heart, clearly to a fault.

Clearly to death. 

"Gojo sensei?" a minute whisper cut through the somber silence, and Gojo turned around to look at the two who stepped into his solitary funeral rite. Yuji and Ino stood in the doorway, gazing at him and then at the makeshift, simple altar he had concocted with those few looted items. Upon realizing what Gojo was probably doing, Yuji apologized, and explained, "we were looking for you. We didn't mean to intrude."

"It's alright," Gojo replied, his usual smile forming over his face as a force of habit for his students’ benefit.

Ino regarded the scene in front of him attentively, remembering that earlier, on that very same day, Gojo had finally learned about Nanami's death during the Shibuya incident. Thoughtfully, he inquired, "is this an otsuya for Nanami?"

Gojo was slightly surprised, but not from the keen observation skills of Ino – after all, he was his mentee, Nanami's mentee. Gojo just didn't have in mind he'd find himself in this very scenario, even in all likelihood of that happening. 

"Yes, yes it is," he conceded.

"I'd like to pay my respects too," Yuji stated, stepping forward towards his teacher, "if that would be okay."

"Me too," Ino followed, approaching them both with measured steps. He briefly noticed the unkempt state of the rose Gojo had put as an offering on the windowsill, and it crossed his mind with a stinging amusement how much Nanami would be equal parts offended and grateful for this thoughtful gesture done in such a haphazard manner, even if he probably would only voice the former. Funerals, after all, were impractical. They served as vehicles of grief for the living, not the dead who had long since been shepherded along past whichever mortal veil awaited them. And in this desolate land of ruin and war, where grief hung heavy and pressed bowed heads all the lower, there was still beauty to be found in this small act of rebellion against death. A kind of garden bloomed in that space – not one of petals or green things, but the connections left behind, roots that dug deep, holding fast even in barren soil. A garden of the heart, built on friendship, quiet appreciation, and the stubborn will to live and remember. 

And in that sacred silence, Nanami would have clapped Ino on the back in the way he never did in life, a chuckle in his throat as he chided him with a quiet, “real men cry, Ino.” Ino’s jaw trembled, his hands tight at his sides, a breath held in with solemn determination not to let tears fall. Nanami might have approved, or perhaps he’d have nudged him closer to grief with a final, gentle insistence: some burdens were meant to be shared.

Yuji stood apart, eyes wide and carrying grief in the fragile way of youth. Nanami would watch with a quiet ache, recognizing that herculean weight Yuji bore, a burden he’d taken on willingly but never asked for. In Yuji, Nanami saw an echo of his younger self – a boy carrying the burdens meant for a man, each step of the path cobbled by the failure of the adults around him. Perhaps, in another life, he might have been there to guide him further, to offer the steady strength of a fathers hand. But here, from this distance, he could only hope that Yuji knew: he had done enough.

At Gojo’s side, Nanami would have stood without a word, a silent presence where no more needed to be said. He’d never dared it in life, never felt it his right to stand beside a man who seemed less human than some cosmic force. But here, in death, he allowed himself to be steady and still, a quiet echo of companionship he never afforded himself. And as Gojo’s eyes slid sideways, a faint, knowing flicker, Nanami wondered if he knew.

In the end, Nanami had left little behind, yet these three, brighter than any flower, were a bouquet of all he’d valued. An oasis, growing fast even in the shadowed, broken heart of Shinjuku. The smoke drifted higher, and somewhere beyond it all, Nanami stood watch, as those three blossoms remained forever in full bloom.