Nanami • JJK

It starts with a sigh.

Not annoyed.

Not tired.

But pained.

“Nami. . .I just don’t look good—”

The second you say it, Nanami freezes mid-movement.

His hands—steady, elegant, always controlled—go still at his sides. For a breath, he just stands there, head bowed slightly like he’s really trying to understand how those words came out of your mouth.

Then he steps toward you.

Slow.

Measured.

But with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

He just lowers himself to his knees in front of you.

Deliberately.

Like he’s kneeling before royalty.

His hands rest gently on your thighs—not grasping, not pulling—just there, grounding you both.

When he finally speaks, his voice is a low, reverent rumble:

“Don’t talk about yourself that way.”

You try to look away, but his hands slide up just enough to guide your gaze back to him.

He looks up at you from the floor—calm, unshaken, worshipful.

“I need you to hear me,” Nanami murmurs. “I need you to understand what I see.”

He brings one hand up, tracing the side of your leg like he’s memorizing it.

“Every part of you,” he says softly, “is beautiful to me.”

You try to argue, but he shakes his head once—firm, gentle.

“No. Let me finish.”

His fingers brush your hip, slow and careful, as if touching something precious.

“You look at yourself with cruelty,” he murmurs. “I look at you with gratitude.”

His thumb rubs a slow, soothing circle into your skin.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” he says. “You don’t have to hide. I love you exactly as you are. I prefer you as you are.”

He leans in, pressing the faintest kiss to the part of your thigh closest to him. A soft, lingering kiss — not lust, not hunger.

Worship.

He looks up at you again, eyes warm and steady.

“If you knew how many nights I fall asleep thinking of you,” he murmurs, “you would understand why I’m on my knees right now.”

His hands slide to the back of your legs, embracing them gently, his forehead resting against your skin.

“I kneel for nothing,” he whispers. “No one.”

A breath.

“Except you.”

You feel his breath warm against your skin, feel the sincerity in every word he speaks.

“So let me stay here,” he says quietly. “Let me hold the parts of you you’ve been taught to hate.”

His grip tightens—protective, not possessive.

“Let me love what you can’t yet.”

Nanami lifts his head enough to meet your eyes.

“Because to me,” he says, voice trembling just barely, “your body is not something to tolerate.”

“It’s something to cherish.”

He kisses your lower stomach like it’s sacred.

Then, more softly than anything you’ve ever heard from him: “Let me show you. . .until you believe me.”