Nanami Kento | JJK

Professor Yamada was not a man who accepted refusal easily.

"And that's final, Nanami." The older man leaned back in his worn office chair, steepling his fingers in a way that probably looked authoritative in his own mind. "Miss {{user}} needs assistance with Calculus II. You have the highest marks in the department. You're reliable, patient, and you actually show up to office hours. Ergo—"

"Ergo," Kento repeated flatly. "You're volunteering me for free labor."

"I'm investing in peer education." Yamada smiled, entirely unbothered. "Think of it as... community service."

"I'm not a fraternity brother serving a suspension, sir."

"No, you're something far more valuable: a competent student with no documented social life." The professor waved a hand. "One hour, twice a week. Library. You explain derivatives, she passes the midterm, and I stop getting panicked emails from her academic advisor. Everyone wins."

Kento stood there, arms crossed, expression unchanging. His tailored sweater and slacks made him look less like a math student and more like a young executive who'd wandered onto the wrong floor. Dark blond hair neatly styled. Glasses catching the fluorescent light. The kind of quiet, put-together presence that made people assume he was either incredibly intelligent or incredibly boring.

Usually both.

"Fine," he said after a long pause. "One hour. Twice a week. But if she's unpleasant or uninterested, I reserve the right to withdraw."

Yamada beamed. "That's the spirit!"

Kento's expression suggested he had a very different definition of "spirit." He nodded once and left, the door closing softly behind him.

The hallway was crowded with students rushing between classes. Kento moved through them with practiced ease—not fast, not slow, just... deliberate. Like he had somewhere to be and no interest in arriving late.

He didn't make it far.

"NANAMIN! No, wait—Nanamin-senpai! Over here!"

Kento closed his eyes briefly. Recognized the voice. Considered, briefly, pretending he hadn't heard.

"Nanamin?" Another voice, calmer, amused. "Since when does he respond to that?"

"Since I decided he needs a cool nickname. Nanamin. It's got ring, Suguru."

Kento turned.

Satoru Gojo was loping toward him with the kind of effortless confidence that came from being tall, handsome, and utterly unaware that normal people didn't move through life like they owned it. His swim team jacket was slung over one shoulder, hair still slightly damp from practice, sunglasses pushed up into white hair that defied physics.

Beside him, Suguru Geto walked at a more reasonable pace—sketchbook tucked under one arm, expression long-suffering in the way only someone who'd known Satoru since freshman year could manage.

"Nanamin," Satoru repeated, sliding up to Kento with a grin. "How's it hanging, sensei?"

Kento's eyebrow twitched. "Don't call me that."

"Why not? Heard you got drafted into tutoring duty." Satoru's grin widened. "Professor Yamada's office. Early morning meeting. Very hush-hush. Except—" He tapped his ear. "Thin walls. Amazing what you hear when you're 'accidentally' loitering nearby."

"You were eavesdropping."

"I was proximity-information-gathering."

Suguru caught up, offering Kento a small, apologetic smile. "He dragged me along. I tried to stop him."

"You walked beside me and said nothing."

"Sounds like stopping to me."

Kento pinched the bridge of his nose. It was too early for this.

"So," Satoru continued, undeterred, "a girl. A mysterious girl who needs tutoring. In math. Which you're good at. And you're going to spend alone time with her. In the library." He wiggled his eyebrows dramatically. "Nanamin. You dog."

"It's tutoring. Not a date."

"Famous last words." Satoru draped an arm around Kento's shoulders—a move Kento tolerated with visible discomfort. "Let me paint you a picture. Quiet library. Late afternoon light. You, explaining derivatives. Her, gazing at you with those big, grateful eyes. One thing leads to another, and suddenly—"

"Nothing leads to another," Kento interrupted flatly. "Because it's tutoring. And I'm not interested in—" He paused, searching for the right word.

"Dating?" Suguru supplied mildly.

"Distractions."

Satoru gasped, clutching his chest. "Distractions! He calls human connection distractions! Suguru, our boy is broken."

"Our boy has always been broken. You're just noticing now?"

Kento shrugged off Satoru's arm and continued walking toward his next class. They fell into step beside him anyway, because Satoru had never learned what personal space meant.

"So," Satoru pressed, "what's her name? What does she look like? Is she cute? Please tell me she's cute. You deserve a cute one."

"I don't know her name. I haven't met her. I have no idea what she looks like." Kento's voice was perfectly level. "Professor Yamada assigned me to tutor a student in need of math assistance. That's the extent of my knowledge."

"And you didn't ask? Not even a little curious?"

"No."

"Liar."

"Satoru." Suguru's voice held a warning.

"What? I'm just saying—" Satoru held up his hands innocently. "A little curiosity is healthy. You don't want to be one of those guys who graduates without ever having a single romantic experience, do you? Living alone with fifty cats, grading papers, muttering about prime numbers—"

"You're describing every math professor we've ever had."

"Exactly! Don't become them, Kento. Fight the future."

Kento stopped walking. Turned to face them both. His expression was unreadable—calm, controlled, the face of a man who had long ago learned that reacting only encouraged further nonsense.

"I am going to class now," he said quietly. "To sit. To take notes. To exist in the same space as this mysterious, unnamed woman who apparently needs my mathematical expertise. If, after class, she approaches me and expresses interest in something beyond calculus, I will... consider it. But I will not seek it. I will not hope for it. And I will certainly not plan for it."

He paused.

"Now. If you'll excuse me."

He turned and walked away.

Satoru watched him go, mouth slightly open. Then he turned to Suguru.

"He's going to fall so hard for her."

"Absolutely."

"It's going to be hilarious."

"Without question."

"And we're going to be there for every second of it."

Suguru smiled—small, amused, fond. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

The classroom was already half-full when Kento arrived. He took his usual seat—third row, center-left, close enough to see the board clearly, far enough to avoid the front-row overachievers. He pulled out his notebook, his pen, his textbook. Arranged them precisely. Waited.

The door opened again.

He looked up without meaning to. Old habit. Assessing who entered, where they sat, whether they'd be noisy or quiet.

She walked in.

He didn't know her. That was his first thought. He knew most of the regulars in this class—the ones who actually attended, anyway. She wasn't one of them. Which meant either she'd transferred in late, or she'd been skipping, or—

Or she was the one. The tutoring assignment.

She found a seat near the back. Crossed her legs. Her skirt shifted, revealing a long line of—

Kento looked away. Deliberately. Fixed his gaze on the front board.

Focus.

The door opened again. Of course it did.

Satoru slid into the seat beside him with the grace of a puppy who didn't realize he was too big for laps. Suguru took the seat on Satoru's other side, settling in with the resigned air of a man who'd long ago accepted his fate.

"Nanamin," Gojo whispered loudly. "Nanamin. Nanamin."

"What."

"Back row. Skirt. Legs."

Kento didn't look. "I'm aware."

"Those are some beautiful legs, Ken boy. Like, objectively. I'm a taken man—" he flashed his left hand, where a cheap braided ring now lived, a gift from the girl who'd somehow tamed him "—but I can still appreciate aesthetics. And those are aesthetic."

Suguru leaned forward to look at Kento. "He's not wrong. The proportions are... mathematically pleasing."

"Did you just use math to compliment a stranger's legs?"

"I'm an art major. We notice these things."

Satoru grinned. "Maybe that's your tutoring girl, Kento. Maybe Professor Yamada set you up with the legs. You ever think of that?"

Kento turned his head slowly. Looked at Satoru with an expression of infinite patience and zero amusement.

"If you're done objectifying a woman you've never met," he said quietly, "class is about to start."

"Ooh, defensive." Satoru nudged Suguru. "That's defensive, right? That's not neutral Nanamin. That's something."

"It's definitely something."

"It's nothing." Kento faced forward. "It's tutoring. It's math. It's entirely unremarkable."

"Mhm." Satoru settled back, still grinning. "Sure, Nanamin. Whatever you say."

Class ended. Students shuffled out. Kento packed his things slowly, deliberately—not rushing, not delaying, just... methodical.

She was still in the back. Gathering her own materials. Probably waiting for the crowd to thin.

He stood. Walked toward her.

Satoru's whispered "go get 'em, tiger" followed him. He ignored it.

He stopped beside her desk. Made a small sound—not quite a grunt, not quite a clearing of throat. Just enough to signal his presence.

He nodded once. Short, polite.

"Professor Yamada assigned me to tutor you," he said. Voice even, professional, neither warm nor cold. "Calculus II, correct? I'm Nanami Kento. We can meet in the library after class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. One hour. Bring your notes, your textbook, and any specific problems you're struggling with."

"Today works, if you're available." He glanced at his watch. "I have an hour now. Library's quiet this time of day."

Three weeks.

Three weeks of library sessions. Three weeks of Calculus II derivatives, integrals, and the slow, agonizing realization that Kento was not as in control of himself as he'd always believed.

It started small. Innocent, even.

He'd notice the way her brow furrowed when she was confused, a tiny crease between her eyes that made him want to reach out and smooth it with his thumb. He'd notice the way she bit her lip while thinking, teeth sinking into soft flesh, and he'd look away quickly. Too quickly.

These were just observations. Neutral facts. Nothing more.

Then there were the other observations.

The curve of her collarbone when she wore a certain top. The way her shirt shifted when she reached for her water bottle, giving him a glimpse of something softer beneath. The shape of her lips when she said his name, Kento, just Kento now, not Mr. Nanami or Nanami-san, just... him.

His eyes would catch on these details. Hold. His brain would supply images he hadn't asked for, her lips on his, her hands in his hair, her body beneath him on one of these very library tables.

He pushed them away. Hormones. Biological urges. Perfectly normal for a man his age. They meant nothing. He was very good at lying to himself.

It happened on a Thursday night.

He'd returned to his dorm after their latest session, showered as usual, stood under the hot water letting it beat against his shoulders. Normal routine. Nothing unusual.

Except his mind wouldn't stop replaying the evening.

She'd worn a sweater—soft, cream-colored, loose enough to be modest but draped in a way that shifted when she moved. She'd leaned forward to point at a problem in his textbook, and the neckline had gaped slightly, just slightly, showing him the barest hint of-

He'd looked away immediately. Cleared his throat. Continued explaining derivatives like the professional he was.

But now, in the shower, the image was back. Uninvited. Unwelcome.

Stop, he told himself but his body didn't listen.

He felt himself hardening... slow at first, then faster, blood rushing where it shouldn't. He sighed, tilting his head back under the spray. This was normal. Natural. He was a healthy man in his early twenties, and he'd been... focused. Stressed. Pent up.

He hadn't done this in a while. Hadn't felt the need, really. His hand drifted down, wrapping around himself, and he told himself it was just release. Nothing more. Just biology.

He started moving his hand. Slow. Methodical. The way he did everything.

Then her face appeared in his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to push it away. Failed.

It wasn't just her face. It was her smile, the one she gave him when he explained something in a way that finally clicked. The little laugh she'd let out when he'd made a dry comment about Satoru's latest chaos. The way her eyes crinkled at the corners, warm and real and looking at him.

His hand moved faster. In his mind, she was closer. Leaning in. Her lips brushing his—

He groaned, quiet, the sound lost in the shower's rush.

Now she was on her knees. Looking up at him with those gorgeous eyes, focused entirely on him. Her mouth open. Her hands on his thighs.

He was fully hard now, strokes getting rougher, breathing uneven.

Now she was beneath him. On her back, hair spread across his pillow, that same sweater pushed up, pushed aside, gone. His mouth on her throat, her collarbone, lower. Her back arching. Her fingers in his hair. That sound, the one she made when she understood something... but different now, breathier, needier, for him.

Yes, his mind supplied, like that, just like that, I want...

He turned her over. On her side, him behind her, one hand on her hip, the other—god, the other—he couldn't think, couldn't breathe, could only imagine the feeling of being inside her, of her heat around him, of her whispering his name like a mantra, over and over, Kento, Kento, Kento...

His hips thrust forward into his own fist. He couldn't stop it. Didn't want to.

Her eyes in his mind, looking at him like he was the only man in the world. Like he mattered. Like he was enough. That was what undid him.

He came with a groan he couldn't suppress, body tightening, release spilling hot against the shower tiles. The water immediately began washing it away, erasing the evidence, but nothing could erase what or who had caused it.

He braced one arm against the wall, forehead pressed to his forearm, breath ragged. His heart pounded. His mind was blank for one blessed second.

Then it wasn't. He opened his eyes. Stared at the tile. Watched the water swirl down the drain.

What have I done. He felt... dirty. Not physically, the shower was handling that. But inside. He'd just, he'd imagined her. In explicit detail. Multiple positions. The sounds she'd make. The way she'd say his name.

She was his tutee. A student he was supposed to help. Someone who trusted him to be professional, appropriate, safe.

And he'd just... in the shower, of all places, he'd... He groaned again, but this time it was pure self-disgust.

He was raised to be a gentleman. His mother had taught him respect. His father had modeled quiet integrity. He was not supposed to be the kind of man who fantasized about women who trusted him.

I'm a horndog, he thought miserably. Just another horndog.

He finished his shower mechanically. Washed. Rinsed. Turned off the water. Dried off. Went to bed. He did not sleep well.

The next day was their regular tutoring session.

Kento arrived at the library ten minutes early, as always. Sat in their usual spot. Arranged his materials. Took a breath. Another.

He could do this. He was a professional. He'd put last night out of his mind and be completely normal. She would never know. Nothing had changed.

She walked in. His eyes betrayed him immediately.

She was wearing—he didn't know what she was wearing. Something. A top. Probably a nice one. She always looked nice. But today, why today? It was...

Stop looking at her chest.

He looked at her face.

Stop looking at her lips.

He looked at her eyes.

Stop-

She was sitting down. Looking at him with concern. Those eyes. Those gorgeous, kind, trusting eyes.

He cleared his throat. Nodded once. "Alright. Let's begin."

The session was torture.

He couldn't look at her directly. Kept his gaze fixed on the textbook, on her notebook, on anywhere that wasn't her. When she leaned forward to write, he stared at the far wall with the intensity of a man trying to solve world peace. When she laughed at something he didn't even know what, he wasn't listening, he had to physically grip his pen to keep from reacting.

Every time he tried to look at her, his eyes would drift. To her collarbone. To the hem of her skirt. To her lips as she asked a question. He'd snap back to the whiteboard, heart racing, face carefully blank.

Did she notice? She must have noticed. He was being weird. He was never weird. He was Nanami Kento. Calm, composed, reliable. Not whatever this was.

An hour passed. Somehow. She packed her things. He pretended to organize his notes. He looked up. Careful. Controlled. She was smiling, her lips moving, asking him a question.

His brain stopped.

The words filtered through his consciousness, twisted by last night's fantasies, by this morning's desperate attempts at control, by three weeks of suppressed wanting.

Would you like to eat me out sometime?

His head snapped toward her. His eyes went wide. His voice, when it finally emerged was strangled.

"What did you say?" He stared at her. She repeated, asking if he would like to eat something.

Eat something. Food. She said food.

The blood returned to his face, mostly in the form of a blush he desperately hoped she couldn't see.

"I-" He cleared his throat. Looked away. "No. Thank you. I have... plans."

The words left his mouth automatically. Reflex. Self-preservation.

Plans? What plans? You have no plans. You were going to go back to your dorm and stare at the ceiling and hate yourself. She's asking you to eat with her. Food. With her. Sitting. Eating. Like normal people do. Like a date. Is this a date? She's leaving. She's walking away. Say something. Say-

"Actually-" His mouth opened. His brain scrambled. Words formed. Exited. In the wrong order.

"Yes, actually, I want to eat you out-"

"Sorry-" he corrected, voice strangled, ears burning, "I want to eat with you. Let's go. Eat. Food. Together. As people do."