#also ive been seeing a rise in nanami stans in my inbox...whats goin on...

[sukunasun]

I read your "how the jjk men would give it to you" post you made and.... like... surprise dick w stressed nanami sounds *chefs kiss* amazing. I was wondering if you had more thoughts about it bc i havent known peace ever since i read that hc/snippet

i was wondering which piece you were referring to only to realize you meant THAT post....

despite the dark circles and a scowl keeping his face in an ever-constant state of agitation, he’s a picture worth a million dollars, in tight-fitted suits that pinch at the waist, the back of his hand dusting over broad shoulders, poised, prim, lapels ironed flat over a wide chest. built and beautiful and so prudish is he. what is it about nanami the salaryman. his life made up of decimal points going up and down, a strand of hair he finds randomly on his shoulder, and the long, long, hours that build up overtime, a culmination of disappointments and tension unlike any other. forcing him closer to that edge, losing all control.

maybe it's the way his face is lit by a computer screen, by fluorescent lights, looking sickly and tense. he leans back in his chair every 30 minutes and the heavy sighs he lets out, the deep groans, guttural and frustrated sound so pornographic you think he's doing it on purpose. your friends tell you it's the clark kent effect, everyone's into the hot nerdy types, the quiet ones who hide that wild, primal side of themselves. but he is no superman, in fact, he's the complete opposite, he hides nothing and he hones no powers. he's just a man in need of a splurge or something, the desperation written all over his face.

who says things like "make me copies, reschedule my meeting, this coffee is atrocious make sure you use the french press like i taught you" do this, do that, barking orders at you all day without so much as a thank you. well, it’s less bark and more bite really. he's so cutting it's like he could say anything to you just so he gets to sneak in some kind of backhanded comment, unsolicited and uncalled for, an inkling inside you warning you of its hidden meaning.

if he were anything like his coworkers, he could just visit the strip club, pick up a girl on a dating app, find some stranger at a club, a quick fuck, a one night stand. but nanami wouldn’t dare. it's such a shame that he doesn't know how to fuck, wouldn't be able to the way he seems so tightly wound and uptight—mr. 'i'm better than you because i make so much money and i am good at my job'.

not to mention it wouldn't work either because he needs something more, something along the lines of your pretty mouth wrapped around him, taking him all the way inside, choking on it. you'd make him last as long as possible, make him shake and tremble with his hands gripping your hair tight, fisting, tugging hard and he'd keep you there, releasing down your throat. it’s what he wishes for when he stands in a bathroom stall jerking himself off for the fourth time that day and god help him because it’s now a routine, just for the sake of release, mechanical and so quick he doesn't get to savour it. even when he does reach his peak—cum painting his fingers, hot and sticky and so incredibly disgusting when the adrenaline wears off, heartbeat slowing, lips swollen and bruised clamped down between his teeth, his body doused in all that shame—it's not enough.

later in the day he gets off the phone with a client who's been bugging him about buying, selling, about shares, investments, the money's not real and on paper they're making a fortune but nanami knows he's going home with most of it. his patience along with the desire to keep his job is wearing thin. seen with the way a vein bulges over his temples, jaw clenching, his tie comes undone then, tugs at it until it hangs loose. starts to crave a cigarette by the lounge, away from prying eyes, but it's not needed when he looks up and sees you by your desk. “he’s just this guy at the office, you know, the kind that has a stick up their ass and takes themselves too seriously,” he overhears you say on the phone—it’s offensive of course, because you say it with such contempt like he wasn't capable of bending you over a desk, over a leather couch, making you muffle your screams in a supply closet as he fucks you silly. he wants to scoff, you should have been keeping those things to yourself, let alone talking about him out in the open. 

at this rate, he could just pull some strings and let you lose your job but he decides otherwise, walking over to where you are, nanami raises an eyebrow when he stands over your desk. "menial tasks requires less brain power so this falls right within your purview doesn't it, what are you, an errand girl?" he usually speaks in a monotone voice. this time however, it's like he believes himself superior. smug and snobbish.

“i graduated top of my class," you reply with indignation. who does he think he is, was this some weird power trip? he’s always been so quiet, so composed and collected. “and it’s sexist to imply that i merely run errands,” you spit back. if it weren’t for you, he’d be fucked. who organizes his schedule and replies his emails when he could just do it himself. 

immediately, he says “i made the assumption based off your incompetence, not because you are a woman.” then glances at you with his nose upturned. cringing at your gaping mouth, at your shocked expression. “stop staring, you're getting drool all over company property," he plops a few stacks of papers by the edge of your desk and without thinking about the implications of it, pushes them towards you with his pelvis. a lazy thrust of his hips and you look up then, expecting to see a sly expression, just like every other man who work on top floors and smoke cigars in penthouse view board rooms but his face is hesitant, like he's holding back something, "get this sorted, and don't make a mess of it." he instructs, before walking away, striding towards the men's bathroom for...whatever reason, you didn’t know, but he's always disheveled and doused in cologne afterwards.

geto and gojo suggest he meets the daughter of one of their clients but nanami suspects it's just another one of their schemes. “she’s a babe, would be down to fuck on a first date,” gojo doesn’t care that he’s being loud and obnoxious because he has more money than anyone will ever make in their lifetime while geto slaps an envelope against nanami's chest, “here, go buy her something pretty, it might help us convince her dad to invest,” geto says from behind him. he peeks through the opening and finds crisp bills stuffed into it, bursting at the seams.

the woman in question looks more like a doll, she smells like vanilla and her full lips purse when she whispers, "i like you," straddling him and leaving soft little smooches against his neck. it sounds made up because she barely knows him. he looks down at her spread legs and wonders what they'd look like in stockings, the kind you wear, in a pencil skirt and a blouse buttoned all the way to the top. her wavy extensions don't do anything for him, where's the updo, where are the hairpins tucked behind the ear. he doesn't want to hear her praises or her exaggerated moans, she's definitely a professional, a respectable one at that because she does it well but he wants a woman who's careless with her work, who looks down on him, he wants an errand girl—

"don't speak, you’ll ruin it,” nanami groans, and in a hotel room behind closed doors, she does as she’s told. he makes her face the other way so he doesn't have to see her, hear her, he could just deal with the weird, nauseating mix of being unsatisfied later on, feeling guilty when he knows he's using someone else, she's merely an object now, he doesn't care about her or whether she likes him and it's so infuriating that he wishes to prove you wrong because he's made to press up behind you, feel his heart beating beneath the skin, racing and pounding. proof that he has one, that he's made for more than just sitting behind a desk.

so he'll compromise tonight, all until he leaves her in an empty bed the next morning, rushing off to work with geto’s money left on the bedside table.

he's even more of a pain in the ass that morning, breathing down your neck and making sure you're left with double the amount of usual things he makws you do. but also he keeps a distance, going as far as flinching away every time you so much as tap him on the shoulder. this man is on edge, like he's about to implode. "what's your deal, haven't you ever felt the touch of a woman?" you tease, just for fun, even when you know he wouldn't laugh. and he doesn't really, but instead finds himself fucking you against the wall of his office.

skirt bunched up around your middle, he rips into your stockings with his hands, ripping it and pushing your panties to the side, "i'll buy you another more so stop whining," then tells you to leave the heels on and you do. even when he holds you up in his hands, legs propped up on his shoulders, you try to keep them from slipping off. in the reflection of a mirror, you watch his muscled back flex, the walls thudding, and those heels start dangling over your toes from the sheer force, each one of his thrusts, hard and fast and deep, keeps pushing you over the edge.

the first time you come all over him, it makes you tremble and shake, the newfound revelation that he's actually so skilled is one thing but nanami kisses your neck, gently coaxing you through your release. when he moves you to a couch, he sets you atop him, legs spread wide and thighs held firmly in his hands. he adjusts himself behind you and before you could whine from just how sensitive you feel, he pushes himself back inside, stretched and full and so hot. making sure that over your shoulder, he could watch you in that same mirror, and that you'd see him too. you'd see just who exactly makes you feel this way.

and by the time he fucks you by the window, you whimper when you look out then, clear blue sky and bright sunlight, it's a beautiful day out and the street below are bustling with cars and people who are looking to make memories. some colleagues are out for lunch and others are having some fresh air, a seemly normal day, and your heart pounds, fear and excitement creeping up because anyone could see, turn their heads up to catch the view of a woman with her knees tucked to the sides of her head, squirming and bucking as her boss fucks up into her. "i'm starting to think you like this," he taunts when your moans ring out, and it's true because you were running your mouth, making a scene, you believed him to be incapable and inexperienced but now you can't think of any other man who's made you feel the way he does. nanami doesn't care one bit about the exposure, abut public indecency or whatever the fuck they'll say about him, let them see how he makes you come apart, making your mind go numb.

"you did this to me," he snarls into the crook of your neck, how often had pictured this moment and now that it's real, his cock buried inside you, the moans you let out sounding better than anything he could have imagined, and the look on your pretty face while you're succumbing to him, this snappy little thing now submitting herself. "let me know if it's too much okay?" he whispers, biting down on your neck, pounding inside you, feeling your juices run down til it drips all over the carpet floors. he'd make you call someone to get it cleaned, and he'd stress about getting it done on time so no one would suspect a thing but he'd also go back to being a pain in the ass, or maybe he'd start being a little sweet, a little kinder, gentle and tender...until he isn't.