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heyybaejjk · 8 days ago

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synopsis ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ nanami watches you save your baby girl three times with unreal mom reflexes—and realizes nothing turns him on more than you being fiercely protective and unstoppable.

tags/warnings ⋆·˚ ༘ * domestic fluff, light smut at the end, nanami being obsessed with you, you’re a mom with elite reflexes, baby girl oc, you’re a cool mom, did i mention nanami neing obsessed?

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ this has been in my drafts for sooooo long i finally finished this gahhh

the first time it happens, nanami thinks it’s a fluke.

the kind of lucky, last-second save that happens once in a blue moon—an accident narrowly avoided, a parent’s miracle reflexes kicking in when it matters most. that’s what he tells himself, anyway.

you’re both in the living room, late afternoon sunlight pooling gold across the rug. the windows are open. the breeze carries in the faint sound of birds, neighbors, distant traffic. soft, peaceful.

nanami’s sitting on the floor in his slacks and button-up, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a stack of plush alphabet blocks scattered around him in a mess that your daughter gleefully adds to with each swipe of her tiny hands. every time he builds a tower, she knocks it over with a squeal, then claps like she just cured cancer. he doesn’t mind. in fact, he thinks she’s brilliant for it.

you’re nearby on the couch in joggers and an old t-shirt that used to be his, folding laundry—knee propped under a basket, hands moving smoothly from shirt to towel to sock. your hair’s up, a little messy from your morning walk with the stroller. your skin’s glowing faintly from the shower you took an hour ago, smelling like warm cotton and your usual lotion.

he’s just about to comment on how cute your daughter looks with a onesie snapped crooked over one thigh when he notices her move.

not the usual clumsy crawl or handsy sway— this is a determined kind of wobble. toy clenched in one fist, two teething fingers jammed in her mouth, she toddles forward with dangerous purpose. right toward the sharp edge of the coffee table. head-first. eye-level with the corner.

he sees it too late.

“watch her—” he starts, voice already climbing, panic seizing his chest—

but you’re already up, dropping the towel mid-fold. you move—and nanami’s breath catches.

he’s never seen you move like this before. not outside of a training mat, not since your jujutsu days. it’s not the clumsy lurch of a panicked parent. it’s precision. you barely even rise from the couch—you launch off it, one foot bracing against the cushion for balance, your whole body twisting and reaching over the armrest in a single fluid motion.

your fingers wrap around her wrist just as her body tips too far forward. her little knees buckle, her toes drag, and she’s suddenly airborne—but you’ve already caught her. enough to anchor her, to turn her fall into a small swing backward, and then you scoop her up in one smooth, practiced motion like you’ve done it a thousand times.

there’s a beat of silence.

nanami’s still frozen on the floor. half-risen, heart pounding against his ribs, hand outstretched like he was going to do something—like he could’ve—but now? now, he’s useless.

your daughter blinks, only mildly disturbed by the abrupt change in altitude. she makes a soft noise, not quite a cry, more surprised than scared. you murmur something, soft and silly, a nonsense voice just for her, brushing her cheek with your knuckles. you press a kiss to her forehead and cradle her on your hip like it’s just another tuesday.

nanami stares.

he sees it now, clearer than ever. the former sorcerer in you—the deadly one, the lightning-quick one who moved like death itself when it came to the people you loved. the instincts you never unlearned. the ones that came alive the moment your baby girl was in danger.

you glance down at him.

“what?” you ask, casual, almost amused. “why are you looking at me like that?”

he blinks. his voice comes out hoarse. “nothing.”

you adjust your grip on her, shifting her weight against your side, and go back to folding laundry one-handed and he thinks in the back of his mind that you must be a goddess.

but nanami is still on the floor. and his pants are suddenly too tight. he swallows thickly, loosens his tie, and hopes to god you don’t notice his undeniably flushed face.

. . . the second time happens a week later at the grocery store.

it’s a sunday. overcast but warm. the kind of afternoon where the world feels like it’s holding its breath before rain. the parking lot is half-full, cars humming past, the sun occasionally breaking through the clouds in gold streaks. you’re pushing the cart with one hand, guiding it gently along the painted crosswalk lines while your other hand rests by your hip, absentminded and graceful like always.

nanami’s walking beside you with the list folded neatly in his hand, sleeves rolled to his elbows, eyes scanning through your scribbled handwriting for dinner ingredients. he’s relaxed, content. he loves doing errands with you like this. he loves seeing you like this—humming under your breath with your little girl in front of you, chewing on a rubber strawberry and kicking her feet.

she’s strapped into the child seat of the shopping cart, cheeks flushed, hair tied up in two tiny pigtails, a plastic butterfly clip perched like a crown at the top of her head. every few feet, the cart jostles and the clip bounces with her. she babbles to herself, pointing at birds and bugs and shapes only she can see.

everything feels safe. until it’s not.

nanami sees the moment in pieces. first: the butterfly clip coming loose, wobbling out of her fine hair with a single bounce. second: it falls—spinning once in the air, catching the light—before landing on the asphalt beside the moving cart. third: her reaction.

she naturally reaches for it, the way only their child would—boldly, without fear, with reckless intent and zero concern for gravity. her body tips forward and nanami’s heart seizes.

for a split second, all he can see is her falling—face-first, head-first, her soft skull hitting pavement, the sharp crack of bone on ground—

your hand snaps out like a striking snake, faster than he can blink. one hand grabs her ankle, the other wraps around her tiny belly in the same second, yanking her back with precision that doesn’t jostle her, doesn’t hurt her, doesn’t even scare her.

she lands squarely back in her seat like she never even left it.

it’s not just instinct. it’s skill. it’s the kind of movement you don’t learn unless you’ve spent years reacting to life-or-death decisions at impossible speeds. it’s not natural—it’s trained. and god, it’s terrifyingly beautiful.

“you okay, baby?” you murmur, calm as anything, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear like she didn’t almost swan dive into concrete. “you dropped your clip, didn’t you? my silly girl.”

your voice is light, sweet. steady in a way that tells nanami you aren’t shaken, not even a little. you reach into your bag, pull out a backup clip (because of course you have one), and re-fasten it in her hair with a little flourish.

she giggles, unharmed and unbothered.

nanami, however, is not.

he’s standing beside you, frozen, breathing shallowly. the list is still in his hand, half-folded, now crumpling between his fingers.

he’s sweating. from the image of what could have happened. from how fast you moved. from how fucking graceful it was. you didn’t flinch. didn’t shout. didn’t even look surprised, you just acted.

you glance over at him, brushing a smudge of dust off your daughter’s chubby knee. “you saw that, right?”

your tone is light. amused, almost. but your brow lifts just slightly, like you’re looking for something in his expression. confirmation, maybe. validation.

“that was, like, some neo-in-the-matrix level shit,” you add with a little grin, as you nudge the cart forward again like the world hasn’t just ended and restarted in nanami’s chest.

he stares at you for a moment.

and then says, hoarsely, “yes. i saw.”

he saw your fingers curl around their daughter like a safety net woven by gods. he saw your arms move with terrifying ease, your eyes calm, your mouth soft with reassurance even as adrenaline must’ve pumped through your veins. he saw the mother in you—the protector, the beast, the soldier.

and now? he’s hard.

he doesn’t say a word as he walks beside you in silence: he’s turned on, painfully so.

he grips the shopping cart handle tighter, helps you put the bags into the trunk and listens to you chatter about wine pairings and ask if he wants chicken or tofu tonight—because he can’t speak. his voice will give him away. so will his hands. because all he wants to do is press you against the back of the car when you unload the groceries. or the kitchen counter when you unpack. or the floor of the laundry room when the baby’s finally asleep.

he wants to get on his knees and thank you, he wants to kiss your hands, your stomach, your throat. he wants to worship the sharpness in you, the strength you keep hidden under baggy shirts and gentle smiles.

because you’re not just sexy when you’re soft and maternal, you’re sexy when you’re lethal. when your body moves before your mind even catches up. when you don’t hesitate.

when you prove—again and again—that no one will ever protect their baby like you do.

and he’s so, so ruined for you.

. . . the third time? he proposes again.

you’re in the kitchen. the sun’s low in the windows, casting honey-colored light across the tile. dinner simmers on the stove—vegetables and chicken soaking in a bubbling curry that nanami’s stirring with practiced hands, scenting the whole room in ginger and garlic and cumin. you’re barefoot, in an oversized shirt and a messy bun, standing on your tiptoes to reach the top cabinet for a jar of rice.

your daughter—your bright, babbling, chubby-cheeked daughter—is strapped into her high chair at the edge of the kitchen island, happily occupying herself with soft banana slices and cereal puffs. she’s got a spoon in one hand and the other is smeared in fruit. her giggles bounce off the walls like music.

nanami doesn’t even catch the exact sequence—just a blur, really. one second, he hears the soft clink of the spoon falling to the floor. the next, he sees your daughter leaning forward to follow it, tiny body wriggling past the tray’s edge.

and the chair rocks, a sickening scrape of plastic on tile. nanami’s heart stops.

“baby—!”

he turns, so fast the spoon in his hand sends curry flying across the counter. a streak of golden sauce lands on his shirt, but he doesn’t even notice it. his eyes are locked on the high chair, on the tilt, on her—her little arms reaching, her center of gravity slipping, tipping—

but he’s too slow because you’re already there.

you lunge across the kitchen with a noise in your throat he’s never heard from you before—raw, protective, almost feral—and your hand slams down on the top edge of the tray just as the chair begins to fall. your other hand wraps around the back like a vice. one clean motion, all power and grace, like a fucking panther, and you plant it back on all four legs before your daughter even realizes she was in danger.

the tray rattles. the chair rocks once, twice, then settles.

there’s silence.

you exhale, breath shuddering out. your hand lingers on the tray. your eyes flick over your daughter’s face—checking, re-checking, making sure she’s fine.

she looks up at you, completely unbothered, and giggles. her spoon is on the floor. she claps her sticky hands, wanting it back.

you huff, brushing hair from your eyes. “okay,” you murmur, half to yourself. “maybe we shouldn’t put her near the counter anymore.”

nanami doesn’t say anything.

he’s still standing by the stove. the curry’s starting to burn, but he doesn’t even smell it. his chest is tight. his heart is pounding in his ears. he’s looking at you like he’s never seen anything more terrifyingly beautiful in his life.

“kento?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder, brows furrowed.

he doesn’t speak, just turns off the stove and moves toward you slowly, quietly, like you’re something sacred. his chest aches.

you see him and go still.

“are you okay?” you ask, voice soft, brushing fruit juice from your daughter’s cheek with a paper towel. “she’s fine. i got her.”

he reaches you. doesn’t say anything yet—just lifts his hand and brushes a strand of hair from your face. then kisses your temple, your cheek. the corner of your jaw. not urgent, just full full of something he can’t say out loud or he’ll start crying right here in the kitchen.

you blink, smiling, confused. “kento. what’re you doing?”

his hand finds the back of your neck and he leans in, voice low and rough, right against your ear.

“you’re incredible.”

your breath catches.

you turn to look at him, and his eyes—god, they’re so full. soft and sharp all at once. you’ve never seen him look at you like that. like he wants to fall to his knees and beg the universe to never take you from him.

he says it again. firmer this time, a little raspier.

“incredible.”

you kiss him—slow, a little surprised—and nanami just melts into it. his hand slides to your waist, gripping tighter than usual, like he needs to anchor himself.

you feel it—his hardness against your hip, his breathing going shallow. you break the kiss and raise your brows, amused.

“oh my god,” you murmur. “is this turning you on?”

he looks at you like you’ve asked if the sky is blue. “you just flew across the kitchen and caught a tipping chair midair with my little girl in it. yes, it’s turning me on.”

you laugh softly. “you’re sick.”

he leans closer again, his mouth brushing your jaw. “no. i’m in love. and my wife is a goddamn superhero.”

you hum, eyes fluttering.

his mouth finds yours again—more urgent now. a thank-you. a worship. his hands press up under your shirt, touch reverent and seeking, like he can’t believe you’re real.

your daughter babbles in her chair. neither of you hear. he kisses your chest. your sternum. rests his forehead between your breasts and exhales like he’s relieved you exist.

his voice breaks a little when he says it, but it comes out anyway,

“marry me.”

you chuckle, tugging on his hair, “kento!”

he presses a kiss over your heart, hiding the smile blooming on hid lips. “i mean it.”

because nothing on this earth makes sense to him anymore unless it has you in it—strong, fast, maternal, feral when it counts. you make safety look like instinct. you make love feel like power. and there is nothing more devastatingly sexy in the world.

—

he takes you to bed that night after your daughter’s asleep, the quiet of the apartment wrapping around you both like a soft blanket. the moonlight filters through the curtains, casting gentle silver patterns across your skin. nanami’s hands are warm and steady as they cup your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. his eyes, dark and serious, flicker with a mixture of awe and something deeper — worship, reverence.

slow, deep, unhurried. every movement is deliberate, as he trails kisses along your collarbone, down to your sternum, each one softer than the other, as if he’s worshiping the fierce love that moves through you. he’s still thinking about how you didn’t even flinch when danger came for your baby—how your instincts kicked in with perfect, terrifying precision, how your body moved like lightning without hesitation, fueled by nothing but pure, raw love and fierce protectiveness. the memory of it makes his heart race all over again.

you moan softly beneath him, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. your thighs circle his waist, grounding him, reminding him that he’s here, with you, safe and wanted. nanami’s lips press into your skin, his breath hot against your chest as he whispers, “you’re so good, so fucking beautiful.”

the words wrap around you like a balm. you whimper, overwhelmed by the way he sees you—not just as his lover but as a mother, a warrior, a woman who’s breathtaking in every way. he smiles, that rare, gentle smile that melts the edges of his usually stoic expression.

when you come every fiber of your being is trembling, shaking beneath him. your fingers clutch at his shoulders, desperate and needy, as if holding on to him will keep you tethered to the moment forever. nanami’s hands move to steady your hips, his voice low and husky as he thinks—

you’ll always protect her. he’ll always protect you.

and nothing, nothing, is more beautiful than that.

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heyybaejjk · 8 days ago

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Office Sex -Nanami

cw: Public sex (semi-exhibitionism), getting caught, zero professionalism, workplace fucking, Gojo Satoru is the worst (and best) cockblocker alive.

The only thing more unprofessional than fucking your coworker in his office chair was probably doing it during office hours. While still in uniform. With the blinds only mostly shut.

But you’ve never claimed to have professional restraint.

Your knees dig into the plush cushion of Nanami’s office chair, skirt rucked up just enough to let you grind down on the thick bulge in his slacks. One of his hands is braced around your waist, the other loosely gripping your thigh as you bounce slowly back and forth in his lap.

You can feel the head of his cock catching just right through the fabric with every rock of your hips. He’s fully hard, and still stuffed inside the confines of those expensive pants, though the zipper’s undone and your underwear is shoved to the side. Your slick has soaked through both of your clothes.

His hands grip your hips, guiding you into a punishing rhythm, the desk creaking ever so slightly beneath your knees. His head tips back against the chair, jaw tight. "Fuck, Kento," you whisper, teeth grazing his ear. “You’re so fucking tense.”

“Because this is a workplace,” he growls.

"Then why,"—you roll your hips hard—"are you so deep inside me right now?"

He’s sitting stiff in his chair, head tilted back, jaw clenched, tie loosened, “Ohhh Nanamiiiiii~” Gojo’s voice rings out just outside the office. “You busy in there, big guy?”

He clamps his hand over your mouth and holds you still, buried to the hilt, your cunt pulsing around him. “Don’t. Move,” he whispers darkly against your neck, sweat beading at his temple.

You nod frantically, your eyes huge as you both hear the doorknob rattle. “Oh come on, why is this locked?” Gojo’s voice whines from outside. “You in there? I brought you that matcha latte you like—extra boring, no syrup, just like your soul.”

“Not a sound,” he hisses as you’re biting back laughter behind his palm.

“Your blinds are like, barely shut. By the way. Pretty sure I just saw titties.”

You squeak. Nanami growls under his breath. “Gojo. Leave.”

“I’m just being a good coworker. Geez. You’re so grumpy. Who’s in there with you, anyway?”

You grind your hips down. You can’t help it. Nanami’s face twitches like he’s about to lose every ounce of composure he has left.

“Or wait…” Gojo’s voice drops to a smirk. “Wait a second. Wait a fucking second. Is that—oh my god. Is that her?” You hear the sound of something hitting the wall—Gojo’s head, probably, as he dramatically slams it in mock agony.

“You’re fucking in there right now, aren’t you?!” he shouts.

You break. You’re laughing into Nanami’s hand now, full-body shaking, which only makes your cunt flutter around him and fuck, he jerks his hips up into you like it’s a punishment. “Gojo,” Nanami says through gritted teeth, looking like he’d rather be swallowed by a cursed spirit than admit this. “Leave. Now.”

“I KNEW IT!” Gojo cackles. “You guys are so disgusting. You couldn’t even wait ‘til I left the building?! On a Tuesday?! You’re riding him in his ergonomic chair, aren’t you?”

Your body goes limp with laughter. Nanami mutters a curse under his breath. Gojo, louder now, “Do you guys need, like, a towel? Water? Some self-respect?”

“I swear to god,” Nanami mutters, more to himself than to you. “I’m going to kill him. I’m going to fuck you through this chair, and then I’m going to kill him.”

Your eyes flutter. “Promise?”

He narrows his gaze at you, and then he thrusts up hard, sharp, dragging a muffled moan out of your throat so filthy it echoes through his palm.

“OH MY GOD,” Gojo hollers from the other side of the door. “You didn’t even stop! You’re still going—holy shit. I have to live with this mental image now. It’s burned into my retinas. I see it when I close my eyes—”

Nanami exhales, dragging his hand off your mouth to rub tiredly down his face. Then you roll your hips slowly, just once, and whisper: “Still gonna kill him?”

He looks up at you, exasperated. Sweat dampens his hairline, his shirt’s wrinkled, and his cock’s still fully seated inside you. “Eventually,” he murmurs. “But not before I finish.”

And then he fucks up into you with such force the chair slams back into the desk.

“Oh my godddd!” Gojo screams from around the corner. “YOU SAID YOU WERE DONE!” There’s a moment of blessed, awkward silence. Then Gojo claps once, too loudly. “Well, I’ll just… leave this latte here by the door,” he singsongs. “Have fun desecrating company property.”

His footsteps retreat down the hallway, muttering “disgusting corporate pervs” as he goes.

Silence. You wait five seconds. Ten.

“…Do we keep going?” you ask breathlessly, wiggling your hips just a little.

Nanami sighs through his nose. “He’s probably listening outside the door.”

“…Wanna make it louder?” He gives you the most exasperated look—then grabs your hips and slams up into you again.

a/n: daddylicious

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heyybaejjk · 8 days ago

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✧˖°🍀🍓⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Rich college boy Sukuna! who actually only got in college because of his parent’s funds. He knows he is smart why does he have to work hard for it??

Rich college boy Sukuna! who met you at a frat party knowing that you were the new scholarship student.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who thought that you will be a quick and easy fuck but wow, weren’t you annoyingly attractive.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who was surprised when you rejected his advances because you were “waiting for the right one”. Sukuna, who was finally humbled by you.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who after that incident hated your guts and when he found out you were his mentor to get his grades up? He was pissed.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who cannot stop looking at you when you tutor him. He is just closely paying attention to what you are saying…. Alright? Don’t think too much into it.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who randomly starts getting you random trinkets and food always saying, “thought you might like it”.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who actually finally starts studying just because he wants to. Totally not to impress his bombshell tutor.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who finally asks you out on a date as his gift for getting good marks.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who has fucked so many girls but got nervous to hold your hand while walking.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who was surprised when you kissed him first but couldn’t be happier.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who quit his old ways and prefers to watch stupid documentaries with you in bed rather than going to frat parties.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who drops his ‘friends’ because they couldn’t respect you and his relationship.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who at graduation told you he loves you while holding you tight.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who doesn’t care if his parents like you or not because no matter what, you are still the love of his life.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who dresses up properly and brings flowers to meet your parents for the first time. And after months, your parents finally like him seeing how much he cares for you.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who proposed to you while you both were sitting on the floor eating takeout Chinese food.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who had a small weddings with both you families and close ones.

Husband Sukuna! who now proudly wears his ring everyone and happily smiles at you and your daughter’s photo on his office desk.

✧˖°🥗🍅⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

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heyybaejjk · 8 days ago

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nsfw, minors dni, spanking, slight powerplay implied

kento nanami prides himself in being a man with much self-control. he rarely gets upset, and if he does, he easily composes himself.

but things change when you show up in the office.

you, the new intern. you, whose desk is right next to kento's. you, whose blouse is always unbuttoned just one too many. you, whose skirt does nothing to hide those hot pink panties when you bend over.

kento has much self-control, but you test it, every single day. and it's too late to go back.

so here you are, bent over the hood of your car, skirt bunched up while nanami spanks you. making you count each one.

you manage to choke out the numbers between tears, "e-eight.. n-nine.."

"you can take it, just one more." he murmurs, somehow sounding completely composed. he raises his hand again, smacking your red bottom.

"t-teeeen!" but this is different. you sound more desperate, the word is drawn out. like you've just..

he laughs, "did you just come?" he raises a brow, gently grabbing a fistful of your hair to pull your head back. your face is almost as red as your ass, but you nod.

"i was planning on fucking you, but i guess i don't need to anymore." his finger hooks underneath the part of your underwear that covers your cunt, rubbing against your soaking folds as he pulls the fabric back and lets it go. it goes right back into place with a snap! making you whimper.

you can barely process his words, let alone try and protest him not fucking you. so you just lay against your hood.

even as he pulls your panties off of you, your legs move on your own, to help him. he stuffs the wet fabric in his pocket, then licks his finger.

he stares at your bare bottom for a moment, then pulls your skirt back down and says, "have your report on my desk by morning."

he leaves you against your hood. but, don't worry, he'll certainly make up for it when he has the guts to ask you out.

errrr u guys should send asks

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heyybaejjk · 8 days ago

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sfw, nanami x gn!reader, reader is home on anesthesia

The front door was unlocked with one of Nanami's safe, large hands. The other carefully supported your visibly woozy frame as you put your entire body weight on him. The anaesthesia hadn’t quite worn off yet. You’ve been alternating between yelling at your husband to stop touching you or that you were hungry.

He sighed gently, ever so patient as he closed the door behind you both. "Cooperate with me, love. Let’s get you to bed.”

You stopped dead in your tracks once his hand met your lower back. You blinked at him. Really blinked. Nanami's was visibly taken aback, brows furrowed when you suddenly gasped and scrambled backwards, almost colliding with the wall due to the jellied nature of your limbs.

“Wait,” you whisper, voice ragged. “Who are you?”

Nanami moved away and set your bag down by the staircase, already mentally trying to prepare himself for your shenanigans. “We went over this in the car, dear—”

“I have a husband,” you hissed in a slurred manner, pointing a trembling finger at his chest. “Don’t touch me."

With a sigh, Nanami stepped back, both hands in the air in an act of surrender. "Describe your husband for me?"

"B-blonde. Freakishly tall. Really hates sugar in his cof- coffee."

Nanami exhaled slowly, arching a brow.

“…So, me.”

“No, not you” you grimaced, sounding slightly distressed. “How'd you get into my house?"

“I know where the spare keys are,” he replied curtly, lowering his hands and unbuttoning his sleeves to roll them up. “I'm the one who put them there."

“Oh my god,” you whispered. “You know my Kenny?"

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please just get on the couch. You need rest."

You squinted suspiciously, walking backwards into the living room.

“Are you trying to seduce me? I told you that I'm a married woman. I belong to Nanami, and he snores a little, but I really love him."

“That’s me,” he said again, clearly suffering (and rather offended that you pointed out his snoring).

But you’re already shuffling away with squinted eyes. “Don’t come near me. My husband will beat you up. He can bench press a table. He drinks black coffee. He has a really s-solid six-pack, which kinda hurts when I try to punch it. Do you want to die?"

“My love—”

“Mister."

Nanami watched you from where he stood in the living room. You had skirted back into the kitchen, hiding behind the dining table and wiggling a spatula around rather haphazardly.

“I'll make you soup."

Your suspicious gaze faltered, pupils dilating. “Soup…?”

“With the garlic bread you enjoy."

You peeked out further, your stomach audibly rumbling. "Crunchy?”

He nods. “Crunchy.”

“…Oh,” you said quietly, standing up with bleary eyes.

He stepped closer. Then you crashed into him.

“You are my husband, oh my god."

Nanami just stood there, a small smile gracing his lips. But then you gripped his left hand and held it up to your face. Your eyesight was blurry, but you could see the glinting wedding ring on his finger.

You stared up at him. Eyes wide. Lips parted.

“…It’s you,” you gasped, like you had been hit with a million realisations at once.

A deadpan expression graces your husbands face, hand still in yours and squeezing reassuringly, “Finally.”

You hugged Nanami again, pressing him against the counter with a delighted squeal.

“Oh, you’re home! God, I missed you so bad, Ken! Some random guy has been flirting with me all day. Can you believe it?"

Nanami grunted as you landed on him, a hand resting on top of your head. “That was me.”

A scoff left you. “Ridiculous. Don't do that again,” you chastised, burying your face into his safe chest.

“Yes, boss.”

You buried your face deeper into him, the anaesthesia ebbing away bit by bit.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I'll scream in your ear."

He closed his eyes.

“There is no difference in personality whether you are on anaesthesia or not."

"Naturally."

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heyybaejjk · 8 days ago

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And death shall have no mercy, and I'll only have your name in my mouth

A/N: since everyone has been thoroughly enjoying my crack fics, heres some angst as a reward, yippie

warnings: angst, major character death, live laugh love cry, nothing happens to chairman meow, my terrible attempt at writing grief.

Nanami Kento was not supposed to laugh like that.

Not in public, not in his pressed white shirt, not with his tie hanging loose like you’d just dragged him away from a shareholder meeting. Not with that neat, tidy image that screamed: I am very responsible and far too good for this world and also, by the way, you are beneath me. And yet, here he was. Bent over the tiny kitchen counter in your shitty apartment, shaking with laughter because you’d just said—

“Chairman Meow ate the spider, Kento. HE ATE IT. Do you know what this means? HE’S A WIZARD. HE’S POWERFUL. HE’S GONNA START DEMANDING SACRIFICES. OH- wait he might become spidercat!”

You held up the cat like Simba, his face a blank, furry void of judgment.

Nanami pressed his mouth in a fine line, failing miserably at keeping his composure. “You are—God. You’re ridiculous. You’re utterly—”

“Gorgeous? Delightful? The single shining light in your dull, tragic little capitalist existence?”

He raised an eyebrow. “...Obnoxious.”

“Oh, please. You love me.”

“Not yet,” he said, which was the biggest lie in Tokyo.

*-*

You’re sitting on couch, both of you cross-legged, knees bumping, a takeout container of dumplings between you. He’s in that rolled-sleeves, loosened-tie, glasses-askew look that you swear he must have patented. You’re in your usual state of absolutely annoying the shit out of him.

“Ken,” you say, voice syrup-sweet, chopsticks in the air like a conductor, “what if you were a worm.”

He doesn’t look up from dipping a dumpling in soy sauce. “We’ve been dating for—what—six days, and this is what you’re starting with?”

“No, answer me. Would you still love me if I was a worm.”

He chews, deliberately slow, swallows, wipes his mouth. “You would be dead in a week.”

“RUDE.”

“I’m not dating livestock.”

You gasp, shove him in the shoulder. “A worm is not livestock, you capitalist pig.”

He just hums. “You’d probably be one of those invasive earthworms ruining the ecosystem.”

“Wow,” you say, leaning back. “First you call me livestock, then invasive. Romance isn’t dead.”

“Not yet,” he murmurs, and his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.

*-*

The thing about dating Nanami after years of friendship is: you don’t ease into it. It’s like being handed the keys to a vault you’d been rattling for years, only to find out he’d been standing on the other side the whole time, holding them, waiting for you to figure it out.

You’d been through the drunk texts, the 3AM ramen runs, the “come over and help me put together this IKEA bookshelf” but really it was just a ploy to spend six hours in his presence while he muttered about cheap screws.

You’d been through that time you stole his sweater “as a joke” and he just… let you keep it. You still have it, Chairman Meow has decided it’s his property now.

*-*

“Why do you have two bottles of wine open?” Nanami asks one night, eyebrows creased, as he stands in your kitchen like a judgmental statue.

“One’s red, one’s white.”

“Why?”

“In case I feel like making bad decisions,” you say, pouring yourself a glass of each. “Do you want—?”

“No.”

“Coward.”

*-*

You’re in bed one morning, limbs tangled, the sunlight filtering through blinds. Chairman Meow is sitting on Nanami’s chest like a bowling ball, kneading at his ribs.

“I think he’s plotting my death,” Nanami says, voice low.

“He’s just saying good morning.”

“He’s crushing my lungs.”

“Love hurts,” you mumble into his shoulder.

*-*

And then there’s Shibuya.

Crowds like tides. Screams like the air’s been ripped open. You and Nanami are back-to-back, breath ragged, cursed energy bleeding through the air like radiation.

And then Mahito.

That smile like a split fruit, the kind that rots sweet.

You see it before Nanami does — the movement, the angle. You don’t think. You move.

And then —

nothing.

No pain. No air. Just a crushing, breaking, ending. Your body folds in on itself like paper in flame. And you’re gone before you can even hear him call your name.

And the worst part?

Nanami doesn’t remember how the fight ends.

Doesn’t remember what he does to Mahito, only that it’s not enough.

What he remembers is the smell — ozone, dust, something metallic.

What he remembers is looking down and finding nothing. Not even the comfort of a body to grieve over.

Only the empty air where you’d been standing.

*-*

There was nothing left.

No body to bury. No hand to hold. Just… absence.

Nanami stood in the ruins of that day with blood in his mouth and your name on his tongue, and for the first time in years, he didn’t know what to do. He had always been a man of quiet precision—wake, work, rest. He could solve any problem if he thought about it long enough. But there was no way to undo this. There was no version of the world where you were still in it.

And so—he went to your apartment.

*-*

Your apartment smells like you, which is almost worse.

Nanami stands in the doorway for a long time, his hand still on the knob, like if he doesn’t step in, it won’t be real.

Your apartment is a mausoleum that hasn’t been told it’s a mausoleum yet. The air still believes in you. The light still lands like you’re here to catch it.

Nanami stands in the doorway too long, his hand pressed against the frame as though it’s holding him up. There’s that faint, stubborn scent of you—something warm, faintly citrus, undercut by the ghost of whatever perfume you wore when you wanted to feel dangerous. It clings to the fabric of the couch, to the folds of the curtains, to the sweater Chairman Meow has claimed as his new throne.

He steps in, and the floor creaks, and for one terrible, dizzying moment, he almost says your name out loud—because it feels like if he calls for you now, you might answer. Not the real you, maybe, but some echo stitched into the walls.

The living room is exactly as you left it: a half-drunk glass of water on the coffee table. The book you were reading, face-down, mid-sentence, the page forever bent. Some pairs of your shoes kicked off by the door, one slightly toppled like you’d been in a hurry.

Nanami moves like a man wading through an underwater city. Each step is resistance. Every object is a relic, demanding worship. He doesn’t touch anything at first—only looks. Looks until his vision blurs. Looks until his throat burns.

He thinks about how the last time he was here, you had laughed at him for bringing over neatly folded laundry “like a suburban housewife,” and he had kissed you just to shut you up. That memory hovers in the corner of the room like smoke, and he almost chokes on it.

In your bedroom, the bed is unmade. The pillows are uneven, the blanket a crooked wave. Nanami sits down on the edge, careful not to disturb the dip where you used to sleep, as if the imprint is something fragile that could dissolve if he touches it wrong.

He stares at your side of the bed until his eyes ache, until he can almost convince himself you’ve just gotten up to make coffee. But then the truth floods in, black and choking: there’s no body to bury. No bones. No hands he can hold cold and lifeless. Mahito didn’t just kill you—he erased you. He took the geography of you, the weight of you, the sheer audacity of your being alive, and turned it into nothing.

It’s not absence. It’s theft. And it feels like blasphemy.

Chairman Meow jumps onto the bed, tail curling like a question mark, and Nanami almost breaks apart at the sound of his small, demanding meow. The cat doesn’t know. He’s still looking around the apartment like you might walk in at any moment, calling him a bastard for scratching the furniture.

“You’ll stay with me now,” Nanami says, voice low, like he’s talking through glass. “I… I’ll try to keep your routine.”

The words are strange in his mouth, because there’s no one here to answer them.

Chairman Meow chirps back, as if asking what was wrong. And Nanami's eyes blur. How was he supposed to do this?

He starts moving through the apartment with his hands. Folding things. Sorting. The mechanical rhythm is supposed to keep him from thinking, but every drawer is a wound. A t-shirt with a stain from that one night at the ramen place when you—laughing too hard—spilled broth all over yourself. A hair tie curled in the corner of the bathroom sink. Your handwriting on a scrap of paper that reads: buy milk.

Each discovery is small enough to fit in his palm, and large enough to crush him.

The grief isn’t loud. It doesn’t wail. It doesn’t shatter glass. It sits in his lungs like wet cloth, pulling at his breath, heavy and damp and unyielding. He carries it from room to room like a bad habit.

At night, he lies in his own bed and cannot stop biting your name in half between his teeth. He says it silently, over and over, until it feels less like a name and more like a prayer, or a curse, or a mouthful of blood.

He thinks of the title of some poem you once read to him—And death shall have no mercy, and I’ll only have your name in my mouth—and wonders if you knew, somehow, that this would be his life.

There is no grave to visit. No shrine to stand before. Only the everyday objects you left behind, pressed into his hands like unwanted blessings.

Nanami dreams of you constantly—sometimes the exact shape of you as you were, sometimes something blurred and faceless that still feels like you. He wakes up reaching across the sheets, hand clawing at the dark, sure for a moment that he can catch you if he moves fast enough.

He took the cat home with him of course. Bought the food brand you always used, the toys you liked to watch him play with. Sat on the couch with Chairman Meow in his lap and stared at the wall for hours.

It took weeks of adjustment, Chairman had realised you were gone for good, and had been depressed for some time, to the point that Nanami had to bring him to the vet. Multiple times.

Grief was not loud for him.

It was quiet. It was the ache of waking up and reaching for you and finding cold sheets. It was the way his chest tightened every time his phone lit up, because some stupid, hopeless part of him thought maybe—maybe—it was you.

He’d go to say something and remember you weren’t there to hear it. He’d hear a joke and think, she would have liked that. He’d walk past your favorite café and keep going because the thought of walking in without you was unbearable.

And death shall have no mercy, he thought. Because it hadn’t. It had been greedy. It had taken you without warning, without fairness, without even letting him hold your hand one last time.

And all he had left was your name.

And every night, before sleep took him, he would whisper your name. Just your name. As if keeping it in his mouth would keep you in the world a little longer.

But the morning always comes. And he is still here. And you are still not.

The world, in its cruel and ordinary way, keeps going.

A/N: hope you liked it! i hated writing this! yippie!

Masterlist

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heyybaejjk · 9 days ago

Text

18+ geto indulges his bratty girlfriend’s oral fixation

dating a man like suguru geto means surrendering, eventually, to the fact that he’s figured you out.

in the early stages of your romance, you’d tried to be discreet about your oral fixation—finger pressed to your lip while reading, straw chewed between your teeth during his lectures, thumbnail worrying the edge of your mouth whenever you thought he wasn’t paying attention. once, you blamed a particularly embarrassing nap-drool incident on low iron. he’d only raised an eyebrow. but of course he knows.

he’s always known. you like things in your mouth.

and suguru, ever the strategist, has made an art out of using that weakness against you.

“you’re staring,” he says mildly, flipping the page without sparing you a glance. his voice is smooth, deceptively gentle, like the glassy surface of a koi pond right before a ripple.

“if you’re bored, you could ask for something to suck on.”

he’s referring to the cherry lollipops in the cabinet, obviously. the ones he pretends he buys for the girls as treats. the ones that make your pretty lips glossy in a way he absolutely does not watch. not at all.

you’re trying so hard not to cave. instead, pride made you chew on the drawstring of your hoodie and kick your feet against the couch like a degenerate. which is probably what you are.

“that’s unsanitary,” suguru murmurs, pleasant as ever, one of those soft little smiles curling at his lips—eyes nearly shut in that affable way that masks his darker, truer nature underneath.

“you like when my mouth is full,” you shoot back, tone bratty.

that gets him. not immediately though. he takes his own sweet time finishing his page first. a private smile lingering like he’s already decided what you’ll be doing with your brat mouth for the next hour. he closes the book without marking the page. which was quite worrisome.

“is that a request?”

you hesitate.

and then he’s already on his feet, big hands coasting beneath your thighs, easing you to your knees like he’s rehearsed the choreography in his mind. one hand cradles your jaw, coaxingly. the other lifts to your mouth, thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip, studying the shape of it with clinical interest.

“you ever think about what a bad girl you are?” he chides, gently. the soft bullying makes the shame worse, somehow. his thumb pushes between the seam of your lips before you can conjure up an answer, sinking knuckle-deep. the heat blooms across your cheeks. he doesn’t stop until your tongue curls around it, cheeks hollowing on autopilot. he sighs, long-suffering and dramatic. “go ahead, then. suck.”

you do. gratefully.

his thumb sits heavy on your tongue, wet between your lips, and you nurse at it with the greed of someone long overdue for it. your free hand slides up the inseam of his pants, palmimg at the half-hard bulge underneath. suguru watches with a curious sort of fondness, a self-satisfied smirk tightening the corners of his mouth. “look at this mouth,” he comments eventually, amused, “always begging for attention.”

you hum around his thumb, blissed out. he soon replaces it with his cock. obviously.

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heyybaejjk · 9 days ago

Text

༄ duke nanami having his meal (you) on the dining table

your backs pressed against the cool polished wood of the table. all the elegance and furnishing of the room surrounds you but duke can't seem to be bothered.

the entirety of his focus between your legs. he eats like he's hungry, gentlemanly manners temporarily forgot as he feasts. sucking and flicking your little clit. fucking his tongue into you're drippy entrance with vigour — till all of the sudden, all at once, he pulls away.

a swing of saliva connecting his lips to yours. nanami watches her with lidded eyes, their usual honey brown darkened; his chest raising and falling, and his fingers digging into your thighs and the fabric of your uniform skirt thats bunched around you, fanned out on the wood beneath you.

you lay still, thighs quivering a little from pleasure and being held open so long. kento runs his knuckles over your folds, collecting some of the wetness dripping from you on them. "you're grace... please. i-i can't"

he strokes you like that softly for a long moment. without looking up to you, nanami squeezes on of your thighs, "just a little more." and then he leans in again, mumbling hoarsely against the delicate skin, "you can take it."

slipping two fingers along your tight entrance before breaching it, soothing that slight sting from the stretch with kisses to your clit.

"lay back for me"

your back arches against the table, goosebumps cover your legs. you try resisting the need to wrap your legs around his neck, but you can't for long.

"enjoy this" the sound of his mouth on your are obscene, tuning you tomato red in embarrassment as they echo in your ears. kento doesn't seem to mind, if anything he want you louder.

if he cannot marry you because of his title than he'll make sure he can at least love you right. that he can make you feel good. as seriously as he takes his duties and responsibilities as duke, you are always first amongst them.

your toes curl and your head falls back; effectively caging him between your thighs as high pitched moans spill endlessly from your kiss-bitten lips.

"ahhh~ your grace"

"say my name." because just as the rest of him is, it is yours.

"nanami, fuuu," you bite your bottom lip before the words get out, calling him by his last name — all of this and yet you still never stray from formality.

kento speeds up his fingers, curling them just right the way he knows you need him to. fucking them into you with a steady pace that never falters. even when you begin to fall apart (again)

the hand at your hip holding you down moves to find your, interlacing his fingers with your and squeezing.

your muscles tighten, so so close. dark blonde brows furrow in concentration to get you there and in a. attempt to keep himself from cumming in his trousers.

" 'm gonna cum!!"

your shaky hands tangle in his well kept hair, pulling him impossibly closer to you, trying to ground yourself while completely overwhelmed by the pleasure. with a cry of his name, your releases pours into his mouth, spraying over his face like a delightful reward.

nanami watches you, biting back the three words that could ruin it all. sprawled out and messy on his dinning tables. your legs shake and glisten with sweat, little marks on them form where he might've been holding you too tight.

he pulls a handkerchief from his chest pocket, using it to wipe you clean, gently running it along the sopping folds he has his mouth on only a short moment ago. folding it neatly when he's done and shoving it right back into his pocket. for safekeeping.

you sit up on the table, breath still ragged. your face sweaty and red, waiting. unsure what the next appropriate step is.

kento grabs another clean handkerchief from off the table, using it to politely wipe his face, one hand firmly planted on your thigh. he catches your staring and holds your gaze when he, ever so casually says "thank you for the meal."

standing up from his wooden chair and helping you down form the table. you pat down the skirt of your dress, making yourself look presentable again and try to stand straight, silently begging for you legs to quit trembling when a knock comes from the other side of the heavy doors.

"your grace, if you aren't still.... preoccupied; your guests are here, they await you in the drawing room, my lord."

nanami asf

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heyybaejjk · 10 days ago

Text

the first k.n

when you tell people the story of how you and kento got together, people are usually shocked. the expectations of how kento chased you or how he made the first move, it was all crushed.

kento was always caring, that was never questioned. but whether he liked you or not? that was always questioned during the beginning of your relationship with kento.

it all started in your first day at your new company. a fresh graduate who finally landed their first office job, and coincidentally there was also a fresh graduate joining that day, nanami kento.

kento was prim, respectful, and frankly eerily quiet. he spoke one word sentences, or however many words he found necessary. efficiency was seen in his actions, even in the way he made his coffee or ate his lunch.

since you both joined around the same time, you guys had to go through training together, clumped together. they saw you both as a package, the left and right shoe. and not only were you clumped together in social settings, you also had cubicles right beside each other. it was like fate refused to seperate you both.

your first impression of kento was that he did not like you very much. sometimes, you feel someone staring at you from the side and most of the time, it's kento squinting at you for doing something.

but one day changed it all...your workplace had a dinner get together to celebrate getting their monthly paychecks. everyone was invited, including you and kento. and being the youngest, you both kept getting teased by your higher ups.

and when the night started to die down, when the ruckus and teasing halted. kento finally spoke to you for something other than work.

"what's your favourite alcohol?" kento asked.

"i don't really enjoy any? maybe a shot of sake to kill my nerves right now."

"okay," kento stood up from the table and poured two sake shots for you both. "cheers to our first month," you clinked your glasses and drank the shot in one go.

and frankly, those small talks continued through the night, until you realised it was almost midnight. "kento, i've got to go. i've really enjoyed this convo, i hope you don't ignore me in the office after this. cause i'd be really hurt. but, it's late and i've got to get a taxi before there's none."

"i'll drive you home. i have a car," kento offered, no, stated.

"kento, you literally drank with me. no way!"

"i don't think you realised, but my only shot was the first shot we had, which was an hour ago. i'm not even tipsy, trust me. i would never put you in danger."

a little tipsy, you were quite stunned at his final words. but you accepted it nonetheless. he helped take your belongings and led you to his car. he unlocked the car, and before you could get your hand on the handle, his hand reached it first. a gentleman is what went through your head. and before you realised it, kento was already in the driver's seat.

"where do you live?" kento asked as he reached to buckle your seatbelt.

"i can do it myself," you buckled your seatbelt as you heard a chuckle from kento. "i live near, let me put my address in your maps," as you took his phone and typed in your apartment, you couldn't find it, until you realised it was under 'home'.

"you live here kento?" you asked him. and he only responded with a nod. "oh, i live here too. i can't believe i haven't met you! what's your floor?"

"im on the 6th"

"same! what a coincidence we haven't met. i've lived there for like 3 years...how long have you been living there?"

"i actually just moved in, like yesterday? my apartment was quite far and my lease was ending, so i found an apartment closer to work."

"ooh, that's why i haven't met you and why you didn't come in yesterday. "since we live in the same apartment, want to go to work and home together?"

"sure, i'd love that."

that was the start. the start of everything.

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heyybaejjk · 10 days ago

Text

nanami is a man of many talents. he’s dependable, intelligent, emotionally stable, and the proud owner of the strongest jawline in the greater tokyo area.

what he’s not, unfortunately, is good at roleplay.

and neither are you.

which is precisely why you’re standing in your shared apartment at 8:46 p.m. on a thursday night, wearing the world’s cheapest nurse costume from the internet, while nanami sits on the couch in his usual button-down shirt and slacks, blinking up at you like you’re holding him at gunpoint.

“so,” you say, trying not to laugh, “you’re dying. you’ve got… uh… um…”

you look down at the little fake clipboard you scribbled something on earlier.

“severe lack of pussy,” you read off dramatically.

nanami exhales very slowly. “i see.”

you clear your throat and strut toward him with all the confidence of a cat in socks. “but don’t worry. i’m the best in the medical field when it comes to this rare and devastating condition.”

“ah.” nanami shifts slightly, crossing his legs in a very formal way. “and what are your qualifications?”

“well, first of all, i’m hot.”

he nods like that makes perfect sense. “understandable.”

“second of all, my phd stands for pretty huge—”

“darling.”

“—diagnoses.” you grin.

nanami puts his hand over his mouth, turning his head like he’s suppressing a sneeze, but you know better. his shoulders shake a little.

“you’re supposed to be dying,” you scold, slapping his knee lightly.

“i am,” he says, clearing his throat. “tragically. go on.”

you toss the clipboard onto the coffee table and climb onto his lap, straddling him like a very unprofessional nurse. “only one cure, i’m afraid.”

“hm.” his hands find your waist instinctively, thumbs brushing against your sides. “do tell.”

you lean in close, brushing your lips over his jaw, whispering, “intensive pussy therapy.”

nanami sighs deeply. “i’m cured already.”

“no! you have to let the treatment run its full course!”

“how long is the course?”

you pretend to consult your notes. “twelve to fourteen business days.”

“i see. that’s rather long.”

“no, it’s sexy and necessary.”

“my mistake.”

for a second, the scene holds. it’s you on his lap, lips pressed together to keep the laughter in, while nanami tries to wear the serious expression of a man on the brink of death-by-lack-of-intimacy. you even try to grind your hips forward a little, trying to get something going, but then nanami says, in the driest voice imaginable—

“will my insurance cover this?”

you break, you absolutely lose it. your head falls into his shoulder as you laugh so hard you snort, and nanami— your oh so controlled and collected nanami—laughs too. the kind that pulls a little wheeze out of him, the kind you feel in his chest where your hands are pressed.

“this is so stupid,” you giggle, wiping your eyes. “why did we think we could do this?”

“i blame you.”

“i know.” you grin up at him. “but also, you looked up ‘sexy professor glasses’ on your work computer.”

“that’s not true.”

“you left the tab open, baby.”

“i am revoking your internet access.”

“you can’t,” you say, poking his cheek. “i’m the one who cures your condition, remember?”

“ah. right. how could i forget such critical medical care?”

you snort again and kiss him on the cheek, then the nose, then the mouth—soft and silly, both of you smiling too much to keep it serious.

you slide off his lap and curl up beside him instead, tucking your legs under a blanket. he throws an arm around you, warm and comforting.

“do you wanna try again?” you ask. “we could do like, spy and informant. or maybe evil sorcerer and innocent shrine maiden.”

“hm. those sound… advanced.”

“i believe in us.”

nanami hums, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “maybe next time. when i’m not still recovering from…”

you grin. “pussy deficiency?”

“yes. that.”

you laugh again, high and warm, and nanami smiles like you’re the best part of his day. you might suck at roleplay, but you’re both very good at this—being together, being dumb, being happy.

and honestly? that’s more than enough.

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heyybaejjk · 10 days ago

Text

nanami kento/18+/710 words

"Yes, I've informed him about it, tell me about that meeting you were speaking about." Nanami responds back to the caller on the other side of the phone. His left leg leisurely lifted onto his right, and his right hand drawing squiggly shapes. He had a habit of drawing flowers— tulips, to be more specific, whilst on the phone. A habit you had pointed out quite often, and one you found cute from your otherwise reserved husband.

"Mm, yes—yes." He hums two times in agreement to whatever the caller is spewing about, not like you care. You make your way over to where he was sitting, circling the freshly oiled mahogany table, slowly strutting over to where your husband sat. His eyes shot up to your approaching figure, he shot an acknowledging look towards you, clearly occupied with whatever he was discussing about.

Then, without asking, without hesitation, you sat — not in the guest chair, but on his lap. He flinched. Just barely. Enough for you to feel it through your hips. Enough to make you smile, not your normal smile, a sultry one. One Nanami knew all too well.

“...Mr. Kento?” came the voice on the call.

“Mm.” He clicked the mute button, he dropped his pen and his arm circled around your waist. “Continue.”

The voice continued, but you had other plans. You slowly started kissing his neck. Slowly. Just enough to make him slightly tense up. Your mouth found his throat first. Just below the collar, where the tie pressed too tight. You kissed him there, slow and deep, while your fingers finally unzipped him with a triumphant little purr.

He raised his eyebrows in a questioning look, clearly senile with whatever you were trying to do. Your eyes shot up to look up at him from under his chin. Fuck he loved you looking at him like that— and you knew that. You pressed the phone closer to his ear and reached your hand back to his pants, tantalizing the zip. He coughed while eyeing your lowering figure— now kneeling figure. He looked at your hand that unzipped his pants, and started fondling with his member. Anyone with two eyes and a half functioning brain could figure out what was going happen now.

Two seconds.

Then you sank. Teeth as well.

Nanami's hazel eyes widened in shock— and undeniable pleasure. He choked—and coughed it off, and then muttered a pathetic "C-Continue" to the person on the phone, he tried hooking a shaking finger under your chin. But to what avail? You were already windpipe deep, and two fingers twirling around the starting of his length.

"..And then we'll continue,— why are you breathing so hard?" The person on the other side questions, their voice sounds suspicious, oblivious to the erotica unfolding on the other side. Nanami short circuits for a slight second, trying not to groan on how he could feel your teeth scraping his fucking cock.

"N-No—I'm listening.." He mutters out weakly, his fist clenches—your husband is clearly struggling. Poor man.

You sucked just the reddish head, spilling his pretty pre-cum, slowly pulling back with a sinful pop that made his hands twitch again. You licked a slow stripe from base to tip, eyes locked on his the entire time. You kept going — a slow rhythm, easing him into your throat inch by inch.

He muttered a weak damnit, trying to make you look at him, but each time he made a movement—you added extra teeth. Gods you were going to make him absolutely fucking lose it when he felt that tongue lolling around his length, just circling it. He felt his hips go weak, and his hands holding your hair. Just holding, not forcing.

He just leaned back in his chair, one hand gripping the armrest, the other curling against the desk like restraint. But his jaw clenched. His pupils darkened. And when you nuzzled his unclothed length, dragging your lips over the seam, he twitched.

"Sir, if you're... if you're— preoccupied, we may call later.." The voice on the other side proposes, maybe out of sheer respect or embarrassment. The groans and huffing weren't subtle at all.

Never has Nanami hit the End button so quickly.

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