#and then decided that it was too complicated for this story and made Suguru a little meaner than I wanted him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

makingfanfictionstosleep · 6 days ago

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theirs to share

a/n : jjk characters not mine. contains heavy lemons / mature scenes as the story progresses. reverse harem. femoc x nanami/geto/gojo. jjk alternate au. Wattpad Link : Theirs to Share || Story Masterlist : Jujutsu Kaisen <…previous ... next…>

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

TWENTYFOUR

Since you had no more classes left for the day and only one task remaining—to plan the trainings with Nanami—you decided to freshen up and change into something more comfortable. You needed to feel like yourself again, composed and sharp. Normally, that was your nature. Calm. Collected. Composed. But for some reason, Nanami Kento had a way of undoing you with nothing more than a glance.

It wasn't fair. You’d faced curses without blinking, handled Satoru’s chaos and Suguru’s slyness without faltering. Yet one look from Nanami could turn you into a stuttering, melting mess.

You knew you had agreed to your complicated arrangement with the three of them, but there was still so much you didn’t know—things you wanted to know. About Kento. About Suguru. About Satoru. You hoped that maybe today’s session would bring you a little closer.

You knocked gently on Nanami’s door. When it opened, you found him seated at his desk, which was—unsurprisingly—immaculate. Everything in its place, clean, organized. The complete opposite of your chaotic workspace or Suguru’s barely-managed piles of scrolls and cursed tools.

Nanami looked up at you, the faintest warmth softening his serious expression.

"Come in," he said, voice low and even, already making your pulse jump. "Could you lock the door behind you? I’m trying to avoid Gojo’s invitations for endless snacks."

You nodded quickly and did as he asked, trusting that was really his reason—because honestly, it sounded believable. Or it could be. Not that you would mind being locked in a room with him. With a voice like his, Nanami could ask you to do anything and you’d probably say ‘thank you, sir’ without a second thought.

You swallowed hard, determined not to turn into a clumsy, stuttering idiot and actually do your job.

You walked toward him, trying—and failing miserably—to hide the fact that there were a thousand butterflies thrashing wildly in your stomach. Not the cute, fluttery ones that made you feel light and giggly. No, these were vicious, nerve-wracking things, leaving you dizzy and frantic. You bit your lip, desperate to stay grounded, because Nanami’s voice alone was enough to make you feel things that were definitely not innocent.

Today, he didn't have his glasses on. His coat was neatly hung on the rack, his tie loosened, and two buttons of his shirt undone, exposing a glimpse of his collarbones. You already knew what he looked like underneath that shirt—knew too well—but somehow, seeing him like this made it even worse. His sleeves were rolled up, baring strong, veined forearms that looked like they might rip through the fabric at any moment. His hands—heavens, even the way he held his pen made it look tiny, like it didn’t stand a chance against his fingers.

You struggled to shove the very unprofessional, very lewd thoughts out of your head. You were here to work, damn it. Work. But the way Nanami looked at you as you crossed the room—steady, unreadable, utterly intense—made you question every ounce of self-control you thought you had.

It took a couple of seconds for Nanami to finally meet your eyes.

And when he did, it was obvious—painfully obvious—that he wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that he had been checking you out. There was a smugness to him, subtle but unmistakable, like he knew exactly the kind of chaos he was stirring inside you.

For the first time, you noticed that Nanami's smirks and smiles were barely there—so faint that you’d miss them unless you were really paying attention. Unfortunately for your poor heart, you were paying very close attention.

When your eyes locked, the shift in him was palpable. His gaze darkened, turned heavy—possessive and hungry, like he could eat you alive and would thank you afterward for the meal.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry like you hadn't drunk water in days, especially when his low, deliberate voice rumbled out:

"You look… ravishing."

You completely blanked. Focus. You needed to focus.

Instead, you—like an absolute idiot—blurted out, "Thanks. You too."

You could've died right there.

Nanami’s mouth quirked into another almost-smirk, one brow arching in pure, silent amusement. You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. Blushing furiously, you tried to hide your face by quickly plopping down onto the chair in front of his desk, desperate to salvage even a shred of your dignity.

Nanami tilted his head slightly, the motion slow and deliberate. His voice, impossibly deadpan, cut through the tense air, "What are you doing?"

You blinked at him, utterly lost. "…Sitting down?" you answered, the words coming out smaller and more confused than you intended.

Another subtle smirk ghosted over his lips.

"You're sitting on the wrong chair," he said matter-of-factly.

Before you could process what he meant, Nanami leaned back slightly in his chair, patted his thigh in an unmistakable invitation, and said in that same maddeningly calm voice—

"Come here. This is your chair."

You nodded like a complete idiot.

Standing up, you immediately realized—with horror—just how much of an idiot you really were.

Because this outfit? This outfit was a terrible idea.

Sure it was comfortable, just a simple black knitted dress that hugs your curves in all the right places.

It stops at your middle thigh, showing off your long, toned legs. The sleeveless design accentuates your shoulders and arms, while the low neckline reveals a tantalizing glimpse of your ample cleavage.

You cursed yourself inwardly, not realizing that this dress emphasizes your breasts that are large and full, your peaks are straining slightly against the fabric due to your lack of a bra. Of all days.

Brilliant.

Sure, you had at least chosen black fabric that didn't make anything glaringly obvious—but still.

Still.

You cursed yourself again as you shuffled over and sat down carefully on Nanami’s lap.

The moment you settled, his arms moved automatically, strong and deliberate, caging you between himself and the desk. His sheer size dwarfed you, made you feel like you belonged there. You always felt small next to them—your ridiculous men, all well over six feet tall, with Satoru towering over everyone like the menace he was—but with Nanami, it was different.

His body wasn’t just tall; it was dense, packed solid with muscle. Sitting on him felt like perching on something carved straight out of stone.

You half-wondered if he ate bricks for breakfast. Probably didn't even chew.

As you struggled to keep your thoughts clean, Nanami shifted behind you, the heat of his chest pressed firmly against your back. You could feel every breath he took, steady and controlled, like he wasn’t at all affected by the fact that you were literally sitting on him like some scandalous office pet.

Without a word, Nanami reached past you, his chest brushing you even closer as he plucked the folder Principal Yaga had given you from the desk.

Right. Work.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, trying desperately to pull yourself together.

Focus, you reminded yourself grimly, before you embarrass yourself even more.

Then again, maybe you weren’t a complete idiot after all.

Bless your last two functioning brain cells—because somehow, by some miracle, you had already attached your notes and preliminary ideas to Principal Yaga’s request.

The folder sat neatly in Nanami’s hand, and as he flipped through it with efficient, precise movements, you felt a small flicker of pride that you had at least prepared.

Maybe—maybe—you could survive this without combusting into flames of embarrassment.

That fleeting confidence lasted exactly two seconds.

Because every tiny shift Nanami made had you acutely, devastatingly aware of him.

The way his chest pressed against your back, solid and burning.

The low rumble of his voice as he read aloud a few points—each word vibrating directly through you, sinking into your spine, spiraling lower, right between your legs.

You pressed your thighs together, desperate for some kind of control, praying to every deity that Nanami hadn’t noticed.

But judging by the way his hand stilled slightly on the folder, the way his breath seemed to deepen just a fraction—you had a sinking feeling he definitely noticed.

He had to have noticed.

At this point, you weren’t even sure if he was doing it on purpose.

Nanami was efficient. Focused. Proper.

He attacked everything with relentless professionalism—even now, his voice was steady, his posture composed, flipping through your notes like you weren’t practically melting in his lap.

Meanwhile, you sat there, helpless, brain short-circuiting, doing your damned best to focus on training modules and combat exercises—

—instead of the very vivid, very inappropriate image in your head of Nanami bending you over his neat, orderly desk.

You bit your lip harder, knuckles white where your hands clutched your own knees, and tried—tried—to act like you were a professional too.

Then Nanami’s voice rumbled low and right against your ear, so close you could feel the heat of him as he spoke.

"Explain to me what you want to accomplish with this part," he said, his breath grazing your skin.

You jolted, squeezing your thighs tighter instinctively, feeling yourself practically vibrate with tension.

Your trembling fingers clutched the folder like a lifeline as you tried to obey, flipping to the section he pointed at.

"I—I was thinking," you started, voice barely steady, "about training techniques... to help students anticipate and counter changes in battle flow—"

You hadn’t even gotten halfway through your thought when you felt Nanami’s lips, warm and deliberate, pressed against the back of your neck.

The featherlight touch made your whole body jolt forward—but you couldn’t move far, caged between his arms and the desk.

You gasped, nearly dropping the folder.

Then his hand—steady, unbearably slow—slid up your thigh, your skirt riding higher, until his fingers rested against your inner thigh, searing heat into your skin.

"Go on," he murmured against your nape, voice rough velvet that scraped deliciously down your spine.

You tried to focus. Damn.

"I-it’s important to condition instincts... to recognize battle momentum shifts..." you stammered out, trying to find words, to find anything other than the way his hand gripped you, the way his thumb lazily traced small circles, dangerously close to where you were pulsing with need.

But your voice dissolved into heavy panting before you could finish your sentence.

Because Nanami’s hand was trailing higher. Higher.

And with every inch he claimed, it became more impossible to think of anything except how easy it would be to surrender—to let yourself fall completely, helplessly into him.

"Keep going," he said, voice darker now, almost wicked in how calm it sounded compared to the fire he was lighting inside you.

You whimpered instead, head falling forward, hands trembling around the folder that was quickly slipping from your fingers.

Focus, you told yourself. Focus.

But between the heat of his mouth, the dominance of his hands, and the sinful encouragement in his voice—you didn’t stand a chance.

You tried—really tried—to focus on what Nanami was asking, to dig through the fog in your mind and actually process the training discussion like a capable adult.

But how could you?

His fingers were brushing against your hard, sensitive nubs, teasing through the thin knitted fabric of your dress.

Every light, deliberate graze made your breath hitch, your hands clutching the folder tighter, crumpling the papers without even realizing it.

This is impossible. This is torture.

Then his lips—hot, wet—descended to your neck again.

The drag of his mouth was slow, possessive, and you knew it was going to leave a mark.

You should've pulled away, told him to stop, told yourself to finish the damn task.

But against every shred of judgment you had left, you arched your back instead—

pressing your chest even harder into his large, greedy hands.

The movement also made your ass push back against him—and that’s when you felt it.

Hard. Thick. Under his slacks.

And the second your body met that undeniable proof of his desire, Nanami’s teeth bit down into your neck with a low, guttural sound that rumbled against your skin.

You gasped—sharp, needy—your entire body lighting up as pleasure and shame and want tangled into something devastatingly sweet.

His hands squeezed you tighter, grounding you firmly in his lap as he finally let go of your abused neckline, lips dragging up to your ear again.

"You're doing that on purpose," he murmured, voice so dark, so low, it nearly unraveled you right then and there.

And god help you, you almost told him yes.

Just as Nanami leaned in, his lips so close to yours you could almost feel the heat radiating between you, a sharp knock on the door interrupted the moment.

No. No, no, no.

“It’s me,” Principal Yaga’s voice rang out, clear and loud, making you freeze in place.

Your blood ran cold. Your face burned like it had caught fire, and Nanami’s marks on your neck felt like they were branding you—all of you, not just your skin.

Without even thinking, you did the only thing that made sense in the chaos:

You dove under Nanami’s desk, heart pounding in your ears as you tried to make yourself as invisible as possible.

Nanami, seemingly unaffected by the interruption, calmly stood up and walked toward the door.

You scrambled to bury yourself beneath the desk, praying to whatever higher power that Yaga would just leave.

From underneath the desk, you could hear Nanami’s deep voice as he spoke, perfectly composed as ever. “Yes, Yaga-sensei? Something you need?”

You were kneeling under Nanami’s desk like a cat, wishing you could disappear into the floor, or maybe just melt into the mess of papers beneath the desk. Your face still felt like it was burning with shame, and you could only hope that your hair was covering your neck well enough to hide the obvious red marks Nanami had left.

The footsteps from Yaga lingered, and you held your breath, praying for the universe to have some mercy.

You knelt beneath Nanami’s desk, your heart racing and your mind scrambling for a way to escape the situation. Please, just say you’ll give it to him tomorrow... you silently prayed.

But, of course, Nanami had other plans. You heard a knock on the door, followed by Principal Yaga’s voice. “Got any updates?”

You held your breath, hoping Nanami would brush it off, tell Yaga to come back later, and spare you from this awkward mess. But no. Nanami’s voice was cool, controlled. “A bit of progress. I can show it to you,” he invited.

‘Why did you say that?’

The door opened, and Yaga stepped inside, completely unaware of the scene unfolding beneath the desk. He walked to one of the chairs in front of Nanami’s desk and sat down, casually glancing at the papers spread out before him. Meanwhile, you were stuck underneath, trying to remain as still as possible, praying the desk’s front would shield you.

Nanami sat back in his chair, then—much to your horror—he subtly slid it forward, caging your body between his thighs and the desk. His posture was relaxed, but his legs were firmly pressed against you, leaving you trapped. You had to bite your lip to keep from making a sound, fighting the urge to squirm.

‘What the fuck is he doing?’

Nanami’s voice cut through your thoughts as he addressed Yaga, still completely unfazed by the situation. “She went out to grab some coffee. She should be back later, or maybe tomorrow,” he said smoothly.

‘Oh god. This is bad.’

Yaga, completely oblivious to your panic, simply nodded. “Alright, well, I'll leave a message for her.” Then his attention shifted to the papers on the desk. “Actually, could you pull up the section about the training techniques? The one where she proposed adjustments to the combat flow?”

As Yaga continued to ask questions, probing into your notes, you decided it was time for a little payback for Nanami’s teasing earlier. You moved carefully, quietly beneath the desk, making sure Yaga wouldn’t notice. You felt the tiniest shift in his posture, his body reacting to your movement, but his voice and demeanor remained calm as he engaged with Yaga like nothing was happening beneath the desk.

‘Two can play at this game, Nanami Kento.’

Slowly, with trained movements, you shifted again, deliberately brushing your hand against his inner thigh. Nanami’s posture didn’t falter; he continued speaking with Yaga, never acknowledging your movements. But the pressure of his legs, the way his muscles subtly tensed, told you everything you needed to know.

You couldn’t help but smirk to yourself, realizing that this was your moment to turn the tables. As Yaga continued speaking, you moved just a little closer, feeling the heat of Nanami’s body pressed against you. You could feel him react, just barely, but he still refused to show it.

His voice never wavered as he answered Yaga’s questions, though you could tell something had shifted. The tension in the air was palpable, and you knew that Nanami, despite his composure, was feeling every bit of your movements.

Hidden completely by the heavy desk front, no one could see you tucked beneath, your hands resting lightly on his thighs as you breathed slow and steady, careful not to make a sound.

You waited for the right moment.

And then — very slowly, so slowly you barely dared to breathe — you reached for the buckle at his waist.

The soft metallic click of the buckle loosening was nearly masked by the sound of Yaga clearing his throat.

But Nanami felt it.

You felt him stiffen above you, his hand twitch faintly where it rested on the desk. His legs tensed around you, muscles corded tight, but his voice when he spoke was calm. A little tight around the edges, but calm.

“Yes, Principal Yaga. The proposal outlines targeted individual training modules based on technique compatibility... with optional rotations to enhance adaptability.”

As he spoke, you worked patiently, undoing the button, easing down the zipper with excruciating care, feeling every shift in his tension.

When you freed him, he exhaled—very quietly—and you could hear the faintest hitch in his next breath. But he didn’t stop talking.

You pressed your lips to him, soft and slow, a delicate, maddening touch.

Nanami cleared his throat, voice dipping into something slightly rougher.

"My apologies," he said smoothly. "I seem to be developing a sore throat."

Yaga raised an eyebrow, glancing at him over the rim of his glasses. "Hmm. Sounds like you're catching something. You look a little flushed too."

Nanami forced a polite smile, one hand flexing where it rested atop the desk. "It’s nothing serious. I’ll rest after this meeting."

You continued your slow, careful work beneath the desk, taking your time, savoring the way Nanami’s thighs tensed around you and the slight, helpless flex of his hips despite his rigid self-control.

Yaga asked a few more questions, flipping through pages, and Nanami answered them all — though every so often, his voice betrayed a roughness he couldn’t completely hide.

When Yaga finally seemed satisfied, he stood, stacking the papers together neatly.

“Well, this looks solid. I’ll approve it.”

Nanami nodded, remained seated and appeared to busy himself by fixing his desk, then adjusted his jacket sharply.

“Principal,” Nanami said before Yaga could leave. His voice was steady now, cool and composed. "Would you mind locking the door? Gojo has been... frequenting my office lately for impromptu ‘kidnapping for snacks’ sessions.”

Yaga sighed, long and weary. “That idiot.”

He shuffled to the door, turned the lock with a loud click, and grunted. “There. Good luck surviving Gojo.”

He didn’t glance back as he left, closing the door behind him.

The lock turned again.

And then the room was silent — save for Nanami’s slow, shuddering breath above you.

When he finally looked down at you, the hunger in his eyes was undeniable.

"You," he said lowly, voice thick with restrained need, "are playing a very dangerous game."

You looked up at him through your lashes, your hand still wrapped around the hard length you had so wickedly freed, and you smirked — a slow, daring little thing that made Nanami’s jaw clench.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Just stared down at you, a muscle ticking in his cheek, his breath barely controlled.

Then, in a low, commanding voice, he spoke.

"You'd better be a good girl…" His hand came down to cradle the back of your head, not forcing, just anchoring you there, his thumb brushing your cheek with a barely-there tenderness that only made the weight of his words heavier. His golden eyes burned into you.

"Finish what you started."

The hunger in his voice shot through you like a live wire, lighting you up from the inside.

You hummed softly — a mischievous little sound — and obeyed without hesitation.

Slowly, deliberately, you lowered your mouth over him once more, your lips molding to his heat as you worked him with a sinful patience. Every move was slow, torturous, dragging soft, wet caresses along his sensitive skin.

Above you, Nanami groaned — low and strained — his head tipping back against the chair for just a second before he forced himself upright again, fists curling against the armrests in a desperate show of self-restraint.

"You’re…testing me," he muttered, voice raw and deep.

You just smiled around him, refusing to let up, feeling a deep satisfaction at every quiet gasp, every subtle twitch of his muscles, every time his breath hitched despite himself.

For a man as composed as Nanami, the way he unraveled under your touch was intoxicating.

The room stayed silent except for the subtle sounds of your mouth and his increasingly ragged breathing, the locked door giving you the perfect veil of privacy for the wickedness unfurling between you.

And you had every intention of savoring every second.

Nanami lasted longer than you expected — impressively so — but in the end, you felt the way he finally tensed, the way a rough, strangled breath escaped his lips as he spilled into your mouth. You didn’t shy away. You drank him in, swallowing every drop with a slow, deliberate swallow that made Nanami's golden eyes darken with something almost primal.

Before you could so much as wipe the corner of your mouth, Nanami moved.

In one fluid motion, he grabbed you under your arms and hauled you up from beneath the desk, handling you like you weighed nothing, like you were something precious he refused to let slip from his hands.

He set you down — no, plopped you — right onto the polished surface of his desk, sending a few stray papers fluttering off the sides. His breathing was rough, his control thinned to a knife’s edge, and for a fleeting second, you swore you saw the faintest glint of a snarl on his lips.

Your black knitted dress was no obstacle to him.

He hiked the soft fabric up to your waist without ceremony, exposing you completely to his heated gaze. His large hands gripped the waistband of your underwear — your favorite pair — and without hesitation, he ripped them clean off with a low, dangerous growl that made your stomach flip with anticipation.

"You won't be needing these anymore," he rasped.

Before you could protest — not that you really wanted to — Nanami lowered himself between your thighs, shouldering them apart with ruthless ease.

And then he devoured you.

There was no other word for it.

He ate you like a starved man, like you were the only sustenance he needed to survive. His mouth was relentless — hot, wet, skilled — dragging sinful patterns across your most sensitive places until you were arching off the desk, your hands flying to grip his hair, your cries of pleasure barely muffled by your bitten-down moans.

You came once — twice — three times against his mouth, your body trembling from the force of each release, your thighs quivering helplessly around his head.

But Nanami didn't stop.

If anything, your pleasure only seemed to spur him on, dragging every last sweet sound from your lips until you were gasping his name, your voice hoarse, your body boneless under his hands.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was glistening with you, his chest rising and falling with heavy, controlled breaths. He pressed a final kiss to the inside of your trembling thigh before straightening up, towering over you, his eyes molten with heat and something far deeper.

"You," he murmured, brushing his knuckles along your cheek, "are going to be the death of me."

And in that moment, trembling and spent atop his desk, you almost wished for nothing else.

Nanami didn’t move for a long moment.

He simply stared at you — flushed, trembling, completely undone on his desk — and something inside him snapped.

Without a word, he hooked his hands around your waist and dragged you into his lap.

You gasped as your knees hit the armrests of his chair, straddling him. His hands settled heavily on your hips, fingers digging into the soft skin there as if anchoring himself — or maybe trying to stop himself from losing all composure.

But the way his chest heaved told you: it was already too late.

"I…" Nanami started, voice hoarse, his forehead dropping briefly against your chest. He gathered a breath like it took effort just to speak. "I planned… to do better than this," he muttered, almost to himself. "I told myself I'd keep my restraint around you. That I'd be patient."

You whimpered softly when his hands slid up your sides, under your dress, thumbs stroking the bare skin of your ribs as if savoring you.

"But every time you're near me," he whispered raggedly, "I lose it. I lose everything."

His golden eyes burned into yours — raw, molten, starving.

"I can't think. I can't breathe. All I want is you."

A low growl rumbled in his chest as he pulled you down flush against him, letting you feel just how hard and desperate he still was for you.

"You make me lose control," he rasped, sliding one hand between your bodies to guide himself against your slick, aching center. His restraint frayed further with each second — the lines of control he prided himself on crumbling like sand under a raging tide.

"Look at me," he ordered roughly, one hand tilting your chin up so your gaze locked with his.

"You're going to take everything I have left," he promised, his voice a raw scrape of need. "Every last ounce of me."

And then Nanami pushed inside you — slowly, deeply — his head tipping back with a guttural groan that echoed off the office walls.

You clung to his broad shoulders as he seated you fully in his lap, his breath hitching against your neck, the veins in his arms straining with the effort to stay still even a moment longer.

"So tight, baby doll," he ground out, burying his face in your neck, kissing, biting, claiming you with every desperate roll of his hips.

You felt it in every movement — the hunger, the reverence, the total and utter loss of the man who was supposed to be so composed.

Nanami Kento, always the professional, always the gentleman — reduced to a man who only existed to worship you, to ruin you, to make you his.

And he did — again and again — until the office was filled with the broken symphony of his low, ruined groans and your helpless cries, until nothing existed but the two of you and the burning need that consumed every inch of your bodies.

Nanami barely gave you a moment to breathe.

Still trembling from the last overwhelming wave, you felt his hands grip your thighs — firm, commanding — lifting you off his lap with effortless strength.

Before you could even gasp, he spun you and bent you over the desk.

The cool surface kissed your overheated skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

"Stay still," Nanami growled — his voice dark, frayed, barely human. His palm pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you gently but unmistakably against the desk.

"You’re not done yet," he muttered like a vow against the back of your ear, his breath scalding hot.

The blunt head of him pressed against your entrance again, and he sank in deep with a rough, shuddering groan.

You arched instinctively, helpless under the slow, devastating drag of his body against yours.

"You feel too good," Nanami gritted out through clenched teeth. "Too warm... too perfect. How the hell am I supposed to keep my self-control when you offer yourself to me like this?"

One of his hands slid down to grip your hips hard, pulling you back onto him with a harsh, wet slap of skin on skin.

"Every day," he rasped, thrusting deeper, his restraint shattering more with every movement, "I sit across from you... watch you smile... watch you laugh... and I dream about fucking you like this."

You whimpered, clenching around him, and Nanami groaned — loud and guttural — his hips snapping against yours harder, deeper.

"I dream about bending you over my desk…" he gritted, punctuating each word with another slow, punishing thrust, "...and making you come over and over again."

The desk creaked under the force of it, his pace steady but feral, a man fully unchained.

His hands roamed greedily — sliding up under your dress, feeling every inch of your flushed skin — before one hand slid to your throat, gentle but firm, tilting your head back toward him.

"Say my name," Nanami ordered, his voice a low, dangerous growl in your ear.

"Kento," you gasped, eyes fluttering shut from the dizzying mix of pleasure and heat.

He hummed in satisfaction, his thrusts stuttering for a moment as he pressed his mouth against your ear.

"Good girl."

You felt his teeth graze your earlobe — a rough scrape that sent another wave of heat spiraling down your spine.

Then Nanami wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you upright against his chest without pulling out, moving you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing.

You cried out, the new angle hitting deeper, harder, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, growling low with each desperate thrust.

"This is what you do to me," he muttered, voice cracking. "To us."

He was everywhere — his scent, his touch, his voice, his overwhelming need wrapping around you like chains — dragging you under, drowning you in him.

And when you finally shattered again, clenching tight around him, Nanami followed almost immediately with a raw, broken cry of your name, holding you to him so tightly it felt like he was trying to fuse your bodies together permanently.

You stayed like that — trembling, panting, utterly destroyed — in his arms as he kissed your shoulder tenderly, almost reverently, his voice a hoarse whisper against your skin.

"I'll never be able to let you go," he said.

And you knew he meant it.

You lay draped against him, your body trembling slightly from the intensity, your breath coming in shallow, satisfied gasps.

Still trying to catch your breath, you tilted your head back and gave him a lazy, dazed smile.

"How—" you panted softly, voice still wobbly from the aftermath, "how were you able to explain my notes to Yaga... while I was..." You trailed off, cheeks flushing deeply at the memory.

Nanami chuckled low in his chest — a rare, warm sound — and slid his arms securely around you, lifting you easily against his body as if you weighed nothing.

"You severely overestimate my ability to stay composed," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your damp temple. "I just read from the notes you wrote... almost word for word."

You snorted softly, resting your head against his shoulder as he carried you towards the couch tucked in the corner of his office.

Nanami lowered you carefully onto the cushions, moving with a gentleness that made your heart clench painfully in your chest.

He knelt in front of you, reaching for a nearby box of tissues and cleaning cloths — always so meticulous, so prepared — and began gently cleaning your body first, then his own.

His touch was careful, reverent, almost worshipful, as if he feared hurting you after what he had just done.

Once he was satisfied, he gathered you into his lap again, wrapping you securely in his arms.

"You know," he said thoughtfully, nuzzling his face into your hair, "maybe we should plan on doing our actual work after this... routine."

His voice was dry, almost teasing, but there was an unmistakable hunger still smoldering underneath it — a hunger that told you Nanami wasn’t nearly finished with you yet.

You laughed breathlessly, weakly tapping your hand against his chest.

"That will never work," you said, voice thick with affection and amusement. "Your voice alone is enough to make my legs useless."

At that, Nanami chuckled again — a rare, soft rumble of sound that vibrated against your cheek where you rested.

His hands tightened around you slightly, protective and possessive, as he pressed another lingering kiss against your forehead.

"I suppose," he murmured with a low, tender sigh, "I’ll just have to carry you everywhere then."

You smiled against his chest, your heart swelling at the thought — safe, adored, completely his.

“Let’s —,” Nanami said as he fixed your clothes and sighed as he noticed your lack of bra, “You didn’t even wear fucking bra. Don’t blame me once Satoru sees what you are wearing.” He pulled you up gently, his hands already on your waist to keep you steady, then sighed again as he saw how the dress hugged your ass, “And Suguru won’t be able to keep his eyes and hands off that very fine ass.”

You blushed at his words, at how much effect you have over them and you just let him guide you to your assigned residential area where you share a kitchen and dining together.

“You are going to be the death of us, woman,” Nanami muttered his breath, yet his hands on your waist remained firm, possessive and warm, “Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.”

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