It just occurred to me that the Dumb Slutty Blonde -stereotype could actually make a genuinely fun and compelling character if you put her in a realistic setting where everyone else isn't just cruel and needlessly fucking evil. And I don't even mean in a "you thought she was just a dumb stereotype but she's actually smart and competent!" way, but just genuinely the blonde that blonde jokes are about.
Just a very sweet and friendly woman who likes makeup and fashion, upbeat pop songs, and everyone she meets. She also just has really high sex drive, which isn't a bad thing, and she's not all that bright, which isn't her fault. Nobody knows how the hell she got a driver's license in the first place, but fortunately she won't object if someone else offers to drive.
She has 30 boyfriends and friends-with-benefits that take turns spending time with her because frankly she can't be trusted to be alone for 24 hours straight, and the combination of her cheery, high-energy upbeat attitude and utter lack of self-preservation instincts will wring you dry even if her insane libido can't, so nobody can really handle her for a whole day for more than once a month.
A handful of her fwb-roster are her female friends, but infuriatingly nobody can convince her that she's bisexual. As far as she's concerned, besties eat eachother out all the time and it's just a part of girls having fun together. The local lesbian community has serious discourse about whether she should even be considered intelligent enough to give meaningful consent, but her friends have a valid point in arguing that if they aren't doing it, then somebody else will.
And god knows someone's got to be there to look out for this girl.
SYNOPSIS: upset with each other after a mission ends in a near-death encounter, the tension on the drive back to the city finally erupts in a culmination of old arguments and unexpressed feelings. you push nanami too far, and what starts as another fight spirals quickly into backseat heat, fogged windows, and unexpected confessions.
CONTENT: hate fucking, car sex, rough (but tender) sex, porn with plot, enemies to lovers, mutual pining, reader is snarky and a huge brat, brat tamer nanami, both are sorcerers this is important to the plot, tsundere-ish behaviour from nanami, so much sexual tension it fucking explodes, consent checks, fingering, we fuck first and talk later, hurt/comfort, two emotionally repressed fools, happy ending — wc: 8.5k
A/N: there is some semblance of a deeper plot hidden within all this messy hate fucking stuff but i’ll let you discover it for yourself! i hope you enjoy the read <3 — ao3 link
It’s not a secret that you don’t exactly get along with Nanami Kento.
They all say Nanami is a gentleman. He’s the gold-standard of what it takes to be a first-grade sorcerer – razor-sharp judgement paired with flawless execution and the kind of combat experience that makes him near untouchable in the field. He’s the role model for rookie sorcerers, the example every teacher points to.
And he’s handsome, too, in the unfair kind of way that has old ladies on the street stopping to stare, the kind of handsome that gets him free bread at the bakery and phone numbers scribbled on coffee cups with a little heart next to them.
You know him a little better than that though.
Nanami Kento is a gentleman – to everyone else but you. He’s not an asshole in the traditional sense of the word, neither has he ever raised his voice or stooped to insults (you can’t exactly say you’ve adhered to the same principles), but that doesn’t mean you get along.
The feud between you has been simmering for two years at this point – and it runs deeper than the clipped cadence of his voice when he speaks to you, or the ridiculous leopard print tie he favours so much, or even the suffocating pragmatism he wields like a second blade.
No, what truly grates is your differences in philosophy, the way they surface in every battle, every mission. To him, you’re reckless. To you, he’s inflexible. Stuck up. Condescending. If someone asked him directly, he might have a few choice words to describe you in return.
Still, the higher-ups thought they were clever, pairing your technique with his. Perfect synergy, as they called it. Too valuable to waste. The younger sorcerer brimming with potential, paired up with the seasoned veteran to temper her recklessness.
Stuck together, as you preferred to call it.
And the thing was – you’d actually managed to make it work. Somehow, despite your fundamental differences, baring a few squabbles and disagreements here and there, you fought well side by side. You covered each other’s weaknesses, filled in each other’s gaps.
At least, that’s how it used to be.
Until the mission in July happened.
Ever since then, Nanami has never treated you the same.
You hear it in his tone, now sharper than usual, the way he won’t meet your eyes and yet his gaze lingers on your back like he doesn’t quite trust you to execute a simple assignment without tripping on your shoelaces, and in the way you sometimes catch him staring at the jagged scar running down your left arm – one of the injuries you’d sustained from the mission – his lips pursed and brow creased.
On the surface, things carried on as per usual. You were still being paired together to tackle harder missions better left to more experienced sorcerers. Nothing had really changed about your dynamic, either. You still go out of your way to annoy him, and he still remains largely unimpressed by your attempts to push his buttons.
Most importantly, the implicit trust between two partners on the battlefield was still there, unbroken.
But underneath, you knew that the air between you had permanently shifted, charged with a tension you couldn’t quite name. Sharp and lingering, it polluted every interaction, every word too heavy, every sentence too loaded.
Sometimes, you wondered if it was hatred, that maybe after your fuck up in July he’d decided you weren’t worth his respect anymore. That the semblance of friendship you’d been slowly progressing towards no longer meant anything.
Or maybe, that the scar on your arm was such a jarring reminder of your failure that he could no longer bring himself to look at you without remembering how badly you’d messed up.
And after tonight, when you’d come so close to messing up again, it feels even worse.
Nanami hasn’t said a word for the better part of an hour, weary eyes fixed on the dark ribbon of highway ahead. His jaw is set in that way that means he’s stewing – about you, about the mission, about the split-second decision you made that forced him to step in and save your ass.
Oh, and about the fact that you were supposed to be back in Tokyo by the afternoon, and it’s 9pm.
The next day.
Working overtime. He hates that shit. Possibly even a little more than he hates you.
Nanami’s sleep deprived – you both are – but the difference is that whilst you’ve been able to take little naps in the passenger seat, he looks like his restraint is being held together by the last shreds of sheer willpower and caffeine. He’s on third, maybe fourth cup of cheap convenience store coffee, and his hands are clutching the steering wheel so tight his knuckles have gone white.
For the record, you’d sincerely offered to take over the wheel, but he’d insisted on driving, claiming he didn’t trust you on the road, or with his car.
You’re stealing glances at him – his typically crisp dress shirt rumpled, tie lost to the backseat (thank god he took that monstrosity off), fatigue carved deep in the lines of the stone statue that is his face.
He’d graciously let you have the bed last night, when you were stuck in a shitty motel with only one room available, whilst he slept on the floor with a spare pillow and a towel draped over him to act as a makeshift blanket.
So really, you should probably feel a little guilty.
And you do, really, you do. You just can’t sit still in the quiet for any longer.
Your lips twitch, and you reach for the console to turn the volume up a notch.
“Don’t,” Nanami says, without looking.
Your fingers rest on the display, leaving a little fingerprint across the surface of his otherwise pristine touchscreen – because of course the man keeps his car immaculately tidy and maintained like he just drove it out of the Mercedes dealership the day before.
You hover over the volume button, then, whilst meeting his gaze, you slowly drag your fingertip in a tiny crescent. The bass lifts just a breath – some obnoxious song on the radio you’re only going to pretend to like when he tells you to turn it off – and you hear him audibly exhale.
Nanami’s jaw flexes. “Off.”
Bingo.
You feign a pout. “You haven’t even heard the song. It’s my favourite, you know.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he replies, voice flat. “My car is not a club.”
“Disagree,” you say, tapping the dash, where the LED panels extending across the length of it alternates in the colours of the rainbow, pulsing slowly. “You have the lights. You’re just lacking the vibes.”
He ignores the last end of your statement. “I told you not to mess with my settings.”
“Why buy a fancy car if you don’t play with it a little, Grandpa?” You grin at him sideways, knowing full well the nickname makes his eye twitch every time.
Nanami isn’t one for overtly emotional displays, but it’s the little chips in his composure – so tiny you’d have to squint to see it – that makes pushing his buttons so entertaining. He’s normally a lot better at denying you the satisfaction of seeing it happen, but now, when sleep-deprived and running low on patience, those cracks show easier.
“I am not your grandfather,” he mutters.
“Could’ve fooled me,” you hum. “You sure drive like one.”
“I drive safely.” His gaze flicks to you, entirely unimpressed. “If I’m being honest, I preferred when you were asleep. It would spare me your commentary.”
Oh, good. He’s talking again. Talking is good. Anything is better than the silence he’s been submerged in ever since the mission ended.
“Don’t be so mean, Kento,” you sing-song, drawing out the “O” consonant to his name. “I happen to like talking to you.”
That’s a half-truth. You like getting on Nanami’s nerves, mainly because you seem to be able to draw a reaction out of him unlike another other. Not even Gojo comes close, and that’s saying something. He’s just a lot more… reactive when it comes to you, and you’ve always been more than happy to exploit that fact.
And the other half of it? Because any reaction is better than the suffocating quiet that engulfs the car. That, and the sidelong glances of contempt he’s been casting you. You understand Nanami well enough to know that he’s biting his tongue, another sharp lecture waiting on the edge of his teeth.
So why not speed the process up a little?
You reach for the volume button again, dragging it up just a notch. The bass hums louder, grating and insistent, filling the silence he clearer prefers.
“Are you,” he inhales deeply, shooting you a glare, “purposely trying to rile me up?”
Your grin deepens, teeth flashing. “Did you just figure that out?”
That seems to do it.
His head snaps towards you, eyes narrowed. “Do you have any idea how close you came to screwing up that mission?”
“But I didn’t!” you groan in exasperation, your own mood souring instantly. “I didn’t, and we got out safely. God, why are you still being such a hardass about it?”
“We only got out because I had your back,” Nanami retorts, his tone sharper than usual. “If I hadn’t pulled you out at the last second you would have died.”
“Oh my god.” You drop your head back against the seat, staring at the ceiling of the car. “The point is that I didn’t die. I didn’t die, and now I’m in your car listening to you lecture me, and it’s starting to make me wish I died instead.”
His grip on the wheel tightens. “Do you hear yourself? That was reckless, and you know it. You got lucky.” He drags out the last word, as if to further emphasise his point.
You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “People were saved. That’s all that matters to me.”
“Not if it costs you your life,” his voice comes out low, harsh. “Your life is not an expendable resource you can throw away. We had a plan, and you insisted on veering away from it because you got emotional.”
“It wasn’t emotional,” you grit, dragging a hand down your face in frustration. Maybe death by flinging yourself out of a moving vehicle wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.
“It was a sacrifice I was willing to make. And I succeeded. With my life intact,” you scowl. Shouldn’t you be thanking me instead? What, Mr. First-Grade Sorcerer over here thinks that the only right calls are the ones he makes?”
Nanami lets out a long exhale through his nose, slow and deliberate. “That is not what this is about.”
“What else could it be about?” You throw your hands up in frustration. “Don’t act like you don’t gamble with your own life every day. This whole job is a gamble. Why is that so hard for you to understand?”
“The difference is that your life matters,” he snaps, and the crack in his composure comes so suddenly it silences the car for half a beat.
You blink, but recover your snark quickly.
“Matters to who?” you scoff incredulously. “Certainly not to you, given the way you’ve been glaring at me this whole time.”
Nanami opens his mouth, seemingly about to retort, before changing his mind and snapping his mouth shut. His jaw ticks, and you swear his eye twitches, but he says nothing. Absolutely nothing. The car goes quiet, with only the hum of tires on asphalt and the low rush of air through the vents filling the void.
The silence is heavier than before, and it’s somehow worse than the fighting, worse than the stupid back and forth you’ve been doing since the day you met, and although you can’t for the life of you figure out why you’re so determined to get a rise out of him – stoic, stone-faced Nanami Kento that everyone respects and looks up to – you reach for the handle, yanking it hard. Just to see what he’ll do.
“Pull over,” you demand, giving the locked handle another hard tug.
His head whips towards you with a glare so sharp it borders on panic. It’s not because you want to get out, or because you want to run, but because you want to start a proper fight and you can’t exactly do it sitting down.
“No.” His tone is entirely flat. “And stop doing that. We’re not splitting up on the side of the motorway at night. If I can tolerate you for twenty seven hours,” he checks his watch, eyes narrowing, “no, twenty eight, then you can tolerate me for another sixty more minutes.”
“So you do care.” You can’t help yourself. Pissing him off really is that fun. “Say it, Kento. Say you’d miss me if I got smeared across the road.”
Nanami’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t answer. His eyes stay fixed on the road ahead, although his knuckles return to white from how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel again.
“You’d even cry,” you push. “You’d probably request bereavement leave and take the full week off. Nanami Kento, mourning the brat who drove him insane–”
He breathes in through his nose, chest rising sharply with every measured inhale. You wonder if he’s in the middle of doing one of those breathing exercises they advise you to do to manage anxiety – or in his case, to manage you.
In any case, he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he signals, and without so much as sparing you another glance, contemptuous or otherwise, he veers into the next exit, guiding the car down a ramp and into an industrial strip of shuttered shopfronts.
He pulls into a deserted parking lot in front of a closed bakery and parks, pointedly ignoring your increasingly incredulous questions of what the hell are you doing and have you gone completely mad. The engine ticks as it cools, rain threading down the windshield in tired streams and blurring the warm glow of the streetlamps above.
Only then does he turn to you.
The look on his face, somehow made harsher by the dim streetlamps outside is worse than angry.
It is concentrated. Darkened and unyielding, like the electric pulse of the sky before a storm breaks.
“Get out,” he says.
You blink. “Excuse me?”
“You wanted me to pull over,” his brow lifts just so, the tiniest flicker of a challenge in his otherwise flat expression. “So, get out.”
You set your jaw. “If you’re seriously thinking about making me walk home in the middle of nowhere–”
He undoes his seatbelt with a sharp click of the button, and you almost jolt at the way it snaps back into the retractor. “I am not asking you to walk. I am asking you to get out of the car.”
Everything inside you thrums.
You shouldn’t move. You should lock your arms and snark until he eventually deflates.
Instead, your fingers reach for the handle, opening the door and stepping out into the drizzle of rain and wet concrete. You wanted an argument, but it feels like this has spiralled headfirst into something else entirely.
You round the hood, fingers curled into tight fists to hide how your hands tremble. How they’ve been trembling ever since the mission ended. He swiftly meets you at the passenger side, door closing behind him with a loud thud that makes something in you brace for impact and roar to life all at once.
Rain stipples his hair, under eyes shadowed with hours and stress he probably blames on you. He looks even taller out here, broad and solid, his eyes hard and unyielding, collar undone.
You hate that you still find him unbearably, breathtakingly handsome.
With a breath held immensely tight in your chest, you watch as Nanami opens the back door. The back seat is immaculate, as is the rest of his car – quilted chestnut leather that still smells faintly new, without any indication of creases or crumbs to suggest anyone had ever sat there before.
“Now get in,” he orders.
Your throat goes dry.
“What are you doing?” you ask stupidly, even though you think the heat behind is eyes is an answer in itself.
Nanami steps in closer, and you swear you feel the warmth radiating off him, even through the drizzle of rain. You swear it would burn if you dared to reach for him.
“Polite conversation clearly doesn’t work with you. I’m trying another way.” His voice is a low note, like thunder murmuring in the distance. “So get in the car.”
You tilt your chin in another act of defiance. “And if I don’t?”
You expect him to bite back at you, to return tit for tat, but he lowers his gaze, eyes softening unexpectedly.
“Then,” he murmurs, taking a half-step backwards, “you get back into the front seat, and we go home like this never happened.”
Your pulse is an uneven flutter at the base of your throat. Of course he offers you the choice. Of course he gives you an out. Even now, when the air around you wears thin with tension that threatens to snap, of course he is kind.
And you should take it.
You should stalk back to the passenger seat, shut the door with force and raise the volume loud enough just to spite him. You should ignore how the only decoration in his car is an incredibly out-of-place Pompompurin keychain dangling from the rearview mirror – something you absentmindedly picked out during a gift exchange event. You should pretend you’ve never once questioned why he hasn’t taken it down, especially if it’s as unsightly as he claims.
You should ignore how you seem to be the only person he lets sit in this immaculate shrine of leather upholstery and polish. It’s almost as untouched as a showroom piece, and yet he continues to let you eat your lunch in his car when you’re starving and rushing from assignment to assignment. He never says yes, but he never says no either. He just readjusts his glasses with a sigh and attacks the seat with a mini vacuum when you get out.
You should do all of that, then meet him at 9am sharp tomorrow for that briefing with the higher-ups. Poke fun at his perpetual frown and that hideous tie – because what the hell, honestly – and pretend your scars don’t itch under the heavy weight of his gaze.
You really, really should.
Instead, your spine liquifies, and you move before you can think better of it, slipping into the backseat, the leather sinking under your weight. He follows after you, and if it was quiet in the car before, it is positively oppressive now, the unbearably small space between you closing further as he leans down, knees bracketing your thighs.
The distinctive smell of his cologne still clings to him, softened now by the rain and a long day on the road, but it’s still enough to make your pulse trip as his gaze drags over your face, tender and hot all at once, almost like a caress across the surface of your skin.
“Tell me to stop,” Nanami says, and you don’t understand why, for all the restraint he seems to embody, all that iron discipline that defines him – he seems to be begging you, of all people, to hold him back.
It’s too bad you’ve always been a little reckless.
“I won’t.”
His jaw flexes. “You can.”
“I know.”
That’s the last thing you say before you reach out, a hand grabbing at the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer until the space between your faces all but evaporates. He’s still leaning over you, the breadth of his shoulders caging you in, and you long to find out if he’s just as hard as you imagine – if perhaps the restraint pulling itself taut on every line of his body is fighting back something far more primal underneath.
Your hips shift – just the barest brush against his – and the low growl from the base of his throat tells you enough.
“You want me,” you taunt, chin jutting out like it’s a dare, because maybe you really are stupid and reckless, and maybe poking the bear helps hide the shakiness to your voice, or the hammering of your heart against your ribs. “Maybe you hate that you want me, but you want m–”
Nanami cuts you off. “I want you,” he replies evenly, “to shut up.”
You grin, wide, all teeth. You’ve always loved watching a storm brew. “Then shut me up.”
And he does exactly that.
He curses once under his breath, soft but not at all sweet, and then his lips crash down upon yours, silencing every single thought with a kiss that is all heat and fervour.
Your hands are mean, or maybe just plain greedy, threading through his damp hair, tugging at the strands, before trailing down the width of his shoulders and down his back with a hunger you don’t bother to conceal.
Meanwhile, Nanami’s hands wander lower, gathering up your skirt in impatient fists and flipping the fabric up around your thighs. The sudden rush of cool air makes you shudder, and you hope to god he can’t see how you’ve already soaked through the fabric of your cotton panties.
“You wear this fucking thing–” he rasps, pulling back to let his eyes drag across your body, from your spread thighs to the sharp rise and fall of your chest, “–and wonder why you’re driving me crazy.”
You bite down on another grin, somehow managing a retort despite the dizzy rush of blood in your ears and the furious knocking of your heart against its cage.
“Thought it was my mouth that drives you crazy.”
“Oh, believe me,” he scoffs, breath ghosting your neck. “That too.”
And then, as to prove his point, he leans down to kiss you again, harder this time.
There was a conversation to be had, a fight waiting to be fought, but somehow – when his lips press against yours and his hand trails down your thigh – the only battle you want is the one waged by teeth scraping against teeth, in the slick slide of tongues and in gasps withheld and coaxed out of the other.
You shove at his shirt in between messy kisses, fumbling with the buttons in the dark until you lose patience and practically rip it open with force. It leaves his chest bare, and you can’t stop the satisfied curl of your lips when you run a palm down his body and over his abs, the barest touch pulling a low groan from his chest.
It’s easy to get lost in the moment, in the frenzied fight for dominance you’re sure to eventually lose, but you freeze completely when Nanami’s hands curl at the bottom of your shirt, his intent clear in the way hazel eyes narrow, fixed and focused on your exposed skin.
“D-don’t–” your fingers rush to clamp around his wrist, the slight, frantic tremble in your voice more obvious than you’d hoped.
It’s fairly dark in the car, but even then you can’t bear the thought of him seeing it.
The scars – god, it’s always about the scars – one running down your left arm, crooked and ugly, and the other on your upper chest, evidence of a blade that tore through skin like it was paper, the tissue raised and raw even after all of Shoko’s best efforts.
I can’t do much about the cosmetics, she’d told you with an apologetic wince. Still, you’re very lucky to be alive.
I don’t feel very lucky, you’d wanted to say, your legs hanging off her examination table as you shrugged your shirt back on. I know I should. But I don’t.
Not when he can’t seem to ever look at me the same.
You can’t tell if your wide-eyed gaze has indeed betrayed you, or if Nanami simply decides not to cross a boundary you don’t want crossed, but his movements halt, fingers slowly unfurling from the edge of your shirt.
“Alright,” he murmurs.
He’s chooses to be merciful, although you know deep down he’s always been this way and it just kills you to admit that, because he simply doesn’t press. Instead, he moves on like nothing happened, pulling your top the full length down, then slipping away from where his hand once hovered and down to your parted thighs.
“You’re soaked,” he breathes, in half-awe and half-surprise, when he feels the way slick already coats your inner thighs sticky.
“S-shut up,” you bite back weakly, nails digging into his shoulder when his fingers test the wet heat of your core through the thin fabric of your panties. “Are you gonna fuck me or not?”
“Impatient,” Nanami chides with a click of his tongue, but he gives you more anyway, pushing aside the thin cotton barrier and dragging a thumb through your slick, rubbing over your clit as he goes, the pressure enough to make your hips buck up desperately.
You bite down hard on your bottom lip, wanting to deny him the satisfaction of hearing the whimper threatening to fall from the tip of your tongue.
“Talk,” he orders, a hand closing on your hips to hold you in place. “You never stop. Go on.”
“I hate you,” you say, too quickly, because you need ground under your feet. “You’re a condescending– ah– oh– fuck– ”
Your protest dissolves into a strangled gasp – more air than sound – when he presses two thick fingers into you without warning, the stretch burning and maddening all at once. Hands fly up to grip his shoulders, every push of air from your throat leaving more broken than the last.
You cry out as he works you open, merciless and unrelenting, darkened eyes watching the way your body trembles and twitches under his control. He is precise, measured even in the way he unravels you, every curl of his fingers and brush against your sensitive clit a deliberate act to unmake you.
“What do you want?” Nanami rasps, fingers picking up their pace.
The car is too small, too hot, the wet drag of his fingers and your fractured moans echoing in the cramped space.
“You,” you say, shameless, gone. You’ll lose the battle if it means winning the war. “I want you.”
“Say it again,” he demands. “Tell me you want this.”
“You,” you’re pawing at him, hungry with want, eyes raking down the length of his bare chest and wishing he would just go ahead and ruin you. The sincerity of your confession – just how deep it truly goes – is lost on you. “W-want you–”
That’s all it takes for the remnants of his composure to crack like sugared glass, pulling his hand from you to fumble at his belt before yanking it off and pushing his pants down just far enough to tug himself free.
Your gaze flickers down at the low rasp of fabric, the clink of metal hitting against the door, eyes widening despite yourself.
He’s fucking hung. Well-endowed. Blessed by the gods, clearly, or whatever you call the kind of cock even the average male porn star can’t compete with. Your mouth goes a little dry at the sight of it.
“That won’t– won’t fit,” you say breathlessly, eyes transfixed on the way he fists his cock, once, twice, hand sliding tight over his swollen tip.
“We’ll make it fit,” he grunts.
His free hand settles on your thigh, spreading you wider for him. Your hips don’t mean to cant up to chase his touch, but your body betrays you anyway, the movement needy and shameless.
Nanami drags the head of his cock against your slick folds and another shaky whimper is torn from your throat when it nudges against your entrance, rubbing up against your wet heat.
“Kento–” You gasp when he presses in just enough to have you stretching around his tip, thighs tensing around him at the weight of it, hands curling into fists.
You’re forced to hold his gaze in this position, eyes locked on each other even as yours roll back and his threaten to flutter shut just the same. But he keeps them open – stubborn and determined to the last – fixated on the way your face contorts in a convoluted mix of pain and pleasure as he inches deeper.
“Is this what you wanted?” Nanami rasps, a hand on your hip pinning you down to the leather as your body fights against the intrusion. “Why you keep running your mouth? God,” the laugh he lets out is more dark than it is humorous. “You drive me crazy.”
“You already– hah– said that–”
Another inch deeper.
Another groan falls from your bitten lips, increasingly more shattered as your body gradually yields to the stretch. Your nails dig into this shoulders, fingers curling into hardened muscle, the sheer desperation almost overwhelming.
“You’ll get yourself killed one day,” he grits through clenched teeth.
“Let it go, already, old man,” you snap back, too breathless to carry any heat, “It’s none of your business how I die–”
“Is that so?” He seems to grow incensed at that statement, because he pushes all the way to the hilt, hips snapping against you with a decisive thrust. “Even if I’m the one who has to bury your dead body?”
The force of it makes you choke on a moan, back arching against the seat, hands bracing at your sides for purchase. You swear to god Nanami must truly hate you or he wouldn’t be fucking you this good, this ruthlessly, like every thrust is intent to break you into something less frustrating for him to handle.
And then he leans down, breath hot and ragged against your cheek. His face is half-obscured by the darkness, but even then you can see there’s nothing darker, nothing quite as agitated compared to the look in his eyes.
“If there’s even anything left of you next time.”
He spits it out bitterly, eyes narrowing into slits, the next harsh thrust after that almost serving to further punctuate his statement.
Your lips part, but Nanami doesn't give you the chance to retort – and he knows you well enough to know you always have something to throw back – because he picks up his pace, the rhythm he sets enough to shake the car.
But more than frustration, and more than anger itself, there’s something else buried deep in the way he splits you apart. Something confusing, something desperate behind every devasting thrust.
His hands on your hip stay almost tender, never bruising, and when you guide his hand towards your breasts, above your clothes, he doesn’t knead your flesh with any force behind it. Where you’d expected sharpness, his touch stays controlled, gentle, even – as though soothing.
Nanami must know, because of course he does.
He must know about the scarred length of skin that still feels raw to the touch, and if he keeps looking at you like this you’re certain he’ll know about the nightmares that keep you up on some nights – where you don’t manage to outrun the sharp slice of blade that almost took your life.
He knows everything about you, because he’s worked closely by your side for two straight years, through successes you barely celebrated and losses too deep to speak of, and he’s always right, even when he’s calling you impulsive and reckless.
Even when he’s holding you back by the collar, saving your skin, or giving another sharp lecture with his eyes narrowed and arms crossed – he knows.
And you think that’s what you hate more than anything.
It isn’t the tie (though god, that one is pushing it pretty close), it isn’t the clipped tone, and it isn’t the petty disagreements on mission strategies or what he deems to be sloppy work on your reports.
No, what you truly hate is the way your mistake in July seems to have cost his respect for you, his trust, and as much as you hated to admit it, you cared more about the broken bond – if anything had existed in the first place – than you cared about the irreversible scars on your chest and arm.
Deep down, what you hated was yourself, for losing something irretrievable.
You silence those thoughts with a desperate reach for him, dragging him down into a kiss that is equal parts messy and all-consuming. Every thrust jolts you against the leather seat, your skin sticky with sweat, nothing but the frantic collision of your bodies echoing in the cramped space.
You’re greedy for him. You can allow it, just once. And he gives you greed right back, matched and measured, and then not measured at all.
Nanami is methodical even when he’s unravelling; never fully lost to pleasure itself. He brings you to the edge of release first, only letting himself go when you’re already breaking apart under him, trembling and shaking as your orgasm washes over you in waves.
His thrusts finally turn sloppy, losing their rhythm as they morph into urgency, letting himself chase the high he’s been resisting all this while. His forehead presses close to yours, exchanging heated, open-mouthed kisses, as his hips stutter.
“Fuck–” he curses, driving into you once, then twice more with a fracturing pace, before spilling into you with a low groan, chest heaving from the exertion.
He stays like that for a moment, a hand braced against the fogged windows to shield you from his weight, the both of you panting heavily from the high. Then, with a sharp but shaky exhale, one hand leaves your hip, reaching up to turn on the overhead light.
The warm amber glow floods the space, and for a moment you squint, shielding your eyes from the brightness above.
“Ow,” you bemoan loudly, “did you have to turn that on right away?”
You hear him rustling in the centre console – because of course that man keeps wet tissues and perhaps even a damn first aid kit in there – but then the movement stops, and his reply doesn’t come.
“Hello? The light,” you whine, eyes still squeezed shut.
Still no reply.
It’s only when you slowly pull your hand away from your face that you see what he’s fixated on.
And of course, it’s the scar.
It always fucking is.
Your shirt had gotten shoved up in the chaos, riding high above your stomach and bunching around your sternum. The scar is raised and silvery under the glow of light, one ugly, crooked line that slices across the middle of your chest and extending towards your right breast.
You freeze.
Panic – or maybe even shame – curls hot in your gut.
Shoko had said it wasn’t that noticeable, which really, was a blatant lie. You knew it was one of those rare times she was sparing you the sympathy you needed to hear in the moment.
Instinct tells you to pull the fabric down yourself, but you go rigid instead, afraid of what expression you might read on his face when you dare to look closely.
You’re bracing yourself for whatever he might say, or do, next, but he does what you least expect, leaning down, his mouth crashing hot upon yours all over again.
It starts off with equal fervour as the first kiss you shared, but this one is not messy, not a clash of wills and a battle for control like it was previously.
It is distinctively different this time.
Devastatingly tender, gentle in the way his mouth moves softly against yours, woven with something you’re sure is going unsaid at the moment, a hand moving to cup your breasts.
Your breath hitches when Nanami strokes the raised welt of scar tissue, applying no pressure at all, fingertips tracing across the flesh and then moving to pull down your bra so your nipples harden instantly under the cool air.
“Kento–” you jolt when his hand slips further down, back to your parted thighs and your throbbing heat, still messy with his cum. His thumb presses against your clit, rubbing circles and sending a sharp rush of pleasure that makes your entire body twitch.
“I already– I already–”
“Again,” Nanami rasps. “Cum again. Without hiding from me.”
It’s easy – almost too easy – for him to bring you towards the edge of yet another high.
He’s already got you worked open from his cock, and he only needs to curl his fingers gently, against that sweet spot that makes the pleasure wind tighter and tighter in your stomach, his hands moving against the mess he left inside you.
Nanami doesn’t let up, not even when your fingers wrap around his wrist, trying to stop the relentless stimulation and the release that quickly threatens to overtake your senses.
“Good girl,” he coaxes. “Just let go.”
You cum on his fingers with a sharp whimper, body tensing and shaking until you’re certain you have nothing left to give.
The tears that were pricking your waterline finally overflow when your eyes screw shut, hot streaks trailing down the sides of your face. He reaches for your cheeks, a thumb about to wipe the trickle of tears away when you grab his hand firmly.
“Don’t be soft,” you warn bitterly, voice still raw. “Don’t.”
Nanami doesn’t reply you immediately, but he retracts his hand slowly, an unreadable expression flickering across his face as he studies you. Then, very carefully, like he’s being cautious not to trespass on any more of your space, he pulls your top back down, straightening the fabric.
He pulls out wet tissues from the compartment in the centre console and you try not to roll your eyes at how infuriatingly well-prepared he is for any given situation. No further words are exchanged, but he continues to be unbearably soft, gentle hands cleaning up the mess between your legs.
It's only when you both have your clothes back on, fabric hastily tugged back down to cover what shouldn’t have been revealed, that he finally speaks again.
You hear the words leaving him quietly, whispered almost begrudgingly.
“I can’t seem to help it,” he murmurs. “Being soft with you.”
“It’s ugly,” you say, deflecting – partly because you know his mind still lingers on what he just saw, and your shameful reaction to it, and partly because you don’t want to linger further on what his words might mean.
“No, it isn’t.”
“I fucked up.”
“Mistakes happen.”
You shut your eyes, take a deep breath, and just decide to say it anyway.
“Then why do you hate me so much for it?”
Nanami visibly deflates at that, the soundless sigh he lets out causing his shoulders to droop, almost in surrender. He looks away from you, out of the window and towards the empty parking lots ahead, to where individual stars from the overhead streetlamps illuminate grey concrete floors.
“I don’t hate you.”
“Liar.” You make a sound that could pass as laughter. “I’m the only person you treat this way. You’re polite to everyone else. You open doors. You don’t raise your voice. You don’t pull them back by the collar,” you opt to stare at the dashboard instead of meeting his eyes, but even then, you can’t hide the rawness to your tone. “Why am I different?”
“…I believe I open doors for you.”
You make a frustrated sound. “Is that all you got from my monologue?”
A long pause follows, like he’s measuring out the weight of what he wants to say.
Nanami has the tendency to get quiet like this; every time you demand answers to questions he doesn’t quite want to give, or worse – when what’s about to follow after his momentary silence is something that will hit much harder than what you’re ready for.
For a man that could be so impatient, he sure does take his time to pick his words carefully.
“Do you want to know why I bought a new car?”
“…What?” You blink, uncomprehending. “Why? Because you were getting paid too much? Needed somewhere to spend the big bucks?”
“Because–” his voice raises above yours, eyes screwing shut, jaw tensing as he swallows. “Your blood was all over the seats. My shirt. My fucking hands. I thought you were about to die on the ride back to the school. Fuck,” he curses, voice cracking. “I thought my backseat was going to be where your heart gave out.”
“Kento…”
“Every time I looked at those stains it made me sick. And every time I look at that scar on your arm, I… I think it should have been me instead.”
Every single pushed out of him sounds pained, punctuated with something haunted and heavy, and guilt curls low in your gut at the sight of it.
“So yes. I treat you differently because you make me furious.”
Nanami turns to you, but his eyes are not at all hardened, not a single trace of resentment behind hazel irises.
“Every reckless choice. Every time you joke about your life like it’s a game. Every time you blast your shitty music in my car and mess with my settings.” He rakes a hand through dishevelled hair, looking wearier than ever, the trace of something raw ghosting across his face. “You make me work harder. Longer. Later. You make me have to sleep on the floor and drive for hours at a time–”
“ –I offered to share the bed!” you interject weakly.
“–But I do not hate you.”
The overhead light is off now, so his face is mostly shadow; but his voice doesn’t need light to be clear.
“I hate how the hard floor felt softer than my own bed because I heard you snoring softy from beside me. Alive. I hate how I can’t stand it when you’re not in my sight. When you throw yourself into danger without thinking. Because if I’m not there– if I’m not fast enough–”
Nanami cuts himself off with a shake of his head, hanging low, a mirthless laugh escaping him, broken and tired.
Your throat closes up on you. “Why… why are you telling me this now?”
His next words come soft, uttered like a confession it pains him to make.
“Because the way you’re going makes me think I’m running out of time to say it.”
“Sacrifice is in the nature of our jobs,” you whisper, the same damn lines you recite to yourself every day until the words themselves have hollowed out and lost all meaning. “Surely… surely you know that.”
“I know,” Nanami rasps, desperation and stubbornness wreathed in his voice. “You think I don’t know that? Back in July – in Kusatsu – I know I would have made the same choice you did. You made the right call with the information you had.”
You swallow down the lump in your throat, feeling the hot prick of tears behind your eyes. You’re used to lectures, not pleas, coming out of his mouth.
“Do you– do you really think I made the right call?”
“Yes,” he says, and there’s no hesitation in his reply. “Of course.”
“I thought… I thought you resented me because of what happened,” you will yourself not to cry, even as your vision blurs with tears that push against the precipice, threatening to overflow if you only blinked too heavy. “I thought you looked at me and only saw the mistake. That you hated me for it.”
Silence falls over the car, the steady pitter-patter of rain upon the roof and your combined breathing the only thing to fill the void. It stretches and expands, almost unbearable as you wait for his reply.
“I don’t hate you,” Nanami says finally, slower this time, like he’s holding the weight of too many truths between his teeth. “But I would hate myself if anything ever happened to you. So please,” he looks up and you swear you see the shine of tears in his eyes, though his gaze remains unflinching. “Don’t let it be you. Let me try to keep you safe. Please.”
A thousand things fight desperately for precedence in your mouth – alternating rhythms of I’m sorry and thank you drum in your head, intertwined with other raw, fragile confessions you’ve never dared to voice. Things you’ve never dreamed of having the luxury of ever voicing to him.
But in the end, nothing comes out. The lump in your throat too thick, your chest too tight. You blink, once, twice, and the tears fall – coursing down your cheeks in hot streams. You don’t have to be looking at Nanami to know that, from the deep, shuddering breath he takes, he’s crying too.
“It won’t be me,” you choke out, voice flimsy. “But don’t– don’t let it be you, either.”
“It won’t,” he whispers, even though he can’t promise you that. He reaches out – and you let him, this time – a thumb to your cheek in an attempt to wipe away the wet streaks trailing down your face.
“Okay,” you whisper back anyway, because that’s good enough for you. “Then I won’t let it be me.”
Nothing is ever promised with this job, no two endings ever look the same. But if it’s coming from him – then you’ll let yourself believe it.
Nanami allows himself a laugh, an amused huff of breath through the shimmer of tears collecting in his eyes. “Then you’ll have to actually start listening to me.” He pauses, thumb still lingering on your cheek, like he can’t quite bring himself to pull away from you. “…Just sometimes would be enough for me.”
“I’ll have to consider it,” you hum, and you’re already breaking out in a wobbly smile to mirror his.
He shakes his head, resigned, though there’s a trace of something unmistakably fond on his lips. “I suppose that’s more than you’ve ever done before.”
The world seems to tilt on its axis when you lock eyes again. The rain drumming on outside, the tender length of skin under your clothes, even the empty carpark that seems to be holding the weight of this entire moment – all of that fades to grey when he leans in, his hand on your cheek now moving to cradle your jaw.
Your head tips towards him a mere breath after, pulled towards him by something more inevitable than gravity, something almost as steady as the warmth of his touch or the hymns of his pulse thrumming against your skin.
When your lips press against the other, it happens without a fight this time. You meet as partners, savouring the sweetness of his mouth on yours and how his hand fits the curve of your jaw perfectly – like everything was meant to fall into place exactly how it did tonight.
Nanami’s lips linger on yours, thumb stroking your skin with reverence and longing. He presses one more kiss to your nose – drawing a scrunch from you that is equal parts shy and delighted – and another to your forehead, gentler than anything you have ever known.
No further words are said when his hands fall away, the warmth of his skin still radiating, your hearts still beating in the same tune. Then, as though some unspoken truce has been reached in the simple quiet of the tenebrous night, he starts the engine, the car humming to life once again.
You don’t need words, you think.
You just need the certainty of his presence beside you. You need the careful hand against your lower back when he walks alongside you sometimes. The same one you pretend to resist.
You need the way he sighs when you needle him, not because he’s truly exasperated, but because it’s become your rhythm: your push, his pull, the delicate balance that keeps you tethered together even in the ugliest chaos of your work.
The beam of headlights cut through the rain-soaked darkness, and Tokyo waits for you both, just a half hour drive away. Silence envelops the car like a love letter waiting to be sent out – and what was suffocating now melts down into something softer, blanketing you in the most peace you’ve felt in months.
“I’m hungry,” you complain loudly after a bit, when the blur of the city finally takes shape across the line of the horizon. “I need food.”
Nanami spares you a side glance and you pout a little harder. “I believe we ate only three hours ago.”
“Sex is a full body workout, you know.”
“Convenience store, then.”
A pause. His lips purse, and you watch his throat work before he quietly adds, a little unsteadily, “Or… we could go back to my place. I have the seafood cup noodles you like.”
You will your heart to be still. To not flutter at the very notion of an invitation for something more.
“Sounds like a plan.”
You turn the radio up one notch, then catch his eye, and turn it back down. He doesn’t comment. You think that he too, might be hiding a smile in the dark where you can’t see it.
You watch Nanani silently, and then, on impulse, you reach across the console and rest your hand briefly on his forearm. He glances down at your fingers. He doesn’t move away.
There are no guarantees with the life you both lead, but there are a few things that are for certain.
Next Monday, he’ll still pick you up outside your apartment at 8:30am sharp, ample time before the morning meeting. On your seat will be a teriyaki chicken onigiri and your favourite green tea waiting for you to scarf down, because he says you get more annoying when you’re on an empty stomach.
You’ll still try to push his buttons – even though you refuse to admit that one of the reasons why you do so is because the faint crease of his brow and the pursing of his lips is rather cute. And he’ll still sigh, just like he always does, his composure only ever fracturing in your presence. When he does, though, you’ll notice a trace of fondness which lingers in the slight curve of his mouth and the softness behind his eyes – little betrayals of the heart he no longer tries to hide from you.
You’ll still fall into his bed many more times after tonight, just like how you’ll continue to make him grit his teeth and curse at your recklessness, and how he’ll still cause you to roll your eyes and bite back a sharp reply in response.
The label for what started as backseat heat and fogged windows that morphed into nights at his place doing a lot more than just eating cup noodles doesn’t come until many months later. It doesn’t matter, though – because you already like the way the words “my partner” sound coming from his mouth – more than any other terms of endearment one could ever choose.
The scars won’t ever fade, but Nanami kisses them so much that you start to like the way his lips press against the silvery length of skin. They stop feeling like a reminder of how you faltered, and start feeling like the proof that you’re still here – how you need to keep being here.
For yourself.
For him.
And for everything else that comes after.
For now, you can’t help but smile, a small but satisfied curl of lips.
You did indeed win the war – this one, at least.
And you’ll make damn sure you stay alive long enough to fight the next one by his side.
a/n: this fic was largely motivated by my need to write a realistic enough scenario where i could imagine nanami hate fucking the reader… i totally imagine him being a bit of a hardass about his car so i couldn’t resist putting that in (also the jabs about his tie may or may not contain my true sentiments)
i didn’t mean to make the plot this emotional and honestly it started off as just a horny thing but i simply could not help myself. i hope you enjoyed the read! i want him so fucking bad lol
i’m also here to plug my other enemies to lovers arranged marriage au with nanami — check it out here <3
comments and reblogs appreciated!! i would really love to hear your thoughts + my inbox is open if you wanna yap at me <3 ty for reading (^_^)
I know some people have seen the news recently and may be doubtful of it. To the uninformed, Google Docs has started using AI to find "inappropriate" and "problematic" content, scraping your documents and deleting it. I know some people are unsure if this is real or think this is not going to affect them.
I regret to inform you that this is real.
As I was on a call with some writers and we were moving our documents as a precautionary measure, one person discovered entire pages missing that they did not delete themselves. This is happening to us, it's not a hoax or a rumor, it's happening right now. You need to move everything if you want to preserve it.
If you're a writer with writer mutuals, please reblog this so they know. I rarely write on Google Docs anymore, but I started my fanfics on there, and I would be devastated if I lost works more than ten years old because people decided marketing appeal is more important than creative freedom.
i'm going to make a life i love even if it's not the one i expected or thought i wanted. and i am going to let myself be proud and grateful of what i do have. i am allowed to be proud of it without other people realizing the gravity of what i have accomplished in scale to my life and abilities. i do not need permission.
thinking about how when you experience a lot of shame in your formative years (indirectly, directly, as abuse or just as an extant part of your environment) it becomes really difficult to be perceived by other people in general. the mere concept of someone watching me do anything, whether it's a totally normal activity or something unfamiliar of embarrassing, whether I'm working in an excel spreadsheet or being horny on main, it just makes my skin crawl and my brain turn to static because I cannot convince myself that it's okay to be seen and experienced. because to exist is to be ashamed and embarrassed of myself, whether I'm failing at something or not, because my instinctive reaction to anyone commenting on ANYTHING I'm doing is to crawl into a hole and die. it's such a bizarre and dehumanizing feeling to just not be able to exist without constantly thinking about how you are being Perceived. ceaseless watcher give me a god damn break.
Tyler Hernandez is a non verbal care giver. And I will die on that hill (pun intended)
Listen. The guy has been taking care of his mother and his sister, cooking, cleaning and just being the one standing on his toes in general.
So to a certain point, he just got used to it.
He just knows.
You all were in Ashley’s parent’s car, you’re ruffling in your bag. Where is it, dammit? You’re fighting in the itsy-bitsy space that you have, hair falling everywhere around your face and the summer heat making your skin sticky.
You sigh, frustrated. My parents gonna kill me. But when you open your eye, your AirPod case that you have been searching for appears in none other than your friend’s hand.
« You’re so careless, gosh »
« Oh my god, my savior » you take your precious treasure. You can’t live a day without your music, so it wasn’t an exaggeration. Aiden let out a chuckle beside you.
As you were putting your earphones in, a water bottle was given to you, no words whatsoever.
snowghoul
titsay
gummygunk
origamiaround
romaincrisis
jacobvanloon
