HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR. PRESIDENT
ft. president!kentonanami x !firstlady reader
cw: nanami being workaholic (are we even surprised?), mention of gojo & ijichi, ijichi being slightly intimidated (reader was joking, she wouldn’t hurt a fly), attempt to crack, fluff, and SMUT (p in v, fingering, sex in the president's office, praising, begging, use of petnames...)
an: part II of this; writing the emails was my favourite part haha, enjoy 🤭 question: should we turn this into a mini-series? let me know!
Dear Mr. President,
Would it be possible to free my husband for this evening? I would very much appreciate it. See, his birthday is very dear to me, and I have a surprise ready at 8pm for him.
Thank you in advance.
Good day,
The First Lady.
Subject: RE:Free my husband (your husband is perfectly fine)
Dear Mrs. President,
I hope you are having a wonderful day. Your husband is currently trying to solve a little crisis. I will do my best to resolve this promptly. I hope you’re not mad at me.
I love you,
Your dear Kento.
Subject: RE: RE:Free my husband (my husband isn’t fine, he doesn’t even answer his phone)
Mr. President,
Mad at my husband? No. At the President of this Free nation? Yes, because you are making my husband work too hard during his day off. I’ll ask Ijichi to clear your schedule tonight.
Best regards,
The First Lady.
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE:Free my husband (I apologise, I put it on mute but your husband is perfectly fine)
Mrs President,
Don’t traumatise my chief of staff again please. He’s still trying to recover from last time - your words are a fresh wound.
I love you (even if you don’t say it back),
Your Kento.
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE:Free my husband (he’s not, he’s overworked and underfucked these days)
Mr President,
Your chief of staff isn’t traumatized - your hyperbole isn’t necessary. I was just trying to inform him of my disagreement.
Kind regards,
The First Lady.
P.S: Trying to guilt trip me into saying it back won’t work, Kento. Don’t you dare.
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE:Free my husband (we are not talking about that now)
Mrs President,
Let me freshen up your mind. He almost cried because you threatened to reassign him to Antarctica when he didn’t let you into the Office. I wouldn’t call it hyperbole.
I love you,
Your Kento.
P.S: Is it working?
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE:Free my husband (yes, we are)
Mr President,
I forgot about this story.
I’m still waiting for you, 8pm sharp.
Best,
The First Lady.
P.S: Yes, it is working. Stop it now.
Kento was nowhere to be seen outside his Office. You weren’t really surprised - he had been running the country for three years, working day and night without rest, spending hours in the company of his perfectly stacked papers and his half-filled cold coffee cups forgotten on the mahogany desk. You knew him - his dedication to the nation was beyond comprehension and yet, you couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed. Today was his birthday and he wouldn’t even take a break to enjoy his day.
Dressed in the finest silk dress you owned, you finished reapplying your red lipstick, your golden earrings catching the light in the mirror. You were disappointed, yes, but not completely discouraged - and even more determined. Head of state or not, tonight was all about him - and you intended to make him understand that, even if you had to terrorise half the Office in the process.
Moving through the endless corridors, people greeted you as you did the same - the youngest of them intimidated, nose in their papers, stammering and flustered, while others, more mature, gave you nods in respect. Only one person was in your sights tonight - Ijichi, the chief of staff. You could already picture his reaction - glasses perched on the tip of his nose, trembling tissue wiping the sweat off his forehead, flustered and shaking, his phone buzzing nonstop.
“Mrs. President, on your way to scare the chief of staff?”
That made you stop in your tracks. As infuriating as he was beautiful, the right-hand man of your husband was waiting outside Ijichi’s office - carelessly leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, a lazy smile dancing across his plump lips as if nothing or no one in the world could bother him.
“Vice-president Gojo, good evening to you too.” You greeted him, a knowing smile on your face. People were usually intimidated by the man - and especially by the power he held in his hands. “And no, he isn’t scared of me. I don’t see why everyone says that.”
“The man is practically shaking in his boots every time he sees you.” A small chuckle echoed in the corridor, as he adjusted the golden cufflinks of his suit. “Anyway, you’re here to see Kento, right?”
“Still in his office, I reckon?”
“Ah, sweetheart, the man is practically glued to his desk. I tried to take him out for a drink - and as you can imagine, he refused. We all know he only listens to you.”
Your hand fidgeted with the wedding ring firmly planted on your finger, - a detail that didn’t go unnoticed by Gojo. You admired your husband: Kento was impossibly stubborn - a brilliant mind shaped by a will of steel that no one could break. Coupled with the will to always do the right thing, no matter when, where or how, you ended up with a man that put everything before himself. You sometimes joked about him being married to his desk - but it was reality. You couldn’t be mad at him - he spent his nights apologising to you every time he could.
“And thank God, he listens to you. Otherwise, we would all be doomed.” That earned a small chuckle from you this time. And just like that, pleased with himself, with that signature smile and shining blue eyes, Gojo left, letting you enter Ijichi’s office.
Your earlier imagined vision of him was right. Already flustered, the chief of staff didn’t know where to look, eyes darting everywhere but on your form. Snowed under the many folders that needed to be taken care of, his desk phone ringing without interruption, chaos had taken control of the place. Sweating as if he ran a marathon, Ijichi was sponging himself down with a tissue, hand trembling and lips wobbling.
“It is a bad time, Ijichi?”
“Never, Mrs. President! How… How can I help you?”
The smile on your face did nothing to soothe him - with you, something was up.
“You know what day it is, right?”
“Of course. The President’s birthday, ma’am.”
“So you know that, I’m going to enter this Office, no matter what.”
He blinked, mouth wide open, glasses already slipping off his nose.
“Mrs. President, if I may, this is a very important matter and he doesn’t want to be disturbed unless-“
“No, Ijichi, you may not. It’s been more than nine hours that he’s been locked in his office, Now, listen to me very carefully.” The sweetest smile ever appeared on your lips - honey dripping from them as you spoke softly, which didn’t reassure the poor man before you at all. “If you don’t let me enter this office, and see my husband in the next two seconds, I’ll scream so loud the West wing will hear me, alright?”
“Yes, yes, of course, Mrs. President-“ He nodded eagerly, trying to mask his internal crying, his hand darting to the phone to dial the number of his secretary.
“Thank you very much, Ijichi, you are wonderful as always.” You patted his arm softly, turning on your heels. Before opening the door, you threw him one last smile. “Say hi to your dog by the way. Would love to see him here one day.”
The poor man regretted every choice of his career. Antarctica wasn’t so bad, was it?
Knocking only once on the glossy wooden double doors, you didn’t bother waiting for an answer, and entered the Office - closing it carefully behind you. Without any surprise, Kento was still working, seated behind his mahogany desk, alone in the office, almost lost in the dim light with only a lamp to light him. You could barely see him through the enormous piles of paper - except for his black fountain pen in hand, held so tightly, signing his name across the paper.
Overworked, exhausted and spent, he was still a sight for sore eyes. Sweaty forehead, messy hair which he must have run his hands through too many times, bags under his eyes, he owned the room by his sole presence. He didn’t even look up - too engrossed in whatever financial file he was reading. Judging by the frustrated sigh leaving him, it wasn’t the most interesting document.
“Ijichi, I already told you, no one gets to enter the Office while I-“
“No one? Not even me? You wound me.”
His reaction was immediate, his pen was put down, his attention focused on you, as if his body recognised you before his brain did, the vows taken five years ago going above and beyond the oath he took for the nation.
“I’m almost finished, I promise, I just need five more minutes and I’ll be all yours after-“
“Remember the night you won the elections?” Your finger caressed the end of the mahogany desk as you walked further into the room, observing the size of the Office, a hint of nostalgia coating your voice. His eyebrows knitted, not following the sudden change of conversation.
“Of course, I remember. How could I not? You wore the blue dress I like so much.” Three years ago. It had been three years. He hadn’t seen the time go in a blink of an eye. But, you, you had stayed. Many things happened - and you remained. The only thing that really mattered was in front of him - walking barefoot in his office, the white silk of your dress catching all the light of the room, ethereal presence coming to comfort him.
“Remember what we did?” You continued, taking a step closer to him.
“We danced. All night.” He could almost see yourselves swaying together, silently in the center of the room, barefoot, tired and happy. Just the two of you. Warmth spread in his chest at the memory, his eyes softening.
“We fled away from the reception, you mean.”
“You know Gojo, he wanted something spectacular.”
“And he was mad at you for weeks after that.”
“Yes, he was. He didn’t even show up for some of our meetings to piss me off.” A deep chuckle left his throat - a real, genuine chuckle, as you turned to him, a content smile on your lips. There he was, you thought. He wasn’t completely relaxed yet - the tool of his daily responsibilities still weighted on his shoulders - but at least, he was less tense, a bit more carefree, away from the usual image people had of the President.
“Feels like yesterday.” He added, your hand ran hrough his messy blond hair - a few white strands peeking out from the gold, as he leaned instinctively into your touch, a soft exhale leaving his lips, his hands finding anchor on your hips. His forehead fell on your stomach, his eyes closing for a second.
You were home - wrapped in silk and scent of linen and flowers.
“Remember the promise we made to each other that night?” Your voice softened - a soft whisper lingering in the air.
“That no matter what, we wouldn’t let the Office come between us.” Kento replied, his voice muffled against the fabric of your dress. He could stay here, in this position, forever - the warmth of your body against his, your familiar perfume invading his nostrils, the sweetness of your caresses soothing his terrible and constant headache. His chin rested against your stomach, his eyes fluttering shut. “Do you feel like it’s the case?”
“Honestly?” His heart tightened, it tightened so much he thought it would explode. Not because you resented him for it, on the contrary, because he resented himself. His mouth opened, ready to apologise for the thousandth time - the lines of worry on his forehead deepening.
“I know. I know, baby.” You cut him, not wanting him to feel anything but guilty on the day of his birthday - but he wasn’t having it. Strong arms encircled you in a tender embrace, his nose hiding in the column on your neck as he brought you on his lap - needing to have you closer than ever.
“I love you, so much, so much. You know that, right?”
His gaze slipped to your dress for half a second - his heart skipping a beat. Humming in acknowledgment to whatever you were telling him about his birthday dinner, his eyes took a darker shade, his hands mapping your curves over the dress in appreciation. Too many thoughts crossed his mind - his tongue grazing his lower lip. He felt too hot - way too hot for an April evening.
“Really?” The air of the room shifted into something heavier, more charged, almost electrical. You knew this gaze - hazel irises turning into two ambers that were swallowing you whole. Mr. President was hungry - the type of hunger that made your core ache at the simple thought of him wanting you this much, the type that your knees weaken and buckle with the intensity of his look, at the grip of his hands on your hips that was slightly, almost imperceptibly firmer. Your lips grazed over his ear, your hot breath hitting the soft spot there - one of his many weaknesses. “It’s your birthday today. You can get anything you want, you know.”
Eyes into yours, he waited for your approval, your nodding was the simple answer he needed.
“Hands on the desk, sweetheart.”
“You are sinful, Mr. President.” You did immediately as he said, bending over. The title made his cock throb with anticipation - you, of all people, calling him that always made his head lighter.
“I am going to take my sweet time with you. Feel that?” His hands guided yours to feel the smoothness of the wooden desk, pinning you with his hips, as a soft exhale left your lips. “It’s thanks to you that we are here.”
Head turned to yours, catching your lips into a kiss, tongue and teeth and lips crushed together into a sensual tango - of which he was the master - linking your souls, ragged breaths, whines and obscene sounds filling the silence of the room. He was consumed body and soul, his heart battering against his thoracic cage. Papers flew everywhere in the air, as he pushed you even more against the desk, your hands gripping the edge of the wood.
“Kento…” You arched your back against his chest, when his fingers traveled from your shoulders to your right breast, rolling the nipple between his index and his thumb over the silk. Face hot, eyebrows knitted, flushed cheeks, he wanted to devour you whole.
“I’m right here, my love.” Lips against your flushed skin, he took his time - tasting his gift with utter reverence, slowly unwrapping it with the most diligence. He couldn’t have wished for better - you were his everything, and he intended to show it to you. His hand disappeared between your thighs, the fabric riding on your hips. When his fingers made contact with your damp panties, a small smile appeared on his face, hot breath grazing your neck, a rasp reverberating through his chest.
“You’re so good to me, Mrs. President. Look at how wet you already are.” And before you could utter a single syllable, he played with the pearl between your smooth thighs, sweet moans singing to his ears.
Oh, he did take the sweetest time with you. Grazing carefully, alternating with the press of his digits on your most sensitive parts, he slipped a finger into your warmth, a gasp rising from your lips, as your hands flew immediately to his forearms to steady yourself, nails digging into the skin.
“You’re taking it so well for well.” He praised, humming against your neck. Nothing seemed to rush him now, hidden in the corners of the Office, worshipping you ask you deserved it. It was too much - your heart was beating furiously. Not enough - your body ached for more. More. More. More. You needed more.
“I need to feel you, Kento. Please, I-“
“You never have to beg with me, baby. I’ll give it to you, of course, I’ll give it you. Always.” He spun you with carefulness and set you on the desk in one swift motion - where you rightfully belonged - spreading your legs and stepping between them. You didn’t waste any time and opened his belt, letting it tangle against his thighs, and undressed him as he grabbed you by the hips, pressing into you, inch by inch. Every ridge of him melded your insides, the feeling making you both moan.
“You’re so… warm, and tight. Oh my…” He stopped himself and kissed you. Again. And again. And again. Until you couldn’t breathe anymore. Until the only thing remaining was the picture of glorious Adonis before you, pounding mercilessly and making you struggle to keep your eyes open - pleasure flowing into your veins, awakening every nerve of your body, his cock huge filling you up to the brim. Caressing the nirvana with the tip of your fingers, your soul floated toward the devastating climax promised to you by him, your sacred pleasure placed in the palm of his hands.
This Office was as rightfully yours as his, and this desk - the symbol of the hard work he endured all those years - was the altar on which he was sanctifying you, the wood trembling under the strength of his devotion. Intertwined hands, matching silver rings pressed together, your climax was near, your breath shorter, almost gasping for mercy.
“Come on, give…give it to me. I know, you can do it. That’s it, baby, you’re doing so good.”
The ravaging thunderstorm inside of you roared and blew out, a sob leaving you, your name on his swollen lips like the only prayer he knew, both of your bodies pressed against each other.
He helped lay you down on the desk, his hands cradling your head gently, his forehead finding its way to your shoulder, trying to catch his breath in the sepulchral silence surrounding both of you. Whispering soft praises into his ear, you held him between your arms, a content feeling washing over you.
