Tensions At Ease
Agents!Nanami Kento x Fem!Reader
Summary: The mission is over, but the heat of the battlefield still clings to you both as you and Nanami make it back to your safe house. Now, all that's left is to catch your breath and tend to the aftermath.
Tags: 18+, plot, coworkers to lovers, cursing, raw, intercourse, aftercare, relationship to be established, read at your own risk.
WARNING!Even if it's an 18+ story, please be mindful and be respectful, or I will have to block you.
Word Count: 2,773
The rain hammered against the corrugated metal roof of the safe house, a relentless drumming that filled the oppressive silence between you and Kento Nanami. The air inside the small office room smelled of old paper, damp concrete, and the metallic tang of blood. You leaned against the mahogany desk, your breath still coming in shallow hitches. Your tailored blazer was ruined, torn at the shoulder and smeared with grime, but you kept your chin high.
Nanami stood by the window, his silhouette sharp against the grey light. He had already removed his jacket, his white dress shirt clinging to his broad shoulders. He didnt look at you. He didnt have to. You could feel his judgment radiating off him like heat from a stove.
"You took an unnecessary risk," Nanami said. His voice was a low, steady drone that usually calmed people. To you, it sounded like a challenge.
"I secured the objective," you replied, crossing your arms. "The risk was calculated. The result was a success."
"Success is not measured solely by the objective, but by the efficiency of the process. You nearly got yourself killed because you refused to wait for the signal."
"Waiting for the signal would have let the target slip. I don't want to wait, Nanami.”
He finally turned, his gaze cool and analytical behind those strange goggles. He looked at you not as a partner, but as a problem that needed solving.
"Winning at the cost of your life is a net loss. Your ambition is an asset in the boardroom, but in the field, it is a liability. It makes you reckless."
"And your caution makes you a statue," you snapped.
"I bet you spent half the mission wondering if your tie was straight while I was actually doing the heavy lifting."
Nanami stepped closer. The space in the office was cramped, forcing you to lean back against the desk. He stopped just inches away, his presence looming, smelling of sandalwood and a hint of ozone.
"I do not care for your opinion of my attire. I care that I had to pull you out of a collapse because you thought you could outrun a falling ceiling."
"I had it under control."
"You were screaming," he said softly, a flicker of something dark and intense crossing his expression.
"You were terrified, and yet you still tried to command the situation. It is an exhausting trait."
"Maybe you're just exhausted by the fact that you can't control me," you countered, a smirk playing on your lips despite the tremor in your hands.
"Does it bother you, Kento? The fact that I don't follow your little schedule? The fact that I don't ask for your permission?"
Nanami's jaw tightened. He didn't move, but the air between you thickened, turning heavy and electric. He looked down at your lips, then back up to your eyes. The hatred was there, but it was twisted, wrapped in a hunger that he had spent months trying to bury under layers of professionalism.
"You are an irritant," he murmured.
"And you're a bore," you whispered.
"Get your things," he said, stepping back abruptly as if burned. "We need to move to the living area. The rain isn't stopping, and we are stuck here until dawn." He blamed the rain—ignoring the atmosphere that was thickening between them.
You followed him out of the office and into the main room. It was smaller than the office, consisting of a single, worn-out fabric couch and a kitchenette that looked like it belonged in a dollhouse. The dim yellow light of a single overhead bulb flickered, casting long, dancing shadows across the linoleum floor.
"One couch," you observed, staring at the piece of furniture. "Please tell me there is a bedroom."
"There is not," Nanami replied, setting his briefcase on the counter. "This is a basic extraction point. We share the couch, or one of us sleeps on the floor."
"I am not sleeping on a floor that looks like it hasn't been mopped since the nineties."
"Then I suggest you find a way to be accommodating. I have had a very long day, and my patience is nonexistent."
"Your patience is always nonexistent. You treat every conversation like a performance review."
Nanami sighed, a sound of genuine fatigue. He began to unbutton his cuffs, his movements methodical and slow.
"Perhaps if you spoke with a modicum of professionalism, I would not feel the need to correct you."
"Professionalism is for people who are afraid to be honest," you said, walking toward the kitchen to find a glass of water.
"You hide behind that suit and that stoicism because you're terrified of actually feeling something that isn't scheduled in your planner."
Nanami stopped mid-motion. He turned to look at you, his eyes narrowing.
"You think you know me because you can read a few social cues. You know nothing of what I feel."
"I know you hate me," you said, leaning against the counter, your voice dripping with sarcasm.
"I know you despise the way I lead, the way I dress, the way I talk. You look at me and see everything you've tried to suppress in yourself."
"I do not hate you for your ambition," he said, his voice dropping an octave.
He began to walk toward you, his footsteps silent on the floor. "I hate that I can't stop thinking about how much I want to break that confidence."
The air vanished from the room. You didn't move as he closed the gap, his shadow swallowing you whole.
"Is that so?" you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs. "And how would you break it, Kento?"
He didn't answer with words. He slammed his hand onto the counter beside your hip, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the small kitchen. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating from his chest.
"By reminding you that there are things in this world that you cannot manage with a sharp tongue and a better strategy," he hissed.
"Try it," you challenged, your eyes defiant. "Try to manage me."
The tension snapped. Nanami grabbed the front of your ruined blazer and yanked you forward, his mouth crashing against yours. It wasn't a kiss of affection; it was a collision. It was a fight for dominance, a desperate clash of teeth and tongues. You groaned into his mouth, your hands flying up to grip his hair, pulling him closer, wanting to devour the composure he prized so much.
He tasted coffee and repressed rage. His tongue pushed into your mouth, claiming the space with an aggressive hunger that mirrored your own. You could feel the vibration of a growl in his throat, a sound that was entirely un-Nanami-like.
He broke the kiss for a second, his breath hot against your skin.
"I have wanted to shut you up for six months," he gasped.
"Then do it," you whispered, your voice shaking. "Shut me up."
He didn't need to be told twice. He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist, and slammed you down onto the small dining table. The table groaned under the impact, a few stray papers sliding to the floor. He didn't care. He was between your legs in an instant, his hands tearing at your clothes with a frantic energy that bordered on violence.
Your blazer was tossed aside, and he ripped open your blouse, buttons scattering across the linoleum like tiny white pebbles. He stared at your breasts, the pale skin contrasting with the dark fabric of your bra.
"Look at you," he muttered, his voice raw. "So composed, so in control. Let's see how that holds up now."
He leaned down, his mouth finding your nipple through the lace of your bra. He didn't tease; he sucked hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak, causing you to arch your back and cry out.
"Kento, please," you whimpered, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders.
"Please what?" he asked, pulling back to look at you. His eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide. "Tell me exactly what you want. No sarcasm. No games. Just the truth."
"I want you," you gasped, your chest heaving. "I want you inside me. Now."
He let out a sharp, jagged breath. He reached down, his hand fumbling with his belt and trousers. He stripped them off with a desperate haste, revealing a cock that was thick and pulsing, already weeping pre-cum at the tip. It was imposing, a physical manifestation of the power he usually kept locked behind a wall of etiquette.
He didn't use a condom; there was no time, no patience left. He grabbed your hips, pulling you to the edge of the table so your legs draped over his shoulders. He looked at your wetness, the glistening folds of your pussy exposed and inviting.
"You're soaking," he observed, his voice a low, vulgar rumble. "You've been thinking about this just as much as I have."
"Shut up and fuck me," you screamed.
He plunged into you in one singular, brutal motion. You shrieked, the sensation of him filling you so completely that it felt like you were being split open. He was too large, too hard, and the friction was an electric shock that surged through your entire body.
"Fuck," Nanami groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder. "You're so tight. It's like you're trying to crush me."
"I've got you," you gasped, your legs tightening around his neck. "I've got you right where I want you."
He began to move, his thrusts long and punishing. Every time he hit your cervix, you felt a jolt of pleasure that blurred your vision. The sound of the encounter filled the kitchen—the wet, shucking noise of his cock sliding in and out of your drenched heat, the slapping of his balls against your thighs, and the ragged, desperate sounds of your combined breathing.
"Do you still feel in control?" he asked, his voice dripping with a cruel sort of pleasure. He accelerated the pace, his hips slamming into you with rhythmic violence.
"Tell me, who is in charge right now?"
"You... you are," you sobbed, your head tossing from side to side on the table. "You're in charge."
"Say it again," he commanded, his thrusts becoming shorter, faster, hitting that one spot that made your toes curl.
"You're in charge! Kento, please, faster!"
He let out a guttural sound, a primal noise that stripped away every ounce of his professional veneer. He gripped your waist so hard his fingers left bruises, his movements becoming frantic. The table slid a few inches across the floor with every thrust, the screech of metal on linoleum adding to the chaos of the moment.
"I hate how much I want you," he growled, his voice thick with lust. "I hate that you make me lose my mind. I hate that I can't think of anything but the way your pussy feels around my cock."
"I hate you too," you screamed, the pleasure building into an unbearable peak.
"I hate you so much!"
The friction was becoming intense, the lubrication of your combined fluids creating a squelching sound that echoed in the quiet house. He felt you begin to tighten, your internal muscles pulsing around him in rhythmic waves.
"You're coming," he gasped, his own pace reaching a breaking point. "Come for me. Give it all to me."
You exploded. Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, your entire body shaking as you clamped down on him. You cried out his name, your voice breaking, as the pleasure washed over you in blinding flashes of white.
Nanami followed a second later. He let out a long, shuddering moan, his body stiffening as he poured his seed deep inside you. He thrust one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and stayed there, his forehead resting against yours, both of you gasping for air.
The silence that followed was different from the silence in the office. It wasn't heavy with judgment; it was thick with a strange, exhausted peace.
Slowly, he withdrew, the sound of his exit a wet, sliding pop. A mixture of pre-cum and semen leaked from you, dripping onto the table and the floor. He didn't move away immediately. He stayed there, looking at you, his expression softened, the hardness in his eyes replaced by something that looked suspiciously like tenderness.
He reached out, his thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek.
"You are still a liability," he whispered, though there was no bite in the words.
"And you're still a bore," you replied, your voice a mere shadow of its usual strength.
He let out a small, genuine huff of laughter. It was the first time you had ever heard him laugh. He leaned in and kissed you again, but this time it was slow, lingering, and tasted of surrender.
He helped you off the table, his movements careful as he guided you back toward the couch. He didn't let you walk on your own; he kept an arm around your waist, supporting your weight.
"The floor is still disgusting," you murmured, leaning into him.
"I know," he said. "The couch will have to suffice."
He laid you down on the worn fabric and draped his shirt over you to keep you warm. He didn't join you immediately. Instead, he went back to the kitchenette. You watched him move—the way he gathered the scattered buttons, the way he wiped the table clean with a damp cloth, the way he moved with a quiet, domestic efficiency.
He returned with two glasses of water and a small first-aid kit.
"Sit up," he commanded.
You obeyed, watching as he knelt before you. He didn't say anything as he began to tend to the scratch on your shoulder, his touch light and precise. He cleaned the wound with a sterile wipe, his focus absolute.
"Why do you do that?" you asked softly.
"Do what?"
"The things you do. The way you take care of everything. You don't even ask if I want help; you just do it."
Nanami paused, his eyes meeting yours.
"Because someone has to," he said. "And because you are far too proud to ask for it."
"I'm not proud. I'm competent."
"There is a difference between competence and the refusal to be vulnerable," he replied. He finished bandaging your shoulder and lingered there, his hand resting on your arm.
"Vulnerability is not a failure. It is simply another form of courage."
You looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the fatigue he carried. Not just the fatigue of the mission, but the weariness of a man who had spent his life being the reliable one, the one who held everything together while everyone else fell apart.
"I don't know how to do that," you admitted, your voice barely audible. "I don't know how to stop."
"You can start by letting me handle the next few hours," he said.
He moved to the small kitchen again, rummaging through the meager supplies provided in the safe house. After a few minutes, he returned with two bowls of instant noodles, surprisingly well-prepared.
"It's not a five-star meal," he said, handing you a bowl. "But it's warm."
You took the bowl, the warmth seeping into your palms. You sat together on the couch, shoulders touching, the rain still drumming on the roof. The tension was gone, replaced by a simmering warmth that felt more dangerous than the hate ever had.
"Nanami?" you asked, staring into the noodles.
"Yes?"
"If we do this again... I'm the one who gets to decide the location."
He leaned back, a small, dry smile touching his lips.
"I suppose I can work that into my schedule."
You leaned your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes. For the first time in months, you didn't feel the need to lead, to plan, or to win. You just felt the steady beat of his heart against your side and the comforting scent of sandalwood.
"I really do hate you," you whispered.
"I know," he replied, kissing the top of your head. "I adore you too."
The night stretched on, the safe house becoming a sanctuary rather than a cage. They talked—really talked—not about missions or objectives, but about the things they feared and the things they craved. Nanami spoke of his desire for a quiet life, for books and silence and the absence of blood. You spoke of the pressure to always be the strongest person in the room, the crushing weight of expectation that had driven your ambition.