#alpha nanami

You frown slightly, still half-focused on whether you should adjust the projection model for Q3. "That's not scary," you mutter, stirring your drink. "That just means he has standards."

Jisoo gives you a look the kind that suggests you've missed something obvious. "No, it means he's not human. I mean think about it, no ring, we never hear of him being seen with a woman. Come on he's rich and has one of the highest positions at a top company."

A few people laugh. Someone from accounting adds, "I can't even picture him liking someone. Like what would that even look like? Him holding hands? Absolutely not."

You huff quietly, taking a sip. Director Nanamin doesn't strike you as the type to even notice people like that. He's efficient. Cold. Focused. The kind of boss who remembers every detail of every project but never asks about your weekend.

"Hey," Jisoo nudges you suddenly, and her voice drops even lower. "You work closest with him, right? One-on-one reports and all that?"

You nod. It's true you've been his direct report for almost eight months now. He's demanding, but fair. You've learned more under his supervision than you did in two years at your previous company.

"…Does he ever act weird around you?"

You pause mid-sip.

Weird?

You think about it really think about it for the first time. About the way he stands too close when reviewing your work, close enough that you can smell his cologne, something clean and expensive. The way his hand lingers just a second too long when passing documents, fingers brushing yours. The way he adjusts your collar sometimes, like it's part of his job description, like you're incapable of dressing yourself properly.

But that's just... him being particular, right? He's meticulous about everything.

"…No," you say slowly, genuinely puzzled by the question. "He's just strict."

Jisoo goes quiet in a way that feels loaded.

Someone behind you mutters, "That's worse."

You turn. "What?"

"Nothing," Jisoo says quickly, exchanging a glance with someone else. "Forget it."

You shrug it off. People are always reading into things that aren't there. Office gossip is just noise.

By the time you get back to your desk, his message is already waiting.

Director Nanami: Come to my office.

No greeting. No explanation. Typical.

You sigh, grab your tablet with the revised presentation loaded, and head down the hall. You're actually proud of this one, you caught an error in the vendor contract that would've cost the company a significant amount. You're hoping he'll acknowledge it, maybe even in that subtle way he has, where his expression doesn't change but his tone shifts just slightly.

The moment you step inside his office, the temperature drops.

You shiver automatically, goosebumps rising on your arms. "It's freezing in here."

Nanami doesn't look up immediately. He finishes signing something with that expensive fountain pen he always uses, movements calm, composed, perfect as always. Everything about him is controlled. Precise. You've never seen him flustered, never seen him make a mistake.

Then his eyes lift to you.

Sharp.

Observing.

Lingering in a way that makes you want to check if there's something on your face.

"…You didn't bring a jacket," he says.

It's not a question. It's a statement of fact, delivered with the same tone he uses when pointing out a miscalculation in a spreadsheet.

"I'm fine," you reply, shifting your weight. You are fine. It's just a little cold. You've worked through worse.

A beat of silence.

He stands.

Your eyes track the movement automatically, he's tall, taller than you remember sometimes, and there's something about the way he moves that's unnaturally fluid. Deliberate. Like every action is calculated three steps ahead.

He crosses the room.

Before you can react, his hand is at your shoulder firm, steady, warm as he shrugs off his blazer and drapes it over you.

The fabric is heavy. Expensive. It settles around your shoulders like something deliberate, something that carries weight beyond just warmth. It smells like him that same clean, expensive scent, but stronger now. Almost overwhelming.

"You'll get sick," he says.

You blink, surprised by the gesture. "Director, I really don't—"

"Wear it."

The tone isn't loud. It's not even particularly harsh.

But it ends the conversation with the finality of a door closing.

"…Okay."

You adjust it awkwardly, feeling ridiculous. The sleeves swallow your hands completely. You probably look like a child playing dress-up in adult clothes. Professional. Very professional.

Nanami watches you for a second too long.

There's something in his expression you can't quite read something that might be satisfaction, or possession, or both. His eyes track the way the fabric drapes over your frame, the way you're swimming in something that belongs to him.

Then he steps closer.

Too close.

Close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to maintain eye contact.

"Hold still."

His fingers brush your neck.

You freeze.

He's adjusting your collar again but this time slower. More precise. His thumb presses lightly just below your ear, where your pulse is probably visible, where your skin is most sensitive. You can feel the warmth of his hand, the controlled strength in his fingers.

Your breath catches. "Is… something wrong?"

"…No."

His voice is quieter now. Closer. You can feel it more than hear it.

"Your presentation," he continues, like his hand isn't currently touching your throat, like this is completely normal, "needs revision."

You nod quickly, trying to focus on work, on the actual reason you're here. "Right. I'll fix it. I think the vendor analysis in section three could be stronger—"

His hand doesn't move right away.

When it finally does, it drags, just slightly, along your shoulder before he pulls back. The touch is deliberate. Possessive. Like he's marking something.

You don't notice.

You're already thinking about the presentation, about which sections need work, about how you can tighten the argument in the third quarter projections.

"Sit," he says.

You do, settling into the chair across from his desk, his blazer still wrapped around you. You pull out your tablet, ready to take notes on his feedback. This is what you're good at taking criticism, improving, and iterating. You've built your career on being coach-able.

You don't notice how the hallway outside has gone completely silent.

You don't notice the way two coworkers pass by the glass wall, the office has partial glass walls for "transparency," though right now the blinds are angled just enough to obscure most of the view, only to immediately look away, faces tight, uneasy. You don't see the way they hurry past, the way one of them grabs the other's arm and pulls them along faster.

You don't notice the way the air around you feels… heavier. Thicker. Like something has settled into the space between you and him, something that doesn't dissipate even when he returns to his seat.

Something that doesn't belong to you.

Something you can't name because you don't have the framework to recognize it.

Nanami returns to his seat with that same fluid grace, settling into his chair like a predator that's already caught its prey and is simply deciding when to bite down. His gaze fixes on you steady, unwavering, intense in a way that would make most people uncomfortable.

But you just open your tablet, stylus ready.

Steady.

Calculating.

He's thinking about how you walked into his office without hesitation, how you wear his jacket without understanding what it means, how you sit there completely oblivious to the fact that every alpha in a three-floor radius can now smell him on you. How you don't notice the way people have started giving you a wider berth in the hallways, the way conversations stop when you enter a room.

You're brilliant with numbers, with strategy, with analysis.

But you can't see what's right in front of you.

You can't smell the danger lurking around every corner, the territorial lines he's been drawing around you for months now, the way he's been slowly, methodically isolating you from anyone who might interfere.

And that's exactly why you need him.

Why you'll always need him.

"…Start," he says, his voice carrying that edge of command that makes something in your hindbrain want to obey, even as your conscious mind just registers it as his normal professional tone.

You begin walking through your presentation, pointing out the cost analysis, the risk assessment, the projected ROI. You're confident here. This is your domain. You've triple-checked every number, every source, every assumption.

You're so focused on the data that you don't notice the way his eyes never leave your face.

The way he's not looking at the screen at all.

The way he's watching you like you're the only thing in the room that matters.

Like you're something precious that needs to be protected.

Or possessed.

Or both.

The meeting ends forty-five minutes later with a list of revisions that aren't actually that extensive—mostly minor adjustments to the formatting, a few clarifications on the vendor terms. Reasonable feedback. Professional. You leave his office with his blazer still draped over your shoulders because he'd given you that look when you tried to return it, the one that meant the conversation was over before it started.

You'll give it back later. After lunch, maybe. When he's in a meeting.

The relief hits you the moment you're back at your desk.

It's not that the meeting was bad, Director Nanami's feedback was actually helpful, precise as always, but there's something about being in that office with him that makes your shoulders tense in ways you don't fully understand. The weight of his attention, maybe. The way he watches you like he's waiting for you to make a mistake, even when you don't.

You drape his blazer over the back of your chair and let yourself breathe.

The office feels lighter out here. Warmer. The afternoon sun streams through the windows, and there's the comfortable ambient noise of keyboards clicking, phones ringing, the coffee machine gurgling in the distance. Normal. Safe.

You're just pulling up the presentation file to start on those revisions when Hana appears at your desk.

"Hey," she says, leaning against the partition with that easy smile she always has. Hana's in operations, a beta like you, competent and friendly without being overbearing. You've worked together on a few cross-departmental projects. She's... easy to talk to. Uncomplicated.

"Hey," you reply, glancing up. "What's up?"

"Just wanted to see if you survived the director's office." She grins. "You were in there a while. Did he tear apart the presentation?"

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Not as badly as I expected, actually. Just some formatting stuff and clarifications."

"See? I told you it was solid." Hana pulls up a chair, sitting backward on it with her arms folded over the backrest. "You always overthink these things."

"Because he notices everything," you say, but there's no heat in it. Just fact. "If there's a typo on slide thirty-seven, he'll find it."

"That's because he's a robot," Hana says matter-of-factly. "I'm convinced. No one is that precise naturally."

You snort, an actual, genuine sound that surprises even you. "A robot?"

"Think about it. Have you ever seen him eat? Like, actually eat?"

You pause, considering. "...He has coffee."

"Coffee isn't food. That proves nothing." Hana leans forward conspiratorially. "I bet he plugs into an outlet at night. Charges up. That's why he's always here before everyone else."

The image is so absurd that you can't help it, you laugh.

Really laugh.

Not the polite, professional chuckle you use in meetings. Not the quiet huff you give when something is mildly amusing. An actual laugh that comes from your chest, that makes your shoulders shake slightly, that feels good in a way you haven't felt in weeks.

"That's—" you try to speak through it, "—that's ridiculous."

"Is it though?" Hana grins wider, clearly pleased with herself. "Explain the coffee thing. Explain how he never looks tired. Explain—"

"He's just disciplined," you manage, still smiling. Your cheeks almost hurt from it. When was the last time you smiled like this at work? "Very, very disciplined."

"Disciplined robots. That's what I'm saying."

You shake your head, trying to compose yourself, but the smile won't leave. It sits on your face, warm and comfortable, like something that belongs there. You feel... light. Unburdened. Like you've been holding your breath for months and finally remembered how to exhale.

This is nice.

This is easy.

Just talking. Just existing without the weight of expectation pressing down on your shoulders.

You don't notice the way the temperature drops.

Not at first.

Across the floor, behind glass walls and Venetian blinds angled just enough to provide the illusion of privacy—

Nanami hears it.

Not the words.

The tone.

Light.

Unrestrained.

Wrong.

His pen stills mid-signature, ink pooling slightly on the document beneath it. He doesn't notice. Doesn't care.

Slowly, deliberately, he looks up.

Through the gaps in the blinds, his gaze finds you instantly, like it always does, like some part of him is always aware of exactly where you are in any given space.

And there it is.

That expression.

That softness in your face he's only seen in glimpses, in moments before you notice him watching. That smile you never wear in front of him.

You're laughing.

With someone else.

At something someone else said.

Looking at someone else with that open, unguarded warmth that should be

His jaw tightens.

Something cold and sharp unfurls in his chest, spreading through his ribs like frost. It's not anger. Anger is too hot, too uncontrolled. This is colder. More precise.

Possessive.

Territorial.

Wrong.

The word echoes in his mind as he watches you duck your head slightly, still smiling, still so completely at ease in a way you never are with him. The beta he doesn't even bother learning their name—is leaning too close. Casual. Familiar.

Touching the back of your chair.

Making you laugh.

Taking something that isn't theirs.

Nanami stands.

The movement is fluid, controlled, but there's something deliberate about it. Predatory. He doesn't rush. Doesn't need to.

He simply moves.

You're still smiling when Hana suddenly stops mid-sentence.

Her expression shifts—subtle, but noticeable. The easy warmth drains from her face, replaced by something more cautious. Alert.

"...Did it just get colder?" she asks quietly.

You blink, confused. "What?"

But Hana isn't looking at you anymore.

She's looking past you.

Toward the office.

You feel it then that prickle of awareness at the back of your neck, the one that makes your spine straighten automatically. The one you've learned to recognize over eight months of working under Director Nanami.

You turn.

He's standing just outside his office door.

Watching.

The smile drops from your face immediately. Not completely, you're not sure you could erase it that fast even if you tried, but enough. Enough that your expression shifts back into something more appropriate. More professional.

More careful.

"Director Nanami," you say, standing automatically. Your voice comes out steady, but there's a question in it. "Did you need something?"

He doesn't answer right away.

His gaze flicks once, brief, dismissive, cold toward Hana.

The temperature drops another degree.

Around you, you notice peripherally that conversations have quieted. Someone's phone stops ringing. The coffee machine seems louder in the sudden silence.

Then—

"Leave."

It's quiet.

Flat.

But it isn't directed at you.

Hana stiffens. You see her throat work as she swallows. "I—right. I have that report to finish anyway."

She stands quickly, not quite meeting your eyes. Not looking at him either.

She just... leaves.

Faster than necessary.

You watch her go, confused. The report isn't due until next week. You know because you helped her with part of the data analysis last Thursday.

But before you can process that, Nanami is moving again.

Closer.

Not rushed. Not hesitant.

Measured.

Each step deliberate, like he's already calculated exactly how many it will take to reach you. He stops just inside your personal space, closer than professional, closer than necessary, close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to maintain eye contact.

Close enough that you can smell his cologne again, that clean expensive scent that's been clinging to his blazer, the one still draped over your chair.

"You seem," he says slowly, each word precisely placed, "in a good mood."

Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of your desk. "Just discussing work."

A beat of silence.

His eyes move over your face like he's cataloging something. Like he's trying to memorize exactly what you looked like thirty seconds ago so he can systematically erase it.

"You don't sound like that," he says, voice lower now, dropping into a register that makes something in your head sit up and pay attention, "when you speak to me."

Your breath catches—just slightly. "I—"

"You were smiling."

It's not an accusation.

Like he's pointing out an error in your work. A miscalculation. Something that needs correction.

You don't know how to respond to that. What are you supposed to say? Yes, I was smiling, is that not allowed? It sounds absurd even in your head. So you default to the safest thing, the most professional response you can manage:

"...I'm sorry?"

The words come out uncertain. Questioning.

Because you genuinely don't understand what you're apologizing for.

Silence stretches between you.

Then—

His hand lifts.

You already know what's coming. You've been through this enough times now that it's almost routine. He's going to adjust your collar. Again. Because apparently you're incapable of dressing yourself properly, or because he has standards about professional appearance that border on obsessive, or because

His fingers brush your collar.

Adjusting.

Straightening.

But this time, it's different.

Firmer.

More deliberate.

His thumb presses just enough against the side of your neck.

Right over your gland.

You flinch.

It's instinctive. Immediate. That spot is sensitive in ways you don't fully understand, in ways that make your hindbrain scream too close, too vulnerable, wrong wrong wrong—

"...Director?"

His eyes don't leave your face.

For a moment, something darker flickers there something sharper than his usual controlled calm, something that makes your pulse jump for reasons you can't name.

Then it's gone.

Smoothed over.

Professional.

His hand drops, but slowly. Deliberately. Like he's making a point.

"Prepare your things," he says.

You blink, trying to reorient yourself, trying to push past the lingering sensation of his thumb against your gland. "For...?"

"We're leaving tomorrow."

"...Leaving?"

"A business trip."

Your confusion must show on your face because you're not even trying to hide it anymore. "No one mentioned—"

"I'm mentioning it now."

The finality in his tone shuts down the rest of your question before it can form.

You swallow. "...Where?"

Nanami's hand drops completely from your collar, but his gaze stays.

Heavy.

Intent.

Possessive in a way you don't have the framework to recognize.

"Somewhere," he says, and his voice drops even lower, intimate in a way that makes your skin prickle, "you won't be... distracted."

A pause.

He turns and walks away like nothing happened. Like he didn't just decide something that changes everything for you. Like this is completely normal. You stand there for a moment.

Still.

Trying to piece it together.

A business trip? With him? Alone? You don't remember seeing anything about this on the calendar. Don't remember any emails about client meetings or site visits or conferences.

When did this get scheduled?

Why didn't anyone tell you?

"...What just happened?" you murmur to yourself.

Across the office, you catch sight of Jisoo. She's staring at you wide-eyed, her coffee cup frozen halfway to her mouth.

Minho is at the desk next to her. He looks like he's about to say something, mouth opening slightly. Then he closes it. Thinks better of it. Looks away.

The office is too quiet.

You notice it now the way conversations haven't quite resumed their normal volume. The way people are very carefully not looking in your direction.

The way the air feels heavier.

Thicker.

Wrong.

You shake your head slightly, trying to clear it. You're overthinking this. It's just a business trip. Probably something last-minute. Director Nanami is always getting pulled into unexpected meetings, urgent client situations. This is probably just one of those things.

Professional.

Normal.

You sit back down at your desk, pulling up your calendar to figure out what you'll need to reschedule.

You don't notice the way Jisoo and Minho exchange a look.

You don't notice the way Hana hasn't come back to her desk.

You don't notice the way Director Nanami is standing in his office again, watching you through the blinds.

Still.

Patient.

Satisfied.

Because whatever line existed before whatever boundary separated professional from personal, appropriate from possessive—

He just erased it.

And you have no idea.

Minho knew something was wrong the second you walked past him. After your meeting with him.

It hit him before he even looked up.

Warm.

Deep.

Rich—

Like freshly brewed coffee left too long on a burner, thickening into something darker, heavier.

And underneath it

Something sharp. Dominant. Cutting straight through.

Alpha.

His head snapped up.

You were already halfway down the hall, clutching your tablet, completely unaware of the way the air shifted around you. Like a pressure drop. Like a warning.

Minho’s stomach twisted.

“…No way,” he muttered.

Jisoo followed his gaze—and immediately stiffened.

“Oh my god.”

“Do you smell that?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

She nodded slowly. “That’s not just her scent anymore.”

It couldn’t be.

Not like that.

Not this strong.

Not this layered.

They both looked toward the office door just as it clicked shut behind you.

Silence stretched between them.

Then—

“Should we… do something?” Minho asked, though it sounded weak even to him.

Jisoo let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Do what? Walk in there and tell him to stop?”

Minho didn’t answer.

Because they both knew who him was.

Director Nanami didn’t just run their department—he controlled it. Every promotion, every evaluation, every transfer.

And right now?

He was marking someone in broad daylight.

A few before your meeting had rapped up. Minho couldn’t help it.

He passed by the office.

Just… to check.

That’s all.

The glass wall made everything visible.

Too visible.

You were sitting across from the desk, shoulders slightly hunched, clearly nervous but focused, flipping through your notes like this was just another meeting.

Like nothing was wrong.

Like you couldn’t feel it.

Nanami stood beside you.

Not behind his desk.

Not across from you.

Too close.

His hand rested on the back of your chair, fingers curled just enough to brush your shoulder.

Possessive.

Casual.

Intentional.

Minho’s throat went dry.

“…He’s not even hiding it,” he whispered.

Inside, Nanami leaned down slightly, saying something to you calm, composed.

His other hand lifted.

Adjusted your collar.

Again.

Slow.

Deliberate.

His fingers lingered at your neck.

Right over your glands.

Minho physically recoiled.

“Jesus—”

Jisoo grabbed his sleeve, yanking him back before he could stare any longer. “Stop looking. If he notices—”

“He wants people to notice,” Minho cut in under his breath. “That’s the problem.”

They both fell quiet.

Because that was the worst part.

This wasn’t sloppy.

It wasn’t accidental.

It was controlled.

Measured.

A message.

Across the room, someone else spoke up in a hushed voice:

“…Is she seriously not reacting?”

Jisoo shook her head slowly. “I told you her sense of smell is bad.”

Minho exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “So she has no idea she’s basically walking around covered in—”

“—him,” Jisoo finished.

Silence again.

Heavy this time.

Uneasy.

Because now it didn’t feel like gossip anymore.

It felt like watching something unfold that no one was supposed to interfere with.

Something territorial.

Something dangerous.

Minho glanced back at the office one last time.

Through the glass, Nanami had finally returned to his seat.

But his gaze hadn’t left you.

Not once.

It followed every movement.

Every shift.

Every breath.

Like you were something he’d already decided belonged to him

And was just waiting for the rest of the world to accept it.

Minho looked away first.

“…She’s in trouble,” he said quietly.

Jisoo didn’t disagree.

Two weeks later.

The hotel keycard feels too light in your hand.

“That’s… one room,” you say, staring at it like it might change if you look long enough.

Beside you, Nanami doesn’t even glance down.

“Yes.”

You blink. “…There has to be a mistake.”

“There isn’t.”

Simple.

Final.

You hesitate. “I can go back to the front desk—”

“No.”

The word cuts clean through your sentence.

You go quiet.

He finally looks at you then calm, composed, like always.

But there’s something under it.

Something that makes your chest tighten.

“It’s late,” he continues. “We have an early meeting. This is the most efficient arrangement.”

Efficient.

Right.

That makes sense.

It has to.

“…Okay,” you murmur.

The room is quiet when the door shuts behind you.

Too quiet.

You set your bag down quickly, moving toward the window, the desk anywhere that isn’t standing in the middle of the room with him.

There’s only one bed.

You try not to look at it.

“I can take the couch,” you say quickly, even though there isn’t really one just a small love seat by the window.

Nanami sets his things down with deliberate calm.

“That won’t be necessary.”

Your stomach tightens.

“It’s fine, I don’t mind—”

“I said,” he interrupts, voice low, “it won’t be necessary, I'll take the couch.”

Silence.

You nod.

Nanami watches you move around the room. Too aware. Too careful. Keeping distance.

Always keeping distance. It irritates him more than it should. More than it ever has.

Because not to long ago at work.

That laugh.

That smile.

It replays in his mind with perfect clarity.

Not for him.

Never for him.

His jaw tightens slightly.

Unacceptable.

You feel his presence before you see him.

Close again.

Always close.

“Turn around.”

You freeze for a second then obey.

“…Yes?”

His gaze drags over your face, slower than it should be.

Assessing.

Measuring.

Like he’s looking for something that’s no longer there.

“…You’re quieter now,” he says.

You frown slightly. “We’re not at the office.”

“That’s not an explanation.”

You don’t know how to answer that.

So you don’t.

His hand lifts.

Your breath catches automatically.

Fingers brush your collar adjusting, like always.

But this time, there’s no one watching.

No glass walls.

No coworkers.

Just you.

And him.

His thumb presses lightly against your neck.

Right over your gland.

You flinch.

“…You react,” he murmurs.

Confusion flickers across your face. “To being touched?”

A pause.

His eyes darken bjust slightly.

“You don’t react to me.”

Your brows pull together. “I do. I listen. I—”

“That’s not what I mean.”

His voice drops.

Quieter.

He steps closer. Close enough that your back nearly hits the edge of the desk.

“At work, before” he says, “you were… different.”

Your heart starts beating faster, though you’re not sure why.

“I was just talking—”

“You were smiling.”

There it is again. That same observation. That same weight behind it.

You swallow. “…I smile sometimes.”

“Not like that.”

The words come out softer.

More controlled.

But they land heavier.

Nanami’s thoughts narrow, sharpen. He can still feel it. That shift in you.That warmth you give so easily to others. while standing so carefully, so neutrally, with him. As if he’s something to endure. Not something to want. His fingers press more firmly against your neck.

Not enough to hurt.

Enough to remind.

To ground.

To claim.

You don’t even realize what you are.

How you affect him.

How long he’s allowed this distance to exist.

Too long.

Your breath stutters slightly. “Director… Nanami?”

A warning.

A question.

You’re not even sure which.

His name sounds different like this.

Softer.

Uncertain.

He notices.

Of course he does.

His grip loosens, but doesn’t disappear.

“…You don’t understand,” he says quietly.

“Understand what?”

A pause.

Then—

“You will.”

Something in your chest tightens at that.

“…This is just a work trip,” you say, like you’re trying to convince both of you.

Nanami’s gaze holds yours. Unblinking.

“No,” he says.

The word is calm.

Certain.

Terrifying in how simple it is.

“It isn’t.”

Silence stretches between you.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

You don’t know what he means.

But you feel it.

That something has shifted.

That the lines you thought were there

aren’t anymore.

Nanami finally steps back. Just enough to give you space.

Not enough to feel safe.

“We'll go over everything during dinner,” he says.

Like nothing happened.

Like everything is still under control.

But as he turns away

his thoughts settle into something firm.

Decided.

Measured.

It’s time.

No more distance.

No more misunderstandings.

No more watching you give pieces of yourself to people who don’t recognize what they’re being given. You don’t know it yet.

But you will.

Soon.

The knock comes at seven-thirty.

You've been staring at your laptop for the past twenty minutes, the same paragraph of the presentation blurring in and out of focus. The room is nice too nice, actually. The kind of hotel room that makes you acutely aware of the budget approval Nanami must have signed off on. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a king bed with crisp white linens, a sitting area with a couch and love seat that probably costs more than your monthly rent.

You're changed into something professional but comfortable,a soft sweater and slacks, because you'd showered and changed after the flight, trying to wash away the anxiety that's been clinging to your skin since this morning, after Nanami went out for some work related stuff, do he said.

It doesn't work.

When you open the door, Nanami is standing there in his shirtsleeves, jacket discarded, top button undone. It's the most casual you've ever seen him, and somehow that makes it worse.

More intimate.

More real.

"I ordered dinner," he says. "It should arrive shortly."

You blink. "Oh I was going to just order something light—"

"We need to discuss tomorrow's agenda, as I said before." His tone is matter-of-fact. Professional.

Of course it is.

Of course this is about work.

You step aside, letting him in, and try to ignore the way your heart rate picks up as he moves past you into your space. He's carrying a leather portfolio and his own laptop this really is just a working dinner. You're being ridiculous.

"I hope you don't mind," he continues, setting his things on the small dining table by the window. "I took the liberty of ordering wine as well. The hotel has an excellent selection."

"That's—that's fine," you manage.

You do mind, actually. Not the wine itself, but the thoughtfulness of it. The consideration. It feels too personal, too attentive, and you don't know what to do with that.

Room service arrives fifteen minutes later—two attendants wheeling in covered dishes, a bottle of red wine already opened to breathe, proper glassware that catches the light. Nanami tips them generously and waits until they leave before gesturing to the table.

"Sit."

You do.

The food is beautiful—some kind of fish with delicate sauce, roasted vegetables, a small salad. The kind of meal that requires you to think about which fork to use. Nanami serves the wine himself, pouring yours first.

The glass is fuller than you expected.

"Thank you," you murmur.

He pours his own barely two fingers and sets the bottle within easy reach.

Your reach, you'll realize later.

Not his.

The first sip of wine helps.

It's good smooth and rich, the kind of wine you'd never order for yourself because you wouldn't know what to look for. It warms your throat, settles in your chest, takes the edge off the nervous energy that's been humming under your skin all day.

Nanami opens his laptop, pulling up tomorrow's schedule. "The client meeting is at nine. I'll handle the initial presentation, but I want you to lead the technical breakdown."

You nod, taking another sip. Focusing on work helps too. This is familiar territory. Safe.

"I've prepared supplementary materials," you say, pulling up your own files. "The cost-benefit analysis and the implementation timeline—"

"Good." His eyes flick to you briefly before returning to his screen. "Walk me through your approach."

So you do.

And as you talk, you drink.

Not consciously at first. Just your glass is there, and your throat is dry from talking, and the wine makes everything feel slightly less intense. Slightly more manageable.

You don't notice when you finish the first glass.

But Nanami does.

He reaches for the bottle without breaking eye contact with his screen, refilling your glass with the same casual efficiency he does everything.

"Continue," he says.

By the time you're halfway through the main course, you've lost track of how much you've had.

Three glasses? Four?

The bottle is significantly lighter than it was.

But you feel better. Looser. The anxiety that's been coiled in your chest since this morning has finally started to unwind. You're talking more freely now, gesturing with your fork as you explain your reasoning for certain data points, even laughing softly when you catch a small error in your own notes.

"I can't believe I missed that," you say, shaking your head. "I checked this three times."

"You're thorough," Nanami says. "But not infallible."

There's something in his tone, something almost warm that makes you glance up.

He's watching you.

Not your screen. Not the documents.

You.

"I just—I want it to be perfect," you admit. The wine has made you honest in ways you wouldn't normally allow. "You have high standards. I don't want to disappoint you."

Something flickers in his expression.

"You haven't," he says quietly.

The weight of his gaze makes your skin feel warm. You take another sip of wine to cover the flush creeping up your neck.

Nanami's own glass sits mostly untouched beside his plate. He'd taken one sip early on you'd seen it peripherally, but it hasn't moved since.

You don't notice.

You're too focused on the way the room feels smaller now, warmer, the city lights beyond the window blurring into soft halos.

"Tell me something," Nanami says suddenly.

You blink, pulled from your thoughts. "What?"

"Earlier. In the office." He sets down his fork with deliberate precision. "You were laughing. With that beta from operations."

Your stomach tightens slightly. "Hana? We were just—"

"You seemed comfortable."

It's not a question.

You shift in your seat. "She's easy to talk to."

"And I'm not."

The words hang between you.

You open your mouth. Close it. The wine has made you too honest, but not honest enough to say what you're thinking: You terrify me. You make me second-guess everything. I can never tell if I'm doing well or failing, if you're pleased or disappointed, if I'm—

"You're my boss," you say instead. "It's different."

"Different how?"

You take another drink, buying time. The wine is making everything feel slightly unreal, like you're watching this conversation happen to someone else.

"I don't know," you admit. "It just is."

Nanami leans back in his chair, and the movement draws your attention to the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders, the way the lamplight catches the sharp line of his jaw.

You look away quickly.

Too quickly.

He notices.

Of course he does.

"You're nervous," he observes.

"I'm not—"

"You've had five glasses of wine."

Your hand freezes halfway to your glass. Five? That can't be right. You'd been keeping track—

Except you hadn't. You look at the bottle. It's nearly empty.

When did that happen?

"I'm sorry," you say automatically. "I didn't mean to—I'll pay for—"

"I don't care about the wine." His voice is quiet. Controlled. But there's something underneath it that makes your pulse jump. "I care that you feel you need it, but right now I'm not complaining it'll help with tonight."

The concern in his tone catches you off-guard.

He sounds... worried. Considerate. Like a boss who's noticed his employee is struggling and wants to help.

That's all this is, you tell yourself. Professional concern.

"I'm just—" You struggle to find the words. The wine has made your thoughts fuzzy, harder to organize. "This is new. Being here. Alone. With you. I mean—not alone, obviously we're working, but—"

You're rambling.

You never ramble.

"I understand," Nanami says.

And the way he says it low and certain makes something in your chest constrict.

He stands, and for a moment you think he's leaving, that you've made this too awkward, that you've crossed some line.

But he doesn't move toward the door.

He moves toward you.

Your breath catches as he stops beside your chair. Close enough that you can smell his cologne again, that clean expensive scent that's been haunting you all day.

"You don't need to be nervous," he says quietly.

His hand lifts—

And for a moment, you think he's going to touch you.

But he just reaches past you, picking up the wine bottle.

"You've had enough," he says.

It's not a suggestion.

You nod mutely, not trusting your voice.

Nanami sets the bottle on the far counter, out of reach, and when he turns back, his expression is unreadable.

He'd needed to see it.

Needed to watch you soften.

Needed to hear you talk without that careful professional filter you always maintain.

Needed to confirm what he already knew:

That underneath all that competence and control, you're vulnerable.

Uncertain.

His.

"You should stand," he says. "Sitting too long after drinking."

It sounds reasonable. Considerate, even.

You push yourself up from the chair, and the room tilts just slightly. Not enough to lose your balance, but enough that you have to steady yourself against the table.

Nanami's hand is there immediately.

On your elbow. Steadying you.

"Careful."

His voice is closer than it should be.

You turn your head, and he's right there, close enough that you can see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the precise edge of his collar, the way his throat moves when he swallows.

"I'm fine," you manage. "Just—the wine—"

"I know."

Something in his tone makes your skin prickle.

He doesn't step back.

Instead, his hand slides from your elbow to your upper arm, and the touch is warm even through your sweater. Grounding. You should pull away this is too close, too familiar, but the wine has made everything feel slightly distant, like you're watching this happen through frosted glass.

"You're flushed," Nanami observes.

His other hand lifts, and you think he's going to touch your face, check for fever, something professional and appropriate.

But he doesn't.

His fingers brush against your collar instead.

The same gesture he's done a dozen times in his office, adjusting fabric that doesn't need adjusting.

Except this time, his knuckles graze the side of your neck.

Right over your scent gland.

Your breath catches.

"Director—"

"Nanami," he corrects quietly. "We're not in the office."

The intimacy of it, his first name, spoken in this low voice, in this hotel room with the city lights blurring beyond the window, makes something flutter in your chest.

His hand is still at your collar.

Still touching your neck.

And then he leans in.

Not quickly. Not suddenly.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Like he's giving you time to stop him.

But you don't.

You can't.

The wine has made you slow, made your thoughts thick and syrupy, and by the time you realize what's happening, his face is already near the curve of your neck.

Not touching.

Just—

Close.

You feel the warmth of his breath against your skin first.

Then the deliberate, measured inhale.

He's—

He's scenting you.

The realization cuts through the fog, sharp and sudden.

Alphas don't do this. Not casually. Not with colleagues. This is intimate. Possessive. This is—

"Director—" Your voice comes out breathless. Uncertain.

"Shh." The sound is barely a whisper against your throat. "You're trembling."

You are.

You didn't realize it until he said it, but your whole body is shaking, fine tremors that you can't control, can't stop.

"I'm just—" You try to form words, try to explain, but his nose brushes against the sensitive skin below your ear and all thought scatters.

Another inhale.

Deeper this time.

Like he's drawing your scent into himself. Memorizing it. Claiming it.

Your hands come up instinctively to push him away, to steady yourself, you're not sure but they just hover uselessly in the air between you.

"You smell different when you're relaxed," Nanami murmurs.

The words vibrate against your skin.

"Less guarded. More..." He pauses, and you feel rather than see the slight curve of his mouth. "...honest."

This isn't professional.

This isn't appropriate.

This is—

But the wine has made everything soft and hazy, and his hand is still on your arm, grounding you, and the warmth of him is seeping into your skin, and you can't quite make your body move away.

Can't quite make yourself.

"I don't—" You swallow hard. "I don't understand."

"I know."

His nose traces up the line of your throat, following your pulse.

Another inhale.

Your knees feel weak.

"This is—we shouldn't—"

"Why not?"

The question is so simple. So direct.

And you don't have an answer.

Or rather, you have a dozen answers because he's your boss, because this is inappropriate, because you're drunk and he's not, because this feels like something you can't take back, but none of them make it past the fog in your head.

"I'm just checking," Nanami says, his voice still that same low, reasonable tone. "You were nervous earlier. Anxious. I want to make sure you're alright."

That's—

That's all this is?

A wellness check?

It sounds absurd even as you think it, but the alternative is too overwhelming to process.

"I'm fine," you whisper.

"Are you?"

His hand slides from your arm to your waist, and the touch is so warm, so steady, that you find yourself leaning into it without meaning to.

"Your heart is racing," he observes.

It is.

You can feel it hammering against your ribs, can hear the blood rushing in your ears.

"That's just—the wine—"

"Is it?"

Another inhale, this one right at the junction of your neck and shoulder. The most sensitive part of your scent gland. Your whole body shudders.

A soft sound escapes your throat, not quite a gasp, not quite a whimper and you feel Nanami's grip on your waist tighten fractionally.

Possessive.

Satisfied.

"You're so responsive," he murmurs, and there's something in his voice that makes heat pool low in your stomach. "Even when you don't understand why."

You should ask what he means.

Should demand an explanation.

Should move.

But you don't.

You just stand there, trembling, while he breathes you in like you're something ... Something he's been waiting for.

Something that's already his.

When he pulls back this time, something has changed.

You see it in his eyes first the careful control that's been there all evening, all these months, finally cracking at the edges.

Not breaking.

Shifting.

"The bed," he says.

Not a suggestion. A statement of fact.

His hands guide you backward, and your legs hit the mattress before you realize you've moved. The wine makes everything slow, makes your protests form too late, makes your body comply before your mind catches up.

"Wait—"

"No."

The word is quiet. Absolute.

He follows you down as you sink onto the sheets, his weight settling over you with deliberate precision. Not crushing. Commanding.

Your hands come up to push him away, to create space but he catches your wrists. Both of them. Pins them above your head with one hand.

The ease of it makes your breath catch.

"Director—"

"Nanami." His free hand traces down your side, slow and purposeful. "Say it."

You shake your head, and his grip on your wrists tightens fractionally.

"Say. It."

"Nanami—" It comes out breathless. Uncertain.

"Good."

His hand finds the hem of your sweater, and you feel the cool air against your skin as he pushes the fabric up. Not roughly. Methodically. Like he's unwrapping something he's been patient about for far too long.

"We can't—" You try to twist away, but his weight keeps you pinned. "This isn't—"

"It is."

Two words. Certain as gravity.

His mouth finds your throat again, and this time there's no pretense of checking on you, no professional distance. He's marking you. Claiming you. His teeth graze your scent gland and your whole body arches involuntarily.

The sound you make is mortifying.

"That's it," he murmurs against your skin. "Stop thinking."

His hand slides lower, and you feel his fingers hook into your waistband.

"No—wait—" The protest is weak even to your own ears.

"You're not saying no." His voice is dark. Knowing. "Your body is saying yes."

And he's right.

You hate that he's right.

Your hips have tilted toward his touch. Your breathing has gone shallow and quick. The wine has made everything feel distant and immediate at once, and you can't quite make your body obey your mind.

Can't quite make yourself want him to stop.

His fingers slip beneath the fabric, and the first touch against your slick heat makes you gasp.

"Already wet," he observes. Not surprised. Satisfied.

"That's not—I don't—"

"Shh."

His fingers move with the same deliberate precision he does everything. Circling. Pressing. Finding exactly where you're most sensitive with devastating accuracy.

Your back arches off the bed.

"Please—"

"Please what?" His thumb finds your clit, and the pressure is perfect, maddening. "Please stop? Or please don't?"

You can't answer.

Can't think.

"please don't"

The wine and his touch have turned your thoughts to static, and all you can do is feel, his weight, his heat, his fingers working you with methodical intent.

"I've been patient," Nanami says quietly. "So patient. Watching you. Waiting for you to understand."

His fingers slide inside you, and the stretch makes you whimper.

"But you never did." He curls them, finding that spot that makes your vision blur. "So I'll make you understand now."

"I can't—this is—"

"Mine." The word is final. Possessive. "You're mine. You've always been mine."

His thumb presses harder against your clit, his fingers moving faster, and you feel the pressure building low in your belly inevitable, overwhelming.

"Say it," he commands.

You shake your head, even as your body tightens around his fingers.

"cum, and be my Good girl."

The praise shouldn't affect you like it does.

Shouldn't make you clench around his fingers, shouldn't make heat flood through you, shouldn't make you want—

But it does.

His fingers drive deeper, his thumb circling with relentless precision, and you feel yourself coming apart under his touch. Not gently. Not slowly.

Completely.

The orgasm hits you like a wave, and you cry out—his name, a plea, you're not sure—as your body convulses around his fingers.

He doesn't stop.

Doesn't slow.

Works you through it with the same methodical intensity, drawing out every tremor, every aftershock, until you're shaking and oversensitive and completely undone.

Only then does he withdraw his hand.

You lie there, gasping, your mind foggy and your body boneless.

Nanami shifts above you, and you feel him removing his belt. The sound of the buckle is loud in the quiet room.

"Wait—" Your voice is weak. Slurred. "I can't—"

"You can." He positions himself between your thighs, and you feel the blunt pressure of him against your entrance. "And you will."

"Please—"

"I know." His hand cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek with unexpected gentleness. "I know you're scared. I know you don't understand."

He pushes forward, slow and inexorable, and the stretch is overwhelming.

"But you will," he promises. "By morning, you'll understand exactly what you are to me."

He sinks deeper, and your body accepts him too easily, too perfectly like you were made for this.

Made for him.

It was a scent he knew well enough. He’d been around you in heat before. Occasionally you’d ask him to bring you pain killers or leave food at your door. He’d catch traces of the smell of your skin when he did, but it was always dulled by suppressants — light, like a woman’s perfume lingering in a room she’s left.

But this?

The sweetness was so concentrated Nanami felt like he was choking on air. The taste of honey coated the back of his throat and sent shockwaves straight to his cock. His slacks tightened and the fabric strained against him. His hand shot down instinctively, palming his crotch to relieve the pressure of the knot starting to swell. His other moved to cover his face.

“Fuck.”

He felt his mind start to fog. His skin tingled under his dress shirt, and sweat pricked his temples. He nearly ran to your door, still telling himself he’s only there to check on you, even with his tie loose and collar unbuttoned.

He tried the handle.

Locked.

“Open the door.” His voice came out rougher and more demanding than he had intended, clearly on edge. He felt the frustration creep up his neck, knuckles white from the grip he had on the doorknob.

Nanami prided himself on his self control. An alpha who was best friends with an omega, and able to keep his instincts at bay? He was a man, not an animal.

All out the window when he heard a whimper from inside.

His cock jerked and he jiggled the knob again, door rattling at the strength. He pressed his forehead to the wood and breathed deep. “Baby, open the door for me.” His free hand reached down to squeeze his length, eyes shut. “I can help you.”

You tried to tell him to leave, that you were okay. That you hadn’t realized your suppressants were expired and just needed some time. But between the fingers furiously rubbing at the bud between your legs, slick dripping down to your ass, and your other hand kneading at your breast, all you managed to let out was a weak whimper.

“Ken- to~”

Nanami snapped. He slammed his shoulder into the door once. Twice. Every pound sent a wave of slick pouring out of your cunt and you cried, rubbing yourself faster trying to chase your high.

BANG!

Your teary eyes opened at the sound of splintering wood and your metal lock clanging onto the floor. Nanami stood at the doorway heaving. Wide shoulders blocking the light, letting in enough to highlight the tense muscle of his jaw.

The sight of you nearly dropped him to his knees.

You were on the bed, blankets and pillows thrown messily around you, coated in slick and the lingering scent of him from nights over. Your skin was flushed and glistening with sweat. Your legs were spread wide, fingers alternating between frantically rubbing your clit and slipping inside for quick shallow pumps. Your other hand had let go of your chest. Now clutching the only piece of fabric you wore; a dress shirt Nanami left behind, part of the small wardrobe he keeps at your place in case, pressed to your nose and stained with slick.

“Ken… no. Please.” Your head fell back as the last word left your mouth. Fresh slick poured out around your fingers and hoarse moans filled the room.

He crossed the distance between you in long strides and yanked your hand away from your pussy. The loss made u cry out and your body protested by attempting to sit up. He quickly shoved u back down with a force that surprised you. Held you down with a hand flat on your chest as the other brought your fingers up to his lips.

Your eyes opened to see him sucking on the fingers you had inside you. His eyes were squeezed shut and his hips bucked against nothing.

He let go of your hands and crawled over you, caging you in with his bigger body. His one hand grabbed your thigh to anchor your leg onto his hip and he settled himself between your legs. The other cradled your head as he dipped his face into your neck, inhaling deep. He groaned and pushed his still covered cock against you, your pussy staining his slacks. “You smell so fucking good.”

He started so suck bruises onto your skin, hips still grinding into your core. Desperate for more friction you pushed your hips up to meet his. Your clit rubbed deliciously on the fabric of his pants. He sucked bruises onto your skin, then lower. His mouth closed over one nipple and sucked hard. You arched with a cry, both hands tugging at his hair.

“Alpha,” you whined, desperate and needy. Mind now completely gone.

Nanami’s eyes shot open hungrily. He sat back to shove his slacks and briefs down and his cock sprang free—thick and flushed and leaking, knot at the base angry and swollen. His head fell back and his hand moved to pump himself quickly until a whimper pulled his attention back to you.

His arms moved under yours to grab your shoulders from behind, pressing you against him. His groans now straight into your ear. His hips jerked blindly until the head of his cock nudged your entrance, catching on the slick rim. He growled, and with one powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside you, knot bumping at your stretched hole.

You cried out at the burn, tears slipping down your temples. He didn’t give you time to adjust to the fullness. Nanami bit your shoulder and quickly started rutting against you, using his grip on your shoulders to push your body down to meet his movements.

He pulled back and slammed in so strongly your mouth fell open and whines pushed out at every thrust back in. Your slick squelched obscenely and your shoulder bloomed with pain as Nanami stayed clamped down.

He let go to pant in your ear, “You want my knot, baby? You want me to fill you with my cum?” Each thrust knocked the spongey head of his cock against your cervix painfully. deliciously.

You couldn’t think, you just nodded. He responded with a groan.

Without interrupting his pumps into you, he moved back to hook your legs onto his arms. He pushed his body back onto you, folding you in half into a deep mating press.

A groan left your mouth and a rough ‘yesss’ followed. The new angle gave him more movement and the new snap of his hips rocked the bed. You clawed at his back as he set a new, punishing rhythm.

“Your pussy was made for me. Made for my pups,” he gasped, voice wrecked. Struggling to form sentences in between his thrusts

“‘m gonna pump you so full…” SNAP! “every alpha knows you’re claimed.”

Tears streamed down your face from the overwhelming pleasure. He pressed down harder against you, pushing your knees closer to your chest, so he could reach out and lick the tears away.

Your legs started to shake, both from the strain and from the heat coiled in your stomach. “Yes—Alpha, please—knot me. Breed me—”

The words snapped the last thread.

He fucked you harder, faster, the wet sounds filthy and loud. His knot swelled thicker with every thrust, catching harder on your rim, stretching you wider each time it tried to push in. When it finally popped past the tight ring of muscle and locked inside you, a half-scream half-moan ripped out of your throat.

Your walls clamped down on him, gushing slick around his knot. The pressure on the swollen gland at the base of his cock triggered his release like a gunshot. His hips jerked. Thick, hot ropes of cum pumped deep, flooding your womb in heavy pulses. His knot throbbed and pulsed, ensuring every drop stayed locked inside you.

He collapsed partially over you, still rolling his hips in tiny grinding circles, working his knot deeper, drawing out every last spurt.

When you met his eyes, his mouth crashed onto yours, tongue immediately slipping inside. He let your legs fall and you wrap them around him, your hips now grinding in sync. You suck on each other’s tongues, mind still hazy, and pulses of pleasure still pulling moans out of the both of you.

For long minutes you stayed locked together, panting, sweat-slicked skin sliding. His scent and yours had merged into something new—something that smelled like mate.

But one knot wasn’t enough. Not with both of you this far gone.

As soon as the knot deflated enough to slip free, he was already hardening again inside you. You groaned into his mouth and he broke away. He flipped you onto your stomach, yanked your hips up, and mounted you from behind in one smooth thrust. One hand fisted in your hair, pushing your head down as he pounded into you. The other gripped your hip, sure to leave bruises by morning.

“You take me so good,” he groaned, before leaning down. He pressed his chest against your back and reached down to rub circles against your clit. His teeth grazed your neck. “My perfect girl.”

You whined and pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts with the little movement you were able to get.

He fucked you through a second orgasm, then a third, before his second knot swelled and locked you together again. This time he stayed buried deep, grinding slow and deep while he filled you, whispering against your sweat-damp shoulder.

“Let me mate you,” he breathed, still slightly panting. “I can take care of you.” He nosed along your neck until his lips brushed over your scent gland, hot and sensitive from the heat. His teeth grazed the spot but didn’t bite. Not yet.

His hips gave a slow, grinding roll, his swollen knot tugging gently at your rim and making you both moan.

“Yes,” you whispered, voice trembling but steady. “I’m yours.”

The pain was bright and sharp for half a second—then it melted into white-hot pleasure that slammed through your entire body. You cried out, back arching hard and pushed yourself back against him. Your walls clamped down viciously around his knot, another orgasm ripping through you so intensely your vision blurred. Nanami groaned long and low against your neck, his cock jerking in shallow thrusts as he came again, flooding you with more thick cum.

When he finally pulled his fangs free, he licked over the fresh claiming mark with slow, soothing strokes of his tongue.

The night stretched long and filthy after. Chair pushed up against the broken door to keep your neighbors from reporting you.

He took you in the shower—pressed you against the tile, one leg hooked over his arm, knot swelling under the spray while he growled praise and filth into your ear. Then back to the ruined bed, you riding him while he held your hips and made you grind down onto his knot until you sobbed with overstimulation. Then mating press again—deeper, slower, his hand pressed low on your stomach like he could feel himself inside you.

“Gonna put a baby in you,” he rasped during one particularly deep thrust. “Gonna make you a mama. Until you’re round and glowing and everyone knows I fucked you full.”

By the time dawn crept through the blinds, you were both wrecked—both bodies marked with bites and bruises, sheets destroyed, the air thick with the scent of sex. Nanami’s rut had finally eased. Your heat had broken into something softer, manageable.

He pulled you into his arms, still buried inside you, knot half-swollen and keeping you plugged. One big hand stroked slow circles over your back while he purred—low, rumbling into your hair.

“You should have called me. I would have come sooner.”

You smiled sleepily, tracing the lines of his chest, the faint scars from missions. “Don’t think this falls under best friend duties.”

He huffed a quiet laugh and kissed your forehead, then your lips—soft, lingering, nothing like the desperate frenzy from hours ago.

“More than that now,” he said quietly. “You’re stuck with me.”

Giyu thought that this outing was going to consist of primary omegas and betas but after being introduced to Ino, Gojo, and Geto who were all very good looking. You couldn’t imagine his surprise when Choso continued down the row of people and landed on Nanami. Nanami Kento. 

One look at Nanami led to Giyu stuttering and out of embarrassment he ended up tripping on the dark blue carpet. To add to that the carpet had a table on top of it that wasn’t stable. The white and gray shirt Giyu was wearing was covered in multiple drinks and his black jeans were soaked.

“I am never going out again” He was sure of it. 

His heart started beating rapidly and you would think the drinks would cool him off but no. Giyu was horny as hell. Just from glancing at this man once Giyu had a problem. He was leaking so much slick and his cheeks were flustered with a bright red color that compared to his pale skin made it more obvious, even in the poorly lit room. You would think he was one of those overly horny omegas that even Giyu would complain about from time to time. He didn’t know why but he needed this man. 

He completely zoned out from the commotion around him. Several apologies fell from his mouth and all the guys around him were offering their hands to help him up. Just completely embarrassing. Blushing from everyone staring at him, Giyu tried to compose himself. 

Suddenly Giyu felt a sweater being wrapped around his shoulders. He turned to thank the person but was stopped when he heard the most captivating voice. 

Giyu Pov (First Person)

“It’s okay guys, i’ll get him cleaned up” Nanami said while guiding me towards the bathroom with a hand on my lower back. His hand was warm and it felt like I was floating as we walked through the lounge area and down a long hallway that one could only assume led us to the bathroom. 

Once in the bathroom he watched as Nanami closed and locked the door without much of a word. He then continued standing by the bathroom door giving Giyu enough time to actually survey his body. Nanami was around 6 '0 feet and was wearing a dark blue shirt that matched his pants very well. His hair was a bright blond and what really pulled his look together was the tie that was hanging on his neck resting on his muscular chest. What Giyu would do to have that tie around his- 

“You smell like a whore house right now” with a deep chuckle Nanami undid his tie and unbuttoned a few buttons on his shirt. Next thing I knew he was directly in front of me and I was face to face with his beautiful hazel eyes that seemed to be glimling even though the bathroom had no natural lighting. 

“Do you want me?” he asked, pressing his hand firmly on the back of my neck. If my wolf didn't want him before he surely did now. 

It was my natural reaction at that point. My body jerked closer to him as a noise I wasn’t sure was my own came out of my throat. I tilted my neck barring myself to him and that seemed to be a response enough. As quick as a second my body was lifted and pressed against the counter. My arm brushing against the dark gray granite on the wall. 

“Please..” my plea was cut off by his lips covering mine. 

There was no fighting for dominance. His lips were soft but also aggressive like he was trying to be gentle and hold back at the same time. His crouch grazed against mine and you would think he was already inside me at the noises that were being made. His lips left mine and continued down to my neck. Nugging and nipping at my neck the wolf in me was howling at him to take me already. As if he was reading my thoughts again.

“I’m not claiming you in a bathroom, that has to be done properly.” He practically whispered. He seemed lost in the way I smelled. Nanami looked to be practically half shifting at this point. His fangs were threatening to fall and his hazel eyes were now a deep crimson red, his eyes reminded me of a ruby. 

He continued down while adjusting me so I'm now leaning on the counter. 

“Sorry, I can’t wait any longer.” Nanami stated while undoing my jeans and pulling them down as he took one knee to the floor crouching down. 

“Fuckkk” I instantly whined, feeling his warm mouth enclose over my already leaking member. My legs were shaking and I wasn’t sure if I would be able to stand right now if it wasn’t for my leaning on the counter. 

“Nanami, I’m not going to last.” I said with tears forming in my eyes, trying not to buckle into his face. 

“That’s okay baby, want you to fuck my face some” he pulled away with a lowly grunt for a moment to inform me. My body moved automatically toward him as if following his command. The moans would not stop falling from my mouth. 

“Please, can’t” choking out a weak sob. Turning my head into my shoulder tears started to fall and I could feel my fangs drop. I wanted to be good to him and last but I didn't know if I could anymore.

I made the mistake of glancing down and I was a goner. His feral gaze and hungry eyes looked up into mine for a second and I couldn’t breathe.

Already knowing what was coming my legs shook violently as my release was brought over me. 

“Fuuuck, hngh” high pitched moans fell from my mouth. For the first time my vision blurred and I felt my fang cut a small slice in my upper lip. When my vision cleared I was back on the counter and my jeans were being pulled up. Looking forward, Nanami was still leaning on me and my hand had somehow found its way on his shoulder. 

Suddenly a wave of anxiety washed over me and I began to feel a little lightheaded. What if this was a one time thing? He wants more from me right? Questions began to pour into my head but were stopped once he moved back to look at me. His rudy eyes blinded me, they were hypnotizing. I almost missed what he said.

“Come home with me omega”  

Giyu Pov (First Person)

This drive was way too long, when he said come home with me I wasn't expecting this long of a drive. Sitting on the leather seats my brain still can't wrap my head around what just happened. I've never been like that, most omegas like that I don't even associate with. When I think about it some more all I can say is I would do it again in a heartbeat. 

Walking out of the bar I wasn't surprised when Nanami led me to a nicely sleek car that had black leather seats and blue interior. Beside me you can tell that Nanami was still worked up and honestly I could say the same for me right now. Even though I just came over 30 minutes ago my body feels like it's overheating.

The AC was blasting but for some reason it felt hot and I couldn't feel if I was sweating or not. Oh no. 

My heat wasn’t supposed to be for another few days. 

I looked over to Nanami, which was a mistake. Nanami had his shirt fully unbuttoned and I could still see his eyes were a mix between his normal hazel eyes with a hint of red. What had my complete attention was the bulge outline in his pants. His pants had a very distinguished tent and his hands were gripping the steering wheel with powerful strength. I never wanted to be a steering wheel so bad. The veins in his hands were prominent because of the strong grip on the wheel. In this very moment all I wish was that his hands were around my neck- 

“Babe” Nanami practically growled out, snapping me out of my thoughts. I shifted in my seat feeling the slick leak more out of me.

“We are almost there, you are purring baby. I promise I'll take care of you when we get in” he assured me while I leaned on his shoulder trying to curl up in his lap. I didn’t even realize I was purring until he mentioned it.

“Hurry” was my only reply to him. It’s obvious which one of us is in control and giving a command to an alpha isn’t like me but I just need him badly. 

We barely made it into the entrance of his bedroom, Nanami was carrying me at this point. I proceeded to strip off the rest of my clothes. The material of my clothes felt too tight on my body. My body was on fire. By now I had reached feverish temperatures. Whimpering I reached for his body but was quickly guilded to the bed.

“You with me, Giyu?” he whispered in my ear before removing his shirt trailing kisses down my neck and chest. I only got a quick glimpse of his chest and my god. I don’t know if I'm going to survive this. His chest was bulky and muscular, his skin was creamy adding to his well defined abs. In contrast my delicate fair skin was lighter and I looked extremely pale in comparison. All I could do was moan. 

“If you wanna come for me baby, I need you to relax” I was gripping the sheets tensing up without even realizing it. My claws were extending and tearing holes in his silk sheets. 

It’s not that it mattered, the sheets were already ruined, stained with my slick.

Nanami continued down my body until he reached my aching member. I was a mess, leaking so much from my cock as well as slick leaking out my ass. My body was preparing for him to take me and I didn’t want to wait any longer. 

He held my legs down, enclosing his mouth around my cock. My hands instantly found their way to his hair for the second time tonight. 

“Mhmm'' Nanami moaned around my cock sending a jolt down my legs. A series of moans and whining fell from my mouth like water flowing down a river. I wasn’t going to last at this rate.

“Can I come please?” I cried out, trying not to grip his hair. If it wasn't for him holding my legs down I would have been shaking. Nothing could have prepared for the next words out of his mouth. 

“Not yet baby” He ordered sliding my cock out of his mouth with a pop. My eyes became teary as my body clenched trying to hold off my orgasm.

“Turn over” with the help of Nanami I was now laying face down. Once I was turned the tears began to fall as he licked at the slick that had fallen down my back thigh and his mouth enclosed my rim. 

“You don’t have-” my words were cut off as he firmly licked my hole, licking up the fluids I was leaking. I could feel his fangs that were dropped fully at this point. They were grazing against my hole. It felt dangerous but also turned me on so much I couldn’t complain. My body was arched and my face was hidden in the pillows as a string of whining and moans were mufflied into the pillow. 

Every moan and curse that came out of my mouth just led Nanami to push his tongue deeper.. He was consumed with this overwhelming need to have me teary eyed and fucked out.  

Before I knew it Nanami was pulling my legs and pushing at my lower back. He sucked a mark into the right side of my neck that had me practically begging for him to claim me. In between the kisses and bites he left on my neck I felt two fingers prodding their way into me. He must have felt that I was ready enough because his fingers left me empty and wet. 

“Come on, fuck, I need you to fuck me.” I gasped, breathing in a deep breath. I was willing to beg at this point anything just to get him inside of me. 

“Alpha please, alpha” my words were cut off by Nanami cursing and let out a growl as he entered me gently but also rough enough that I knew I would be limping tomorrow. 

Dropping to my elbows, all I could do was take it. As he slid deeper, I clenched around him and swore as he reached deeper and deeper inside of me. 

Behind me you could feel him losing control. His hips continued to jack-rabbit into me and my neck had to be a bright red color with how many marks he was leaving.

“Fuck, your body is so submissive for me baby.” 

Suddenly Nanami felt his movement start to slow and it was getting harder to thrust. 

“Fuck your gonna make me knot” he swore sucking several marks into my neck. I whined basically sobbing into the pillow at this point. My cock was painfully hard. At this exact moment I didn’t want it to end but I needed to cum. I just needed his permission, as if answering my prayers his hand wrapped around my member not even getting one full stroke in. “I need it”

“Cum for me” Nanami whispered as my vision blurred and my fangs cut my lip. My orgasm was so intense I couldn’t stop squirming on his knot.

“Look at you pretty boy. Just taking it” he said grunting until his knot fully locked inside me restricting his movement. 

Nanami bent down to kiss my shoulder as we both came down. I had rosy cheeks and his chest was glistening with sweat. The sound of our heavy breathing was the only noise being made in the room. We managed to turn on our sides so he was spooning me as we waited for the knot to deflate. 

“Next time, i’m claiming you” Nanami stated before curling more into my body.

Giyu didn’t have any complaints. 

tags: @buzzz-bees