☆

nanami tried to be reasonable. he tried to tell you that you needed rest, that you were sick, that this could wait, but you'd just shaken your head and hooked your leg around his hip, and the sound you made when he'd accidentally pressed against you — half groan, half whimper, all desperate need — had shot straight to his dick like a live wire.

so now here he is.

here he is, kneeling between your thighs on the rumpled sheets of your shared bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp painting everything in shades of gold and amber. here he is, watching you completely fall apart beneath him, your skin flushed an impossible pink, your lips parted and wet and whispering his name like a prayer.

and here he is, losing his goddamn mind.

because you're hot. not just in the way you always are — the way that made him fall in love with you in the first place, the way that still makes his breath catch when you smile at him across the dinner table — but actually, physically hot. like a furnace, like sin wrapped in skin and slick heat and the kind of wet that has him groaning before he's even all the way inside.

nanami sinks into you slow — he always does, because well… he's nanami kento and he believes in savoring things, in making them last — but the moment the head of his cock pushes past your entrance, he freezes.

"f-fuck," nanami breathes, and his voice cracks on the word, splinters right down the middle.

you're so warm.

you’re so impossibly, unbearably warm; it's like slipping into a bath that's just this side of too hot, the kind of heat that steals your breath and makes your muscles go liquid. your walls flutter around him, clenching and pulsing like you're trying to pull him deeper, and he has to brace one hand against the headboard just to keep from collapsing on top of you.

"kento?" your voice is soft, hazy, your eyes half-lidded and glassy in a way that has nothing to do with the fever and everything to do with him. "you okay?"

nanami laughs — it was a short, broken sound that's half sob, half something else entirely.

"am i okay?" he repeats, like you've asked him the most ridiculous question in the world. "sweetheart, you're—"

his hips twitch, an involuntary little thrust that sinks him another inch deeper, and the sound you make is so sweet, so wrecked, that he has to close his eyes.

"you're so hot. inside. it's—god, it's like—"

nanami can't even finish the sentence, he doesn't have the words for what it feels like. the heat is radiating through him, climbing up his spine, settling low in his belly like embers catching flame. every single nerve ending is on fire, every muscle pulled taut, and he hasn't even started moving yet.

you shift beneath him, trying to take more of him, and your hand comes up to cup nanami’s jaw, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. your skin is warm too — not as searing as the rest of you, but warm enough to make him lean into your touch like the tide answering the moon.

"then move," you say, simple as anything else, like you haven't just turned nanami’s entire world inside out. "kento, please. i want you to move."

he's never been able to deny you anything, so he moves.

slow at first — because nanami is trying, he's really trying, to keep some semblance of control. he pulls out until only the tip of his cock remains, then pushes back in with a steady, rolling movement that has you arching off the bed, your nails digging into his shoulders. the wet sounds are obscene, amplified by the quiet of the room, and every single one of them makes his stomach clench with want.

but it's the heat that undoes nanami.

every single thrust feels like coming home and getting burned at the same damn time.

your body is so hot inside, so slick and welcoming and tight, and nanami can feel the fever radiating off you in hot waves; it's in the way your breath stutters against his neck, in the way your legs shake where they're wrapped around his waist, in the way your pulse flutters wildly against his lips when he leans down to kiss your throat.

"you feel—" he gasps, and his hips stutter, rhythm faltering. "you feel incredible. i can't—fuck, sweetheart, i can't think."

and nanami can't.

his brain has completely short-circuited, reduced to nothing but static and sensation. every logical thought has been burned away by the heat of you, replaced by something primal and desperate and almost frightening in its intensity. he wants to be gentle. he wants to take his time, to worship you the way you deserve, to show you just how much he loves you with every careful, deliberate movement.

but his body has other plans.

nanami’s hips are moving faster now, snapping against yours with a rhythm that's more urgent than he intended. the headboard knocks against the wall in a steady, rhythmic beat, and nanami knows he should care about that — nanami knows the neighbors will probably hear, nanami knows he'll be embarrassed about it tomorrow — but right now he can't bring himself to give a single shit.

not when you're making those sounds.

soft little gasps and moans that pitch higher every time he bottoms out, your head thrown back against the pillow, your throat bared and vulnerable and so beautiful it makes his chest hurt. your hands are everywhere — tangled in nanami’s hair, scraping down nanami’s back, gripping nanami’s hips like you're trying to fuse yourself to him.

"k-kento," you whimper, and it's broken, shattered, the kind of sound that goes straight to nanami’s dick and makes him see stars. "kento, don't stop. p-please don't stop."

"not stopping," he grits out, and his voice is ragged, wrecked, nothing like the composed, collected man he usually is. "never stopping. not when you feel—fuck, not when you're this—"

nanami loses his words again, and he buries his face in the curve of your neck instead, breathing you in. you smell like sweat and illness and something uniquely, achingly you, and he wants to live in this moment forever. he wants to drown in the heat of you, in the tight grip of your body, in the way you moan his name like it's the only word you remember.

you're clenching around him — tighter now, your orgasm building, and he can feel it in the way your thighs tremble, in the way your nails dig crescents into his back. but more than that, he can feel the fever; the heat that seems to intensify with every thrust, radiating from your core and soaking into his skin, making him sweat, making him need.

"sweetheart," nanami gasps, and his voice breaks on the word, splinters into something raw and desperate. "i'm—i'm not going to last. you're too hot. you're so hot, i can't—"

you turn your head, catch his mouth in a kiss that's all teeth and tongue and clumsy urgency. it's not graceful — nothing about this is graceful — but it's real, it's you, and he groans into your mouth like a man dying of thirst.

"then don't," you whisper against his lips, and your voice is thick with fever and want and something softer, something sweeter. "don't last. i want to feel you. want you to—ah—want you to cum inside me. please, kento. want to feel you."

nanami going to die.

he's actually going to die, right here, inside his wife, and he's going to die happy.

his hips snap forward harder, faster, every single ounce of control he had evaporating like water on hot pavement. he's gripping your thigh with one huge hand, holding you open for him, and the other is fisted in the sheets beside your head, knuckles white. nanami’s whole body is trembling — from the effort, from the pleasure, from the sheer overwhelming muchness of feeling you like this.

"you're everything," nanami hears himself say, and his voice sounds so strange, so distant, like it's coming from someone else. "you're everything to me. fuck, sweetheart, i love you. i love you so much. i love—"

he's rambling now, words spilling out of him unchecked, and he simple can't stop, he doesn't want to stop.

you're so hot, so wet, so perfect, and every time he pushes inside you, he swears he can feel your heartbeat, he can feel the fever thrumming through your veins, he can feel the way your body clings to him like it never wants to let go.

your orgasm hits you without warning — nanami feels it in the way you gasp loudly, in the way your back entirely bows off the bed, in the way your nails rake down his spine hard enough to sting. but mostly nanami feels it in the way you clench around him, a vise of slick, searing heat that pulses and flutters and tries to completely milk him dry.

"oh god," you sob, and there are tears on your cheeks — from the pleasure, from the fever, from the sheer overwhelming intensity of it all. "kento, oh god, oh god—"

nanami watches you fall apart beneath him, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

your eyes are squeezed shut, your mouth open in a silent scream, your whole body shuddering through wave after wave of pleasure. and through it all, you're so hot, so impossibly, devastatingly hot, and nanami can feel your orgasm like it's his own, nanami can feel it in the way your walls massage his desperate cock, nanami can feel it in the way his name falls from your lips like a benediction.

he follows right after.

there's no warning, no buildup — just a sudden, violent crest of pleasure that crashes over him and drags him under. he buries himself as deep as he can go, hips flush against yours, and spills inside you with a groan that's almost a sob. the heat of you surrounds him, consumes him, and for one perfect, eternal moment, there's nothing else in the universe.

just you.

just him.

just the two of you, unreservedly tangled together in the sweaty sheets, trembling and gasping and so full of love it might actually kill him.

nanami collapses on top of you — careful, always careful, one arm bracing his weight so he doesn't crush you — and presses his forehead to yours. your skin is still warm, still flushed with fever, but there's a softness in your eyes now, a drowsy contentment that makes his heart stutter in his chest.

"that was—" you start, but your voice is hoarse, faded, and you have to clear your throat before trying again. "that was not how i expected tonight to go."

he laughs, breathless and a little unsteady, and presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth.

"you're sick," he says, like it's just now occurring to him. "you have a fever. i shouldn't have—we shouldn't have—"

"kento." you cut him off with a hand on his cheek, turning his face so he has to look at you fully. "i wanted to. i want to. always want to, with you."

he closes his eyes, lets out a shaky breath, and when he opens them again, there's something soft and wondering in his gaze.

"you're going to be the death of me," he murmurs, but it sounds like a declaration of love.

you smile — that bright, brilliant smile that made nanami fall in love with you in the first place — and pull him down for a kiss that's slow and sweet and tastes like forever.

"good," you whisper against his lips. "then you'll die happy."

nanami laughs again, real this time, and gathers you into his arms. you're still too warm, still sick, still in need of soup and water and cool cloths and rest, but right now, in this moment, none of that matters.

right now, you're both exactly where you're supposed to be.