Nanami Kento

Nanami has decided that today is a crime against everything decent and good. Eight hours of corporate purgatory—spreadsheets blurring into meaningless numbers, the photocopier jamming three times, his supervisor droning about quarterly projections—followed by four hours of literal hell. Chasing that grade-two curse through Shibuya’s back alleys with Ino and Itadori yapping at his heels like overeager puppies, the stench of rotting cursed energy still clinging to his nostrils.

By the time the curse dissipates into black smoke, Nanami’s suit is wrecked, his cursed energy depleted, and his patience obliterated. He checks his watch—9:47 PM. Thirteen minutes shy of double overtime. The injustice of it makes his eye twitch.

He wants a shower. He wants silence. But more than anything—more than sleep, more than the expensive whiskey waiting in his cabinet, more than the sourdough he’d planned to pick up from the bakery—he wants his wife.

Specifically, he wants to die between her thighs. The thought becomes a mantra during the train ride home, his forehead pressed against the cool glass, eyes half-closed behind his tinted glasses.

He imagines the soft weight of her pussy against his chin, the intoxicating scent of her arousal replacing the stink of curses. His mouth waters. His fingers drum against his knee with uncharacteristic impatience. By the time the train screeches to his stop, Nanami is already hard in his slacks, too tired to care about decorum, too desperate to maintain his usual composure.

The key scrapes against the lock three times before he manages to slot it home. The door swings open and he’s already loosening his tie, yanking the spotted silk free with one hand while toeing off his polished dress shoes. His jacket hits the floor. His shirt follows, buttons pinging off the entryway tile like tiny gunshots. He sheds his professional skin like a snake discarding something dead and suffocating, leaving a trail of salaryman armor behind him as he stalks toward the living room.

There she is. Lounging on the couch with that careless grace that makes his chest tight, wearing one of his oversized button-downs—stolen, no doubt, from his closet, and little else. The hem rides up high on her thighs, revealing the soft expanse of skin he’s been fantasizing about for the last forty-five minutes. Her calves are draped over the armrest, feet bare, toes painted some color he can’t make out in the dim lamplight and doesn’t care about. All he sees is the shadow between her legs, the promise of burial and rebirth in that sweet puss.

“Don’t,” he rasps, his voice wrecked in a way that would embarrass him if he had any dignity left. He holds up one hand, palm out, stopping whatever greeting she might offer. “Don’t ask about my day. Don’t offer me tea. Just-“ He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. His glasses are fogging slightly, either from the temperature shift or his own ragged breathing. He crosses the distance in hasty steps, dropping to his knees on the rug with a heavy thud that rattles his bones and boner.

Nanami buries his face in the junction of her thigh without preamble, inhaling deeply through his nose like a man surfacing from water. The scent of her—clean skin, faint soap, and the musky sweetness that wrecks what’s left of his coherence. He groans, a low, broken sound that vibrates against her inner thigh. His hands grip her knees, broad thumbs pressing into the soft creases, spreading her wider with an urgency that says he’s a man on a mission; and that mission was slurping his wife’s clit.

“I missed you baby-..I’ve been thinking about this,” he mumbles, the words muffled against her skin. He presses open-mouthed kisses up the sensitive inside of her thigh, his stubble rasping against delicate flesh. “All fucking day. Through the budget meeting. While that curse was trying to take my head off.” His tongue darts out, tracing a vein, tasting salt. “Your pussy. Your taste. Need it. Need you.”

He finally reaches her center, and the sight of her—glistening folds, the pretty flesh of her vulva peeking from between her labia, the tight pearl of her clit already swelling from its hood—makes his head spin. He’s salivating, actually salivating, like some kind of starved dog. The exhaustion that’s been dogging him for hours evaporates, replaced by a singular, rabid focus. He wraps his arms around her thighs, hooks them over his shoulders, and hauls her closer until her hips are at the edge of the cushion.

“Look at you baby-… fuckkk..” he breathes, the praise falling from his lips unbidden. His eyes are blown wide behind his glasses, hazel irises nearly swallowed by black pupil. “Perfect. So fucking pretty here. Did you know I think about this when I’m supposed to be reviewing expense reports? About how you taste when you’re dripping on my tongue?” He leans in, dragging his nose through her slit, groaning at the wet heat. “God, you smell incredible. Better than any bakery. Better than anything.”

His mouth closes over her finally, and the first explicit taste of her—tangy, sweet, complex as wine sends a shudder down his spine that lands heavy in his own neglected cock.

He doesn’t tease. He’s past teasing. He flattens his tongue against her entrance and licks upward with the broad, heavy stroke of a man who knows exactly what he wants and intends to consume it. He laps at her folds, separating them with the tip of his tongue, gathering every drop of arousal she’s produced, humming his approval against her clit when he finds it throbbing and ready.

Nanami is Pussy drunk, exactly as the lord intended. The careful, methodical sorcerer who calculates ratios and respects boundaries is gone. In his place is this—this desperate, kneeling man who can’t stop making obscene, slurping sounds as he feasts that puss. He alternates between broad, messy licks that cover her entire vulva and pointed, flickering assaults on her clit, spelling the alphabet with a precision that belies his unraveling composure—he might as well have tied a cherry knot on her clit if he could’ve. His grip on her thighs tightens, fingers digging into soft flesh, holding her exactly where he wants her.

“This is where I want to be,” he gasps, pulling back just enough to speak, his chin shining with her arousal, his glasses askew. He looks wrecked—hair mussed, eyes glazed, lips swollen and wet. “Not in the office. Not fighting curses. Here. Right here, with my face buried in your sweet cunt.” He dives back in, sealing his lips around her clit and sucking gently, then harder, his tongue fluttering against the sensitive bundle of nerves with relentless, rhythmic pressure.

His hands slide upward, thumbs spreading her labia wide to expose every glistening inch of her to his ravenous mouth. He’s making sounds he’s never made before—wanton, needy whines that vibrate through her core. He licks into her entrance, fucking her with his tongue in shallow, rapid thrusts, before returning to her clit to circle it, worship it, reduce it to a sensitive, pulsing peak. The exhaustion from earlier has transmuted into something electric, a desperate energy that drives him to consume, to devour, to make her feel everything he’s too tired to say with words.

“Give it to me baby,” he groans, the vibration of his voice against her most sensitive flesh. He’s not asking. He’s begging, really, but wrapping it in the remains of his authority. “Want to feel you quiver. Want to taste you when you break. Been waiting all day—no, longer. to have you flooding my mouth, using my face until you’re satisfied.” He nips gently at her inner thigh, then soothes the mark with his tongue, returning to her clit with renewed fervor, lapping at it with the flat of his tongue in steady, relentless strokes.