Nanami’s lips are at your neck again—pressing, tasting, leaving heat in their wake—and one hand is in your hair, guiding your head back so he can see you.
See all of you.
“Such a good girl,” he murmurs against your throat. “Always so responsive for me.”
You whimper. He pushes deeper.
And when you moan—soft, helpless, raw—
He exhales like it’s the first real breath he’s taken all day.
“God, you’re so pretty when you moan.”
You shiver. He presses his forehead to yours.
“Don’t hold back now,” he says, dragging his hips slow, deep, perfect. “Wanna hear all of it. Every little sound you make for me.”
You do.
And he eats it up like it’s holy.
⸻
You’re a mess under him—sweat-slicked, lips parted, hands trembling where they clutch at the sheets.
But Nanami looks at you like you’re divine.
“My pretty baby,” he whispers. “So good for me. Always so good.”
You moan again, and his eyes flutter like he might come from that alone.
“That’s it,” he growls, pace faltering just once. “That’s it, pretty girl. Just like that.”
His hand wraps around the back of your neck, the other gripping your hip as he fucks you deeper, hips rolling slow and reverent.
Then: “Can I fill you up?”
You nod, desperate.
He pulls your hair just enough to make your eyes snap to his.
“Use your words, baby.”
“Yes, Daddy—please, I want it, I want you—”
He groans—deep and wrecked—and buries himself to the hilt as he comes, his voice a low chant against your shoulder:
“Mine. Mine. Always so fucking pretty for me.”
⸻
After, he doesn’t pull out right away.
Just kisses your bruised skin. Keeps his fingers between your legs to hold it all in.
“Still dripping,” he mutters, like he’s both proud and possessive.
You blink at him, dazed and smiling.
He leans in. Kisses your temple.
“Sounded so sweet when you begged,” he says. “My pretty girl.”
🕯️ Drabble: “Progress” (Nanami x Reader, Soft Dom Edition, 18+, dacryphilia, Overstimulation, brat training)
(((I had to take my last idea further aghhh)))
You hiss the first time he touches you.
Not because it hurts—but because it doesn’t. Because the warmth of his hand on your shoulder makes something inside you flicker and soften, and that terrifies you more than pain ever has.
Nanami doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t withdraw. He waits. Thumb rubbing slow, grounding circles against the sleeve of your sweatshirt.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs. “No one’s asking you to be anything but here.”
It starts slow. Always slow, with him.
A cup of tea placed just right. A quiet “have you eaten?” A hand brushing your hair back from your face when you’re too tired to move.
You push, sometimes. Test the boundaries.
He doesn’t bend—but he never punishes, either. Just looks at you with that quiet, unshakeable patience and says things like:
“If you’re going to act like a brat, I’ll just wait until you’re ready to be good again.”
(You were not ready for the way your body reacted to that.)
⸻
Tonight, he has you on your back.
Warm skin. Low light. Your legs are trembling from how many times he’s made you come—his fingers soaked, mouth slick with the evidence of every time he’s coaxed you open with nothing but praise and deliberate, devastating pressure.
“You take it so well,” he says, voice low, reverent. “You don’t even realize how good you are for me, do you?”
Your breath hitches. Your hips try to move—up, away, closer—you don’t even know anymore. You’ve long since passed the point of understanding what your body wants and what your body needs. Nanami knows. Of course he does.
“P-please,” you whisper, half sob, half laugh.
“Please what, sweetheart?” His hand strokes slow between your thighs, easing the ache without stopping it. “Use your words. Let me give you what you need.”
“Please let me—can I—Nanami—”
He kisses your knee, then your thigh, then just above your twitching, oversensitive center.
“You’ve already been so good,” he murmurs. “You’ve done everything I’ve asked. You’ve eaten. You’ve slept. You’re letting yourself feel.” His mouth brushes your skin. “That deserves something, don’t you think?”
You nod frantically, tears blurring your eyes.
“That’s my good girl.”
You fall apart again. You think you might still be shaking when he tucks you into his chest, whispering soft nothings against your damp skin. You don’t remember when you started crying. You only know that he stays.
You only know that you’re warm. And safe. And, finally, allowed to rest.
The apartment is heavy with heat—thick, slow, like honey. Your shirt’s clinging to your back. Nanami’s collar is undone, hair damp at the temples. He looks like patience incarnate. You look like sin.
“Kento,” you breathe. Your voice is wrecked from whining. “Please.”
“You’re going to ruin these pants,” he murmurs, voice low, more observation than warning. One brow lifts as he watches you grind down on the thick line of his thigh. “Again.”
You almost cry. “I can’t—I just need—”
“You always need.” His tone is soft, but edged in something firm. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just truthful. “You can’t go five minutes without trying to get yourself off on me lately, can you?”
You shake your head. Shame prickles at your skin—but it’s swallowed whole by the heat and the slow roll of pleasure between your legs. His thigh is flexed, perfect. Your hips chase friction like it’s the only thing left that makes sense.
He exhales through his nose and lets his hand settle on your waist, steadying you.
“Poor thing,” he says, like he means it. “Too hot to think. Too worked up to behave.”
Your rhythm stutters. You let out a broken sound and try to press down harder. He doesn’t stop you.
“Go on, then,” he murmurs. “Make a mess. If that’s what it takes to get you to breathe, I’ll take care of it.”
“Kento,” you gasp, clinging to him now, muscles trembling.
His voice lowers, intimate and rough: “You want to be my good girl?”
You nod frantically.
“Then show me. Come just like this. Let go for me.”
Your vision goes white as you obey, clinging to his shirt, panting through the heat and the slick press of your release. He holds you gently, breath warm against your temple, and says—
there's just something about gentle stimulation that is so perfect
like getting a pretty little sub all desperate and whining just from ghosting a hand over the inside of their thigh, just short of where they want my touch. gently thumbing over their nipple and reveling in the tiny inhales they make, the soft plea for more, which they already know i'll ignore. licking them open so, so slow and keeping their hips pinned to the mattress so they can't push forward until they're absolutely sobbing as i bring them to the edge but never quite push them over in the way they crave. all they can do is beg me to go faster, be rougher in a pathetic babble.
but they can only take what i give them. and what i want to give them right now is torturous softness :)
i dont think men understand how HOT it is when you take FULL control. you don’t need to be careful to the point where you think i’ll break if you touch me. you’re allowed to take control. run your hands over me like you own me. eat me out like i’m the only thing you’ll eat. throw me around as if i’m nothing. fuck me like its the only thing you know how to do. i promise i can take it <3
stormborns
areudirty
dailybridgerton
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass
pixelskylines
