🜼 ⋆ nanami kento trying to hold it in but ends up breaking down while you’re riding him
guys i love nanami so much this just hurts, im not ok
his hands are resting on your hips, heavy and sure, but trembling just slightly—just enough that you might think it’s the aftershocks of your rhythm. but you’ve been riding him slow for minutes now, your knees on either side of his hips, thighs aching, spine curving into the soft arch that makes his breath catch each time you grind down. it’s not a frantic fuck. it’s not desperate.
it’s the kind of movement that says i want you to feel this—each inch, each wet, sweet clench, each time your body opens around him like it knows his name.
nanami’s head is tilted back against the pillow, throat flushed, golden skin glowing in the amber haze of the bedside lamp. he hasn’t opened his eyes in a while—like if he does, the spell might break. you’re bent over him slightly, hands planted on his chest, the soft drag of your pelvis against his keeping the pace low and warm and intimate.
his breath comes in quiet gasps. not harsh, not needy. just overwhelmed. like this—this exact rhythm, your skin on his, your fingers tracing down his neck—is too much. not from lust. from love.
you notice the shift when his hands move—not to guide your hips, not to speed you up, but to pull you down, gently, into his chest. one palm flattens between your shoulder blades. the other presses at the small of your back, urging you to lean into him. you do. your bare chest presses against his, your heartbeat loud in your own ears.
his mouth finds the crook of your neck like he’s seeking shelter there. not to kiss. not to bite. he just breathes you in—deep, like you’re the only thing tethering him to this moment.
not from his breath. not from his body.
from the slow, sudden warmth that seeps into your skin.
your movement falters, just slightly. you don’t ask. not yet. your hand slides up, cradling the back of his head, fingertips threading through sweat-damp hair.
he doesn’t answer right away. doesn’t lift his head. he just stays there, arms wrapped around you, cock still seated deep inside you—so snug, so full, like you were made to hold him.
but the wetness spreads. soft. persistent. and your heart twists.
you shift just enough to pull back, hand slipping to his cheek, your thumb brushing gently under his eye.
and they’re full. not just with tears, but with everything. pain. relief. awe. something ancient and breaking apart like waves finally reaching shore.
“you’re crying,” you whisper. not accusatory. just gentle. worried.
he blinks, and another tear falls. his voice, when it finally comes, is wrecked—quiet and cracked at the edges.
“i didn’t mean to,” he breathes. “i just… i don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.”
you brush your thumb over his cheek again. “nothing’s wrong.”
he exhales, jaw tightening like he’s fighting a thousand things he can’t name.
“you love me like i’m not broken,” he says softly, like he’s ashamed of the truth. “like i’m not exhausted. like i didn’t give up on myself years ago.”
you don’t speak. you just kiss him. soft. slow. with your body still wrapped around his, like you can pour all your love into him that way. like if you kiss him deep enough, he’ll finally believe you.
arms curling tighter around your waist, lips parting against yours, tears slipping freely down his temples now as you begin to move again—slow, slow, like the pace you started with.
like you’re telling him i’m here. i’m not letting go.
he sobs once. just once. not loud. not harsh. a small, broken thing that escapes against your shoulder, and then—
“i love you,” he chokes out. “god, i love you. i didn’t think i was allowed to have this.”
you pause, breath catching. your hips grind down, slow, deep, pressing your foreheads together.
“you are,” you whisper. “you are.”
his hands hold your face now, trembling slightly as he kisses you again, tears wetting both your cheeks. and still—you’re joined. still, you move together. no thrusting. no hurry. just the soft slide of your bodies in sync, like he’s being reborn between your thighs.
“you’re my everything,” he whispers. “you’re the only thing that makes me feel like a man. not a weapon. not a machine. just… someone worthy.”
not loud. not messy. just tears against his skin, mouths pressed together, arms wrapped tight like if you hold each other hard enough, the world might stop spinning.
and in that room—low lit, hot skin on hot skin, your name tangled in his lips and his love spilling raw from his chest—you both stop pretending.
and the tears? they’re just proof he finally believes it.
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