🜼 ⋆ when you said you wanted to give him a handjob, kento never thought you’d leave him folding forward.
“you wanna please me that bad?” he muttered earlier, almost amused, a little condescending. like he was entertaining you. like it wouldn’t actually get to him.
you had asked so sweetly, too—“just my hand, nanami. let me try?”—and he’d said yes with that quiet smirk, the kind that says i’m humoring you, sweetheart.
but now? now he’s sweating. legs shaking, mouth parted around something halfway between a moan and a breathless fuck as your hand works him in ruthless, slick strokes.
“h-haah—slow down—” he manages, voice breaking over the syllables, hand flying down to grip your wrist—but not to stop you. no, not really. he’s just trying to anchor himself, steady the tremble in his arms.
but you don’t slow down. you squeeze instead.
“thought you said i could use it?” you purr, twisting your wrist just under the swollen head, watching him fold at the waist, hunched over like he’s bracing for impact. “wasn’t this your idea?”
“not—like this,” he grits out, head bowed low, blonde hair sticking to his temples. his thighs are tense, spread wide, the muscles twitching as his cock pulses in your fist. he looks wrecked, like he’s holding onto every last thread of composure and it’s snapping right between your fingers. “fuck—fuck, you’re gonna—make me come again—”
“good.” you brace yourself.
you stroke him harder, faster—using both hands now, spit-slick and mean, and he bucks into it with a noise you’ve never heard from him before. his hips stutter, twitch, then try to pull back—his whole body flinching from the oversensitivity—but you don’t let him. you grip him tighter, pump him through it like you own it.
“not so cocky now, huh?” you whisper more to yourself but his ears twitch, catching your words.
he groans—loudly, like it punches out of his chest—head tipping back as his cock jumps again, spilling more precum across your knuckles. you know he’s close. again. you can feel it: the way his abs clench, the hitch in his breath, the way he mumbles “shit, shit, shit” like he’s trying to hold it in.
but he can’t.
you make him come again anyway.
his whole body curls inward, hips jerking as you milk him through it, fist tight, relentless, squeezing every drop from him while he whimpers through gritted teeth. he’s so loud now, so desperate, gasping your name like he’s begging and doesn’t even know what for.
and when you don’t stop—when you keep going, still fisting him, still rubbing his tip raw—he starts to shake. thighs trembling, breath hitching with every stroke, body instinctively trying to twist away.
“too much,” he breathes. “it’s—it’s too much, i can’t—”
but his cock is still twitching in your palm. still rock hard. still leaking. still yours.
so you smile, lips grazing his ear, and say,
“yes you can. you gave it to me, remember?”
and you don’t stop until he’s gone.
until he’s quiet. twitching. fucked-out.
and no part of him remembers why he ever thought it’d be just a handjob.
