I think Toshinori Yagi needs to be ridden tenderly, all hands and lips and breathy grunts into your mouth, but hard with snaps of your hips and pulls to his hair. He’s weak but he’s hardy, he’s lithe and spindly and all limbs with these big, big hands that grip your tits, desperately or meanly, it’s hard to tell some times. You were careful with him once, careful of his scars and wounds and bones but now you’re grinding hard, taking him long and deep, swallowing his pinched moans and allowing him freedom of your softest places. Cupping his jaw, licking dirty into his mouth, promising him the world and creaming messy over his cock. He thinks he doesn’t deserve you, and you know that but you stay, whimpering his name and begging him to come, begging him to stay deep in the recesses of your soul like he needs, like he deserves; a pretty thing folded in his lap, writhing and thrusting and grabbing him sweetly, needily, selfishly.








