From the weathered muzzle to the squinting eyes, this dog portrait is a study in quiet patience. Captured with a vintage Takumar 200mm manual lens, handheld, it is a fleeting bridge between modern digital precision and the manual soul of film heritage. A solitary sentinel, watching over the Adriatic tides, now rendered with the clarity of a modern surgical tool, while preserving the softness of old Japanese glass.
Każdy mój kolejny dzień jest kopią kopii poprzedniego dnia. Czasami chciałbym krzyczeć ale ten film jest niestety niemy. Na razie nie mam nadziei, że kolejny dzień coś może przynieść jakąś zmianę. Trzeba jakoś funkcjonować.
A/n: this is a special fic for my bbg @takuma-talkz for hitting 300 followers AND it’s their birthday!!! Go follow and say happy birthday!!!!
Takuma Ino x Reader
[ established relationship | smut | MDNI | 18+
WARNINGS: smut, rough sex, unprotected sex (didn’t even think abt a condom smh) dom!Takuma, sub!reader, use of pet names (baby, baby girl, sweetheart, pretty girl), spanking, thigh slapping, choking (light pressure), overstimulation, manhandling, possessiveness, marking (biting), dirty talk, degradation (mild — “my fuckin’ toy”), praise, multiple orgasms, creampie implied. slight dacryphilia (crying during sex), reader being pinned/restrained, doggy style, kitchen sex, bedroom sex, not proofread.
The smell of frying butter fills the kitchen, sweet and heavy, clinging to the air like a second skin.
You’re standing at the stove, barefoot, swaying a little to the lazy beat playing from your phone, wearing nothing but a pair of sleep shorts and one of Takuma’s old t-shirts.
It’s so big it practically swallows you whole — sliding off one shoulder, brushing the tops of your bare thighs — and the shorts underneath are damn near invisible.
You’re too busy flipping pancakes to notice the sound of the door creaking open behind you.
Too busy humming under your breath to hear the way Takuma’s breath catches the second he sees you.
He was already exhausted coming home.
Already running on fumes, muscles sore, mind fried.
But this?
You?
In his shirt, in his kitchen, moving like you belonged here?
He feels something inside him snap clean in half.
You don’t even get a chance to turn around before a warm, rough hand is wrapping around your waist — dragging you back flush against a broad, heaving chest.
“Takuma—” you gasp, startled.
“Turn that off, sweetheart,” he rasps in your ear, voice thick and rough. “Now.”
Confused, you set the spatula down, heart hammering. You reach for your phone — fumble a little — and finally the music cuts off.
Silence falls heavy between you.
Until you feel his hands slide lower.
Until you hear the low, feral growl rumbling from deep in his chest.
“You have any idea what you’re doing to me, baby?” he mutters, grinding his hips against your ass — and fuck, he’s already hard, the thick line of him pressing into the curve of your body.
You squeak, laughing nervously, wiggling your hips in teasing retaliation —
and you don’t even make it a full second before he growls low in warning, one hand snatching your hips and pinning them still.
“Keep that shit up,” he grits out, “and I swear, you’re not gonna walk tomorrow.”
Your whole body lights up at the threat.
You try to turn around — try to meet his eyes — but he’s already spinning you, shoving you gently but firmly until your back hits the edge of the counter.
He steps between your thighs, caging you in, towering over you.
You blink up at him.
And that’s when you see it.
The look in his eyes.
All wild hunger, all raw need.
Takuma leans down, grabs the hem of his shirt you’re wearing, and rips it up your body — not even bothering to peel it off slow — tossing it somewhere behind him without a second thought.
Now it’s just you.
Tiny shorts.
Bare chest.
Shivering against the counter while he drinks you in like a dying man.
“Fuck, baby girl,” he mutters under his breath, dragging his hands down your sides. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hips, hard enough to bruise. “You’re too fuckin’ pretty for your own good.”
Your heart skitters against your ribs.
You reach for him — desperate to touch, to hold — but he catches both your wrists in one big hand, pinning them above your head against the cabinets.
“Nu-uh,” he purrs, smirking when you whine.
“You don’t get to touch. Not until I say.”
His free hand trails down your chest, cupping your breast, rolling your nipple between rough fingertips until you’re arching, moaning, straining against his grip.
“You wanted this, huh?” he murmurs darkly, mouthing down your throat. “Walkin’ around like that, teasing me?”
“N-No,” you pant — but it’s a lie and you both know it.
Takuma chuckles low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
He lets go of your wrists only to grab your hips again, hauling you up and planting your ass firmly on the kitchen counter.
The cool stone bites into the back of your thighs, but all you can focus on is the way he’s dropping to his knees between your legs like a man worshiping at an altar.
You open your mouth to say something — you don’t even know what — but then he’s tugging your shorts down in one rough yank, leaving you bare and dripping for him.
“Shit,” he breathes out, staring up at you with blown pupils. “You’re fuckin’ soaked.”
He drags two fingers up your slit, slow and teasing, before tapping your clit just hard enough to make you jolt.
“All this for me, baby?” he murmurs, voice gone molten.
“You that needy?”
You whimper, nodding helplessly.
Takuma smirks — all sharp teeth and wolfish hunger — and leans in.
The first drag of his tongue against you is slow, tortures.
A single stripe, before he sucks your clit into his mouth and moans against you.
Your hands fly to his hair — but he slaps them away with a growl.
“Didn’t I tell you not to touch, pretty girl?” he mutters against your cunt, voice vibrating through you like a live wire.
You bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, fists clenching in the air.
Takuma goes back to work — messy, sloppy, completely wrecking you with every flick of his tongue — and it doesn’t take long before you’re keening, writhing, begging for more.
“Takuma, please— please, wanna cum—”
He pulls back, lips shiny, chest heaving.
“Nuh-uh,” he growls, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like a goddamn savage.
“You’re gonna cum on my cock, baby. Not my tongue.”
You barely have time to process it before he’s standing — shoving his sweats down just enough to free himself — and lining up without hesitation.
“Hold on tight, sweetheart,” he breathes, voice dark and shaking. “This ain’t gonna be soft.”
He drives into you in one brutal thrust, bottoming out so deep you choke on a scream — clinging to his shoulders like your life depends on it.
Takuma groans, forehead dropping to yours, hands gripping your hips tight enough to leave fingerprints.
“You’re mine,” he mutters over and over, voice breaking, hips snapping hard into yours, desperate and unrelenting.
“You’re mine, you’re mine, fuck—”
And when you finally fall apart around him, shaking and crying and gasping his name —
he cums with a broken moan against your throat, rutting into you until you’re both wrecked, boneless, panting into each other’s mouths.
“Bedroom,” he growls against your mouth. “Now.”
One minute you’re limp against the counter, thighs still twitching, and the next Takuma’s hauling you up into his arms like you weigh nothing.
“Gotta see you spread out for me,” he mutters darkly, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat as he carries you down the hallway.
“Fuckin’ need it, baby.”
You cling to his shoulders, boneless, your mind floating somewhere hazy and high and hot.
By the time he drops you onto the bed, you’re already whimpering — already reaching for him — but he’s faster.
He grabs your wrists and pins them to the mattress above your head, straddling your hips so you can’t even squirm.
“You’re gonna take it, pretty girl,” he growls low, leaning down so his mouth is brushing your ear.
“Gonna be a good girl and let me fuck you stupid, yeah?”
You nod desperately — the words caught somewhere in your throat — and the smile that curls over his lips is downright dangerous.
Takuma leans back, eyes raking down your trembling body, before reaching behind him — grabbing both your wrists in one hand — while the other drags down your chest, down your belly, slow and punishing.
“You look so fuckin’ good like this,” he mutters, voice gravelly.
“All laid out. All mine.”
The way he says it — low, dark, possessive — sends a pulse straight to your core.
And then — without warning — he slaps the inside of your thigh.
Hard.
You jolt, gasping, eyes going wide.
Takuma smirks down at you, wicked.
“Keep those legs open, sweetheart. Or I’ll tie ‘em open.”
You whimper but obey, spreading your thighs wider, feeling the cool air kiss your slick folds.
Takuma strokes himself once — slow, teasing — before lining up and slamming into you in one brutal thrust.
You scream — back arching — but he doesn’t give you a second to adjust.
His pace is merciless from the start — hips snapping forward hard enough to rock the bed frame against the wall with every thrust.
You can’t even think.
Can’t even breathe.
All you can do is take it — take him — as he fucks you deeper and rougher than he ever has before.
“Goddamn,” he grits out, fucking into you with bruising force.
“You feel so fuckin’ good, baby. So wet, so fuckin’ tight.”
He drops your wrists, grabbing your throat instead — not squeezing, just holding — the weight of his hand enough to make your head spin.
“You like this, huh?” he growls, pounding into you.
“Like being my fuckin’ toy?”
“Yes—!” you sob, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
“Yeah, you fuckin’ do,” he snarls, slamming harder, deeper, until you’re gasping with every brutal snap of his hips.
You can’t stop the noises pouring out of you — wrecked, high, desperate little cries that only make him go harder.
Takuma leans down, teeth dragging along your throat before he bites — not enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark.
“You’re fuckin’ mine,” he mutters against your skin.
“No one’s ever gonna fuck you like this, baby. No one but me.”
You nod frantically, tears slipping free — and he groans, pulling back to watch your face.
“Pretty when you cry for me,” he murmurs, dragging his thumb through the wetness on your cheek.
“So fuckin’ pretty, sweetheart.”
You feel yourself spiraling again — pleasure coiling tighter, tighter — ready to snap.
Takuma sees it.
Feels it.
And he grins.
“Not yet, baby,” he growls, slowing down just enough to torture you.
“Wanna feel you cum when I’m deep inside.”
He pulls out — just for a second — and you almost sob at the loss.
But then he flips you over like you weigh nothing — face down, ass up — and grabs your hips hard enough to bruise.
You barely get your hands under you before he’s shoving back in — deeper from this angle, making you scream into the mattress.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice wrecked.
“Take it. Be my good girl.”
He leans down, one hand sliding up your spine — pressing you lower — until your chest is flush with the mattress, your ass in the air, helpless for him.
The angle is filthy.
The sounds are filthy — wet, messy, skin slapping against skin.
You’re sobbing now, lost in it — babbling his name, babbling please — but he doesn’t let up.
Doesn’t give you a second to breathe.
His hand comes down hard on your ass — a sharp slap that makes you cry out — and he groans, stroking the stinging flesh.
“You’re so fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, thrusting harder.
“So fuckin’ good for me.”
You feel yourself right on the edge — dizzy, trembling — and he knows it.
He reaches around, finds your clit, and rubs tight, fast circles — just the way you need.
“Cum for me, pretty girl,” he growls.
“Cum on my fuckin’ cock.”
You shatter — vision going white — screaming his name so loud it echoes off the walls.
Takuma groans — fucking you through it — before he pulls out, fists himself twice, and cums all over your ass and back with a broken, desperate moan.
You collapse into the mattress, gasping, shaking, completely wrecked.
Takuma leans over you, breathing hard, pressing soft kisses along your spine.
“You’re so good for me,” he whispers, voice wrecked and sweet and full of love.
“My perfect girl.”
You whimper, reaching for him blindly — and he chuckles low, gathering you up in his arms, carrying you to the center of the bed.
He grabs a towel from the nightstand — because of course he had it ready — and starts wiping you down gently, murmuring soft praises the whole time.
“So good, baby. So perfect. Took me so well.”
When he’s done, he tosses the towel aside and pulls you into his chest, tucking your head under his chin.
You cling to him, still trembling, still floating somewhere high and sweet and safe.
Takuma kisses your forehead.
“You’re mine, sweetheart,” he mutters against your hair, voice low and rough with emotion.
“Always.”
And you fall asleep like that — sore, spent, completely his.
