â fem!reader x toji who has her bent over the kitchen counter
the flour dusting the counter was cold against your palms, a stark contrast to the heat crawling up the back of your neck and settling low in your belly. youâd been trying to bake, a simple enough task, but toji had other ideas. heâd come up behind you, silent as a cat despite his size, and caged you against the kitchen island with his body. now, his sweatpants and your hastily pushed-down shorts were a puddle of fabric around your ankles, and his fingers were digging into the soft flesh of your hips hard enough to bruise.
âshouldâa known better,â he muttered, his voice a low rumble against your ear. the head of his cock, thick and blunt, nudged insistently at your slick entrance. you were already dripping, had been since heâd started kneading your boobs from behind while you were trying to measure out sugar.
then he pushed in.
a sharp, breathy gasp punched out of your lungs. "ahâ!" it was too much, the stretch of him, the sudden fullness. he didn't give you a moment to adjust, just pulled back and slammed home again. the sound that tore from your throat was a high, keening cry. "nnngâ! ah! ah!"
the slap of his hips against your ass echoed in the quiet kitchen, wet and rhythmic. each thrust jolted you forward, your tits swaying, your fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth granite. "f-fuck, toji... ah! mmn... hnngâ!" you were loud, you knew you were loud, but you couldn't help it. every thick inch of him dragged against that perfect spot inside you, sending sparks skittering up your spine and pulling desperate, wanton moans from your lips.
"shit," he hissed, one hand leaving your hip to clamp over your mouth. his palm was rough and warm, smothering your next cry into a muffled "mmphâ!" he didn't slow down, didn't ease up. if anything, he fucked you harder, the counter digging into your hip bones. "gotta be quiet, pretty girl," he grunted, his breath hot and uneven against your ear. "wanna wake the whole damn building?"
but you couldn't be quiet. the sounds were being dragged out of you with every brutal snap of his hips. they came out as desperate, nasal whines against his palm. "nnâ nn! mmmâ hnnng!" your eyes were squeezed shut, your mouth open and drooling against his fingers. the pleasure was a coiled spring in your gut, winding tighter and tighter.
toji's patience, always a thin, frayed thing, snapped. with a frustrated growl, he pulled his hand away, and a loud, sobbing cry of "ah! fuck! toji, right there!" immediately spilled out into the empty room. you heard him mutter a curse under his breath, felt him shift behind you. the next thing you knew, the sudden, shocking absence of his cock made you whimper in protest. "noâ"
but before you could even finish the word, a wad of fabric, a clean dish towel he'd snatched from the counter, was being roughly pushed past your lips. it tasted faintly of detergent and cotton. "bite down on that," he ordered, his voice a low command. he didn't wait for a response, just lined himself back up and drove into you to the hilt in one smooth, brutal motion.
the muffled scream that got caught in your throat was intense. it came out as a deep, guttural "mmMPHâ!" against the towel. the fabric soaked it up, deadening the sound. you could feel the saliva already soaking it, could feel your own wetness dripping down your thighs. toji groaned, a deep, satisfied sound from his chest. "there we go. that's better."
he set a punishing pace, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, the new angle from the towel in your mouth somehow making everything feel sharper, more intense. your muffled cries became a constant soundtrack to his thrusts: "nnâ nnghâ mmmâ hnnng!" the sound was wet and desperate, barely contained. tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, a mixture of overstimulation and blinding pleasure.
he leaned over you, his chest a solid wall of heat against your back, one arm snaking around to palm your clit with rough, calloused fingers. "c'mon," he growled into your ear, his thumb pressing and circling. "cum on my cock. wanna feel you squeeze me." the combination of his brutal rhythm and his expert touch on your clit was your undoing. the coiled spring snapped.
your orgasm ripped through you, sudden and violent. your body went rigid, your back arching as much as his weight would allow, your pussy clenching and fluttering wildly around his pistoning cock. the scream that tried to tear free was utterly obliterated by the towel, coming out as a series of high-pitched, muffled squeaks and a long, drawn-out "MMMMMMâ!" that vibrated against the fabric in his mouth.
toji followed with a few more jagged, erratic thrusts, burying himself deep and holding you there as he spilled inside you with a guttural groan. you could feel the hot pulse of him, could feel your combined release beginning to trickle down your thigh. for a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen was your own ragged, muffled breathing and his heavier pants against your ear.
finally, he shifted, pulling out of you with a soft, wet sound that made you flinch. his hand came up and gently tugged the sodden towel from your mouth. you gulped in air, your lips swollen and numb, drool and tears smeared across your cheeks. he tossed the towel onto the counter with a wet slap, right into the flour you'd spilled. he gave your ass a firm, possessive slap that stung deliciously.
"clean this up," he said, his voice already bored, already back to its usual lazy drawl as he tucked himself back into his sweats. he didn't look back as he padded out of the kitchen, leaving you a trembling, fucked-out mess bent
over the counter, with nothing but the mess you'd made and the ache between your legs to show for it.
vyntrixx's note⥠: this was so rushed i hope its good. little and hopefully final update on my ex. so (and this is a bit long but considering you just read all of this you can read a bit more(ifyouwant)). so i went to the mall with my friends n one of them brought her bf along and her bf is acc friends w my ex so my friend was like omg call him then when he leaves block him so you can get it over with. this is at around 2:30pm and i had to be home fy like 4pm ish so anyway i called him TWICE and he didn't pick up and my friend's bf called him 5 times all straight to voicemail and we were js walking around at like 4pm when i got a call (keep in mind i didn't even save his number) so i picked up and it was him and my stomach legit LURCHED like i got nauseous on the spot. and i told him i'm at the mall and i was wondering if you'd come but it's fine we're leaving rn anyway and he kept begging me to wait an HOUR for him to come (???) and i told him you have 20 mins and i'm leaving then he said and i quote "i'm coming to see you cutie" i straight up ended the call right there and at like 4:30 he called n said he'll be there in 10 mins so i told him i'm going home because i need to go home and he was like i swear i'll be there in 10 mins n so he was 20 mins late then my friend's mom told her to come home and we were leaving and he called and said he was there and my friends were coming home with me so i was going home via my friend's bf and his ass showed up finally and he was wearing the worst fit known to humanity. a shirt with like a bunch of holes in it, mind you it's february and it was cold that day. and my friend commented on the shirt and he said IT'S HIS SISTER'S (??!!) and he shook my hand and i didn't even talk cuz my knees were weak and i was nauseous and dizzy and my hands were trembling and so i just quietly walked w my friends to the car and he got mad that i didn't let him drive me home (it's like 5pm atp and i needed to be home cuz i had an online class after a couple hours and his ass would never take me home on time and would be like 5 more mins that stretched to an hour so fuck no) and he called me n said "so that's it?" n i said yea and he's like "so that's really it?" and i said yes and he said ok bye so i ended the call and my friends immediately knew his ass was gonna sulk like a bitch then he called my friend's bf and started yelling at him for driving me home cuz he claims to have said that he's gonna take me home (didn't happen) and he kept saying that i'm js a little kid (he's only 2 years older mind u) and he shouldn't have even texted me in the first place (???) and he then sent me a vm saying i'm a bitch for making him come all the way to mall js to shake his hand and go home w my friend's bf (which btw i told him i needed to be home and couldn't wait so he could've js not come but he has no self respect) and he said he shouldn't have even texted me and i'm a kid (19year old kid is crazy) so i blocked him everywhere (even spotify) and that's all :D
â fem!reader x Boyfriend!toji whoâs not used to being treated gently :(Â
vyntrixx's noteâĄ: so my ex bf texted me again (the one i don't like) and i really don't know what to do and i wanna block him but he thinks we're back tghr because i texted him back n it's so painful to text him because he's a cornball n so manipulative and whiny and he's really reminding me of why i broke up with him. also this is tooth rotting fluff because yet again we need more fluffy toji
toji fushiguro is not a man who is used to soft things.
his world has always been hard edges and sharp corners. calloused hands and cold transactions. women who wanted him for a night, a thrill, a story to tell their friends. men who wanted him dead. money that came and went like water through his fingers.
he doesn't do gentle.
gentle is for people who can afford it. people who haven't had to fight for every goddamn thing they've ever had. people who didn't grow up learning that the only person you can count on is yourself.
so when you come into his life, all warm smiles and careful hands and eyes that look at him like he's something precious instead of something dangerous, he doesn't know what to do with it.
at first, he thinks it's a joke.
you're so.. soft. you barely come up to his chest, and when you stand next to him, you have to tilt your head all the way back just to meet his eyes. he could probably pick you up with one hand. hell, he has picked you up with one hand, that first time you'd asked him to reach something on the top shelf in your kitchen, and you'd squeaked and he'd almost dropped you out of sheer surprise.
but it's not your size that throws him. it's the way you touch him.
the first time you'd reached up to brush a piece of lint off his shoulder, your fingers had lingered. just for a second. just long enough for him to feel the warmth of them through his shirt.
he'd frozen.
nobody touches toji fushiguro like that. nobody touches him at all, really, unless it's to hurt him. and even then, those touches are fast and brutal and over before he can process them.
but yours⊠yours are slow. deliberate. soft.
"you had something on your shirt," you'd said, like it was nothing. like you hadn't just turned his entire world on its axis with three fingertips and a gentle brush.
he'd grunted. shrugged you off. told himself it was nothing.
it wasn't nothing.
it keeps happening.
you'll be sitting on the couch together, watching some stupid movie you picked out, and you'll lean into him. just a little. your shoulder pressing against his arm. your head tilting until it's resting against his bicep.
he goes rigid every single time.
"the hell are you doing?" he'll ask, voice rougher than he means it to be.
and you'll just look up at him with those big, soft eyes and say, "cuddling?"
like it's obvious. like it's the most natural thing in the world. it's not natural to him. nothing about this is natural. but he doesn't push you away.
he tells himself it's because you're warm and it's cold in your apartment and he's just conserving body heat. he tells himself it's because you'd probably cry if he moved and he doesn't want to deal with that. he tells himself a lot of things.
he doesn't tell himself the truth.
the truth is that your touch feels like coming up for air after drowning his whole life. and that terrifies him.
"you don't have to do that," he says one night, after you've spent ten minutes running your fingers through his hair while he pretends to watch the game.
"do what?"
"that." he gestures vaguely at his own head. "petting me like i'm some kind of dog."
you just smile. that soft, patient smile that makes his chest feel tight. "i know i don't have to. i want to."
"why?"
it comes out sharper than he intends. more demanding. he sees the flicker of surprise in your eyes, the way your hand stills for just a moment.
and then you're shifting, turning to face him fully, and your hand is still in his hair but now you're stroking his cheek with the other one and he can't breathe.
"because you deserve to be touched gently," you say. "because everyone deserves that. becauseâ" you hesitate, and he watches your throat move as you swallow. "because i love you. and this is how i show it."
he doesn't know what to say to that.
he's never known what to say to any of this.
so he does what he always does when he doesn't know how to handle something. he pulls away. stands up. mutters something about needing a smoke.
he doesn't smoke.
you don't call him on it.
â
it takes months.
months of you reaching for his hand across the table. months of you pressing kisses to his knuckles, his shoulder, the corner of his mouth. months of you wrapping your arms around his waist from behind and just holding him while he stands there like a statue, not knowing what to do with his hands, not knowing what to do with any of it.
he flinches less now. that's something.
the first time you'd hugged him from behind, he'd almost elbowed you in the face. muscle memory. instinct. you'd just laughed and said, "good reflexes," and hugged him tighter, and he'd felt something crack open in his chest that he's not sure he'll ever be able to close again.
you're so patient with him.
that's the worst part. the best part. he can't decide.
you never get frustrated when he tenses up. you never pull away when he goes stiff and silent. you just wait. just keep being gentle. keep being soft. keep being there.
"you know you can touch me back, right?" you ask one night. you're curled up against his side on the couch, your hand resting on his chest, and his arm is around your shoulders but he's not really holding you. his hand is just⊠there. limp. uncertain.
he doesn't answer.
you tilt your head up to look at him. "toji?"
"i don't know how."
the words come out before he can stop them. rough. raw. honest in a way he never lets himself be.
your expression softens. you shift, turning so you're facing him, and you take his free hand in both of yours.
"that's okay," you say. "we can figure it out together."
he doesn't know what that means. doesn't know how you can be so calm about this, so accepting, when he can barely look at you without feeling like he's going to shatter.
but you show him.
you guide his hand to your waist. show him how to curl his fingers against the curve of you. show him how to pull you closer instead of just letting you be there.
"like this," you murmur, pressing his palm flat against your back. "see? you're holding me."
he is. he's holding you.
and you're looking at him like he just hung the moon.
"good," you whisper. "that's good, toji. you're doing so good."
he has to look away. has to blink hard and fast and pretend there's something interesting on the TV because if he keeps looking at you, he's going to do something stupid. like cry. or tell you he loves you so much it scares him. or both.
your thumb strokes over his knuckles.
"it's okay," you say. "i've got you."
and for the first time in his life, he believes it.
â
it's another few weeks before he asks for it.
he doesn't mean to. it just⊠happens.
he's had a bad day. a really bad day. one of those days where everything goes wrong and he's reminded, over and over, that the world doesn't care about him. that it never has. that it never will.
he comes home expecting to be alone. expecting to brood in the dark and drink himself into numbness and wake up tomorrow pretending none of it happened.
but you're there.
of course you're there. you're always there.
you take one look at his face and don't ask questions. don't demand explanations. you just open your arms and say, "come here."
and he does.
he crosses the room in three steps and folds himself into you, and it's ridiculous because he's so much bigger than you, so much heavier, and you shouldn't be able to hold him like this but somehow you do. somehow your arms around his waist and your face pressed against his chest make him feel like he's the one being sheltered.
your hand comes up to the back of his head. your fingers card through his hair. soft. gentle. the way you always touch him.
"i've got you," you murmur.
he doesn't cry. he doesn't.
but his arms tighten around you, and his face presses into your hair, and he breathes you in until the sharp edges of the day start to blur.
"can you.." his voice cracks. he clears his throat. tries again. "can you keep doing that? the hair thing."
he feels you smile against his chest.
"yeah," you say softly. "yeah, i can do that."
so you do.
you stand there in the middle of the living room for what feels like hours, just holding each other, your fingers moving through his hair in slow, soothing strokes. and when you finally pull back to look at him, your eyes are so full of love it makes his chest ache.
"see?" you whisper, reaching up to cup his face in your hands. "you're learning."
he turns his head, presses a kiss to your palm.
"you're teaching me," he says.
and your smile. god, your smile. it's worth every uncomfortable moment. every flinch. every time he pulled away because he didn't know how to stay.
â
after that, it's like a dam breaks.
he doesn't ask every time. not at first. but he starts reaching for you more. starts initiating contact instead of just accepting it. starts curling around you at night and pulling you closer instead of lying stiff and still and pretending he doesn't notice how good you feel against him.
and you're always there. always ready. always soft and warm and his.
"toji," you say one morning, half-asleep and burrowed against his chest. "you're being cuddly."
he grunts.
"you never used to be cuddly."
he grunts again.
you tilt your head up, grinning at him. "i think you like it."
"i think you talk too much."
"you love it."
he doesn't answer. just pulls you tighter and presses his face into your hair.
but you feel the kiss he presses to the top of your head. feel the way his arms squeeze you just a little closer.
you smile against his skin.
"i love you too," you whisper.
and toji fushiguro, who has never been soft a day in his life, who has never let himself want or need or have anything gentle, holds you like you're the most precious thing in the world.
because to him, you are.
â
it's a tuesday night when he finally says it.
not i love you, he's been saying that for months now, even if it still comes out rough and reluctant sometimes, even if he still looks away when he says it like he can't quite believe you'll say it back.
no. it's something else.
you're on the couch. you're reading, and he's got his head in your lap, and your fingers are in his hair, and it's so mundane and domestic and normal that it makes his chest tight in a way he's still not used to.
"hey," he says.
"hm?"
he's quiet for a long moment. long enough that you look down at him, eyebrows raised in question.
"toji?"
"i like this."
the words are quiet. rough. like they cost him something to say.
you smile. keep running your fingers through his hair. "i know, baby."
"no, i mean.." he frowns, searching for words. "i like this. you. us." he gestures vaguely at the two of you, at your hand in his hair, at the soft light and the quiet night and the way his whole body feels relaxed for the first time in⊠maybe ever. "i didn't think i'd ever have this."
your hand stills.
he feels you looking at him, and he keeps his eyes closed because he's not sure he can handle whatever's in your face right now.
"tojiâŠ"
"i'm glad i was wrong."
your fingers resume their movement. softer now. more deliberate.
"i'm glad you were wrong too," you whisper. "i'm so glad."
he opens his eyes. looks up at you. and you're crying. not a lot, just a little, just a few tears slipping down your cheeks, and you're smiling at him like he's the answer to every prayer you never knew you had.
"don't cry," he says, reaching up to wipe your tears with his thumb. "i didn't mean to make you cry."
"happy tears," you promise, catching his hand and pressing a kiss to his palm. "they're happy tears."
he doesn't know what to do with that. doesn't know what to do with any of this.
but you're looking at him like that, and your hand is in his hair, and you're warm and soft and his, and for the first time in his life, toji fushiguro thinks maybe, just maybe, he deserves something good.
so he pulls you down to him. kisses you slow and sweet and gentle in a way he never thought he could be.
"thank you," he murmurs against your lips.
"for what?"
"for being patient. for.." he hesitates. swallows. "for teaching me how to be soft."
you smile. that smile. the one that's just for him.
"thank you for letting me."
and when you settle back against him, your fingers finding their way back to his hair, he closes his eyes and lets himself have this.
â Nanami Kento x fem!reader who can't keep quietâĄ
vyntrixx's noteâĄ: i haven't posted in like a month and it feels like a year because january just has to last a whole ass decade. i think i may be unable to form romantic feelings towards anyone but that's why fanfics exist and why i partake in giving back to the community (fandoms) anywayysss enjoy :D
the room is thick with heat, the kind that makes the air feel like a second skin. your apartment is quiet except for the ragged sounds of your breathing and the slick, wet noise of him moving inside you. nanamiâs pace is relentless, methodical, a perfect, punishing rhythm that has you seeing stars.
heâs braced above you, one hand planted by your head, the other gripping your hip so hard you know there will be fingerprints blooming purple and blue tomorrow. his tie is loose, his shirt unbuttoned and sticking to the sweat on his chest. his glasses are off, and his eyes are dark, so dark, fixed on where your bodies are joined.
âyouâre so loud,â he says, voice a low rasp that goes straight to your core. itâs not a complaint. itâs an observation, a fact. and itâs true. every drag of him, every deep, deliberate thrust, punches a new sound out of you; a high whine, a broken moan, a breathy gasp of his name.
âkento- oh, god-â
âsee?â he says, and his hips snap forward, making you arch off the bed. âyou have no discretion.â
you try to muffle yourself by biting your lip, but then he angles himself just right, brushing that spot inside you that makes your vision go white, and a sharp, keening cry tears from your throat.
he tuts, a soft, almost disapproving sound. his hand leaves your hip. for a second, you feel the loss of his grip, but then his fingers are sliding over your jaw, his palm pressing against your mouth.
âquiet,â he commands, his voice barely above a whisper but leaving no room for argument. his thrusts donât falter; if anything, they become more precise, more focused. âthe neighbors will complain.â
you moan against his hand, the sound dampened and hot. you can smell the faint, clean scent of his skin, the starch of his shirt. his thumb strokes your cheekbone, a strangely tender gesture that contrasts violently with the rough, primal way heâs fucking you. the duality of it, the gentle touch and the brutal rhythm, makes you clench around him, and a low groan vibrates in his own chest.
âgood girl,â he murmurs, watching your face. watching the tears of overwhelm that gather in the corners of your eyes. he likes this, you realize. he likes the way you come apart for him, likes the proof of his effect on you. he likes being the only one who gets to hear you like this, the one who gets to control the volume.
his fingers press more firmly. your sounds are now just humid, muffled pleas against his skin. you can taste the salt of him. your tongue flicks out, a desperate, unconscious motion, and you feel him shudder.
âfuck,â he curses, his composure cracking for a single, glorious second. his rhythm stutters, grows ragged.Â
he leans down, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot and mingling with yours. his hand stays tight over your mouth. youâre drowning in him. in his scent, his strength, the overwhelming fullness of him inside you. youâre so close, so close, the coil in your belly pulled taut to breaking.
âcome on,â he grunts, his voice raw. âcome for me. let me feel it. but do it quietly.â
itâs the permission, the order, that sends you over. your body bows off the mattress, a silent scream trapped against his palm as you shatter around him, the pleasure so intense itâs almost painful, waves of it crashing through you, pulling him under with you.
with a final, deep thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, his own release wracking through his frame with a series of sharp, choked-off gasps. he collapses onto his forearms, his body heavy and warm on top of you, his hand finally sliding from your mouth to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking over your kiss-swollen, spit-slick lips.
for a long time, there is only the sound of both of you trying to remember how to breathe. the sweat cools on your skin.
eventually, he pushes himself up. he looks down at you, your hair a mess, your eyes glazed, your body thoroughly used. he reaches for his discarded glasses on the nightstand, puts them on, and the familiar, stern nanami settles back over his features, though his hair is still mussed and his shirt ruined.
ânext time,â he says, his voice back to its usual, even timbre, though a little rough around the edges, âiâll have to find something more effective to keep you quiet.â
but he says it as he leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. and you know, with a giddy, aching certainty, that there will definitely be a next time.
vyntrixx's noteâĄ: holy shit it's been two whole months since i last posted. i've been trying to get my driving license because i've been spongebobing around and i'm genuinely starting to believe not everyone is meant to drive. also i was still not over my recent breakup but now i'm alot better and i'm in my man hater era but idk how i'll incorporate that into my fics. anyways happy late new years and enjoy!!!
the thing about university, youâve decided, is that everyone is pretending. pretending to know what theyâre doing, pretending to be adults, pretending that their intentions arenât paper-thin and self-serving. youâve seen it in the library, in the cafeterias, and most clearly, on the dates your well-meaning but utterly clueless friends keep setting you up on.
âheâs so nice!â they say, shoving a phone with a grinning guyâs profile in your face. and he is nice. for approximately forty-seven minutes. thatâs how long it takes for the conversation to swerve, like a drunk driver, toward your dorm, your bed, your body. the compliments turn tactical, the smiles become calculated. you can see the mental checklist in their eyes: get her alone, get her tipsy, get her naked. and then, you know with a cold certainty, get bragged about. your virginity would become a trophy story, dissected over cheap beer and greasy pizza in some frat house basement. the thought makes your skin crawl.
so you stop pretending. you ask around, quietly, in the spaces your friends donât frequent. you hear a name, passed in a hush between a senior girl who seems weary and wise and a bartender with kind eyes. toji. not a student. older. and the word they use, the precious, rare word, is âprivate.â clean, professional, discreet. no boasting, no drama, no follow-up texts. a transaction, clear and simple. it sounds like a breath of fresh, honest air.
you get his number. you text, your fingers clumsy. a meeting is set not in a hotel, but in a quiet, mid-tier apartment in a neighborhood thatâs neither nice nor rough. itâs neutral ground.
when he opens the door, the first thing you notice is that he doesnât look like the boys at school. heâs all grown man. tall, broad in a way that speaks of real strength, not gym vanity. a faded black t-shirt stretches across his chest, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. a scar cuts through his lip. his eyes, a cool, appraising green, scan you once, not leering, but assessing, like heâs checking the weather. âyou the one who texted?â he asks, his voice a low rumble. you nod, word suddenly stuck in your throat.
he steps aside to let you in. the apartment is sparse, clean, impersonal. a couch, a TV, no photos. it smells vaguely of detergent and something else, something male and simple. âsit,â he says, gesturing to the couch. he doesnât sit next to you; he pulls a wooden chair from a small table and sits facing you, his knees spread, arms resting on his thighs. the space feels deliberate. this isnât a seduction. itâs a consultation.
âso,â he starts, leaning forward slightly. âyou paid for the hour. we can use it to talk, or not. your call. but in my experience, talk first makes the rest less⊠complicated.â
you twist your fingers in your lap. the crude, direct openness of it is jarring, but so much better than the slippery, manipulative chatter youâre used to. âi⊠iâve never done this before,â you blurt out.
he doesnât look surprised. he just gives a slow nod. âfigured. you got that âdeer in the headlightsâ thing going on. why come to me, then? gotta be a reason you didnât pick some pretty boy from your classes.â
the floodgates open. you tell him about the dates, the nice guys who werenât nice, the pressure that felt like a slow suffocation. you explain, your voice gaining a desperate edge, about the fear of it becoming gossip, a conquest story, something reduced and made ugly. âi just want it to be⊠done. by someone who wonât care. who wonât make it a big deal. who i never have to see again if i donât want to.â youâre looking at your hands now, face burning. âi donât want it to mean anything. i think⊠i think that would mean more to me right now.â
thereâs a long silence. you force yourself to look up. heâs watching you, his expression unreadable. then he scratches the back of his neck. âsmart,â he says, simply. âyouâre smarter than most your age. treating it like some sacred ritual with some dickhead whoâll sell the story for a round of shots⊠thatâs stupid. this,â he gestures between the two of you, âthis is honest. you know what youâre paying for. i know what iâm being paid for. no pretending.â
he stands up, and you flinch, but he just walks to the small kitchen, pulls two glasses of water, and brings one to you. you take it, the condensation cool on your frantic palms. âhereâs how this works,â he says, settling back into his chair. âyouâre in charge. you say stop, we stop. you want to leave, you leave. the moneyâs for my time, not for anything specific. we do what youâre comfortable with, nothing more. questions?â
âdo youâŠ,â you swallow, âdo you need to know why? or anything else?â
a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touches his scarred lip. ânot unless you want to tell me. your reasons are your business. my business is the job.â
the word job is strangely comforting. this is a service. you are a client. the clinical nature of it strips away the anxiety, the weird emotional weight. you take a shaky sip of water. âokay,â you whisper.
âokay,â he echoes. he waits, letting the silence stretch, letting you sit with your decision. âyou ready to move to the bedroom? we can just talk more in there. get used to the space.â
you nod, standing on legs that feel like jelly. he leads you down a short hall to a room thatâs as clean and impersonal as the living room. a wide bed with plain gray sheets. a curtain drawn over the window.
he sits on the edge of the bed, not crowding you. âcome here,â he says, not a command, but an invitation. âjust sit. get used to being close.â
you perch beside him, a foot of space between you. you can feel the heat radiating from him, smell the clean cotton of his shirt, a hint of soap. your heart is a frantic bird in your chest.
âsee?â he says, his voice dropping to that low, calm rumble. âjust two people in a room. no magic, no destiny. just a thing that happens. sometimes itâs good, sometimes itâs not. today, weâll try to make it not bad for you.â
he turns his head to look at you. âyou can touch me, if you want. get used to it. this isnât a performance. you donât have to do anything youâve seen in movies.â
tentatively, you reach out and press your palm flat against his chest, over his t-shirt. the solid, unyielding muscle beneath is a shock. heâs so alive, so palpably real. he doesnât move, just lets you explore the plane of his chest, the curve of his shoulder. your breathing starts to sync with the slow, steady rise and fall of his.
âthatâs it,â he murmurs. âjust getting familiar. itâs just a body. mineâs a tool. yours is⊠well, itâs yours. thatâs all.â
and in that stark, crude, utterly human simplicity, you find a comfort you never found in all the sweet, empty lies. here, with this man who calls it a job, who offers no false romance, only blunt honesty and a clear set of rules, you feel safe enough, finally, to let go.
your hand slides from his chest, down the solid plane of his stomach. the fabric of his shirt is soft, worn thin in places. you can feel the hard ridges of his abdomen beneath. he watches your fingers trace the hem where his t-shirt meets the waistband of his sweatpants.
"you wanna take this off?" he asks, his voice still that low, even rumble. it's a question, not a suggestion.
you nod, not trusting your own voice. your fingers fumble a little at the hem. he doesn't help, just lifts his arms slightly, letting you do the work. you pull the shirt up and over his head. it's not like the statues or the fitness models on campus. this is a working body. broad shoulders, thick arms corded with muscle that speaks of use, not just display. a scatter of dark hair across his chest, trailing down in a line that disappears into his pants. Scars; a long, thin one across his ribs, a knotted, jagged one near his hip. itâs real. overwhelmingly, intimidatingly real.
he lets you look, doesnât preen or flex. just exists in his skin. "your turn," he says, and his eyes flick to your shirt. "if you want."
youâre wearing a simple blouse, something you picked because it felt neutral, not seductive. your fingers are clumsy on the buttons. he doesnât offer to help, just waits. when the fabric falls open, you shiver, though the room is warm. you shrug it off your shoulders, let it pool behind you on the bed. your bra is plain, practical. you feel absurdly young.
he reaches out, one large, calloused hand. he doesnât grab, just places his palm flat against your sternum, between your breasts. his skin is warm, rough. the touch is so direct it steals your breath. "heart's going pretty fast," he observes, a clinical note in his tone. "that's normal. breathe. in through your nose."
you obey, taking a shaky breath. his hand slides up, over your collarbone, to curl around the back of your neck. his thumb strokes the tendon there, a slow, steady rhythm. "see? just a touch. not gonna hurt you."
he guides you to lie back on the bed, the sheets cool against your skin. he follows, leaning over you, supporting his weight on one arm. the sheer size of him is encompassing, a wall of heat and solidity that blocks out the rest of the world. he kisses you then, and itâs nothing like the wet, greedy kisses youâve fended off before. his mouth is firm, purposeful, but not insistent. he nips at your lower lip, licks into your mouth when you gasp, but itâs controlled, a measured exploration.
his free hand finds the clasp of your bra. with a deft flick, it comes undone. he pushes the fabric aside, not roughly, but without ceremony. his eyes drop to your breasts, and he gives another one of those slow nods, like heâs confirming something. "nice," he says, the word flat, factual. then he bends his head and takes one nipple into his mouth.
you cry out, arching off the bed. itâs not a gentle suckle; itâs a hot, wet, voracious pull, his tongue working roughly over the sensitive peak. the sensation is so sharp, so overwhelmingly direct, it borders on pain. a coarse sound vibrates in his throat, and the vibration goes straight to your core, a jolt of pure, undiluted lust that leaves you dizzy.
"too much?" he grunts, pulling back. your nipple is wet, peaked, throbbing.
"no," you gasp. "don't stop."
a faint smirk. "didn't plan on it."
his mouth is on you again, his hand kneading your other breast, his thumb rubbing circles that are just this side of rough. all the while, his hips settle between your legs, the hard, thick line of his erection pressing against you through both your clothes. you can feel it, a persistent, demanding pressure. you buck up against it instinctively, a clumsy, seeking motion.
he pulls back from your chest, breathing a little heavier now. "pants," he says, and itâs a command this time. you scramble to unbutton your jeans, to shove them and your panties down your thighs. he does the same, pushing his sweatpants and boxers down just enough to free himself.
when you see him, really see him, your breath hitches. heâs thick, heavy-looking, fully erect. the head is a dark, flushed red, beading with moisture. it looks⊠functional. potent. a tool, just like he said.
he sees your wide-eyed stare and lets out a short, quiet laugh. "it's just a cock. same as any other, just maybe more than you're used to. we'll go slow."
he settles back between your legs, which fall open for him almost of their own accord. the head of him nudges against you, where youâre already embarrassingly wet. the blunt pressure is immense, a stretching, burning promise. he looks down at where youâre joined, watching himself press into you.
"breathe out," he instructs, and you do, a shuddering exhale. he pushes forward, just an inch.
it burns. a sharp, searing, tearing sensation that makes you whimper. you tense up immediately, your hands flying to his shoulders to push him back.
he stops. doesn't pull out, just stops. his arms, bracketing your head, are rigid with the effort of holding still. a muscle ticks in his jaw. "hurts," he states.
"yes."
"gotta relax. can't go in if you're clenched up like a fist. it'll just hurt more." he shifts, pulling back slightly, then pushes again, that same relentless, incremental inch. the stretch is agony. you bite your lip, tears welling in your eyes.
he lowers his head, his mouth near your ear. his voice is a gravelly whisper. "this is the worst part. the breaking in. after this, it gets better. you wanna stop? we stop right now, no shame in it."
you shake your head, frantic. no. you need this done. you need to be on the other side of it. "keep going."
"okay. then help me out. try to push down, like you're trying to take a piss. sounds stupid, works."
you do, bearing down against that impossible pressure. and something gives. he slides deeper, another inch, two, and the sharp tearing pain dissolves into a deep, throbbing, full ache. you feel impossibly stretched, filled in a way thatâs almost disorienting. you can feel him inside you, a foreign, living presence.
"fuck," he breathes, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. "there you go. you took it. good girl."
the praise, crude and transactional as it is, sends a shock of warmth through you. he begins to move, slow, shallow thrusts that work him in and out of that tight, clutching heat. the burn is still there, but itâs subsiding, mingling with a new, strange friction that starts to spark something low in your belly. each drag of him inside you feels more defined, more intense.
he lifts his head to watch your face. his own is set in a mask of concentration, green eyes dark, focused. sweat beads at his temples. "tell me when it changes," he grunts, his pace increasing slightly. "when it starts to feel⊠not like pain."
youâre too overwhelmed to speak. but you feel it. the moment the ache shifts, the friction catches a different spot, and a jolt of pure, electric pleasure shoots up your spine. you gasp, your back arching.
he sees it. "there it is," he murmurs, a note of satisfaction in his voice. his thrusts become more deliberate, angling to hit that spot again. and again. the pain is a memory, drowned out by a building, coiling tension. your noises change from pained whimpers to short, sharp cries. your fingers dig into the hard muscle of his back.
heâs fucking you in earnest now, the bed creaking under his weight, his hips driving into you with a steady, piston-like rhythm. itâs not loving, itâs not even particularly passionate. itâs efficient. thorough. heâs working your body, finding the pace and the angle that makes you clench around him, that makes your toes curl. the crude, wet sounds of it fill the room, a stark soundtrack to the act.
youâre climbing toward something, a peak youâve only ever reached with your own hand, but this is deeper, more consuming. he sees it on your face, feels it in the tightening of your body around his cock. one of his hands slides between you, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing hard, rough circles.
itâs too much. the dual assault, inside and out, is overwhelming. the coil snaps. pleasure, raw and blinding, erupts through you. you cry out, a broken sound, as you clench around him in violent, fluttering pulses. you see stars, your vision whiting out at the edges.
he grunts, a harsh, animal sound, and his rhythm falters. he drives into you once, twice more, deep, brutal thrusts that push you up the bed, and then he stills, buried to the hilt. you feel him pulse inside you, a hot, liquid rush that fills the empty spaces. he collapses on top of you for a moment, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, both of you slick with sweat, breathing in ragged, synced gasps.
he rolls off you after a minute, lying on his back beside you. the room is quiet except for the sound of your breathing. the smell of sex, musky and sharp, hangs in the air.
neither of you speak for a long time. you feel hollowed out, used, and strangely, profoundly calm. the anxious knot that had lived in your chest for years is gone. itâs just a thing that happened. no magic. no destiny.
finally, he sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. he looks back at you, your body splayed on the rumpled sheets, a mess of sweat and come and a faint, smeared trace of blood.
"bathroom's down the hall," he says, his voice back to its normal, detached rumble. "clean towels under the sink. take your time."
he stands, pulling his sweatpants up, and walks out of the room without another glance. and you lie there, in the quiet aftermath, a virgin no more. it was stark. it was crude. it was, in its own brutal way, exactly what you needed. a transaction, honestly completed. and for the first time in a long time, you feel no need to pretend anything at all.
â toji x fem!reader who claims to have trouble finishing so he proves her wrong âĄ
the first time you mention it, itâs a throwaway comment, something whispered into the crook of his neck after heâs rolled off you, both of you still slick with sweat. âitâs okay,â you murmur, tracing the lines of his bicep. âi usually donât even finish anyway. itâs just.. hard for me.â
toji goes very still. you can feel the shift in the air around him, the lazy, post-coital haze evaporating from his muscles. he turns his head on the pillow, his emerald eyes, usually half-lidded with apathy or amusement, now sharp and focused entirely on you. âwhat did you just say?â
you flush, suddenly self-conscious. âitâs not a big deal. really. it just doesnât happen for me a lot.â
a slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face. itâs not a nice smile. itâs the smile of a predator whoâs just been handed a challenge he fully intends to dominate. âis that so,â he says, his voice a low rumble. itâs not a question. âwell then. guess weâre not done for the night.â
before the protest can even leave your lips, heâs already in motion. his body is all predator grace, a river of packed muscle shifting over you, pinning you to the mattress with his weight. his hands, those wide, calloused palms, slide under your knees. he doesnât ask. he pushes, folding you up and spreading you wide, settling his broad shoulders between your thighs like this is exactly where he belongs. you can feel the heat of him, the solid wall of his chest against your inner legs. your breath catches, stutters in your throat.
âtoji, what are youââ you manage, voice thin.
his head tilts. a mean little smile plays on his mouth. âgonna prove you wrong, sweetheart.â his breath is hot on your damp skin, making you shiver. âjust lie back. and be quiet for me.â
and then he starts. and heâs right. you are quiet, because all the air is punched from your lungs.
he doesnât rush. heâs infuriating. heâs a craftsman. his tongue, broad and wet, paints one long, flat stripe right over your clit, from back to front. you jolt, a tiny âahââ escaping you. he does it again, slower, savoring it. then he settles into a rhythm that is pure torture. relentless, precise laps, each one sending a sharp jolt of pleasure straight to your core. his thumbs dig into the soft meat of your inner thighs, holding you so open you feel exposed, vulnerable. the scratch of his shadow against your tender skin is a rough counterpoint to the slick heat of his mouth.
youâre squirming, your hips making aborted little lifts off the bed. a low whine builds in your chest. âtoji..â
he hums against you, the vibration so intense your legs tremble. then his hand moves. two fingers, slick with your own wetness, press against your entrance. they slide in with no resistance, an easy, confident push that has you gasping, your back arching. heâs so deep, so suddenly full.
âsee?â he murmurs, his words a hot puff against your soaked skin. his fingers curl, just a little. âyouâre already so fuckinâ tight around me. gonna come all over these fingers, i know it.â
you shake your head frantically, biting your lip until you taste copper. itâs so good, a thick, building heat, but the peak feels impossible, a distant cliff. âi donâtâ i donât think i can,â you whimper.
he doesnât answer with words. he crooks those fingers hard, pressing up and in, finding a spot deep inside that makes your vision whiten at the edges. a broken cry tears from your throat. âuhn, fuck!â
âdonât think,â he orders, his voice a gravelly rumble. âjust feel.â
and then he destroys you. his mouth seals over your clit, sucking hard, his tongue flicking the bud in a rapid, cruel rhythm. at the same time, his fingers start to move, a steady, pumping fuck, curling up into that sweet spot with every single thrust. in, curl, out. in, curl, out. itâs brutal. itâs efficient. heâs mapping your body, exploiting your every weakness.
the coil in your belly winds tighter, a frantic, screaming pressure. sounds are pouring out of you, unchecked: high, reedy whimpers, choked moans, his name like a prayer. âtoji, toji, pleaseâŠâ your hands are fisted so hard in the sheets your knuckles ache. your back is bowed, your toes curling, your entire body strung tight as a wire.
he doesnât let up. not for a second. his free arm hooks under your thigh, hauling you even harder against his mouth, giving him more. youâre so sensitive itâs almost pain, a bright, blinding friction that you canât escape. youâre babbling. âtoo much, itâs too much, âs too good, i canâtââ
he pulls off with a wet sound, his lips glistening. he looks up the line of your body, his eyes black and utterly focused, triumphant. heâs watching you come apart. his fingers keep pumping, deep and sure.
âthatâs it,â he growls, his voice raw. âi can feel you clenching. câmon baby, come for meâ
itâs not a request. itâs a command. and your body obeys.
the orgasm slams into you, a tidal wave of pure sensation. you scream, a raw, ragged sound, as your cunt spasms wildly around his fingers. pleasure, white-hot and electric, cracks through you, wave after wave, milking his fingers, soaking his hand. you shudder uncontrollably, your legs shaking where he holds them, a continuous, broken stream of moans falling from your lips. âah, ah, god, toji!â
he works you through it, his fingers gentling but not stopping, his tongue giving soft, soothing licks until youâre sobbing from overstimulation, pushing weakly at his head. only then does he still, pressing a final, open-mouthed kiss to your trembling inner thigh. he slides his fingers out slowly, and you whimper at the emptiness.
he lifts his hand, examining the mess you made all over his fingers with a dark, satisfied look. he brings them to his mouth, never breaking eye contact, and licks them clean, his tongue sweeping over his knuckles. a smug, utterly satisfied look on his face. âone,â he says, his voice rough.
youâre still a boneless mess beneath him, lungs burning as you try to suck in a real breath. before you can, he settles his weight over you, pinning you to the mattress.
he doesnât wait, doesnât kiss you or touch you sweetly. he just nudges your thighs wider with his knee, lines himself up with a blunt pressure, and pushes back in. the glide is obscenely easy, wet and messy from your first time.
this second round is in missionary, but thereâs nothing loving about it. he braces on his forearms, his body a cage of muscle and heat. his hips snap forward, not frantic, but relentless. a deep, punishing rhythm. each thrust is a slow, grinding roll that buries him to the hilt, that thick length of him hitting a spot inside you that makes your vision blur. youâre too sensitive, raw from your first climax, and every drag is a shock of too much feeling, pleasure and pain all twisted together.
âtoji, wait,â you whimper, the sound pathetic even to your own ears. your hands come up to push at the solid wall of his chest. âplease, i canât, itâs too muchâ
he doesnât even acknowledge the plea. one huge hand captures both your wrists like theyâre twigs, squeezing just this side of painful, and pins them above your head. the move presses your chest up, arching you into him. âyou can,â he grunts, his breath a hot, damp puff against your ear. his hips never stop their steady, devastating pace. âyou will. look at me.â
you force your eyes open, your lashes wet. his face is right there, close enough to see the flecks in his green eyes, the faint scar on his lip. his gaze is locked on you, studying every flinch, every tear, the way your mouth hangs open on a silent cry. heâs reading you, mastering you. the pleasure starts to coil again, deeper now, born from the sheer dominance in his stare, the helpless way your body yields to his.
âyou feel that?â he whispers, his voice rough. he drives in harder, a deliberate, heavy stroke that punches the air from your lungs. âthatâs all me. youâre gonna come again just from my cock. say it.â
âiâm gonna come,â you choke out, the words a broken, dirty prayer.
âgood girl.â
it breaks over you like a slow, hot tide. your body seizes, a full-body convulsion that isnât sharp but deep, a pulsing warmth that radiates from your core out to your fingertips. you sob his name, as you clench around him, milking his length through the waves. he fucks you through every second of it, his pace never easing, until youâre just a twitching, whimpering thing beneath him.
with a wet sound, he pulls out. you gasp at the sudden emptiness, feeling cold and exposed. youâre a wreck, tears and sweat mixing on your skin. youâre done. you have to be.
in one easy motion, he flips you onto your hands and knees. the position feels even more exposed, more animal.
you feel him nudge at your entrance, still swollen and slick. he doesnât push in right away. he just rubs the thick head of his cock through your folds, smearing the mess, making you whine at the overstimulation.
âlast one,â his voice is a guttural promise from behind you. a hand fists in your hair, not enough to hurt, just enough to make you aware of his control. âthen you can sleep.â
he sheathes himself in one long, brutal push, burying himself to the root. you cry out, back bowing. this angle is deeper, somehow. he feels bigger. he sets a pace immediately, a hard, driving rhythm that has you clenching with every thrust. his other hand claws at your hip, holding you in place, keeping you from rocking away from the intensity.
âfuck,â he breathes, his control slipping for the first time. his rhythm turns ragged, desperate. the wet, filthy sounds of skin on skin, of him plunging into your soaked cunt, fill the room. youâre babbling, a stream of ah!ah!ah!âs that means nothing and everything.
âtake it,â he snarls, his thrusts turning punishing, short and hard. âgonna fill you up. mark you from the inside.â
thatâs what sends you over a third time, a weak, shuddering climax thatâs more of a prolonged spasm than a peak. you clench around him helplessly, a soft, broken noise leaving your throat.
with a final, ragged groan, he slams home and stays there, his body tensing over yours. you feel the hot pulse of his release deep inside you, flooding that tender, used space. he grinds his hips against your ass, milking every last drop.
for a long moment, he just stays there, slumped over your back, his weight heavy and hot. his breath is harsh in your ear. finally, he pulls out with a slick sound, and you collapse onto your stomach, utterly spent.
you feel his cum start to leak out of you, a warm, shameful trickle. youâre too far gone to care. you hear him move off the bed, his footsteps heavy. a moment later, something rough and damp, probably his discarded shirt, dabs between your thighs. itâs not gentle, but itâs efficient.
the bed dips. an arm hooks around your waist, dragging your boneless body back against his solid, sweaty chest. his breath evens out against the back of your neck almost immediately.
Omg girl I loveee your writing!! how do you come up with these ideasđ«Š
thank youu!! i usually just write what i fantasize about or a scene from a show or movie or a cute pic i saw on pinterest sometimes i see a tweet or smth and expand it or i see a writing prompt. really just anything that gives me an idea for a fic i js write it
vyntrixx's noteâĄ: i haven't uploaded in god knows how long because the curse keeps getting worse and worse. i got back together with my boyfriend but we broke up again and now he won't even talk to me even though i do want to get back together and i'm swamped with projects and assignments and my cat apparently had a stomach bug and he died the day after i took him to the vet and it was just this whole thing. anyways i hope this is good it's pretty short though
â
the position was perfect, obscene. you on your knees, the pillow from his bed crushed against your face, your ass in the air. the back of your thighs were pressed flush against the front of his, no space at all between you. he was kneeling right there, his big hands spanning your hips.
and he was inside you. all of him. heâd sunk in with one slow, unyielding push that had stolen the air from your lungs. he was just so big, stretching you to a perfect, burning fullness that was already tipping towards too much.
and he hadn't even moved.
he was just buried deep, letting you feel every inch. you could feel the thick, heavy pulse of him inside you, a twitch that made your entire body jolt.
âoh godâ oh fuck,â you babbled into the pillow, your voice a high, thin whine. your arms were trembling, already giving out from the sheer overload, so you just collapsed further, hugging the pillow for dear life.
your knees shook violently, threatening to buckle. âkenâ i canâtâ itâs too much.. you're too deepâ
a low, approving sound rumbled from him. âyou can take it.â one of his hands smoothed from your hip down the curve of your ass. âyouâre dripping all over me. so wet for it, and i haven't even moved yet.â
he was right. you could feel the slick mess between your legs, the obscene, wet sound when heâd first pushed in. another involuntary tremor wracked you, and you clenched around him instinctively.
âah! nnghâ donât move, please donât move yet,â you begged, your words slurring together. just that tiny clench had sent another shockwave through your system. you felt him twitch inside you again, a thick, promising throb, and a broken sob escaped you. âf-feels likeâ iâm gonna come. just from this. youâre justâ mmphâ just sitting thereâ
his thumb rubbed against your puffy clit teasingly. âdo it then.â his voice was dark, dominant, but so incredibly steady. âcome on my dick. iâm not going anywhere.â
his words, the filthy permission, combined with the relentless, full feeling of him was too much. your whimpers turned into a continuous, desperate moan as the tension snapped. your body seized, clenching around him in a series of violent, helpless spasms, your vision whiting out as you cried out into the pillow, your shaking legs the only thing keeping you upright.
through the haze, you felt him lean over you, his chest just brushing your back. âgood,â he growled, his breath hot on your neck. ânow we can begin.â
â N. Kento who's obsessed with making you squirtâĄ
the first time it happens, itâs an accident.
a lucky, messy, glorious accident.
itâs a lazy sunday afternoon, the kind of golden hour light nanami always seems to attract, filtering through the blinds and painting stripes across your naked back. his hands are on you, steady and sure, one splayed wide on your hip, the other working between your legs with a focused, rhythmic precision that is so uniquely him. two fingers are curled inside you, pressing insistently against that spongy spot that makes your vision blur, while the pad of his thumb makes tight, deliberate circles on your clit.
youâre already close, your whimpers turning into broken, pleading sounds. âKentoâ iâm gonnaââ
âi know,â he murmurs, his voice a low, rough thing against the shell of your ear. his rhythm doesnât falter. âlet go. iâve got you.â
and you do, with a sharp cry, your body seizing up as the climax crashes through you, warm and shuddering. but then something else happens. his fingers, still pressing deep, trigger a second, different wave. itâs not just the clenching, pulsing release youâre used to. thereâs a gush of warmth, a wet sound youâve never heard before, and a feeling of such profound, shocking release that your brain short-circuits.
for a second, thereâs only the sound of your ragged breathing. nanami goes perfectly still.
youâre mortified. âoh my god, iâm so sorry, i think i justââ
you try to scramble away, but his hand on your hip tightens, holding you firmly in place. he slowly pulls his fingers out, and you watch, face burning, as he looks at his wet hand with an expression you canât quite decipher. itâs not disgust. Itâs fascination.
he brings his fingers to his nose and inhales, a quick, subtle scent-check. then, his eyes, dark and intensely focused, lock with yours.
âdid that feel good?â he asks, his voice impossibly calm.
you can only nod, words failing you.
a slow, deliberate smile touches his lips. itâs not his usual reserved smile. this one is full of a quiet, primal triumph. âgood,â he says, and then heâs kissing you, deep and possessive, as his clean hand comes up to cup your cheek. âso good for me.â
thatâs the moment the obsession begins.
it becomes his personal mission. his white whale. his ultimate culinary technique, but for your body.
kento is a man of precision, of methodology. he approaches this new goal with the same analytical rigor he applies to curse technique or baking the perfect loaf of sourdough. he researches, he plans, he executes.
âthe g-spot is typically located one to two inches inside the vaginal wall on the anterior side,â he mentions casually one evening, looking up from his phone while youâre watching a movie. he says it with the same tone heâd use to discuss the weather.
you choke on your popcorn. âyouâre researching?â
âof course,â he says, as if itâs the most obvious thing in the world. âunderstanding the theory is fundamental to practical application.â
the practical application is⊠exhaustive.
he spends entire evenings between your legs, not with the frantic energy of a teenager, but with the patient, relentless dedication of a master craftsman. he maps you with his tongue and fingers, learning every sensitive fold, every hidden nerve cluster. he pays attention to your breathing, your sounds, the subtle tensing of your thighs.
âmore pressure here?â heâll ask, his voice a low rumble against your inner thigh.
ây-yes, oh god, right there.â
âand when i combine it with a lighter touch hereâŠâ he experiments, his movements clinical and erotic all at once. âyour back arches. interesting.â
he learns the exact angle of his fingers, the perfect âcome hitherâ motion that makes your eyes roll back. he discovers that a steady, building pressure on your clit with the heel of his hand while his fingers work inside you is the key that unlocks the floodgates.
the dialogue is a mix of filthy instruction and blunt, heartfelt praise.
âyouâre being very loud tonight,â heâll murmur, his breath hot on your damp skin. âare you close? tell me.â
âiâm⊠iâm trying,â you whimper, your hips bucking against his hold.
âyou donât have to try. you just have to let me give it to you.â his voice is firm, leaving no room for argument. ânow, come on my fingers. soak my hand. i want to feel it.â
and when you do, when the warm rush comes, his groan is one of pure, unadulterated victory. âfuck, yes. there it is. look at that. youâre so perfect.â
he loves the aftermath almost as much as the act itself. heâll hold you while you tremble, kissing your forehead, your shoulders, murmuring praises into your hair.
âincredible,â heâll breathe, looking at the wet patch on the sheets with a sort of reverent pride. âevery single time. you have no idea what it does to me, seeing you lose control like that for me.â
one night, after heâs brought you to that peak three times in a row, youâre a boneless, oversensitive puddle in his arms. heâs tracing idle patterns on your back.
âyou know,â you mumble into his chest, âyou donât have to... you know. make it happen every time. a normal orgasm is still really, really good.â
he goes quiet for a moment. then, he shifts, rolling you onto your back so he can look you in the eye. his expression is serious, almost vulnerable.
âi know a ânormalâ orgasm is good,â he says, his thumb stroking your cheek. âbut this⊠when you do that, itâs different. itâs the most honest, unfiltered part of you. itâs you trusting me completely, surrendering to me in a way you donât with anyone else. itâsâŠâ he searches for the word, a man who always finds the right one. âitâs proof. proof that i can take care of you in this way, that i can bring you that specific kind of pleasure. and selfishly, it makes me feel like a god.â
your heart swells. itâs not just a kink. itâs his language. itâs nanami kento, the man who carries the weight of the jujutsu world, finding his own unique, messy, way to build something perfect and light. to build a sanctuary, one shuddering, soaking climax at a time.
you reach up and pull his face down to yours. âokay,â you whisper against his lips. âthen donât ever stop.â
he smiles, that rare, full, genuine smile thatâs just for you. âi have no intention of stopping.â his hand slides down your body, his touch already shifting from tender to intent. ânow, letâs see if we can go for four.â
vyntrixx's note ⥠: i disappeared again for a bit because yet again the fanfic writer curse is still working it's magic. so i started dating my hb 6 days after breaking it off with my boyfriend and we've been tgthr for like a week now but now he's being really weird and distant and i'm trying to be really nonchalant about it ngl. update: we literally js broke up what the fuck is up with this curse
âs-stop moving kentoo.â you whine, your boyfriendâs cock pushing deeper into you every time he shifts.
âsorry darling.â he breathes. âthe space hereâs just so.. tight.â
the two of you are laying under a blanket, your back to his chest and his cock nestled inside you.
itâs affecting him more than heâs letting on. the space on the couch is tight, but so are you. your pussyâs so snug. so warm. and he was struggling to keep his composure.
it was your idea, obviously. and how can he ever tell his sweet girl no.
heâs trying. he really is. all his attention focused towards the cheap scare movie that was playing on the tv.
he groans when the slightest jumpscare works on you. and your hips jerk, squeezing his cock in a way that makes his breath hitch.
youâre playing so innocent too. whining when he accidentally thrusts into you. but itâs never a problem when you push back onto him. âyouâre such a fox.â he thinks to himself, hissing slightly when you clench down on his cock- again.
âs-sweetheart.. i think this is enough yeah?â he tells you softly. and you frown in protest, âbut why? itâs so comfy here.â
âi know darling but itâs getting really hard to-â he swallows hard.
âreally hard to what?â
â-to not do this.â his arm wraps around your waist before heâs thrusting into you slowly. rocking your bodies together in a loving rhythm that has him moaning into the back of your neck. âf-fuck. needed this so bad.â his voice cracks with a groan.
you moan alongside him, his cock filling you deep with each gentle thrust. it was rear to see your boyfriend lose his composure. and to say it was turning you on was an understatement.
âhaah- faster kento.â you mewl, and he complies. tightening his grip on your waist before rocking his hips into you at a faster pace.
âfeels so amazing darling, is this is what you wanted all along?â he buries his face in the crook of you neck, peppering your skin with small kisses as you moan loudly.
âmhm! ahh- love it sâmuch kent. âm so close,â your back arches off of him, vision clouding white as you neared your release.
âiâm right behind you sweetheart. go ahead.â he coaxed softly, watching you fall apart in his hold. âthatâs it.â
his thrusts get sloppy, the sticky sound of his balls hitting your wetness driving him over the edge as he cums. unable to pull out in time when heâs already spilling inside. âs-shit. am sorry. gotta get you a.. fuck.â he groans as he finally pulls out. âgotta get you a plan b my love.â
âand maybe afterwards we can cuddle without my cock being warmed.â
vyntrixx's note ⥠: the fanfic writer curse js keeps proving itself right. i had to break up with my boyfriend twice and he's still not convinced it's over and i'm js so drained because what's hard to understand oml. anyways enjoy the fic :D
tojiâs sick. like, actually sick. which is rare, because somehow that man has survived exorcisms, curses, and fights with sorcerers, but one seasonal cold has him on the brink of death.
heâs sprawled on the couch like a corpse, one arm thrown dramatically over his eyes, the other holding a half-empty tissue box hostage. thereâs a blanket tangled around his legs that he keeps kicking off, even though heâs clearly freezing.
you peek at him from the kitchen, holding a mug of honey tea. he looks miserable. and for once, kind of harmless.
âyou look awful,â you say, walking over.
he grunts. doesnât even open his eyes. âfeel worse.â
you set the mug down beside him and crouch next to the couch, brushing his hair back from his forehead. itâs damp with sweat, sticking up in every direction. heâs burning up.
âyou have a fever,â you murmur.
ânah. mâfine.â
you snort. âyou literally sound like a dying chainsaw.â
that earns you a cracked smile, faint and tired. âstill talkinâ a lot for someone who claims to love me.â
âyouâre lucky i do.â you dip a towel in cold water and wring it out, pressing it gently to his forehead. he flinches at the touch, then sighs, the sound low and quiet like a catâs purr.
you sit with him for a while, switching out the towel when it warms up, carding your fingers through his hair when he frowns in his sleep. toji isnât used to being taken care of; you can see it in how awkwardly he relaxes, like his body doesnât know what to do when itâs safe.
at some point he wakes up again, eyes half-lidded, voice all gravel. âwhyâre you still here, huh? iâm gross.â
you lean over him, smiling. âbecause youâre my gross.â
he snorts, but his hand finds yours anyway, his fingers curling around your wrist. he tugs you down until youâre practically laying against his chest. he smells faintly like menthol and heat.
âdonât make me soup or.. whatever,â he mumbles into your hair. âjust stay here.â
you hum. âyou got it, tough guy.â
and so you do. the world slows down for a little while. just his uneven breathing, the soft thud of his heartbeat against your cheek, and the quiet comfort of knowing he finally let himself rest.
đđ tojiâs too big, too mean, and too obsessed with making you take every inchâ whether youâre ready or not . . .
you always say the same thing right before he puts it in.
âyouâre too big, toji.â
and every time, he gives you that slow, smug little smirk as he drags his fat cock through your glossy folds, pressing the tip just barely at your entrance and says, âyou can take it, baby. donât play with me now. this pussy was made for me.â
and then he pushes in. deep. slow. all the way until your walls are stretched obscene around his size and your thighs are trembling already. your fingers clutch at his arms, nails scratching over hard muscle, jaw slack as you moan out his name like itâs the only thing you remember.
âthatâs it,â he coos mockingly, already starting to fuck into you with slow, hard thrusts. âyou cryinâ already? and i ainât even started yet.â
you swear to god he gets off on it.
the way you can barely breathe when he splits you open. how your voice breaks everytime you whimper âtoo muchââ even though you never stop clenching around him, never stop begging for more. the stretch. the ache. the sound of your pussy sucking him in so loud it makes his head spin.
âshit,â he growls, dragging you down on his dick even harder. âwhy you squeezinâ me like that, huh? this slutty little pussy happy to get ruined again?â
you nod like a dumb little doll. tears in your eyes, lip quivering.
âyes, daddy- fuck, fuck, itâs too goodââ
he laughs. then spits in your mouth.
âyou love this fat fuckinâ cock,â he groans. âlove how deep i get, huh? all the way in your guts, yeah?â
his hand pushes down on your lower tummy until you feel him there, pressing from the inside.
âaw, look. there i am,â he says, voice dripping with filth. âdumb little baby all full of dick.â
then he flips you over like itâs nothing.
grabs your waist, yanks your hips up, and sinks back in without a second thought. your back arches, hands fisting the sheets, breath catching as he fills you to the brim all over again.
smack.
âyou gonna cum already?â he taunts, hand coming down over your ass again. âlook at this fuckinâ pussy. clenchinâ so tight i might not pull out.â
âtoji, please- i canâtââ
âyes, you can.â heâs slamming into you so hard the bed shakes. âyou will. take every fuckinâ inch, baby. you hear me?â
you sob out a nod, biting into the pillow.
and when you cum, you swear your vision goes white. your legs shake. your body seizes. and all you can hear is tojiâs low, fucked out moans as he paints your insides with a messy, hot creampie, cock twitching deep in your walls while he holds you down and fucks it deeper.
youâre still whimpering when he pulls out, cum leaking out of your ruined hole in wet, sticky globs.
he grabs your face, kisses you deep, and grins.
âstill say iâm too big?â
you glare at him through your tears.
ââŠyes.â
he smirks again, cock already hardening back up against your thigh.
You used to joke with your friends that there was no way dick could actually make a girl go drunk on itâ that kind of stuff only ever existed in porn. All dramatics and camera angles. No way it was real.
Safe to say that mindset quickly changed the second you started dating Toji Fushiguro.
After that first night you had sex â where he bent you over and pounded your cunt so deep you squirted twice on his dick, legs shaking, voice gone? Yeah. You stopped laughing real quick.
Because now, you were damn near a replica of those pornstars drooling over dick. Eyes glassy, thighs twitching and dripping with cum, and brain fogged up like heâd knocked something loose.
He had fucked you stupid. Literally.
And the worst part? You loved it. Loved the way he manhandled you, how he mocked you and talked down to you, made you feel like nothing but a hole to fill. The way heâd grab your face mid-thrust, make you look at him while he ruined you. âThis all it took to get you slutted out for me? Dirty girl.â
It was almost laughable to think you used to have standards before.
Control. Maybe even restraint.
But Toji shattered that the moment he first split you open on his cock. Now you were cockdrunk and shameless, begging for him to fuck you dumb with tears in your eyes and slick dripping down your shaky thighs.
âPlease,â youâd sob, voice wrecked, hips chasing every thrust like you were starving. âNeed it, want your cockâwant more.â
And heâd laugh. Low and cruel. âMore?â heâd sneer, dragging his cock out slow just to slam it back in harder. Drinking in the way your mouth would drop open in an 'o' and your eyes would roll back as a breathless moan would fill the room. âYouâre fuckinâ insatiable, doll. Nothinâ but a cockhungry slut now f'me, arenât ya?â
And you were.
You never thought you could reach this level of horny in your life, never thought youâd crave sex like this ever. Not even in your wildest dreamsâand yet here you were. Hooked on his dick.
So much so it wasnât just when you two were fucking. It was constant. Lingering. Even when he was being sweet â brushing your hair out of your face, kissing your temple, calling you his girl in that low, possessive voice that made you wanna jump his bonesâ it made your stomach flip and your thighs clench.
Despite his intimidating, almost scary appearance, that beast of a man was soft with you. Gentle in ways that made your chest ache.
And god, that just further worsened your lust.
Because now it wasnât just about the sex â it was about him. The way he looked at you like you were his favorite sin. The way he touched you like he knew every nerve ending by heart. The way he could ruin you with a single word, a single thrust, a single glance.
You used to joke. Used to roll your eyes at girls who claimed they were addicted to it.
Wellânow you were one of them.
No shame. No denial. Just hunger.
Because being his mess? His fucked-out, overstimulated, whimpering mess?
That was your favorite version of yourself most times.
And so what if craving your boyfriend's cock like it was oxygen made you a littlee unhinged?
God forbid a girl have a hobby.
⥠princessxmin please do not alter, copy or translate my work !
vyntrixx's note âĄ: i haven't posted in a while cuz i'm in the process of breaking up w my bf because the fanfic writer curse once again proves itself true
the first time you ask, nanami kento almost chokes on his own spit.
itâs a lazy sunday morning. sunlight is filtering through the blinds, striping the sheets of your shared bed. his arm is a heavy, warm weight around your waist, his breathing just starting to even out into something close to sleep. youâre tracing the lines of his palm, the calluses on his fingers, when you pop the question.
âkento,â you murmur, your voice all sugar and idle curiosity. âhow many times in a row have you come before?â
he freezes. you can feel the subtle tension coil through his muscles. a long, slow exhale leaves him.
âthatâs.. a very specific question,â he says, his voice a low, sleep-roughened rumble.
âiâm a very specific girl,â you sing-song, nuzzling into his shoulder. âcâmon. tell me. i bet itâs something insane. like, four.â
heâs quiet for a moment, and you think he might just ignore you and fall asleep. then, with a sort of resigned sigh, as if confessing a great sin, he speaks.
âin college,â he starts, and you can hear the faintest blush in his tone. âduring finals. i was⊠stressed. i locked myself in my dorm room and⊠i believe the final count was eight times. over the span of, perhaps, six hours.â
your entire body goes still. then, a slow, wicked smile spreads across your lips. you lift your head, propping your chin on his chest to look him in the eye. his glasses are off, and his hazel eyes are slightly wide, a little alarmed by your expression.
âeight,â you repeat, the number a sacred, delicious thing on your tongue.
âit was a long time ago,â he says defensively, his brows knitting together. âand it was⊠excessive. and sore.â
âmhm,â you hum, your fingers trailing down the hard plane of his stomach, under the sheet. âi want to break it.â
he actually shivers. âabsolutely not.â
âabsolutely yes.â
it starts easy enough. you climb on top of him, sinking down onto his hard length with a slow, practiced roll of your hips. heâs dominant by nature, a man of control and precision, but like this, with you setting the pace, he just lets his head fall back against the pillows, his hands coming to grip your thighs.
âyou feel so good,â you coo, leaning forward to whisper in his ear.Â
he groans, a deep, throttled sound. his composure is a fortress, but you have the blueprint. you ride him slow and deep, milking every sound, every twitch from his big, sculpted body. when he comes with a broken gasp, his hips stuttering up into you, you just smile, not moving.
âthatâs one,â you whisper.
the second time, you make him lie back while you take him in your mouth. youâre relentless, using your tongue, your throat, your hands cupping and massaging his balls. heâs trying to be quiet, biting his forearm, but little whimpers escape anyway. high, strained sounds youâve never heard from him before.
âp-please,â he chokes out when you pull off for a breath, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his flushed, weeping tip.
âplease what, kento? please stop? or please more?â
he just shakes his head, overwhelmed. you swallow him down again, and his back arches clear off the bed. itâs quicker this time, his release hitting the back of your throat with a ragged cry. you swallow every drop.
âtwo,â you announce, wiping your mouth.
by the fourth, heâs trembling. truly, visibly shaking. his skin is flushed, sweat-slicked. his abs clench violently with every oversensitive pulse. youâve switched to just your hand, a tight, slick fist around him, stroking with a cruel, steady rhythm.
âthereâsâ thereâs nothing left,â he sobs. itâs a real sob, watery and broken. tears are gathering in the corners of his eyes. ây/n, please, i canât⊠itâs too much.â
âyou had eight in you once,â you remind him softly, leaning down to kiss his trembling lips. âweâre only halfway there.â
you keep stroking. his whimpers are constant now, a high, pathetic litany of âfuuckâ and âoh god.â his body is trying to curl away from the stimulation, but you have him pinned. his hips give a weak, aborted thrust, a mere ghost of the powerful movements from hours ago.
on the seventh, he barely makes a sound. a dry, hoarse gasp is all that comes out. his whole body seizes up, taut as a bowstring, but only a few transparent, pearly drops well up and dribble pathetically down his length.
âsee?â he cries, his voice wrecked. ânothing. itâs empty. please.â
you gather the sad little droop of cum on your fingers and hold it up to his blurry eyes.
âyou lied to me, kento,â you taunt, your voice still light and cutesy. âyou said there was nothing left. but thereâs still a little something, isnât there?â
his breath hitches, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. he looks utterly ruined, completely at your mercy.
you smile, leaning close, your lips brushing his ear.
âweâre not stopping until we beat your record.â
your hand starts moving again, and a broken, whimpering wail is torn from his throat. itâs the most beautiful sound youâve ever heard.
vyntrixx's note ⥠: this took me so long to post cuz i was too lazy to edit :/
the heat had been building all day, a low, insistent thrum between your legs that made it impossible to think, impossible to focus on anything but the slick, aching need.
 you were ovulating.Â
and your body had become a single-minded, desperate thing. youâd tried to take the edge off yourself in the shower, fingers working frantically, but it was like throwing a cup of water on a forest fire. it just made the emptiness worse, the hunger more acute.
you were pacing the living room, a whine caught in your throat, when the key turned in the lock. toji. he shouldered the door open, looking large and slightly bored, a grocery bag in one hand. his eyes scanned the room and landed on you, immediately narrowing. he could always read you, especially like this.
âthe hellâs wrong with you?â he grunted, kicking the door shut. âyouâre vibratinâ from across the room.â
âtoji,â you breathed, your voice coming out as a pathetic little whimper. you didnât even try to hide it. there was no point. âplease.â
he dropped the bag on the floor with a dull thud and walked over to you, his presence immediately dominating the space. he cupped your face, his thumb brushing over your heated cheek. âthat time, huh? mânot even through the door and youâre already begginâ.â
you nodded frantically, pressing yourself against him, grinding your hips against the solid muscle of his thigh. âneed you. need it so bad, toji, please, iâll do anything, justââ
he chuckled, a low, dark sound that went straight to your core. âanything?â his other hand slid down, palming your ass through your thin shorts, pulling you harder against his leg. you could feel how wet you were, the fabric already soaked. âmessy girl. canât even wait for me to get my shoes off.â
he didnât wait for an answer. he spun you around and pushed you face-first against the back of the couch, your hips arched up. you heard the rustle of his pants, the clink of his belt, and then his fingers were hooking into the waistband of your shorts and panties, yanking them down to your knees in one rough motion.
the cool air hit your wetness and you shuddered.
âfuck, look at that,â he muttered, spreading your cheeks apart with his thumbs. âdrippinâ. pathetic.â
you just moaned, pushing your hips back, seeking any kind of friction. he gave a low groan of approval. âso eager. alright, baby. since you asked so nice.â
his first touch wasn't gentle. two thick fingers slid through your slick folds, gathering wetness, before circling your clit with a brutal, knowing pressure. you whimpered, back arching, a jolt of pure electricity shooting through you.
âthere? that what you needed?â he purred, his voice right by your ear now. heâd bent over you, his chest pressed against your back. his fingers didnât let up, rubbing tight, fast circles that had your legs shaking. âgonna come already? just from my fingers?â
but he did. he pulled his hand away, leaving you gasping and empty on the edge. you whined, a sound of pure frustration. âno! no, whyâd you stop?â
âtold you,â he said, his voice a low rumble. âwas just gettinâ you ready.â
then his fingers were back, but this time, they pressed against your entrance. one finger, thick and demanding, slid into you to the knuckle without any resistance. you gasped at the sudden fullness, your inner walls clenching around him instantly.
âso fuckinâ tight,â he grunted, his breath hot on your neck. âeven when youâre this wet. greedy little thing.â he started a steady rhythm, pumping in and out, the sound obscenely wet. just as you started to get used to it, he added a second finger, stretching you further, a delicious burn mixing with the pleasure.
his thumb found your clit again, pressing down as his fingers curled inside you, searching. when they brushed that spongy, perfect spot deep within, you saw stars.
âtoji! right there, oh my god, right there!â you babbled, completely mindless.
he focused on that spot, scissoring his fingers, hitting it with every deep thrust. his thumb worked your clit in counterpoint. the dual sensation was overwhelming, too much and not enough. you were sobbing into the couch cushions, your orgasm coiling tight in your belly.
âthatâs it, câmon, cum all over my fingers,â he urged, his voice gruff with his own arousal. âdo it. wanna feel you come.â
the command, the feel of him stretching you, the relentless pressure on your clit. it was all too much. you shattered with a broken scream, your body seizing up as a violent, pulsing orgasm ripped through you. your vision whited out, your knees buckled, and you would have collapsed if toji wasnât holding you up, his fingers still working you through the aftershocks, milking every last drop of pleasure from your trembling body.
when he finally slid his fingers out, you were a boneless, panting mess. he turned you over, your shorts still tangled around your knees. his eyes were dark, hungry. he brought his glistening fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, never breaking eye contact. a deep groan rumbled in his chest. âsweet. always so sweet.â
but the emptiness returned almost immediately, the ovulation hormones refusing to be sated by just one orgasm. you reached for him, your hands fumbling with his belt. âneed you inside. now, toji, please, need to feel you.â
a feral grin spread across his face. âinsatiable slut.â he freed his cock, already hard and leaking, and shoved your legs apart. he didnât tease. he lined up and drove into you in one smooth, powerful thrust, filling you completely, stretching you in a way his fingers couldnât.
you screamed again, the feeling of being so utterly full wiping your mind clean. he didnât give you a second to adjust. he set a punishing pace from the start, his hips slamming into yours, the couch squeaking in protest with every drive. his hands gripped your hips hard, sure to leave bruises, holding you in place to take every inch of him.
âthis what you needed?â he grunted, his own composure slipping. âthis what you were dreaminâ about all day? my cock buried in this desperate, pretty cunt?â
âyes! yes! only you, only ever you,â you cried, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him deeper. each thrust rubbed his pelvis against your sensitive, overstimulated clit, building another orgasm already, faster and hotter than the first.
he leaned down, capturing your mouth in a sloppy, biting kiss. âgonna come again?â he breathed against your lips. âgonna come on my cock like a good girl?â
you could only nod, your eyes rolling back. he reached between you, his thumb finding your clit once more, and that was all it took. your second orgasm crashed over you, even more intense than the first, a tidal wave of pleasure that made you clamp down on him like a vice, your entire body convulsing.
the feeling of you tightening around him dragged a ragged groan from his throat. his rhythm faltered, becoming erratic, brutal. âfuck! take it, take all of it,â he ordered, and with a final, deep thrust, he spilled inside you, his own release hot and endless.
slowly, he pulled out, and you whimpered at the loss. he smoothed a hand over your hair, his touch surprisingly gentle now. âhell of a welcome home,â he murmured, a hint of amusement in his voice.
you nuzzled into his hand, the frantic, desperate heat finally, finally banked. for now. you knew it would be back. but for now, you were blissfully, perfectly full.
can nanami really stay professional when you waltz into his office ? (18+)
youâre straddling him in his office chair, knees digging into the leather and heâs glaring at you like you just committed the worst crime in the corporate world.
âstop,â he mutters, deadpan as always.
âstop?â you echo, eyebrows raised. âwhy? because your reports need attention?â
âyes,â he says, jaw tight. âi cannot - will not - focus on the quarterly numbers like this.â
you snort, grinding just a little, letting him feel exactly how wrong he is. âoh, i see. so my pussy is less important than - what was it - âprofit marginsâ?â
he exhales sharply, setting his glasses on the desk with deliberate precision. âyouâre being⊠irresponsible.â
âam i? or am i boosting productivity?â you tease, smirking as you lean down to kiss his neck - he stiffens at the contact.
âyouâre creating a hazard,â he mutters, voice low but tight, and suddenly his hands are on your hips, gripping so hard that you squeak, âhazardous how?â you purr, spinning on him just enough to let your ass brush against his clothed erection.
he groans - yes, a groan - and mutters, âif hr calls tomorrow about the damaged chair, itâs on you.â
you laugh. âoh, thatâs funny coming from mr. tie-and-glasses-always-perfect, should i start a report on that too?â
nanamiâs hands tighten on your hips. âi donât have time for your nonsense; i have a meeting at 2 and youâre making this unnecessarily long.â
âunnecessarily long?â you mock. âoh - please, youâre enjoying it.â he swallows then bites out, âi am not. youâre pretending i am.â
you smirk, leaning forward, and whisper against his ear: âthen why is your cock so hard, na-na-mi?â
his hand clamps down on your ass, sliding over your slick folds through your thin skirt - removing it in the process. âyou are infuriating.â
you tilt your hips, grinding down harder, feeling him shift in the chair as his tie slips loose from your wrists. âinfuriating enough to make you fuck me in your office?â
his eyes flick to the door like anyone might be watching, then back to you. âyes. infuriating enough.â
he tilts the chair backward so the edge of the desk presses against your thighs, guiding your pussy onto his now free cock perfectly. you gasp when he bottoms out fully, the angle hitting deep inside you, brushing against your cervix.
âfuck,â he groans, one hand gripping your hip, the other bracing on the desk. âstay still. donât move.â
you roll your hips anyway, and he growls, sliding his hand down to squeeze your ass harder. âi said donât move,â he pants, but the tight line of his jaw betrays that heâs enjoying it far too much.
you reach down, palming the base of his cock, feeling it twitch. he groans sharply, thrusting up into your hand, hips stuttering with every movement.
âso tight,â he mutters, voice low, âyouâre too tight.â
you lean forward, pressing your soaked cunt against him, grinding insistently. the fabric of your shirt rubs against his chest as he groans, teeth biting into his bottom lip. âshit⊠your pussy⊠i - oh fuck - youâre unbelievable.â
he grabs your ass again, flipping you gently onto your stomach over the desk so he can enter you from behind. the position stretches you perfectly, your chest pressed against the wood while his cock slides deep inside, pumping hard.
âthis is highly inappropriate,â he mutters, voice strained. âbut, oh god - impossible to stop.â
you moan loudly as he hammers into you, each thrust hitting deeper than the last - feeling it in your stomach, fingers pressing into your hips to hold you steady. âk-kento, please - harder, yes, just like that.â
he slides his hand down to rub your clit while slamming into you from behind, grip on your waist making your skin redden. âyouâre going to make me late - donât care anymore.â
your body bounces against the desk with every thrust, your juices slicking both of you. his cock twitches inside, hot and hard, each movement perfectly timed against your walls, hitting that perfect spot that makes you whine and arch impossibly higher.
âi⊠canât⊠not fuck you like this,â he groans, voice breaking slightly, teeth gritting. âthe reports⊠can wait⊠fuckâŠâ
you snort into the desk, chest heaving. âkeep talking about work while you ruin me, kento - it's sexy as hell.â
âyou are unacceptable,â he pants, dragging his hand up your back to squeeze your shoulder. âthis⊠is⊠not professional⊠but⊠fuck⊠canât resist.â
you laugh lightly, moaning âiâm irresistible, yes. admit it.â
âi⊠am not⊠saying itâŠâ he groans, pulling you closer, cock pounding inside you, one hand sliding down to rub your clit, thumb circling your wet nub as he hammers into you relentlessly. âthis is⊠highly irregular⊠oh god⊠so tight⊠youâre killing me.â
âgood,â you gasp, bouncing slightly on his cock. âi want you to fuck me hard until i scream.â
he groans loudly, voice sharp, âyou⊠are⊠insaneâŠâ and then he loses control entirely, slamming into you with deep, precise strokes, grunting, biting his bottom lip, muttering about âdeadlinesâ and âchairsâ as you both spiral into raw, filthy ecstasy.
you cum first, quivering against the desk, soaking him as he thrusts, moaning your name in a strangled, serious tone. âfuck⊠youâre so wet⊠godâŠâ
he doesnât stop, hand rubbing your clit, thumb pressing hard as he drags you through your orgasm while continuing to pound deep, muttering incoherent nonsense about reports and time management.
finally, his voice breaks, guttural, âi⊠canât hold it⊠not with you⊠fuckâŠâ and he shudders violently, filling you completely as he groans out your name again, the office chair creaking dangerously under the intensity.
you collapse onto the desk, panting, chest pressed against the wood, as he adjusts his tie, smooths his hair, and sighs, deadpan as ever. âthis⊠never happened. back to work.â
you giggle, wiping your juices from the desk, then slipping back on the thin skirt you specifically chose to push him over the edge - which was very successful, in your opinion. âsure, boss.â
he mutters something about quarterly reports while glaring at you - though the twitch in his jaw gives him away. youâve officially broken nanamiâs office composure.
but not locking the door has its consequences when yuuta: the new intern - suddenly steps into the warzone.
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