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lizardkween420 · 7 months ago

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Nanami is aware of the effect he has on women. It’s not that he minds the attention, it’s just that he feels it is hard to live up to certain expectations. He’s overheard friends (Gojo) talking about getting choked, getting their hair pulled. He sees the eyes he gets when he’s in a suit. He’s very secure in his masculinity, but he feels he is not the tough, commanding man he seems to come off as.

When you told him you wanted someone to take charge in the bedroom, he panicked. What did that mean, exactly? You didn’t give any details. What if you wanted him to hit you? He had no judgment of it, but he didn’t think he could talk himself into touching you in any way that wasn’t gentle. When he looks at you his voice always comes out a few notes higher than he meant it to.

Luckily, he asked for clarification, and you assured him you didn’t want him to do anything that didn’t sound enjoyable. You told him what you wanted. He thought about it for nights on end.

Outside it is raining.

One of the reasons it is so easy to be with you is that your ideal weekday date is a night at his place, watching a movie and eating a meal that he says only took “a few minutes” to put together. And even though you intimidate him— how could you not, you’re gorgeous and brilliant— it’s easy to ask you to sleep over, too.

He knows that you love to validate his concerns about whether he is taking charge enough or not, but he doesn’t want you to have to. He’s determined to practice.

“Any day, now, sweetheart,” he says, thickly sarcastic. Then his face freezes and he glances over at you. “How was that?”

You laugh and finally stop putting up your hair. “Very good, Kento. Very commanding.”

He’s sitting on the edge of his neatly made bed and watching you, one leg bouncing tellingly. You stand in front of him, and feel the heat of his body against your thin clothes.

You’re trying to make eye contact but he won’t look up from your lap. You tilt his head up, and finally, he meets your gaze.

His soft brown eyes are glazed, lightly, and the longer he looks at you, the wider his pupils become.

You can feel his breath on your bare neck.

“Can I… “ he whispers as he leans in.

Something about his nervousness inspires a comfortable anxiety in you, and all you can do is nod. And you know you should close your eyes, but you want to watch, you want to see the outline of his hand coming to rest on your cheek, you want to see the way his eyes flutter shut as he gets closer, you want to see the way his lips move right before they are on you.

And then it doesn’t matter whose idea it was, because you’re kissing, finally. His tongue presses gently against yours, finally. You catch the softest moan from the back of his throat, finally.

And then everything is easy.

You throw one leg over him and sit in his lap, wrapping your arms over his broad shoulders and leaning in. You feel the bulge of his cock as you drag yourself instinctively against it, and he places an arm firmly around your waist to keep you where you are. You kiss him hungrily— a description you hate, but what else can describe the way you are trying to breathe him in, to consume him?

You feel his lips fumble against yours, and pull away softly. “What?”

“I said I want you to get on your back,” he says breathlessly.

It drives you all the more wild to know that he probably sat for a minute or two, wanting you, thinking about what to say before he said it.

In one move, and without taking his lips off yours, he stands and twists you so that you are pressed against the bed.

For a moment he pulls away and looks down at you, blonde hair mussed and falling down his forehead. Then he leans back down and whispers in your ear, “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

Then he is kissing his way down messily, running his tongue against your neck, your collarbone, stopping to pull off your shirt, then kissing delirious circles around your breasts. You feel his smile against your skin as your nipples react, hardening, desperate for him to reach them. But he takes his time, slides his tongue perilously close before retreating.

“Fuck, Kento,” you moan.

And with that— the sound of his name— he finally presses his lips over your left nipple. Your breath hitches as he runs his tongue lightly, back and forth. You try to reach for his belt buckle but he catches your wrist and pins it to the bed. His teeth graze your nipple and you feel his wide chest, still clothed, pressing against your stomach, your hips. Finally, he lets you fall from his mouth, and as he moves to your right, he reaches down to your thigh.

He doesn’t even touch you where you want him to, just traces lazy circles up the inside of your leg. Your hips twitch involuntarily, and he uses the hand that was holding your wrist to cup around your waist, keeping you still. The restraint makes you whimper, and his tongue seems to twist around your nipple in response.

He breaks away and begins to kiss a line down your stomach. Again, your hips move, but this time he lets them, hinging his arms around either one of your legs and looking up at you. He is kneeling in front of you now, and all you can say is, “I want you to make me come.”

And performance anxiety be damned, that’s all he needs to hear.

He pulls down your underwear with one hand and moves lower, kissing each thigh, kissing where each leg connects to your body, his breath hot and heavy against your pulsing clit, already thinly veiled in your own desire. You can feel him staring, and it doesn’t make you shy, so adoring is the way he touches you.

Then you feel his tongue on you, and your eyes close.

He is good without trying to be good, just desperate to make you feel the way that he feels. Your hand flies to the back of his head and grabs a soft fistful of his hair as he sucks lightly at your clit, flicking his tongue over the corner he knows you like best. One of his arms rests on your stomach, fingers pressed down against your hip bone, and the other holds your legs open, his heavy silver watch cool on your thigh. He draws you in closer, his lips bumping against yours, and when you open your eyes you see that his are closed, and his expression dreamy.

His tongue drops to the opening of your pussy and you buck forward against him, very suddenly on the edge. He traces his tongue back up to your clit with a pace so slow it’s cruel. As soon as he reaches the little bulb, he arches over it, around it, and back down, slowly, slowly. Your legs press against his hand but he holds you in one place, seemingly indifferent to how hard you are accidentally pulling on his hair. You feel the hand on your leg sliding upward, and his watch rests on the inside of your thigh as he dips one finger inside of you and curls it. His tongue laps along the base of his finger as he begins to pump his hand, again so slowly that you whine a little and drag your hips quickly against him. The arm resting on your stomach presses down, just firmly enough to keep you from going too fast.

Your knees press hard into his pectorals, which he knows means you’re close to coming. He slows his pace even more for just a second and looks up at you. “Does this feel good, princess?” he says.

“So… good,” you manage to say, before you make the mistake of making eye contact with him right as he pushes another finger inside you.

Then he is moving quickly, his knuckles bumping against your wet clit. As he fucks you with his fingers, he twists one over the other and taps against that spot below your belly button. He could find it in his sleep.

He doesn’t even have time to return to eating you out before you are coming on his fingers. But on the bright side, this way he gets to see you do it. Your hips lift up and your back arches, and the hand that has been locked onto his hair has fallen back against the bed. His fingers keep moving, slowing only slightly.

He remembers what you asked him to say to you. He had thought it would be too embarrassing, but when you’re writhing against his body like this, it’s easy. “Good girl,” he murmurs, sliding his thumb over your clit and letting it rest there.

And it feels like another spiral of pleasure sent seconds after the first, the orgasm chasing the breath from your throat. “Fuck, Kento—“

He pulls back gently, as he always does at the slightest indication of discomfort. “What is it—” he starts.

But you don’t give him the chance to finish. You are pulling him up by the collar of his shirt and shifting so that there is room for him beside you on the bed. Face to face, he kisses you as you fumble with the buttons of his shirt— why is this still on?

He moves to rise over you, and you push him back down. He’s done so well being in control, and now you want to take care of him. “Stay there,” you say, lifting yourself over him and pulling down the strained zipper of his pants.

You watch him stare as you guide the head of his cock against your clit. The warmth, the soft wetness covering his tip, the way he is watching you like you’re his favorite movie— your eyes close and a moan escapes your lips.

You feel his arms around your chest, his lips pressing into your collarbone. “Fuck me, princess, please…” He sucks lightly on your neck. “Please, just… fuck…”

You lean down and take a handful of his hair again. “Eyes on me.”

As he is looking up, you push the head of his dick inside yourself. You glide down his length, and he shutters underneath you.

You bounce on his lap, your knees pressed into the bed for leverage. For a moment, he is completely lost in the feeling of being in you, of you grinding yourself against him needily, of the soft moans rolling out of your mouth every time you come down all the way.

Then the hands that were limp on your waist clench, and suddenly he is guiding you, as if he knew exactly when your muscles would tire. There is no slowness now, no teasing, no wait. You are riding him hard, the tip of his cock nudging against your innermost skin, your fingers pressed into his chest. He pants against your chest, his hands folding indents into your skin as he tries to pull you closer.

“Now who’s desperate?” you breathe into his ear.

You see him squirm under you. “Keep… keep going just like that… please…”

His dick spasms in you. In response, you slow the wave of your hips to a crawl, dragging yourself up and down him as if you are in no rush to feel him release.

He groans, his head coming to rest against your shoulder. “Baby, you can’t… I can’t… last like that…”

You take his chin in your hand, tilt it up. His brown eyes are wet and heavy with desperation. “Not even for me?” you say.

But the way your clit bounces against his body, the feeling of him slowly filling you up, the way he is looking, still, like you’re the only thing he has ever wanted— you can’t last like this, either.

You press a clumsy kiss against his lips and feel his breath catch as you pick up the pace again, thrusting harder than before. He is pressing upward, hands now clawing at you blindly, the man completely undone by you bouncing on his dick. His brow furrows and you feel him pulsing hard inside you. “I’m gonna—”

“Me too,” you manage as the pressure rises in you. You bury your face into his neck, drawing yourself in as close as you can get.

“Fuck…” he whines, one arm wrapping around your waist, so tightly that you can only grind desperately against his cock as he comes in you. The surge of it hits you, his twitching tip rubbing against your G-spot right as you pull yourself into him, clenching hard. You spasm against him, momentarily helpless as you ride it out.

When you are able to open your eyes again, he is breathing heavily, looking at you, and smiling like you never see him smile. He sinks to the bed, bringing you down on top of him without pulling out. You collapse in a heap onto his chest as he kisses whatever skin he comes into contact with.

And he thinks how easy it is, how anything is, if it is for you.

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