Work Text:
You had a stressful day at work.
Your boss chewed you out over a client issue you’d been trying to de-escalate for weeks. It wasn’t even your fault! But you took it on the chin like a champ, smiled through the vitriol, and nodded until your neck ached. You even gritted your teeth to draft that pathetic, "sincere" apology email to the client, every keystroke feeling like a tiny betrayal of your dignity.
Now it’s 9:33pm and your office is quiet. The lights dimmed, everyone gone, and you’re still here. Still cleaning up someone else’s mess.
Your dinner was a stale granola bar stashed in your drawer, your mascara definitely smudged and your inbox was a disaster.
But instead of dinner or bed, you’re thinking of him.
Nanami Kento.
What would you even call him… your fuck buddy? A friend with benefits? Stress relief?
It was almost a year ago where you had met him at a networking event and hit it off, then ended up in his bed that same night, and God, did he ruin you for anyone else. The quiet control of his hands, the way he touched you like he already knew exactly what you needed—it was addictive.
He was always so composed and steady, attentive too…and whenever you were wound this tight, this irritated, this exhausted...you knew he could always make it better.
So you pull out your phone and text Nanami Kento.
You: You up?
You don’t wait for a reply. With Nanami, you never have to.
—
By now, you’ve memorized the routine: which train to take, how many steps it takes from the station to his door. You slip into the rhythm like it’s muscle memory.
The late-night city hums around you as you walk: your heels soft against concrete, then quieter still against the carpeted hallway of his building. The scent of your perfume still lingers on your collar. You didn’t change out of your work clothes. You never do.
You knock, just once, like always—he opens the door without a word.
Nanami looks tired, which, he usually does.
Pressed slacks, rolled-up sleeves, his tie is loose tonight, collar open, the second button undone. You always seem to catch him like this, halfway between control and collapse.
God, you could see the veins in his forearm. Your mind wanders for a split second, you wondered what they'd look like choking you? You press your thighs together at the thought.
“Hey.” You say instead, casually.
His gaze drags over you: starts at your shoes, then your legs, then your blouse. It’s like he’s undressing you with his gaze, but in the most chivalrous way possible—if that makes any sense. He’s always been a gentleman.
“I had a tough day.” You say, brushing past him as you slip inside.
Your coat slides from your shoulders, catching on your arms as you shrug it off. Underneath: a silk blouse: pale, pristine…and that skirt. The one he hates. Not because it’s too short or too tight. But because it’s the kind of thing you wear around other people. Other men.
The kind of thing that reminds him you don’t belong to him.
He shuts the door slower than usual.
You kick off your heels with a quiet sigh and stretch, arms overhead, shoulder blades rolling like you’re trying to relax but can’t. You make yourself at home in his space. Like you always do, like this is normal.
“Just need a little stress relief,” you say, half a laugh under your breath. “Hope that’s okay.”
He doesn’t answer right away. He simply watches you with that unreadable expression—tired, taut, a little wrecked.
You don’t notice how his fingers twitch when you roll your sleeves to your elbows. How his eyes follow the slope of your neck when you tilt your head. How his body leans just slightly toward you.
Because this is what you do.
You show up, you touch, you tease. You spread your legs for him, cry his name, cum on his cock, and then you leave.
Rinse and repeat.
And still—
Every time you text him, he answers.
Every time you knock, he opens the door.
Every time you press your body to his and call it stress relief, he lets you pretend that’s all it is.
But lately, Nanami Kento’s grown tired of pretending.
He wants more.
You, at his table instead of his sheets; your heels lined up nicely by the door, not kicked off messily across his floor. Your voice in his kitchen, complaining about your day while he cooks, while something warm simmers on the stovetop and you finally, finally relax.
He wants to take you out somewhere that isn’t just between his bed and front door. To walk beside you instead of waiting behind you.
The last time he almost reached for something like that, you laughed it off lightly. Like it was never serious between you. So he stays where you’ve placed him: as someone reliable, useful, controlled.
But Nanami Kento wants more.
When you turn to look at him, his jaw is clenched.
“Nanami?” you tease, voice lighter than you feel. “You mad at me?”
His expression doesn’t change. But he moves.
One step, then another. And then his hand is fisting the silk of your blouse, slamming you against the wall so fast the breath leaves your lungs.
You gasp. More shocked than hurt—but before you can find your voice, he’s already there, crowding your body with his, one palm braced beside your head, the other curling hard at your waist.
His voice is low, and barely controlled.
“You walk in here like it’s nothing,” he says, the words scraping close to your throat. “Like I don’t think about you every night you don’t come.”
Your pulse skips.
What was with him? You could feel anger simmering from him.
His hand presses firmer against your waist, thumb dragging down the curve of your hip, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the edge of you.
“You look so goddamn proper at work,” he murmurs. “All those little blouses and skirts. Acting like a professional, like you’re in control.”
He leans in, mouth grazing your jaw, his breath hot and unforgiving.
“But I know what’s underneath all that. You’re a fucking mess. You show up here late at night, like this…needy, wound up and pretending it’s nothing. Calling it stress relief.”
A soft sound slips from your throat—half protest, half something else entirely.
“You’re so cruel, you know that?” he mutters. “Using me, wanting me only when it’s convenient.”
You blink up at him, searching—because this isn’t the man you know. Nanami is composed. Measured. Careful. This version of him—isn’t.
“That’s not—” you whisper.
He cuts you off with a kiss. Sharp and full of frustration. You melt into it before you even realize you’ve moved, hands curling into the front of his shirt, back arching as his body presses flush to yours. He groans when your hips grind up into his, but it sounds like he hates himself for it.
Then he pulls back, breath ragged. “Get on the bed.”
You don’t argue.
You move because you want to. Because your knees are already trembling. Because it’s Nanami, and you know he doesn’t make demands like that unless he’s reached the edge of his restraint.
The mattress dips beneath you as you settle against the pillows, legs slightly parted, silk blouse still clinging to your shoulders. You expect him to follow immediately.
He doesn’t.
Instead, you watch as he shrugs out of his jacket. Folds it once, neatly, and drapes it over the chair. Then he brings his hands to his tie.
And it’s slow.
He doesn’t rip it off or fumble with the knot. He undoes it carefully, fingers steady, gaze locked on yours as the silk pulls free.
Your throat goes dry.
“Getting fancy tonight?” you try to joke, but your voice cracks at the edges.
He says nothing. And just walks to the side of the bed and takes your wrists, pinning them gently above your head.
Your breath catches.
“You don’t know how to behave,” he says softly, almost tender. “So I’ll help.”
You tremble. But you don’t resist.
You let him guide your wrists together. Let him loop the tie around them, wrap it once, twice, knot it against the headboard. Not tight or cruel, but it makes you feel owned.
Your legs fall open.
“You can say no,” he murmurs.
“I don’t want to.”
His eyes flicker at that. Then he crawls over you, slow and composed, until his knees are between your thighs and the bulk of him is heavy against your body.
He kisses your throat before he speaks again.
“You act like you don’t need me,” he murmurs. “But look at you. Waltzing in here, acting like I’m just some easy fix for your frustration—you don’t even know what you do to me, do you?”
Before you can speak, his hands are on your thighs gripping and spreading them. He shoves your skirt up roughly, bunching the fabric at your waist, and hooks his fingers into your panties and pulls them down like he has every right to. Like he's done waiting.
You gasp as the cool air hits you, slick and exposed, but he doesn’t say a word.
He just looks at you—really looks. His eyes dark, jaw clenched, breath unsteady like this is the last thing he should be doing and the only thing he can.
“You show up like this,” he mutters, voice low and sharp, “and you expect me not to fall to my fucking knees for you?”
And then he does.
He drops to his knees, and you don’t have time to moan. His mouth is already on your pussy—hot, open, hungry.
There is no teasing or soft kisses he usually warms you up with. No. Just the flat of his tongue dragging hard up your center, mouth latching over your clit like he’s trying to drink you in.
You cry out, knees jerking, hands gripping the sheets, but he pins your hips down hard, his forearms bracing your thighs wide.
“This is what you want, right?” he growls against you, voice muffled by heat and spit. “This is all I am to you?”
You try to answer but he groans—long and low—like your silence is proof, like he’s punishing you for making him want this so badly.
His tongue flicks faster, sharper. His nose nudges your clit as he sucks, and your back arches violently when he moans into you like he’s getting off on the taste.
“You taste so fucking good,” he mutters, pulling back just enough to pant against your cunt.
You want to argue. You want to cry.
Instead, you moan, loud. Embarrassingly loud.
He hums like it pleases him, then sinks two fingers inside without warning.
You try to hold it back but he won’t let you. His mouth is relentless, tongue dragging in tight circles, and when his fingers, curling them just right—
“God—Nanami—” you sob.
“That’s it,” he grits out, sucking hard. “Go on. Cum on my fucking lips. Let me remind you who makes you feel good.”
Your orgasm comes too fast—like always with him.
You scream. Legs trembling, head thrown back, hands flailing for purchase—your whole body jerks as you climax, high and hot and devastating. You sob his name.
You fall apart.
And even as your thighs shake, even as you twitch from oversensitivity, he doesn’t stop.
He keeps licking. Keeps drinking. Keeps you wide and wet and ruined until you’re begging him to stop, until you’re sobbing.
Only then does he pull back. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing hard.
“Just sex,” he says, voice bitter. “Right.”
“Nanami—” you gasp, his name breaking in your throat.
You don’t get to ask what’s gotten into him, why he’s being so mean today—
Because his mouth is on you again before the words can form: tongue dragging rough over your clit like he’s trying to undo the way you said his name. Like if he makes you sob hard enough, he won’t have to hear it tremble.
The way his tongue is lapping and twirling against your puffy cunt, iIt’s not praise or worship like usual, you can feel that it’s punishment.
You cry out as your second orgasm crashes into you fast, sharp, and merciless—while you’re still shaking from the first. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t even pause. Your hands are taut against the silk tie on the headboard, limiting your movements. Your thighs twitch uncontrollably, and still he holds you down, relentless.
“Please,” you sob, voice gone thin and desperate. “Please, I—”
But it only makes him groan.
Only when your cries collapse into breathless, broken whimpers, your body jolting too hard for him to keep you still…does he finally pull away.
His eyes are dark. Feral. His mouth shines from your slick.
“That’s what I thought,” he mutters, wiping his mouth again. “You don’t get to act like I’m disposable when your body begs like that.”
Your wrists are still tied in silk, stretched tight above your head.
That alone should make this feel different—but it’s the way he’s looking at you that does it.
Kneeling between your legs, fully dressed except for the missing tie, Nanami studies he studies your dripping cunt like a problem he’s trying not to devour too quickly.
Like he’s fighting instinct with every ounce of discipline left in him.
“Look at you now,”His palm slides up, fingers firm and slow, nudging your legs further apart. “Tied up in my bed, like a desperate slut begging with your body.”
He was usually so sweet and attentive and reverent. This was something else entirely. He never called you dirty names like this. It was always ‘sweetheart’ this, ‘angel’ that. Not that you minded him talking nasty to you like this, but still he was dangerous tonight.
Your hips twitch involuntarily, a fresh gush of wetness slicking your thighs.
He smiles, almost bitterly.
“What would they say, I wonder? The ones who see you smiling at the office. So polite, so put together…” He leans closer. “Would they believe how slutty you get from just a little pressure on your throat?”
You gasp as his fingers curl around your neck, not squeezing yet, just resting there with the cool weight of his Rolex pressing against your racing pulse.
An airy moan escapes your lips.
“There it is,” he says softly. “There’s that truth.”
He presses forward.
His cock—hard, straining against his slacks—grinds against your inner thigh as he leans down, one hand keeping your wrists bound above your head, the other still resting over your throat.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” he says, voice steady. “And you’re going to take it. Just like you always do. I’m going to bury every inch of this cock in that tight, dripping cunt until you can’t pretend anymore.”
You nod—too fast, too eager. “Please—”
That’s all it takes.
He unbuckles his belt with a snap, and the sound makes your whole body jolt. You can feel your heartbeat under his palm now—racing, fluttering—and he hums in approval, like he enjoys how reactive you’ve become.
When he finally frees himself, his cock springs out—thick, veins prominent, pre-cum glistening at the top. He strokes himself once, twice, smearing the wetness over the tip as he watches your hungry eyes follow every movement.
“So needy,” he mutters, pulling himself free. “And still pretending this doesn’t mean anything.”
The heat of him against you makes your whole body tense.
You whimper, but part your thighs further, wrists tugging at the silk as if your body already knows it won’t be enough. He shifts forward and pushes in—just the tip, just enough to make you gasp. Your hips wiggle uncontrollably: you want more, deeper, all of him.
Before you can react, he slams forward in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
You cry out, body snapping tight as your wrists pull against the tie.
“You like this?” he pants. “Is this all I am to you? Just a thick cock to use when your pussy gets too empty?”
He sets a punishing rhythm right away: deep, hard strokes that rock the bedframe and make your tits bounce with every slam.
“Ahhh, hnnng—Kento!” You cry out his name but it was more sound than words, and your body arches beneath him, wrists straining, thighs spreading wider.
Oh.
Kento.
You’ve never called him that.
He felt himself get harder than ever. Because now he knows…how easily he could’ve had this, had you.
If he was rough and dominant from the start; if he’d just stopped pretending, if he’d taken instead of waited, if he’d stopped letting you dictate the terms, stopped accepting you always keeping one foot out the door.
All this time, he’d been careful, giving you space and control. This whining submissive version of you? He could have had it sooner, if he had just stopped being so goddamn patient.
Well, not anymore Tonight, he’s changing it all.
Your body jerks with every thrust. He’s relentless now: hips slamming into yours, the headboard rocking faintly behind you. The tie pulls taut above you: wrist bones twisting under the silk and Nanami groans, deep and guttural, as your pussy clenches around him, your wetness gushing down your thighs.
His hand finds your throat again. Wraps around it slowly. Thumb dragging along your pulse. His Rolex presses against your collarbone and i t’s cold, heavy, and sharp.
“Say it’s casual again. Tell me this doesn’t mean anything while your cunt is sucking me in like it never wants to let go.”
You can’t. Your moans spiral higher. Heat coils tight inside you: it’s too fast! Too much!
“You show up here like it’s nothing. Act like I don’t matter. But your body fucking knows better.” He moves faster. His grip tightens. The Rolex on his wrist presses into your skin.
“Kento–” You cry his name again.
His rhythm stutters, but he quickly recovers. One hand keeps your wrists pinned, the other still at your throat. “You want it rough,” he growls. “So I’ll give you rough.”
His thrusts are relentless—every one deeper than the last, dragging friction along the spots that make your voice crack. The heat between your legs builds sharp and sudden, cresting too fast, and your thighs start to shake.
“Already close?” he says, breath hitching. “Of course you are. You get off on this, don’t you?”
His hand tightens slightly. Not enough to hurt—but enough to make your vision blur at the edges.
“You like when I take control. When I fuck the attitude out of you.”
You try to answer, try to nod—but all that comes out is a choked moan.
He’s watching you now, expression unreadable, eyes dark with something that feels almost like… grief.
“You say it’s just sex,” he whispers. “But I know the way you look at me when you cum.”
Yes, yes yes…you want to cum, you need to cum, the way he was man-handling you tonight was driving you crazy—
And then—he lets go.
You’re still tied, still spread, aching for release, but suddenly he’s pulling back—his cock still hard, still flushed, and standing beside the bed like he’s trying to catch his breath.
You let out a whine at the sudden emptiness.
“Turn over.”
You blink, dazed. “Wha—?”
“On your stomach. Now.”
You barely have time to process before he flips you onto your stomach. Your arms are still stretched above you, tied to the headboard, forcing your back into a deep arch and pushing your ass up high like an offering.
You hear his breath hitch behind you. “Fuck… look at that pretty cunt dripping for me. So swollen and sloppy already.”
He wasn’t usually this verbal in bed.
You must have really gotten under his skin: showing up whenever you wanted, taking what you needed, leaving before things could mean anything…using him.
You knew that.
But he was just so easy to come back to. So steady. So good.
And now—
now you’ve gotten a taste of this version of him: sharper, rougher, mean in a way that feels intentional, like he’s finally stopped holding himself back. God. You’ve really done it now. Because if this is what happens when he stops pretending…you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to let him go.
He grabs your hips and drives back in with one savage thrust, even deeper from this angle. The new position lets him grind against your cervix with every brutal snap of his hips. He grabs your hip with one hand, the other bracing against the small of your back.
And you—gagged by moans, panting into the pillow—take it like you were made for him.
“Say it’s casual again,” he growls, leaning over you. “Say it.”
You try to answer. You really do. But the angle, the pressure, the overwhelming everything has you incoherent, babbling, legs twitching.
“I—can’t—K-Kento–”
His hand comes up again. Finds your throat from behind and hold it there, not to silence you, but to claim, ground, and own.
“You belong to me,” his voice is rough and breaking. “Even when you act like you don’t. Say it. Say you belong to me. Say this pussy is mine.”
“I—I belong to you…fuck, Kento, I belong to you, my pussy is yours—only yours—” you babble, voice cracking as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter.
“That’s my good girl,” he praises, fucking you even harder, the wet squelching sounds growing louder. The combination of his filthy words and praise, the pace, and the way his fingers are rubbing your clit just the way you like… “Now cum on my cock—”
“Kento—!!”
Your orgasm crashes over like a freight train: white-hot, spine-arching, breath stolen and your scream is barely a sound, just a sob against the sheets.
Nanami groans behind you, hands tightening as he fucks you through it, pace faltering only when you start to shake uncontrollably.
He pulls out just in time, groaning as he spills hot across your ass and lower back, hips jerking once, twice, before he collapses over you, breath heaving.
For a long time, neither of you speaks.
When he finally unties your wrists, he does it silently. Gently. As if the knot he needs to undo is somewhere else entirely.
Your arms fall limp to the mattress, and you don’t move. Your limbs feel like jelly.
He brushes the red marks on your skin with his thumb and kisses them softly.
“Too much?” he asks quietly.
“No, it’s okay.” You whisper, then, softer, almost teasing, but not quite. “You were so mean tonight…”
“I—I’m sorry,” he stiffens immediately. “I lost control, I—”
“I liked it.” You cut him off, cheeks burning.
The words hang there.
For a second, he just stares at you: like he’s trying to understand, like he doesn’t quite trust what he heard.
Then, he exhales like he’s been holding it all night. His hand comes up to cup your face, rough fingers trembling against your cheek. “I don’t want anyone else touching you.”
Your breath catches. “What?”
It’s not like you’ve been with anyone else. Not that he needs to know that.
But he continues.
“I know what this was supposed to be,” he says. “But I’m done pretending.”
Your face is blushing and hot.
“I want you,” he says. “All of you, every version. The one who flirts and leaves, the one who moans my name, the one who pretends she doesn’t care when I know she fucking does.”
“Kento…”
He doesn’t say anything else. Just leans down and kisses your wrist again, right where the tie left its mark.
“Stay the night,” he murmurs. “Please.”
He’s looking at you, and he’s not composed now. Not cold. Not the man who used to walk you to the door after you left his bed. He’s tired, hopeful, perhaps a little terrified.
“I thought you’d never ask.” Your voice is quiet, almost shy, but he hears it.
His shoulders drop. His forehead presses gently to yours, as if the tension holding him together has finally given way. He wraps his arms around you, drawing you close like he’s afraid you’ll disappear now that the words are out.
“You’ll stay?” He asks, to confirm.
Instead of an answer, you curl into him, chest to chest, your cheek pressed to the warm skin above his heart. His pulse thrums beneath you, fast but steady.
You sigh, then huff. “Yes, but I have to be up at seven.”
He laughs, soft and breathless, brushing a kiss to your temple. “I’ll make you coffee.”
You go quiet. Not because you don’t have more to say—God, there’s so much—but because his touch is so soothing you forget every clever thing you were about to mumble.
Eventually, you grumble against his chest, voice muffled. “Work’s been awful. My manager scheduled me for the client call I told her I can’t do. And apparently we’re just pretending the brand guidelines don’t exist anymore.”
He hums sympathetically, hand trailing slowly along your arm. “That sounds awfully unpleasant.”
His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair—gentler than you expect.
“Kento…” You pull back slightly, studying him.
He hums, thumb brushing your cheek.
“You’re serious about this, us?” You ask, shyly.
“I’ve always been serious,” he says quietly.
You swallow, the weight of it settling somewhere uncomfortable and real. “I guess…I didn’t make it easy.”
“No,” he agrees, but there’s no bite to it.
Then his hand tilts your chin up, grounding you before you can drift too far into that thought.
“You’re here now.”
You nod, small but certain. “Yeah. I am.”
He presses a kiss to your forehead.
You don’t flinch from it this time, instead, you lean in, hooking your leg over his, settling your body against his like it always belonged there.
You lie there together, tangled and quiet, the air finally soft between you.
It’s not grand, or some sort of cinematic revelation. But it’s real!
He shifts closer, about to say something else, but you reach up and kiss him first. Not because you’re trying to prove anything, anymore. Only because you want to.
Because after everything—the hooking up, the long ache of pretending—you finally can.
And he lets you kiss him like he’s yours, like you’re staying.
Because he’s not going anywhere, either.
— End