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toshisdecadence · 11 days ago

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Dangerous Liaisons

PAIRING: nerd!kento nanami x rich girl!fem reader

TAGS & WARNINGS: dark content, dubcon, cheating (reader is in a relationship with satoru gojo), unprotected sex, bullying, virgin!nanami, cherry popping, mind break, manhandling, rough sex, oral sex (m and f receiving), degradation, praise, fingering, semi-public male masturbation, premature ejaculation (nanami cums as soon as he enters the punani), dirty talk, creampies, dumbification, overstimulation, marathon sex, size kink, size difference, mating press, missionary, public sex, quickies

WORD COUNT: 17.4k

SUMMARY: Your popular boyfriend is an utter disappointment in bed, so why not entertain the quiet nerd you’ve picked on since freshman year, Kento Nanami?

Kento hated this class. Not because it was difficult—if anything, it was insultingly easy. The professor was an underpaid, overworked adjunct, and most of the students here were either too hungover or too rich to care. The professor barely looked up from his slides, droning through material Kento mastered years ago. No, he hated this class because of you.

You sat in front of him, as always, in that ridiculous little skirt. Too short, too tight, your legs crossed at the knee, bouncing absently like you were bored out of your mind. You didn’t belong here—not in this class, not in this seat.

And yet, week after week, you slid into the spot directly in front of him, all perfect hair and perfumed skin, a picture of effortless, spoiled perfection.

You didn’t take notes. You didn’t need to.

Because you took his.

A perfectly manicured hand reached back, plucking his open notebook from his desk like it belonged to you. You didn’t ask. You never did. The first time it happened, Kento assumed you were just borrowing it for a moment, flipping through for something you missed. But then you did it again. And again. And again. And it became clear—you weren’t borrowing anything. You were simply taking.

Just like you took everything.

You leaned back in your chair, one hand flipping through his notes, the other idly toying with a lock of your hair. You smelled expensive, something soft and floral, the kind of scent that lingered, that sunk into his senses and refused to leave. He clenched his jaw.

You hummed, lazily twirling his pen between your fingers. “Your handwriting is so ugly.”

Kento didn’t answer. He never did.

A sigh, long-suffering. “It’s kind of pathetic, you know?” you murmured, voice dripping with mockery. “That you take all these notes. Like, for what?” You flipped to another page, tapping your nail against the margin. “You don’t even need them, do you?”

You didn’t wait for a response. You never did.

Instead, you lifted your head, finally turning to look at him, and—fuck.

You were obscene.

Big, pretty eyes framed by thick lashes, lips glossy and soft, a slight smirk tugging at the corners. You looked soft, deceptively sweet, like you didn’t whisper venom at him every chance you got. Like you didn’t sneer at him with that perfect fucking mouth.

His fingers tightened around his desk.

“I bet you just like the act of taking notes,” you mused, propping your chin on your palm. “Like, I don’t know. Maybe it makes you feel important.” A tilt of your head, eyes gleaming with mirth. “Or maybe you just need something to do with your hands, huh?”

You paused. Then, lips curving, you let your gaze drop—slowly, deliberately—to his lap.

Kento’s breath stopped.

You saw the way his body tensed. And you liked it.

A quiet, amused tsk slipped past your lips before you leaned back again, stretching just enough for your skirt to inch higher up your thighs. “God, you must be so pent up.” A soft, theatrical sigh. “It’s so sad.”

Kento exhaled, slow and controlled, willing his pulse to steady.

This was what you did. You pushed and pushed, watching him like you were waiting for him to crack, to react, to break.

And maybe, one day, he will.

For now, he refused to give you the satisfaction. He kept his expression blank, jaw locked, and eyes forward. The only indication of his irritation was the way his pen pressed harder against the page, indenting the paper beneath the ink.

You noticed. Of course, you did.

A smirk tugged at the corner of your lips before you turned your attention back to his notes, flipping lazily through the pages you never worked for.

Class dragged on. The professor droned on, his voice fading into a dull hum beneath the restless shifting of students and the occasional click of a pen against a desk. But Kento felt every second. Every agonizing minute of your presence in front of him, your scent in the air, your bare legs crossed just right.

You were a nuisance. A brat. A shallow, self-absorbed parasite who took and taunted and smiles like you weren’t absolutely unbearable.

But you were also beautiful.

It pissed him the fuck off.

And then—finally—the lecture came to an end.

Chairs scraped against the floor as students started shuffling out, stretching, slinging bags over their shoulders. Kento moved to close his notebook, only for you to slap it shut yourself.

He glared at you.

You don’t even look at him as you shoved it back toward him across the desk. “You’re welcome,” you said airily.

Kento scoffed. "For what?"

You grinned. “For keeping you entertained.”

And then you stood, stretching languidly, your arms rising above your head, making your tiny top ride up just enough to expose a sliver of smooth skin.

Kento forced himself to look away.

He shouldn’t care. He should be relieved that you were leaving. That this little game of yours was over for now.

A group of voices called your name, familiar, equally rich and gilded, the kind of students who take up space like they own it. Your friends.

You turned, your entire demeanor shifting the moment you face them. The teasing sneer, the lazy smirk—all of it vanished, replaced with something softer, something sweeter. You laughed at something one of them said, an airy, melodic sound, and for a moment, you looked every bit the perfect girl they thought you were.

And you didn’t spare Kento another glance.

Not really.

Not until you were already stepping away, your attention elsewhere, your expression unreadable—when, just before you disappeared into the crowd, you flicked your gaze toward him, a brief, flickering glance that lasted no more than a second.

You had always been the kind of girl who never had to try.

Perfect hair. Perfect skin. Perfect smile.

And him—the perfect boyfriend.

Satoru Gojo.

Tall, rich, loud, obnoxiously handsome in a way that made people look, that made them linger, that made them listen when he spoke, even when he said nothing at all. He walked like he owned the world, because he did, in all the ways that mattered. Money. Looks. Status. He had all of it. You had all of it.

And Kento? He had nothing.

He knew he didn’t belong. Not in this group, not at this table, not in your orbit.

But fate—or some cruel joke of a professor he had during freshman year—had placed him here, seated stiffly among you and your perfect, gilded friends, drowning in your perfume and laughter while you picked at overpriced food you wouldn’t even finish.

It was supposed to be a study session.

But no one was studying.

Satoru lounged back in his seat, long legs spread wide, arm slung over the back of your chair, the very picture of effortless ease. Your other friends—the same brand of wealthy, attractive, untouchable—chatted idly, laughing at jokes Kento didn’t understand, referencing parties he would never attend.

And then, there was you.

You sat beside Satoru, draped in something light and expensive, a gold bracelet clinking against your wrist as you idly scrolled through your phone. You weren’t even pretending to try.

Kento clenched his jaw, staring at the blank pages of his notebook.

He had taken notes. He had come prepared. He had assumed—foolishly, stupidly—that this would at least be somewhat productive.

But of course, he should have known better.

The laughter, the murmured conversations, the occasional chime of a notification—none of it stopped. Not for him. Not for the assignment.

And finally, when his patience thinned past the point of tolerance, he spoke.

“Should we actually start working on this?”

It was quiet at first. Barely even a pause.

"Oh my God."

Your voice, high and lilting, cut through the chatter like a blade.

You set your phone down, blinking at him like he had just said something absurd. “Are you, like… serious?”

A slow blink. A delicate tilt of your head.

“Relax, nerd. It’s not that deep.”

The word nerd shouldn’t have been anything.

It shouldn’t have hit.

But you said it like it meant something. Like it was a title. A death sentence. And worst of all, like it amused you.

The others snickered.

Satoru smirked. “Babe, be nice.”

You pouted, full lips curving. “I am being nice.”

A soft giggle. A delicate stretch of your arms, making your already-too-short skirt inch up just a little higher.

“I just feel kinda bad for him, you know?” you continued, resting your chin in your palm. “He’s so serious all the time. No parties, no friends, no girlfriend—like, has anyone even seen him with a girl?”

More laughter. More murmured jokes.

Kento stiffened, fingers tightening around his pen.

He should have let it slide. He wanted to let it slide.

But you didn’t stop.

“Wait.” You straightened, bright-eyed, as if a revelation had struck you. “Oh my God. Are you a virgin?”

The world stopped.

For just a moment, a terrible, ringing silence settled over the group.

And then, Satoru laughed.

Loud, unbothered, careless. His arm tightened around your shoulders, drawing you closer, pressing a quick, lazy kiss to your temple like a reward.

Kento could feel the heat creeping up his neck, spreading like a slow, poisonous burn.

Your expression didn’t change. You just watched him, lips curled in something knowing, something cruel.

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

And it didn’t even matter if it was true or not.

Because you had already decided it was. Because you had already won.

Because that’s what you did.

Your life was perfect. Untouchable. A well-manicured, impossibly beautiful, endlessly cruel existence. You ruined people without trying. You destroyed them without even noticing.

And Kento was just another name on the list.

You always arrived late.

Not late enough to be unprofessional—never enough to call it irresponsible. Just enough to make an entrance.

And God, did you know how to make an entrance.

The door swung open with a careless push, a soft clack of designer heels against the polished floor, a faint trace of something expensive curling through the air—vanilla, jasmine, something sweeter at the edges, something uniquely yours.

Kento didn’t have to look up to know it was you.

The shift in the room told him before his eyes could confirm it. The way people straightened, conversations paused, the subtle ripple of awareness that spread through the group the moment you stepped inside.

You had that effect on people. Effortlessly. Unfairly.

He kept his gaze fixed on the papers in front of him, gripping his pen a little too tightly.

Ignore her.

But ignoring you was impossible. Because you weren’t just anyone.

You were the editor-in-chief. And Kento was your associate editor-in-chief.

Which meant that no matter how much he despised sharing space with you, no matter how much he hated your too-sweet perfume and your cruel, pretty mouth, he had no choice but to endure it.

The chair beside him scraped against the floor, and there it was—your voice, too smooth, too amused.

"Good morning, Ken."

A nickname you had no right to use. A nickname no one else ever did use.

He exhaled slowly, willing himself to stay calm.

"You're late," he muttered, flipping a page in his notes.

"I know." A sigh, exaggerated, full of insincere remorse. "It’s just so hard waking up early when I have so many other things to do at night."

Kento’s grip tightened. He didn’t rise to the bait.

You leaned in anyway.

"I mean, you wouldn’t understand, but some of us actually have lives outside of this club."

There it was again. That effortless, lazy cruelty.

And the worst part?

It wasn’t even targeted.

It wasn’t some calculated attempt to get under his skin. It wasn’t personal.

It was just who you were.

You were beautiful. And rich. And powerful. And perfect. And you had spent your whole life floating through the world, never once stumbling, never once struggling, never once having to try.

And him? Kento had spent his whole life trying.

He inhaled deeply, forcing himself to stay level. "We need to finalize the revisions today."

You blinked, then leaned back with a careless stretch, crossing your legs. The movement was fluid, absentminded, yet somehow still deliberate—the way your skirt rode up just a little too high, the way your delicate fingers drummed against the desk like you were already bored.

"Mhm," you hummed, reaching out to take the proofs from his side of the table, flipping through them without a glance in his direction.

And that was what infuriated him the most.

Not that you didn’t respect his work.

But that you did.

That you skimmed over pages of his meticulous notes, scanned his reworked layouts, and still—still—caught things he had missed.

"Page twelve." A flick of a manicured nail against the paper. "This paragraph is redundant. We already mentioned the same statistic in the opening."

Kento tensed.

You turned another page. "And this quote on page eighteen? The formatting's inconsistent with the others. The spacing is wrong."

A slow, creeping irritation curled in his stomach.

Because you weren’t just some spoiled brat who had coasted your way to the top on your last name and pretty little smiles.

You saw everything.

You were competent. You were sharp. You were smart, despite how you liked to make people underestimate you. You were fully capable of doing everything he did—

You just didn’t have to.

Because he would do it for you. Because he already had.

"Honestly, Ken," you murmured, lips curling just slightly. "I thought you were supposed to be the smart one."

He clenched his jaw. "If you noticed the errors, why didn’t you fix them?"

You smiled, slow and sweet.

"Because I knew you would."

God, he hated you.

You were always surrounded.

It didn’t matter where you were—the library, the quad, the cafés near campus—there was always a group orbiting you. Fellow rich kids, glossy and beautiful and effortless, people who had never known what it was to try, who had never needed to. You existed among them like a queen among nobles, perfectly placed, perfectly poised, the shining center of something untouchable.

And Kento only ever watched from the edges. Not because he wanted to. Because he couldn’t help it.

Because no matter how much he hated you, he couldn’t seem to stop looking.

Like now.

You were sitting on the grass, head tilted back, laughing at something shallow, something meaningless. Your hair caught the late afternoon light, gleaming like something out of a goddamn commercial, your lips glossed and perfect, curving in that effortless, smug little smile. You were radiant. Unbothered. A creature made for silk sheets and champagne glasses, for red-carpet events and first-class flights, for a life that had never included people like him.

And then there was Satoru.

Gojo fucking Satoru.

Your perfect boyfriend. The embodiment of everything Kento despised.

Loud, arrogant, stupidly rich, stupidly powerful—the kind of man who had never heard the word no in his entire life.

And worst of all—he didn’t care.

Not about anything. Not about you.

Not the way Kento did.

Satoru sat beside you, legs spread wide, his arm draped over your shoulders in a way that was more possession than affection. His fingers traced lazy circles along the exposed skin of your arm, his hand slipping lower, lower, fingers curling beneath the hem of your tiny skirt like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Kento hated it.

But he hated you more. Because you just let him.

Didn’t blush. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t care.

Or—

No.

No, that wasn’t quite right.

Kento’s eyes narrowed, watching the way your hand smoothed down your skirt—like you weren’t fixing it, not really, but subtly keeping him from slipping any higher. The way you didn’t quite lean into Satoru’s touch, how your smile stayed exactly the same, never faltering, never changing, like it was just another performance.

Like you were used to this. Like you barely even felt it.

Satoru leaned in, murmuring something in your ear, something low and teasing, and Kento saw the way you laughed—just a little too loud, just a little too bright.

Satoru smirked, pleased with himself.

But Kento saw it.

The way your gaze flickered for just a second, the way your fingers toyed absently with the hem of your skirt, the way you seemed so bored of it.

Like it wasn’t enough. Like he wasn’t enough.

A sick, ugly thing curled inside Kento’s chest, hot and restless, something that tasted like satisfaction and something else he didn’t want to name.

Satoru didn’t notice. Of course he didn’t. Because Satoru had never needed to notice anything.

His hand slid higher again, but you shifted just slightly, not enough to draw attention, but enough that his fingers brushed over fabric instead of skin.

Satoru only chuckled, tipping his head back to say something to the others, already distracted.

Like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter.

And Kento had seen enough.

He stood abruptly, shoving his book into his bag, turning away before he could watch another second of it.

Before he could do something stupid. Before he could want you any more than he already did. Because that was the worst part.

No matter how much he despised you, no matter how much he resented the way you lived, he still wanted you.

And he fucking hated himself for it.

You were in a mood.

Kento could tell the moment you stalked into the publication office, patent leather heels clicking against the linoleum floor with a little too much force, designer bag slamming onto the desk in front of him like it had personally offended you.

The office was empty, just the two of you staying behind after hours to finalize the logistics for next month’s events—workshops, professor partnerships, competitions. Boring, tedious work. The kind of work that Kento did for you.

But tonight, you weren’t just idly flipping through the finalized schedules, making minor adjustments and circling things in red ink to remind him of details he had already accounted for. Tonight, you were barely paying attention. Your eyes flicked over the papers with zero focus, your perfectly manicured nails tapping against the desk, irritation radiating from you in waves.

Which meant one thing.

Something was bothering you.

And since you were you, that meant you were taking it out on him.

“This is a mess,” you muttered, scanning the event schedule, flipping between pages as if looking for mistakes.

“It’s fine,” Kento replied evenly, watching you carefully.

You scoffed, giving him that look—the one that was equal parts incredulous and condescending, the one that made him want to either strangle you or shove you against a wall, just to see what it would take to wipe that smugness off your face.

“You think this is fine?” You snapped the folder shut, crossing your arms over your chest. “The workshop dates overlap with midterms. Half the guest lecturers have been booked for panels during that week. And this whole section—” You tapped a finger against the budget sheet. “—is a fucking disaster.”

Kento exhaled slowly, reining in the impulse to roll his eyes.

“We discussed this last week. The scheduling conflicts have already been handled, and the budget has been approved. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

Your jaw tightened. You knew he was right.

That wasn’t the point.

The point was that you were pissed off about something else, and Kento was your easiest target.

You sat back in your chair, blowing out an irritated sigh, rubbing your temples like this entire conversation was just another chore for you. “Whatever. I don’t care. Just fix it.”

He clenched his teeth.

There was nothing to fix, but he knew better than to argue with you when you were like this.

“Rough night?” he muttered, knowing full well he was prodding the beast.

You huffed, slumping back in your chair, letting your head tilt against the headrest. “Ugh, so rough.”

Kento stared at you, waiting for the inevitable self-centered monologue that usually followed—a rant about an incompetent nail tech, or how some poor girl wore the same designer dress as you at a party, or how your father was demanding you attend some tedious gala.

Instead—

“I didn’t get off last night.”

Kento stilled.

Your voice was flat. Completely unbothered. Like you had just announced that your coffee order was wrong or that your Wi-Fi was being slow.

And yet, Kento felt his entire body lock up.

You sighed, tilting your head toward him, lips pursed in annoyance. “Toru is so bad in bed.”

Kento could only stare at you, barely keeping his expression neutral.

What the fuck was he supposed to do with that information?

You didn’t notice his silence—or if you did, you didn’t care.

You just kept going. “He’s all talk, you know? So cocky, but he barely even tries. Half the time, I feel like I’m just lying there, waiting for it to be over.” You exhaled sharply, tapping your nails against the desk. “It’s such a nuisance.”

A nuisance.

Like bad Wi-Fi. Like a chipped nail.

Like Gojo fucking you was just another mild inconvenience in your charmed little life.

Kento felt something dark crawl up his spine, something heavy and ugly, something he couldn’t name.

Not because you were talking about your sex life. But because of the way you said it.

Careless. Indifferent. Like it didn’t even occur to you that Kento, sitting across from you, was a man.

Because why would it? You had never looked at him as anything but an afterthought.

And that—that was the thing that sent something in him curdling.

That made his fingers flex against the armrest, his pulse hammer at his throat, his mouth go dry.

Because Satoru wasn’t enough for you. Because Satoru didn’t satisfy you. Because you had everything—beauty, power, status—and yet you were bored.

And yet, Kento still wasn’t even worth considering.

He swallowed, forcing his voice to remain steady. “Maybe you should… talk to him about it.”

You scoffed. “Please. Like he’d even listen.” You stretched your arms above your head, sighing like this was all just some exhausting ordeal. “Whatever. He’s fun, I guess. But sometimes I just think—”

You stopped abruptly, eyes flicking toward Kento, studying him for just a second before dismissing him with a careless blink.

“Never mind,” you murmured, shaking your head. “Let’s just deal with the logistics.”

And that—that was when Kento decided that someday, someday, he was going to make you eat those words.

The meeting dragged on. Or maybe it just felt that way.

Kento kept his expression neutral, his posture stiff, his hands folded carefully over his lap, hiding the painful strain pressing against the front of his slacks. He was aching, throbbing beneath the table, his body betraying him at every turn, but you didn’t notice.

Of course, you didn’t.

You were too distracted—pacing in front of his desk, arms crossed beneath your chest, your phone clutched in one manicured hand, tapping impatiently against the back of it.

"You need to follow up with the department head for the workshop," you muttered, barely looking at him. "I don’t have the patience to deal with that idiot right now."

Kento swallowed hard. He nodded, careful, precise, willing himself to think about anything other than the way your perfume lingered in the air, sweet and heady, wrapping around him like an unwanted vice.

"Are the event posters done?"

"Yes," he said, voice steady despite the tightness in his throat. "I finalized them this morning."

"Good. I’ll sign off on them later." You sighed, tapping your nails against your phone, frustration curling at the edges of your words. "Alright, let’s just wrap this up. I have places to be."

Just like that, the meeting was over. You smoothed your skirt over your thighs, gathered your things, barely sparing him a glance before making your way to the door.

Kento sat perfectly still, forcing himself to breathe through the tension coiling tight in his gut. His entire body was too aware—of the way his slacks clung uncomfortably to his lap, of the way his cock throbbed, of the unbearable heat pressing beneath his skin like something feverish.

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

And then, finally, a long, shuddering exhale.

The air in the office felt thick, suffocating. His mind kept looping through every movement, every sharp sigh, every absent flick of your hair, the way you crossed your legs when you sat, the unimpressed glance you shot him before leaving.

"Toru is so bad in bed."

His fingers twitched against the desk.

"Half the time, I feel like I’m just lying there, waiting for it to be over."

A slow inhale.

"It’s such a nuisance."

Fuck.

Kento clenched his jaw, heat surging through his spine, tension pulsing painfully at the base of his cock. He had spent years assuming your life was perfect. That you had everything. That there was nothing you lacked, no void unfilled.

But now he knew.

You weren’t satisfied. Not by Satoru. Not by anyone.

And fuck, he could fix that.

His grip tightened against his thigh. He shouldn’t. He should not. But his body was screaming for relief, throbbing with frustration, his skin on fire with the thought of you—your voice, your breath, your perfect mouth.

The ache was unbearable.

His breath came out unsteady as his hand slipped beneath the desk, fingers trembling slightly as he undid his belt, palming over the thick, aching need straining against his briefs.

It was humiliating. It was pathetic. But it was you.

His fingers wrapped around himself, and a ragged, broken groan tore from his throat—his body jerking slightly at the sheer relief of finally touching where he needed it most.

You would feel so much better under him. You would sob for him. You would thank him.

His grip tightened, his breath stuttering, his rhythm quickening.

You were perfect. Too perfect. Too cruel. Too untouchable. And he wanted to ruin you. Ruin you the way you had ruined him.

Heat coiled low in his gut, winding too tight, too fast—his body strung out, shaking—and then—

A sharp inhale. A ragged exhale.

Pleasure hit him like a train wreck, knocking the air from his lungs. His head tipped back, chest rising and falling in uneven gasps, body jerking against the desk as his orgasm ripped through him in hot, shuddering waves—

And then—

His gaze flickered down.

His breath caught.

The documents.

The finalized event posters. The workshop schedules. The budget approvals.

Splattered. Fucking ruined.

"Shit."

Kento jerked forward, chest still heaving, post-orgasm clarity slamming into him like a brutal slap as he grabbed the nearest tissue, wiping down the mess in frantic, quick strokes.

The ink was already smudging.

The glossy event posters were unsalvageable. The workshop schedule was soaked through. His signature was smeared at the bottom of an approval form.

Fucking hell.

He let out a sharp, exhausted sigh, dragging a hand down his face, glaring down at the wreckage on his desk.

This was pathetic. He was pathetic.

And yet he was still hard. Still throbbing. Still aching for more. Still thinking of you.

He needed to get his fucking act together.

And yet the thought lingered, unshakable, looping through his mind like a curse:

He could do you better.

You weren’t in the mood for this.

You had barely made it halfway to the parking lot when you realized—your goddamn notebook. Left sitting on the desk in the publication office like a fucking afterthought. And now, thanks to your own scatterbrained negligence, you were stomping back through the quiet halls, the heels of your designer shoes clicking against the linoleum in sharp, irritated taps.

The office was dark when you got there, save for the slanted beam of light from the desk lamp—Kento must’ve left it on before locking up.

You huffed under your breath, pushing the door open.

The familiar space greeted you, the scent of paper and printer ink still clinging to the air. It was empty, as expected. Neat. Organized. Kento always kept it that way, probably the only reason the place didn’t look like an absolute mess considering no one else gave a shit about maintaining it.

Your eyes flicked over to your desk, and sure enough, there it was—your notebook, sitting right where you left it. You grabbed it, flipping through the pages with a lazy hand, already thinking about getting the hell out of here and going home to sleep.

And then your gaze caught on something near the trash can.

A mess of papers, discarded in a way that wasn’t like him. Kento wasn’t careless. He didn’t toss things out unless they were absolutely useless, and even then, he usually shredded them or filed them away first.

Frowning, you stepped closer, brow furrowing at the sight.

The glossy event posters. The finalized workshop schedules. The budget approval forms.

Ruined.

Blotched with something thick, cloudy, and unmistakably human.

You paused.

The room was silent, empty except for the low hum of the air conditioning, the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. And yet, your ears were ringing.

Your lips parted slightly, tongue pressing against the roof of your mouth as you stared, unmoving.

Slowly, your brain began assembling the pieces, each one clicking into place like the slow, precise slide of a loaded gun chambering a round.

The tension in the meeting. The way Kento had been sitting so stiffly. The way he had refused to stand up for the entire discussion. The slight breathlessness in his voice when he answered you. The way he kept his hands folded so tightly over his lap.

And now this.

Your lashes lowered, a breath pushing past your lips, slow and considering.

A breath of laughter nearly slipped from your throat, but you caught it at the last second.

Instead, your head tilted slightly, a manicured nail tapping absently against the leather-bound cover of your notebook.

You had always assumed Kento thought lowly of you. That he hated you, resented you. And maybe he did.

But it seemed he wanted you, too. Even against his better judgment. Even to the point of fucking ruining something he worked so hard on.

Your eyes lingered on the discarded papers for a moment longer before you turned away, the ghost of a knowing smirk curling at the edges of your lips.

Interesting.

Very, very interesting.

The event hall hummed with the steady murmur of conversation—polite, professional, controlled. Students and faculty alike filled the auditorium, their focus split between the panel at the front and the thick event packets in their hands.

You sat at the head of the table, perfectly poised, every bit the picture of effortless authority. Sleek designer blazer, just barely buttoned. Skirt scandalously short, the fabric riding higher every time you crossed your legs. A carefully curated vision of power and indulgence, designed to hold attention without even trying.

And Kento was trying very hard not to look at you.

Rigid. Too stiff in his seat beside you, fingers clenched subtly around the event brochure in his lap. Answering questions with precise, measured words, keeping his tone smooth, professional. To anyone else, he looked like himself—just another serious, bookish overachiever, the same as always.

But you could feel it.

The tension. The way he was holding himself too still, like any shift, any movement might betray something.

Which was why you leaned in.

Just slightly. Just enough for your perfume to slip into his space, for your voice to drop into something low and private. Close enough for only him to hear.

"By the way, I saw what you did."

Kento froze.

A second too long.

The reaction was nearly imperceptible—the faintest hitch in his breath, the twitch in his fingers, a single, fleeting flick of his gaze to you before snapping forward again.

But you saw it. His composure was ironclad, but beneath it—beneath the cool, methodical exterior—you knew.

He was guessing. Trying to place what you meant. Because he didn’t know.

Didn’t know if you were referring to last week, to that, to the soiled workshop papers he had hastily shoved into the trash.

Or if this was just another game.

Another taunt, another ploy to rattle him, to make him slip up in front of over a hundred people.

And that uncertainty? That sliver of doubt you had planted in his mind?

Delicious.

Before he could respond, before he could force his voice into something even and composed, the next speaker took the mic. The moment passed.

The event wrapped up as expected, Kento standing beside you as students and faculty filtered out. He looked the same as ever—polite, professional.

But you saw the stiffness in his movements. The way he kept his eyes on anything but you.

So, of course, you pressed just a little further.

"You should come to my party tonight."

Kento exhaled sharply through his nose, like the idea alone was enough to irritate him. "I don’t go to parties."

"Oh, I know," you said lightly, tilting your head. "But you should. Consider it a token of my gratitude."

A pause.

And then, with a slow, deliberate smirk on your perfect face, "You’ve been such a good little worker bee for me, after all."

You didn’t need to look to know he had gone still again. Didn’t need to wait for his answer.

Because you knew, despite himself, despite everything you’ve done, he’d come.

Kento knew excess when he saw it.

But this was something else entirely.

The estate sat on the highest ridge of the city, sprawled across acres of perfectly manicured land. The mansion itself—a towering, neoclassical monolith of marble and glass—was nestled at the end of a sweeping, half-moon driveway lined with imported trees and sculpted hedges. A fountain sat in the center, carved from ivory stone, its water glittering under the glow of soft, recessed lighting.

The air smelled expensive.

Leather. Perfume. Aged wine and lacquered wood.

Everywhere, there were cars. The kind that cost more than Kento’s yearly tuition, sleek bodies sprawled lazily across the vast driveway, some with drivers still seated, waiting, engines humming as if idling in anticipation. People stood around them, laughing, glasses of champagne in their hands, dressed in casual luxury—tailored linen shirts and designer dresses with plunging backs, statement jewelry worth more than his entire apartment.

And then, of course, there was the house itself.

The entrance was wide open, a stream of guests moving in and out beneath soaring archways. Music pulsed from inside—something bass-heavy, distorted by distance—mingling with the low hum of laughter, the clink of glass against glass.

It was a world Kento had never stepped into. Never wanted to step into.

And yet, he was here.

Because of you.

His fingers tightened at his sides. A part of him still wasn’t sure if this was a mistake. If he had been lured here, invited only to be made a spectacle of. The possibility that this was another game, another perfectly executed humiliation at your hands, gnawed at him.

And yet he had come.

His throat felt tight as he exhaled, slipping his hands into his pockets, forcing himself to move forward—through the grand, yawning entrance, past a pair of servers carrying trays of delicate hors d'oeuvres, into the vast, obscene display of wealth beyond.

Inside, the air was thick—choked with the mingling scents of perfume, liquor, and smoke. Music pulsed through the grand estate, muffled beneath the sound of conversation and laughter, a backdrop to the sheer decadence of it all. There was nowhere safe to look, nowhere that didn’t scream extravagance: fine crystal balanced precariously in manicured hands, top-shelf whiskey spilling onto Persian rugs, designer shoes discarded against pristine marble floors.

And then there were the people.

Men in tailored suits, women in slinky dresses, bodies pressed too close, lips dragging over exposed throats in darkened corners. Someone was counting out cash in thick stacks at a makeshift poker table. A girl perched on a countertop, her tanned legs spread apart as a man kissed his way up her thigh. A group of men gathered around a beer pong table, laughing as they tossed hundred-thousand-yen bills into a pot with every shot made, betting obscene amounts of money like it meant nothing.

And to them, it didn’t.

Kento clenched his jaw, the muscles ticking.

He hated this.

Every single thing about it. The careless waste, the meaningless indulgence, the sheer gluttony of privilege on display. And above all—above all—he hated you.

He spotted you instantly, because of course he did. You stood at the center of it all, draped in something expensive, skin glowing under the warm golden light, laughter slipping past painted lips as some faceless man tried—and failed—to keep your attention. You were radiant, as always. Unbothered. Perfect.

You were impossible not to see.

The party—opulent and wild, drowning in wealth—should have been overwhelming. A blur of bodies, low light, silk dresses and tailored suits, people gathered around a marble bar and splayed lazily across velvet lounges, golden liquor swaying in crystal glasses.

And yet, none of it mattered. Because you were at the center of it all. Radiant. Effortless.

You sat perched on the edge of a grand leather settee, legs crossed, a glass of champagne hanging loosely between manicured fingers. Your dress was something indecent—shimmering fabric that clung to your every perfect curve, short enough to ride up your thighs, neckline plunging scandalously low. Hair styled to perfection, jewelry catching the dim, warm glow of the chandeliers overhead.

Everywhere, eyes were on you. Men. Women. Envious, admiring, desperate. And yet, none of them mattered.

Not to you. And certainly not to Kento.

Because when he stepped inside, when the heavy doors shut behind him, the shift in atmosphere was almost imperceptible—a current, a whisper, the faintest tremor in the air.

And then your gaze flicked up.

And found him.

For just a moment, you held it.

Cool. Assessing.

Then, the faintest curve of your lips.

A knowing smirk.

And just like that, you turned away—dismissed him, like he was just another guest, another faceless, insignificant presence in a crowd that didn’t deserve your attention.

He should have looked away. Should have stopped looking. But his eyes stayed locked on you, stupidly, pathetically, following the way you sipped from a delicate crystal glass, the way you leaned in when you spoke, the way people bent toward you as if drawn by some unspoken gravity.

His hands curled into fists.

It wasn’t just that you were beautiful. It wasn’t just that you carried yourself with the effortless grace of someone who had never known struggle. It was that you wielded it like a weapon. Your beauty, your privilege, your very presence—everything about you was designed to remind him that he didn’t belong.

And God, did you love to remind him.

Kento exhaled sharply, forcing himself to look away. His pulse was thrumming too hard, something ugly and resentful clawing at his ribs, heat coiling low in his gut like a sickness.

He never should have come.

And he wasn’t going to stay.

A cruel joke—that’s all this had been. Another little game of yours. You had never actually expected him to show up, never wanted him here. That much was clear from the moment you locked eyes and turned away like he was just another nameless guest, not even worth acknowledging.

Well. That was fine.

Kento turned sharply, intent on leaving. On stepping back out onto that half-crescent driveway, calling a cab, and forgetting this night ever happened—

A hand curled around his wrist.

Kento froze.

Heat spread like a wildfire across his skin, his pulse stuttering in his throat. He knew—knew—before he even turned around.

And when he did, there you were.

Smiling.

That same knowing, teasing smirk. As if you knew exactly what you had done to him. As if you had waited just long enough—waited for him to sink into his resentment, to let it fester and rot inside him, to let him seethe—only to step in and ruin it all.

“Leaving already?” you murmured, voice lilting, effortlessly amused.

Kento swallowed, his throat dry. His whole body was tense, something sharp and unbearable clawing beneath his skin, too much, too fucking much—

And then you pulled.

Without waiting for an answer, without giving him the chance to hesitate, you curled your fingers tighter around his wrist and dragged him with you.

Your grip around Kento’s wrist was firm as you led him deeper into the house, weaving effortlessly through long, marbled hallways and past elaborately carved archways. You didn’t pause to check directions, didn’t so much as glance at the gilded-framed paintings, the marble busts, the heavy double doors leading to unknown rooms.

You knew exactly where you were going.

And that alone unsettled him.

“Been here before?” His voice was low, measured, but there’s something sharp laced beneath it.

You glanced at him over your shoulder, that same amused, impossible little smirk playing at your lips. Like you knew something he didn’t. Like you always did.

“It’s my family’s place.”

Kento felt his stomach curl.

You said it like it was nothing. Like it was just another fact of your perfect, charmed life. Like this estate, this palace, this world of impossible wealth and material excess—had simply always been yours.

“I’m borrowing it for the summer,” you added, voice light, almost dismissive, before tugging him past a pair of ornately carved double doors.

Inside, the air was different.

Thicker. Quieter.

The sounds of the party dulled behind thick walls as the lock clicked into place. And Kento realized, in an instant, that he was alone with you.

The bedroom is too much.

Lush and sprawling, easily the size of his apartment, if not larger. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across one wall, draped in heavy velvet curtains, and at the center of the room—a massive four-poster bed, silk sheets draped artfully, an extravagant vanity lined with expensive glass perfume bottles, a chandelier casting soft, golden light over everything.

It was decadent. Intimate.

The air between you changed the second the lock clicked shut.

He didn’t move. And neither did you.

You just stood there, leaning against the vanity, head tilted, lashes lowered, gaze assessing. Taking him in, piece by piece.

Something shifted. Something tightened.

Because you knew. Kento knew that you knew.

He could see it in the way your lips curled slightly at the edges, the flicker of amusement in your eyes. In the way your gaze dragged just a little too slowly over him—taking in how he cleaned up, how he tried to fit in, the navy button-down, the tailored slacks, the polished leather of his belt and shoes. He didn’t look out of place. But he felt it. And you see it.

That fucking smirk.

“You clean up well,” you murmured, almost absentmindedly. “Almost looks like you belong here.”

Almost.

Kento clenched his jaw.

Your gaze flickered, deliberate and knowing, and then—your lashes lowered.

Slowly.

Mocking.

Kento stayed rooted where he stands, back straight, muscles tense, eyes scanning the room as if searching for an escape. He’d been on edge since the moment you dragged him in here—some lavish guest room in this monstrous estate you so casually called a summer home. And yet, for all his stiffness, for all the tension lined in his shoulders, you could see it—he was trying not to look at you. And that just made you smile.

You tilted your head, stepping toward the side of the bed, smoothing your palm along the silk sheets. Your gaze flickered back to him, assessing, amused. He’s cleaned up well tonight. Neatly-pressed slacks, that button-up tailored to fit his broad frame, that quiet, understated elegance he carries so effortlessly. If he weren’t standing so rigid, if he weren’t so painfully out of place, he might’ve even fit in here. But he didn’t. And he knew it.

You took a slow step forward. Kento didn’t move.

“You’re so stiff,” you murmured, tilting your head. “It’s almost like you’re nervous.”

His jaw twitched. “I’m not.”

You took another step. Close enough now that you heard the sharp breath he sucked in through his nose.

“Did you hate it that much?” you asked, voice soft, teasing.

He exhaled sharply. “Hate what?”

You grinned. “The party, of course.”

His fingers twitched at his sides. “It was ridiculous.”

A slow hum left your lips. “Is that so?” You let your hand trail idly along the edge of the mattress, smoothing over the sheets. “Or is it just that you’ve never been to one like it before?”

Kento’s silence was telling. You stepped closer. There was only a breath between you now. Your perfume lingered in the air, warm and obscene, curling into the space between you like a perfectly-set trap. His gaze flickered, just briefly, down to your lips—then away, as if cursing himself for the mistake. That made you grin.

“Come closer.”

His brows furrowed. You patted the mattress beside you. “Stand here.”

His arms remained crossed. “Why?”

You just shrugged, lips curling. “Indulge me.”

For a moment, he hesitated. But you waited, watching the battle play out in his head, the rigid line of his spine, the war between defiance and reluctant obedience—until finally, with an exhale sharper than it needed to be, he stepped forward. Closer. You could feel his warmth now, could see the way his throat bobbed when you leaned in, just a little.

And then, softly—sweetly—“Boy, you’re really wound up, huh?”

Kento stiffened.

And fuck, it was so easy.

His tension was palpable, coiled so tight it’s a wonder he hadn’t snapped yet. But he was holding it in, fists tight, jaw clenched, the perfect picture of restraint.

You tilted your head, voice lowering. “Bet you were dying to leave, weren’t you?” You reached out, gently, plucking an invisible thread from his sleeve. “Poor thing.”

Kento inhaled, slow, measured. “Are we done here?”

But you just smiled, tilting your chin up, voice dropping to a whisper, “Still not used to being around people?”

Kento’s jaw ticked.

Your breath was warm against his throat, the edge of your perfume slipping beneath his skin, and you could feel it, how hard he’s holding himself back.

It was delicious. So you took it further.

Your lashes lowered, and—just barely—you let your fingers ghost against his wrist.

And then softly, teasingly, you whispered, “Still a virgin, then?”

Something snapped.

Kento jerked away from your touch, fingers flexed at his sides, and when his gaze locked with yours, it was sharp, heated, furious. And it only made your grin widen.

“Oh,” you murmured, voice honeyed, “so that’s what gets to you.”

His throat bobbed.

“Not the money. Not the excess.” You stepped in again, and he let you, even as his fists curled tight. “Not the fact that you hate me and everything I stand for.” You reached up and smoothed an invisible wrinkle in his shirt, watched, delighted, as he didn't breathe.

“But that little comment I made during freshman year?” You tilted your head. “That still bothers you?”

Kento exhaled sharply through his nose. “I don’t see how it’s your business.”

That made you laugh.

“Of course it isn’t.” You reached up—this close to touching his jaw, his cheekbone, the line of his throat—but at the last moment, you pulled away, as if to deny him something he hadn’t even realized he wanted. “But then again,” you hummed, lashes fluttering, “I don’t think you’d stop me if I wanted to make it my business.”

Kento’s breath hitched. You heard it.

And that was all you needed.

Your voice dipped, lips parted, the cruelest thing he had ever seen, and the next thing you whispered had his mind blanking.

“Do you want me to help?”

Kento didn’t answer right away.

You watched the way his throat bobbed, the subtle twitch of his fingers at his sides, the sharp inhale that betrayed him. He didn’t step closer, but he didn't step away either. He just stood there, stock-still, like a deer caught in headlights.

Your smile widened.

"Well?" you prodded, voice lilting, teasing.

Kento exhaled, sharp and measured, his patience wearing thin. "I think," he gritted out, "you should stop talking."

That made you laugh. "Oh? Am I making you uncomfortable?" You tilted your head, stepping even closer. Close enough now that he could feel the warmth of your breath against his skin. "Or is it that you want me to keep going?"

His jaw ticked.

You could see it—he’s fighting it. Fighting you. Fighting himself.

So, naturally, you pushed further.

"I mean," you continued, voice lowering, "you have thought about it, haven’t you?" Your fingers ghosted along the hem of his sleeve, a barely-there touch. "Me," you murmured, eyes half-lidded. "This. Maybe you even messed up some important papers just because of me, hm?”

Kento tensed, but he didn't move. Didn’t push you away.

He didn’t have to answer. You already knew. His silence was the confession.

Your lips curled.

"God," you breathed, barely a whisper, "you’re so easy to wind up."

And that’s what did it.

Kento grabbed your wrist, firm and unforgiving, his grip almost bruising. His eyes blazed with something dark, something unrestrained, something dangerous.

Kento stood stiffly before you, every inch of him drawn tight with restraint. Even in the dim lighting, you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched at his sides as if he was afraid to move, afraid to touch. He had never done this before—never had a woman like you in front of him, looking at him like this, voice dripping with amusement as you offered to "help."

And yet, he was hard. Painfully so.

You tilted your head, watching him through lidded eyes, lazily dragging a manicured finger down the exposed skin of his forearm. He shuddered at the lightest touch. God, he really was a virgin.

“You’re tense,” you hummed, stepping closer. His breath stilled, his gaze flickering between your face and the small space left between your bodies. You reached for his hand, guiding it, placing it low on your waist. “Relax, Ken.”

He didn’t. His fingers twitched against the fabric of your dress, like he was unsure if he should even be touching you at all. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, jaw set so tight it looked like he might crack a tooth.

You smiled. He’s adorable.

“You’ve thought about this before, haven’t you?” Your voice was syrupy sweet, nails dragging lightly over his wrist. “Touching me like this. More than this.”

Kento didn’t answer. He was still as stone, breathing slow and deep, like he was forcing himself to remain calm. But you could see the war waging behind his dark eyes. He was already losing.

You pressed closer, letting your body brush against his. His fingers twitched again. “Don’t be shy,” you teased. “I won’t judge you.”

His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. “You always judge me.”

You giggled. “Maybe.”

There was no hesitation when you reached for the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one. His chest rose and fell with each shallow breath, hands still hovering at your sides like he didn’t know where to put them.

And then, when his shirt was undone and you were sliding your palms over his bare skin, your voice dropped into a sultry murmur.

“Tell me,” you purred. “What have you imagined?”

His entire body locked up. “I—I don’t—”

You cut him off with a soft laugh, fingers skimming over his toned stomach. “Kento.” Your nails grazed his skin just enough to make him shiver. “I know you have.”

He was trapped, and you both know it. His ears were pink, his chest rising unevenly beneath your touch. You let the silence stretch between you, watching him squirm, before finally, he exhaled shakily and let his forehead drop forward, hovering just above your shoulder.

His voice was barely above a whisper. “I’ve thought about…” His breath was warm against your skin. “…your mouth.”

Satisfaction curled in your stomach. “Mmm. What about it?”

His fingers flexed at your waist, gripping you just a little tighter. His hesitation was delicious, his reluctance cracking under the weight of his own desire. You could feel how badly he wanted to keep holding back, to keep his dignity intact—but you weren't going to let him.

“Come on, Kento.” You pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the corner of his jaw, just to watch him shudder. “Tell me everything.”

His fingers twitched against your hips, restraint hanging by a thread. You watched his expression flicker—something torn, something desperate, something fighting to hold onto the last shred of resistance he has left.

“You’re dating Gojo.” His voice was raw, forced, like he was grasping for something to hold onto.

You blinked at him. Then, you rolled your eyes. “Oh, please.”

It’s dismissive. Effortless. Like the mention of your relationship was nothing more than an inconvenience, an irrelevant technicality that doesn’t belong in this moment. But you didn’t stop there.

Tilting your head, you regarded him with something akin to amusement, letting your fingers trace the sharp lines of his jaw. “Do you actually care,” you murmured, voice sweet, saccharine, deceptively soft, “or are you just looking for excuses?”

His breath hitched.

Because he didn’t care. Not really. You could see it in the way his hands trembled at your waist, in the way his grip tightened just enough to hold you there. And you took it as an invitation.

Your lips brushed against his ear, a ghost of a touch. “I can help you, you know.”

Kento stilled.

You shifted closer, pressing your body to his, feeling the sharp inhale he took at the contact. “Your first time,” you whispered, letting the words drip from your tongue like something decadent, something sinful. “I’ll make it good for you.”

He exhaled shakily.

“You don’t have to think,” you went on, fingers sliding down the buttons of his shirt, “just follow my lead.”

And that was when you felt it.

The last thread of his restraint finally, finally snapping.

His lips crashed against yours—clumsy, unpracticed, desperate. He was giving in, finally, finally giving in, and you relished in it. The way he trembled, the way his fingers dug into your waist like he was afraid you'd slip away, the way his breath stuttered when you pressed closer.

You took control instantly. One hand curled into his shirt, tugging him forward, while the other slid up to cup the back of his neck, guiding him. His kisses were messy, eager but unsure, all pent-up frustration and repressed want with no direction. You made a soft noise against his lips, and he groaned, shuddering at the sound.

“Slower,” you murmured against his mouth, dragging your lips along his, drawing it out. “Let me feel you.”

Kento obeyed, though you could tell it was an effort. He kissed you again, slower this time, more deliberate, but he was still stiff, still too restrained. His mind was racing—you could feel it in the way his hands hovered, uncertain, the way his jaw clenched like he was fighting himself.

He was thinking too much.

So you pressed closer, letting your body mold against his, and it wrecked him. You felt the sharp inhale he took, felt the shudder that rolled through him when your nails dragged up the nape of his neck, when your lips parted just enough to deepen the kiss.

Kento made a strangled noise, his hands finally moving—gripping your waist, sliding up your back, pulling you flush against him like he’d just realized he was allowed to touch you.

And fuck, you felt good.

His mind spiraled.

You were warm against him, soft and firm in all the right places, your perfume clouding his senses, your lips wet and pliant against his. Every tiny sigh you made, every little movement of your hips against his—it was intoxicating. His blood was rushing south, his entire body was burning, and he wanted.

He wanted more. He wanted to touch more, kiss more, feel more.

It was overwhelming. It was consuming.

And the worst part was you knew.

You knew exactly what you were doing to him, exactly how much he was unraveling under your touch. You pulled back just slightly, just enough to brush your lips against his in something too light, too teasing, and he actually chased your mouth, his body moving on instinct, desperate for more.

You hummed, pleased.

“See?” you murmured against his lips, fingers threading into his hair, tugging slightly. “You’re learning.”

He exhaled sharply, his grip on you tightening, his entire body drawn so tight it felt like he was going to snap.

Your fingers trailed down his chest, slow and deliberate, nails scraping lightly over the fabric of his shirt. Kento’s breath stuttered, and you felt the way his stomach clenched under your touch. His entire body was tense, every muscle drawn tight like a wire about to snap.

“Relax,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his jaw. “You’re so stiff.”

“I—” He swallowed hard when your fingers reached the waistband of his slacks, teasing along the edge. “I don’t—”

“You don’t what?” You tilted your head, peering up at him through thick lashes. “Don’t want this?”

His silence was telling.

So you pressed forward, slipping your hand just beneath his belt, teasing your fingertips along the skin right above his growing arousal. Kento’s breath shuddered, his hands tightening on your waist, his restraint evident in the way his fingers dug into your flesh.

He didn’t have a chance to respond before you pressed your lips to his again, effectively silencing whatever protest he was about to make. He groaned against your mouth when your fingers slipped lower, palming him through his slacks, feeling just how hard he was.

God, he was big.

You knew he was large from the way he strained against his pants, but feeling him like this? He was much bigger than Satoru. Your curiosity sparked to something much filthier, much more eager. You hummed in approval, your touch a little firmer, just to see how he reacted.

Kento choked on a moan, his grip on you tightening as his hips jerked into your hand.

“Sensitive,” you mused, your breath warm against his lips. Something about his reactions had your thighs clenching together, your breaths heavier. “You’ve been thinking about this a lot, haven’t you?”

He exhaled shakily, but didn’t answer.

So you pushed.

“Tell me,” you coaxed, fingers dragging along the outline of his length, teasing, taunting. “What have you imagined, Kento?”

His name on your lips made him groan, his head tilting back slightly, exposing the line of his throat. He was trying to keep it together, but you could feel him breaking, could feel his restraint slipping.

Your fingers tightened, just enough to make him gasp. “Come on,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “I know you’ve thought about it.”

His breath was ragged, his control slipping through his fingers like sand. And when you looked up at him, eyes dark and knowing, he knew he was already lost.

“…You,” he finally admitted, voice rough. “I’ve thought about you.”

A pleased little smile spread across your lips. “Yeah?”

You squeezed him again, dragging another groan from his throat, and his hands trembled against your waist.

“Did you think about me touching you like this?” You shifted, your fingers teasing just beneath his belt, tracing along the hard outline of him. “Or maybe…” You paused, eyes flicking up to meet his. “Did you think about me on my knees?”

His entire body went rigid.

Bingo.

Your smile turned wicked. “Oh,” you hummed, amused. “You did, didn’t you?”

His jaw clenched, his knuckles white where he gripped you, his entire body screaming restraint.

You took a slow, deliberate step back, just enough to sink gracefully to your knees in front of him. His breath caught, his golden eyes wide, disbelieving. You held his gaze as you reached for his belt, fingers working it loose, your movements slow, teasing.

“Lucky you, Kento.” Your voice was honeyed, sickly sweet. “I’m feeling generous tonight.”

And then, with an easy, practiced grace, you pulled him free from his slacks.

The breath left your lungs.

Fuck.

You knew he was big, but this? This was something else. Thick and heavy in your palm, flushed a deep shade of pink at the tip, already slick with arousal. It was so heavy it couldn't hold its own weight. Your throat ran dry, mesmerized. He twitched in your grasp when you exhaled softly against him, his hands fisting at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

You glanced up at him, smirking at the way his chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. He looked wrecked already, and you hadn’t even touched him properly yet.

Slowly, deliberately, you dragged your tongue along the underside of his length, never breaking eye contact. Kento groaned, low and desperate, his head tipping back, his restraint crumbling with every passing second.

You hummed against him, satisfied.

“See?” you purred, lips brushing along his heated skin. “I told you I’d help.”

Your lips parted, tongue flicking at his tip just to see how he reacted. The response was immediate—Kento groaned low in his throat, his entire body shuddering as his fingers twitched at his sides. He was trying so hard to keep still, to restrain himself, but you could see it—the cracks in his composure, the way his golden brown eyes darkened as he watched you.

You smiled against him, wrapping your fingers around his thick base, giving him a slow, teasing stroke.

He hissed, his jaw tightening, the muscle in his neck twitching as his breath came out heavy.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, barely audible.

You glanced up at him through your lashes, feigning innocence. “What’s wrong?”

His gaze dropped to where your fingers moved along his length, your touch painfully slow, and he swallowed hard.

“You,” he gritted out. “You’re—”

Whatever he was about to say was cut off by the sharp inhale he took when you flattened your tongue against him, tracing the thick vein that ran along the underside of his cock. His hips jerked, just a little, and you hummed in amusement, pressing a light, barely-there kiss to his swollen tip.

“Me?” you prodded, smirking. “What about me?”

His hands twitched at his sides, like he was debating on whether or not he should grab you, whether or not he should push you down and fuck your pretty mouth the way he’d dreamt of.

But he didn’t. Because even now, he was still fighting it, still trying to keep some semblance of control.

You intended to take that from him.

Lips parting, you took him into your mouth—slowly, deliberately, letting him feel every inch as you sank down onto him. His entire body tensed, a ragged groan slipping past his lips, and you swore you could feel his restraint snapping thread by thread.

You let your eyes flutter shut, savoring the weight of him on your tongue, the way his cock twitched when you took him deeper. He filled your mouth, stretched it to the point that you felt a dull ache. Your hands gripped his thighs, steadying yourself, and then you hollowed your cheeks and sucked.

The sound that ripped from his throat was utterly devastating.

His hands finally moved, flying to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands as his breath stuttered out of him.

A part of him was still in disbelief that this was happening. The sight of you on your knees before him, your mouth—the same one that was always twisted in a sneer as you spat insults at him—stuffed full of his fat cock. Your pretty face gazed up at him, doe eyes misty with tears from the stretch.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice hoarse, raw. “You—fuck.”

You smiled around him, satisfied. He was losing it, and you loved it.

You bobbed your head, taking him deeper, your tongue swirling along his length, tracing every ridge and vein. His grip tightened, his thighs trembling beneath your touch, and when you moaned softly around him, the vibrations sent him over the edge.

“Shit—” His voice broke, and his hips jerked forward, pushing deeper into your mouth. He was panting now, his restraint in shambles, and you could feel him teetering right on the edge of losing himself completely.

You pulled back slightly, letting his cock slip from your lips with a filthy pop, your hand replacing your mouth as you stroked him with slow, deliberate movements.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” you murmured, your voice saccharine, teasing. “Bet you never imagined it would feel this good.”

Kento was glaring down at you, his brows furrowed, his expression dark and desperate all at once.

You tilted your head, feigning curiosity. “Or did you?”

His jaw clenched, his fingers tightening in your hair.

You smiled, leaning in to press a chaste, almost mocking kiss to his tip. “Tell me, Kento,” you whispered. “What did you imagine?”

He exhaled shakily, his entire body rigid, as if he was fighting a war within himself.

“Everything,” he admitted, voice strained. “I imagined everything.”

Oh.

You weren’t expecting him to break so easily, but fuck, the way he said it, the way his voice dripped with need—it made something dark and greedy curl in your stomach.

You hummed, pleased. “Well, then,” you purred, lips grazing his heated skin. “We’d better make those fantasies come true.”

Kento was unraveling.

His fingers tightened in your hair, a sharp contrast to the hesitance he had moments ago. Now, he was breathing hard, his body trembling, his restraint slipping through his fingers like sand. You could feel it—the way he was struggling to keep himself together, to keep from just thrusting into your mouth and fucking your throat the way he clearly wanted to.

But he was still holding back.

That wouldn’t do.

You slid your hands up his thighs, nails scraping lightly against his skin as you took him even deeper, letting him hit the back of your throat. His hips jerked forward, his breath shattering into a groan so raw and deep it made your thighs clench together.

“Fucking—” He bit down on the curse, his fingers tightening, his head tipping back as he let out a ragged exhale.

You moaned around him, letting the vibrations sink into his skin, watching through lidded eyes as his muscles tensed beneath your touch. The sounds he made were fucking intoxicating—low, guttural, completely unguarded. He was losing himself, and he didn’t even realize it.

But you did.

You pulled back slightly, dragging your tongue along his length, letting your lips trace every ridge and vein before you swirled your tongue over his tip. His thighs shook.

“Who would've known?” you purred, your voice honeyed, dripping with amusement. You stroked him slowly, deliberately, watching the way his stomach tensed with every movement. “That you'd been crushing on me for so long. Well, I don't really blame you.”

Kento didn’t answer. His jaw was clenched so tight you thought he might break a tooth.

You pressed a soft, teasing kiss to the head of his cock. “C’mon, Ken,” you coaxed, your tone saccharine, mockingly sweet. “Tell me what you thought about when you touched yourself that time in the office.”

His entire body went rigid.

Bullseye.

Kento’s breath was unsteady, his fingers twitching in your hair. You could see the shame flickering in his eyes, the way his lips parted, then closed, then parted again like he couldn’t decide whether to fight you or surrender.

You tilted your head, giving him a kiss on his flushed tip. “Want me to show you what else you’ve been missing?”

Kento felt like he was in a fever dream.

You were sprawled out beneath him, all soft limbs and wicked smirks, your hair splayed across the silk sheets, your body draped across the mattress like you belonged there—like you were made to be laid out just like this, waiting for him.

His breath was uneven, his mind an absolute fucking mess. He didn’t know where to touch, didn’t know where to start, didn’t know how to move, because this—this was what he’d wanted for so long, and now it was real, now you were right in front of him, skin warm, lips curled in that teasing, condescending smile, eyes watching him with the kind of amusement that made his stomach tighten.

You knew exactly what you were doing to him.

“You’re thinking too much,” you hummed, shifting slightly, letting your thighs fall open just enough to make his cock throb painfully against his stomach. “Relax, Kento. I don’t bite.” A pause. A smirk. “Unless you want me to.”

He swallowed hard.

Your fingers trailed down your stomach, skimming over your skin, dragging lower and lower before stopping at the hem of your lace panties. His eyes followed, helpless, and you smiled like you’d caught him in something.

“So,” you murmured, voice syrupy-sweet, filled with false innocence. “Tell me how you want your first time to be.”

Kento’s throat felt dry. His hands clenched into fists.

You tilted your head, watching him, waiting for him to answer—but he didn’t.

So you continued.

“You don’t know?” you teased, fingers toying with the waistband of your panties. “What, you’ve never thought about it?”

Kento clenched his jaw. He had. Of course he fucking had.

He’d thought about this so many times it was humiliating. He’d thought about you, spread out for him just like this, looking at him just like this, all heat and smugness and amusement. He’d thought about how you’d feel, how you’d sound, how you’d taste.

And now you were here, real, tangible, right in front of him.

He was so fucking hard it hurt.

You exhaled a quiet, amused laugh, reaching out to trail a single, lazy finger up the length of his cock, watching the way his muscles tensed, the way his thighs twitched.

“Hmm.” Your voice dropped, turning sly, knowing. “Personally…” You paused, running your tongue over your lower lip. “I like it rough and filthy.”

Kento’s stomach twisted.

You smiled sweetly. “I’m also on the pill, so you can cum inside.”

Something inside of him snapped.

His fingers dug into the sheets beside you, his breath leaving him in a sharp exhale.

You watched him closely, tilting your head, and then, slowly, deliberately, you dragged your nails down your stomach, just barely skimming over the lace covering your core.

“Think you can handle that, Ken?” you murmured.

Kento moved before he could think.

One second, you were smirking up at him, and the next, he was on you—gripping your thighs, spreading them wider, shoving himself between them like he’d finally snapped. His breathing was uneven, his hands gripping hard enough to bruise, his whole body strung so fucking tight he thought he might lose it.

You hummed, pleased, dragging a lazy hand up his beefy forearm. “Mmm. That’s better.”

Your voice was light, teasing, so fucking condescending it made something dark pulse through him. You were testing him. You’d been testing him all night, and he fucking knew it.

Kento glared down at you, jaw tight, fingers flexing against your skin. “Stop talking.”

You laughed. “Make me.”

His grip tightened. His pulse thrummed heavy in his ears.

And then you did it again—dragging your nails over your stomach, teasing yourself, testing just how far you could push him. “Come on, Ken,” you whispered, voice sweet, sickly. “You’re not scared, are you?”

Kento exhaled sharply through his nose. His restraint was crumbling.

You saw it. You knew it. You fucking reveled in it.

“You’ve been thinking about this for so long, haven't you?” you murmured, slow, sultry, voice dipping into something softer, something filthier. “Imagining it—thinking about me, touching yourself to the thought of me.” Your fingers hooked into your panties, dragging the lace down your thighs, baring yourself to him. “You wanted to fuck me, didn’t you?”

Kento’s head spun.

You shifted, thighs framing his hips, hands slipping up his chest, nails dragging over the crisp fabric of his shirt. “Don’t you, Ken?” you whispered, lips barely brushing his jaw.

His hands snapped up, gripping your wrists, pinning them down against the sheets.

You gasped softly, brows raising in amusement, lips curling into something slow and knowing.

And then, you smiled.

“Good,” you purred.

Kento didn’t know when he stopped thinking. Didn’t know when the last shred of rationality slipped from his mind. All he knew was the way you were looking at him, the way you were laying beneath him like you belonged there, the way your lips parted when he gripped your wrists tighter, the way your body fit against his so fucking perfectly.

He’d never done this before. He had no fucking idea what he was doing.

But you were guiding him, dragging his hands where you wanted them, pressing your body up into his, rolling your hips until he groaned through gritted teeth.

“There you go,” you hummed, satisfied, like you were molding him into something better, like you were teaching him how to touch you, how to take you apart.

Kento exhaled heavily, his head dropping forward, his body pressing down over yours.

“Good boy,” you murmured.

Kento felt like he was drowning. Like he was lost in something vast and consuming, his own restraint slipping through his fingers with every breath, every quiet, pleased sound you made.

His fingers were still slick with you when you guided them back down, pressing them against your entrance, urging him to go deeper.

“Start slow,” you murmured, voice honey-thick, teasing but patient as you tilted your hips invitingly. “One finger first.”

Kento obeyed before he even realized it, pushing in, feeling the way you stretched around him, the molten heat of you sucking him in. His breath caught when he sank down to the knuckle, your walls fluttering, clenching softly around him.

You exhaled, a low, satisfied sound escaping your lips. “Good,” you praised. “Move it a little. Feel me.”

Kento swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His free hand tightened in the sheets as he curled his finger, pressing experimentally against the soft, warm ridges inside you.

You let out a sharp inhale, a quiet curse slipping past your lips. Your reaction made something coil in his gut, made something snap inside him.

The hesitance in his movements melted away. His finger worked deeper, pressing more deliberately, slipping out and pushing back in, feeling how you pulsed and tightened around him. His breath was unsteady, his pulse thrummed.

You hummed in approval. “Another.”

He didn’t hesitate this time, sliding a second finger in alongside the first. The stretch made your brows twitch, your thighs flexing instinctively, and the sight of it, the feeling of it—how soft and warm and tight you were around him—made his cock ache so violently he was lightheaded.

His fingers pumped slowly at first, measured and careful, scissoring slightly as he watched your face, the way your lashes fluttered, the way your lips parted slightly with every thrust.

“Mm,” you breathed, voice molten and pleased, “you learn quick.”

He shuddered, the praise shooting straight through him, his fingers picking up speed, pressing deeper, curling with more purpose.

Your breath hitched. Your thighs flexed tighter. “Right there,” you murmured, voice barely above a sigh. “Do that again.”

Kento obeyed instantly, pressing against that same spot inside you, again and again, watching the way your brows drew together, the way your lips parted slightly as you let out a shaky breath.

Something thick and hot pulsed in his veins. Something heady and intoxicating. He wanted to hear more of those sounds. He wanted to push you higher, wanted to see you come apart completely beneath him.

And so he leaned in.

You barely registered the shift in weight before his mouth was on you.

Your breath caught as you felt his lips ghost over the inside of your thigh, hesitant at first, almost reverent. But then he was pressing open-mouthed kisses to your skin, trailing closer, closer—his breath hot and unsteady, his fingers still pumping steadily inside you.

You smirked, threading your fingers through his blonde hair. “That eager?”

Kento exhaled sharply against your skin, but didn’t answer. He just dragged his tongue over the inside of your thigh, tasting, teasing.

And then he buried his face between your legs.

A gasp spilled from your lips before you could stop it, your grip tightening in his hair as his mouth sealed over your clit. The heat of his tongue, the slow, deliberate pressure—it made your thighs twitch, made your chest rise sharply.

You heard him groan, the sound vibrating against you, and then his fingers were pressing deeper, his tongue flicking, circling, teasing before dragging broad, heavy strokes over your clit.

You sighed, breathy and pleased, a slow, satisfied smirk curling at your lips. “Oh, Ken…”

Kento groaned again at the sound of his name from your lips, his fingers working faster, his mouth latching on tighter, sucking gently before rolling his tongue against you.

Your back arched slightly, a breathy laugh escaping you. “So desperate to please.”

His fingers flexed against your thigh in response, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t slow.

He was drowning in you—your scent, your taste, the way you moved against him, the way your fingers tightened in his hair, keeping him exactly where you wanted him.

Kento didn’t stop. He didn’t slow. If anything, your teasing only fueled him, made him more desperate, more reckless, his tongue and fingers working in tandem to pull you apart, to drag you deeper into pleasure. He was drunk on the way you sounded, the way you tasted, the way your body reacted under his touch—

And then he felt it.

The way you started to tremble, the sharp hitch of your breath, the telltale tightening of your thighs around his head. You were close. So fucking close.

And Kento wanted it—wanted to see you break, to feel you come undone on his tongue, to be the one to make you unravel.

So he pushed deeper, his fingers curling inside you just right, his tongue pressing against your clit, working you over with focused, deliberate pressure, until—

“Ah—fuck—”

Your thighs clamped tight around his head, your fingers tugging hard at his hair as pleasure crashed over you, racking through your body in shuddering waves.

Kento groaned against you, drinking in the way you pulsed around his fingers, the way you gasped and whimpered, lost in pleasure—because of him.

It made something inside him snap.

He was rock-hard, painfully so, his cock straining against his stomach, leaking against his skin, aching for relief. The way you sounded, the way you felt, the way you were sprawled beneath him, coming apart because of him—it was too much.

His self-control was gone.

He was moving before he could think, shoving his pants down, gripping himself at the base, so fucking desperate to be inside you, to feel you around him—and then he pressed in, the heat of you swallowing him up, squeezing him tight, so fucking tight—

And he came.

A choked sound ripped from his throat, his body seizing up, his hips jerking forward as a sweltering warmth flooded your insides in thick, pulsing waves.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

“…Are you serious?”

Your voice was breathless, but unmistakably amused, and when Kento’s vision cleared, his gaze snapped to your face—your flushed cheeks, your lips parted from exertion, your lashes fluttering as you blink up at him, dazed, wrecked—and smirking.

You laughed, soft and breathy, eyes flicking down between your bodies, to where he was still buried hilt-deep inside you. "Oh my god, you actually—"

Your teasing gets cut off with a startled gasp because suddenly, Kento moved.

He pulled out in one swift motion, so fast and sudden it makes you clench around nothing, makes your thighs twitch—

Then he slammed back in, hard enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

"Shit—"

Your head jerked back against the pillow, eyes going wide, legs kicking, but Kento didn't stop. He didn’t fucking pause. His teeth were gritted, his jaw tight, and his grip on you was punishing as he set a brutal pace—harsh, deep thrusts, fucking into you so hard the bed creaked beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall.

You whimpered, the sound punched out of you with every sharp snap of his hips, hands scrambling against his chest, nails dragging down the firm planes of muscle, but he didn’t let up, didn't let you catch your breath, didn't let you think.

“Still wanna run your fucking mouth?" Kento gritted out, voice low, rough. "Huh?"

You barely managed a gasp before he was folding you up, pressing your knees to your chest, pinning you beneath his weight, deeper, rougher, fucking into you like he wanted to fuck the words right out of your throat.

You couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but take it, your body wracked with pleasure so overwhelming it was almost painful, your walls clamping around him, gripping him tight as he ruined you, absolutely wrecked you.

He was not just fucking you anymore—he was breaking you in.

Kento was barely thinking anymore—at least, not with the rational part of his brain. The only thing driving him now was need, months—years—of pent-up frustration, of resentment and desire twisted together into something vicious, something ugly. His mind was flooded with it, clouded with the feeling of your body wrapping tight around his cock, the obscene, wet sounds filling the room as he fucked into you with reckless abandon, jackhammering his hips against yours like he was trying to fuck the attitude right out of you.

He should be embarrassed about how quickly he came, but he wasn’t. Not when he could feel you fluttering around him, sucking him in deeper, struggling to take all of him. Not when he was finally getting to shut you up, to replace that smirk, those biting remarks, with helpless gasps and broken moans of his name.

Kento.

It spilled from your lips again, a breathless, trembling whimper, and fuck—he felt his control fraying at the seams.

He looked down at you, and the sight nearly undid him.

Your face was a mess—lips swollen and parted, your eyes hazy and unfocused, a sheen of sweat making your skin glow under the dim lighting. Your nails dug into his back, clinging to him for dear life, your legs trembling around his waist. He watched as you tried to say something, but the words broke apart on your tongue, nothing but a breathy, high-pitched whimper that had him grinding his teeth, his fingers tightening on your thighs.

He never imagined you like this. Not once. Not even in his filthiest, most shameful fantasies did he ever picture you looking so wrecked beneath him, blinking up at him like you didn’t even recognize yourself anymore.

And it made him want to ruin you more.

His thrusts grew brutal, his hips slamming into you with obscene force, the slick slap of skin against skin mixing with the lewd squelch of your dripping cunt sucking him in, swallowing him down. You drooled onto the pillow, your mouth hanging open, tiny, punched-out cries leaving your throat in rhythm with each thrust.

You looked so fucking good like this, so pretty when you were breaking for him, and Kento wanted to watch you shatter.

So he leaned down.

Your eyes widened slightly as his face hovered inches from yours, his breath fanning over your lips, hot and uneven. You were still gasping, still trying to catch your breath, but he didn’t let you.

He kissed you.

It was rough, messy, all teeth and desperation. His lips crashed into yours like he was trying to devour you, his tongue prying your mouth open, swallowing your moans as he drove himself deeper, angling his hips just right until—

“Oh—fuck—”

You broke, your whole body tensing beneath him, your nails raking down his back as pleasure overtook you, as you spasmed around him, clenching so tight he nearly collapsed on top of you.

Kento groaned into your mouth, his body shuddering at the way you squeezed him, at the feeling of you pulsing around his cock, milking him for all he’s worth. He was close—so fucking close—but he didn’t want to stop, didn’t want this to end, didn’t want to let go of the first real thing he'd ever had with you.

But the way you were looking at him—so dazed, so lost, your lashes fluttering, your lips swollen and wet from his kisses—

It wrecked him.

Your body felt like it was melting into the sheets, limbs loose, brain completely scrambled. You were still gasping, still twitching beneath him, your skin dampened with sweat, your insides throbbing from the absolute wreckage Kento just put you through.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

It was supposed to be a favor—a pity fuck, a little experience for the poor, virginal nerd who’d spent years watching you from the sidelines, burning himself up with want. He was cute—a hidden gem, if you will—so you entertained the thought. You thought you’d guide him, make it easy, maybe get a few orgasms out of it before sending him on his way, satisfied and broken in.

You didn’t expect this.

Didn’t expect him to be so big, to stretch you open like he was trying to mold your body to fit him. Didn’t expect him to lose himself so completely, to fuck you like he had something to prove, like he needed to ruin you, to make sure you’d never forget this—never forget him.

And fuck, you won’t.

Your chest heaved as you tried to gather your thoughts, but it was impossible. You could barely move, barely think past the pleasure still echoing in your bones, still buzzing under your skin.

The way he fucked you—relentless, brutal, all-consuming—it was nothing like you expected. He wasn’t supposed to take control like that, wasn’t supposed to wreck you, to turn you into this.

A fucked-out, boneless mess.

Your eyes were glazed, unfocused, and when Kento finally lifted his head to look at you, something dark flickered through his gaze at the sight of you so thoroughly ruined beneath him.

Kento didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He should—he should slow down, let you breathe, let you recover, but he won’t. Not when you were beneath him like this, spread out and ruined, body twitching, legs trembling, lips parted around nothing but useless little sounds. You were supposed to be the one in control, supposed to be the one leading him through this, teasing him, walking him through it like he was some pathetic, fumbling virgin who needed guidance. But look at you now—your back arched like a needy slut, your nails biting into his arms, into the sheets, into anything you could grab because you were completely fucking gone, letting him use you exactly how he wanted.

This wasn’t what you expected, was it? Kento could see it all over your face—how you were struggling to keep up, how you were trying so hard to process what was happening, how the realization was hitting you in waves. You thought you were just giving him a pity fuck, thought you were going to have your fun with the nerd who’d been pining after you for years, play around with him a little before sending him on his way, maybe even give yourself a nice ego boost knowing you took his virginity. But that's not what was happening at all, was it? No, you were the one getting wrecked. You were the one with your eyes rolling back, your breath catching in these shallow, uneven gasps, your body so overstimulated that even the drag of his cock pulling out left you shuddering. You didn’t expect this. You weren’t prepared for how fucking big he was, how deep he reached, how utterly ruthless he’d be once he had you where he wanted you. You thought you were in control, but that illusion shattered the second he bottomed out inside you, the second he realized that despite all your teasing, despite all your cruel little jabs at him—you were fucking made for him.

He watched you try to say something, try to form words around the desperate little moans spilling from your mouth, but you couldn’t even think straight. You—who never shut the fuck up, who always had something to say, some taunt, some sly remark—couldn’t even speak. And it fucking ruined him. His grip tightened on your hips, his thrusts turned brutal, unforgiving, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He knew he was being rough, knew he was fucking you stupid, knew that this was the best sex you’ve ever had because there was no fucking way anyone—especially not that smug, arrogant, useless boyfriend of yours—had ever fucked you like this.

“You wanted this, didn’t you?” His voice was rough, nearly unrecognizable, thick with pleasure and something meaner, something darker. His fingers curled under your jaw, forcing your vacant, fucked-out eyes to meet his. “Wanted me to shut you up?” His thrusts slowed just enough to make you feel the full weight of his cock inside you, make you twitch, make your lashes flutter as your mouth parted in a breathless little gasp. He wanted to hear you say it, wanted to hear you admit it, but all you could do was give him a weak little nod, head barely moving, body too boneless, too spent, too overwhelmed to function properly.

Pathetic.

Kento grinned, something dangerous and satisfied flickering in his eyes as he watched you try and fail to pull yourself together. “What’s wrong?” His voice was low, taunting, every syllable dripping with condescension as he forced your mouth open wider with his thumb. “Where’s that smart mouth now? Hm? Thought you had so much to say.” He pulled back until just the fat tip of his cock was stretching your entrance, then slammed back in with enough force to knock the air from your lungs, pressing in deep until he swore he could feel your heartbeat around him. “You were so fucking cocky, weren’t you?” He fucked into you harder, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the room, his fingers digging into your thighs to hold you in place as he pounded into your dripping cunt. “Thought I’d be the one embarrassed? Thought I’d be the one who didn’t know what the fuck he was doing?” A ragged breath ripped from his throat, and his pace got even filthier, rougher, harder, fucking you into the mattress like he was trying to break you. “Look at you now.”

You tried to—tried to focus on him, tried to answer, tried to do anything other than moan like a brainless little fuckdoll beneath him, but you couldn’t. Your entire body was burning, every nerve-ending fried, every thought in your head erased and rewritten with nothing but him, him, him. The stretch was too much, the way he kept pressing in so fucking deep, the way he was angled just right to hit that gummy spot inside you that had your legs kicking weakly against his sides. You had never felt anything like this before, never been fucked like this before, never been absolutely ruined like this before. You’d expected him to be hesitant, careful, nervous, but instead, he was unraveling you piece by piece, fucking you like he owned you, like he’d been waiting for this moment for years—because he had.

Kento could feel it, the way your walls clamped down around him, the way your body was trying to fight against the intensity, trying to process what was happening to you, and it only made him want to fuck you harder. “Nothing to say now?” he murmured, leaning in closer, voice dropping into something cruel and condescending as he watched your face twist with pleasure. “Not even another one of your little insults?” He knew you couldn’t answer, knew you were too far gone, but that only made it better, only made his grip tighten, only made his thrusts grow more erratic. “Or did I finally fuck you dumb?”

You whimpered—an utterly helpless little sound that shot straight to his cock, making his vision blur at the edges. He was getting close, his pace getting sloppy, but he wanted to drag this out, wanted to make you come undone again, wanted to see how far he could push you before you completely broke. He reached down, rubbed his thumb against your clit, and the reaction was immediate—the sharp arch of your back, the sharp inhale, the way your nails scraped uselessly against his skin. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice dripping with satisfaction as he watched you fall apart for him. “That’s a good girl.”

And then you shattered.

Your entire body tensed, then broke, falling into pure, mindless pleasure as you came hard, clenching around him, gripping him so tight it nearly made him dizzy. And that was it—that was all it took to finally push him over the edge. His hips stuttered, a guttural groan tearing from his chest as he buried himself as deep as he could, grinding against you as he spilled inside, filling you up with every last drop.

He collapsed forward, panting, breath warm against your skin as he listened to the aftermath—the slick, filthy sounds of him still buried inside you, the faint hitch in your breath, the soft, dazed little moans that escaped your lips, completely spent, completely wrecked.

You were never supposed to be the one getting ruined tonight.

But now?

Now, you couldn’t even move, couldn’t even think, couldn’t even do anything but lay there, utterly fucked out, body trembling as Kento finally, finally stopped. And as he looked down at you, as he watched you struggle to even keep your eyes open, a slow, satisfied smirk tugged at his lips.

“Not so mouthy now, are you?”

The routine was set. The tension between you and Kento was thick, palpable, and undeniably electric. And you fucking hated it. You hated that no matter how much you tried to push him away, you always found yourself crawling back. You hated that the mere thought of him, his hands on you, his cock inside you, had become the only thing that filled your thoughts in the dark. It made you feel crazy—ravenous and furious at yourself for giving in.

But you couldn’t stop.

You’d convinced yourself that it’s all just a game. A twisted, secret affair—nothing more than a few moments of indulgence, a little bit of fun on the side. Satoru still thought he was the center of your world, and he had no idea what you were doing with Kento.

But Kento knew. And God, you knew he did. The smirk he had when he caught you sneaking glances, the way he whispered your name under his breath when you were both sitting so close, and the way his fingers seemed to always find their way under your clothes like he had a built-in radar for your desires—it was maddening.

You hated how well he knew you. How well he understood exactly what made you break.

And yet, you couldn’t stop. You couldn’t stop because you knew that no one else could fuck you like he could. No one else gets it, gets you the way Kento did.

The first time you sneaked a hand under his desk during a publication meeting, it was to get back at him. To prove that you’re not some docile little toy he could use and abuse at will. You just wanted to see him lose control for once. You wanted him to feel the desperation that’s been building in your chest ever since you first tasted his mouth, ever since you felt his hands stretch you open in ways that made you lose track of time.

But as soon as your fingers brushed against the hard bulge in his pants, you knew you were in for a lot more than you bargained for. Kento’s eyes flickered to you, just for a second, his gaze cold and calculating. There was no question in your mind that he knew what you were doing.

He shifted in his seat, and you could feel his body tense under your touch. It was enough to send a shiver down your spine. He let you play with him for a moment, let you slide your fingers beneath the waistband of his slacks, your palm curling around his cock, feeling the weight of it, the heat of it under your fingertips.

You were taunting him now, trying to make him crack. You dragged your thumb over the head of his cock, circling it with slow, teasing motions, your eyes watching his every reaction as he tried to keep his composure.

His grip on the edge of the desk tightened, his jaw set in that tight, controlled way you knew meant he’s fighting every instinct to flip you over and fuck you right then and there. But that’s the point. You wanted him to snap. You wanted him to lose it.

And when you finally slid your fingers down, giving him a full, slow stroke, his hand shot out and gripped your wrist, his knuckles going white.

“You really want to push me, don’t you?” he muttered, voice low and dangerous.

You grinned back, defiant, that familiar fire sparking in your chest. “What, are you scared of a little tease?”

That’s all it took for him to stop holding back. His hand was suddenly in your hair, and then, in one smooth, brutal motion, he forced your head between his legs. You barely had time to react, but you didn’t need to.

You had been waiting for this moment. Waiting for him to finally take control and fuck the smug attitude out of you.

Kento pulled your hair, forcing you to look up at him as your lips brushed against the bulge in his pants. Your mouth watered, knowing what was coming, but you were not prepared for the raw intensity of it.

The second you slipped his cock out, Kento groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through your chest. You started slowly, letting him guide you, your lips wrapping around him just like he had taught you, just like you’ve been imagining every time you looked at him.

But Kento didn’t wait. Not anymore.

He slammed his hips forward, his cock thrusting deep into your throat in one brutal motion. You gagged, the suddenness of it almost making you choke, but he didn’t give you the chance to recover. He covered up the sound with a cough, his free hand typing particularly hard on his laptop, the other members in the office none the wiser. His other hand was in your hair, pulling you deeper, faster, forcing you to take all of him, every inch of his cock buried in your throat, your nose pressed against his groin, mingling with the neatly trimmed thatch of hair, allowing you to inhale that cool musky and manly smell—something you'd come to associate with Kento.

The meeting droned on, completely unaware of the filthy exchange happening just inches away. Kento’s grip on your hair tightened, encouraging you to take him deeper, harder. You sucked him greedily, desperate to please him, to feel him fill your mouth completely. Every time you pulled back, he was there, following you, urging you to take more of him.

You could feel the weight of his stare, his eyes trained on you even as his fingers tugged at your hair, guiding you with a possessive hand. Your movements became more frantic, desperate for release, while his hand squeezed your scalp, forcing you to take him deeper. The pressure built inside you, the sounds of your sucking mingling with the hum of conversation from across the table, but none of it mattered. All that mattered is the way he made you feel—how he owned you in this moment, in front of everyone.

Finally, with a soft grunt, Kento pulled back, and you barely had time to breathe before he gave you a look, a silent command. You glanced up at him, a mess of spit and precum coating your lips, and he gave you a quick, almost dismissive nod. He knew you’d done your job, and he was done with it.

With a cold smile, Kento straightened his shirt, glancing around the room. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he muttered, before making his way out of the meeting.

You sat there for a moment, catching your breath, trying to make yourself presentable again. You could feel the wetness between your legs, the evidence of your earlier actions making itself known. As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, you followed, knowing exactly where he was headed.

The bathroom was nearly empty, save for a couple of people washing their hands, but Kento was already there, waiting by the sink. His eyes met yours, and the hunger in them was unmistakable. No words were needed; this was a routine you had fallen into, a dynamic neither of you tried to hide anymore.

“Need to freshen up?” he asked, voice low and thick with desire, his hands already reaching for your waist.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Instead, you stepped toward him, your hands slipping under his shirt, pulling him closer as you kissed him fiercely. His lips were demanding, hot, and your body reacted instantly, an undeniable pull that had you craving more. His hands dropped to your skirt, tugging it up roughly as he pushed you toward the wall.

“You really think I’m going to let you walk out of here all clean?” Kento growled, his fingers unbuckling his belt.

You could barely catch your breath as he pulled you in, his chest pressing against yours, his lips never leaving your skin. The anticipation was unbearable—this quick, dangerous rendezvous in a bathroom that no one should know about. You shouldn’t even be doing this. You had a fucking date with Satoru in fifteen minutes. But you were already soaking through your panties, feeling the heat of him against your body, your skin tingling with need.

Without warning, Kento hoisted you up, your back against the cold tiles as his hands went to work. The roughness, the desperation, the control—he didn’t give you a second to think, just pressed forward, pushing himself into you with a brutal force. His cock filled you in one swift motion, stretching you more than you thought possible. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders, unable to stop the overwhelming sensation of him filling you completely.

“You think you can go back to Gojo like this?” Kento spat, his voice low and rough. “Full of my cum, still dripping with me?”

You could barely respond, the sensation of him pounding into you relentlessly clouding your mind, but his words hit you hard, a surge of shame and lust all at once. You were already so far gone, too far gone to care. It was just you and him now, and that’s all that mattered.

His rhythm picked up, faster, harder, each thrust making you see stars. The stall felt too small, the walls closing in as he took you with an unforgiving pace. The sound of his skin slapping against yours echoed in the quiet space, mixing with the wetness between your legs. He leaned in, kissing you, smearing your expensive gloss, tasting you, taking you. Your body betrayed you, pleasure spiraling out of control as Kento fucked you senseless.

He didn’t stop, didn’t slow down, his cock fucking you into the wall, his hands gripping your hips as if you were nothing but his to take. You didn’t care. You didn’t want to care. The need, the want, it was all-consuming. And when he came—deep inside you, hot and thick—you couldn’t stop yourself from letting out a whimper.

When he pulled out, a mix of his cum and your juices leaked down your inner thighs, the wetness sticky and undeniable. Kento looked down, admiring the mess he had left behind, before leaning down to kiss you hard.

“I’ll see you after your date,” he murmured against your lips, his hand brushing the back of your neck as he pulled away.

You were left breathless, dazed, feeling the aftermath of it all, knowing that you’ll never be able to go back to Satoru the same way again. Not after this. Not after Kento has wrecked you in the most public, filthy way imaginable.

You pulled your skirt down, straightening yourself out as best as you can, your legs trembling. You could feel his sticky cum staining your panties, coating your inner thighs. “I’m going to be late,” you whined, voice thick with the remnants of pleasure and annoyance, but Kento just glanced at you as he smoothened his shirt. As you tried to make yourself presentable, he stepped towards you with one stride, pressing against you from behind, leaning down to press a kiss to the side of your neck. His big, firm hands fixed your skirt, before they wandered low to squeeze the fat of your ass.

“Good. Let him wonder where you’ve been.”

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