99sturns

Like imagine him with a goatee AND his biceps with no hat on

(which is very sexy)

BUT WHAT ABT THIS ONE?!?

LIKE HELLOOOOOOO😦

sure, he loves fucking you. he loves the weight of you beneath him, the slow stretch of your body around his cock, the way you bite down on your lip and whine when he gets too deep. he loves the bruises he leaves behind when you’re being a brat and the tears that bead at your lashes when you’re taking him just right.

but he could go his entire life without fucking you again, as long as he could still have this.

your thighs trembling around his head. your fingers tangled in his hair. the quiet, desperate noises you make when he wraps his lips around your clit and moans like you’re the finest thing he’s ever tasted. because you are. to him, it’s not even sex—it’s sustenance.

nanami eats pussy like it’s a religion.

like his mouth was made for it and nothing else.

and he’ll just sit there, one hand on your ankle, the other on your thigh, eyes fixed on the shape of you under your shorts. thinking. plotting. imagining how you’d sound if he got his tongue on you right now. how fast he could make you cum with just his mouth, just his hands. and you’ll catch him staring, and you’ll say his name, and it won’t matter—because he’s already easing you back, already tugging your waistband down with reverent fingers, already kissing the soft skin of your inner thigh.

nanami doesn’t ask for head—not because he doesn’t like it (he loved it the first time you dropped to your knees, could barely keep from shaking with how good you were), but because he doesn’t need it. because he knows himself too well. he gets greedy. he loses rhythm. he doesn’t want to grip your jaw too tight or fuck your throat too deep or say something he’ll regret in the haze of it. he knows you can take it. he knows you want to. but he’s afraid of hurting you. and that’s a line he never wants to approach—not with you.

he’d rather have you riding his face. thighs clamped around his head. cunt dripping all over his tongue while you sob into the sheets. he’ll eat you out before you fuck, just to open you up. and again after, like a reward. a dessert. your legs limp and twitching, overstimulated, soft with trust—and he’ll still be down there, humming into your pussy like you’re the first meal he’s ever had. licking up every drop he spilled inside you. stroking your thigh with one hand and holding your hip steady with the other while his mouth does things no one else ever could.

he can get off like that. doesn’t need anything else. your body. your taste. your moans. the weight of your thighs over his shoulders. the press of your heel into his back when you’re close. it’s all he needs.

and you’ll ask him—“kento, don’t you want to cum?”