NEXT DOOR, OUT OF REACH: NANAMI KENTO
SYNOPSIS:
A controlled, routine-driven man finds himself drawn to his new neighbour—someone effortlessly uncontained, perceptive, and far too aware of the effect she has on him.
MDNI, fem!reader, sexual content (explicit), power dynamics, dom/sub undertones, teasing & provocation, voyeuristic elements (watching / being watched),neighbours-to-lovers, slow burn to smut, oral sex (f receiving), face sitting, choking (consensual), spanking, grinding / clothed & unclothed, unprotected sex, creampie, multiple orgasms, squirting, praise & degradation (light), pet names, loss of control themes, yuji cameo, papamin
A/N: sorry for disappearing, enjoy!
You knock three times against your new neighbour’s door, the sound sharper than you expected in the quiet of the street.
Your hand settles back beneath the tray of cookies, fingers curling slightly around the base as you shift your weight. It suddenly feels a little too formal, standing there like this, but turning around now would be worse.
The door opens before you can second guess yourself.
You’re met with… nothing.
Your eyes narrow slightly as you lean forward, peering into the house. It’s open, clearly lived in, but no one stands in the doorway to greet you.
“Hello? Is anybody there?”
For a second you consider that maybe you’ve got the wrong house.
Then something taps against your thigh.
A small boy stands there, barely reaching your waist, a soft tuft of pink hair falling over his forehead and a grin already spreading across his face like he knows something you don’t.
“Hi, ms. You can come in,” he says, stepping back and gesturing like he owns the place.
The familiarity catches you off guard, but it’s hard not to smile a little.
“Oh— thank you… I’m just—”
“Yuji,” he cuts in quickly, like it’s the most important part. “My name is Yuji.”
“Well, Yuji,” you start, but he’s already reached for your hand, small fingers wrapping around your wrist as he tugs you inside with surprising determination.
You let yourself be pulled in, laughing softly under your breath as the door shuts behind you.
The house is exactly what you noticed from the entrance — neat in a way that doesn’t feel staged. Everything is placed with intention. The couch cushions sit perfectly aligned, surfaces clear, no clutter anywhere except for a scattered collection of action figures near the coffee table.
That seems to be Yuji’s doing.
You walk further in, carefully lowering the tray onto the table before crouching down so you’re closer to his height.
“Hi, Yuji. I’m really glad you let me in, but where is your parent?”
Instead, he grabs one of the cookies without hesitation and takes a large bite, completely unbothered, already distracted as he drops to the floor and resumes whatever storyline his action figures were in the middle of.
You watch him for a second, amused despite yourself.
You feel it before you hear it, the subtle shift of someone behind you.
Footsteps that stop just close enough.
You turn, and for a moment everything else in the room fades out.
He’s taller than you expected. Broad shoulders, clean lines, everything about him put together in a way that matches the house. His shirt is slightly unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled just enough to show strong forearms, tie loosened like he’s only just stepped out of work mode.
Your eyes flicker up to his face and pause.
There’s something quietly composed about him, something controlled, but his gaze lingers just a second too long to be entirely neutral.
And suddenly you’re very aware of what you’re wearing.
The neckline dips lower than you remembered when you left the house.
“Oh— my gosh, I’m so sorry,” you start quickly, straightening up, brushing your hands over your clothes like that might somehow make this less awkward. “Yuji just brought me in and I thought I should— I mean I was going to wait and then—”
He hums softly, cutting through the rush of your words.
His voice is calm, steady in a way that settles the air almost immediately.
“Yuji tends to make decisions on behalf of everyone.”
Behind you, Yuji nods like this is completely accurate, still chewing on your cookie.
You let out a small breath, some of the tension easing from your shoulders.
“I brought these,” you say, gesturing to the tray. “I just moved in next door and thought I should introduce myself properly.”
His gaze shifts briefly to the cookies, then back to you.
There’s an aware pause, “I’m Nanami.”
The name fits him too well.
You give him yours in return, watching the way he repeats it once under his breath, like he’s testing how it sounds.
“It suits you,” he says simply.
Something about the way he says it feels like more than politeness.
Yuji suddenly reaches for another cookie, and Nanami steps forward, hand moving easily to lift the tray out of reach before the boy can grab it.
Yuji groans dramatically, already plotting his next attempt.
Nanami gestures lightly toward the kitchen.
“Come. I’ll put these somewhere safer.”
You follow him, trying not to notice the way your attention keeps catching on small things — the way his shirt sits against his back, the quiet confidence in how he moves, the fact that you’re suddenly very aware you’ll be living next door to him.
In the kitchen, he sets the tray down with care, turning back toward you.
“I didn’t expect my neighbour to arrive with gifts,” he says.
“I didn’t expect to be invited in by your son,” you reply, a hint of teasing slipping in before you can stop it.
His mouth curves slightly.
That explains the comfort.
You nod, then gesture vaguely toward the wall separating your homes.
“I’m actually hosting something tomorrow night. Nothing too serious, just… people, music. I thought I should let you know in case it gets loud.”
His expression doesn’t change much, but there’s a flicker of interest there.
“I can keep it reasonable,” you add, though the slight tilt of your head suggests you might not entirely mean it.
“I doubt that,” he says, almost under his breath.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Then Yuji calls out from the other room, already bored without an audience.
“I’ll leave you to it. And— try not to let him eat all of those.”
You head toward the door, feeling his gaze linger just long enough to notice.
And when you step back outside, the air feels a little different than it did before.
The music carries further than you expected.
It spills out of your open windows, rolls over the fence, settles into the quiet of the neighbouring yard like it belongs there too. The bass is low but constant, the kind that hums under everything else — laughter, voices, the sharp clink of glass.
Inside, your house is alive.
Bodies move easily through the space, warm air brushing against skin, conversations overlapping in messy, effortless waves.
Someone has taken control of the speakers, someone else is already too drunk, and the kitchen counter is crowded with half-finished drinks and open bottles.
You move through it like it’s second nature.
There’s something loose about you tonight, something just slightly more unguarded. You laugh louder, linger closer, let your hands brush where they don’t necessarily need to. Not careless — never that — just aware of the effect you have and choosing not to dull it.
Your outfit does most of the talking anyway.
It clings in the right places, dips just enough, catches light when you move. You didn’t overthink it, but you knew exactly what you were doing when you put it on.
And every now and then, without really thinking about it, you drift toward the side of the house where his window sits just beyond the fence.
Next door, everything is quiet.
Nanami stands at the sink, sleeves rolled, fingers steady as he rinses the last plate. The rhythm is familiar, controlled, something to focus on.
The noise from your house doesn’t bother him.
He dries his hands, sets the dish aside, and for a moment he’s still. The sound of laughter rises again, louder this time, followed by something that might be your voice.
The light from your house spills into the garden, soft and warm against the dark.
The fence doesn’t block much — not when the angle is right, not when movement catches the eye.
Not for anyone in particular, not performing, not trying to be watched. Your body moves easily with the music, effortless in a way that doesn’t look practiced, just… natural.
Like you don’t think about it at all.
That’s what holds his attention.
Your head tips back slightly when you laugh, your hand brushing over your hair as you turn, the fabric of what you’re wearing shifting with every movement in a way that makes it hard not to notice.
His jaw tightens, just slightly.
This is none of his concern.
You’re his neighbour. That’s all.
The thought sits there, firm, logical.
It doesn’t make him look away.
Someone steps closer to you, says something near your ear, and you lean in just enough to hear them. Your hand rests briefly against their chest as you laugh again, easy, unbothered.
Nanami exhales slowly through his nose.
It should be more than enough reason to step away from the window, to return to the quiet, to let the night carry on without his attention fixed somewhere it doesn’t belong.
You turn again, drifting further across the space, and for a moment you’re partially out of view.
And yet when you reappear, it feels… noticeable.
His hand settles against the edge of the counter behind him, grip firmer than necessary.
There’s something about the way you exist in that space. Uncontained. Untouched by the order he keeps so carefully intact in his own life.
It draws his attention in a way he doesn’t appreciate.
Or maybe in a way he understands too well.
After a while, he forces himself to step back.
The kitchen light suddenly feels brighter than it did before.
He reaches for a glass, pours something he doesn’t really intend to drink, and tells himself that’s the end of it.
Outside, the night stretches on.
You don’t notice him at the window.
But at some point, as you move through the music, through the bodies, through the heat of your own space, you glance toward the fence without thinking.
And for a second, you almost feel like you’re being watched.
It doesn’t make you stop.
If anything, you lean into the moment a little more.
The first time you see him after the party, it’s almost… normal.
Morning light, quieter street, the kind of calm that makes the night before feel like something slightly unreal.
You’re locking your door when he steps out of his.
For a second, neither of you says anything.
He looks exactly the same as before. Put together, controlled, like nothing ever shifts out of place around him.
“Morning,” you say, casual, like you didn’t spend half the night moving through your house in a way that would’ve definitely been visible from his kitchen.
His gaze lands on you, steady.
“I trust the noise wasn’t… excessive.”
You smile, already knowing the answer.
A small nod, like that’s the end of it.
“You didn’t come over,” you add, tilting your head slightly.
You let out a soft laugh.
“I literally told you about it.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
You watch him for a second, something amused flickering behind your eyes.
“Next time, I’ll be clearer.”
His jaw shifts almost imperceptibly.
“I’m not sure that would change the outcome.”
“Mm,” you hum, stepping a little closer as if you’re just passing by, “we’ll see.”
You don’t miss the way his attention flickers, just briefly, to the space between you.
You leave before it can settle.
After that, it becomes… a pattern.
Passing each other outside at just the right moments, like your schedules have quietly aligned without either of you acknowledging it.
Yuji is usually the reason.
He runs up to you whenever he sees you, bright and loud and completely unfiltered.
You crouch down to his level without hesitation every time, letting him talk, letting him pull you into whatever story he’s in the middle of.
Nanami always follows a few steps behind.
“You’re distracting him,” he says once, though there’s no real weight behind it.
“You’re welcome,” you reply, not even looking up from where Yuji is showing you something in his hands.
Nanami exhales quietly, like he’s losing an argument he didn’t mean to start.
You start lingering a little longer than necessary.
Leaning against the low wall between your properties, talking to Yuji while your attention drifts upward every now and then, catching Nanami’s eye just long enough to hold it.
You ask him small questions.
A faint shift at the corner of his mouth.
One afternoon, you show up in something softer.
Still you, still deliberate, but less sharp around the edges. A loose top slipping slightly off one shoulder, sunlight catching against your skin.
Yuji runs up to you immediately.
Nanami notices the change before he can stop himself.
“You’re home early,” you say, glancing up at him.
“Didn’t feel like staying out.”
Your fingers absentmindedly trace along the edge of the wall as you speak, nails tapping softly against the surface.
His eyes follow the movement.
It becomes easier to tease him.
Just enough to slip under his skin.
“You’re very serious, you know that?”
You look at him for a second, slow, unconvinced.
There’s a moment, a few days in, where it almost shifts.
Yuji has gone inside, distracted by something, leaving the two of you alone by the fence.
No music, no noise, just the low hum of the afternoon.
You lean forward slightly, resting your arms along the top of the wall.
“You watched, didn’t you?”
“I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”
You hold his eyes now, not letting him deflect.
“You didn’t come over… but you knew exactly how it went.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Your voice drops just slightly, not enough to be obvious, just enough to change the air between you.
Something in his expression tightens.
You straighten, stepping back like you didn’t just leave something hanging between you.
“Anyway,” you say lightly, “I’ll see you around, Nanami.”
You turn before he can respond.
After that, something shifts.
The way his gaze lingers a fraction too long.
The way his responses take just a second more than they used to.
The way he notices things he shouldn’t be paying attention to.
It’s louder than usual next door.
Two of them, one unmistakably Yuji’s, the other… far too amused for no reason.
Nanami doesn’t need to look to know who it is.
He opens the door anyway.
Yuji is halfway through explaining something that makes absolutely no sense, gesturing wildly with both hands while another boy stands beside him, quieter, watching with the kind of patience that suggests he’s used to this.
Leaning against the wall like he’s already made himself comfortable, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, grin sharp the second his eyes land on Nanami.
“Kento,” he says, like he’s been waiting for this moment all day. “You didn’t tell me your neighbourhood got interesting.”
“What do you want, Gojo.”
“Relax,” Gojo replies easily, waving a hand. “Yuji wanted a playdate. I’m being a responsible adult.”
Yuji is already pulling Megumi toward the yard, the two of them disappearing before anything else can be said.
Gojo watches them go, then turns back to Nanami.
“So,” he starts, pushing himself off the wall, stepping inside without waiting to be invited, “are you going to tell me about her, or do I have to piece it together myself?”
Nanami doesn’t look at him.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Mm,” Gojo hums, slow, unconvinced. “That’s interesting, because from where I’m standing, there’s a lot to tell.”
Gojo walks past him like he owns the place, glancing briefly around the perfectly ordered room before letting out a quiet laugh.
“She’s your neighbour, right?”
“That’s already dangerous,” Gojo continues, like he’s thinking out loud. “Close proximity, repeated exposure… you never stood a chance.”
“I’m not having this conversation.”
“Oh, you are,” Gojo replies lightly, turning to face him properly now. “Because I’ve never seen you this…” he pauses, searching for the right word, “…distracted.”
“You are,” Gojo says immediately. “You just hide it better than most people.”
“She’s pretty,” Gojo adds, casually, like it’s nothing. “Confident. Knows exactly what she’s doing too, which makes it worse for you.”
Nanami finally looks at him.
“What?” Gojo lifts his hands slightly, mock innocence. “I’m just observing.”
“I don’t need to assume,” Gojo says, grin returning, slower this time. “Yuji talks.”
“Oh, that got your attention.”
“What does Yuji have to do with this.”
“Apparently she talks to him all the time,” Gojo says, walking toward the window now, glancing out toward your house like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Comes over, leans on the wall, smiles at you like she’s got nowhere else to be.”
“That kind of thing gets to people,” Gojo continues, quieter now, more deliberate. “Especially people like you.”
“Controlled,” Gojo says simply. “Routine. Structure. You don’t like variables.”
Nanami’s gaze hardens slightly.
Gojo glances back at him.
“No,” he corrects, voice laced with amusement, “she’s a problem.”
Silence stretches between them for a moment.
From outside, Yuji’s voice cuts through, calling for Nanami, followed by something Megumi says that sounds far more grounded.
Gojo watches Nanami carefully.
“You’re thinking about her right now,” he says.
Nanami doesn’t take the bait.
That, more than anything, is answer enough.
Gojo exhales softly, shaking his head like he’s already entertained enough.
“You know what the worst part is?” he adds, almost conversational again. “I don’t even think she’s trying that hard.”
Nanami’s expression doesn’t change.
Gojo lets it sit there for a second before pushing off the counter.
“Anyway,” he says, tone light again, like none of this mattered, “I’ll leave you to your internal crisis.”
“I’m not having a crisis.”
“Sure,” Gojo replies easily, already heading toward the door. “And you definitely didn’t watch her dancing the other night.”
Later, after they leave, the house feels quieter than usual.
Nanami stands in the kitchen for a moment, hands resting against the counter, gaze unfocused.
Gojo’s words linger longer than they should.
Not because they’re wrong.
Because they’re not entirely right either.
It would be easier if this was simple.
If you were just a distraction.
Just something he could ignore.
And he’s starting to realise that control isn’t the same thing as distance.
Or at least, that’s how you frame it when you knock on his door.
This time, you don’t hesitate.
You don’t overthink it either, even though you’re aware of how this might look, showing up like this instead of just calling someone else.
The door opens quicker than last time.
Nanami stands there, sleeves already rolled like he’s been doing something practical, something structured, something that doesn’t involve you.
His gaze drops to you, steady as always.
You lean slightly against the doorframe, casual.
“My car won’t start,” you say, tilting your head toward the street. “And before you say anything, yes, I could call someone, but you seem like the type who would know how to fix it.”
Just enough for him to process the fact that you came to him first.
“I am,” you admit easily. “Are you going to prove me wrong?”
A few minutes later, you’re both outside.
Your car sits just slightly off to the side, untouched, like it’s waiting for him specifically.
Nanami steps closer to it, already focused, already in his element. He doesn’t waste time asking unnecessary questions, just opens the door, checks, then moves to the front.
You watch him as he lifts the hood.
There’s something about the shift in him.
The way his attention narrows, the way everything else seems to fall away while he works. His hands move with certainty, precise, like he understands exactly what he’s doing and doesn’t need to think twice about it.
You lean against the side of the car, arms loosely crossed, pretending you’re not watching as closely as you are.
“You do this often?” you ask.
“I prefer knowing how things work.”
You shift slightly, stepping closer under the excuse of looking into the engine, your shoulder almost brushing his arm.
“What’s wrong with it?” you ask, leaning in just enough that your voice is closer now.
“Battery,” he replies. “Loose connection.”
“You’re going to fix it?”
You hum softly, like you expected nothing less.
Your hand comes up to rest lightly against the edge of the car, close to where his is working. Not touching.
“You’re staring,” he says after a moment.
You don’t even pretend to deny it.
“You’re interesting to watch.”
His fingers tighten slightly around the tool in his hand before continuing.
“I know,” you reply, voice lighter now, but your eyes don’t leave him. “Doesn’t make it less interesting.”
He exhales quietly through his nose.
There’s something restrained in it.
You let the moment stretch, then shift your weight again, this time just enough that your arm brushes his.
“Do you do this for everyone,” you ask, softer now, “or am I special?”
That lands exactly where you intended it to.
“Would it change anything if you were?”
His gaze flickers up to you then.
You’re already looking at him.
It holds for a second longer than it should.
You don’t move immediately.
“Now?” you ask, even though you know that’s what he meant.
You push yourself off the car, walking around to the driver’s side, feeling his attention follow you for just a second before he forces it back to what he’s doing.
You slide into the seat, starting the engine.
It turns over immediately.
You let it run for a moment before stepping out again, slower this time.
“See?” you say, leaning lightly against the open door. “Knew you’d fix it.”
He closes the hood, the sound solid, final.
“Still,” you shrug, “I appreciate it.”
The question sits between you, casual on the surface.
Not casual at all underneath.
His eyes narrow slightly.
“It’s the middle of the day.”
“And?” you tilt your head, just slightly.
“It can still be a thank you.”
Inside your house, the air feels different than it did during the party.
You move ahead of him, like you’re completely at ease, heading straight for the kitchen.
“What do you drink?” you ask, already reaching for a bottle.
You glance back at him over your shoulder, a small smile playing at your lips.
You pour two glasses anyway.
When you hand his to him, your fingers brush briefly against his.
You step back, leaning against the counter, lifting your glass to your lips.
He doesn’t drink immediately.
“You do this often?” he asks.
You tilt your head, pretending to think.
“Invite my neighbours in for drinks?”
You take a slow sip before answering.
“Only the interesting ones.”
He finally takes a drink.
The tension doesn’t ease.
If anything, it settles deeper.
You don’t stay in the kitchen.
The space feels too open, too easy for him to keep distance, to stay standing, to finish his drink and leave before anything actually shifts.
Glass still in hand, you turn and head toward the living room without asking, without checking if he’ll follow.
You already know he will.
You can feel it without looking, the quiet presence behind you, measured steps, controlled as always.
You sink into the couch like you belong there, like he’s the one stepping into your space now, one arm draped along the back, legs angled just enough to take up more room than necessary.
He doesn’t sit immediately.
You glance up at him, one brow lifting slightly.
“What, you’re going to stand the whole time?”
You smile into your glass.
There’s space between you, but it feels… intentional. Like something placed there rather than naturally existing.
You take another sip, letting the quiet stretch just long enough to be noticeable.
“You’re very disciplined,” you say, eyes drifting over him, not subtle about it.
“I’ve heard that before.”
“So what do you do when you’re not fixing cars for your neighbours?”
He leans back slightly, glass resting loosely in his hand.
You tilt your head, studying him like you don’t believe a word.
“You don’t have anything else?”
“I don’t see the need for it.”
“That’s a little sad,” you say, but there’s no real pity in it, just curiosity.
You let out a soft laugh.
“Of course you’d say that.”
His eyes flick toward you.
“I do whatever I feel like doing.”
You shift slightly, turning more toward him now, your leg brushing just faintly against his.
“What did you notice exactly?” you ask, voice softer, just enough to change the tone.
His grip on the glass tightens slightly.
“That’s a nice way of putting it.”
There’s a slight pause before he adds,
You lean in just a fraction.
You see it in the way his gaze sharpens, the way his posture shifts just slightly, like he’s becoming more aware of the space between you.
“You assume a lot,” he says.
“I pay attention,” you correct softly.
Your fingers trace along the rim of your glass, slow, absent, but deliberate enough to be noticed.
His eyes follow the movement.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” you ask suddenly.
He doesn’t react immediately.
You tilt your head, studying him again.
“It is,” you insist lightly. “You’re… this.”
You gesture vaguely toward him, like the word doesn’t matter.
He watches you carefully.
“And what does that mean.”
“Put together. Attractive. Slightly intimidating.”
“I did,” you shrug. “It’s part of the appeal.”
You lean back again, like you didn’t just say something that sits a little too comfortably between you.
“I think you like that I’m not impressed by you,” you add.
“I didn’t realise you weren’t.”
“Oh, I am,” you say quickly, a small smile playing at your lips, “just not in a way that makes it easy for you.”
He sets his glass down first.
“You do this intentionally,” he says.
He leans forward just a fraction, elbows resting on his knees now, closer without fully closing the distance.
You take a slow sip before answering.
“Because you’re hard to read.”
“And that interests you.”
You lean in slightly now, matching him.
“Then I wouldn’t be sitting here.”
That lands exactly where it should.
There’s no space now that doesn’t feel intentional.
No movement that isn’t noticed.
His gaze drops briefly, not away, just… lower.
“You’re aware of what you’re doing.”
“And you don’t mind the outcome.”
You hold his gaze, steady.
You set your glass down beside you, the soft clink barely registering in the quiet.
Your legs shift against the couch as you slide closer, closing the space he’d been so careful to maintain. His posture changes immediately, attention sharpening, eyes following every inch of your movement like he’s already anticipating where this is going and trying to stop himself from reacting to it.
By the time you settle over him, there’s no distance left to manage.
Your weight presses into him just enough to make it real, one leg sliding alongside his, the other hooking slightly, anchoring yourself there like you belong. Your hand finds his chest, firm, steady, pushing him back until his shoulders meet the couch.
He exhales low, the sound slipping out before he can catch it.
“Kento,” he cuts in, sharper than before, voice lower now, strained in a way that wasn’t there a second ago. “Call me Kento.”
You pause just long enough to look at him properly.
Then your eyes roll slightly, a faint smile pulling at your lips.
You say his name slower this time.
Your fingers trail downward, not hurried, tracing the line of his shirt and his bulge before drifting back up, over the tension in his chest, to the column of his throat, then higher. You don’t quite touch his lips at first — you hover there, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.
His gaze drops to your mouth.
You let your fingertips brush, barely there, just enough to make him notice.
“Ken,” you murmur, softer now, your voice settling into something more intimate, “you hold yourself together a little too well.”
Your hand shifts, thumb grazing along his lower lip, slow.
“I think you need help letting go.”
Your other hand steadies against his shoulder as you lean in slightly, your presence pressing closer without fully closing the gap.
For a moment, he just looks at you.
It settles firmly against you, pulling you closer, the control he’s been holding onto slipping just enough to feel it.
“Yes,” he says, quieter now, his voice all rough around the edges like he's barely hanging on.
You shift again, adjusting over him, closer, your balance changing as his grip tightens against the plush of your ass. His fingers dig in just right, not too hard but enough to make your skin tingle, that heat building low in your belly.
The air between you changes completely, thick and heavy, like every breath is shared, every inch of space charged with what's coming next.
Your forehead nearly brushes his as you lean in, your fingers still tracing slow, absent patterns against his skin—light little circles on his neck, dipping down to his collarbone, feeling the way his pulse jumps under your touch.
Your lips press against his before you push your tongue into his mouth. It’s warm and wet and tastes of whiskey, sharp and smoky, mixing with the faint salt of his skin. He opens up for you immediately, like he's been waiting for this all night.
He groans into the kiss, the sound vibrating through your chest. His fingers dig into your sides, urging you to move harder. You do, rolling your hips in slow, teasing circles, feeling him twitch beneath you.
"Sweetheart, you're killing me," Ken pants, breaking the kiss just enough to nip at your lower lip. His breath is hot, ragged.
Your hand snakes up his chest, fingers wrapping around his throat. Not too tight at first—just enough pressure to make his eyes widen, pupils blowing dark with lust. You squeeze a little harder, watching his Adam's apple bob under your palm.
"You like that, don't you?" you whisper, voice husky as you grind down again, harder this time. The friction sends sparks shooting up your spine.
Your tongues continue to tangle, fighting for dominance, sliding wet and slick against each other. You grab a fistful of his hair, tugging it sharp enough to make him hiss, that pull sending a spark straight down your spine.
He pulls back slightly to look at you, his eyes dark and hooded, lips shiny from your kiss, chest rising and falling fast.
“You look so fucked out already, Ken,” you coo, your voice all soft and teasing, fingers loosening in his hair but still playing with the strands.
He tilts his eyebrow a bit, that cocky little smirk trying to fight through the haze, before his hand slides up your side, cupping your breast through your shirt. His thumb brushes over your nipple, already pebbled and sensitive, and you bite your lip to hold back a whimper.
But he's not stopping there. His other hand joins in, fingers hooking under the hem of your shirt, tugging it up slow at first, like he's savoring the reveal. The fabric drags over your skin, cool air hitting your stomach, then higher, exposing your ribs, the curve of your breasts.
He yanks it over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere behind the couch, forgotten. His eyes drop immediately, locking on your bare chest, and his breath catches, that smirk fading into something hungrier.
“Fuck, no bra, huh?” he mutters, voice low and gravelly, like he's surprised but so damn pleased about it. His hands are on you in seconds, palms warm and rough as they cup your breasts fully, thumbs circling your nipples, pinching just enough to make you arch into him.
You gasp, the sensation shooting straight to your pussy, already wet and aching from the grind of his lap. “Ken,” you breathe, half laugh, half moan, your hands fisting in his shirt as he leans in.
His mouth latches onto one nipple, hot and wet, tongue flicking over the peak before he sucks hard, pulling it between his teeth with a gentle scrape. The pull tugs at something deep inside you, your hips rocking forward on instinct, grinding down on the tent in his pants. It's so hard, straining against the fabric, and you can feel the heat of him through it all, making you slicker with every roll of your body.
He switches to the other breast, sucking and laving with his tongue, groans vibrating against your skin as you keep grinding, the friction building that desperate ache between your thighs. Your hands tangle in his hair again, holding him there, your breaths coming in short pants.
“God, baby,” he grunts, voice muffled against your skin, his hands sliding down to your hips, guiding your grind harder, faster. You can feel him throb under you, that tent pitching up like it's begging for more.
You grunt back, low and needy, your body chasing that pressure, clit rubbing just right against the ridge of his cock through his pants. The couch creaks under you both, the intimate space closing in, just the two of you lost in this haze of want.
You arch into him, your free hand threading through his hair, tugging to keep him there. The choking grip on his neck tightens just a fraction as you grind faster, your pussy aching from the pressure of his cock against you.
"Ken—shit, yes," you moan, your hips stuttering. He's throbbing now, the bulge so prominent it's like he's about to burst through his zipper.
Sweat beads on his forehead, his hips jerking up to meet your grinds. You can feel the damp spot forming on his jeans from your arousal soaking through.
"Darling, please," he chokes out, the word garbled but desperate. His hands roam your back, nails scraping lightly, pulling you impossibly closer.
You release his throat just to kiss him again, deep and bruising, tongues clashing as you grind with renewed fervor. His bulge pulses, and you know he's on the edge already.
But you're not done playing. Your fingers trail back to his neck, squeezing as you nip his jaw. "Not yet, love," you tease, voice breathy.
Ken's response is a muffled whine against your mouth, his lips trailing down to your collarbone, sucking marks into the skin while his hands worship your breasts—squeezing, pinching, making you gasp with every touch.
The grinding builds, your clit throbbing against the ridge of his cock. You choke him again, lighter this time, just to hear that needy groan.
"Baby girl, you're so fucking hot," he rasps, latching back onto your nipple, sucking like it's his lifeline.
You lose yourself in the sensation, hips rolling relentlessly, the pressure coiling tight in your belly. His pet names spill out between kisses and licks—honey, angel, sweetheart—each one making you grind harder.
Finally, you pull back slightly, both of you panting, his face flushed under your hand. Your breasts heave with each breath, marked red from his mouth.
But he's getting desperate now, that dominant edge cracking as his hands roam lower, one slipping between your thighs from behind, cupping your pussy through your shorts. His fingers press in, squeezing the mound, feeling the damp heat soaking through the fabric.
“Fuck, you're so wet already,” he growls, squeezing again, thumb finding your clit and rubbing firm circles that make your hips buck.
You moan loud, head falling back, the pressure building fast and intense. “Ken—stop being such a tease,” you gasp, voice breaking on a whine, your hands clutching his shoulders as you grind into his hand, chasing that touch.
He chuckles dark, but it's strained, his own desperation leaking through as he nips at your neck. “Tease? Baby, I'm just getting started.” But his grip tightens, fingers working you harder through the shorts, making your thighs tremble.
You push at his chest playfully, but there's no real force behind it, your body's too wound up. “Then do something about it,” you challenge, lips brushing his ear, feeling him shiver.
That's all it takes. He shifts suddenly, strong arms wrapping around you as he maneuvers you both, laying back on the couch with his head propped against the armrest, pulling you with him. The cushions sink under his weight, his body stretched out long and inviting, that bulge in his pants even more obvious now.
“Ken, what—” you start, but he's already got his hands on your shorts, fingers hooking into the waistband, tugging them down your hips with urgent pulls.
“Off. Now,” he demands, voice rough, eyes locked on the way the fabric peels away, revealing your bare pussy, glistening and ready.
You lift your hips to help, kicking the shorts aside, the cool air hitting your skin making you shiver. He's staring, chest heaving, like he can't get enough.
“Please, baby,” he begs then, voice dropping to that cute, desperate whine that makes your heart flip. “Climb on my face. I need to taste you. Fuck, doll, I've been dying for it.” His hands grip your thighs, pulling you up his body, positioning you over him.
You hover there, knees on either side of his chest, teasing him with the view, your pussy just inches from his mouth. “Beg a little more, Ken,” you say, smirking down at him, fingers trailing over his jaw. “You look so pretty when you're desperate.”
“Sweetheart,” he groans, hips bucking up into nothing, his cock straining painfully. “Baby, please. Sit on my face. I wanna drown in you. Let me make you feel good—fuck, I'll do anything.” His eyes are pleading, that dominant facade shattered, just raw need shining through.
You shake your head, lowering just enough for him to feel your heat but not quite touching. “Not yet. What if I crush you?” you tease, voice light but your body's screaming for it, clit throbbing.
“Baby, don't—fuck, just do it,” he whines, hands squeezing your ass, trying to pull you down. “I can take it. Please, doll, I need your pussy on my tongue. Been thinking about it all night.”
You resist a little longer, rocking your hips to brush against his lips once, twice, making him dart his tongue out for a taste that leaves him growling in frustration. “Ken, you're so impatient,” you laugh breathlessly, but the ache is winning, your thighs quivering.
“Sweetheart, I'm begging,” he says, voice cracking, eyes wild. “Sit. On. My. Face. Baby, please—I'll eat you till you can't think straight.”
That does it. You start to lower, but still hold back, hovering, teasing. He snaps then, hands firm on your hips, yanking you down hard onto his mouth.
His tongue dives in immediately, flat and broad, licking a long stripe up your slit, tasting every inch. “Fuck, yes,” he mumbles against you, the vibration making you jolt. His lips seal around your clit, sucking gently at first, then harder, tongue flicking fast.
You cry out, hands bracing on the armrest above his head, body rocking into his face. “Ken—oh god,” you moan, the wet heat of his mouth overwhelming, his nose bumping your clit as he thrusts his tongue inside you, fucking you with it deep and insistent.
He doesn't stop, hands holding you down, fingers bruising your hips as he devours you. One hand slides up, two fingers pushing into your pussy, curling just right to hit that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes.
His other hand comes down smack! on your ass cheek, the sting blooming hot and sharp. You yelp, arching, but he doesn't stop, tongue thrusting inside you while his palm cracks again.
"That's it, sweetheart," he pants, smacking harder this time, the sound echoing. "Take it for me."
Your skin tingles, the pain mixing with pleasure as he spreads your legs impossibly wide, his shoulders wedged between your thighs.
“Ride my face. Fuck, you taste so good, doll.” His fingers pump faster, thumb circling your clit while his tongue laps at your folds, sucking and slurping like he's starved.
You grind down harder, lost in it, moans spilling out uncontrolled. The pressure builds, coiling tight in your belly, something new and intense bubbling up. “Ken, I—fuck, don't stop,” you gasp, thighs clamping around his head, body trembling.
He adds a third finger, stretching you, thrusting deep while his mouth works your clit relentlessly. “Come on, sweetheart,” he urges, the words vibrating through you. “Give it to me. Squirt for me, baby.”
It's too much—the curl of his fingers, the suction, the way he's moaning like he's the one getting pleasured. You shatter, crying his name as the orgasm hits, but it's different, wetter, a gush flooding out as you squirt for the first time, soaking his face, his chin, the couch beneath.
“Ken! Oh my—fuck,” you sob, body convulsing, waves crashing over you harder than ever. He's lapping it up, groaning deep in his throat, fingers still working you through it until you're shaking, oversensitive.
You've never squirted before, the sensation leaving you dazed, boneless, like your whole body's been remade.
He pulls back finally, face shiny and wrecked, grinning up at you with pure satisfaction. “Holy shit, baby. That was—fuck, you squirted. So hot.”
Your legs are wobbly as you climb off his face, knees giving a little, sliding down his body until you're straddling his waist again. You lean down, kissing him messy, tasting yourself on his lips, whiskey and you mixing in a heady rush.
“Take your clothes off,” you whisper against his mouth, voice husky, hands already tugging at his shirt. “Now, Ken. I need you inside me.”
He doesn't hesitate, sitting up just enough to yank his shirt over his head, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the trail of hair leading down. His pants are next, fumbling with the button, shoving them down with his boxers in one go, his cock springing free—thick and hard, tip leaking pre-cum, veins pulsing.
“Baby,” he breathes as you straddle him again, lining yourself up, the head of his cock nudging your entrance. You're still slick from before, but he's big, stretching you as you sink down slow, inch by inch.
You both groan at the feel of it, your pussy clenching tight around him, so full it borders on too much. “Fuck, you're tight,” he grits out, hands on your hips, fighting not to thrust up yet.
You start riding him like crazy, hips rolling hard, bouncing down to take him deep every time. The slap of skin on skin fills the room, your breasts jiggling with each movement, his eyes glued to them.
“Ken—god, you feel so good,” you moan, grinding your clit against his pelvis on the downstroke, chasing that friction. He's thrusting up to meet you, desperate little grunts escaping him, his control slipping fast.
“Baby, slow—fuck, I'm not gonna last,” he whines, voice high and pathetic, hands squeezing your ass like it's his lifeline. But it's cute, the way his face twists, brows furrowed, lips parted in that needy way.
You don't slow, riding him harder, walls fluttering around his cock, pulling him deeper. “Come on, Ken. Cum for me,” you tease, leaning down to bite his lip, your own orgasm building again from how full he makes you feel.
He breaks with a choked groan, hips jerking up erratic as he cums first, spilling hot and thick inside you, pulsing deep. “Fuck—baby, doll, I'm—ah!” It's messy, his body shuddering under you, that cute desperation making him cling to you like you'll disappear.
You keep moving through it, milking every drop, until your own release hits, clenching around him as you cum with a cry, collapsing onto his chest, both of you panting, slick and spent.
“Ken,” you murmur, nuzzling his neck, feeling his arms wrap around you tight, holding you close in the afterglow.
“Sweetheart,” he whispers back, kissing your hair, voice soft and sated. “That was... fuck, perfect.”
