Mirror Mirror
╰─ Nanami Kento x f!reader
After a long, stressful week, your boyfriend Nanami Kento decides to unwind with you in the most intimate way—by bringing you to the mirror and reminding you exactly who owns every inch of your body. With slow, deliberate fingers and that deep, measured voice, he takes you apart piece by piece while you're forced to watch.
content: Explicit sexual content (smut), fingering, mirror sex, clitoral stimulation, dirty talk, praise kink, mild dominance, established relationship, possessiveness, orgasm control, slight voyeurism (self-watching).
word count: 2,471
song: Scott and Zelda by BIBI
masterlist ୧₊˚ playlist
The first thing you noticed was the weight of his presence behind you.
It was not his hands—not yet—just that steady, solid warmth that Nanami Kento carried everywhere like a second skin. His chest brushed against your bare shoulder blades, the cotton of his button-down a rough contrast to the naked curve of your spine. You are standing in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom, the one he had insisted on keeping despite its ornate, slightly outdated frame because “it functions perfectly fine, there's no reason to replace it.”
Right now, you are grateful for his pragmatism.
His palms came to rest on your hips, fingers splaying wide over the jut of bone beneath your skin. The touch was light, grounding, a question more than a demand. You watched his reflection, the way his amber eyes dragged from your face down the length of your exposed body—languid, unhurried.
It was like he was memorizing every inch.
“Look at yourself, honey,” he murmured, his voice that low, gravelly thing that settled behind your ribs and made your thighs press together. “Just look.”
You did.
The woman in the mirror was already flushed, nipples pebbled tight, breath coming in shallow little bursts that made her chest rise and fall in an uneven rhythm. She looked desperate, and you hate how much that turned you on.
Kento's mouth found the curve of your shoulder. His lips parted, tongue dragging hot and wet against your skin, and you shivered so hard you had to brace your hands against the dresser beneath the mirror.
“I've had a long week, my love,” he said against your shoulder, words vibrating through your bones. “Meetings. Paperwork. People who should know better ask questions with obvious answers.” His teeth scraped your skin, just enough to stung. “And all I could think about was coming home to you.”
His hands moved.
Slowly—agonizingly slowly—they slid from your hips around to your stomach, palms flat against the soft part of your belly before drifting lower. Not quite to where you need them. Just tracing the waistband of your panties, fingertips skimming the lace like he was testing the texture.
“Kento…” you breathed, and you could even hear the plea in it.
His reflection smiled.
It was not a kind smile. It was the kind of smile that knew exactly what it was doing, that understood the power coiled in those deliberate, patient hands of his. The kind of smile that made your cunt ache.
“Why the rush?” he asked, innocent as sin. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, dragging the fabric down your thighs. You stepped out of them when they pooled at your ankles, bare now from the waist down, completely exposed under the warm bedroom light. “We have all night.”
The mirror didn't lie.
You saw everything—the dark blonde of his hair, slightly disheveled from the day. The way his forecorded arms flexed as his hands came to rest on your hips again, guiding you just a fraction wider apart. The hungry glint in his eyes as he took in the sight of your naked body framed against his clothed one.
“Hands on the dresser,” he instructed, and you obeyed immediately, palms flat against the polished wood.
The position arched your back just enough, pushed your ass back against the thick seam of his trousers. You felt him through the fabric—half-hard, growing heavier by the second.
“Good girl.”
The praise sunk into you like honey, warm and sweet and addictive.
His right hand left your hip, trailing a path down the curve of your ass, around the swell of your thigh, and then.
There.
His fingers found your folds like they have been searching for them all day, like this was the destination he has been walking toward since he stepped through the front door. He didn't push inside. Not yet. He just explored, dragging the pads of his fingers through your slickness, gathering the wetness that has been building since he first pressed himself against your back.
“You're so wet for me,” he observed, the same tone he might use to comment on the weather. A simple fact. Irrefutable. “Have you been thinking about this all day too?”
“Yes...” you admitted, because there was no point in lying. Your body has already told him everything.
His middle finger circled your clit, featherlight, and your hips jerked forward like you had been shocked.
“Ngh...”
A low, frustrated sound escaped your throat.
“Eyes on the mirror,” he reminded you, and you dragged your gaze back up to meet his reflection. “I want you to watch what I do to you. I want you to see the way you fall apart for me.”
The first finger slid in with no resistance.
“Ohh—!”
You were so wet that it glided smoothly, sinking into your heat until his knuckle pressed against your entrance. He held there, letting you feel the stretch, the fullness of even that single digit inside you. Your walls clenched around him instinctively, trying to pull him deeper.
“Desperate little thing,” he murmured, but there was no cruelty in it.
Just affection. Just wonder.
He added a second finger.
“Ahm... Fuck...”
The stretch was sharper, fuller, and you gasped at the sensation, your knuckles going white against the dresser's edge. Kento gave you a moment to adjust—he was always so careful with you, even when he was taking you apart. His lips pressed a soft apology against your shoulder blade while his fingers remained still inside you, letting your body learn the shape of him.
“Breathe,” he said quietly. “You can take it. You've taken so much more.”
You exhaled, forcing your muscles to relax. He felt you loosen around him and rewarded you with a slow, deliberate thrust—fingers sliding out almost to the tips before pressing back in, filling you completely.
“Kento... More...”
“Just like that,” he praised, and his voice has dropped an octave, rougher now. “Look at you. Look at how beautifully you take my fingers.”
You looked.
“Ahm—ahh... Yes...”
The image in the mirror was obscened.
Your legs were spread, your cunt on full display, and between your thighs you can see Kento's hand working, his fingers disappearing inside you with every thrust. Your skin was flushed pink from your chest all the way up to your cheeks, and your mouth was parted, tiny sounds escaping with every breath
“Yes, baby... Please..”
“I want to taste you,” he said, almost conversationally, while his fingers curl inside you, searching. “I want to bury my face between your thighs and drink every drop you give me. Would you like that?”
“Yes... Mhm...” you whimpered.
“But I can't stop watching you.”
His fingers found the spot—that rough, spongy patch inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. He pressed against it, firm and steady, and your knees buckled. He caught you easily, his free arm wrapping around your waist to keep you upright.
“Shit—ohh... Keep going...”
“Not when you look like this. Not when you're this perfect.”
His fingers started a rhythm.
It was devastating.
“Ahh... Ahh—mhmph!”
He slid in and out at a pace that was maddeningly controlled, each thrust pressing against your g-spot before pulling away, building a pressure that coiled tighter and tighter in your gut. At the same time, his thumb found your clit, rubbing firm circles that made your vision blur.
“Kento... Fuck—ahh...”
“You're close,” he observed, because he knew your body better than you do. “I can feel it. Your walls are fluttering around me.”
The room was full of sound—the wet, obscene noise of his fingers moving inside you, your gasps and moans, his low, steady voice murmuring encouragement against your ear.
“I want you to cum for me,” he said, and his voice was strained now, his composure cracking just slightly. “I want to feel you squeeze my fingers. I want to watch you lose control in that mirror.”
His thrusts quickened.
His thumb pressed harder.
And you shattered.
The orgasm crashed over you like a wave, pulling you under, dragging you down into something dark and warm and overwhelming. Your mouth opened but no sound came out. Your body tensed, arched, trembled, and through it all you kept your eyes on the mirror—on the sight of your own face contorted in pleasure, on Kento's arm wrapped around your waist, on his hand buried between your thighs, working you through every pulse and clench.
“That's it,” he groaned, watching you come undone. “That's it. So perfect. So fucking beautiful.”
“Can't—fuck... Ahh...”
He didn't stop.
“Ohh... Kento...”
His fingers kept moving, drawing out the orgasm, pushing you past the point of sensitivity into something almost too much. You whimpered and tried to squirm away, but his arm locked tight, holding you in place.
“One more, baby,” he said, and his voice went rough, commanding. “One more, and then I'll give you what you really want.”
“I can't…” you gasped, even as his thumb resumed its circles on your overstimulated clit.
“You can.” His fingers curled again, pressing deep, finding that spot that made your toes curl. “You're going to cum for me again, and I'm going to watch you do it.”
The second orgasm built faster, sharper, and crests before you were ready. You sobbed as it breaks, your body convulsing against his, your vision went white at the edges. He held you through it, murmuring praise, telling you how good you are, how perfect, how he has never seen anything more beautiful than you coming apart in his arms.
When the tremors finally subsided, he pulled his fingers out slowly, carefully. You watched in the mirror as he brought them to his mouth, his lips parting, his tongue sliding out to taste you.
Your legs were shaking.
He guided you away from the dresser, turning you around to face him properly. His hands cupped your face, tilting your head up, and he kissed you—deep and slow, letting you taste yourself on his lips. His cock pressed against your stomach, hard and insistent through his trousers.
“Now,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at you. His tie was crooked. His hair was falling into his eyes. He looked undone, and you have never seen anything more beautiful. “Do you want to take this to the bed, or do you want me to fuck you right here against the mirror?”
The question hung in the air.
Your eyes drifted to the mirror beside you, to the reflection of your own ruined expression, to the way his hands were already reaching for his belt.
“Mirror,” you breathed. “I want to watch.”
His smile was sharp and dark and full of promise.
“I was hoping you'd say that.”
He turned you back around, bending you forward until your palms pressed flat against the cool glass. Your breath fogged the surface, obscuring your reflection for a moment before it cleared. Behind you, you heard the slide of his belt, the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of fabric as he freed himself.
His hands found your hips, positioning you exactly how he wants you. The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, slick with your wetness, teasing, not yet pushing in.
“Fuck… So beautiful,” he said, and his voice wrecked, desperate, nothing like the composed salaryman the world sees.
“Fuck me.”
“Where?”
You met his eyes in the mirror. “Everywhere. I want you everywhere.”
He gave you a single nod, and then he pushed in.
“Ahh...”
The stretch was everything—fullness flooding through you, spreading through your belly, your chest, your limbs. He filled you completely, seated to the hilt, his hips pressed flush against your ass. You both froze, breathing hard, letting the reality of it settle.
“Oh, fuck...” he breathed. It made you clench around him.
He started to move.
Slow at first. Long, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you, that made the glass fog with your breath and your palms slide against the surface. The rhythm built, grew faster, grew rougher, until he was fucking you with a desperation that matched the pounding of your heart.
“Mhm... Ohh—yes...”
“Look,” he commanded, and you teared your gaze from the ceiling to meet his in the mirror. “Look at what we are.”
You saw it.
“Ahh—baby... Harder...”
The way your body yielded to his. The way his hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise. The way his jaw clenched, his eyes dark, his chest heaving behind you. The way your cunt swallowed his cock with every thrust, slick and hungry.
“Ohh... Shit... Mhmph...”
You're beautiful like this. Destroyed. Claimed.
“I'm close...” he warned, his rhythm faltering. “Where do you want it? Tell me.”
“Inside...” you managed. “Please...”
He groaned, deep and animal, and drove into you one final time. You feel him pulsed, feel the hot rush of his release flooding you, and the sensation is enough to trigger your own climax—a third wave that wracked through you, pulling him deeper, milking every drop.
He stayed inside you for a long moment, both of you trembling, catching your breath. His forehead pressed against the back of your neck, his arms wrapping around your waist, holding you close.
When he finally pulled out, you felt the emptiness like a physical ache. He turned you around, cupped your face, and kissed you slowly and sweetly.
“Bathroom,” he said against your lips. “We need to clean up.”
You were too boneless to argue.
He helped you walk, his arm steady around your waist, his lips pressing soft kisses to your shoulder. In the bathroom, he ran a warm cloth between your thighs, gentle and careful, pressing a kiss to your knee when you hissed at the sensitivity.
You caught your reflection in the bathroom mirror—smaller, less ornate, but still clear enough to see the flush on your cheeks, the contentment in your eyes.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
Kento looked up from where he was crouched at your feet, cloth in hand, his hair a mess, his shirt untucked, his tie long abandoned somewhere on the bedroom floor.
“Thank you for what?” he asked, genuine confusion in his voice.
“For the reminder.”
He stood, tossing the cloth in the sink, and pulled you into his arms. His chin rested on the top of your head, his heartbeat steady under your ear.
“Any time,” he murmured. “I'll always remind you.”
Outside, the world was still spinning. The meetings and the paperwork and the noise will be there tomorrow.
But tonight, there was only this.
Only him.
Only you, reflected in his eyes.
“Let the world rush tomorrow, honey. Tonight, we'll just be Scott and Zelda, hiding away from the rest of it.”
© 2026 faeloresha. All content is owned by @faeloresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.
