Tags: P.2 To THIS DRABBLE But Can Be Read Alone I Think, Yakuza!suna/escort!reader

tags: p.2 to THIS DRABBLE but can be read alone i think, yakuza!suna/escort!reader

It took you a long time to learn how to walk in heels.

It didn't come to you naturally like it does for some, the movement instinctively fluid and swanlike and effortlessly simple. You had to practice at it, starting with shorter heels and smaller steps and a slower pace, before eventually working your way up to any degree of grace.

The process wasn't without its failings, to be sure. Not without stumbling or blisters or icepacks that you had to press to your aching feet at the end of a long day. But you got the hang of it eventually, it just took a bit of time.

It feels like a lifetime ago now as your steps click across the marble floor of the lobby with an easy, steady gait. You listen to the rhythmic noise each meeting of your heels make against the tile and remember the girl you were all those years ago, in much shorter heels, with a whole lot less life under her belt.

She'd never be able to walk in these shoes.

Especially not in this place.

The day had started out like any other, showing up to the club in the evening and getting yourself ready in the little room you'd been assigned to for the day. It was neither particularly luxurious nor notably shabby, the same as the rest of the suites that line the hallway at the back of the members only club at which you're employed—each close to any average hotel room, though perhaps a little more sterile. First you showered in the adjoining washroom, and then you changed into the outfit you'd brought with you for that evening. You were just in the process of styling your hair when a knock at the door interrupted you.

Your eyes flashed to the clock hanging on the wall, a little startled—you still had almost 25 minutes to the start of your scheduled shift, so no one ought to be calling on you so soon.

"Come in," you'd called out, though your voice sounded a bit confused.

Your manager's face appeared around the edge of the door once it creaked open, and your confusion only grew.

Kaito has never been someone you like. He isn't far from your age, from what you can tell, but he's a man who errs perpetually on the wrong side of sleazy—what with his over-gelled hair, his tastelessly flashy suits, and his sharp, insincere smile that always has the infallible effect of setting your own teeth on edge.

That day was no different.

"You're out today," Kaito said as you dipped your body in his direction in greeting. You froze, still hunched in your shallow bow.

"What?" you asked him as your head popped up in shock, your tone cold.

You'd checked your schedule at least three times that day. You were sure you'd been on the schedule to start at 7, and the guy manning the front desk had given you the key to this suite when you checked in, so clearly when you'd arrived half an hour prior he'd seen your name there too.

"Change of plans. You were requested." Kaito shot you a particularly implicative look you didn't like, and you cared for the way his gaze slipped down to the dip of your neckline even less. "You've been so popular lately."

"Who called for me?" You questioned him, clearing your throat pointedly as Kaito's canine caught his lower lip in a subtle bite. His eyes flickered up to meet yours after another moment of appreciating your tits.

"Who do you think?" he asked you as his brows lifted tauntingly.

Heat flared in your face at his words, and at the sudden prospects they implied.

"A driver will pick you up in half an hour," Kaito added dismissively before stepping back towards the door to leave.

"Why can't Toma take me to the hotel?" you asked, referring to the club's driver who usually took you to your calls out.

(You're fond of Toma—a quiet man in middle age who always treats you kindly. Just knowing that he'll be there waiting to pick you up at a scheduled time always feels like a quiet reassurance on nights like these.)

"They've been nice enough to send one of their own tonight, and you're not going to the hotel," Kaito paused to explain.

Not going to the hotel?

"Inarizaki has been incredibly good to us, you know." Kaito's voice suddenly lost the affectation of charm that he usually laid on thick. The mere mention of the name was enough to make goosebumps raise along your skin. Still hesitating in the doorway, Kaito glanced over at you—and for a moment you wondered if the look you were seeing behind his eyes was insistence or worry. "Just... be sure to return the favour, yeah?"

You're not sure where you were dropped off by the driver.

It's not that you find yourself in some remote place on the edge of town—you're in the heart of the city's centre, on a street you've travelled a hundred times—the high rise just isn't one that you've ever frequented before. As you step across the threshold, you can't help but think the sumptuous interiors remind you more of a luxury hotel than a complex of condominiums like the sign says outside.

There had been a note waiting for you in the back of the sleek black car that had picked you up at the club, though all that had been written on the piece of paper was an apartment number and a code—which you could only assume was for a door. It's tucked away in your pocket now, out of sight, and you've committed the code to memory.

As your heels click against the marble while you cross the glistering lobby towards the elevators—the tap, tap, tap counting out your pace metronomically—something squirms in the pit of your stomach.

Up on one of the highest floors of the towering building, your fingers shake slightly as you type in the code to the keypad outside the specified door. You pause and fight to steady them after you begin to press the six digits into their corresponding keys—no one likes a girl who's trembling, after all—and after a few breaths you manage to get it right: the light on the upper right hand corner of the automated lock blinks green three times, and you're able to turn the knob of the door.

It's quiet when you step inside, which surprises you.

You half expected to be walking into a party, or an orgy, or the former that would eventually lead to the latter. But instead, you're met with a perfectly still, and pristinely tidy, living space.

You hesitate for a moment as the front door swings closed behind you, processing the shock, and then you bend down to slip your shoes off of your feet. If he wants you to put them back on later, you'll do so without complaint—but for now you don't want to make any presumptions. Next you shuck your thin coat, folding it over your arm, and you tiptoe across the threshold of the genkan—creeping further into the home as quietly as you can.

Your pulse is thrumming under your skin unpleasantly, the unfamiliarity of the place setting you on edge.

"Hello?" you call out weakly in the condo, but you receive no answer back.

You're alone.

Or you seem to be, at least.

You pause in the middle of the expansive living space, next to a long L-shaped sofa in the centre of the room with a square table in front of it. Along one side of the high ceilinged home is a kitchen so sparkling you can't help but think it's never been used. There's a broad dining table with eight chairs poised before a wall of windows not far from you too, with a remarkable view of the city just beyond the glass. Along the opposite side of the space to the kitchen is a set of stairs that passes more windows, leading to a second level that you can't see much of from your place on the first floor, but can only assume is where the bedrooms are found.

The place is gorgeous, you make no effort to deny it. You just don't know where the hell you are.

You rest your hand on the back of the sofa as you stand beside it, and the leather is buttery-soft under your touch. You run your fingers along it to appreciate it for a moment.

"Oh, you're here."

Your eyes snap up to the top of the stairs, in the direction of where you hear the words originate.

Suna stands at the landing of the second floor with a pair of sweatpants slung low on his hips and a towel around his neck. His hair is wet, seemingly fresh from the shower if the droplets of water clinging to his tattooed neck and chest are anything to go by, and he's got one hand ruffling through it with the edge of his white towel. He peers down at you, his usual secretive little smile on his face.

"Hello, Suna-san," you greet him with a polite little bow.

"I wasn't expecting you here so soon," he remarks, letting his towel drop to rest around his neck again and shuffling towards the staircase's railing. He leans over it, peering down at you. "Have you been waiting long?"

"No, I only just arrived. Thank you for sending a driver for me," you say quietly, averting your eyes down towards the coat still looped over your arm. You bite the inside of your cheek as you gather up the nerve to say more. "There's really no need for you to go out of your way like that. I'm more than happy to be escorted by the club's—"

Suna clicks his tongue, interrupting you before you can finish your thought. You don't even have time to be frustrated, because his reply is so perplexing. "No can do, unfortunately. This place has to stay just between the two of us."

Your gaze snaps up to him again in surprise, and you catch the way the corner of his mouth curls up more noticeably. Even from the opposite side of the grand room you see the flash of mischief behind his eyes, warm and mirthful. He lets his long arms dangle over the railing, leaning his body further out across it.

"I wouldn't want just anyone knowing where I live, after all."

Your heartbeat is still racing in your throat, but it feels less threatening now—a hum of anticipation singing underneath your skin. You swallow over the knot of your pulse.

"You live here?" you ask him, your voice sounding a little higher than you intend it to—the surprise you feel evident in the tone even in spite of your efforts to conceal it.

He hums, pushing himself back from the railing and descending the staircase at a lazy pace. Once he reaches the last step, and eventually the main floor, that hammering of your pulse kicks up in intensity again.

"What do you think?" he asks, looking around at the home—his home—around you.

You glance around, though you barely register anything you're looking at, too overwhelmed to take anything in. You clear your throat a little before replying, "It's very nice."

Suna tilts his head to the side, a look of quiet confusion on his face as he considers you. He approaches you slowly, his eyes fixed firmly on you all the while.

"You're nervous," he remarks.

He reaches up, his fingertips brushing against the skin of your shoulder—not dissimilarly to the way you'd been appreciating the smooth leather of his sofa a few moments prior. You shiver at the gentle touch.

"I'm not nervous," you say, a lie if you've ever told one. But you shouldn't be nervous. You've been doing this job for too long to get so rattled over a simple change of scenery.

But the change of scenery isn't simple. Nothing about Suna Rintarou is, after all.

It's not lost on you just who the man you stand before is. Just what he does that affords him such a beautiful home. Why it's imperative that the address be kept secret.

Suna Rintarou is a dangerous man, even as he stands at your side running his fingertips along the ridge of your clavicle with the ends of his hair still dripping wet from the shower and hanging in his deceptively sweet eyes.

But it's not his profession that you fear might bring you harm, it's the little smile that shows his teeth which spreads across his face when he catches how you shiver under his touch, and the way it makes your heart knock against your ribs when you see it that scares you more than anything.

"Okay, you're not nervous," he says quietly, but there's a knowing, placating lilt in his low voice. He reaches up and takes your coat from your arms, laying it over the back of the sofa. Next, he catches your wrists in his large hands, his touch slipping slowly along your arms until he uses his hands to guide them up around his neck. You let him move you how he wants to—obliging, just as you were trained to be—and in one easy movement he wraps an arm behind you and hitches you up to his waist.

You cling to him tightly, your lips hovering a hairsbreadth away from his own. The hem of your dress has crept up in the movement, now rucked up around your hips like a belt. You can feel the heat of Suna's skin radiating through the thin lace of your panties where your core is pressed against the firm plane of his lower abdomen, and it makes your breath hitch in your throat when the sensation registers.

Suna groans a little at the soft sound you let out, pulling you even more firmly against him as his mouth descends upon your throat. The hand he's not using to support your weight cradles the crown of your head, tipping it back slightly so your neck is bared to him more openly. He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses right over the place when your pulse is beating most violently.

"I planned to give you a tour," he murmurs into your skin, and your fingers tangle in his hair as you feel the brush of his teeth against the sensitive little spot where your throat slopes down into your shoulder. He pulls away, staring up at you with eyes heavy-lidded with desire. "I think it's gonna have to wait."

Suna carries you over to the massive dining room table on the other side of the room, but keeps his mouth pressed to yours all the while, his tongue sliding noisily against your own. Your head is spinning so terribly as you try to match his pace that you hardly even realize what's happening before he lays you down flat against the cool marble tabletop, and you hiss as the stone meets your heat-flooded skin.

Suna pulls away and stares down at you from above, your legs still wrapped around his waist. The weight of his gaze is overwhelming, and you turn your face away as you fight to catch the breath that evades you. The cityscape lit beyond the glass makes you pause for a moment, even prettier from up close than it was on the other side of the room. Suna's hands slip up your thighs, inching towards the delicate waistband of your underwear.

"This view is nice," you comment breathily, and in the faint reflection that you can make out in the window's pane you see Suna glance in its direction only briefly.

"Oh, yeah?" he asks, before taking your chin in his hand and tipping your face back up in his direction to kiss you again. You whimper against his lips as you feel his fingertips dip beneath the lace between your legs, and he pulls away from your mouth only far enough so he can mutter a final, rasping "I've seen better."

tags: yakuza!suna/escort!reader the prequel(ish), icymi here's PART 1 + PART 2

The car pulls up along the back of the club just past ten o’clock.

It had rained earlier in the evening, though you'd fortunately missed most of the shower. The world passing outside the windows of the car is still soaked with it, and puddles pool in the divots of the road as the water trickles slowly towards the storm drains that line the street.

“Thank you, Toma,” you say to your driver as you reach for the handle to let yourself out, and in the front seat the kindly man dips his head in response.

“Would you like me to wait to drop you home?” he asks, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror positioned along the highest centre point of the windshield. “I haven’t got another ride for a half an hour.”

“I have to drop my take-home off to the office and get my payout, and the trains are still running, but thank you,” you assure him with a shake of your head. You smile at him in the rearview mirror as you pop the door open. You hesitate just before you slip out, leaning up towards the front seat. “Drive safe tonight.”

You have to step around puddles as you approach the staff entrance to the club, the water collecting every few steps along the craggy surface of the alley. You hear a voice filtering down the dingy alleyway from up ahead, and it makes you slow ever so slightly. It’s familiar, and as you round the corner to the door, you recognize why.

Kaito stands just beside the metal door with ‘STAFF ENTRANCE ONLY’ emblazoned across it peeling white paint. He’s ditched the suit jacket you’d seen him wearing earlier in the evening, left in his black dress shirt with the first few buttons undone and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The flickering light above the door catches on the garish chain he wears around his neck, glinting at you as Kaito holds his cellphone up to his ear, lost in his conversation.

“Of course, sir. I understand,” he says, and though his voice is as insincerely pleasant as ever, his face is contrastingly grim—the affectation of charm extending only to that which the caller on the other line is able to witness. You watch as Kaito pushes a hand through his carefully-styled hair in frustration, tousling the dark strands, squeezing his eyes shut. “It’s not last minute at all, I’ll make sure our very best girls are available once he arrives.”

You pause upon overhearing that particular snippet of his phone call, your heels clicking to a stop on the unevenly cobbled path, and Kaito’s eyes crack open once he senses your approach.

“Very well, I’ll be sure to be at the entrance to greet him myself. Have a good evening, sir.”

Kaito ends the call, his eyes still on you.

“You’re back,” he remarks, acknowledging you once he tucks his phone into the pocket of his dress pants—his voice is so different now to what it had been only seconds prior that he may as well be a different person entirely. He plucks out the cigarette tucked behind his ear and holds it to his lips, fishing a lighter out from his pocket. “Early, isn’t it?” 

“Right on schedule, actually,” you reply, snapping out of your momentary stupor and approaching the door as the lighter clicks to life. “I was meeting with Suzuki-san this evening.”

Suzuki is one of your longest-standing regulars: a successful businessman in his mid-60s whose wife passed away a few years prior, and whose children have all grown and moved away. He takes you to dinner once a week, and your appointments are never anything more than that. He’s lonely, you realized quickly after meeting him, and the way his face lights up when you arrive at whatever restaurant he’s reserved for the evening makes your stomach ache a little too much to ever really enjoy the food.

“That old sucker?” Kaito’s eyes widen, the corner of his mouth twisting upward in an almost cruel way. “Still paying you to play footsie with him at dinner after all this time.”

You frown, shooting Kaito a withering look as you reach for the staff door to step inside. He ignores your glare, and you watch with a feeling of abject dread as an idea comes to him.

“Hey,” he says, his hand suddenly coming to rest against the peeling paint and forcing the door closed before you can properly open it. The acrid smell of his cigarette smoke is overwhelming with him this close to you, and it makes your nose scrunch up. “You should stay late tonight.”

“Can’t,” you reply flatly, angling your body away from his. “I’m just here for payout.”

Kaito huffs at your immediate refusal. “I’ll make it worth your while,” he tries again.

“I can’t,” you repeat yourself, holding firm.

He narrows his eyes, and you watch as he considers how he should reply. He rolls his eyes a bit and eventually backs off, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “Whatever.”

You open the door and step inside without any further words passing between you.

In the main office, you hand in the envelope of cash Suzuki-san had pressed into your palm after walking you back to Toma and the waiting car outside the restaurant. The disinterested man in the office—you never manage to keep track of who’s who with how frequently the faces change around here—takes the cash and counts it in another room, even though you'd already triple checked for yourself on the drive back to the club. You wait there with your arms crossed over your chest for him to bring you back a slip of paper that would outline how much you’d earned that week and what was deposited directly into your bank account, and your heel taps against the dingy tile as the minutes tick past.

The back office of the club is far less flashy than the interiors of the lounge a few hundred metres and some staircases away. In fact, the interiors tend to deteriorate in luxury the further outwards you move from the epicentre of activity—the club and the private rooms that are attached to it are the height of luxury, the suites that line the south end of the building slightly less impressive in their quality, and finally the administrative rooms and various other spaces that only the staff ever visit like this one are completely unremarkable. Looking around the shabby, disorganized office you wouldn’t even know the kind of business it’s running.

Maybe that’s the point, you can’t help but think.

As you wait for the nameless man to return with your pay stub, you hear a sound from the hallway outside the open office door. It’s slight, but familiar—the sound of a sniffle. It makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

It’s not unusual to hear a woman crying around here.

You quickly turn your back to the door, trying your very best to ignore it. That’s what you’ve learned to do over the years, after all. But the sobbing becomes less ignorable, more noticeable, and before you can think better of it you’re stepping out of the office towards the sound.

Around the corner from the office, next to a supply closet, you find a small girl hunched in on herself in a sparkling pink cocktail dress.

It’s Mini—at least, that’s the name she goes by around here since the girls rarely use their real names in this place, for good reason.

She’s young, maybe 20 if you had to guess generously, and had only been working at the club for a few week as a server mostly: circling the busy floor of the bar area and bringing patrons their drinks. She’s a bright, bubbly girl, and she’s taken a shine to you for whatever reason after only a few shifts where your paths have crossed. 

“Hey,” you call to her, and it seems to startle her a bit, jolting when she hears the sound of your voice.

Her mascara is running down her cheeks as she lifts her face to look up at you, and her nose has gone bright pink even underneath the layer of makeup she wears. At the sight of you, she starts to cry harder, crushing herself unexpectedly against your chest. You’re not sure what to do, so you pat a little awkwardly along her back in a vague attempt to comfort her.

“What’s wrong?” you ask her, hoping your voice isn’t quite as stiff as the rest of your body is.

“K-k-kaito just pulled m-me off the f-f-f-floor,” she wails, the final word drawing out in a warbling little cry.

Your jaw sets as she struggles to compose herself, pulling herself away from you after another moment of tears.

"Why?"

“He told me”—Mini swipes at her running nose with the back of her hand, sniffling wetly—“told me there’s a private party coming in. He’s rounding up as many girls as he can for it and sending them into one of the private lounges.”

Mini hasn’t been at the club long, and has never worked a private party. You both realize what it means for her, without it needing to explicitly be said. Evidently the premise has her frightened.

You really have no right to be as angry as you are, but that doesn't change the fury you feel rolling in the pit of your stomach.

Or stop you from doing what you do next.

You find Kaito in his office on the other side of the building.

“Who’s this private party?” you ask him once he answers the sharp rap you land against his door and he calls you in.

Kaito glances up from his desk. He’s got his suit jacket on again, and he’s fixed his hair—back to his usual self. He looks a little surprised to see you standing in his office doorway, especially as pissed off as you are.

He quirks a brow. “What’s it to you?”

You bite the tip of your tongue in an attempt to temper the flare of irritation searing through you. 

“I don’t think Mini’s ready to work a private party.”

“Who?” he asks, and the worst part is you know he means it, leaning back in his chair. His brow furrows as you stare at him.

 Your lips part to explain, but he cuts you off before any words come out.

“Doesn’t matter anyway,”—he waves his hand disinterestedly—“I need girls and she’s on shift. We’ve got a very important patron coming in who needs a selection to choose from, and half our best girls are already booked out tonight—or refuse to stay late.”

He tacks on that last part just for your sake.

Your teeth clench.

“So you’re just gonna send a bunch of rookies in there?” you ask him. “What kind of impression is that supposed to make to this very important patron?” 

He shrugs. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

You’re not sure who the beggar in this situation is supposed to be.

You grind your heel into the tile of his office floor as you sift through your thoughts.

“How many girls do you need?” you finally ask him, the question hissing out through gritted teeth.

He grins, seeing the cracks forming in your armour even from the other side of the room. 

“Depends,” he replies flippantly.

“On what?” you ask him flatly.

He leans forward across his desk with a sharp smile pulling at his lips. 

“On if I’m going for quantity or quality.”

In the end, Kaito agrees not to send any of the inexperienced girls into the private room. Instead, there will only be five girls, all relatively experienced, who this unexpected guest that Kaito seems so insistent on catering to will get to choose from. 

You agree to be one of them.

You touch up your makeup in one of the dressing rooms before heading towards the designated lounge. It’s one of the nicest private rooms in the building: large, quiet, and with it’s own small mini-bar that’s kept well stocked to minimize any interruptions—another testament to just how keen Kaito is to pull out all the stops for this mystery patron.

You’re not dressed how you usually would be a lounge shift like this—much less a private booking. The dress you’d worn to dinner with Suzuki-san is a little too tasteful for the role you’re about to assume. Mini had kindly offered to let you borrow one of the spares she’d brought to work with her after she found you freshening yourself up (and conveyed her relief at being spared the private party,) but you declined—not least of all because of your very different body types. Your quiet hope was that you’d get there, pale in comparison to one of the other girls who were better suited for the occasion, and ultimately be able to continue home like you ought to have already been by now, this whole situation an unfortunate—but only momentary—road block.

The other girls are already gathered in the room when you arrive, with drinks in their hands and glossy lips and beautiful, skin-tight dresses on their frames. You greet them quietly, accepting a glass of champagne that’s placed into your hands by one of the girls you’re closest to—a tall, stunning woman who goes by the name of Yuki.

“Any idea who this high roller is that Kaito’s kissing ass for tonight?” she asks you as you take a sip from your drink. Yuki had cut the drink with soda water, you realize it right away as the muted taste of effervescent wine reaches your tongue. It’s a welcomed trick that you yourself have been known to employ of many occasions, a tactic used to keep your wits about you without seeming like you’re turning down a drink while you work a long shift.

You can’t help but lament the fact that you really could use a proper drink right about now.

“No,” you tell her quietly, fiddling with the thin stem of the champagne flute between your fingers. “He didn’t say.”

“Must be someone good,” Sakura, another working girl whose long hair is tinted a pretty shade of pink that suits her name, chimes in from the other side of the room where she’s draped across the tufted sofa. 

You wonder if she’s right about that, because an unpleasant feeling creeping over you is telling you the opposite.

The girls chat quietly amongst themselves as you all wait for the arrival of the much-anticipated guest, and you continue sipping your watered down champagne as you rest perched on the arm of a chair along one side of the room.

You should already be home by now. Should already have scrubbed the day from your skin and slipped into a pair of soft cotton pyjamas. You should be sitting on your sofa watching a movie, or reading the last chapter of the book you’d had to tear yourself away from to come to work that afternoon, or even be curled up in your bed asleep. You’re bitter to still be within the walls of the club, to still be maintaining the character you’re paid to play, and you chew the inside of your cheek as you stew in this resentment—so much so that you almost miss the door to the lounge swing open.

Your eyes flicker up as the rest of the girls stand in greeting.

You’re the last to rise from your seat.

Behind Kaito is a man you’ve never seen before, his apathetic stare sweeping lazily around the room as Kaito rambles on about something you don’t care to listen to. The guest doesn’t seem to either.

He has dark hair that reaches a little longer than the top of his ears, and an expression on his face that doesn’t seem to imply that he’s any happier to be here than you are. He has a bandage on his cheek, the skin around it still red enough to imply the injury is fresh, and a cut on his lip that looks like it could bleed again at any moment. He’s dressed in black—a turtleneck, under a long coat, over a pair of trousers, all in the same shade. His hands are shoved into his pockets to complete his general air of indifference.

His eyes land on you just as you make it up to your feet, and the way his attention lingers on you for a moment longer than it had the rest of the girls makes you want to curse under your breath. Your attempt to go unnoticed has already started off on the wrong foot, and the man isn’t even fully across the threshold yet. 

Your eyes meet—properly meet—and for a moment you hold your breath.

“Ladies,” Kaito says, that saccharine, ingratiating tone you hate so much the thickest you’ve ever heard it in his voice. “This is Suna Rintarou”

The man’s eyes are still on you.

“I’m sure you’ll see to it that he has a very memorable evening.”

my gorgeous Stella!!! what do we think of dilf gojo 🎤

DILF! GOJO is cocky. he knows what he wants and he always gets what he needs. he's still tall and slender, lean muscle he's built over the years but light facial hair dots his jawline and he's got two silver studs in his one ear now. the type to hang out at flashy bars, lazily nursing a glass of champagne, glasses resting low on the bridge of his nose as he watches you on the dancefloor. the type to press up against you from behind and murmur "what's a pretty little thing like you doing here?" he likes his girls a little dumb. flashes you one or two grins and then he's driving you home in his lamborghini with one thick hand splayed on your thigh, inching up your dress... promises you a good night worth your time, but only if you promise you'll stay the night

DILF ME UP!

ྀི BIRTHDAY SUIT ྀི nanami kento x fem reader ྀ

WARNINGS: unedited. strong language. suggested power dynamic. size kink. suit fetish. reader is wearing a skirt. minimal plot, smut heavy. praise. established relationship. cmnf. WORD COUNT: 1.3k

you were comfortably seated at nanami's desk, eyes playing at his figure. he always dressed nicely, but today you were paying extra attention to his outfit.

"'nami," you called, drawing his attention from the window he was staring outside of contemplatively. he hummed in response, and you patted the desk in front of you. "c'mere. i'm getting bored."

he huffed, but made his way to you. his shoes made calculated taps against the wooden floor and your heart happily synced with the beat of his movements. "you know, your boredom is entirely your own fault. i told you today would be busy for me. i can't spend all day entertaining you."

you looked up at him, eyes glittering from the window-filtered sunlight. "unfortunate." your pen was tracing pre-written letters on already-signed paperwork. "i need a break. been working for a while."

"you signed a few papers," he exhaled with amusement.

"doesn't mean anything. i'm still workin'." you nodded to add punctuality to your claim.

he thought for a second before responding. "okay. get up then."

"why?" you slid the pen you were doodling with behind your ear.

his eyebrow quirked. "because i said so."

"you're bossy," you pouted, standing from the desk and moving aside before glaring at him through long eyelashes.

"and you're obedient." he moved to sit in his desk, and you couldn't help but notice how well he fitted there. formal attire and a pointed attitude had carved him to be the perfect businessman, and in your eyes, the most attractive man alive. he patted his lap, drawing your attention from his appearance. "sit."

you sat on his lips, feeling excitement brewing in your stomach at the way his six-foot frame felt behind you. his chest was hard, and you couldn't help but wiggle into his hips.

you mentally prepared yourself for his verbal reprimands for being a brat; instead, he moved one hand to your waist, grabbing the pen from behind your ear while peppering kisses by the other. you hummed into the feeling, back arching upon instinct.

"i really should be working," he mused into your ear, "you should be, too." despite his words, one of his hands made their way to your hips and the other to your throat.

you nodded against his touch and you stammered out a meek, "i know," while he ground you into his hips. "i know," you echoed.

he groaned and stood, bending you over the desk. he let his hands roam down the sides of your thighs, butterfly touches leading to the hem of your skirt. "who's my good girl?" he asked while pulling your skirt up.

"i am," you meeked out, head dropping as one of his hands preformed practiced touches through your panty-clad labia.

he cooed a, "thats right," before letting his hands slide off of you. "mind if i undress you?"

"please do," you shook your head and he spun you around, electing to unbutton your blouse first. he marveled at your bra before continuing, sliding the fabric from your arms.

"you're pretty." he slid your skirt off now, taking your panties off with it. "c'mon. bend back over f'me."

you closed your eyes hard, heat boiling under your skin as you bent back over. the wooden desk was cold against your skin, balancing out the lava below your skin. you heard his hands unbutton his trousers, undoing the zipper and pulling his cock from the fabric.

"are you ready?" you nodded im response, and he groaned out a, "fuck, thank you."

he slid the tip through your folds, shuttering at how wet you are. he put one hand on the small of your back, pushing it down, while the other guided him into you. you moaned at the feeling, whimpering out a, "'ts too big, 'nami," to which he shook his head, coaxing you with sweet words back.

"no, no, i know it isn't, sweet girl. you've taken it before." he gave you a few seconds before starting to move; your nails scratched the desktop and he moaned in response. watching you struggle under him did something to him-- it reminded him that he was big, and better yet, that you'd do anything for him. a hand overlapped yours, pressing you further into the desk as he fucked you harder.

he grabbed your hair, pulling your head upwards so he could relish in the way your eyes fluttered. "you're so good, oh my god," he buried his head in the crook of your neck, nibbling your skin.

"i'm close," you stressed; nanami snaked his hand under you, rubbing small circles into your clit.

"that's right," he gasped, plowing you into the desk while sinking his teeth into his bottom lip. "cum."

you didn't need to be told twice, and you pressed your face into the arm that was stabilizing you. "oh my god," you pleaded. "fuck!"

he stood straight and grabbed both of your hips, pressing himself as deep into you as he could before orgasming. you groaned at the feeling of his cum shooting inside of you, shuttering as he pulled out.

"fuck. that was good," he cleared his throat, fixing his tie before picking up your clothes and helping you get dressed. he helped you step into the panties, then he helped you clasp your bra on.

you nodded with a giggle. "it was. thank you." you muttered into a kiss. you slid your skirt on and he helped you button up your shirt. "i love you."

he smiled, cleaning off his glasses before sliding them back on. "i love you, too."

reblogs appreciated.

omg what dilf is kuroo tetsuro

DILF! KUROO is cheeky. everyone knows you're his partner, after all he proposed right on the court. makes you wear his jerseys when he's playing games with old highschool friends, ensuring you get the vip treatment whenever you go. the type to give your ass a teasing little pat in passing when he gets the chance, or to whisper how "can't wait to bend you over my desk later". definitely a tease, he just loves hearing you whine and beg for him. wears a lot of suits/ formal wear. lets you help him tie his tie in the mornings even when he can do it himself. also loves gagging you with it in his office when you're being too loud for his liking whoopsies

DILF ME UP!

🥹🥹SAE maybe perhaps maybe perhaps maybe maybe perhaps MAYHAPS..........

DILF! SAE is firm. his hair's gotten a little longer but his attitude is just as fierce. doesn't have time for brats, but if you do decide to give him a hard time he won't hesitate to pull you over his lap and leave hand prints on your pretty little ass. "you done being a brat now? can I fuck you properly now, hm?" loves wearing rings and especially loves it when you suck on his fingers so you taste them. very protective of you, keeps an arm slung round your waist everytime the two of you are out, will scowl at whoever tries to look at you twice, you're his after all <3

DILF ME UP!