tepid
nanami kento x reader!
kinktober countdown day 7 (b d s m)
synopsis: “I’m looking for someone to give me control.” He expects his statement to draw some sort of response out of you, but your face remains placid and cool, the only hint that he’s said anything, the gentle upcurve at the corner of your lips. Kento finds himself wanting to muss up your curated exterior, wants to crush that tepid facade under the rough surface of his fingers.
wc: 2.8k
cw: fem + afab!reader but no gendered language, bdsm + D/s dynamics, sex worker!reader, salary man!kento, angst, potentially unrequited love, mentions of unprotected sex, begging, oral sex (m!receiving), jealousy, bondage, brat-taming, toys, mdni.
author's note: FINALLY DONE. JESUS. writing/doing research for medic reader x ghost, then touched starved konig, really impressed on me how powerful saying a man’s name can be. they love that shit. thank you to kitten for proofing and to ketsl + kee for helping originate this story and giving me tiktoks as fuel.
The waitress places a teacup in front of you, plain white, with a matching saucer. The steam of which coils upwards and dissipates before it can graze your chin. Your posture is upright, but not rigid and Kento finds himself correcting his slouch to mirror you. Your ‘thank you’ to her is accompanied with a blindingly bright smile, visibly jarring the waitress, who must face the gruff, deep terseness of truckers all day. She smiles back, turning and retreating with a lighter step than when she came.
Your grin tapers down to a lukewarm smile when you face him again, and it makes Kento ache, though for what, he’s not quite sure. “I think we should start with what you’re looking for, Nanami.”
Your words from the week before ring in his mind;
He brought his champagne flute to yours, eyes twinkling under the ballroom’s low lighting. The blue of your dress is nearly black, and it wraps your figure perfectly, cresting over hip and thigh as though it was made for you. Hell, with the average tax bracket of the guests surrounding the two of you, it could’ve been.
“And what is it you do?” his question seems to startle you for a moment, and your eyes swing to the side of him, looking for your date, he presumes. Quickly, however, you school your features into a warm kind of indifference.
“There are people who need to cede their control, to relax. And people who want control ceded to them by someone. I’m that someone.” You bring your glass to your bottom lip, drinking deeply, to avoid further explanation, or to buy yourself time, Kento isn’t sure. Still, the realization of what you mean, what your career is, and potentially why you’re here, sends a tingle down his spine, curls warm and heavy in his stomach. Urges him to take your business card when it’s offered, and make the arrangements to meet with you a week later.
“I’m looking for someone to give me control.” He expects his statement to draw some sort of response out of you, but your face remains placid and cool, the only hint that he’s said anything, the gentle upcurve at the corner of your lips. Kento finds himself wanting to muss up your curated exterior, wants to crush that tepid facade under the rough surface of his fingers.
“I’m sure I can help you with that.”
He settles for tearing at the napkin under his coffee mug.
✧
When you meet again, it’s to discuss your terms. Time with you costs a pretty penny and if Kento was so dead set on what he had pitched in the diner, he was looking at a very extended payment plan.
He drags his spoon across the bottom of his coffee cup, stirring at the remaining sugar, unmelted at the bottom. He’d added it too late. He hates that.
“How long will you need me, Kento?” You ask. You keep saying his name, over and over.
“Do you frequent this place often, Kento?”
“Have you done this before, Kento?”
“Do you know what you want, Kento?”
It drives him crazy, gives him this frantic itch at the back of his knee so bad that it makes him jostle the limb, like he’s a dog, eager for a treat. For attention.
It’s that itch that keeps him from saying “forever”. From insisting on something he just knows you can’t give.
“Three months. I want three months. Not everyday, just-”
“Regularly.“ you cut him off. “I understand, Kento.” Your smile is so sweet. Unmelted crystals of sugar, smeared between your nose and chin.
“No one else.” He mutters, chin tucked to his chest, gaze snagged on the candy red linoleum, where he rereads the same scratched in message.
‘thee hotties were here.’
It forces an exhale out of his nose, and when he can finally bring himself to stare at you, he’s relieved to see the smile you gave the waitress. But this time, it’s for him.
“No one else.” You agree. And Kento feels like he’s breathing for the first time since he sat down.
✧
“So…” Kento tests one of the straps holding your limbs in place. It’s thick, dark, leather, the expensive kind you have to order from a specialty shop in Amsterdam.
“So…” you respond, and you’re on your knees, nearly naked, at the foot of the lush, grand hotel bed (neutral ground, you’d said) and Kento is above you, standing, not naked. But you have the power here, you’re the one with experience, with stories, with the do’s and the don’t’s, and the not ever’s, not even once.
It’s not quite what he envisioned, and it’s nothing like the porn he watched. But you with that wide belt around your waist? With matching cuffs attached, cuffs that he helped you put your ankles into, that he secured the buckles for? It’s better. Better than the wet dreams and the research and the tight fist around the base of his cock the day after you first spoke in the diner.
He crosses his arms and just stares, eating up the visual.
“What?” You ask, wetting your bottom lip with your tongue. “You don’t like attitude?”
And he doesn’t know what he likes. But he knows he wants to learn.
You start slow, taking him through the motions, explaining what exactly you have experience with, what both of your limits are, what his safe word should be, what he wants out of this.
And then, after all the discussion is said and done, he fucks your throat on and off for an hour.
After session one, you and Kento decide on twice a week.
✧
It turns out, Kento does not like “attitude”. But he does like reform. Likes for you to start sessions with a foul mouth, with rolling eyes and put upon sighs and ribs about him being an old man. Then he likes to fuck it out of you. Overwork your body until the only thing you can do is tremble underneath his palms. He likes to use his knee to press a wand to your clit until you soak the thigh of his dress pants, then he likes to up the setting from two to four and watch your chest cave in on itself.
He likes to guide your limbs into a spreader bar and slide his tongue from the cleft of your ass to your clit. Adores watching you count the strokes of his dick inside you when your bent in half so he can fuck you in a mating press.
Kento likes the way your skin looks against shiny black leather and pristine white bed sheets. He likes how you look in lacey lilac lingerie with his favourite tie stuffed in your mouth.
But above all, Kento loves how you look with his hands on you, on your throat, across your back, guiding your head down, or your hips up. His fingers inside you, his palm wrapped around your wrists, his forearms holding up your thighs.
You make the dwindling amount in his savings worth it.
You make his nights seem less lonely.
You give him something to look forward to.
✧
It’s nearly a month into your arrangement. Nine sessions, nine nights in the same hotel room, or one that looks exactly like it. Nine meetings in the lobby, nine instances of you looping your arm around Kento’s and walking together to the front desk, then to the elevators. Nine times Kento has peered over your shoulder and into the large leather purse you bring with you every time, eager to see what you’ve planned for him today. It’s always a surprise, unless he’s looked something up and texted it to you, or gotten something express shipped.
But this time, the tenth time, things are different. This time he meets you at the station by his apartment, at 6 PM on the dot. This time when you walk arm in arm, he gets eight glorious minutes of it. This time, he doesn’t have to check in with the front desk receptionist with the icy eyes and disingenuous smile who always seems to be working when Kento rents a room.
This time, you've both taken adequate measures, sharing clear bills of health and a firm set of boundaries, everything in place for Kento to forgo condoms for the first time. The hotel you regularly use for your sessions just didn’t seem concrete enough, felt hopelessly sterile, anonymous. And Kento likes to think you like him just a little bit more than your average hotel room client.
He has to think that way, or he’d never have the courage to see you again.
So at his behest, you’re in his space, in his drab beige and white apartment and he can hardly believe it. You drape your jacket over the back of one of his unremarkable dining chairs, and the sleek brown leather simultaneously blends in and stands out, he eyeballs it, while you look around, hears you comment on the amount of books he has everywhere, but he can’t respond, can’t part his gaze from the indelible foreignness of your things in his home. And when you catch him staring at the coat before he can casually look away, you fret aloud.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Kento. Should I have hung it up?” He watches you frown, your eyebrows coming together, separated by a miniscule wrinkle. He’s never seen that expression on you before.
He shakes his head, head already in a daze. You’re a worrier. You wring your hands.
He hadn’t known that.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he gets closer, tears his eyes from your clothing and approaches. Instead of assuring you he doesn’t mind, could not care less, the salaryman puts his hands on you, watches you sink into familiar territory, watches your eyes darken and your lips part and Kento Nanami nearly preens when you shiver.
“I’ll feed you.” He speaks softly, and he kisses you. Then quickly amends; “After.”
And it might be too much. Too intimate, to share a meal after you let him smack you across the face, and wrap his hand around your throat, and press his thumb over your tongue and fuck you unprotected.
But he doesn’t care.
And neither, it seems, do you.
“After.” You repeat. “Sounds good.”
And you smile.
✧
Three days after his tenth session with you, he sees you, outside, in regular clothing, not a ball gown or lingerie or nothing at all, but in a black t-shirt and baggy, soft looking jeans, and you’re blinking and smiling and laughing with some man. You’re in a coffee shop across from his workplace, and he can see you from his office’s window. (They’re small time, only on the second floor of a mega-corporation building, and up until that very moment, he had liked being able to see other people from his cubicle).
The man gets up, and Kento hopes he stumbles into the street and gets hit by a car, not hard enough to kill him, but hard enough that he can’t leave the hospital for a few days.
He returns shortly, with a drink for you, in a large white to-go cup. You don’t ask him anything. Don’t check the cup for details, you just take a sip and smile, slow and satisfied.
Kento blows out a large breath, turns to his desk and fishes out a small, amber pill bottle boasting the illegible, worn-down name of a medication ending in -loft or -pril or -pene. He tips it directly into his mouth, crunching down on two pills before he chucks the bottle across the room.
Kento doesn’t know how you take your coffee. If you even drink it at all. You had tea at the diner, and he was so busy with his own drink, with his own neurosis, he doesn’t remember what you added.
He calls you. Watches you pick up the phone and excuse yourself to the street outside.
Now, you meet four times a week. He starts doing overtime again.
✧
“Say it.” All the lights are off in your bedroom, save a salt lamp glowing pink on your end table in the corner. It hadn’t stopped Kento from eating up every detail of how you lived with his eyes. He saw the few pieces of underwear you’d shoved under your bed. The one pot of soup? Pasta sauce? You’d left unwashed on your stovetop. The framed picture of you and your mother or aunt or older cousin on your overstuffed dresser.
It had to be one of those. The resemblance was undeniable.
“Please.” You gasp, and wrench up off your bed, trying in vain to fight against the thick leather restraints keeping you spread eagle before him. The rabbit vibrator inside is blush pink and vibrating at full speed so deep inside you, twisted so it won’t touch your clit.
“You’re better than that, you beg better than that. Don’t make me drag it out of you. Beg. Me.” Kento can hear himself, can hear just how untethered, frayed he sounds. Every downward strike of his hand against your inner thighs is accompanied by a flash of you sipping from that godforsaken off-white coffee cup and smiling like the man from the coffee shop understands you, warm, comfortable.
Does he know who the woman in the photo with you is?
“Ken, Sir. Please, please let me come. I’m sorry for being a brat. Please.”
“Who gives you what you need?” He crouches down, sliding a finger along the straining line of your throat. Your lips are slick with your own spit, he’d enjoyed the gag for a bit, but your voice desperately warbling his name would always be better than the visual stimulation. Tear tracks have dried at the corners of your eyes, remnants of the first orgasm he’d ruined for you.
You are so goddamn pretty.
“You do.” You hiss, body arched and shaking, as if you could move the vibrator yourself if you fidgeted enough. He could hear how wet you were, could see beads of sweat pearl on your heated skin,
“Always?”
“Always.”
✧
Meals after, sometimes before, become a regular occurrence. Usually Kento cooks for you. Sometimes you cook for him. Once, and never again, you got to his place before him, hefting a paper bag of groceries he insisted on compensating you for. When you called him, he had only a few minutes left at work, and the station was so close. So he told you where he kept his extra key. Told you to let yourself in. And you had.
And when Kento got home, bone tired and overworked and wanting nothing more than to press his mouth to yours for hours, you welcomed him home. Eyes bright, smile hot and melting and so sincere.
And you had made dinner. For the both of you.
✧
“It was a pleasure serving you Kento.” You’re huddled in a winter coat, and briefly, Kento thinks about how fast the weather turned, how you chatted and teased and charmed a man that wasn’t him in a t-shirt two months ago, and now your arrangement with him is ending and you needed a scarf, and gloves.
“Mm. I enjoyed our time together.” He feels like a liar, feels like the pills he took before this weren’t enough, He can hear his blood roar in his ears. Cold bites through his coat. His nose is probably red. He hates that, reminds him of being a child, small and out of control and sniffling with a fever, at home, missing school.
Unmelted sugar in cooling barley tea.
“I…” You peter off, and frown. You stick your hands in your pocket and shrug. “Do you want to hug? I think we should…” You don’t finish that sentence either, you just open your arms at him and approach. Wrap your arms around him and squeeze. And Kento doesn’t like PDA, finds it uncomfortable and embarrassing, but he thinks if the two of you stayed on the sidewalk, hugging forever, that would be fine too. He wonders if the people sidestepping around you on the sidewalk think you’re a couple. Think you’re married.
He presses a kiss to the crown of your head.
He can smell your hair.
When you finally pull back, you stare at him, eyes wide, mouth tense. So he kisses your lips, and it’s obviously not the first time, he can kiss you whenever he wants, tilt your head back and slide his tongue into your eager, panting mouth when he fucking feels like it. Because he pays for it.
But he didn’t pay for this one. He drinks from your mouth again, once, twice, three times. Sucks and bites at the surface of your bottom lip and he would chew and swallow every bit of expensive Dutch leather you own to do it for the rest of his life.
✧
“Three more months,” he says, when you answer the phone two weeks later, and he can hear his own heartbeat when you don’t immediately respond.
“I-if you’re sure.” You answer, and it’s the first time you’ve deferred to him outside of play. Gave him an out. No sugar crystal smile in tepid coffee.
He wishes he could see your face.
“I’m sure.”
so...how are we holding up? :)
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