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Summary
Nagi always makes time to play with Isagi after his video games.
“I— I was supposed to go on top,” Isagi pants, biting down on the inside of his cheek.
“You are,” Nagi says. His fingers thrust, slow and deep, and Isagi gasps. “Barely.”
Nagi’s thumb finds his clit, lazy firm circles, and Isagi chokes on the sensation and folds forward, his forehead dropping to Nagi’s sternum, his breath coming in short hot bursts against Nagi’s skin. His thighs are shaking. His back is slick. He can feel the wet sound of Nagi’s fingers moving inside him, soft and rhythmic in the quiet of the room, each drag of his knuckles catching at the slick heat of his walls, and every thrust lands with the same unhurried precision as the one before it.
“You’re not fair,” Isagi whispers, his voice already cracking.
“You’re perfect,” Nagi says, quiet enough that Isagi almost misses it.