Just reading up a storm

After handing you your device, Choso turned away all awkwardly and calmly excused himself into his room for the night. This left you to watch him walk away with slightly confused eyes as you carried on with your call, shrugging off his sudden stiffness and figuring it was nothing too serious.

Which, in a way, it wasn't. The man nearly needed a moment away from you.

A moment long enough to take care of the leaking problem in his pants, that is.

As soon as he enters his room, he lightly shuts the door and lets his head push against it with a soft thump. One hand remains on the doorknob whilst the other is just barely keeping his body standing upright. It was like a switch had gone off in his head or something.

It hasn't even been a week with you yet and there's already one thing running rampant in his mind—sex.

Choso's known you for quite some time now, which is exactly why you moving in with him when he already had a spare bedroom only made sense. But to already be losing his head over something so small makes him feel shamed with the weight of guilt.

He shouldn't touch himself. He should ignore how hard he is right now. And should definitely not think about you if he does decide to act against those two things.

...Yeah, that goes straight out the window the moment he hears you laughing from the living room.

You're still on the phone and you'd have no reason to come into his room and check on him or anything so it should be okay, no? Getting off to you once won't hurt anyone.

Clasping his bottom lip neatly in between his teeth, Choso finally moves a hand down over the fully formed bulge poking out against his sweatpants. Maybe he won't even jerk off. Maybe he'll just rub at his cock until he cums.

That should be fine.

Right?

His hand carefully cups 'n grabs at the outline of his hard shaft, his bottom lip falling loose with a moderately noisy pant breaking free from his throat. "Fuck," Choso sears just under his breath as he squeezes his eyes shut.

He shouldn't be doing this. This is wrong. You just moved in!

His hand slides over slowly, letting the friction of fabric and his palm soothe his aching arousal just a bit.

What would you think if you saw him right now? You're only a few steps away from his door, sitting all pretty in his living room. Would you be disgusted by him if you knew how he rubbed his hand against his dick to the mere thought of you? Taking his other hand—the same one that held your phone and now carries the faintest bit of your scent—and slowly bringing it up to his nose to smell.

His palm reeks in your lotion. You must've used it recently, huh? Probably right before touching your phone for the last time, he thinks.

Choso's other hand squeezes around the head of his dick, feeling something nasty beginning to wet up his boxers. Fuck, he feels gross for doing this. He's all hunched up against his bedroom door, body flinching whenever he hears your voice a little clearer from beyond it, and cock jumping with each whiff he takes of his palm.

His mouth flails open a little and he nearly whines as his hand grips at his length a little tighter, slithering towards his shaft, and then letting his hips roll forward. The hand pressed up to his nose slips down to clasp over his mouth to conceal that pathetic sound, only worsening his situation as he realizes this means the smell of your lotion is practically smushed up to his lips now.

Choso feels his knees going weak all of a sudden and can't even help himself as he ditches the teasing rubbing and finally stuffs his hand down into his pants. His cock meets his hand raw with a throbbing heat he hadn't been expecting.

Quickly, before he starts letting out sounds too loud to conceal, he does his best to work himself up to an orgasm. Because of his hasty movements, it's not long before his hand is cramping up and he's jerkily thrusting his dick into his coiled fingers.

"A-Ah," Choso gasps, his lashes fluttering over something wet that'd unknowingly built up against his waterline.

Then there's a sudden knock at his door.

The poor guy nearly falls over, barely managing to grit his teeth and swallow the next array of sounds that threatened to leave him. His eyes stare down at the silhouette of your shadow under the door and he struggles to suppress a groan.

"Hey, I dunno if you're asleep already but," God, you sounded so sweet—how could he be doing this in thought of you? "I just wanted to let you know we're out of trash bags. Tried to text you but it wasn't going through."

Choso's standing here jerking off like some freak after touching something of yours and now you're standing on the other side of his door telling him you guys are out of trash bags?

How comedic.

Not that any of this stops his hand from moving. If anything, his cock feels wetter as he continues on to the sound of each word leaving your lips. Then he presses his face against his door and murmurs, "M-Mhm, thanks for... letting me know. I'll get more t-tomorrow," He grunts out.

Little did he know, his movements had only become smoother because he already came from the moment you knocked on the door. Now his briefs were filled with cum, his hand felt disgustingly sticky, and...

And you have absolutely no idea. You haven't the slightest clue that he just did something wildly perverted in your name.

Or so he thought.

——

Day Fifteen: Missing Hoodies.

A little over two weeks in and Choso's issue has only gotten worse. On the bright side of things, at least he's not the only one slowly losing his sanity in all this.

Because surely if you weren't losing your mind just as much as he was then you'd have moved out by now. Even though he's sure you're not aware of any of the things he's done so far like steal your panties just before laundry day, stuff his nose into your bath towel mere minutes after you've showered, and even use that same lotion of yours to jerk himself off.

But again, Choso is pretty sure that if you knew about any of those things he's done then you would've been out of here faster than you came in. Better yet, faster than he cums whenever you're in mind.

Which is pretty damn fast.

It's on this fifteenth day that Choso loses his first hoodie. It's a plain grey hoodie, but he noticed it's disappearance rather quickly because the last time he wore it was on the day he last spoke to Yuji—and everyone knows how attentive this man gets when it comes to his siblings.

So imagine his surprise when he's tearing his room up trying to find that hoodie to no avail. A small frown takes over his face and he lets out a long sigh before trudging out his room and towards yours.

Knocking thrice, "Are you busy?" Choso asks carefully, ears slightly quirking up at the distant sound of your bedsheets being shuffled about.

Part of him wonders what you were up to.

"If so, don't worry about it," He adds on shortly after. You hadn't even said anything yet and he was already nervous. "I didn't mean to interrupt—"

The door swings open and you're greeting him with your breath seeming as though it's lost it's way into your lungs properly. "You're not interrupting anything, Choso. What's up?" You hum rather sweetly.

"I was just wondering if you'd seen my uh-," He cuts himself short as his eyes helplessly fall downwards. Perhaps he was dreaming or something because surely you're not wearing the very thing he came looking for? Choso's hand draws up as he unintentionally points at your chest, "Is that my hoodie?"

You look down at yourself and then back up at him and shrug, "I dunno, is it?"

Maybe it was the dim hallway lighting but you swear Choso's face is getting redder by the second, a cute hue of pink flushing out over his cheek and noticeable around the dark ink stretching across the bridge of his nose.

Then his hand flies up to the back of his head, scratching beneath his dark, loose locks of hair, "Well, unless we have the same hoodie... m'pretty sure that's mine." He mumbles on.

"Oh." Is the only warning he receives before he watches your hands meet the bottom of that same hoodie, and then lift.

Oh fuck. Choso's eyes widen and all the hairs at the back of his neck seem to stand up as he watches the way you thoughtlessly pull his hoodie off of your body, revealing the very sheer tank-top you have on underneath and the lack of pants below that.

While living with you was easy, truly, there were times like this where Choso wondered if you even saw him as a man. Or if maybe you were just really comfortable around him. Because in what other world would you take off his hoodie right in front of him whilst clad in nothing more than a tank-top and a dark purple pair of panties that he's all too familiar with?

Not that you knew about the last part of that but, still. He's allowed what feels like a minute of staring and drooling before his face is met with that same hoodie of his!

"Was that all?" You ask smoothly, as if you hadn't nearly flashed him and then thrown his own clothes back at him like it was nothing.

His head nods rapidly from beneath his sweatshirt, refusing to move his body just yet in fear of where his hands may find themselves, and waiting until he hears your bedroom door shut again.

As he's left in the hallway to his own devices, Choso's slow to remove the jacket from his head. He holds it out to inspect for a moment and notices a wet patch near the ends of it. His mind immediately goes somewhere dirty.

Did you... use his hoodie how he wants to think you did?

Choso looks back up at your door and gulps. Then his mouth twitches and before he knows it, he’s smiling rather smug-like. If his thoughts are correct then that would mean you got off to how he smells and—he brings his hoodie up to his nose and inhales—luckily for him, the cologne this fabric in particular is doused in, just so happens to be his favorite.

Which is exactly why Choso goes on to make said cologne his only scent.

Following this little act of his is an abundance of his shirts and hoodies going missing. You only got caught wearing them just that one time but, he doesn’t need to see you in his clothes to know you’re the one stealing them.

It’s quite obvious, in his humble opinion. No matter how many times you come to tell him he must’ve lost it or misplaced it somewhere. As if. The man barely leaves the apartment!

And while that’s nothing to brag about, it is undoubtedly the truth.

——

Day Thirty-Four: Indirect Cumshots.

This is where things really start to go from bad, to worse.

The two of you now have a mutual habit of stealing one another’s clothes. You know for sure Choso gets off with your stuff since he mostly takes your panties, skirts, bras, shirts, shorts, and shoelaces?!—all in that order.

What other use for these items could he possibly have if not for sexual satisfaction?

The same questions travels throughout Choso’s mind whenever he wonders why his shirts, hoodies, and jackets go missing. Except, his only issue with it—outside of it being an inconvenience whenever he needs to dress himself—is that he’s still not fully sure whether or not he’s right about your use for them.

Especially since you’ve worn a few of his clothes around the apartment without a care in the world, blaming it on the mixed laundry whenever asked about it. Naturally he believes you, but he can’t deny the fact that he desperately hopes you’re lying to him.

Just the thought of you having your nose buried into his clothes while your fingers play with the neglected cunt in between your legs, your thighs clenching whenever you get close, and mouth breathing out moans of his name makes Choso’s mind go blank.

He’s never had sex before so he hopes that doesn’t turn you off—wanting nothing more than for it to be you that changes this some day.

Above all that, and back to this whole clothing fiasco, Choso has found another way to satisfy his doubts.

In the event that you really weren’t taking his clothes to fuck yourself in, he had a backup plan. By this point Choso had accepted the fact that he’d become nothing more than a dirty pervert since you moved in. So much so that he figured if he could jerk off to indirect kisses from you…

…He could indirectly cum on you too.

Now, now, he knows that sounds bad at first. But he swears it’s really not!

It technically started when he accidentally came on one of your blankets.

He’d been in the living room—doing what any perv would do—rubbing his bare cock against the last place in which you’d sat on the couch. You weren’t home so he wasn’t worried at all about getting caught, thrusting his dick all slanted against the cushions, and letting his precum smear sloppily all over where you were sitting.

“Nngh-,” Choso cared little about holding back his sounds whenever you weren’t home, this moment being the most prime example of this.

His hand loosely kept his cock from sliding all over the place, thumb lightly hovering over his base so that he could have some sort of rhythm in his movements.

He was bare naked, whole body flushed from how hot ‘n bothered he found himself. You looked especially pretty that day. He doesn’t even remember where you said you were going but he does remember the glimpse of your panties he got when you got up from the couch and walked over towards the door in that unfairly short skirt of yours.

It was the same black pair he fucked his cockhead against just three days ago and now you were wearing them and you didn’t have the slightest clue. That fabric would be hugging your pussy for hours and you were oblivious to the fact that his cum had been pooling against it not too long ago.

Fuck, the thought drives him straight over the edge, causing him to stumble against the couch as he fists at his dick. Choso tosses his head back and begins to fuck his hand imagining it was you—gushy spurts of cum spilling out from his plump head in varying directions before he even realizes it.

Heavy pants departed from his mouth as he stroked himself through his high and let whimpers exit his throat. By the time he calmed down, he looked below himself to see that he not only came all over your seat—the splatter of his cum mirroring the way it probably would if he ever came on your ass—but he also accidentally shot some of it onto your blanket.

The same blanket you bury your face under whenever you two watch a movie that’s a little too gruesome, the same blanket you cuddle yourself under, and the same blanket that sometimes get smothered in between your thighs whenever you have it hugging your body a certain way.

Choso tilts his head a little and that’s when it hits him. Just like the time you two had shared a water bottle and indirectly kissed… him cumming on your favorite blanket is no different than him cumming on you, right?

His brows meet. Is that bad to think? If he cums on more of your stuff, does that mean he’s always cumming on you?

Has he technically finished inside you since he’s done so inside your panties more times than he can count?

Shit.

It’s from then on that Choso begins to purposefully release a load on things you use all the time. And just as doing this to your blanket has been one of the most perverted things he'd done so far, so was doing the same to your favorite mug.

He just woke up with the fattest tent in his pants that morning, he had to do something about it! And you can’t blame him when he ignored the erection and joined you for breakfast anyway, watching your lips mold themself around the rim of the dish, gulping deeply until the liquid inside was all gone...

Choso barely felt like himself after you left. He rushed into the kitchen and searched the sink for the cup you used, pulling his cock out and letting it slap against the porcelain. He’s sure this is your favorite mug because of how expensive it is so he knew he had to be careful.

Even so, that didn’t stop him from dragging his dick around its edges—right where your lips and tongue had been. After which he spent the next few minutes emptying his balls into the mug until it was a quarter full with his seed.

This was by far the most depraved thing he’d done so far.

Only for that feeling to get worse in his chest when he watched you use the same cup the following morning, humming at a slightly different pitch as if a new flavor had been added to your beverage.

He couldn’t bear to meet your eyes afterwards. You basically just drank his cum and you didn’t know.

That’s horrible. You’d totally hate him if—

“Did you buy a new dish soap or something?” Your voice breaks him away from his thoughts of impending guilt.

Choso’s head flies up and his eyes, wide and dopey brown, set on you with that intensive warmth you always enjoy. “Huh?” He gapes.

You grin, “I asked if you bought a new dish soap.” Then you shrug all cheekily, “My mug smells really nice for some reason.”

Yeah, probably because he spent an hour cleaning it after he did something so sinful to it…

Your roommate shakes his head, “No, no, I didn’t buy anything new.” He tells you.

The conversation ends around there as you nod and then return to your breakfast, thinking nothing more of it.

Meanwhile Choso feels guilt in between his legs stirring up again and some weird sense of pride in his chest swelling.

Which is exactly why he doesn’t stop there. Although he always cleans up thoroughly after these indirect cumshots of his—it never fails to fill him with pride when he watches you use the same things he’s soiled.

Forks, spoons, straws—which were hell to clean—your phone while you were sleeping one time, pictures of you, etc. In more ways than one, Choso’s basically marked and claimed you as his own via spilling his seed all over you.

——

Day Forty-Eight: Shame? Never heard of her.

The cumshots were one thing, of course. Starting to see your face in every pornographic video he watches is another. So is lightly stroking himself while sitting right next to you and talking to you about his day.

But fucking your pillow when you’re not home, pretending that it’s you, while playing some random audio of yours in the background? Now that was the final straw.

Choso can't even begin to explain nor understand what exactly has gotten into him.

At least when he'd done all those other nasty things with you in mind, he felt bad directly after the fact—apologizing to you via being extra sweet and kind in ways that'd earn him lovely praises from you in return.

It seems like that's a lost art to him now, though.

The man had walked into your room in search of his headphones, the ones he let you borrow last night and now needs to properly enjoy his porn. He hadn't planned to do anything dirty in your room. No, never.

But when he got in there he was thrown off by you leaving a pair of panties on your bed. Not just any pair though, the red pair.

Now, these panties in particular had a bit of a story to them. Choso knows you only wear them when you go out to hook-up with somebody and if they’re sitting on your bed now, that means you saw someone recently or were planning to.

Either way, he doesn’t really want that to happen.

He hasn’t quite revealed any of his intentions nor feelings to you (or at least he doesn’t think he has), but that doesn’t mean he’s immune to feeling possessive over you. You were his roommate, after all.

Maybe this is why he ends up on your bed, grabbing the pillow you sleep on and hauling it up towards his face for a good sniff. The fumes flow through his nostrils and send a rush of blood straight down to his cock.

Partially because he can smell remnants of his cologne lingering in the cottony fabric, which could only mean one thing—you'd slept in his clothes before. Or something like that, anyway.

Halfway through his pillow sniffing, and with a half-hard cock forming in his pants, he hears his phone chime from within his pocket. The chime in question is one he specifically set for you so he wastes not even a second digging for his phone and pulling it out.

Your contact sits center on his screen as it unlocks, revealing to him a voice message you'd just sent.

Choso gulps.

You've sent him a few voice messages in the past, having felt too lazy to type stuff out, but it never fails to make him nervous before pressing play. And right now was absolutely no different.

"Hey Cho, when you get a chance—hahh, shit." Oh? Do his ears decieve him or was that a breathy pant from you? Rewinding the recording a few seconds, "Hey Cho, when you get a chance—hahh, shit. Sor-," He cuts the voice message off and then follows suit with his phone, turning it over and looking up to the ceiling for the moment.

Did you... have any idea of the things you did to this man?

Tossing the question, he tries again.

"Hey Cho, when you get a chance—hahh, shit." There's a short pause as he hears you taking a deep breath, "Sorry, when you get a chance, can you order takeout from the same place as last week before I get home?"

Takeout, of course. Of course. What else would you have sent him a voice message for?

...Certainly not for what he was about to do with it.

You were out at the gym so that little pant of yours should've been expected but he must've forgotten by the time he played the message. His thumb keeps finding itself repeating the same part of your recording, within the first few seconds when that pant, followed by a sweet curse of exhaustion dares to leave your lips.

It's stupid, really. You made one little noise and said one word he's heard from you a thousand times and yet he's already plopping down on your bed, your pillow still in hand, and his legs slowly spreading out so his poor, hardening cock has room to breathe.

Then Choso saves the message to his phone, not thinking twice as he goes on to edit it within his camera roll so that the few seconds of panting and cursing can replay over and over until he's had his fill of it.

After a good five times of replaying those gorgeous few seconds you'd given him, an idea Choso simply cannot ignore is born.

He doesn't recognize himself at all as he tosses your pillow over, snatches up those panties you had lying around and turns around to hover over the two items.

This is so fucked, and he knows it but it's hard to care. One moment he's starring at the assortment of material he has here and the next, he's got your pillow snug under the fabric of your panties. His thumb traces the edge of it just as it would if you were wearing them, swiping up heavily against the center where your pretty slit would be.

Fuck, he should stop.

His thumb glides back down and he shifts against the mattress, knees digging into the plush of it, and hot breaths tumbling out of his lungs. Then his fingers pinch at each side of your panties before he tugs, cleanly ripping the cloth just enough to create a small hole.

He winces upon doing so, knowing damn well he's getting worse by the second.

Choso pauses for a moment and grabs his phone to open his photos. His thumb swiftly swipes through his camera roll until he finds a picture of you, and along with it, he's managed to have your little panting curse combo playing on repeat.

And that's all he needed because now he's got a hole ripped into your pillow and although it was very cottony wrapping around the head of his dick, he couldn't be bothered to care. His imagination was running rampant and all he could picture was you splayed out beneath him, letting him use your body to strip him of his virginity.

He's so sure of how absolutely warm your pussy would be, despite never being inside one or even setting his eyes on one (in person) before. You'd squeeze him nice 'n tight, wouldn't you? Suck him in deeper even when he knows he can't handle that and tries to pull himself back?

God, he's getting dizzy in his own arousal and his precum is serving as lube inside this stupidly dry pillow of yours. It doesn't even feel good but every time he opens his eyes and sees your panties ripped open, his cock bulging in between where he'd torn them, he cares less and less.

Not to mention how you'll be sleeping on this same pillow soon, so the faster he cums inside of it, the faster he can say he's indirectly spilled his cum on your face.

Which is precisely why his hips are picking up their pace, even as he falls over and ends up having to hold his hunched body up with one very unsteady hand.

"Fuck," The curse falls from his lips in sync with the one that fell from yours in that recording—which is still playing in the background of his misdeeds, by the way. Then his visions suddenly become clearer while his movements grow more janky, eyes journeying to the back of his skull in pure bliss.

He swears he can see you under him right now, feel the pretty walls of your pussy clenching around his cock because it's too big for you to take with the way he's rutting forward right now. You'd tell him to slow down a little, no?

Choso steadies the pace of his pelvis just a faction as he catches his breath, "Gonna cum soon." He whispers to the imaginative version of you he's got underneath him.

How would your hands feel pushing or even pulling at his waist, trying to get him to reach deeper inside you despite his dick being much too big for you? Is it cocky of him to think that?

His bottom lip fwips out a little as he pouts, eyes growing teary from how stimulating this is for him. He's never wanted to fuck someone so badly. All these weeks of teasing and sneaking around to commit the most debauched of acts in your name... when would things come to a breaking point? When would you catch onto the hints he's not even throwing??

Ugh, all these questions leave Choso frustrated. So frustrated that now he's applied all his weight to your pillow, fulling humping his fat cock into the makeshift hole. You'd feel so much better than this stupid pillow but the realization of that does little to stop his fingertips from digging into your sheets as he grits his teeth and then spills his first load into it.

"Fuckfuckfuck-," Choso mutters under his breath as he tugs all his inches back a little before diving them right back in. His seed floods throughout the cottony insides of your cushion, making everything creamy.

He ends up having to bite down on your sheets just to hold back the sounds he begins to let out as he drives himself straight into overstimulation with a lack of halting his movements. You'd let him do this to you, right? Fuck multiple loads into you? Breed you?

Hell, what does Choso—who spends majority of his time thinking and fantasizing about you without ever feeling the sexual touch of a woman—know about breeding?

All these damn questions have had the man so distracted that he never realized how much his hand had bumped into his idle phone screen, having somehow managed to capture all of his past few events—which consisted of him moaning your name out and muttering filthy things he doesn't much understand—on camera.

But, that's not the worst part about all this.

The worst part about all this is that by the time Choso finishes up with properly breeding your pillow, he went to finally swipe his phone up, and in doing so he hit send on everything he just recorded.

Now, bear in mind that you never received any sort of response to your innocent takeout request. So really imagine your shock to hear nearly twenty minutes worth of audio porn from your roommate. Actually, scratch that, imagine how quickly you got wet from opening your text thread with Choso to see a video from him.

Because it wasn't just audio he'd accidentally captured, but an entire production of him fucking your pillow.

Shit.

——

Day Sixty-Nine: The Copy-Cock Incident.

Ever since that day, things have been weird between you and Choso.

You came home and didn't say a word to him, didn't even look at him or acknowledge him, and proceeded to hide away in your room for... the next few days or so.

By the time Choso saw you again, you pretended to be completely normal and made him feel like you'd forgotten all about the video he sent you. In fact, you even talk to him as if he'd never done anything wrong.

Weird.

The man was naturally uneasy around you for every day that followed, feeling his skin crawl with guilt every single time he was in front of you. There was nothing he could do about it either, anytime he tried to bring it up or apologize, you'd shut the conversation down or change the subject. It was almost like you didn't want him to apologize for it.

Does that mean you were silently thanking him for it? Did you perhaps like the video?

Choso's unsure. Like, severely unsure.

If you thought he was nervous and awkward around you before than he's gotten a million times worse after the whole video thing.

But today—the sixty ninth day in which you've been living with him—he's finally given the clearest answer to all his questions. All his awkwardness and shyness flies straight out the window the moment Choso comes home to see you sitting rather weirdly in his designated spot on the couch.

He made small talk with you while grabbing a bottle of water for himself from the kitchen, hearing this notable waver in your voice that he simply couldn't ignore.

What Choso didn't know quite yet was that he'd came home far earlier than you expected him to. So now you were left to maintain casual conversation with him as if there wasn't inches of thick silicone stuffed inside your cunt right now.

"—and they're dropping a sequel too, can you believe it?" Choso's voice reverberates throughout the fine walls of your apartment and your hips squirm slightly.

You don't think he ever noticed it but you always found his voice to be especially sexy. And after you got that video of him fucking your pillow—which you've replayed a concerning amount of times since—you think your attraction to his voice has only worsened.

You never knew someone with a tone that deep could whimper and whine so sweetly. The mere reminiscent thought of it has you lifting your body up an inch or two, before you sink back down onto the dildo you have beneath you.

Then your eyes threaten to close and you nibble on your bottom lip to stop yourself from making any sudden noises.

Clearing your throat instead, "Really? That sounds—"

"Are you okay?" Choso cuts off, having fully entered the living room with you now.

His eyes narrow at you as you make contact with them, watching how he's got a single brow cocked up and one hand at his hip—the other busy drawing his perspiring bottle of water up to his lips. Instead of answering him immediately, you sit there and watch the movement of his mouth for an unhealthy number of seconds.

Choso's lips press against the opening of his water oh-so-effortlessly, his tongue swiping out to capture any liquid that imperils to escape his mouth, and his throat shifting along with each unwavering gulp he takes.

When his mouth detaches from the bottle, your eyes are glued to the small breath he lets out before he tilts his head. Then his hand waves out your way, "Hello?"

You shake out of your little daze and cringe at yourself internally, "Huh? Oh-, yeah, mhm. I-I'm fine."

Choso nods his head slowly as if he definitely does not believe you. Then you see the way his eyes drop down to the blanket concealing your lower half, and his feet move against the floor to carry him over to the empty spot on the couch beside you. "Are you sure? You look a little..." His eyelid lower a fraction and he clears his throat, "Stiff?"

You wanted to move around and reposition yourself to show him that you're totally fine but it was a little difficult to do so when you had a sex toy poking up inside you. "I'm fine, Cho. Don't worry about it," You tell him.

He's entirely unconvinced. After living with you for a little over two months, he can confidently say he knows you and your body language like the back of his hand.

So, he leans back against the couch—eyes still trained on your ever little move—and then rests one of his arms against the backside of it, leaning closer to you. "It's kinda hard not to worry about it when you're looking at me like that."

You blink. "Like what?"

"Like you've been caught doing something wrong," He says with a breathless scoff following, "Did something happen?"

"N-No," You breathe out as quickly as you can.

Choso's gaze gets impossibly firmer on you, "You're lying."

Looking away for a split second, your arms move to fold beneath your chest, "Since when did you become so intuitive?"

"I've always been this intuitive," He tells you.

An uncomfortable beat of silence passes, and unfortunately for you, his talking is not helping your situation right now. Every word that vacates his mouth has you soaking both the item you're sitting on and the couch below it.

"So," His fingers idly drum against the back of the couch, "Are you gonna tell me what's wrong or...?"

You scoff, "Nothing's wrong, Choso."

He waits exactly ten loooong seconds before cracking a smirk, "So move."

"What?" You gasp.

He's still starring at you with the same unconvinced look on his face, "If there's nothing wrong, move."

You wave your arm out in a dismissive gesture before rolling your eyes and turning your head elsewhere, "You're being annoying over nothing."

Choso sizes you up, drinking in every inch of your noticeably rigid frame. "And something's wrong with you but you won't tell me what. Are you in pain? Did you hurt yourself in an embarrassing way? C'mon, if that's the case, I promise I won't make fun of you for it."

God, you hated when he acted like this. Sometimes Choso cared too much for his own good. He almost walked in on you touching yourself one night and wouldn't leave you alone until he set his eyes on your face to make sure you were okay.

You turn your head back towards him and sigh. You knew he knew what was going on here. Otherwise, why would he be pressing you to tell him what you were up to like this?

"You walked in at a bad time, that's all," You admit to him.

Choso's brows scrunch up all cutely, innocence etched into his sight as it softens on you. "What do you mean?"

How the fuck are you supposed to explain that you were in the middle of bouncing up and down a dildo—that's actually a direct copy of his cock—just moments before he walked in, and now the damn thing is nestled inside you??

"Well," You pause, heart racing a mile a minute as he stares you down like you're the only person who's every word has had him on the edge of his very seat. Then you start to fidget with your fingers in your lap and let your eyes drift away, "I was in the middle of something, and—"

You notice his legs spreading apart and his hips rolling up slowly from your peripherals. Before you can even finish, "In the middle of what?" Choso asks.

He knows.

You look at his face, and the way he's staring at you now is enough to make the heat pooling below get impossibly hotter. You can't help but squeeze your legs together, which causes the cock inside you to slip deeper.

Then your face twists up in reaction before you can help it and Choso watches the entire thing—not missing the movement in your thighs, the breathy moan you let out, and the way your fingers curl into the blanket you have neatly clutched over your body.

Oh.

Choso drags his slightly salivating tongue over his lips to wet them and then releases a short, unnerved chuckle. "I interrupted you, huh?" He asks rhetorically, voice husking a pitch deeper.

You nod your head, aching to move your body to satisfy yourself again.

"Are you embarrassed?" He goes on, trying his hardest not to move his legs out of fear you'll finally notice the boner he's been sporting this entire time.

"O-Obviously," You stammer, "But, I don't wanna talk about it. Just—"

"Don't talk then," He huffs, feeling something starved resting all thickly against the tip of his tongue. "And don't let me stop you."

Your breath tangles, "What?"

His eyes glide up and down your body thrice—seamlessly undressing you through those desperately blown-out pupils of his. "...You were playing with yourself, right?" He questions lowly.

"Something like that, yeah,” You reply.

A singular moment passes between you two before he finally says fuck it and looks at your face, "Can I watch?"

Your cunt involuntarily clenches around the dildo and you squirm, "Choso, I..."

He gives you a surprisingly calm, reassuring smile, “You know you can say no, ri—"

"I know that!" You huff, turning away as your face burns from the heat of embarrassment.

Then, without giving him a vocal answer, you finally shift around in your seat. He watches as you lean back against the corner-part of the couch and move your hand to the blankets edge before lifting it.

The first thing he notices as the cover is removed is that you're in his hoodie—the one he just wore yesterday!

You slouch your body a bit and move the blanket to the side as you slip from sitting to laying back, peeling your legs apart nice ‘n wide to give him the most sinful display of that dildo sliding a few inches out of you. Then your hand reaches down to make contact with the base of it and you bite your lip before languidly pulling it out of you.

Your pussy lips hug the silicone neatly whilst it schlicks its way out of your hole and you release a breath you weren’t aware you’d been holding in. There’s a droopy string of your slick dangling from in between the dildo’s glossy tip and your pulsing entrance—all of which Choso’s is left to peer at.

You redirect the toy’s weighty tip towards your clit and roll it around slowly before tossing your head back a little and sighing in relief.

"Ohgod-," Your roommate chokes into the palm he’d slapped over his mouth all of a sudden.

His body jolts and his other fingertips dip and grind into the couch as he tries to steady himself, holding on so tight that the veins trailing his arms begin to protrude out against his muscular arms. Something in between a throaty grunt and a whine had been ripped out of his throat.

You look over at him from beneath your lashes before batting them, "Are you okay? You're the one who wanted to watch..."

He nods shortly, mumbling, "M-Mhm, m'fine."

As if you’d believe that.

You raise a brow and move the silicone away from your cunt before snorting, "Why're you making that face then?"

"Well, I kinda..." He turns his blushing face away from you completely. Voice small, "Watching that made me cum..."

"What?” You lean up a bit, propping your body up more comfortably against your elbows, “I couldn't hear you, speak up."

Choso thinks his cock is gonna hurt after all this. He turns to face you again and looks you dead in the eyes as he speaks softly, "Watching you do that made me cum."

You blink dumbfoundedly as you find yourself unable to stop the amused smile that breaks into your features, "Just like that?"

He nods.

"You didn't even touch yourself..." You snort, looking down at yourself and shrugging as you tap the dildo against your pussy. Speaking casually, "I know you're a perv 'n all but, shit, I thought you'd last a little longer than that."

Choso’s entire world freezes, "Wait, what?"

"Mmnh," You’re busy moaning as you let the tip play with your entrance—teasing yourself shamelessly right in front of him.

The fact that you just admitted you’d known he was a filthy pervert all this time, and then went back to playing with yourself like it was nothing really threw him off.

Not that he has much time to let that sink in, though. Choso is far too easily distracted by the sight of your glistening pussy below, the living room light doing well to illuminate just how pretty your wet, sopping folds look against the head of the dildo.

“O-Ohhhh fuck.” He gasps, already on the verge of pleasureful tears. “You’re…” His hand shoots down to hold his dick as if to control it—squeezing his shaft roughly before pushing at it. "You’re soakedd. Can I taste it?” Choso asks, voice cracking a little on the last word.

You flick your eyes up at him, “What?”

“Wanna lick it,” He's whispering while moving to lean down, and flashing you this voracious look from his half-lidded eyes. “Can I? Please? Can I taste you, mommy?”

The second, “What.” that falls from your lips is flat as you find yourself struggling to process just how quickly he'd positioned himself in between your plush thighs and how smoothly that name just poured off of his tongue.

“S-Sorry, I didn’t mean to uh-, call you that…” Choso grumbles awkwardly, looking away to let the moment pass before peeking back up at you, “But, can I please—“

“Why should I let you?” You interrupt rudely.

He blinks. “Huh?”

The sudden shift in tension was rather palpable since you realized it's you who's in control here, and not him. “After alllll the dirty things you’ve done in thought of me," Your head angles off to the right, "Why should I let you taste me, Choso?”

“B-Because I’ll make you feel good,” He tries to promise, his dark eyes locked up onto the unfairly gorgeous display of you—wearing his hoodie and spread out a few inches away from his waiting mouth.

His small promise does little to help his case considering how you tut, “Aw, you think so?”

“Uhuh,” Choso nods submissively.

There's a feral, burning urge inside of him to bury his face in between your legs without permission, but that same urge battles strongly against the equally as resilient urge to be pliant and await your every command.

“That’s cute," You say before holding the dildo towards him, "How about this; if you can make me cum with this, I’ll let you get your taste, yeah?”

For the first time, Choso lets his eyes capture the toy you've been using all this time. The item is... weirdly familiar. Your roommate is many things, but he's not stupid—he knows what his own dick looks like.

Not that he has the mind to question you about it right now, though. there are much more pressing matters to tend to.

Which is exactly why he's not asking you anything as he takes the toy from your hands and then looks down at your cunt. Your hole pulses as if asking to be filled and he thinks his heart skips a beat.

He can see, touch, and smell everything.

Sluggishly, Choso directs the head of the fake cock towards your entrance and applies the faintest bit of pressure before stopping the moment he feels resistance. “Uh, is it.. supposed to do that?” Choso murmurs as he looks up, “Like.. are you supposed to be this tight? Do I need to use lu—“

“Don’t tell me you’ve never had sex before," You cut off.

You've had a feeling for months that Choso was a virgin but you'd never been too sure until now.

He pouts sheepishly, “Well..."

“Just-,” You cut yourself off with a sharp exhale. “Y’know what, you're the one that wanted to taste me so bad. I’m not teaching you, figure it out.”

His chest feels like it's caving in for a moment, “What?” He'd never heard you be so.. mean. Though he'd be lying is he said he wasn't into it, “But you made a copy of my dick, I don’t think that’s fai—“

“I don’t think it’s fair that you’re in between my legs with a toy in your hands and no idea how to use it," You say with a prominent roll of your eyes. “If you wanna taste my pussy, figure it the fuck out, Choso. Make me cum."

Oh, his cock swells impossibly harder.

Then he whines, “Y-Yes ma’am..."

Choso takes a deep breath and returns his attention to your cunt. Leaning down experimentally, his lips press clumsy, open-mouthed kisses against your inner thigh before he starts working his way inward. His nose bumps against your folds a few times, but you keep watching him try his best to piece everything together.

His brows furrow a little before he glides the dildo up and nudges it under your clitoral hood, plucking it away directly after once he notices your body flinching, and then tapping the silicone back down against it in the same way he'd seen you do earlier.

“This is your clit, right?” His question is made with genuine curiosity, but something in his eyes tells you that he already knows the answer to it—he simply wants to hear you say it.

Your head bobs a little and you're already feeling a little dazed from watching him, “Uhuh…”

You could feel his searing breaths flap down against all your wet skin and it was making you more sensitive than normal. The sound of your breathy confirmation made his face light up triumphantly.

Choso waves the tip of the dildo—technically his cock—left 'n right against your clit just to tease you before he lifts it away and lets it push against your hole again. He presses it forward with more pressure than the first time and finally pokes an inch inside you, lifting his eyes to see you bite back a moan.

You were so fucking needy.

He can only imagine how hard it was for you to sit there and act like you didn't have this toy inside you all that time. Now you're more worked up than you probably would be in any normal situation.

He strips your insides of that taunting inch after a few seconds and then repeats this action over and over until he can hear it in your breathing that you're getting frustrated with him. But before you can send him any complaints, he lifts his head and hovers his lips over your clit.

“It’s so pretty, can I kiss it?” Choso asks softly.

“I…” His eyes are all glossy ‘n pleading—too irresistible for you to say no. “Yeah…" You concede, "But no licking.”

“Thank you,” Then he dives in and smothers his lips against your clit, sucking on it lightly without ever letting his tongue make contact with it.

The tip of that stupid silicone continues to pop in and out of your squelchy pussy mindlessly as Choso gets addicted to the feel of your clit against his lips.

Muttering, “S’pretty,” into the twitchy lil’ bud over ‘n over again in between the groans he's letting vibrate out. “It keeps—mwah, runnin’ from me.” He whispers against you, “Sensitive girl—she’s so fuckin’ cute.”

As soon as that praise leaves him, the entire length of the fake cock is thrusted into you and your back is forced into a nasty arch as your hands grab at the couch. A wanton, “Choso!” flying out of your mouth before you can even help it.

He plucks his lips away and glances up at you desperately, “Can I lick her now? Please. I’ll pass out if I don’t—“

“Fine,” You huff shakily, “J-Just... lick her ‘real good for me or I’ll make you stop.”

He doesn't have to be told twice whatsoever.

The next thing you feel is his tongue finally melting against your clit as the dildo is thrusted into you, stretching your saccharine walls out perfectly. Choso only fucks the toy in halfway this time though, pulling it out directly afterwards and then repeating this action many times over as if that's all you could take.

It's at complete random that he decides to fuck the entire length of it inside you, and your body flinches as the sudden gesture is paired with his tongue practically wrapping around your poor clit.

“You like that, princess?” Choso utters with a rasp, sticking his tongue out to show you how he moves it around into spelling out his name, “Like the way I flick my tongue against this pussy? Hm? Am I doin' a good job now?”

“F-Fuck. Hnngh-, yeahhh..” You purr out all softly, hips carefully rocking up to meet both his tongue and the dildo.

You hadn’t expected him to be a talker, especially since he’s never done this before. You assume he’s just saying whatever sounds right in hopes that it works, and luckily for him it always seems to.

In a matter of minutes, Choso's fucking you relentlessly with both his tongue and the copy of his cock. You could drive that toy into you at the same speed of which he's doing now, which is exactly why it's not long before you're whining for him to slow down a little since you didn't wanna cum so quickly.

It felt like he'd only just started!

And if he was doing all this with his tongue glued solely to your clit and that toy thrashing against your g-spot, you could only imagine what the entirety of his mouth would provide for you if you let him.

Even with your pleas of him slowing his pace, Choso wasn't much listening until after you came all over the dildo. He let the toy slip right out of you and held it to the side as he tried to move in and lick at your gaping hole in an attempt of finally getting a raw taste of you.

Sure, he got to savor a bit of you just from licking at your clit but that was far from enough.

You shot a hand down to grab ahold of his hair and yank his head up before that could happen. Panting, “What’re you doing?” as you furrow your brows at him.

Choso whimpers, “Y-You said I could taste you after I made you feel good.”

“Yeah," You smirk, "But not like that.”

You make a gesture towards the same toy he's steadily growing very envious of and his eyes are slow to follow along. Then he frowns because he knows exactly where this is going.

His chocolatey eyes travel along the fake veins trailing the cock and he wonders distantly how you managed to capture every essence of his sex like that. “You… You want me to suck my own…” Choso trails off instead of completing his sentence as the realization settles in.

All whilst you're laying there with the same haughty smile on your face, “You want your taste don’t you?”

A light, defeated groan evades his lips as he watches you go on to grab the dildo and hold it up towards his mouth. The slick, shining toy is absolutely coated in you—your arousal clung to the silicone in glossy streaks, and the evidence of your orgasm fragrant and sloppy against the material.

Choso's nose twitches as he catches the sweet scent of your release oozing off of it before his voice stains out. "Fuck." He breathes, watching a slow bead of your cum slide down the length of the silicone—some of it pooled at the tip where a perfect copy of his own slit had been molded.

The man can't help the way he licks his lips reflexively as he leans towards it.

"Atta' boy," You hum, tapping the head of the toy against his bottom lip and watching your wetness smear across his skin. "Open up and get your taste, c'mon."

There's a war between his pride and his raging need to satisfy your every whim, of which the latter easily wins.

Choso parts his lips and you guide the head inside, his eyes fluttering shut upon feeling your taste meet his tongue. He moans around the toy and you push more of it into his mouth, watching how pretty his lips sealing around the shaft as he begins to hesitantly suck.

"Look at youuu, sucking yourself clean," Your words come out in a breathy purr the more you watch him work his mouth around the copy of his dick. "Good boy."

His eyes open and he bobs his head forward a little more, hips rutting against the couch hard enough for the furniture to inch forward. You watch drool trickle out of his mouth and trail down his chin, feeling yourself throb each time he moans.

You knew Choso was desperate for you but this...

“Mmgh..” He groans around the faux flesh, sucking a little faster once he notices the glow of entertainment in your eyes as you watch him.

“How’s it taste, pretty boy?” You ask in that unfairly sinful tone.

Choso pops his mouth off and gives you a fucked-out little simper, “S’good, mommy.”

Your hand falters against the base of the toy for a moment as you chuff out, “Stop calling me that.”

“Sorry,” He says, not sounding the slightest bit apologetic as he returns to licking his cock clean.

After a long, drawn-out time of him practically sucking and licking the dildo brand new, he pulls away from it with a slippery, wet pop!

Then he gasps, sucking in air, and moves his arm over to wipe off the slick and saliva mix from his chin. There's a disheveled look plastered all over his face and his eyes are hazy when met with yours.

"Was that good?" You ask despite already knowing the answer.

To your surprise, Choso doesn't respond.

He just stares at you like he's debating more things than can currently be expressed through words. Then he wraps his hands around the base of the dildo, snatches it from your grasp, and tosses it across the living room like it's useless.

Halfway-glaring at you with a new look in his eyes, he leans up leisurely. His hands move to the edge of his sweatpants and you see his dick imprint practically staring at you from beyond the fabric—a concerning wet patch darkening the area.

There's something grave in his eyes as he cocks his head over and exhales heavily, “Can I give you the real thing now?”

Your thighs twitch but you hope he doesn't notice it. Trying to distract him from it by shrugging, “You think you’ve earned it?”

“I think,” His fingers dip beneath the fabric and he begins to tug his pants down, “You’re being a brat—acting like you’re not just as bad as me.”

Oh. The switch in his head had most certainly been flipped and you were not expecting it.

“What?” You puff.

“Look at you now,” He reaches out and presses the thick pad of his thumb against your clit, “Swollen, needy, aching… all for me.”

Your thighs try to shut, “T-That’s just because—“

“Shhh, shhh,” He hushes, rapidly swatting his hands over to your legs and forcing them open before you can close them, “Let me show you I’ve earned it.”

He grips at your skin until it feels like you won't move once he extracts his hold on you, swallowing up how pretty you look submitting to him now.

Choso goes to pull his dick out and your breath hitches, entire body flinching as you watch it bob out. His length spanks down against your pussy, meanly spreading your wobbly lips apart and nudging against every sensitive nerve you have there.

Your roommate doesn’t move for a moment and just sits there so you can feel his veins thumping, and watch the crown of his cock drooool silky, wet ropes of mushy cum against your abdomen. He's a mess of his own seed but he doesn't seem to care or be embarassed by it whatsoever.

After all, you're the one who got him like this.

All while he’s panting, sweat running down his skin, and face flushed beyond belief. Hovering over you, Choso tilts his head and continues on with his needy glare, “Can I fuck you now?”

“Yeah,” You don't even hesitate to whisper.

His hand moves to hold your jaw graciously but the way he tugs your face up is quite rough, “Speak up.” He demands.

“Yeah,” You say clearly, “You can fuck me, Choso.”

And that’s all he needs.

Next thing you know and Choso's tucking his thiiiiick, creamy cock into your quivering pussy, throwing his head back from the sensation of feeling you welcoming him in for the first time. He's got one hand clasped onto the couch and the other having moved to grip the top of your head so you can watch him have his way with you.

He couldn't let you miss a second of this by looking away or turning your head because you didn't want him to see how much your face twists up in pleasure. No, no, if you're gonna let him fuck you then you're gonna watch how he does it too.

Every fuckin' second of it.

That initial inch of him sinking into you had your vision blurring. The dildo you had made couldn't even begin to compare nor replicate the real thing. It doesn't twitch the way he does, doesn't end with his hips pressing forward with intentional, punishing slowness as if to get back at you for making the damn thing in the first place, and doesn't make you feel every ridge or rubbing vein against the soppiest crevices of your pussy.

"Look at that," Choso drawls, his eyes locked onto where your bodies meet, "You take me s'fucking well—always knew you would." He admits.

But then he stops halfway with no warning, no nothing. You're left impaled and clenching around him, wanting and needing more desperately whilst he just waits. He watches how your walls flutter around him as if to bed for the rest but he still doesn't move.

Your voice feels broken, "C-Choso.."

"Hm? Something wrong, princess?" He coos innocently, "You want me to keep going?"

You nod desperately and the movement makes his hand grip at your skull tighter by just a fraction. Then he sinks in a little deeper and you deliver a trembling moan in response.

He doesn't even sound like the sweet, respectful Choso you know has he tuts, "I can't hear you."

Through gritted teeth, "Yes—fucking move, Cho. Please, fuck me." you beg.

The edges of his lips curl, "Thaaat's more like it."

And then he's bucking the rest of his plump cock into you, bottoming out just the way both of you have always desired. The fluid motion has air fleeing from your lungs and your back angling up ‘n away from the couch, a shamefully loud cry—that you’re sure your neighbors will send complaints about later—leaping out of your trachea.

Choso sets a nasty rhythm inside you, thrusting without a concern in the world about the way the couch is squeaking and creaking beneath your bodies.

Shit. At this rate the dame thing could just break and he still wouldn’t give a fuck.

His hand tightens within your hair and he pulls at your head, “Goddd, you’ve no idea how long I-, hahh… waited for this. Need you to watch, baby. Watch how I fuck this pretty pussy.”

You feel his stout cockhead flog up against your cervix repeatedly, almost like he means to brand himself into the area and have his cum signing his name across it permanently.

“Can’t believe you got some-, fuck—s-stupid toy to replace me. L-Like m’not right here for you,” He pants, a crisp whine slipping out somewhere in between his words. “You knew you wanted the real thing, knew you needed it. Right? Doesn’t this feel s’much better, princess?”

Your jaw is flailing open at this point and you’re a slobbering, moaning mess underneath him, “Yes, Choso. F-Feels s’good, nngh!”

A particularly puncturing thrust makes your eyes fly to the back of your head and your hand reach over to hold onto his arm, nails scratching across his skin. He smiles once he realizes he’s found the perfect spot to fuck you dumb.

Then he’s doing exactly that, pounding your body straight into the mattress and letting groans pour out of his mouth. He’s so fucked-out that he doesn’t even realize he’s drooling on you as he plows forward.

Your pussy is weeping all over his cock, lugging his every jerky inch in deeper ‘n deeper until he earns a specific twitch from you.

“O-Oh,” Choso moans again, “I found it, huh? You gonna cum on me again?” Once your head goes nodding and your pleasureful cries pitch out into airy whines, he gasps. “Give it to me then. Please? Please cum on me, lemme feel it. I wanna feel it baby—wanna feel you cum.”

His words immediately fade off into whimpers when he feels you doing exactly as he’s begged you to—your orgasm practically crashing through you and causing your body to convulse around him. Choso fucks you through it like his life depends on it, eager not to disappoint.

Then he’s right there with you—even though he technically came again quite some time ago, but both of you were too fucked-out to realize—and you feel globs of his cum gushing all throughout your pussy, the mess of releases getting mixed with one another with the way his hips insistently continued on.

Muttering, “Take it, take it, take it-,” over and over mindlessly whilst your cunt shuddered around him.

It’s not until his hips come to a sharp stop that both of you manage to catch your breath in an synchronized gasp of air. Choso’s body topples down over you and you feel his cock twitching as it goes flaccid inside you.

Your bodies remain still for a minute or two before he lifts his head to look at your face, leaning in to plaster kisses on your cheek and whisper intimate things that your ears don’t quite catch.

When your ears come in tune with what he’s saying, "—and about that video... I wanted to apologize for that. A-And for everything else." you hear him finishing off with.

To which you let out a little dream-like sigh, "Choso… I literally have a camera in my room. I've known about what you've been doing for quite a while now. You don't have to apologize."

"Oh, you-," He pauses and lifts his body. "Wait, what?"

perm choso tags (1/2):

@yulissacastillo11 @xxvendettaxx @blcknebula @imyourightnow @cupidstrace @iiakithegoat @hellodeeyanna @navyllll @etsuniiru @not-a-glad-gladiator

@hopelissromantiq @2kool4skoolll @bbfawns @daxphoriax @gorouenjoyer @avatar4eva @broimherebcsimboredok @indiaas-priv @blubearxy @wonderfullymickey

@iaintblockinnobody @kitassecretgf @iam-souless @nanamitiddiechomper @ohreallyfriend @withersworld @suguphile @megottheswaskikacooooke @kvsqkiii @yourlocalcatscammer

@prettysexcgorgeous @themicthatyeosangwith @autistmicfool @v33326 @lucy-lulu @sukubusss @sweetieelilii @lisabelhyhn @serenadesvt @bloxdhawks

You obey easily, blushing a bit, his hands brushing oil on your tits, making your lashes flutter shut, covering up just a bit.

"Don't, you're sexy.."

You blush even more if that were possible, breasts rising and falling as his huge hands knead that flesh, plucking at your nipples. Satoru moves to stand right over your head, the view of his cock tenting his pants fucking you up.

"You're getting the highest tip," he snorts at that.

"Oh?" He's gliding more oil across your tummy, leaning over to part your thighs and eye your slick pussy, hesitating just a bit - this is where he likes to let the clients guide him. "Put my hand where you want."

"Oh..." your heart hammers in your chest as you slip it down further, he lets out a soft little moan when his fingertips are right between your slit. "Mnh!"

"You don't need any oil there," he muses softly, teasing fingers slipping up your slit, making you jolt as they toy with your twitchy clit. Your hips arch as he teases your entrance, slick pouring from your little hole down his fingers. "So wet already, we just started the massage.... your little cunt is so needy."

All you manage is your eyes rolling back in your skull - your man just never made you cum, and your own fingers didn't feel close to as good as those five inch fingers did.

You swear they're bigger than your ex's cock.

Rough fingertips dip in your slick just to the first knuckle, slutty little moans escape your throat at it.

"Feel good?" He murmurs softly, one hand holds your thigh apart, the other swirls around your messy cunt and sliding in. "You're so tight here, too, I think need to loosen you up."

"Please," this slutty masseuse with pretty blue eyes pumps your pussy full - stretching you out with these sweet nurn6, that spongy spot he presses, making you gasp out, back arching off the little bed. "Mnh, there, there!"

"Shh, not too loud," he leans fully over you to press a kiss on your inner knee - that was not protocol, not when he couldn't stop thinking of drinking your pussy and breeding you. "Your cunt is already so loud."

You huff, earning another chuckle, when suddenly you can't help but tug at his zipper, sliding so your head dangles off the bed. He pauses, blushing and looking down at you, fingers sliding out.

"What are..." You look up all pretty with hearts in your eyes for him, biting your lip, thighs shaking.

"I really want your cock in my throat, I'll pay so much more," he almost laughs.

Paying him to suck his cock!?

"You sure, sweetheart? This is for you."

"I'll love it if you would like it," you turn around, on your elbows and knees, looking right up at him as he frees his cock. "Is this special treatment?"

"It is, can't say anyone's touched me," he mumbles, suddenly nervous, when you've got your mouth wrapping his cock, his head falls back, groan slipping from his throat as that tip grazes the roof of your mouth.

You didn't look the type to suck a dick down your throat like you have no gag reflex - but here you are, swallowing him like you can't get enough. Your oiled up ass is arched, Satoru reaches a long arm over you, one hand entangled in your hair, the other finding your hole and fucking his fingers in and out.

The loud sounds of your squelching pussy and his cock choking your slutty throat are loud, the stupid ass spa music falling on deaf ears as he thinks he's in love with your mouth.

"F-fuck you're... too good at..." He's never one to be at a loss for words, but with every glide of his pretty pink tip in your throat, you're swallowing impossibly more of him. "That's it - fuck, just like..."

Satoru bites down on his lower lip as he shoves the back of your head so he's choking you with his length, curling his fingers just right so you squirt right down him. Dripping in rivulets you're making the biggest mess, squishing sounds loud when he rushes his fingers side to side to make you squirt even more.

"Mmmph," tears streak down your eyes as you swallow Satoru's cock, thighs shaking on the leather bed, nails pressing into well muscled thighs. His grip on your head tightens as he bends over, fucking your throat even faster

"Want me to use your throat, cum deep inside it, huh sweetheart? Use your mouth like a pretty toy till all my cum makes you full?" Your answer is to desperately suck, two of his hands now on your head. Hips snapping, cock fucking in and out.

For a woman who had nothing but missionary and a little spit on your cunt as lube, you've never wanted to please like this. You want him to use yojr throat - fuck you would let him use every hole he wanted, looking up at him to see his flushed cheeks through your watering eyes.

"Mnh, m"gonna..." he cups your face to hold it in place, cock bottoming out so his drool soaked balls press on your chin. He pumps so much cum his knees are weak, he damn near has to cling to the bed as you keep sucking. "That thirsty? Gonna suck me dry..."

You keep sucking even as he is sensitive, Satoru pulls back and looks at the mess he's made of you, cum having slipped down your chin. He gathers it and slips it back between your lips.

"Open for me, pretty."

You eagerly listen- you, a soccer mom having this white haired masseuse spit in your open mouth in a filthy string. You eagerly swallow him up, earning him yanking you to your knees, kissing you right when the little timer goes off for his next client.

"Oh," you flush as you realize just how much you loved that, tying your robe hastily and almost bouncing at the door before he stops you.

"Hey," he tilts your chin up, pressing you against the door. "Can I see you again? Like... dinner or..."

"You want to go on a date? With me?"

"Nervous about a date but you just let me spit in your mouth?" he grins and you cover your face now.

"Oh god..."

"Pretty please?"

He is pretty sure he is in love when you give him your number and peck a kiss on his cheek.

and when he has to cancel his next client, it may or may not be because he's jerking his cock to the way your juices are still coating his fingers 💗

By the time morning arrived, the rays of sunshine tickling your eyes awake, he was back to his old annoying self. It started small, pushing himself off you when he noticed he had been resting on your chest, sitting up in bed, turning his back to you when you rubbed the sleep out of your eyes, seeing his back first thing in the morning was the only blessing you received that day. He did nothing to acknowledge your presence. Didn't wish you a good morning when you wished him one, didn't thank you for making him breakfast, slam the door in your face when you two were supposed to head out together, and talk ill of you when you two met up with his friends. A meeting you had agreed to because he promised he would behave when he was cuddled up on your chest as you ran your fingers through the soft strands of his hair. You were beyond pissed.

Embarrassed. Embarrassed at the fact that you thought he would change. That there was some good in him. But no, he was the same old. And once again he apologised. Once again, he promised he would change, saying he loved you when he noticed you subtly slipping right through his fingers again. And he wasn't sure he'd be able to catch you again. And he was right. Because this time, you wouldn't let him off the hook so easily. This time, you wanted to hit him where it hurts.

Scrolling through your phone while he was driving, he glanced at you a few times. You ignored him, wouldn't acknowledge him and he had no idea how to make it up to you. A few minutes prior, when you were reminded that your friends and coworkers went out drinking and you wanted to join them, he told you he'd join you. It came as a surprise to you.

Whenever you wanted him to meet them, he would decline. Telling you he couldn't care less about who you hang out with. You were a bit hesitant and he could see it on your face. You raised one of your brows and didn't really know what to say. “Just let me do this for you.” Your bar must have been in absolute hell because that sentence alone made you want to drop your panties to the floor and fall to your knees. We all make mistakes sometimes. No big deal. You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, not missing the way he was blushing when you grabbed his hand and led him to the car.

All is well that ends well, they say. But the day was not over yet, right? The night was still young, waiting for you to go crazy. Now, you had the perfect idea on how to punish him. You sat in his passenger seat looking too good to associate yourself with him. He hated admitting it but you were too good for him. Way out of his league personality and looks-wise. Even his friends would ask him what he had done, who had to kill to have someone like you standing by his side. He knew it was an arranged marriage you couldn't technically get out of without tarnishing your reputation. Well, good thing you had never cared about your reputation. The reason you were still with him was that no one could take your strap the way he could. And you had tried it with other guys. They couldn't satisfy you the way he could.

That was until you set your eyes on your next target. Stepping into the club together, you immediately spotted your friends towering over the crowd. When they saw you, Gojo rushed over, grabbing your hand and dragging you towards the bar with Naoya following awkwardly. Geto greeted him although hostile. They were your best friends, of course, they knew what was going on with you. Shoko (your favourite) came hugging you too, already two drinks into the night. But the one you were looking for was no one other than-

‘’Kenny!’’ Naoya frowned. Who the fuck was Kenny and why were you so excited to see him? Before he could even think about saying something, Gojo wrapped an arm around his shoulders, grinning from ear to ear. On the other side, Geto glared at him, arms folded in front of his chest. Shoko did her part, handing him a drink, whispering and telling him he might end up needing it. That was enough to let him know something was going on. When he watched you wrap your arms around Nanami and watched him blush furiously, clumsily resting his hands on her waist as professionally as he could, it clicked. It all suddenly made sense.

‘’Are you fucking sleeping with him, Y/n?!’’

Everyone froze. Shoko choked on her drink. Geto face-palmed himself. Gojo couldn't stop laughing. Nanami flinched, letting go of you immediately. You smiled up at him before turning back to your insufferable husband. For the first time, Naoya felt like his heart had broken into a million pieces. His heart was racing and his chest pained him. When you saw the look of devastation on his face, you told him you weren't sleeping with him. Not yet anyway. A flood of relief washed over him.

‘’But, I have a proposition.’’

He was all ears now. And when you grabbed one of Nanami's big arms, wrapping them around your waist as you looked back at Naoya, you smiled. He frowned in confusion. Nanami's face was beet red now. If you hadn't known him better, you would have thought he was close to passing out. He was so adorable, making you giggle as you pressed a soft long-lasting kiss to his neck. All while staring right at Naoya. That was the queue for your other friends to leave, find something else to do. Pressing soft kisses to his neck, you made your way up his jaw, making him gasp in your tracks. ‘’What about your-''

‘’It's okay, sweetheart.’’ Naoya just stood there, pinching the bridge of his nose. He understood that this was his punishment. You were kissing some guy who was bigger, taller, and hotter than you were. Then, while still directly looking at him, you pulled Nanami into a kiss. And suddenly, all the tension in his mind, muscles and veins seemed to fade. He melted into you, wrapping his arms around your waist.

That was all it took for Naoya to start freaking out. He rushed over and when he stood right behind you, asking you what your problem was, you pulled him in by the hem of his shirt. ‘’Shut up and kiss me.’’ Is all you said, barely audible over the loud music playing.

And as confused as he was, he did want to kiss you. You looked beautiful under the neon lights, not that he would tell you. He leaned in to kiss you, his anger fading away almost instantly. Using your free hand, you pulled in Nanami, making him press kisses to your neck.

Both of them were right where you wanted them to be.And that's how you ended up in your bedroom with both of them. Kneeling next to each other waiting for your next command. In nothing but their boxers. Nanami looked at you expectantly. Naoya looked irritated. ‘’Fix your face.’’ That's when he fixed his posture and his face. He had dug himself into this mess, it was his responsibility to dig himself back out again.

Then, ‘’Come here, Kenny.’’ And he obliged, crawling towards you like a good puppy. Like a good boy. When he reached you, you giggled, cupping his face in your hands. ‘’What a good boy you are.’’ Additionally, you pressed soft kisses to his face. ‘’Someone could learn a few things from you.’’ You added, glancing at Naoya who gasped immediately.

‘’I-I can behave!’’

‘’Shut your mouth. I'll get to you once it is your turn. You had silenced him and he slumped back into his position. You almost felt bad when he looked sad. But this was supposed to be a punishment after all. Then, you let go of Nanami, pushing yourself to the headboard. ‘’Go get the box.’’ You told Naoya, nodding in the direction of your closet.Without questioning you any further, he got to his feet, heading to find the mystery box he was talking about.

Whenever you told him to get it, he knew what was up. So he set it down in front of himself, took off the cover and grabbed his favourite butt plug.

Nanami watched him with big eyes. Watched him grab a bottle of lube, squeezing some right onto his fingers. Watched him push the same fingers he had lubed up into himself without any hesitation. Watched his mouth fall open and his eyes squeeze shut. All while you told Nanami to get into the bed with you. When he did, you pulled him into another deep kiss, pushing your tongue past his, making him whine against you. As soon as Naoya had fit the toy, he told you, making you pull away from the kiss.

‘’Good boy.’’ You remarked, your hand running down Nanami's back. You stopped right at his ass, digging your nails into the soft flesh. ‘’Have you ever been touched here?’'

He shook his head no. ‘’N-Not yet…’’

You smirked, telling Naoya to grab the unused butt plug and curled your finger towards him, motioning for him to join you on the bed. And he did. Telling Nanami to tell his boxers off, you took off your own underwear, waiting for him to take it off. As soon as he took it off, you spread your legs, using your hand to spread your folds, showing both of them your glistening wetness. Luke clockwork, both of them moved towards you as if they were in a trance. Hypnotised by your pussy. But then you stopped Naoya urging Kenny to come closer.

‘’May I?’’

‘’May you what?’’ His face turned beet red. ‘’Eat you out…’’ He muttered before looking at you with need in his eyes. ‘’Please.’’ And how could you ever say no to that? He dug right in when you gave him permission, pushing his legs right over his shoulders lips latching on to your puffy clit. Naoya looked pissed and was about to be even more upset. Because yiu asked Nanami if you could play with his ass and he let out a muffled ‘yes' into your pussy, making you bite down on your lip. And since you were busy getting your pussy ate, and Nanami was the one eating your pussy, Naoya had to take care of Nanami's scrumptious buns. He hated it. He absolutely hated this punishment. Hated having to lube up his finger. Hated pushing it past the tight bundle of nerves. Despised the way Nanami clenched around it when it first entered. And when Nanami groaned into your pussy and Naoya's hole seemed to tighten around the toy, he wanted to jump out of a window.

And you? You were enjoying the whole thing. Watching Naoya fuck Nanami on his fingers, stretching him out gradually. Both of your boys are being penetrated in their own ways. When Naoya pressed down on Nanami's prostate, he let out a loud whimper, momentarily stopping the movements of his tongue. He looked at you, eyes wide in shock and you laughed at his embarrassed face. So cute. So adorable. You pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, telling Naoya to push the plug into him. When that was done, you ordered them to sit next to each other and turn around, having their backs face you. When they got on their hands and knees, arching their backs, the plugs glistened. One of them was wearing a green plastic diamond plug and the other a blue one. Making them wiggle their butts was the best depiction you ever made.

Your husband had almost believed his punishment was over. But it had just begun. After all, you hadn't come yet. And what better way was there to come than on a big, throbbing dick? Nanami was as hard as he could possibly be. He was pretty sure he had never been this hard before. And when you told him to put it inside he could have come right there. Naoya wasn't too thrilled. But he wasn't in any position to complain. He knew he had fucked up and he was finally ready to make it up to you. So when Nanami grabbed his shaft, pressing the tip of his dick against your entrance, you braced yourself. You had never taken a dick this big before. Once he pushed in, you clung on to him, squeezing your eyes shut.

‘’Are you okay?’’ He looked at you in concern. But when he was just about to pull out, you wrapped your legs around him, keeping him buried inside you. You were so close to coming, you couldn't stop now. You couldn't. You pulled him into yet another kiss, getting used to the unfamiliar stretch you were feeling. A few minutes later, you were ready. He could move. And he moved slowly at first starting by grinding his hips against yours before thrusting into you steadily at a slow pace. All while reaching depths inside you that had never been explored before. Touching places that had never been touched before, making your eyes roll back as far as they could, making you scream out his name when he picked up his pace. And Naoya could do nothing but watch your friend fuck you better than he ever could. He could do nothing but watch you helplessly, avoiding rubbing his hard dick in order not to infuriate you even more.

His tip was an angry red, leaking precum everywhere. Trying everything in his power to hold back. But by the way you were moaning, telling Nanami to fuck you harder, to go faster, to fuck you right there, it was so difficult. He didn't know if he wanted to cry or fuck you too.

‘’I-I'm coming!’’ Alongside a few whines on Nanami's end was all Naoya heard when you came undone, legs shaking, nails digging into Nanami's back as he buried his face into the crook of your neck, coming deep inside you. Finally you were done, Naoya thought to himself. But you weren't. Nanami got off you asking if you were okay. You pressed a kiss to his cheek, getting off the bed, having them watch the come dripping down your inner thighs, getting them all hard again. You grabbed a chair and set it down right in front of the bed, taking a seat.

‘’Naoya, on your hands and knees.’’ He did as told, getting on his hands and knees, back facing you while he looked back at you. ‘’Nanami, take out his plug.’’ He nodded, reaching for his plug immediately. He grabbed it, and pulled it out slowly, drawing a whine from Naoya as his hole clenched around nothing. They stared at you expectantly, having no idea what you would say next. ‘’Now fuck him.’’

You could have heard grains of salt hit the ground as quiet as the room was. They looked at each other momentarily. Nanami didn't seem to have a problem with that. He loved to do as you said. He loved to please you, loved to make you happy. And if this was something that made you happy, he would do it. Naoya on the other hand was dumbfounded. Before he could protest, throw insults at you, Nanami's dick pressed against him. ‘’What are you-'' with one swift movement, Nanami pushed in the entirety of his dick, bottoming out inside him. Naoya let out a guttural moan, clinging to the bed sheets.

Nanami's hands rested on your husband's waist, looking back at you, waiting for the next order. When you told him to go on, continue what he was doing, he did as told, continuing to fuck him slowly. He himself was quite sensitive after he had just come and Naoya struggled to adjust to the size of him. With every thrust he let out a whimper, letting you know how good he was feeling. Finally, he could feel some relief, although he wished it came from you.

‘’He likes getting his hair pulled.’’ You added, watching Nanami grab a fistful of his hair pulling him back against his chest, holding him there to fuck into him. Naoya was close. Dangerously close and embarrassed. The dicking he was receiving was too good. But nothing could upstage your strap. He caught himself wishing, imagining it were you drilling into him. You tugging at his hair. You holding on to his waist.

‘’C-Close… I-''

‘’Nanami, pull out.’’

Again, Nanami did as told, hips coming to a halt first letting go oh his hair and then letting him rest against the bed gently. Tears welled up in Naoya's eyes at the edging. He could literally feel his orgasm, feel his cum close to his tip threatening to shoot out. All of that just for you to take the sensation away from him. You finally stood up, strapping yourself up while you told your pretty Kenny to flip Naoya on to his back and push his legs up to his chest.

Once again Nanami did as told. Then you told him to continue what he was doing, so he pushed back into Naoya, making the latter throw his head back. Suddenly, while thrusting, Nanami felt you tugging at his butt plug. You pulled it out softly, leaving him clenching around nothing, your strap prodding at his entrance. ‘’Relax,’’ you whispered, pushing it in softly. It wasn't one of the big straps you used with Naoya. This one was small, a decent size for his first time. He squeezed his eyes nails digging into the sheets. The toy filling him up alongside Naoya's warm walls enveloping him drove him crazy. You spanked him lightly, letting him know he should move now. He did so slowly. Whenever he pushed into Naoya, you pulled out. Whenever he pulled out you slammed into him. And that's how you created a steady rhythm.

It didn't take much for the guys to turn into a whimpering mess, begging you for any sort of relief. Both of them begged you to let them come. And by now, you thought you had punished Naoya enough. A part of you hoped he hadn't learned his lesson. You wanted to repeat something like this. With Kenny or one of your other friends who obviously had the hots for you. There was one last thing. “Naoya loves being choked while coming, you know?’’ You peaked over Nanami's shoulder, looking at Naoya's fucked out expression.

The second you told them they could come, Nanami's big hands wrapped around Naoya's neck, choking him steadily. He gasped, eyes rolling back into his head, while Nanami's eyes squeezed shut, fucking into him and fucking himself on your strap. And then their orgasms washed over them, hard. Both of them let out a series of whimpers as they came. Naoya all over himself, Nanami inside Naoya. It was a mess. Nanami slumped as soon as he pulled out, breaking down on top of the other. It was a cute sight to see indeed. Both of them panting, fucked out, oozing cum or lube, holes twitching. You wanted to eat them right up.

‘’Good job, guys!’’ You giggled, rubbing Nanami's back soothingly. “You did well!’’ After this, they definitely deserved some loving. You ran them a nice bath and they sat at opposite ends. Naoya kept on glaring at you while you took care of Nanami. Washing his hair, whispering words of affirmation. You glanced at him briefly and he looked like a kicked puppy. When you moved over to him, he looked at you. You ran your fingers through his soft hair smiling at him.

“Got something you want to tell me?”

“I'm sorry…” He whimpered, and he genuinely looked sorry this time.

You run into Shoko and Utahime, they give you a hug and the three of you throw back a shot, laughing a bit as you catch up with them.

“You two together, hmm?” Your lips twitch up in amusement, they look at each other and then kiss. “Stop that, you’re making me jealous!”

“Have you decided to stop being into men?”

“No I wish,” you pout and lean back, letting Shoko grab you another shot. “It’s been nothing but hell.”

“Another shithead?” Utahime asks, frowning a bit.

“Yeah, but it was three years…” You shake your head. “I shouldn’t talk about it, I’ll cry again, and I am not crying with Gojo at this party.”

“Ah, Gojo,” Utahime makes Shoko laugh. “What, I can’t stand him!”

“He’s not that bad, just an idiot,” she grabs her pack of cigarettes and starts smacking them on her palm, raising a dark brow as you look over at him, turning quickly when he catches you staring.

“You still have it bad, all these years, sweets?”

“No! Shoko!” You cover your face and shake your head. “Never again, I haven’t even spoken to him.”

“In ten years?” Shoko asks, surprise clear on her features.

“No, I’ve not even been in the country for five years, but he never reached out to me, and neither did I, aside from when his parents were sick and it was on the news. I did write to him, but he just… hearted it. I’m sure he had a lot going on.”

And that fucking hurt, that you couldn’t even comfort him, that you knew he faced a fuck ton of responsibilities now. Yet all these years Satoru hearted one of your photos, and reacted to the only message you sent – you swear the heart must have been a misclick, too.

It hurts so bad, that you were too stubborn to reach out in the darkest times, that he wouldn’t leave your memories. Sure – it faded, you went and got your master’s degree, you went abroad, now you’re back home, though, and you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d run into him somewhere. Yet, Satoru had been doing a lot of traveling himself this past year.

You’d know, you stalked his IG.

How pathetic after a decade to still want to know about him, but there was nothing to be done – since the breakup you’ve been even more so thinking of him.

Of how nothing ever felt like him touching you, him inside you, him looking at you the way he did. Yet it’s always overshadowed by the fact that you never heard him say those words, just three words that you craved so badly as a young girl. Even now, the words that spill from your lips never feel the same as that confession.

“He takes care of the company now, I think that’s hard for him.”

“He’s still just a dick,” Utahime says to Shoko, she laughs and shakes her head at her. “Sorry, but he is.”

“You two always hated each other,” you muse, peeking again to see him walking over. “Shit!”

“I’m… gonna smoke,” you gasp and Shoko grabs Utahime. “Outside… bye, baby!”

“You brats!” You hiss as they laugh and rush out, you tense as you smell his goddamn cologne the closer he gets.

Bergamot.

It was so distinctly him – even when he had none of it on, his smell on clean skin just did something – especially with raging hormones as a teenager. You clench your thighs just inhaling him, trying to ignore his very presence, but he’s already standing next to you, murmuring your name.

“Gojo.” He raises a brow, he’s just gotten hotter, his jaw is so cut it’s unfair, his blue eyes peeking at you.

Suddenly you’re nervous, tugging at your dress – you’re not eighteen anymore, your tits don’t sit up quite like they did, your hips widened, you’re just… different. And Satoru looks the same, if not more cut.

You become conscious of everything, almost holding your breath as he takes you in, smiling at you. His girl you’d seen him with was a fucking actress, you’re just a small town girl, nothing glamorous. Surely he wanted-

Why do you care what he wants?

Why is he sending you spiraling just coming near you?

“What do you want?” He sighs at that, the cocky grin off his face, easing back when you push at his chest just a bit, hand pausing before you tug it back, staring down into your drink.

“That’s the greeting I get, sweetheart? After a decade?”

“Should just smack you.”

“I’d probably like it,” you snort and roll your eyes, making his tentative little smile come back, sitting next to you. “Can’t I get a hi?”

“Hi,” you narrow your eyes now. “And bye.”

“God you’re mean,” he leans close, lips brushing against your ear, your heart hammers in your chest. “It’s hot on you.”

“You’re so full of it,” you lean back and sip your drink, narrowing your eyes at him. “As if you don’t have a girlfriend or five.”

“Yeah, no,” you raise a brow. “I was engaged, but that was over as of… let’s see,” he calculates in his head. “A month now.”

“Oh,” you frown, looking down at your own finger, the little change of color where the band once was. “Me too, but like two months.”

“Shit, I’m sorry,” you shrug a bit, seeing his eyes dart to your finger.

“He fucked my former best friend – and she got pregnant.”

“What!?”

“Yeah,” you throw back the rest of your wine, shaking your head. “Go ahead, laugh at it.”

“Why would I fucking do that?” You look at him and feel your heart pound in your chest at his face, at how he looks at you in that moment.

Fuck you missed him, didn’t you?

“You were mean then,” you whisper, and he falters, looking down, hurt clear on his features. “So mean to me at the end.”

“I know that,” it kills him to think of then, how upset he had been that you weren’t going to his university, the sheer upset of you moving, the fear of how desperately in love he was already.

He never even got to tell you.

His parents were pushing him to marry even back then, and it was anyone but you – a pretty middle class girl wasn’t up to ‘their standard’. It had killed him to try to keep up with that, but even so he never wanted to lose you – though he was scared shitless by what he felt for you, by the sheer obsession he had.

Even ten years ago he was searching for you, pictures of you where you’d moved, trying to keep tabs – fuck, last year he saw you with that fiance and almost got sick from it. His fiance was just someone his parents pushed enough, and with him having to take over their place soon, he’d gone along with it.

It’s not like he could ever love anyone after you.

There was nothing like what he felt, countless women underneath him, on top of him, bent over with their asses arched, but nothing came close to the breathless way he held you, how your lips brushed together. He wondered often if it was because you were his first love, you were so many of his firsts, no he wasn’t a virgin, but he didn’t do all the things you two did before you.

Before that it was awkward, fumbling around, he’d usually been so nervous he’d let the girls take the lead, but everything about you made him want to – the way you fell apart when he learned to eat pussy with every flick of his tongue on you. You didn’t know that, of course, he ended up being sort of a prodigy at it rather quickly.

Satoru may have been a jock, but he was also very much a nerd at heart, so he studied it all extensively – porn wasn’t even for jerking his cock, it was to learn how to make you squirt. It was to make his girlfriend feel good.

Satoru was good at making you cum.

Yet he failed in so many other areas of your relationship – royally failed, especially that day you said good bye at the airport, and he was so very fucking hurt by you. It rushes through his head – and is if he is on the same wavelength –you say it softly.

“That day at the airport, I can’t forget that,” you shake your head. “Call me petty, a ten year long grudge holder, I agree.”

“You’re not…” He trails off then, cupping your face in a way he shouldn’t.

How does Satoru remember your scent still? After a decade it’s as vivid as ever, the scent that if he even caught a whiff of it he’d search for you, even now.

That’s what scared him the most – how obsessed he was then.

How hopeless in love he was, and scared of getting hurt – only to hurt you.

*****

Ten years ago

You were trembling, tears streaming down your face – you get it, why Satoru didn’t think long distance could work, some fucking promise to be friends, but staring at him now has you furious. You see him holding back, his own eyes glassy with unshed tears, fists clenched at his sides.

“You’re happy I’m going far away,” you whisper, clutching your luggage as he glares.

“I’m not fucking happy, what?”

“You are,” you laugh then, swiping at your cheeks, hating those trails that revealed just how upset you were. “Why’d you take me here? To make the break up more permanent?”

“I don’t want to…” He didn’t want to lose you, it’s on the tip of his dumb ass eighteen your old brain to say it.

– I don’t want to lose you. –

Yet those words never spill – he just cups your face, thumb brushing a tear away, looking into the face of the girl he’s terrified of. He’s scared to feel it all, to lose you to someone, to be put under all that pressure to marry and cause you more pain. Then he didn’t truly know how to handle it.

“Wanted to feel better by saying goodbye?”

“We were friends for years before this,” he desperately cups your face, leaning low as the rush of people walk past you all, headed toward their flight, and the attendant is making her announcements. “I just want what’s best for you, how would us being across the country ever going to be okay?”

“I’d have made it work,” you had shut your eyes, tugged him close by his letterman’s jacket, the one you used to wear all the time after you both went on dates. He’d wrap it all around your shoulders, enveloping you in that scent, the warmth. Now it’s a cruel joke to have it underneath your fingers.

“I’m your first boyfriend, what if you…” He had swallowed down that bile in his throat at the thought. “What if you regret only being with me, what if you wanted more experience?”

“You think that?” You asked, lost in his eyes, unsure how he thinks you’d ever want a boy but him. “No, I-”

‘Boarding flight 111 now, five minutes to board.’

You curse, turning to leave when he slams his lips down on yours, and for just a moment you’re done for, you’re melting in his arms, hands slipping up his chest as he presses you right against one of the pillars, uncaring of who walked by. You meet his kisses, exhaling and letting his tongue slide in, the familiar barbell dancing on the roof of your mouth.

His hands are firm on your waist, pulling back and looking down at you. “I’m doing this for you.”

You glare then, shoving at him. “For me!? Leaving me?”

“You’re the one leaving!”

“No, I’m going to college, you’re the one who won’t try! I can’t believe I let you kiss me again!” you rush off and he grabs your wrist, you jerk back and glare up at him again. “I’m done. Satoru, just let me go – don’t hurt me more.”

“I don’t want you to-”

“You don’t know what you want,” he lets your wrist go, his own eyes glazing over with emotion, pretty even under the harsh lights of the airport. “You don’t get to tell me what I’ll want in the future, you don’t get to decide that for me, and you sure don’t get to tell me that this is ‘for my own good’. It hurts, and you have to deal with that.”

“Please, just,” you can’t. You can’t fall into his arms, how would you let him go? “Just keep talking to me, keep-”

“It’ll kill me,” you stepped forward and tiptoed then, kissing his lips softly, tasting the salt of both your tears. “It’ll kill me to have to talk to you when I can’t have you.”

“Sweetheart-”

“I love you,” he faltered then, you’d not said it because he hadn’t, but there was no stopping it now. “I’ll miss you, Toru.”

You rushed off before he could say anything, tears hot down your cheeks, Satoru had rushed to catch you, but you were…

Gone.

*****

“I shouldn’t have broken up with you,” you pause, leaning back in shock. “Though now you’re probably glad I did.”

“You… you’re… saying sorry?”

“Is it so surprising?” He rubs the back of his neck, you’re in shock clearly. “Guess so, I wasn’t one to admit I was wrong then.”

“Why do you say you shouldn’t have?” He sips his own drink, eyes shutting for a moment. “You feel bad how it happened?”

No, Satoru knows he’ll never feel that way about anyone – and a decade of loneliness has only made him regret that shit more. He could have three babies with you by now, have given you anything you wanted – he stalks your pages, he knows you work constantly, and he loves that. But another part of him wishes you didn’t have to, that you were taken care of.

You’d probably smack him and call him a misogynist for that shit, and he loves that about you.

He still loves that girl from high school, the woman sitting here with her face just a bit more defined, with her tits so soft and pretty looking, hips he bets would feel so good to grab as he bent her over. Thighs that he has to touch, they just look too smooth with whatever shimmery lotion you put on them.

He gives into the urge, fingertips brushing on your skin, eliciting a shaky little breath from your lips, your eyes catching each other. “Yeah, you could say I feel bad about how I did it. I never said…”

He’s not really gonna apologize is he?

“Shh,” you put a finger to his lips, he smirks a bit. “Don’t make me like you, Toru.”

“Toru, fuck, been forever since I heard that,” he grins all dopey and cute, taking your wrist in his hand, long fingers wrapping it. He presses a little kiss to your fingers, a gesture he used to do forever ago, pausing as it feels too natural.

“I don’t want to like you.” He nods a bit, thumb brushing over your knuckles, eyeing the place where that ring was.

“He was an idiot.”

“Yeah?”

“I’d know, I’m a big fucking idiot,” you laugh a bit, nodding. “Don’t agree with me!? Brat.”

“Well, you are,” you sigh then, he nips your finger hard with his sharp ass teeth, and Shoko and Utahime walk back in, watching you both.

You have the eyes of your entire graduating class on you both.

Satoru and you, the perfect couple – that perky cheerleader and the star player, voted in the yearbook to be the best couple in fact, most popular, the best looking, you name it. You and Satoru won so many they had to give them to other people – and all for what?

To hate looking at your yearbook?

To look at how happy you were?

“Do you ever wonder…” He eases your hand down now, but he doesn’t let it go. “If it was just the first love, the hormones, the high school puppy love?”

“Puppy love…” You’ve never even heard him say that word – love. Though he means it differently, it gets you. “I guess everyone’s first love is kind of epic.”

“Nah, not really,” he sips on his drink, a little droplet clinging to his lips, one of his thighs brushing against yours and you barely hold back a gasp at the contact. “I haven’t found many people that had… what we did.”

“A toxic ass relationship, nasty breakup?”

“That was some of it,” he admits, heart racing like he’s some inexperienced boy and not a grown man – you just make him feel that way.

“Yes I wonder,” you sigh, admitting it finally. “I wonder if it was hyped up in my head, if the nostalgia and the… pain of you breaking up mess with me more. All the what ifs.”

“I hurt you.” It’s a quiet little statement.

“You hurt me, and I hated you,” he looks down where your hand brushes on his thigh, covering it with his huge one. “You were a dick.”

“I know, I just-” you lean forward and kiss him before you can stop yourself, making him tense up, his hand on the small of your back tugging close as he relaxes into it, exhaling against your lips. You pull back with a little dazed look, lips glossy. “What did I do to deserve that?”

“I was trying to see if that’s what it was,” you whisper softly. “Puppy love.”

“Ah,” he tilts your chin up, kissing you again, your earrings fall back, brushing the side of your neck as he tugs you close until your ass is half off that barstool. “We should see, yeah? If it’s just nostalgia.”

“Yeah just for um… closure,” he laughs a bit, and you glare. “Closure and I’m horny and single.”

“I’ll take it,” fuck he’d take any of you. “For true nostalgia we should…”

He’s kissing down the side of your neck, your eyes flutter closed as his mouth leaves a wet trail, his tongue flicking over your racing pulse. You cling so tightly, it’s hard to let go, whining out and arching your hips, thankful there is loud music reverberating all over.

Satoru heard it, though, leaking pre and pulsing from your taste, your scent, the softness of your skin.

Fuck he can’t ever do this and hope to be ‘normal’.

But there was no way he didn’t take one night with you.

“Should what?” You murmur, biting down on your lip when he gently nips behind your ear, your nails cling to his jacket tightly.

“For old times sake, I’d say we go to my car,” you laugh then, shaking your head as he pulls back, kissing your lips again. “Lemme drink your pretty little cunt up again, finger you till you squirt all over my new seats.”

Fuck.

Fuck him, really.

“In your car? Are we in high school?” He looks around and you laugh then, shaking your head. “Fine, but I’m not as flexible, I haven’t tumbled since college.”

“I bet you still are,” he teases. “Used to fold you right in-”

“Now.”

“Now?” You hop down with his help, turning and just walking. “Wait!”

It’s moments and you all are devouring each other, stumbling against the cool brick wall outside as the night air brushes against your skin, you’re shivering as he walks you to his car – by walking, that meant him carrying your ass, cock pressing your needy cunt as your thighs wrap his hips.

The car is nicer than his in high school – a fancy ass Audi – you aren’t one to know anything about cars, but the damn thing looked like it was exactly what Satoru would drive. The expensive leather hits your senses as he slides you in, your mouths are all over each other, needy and desperate.

"Missed this," you almost don’t believe it, that he ever could, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before trailing his mouth down your jaw. "Missed you."

“You don’t…”

“No?” You sigh, shaking your head as Satoru shifts, maneuvering you both until you're lying back across the wide seats, his body covering yours, an even heavier weight than you remembered, pinning you down with his hand on your wrists, his mouth claiming yours in a bruising, possessive kiss.

It's a tight fit even with how surprisingly big the interior is, the cramped space reminding you of every stolen moment you had in his old car, sneaking before curfew, fuck you two would ditch school and go drive in that car, you’d lay your feet in his lap and just let him drive you around with the tops down. The memory of his smile, of his laugh, of his kisses all come together as he captures your very breath.

This isn't the sweet, messy kissing of teenage versions of you and Satoru – this is pent up need, a decade of frustration poured into a single, desperate kiss, his hands all over you, huge palms taking you over. Satoru’s tongue is delving in and out of the hot recesses of your mouth, tongue gliding right along yours, the click of his tongue ring against your teeth shooting every bit of memory back.

God you remember when he pierced it.

You remember him buying that vibrating tongue ring so he could eat your pussy out – and oh, he did it every time he could, no one has made you feel that way since, no one could figure your body out like him. The nostalgia hits as much as the need, the pleasure, your nails digging into the corded muscles of his shoulders over his dress shirt.

“Need more,” you whisper out, pausing then as he looks at you under his lashes. “Just tonight, right?”

He doesn’t say anything – as if he’d take only one night and be fine with that.

"Fuck, I've thought about this so often it’s pathetic," he laughs out without humor, hands slipping up your hips and bunching that little dress up your hips.

“You thought of me?” You ask, and he stares at you then – swollen lips all pretty and glossy in the night, ruining him.

You don’t think he remembers?

You don’t think he regrets it all?

He kisses you softer, nipping a plump lower lip between his sharp teeth, drinking up your little gasp. "Thought about this mouth, this body, the way you used to squirt all over me."

“Satoru…” You shake your head, moaning softly when he tugs your neckline down, hands squishing your pretty tits. “You don’t mean it.”

“No?” You shake your head, eyes rolling back in your skull when his tongue swirls around your nipple ever so slowly, tongue ring flicking that sensitive peak. “You think I forgot you, huh?”

“I know you did, ah!” His fingers find you, sliding your panties aside and swiping up and down in that mess. “Toru…”

“God please,” he’s plunging them inside you, she clamps right down, spasming as he finds that spot he remembers in those tacky walls, watching your face as he presses over and over. “Call me that again.”

“Sh-should call you dickhead,” he laughs breathlessly, curving those fingers again so that your head smacks back, almost hitting the handle in the car door, he kisses your lips as he fucks his fingers into you, the stretch making you ache. “Ngh!”

“Tight as ever, god, how…” he marvels as he plays with your cunt, all pretense gone when he looks down at you, breaking the kiss, breathless from you. “I’ve thought of you an embarrassing amount of times.”

“Don’t say it,” you sniffle just a bit. “I can’t handle it.”

“The truth?”

“I can’t believe you thought of me too…” You trail off, emotional even as you are soaking wet and needy, Satoru keeps kissing down, lower, lower, feeling his breath against your skin makes you jolt. “You didn’t.”

“I did, sweetheart, I missed this so much, the sounds you make… how soaking wet you got,” he’s running his thumb on your clit, gauging your reaction, shoving your thighs even higher. “How pretty you looked when you fell apart f’me.”

“You can’t remember,” he sighs and watches you get closer, getting you so, so close until he knows it’s not enough. He’s shoving you up, damn near folding you in half. “Ah! Toru I can’t bend like that?!”

“No?” he murmurs, big hands gripping your thighs bruisingly, pushing them up and apart, you blink a bit, gasping when he’s licking the trails of slick from your inner thigh, inhaling your cunt and bumping your clit affectionately almost. “God, your scent drives me fucking crazy, why do you have to smell s’good?”

“Do I? I – ah! Satoru, what are you…" He places an open mouthed kiss on your messy, dripping entrance, peeking up at you. “You’re um…”

“I’m starving,” he teases softly, kissing it again, you feel that pleasure shoot up your body until you’re dizzy, weak from it, so exposed to him when he tugs those panties further aside, on one side of those puffy lips. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever fucking seen.”

“No…”

“Yeah, and I’ve seen alot,” you glare and he chuckles, resting his hands on those knees and flicking his tongue to gather the drops of arousal falling down between your slit. “What, ya jealous?”

“No!?” Yes.

“No?”

“No,” he smirks just a bit and then he folds you in half, those broad shoulders pressing against the backs of your thighs, forcing your knees to your chest, your dress hopelessly shoved up.

“See? Still a cheerleader,” you want to laugh but you’re smushed.

“I so am not, ah!” You're completely exposed to him then, utterly vulnerable in a way that makes you nervous.

“Relax,” he says then, softly, peeking up at you and kissing your inner thigh. “If you want me to stop, just tell me. It was enough I got to kiss you again.”

You falter, that boy you fell in love with – the sweet, nerdy one? The jock who was also an entire nerd? Goofy and yet ultimately serious Satoru Gojo, leaning his head against your inner knee, nuzzling you damn near. You’re weak then, as every feeling you’ve shoved down for over a third of your life comes back full force.

“We can go back in, or just look at the stars,” he eases up, and sees how nervous you are. “You’re so beautiful, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not in high school now,” you whisper, he eases up your body then, brushing your cheek and shaking his head.

“Neither am I, sweetheart.”

“Yet you look even better-”

“You’re even sexier, even prettier than the first time I saw you,” you kiss him again, lost in his every kiss, his every touch, afraid that he’ll just disappear, clinging to him so tightly you don’t know if you can ever let go. “You are.”

“You haven’t seen me all naked…”

“I wanna,” he grins and you giggle, even as he’s kissing up your cheeks. “I wanna see every part of you.”

God you can’t take it – it feels just like that first date all over again. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” he slides your dress up and off you then, breath catching as he takes in your body – you’ve only gotten sexier, it’s so evident when he just looks down at you, folded in half in his damn car and the prettiest thing he’s seen.

You cover yourself a bit then ease your hands off, breasts rising and falling as Satoru looks at you, his gaze heating you up before his fingers can touch. “You’re seeing all of me.”

“I am,” he grips a tit and squishes it in his hand, that familiar barbell flicking an areola, having your back arch in the cramped confines of the car, still humming softly underneath you. “Is it bad if I say I jerked it to your IG?”

“Satoru!” He’s chuckling now, grinning all big as you smack at him. “We were having a touching moment!?”

“Yeah I know,” he’s back down between your thighs, shoving them high and sighing.

“Did you really?” His lips curve up in amusement, watching your slick pussy drip down.

“You love that, huh?”

“No!?”

Yes.

“How often?” He’s laughing now.

“I’m not tellin’ ya, no way.”

“Hmmph,” he’s too gone then, every bit of this moment the very thing he’s searched for.

He could have had it.

He’ll think of that later, the hot regret of letting you go, of being young and dumb and then too fucking stubborn, for now you’re his, underneath him, looking up in that way that you used to – like he was the very stars in the sky. The ones peppering the sky overhead and shining through that little sky light in his car, illuminating your pretty body for his gaze.

“A lot. Happy?” He whispers, you just bite your lip, not answering, letting his lips graze your entrance once more.

“Satoru!” Your eyes roll back in your skull, pleasure shooting as the tip of that tongue swirls your clit lazily, like he’s got all the time in the world.

"Look at this pretty little cunt," he breathes out softly, feeling your slick coat his tongue, lapping another filthy stripe achingly slow. "Still so fucking perfect.”

“You d-don’t have to…”

“S’perfect,” he whispers, holding back what he truly wants to say.

Mine.

You’re not his, he can’t get possessive and psychotic, even when faced with your winking hole and the soft give of your thighs underneath his fingertips. He buries his face in you, his mouth hot and messy as it drinks up every bit of those juices your pussy is pouring, lavving a broad, flat stripe up your slit and slurping you up, eliciting the prettiest whines for his ears.

“Mmm, that’s it,” he whispers, flicking his tongue on your clit and groaning as he parts those lips. “She’s jumpin’ all around, fuck… look at her.”

You cry out, your fingers tangling in the soft white strands of Satoru’s hair, only for him to place them on your thighs, looking at you in that way only Satoru Gojo can.

“Hold ‘em up f’me,” he’s slurring, mouth just full of that messy cunt, swallowing it as he watches you do just that. “Good girl.”

Fuck him.

Fuck him truly and completely, for what those damn words do to you, how they have you a needy mess for him. He groans at the sight of your manicured nails pressing on the back of your thighs, the vibrations rushing on your pretty pussy, and then his tongue is inside you, fucking your hole as if he’s never forgotten how.

“Toru!” You’re quivering, thighs threatening to close, he groans, that barbell smacking your spongy spot over and over, with the same intensity he used to use with his cock.

Your first time with him flits through your mind, he’d made sure to lick your pussy for thirty minutes, even then he’d been worried he’d hurt you – even then he’d eased into you, watching your every movement. That Satoru and this one merge – the jock and the cheerleader now groan business people.

But you’re still just the two of you.

He's lavishing every crevice, every bit of your cunt like it’s worship – his tongue, his lips, the sharp edge of those fangs of his scraping against your clit just making you scream out, weak from it. He bites it again, groaning as your juices spill over his mouth, his chin, down his neck.

Satoru wants to drown in you.

"You like that, huh?" he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak, his chin glistening embarrassingly with how much you’re gushing. He swirls two fingers down it, raising a thin white brow. "Like me eating this pussy?”

“Yes… ah!” He’s curving his fingers up, rutting his cock along the leather seats, dying to bury it inside you.

“Missed this, didn't you? Missed my tongue on you?"

You can only nod quickly and let out a pathetic little moan, wishing you could play coy or tease – but how can you, when he’s taking you over. One hand pumping fingers into you, his tongue finding your clit again, sucking it into his mouth with a mean little hum, and the cold metal of his tongue ring just flicking.

“Toru! I’m so… I’m…”

He pulls back and sighs.

You’re so beautiful like this.

“Cum for me,” he says softly, curving up one more time, and you shatter for him, peak crashing into you so hard you see stars – ones that aren’t the ones hanging in the sky. No, they’re right behind your eyelids, pussy spasming as moans escape those lips that hold you in that kiss.

Satoru eases back, curving his fingers a few more times, every slide sensitive. “Please…”

“Please what, baby?” He whispers – he hadn’t called you that since the last time you saw him, brushing your hair back and kissing you, your juices spilling into your own mouth with a push of his tongue.

“Need you.”

“I’m here-”

“Need more,” he pauses, blushing a bit and making you giggle. “What, you think I don’t want more?”

“I didn’t know,” he trails off now, sitting up and dragging you on his lap, undoing his zipper as you’re on your knees, head smacking the ceiling, Satoru chuckles and puts his hand right over it, sighing. “You want my cock inside you?”

“You’re such a jerk,” he grins now, running his hands down your waist. “You gonna make me say it?”

“Nah but it’d be fun to hear,” he frees his cock, watching the blush dance across your cheeks when faced with his pearly pink cock, thick and veiny, leaking all that white. You gather some and swirl it on your thumb, sucking it off. “God…”

It’s moments when he’s got you positioned on his cock, slamming you down in one mean stroke, filling you so full you feel him everywhere – in your stomach, so fucking deep your cervix hurts. But fuck you want it, you want more, but he holds you down for a moment, hands brutal on your hips.

“Fuck, don’t move yet,” he barely bites out those words, looking up at you underneath that fringe of lashes, breaths coming in short pants, fogging up all the car windows. “Please, baby. Hold on a sec.”

“Feel good, Toru?” You tease, he glares and bites your shoulder. “Ah! Sharp t-teeth…”

“Jus’ stay here for a minute,” he’s mumbling against your skin, exhaling at the feeling of your pussy wrapping around his cock. “You’re so warm, so tight… god you feel s’good…”

You’re holding there, cunt gripping him so tight he’s gonna bust, and he was not doing that after ten damn years. He has stamina now, he can’t bust inside you in one minute – has it even been a minute!?

“Wanna move, please,” you’re damn near whining, wriggling as he pins you even more firmly. “Toru!”

“You’re bratty still,” he murmurs, lifting you up and slamming you back down, that mess of slick pouring all over. “You want me to cum in three pumps?”

You blush then, realizing that one key thing – he’d never cum inside you, the two of you were careful to make sure it never happened. “I um… inside me?”

“Only if you wanted… god imagine breeding your cunt,” you suck in a breath as his hands press into your hips. “Breedable fucking hips, bet you’d have so many babies for me.”

“Babies!?”

“God yes, bet you’d give me three, hah…” he’s fucking lost it now, fucking up into your cunt, your head smacks his ceiling, your hand up to brace yourself as he begins to move, feet planted on the floor of the car, cock gliding in and out of your mess even faster. “Sorry baby.”

“Sorry? You’re psychotic, j-just once,” he holds you down and runs his thumb on your clit then, watching your eyes flutter closed as you cum again, this time milking him. “Ngh!”

“So beautiful, fuck,” he’s looking right at you with those blue eyes, your arms wrap his neck, letting him lift you up and down him, huge hands just using you, you’re quivering around him, cunt squelching in the backseat of that car, his lips slamming on yours and drinking down your whines.

You hear the faint noises of the party with your ringing ears, his thumb brushing faster, your tits bouncing right in his face. “Breed k-kink tracks for you…”

He chuckles, grinning up at you, painting those pretty patterns until you’re overstimulated, thighs twitching on either side of his hips, the open leather belt pressing on your heated skin. His lips are swollen when his tongue runs across them, as if to catch any lingering juices he can, his brows drawing together as he gets closer, cheeks flushed pink in the dark.

“Should I pump you full? Hmm?” Your answer is to roll your hips, making his own eyes shut, those fluffy lashes sweeping across his cheeks. He’s pinning you down, slipping that thumb in between your lips and letting you suck as his cock twitches. “I used to jerk it to your cheer pictures b-before we w-went out…”

“Toru, you freak,” you’re breathless, struggling to take that stretch, whining out as his veiny length brushes your walls, white pre kissin’ your cute little cervix with every pump. “You did?”

“Yeah,” he’s full of confessions, you guess, but that one has you blushing, even mid fuck, giggling a bit until he slams hard, your head falling back. “You love it.”

“Cum inside,” he moans – you don’t have to tell him twice – cock pumping your hole full, so much your walls are just coated, those puffy ropes flooding you. “Ah!”

You’ve never been so full, his warmth rushing in hot and sticky as you kiss him desperately, needy, shaking as your teeth click together, your mouths messy and dripping saliva. It’s filthy, the sounds of your whines mixing with the squishing and clicking of his cock pumping impossibly more, his moans filling your mouth, tongues dancing along each other as his cock keeps twitching.

“F-fuck…” He’s whimpering in your ear as he holds you tight, burying his face in the crook of your neck, arms wrapping your waist as he bucks his hips up and fucks more cum inside you. “God I love you.”

“Wha-? Huh?” You must be fucked out and hearing shit, you barely blink any sense into yourself, as he pulls back, looking at you and sighing.

“I should have said it then, not let you leave thinking…” He swallows now, cupping your face with one hand, thumb slipping across your cheek reverently. “That I didn’t.”

“You can’t… I didn’t… you…” You’re trembling now as it all hits, breaths mingling as you hardly hold back. “You did then?”

“Of course I fucking loved you, how couldn’t I?” You kiss him then, tears slipping down between your mouths, salty on his tongue as his hand slips up the curve of your spine, the two of your hearts racing in your own ears. “I never stopped.”

“Don’t say that…” You pull back now, hands on his wrists. “That’s impossible, it’s been t-ten years and… you don’t know me now, and…”

“Do you still love me?” He asks, voice breaking, still intimately joined with you, easing you off and eyeing the mess that pours, sighing. “Fuck I shouldn’t ask that.”

“Yes,” he blinks a bit, looking up in shock as you go back to sitting on his lap, cunt pouring him right back down on his cock. “I never stopped loving you, even though I hated you, too. I hated you so much for so long… but I never quit loving you, Satoru.”

“I hated me too, s’okay,” you shake your head. “I did, for being so dumb. For letting you go – pushing you away.”

“We were so young, Toru… so young.”

“There was all that time we could have had this,” he sighs now, nose brushing yours, looking into your eyes with utter devotion. “I can’t let you go again. I can’t let this be once, this? I’ve never felt anything close to you.”

“I know…” you’re kissing again, forgetting about anything else, and soon you’re in Satoru’s pretty penthouse, fucked out after he’d lifted you right up on that glass, so many stories up.

After he’d ate his cum out of you, and you’d lapped your pussy off – after your friends started texting you both, making sure you’re all right since you two had disappeared. After Satoru orders you food, and the two of you are laughing in bed, and you’re in one of his big shirts, does he bring out that jacket, making you pause.

“Toru…”

“This was yours,” he exhales and throws it over your shoulders, tugging the lapels closed and kissing your head. You’re all flushed and pretty, your hair a tangled mess, that mascara long gone, swallowed by that letterman’s jacket. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

“I get to keep it this time?” You tease, but the emotions are rushing still, tummy fluttering as you toy with the snaps, the familiar scent bringing you right back.

“It was always yours.”

He was always yours.

Patreon - comms

Satoru was your longtime friend. One of those ones you met in high school and brought into adulthood, in spite of all odds. You were a shy, keep-to-yourself kind of girl. You wanted to be alone, to get through the rest of high school without incident. He hadn’t cared. He latched himself on and never let go, and you were thankful every day.

Some more rifling through a box rang out in your relatively quiet bedroom.

“Okay, what about this one?” he asked.

You turned your head and hummed. “That’s just a rope, Satoru.”

He hooked a thumb under his blindfold to reveal a dazzling eye. It sparkled with mischief. “You’re the world’s most creative sex toy creator. I find it hard to believe this is ‘just a rope.’”

That was factually inaccurate — you were not the most creative anything. You were merely a mildly successful sex toy designer at a popular, well-established company. But Satoru never listened when you tried to correct him on that matter.

Returning to your sketches, you replied, “It’s made from a synthetic material that’s meant to adjust to the skin’s temperature. It warms up and is supposed to feel close to burning, without, y’know, burning. The legal team vetoed it, though. They said it was too dangerous and could catch on fire. Liabilities and all that. I don’t know. I wasn’t really listening.”

“Boooo,” Satoru said, sitting down on your bed behind you. “Suits always ruin the fun.”

You snorted in agreement.

A moment of silence passed, and you thought perhaps he had gotten bored, that he had gone on his phone and was sending memes to his poor students, who were off doing his missions for him. He soon opened his mouth again, however, and said something that had your hand, which was clasping your pencil, stilling:

“Wanna try it out?”

“…what?”

Satoru nudged your chair around with one of his long legs. You spun to face him. Blindfoldless suddenly, he had his legs spread and the long, blue rope dangling between his pale hands. “Let’s try it out. I always get sad when I look at your failed inventions. There’s usually never anything wrong with them, just legal stuff that gets in the way of fun and creativity. I feel for you, little inventor.”

Bullshit, you wanted to say. Instead, you fixed him a look and said, “No, Satoru. We can’t do this again. We promised.”

He groaned with an eye roll. “Oh, come on. Don’t be so serious. I’m curious, and you always get inspired after we try things out. It’s a mutually beneficial situation.”

“Don’t act like you’re doing this for me. You just want to get off, don’t try to manipulate me. I’m not in the mood to be tied up by a reminder of my failures, thanks.”

That should have been the end of that, you thought as you stood to take the rope away.

He snatched it from your hand before you could take it. You frowned. Satoru grinned. “Who said you were the one getting tied up?”

You blinked.

Satoru wanted to be tied up?

The thought of the blue rope digging into his fair, flawless skin, with redness blooming where the rope touched, had your knees weak. Would it be so bad to see him all tied up and at your mercy, you wondered. Were you even into that? Was he?

Cautiously, you reminded him, “You could break out of the restraints at any time you wanted, though.”

One of his hands crept around your thigh, tugging you forward and encouraging you to step between his legs. His hand was warm. He peered up at you with a smile. “I won’t. Not unless you tell me to.”

“...you’ll listen to me?”

“Yep,” he says, pressing a hand to his heart. “Scout’s honour.”

A shaky exhale leaves you.

Just like that, he knew he had you.

“Fine.”

And that’s how you end up straddling his hips with him leaning back against your headboard, arms tied behind his back, and blue rope running across his bare torso. He’s just in his boxers — you didn’t want to cross the line…again. Or rather, you didn’t want to cross the line too far. 

The rope frames him, tracing the natural planes of his body: the broadness of his shoulders, the unsubtle definition of his chest, the slutty dip at his waist. His skin appears almost luminous against the deep colour. Where the rope pressed in, it leaves a gorgeous flush, a blooming warmth that made the contrast all the more striking — dark blue against divinely-carved marble. 

His head rests back, just slightly tilted, exposing the long line of his throat. There’s no blindfold now. His eyes watched you from beneath half-lowered lashes, amusement curling lazily at the edges.

Waiting.

Satoru has never looked more delicate and powerful at the same time.

“You’re totally thinking I’m the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen, right?” he asks though it doesn’t sound like a question at all. His brows dance. 

Naturally, you want to scoff and say something humbling, but truthfully, he’s not too far off.

Still, you don’t want to contribute to his huge ego, so you casually say, “Eh, you’re alright.”

You’ve tried out the rope on mannequins before so you’re somewhat experienced in the knots and rules, like making sure you leave it loose enough for two fingers to slip under and not knotting it so complicatedly that you can’t easily unravel it in case of emergencies. 

But it’s different when you do it on an actual person. His skin is soft and plush, unlike hard plastic. It’s warm and smooth, and reacts at your touch. Veins pop. Muscles flex. Breaths come out low and sudden. 

For the most part, Satoru was quiet. So were you. He allowed you to bend his arms however you pleased. It was a balanced exchange with how much he was staring at you. It made you self-conscious. Perhaps you should have worn something cuter when he came, you thought. Maybe brushed your hair and tidied up. In your defence, however, how were you supposed to know a simple visit to catch up after a long day of working was going to turn into lines blurring?

“Would it kill you to give me a compliment or two?” he grumbles petulantly. 

Swallowing a tense ball, you run your fingers down his chest, bumping up and down the thick rope. He shudders. “You look good, Toru. Blue’s totally your colour.”

One corner of his lips curls up. “Well, duh.”

“Is it too tight?” you ask, brows furrowed. You aren’t in this position very often at all, and you want to be sure you’re not breaking humanity’s only hope against curses. “Does it hurt?”

Satoru tries to stretch his limbs out, to no avail. He shrugs as best he can. “Been in tighter situations.”

“And do you like it?”

“Eh, it’s fine,” he replies.

A glance down at his crotch reveals a hardness too familiar and at the same time too foreign. And is that a wet spot?

“Seems like you like it too much,” you say absentmindedly. “Is being tied up actually turning you on?”

When he finally processes the weight of your gaze settling on his hard cock, his hips jolt up ever so slightly. The rope creaks with the flexing of his thick biceps. A challenge glints in his eyes. “You’re leaving a snail trail on my thigh with all the humping you’re doing,” he points out blankly. “If we wanna address my boner, we’ll have to address your clit pulsing in morse code, ‘suck me, Toru! suck me ngh!””

Cheeks flushed, you smack his chest. “Ugh, shut up.”

You were humping his thigh without realising it. Now that he’s made you aware, you can’t stop noticing how your wetness has soaked through your panties and shorts. Every shift and shuffle has the faintest squeelchhh reaching your ears. He must hear it too because he can’t stop smiling.

Fuck, you’re too worked up at the sight of his pretty skin contrasting with the rough rope. 

Breathlessly, you ask, “How does it feel, Toru?”

Long lashes flutter as he reflects for a second. “It’s good… The rope’s definitely warmer than I expected. I didn’t think I was into temperature play, but it’s better than I thought it would be. You did good, babe.”

“Yeah?”

Without really thinking about it, you shuffle forward. His face is buried in between your clothed breasts for the briefest moment before you sit back down on his lap. More specifically, right on his cock. 

Satoru sucks in a sharp breath. He throbs. “W-what’re you doing?”

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. Your hips seem to have a mind of their own as you begin grinding on his boner. The pulsing in your clit has you unable to think. All you know is that every time you feel his cock pushing against the small bundle of nerves through all the layers you cream even more. 

He groans, arms starting to fight his restraints. 

“Don’t,” you say. “You promised.”

“Yeah, but that was before I knew you were going to be riding me like your pillow.”

“Ugh, that was one time, and I told you that in confidence,” you complain. “Stop bringing it up.”

He makes a tortured noise. “Then stop rubbing your pussy on my dick.”

Slowly, you remove your shirt. His eyes fall on your tits immediately. He stops resisting. 

“Do you actually want me to stop, Satoru?” you whisper, all shy. 

“Fuck no,” he replies without missing a beat. He looks downright mesmerised. Entranced. Positively bewitched. “Rub your pussy on me forever, baby. My hands, my thighs, dick, face, everywhere.”

Tempting…

A giggle escapes you. “You look like you’ve wandered into a sweet shop. Stop drooling.”

“I will as soon as you pop a nip into my mouth,” he retorts. Satoru darts forward, chasing a breast. You pull away all while you press a hand to his shoulder to keep him back. 

“Uh uh uh. You seem to be forgetting you’re not in control here anymore, Satoru Gojo. You’re all tied up and I’m on top. I hold all the cards, and you just have to sit back and do as I say.”

His cock throbs again under you. You moan, head thrown back. Satoru groans, “Oh, fuck. I love when you get all bossy.” He reaches forward despite your words and flicks his tongue against your hardened nipple. You clench around nothing. “Our friends don’t understand why you quit being a sorcerer to have a normal 9 to 5, but I get it. This suits you. They don’t see this part of you. Only I do, right?”

Threading your fingers through his hair, you guide his face to a breast and finally let him suckle on a nipple. The pleasure is instant. He sucks with no need for further instruction. So desperate. So eager. His satisfied moans vibrate through the sensitive bud, running through your veins, and pooling in your panties. The way he suckles, flicks his tongue, rolls it between his teeth — it’s obvious he’s doing this for his pleasure more than yours, and it’s getting you more hot and bothered than if he had been trying to make you feel good.

“You’re the only one who wants to get it, Toru,” you mutter. “You’re the most curious out of everyone because you know you get something out of it.”

Who can count how many times he’s taken one of your creations for himself? 

You’ve never asked questions about what exactly he does with the vibrators, the splitting bars, the freebie aphrodisiacs, or the costumes you win at company parties. Sometimes, you think he wants you to. But he never offers up the information himself.

Satoru’s words come out muffled because he doesn’t want to let go of your breast: “who doesn’t like orgasms and free things?”

Scoffing, you tell him, “You’re rich; everything’s basically free for you. And you can get orgasms from anywhere and anyone.”

He releases your tit with a pop! 

A long string of spit stretches until it breaks. Satoru nonchalantly mutters, “I only want orgasms from you.”

Then he latches onto the other one, sucking so hard your chest arches forward with the intensity of it. It’s almost as if he’s searching for milk, as if he thinks the reason you’re not leaking into his mouth is because he’s not trying hard enough. 

Meanwhile, your hips haven’t stopped gyrating on his cock. Chest to chest, you feel the rope rubbing your skin. The heat of the rope and his body keep you warm. Tingles from within erupt wherever you touch. It’s exhilarating and addictive all at once. 

You dig your nails where there’s no rope. He’s taken his Infinity down, or maybe he’s extended it to include you. It hardly matters. You’ve always been able to touch him.

“Satoru,” you moan, arms wrapping around his back. 

“I know,” he rasps. “Me too.”

Your hips work together. Faster and faster. With no rhythm. No rhyme. Just chasing bliss. 

His lips move from your tits, which he’s left slippery and sore. He kisses your neck, licking a drop of sweat from the curve that meets your shoulder. Satoru can’t touch you. He can’t break out of the rope— No, he can. He won’t. 

You both know he can easily rip the ropes to shreds. It wouldn’t even take anything from him. It’d be the easiest thing he could do, but he’d never want to disappoint you. 

“Dig your nails in,” he pleads, eyes rolling back. “Wanna feel it, wanna feel you.”

You only hesitate the most miniscule of seconds. Then, you’re digging your nails into his perfect skin, dragging it up his chiseled back. It feels wrong, like damaging David, even if Michaelangelo himself asked. But when his back arches and he hisses and his hips rut up into you at the same time, you can’t imagine this is anything but right.

The bed creaks. The headboard bangs against the wall. Pillows slip off the edge. The covers have disappeared. There’s only you and him and the ropes and the mixed juices you’re rubbing on each other.

Together, your bodies spasm with the force of your orgasms.

“Fuck!”

The air between you grows humid with your heavy breathing. Your hard nipples scrape his chest, his abs pressing to your belly, his cock and your clit pulsing in time with each other. 

Satoru calls your name out, eyes flashing. Objects around the room vibrate. They rattle. The walls creak, and in the haze of your bliss you almost see cracks forming along the surface, but a blink of the eyes washes all of that away. 

A loud snap! echoes.

The rope falls dully to the bed, completely loose, and totally damaged. Satoru’s broken free. He didn’t mean to. It just happened. His hands don’t grab onto you. He doesn’t flip you over and takes what he wants. He merely slumps onto you, panting into your neck, and clasping his hands together behind his back so tightly you’re scared he’ll break his own bones. 

Red lines criss cross around his torso. When your fingers graze the sensitive skin, he ruts up into you with a lewd moan. 

“Oh fuck, that was good,” Satoru eventually breathes out. 

“And never happening again,” you say, thoroughly disappointed in yourself. Again. Why do you keep falling for his games? Why do you keep cumming at his whim? Why do you want to do it again so soon? 

The allure of seeing a good looking man in something you designed was too much for you to resist. Now that post nut clarity is clearing your mind, you can only kick yourself mentally.

Pulling away, you throw your shirt back on, smacking the hands that reach for your tits away. There’s an uncomfortable wetness between your legs. He, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to mind the wetness on his own boxers. He’s always been more unbothered by the whole ‘doing things we shouldn’t scheme.

Satoru throws himself onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling and testing the marks on his wrists. He marvels at them. He’s not used to being marked up. With a happy little whistle, he pats his belly and replies, “Uhuh.”

“No,” you enunciate. “No ‘uhuh.’ It’s not going to happen ever again. You’re banned from touching any of my designs again.”

“Okay,” he says, looking at you with a faux innocent look. “You can touch your designs. I’ll just touch you. Good thinking!”

You give him a deadpan face.

And unfortunately when he winks at you, you know you’re both thinking the same thing:

It’s going to happen again.

You should’ve known something was up when he specifically bought only two first-class tickets to Las Vegas and your flight was at midnight. He’d insisted the two of you sneak out of the Kyoto Jujutsu Tech compound where you’d stayed for the duration of his visit to the Gojo clan, and hadn’t bothered to inform Shoko or Utahime or Yaga.

And so, again, you reiterate firmly and resolutely: none of this is your fault.

Your predicament—standing in a parking lot behind a Denny’s at nine in the night with a small fire going in a trash can nearby—is entirely, absolutely, positively Gojo Satoru’s fault.

“I want a divorce,” you tell him.

“We’ve been married for forty-seven minutes.”

“Forty-seven minutes too long.”

“You’re burning our wedding certificate!” Satoru says. “How are we supposed to file for divorce if there’s no proof we even got married?”

“I’ll figure it out,” you say, poking at the certificate with a stick you found on the ground. The corner of it curls and blackens satisfyingly. “I’m very resourceful.”

“You’re committing a crime is what you’re doing,” he says.

“You committed a crime first.”

“Getting married isn’t a crime—”

“Fraud is.”

Satoru opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, at a loss for words. This is a rare and precious occurrence—Gojo Satoru, speechless! You would be savouring it more if you weren’t currently a married woman in a Denny’s parking lot in Las Vegas at eleven o’clock in the night.

Satoru had told you it was a vacation. He’d shown up at your room in the Kyoto compound at half-past ten with a bag tucked under his arm and said, simply, “Come on. We’re leaving.”

“Leaving where?” you’d asked.

“Somewhere that isn’t here,” was his cryptic reply.

You’d been in Kyoto for six days. Six days of watching Satoru navigate the Gojo clan and their elders with their careful smiles and careful words. Nearly a week of watching something tight and unhappy lodge itself behind Satoru’s eyes while he pretended, convincingly, that everything was fine. You knew he wasn’t; you’d watched him perfect his act for years, after all.

So, you went. You told yourself it was because you’d never been to Las Vegas. This, at least, is true.

You’d grabbed your bag and followed him out through a side entrance of the compound at nine forty-five, and you didn’t inform any of your friends or superiors. Because of this, your phone has been periodically buzzing in your pocket for the last several hours and you’ve been ignoring it, which is a problem that is also, for the record, Satoru’s fault.

The flight was actually wonderful. First-class seats entailed warm socks and warm food and a window seat, because Satoru had graciously sat by the aisle. When you were flying over the Pacific, he’d fallen asleep with his head tipped back and his sunglasses still on. He looked younger when he was sleeping, you’d thought. More like the version of him you’d met when you were both too young and foolish to understand what being a sorcerer actually meant.

After you landed, Satoru took you to a casino and then to a fancy place for lunch, and then to another two casinos—if he wasn’t careful, he’d turn into a gambling addict soon—and then he took you to a chapel on the Strip with fake flowers zip-tied to the pews and an officiant named Francis who had red hair and smelled like cigarettes and convenience store chewing gum.

Francis had cried a little during the vows, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. Satoru had found this enormously gratifying. You, however, had been in something of a dissociative state.

“It’s not fraud,” Satoru says now, in the parking lot, watching you cremate your marriage certificate. “We did actually get married. Francis witnessed it. There are photos.”

“There are photos?”

“Francis had a camera.”

“What?”

“I think it’s just something he keeps on him professionally.”

You stare at him. He has the grace to look slightly sheepish. His sunglasses are still on. His suit jacket is open, and his tie, which had been done up neatly for the ceremony (clearly he’d planned far enough ahead to wear a nice tie) is now loosened and slightly crooked. The cheap gold ring on his finger—wrong hand; he’d fumbled it in the moment and jammed it on before either of you could correct it—catches the light from the parking lot fluorescents.

“That’s it!” you say, snapping your fingers at him. “That’s our proof to file for divorce! Take me back to the wedding chapel, Satoru.”

“No way,” he says. “I’m taking you to dinner first. We need to commemorate our first night of being married.”

“We’re behind a Denny’s,” you point out.

“I know,” Satoru says. “Denny’s is a perfectly acceptable dining establishment, but I meant somewhere nice. There’s a steakhouse on the Strip that has a three-month waitlist.”

“Then we can’t go there.”

“I called ahead.”

You gape at him. “Three months ago?”

“No,” he says. “I called ahead on the plane. You were asleep.”

“I wasn’t asleep for that long—”

“Yeah, you were asleep for, like, four hours. You even snored a little.”

“I did not—that’s not the point! The point is, you planned this. You planned all of it, the chapel, the restaurant, the—” You gesture at the ring on his finger, the ring on yours, the dying fire in the trash can—“everything.”

“Not everything. I didn’t plan for you to burn our wedding certificate in a fit of rage.”

“That’s your fault by proximity.”

“That’s not a legal standard.”

“I’m making it one.”

Satoru smiles, quick and bright. You have a long and storied history of making Gojo Satoru laugh when he isn’t expecting to, and it used to feel like winning something. It still does, if you’re being honest.

“Come on,” Satoru says, nodding towards the street. “Dinner first, Francis later. We can get the photos after and then you can file for divorce. I won’t stop you.”

“You’d better not,” you say.

“I said I won’t.” He holds his hands up, the picture of innocence. “I’m a man of my word.”

“You’re really not.”

“I’m a man of some of my word,” he amends.

The steakhouse is situated on the upper floor of one of the larger casinos on the Strip, lined with dark wood and low, hushed lighting. You are seated by a window. The Strip sprawls below you in every direction, extravagant and relentless, all that light going nowhere at tremendous speed.

“Were you really that confident I’d say yes?” you ask once the menus have been set in front of you.

“I was… hopeful,” Satoru says. It’s not a word you can recall him ever applying to himself before, in all the years you’ve known him; it sounds odd. You pick up your own menu and look at it without reading it.

What you’ve learnt about Satoru and what most people tend to miss is that underneath all the grinning and grandstanding and carelessness, there is someone who wants things very badly and has learned not to show it. You’ve known this for years. You’ve watched him want things, and watched him bury it under layers of grandiosity until it’s almost invisible. Almost.

“The elders have been at it for two years,” he says finally, without looking up from the menu. “The meetings, the candidates. They’re all very suitable women from very respectable families. Good for the clan’s interests.”

“You never told me it’d been going on for that long.”

“Didn’t want to make it a thing.”

“Satoru—”

“It’s fine. It’s just—” He sets the menu down and looks out at the Strip, all that light below. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life performing for someone who sees me as a resource. I do enough of that already. I knew it was going to happen eventually and that they were going to stop asking and start insisting. So. Vegas.”

“Vegas,” you echo.

“You were the obvious answer,” he says matter-of-factly. “You already know what you’re getting into with me. You don’t have any illusions. You—you’re my best friend. There isn’t anyone I’d rather be stuck with.”

“Stuck with,” you repeat. “Incredibly romantic.”

“I said what I said.”

The waiter arrives and Satoru orders for the two of you. You look down at the ring on your finger and think about how it came from the little rotating display by the chapel door, five dollars American. It fits almost perfectly except for being on the wrong hand.

“Er. You fumbled the ring,” you say.

“I was nervous,” he says.

Gojo Satoru, nervous. Gojo Satoru, who treats most of human experience as something happening at a slight remove, who has never, to your knowledge, shown up to anything in his life uncertain of the outcome—nervous!

“Were you,” you say.

“Briefly,” Satoru says, with great dignity. “It passed.”

“Of course.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Of course.”

The fountains in front of the Bellagio are in the middle of their routine, water arcing up in great pale columns against the dark. The light from them moves across the window in slow, repeating patterns. Satoru’s eyes catch the shifting light. You swallow hard.

“We’re not arguing about the divorce, by the way,” you tell him.

“We’ll see.”

“Satoru.”

“We’ll see,” he says again pleasantly. You’re going to say something else, something firm and unambiguous, but he’s already put his cutlery down and is walking out, and you’re already following.

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #2 – BREAKING AND ENTERING.

The supposed 24/7 active wedding chapel has a sign tacked onto the front door when you arrive later, which reads, Under maintenance. We apologise for the inconvenience!

“Fuck,” you groan.

“Language,” Satoru says. “Maintenance at midnight. Huh. That’s strange.”

“That’s what I’m focusing on right now, yes, thank you.”

You press your face briefly against the chapel door’s small window. The lights inside are off. Through the glass you can just make out the shape of the pews, the flowers zip-tied to their ends, and the little altar at the front where Francis had stood several hours ago and wept openly into his handkerchief. How are you supposed to get the photographs of your husband—you are using that word provisionally under extreme protest—looking at you like you’re the only fixed point in the room?

“He might live here,” Satoru says.

“Francis?”

“Some of these places have a back apartment for the officiant. We could knock.”

“We’re not knocking on a man’s door at midnight,” you say.

“It’s nearly one.”

“That makes it worse!” You step back from the door and look at the sign again. There’s a narrow alley running along the left side of the chapel, squeezed between the chapel building and the 24-hour tattoo parlour next door. You only notice it because Satoru’s already walking towards it. “What are you doing?”

“Recon,” Satoru says. “Just looking.”

He disappears around the corner. You stand on the pavement with your hands on your hips before deciding to follow him. The alley is cramped and smells stale. There’s a dumpster and a stack of plastic chairs leaning against the chapel wall. Satoru stands with his hands in his pockets, looking upward with his head tilted back.

“No,” you say.

“There’s a window.”

“I see that.”

“It’s open!”

It appears to be a casement window on the chapel’s ground floor, propped out at an angle, about eight feet off the ground and just wide enough for a person to fit through.

“That could be a bathroom window,” you say. “We’d be breaking and entering.”

“The window’s already open,” Satoru says. “Technically we’d just be entering. The photos Francis took are currently somewhere in that chapel developing in a back room, unattended.”

“If we get arrested,” you say, “I’m blaming you entirely.”

“Obviously.”

“I will give a statement to the police and it will contain your full name and a detailed account of everything that’s happened tonight, starting with the chapel and working backwards to Kyoto.”

“Sure. Boost or be boosted?” Satoru asks, turning to the chairs. “I’d say I’ll boost you, but I want it to be on record that I think you’d make a better lookout.”

“I’m not being a lookout.”

“You just said—”

“I’m coming with you.”

He pauses, glancing at you, his expression softening just a little bit. Warm and amused—gone before you can fix it in place.

“Obviously,” he says, smiling, and starts stacking chairs.

The window is, in fact, not a bathroom window. It opens into a small storage room at the back of the chapel, with folding tables against one wall, boxes of artificial flowers stacked against the other, and a mop in a bucket in the corner. Through a door on the far side, you can see the chapel proper. The dripping you can hear means the maintenance situation is a ceiling problem, probably towards the front.

“There’s a whole back operation,” Satoru says, impressed.

“We need to find the darkroom,” you whisper.

“Why are you whispering?”

“Because we’re trespassing.”

“Right, yes,” he says, lowering his voice. “The darkroom will need ventilation, so it’s probably towards the back.”

“How do you know anything about darkrooms?” you ask.

“I went through a photography phase in my second year of middle school. It was a whole thing.” He opens the storage room door and peers through into the chapel. “All clear.”

You follow him through. The chapel at night, empty and dim, is a different place entirely from what it was several hours ago. Smaller, somehow. Without Francis and the lights, it’s just a room with cheap flowers and worn carpet.

“Back room’s through here,” Satoru says softly; he’s already at the door behind the altar. You cross the chapel quickly, not looking at the pews or the aisle, not doing anything so foolish as standing in the dark and sentimentalising about a five-dollar ring and a laminated vow card.

The back room is small and smells sharply of chemicals—developer and fixer, mostly. There’s a red safelight along the wall that Francis has left running, bathing everything in a dim glow. A long workbench runs along one wall, and on it, clipped to a line strung above the bench, are your photographs.

Four of them, hanging in a row, damp and gleaming slightly under the monochromatic light. Even from across the room, you can make out the chapel and the altar. Neither of you says anything for a moment, until Satoru walks to the bench and stands in front of the photographs. You make your way and stand beside him.

The first one is mid-ceremony. You’re both facing Francis, and you can see Satoru in profile—head tilted, shoulders set. The second one is the ring exchange; you can see immediately why it’s blurry. You’d both been laughing, actually, you remember that now, because Satoru had fumbled the ring and said something under his breath, and you’d bitten down on a laugh and not entirely succeeded. Francis had captured exactly that, the two of you with your heads slightly bent towards each other.

In the third one, Francis had asked you to face each other for a photo, and while you’re looking at the camera, Satoru’s looking at you. You look—Francis had said surprised, and yes, there is that, but there’s also something else, something you would rather not name.

Satoru is looking at you the way he was looking at you in the chapel, the way he’s been looking at you in these odd unguarded moments all evening.

“We look like idiots,” Satoru says.

“Francis was right,” you say. “We both look surprised.”

“Were you?” he asks.

“Yes. Were you?”

“No,” he says, then adds quietly, “Maybe. About—about other things.”

In the fourth photograph, you are outside the chapel, looking at the ring on your hand, and Satoru is looking at you looking at the ring. Francis had captured the angle so cleanly that you can see Satoru’s full expression, soft in a way his face almost never is in front of other people, private. You realise you’re holding your breath.

“We should take them,” Satoru says.

“We can’t just take them,” you say. “They’re developing.”

“They look pretty developed to me.”

“Satoru, they’re damp—”

“They’ll dry.” He’s already carefully unclipping the first photograph from the line. “Francis has the negatives. He can print more.”

“You don’t know that Francis has the negatives, and besides, we’re stealing from him.”

“We’re borrowing from Francis.” Satoru holds the first photograph carefully by its edge and looks at it in the red light before setting it down on the workbench. “Hand me something to put these in. There should be a folder or an envelope on the bench somewhere.”

There’s a paper envelope at the end of the bench, brown and flat. You pick it up and hold it open. Satoru slides the photographs in one by one.

“We need to leave Francis a note,” you say, “and money. For the printing. For—everything.”

“How much do you think midnight darkroom theft runs these days?”

“What?”

“I’m asking genuinely.”

“A lot,” you say. “Leave a lot.”

You find a notepad on the workbench next to a jar of pens. Francis, you write. We’re sorry for the unauthorised visit. We needed the photos tonight, so please print yourself copies. Enclosed is payment for the developing, the breaking-in, the trouble, and your time. Thank you for everything. It was a beautiful ceremony.

You fold the note and put it on the workbench. Satoru takes his wallet out, removes a quantity of cash that makes your eyebrows go up, and weighs it down with the jar of pens.

You go back through the chapel and through the storage room and back out the window into the alley. Satoru drops down behind you and lands easily on the ground. The night air is warm, and the Strip is still brightly lit not thirty feet away. You hold the envelope against your chest. The photographs inside are still slightly damp.

“For the record,” you say, “this is also your fault.”

“The chapel was closed,” Satoru says reasonably. “I didn’t plan that part. Plus, we have the photos, so. Seems like it worked out.”

You look at him with his loosened tie and ruffled hair and think, He’s going to be completely insufferable about this for years. You are going to have to hear about the Vegas chapel break-in for the rest of your natural life and possibly longer.

“Come on,” you say. “You said the hotel’s three blocks away.”

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #3 – VANDALISM.

There is only one bed. It’s not, on its own, an unusual situation. You’ve shared sleeping arrangements with Satoru before—field missions and overnight calls that left two sorcerers and one room. You’d use a pillow wall, most of the time.

The difference is that you are currently married to him.

“You booked a room with one bed?” you ask.

“They may have assumed, given that I made the reservation under a recently married couple’s names, that we would want,” Satoru says, gesturing at the bed, “the one bed.”

The bed in question is enormous, dressed in white linen and piled with decorative pillows. There’s a bowl of strawberries on the bedside table. The whole room smells faintly of roses.

“Did you request the honeymoon setup?” you say.

“The woman on the phone seemed very enthusiastic about it.”

“That’s not an answer!” You look around the room, hands on your hips. “Well, there’s a couch. You can use that.”

It’s one of those small, decorative couches present in hotel rooms to fill a corner, hold throw pillows, and look tasteful in photographs, but not to sleep on.

“I’m not going to sleep on it, but noted,” Satoru says, striding towards the minibar, shrugging his jacket off and draping it over the back of the chair by the window. “Whiskey or gin?”

“Whiskey,” you say. “We can put a pillow wall down the middle.”

“We’re married,” he says, crossing the room with two small bottles. He sits down on the other side of the bed. “It seems a bit prudish.”

You take the whiskey from him and twist the cap off. Satoru has his own bottle balanced between both hands, still unopened, and he’s looking out the window at the city below. You’ve spent enough years watching him, but it doesn’t seem to change anything; the flutter in your heart remains the same, as does the contentment you feel in your chest.

“I want to see them again,” you announce.

Satoru looks at you. “The photos?”

You reach for the envelope on the nightstand and slide the pictures out carefully, holding them by the edges. They’re drying, stiffening slightly. You hold them in your lap and he leans in slightly.

“You should’ve warned me,” you say quietly.

“About which part?”

“All of it.” You tap the third photograph’s edge, gently. “This.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “If I’d warned you, you’d have said no.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you,” he says, not unkindly. “You’d have thought about it too long and decided it was too complicated, and then you’d have spent months being strange about it, and then we’d have gone back to normal, and—” He stops, turning the bottle in his hands. “…I didn’t want to go back to normal.”

“It’s still a bad idea,” you mumble.

“Probably,” he agrees. His hand shifts on the duvet between you, the tip of his little finger coming to rest against the back of yours. “Hasn’t stopped being true, though. Whatever it is. You know what I mean.”

You do. That’s the problem: you’ve always known what he means, even when he’s being deliberately oblique about it. You’ve known him too long and too well for any of it to not make sense anymore. Which means, you understand now, that you’ve also known you’re in love with him for longer than you thought.

You look at the fourth photograph—Satoru, standing outside the chapel, watching you look at the ring on your hand.

“You could’ve just said something,” you tell him. “At any point. Like a normal person.”

“I took you to Las Vegas and married you,” he says. “That’s me saying something directly.”

His hand turns over and covers yours, warm and assuaging, and whatever reservations you’d been carefully maintaining for years simply crumble.

You close the remaining distance. Satoru’s free hand comes up to your face before you’ve fully moved, which means he was thinking about it too—has been thinking about it, probably, for longer than tonight, longer than Vegas—and he’s kissing you.

He kisses you decisively. There’s a certainty to it that shouldn’t surprise you—this is Satoru, who does nothing halfway—but it does, a little. But what surprises you more is how easy it is. How it doesn’t feel like a change in anything so much as a long-overdue acknowledgement of something that’s been there all along.

When you pull back, his forehead drops to yours. His sunglasses are still pushed up on his head, and you reach up and take them off without asking. He lets you.

“Hi,” Satoru says.

“You’re still wearing your sunglasses indoors at midnight,” you chide.

“I said hi.”

“Hi,” you say.

He smiles; it reaches his eyes. “So,” he starts.

“Do not say ‘I told you so.’”

“I wasn’t going to. Probably.”

“Insufferable,” you say, and kiss him again, which is both a rebuke and a surrender but mostly just because you want to. He makes a sound against your mouth that might be a laugh, and his arms come around you properly this time.

The decorative pillows go first. There are seven of them, and they go in ones and twos without either of you paying much attention—one knocked off when his arm comes around you properly, two more when you shift closer, the rest sliding off the edge in a soft succession of thuds. One of the small whiskey bottles, empty now, rolls off the mattress and lands on the carpet. You don’t notice any of it; you’re somewhat preoccupied by Satoru taking your face in his hands and tilting it and kissing you until you forget what you were arguing about.

You suspect that he’s thought about this for a long time, the same way you have.

“You’re thinking,” Satoru says against your mouth.

“I’m not.”

“You are. I can tell. You get this little—” He pulls back just enough to look at you, and traces something between your brows with one finger. “Here.”

You stare at him. “I hate that you know that.”

“No, you don’t,” he says. He’s right, and you hate that too, so you tell him so by pulling him back down by the front of his shirt.

He lets you tug at him willingly—more than willingly, with an enthusiasm that sends you back against the pillows and makes you laugh, briefly, before his mouth finds your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, and the laugh turns into a gasp. His hands are at your waist, warm through the fabric.

His tie joins the pillows on the floor; you get the knot loose while he’s working on the matter of your buttons. His shirt is untucked and you run your hands on his waist, his ribs, the warm plane of his stomach. Satoru groans against the side of your neck, and you shiver. He tosses your shirt aside, too, and his eyes darken when his gaze lands on your chest. He takes his time with your nipples, rolling them around with his thumbs, before taking one of them in his mouth.

He moves lower, pressing kisses to the underside of your breasts, moving down to your navel. When he reaches the waistband of your jeans, he looks up, pupils blown wide and asks, “May I?”

“Yes, yes, please.” You nod frantically, helping him pull your jeans and panties off when he unbuttons it. You’re already wet and needy.

“You’re so beautiful,” Satoru says, gazing up at you before littering kisses on your inner thighs, so close to where you want him. 

“Satoru, please,” you say. “I need you.”

He blows on your wet core, making you shiver. “Need me to what?”

“I need you to, hah, just—”

Satoru latches onto your clit, sucking and swirling his tongue around the bud. You moan, your hands flying to his hair and gripping the silver-white strands. He alternates between quick flicks and long, broad strokes, keeping your folds spread apart with two fingers while his other hand traces patterns along the underside of your thigh.

“Fuck, fuck—” You curse when his tongue moves in a circle right around your clenching hole. Satoru doesn’t stop. If anything, the sound of your voice breaking, the way you curse his name, only spurs him on. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you. He’s always known how to push your buttons. But this is different; this isn’t a playful tease during a mission.

He dives back in, his tongue flattening out to lap at you with broad, wet strokes that cover everything from your clit down to your opening. You arch your back, your hips lifting off the mattress instinctively, trying to press yourself harder against his mouth.

“Satoru… please, I’m—”

“You’re what?” he mumbles against your skin. He doesn’t wait for an answer, sliding two fingers deep inside you. You let out a strangled cry, your toes curling. His fingers are thick and warm, and he curls them, hooking them upward to find that sensitive spot that makes your vision blur. His thumb remains locked into your clit, rubbing circles on the engorged bud.

The sensation is overwhelming. It’s too much and yet not nearly enough. You can feel the tension building in your lower belly, a tight, simmering coil that winds tighter and tighter with every second.

“Right there,” you moan, your fingers knotting into his hair. “Right there, Satoru, don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

Your breath comes out in short, jagged gasps, your chest heaving. Just as you are about to orgasm, Satoru stops. He doesn’t just slow down; he pulls his fingers out of you with a sudden, wet pop and removes his mouth from your heat entirely. You freeze, your eyes snapping open. “Satoru, what the hell—”

He’s hovering over you, braced on his elbows, his hair messy and falling over his forehead. A slow, smug smile spreads across his lips, though his breathing is just as heavy as yours.

“Not yet,” he whispers.

“I hate you,” you groan, your hips twitching involuntarily, searching for the friction he just stole from you. “I actually hate you so much.”

“Liars don’t get to come,” Satoru teases, though his hand reaches down to gently stroke the skin of your inner thigh. 

He shifts, moving upward to kiss you. He tastes like you, and you moan into his mouth, before he pulls away just an inch, his gaze dropping to your drenched core. “I want to feel you,” he murmurs. “I want to feel how tight you are around me.”

Satoru slides backward, just enough to strip off his trousers and underwear in one hurried motion. His cock springs out, thick and flushed. Your mouth waters simply looking at it, while he pumps it once, twice, thumb circling the tip. He doesn’t lie back down. Instead, he sits up, leaning his back against the headboard of the enormous bed, his legs spread wide. He reaches out, grabbing your waist with those large, strong hands and pulling you forward until you are hovering over him.

“Ride me?” he asks.

The need for friction, for fullness, for him overrides any lingering frustration. You shift your weight, guiding his cock to your entrance. As you slowly lower yourself down, the feeling of his cock filling you, stretching you open, sends a fresh wave of pleasure through you. You let out a long, shuddering moan as you sink down completely, inch by inch, your pelvis flushing against his. Satoru lets out a choked sound, his head hitting the headboard with a thud, his eyes screwing shut.

“Fuck,” he moans. “You’re—you’re so tight. I can’t—”

“Shut up,” you whisper, though there’s no heat in it.

You begin to move, a slow, grinding rotation of your hips. You watch his face—the way his jaw clenches and his nostrils flare, the way he looks at you with warmth and wonder. You quicken your movements, bouncing on his cock. Satoru’s hands move from your waist to your hips, fingers digging into your skin, helping you ride him. He thrusts upwards, tilting his hips and dragging his cock against your walls.

“Look at me,” he groans. You look down, your eyes locking onto his. “I love you,” he says.

You feel the coil in your belly snap. Your orgasm washes over you as you clench around his cock, milking him. Satoru moans, his back arching off the bed as he thrusts upwards one last time. “I’m going to come,” he says. “Let me—”

You slide off his cock and he comes, his release spurting onto his stomach, a little bit on your thighs. You collapse against his chest. He wraps his arms around you tightly, pulling you into the crook of his neck.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. Eventually, Satoru shifts slightly, kissing the top of your head.

“So,” he whispers. “Shower?”

You lift your head slightly, looking at him with tired, happy eyes. “Already?” you say with faux innocence. “I thought you’d want to fuck me on that stupid couch first.”

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #4 – EMBEZZLEMENT.

Hopefully Satoru didn’t mind you swiping his credit card from his wallet while he was fast asleep, one arm thrown over his face while the other was stretched out beside him. You’d wriggled out of his grasp carefully, pressing a gentle, barely-there kiss to the tip of his nose, before digging through his jacket’s pockets for his wallet and pulling out his black card.

It’s for a good purpose, you console yourself, hurrying through the streets of Las Vegas with a jewellery shop’s location pulled up on your phone. 

Las Vegas in the early morning is a different city entirely from the one that had swallowed you whole last night. It’s not quiet, exactly—it’s never quiet, you suspect—but it’s quieter, the frenetic energy of the Strip mellowed into something slower. The crowds have thinned, at least.

You walk with your hands in your pockets, Satoru’s black card tucked safely between two fingers. The morning air is warm and dry, and the sky above the glow of the Strip is beginning to lighten from black to the deep bruised blue that comes just before dawn.

The jewellery shop is three blocks from the hotel, according to your phone. It’s a small, well-lit place that stays open through the night, catering to those Las Vegas visitors who find themselves in need of jewellery at unusual hours, which you now understand is a larger demographic than you’d previously considered.

You walk and think about the rings. The ones currently on your fingers are not adequate. They’re soft metal, the gold already slightly scuffed from one night of existence, and they’ll tarnish in a week. You’d noticed this morning, while Satoru was still asleep: the way your rings sat a little loose, the way it had already lost some of its shine. It’s more of a placeholder than anything else.

The thought of replacing them had arrived while you’d lain in Satoru’s arms, listening to him breathe and looking at the ring.

You aren’t scared, though you’d expected to be. You’d expected to wake up this morning with the full weight of what’s happened landing on you like a dropped beam, and to spend the subsequent hours dealing with the considerable wreckage of your own panic. It seemed like a reasonable response to having been married to your best friend in Las Vegas by a crying man named Francis and then having the matter become rather more settled than a marriage certificate alone would suggest.

But when you’d woken up with Satoru’s arm around you and the photographs on the nightstand, what you’d felt was something almost irritatingly simple: you’d felt like yourself.

The jewellery shop is small and bright, jewellery arranged in lit display cases along the walls, a pudgy man behind the counter. He looks up when you come in, takes in the look of you—your clothes from last night, slightly slept-in, your hair not fully combed—and nods pleasantly.

“Morning,” he says. “What are you looking for?”

“Wedding rings,” you say. “Two of them, please. Something that’ll last for a long time.”

He nods again. “Do you know the other person’s size?”

You think about Satoru’s hands—the ring sliding onto his finger in the chapel, his hand covering yours on the duvet last night, the warmth of his arm around this morning. “I can estimate,” you say.

He shows you to a case along the left wall. The rings inside are simple, for the most part—plain bands in gold and silver and white gold, some with small details, most without. You find two plain bands in white gold, clean-lined and unornamented, substantial enough to last. 

“These,” you tell the man behind the counter.

He nods. You produce Satoru’s black card and spend a figure that makes you wince slightly but not reconsider, because the point isn’t the cost and you’re sure Satoru will agree with you about this when he wakes up and finds both you and his credit card gone. You leave the ship with the rings in a small white box and stand on the pavement outside for a moment in the warming air.

You pull your phone out and type in the search bar, Chapel of Eternal Love, and punch in the number attached. 

“Hello, Chapel of Eternal Love, Francis speaking—”

“Francis,” you say, smiling. “I have a favour to ask.”

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #5 – MARRIAGE.

Francis, it turns out, is delighted. He’d gone quiet for a moment when you explained what you were asking, and then said, Give me an hour, and hung up before you could confirm the details. 

You make your way back to the hotel with your ring box in your pocket and the morning brightening steadily around you. The casino lobbies you pass are still going—slot machines, a scattering of determined gamblers, staff moving between stations—but the Strip itself is relatively peaceful, the night’s crowd entirely dissolved and the day’s not yet arrived. You have the pavement to yourself. It’s a strange and pleasant feeling, Las Vegas in the interstitial hour.

Satoru is awake when you get back, sitting up in bed with his hair in complete disarray and the duvet bunched around his waist. When you open the door he looks at you blankly.

“Morning,” you say.

“My credit card,” he says.

“Is fine.” You cross the room and hold it out. He takes it without looking at it, still watching you. “I needed it for a purchase.”

“What kind of purchase requires you to leave the hotel room at—” he glances at the clock on the nightstand—“six forty-seven in the morning?”

“The important kind.” You sit down on the edge of the bed and take the white box out of your pocket, setting it on the duvet between you.

Satoru picks the box up and opens it, and doesn’t say anything at all, which is the loudest thing Gojo Satoru can do. “You stole my credit card,” he says finally, “to buy us wedding rings.”

“I borrowed it,” you say. “To replace the ones we got from a spinning display rack for five dollars each.”

“I liked those rings.”

“They were tarnishing,” you say. “There’s more, by the way.”

You tell him about Francis. He looks surprised at first, and then warm, so utterly warm when he tugs you closer to him and kisses you again, and again, and once more for good measure. Satoru closes the ring box and holds it in both hands, the way he’d held the whiskey bottle last night before he’d covered your hand with his. 

“I thought you wanted a divorce last night, and now you’ve stolen my credit card and called Francis.”

“Yep.”

He looks at you for a long moment. The morning light filters through the curtains and he looks extraordinarily, unfairly beautiful, even just woken up.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” Satoru sets the ring box on the nightstand, next to the photographs. “Okay.”

Francis has decorated the chapel when you arrive. You’re not entirely sure when he found the time—it’s been barely two hours since your phone call—but the maintenance issue has apparently been resolved, because the lights are on when you arrive. The door is unlocked; when you step inside you find that Francis has replaced the zip-tied artificial flowers on the pews with fresh ones, white and small. There are candles lit along the windowsills. The worn carpet, in the warm light, looks less worn somehow, or perhaps you’re simply disposed to see it differently today.

Francis himself is standing at the altar in a clean shirt, his red hair combed and his camera in his hands. “You came back,” he says.

“We came back,” you confirm.

Francis looks at the two of you—Satoru in a fresh shirt with his tie done up neatly again, you in the best thing you could assemble from your bag on short notice—and grins. “The rings, did you—”

You produce the white box.

“Right,” Francis says. “Right, yes. Let’s—shall we?”

Here is what you think about, standing at the altar of the Chapel of Eternal Love for the second time in less than twenty-four hours:

You think about the first time, yesterday, and how you’d stood here in something close to a dissociative state, your brain running through the situation at high speed. You think about the parking lot behind the Denny’s and the small fire in the trash can. You’d meant it when you said you wanted a divorce, though you realise now that you were frightened of what being married to your best friend entailed.

Satoru had let you burn it, too. He hadn’t argued because he’d known you’d come around. Not from arrogance, but because he knew you, the same way you knew him, all the way down to the things you didn’t say aloud.

You think about the darkroom, the four photographs drying on the line in the red light. Climbing back out through the chapel window into the warm Las Vegas night and holding the envelope against your chest, the photographs still damp inside it. You think about the rings in the spinning display by the door—you can still see them from where you’re standing, the little rack with the remaining rings. They were the beginning, it turns out.

You turn to look back at Satoru. He’s smiling at you.

Francis clears his throat gently. “Shall we begin?”

The vows are the same ones from the laminated card. Francis offers alternatives—he has a small binder with options—but Satoru shrugs, so you use the same ones. When Francis gets to the rings you open the white box yourself. You take Satoru’s ring out and hold it; he holds out his right hand out of habit before catching himself and switching to his left, and you both laugh helplessly. Francis gulps and pulls out his handkerchief. You put the ring on the correct hand this time.

Satoru takes yours from the box and looks up at you—there’s that expression, the one from the photographs, the one you have a name for now. He slides the ring onto the correct finger and holds your hand for a moment after.

Francis is fully crying now. He dabs at his eyes without embarrassment and beams at the two of you over his handkerchief with radiant approval.

“I’ve never had anyone come back,” he tells you. “In twelve years, you’re the first.”

“We forgot something the first time,” you say.

Francis tucks his handkerchief away and straightens up. Smiling, he announces, “You may now kiss,” and so you do.

Vivid, uncomfortable heat emanates from your swollen skin, pulsing with each choppy beat of your heart. Feverish, in a way that swoops the room before you in nauseating, swirling waves that feel incredibly surreal, making it hard to parse through the cloud that sinks your vision. Stupid ass clogged milk ducts.

You pray infection isn’t setting in— your current physical discomfort, made worse by the exhaustion of caring for a newborn baby girl through sleepless nights and long days, is already bad enough. If you added any more to your plate, you’d keel over on the spot and start howling at the universe for a singular shred of mercy.

At this point, you’re running on fumes and a prayer with the new baby and the plans for the cult that you and Suguru have coming up. There were auctions to have and charity galas to host, and you’d be damned if you missed anything of importance.

For weeks now, the balance of your lives had been a precarious one— between leading your followers, managing cursed spirits, maintaining your network of curse users and the quiet logistics of a revolution, and now caring for the tiny life that now slept and wailed and breathed between you, you were stretched thinner than Elastigirl.

But there was little to no rest for the wicked. The cult still needed its leaders, its “divine” figures who spoke of redemption and salvation for the cursed, and good karma for the sponsors who dumped their finances into the sugarcoated narrative you painted of your cause— all naive men and women who believed yours and Suguru’s “enlightened monastery” was an utter blessing.

(They’d never dream that the same Getos who smiled at them so serenely could, at will, unleash the horrors they had paid to banish.)

At least, you console yourself with a miserable little whimper that skirts out of your nose, that nothing can or will ever be worse than your at-home birth (neither of you were fond of the idea of non-sorcerers handling such a delicate moment. A degree doesn’t make monkeys anymore useful than they already aren’t).

You absolutely adore your little star, Yua, but jesus— you and Suguru created a big-headed baby. You nearly broke Suguru’s wrist trying to push her out, and he smiled wearily through the pain and Nanako and Mimiko’s simultaneous honking wails like a champ. Despite the disassociation already settling in you and the blinding pain of delivery, the distant sounds of your twin daughters completely tweaking beyond the bathroom door made you cough out a strained laugh despite yourself.

(The twins had been sent out of the bathroom long after Suguru set it all up and got you in there— not for lack of courage, because in truth, they were the ones that had begged you both with genuine tears in their doe-brown eyes to allow them to stay and support like two mini unskilled midwives. But Suguru had been immovable in his stance, not wanting them to be overwhelmed. Besides, the moment was for you and for him, and the daughter you both were about to meet.

The girls would meet their sister soon enough, you had to promise them. And they did, after Suguru got you and the baby cleaned up and tucked into bed. They both cried.)

Suguru finds you exactly as you are— wretched, borderline sniffling, feeling like a sodden kitten trapped in a swirling rainstorm with no hope in sight— in the living room, gingerly palming your breasts through your baggy sweatshirt. Upon catching sight of him pausing in the doorway, you short-circuit in place. Your hands sink to your lap in what you hope is an unassuming maneuver and you plaster on a relaxed smile that sickens you with its plasticity.

Now, here’s the thing about Geto Suguru. He’s the walking human polygraph to end all polygraphs. A certified you-ologist who knows every nuance of your tells.

No matter how good of a performance you put on, no matter how much you prayed he’d misread you just once, it was impossible to throw Suguru off of your trail. Somehow, he made being a nosy dissecting bastard charming, if only because it was swoon-worthy how closely he knew you, and you him. It’d only be real damn annoying if you didn’t actually enjoy him turning you inside out like you’re some fun fidget toy that he’s taken to inquisitively disassembling.

So, here’s what he knows:

Whenever difficulties arise, you withhold from confiding in him more than you already do so as not to pile more atop his plate with his already hectic schedule, what with taking care of a newborn and all.

It's always been like this with you. Stubborn to a fault, even when your strength frayed thin. Just to prove you could handle it alone without the crutch of the prestigious sorcerer clan you were born into. No one would make the mistake of believing you to be a nepo baby that was embarrassingly wet behind the ears when it came to combat and the trials and tribulations of life as a sorcerer, no— not on your watch.

You were terrifying, Satoru muttered darkly years ago, because it was true— your combat prowess was unbelievable, your field recon with the help of your shikigami even more out of this world. Extraordinary and brave and pretty, a younger Suguru mooned dreamily while watching you beat someone in your grade to near tears on the training field, to which Shoko whacked him upside the head.

To date, you were the youngest sorcerer to be sent out on a solo mission. A thought that made him deathly fucking ill whenever it came to mind— those dementia-rotted higher-ups clearly had no qualms about throwing a child into danger if they shone with potential.

You’d jump to shoulder your way through it all, insisting you could handle it all. Another mission, another day of studying technique schematics and training until you could barely conjure your shikigami without fainting, another mission again. You wanted to be the respectable, dependable senpai that your juniors like Satoru, Shoko, and of course Suguru could look up to with starry eyes. The senpai that kept your sweet kohai out of danger by tackling it yourself.

It was self-destructive as much as it was a noble sentiment grounded in your seniority. You always refused to let your body slow you down enough to need another’s support. Years later, not even pregnancy had changed that about you that much.

Well, maybe it had, just in scale. Nothing could bar you from beating him back, tooth and nail, through nearly every step of the way. You’d insist you could still attend the cult's meetings, still stay up with Nanako and Mimiko when they woke from nightmares even though you were already struggling to get proper rest.

Suguru, utterly besotted yet concerned for his stubborn mule of a wife, watched you attempt to carry on like nothing was changing. Like your steps weren’t more measured now beneath the staggering weight of two souls— equal and opposite forces, your stubborn self versus new life.

(Much to his amusement, you were also waddling with your toes pointed outwards. It was adorable.)

Every inch of you was swollen, glowing, aching, and uncooperative. Your ankles had given up on their lifelong duty of supporting you, your back throbbed if you so much as breathed a little more out of your right nostril than your left. Not to mention how often Yua rocked the boat of your tummy in the later months of your pregnancy and made you sicker than a dog… it was fucking ridiculous.

One day, you threatened to blow up the entire house when Suguru blocked you from heading out so that you and your shikigami could track some curses. Ones that’d make good additions to the collection of thousands that he’s amassing, you insisted. Not that he cared; what was more important than your shared cause was making sure you and the baby were okay, even if it meant you deluding yourself into thinking that Suguru, out of nowhere, suddenly found you useless.

Which he didn’t.

He nagged and nagged, as one does when their extremely pregnant wife is hollering about doing dangerous things alone, but he learned at an early age that whittling you down, in order to eventually take care of you until you were sick of him, required more finesse than force.

Naturally, that meant he finally stopped countering you and simply… sent a few of his lower level curses to tail you for a day out. You claimed you wanted to shop for all the baby gear that you could stock up on. Suguru had a feeling you were lying your ass off and were instead planning to track down aforementioned curses.

Nothing wrong with making sure his wife was being truthful while simultaneously ensuring her safety, right?

Wrong.

When you found out, you exorcized all three and didn’t speak to him for an entire afternoon. Nanako and Mimiko were petrified for him whenever Suguru stepped in to help you around the house for the rest of the day regardless of the vile looks you shot his way.

He took it as progress.

‘Impressive’ was a word that did no justice for the mental fortitude you had to be able to stay sane and firm in a situation where the forever-calm Geto Suguru would show panic himself if the roles were reversed. But that’s because he’s not you— his perfect angel. The mother of his child, the woman who gave him something he never thought he’d be fit to have— a family of his own.

You may be wondering— did you ever give in? Yes, he could say so confidently (and smugly too), with a kitsune-like grin to boot.

There was an even ratio of days where you spilled over onto your side like a particularly whiny seal and flapped your flippers against your bloated belly— to which Suguru’d materialize by your side in seconds as if you summoned him— that combated the days you frustratedly sobbed whenever he tried to so much as pour your tea just before you realized you wanted some.

You were even quicker to let him in after Yua was born, much to Suguru’s relief. Maybe it was the shift in hormones, maybe it was the feats your body performed finally catching up with you. Whatever it was, it meant all his hovering and fretting could be done without rankling your pride.

You let him grant you the luxury of mornings that lasted into the afternoon if you wished it so, perking up from your place engulfed in fluffed-up pillows every time Suguru brought you breakfast with lactation cookies on the side and promised to play with Yua after you breastfed her, just so you could doze off for a little longer without worry.

You let Suguru draw the curtains at the exact moment sunlight threatened to hit yours or the infant’s eyes. You let him shuffle you along for joint bathroom trips and even went as far as wiping you when you finished. You let him fold all your laundry one-handed with Yua drooling on his shoulder. You let him massage you, smother you in kisses and praise, cuddle you, bathe and dress you and do your skincare for you.

(And it felt good to be pampered, you internally gave in with a sigh.)

Seeing you sleep more deeply than you had in months while Yua did the same in the nursery was a balm to his weary soul. He could take quick trips for grocery runs and other errands without checking his phone every thirty minutes with his lips bitten between his teeth. The constant worry from before kept him from functioning properly in public, his brain a whirlwind of what-ifs, but he could now happily say that things were more stable at the house and that your mood had recently skyrocketed.

The goal was to take as much off of your plate as possible while you adjusted to the healing process of your tender body, being your baby’s sole source of nutrition, and preventing you from dropping down to the deep end of postpartum. It definitely worked for a time. You had a good system going that involved lots of communication, a really good one in fact, but over the last week, you had taken to pulling the ‘I’m fine on my own’ card again without actually admitting that you were.

Suguru’s proud of how capable you are and finds your independence to be one of his favorite traits of yours, but it has a way of making him feel disturbingly useless in moments he wants to matter to you most. Fuck, he just wants to be there for you, to be involved as much as possible in your life and your daughter’s life and make sure you don’t abruptly collapse on him.

It’s silly that you feel the need to still go without asking for his help after all these years, but he’s long accepted that you’ll probably always be this way no matter what he does to combat it.

He just wishes that you could grasp that there’s nothing you could ask of him that he wouldn’t handle willingly. There is nothing too heavy, nothing too much. You and the children are the very reason he’s still standing. You’re all more important than your collective mission for a curse-free world, than the money, than sorcery, than breathing.

So, from his spot in the doorway with an apron that says ‘me and my wife don’t argue, she tell me to shut up and get in the kitchen and I do 😍💍’ draped over one arm, Suguru tries to look through you.

The warm, dim light of the living room gilds the soft part of your lips as if you were already bracing for another wave of pain. The sight of your puffy eyes and the sheer exhaustion radiating off you like heavy, ill smog made his stomach twist— his princess had been running on fumes, and he hated that he’d been so busy today with the cult that he hadn't been here to help outside of making dinner and putting Yua to bed. But he was home now, focused entirely on his husbandly duties, and that meant it was his time to take care of you.

“Everything’s put away and cleaned up. Want me to carry you to bed before I turn off all the lights, princess?” Suguru calls softly.

You blink slowly. “Nah, not now. I’m not ready to go to sleep just yet,” you wave off, sinking a little further into the couch. You offer a brittle smile.

It feels like someone is driving a nail slowly through you right where the firm, tender knot of the clog festers in your breasts. Breathing, frankly, is a punishment, and so is so much as shifting and feeling the pull under your arms as consequence. But you keep smiling. You keep breathing.

Suguru lingers on you longer than necessary, eyes tracing the soft edges of your healing body in search for signs of strain you’d never admit, attentive to the slightest shift. You were always so easy to read— how cute. You meet his gaze and he finally smiles right back at you, adoring and irritatingly patient. “Sure. I’ll come sit with you until you’re ready, then,” he says pleasantly.

Fucking shit shit shit fuck.

Stepping back into the kitchen to put the apron away and flick off the stove lights and overhead lights goes by quickly. His return is punctuated by the cushy sink of his black-painted toes into the carpet as he pads his way over to you, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his sweatpants.

His yukata, hakama, and green and golden gojo-kesa have long been loosened and traded for cozy loungewear. The faint traces of the setting sun bleeding in from the windows paints his smooth skin in honeyed tones, making him look every bit the tranquil deity his followers claim him to be. His half-tied hair spills in a controlled flood of inky black waves around his shoulders, and you can spy the faint outline of toned muscle just barely visible beneath the softness of his sweatshirt and sweatpants.

The air filtering in through the windows that open into the garden has that cooled, evening stillness that heralds the upcoming winter. It blends nicely with the lingering aroma of a hearty, comforting dinner, fresh tea, and the resinous twirl of burning incense that makes the home feel sacred.

Wooden beams, polished to a soft sheen, hold the structure with quiet strength, and the two glass walls that blur the line between indoors and outdoors gives you a look into Tokyo’s countryside that Suguru moved your family into. The wooden walls are lined with paintings, the furniture he assembled for you is cushy, and plants thrive in the almost holy space. There’s a massive bamboo palm thriving by the glass that freshens up the room with some color, some plants on the windowsills that Nanako and Mimiko have the duty of watering. Your husband curated it all for you.

Without hesitation, Suguru settles onto the couch cushion next to you with a soft yawn. His arms open in unspoken invitation and you happily shuffle into his side without resistance. His warmth is immediate, radiating against you as he carefully tucks you into the cradle of his body, one hand splayed low on your back.

He’s always touchy (to many friends and acquaintances’ surprise), but recently it’s like he can’t breathe without you close. If you so much as disappear into another room, Suguru’s trailing after you like a loyal service dog with attachment issues.

You rest your weary head on his shoulder with a yawn of your own, and his lips press into a sympathetic line. "Look at you," he tuts, fingers brushing a few stray curls away from your face. "You're working too hard, pretty girl. If my wife collapses from exhaustion, I’m gonna have to barricade the temple to keep you from sneaking in to get work done while you’re still on maternity leave," he teases in a cheery manner, though the concern in his voice is more than vivid.

There was a lesson here, and it was that there was no escaping Geto Suguru and his worrying, fussing ways. How the hell did he even know that you were doing that? You literally used your cursed technique’s fate strings to make sure you’d get away undetected!

Luckily, he breezes over it before you can fumble through an excuse. His thumb traces the dark circles under your eyes before he leans down to press a kiss to your temple, sighing dramatically. "Yua’s lucky she’s cute, huh? Screaming all night like a little demon and keeping us up…”

He chuckles to himself, the tender sound vibrating against your ear. “Cute’s one word for her,” you mumble, slumping as you melt further into him. “You sure she didn’t inherit that temper from you?”

“Me?” Suguru feigns offense, the arm around your waist tightening as his smile curls against your temple. “I’m calm personified, sweetheart. You, on the other hand…”

You tilt your head, shooting him a lazy, unimpressed look. He only smiles genially. “You calling me difficult, Suguru?”

“I’m calling you passionate,” he croons easily, ever the charmer. “Strong-willed. Fearless. And so very, very beautiful, even when you turn more than mildly homicidal when someone interrupts you when you’re napping. Ah, did I mention that you’re perfect yet?”

You snort at that, muffled by his chest. “And now you’re getting sentimental on me? Your old age is showing. Look at you switching between subjects like your short-term memory is already failing you.”

“You wound me,” he clicks his tongue, mock-offended. “I’m still in my prime. Handsome as ever, charming as ever—”

“—and full of shit as ever,” you interrupt, and his quiet laugh warms the air.

The faintest whimper drifts from the baby monitor on the table next to the couch, and Suguru’s hand instinctively stills. His head swivels that way like an owl’s, more alert than you (still trying to sit as still as possible and not give away your pain). But things are quiet after that. No baby crying, no Nanako and Mimiko scurrying down the halls to check on her so that you don’t have to, because they’re having a sleepover with Larue’s younger cousin tonight.

“Think she’ll stay down?” Suguru asks in a hushed voice, turning back to you. He watches you with quiet fondness, his eyes warm, steady, and deeply human in a way few ever got to see aside from you. Gold is fragility and rarity and divinity and prosperity all at once, you think to yourself. Ancient and alchemical, as though Midas's curse found new purpose in the golden flecks swirling in the bowl of his deep brown irises.

“Mm. For now.” You tap your fingers against your mouth when you yawn again. “I’ll take what I can get.”

He studies you for a beat longer. His voice drops, impossibly softer now, stripped of teasing. “Doing okay?” Suguru checks in.

“I’ll be fine the second I catch up on sleep. Why, do I look bad?” Your shrug is half-assed, your excuse even more so. You’re almost hoping he catches you in the partial lie.

“Bad? No, not at all,” he steps in to smoothly soothe, brows furrowing as if the very notion of you looking anything but drop-dead gorgeous was impossible. “Just been worried about you lately. Wanted an excuse to spoil you rotten, I suppose.” His bowed lips quirk into a wry grin that tugs his eyes to half-mast, making the pointed yet fleeting look they take at your aching chest obvious. His followers call him omniscient. The universe had yet to prove that it wasn’t a lie. "Still. If you're feeling off at all, I will fuss over you. No negotiations."

What he said didn’t feel spoken but offered, like a gift carved from the softest part of him, so honest it made the very notion of not believing him— not that you would, because if you doubted Suguru, you don’t know what you’d place your faith in anymore— seem cruel. Because how do you reject something so gentle?

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. The second lie never makes it past your teeth; it fragments there, too brittle to hold its shape. It eases back down your throat with a tide of emotions that threatens to trickle into your lungs and rob you of your breath, leaving you with no deflection poised to guard the soft underbelly of your heart.

Ears hot, you consider it— shouldn’t you lean into him? You did have a long day, admittedly, and it’d be nice to not do the thinking for a little bit while Suguru sorts out your pain… to let your tension seep out, and allow boneless trust to replace it…

Suguru doesn't press. He endures the coursing time with that quiet patience of his, like he already knows what you're about to say (he does, he always does), and he's just letting you choose the moment you're ready to stop carrying it alone. The small freedom he grants you to let you weigh your choices carries more tenderness than any full embrace.

His eyes don't leave yours, and for a moment, it's like he's looking through the film blanketing your eyes that protects them from the sunbeams of his warmth that feels too dazzling to meet head-on, his gaze searching, cataloging, seeing too much.

And then, like a candle being breathed into silence, the truth tumbles out in a voice so small you hardly recognize it as yours. "Okay, so I might’ve lied,” you admit sheepishly, trying not to squirm, “I’m not doing too hot."

That singular weight finally leaves your chest, but only just, because the rest rushes in right behind it. The unnatural, blinding heat threading beneath the swollen weight of your breasts like a second, crueler heartbeat. The fatigue of being a new mother that parenting Nanako and Mimiko when they were eight didn’t do much to shed light on. The slow, crawling fear that maybe you're not as strong as you've pretended to be.

Your husband nods, encouraging, so you soldier on. “So, like— okay. I produce more milk than Yua can actually drink, so I thought I’d get ahead of the game and pump a bunch in one session to stockpile for the week. It seemed like I had a pretty good system going at first, but letting all that milk build up in my ducts for the last few days led to a clog. Really, it’s not even that bad, it just hurts a liiiittle bit, but—“

"It is that bad," Suguru interrupts quietly, his apology for doing so found in the warm, cradling brown of his irises (mama cow vibes, you think weakly). "That could turn into mastitis if you’re not careful, angel. Why didn’t you tell me you were in pain?” There’s not a dime of accusation there.

His fingers curl gently into your back. Not to pull you closer— you're already pressed into him, almost superglued at this point— but to anchor you, like he knows you're seconds from drifting apart.

Sure, he gets that you want to be the kind of mother who can handle the hardest trials of parenting without faltering, but he doesn’t care for how you try to downplay what you’re going through, because this will be one of the hardest periods of your life, guaranteed. Period. And he’d be fucking damned if he lets you try to perform this impossible circus act of child rearing and spearheading a cult on your own. You’re partners; you’re supposed to be in this together.

As a child, you’d learned early on that a woman’s strength in the jujutsu world was rarely hers to keep. It was preached to you that strength was borrowed, admired briefly the same way one regards a wounded bird that somehow still flies— half in awe, half in pity, knowing it wouldn’t survive the winter without being brought to a clinic— then expected to be set down once you’d “served your purpose.” You thought it was horseshit. You hated the very notion of subscribing to that, whether consciously or subconsciously.

Suguru hated it, too, especially when he met your mother years before your defection and saw how passively she sat aside, head eternally bowed to your father. He’s heard tales of how Satoru’s mother fared in a similar manner in this misogynistic sphere as well from the strongest himself— they were never things Satoru witnessed himself, but learned through word of mouth. The Gojo matriarch was never not folded behind her paper screen, expected to watch and be silent as her son was trained by the clan’s elders, while Satoru’s father had much more leeway with the clan and their executive decisions but, still, couldn’t be actively involved with his child.

Each sorceress had a clear cut job. Procreate. Birth. Fade from warriors into caretakers, their worth rewritten in the names of the heirs they raised, for the legacy always came before the woman. It was a fucked up and disturbingly archaic lifestyle that the jujutsu elders were more than happy to maintain as the norm among the bigger clans.

You were never meant to bend your free self into a porcelain figurine who cooked, didn’t complain or tire, erased yourself in service of something else, and stayed quiet— like a ghost. To him, you’d always been the antithesis of docile— you’re the sharp-minded, sharp-tongued sorceress he met in high school who’d challenged him until dawn about philosophy and curses and justice, who (gently) slapped him back into shape when he fell into a depressive pit that nobody else but you could see the bottom of.

And so Suguru doesn’t want you to stop being who you are and accidentally wilt beneath the myth of the so-called “perfect wife and mother.” To be a stay-at-home mom whose purpose drowns beneath changing diapers and cleaning up after the children. No, Suguru refused to let that kind of slow death happen under your shared roof.

You were meant to live— to stretch and ache and breathe, to be loved and worshiped in all your imperfect glory. You were made to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him, not tucked behind him and forever tight-lipped about your woes.

Of course, there was no entirely stopping you from still making it hard for him to support you sometimes. You were so composed, always so insistent on leaping to the next thing with a natural grace. But Suguru saw the tremors behind your smiles, the moments you froze in the nursery doorway like you’d forgotten how to move, the way your breath hitched when the twins bickered too loudly over the TV and Yua began to cry. You’d press your palms to your eyes and whisper, “Just a minute,” like you were trying to convince yourself more than him.

So he refused to let you apologize for needing a break, for snapping at him when exhaustion made your temper short, for crying when Yua wouldn’t latch. So he brushed your hair and said, “You’re still you, sweetheart,” when you confessed you felt foreign inside your own skin. So he took Yua from your trembling arms in the middle of the night and murmured, “Sleep. I’ve got her.”

Suguru knew you were trying to be strong— trying to prove to yourself that you weren’t fragile, that you could handle this new rhythm. But there is an almost universal wish that all people have, even if they’ve suppressed it; the idea of someone seeing you at your most vulnerable, and still choosing to love you. That’s why you always end up letting him in, even when you’re typically hesitant— he’s seen everything there is about you. Your fragility is something he’d always savor rather than crush.

And that’s why you should continue to trust him to hold the world up for the both of you when it feels too heavy. He’d always be there to do that for you. All he wants to do is make sure you’re content, because that’s his job.

"I didn't want to burden you," you rush guiltily, finally letting your eyes close so that you don’t have to see the concern on his face. “We already have so much going on with Yua and the twins and the cult we’re running. I just wanted to quietly handle it so that I wouldn’t overwhelm you. Besides, feeding her is my duty as her mother. I should be able to figure that out on my own.”

‘And if I can’t, then what the fuck am I doing? Failing her? You?’ Goes unspoken.

You can literally feel the way Suguru’s heart breaks at that.

You don't mean to let it happen, but your shoulders droop, a tiny sag of defeat that says more than anything you've said aloud. You feel so, so torn up with yourself for thinking you did something smart, resourceful, until it backfired on you. The clogs are making you feel extra miserable.

Giving yourself something to do in the silence that awaits you and forces your attention back onto the pain, you puff out a shaky breath and look down at your hands tangled in a stiff clasp in your lap. They're clenched so tight, knuckles blanched and tendons popping— when did that happen?

He notices, of course he does. His hand brushes against yours and he laces your fingers with his when you don’t pull away, his hands warm and steady, like the tide pulling you back from the undertow. You know there is blood on them, the entire weight of a dead village plugged beneath his nails in crimson chunks, but his hands are only ever sweet when they handle you. Suguru has always been gentle to a fault with you, never failing to treat you like a precious jewel.

It makes you want to bawl your eyes out like a child.

He sighs, and all he says is this: “Angel.” Consoling yet chastising, disappointed in himself, but never, ever, with you. Suguru nuzzles kisses into the crown of your head and soothingly pets the back of your hand with his thumb and you melt into it knowing he isn’t truly mad, burying your face into the soft fall of his sweatshirt around his frame.

(He’s for sure mentally water boarding himself and muttering over and over again that he will repent for being a terrible, no-good, neglectful husband for not noticing what was going on with you before you spoke it aloud. Drama queen. None of those words are even in the biography of Geto Suguru, written and illustrated by yourself after years of being privy to everything that makes him him.

Not that said biography actually exists. Though honestly, if it did, it’d outsell the Bible in certain circles.)

“As cute as you are like this, can you look at me?” He coaxes in such a saccharine sweet tone that it reels you in like a honey trap to a mama bear. You partially untuck yourself from his chest, glancing up at him from beneath your crescent-arced lashes when he turns his chin down to smile sincerely at you. “There you are. My sweet, gorgeous girl.”

His eyes, a comforting, earthy brown, leak liquid gold as if something divine cracked open inside of them and began to bleed light. Gold, the same hue that must live behind the eyes of angels before they fall from grace. Gold, too pure, too dazzlingly eternal for normal eyes to gaze upon— too adoring for you to peer into without melting.

“You make it hard to look away when you smile like that,” you mutter. It doesn’t come out as smooth as you’d like.

He chuckles. “Then don’t. Keep your eyes on me— only me, hmm?” His tone stays in that purring, comforting whisper you adore so much.

Your Prince Charming.

He hoists you closer, where you toss your legs over his lap, ass still firmly planted on the couch cushion, and speaks after a beat of silence.

“What did I say when we first found out we were pregnant? When we got married, hmm? I said I’d do everything with you, angel, because that’s what it means to be yours. You breathe, I breathe. You cry, I cry.” He sounds lovely, voice mellifluous. Music to your heart and tender insides.

Suguru signals between the two of you, wedding band alight on his ring finger, before returning his hand to yours. “Because this— you and me and our girls and the world we’re building together— is everything I’ve ever wanted, and I only want it because it’s with you. You’re not a failure, because you’re my sweet, clever girl. Without you, none of it matters, and if you’re hurt— and you know I don’t like seeing my baby hurt— then there goes the core of our family. Don’t steal from me the chance to care for you and remind you that you’re loved when it matters most.”

Each intimate word poured from his heart’s hidden chambers— each syllable soaked in sincerity, stripped of pretense down to the bone— and left doubt with nowhere to cower within your own. “Suguru,” you sniffle.

This was all worth it to Suguru. Every sacrifice, every bloodstained hand, every sleepless night with you in his arms, worrying if he was doing the right thing… it’s all for the life you’ve built together. He swore his life to you, to your family (the girls and the curse users, Miguel, Manami, the rest), and there is no version of him that exists apart from you. You, his safe space, with your sleepy good morning kisses and the way you latch onto him when it’s time for bed, the smell of home on your skin.

Sometimes, he feels ill-fitted for this sugary sweet life. Suguru was born to swallow ugly, vile things, to shoulder this world’s negativity. His body is a vessel of writhing malice, a thing that gluttonously consumes and seethes and curdles, and the inherent nastiness of his cursed technique that chews at him day by day only exacerbates his fears of inadequacy. Why should someone as awful as him, someone who slaughtered his parents and rejected his friends that shaped him, be allowed to have and to hold you, Nanako, Mimiko, and Yua?

And yet, when he returns to the sound of laughter spilling from your house, to Yua’s tiny arms reaching for him and your soft smile greeting him like sunrise, that gnawing guilt hesitates. The darkness in him quiets, if only for a moment.

You make him believe that maybe he isn’t just the sum of what he’s destroyed, but what he’s chosen to protect. In your warmth, in the simple hum of domestic life, he finds fleeting proof that redemption can look like this.

“I mean it,” Suguru insists, calm and sure like a vow. “You don’t have to prove anything to me or to yourself, baby. We’re both still learning how to handle this whole parenting thing together as a team, and that’s totally okay. What matters is that Yua is growing up healthy and happy thanks to our hard work— especially yours. But what she needs, and what you need, is for you to be happy and healthy, too.”

His words sink into you like warm tea on a cold morning. He always makes it sound so simple— like you don’t have to keep holding yourself to this impossible standard, that you still have plenty of time for healing and gentleness that you should direct inwards. You know Yua is thriving; you can see it in her smile, in the way she reaches for you. That’s almost enough.

Still, there’s this restless part of you that resists letting go, that insists you have to keep going and going. But the truth is, your body is already telling you to slow down. Over the last few days, there’s that sharp sting of the clog dogging you that makes you wince, reminding you you’re not invincible.

You start fiddling with the wedding band on his finger. “I know… I know you’re right. I just— sometimes I feel like I should be doing better, like I should have it all figured out by now. Have everything balanced.”

“Princess. We have an entire baby, and you still manage to brush your teeth every day. You’re already doing better than you think. That makes you a genius in my book,” Suguru tells you earnestly.

Then your husband exhales slowly, thoughtfully. “You realize you did the right thing, telling me that you’re hurting?” He explains softly. “I want to help you. Always. And that starts with you telling me how I can help you.”

“You know that I’m just gonna vent, right?” You sulk even as you melt into a pathetic little pool of fondness at his warm insistence.

“That’s good. I don’t want you to keep it all inside and let it fester like a wound. And I don’t ever want you to think you’re alone in this. I promised you my whole life, so you have all of me,” Suguru replies easily.

Fuck, he isn’t letting you breathe. He’s practically slinging affirmations and assurances down your throat the same way you shoveled medicine down Yua’s when she caught a cold at five weeks.

“Well, I’ve tried every remedy under the sun for the clogs,” you begin miserably, addressing the issue at hand that’s slowly killing you and needs dealing with now. “I’ve been using ice packs and stuff, and I’ve tried hand expressing them.”

“But the only real advice online is to ‘massage it out,’ which feels less like a medical solution and more like a medieval punishment,” you tsk, making Suguru break into bell-like laughter of sympathy. “Stupid ass tits… if they weren’t busy making milk, I wouldn’t be in this situation. Having an overabundance is a curse, not a blessing!”

"Your body transformed to nurture our little one, and the milk is just part of that, that’s all. My fault for listening to my wife’s pleas to put a baby in her while she creamed on my cock, yeah?" Suguru impishly tilts his head, bangs fanning across his cheeks.

Oh. Suddenly, you want twenty more of his babies.

This fucking man. Your thighs squeeze together despite yourself. His eyes flicker down to where they rest on his lap, catching you in the act. Traitorous body always… betraying you. Hmph.

This kind of behavior is exactly why you were acting the way you did when Suguru was on top of you over nine months ago, your thoughts of being stuffed like a damn cream puff only emboldened by how perversely romantic your darling husband was being.

You recall it vividly; the candles he lit, the deep red silk sheets that he only whipped out for special occasions (and the matching red towels, of course, because you always make a mess). The way he sang praise after praise, hymns to you and how beautiful you looked when you were falling apart beneath his careful fingers that made you cum more times than you could count, how perfect you were when you let him glue you back together.

But you are not about to be out-flirted or out-nastied— no sir, not when you were the one to make a chubby-cheeked teen Suguru blush on the first day he ran into you, his senior by one year back when you both attended Jujutsu High. So, as one does, even with pain incinerating your brain cells, you dial in.

You tilt your head at him. The way you regard him from beneath your lashes is a deliberately slow caress that slips beneath his skin without ever needing to raise your hand and touch him. It’s a slow undressing done with nothing more than your eyes and the coquetteish, pantherine curl of your lips; the same way you’ve smiled at Suguru before pursing your teeth around the zipper of his jeans and tugging it down to his knees.

Much to your silent amusement, Suguru goes all wide-eyed after tossing you the new world record for the ‘briefest suspicious squint of all time,’ now looking vaguely like he’s in the sights of a train’s headlights. He rarely falters in his guard, so this is a treat.

"Oh, so it’s my fault that you couldn’t keep it in? That’s cute. Y’know, I seem to remember when you were babbling about which corner of the bedroom that you could put a crib in after only five strokes pretty clearly. You wanted it real bad before I even said anything about cumming inside,” you fire back. Somehow, you manage to frame it as devotion rather than something sordid.

Suguru breaks into a soft laugh, the kind that insists he’s just amused and not fazed in the slightest by your words— yet you can see how the tip of his ear is warmed pink when he tucks a stray midnight black bang back, the curve of his gauge catching the light.

Snitches get stitches, you used to solemnly tell Mimiko and Nanako when they were itty bitty and needed a dramatic yet family friendly way to caution them from telling on each other, but Suguru’s body always tattling on him and saying otherwise? Too cute.

Clearly, you’ve still got it. Your husband is flustered.

“Two things can be true at once, princess, but that doesn’t change how desperate you were for me even after you came, what…” he pretends to think, “thrice? Maybe more. It was kinda hard to tell when you turned into a geyser every time I pushed deep in that sweet cunt. Your moans were so loud that I almost wanted to shove your panties in your mouth.”

You slap at his shoulder half-heartedly (wincing when the movement shifts the weight of your breasts. Once-a-fucking-gain, Geto ‘human pain detector’ Suguru is on the case, eyes following you knowingly). “Suguru.”

“Yeahhh, baby, scream my name the same way you did that night,” Suguru murmurs, brimming with a smugness only found in smirking foxes.

You suck your teeth, trying to bat back the torrent buzzing warmly in your stomach. “God, you’re such a depraved beast. Shut up,” you grumble. As if you don’t want this man to put it on you now.

Suguru quirks a brow, brown eyes so deep they seem black. “You don’t know the half of it. Just wait until your doctor clears you to have intimacy. I’m gonna make love to my sweet girl alllll night long,” he promises, fingers trickling lazily down your thigh where it rests over his own.

To Suguru, fucking is not synonymous with making love. He wants to feel close to you, always, body and soul, so that neither of you can distinguish which body part belongs to who. He wants to roll into you slowly, deep enough to make it mean something, his fingers and cock and mouth all giving until you’re folding into him with a passion that mirrors his own. To have you trembling under him, his name breaking off your tongue as you gaze dreamily up at you, satiated and smiley and spoiled. He’s yours, completely, and he will always make sure you know it.

“What the fuck are you on right now? And can I have some so that I can think about anything but my tits trying to explode?” You complain, praying your fluster isn’t visible and ripe for the taking.

“You don’t need any drugs but me,” Suguru warns in a soft tease that makes your body heat spike, smiling all the while. “But you know about it; it’s this super sweet happy pill that I like to call my wife. It’s got that taste that sticks to the back of your throat— sweetness with a kick that’s addicting. I could live off of it alone,” he muses, sensually licking over his pearly whites as if blocks of sticky, chewed sugar are stuck between his teeth.

You shove his shoulder again, sure that you’re on fire right now. “Alright, alright, down boy. It’s time for you to take responsibility for what our daughter did to my body.”

“Happily,” he relents, switching tracks. “Gotta make sure mama is well taken care of.”

Somehow, Suguru manages to make slouching back against the couch, legs lazily kicked open and sweatpants slung low on those deadly hips of his, look gracefully suave. Anyone else would’ve looked sloppy, but on him it came off as if every careless sprawl was a calculated reminder of just how little effort it took for him to command the attention of hundreds and unravel you all at once— even without his usual monk regalia that gives him an air of intoxicating power, worthy of worship.

Your eyes trail over him. The drape of his glossy black hair sliding like silk along his cheeks in its half-up half-down style, his faint smile that’s delicate in its charisma, the dim light from the lamp painting shadows over his jawline and catching in the sharply graceful cut of his features. He’s devastatingly handsome; a figure sculpted by patience, by elegance, by something more than mortal hands.

(Fuck your baby dad, alright.)

Just looking at him has the effect of loosening the tightness in your chest, the slowing thrum of your heart insisting that everything will eventually be alright. There’s reassurance there, in the softness he never fails to wear for you that insists you’re in the most tender of hands that the universe itself sculpted with the intention to care for you.

Then, his hand twitches against your side like it’s killing him to not be pressed so tight against you that he dissolves into your skin until you’re both indistinguishable from each other. Needy.

You untuck your legs from their sprawl across his lap. He scoops you closer with a guiding hand clasping the indent of your waist, steady there as you swivel to face him fully. There, you swing a leg across the stretch of Suguru’s relaxed crotch and thighs and perch in the lulling cradle of his lap like he was made just to hold you.

(You hiss a little private sound of pain at the movement. Even gravity is cruel to your breasts.)

You peer down your nose, close enough that your forehead brushes his and his eyes capture yours with adoration. His lips are faintly sticky when you gently mouth at him in the most chaste yet affectionate of kisses, only discovering its source when his breath mists along yours— caramel-sweet and almost buttery tropical fruit, seared in a skillet until its sugars browned and softened.

The taste carries both decadence and warmth. The fried papaya from dinner.

"I'm going to take care of you, pretty girl. I promise," Suguru coos softly when you part, his hands sliding down to the hem of your sweatshirt. He looks up at you, then, a silent promise in his eyes. "Can I take this off?”

Your nod is his cue. Careful to avoid jostling you anymore than need be, he eases the fabric up past your silvery-scarred flanks, up past your pooch still soft from carrying his baby, up past the simple cups of your maternity bra that barely contain the pudgy swell of your breasts to tuck it under your armpits.

In a moment of weakness, he groans at the sight of you if that’s all it takes to deconstruct him down to the atom, fingers skimming over the stretch marks etched into your skin. This is his favorite view in the world, better than any sunset, any natural phenomenon, any goddamn thing he's ever seen in his life.

Pregnancy and postpartum has made his wife even more beautiful, even more irresistible, though Suguru struggles to accept it as possible when he thought you were already the most stunning creature alive.

"Let's get this off of you, too," Suguru murmurs, his fingers finding the upper part of your nursing bra’s clasp and tugging it loose, fully dropping one cup with the seriousness of a doctor examining his patient. Albeit a very, very dear patient.

(He still finds the convenient function of the bra oddly neat, to be honest.)

The thin fabric falls open like it was struggling to compress the flesh, revealing the swell of your buxom chest that you swear formed out of nowhere when you were still round with Suguru’s baby. At a closer look, he discovers that the tight straps scored reddened marks into your shoulders and collarbones. He’s gonna be insane after this, ordering you a few new nursing bras that are less constricting because his wife deserves nothing but the best.

He peeks at the inside of the cup. The additional foam layer designed to absorb excess milk is heavy with the liquid and some discharge, practically soaked through on the inside; cons of having an oversupply. Suguru can detect the sweetness of it from here, warm and intoxicating and so inherently motherly that he’s convinced the smell of it could sustain him for a century.

(You’ve soaked through your bras and shirts too many times to pretend modesty now. That, and you’ve heard him coo things along the lines of, “it’s okay, it’s okay, nothing to be upset over at all, sweet girl. Happens to new mothers in this stage all the time, remember? Your body’s just working overtime to do what it needs to do for our Yua,” while bringing you new changes of clothes so often that you’ve lost count of how many times he’s consoled you.)

His thumb grazes over your breast, feather-light, just enough to confirm the heat of inflammation beneath. A frown tugs at his lips when you curl tight like a threatened viper. God, you must be in agony. He’d read about mastitis symptoms in one of those endless parenting forums he scoured, how quickly tenderness could spiral into fever if left untreated, and was very, very concerned that it’d strike you while you were already down.

“Don’t,” you warn with a forced teasing lilt, already hearing the way his caretaker alarms were going off as he launches another mental war on himself.

Mouth thinning into a line, Suguru feels at the weight of you as carefully as possible to suss out the buildup, mindful of your tensed brows. You think the subject dropped until he hits you with the obvious in a voice low with worry, “Sweetheart, you’re burning up.”

“I’m sorry.” Your whisper is rife with the guilty pang you don’t bother to hide.

He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize to me, baby, it’s okay. We’ll take care of it. All I need is to know that you won’t keep suffering in silence. You still haven’t promised me that, hmm?”

You blink slowly, looking at him like he’s the answer to every prayer you’ve sent out into the universe this past week. And he is. “I’ll tell you next time something happens. Promise,” you relent, exhaling like it pained you to give in.

Pleased and oh so proud, he dances a kiss across your forehead. “Good, now let’s get these all the way off. Your bra is too wet to keep on, so I’ll grab you a new one when we go to bed.”

Gingerly, you grasp the hem of your sweatshirt that slid down a little, and up it goes over your head (Suguru mentally coos over the cute way you strip yourself of your tops by crossing your arms over yourself in a bow) and onto the floor next to the couch, then off goes your bra when he skillfully pops the back clasp of one-handed.

He peels the pads of your cups away, apologizing softly when it clings sticky to the inflamed skin of your chest. The bra, too, goes to the floor after he guides your arms free of the straps, every brush of his skin against yours tender-touched.

Your pudgy breasts spring free, full and brimming with milk, nipples puckered in little inflamed buds and growing still beneath the chill of your home’s air that blossoms across your skin. They hang so nicely against your torso, each curve flowing seamlessly into the winding strokes of your body in an effortless display of your allure.

The sight sparks more awe than desire (for now, at least) within Suguru, though he doesn’t let his appreciation for your deity-like body that brought life hinder his duty to you. Suguru is the paragon of self control, every bit the messianic monk he impersonates, even with you perched atop his lap, temptation in the flesh.

Instead, he cups the weight of your tits, testing the way they throb with the pressure of backed-up milk with a light squeeze, both of you immediately regretting the action when you carve your nails into Suguru’s shoulders. The strong breadth of them stretched beneath your palms is enough to keep you stable atop him. His own hands are quick to feather along the sides of your chest in apologetic strokes.

“That bad, princess?” He murmurs, looking like a guilty cat dumped in the rain even though you’re the one that just tried to claw him open with kitty-sharp claws.

You nod a little, feeling the sting of it when you breathe, like little buffering fireworks splotching within the cavernous expanse of your lungs. “Just be gentle,” you caution. Not accusatory, only tender, meant more as guidance softened by trust rather than warning.

He slumps in relief, briefly bowing his forehead to your sternum, where your natural scent coils with the scent of Yua’s baby shampoo. His family. Suguru’s heart gives a little thrill. “Gentle hands for my gentle girl,” he assures, as mellifluous as a lilting songbird.

And oh, does that spark appreciation for all the things he and his hands have done for you. How they rub along your spine in a deliberate caress to keep you on the side of the street furthest from the cars and to massage away your tension until your skin hums. How they brush along yours so that he can grab the grocery bags from you and carry them inside himself. How they pen your upcoming appointments on the bird-themed calendar he keeps in the kitchen.

(How they run teasing strokes along your body before Suguru spreads your sodden folds apart and delves deep with slow, insistent strokes of his wicked fingers. How they fuck open your slick warmth until you’re creaming on his fingers, hips bucking instinctively as you moan helplessly into his chest—)

Those last few thoughts makes coercing your body into a relaxed state an almost impossible feat. Misreading your desire for something else, Suguru frowns mildly up at you. He starts a slow massage, reverent in his task to undo what burdens you. To soothe and enthrall.

"I know it's uncomfortable, but you'll feel so much better soon. Relax into it and let me handle it,” he croons, the warmth curling in his voice like honey melting into tea. "I'll go as slow as you need."

Your hand snaps down like a spring-loaded bear trap over his wrist, warring with the conflicting urges to push or to pull. His fingers— long, elegant, ink-stained from the ridiculous amount of documents he signed at the temple before returning home— are undeterred, and they knead at you in an overly careful approach.

The soft flesh of your breasts used to be warm and pliant against his fingers, but now they’re tight, stretched uncomfortably. Semi-translucent droplets bud at the very tops of your nipples, as if begging for the rest of the dam to break away.

His wife is so painfully lovely, even now, with your brows pinched from discomfort and your hand shaking where it tethers his wrist. Suguru's chest aches at the sight— in that sweet, overwhelming rush of protective affection that makes him want to hold you forever.

He doesn’t like it when you’re hurt. But when you broke your leg a year after the two of you defected, that other time where you caught an awful flu while you and Suguru were on the road overseas for a year, catching curses and recruiting the few curse users you met… well, he enjoyed the caretaking of it all. He likes when you lean on him. Even if Suguru felt detestable for gaining even a modicum of pleasure from your pain.

"Shh, I know, doll. I know it hurts," he soothes, voice a low rumble in his chest. “You want me to talk about something else?”

You nod, eager for the distraction. Tucking you in close, he sets out to do just that, casting a glance around you.

A deep indigo glow from the twilight outside slices gently across the room through the wide glass walls that open into the garden. Crickets chirp faintly beyond the cracked windows, and the trickling stream leading through the flowering fruits that Suguru maintains and feeds to you from his palm carries the sound of water into the home, mingling gently with your stilted breaths as you try to keep them steady. The nursery monitor perched on the side table boxing in the couch blinks steadily— no movement from Yua's crib.

The sound of her tiny, snuffling snores has his chest tightening in that nauseatingly mushy way it always does around his daughter, but who could blame him? She’s his perfect little sweet pea. A mini-him with your deep eyes, all tuckered out like a milk-drunk kitten after the bottle she nursed against Suguru’s chest while the two of you ate dinner.

Layered beneath her sounds is the hum of the white noise machine you insist on keeping on for Yua. In the grand scheme of things, that’s nothing compared to what you did to bring life into the world, but all he can think is how lucky his little girl is to have you— you’re the kind of mother who thinks of everything, resolute in your mission to make this unfair, vile world more comforting for your daughter.

He notices every new little thing you’ve done since the beginning of rearing a newborn. Even the simplest acts— like counting your daughter’s toes and pretending to pocket them just to see the way she peals into gleeful laughter and incorporating made-up songs (which are really just recitals of what you were doing step-by-step in a baby voice) into diaper changes to keep Yua from fussing— he finds impossibly, naturally beautiful.

Suguru wants to cry just thinking about it. You’re the one thing in his world that feels too precious to even put into words. Seeing you this way cements that you’re the love of his life all over again.

Where you were all rhyme and no reason, your earlier massaging technique just a desperately quick seek for relief, your husband and fellow cult leader tends you to like he’s been kneading dough in practice for this for his entire life. He works diligently, stimulating your mammary glands with a slow but thorough massage, heart attuned to your every unvoiced sign of discomfort, as he collects his words.

"Do you know," he starts softly, large thumbs stroking over you, "I think you're the best thing that ever happened to Yua? And I’m not just saying that because you birthed her,” he slides in a softly teasing remark at the end, glowing when your lips fall around a stilted laugh. “You’re the best thing that happened to me, too, but especially her. She wouldn’t be better off with anyone else but her mama.”

He sounds a little thick— as though a lump of emotion is burgeoning in his throat— even though his words are almost an order that leaves no doubt concerning the truth of the matter.

Your lashes briefly cling together from how fiercely you had clenched your eyes in a grimace— when did that happen?— when your lids part at the sound of his voice. Once tiny pupils blow out as they drink in the soft lighting haloing your surroundings in fuzzy bliss, a sharp contrast to the pressure squeezing your ribs that forces you into uncomfortable awareness.

Pressure has carved red ribbons across your breasts where the ducts throb beneath the weight, veins raised and tender on your skin where they branch from the strain. Suguru’s gaze stays ducked towards them, face so close he threatens to melt into the valley of your tits, but even with his chocolate-brown eyes half-lidded and focused elsewhere, the tenderness there is raw. Naked.

You swallow, throat clicking with the words you can’t say. Then you heave out a labored groan that teems with strain when he lightly strokes over the lymph nodes above your clavicle to help drain the swelling. The clogs in your breasts feel like rocks weighing down the net they’ve been snagged in, but they yield slightly beneath his ministrations.

“Ooooh,” you wheeze a little. “Ooh, yeah, you gotta keep going. Right there.”

With a hum, Suguru pecks your shoulder, your collarbone, and he obeys. The imprints of his lips smolder gently there. “I don’t know if you notice it, but she always quiets down and smiles when you’re near, and when you’re not, all Yua cares about is crying her little head off while looking for you,” he continues quietly.

“I guess she couldn’t give a rat’s ass about papa when her mommy’s always there to spoil her rotten, hmm? Oh, don’t look at me like that, sweetheart, I can still swear when the kids aren’t around. I’m grown.” He chuckles when you swat his shoulder with a pointed glare, coaxing a giggle of your own out.

“It’s not that. Cuss all you want, because you know damn well you’re a good dad and that she loves you j—“

“Okay, so, I don’t really like that you’re interrupting my speech about how lovely my wife is?” Suguru interrupts with a palm up to halt you, pushing his bottom lip out in an honest-to-fucking-god pout.

His fingers purse tighter around your breasts, rolling until you flinch as if something’s just popped. Cornered into silence, you frown at him, and he only smiles that innocently unassuming smile even though he’s easily smugger than a fox nabbing eggs from a hen’s nest, and ambles on.

“The twins are the same, and look at how much they’ve grown beneath your care. You and I did our best to raise the twins when we were still children with little to no resources. I was depressed and half-starved when I found them, and you weren’t doing much better. Nanako and Mimiko, and now Yua, are flourishing because of us. I know you worry you’re not doing a good enough job, but I think we both know that the girls and Yua know that you’re a good mom to them, and that’s all that matters.”

"So don’t do that," Suguru murmurs, voice a bleeding blend of plea and command. His palms seem to engulf your breasts whole, condensing the pain and swallowing it. "Don't second-guess and tuck away how good you are when you’re better at this than you believe. You've given our family everything, even when you’re exhausted or hungry or pissed. You don't have to hide how much that costs."

Every affirmation is chosen with care. Not to flatter, but to soothe and to show you that he sees everything you do, even when he’s juggling his own weights of fatherhood and his duty to lessen your burdens as much as possible. His refinement is always in service of kindness. Genuity.

Maybe it’s good that he’s not looking at you— already you feel as though you’re crumbling, slow but sure, beneath the most gentle destruction; even without his gaze. Your chest feels like it might split in two, both from the ache and from the strange relief of being seen.

So much of love is violence and surrender; the longing to be unstitched, the ravine of your body split wide in the most vulnerable of ways, taken apart with bare fingers instead of knives then consumed and picked clean, and finally swallowed down— not unlike the curses your husband takes in. To be reborn through another’s womb.

“Fuck, Suguru,” you finally hiss from between your teeth, equal parts due to his words and your skin that’s tender to the touch but eager for reprieve. “M’gonna die, you’re so sweet.”

“I’m just being honest. You’re doing perfect, angel,” he remarks softly, his brow slackening. “And no dying on me, alright? Not now and not ever. I still have so much love to give you.”

A smile whorls prettily across your lips, steeped in an adoration that makes him shiver when Suguru finally looks up from between your breasts and catches your eyes. “Same goes for you,” you breathe, and he purrs.

You squirm atop him as he kneads your overflowing mounds, caught in the crossfire of conflicting sensations. A whine hitches on your tongue when Suguru finally works his way inwards until he reaches the base of your puffy nipples, rolling the skin around them between fingers and thumbs, pain and liberation blooming at its peak.

“Oh my god,” you practically moan. You’re teetering between heaven and hell. Either or, it doesn’t matter— you wouldn’t leave either behind if Suguru was the one to greet you there.

“You’re doing so good, doll,” he rasps softly. “I’m right here with you. I’ve got you.”

He takes his time, applying tempered pressure to the outside of your areolae, pressing in and dragging out gently, skin giving way the same way melted chocolate does when you carve a spoon through a pot of it, to coax out the backed-up milk— just like the lactation consultant and all those videos he watched taught him. Your shoulders drop from around your ears as something begins to give way.

Suguru knows this isn't about pleasure, not really. It's about relief, about easing his baby mama’s discomfort. But seeing you like this, feeling you gradually come undone beneath his ministrations, staggered breaths losing their edge, is its own special kind of bliss. For you and for him.

He indulges and tends in the same breath; licking a soft, suckling kiss into the shallow pond of your collarbone and imprinting the delicate pink of his unconditional devotion there. Your fingers curl weakly at his shoulders, your head tilted and neck bared before your husband even reaches it. His mouth scatters delicate, wet smacks upon your skin as though planting something that will bloom in secret.

“Thank you for making milk for our baby girl, even though it hurts. You make more than enough to keep her healthy and strong,” he breathes into you. You shiver, just once.

Suguru can feel the clogged duct beneath his fingers, hard and painful to the touch. He focuses his efforts there, rubbing and massaging until he feels it start to give way. Tightness coils, then liquifies in the same breath, all that backed-up milk finally releasing with a spurt of warmth that spills forth.

Jesus Christ. You could cry from how much better you already feel, even when the ache and weighed-down feeling of milk tugging your breasts towards earth remains; the relief of loosened pressure is immediate.

You slump forward like a marionette with its strings snipped to sever the body from the true mind, hips joined with his but scant distance still purposely put between your chests when you bury your face in his neck, soaking in his cologne.

"Thereee we go, pretty girl," Suguru praises softly. Keen eyes stay on you as your nipples sluggishly drip thin beads of milky fluid down your breasts and onto your stomach, the muscle beneath your skin quivering now that it’s finally relaxed after minutes of clenching. “Feeling better?”

“So much better,” you sigh. It’s not a perfect fix, but it’s enough to tide you over for a bit. Heat nips your skin, threatening infection, which you’ll have to keep an eye on. Tonight won’t be the first night you’ve gone to bed with an ice pack stuffed down your shirt in a bid to try and relax your chafed nipples.

You watch with a mild grimace as a few extra fatty globs of milk leak from you— the human body is both absurd and fascinating.

Two long fingers swipe up the mess Suguru made of you, working in a lazy circle to collect all that he can without aggravating your oversensitive flesh, his other hand smoothing up and down your inner thigh in soothing passes. His pupils are blown wide with something sharper than just focus as he idly wipes himself off on the hem of his shirt— you know he already planned on tossing it into the hamper since Yua spit up on him earlier, so you don’t bat an eye over it.

But whatever it is, he doesn’t voice it, instead pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth that you interrupt by turning into it. Mouths meeting, lips overlapping in a dance familiar to you over the last decade, you press into him with all the appreciation that you can muster that words themselves cannot express. You swallow up Suguru’s answering hum that buzzes enticingly through the nerve branches supplying your lips. He tastes so warm, so familiar, like summer fruit and green tea.

Hm. You think you know what he desires— luckily for him, you want it too.

“What,” he breathes into you in a dreamy little cadence, more moan than question when you lap into his mouth to greedily get at more of him, much too in tune with you even when you’re distracting him. Spit collects where your tongues slide over each other, stringing thin and spilling down your chin when you pull back.

Suguru swipes a thumb over it. He leaves a trace of the scent of milk beneath your lip.

“Still need your help,” you confess, smothering him in a gentle flurry of kisses. Each one has Suguru laughing softly, eyes crinkling, plush lips wet and breaths uneven. He nuzzles his cheek into the long smooch you plant there.

You steal another from his mouth, just because you can, just because you love him and you want him to drown in it every day of his life. “I can’t let my milk build up again, and Yua’s asleep. My tits are too full for me to sleep comfortably tonight.”

A pause, pregnant and thicker than his cursed energy that coils around the house in a protective barrier, then Suguru tilts his head against the back of the couch and looks up from beneath his kohl-brushed lashes with utmost seriousness. Quiet and assessing though he may be, the clean cut of his knife that slips painlessly through the ripe skin of you— as if you’re a fruit he’s set to engorge himself on, to swallow the seeds of— is awfully besotted.

“Are you asking me to take my daughter’s place?” He intones in a voice already somewhat wrecked, like he hadn't just been thinking it for the last few minutes. No amount of plastic-perfect redos could mask that.

“Psssh.” Your breath ghosts. “As if I’d pick anyone else for the job. Lucky you, right, husband?” You lilt, mildly devilish but mostly just needy. This is the same exact behavior that landed you with his baby in the first place.

A surprised blink. Two. Then, he cracks out a breathless chuckle that paints his cheeks a carnation-pink, “Ah, don’t tease me,” he flaps a hand, playing the part of the dismissive (though nothing could conceal the bashful smile looking to bloom through his veneer of control). “You know I’ll do it, since it’ll ease you.”

(“… even if I fear that it’ll make me greedy,” goes unsaid, but not unheard.)

In seconds, you’re just as heated as he; it rushes up your neck and prickles across the expanse of your face.

“Thank you, my love,” you whisper, and, a tad shyly, “and thank you for everything you said earlier.”

Suguru smiles warmly at you, heart beating with affection for his wife alone. He cradles the crown of your cheek in the cup of his palm, stroking thumb ladling love into your pores as he gazes into your beautiful eyes. "Don’t mention it, angel. I'm more than happy to make you feel better, in any way you need," he murmurs softly, constructing a sticky web of honey with only his voice.

You use the distraction of your last few kisses to extract the claw clip from his hair so that you can feel it against you, letting the tied up section flow lazily down his back. You pet through his hair like it’s a stim toy, the strands sleek and thick with good health.

With the blockage out of the way, your nipples pearl sweetly in the dim light, translucent white shimmering there on the twin peaks. Suguru leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of your breast, then another, trailing a path of tender kisses downwards. He laves at the thin trail of spilled milk with his tongue.

Your nails sear at his scalp as he finally wets his lips and seals them over your nipple, and the first drugging pull of that cursed mouth has you arching with a breathy squeal, fight or flight instincts hollering like a bitch. “Ahhhhfffuck—“

“Mmn.” Relax, he meant to say, but it comes out an almost pathetic noise. The first trickle is thin, almost shy, but Suguru knows how to suck hard enough to draw liquid forth— heh— and has more than enough determination to make this work.

It hurts— sharp at first, then easing into a bearable but annoying throb. Suguru practically squeezes himself past your ribs to curl around your heart with how closely he’s pushed into you, a hand fanning firm against the small of your back as a reminder for you to keep the two of you superglued together. You obey, squeezing your thighs tighter around his hips, weight burying him further into the creases of the loved couch.

That same hand then comes up and weighs your breast alongside his other hand, fat wobbling over the curved edges of his cupped palms like panna cotta, to hug your free breast against his cheek and trap his face in the valley of your chest. You’re soft. Heavenly soft and squishy.

Oh, he could die happy. Thigh guy and eye guy (they’re the windows to the soul, after all) though he may be, Suguru is a man that is utterly weak for his wife’s tits.

He supports the heavy weight of your breasts by their undersides as he drinks from your well with the patient indulgence of a saint. The taste of your milk is comforting, sweet, surprisingly honey-like (all the smoothies he’s made you, probably), texture just a little thick enough that it seems to line his throat; clingy— and Suguru melts into it, losing himself in the sensation like a drunkard unconsciously trying to find his way to the bottom of a bottle.

No wonder Yua throws fits in the middle of the night for a taste of this. If this had been the fruit in Eden, how could anyone blame Adam and Eve for sinking their teeth into it?

It crests over his soft palate and glides down the arc of his throat in creamy waves that undulate through him faster or slower depending on the depth of his suction, which he’s careful to keep fairly light— a gesture that’s mindful of your soreness. Your nipple hardens further against the velvet heat of his mouth, milk letting down with ease at each suckle, Suguru’s maw working slow and deep.

“Fuck, baby,” he mumbles, the movement of his lips causing rivulets of milk to leak from the corners of his mouth— damnit— and dribble down his chin and onto your chest, “you taste so good angel, so— so perfect.”

“Sugu,” you whine like you’re dying. His eyes drag open immediately despite how heavy they abruptly feel. He doesn’t remember closing them.

Above him, you're overcome. Your face is pinched with a mixture of emotions, wet-eyed gaze framed by the devastating fall of your lashes that clump together from the sheen of unshed tears— oh god. You’re breathing around half-sobbed keens that sound more like prayer than a beg for respite, bosom rising in sharp, needy pulls of air. Divinity at its finest.

The sight breaks him apart, stitches him back together, and sends a shudder of devotion through him so hard it makes his teeth ache with sugar rot. Something thumps swollen and low behind his ribs as if his body’s reminding him that he only exists to kneel before you, drink from you, worship you, and drown in you all at once. He’d do it all a hundred times over.

Suguru blinks up at you, milk-slick lips dumbly parted around your nipple and jaw lazily hinged. His stomach tries to evacuate the premises by dropping out of his ass when he sees your lower lip wobble.

"You okay?" His voice is rough, unsteady, though he never halts, tongue recircling lazily around your tender peak without thought. Is he drunk? He might be. He isn’t sure of anything anymore that isn’t you.

You fist your hands in his hair and drag him closer, like if you could press him into your heart he might finally understand what it’s doing to you— how overwhelming it is to be touched like this, fed on like this. Submitting like a working dog, he gentles his suction, lets his lips linger open around you instead of pulling, like a kiss that refuses to end. His nose nudges into your sternum; he’s shaking, too.

"I— yeah, I just dunno w-why I’m crying— ah—“ you cut yourself off with a broken moan, back bowing as another gush of warmth fills his mouth like your body can’t help but give and give and give, so generous to even those that don’t deserve to even breathe your very air.

He groans into your breast at the taste, the sound low and desperate, vibrating all the way into your sternum, but he forces himself to unlatch with a lewd pop of wet suction breaking away from skin. “Okay?” He repeats in a rasp, wiping his damp chin with the back of his wrist.

It’ll be a cold day in hell before he ever neglects to check in with you, even with your body language as open as a book. He needs to know what you need. “I can stop, or I can keep going.” Suguru wants to— would never deny you his aid, even if it meant going to bed with a sore jaw and in a half-dead trance from fatigue.

You slowly shake your head. Your lungs work like bellows, every inhale dragging your ribs wider, your nails trembling against his scalp with every exhale. "N-no, don't stop," you manage, voice soft but urgent, cracking like porcelain at the edges. "It’s helping. Just— keep going, please."

(Suguru doesn't need to be told twice.)

Oh so tender, his thumbs arc gently over your damp lashes, brushing the tears away and reassuring you that you’re okay. He stares at you for a long moment, his dark eyes searching your face with that stubborn worry anyway before softening when he finds truth. It takes everything in you not to squirm.

His eyes flutter shut for a heartbeat, relief and reverence colliding. When they open again, the black in them looks bottomless. "Alright, angel," he murmurs, mouth parting in a faint sliver that allows his breath to ghost hot over you, and you cry. "Shh, shh, I've got you. You’re okay. Just breathe for me and relax. That's all you have to do.”

There’s comfort in the ease of complying and melting into a fragile little heap in his palms, in not having to strain your mind over every detail. And if you falter? He’s already beneath you, arms open before the fall.

You nod in silent confirmation, and his smile (tired but tender) pulls at you like gravity. He squeezes your sides, dragging warmth into your flesh, fingers tracing the familiar curves he’s memorized over the years— only now, they’re plumper, fuller, impossibly more superlunary after carrying your daughter. It’s a grounding technique… but also his unrestrained cuteness aggression finally bubbling forth in a giddy wave.

Suguru’s features melt into a map of appreciation— smile laden with quiet longing, doberman-brown eyes luminous and drinking in every inch of your figure, his body naturally inclining toward you with the inevitability of tide to shore. He would always answer the call only you gave, even if it meant walking through the valley of the shadow of death. “My pretty girl. You have no idea what you do to me,” he dreamily coos.

So sweet, your man. So in love. You look away and pretend to study the smattering of orchids on the windowsill through your watery vision, unable to help it, and Suguru coos again.

“Aren’t you the most precious thi—“

“Shhhhhh.” You flick his forehead, and his laughter is brighter than a pulsar.

Now that you’re a little calmer, all petted over like a spoiled kitten until you’re looser, Suguru presses a slow kiss over the tender spot of your nipple and licks carefully— savoring. You shudder, ticklish, when his abdomen crunches inwards in a dip so that he may lowly lap at the thin spill of milk down your stomach that he wasted, greedy for every drop like a spoiled pet.

He drives you insane in the most indescribably obscene of ways.

Righting himself again with lordly elegance, Suguru tilts his head back into its rightful place on your bosom. His large hands return to cradle the weight of you, fingers splayed with the steadiness of the wooden beams supporting the home that he built for you in the rural heart of Tokyo’s countryside. Careful fingers press at the base of your breasts in slow, coaxing sweeps in his direction that ease your ducts into widening, allowing your sweet sustenance further passage.

(Sighing, he nuzzles into your chest, the only place he’s convinced he belongs, and smears milk as though he’s trying to wear it.)

When he seals his lips around you again, the pull is measured enough that you can feel the tension inside you slowly unspooling. The nighttime quiet of your home is peaceful; romantic, even, as his cheeks flutter in patient, coaxing draws that match the rhythm of his circling thumbs. It’s more like a benediction than anything else.

He purrs low, like he's a cat trying to soothe you, mouth flattening tighter as if promising he won't waste another drop. Suguru’s slumped beneath you like a baby valiantly fighting off sleep, the thinnest of milk mustaches streaking over his Cupid’s bow… it reminds you of your sweet pea Yua.

("She's got your stubbornness already." You muttered while breastfeeding for the second time ever, months ago.

Suguru knelt by you where you sat on the couch, eyes locked on the impossibly small infant nestled to your chest as Yua gummed at your nipple, though they curiously flicked up to you when you spoke. She had a greedy latch and a mean suction, but she could take whatever she wanted from you and you’d never complain. It’s all hers.

You traced a finger along the infant's tiny arm, internally quavering beneath the weight of your own responsibility for the fragile, perfect life in your hands. You didn’t want to ruin her. You hoped you hadn’t already ruined her. The baby's soft suckling noises hummed in your ears as you leaned forward, pressing a kiss of promise to the crown on your daughter’s head.

"Because she never lets go of what she wants?” He questioned, voice lilting something sweet and sacred. “That’s a perfect trait to have.”

You smiled faintly, agleam with a pantherine-like mischief. “That, and she’s greedy just like you.”

“Hey? That is slander upon my good name?”)

The sob that catches in your throat comes out softer this time, broken up by the watery laugh that abruptly hiccups through it. “You, hhn, look like a kitten that got into the cream," you note, voice lilting even as another fragile noise punches out of you when Suguru’s teeth kiss around your nipple in a scrape that sends sparks up your spine.

“Except,” you bravely forge on even though you’re winded, “you're way bigger and somehow even needier."

Suguru's eyes crinkle as they watch your face; a smile blooming in snow. All he does is hum in reply, gravelly and low, pressed so close that you can feel the flutter of his lashes against your plumpness.

"Mhm." You teasingly mimic his hum because humor is the only thing keeping you from flying off the edge and into the unknown, carding your way through his hair again. It slips through your fingers like water. "Here I was thinking l'd married a dignified monk, and instead l've got this big soft man trying to nurse me dry on a Tuesday afternoon."

That earns you a muffled laugh around your dribbling nipple that makes your toes curl, and you giggle at the puff of warm air. He peels away from your breast long enough to say, “Please. I’m just trying to make sure your milk doesn’t go to waste,” milk and saliva stringing from his mouth, to switch to your neglected tit and start suckling that one, too.

(Pause. You swear you heard him mutter, “don’t think I forgot about my other favorite girl,” to your boob as if it has a conscience of its own.)

You so unabashedly pour honey-thick sustenance into his awaiting mouth; like an oriole feeding its chick from its beak, a ritual of regurgitated offering— what’s been gathered, softened, made ready, now given. What you scavenge is what he consumes; like the curses you and your shikigami hunt for his inventory and your cause.

And hasn’t that always been the case?

“Well, you’re doing a very good job of it, even though— hck— this definitely wasn’t in the marriage handbook,” you breathe, a moan breaking up your speech. Your head tips back, a grin breaking through your dazed, teary expression at the thought. “We’ll put this on your resume. Husband, curse user, cult leader, and handsome certified breast pump.”

A second, fainter laugh whistles through his nose as his tongue drags in a concentrated swirl, collecting a mouthful. Another warm rush fills his mouth that he all too happily swallows.

The furrow between your brows smooths little by little under his gaze. With it, the dam crumbles, spidery-slow cracks eroding its foundations. It eases open and open until the strain lessens, spluttering out through the cracks like chunky-watery snow runoff.

Your breath stutters; your hips press closer until your stomachs are flush. Suguru feels it then— the sway of you finally beginning to give yourself over completely, trembling but open, eyes glossy and faraway in a manner that reminds him of the sheen that paints your eyes when you gaze into the future.

“Still so sensitive,” he murmurs, switching sides again, fingers taking his previous spot and rolling around your areola to squeeze out a stray stream that runs freely. “You were made for this. Look at you. Feeding our baby, taking care of her… and you’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. Yua’s so lucky.”

The words sink in, wrapping around your spine like silk until you shudder, your thighs quaking as they cling tighter around his waist. “Would you beg for it?” You blurt.

His brown eyes thin, fox-like. You don’t have to elaborate. “Always, princess.”

You mutter ‘oh my god,’ voice shaky with the beginnings of something unclaimable, flustered, and it’s only then that he realizes—

You’re soaked. And it’s not due to your spilling breasts.

The scorching honey-trap of your core pulses through the thin fabric of your panties and shorts, too, and over Suguru’s crotch in a languorous trickle that draws his attention sharply to the point where your bodies meet. His composure slips just a fraction. The spreading wetness seeps wider and soaks into the soft cotton weave of your shorts, blossoming visibly, shamelessly, in a dark patch that you can’t quite hide.

Admittedly, you’ve been a little wet since he initially latched on, the friction of his lips on your oversensitive nipples enough to unravel you. That arousal traces back further, still, back to the second Suguru reminded you of how he stuffed you full.

The image burns a brand into the delicate swath of skin behind your eyelids; your husband kneeling over you after pulling his cock out, still slick from your joining and his cum that he pumped you full of, your ankles tangled in a cross above his head while Suguru pulled your asscheeks apart in a decadent spread of skin and slick. Him thumbing his thickened dribbling seed back into your fluttering cunt, eyes shamelessly darting between where your body sucked around his thumb and your winking asshole.

Thinking about it again has you trembling harder in the present, if that were even possible. Gasping, frazzled, your hips shift restlessly in a not at all subtle barrage of ruts down against him as your arousal spikes like a struck bell. You’re not even thinking about it— just reacting to the sheer euphoria of being tended to like this. You can’t stop. You don’t want to.

“Sugu,” you hiccup, burning up with something so ruinous that not even the words ‘need’ nor ‘desire’ could explain what you craved. Your fingers twist in his hair until his scalp prickles and head catches back, and Suguru only groans pleadingly, irises nearly gone as his eyes roll half-way back.

It’s only when you accidentally tug harder that Suguru’s hips hinge in an unconscious thrust— Pavlovian response, with how often you tangle up his hair during intimacy— despite his desire that hasn’t yet fully bloomed, groaning at the friction that’s already coaxing a response from his lower half that he can’t hide, and that’s all it takes to halt him.

He pulls himself away from your breast, breathing heavily. Milk dribbles down his chin, dampening his chest, but he doesn't care— he’s too busy examining your face with a worried, knowing eye. His hands settle at your hips, grounding you even as you try to flutter another grind over him.

“Even more sensitive than before,” Suguru corrects himself in a rasp, forming the words clumsily around the thick taste of milk on his tongue. His voice breaks the silence, low and roughened by the weight of the moment.

“...You’re really reacting to this, huh? Guess I’m doing a little too good of a job taking care of you,” he lilts, the faintest trace of amusement curling around his words.

The way he says it isn’t mocking, really, for there’s no judgment in his voice— it’s just warm, with a little tender concern around the edges. But there’s also that orange-painted thread of teasing mischief in his tone that makes the hair dotting your arms rise like static is building in the air right before a lightning strikes the ground— or like your skin is a field and he’s the magnet tugging through it.

You feel your face grow hot. “It’s hardly your job,” you scowl as you glance away, saying something just to say it.

“You’re right, you’re right,” he concedes with a little shrug that you feel more than you see. You can hear the smile in his voice. “It’s my honor and my pleasure, princess.”

You can’t quite bring yourself to meet his eyes, but the sound of his soft chuckle— low, tender, knowing— draws you back in. He presses a hand to the small of your back, steadying, thumb rubbing grounding, soothing circles over you. “Hey,” he adds, quieter now, “breathe. What is it, angel?” A pause, then he offers you a verbal hand. “Need something? Talk to me.”

You knew who you were, what you wanted, and what you wanted was your husband. You wanted Suguru. So much so that your lips part before your mind can catch up— that you think you could beg, right there, pride be damned, if it meant feeling him more intimately.

Your breaths are ragged, lips trembly as you bite out, "Need you— right now." The look you give him is glazed with adoration and overwhelmed ache, torn between the sting of sensitivity and the molten thrum of craving so badly to be needed by Suguru that you could rip your hair out.

His throat visibly bobs as your thighs pointedly tighten around him, the baiting shift of your hips sending a jolt through him that has his jaw tensing. You even drape your arms around him with a low sigh that turns into a long drawn-out groan of frustration, moving to hump your clothed cunt against his thigh again with frustratedly needy noises. But he stays still, not wanting to push you far at all.

There’s not a day in hell that Suguru would deny you— especially not when your eyes burn like that, not when your body is already melting open for him, pressing wet and sticky to his crotch. His own… ah, situation presses against his sweats as if to remind him that it had been too long since you’d had each other like this, what with juggling multiple kids that always meddled without realizing they were meddling, simply by bursting into your bedroom at the asscrack of dawn or the dead of night for something or another.

You were insatiable when you were heavy with your baby, skin constantly aglow and your eyes like twin magnets that constantly glued themselves to the mouthwatering outline of Suguru’s glorious cock. Never a day went by where you weren’t chomping at the bit to climb him like a tree and buck on Suguru like a wild horse until he gave into your need that was bolstered by pregnancy hormones. He could barely take a step without you mouthing at any ounce of his exposed skinlike some paragon of divine temptation, whispering in his ear that he should fuck you already.

But postpartum recovery is still serious business. It’s too soon after childbirth to get intimate yet, so Suguru’s pointedly been holding off, and so have you. Until now, of course.

"I’d love to, but we we can’t. No penetration or anything extensive, baby— you know that. Heavy petting is as far as we can go, really.” The genuine concern is there— he’s been borderline overbearing with making sure you stick to the given deadlines concerning sex and working out post-pregnancy, not wanting you to start doing anything too crazy too early. Suguru’s terrified of you hurting yourself, but he also knows you’re now tense in a way that has nothing to do with pain, and he’d hate to leave you high and dry.

He sighs, reluctant, and your eyes are already gaining a somewhat manic gleam. “But… I’ll always give you whatever you want, if you’ll let me,” Suguru mutters, still petting over your back as though you’re fragile, even though you know he sees you as the strongest thing in his world. “We can go further if you promise to be careful. Okay?”

“If I ever said no, it’s not me, it’s an imposter,” you quip dryly just to see the way he amusedly wrinkles his nose. “But yes. Promise. Can we hump like dogs now?”

Suguru shakes his head as he laughs, hair swaying. “Sure, princess.”

That’s all it takes to set off the sparkler in your expression. Your excitement blooms, blinding and so vivid it leaves him dazed with wonder.

Pushing off of his shoulders, thick thighs sliding off his lap and gliding over the outsides of his legs in a controlled, teasing rhythm, sticky with the friction of closely shared sweat and movement, you step onto the floor and rise in front of him like an angel given permanence in flesh.

Your breasts hang so nicely against your torso with warmth and life, swaying gently like fruit on the branch with every breath you take, ripe and perfect, hanging pretty like the gardens of Babylon.

Incense smolders faintly from a brass burner, mingling with the naturally crisp, earthy musk of the night’s breeze swimming past the cracked window. That’s what Suguru sucks in a massive lungful of on the sharp inhale he draws when you bend over and push your shorts down to your thighs, letting it roll over his tongue and throat with all the patience of someone sampling a rare vintage, tasting this moment with all of his senses so that he may imprint the image you strike into his memory.

Gravity carries your shorts the rest of the way down your legs in a cozy caress, leaving you in only your underwear. Being mostly bare highlights the fullness of your tits, still somewhat puffy with milk and soreness.

His gaze lingers on the artful ripple of your body dimpled with stretch marks, the bounce of your full chest as you stand upright and step out of your shorts with soft-footed yet assured grace, and he’s already adjusting how he rests in his pants just from watching you move. Simple as that.

Damn. Parenthood hasn’t dulled his insatiable attraction to you one bit. If anything, it’s worse. Or better. Depends on how you look at it.

It’s not some perverse, masculine pleasure of having planted a seed within your body for it to grow and fester that shakes Suguru. That’s too crude of a way to behold someone as precious as you, and so very unlike him, anyways. What truly moves him is the evidence of your strength and vulnerability intertwined— a naturalistic beauty that speaks of creation and war and love that makes him ache something fierce.

You’re powerful to a fault. You could kickstart revolutions or single-handedly deconstruct evil-spirited crusades, just with your body, what it can birth, and the rest of its yawning list of endless capabilities.

The taut fullness of your stomach, once rounder than a harvest moon, has long begun to ebb— not all at once, but in slow increments that shift with the waning phases of the moon. Your abdomen is currently softly curved into a crescented pouch, skin folding where your daughter formerly stretched you wide and tightening the streaks of scarring. There’s still weight to you; childbirth and being well-fed like a pampered pedigree dog has molded you into a figure of soft indulgence.

(Suguru adores feeding you. You always scarf down his cooking while he watches with an anticipatory breath stuck in his chest that only relaxes when you moan your approval. He’s so very serious about catering to you and keeping you at a healthy body weight, both for you and for the baby. Your well-being is his top priority.)

The gradual return of your newly toned— not entirely just yet— muscles is still a work of progress, but the lingering definition in your limbs hasn’t been lost, all things considered, and you’re determined to repolish the fine instrument of your body when you can (you’re taking it slow, of course, because Suguru nearly had an aneurysm when you asked if he’d be down to spar again sometime soon. His answer was no. And if you ask him, it’s definitely not because there’s a 49% chance of you handing his ass to him, even in the state you are now.).

The easing of your body back into itself wasn’t erasure of what had been, but like a bow of gratitude for what you endured and survived all the same. Yet another testament to your strength.

“Beautiful,” he breathes readily. You perk up, smiling sunnily, and he wants to fucking punch the nearest wall because how can somebody be so jaw-droppingly sexy yet so cute.

Arcing over your hips are high-rise cotton panties with a thin lace trim, exceptionally soft and flattering. A sticky patch of arousal drenches through the gusset. The fabric gently embraces your postpartum belly, supporting it with the perfect amount of loose elasticity to keep you breathing comfortably. Simple. Great for recovery from childbirth.

Regardless, though, he was winded just off of that. “That’s a pretty pair, pretty girl,” Suguru murmurs, brown eyes lower than the sunset over the horizon. It’s lovely, how his onyx lashes flutter over blushy tanned cheeks.

You chuckle, sweet and dazzling, and look down to examine the panties that shine beneath the microscope of his attentions as if you’ll miraculously find a grander pair, spun by some mystical fairy godmother, on your person. Naturally, nothing has changed. “They’re cotton underwear that I bought from Costco, there’s nothing cute or sexy about these,” you chuff, voice swinging mirthfully. “It’s giving… old mom panties. Tragic.”

Weirdly enough, you’re more self-conscious about your choice in undergarments rather than your body, but perhaps that’s to be expected after listening to your husband’s prolonged murmurings about how gorgeous your body was before and after childbirth, always with intimate and frankly excruciating detail that made you want to crawl under a rock from flustered euphoria. He hasn’t stopped, even though you’ve now grown used to his praises, because his lips simply cannot help themselves whenever he lays eyes on you.

(Besides, he thrives on rendering you slightly undone beneath his appreciation, knowing full well the power he holds over your heart and using that to the sweetest of advantages.)

Knowing that, he reaches for your hand, reeling you back in to stand between his legs. Your stomach brushes against his chin when he tips his head up to capture your gaze with his own smoldering one. His yawning pupils are tiny entomology pins that stick the butterfly wings of your lashes in place on the canvas of his spreading board. You can’t look away.

“Postpartum panties or not,” Suguru says, eyes dark, sharp, deliberate, “everything you wear— or don’t wear— drives me insane. You’re gorgeous, y’know? Breathtaking. Nothing or nobody but you could land me in a state like this,” he admits, leaning back into an unfairly suave slouch against the couch. The body of it groans but allows Suguru to sink into the plushy, delicious tension of the cushions.

You exhale a little laugh through your nose as you open your mouth to ask what he means, and suddenly the noise shudders and dies like a car pathetically sputtering along on its last tire when he drops a hand to his crotch. The fabric of his clothing does nothing to hide his current state.

Ah. He’s harder because of you.

Suguru drags the heel of his palm over his cock that protests against the layers of fabric holding it back from its rightful place buried in your sweet cunt, muzzling the straining, pulsating tip with his palm. You’re unblinking, not missing how he tilts his head back and exposes the elegant column of his throat that you’re itching to mark. Hidden beneath the shadow of his jaw is the bob of his Adam’s apple, the motion like a buoy drifting through lazily rocking waters, around an unscripted moan.

His baby mama looks good enough to eat, and he nearly pierces through his bottom lip with how hard he’s sinking his teeth into it, because holy mother of pearl. He corrects himself, loosening his jaw and licking over his sore lip that burgeons with the beginnings of a bruise, and your eyes jump to follow the motion before eagerly returning to his indecent display of desire for you. You’re a hound to its favorite bone.

His irises are autumn-brown and flecked in subtle gold and blackish plum tones; like a wisp of twilight swaying prettily with the falling leaves in a dance as old as time, a little hard to see even with the warm yellow light of the dimmed lights and barest trickles of distant moonshine. They watch you, even when his eyes threaten to tilt sky-high at the squeezing pressure of his hand around his cock.

“Jesus Christ— look at you, angel, look at yourself and tell me that you don’t find yourself at all attractive. You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen." It’s not empty flattery— he means every word. Pregnancy hasn’t diminished your radiance one bit in his eyes.

You heed his words, looking down at yourself. Your fingertips brush the curve of your waistband in an unconscious shift. You’ve changed a lot, but knowing Suguru still covets you with all of himself makes your stomach wildly flutter. “I can’t disagree,” you acquiesce without any arrogance, just assurance. “And you, baby,” you drop your tenor down to a throaty purr, stepping closer but not close enough to stand between his thighs just yet, “are just as stunning, aren’t you?”

He raises a sleek black brow, lips twitching around a hissing groan. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You swipe a thumb over your nipple to rid it of the milk blossoming there, slow and deliberate. Suguru swallows, feeling jealous. That should be in his mouth. “It gives me ideas about what’s coming next. Take those off.”

Suguru has all of humanity under his spell— non-sorcerers, quick to blindly trust this supposedly heaven-sent messiah like a flock to a docile-eyed wolf; sorcerers, who still cannot bring themselves to harm him, their nostalgia-tinted glasses holding the higher-ups-ordained guillotine blade at bay; curse users, banking it all on his vow to shepherd them to the promised lands.

Yet it’s you that has him entirely wrapped around your finger, dancing to whatever rhythm you pull him along to on the red fate strings wound tight around your knuckles.

His eyes are intense, refusing to budge from yours the entire time he lifts his hips away from the couch, the mockery of a thrust emphasizing exactly what type of ideas are swirling around your head, and peels the hem of his soft sweatpants away before you can finish gesturing at them. He slides the fabric down, slow, slow, slow, sucking in a breath when it catches desperately on the outline of his erection that leads to a drool-worthy point. A visual feast that turns your pupils to inky-deep supernovas that swallow the surrounding color.

Then he guides it down his thick thighs and even more sinfully carved calves, shimmying the fabric along the path of his legs with inexplicably graceful technique. The sides of his feet catch at the hems cuffing his ankles, pushing them all the way off and lazily kicking his sweats to the side. Leaving him all yours for the taking.

And taking you do.

By the time your weight hits his lap, legs slung like a thrown blanket over his thighs, the fabric between your chests feels like an intrusion. You’re already grinding down and groaning at the instant pleasure, attuned to the hitch in your husband’s breath at the delicious pressure of your clothed heat gyrating over his cock, while you tug his shirt up and over his head in a maneuver that fluffs up Suguru’s silky hair.

“So handsome,” you breathe, discarding his shirt without a care now that you have your eyes on your blushing prize.

“You make it hard to stay humble,” whorls out from between his lips, and you imagine smoke spiraling high and away to join what’s collected near the roof from the burner. “S’okay to keep going still?” He quizzes despite your pussy answering for you as it drools all over the seam of his straining boxers, making his prettily pink complexion deepen impossibly further.

You nod, half-distracted, but he doesn’t allow it. “Aht, aht, don’t hold back from me,” he sucks his teeth, gently nagging in that specific well-meaning way that liquifies your spine. He grips your hips to contain you. “Let me hear you, beautiful. Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you exactly the way you need it. No conditions. Okay?”

Dropping your head as you speak is what your instincts sing for you to do, but you can’t look away. Not now. Not when Suguru’s staring at you, peeling you apart like he’s stripping an orange of its protective rind in one big wrinkly, curly segment with only his thumbs. You swallow, hands twitching.

“I just need you,” you insist, raw and honest and wholly you. “Wanna feel you against me and cum just like that.”

That’s all he needs. His eyes sweep into bowing, smiling crescents. “Good girl. You always know how to make me proud.”

That nearly kills you right then and there.

Your hands absently smooth some of his hair down then skate over his abdomen, feeling the flinch of frazzled muscle beneath your fingertips. Preening over having your husband at your mercy like this, you take your time savoring him the same way one would a dessert. Petting over his sunkissed August skin, tracing the lines of his fine musculature that he’s spent years honing. Thumbing over his dusky nipples with a smirk just to watch the way he briefly closes his eyes, flustered.

Your touch must be too much for him, for his chin swiftly tips up to catch your lips in an eager embrace.

His tongue slides wet and heavy over your mouth’s seam and further still when you finally part for him. Your own breastmilk greets your tastebuds, more potent than you remember it being.

Sue you, of course you tried it before out of curiosity. You had licked it up from your thumb after wiping Yua’s chin clean, found it tasty, shrugged, and moved on. The milk’s mellow sugar mingles with the lingering fruity, lush crisp of fried papaya that lingers on his breath— he’s speaking all your favorite flavors into your mouth.

Before you knew it, you were disarming him with your need, feeling his chest bob in heavy pants beneath your palms. His hips writhe below you, so hard against your achy core that his dick probably hurts. The kisses grow frantic the more you paw over him, heated at the thought that there’s no kids here to get between your passionate entanglement this time. You felt like a feral fucking dog in heat, even if you knew it’d be best to take it slow.

No longer the neatly composed curtain it was an hour ago, his strands that have fallen back to earth around his shoulders are now a tousled frame threaded through with static. He moans something sinful into your mouth when you take a fistful and jerk his head back to tower over him impossibly further, smothering him in teeth and tongue.

The greedy glide of your mouths past one another is reigned in by Suguru, his kisses turning wetter, slower, so open-mouthed and filthy that your toes curl. The shift is so subtle it feels natural; your husband catching your chin between his fingers, guiding your fevered mouth to move with his pace. His grip anchors you until the frenzied edge melts into a languid grind.

Each kiss is so devastatingly intense in their slow passion that it has you thinking he’s immersing himself in the fantasy of kissing you elsewhere.

(Because he is thinking about it, even if the thought is half-submerged in his crowded head. How divine you’d taste if he pulled your panties aside and licked into your perfect fucking cunt like a starved mutt. How prettily you’d cry out for him. Suguru’s mouth waters, making things impossibly messier with the syrupy overabundance of his saliva twining with yours.)

Retreating from your liplock with a resounding pop doesn’t free your mouth from him, no; a thumb gives chase, unable to resist peeling back your bottom lip. You hinge your jaw open so he can rub his digit over your slippery tongue (wetter than your pussy smearing over his now fully solid erection)— just because he can, because he wants to. Your parted lips are swollen, a mini heartbeat thriving beneath the flesh that’s an inflamed plum from Suguru’s thorough pulls at your mouth.

Once satisfied, his eyes droopy with arousal over how you opened up for him without question, he watches your spit form a swaying glob on his thumb. He gives it a moment before he reshifts to lock onto his gorgeous wife.

Suguru slips his touch down to your backside that he can never resist lavishing in squeezes at any given point in time, regardless of whether or not you’re paying attention to him or innocently bending over to collect laundry from the dryer. He cups the plump swell of your ass in hefty palms to haul you forward and up in something like a bunny hop atop him.

"C’mere," he breathes over your trembling laugh, guiding you into the shelter of his body with hands that shake just as much as your voice. "Wanna feel you better, princess."

Anchoring the majority of your weight in the basin of his lap aids him in his mission to grind you tighter into the hard line of his cock, rocking you against him until your breasts bounce against his sculpted chest. Your leaking nipples streak wetness across his skin. A vibration rumbles through you and into him from the low whimper you scrape up from the bottom of your lungs.

“O-oh, Sugu,” you keen. You’re riding him in messy, desperate circles, panties weighty with all the tacky slick accumulating. The soaked-through fabric slathers tightly to the outline of your folds the longer you bump and sway in your husband’s arms.

His clothed tip drags true every single time, pressing exactly where you need it and making your eyes knock back dumbly in your skull. He’s deliberate, maddening, perfectly placed as he twitches up into you— it’s so fucking good.

“Yeaaah, baby?” Suguru purrs that drugging, honey-smooth sound that always makes your confident air crack a little. It does now, too— your mouth softening into a slackened state, moans spilling free at the friction building between you in delicious increments neither of you can bear to break. “Yeah? I’m here, your Sugu’s here. Tell me how you feel.”

You scavenge for any trace of that well-spoken dignity the clan you hailed from drilled into you, but it’s hard to think past the cotton stuffing your ears. “So good,” you grit out in lieu of anything more sufficient, voice breaking when he finally starts to truly move, his lazy ruts rolling directly over your clit and spiking pleasure hot in your stomach.

“Feels s’good, baby. Really, really good. Please don’t stop,” you continue in one long drawn out whine.

There’s no mistaking the way his eager cock jumps beneath his boxers, already soiled with precum, in response to you. The slide’s deliciously wet, even with all the barriers. Every angelic noise that pushes past your kiss-bruised lips makes him dizzy, every brush of your cunt against his thick hardness sends a jolt of pleasure through him. But it all pales in comparison to the bliss he feels over your independent pride shattering enough to allow you to plead for him.

You have no idea how beautiful you are when you surrender— it’s more powerful than any word you’ve spoken to the cult the two of you rule. He lives for moments like these where you need him, where your muscles melt and your body opens for him, allowing Suguru the pleasure of peeling apart your insides and coaxing you to tremble beneath the weight of his adoration.

Suguru loves deeply, and that love is the foundation of his conviction. He loves you too much to ever let you become another body beneath a sterile white sheet. He loves you too much to ever let any grievance against you go unpunished, always ready to release the might of his thousands of curses to kill anyone that’s dared to make your petals droop beneath winter’s cruelty. He loves you too much to ever let a day go by without making sure you know you’re the most special woman in the entire world, that he’d die for you without hesitation.

You don’t even realize how powerful you are, do you? Every breath you take bends Suguru closer to you, makes him want to be the only lucky sucker to ever kneel for you at your command. His followers paint him a god and you a goddess, but you’re the only divine one out of the pair of you.

In front of you, Suguru felt like he was nothing more than a man in rags prostrating himself at his beloved deity’s altar for a chance to breathe your very air.

"You’re too sweet. You’re gonna be the death of me, y’know that? How am I supposed to keep my head when you sound like that?" Suguru breathes. He nearly chokes on his own words when you pass your slit more firmly over his cockhead, feeling your folds spread open through the fabric. That has him leaking even more needy, sticky precum in a webby mess.

You just whine again, overcome. Especially when he rocks into you with unhurried grace to carve this moment into the marrow of you, craning his head to dote over your skin at the same time. His hands, too, join the mix; they pass along the winding roads of your curves, fuller than they had been before your pregnancy.

He traces kisses across you like he’s pressing flowers flat into the pages of a book for safekeeping, for him to cherish long after. Kisses to your collarbone. Kisses to your neck. Kisses to your pulse point, and finally, kisses for your jaw and cheeks. Each one burns through the heart of you, making you squirm and toss your arms around his shoulders to bind the two of you together as intimately as flesh allows.

His chuffing laughter feathers over your cheek, but what he breathes into you carries no trace of amusement: "You got it it, keep taking it nice and slow, baby. Just like that. I'm yours," he hums silkily, then continues after sucking a hickey just below your jaw, "Do whatever you want with me and use me as you wish. I trust you.”

The words pour from his heart’s hidden chambers, each syllable soaked in sincerity. It's a vulnerable admission, one that costs him a lot to say out loud. But it's true. You know it’s true.

The intensity of it makes you want to do backflips, though— how sweet he is, his specific brand of caretaking that was too heavy to bear and too hot to touch with naked fingers. Suguru’s a natural giver; nothing pleases him more than to tear himself apart at the seams and give you more and more and more.

He’s yours for the taking, and you could use him and destroy him. In response, he’d only give you that devastatingly genuine grin of his that crinkles his brown eyes and pleasantly ask you to continue.

Fuck. How could you not bend to his wishes and do what you want with him?

Your eyes lid heavily but refuse to close, snared by Suguru’s enthralled gaze when he finally pulls his face away from your neck. His tongue drags over his teeth while watching you set a firmer rhythm over him, his hands on your waist both an encouragement and a tether. He refuses to look away, the sight of your enjoyment more vital than his own.

It’s not just the expanse of your skin he’s kissed so many times in the dead of night and the plushness of your thighs trembling where they cage his hips that fells him. It’s how you move with pure and utter confidence, unashamed of the way you chase your own pleasure, the way your voice swells with shameless whimpers that you feel comfortable enough to let loose.

You’re beautifully raw in the way the first bloom of spring breaks through frozen earth is. Utterly defiant, and all the more breath-taking for it.

Suguru matches your seesawing movements perfectly, every thrust measured to your liking, every shift angled to drag clothed friction over your clit until it throbs heatedly in the most delicious of ways. His jaw hinges, lust and love spilling out in babbling praises that bubble over his full red lips— a litany of love, things like “you feel how hard I am? That’s all for you, my perfect girl,” and “you feel so good against me,” like he physically cannot stop himself.

It makes your insides clench so tight you swear you could come from his words alone.

“That’s my girl,” he praises right then, nudging the thick, aching shape of his hardness against you again and again until you’re hiccuping. “Always so responsive, always looking so pretty when you’re feeling good, f-fuck.”

The very air between you thrums with something electric, charged with years of intimacy, years of giving flesh for flesh. The sound that leaves your throat isn’t quite a word, not quite a sigh— just a shiver made audible. Suguru feels it, hears it, and the faintest smile curves his mouth.

Your pace gradually quickens, hips rising and canting forward, rolling like waves stroking the shore. Suguru squeezes your ass, just to feel the way it ripples in luxurious rolls, before he wraps his arms tight around your back.

He presses your bouncing breasts to his mouth again as if he can't decide between feeding and rutting with you like you’re two bunnies on a bender. Suguru breathes in, breathes out, breathes in, controlled, and then you push your chest into him in invitation, and he can’t help himself.

He settles for both— latching onto your left nipple with a groan, mouth pulling sweetly at your breast until you’re crying out from the sensation threading through your chest and down to the molten ache between your thighs. It fuels the fire in Suguru’s gut, driven by the need to see you unravel first, as always. He’s already lost count of how many times you’ve been intimate over the years, but this— this feels just as electric as the first.

"God— fuck, angel— you taste like heaven," he moans, thick snd slurred against your breast, his words melting together from the intoxication of your milk that quickly floods his mouth in a steady stream. "So warm, so— ah— wet for me.”

His hips snap a tad harder, grinding you down until the wet shlick shlick shlicks of the sodden, ruined fabric of your panties dragging across his equally ruined boxers fills the room. His typically vulpine-sharp eyes are tumbled over in hues of adoration and complete want as they watch you swivel atop him in a daze, sweat-laden hair plastered to your temples making you look like a wet dream that decided to take form and ride him to ruin.

Your nails carve into his shoulders, your voice breaking, "Baby, shiiiit, s-so good, m’gonna—“ You can feel it building in your lower belly, the entirety of you quivering like a straining bowstring as you race for the edge. It’s killing you, the peaking pleasure of an orgasm that you haven’t felt in months.

Knowing this, feeling your clothed cunt spasm against him, Suguru purrs into you. “Cum for me, angel," he rasps, voice hoarse, "cum while I drink from you— my perfect wife, my everything."

Your body answers before your mind can catch up— hips jerking, white bliss numbing your veins and thoughts and bursting forth in a cry that splits the air as you shatter in his arms.

Your climax crashes through you, and Suguru is quick to make it better for you as he watches your face unravel— he draws it out, his hand slipping beneath your panties to stroke the swollen slickness of your clit with firm, unhurried circles of his thumb, milking everything you have left. “That’s it, lemme have it,” he whispers huskily. You buck helplessly, dragging in stutters over his thumb and cock, the overload making you drop your head forward and sob into his sweaty mess of black hair.

(He’s never prayed to any god, but here, with you overheated and overcome, your taste on his tongue and your body spasming under his hands, Suguru thinks he understands devotion.)

You’re being buffeted over and over by a long, overwhelming wave that skews your sense of everything, really, except the spots where you connect. Every inch of your senses is only alert for Suguru, the world narrowing to the heat of his bulk beneath your fingertips, the praises he breathes into you with the reverence of a devotee.

You could stay here forever— being petted over, soothed, melting into whatever your husband gives you. For all you know, you’ve been rolled into a meadow of petals and sugar and happiness with the way bliss thrums through you.

Even when the aftershocks have you spasming in his hold, sightless eyes rolling back, he doesn't relent. His tongue strokes lazily to coax more milk from you, swallowing your breast’s sustenance all while rocking you gently in his lap, a steady rhythm that isn't meant to build toward his own release, but to soothe you, to stretch the intimacy out until you're limp and pliant against him.

You go bonelessly when Suguru drags his soaked hand out of your panties— pulling away from your tit to shamelessly lick his fingers clean and unconsciously humping against you at the taste— then hoists you up, turns on the couch, and dips you the same way he did during your first dance at your wedding reception.

He slowly lowers himself over you without breaking your seal of closeness until you’re stomach to stomach, knees sinking into the couch cushions between your trembly legs. You breathe out a soft groan at the feeling of him pressing his bare pecs against your heavy breasts.

Still cooing mindless love to you, he curls over you protectively and peppers your heated cheeks with kisses from his milk and spit slicked lips.

Suguru surrounds you entirely— his embrace, his scent; jasmine and sandalwood mixing with the newest addition of baby powder, the pulse of his shaky exhales— and it's the most comforting thing you’ve ever experienced. You want to sink your teeth into all of it, chew it, savor it, and let it linger on your senses until the world narrows to just this rich, intoxicating tableau.

He’s devastatingly handsome above you; a painting in chiaroscuro, light and shadow conspiring in his favor. The tickling wave of his midnight-black hair surrounds you like the halo from a disgraced angel fallen from god’s doorstep, a few strands sticking wetly to his temples and cheeks from the sweat caked there. The sharp tactician and charismatic cult leader was nowhere to be seen— only a husband whose entire universe is you.

“Suguru,” you mumble, your syrupy tongue fighting to work against the leaden feeling of your body entirely giving in. You feel electrified, oversensitive— every brush of your skin against his sends little sparks of pleasure crackling through your nerves.

You feel his lips curl into a smile against your cheek, where he insistently imprints more kisses into your body. “I’ve got you, baby. Your Suguru’s right here,” he croons around a warped, breathless laugh that’s rich with adoration, pulling back a fraction to nuzzle his nose against your own. This close up, his brown eyes are molten laketops over his soul.

You paw for a new grip around his shoulders with slackened fingers, clutching him impossibly closer, as if he could slip from your arms in the mere instance of a single blink, a blip of time, and the world would end if he did. The hard, aching weight of him throbs against your hot wet mess of a cunt when you shuffle your hips beneath him.

Instantly, he tries to rise away from you. “You’re spent, huh? Lemme, ah, get you to bed and then I’ll take care of mys— mmph.”

You yank him down to press your lips over his. It wasn’t a plain, chaste kiss, but deep, hungry, the kind of kiss people give when they’re promising their body, their future, their heart. Suguru braces himself above you on his elbows, melting into you without crushing you, returning your liplock with slow pulls of his mouth. You can taste yourself on his tongue.

Your nails scrape down his rippling back again, not so much in pain as in an act of soothing because he can never resist a good back scratch. The noise he makes comes out strangled. You part with a syrupy line of saliva branching your bottom lips together, your hooded eyes taking in the redness of his mouth from the demand of your needy kisses. The saliva breaks away when you lick over it.

“No,” you rasp, “you cum against me and me only, baby.”

Suguru visibly bluescreens above you. His glassy brown eyes go a little wide, blinking slower than dripping molasses. The flush that starts to bloom is swift in its pink crawl across his cheeks, taking over his face entirely. It makes him look so boyish, so untainted by the world.

Honestly? He nearly came from that.

“Oh,” he croaks, all that fox-sharp intelligence melting into the flustered mist that settles over him. He bows his head, pressing his forehead to your collarbone and laughing weakly there.

“Still breathing?” You tease in an equally wrecked voice, scraping your fingers back up between his shoulder blades in order to drag them through his hair. It’s a bird’s nest— even through the scorching haze of pleasure that wraps you up, you think to yourself that Suguru’s gonna go wild rewashing and brushing his hair later.

“I should be asking you that,” he mutters with some petulance. He lets out a great big sigh, “you tell me to stop, and I stop. Understand?”

“Mhm,” you hum absently, tugging a tad too hard at his strands to hear the way Suguru fails to swallow around a throaty moan. Naturally, he gives an imperceptible, unconscious wiggle of his hips— masochist. “Want you again, c’mon. Don’t make me wait.”

He’s fondly shaking his head and breaking your grip from his hair as he rises enough to reestablish eye contact. “We go slow. Don’t wanna overwhelm my girl,” Suguru murmurs huskily, then he’s leaning back on his strong haunches and biting his lip, “I’d much rather take my time with you and focus on making you feel good. Your pleasure matters more than mine.”

Before you can protest, he’s rolling his thumb over your clothed slit and punching a gasp out of your strained lungs. “Do you hear how wet you are for me, huh?” He drawls, brown eyes never leaving you. You spy the dark patch that blooms through your panties when you sit up a little to watch him. It’s obscene in its clarity, heat clinging damply where fabric meets skin. The wetness swells outward, a warm pulse against the thin barrier.

Without warning, he hooks two fingers into the sopping cotton of the gusset blanketing you, tugging it aside to reveal the glistening mess between your thighs. The air of your shared home slaps your skin, making you hiss. Suguru’s breath hitches at the sight— your puffy, slick-smeared lips, the swollen bud of your clit throbbing for attention, the way your tight little syrupy hole clenches around nothing, begging for fullness.

Your hands tighten marginally around thin air, your foggy brain struggling to form coherent thoughts beyond how badly you want him to be inside you. But he won’t, because you know he’d rather die than compromise you and your body’s healing by fucking you this soon after childbirth.

"You’re practically dripping for me, angel,” he breathes, nearly salivating over you. “All for me. I’m so lucky…” His need would normally make you snicker a little, but it heats your cunt to the point of scorching. You watch his control fray a little more when you open up beneath him— thighs parting, your body controlled in its sensual grace.

He’s seen you naked too many times to count, but your vulnerable beauty still weakens his knees and makes his erection curve up just a little bit more. He looks forward, to where the waistband of your high-waisted panties ride up your pudgy hips, to the thinning streaks of your stretch marks, to those thick thighs of yours that could probably crush his skull if you wanted to—

“Gorgeous. Keep your eyes on me, yeah?” Suguru whispers, sliding your panties back to cover your mound. He slots himself between your legs, which lazily wind around his waist, and settles over you once more as you avidly watch him with fucked-out eyes.

He wants to tug you closer into him by your hips, reconnecting your bodies, so he does. He wants to watch you arch up into him at the same as he grinds lazily into you so that he can feel the involuntary shivers that ripple through your form, so he does. He wants to brand the taste and feel of you into his marrow, so he licks over your nipple again, sucks it down with vigor and rolls the tender bud between his teeth, careful not to hurt but just enough to make you jolt and gasp, and ruts into you until you’re whinily moaning his name all over again.

You’re a deity capable of stringing fate itself along to your whims and creating life— and that’s exactly why the very act of you biting out those delicious noises for him feels like a religious experience.

“You have no idea how easy it is to lose myself when it’s you I’m touching. You drive me c-crazy, every inch of you’s got me obsessed,” Suguru practically whimpers into you, mouthing eagerly at you to make more of your milk let down. Your thighs tighten at his hips before you drop them, too frazzled to keep a proper grip. Your legs weakly thrash past his sides in little kicks when he deepens his suction, hands exploring the entrancing map of your body all the while.

You pant heavily when he grasps the back of your knee and tugs it up to drape your leg over the crook of his elbow, granting him better access to drag his bulge wet and heavy over your heat. The pressure of Suguru’s cock pressing into you at this new angle makes his spine zing, and he rolls his too-hard shaft into you with deep, deliberate strokes that make the couch groan, focusing on pushing his covered cockhead over your hooded clit.

There’s so much of his own precum and your slick drenching his boxers that the fabric stretches almost translucent over him, his weeping crown visibly a little purple from need. He hums appreciatively into your flesh, tweaking your other nipple between his thumb and forefinger in tandem with his ministrations, massaging the engorged tissue with practiced care.

Pain lingers in the tug due to the lingering ache of the clogs Suguru got out, but it’s softened by something deeper— an overwhelming warmth, a pulse of connection that makes tiny tears rise unbidden to your eyes.

“More,” you demand, and ever-loyal Suguru obliges without question. His hips begin moving faster, the wet squelch of your cloth-covered joining obscenely loud. Every snap of his pelvis drags a string of babbles from you, “oh, ahhn, god, Sugu, right there, yesyesyes—“ and Suguru practically rumbles his approval.

When you drag your cunt up and along his prominently jutting need with a desperate gasp that spills from between your lips, Suguru switches his mouth to seal your other breast with overeager suction. He groans around your tit like he’s being ruined by it as you cry out in equal fervor, his tongue swirling in a sinful circle as he bathes in the comfort of your taste.

The taste of your milk blooms salty-sweet on his tongue, thick and rich. The warmth of it crashes over him. The underside of his jaw flexes in time with every greedy thrust between your thighs, his free fingers flexing against your hipbone as if he can’t decide between encouraging you to keep grinding up into him or pinning you down and smothering you in pleasure so that you don’t have to lift a finger.

His body thrums with selfless instinct, every muscle coiled to serve you, to let you know in every way that matters that you’re the one for him, that he’d do just about anything to have you fall apart just for him. "Not even inside you and I feel like ‘m losing it," he murmurs against your skin, voice ragged but awash in awe, like a priest whispering prayer.

"My wife— you probably wouldn’t even be able to handle it if I pushed in, huh? You’d squeeze so tight around me, desperate to keep me inside and refusing to let my cock go until I’m cumming in you. Again and again and again,” he hisses needily, and you arch away from the couch and into him as if he just cracked you open at your chest.

That same chest desperately flutters with panting breaths, and that same chest pours a few more mouthfuls into his awaiting throat before dribbling off into nothingness. Suguru pops away from your breast with wild brown eyes, but he still kisses over your areola, licks it, thrumming when he realizes he’s finally drained you empty.

“Look at thaaat, h-huh? Tastes s’good that I couldn’t stop. You gonna make more milk for me, more for Yua?” He babbles, and you nod so fast it hurts your head, because you’d do just about anything to have him this close to you to the point that he’s almost beneath your skin, drunk from feeding on you and still greedily asking for more.

One of his hands lifts shakily to tangle in your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back so he can admire the hazy pleasure painted across your dazed expression. You can barely meet his gaze, eyes glossed over and rolling back in your head with each rise and fall of your hips. So fucked out, so warmly worshipped over, that you can’t tell up from down.

"You look— mmnh— so fucking beautiful like this, sweetheart," he groans, his melliflous voice thick with need as he stares down at you, where you writhe and sing beneath the weight of his devotion. Milk weeps, like severed flesh spilling blood, from the curve of his bottom lip, splattering on your chest, your collarbones. “Pretty girl,” he hitches, like he just has to say it.

Your hand darts through the tendrils of his hair when he leans all the way over you just to shove his face into the top of your head. Your own hair smells like his and yours shampoo— partially because it smells good and feels good so you share it, but also partially because Suguru has the particular habit of rubbing himself all over you like a cat trying to scent you until your pores are drowning with his smell. He inhales it greedily, teeth clenching down so hard his jaw smarts before he pops his mouth right back open and practically drools into your hair while his gut leaps with viscous, spongy warmth. It makes him sweat.

Suguru’s like a feral dog in heat every time he gets his hands on you— especially now, given his current milk-drunken state.

He sneaks his hands back between your sweaty, grinding bodies, the two of you dry humping so intensely you both swear Suguru could knock you up again with another baby even through the two layers of fabric.

Your mouth drops open around a silent sob when he palms and pinches the swell of your ripened chest like it was the most delicate thing on earth. At the same time, he smears his hardness all over your throbbing pussy in pointed swivels, every touch driving a deep, needy ache between your legs.

You’ve been split open by your husband’s cock time and time again. You’ve stroked it until he’s spilled ropes upon ropes of seed over your fine hand, and even deepthroated the entirety of his length countless times— but feeling it like this might actually drive you insane with how pleasurable the desperate depravity of bumping like two teenagers is.

The next tidal wave of ecstasy threatens to knock you right off of this earth, making you senselessly buck for more friction against Suguru’s driving cock even though it’s so much that you almost want to squirm away from it, overwhelmed. “Easy, princess,” Suguru’s moan comes out weak with strain. His bent arm drags your leg further open, keeping you from doing just that as his mouth descends on yours again, “I got you. You gonna cum again for me? For your husband?”

Your teeth clack together when you nod and messily slide your tongue along his, struggling to match his pace. “Too good, f-fuck,” you slur into him, lashes fluttering as your eyes droop closed. Your hand cups his jaw, thumb stroking over the damp line of it, and he kisses you deeper in return, lips sticky with milk.

The praise he whispers into your joined mouths, the worship, the tightening of his abs that ripple against your pressed-together stomachs makes your chest ache with love even as you tremble on the knife's edge of arousal. “Can feel how close you are. ‘s okay, just breathe, I’m right here, you’re safe, angel. Let go for me,” Suguru practically babbles, and you feel his eyebrows scrunch when he drops your foreheads together, the cartilage of his nose squishing against the side of yours with how tightly the two of you are intertwined.

It pours over you in a decadent spill of warmth, of connection, of safety and intimacy and pure unadulterated love, and it makes you wail from the intensity of it all, his presence neverending and so fulfilling. The rhythm of his lips over yours and the mash of his cock against your spasming mound blurs into one overwhelming central point behind your eyelids that whitens your vision.

Your stomach twists fierce, thighs clamping down like magnets around his hips as you gush slick completely through your panties, squirting across Suguru’s lower half, gasping into the syrupy cavern of his mouth because holy fuck. “There you go, good girl. Good fucking girl, princess,” he rasps, sounding proud of you for letting go rather than preening over his efforts to get you there.

You're keening, clawing at his shoulders, undone all over again as he takes you apart with gentle hands. It’s as if a storm of pure relief and satisfaction has settled into your body, lightning striking your joints, thunder pounding in your skull, every nerve screaming like the sky itself is breaking. Seconds later, your husband finally succumbs, jerking into you with a strangled whine.

His hips hitch sporadically, pressing your bodies flush to the point of overheating as he spills over you— hot, thick, and unrelenting, his seed so abundant that the creamy substance spurts through his boxers and drools all over your cunt. Suguru’s cock pulses and twitches with each wave of his intense, handless orgasm, soaking through until you’re both utterly drenched between the thighs where you press against each other.

His voice is hazy and stretched thin when he speaks again, his lips falling away from yours so that he can breathe. "O-oh... fuck, you feel— god, you feel amazing. So perfect for me, baby, love you s’much…”

You whisper it back, struggling to blink through the tidal wave of sensation fogging your vision, along with the sweat dripping down your brows and into your eyes. The ceiling above Suguru’s swirls in alabaster white shapes, senseless to you when you’re this far gone, floating along in a haze.

"Haaahh... fuckkk..." Suguru pants harshly, sucking in air as he comes down from his high. He feels boneless, utterly wrecked, his cock softening but still nestled snugly against the warm, sticky cotton of your ruined panties. He thinks he could die happy like this.

Your climax wrung you out, but Suguru doesn't let you float too far. His hand strokes up and down your leg that he finally lets fall off of his arm, the rhythm of his fingers absentminded, and every once in a while he presses a kiss to your temple or cheek jaw, murmuring nonsense about how good your skin feels, how warm you are, how he loves your smell— the small, soft things that make up your language of comfort.

The world outside is long gone. You smell only your husband— faintly jasminey still and salt-streaked from the effort he put in just now. You soak in the precise steadiness of his hands, the warmth of his breath across you, the soft rasp of his voice as he keeps whispering whatever comes to mind. And that’s all you need.

He lets out a muffled, content hum against your sweaty skin as he finally lets his shoulders slump. And oh, how he blissfully purrs when you weakly card through his hair as he clings to you without suffocating you with his weight. He could stay here forever, cradled against your chest, putty in your hands— safe and adored in your warmth and giving the same back to you tenfold.

But the stickiness drying between you is growing uncomfortable (a waste that he didn’t spill inside you, he thinks dizzily as he observes the mess of cum and slick), and he has a darling wife that he needs to get into bed before he checks on Yua. Suguru pushes up, blinking blearily at the baby monitor that toppled off of the side table and onto the carpet next to the couch. Still no movement— miraculous, considering how loud you’ve both been. Yua was sleeping like the dead.

Suguru swivels his gaze back to you, his heart positively melting when you greet his faint smile with one of your own, your face slackened with pleasure. “Still with me, beautiful?” he asks, voice low and gravelly but thick with soupy bliss, brushing a chaste kiss to your lips. “Need anything? Water? A snack?”

Even now, spent and stomach sated by the warm heaviness of your milk, Suguru’s attention is entirely on you— making sure you’re comfortable, cared for. Aftercare is just as important as the act itself, in his eyes.

As far as he’s concerned, your only task now is to stand still beneath the flood of his devotion, to meet his gaze until your guard falls without hesitation and you forget the world, and to let yourself be undone over and over when he loves on you. Suguru won’t let you lift a finger now that you’re boneless like a sleepy puppy beneath him. His princess deserves to be spoiled, always.

You drop a hand to your rising and falling stomach, eyes slipping to half-mast. “Mhm… water and baby carrots,” you announce dreamily.

Suguru snorts. Your pregnancy cravings still stick with you, even long after Yua’s been born. “That can be arranged after I carry you to the bathroom and we take a quick bath together… unless you’d rather I feed you in the tub?”

“Please,” you moan before he can even finish his question.

A fond laugh whispers its way out of his nostrils. Suguru brushes some of your hair away from your face and cups your clammy cheek, pleased when your eyes follow him with avid affection. “Sure thing. And your tits?” He paws through his own afterglow to find it within himself to ask. He glances down at your nipples, now chafed and marked with love bites from his attentions. The uncomfortable tightness from earlier is thankfully gone, though, and you look more at peace.

“It’s better than earlier, but the pain’s still there,” you admit, thick-tongued and honestly too tired to play into his caretaking right now. You just want to chew on baby carrots while he scrubs you down in the tub, maybe doze off in there. You know you’d wake up later tucked in bed with Suguru curled around you, his warm chest beneath your ear. “It’s like a bruise that won’t leave.”

Suguru hums thoughtfully, gathering you up and pushing off of the couch with your limbs lazily thrown around him like a baby koala reluctant to part from its mother. He boosts you up, hands cradling the backs of your thighs, and takes a wobbly step.

“Hmm… alright. Well, now that I know about the clogs that were there, we can deal with it properly the way we should’ve when you initially noticed them days ago. Instead of giving Yua a bottle tomorrow morning, how about you breastfeed her to see if there’s anything else to drain? Or I can just do it again in her stead. Then we’ll rotate you through hot compresses throughout the day an—“

“How do you have the energy for all of this?” You whine against his shoulder, appalled yet touched by how he’s managing to conjure up such a thorough plan after the orgasm of a lifetime.

Suguru just chuckles the entire way he carries you down the hallway. “You’re my wife,” he says as if that answer alone is enough.

a/n: this is geto

if there’s anything specific that u liked about this fic plssss feel free to lmk, i eat upppp feedback 😋 writing the smut in particular had me giggling like a FOOOOLLLL so i hope u guys enjoyed that along with the rest of the fic 🫦

you freeze. every muscle in your body locks up. suguru stills behind you, but he doesn't pull out. instead, he lets out a slow, controlled breath, almost like he's been expecting this.

"satoru," he says, and there's no guilt in his voice. no shame. just a lazy amusement that makes your blood run cold.

you turn your head, heart hammering, and there he is. satoru gojo, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, head tilted. his sunglasses are pushed up into his hair, revealing those impossibly blue eyes. he's smiling. that's the worst part. he's smiling, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"oh, please. don't stop on my account," he says, waving a hand dismissively. "i was just coming to grab a snack, but i can see you're already... occupied."

"satoru—" your voice cracks. tears prick at your eyes. "i-i'm sorry—i didn't mean—"

"didn't mean to?" he repeats, raising an eyebrow. "didn't mean to what, exactly? fall onto suguru's dick? because from where i'm standing, it looks pretty intentional."

suguru chuckles, low and dark, and you feel the sound vibrate through his chest, still pressed against your back. "language, satoru. you're scaring her."

"oh, i'm scaring her? that's rich, coming from the guy currently balls-deep in my girlfriend."

you flinch at the word. girlfriend. the reality of what you've done crashes over you like a wave, cold and suffocating. you try to pull away, but suguru's hand on your hip tightens, holding you in place.

"let me go," you whisper, voice shaking.

"not yet," suguru murmurs, lips brushing your ear. "we're not done."

you look at satoru, expecting rage. expecting hurt. expecting him to storm out, to curse you out, to break things. but instead, he's watching you both with an expression you can't quite read. his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. his breathing has changed—shallow, quick.

"toru—"

"no, no, keep going." he takes a step closer, then another, until he's standing right beside you. he reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. "i want to watch."

your breath catches. "what?"

"you heard me." his gaze flicks to suguru over your shoulder, and something passes between them—a silent conversation, years of friendship distilled into a single look. "you've been wanting this for a while, haven't you, suguru?"

suguru's smile widens. "can you blame me?"

"no." satoru's hand trails down your cheek, your neck, coming to rest on your collarbone. "she is pretty when she's being fucked, isn't she?"

you're trembling, caught between them, unsure if this is real or some kind of cruel dream. "i don't understand—"

"you don't have to understand," satoru says, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead, soft and tender. "just let us take care of you."

suguru begins to move again, slow at first, testing. satoru's eyes never leave yours, watching every flicker of expression, every bitten-back moan. his hand slides down, wrapping around your throat, not squeezing, just resting there. a reminder of his presence.

"look at you," satoru breathes, wonder in his voice. "taking us both so well. such a dirty girl, aren't you?"

"i'm sorry," you gasp, tears spilling over. "i'm so sorry—"

"stop apologizing." his thumb brushes away a tear. "i'm not mad. i could never be mad at you." he glances at suguru, a smirk tugging at his lips. "him, maybe. but not you."

suguru huffs a laugh, increasing his pace. "flattering."

"shut up and fuck her properly."

and suguru does. he drives into you with renewed vigor, each stroke hitting deeper, harder, while satoru holds your gaze, his hand warm and steady on your throat. the dual sensation—suguru's relentless rhythm, satoru's possessive touch—sends you spiraling, your orgasm building fast and fierce.

"that's it," satoru murmurs, watching your face contort. "let go. we've got you."

you shatter with a cry, your body convulsing around suguru, who follows moments later with a guttural groan, spilling deep inside you. he stays there, breath ragged, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

for a long moment, no one moves. then suguru pulls out, and you slump forward, barely catching yourself on the counter. satoru catches you, pulling you into his arms, cradling you against his chest.

tags - : @sadisticslut666 @dihtaifung @whorishminds @besidesjustmyamour @throatgoatgeto @go-go-gadget-autism @thecrazyfangirlthings@grignardsreagent @strawberryshortcakkitty @naammiii @liasacountgothacked @annicishana @my-starlights@error-racoon-404 @afreakforyautja @cupidstrace @iam-souless @sindulgent666 @chewiebee @tojisballhair@ex1acy @palanggaaa @yourlocalcatscammer @ehcilhc @gravecyte @restingoasis @satorupi @laburantesdoll@sxpernova @thethyri @lostgeto @lilytrn @sweethearticism @mikaari0 @chososballhair @nanamissilkytie @iwasabs @tojis-juicymantitys @laitifly @farylfordaryl @bl1ndv3lvet @booboobear-12 @6arcxm @sleeplessdancer @chloeee20 @deartoru @neptunezxx @ash273819 @sketchbonked @vanillakirstein @valberryboos @itimisu @livviaaaaa @kebablover @babyluvlol @audreytoru 

With everything else he had going for him, the fact that he sounded like that was just unfair.

You believe the man’s name is Suguru…you aren’t completely sure because you were too busy gawking to pay attention to anything he was saying when he introduced himself. 

Admittedly, when the woman at the front desk asked if you would be okay with a male masseuse, you were not expecting this. Him.

He was—god. He was hot.

Tall. Long black hair pulled into a bun at the base of his skull. Sharp jawed with even sharper eyes; seemingly purple when the sun hit them just right. His peculiar eyes matched the colour of his uniform, and although it was loose-fitting, you could still make out the shape of lean muscle underneath.

A murmur of your name brings you back to the present, and remembering he asked you a question, you nod.

“Yes, I’m comfortable.”

“Good,” He hums, and you swear you feel it between your legs.

God, maybe you were ovulating or something.

The towel is pulled down to the small of your back, and you shift as cool air feathers over your skin.

“Are there any areas you want me to avoid?”

You merely shake your head, not trusting what would come out of your mouth if you tried to answer him.

“Anything you want me to focus on?” 

Your thoughts immediately veer into whorish territory that has you shaking your head as if to physically expel them. 

Suguru moves around the room and a match strikes as he presumably lights another candle.

It takes a while to find your voice again, “My back and shoulders, if you don’t mind.”

A chuckle filters through the room. Deep and amused and sexy as all get out, “Of course not. It’s my job after all.”

You flush at the reminder and hear him move closer. The tips of his shoes come into view as he stops beside the bed.

“Let me know when you want to stop.”

That’s the only warning you get before his hands are on you. Work-worn and skilful, he lathers fragrant oil over your skin and works it deep into your pores. 

For a few minutes, his hands are tentative. Slow and studious as he notes your reactions to each touch and stows them away for later use.

He listens to the sigh that leaves your lips when he massages your shoulders. The groan when he works down the length of your back and the stifled giggle when he traces his fingertips along your ribs. Then once he has enough marked down, he grows more sure of himself. He maps out every curve and contour of your skin with kneads and rubs that have your eyes threatening to roll back. Knowing exactly when to ease up, when to be firmer and apply pressure and where to press and hold until you grunt in relief.

Whatever tension that tightened your body loosens under his touch. And you’re sure you’d leave as nothing more than a satisfied puddle by the time he was done.

The massage is steadily lulling you to sleep. But just when your eyes start to flutter shut, he moves to massage your legs. You blink when he pulls them apart, fingers pressing past soft flesh to smooth out all the knots underneath. Suguru skates up the soles of your feet, past your calves and the backs of your knees, then higher, higher until he gets to your thighs.

Your body stiffens again, and he must feel it because he stills for a moment. “Is everything okay?”

You try to give him an affirmative hum, but you’re shaking, and a particularly hard quake wracks through you when his hands move to your inner thighs.

He pauses when you don’t answer, and you have to clear your throat to get rid of the lump that attempts to form.

“I’m fine,” you say. While your voice comes out a little thin, you think you sounded convincing enough. 

You really hope you did.

“Good,” he answers and you allow a small sigh to leave you, “I’m going to move to your glutes now.”

Wait what? 

The sheet is pulled up over your ass, and you have no time to react or dwell on the cold because his warm palms immediately land on your skin. Both chasing and leaving more goosebumps in their wake. 

Something sparks low in your belly with each squeeze that’s delivered to the plush flesh. A small ember at first, then the longer he goes on, the more the ache builds. Slowly, it seeps between your legs in a fiery hot rush that has your panties clinging to you.

You feel Suguru's fingers catch along the lace, and your breath hitches.

“Is this pressure okay?”

Your nod is all he needs to work with newfound vigour. Moving between massaging your thighs, your ass and your hips until you can't even stop yourself from squirming anymore.

Heat blooms across your cheeks when he pauses, and you want the ground to swallow you whole because you know he sees it.

The desperation. The want. Possibly even the slick dampness of your ruined panties.

Embarrassment has you whispering an apology even as nerves bubble deep in your stomach, each pop so loud, you're sure he can hear it. But when you try to press your legs together, he stops you.

“Physiological responses are natural, you don’t need to apologise,” he says so gently, it makes you feel even worse. 

Whatever he was getting paid definitely wasn't enough to be dealing with clients like you.

Your chest expands with a deep breath as you try to make yourself calm down through sheer force of will.  You’re slowly coming back into yourself when his murmured question sets you off balance again.

“Would you like me to keep going?”

Something about the way he asks that is odd.

It lacks the professional lilt that all his earlier questions had as he assessed your discomfort. 

This time, it was low. Sensual. And hedged between a purr that would’ve made your thighs squeeze if he wasn't still holding them apart.

You take a moment to gather yourself, then you lift your head towards him, just barely. And yes, the moment you see the look on his face, you know for sure he isn't just talking about the massage.

Suguru’s eyes are dark as they drag over your face. Slow, patiently appraising and hungry as he takes in the flush of your cheeks and the pout of your plump lips. His pupils are blown so wide that only a small circle of violet remains.  

His head tilts in silent question, and you swallow as more heat spurs. Your chin dips in a small nod, and he shakes his head.  

“I need to hear you say it,” He demands in that sexy, soft-spoken rumble. “Out loud.”

You force out a breath and with it, throw your pride aside like it was weighing on you.

“Keep going,” you say. He merely arches a dark brow at you– as if waiting for more. It takes you a hot minute to figure out what it is, but once you do, you whisper the word bulldozes the last flimsy pillar of professionalism branched between the two of you: “Please?”

A beat of silence.

Then he smiles. Monolid eyes shape into small crescents that are a little too sharp at the edges.  Tipping with something dark. Like he's held back long enough, and your go-ahead is all he needed for the mask to crack.

It makes the hairs on your arms stand.

What the fuck did you just get yourself into?  

​

​

You still weren't sure, but you were in too deep to stop now.

You're sat on the edge of the bed, towel and panties long discarded, and your legs spread wide. 

The man between them holds you open, eyes crudely assessing as he stares down the apex of your thighs.

“What do you need?” he asks as his fingers stroke over trembling flesh. You don't answer right away, and eyes flicker up to yours. “I’m here for your pleasure, sweetheart. Tell me what you need.”

The words make your heart kicks little harder, and you feel yourself get wetter. Thighs slick with arousal and dripping down to the sheets below. He watches it all happen of course, but doesn’t rush you to answer.

“Your fingers.” You voiced quietly, and he hums low in the back of his throat. Gripping your skin a little harder.

“Want them inside this pretty pussy?” If he took too long, you were sure you’d cum from his voice alone. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t make you wait. Middle and ring fingers brush over your clit. Featherlight, but enough to make it twitch in need anyway. 

Your hips buck and before you can do something crazy like beg him, he promptly slides both digits into your cunt. The sound that comes out of your mouth makes you slap a hand over it, and he chuckles like he finds the reaction cute.

“You don't have to worry about staying quiet. The walls here are so thick they're practically soundproof.” You don't move fast enough, so he drives his fingers deeper into you as if trying to force the sounds out. You whine against your palm, and he brings his thumb down to work on your clit, “Let me hear you.”

Your hand falls. 

A moan cracks into the air, mingling with the sharp hiss that escapes him.

“Ah, there you go,” he kneels, and you think a part of you dies.

His head sinks between your thighs, tongue peeking out to drag a lavish lick up your slit that makes you shudder. Suguru groans against your pussy. Feral, desperate and deep enough that it vibrates through you in dizzying shockwaves. Then his mouth is everywhere, eating you out like it had no purpose before this. And free hand cupping your ass to bring you in impossibly closer.

His lithe fingers swirl despite your walls clenching tight around them. Moving as if they were looking for something.

You realise too late what it is. 

Only he curls them just right, and they find purchase against a spot that has your hand gripping his hair, trying to push him off.

You know what you felt like when you were about to cum, and this wasn’t that. This was too sleek, too intense to be a normal orgasm, but even when you try to warn the man, he doesn't let up.

“Can feel it,” He rasps after releasing your clit with a wet pop, “Give it to me.”

“I—fuck, wait,” Your trembling thighs close around his head as your orgasm hits you hard and fast, and you see him lift his mouth long enough to watch the burst of clear liquid that gushes from you. 

Your lips gape at the sight but he merely goes back and licks up every drop, mouth relentless– almost punishing–while incoherent sobs that vaguely sound like his name leave your mouth.

Your eyes are teary by the time he pulls back with his chin and lips glistening.

“That’s one,” he whispers, and you freeze, because why did he say that like there were a lot more to come? 

While trepidation makes your skin prickle, your pussy, ever the traitorous whore, twitches needily. Already rearing to go again. 

Suguru cups the back of your neck and pulls you into a kiss, messy enough to make blood rush up your neck. He rolls his tongue around yours, flicking it as he did with your clit, making you taste yourself on him.

You hear the rasp of fabric as he moves between your legs, sliding his pants off but when you try to glance down, his hold on your neck tightens.

“Don't,” a few strands of his hair came loose and they brush over his forehead when he shakes his head, “You’ll panic if you look.”

The implication behind that statement, makes you pause. He thought you’d panic if you looked at his cock?

Just how big was he? 

“Don’t worry, I’ll go slow.” he waits until you nod before he covers your body with his, lining the flared tip of his length against your entrance and slowly pushing in. 

You have less than an inch seated inside when the girth makes you claw at his shirt.

“Oh,” you huff. Surprise colouring your tone. “I see why you told me not to look.”

His hips pause with your pained hiss. “Too much?”

“Yes,” your legs wrap around his waist. “Don't stop.”

He groans like you wounded him and sinks deeper, cock stretching you wide enough to make you stop breathing altogether.

“Breathe, baby,” he whispers, but you can’t. Every time you try it's like trying to inhale underwater. It’s too heavy and so suffocating all that comes out is a choked moan. 

Suguru’s fingers apply pressure to the sides of your throat, gently massaging. 

“Breathe,” he says again, broad chest rising then falling, silently encouraging you to match the pattern. His eyes go dark when you comply, sweet sighs fanning over his mouth, copying his. “Good girl.”

He rears back to take his shirt off and you’re graced with tanned skin and sculpted muscle that distracts you long enough to let him deeper. 

Your nails rake down his back once he’s on you again. Cuttingly sharp whereas his touches are soft as he smooths his hands over your skin, coaxing out all the tension that has you wound up. 

Each caress is torturous and deliberate. Shaping over your hips and squeezing your breasts until a mewl echoes. 

“Feels so good,” he breathes, then kisses you again.

It's devastatingly disarming, and he knows it, because when your body relaxes under him, he wastes no time in driving forward and burying himself to the hilt. Your back arches, and he catches the curve of it with his hand, pulling you against him.

“I know,  baby,” his jaw is clenched tight. Hips rutting so his pelvic bone rolls onto your clit. You wind your legs around him tighter and the massage table whines under your combined weight. “Fuck, stretching so tight around me.”

You know you're being loud when he starts moving. At first, you didn't trust him when he said the walls were thick but right now you don't seem to care.

“So full,” you mumble against his mouth, and he grunts, delivering a brutal thrust that jostles you both.

“Yeah? Where do you feel it, hm?” his palm reaches for your stomach, flattening over the small bulge his cock leaves every time he pumps into you. “Right here?”

All you manage are frantic nods, and he slides his hand down to grind the heel into your clit. Your body tries to buck, but he's so close you can't do more than shiver. 

You're wringing his cock dry. Swallowing every inch and squeezing until his balls draw up. They slap against your ass, messy and loud with your slick, only to get drowned out by your panicked gasp.

“I’m close,” you warn, and he nods in response, pace turning desperate as he chases his own high.

The once comforting blend of scents filtering through the air makes your head swirl.

“Cum with me,” he demands, and there's not a lot you can do to hold off any longer. Pleasure hooks into your spine, and Suguru holds you against his body. The tremors shaking you pass into him and back again.

His grip on your hip is bruising as he spills rope after rope of his cum as deep as he can go, shuddering with his release and letting out breathless moans and gasps that almost send you off the edge again.

Cum spills down your thighs when he pulls out, and he's pushing you back down when you try to get up.

“I’ve got you. Relax,” he says, and hell, he doesn't have to tell you twice.

Your body feels heavy against the bed when he walks away. Water trickles then he’s back again. You can’t lift your head to make sure but you feel the heat of him. And the heat of the cloth that's dragged between your legs as he cleans you with practised ease. When you flinch, still tender and sensitive he only coos and kisses your knee.

Suguru lifts you and readjusts your position on the massage bed, making sure you’re comfortable before draping the towel over your torso again.

“I don't have an appointment for another hour,” he informs you and your lashes flutter, eyes bleary and drawing low with sleep. “You should some rest. I’ll wake you up in a couple minutes.”

You manage a small nod while he shuffles through the room.

It takes a little longer for him to return, but when he does his uniform is back on. Unwrinkled and neat. Hair without as much as a strand out of place.

He touches you again, massaging your shoulders in slow circles that have you drifting closer to dreamland and continues the treatment as if nothing had happened, lazily working his hands over your limp body.

“Finally relaxed.” He hums his approval when you soften under his touch, tracing his fingers over your sternum.

Yeah, definitely coming back next month. You think.

Though next week was probably closer to the truth. 

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Rearing back, you swear the corner of his mouth twitches in amusement at your appalled reaction. “I beg your pardon? Doctor, I can't do that. It's inappropriate.”

“Not here, Miss,” he clarifies and your face warms from jumping to conclusions. “Just from how you're reacting, I can deduce that you haven't indulged in self pleasure before. You don't know what you enjoy and have no autonomy over your body. Hence, you need to experiment and try out new things to figure out what pleases you and what does not.” 

Nodding slowly, your hands twist the hem of your skirt as you absorb his words. The idea of masturbation feels shameful. You're not particularly religious but after growing up in a household where it was seen as a sin to be lustful, you still harbor such thoughts in your subconscious. 

Lifting your shy gaze, you're stripped bare by his amethyst eyes scanning over your face, mentally jotting down every microexpression of discomfort that flickers across it. 

Setting his notebook aside, the gentle smile he graces you with has your stomach flipping. It's startling how just that gesture has you relaxing, his presence easy to melt into, loosening your tongue. 

“As your doctor, I want what's best for you,” he utters your name in that rich, mellow voice of his akin to a wife calling her husband and you perk up. “Please tell me if I'm overstepping your boundaries. I do not mean to be anything other than strictly professional.” 

“Oh, no, no. You're fine. I was just taken aback is all,” you assure him with a shake of your head and an earnest smile. 

Relief loosens the tension in his shoulders, his eyes softening. “Good, now shall we begin?” 

“Yes, please,” that polite word has his irises swirling but you chalk it up to a trick of the light. 

“Alright. Are you okay with following my instructions? There's this genre of audio erotica called guided masturbation which I recommend you look into but for professional purposes, I just want to ease you into it so you're not lost when you try it out, okay?” 

Swallowing, you nod, shifting to get comfortable as you're laying on the plush couch. “Okay.” 

“I want you to close your eyes and imagine your boyfriend touching you. You're in control, he's listening to you and eager to know what pleases you. Tell him how to touch you.” 

Brows twitching, you want to tell him that this seems like an exercise for fitting for sex therapy but he'd already told you in your last session that he creates these activities based on the specific needs of his patients according to his observations and what he deems necessary.

“Where would you like him to start?” he asks in a quiet voice that wavers like you're suspended in a body of water, waves lapping at your bobbing body. “Your lips? Your neck? Your chest?” 

Hand rising, you brush your fingers over your lips, eyes fluttering shut as they tingle. “My lips.” 

“How do they feel against his ones?” 

“Soft like petals.” 

“How do you want him to kiss you?” 

Tongue peeking out, you tentatively lick the pad of your finger, tasting salt. “With…tongue. I've never done that before. He's always refused.”

And perhaps that is why your brain cannot conjure the image of him kissing you. You've always had a vivid imagination but now his silhouette is distorted like the still surface of water disturbed by pebbles dropped into it. 

“Does it feel good?” 

“This is hard,” you admit, embarrassed. 

“How so?” 

“I can't picture him doing this.”

The psychiatrist goes silent for a few moments, the faint sound of traffic and the ticking of the clock on the wall all that fills your ears, amplified by your lack of sight.

“No worries, you can picture someone else. A teenage crush, maybe a celebrity you like. Many people fancy imagining their favourite characters too,” he offers simply.

Lips thinning, the daydream you're in darkens, slowly seeping away and your disappointment creeps in. “I can't. Maybe we should try another time—”

“If it’s too difficult to focus on him, imagine me.”

Scandalised by the suggestion, your eyes fly open, head whipping to the side to look at him, your imagination shattering like stained glass hit by a brick. 

“Excuse me? That's hardly appropriate.”

“Am I a worse candidate than your boyfriend?” he questions and your eyes widen at the teasing lilt in his voice.

“Um, no. I just find it odd. Don't you?” 

A smirk curls at the corner of his mouth. “I can assure you that I've had patients who've tried much worse than just picturing me in their fantasies, Miss.” 

Heat licks at your cheeks. “Ah, okay.”

“You have my consent. Ready to continue?” he cocks his head and asks, sleek hair cascading down his shoulder like spilled ink.

Assuming your position again, you sigh, eyes sliding shut. “Yes.”

“Imagine my hands. Where do you want them while we're kissing?”

With your eyes closed, you followed his forbidden directive. Your hands slid over your ribs, trembling. 

“Here,” you murmur, squeezing at your plush waist and skating palms up to the curve of your breasts that tighten. “And here.” 

“Okay, let's start slow. We want to build up the tension, drag it out. There's no finish line to race to. Just feel.” 

Obliging, you run your hands up and down your sides from your hips to your waist, groping and caressing. They're not your delicate fingers but his thick, long ones digging into your flesh over your clothes, grabbing greedy handfuls of you. 

“Does that feel good? My hands gripping at you, feeling you up in fistfuls?” 

The question trickles into your ears, your pulse melting into hot syrup that pools in your stomach and dips between your legs. An airy, needy sigh passes your lips. 

“Great,” you breathe a dreamy sound, thighs rubbing together, skirt bunching up and you can feel the phantom of his deft fingers hooking into the hem to hike it up. 

“Very good,” he praises, voice light and sweet like he's proud of you for being an active participant in this exercise. “Now on to your neck. My lips are grazing your skin there, what do you want from me?” 

“Bite it,” you blurt instantly, brows knotting as your neck warms with the ghost of his teeth sinking into it, your pulse racing against the enamel as he sucks a flowering hickey into the blank canvas of your skin, hot, needling desire swirls in the pit of your stomach and sizzles against your clit.

The dream morphs into something lucid, him hovering over you, caging you with those bulky limbs, mouth latched onto your neck as your nails drag down the cotton of his shirt that's taut against his meaty pecs, the muscles flexing beneath your palms. The zwip, zwip, zwip of your clawing against the fabric, laddering it with how desperately you're scratching. 

His gentle scent of lilies and something woodsy, the tan terrain of his skin, the dips and ridges of his sculpted form, sweat beading his skin, a devouring hunger in his eyes that scares you and arouses you at the same time because it's so visceral and yet he's holding himself back, willing to kneel at your feet and worship you. 

You don't see your boyfriend’s indifferent face; you see Geto's broad shoulders and his dark, predatory gaze softened by that clinical smile as he tells you how good you're doing for him, kissing down your neck and unbuttoning your blouse, calling out your name as you moan in response. 

“Miss [Name].”

No, that's actually him talking to you right now. A big, warm hand clasps your wrist and tugs, your eyes blinking open, vision blurred and slowly clearing as you look at him. 

Tie askew, his hair is not as neat as it was before you shut your eyes and his cheeks are slightly red as he peers at you. 

“Sorry for touching you without your permission but you were getting carried away there,” he apologises, glancing down at your chest and away. 

Glancing down, you gasp as he lets go of your wrist as you see the lace of your bra on display. You'd been undoing the buttons of your blouse, skirt ridden up so far that one move would have your panties flashing him too. 

Mortified, you spring up and he hands you the blanket beside him which you gratefully accept and cover yourself with. “I am so sorry. I didn't realise—”

“It's okay, just tell me that your imagination will work perfectly when you're exploring it yourself somewhere private,” he interjects with a reassuring smile, clearing his throat. 

Clapping, he stands. “Well then, this session is over. We made good progress, I think. Get home safe,” he greets you with a nod, exiting to room to give you privacy to gather yourself.

The fantasy was a revelation. It makes the drive back to your apartment bearable; it makes the shower sessions a sanctuary where you’d slip your hand between your thighs and whisper your psychiatrist's name into the steam.

After all, there's no harm in practicing. It's make believe, it's not like you're cheating on your boyfriend. Everything is alright. 

It's liberating, really. The realisation that you're not a broken woman. That you're not undesirable. Touching yourself becomes a self love ritual. 

The shame that usually curdles in your stomach evaporates, replaced by a searing, liquid heat.

Weeks pass. Your boyfriend is the last thing on your mind. When he fucks you, his movements are still clumsy and selfish, but you simply close your eyes and summon Dr. Geto, hand slipping between your thighs to rub your clit and make yourself come.

You're glowing, revitalized, and Geto watches it all from behind his mahogany desk, taking meticulous notes on your psyche—and your scent.

For months, he had been the architect of your recovery. After your boyfriend had spent years treating your body like an inconvenient vessel for his own release, Geto had taught you that your pleasure was a sovereign right.

During your final session, the air in the room changed—charged, heavy with the scent of his expensive cologne and the sudden, sharp intent in his eyes.

“I’ve been observing your progress,” Geto muses, standing up. He moves with the grace of a panther on the prowl, stopping beside the chaise. “You’re smiling more. You’re distancing yourself from the man who doesn't deserve you. But there is a final stage to this therapy—one that addresses the psychosomatic tension you’re still carrying.”

The man reaches down, his large, warm hand cupping your cheek. The touch is electric. “Sit up.”

You obey, heart hammering against your ribs. 

He clears the papers from his heavy mahogany desk with a single, slow sweep of his arm. “Your boyfriend treats sex as a conquest. I treat it as a necessity. Bend over, please.”

Fantasy is about to become reality.

Moments later, you're gripping the edge of the polished mahogany, the grain cool against your palms, as Geto comes up behind you. He takes his time as he lifts your skirt, his fingers tracing the line of your spine with agonizing slowness.

“This is the session I've been waiting for,” he whispers against the shell of your ear, his breath hot.

Skirt rolled up to your waist, he bares your ass to him and peels away your soaked panties, picking them up and inhaling your musky sweet scent deeply. It's dizzying, so addictive. He balls up the flimsy cloth and stuffs it into his pocket.

When he eases in, it isn't the clumsy, impatient shove you are used to. It's a slow, deliberate push. He's massive, a solid weight that filled the void your boyfriend had left behind. You let out a shattered cry, your forehead pressing into the desk.

“That's it, you're doing so well,” he growls, his hands catching your hips, his thumbs digging into your hipbones to hold you steady. One hand slides to your belly, pressing down on the bulge there as you whimper. “Feel me here? Feel how perfectly you fit against me."

The drag of his cock inside you is all-consuming. Every time he drives forward, his heavy weight presses you down into the desk, the glossy wood and the heat of his body creating a sensory overload. Each vein and ridge rubs back and forth inside you, tickling all those sweet spots inside you that have your head swimming, drool dribbling from your parted lips and moans spilling from you that you barely recognize. 

"Your body isn't a burden," he whispers, his voice thickening as the friction built toward a fever pitch. "It is a temple, and I am its most dedicated servant. Tell me... does your boyfriend ever make you feel this seen?"

"No," you breathe sharply, vision dimming with heat. You're jelly, your senses dissolving into the scent of his cologne and soap.

"Then let him go," he grits, his grip tightening until his knuckles were white. "Forget his name."

Who?

He leans down, biting the sensitive skin where your shoulder meet your neck, his long hair falling like a curtain around you both. As he hits your deepest point, over and over, you feel the last remnants of your old life shatter.

"This is the only medicine you need," he hums, his voice breaking. "And I'll be sure to provide it whenever you want it."

You could feel the power in his thighs, the strength of his chest against your back as he presses his lips into the softness of your neck, cock sinking into you deeper and deeper with each smooth roll of his hips, the desperate drag of his body against yours nearly molding you two together as his cock carves a home for itself in your snug cunt. 

“Fuck, do you know how good you feel? Sucking me in so greedily, fitting me like a glove. Your boyfriend barely left a mark,” he seethes, biting down on your shoulder as his lazy, savoring thrusts descend into something feral and harsh, grunts thrumming though your skin as the desk creaks and whines with you. 

“Ah, Geto—” 

“Suguru, baby. I'm your Suguru,” he mumbles in a drunken slur against the side of your face, lips smushed to your wet cheek, licking up the tears of pure bliss and relief that streak down your face. 

“Suguru,” you gasp out and a long, drawn-out groan rumbles out of him, his abdomen bunching against your lower back as his hips smack against your plush ass, the flesh rippling. 

“I’ve spent months learning every fracture in your psyche,” he rasps, his pace quickening, the sound of sweat-slick skin slapping skin echoing in the quiet office. “I know exactly where you’re broken. And I know exactly how to fill those spaces.”

He reaches around, his large fingers finding your aching clit, circling with a clinical precision that sends sparks crackling through your vision. You are far gone, your mind turning to white noise as he buries himself to the hilt, over and over.

Cupping your jaw, he turns your face so he can get a good look at you, half-lidded eyes dark and glistening with elation as he takes in your messy hair, smudged eyeliner, tears dotting your lashes and parted lips. 

Ducking down, he licks a hot, wet stripe up your chin, slurping the drool there, tongue delving into your mouth and kissing you sloppy like you had fantasized about for months, hip thrusts stuttering from how sweet and buttery you taste. 

“You’ve never looked better," he moans into your mouth, his voice thick with a dark, satisfied pride as he feels your pussy clench around him in a violent, weeping orgasm, drinking down your whimpers. “This is the only medicine you need from now on. I'll give it to you every time, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you mewl, incapable of saying anymore as you struggle to kiss him, legs quivering and cunt convulsing, drawing his orgasm forward, thick, creamy cum splattering inside your squelching walls. 

You lay slump against the mahogany, breathless and gold-spun with afterglow. Suguru doesn't pull away immediately, buried deep within you, his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you together.

"Much better," he sighs, pressing a tender kiss to your shoulder, his kind smile returning to his face even as his eyes remained dark with a predatory satisfaction. "I think we’ve made excellent progress today."

Smiling deliriously, you're spent and shimmering, a patient finally cured by the most radical of treatments.

note: i doubt i did that blurb justice huhu but i wanted to write suguru