caramelluxe

It was big, you see, the pearls. Big enough to be eyeballs. The same ashy colour he made Yorozu wear, but at least it looked good on her. She had the eyes for that, Sukuna would say, crimson and slanted. Slits of a window that made her look enticing. She wore these gifts that Sukuna adorned on her, and took them off in the bedroom when Sukuna would fancy. But on you, they looked like a restraint, a collar for a loyal crippled dog who had nowhere else to go.

Your hands closed around the jewellery, and you breathed in, a shuddering gasp that burned your trachea when the noxious scent made home in your alveoli. You tugged and tugged again. Sukuna’s eyes were on you. He looked beautiful. Majestic in all his monstrosity. You pulled at it with wild abandon. And then in one random moment it broke free. 

Pearls fell from the chain, on the floor, on the table, on the stew kept in front of you and finally in your soup. You looked at the ashy marbled eye in your bowl, the cream surrounding it and the ugly green blend of veggies that the chefs thought you loved best. Couldn’t they tell that it was a tactic you employed? Couldn’t they tell that you had to fit in Sukuna's hands? Couldn’t they tell that you were starving? 

You were starving for respect, and love, and autonomy and the gluttonous feeling of wanting to be seen.

You were starving. And so you ate it all. The soup, the cream floating in it and the pearls in it- you downed it with every gulp— not coughing or choking— you drank it all, let your throat make the indents around the sphere until it was nestled in your stomach to be reduced to bile that you would no doubt coax out later that night in your lonely bedroom. Toothbrush in, you’d let the burn in your throat resume when everything you had eaten would come up, and the maids would question if you were pregnant because you threw up so much. Fools, you’d think. How could they think it was a child when you were trying not to be tied to this man ever. Had you been stronger, you’d say the deep-seated desire that you harboured. Crossed with hazel eyes, you’d run and kiss him and take him in your arms and let him take you away and —

“Your Highness.” A whisper floated to you, the gentle voice that sent shivers through you, “Your Highness… you can retire to your room if you so prefer.”

Could you? That was an option? You looked up from your untouched soup and the pearls that still clinched your neck to Sukuna. He wasn’t looking at you, but his fingers were raised, a sign that you were off the leash and you could go anywhere you wanted until he wanted a fill from you soon enough. 

“Let me, My Lady.” Your loyal knight offered, smoothly pulling your chair lightly to help you stand up. Your legs were pins and needles when his arm slid around your waist to stabilise you. 

Was it always this stability you desired so much? There would be respect with him, wouldn't it? 

He walked with you in slow steps. Around the longer corner for some sliver of moments he no doubt wanted, like you yearned to steal. Duty’s traditions, class… they always dictated what love should or should not have. 

“Is the necklace bothering you, Your Majesty?” Would it have been appropriate if you had said that you loved his voice? That it made you drowsy and comfortable and gave you a peace you had forgotten the world was meant to have. 

“Why do you call me that?” You asked instead, even as you turned so that the clasp of the cuff was on his face, “I’m not the Queen, Kento.”

He made quick work of your necklace, sliding it off your neck. You wanted to scream when his fingers ghosted on your beseeching skin. There were a scarce few things you would not do to beg him to keep his touch on you. You turned around again to face him. Would your eyes do the talking that your tongue had been forbidden from doing? Would they say, ‘Please, Kento, don’t stop, don’t leave, don’t go. Don’t leave me with him. Don’t leave me alone.’

He would understand, regardless; your knight was built like that. He was resilient in these matters that one could not speak. 

“You will be the Queen, soon enough, Your Maj—”

He would know.

But he would not cross that propriety unless you asked.

“I don’t want to be the Queen!” You yelled. Your throat burned, your skin scalded, your vision blurred. You were on the stake of this marriage, and they were burning you for your witchcraft. The demonic desire to have desires and wants and love. 

Kento wouldn’t ask you about what you thought. He’d just give you what you wanted.

“But you’re Queen to me.” He choked out when your finger clutched the lapels of his coat tight, the badges of his position in the army threatened to fall under your greed, and he was uncaring of all that with you in his arms. “You’re my Queen, aren’t you, darling?” 

Kento wouldn’t ask you what you thought; instead, he’d just give you what you wanted.

He was yours, after all.

A/N: the fic was inspired by that one scene in Spencer ft Kristen Stewart

🏷️ :  @oporotheca @stellarixe @lunarevia @lilithkleia @maru-the-alien @hoax-of-light @mieleism @midnitebugging @cactusvolumes @getorade @antonellavanella @kldgo @claryeverlarkf @ribbonsiess

Dividers by: @/cursed-carmine @/bronzewasp

“Kento,” This time the voice was unmistakably Haibara’s, as was the hand on his shoulder, “Kento, you gotta—”

“I can’t.”

They were getting on his nerves by now. Why did they keep rushing him? Couldn’t they see how content he was? The cold didn’t affect him, despite his flimsy tuxedo, despite how everyone around him appeared. In black and surrounded by lilies, they had this rosy sheen on their face, their noses red, and puffs of fog escaping their mouth each time they opened them to disrupt his peace.

“I’m okay, Haibara.” Kento felt like he had to assure his worried friends that he was okay; truly, he was. “Look, I’m—” He looked up at them and… — that was strange. He was supposed to see them; why was his sight so foggy? 

It was the cold, must be. His vision wasn’t this bad. Sure, he could falter once and then, but by no measure was it this horrible. Kento blinked a couple of times, hoping that he’d finally get to look at his friends clearly, but somehow it got worse. That, and the burning in his throat.

The next words felt muddled; he wasn’t sure who they came from — “Let go, Kento, it’s time.”

Let who go? 

You? 

But if he let you go, you’d complain and pout the entire time until he kissed the frown away from your lips. Why couldn’t they see that he was helpless, that he could not let you go? Curled in his arms, you were the safest; everyone knew that. It was for that reason he always kept you so close to him. He could even keep you warm — so cosy you were within them. He felt the chill in your arms, so frigid. Normally you would shiver and huddle close to him, but you were so silent tonight. Perhaps you had fallen asleep.

Surely. You had fallen asleep. 

He clutched you tighter, even as Satoru’s arms coaxed his grip away, pushing him into opening his arms and relinquishing his hold on you. He wanted to argue, to yell at all his friends. You were barely dressed for the weather — who even put you in a satin gown without a shawl when it was snowing outside? 

Kento made a noise of disagreement. It would have been louder, but there was something scorching his throat. If he mused longer, he could tell what it was, but lately he hadn’t been very lucid. Like he couldn’t tell where he was two hours ago, or why everyone was gathered in this place and why the dress code was so dark and grim. 

Especially when you were so oddly dressed — in tantalising satin and silk when everyone else was huddled in anguished hues of dark colours.

Kento tried to move his sluggish body. See, that was a sign; he needed your presence nearby to keep him grounded and fluid. Why was everyone so hell-bent on parting his darling from him?

He tried once again, stretching his arms out to pull you back to him, or at the very least, brush your cold fingertips to his for some warmth he would gladly give you. Kento would trade his life for you; what was some sliver of warmth? 

He choked on the words, calling his friend for this last shred of mercy, “S-Satoru—”

Suguru held him back this time, firmly holding his arms so that he wouldn’t panic and make a run for you. Still, silent, unresponsive you. Satoru carted you away, away, away from him and to the place where you’d be immortalised.

He trembled with sobs that bubbled past that agonising burning. The sobs that broke the thorn lodged in his throat, desperate to leave him and stay curled around you when you’d be isolated and away from his reach.

“Shhh, It’s okay, it’s okay,” Suguru caressed his hair, as if he were a child. Not that he complained about it. Comfort was comfort, no matter how gnarly the situation was for him to get that morsel.

“It’s time to lower the casket, Kento.”

A/N: and we all love angst yay

🏷️ : @oporotheca @veiledbulletz @lunarevia @lilithkleia @maru-the-alien @hoax-of-light @mieleism @midnitebugging @cactusvolumes @getorade @antonellavanella @kldgo @claryeverlarkf @ribbonsiess @fortunatelydistinguishedobject

Dividers by: @/cursed-carmine @/bronzewasp

Well, the problem was you, for sure. It couldn't have been Satoru; that sounded far-fetched. The man had been nothing short of accommodating and weirdly sweet despite all his vexing mannerisms; he had accepted you, issues and doubts and all. 

‘We can make it work, sweetheart,’ had been his go-to answer when any task you faltered in undertaking, as thoughts of calloused palms and blonde strands of hair clouded your clarity. Sometimes, you felt like Satoru kept you around for the sake of it, to keep the memory of your sister present, after they had broken up and she left to go west to never see him ever again. Maybe you were far too familiar for him to let go, and maybe he was far too distracting for you to let go of that false security of everything being right again. 

Satoru had his faults, but you couldn’t deny that he was sweet, enthusiastic, and always gave in to your whims — heavens, he had been your plus one to this godforsaken art gallery exhibition in the first place. Even though you had bought the tickets months before to go with a different man- the man whose idea it was to go to an exhibition, the man for whom you had planned this day to its very last minute; very unfortunate that the split happened and splintered any chance for you to bring your workaholic ex-lover to the event you had wanted to go to for months. 

But Satoru had gone with you, together. 

Beyond the cameras at the gate, the exhibition was small, and sublime, serene even. The pieces were wonderful, and besides taking a few pictures or looking at the details of the auction, Satoru didn’t have much to say about the art pieces. Rather, his eyes were affixed on you. Baby Blues took in every detail of you, from your shoulders to your waist, head to toe; he was steadfast in his gaze and touch. Satoru’s arm was firm, pulling you close by his side, as if you were the main attraction of the event, and the people should have been looking at you rather than the work that the wall showcased. 

The attention almost made you feel guilty, affronted at your own disregard and distraction. Admittedly, you were not staring at the paintings either. Not after the scent of cologne had crowded your senses, the one you were sure you had thrown out rather angrily from your penthouse that you now shared with Satoru. Your distraction led you to agitatedly whirl your head in the direction of the intoxicating scent, your senses enthralled — sight and smell, both — because you caught just a sliver of blonde hair in the crowd, before you lost the person.

“Something wrong, sweets?” Satoru asked, tucking your bangs behind your ear from the confines they had escaped.

You fought the urge to bat his hands away, the smooth skin of his palm still a surprise to you whenever they caressed your skin, for you were ever so familiar with rough callouses, and you exhaled, giving an unsteady smile, “No, I just…” He didn’t notice the cracks in your facade. “I thought I knew the person.”

“No.” Your voice was brittle, “I didn’t.”

“Did you?”

Depends, was it who you thought it was? You traced a path up to the place the man had gone to, and then to the mezzanine of the establishment… just a sign, that’s all you needed. A sign that it was the lost complementary pattern of the tapestry of your desires. But…

Satoru paid no mind to that, or well, he just wasn’t that attuned to you to notice. Instead, he asked, “Drinks?” he kissed your cheeks, a smattering of highlighter glittering on his lips when he broke apart, “There is a champagne fountain, and some really excellent sets. Vintage, from what I caught.”

You saw Satoru get lost in the crowd, and somewhere you knew that was the fate of your relationship, too. It was sweet — and maybe if you deluded yourself into the touch of his eager fingers and gushing voice, you could lull yourself into the gilded cage of a love you never wanted from the very start. You felt bad for him and rage at yourself. You were miserable, and you were dooming a charming bachelor to your blight, too. Satoru didn’t deserve this unreciprocated attachment, but neither did you. What you needed was—

“I thought you didn’t drink.”

“I’ll get a Coke Zero or something, in a flute to fit with the aesthetic.” He winked, and you laughed softly, “Sure.” You required a little getaway from the overwhelming sensation of his proximity anyway. After all, these were the small mercies you wanted to earn for yourself, considering the numerous times you had begged Satoru for a split that would never come.

There was that whiff again. Ambergris and Saffron. 

You knew that. 

You knew it was him; you knew because you had spent evenings with him while he perfected desserts in the kitchen, adding little flecks of saffron that you said suited him so well—

You whipped your head in the direction of the scent at a speed that nearly undid your hair updo. And—

There he was.

Knowing, silent, and oh, so stunning. 

You used to joke that in the right lighting, his hazel eyes could easily be mistaken for honey, a hyperbole that was meant to symbolise why you loved calling him honey.

But today? Today, it felt anything but a joke, because Nanami Kento’s honeyed gaze was on you and you alone. Wide, apologetic and longing so deeply rooted you felt the weight from across the hall, him on the first floor, and you on the ground, separated by glittering chandeliers and the huge chasm of people in love around you. The distance amplified what you didn’t have.

It was a surprise to no one that Kento had been at the event too. He could never pull his orbit away from the gravity of your force, just like you could not either. And Satoru had accompanied you, practically depositing you at the altar of Kento's shrine of longing and wanting his hazel eyes kept hidden — but how could they hide it from you?

Before you could say anything, not that he would hear you from such a distance, he turned and stepped towards a darkened corridor beside the mezzanine’s balcony. Naturally, your instinct told you to follow him, and you took a step, steeling yourself to move and pursue him, but an arm around your waist stopped you. Right. Satoru.

“Your wine, M’Lady.” 

At this moment, you could not care less about the goddamn wine. 

“Right, yeah, can you keep this with you? I need a little breather,” you pointed at the corridor, “I’m… stepping away for a bit.” 

The smallest of frowns graced Satoru’s pink lips, “You okay, sweetheart?” 

Many responses were running in your head with the way he kept pausing you, ranging from negatives to straight-up expletives, but you reigned all of them in to answer with a soft, “Yeah. I just need to be away from the crowd for a little, Toru.” 

He softened at the nickname, cupping your cheeks with his free hand to pull you into a kiss, but you stopped him once again, just in time for the announcement to come over about the auction being started.

“Why don’t you go sit and join the auction? I’ll be there in a bit.”

“You sure, sweets?”

Of course not.

“Yes,” you kissed his lips — too soft, too plump, too much, too wrong, all made for a face similar to yours but miles away, gone too far to ever come back in his reach — “I promise.”

That seemed to satisfy him, for he let go of you to join the masses towards the different auction hall, leaving you with the gate open to rush to someone you hoped hadn’t left; you hoped it wasn’t too late.

Your heels clicked obnoxiously on the marble floor, and you didn’t even pause to fix your dress as it caught on the sharp corners of your heels. Up you went on the winding staircase, hair falling loose, messy and falling apart like your composure. Oh god, you hoped he was there. You hoped he hadn’t left—

“My darling.”

At once, every breath you had swallowed in hopes of using it to convey your emotions to the man you had left some minutes ago left you in a gush. In the silence of the empty dark gallery, loud was your heartbeat — so traitorously loud, you almost believed that Kento was hearing it anyway.

A bare few footsteps away stood the man who had already once left you, speaking to you in dulcet tones and caramelled syllables like you would fall prey to the sweetness you had never stopped missing since he left.

Kento inched closer, just within your grasp, and the reflex surprised you as much as it did him, for your hand shot out, striking him on his cheeks so sharply that he flinched, holding the side of his face. Despite the sting, no words were on his tongue, only silence, a grim acceptance, a belief that was only finally sliding off of you and onto him that you hadn’t been the only one to make mistakes.

Gently, he stepped closer, and you let him, your chest heaving as you struggled to focus on the dichotomy of the moment, to choose whether to voice your turmoil or the relief of his presence. To chastise him, to rage at him, to be mad at this game he had made of you — or to inch closer yourself, to pull him in your arms, to curl up in his and hold the living, breathing example of just what was missing from your life, an emptiness that no amount of charisma and a facade of sweetness from Satoru could fill. Especially not when it was tailored for the wrong body type.

“You came—”

“Is this a joke to you?” You hissed, “Do you think this is something that fulfils either of us? Sneaking around like this? What do you think of me, Nanami—”

“Darling, please, I — that’s not what you call me—”

“Do you think you can throw a bone, and I’ll come running to fetch that on your command? Is that what you think?”

These words were but a useless placation to nothing else but your heart. Because in this moment, you felt exactly like the grime you were spewing. 

How dare he leave and come back with that pathetic look on his face as if he had missed you? How dare he come back now with a lure so strong you could not resist it? How dare he come back with a tender embrace and the strength to hold all your fights and weapons? How dare he come back with such acceptance when he couldn’t fathom the idea of compromise some months ago?

How dare he be so human in front of you?

“No! No— my love, no—” Kento’s voice was a mirror of his heart. You thought of that for ages, and now you were witnessing it once again, watching and feeling it splinter in front of you, just like his eyes beading with tears at your vicious words. Did he know of the pain he had left you in? Did he know of the repercussions of his departure? Did he know that, as easily as he had walked away, Satoru had picked you up just as easily and refused to let go of you to the point you were suffocating in the cloying embrace of his hands?

“Seven months.” You grit out, but you felt the words dissolving on your tongue, replaced with emotions you were sure you had buried, “Seven fucking months, Nanam—”

“Please.” Kento rushed to speak over the syllables of his surname, as if the mere consonants of it were a worse wound than the slap of your hand. 

“Darling, please.” He was begging now, and you just looked at him; it was all over, wasn’t it? Tears burned in the back of your eyes, mirroring how Kento’s were ready to spill over, but you pushed them back. Not now, not here. “Please don’t call me that. Anything — please. Just not that.”

Exhaling, he lowered his head, and then — and then Kento was on the floor in front of you, on his knees, his hands braced on your waist, bunching the baby blues of your gown. The colour was a mockery to him too; after how he said the colour never fit you that well, it was like dressing a deity to fit the image of their follower. He had said that the colour on you was like a palette of redundancies.

“It sounds like a curse on your lips when I’m used to you calling me Kento.”

“Well—I was used to many things too, yeah? Get over it. We can’t all have what we want—”

“My love,” his forehead touched your thigh, “Please. Please. You’re hurting me.”

Your eyebrows lifted at his brazen beseech. How dare he? After all, he left you in the wake of — how dare he?

When your fingers threaded his soft hair, you forcefully willed yourself to focus on every other thing than the sheer familiarity of the action, had it been any less vengeful from your anguished palm. You tugged his hair to have him face you. Eyes wide and teary, your ex-lover looked up, every facet of his countenance lined with an apology, an apology far too late to work as a band-aid, only for you to hurl vile syllables at him.

“Oh?” Your lips curled as the words were aimed to be thrown, “It hurts, does it, Kento?” 

Eagerly, he nodded, anticipating your comfort, only for you to snarl, “Excellent. I hope you feel a fraction of what I have been going th-through since… since–” For some inane reason, the words lodged in your throat, digging their nails to keep you from lashing out at the man bowed before you. What was cursed was how you still felt the empathy for him in a tender corner of your bruised heart, the tissues unfurled out to accommodate both your and his grief, little trampled petals of hope piled over and over since the day you two had parted. 

You took a breath, and then another to soothe the maudlin stream steadily filling your lungs and making it hard for you to let the air in your body. Your chest heaved at the intensity of your inspiration, as did your abdomen, turning the chyme into nauseating bile.

You blinked several times, hoping to clear the mosaic in your vision before it could hinder you in answering Kento’s inquisitive approach. He seemed to have sensed your tumultuous distress, glaringly visible in the subdued lighting, an out-of-place anomaly between lines of paintings etched in the name of love, for this was the romance section. 

Kento leaned up as soon as the first sign of distress in the lines of your face. His hand reached out softly, a request to you to allow him back in your proximity, the action that was in tandem with his fretful question, “My darling?” He bent until he was staring up at you, his palm just inches away from your face, your tearful face.

The hypothetical rejection reared its ugly head once more. What if this was just a measly tactic for him to get close once again? What if he were to discard you once his bed was warm enough? Somewhere in a wretched crevice, you realised you didn’t care much for it; any attention was sufficient sustenance to sate your hunger for his fondness of you. You’d take any measly scrap he had to offer — yet. 

Yet the suddenness of his approach faltered your stoicism. Much like the continuous flow of water on a creek stone, you regressed too. 

“N-no…” you shook your head, and realised that you abhorred your splintering voice about as much as the predicament your enticed heart had put you into, “I c-can’t… don’t—”

“Darling, please.” For the umpteenth time in a mere few minutes, Kento begged for what was a ceaseless litany. Your name, the countless ‘please’s and the incantation of the endearing terms. Just what stone was your heart carved out of for you not to give in, one would wonder. You wanted to wonder too, but the second his eyes met yours — hazel overflowing with a desperation only your lover could ever embody — you felt your apathy fracture.

You bit your lips to stop your trembling lips from spilling out any sob, just to haul Kento up, and up until he was barely any distance from you. 

And then you kissed him. 

Your teeth clashed along his soft lips, biting and nipping over the flesh like the taste could end your gluttony. It couldn’t and wouldn’t; you knew that. You knew that in every breath you forgo — to pour your anger and grief and waiting into the kiss. Kento took just a second to make sense of his crowded senses, crowded with every bit of you, before he stood up, lips still slotted along yours, only to pull you impossibly closer. Locked in the euphoric closeness, he made a wrecked sound. You couldn’t call it a moan for how close it sounded to his sob, and the taste of salt on your tongue. It may very well be yours, but you weren’t the only one begging the other for rotten flakes of what you once used to call love. The two of you parted for something shy of a moment to gulp in the forgotten air, and in the fleeting second, you saw the trickling tear on your lover’s face.

“Heavens, darling,” Kento mumbled, cupping your face. He was helpless, besotted like a man in love, lured by your orphic desire, “I… oh, fuck it.” 

He mumbled the consonants roughly, each syllable tinted with his unadulterated want, the signs of which you knew so, so, well. Of course you did. 

Hence why it didn’t surprise you much as Kento picked you up effortlessly, making sure your legs were snug around his torso, before he walked you further back up against the wall of the gallery until you were braced unashamedly in between two paintings. 

His palm slid slowly from your cheeks, flitting in a slow catalogue down to your waist, to have you straddling his hips. Your precarious position was an art to Kento, fitting of being pinned amidst the declarations of love, just like he had you immobilised. Flimsy were the satins Satoru had dressed you in, at least with how easily they gave Kento the jurisdiction of gliding. His eyes, however, never left your face. Hazels stayed fixated on you, maddening you with every new touch, gifting you with a feast after you had famished yourself in the cloying ocean of Satoru’s unwanted love.

For a fleeting moment, he didn’t speak or move, content to let your body descend from its adrenaline high of being moved around so suddenly; in the same duration, his breathing slowed from its heaving rush. Kento’s arms were wound around you, one snaked around your waist, the other cupping your cheeks. His warm, flustered breath fanned you, while his lips were parted as he tried to construct words to speak to you. Another beseech, if you had to hazard a guess.

A whiff of a gasp left him when he asked you, the sound bathed in a rejection he was no doubt anticipating, “May I, my love?”

You were so long gone, you’d have let him hike you on his thigh against a much less comfortable stone wall if he had, but in this moment, all you gave him was a small nod, what with how breathless you too were. 

Kento needed just that permission to close in on your lips once again, the touch more unhurried, and with it ebbed the barricade of caution his proximity had been privy to. His pace held an unfounded sort of frenzy. He kissed like it was keeping him alive, like you held the answers to his unreceived prayers, like his touch could wipe out his blasphemy and rewrite the scriptures to include him back in your life — and you believed him. You clung to him in that act, kissing back just as resolutely, gnawing at his flesh in search of salvation. 

When he pulled back, it was just to search your face for any dejection, any figment of pain — not that he’d find anymore of it, you had bared every bit of the fury already for him to collect in his palm — and when he saw none of it, he leaned close to breathe you in, only to shift the spot of his heady kisses across your cheeks, and neck, your earlobes, down to your neck and along the column of your throat.

Kento whimpered in the skin of your collarbone, peppering little kisses on all the spots he had missed, all the spots that were his favourite to lavish when you two were together. 

“I’m sorry—” Kento whispered, “I’m so sorry. So, so, so, so sorry—”

“What for?” You choked out. Never one to be any less of an executioner, you griped to make his injury worse. It was his fault for leaving you, and letting you fester in a mess, and to come back at the one time he should not have, and to gather your broken pieces when you were mending in your own noxious pattern under cerulean gaze.

“For being a fool.” He rasped, nipping at the aflame skin of your shoulder, “For my utter stupidity, my – my insolence of thinking, even for a damn minute, that—that… fuck, darling, you’re. God— that I could ever live without you, exist without you and feel accomplished in life.”

Much like your short-lived rage, your want was quick to act up too, evident in the way your hands clutched his shoulders, scrambling for purchase on his tuxedo.

“Why did you have to go?” The timbre of your sentences wrapped around him; the shake in your usual conviction, and he jerked at the vulnerability in them, not that he hadn’t borne witness to it before, but in this peril, he was terrified of your agony.

“I’m so sorry, my love.” He cupped your cheeks, his thumb caressed your lower lip, the inflamed skin he hadn’t had the honour of touching for dreary long months, “I couldn’t say it enough if I tried.”

Not trusting your voice, you dragged him impossibly closer to you. You wanted every bit of closeness you had died for. What Kento was in your life, painted in passion, the carmines and ichors, how could Satoru’s cerulean and ivory fulfil for you?

It was a mirror to how well he understood you, your untamed desires that you never had to voice out, in how Kento’s hand slowly slid up your thighs, hiking the fabric until it was bunched around your waist. He paused for a second, staring at you in confirmation — one that you gave him once again, kissing him in reply. Tender and gentle, he palmed up to your thighs until his fingers caught on the seam of the satin fabric. Lace-trimmed and whatever, they were an obstruction in his path. His watch touched your heated skin, and the chill of the metal was enough of a drug to cause your blood to rush. You gasped when he ventured further. Was it the fact that you had forgotten what the sensation felt like, or was it the riskiness of the situation in this gallery?

The moment was apt for Kento to press his lips to yours, your breath mingling with his in the heated contact. Open-mouthed and addictive, he whispered as he tugged your satin set down your leg clumsily, “Shhh, darling, I’ve got you.” You nodded in the crook of his shoulder, breathing him in to tally your fill from the seven-month absence. His scent was just as tantalising as it used to be, decadent to taste when your lips pressed hot on his neck’s exposed skin. Kento moaned, a sound you had been dying to hear, “Darling, please, don’t—” he exhaled, “If you keep doing that, it’ll be hard for me to hold back.”

You leaned into him languidly, “Then don’t.” He looked up in surprise. “Don’t hold back, Kento, you did that enough all these months.” He gave you another searing kiss, in tandem with the satin being tugged down one of your legs, only to dangle at the ankle of your other leg, hiked around his hips. You tried bracing yourself for what next might happen, but that was your stupidity, for you felt every touch very clearly. Gentle and slow, Kento’s fingers flit up your thighs until they rested carefully along the swollen lips of your slit. He felt the dampness, steadily coating his fingers the longer he just pressed on the spot, and it made him inhale sharply. 

You hadn’t been this needy for months, only for your inhibitions to vanish like the space between you two, and you resisted the urge to draw your thighs together if not for the hard planes of Kento’s body standing firm between them. 

“Hn— Ken. Kento…” A whine escaped you, almost helpless. Just as helpless as your lover’s slow grinding along your naked flesh through the layers of his clothing. He apologised immediately, “I’m sorry, my love.” Kento nibbled your throat, licking back to soothe the marked spots, “I just. Fuck. You’re stunning. I—I missed you, darling. I missed you so. So much.”

Your whine grows just a tad louder as you feel the callouses on his fingers. Oh, those rough indents that you missed so fucking much. He prodded at your folds, but you were strung taut, tensed to a fault, so instead, Kento inched his thumb to swipe at your clit. Even though the action is gentle, done with utmost care to make you relax for the intrusion of his fingers, you gasped at the suddenness, the sound breaking into a choked cry when his index finger joined to pinch at it sharply, all the while he swallowed your moans with his tender kisses, “Tell me to stop, okay? I won’t do anything you don’t want me to—”

“Don’t. Don’t, Kento—” you shook your head frantically, “D–Don’t stop.”

“I know, my love, I know. Fuck, I know.” He kissed the corner of your lips, “Relax for me, darling; you’re too tense. Breathe in, my love, you’re okay, I have you. I’m not leaving.” Between hurried gasps, you nodded, clutching Kento tighter past the wrinkles on his tuxedo.

Not even a couple of moments to spare, you gasped when his index and middle fingers breached the muscle of your core, and the slick it was dripping; there was no resistance as you yielded to the intrusion. Kento kissed your gasp away, groaning into your mouth when your walls closed snug around his digits. “God. Darling…”

Your chest heaved in the tiny space, sweat beginning to shimmer on your skin. The gallery was cold and empty, but the company you were enclosed in was warm enough to melt the frost, and to blaze the skin that had longed for his touch. Kento took it as an invitation, nothing you’d argue or deny; your body was telling the truth about as much as you were trying to hide it — so perhaps giving up on trying to shield your desires from the man who knew you like the back of his palm was the best for both of you. He bit your lips, soothing the sting with his tongue, and you moaned the consonants of his name in his greedy mouth when his thumb pressed over your clit.

“Darling,” he pulled away to stare at you abashedly, “You’re — fuck. Fuck, my love… you’re–” You whined, how dare he pull away from you, and it was easy enough to wrangle him back in the crook of your neck, not that he was resisting.

“Is this all for me?” He whispered. Unintentionally, you found the uttered words so deeply wanton, devoid of anything pure, that you could only hitch a little gasp. 

Kento hiked you further up, reaffirming his grip on your waist, “Come on, darling, let me hear you,” He pleaded, “Is this all for me?” And with the repetition, came the sinful crook of his fingers, grazing the gummy walls that were gushing around his digits. The next nod you gave was fervent, maybe because it was a beseechment to him not to stop his ministrations, for you choked out a needy cry on his shoulder while your nails dug into his back. 

“Yes— y-yes! Ken–yes–” How could you have possibly forgotten that your lover could be just as ruthless as he was gentle when he wanted your attention on him? 

Now that he had your answer, he eased you slowly, curling and uncurling his fingers, heightening the friction inside you bit by bit. You pulsed around him, and he drank it all, cherished it to perfection with his movement, coaxing your wetness to gather in his palm. You gasped again, one of the many still to come, building up the syllables of his name to let him know he was doing so, so good, but Kento knew the tells already; he only needed your desperate sound as encouragement. “It’s okay, darling, there’s no one here — just– fuck. Just us, my love. Don’t hold back.” 

The slick that gathered on your lover’s fingers, he evens that out on his thumb, just so he can spare some attention by circling your swollen clit. The bud aches from the neglect and now the focused attention. As a result, you writhe in Kento’s hold, strained in the waves of agonising overwhelmingness. It’s almost embarrassing, your sounds that seemed to reverberate in the gallery. Kento holds those broken fragments too, with your composure and reverence.

Your feet kicked up when his fingers picked up the pace, an uncanny rhythm of a few shallow thrusts, where he pulled back to the tips of his fingers, and just when you would assume you had reprieve, he would ram deep beyond his knuckles to the one spot that made your toes curl in your expensive heels.

Kento built up your pleasure steadily, taking his sweet time until your mind felt all scrambled from the constant stimulation. He kissed you in all the right spots, licked every place he had helplessly bitten, sucked hickeys in every secret corner of your body he always liked to touch and trace. And just like that, his tempo remained perfect too. Your body flushed slowly — rising to that high with every movement, every angle he aimed — heat spreading from the base of your neck to the tips of your fingers, buried in his hair, mussing the blond strands to your liking.

And just with that rise, your moans and whimpers became uninhibited too. Where they had been hidden and choked at first, now that you could hear the dampness of your core under the reverberating sounds of your gasps, your control had slipped. Every other thought had left your head languidly, leaving your senses engulfed with the enormity of what was unspoken between you; the sin, the forbiddenness, the gluttony. 

“Kento, Ken–Kento, Kento—”

“Shhh,” He kissed the words away, interrupting your spiralling sounds to keep you intoxicated at the motions he was painting between your legs. “I have you, darling; just focus on this–” He crooked his fingers and angled them to your sweet spot, which, of course, how could he forget. You cried out a garbled sound of his name, “Just focus on me.” 

How could you tell him that you were trying? Trying to focus on him, but it was he who was making it so very difficult for you to focus on him. Your legs were shaking, hitched uselessly around Kento’s torso, and with the way the stimulation kept you centred on the feeling of his fingers scissoring you to a rapidly approaching orgasm, you couldn’t pinpoint if your heels were still on your feet.

The release drew closer, and Kento pressed you further against the wall. There was a painting of a Geisha and Samurai behind you. Dressed in almost the same shade of pearlescent blue, the Geisha was a mirror to your trussed figure on the wall.

“I hate this colour on you,” Kento whispered over your lips, speaking in tandem to your stuttering gasps, “Abhor it.” You were panting; the sweat was cooling on your skin, making the stickiness all the more potent because your lover was licking the skin on display for him. He hooked his thumb, and you felt the satin give way in his palm to glide up further, exposing the goosebumps on the tender skin.

“This colour washes you out, pales you,” he mumbled, affront in the words like the fabric had personally insulted him, “You don’t deserve these superfluous palettes, darling.” He let the fabric go, and it collected in a heap over your taut thighs. Kento palmed your breast with his free hand, and thumbed your pebbled nipple over the fabric. You gasped at the contact. The friction of the cloth had been heady enough, and now that he was actively stimulating it, you felt electrified. Your entire body had grown sensitive in these few minutes, strung tight; you were ready to let go, but Kento was drawing it out. He was prolonging the sensation you were drowning in, slowing down his fingers just enough for you to still feel the action but not tip over.

He cupped your cheeks when you whined, kissing you messily; tongue and teeth clashed with how disoriented both of you were.

When you pulled away, his gaze was on you. Reverence overflowed from those hazel eyes, despite how hooded they were, blown from the lust, and you could imagine it was somewhat how he had only now found you back in his arms, as well.

“I’d dress you in a different palette, my love,” he brushed your hair away from your face, as his words came with his lips pressing countless featherlight kisses on your cheeks, “You’d be royalty if I had any say in what I wanted you to wear.” 

You had a rebuttal for that, something along the lines of how one does not merely give up on a royalty and run back only when it was convenient, but you were not lucid enough to answer that, for you were lost in the overwhelming waves of pleasure. Kento didn’t make you wait now that you were close to your climax, seeing as his fingers crooked to the other sweet spot, aiming every thrust with terrifying accuracy. It made you arch away from him, a cry on your lips, and a couple of whimpers in between. None of it made sense to your uncaring ears, nor to him, for he just hugged you closer, not even minding that you would make a mess of his undone tuxedo.

“Let go for me, darling,” he cooed, kissing your ears while you buried your face in the crook of his neck, “Come for me, my love, I’ve got you, my wife.”

Your eyes widened, momentarily pushing you into lucidity at his proclamation, “Ken—what–?”

“Shhh.” He didn’t let you question it, the belief of his, a conviction so realistic you felt yourself clench around his fingers. You didn’t mind the visual of that idea. “It’s okay, you’re here now, yes? What kind of a husband would I be if I let my wife feel unsatisfied?”

You opened your mouth to protest, to ask, to share your concern — that you were not his wife, yet — but Kento was unbothered, fierce in how he wanted you to focus on nothing but the pleasure, and just with that in mind, his thumb pressed firmly over your clit, running in tight circles that rendered your mind blank. The coil in your belly snapped, and tingling heat spread through your body.

“F–fuck. Kento. Ken— ah!” His hand slid up to pull your face up to his level. With your lips parted in a soundless gasp and a tearful moan, he pressed his lips to yours, kissing you as you came, his fingers slowing down in their rushed pace inside you.

“That’s my wife,” he praised, kissing away the tears that had fallen unknowingly. “You did so well for me, darling.”

You gulped in deep breaths, slowing down from the high of the climax, and Kento pressed you closer to him, his knee gently replacing his fingers to press over your core. You mewled when he grinded over the pulsing slit. 

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Kento comforted in the midst of pressing kisses on your forehead and hair, “Just one more for me, darling—”

You weren’t sure if you’d be able to take another strenuous release under his expert stimulation, and it seemed like your apprehension was visible on your face, hooded eyes cautious with the way he still had more in mind for you.

“I know you can. For me, please?” He pleaded, eyes wide and beseeching. The request felt so undiluted that you couldn’t help but give in, nodding tiredly.

“Fuck. Thank you, thank you so much, darling.” He kissed you for the umpteenth time that night, on your lips and then your eyes. 

Had you been any more tired, you would have missed the sound of his belt buckle coming undone, but you weren’t. After seven months, the familiar sound was near addictive; you heard the clinks and felt the tingle low in your belly and a simmer in your heart. You didn’t see it, or notice how hard Kento had been until he pressed against you. The sensation was heady, evident in the way you inhaled sharply, “Kento— I don’t think… I can’t—”

“You can, darling,” he assured you, honeyed and promising. “You always could, remember?”

Of course you did, but those days had been lost seven months ago; now you were accustomed to Satoru, and it wasn’t the real deal — you were allowed to feel unsure of this step.

“It’s okay, close your eyes,” He kissed your hair, hauling you up and pulling your hands until they were tousled in his hair, “Let me take care of you, please.” 

You didn’t know why he was pleading; you were pliant to his touch anyway. 

He hissed when the tip of his length caught on your slit, the sound drowning the squelch of your entrance and your moan, “Fuck… Gods, darling.” The intrusion felt foreign to your body after all this time, and instinctively, you tightened before he could slide past the entrance. Yet, Kento tried — he had, after all, stretched you enough to at least accommodate his tip — but it yielded nothing but a ragged cry from you at the stretch.

“Shh, shh, shh, darling, darling— you’re tense. Please. Relax, I’m not gonna hurt you.” Kento whispered to your curled body, practically in his arms, “I missed you… Please, I wanna feel you again.” He begged, needy and desperate. Kento’s fingers joined just a moment later, flicking the nub of your clit to loosen up the tense ring he was working open. You keened at the touch, oversensitivity bleeding into overstimulation.

“I c-can’t— Kento, Kento— I can’t—” 

“You can, I know you can, darling, just. Just relax. I’m here, no?” Calloused fingers cupped your cheeks tenderly, “Please, my wife? Just focus on me.”

And somehow, that was all it took for you to loosen up, and in one quick move, he pushed all the way in, stretching you beyond measure on his veiny girth.

Your hips canted, in tandem to your cry, which was again a version of his name.

“There you are, my l-love. Fuu—ck. Fuck, gods. You feel so perfect.” The praise fell so easily from his lips, “I knew you could, darling.”

He waited for a couple of seconds, letting you adjust to the stretch and fullness before he started moving. Almost immediately, your face flushed at the lewd sounds you could hear. You were dripping around him to the point it was solely enough lubrication on its own, coupled with the way Kento kept pushing in and pulling out — you were glad that the gallery was deserted. Any visitor and it would be a humiliation ritual of how obscenely your body gave in to Kento’s persistent passion.

You gasped each time he pushed in after pulling out. Every draw out burned, and every thrust back left you reeling at how good it felt. The familiarity was back, the knowledge that he knew how to bend your release to his own rhythm was overpowering. He knew you so well, conforming the pleasure to your mindless moaning until all that left you too, keeping you nothing but in the delirious state of stuttering out little puffs of hair as he fucked you along the wall. The paintings were witnessing the desecration. Perhaps the subject could understand why this was a need for you; maybe they would believe your situation and forgive your transgression. The man in the auction below could never know you the way your yearning lover did. He didn’t need any words to know when and what you were feeling — your anger, your grief, your lust. He knew it all to the blasted fragments of it.

His hips rung against your thighs, only barely muffled by the fabrics that were rumpled and ruined with your collective slick now. The feeling in your belly heightened, tightening to the knot that you knew would give way soon enough. 

“Ken—” you tried, wiling your nails that were digging in his back to give him an indication that you were close again, “Kento, I’m—”

“I know— hn– fuck. I know, darling.” He groaned, the syllables broke into a whimper, needy and wanton; your Kento was not the paragon of purity either, drowning in your essence and longing, “Fuck, I need you– t-to. My love, oh my god. Fuck. I need you to come with me.” He gasped out, and you nodded, helpless to his lure. Kento’s thumb found your clit again, and he resumed the same maddening circles round the swollen flesh, tender and sensitive. You clenched around him, sobbing out the sounds that one could easily mistake for pain. You knew, and Kento knew that it was nothing but pleasure and gratification, the relief that you had him back and he had you back. 

You arched up against him, and he kissed your aflame collarbone, and slowly drew up, pressing kisses until he captured your lips searingly.

His pace faltered, becoming uneven along with your own toes curling behind him. 

“Darling—” He moaned in your mouth, one that you drank greedily, and then you both were coming hard. You clenched around him, and he spilled deep inside you with a hiss.

You two stayed in the same precarious position, head in each other’s necks, breathing in the stench of the sin that you had just committed.

“Don’t leave,” he murmured, “Please don’t go, darling, please. Please stay. I want you back, I want you, I love you, please, please, please—” Until it broke into a sob.

Your heart felt heavy at that moment. You didn’t want to go; you wanted to stay. 

“I won’t.” You promised. What else was there to say? It was Satoru who had to hear the ugly truth; it was Satoru who had to understand that there were three in this relationship, and it was getting crowded. It was Satoru who had to hear a goodbye once again. 

“I don’t know what I’ll tell him.” You said over the sounds of your slowing heartbeat.

“You don’t have to, darling; I can,” Kento assured you, but you still felt that unease. He stopped you with his soft touch, lowering you gently to the floor with a hand around your waist for your unsteady legs. He helped pull up your panties and straighten your dress. The strap that had slipped off by Kento’s then callous fingers, he now helped arrange it back into place with unbearable gentleness.

“Every day I woke up after I left, the bed felt too big, the house felt too quiet. There was no colour left.” He spoke in sad little sounds, “I wish I didn’t have to be that arrogant fool who only realised what their lovers meant to them after they left, but I’m not that.”

He looked at you and cupped your cheeks, brushing the stray tears of overstimulation away from your face, “I’m human, and I make mistakes, but I love you. I know I will stay this time, forever. In sickness and in health, in all the highs and the lows, I’ll be there.” The words went on when you didn’t interrupt, “I know I’m asking for too much, darling, but please, give me a chance, let me prove myself to you, let me prove that I’m yours till the end of time. Please.”

Kento walked beside you towards the exit, an arm around your waist, when your eyes fell on the painting once more.

The Geisha still looked stunning in her dress, but it was the Samurai whose eyes found hers, fixated on the woman like she was the entire religion he had devoted himself to.

A/N: hey so do we like this?

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