‎

The Grand Hall of the Solis Empire was a suffocating sea of white silk, gold embroidery, and the stifling perfume of high-society desperation. Tonight was the Crown Prince’s Betrothal Gala—a formal exhibition where the continent’s most eligible noblewomen paraded themselves before the throne, hoping to catch the eye of the empire's ultimate prize.

At the center of it all sat Crown Prince Gojo Satoru.

He looked exactly as a future emperor was meant to look: breathtaking, untouchable, and profoundly bored. He wore a high-collared coat of midnight blue, heavily weighted with gold braided epaulets and a cascading white cape that pooled elegantly over the side of his velvet throne. His silver hair was swept back with immaculate precision, and his eyes—those striking, limitless blue eyes that poets wrote entire epics about—were half-lidded, tracking the crowd with a cold, detached amusement.

To the lords and ladies curtsying until their knees ached, he was a god in human form.

To you, he was just an oversized child who couldn't sleep without a specific brand of imported sugar plums.

You stood a few paces to the left of the dais, leaning casually against a marble pillar that cost more than your ancestral village. As the official Court Jester, your attire was a sharp, chaotic contrast to the monochrome elegance of the nobility. Your tunic was divided into asymmetrical panels of deep crimson and midnight black, the hemlines jagged and adorned with tiny, polished brass bells that chimed with your every breath. Your face was painted with sharp, dramatic geometric lines that accentuated your eyes, giving you an expression of perpetual, mocking glee.

While the rest of the court walked on eggshells around the prince, fearing the devastating weight of his political authority, your entire job description was to make fun of him.

A particularly pompous Duke from the northern territories stepped forward, bowing so low his nose nearly brushed the polished floorboards. He began a grueling, ten-minute monologue about his daughter’s impeccable lineage, her mastery of the harp, and her deep devotion to the crown.

Satoru didn't even look at the girl. Instead, his gaze flicked lazily to the left, catching your eye behind his opaque silk blindfold—a garment he wore to temper the sensory overload of his inherited magic, though he had raised it just enough tonight to let his eyes pierce through the room.

He let out a long, theatrical sigh, his head tilting back against the throne. He caught your gaze, his fingers subtly tapping a rhythm against the gold armrest.

‘Save me,’ his expression pleaded, though his lips remained set in a practiced, regal line. ‘If I have to listen to one more speech about a harp, I’m going to exile this entire family.’

You smirked, shifting your weight. With a dramatic flourish, you stepped out from the shadows of the pillar. The brass bells on your boots jingled loudly, instantly cutting through the Duke’s monotonous speech. The entire hall went dead silent. Infringing on a noble's audience with the prince was a punishable offense for anyone—except the fool.

“Ah, Your Imperial Highness!” you cried out, your voice carrying perfectly across the vaulted ceilings. You threw your hands in the air, your silk ribbons fluttering. “Forgive my intrusion, but the sheer weight of the Lady’s virtue is causing the very foundations of the palace to groan! Either that, or the Duke’s corset is laced so tightly his lungs are about to surrender to the gods!”

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. The Duke’s face turned a spectacular shade of plum.

“How dare you—” the Duke began, his voice trembling with outrage.

But before he could demand your head on a spike, a rich, booming sound echoed from the dais. Satoru was laughing. It wasn't the polite, measured chuckle he gave to foreign ambassadors; it was a genuine, chest-deep laugh that threw his head back and sent his silver bangs falling into his face.

“Now, now,” Satoru said, his voice dripping with smooth, unbothered arrogance as he waved a dismissive, gloved hand. “The jester has a point, Duke. Your posture does look terribly strained. Let us spare your lungs further torment. My ministers will review your proposal.”

The Duke, thoroughly humiliated but unable to argue with the future ruler of the realm, bowed stiffly and dragged his red-faced daughter back into the crowd.

As they retreated, Satoru shot you a brilliant, blinding grin over the top of his high collar. He mouthed two words to you: ‘Thank you.’

You merely tipped your three-pointed jester's hat, the brass bells ringing in a small, mocking salute.

‘She was crazy,’ the court whispered.

A mad little creature allowed too much freedom in the presence of royalty. But as Satoru’s gaze lingered on you, completely ignoring the next duchess stepping up to the altar, it was blindingly clear to anyone paying attention: ‘she was crazy, but she was his.’

By the time the moon reached its zenith, the grand gala had degenerated into a blurry haze of drunk aristocrats and hushed political scheming. Satoru had slipped away under the guise of an ‘urgent council matter,’ a classic lie his advisers could do nothing to dispute.

You had retired to the empty throne room hours later, having stripped off the heavy, bell-laden jester's coat, leaving you in your simple black undershirt and trousers. The makeup was still partially painted on your face—sharp diamond shapes over your eyelids and a dark tint on your lips—giving you the appearance of a fragmented porcelain doll in the moonlight.

The throne room was massive, cast in deep shadows and illuminated only by the silver beams pouring through the stained-glass windows.

“You know, it's treason to sit on that,” a voice smooth as velvet echoed from the darkness near the balcony.

You didn't jump.

You were far too used to his sudden appearances.

Turning your head, you looked up at the dais. Satoru was leaning against the side of his father’s massive gold throne. He had discarded his formal cape and epaulets. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the cuffs rolled up to his elbows to reveal his pale, scarred forearms. The blindfold was completely gone, leaving his eyes wide and glowing in the dark like twin stars.

“Then call the guards, Your Highness,” you scoffed softly, leaning back against the plush velvet of the Crown Prince's chair, swinging your legs over the armrest with a complete lack of decorum. “Let them drag the poor, mad fool away. I'm sure the court would love the entertainment.”

Satoru chuckled, stepping out of the shadows. He didn't look like a prince right now; he looked like a ghost, his pale hair shimmering in the moonlight. He walked up the steps of the dais with a slow, deliberate grace, his boots making no sound against the marble.

“They wouldn't dare touch you,” Satoru murmured, stopping right in front of the throne. He leaned down, placing his hands on both armrests, effectively trapping you between his broad shoulders. The scent of expensive cologne, cedarwood, and sweet wine washed over you. “Mainly because I’d turn anyone who laid a finger on you into fine dust. But also because you’re the only source of sanity I have left in this miserable place.”

“Sanity?” You raised an eyebrow, looking directly into the endless blue of his eyes. “Satoru, I am paid to wear bells and juggle fruit. I am literally certified insane by royal decree.”

“Exactly,” he whispered, a sharp, crooked smile spreading across his lips. It was the smile of a man who knew he held the world in his palm, yet only wanted the one thing he wasn't supposed to have. “The rest of them fake their smiles and hide their daggers behind polite nods. They’re the crazy ones. You? You look at me and see a man, not a crown.”

He reached up, his long, gloved fingers gently tracing the painted diamond over your right eye. His touch was incredibly light, almost hesitant, a stark contrast to the overwhelming power he possessed.

“They chose a bride for me tonight,” Satoru said softly, his tone shifting into something heavier, darker. The playful prince vanished, replaced by the prisoner of the state. “Lady Utahime of the Southern Houses. It’s a perfect political alliance. The elders are ecstatic.”

Your chest tightened, a cold weight dropping into your stomach. You kept your face perfectly still, drawing on years of theatrical training to hide the sudden ache in your heart.

A jester did not weep.

A jester did not fall in love with the prince.

That was a tragedy meant for a different kind of play.

“She is beautiful,” you said, your voice remarkably steady. “And very clever. She will make a fine empress, Satoru.”

Satoru’s eyes narrowed, a flash of irritation crossing his handsome features. He didn't like your composure. He wanted you to fight. He wanted you to break the rules, just like you always did.

“I don't care about a fine empress,” he snapped softly, his face dipping closer to yours, his breath fanning across your lips. “I want a menace. I want someone who mocks my ministers, who sneaks into the kitchens to steal sugar plums with me at midnight, and who looks at a room full of lords and calls them idiots to their faces.”

“Satoru...” you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. “You are the Crown Prince. You have a duty.”

“Screw my duty,” he muttered, his gaze dropping to your lips.

Before you could utter another word of reason, Satoru grabbed your waist and hoisted you off the throne in one fluid, effortless motion. You let out a sharp gasp, your hands flying up to grip his broad shoulders for balance. Instead of setting you on your feet, he spun you around, his laughter echoing through the empty, cavernous room.

“Satoru! Put me down, you absolute lunatic!” you hissed, though a breathless laugh escaped your lips.

“No,” he grinned, his eyes sparkling with a wild, dangerous energy. He slowed his spinning but kept you held tightly against his chest, your bodies flushed together in the moonlight. “If I am to be bound by gold chains for the rest of my life, then tonight, I am going to dance with my fool.”

He didn't wait for your permission.

He began to move, guiding you through a grand, sweeping waltz across the polished marble floor of the throne room. There was no orchestra, no music—only the rhythmic clicking of his boots and the faint, residual chime of the single brass bell still tied to your wrist.

But in your head, a frantic, upbeat rhythm was playing.

A melody of absolute chaos and undeniable attraction.

Satoru moved with impossible grace, his large hand resting firmly on the small of your back, guiding you through turns that made your head spin. He was looking down at you with an expression that no king should ever wear for a commoner—an expression of pure, unadulterated adoration.

“Look at you,” he teased, his voice dropping to a gravelly, intimate register as he spun you beneath his arm and pulled you sharply back against his chest. “No shoes, half-washed paint, and completely reckless. You’re entirely out of your mind.”

“And you're the one dancing with me,” you retorted, your fingers gripping the lapels of his midnight-blue coat. “What does that say about you, Your Highness?”

“It means I'm completely helpless,” he whispered.

The playfulness vanished from his face, replaced by a raw, burning intensity that made your breath hitch. Satoru stopped his movement, trapping you against one of the massive marble pillars. He leaned his weight against it, shadowing you completely from the moonlight.

His gloved hand came up to cup your jaw, his thumb wiping away a streak of the dark paint on your lip.

“Let them marry me to whoever they want,” Satoru murmured, his voice laced with a terrifying possessiveness that sent a shiver down your spine. “They can have the prince. They can have the titles, the land, and the political alliances. But Satoru? Satoru belongs right here.”

“You're playing a dangerous game,” you whispered, your hands sliding up to frame his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft silk of his white hair. “If anyone sees us...”

“Let them look,” he growled softly. “Let them see that the greatest sorcerer in the empire is completely brought to his knees by a girl with bells in her hair.”

He leaned down, closing the remaining distance between you.

The kiss was not royal, nor was it polite.

It was a chaotic, brilliant collision of hidden desires and months of stifled longing. Satoru kissed you with a desperate hunger, his lips moving against yours with a fierce intensity that stole the air from your lungs. He pulled you higher against him, his arms locking around your waist as if he were trying to fuse your soul into his own.

You melted into him, throwing all caution to the wind.

For tonight, there was no court, no political marriages, no boundaries of class and crown. There was only the heat of his mouth, the solid weight of his body against yours, and the beautiful, intoxicating madness of loving Gojo Satoru.

When he finally pulled back, his chest was heaving, his blue eyes blown out and dark with passion. A strand of your dark hair was caught on his damp lips, and the paint on your face was beautifully ruined, smeared across his cheek like a badge of honor.

He looked at his own reflection in your eyes, a breathless, triumphant smile stretching across his face.

“See?” Satoru whispered, pressing his forehead against yours, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. “Completely crazy. Both of us.”

“You are more than me,” you breathlessly replied, a genuine, radiant smile breaking through your ruined makeup.

He laughed, a bright, beautiful sound that filled the empty throne room, banishing the cold solemnity of the palace. He might wear a crown tomorrow, but tonight, he was just a boy, utterly ruined and entirely captivated by his magnificent, chaotic fool. And as he pulled you back into another deep, lingering kiss, you knew that no matter what the future held, the Crown Prince would always belong to you.

A breathless chuckle escaped his lips against yours, murmuring, “She's crazy, but she's mine.”

© 2026 faeloresha. All content is owned by @faeloresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

You sprawled naked across the couch cushions, legs spread wide, the cool air kissing every inch of your exposed skin. Your nipples had already tightened into stiff peaks from the chill and the filthy thoughts running through your head.

In one hand you clutched your thick silicone dildo, the one you had bought because it reminded you of him—long, veined, with a slight curve that promised to hit deep. In the other you held your small bullet vibrator, already buzzing low against your clit.

“Fuck, Suguru…” you breathed, dragging the fat head of the dildo through your slick folds.

You were soaked, had been since the moment you pictured his long black hair falling over his shoulders while he pinned you down. You circled your entrance with the toy, teasing yourself the way you imagined he would, then pushed the head inside. Your pussy clenched greedily, sucking the silicone deeper as you moaned his name again.

“Ahh... Yes, Suguru...”

The living room was quiet except for the wet sounds of the toy sliding in and out of you and the soft hum of the vibrator. You didn’t bother keeping your voice down; you thought he had left for the evening. Your hips rolled up to meet each thrust, chasing that perfect angle that made your thighs shake.

From the hallway, Geto Suguru stood frozen, one hand braced against the wall, the other pressing hard against the growing bulge in his sweats. He had only stepped out to grab his phone from the kitchen counter. Instead he would walked straight into the sound of your desperate whimpers and the obscene squelch of silicone stretching your cunt.

Every filthy moan of his name went straight to his cock.

“Mhm—shit... Ohh...”

He listened for another minute—heard you gasp when you shoved the toy deeper, heard the wet slap of your palm against your clit as you worked the vibrator faster.

His restraint snapped.

The floorboards creaked under his sudden weight. Your eyes flew open just as strong hands grabbed your waist and hauled you up like you weighed nothing. The dildo slipped free with a wet pop, leaving your pussy empty and fluttering.

Suguru’s dark eyes burned down at you, hair loose, jaw tight.

“Couldn’t fucking wait, could you?” he growled, voice low and rough. “Moaning my name while you fuck yourself on that toy like a desperate little slut.”

Before you could answer he slung you over his shoulder, one large palm gripping your bare ass. You yelped, legs kicking uselessly as he carried you down the short hallway to his bedroom. The door slammed behind him. He dropped you onto his bed, and the mattress bounced under your naked body.

Suguru stripped fast—shirt gone, sweats shoved down, cock springing free, thick and flushed dark at the tip, already leaking. He was bigger than your toy, longer, veins pulsing along the shaft. Your mouth watered even as your pussy clenched around nothing.

He climbed onto the bed, grabbed your ankles and yanked you down until your ass hung off the edge. Two thick fingers shoved straight into your soaked cunt without warning, scissoring you open.

You cried out, back arching.

“Suguru!”

“Already dripping,” he muttered, pumping his fingers hard and fast. Wet sounds filled the room. “This pussy’s been waiting for me, hasn’t it? Not that plastic shit you were using.”

“Ahh... Please...”

He pulled his fingers free, sucked them clean, then lined his cock up. The blunt head pressed against your entrance, stretching you wider than the toy ever had. He didn’t ease in—he drove forward in one brutal thrust, burying every inch inside you until his hips met your ass.

Your scream cracked into a broken moan. Suguru’s hand clamped over your mouth.

“Keep it down or the neighbors will hear how loud you get when you’re actually getting fucked.”

He pulled back and slammed in again, setting a punishing rhythm that made the headboard slam against the wall. Each thrust punched the air from your lungs and forced another wet squelch from your cunt. Your juices coated his cock and dripped down your crack onto the sheets.

He hooked your knees over his elbows, folding you nearly in half so he could pound deeper. The new angle made his cock drag across that spongy spot inside you with every stroke.

Your vision blurred.

You clawed at his shoulders, nails leaving red lines.

“Fuck—Suguru... Too deep...”

“Take it,” he snarled, sweat dripping from his hair onto your chest. “You wanted this. Been thinking about my cock while you played with yourself out there. Now you’re gonna take every inch until I fill you up.”

He reached between your bodies and rubbed your swollen clit with his thumb in tight circles. Your orgasm crashed over you fast and hard. Your pussy spasmed around his thick shaft, milking him, gushing around his cock.

Suguru groaned, pace faltering for only a second before he fucked you through it, chasing his own release.

When he came he buried himself to the hilt and stayed there, cock pulsing as thick ropes of cum flooded your cunt. You felt every hot spurt, felt it leak out around his shaft and trickle down your ass. He didn’t pull out right away. Instead he rocked his hips in shallow thrusts, pushing his cum deeper while you whimpered beneath him.

“Ohh... Yes—fuck...”

Finally he eased out.

A thick strand of cum followed, connecting his cock to your puffy, used hole. Suguru watched it for a moment, then scooped some onto his fingers and pushed it back inside you.

“Stay right there,” he ordered, voice still rough.

He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a warm cloth, cleaning you gently even as his eyes stayed dark with hunger. When he was done he climbed back onto the bed and pulled you against his chest, one hand possessively cupping your ass.

“Next time,” he murmured against your hair, “you don’t use the toy. You come find me.”

You shivered, already feeling his cock twitch against your thigh again.

“Or maybe,” you whispered back, “I’ll just be louder next time so you come find me faster.”

Suguru’s answering growl vibrated through your body as he rolled you beneath him once more, already hard and ready to prove he could fuck you better than any toy ever could.

“Careful what you wish for,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear as he gripped your hips, “because you don't get to just rub a genie in a bottle to make me appear whenever you're lonely.”

The door clicked shut and the sound of his briefcase hitting the floor echoed through the quiet space. A heavy thud followed, then the rustle of fabric as he shrugged off his coat.

Higuruma Hiromi didn't announce himself.

He never did.

He just appeared in the bedroom doorway, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark eyes already tracking you from head to toe.

You were lying on the bed, propped against the headboard, naked.

You had been waiting.

He didn't ask any questions. He crossed the room, climbed onto the mattress, and settled on his back with his head on the pillow, looking up at you with that half-lidded, patient expression he usually saved for the most interesting cross-examinations. His hands lay slack at his sides, waiting for them to take what they wanted.

You climbed over him without a word. Your knees sank into the mattress on either side of his head, and you hovered, feeling the warmth radiating from his face. His breath ghosted across your thighs, slow and even. He blinked once, long lashes brushing his cheeks, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

“You’ve had a long day,” you said, more statement than question.

“Mhm.” He tilted his chin up, offering himself. “And you’re going to make it better, darling.”

You lowered yourself slowly, deliberately. The first point of contact was the tip of his nose pressing between your folds, still dry, still cool. You paused there, letting him feel the shape of you against him. His nostrils flared, taking in your scent, and his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip. You rocked forward an inch, and his nose slid deeper, settling against your clit.

Then you started to move.

Slow, grinding circles dragged your pussy across the bridge of his nose. The sensation was immediate—firm cartilage pressing into your most sensitive spot, rubbing exactly where you needed it. His face was slick within seconds, your arousal coating his skin in a thin, glossy layer. He breathed through his mouth, warm air puffing against your labia, and you felt the vibration of a low hum in his chest.

“Hiromi...”

His hands came up to rest on your thighs, thumbs stroking the insides, not guiding, just touching. Holding you steady without impeding your rhythm.

You picked up the pace, rolling your hips in short, tight motions that mashed your clit against him again and again. The wet sounds started—soft, sticky, obscene—filling the quiet room. Each pass of your cunt over his nose left a trail of slick that glistened in the dim light.

“Mhm... Fuck...”

You could feel yourself getting wetter, hotter, the glide becoming smoother with every rotation.

Higuruma’s tongue flicked out, dragging along your entrance when you tilted forward enough. He licked a long, slow stripe up to your clit, then back down, tasting you while you kept grinding. The combined sensation of his nose against your nub and his tongue teasing your opening sent a shiver through you.

“Ahh—yes... Yes...”

Your hips stuttered, and his hands tightened, holding you in place.

“Don’t stop,” he murmured against your skin, the words muffled but clear.

You didn’t.

You ground harder, dropping your weight onto his face until your pussy was pressed flush against him, smothering him. His nose dented into your flesh, his lips brushed your inner thighs. You rolled your hips in desperate, frantic circles, chasing the pressure that was building low in your belly. Your thighs started to quiver.

Your breath came in short, sharp gasps.

“Ohh... Fuck—yes...”

He flicked his tongue again, quick and precise, right at your entrance, and that was enough.

You came with a sharp cry, your whole body tensing as waves of pleasure crashed through you. Your cunt pulsed against his nose, hot liquid gushing out, soaking his upper lip and cheeks. He groaned beneath you, the sound vibrating through your sensitive flesh, and his fingers dug into your thighs.

“Hiromi... Baby... Ngh...”

You kept moving through the orgasm, grinding slow and sloppy, drawing out every last shudder until your legs gave out and you had to brace yourself on the headboard.

When you lifted off him, his face was a mess. Your slick coated his nose, his lips, his chin, pooling in the hollow of his throat. He licked his lips slowly, eyes dark and hungry, and then his hands were guiding you back down.

“Again,” he said, his voice rough.

You settled over him once more, this time angling forward so the tip of his nose pressed directly against your clit from the start—no preamble, no teasing. You started grinding immediately, short, fast circles that made your breath catch. His tongue found your entrance and pushed inside, curling against your walls while you rode his face.

The double sensation was overwhelming: the firm pressure of his nose on your clit, the wet warmth of his tongue fucking you.

“Ahh... Shit, baby...”

Your second orgasm built fast.

You could feel it coiling tight, tightening like a spring, and when you came it hit you like a wave, your cunt clenching around his tongue, your slick flooding his mouth. He lapped it up greedily, never stopping, his nose still rubbing against your clit even as you shook above him.

“Fuck—ahh...”

You collapsed forward, palms flat on the mattress beside his head, and ground through the aftershocks. His tongue kept moving, licking and sucking at your entrance, cleaning you while you continued to ride.

The sound of your wetness was louder now, a constant, rhythmic wetness.

When the sensitivity became too much, you lifted off again. His face was glistening, utterly drenched, your arousal dripping down his jaw and onto the pillow. He didn’t wipe it off. He just looked at you, that same patient, hungry gaze, and waited.

“You’re not done, love,” he said. It was not a question.

You shook your head, already lowering yourself again.

This time you took it slower.

You settled over his face, letting his nose nestle between your folds, and started a lazy, rolling grind. You savoured the sensation of cartilage sliding against your clit, the way his breath hitched when you pressed down harder. His hands slipped to your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh, guiding your movements in long, circular sweeps.

“Baby... So good—mhm…”

The wetness was constant now—your pussy was slick and dripping, coating his face with every pass. You could feel yourself getting close again, the pleasure building in slow, heavy waves. You tilted your hips, changing the angle, and the tip of his nose caught your clit just right. You gasped, hips stuttering, and he groaned against you, the vibration pushing you closer.

“Ahh—ngh... Ahh…”

You came with a low moan, your body shuddering as your cunt pulsed against his face.

This one was deeper, more drawn out, your slick gushing out in a hot rush that dribbled down his chin and pooled in the hollow of your collarbone. He lapped at you through it, tongue sweeping through your folds, catching every drop.

You didn't stop.

You kept moving, grinding through the orgasm and into the next buildup. Your hips moved in tight, focused circles, clit grinding against his nose with desperate precision. He was completely passive now, letting you use him, only occasionally flicking his tongue against your entrance to spur you on.

“Please… I'm close…”

You lost count of how many times you came. Each orgasm bled into the next, your body trembling and oversensitive, but you couldn’t stop. The feeling of his nose buried in your cunt, the slick friction, the sounds of your wetness filling the room—it was addictive. You ground harder, faster, chasing the next peak.

When you finally lifted off him for good, your thighs were shaking so badly you could barely support yourself. Higuruma’s face was completely drenched—your slick covered his nose, lips, cheeks, and jaw, dripping onto the pillow in gleaming rivulets. He opened his eyes slowly, dark and satisfied, and licked his lips.

“Better now?” he asked, his voice rough and low.

You nodded, breathless, and slid down his body to curl against his side. He turned his head to look at you, a lazy smile spreading across his slick mouth.

“Good,” he said, brushing a stray hair from your forehead as his smile widened slightly. “Because I’m not done with you yet—and girl, you were loud tonight.”

It took precisely eighteen months for the smell of expensive cedarwood to stop making you feel like you were suffocating.

Healing from a seven-year lease on your youth wasn't a sudden, cinematic breakthrough. It was a slow, mechanical process of re-calibration. It was buying groceries for one without feeling a sharp, phantom pang of guilt at the checkout counter. It was leaving the television on for background noise until the silence of a smaller, cheaper apartment stopped sounding like an ultimatum.

Three years later, the city was exactly the same, but the way you moved through it had changed entirely.

The cafe down the block from your new creative agency was small, smelling of roasted hazelnut, damp wood, and the bitter, comforting oil of fresh espresso. It was a stark contrast to the sterile, high-end establishments Naoya used to frequent—places where the waiters bowed too low and the menus didn't feature prices. Here, the floorboards creaked under the weight of wet boots, and the windows were perpetually misted by the heat of the kitchen and the cold rain outside.

You sat by the glass, a half-empty matcha latte cooling between your palms.

Today, you wore a deep forest-green trench—a color that belonged entirely to your own palette, chosen simply because you liked the way it felt against your skin. Your hair was shorter, cut into a low-maintenance style that danced in the damp breeze. On your right middle finger, a simple silver band caught the dim light of the cafe's Edison bulbs.

It wasn't a promise to anyone else.

It was just a heavy piece of metal to remind you that your hands belonged to you now.

“You're staring into space again,” a sharp, familiar voice cracked across the table.

You blinked, pulling your gaze away from the rain-streaked window to look at Zenin Maki.

Maki looked incredible.

The three years had treated her with a fierce, blooming kindness. Her dark hair was pulled back into a sleek, efficient twist, and she wore a tailored linen blazer that completely ignored the traditional, stifling aesthetics of the family she had effectively detached herself from. On the table between you lay a heavy, cream-colored envelope with gold wax sealing the back.

“Sorry,” you said, offering a soft, genuine smile. “Just watching the downpour. It caught me without an umbrella today.”

Maki snorted, taking a slow sip of her black coffee. She tapped her index finger against the elegant envelope. “Don't change the subject. I didn't drag you down from your office just to give you premium cardstock. Are you coming or not?”

You reached out, your fingers tracing the elegant embossed lettering of the wedding invitation.

Maki and Yuta.

It felt real.

It felt earned.

It was a monument to a love that didn't require secrecy or five-year negotiations.

“Of course I'm coming,” you murmured, looking up at her. “I wouldn't miss it for the world, Maki. I’m incredibly happy for you.”

Maki’s expression softened, the sharp, defensive edge she usually carried around her shoulders dropping just a fraction. She leaned back in her chair, her dark eyes evaluating you with a quiet, analytical precision.

“I was worried it might be... weird for you,” Maki admitted, her voice dropping into a rarer, gentler register. “With the family name on the registry. Even if I don't use their money, the politics of it are still a headache. And I know what seven years of that name did to you.”

You shook your head, the silver band on your finger catching the light. “Naoya is his own entity, Maki. You aren't your family. You never were. Your wedding is about a partnership. It’s about a real future.”

Maki paused, her fingers wrapping around her mug. She looked out the window for a brief second before locking her eyes back onto yours. “And what about your plans? I know it’s been three years since you broke the lease on that glass cage downtown. Are you... thinking about it? Marriage, I mean. With anyone else?”

The question didn't sting the way it used to.

It didn't send a wave of hot panic through your chest or make you feel like a failure for being thirty-four and single.

“I think about it sometimes,” you said honestly, your voice steady and light. “But my perspective changed. For seven years, I thought marriage was the prize at the end of a long, exhausting race. I thought it was the only thing that would make me visible to the person I loved. Now? I realize a ring doesn't create security. If I ever do it, it won't be because I’ve been waiting for someone to finally choose me. It’ll be because we’ve already chosen each other, completely out in the open.”

Maki watched you for a long moment, a slow, proud smile spreading across her face. She reached across the table, her calloused hand giving your wrist a brief, firm squeeze. “Good. You were always too large for that penthouse anyway.”

She glanced at her watch, letting out a sharp sigh as she gathered her coat. “I have to run. Yuta is meeting me at the caterer's across town, and if I’m late, he’ll try to accommodate their ridiculous upcharges just to be polite. You're going to be okay getting back to the office?”

“I'll wait out the rain for a few minutes,” you said, gesturing to the gray sheets of water slamming against the pavement outside. “Go. Don't let the caterers rob him.”

With a final wave and a promise to text you the details for the dress fittings, Maki stepped out into the afternoon, her umbrella snapping open with a crisp, efficient movement as she dissolved into the pedestrian traffic.

The cafe grew quieter after she left. In the background, from the hidden speakers near the espresso machine, a familiar synth-pop melody began to drift through the warm air. The rhythm was a steady, pulsing heartbeat, accompanied by a vulnerable, aching vocal line.

You listened to the lyrics with a faint, distant smile. Two years ago, a song would have made you change the radio station in a panic. Now, it just felt like an old friend recounting a story you both used to know by heart.

You had survived a hundred sleepless nights.

You had made it to the other side of the rain.

You picked up your paper bag containing two new poetry volumes and a small tin of jasmine tea, tucked it under your arm, and stepped out onto the narrow pavement beneath the green canvas awning.

The storm had intensified.

The rain was coming down in thick, vertical sheets, blurring the corporate high-rises down the avenue into long, gray monoliths. The wind was cool, blowing fine mist against the hem of your green trench coat. You pulled your collar up, leaning your back against the brick wall of the coffee shop, deciding to give the weather five more minutes before you gave up and ran the three blocks back to your agency.

Then, the light changed.

The ambient gray glow of the afternoon was suddenly obscured as a tall, broad silhouette hovered over you, blocking out the spray of the wind.

You didn't look up immediately, assuming it was a hurried commuter trying to share the shelter of the small awning. But the person didn't move past. They simply stopped, standing exactly two paces away, their shadow falling heavy and absolute across your boots.

You raised your eyes.

The man standing before you didn't have an umbrella. He was completely drenched, the expensive charcoal cashmere of his coat heavy and dark with rainwater. His blonde hair—now styled slightly softer but still maintaining those sharp, dark roots—was plastered against his forehead, water droplets tracing the sharp, geometric lines of his jawline and dripping onto his collar.

Naoya.

The universe didn't halt its rotation.

The synth music from the cafe didn't swell into a dramatic crescendo. The world simply kept moving, indifferent to the fact that eighty-four months of history had just collided on a wet sidewalk down a random commercial block.

He froze, his pale, sharp eyes locking onto your face. For a fraction of a second, that absolute, terrifying stillness came over him—the exact body language he used when a business acquisition didn't go according to plan, or when a variable entered his field of vision that he hadn't accounted for in his spreadsheets.

You didn't look away.

You didn't drop your gaze to the pavement, and you didn't feel the sudden, erratic thumping of your heart against your ribs. Your chest remained steady. The air in your lungs felt clean.

“You're still in Tokyo,” he said.

His voice was a time capsule.

It carried the exact same smooth, patronizing cadence that used to dictate the boundaries of your life, but it was slightly breathless from the weather. Hearing it now, removed from the sterile luxury of the penthouse, you realized something that the tears had hidden from you for seven years: it wasn't the voice of a superior.

It was just the voice of a man who looked completely out of his depth in a common downpour.

“I am,” you said, your tone clear and even. It didn't shake. “My new office is just three blocks from here.”

Naoya’s eyes tracked down your profile, his gaze lingering on the green coat, the paper bag, and finally, the silver ring on your right middle finger. A subtle twitch passed through his jawline—a fraction of an inch of tension that anyone else would have missed, but your memory still held the syntax of his anatomy.

“You look different,” he said, his eyes scanning the shorter cut of your hair. “The green suits you.”

“A lot of things are different, Naoya,” you replied softly.

A silence settled between you, but it lacked the suffocating weight of your final anniversary dinner.

This silence was light, almost transparent. It was the vast, empty space that existed between two people who used to know the exact layout of each other's minds but had now become nothing more than a pair of matching names in an old ledger.

“My father passed away last winter,” Naoya said, water dripping from his chin onto his dark scarf. He delivered the news casually, as if summarizing a quarterly board report, but his fingers were tightly curled into fists inside his pockets. “I took over the primary seat on the executive committee in March. The southern district development is fully operational now. The family estate has been... reorganized.”

“I saw the announcement in the papers,” you said, offering a small, polite nod. “Congratulations. It's exactly what you spent seven years engineering.”

He looked at you for a long, unblinking moment.

In the past, you would have spent the next forty-eight hours decoding that look, trying to figure out if he was lonely, if he was angry, or if he wanted you to ask him to come inside. Now, you just let the look exist. His expressions were his own property; they no longer had the power to change the climate of your day.

“I saw Maki step out of here a minute ago,” Naoya said, his voice dropping into a lower, rougher register as the rain continued to beat against the canvas above your heads. “She was holding an envelope. A wedding invitation.”

“Yes,” you said.

“Are you going?”

“Of course I am.”

Naoya let out a short, dry sound that was supposed to be a laugh, but it lacked any of his old, mocking venom. It just sounded tired. “A Zenin wedding. Out in the open. I suppose that's the sort of ‘commitment’ you were always chasing me for.”

The question was designed to find a crack in your armor, a classic negotiation tactic from his old playbook meant to lower your value and justify his past choices. But as the words hung in the damp air, they didn't touch you. They fell flat against the pavement, as meaningless as the water rushing into the storm drains.

You looked past his wet shoulder, watching the cars pass on the avenue, their headlights slicing through the gray mist.

“I won't go to Maki's wedding to find a title, Naoya,” you said, turning your eyes back to his pale, hollow irises. “And I didn't leave you because I was chasing a traditional little family. I left because I realized that for seven years, I was the only one standing at the table. I found myself after I walked out that door. It turns out that was the only commitment I actually needed.”

A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

It wasn't a smile of triumph.

It wasn't meant to mock his drenched appearance or prove that you had won. It was simply the quiet, breathtaking clarity of someone who could finally see through the tears and realize the storm had passed.

Naoya looked at your smile, and for the first time since you had met him at twenty-five, he had absolutely nothing to say. The vocabulary of his privilege failed him completely. There were no corporate clauses to invoke, no financial security to offer as leverage, and no threats of changing the locks that could force you back into the glass cage.

He was thirty-five now.

He had the seat on the board, the multi-million-dollar portfolio, and the absolute authority over his father's legacy. He had built the perfect fortress, completely secure from his family's interference.

But as he stood on a crowded street corner, drenched to the bone while the synth music from the cafe faded into the background, he looked entirely, profoundly solitary.

He was a man who owned everything, yet held absolutely nothing.

“I see,” he said quietly.

He stepped back, moving out from under the slight protection of the awning and back into the vertical sheets of rain. He didn't have an umbrella to open, no mechanical click to seal himself away this time.

He was just a man standing in the weather.

“Take care of yourself,” he said, his leather shoes shifting on the wet concrete.

“You too, Naoya,” you said.

He turned and walked down the avenue, his posture perfectly straight despite the weight of his soaked coat, effortlessly navigating the crowd of ordinary commuters.

He didn't look back.

He wouldn't.

He was a line on a motherboard, moving along a predetermined path toward a destination that required him to be completely alone.

You watched his blonde hair disappear into the gray mist for three seconds—not out of longing, but as a final acknowledgment of a chapter that had completely run out of pages.

The music from the boutique next door changed, a new, lighter rhythm bouncing off the brick walls.

You adjusted the paper bag under your arm, feeling the solid, comforting weight of the books against your ribs. Pulling your green collar up against the damp breeze, you stepped out from under the awning and into the rain. The water was cool against your face, but you didn't hurry.

You walked slowly, deliberately, matching the steady, beautiful pace of a city that was moving forward.

The lease was over, the keys were gone, and the tears had dried.

You walked toward the subway station, entering the crowd, entirely free, entirely clean, and completely your own.

The early morning light filtered through the heavy drapes of Hiromi’s bedroom, casting long, soft amber geometric patterns across the tangled sheets. It was a rare, unstructured morning. No early court dates, no pressing client briefs, and no alarm to shatter the quiet.

​You woke up slowly, shifting against the mattress, instantly met with the comforting, heavy weight of a broad arm draped securely over your waist. Hiromi was flush against your back, his large frame acting as a shield against the rest of the world. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, his warm breath fanning softly against the nape of your neck. He was still wearing the dark gray boxer briefs he’d slept in, his skin radiating a deep, sleepy warmth that was completely intoxicating.

You shifted slightly, wanting to turn and face him, but the movement caused his grip on your waist to tighten immediately. A low, gravelly rumble vibrated in his chest—a warning that he wasn't ready to let go of his anchor just yet.

“Stay,” he murmured, his voice incredibly deep and thick with sleep, the gravelly edge of it rougher than usual. He buried his face into your hair, inhaling deeply. “Don't move yet.”

“Hiromi,” you whispered, a soft smile touching your lips as you relaxed back into him, your spine curving perfectly against his chest. “We have to get up eventually.”

“Eventually,” he agreed, but his actions completely contradicted the word.

His hand slid down from your waist, his large palm catching the hem of your oversized t-shirt and slowly bunching the fabric upward until it rested at your hips, exposing your bare skin to the cool morning air. His touch was warm, his long fingers trailing light, deliberate strokes over the curve of your hip and down the outer edge of your thigh.

The casual intimacy of it sent a sudden, sharp jolt of heat straight to your core. You were already waking up soft and slightly damp, your body reacting to his proximity before your mind was even fully alert.

Hiromi felt the slight hitch in your breathing. He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his dark eyes heavy-lidded but tracking the sudden flush on your cheek with absolute precision.

A small, knowing smile touched the corner of his lips.

“You're awake,” he noted, his voice dropping into a low, quiet purr that sent a shiver straight down your spine. “And you're already reacting to me.”

He didn't wait for an answer.

Hiromi shifted his weight, sliding one of his long legs between yours, hooking his knee over your thigh to spread you open from behind. The friction of his thick, rigid length—already fully hard from morning arousal—pressed heavily through the thin fabric of his boxers right against the seam of your pussy.

You gasped, your hips automatically tilting back into his heat, silently begging for the barrier to be removed.

“Look at you,” Hiromi murmured, his hand sliding between your thighs to check the evidence. His long fingers parted your slick folds, easily finding the thick, wet cream you were already producing for him. He smeared it over your hyper-sensitive clit with a slow, heavy stroke that had a needy whine escaping your throat. “Completely soaked for me first thing in the morning.”

With a practiced, effortless movement, Hiromi reached down and slid his boxers off, tossing them blindly over the edge of the bed. He returned to you instantly, his bare, burning skin pressing flush against your backside. He didn't lift you or turn you over; he kept you lying on your side, completely bracketed by his weight.

He positioned the thick, blunt head of his cock right at your dripping entrance. He paused there for a agonizing second, letting you feel the sheer size of him, before he pushed forward with a slow, heavy thrust.

“Ahh—Hiromi...” you cried out, your head throwing back against his shoulder as his length slid into your tight, burning channel.

Because of the side-lying angle, the penetration was incredibly deep, his cock hooking perfectly against the sensitive upper wall of your pussy with a tight, full friction that made your vision instantly blur. He buried himself to the absolute root, his lower stomach pressing hard against your ass, trapping you completely.

“Shh, take it easy,” Hiromi guided, his voice a soothing, deep vibration against your ear as he held his hips still inside you, letting your tight walls stretch and adjust to the sudden fullness. He reached forward, his large hand wrapping around your stomach to pull you even tighter against him, his fingers digging into your skin. “Breathing down, love. Let me all the way in.”

You panted, your hands clutching at the sheets beneath you as your inner muscles convulsed around him, milking him frantically.

Once he felt you relax, Hiromi began to move.

The pace of a morning side-fuck was entirely different from the frantic, desperate sex of the night before. It was slow, heavy, and intensely possessive. Hiromi withdrew slowly, pulling almost all the way out until only the head of his cock remained inside your soaking wetness, before plunging back in with a long, deliberate slide. The wet schlick of your combined juices echoed loudly in the quiet room.

“Mhm... Yes...”

“You feel incredible like this,” Hiromi whispered, his composure completely intact but his dark eyes burning with a heavy, primal hunger as he watched the way your body took him. He angled his pelvis slightly, using his upper leg to pin yours down, forcing his cock to rub ruthlessly against your G-spot with every single thrust. “So tight. Squeezing me so perfectly.”

“Hiromi, it's... It's hitting right there,” you gasped, your body twitching as the friction built a blinding, electric heat at your core.

The lazy, rhythmic pounding was catastrophic, building an unbearable wave of tension that you couldn't escape. You couldn't move away from him; you were entirely locked into his rhythm.

“I know it is...” he murmured, his thumb finding your clit again, adding a crushing, steady pressure that synchronized perfectly with the heavy thrusts of his hips. “Don't fight it. Just lie here and take it. Let me ruin you before the day even starts.”

“Ahm... Ngh...”

The dual stimulation was overwhelming.

The side position allowed him to bottom out inside you with minimal effort, his thick shaft stretching you open while his hand ruthlessly worked your exterior. You were completely at his mercy, trapped between his heavy frame and the mattress, feeling every single ridge of his cock slide deep into your melting core.

“Ahh—yes... Hiromi...”

Your breathing turned into broken, ragged sobs as the peak rushed toward you like a tidal wave. Your inner walls began to lock up, clamping down on his length like a vice as you hovered on the precipice.

“Hiromi, I'm going to—I'm gonna cum...” you whimpered, your fingers burying into the mattress, your toes curling against the sheets.

“Do it, darling...” he commanded, his voice hardening with authority as he increased the pace just a fraction, his thrusts becoming heavier, hitting that internal sweet spot with brutal accuracy. “Cum for me. Tighten up around my cock and take everything I have.”

The absolute permission broke you.

“Fuck... Ahh—!”

With a loud, choked cry, your pussy spasmed violently around him, a massive, convulsing orgasm ripping through your entire lower body. Your walls clamped down on him in tight, frantic waves, milking him ruthlessly.

The intense, crushing friction of your climax was the final straw for Hiromi. He growled—a deep, low, animalistic sound that tore from his throat—as his usual iron control completely shattered. He locked his arm around your waist, anchoring your hips flush against his, and delivered three more deep, brutal thrusts, driving his cock to the absolute hilt inside your pulsing wetness.

With a heavy, shuddering groan, Hiromi threw his head back, his entire body locking up as he came deep inside you. You could feel the hot, thick torrent of his cum pumping into your core, filling you to the brim as his length pulsed in tandem with your fading contractions.

The room fell into an absolute, heavy silence, save for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.

Hiromi didn't move for a long time, keeping himself buried deep inside you, his chest rising and falling heavily against your back as the aftershocks of the orgasm slowly rippled through both of you.

Slowly, his grip on your waist softened. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the bare skin of your shoulder, then another to the side of your neck. His breathing gradually slowed, returning to a steady rhythm.

“Perfect,” he murmured, his voice thick and entirely satisfied against your skin. He gently stroked your hip, his long fingers trailing over your flush skin. “An immaculate start to the day.”

You swallowed hard, your body completely spent and melting into the mattress, a soft sigh escaping your lips. “I don't think I can get out of bed now, Hiromi.”

Hiromi chuckled, a low, rich rumble in his chest that vibrated right through your spine. He pulled you a little closer, wrapping his arms securely around you as he slowly slid his softening length out of your dripping core with a wet click.

“Good,” he whispered, pulling the heavy comforter up over both of your shoulders, shielding you from the morning light. “Then we stay right here, because I have absolutely no intention of saving either of us from drowning in this bed today.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and before he could even set down the bag of takeout he brought, you were on him—pushing him against the wall, kissing him deeply, your hands sliding under his shirt. Choso laughed against your mouth, warmed and surprised.

​“Thank you, baby,” he said, grinning. “You're being extra affectionate tonight.”

​“Happy birthday,” you murmured, pulling back just enough to see his face. His eyes were bright, his cheeks flushed from the cold outside and the sudden affection.

“Just wait.”

You took his hand and led him toward the bedroom. He followed without question, trusting you completely. That trust made your pulse quicken.

Inside, the room was dim, lit only by a few candles you had arranged earlier. On the bed, laid out neatly, were four silk scarves—deep burgundy, matching the one you were wearing as a robe.

Choso raised an eyebrow.

“Birthday surprise?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave.

“Mhm.” You pushed him gently onto the bed. He went willingly, sitting on the edge, looking up at you. “I'm going to tie you up. And then I'm going to give you the best birthday present you've ever had.”

His breath caught. “What kind of present?”

“You'll see.” You smiled, slow and wicked, and reached for the first scarf.

He lay back without resistance, arms stretched above his head. You worked methodically—looping the silk around his left wrist, then the right, cinching them to the headboard posts. The knots were secure but not painful. He tested them, pulling gently, and the scarves held firm.

“Comfortable?” you asked, running a hand down his chest.

“Yeah.” His voice was already rough. “This is… Really hot.”

“Good, because I'm not done yet.”

You grabbed another scarf and tied his ankles, spreading his legs apart and anchoring them to the bottom corners of the bed. He was completely spread out now, vulnerable and exposed. His cock was already pressing against his jeans.

You stood back, admiring your work. “You look so good like this, baby. Helpless. Waiting for me.”

“Waiting for my present,” he corrected, a teasing lilt in his voice, but his eyes were dark with need.

“Patience.”

You climbed onto the bed, kneeling beside him. Slowly, deliberately, you unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them down along with his boxers. His cock sprung free, already half-hard, thickening as you stared.

“Happy birthday, Choso.” You leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the tip.

He shuddered. “Fuck… That's a good start.”

You grinned against his skin. “Oh, I'm just getting started.”

You took your time, circling your tongue around the head, tasting the salt of precum already beading at the slit. His hips bucked instinctively, but the restraints held him in place.

He groaned, frustrated, but you shushed him.

“Stay still. It's your birthday, but I'm in charge.”

“I know—fuck... I know, just—please...”

You took him deeper, sliding your mouth down his shaft, feeling him twitch against your tongue. He was huge, he filled your mouth perfectly, and the weight of him was heavy and warm. You bobbed your head slowly, savoring every inch, your hand gripping the base to steady him.

Choso's head fell back, a long, low moan escaping his lips. “Yes... Just like that—don't stop...”

You didn't.

You took him as deep as you can, until your nose brushed his pelvis, and you swallowed around him. His thighs tensed, a sharp gasp cutting through the air.

“Shit... Please..”

You hummed in response, the vibration making him cry out. His hands clenched into fists, tugging at the scarves, but they held firm. He was completely at your mercy, and you loved it.

You pulled off slowly, letting your tongue drag along his shaft, then swirled around the head again. Precum gleamed on your lips.

“You tastes amazing. Happy birthday, babe.”

“Best birthday ever,” he breathed.

You teased him for a while—long, slow strokes of your tongue, shallow sucks that barely took him in, then a sudden deepthroat that made him see stars. His moans grew louder, more desperate, his body trembling with the effort of not thrusting.

“Please...” He begged, voice cracked. “Please, I need to cum—”

“Not yet.” You pulled away entirely, licking your lips. “I'm gonna make you wait a little longer. It's your birthday, so I'll make it last.”

He whined, actually whined, and it was the hottest sound you have ever heard. “You're so mean, baby...”

“You love it.”

“I do.” He swallowed, eyes glazed. “I love everything you do to me.”

You leaned up and kissed him, letting him taste himself on your tongue. He kissed back desperately, moaning into your mouth. When you pulled away, you whispered, “I'm going to suck your cock until you're a trembling mess. And then I'll let you cum down my throat. How does that sound?”

“Perfect.” His voice was ragged. “Please. Do it.”

You smiled and lowered your head again.

This time, you were relentless. You took him deep and fast, your hand working at the base in rhythm with your mouth. Saliva dripped down to your chin, but you didn't care. The only thing that matters was the sounds he was making—those broken moans, that desperate keening when you swallowed around his length.

“Close... Fuck... I'm so close—please...”

You doubled your pace, your free hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently. He sobbed, back arching off the bed, the ropes creaking.

“Please please please...”

You hummed, and that was the final push. His orgasm slammed through him, hot and thick, flooding your mouth. You swallowed greedily, milking every pulse, not letting go until he was completely spent.

When you finally pulled off, his cock was slick and softening, and your lips were swollen. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, grinning down at him.

“Happy birthday, baby.”

He was panting, eyes half-lidded, a goofy, blissed-out smile on his face. “That was… Incredible. Best present ever.”

“Good, because I have more plans.”

He blinked. “More?”

“Mhm.” You crawled up his body, straddling his chest. “I'm going to ride you until you can't think straight.”

He laughed, weak and happy. “I think I'm already there.”

“Then let me help you lose the rest of your mind.”

You leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep. As your lips parted, Choso let out a low, breathless chuckle, looking up at you with pure adoration.

“I knew you were affectionate, but I didn't realize you were such a total freak.”

© 2026 faeloresha. All content is owned by @faeloresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

The house was too quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavy and expectant. Your father was in his study, the muffled sound of his voice on a conference call drifting through the vents, a constant reminder of the danger you were playing with. But the danger was exactly why your skin felt like it was humming, a low-voltage current vibrating under your surface every time you caught Toji’s eye.

Toji didn’t belong here—not in the way your father thought.

To your father, Toji was the reliable, rugged old friend, a man of few words and a violent history that had long since been smoothed over by time and mutual respect. To you, Toji was a predator who had spent the last six months teaching you exactly what it felt like to be owned by a man who didn't care for rules.

He was leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, his massive frame nearly filling the space. He was wearing a tight black t-shirt that clung to the slab-like muscles of his chest and shoulders, the fabric straining every time he shifted. He wasn't looking at your father; he was looking at you, his dark eyes hooded, tracking the way your chest heaved under your thin summer dress.

He didn't say a word.

He didn't have to.

He just tilted his head toward the narrow corridor that led to the back bedrooms—a blind spot in the house where the shadows lingered even at noon.

You didn't hesitate.

You slipped away from the living room, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. The moment you stepped into the dim hallway, a large, calloused hand shot out from the darkness, gripping your wrist and yanking you backward.

The impact with the wall was sudden and hard, knocking a small gasp from your lungs. Toji was there instantly, his body a wall of heat and muscle pinning you in place. He didn't kiss you—not yet. He just hovered, his breath hot against your ear, the scent of expensive tobacco and something primal filling your senses.

“You're shaking,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated straight down to your thighs. “Is it because you're scared he'll hear us, or because you're desperate for me to fuck you?”

“Toji...” you whimpered, your hands clutching at the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.

“Shh,” he commanded, his hand sliding down from your wrist to grip your throat—not enough to choke, but enough to let you know who was in control. “You know the rules. Not a sound. If your daddy walks out that door, I'm just the family friend, and you're just the good little girl.”

The contrast was intoxicating.

The “good girl” image was a lie you wore like a costume, and Toji was the only one who knew how to rip it off.

He shifted his weight, pressing his hardness firmly against your hip, letting you feel the sheer size of him through his trousers. He was older, stronger, and possessed a confidence that bordered on arrogance—a confidence that came from knowing he could have you whenever he wanted, and that you would crave it.

He reached down, his large hand bunching up the fabric of your dress, sliding it up your thighs until the cool air hit your skin.

He didn't waste time with finesse.

His fingers found your panties, hooking into the lace and ripping them to the side with a sharp snap that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet hall.

You gasped, your back arching against the wallpaper, but Toji immediately pressed his palm over your mouth, stifling the sound. His eyes were dark, predatory, watching your expression with a cruel sort of hunger.

“Good girl,” he whispered, his voice dripping with a dark satisfaction. “Stay quiet for me.”

He didn't use his fingers to prep you; he knew you were already soaking, the mere presence of him and the risk of the situation having turned you into a mess.

He reached for his belt, the metallic clink of the buckle sounding deafeningly loud. He freed his cock, and you caught a glimpse of it—thick, veiny, and pulsing with a need that matched your own.

Toji grabbed your thighs, hoisting you up. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, your heels digging into the small of his back. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, as he aligned himself with your opening.

“Ngh...”

He entered you in one singular, brutal thrust.

“Mhmph!”

You screamed into his palm, your eyes widening as he filled you completely, stretching you to your absolute limit. He was too big, too much, but it was exactly what you needed. He didn't give you time to adjust; he began to move, his hips slamming into yours with a rhythmic, punishing force.

“Ahh—mhm...”

The sound of his body hitting yours and your back hitting the wall echoed in the narrow space. Every thrust felt like it was reaching your soul, the sheer power of his movements shaking your entire frame. Toji wasn't being gentle; he was fucking you with a raw, possessive intensity, as if he were marking every inch of your insides as his own.

“Ahm... Ngh...”

“Look at me...” he commanded, pulling his hand away from your mouth just enough for you to breathe, but keeping his grip tight on your jaw.

“Toji—ohh...”

You looked up into his eyes, seeing the raw lust and the flicker of amusement. He loved this—the taboo of it, the fact that he was stealing you right under the nose of a man who trusted him.

It added a layer of dominance to the act that made your head spin.

“Does it feel good?” he grunted, his pace increasing, his breath coming in heavy heaves. “Having your father's friend stretch you out? Knowing he's just a few rooms away while I'm balls-deep in his daughter?”

You couldn't even answer; you could only nod frantically, your head tossing back against the wall.

“Ahh... Fuck—ahh!”

The friction was overwhelming, the heat building in your core until it felt like you were going to combust. You clung to him, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your nails leaving red crescents in his skin.

Toji shifted his grip, one hand staying on your throat while the other slid down to grip your ass, squeezing the flesh hard, pulling you even tighter against him. He began to hit your cervix with every plunge, a deep, blunt sensation that sent sparks of pleasure exploding behind your eyelids.

“Yes—please... Yes...”

“You're so tight...” he growled, his voice dropping an octave. “Fucking pathetic how much you want this. You're just a little slut for an older man, aren't you?”

The degradation only fueled the fire.

You let out a moan, your body tightening around him, the walls of your pussy pulsing in a desperate attempt to draw more of him in. You were on the edge, the tension coiled tight in your stomach, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps.

“Ohh, Toji... Ohm... Shit...”

Suddenly, the sound of a door opening echoed from the end of the hall.

“Toji? You still in there?” your father's voice called out, sounding confused.

The world stopped.

You froze, your heart leaping into your throat, your eyes wide with terror. Toji didn't stop. If anything, his expression darkened, a smirk playing on his lips. He didn't pull out; instead, he drove himself into you one more time, deep and slow, making sure you felt every ridge of him.

“Toji—”

He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a ghostly whisper. “Don't. Make. A sound.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, biting your lip so hard you tasted blood. You could hear your father's footsteps approaching, the slow, steady rhythm of his shoes on the hardwood.

Every second felt like an hour.

You were suspended in a state of pure agony and ecstasy, pinned against the wall by the man who was ruining you, while the man who raised you walked toward the scene.

Toji began to move again, but this time it was slow, agonizingly deliberate. He was teasing you, pushing you closer to the edge while the danger peaked. He watched your face, enjoying the way you trembled, the way you fought to keep your moans trapped in your throat.

“Mhm...”

He was playing a game, and you were the prize.

Your father stopped just around the corner. “Toji? I thought I heard something.”

Toji didn't even flinch.

He shifted his hips, hitting a sweet spot that made your entire body shudder. You let out a tiny, high-pitched whimper, a sound so small it was almost silent, but in the stillness of the house, it felt like a scream.

“Mhmph!”

“Just a loose floorboard,” Toji called out, his voice perfectly calm, perfectly steady, even as he continued to fuck you with a slow, grinding motion. “I'll be out in a second.”

“Right. Well, the drinks are poured. Come on over.”

As your father's footsteps receded, the tension snapped. Toji let out a low, triumphant laugh and suddenly accelerated. The slow torture was over; he returned to the brutal, fast pace of before, his body slamming into yours with renewed vigor.

“Ahh—yes...”

“He has no idea...” Toji hissed, his voice thick with lust. “He has no fucking idea what I'm doing to you.”

The realization pushed you over the edge.

The combination of the near-miss, the dominance, and the sheer physical sensation of Toji filling you triggered a violent orgasm. Your internal muscles clamped down on him in rhythmic waves, squeezing him tight. You sobbed into his shoulder, your body shaking with the force of the release, your vision blurring.

“Please... Please...”

Toji groaned, his own composure finally breaking. He let out a guttural roar, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he delivered several more powerful thrusts. He surged deep inside you, his body locking up as he came, filling you with a hot, thick flood of seed that seemed to go on forever.

“Fuck... Baby...”

He stayed there for a moment, panting, his forehead resting against yours.

The silence returned to the house, but it was different now—charged, heavy, and stained with the scent of sex.

Slowly, he slid out of you, the wet sound of his exit making you shiver. He didn't immediately let you down. He held you for a second longer, his eyes scanning your flushed face and swollen lips.

“You're a mess,” he murmured, though there was a trace of affection in his voice.

He set you on your feet, his large hands lingering on your hips. He reached down, smoothing out your dress with a casualness that was almost insulting, as if he hadn't just spent the last twenty minutes destroying you against a wall.

He stepped back, adjusting his clothes and buckling his belt with a metallic click. He looked like the “family friend” again—composed, rugged, and untouchable. But as he turned to leave the hallway, he paused and looked back over his shoulder.

“Clean yourself up,” he commanded, a predatory glint in his eyes. “And put on a smile. Your father is waiting for us.”

You leaned against the wall, your legs still shaking, the feeling of him still warm and dripping inside you. You watched him walk away, the broad set of his shoulders and the confident stride of a man who knew exactly how much power he held over you.

Having an older boyfriend was a dangerous game, especially when he was a man like Toji Fushiguro. He didn't offer the sweetness of a peer or the stability of a partner; he offered a descent into something darker, something raw and unfiltered. He taught you that there was a thrill in being owned, a luxury in being completely overwhelmed by someone who knew exactly how to break you.

As you straightened your dress and wiped the stray tear from your cheek, you knew you would do it again. You would follow him into any shadow, risk any discovery, just to feel that crushing weight of him against you once more.

You walked out into the living room, where your father was smiling, holding a glass of scotch.

“There you are,” your father said, glancing at you. “Everything okay? You look a little flushed.”

You looked past him to Toji, who was already leaning back in a leather armchair, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched you.

“I'm fine, Dad,” you replied, your voice slightly breathless. “Just a bit warm in the hall.”

Toji raised his glass to you in a silent toast, his eyes promising that the afternoon was far from over.

“You've got to watch out for the heat, sweetheart—an older man like me knows exactly how dangerous it gets when you let it make you lose your cool.”

The first thing you noticed was the weight of his presence behind you.

It was not his hands—not yet—just that steady, solid warmth that Nanami Kento carried everywhere like a second skin. His chest brushed against your bare shoulder blades, the cotton of his button-down a rough contrast to the naked curve of your spine. You are standing in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom, the one he had insisted on keeping despite its ornate, slightly outdated frame because “it functions perfectly fine, there's no reason to replace it.”

Right now, you are grateful for his pragmatism.

His palms came to rest on your hips, fingers splaying wide over the jut of bone beneath your skin. The touch was light, grounding, a question more than a demand. You watched his reflection, the way his amber eyes dragged from your face down the length of your exposed body—languid, unhurried.

It was like he was memorizing every inch.

“Look at yourself, honey,” he murmured, his voice that low, gravelly thing that settled behind your ribs and made your thighs press together. “Just look.”

You did.

The woman in the mirror was already flushed, nipples pebbled tight, breath coming in shallow little bursts that made her chest rise and fall in an uneven rhythm. She looked desperate, and you hate how much that turned you on.

Kento's mouth found the curve of your shoulder. His lips parted, tongue dragging hot and wet against your skin, and you shivered so hard you had to brace your hands against the dresser beneath the mirror.

“I've had a long week, my love,” he said against your shoulder, words vibrating through your bones. “Meetings. Paperwork. People who should know better ask questions with obvious answers.” His teeth scraped your skin, just enough to stung. “And all I could think about was coming home to you.”

His hands moved.

Slowly—agonizingly slowly—they slid from your hips around to your stomach, palms flat against the soft part of your belly before drifting lower. Not quite to where you need them. Just tracing the waistband of your panties, fingertips skimming the lace like he was testing the texture.

“Kento…” you breathed, and you could even hear the plea in it.

His reflection smiled.

It was not a kind smile. It was the kind of smile that knew exactly what it was doing, that understood the power coiled in those deliberate, patient hands of his. The kind of smile that made your cunt ache.

“Why the rush?” he asked, innocent as sin. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, dragging the fabric down your thighs. You stepped out of them when they pooled at your ankles, bare now from the waist down, completely exposed under the warm bedroom light. “We have all night.”

The mirror didn't lie.

You saw everything—the dark blonde of his hair, slightly disheveled from the day. The way his forecorded arms flexed as his hands came to rest on your hips again, guiding you just a fraction wider apart. The hungry glint in his eyes as he took in the sight of your naked body framed against his clothed one.

“Hands on the dresser,” he instructed, and you obeyed immediately, palms flat against the polished wood.

The position arched your back just enough, pushed your ass back against the thick seam of his trousers. You felt him through the fabric—half-hard, growing heavier by the second.

“Good girl.”

The praise sunk into you like honey, warm and sweet and addictive.

His right hand left your hip, trailing a path down the curve of your ass, around the swell of your thigh, and then.

There.

His fingers found your folds like they have been searching for them all day, like this was the destination he has been walking toward since he stepped through the front door. He didn't push inside. Not yet. He just explored, dragging the pads of his fingers through your slickness, gathering the wetness that has been building since he first pressed himself against your back.

“You're so wet for me,” he observed, the same tone he might use to comment on the weather. A simple fact. Irrefutable. “Have you been thinking about this all day too?”

“Yes...” you admitted, because there was no point in lying. Your body has already told him everything.

His middle finger circled your clit, featherlight, and your hips jerked forward like you had been shocked.

“Ngh...”

A low, frustrated sound escaped your throat.

“Eyes on the mirror,” he reminded you, and you dragged your gaze back up to meet his reflection. “I want you to watch what I do to you. I want you to see the way you fall apart for me.”

The first finger slid in with no resistance.

“Ohh—!”

You were so wet that it glided smoothly, sinking into your heat until his knuckle pressed against your entrance. He held there, letting you feel the stretch, the fullness of even that single digit inside you. Your walls clenched around him instinctively, trying to pull him deeper.

“Desperate little thing,” he murmured, but there was no cruelty in it.

Just affection. Just wonder.

He added a second finger.

“Ahm... Fuck...”

The stretch was sharper, fuller, and you gasped at the sensation, your knuckles going white against the dresser's edge. Kento gave you a moment to adjust—he was always so careful with you, even when he was taking you apart. His lips pressed a soft apology against your shoulder blade while his fingers remained still inside you, letting your body learn the shape of him.

“Breathe,” he said quietly. “You can take it. You've taken so much more.”

You exhaled, forcing your muscles to relax. He felt you loosen around him and rewarded you with a slow, deliberate thrust—fingers sliding out almost to the tips before pressing back in, filling you completely.

“Kento... More...”

“Just like that,” he praised, and his voice has dropped an octave, rougher now. “Look at you. Look at how beautifully you take my fingers.”

You looked.

“Ahm—ahh... Yes...”

The image in the mirror was obscened.

Your legs were spread, your cunt on full display, and between your thighs you can see Kento's hand working, his fingers disappearing inside you with every thrust. Your skin was flushed pink from your chest all the way up to your cheeks, and your mouth was parted, tiny sounds escaping with every breath

“Yes, baby... Please..”

“I want to taste you,” he said, almost conversationally, while his fingers curl inside you, searching. “I want to bury my face between your thighs and drink every drop you give me. Would you like that?”

“Yes... Mhm...” you whimpered.

“But I can't stop watching you.”

His fingers found the spot—that rough, spongy patch inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. He pressed against it, firm and steady, and your knees buckled. He caught you easily, his free arm wrapping around your waist to keep you upright.

“Shit—ohh... Keep going...”

“Not when you look like this. Not when you're this perfect.”

His fingers started a rhythm.

It was devastating.

“Ahh... Ahh—mhmph!”

He slid in and out at a pace that was maddeningly controlled, each thrust pressing against your g-spot before pulling away, building a pressure that coiled tighter and tighter in your gut. At the same time, his thumb found your clit, rubbing firm circles that made your vision blur.

“Kento... Fuck—ahh...”

“You're close,” he observed, because he knew your body better than you do. “I can feel it. Your walls are fluttering around me.”

The room was full of sound—the wet, obscene noise of his fingers moving inside you, your gasps and moans, his low, steady voice murmuring encouragement against your ear.

“I want you to cum for me,” he said, and his voice was strained now, his composure cracking just slightly. “I want to feel you squeeze my fingers. I want to watch you lose control in that mirror.”

His thrusts quickened.

His thumb pressed harder.

And you shattered.

The orgasm crashed over you like a wave, pulling you under, dragging you down into something dark and warm and overwhelming. Your mouth opened but no sound came out. Your body tensed, arched, trembled, and through it all you kept your eyes on the mirror—on the sight of your own face contorted in pleasure, on Kento's arm wrapped around your waist, on his hand buried between your thighs, working you through every pulse and clench.

“That's it,” he groaned, watching you come undone. “That's it. So perfect. So fucking beautiful.”

“Can't—fuck... Ahh...”

He didn't stop.

“Ohh... Kento...”

His fingers kept moving, drawing out the orgasm, pushing you past the point of sensitivity into something almost too much. You whimpered and tried to squirm away, but his arm locked tight, holding you in place.

“One more, baby,” he said, and his voice went rough, commanding. “One more, and then I'll give you what you really want.”

“I can't…” you gasped, even as his thumb resumed its circles on your overstimulated clit.

“You can.” His fingers curled again, pressing deep, finding that spot that made your toes curl. “You're going to cum for me again, and I'm going to watch you do it.”

The second orgasm built faster, sharper, and crests before you were ready. You sobbed as it breaks, your body convulsing against his, your vision went white at the edges. He held you through it, murmuring praise, telling you how good you are, how perfect, how he has never seen anything more beautiful than you coming apart in his arms.

When the tremors finally subsided, he pulled his fingers out slowly, carefully. You watched in the mirror as he brought them to his mouth, his lips parting, his tongue sliding out to taste you.

Your legs were shaking.

He guided you away from the dresser, turning you around to face him properly. His hands cupped your face, tilting your head up, and he kissed you—deep and slow, letting you taste yourself on his lips. His cock pressed against your stomach, hard and insistent through his trousers.

“Now,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at you. His tie was crooked. His hair was falling into his eyes. He looked undone, and you have never seen anything more beautiful. “Do you want to take this to the bed, or do you want me to fuck you right here against the mirror?”

The question hung in the air.

Your eyes drifted to the mirror beside you, to the reflection of your own ruined expression, to the way his hands were already reaching for his belt.

“Mirror,” you breathed. “I want to watch.”

His smile was sharp and dark and full of promise.

“I was hoping you'd say that.”

He turned you back around, bending you forward until your palms pressed flat against the cool glass. Your breath fogged the surface, obscuring your reflection for a moment before it cleared. Behind you, you heard the slide of his belt, the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of fabric as he freed himself.

His hands found your hips, positioning you exactly how he wants you. The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, slick with your wetness, teasing, not yet pushing in.

“Fuck… So beautiful,” he said, and his voice wrecked, desperate, nothing like the composed salaryman the world sees.

“Fuck me.”

“Where?”

You met his eyes in the mirror. “Everywhere. I want you everywhere.”

He gave you a single nod, and then he pushed in.

“Ahh...”

The stretch was everything—fullness flooding through you, spreading through your belly, your chest, your limbs. He filled you completely, seated to the hilt, his hips pressed flush against your ass. You both froze, breathing hard, letting the reality of it settle.

“Oh, fuck...” he breathed. It made you clench around him.

He started to move.

Slow at first. Long, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you, that made the glass fog with your breath and your palms slide against the surface. The rhythm built, grew faster, grew rougher, until he was fucking you with a desperation that matched the pounding of your heart.

“Mhm... Ohh—yes...”

“Look,” he commanded, and you teared your gaze from the ceiling to meet his in the mirror. “Look at what we are.”

You saw it.

“Ahh—baby... Harder...”

The way your body yielded to his. The way his hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise. The way his jaw clenched, his eyes dark, his chest heaving behind you. The way your cunt swallowed his cock with every thrust, slick and hungry.

“Ohh... Shit... Mhmph...”

You're beautiful like this. Destroyed. Claimed.

“I'm close...” he warned, his rhythm faltering. “Where do you want it? Tell me.”

“Inside...” you managed. “Please...”

He groaned, deep and animal, and drove into you one final time. You feel him pulsed, feel the hot rush of his release flooding you, and the sensation is enough to trigger your own climax—a third wave that wracked through you, pulling him deeper, milking every drop.

He stayed inside you for a long moment, both of you trembling, catching your breath. His forehead pressed against the back of your neck, his arms wrapping around your waist, holding you close.

When he finally pulled out, you felt the emptiness like a physical ache. He turned you around, cupped your face, and kissed you slowly and sweetly.

“Bathroom,” he said against your lips. “We need to clean up.”

You were too boneless to argue.

He helped you walk, his arm steady around your waist, his lips pressing soft kisses to your shoulder. In the bathroom, he ran a warm cloth between your thighs, gentle and careful, pressing a kiss to your knee when you hissed at the sensitivity.

You caught your reflection in the bathroom mirror—smaller, less ornate, but still clear enough to see the flush on your cheeks, the contentment in your eyes.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

Kento looked up from where he was crouched at your feet, cloth in hand, his hair a mess, his shirt untucked, his tie long abandoned somewhere on the bedroom floor.

“Thank you for what?” he asked, genuine confusion in his voice.

“For the reminder.”

He stood, tossing the cloth in the sink, and pulled you into his arms. His chin rested on the top of your head, his heartbeat steady under your ear.

“Any time,” he murmured. “I'll always remind you.”

Outside, the world was still spinning. The meetings and the paperwork and the noise will be there tomorrow.

But tonight, there was only this.

Only him.

Only you, reflected in his eyes.

“Let the world rush tomorrow, honey. Tonight, we'll just be Scott and Zelda, hiding away from the rest of it.”

The air in the dimly lit room was thick with tension and the scent of sake. You sat cross-legged on the floor, facing the King of Curses himself, Sukuna Ryomen, whose crimson eyes gleamed with amusement. A half-empty bottle of expensive liquor stood between you, and two empty cups.

“Truth or dare, little human?” he drawled, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine.

You chose the truth, not trusting his mischievous grin.

Ryomen leaned forward, his fingers drumming on the tatami mat. “What’s the filthiest thought you’ve had about me today?”

Your cheeks flushed hot. “I… um… imagining your fingers inside me while you whispered threats in my ear. Now my turn,” you managed, trying to regain control. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare.” He said it was like a challenge.

He rose from his seat, moving with predatory grace. His hand cupped your chin, tilting your head back. His lips met yours—not gentle, but demanding, tasting of sake and power. His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming you. When he pulled away, you were breathless.

He chuckled darkly. “Good. My turn. Truth or dare?”

You dared.

He smirked. “Take off your shirt. Slowly.”

You complied, fingers trembling as you unbuttoned your blouse, letting it slide off your shoulders. The cool air kissed your bare skin, and Ryomen's gaze traced every inch of your exposed torso.

“The game continues,” he said, settling back. “But I’m adding a twist. Every time you lose a round, you remove an article of clothing. And if you refuse, I will take two.” His eyes glinted. “And the dares become… more intimate.”

Your heart hammered. “What about you?”

“Same rules apply. I never cheat.” He poured more sake. “Now, truth or dare?”

You chose the truth.

“Describe exactly what you want me to do to you right now, in explicit detail, without euphemisms.”

Your throat went dry. “I want you to pin me down, spread my legs, and fuck me with your fingers until I cum, then lick me clean.”

His smile widened. “Vivid. I’ll remember that.”

“Now you,” you said. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“Take off your pants.”

He stood slowly, undoing his obi, letting his hakama drop to the floor. His cock pressed against his fundoshi, thick and half-hard. Your mouth watered.

“Truth or dare?”

You dared again, emboldened by the alcohol and his intensity.

“Remove your bra.”

You unclasped it, letting it fall away, your nipples hardening in the cool air. Ryomen's gaze burned.

“My turn. Truth or dare?”

“Dare.” You were no coward.

He leaned forward, his voice a whisper. “Stand up and turn around. I want to see your ass.”

You obeyed, turning your back to him, feeling his hot gaze on your jeans. He hummed appreciatively.

“Now you,” you said, turning back. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“Take off your underwear.”

He rose again, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his fundoshi. He pulled it down, his cock springing free, fully erect, glistening at the tip. You stared, barely breathing.

“Satisfied?” he asked, sitting back down.

You nodded, your underwear damp with arousal.

The game continued. You chose the truth.

“What would you do if I tied you to the bed and used you all night?” Ryomen asked.

“I’d beg for more. I’d let you do anything.”

He groaned. “Fuck. Truth or dare?”

This time you dared.

“Remove your jeans and panties.”

You shimmied out of your jeans, then pushed your panties down your legs. Now you were completely naked, and he was only in his fundoshi—which he’d already removed—so you were both fully exposed.

“Last round,” Ryomen announced, his voice rough. “Truth or dare?”

You met his eyes. “Dare.”

He stood, stalked toward you, and grabbed your wrists. “I dare you to let me fuck your mouth until I come, then I’ll eat your pussy until you scream.”

Before you could respond, he was on his knees in front of you, one hand fisting your hair, the other guiding his cock to your lips. You opened your mouth willingly, and he pushed inside, filling your throat. He set a brutal pace, thrusting deep, grunting with each stroke. Tears streamed down your face, but you didn’t resist.

“Ohh... Fuck…”

You took him, gagging but desperate for more.

“Shit—yes…”

After long minutes, he pulled out, strings of saliva connecting his tip to your lips. He stared down at you, breathing heavily.

“Perfect.” He said, “Lie down.”

You lay back on the tatami, spreading your legs without being told. Ryomen crawled between them, his face hovering over your wet slit.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured. “Good.”

He lowered his head and licked you from entrance to clit in one long, flat stroke.

“Mhm... Please…”

You gasped, your hips bucking.

“Ngh... More…”

He did it again, then again, until you were writhing. He focused on your clit, circling it with his tongue, then sucking it into his mouth. His fingers found your hole, sliding in without resistance—one, then two, curling against that sweet spot inside you.

“Ryomen… Please…” you begged.

He didn’t stop.

“Ahm—fuck... Ahh…”

He fingered you while eating you out, his mouth and hands working in perfect rhythm. Your climax builds, coiling in your belly. He felt it—your thighs tightening, your breath catching—and he doubled his efforts, pressing his tongue flat against your clit while his fingers pumped faster.

You came with a scream, your body arching off the floor, your juices flooding his mouth. He lapped it up, not pulling away until your shudders subsided.

He crawled up your body, his cock pressing against your stomach. “Now I want you to kiss me. Desperately. Like you need it to breathe.”

You cupped his face and pulled him down, your mouths meeting in a messy, hungry kiss. Tongues tangled, teeth clashed, you tasted yourself on his lips. He groaned into your mouth, rolling his hips against yours, his cock sliding through the slick mess between your legs.

“I want to be inside you,” he growled against your lips.

“Then take me.”

He positioned himself at your entrance, but didn’t push in. Instead, he kissed you again, deeper, his tongue mimicking what he wanted to do with his cock. Your hips bucked, trying to impale yourself on him, but he held still.

“Enter…”

“Beg,” he whispered.

“Please... Fuck me. I need your cock inside me…”

He thrust in one smooth motion, burying himself to the hilt. You cried out, nails digging into his back. He started moving—slow at first, then faster, harder, each stroke driving you higher. The kiss never broke; you were fused together, mouths locked, bodies slapping.

“Mhmph!”

He fucked you with a rhythm that bordered on brutal, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every thrust. You were seconds from another orgasm when he pulled out.

“Fuck—”

“Turn over.”

You rolled onto your stomach, presenting your ass. He entered you from behind, pressing your face into the mat. One hand gripped your hip, the other wrapped around your throat, pulling your head back.

“Ahh—!”

“You’re mine...” he hissed. “Every drop of pleasure you feel comes from me.”

He drove into you, deeper from this angle, hitting spots that made you see stars. Your moans turned into incoherent pleas. He reached around to rub your clit, and you shattered again, clenching around him, your cum soaking his cock.

“Ahh... Ohh, Ryo—”

He didn’t stop.

“Fuck... Fuck—close…”

He kept fucking you through it, chasing his own release. When he came, he buried himself as deep as possible, pumping hot load after load into you, groaning your name like a curse.

He collapsed on top of you, both of you slick with sweat and cum. He rolled off, pulling you onto his chest, his softening cock still nestled against your thigh.

“That was the best game of truth or dare I’ve ever played,” you murmured.

Ryomen chuckled, his hand running through your hair. “I never lose. But I’m willing to call it a draw.” He kissed the top of your head.

You smiled, exhausted but satisfied.

“Next time, I’ll teach you Simon Says. The rules are even less forgiving.”

The apartment smelled different after seventy-two hours.

It didn't smell like Naoya’s cedarwood or his dry-cleaned shirts anymore. It smelled like nothing. It smelled like a luxury hotel suite that had been meticulously reset by housekeeping between occupants. The air conditioning was humming at its standard twenty-one degrees, completely indifferent to whether the rooms were filled with life or entirely vacant.

You stood in the center of the living room, a single cardboard box resting at your feet.

You hadn’t come back to cause a scene.

You had come back during the middle of the afternoon because, according to his shared digital calendar, Naoya was supposed to be in the middle of a four-hour board meeting at the Zen'in corporate headquarters downtown. You had timed it precisely so you could collect your passport, your birth certificate, and the small collection of books you actually cared about without having to look at him.

But the universe, or perhaps Naoya’s own absolute need for control, had a different schedule.

The master bedroom door opened.

He wasn't in his suit. He wore a heavy, dark gray cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, a glass of water in his hand. He looked exactly the same—not a hair out of place, no dark circles under his eyes, no sign that his entire domestic foundation had walked out the door three nights ago.

He stopped when he saw you, his eyes dropping to the cardboard box on the floor before rising to meet your face.

“You're back,” he said. His voice wasn't angry. It was infuriatingly even, carrying the slight, familiar lilt of someone who had won an argument by default. “I told the front desk to leave your key active. I knew you’d realize how ridiculous you were once you spent a night or two at your mother's place.”

You didn't look away.

The three days spent in a cramped guest bedroom, listening to the hum of a cheap refrigerator and the comforting, mundane sounds of a normal neighborhood, had done something to your spine. The fog had cleared.

“I’m not back, Naoya,” you said, your voice cutting through the sterile air of the room. “I’m clearing out.”

Naoya set his glass down on the entry table with a sharp, deliberate clack. The easy, patronizing expression vanished, replaced instantly by that cold, aristocratic hardness that always signaled his patience had reached its legal limit.

“Don't start this again,” he said, stepping down into the living space. “You had your tantrum. You made your point. I let you go because I figured you needed to clear your head, but this little performance is getting tedious.”

“Performance?” you let out a dry, breathy laugh that felt more like a sob but tasted like ash. “Seven years of my life, and you think me leaving is a performance?”

He closed the distance between you, stopping just outside your physical perimeter, his presence looming large, trying to pull you back into the gravity of his orbit.

“You think you’re the only one who invested time here?” Naoya asked, his jaw tightening. “I gave you everything. Look around this room. Everything you've ever wanted, everything you've ever asked for, I provided. I protected you from my family. I gave you a life where you never had to worry about a single financial burden. I gave you security.”

“No, Naoya. You gave me a lease,” you said, your voice dropping into that quiet, lethal register of someone who has nothing left to lose. “You leased my youth. You leased my twenties. You paid for it in high-rise rent and expensive dinners, and you thought that meant you owned the title.”

His eyes flashed with real anger then—a rare, ugly crack in his perfect facade.

“You chose to stay! Nobody forced you to live here. Nobody forced you to sign up for this.”

“Because I loved you!” You finally took a step toward him, your chest heaving beneath your coat. “I stayed because I believed every single lie you told me without you ever having to speak the words. I believed that if I was patient enough, if I was quiet enough, if I didn't cause trouble for you with your father, you would eventually see me as a permanent part of your life. But you never did. To you, I was just a long-term contract you kept renewing because the monthly rate was convenient.”

Naoya let out a harsh, mocking sound. “And what exactly did you want? A piece of paper? You want to be like every other miserable woman in my family circle, paraded around like a prize pony at dinners while her husband takes three different mistresses in the commercial district? Is that the ‘respect’ you're looking for?”

“I wanted you to look at me and see a future, Naoya!” you screamed, the tears finally breaking through, hot and furious against your cheeks. “I didn't want the Zenin name! I wanted you! But you're so terrified of being controlled by your family that you became exactly like them. You control everything around you so nobody can ever hurt your pride. You didn't keep me here to protect me from them. You kept me here to protect yourself from being alone!”

Naoya reached out, his hand wrapping around your wrist with a sudden, iron grip. It wasn't intended to hurt, but it was unyielding—the physical manifestation of his refusal to let the narrative slip out of his hands.

“You don't know what you're talking about,” he hissed, his face inches from yours. “I loved you. In my own way, I gave you more than I've ever given anyone else. You were the only person allowed in this space.”

You looked down at his hand on your wrist, then looked back up into those pale, beautiful, entirely hollow eyes.

“That's the difference between us, Naoya,” you whispered, the lines from the old story hitting him like a physical blow. “You loved me because I was convenient. You loved me because I didn't require anything from you that you weren't already willing to throw away. But me? I loved you even when you made me feel completely invisible. I loved you through the silence, through the empty weekends, through every single dinner where I sat across from an empty chair.”

You pulled your wrist back.

This time, he let you go, his fingers slipping off your skin like water.

“You think you're the one who suffered because you had to pay the bills?” your voice cracked, but you held his gaze, refusing to let him look down on you ever again. “I am the one who died in this room, Naoya. I spent seven years being the ‘loved one’—the person you kept in a pretty glass case, perfectly preserved, perfectly quiet, while your real life happened somewhere else. You didn't want a wife. You didn't even want a partner. You just wanted a beautiful ghost to come home to when the world got too loud.”

The silence that followed those words was different from the silence of three nights ago. This was the silence of a funeral. It was the realization that something had been broken so fundamentally that no amount of money, no corporate influence, and no degree of Naoya's smooth arrogance could ever piece it back together.

Naoya stood entirely still.

For the first time since you had met him at twenty-five, he looked small. The sharp lines of his shoulders seemed to settle, his mouth opening slightly as if to counter the argument, but for once in his life, the vocabulary failed him.

There were no clauses to save him from this.

There were no terms to renegotiate.

You bent down, your fingers wrapping around the edges of the cardboard box. The weight of it was nothing—just a few pieces of paper and some old paperbacks—but it felt like lifting the entire weight of the last seven years off your chest.

“The key is on the counter,” you said, your voice entirely devoid of emotion now. The fire had burned itself out, leaving nothing but clean, cold ash. “I've already changed my emergency contact information at work. You won't have to worry about your assistant handling any more deliveries for me.”

Naoya didn't move as you walked past him.

He didn't turn around as your heels clicked against the hardwood floor toward the entryway.

“If you walk out that door,” he said, his voice was quiet, lacking its usual venom, sounding almost detached, “I’m changing the locks before tonight. I won't let you come back a third time.”

You paused at the threshold, your hand on the heavy oak handle. You didn't look back at the Italian furniture, the floor-to-ceiling windows, or the man standing in the center of the sterile, perfect museum he had built for himself.

“You don't need to change them, Naoya,” you said softly. “I've already forgotten the combination.”

The door opened with that familiar, electronic chime. You stepped into the long, carpeted hallway of the high-rise, the air outside immediately feeling different—thicker, realer, smelling of rain and the exhaust of a city that was constantly moving forward.

Behind you, the oak door shut with a heavy, final thud.

The lease was officially over.

The apartment always smelled of expensive cedarwood and the sharp, clinical tang of Naoya’s dry-cleaned shirts. It was a specific scent profile that had, over the course of eighty-four months, become synonymous with the concept of home.

You sat at the edge of the kitchen island, tracing the grain of the marble countertop with the pad of your index finger. The stone was cold—permanently so, it seemed—regardless of how high the heating was turned up during the winter or how fiercely the summer sun beat through the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline.

Seven years.

It was a number that carried weight in books, in legal documents, and in historical cycles. In relationships, it was often dubbed the “itch”—the threshold where a structure either solidified into concrete or crumbled into dust. But looking around the living room, there were no signs of decay. There was only an immaculate, terrifyingly consistent stasis.

Your coat was draped over the back of the sofa, a muted wool piece that contrasted with the sharp, geometric lines of the Italian leather furniture Naoya had insisted on importing three years ago. You hadn't argued then. You rarely argued about the space because, technically, the space belonged to him. The deed was in his name; the utilities were deducted from his primary account; the building staff addressed you by your first name but bowed with a distinct, practiced deference to Mr. Zen'in.

The clock on the microwave chimed—a polite, digital beep indicating it was exactly eight-thirty in the evening.

The door lock clicked.

It was a three-stage acoustic sequence: the physical retraction of the deadbolt, the electronic chime of the proximity sensor, and the heavy, solid thud of the reinforced oak door swinging inward.

Naoya entered with his usual fluid, effortless grace. His coat was off before his heels fully cleared the threshold, draped over his forearm with the practiced ease of someone who expected his environment to adapt to him, rather than the other way around. His hair, a meticulously styled blonde with those distinct dark roots, was only slightly disturbed by the evening breeze.

“You're late,” you said, your voice carrying across the open-plan space without much force. It wasn't an accusation; it was an observation of data.

Naoya didn't look up immediately. He was already unbuttoning his cuffs, the silver links clicking against the glass of the entry table as he set them down. “Traffic on the elevated highway was at a standstill. Some minor accidents near the commercial district. You should have started without me if you were hungry.”

“It's our anniversary, Naoya,” you said quietly.

He paused, one hand halfway through loosening his tie. For a fraction of a second, his posture stiffened—a subtle tightening of the shoulders that anyone else would have missed. But you had spent seven years studying the syntax of his body language. You knew the exact angle of his head when he was amused, the specific twitch of his jaw when he was annoyed, and the absolute stillness that came over him when he had forgotten something he considered secondary.

“Of course it is,” he said, the smoothness returning to his tone as he finished pulling the tie from his collar. He tossed it onto the sofa as he walked past, heading straight for the kitchen island. He reached out, his fingers catching the back of your neck in a brief, possessive squeeze that was both familiar and entirely transactional. “Seven years. A remarkable achievement for someone with my lack of patience, don't you think?”

He leaned down, pressing his lips to your cheek. He tasted faintly of the mints he kept in his glove compartment and the bitter, metallic edge of black espresso.

“I ordered from the place downtown,” you said, nodding toward the covered porcelain dishes on the counter. “The one with the truffles you like. They delivered it forty minutes ago.”

“Perfect.”

Naoya moved behind the bar, reaching for a bottle of amber liquid that had sat on the top shelf for the better part of a year. He poured two fingers into a lowball glass, not asking if you wanted any. He knew you didn't drink whiskey before dinner.

“Let me change. Five minutes.”

As he disappeared into the master bedroom, the apartment fell back into its heavy, suffocating silence.

You looked down at your hands.

Your fingers were bare.

No rings, no tan lines where a band might have rested, no heavy stones to catch the light from the recessed LED fixtures above.

Just skin.

Just seven years of history written in the absence of jewelry.

In the background, the soft, syncopated rhythm of a playlist you’d left running on the speaker system began to shift. The low, lingering notes of a Fender Rhodes piano bled through the hidden speakers, followed by a voice that sounded like smoke and late nights.

Is it a crime to be unsure?

In time, we'll find if it's sustainable

The lyrics hung in the air, a question mark posed against the sterile luxury of the room.

You're pure, you're kind, mature, divine

You might be too good for me, unattainable

You had chosen the track because the melody felt heavy, like the air before a thunderstorm, but hearing it now, with Naoya’s footsteps echoing from the hallway, it felt almost too pointed.

The food was re-plated on white ceramic. Naoya sat across from you, his silk shirt unbuttoned at the throat, his posture relaxed in a way that only men of his background could manage. He handled his cutlery with a surgical precision, cutting his meat into perfect, uniform cubes before lifting them to his mouth.

“The firm is expanding the real estate portfolio in the southern district,” he said between bites, his tone conversational, the kind he used when he was summarizing his day rather than sharing it. “My father wants me to oversee the acquisition of the old dockside properties. It’s a massive undertaking. It’ll take up most of my weekends for the next two quarters.”

“The weekends?” you asked, pausing with your fork halfway to your plate.

“Naturally,” Naoya replied without looking up. “The current owners are stubborn. They require personal negotiation. The kind of people who think a handshake means more than a wire transfer. It’s tedious, but necessary if I want to secure the primary seat on the board by next spring.”

You watched him.

You watched the way his throat moved as he swallowed, the way the light caught the sharp line of his jawline. He was thirty-two now, but he carried himself with the same arrogant certainty he had possessed at twenty-five, back when you had first met him in that crowded, noisy gallery downtown.

Back when he had seemed like an adventure rather than an institution.

“Naoya,” you said.

“Yeah?”

“Where do I fit into the next two quarters?”

He stopped.

His knife remained resting against the edge of the ceramic plate, a tiny, metallic clink signaling his attention had been diverted. He raised his eyes, those pale, sharp irises fixating on you with a look that was part amusement, part mild irritation.

“What kind of question is that?” he asked, his voice dropping into that lower, smoother register he used when he was managing an employee or a client. “You're here. You've always been here.”

“That's the problem,” you said, your voice surprisingly steady despite the sudden, erratic thumping of your heart against your ribs. “I'm always here. In this apartment. In this life. In the background of your board meetings and your family obligations.”

Naoya set his knife down completely. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. It was a defensive posture disguised as a relaxed one.

“If this is about the anniversary gift, I told you, my assistant had to clear some things with the boutique. It’ll be delivered on Friday. I don't have time to chase down couriers during the week.”

“It's not about a gift,” you said. You pushed your plate away. The truffle oil suddenly smelled sickeningly sweet, coating the back of your throat with a greasy film. “We've been together for seven years, Naoya. We share a bed. We share a kitchen. We share our schedules. But we don't share a name, and we don't share a future.”

The silence that followed was different from the one that had preceded his arrival.

This silence was dense.

It had a physical presence, like the drop in pressure before a glass window shatters.

Naoya looked at you for a long moment, his expression completely unreadable. Then, slowly, a small, patronizing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It was the smile he used when someone suggested a strategy he found foolish

“Are you asking for a ring?” he asked softly.

The directness of it felt like a slap.

Not because you hadn't thought about it, but because the way he said it made the desire sound small. It made it sound like a cliché, a petty, predictable demand from someone who didn't understand the larger mechanics of his world.

“I’m asking about us,” you corrected, refusing to let your voice shake. “I’m asking if there is a version of your life five years from now where I am your wife, or if I am just the person who keeps the apartment warm while you wait for your father to choose a bride from one of the families he actually respects.”

Naoya’s eyes narrowed.

The amusement vanished, replaced by that cold, aristocratic distance that always made him seem ten feet taller than he actually was.

“Don't be dramatic,” he said, his tone clipped. “You know exactly how I feel about those old traditions. My family’s expectations are one thing; my life is another. I’ve kept you away from their nonsense for seven years because I wanted to. Don't turn that into a grievance.”

“You've kept me hidden, Naoya,” you said. “There's a difference between protection and concealment. I don't go to charity dinners. I don't go to New Year's gatherings. I'm the secret you keep in the high-rise because it's convenient for you.”

He laughed—a short, dry sound that had no humor in it. “Convenient? You think maintaining this place, making sure your life is entirely comfortable, ensuring you want for absolutely nothing is convenient? You're being ungrateful.”

“I don't want your money, Naoya! I want a partner!” The sudden rise in your volume seemed to startle even the walls. It was the first time in years you had raised your voice in this space.

Naoya didn't flinch.

He merely reached for his whiskey, took a slow, deliberate sip, and set the glass back down exactly in the center of the condensation ring it had left behind.

“A partner,” he repeated, savoring the word like it was an unfamiliar vintage. “And what does that look like to you? A piece of paper from the city ward? A party where we invite five hundred people we hate so they can watch us sign our names away? We have a life here. It works. Why are you trying to break it because of some arbitrary number of years?”

The music in the background continued its slow, indifferent crawl.

Maybe we get married one day

But who knows?

You stood up from the table.

The movement was sudden enough that your chair scraped against the hardwood floor with a harsh, grating shriek. Naoya’s eyes followed you, tracking your movement with the lazy precision of a cat watching a bird inside a cage.

Think I'll take that thought to the grave

But who knows?

You walked to the window, pressing your forehead against the glass. The city below looked like a motherboard—billions of tiny, electric pulses moving along predetermined paths, never deviating, never stopping to ask why they were running.

“I went to see my mother last week,” you said, your breath fogging the pane. “She asked me when she should expect an invitation. She’s getting older, Naoya. Her friends all have grandchildren who are starting primary school. She looks at me, and she doesn't know what to tell people when they ask what I do.”

“You work at the design firm,” Naoya said from behind you. His voice had lost its sharp edge, returning to that smooth, reasonable tone that was far more dangerous because it sounded like common sense. “You have a career.”

“They don't ask about my career,” you whispered, turning around to face him. “They ask what my position is. In your life. Am I the live-in girlfriend? Am I a long-term partner? Or am I just the person who's been waiting so long she forgot what she was waiting for?”

Naoya rose from his chair.

He didn't rush.

He moved with the slow, terrifying confidence of a man who had never lost an argument in his life because he simply outlasted the other person’s energy. He closed the distance between you, his silk shirt whispering against his skin as he stopped just inches away.

He didn't touch you.

Instead, he leaned one hand against the glass behind your head, effectively trapping you between his chest and the cold night sky outside.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly.

You kept your chin down, staring at the second button of his shirt.

“Look at me,” he repeated, his index finger reaching out to hook under your chin, forcing your face upward. His touch was warm, too warm, a direct contradiction to the frost in his eyes. “Have I ever lied to you?”

“No,” you admitted.

“Have I ever told you I wanted a traditional household? Have I ever told you I wanted to be like my brothers, trapped in miserable, arranged matches with women they can't stand the sight of before breakfast?”

“No.”

“Then why are you doing this now?” his thumb brushed against your jawline, a gesture that felt like a caress but functioned as a restraint. “Seven years ago, we agreed we were different. We agreed we didn't need the validation of a system that's broken. You were happy with that. You were happy with me.”

“I was twenty-four, Naoya,” you said, tears finally blurring the edges of his perfect features. “Twenty-four-year-olds think forever is an abstract concept. They think love is enough to fill up an empty room. I'm thirty-one now. I look ahead, and I don't see an adventure. I just see more of the same. More dinners where you're late. More weekends where you're gone. More years of being ‘the person you live with’ when your father asks who's taking care of the apartment.”

Naoya’s expression hardened. His thumb pressed a little firmer against your jaw, just enough to let you feel the bone beneath the skin.

“My father doesn't ask about you,” he said coldly. “Because he knows it's none of his business. I've built a wall between this room and that family, and you want to tear it down so you can have a title? You think being Mrs. Zenin is a luxury? Ask my sisters-in-law how much they enjoy their ‘titles’ while they sit in the back rooms of the estate waiting for permission to spend their own allowances.”

“It's not about the name!” you cried out, your hands coming up to press against his chest, feeling the hard, unyielding muscle beneath the silk. “It's about commitment! It's about knowing that if everything goes to hell tomorrow, if I get sick, if you lose your position, we are a single unit. Right now, we're two people sharing an address. If I walk out that door tonight, there's nothing connecting us except the clothes I leave in the closet.”

Naoya looked down at your hands on his chest. His expression didn't soften, but his voice dropped to a whisper that felt like a needle sliding between your ribs.

“Then don't leave,” he said.

The simplicity of his response was its own kind of cruelty. It wasn't an offer of compromise; it was an ultimatum wrapped in a plea. He wasn't saying I will change; he was saying: This is the price of admission. Decide if you can afford it.

He pulled back, his hand dropping from the glass. He turned his back to you, walking over to the small audio console near the bookshelf. With a flick of his wrist, he turned the volume down until Daniel Caesar’s voice was nothing more than a low murmur against the hum of the air conditioning.

“I have a meeting at seven tomorrow morning,” Naoya said, his back still turned. “I don't have the luxury of losing sleep over an argument that has no practical solution. We've been together for seven years because we work. Don't ruin a good thing because you've had too much time to think this week.”

“Is that all this is to you?” you asked, your hands dropping to your sides. “A ‘good thing’ that works?”

Naoya turned his head slightly, his profile sharp against the ambient light of the hallway. “It's more than most people ever get. You should be smart enough to know that.”

He walked away.

The bedroom door closed behind him—not with a slam, but with that same heavy, expensive thud that signified the boundaries of his world were once again secure.

You remained by the window.

The city didn't stop. The lights didn't blink out in sympathy. On the kitchen counter, the truffle meat grew cold, the white grease beginning to congeal around the edges of the porcelain plate like salt on a shoreline.

You looked down at your bare ring finger again.

For seven years, you had convinced yourself that the absence of a ring was a sign of modern independence, a proof that your love didn't need the sanction of a legal contract. But looking at the empty space now, against the backdrop of a two-million-dollar view that didn't belong to you, you realized the truth.

The absence wasn't a statement. It was just an empty space.

You walked over to the sofa, picked up your wool coat, and slipped it over your shoulders. You didn't pack a bag. You didn't gather your shoes from the entryway closet. You just took your phone and the small keyring that held the electronic fob to the front door.

As you stood before the heavy oak barrier, the proximity sensor beeped its polite, three-tone greeting, waiting for you to make a choice.

Behind you, from the bedroom, the silence was absolute. Naoya wouldn't come out. He wouldn't check if you were in the living room or if you had gone to sleep on the couch. He had given his answer, and his system dictated that you would either accept it by morning or you wouldn't.

You pressed the button to release the deadbolt. The sound felt like a gunshot in the quiet apartment.

The music was too low to hear now, but the words stayed in your head as the lock clicked open, revealing the long, carpeted hallway of the high-rise that led to the elevator, and down to the street where the rain was just beginning to fall.

Who knows?

“Are you seriously ignoring me right now?”

Satoru's voice was muffled from where he had draped himself facedown across your lap, his blindfold askew, exposing one unfairly blue eye staring up at you with an exaggerated pout.

The textbook you were holding wobbled precariously as he nuzzled his cheek against your thigh, exhaling loudly through his nose.

“You said I had thirty minutes to study,” you reminded him, flipping a page with deliberate calm.

“That was twenty-seven minutes ago.”

His fingers curled into the fabric of your skirt, tugging lightly, not enough to ruin your focus, but enough to remind you he was there.

Warm. Persistent. Ridiculous.

The textbook snapped shut when Satoru's teeth grazed the inside of your thigh, not a bite, just the barest hint of pressure, his breath hot through the thin fabric of your skirt. You inhaled sharply, fingers tightening around the book’s spine.

“Satoru.”

“Mhm?”

He blinked up at you, all innocence, if not for the way his tongue darted out to trace the same path his teeth had taken. His grip on your skirt tightened, pulling the hem higher, exposing the lace edge of your underwear.

“You’re still studying?”

You could have pointed out that he was the one who insisted you keep up with your coursework. Could have reminded him that he would whine for days about you neglecting your responsibilities. But the way his fingers skimmed the sensitive skin above your knee made coherent thought slippery.

“Shh.” His thumb circled the peak, slow and merciless. “You don’t need to talk. Just feel.”

His other hand hooked under the waistband of your skirt, dragging it down your hips with agonizing slowness, his breath hitching when he saw how wet you were for him.

“Fuck…” he breathed, fingers tracing the soaked fabric, “You’re always so ready for me.”

His fingers hooked into the lace of your panties, dragging them down just enough to expose the swollen, glistening flesh beneath.

“Please…”

You whimpered when his thumb brushed your clit, just teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves with the barest friction. Satoru's breath hitched against your throat, his lips parting against your skin as if he could taste the way your body tightened for him.

“Ngh... Baby...”

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice rough with want. “So fucking pretty when you’re desperate.”

You arched into his touch, but he pulled back, leaving you gasping at the sudden loss. His grin was wicked as he leaned down, his tongue replacing his fingers in one slow, filthy swipe.

“Ohh—mhm...”

The sound you made was half-sob, half-moan, your hands flying to his hair to tangle in the soft white strands. He groaned against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you from squirming away, not that you would. Not when his tongue was circling your clit with relentless precision, his nose nudging against your soaked folds like he wanted to drown in the taste of you.

“Satoru—fuck…”

His name came out broken, your hips jerking when he sucked lightly at your clit, his fingers digging bruises into your skin. He hummed in response, the sound muffled against your flesh, his tongue flicking faster, harder, until your vision blurred at the edges.

You were so close, so fucking close, but then he pulled away again, leaving you shuddering on the edge.

His lips were glistening when he looked up at you, his breath ragged.

“Not yet,” he panted, dragging his thumb through your slickness before pressing two fingers inside you without warning.

“Ahh—!”

The stretch burned—just enough to make your toes curl—and you cried out, your nails scraping against his scalp. He fucked you with his fingers slowly at first, his palm grinding against your clit with each thrust, but then his pace turned punishing, his free hand pinning your hip to the couch so you couldn’t escape the brutal rhythm.

The stretch of his fingers curled inside you just right, hitting that spot that made your back arch off the cushions, a moan tearing from your throat. Satoru's eyes—bright and endless—locked onto yours as he crooked his fingers again, dragging them against your walls with deliberate, devastating precision.

“Ahm... Yes—ngh...”

“There,” he murmured, his voice rough with satisfaction when you whimpered. “That’s the spot, isn’t it?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, his thumb circling your clit in tight, dizzying strokes, the dual sensations pushing you toward the edge faster than you could process.

“Sat—ahh...”

You tried to say his name, but all that came out was a gasping sob, your thighs trembling around his wrist. He chuckled, the sound low and dark, and added a third finger, stretching you wider, deeper. Your vision whited out for a second, your nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave crescents in his skin, but Satoru only groaned, his hips rutting against the couch as if he could feel it too—the way your body clenched around him, desperate and hungry.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his forehead dropping to your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re gonna—fuck—you’re gonna cum like this, aren’t you? Just from my fingers?”

The words were half-growled, half-plea, his own need thick in his voice.

“Yes—yes... Please...”

You could feel the hard line of his cock straining against his pants where his thigh pressed against yours, but he didn’t touch himself, didn’t rush, he just kept fucking you with his fingers, his thumb never letting up on your clit until you were sobbing, your hips jerking uncontrollably against his hand.

It hit you like a wave, pleasure crashing through you so hard your body locked up, your scream muffled against his shoulder as you came, your cunt pulsing around his fingers.

Satoru didn’t stop, didn’t slow down—just kept working you through it, his own breath coming in ragged pants against your ear.

“Mhm... Fuck—ahh...”

“That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice wrecked. “Take it. Take it, baby.”

Your body went limp beneath him, still shuddering with aftershocks, but Satoru didn’t pull away. His fingers stayed buried inside you, his thumb lazily stroking your oversensitive clit until you whined, hips twitching weakly.

“Too much...” you gasped, but his grin was all teeth, his free hand sliding up to cup your jaw, forcing your gaze to meet his.

“No such thing,” he murmured, leaning down to catch your bottom lip between his teeth, biting just hard enough to sting before soothing it with a slow, filthy kiss.

You could taste yourself on his tongue, bitter and sweet, and the realization made your stomach clench all over again. He pulled back with a wet sound, his breath ragged against your mouth.

“You’re mine,” he growled, fingers flexing inside you, dragging another broken moan from your throat. “Every fucking inch.”

With a grunt, he yanked his fingers free, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness, but before you could protest, he was fumbling with his belt, his movements uncharacteristically clumsy.

His pants were shoved down just enough to free his cock—already leaking, flushed dark with need. He didn’t bother with foreplay this time, just lined himself up and pushed, his hips snapping forward in one brutal thrust that had you seeing stars.

“Satoru!”

The stretch burned. He was so much thicker than his fingers, but the pain melted into pleasure almost instantly, your body yielding to him like it was made for it.

“Fuck…” he choked out, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath hot and uneven. “You’re… Fuck—so tight.”

His hips jerked experimentally, pulling out halfway before driving back in, the drag of his cock against your walls making your toes curl.

The rhythm he set was relentless from the start, no teasing buildup, no playful hesitation. Just deep, punishing thrusts that knocked the air from your lungs each time his hips met yours. His hands anchored your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, as if he feared you’d dissolve beneath him if he loosened his grip for even a second.

“Ohh... Yes, baby.. ”

The couch creaked under the force of his movements, the sound swallowed by the wet slap of skin on skin, the ragged symphony of your breathing.

You barely recognized your own voice—high, broken, pleading, but Satoru drank in every sound like a man starved, his pupils blown so wide his irises were mere slivers of blue.

“Shit, baby…” his voice rough as gravel, his thumb brushing your clit in time with his thrusts. “You’re so beautiful… So perfect for me...”

The words tangled in your throat, but your body answered for you, your cunt clenching around him so tight he groaned, his hips stuttering.

“Ohh—ahh... Shit...”

“So good…” he repeated, his teeth sinking into your shoulder, the sharp burst of pain making you cry out.

“Satoru.. ” you gasped, your nails raking down his back. “Satoru, fuck—”

His breath hitched at your words, a shudder running through him like you'd struck a match against his spine.

“Shit,” he growled, dragging his cock out almost entirely before slamming back in with enough force to make your vision blur. His fingers tightened on your hips, lifting you slightly to meet each thrust, angling himself deeper and harder until you swore you could feel him in your ribs.

You choked on his name when his thumb pressed down on your clit, the rough pad circling in tight, dizzying strokes that matched the relentless pace of his hips.

The overstimulation was too much, not enough.

Your thighs trembled, your nails biting into his shoulders as you arched against him, desperate for friction, for relief, for more.

Satorus laugh was a dark, breathless thing against your throat.

“You're gonna cum again,” he murmured, not a question, not a tease—just fact, spoken with the same certainty as the sky being blue. His teeth scraped your pulse point, his hips never slowing.

“Ngh—yes... Mhm...”

“Gonna cum on my cock like you were made for it.”

The coil in your stomach tightened impossibly further, pleasure building with each snap of his hips until you were sobbing, your body strung tight as a bowstring. He swallowed your cries with a messy kiss, his tongue pushing past your lips as if he could consume the sounds you made.

When you came, it was with his name tearing from your throat, your back bowing off the cushions as your cunt clenched around him in rhythmic pulses.

Satoru didn’t let up.

Not even as your body convulsed beneath him, not even when your nails scored red lines down his back. He fucked you through it, his rhythm turning jagged, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your sweat-slicked skin.

“Fuck… Fuck…” His hips stuttered, his cock twitching inside you as he chased his own release, his fingers digging into your thighs hard enough to leave bruises.

You whimpered when his thumb pressed down on your oversensitive clit, the pressure just shy of painful, but he didn’t ease up, just ground the heel of his palm against you in slow, deliberate circles, dragging another broken moan from your throat.

“Satoru, please…”

“Almost there, baby…” he gritted out, his voice wrecked, his forehead pressed to yours. His pupils were blown so wide his irises were nearly swallowed, his breath hot and uneven against your lips. “Just—fuck… Just a little more…”

His hips snapped forward once, twice more, and then he was coming with a choked groan, his cock pulsing inside you as he spilled deep, his body shuddering above you like a live wire. You could feel every throb, every twitch, the warmth of him filling you in slow, thick waves.

His weight pressed you deeper into the cushions as he collapsed against you, his breath ragged against your neck. You could feel his heartbeat thundering through his ribs, erratic and wild, matching the pulse still fluttering between your thighs. His fingers twitched against your hip—once, twice—before he finally loosened his grip, his palm smoothing over the marks he'd left as if in silent apology.

“I guess I’m just completely needy for you.”

The restaurant was quiet, tucked away in a corner of the city that didn't ask questions. You had chosen it for the isolation, for the dim lighting, for the way the booth's high backs hid the two of you from prying eyes. Suguru sat across from you, a faint smile on his lips, his long hair tied back in its usual low ponytail. His chopsticks clicked softly against the ceramic bowl as he ate, methodical, unhurried.

You, however, had barely touched your food. The miso soup sat cooling, the sashimi untouched. Your appetite had shifted entirely—from the meal on the table to the man watching you with patient amusement.

“You're staring,” he said, voice smooth as the sake he had ordered.

“I'm deciding,” you replied, letting your foot slide up his calf under the table.

His eyebrow arched. “Deciding what?”

“Whether I want dessert here… or later.”

Suguru set down his chopsticks, folding his hands on the table. The candlelight caught the glint in his dark eyes. He knew exactly what you were offering. He always did.

“Here,” he said, the word a command wrapped in silk. “I don't like to wait.”

Your pulse kicked. You glanced around the nearly empty restaurant—an old couple in the far corner, a bored-looking waiter scrolling through his phone.

Private enough, if you were careful.

“Follow me to the restroom,” you whispered, already sliding out of the booth.

He didn't follow immediately.

He let you walk ahead, letting you feel his gaze on your back, on the sway of your hips. That was Suguru—always controlling the rhythm, even when you thought you were leading.

The restroom was single-stall, barely large enough for two. You locked the door behind him as he stepped in, and suddenly the space felt impossibly small. His body blocked the light, his presence filling every inch.

“You're eager tonight,” he said, leaning against the sink, crossing his arms. The pose was casual, but his eyes were hungry.

“Eager to taste you,” you corrected, sinking to your knees.

The tile was cold through your jeans, but the heat radiating from his body burned it away. You reached for his belt, fingers working the buckle with practiced ease. He watched, silent, letting you undress him at your own pace. The zipper hissed. His cock sprang free, half-hard already, the tip glistening in the dim fluorescent light.

You licked your lips.

Bon appetit.

You took him in your hand, stroking once, twice, feeling him thicken against your palm. Then you leaned in, and the first taste was salt and musk and Suguru. Your tongue traced from base to tip, slow, deliberate, savoring. A soft sound escaped him—a hum of approval—and that was all the encouragement you needed.

“Mhm...”

You parted your lips and took him in.

The stretch was familiar, the weight on your tongue grounding. You moved with a steady rhythm, hollowing your cheeks, letting your saliva coat him. His hand came to rest on the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, a gentle guide rather than a demand.

“Look at you...” he murmured, his voice a low purr. “So hungry, baby...”

You hummed in response, the vibration making his hips twitch. You pulled back, letting him slide out with a wet pop, catching the string of saliva that connected your lips to his tip. Then you dove again, deeper this time, taking him to the back of your throat.

“Ohh—fuck...”

The gag reflex kicked in, but you swallowed through it, relaxed your throat. Suguru's fingers tightened in your hair. He didn't push, didn't thrust—he let you work, because he knew you enjoyed this part: the control, the offering, the way you could make him tremble with just your mouth.

“Fuck, baby... Like that...”

You bobbed faster, one hand cupping his balls, the other stroking the base of his shaft where your lips couldn't reach. Pre-cum dripped onto your tongue, salty and faintly bitter.

You moaned, the sound muffled.

“Like the taste, hm?” he asked, and there was a smile in his voice.

You pulled off just long enough to say, “You're my favorite dessert.”

His laugh was soft, dark. Then he pushed you back down, not roughly, but with a certainty that made your thighs clench.

“Then eat properly...” he said. “Don't waste a single drop.”

You obeyed.

You took him deeper, faster, letting the rhythm become frantic. The song was in your head now—pop the champagne, here's the moula—and you imagined yourself the centerpiece, the feast laid out just for him. But you were the one feasting, devouring him inch by inch.

His breathing grew uneven. His grip in your hair tightened, a tell you'd learned months ago. He was close.

“Shit... Don't stop, baby...” he ordered, voice strained. “I want to come in your mouth.”

You doubled your effort, moaning around him, using your tongue to play with the sensitive underside of his cock. His hips began to move, small, shallow thrusts into your throat. You let him. You welcomed it. You wanted to taste his release.

“Yes—damn... Baby...”

The moment hit like a wave.

He groaned, low and guttural, and his cock pulsed against your tongue. Thick ropes of come painted your mouth, hot and bitter. You swallowed immediately, desperate not to lose a drop, milking him with your throat until he was entirely spent.

You stayed there, mouth full, until he gently pulled out. A final string of cum clung to your lip, and you licked it away.

Suguru looked down at you, chest rising and falling with his restrained breath. His eyes burned amber in the harsh light.

“Get up,” he said, voice hoarse.

You stood on shaky legs. He reached out, thumb brushing your bottom lip, wiping away a smear of moisture. Then he pushed that thumb into your mouth, letting you suck it clean.

“I haven't had my dessert yet,” he said, and the words sent a shiver down your spine. “Turn around. Bend over the sink.”

You complied, heart hammering.

The porcelain was cool against your palms. In the mirror, you could see him behind you, watching you with the focus of a predator. He pulled down your jeans and panties in one smooth motion, baring your ass to the air.

A sharp smack landed on your right cheek—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make you gasp. He soothed the sting with a broad palm.

“Suguru!”

“Next time,” he murmured, fingers trailing down the cleft of your ass, “you'll serve yourself on the table. But tonight…”

His fingers found your cunt, already wet from the act you'd just performed. He slid one inside you, then two, curling them just right. Your head dropped forward, forehead pressing against the mirror.

“Ngh... Suguru...”

“Tonight, you're still the appetizer.”

He fucked you with his fingers until your knees buckled, until you were dripping down his hand. And when you came, it was with his name on your lips and the taste of him still fresh on your tongue.

“Ahh! Mhm...”

Later, back at the table, you paid the bill with shaky hands. Suguru sipped his sake, looking entirely composed. The waiter never noticed a thing.

But you knew.

Every time, you would remember the way he would make you kneel, the way he would call you dessert, and the hunger that still burned in his eyes when he looked at you.

He must really like what you're serving tonight.

“Bon appetit, baby.”

The bathroom was filled with steam, thick and heavy, curling against the dim light like something sentient. The water had long since gone still. No ripples. No movement. Just the quiet, submerged shape of a man who had learned to drown his thoughts before they could drown him.

Higuruma Hiromi sat at the bottom of the clawfoot bathtub, knees drawn loosely to his chest, the waterline kissing the hollow of his throat. His head tipped back, eyes closed, the day's weight clinging to his skin even as the heat tried to peel it away. The courthouse had been a slaughterhouse. Not of blood, but of reason—of the fragile thread he clung to every time he stood before a judge and argued for something resembling justice.

He'd won.

He always won.

But winning didn't mean sleeping. And it didn't mean shaking the feeling that the world was a machine built to chew up the broken and spit out the bones.

The door creaked. Soft. Deliberate.

He didn't open his eyes. He didn't need to. He knew the rhythm of your footsteps, the particular weight of your presence when you entered a room.

“You've been in here for an hour, honey,” your voice came, gentle, unhurried. The kind of voice that didn't demand answers.

“I'm fine, dear.”

“No.”

A soft smile tugged at his lips, barely there, but present. You knew him too well. That was the danger of letting someone in completely—they learned the architecture of your silences.

The hem of your robe whispered against the tile floor as you stepped closer. He heard you settle on the small wooden stool beside the tub, felt the warmth of your hand hovering over the water before it finally dipped in, fingers brushing against his submerged wrist.

“You're going to turn into a prune, honey.”

“Might be an improvement.”

You hummed, a soft sound that held no judgment. Your fingers traced along his arm, following the line of his veins, gentle as a question. He finally opened his eyes, turning his head just enough to look at you.

And there you were.

Soft in the low light, hair loose, eyes carrying that familiar concern that always made something ache in his chest. You were still in your nightclothes—a thin slip that clung to the curves of your shoulders—and the steam had already started curling around you like you belonged to this space just as much as he did.

“You don't have to carry it all by yourself, you know,” you said quietly. “I'm here.”

“I know, darling.”

“Then let me help.”

He exhaled, long and slow, and his hand broke the surface of the water to find yours. He brought your fingers to his lips and pressed a kiss against your knuckles, the gesture more reverent than casual.

“You're already helping. Just by being here.”

But you shook your head, rising from the stool. The robe slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet, and then you were lifting the hem of your slip, pulling it over your head in one fluid motion. The air caught in his throat—not because he hadn't seen you before, but because every time felt like the first time. The curve of your hips, the softness of your belly, the way your skin seemed to glow in the humid light.

You were beautiful. And you were his.

“Move forward, honey.”

He shifted, and the water sloshed gently as you stepped into the tub, settling behind him. The bath was large for one, a perfect fit for two, and as you wrapped your arms around his chest from behind, he felt something in his shoulders finally begin to ease.

“Tell me about it,” you murmured against his ear, your lips brushing the shell of it. “Let it out.”

So he did.

He told you about the case—the manslaughter charge, the defendant who was barely more than a boy, the system that had already decided his fate before Higuruma had even opened his mouth. He told you about the prosecutor's smirk, the judge's heavy sighs, the way the evidence had been twisted until the truth looked like a stranger. He won, but the boy was still going to prison. Just for fewer years.

“The law is a fragile thing,” he said, his voice low and tired. “And I'm just one man holding a candle against a hurricane.”

Your arms tightened around him. Your lips pressed against the curve of his shoulder.

“You're not just one man, Hiromi. You're the one man who cares enough to keep holding that candle. That matters.”

“I don't feel like it matters.”

“I know. But I'll keep telling you until it starts to feel real.”

He turned his head, meeting your gaze. The water shifted around you both, warm and encompassing, and in the dim light, he saw the certainty in your eyes. No hesitation. No doubt.

He wanted to drown in that. In you.

“It's still early,” you continued, your voice dropping, taking on a softer, more intimate edge. “And the night is long. We don't have to get out yet.”

“Are you suggesting we stay here until the water runs cold, darling?”

“Maybe longer.”

He caught the meaning beneath your words. The invitation wasn't just about staying in the bath. It was about staying with him. In this moment. In this warmth. Until the rest of the world faded into nothing.

He reached back, his hand finding the back of your thigh, squeezing gently.

“Then let me take care of you,” he said. “Let me feel something good tonight.”

Your breath hitched, just slightly. You pressed a kiss to his jaw.

“You always do, honey.”

You kissed his ear, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. Then you shifted, sliding around to face him, straddling his thighs beneath the water. Your cunt brushed against his cock, soft and half-hard, and you felt him twitch.

You cupped his face, thumbs tracing the lines of his cheekbones, and kissed him—not gentle, not patient. Your tongue pushed past his lips, and he groaned into your mouth, his hands finding your hips, pulling you closer.

The water sloshed as he sat up straighter, one hand tangling in your wet hair, the other gripping your ass. He bit your lower lip, tugged, then soothed it with his tongue. You moaned, grinding against him, feeling him grow thick and hard beneath the water.

“Hiromi...”

He broke the kiss, trailing his mouth down your throat, sucking at the hollow where your pulse beat fast. His teeth scraped your collarbone, then lower, until he reached your breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, and you arched into him, fingers gripping his wet hair.

“Mhm... Yes...” you breathed, the only word you needed.

He switched to the other breast, his hand kneading the first, thumb flicking the stiff peak. Your hips rocked against his cock, desperate for friction, but he held you still. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze burning.

Then he slid his hand down your belly, between your legs, fingers parting your folds beneath the water. He found your clit, swollen and slick, and circled it slowly—deliberately, watching your face as your lips parted, as your eyes fluttered closed.

“Please... Faster...”

“Look at me, dear.”

You obeyed. His finger pressed harder, faster, and your breath caught. A second finger joined the first, sliding into your cunt, curling deep. Your head fell back, a moan tearing from your throat as he fucked you with his fingers, thumb still working your clit.

“Ahm—fuck... Hiromi...”

“Cum for me, darling. Let it go.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could. You clenched around his fingers, shuddering, water rippling around you. He kept going, drawing out every pulse, until you sagged against him, trembling.

He lifted you, his hands on your hips, positioning you over his cock. The head pressed against your entrance, teasing, and you whimpered. He pushed in an inch, then stopped, letting you feel the stretch.

“Ngh...”

“Take it, hm? All of it.”

You sank down, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt. The water lapped at your joined bodies, warm and slick. He held still for a moment, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours.

Then he fucked up into you—hard, deep, relentless. The water splashed over the sides of the tub, soaking the floor, but neither of you cared. His hands gripped your hips, guiding your rhythm, and every thrust hit that spot that made you see stars.

“Ahh! Hiromi... Ngh...”

“You feel so good...” he growled, voice rough. “So tight, so wet—”

He pulled you down as he thrust up, burying himself deeper. Your nails raked down his back, leaving red lines. He groaned, biting your shoulder, then licked the mark he left.

“More... Shit...” you gasped. “Please—”

He flipped you onto your back, the water sloshing wildly, your legs hooked over his shoulders. He drove into you from above, the new angle pressing deeper, harder. Your hands scrambled for purchase on the slippery edge of the tub.

His mouth found your nipple again, sucking, teeth grazing. His hips never stopped—fast, punishing, perfect. The sound of wet skin slapping filled the room, mixing with your moans and his grunts.

“Ohh—baby... Ahh...”

“Look at me, darling.”

You forced your eyes open. He was staring down at you, pupils blown, lips parted. Sweat beaded on his brow, mixing with the steam.

“I love you...” he said.

“I love you more...” you confirmed.

He slammed into you, and your orgasm crashed over you like the water you were immersed in. Your cunt clenched around him, pulsing, and he followed, burying his face in your neck as he came, hot and thick, filling you.

“Ohh, fuck...”

The water stilled.

Your heartbeats slowed together. His weight pressed you into the tub, and you wrapped your arms around him, holding him close.

He didn't speak. He just breathed. And in the quiet, you knew the weight had lifted.

After a long moment, he stirred, pressing a kiss to your throat. He pulled out slowly, gently, and helped you sit up. The water had cooled, but the warmth between you remained.

He cupped your face, kissed you softly, then whispered against your lips, “Thank you, honey.”

You smiled, tracing the line of his jaw.

“Always.”

He reached for the plug, letting the cold water drain as warm replaced it. You settled back against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around you, holding you through the steam and the silence.

There was no need for words.

The night was long, and the water was warm, and you had all the time in the world.

“No matter how dark the world gets out there, I know I am always somewhere safe when I am with you,” he murmured softly into the crook of your neck.

© 2026 faeloresha. All content is owned by @faeloresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

The apartment was dim when you pushed the door open, keys slipping from your fingers and clattering against the hardwood floor. You muttered a curse under your breath, bending to scoop them up, and that's when you felt it—the weight of his gaze, pressing against your skin like a brand.

Choso sat on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, fingers interlaced loosely.

The television was off.

The room was silent except for the hum of the city bleeding through the thin walls. His dark eyes tracked your every movement with an intensity that made your stomach tighten.

“You're late,” he said. His voice was quiet, but there was an edge beneath it—something raw and frayed, like a wire about to snap.

You straightened, tossing your keys onto the entryway table. “Work ran long. I told you.”

“You did.” He didn't move, but his gaze traveled the length of your body, slow and deliberate, stripping you bare without lifting a finger. “Doesn't make the waiting any easier.”

You knew that look. You'd seen it a hundred times before—the way his pupils dilated, the way his jaw clenched, the way his fingers twitched like he was barely restraining himself from reaching out and grabbing you. It was the look of a man on the edge of something dangerous, something he couldn't control.

And, it made you wet every single time.

“Choso.” You stepped closer, letting your heels click against the floor, letting the sound fill the silence between you. “I'm here now.”

He rose from the couch in one fluid motion, his tall frame unfolding with a predator's grace. He didn't rush. He never rushed. But the way he crossed the room toward you felt inevitable, like a tide pulling you under whether you fought or not.

When he reached you, his hands found your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your blouse. He tugged you against him, and you felt it—the hardness straining against his jeans, the heat radiating off his body like a furnace.

“I've been thinking about you all day,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. His breath was warm, his voice low and rough. “Every second. Every damn minute. I couldn't focus. Couldn't eat. Couldn't breathe.”

“You're dramatic,” you whispered, but your hands were already sliding up his chest, fingers threading through the dark strands of his hair.

“Dramatic.” He let out a huff of laughter, but there was no humor in it. “You have no idea what you do to me. What I want to do to you.”

“Show me.”

Those two words were all it took.

His mouth crashed into yours, hungry and desperate, tasting of nicotine and something sweet you couldn't name. His tongue slid against yours, demanding, possessive, and you melted into him, your back hitting the wall as he pressed you against it. One of his hands left your waist to grip your thigh, hiking your leg up around his hip, grinding his hard length against the heat between your legs.

“You smell so fucking good,” he growled against your lips. “I can't think straight when you're around. You ruin me. You know that?”

You didn't answer with words.

Instead, you pulled his hair, tilting his head back to expose the pale column of his throat. You dragged your tongue along his pulse point, feeling it hammer beneath your lips, and he shuddered.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

“Take me to the bedroom,” you said, your voice steady despite the fire burning in your veins. “I want you to fuck me until I can't remember my own name.”

Something flickered in his eyes—a darkness, a hunger that went beyond simple desire. He grabbed you by the hips, lifting you off the ground, and you wrapped your legs around his waist as he carried you down the hallway.

The bedroom was dark, the curtains drawn, the only light spilling in from the hallway.

He laid you down on the bed with surprising gentleness, but that gentleness vanished the moment he was on top of you, caging you in with his arms.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, his lips trailing down your jaw, your throat, the curve of your collarbone. “Tell me and I'll give it to you.”

“I want you to lose control.”

He froze.

His eyes met yours, dark and searching, like he was trying to find the trap in your words.

“You don't know what you're asking,” he said quietly.

“I know exactly what I'm asking.” You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, running your thumb along his lower lip. “I want to see you fall apart. I want to feel you come undone. I want to be the reason you can't think about anything else.”

A low sound rumbled from his chest—something between a growl and a groan—and then his mouth was on your neck, teeth scraping against sensitive skin, biting hard enough to make you gasp. He soothed the sting with his tongue, then bit again, marking you, claiming you.

He pulled back just enough to yank your blouse open, buttons scattering across the floor. His hands found your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples through the lace of your bra, and you arched into his touch, desperate for more.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “So fucking beautiful. How did I get so lucky?”

“Choso—”

“I mean it.” His voice cracked, vulnerable for just a moment before the hunger swallowed it again. “You're everything. Everything.”

He dragged your bra down, exposing your breasts to the cool air, and his mouth was on you instantly—tongue flicking across one nipple while his fingers toyed with the other. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and the sounds you made were broken and desperate.

“Mhm... Choso, please...”

He worked his way down your body, kissing and biting and licking, leaving a trail of marks that would bruise beautifully come morning. When he reached your waist, he paused, looking up at you with those dark, intense eyes.

“Can I taste you?”

You nodded, breathless, and he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your pants, pulling them down along with your underwear in one swift motion. He spread your legs, settling between them, and the heat of his breath against your cunt made you shiver.

“Damn, you're already so wet,” he said, almost reverent. “You've been thinking about this too, haven't you?”

“Yes,” you admitted. “All day.”

“Good.”

His tongue dragged through your folds, slow and deliberate, tasting you like you were the finest meal he'd ever had. You cried out, hips bucking against his face, and he chuckled against your clit, the vibration sending sparks through your entire body.

“Fucking hell... Ngh—Choso...”

He didn't let up.

He ate you like a man starved, like he'd never get another taste, like he wanted to memorize the way you fell apart on his tongue. His fingers joined his mouth, sliding inside you, curling just right as he sucked on your clit, and the pleasure built so fast it almost hurt.

“Ohh—I'm gonna—” you gasped, gripping the sheets, your whole body tensing.

“Cum for me,” he said, his voice rough, his fingers pumping faster. “Cum in my mouth. Let me taste it.”

That was all it took.

The orgasm crashed through you, a wave of heat and ecstasy that stole your breath, left you trembling and gasping. He lapped you up greedily, groaning against your skin, and when you finally came down, he kissed his way back up your body, his chin slick with your arousal.

“Taste yourself,” he said, pressing his mouth to yours.

You parted your lips, letting his tongue slide inside, and the flavor of your own desire mingled with the taste of him—salty, sweet, addictive.

He pulled back just enough to strip off his shirt, then his jeans, his cock springing free, hard and leaking against his stomach. Your mouth watered at the sight of him—thick, long, the tip flushed and glistening.

“I need to be inside you,” he said, his voice strained. “Please. I can't wait anymore.”

“Then don't.”

He positioned himself at your entrance, rubbing the head of his cock through your wetness, teasing you until you whined and bucked your hips. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you, filling you, and the sensation was so intense you saw stars.

“Ohh... Ngh...”

“Fuck...” he groaned, his forehead dropping to yours. “You feel incredible. So tight. So perfect.”

“Move...” you begged. “Choso, please...”

He started slow, long strokes that reached deep inside you, hitting spots that made your vision blur. His mouth found yours again, kissing you sloppily, desperately, like he couldn't get enough, like he was drowning and you were the only air.

But soon, slow wasn't enough.

“Ahh—fuck... Yes...”

His pace quickened, his thrusts growing harder, deeper, more frantic. The headboard slammed against the wall, the bed creaked beneath you, and all you could hear was the sound of his groans and the wet, obscene noise of his cock sliding in and out of your cunt.

“Baby... Shit, so good...”

“You feel that?” he rasped, his hand wrapping around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your head spin. “That's me. Inside you. Fucking you. Claiming you.”

“Yes...” you choked out. “Yes... Choso, yes—”

“I want to ruin you,” he said, his voice breaking. “I want to fuck you so good you can't think about anyone else. I want you to be addicted to me, the way I'm addicted to you.”

He drove into you harder, faster, your bodies slapping together, sweat slicking your skin. He wrapped your legs around his waist, changing the angle, and the new position sent him deeper, hitting that spot inside you that made you scream.

“Right there... Ahh...” you cried. “Don't stop... Ngh—don't stop, don't...”

“I won't...” he promised. “I'll never stop. You're mine. All mine.”

His hand left your throat, sliding down to your clit, rubbing tight circles while he fucked you, and the dual stimulation pushed you toward the edge again. Your nails dug into his back, raking down his skin, and he hissed, the pain only spurring him on.

“Cum with me,” he said, his voice strained, his rhythm faltering. “I'm close. Come on, baby. Let go. I've got you.”

Your second orgasm hit like a freight train, your body convulsing around him, clenching and milking his cock as he groaned your name. He buried himself deep, his hips stuttering, and you felt the hot rush of his cum filling you, painting your walls white.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight crushing, grounding, and you wrapped your arms around him, holding him close. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then he lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours, and there was something raw and vulnerable in them—a fragility that only appeared after he'd come undone.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much it scares me.”

You kissed him softly, tasting salt and sweat and something deeper. “I love you more, baby.”

He pulled out slowly, his cum trickling down your thigh, but he didn't let you move. He pulled you closer, spooning you from behind, his cock softening against the curve of your ass, his lips pressed to the back of your neck.

“Don't ever leave me,” he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion and emotion. “I don't think I'd survive it.”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

He sighed, a sound of relief, and tightened his arms around you. Outside, the city hummed on, indifferent and alive. But inside this room, in the tangle of sheets and sweat and the lingering scent of sex, the world had shrunk to just the two of you.

And that was exactly how he wanted it

“Other men crave drugs and money to feel powerful,” he rasped, his voice a ghost of a sound against your skin, “but I only need you to feel like I’m alive.”