my delicate point of view

There are four major traditions that you and Suguru have in your relationship whenever the holiday season rolls around.

The first tradition: it is absolutely imperative that you and Suguru bring at least three bottles of the Hana brand sweet peach sake so everyone can indulge at the annual Jujutsu Technical College end of the year Christmas party. 

…and by everyone, you mean Satoru. 

It’s not typical that Satoru ever indulges in alcohol, but he’s never one to turn down tooth rottingly sweet drinks. 

Unbeknownst to you, this turned out to be great entertainment for the rest of the evening.

You remember the very first time that Satoru had tasted Hana’s sweet peach sake, he damn near downed the entire bottle within ten minutes. 

What followed the next several hours were Kento, Shoko, and Utahime trying to fend off Satoru’s drunken advances as he tried to cling to them like he was a koala—all while you and Suguru were damn near close to dying from with how hard it was to keep the laughter at bay as the two of you would watch the hilarity unfold before you. 

Later on during the night, he managed to grab hold of the microphone to the karaoke machine, and haphazardly sing his way through several power ballads and chart topping songs by popular boy bands that you had maybe heard on the radio once upon a time.

Both you and Suguru nearly ended up with hernias.

It’s been an ongoing gag for the past two years since you had discovered this side to Satoru—what’s even funnier is the fact that he still hadn’t caught onto the fact of it yet, either. 

The second tradition: on Christmas morning, Suguru wakes up early before you do, so he can prepare you breakfast.

He never sets an alarm and it always baffles you as to how he could even pull off such a feat.

In the past, you’ve protested to try and return the favor to Suguru, but he immediately shuts it down before you can even breathe out another objection to his act of service for you. 

“Food is my love language.” It’s actually acts of service and physical touch, but you don’t interrupt. “I enjoy cooking and preparing meals for you, for the holidays and the regular days.” He tapped your nose with his forefinger, a playful expression coloring his violet eyes. “Don’t you take this away from me, now.” 

One time that you can recall, Suguru woke up at four in the morning to make you Japanese souffle pancakes from scratch. 

They were so good that you nearly cried; from how gracious you were to receive such a loving and considerate partner.

Usually, most people are excited to wake up and open gifts on Christmas morning, but you mainly just look forward to what Suguru has planned for you for breakfast.

The third tradition is where he puts your entire being through your shared mattress on Christmas Eve.

The kind of tradition that has you gripping the bedsheets until your fingernails nearly tear through the fabric and leaves the tendons and bones in your hand aching for reprieve.

The kind of tradition where Suguru uses his entire bodyframe to completely cover yours as his hips continue to rut into you and bruise your cervix with the tip of his cock. Suguru is a large man standing at over 6 feet and clearly took care of himself by going to the gym and building muscle upon muscle; he certainly uses that to his advantage whenever he can—whether that be being able to reach up to the top shelf to grab something that’s clearly out of your reach in the kitchen or using his entire torso to cage you in his arms as he pistons his cock in and out of you. For lack of a better word, once you were under him, there was no chance in hell that you would be able to escape him unless he willingly let you up.

The kind of tradition that has you pathetically moaning and whining and whimpering for him as he demolishes your insides—and he eats it up every single time. 

The kind of tradition that leaves his lips at your ear, strands of his long, raven black hair tickling the side of your face, nearly making you giggle.

The kind of tradition that has Suguru both debasing you and praising you within the same breath. 

“It’s kind of pathetic if you ask me; I've barely even started touching you and you’re already a complete mess for me. Have I been neglecting my baby that much?” and “Moaning and whining like you’re an animal in heat. Oh, how embarrassing would it be if everyone at the college knew how much of a slut you were being for me right now.” to “My baby’s so responsive to me.” and “Taking everything that I’m giving you like the good little whore that you are.” and “My baby. My dumb, little cock drunk baby.” You especially loved it when he called you ‘his baby’. You’re not sure why the term of endearment rattled you so much to your core, even when it was mixed in with a tone of degradation to it—and Suguru knows it, too. 

The kind of tradition in which you can’t even register the words that are leaving his mouth. Your consciousness is elsewhere, your mind an absolute mess and your higher thinking powers and comprehension skills very much down the drain; this happens when he pulls orgasm after orgasm out of you; Suguru is never satisfied with just one climax. How insulting to think, really. 

The kind of tradition where the pleasure then begins to muddle with pain. The tightening of your abdominal muscles slowly ebbing into an uncomfortable vice, despite the erotic joy that it brought you prior. The more sore that your body became, the louder you cried out—and holy shit did that enable Suguru even further. 

The kind of tradition where even when his cock painfully aches from the overstimulation that he feeds you as his hips continue to slam into yours time after time. Even when the muscles in his entire body, from his legs to his abdomen and his arms, scream in protest with every movement against you—he will never be done until neither you nor him physically cannot handle any more. 

The kind of tradition that makes him collapse his entire trunk into you as your cunt spasms around him one last time, counting six orgasms in total; the exhaustion and fatigue finally catches up with him and his body renders to jelly. He tucks his face into the crook of your neck, staggered respirations shallowly blowing across your exposed skin. 

The kind of tradition that has the two of you completely drenched in sweat, in every crevice and contour, leaving you feeling sticky and gross… but neither of you can really bring yourselves to care in the moment. You shakily bring your hands up to his head, threading your fingers through his locks as you gently scratch at his scalp and stroke his hair. The silence is filled with heavy and uneven breathing, but truthfully speaking, neither you or him really need to say anything to each other. 

It is in these moments where Suguru lifts his head to gaze upon you with a longing expression. Even when the weariness still lingers in his mind and body, he will always lift his body to lean forward and press kisses to your lips and your forehead.

“You are the greatest gift that I’ve ever received,”  he says, tilting his face down so he can gently nudge your forehead with his. “Nothing will ever change that.”

And eventually, when the exhaustion finally wears off, he gently handles your body into his arms so he can carry you into the bathroom to get you cleaned up and ready for bed. He has to be up bright and early so he can make you breakfast, of course. 

… oh right—the fourth tradition.

And the fourth tradition is where you and Suguru take Christmas card photos with your black cat, Nero, so you can send them to your friends, family, and coworkers. 

     With this ritual, the dawn brightens the room and you stretch lazily across the sheets as you watch Kento shuffle off to the kitchen to brew the coffee. You lay there a while, watching color return to the world, the warm, earthy aroma pulling a sleepy smile across your face. By the time you sit up, Kento is in the doorway, his hair still mussed, a slight flush in his cheeks as he brandishes two mugs. You recognize yours: a round white mug sporting a smiling cat’s face.

     For a moment the two of you are held suspended, beams of snow-dazzled light spangling between you. His smile and yours turn soft, remembering that in this moment, there is only you and him.

     He steps into the light, hands you your mug which you take gratefully, an offering to greet the day. You let out a grateful sigh on the first sip, and the world comes into startling focus as Kento takes his place on the bed beside you.

     “I took today off,” he says without preamble. Your brows raise in surprise, but you suppose you shouldn’t be. After Shibuya, everything changed; and for a while, neither of you were sure if what exists between you could survive that change. Some things between you, you never got back, but other things changed.

     Kento takes rest when he truly needs it, now.

“That’s good,” you say, meaning it as you let the warmth of your mug seep into your hands. Both of you sit with the weight of the memory: Shibuya in flames, and you, not knowing if Kento would live or die. Suspension of his wounds had saved him, but though he healed, and the wounds have since melded to oily scar tissue, the memory lingers like an ache when pressed. Your therapist tells you this is normal, and that the important thing is that you two move through it together.

     So this became your new ritual addition: the two of you, in the cool quiet of the morning, sipping coffee, grateful for the simple domestication your lives have become since that awful night, and the difficult nights since. So you sit, and you reach for him, and link your fingers, the warmth of you blending with the warmth of him.

     “Soooo,” you chime in when the solemnity of the moment passes, shooting him an impish sidelong glance. “What do you plan to do with your day off, babe? Don’t keep me in suspense.”

     Kento hums in thought, deliberately delaying your prodding, but you know how to read the archaic text of him. Beneath the stoicism is a sharp wit and a playful spirit.

     A smirk curls his mouth.

     Your mouth drops open in a surprised laugh.

     “Am I hearing things or does the meticulous Nanami Kento—love of my life—not actually have a plan for once?”

     Kento lets out a quiet laugh, cedes this delight to you as he does all things that keep you smiling like the world doesn’t matter beyond what’s right in front of you.

     You set your coffee down, and Kento pauses momentarily. The warmth between you blooms into a radiant heat. Kento slowly sets his coffee on the nightstand beside him. The heat turns magnetic, drawing you closer. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you effortlessly into his lap as you swing your leg over and settle with a small huffing laugh, sighing as the warmth of his hands settle on your waist, smoothing down your hips to pull you closer. Your arms link loosely around his neck and shoulders as he leans in to rest his forehead against yours.

     Together, you breathe deep, cocooned in the unbroken quiet of a snow-powdered world. You kiss, his mouth as slow and thorough as his hands. Your lips trace a familiar path over the ruddy scar tissue of his face, anointing him with tenderness even as his grip on your hips tighten slowly.

     “I never said I didn’t have a plan,” he murmurs against your mouth, rubbing your noses together. “I said I took today off.”

     Something like heat drips through your body and you tighten your thighs around his hips.

     Closer, now. Something warm and solid presses against the most intimate juncture of your body, the pressure making you bite your lip on a small, helpless sound. Your hips rock forward, and you laugh in simmering triumph at Kento’s answering grunt.

     You rock your hips back, planting your ass directly in his palms, and his fingertips dig into your skin, and as you move again, his arms come around you, caging you as your lips meet again, open-mouthed and desperate.

     The silence is cut apart by your collective panting breaths. You reach in the heated space between your bodies, fingers slipping below the waistband of his trousers, threading through the thatch of dark, golden hair to grasp his cock, heavy and hard in your palm. You take a moment to bite your lip, savoring how thick he feels, running your thumb along the veined braille of the shaft, swiping at the silky bead of seed at the tip.

     As you like, and as you expect, Kento’s answering groan coincides with his tightening grip on your backside, and his larger hand joins yours. His mouth overtakes your own, tongue swiping across your lower lip. Your mouth yields, your tongue yields, and his hand between you wraps around yours,  engulfing the whole of it, guiding you—urging you—to stroke him.

     You do, together, as you always have.

     “Good girl,” he murmurs into your mouth, and you squeeze his cock a little tighter, slicking the shaft as more seed beads and drizzles from the tip. Something in your blood ignites like a match strike, and a desperate little whimper swims from your throat into his mouth.

     The heat dripping through you collects between your thighs, making you ache with a pulse in your sex that rocks your hips forward and back, in time with your mutual stroking of his cock. But you need more, and Kento knows this, even as he takes his time tracing a path down your throat with tender kisses like footprints in sand. He knows what you want, knows what you need, and he’s declared in no uncertain terms that he intends to make good on giving it to you.

     All he requires is your unconditional surrender.

     “Do you want me to take care of you?”

     His breath spills across your throat as the words transform you, mold you, make you pant. He always asks this right before you give him everything.

     “Yes,” comes your soft, breathy voice. Kento looks up at you with one hazel eye from between his soft blond hair.

     It’s quick how the pace shifts, the way he handles you so expertly, maneuvering you both until you find yourself sprawled on your back, bracing against the cushioned landing, Kento’s fingers curling at your hips to drag your panties down, and then up your legs. You watch, legs in the air, as he tosses them aside. You’re about to spread your legs around him when his grip on your calves halts you.

     “Not until I say, kitten,” he murmurs, turning to kiss your ankles. You bite your lip again, smiling. With a soft exhale, every part of you relaxes, relinquishing control. Kento gives your calves a deep, affectionate squeeze, smirking at you.

     “Good girl,” he murmurs, sending a shiver of delight down your spine, an aching pulse between your thighs. You want to open for him, show him just how much you need him, but Kento has taken the day off.

     Time is all the two of you have.

     Kento’s mouth takes the journey from your ankles down the curves of your calves, following the wake of his hands, which maintain firm control of your body, sliding down the backs of your thighs, thumbs pressing to make you relax.

     Every nerve in your body feels heightened as he finally—finally—pulls apart your thighs, and you lift your hips, your core flushed and soaked. Your eyes wander to the thick outline of his cock in his trousers. You breathe deep, and Kento leans in, breathes in your scent. Then, with aching gentleness, he delves in and parts your drenched folds with his tongue licking a firm, measured stripe up your entrance, pressing against the swollen bud of your clit.

     “Ah!” Comes your surprised but satisfied whine. You barely have time to recollect yourself before his tongue begins a languid, wet rhythm: up, down, up, down, more pressure. Your mouth drops open in a mindless whine, hands coming to settle on Kento’s head as his hands squeeze your hips, settling your thighs on his shoulders. His mouth envelops you, his tongue never stopping even as you watch his jaw work in a firm suck on your clit.

     Your back bows, your hips writhe mindlessly in his hold as he works you, watching you come apart, tasting you as you dissolve on his tongue like spun sugar, dripping down his chin like the juice of a late summer peach.

     In the full light of day, Kento demonstrates why he has taken a day off. He isn’t sure he’ll ever tire of you, has loved you with the whole of himself even in the moments he felt sundered in two. Right now, he is grateful: grateful for the predictability of this heat between you, undimmed by time or trial by fire and fury.

     So he takes you apart, soothing your pleasure-heightened body with soothing rubs of his thumbs against your hips, holding your cunt in his mouth as if it his last meal. Kento has looked death in the face and come back changed. Every meal can be his last.

     He pulls away with a gasp, a man who has delved deeply for exactly what he wants. You lay melted on the sheets, sunlight spilling across the contours of your flushed and panting form. Kento loves you this way: thighs trembling, your cunt open and soaked, and your face looking at him with eyes like that.

     “Please…p-please…” comes your whimper, trying to coax him to you sooner than he wants. Kento’s hands smooth up from your hips, span your ribcage, coming to cup your breasts. As his thumbs pass over the hardened buds of your nipples, you moan, your sex clenching desperately.

     There’s no plan, there’s no words. Kento leans forward, folding your knees to your chest. The heat of his cock presses against your entrance, warm pressure you want to fill you up so desperately. He grips the shaft firmly, bracing himself on his other arm. The head of his cock slides up and down between your lips, soaking him, making you shiver and whine as he teases you. He leans in to kiss your face, starting from your eyebrow, your eyes, the tip of your nose, and finally your trembling lips.

     Kento presses forward, a firm and controlled roll of his hips as his cock slips past your entrance, and you moan eagerly as you feel yourself stretched, your body going limp and accommodating to take him inch by slow inch.

     He pauses, only an inch deep.

     “Start counting, kitten,” he reminds you. Your face floods with heat as you remember what he’s referring to.

     He wants you to count him in. Count every inch of his cock as it slides into you.

     “O-one…” Your voice is tremulous, but your cunt tightens in response. Kento smiles, his hips move forward.

“T-Two…” Your voice drags, tapering into a high sound.

     Another inch, the stretch burns.

     You pant, tears burning in your eyes at the strain before Kento cants his head, an expectant smile on his face. He doesn’t have to tell you what he’s waiting for.

     “Three—oh god—”

     On your count Kento’s hips snap forward, driving the remaining five inches into you with a wet slap to the backs of your thighs, the mattress absorbing the force, but you take him deep and a cry scrapes out of you, broken and relieved all at once.

     He draws out slowly, pushes in slowly, and you pant with each stroke, fingers digging and twisting into the sheets, your broken voice choked in your throat, spiraling into a wail. Kento’s flushed face hovers above yours and you glance down between you watching his cock vanish inside you and withdraw, glistening with the slick of your juices.

     You don’t know how long he does this, but you know he can do it for as long as it takes for you to give up everything in your flesh and bones. Every withdrawal drags some more of that lingering ache out of you. The persistent pain of almost losing him, almost losing what you have between you.

     Kento leans in, and you yield with a whimper into the kiss he licks into your parted lips.

     “So this is why you took the day off, hm?” You purr into the hair’s breadth between your lips, panting around restrained noises as his rhythm grows slippery, sliding his cock in and out with ease. You relish the fullness, wishing you could wrap your legs around his waist, dig your heels into his back, and keep him inside of you.

     “Oh,” Kento groans, a rare disruption of all that control he exudes; he’s as pliant for you as you are for him in this moment. His pace is as torturous for him as it is for you, and you take pleasure in the power is accords you.

     “One reason,” he admits, nipping your lower lip with a tenderness to match his pace. “But you’re more than enough reason, you know that.”

     Something behind your ribs shudders and breaks open. He always says things like this; these tender niceties that he offers as easily as everything else he’s given you. As if loving you is the only logical thing in his world.

     This affirmation emboldens you, and you tighten around him as he slides hilt-deep, anchoring you both. You watch his face slip between the dichotomy of determination and surrender, and his eye settles on you, flashing in the morning light.

     He sits up, releasing your legs, which quiver. He takes a moment to admired you as his hands grasp your hips, dragging them into his laps as he sits back on his heels. Sensing his next move, you reach up, grasping one of the pillows to slip beneath your arched back. Kento smiles, reaching down to where the two of you are sealed together. His thumb strokes your swollen clit, watching as your eyes flutter, and your slick heat tightens around his cock. He groans in approval.

     And in the cold morning, he fucks you.

     It’s a punishing rhythm, and at this angle you have no choice but to surrender to him. You upped the stakes in your morning ritual, and now Kento has come to collect.

     Plap-plap-plap.

     Your bodies shatter the snowbound quiet, as Kento’s forearms distend with the effort of pulling you back and forth along his cock. His pace is steady, and he somehow has mastered your body enough to bounce you so easily, watching your mouth open in a broken cry of his name.

“Kento…!” You whine; your breath squeezed from your lungs as your husband answers your desperate call for him by stroking your clit in response.

     A scream builds inside of you as heat coils like a serpent in preparation, deep in your core. Your mind feels wiped clean of sentient thought, only the sound of flesh meeting flesh, Kento’s grunts and groans, and your cries of beseeching and encouragement to fill the space.

     Plapplapplapplapplap—

     “Now, kitten,” his voice is winded, his face flushed, and yet he seems tireless as your body yields to him even more.

     Everything in you feels like a raw nerve touching a live wire, electrified from root to tip as your pussy tightens around his cock in a paroxysm of ecstasy. Stars spangle in your veins, and for a moment your vision goes white.

     The pressure in the base of Kento’s spine is building, and he lets out another moan at the sight of you soaking him, the soft blond hair at the base of his cock darkened and slick with your juices, your pretty little cunt split around him like a ripened peach.

     He slows his pace, reaches down to squeeze your puffy folds, pressing the seam of you around his cock, fucking his hand and you with short, hard pumps as he shudders in release, holding you down, letting you milk him. He presses on your belly, giving a few more hard pumps of his hips, cock pulsating against your clenching walls, the slide growing sticky and slick between you.

     In the aftermath, you both breathe deeply, the sunlight cutting across both your sweaty, flushed bodies. With aching languor, you reach for him and he grasps your arms, pulling you bodily into his embrace, your legs folding around his hips. You bury your face in his chest while he buries his in your hair. The two of you stay wrapped around one another like this.

     The quiet resettles in the room, accompanied by the scent of sex. You keep breathing, your pulses slowing, but you’re not listening to yourself, you’re listening to his.

     “Good morning,” you mumble into his skin, pressing your lips against the center of his chest. Kento smiles, pressing a featherweight kiss to your sweaty temple.

     “Good morning,” he murmurs, then adds, with an almost playful smirk. “Pleased to meet you.”

     Your laughter sounds the way sunlight feels. Kento spies the clock on his nightstand.

     Right on schedule.