ɥɐu

CALL #1: THERE’S SOMETHING INSIDE YOU.

Your phone rings at three am. Of course, it does.

Fortunately, you’re still awake, and pause your game to answer.

“’Toru?”

“Hey,” his voice crackles from the other side of the line. He sounds…off, exhausted in ways he only is in the middle of the night when his family gets too loud—too angry—for an enclosed space. His voice cuts in and out, so you know he’s home—the hills always have shit service. “What’cha doin’?”

You hum, pushing away from your desk and pausing the game to stretch. You needed a break, anyways.

“Playing the Sims.”

“Ooh, still working on that throuple?” Satoru says, huffing through his nose. Laughter, you think. Guilty, you are.

“You weren’t supposed to know about that,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. He wasn’t. But, he came over one day, when you already had the game up and running, your desktop coughing dust from the file’s size. On the screen were your heavily cc’d sims, mid-fuck, Wicked Whims and everything. Long story short, Satoru is never allowed in your apartment again. “Maybe.”

Satoru cackles, but something about it feels wrong. It’s too bright—sounds too wide, and you bite the inside of your cheek before asking, “You okay?”

And, well. That takes the wind out of his sails. Your phone goes quiet after the last weak ‘aha, ha.’

“Yeah,” he drags lazily, in the way he does when he’s lying, when his eyes get shifty and he starts fiddling with any loose string he can find. “Just family stuff—y’know the drill.”

And you shrug, because you do. Somewhat, at least.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Satoru lets out a bitter laugh at that, accompanied by some miscellaneous rustling. “No.”

“Okay,” you nod patiently, running through your usual check-in script. “Do you want to talk at all?”

“Mm,” Satoru hums. “Talk about the Sims.”

So, you do. Against your better judgement, you tell him about the throuple your working on—how polyamory in the Sims 4 is a pain in the ass because it’s not built in, how turning the jealousy down only works sometimes, because occasionally, your game glitches, and you have to turn it down all over again.

You tell him about the CC’s you download and how they kill your laptop. Your favorite creators and design impulses, and how you built a lot so complex it shut the game down. Satoru listens to it all with a quiet ear, and somehow, manages to do what he’s been trying to all evening—fall asleep.

CALL #2: IT’S HARD TO EXPLAIN.

Two nights later, and another three am call. It surprises you—typically, it’s at least four days until you hear from him like this. He sounds better than he did, last time. More alive.

“Good Morning!”

“…’Toru, it’s the middle of the night.” You roll your eyes, tossing your phone on the bed and quickly following suit. You just got out the shower, pores sticky with humidity as your body officially dries off beneath pajamas.

He cackles, and pays your debunk no mind. “Exactly—’s the best time of the day. I get to talk to you.”

Though, something tells you that if he could go to bed earlier, he would.

“I see you nearly every day,” you huff. And, it’s the truth—you see him so often that half the campus thinks your dating. You’re not dating. No, you’re determined to keep him in the friend zone, determined to avoid being another girl on his roster, even if you provide him means for escape at least once a week. You’re not stupid.

“Yeah, and it’s still not enough.”

That doesn’t prevent him from being a flirt, though. It’s not necessarily a compliment—you’ve seen Satoru get so drunk he flirted with a plant.

“Whatever,” you say, rolling on your back to stare at the ceiling, and begin tracing absentminded shapes across it. “How was your day?”

“So boring, actually,” Satoru groans, and leaves it at that. “I wanna hear about you, though. What’d you do today? Who’d you talk to?”

“’Toru, you know I don’t go anywhere but class and back. Plus, the occasional library visit,” you smile, listening to a rustle on the other end of the line, and wonder if he’s shrugging.

“God—see the world. Experience new things, the fuck.”

“I’m okay.”

“What about the club I sent you? Did you see it? The writing one?”

You snort. “Yes—and while I appreciate your attempts to get me out the house, I’m good.”

“Fine,” Satoru groans, loud and obnoxious. “Tell me the best thing you learned today, then.”

“Um…” your eyes trace the ceiling as you try to remember your day in any capacity. Honestly, you step through the threshold of your apartment, and promptly forget most of the things that happened. “Oh! In philosophy—”

Satoru groans again, somehow louder and more obnoxious. “No philosophy. It’s the middle of the night, you’re gonna make my head hurt.”

Oh, now it’s the middle of the night.

“I—You can’t ask me what I did today, and get picky.”

“Yes, I can,” Satoru says around a smile—you know, you can hear it—and you roll your eyes for the fifth time tonight. “Tell me about something else. If I think past midnight, my brain melts from my ears.”

“If you think at all,” you amend, and Satoru giggles.

“Yeah, something like that.”

You end up talking about philosophy, anyways.

Something about Descartes, something about Plato’s Allegory—Satoru doesn’t really know. All he knows is that your voice before you fall asleep is very, very nice. Rasped from the day’s use and exhaustion, lazy in the way smoke spirals.

It isn’t long before he falls asleep.

CALL #3: THEY’RE TALKING ABOUT YOU, BOY.

Bzz bzz. Bzz bzz. Bzz bz—

“Yo!”

You run a hand over your face.

“Bitch, you keep falling asleep on me,” because, you haven’t seen him since the last call, and haven’t had time to properly pick that bone.

“’S not my fault!” Satoru’s whine is accompanied by some intense rustling. Getting into bed, maybe? “Your voice is so peaceful…Just wanna hear you yap, again.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you huff, crossing your arms, and fighting the rising heat in your face with a passion. “You sound half dead already. Just go to bed.”

“Can’t,” Satoru says. “What’d you do today.”

At this point, it’s less of a question and more of a demand. But, Satoru’s very good at talking around the truth. If your voice is what he needs to fall asleep, so be it.

“Actually, I went on a little adventure,” you nod, and continue organizing your desk. “There was a cute little library downtown that I went to check out.”

“What?” Satoru whines, dragging out the a. “Why didn’t you take me with you?”

“Because you’re horrible in quiet places,” you say. The last time he came with you to the campus library, the quiet one, he got both of you kicked out. Promptly.

“Fine, whatever,” he huffs, clearly a little butt hurt. You organize the pens you own by color, even if the effort is for naught once you close the drawer, and everything jostles. “Tell me about it.”

You tell him how the place had an interior waterfall and enough greenery for vines to grow onto books. You tell him about the built in coffee shop, how everything smelled like roasting coffee beans and humidity, how a guy approached you and asked for your number, an—

Wait, what?

Satoru doesn’t fall asleep that night, but he does stay quiet. Eventually, you hang up.

“G’night, Loser.”

He watches the red end call button blink once, and his phone goes dark.

CALL #4: BUT YOU’RE STILL THE SAME.

It becomes a thing—you talking Satoru to sleep.

He calls you almost every night—the nights he doesn’t spend outside with friends, bar hopping and clubbing and doing all the things that you refuse. All he can think about is you though, despite bright neon lights and loud house music. He’s become some sickening iteration of Pavlov's dog, yearning the moment he yawns. The moment he thinks he could go to sleep.

Tonight, he purposely ignored Suguru’s invitation to go out, just to talk to you. Like a fucking idiot.

He starts with the same pretense, just like every other time.

“What’d you learn today?”

And you’re off, rambling on about Plato, again. Unfortunately, Satoru is more awake than he’d usually feel at this hour, despite not being able to sleep. Less exhausted. Like his body is finally getting it’s revenge after his surprisingly peaceful month.

It’s his dick. Tonight, his dick is the issue, and he should just cut it off, but also, he loves his dick. You chat about cave shadows, and something about the way you say cave tickles a spot in Satoru’s brain that he didn’t know he had. Cave, really?

Satoru loves how you sound when discussing something you have a genuine interest in. The way your mouth runs a mile a minute, eyes frantically tracking the other person for signs you should stop, the way you gesticulate wild enough to knock a glass or two off the table—he can picture it now.

But, Satoru doesn’t give it to you. He doesn’t want you to stop, ever. If someone told him listening to you talk was hell, he’d sin so quick.

Him and his dick, apparently.

“So, he had this thing, right, where he’d—”

Satoru hisses when a hand ghosts over his crotch, completely of its own volition. It’s not his fault—his body is pent up because he hasn’t been able to enjoy a good fuck after meeting you a semester ago. And now, half the female population thinks that you’re his girlfriend, which couldn’t be farther from the truth. Satoru isn’t one for commitment. Maybe, he just needs to rub one out, and he’ll be back to normal.

He stops responding after a while, giving you all the air time to ramble without cutting it with a ‘yeah’ or ‘uh-huh.’

So, yeah. Maybe, he runs a hand under the waistband of his sweats, but he has no control over that.

When he pulls his cock out, its weeping and an angry shade of red. Satoru can’t help but relate. Can’t help but think, real.

Clearly, he doesn’t fuck enough in general, by the way he had to suppress a whimper and a shiver the second he wraps a hand around himself. He’s hot to the touch, and his dick cries a little more if he squeezes his fist. This is embarrassing.

As you continue your story, Satoru’s hand moves slow, like you’d hear him make the slightest movement and just know. He’s stressed, he’s ashamed, but most importantly—he’s horny.

“-ello, hello? ‘Toru did you fall asleep?”

Satoru bites back a moan as the modified version of his name falls from your lips, and starts to wonder what else he could put in your mouth, and how you’d look. He blinks himself out of his stupor, because if you hang up now, he might cry.

“No, no!” He rushes, maybe too quick and too loud. He tones it down lest he sound a little too excited. “Sorry, um. I was just listening.”

“…Are you sure? Sounds like your falling asleep to me.”

“And what does that sound like,” he’s a little breathless, but gets his question across. His cock jumps at the prospect of what you could sound like.

“Like silence,” you snort, and rustling follows. “You don’t not talk, it’s weird when you aren’t.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I want to hear you.” Satoru stares down at his traitorous dick with a scowl, and tries to keep his voice as even as possible when he starts moving his hand again. A puff, and then, “Keep going.”

“Fine,” you relent, because when has anybody ever passed on the offer to talk about themselves. Something about a teacher on Zoom with bottles of raid in the background, something about somebody asking about it, he doesn’t know.

He just knows his hand moves quicker this time, in a race to finish before you start asking anymore questions, before you notice.

And, Satoru’s mind—Satoru’s mind runs rampant. He imagines you in the worst and best positions he possibly can, imagines what you look like under those sweatpants and hoodies you love so much. You’re talking about the most boring, inane thing possible, and he’s so close, the universe hates him.

“Oh my God, and ‘Toru, he has this cat—”

“Yeah?”

“It’s the most adorable thing, always walking over his keyboard and shit—”

“Say it again.”

Satoru is stupid—he’s delirious, can barely see straight, and it’s your fault.

“Um, say what? The cat?”

“No—my name.”

“Satoru?”

“No, the other one.”

“…’Toru?”

It’s a nickname almost everyone gives him, but he likes it best coming from you. Likes it enough to cum, apparently. Hard enough that he has to bite on a free hand, thankful he put you on speaker before deciding to start this mess. And man, is it a mess.

Satoru blinks away stars dancing across his ceiling. If you said something in the past thirty seconds, one minute, five minutes, he doesn’t know. His sense of time and sense of self are fucked, because he’s floating, and even after post-nut clarity, his feelings (ew) about you haven’t shifted an inch. Fuck. Fuck.

“Are you okay?”

Satoru pulls his hand back and spreads his fingers, all coated in a milky white guilt he’d rather not look at for too long. So, he doesn’t, and rolls over in hopes that he can find a t-shirt inexpensive enough to dirty.

“Yep. Peachy,” he huffs, despite feeling anything but. He sits up, and runs a clean hand over his face. What does he do?

(The right answer is to ask you out—the right answer would be to keep you all for himself, but Satoru Gojō is nothing if not a coward.)

© mamashima/pumaya. do not edit, translate or copy my work without my permission. do not use for ai. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI.

taglist; @tokkushin, @kamislop, @zompompurin, @updownandbatty, @lynnsemptymind, @eijiromelissa12, @glokitty, @p1nkv33, @arctivv, @jamanthabean, @oo-juniper-oo, @thedailylexi, @imandumbass … wanna join the taglist? send me and ask, dm, or comment!

Suguru had sat you down on a Sunday, which you had thought was cruel timing. Sunday mornings used to be yours, slow and warm, coffee and his records and the particular blue light that came through the windows of his apartment on the Shimokitazawa side of the city. He had used that gentleness of his—the kind that had hooked you in the first place, the kind that made you feel like he was doing you a favor when he broke something in you.

"I feel like I'm suffocating you," he had said, which you both knew was not quite what he meant. You're suffocating me. He was too kind to say it plainly.

You had held it together long enough to get out the door.

That had been seven months ago.

You have, in those seven months, become a person you do not entirely recognize. You are aware of this. You are a fashion student, after all—you are trained to observe, to analyze, to understand aesthetics and composition and the way things are put together and taken apart. You apply this skill now to Geto Suguru's life in your absence from it.

It started small. The way these things always do.

You had kept his Instagram followed, of course. His main—@suguru.ink—which he kept public for his work. Clean grids of tattoo photos, the occasional candid shot from a coffee shop or a bar. Easy enough. You didn't even have to try.

But then he'd switched his personal account to private.

@its.suguru. One hundred and twelve followers. A lock icon.

You had made the alt before the thought had fully formed. It took you maybe twenty minutes: a new email, a new account, four weeks of posting photos stolen from Pinterest—aesthetic city shots, some food, a carefully curated collection of jazz album covers—and then a follow request sent to his personal from @mn.archives, a faceless account that looked like any other twenty-something whose personality lived entirely in film photography and good coffee. Two hundred and sixteen followers, because a number too low looks suspicious.

He accepted within a day.

You tell yourself this is just so you know he's okay. That it's concern, residual and tender, the way you might still check the weather in a city you used to live in. You scroll through his grid at eleven PM with your knees pulled to your chest and you look at the photo he posted last Thursday—some bar you recognize, neon light catching the silver of his earrings, Haibara's arm slung around his shoulder—and you feel something so complicated you can't name it. Not grief exactly. Not quite anger.

Want, maybe. Plain and embarrassing.

The tattoo was not your best idea. You will admit that freely, in the privacy of your own thoughts.

You had passed by his work plcea approximately forty-seven times in seven months, which you know because you have routes home that all bend toward this specific block on purpose. You had a habit of slowing down outside the window—frosted glass, the clean black font of the shop name, sometimes the amber glow of light inside—and telling yourself you were just walking. Just passing through. Just appreciating good signage, actually, as a design student.

The appointment you booked under a fake name—Watanabe Mika, which you chose because it felt forgettable—was a small floral piece. Lower back. Simple. Classic. Something you could attribute to a late-night Pinterest spiral rather than the slow, spectacular unraveling of your dignity.

There is one flaw in this plan, one thing you had somehow managed not to factor in.

You are terrified of needles.

You sat in the chair and stared at the ceiling and told yourself it was fine, it was fine, it was—

"Breathe."

His voice, right behind you. Low and unbothered, the way it always was.

You had not accounted, in all your meticulous planning, for the fact that you would have to talk to him. That the fake name would crumble the second he walked into the room and said it like he'd never heard it before in his life.

"Watanabe-san?"

You had turned, and his expression had done something complicated for exactly one second before settling back into professional neutrality. His hair was up—messy bun, a few strands loose around his face—and he had new ink on his forearm, something geometric you didn't recognize. Which meant he'd had it done after you. The thought sat in your chest like a splinter.

"Hi," you said. Brilliant.

"Hi." A pause. "Small piece?"

"Lower back. Florals. I have a reference."

He had nodded and reached for his gloves and you had spent the next forty minutes lying face-down on the table with your back exposed and his hands steady on your skin and tried very hard not to make a sound that wasn't about the needle.

You managed. Barely.

The tattoo healed beautifully. Sometimes you twist in front of your mirror just to look at it.

His favorite coffee shop is a place called Kōhī to Yoru—coffee and night—that operates out of a narrow building near the university. He started going there maybe three months into your relationship, the two of you sharing a corner table and his headphones, and you have continued going there with the particular audacity of someone who has decided they were there first, actually, in some cosmic sense, even if that is not strictly true.

You go on Tuesday mornings and Thursday afternoons, which are the days his alt account has, on multiple occasions, shown him holding an iced coffee that matches the shop's specific shade of pale green cup.

You bring your sketchbook. You work on your thesis collection. You sit with your back to the door and wait for the sound of it opening—the particular way the bell above it chimes—and when he comes in, which he does, not every time but often enough, you feel your whole body go still and warm and stupid. You look down at your paper and draw the same seam line you have been drawing for six minutes without noticing.

He always orders the same thing. You know his order the way you know the smell of his apartment, the exact pressure of his hands, the specific timbre of his voice when he's half asleep.

You don't look up.

You're very good at not looking up.

The club situation, in retrospect, requires more explanation.

There is a bar-club hybrid in the entertainment district called Sable that Suguru frequents. You know this because Satoru has a fully public account and zero impulse control regarding location tags, which means you have a near-perfect record of their Saturday nights without ever having to try very hard. You don't follow Satoru. You don't need to. His posts are public and his captions are aggressive and he documents everything.

You do not go to Sable every Saturday. You're not insane.

You go maybe twice a month. On weekends you've verified—through Satoru's stories, through a brief and agonizing scan of his tagged photos—that Suguru will be there. You get ready carefully, the way you used to when you were going to see him, and you tell your friends, who know nothing, that you just feel like going out. That you love this place. That the DJ is good.

The thing is, you're not lying about the DJ. The DJ genuinely is good.

And you are, by any objective measure, devastating when you make the effort.

You keep your distance. That's the important part, the part that keeps this justifiable. You don't go near him—too obvious, too much—and you have what's left of your pride to protect. You position yourself well, and you dance, and you drink, and you exist in the same airspace, and you watch, peripherally, the way you've gotten very good at watching things peripherally.

What you also do—and this is the part where you stop being able to fully justify yourself—is notice the women.

There are always women. Suguru is—you don't need to describe him to yourself. You know exactly what he looks like in a room, what he does to it without meaning to, that particular quality of his presence that functions like gravity. You know because it pulled you in and kept you there for sixteen months and you have not yet figured out how to get far enough away that it stops working on you.

So. The women.

You don't interfere directly. That would be messy, obvious, humiliating. What you do is more surgical than that. A girl drifts toward him at the bar—you're there first, materializing at his elbow under the pretense of ordering, smiling at the bartender, turning just enough that your body language reads as occupied space. A group approaches the table where he and Satoru are sitting—you're walking past right then, somehow, and you catch Gojo's eye (Gojo who knows you, Gojo who looks at you with an expression you have learned not to examine) and you smile like you ran into him by coincidence, and the moment breaks before it can start.

You are very good at this.

You have gotten very good at this.

You think you're slick.

This is perhaps the most important thing to understand about the last seven months: you have constructed, in meticulous and loving detail, the story of yourself as someone who is merely adjacent to Geto Suguru's life. Someone who passes through the same spaces by coincidence, drawn there by taste and habit and not by anything more embarrassing than that. Someone who has moved on cleanly and simply no longer intersects with him—except in these small moments that don't count, that you are careful to keep deniable.

You believe this story.

You are, perhaps, the only one who does.

Geto Suguru notices everything.

This is not vanity—it's fact, the baseline condition of someone who has spent years being precisely observed and has therefore learned to observe in return. He notices patterns. He notices the particular quality of attention a room gives a person. He notices when something stops being coincidence and starts being something else entirely.

The first time he saw you at Kōhī to Yoru, he thought: oh.

Not with surprise. With something more like recognition. Like finding a word he'd been looking for in a language he already spoke.

You had your sketchbook open and your head down and the line of your shoulders had that specific tension you always got when you were pretending to concentrate on something other than what was in front of you. He had ordered his coffee and taken the table by the window—not your corner, deliberately not your corner—and watched you not look at him for eleven minutes straight. And he had felt something settle in his chest like the click of a lock finding its latch.

There she is.

He had not broken up with you because he stopped wanting you. He needs to be clear about this, at least to himself, in the space where honesty costs nothing. He had broken up with you because wanting you and watching you want him back had started to feel like too much weight in a place he didn't know how to hold. He is—he will say this plainly—not good at being needed. Something in him retreats when it feels cornered by someone else's love, some reflex toward distance that he's never fully understood and never fully fought. He had watched you learn his rhythms and bend yourself around them and he had known, somewhere underneath the warmth of it, that he was shaping you into something that orbited him, and you deserved better than a center like him.

He had thought, in the careful logical part of his mind, that breaking up would free you. That you'd pull yourself out and go build something that didn't require making yourself small.

He had not, apparently, accounted for yoy.

@/mn.archives had followed him about two months after the breakup. He noticed because he got the notification at 2 AM on a Tuesday, which was exactly when you used to lose sleep to your phone.

He had looked at the profile for a long time.

The photos were too curated. Jazz records and film photography and that particular aesthetic that looked like a constructed personality rather than an actual one—assembled from the outside in, like a mood board rather than a life. No face. No name. mn.archives. He had scrolled back through their last few conversations once—just once, he told himself—and found a message you'd sent months before the end, mentioning a vintage archive account you'd been thinking about making.

He had accepted the follow request.

He still posts to that account knowing you're watching. Sometimes he tags places he's about to go, just to see if youll show up. You always do.

The tattoo appointment had required real effort not to laugh.

Watanabe Mika. He'd seen the name in the book when he was reviewing the day's schedule and he had known before he walked into the room. He doesn't know exactly how he knew—maybe the handwriting, you always pressed too hard with pens, like you were trying to leave a mark on whatever you touched—but he had known, and when he said the name and watched you face do that thing where you're trying to hold it perfectly still, he had felt something he'd classify, if he were being honest, as pure delight.

Forty minutes. His hands on your back. The way you'd gone absolutely rigid when the needle started and then forced yourself still through what he knew, because he knows you, was genuine fear. You hadn't made a sound. He'd been almost proud of you.

He wanted to say: you don't have to do this.

He wanted to say: I already know.

He said neither. Because there is something he enjoys—something he is not proud of but does not particularly want to stop—about watching you work this hard. About being watched this carefully. About being the thing someone builds an entire architecture of ordinary life around.

The club thing is his favorite.

He sees yoy every time. He spotted you the third Saturday you came to Sable—across the room, dancing with that particular careless ease you put on when you're trying to look like you're not paying attention to anything—and he had taken a slow drink and thought about how long you'd been doing this without knowing he saw. He had done a rough calculation. Yiu'd been at it for months.

The girls you redirects: he lets you. It would be simple enough to close the gap, to make himself reachable, to let someone else in just to see what you'd do. He doesn't.

Satoru, who is not an idiot and has never pretended to be, had said once, watching you materialize near the bar at precisely the right moment: "You know she's here."

"I know," Suguru had said.

Satoru had looked at him for a long moment. "And you're just going to let her keep doing this."

It hadn't been a question. Suguru hadn't answered it anyway. Satoru had made the face he made when he thought Suguru was being spectacular and specific kind of idiot, which was fair. Satoru was usually right about these things.

He still has your key.

This is the part he doesn't examine too closely, doesn't turn over in his hands and look at straight on. He still has the key you gave him fourteen months into their relationship—the little silver one with the small scratch near the head from when you'd dropped your keychain down a flight of stairs and laughed so hard you couldn't breathe, had grabbed his arm for balance and left half-moon marks in his jacket. He had kept it after the breakup, which he had told himself was oversight. He'd meant to return it. The moment had never arrived, and the key had stayed on his ring, and here they are.

He goes, sometimes, when he knows your out.

He knows your schedule the way he's always known things about you—not through tracking, not through architecture and alt accounts, but through the simple accumulating weight of attention. He knows you have studio hours Monday and Wednesday evenings. He knows you go to your mother's on Sunday afternoons and usually doesn't come back until after seven.

He lets himself in quietly. He moves through the apartment and he moves things—small things, careful things. A mug shifted slightly on the counter. Your desk chair at a different angle. The throw blanket refolded. Nothing you could be certain about, nothing that couldn't be chalked up to your own distracted hands in a busy week. He just wants you to feel it, in some wordless way you can't name. He wants to leave a shape in your space.

He also takes things. He is aware this is not something he can justify cleanly. Small things—a note torn from your sketchbook, a hair tie from the bathroom counter, once a grocery list written in your handwriting that he'd found tucked under a bottle of wine. Things you might not notice. Things you'd never be sure about.

The first time he went to the drawer beside the bed—just to look, he'd told himself—he had found his hoodie. The charcoal one you used to steal, folded near the bottom like you'd put it somewhere you didn't have to see every day but couldn't bring yourself to throw away. And underneath a novel you was reading: a photo strip from a machine in Harajuku. The two of you, making faces, the particular light of that afternoon still somehow caught in the paper.

You hadn't thrown any of it away.

He had stood there for a moment and felt something so complicated that he hadn't tried to name it. He had taken the photo strip. Replaced it with a different photo—same machine, earlier in the same day, just you, mid-laugh, caught without knowing—so the space wouldn't feel empty if you looked.

He keeps the photo strip in his wallet.

He does not call this obsession. He doesn't call it anything.

It's a Thursday night when he finally goes back, and this time he doesn't have a reason.

Not to rearrange anything. Not to take something. No careful justification assembled in advance. He doesn't know what that means and he has, tonight, decided to stop caring.

The city is quiet the way it gets past midnight, that particular held-breath stillness. His key makes no sound against her lock—he knows the angle by now, the specific lift-and-turn that keeps the mechanism from clicking too loud. The door swings open onto darkness and the particular smell of her apartment, warm and layered, something floral and underneath it something that is just you, unchanged across seven months, the thing that had always made the back of his mind go quiet.

He moves through the space without turning on a light. He knows it better than you might expect. He knows the creak of the second floorboard from the hallway and steps around it. He knows to angle left around the ottoman you perpetually fail to put back in the right place. He knows the bedroom door sticks slightly at the top corner and needs gentle pressure to open without a sound.

It gives way.

You're asleep. He can tell from the doorway—the slow, even rise and fall of you breathing, your hair against the pillow, one hand curled loosely near your face. The window lets in just enough city light to see you by. Gold and still.

He leans against the doorframe.

He watches you breathe.

There is something terrible about this moment. Something tender underneath the terrible. He knows that. He is not without self-awareness—he has spent years being precisely, painfully self-aware, and it has never once made him behave better. You have been watching him for seven months from what you believed is a safe distance. He has been watching you from what he knows is not one. And maybe that says something about both of you, about the particular shape of whatever this is, two people who were never going to fall cleanly out of each other's gravity no matter how carefully he tried to cut the line.

You shift in your sleep. A small sound, something that almost forms a word and dissolves before it arrives.

He is still there.

There she is.

He stays until his shoulder starts to ache from the doorframe, and then he stays a little longer.

The city light filters through the half-open blinds in thin silver bars across your bed. Suguru stands in the doorway a moment longer, letting the quiet settle into his bones. Your breathing is deep, slow, the kind that only comes after exhaustion has finally won. He crosses the room without sound, shedding his jacket onto the chair by your desk. The hoodie you still keep is visible when he glances at the open drawer—charcoal, folded like a secret.

He sits on the edge of the mattress. The shift of weight makes you stir, but you don’t wake. Good. He wants this part slow.

His hand finds your ankle first, thumb brushing up the bare skin of your calf. You’re wearing an oversized t-shirt—his, he realizes with a low pulse of satisfaction—and nothing else. The hem has ridden up to the curve of your ass. He traces higher, palm warm against the back of your thigh, then slips under the fabric to rest at the small of your back, right over the fresh ink he put there himself. The skin is still slightly raised, healed but sensitive. He presses lightly.

You make a soft, wordless sound, shifting onto your stomach more fully. Your face stays buried in the pillow.

“Suguru…?” The name is barely shaped, thick with sleep, more breath than voice.

He doesn’t answer. Instead he leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Shh. Go back to sleep if you want.”

His hand slides lower, between your legs, finding you already slick. A low hum leaves his throat. Even asleep, your body knows him. He circles your clit with two fingers, unhurried, coaxing. Your hips twitch once, instinctive, pushing back against his hand.

You whimper into the pillow, still half-gone, thighs parting just enough to let him in. He takes the invitation, pressing one finger inside you, then two, curling gently. The wet sound is obscene in the quiet room. Your breathing changes—shallower, quicker—but your eyes stay closed, lashes fluttering against your cheeks.

He works you open like that for long minutes, slow thrusts of his fingers, thumb stroking your clit in lazy circles. Every time you clench around him he feels it in his own cock, already straining against his jeans. When you start rocking back against his hand in tiny, unconscious movements, he withdraws, ignoring the protesting noise you make.

Clothes off. He doesn’t rush. The belt buckle clicks softly; the zipper sounds louder than it should. He strokes himself once, twice, spreading the bead of pre-cum over the head before lining up behind you.

You’re on your stomach, legs spread, t-shirt bunched at your waist. Perfect.

He pushes in slow, one long glide until he’s buried to the hilt. The stretch makes you gasp, eyes flying open for a heartbeat before they flutter shut again. Your walls flutter around him, hot and tight and so fucking wet.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your nape, staying still for a moment, letting you adjust. Or not. He doesn’t ask.

He starts moving—deep, measured rolls of his hips that press you harder into the mattress. Each thrust drags against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. You moan, low and broken, still sounding half-asleep, face turned to the side now so he can see the flush on your cheek.

One of his hands slides under you, finding your clit again, rubbing in tight circles while he fucks you. The other braces beside your head, caging you in. He drops his weight more fully onto your back, lips at your shoulder, teeth grazing skin.

You push back against him, needy even in your drowsiness. “Suguru…” His name again, softer this time, wrecked with pleasure. Your hand reaches back blindly, fingers brushing his hip, urging him deeper.

He gives it to you. Harder now, the slap of skin on skin filling the room. He angles his hips until every thrust makes you cry out—short, breathy sounds that go straight to his cock. Your pussy clenches rhythmically around him, fluttering, pulling him in.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Let me feel you.”

He fucks you like he’s memorizing you all over again—slow drags followed by sharp snaps of his hips, grinding deep when he bottoms out. Your breathing turns into soft, desperate pants. You’re dripping down his cock, onto the sheets. He reaches down and spreads your ass with both hands so he can watch himself disappear inside you, the obscene shine of your arousal coating him.

You come without warning, sudden and shuddering, a broken moan muffled by the pillow as your walls clamp down hard. He doesn’t stop, fucking you through it, drawing it out until your thighs shake.

Only then does he pull out, flipping you onto your back with easy strength. Your eyes are open now, heavy-lidded and dark, but still hazy with sleep and orgasm. You look at him like you’re not entirely sure he’s real.

He doesn’t give you time to wake up fully. He hooks your legs over his elbows and slides back in, folding you nearly in half. The new angle makes you keen, nails digging into his shoulders. He sets a punishing rhythm—deep, relentless, the headboard knocking softly against the wall.

Your t-shirt is pushed up to your collarbones. He bends his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, tongue flicking. You arch into him, gasping. The other hand finds your clit again, rubbing fast and firm.

“Come on,” he growls against your skin. “Again. Want to feel it.”

You do. The second orgasm hits you harder, back bowing, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as you pulse around his cock. He fucks you through every wave, hips stuttering only when your nails rake down his back hard enough to leave marks.

He pulls out at the last second, stroking himself roughly over your stomach. Thick ropes of cum paint your skin, your tits, the underside of your chin. You watch with dazed, half-lidded eyes, lips parted.

For a long moment the only sound is both of you breathing.

He leans down and kisses you—slow, deep, tasting sleep and sex and the faint salt of your sweat. You kiss him back like muscle memory, one hand sliding into his hair, holding him there. When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

He reaches for the t-shirt you’re wearing—his t-shirt—and uses the hem to wipe his spend from your skin with surprising gentleness. Then he tosses it aside, pulls the blanket over both of you, and tucks you against his chest like no time has passed at all.

Your breathing evens out again within minutes, slipping back toward sleep. He stays awake longer, fingers tracing idle patterns over the floral ink on your lower back, feeling the steady beat of your heart against his ribs.

Outside, the city keeps breathing. Inside, the two of you fit back together in the dark like pieces that were never meant to stay apart.

babygirl : @sadisticslut666

Of course, Choso's first instinct is to kick out of the other man's grip, but Satoru is undeterred.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Choso's gruff voice cuts through the silence.

"You're hogging her." Satoru finally succeeds in yanking Choso off of you. Unfortunately, the only thing willing to accommodate Choso's displacement is the floor. "I didn't even get my welcome home kiss, y'know. It's greedy."

Choso lies on the floor for a moment, contemplating his possible responses. He could choose peace. He could acquiesce. He could quite literally roll over and give up. However, the smug little smile on Satoru's face, him thinking that he's won, irritates Choso to no end.

While Choso is typically a pretty laidback individual, the furrow in his brow and the tension in his jaw make it shockingly easy for you to predict his next actions.

Satoru, on the other hand, is blindsided when Choso sweeps his legs out from under him and ends up pinning him to the floor.

"Oh?" Satoru coos. "That desperate to have me under you, hmm?"

A pink tinge immediately floods Choso's pale cheeks, and he splutters out a weak, "Wh-what? That's not even—" Satoru takes advantage of his moment of weakness and tries to flip the two of them over. He only gets about halfway through the motion before Choso regains awareness and stops Satoru's movement. "What are you doing right now?"

"What? Don't wanna cuddle me like you were cuddling her? I'm not that bad, am I?"

"You little—" Choso pushes against Satoru, Satoru pushes right back, and, soon enough, a full-on brawl breaks out in the middle of your living room. Neither of them are paying you any mind anymore, not while they're grappling and groping and rolling around like a pair of wild animals. The coffee table ends up shoved closer toward the couch, and you just prop your feet up and watch on fondly.

It's not abnormal for the men to have petty squabbles. Satoru tends to be mischievous while Choso yearns for comfort and stability—they butt heads pretty often, but it's nothing a little tlc can't fix.

You can't help but notice the frantic tension bubbling up between them. Sweat gleams on both of their foreheads, Satoru has that feral look in his eye, and Choso's snarling down at Satoru like he owes him something. It's…oddly erotic, and the way their hands are moving across each other's bodies isn't helping their case.

Satoru could've thrown Choso off numerous times at this point, but he seems more than content to stay pinned beneath the dark-haired man. It's not exactly a feeling you're unfamiliar with: Choso has an intensity that makes both of your brains a little fuzzy, whether he's submitting to you or trying to subdue Satoru.

Your thighs press together when Satoru tries to buck Choso off with his hips, only for Choso to squeeze his thighs around Satoru's hips even tighter. The baggy pants Choso typically wears are stretched taut against the defined muscle, and you find that your gaze is locked onto them.

It seems Satoru's noticed, too, given the way his lithe fingers dance over the fabric. "Oh no, Choso, you're just so strong. How will I ever get free?" Satoru bats his pretty white lashes up at the man atop him, and Choso stalls out for a second. Just a moment, but it's all Satoru needs.

RIIIPPP!!

The sound of Choso's shirt being torn asunder fills the room, and you're not sure who's more shocked between you and him. His pale, muscular chest is suddenly on display: sweaty, heaving, and oh so gorgeous. Your boyfriend's been a bit shy recently, so it's not a sight you've been blessed with often. He's gained a few pounds—relationship weight—and he's been hiding away a bit more. But fuck if he doesn't wear it well. His pecs are fuller, his abs still defined yet softer and heavier looking, and his biceps might just be the best pair you've ever seen.

Satoru, on the other hand, is all lean muscle, and he's staring up at Choso with a teasing gleam in his azure eyes. "Getting a little soft there, Cho, aren't you?"

Choso pauses for a second, his dark eyes drifting in your direction. When he sees you sitting on the couch, your lip locked between your teeth and your thighs rubbing against each other, his gaze gets even hungrier. "I'll show you soft."

He barely gives Satoru a moment to breathe before he's yanking off the white haired man's uniform jacket. The contrast between them is maddening. It's not that Satoru is scrawny, he's far from it. He's simply a bit more cut than Choso, but you still have to bite down on your knuckle when Choso's big palms grope at Satoru's chest.

"Maybe you should increase your protein intake instead of eating mochi all the time."

"I'll have you know that mochi is a great source of nutrition that I-hah-need, oh fuck…" Satoru's voice trails off into a low moan as Choso slowly grinds his hips down, pressing their bulges together.

"You were saying?" Choso asks dryly.

"I wasn't saying anything. Nothing at all." The smug grin on Satoru's pretty lips lets you know that Choso's played right into his hands.

Choso doesn't particularly care.

Well, he does. Just not in a way that makes him want to stop.

"Always playing fucking games. Just say what you want." His hips are rutting against Satoru's roughly now, but Satoru's meeting each thrust with a roll of his own. "Fucking annoying having to deal with you."

"Mm, don't act like you don't enjoy it. I felt your dick twitch when I ripped your shirt off, Choso."

"Shut up," Choso snaps, finally ripping off Satoru's pants and boxers. His own soon follow, and you're met with the sight of your boyfriends. Fully nude. In the middle of your living room. Grinding their cocks against each other, muscles rippling and soft moans filling the air.

How you haven't fainted yet is beyond you.

The room is thick with heat and the smell of sweat, but you're more focused on the growing ache between your own thighs. Neither man notices when your hand trails down your pants, and you're unsurprised to find the slick pooling in your panties. After all, you've been given quite the show, and they're not stopping anytime soon.

Choso has one of his hands wrapped around both of their shafts now, and he's slowly rolling his hips like he's actually fucking Satoru. They're both flushed, both trembling, both panting. You watch as they make eye contact for a moment before their mouths crash into each other, and you can't take it anymore.

Your fingers feel heavenly when they sink into your pussy, finally dulling the throbbing heat down to a manageable sensation. The two men kiss like they're fighting all over again, and it's the hottest thing you've ever seen. Satoru has a hand fisted in Choso's hair, yanking his head this way and that. Choso's biting down on Satoru's lip hard enough to draw blood that Choso's all too happy to lick away. All the while, the slick sounds of their cocks rubbing against each other, your fingers delving into your cunt, and the slapping of Choso's pelvis against Satoru's ass fill the room.

You somehow cum before the two of them. The pleasure sneaks up on you, stealing your breath and making you choke out a moan neither of them pick up on. Your legs slide down the couch, and you sprawl out lazily against the cushions so you can have the perfect view of the grand finale.

In the end, Satoru cums first. A whiny, hitched breath precedes a pretty burst of translucent cum out of his long cock. With the way it's aimed, he ends up shooting it all over his own chest. A drop even manages to land on his chin.

Choso finishes with a low groan, his load joining Satoru's on the defined planes of his chest. There's a few quiet moments of tense eye contact between the two men before Choso's head dips and he licks up all the cum off Satoru's heated skin.

And, just as Satoru's about to make a smug comment, Choso leans in and spits it all into Satoru's mouth.

His blue eyes blow wide, but he swallows it all without a complaint.

Only then do they look at you. Choso is sheepish. Satoru is grinning victoriously; he can clearly see the post-orgasmic bliss floating in your eyes.

"Aww, did you have your own fun over there?"

"Mhm," you drawl. "Now c'mere. Both of you."

Choso, naturally, is the first to scramble over to you. He's all too happy to receive the smattering of kisses you give his face, and he leans into your hand as you massage his scalp. Satoru's a bit slower, stretching languidly first before rising to his feet, walking over to you, and lying down right on top of you.

Choso grumbles, but doesn't actually say anything about the fact that Satoru's stolen his spot.

"Much better," Satoru sighs.

"Choso's right. You can just ask for what you want, Toru. Neither of us want to neglect you, but we can't exactly read your mind," you soothe, lightly rubbing his back.

"S'more fun this way," Satoru mumbles against your neck. He's sprawled out on top of you like a lazy cat, and you know you'll be stuck here for a while. Whatever. A little more tlc can't hurt, after all.

he blushes pink at the thought. your words are enough to relight the fire licking at his groin. he watches you for a moment; tries to discern whether or not you're only saying what might please him, but ultimately nods.

you don't throat him immediately, though. instead, you duck your head down and press a few messy kisses to his balls. his hips twitch upwards at the contact, his breath hitching in his lungs. you smile, dart your tongue out to lick at the source of his hesitation.

"god, that's dirty," he groans. "you like this?"

"i like you," you hum, mouthing at his balls with spit-covered lips. you're making a mess of him, though that only gives you an excuse to suggest showering together later. "like your balls too."

"i... shit, i see that."

he's so sensitive, knitting his brows together as you suck and lick and kiss his balls with a feverish sort of worship you didn't know you had in you. his cock rests against your face, throbbing as it hardens even more. he could cum like this.

but you aren't quite done with him.

when you pull back to take his cock back into your warm mouth, all the way down to the base, kento swears he must've been a saint in his previous life to deserve such pleasures in this one. you trace the vein that tracks the underside of his length with your tongue, and then hollow your cheeks out to suck.

he cums all too-quick and with a loud and uncharacteristically whiney moan that makes you wonder how he'd sound tied up and begging. it feels almost wasteful to take his load anywhere other than deep inside of you, but you're sure you'll have plenty of opportunities for that in the near future.

he tastes good. salty. you want to keep sucking, see if you can milk him for more, but he's already overstimulated and panicking a little at the sensation he's feeling. although you think he likes it, you know it'll be too much for his first time. you pull off, careful to spill as little of his release as possible, and sit back on your heels.

and kento is a mess. his lips part as he watches yours pull into a greedy smile. he's eager to watch you spit it out, perhaps just to see the visual reminder that he came in your mouth. but you meet his eyes, let him sit on your tongue a moment longer, and then swallow.

oh. he wonders how he'll ever lead a normal life again after a sight like that. his mouth is dry, cock still wet with your spit, heart beating out of his chest...

still, he manages to stop you when you move to get up and start on his aftercare. "wait."

you raise your brows. "yes, ken?"

his hands slide up from your hips to your waist, palms warm and slightly sweaty. he's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read—hunger and wonder and something softer mixed in.

"okay?" he asks.

you nod, swallowing. "okay."

"good." he shifts beneath you, and you feel him twitch inside you, making you gasp. his lips curl into a smirk, but it's strained, his composure crumbling at the edges. "now move when you're ready. however you want. i've got you."

you start slow. experimental rolls of your hips, testing the angle, the friction. each movement sends sparks through your nerves, makes your breath stutter. his hands guide but don't push, his thumbs tracing lazy circles on your skin.

"like that," he says, voice rough. "just like that."

you find a rhythm. rocking forward, grinding down, the wet sound of your bodies meeting filling the quiet room. his head falls back again, eyes fluttering shut, and you watch his throat work as he swallows.

"you feel incredible," he rasps. "god, you have no idea how good you feel."

you pick up the pace, bracing your hands on his chest. the new angle makes him hit deeper, and you moan, head dropping forward. he takes the opportunity to lean up, catching your mouth in a kiss that's all tongue and teeth and desperation.

when he pulls back, he's breathing hard. his bangs are plastered to his forehead. there's a flush spreading across his chest.

"you're doing so well," he says, and his voice cracks on the last word. "fucking—perfect. you're perfect."

you roll your hips harder, chasing the friction, the pressure building low in your belly. his hands grip your waist tighter, and you can feel him fighting the urge to take over, to flip you and fuck you into the mattress.

"close?" he asks.

you nod, too breathless for words.

"me too." he laughs, shaky. "fuck, me too. you're gonna make me—"

he cuts himself off with a groan, his hips bucking up into you despite himself. you gasp at the sudden depth, your walls clenching around him.

"sorry," he grits out. "sorry, i just—you feel too good. i can't—"

his composure is crumbling. the infuriatingly cocky sorcerer is falling apart beneath you, his breathing ragged, his hands shaking where they hold you. he's babbling now, half-words and broken praises, telling you how good you are, how tight, how perfect.

"come for me," he gasps. "please. i need to feel you—"

you do. the command, the desperation in his voice, the way he's barely holding himself together—it pushes you over the edge. you clench around him, a broken moan falling from your lips as pleasure rips through you.

he follows a second later, with a groan that sounds almost pained, his hips thrusting up as he spills inside you. you feel every pulse, every hot rush of him filling you, and it draws your own orgasm out until you're trembling and spent.

you collapse against his chest, both of you slick with sweat, breathing hard. his arms wrap around you, pulling you close, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"holy shit," he mutters.

you laugh weakly. "good?"

he tilts your chin up, kissing you slow and deep.

"perfect."

your throat constricts. the words feel huge, too big to fit past your lips. but his grip in your hair tightens, just slightly, and the flash of pain sends heat pooling low in your belly.

"i am yours," you whisper, and the words feel like a key turning in a lock.

"i exist to serve you."

"i exist to serve you."

"i offer myself freely, without reservation, without shame."

your voice trembles but you repeat the words, each one carving itself into your chest, reshaping you from the inside out. when you finish, his grip loosens, and his hand slides down to cup your cheek with devastating gentleness.

"perfect," he murmurs. "you're perfect."

suguru guides you forward, and you go willingly, crawling on your knees until you're positioned between his legs, looking up at him from this new vantage point. the stone is cold against your knees. the candlelight flickers across his features, casting half his face in shadow, making him look like something out of a dream—or a nightmare, depending on your perspective.

"now," he says, and his voice drops even lower, intimate and dark, "let me teach you the next lesson."

his hand finds your chin again, tilting your face up. his other hand moves to the tie of his robe, loosening it with deliberate slowness, giving you time to watch, to anticipate, to feel the weight of every second stretching out between you.

"worship takes many forms," he says as the fabric parts, revealing the smooth expanse of his chest, the defined lines of his abdomen, the trail of dark hair that disappears below his waist. "prayer. sacrifice. offering." his robe falls open completely, and you see him, hard and waiting, the sight of him making your mouth go dry and your thighs press together. "but some of the most powerful worship is done with the mouth."

"you want this," suguru says, not a question. "i can see it in your eyes. in the way your lips part. in the way your thighs press together on the stone floor."

you nod, unable to form words.

"then ask for it."

you swallow hard. "please—please let me—"

"let you what?" his voice is silk over steel, patient and cruel. "use your words, little one. tell me what you want."

"let me take you in my mouth," you whisper, the words burning on your tongue. "let me worship you."

his smile is slow and dark. "that's better."

he steps closer, close enough that his cock is inches from your face. you can smell him—warm skin, salt, the faint trace of incense. your hands clench in your lap.

"open your mouth," he commands.

you obey instantly, lips parting, tongue resting flat. he guides himself to your lips, not pushing in, just letting you feel the weight of him against your bottom lip.

"take me in," he says, his voice dropping lower. "slow. i want to feel every inch as you take me inside."

you lean forward, parting your lips wider, and let the head of his cock slip past them. the taste of him floods your senses—warm, slightly bitter, intoxicating. you close your lips around him and your tongue darts out instinctively.

"that's it," he breathes, his hand coming to rest on the back of your head. "just like that. now take more."

you slide forward, taking him deeper, feeling him press against your tongue, then toward the back of your throat. you gag slightly and pull back, but his hand holds you steady.

"breathe through your nose," he instructs, his voice calm, hypnotic. "relax your throat. you can take all of me. i know you can."

you try, forcing yourself to relax, and when you move forward again, he slides deeper, filling your mouth completely. your eyes water but you don't pull away. you look up at him, and the sight of his half-lidded eyes, the slight flush on his cheeks, sends a thrill through you.

"good girl," suguru murmurs, and the praise makes your cunt clench. "now move. set a rhythm. let me feel your devotion."

you start to bob your head, finding a slow, steady pace. your hands grip your own thighs, desperate for something to hold onto. his hand in your hair guides you, not forcing, just directing.

"faster," he says, and you obey, your pace quickening. "deeper. yes—just like that. don't stop."

the sounds fill the chamber—wet, obscene, punctuated by his soft groans and your muffled whimpers. he tastes like need, like power, like everything you've been missing.

"look at me," he commands, and you lift your gaze, meeting his eyes while his cock is buried in your throat. "i want to see your eyes when you come undone."

you moan around him, the vibration making his hips twitch. his grip tightens in your hair.

"you're so beautiful like this," he says, his voice rough. "so desperate to please. tell me—" he pulls back slightly, letting you breathe, but only for a moment before pushing back in. "tell me who you belong to."

you can't answer with your mouth full, so you hum around him, the sound desperate and pleading.

"say it," he insists, pulling out completely, leaving you gasping, a string of saliva connecting his tip to your lips. "say it, and i'll give you what you need."

"you," you choke out, your voice wrecked. "i belong to you."

"good." he strokes himself once, smearing the moisture across his length. "now open again."

you do, and he guides himself back into your mouth, this time setting a punishing pace, fucking your throat with deep, steady thrusts. tears spill down your cheeks. your nose is pressed against his pelvis. but you don't pull away. you take it all, because this is worship, this is surrender, this is exactly what you asked for.

suguru's breathing grows ragged, his hips stuttering. "don't stop," he grunts. "don't you dare stop until i—fuck—"

he buries himself deep, and you feel him pulse against your tongue, hot cum flooding your throat. you swallow, desperate to take it all, and he groans, long and low, as he spills himself into you.

when he finally pulls back, you're trembling, your lips swollen, your face wet with tears and saliva. he strokes your cheek with his thumb, gentle now, almost tender.

"you did so well," he murmurs. "perfect little devotee."

and you know, as you kneel there, breathless and ruined, that you'll do anything to hear those words again.