To the moon, and never back

"Yes, you."

"You committed my efforts without first seeking my agreement?"

"It was easy when you weren't there to defend yourself," you reply lightly, leaning in to inspect the vegetables beneath his knife. They're a little limp, colours dulled and beginning to brown at the tops. "Besides, Coco is very excited to hear you do all the voices. You wouldn't say no to her."

"Both that child and you severely overestimate my talent and willingness," Qifrey huffs, though you can see him fighting to keep the corners of his mouth from turning upwards. "Still, as a reward for successfully getting those little terrors to sleep… would you like some dumplings for supper?"

It's almost embarrassing how quickly the fatigue leaves your body. "Dumplings!"

Qifrey laughs quietly at your immediate enthusiasm. "Yes, yes. I'm making some now." He sweeps the chopped vegetables into a bowl with practiced ease, and only then do you notice the rest of the ingredients spread across the counter beside him: minced flying shrimp and meat, a little dish of carefully measured seasonings, and a neat stack of dumpling wrappers lightly dusted with flour. So that's what he'd been doing the entire time you were upstairs battling the girls into bed. "I was taking stock of the kitchen earlier and realised these vegetables needed to be used soon. But I haven't wrapped them yet, so you may have to wa—"

"—do them with you," you finish for him, already reaching for the wrappers before Qifrey can protest. "Double the hands make for half the work, don't they?"

Qifrey just sighs. He knows better than the argue by now. The sound is touched with quiet amusement despite the air of resignation he tries to maintain—helplessly fond, in all of its indulgences.

The two of you stand at the kitchen counter to wrap the dumplings. Quiet nights like these are often your favourite—not that you don't enjoy the company of the girls—but moments like these are made all the more precious in their rarity. Little stretches of time where it is only you and Qifrey, where he can simply be himself and not the witch or the master, the two of you sharing in the stillness of the sleeping atelier together.

Your hips bump together every now and then in the cramped space between the counter and kitchen table, and your fingers brush with murmured apologies neither of you truly mean when you reach for the same wrapper more than once. You watch Qifrey's hands while you work; long fingers pleating the dumplings shut with practiced ease, each one cradled lightly in the cup of his palm before being placed in neat rows upon the tray. There is something strangely tender about the motion—careful and familiar in the same way he handles all fragile things.

The same way he handles your heart.

By the time you finish wrapping the dumplings, the water on the stove has come to a rolling boil. Qifrey lowers a handful carefully into the pot while you gather the rest, sliding them neatly into the cold box to keep for another day.

When you turn back, Qifrey is already holding a single bowl in his hands, waiting for you. Steam curls upward lazily from the broth.

You glance up at him. "You're not having any?"

"Hm?" Qifrey hums lightly as he sets the dumplings down on the table. "I assumed we could just share. It'd be less to clean up."

The easy casualness of his words makes something warm unfurl quietly in your chest.

The two of you eat the dumplings at the kitchen table, shoulders brushing every so often as you pass the spoon between you. The dumpling skins turn almost translucent in the broth, pieces of shrimp glowing a faint pink under the lamplight like small crystals. Qifrey nudges the bowl slightly closer when he notices you slowing down, waiting patiently for you to take the next one before reaching for his own. Between bites, the bowl slowly empties until there is nothing but broth, and then, even that too, is gone.

"I'll do the dishes," you say as you gather the bowl and spoon, already beginning to rise from your seat. The quicker you get it done, the sooner you can return to his side. Qifrey's brow furrows behind his glasses.

"It was my suggestion to cook, so I should—"

"Qifrey." Your hands slip over his shoulders before he can stand, fingers idly combing through the soft hair at his nape as he peers up at you. "You already stayed up late last night preparing snacks for us and Olly's lunchbox. Let me."

He tries, regardless. "But—"

"Qifrey, dear," you interrupt, voice dropping into something unbearably sweet. You can already see the first signs of impending embarrassment creeping across his face. "My love, my moon and stars, the apple of my eye, the keeper of my heart, won't you please let me have the honour of—"

"Oh, stop it." Qifrey pulls away from you halfheartedly, one hand coming up to cover part of his face as though it might hide the warmth gathering there. His voice is exasperated, but weakly so—far too flustered to carry any real force behind it. "Do as you like."

You think you want to kiss him, then. Desperately, a little. But experience has taught you the moment your lips touch his, neither of you will accomplish anything you intend—so instead, you settle for a light peck to his cheek before carrying the bowl over to the basin. Warm water laps softly against your hands as you scrub at the porcelain, the quiet clink of dishes filling the kitchen.

Even so, you can still feel Qifrey's gaze lingering on your back. A few quiet moments later, there's the soft scrape of chair legs against the kitchen floor, and you barely have time to glance over your shoulder before his arms are slipping around your waist from behind, warm and loose. He folds himself against your back with a quiet sigh.

"I missed you," he murmurs into the crook of your neck.

"I was with you the entire day."

"Not like this."

Qifrey's lips find your neck first, trailing warm kisses along your skin unhurriedly in a way that makes your breath catch. Your head tilts back instinctively to give him more room, and you feel the gentle nip of teeth against the sensitive underside of your jaw before he finally turns you just enough to kiss you properly.

It starts off slow—soft, familiar in a way only Qifrey can be around you; careful without restraint, gentle without hesitation. Your breaths mingle warm and wet in the spaces between each kiss as your mouths part and meet again, his glasses nudging lightly against your cheekbone as he leans closer. To your dismay, your hands remain suspended awkwardly over the sink, dripping wet and a little soapy. You want to touch him properly, to turn fully into his arms, card your fingers through his hair, and tug just enough to earn that quiet little sound he always tries and fails to swallow.

Instead, you make a helpless noise against his mouth and Qifrey laughs softly into the kiss, like he already knows what you're thinking. He's leaning in again when—

There's a sudden creak from the staircase. The two of you freeze instantly, Qifrey's fingertips still gently cradling your jaw. A second later, you hear the unmistakable sound of whispering—poorly hushed, at that—followed by the muffled shuffling of feet retreating back up several steps in frantic succession.

You and Qifrey slowly turn to look at each other.

“…Were they spying on us?” you whisper, more amused than anything.

“I am choosing,” Qifrey says with an immense attempt at dignity, despite the lingering flush across his face, “to believe they merely came downstairs for water.”

Another loud whisper drifts from the stairwell.

“I told you they were kissing—”

"—really just like in the book—"

"—can we go back to bed now—"

“Shh!”

The last one is definitely Agott. You bite down hard on your laughter, glancing up at the man behind you. Qifrey closes his eye with the exhaustion of a man enduring profound and arduous trials, one hand coming up to rub briefly at his temple before he leans in to steal one last kiss.

Out of sentimentality, or maybe it was guilt, he took his mask off. Khaslana wanted to make sure that he didn't miss a single detail of your face, already feeling the memory degradation because of the coreflames inside of him. It was a shame, they gave him as much power as they were killing him.

Maybe that's what he deserved. To die and be forgotten and have someone else take the Deliverer title from him.

In your scuffle, your clothes were ripped, exposing parts of your body that he once showered in love. His eyes continue to mourn the virus forcibly implanted into you, until he notices something peculiar.

The Destruction hadn't reached your heart yet, but it was getting close.

There was something left untouched it seemed like, and it was your source of strength. Your heart so full of love that it helped you persevere through the darkest night. The coreflames inside him burned inside of him, an idea sprouting in his head. He wondered if maybe he could have some of that strength for himself…

Khaslana's claws brushed over your chest, where your still heart lay. He felt dirty– a monster for even thinking about doing this. But he remembered something that you once told him, many cycles ago.

"Sweet boy, you're free to use any part of me if it means that you won't give up in this long fight."

(Were those even his memories? So many cycles and iterations of him have lived drastically different lives that he couldn't discern what was his and what wasn't. It didn't help that your memories were spilling into his as well, the more time he spent within the memoria of this world. Perhaps he was just looking for some flimsy excuse to act on his darker thoughts, mind looking for some justification to truly become the monster he knew she should be.)

In theory, if he absorbed your heart the way that he absorbed the coreflames, maybe that would help him keep his sanity for a little while longer.

Khaslana dug his golden claws in your chest, as gently as he would. He tried to make this moment of sacrilege go as quickly as possible. He knew that you couldn't feel plain anymore, but that didn't stop him from wanting to make sure you weren't in pain.

His hands wrapped around your heart and pulled it out in all of its bloody glory. Your golden ichor dripped from his hands and over his arms. He held up the still organ to his lips, tongue gently flicking to lap up the blood that fell. It was sweet and comforting, exactly what your love felt to him.

Khaslana took a deep breath and said a prayer, before digging his teeth into your heart. He chewed on it for a little while, getting used to the odd texture of it. But it was delightful he realized, before devouring it all like a man starved. In some ways he was, desperate to keep your love alive, even if it was inside him.

He swallowed the last remaining bits of your love, feeling your strength wash over him. For a minute, the unbearable weight and burn of the coreflames inside of him felt lighter and cooler. It was exhilarating, like he could reach beyond the false sky of Amphoreus and take on the God that sent him on this long road.

With a kiss to your forehead, he carried your body to your shared home. Or at least it was in the first cycle. Khaslana laid you in bed, pulling the blanket over your mutilated body. If he squinted and listened to his delusions, maybe he could imagine you sleeping in bed.

"I will come back for you, Starlight," his raspy voice spoke up, leaving the house and ready to prevent the prophecy being fulfilled again.

You had once claimed that your love was too much, that no one would be able to handle the solar flares that you give off. But he would– he can. He will prove to you that he was worthy of carrying your weight, even if that meant carrying you in a more physical sense than he thought.

@sam-yow @anomymous2 @zaustavitezemlju @ziggy-stardust-is-in-love @rainystarssx @teaboot @urmumsfan @ingydarz @iamgoldteeth @onlygirlaliveinnyc @omnipotentnothing @peachpitter @deaddogmotif @drybonesinamericantowns @dessycanwait @gloomymelody @hippie4l @happylian @jasperthenewt @kris29301 @led-the-bastard @maraudersmaketea @melhks @cigarettes-after-s @chameleonsd1sh @veilandvapour @velvetwrappedashes @baffledbirdbandit @northwxrds @noelsbf @noelsbambii @4damhatesyou @17yearoldghost @snoopingbeesting @stargazinghorror @frogzilla3983 @prettyboyaz @mackonfire @raskoln1kovsaxe @ameliascreampuffs

The two of you spent the day browsing and tasting local bakeries, wading in the crystalline waters with locked hands and sharing gentle kisses, taking plenty of pictures to show family and friends. You two even enjoyed a candlelit dinner together—private and alone—perfect.

And into the bated night, when the moon began to hang high in the starry sky, after taking a peaceful bath together, you find yourself wrapped in the warm and familiar presence of your new husband.

Nanami Kento, shirtless and still slightly wet from your shower, keeps you in his arms, muscled biceps caging you to his chest as his ringed hand finds yours.

He lets the metal on his hand kiss yours, the little ‘clink’ every time it touches. The glimmer of your diamond flitting radiantly in the dim ambiance is a reminder that you’re completely his now. Kento hasn’t always been a possessive man, but like many things in his life—he’s changed with you. And now, he is yours and you are his.

“Did you have fun today, husband?” He smiles at the pet name, one you’ve been unable to let go of since your vows were sworn. The past few hours have been adoringly full of, ‘Come here, my husband!’ And ‘I love you, husband!’ Kento wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Of course, my wife.” It’s your turn to laugh, cheeks warming at the pet name. “How could I not love every second with my beautiful love?” He swipes a finger across the damp strands of your hair, soft and gentle. “Did you have fun today? Have I fulfilled every one of my wife’s desires on our first day as a married couple?”

His question makes you smile slyly, shifting so your chests meet. The motion makes a skimpy strap of your satin nightgown slip dangerously, and his hazel eyes dip down to the appetizing cleavage, adam’s apple bobbing with a thick swallow while he trains his eyes on you again. You catch every movement carefully, your own gaze razing down his toned chest.

A finger follows your sharp eyes, nails lightly tracing the skin of his bulging muscles like a lazy feather along a blade’s cutting edge. The touch makes him shiver, his fingers curling around yours with a dangerous flash in his eyes, amusement and anticipation curling warmly in his gut. In the dim light, you register the faint pink creeping onto his body, and it makes your grin turn teasing, one he knows well—the same one that tells him you’re brewing up a witty response.

“I’m satisfied…” You hum, pushing yourself closer, lips just barely ghosting his, “But I think there’s something else we can do, no?”

“Is there?” He breathes softly against your lips, head tilting and tousled locks following the movement. “I think you should educate me, wife.” His eyes flicker with expectancy, large hands find your hips, tracing mindless shapes as he pulls you fully onto his lap now. “How should I fully satisfy my wife?”

Your answer comes in a deep kiss—unceremonious and lustful against him, accompanied by the nip of teeth along his lips.

It makes him groan, a deep sound erupting from the cavern of his chest. His lips move along yours, breath shallow as your mouths carve in familiar tandem. It’s desire that ignites in him when your fingers slide provocatively over his bare chest, teasing down to his pants. Even without spoken words, he knows what you want. And it’s the same thing he wants, too.

You always get like this—so open about your desire for him. It’s refreshing to be so unabashedly wanted. It makes him want you even more—in touch, in law, in name. Anything that you’ll give him.

You’re already grinding against the growing bulge in his pants, subconsciously chasing the pleasure he’s eager to provide as you lick into his mouth, zeal fueling every nerve in your body. This is what people must mean by lovesick newlyweds—wanting and avid for one another.

He grabs anything he can get at—your tits, hips, and thighs, feverishly rutting you along the thickness in his pants. He can’t remember if he used to be this desperate before he met you, like something’s awakened in him. Your warmth bleeds against him, fitting perfectly to his chest, letting his hands make quick work of your nightgown until it’s flung to the side, and you’re left in nothing but a lacy set.

“Have enough of an idea now, Kento?” You sigh out, a dreamy sound that rouses his cock even more. “Your wife would be very satisfied if we performed our marital duties.”

"Is that so?" Abruptly, you're pushed off his lap and set onto your back as he comes over you. His form, large and drool-worthy, covers you easily, never fails to make you feel small beneath him. "Then I'll do my best to satisfy my wife."

You know he will.

Your skin ignites under his lips when he kisses down the column of your neck, biting just enough to catch the gasp you make. A hot tongue laves and soothes the little indents, sharp eyes watching you closely, because Kento takes every chance to learn more about you. What makes you twitch and squirm prettily, and how to coax out every whine and stuttering breath.

A skillful hand stretches under you, deftly undoing your bra to throw it down. Kento takes a moment to look over your form. Even after all the times you’ve done this, he can’t ever get enough of you. Bewitched entirely. "Beautiful, you're so gorgeous." He breathes out, granting one perky bud the feel of his mouth. "So perfect—my wife, my perfect wife."

Kento always takes his time with you. Takes his time giving your sacred body the love and delicate touch it deserves while he’s in his right mind, before he’s lost in the throes of heat and flesh carving flesh. For now, he carefully lavishes attention to each sensitive nipple before he creeps downward once more.

His breath dances across your torso and stomach in invisible ribbons, but you feel it all the same. Warm against your skin even as he reaches right in between your thighs. He makes sure to mark them up, gently at first, then less so. Satisfied only when your inner thighs are painted in hues of lavender and ruby.

The ache of fresh bruises makes you gasp. He smiles in approval.

And then, through the lacy fabric of your panties, he laps a long stripe from your twitching hole to your throbbing clit, ruining the sad piece of article even more. You pulse at the feeling of wet muscle, a dribble of your arousal spilling through and onto his awaiting tongue. Your husband hums at the taste, hazel eyes fluttering shut like your cunt’s the best delicacy he’s had all day. As if he’s been starved of you since forever. He’s good at this, you think, good at making you feel wanted and desired.

“Who gave you these, sweetheart? It has quite the detailing.” He presses a thick finger to your clit, rubbing the pearly bundle of nerves that makes you shudder while he traces the patterns of lace like a critique of fashion and not a husband pleasing his wife.

You can only whine, fingers tugging at blonde strands to get him to do something, anything. “Sh-Shoko did.” You manage hoarsely, hooking your calves over his shoulders.

“Did she?” Another kiss pressed cordially to your clit that makes you tremble in anticipation. He kisses it like he’s asking for permission, welcoming himself into your space. “We’ll have to thank her properly once we get back then, but for now…” Fingers carefully pull at the sticky area of your underwear, the fabric clinging to your skin as he tugs it off you. And Kento smells you immediately, your sweet scent hitting him full-force. It makes him drool, tastebuds tingling with the desire to taste you. “We’ll put her gift to good use.”

You feel his lips immediately. Warm and wet tongue that sweeps over your soft and dripping folds before teasing your clit at the perfect angle that makes you arch. Your hands work at his hair, tugging insistently under the pleasure he gives you because Kento knows how to work your body perfectly.

And he's a man of action. Where his words fail, he makes up for it in his devoted gestures. Makes up for it with his tongue sliding between silken folds, scooping sweet slick while savoring the breathless moans of his name. Your husband makes sure to love you thoroughly through everything he does. You can tell how much he aches for you from the way his tongue pushes deep into your heat, perfect nose bunching at your clit.

He can tell the way you ache for him, too, when your hips arch into his mouth, squeezing him between your pillowy thighs. And Kento encourages it—always encourages your pleasure as he lets you buck against his face, covering his lower face in wetness where your slick and his saliva mix.

It’s carnal desire, the way Kento devours you. Carnal and devoted. Like many things in his life, he does it well—practiced and with his best effort put forth, sucking gently in the way he knows you like. He eats you like he knows your body better than you do. Honestly, you’re sure he does.

You tremble and leak beneath him. Eyes flutter shut as Nanami sucks up all your honeyed slick, in the way only a man who’s studied you so thoroughly could do. And while you’re still trembling, clit pulsing, and gummy walls clenching around his probing tongue, he gathers thin and sappy threads of arousal onto the pad of his thick fingers and pushes in.

“O-oh, Ken…” You keen at the fullness filling you up, simple pressure building in your gut that has your spine arching. Your straining legs bracket him in, heels digging into the line of his back, tugging closer as he adds another finger.

Nanami is good with his hands, you know this. He’s even better when it involves you soaking and opening up beautifully. It’s just embarrassing how soaked you are that it barely takes any time to sink three fingers knuckle deep into you, arching his digits right up against your g-spot.

With your slick arousal coating his hands, he pistons his fingers in lewd accuracy against the spongy spot within you. Thick strings of slick and spit thread along each drag of his digits as they move in and out, paired with the indecently loud sounds of your squelching pussy reverberating. It’s explicitly erotic, the sounds he’s capable of drawing from you.

It’s obscene. It’s hot. It’s Nanami who does his best to please you every time. And it’s a feeling you chase as you hump against his mouth, crying out his name like a mantra, hands tugging insistently as the familiar tightness in your stomach coils sorely sensitive.

“Close, sweetheart?” He murmurs knowingly against your clit, sucking it into his mouth one last time. It’s less of a question and more of a knowing statement. “Come on, let it go for me.”

Kento can feel you cum before you tell him. He feels it happen. The squeezing spasms of your muscles, the arch of your spine, the pitch of your voice, whining the syllables of his name in that breathless tone he simply adores. And he doesn’t stop, just continues working further into you and whispering praises onto your clit. It’s this part he enjoys the most, seeing you fall apart for him; it’s one of the few things he’s come to enjoy and knows so thoroughly. The only guarantee in his life is your love and the pleasure he knows how to bring you.

“Ken…” You whimper out, tugging his head away from the trembling ache of pleasure. Already, your body begs for more, something thicker and hotter than his mouth and fingers. Insatiable, he always seems to get this out of you. He gives it to you every time, too. You know this, and yet you can’t help but be impatient. “Come on.”

His answer comes as a lovesick smile and a kiss to your lips. Languid and soft. A smooth and familiar motion of his mouth on yours, sucking on your tongue, and drooling over the muscle so you can taste yourself on him. You taste desperation and pure, unadulterated want. But Nanami knows how to sate you even further with more kisses—a little way of telling you to be patient, reprimanding you in the way he does so well.

“Patience, my love.” He’s gentle when his soaked fingers pinch at your nipples, smearing your cum over the flesh before he dips down to lap it all up again. Your sweat and cum melt on his tongue, but his lips wrapped around your pert nipples do little to soothe you as you bury your fingers into the tendrils of his hair.

“Hurry…” You hook one leg around the narrow of his waist, already feeling the turgid head of his cock leaking against your inner thigh. How he can keep himself sane when he’s achingly hard is beyond you. Then again, Kento's self-control is one of the most attractive things about him. “You said you’d satisfy me, but you’re making me impatient.”

“Impatient?” Kento peers up at you from behind the curtain of his lashes, eyes flicking dangerously with a look that sends shivers down your spine. “Don’t I always give you what you want? Can’t you be good?”

‘Be good.’ He says it in a voice that makes you want to be good. For him. But on your wedding night, how can any wife be good when their husband is taking his sweet time?

“No. Want it now.” You huff out, stretching a leg between him and the mattress before the globe of your foot finds the wet heat of his cock.

“F-fuck–” Immediately, he hisses out your name, tensing as you run your foot over his shaft. Creamy beads of pre smear across his thick length as you work over his bulge, the wetness spreading on the mattress as he leaks and pants above you like a pretty painting.

You think your husband is prettiest like this—such a big, strong man reduced to nothing at your touch and a rose flush shrouding his cheeks. And while you know he could easily flip your positions, he won’t. Because Kento loves to please you—something about letting you do whatever you want with him—something about being at your mercy sends overwhelming lust through his body.

“Want it, Kento…” You whisper into his ear. “Gonna give it to me now? Please? Pretty, pretty please?” The sole of your foot slides smoothly from his tip and down to the base, pressing down with just enough pressure that has his eyes fluttering shut and head lolling into the sweaty crook of your neck.

It’s unfair how well you know him. How easy he is to already feel close when you grind your foot against him, it’s like a drug he can’t get enough of. Maybe he used to think it was shameless, this lust. But now, he loves it. You’re one thing he’ll never get enough of.

As always with you, he relents, gives you what you want. Your name falls from his lips in a dreamy sigh, his fingers circling your ankle, and pulling you away with a groan. “Alright, alright. Fine. Needy, aren’t you?” A small tease that only makes you roll your eyes. “I’ll satisfy my wife now.”

“You bett– oh…”

Your words trail into a husky sigh, escaping into the crook of his shoulder when his leaky tip notches into your entrance. It only takes him a few pumps to push the crown of his dick into you. A shared moan escaping your swollen lips. Just a few inches and you already tremble in his arms. No matter how many times you’ve taken him, there’s always a delicious stretch, pure pressure that floods you full, spreads your poor pussy open, and you can feel it as he sinks deeper still.

Kento mirrors the broken sound you make. Hot and sticky warmth swallowing the final inches of his thickness when he pushes himself all the way in, bleary eyes focusing on the little inflation in your belly, right where the length of his cock stops. And the sight makes him stutter, huffing slightly in pride. He lets the budding pleasure simmer, just savoring the feeling of being buried in you, pressed intimately full of him.

“K-Kento,” You stumble out, finally curling your arms around his neck to kiss him. “Please move. Please.”

Drawn out of his haze at your sweet voice, Nanami presses a tender kiss to your temple, wrapping his arms around your waist, bringing you impossibly closer. “As my wife wishes.”

The first roll of his hips is sensually slow, followed by a filthy squelch and shaky whispers. Steady and deep. It kisses the best spots inside you—that spongy area that makes you cry his name and drags carefully along every nook and cranny in your gummy walls. It’s enough to both ground you in pleasure and punch the air from your lungs in hot pants against his lips.

The second thrust, just as gentle and deep as the first, makes you dizzy from ecstasy, lightheaded from his firm body rocking against yours. And by the third and fourth, you’re wrapping your legs around his waist, pressing wet kisses to the column of his neck, voice lost in a quivering tremble when he begins to shallowly fuck you, barely pulling out before he plunges back in, flesh meeting in a sinful crack like a final sound of desire raging between you two. "H-ha—fuck… ‘s big…”

“Take it.” The words rip from his throat as he bucks his hips harder into yours. Sharper, meaner. “My wife can take it. Just be good and fucking take it.”

You can’t do much but nod. Nod with a mess of slurring words on your tongue and let him set the tempo he knows makes you come the quickest. Oblige because you know he’ll make you feel good anyway. He always does, and Nanami does it by angling you up, pushing your legs over his shoulders so you feel every curve, every spasming vein, and every aching throb of his cock as he fucks you mercilessly.

Groaning your name in broken syllables, stirring up your insides with every mind-numbing thrust, Kento seeks your hand out, lacing your fingers together like an anchor. Pleasure burns through his veins, but the cool metal against hot flesh brings him back to the moment, to you. You—his wife—fucked, and his in every way now.

This is the first step to building your future together. One day, he wishes to have a home with you. One full of warmth and safety, even a child, children—little ones that look like you. Who inherit your stubbornness and sense of humor that he knows he’ll come to love, just like their mother. He’s thought about it before—too much, really. Thought about you, round and full and absolutely glowing with his seed.

It’s a future that used to seem so far for him, even during the moments under shared nights and bodies on bodies. But now, with his ring on your name, sharing his last name, and claiming you so thoroughly—it can be real. And that thought, that dangerous and tempting idea that plants itself into his head, hurls him closer to his orgasm. His wife. Kento’s cock pulses so hard that it takes everything not to cum in you right then.

And yeah, it might be irresponsible, and maybe it’s an image that’s caused by the push of pleasure and warmth around him. But he wants it—so, so bad. You’re his wife now; this is a marital duty. You wanted him to satisfy you, and he knows this will. He knows pumping you full of his cum will satisfy you beyond anything else he can give you. After all, he only wants to give you everything he has.

“Lo-love, ah, sh-shit…” He gasps out, pressing a heated, messy kiss to your lips, hips faltering and stuttering until his rhythm falls into sloppy humps.

And as your husband knows your body so well, you know him just as intimately. The telltale signs of his impending climax—the twitch of his dick when it drags out from your greedy cunt, his eyes fluttering shut, brows clenching together like he’s trying to hold back, no matter how many times you’ve told him not to. You want him to lose himself in you—you like seeing your husband lose control.

It’s only you who can do this to him. Only you who makes him this needy and desperate.

You’re no better off than him. With the crown of his cock repeatedly smooching your g-spot and his hand snaking down to circle tight pressure on your clit, you feel the tension in your belly grow painfully close, back arching to meet his heavy thrusts.

“Ke-Kento–” You choke out, pulling him down into a crushing kiss.

The whiny name makes him lose it, mindlessly rutting into you now. The bed creaks and groans beneath your ravenous bodies, salacious and gooey strings of slick slinging from his hips to your puffy folds as if pure arousal can keep you two tied together forever, locked in the ambling haze of euphoria.

“Fu-fuck, I’m gonna cum.” He rasps, strangled against your skin, choked in his throat. “I’ll fill you up, get you round and pretty. Please, my love, please, p-please.”

“‘M c-close too. Wanna cum with you.” You moan against his lips. Your mind feels like it’s melting; whatever's left is his. You're his, and he is yours. It’s never been so clear—there’s no room for anything else. “Cu-cumming–”

Kento lets loose a choked groan, a low sound from his chest as you come for the second time that night. The heat you emit, the fluttering of your pussy that milks him, and again, the vision of you pregnant and glowing statics at the corners of his mind—it’s all an overwhelming indulgence of you that he can’t live without. And with a moan of your name on his lips, he pushes himself flush against you, heavy balls resting on your ass and cock twitching, spilling his warm seed into your waiting womb in viscous, white ribbons that paint your walls ivory.

Claimed. His.

Sticky, hot warmth leaks into and out of you, drooling onto the hotel sheets and into a puddle beneath you. Dripping more as his cum sloshes in your weeping cunt, still cumming despite little thrusts dissipating into gentle grinds, clammy pelvis rolling over your sensitive clit when he draws you into another kiss.

You’re not sure how long you kiss for, only how long you wish for it to last. You want this moment, under the bright moonlit stars and under your handsome husband, to last for an eternity.

“I love you.” You breathe out finally, pulling away. “I love you, husband.”

With one last kiss to your lips, he smiles, nuzzling his head against yours.

“I love you more, my wife.”