A POISON TREE

Vivid, uncomfortable heat emanates from your swollen skin, pulsing with each choppy beat of your heart. Feverish, in a way that swoops the room before you in nauseating, swirling waves that feel incredibly surreal, making it hard to parse through the cloud that sinks your vision. Stupid ass clogged milk ducts.

You pray infection isn’t setting in— your current physical discomfort, made worse by the exhaustion of caring for a newborn baby girl through sleepless nights and long days, is already bad enough. If you added any more to your plate, you’d keel over on the spot and start howling at the universe for a singular shred of mercy.

At this point, you’re running on fumes and a prayer with the new baby and the plans for the cult that you and Suguru have coming up. There were auctions to have and charity galas to host, and you’d be damned if you missed anything of importance.

For weeks now, the balance of your lives had been a precarious one— between leading your followers, managing cursed spirits, maintaining your network of curse users and the quiet logistics of a revolution, and now caring for the tiny life that now slept and wailed and breathed between you, you were stretched thinner than Elastigirl.

But there was little to no rest for the wicked. The cult still needed its leaders, its “divine” figures who spoke of redemption and salvation for the cursed, and good karma for the sponsors who dumped their finances into the sugarcoated narrative you painted of your cause— all naive men and women who believed yours and Suguru’s “enlightened monastery” was an utter blessing.

(They’d never dream that the same Getos who smiled at them so serenely could, at will, unleash the horrors they had paid to banish.)

At least, you console yourself with a miserable little whimper that skirts out of your nose, that nothing can or will ever be worse than your at-home birth (neither of you were fond of the idea of non-sorcerers handling such a delicate moment. A degree doesn’t make monkeys anymore useful than they already aren’t).

You absolutely adore your little star, Yua, but jesus— you and Suguru created a big-headed baby. You nearly broke Suguru’s wrist trying to push her out, and he smiled wearily through the pain and Nanako and Mimiko’s simultaneous honking wails like a champ. Despite the disassociation already settling in you and the blinding pain of delivery, the distant sounds of your twin daughters completely tweaking beyond the bathroom door made you cough out a strained laugh despite yourself.

(The twins had been sent out of the bathroom long after Suguru set it all up and got you in there— not for lack of courage, because in truth, they were the ones that had begged you both with genuine tears in their doe-brown eyes to allow them to stay and support like two mini unskilled midwives. But Suguru had been immovable in his stance, not wanting them to be overwhelmed. Besides, the moment was for you and for him, and the daughter you both were about to meet.

The girls would meet their sister soon enough, you had to promise them. And they did, after Suguru got you and the baby cleaned up and tucked into bed. They both cried.)

Suguru finds you exactly as you are— wretched, borderline sniffling, feeling like a sodden kitten trapped in a swirling rainstorm with no hope in sight— in the living room, gingerly palming your breasts through your baggy sweatshirt. Upon catching sight of him pausing in the doorway, you short-circuit in place. Your hands sink to your lap in what you hope is an unassuming maneuver and you plaster on a relaxed smile that sickens you with its plasticity.

Now, here’s the thing about Geto Suguru. He’s the walking human polygraph to end all polygraphs. A certified you-ologist who knows every nuance of your tells.

No matter how good of a performance you put on, no matter how much you prayed he’d misread you just once, it was impossible to throw Suguru off of your trail. Somehow, he made being a nosy dissecting bastard charming, if only because it was swoon-worthy how closely he knew you, and you him. It’d only be real damn annoying if you didn’t actually enjoy him turning you inside out like you’re some fun fidget toy that he’s taken to inquisitively disassembling.

So, here’s what he knows:

Whenever difficulties arise, you withhold from confiding in him more than you already do so as not to pile more atop his plate with his already hectic schedule, what with taking care of a newborn and all.

It's always been like this with you. Stubborn to a fault, even when your strength frayed thin. Just to prove you could handle it alone without the crutch of the prestigious sorcerer clan you were born into. No one would make the mistake of believing you to be a nepo baby that was embarrassingly wet behind the ears when it came to combat and the trials and tribulations of life as a sorcerer, no— not on your watch.

You were terrifying, Satoru muttered darkly years ago, because it was true— your combat prowess was unbelievable, your field recon with the help of your shikigami even more out of this world. Extraordinary and brave and pretty, a younger Suguru mooned dreamily while watching you beat someone in your grade to near tears on the training field, to which Shoko whacked him upside the head.

To date, you were the youngest sorcerer to be sent out on a solo mission. A thought that made him deathly fucking ill whenever it came to mind— those dementia-rotted higher-ups clearly had no qualms about throwing a child into danger if they shone with potential.

You’d jump to shoulder your way through it all, insisting you could handle it all. Another mission, another day of studying technique schematics and training until you could barely conjure your shikigami without fainting, another mission again. You wanted to be the respectable, dependable senpai that your juniors like Satoru, Shoko, and of course Suguru could look up to with starry eyes. The senpai that kept your sweet kohai out of danger by tackling it yourself.

It was self-destructive as much as it was a noble sentiment grounded in your seniority. You always refused to let your body slow you down enough to need another’s support. Years later, not even pregnancy had changed that about you that much.

Well, maybe it had, just in scale. Nothing could bar you from beating him back, tooth and nail, through nearly every step of the way. You’d insist you could still attend the cult's meetings, still stay up with Nanako and Mimiko when they woke from nightmares even though you were already struggling to get proper rest.

Suguru, utterly besotted yet concerned for his stubborn mule of a wife, watched you attempt to carry on like nothing was changing. Like your steps weren’t more measured now beneath the staggering weight of two souls— equal and opposite forces, your stubborn self versus new life.

(Much to his amusement, you were also waddling with your toes pointed outwards. It was adorable.)

Every inch of you was swollen, glowing, aching, and uncooperative. Your ankles had given up on their lifelong duty of supporting you, your back throbbed if you so much as breathed a little more out of your right nostril than your left. Not to mention how often Yua rocked the boat of your tummy in the later months of your pregnancy and made you sicker than a dog… it was fucking ridiculous.

One day, you threatened to blow up the entire house when Suguru blocked you from heading out so that you and your shikigami could track some curses. Ones that’d make good additions to the collection of thousands that he’s amassing, you insisted. Not that he cared; what was more important than your shared cause was making sure you and the baby were okay, even if it meant you deluding yourself into thinking that Suguru, out of nowhere, suddenly found you useless.

Which he didn’t.

He nagged and nagged, as one does when their extremely pregnant wife is hollering about doing dangerous things alone, but he learned at an early age that whittling you down, in order to eventually take care of you until you were sick of him, required more finesse than force.

Naturally, that meant he finally stopped countering you and simply… sent a few of his lower level curses to tail you for a day out. You claimed you wanted to shop for all the baby gear that you could stock up on. Suguru had a feeling you were lying your ass off and were instead planning to track down aforementioned curses.

Nothing wrong with making sure his wife was being truthful while simultaneously ensuring her safety, right?

Wrong.

When you found out, you exorcized all three and didn’t speak to him for an entire afternoon. Nanako and Mimiko were petrified for him whenever Suguru stepped in to help you around the house for the rest of the day regardless of the vile looks you shot his way.

He took it as progress.

‘Impressive’ was a word that did no justice for the mental fortitude you had to be able to stay sane and firm in a situation where the forever-calm Geto Suguru would show panic himself if the roles were reversed. But that’s because he’s not you— his perfect angel. The mother of his child, the woman who gave him something he never thought he’d be fit to have— a family of his own.

You may be wondering— did you ever give in? Yes, he could say so confidently (and smugly too), with a kitsune-like grin to boot.

There was an even ratio of days where you spilled over onto your side like a particularly whiny seal and flapped your flippers against your bloated belly— to which Suguru’d materialize by your side in seconds as if you summoned him— that combated the days you frustratedly sobbed whenever he tried to so much as pour your tea just before you realized you wanted some.

You were even quicker to let him in after Yua was born, much to Suguru’s relief. Maybe it was the shift in hormones, maybe it was the feats your body performed finally catching up with you. Whatever it was, it meant all his hovering and fretting could be done without rankling your pride.

You let him grant you the luxury of mornings that lasted into the afternoon if you wished it so, perking up from your place engulfed in fluffed-up pillows every time Suguru brought you breakfast with lactation cookies on the side and promised to play with Yua after you breastfed her, just so you could doze off for a little longer without worry.

You let Suguru draw the curtains at the exact moment sunlight threatened to hit yours or the infant’s eyes. You let him shuffle you along for joint bathroom trips and even went as far as wiping you when you finished. You let him fold all your laundry one-handed with Yua drooling on his shoulder. You let him massage you, smother you in kisses and praise, cuddle you, bathe and dress you and do your skincare for you.

(And it felt good to be pampered, you internally gave in with a sigh.)

Seeing you sleep more deeply than you had in months while Yua did the same in the nursery was a balm to his weary soul. He could take quick trips for grocery runs and other errands without checking his phone every thirty minutes with his lips bitten between his teeth. The constant worry from before kept him from functioning properly in public, his brain a whirlwind of what-ifs, but he could now happily say that things were more stable at the house and that your mood had recently skyrocketed.

The goal was to take as much off of your plate as possible while you adjusted to the healing process of your tender body, being your baby’s sole source of nutrition, and preventing you from dropping down to the deep end of postpartum. It definitely worked for a time. You had a good system going that involved lots of communication, a really good one in fact, but over the last week, you had taken to pulling the ‘I’m fine on my own’ card again without actually admitting that you were.

Suguru’s proud of how capable you are and finds your independence to be one of his favorite traits of yours, but it has a way of making him feel disturbingly useless in moments he wants to matter to you most. Fuck, he just wants to be there for you, to be involved as much as possible in your life and your daughter’s life and make sure you don’t abruptly collapse on him.

It’s silly that you feel the need to still go without asking for his help after all these years, but he’s long accepted that you’ll probably always be this way no matter what he does to combat it.

He just wishes that you could grasp that there’s nothing you could ask of him that he wouldn’t handle willingly. There is nothing too heavy, nothing too much. You and the children are the very reason he’s still standing. You’re all more important than your collective mission for a curse-free world, than the money, than sorcery, than breathing.

So, from his spot in the doorway with an apron that says ‘me and my wife don’t argue, she tell me to shut up and get in the kitchen and I do 😍💍’ draped over one arm, Suguru tries to look through you.

The warm, dim light of the living room gilds the soft part of your lips as if you were already bracing for another wave of pain. The sight of your puffy eyes and the sheer exhaustion radiating off you like heavy, ill smog made his stomach twist— his princess had been running on fumes, and he hated that he’d been so busy today with the cult that he hadn't been here to help outside of making dinner and putting Yua to bed. But he was home now, focused entirely on his husbandly duties, and that meant it was his time to take care of you.

“Everything’s put away and cleaned up. Want me to carry you to bed before I turn off all the lights, princess?” Suguru calls softly.

You blink slowly. “Nah, not now. I’m not ready to go to sleep just yet,” you wave off, sinking a little further into the couch. You offer a brittle smile.

It feels like someone is driving a nail slowly through you right where the firm, tender knot of the clog festers in your breasts. Breathing, frankly, is a punishment, and so is so much as shifting and feeling the pull under your arms as consequence. But you keep smiling. You keep breathing.

Suguru lingers on you longer than necessary, eyes tracing the soft edges of your healing body in search for signs of strain you’d never admit, attentive to the slightest shift. You were always so easy to read— how cute. You meet his gaze and he finally smiles right back at you, adoring and irritatingly patient. “Sure. I’ll come sit with you until you’re ready, then,” he says pleasantly.

Fucking shit shit shit fuck.

Stepping back into the kitchen to put the apron away and flick off the stove lights and overhead lights goes by quickly. His return is punctuated by the cushy sink of his black-painted toes into the carpet as he pads his way over to you, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his sweatpants.

His yukata, hakama, and green and golden gojo-kesa have long been loosened and traded for cozy loungewear. The faint traces of the setting sun bleeding in from the windows paints his smooth skin in honeyed tones, making him look every bit the tranquil deity his followers claim him to be. His half-tied hair spills in a controlled flood of inky black waves around his shoulders, and you can spy the faint outline of toned muscle just barely visible beneath the softness of his sweatshirt and sweatpants.

The air filtering in through the windows that open into the garden has that cooled, evening stillness that heralds the upcoming winter. It blends nicely with the lingering aroma of a hearty, comforting dinner, fresh tea, and the resinous twirl of burning incense that makes the home feel sacred.

Wooden beams, polished to a soft sheen, hold the structure with quiet strength, and the two glass walls that blur the line between indoors and outdoors gives you a look into Tokyo’s countryside that Suguru moved your family into. The wooden walls are lined with paintings, the furniture he assembled for you is cushy, and plants thrive in the almost holy space. There’s a massive bamboo palm thriving by the glass that freshens up the room with some color, some plants on the windowsills that Nanako and Mimiko have the duty of watering. Your husband curated it all for you.

Without hesitation, Suguru settles onto the couch cushion next to you with a soft yawn. His arms open in unspoken invitation and you happily shuffle into his side without resistance. His warmth is immediate, radiating against you as he carefully tucks you into the cradle of his body, one hand splayed low on your back.

He’s always touchy (to many friends and acquaintances’ surprise), but recently it’s like he can’t breathe without you close. If you so much as disappear into another room, Suguru’s trailing after you like a loyal service dog with attachment issues.

You rest your weary head on his shoulder with a yawn of your own, and his lips press into a sympathetic line. "Look at you," he tuts, fingers brushing a few stray curls away from your face. "You're working too hard, pretty girl. If my wife collapses from exhaustion, I’m gonna have to barricade the temple to keep you from sneaking in to get work done while you’re still on maternity leave," he teases in a cheery manner, though the concern in his voice is more than vivid.

There was a lesson here, and it was that there was no escaping Geto Suguru and his worrying, fussing ways. How the hell did he even know that you were doing that? You literally used your cursed technique’s fate strings to make sure you’d get away undetected!

Luckily, he breezes over it before you can fumble through an excuse. His thumb traces the dark circles under your eyes before he leans down to press a kiss to your temple, sighing dramatically. "Yua’s lucky she’s cute, huh? Screaming all night like a little demon and keeping us up…”

He chuckles to himself, the tender sound vibrating against your ear. “Cute’s one word for her,” you mumble, slumping as you melt further into him. “You sure she didn’t inherit that temper from you?”

“Me?” Suguru feigns offense, the arm around your waist tightening as his smile curls against your temple. “I’m calm personified, sweetheart. You, on the other hand…”

You tilt your head, shooting him a lazy, unimpressed look. He only smiles genially. “You calling me difficult, Suguru?”

“I’m calling you passionate,” he croons easily, ever the charmer. “Strong-willed. Fearless. And so very, very beautiful, even when you turn more than mildly homicidal when someone interrupts you when you’re napping. Ah, did I mention that you’re perfect yet?”

You snort at that, muffled by his chest. “And now you’re getting sentimental on me? Your old age is showing. Look at you switching between subjects like your short-term memory is already failing you.”

“You wound me,” he clicks his tongue, mock-offended. “I’m still in my prime. Handsome as ever, charming as ever—”

“—and full of shit as ever,” you interrupt, and his quiet laugh warms the air.

The faintest whimper drifts from the baby monitor on the table next to the couch, and Suguru’s hand instinctively stills. His head swivels that way like an owl’s, more alert than you (still trying to sit as still as possible and not give away your pain). But things are quiet after that. No baby crying, no Nanako and Mimiko scurrying down the halls to check on her so that you don’t have to, because they’re having a sleepover with Larue’s younger cousin tonight.

“Think she’ll stay down?” Suguru asks in a hushed voice, turning back to you. He watches you with quiet fondness, his eyes warm, steady, and deeply human in a way few ever got to see aside from you. Gold is fragility and rarity and divinity and prosperity all at once, you think to yourself. Ancient and alchemical, as though Midas's curse found new purpose in the golden flecks swirling in the bowl of his deep brown irises.

“Mm. For now.” You tap your fingers against your mouth when you yawn again. “I’ll take what I can get.”

He studies you for a beat longer. His voice drops, impossibly softer now, stripped of teasing. “Doing okay?” Suguru checks in.

“I’ll be fine the second I catch up on sleep. Why, do I look bad?” Your shrug is half-assed, your excuse even more so. You’re almost hoping he catches you in the partial lie.

“Bad? No, not at all,” he steps in to smoothly soothe, brows furrowing as if the very notion of you looking anything but drop-dead gorgeous was impossible. “Just been worried about you lately. Wanted an excuse to spoil you rotten, I suppose.” His bowed lips quirk into a wry grin that tugs his eyes to half-mast, making the pointed yet fleeting look they take at your aching chest obvious. His followers call him omniscient. The universe had yet to prove that it wasn’t a lie. "Still. If you're feeling off at all, I will fuss over you. No negotiations."

What he said didn’t feel spoken but offered, like a gift carved from the softest part of him, so honest it made the very notion of not believing him— not that you would, because if you doubted Suguru, you don’t know what you’d place your faith in anymore— seem cruel. Because how do you reject something so gentle?

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. The second lie never makes it past your teeth; it fragments there, too brittle to hold its shape. It eases back down your throat with a tide of emotions that threatens to trickle into your lungs and rob you of your breath, leaving you with no deflection poised to guard the soft underbelly of your heart.

Ears hot, you consider it— shouldn’t you lean into him? You did have a long day, admittedly, and it’d be nice to not do the thinking for a little bit while Suguru sorts out your pain… to let your tension seep out, and allow boneless trust to replace it…

Suguru doesn't press. He endures the coursing time with that quiet patience of his, like he already knows what you're about to say (he does, he always does), and he's just letting you choose the moment you're ready to stop carrying it alone. The small freedom he grants you to let you weigh your choices carries more tenderness than any full embrace.

His eyes don't leave yours, and for a moment, it's like he's looking through the film blanketing your eyes that protects them from the sunbeams of his warmth that feels too dazzling to meet head-on, his gaze searching, cataloging, seeing too much.

And then, like a candle being breathed into silence, the truth tumbles out in a voice so small you hardly recognize it as yours. "Okay, so I might’ve lied,” you admit sheepishly, trying not to squirm, “I’m not doing too hot."

That singular weight finally leaves your chest, but only just, because the rest rushes in right behind it. The unnatural, blinding heat threading beneath the swollen weight of your breasts like a second, crueler heartbeat. The fatigue of being a new mother that parenting Nanako and Mimiko when they were eight didn’t do much to shed light on. The slow, crawling fear that maybe you're not as strong as you've pretended to be.

Your husband nods, encouraging, so you soldier on. “So, like— okay. I produce more milk than Yua can actually drink, so I thought I’d get ahead of the game and pump a bunch in one session to stockpile for the week. It seemed like I had a pretty good system going at first, but letting all that milk build up in my ducts for the last few days led to a clog. Really, it’s not even that bad, it just hurts a liiiittle bit, but—“

"It is that bad," Suguru interrupts quietly, his apology for doing so found in the warm, cradling brown of his irises (mama cow vibes, you think weakly). "That could turn into mastitis if you’re not careful, angel. Why didn’t you tell me you were in pain?” There’s not a dime of accusation there.

His fingers curl gently into your back. Not to pull you closer— you're already pressed into him, almost superglued at this point— but to anchor you, like he knows you're seconds from drifting apart.

Sure, he gets that you want to be the kind of mother who can handle the hardest trials of parenting without faltering, but he doesn’t care for how you try to downplay what you’re going through, because this will be one of the hardest periods of your life, guaranteed. Period. And he’d be fucking damned if he lets you try to perform this impossible circus act of child rearing and spearheading a cult on your own. You’re partners; you’re supposed to be in this together.

As a child, you’d learned early on that a woman’s strength in the jujutsu world was rarely hers to keep. It was preached to you that strength was borrowed, admired briefly the same way one regards a wounded bird that somehow still flies— half in awe, half in pity, knowing it wouldn’t survive the winter without being brought to a clinic— then expected to be set down once you’d “served your purpose.” You thought it was horseshit. You hated the very notion of subscribing to that, whether consciously or subconsciously.

Suguru hated it, too, especially when he met your mother years before your defection and saw how passively she sat aside, head eternally bowed to your father. He’s heard tales of how Satoru’s mother fared in a similar manner in this misogynistic sphere as well from the strongest himself— they were never things Satoru witnessed himself, but learned through word of mouth. The Gojo matriarch was never not folded behind her paper screen, expected to watch and be silent as her son was trained by the clan’s elders, while Satoru’s father had much more leeway with the clan and their executive decisions but, still, couldn’t be actively involved with his child.

Each sorceress had a clear cut job. Procreate. Birth. Fade from warriors into caretakers, their worth rewritten in the names of the heirs they raised, for the legacy always came before the woman. It was a fucked up and disturbingly archaic lifestyle that the jujutsu elders were more than happy to maintain as the norm among the bigger clans.

You were never meant to bend your free self into a porcelain figurine who cooked, didn’t complain or tire, erased yourself in service of something else, and stayed quiet— like a ghost. To him, you’d always been the antithesis of docile— you’re the sharp-minded, sharp-tongued sorceress he met in high school who’d challenged him until dawn about philosophy and curses and justice, who (gently) slapped him back into shape when he fell into a depressive pit that nobody else but you could see the bottom of.

And so Suguru doesn’t want you to stop being who you are and accidentally wilt beneath the myth of the so-called “perfect wife and mother.” To be a stay-at-home mom whose purpose drowns beneath changing diapers and cleaning up after the children. No, Suguru refused to let that kind of slow death happen under your shared roof.

You were meant to live— to stretch and ache and breathe, to be loved and worshiped in all your imperfect glory. You were made to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him, not tucked behind him and forever tight-lipped about your woes.

Of course, there was no entirely stopping you from still making it hard for him to support you sometimes. You were so composed, always so insistent on leaping to the next thing with a natural grace. But Suguru saw the tremors behind your smiles, the moments you froze in the nursery doorway like you’d forgotten how to move, the way your breath hitched when the twins bickered too loudly over the TV and Yua began to cry. You’d press your palms to your eyes and whisper, “Just a minute,” like you were trying to convince yourself more than him.

So he refused to let you apologize for needing a break, for snapping at him when exhaustion made your temper short, for crying when Yua wouldn’t latch. So he brushed your hair and said, “You’re still you, sweetheart,” when you confessed you felt foreign inside your own skin. So he took Yua from your trembling arms in the middle of the night and murmured, “Sleep. I’ve got her.”

Suguru knew you were trying to be strong— trying to prove to yourself that you weren’t fragile, that you could handle this new rhythm. But there is an almost universal wish that all people have, even if they’ve suppressed it; the idea of someone seeing you at your most vulnerable, and still choosing to love you. That’s why you always end up letting him in, even when you’re typically hesitant— he’s seen everything there is about you. Your fragility is something he’d always savor rather than crush.

And that’s why you should continue to trust him to hold the world up for the both of you when it feels too heavy. He’d always be there to do that for you. All he wants to do is make sure you’re content, because that’s his job.

"I didn't want to burden you," you rush guiltily, finally letting your eyes close so that you don’t have to see the concern on his face. “We already have so much going on with Yua and the twins and the cult we’re running. I just wanted to quietly handle it so that I wouldn’t overwhelm you. Besides, feeding her is my duty as her mother. I should be able to figure that out on my own.”

‘And if I can’t, then what the fuck am I doing? Failing her? You?’ Goes unspoken.

You can literally feel the way Suguru’s heart breaks at that.

You don't mean to let it happen, but your shoulders droop, a tiny sag of defeat that says more than anything you've said aloud. You feel so, so torn up with yourself for thinking you did something smart, resourceful, until it backfired on you. The clogs are making you feel extra miserable.

Giving yourself something to do in the silence that awaits you and forces your attention back onto the pain, you puff out a shaky breath and look down at your hands tangled in a stiff clasp in your lap. They're clenched so tight, knuckles blanched and tendons popping— when did that happen?

He notices, of course he does. His hand brushes against yours and he laces your fingers with his when you don’t pull away, his hands warm and steady, like the tide pulling you back from the undertow. You know there is blood on them, the entire weight of a dead village plugged beneath his nails in crimson chunks, but his hands are only ever sweet when they handle you. Suguru has always been gentle to a fault with you, never failing to treat you like a precious jewel.

It makes you want to bawl your eyes out like a child.

He sighs, and all he says is this: “Angel.” Consoling yet chastising, disappointed in himself, but never, ever, with you. Suguru nuzzles kisses into the crown of your head and soothingly pets the back of your hand with his thumb and you melt into it knowing he isn’t truly mad, burying your face into the soft fall of his sweatshirt around his frame.

(He’s for sure mentally water boarding himself and muttering over and over again that he will repent for being a terrible, no-good, neglectful husband for not noticing what was going on with you before you spoke it aloud. Drama queen. None of those words are even in the biography of Geto Suguru, written and illustrated by yourself after years of being privy to everything that makes him him.

Not that said biography actually exists. Though honestly, if it did, it’d outsell the Bible in certain circles.)

“As cute as you are like this, can you look at me?” He coaxes in such a saccharine sweet tone that it reels you in like a honey trap to a mama bear. You partially untuck yourself from his chest, glancing up at him from beneath your crescent-arced lashes when he turns his chin down to smile sincerely at you. “There you are. My sweet, gorgeous girl.”

His eyes, a comforting, earthy brown, leak liquid gold as if something divine cracked open inside of them and began to bleed light. Gold, the same hue that must live behind the eyes of angels before they fall from grace. Gold, too pure, too dazzlingly eternal for normal eyes to gaze upon— too adoring for you to peer into without melting.

“You make it hard to look away when you smile like that,” you mutter. It doesn’t come out as smooth as you’d like.

He chuckles. “Then don’t. Keep your eyes on me— only me, hmm?” His tone stays in that purring, comforting whisper you adore so much.

Your Prince Charming.

He hoists you closer, where you toss your legs over his lap, ass still firmly planted on the couch cushion, and speaks after a beat of silence.

“What did I say when we first found out we were pregnant? When we got married, hmm? I said I’d do everything with you, angel, because that’s what it means to be yours. You breathe, I breathe. You cry, I cry.” He sounds lovely, voice mellifluous. Music to your heart and tender insides.

Suguru signals between the two of you, wedding band alight on his ring finger, before returning his hand to yours. “Because this— you and me and our girls and the world we’re building together— is everything I’ve ever wanted, and I only want it because it’s with you. You’re not a failure, because you’re my sweet, clever girl. Without you, none of it matters, and if you’re hurt— and you know I don’t like seeing my baby hurt— then there goes the core of our family. Don’t steal from me the chance to care for you and remind you that you’re loved when it matters most.”

Each intimate word poured from his heart’s hidden chambers— each syllable soaked in sincerity, stripped of pretense down to the bone— and left doubt with nowhere to cower within your own. “Suguru,” you sniffle.

This was all worth it to Suguru. Every sacrifice, every bloodstained hand, every sleepless night with you in his arms, worrying if he was doing the right thing… it’s all for the life you’ve built together. He swore his life to you, to your family (the girls and the curse users, Miguel, Manami, the rest), and there is no version of him that exists apart from you. You, his safe space, with your sleepy good morning kisses and the way you latch onto him when it’s time for bed, the smell of home on your skin.

Sometimes, he feels ill-fitted for this sugary sweet life. Suguru was born to swallow ugly, vile things, to shoulder this world’s negativity. His body is a vessel of writhing malice, a thing that gluttonously consumes and seethes and curdles, and the inherent nastiness of his cursed technique that chews at him day by day only exacerbates his fears of inadequacy. Why should someone as awful as him, someone who slaughtered his parents and rejected his friends that shaped him, be allowed to have and to hold you, Nanako, Mimiko, and Yua?

And yet, when he returns to the sound of laughter spilling from your house, to Yua’s tiny arms reaching for him and your soft smile greeting him like sunrise, that gnawing guilt hesitates. The darkness in him quiets, if only for a moment.

You make him believe that maybe he isn’t just the sum of what he’s destroyed, but what he’s chosen to protect. In your warmth, in the simple hum of domestic life, he finds fleeting proof that redemption can look like this.

“I mean it,” Suguru insists, calm and sure like a vow. “You don’t have to prove anything to me or to yourself, baby. We’re both still learning how to handle this whole parenting thing together as a team, and that’s totally okay. What matters is that Yua is growing up healthy and happy thanks to our hard work— especially yours. But what she needs, and what you need, is for you to be happy and healthy, too.”

His words sink into you like warm tea on a cold morning. He always makes it sound so simple— like you don’t have to keep holding yourself to this impossible standard, that you still have plenty of time for healing and gentleness that you should direct inwards. You know Yua is thriving; you can see it in her smile, in the way she reaches for you. That’s almost enough.

Still, there’s this restless part of you that resists letting go, that insists you have to keep going and going. But the truth is, your body is already telling you to slow down. Over the last few days, there’s that sharp sting of the clog dogging you that makes you wince, reminding you you’re not invincible.

You start fiddling with the wedding band on his finger. “I know… I know you’re right. I just— sometimes I feel like I should be doing better, like I should have it all figured out by now. Have everything balanced.”

“Princess. We have an entire baby, and you still manage to brush your teeth every day. You’re already doing better than you think. That makes you a genius in my book,” Suguru tells you earnestly.

Then your husband exhales slowly, thoughtfully. “You realize you did the right thing, telling me that you’re hurting?” He explains softly. “I want to help you. Always. And that starts with you telling me how I can help you.”

“You know that I’m just gonna vent, right?” You sulk even as you melt into a pathetic little pool of fondness at his warm insistence.

“That’s good. I don’t want you to keep it all inside and let it fester like a wound. And I don’t ever want you to think you’re alone in this. I promised you my whole life, so you have all of me,” Suguru replies easily.

Fuck, he isn’t letting you breathe. He’s practically slinging affirmations and assurances down your throat the same way you shoveled medicine down Yua’s when she caught a cold at five weeks.

“Well, I’ve tried every remedy under the sun for the clogs,” you begin miserably, addressing the issue at hand that’s slowly killing you and needs dealing with now. “I’ve been using ice packs and stuff, and I’ve tried hand expressing them.”

“But the only real advice online is to ‘massage it out,’ which feels less like a medical solution and more like a medieval punishment,” you tsk, making Suguru break into bell-like laughter of sympathy. “Stupid ass tits… if they weren’t busy making milk, I wouldn’t be in this situation. Having an overabundance is a curse, not a blessing!”

"Your body transformed to nurture our little one, and the milk is just part of that, that’s all. My fault for listening to my wife’s pleas to put a baby in her while she creamed on my cock, yeah?" Suguru impishly tilts his head, bangs fanning across his cheeks.

Oh. Suddenly, you want twenty more of his babies.

This fucking man. Your thighs squeeze together despite yourself. His eyes flicker down to where they rest on his lap, catching you in the act. Traitorous body always… betraying you. Hmph.

This kind of behavior is exactly why you were acting the way you did when Suguru was on top of you over nine months ago, your thoughts of being stuffed like a damn cream puff only emboldened by how perversely romantic your darling husband was being.

You recall it vividly; the candles he lit, the deep red silk sheets that he only whipped out for special occasions (and the matching red towels, of course, because you always make a mess). The way he sang praise after praise, hymns to you and how beautiful you looked when you were falling apart beneath his careful fingers that made you cum more times than you could count, how perfect you were when you let him glue you back together.

But you are not about to be out-flirted or out-nastied— no sir, not when you were the one to make a chubby-cheeked teen Suguru blush on the first day he ran into you, his senior by one year back when you both attended Jujutsu High. So, as one does, even with pain incinerating your brain cells, you dial in.

You tilt your head at him. The way you regard him from beneath your lashes is a deliberately slow caress that slips beneath his skin without ever needing to raise your hand and touch him. It’s a slow undressing done with nothing more than your eyes and the coquetteish, pantherine curl of your lips; the same way you’ve smiled at Suguru before pursing your teeth around the zipper of his jeans and tugging it down to his knees.

Much to your silent amusement, Suguru goes all wide-eyed after tossing you the new world record for the ‘briefest suspicious squint of all time,’ now looking vaguely like he’s in the sights of a train’s headlights. He rarely falters in his guard, so this is a treat.

"Oh, so it’s my fault that you couldn’t keep it in? That’s cute. Y’know, I seem to remember when you were babbling about which corner of the bedroom that you could put a crib in after only five strokes pretty clearly. You wanted it real bad before I even said anything about cumming inside,” you fire back. Somehow, you manage to frame it as devotion rather than something sordid.

Suguru breaks into a soft laugh, the kind that insists he’s just amused and not fazed in the slightest by your words— yet you can see how the tip of his ear is warmed pink when he tucks a stray midnight black bang back, the curve of his gauge catching the light.

Snitches get stitches, you used to solemnly tell Mimiko and Nanako when they were itty bitty and needed a dramatic yet family friendly way to caution them from telling on each other, but Suguru’s body always tattling on him and saying otherwise? Too cute.

Clearly, you’ve still got it. Your husband is flustered.

“Two things can be true at once, princess, but that doesn’t change how desperate you were for me even after you came, what…” he pretends to think, “thrice? Maybe more. It was kinda hard to tell when you turned into a geyser every time I pushed deep in that sweet cunt. Your moans were so loud that I almost wanted to shove your panties in your mouth.”

You slap at his shoulder half-heartedly (wincing when the movement shifts the weight of your breasts. Once-a-fucking-gain, Geto ‘human pain detector’ Suguru is on the case, eyes following you knowingly). “Suguru.”

“Yeahhh, baby, scream my name the same way you did that night,” Suguru murmurs, brimming with a smugness only found in smirking foxes.

You suck your teeth, trying to bat back the torrent buzzing warmly in your stomach. “God, you’re such a depraved beast. Shut up,” you grumble. As if you don’t want this man to put it on you now.

Suguru quirks a brow, brown eyes so deep they seem black. “You don’t know the half of it. Just wait until your doctor clears you to have intimacy. I’m gonna make love to my sweet girl alllll night long,” he promises, fingers trickling lazily down your thigh where it rests over his own.

To Suguru, fucking is not synonymous with making love. He wants to feel close to you, always, body and soul, so that neither of you can distinguish which body part belongs to who. He wants to roll into you slowly, deep enough to make it mean something, his fingers and cock and mouth all giving until you’re folding into him with a passion that mirrors his own. To have you trembling under him, his name breaking off your tongue as you gaze dreamily up at you, satiated and smiley and spoiled. He’s yours, completely, and he will always make sure you know it.

“What the fuck are you on right now? And can I have some so that I can think about anything but my tits trying to explode?” You complain, praying your fluster isn’t visible and ripe for the taking.

“You don’t need any drugs but me,” Suguru warns in a soft tease that makes your body heat spike, smiling all the while. “But you know about it; it’s this super sweet happy pill that I like to call my wife. It’s got that taste that sticks to the back of your throat— sweetness with a kick that’s addicting. I could live off of it alone,” he muses, sensually licking over his pearly whites as if blocks of sticky, chewed sugar are stuck between his teeth.

You shove his shoulder again, sure that you’re on fire right now. “Alright, alright, down boy. It’s time for you to take responsibility for what our daughter did to my body.”

“Happily,” he relents, switching tracks. “Gotta make sure mama is well taken care of.”

Somehow, Suguru manages to make slouching back against the couch, legs lazily kicked open and sweatpants slung low on those deadly hips of his, look gracefully suave. Anyone else would’ve looked sloppy, but on him it came off as if every careless sprawl was a calculated reminder of just how little effort it took for him to command the attention of hundreds and unravel you all at once— even without his usual monk regalia that gives him an air of intoxicating power, worthy of worship.

Your eyes trail over him. The drape of his glossy black hair sliding like silk along his cheeks in its half-up half-down style, his faint smile that’s delicate in its charisma, the dim light from the lamp painting shadows over his jawline and catching in the sharply graceful cut of his features. He’s devastatingly handsome; a figure sculpted by patience, by elegance, by something more than mortal hands.

(Fuck your baby dad, alright.)

Just looking at him has the effect of loosening the tightness in your chest, the slowing thrum of your heart insisting that everything will eventually be alright. There’s reassurance there, in the softness he never fails to wear for you that insists you’re in the most tender of hands that the universe itself sculpted with the intention to care for you.

Then, his hand twitches against your side like it’s killing him to not be pressed so tight against you that he dissolves into your skin until you’re both indistinguishable from each other. Needy.

You untuck your legs from their sprawl across his lap. He scoops you closer with a guiding hand clasping the indent of your waist, steady there as you swivel to face him fully. There, you swing a leg across the stretch of Suguru’s relaxed crotch and thighs and perch in the lulling cradle of his lap like he was made just to hold you.

(You hiss a little private sound of pain at the movement. Even gravity is cruel to your breasts.)

You peer down your nose, close enough that your forehead brushes his and his eyes capture yours with adoration. His lips are faintly sticky when you gently mouth at him in the most chaste yet affectionate of kisses, only discovering its source when his breath mists along yours— caramel-sweet and almost buttery tropical fruit, seared in a skillet until its sugars browned and softened.

The taste carries both decadence and warmth. The fried papaya from dinner.

"I'm going to take care of you, pretty girl. I promise," Suguru coos softly when you part, his hands sliding down to the hem of your sweatshirt. He looks up at you, then, a silent promise in his eyes. "Can I take this off?”

Your nod is his cue. Careful to avoid jostling you anymore than need be, he eases the fabric up past your silvery-scarred flanks, up past your pooch still soft from carrying his baby, up past the simple cups of your maternity bra that barely contain the pudgy swell of your breasts to tuck it under your armpits.

In a moment of weakness, he groans at the sight of you if that’s all it takes to deconstruct him down to the atom, fingers skimming over the stretch marks etched into your skin. This is his favorite view in the world, better than any sunset, any natural phenomenon, any goddamn thing he's ever seen in his life.

Pregnancy and postpartum has made his wife even more beautiful, even more irresistible, though Suguru struggles to accept it as possible when he thought you were already the most stunning creature alive.

"Let's get this off of you, too," Suguru murmurs, his fingers finding the upper part of your nursing bra’s clasp and tugging it loose, fully dropping one cup with the seriousness of a doctor examining his patient. Albeit a very, very dear patient.

(He still finds the convenient function of the bra oddly neat, to be honest.)

The thin fabric falls open like it was struggling to compress the flesh, revealing the swell of your buxom chest that you swear formed out of nowhere when you were still round with Suguru’s baby. At a closer look, he discovers that the tight straps scored reddened marks into your shoulders and collarbones. He’s gonna be insane after this, ordering you a few new nursing bras that are less constricting because his wife deserves nothing but the best.

He peeks at the inside of the cup. The additional foam layer designed to absorb excess milk is heavy with the liquid and some discharge, practically soaked through on the inside; cons of having an oversupply. Suguru can detect the sweetness of it from here, warm and intoxicating and so inherently motherly that he’s convinced the smell of it could sustain him for a century.

(You’ve soaked through your bras and shirts too many times to pretend modesty now. That, and you’ve heard him coo things along the lines of, “it’s okay, it’s okay, nothing to be upset over at all, sweet girl. Happens to new mothers in this stage all the time, remember? Your body’s just working overtime to do what it needs to do for our Yua,” while bringing you new changes of clothes so often that you’ve lost count of how many times he’s consoled you.)

His thumb grazes over your breast, feather-light, just enough to confirm the heat of inflammation beneath. A frown tugs at his lips when you curl tight like a threatened viper. God, you must be in agony. He’d read about mastitis symptoms in one of those endless parenting forums he scoured, how quickly tenderness could spiral into fever if left untreated, and was very, very concerned that it’d strike you while you were already down.

“Don’t,” you warn with a forced teasing lilt, already hearing the way his caretaker alarms were going off as he launches another mental war on himself.

Mouth thinning into a line, Suguru feels at the weight of you as carefully as possible to suss out the buildup, mindful of your tensed brows. You think the subject dropped until he hits you with the obvious in a voice low with worry, “Sweetheart, you’re burning up.”

“I’m sorry.” Your whisper is rife with the guilty pang you don’t bother to hide.

He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize to me, baby, it’s okay. We’ll take care of it. All I need is to know that you won’t keep suffering in silence. You still haven’t promised me that, hmm?”

You blink slowly, looking at him like he’s the answer to every prayer you’ve sent out into the universe this past week. And he is. “I’ll tell you next time something happens. Promise,” you relent, exhaling like it pained you to give in.

Pleased and oh so proud, he dances a kiss across your forehead. “Good, now let’s get these all the way off. Your bra is too wet to keep on, so I’ll grab you a new one when we go to bed.”

Gingerly, you grasp the hem of your sweatshirt that slid down a little, and up it goes over your head (Suguru mentally coos over the cute way you strip yourself of your tops by crossing your arms over yourself in a bow) and onto the floor next to the couch, then off goes your bra when he skillfully pops the back clasp of one-handed.

He peels the pads of your cups away, apologizing softly when it clings sticky to the inflamed skin of your chest. The bra, too, goes to the floor after he guides your arms free of the straps, every brush of his skin against yours tender-touched.

Your pudgy breasts spring free, full and brimming with milk, nipples puckered in little inflamed buds and growing still beneath the chill of your home’s air that blossoms across your skin. They hang so nicely against your torso, each curve flowing seamlessly into the winding strokes of your body in an effortless display of your allure.

The sight sparks more awe than desire (for now, at least) within Suguru, though he doesn’t let his appreciation for your deity-like body that brought life hinder his duty to you. Suguru is the paragon of self control, every bit the messianic monk he impersonates, even with you perched atop his lap, temptation in the flesh.

Instead, he cups the weight of your tits, testing the way they throb with the pressure of backed-up milk with a light squeeze, both of you immediately regretting the action when you carve your nails into Suguru’s shoulders. The strong breadth of them stretched beneath your palms is enough to keep you stable atop him. His own hands are quick to feather along the sides of your chest in apologetic strokes.

“That bad, princess?” He murmurs, looking like a guilty cat dumped in the rain even though you’re the one that just tried to claw him open with kitty-sharp claws.

You nod a little, feeling the sting of it when you breathe, like little buffering fireworks splotching within the cavernous expanse of your lungs. “Just be gentle,” you caution. Not accusatory, only tender, meant more as guidance softened by trust rather than warning.

He slumps in relief, briefly bowing his forehead to your sternum, where your natural scent coils with the scent of Yua’s baby shampoo. His family. Suguru’s heart gives a little thrill. “Gentle hands for my gentle girl,” he assures, as mellifluous as a lilting songbird.

And oh, does that spark appreciation for all the things he and his hands have done for you. How they rub along your spine in a deliberate caress to keep you on the side of the street furthest from the cars and to massage away your tension until your skin hums. How they brush along yours so that he can grab the grocery bags from you and carry them inside himself. How they pen your upcoming appointments on the bird-themed calendar he keeps in the kitchen.

(How they run teasing strokes along your body before Suguru spreads your sodden folds apart and delves deep with slow, insistent strokes of his wicked fingers. How they fuck open your slick warmth until you’re creaming on his fingers, hips bucking instinctively as you moan helplessly into his chest—)

Those last few thoughts makes coercing your body into a relaxed state an almost impossible feat. Misreading your desire for something else, Suguru frowns mildly up at you. He starts a slow massage, reverent in his task to undo what burdens you. To soothe and enthrall.

"I know it's uncomfortable, but you'll feel so much better soon. Relax into it and let me handle it,” he croons, the warmth curling in his voice like honey melting into tea. "I'll go as slow as you need."

Your hand snaps down like a spring-loaded bear trap over his wrist, warring with the conflicting urges to push or to pull. His fingers— long, elegant, ink-stained from the ridiculous amount of documents he signed at the temple before returning home— are undeterred, and they knead at you in an overly careful approach.

The soft flesh of your breasts used to be warm and pliant against his fingers, but now they’re tight, stretched uncomfortably. Semi-translucent droplets bud at the very tops of your nipples, as if begging for the rest of the dam to break away.

His wife is so painfully lovely, even now, with your brows pinched from discomfort and your hand shaking where it tethers his wrist. Suguru's chest aches at the sight— in that sweet, overwhelming rush of protective affection that makes him want to hold you forever.

He doesn’t like it when you’re hurt. But when you broke your leg a year after the two of you defected, that other time where you caught an awful flu while you and Suguru were on the road overseas for a year, catching curses and recruiting the few curse users you met… well, he enjoyed the caretaking of it all. He likes when you lean on him. Even if Suguru felt detestable for gaining even a modicum of pleasure from your pain.

"Shh, I know, doll. I know it hurts," he soothes, voice a low rumble in his chest. “You want me to talk about something else?”

You nod, eager for the distraction. Tucking you in close, he sets out to do just that, casting a glance around you.

A deep indigo glow from the twilight outside slices gently across the room through the wide glass walls that open into the garden. Crickets chirp faintly beyond the cracked windows, and the trickling stream leading through the flowering fruits that Suguru maintains and feeds to you from his palm carries the sound of water into the home, mingling gently with your stilted breaths as you try to keep them steady. The nursery monitor perched on the side table boxing in the couch blinks steadily— no movement from Yua's crib.

The sound of her tiny, snuffling snores has his chest tightening in that nauseatingly mushy way it always does around his daughter, but who could blame him? She’s his perfect little sweet pea. A mini-him with your deep eyes, all tuckered out like a milk-drunk kitten after the bottle she nursed against Suguru’s chest while the two of you ate dinner.

Layered beneath her sounds is the hum of the white noise machine you insist on keeping on for Yua. In the grand scheme of things, that’s nothing compared to what you did to bring life into the world, but all he can think is how lucky his little girl is to have you— you’re the kind of mother who thinks of everything, resolute in your mission to make this unfair, vile world more comforting for your daughter.

He notices every new little thing you’ve done since the beginning of rearing a newborn. Even the simplest acts— like counting your daughter’s toes and pretending to pocket them just to see the way she peals into gleeful laughter and incorporating made-up songs (which are really just recitals of what you were doing step-by-step in a baby voice) into diaper changes to keep Yua from fussing— he finds impossibly, naturally beautiful.

Suguru wants to cry just thinking about it. You’re the one thing in his world that feels too precious to even put into words. Seeing you this way cements that you’re the love of his life all over again.

Where you were all rhyme and no reason, your earlier massaging technique just a desperately quick seek for relief, your husband and fellow cult leader tends you to like he’s been kneading dough in practice for this for his entire life. He works diligently, stimulating your mammary glands with a slow but thorough massage, heart attuned to your every unvoiced sign of discomfort, as he collects his words.

"Do you know," he starts softly, large thumbs stroking over you, "I think you're the best thing that ever happened to Yua? And I’m not just saying that because you birthed her,” he slides in a softly teasing remark at the end, glowing when your lips fall around a stilted laugh. “You’re the best thing that happened to me, too, but especially her. She wouldn’t be better off with anyone else but her mama.”

He sounds a little thick— as though a lump of emotion is burgeoning in his throat— even though his words are almost an order that leaves no doubt concerning the truth of the matter.

Your lashes briefly cling together from how fiercely you had clenched your eyes in a grimace— when did that happen?— when your lids part at the sound of his voice. Once tiny pupils blow out as they drink in the soft lighting haloing your surroundings in fuzzy bliss, a sharp contrast to the pressure squeezing your ribs that forces you into uncomfortable awareness.

Pressure has carved red ribbons across your breasts where the ducts throb beneath the weight, veins raised and tender on your skin where they branch from the strain. Suguru’s gaze stays ducked towards them, face so close he threatens to melt into the valley of your tits, but even with his chocolate-brown eyes half-lidded and focused elsewhere, the tenderness there is raw. Naked.

You swallow, throat clicking with the words you can’t say. Then you heave out a labored groan that teems with strain when he lightly strokes over the lymph nodes above your clavicle to help drain the swelling. The clogs in your breasts feel like rocks weighing down the net they’ve been snagged in, but they yield slightly beneath his ministrations.

“Ooooh,” you wheeze a little. “Ooh, yeah, you gotta keep going. Right there.”

With a hum, Suguru pecks your shoulder, your collarbone, and he obeys. The imprints of his lips smolder gently there. “I don’t know if you notice it, but she always quiets down and smiles when you’re near, and when you’re not, all Yua cares about is crying her little head off while looking for you,” he continues quietly.

“I guess she couldn’t give a rat’s ass about papa when her mommy’s always there to spoil her rotten, hmm? Oh, don’t look at me like that, sweetheart, I can still swear when the kids aren’t around. I’m grown.” He chuckles when you swat his shoulder with a pointed glare, coaxing a giggle of your own out.

“It’s not that. Cuss all you want, because you know damn well you’re a good dad and that she loves you j—“

“Okay, so, I don’t really like that you’re interrupting my speech about how lovely my wife is?” Suguru interrupts with a palm up to halt you, pushing his bottom lip out in an honest-to-fucking-god pout.

His fingers purse tighter around your breasts, rolling until you flinch as if something’s just popped. Cornered into silence, you frown at him, and he only smiles that innocently unassuming smile even though he’s easily smugger than a fox nabbing eggs from a hen’s nest, and ambles on.

“The twins are the same, and look at how much they’ve grown beneath your care. You and I did our best to raise the twins when we were still children with little to no resources. I was depressed and half-starved when I found them, and you weren’t doing much better. Nanako and Mimiko, and now Yua, are flourishing because of us. I know you worry you’re not doing a good enough job, but I think we both know that the girls and Yua know that you’re a good mom to them, and that’s all that matters.”

"So don’t do that," Suguru murmurs, voice a bleeding blend of plea and command. His palms seem to engulf your breasts whole, condensing the pain and swallowing it. "Don't second-guess and tuck away how good you are when you’re better at this than you believe. You've given our family everything, even when you’re exhausted or hungry or pissed. You don't have to hide how much that costs."

Every affirmation is chosen with care. Not to flatter, but to soothe and to show you that he sees everything you do, even when he’s juggling his own weights of fatherhood and his duty to lessen your burdens as much as possible. His refinement is always in service of kindness. Genuity.

Maybe it’s good that he’s not looking at you— already you feel as though you’re crumbling, slow but sure, beneath the most gentle destruction; even without his gaze. Your chest feels like it might split in two, both from the ache and from the strange relief of being seen.

So much of love is violence and surrender; the longing to be unstitched, the ravine of your body split wide in the most vulnerable of ways, taken apart with bare fingers instead of knives then consumed and picked clean, and finally swallowed down— not unlike the curses your husband takes in. To be reborn through another’s womb.

“Fuck, Suguru,” you finally hiss from between your teeth, equal parts due to his words and your skin that’s tender to the touch but eager for reprieve. “M’gonna die, you’re so sweet.”

“I’m just being honest. You’re doing perfect, angel,” he remarks softly, his brow slackening. “And no dying on me, alright? Not now and not ever. I still have so much love to give you.”

A smile whorls prettily across your lips, steeped in an adoration that makes him shiver when Suguru finally looks up from between your breasts and catches your eyes. “Same goes for you,” you breathe, and he purrs.

You squirm atop him as he kneads your overflowing mounds, caught in the crossfire of conflicting sensations. A whine hitches on your tongue when Suguru finally works his way inwards until he reaches the base of your puffy nipples, rolling the skin around them between fingers and thumbs, pain and liberation blooming at its peak.

“Oh my god,” you practically moan. You’re teetering between heaven and hell. Either or, it doesn’t matter— you wouldn’t leave either behind if Suguru was the one to greet you there.

“You’re doing so good, doll,” he rasps softly. “I’m right here with you. I’ve got you.”

He takes his time, applying tempered pressure to the outside of your areolae, pressing in and dragging out gently, skin giving way the same way melted chocolate does when you carve a spoon through a pot of it, to coax out the backed-up milk— just like the lactation consultant and all those videos he watched taught him. Your shoulders drop from around your ears as something begins to give way.

Suguru knows this isn't about pleasure, not really. It's about relief, about easing his baby mama’s discomfort. But seeing you like this, feeling you gradually come undone beneath his ministrations, staggered breaths losing their edge, is its own special kind of bliss. For you and for him.

He indulges and tends in the same breath; licking a soft, suckling kiss into the shallow pond of your collarbone and imprinting the delicate pink of his unconditional devotion there. Your fingers curl weakly at his shoulders, your head tilted and neck bared before your husband even reaches it. His mouth scatters delicate, wet smacks upon your skin as though planting something that will bloom in secret.

“Thank you for making milk for our baby girl, even though it hurts. You make more than enough to keep her healthy and strong,” he breathes into you. You shiver, just once.

Suguru can feel the clogged duct beneath his fingers, hard and painful to the touch. He focuses his efforts there, rubbing and massaging until he feels it start to give way. Tightness coils, then liquifies in the same breath, all that backed-up milk finally releasing with a spurt of warmth that spills forth.

Jesus Christ. You could cry from how much better you already feel, even when the ache and weighed-down feeling of milk tugging your breasts towards earth remains; the relief of loosened pressure is immediate.

You slump forward like a marionette with its strings snipped to sever the body from the true mind, hips joined with his but scant distance still purposely put between your chests when you bury your face in his neck, soaking in his cologne.

"Thereee we go, pretty girl," Suguru praises softly. Keen eyes stay on you as your nipples sluggishly drip thin beads of milky fluid down your breasts and onto your stomach, the muscle beneath your skin quivering now that it’s finally relaxed after minutes of clenching. “Feeling better?”

“So much better,” you sigh. It’s not a perfect fix, but it’s enough to tide you over for a bit. Heat nips your skin, threatening infection, which you’ll have to keep an eye on. Tonight won’t be the first night you’ve gone to bed with an ice pack stuffed down your shirt in a bid to try and relax your chafed nipples.

You watch with a mild grimace as a few extra fatty globs of milk leak from you— the human body is both absurd and fascinating.

Two long fingers swipe up the mess Suguru made of you, working in a lazy circle to collect all that he can without aggravating your oversensitive flesh, his other hand smoothing up and down your inner thigh in soothing passes. His pupils are blown wide with something sharper than just focus as he idly wipes himself off on the hem of his shirt— you know he already planned on tossing it into the hamper since Yua spit up on him earlier, so you don’t bat an eye over it.

But whatever it is, he doesn’t voice it, instead pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth that you interrupt by turning into it. Mouths meeting, lips overlapping in a dance familiar to you over the last decade, you press into him with all the appreciation that you can muster that words themselves cannot express. You swallow up Suguru’s answering hum that buzzes enticingly through the nerve branches supplying your lips. He tastes so warm, so familiar, like summer fruit and green tea.

Hm. You think you know what he desires— luckily for him, you want it too.

“What,” he breathes into you in a dreamy little cadence, more moan than question when you lap into his mouth to greedily get at more of him, much too in tune with you even when you’re distracting him. Spit collects where your tongues slide over each other, stringing thin and spilling down your chin when you pull back.

Suguru swipes a thumb over it. He leaves a trace of the scent of milk beneath your lip.

“Still need your help,” you confess, smothering him in a gentle flurry of kisses. Each one has Suguru laughing softly, eyes crinkling, plush lips wet and breaths uneven. He nuzzles his cheek into the long smooch you plant there.

You steal another from his mouth, just because you can, just because you love him and you want him to drown in it every day of his life. “I can’t let my milk build up again, and Yua’s asleep. My tits are too full for me to sleep comfortably tonight.”

A pause, pregnant and thicker than his cursed energy that coils around the house in a protective barrier, then Suguru tilts his head against the back of the couch and looks up from beneath his kohl-brushed lashes with utmost seriousness. Quiet and assessing though he may be, the clean cut of his knife that slips painlessly through the ripe skin of you— as if you’re a fruit he’s set to engorge himself on, to swallow the seeds of— is awfully besotted.

“Are you asking me to take my daughter’s place?” He intones in a voice already somewhat wrecked, like he hadn't just been thinking it for the last few minutes. No amount of plastic-perfect redos could mask that.

“Psssh.” Your breath ghosts. “As if I’d pick anyone else for the job. Lucky you, right, husband?” You lilt, mildly devilish but mostly just needy. This is the same exact behavior that landed you with his baby in the first place.

A surprised blink. Two. Then, he cracks out a breathless chuckle that paints his cheeks a carnation-pink, “Ah, don’t tease me,” he flaps a hand, playing the part of the dismissive (though nothing could conceal the bashful smile looking to bloom through his veneer of control). “You know I’ll do it, since it’ll ease you.”

(“… even if I fear that it’ll make me greedy,” goes unsaid, but not unheard.)

In seconds, you’re just as heated as he; it rushes up your neck and prickles across the expanse of your face.

“Thank you, my love,” you whisper, and, a tad shyly, “and thank you for everything you said earlier.”

Suguru smiles warmly at you, heart beating with affection for his wife alone. He cradles the crown of your cheek in the cup of his palm, stroking thumb ladling love into your pores as he gazes into your beautiful eyes. "Don’t mention it, angel. I'm more than happy to make you feel better, in any way you need," he murmurs softly, constructing a sticky web of honey with only his voice.

You use the distraction of your last few kisses to extract the claw clip from his hair so that you can feel it against you, letting the tied up section flow lazily down his back. You pet through his hair like it’s a stim toy, the strands sleek and thick with good health.

With the blockage out of the way, your nipples pearl sweetly in the dim light, translucent white shimmering there on the twin peaks. Suguru leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of your breast, then another, trailing a path of tender kisses downwards. He laves at the thin trail of spilled milk with his tongue.

Your nails sear at his scalp as he finally wets his lips and seals them over your nipple, and the first drugging pull of that cursed mouth has you arching with a breathy squeal, fight or flight instincts hollering like a bitch. “Ahhhhfffuck—“

“Mmn.” Relax, he meant to say, but it comes out an almost pathetic noise. The first trickle is thin, almost shy, but Suguru knows how to suck hard enough to draw liquid forth— heh— and has more than enough determination to make this work.

It hurts— sharp at first, then easing into a bearable but annoying throb. Suguru practically squeezes himself past your ribs to curl around your heart with how closely he’s pushed into you, a hand fanning firm against the small of your back as a reminder for you to keep the two of you superglued together. You obey, squeezing your thighs tighter around his hips, weight burying him further into the creases of the loved couch.

That same hand then comes up and weighs your breast alongside his other hand, fat wobbling over the curved edges of his cupped palms like panna cotta, to hug your free breast against his cheek and trap his face in the valley of your chest. You’re soft. Heavenly soft and squishy.

Oh, he could die happy. Thigh guy and eye guy (they’re the windows to the soul, after all) though he may be, Suguru is a man that is utterly weak for his wife’s tits.

He supports the heavy weight of your breasts by their undersides as he drinks from your well with the patient indulgence of a saint. The taste of your milk is comforting, sweet, surprisingly honey-like (all the smoothies he’s made you, probably), texture just a little thick enough that it seems to line his throat; clingy— and Suguru melts into it, losing himself in the sensation like a drunkard unconsciously trying to find his way to the bottom of a bottle.

No wonder Yua throws fits in the middle of the night for a taste of this. If this had been the fruit in Eden, how could anyone blame Adam and Eve for sinking their teeth into it?

It crests over his soft palate and glides down the arc of his throat in creamy waves that undulate through him faster or slower depending on the depth of his suction, which he’s careful to keep fairly light— a gesture that’s mindful of your soreness. Your nipple hardens further against the velvet heat of his mouth, milk letting down with ease at each suckle, Suguru’s maw working slow and deep.

“Fuck, baby,” he mumbles, the movement of his lips causing rivulets of milk to leak from the corners of his mouth— damnit— and dribble down his chin and onto your chest, “you taste so good angel, so— so perfect.”

“Sugu,” you whine like you’re dying. His eyes drag open immediately despite how heavy they abruptly feel. He doesn’t remember closing them.

Above him, you're overcome. Your face is pinched with a mixture of emotions, wet-eyed gaze framed by the devastating fall of your lashes that clump together from the sheen of unshed tears— oh god. You’re breathing around half-sobbed keens that sound more like prayer than a beg for respite, bosom rising in sharp, needy pulls of air. Divinity at its finest.

The sight breaks him apart, stitches him back together, and sends a shudder of devotion through him so hard it makes his teeth ache with sugar rot. Something thumps swollen and low behind his ribs as if his body’s reminding him that he only exists to kneel before you, drink from you, worship you, and drown in you all at once. He’d do it all a hundred times over.

Suguru blinks up at you, milk-slick lips dumbly parted around your nipple and jaw lazily hinged. His stomach tries to evacuate the premises by dropping out of his ass when he sees your lower lip wobble.

"You okay?" His voice is rough, unsteady, though he never halts, tongue recircling lazily around your tender peak without thought. Is he drunk? He might be. He isn’t sure of anything anymore that isn’t you.

You fist your hands in his hair and drag him closer, like if you could press him into your heart he might finally understand what it’s doing to you— how overwhelming it is to be touched like this, fed on like this. Submitting like a working dog, he gentles his suction, lets his lips linger open around you instead of pulling, like a kiss that refuses to end. His nose nudges into your sternum; he’s shaking, too.

"I— yeah, I just dunno w-why I’m crying— ah—“ you cut yourself off with a broken moan, back bowing as another gush of warmth fills his mouth like your body can’t help but give and give and give, so generous to even those that don’t deserve to even breathe your very air.

He groans into your breast at the taste, the sound low and desperate, vibrating all the way into your sternum, but he forces himself to unlatch with a lewd pop of wet suction breaking away from skin. “Okay?” He repeats in a rasp, wiping his damp chin with the back of his wrist.

It’ll be a cold day in hell before he ever neglects to check in with you, even with your body language as open as a book. He needs to know what you need. “I can stop, or I can keep going.” Suguru wants to— would never deny you his aid, even if it meant going to bed with a sore jaw and in a half-dead trance from fatigue.

You slowly shake your head. Your lungs work like bellows, every inhale dragging your ribs wider, your nails trembling against his scalp with every exhale. "N-no, don't stop," you manage, voice soft but urgent, cracking like porcelain at the edges. "It’s helping. Just— keep going, please."

(Suguru doesn't need to be told twice.)

Oh so tender, his thumbs arc gently over your damp lashes, brushing the tears away and reassuring you that you’re okay. He stares at you for a long moment, his dark eyes searching your face with that stubborn worry anyway before softening when he finds truth. It takes everything in you not to squirm.

His eyes flutter shut for a heartbeat, relief and reverence colliding. When they open again, the black in them looks bottomless. "Alright, angel," he murmurs, mouth parting in a faint sliver that allows his breath to ghost hot over you, and you cry. "Shh, shh, I've got you. You’re okay. Just breathe for me and relax. That's all you have to do.”

There’s comfort in the ease of complying and melting into a fragile little heap in his palms, in not having to strain your mind over every detail. And if you falter? He’s already beneath you, arms open before the fall.

You nod in silent confirmation, and his smile (tired but tender) pulls at you like gravity. He squeezes your sides, dragging warmth into your flesh, fingers tracing the familiar curves he’s memorized over the years— only now, they’re plumper, fuller, impossibly more superlunary after carrying your daughter. It’s a grounding technique… but also his unrestrained cuteness aggression finally bubbling forth in a giddy wave.

Suguru’s features melt into a map of appreciation— smile laden with quiet longing, doberman-brown eyes luminous and drinking in every inch of your figure, his body naturally inclining toward you with the inevitability of tide to shore. He would always answer the call only you gave, even if it meant walking through the valley of the shadow of death. “My pretty girl. You have no idea what you do to me,” he dreamily coos.

So sweet, your man. So in love. You look away and pretend to study the smattering of orchids on the windowsill through your watery vision, unable to help it, and Suguru coos again.

“Aren’t you the most precious thi—“

“Shhhhhh.” You flick his forehead, and his laughter is brighter than a pulsar.

Now that you’re a little calmer, all petted over like a spoiled kitten until you’re looser, Suguru presses a slow kiss over the tender spot of your nipple and licks carefully— savoring. You shudder, ticklish, when his abdomen crunches inwards in a dip so that he may lowly lap at the thin spill of milk down your stomach that he wasted, greedy for every drop like a spoiled pet.

He drives you insane in the most indescribably obscene of ways.

Righting himself again with lordly elegance, Suguru tilts his head back into its rightful place on your bosom. His large hands return to cradle the weight of you, fingers splayed with the steadiness of the wooden beams supporting the home that he built for you in the rural heart of Tokyo’s countryside. Careful fingers press at the base of your breasts in slow, coaxing sweeps in his direction that ease your ducts into widening, allowing your sweet sustenance further passage.

(Sighing, he nuzzles into your chest, the only place he’s convinced he belongs, and smears milk as though he’s trying to wear it.)

When he seals his lips around you again, the pull is measured enough that you can feel the tension inside you slowly unspooling. The nighttime quiet of your home is peaceful; romantic, even, as his cheeks flutter in patient, coaxing draws that match the rhythm of his circling thumbs. It’s more like a benediction than anything else.

He purrs low, like he's a cat trying to soothe you, mouth flattening tighter as if promising he won't waste another drop. Suguru’s slumped beneath you like a baby valiantly fighting off sleep, the thinnest of milk mustaches streaking over his Cupid’s bow… it reminds you of your sweet pea Yua.

("She's got your stubbornness already." You muttered while breastfeeding for the second time ever, months ago.

Suguru knelt by you where you sat on the couch, eyes locked on the impossibly small infant nestled to your chest as Yua gummed at your nipple, though they curiously flicked up to you when you spoke. She had a greedy latch and a mean suction, but she could take whatever she wanted from you and you’d never complain. It’s all hers.

You traced a finger along the infant's tiny arm, internally quavering beneath the weight of your own responsibility for the fragile, perfect life in your hands. You didn’t want to ruin her. You hoped you hadn’t already ruined her. The baby's soft suckling noises hummed in your ears as you leaned forward, pressing a kiss of promise to the crown on your daughter’s head.

"Because she never lets go of what she wants?” He questioned, voice lilting something sweet and sacred. “That’s a perfect trait to have.”

You smiled faintly, agleam with a pantherine-like mischief. “That, and she’s greedy just like you.”

“Hey? That is slander upon my good name?”)

The sob that catches in your throat comes out softer this time, broken up by the watery laugh that abruptly hiccups through it. “You, hhn, look like a kitten that got into the cream," you note, voice lilting even as another fragile noise punches out of you when Suguru’s teeth kiss around your nipple in a scrape that sends sparks up your spine.

“Except,” you bravely forge on even though you’re winded, “you're way bigger and somehow even needier."

Suguru's eyes crinkle as they watch your face; a smile blooming in snow. All he does is hum in reply, gravelly and low, pressed so close that you can feel the flutter of his lashes against your plumpness.

"Mhm." You teasingly mimic his hum because humor is the only thing keeping you from flying off the edge and into the unknown, carding your way through his hair again. It slips through your fingers like water. "Here I was thinking l'd married a dignified monk, and instead l've got this big soft man trying to nurse me dry on a Tuesday afternoon."

That earns you a muffled laugh around your dribbling nipple that makes your toes curl, and you giggle at the puff of warm air. He peels away from your breast long enough to say, “Please. I’m just trying to make sure your milk doesn’t go to waste,” milk and saliva stringing from his mouth, to switch to your neglected tit and start suckling that one, too.

(Pause. You swear you heard him mutter, “don’t think I forgot about my other favorite girl,” to your boob as if it has a conscience of its own.)

You so unabashedly pour honey-thick sustenance into his awaiting mouth; like an oriole feeding its chick from its beak, a ritual of regurgitated offering— what’s been gathered, softened, made ready, now given. What you scavenge is what he consumes; like the curses you and your shikigami hunt for his inventory and your cause.

And hasn’t that always been the case?

“Well, you’re doing a very good job of it, even though— hck— this definitely wasn’t in the marriage handbook,” you breathe, a moan breaking up your speech. Your head tips back, a grin breaking through your dazed, teary expression at the thought. “We’ll put this on your resume. Husband, curse user, cult leader, and handsome certified breast pump.”

A second, fainter laugh whistles through his nose as his tongue drags in a concentrated swirl, collecting a mouthful. Another warm rush fills his mouth that he all too happily swallows.

The furrow between your brows smooths little by little under his gaze. With it, the dam crumbles, spidery-slow cracks eroding its foundations. It eases open and open until the strain lessens, spluttering out through the cracks like chunky-watery snow runoff.

Your breath stutters; your hips press closer until your stomachs are flush. Suguru feels it then— the sway of you finally beginning to give yourself over completely, trembling but open, eyes glossy and faraway in a manner that reminds him of the sheen that paints your eyes when you gaze into the future.

“Still so sensitive,” he murmurs, switching sides again, fingers taking his previous spot and rolling around your areola to squeeze out a stray stream that runs freely. “You were made for this. Look at you. Feeding our baby, taking care of her… and you’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. Yua’s so lucky.”

The words sink in, wrapping around your spine like silk until you shudder, your thighs quaking as they cling tighter around his waist. “Would you beg for it?” You blurt.

His brown eyes thin, fox-like. You don’t have to elaborate. “Always, princess.”

You mutter ‘oh my god,’ voice shaky with the beginnings of something unclaimable, flustered, and it’s only then that he realizes—

You’re soaked. And it’s not due to your spilling breasts.

The scorching honey-trap of your core pulses through the thin fabric of your panties and shorts, too, and over Suguru’s crotch in a languorous trickle that draws his attention sharply to the point where your bodies meet. His composure slips just a fraction. The spreading wetness seeps wider and soaks into the soft cotton weave of your shorts, blossoming visibly, shamelessly, in a dark patch that you can’t quite hide.

Admittedly, you’ve been a little wet since he initially latched on, the friction of his lips on your oversensitive nipples enough to unravel you. That arousal traces back further, still, back to the second Suguru reminded you of how he stuffed you full.

The image burns a brand into the delicate swath of skin behind your eyelids; your husband kneeling over you after pulling his cock out, still slick from your joining and his cum that he pumped you full of, your ankles tangled in a cross above his head while Suguru pulled your asscheeks apart in a decadent spread of skin and slick. Him thumbing his thickened dribbling seed back into your fluttering cunt, eyes shamelessly darting between where your body sucked around his thumb and your winking asshole.

Thinking about it again has you trembling harder in the present, if that were even possible. Gasping, frazzled, your hips shift restlessly in a not at all subtle barrage of ruts down against him as your arousal spikes like a struck bell. You’re not even thinking about it— just reacting to the sheer euphoria of being tended to like this. You can’t stop. You don’t want to.

“Sugu,” you hiccup, burning up with something so ruinous that not even the words ‘need’ nor ‘desire’ could explain what you craved. Your fingers twist in his hair until his scalp prickles and head catches back, and Suguru only groans pleadingly, irises nearly gone as his eyes roll half-way back.

It’s only when you accidentally tug harder that Suguru’s hips hinge in an unconscious thrust— Pavlovian response, with how often you tangle up his hair during intimacy— despite his desire that hasn’t yet fully bloomed, groaning at the friction that’s already coaxing a response from his lower half that he can’t hide, and that’s all it takes to halt him.

He pulls himself away from your breast, breathing heavily. Milk dribbles down his chin, dampening his chest, but he doesn't care— he’s too busy examining your face with a worried, knowing eye. His hands settle at your hips, grounding you even as you try to flutter another grind over him.

“Even more sensitive than before,” Suguru corrects himself in a rasp, forming the words clumsily around the thick taste of milk on his tongue. His voice breaks the silence, low and roughened by the weight of the moment.

“...You’re really reacting to this, huh? Guess I’m doing a little too good of a job taking care of you,” he lilts, the faintest trace of amusement curling around his words.

The way he says it isn’t mocking, really, for there’s no judgment in his voice— it’s just warm, with a little tender concern around the edges. But there’s also that orange-painted thread of teasing mischief in his tone that makes the hair dotting your arms rise like static is building in the air right before a lightning strikes the ground— or like your skin is a field and he’s the magnet tugging through it.

You feel your face grow hot. “It’s hardly your job,” you scowl as you glance away, saying something just to say it.

“You’re right, you’re right,” he concedes with a little shrug that you feel more than you see. You can hear the smile in his voice. “It’s my honor and my pleasure, princess.”

You can’t quite bring yourself to meet his eyes, but the sound of his soft chuckle— low, tender, knowing— draws you back in. He presses a hand to the small of your back, steadying, thumb rubbing grounding, soothing circles over you. “Hey,” he adds, quieter now, “breathe. What is it, angel?” A pause, then he offers you a verbal hand. “Need something? Talk to me.”

You knew who you were, what you wanted, and what you wanted was your husband. You wanted Suguru. So much so that your lips part before your mind can catch up— that you think you could beg, right there, pride be damned, if it meant feeling him more intimately.

Your breaths are ragged, lips trembly as you bite out, "Need you— right now." The look you give him is glazed with adoration and overwhelmed ache, torn between the sting of sensitivity and the molten thrum of craving so badly to be needed by Suguru that you could rip your hair out.

His throat visibly bobs as your thighs pointedly tighten around him, the baiting shift of your hips sending a jolt through him that has his jaw tensing. You even drape your arms around him with a low sigh that turns into a long drawn-out groan of frustration, moving to hump your clothed cunt against his thigh again with frustratedly needy noises. But he stays still, not wanting to push you far at all.

There’s not a day in hell that Suguru would deny you— especially not when your eyes burn like that, not when your body is already melting open for him, pressing wet and sticky to his crotch. His own… ah, situation presses against his sweats as if to remind him that it had been too long since you’d had each other like this, what with juggling multiple kids that always meddled without realizing they were meddling, simply by bursting into your bedroom at the asscrack of dawn or the dead of night for something or another.

You were insatiable when you were heavy with your baby, skin constantly aglow and your eyes like twin magnets that constantly glued themselves to the mouthwatering outline of Suguru’s glorious cock. Never a day went by where you weren’t chomping at the bit to climb him like a tree and buck on Suguru like a wild horse until he gave into your need that was bolstered by pregnancy hormones. He could barely take a step without you mouthing at any ounce of his exposed skinlike some paragon of divine temptation, whispering in his ear that he should fuck you already.

But postpartum recovery is still serious business. It’s too soon after childbirth to get intimate yet, so Suguru’s pointedly been holding off, and so have you. Until now, of course.

"I’d love to, but we we can’t. No penetration or anything extensive, baby— you know that. Heavy petting is as far as we can go, really.” The genuine concern is there— he’s been borderline overbearing with making sure you stick to the given deadlines concerning sex and working out post-pregnancy, not wanting you to start doing anything too crazy too early. Suguru’s terrified of you hurting yourself, but he also knows you’re now tense in a way that has nothing to do with pain, and he’d hate to leave you high and dry.

He sighs, reluctant, and your eyes are already gaining a somewhat manic gleam. “But… I’ll always give you whatever you want, if you’ll let me,” Suguru mutters, still petting over your back as though you’re fragile, even though you know he sees you as the strongest thing in his world. “We can go further if you promise to be careful. Okay?”

“If I ever said no, it’s not me, it’s an imposter,” you quip dryly just to see the way he amusedly wrinkles his nose. “But yes. Promise. Can we hump like dogs now?”

Suguru shakes his head as he laughs, hair swaying. “Sure, princess.”

That’s all it takes to set off the sparkler in your expression. Your excitement blooms, blinding and so vivid it leaves him dazed with wonder.

Pushing off of his shoulders, thick thighs sliding off his lap and gliding over the outsides of his legs in a controlled, teasing rhythm, sticky with the friction of closely shared sweat and movement, you step onto the floor and rise in front of him like an angel given permanence in flesh.

Your breasts hang so nicely against your torso with warmth and life, swaying gently like fruit on the branch with every breath you take, ripe and perfect, hanging pretty like the gardens of Babylon.

Incense smolders faintly from a brass burner, mingling with the naturally crisp, earthy musk of the night’s breeze swimming past the cracked window. That’s what Suguru sucks in a massive lungful of on the sharp inhale he draws when you bend over and push your shorts down to your thighs, letting it roll over his tongue and throat with all the patience of someone sampling a rare vintage, tasting this moment with all of his senses so that he may imprint the image you strike into his memory.

Gravity carries your shorts the rest of the way down your legs in a cozy caress, leaving you in only your underwear. Being mostly bare highlights the fullness of your tits, still somewhat puffy with milk and soreness.

His gaze lingers on the artful ripple of your body dimpled with stretch marks, the bounce of your full chest as you stand upright and step out of your shorts with soft-footed yet assured grace, and he’s already adjusting how he rests in his pants just from watching you move. Simple as that.

Damn. Parenthood hasn’t dulled his insatiable attraction to you one bit. If anything, it’s worse. Or better. Depends on how you look at it.

It’s not some perverse, masculine pleasure of having planted a seed within your body for it to grow and fester that shakes Suguru. That’s too crude of a way to behold someone as precious as you, and so very unlike him, anyways. What truly moves him is the evidence of your strength and vulnerability intertwined— a naturalistic beauty that speaks of creation and war and love that makes him ache something fierce.

You’re powerful to a fault. You could kickstart revolutions or single-handedly deconstruct evil-spirited crusades, just with your body, what it can birth, and the rest of its yawning list of endless capabilities.

The taut fullness of your stomach, once rounder than a harvest moon, has long begun to ebb— not all at once, but in slow increments that shift with the waning phases of the moon. Your abdomen is currently softly curved into a crescented pouch, skin folding where your daughter formerly stretched you wide and tightening the streaks of scarring. There’s still weight to you; childbirth and being well-fed like a pampered pedigree dog has molded you into a figure of soft indulgence.

(Suguru adores feeding you. You always scarf down his cooking while he watches with an anticipatory breath stuck in his chest that only relaxes when you moan your approval. He’s so very serious about catering to you and keeping you at a healthy body weight, both for you and for the baby. Your well-being is his top priority.)

The gradual return of your newly toned— not entirely just yet— muscles is still a work of progress, but the lingering definition in your limbs hasn’t been lost, all things considered, and you’re determined to repolish the fine instrument of your body when you can (you’re taking it slow, of course, because Suguru nearly had an aneurysm when you asked if he’d be down to spar again sometime soon. His answer was no. And if you ask him, it’s definitely not because there’s a 49% chance of you handing his ass to him, even in the state you are now.).

The easing of your body back into itself wasn’t erasure of what had been, but like a bow of gratitude for what you endured and survived all the same. Yet another testament to your strength.

“Beautiful,” he breathes readily. You perk up, smiling sunnily, and he wants to fucking punch the nearest wall because how can somebody be so jaw-droppingly sexy yet so cute.

Arcing over your hips are high-rise cotton panties with a thin lace trim, exceptionally soft and flattering. A sticky patch of arousal drenches through the gusset. The fabric gently embraces your postpartum belly, supporting it with the perfect amount of loose elasticity to keep you breathing comfortably. Simple. Great for recovery from childbirth.

Regardless, though, he was winded just off of that. “That’s a pretty pair, pretty girl,” Suguru murmurs, brown eyes lower than the sunset over the horizon. It’s lovely, how his onyx lashes flutter over blushy tanned cheeks.

You chuckle, sweet and dazzling, and look down to examine the panties that shine beneath the microscope of his attentions as if you’ll miraculously find a grander pair, spun by some mystical fairy godmother, on your person. Naturally, nothing has changed. “They’re cotton underwear that I bought from Costco, there’s nothing cute or sexy about these,” you chuff, voice swinging mirthfully. “It’s giving… old mom panties. Tragic.”

Weirdly enough, you’re more self-conscious about your choice in undergarments rather than your body, but perhaps that’s to be expected after listening to your husband’s prolonged murmurings about how gorgeous your body was before and after childbirth, always with intimate and frankly excruciating detail that made you want to crawl under a rock from flustered euphoria. He hasn’t stopped, even though you’ve now grown used to his praises, because his lips simply cannot help themselves whenever he lays eyes on you.

(Besides, he thrives on rendering you slightly undone beneath his appreciation, knowing full well the power he holds over your heart and using that to the sweetest of advantages.)

Knowing that, he reaches for your hand, reeling you back in to stand between his legs. Your stomach brushes against his chin when he tips his head up to capture your gaze with his own smoldering one. His yawning pupils are tiny entomology pins that stick the butterfly wings of your lashes in place on the canvas of his spreading board. You can’t look away.

“Postpartum panties or not,” Suguru says, eyes dark, sharp, deliberate, “everything you wear— or don’t wear— drives me insane. You’re gorgeous, y’know? Breathtaking. Nothing or nobody but you could land me in a state like this,” he admits, leaning back into an unfairly suave slouch against the couch. The body of it groans but allows Suguru to sink into the plushy, delicious tension of the cushions.

You exhale a little laugh through your nose as you open your mouth to ask what he means, and suddenly the noise shudders and dies like a car pathetically sputtering along on its last tire when he drops a hand to his crotch. The fabric of his clothing does nothing to hide his current state.

Ah. He’s harder because of you.

Suguru drags the heel of his palm over his cock that protests against the layers of fabric holding it back from its rightful place buried in your sweet cunt, muzzling the straining, pulsating tip with his palm. You’re unblinking, not missing how he tilts his head back and exposes the elegant column of his throat that you’re itching to mark. Hidden beneath the shadow of his jaw is the bob of his Adam’s apple, the motion like a buoy drifting through lazily rocking waters, around an unscripted moan.

His baby mama looks good enough to eat, and he nearly pierces through his bottom lip with how hard he’s sinking his teeth into it, because holy mother of pearl. He corrects himself, loosening his jaw and licking over his sore lip that burgeons with the beginnings of a bruise, and your eyes jump to follow the motion before eagerly returning to his indecent display of desire for you. You’re a hound to its favorite bone.

His irises are autumn-brown and flecked in subtle gold and blackish plum tones; like a wisp of twilight swaying prettily with the falling leaves in a dance as old as time, a little hard to see even with the warm yellow light of the dimmed lights and barest trickles of distant moonshine. They watch you, even when his eyes threaten to tilt sky-high at the squeezing pressure of his hand around his cock.

“Jesus Christ— look at you, angel, look at yourself and tell me that you don’t find yourself at all attractive. You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen." It’s not empty flattery— he means every word. Pregnancy hasn’t diminished your radiance one bit in his eyes.

You heed his words, looking down at yourself. Your fingertips brush the curve of your waistband in an unconscious shift. You’ve changed a lot, but knowing Suguru still covets you with all of himself makes your stomach wildly flutter. “I can’t disagree,” you acquiesce without any arrogance, just assurance. “And you, baby,” you drop your tenor down to a throaty purr, stepping closer but not close enough to stand between his thighs just yet, “are just as stunning, aren’t you?”

He raises a sleek black brow, lips twitching around a hissing groan. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You swipe a thumb over your nipple to rid it of the milk blossoming there, slow and deliberate. Suguru swallows, feeling jealous. That should be in his mouth. “It gives me ideas about what’s coming next. Take those off.”

Suguru has all of humanity under his spell— non-sorcerers, quick to blindly trust this supposedly heaven-sent messiah like a flock to a docile-eyed wolf; sorcerers, who still cannot bring themselves to harm him, their nostalgia-tinted glasses holding the higher-ups-ordained guillotine blade at bay; curse users, banking it all on his vow to shepherd them to the promised lands.

Yet it’s you that has him entirely wrapped around your finger, dancing to whatever rhythm you pull him along to on the red fate strings wound tight around your knuckles.

His eyes are intense, refusing to budge from yours the entire time he lifts his hips away from the couch, the mockery of a thrust emphasizing exactly what type of ideas are swirling around your head, and peels the hem of his soft sweatpants away before you can finish gesturing at them. He slides the fabric down, slow, slow, slow, sucking in a breath when it catches desperately on the outline of his erection that leads to a drool-worthy point. A visual feast that turns your pupils to inky-deep supernovas that swallow the surrounding color.

Then he guides it down his thick thighs and even more sinfully carved calves, shimmying the fabric along the path of his legs with inexplicably graceful technique. The sides of his feet catch at the hems cuffing his ankles, pushing them all the way off and lazily kicking his sweats to the side. Leaving him all yours for the taking.

And taking you do.

By the time your weight hits his lap, legs slung like a thrown blanket over his thighs, the fabric between your chests feels like an intrusion. You’re already grinding down and groaning at the instant pleasure, attuned to the hitch in your husband’s breath at the delicious pressure of your clothed heat gyrating over his cock, while you tug his shirt up and over his head in a maneuver that fluffs up Suguru’s silky hair.

“So handsome,” you breathe, discarding his shirt without a care now that you have your eyes on your blushing prize.

“You make it hard to stay humble,” whorls out from between his lips, and you imagine smoke spiraling high and away to join what’s collected near the roof from the burner. “S’okay to keep going still?” He quizzes despite your pussy answering for you as it drools all over the seam of his straining boxers, making his prettily pink complexion deepen impossibly further.

You nod, half-distracted, but he doesn’t allow it. “Aht, aht, don’t hold back from me,” he sucks his teeth, gently nagging in that specific well-meaning way that liquifies your spine. He grips your hips to contain you. “Let me hear you, beautiful. Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you exactly the way you need it. No conditions. Okay?”

Dropping your head as you speak is what your instincts sing for you to do, but you can’t look away. Not now. Not when Suguru’s staring at you, peeling you apart like he’s stripping an orange of its protective rind in one big wrinkly, curly segment with only his thumbs. You swallow, hands twitching.

“I just need you,” you insist, raw and honest and wholly you. “Wanna feel you against me and cum just like that.”

That’s all he needs. His eyes sweep into bowing, smiling crescents. “Good girl. You always know how to make me proud.”

That nearly kills you right then and there.

Your hands absently smooth some of his hair down then skate over his abdomen, feeling the flinch of frazzled muscle beneath your fingertips. Preening over having your husband at your mercy like this, you take your time savoring him the same way one would a dessert. Petting over his sunkissed August skin, tracing the lines of his fine musculature that he’s spent years honing. Thumbing over his dusky nipples with a smirk just to watch the way he briefly closes his eyes, flustered.

Your touch must be too much for him, for his chin swiftly tips up to catch your lips in an eager embrace.

His tongue slides wet and heavy over your mouth’s seam and further still when you finally part for him. Your own breastmilk greets your tastebuds, more potent than you remember it being.

Sue you, of course you tried it before out of curiosity. You had licked it up from your thumb after wiping Yua’s chin clean, found it tasty, shrugged, and moved on. The milk’s mellow sugar mingles with the lingering fruity, lush crisp of fried papaya that lingers on his breath— he’s speaking all your favorite flavors into your mouth.

Before you knew it, you were disarming him with your need, feeling his chest bob in heavy pants beneath your palms. His hips writhe below you, so hard against your achy core that his dick probably hurts. The kisses grow frantic the more you paw over him, heated at the thought that there’s no kids here to get between your passionate entanglement this time. You felt like a feral fucking dog in heat, even if you knew it’d be best to take it slow.

No longer the neatly composed curtain it was an hour ago, his strands that have fallen back to earth around his shoulders are now a tousled frame threaded through with static. He moans something sinful into your mouth when you take a fistful and jerk his head back to tower over him impossibly further, smothering him in teeth and tongue.

The greedy glide of your mouths past one another is reigned in by Suguru, his kisses turning wetter, slower, so open-mouthed and filthy that your toes curl. The shift is so subtle it feels natural; your husband catching your chin between his fingers, guiding your fevered mouth to move with his pace. His grip anchors you until the frenzied edge melts into a languid grind.

Each kiss is so devastatingly intense in their slow passion that it has you thinking he’s immersing himself in the fantasy of kissing you elsewhere.

(Because he is thinking about it, even if the thought is half-submerged in his crowded head. How divine you’d taste if he pulled your panties aside and licked into your perfect fucking cunt like a starved mutt. How prettily you’d cry out for him. Suguru’s mouth waters, making things impossibly messier with the syrupy overabundance of his saliva twining with yours.)

Retreating from your liplock with a resounding pop doesn’t free your mouth from him, no; a thumb gives chase, unable to resist peeling back your bottom lip. You hinge your jaw open so he can rub his digit over your slippery tongue (wetter than your pussy smearing over his now fully solid erection)— just because he can, because he wants to. Your parted lips are swollen, a mini heartbeat thriving beneath the flesh that’s an inflamed plum from Suguru’s thorough pulls at your mouth.

Once satisfied, his eyes droopy with arousal over how you opened up for him without question, he watches your spit form a swaying glob on his thumb. He gives it a moment before he reshifts to lock onto his gorgeous wife.

Suguru slips his touch down to your backside that he can never resist lavishing in squeezes at any given point in time, regardless of whether or not you’re paying attention to him or innocently bending over to collect laundry from the dryer. He cups the plump swell of your ass in hefty palms to haul you forward and up in something like a bunny hop atop him.

"C’mere," he breathes over your trembling laugh, guiding you into the shelter of his body with hands that shake just as much as your voice. "Wanna feel you better, princess."

Anchoring the majority of your weight in the basin of his lap aids him in his mission to grind you tighter into the hard line of his cock, rocking you against him until your breasts bounce against his sculpted chest. Your leaking nipples streak wetness across his skin. A vibration rumbles through you and into him from the low whimper you scrape up from the bottom of your lungs.

“O-oh, Sugu,” you keen. You’re riding him in messy, desperate circles, panties weighty with all the tacky slick accumulating. The soaked-through fabric slathers tightly to the outline of your folds the longer you bump and sway in your husband’s arms.

His clothed tip drags true every single time, pressing exactly where you need it and making your eyes knock back dumbly in your skull. He’s deliberate, maddening, perfectly placed as he twitches up into you— it’s so fucking good.

“Yeaaah, baby?” Suguru purrs that drugging, honey-smooth sound that always makes your confident air crack a little. It does now, too— your mouth softening into a slackened state, moans spilling free at the friction building between you in delicious increments neither of you can bear to break. “Yeah? I’m here, your Sugu’s here. Tell me how you feel.”

You scavenge for any trace of that well-spoken dignity the clan you hailed from drilled into you, but it’s hard to think past the cotton stuffing your ears. “So good,” you grit out in lieu of anything more sufficient, voice breaking when he finally starts to truly move, his lazy ruts rolling directly over your clit and spiking pleasure hot in your stomach.

“Feels s’good, baby. Really, really good. Please don’t stop,” you continue in one long drawn out whine.

There’s no mistaking the way his eager cock jumps beneath his boxers, already soiled with precum, in response to you. The slide’s deliciously wet, even with all the barriers. Every angelic noise that pushes past your kiss-bruised lips makes him dizzy, every brush of your cunt against his thick hardness sends a jolt of pleasure through him. But it all pales in comparison to the bliss he feels over your independent pride shattering enough to allow you to plead for him.

You have no idea how beautiful you are when you surrender— it’s more powerful than any word you’ve spoken to the cult the two of you rule. He lives for moments like these where you need him, where your muscles melt and your body opens for him, allowing Suguru the pleasure of peeling apart your insides and coaxing you to tremble beneath the weight of his adoration.

Suguru loves deeply, and that love is the foundation of his conviction. He loves you too much to ever let you become another body beneath a sterile white sheet. He loves you too much to ever let any grievance against you go unpunished, always ready to release the might of his thousands of curses to kill anyone that’s dared to make your petals droop beneath winter’s cruelty. He loves you too much to ever let a day go by without making sure you know you’re the most special woman in the entire world, that he’d die for you without hesitation.

You don’t even realize how powerful you are, do you? Every breath you take bends Suguru closer to you, makes him want to be the only lucky sucker to ever kneel for you at your command. His followers paint him a god and you a goddess, but you’re the only divine one out of the pair of you.

In front of you, Suguru felt like he was nothing more than a man in rags prostrating himself at his beloved deity’s altar for a chance to breathe your very air.

"You’re too sweet. You’re gonna be the death of me, y’know that? How am I supposed to keep my head when you sound like that?" Suguru breathes. He nearly chokes on his own words when you pass your slit more firmly over his cockhead, feeling your folds spread open through the fabric. That has him leaking even more needy, sticky precum in a webby mess.

You just whine again, overcome. Especially when he rocks into you with unhurried grace to carve this moment into the marrow of you, craning his head to dote over your skin at the same time. His hands, too, join the mix; they pass along the winding roads of your curves, fuller than they had been before your pregnancy.

He traces kisses across you like he’s pressing flowers flat into the pages of a book for safekeeping, for him to cherish long after. Kisses to your collarbone. Kisses to your neck. Kisses to your pulse point, and finally, kisses for your jaw and cheeks. Each one burns through the heart of you, making you squirm and toss your arms around his shoulders to bind the two of you together as intimately as flesh allows.

His chuffing laughter feathers over your cheek, but what he breathes into you carries no trace of amusement: "You got it it, keep taking it nice and slow, baby. Just like that. I'm yours," he hums silkily, then continues after sucking a hickey just below your jaw, "Do whatever you want with me and use me as you wish. I trust you.”

The words pour from his heart’s hidden chambers, each syllable soaked in sincerity. It's a vulnerable admission, one that costs him a lot to say out loud. But it's true. You know it’s true.

The intensity of it makes you want to do backflips, though— how sweet he is, his specific brand of caretaking that was too heavy to bear and too hot to touch with naked fingers. Suguru’s a natural giver; nothing pleases him more than to tear himself apart at the seams and give you more and more and more.

He’s yours for the taking, and you could use him and destroy him. In response, he’d only give you that devastatingly genuine grin of his that crinkles his brown eyes and pleasantly ask you to continue.

Fuck. How could you not bend to his wishes and do what you want with him?

Your eyes lid heavily but refuse to close, snared by Suguru’s enthralled gaze when he finally pulls his face away from your neck. His tongue drags over his teeth while watching you set a firmer rhythm over him, his hands on your waist both an encouragement and a tether. He refuses to look away, the sight of your enjoyment more vital than his own.

It’s not just the expanse of your skin he’s kissed so many times in the dead of night and the plushness of your thighs trembling where they cage his hips that fells him. It’s how you move with pure and utter confidence, unashamed of the way you chase your own pleasure, the way your voice swells with shameless whimpers that you feel comfortable enough to let loose.

You’re beautifully raw in the way the first bloom of spring breaks through frozen earth is. Utterly defiant, and all the more breath-taking for it.

Suguru matches your seesawing movements perfectly, every thrust measured to your liking, every shift angled to drag clothed friction over your clit until it throbs heatedly in the most delicious of ways. His jaw hinges, lust and love spilling out in babbling praises that bubble over his full red lips— a litany of love, things like “you feel how hard I am? That’s all for you, my perfect girl,” and “you feel so good against me,” like he physically cannot stop himself.

It makes your insides clench so tight you swear you could come from his words alone.

“That’s my girl,” he praises right then, nudging the thick, aching shape of his hardness against you again and again until you’re hiccuping. “Always so responsive, always looking so pretty when you’re feeling good, f-fuck.”

The very air between you thrums with something electric, charged with years of intimacy, years of giving flesh for flesh. The sound that leaves your throat isn’t quite a word, not quite a sigh— just a shiver made audible. Suguru feels it, hears it, and the faintest smile curves his mouth.

Your pace gradually quickens, hips rising and canting forward, rolling like waves stroking the shore. Suguru squeezes your ass, just to feel the way it ripples in luxurious rolls, before he wraps his arms tight around your back.

He presses your bouncing breasts to his mouth again as if he can't decide between feeding and rutting with you like you’re two bunnies on a bender. Suguru breathes in, breathes out, breathes in, controlled, and then you push your chest into him in invitation, and he can’t help himself.

He settles for both— latching onto your left nipple with a groan, mouth pulling sweetly at your breast until you’re crying out from the sensation threading through your chest and down to the molten ache between your thighs. It fuels the fire in Suguru’s gut, driven by the need to see you unravel first, as always. He’s already lost count of how many times you’ve been intimate over the years, but this— this feels just as electric as the first.

"God— fuck, angel— you taste like heaven," he moans, thick snd slurred against your breast, his words melting together from the intoxication of your milk that quickly floods his mouth in a steady stream. "So warm, so— ah— wet for me.”

His hips snap a tad harder, grinding you down until the wet shlick shlick shlicks of the sodden, ruined fabric of your panties dragging across his equally ruined boxers fills the room. His typically vulpine-sharp eyes are tumbled over in hues of adoration and complete want as they watch you swivel atop him in a daze, sweat-laden hair plastered to your temples making you look like a wet dream that decided to take form and ride him to ruin.

Your nails carve into his shoulders, your voice breaking, "Baby, shiiiit, s-so good, m’gonna—“ You can feel it building in your lower belly, the entirety of you quivering like a straining bowstring as you race for the edge. It’s killing you, the peaking pleasure of an orgasm that you haven’t felt in months.

Knowing this, feeling your clothed cunt spasm against him, Suguru purrs into you. “Cum for me, angel," he rasps, voice hoarse, "cum while I drink from you— my perfect wife, my everything."

Your body answers before your mind can catch up— hips jerking, white bliss numbing your veins and thoughts and bursting forth in a cry that splits the air as you shatter in his arms.

Your climax crashes through you, and Suguru is quick to make it better for you as he watches your face unravel— he draws it out, his hand slipping beneath your panties to stroke the swollen slickness of your clit with firm, unhurried circles of his thumb, milking everything you have left. “That’s it, lemme have it,” he whispers huskily. You buck helplessly, dragging in stutters over his thumb and cock, the overload making you drop your head forward and sob into his sweaty mess of black hair.

(He’s never prayed to any god, but here, with you overheated and overcome, your taste on his tongue and your body spasming under his hands, Suguru thinks he understands devotion.)

You’re being buffeted over and over by a long, overwhelming wave that skews your sense of everything, really, except the spots where you connect. Every inch of your senses is only alert for Suguru, the world narrowing to the heat of his bulk beneath your fingertips, the praises he breathes into you with the reverence of a devotee.

You could stay here forever— being petted over, soothed, melting into whatever your husband gives you. For all you know, you’ve been rolled into a meadow of petals and sugar and happiness with the way bliss thrums through you.

Even when the aftershocks have you spasming in his hold, sightless eyes rolling back, he doesn't relent. His tongue strokes lazily to coax more milk from you, swallowing your breast’s sustenance all while rocking you gently in his lap, a steady rhythm that isn't meant to build toward his own release, but to soothe you, to stretch the intimacy out until you're limp and pliant against him.

You go bonelessly when Suguru drags his soaked hand out of your panties— pulling away from your tit to shamelessly lick his fingers clean and unconsciously humping against you at the taste— then hoists you up, turns on the couch, and dips you the same way he did during your first dance at your wedding reception.

He slowly lowers himself over you without breaking your seal of closeness until you’re stomach to stomach, knees sinking into the couch cushions between your trembly legs. You breathe out a soft groan at the feeling of him pressing his bare pecs against your heavy breasts.

Still cooing mindless love to you, he curls over you protectively and peppers your heated cheeks with kisses from his milk and spit slicked lips.

Suguru surrounds you entirely— his embrace, his scent; jasmine and sandalwood mixing with the newest addition of baby powder, the pulse of his shaky exhales— and it's the most comforting thing you’ve ever experienced. You want to sink your teeth into all of it, chew it, savor it, and let it linger on your senses until the world narrows to just this rich, intoxicating tableau.

He’s devastatingly handsome above you; a painting in chiaroscuro, light and shadow conspiring in his favor. The tickling wave of his midnight-black hair surrounds you like the halo from a disgraced angel fallen from god’s doorstep, a few strands sticking wetly to his temples and cheeks from the sweat caked there. The sharp tactician and charismatic cult leader was nowhere to be seen— only a husband whose entire universe is you.

“Suguru,” you mumble, your syrupy tongue fighting to work against the leaden feeling of your body entirely giving in. You feel electrified, oversensitive— every brush of your skin against his sends little sparks of pleasure crackling through your nerves.

You feel his lips curl into a smile against your cheek, where he insistently imprints more kisses into your body. “I’ve got you, baby. Your Suguru’s right here,” he croons around a warped, breathless laugh that’s rich with adoration, pulling back a fraction to nuzzle his nose against your own. This close up, his brown eyes are molten laketops over his soul.

You paw for a new grip around his shoulders with slackened fingers, clutching him impossibly closer, as if he could slip from your arms in the mere instance of a single blink, a blip of time, and the world would end if he did. The hard, aching weight of him throbs against your hot wet mess of a cunt when you shuffle your hips beneath him.

Instantly, he tries to rise away from you. “You’re spent, huh? Lemme, ah, get you to bed and then I’ll take care of mys— mmph.”

You yank him down to press your lips over his. It wasn’t a plain, chaste kiss, but deep, hungry, the kind of kiss people give when they’re promising their body, their future, their heart. Suguru braces himself above you on his elbows, melting into you without crushing you, returning your liplock with slow pulls of his mouth. You can taste yourself on his tongue.

Your nails scrape down his rippling back again, not so much in pain as in an act of soothing because he can never resist a good back scratch. The noise he makes comes out strangled. You part with a syrupy line of saliva branching your bottom lips together, your hooded eyes taking in the redness of his mouth from the demand of your needy kisses. The saliva breaks away when you lick over it.

“No,” you rasp, “you cum against me and me only, baby.”

Suguru visibly bluescreens above you. His glassy brown eyes go a little wide, blinking slower than dripping molasses. The flush that starts to bloom is swift in its pink crawl across his cheeks, taking over his face entirely. It makes him look so boyish, so untainted by the world.

Honestly? He nearly came from that.

“Oh,” he croaks, all that fox-sharp intelligence melting into the flustered mist that settles over him. He bows his head, pressing his forehead to your collarbone and laughing weakly there.

“Still breathing?” You tease in an equally wrecked voice, scraping your fingers back up between his shoulder blades in order to drag them through his hair. It’s a bird’s nest— even through the scorching haze of pleasure that wraps you up, you think to yourself that Suguru’s gonna go wild rewashing and brushing his hair later.

“I should be asking you that,” he mutters with some petulance. He lets out a great big sigh, “you tell me to stop, and I stop. Understand?”

“Mhm,” you hum absently, tugging a tad too hard at his strands to hear the way Suguru fails to swallow around a throaty moan. Naturally, he gives an imperceptible, unconscious wiggle of his hips— masochist. “Want you again, c’mon. Don’t make me wait.”

He’s fondly shaking his head and breaking your grip from his hair as he rises enough to reestablish eye contact. “We go slow. Don’t wanna overwhelm my girl,” Suguru murmurs huskily, then he’s leaning back on his strong haunches and biting his lip, “I’d much rather take my time with you and focus on making you feel good. Your pleasure matters more than mine.”

Before you can protest, he’s rolling his thumb over your clothed slit and punching a gasp out of your strained lungs. “Do you hear how wet you are for me, huh?” He drawls, brown eyes never leaving you. You spy the dark patch that blooms through your panties when you sit up a little to watch him. It’s obscene in its clarity, heat clinging damply where fabric meets skin. The wetness swells outward, a warm pulse against the thin barrier.

Without warning, he hooks two fingers into the sopping cotton of the gusset blanketing you, tugging it aside to reveal the glistening mess between your thighs. The air of your shared home slaps your skin, making you hiss. Suguru’s breath hitches at the sight— your puffy, slick-smeared lips, the swollen bud of your clit throbbing for attention, the way your tight little syrupy hole clenches around nothing, begging for fullness.

Your hands tighten marginally around thin air, your foggy brain struggling to form coherent thoughts beyond how badly you want him to be inside you. But he won’t, because you know he’d rather die than compromise you and your body’s healing by fucking you this soon after childbirth.

"You’re practically dripping for me, angel,” he breathes, nearly salivating over you. “All for me. I’m so lucky…” His need would normally make you snicker a little, but it heats your cunt to the point of scorching. You watch his control fray a little more when you open up beneath him— thighs parting, your body controlled in its sensual grace.

He’s seen you naked too many times to count, but your vulnerable beauty still weakens his knees and makes his erection curve up just a little bit more. He looks forward, to where the waistband of your high-waisted panties ride up your pudgy hips, to the thinning streaks of your stretch marks, to those thick thighs of yours that could probably crush his skull if you wanted to—

“Gorgeous. Keep your eyes on me, yeah?” Suguru whispers, sliding your panties back to cover your mound. He slots himself between your legs, which lazily wind around his waist, and settles over you once more as you avidly watch him with fucked-out eyes.

He wants to tug you closer into him by your hips, reconnecting your bodies, so he does. He wants to watch you arch up into him at the same as he grinds lazily into you so that he can feel the involuntary shivers that ripple through your form, so he does. He wants to brand the taste and feel of you into his marrow, so he licks over your nipple again, sucks it down with vigor and rolls the tender bud between his teeth, careful not to hurt but just enough to make you jolt and gasp, and ruts into you until you’re whinily moaning his name all over again.

You’re a deity capable of stringing fate itself along to your whims and creating life— and that’s exactly why the very act of you biting out those delicious noises for him feels like a religious experience.

“You have no idea how easy it is to lose myself when it’s you I’m touching. You drive me c-crazy, every inch of you’s got me obsessed,” Suguru practically whimpers into you, mouthing eagerly at you to make more of your milk let down. Your thighs tighten at his hips before you drop them, too frazzled to keep a proper grip. Your legs weakly thrash past his sides in little kicks when he deepens his suction, hands exploring the entrancing map of your body all the while.

You pant heavily when he grasps the back of your knee and tugs it up to drape your leg over the crook of his elbow, granting him better access to drag his bulge wet and heavy over your heat. The pressure of Suguru’s cock pressing into you at this new angle makes his spine zing, and he rolls his too-hard shaft into you with deep, deliberate strokes that make the couch groan, focusing on pushing his covered cockhead over your hooded clit.

There’s so much of his own precum and your slick drenching his boxers that the fabric stretches almost translucent over him, his weeping crown visibly a little purple from need. He hums appreciatively into your flesh, tweaking your other nipple between his thumb and forefinger in tandem with his ministrations, massaging the engorged tissue with practiced care.

Pain lingers in the tug due to the lingering ache of the clogs Suguru got out, but it’s softened by something deeper— an overwhelming warmth, a pulse of connection that makes tiny tears rise unbidden to your eyes.

“More,” you demand, and ever-loyal Suguru obliges without question. His hips begin moving faster, the wet squelch of your cloth-covered joining obscenely loud. Every snap of his pelvis drags a string of babbles from you, “oh, ahhn, god, Sugu, right there, yesyesyes—“ and Suguru practically rumbles his approval.

When you drag your cunt up and along his prominently jutting need with a desperate gasp that spills from between your lips, Suguru switches his mouth to seal your other breast with overeager suction. He groans around your tit like he’s being ruined by it as you cry out in equal fervor, his tongue swirling in a sinful circle as he bathes in the comfort of your taste.

The taste of your milk blooms salty-sweet on his tongue, thick and rich. The warmth of it crashes over him. The underside of his jaw flexes in time with every greedy thrust between your thighs, his free fingers flexing against your hipbone as if he can’t decide between encouraging you to keep grinding up into him or pinning you down and smothering you in pleasure so that you don’t have to lift a finger.

His body thrums with selfless instinct, every muscle coiled to serve you, to let you know in every way that matters that you’re the one for him, that he’d do just about anything to have you fall apart just for him. "Not even inside you and I feel like ‘m losing it," he murmurs against your skin, voice ragged but awash in awe, like a priest whispering prayer.

"My wife— you probably wouldn’t even be able to handle it if I pushed in, huh? You’d squeeze so tight around me, desperate to keep me inside and refusing to let my cock go until I’m cumming in you. Again and again and again,” he hisses needily, and you arch away from the couch and into him as if he just cracked you open at your chest.

That same chest desperately flutters with panting breaths, and that same chest pours a few more mouthfuls into his awaiting throat before dribbling off into nothingness. Suguru pops away from your breast with wild brown eyes, but he still kisses over your areola, licks it, thrumming when he realizes he’s finally drained you empty.

“Look at thaaat, h-huh? Tastes s’good that I couldn’t stop. You gonna make more milk for me, more for Yua?” He babbles, and you nod so fast it hurts your head, because you’d do just about anything to have him this close to you to the point that he’s almost beneath your skin, drunk from feeding on you and still greedily asking for more.

One of his hands lifts shakily to tangle in your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back so he can admire the hazy pleasure painted across your dazed expression. You can barely meet his gaze, eyes glossed over and rolling back in your head with each rise and fall of your hips. So fucked out, so warmly worshipped over, that you can’t tell up from down.

"You look— mmnh— so fucking beautiful like this, sweetheart," he groans, his melliflous voice thick with need as he stares down at you, where you writhe and sing beneath the weight of his devotion. Milk weeps, like severed flesh spilling blood, from the curve of his bottom lip, splattering on your chest, your collarbones. “Pretty girl,” he hitches, like he just has to say it.

Your hand darts through the tendrils of his hair when he leans all the way over you just to shove his face into the top of your head. Your own hair smells like his and yours shampoo— partially because it smells good and feels good so you share it, but also partially because Suguru has the particular habit of rubbing himself all over you like a cat trying to scent you until your pores are drowning with his smell. He inhales it greedily, teeth clenching down so hard his jaw smarts before he pops his mouth right back open and practically drools into your hair while his gut leaps with viscous, spongy warmth. It makes him sweat.

Suguru’s like a feral dog in heat every time he gets his hands on you— especially now, given his current milk-drunken state.

He sneaks his hands back between your sweaty, grinding bodies, the two of you dry humping so intensely you both swear Suguru could knock you up again with another baby even through the two layers of fabric.

Your mouth drops open around a silent sob when he palms and pinches the swell of your ripened chest like it was the most delicate thing on earth. At the same time, he smears his hardness all over your throbbing pussy in pointed swivels, every touch driving a deep, needy ache between your legs.

You’ve been split open by your husband’s cock time and time again. You’ve stroked it until he’s spilled ropes upon ropes of seed over your fine hand, and even deepthroated the entirety of his length countless times— but feeling it like this might actually drive you insane with how pleasurable the desperate depravity of bumping like two teenagers is.

The next tidal wave of ecstasy threatens to knock you right off of this earth, making you senselessly buck for more friction against Suguru’s driving cock even though it’s so much that you almost want to squirm away from it, overwhelmed. “Easy, princess,” Suguru’s moan comes out weak with strain. His bent arm drags your leg further open, keeping you from doing just that as his mouth descends on yours again, “I got you. You gonna cum again for me? For your husband?”

Your teeth clack together when you nod and messily slide your tongue along his, struggling to match his pace. “Too good, f-fuck,” you slur into him, lashes fluttering as your eyes droop closed. Your hand cups his jaw, thumb stroking over the damp line of it, and he kisses you deeper in return, lips sticky with milk.

The praise he whispers into your joined mouths, the worship, the tightening of his abs that ripple against your pressed-together stomachs makes your chest ache with love even as you tremble on the knife's edge of arousal. “Can feel how close you are. ‘s okay, just breathe, I’m right here, you’re safe, angel. Let go for me,” Suguru practically babbles, and you feel his eyebrows scrunch when he drops your foreheads together, the cartilage of his nose squishing against the side of yours with how tightly the two of you are intertwined.

It pours over you in a decadent spill of warmth, of connection, of safety and intimacy and pure unadulterated love, and it makes you wail from the intensity of it all, his presence neverending and so fulfilling. The rhythm of his lips over yours and the mash of his cock against your spasming mound blurs into one overwhelming central point behind your eyelids that whitens your vision.

Your stomach twists fierce, thighs clamping down like magnets around his hips as you gush slick completely through your panties, squirting across Suguru’s lower half, gasping into the syrupy cavern of his mouth because holy fuck. “There you go, good girl. Good fucking girl, princess,” he rasps, sounding proud of you for letting go rather than preening over his efforts to get you there.

You're keening, clawing at his shoulders, undone all over again as he takes you apart with gentle hands. It’s as if a storm of pure relief and satisfaction has settled into your body, lightning striking your joints, thunder pounding in your skull, every nerve screaming like the sky itself is breaking. Seconds later, your husband finally succumbs, jerking into you with a strangled whine.

His hips hitch sporadically, pressing your bodies flush to the point of overheating as he spills over you— hot, thick, and unrelenting, his seed so abundant that the creamy substance spurts through his boxers and drools all over your cunt. Suguru’s cock pulses and twitches with each wave of his intense, handless orgasm, soaking through until you’re both utterly drenched between the thighs where you press against each other.

His voice is hazy and stretched thin when he speaks again, his lips falling away from yours so that he can breathe. "O-oh... fuck, you feel— god, you feel amazing. So perfect for me, baby, love you s’much…”

You whisper it back, struggling to blink through the tidal wave of sensation fogging your vision, along with the sweat dripping down your brows and into your eyes. The ceiling above Suguru’s swirls in alabaster white shapes, senseless to you when you’re this far gone, floating along in a haze.

"Haaahh... fuckkk..." Suguru pants harshly, sucking in air as he comes down from his high. He feels boneless, utterly wrecked, his cock softening but still nestled snugly against the warm, sticky cotton of your ruined panties. He thinks he could die happy like this.

Your climax wrung you out, but Suguru doesn't let you float too far. His hand strokes up and down your leg that he finally lets fall off of his arm, the rhythm of his fingers absentminded, and every once in a while he presses a kiss to your temple or cheek jaw, murmuring nonsense about how good your skin feels, how warm you are, how he loves your smell— the small, soft things that make up your language of comfort.

The world outside is long gone. You smell only your husband— faintly jasminey still and salt-streaked from the effort he put in just now. You soak in the precise steadiness of his hands, the warmth of his breath across you, the soft rasp of his voice as he keeps whispering whatever comes to mind. And that’s all you need.

He lets out a muffled, content hum against your sweaty skin as he finally lets his shoulders slump. And oh, how he blissfully purrs when you weakly card through his hair as he clings to you without suffocating you with his weight. He could stay here forever, cradled against your chest, putty in your hands— safe and adored in your warmth and giving the same back to you tenfold.

But the stickiness drying between you is growing uncomfortable (a waste that he didn’t spill inside you, he thinks dizzily as he observes the mess of cum and slick), and he has a darling wife that he needs to get into bed before he checks on Yua. Suguru pushes up, blinking blearily at the baby monitor that toppled off of the side table and onto the carpet next to the couch. Still no movement— miraculous, considering how loud you’ve both been. Yua was sleeping like the dead.

Suguru swivels his gaze back to you, his heart positively melting when you greet his faint smile with one of your own, your face slackened with pleasure. “Still with me, beautiful?” he asks, voice low and gravelly but thick with soupy bliss, brushing a chaste kiss to your lips. “Need anything? Water? A snack?”

Even now, spent and stomach sated by the warm heaviness of your milk, Suguru’s attention is entirely on you— making sure you’re comfortable, cared for. Aftercare is just as important as the act itself, in his eyes.

As far as he’s concerned, your only task now is to stand still beneath the flood of his devotion, to meet his gaze until your guard falls without hesitation and you forget the world, and to let yourself be undone over and over when he loves on you. Suguru won’t let you lift a finger now that you’re boneless like a sleepy puppy beneath him. His princess deserves to be spoiled, always.

You drop a hand to your rising and falling stomach, eyes slipping to half-mast. “Mhm… water and baby carrots,” you announce dreamily.

Suguru snorts. Your pregnancy cravings still stick with you, even long after Yua’s been born. “That can be arranged after I carry you to the bathroom and we take a quick bath together… unless you’d rather I feed you in the tub?”

“Please,” you moan before he can even finish his question.

A fond laugh whispers its way out of his nostrils. Suguru brushes some of your hair away from your face and cups your clammy cheek, pleased when your eyes follow him with avid affection. “Sure thing. And your tits?” He paws through his own afterglow to find it within himself to ask. He glances down at your nipples, now chafed and marked with love bites from his attentions. The uncomfortable tightness from earlier is thankfully gone, though, and you look more at peace.

“It’s better than earlier, but the pain’s still there,” you admit, thick-tongued and honestly too tired to play into his caretaking right now. You just want to chew on baby carrots while he scrubs you down in the tub, maybe doze off in there. You know you’d wake up later tucked in bed with Suguru curled around you, his warm chest beneath your ear. “It’s like a bruise that won’t leave.”

Suguru hums thoughtfully, gathering you up and pushing off of the couch with your limbs lazily thrown around him like a baby koala reluctant to part from its mother. He boosts you up, hands cradling the backs of your thighs, and takes a wobbly step.

“Hmm… alright. Well, now that I know about the clogs that were there, we can deal with it properly the way we should’ve when you initially noticed them days ago. Instead of giving Yua a bottle tomorrow morning, how about you breastfeed her to see if there’s anything else to drain? Or I can just do it again in her stead. Then we’ll rotate you through hot compresses throughout the day an—“

“How do you have the energy for all of this?” You whine against his shoulder, appalled yet touched by how he’s managing to conjure up such a thorough plan after the orgasm of a lifetime.

Suguru just chuckles the entire way he carries you down the hallway. “You’re my wife,” he says as if that answer alone is enough.

a/n: this is geto

if there’s anything specific that u liked about this fic plssss feel free to lmk, i eat upppp feedback 😋 writing the smut in particular had me giggling like a FOOOOLLLL so i hope u guys enjoyed that along with the rest of the fic 🫦

gojo satoru was nothing short of perfection.

new in his role as a well-known superhero, he made many mistakes, some career-ending but even though he was super!, alas he was just a man.

 a man who could hide behind his crooked, boyish smile and a light blush on his cheeks during a press conference and win the favor of the public again.

but behind the scenes, all you see is: a hero who doesn’t quite know how to exist in a world that expects perfection everyday.

well…visually he could he was divine perfection.

every girls wet dream and every man’s vision board for physique.

otherwise…well that’s debatable.

“and at 3pm you have a—“

“sir?..are you listening?,” you sighed as you watched the man do pushups next to his desk he was just sitting on.

“awww c’mon! you know i told you to call me satoru!”

“it’s to be professional, sir.”

“mmm i am a professional superhero! it’s time to be carefree everywhere else”, he grinned, “you’re so strict! my cute little assistant!”

“well someone has to be.,” you muttered back looking down at your notes again.

“hmmm, what was that?”

“nothing, sir—we should go over your schedule it’s of the upmost importance,” you stressed, watching him finally go back behind his desk.

he hummed watching where you stood, arms falling in defeat at your sides and you big eyes staring at him past your black frame glasses.

“you’re right. no—no you’re right,” he conceded gesturing to his desk, “take a seat and i’ll do my best to listen.”

you beamed almost jumping out your skin as you approached one of the chairs before he tuts as you and motions at his desk.

again?

you sit on his desk, legs crossed on top of one another as you looked back down at your clipboard and past it to see a tuft of white hair on the floor.

and up you went, seeing the ground get inches further from you as satoru did reps…with his desk…with you on it.

“alright, hit me!”

oh, you wished you could.

you started reciting the list of his schedule, his grunts passing in your ears as he pulled the desk back down to where it barely rest on the floor and pushing allllll the way back up.

and when you finally finished, he plopped the desk unceremoniously back on the ground, the side making a resounding crack as it landed its final blow.

“are you hurt?”

“just peachy, sir.”

“satoruuuuuu!”

you sighed, dusting off your skirt, “i’ll have maintenance bring the replacement up.”

this is how you days went.

cleaning up, chasing and trying to maintain order to the man that was gojo satoru.

and honestly you were getting paid enough, to get deal with this but your sanity was always at its tipping point.

“don’t do this, sir.”

“that’s offensive, sir.”

“you’re getting sued again, sir.”

it was truly an uphill battle to keep the man in check but now that he had an established agency to help with his superhero duties it was even worse since his shortcomings were now your shortcomings.

“i did not know he was going to do that.”

you were clutching your pearls in the room full of executives, who stared back at you like a piece of meat ready to go on the chopping block.

“you are with him everyday. and you didn’t keep notice to see him fly through a laundromat butt naked.”

“he caused severe damage.”

“i didn’t! i know something dropped on his suit so he went to get cleaner! i wasn’t aware he meant taking off the suit,” you sighed clutching your sleeves tighter in your hands, “i was working on the appeal to the criminal suit that the court filed yesterday.”

“as his assistant—“

“as my assistant, she helps me. she’s not my keeper,” the man of the hours voice called through as he slammed the door open, and pulled you out the room, back down the hall to the elevator.

“bunch of fuckin pricks”, he muttered turning slightly so he could see your face, his hand coming up to brush the tears that broke free from your armor.

“why don’t you call me when they do this stuff?”

“it’s not your responsibility, sir,” you sniffled pushing up your glasses quickly to avoid having him see you break any further, “it is my fault when things don’t go as planned and—“

“it was better when it was just us, huh?”, he pouted, hand still brushing your cheek as he pressed for the elevator.

the doors opened and he pulled you inside and pressed the door where your offices were.

“go home,” he grinned at you, “i’ll pay you for the whole day don’t worry about this.”

“i got it under control.”

you watched in shock as his head pulled back through the elevator doors just as they shut, probably to address the room full of executives again.

hopefully he doesn’t mess anything up too bad…but hope is such a fickle thing.

“you did what?,” you screeched looking in each of the rooms that now laid bare except for the maybe five employees satoru spared.

“yup”, he smiled popping the p as he spun around, “gutted the whole thing!,” he laughed watching you grab your head in horror,” just like how it used to be! just me and you.”

“satoru.”

woah, you were mad.

“i’ve only been working for you for 3 years. in that time the best decision you made was getting the investors to establish this company,” you snapped eyes fully on him over the top of your glasses, “now they’re gone.”

“exactly!”

“so is our funding satoru.”

silence passed as you watched the realization fall on his face, his mouth taking a pretty O shape as he nodded slowly in understanding, “oh right…i don’t think about that.”

“of course. you didn’t.”

okay. okay? okay!

as disastrous as this looked, you still have a good convoy of workers who somehow were still holding the entire operation together by sheer willpower:

01. nanami :: sales — the only man alive capable of selling ice to someone in a snowstorm. he could advertise anything to anyone.

02. sukuna :: spokesperson — the face of the company. unfortunately. a handsome face, attractive enough to distract the public from the lawsuits, rude enough to create three more by the end of the interview.

03. kirara :: costume design — the sole reason satoru ever looks presentable.

04. you :: assistant / manager — more accurately the glorified babysitter, the crisis negotiator…let’s hope you can get through one good day on the job without feeling like strangling your boss.

05. hakari :: personal trainer — tasked with keeping gojo attractive (and buff) enough for the public to forgive his catastrophically stupid behavior. honestly the easiest job ever.

06. choso :: advertising / creative dpmnt — the genius behind every breathtaking billboard, cinematic teaser, and carefully curated campaign convincing the world this train wreck is still worth supporting.

07. gojo :: superman — allegedly humanity’s greatest hero. praying he doesn’t kill us all.

somehow… against every law of nature, against every blaring alarm bell, this could still work.

but alas satoru gojo isn’t satoru gojo if he doesn’t fuck something up.

like his many other powers, he had an innate superpower for turning “manageable disaster” into “national emergency.”

BREAKING NEWS

the obnoxiously cheesy theme music exploded through the conference room speakers, followed by the bright bold red headline spinning around the bottom of the screen like a taunt.

like it was mocking you, personally.

“good afternoon, everyone! i’m suguru geto, and welcome back to your afternoon spill.” the man grinned directly into the camera, “today’s top! story: our beloved superman has been caught. again.”

he paused dramatically, tapping down his note cards on the desk as he geared up to speak again.

“doing what, you ask?” his smile widened, “having sex.”

“allegedly,” his co-host cut in quickly.

“right— right, allegedly,” suguru corrected, already laughing.

“however! we do have never-before-seen footage of what appears to be superman suspended several hundred feet above the empire state building with his entire ass out while engaging in what legal experts are begging us to call slight public indecency.”

the screen immediately blurred into shaky paparazzi footage.

someone in the room whispered, “oh my god.”

“and if that wasn’t enough,” suguru continued cheerfully, “last tuesday he was allegedly seen in a male strip club performing what witnesses described as— and i quote— a ‘full helicopter rotation’ with his genitalia to the song pony by ginuwine.”

“in other news,” the co-host sighed in visible defeat, “are penis piercings making a comeback? coming to you live after the break—”

the television clicked off, plunging the conference room into a suffocating silence.

nanami exhaled slowly through his nose before tossing the remote onto the table with the kind of exhaustion unseen for usual humans…but accurate for anyone forced to work with satoru gojo.

everyone’s eyes locked onto satoru, who in the middle of the table, scrunched his eyebrows in deep concentration.

“do you have anything to say for yourself?”

satoru lifted his head immediately, nodding. “yes. absolutely,” he sighed like he made his mind up about something, “dick piercings are definitely in right now. i don’t even know why that’s being debated—”

a collective groan ripped through the room.

your palms slammed against the table before you could stop yourself.

“satoru,” you snapped, “you are fucking superman. you cannot keep waving your dick around the city like it’s a campaign poster.”

“i wasn’t waving it around,” he argued instantly, using air quotes before dropping his hands, offended. “it was a circle. a very controlled movement, actually. and they loved it.”

“please stop talking,” nanami muttered into his hands.

“i mean…” sukuna leaned back in his chair with a shrug. “he’s right about the piercings.”

you stared at him in disbelief, of all days the man could be amicable it had to be today?

“thank you,” satoru pointed dramatically. “see? sukuna gets it.”

“weren’t you literally considering that jacob’s ladder piercing i sent you last week?”

“yeah, but i’d need custom sizing,” sukuna replied seriously. “my dick’s longer than th—”

“i swear to god—,” you cut yourself off with a sigh before you gritted your teeth to address him again, “you were supposed to be doing reconnaissance…we don’t need any more bad press.”

“i don’t think people knowing i have a big dick is bad press.”

“i don’t care.”

“the approval ratings actually went up three percent,” hakari mumbled while checking his phone.

“hakari.”

“sorry.”

another heavy silence settled over the room.

then nanami stood abruptly, gathering his folders. “meeting adjourned before i develop a stress-induced aneurysm.”

one by one, everyone filtered out, hakari talking about a new protein shake, kirara suggesting to add alcohol to it, and sukuna just patted satoru on the shoulder like he’d just survived a difficult interview instead of causing an international embarrassment.

eventually, the room emptied…leaving you and a still huffing satoru.

“i get it!—i guess—it could be bad but—”

“after the next press interview,” you cut him off quietly, “i’m putting in my two weeks.”

the man’s smile dropped as he stiffened in his chair, “what?”

“i’m serious, satoru.” your voice was exhausted more than angry now. “i can’t keep cleaning up after you. every week it’s something worse. and honestly im getting dragged just as much if not worse than you.”

“im done. im tired.”

“woah— wait.” he sat up immediately, panic flashing across his face for the first time all day. “you’re quitting?”

his eyes searched your face for anything other the disappointed resignation about your decision and the seriousness that made your all that tired face clear as day to him.

“no, no, no, c’mon.” he stood quickly enough for the chair to screech against the floor. “don’t do that.”

“satoru—”

“i can do better.” the words came out rushed now, desperate. “seriously. i can. i’ll stop screwing around during missions, i’ll go to the interviews, i’ll listen to nanami— hell, i’ll even let kirara pick all my clothes without complaining.”

despite yourself, your serious expression twitched, just for split second quick enough the average human would’ve missed it.

but satoru wasn’t average, he noticed immediately and stepped closer.

“see? that almost made you smile.”

“this isn’t funny.”

“i know.” quieter this time. honest. “i know i make everything harder for you.”

“but i cant do this without you…i can't live without you.”

maybe it was your mind or maybe because satoru actually cared enough that he didn’t want to see you leave…

because after he brushed his hand against your cheek, and you parted away from him that fateful day in the conference room…he was on his best behavior.

well… as close to “best behavior” as satoru gojo could physically manage.

the scandals didn’t stop entirely, but they softened into something strangely endearing instead of catastrophic.

instead of drunken strip club incidents, headlines became:

SUPERMAN STOPS TRAIN DERAILMENT — THEN BUYS EVERY PASSENGER DINNER

GOJO SPENDS THREE HOURS HELPING LOST CHILD FIND HER CAT

SUPERMAN CAUGHT CARRYING ELDERLY WOMAN’S GROCERIES SIXTEEN BLOCKS

there was even an unfortunately viral video of him rescuing a kitten from a tree only to get stuck in the branches himself afterward.

it was dumb…it was cute but perfectly satoru. and it showed since the public loved it.

the changes came gradually, his apporval ratings came up, even his actual likability and he even started problem solving at meetings?!?! like an actual boss.

and worst of all… he kept looking at you after every interview like a dog waiting for praise.

“did you see that one?” he’d ask, grinning boyishly while shoving his phone toward your face. “people called me ‘surprisingly charming.’”

you’d barely glance up from your clipboard.“congratulations, sir", was all you would monotously reply back flashing him a quick tight lipped smile, turning to continue whatever it was he interupted again.

but that wasn't all, he stopped flirting with the reporters (mostly) at the interviews, eyes always catching yours like he needed to be sure you were focused , needed to be sure you were in his orbit and that your attention was on him.

and now, sitting beneath the blinding lights of another packed press conference, satoru looked almost painfully perfect.

his suit was tailored flawlessly against his broad frame, snowy hair swept neatly back from his face as cameras flashed endlessly around him. every smile he gave while answering the originally tense questions, seemed managed to make the public swoon.

unfortunately, you knew him too well now for any of it to work on you.

standing off to the side near the back wall, tablet tucked against your chest, your feet shuffling from the uncomfortable pinch in your heels, you looked exhausted…defeated.

and as much as satoru was a sweetheart, he was unknowingly manipulative. not in a bad way entirely, but once he saw he needed to change to fix something, whether if its public perception, you wanting to stay as his assistant, he would change. but ultimately he was human and would fall back into his ways.

so how long would this one last for?

but no matter how many questions the reporters asked, satoru’s attention kept drifting back toward you.

“superman!” one journalist called eagerly. “what can you tell us about the recent… uh… indecency allegations involving that model?”

a few reporters laughed nervously, eyes stuck on the man, ready to write any change in his reaction. even with the hundreds of flashing lights and large video cameras pinned on him.

satoru leaned back lazily in his chair.

“first of all,” he began smoothly, “i’d like to say the media has been incredibly judgmental toward people exploring creative forms of intimacy.”

the room erupted into laughter.

“creative intimacy?” another reporter repeated.

“what can i say?” satoru shrugged dramatically. “we were being kinky.”

another reporter stood quickly. “was anyone jealous about the situation?”

satoru snorted. “no.”

“really?” someone shouted from the back. “a girlfriend? not even your assistants? nobody got possessive?”

more laughs filled the room, before they slowly trickled off from seeing satoru's face finally drop its smile for the first time in the past 90 minutes he sat up there.

the cameras flashed violently, capturing every slight movement of his jaw, nanami murmuring next to you in confusion at his drastic change.

slowly, satoru's gaze slid across the crowded room until it landed directly on you.

then he leaned forward slightly, lowering himself closer to the microphone like he wanted to make absolutely sure every single person in the room heard him clearly.

“i would hope not,” he said lightly, his gleaming eyes shining in mischief as they refused left yours, “she knows where she stands.”

"i know where i stand?", you chuckled rubbing a finger against the spot between your brows as you brought the glass of wine back up to your lips, "and where is that?"

satoru was silent, his haor ruffled as he stared at you, legs crossed on the adjoining couch as he manspreaded, arms strecthed out against the back. "right here, with me."

"ah, like i am now? just the helpful assistant, through and through," you sighed resting the glass on the table in front of you as your uncrossed your legs.

the man didn't say anything, his tongue lulled against the side of his mouth head falling back as a laugh ripped through his throat before he looked back at you, "what is it going to take for you to believe me?"

"to believe this," his arm lightly gestured between the two of you.

"what is there to believe?," your arms shrugged, "you are only doing this since the only person that will run themselves ragid to save you…is deciding to leave."

"is that how you think of me?"

you watched him stretch pushing off the adjoining couch before he sauntered over to you slowly, watching you fold your arms around yourself.

“that i’m just doing all this to keep you here?”, he scoffed dragging his hands down his face as he landed in front of you, “yes. yes i am is that what you want to hear?”

he shifted flopping his arms at his side, watching your face with a renowned intensity. “i want you here cause i need you—i—”

“i would do anything for you. i even scarped this bullshit ass company for you,” he leaned down his face towards yours, his arm coming next to your body, “i would dismantle the world, if they did anything to you.”

“so if i say jump…you’ll say ‘how high?’”

he huffed, the air brushing against your lips as he leaned in your space, “i’d say how far.”

you don’t know who moved first. you hands gripped at the ends of his hair, his lips greedily kissing on yours.

his hands moved down your body, gripping and holding on your hips, as his mouth kept moving against yours. he held on and he flipped you both until you were nestled on his lap, a eep! falling into his mouth as he dragged you down against his growing erection.

your nails dragged against his undercut, panting as he licked back into your mouth, slowly grinding up into your covered cunt while your skirt pushed up from your thighs.

your lips separated with a quick smack!, as you gripped on his shirt, head lulling back as he descended his kisses lower on you neck to the unbuttoned parts of your shirt.

“i wouldn’t be súper without you,” he murmured almost lovingly as he draped you down on the couch, “i wouldn’t be here without you,” his kisses continued, his hands pulling your panties down your thighs slowly as you arched up into him.

“i didn’t let you go then…why would i do it now?”

his lips crashed back into yours, his long fingers finding your clit, pressing down until you whimpered in his mouth and going in rough circles before finally slipping inside.

“satoru—”

“shhh,” he hugged his teeth pulling out your bottom lip as he watched your face scrunch up in pleasure, “just let me make you feel good…i’m holding back so hard to not leave a scratch on your pretty self.”

his second finger slipped in, pumping in and out of you rhythmically before he curled them just right against the spongy spot inside you.

“right there!—”

his fingers kept fucking into you, brushing inside you and getting sucked by your gummy walls before you gripped his shoulders, scrunching up his shirt again, your toes curling as you came.

"i need you so bad," he murmured between kisses as he opened up his pants, pulling it down enough for his cock to spring up against his belly, hard, red and angry.

he lined up against your entrance leaning down to slot his lips against yours as he popped his tip inside and slowly oushed inside, pushing your legs up to your chest in a mean mating press when he finally oushed in.

of course, satoru is superman…he isn't going to fuck gently.

he slammed inside you, pulling back until just his tip rested inside before pressing all the way in at the hilt, pressing your legs further than you ever thought they could go, feeling the stretch of his cock and the stromg burn in your legs as he bent you in half.

his balls slapped against you ass with each pound, his blue eyes wide and manic as he gazed intently at every twitch of your face, at every spasm of your hands and at the drool falling out your mouth as you babbled at him, your arms reaching to pull him closer.

your walls gripped around him, causing him to slow down with a hiss, pulling away from your messy spit filled kiss as you pulled on any part of him that you could reach.

"you ready?"

"come with me then."

you let out a wanton moan, your body clenching up as you grasped at him, feeling him lock up not too long after, his thick load into you and callopsing finally.

your chest heavied, pushing at him when he draped his full weight down,

"get off." you whined, "you're heavy."

"i just fucked you, and you're still so mean," he huffed, snuggling closer in your shirt before checking his shiny watch on his wrist.

"it's midnightttt."

"what's on the schedule today?"

yorikae