the words settled like a dead weight into the beige-painted room of your marriage counselor's office.

the session hadn't even formally started, a perfectly manicured finger pausing in mid air against the small, ticking timer on her desk. it indicated that only a minute had passed since you'd taken a seat on the overwhelmingly bright lime colored futon.

all your therapist had done was ask: "what brings you into my office today?" and that was the first thing you'd come to admit, the thought haunting you with every night that you spent in bed alone.

with each night you pretended to not hear him opening your window at the dead of night, stalking into your shared room despite each of his movements the same as a mouse skittering somewhere they shouldn’t. pretending like you didn't hear his breath catching in his throat, the man tempted to call you out on your lie, before ultimately turning his back.

there's only a few inches of distance between you and hiromi, a distance that could easily be broken if either one of you so much as dared to extend your hand out. but it feels more like a barrier extended multiple feet tall, a barrier that neither one of you is insistent on breaking. your husband's laying right next to you and you've never felt more alone.

pretending was easier than acknowledging. silence was better than arguing. a thought that the two of you had begrudgingly come to accept as the new norm of your marriage.

your therapist cleared her throat, pressing the timer to begin counting the hour down. the sound of pen scratching against paper filled the silence that your husband couldn't bring himself to break.

tic tic tic.

scratch.

tic tic tic.

you wonder if your therapist's writing down gibberish—anything so she wouldn't have to be faced with the awkwardness that seeped out of the room in thick waves. if she's writing about how you chose to address hiromi directly instead of saying i feel like i don't know my husband anymore.

if she's writing about how your marriage was over from the moment you stepped in the door.

before you find yourself down a rabbit hole of what she could've written in these past thirty seconds, she pushes her glasses up and looks over at you directly. clearing her throat before she asks, "so tell us, why are you feeling this way?"

us—you're suddenly reminded hiromi's sitting right next to you, clinging onto every word that left your mouth much like the woman in front of you. your clammy hands clasp together in front of you, thoughts coursing through your head at a million miles per hour.

"i am feeling this way because—” you take a pause, racking your brain. because of, what? because of everything? that would only lead to a barrage of more follow up questions.

after what feels like an eternity of the two of them gawking at you for an answer, you manage to build all the thoughts coursing through your head into one single sentence, “i am feeling this way because i used to read my husband with ease, i used to know what he wanted to say before he said it.

i know how he likes to drink his coffee, just black. i know what kind of jacket he prefers to court—double breasted with a peak lapel. but lately.. it’s like i don’t know who’s stepping through the door anymore.”

if only you knew.

another few moments of pen scratching against paper, another few moments of pretending like you don’t see hiromi staring from the corner of his eye. “thank you for admitting this. i know it can’t be easy. now i have to ask, when did you start noticing these changes in your marriage?”

the rest of the following hour ticks by painfully slow, with you filling in the blanks from your perspective and hiromi sitting in complete silence.

"okay, next week, i'd really like to hear things from your perspective, hiromi," your therapist speaks up with a calm smile, setting the notepad down. she stands up, crossing across the room to a drawer where a variety of pamphlets decorate the space.

all from self help guides to journaling advice, she pulls out two slips of papers. passing them over to you and hiromi. ‘how to communicate with your partner again! 50 conversation starters guaranteed to work’ written in big, bold letters smacks you right in the face when you start reading through it.

“i want the two of you to practice talking to each other again,” she speaks up, gesturing over to you, “i noticed you took the initiative with our session today. while nothing’s wrong with that, i think the two of you could benefit from expressing how you each feel in this relationship.”

—

expressing how you feel. what a load of bull. the drive back to the firm is filled with even more silence, radio playing some generic song neither one of you bothered to reach out to switch. the atmosphere’s filled with the sound of cars honking, people rushing by to catch a last minute taxi, police sirens swerving through narrow gaps in traffic.

“are you going to be coming home for dinner?” you question once the car comes to a stop, turning to look over at hiromi. the car sits on idle, his fingertips tapping against the steering wheel. when did having a simple conversation become so awkward?

he reaches out for the piece of paper the therapist handed out earlier, tired eyes scanning through the list. trying to find what conversation starter could be plugged into this situation. a vein in your forehead twitches at the sight, even if you’re trying to remind yourself he’s trying.

“i acknowledge how you feel, honey,” hiromi starts off, the apologetic smile on his face when he looks up to meet your annoyed expression fading away into a small frown, “and i recognize your efforts, but i don’t think i’ll be showing u-” you slam the car door before he gets a chance to finish.

hiromi doesn’t pull out of the spot just yet, watching as you headed up the stairs. you don’t turn to look back at him, not even once. “my god,” an agitated mutter leaves his lips, reading through the list once more before shaking his head. he doesn’t realize how long he’s been with the engine running, only pulling out of the space when a loud honk rings behind him.

there’s a manila folder on your door step when you step up to the office—no returning address, nothing to trace back to. no kind of note either, but you know it’s meant for you. daredevil. he’s been dedicating himself to sending little envelopes to your office—no signs of concrete evidence (that’d end up being inadmissible anyways), but enough trails to where finding said evidence was a cakewalk.

this week had been a statement of bank records linking an offshore account to one of fisk’s buildings. it was something, that with enough pressure and persistence, you could get something out of. your heels scruff against carpet as you make your way further into your office, plopping down on a rusted leather chair. a pile of paperwork waits for you as soon as you sit down, from nda’s to settlement offers made by fisk.

an elderly woman walks into the office half an hour later, her head swishing from side to side to see if she was in the right place. that much was a given, you supposed. you only had second-hand furniture around the place—wooden chairs chipped at the ends and worn with age, a coffee maker that ended up burning the beverage half the time, and a fax machine that no one used anymore.

it was easy to think the building was abandoned, in all honesty. you clear your throat, drawing her attention to the open door at the end of the hall. she steps into your office with a stack of papers in hand and a tupperware container filled to the brim in empanadas.

“hi, welcome in,” you greet her with a smile, pulling the chair back for her before taking a seat once more. the woman takes a seat in front of you, her hands resting against her lap. “what can i do for you today?”

her brows furrow. "pensé qué había alguien que hablara español.” you didn’t need to be fluent to hear the disappointment clinging onto her voice.

"that would be my…” you snap your fingers, willing the word to come to you, “esposo, but if you need someone that speaks punjabi, i'm here.”

(hiromi’s attempts at teaching you spanish had proven unsuccessful throughout the years.

white flurries of snow covered the pavement in a thick white layers, every other student in the library already gone to their dorm for the night. orange hues illuminated the path back to your dorm, higuruma walking right next to you and listening to every word.

you were going on about a failed test in your foreign language class, complaining about how hard punjabi had been to pick up. “spanish’s been easy, it’s just the gendering that gets me all messed up,” hiromi speaks up when you’re finally done, air leaving his lungs in thin wisps of smoke.

a groan leaves your lips in agreement, “don’t even get me started on the gendering. i might just have to go to the tutoring center.”

the two of you walk in relative silence, boots crunching against the ground underneath. it’s a peaceful kind of quiet, one that makes you feel comfortable without the overwhelming need to try to fill it.

“how do you say lawyers in spanish?” you suddenly question, turning to look over at him. a snowflake chose to land on his nose at that moment, your finger reaching up to lightly brush it off. a small flush makes itself visible up his neck, his cheeks dusted in a light pink.

every action you took made his heart do a little spitter sputter, almost in disbelief you seemed to like him.

then he remembers you’d asked him a question. “lawyers,” hiromi takes a moment to pause, rummaging through the catalogues in his brain after frying it off with reading review after review and cans of red bull, “oh, abogados.”

“we’re gonna be el grande avocados!” you exclaim, gesturing to an imaginary title. it’s easy to imagine something big, something grand with him. an office where you could solely do pro bono cases, where you didn’t need anything to but a simple ‘thanks’ to be fulfilled.

where bills and building maintenance and rent didn’t exist.

a laugh bubbled out of his throat, the sound a sweet melody in the midst of car horns and police sirens, “that’s not spanish, that’s fruit baby.”

your nameplate still reads avocado at law. you didn’t think that you’d be the only fulfilling this dream, though.)

“but i can take a recording of your testimony and have him transcribe it,” you assure her, pulling out your trusty tape recorder from storage (your drawer). a cloud of dust leaves the surface, a sign of how long it’s been since its last use.

the woman gives you what you could only describe as the most strained smile you’ve ever seen, clearing her throat before starting to speak to the recorder. her voice cracks during certain parts, a couple parts you could pick up—fisk, 150 grand, trash apartment. you give her a pack of tissues before she leaves your office, accepting her empanadas with a warm smile and a gracias that came out sounding like grassy ass.

yet another example of how your husband was neglecting even his work at this rate. you’re not sure when’s the last time you’ve seen him at the office for more than half an hour, and each time you do, he seems to be on edge. like he’s aching to leave, waiting for the right moment to make his grand exit.

the rest of the day is filled with even more tenants coming in with their suits towards the building owner, each one showing images of apartments that were less than livable. mold covered the walls in thick clouds, asbestos found in blood work brought in by the tenants, one who’s child has been affected with lead poisoning.

it’s more than enough to get a formal complaint started up. if only you could get some help to deal with a class action suit like this. a quiet huff leaves your lips, resigning yourself to spending most of your night cooped up in your office.

—

the fluorescent billboard in front of your apartment building’s already painting the room in a deep crimson hue when you arrive, pale moonlight striking through the glass windows. you plop your briefcase onto the couch before trudging your way into your bedroom, the exhaustion of the day finally starting to wear down on your body.

there’s no point in making dinner for one person, you’ll call in for takeout sometime later. and while most people leave their job as soon as they shut their office door, you're flickering through the different tv channels. trying to see if any more reports of wilson fisk have made the nightly news.

it’s nothing interesting other than reports of the stock market, of a robbery gone wrong, of daredevil intervening in some kind of drug trade. “the masked vigilante appears to have been spotted in the scene around eight p.m., stopping a large cargo boat allegedly carrying kilos of cocaine…” you let the news play in the background, picking up one of the books in your shelf.

zoning law and practice, eighth edition volume one. you need as much as you can get when it comes to going up against fisk and his expensive team of lawyers.

a shadow appears from the corner of your eye. at first, you play it off to exhaustion. to some tree swaying in the wind, some bird that flew too close to your window. you don’t think too much of it, you live on the second floor. another section gets highlighted and annotated.

then you hear it. a latch coming loose, a silhouette making itself visible. the highlighter in your hand falls onto the bed next to you, painting your covers in a light yellow shade. a man plops onto your bedroom floor in the middle of the night. a man staining blood with each inch he moved, a man holding a crowbar in a deathly grip.

all of your senses fly out the window.

a loud scream erupts from your throat at the sight of the intruder making their way through your window, slinking onto the floor. a couple lights flicker on from the apartments beside you, neighbors surely waken from the ruckus. still, you scramble to grab the first weapon you can find to defend yourself.

the high heel scattered on the floor? (that you swore you’d pick up tomorrow) no.

the waterproof rabbit vibrator you kept in the top drawer of your night stand? heavens no.

hell, even your house keys? not even that.

your weapon of choice in this case happened to be your eighth edition thousand page leather-bound book full of new york’s zoning laws.

it was enough to give the intruder a concussion and enough to leave your wallet mourning the damages after the fact.

mentally preparing yourself, you’re about to toss the book. holding it over your head when the intruder chooses to slide the black mask over their head. your eyes nearly pop out of your sockets when you see who it is, book held up in midair.

"you said—" hiromi chooses that moment to collapse onto the floor, hand clasped around his bleeding abdomen and breathing ragged, "—you didn't know me. this is who i am."

you blink once, twice, even three times. laughter bubbles straight from the depths of your chest, your head flying back at the absurdity of the situation. hiromi’s not laughing, you quickly come to realize. you pinch yourself only to find out this isn’t some sort of dream, isn’t some sort of sick prank that your husband’s decided to play on you.

you’re faced with the reality that your husband is daredevil.

you don’t only see the big bad daredevil whose mask covered face has been plastered on a corkboard in each new york precinct police department around hell's kitchen with the promise of a hefty reward. the big bad daredevil who’s been painted on news outlets as menacing, as a threat, as an untrustworthy agent working on his own twisted sense of justice.

but you also see the daredevil who’s been helping you out with your case against wilson fisk. the daredevil that’s been protecting women and children from getting harassed in the street late at night, unwilling to kill but eager to incapacitate.

then, you see what’s underneath the mask. what’s underneath the various headlines, what’s underneath the mystique and flashy acrobatics. you see the guy you met in 3l who dared to go against nietzsche’s ethics with a passion, calling his writing ‘half-assed fragments at best.’

you see the guy who’d memorized your coffee order off one study session, never once failing to bring it to your table following after. the guy who didn’t hesitate to go pursue pro-bono cases, accepting payment in the form of baked goods while your classmates pursued prestigious internships defending corporation after corporation.

while everyone else went after the fame and the money that came with being a lawyer, he went to pursue justice for those harmed. whether it be by the own flawed system the guilty have been incarcerated under or the ones needing some sort of defense.

and in that, you see the man that you fell in love with again. the one you planned out the rest of your life with, the one with big dreams who’d made your first nameplate on a napkin and promised to be your partner.

you shove your blankets off your body, hit with the cold air whistling through the crack in the window while you make your way to the bathroom. the first aid kit stowed away in your bottom cabinet is laughable—a couple bandaids and alcohol pads thrown in together in case of a paper cut, in case of a nasty fall.

nothing in case for your husband bleeding out on your floor in the middle of the night.

miraculously enough, you manage to find an old sewing needle your mom left behind on one of her visits and a nylon thread hiromi had borrowed from nurse claire from the floor underneath. you're not sure how many times you've wiped the needle with alcohol, trying to get it properly disinfected before making your way back to the bedroom.

kneeling down beside the bleeding mess that was your husband, you slowly begin to unravel the sopping wet layers covering his upper body. the harsh scent of iron clings to the air, a reminder you need to work faster. and yet, you find yourself hesitating every moment a pained groan leaves his lips.

the layers drop unceremoniously with a heavy plop, staining your ivory floors in a deep, crimson shade. now that there’s nothing in the way, you can see just how profound the slash cutting through his abdomen went. it starts right underneath his pecs diagonally across to just on top of the waistband of his pants.

your fingers trembled, trying to put the thin piece of nylon through the small hole of the needle. you miss once, then you miss again. a frustrated sigh leaves your lips, hiromi’s hands coming to rest against your own. “take a deep breath for me, honey.”

funny how the man bleeding out was the one trying to reassure you. still, you followed the movement of his hands. taking a deep breath in and then exhaling slowly, your shoulders losing tension. you’re able to focus more clearly now, slowly threading the thin string through the hole.

it’s hard to distinguish where the wound starts and where it ends, pieces of flesh sticking out from nearly every direction. but somehow, and some way, you manage to line up the very messy edges you were working on suturing. or at least, trying to.

hiromi tries his best not to flinch, not to move, not to react as you’re threading the needle through his abdomen. “i can hear you thinking, so ask your questions,” he murmurs, the silence starting to become unbearable. you’ve been biting down on your lip for the past five minutes, almost saying something before swallowing it down.

and there were, in fact, about a million questions coursing through your head right now. but the simplest one you could pin point for the time being was: “why?”

why did hiromi higuruma choose to put his life in danger every night? why did he choose to put on a black suit and play vigilante for the streets of new york?

his throat bobbed, watching as your fingers worked on tying the first knot with precision. “i choose to do this because law isn’t always fair. you know as well as i do, that half the people guilty don’t get enough of a punishment that they deserve. and the half that do, don’t deserve that kind of punishment.”

it’s true—you’ve seen more than enough people get locked away for nearly a decade for possession while assaulters don’t even get a slap on the wrist. it’s deplorable. it’s not fair. and yet, “so you’re punishing these people based on your own system of morals?”

“i was in court one day ah,” a pained wince leaves him when you prod in too deep into the flesh, fingers twitching by his sides in an attempt to keep himself still. he clears his throat before continuing, “i was in court one day. a little girl came up to me and begged me to put her dad away, begged me to do something. and all i could do was hear how the jury declared him not guilty.

“i stopped by her house to check up on her a couple days later. her dad was being violent again, yelling in her face for making a case about him. i decided that was the final straw.

“so yes, i am working based on my own morals. if that deserves me being locked up like the cops say, so be it.”

you work in silence for a bit, focusing on tying the knots in front of you as best as possible. “i don’t think you’re a bad guy for what you’ve done. i just wish you would’ve trusted me to let me in on this secret.”

the knots in front of you are nothing short of sloppy despite your best efforts, the stitch job sure to leave a scar by the time it healed. but it was good enough for now, it stopped the bleeding and it closed the wound. with light pressure, you slowly started wiping away the flakes of dry blood with rubbing alcohol.

a sigh leaves his lips, the man slouching against the wall behind him. “i can deal with me being like this, bloody and beaten,” he utters, gaze directed straight into you in a way that makes you shiver, “but i can’t handle the thought of someone hurting you because of me. that’s why i didn’t tell you.”

your breath stutters in your chest, focusing instead on the work in front of you. it’s easier to swipe and soak the pad instead of trying to figure out of your feelings for the time being. you swipe a couple drops of disinfecting ointment onto the wound, putting a bandage onto the skin.

"i'm still mad at you." it comes out quiet. as cold as you’ve been, you’re also.. simply just tired.

you’re so tired of being angry, so tired of feeling tired, so so tired of feeling like you don’t know how to interact with your best friend. as if one wrong word, one wrong pause could simply…set things off and that’d be that.

and yet, you’ve spent so long being angry at your husband that you’re not sure how to feel any other way. if you’ll even feel anything but indifference when the anger subsides.

"i know."

"and this-” you gesture between the two of you, "—doesn't fix anything."

a more resigned, "i know."

but a wistful sigh leaves your lips, your hand coming up to rest on his cheek, "but i really want to kiss you right now. i don’t want to be mad at you."

hiromi’s quick to speak up, one of his hands coming up to rest against your cheek. you can’t help the way you melt into the touch, your anger fading away into something akin to longing. “so don’t be mad at me for right now. be mad at me later, honey. be mad at me all you want, be mad at me for the rest of your life. just don’t be indifferent with me again.”

you lean in slowly, breath caught in your throat. it’s awkward at first—you’re out of practice—fingers twitching by your sides until you firmly place them onto his shoulders in a deathly grip, breath caught in your throat, leaning the same way that he does when you’re close enough.

kissing him feels like trying to unlock something you don’t quite have the key for anymore. like trying to revisit an old home only to realize the numbers on the mailbox aren’t for you anymore, that the decorations hanging up aren’t the same old photos of you as a teen. like it’s nothing more than a distant memory.

the thought of that makes you sick. of your marriage being reduced to nothing but good memories. you try it again, his head tilting to the left and yours to the right. and just like that, every piece falls into place. your fingers loosen their grip, one of your hands moving up to his soft cheek.

it’s tentative, the way that his lips slot against yours. slow. his hands move by his sides like he’s also contemplating a difficult calculus equation before they move to your hold your hips. you move forward, back in an arch and he takes that chance to deepen the kiss.

his tongue traces the seam of your lips before they’re parting for him, his mouth swallowing every moan and shaky breath that left your lips. while the previous kisses had been a reacquaintance, these were much more needy. making up for lost time. his lips trail down, placing a small peck against your jaw. against the side of your neck.

“is this okay?” he whispers, his tongue tracing the sensitive flesh of your earlobe. “yeah,” you assure in a breathy whisper, your head thrown back in bliss. his fingers move down to the hem of your faded graphic tee, pulling it over your head with ease. cold air hits your body all once, a contradiction to how warm hiromi was making you feel.

you’re in nothing but an old bra, a simple beige one you pulled out from the back of your undergarment drawer. and yet, higuruma stares at you like you’re an angel incarnate. like it’s a blessing to even be in your presence. his brain short circuits, hands hovering in the air like he’s unsure.

grabbing his wrists in your own hands, you lead him closer and closer to your chest. “wow,” he murmurs under his breath, his thumbs rolling across your pebbled nipples. hiromi’s fingers squish at the flesh, tracing against your underboob. rubbing against all the little spots he knows you’re sensitive: your nipples, your areolas, your side boob.

placing little kisses where his fingers just were, reverent to you after he’s been neglecting the duty for so long.

your head rolls back, a muffled moan leaving your lips. he’s nothing if not eager to please, “let me take care of you.”

—

“you’re hurt.” you’re with your arms folded across your chest, brows furrowed as you take in the state hiromi’s in your bed. bandaged up and wincing when he moves his stomach too much. you didn’t think when he said let me take care of you, he wanted to jump straight into you sitting on his face.

the harsh look on your face makes his dick twitch.

“and you’re wet. like i said, let me take care of you,” he tries yet again, gesturing for you to come over with two fingers. as stubborn as you can be, there’s really no argument to be made. you pad your way over into the bed, avoiding the bandages on his abdomen before plopping down on his torso.

his hands come up to your hips, holding you in place like this is where you belonged. where you were meant to be.

“if at any point, you start feeling pain or you wanna stop, just let me know.” you jab a finger against his chest. he simply takes the digit, placing a gentle kiss onto the tip.

“yes ma’am.”

you moved up his chest, feeling harsh lines of muscle underneath. your cunt drips onto the thin material of your panties as you get closer and closer to his mouth. plush thighs settle by the sides of his head, nearly acting like earmuffs.

he revels in eating pussy, you know that. higuruma could spend hours in between your legs—jaw slack, fingers drenched and pruned, cheeks flushed, and dick weeping—and he’d still be asking for more. still, you find yourself hovering just above his awaiting mouth. you don’t want to end up hurting him any more than he already is.

his fingers grip onto the flesh of your thighs, leaving indents behind as he pushes your clothed pussy to be right on his lips. “you should know how to listen by now,” hiromi chides, tongue sliding across the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. a shudder runs down your spine, every movement making you hyperaware that your vibrator, well, couldn’t do this.

“i didn’t want you to suffocate,” you retort, fingers flying down to his hair. his lips are everywhere but your cunt, running up your thighs, peppering kisses onto your leg before moving back up again. a scoff leaves his lips, insulted at the insinuation.

“that’d be a dream come true.” his lips latch onto the wet patch of your underwear, sucking onto the thin piece of fabric separating your pussy from him. his tongue traces across your puffy folds, drinking every drop spilling from the lace like he wanted to consume you whole.

drool slips from the corner of his lips, drooping eyes fluttering shut in sheer pleasure while he sloppily makes out with your bottom set of lips. the bridge of his nose rubs against your clothed folds, tip nudging against your twitching clit. your fingers tighten up around his hair, nearly pulling on the roots.

all he does is moan in response.

your underwear’s drenched in a mixture of his drool and your slick when he pulls them off to the side with two, thick fingers. “look at you,” he speaks underneath you, reverence lacing his tone while he speaks to your vagina, “i missed you.”

your cunt clenched around nothing. guess she missed him too.

hiromi spits into your cunt and laps it back up like a man starved, every drop that lands on his tongue akin to the finest ambrosia. his tongue's flat, licking broad stripes from your dripping hole all the way up up to your swollen clit. his lips latch onto the nub, shifting between applying pressure that has you mewling and moaning for more and pressure that has you shifting to get away.

using his hair, you begin to swivel your hips against his awaiting mouth. rubbing your dripping folds across his lips, swiping against him like a card. your lips part into an ‘o’, rubbing your clit against the tip of his nose. “just like that, just use me,” he lets out a muffled groan underneath, his tongue dipping in and out of your hole.

his cock twitched and dripped against the material of his tactical pants, tenting up with each time he pushed his hips up into the air. your hand reaches out, giving him a few palms over the material and rubbing the dampened patch on his pants. “wanna cum already?” you ask in a breathy whisper, your own orgasm building up.

“only worried about you coming,” he responds easily, his own pleasure and needs discarded in favor of satisfying your own. two fingers take over where his tongue was thrusting in and out, pushing through a thin layer of resistance. he slowly began scissoring his fingers in and out, getting you adjusted to the stretch. "f-fuck keep going, just like that, please!"

his fingers curl up about a inch in, pushing against the spongy spot that has you pushing your hips deeper into his face. he switches from suctioning around clit, lips latched onto the nub, to rolling the tip of his tongue around it.

spelling out, ‘I’M SORRY’ in cursive. he mumbles the words like a prayer over and over again against your dripping cunt, almost like he wanted to get it through to you he was indeed, sorry.

“o-ooh fuck!” a strangled moan leaves your lips, thighs squeezing all that much tighter around his head. hiromi's lightheaded—whether that be from your legs squishing his head or from the anticipation of your release. he doesn’t let up, he lets you use him as you please. lets you fuck yourself onto his face, onto his mouth, tug on his hair, everything and anything that you need.

the orgasm that hits you feels like a wave, crashing onto you all at once. your thighs squeeze tighter, the grip on his hair gets tighter, everything gets tighter until SNAP! with one final curl of his fingers against your g-spot, with one final roll of his tongue against your clit, you cum.

clear spurts of your release drip onto his expecting tongue, onto his nose, onto his chin. hiromi doesn’t hesitate to swipe his tongue across his lips, lapping it up like a man finding water in a desert. he pulls out his fingers, immediately putting them in his mouth. swirling his tongue around them to get a taste.

you shift to get off, laying on the side of him. you don’t hesitate to pull him for a kiss when you finally settle down, tasting yourself on his tongue, tasting the remnants of iron from his busted lip, tasting what you’ve been missing. your nails dig into his scalp, your tongue moving against his in complete tandem. there’s no fight to dominate, nothing but just sheer bliss.

your lips move down the side of his neck, pressing a kiss against his jugular that has him resisting the urge to burst already. it’s slow, it’s teasing, the way you move inch by inch down the column of his neck. then you move onto his chest, finding it littered with a couple scars that hadn’t faded yet.

tentatively, your finger traces across the seams of the raised flesh. feeling him tense underneath you. your tongue takes place of your finger, tip tracing across the harsh lines that mark his pecs.

“do you think you deserve to fuck me?” you question, head tilted to the side as you meet his gaze.

hiromi’s quick to shake his head, “god no, i don’t deserve you,” he says it like the sheer notion is ridiculous but he’s quick to add anyways, “but i’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be deserving of you. to be deserving enough to fuck you.”

you shift onto the bed, presenting yourself like the most beautiful of gifts. propping yourself up on your hands and knees, your back in the most sinful arch possible. he’s not moving, not just yet. he’s awestruck, watching your ass jiggle from side to side like a hypnosis.

he snaps out of his trance a few moments later, moving over behind you. he’s quick to pull his pants down, nearly tripping over the pant sleeves when he rushes to kneel over your dripping cunt. his cock slaps against his happy trail when he slides his boxers down, tip flushed a deep shade of pink and dripping drops of precum.

one hand grips around the base, giving himself one tentative pump. you push back against him, shaft rubbing against your puffy folds. slick drips onto the shaft, wetting his cock before he slips inside. you’re still tight when he pushes in, walls tightly clenching around the tip. “there we go, you can take it, sweetheart.”

you nod your head fervently, feeling him stretch you out with each inch he started to push in. he’s thick, stuffing you full with ease. a loud moan leaves your lips when he knocks the air out of your lungs, cock fully snug inside of you and black tuffs of hair against your ass.

he pulls away slowly, your hips moving back to meet his cock. his hands firmly grip on to your hips, keeping you still before he’s pushing back in a deep thrust. it starts off like that, slow and deep, feeling him stuff himself to the brim from this position.

your hips move to meet each of his thrusts, his hands cupping the globes of your ass. “you just need some more, honey?” he questions, his tone gentle even if he was everything but. “more, hiromi, please!”

one of his feet plant onto the bedsheets beside you, the new angle allowing to reach in deeper. to mold your insides to the shape of his cock completely. his hips start pummeling into your sopping cunt, squelch after squelch after squelch ringing in your ears. heavy balls twack against the fat of your ass with each thrust, his own breathing heavy.

your hands give out underneath, your head buried against silk pillows and nails digging into the sheets beside you. his thumb rolls around your clit in quick, tight little circles as your orgasm starts to build up. “c’mon, it’s all yours baby, take it, i’m here,” he whispers in your ear, lips trailing down your back.

your eyes roll to the back of your head, his hips stuttering as he’s close to his own release. hiromi tilts your head over your shoulder, hand on your chin before meeting you for a sloppy kiss. he swallows every shaky moan that leaves your lips, every little i’m cumming baby, i’m gonna cum shiiit that you manage to get out.

you’re a babbling mess when your orgasm rolls over your body like a tidal wave. your pussy clenches tightly around his shaft before your release soaks him completely. he struggles to keep up—you’re tightening up, leaving him barely able to move. his thrusts are swallow and quick, running through the different statutes that come to mind to avoid cumming too soon.

“cum for me hiromi, want to feel you fill me up,” you babble, pushing yourself back onto his cock. his head flies back, unable to keep himself from denying you anything. with two more shallow thrusts and a guttural groan, he’s spurting a thick load that paints your walls white. he doesn’t move just yet—he stays still. feeling your walls snugly around his cock, the air still full of post sex bliss.

his breathing stills, his head coming to your shoulder. he presses one featherlight kiss onto the skin, letting out a relieved sigh. “i love you,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss. it’s the image of tranquility for those two perfect minutes that you sit there still, your heartbeats in tandem.

higuruma pulls off with a loud ‘pop’ echoing across the sex ridden room, dick glistening underneath the moonlight in a mixture of your release and his own cum. he moves across the room, shuffling his way into the bathroom to grab the softest towel he could find.

he lets it run under the sink for a couple seconds before squeezing out the excess, making his way back in between your legs. back home. he swipes the towel in between with care, lightly applying pressure to wipe off the milky trails dripping down your thighs.

“there we go,” he lets out a quiet hum, his lips pressing a small kiss onto your inner thigh, “you did so good for me, my love.” your arms come up, tugging him back to the mattress when he manages to get close enough.

hiromi sets the towel off to the side, making a mental note to pick it up in the morning. he settles back next to you, inching closer like he’s still afraid to test how close you’ll let him. he ends up wrapping one arm around you. “should we call the therapist and say we don’t need her?”

“she’d say this was an unhealthy coping mechanism, husband,” you note, a small laugh leaving hiromi’s lips in response. the air’s light for the first time in months,

your marriage isn’t fixed, not by a long mile. even as you lay there next to him, basking in his warmth, you’re well aware of the fact. but you can’t help how nice it feels to feel like you’re part of a marriage again, to feel like you’ve gotten your best friend and partner back.

first time writing for hiromi so i hope i did him justice 🤞

HIGURUMA SPECIFIC TAGLIST: @backtoyourbed @submissivelittlebella @pinkulraviolencedoll

You spin on your heel, clearly not done.

“And then he asked me if i always talk this much—as a joke, apparently—and I laughed because what else are you s’posed to do, right? But then it got quiet and awkward, and he left to go to the... the.. the flippin’ bathroom for a good twenty minutes or so? I don’t know! But I could hear my own heartbeat, and I started wondering if it was something I said or if my laugh was annoying or—“

Caleb watched you like he always does. Not openly. Not obviously either. Just… steadily. You let out an exasperated sigh, running your hands through your hair.

“And the worst thing is,” you say, voice cracking just slightly, but of course Caleb notices. “I liked him. I actually thought, okay, maybe this one’s different. But noooooo. The universe decides to fuck me over yet again.”

He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, listening intently to what you’re saying. You stop pacing then, shoulders tense. “It’s always the same damn thing. They like me at first, and then something slips. And I never know when it happens or what I did to cause it.”

He shifts forward, elbows on his knees. His eyes don’t leave your face. “Maybe they’re just idiots,” he suggests.

“That’s not helpful,” you say immediately, then sigh, rubbing your forehead. “Okay, maybe it is helpful, but still. I just—“

Your voice stutters. The momentum dies out all at once.

“…is there something wrong with me? Is that what this is?”

That’s when he stands.

The room goes quiet.

It happens so smoothly you barely register it until he’s right there. Too close, Too close, Too close. Suddenly, his presence fills the space you’ve been pacing through, almost like it was always meant to be his.

He closes the distance in one step and takes your wrist before you can start pacing again, his grip isn’t all that tight, just firm enough to stop you. you look up at him, suddenly unsure, suddenly exposed.

“No,” he says flatly. “There isn’t. You’re the stupid one if you think there’s anything possibly wrong with you.”

He cups your face with both hands, and before you can overthink it, before you can say anything at all—

He kisses you.

It’s not gentle. Not rushed either. It lands with intent, so much of it, like he’s been waiting for the exact second you’d finally stop fighting yourself long enough for him to step in. Your breath catches immediately, the rest of your thoughts scattering on impact. There’s a split second where you freeze. Not because you don’t want it, but because it feels too loaded to react immediately.

This is Caleb, your brain insists uselessly.

Another part of your answers: I know. And then proceeds to carry on. 

His hand tighten around your waist. The couch presses into the backs of your legs as you stumble, and he follows without hesitation, crowding into your space until there’s nowhere else to focus but on him. His mouth moves against yours slowly now. You feel awfully, acutely aware of everything all at once: the weight of him close, the heat of his body, the way your chest feels too tight and too light at the same time.

And most importantly, how safe his embrace feels. How it feels like home.

You make a small sound before you can stop yourself, and he lets out a chuckle against your lips for a split second. His thumb shifts at your jaw, tilting your face just enough for him to deepen the kiss. Caleb braces himself over you, one knee pressing into the couch beside your hip, the other trapping you in, not crushing but unmistakably there.

He pulls back just enough for his forehead to rest against yours, your lips trembling and your chest rising too fast.

“Don’t let people like that tell you who you are,” he murmurs. His voice is low, even, but there’s something sharp underneath it. “They don’t see you.”

Your hands curl into his shirt without realizing it. “Caleb,” you breathe, half warning, half plea. “We—“

“I see you,” he cuts in quietly. “Every version. And you don’t scare me. Not one bit.”

You don't answer him with words.

Your grip tightens on his shirt first, knuckles pressing into the warm fabric of his shirt, intimately pulling his body closer to your very own. Your mouth finds his again—decisive this time, no hesitation, no pause to think. It's different when you kiss him now. Unhurried, yet fuller. Like you're finally choosing this.

Finally choosing him.

You don’t know how your clothes or his ended up on the floor. One moment, they were on your body. The next? They were scattered across the living room. Your dress was somewhere near the coffee table, his shirt too, and your bra was hooked over the lampshade like some kind of trophy.

Caleb shifts above you, his knee still pressing into the couch cushion beside your hip as his fingers trace the elastic of your panties. “You have no idea,” he murmurs against your neck, his breath hot against your skin. “How many times I thought about this.”

His amethyst eyes, usually so steady and calm, are wide and dark, drinking in the sight of you like he’s a man dying of thirst. His hands, the ones that have been tracing the curve of your hip, are trembling. Just slightly. A barely there tremor you feel more than you see.

He’s nervous.

Caleb, who’s never nervous about anything, is nervous because of you.

Your back arches as his thumb brushes over the bare skin covering you, the pressure sending electricity through your entire body.

“Caleb,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

He lowers his head, not to kiss you this time, but to rather press his forehead against your collarbone, his hair tickling your skin. He just breathes there for a moment, inhaling your scent, and you feel it in the expansion of his lungs against your ribs.

The couch cushions dip as he adjusts his position, his other hand sliding up your ribcage to cup your breasts. Your nipple hardens instantly against his palm, and you can’t stop the moan that escape your lips.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice rough.

The air feels cooler against your most intimate skin, and you shiver, suddenly feeling very exposed in a way you never have with him before.

He must have sensed it, because he’s back over you in an instant, covering your body with his, the warmth radiating from him chasing away the chill.

“It’s just me, pips,” he murmurs against your ear. “It’s just me.”

And somehow, that’s the most comforting thing anyone has ever said to you. Because it is just him. Caleb. Your best friend. The one person who’s seen you at your worst and your best, who knows all your secrets and your fears, who’s been there for every heartbreak and every triumph.

And now he’s here, looking at you like you’re the answer to a prayer he didn’t even know he was praying.

His hand slides between your legs, and you gasp as his fingers find you. He is gentle at first, exploring, learning, but as your hips begin to move against his hand, his touch becomes more confident. He finds your clit, circling it slowly, and you feel the tension coiling inside you, tighter and tighter. His other hand comes up to tangle in your hair, his thumb stroking your temple, and the contrast between the gentle, almost paternal gesture and the intimate, erotic one is enough to make your head spin.

"Caleb," you gasp, his name a prayer on your lips. "Please..."

"Tell me what you want," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "Anything. Just tell me."

You can't form words, can't think beyond the sensations building inside you, so you show him instead. You rock against his hand, silently begging for more, and he responds, his fingers moving faster, pressing harder.

The tension inside you snaps, and you cry out as the orgasm washes over you, waves of pleasure so intense they border on pain. He doesn't stop, doesn't let up, prolonging your pleasure until you're trembling beneath him, completely intoxicated by his mere touch.

He pulls back slightly, his fingers still tracing lazy circles against your sensitive flesh. "So beautiful," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "Always so fucking beautiful."

You reach for him, pulling him down for another kiss, slower this time, deeper. His tongue traverses your mouth as his hand continues its exploration, sliding lower until one finger is pressing against your entrance.

"Is this okay?" he asks again, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

You nod, unable to speak, and he slowly slides one finger inside you. Your breath hitches at the intrusion, at the feeling of being filled by him. He moves slowly, carefully, as if afraid of breaking you. He adds another finger, stretching you, preparing you, and you rock against his hand, seeking more.

His hands roam your body with an expertise that shouldn’t surprise you, but it does. He knows where you’re ticklish, where you're sensitive, where you like to be touched. He’s catalogued every reaction you’ve ever had since you were kids, and now he’s using that knowledge to unravel you piece by piece.

"Tell me if I hurt you," he says, his voice strained.

"You won't," you whisper, and it's the truest thing you've ever said.

He shifts, reaching for his jeans, and you hear the familiar rip of a foil packet. Then he's back, settling between your thighs, his erection pressing against you. he looks down at you, his eyes searching yours, and you see it all there—the years of friendship, the unspoken longing, the fear of ruining everything, the hope that this could be the start of something new.

"Last chance to say no," he murmurs, his forehead resting against yours.

"Never," you whisper, and then he's pushing inside you, giving you time to adjust to his size.

You gasp at the feeling of fullness, of rightness, of finally having him inside you. He stills for a moment, letting you adjust, then begins to move, slowly at first, then faster as your hips rise to meet his. It's awkward at first, all elbows and knees and missed rhythms, but then you find your stride, a dance as old as time, and suddenly it's not awkward anymore. It's perfect.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper, and you meet his thrusts with your own. The couch creaks beneath you, a rhythmic counterpoint to your moans and his grunts of pleasure. He's trying to be gentle, trying to make this last, but you can feel the control slipping, the need taking over.

He's been waiting for this for so long, and now that it's happening, he can't hold back.

"Fuck, Caleb," you gasp as his angle changes, hitting that spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyes. "Right there. Don't stop."

"I won't," he promises, his voice ragged. "Never."

His promise barely lands before everything crests at once.

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit again, and that's all it takes. It's a fucking detonation. A white-hot explosion that starts deep in your core and obliterates everything. Your body arches instinctively, breath breaking loose a sound you don't even recognize as your own.

You cling to him without thinking, vaguely aware of your nails digging into his shoulders. The world narrows to pulse and breathe, and the way he keeps you right there until it ebbs, until you're left loose and trembling, utterly spent in his arms.

He follows you moments later with a guttural groan against your neck, body shivering as he finds his own release. The weight of him collapses into you, and you welcome it, your limbs too heavy to move.

For a while, neither of you say anything.

You just lie there, tangled together on his couch, your bodies slick with sweat and your heartbeats gradually yet simultaneously slowing to a normal rhythm. Caleb shifts slightly, rolling to the side and pulling you with him until you're slotted against his chest. His leg hooks over yours, anchoring you there.

You're limp. Your head rests over his chest, the steady rhythm thudding against your ear. His fingers trace lazy, nonsensical patterns on your back, and the gentle touch is almost as overwhelming as the frantic passion from moments before.

Eventually, you mumble, barely louder than the room. "...wow."

He lets out a quiet huff of a chuckle, the sound vibrating through you. "Yeah?"

You shift a little, tilting your face up just enough to look at him. He looks relaxed in a way you've never seen before; his eyes soft, and mouth loose. "I..." you stop, then try again. "I think I forgot how to think for a second."

His thumb pauses, then resumes its slow path along your spine. "Good," he says, low and easy. "You think too much."

You snort weakly. "Rude."

"Accurate," he replies, a cheeky grin plastered on his face.  

Caleb's arms tighten around you, not enough to make you notice, just enough to keep you exactly where you are. You melt into it easily. Of course you do. You always have.

The room settles around you again, the low hum of the fridge, the muted glow of the streetlight bleeding through the blinds. Your breathing evens out slowly, syncing with his without effort. It feels natural. Almost inevitable. Like this is how it was always meant to end up: the two of you folded together on his couch, limbs tangled, the rest of the world temporarily shut out.

Your fingers twitch once against his touch, then go still.

Caleb watches you drift. He always has a knack for noticing the exact moment your body gives up, when the tension leaves your shoulders, and when your thoughts finally stop racing long enough for sleep to take hold. He doesn’t move until he’s sure. Until your breathing deepens and your grip loosens just a fraction.

Only then does he allow himself to smile.

It’s small. Private. Gone almost as soon as it appears.

He tips his head back against the couch cushion and stares up at the ceiling, replaying the night in quiet, careful detail. not the way you do—soft and hazy and full of feeling—but methodically. Like checking off boxes on a list he’s been refining for years.

You trusted him.

You always did.

His phone buzzes softly on the coffee table. Caleb doesn’t reach for it right away. He lets it sit there, screen lighting up the dark for a second time, then a third. Persistent. Impatient. He knows who it is before he ever looks.

When he finally does, he moves slowly, careful not to disturb you. One arm stays locked around your waist, anchoring you to him as his other hand reaches out and flips the phone face down.

There's a thread of messages already open as he scrolled through his chats.

Different names. Same pattern.

''Hey, man. Thought you should know–'

'I don't think she's as into this as you are.'

'She mentioned she hates guys who–'

'Honestly... It's not worth it. If you don't want drama, maybe don't show?'

Sometimes it takes money. Sometimes it takes leverage. Sometimes all it takes is a well-placed lie and a nudge in the wrong direction.

Luckily for Caleb, he was very good at nudging.

Your last date had folded quicker than most. That one had been easy. a few planted doubts, a fabricated concern passed through a mutual friend, a quiet suggestion that you were 'a lot.'

Caleb glances down at you again, his thumb brushing absently along the curve of your hip, grounding himself in the reality of you here, safe with him.

He never understood why the universe kept throwing you at people who didn't know what to do with you. Who got too overwhelmed by your warmth, your presence. It was cruel. And honestly? Letting anyone else try to handle you always felt like negligence.

The others were never real contenders. They were placeholders. obstacles, lessons meant to push you back to where you belong. Back to him.

So he took it upon himself to fix it. It was for your own good.

Caleb rests his chin lightly on the top of your head, eyes drifting to the dark window across the room. Somewhere out there, there were still some people who might think they had a chance with the apple of his eye.

They didn't. Not anymore.

You sigh softly in your sleep, utterly peaceful. Caleb smiles at the sight of you. And this time, it isn't soft at all.