#retisaint

satoru started stroking his dick as he watched the video clip. he heaved a deep sigh at watching your boobs for the second time. you have no idea how hard he would abuse that fucking tape.  already leaking with pre cum, he rubbed the tip with his thumb to spread the fluid over his shaft.

fingers slick and mind drunk, satoru shut his eyes and imagined you were still in the room watching him jerk off. his hand glided up and down as the sound of your voice played in the background. he inhaled the scent of your perfume from the shirt like the filthy pervert that he is. his strokes got faster, teeth biting onto your shirt as he desperately reached for the release.

he jerked his hips up thinking that he’s fucking your pussy hole, grip tightening on his cock and breaths turning shallow at every hard thrust around his fingers. he mumbled your name through the fabric repeatedly like it’s a prayer, the dryness in his throat made his voice crack at each attempt. his drool soaked the bust part of the shirt. nevertheless, he sucked it like it’s your tits, tongue moving in circle motions like he’s playing with your nipple.

he whimpered and pleaded into thin air, begging forgiveness for secretly recording you. but fuck he needed to cum. just let this one pass. he swore he’d be a good boy once he had you in his life. he’d be at your mercy. he’d even let you punish him for this sinful act.

he slowed down his strokes and tossed his head weakly against the bed frame as ropes of cum spurted over your shirt.

what a fucking pervert.

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he tended to everything with an endearing thoughtfulness: heading to the grocery after work to buy food ingredients he will cook for the next few days, all while keeping in mind your current cravings, and ironing your office clothes fresh from the laundry so you won’t have to.

sometimes you would be so focused on a task that you would forget to eat your meal. when suguru unpacked your lunch bag and saw that the food he had prepared remained untouched, he initially felt offended. did you not like the food he packed and decided to eat something else instead? he asked himself. but when he realized that perhaps you had been too busy to even open the bento box, you did not hear the end of his nagging.

now, suguru always gives you a call to remind you of it; you would hear him from the phone describe the composition of your meal with much encouragement to boost your appetite and energy.

he knew better than anyone else that—even though you are right there with him—your mind is somewhere else.

in the morning, you would often forget to return the toothpaste to its right place because you’re already busy making a mental list of your work tasks for the day. and suguru, whose job starts later than yours, would catch the plastic tube resting on top of the sink with its cap still open; he would squeeze it over his own toothbrush and put it back in the mirror cabinet as always.

there was also a time you forgot to mention about the electric disconnection notice; it had been days since it came to your knowledge.

imagine his surprise when he arrived home and was welcomed by a pitch dark apartment. but he didn’t get upset at you, no. pissed, maybe. after all, he was also tired from work.

suguru checked the drawers to search for a flashlight but all he found was old birthday candles—two numbers from when you decided to celebrate in the apartment—just the both of you; it was in that same year that you had moved in together, pockets running dry after the lease payment and buying furniture, but you two have never been happier about the new phase of your relationship. 

sitting in the living room illuminated only by the flickering candle lights, suguru reminisced on the memories you shared in that place you now call home. slowly, the silence of the night and the mental flashbacks drowned out his earlier frustration and replaced it with nostalgia and some scattered photographs on the coffee table.

the condiments. you often put and mix sauces or syrups in your meal but when the bottles gradually ran out, instead of refilling, you decided to just skip it and dive straight to the unflavored dish however bland it tasted.

suguru eventually caught on to it. the following day, he made a quick run at the grocery store after work; he grabbed different condiments, the ones that you prefer.

right at home while still in his white dress shirt folded up to the elbows, suguru would carefully replenish the bottles in the cabinet so you can have some on your dinner.

rarely did suguru ever see you weep unless it is in the presence of a romance film with you sitting on the couch, arms wrapped around a throw pillow as you sob—totally engrossed in the emotional scene.

so he felt like his world crumbled when you arrived home crying one night.

you conducted an audit that day and slipped on the wet part of the warehouse as you were counting inventory. you thought it was not a big deal; people fall on their ass sometimes. but as you step inside of your home, the exhaustion must have caught up with your facade. the tears just started falling like a dam had been broken inside of you.

with only a couple of large strides across the apartment, suguru was in front of you in no time. he asked you what was wrong, the concern contorting his face in ways you have never seen before. when all he got from you were more sobs and a sniff, he checked your body to see if you have any wounds. and there, he saw the conspicuous tear on the side seam of your slacks—your favorite one at that.

on the same night, while you were sleeping, suguru slipped out of the bed and tiptoed to the living room. all his movements were featherlight since he knows you’re a light sleeper.

inside the tv cabinet, he took out a tin storage and carefully removed the lid so as not to wake you up. then he took out a needle and a thread that matches the color of your slacks. for half an hour or so, he mended the tear on the garment so that you can still use it.

but the one that broke suguru to a substantial degree: a few weeks ago in the bathroom, an unusually thicker clump of hair strands started pooling around the shower drain. suguru thought that it was his; it made sense to him because he has long hair and some of it might be falling off every shower without him realizing.

however, as he did a closer inspection, the length seemed to match yours instead. without thinking much of it, suguru would pick it up with a tissue paper and throw it in the trash bin every time—until curiosity got the best of him one night.

suguru searched on his phone what causes hair fall, and an article told him that stress can trigger or contribute to hair shedding. all this time, what suguru brushed off as nothing was actually an alarming sign—a result from the severe pressure you were under at work.

from then on, suguru took notes of the possible treatments. he bought hair care products and supplements in his next grocery run. he also incorporated more nutritious foods in your meals. he tried all tips known in the book, even going so far as to give you massages before bed that often end up with his fingers curling in your wet pussy. if it can help lower down your cortisol, he would do it.

suguru is always there, so he has always been and so he will continue to be. he is a true partner and companion—always looking out for you, caring for your health and well-being.

and while you may not be vocal about your troubles from work, suguru can tell how much it’s draining you day by day. so, if doing the groceries, preparing the meals, and ironing the clothes could at the very least lessen your stress and burden, then he would gladly shoulder it for a while.

suguru just cannot afford to lose you.

for most of his life, he had seen everything as temporary, like pencil scribbles in his journal—likely to be erased. people come and go, he often told himself.

but then you came along and all of a sudden, every succeeding page has your name written in ink, with kiss marks in shades of pink; to be able to spend every single day of his life with you felt like he had won a lifetime subscription of love letters.

RING. RING. RING.

your body makes an involuntary jolt as the grating sound of your morning alarm plays. afraid of hearing another loop, your hands immediately reach to the bedside table. you squint when the brightness of your phone hits your eyes.

darkness envelops every corner of the room like spilled ink. among the shadows, you catch suguru next to you on the bed lying on his stomach, topless and only in his boxers; his one arm rests on your abdomen while the other he uses as a makeshift pillow.

you stare at your lover’s face; even in deep slumber, suguru still looks majestic. it’s in these tiny moments where you remember that there is still one good thing in your life.

like spotting a shed in the middle of nowhere, under a heavy pouring rain.  the relief and comfort of finally finding a resting place; you take respite in it from the strong wind, your drenched and shivering body slowly getting warm—that’s how it feels when you wake up and see suguru next to you, or when you arrive home and catch him in the apartment doing mundane stuff.

he is your shelter from the inescapable, harsh world.

as if suguru senses you gawking at his face, his eyes open slightly which brings you out of your reverie. a smile appears on his lips and with a raspy voice he says “g’morning”.

suguru rubs his thumb over your exposed lower belly, then slowly, he inserts his hands under your shirt, snaking upward until it rests over your chest; he likes to do this every morning—a level of comfort born only after a long time of being together. 

unfazed by your boyfriend’s advances, you whisper to him to stop but there’s no hint of resolve in your voice.

using his forefinger and thumb, suguru plays with the bud of your nipple to elicit more reaction from you, but you just smile—still sleepy. “there you go again,” you say in a reprimanding tone similar to when a preschool teacher is talking to a mischievous student.

right past the bedroom window, you see the skyscrapers; some buildings have lit windows while some don’t. and behind these tall structures, the sun peeks in the horizon, hinting its arrival. 

today is your favorite day of the week: friday. your drowsiness immediately disappears in anticipation for the two days of break away from any workpapers. one more day. one more push. then the forty-eight hours of freedom will be yours.

suguru withdraws his hand from your shirt as you try to sit upright on the bed. he later on followed suit. the both of you on your way to do your respective daily routines: while you get ready for the day, suguru works in the kitchen to prepare breakfast and your packed lunch. he usually arranges the dry ingredients on the kitchen counter the night before so it’ll be easier for him to work his way around every morning.

after an hour since the alarm rang, you’re all freshened up and ready for work.

as you step out of the bedroom, your nose immediately catches a whiff of melted butter and the freshly cooked pancakes.

and there he is—your eyes dart to suguru’s back. he’s flipping another pancake on the pan, hair tied into a quick bun and still in his boxers, but a pink apron now covers his chest.

a view you’d never get tired of seeing every morning.

suguru smiles when he feels your arms wrap around his waist. you interlock your fingers over his apron. “hey there,” he says as he gives your hands a gentle squeeze.

you rest your right cheek on his bare back; his body is warm like a cat’s and smells like your bedsheets—of comfort and rest. you tiptoe and give his shoulder a soft bite which makes suguru click his tongue and chuckle, “you want crushed pancakes again huh?”

while you are hugging him, another silly idea crosses your mind. 

as a form of revenge from suguru’s playfulness earlier on the bed, you withdraw your hug and with a huge grin on your face, you insert one hand in his boxers—your right palm spread out on his buttocks. “hey!” suguru calls you out.

your laugh echoes in the apartment. unsatisfied by his reaction, you give it a couple of firm squeezes. now the both of you are giggling like two idiots. “you’re so silly,” he says while shaking his head.

“you did it first earlier,” you retort, the smile on your face now replaced by a pout. 

a chuckle escapes from his mouth, “that’s fair. touché,” suguru accepts his defeat.

he puts the last pancake on the plate and turns the stove off. then he turns his body around to face you—your hand not leaving his backside, sliding from his right bum to the left one. 

“c’mere,” suguru says as he grabs your face with both hands.

even though suguru’s work starts later than yours, he still insists on waking up with you so he can cook your meal and watch you leave for work. and with the time he has left before he also has to get ready, he returns to bed to get more sleep.

suguru sandwiches your cheeks between his palms making your lips protrude. then he gives you a kiss, “time to eat or else you’d be late,” he pinches your nose.

the both of you sit around the table and you eat your breakfast as usual. surprisingly, there’s a bottle of syrup filled to the brim, but the last time you recall, you ran out of it. suguru must’ve bought a new one.

you take bites of the pancake and give him an enthusiastic thumbs up. pleased by your reaction, suguru flashes you an earnest smile, then he wipes the syrup on the corner of your lips and licks it from his thumb.

suguru's gaze softens at the sight of your cheeks full of food. like a cute bunny, he thinks.

his cute bunny.

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of course, you still have regular communication with one another. you would sometimes come and watch sukuna’s boxing fights in your spare time then drink the night away afterward at his place with other mutual friends. satoru would be there as well. and when it isn’t so busy during the day, suguru would temporarily entrust the cafe to his staffs to meet the both of you over lunch.

aside from that, it has also been a part of your weekly routine to have a video call with the girls to gossip and talk about any happenings from your lives. yes, you could’ve mentioned it during one of the calls, but it just didn’t feel the right way to do so. 

what you and satoru have is not just a fling nor a friends-with-benefits setup. thus, announcing it in person felt imperative. after all, you both share the same close friends so this affects the dynamics of your circle.

though you’d be lying if you say you don’t enjoy the secrecy of your relationship—disappearing from sukuna’s house parties to have a sloppy make out session with satoru in the bathroom, or him sneaking a kiss on your cheek whenever you are on the phone with the girls; he would always wait patiently next to you on his couch, and once your face is slightly out of view from the screen… smooch!

caught off guard, you would turn your camera off and glare at him, but the moron had already run off with a big smile on his face, followed by silent giggles (since your mic is still on) like he had just successfully pulled off a high-risk task.

yes, you like the intimacy of a secret relationship. how you and satoru share the same truth only you can touch. there is a certain thrill that could never be experienced in an ordinary relationship, and you found it to be quite addicting.

one time, suguru pointed out how you and satoru would often arrive at the meet up place together. always coming from the same direction at the same time, he said. you just shrugged off and feigned innocence by calling it a mere coincidence.

later on while enjoying the meal, satoru sneakily moved his hand under the table to caress your thigh underneath the dress, as if teasing you for how you spouted a white lie off your mouth so naturally. he drew slow and lazy circles over your soft skin as he simultaneously talked to suguru in front.

satoru did it in such a casual manner, not even sparing you a look, and thus, he was oblivious about the redness on your cheeks and the brewing desire in your core. you pressed his fingers, a signal for him to stop, but all you got from your boyfriend was a quick glance and a mocking smirk. 

soon after, you excused yourself to go to the restroom; he then followed the lead saying, he just needs to make a phone call. 

and there in the cramped restroom cubicle, satoru pulled his slacks and boxers down, clung your thigh over his arm, and pulled your underwear to the side. the way he did it was so abrupt and impatient you swore you heard a thread snap from your lace thong. 

he fucked you with much eagerness and gentle frustration; you can tell that he, too, was craving for your body just as you were craving for his—as if the pretense that afternoon had been too unbearable and all he wanted was to be all over his girlfriend.

you held onto satoru’s shoulders for support, gave his neck wet kisses as he pulled his massive cock in and out of you. the tissue dispenser mounted on the partition next to you rattled from how hard he was thrusting into your wet and tight pussy. squelching sounds and your breathy moans fused with the distant indiscernible chatter from customers filled up the space.

sure, the thrill of it was fun and exciting. but enough time has gone by. and both of you are growing tired of treading the line between secrecy and passion. satoru wants to share his love for you to other people. he craves of being able to hold your hand in the streets—when you’re walking alongside each other—without the fear that a mutual friend might see. he wants to take you out on a date at his favorite fancy restaurants, not just to the hole-in-the-wall cafes. the takeouts at his place were also just as fun because it’s always followed by rough sex on his bed. but. but. satoru yearns for more. he wants to flaunt you, his oh so lovely girlfriend.

you have this pure and honest love resting on the palm of your hands—still growing and vulnerable—and a voice inside your head wants you to keep it hidden. it whispers in your ear telling you to just leave things as they are; no one can ruin something they have no knowledge about. but the better part of you knows that a relationship shadowed by limitations would never prosper and last. what you feel for satoru doesn’t have to be loud—it only has to be free.

and so you’ve made up your mind.

shoko and utahime’s wedding will be held today and it’s your chance. of course you don’t want to steal the thunder from the soon-to-be newlyweds, so you plan to do it tomorrow, during the post-wedding lunch with the close friends. everyone—shoko, utahime, yuki, suguru, and sukuna—will be there and you refuse to let this opportunity pass.

the first thing you notice as you enter the bride suite is the makeup lined up on the vanity tables—liquid foundations in different shades, eyeshadow palettes from multiple brands, and lipsticks in every possible shade imaginable. and there–sitting in one of the vanity chairs—is your best friend utahime. you read the word written on the back of her chair—in white font and a beautiful cursive it says ‘bride’. you see her smile from the mirror reflection.

you ask if she’s nervous. utahime just shakes her head; she says she’s never been more sure about anything ever in her life.

you hate to admit it but you are a sucker for weddings. the abundance of love radiating from everybody never fails to make you emotional. friends and families. friends turned into families. celebrating the union between two people. the wedding vows. the lengthy speeches during the reception. they collectively pull the lever to your fountain of tears.

when it is your turn to have your makeup done, you sit at one of the unoccupied vanity chairs. the future newlyweds went all out and hired four hair and makeup artists so the preparation is more efficient.

minutes later, as the artist is applying eyeshadow on your lids, you hear a familiar ringtone.

your ringtone.

yuki, whose makeup is already finished, grabs your phone from a nearby couch and looks at the screen. “someone is calling you- who is this ‘my love’?” she asks with an inquisitive tone.

shit. shit. shit.

why is satoru calling you? and now when you are currently glued to the vanity chair, defenseless against the possible scrutiny from your girl friends. your eyes remain closed as the artist continues on her work; you can’t tell where yuki is standing. 

grabbing the phone from her hand is impossible. you’re fucked. no. maybe you can reason your way around it. before your brain could even make up a weak excuse, yuki had already answered the call and set your phone on speaker.

you feel a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach as you hear the voice of your satoru. “baby, you forgot your heels in the car. should i bring it to you?” you held your breath. you feel your insides getting twisted. it’s as if your brain has short-circuited; words, excuses, start to hover around your head like a murder of crows—cawing, awaiting for a release that never came.

and just like that, the secret is out. getting busted out about your year-long relationship with satoru through an unsuspecting phone call wasn’t the plan, but here goes nothing.

only the clank of makeup brushes can be heard as the artists remain impassive on what is happening. you bite your bottom lip. there is no way in hell that your friends would not recognize his voice.

the moment they connect the dot and register it in their head—the contact name and the man in the other line—collective gasps echo from different parts of the room.

“what the fuck, gojo? is that you?” yuki’s high pitched voice almost makes you wince.

“uhh. . . haha. . .” he clears his throat. “no, who is gojo satoru?”

“jackass! she didn’t even say satoru,” utahime interjects.

“wait, t-the signal here is bad,” you hear indistinct shuffling noises in satoru’s background, “h-hello? can you hear me? he-”

and the call ends.

you sense the piercing glares from your friends, “you have got some explaining to do,” said utahime.

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